Mr. Judson's daughter--on the steamer _Goodtime_! Pauletta was the girl
who had tossed a wig and clothing into the river.
"How do you do, Miss Judson," she responded. "Haven't we met before?"
Pauletta kept her face averted from her father. She met Penny's gaze with
a bold stare.
"I think not," she said evenly. "No, Miss Parker, you are mistaken."
CHAPTER
12
_OLD HORNEY_
Penny made no reply to Pauletta and the silence became unbearable.
"Won't you stay for a few minutes?" Mr. Judson invited. "Pauletta, why
not show Miss Parker our rose garden?"
"It's rather dark," his daughter replied. "Anyway, she wouldn't care to
see it."
"Indeed, I should," contradicted Penny. Deliberately she switched off the
car ignition.
Pauletta glared at her, but dared make no protest in her father's
presence. With a shrug she led Penny along a gravel path to the rear of
the house. Mr. Judson remained behind.
As soon as they were beyond hearing, Penny said quietly:
"Need we pretend? I am sure you recall that we met aboard the
_Goodtime_."
"Yes, I remember now," admitted Pauletta coldly. "You were with another
girl."
"And you were accompanied by a young man."
"A friend of mine."
"This may be something of a shock," said Penny, "but my chum and I saw
you drop a bundle containing a wig into the river."
"Oh!"
"The bundle caught fast and I fished it out."
"You have no proof it was mine! You--you won't tell Father?"
"Not if you can offer a good reason why I shouldn't."
"There are any number of them. You mustn't tell my father! That's why I
pretended not to know you."
"I certainly wish you would explain. Tillie Fellows was robbed that
night."
"Who is Tillie Fellows?"
"One of the excursionists. Her pocketbook was taken shortly before the
boat docked."
"You can't believe I had anything to do with it!"
"I don't wish to think so, but your actions were very strange."
"I can explain everything," Pauletta said hurriedly. "My reason for
wearing a disguise was a simple one. I didn't care to have anyone on the
boat recognize me."
"Why, may I ask?"
Before Pauletta could answer, Mr. Judson came around the corner of the
house.
"Please say nothing about it to Father," the young woman pleaded in a
whisper. "I'll explain everything later."
Penny nodded, and for Mr. Judson's benefit, offered a few remarks about
the roses.
"We once had a beautiful garden," commented Pauletta. "Now it's in ruin,
the same as the yard. Father doesn't look after the place as he should."
"The grounds are large," replied Mr. Judson mildly.
"You shouldn't try to do the work yourself," Pauletta protested. "It was
foolish of you to let the gardener go."
Penny felt increasingly ill at ease. As they wandered about the grounds,
Pauletta kept making disparaging remarks, thoughtless comments which
wounded her father. However, he offered no rebuttal, nor did he reprove
his daughter.
"I really must be going," said Penny at last. "It's getting very dark."
Mr. Judson walked with her to the car, closing the gate after she had
driven from the grounds. He stood there a moment, the wind rumpling his
gray hair. Then he raised his hand in friendly salute and turned toward
the house.
"Poor Mr. Judson," she thought. "So discouraged and yet so gallant! How
can Pauletta be completely blind to his suffering? Doesn't she realize?"
Penny did not regret having kept the young woman's secret, for she felt
that the revelation of their meeting would only add to Mr. Judson's
troubles. Pauletta represented his entire life, and if it developed that
she had acted unbecomingly, the shock might be a severe one.
"I can't believe that Pauletta would steal," she told herself. "She must
have had another reason for wearing the disguise."
Penny was satisfied that if Mr. Judson had not interrupted, the young
woman would have explained her puzzling actions. Therefore, she was
willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She made up her mind that
she would return as soon as she could to talk privately with Pauletta.
The Parker house was dark and deserted when Penny let herself in with a
key. Her father had not expected her home so early and, disliking an
empty house, had remained away. There was no telling where he had gone.
After preparing a belated dinner for herself, Penny spent an hour with
her studies. However, her mind kept reverting to the events of the day. A
great deal had happened. Her meeting with Peter Fenestra had been
interesting. Anchor Joe's mishap worried her, and she remained disturbed
by the threatening message left on her desk.
"Could it have been written by a prowler in the building?" she mused.
"Ever since we started the paper I've felt that someone was hiding there.
It may be a scheme to get me away."
Before dropping off to sleep Penny made up her mind that the following
night she would set a trap for the intruder. Taking Louise into her
confidence, she made careful plans. Preparing a tasty lunch, the girls
wrapped and laid it conspicuously on the counter of the downstairs
advertising room.
"Now the stage is set," declared Penny. "Louise, you go upstairs to my
office and tap on the typewriter. I'll hide here and see what happens."
After Louise had gone, Penny secreted herself in a storage closet not far
from the counter. By leaving the door open she could see fairly well in
the dark room for street lights cast a reflection through the plate glass
windows.
The minutes stretched into a half hour. Louise's typewriting, at first
very energetic, began to slacken in speed. Penny moved restlessly in the
cramped quarters. She had not imagined that waiting could be so tedious.
An hour elapsed. Far down the street a clock struck ten times.
With a weary sigh Penny arose from the floor. Inactivity bored her, and
she no longer could sit quietly and wait.
As she started from her hiding place, intending to call Louise, a door
opened at the west end of the room. Instantly Penny froze against the
wall, waiting.
A flashlight beam played across the floor, missing her by a scant two
feet.
Penny, her heart beating at a furious rate, remained motionless. She
could see the squat, shadowy figure of a man moving toward her. Boards
squeaked beneath his weight.
Midway across the room, the man paused, evidently listening to the steady
clatter of Louise's typewriter. Satisfied, he went to the window where he
stood for several minutes watching street traffic.
As he turned again, the beam of his flashlight swept across the front
counter, focusing upon the package of food. The man gave a low
exclamation of pleasure. With the swiftness of a cat he darted to it and
tore off the paper wrapping.
Penny waited until he was eating greedily. Then stealing along the wall,
she groped for the electric light switch. As she pressed it, the room was
brilliantly illuminated. At the same instant, the girl gave a shrill
whistle, a signal to Louise that the culprit had been trapped.
The man at the counter whirled around, facing Penny with startled dismay.
He was a gaunt, unshaven fellow in his late fifties with shaggy hair, and
soiled, unpressed clothing.
Before he could retreat, Louise came down the stairway, blocking the
exit.
"What are you doing here?" Penny questioned him. "Why did you steal my
lunch?"
The man's lips moved nervously but no sound issued from them.
"Shall I call the police?" prodded Penny. She gave him a severe glance.
"No, don't do that," the man pleaded, finding his voice. "Don't call the
police. I'll go. I won't bother you any more."
"Why have you been hiding in the building?"
"Because I have no other place to sleep, Miss. The cops chase you off the
park benches."
Penny was surprised by the man's speech which belied his disreputable
garments. His tone was well modulated, his manner respectful.
"You've been living in this building a long while?" she asked curiously.
"Maybe six months. I sleep down in the furnace room. I didn't do any
harm."
"You're hungry, aren't you?" Penny inquired, less severely.
"Yes, I am, Miss. Lately I haven't been eating any too often."
"You may finish the lunch," said Penny. "And there's a thermos bottle of
coffee under the counter."
"Thank you, Miss, thank you. I surely am obliged."
With a hand which trembled, the man poured himself a cup of the steaming
beverage.
"You haven't told me your name," said Penny after a moment.
"Folks just call me Horney. Old Horney."
"What is your real name?"
"Mark Horning," the man answered reluctantly.
"I'm curious to learn how you've been getting in and out of the
building."
"With a key." Old Horney devoured the last bite of sandwich, and poured
himself a second cup of coffee.
"A skeleton key, you mean?" Penny asked in surprise.
"No, Miss. I have my own key. In the old days I used to work here."
"You're a former _Press_ employee?"
"Sure, I know it's hard to believe," Old Horney replied, "but when a
fellow's out of a job and money, it doesn't take long to go to seed. I
lost my place when Judson closed down."
"And you've been unable to find other work?"
"In the past nine months I've worked exactly six days. No one hires an
old fellow any more. If I could have kept on with Judson three more years
I'd have been due for my pension."
"What work did you do on the paper?" asked Penny with growing interest.
"I was a pressman."
Penny shot Louise a glance which was almost triumphant. Her voice when
she spoke held an undertone of excitement.
"Horney," she said, "it's barely possible I may be able to find some sort
of work for you later on. Do you mind writing your name on this paper?"
The old man took the sheet she handed him, without hesitation scrawling
his name, _Mark Horning_.
Penny studied the writing a moment. To her relief it bore not the
slightest resemblance to the warning message left on her desk the
previous night.
"Horney," she questioned, "did you ever try to frighten me away from this
building?"
"Oh, no, Miss," he replied. "Once I tiptoed up to your office. When I saw
you were working there, I slipped down to the basement again."
"Did you ever place a note on my desk?"
"I never did."
Penny was satisfied that Horney had told the truth. Yet if he were not
the culprit she was unable to guess who had warned her to abandon the
plant.
"Horney, I've decided that we need a watchman around this place," she
said abruptly. "If you want the job, it's yours."
"You're not turning me out?"
"No, you may stay. I can't promise much of a salary, but at least you'll
have a place to sleep and enough food."
"You're mighty kind," Horney mumbled gratefully. "Mighty kind." He
hesitated and then added: "I promise you won't be sorry you did it, Miss.
Maybe you'll find I can be of some real use around this plant. I'm at
your service and what's more, I'm for you one hundred per cent."
CHAPTER
13
_PAPER PROBLEMS_
The next afternoon Penny and Louise arrived at the _Weekly Times_ to find
that the entire lower floor had been cleaned and swept. Old Horney was
discovered in the composing room, stirring up a great cloud of dust with
a stub of a broom.
"I was just cleaning the place up a bit," he said apologetically. "Hope
you don't mind."
"Mind?" laughed Penny. "I'm delighted. Our staff of janitors has lost
interest here of late."
"I set a little type for you last night, too."
"Why, Horney! I didn't know you were a linotype operator."
"I'm not," answered the old man, "but I can learn most anything if I set
my mind to it. If you have any jobs you want done just turn them over to
me."
"Horney," said Penny soberly, "more than anything else I would like to
publish the _Weekly_ in my own plant. The obstacles seem almost too great
to overcome; do you think it could be accomplished?"
"Why, sure," said Horney. "If I had some tools and a little to do with I
could get the presses ready in a day."
"What about the stereotyping work?"
"I could master the trick of it," declared Horney confidently.
"Horney, you're a jewel!" laughed Penny. "I'll place you in charge of my
production department, but I fear I can't give you a salary in proportion
to your duties."
"Don't worry about that, Miss. I would rather be working than sitting
around with nothing to do."
"Then look over the plant and make up a list of the things you must
have," suggested Penny. "I'll go over to the _Star_ this minute and
arrange for printing paper."
Leaving Louise in charge of the office, she jubilantly set forth for her
father's plant. Now that Old Horney had been added to the staff of the
_Weekly_, problems which previously had seemed unsurmountable suddenly
had become easily solved.
Entering the _Star_ building, Penny went directly to the stockroom,
wandering about until she found Mr. Curry, the foreman.
"Here's something for you," she grinned, offering a slip of paper.
"What's this?" Mr. Curry asked with a puzzled frown. "An order for a roll
of paper?"
"Yes, Mr. Curry," explained Penny. "At last I am going to publish my own
sheet over in the old _Press_ building. Dad is staking me to a little
paper."
"A little! Why, one of these big rolls would print more copies of your
paper than you could sell in six months! And paper is expensive. How
about a half-roll or even a quarter? It would be a lot easier to handle."
"Oh, all right," agreed Penny. "Just so I get enough to print my first
issue."
Mr. Curry led the way to one of the presses, pointing to a roll of paper
mounted on a feeding rack.
"That one is about half used up," he said. "Will it do?"
"Yes, I guess so," agreed Penny. "May I have it right away?"
Mr. Curry replied by pushing a tram along a miniature railway which ran
under the press. With surprising skill, he maneuvered the roll into
position on the carrier. Then he pushed the tram to the elevator, moved
the portable paper lift over the roll, and up it went to the platform.
The elevator grounded at the first floor where the paper was rolled to
the loading dock with pry bars.
"There you are," said the foreman.
"All I need now is a truck," Penny cried exultantly. "Thanks, Mr. Curry!"
Standing guard beside her paper she waited until one of the _Star_
drivers had finished unloading his cargo and was ready to pull from the
dock.
"How's chances fer a ride, buddy?" asked Penny, jerking her thumb in the
manner of a hitch-hiker. "Me and my paper to the _Weekly Times_."
"Okay," laughed the trucker.
He rolled the paper onto the truck, and Penny climbed into the cab beside
him. At the _Times_ building she had the roll set off at the rear
entrance where Old Horney easily could get it to the press room.
Highly elated, Penny mounted the steps two at a time, bursting in upon
Louise who was busy writing headlines.
"Got it!" she announced. "About six hundred pounds of paper. That should
keep the _Weekly_ going for awhile."
"Here's something to dampen your enthusiasm." Louise thrust a letter
toward her. "Another kick on that octopus tattoo story you wrote. A Mrs.
Brown says she heartily disapproves of such outlandish tales, and that
she'll never buy another copy of the _Times_."
"At least it proves my story attracted attention," chuckled Penny.
"Anything else while I was gone?"
"Yes, Mrs. Weems telephoned to ask that you come to the cottage as soon
as possible. And that reminds me--the telephone bill. The company
requires a month's advance--"
"Never mind the bills," interrupted Penny. "Did Mrs. Weems say anything
about Anchor Joe?"
"He appears to be much better."
"I'm glad of that. I suppose I should drive out to the cottage before it
gets dark."
"Run along. I'll look after everything here."
Penny swept her desk clear of papers and locked the drawers. "If you have
any spare time you might see what you can do with my algebra assignment,"
she suggested. "I missed every problem but one yesterday."
"I have my own lesson troubles," responded Louise. "I'm wading up to my
neck in Latin, and the next monthly quiz is certain to drown me."
"Teachers have no consideration," sighed Penny. "None at all."
Gathering up her school books, she bade Louise good-bye and left the
office. On the stairway she met Old Horney.
"I've made my list," he said, offering it to her. "I figure we can't get
out the paper with less than this."
Penny glanced at the paper and slipped it into her purse.
"I'll get the things somehow," she promised. "By the way, there's a roll
of paper on the loading dock."
"I've already hauled 'er in," replied Old Horney. "Any other jobs for
me?"
"No, you seem to be one jump ahead," laughed Penny.
They descended the stairway together, the steps creaking beneath their
weight. There was a different look to Old Horney, Penny thought, stealing
a glance at him. His hair had been cut and his face was clean-shaven.
Work had given him a new outlook, a desire to recover his self respect.
"I suppose you knew Matthew Judson rather well?" she remarked
reflectively.
"Oh, sure."
"What was he like, Horney?"
"Well--" the old man hesitated, at a loss for words. "Judson was queer,
sort of cold and unfriendly except to those who knew him best, but he was
a square-shooter."
"The employes liked him?"
"Everyone did except a few chronic sore-heads."
"Horney, was it true that the _Press_ was making money at the time it
closed?"
"That's what everyone on the paper thought. It was a shock to us all when
Judson closed down. I'll never forget the day he told us he was giving up
the plant. The old man looked like death had struck him, and he cried
when he said good-bye to the boys."
"I wonder why he closed the plant?"
"Some say it was because he had lost a pile of money speculating on the
stock market. But I never believed that. Judson wasn't the gambling
type."
"Why do you think he gave up the paper, Horney?"
"I've done a lot of speculating on it," the old man admitted. "This is
just my own idea, but I figure Judson may have been blackmailed."
"Blackmailed! By whom?"
"I can't tell you--it's only my guess."
"You have no evidence to support such a theory, Horney?"
"Nothing you could call that. But the day before Judson quit he was in
the pressroom. He was sort of thinking out loud, I guess. Anyhow he said
to me, 'Horney, the dirty blackmailer couldn't do this to me if it
weren't for my daughter. If it didn't mean smearing her name, I'd
fight!'"
"Did you ask him what he meant?"
"I made some reply, and then he closed up like a clam. I figure he hadn't
realized what he was saying."
"You haven't any idea as to whom he meant?"
"I couldn't make a guess."
"No matter what the reason, it was a pity the _Press_ had to close,"
declared Penny. "I feel very sorry for Mr. Judson."
Bidding Horney good-bye, she hurried home for her automobile. However, as
she drove toward the river cottage she kept thinking about what the old
pressman had told her.
"It's barely possible his theory is right," she mused. "But why should
Mr. Judson submit to blackmail even for his daughter's sake? Somehow the
pieces of the puzzle refuse to fit."
CHAPTER
14
_AN EMPTY BEDROOM_
Darkness was inking the sky as Penny drew up at the end of the road.
Parking her car between scraggly box-elders, she walked swiftly along the
river trail, soon approaching within view of the Parker cottage.
The fallen tree had been sawed into cord wood, the yard cleaned of sticks
and debris, and only the damaged porch remained to remind one of the
severe storm.
As Penny opened the screen door, Mrs. Weems came from the kitchen.
"Joe is asleep," she warned in a whisper. "Perhaps we should talk
outside."
Penny nodded and followed the housekeeper to the porch swing.
"How is he doing?" she inquired.
"Oh, much better," replied Mrs. Weems. "The doctor was here an hour ago.
Joe is out of danger but must remain in bed for at least another day."
"I was afraid when you telephoned that something had gone wrong here."
"No," confessed the housekeeper, "I was merely lonesome for news. Is
everything going well at home?"
"Oh, yes, we're getting along fine."
"I hope you remembered to bring in the milk. And you didn't neglect the
dusting?"
Penny smiled ruefully.
"I might have known you would let everything go," sighed Mrs. Weems. "No
doubt it's my duty to remain here, but I feel I should be at home."
"Anchor Joe needs you, Mrs. Weems. Has he talked very much?"
"Not a great deal. He ate a hearty lunch and seems in no pain."
"Did you see his back, Mrs. Weems?"
"Yes, the cut was an ugly one. The doctor changed the dressing while he
was here."
"I mean the tattoo," said Penny impatiently. "Didn't you notice it?"
"I saw that he had one, if that's what you mean."
"You didn't question him about it?"
"Certainly not, Penny. Why should I?"
"Don't you read the _Weekly Times_? Anchor Joe's tattoo is a dead ringer
for the one John Munn had on his back. Joe's already admitted that he
knows Munn. For all we know they may be bitter enemies. Perhaps it was
Anchor Joe who pushed Munn off the bridge!"
"Penny, your ideas grow wilder each day," protested Mrs. Weems. "I hope
you don't talk such nonsense to other people."
"All the same, Anchor Joe bears someone a grudge," insisted Penny. "He
mentioned a person who had 'ratted.' Didn't you learn a single fact about
him, Mrs. Weems?"
"His last name is Landa and he came to Riverview three weeks ago. He has
no family."
"I think I'll question him myself when he awakens."
"No, I can't allow that," said Mrs. Weems sternly. "The doctor would
never approve."
"I promise not to excite him."
"The answer is no! Now I wish you would help me by bringing in the
washing. I must start supper."
Penny obediently took the basket and unpinned sheets and pillow cases
from the line. She had just finished when she observed a tall, well-built
young man with military stride, approaching through the trees. He tipped
his hat politely.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I am trying to find the Parker cottage."
"Your search is at an end," answered Penny. "You've come to the right
place."
"Do you have a man working here named Joe Landa?"
"Why, yes, we have."
"Where may I find him, please?"
"Joe is confined to his bed," explained Penny. "Unless it is very
important I am afraid we can't allow you to talk with him today."
"It is important," said the stranger. "I am Clark Moyer, from the Federal
Bureau of Investigation."
Penny's eyes opened wide. "A G-man?" she demanded.
"I am an investigator for the government," he replied, smiling.
"And you're after Anchor Joe?"
"I am here to question him."
"What has he done, Mr. Moyer?"
"I am not permitted to discuss a case to which I have been assigned," he
returned, amused by her display of interest. "It's quite possible that
Landa is not the man I seek. How long has he worked here?"
"Only a few days. He--he hasn't killed anyone, has he?"
"No," smiled the government man, "it's not that serious. The man I am
after is short and wiry, sandy hair and blue eyes. He has a tattooed
anchor on his right arm."
"And one on his back?" Penny asked eagerly.
"I wouldn't know about that. Does my description fit the man who has been
working here?"
"Yes, it does! Almost exactly."
"Then I'd like to talk with him."
"Come into the cottage," invited Penny. "I'll call Mrs. Weems."
Summoned from the kitchen, the housekeeper listened to Mr. Moyer's
request that he be permitted to see the injured man.
"If you are a government investigator I suppose it will be all right,"
she said reluctantly. "But the doctor's orders were that he was to be
kept absolutely quiet."
"I'll only ask a question or two," promised Mr. Moyer.
"Is Joe wanted on a criminal charge?" the housekeeper asked.
"I was sent to check up on a man who calls himself Joe Landa. That's all
I can tell you."
From the kitchen came the unmistakable odor of scorching potatoes. Mrs.
Weems ran to jerk the pan from the stove.
"Penny, you see if Joe is awake yet," she called over her shoulder.
"I'll go with you," said Mr. Moyer quickly. "If I have made a mistake it
may not be necessary to disturb the man."
"This way," directed Penny.
She led the government man down the hall to the rear bedroom. The door
was closed. She twisted the knob and pushed, at first easily, and then
with increasing force.
"It seems to be stuck," she said. "The recent rains must have caused the
wood to swell."
"Let me try," offered Mr. Moyer.
He took Penny's place, and after testing the door, gave it a hard upward
push. There was a loud crash as it suddenly swung open.
"Goodness! What was that?" exclaimed Penny.
"A barricade. Keep back."