“See here,” Bowman protested furiously, “you intimated that if I told what I knew about Blake you’d let me off. Why, you’re as yellow as that paper you run!”
“I make no deals with men of your stamp!” Mr. Parker retorted.
As Penny unlocked the door, Ben Bowman made a break for freedom. However, the editor was entirely prepared. Seizing the man, he held him until Penny could summon the policeman. Still struggling, Bowman was loaded into a patrol wagon and taken to police headquarters.
“I guess that earns me a nice little one hundred dollars!” Penny remarked as she and her father went to their own car. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” Mr. Parker grinned. “I never took greater pleasure in acknowledging a debt.”
“What’s your next move, Dad? Will you expose Clyde Blake in tomorrow’sStar?”
“I’m tempted to do it, Penny. The evidence still is rather flimsy, but even if Ben Bowman denies his story, I think we can prove our charges.”
“It’s a pity you can’t break the Hood yarn in the same edition,” Penny said musingly. “What a front page that would make!”
“It certainly would be a good three pennies worth,” Mr. Parker agreed. “Unfortunately, it will be many days before the Hoods are supposed to hold their meeting at the Tower.”
“But why wait? We could call that gathering ourselves!”
“Just how?”
“Simple as pie. All we would need to do would be to have the clock strike thirteen instead of twelve.” Penny glanced at her wrist watch and added persuasively: “We have several hours in which to work!”
“You’re completely crazy!” accused Mr. Parker. “Just how would you arrange to have the clock strike thirteen?”
“I’ll take care of that part, Dad. All I’ll need is a hammer.”
“To use on the caretaker, Charley Phelps, I suppose,” Mr. Parker remarked ironically.
“Oh, no,” Penny corrected, “I propose to turn all the strong-arm work over to you and your gang of reporters. Naturally, Phelps will have to be removed from the scene.”
“What you propose is absolutely impossible,” the editor declared. “Even so, I’ll admit that I find your idea rather fascinating.”
“This is no time for being conservative, Dad. Why, the Hoods must know you are out to break up their organization. Every day you wait lessens your chance of getting the story.”
“I realize that only too well, Penny. I pinned quite a bit of hope on Clem Davis. His failure to appear puts everything in a different light.”
“Why not test what he told us?” Penny argued. “It will be easy to learn if the striking of the clock is a signal to call the Hood meeting. If the men should come, we’ll have them arrested, and run a big story tomorrow morning!”
“Coming from your lips it sounds so very simple,” Mr. Parker smiled. “Has it occurred to you that if we fail, we’ll probably breakfast at the police station?”
“Why worry about that?” grinned Penny. “You have influence.”
Mr. Parker sat for several minutes lost in thought.
“You know, I’ve ALWAYS been lucky,” Penny coaxed. “I feel a double dose of it coming on tonight!”
“I believe in hunches myself,” Mr. Parker chuckled. “No doubt I’m making the biggest mistake of my life, but I’m going to try your wild scheme. Crazy as it is, it may work!”
“Then let’s go!” laughed Penny.
At theStaroffice, Mr. Parker hastily summoned a special staff of newspaper men, warning them to hold themselves in readiness to get out a special edition on short notice. From the group he chose Salt Sommers, Jerry Livingston, and two reporters known for their pugilistic prowess.
“Now this is the line up, boys,” he revealed. “We’re going to kidnap Charley Phelps from the Tower. It’s risky business unless things break right for us, so if any of you want to drop out now, this is your chance.”
“We’re with you, chief!” declared Salt Sommers, tossing a pack of photographic supplies over his shoulder.
“Sure, what are we waiting for?” chimed in Jerry.
It was well after eleven o’clock by the time the over-loaded press car drew up not far from the Hubell Tower. Penny parked on a dark side street, and Jerry was sent to look over the situation. Soon he returned with his report.
“Charley Phelps is alone in the Tower,” he assured the editor. “We shouldn’t have any trouble handling him.”
“Okay, then let’s do the job,” Mr. Parker returned. “Remember, if we muff it, we’ll do our explaining to a judge.”
Separating into groups so that they would not attract attention, Penny and the five men approached the Tower. A light glowed from within, and the caretaker could be seen moving about in the tiny living room.
Tying handkerchiefs over their faces, Salt and Jerry rapped on the back door. Charley Phelps opened it to find himself gazing into the blinding light of two flashlights.
“Say, what—” he began but did not finish.
Jerry and Salt had seized his arms. Before he could make another sound, they shoved a gag into his mouth, and dragging him into the Tower, closed the door. Working swiftly, they trussed his hands and feet and pushed him into a machinery room.
“Nice work, boys,” Mr. Parker praised.
“Listen!” whispered Penny, who had followed the men into the Tower.
The clock had begun to strike the hour of midnight.
“Get up there quickly and do your stuff!” her father commanded. “You’ve not much time!”
Two steps at a time, Penny raced up the steep iron stairway which led to the belfry of the Tower. Anxiously, she counted the strokes as they pealed forth loud and clearly. Eight—nine—ten. The clock had never seemed to strike so fast before. Desperately she wondered if she could reach the belfry in time.
The stairway was dark, the footing uncertain. In her nervousness, Penny stumbled. Clutching the handrail, she clung to it a moment until she had recovered balance. But in that interval the clock had kept striking, and she was no longer sure of the count.
“It must be eleven,” she thought, running up the remaining steps. “The next stroke will be the last.”
Penny reached the great bell just as the clapper struck against the metal. The sound was deafening.
“Now!” she thought excitedly. “This is the moment, and I dare not fail!”
Balancing herself precariously, Penny raised a hammer high above her head. With all her strength she brought it down hard against the bell.
To Penny’s sensitive ears, the sound which resulted from the hammer blow, seemed weak and lacking in resonance. She sagged back against the iron railing, feeling that she had failed.
“That was swell!” a low voice said in her ear. “A perfect thirteenth stroke!”
Turning around, Penny saw that Jerry Livingston had followed her into the belfry.
“Did it really sound all right?” she inquired anxiously.
“It was good enough to fool anyone. But the question is, will it bring the Hoods here?”
In the room far below, Mr. Parker had lowered the blinds of the circular windows. Making certain that Charley Phelps was securely bound and gagged so that he could make no sound, he opened the front door a tiny crack and left it that way.
“How about the lights?” Salt Sommers asked.
“Leave them on. Shove that sound apparatus under the daybed. Now I guess everything’s set. Upstairs, everyone.”
Mr. Parker, Salt, and the two reporters, joined Penny and Jerry on the iron stairway.
“We may have a long vigil,” the editor warned. “In fact, this whole scheme is likely to turn out a bust.”
Few words were spoken during the next twenty minutes. Penny stirred restlessly, and finally went to join Jerry who was maintaining a watch from the belfry.
“See anyone?” she whispered, scanning the street below.
“No sign of anyone yet.”
At intervals automobiles whizzed past the tower, and presently one drew up not far from the building. Immediately, Jerry and Penny focused their attention upon it. The headlights were turned to parking, then a man alighted and came toward the Hubell Tower.
“Who is he?” Jerry whispered. “Can you tell?”
“I’m not sure,” Penny said uncertainly. “It may be Hank Holloway.”
As the man stepped into the light, they both saw that her identification had been correct. The man rapped on the door several times. Receiving no answer, he finally entered.
“Charley!” those on the iron stairway heard him call. “Where are you?”
The brilliantly lighted living room combined with the absence of the caretaker, seemed to mystify the newcomer. Muttering to himself, he moved restlessly about for a few minutes. Finally seating himself, he picked up a newspaper and began to read.
From their post in the belfry, Penny and Jerry soon observed two other men approaching the tower. One they recognized as a workman who had sorted melons at the Davis farm, but his companion was unknown to them. Without rapping, they too entered the building.
“Where’s Charley?” inquired one of the men.
“That’s what I was wondering,” Hank Holloway replied, tossing aside his paper. “For that matter, I can’t figure out why this special meeting was called. Something important must have come up.”
Within ten minutes, three other men had arrived. Jerry was able to identify two of them by name, but he dared not risk whispering the information to Mr. Parker who crouched on the stairway.
“There’s something mighty queer about this meeting,” Hank Holloway growled. “Where is the Master? And what’s become of Charley?”
From the machinery room in which the caretaker had been imprisoned came a slight thumping sound.
“What was that?” Hank demanded suspiciously.
“I didn’t hear anything,” answered one of the other men. “Maybe it was someone at the door.”
Hank tramped across the room to peer out into the night. As the door swung back, a dark figure moved swiftly along the hedge, crouching low.
“Who’s there?” Hank called sharply.
“Quiet, you fool!” was the harsh response.
A man wearing a dark robe and a black hood which completely hid his face, brushed past Holloway, and entered the Tower living room.
“Close the door!” he ordered.
Holloway hastened to obey. An expectant and rather tense silence had fallen upon the men gathered in the room.
“Now what is the meaning of this?” the Master demanded, facing the group. “Who called this meeting?”
“Why, didn’t you?” Holloway asked blankly.
“I did not.”
“All I know is that I heard the clock strike an extra stroke,” Holloway explained. “I thought it was queer to be having another meeting so soon. Then I found Charley wasn’t here—”
“Charley not here!” the Master exclaimed.
“He must have stepped out somewhere. The lights were on, and the door partly open.”
“I don’t like this,” the Master said, his voice harsh. “Charley has no right to call a meeting without a special order from me. It is becoming increasingly dangerous for us to gather here.”
“Now you’re talking!” Holloway nodded. “Anthony Parker of theStaris on the warpath again. One of his reporters has been prying into the books of the County Cooperative.”
“He’ll learn nothing from that source, I trust.”
“Not enough to do any harm.”
“You act as though you had a grievance, Holloway. Any complaints?”
“Why, no, the Cooperative has made a lot of money since you’ve taken over. We want to go along with you, if your flare for the dramatic doesn’t get us in too deep.”
“What do you mean by that, Holloway?”
“This night riding business is getting risky. Why, if Clem Davis should talk—”
“We’re not through with him yet.”
“Another thing, most of us never did approve of holding meetings here at the Tower,” Hank Holloway went on. “It’s too public a place, and sooner or later someone will start asking questions about what goes on.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, we think you ought to show yourself—let us know who you are. We’re all in this together, and we ought to take the same risks. I’ve been carrying the heavy end.”
“That settles it!” the masked man said with finality. “We’re through.”
“How do you mean?” Holloway asked.
“We’re breaking up the organization—now—tonight.”
“There’s no call to do that.”
“Holloway, you do a lot of talking and not much thinking,” the other snapped. “This will be our last meeting. We’ll divide the profits, and for a time at least, remain inactive.”
“That’s all very well for you,” Holloway complained. “You step out of it without anyone even knowing who you are. But some of us are tied up with the County Cooperative. If there’s any investigation, we’ll take the rap.”
“There will be no investigation.”
“That’s easy to say,” Holloway argued. “I don’t like the way things have been going lately. If we’re breaking up, we have a right to know who you are.”
“Sure,” chimed in another. “Remove your mask, and let’s have a look. We think we have your number but we ain’t positive.”
“You never will be,” the masked man returned coolly, backing toward the door. “And now, goodnight.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Holloway cried, trying to head him off.
“Stand back!” ordered the Master harshly.
From beneath his robe he whipped a revolver.
“All right,” Holloway sneered. “I never argue when I’m looking into a muzzle.”
Before the Master could retreat, there was another disturbance from inside the machinery room. Unmistakably, the door rattled.
“Someone is in there!” Holloway exclaimed.
Startled, the Master postponed his flight. Still holding the revolver, he tried to open the door, but found it locked.
For those hiding on the stairway, the situation had become a tense one. In another moment, the members of the Black Hoods unquestionably would break the door lock and find Charley Phelps.
“Let’s take ’em, Chief!” whispered Jerry, who was eager for action. “Now is our only chance.”
“All set!” Mr. Parker gave the signal.
With a concerted rush, the four young men leaped down the stairway, hurling themselves on Holloway and the masked man. Catching the latter unaware, Jerry knocked the revolver from his hand and it went spinning over the floor.
Penny started down the stairway, but Mr. Parker pushed her back.
“Stay where you are!” he ordered as he too joined the fray.
Penny huddled against the wall, watching fearfully.Her father and the reporters outnumbered their opponents by one man, but the Hoods were all strong, powerful fellows who fought desperately. A chair crashed against the lamp, shattering it. In the resulting darkness, she no longer could see what was happening.
Suddenly a figure broke away from the general tangle of bodies and darted toward the circular stairway. For a moment Penny believed that he must be one of the reporters, then she saw that the man wore a hood over his face.
“The Master!” she thought, chills racing down her spine. “He’s trying to get away, and I’ve got to stop him!”
As the black-robed man started up the stairway, Penny attempted to block his path. Failing to trip him, she seized his arms and held fast.
“Out of my way!” the man cried, giving her a hard push.
Penny clung tightly and struggled to reach the hood which covered his face.
Suddenly, the man jerked free and darted on up the steep, circular stairway. Pursuing him, Penny was able to seize the long flowing black robe, only to have it tear loose in her hands.
Gaining the first landing, midway to the belfry, the man did not hesitate. Swinging his legs through an open window, he leaped to the ground twenty feet below.
“He’ll be killed!” Penny thought.
Reaching the window she saw the man lying in a heap at the base of the tower. For a moment he remained motionless, but as she watched, he slowly scrambled to his feet and staggered off.
Until the man ducked behind the high hedge, Penny saw him plainly silhouetted in the moonlight. Although his black hood remained in place, his body no longer was covered by the dark robe.
“I know him!” she thought. “Even with his mask on, I’m sure I can’t be wrong!”
Fearing to attempt the hazardous leap, Penny ran down the iron stairway, shouting that the Master of the Hoods had escaped. By this time, Mr. Parker’s crew of reporters had gained the upperhand of the remaining members of the organization.
“Which way did the fellow go?” the editor demanded, running to the door.
“Along the hedge toward the street!” Penny directed.
Leaving Jerry, Salt, and the others to guard the prisoners, Mr. Parker and his daughter hastened outdoors. There was no sign of anyone in the vicinity of the Tower.
“He can’t be far away,” Penny maintained. “Anyway, I know his identity!”
“You saw his face?”
“No, but as he ran across the yard I noticed that one arm was much shorter than the other.”
“Clyde Blake!”
“That’s what I think. Maybe we can catch him at his home!”
“If Blake is our man, we’ll get him!” Mr. Parker said tersely. “We may need help though.”
Reentering the Tower building, he telephoned police headquarters, asking that a patrol wagon be sent for Hank Holloway, Charley Phelps, and the other prisoners.
“Send a squad to Clyde Blake’s home,” he added crisply. “I’ll meet your men there and provide all the evidence they’ll need to make the arrests.”
Jerry, Salt, and the two reporters were instructed to remain at the Tower pending the arrival of the patrol wagon. There was slight danger that any of the prisoners could escape for all the captives had been locked into the machinery room.
Delaying only long enough to obtain the case of sound equipment hidden beneath the daybed, Mr. Parker and Penny hastened to the waiting press car.
“Dad,” she marveled as they passed near a street light, “you should see your eye! It’s turning black. Someone must have pasted you hard.”
“Never mind that now,” he returned indifferently. “We’re out for a big story, and we’re going to get it too!”
The police cruiser which had been summoned was not in sight by the time Mr. Parker and Penny reached the Blake home. At first glance, the house seemed to be dark. However, a dim light glowed from the windows of one of the upstairs, rear bedrooms.
“We’ll not wait for the police,” Mr. Parker said, starting up the walk.
His knock at the door went unanswered. Even when the editor pounded with his fist, no one came to admit him.
“Someone is inside,” Penny declared, peering up at the lighted window. “It must be Blake.”
Mr. Parker tried the door and finding it unlocked, stepped boldly into the living room.
“Blake!” he shouted.
On the floor above Mr. Parker and Penny heard the soft pad of slippered feet. The real estate man, garbed in a black silk dressing gown, gazed down over the balustrade.
“Who is there?” he called.
“Anthony Parker from theStar. I want to talk with you.”
Slowly Clyde Blake descended the stairway. His gait was stiff and deliberate.
“You seem to have injured your leg,” Mr. Parker said significantly.
“I stumbled on the stairway not fifteen minutes ago,” Blake answered. “Twisted my ankle. May I ask why I am honored with a visit at this hour?”
“You know why I am here!” Mr. Parker retorted, reaching to switch on a living room light.
“Indeed, I don’t.” Deliberately Blake moved away from the bridge lamp into the shadow, but not before both Penny and her father had noted a long, ugly scratch across his cheek.
“It’s no use to pretend,” Mr. Parker said sharply. “I have all the evidence I need to convict you of being a ringleader of the Hoods.”
“You are quite mad,” the real estate man sneered. “Parker, I’ve put up with you and your methods quite long enough. You queered my deal with the Orphans’ Camp Board. Now you accuse me of being a member of a disreputable organization. You must be out of your mind.”
“You’ve always been a good talker, Blake, but this time it will get you nowhere. My reporters were at the Hubell Tower. I have a complete sound record of what transpired there. Either give yourself up, or the police will take you by force.”
“So you’ve notified the police?”
“I have.”
“In that case—” Blake’s smile was tight. With a dextrousness which caught Penny and her father completely off guard, he whipped a revolver from beneath his dressing robe. “In that case,” he completed, “we’ll handle it this way. Raise your hands, if you please.”
“Your politeness quite overpowers me,” the editor said sarcastically, as he obeyed.
“Now turn your back and walk to the telephone,” Blake went on. “Call the police station and tell the chief that you made a mistake in asking for my arrest.”
“This will get you nowhere, Blake.”
“Do as I say!”
Mr. Parker went to the telephone, stalling for time by pretending that he did not know the police station number.
“Garfield 4508,” Blake supplied. “Say exactly what I tell you or you’ll taste one of my little bullets!”
The real estate man stood with his back to the darkened dining room, in such position that he could cover both Mr. Parker and Penny. As the editor began to dial the phone, he backed a step nearer the archway. Behind him, the dark velvet curtains moved slightly.
Penny noted the movement but gave no indication of it. The next instant a muscular arm reached through the velvet folds, seizing Blake from the rear. The revolver was torn from his hand.
Dropping the telephone, Mr. Parker snatched up the weapon and covered Blake.
“All right, it’s your turn to reach,” he said.
As Blake slowly raised his hands, another man stepped into the circle of light. He wore rough garments and had not shaved in many days.
“Clem Davis!” Penny exclaimed.
“I came here to get Blake,” the man said briefly. “I’ve thought for a long time he was the person responsible for all my trouble. Tonight when the clock struck thirteen, I watched the Hubell Tower. I saw Blake put on his hood and robe and then enter the building, so I knew he was the Master.”
“You’re willing to testify to that?” Mr. Parker asked.
“Yes,” Clem Davis nodded, “I’ve been thinking things over. I’m ready to give myself up and tell what I know.”
“You’ll have a very difficult time of it proving your absurd charges,” Blake said scathingly.
“I think not,” Mr. Parker corrected. “Ben Bowman was captured tonight, and he’s already confessed his part in the real estate swindle. Even if you weren’t mixed up with the Hoods, you’d go to jail for that.”
Blake sagged into a chair, for the first time looking shaken.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Parker,” he began, but the editor cut him short.
“You’ll face the music! No, Blake, you can’t squeeze out of it this time.”
A car had drawn up in front of the house. Running to the window, Penny saw three policemen crossing the street. She hurried to the door to open it for them.
“Here’s your man,” Mr. Parker said as the policemen tramped into the living room.
Turning the revolver over to one of the officers, he disclosed exactly what had occurred. Blake was immediately placed under arrest. He was granted ten minutes to change into street clothing and prepare for his long sojourn in jail.
“I am being persecuted,” he whined as he was led away. “This is all a trick to build up circulation for theStar. If there is such an organization as the Black Hoods, Clem Davis is the man who heads it!”
Penny and Mr. Parker felt very grateful to the fugitive who had come to their aid at such a timely moment. They wished to help him if they could, but they knew he could not escape arrest. Clem Davis realized it too, for he made no protest when told that Sheriff Daniels must be called.
“I’m ready to give myself up,” he repeated. “I was a member of the Hoods, but I never went along with them once I learned that they meant to defraud the truck farmers. I hope I can prove my innocence.”
Within a few minutes Sheriff Daniels arrived to assume charge of his prisoner. Entertaining no sympathy for the man, he told Penny and her father that in all likelihood Davis must serve a long sentence.
“He’s wanted for setting fire to the Preston barn,” the sheriff insisted. “Unless he can prove an alibi for himself, he hasn’t a chance.”
“Can’t you tell where you were at the time of the fire?” Mr. Parker asked the man.
“I was at a place called Toni’s.”
“Why, that’s right, Dad!” Penny cried. “Don’t you remember? We saw Davis leave the place, and he was followed by two men—probably members of the Hood organization.”
“We saw a man leave there shortly after midnight,” Mr. Parker agreed.
“You wouldn’t swear he was Clem Davis?” the sheriff asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Parker admitted truthfully. “However, it’s obvious that a man scarcely could have gone from Toni’s at that time and still set fire to the barn. My daughter and I drove directly there, and when we arrived the building had been burning for some time.”
“All of which proves nothing unless you can show that Clem Davis actually was at Toni’s after midnight.”
“Could the owner of the place identify you?” Penny thoughtfully inquired.
“I doubt it,” Davis answered. “It might be worth a try, though.”
“Perhaps I can prove that you weren’t near the Preston farm at midnight!” Penny exclaimed as a sudden idea came to her. “Clem, you heard the Hubell clock strike the hour?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How many strokes were there?”
“Thirteen,” Davis answered without hesitation. “I counted them and figured the Hoods were having one of their get-togethers.”
“What is this?” the sheriff demanded in bewilderment.
“We can prove that the Hubell clock did strike thirteen on that particular night,” Penny resumed. “It was a signal used by the Hoods, but that’s not the point.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just this. The Hubell clock can’t be heard at the Preston farm.”
“True.”
“One can still hear the clock at Toni’s but not a quarter of a mile beyond it. You see, if Mr. Davis heard the thirteenth stroke, he couldn’t have had time to reach the Preston farm and set the fire.”
“That’s an interesting argument,” the sheriff said, smiling. “And you plead Clem’s case very earnestly. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll investigate all these angles you’ve brought up, and if the evidence supports your theory, I promise he’ll go free.”
“That’s fair enough,” declared Mr. Parker.
The sheriff did not handcuff his prisoner. As they were leaving the house, Clem Davis turned to thank Penny for her interest in his behalf.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, taking a rectangular metal object from beneath his baggy coat. “Here’s something for you.”
“A rusty automobile license plate!” Penny exclaimed, staring at it.
“Found it in the swamp not far from that abandoned car I told you about.”
“Then it must have been thrown away by the driver of the hit-skip car!”
“That’s how I figure,” Clem Davis drawled. “If you can learn the owner of this license plate, you’ll know who killed that orphan’s folks!”
Lights blazed on every floor of theRiverview Starbuilding, proclaiming to all who passed that another special edition was in the process of birth. Pressmen industriously oiled the big rotaries ready for a big run of papers; linotype men, compositors, reporters, all were at their posts, having been hastily summoned from comfortable beds.
In the editor’s office, Penny sat at a typewriter hammering out copy. Jerking a long sheet of paper from beneath the roller, she offered it to her father.
“My contribution on the Hubell Clock angle,” she said with a flourish.
Mr. Parker rapidly scanned the story, making a number of corrections with a blue pencil.
“I should slug this ‘editorial material,’” he remarked with a grin. “Quite a plug you’ve put in for Seth McGuire—suggesting that he be given back his old job as caretaker of the Tower.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“The old man will get his job back—I’ll see to that,” Mr. Parker promised. “But the front page of theStaris not the place to express wishful thinking. We’ll reserve it for news if you don’t mind.”
Crossing out several lines, Mr. Parker placed the copy in a pneumatic tube, and shot it directly to the composing room. He glanced at his watch, noting aloud that in exactly seven minutes the giant presses would start rolling.
“Everything certainly has turned out grand,” Penny sighed happily. “Hank Holloway and Clyde Blake are sure to be given long prison sentences for their Black Hood activities. You’ve promised to see that Old Seth gets his job back, so that part will end beautifully. He’ll adopt Adelle and I won’t need to worry about her any more.”
“What makes you think Seth will adopt the orphan?” Mr. Parker asked curiously.
“Why, he’s wanted to do it from the first. He hesitated because he had no steady work, and not enough money. By the way, Dad, how long will it take to learn the owner of that automobile license plate that Clem Davis gave us?”
“Jerry is trying to get the information now, Penny. All the registry offices are closed, but if he can pull some official out of bed, there’s a chance he may obtain the data tonight. I’m not counting on it, however.”
The door of the office swung back and City Editor DeWitt hurried into the room.
“Everything set?” Mr. Parker inquired.
“We need a picture of Clyde Blake. There’s nothing in the morgue.”
“Salt Sommers has one you might use!” Penny cried. “It was taken when Blake came here the other day. He objected to it because it showed that one arm was shorter than the other.”
“Just what we need!” DeWitt approved. “I’ll rush it right out. Except for the picture, the front page is all made up.”
The door closed behind the city editor, but before Mr. Parker could settle comfortably into his chair, it burst open again. Jerry Livingston, breathless from running up several flights of stairs, faced his chief.
“I’ve got all the dope!” he announced.
“You learned who drove the hit-run car?” Penny demanded eagerly.
“The license was issued in Clyde Blake’s name!”
“Then Adelle’s identification at the picnic was correct!” Penny exclaimed.
“Write your story, Jerry, but make it brief,” Mr. Parker said tersely. “We’ll make over the front page.”
Calling DeWitt, he gave the new order. In the composing room, headlines were jerked and a story of minor importance was pulled from the form to make room for the new material.
“We’ll roll three minutes late,” Mr. Parker said, glancing at his watch again. “Even so, our papers will make all the trains, and we’ll scoop every other sheet in town.”
Jerry wrote his story which was sent paragraph by paragraph to the composing room. Barely had he typed “30,” signifying the end, when the lights of the room dimmed for an instant.
“There go the presses!” Mr. Parker declared, ceasing his restless pacing.
Within a few minutes, the first paper, still fresh with ink, was laid upon the editor’s desk. Penny peered over his shoulder to read the headlines announcing the arrest of Blake and his followers.
“There’s not much here about Ben Bowman,” she commented after a moment. “What do you think will happen to him, Dad?”
“That remains to be seen,” answered the editor. “He’s already wanted for forgery, so it should be fairly easy to prove that he worked with Blake to defraud the Camp Board.”
“I’m worried about the orphans’ camp. So much money has been spent clearing the land and setting up equipment.”
“Probably everything can be settled satisfactorily in the end,” Mr. Parker returned. “It may take time and litigation, but there’s no reason why a perfect title can’t be obtained to the land.”
Penny felt very well pleased at the way everything had turned out. Only one small matter remained unexplained. She had been unable to learn the significance of the watch fob found in Clem Davis’ stable.
“Why, I can tell you about that,” Jerry Livingston assured her. “The fob belonged to Hank Holloway. He admitted it at the police station. The little boy in the picture is his nephew.”
Both Penny and her father were tired for it was very late. With theStarready for early morning street sales, they thought longingly of home and bed. Yet as their car sped down a dimly lighted street, Penny revived sufficiently to say:
“How about a steak at Toni’s, Dad?”
“Oh, I don’t feel like eating at this late hour,” Mr. Parker declined.
“That’s not the idea, Dad. I’m suggesting a raw steak for that left eye of yours. By morning it will be swollen shut.”
“It is quite a shiner,” the editor agreed, gazing at his reflection in the car mirror. “But the story was well worth the cost.”
“Thanks to whom?” Penny asked mischievously.
“If I say thanks to you, Penny, you will be expecting an increase in your allowance or something of the sort.”
“Maybe I’ll ask for it anyhow,” Penny chuckled. “And don’t forget that you owe me a hundred dollars for getting that crack-pot, Ben Bowman, out of your hair!”
“So I do,” Mr. Parker conceded with a laugh. “That also will be worth the price.”