“Don’t you like it?” he teased.
Penny shook her head. With fascinated gaze, she stared at the flickering oil light.
“Do you suppose that thing burns all the time, Salt, or has someone just been here?”
“It couldn’t burn very long, unless someone keeps refilling the shell with oil. Wonder what’s in this chest?”
Salt stooped to raise the lid. As he did so, Penny, who stood close beside him, suddenly clutched his arm. At his look of surprise, she mumbled:
“I thought I heard something just then—like the rustling of silk!”
Salt listened a moment and chuckled. “That old imagination of yours is working overtime, Penny! Relax!”
“But I did hear a rustling sound as if someone were moving along the wall. Listen! There it is again!”
“No one could—” Salt began, and broke off. The queer look that came over his face told Penny that he too had heard the sound.
Then whispering began, and seemed to issue from the very cottage walls. At first the stunned pair could not distinguish a word. But gradually the words whispered in a throaty voice became audible.
“Go!” the warning voice commanded. “All is forbidden!”
Salt was the first to recover from surprise at the whispered warning. Convinced that someone must be crouching beneath the open cottage window, he strode across the room to peer outside.
No one was in sight.
“The voice seemed to come from the wall itself!” Penny murmured. She added jokingly, “Maybe this place has a ghost who is annoyed because we climbed in through the window!”
“That whispered warning came from a very human ghost,” the photographer muttered. “We’ll do a little annoying ourselves if we can find the bird!”
Salt jerked open the door. Penny followed him outside. Behind them, the door swung shut again, but neither noticed.
Quickly they circled the cottage. No one was visible in the clearing nor were leaves stirring in the bushes close by.
Salt, however, remained convinced the warning had been whispered by someone standing close to the window who then had quickly retreated to the sheltering shrubbery.
“The warning seemed to come from the very inside of the walls,” Penny repeated.
“How could it? The walls are only average thickness, so the only place a person could hide would be outside. It’s a cinch no one was in the room with us!”
“Lorinda might have crept close to the cottage and whispered the warning,” Penny said thoughtfully, “but I doubt it very much.”
“Lorinda?”
“Mrs. Rhett’s daughter. She tried to prevent me investigating the cottage before you arrived.”
“Then she may have followed us here.”
“The whispering voice didn’t sound like hers,” Penny insisted. “No, I can’t believe it was Lorinda.”
Salt started back toward the cottage. “Whoever it was, let’s not be bluffed out, Penny. We’ll see what’s inside the wooden chest.”
The cottage door was closed. To the photographer’s annoyance, it refused to open even when he thrust his weight against it.
“Now what?” he demanded. “Did you close the door when you came out, Penny?”
“Not that I recall. The wind must have blown it shut.”
“Wind? What wind? Look at the trees.”
Scarcely a leaf was stirring.
“Then I’m afraid it must have been the jungle ghost,” Penny said with a nervous giggle. She glanced at her wrist watch. “Salt, it’s getting late. We must go.”
“Not yet,” retorted Salt grimly.
Again he circled the thatched cottage, with Penny tagging none too happily at his heels. As they saw the window, they both paused.
“Why, it’s closed now!” Penny gasped. “How did we leave it?”
“Open. The cottage door may have blown shut by itself and locked with a spring catch, but this window is a horse of a different color. It couldn’t have closed by itself.”
“Who could have lowered it? How was it done without our knowledge?”
Salt had no explanation. Lifting Penny so that she could peer inside the room again, he asked her what she could see.
“Not a sign of anyone. But it’s so dark—”
“See anything now?” Salt demanded impatiently as her voice trailed off.
“The cocoanut shell lamp! It’s no longer burning!”
“Sure?”
“I couldn’t see better if I wore bifocals! The room is dark.”
“An experience like this shouldn’t happen to a dog,” muttered Salt. “We’ll find out what’s behind it! Raise the window and in we go.”
Penny tugged at the sill. “Locked,” she reported. “From the inside.”
Disgusted, Salt allowed her to drop lightly to the ground. “Wait until I find a rock,” he instructed. “We’ll get in!”
Penny caught his arm. “No, Salt! We’ve already overstepped our rights. We mustn’t damage the Rhett property.”
“Well, someone is making a monkey of us,” the photographer grumbled. “It burns me up!”
“There’s more to it than meets the eyes, Salt. Even the atmosphere of this place is sinister.”
“You say that, and yet you’re willing to turn your back on an unsolved mystery? How times have changed!”
“Well—” Penny wavered, for it was true she loved mystery and adventure. But she finished in a firm voice: “We were sent here to get a story and picture for theStar! We’ll miss the Green Streak edition if we don’t get back to the officepronto.”
She thrust her wrist watch beneath Salt’s nose. He looked at the moving hands and muttered: “Jeepers! We’ve got just thirty-five minutes to catch our deadline! Let’s go!”
Hurriedly, they went up the path toward the mansion and the road. As they approached the house, the rear door swung open and Lorinda came out on the flagstone terrace.
“There she is now!” Penny murmured in an undertone. “I don’t believe she could have been the one who whispered the warning at the cottage! It must have been someone else.”
“Is she the Rhett girl?” Salt demanded, starting to adjust his camera. “Maybe I can get a shot of her after all.”
Lorinda came directly toward the pair, but she raised a hand squarely in front of her face as she saw that Salt meant to take her picture.
“Please don’t!” she pleaded. “I can’t pose. I only came to ask you to leave. Mother is so upset. The telephone is ringing constantly, and we expect the police any minute.”
Lorinda obviously was on the verge of tears. Salt lowered his camera.
“I do want to help you,” Lorinda hastened on. “That’s why I am giving you this. Mother doesn’t know about it, and she will be furious.”
Into Penny’s hand, she thrust a small but clear photograph of a middle-aged man who wore glasses. His left cheek was marred by a jagged though not particularly disfiguring scar.
“Your stepfather!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, this is the only picture we have of him. He never liked to have his photograph taken. If you use it, please take good care of the original and see that we get it back.”
“Oh, we will!” Penny promised. “This photograph should help in tracing Mr. Rhett.”
“Please go now,” Lorinda urged again. She glanced uneasily down the path toward the thatched-roof cottage, but if she knew what had transpired there, she gave no sign.
Elated to have obtained the photograph, Penny and Salt hastened on to the parked press car. Starting the car with a jerk, Salt followed the winding river road.
Penny cast a glance over her shoulder. Through the trees she could see only the roof-top of the thatched cottage in the clearing.
The estate was bounded by a wooden rail fence, in many places fortified with dense, tall shrubbery. The fall weather had tinted many of the bushes scarlet, yellow or bronze. Gazing toward a patch of particularly brilliant-colored leaves, Penny detected movement behind them.
For a fleeting instant she thought she had seen a large, shaggy dog. Then she became certain it was a man who crouched behind the screen of leaves.
“Salt!” she exclaimed sharply. “Look at those bushes!”
The photographer slowed the car, turning his head.
“What about ’em, Penny?”
“Someone is hiding there behind the fence! Perhaps it’s the person who whispered a warning at the thatched cottage!”
“Oh, it’s just a shadow,” Salt began, only to change his mind. “You’re right! Someone is crouching there!”
So suddenly that Penny was thrown sideways, the photographer swerved the car to the curb. He swung the door open.
“What are you going to do?” Penny demanded.
The photographer did not take time to reply. Already he was out of the car, running toward the hedge.
As Salt ran toward him, the man who crouched behind the bushes began to move stealthily away. From the car Penny could not see his face which was screened by dense foliage.
“Salt, he’s getting away!” she shouted.
Salt climbed over the fence. His clothing got snagged and by the time he had freed himself and struggled through a tangle of vines and bushes, the man he pursued had completely disappeared.
“Which way did he go, Penny?” he called.
“I lost sight of him after he ducked into a clump of shrubbery,” she replied regretfully. “It’s useless to try to find him now.”
Salt came back to the car, and starting the engine, drove on.
“You didn’t see who it was?” Penny asked hopefully.
“No, I think it was a man. Maybe the Rhett’s gardener or a tramp.”
“Whoever it was, I’m sure he stood there watching us drive away from the grounds,” Penny declared.
Until the car was far down the street, she alertly watched the Rhett grounds. However, the one who had crouched by the fence now was well hidden and on guard. Not a movement of the bushes betrayed his presence.
As the Rhett mansion was lost completely from view, Penny’s thoughts came back to the story which she must write. Nervously she glanced at her wrist watch.
“What’s the bad news?” Salt asked, stepping hard on the gasoline pedal.
“Twenty-five minutes until deadline. Can you make it?”
Salt’s lips compressed into a grim line and he concentrated on his driving, avoiding heavy traffic and red lights as they approached the center of town.
They came at last to the big stone building downtown which housed theRiverview Star. As Salt pulled up at the curb, Penny leaped out and ran inside. Without waiting for an elevator, she darted up the stairs to the busy newsroom.
Editor DeWitt was talking on a telephone, and, all about him, reporters were tapping typewriters at a furious pace.
Editor DeWitt held his hand over the phone mouthpiece and fixed Penny with a gloomy eye. “Time you got here,” he observed. “Anything new? Did you get the pictures?”
Penny produced the photograph of Mr. Rhett which the editor studied an instant, then tossed to his assistant, with a terse: “Make it a one column—rush!”
Knowing that with a deadline practically at hand Mr. DeWitt was in no mood for a lengthy tale, Penny told him only such facts as were pertinent to Mr. Rhett’s disappearance.
“So the family won’t talk?” DeWitt growled. “Well, play up that angle. We’ve already set up everything you gave us over the phone. Make this an add and get it right out.”
Penny nodded and slid into a chair behind the nearest typewriter. An “add” she knew, was an addition to a story already set up in type. It was easier to write than a “lead” which contained the main facts of all that had happened, but even so, she would be hard pressed to make the deadline.
For a moment she concentrated, but the noises of the room distracted her somewhat. Editor DeWitt was barking into the telephone again; a reporter on her left side was clicking a pencil against the desk; the short-wave radio blared a police call; and across the room someone bellowed: “Copy boy!”
Then Penny began to write, and the noises blanked out, until she was aware only of the moving ribbon of words on the copy paper. She had written perhaps four paragraphs when DeWitt ordered tersely: “Give me a take.”
Without looking up, Penny nodded, wrote a few more words, then jerked the copy from her machine. A boy snatched it from her hand and carried it to DeWitt, who read it rapidly. Pencilling a few minor corrections, he shot it to the copy desk.
Meanwhile, with another sheet of paper rolled in her machine, Penny was grinding out more of the story. Words flowed easily now, and she scarcely paused to think.
DeWitt called for more copy. Again she ripped it from the roller and gave it to the boy.
After the third “take,” DeWitt called: “That’s enough. Make her ‘30.’”
Penny understood the term. It signified the end of the story, and usually when reporters had completed an article, they wrote the figure at the bottom of the copy sheet.
Finishing the sentence she had started, she gave the last of her story to the boy, and settling back, took a deep breath. DeWitt’s chair was empty. He had gone to the composing room, leaving his assistant to handle the final copy that came through before the presses rolled.
Penny knew that the last page she had written probably would not make the edition, but it did not matter. She had crammed all the important and most interesting of her information into the first part of the story. In any event, everything she had written would be used in the second edition, the Three Star, which followed the Green Streak by two hours. The final edition rolled from the presses later in the evening and was known as the Blue Streak.
A well-built, good looking reporter with a pencil tucked behind one ear, walked over to the desk.
“Big day, Penny?” he inquired affectionately.
Jerry Livingston, who rated as theStar’sbest reporter, also stood at the very top of Penny’s long list of friends.
With Jerry, Penny always felt comfortable and at ease. Now she found herself telling him about the Rhett case, omitting few details of what had occurred in the thatched roof cottage. It took longer to relate all the events than Penny realized, for, before she had finished the story, the Green Streak edition was up, and a boy was distributing papers about the office. Penny reached eagerly for one, noting instantly that her article appeared in good position on the front page.
“Wonder who wrote the lead?” she asked. “You, Jerry?”
“Guilty,” he laughed. “Any mistakes?”
Penny could find none. It was a perfect rewrite, based upon facts she had telephoned to the office after leaving the bank. The story had a professional swing she could not have achieved. Her own “add” went into it very smoothly, however, so that few persons reading the account ever would guess two reporters had contributed to the writing.
Mr. DeWitt had returned from the composing room, and with a relaxed air settled down to enjoy a cigarette. Now that the edition was rolling off the press, he no longer seemed nervous or irritable.
Presently he waved his hand toward Penny who went over to see what he wanted.
“This Rhett story is likely to develop into something,” he said. “I’ll want double coverage, so I’m assigning Jerry to help you. He’ll handle the police angle.”
Penny nodded, secretly glad it was Jerry who had been directed to help her instead of another reporter. Police work, particularly the checking of routine reports, was vitally important but uninteresting. She was pleased to escape it.
“You’re to keep close tab on the Rhett mansion,” Mr. DeWitt instructed. “Report everything of consequence that happens there. By tomorrow things may start popping.”
The wire editor came swiftly to DeWitt’s desk with a sheet of copy which had just been torn from an Associated Press teletype.
“Here’s something,” he said. “A few hours ago police published for all state banks the numbers of those bonds stolen from the First National Bank. According to this Culver City dispatch, one of the bonds, in $1,000 denomination, turned up there yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Penny inquired.
“Sure, a Culver City bank took the bond in, not knowing it was one of the missing ones. Late this afternoon, police sent out the numbers to every bank in the state.”
DeWitt read the news item carefully his eyes glinting with interest.
“Too bad Albert Potts didn’t notify the police several days ago. Rhett may be half way to the Mexican border by this time.”
“Then you believe he walked off with the bonds?” asked Penny.
“Looks like it,” shrugged the editor. “There’s no other suspect. Or if there is, the police aren’t talking. More of those missing bonds may show up. Jerry, get busy on the telephone!” he called to the reporter who sat nearby.
“What’s doing?” Jerry inquired, getting up and coming to the desk.
DeWitt thrust the dispatch into his hand. “Get hold of that Culver City banker,” he instructed. “Find out who turned the bond in, and if the description fits Rhett.”
Jerry was occupied at the telephone for nearly fifteen minutes. He returned to report: “The bond was turned in by a woman, and the bank clerk didn’t make a record of her name.”
“Any description?”
“No, the clerk only remembers that she was a middle-aged woman.”
DeWitt sighed heavily and turned his attention to other matters. Penny glanced at the clock. It was after six o’clock. Her father, she knew, would have left the office nearly an hour earlier. She could catch a bus home, but first a cup of coffee across the street might help to fortify her until she could enjoy a home-cooked dinner by Mrs. Weems.
As she started away from the office, Jerry followed her.
“Going across the way for a bite to eat?” he asked. “Mind if I tag along?”
“I wish you would,” she replied eagerly. “We can talk about the Rhett case.”
“Oh, let’s bury that until tomorrow. I’d rather talk about a dozen other subjects—you, for instance.”
“Me?”
“About that little curl behind your ear. Or the smudge of carbon on the end of your nose!”
“Oh! Why didn’t you tell me before?” Indignantly, Penny peered at her reflection in a hand mirror and rubbed vigorously with her handkerchief.
Outside theStarbuilding, newsboys were shouting their wares. As Penny and Jerry started to cross the street, one of the lads who had received a job through the girl’s influence, spied the pair.
Approaching, he flashed a paper in front of their eyes.
“See this bird who robbed the bank!” he exclaimed, pointing to the picture of Hamilton Rhett.
“Tommy, I’m afraid your reading is inaccurate,” Penny laughed. “The story doesn’t say Mr. Rhett robbed a bank.”
“He must have done it,” the newsboy insisted. “What’s the reward for his capture?”
“Mr. Rhett is not listed as a criminal,” Penny explained. “There is no reward.”
Tommy’s face dropped an inch.
“What’s the matter, son?” asked Jerry. “Figuring on cashing in?”
“Well, sort of,” the boy admitted. “I saw the fellow not an hour ago!”
“He wasn’t robbing another bank?” Jerry teased.
“He was going into a house on Fulton Street. I didn’t take down the number ’cause when I saw him I didn’t think nothin’ of it. The Green Streak wasn’t out then, and I hadn’t seen his picture in the paper.”
“Fulton Street?” repeated Penny, frowning. “What section?”
“It was at the corner of Fulton and Cherry. He went into an old three-story brick building with a sign: ‘Rooms for rent—beds thirty cents.’”
“Why, Tommy means Riverview’s cheapest flop house!” Jerry exclaimed. “I can’t imagine a bank president luxuriating in a Fulton Street dump.”
“All the same, I saw him. He wore old clothes, but it was the same bird.”
“Tommy, you’ll grow up to be a police detective some day,” Jerry chuckled. He started to pull Penny along, but she held back.
“Wait, Jerry, if there should be anything to it—”
Jerry smiled indulgently.
“Tell us more about the man you saw,” Penny urged Tommy. “How was he dressed?”
“He wore old clothes and a floppy black hat. And there was a scar on his cheek.”
“Jerry, Mr. Rhett had a similar scar!”
“And so have dozens of other people. Did I ever show you the one I got when I was a kid? Another boy socked me with a bottle and—”
“Be serious, Jerry! Tommy, are you sure the man you saw looked like the picture in the paper?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. It was the spitten image! If you catch him, will you give me a reward?”
“We’ll split fifty-fifty,” grinned Jerry, pulling Penny on by brute force.
But across the street he met unexpected opposition. Stopping dead in her tracks, Penny announced: “This is where we part company. I’m going to investigate that place on Fulton Street!”
“Say, are you crazy? You can’t go to a flop house alone!”
“That’s exactly what I shall do, unless you come with me.”
“It’s a waste of time! You know these kids. Tommy read the story, and it fired his imagination.”
“Maybe so,” admitted Penny, unmoved. “All the same, I’m going there to make certain. How about you?”
Jerry looked longingly at the restaurant and drew a deep sigh.
“Okay,” he gave in, “I learned years ago that it’s no use arguing with a gal. Lead on, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
Street lights blinked on as Penny and Jerry reached the corner of Fulton and Cherry Streets, in the poorer section of Riverview.
“That must be the building,” the reporter said, indicating an old, discolored brick building with a faded sign which proclaimed it a cheap rooming house of the type patronized by those who could afford only a few cents for a bed.
They crossed the street. Penny’s courage faltered as she saw that they must climb a long, dark stairway. Dust was very thick; the air inside was stuffy.
“You still can change your mind, you know,” said Jerry. “Why not wait outside, while I go up?”
Penny shook her head.
Climbing the stairs, they entered an open space from which branched narrow corridors. The landing was even dirtier and darker than the stairway, with a huge pasteboard carton standing in a corner filled with empty bottles.
In a little office room, behind a cage window, sat a plump middle-aged woman with reddish frizzled hair. She eyed the pair suspiciously. To her experienced eye, their manner and clothing immediately stamped them as “outsiders,” perhaps investigators. She smiled ingratiatingly at Jerry.
“We’re looking for a man,” he said briefly.
“You’re from the police, ain’t you?” she demanded. “We got nothin’ to hide. My husband and me run a respectable place for poor workin’ men.”
“May we see your room register?”
“Sure. Ever since that last copper was here I been keepin’ it just like he told me I had to do.”
Through the wooden slats of the cage, the woman thrust a grimy notebook which had been ruled off to provide spaces for names, addresses and date of registry.
Rapidly Jerry scanned the entries for several days back. No one by the name of Rhett had registered, but neither he nor Penny had expected the banker would be stupid enough to use his real name, if indeed he had come to such a place.
As Penny glanced about the dingy, smoke-stained room, it seemed impossible to her that Mr. Rhett, a man of culture and wealth, would voluntarily seek such quarters.
“The man we’re looking for is middle-aged,” Penny explained. “He wore glasses and may have been well dressed. We were told he was seen here earlier tonight.”
“They all look alike to me,” the woman said wearily. “Most of my rooms are empty now. We don’t fill up until the coppers start runnin’ loiterers off Cherry Street around ten o’clock. It’s still warm enough outside so’s a lot o’ the cheap skates can sleep out on the river bank.”
“Isn’t anyone here?” inquired Jerry.
“Maybe one or two men. A fella name of Ben Smith came in about an hour or two ago. He signed up for one of the flops. Come to think of it, maybe he’s the one you’re after. He acted nervous like and I figured maybe he was dodgin’ the police. Another thing, he acted like he was used to havin’ money.”
“Did he have much on him?”
“I couldn’t see, but he paid me with a five dollar bill. And why would a fella with even that much dough sleep in a flop if he wasn’t tryin’ to dodge the cops?”
“Suppose you describe the man.”
“He was about average height and middle-aged. No glasses, though. He couldn’t have been down and out very long, because he still wore a ring.”
“Describe it, please,” requested Penny.
“It was a gold ring with a picture of a snake on it—some sort of order probably.”
“The plumed serpent!” exclaimed Penny. “Jerry, perhaps Tommy was right!”
“Take us to this man,” the reporter directed the landlady.
“How do I know if he’s still here? The men come and go and so long as they’re paid up, I don’t pay no attention. What’s he done anyhow?”
“Nothing very serious,” Jerry replied. “Anyway, we’re not from the police station.”
The woman’s pretended friendliness vanished. “Then what you pryin’ around here for?” she demanded. “Who are you anyhow?”
“We’re newspaper reporters.”
“I don’t want my name in the paper, and we don’t want nothing written about this place!”
“Take it easy,” Jerry advised. “Your name won’t be in the paper. We’re only looking for a man. Now lead us to him.”
“When people take rooms or a bed in this place they got a right to privacy,” the woman argued unpleasantly. “It ain’t none o’ my business what folks have done that come here.”
“We want to talk to this man who registered as Smith. Either take us to him, or we’ll have to call in the police. I’m a personal friend of Joe Grabey, the patrolman on this beat.”
“I was only kiddin’,” the woman said hastily. “You can talk to him if he’s here.”
Locking the office door behind her, the woman led the pair down a narrow corridor with rooms on either side. A door stood open. Penny caught a glimpse of a cell-like chamber, furnished only with a sagging bed, soiled blankets, and a rickety dresser. The dingy walls were lined with pegs.
“Those nails are for hanging up clothes, and symbolize a man’s rise in the world,” Jerry pointed out to her. “Men who patronize the flops usually have only the suit on their backs. But when they make a little money and get two suits, they need a safe place to keep the extra clothes during the day. So they rent one of these tiny rooms which can be locked.”
Leading the way down a dark hall to the very end, the landlady opened a door. This room with paper-thin walls, sheltered perhaps twenty men, each cot jammed close to its neighbor. The air was disagreeable with the odor of strong disinfectant which had been used on the bare wood floor.
The room now was deserted save for a man in baggy black trousers who sat on one of the cots, reading a comic magazine. Other beds were made up, but empty.
“Is that man Ben Smith?” Penny asked in disappointment, for he bore not the slightest resemblance to the picture of Mr. Rhett.
“No, I don’t know what became of Smith, if he ain’t here,” the landlady answered. She called to the man on the cot. “Jake, seen anyone in here during the last hour?”
He shook his head, staring curiously at the intruders.
To Jerry the woman said: “You’ll have to come back later if you want to see Smith. Maybe after ten o’clock.”
Jerry scribbled his name and telephone number on a sheet of notebook paper.
“If he does show up, will you telephone me?” he requested.
“Oh, sure,” the woman replied, her careless tone making it clear she would never put herself to so much trouble.
Jerry gave her a five dollar bill. “This should make it worth your while,” he said. “You’ll earn another five if we find the man.”
“I’ll call you the minute he comes in,” the woman promised with more enthusiasm.
Penny drew a deep breath as she and Jerry left the building, stepping out into the cool, sweet air of the street.
“I still doubt we’re trailing the right man,” remarked Jerry. “Why would Hamilton Rhett hole in at a place like this?”
“It does seem out of the picture. However, we know he wore a serpent ring at the time of his disappearance.”
“The ring may not be the same. Also, if Rhett had been the victim of violence, a bum might have stolen it from him.”
“I never thought of that. Should we report what we’ve learned to the police?”
“Not yet,” advised Jerry. “Our clue is pretty flimsy. Let’s watch and wait. The landlady may call us, and in any case I’ll keep my eye on this place.”
It now was so late that Penny decided to return home immediately. Bidding Jerry goodbye at the next corner, she boarded a bus and presently was slipping quietly into her own home.
If she had hoped to elude the watchful eye of Mrs. Maud Weems, the housekeeper, she was doomed to disappointment.
The plump, kindly lady who had looked after Penny since the death of Mrs. Parker many years before, had finished the dishes and was sweeping the kitchen. Fixing the girl with a stern eye, she observed:
“You’re later than ever tonight, Penny. When your father came home nearly two hours ago, he had no idea what had become of you.”
“Then Dad isn’t keeping tab on his employes,” chuckled Penny. “I’ve been working on a special story for theStar.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” sighed the housekeeper. “In fact, I suspect you charge a great many of your escapades to your work! If I had my way you would give it up.”
“Oh, Mrs. Weems, don’t be cross,” Penny pleaded, giving her a squeeze. “Newspaper work is wonderful! Next time I’ll telephone you if I know I’ll be late.”
“Have you had anything to eat?” the housekeeper asked in a softened tone. “Dinner was over an hour ago.”
“I’ll dig up something for myself from the refrigerator. Where’s Dad?”
Even as Penny asked the question, Anthony Parker, a tall, lean man with graying hair, came to the arched doorway of the kitchen. “Now what’s all this?” he inquired. “Penny off the reservation again?”
Mrs. Weems made no reply, knowing only too well that in almost any argument the publisher would support his daughter. Many times, and without success, she had told him she disapproved of his system of granting Penny almost unrestricted freedom.
No one doubted that Mr. Parker was an over-indulgent father, but the publisher had raised his daughter according to a strict code. He knew that she had writing talent and a flair for tracking down a story. Only because she had demonstrated that she could look after herself and think clearly in an emergency, did he allow her to make most of her own decisions.
Now, Penny eagerly poured out an account of her experiences in trying to get the Rhett story for theStar. Mr. Parker, who had read most of it in the Green Streak edition, listened attentively, offering little comment other than to say:
“I met Rhett once at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon. Not a bad fellow.”
“What was he like?” Penny inquired eagerly.
“Quiet and rather bored by the meeting. I don’t recall that he said a dozen words during the luncheon.”
“Did he look like a man who would walk off with $250,000 in bonds?”
“Not that I noticed,” commented the publisher dryly. “But then, nobody can judge character by external appearances.”
Hat in hand, Mr. Parker moved toward the kitchen exit.
“Are you going back to theStaroffice?” his daughter asked with alert interest.
“No.” Mr. Parker edged nearer the door, but Penny blocked the way.
“Then where are you going, Dad? You’re holding out!”
“Must I give you a schedule of my life?”
“You’re slipping off somewhere, and you don’t want me to go!”
“If you must know, I thought I would drop in at the Gay Nineties, a new night club that is opening tonight. The proprietor is one of our best advertisers and he extended a special invitation to attend.”
“Fine!” chuckled Penny. “I’ll be with you in five minutes. Just give me time to wash my face and pull the snarls out of my hair.”
“I was afraid of it,” groaned the publisher. “Haven’t you any school work to do?”
“Nary a bit. Besides, it’s Saturday night and I haven’t had any dinner. You can buy me a great big steak with all the trimmings. And perhaps you will dance with me.”
Mr. Parker gazed helplessly at Mrs. Weems, but the housekeeper did not come to his rescue. Her shrug indicated that the problem was entirely his.
“Well, all right,” he gave in. “But I’ll warn you now, this is no party. We’ll drop in for an hour or so, then come straight home.”
Penny was off like a shot, bounding upstairs to her room. There was no time to change her dress, but she freshened up, and was ready by the time her father had backed the car from the garage.
The Gay Nineties on Euclid Avenue twinkled with lights, and many persons in evening dress were entering beneath the bright red street canopy.
“Looks like all the socialites of the city are here,” Penny observed. “Maybe I should have worn my pearls.”
“Or washed behind your ears,” Mr. Parker chuckled, escorting her inside.
Penny and her father were given one of the best tables in the night club. Studying the menu, the girl was a trifle alarmed to note the prices.
“I’m dreadfully hungry too,” she declared. “Dad, I hope you’re not intending to charge this outing against my allowance.”
“I know I’d have no chance to collect,” he teased. “Just relax and select whatever you want. I can stand it this time.”
After the order had been given, Penny glanced about the dimly lighted room. The floor show had not yet started. Everywhere she saw well-to-do and prominent persons who had turned out for the gala opening.
Suddenly her attention centered upon a couple who had just entered the door. The woman wore an obviously new white evening gown, and behind her came a short, stubby little man.
“Dad!” she whispered, giving him a kick with the toe of her slipper. “See that man who just came in?”
“Where?” he asked, turning his head.
“He’s with the middle-aged woman in white.”
“Oh, yes, who are they?” Mr. Parker commented, only mildly interested. “No one I know.”
“The man is Albert Potts, secretary to Mr. Rhett at the First National Bank,” Penny replied impressively. “How do you suppose he can afford to come to such an expensive night club? If you ask me, Dad, it looks odd!”
Mr. Parker studied the bank secretary and his wife with more interest. But he said mildly:
“I see nothing especially significant in Potts coming here, Penny. The club is public.”
“It’s expensive too. The cover charge is two dollars, and you can’t touch a dinner for less than another four! How can Potts afford to pay such prices?”
“He may earn a good salary working for Mr. Rhett—probably does. Anyway, folks don’t always spend their money wisely, even if they have very little of it.”
Potts and his wife swept past the Parker table without noticing Penny or her father. A trifle self-consciously, as if unaccustomed to appearing in such places, they sat down and studied the menu with concentrated interest.
Penny tried but could not keep her eyes from the pair.
“Dad, I wonder if Potts has any more information about Mr. Rhett’s disappearance,” she presently remarked. “I have a notion to go over there and ask him.”