The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 10

  “The child seems to be nervous and unhappy,” Miss Crismond told us. “Especially so since she ran away. We sincerely hope she will presently become adjusted.”

  I asked if there was any prospect the little girl would be adopted.

  “Not very soon,” Miss Crismond answered. “In fact, her name is not on the list of eligibles. We never allow a child to leave the Home until we feel that he or she is capable of adapting to new conditions.”

  The drive to Clackston was an enjoyable one, and by eleven o’clock, we had purchased many of the items on our list. To the amusement of the department store salesman, Flo and I insisted upon personally testing the teeter-totters, swings, and even the slides.

  “All this equipment is for the Greenville Orphans’ Home—not for ourselves,” I explained. “The committee will pay for it.”

  “Very well, we’ll send the merchandise just as soon as a check is received,” the salesman promised as he handed me the itemized bill.

  I felt very well satisfied with our purchases. Florence and I wandered into another department of the store. The delightful aroma of food drew us to a lunch counter, and from there we went to the main floor.

  The store was very crowded. As I was inspecting a pair of gloves—a possible birthday gift for Mrs. Timms—on a counter, a man pushed past me and ran toward the nearest exit. I turned around to watch him, unintentionally blocking the way of a store detective. The store detective shoved past me in pursuit of the man, only to lose him in the milling crowd near the front door.

  “That fellow must have been a shoplifter,” I said to Florence. “I think he got away, too.”

  The unexpected commotion had drawn a great deal of attention. I heard a woman tell her companion that the man who had escaped was wanted for attempting to pass a forged check.

  A moment later the store detective came striding down the aisle. He paused at the jewelry counter as he spoke to the floorman.

  “Well, the fellow escaped,” the detective said. “He tried to pass a bum check for fifty dollars.”

  “What name did he use?” the floorman inquired.

  “Seth Burrows. It will be something else next time.”

  I scurried to the detective’s side.

  “Excuse me,” I addressed him, “did I understand you to say that a man by the name of Seth Burrows forged a check?”

  “That’s correct, ma’am,” the detective answered. “Know anything about the man?”

  “I think I may. Would it be possible for me to see the check?”

  The detective removed it from his vest pocket, offering the signature for inspection. One glance satisfied me that the check was signed by the same man who had been sending my father crank messages.

  “At home, I have a telegram which I’m sure bears this identical signature,” I told the detective. “I’ve never seen the man, though—except as he ran through the store.”

  The store detective questioned me at length about my knowledge of Burrows. Then he showed me a photograph of the man in question.

  “This is Seth Burrows. He’s an expert forger and uses a great many aliases. Think you can remember his face?”

  “I’ll try to,” I said. “He doesn’t seem to have any distinguishing features, though.”

  “His angular jaw is rather noticeable,” the detective pointed out. “Brown eyes are set fairly close together. He’s about six feet two and dresses well.”

  I was highly elated to have gained a description of Burrows and especially pleased that the man had been traced to Clackston. The fact that he was a known forger encouraged me to hope that police soon would apprehend him.

  “That one hundred dollars Dad offered for Burrows’ capture is as good as mine already,” I boasted gleefully to Florence as we left the store. “All I need to do is wait.”

  “No doubt you’ll collect,” Florence said. “I never met anyone with your brand of luck.”

  “I feel especially lucky today, too. Let’s make another tour of the vegetable markets.”

  “It will make us late in getting home. The time is sure to be wasted, too.”

  “Oh, come along,” I urged, seizing her by the arm. “I promise to have you in Greenville no later than three o’clock, in plenty of time to steel yourself to the task of talking your mother out of depriving the clubs of Greenville of her considerable drive and determination.”

  While driving into Clackston that morning I had noticed a large outdoor market near the outskirts of the city. Returning to it, I parked Bouncing Betsy and wandered about the stalls with Flo.

  “A nice fat chicken?” a farm woman asked persuasively, holding up an uninviting specimen. “Fresh eggs?”

  “We’re looking for melons,” I told her.

  “Mr. Throckmorton has some nice cantaloupes,” the woman said. “He got a truckload of ’em in from Greenville just the other day.”

  We found Mr. Throckmorton’s stall easily, and Florence and I began to inspect the melons offered for sale. Almost at once, we came upon a basket of cantaloupes which bore a blurred stamp.

  “Florence, these look like the Dorner crop,” I said quietly to Flo. “Wouldn’t you say someone deliberately had blocked out the old marking?”

  “It does appear that way.”

  “Maybe we can find just one melon with the original stamp.”

  I dug into the basket with both hands, tossing up cantaloupes for Florence to place on the ground. This immediately drew the attention and displeasure of Mr. Throckmorton.

  “If you’re looking for a good melon, let me help you,” he said, hurrying toward us.

  I straightened, holding up a cantaloupe for him to see.

  “I don’t need any help,” I said. “I’ve found the melon I want. It bears the Dorner stamp.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The melon you have selected is a very good one,” Mr. Throckmorton said, oblivious to the significance of my remark. “Shall I put it in a sack for you?”

  “I’m not interested in the melon—only in the stamp,” I replied. “Do you realize that you may be liable to arrest?”

  “What d’you mean, liable to arrest?” the man demanded. “I’m an honest dealer, and I have a license.”

  “Look at these melons.” I held up one which bore the blurred stamp. “The trade name has been altered.”

  Mr. Throckmorton took the cantaloupe from my hands and examined it. I then offered him the single melon bearing the Dorner stamp.

  “Well, what about it?” he asked.

  “A few nights ago, a truckload of melons like these was stolen from the Dorner farm near Greenville. The thief was trailed right to this city,” I told him.

  “You’re trying to say that I sell stolen melons?”

  “I’m not making any direct accusations. No doubt you can explain where you got the melons.”

  “Certainly, I can. I bought a truckload of them from a farmer named Thomas Tripp. The melons were good, the price cheap, and I didn’t pay any attention to the stamp.”

  “Is Mr. Tripp a regular dealer?”

  “I buy from him now and again, when his prices are right. I never bothered to ask any questions.”

  “Where does the man live?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a large, heavyset fellow with brown hair and eyes.”

  The description was too meager to be of value to me.

  “Does Mr. Tripp drive a red truck?” I asked.

  “He did this last time.”

  “It was a red truck which was stolen from the Dorner farm,” I said. “I’m sure these melons came from there, too.”

  “I paid good money for them,” Mr. Throckmorton insisted. “So far as I knew, those melons belonged to this fellow Tripp. I can’t investigate every farmer who offers me produce just in case he might be trying to pass off stolen goods.”

  “All the same, you could get into serious trouble for selling stolen produce. Of course, I have no intention of going to the police, providing you are willing to cooperat
e.”

  “What d’you mean, cooperate?”

  “When will you see Thomas Tripp again?”

  “That’s hard to tell. He said he might bring in another load of melons within the next few days.”

  “When you receive the next shipment, will you notify me?”

  “Yes, I’m willing to do that,” the dealer promised. “If Tripp is crooked, I want to know it myself.”

  I gave the man my name, address, and telephone number. I instructed him to inform me as quickly as possible and to detain the farmer by force if necessary.

  “If I can’t get in touch with you, I may have the fellow questioned by police,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “I don’t want to put myself into a hole.”

  I was not entirely satisfied that the market man would keep his promise. However, I hesitated to make a report to the police prematurely. Everything considered, it seemed best to let the situation work out as it would.

  “Well, your luck is still running true to form,” Florence said, as we drove toward Greenville. “Do you have any idea who Thomas Tripp may be?”

  “Not the slightest,” I confessed. “The description would fit Harold Browning, or, for that matter, any one of a dozen men I know.”

  We arrived in Greenville by midafternoon after an uneventful trip. I dropped Florence at the Radcliff home and then went to the Examiner office to talk with my father. My father was absent from his desk, but his secretary, who was typing letters, explained that he would return at any moment.

  I sat down in my father’s chair to wait. A bulky, unsealed envelope lay on the desk.

  “Property Deed: Lots 456, 457, and 458,” I read aloud. “What’s this? Is Dad buying property?”

  “Oh, no,” the secretary replied, glancing up from her typewriter. “That is the deed and abstract for the orphans’ campsite.”

  “I wonder which property it is?”

  “The land Mr. Bronson controls, I believe. At least he brought the papers into the office this morning for your father’s inspection. I heard him say that if the forms are satisfactory, the deal will be completed at once.”

  I unfolded one of the lengthy documents and scanned the legal terms.

  “I don’t see how Dad makes anything of this,” I said. “Such a mess of words and names.”

  “I imagine your father intends to turn it over to his lawyer.”

  Dad entered the office at that moment.

  “Dad, is it all settled that the camp board will purchase Mr. Bronson’s land?”

  “Practically so. If my lawyer, Mr. Adams, approves the abstract, the deal will be completed. Against my advice, Mrs. Vanhee has given Bronson five hundred dollars to hold an option.”

  “Why did she do that, Dad?”

  “Well, Bronson convinced her he had another buyer for the property. It’s the old story. Competition stimulates interest.”

  “Do the papers seem to be all right?”

  “Oh, I’ve not looked at them,” my father replied. “Bronson is a good real estate man, though, so there’s not likely to be any flaw.”

  “Who actually owns the property, Dad?”

  “It’s there on the abstract,” he answered. “Why not look it up for yourself?”

  I spread the document on the desk and began to read various names aloud. “‘Anna and Harry Clark to Lydia Goldwin, Lydia Goldwin to Seth Burrows—’”

  “What was that name?” my father demanded sharply.

  “Seth Burrows. That’s the truth, Dad. Who knows, maybe it’s your old pal, Seth.”

  “Are you making up that name?” my father asked skeptically.

  I thrust the abstract into his hand.

  “Here, read it for yourself, Dad. Burrows seems to be the present owner of the land.”

  My father scanned the document.

  “The land is held by a Seth Burrows. A strange coincidence.”

  “I never heard of a Burrows family living near Greenville,” I said, reaching for a telephone book. “Did you?”

  “No, but Burrows is a fairly common name.”

  Turning to the “B” section, I went through the telephone list.

  “There’s only one Burrows here,” I said, penciling a circle around the name. “A Mrs. Maud Burrows.”

  “The name Maud Burrows doesn’t appear on the abstract,” My father said, as he continued to study the document. “There’s something funny about this.”

  “Mr. Bronson seemed rather overeager to dispose of the land, didn’t he?”

  “His price was a bit low, which surprised me,” my father said. “But I expect everything can be explained satisfactorily.”

  “Then why not ask Mr. Bronson to do it? Explain it, I mean. He should be able to tell you something about his client.”

  My father reached for the telephone.

  “I’ll ask Mr. Bronson to come here at once.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mr. Bronson, completely at his ease, sat opposite my father and me in Dad’s private office.

  “I came as soon as I could after receiving your telephone message, Mr. Fielding. Now, what seems to be the trouble?”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Dad said. “However, in glancing over the abstract for the orphans’ camp property, I noticed that the land is owned by a man named Seth Burrows.”

  “Quite true. I am acting as his agent.”

  “It happens that I have had dealings with a man by that same name. Rather unpleasant dealings, I might add. I’m curious to learn if this property owner is the same fellow.”

  “Very unlikely, I should think.” Mr. Bronson shrugged. “My client does not reside in Greenville.”

  “Nor does the man I have in mind.”

  “Can you tell us what this Mr. Burrows looks like?” I asked Mr. Bronson.

  “I am very sorry, but I can’t,” Mr. Bronson said. “I’ve never met Mr. Burrows in person.”

  “Yet you act as his agent?” my father inquired.

  “All our dealings have been by mail or telephone.”

  “I see. At least you can provide me with the man’s address.”

  “I can’t do that either,” Mr. Bronson said. “Seth Burrows is a salesman with no permanent address. He communicates with me at fairly regular intervals, but until I hear from him, I have no idea where he will be the following week.”

  “Your description seems to fit the man of my acquaintance perfectly,” my father said dryly. “But tell me, how do you expect to complete this deal? Will Burrows come here to sign the necessary papers?”

  “Oh, that won’t be required. He’s already made out the sales documents and given me a power of attorney.”

  “Mr. Burrows seems to think of everything,” my father said. “I was hoping for the pleasure of meeting him.”

  “I really don’t see what all this has to do with the sale of the property. You feel that the site is a suitable one, and the price is right?”

  “I have no serious objections to it.”

  “Then why allow your personal feelings to interfere with the deal?”

  “I have no intention of doing so,” my father answered.

  “Then if you’ll give your approval, we’ll sign the final papers tomorrow at my office. The dedication of the new camp has been set for the tenth of the month, and that means no time can be lost.”

  “Everything seems to have been settled without my approval,” my father said. “However, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep this abstract a little longer.”

  “As you like.” The real estate man shrugged. “Have your lawyer go over the records with a fine-tooth comb. He’ll find no flaws anywhere.”

  Mr. Bronson bowed politely and left the office. I waited until I was sure he was out of earshot before asking my father what he thought.

  “Everything may be on the level,” Dad said. “Bronson’s given me no concrete reason to distrust him, and yet I can’t help feeling that there’s something peculiar about this land deal.”

  “Bronso
n has been rushing things through at such a furious rate,” I said. “Another thing, Seth Burrows is a well-known forger.”

  “What makes you think that? Any real information?”

  I revealed everything I had learned that day from the store detective in Clackston.

  “I am more than ever convinced there is something phony about Burrows’ connection with this affair,” my father said grimly. “We’ll see what my lawyer has to say.”

  My father personally carried the questionable abstract to a reliable law firm, Adams and McPherson. The report from the lawyers came back late in the afternoon and was relayed to me by my father at the dinner table.

  “Mr. Adams says that the abstract seems to be drawn up correctly,” Dad said. “He could find no flaw in it or in any of the records at the courthouse.”

  “It seems we jumped too hastily to conclusions,” I said.

  “I’m not so sure. Mr. Adams tells me that the ownership of the property is a very muddled affair.”

  “Muddled?”

  “Yes, it has changed hands many times in the past year, and oddly, none of the buyers or sellers seem to be known in Greenville.”

  “What does Mr. Adams think about that, Dad?”

  “He advises that the records be inspected very carefully. It will take weeks, though, for they are quite involved.”

  “I suppose that will hold up the opening of the camp.”

  “It may,” my father acknowledged. “However, it seems wise to take every precaution even if the camp isn’t opened this year. Too much money is involved to risk paying for land which may have a faulty title.”

  The following day, Dad conferred with members of the Camp Fund board, telling of his findings. To his chagrin, Mrs. Vanhee did not share his views.

  “I trust Mr. Bronson’s judgment implicitly,” she insisted. “I am sure the property will be satisfactory in every way. If there should by chance be any flaw in the title, he would make it good.”

  “We can’t possibly delay the dedication another week,” another member of the board chimed in. “The summer is nearly over now.”

  “At least postpone making the final payment until after I have had another report from my lawyers,” my father pleaded.