The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels (243 page)

“Here they are, on the table,” the housekeeper said. “Your father said he would wait just fifteen minutes.”

“That’s all I need, if the lights are green,” Penny flung over her shoulder, as she ran to the parked car. “See you later, Mrs. Weems!”

Leaving an exhausted housekeeper behind, the girl made a quick trip to the downtown newspaper office.

As she reached the building, newsboys were on the streets crying the first edition, just off the press.

Upstairs, in the newsroom, reporters were relaxing at their desks, taking a few minutes’ “breather” between editions.

Swinging through the entrance gate, Penny created a slight stir. At one of the desks under a neon light, Jerry Livingston, pencil behind one ear and hair slightly rumpled, tapped aimlessly at the keys of a typewriter. His quick eye appreciatively took in the long flowing skirt and the high heeled slippers.

“Well, if it isn’t our little glamor girl!” he teased. “Cinderella ready for the ball!”

At another time, Penny would have paused to chat. Now she flashed a quick smile and clicked on toward the city desk.

Editor DeWitt, a quick-tempered, paunchy man of middle-age stood talking to her father, who looked more than ever distinguished in a new gray suit.

“Here she comes now,” Mr. DeWitt said as Penny approached. “Your daughter never missed a deadline yet, Mr. Parker.”

“Perhaps not,” the publisher admitted, “but it always gives me heart failure, figuring she will.”

“Dad, I’m sorry to have annoyed you,” Penny said quickly before he could get in another word. “I was out at the swamp with Louise.”

“The swamp!”

“Gathering flowers for the banquet table,” Penny added hastily. “Oh, Dad, they’re simply beautiful—so much nicer than any florist could have supplied.”

“I can imagine.” Mr. Parker smiled and looked at the wall clock. “We’re due at the theater in ten minutes. I’m chairman of the program, unfortunately.”

Penny gently broke the news. “Dad, I haven’t had time to decorate the banquet table at the hotel. Will you drive me there?”

“I can’t,” Mr. Parker said, slightly exasperated. “I’m late now. Have one of the photographers take you. By the way, where’s Salt Sommers?”

Hearing his name spoken, a young photographer whose clothes looked as if he had slept in them, moved out from behind a newspaper he had been reading.

“Coming right up, Chief,” he answered.

“Run my daughter over to the Hillcrest Hotel,” the publisher instructed. “Make it your job to see that she reaches the theater promptly.”

“I guess I can handle her,” Salt said, winking at Penny.

“And now, where is Jerry?” the publisher asked. “Has anyone seen him?”

“Relax, Dad,” said Penny. “He’s right here.”

“I am jumpy tonight,” Mr. Parker admitted, “but I have a lot on my mind. That stunt we’ve planned for the entertainment of our out-of-town men—is everything set?”

“Sure,” DeWitt assured him. “There’ll be no hitch. As the mayor winds up his address of welcome, the stage electrician turns off the stage lights. Jerry, in view of the audience, orders him to turn ’em on again. He refuses an’ they argue over union rules. The fight gets hotter until finally the workman pulls a revolver and lets him have it full blast. Jerry falls, clutching his chest. Our newsboys gallop down the aisles with copies of the
Riverview Star
and screaming headlines telling all about the big murder. Everyone gets a swell laugh, figuring it’s pretty snappy coverage.”

“You certainly make it sound corny the way you tell it,” Mr. Parker sighed. “Who thought up the idea anyhow?”

“Why, you did, Chief,” grinned Salt. “Remember?”

“It was a poor idea. Maybe we ought to call it off.”

“After we got the extras all printed an’ everything?”Mr. DeWitt asked, looking injured. “The boys went to a lot of trouble.”

“All right, we’ll go ahead just as we planned, but I hope there is no slip-up. How about the revolver?”

“Right here,” said Salt, whipping it from an inside pocket. “Loaded with blanks.” He pointed it at a neon light, pulled the trigger and a loud bang resulted.

Jerry Livingston sauntered over. “So that’s the lethal weapon,” he observed. “Can I trust you guys not to slip a real bullet in when I’m not looking?”

“I’ve got to go,” cut in Mr. Parker, looking again at the clock. “The program starts as soon as I get to the theater. Speeches should take about an hour. Then the stunt. And don’t be late!”

“We’ll be there,” Salt promised. “Jerry, you riding with Penny and me?”

“I’ll come later in my own car. Have a story to write first.”

Going back to his typewriter, the reporter slipped carbons and paper into the machine and began pecking the keys.

At that moment a Western Union boy came through the newsroom. Catching Penny’s eye, he pushed a telegram toward her and asked her to sign.

She wrote her name automatically, before noticing that the envelope bore Jerry’s name.

“For you,” she said, tossing it onto the roller of his typewriter. “More fan mail.”

“It’s probably a threat to bring suit if I don’t pay my dry cleaning bill,” Jerry chuckled.

He glanced at the envelope briefly, then slit it up the side. As he read the wire, his face became a study. His jaw tightened. Then he relaxed and laughed.

“This is a threat all right,” he commented, “but not from the dry cleaners!”

Jerry reread the telegram, snorted with disgust, and then handed it to Penny.

In amazement she read: “ARRIVED IN TOWN TODAY TO TAKE CARE OF A LITTLE UNFINISHED BUSINESS. WILL BE SEEING YOU.”

The telegram bore the signature, Danny Deevers.

CHAPTER 4

A TRAFFIC ACCIDENT

As word spread through the office that Jerry had received a threat from the escaped convict, reporters gathered to read the telegram and comment upon it.

“Great stuff!” exclaimed Editor DeWitt, thinking in terms of headlines. “
Riverview Star
reporter threatened by Danny Deevers! We’ll build it up—post a reward for his capture—provide you with a bodyguard.”

“But I don’t want a bodyguard,” Jerry retorted. “Build up the story if you want to, but skip the kindergarten trimmings.”

“You ought to have a bodyguard,” DeWitt insisted seriously. “Danny Deevers is nobody’s playboy. He may mean business. Reporters are hard to get these days. We can’t risk having you bumped off.”

“Oh, this telegram is pure bluff,” Jerry replied, scrambling up the yellow sheet and hurling it into a tall metal scrap can. “I’ll not be nursemaided by any bodyguard, and that’s final!”

“Okay,” DeWitt gave in, “but if you get bumped off, don’t come crying to me!”

Jerry took a long drink at the fountain and then said thoughtfully: “You know, I have a hunch about Danny.”

“Spill it,” invited DeWitt.

“He didn’t come back here to get even with me for those articles I wrote—or at least it’s a secondary purpose.”

“Then why did he head for Riverview?”

“I have an idea he may have come back to get $50,000.”

“The money he stole from the Third Federal Bank?”

“Sure. The money disappeared, and when Danny took the rap, he refused to tell where he had hidden it. I’ll bet the money is in a safe place somewhere in Riverview.”

“You may be right at that,” DeWitt agreed. “Anyway, it’s a good story. Better write a couple pages before you go over to the theater—let that other stuff go.”

Jerry nodded and with a quick glance at the clock, sat down at his typewriter.

“Ready, Penny?” called Salt, picking up his camera and heading for the door.

“In a minute.”

Penny hesitated and then walked over to Jerry’s desk.

“Jerry, you’ll be careful, won’t you?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, sure,” he agreed. “If I see Danny first, I’ll start running.”

“Do be serious, Jerry! You know, there’s a chance Danny may be hiding in the swamp.”

The carriage of Jerry’s typewriter stopped with a jerk. He now gave Penny his full attention.

“What’s that about Danny being in the swamp?”

“I didn’t say he is for sure, but today when Louise and I were out there, we heard a very strange conversation.”

Penny swiftly related everything that had occurred on the tiny island near the swamp entrance. She also described the bearded stranger who had ordered her away.

“That couldn’t have been Danny,” Jerry decided. “Not unless he’s disguised his appearance.”

“There was another man,” Penny reminded him. “Louise and I never saw his face.”

“Well, the swamp angle is worth investigating,” the reporter assured her. “Personally, I doubt Danny would ever try living in the swamp—he’s a city, slum-bred man—but I’ll tell the police about it.”

“Do be careful,” Penny urged again, turning away.

Salt was waiting in the press car when she reached the street. Quickly transferring the flowers from her own automobile to his, she climbed in beside him.

“The Hillcrest?” he inquired, shifting gears.

“Yes, I’ll decorate the tables. Then we’ll drive to the theater.”

With a complete disregard for speed laws, safety stops, and red lights, Salt toured the ten blocks to the hotel in record time. Pulling up at the entrance, he said:

“While you’re in there, I’ll amble across the street. Want to do a little inquiring at the Western Union office.”

“About the telegram Danny Deevers sent Jerry?”

“Figured we might find from where it was sent.”

“I should have thought of that myself! Do see what you can learn, Salt. It won’t take me long to fix those tables.”

Penny disappeared into the hotel but was back in fifteen minutes. A moment later, Salt sauntered across the street from the Western Union office.

“Learn anything?” Penny asked.

“A little. The manager told me a boy picked up the message from a rooming house on Clayton street. That’s all they know about it.”

“Did you get the address?”

“Sure—1497 Clayton Street—an apartment building. The clue may be a dud one though. Danny wouldn’t likely be dumb enough to leave a wide open trail.”

“All the same, oughtn’t we to check into it?”

“We?”

“Naturally I’m included,” grinned Penny. “By the way, aren’t we near Clayton street now?”

“It’s only a couple of blocks away.”

“Then what’s delaying us?”

“My conscience for one thing,” Salt said, climbing into the car beside Penny. “Your father’s expecting us at the theater. I’m supposed to take pictures of the visiting big-boys.”

“We’ll get there in time. This may be our only chance to trace Danny.”

“You’re a glutton for adventure,” Salt said dubiously, studying his wristwatch. “Me—I’m not so sure.”

“Danny probably won’t be hiding out at the rooming house,” Penny argued. “But someone may be able to tell us where he went.”

“Okay,” the photographer agreed, jamming his foot on the starter. “We got to make it snappy though.”

The dingy old brick apartment house at 1497 Clayton Street stood jammed against other low-rent buildings in the downtown business section.

“You wait here,” Salt advised as he pulled up near the dwelling. “If I don’t come back in ten minutes, put in a call to the police. And arrange to give me a decent burial!”

The photographer disappeared into the building.

He was back almost at once. “It was a dud,” he said in disgust. “The telegram was sent from here all right, but Danny’s skipped.”

“You talked to the building manager?”

Salt nodded. “A fellow that must have been Danny rented a room last night, but he pulled out early this morning.”

“Why, the telegram didn’t come until a few minutes ago!”

“Danny took care of that by having the janitor send it for him. He evidently escaped from the pen late yesterday, but authorities didn’t give out the story until today.”

Disappointed over their failure, Penny and Salt drove on toward the theater in glum silence.

Suddenly at the intersection of Jefferson and Huron Streets, a long black sedan driven by a woman, failed to observe a stop sign. Barging into a line of traffic, it spun unsteadily on two wheels and crashed into an ancient car in which two men were riding.

“Just another dumb woman driver,” observed Salt. He brought up at the curb and reached for his camera.

“Nobody’s hurt so it’s hardly worth a picture. But if I don’t grab it, DeWitt’ll be asking me why I didn’t.”

Balancing the camera on the sill of the open car window, he snapped the shutter just as the two men climbed out of their ancient vehicle.

“Looks as if they’re going to put up a big squawk,”Salt observed with interest. “What they beefin’about? That old wreck isn’t worth anything, and anyhow, the lady only bashed in a couple of fenders.”