CHAPTER 9 THE METAL DISC
“We’re taking this man to the lockup,” the policemen told Penny. “He’ll be okay as soon as he sobers up.”
“But he’s not drunk,” she protested earnestly. “Edward McClusky is a diver for the Evirude Salvage Co. Whatever ails him must be serious!”
The policeman stared at Penny and then down at the unconscious man on the stretcher. “A deep sea diver!” he exclaimed. “Well, that’s different!”
Deftly he loosened the man’s collar, and at once his hand encountered a small disc of metal fastened on a string about his neck. He bent down to read what was engraved on it.
“Edward McClusky, 125 West Newell street,” he repeated aloud. “In case of illness or unconsciousness, rush this man with all speed to the nearest decompression lock.”
“You see!” cried Penny. “He’s had an attack of the bends!”
“You’re right!” exclaimed the policeman. He consulted his companions. “Where is the nearest decompression chamber?”
“Aboard the Yarmouth in the harbor.”
“Then we’ll rush him there.” The policeman turned again to Penny. “You say you know this man and his family?”
“Not well, but they live only a few blocks from us.”
“Then ride along in the ambulance,” the policeman suggested.
Penny rode in front with the driver, who during the speedy dash to the river, questioned her regarding her knowledge of the unconscious man.
“I don’t know much about him,” she confessed. “Mrs. Weems, our housekeeper, is acquainted with his wife. I’ve heard her say that Mr. McClusky is subject to the bends. Once on an important diving job he stayed under water too long and wasn’t properly put through a decompression lock when he came out. He is supposed to have regular check-ups from a doctor, but he is careless about it.”
“Being careless this time might have cost him his life,” the driver replied. “When a fellow is in his condition, he’ll pass out quick if he isn’t rushed to a lock. A night in jail would have finished him.”
“Will he be all right now?”
“Can’t tell,” was the answer. “Even if he does come out of it, he may be paralyzed for life.”
“Do you know what causes bends?” Penny inquired curiously.
“Nitrogen forms in bubbles in the blood stream,” the driver answered, and drew up at the waterfront.
Penny followed the stretcher aboard the Yarmouth. In the emergency of offering quick treatment to McClusky, no one heeded her. The man was rushed into the air lock and placed on a long wooden bench.
A doctor went into the chamber with him, signaling for the pressure to be turned on. Bends could be cured, Penny knew, only by reproducing the deep water conditions under which the man previously had worked. Pressure would be raised, and then reduced by stages.
“How long will it take?” she asked a man who controlled the pressure gauges.
“Ordinarily only about twenty minutes,” he replied. “But it will take at least two hours with this fellow.”
“Will he come out of it all right?”
“Probably,” was the answer. “Too soon to tell yet.”
To wait two hours was out of the question for Penny. After discussing the matter with police, she agreed to notify Mrs. McClusky of her husband’s difficulty. Glad to be rid of the duty, they dropped her off at the house on West Newell street.
Mrs. McClusky, a stout, red-faced woman with two small children clinging to her skirts, seemed stunned by the news.
“Oh, I knew this would happen!” she cried. “Ed has been so careless lately. Thank heavens, he was taken to the decompression chamber instead of the police station! A good friend of Ed’s lost his life because no one understood what was wrong with him.”
Penny called a taxicab for Mrs. McClusky while she excitedly bundled up the children.
“Bless you, for letting me know and for helping Ed,” the woman murmured gratefully as she climbed into the cab. “Will you tell me your name?”
“Oh, I’m just a reporter at the Star,” Penny returned carelessly. “I do hope your husband suffers no ill effects.”
The taxi rattled away. With a tired sigh, Penny hastened on home. Lights burned downstairs, and both her father and Mrs. Weems had waited up for her.
“Now don’t ask me where I’ve been,” the girl pleaded, as she tossed her hat into a chair and collapsed on the sofa. “What a night! I’ve had enough adventures to fill a book.”
Despite her admonition, both Mrs. Weems and her father plied her with questions. Penny told them about the deep sea diver and then worked back to the story of what had happened in the photography room.
“Are you certain anyone came through the skylight?” her father asked dubiously. “It doesn’t sound convincing to me.”
“Footprints don’t lie, Dad. They were on top of the cabinet.”
“The janitor may have stood on it to fix a light bulb or something.”
Penny became slightly nettled. “I’m sure someone was sneaking around in that room tonight!” she declared flatly. “And it wasn’t the janitor either!”
“I’ll order the skylight kept locked except during office hours,” Mr. Parker declared, yawning. “Any further adventures?”
“Plenty,” Penny said, “but they’ll keep until morning. There’s just one thing I want to ask you. Are you in need of a good male reporter?”
Mr. Parker came instantly to life. “Just lead me to him,” he said. “I’m desperate.”
“Then why not hire Ben Bartell?”
Mr. Parker’s face lost all animation. “I couldn’t do that,” he commented.
“Why not?”
“He’s not the type of reporter I want on my paper.”
“Exactly what do you mean?”
“Oh, Penny, I don’t like to go into all this with you. Ben has a bad reputation. He’s hot tempered and unreliable.”
“Because he got into a fist fight with Jason Cordell?”
“Yes, and he foments trouble among employes. I have enough problems without adding him to the list.”
“Ben didn’t strike me as a trouble maker. Who told you about him?”
“Why, I don’t remember—Jason Cordell, I suppose.”
“That’s just the point!” Penny cried. “Cordell hated him because Ben gained damaging evidence against him! Then to protect himself, Cordell told lies about Ben and got all of Riverview’s publishers to blacklist him!”
“What gave you that idea, Penny?”
“I talked to Ben tonight.”
“It strikes me he filled you with hot air,” the newspaper owner commented dryly. “Penny, you must learn not to believe everything you hear.”
“Then you’ll not consider hiring Ben?”
“Afraid not,” her father declined. “I’ve no special liking for Jason Cordell, who always impressed me as a stubborn, unscrupulous fellow, but I certainly can’t employ Ben without more evidence in his favor than you have presented.”
“There is more,” said Penny, “but I’m too tired to tell you tonight.”
She went wearily to bed, and though she slept hard, still felt tired when the alarm went off the next morning. Hastening through breakfast, she rode with her father to the office, and en route related to him how Ben had rescued the stranger from the river.
“Commendable,” nodded her father, “but it still doesn’t prove he isn’t a trouble maker.”
“Oh, Dad, I think you’re being unfair to him.”
“And I think you have been unduly influenced,” Mr. Parker returned. “However, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have Mr. DeWitt investigate the young man. If his findings are good, we’ll give him another chance.”
“Oh, Dad! That’s grand!” Penny cried, squeezing his arm.
At the office, Penny found a letter tucked behind the roller of her typewriter. Although addressed to her, it had been sent to the Star. Instantly she knew the reason, for it was from Jerry Livingston, who had worked for the paper many years.
Eagerly, she ripped open the envelope and read the message. Jerry, in an Army camp in the west, expected to pilot a big bomber to Hawaii within the next few weeks. “Best regards to the newspaper gang,” he concluded.
“Any news from Jerry?” inquired Mr. DeWitt, who had recognized the handwriting.
Penny gave him the letter to read.
“Let’s tack it on the bulletin board,” the editor suggested. “Jerry has a lot of friends here.”
Penny allowed him to keep the letter and thought no more of it. Soon she became absorbed in the morning’s work. There were obituaries to write as usual, but now and then Mr. DeWitt gave her a more interesting task. Seemingly he had forgotten about her unfortunate experience at the fire.
But Penny had not forgotten. It troubled her that Salt’s camera remained missing. When he came to the desk to drop a handful of finished pictures, she asked him what he had learned.
“Haven’t been able to trace the car yet,” he answered. “But we’ll locate it eventually. Don’t worry about it, Penny.”
The morning wore on. She saw Elda Hunt read Jerry’s letter on the bulletin board, and later giggle and laugh as she talked with other girls in the office.
“That little witch said something uncomplimentary about me!” Penny thought. “If I weren’t the publisher’s daughter, I certainly would tangle with her! Maybe I will yet!”
At twelve o’clock, she put on her hat, intending to go to lunch. As she turned toward the wooden barrier gate, she saw that the receptionist was talking to a male visitor.
“I don’t know the name of the girl,” she heard him say distinctly, “but she saved my life. I know she works on the Star and I want to thank her.”
He turned then and saw her. “Why, she looks like the one my wife described!” he exclaimed.
“Mr. McClusky!” Penny greeted him, extending her hand. “I’m so glad you’re up and around today. How do you feel?”
“Fine!” he boomed in a voice which carried to every desk in the room. “Thanks to you. Aren’t you the girl who saved my life?”
“I asked the police to take you to the Yarmouth if that’s what you mean,” Penny said self-consciously. “As for saving your life—”
“You certainly did, and the doc will say the same thing. Another ten minutes and I’d have been too far gone to have pulled out of it. Now I’ll be okay—at least unless I have another attack of bends.”
“I’m very glad you’re feeling better,” Penny said, edging away. She was painfully conscious that all of the reporters were listening to the conversation. All noise in the office had ceased.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know!” the diver offered heartily.
“Sometime when I need a good waterfront story, I may call on you,” Penny said jokingly.
“If I can give you a tip on anything, I sure will,” he promised. “I know every inch of the river, and most of the folks that live along ’er.”
“Have you heard of a boat called the Snark?” Penny asked impulsively.
McClusky’s expression changed. He lowered his voice. “Sure, I know the Snark,” he nodded soberly. “And here’s a little tip. If you want a story—a good hot one with plenty o’ trouble hooked up to it, then just go hunting around her berth. Maybe sometime I can help you.”
With a friendly nod, he was gone.
