CHAPTER 7 MR. BLAKE’S DONATION

Not wishing to ride to the Star building, Louise asked her chum to drop her off at the Sidell home. Accordingly, Penny left her there, and then drove on alone to her father’s office. The news room hummed with activity as she sauntered through to the private office.

“Just a minute, please,” her father requested, waving her into a chair.

He completed a letter he was dictating, dismissed his secretary, and then was ready to listen. Without preliminary ado, Penny laid the watch charm on the desk, explaining where she had found it.

“Dad, this may belong to Clem Davis, but I don’t think so!” she announced in an excited voice. “It’s my theory that the person who planted the black hood in the stable must have lost it!”

Mr. Parker examined the charm carefully, gazing at the picture of the little boy contained within it.

“Very interesting,” he commented. “However, I fear you are allowing your imagination to take you for a ride. There isn’t much question of Clem Davis’ guilt according to the findings of the sheriff.”

“Has any new evidence come to light, Dad?”

“Yes, Penny, the sheriff’s office has gained possession of a document showing beyond question that Clem Davis is a member of a renegade band known as the Black Hoods.”

“Where did they get their proof?”

“Sheriff Davis won’t disclose the source of his information. However, our star reporter, Jerry Livingston, is working on the case, and something may develop any hour.”

“Then you’re intending to make it into a big story?” Penny asked thoughtfully.

“I am. An underground, subversive organization, no matter what its purpose, has no right to an existence. The Star will expose the leaders, if possible, and break up the group.”

“Since the Hoods apparently burned the Preston storage barn, their purpose can’t be a very noble one,” Penny commented. “Nor are their leaders especially clever. The trail led as plain as day to Clem Davis—so straight, in fact, that I couldn’t help doubting his guilt.”

“Penny, I’ll keep this watch charm, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Parker said, locking the trinket into a drawer. “I’ll put Jerry to work on it and he may be able to learn the identity of the little boy in the picture.”

Abruptly changing the subject, the editor inquired regarding his daughter’s success in selling Camp-Benefit tags.

“I have only one left,” Penny replied, presenting it with a flourish. “Twenty-five cents, please.”

“The cause is a worthy one. I’ll double the amount.” Amiably, Mr. Parker flipped a half dollar across the desk.

“While you’re in a giving mood I might mention that my allowance is due,” Penny said with a grin. “Also, you owe me five gallons of gasoline. I saw old Seth McGuire this morning and he agreed with me that the Hubell clock struck thirteen last night.”

Mr. Parker had no opportunity to reply, for just then his secretary re-entered the office to say that Mr. Clyde Blake wished to see him.

“I suppose that means you want me to evaporate,” Penny remarked, gazing questioningly at her father.

“No, stay if you like. It’s probably nothing of consequence.”

Penny welcomed an invitation to remain. After her talk with Seth McGuire she was curious to see the man who had caused the old bell maker to lose his position at the Hubell Tower.

“Blake probably wants to ask me to do him a personal favor,” Mr. Parker confided in a low tone. “He’s a pest!”

In a moment the door opened again to admit the real estate man. He was heavy-set, immaculately dressed, and the only defect in his appearance was caused by a right arm which was somewhat shorter than the left.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Parker,” he said expansively. “And is this your charming daughter?”

The editor introduced Penny, who bowed politely and retreated to a chair by the window. Prejudiced against Mr. Blake, she had no desire to talk to him.

“What may I do for you?” Mr. Parker asked the caller.

“Ah, this time it is I who shall bestow the favor,” Mr. Blake responded, taking a cheque book from his pocket. “Your paper has been campaigning for a very worthy cause, namely the Orphans’ Summer Camp Fund. It wrings my heart that those unfortunate kiddies have been denied the benefit of fresh air and sunshine.”

“If you wish to make a donation, you should give your money to Mrs. Van Cleve,” the editor cut him short.

“I much prefer to present my cheque to you,” the caller insisted. “Shall I make it out for a hundred and fifty dollars?”

“That’s a very handsome donation,” said Mr. Parker, unable to hide his surprise. “But why give it to me?”

Mr. Blake coughed in embarrassment. “I thought you might deem the offering worthy of a brief mention in your paper.”

“Oh, I see,” the editor responded dryly.

“I don’t wish publicity for myself, you understand, but only for the real estate company which bears my name.”

“I quite understand, Mr. Blake. If we should use your picture—”

“That will be very acceptable,” the real estate man responded, smiling with satisfaction. “I’ll be happy to oblige you by posing.”

Helping himself to a pen, he wrote out the cheque and presented it to the editor.

“Penny, how would you like to write the story?” inquired her father. “You’ve been helping Miss Norton with the publicity, I believe.”

“I’m rather bogged down with work,” Penny demurred. “I think Mrs. Weems wants me to clean the attic when I get home.”

“Never mind the attic. Please conduct Mr. Blake to the photography room and ask one of the boys to take his picture.”

Penny arose obediently, but as the real estate man left the office ahead of her, she shot her father a black look. She considered a publicity story very trivial indeed, and it particularly displeased her that she must write honeyed words about a man she did not admire.

“You have a very nice building here, very nice,” Mr. Blake patronizingly remarked as he was escorted toward the photographic department. Noticing a pile of freshly printed newspapers lying on one of the desks, he helped himself to a copy.

“I see the sheriff hasn’t captured Clem Davis yet,” he commented, scanning the front page. “I hope they get him! It’s a disgrace to Riverview that such a crime could be perpetrated, and the scoundrel go unpunished.”

“He’ll probably be caught,” Penny replied absently. “But I wonder if he’s the guilty person.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Blake demanded, regarding her with shrewd interest. “You think Davis didn’t burn the Preston barn?”

“I was only speculating upon it.”

“Reflecting your father’s opinion, no doubt.”

“No, not anyone’s thought but my own.”

“Your father seems to be making quite a story of it,” Mr. Blake resumed. “It will be most unfortunate for the community if he stirs up talk about underground organizations.”

“Why unfortunate?” Penny asked.

“Because it will give the city a bad reputation. I doubt there is anything to this Black Hood talk, but if there should be, any publicity might lead to an investigation by state authorities.”

“A very good thing, I should think.”

“You do not understand,” Mr. Blake said patiently. “Depredation would increase, innocent persons surely would suffer. With Riverview known unfavorably throughout the country, we would gain no new residents.”

Penny did not reply, but opened the door of the photographic room. While Mr. Blake wandered about, inspecting the various equipment, she relayed her father’s instructions to Salt Sommers, one of the staff photographers.

“Better get a good picture of Blake,” she warned him. “He’ll be irritated if you don’t.”

“I’ll do my best,” Salt promised, “but I can’t make over a man’s face.”

Mr. Blake proved to be a trying subject. Posed on a stool in front of a screen, he immediately “froze” into a stiff position.

“Be sure to make it only a head and shoulders picture, if you please,” he ordered Salt.

“Can’t you relax?” the photographer asked wearily. “Unloosen your face. Think of all those little orphans you’re going to make happy.”

Mr. Blake responded with a smirk which was painful to behold. Nothing that Salt could say or do caused him to become natural, and at length the photographer took two shots which he knew would not be satisfactory.

“That’ll be all,” he announced.

Mr. Blake arose, drawing a deep sigh. “Posing is a great ordeal for me,” he confessed. “I seldom consent to having my picture taken, but this is a very special occasion.”

Completely at ease again, the real estate man began to converse with Penny. In sudden inspiration, Salt seized a candid camera from a glass case, and before Mr. Blake was aware of his act, snapped a picture.

“There, that’s more like it,” he said. “I caught you just right, Mr. Blake.”

The real estate man turned swiftly, his eyes blazing anger.

“You dared to take a picture without my permission?” he demanded. “I’ll not have it! Destroy the film at once or I shall protest to Mr. Parker!”