CHAPTER 24 TIMELY HELP

As the black-robed man started up the stairway, Penny attempted to block his path. Failing to trip him, she seized his arms and held fast.

“Out of my way!” the man cried, giving her a hard push.

Penny clung tightly and struggled to reach the hood which covered his face.

Suddenly, the man jerked free and darted on up the steep, circular stairway. Pursuing him, Penny was able to seize the long flowing black robe, only to have it tear loose in her hands.

Gaining the first landing, midway to the belfry, the man did not hesitate. Swinging his legs through an open window, he leaped to the ground twenty feet below.

“He’ll be killed!” Penny thought.

Reaching the window she saw the man lying in a heap at the base of the tower. For a moment he remained motionless, but as she watched, he slowly scrambled to his feet and staggered off.

Until the man ducked behind the high hedge, Penny saw him plainly silhouetted in the moonlight. Although his black hood remained in place, his body no longer was covered by the dark robe.

“I know him!” she thought. “Even with his mask on, I’m sure I can’t be wrong!”

Fearing to attempt the hazardous leap, Penny ran down the iron stairway, shouting that the Master of the Hoods had escaped. By this time, Mr. Parker’s crew of reporters had gained the upperhand of the remaining members of the organization.

“Which way did the fellow go?” the editor demanded, running to the door.

“Along the hedge toward the street!” Penny directed.

Leaving Jerry, Salt, and the others to guard the prisoners, Mr. Parker and his daughter hastened outdoors. There was no sign of anyone in the vicinity of the Tower.

“He can’t be far away,” Penny maintained. “Anyway, I know his identity!”

“You saw his face?”

“No, but as he ran across the yard I noticed that one arm was much shorter than the other.”

“Clyde Blake!”

“That’s what I think. Maybe we can catch him at his home!”

“If Blake is our man, we’ll get him!” Mr. Parker said tersely. “We may need help though.”

Reentering the Tower building, he telephoned police headquarters, asking that a patrol wagon be sent for Hank Holloway, Charley Phelps, and the other prisoners.

“Send a squad to Clyde Blake’s home,” he added crisply. “I’ll meet your men there and provide all the evidence they’ll need to make the arrests.”

Jerry, Salt, and the two reporters were instructed to remain at the Tower pending the arrival of the patrol wagon. There was slight danger that any of the prisoners could escape for all the captives had been locked into the machinery room.

Delaying only long enough to obtain the case of sound equipment hidden beneath the daybed, Mr. Parker and Penny hastened to the waiting press car.

“Dad,” she marveled as they passed near a street light, “you should see your eye! It’s turning black. Someone must have pasted you hard.”

“Never mind that now,” he returned indifferently. “We’re out for a big story, and we’re going to get it too!”

The police cruiser which had been summoned was not in sight by the time Mr. Parker and Penny reached the Blake home. At first glance, the house seemed to be dark. However, a dim light glowed from the windows of one of the upstairs, rear bedrooms.

“We’ll not wait for the police,” Mr. Parker said, starting up the walk.

His knock at the door went unanswered. Even when the editor pounded with his fist, no one came to admit him.

“Someone is inside,” Penny declared, peering up at the lighted window. “It must be Blake.”

Mr. Parker tried the door and finding it unlocked, stepped boldly into the living room.

“Blake!” he shouted.

On the floor above Mr. Parker and Penny heard the soft pad of slippered feet. The real estate man, garbed in a black silk dressing gown, gazed down over the balustrade.

“Who is there?” he called.

“Anthony Parker from the Star. I want to talk with you.”

Slowly Clyde Blake descended the stairway. His gait was stiff and deliberate.

“You seem to have injured your leg,” Mr. Parker said significantly.

“I stumbled on the stairway not fifteen minutes ago,” Blake answered. “Twisted my ankle. May I ask why I am honored with a visit at this hour?”

“You know why I am here!” Mr. Parker retorted, reaching to switch on a living room light.

“Indeed, I don’t.” Deliberately Blake moved away from the bridge lamp into the shadow, but not before both Penny and her father had noted a long, ugly scratch across his cheek.

“It’s no use to pretend,” Mr. Parker said sharply. “I have all the evidence I need to convict you of being a ringleader of the Hoods.”

“You are quite mad,” the real estate man sneered. “Parker, I’ve put up with you and your methods quite long enough. You queered my deal with the Orphans’ Camp Board. Now you accuse me of being a member of a disreputable organization. You must be out of your mind.”

“You’ve always been a good talker, Blake, but this time it will get you nowhere. My reporters were at the Hubell Tower. I have a complete sound record of what transpired there. Either give yourself up, or the police will take you by force.”

“So you’ve notified the police?”

“I have.”

“In that case—” Blake’s smile was tight. With a dextrousness which caught Penny and her father completely off guard, he whipped a revolver from beneath his dressing robe. “In that case,” he completed, “we’ll handle it this way. Raise your hands, if you please.”

“Your politeness quite overpowers me,” the editor said sarcastically, as he obeyed.

“Now turn your back and walk to the telephone,” Blake went on. “Call the police station and tell the chief that you made a mistake in asking for my arrest.”

“This will get you nowhere, Blake.”

“Do as I say!”

Mr. Parker went to the telephone, stalling for time by pretending that he did not know the police station number.

“Garfield 4508,” Blake supplied. “Say exactly what I tell you or you’ll taste one of my little bullets!”

The real estate man stood with his back to the darkened dining room, in such position that he could cover both Mr. Parker and Penny. As the editor began to dial the phone, he backed a step nearer the archway. Behind him, the dark velvet curtains moved slightly.

Penny noted the movement but gave no indication of it. The next instant a muscular arm reached through the velvet folds, seizing Blake from the rear. The revolver was torn from his hand.

Dropping the telephone, Mr. Parker snatched up the weapon and covered Blake.

“All right, it’s your turn to reach,” he said.

As Blake slowly raised his hands, another man stepped into the circle of light. He wore rough garments and had not shaved in many days.

“Clem Davis!” Penny exclaimed.

“I came here to get Blake,” the man said briefly. “I’ve thought for a long time he was the person responsible for all my trouble. Tonight when the clock struck thirteen, I watched the Hubell Tower. I saw Blake put on his hood and robe and then enter the building, so I knew he was the Master.”

“You’re willing to testify to that?” Mr. Parker asked.

“Yes,” Clem Davis nodded, “I’ve been thinking things over. I’m ready to give myself up and tell what I know.”

“You’ll have a very difficult time of it proving your absurd charges,” Blake said scathingly.

“I think not,” Mr. Parker corrected. “Ben Bowman was captured tonight, and he’s already confessed his part in the real estate swindle. Even if you weren’t mixed up with the Hoods, you’d go to jail for that.”

Blake sagged into a chair, for the first time looking shaken.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Parker,” he began, but the editor cut him short.

“You’ll face the music! No, Blake, you can’t squeeze out of it this time.”

A car had drawn up in front of the house. Running to the window, Penny saw three policemen crossing the street. She hurried to the door to open it for them.

“Here’s your man,” Mr. Parker said as the policemen tramped into the living room.

Turning the revolver over to one of the officers, he disclosed exactly what had occurred. Blake was immediately placed under arrest. He was granted ten minutes to change into street clothing and prepare for his long sojourn in jail.

“I am being persecuted,” he whined as he was led away. “This is all a trick to build up circulation for the Star. If there is such an organization as the Black Hoods, Clem Davis is the man who heads it!”

Penny and Mr. Parker felt very grateful to the fugitive who had come to their aid at such a timely moment. They wished to help him if they could, but they knew he could not escape arrest. Clem Davis realized it too, for he made no protest when told that Sheriff Daniels must be called.

“I’m ready to give myself up,” he repeated. “I was a member of the Hoods, but I never went along with them once I learned that they meant to defraud the truck farmers. I hope I can prove my innocence.”

Within a few minutes Sheriff Daniels arrived to assume charge of his prisoner. Entertaining no sympathy for the man, he told Penny and her father that in all likelihood Davis must serve a long sentence.

“He’s wanted for setting fire to the Preston barn,” the sheriff insisted. “Unless he can prove an alibi for himself, he hasn’t a chance.”

“Can’t you tell where you were at the time of the fire?” Mr. Parker asked the man.

“I was at a place called Toni’s.”

“Why, that’s right, Dad!” Penny cried. “Don’t you remember? We saw Davis leave the place, and he was followed by two men—probably members of the Hood organization.”

“We saw a man leave there shortly after midnight,” Mr. Parker agreed.

“You wouldn’t swear he was Clem Davis?” the sheriff asked.

“I’m not sure,” Mr. Parker admitted truthfully. “However, it’s obvious that a man scarcely could have gone from Toni’s at that time and still set fire to the barn. My daughter and I drove directly there, and when we arrived the building had been burning for some time.”

“All of which proves nothing unless you can show that Clem Davis actually was at Toni’s after midnight.”

“Could the owner of the place identify you?” Penny thoughtfully inquired.

“I doubt it,” Davis answered. “It might be worth a try, though.”

“Perhaps I can prove that you weren’t near the Preston farm at midnight!” Penny exclaimed as a sudden idea came to her. “Clem, you heard the Hubell clock strike the hour?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How many strokes were there?”

“Thirteen,” Davis answered without hesitation. “I counted them and figured the Hoods were having one of their get-togethers.”

“What is this?” the sheriff demanded in bewilderment.

“We can prove that the Hubell clock did strike thirteen on that particular night,” Penny resumed. “It was a signal used by the Hoods, but that’s not the point.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Just this. The Hubell clock can’t be heard at the Preston farm.”

“True.”

“One can still hear the clock at Toni’s but not a quarter of a mile beyond it. You see, if Mr. Davis heard the thirteenth stroke, he couldn’t have had time to reach the Preston farm and set the fire.”

“That’s an interesting argument,” the sheriff said, smiling. “And you plead Clem’s case very earnestly. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll investigate all these angles you’ve brought up, and if the evidence supports your theory, I promise he’ll go free.”

“That’s fair enough,” declared Mr. Parker.

The sheriff did not handcuff his prisoner. As they were leaving the house, Clem Davis turned to thank Penny for her interest in his behalf.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, taking a rectangular metal object from beneath his baggy coat. “Here’s something for you.”

“A rusty automobile license plate!” Penny exclaimed, staring at it.

“Found it in the swamp not far from that abandoned car I told you about.”

“Then it must have been thrown away by the driver of the hit-skip car!”

“That’s how I figure,” Clem Davis drawled. “If you can learn the owner of this license plate, you’ll know who killed that orphan’s folks!”