CHAPTER 3 THE OCTOPUS TATTOO
Jerry bent closer to examine the strange tattoo. Between the two foremost arms of the octopus was sketched a single word: ALL.
“‘All,’” he read aloud. “What does that signify?”
His question angered the man on the couch. Snatching the shirt from Captain Dubbins, he made a feeble, ineffectual effort to get his arms into it.
“I want out o’ here,” he muttered. “Quit starin’, you two, and give me a hand!”
“Take it easy,” advised the tugboat captain soothingly. “We was just tryin’ to see if your back was badly hurt.”
“Sorry,” the man muttered. Relaxing, he leaned weakly against the leather cushions. “I ain’t myself.”
“You swallowed a little water,” remarked the captain.
“A little?” growled the other. “Half the river went down my gullet.” As an afterthought he added: “Thanks for pullin’ me out.”
“You’re welcome,” responded the captain dryly. “Ex-sailor, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I can usually tell ’em. Out of work?”
“No.” The man’s curt answers made it clear that he resented questions.
“You haven’t told us your name.”
“John Munn,” the man replied after a slight hesitation.
“We tried to catch the man who pushed you off the bridge,” contributed Jerry. “He got away.”
The sailor gazed steadily, almost defiantly at the reporter.
“No one pushed me off the bridge,” he said. “I fell.”
“You fell?” echoed Jerry. “Why, I thought I saw you and another man struggling—”
“You thought wrong,” the sailor interrupted. “I was leaning over, lookin’ into the water an’ I lost my balance. That was how it happened.”
“As you please, Mr. Munn,” said Jerry with exaggerated politeness. “Oh, by the way, what’s the significance of that octopus thing on your back?”
“Leave me alone, will you?” the sailor muttered. “Ain’t a man got any right to privacy?”
“Better not bother him while he’s feeling so low,” said the tugboat captain significantly. “I’ll get him into some dry clothes.”
“Nothing I can do?”
“No, thanks, he’ll be all right.”
“Well, so long,” Jerry said carelessly. With another curious glance directed at the sailor, he left the pilot-house, leaping from the deck to shore. Penny stood waiting.
“Jerry, what was the matter with that fellow?” she demanded in a whisper. “What did he have on his back? And why did he lie about being pushed off the bridge?”
“You heard us talking?”
“I couldn’t help it. You were fairly shouting at each other for awhile.”
“Mr. John Munn wasn’t very grateful to the captain for being saved. He took offense when we tried to look at his back.”
“I thought I heard you say something about an octopus. Was it a tattoo, Jerry?”
“Yes, and as strange a one as I’ve ever seen. The picture of an octopus. Between its forearms was the word: ‘All.’”
“What could that mean?”
“I tried to learn, but Mr. John Munn wasn’t in a talkative mood.”
“It seems rather mysterious, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Jerry took Penny’s arm to aid her in making the steep climb. “Sailors have some funny ideas regarding self-decoration. This Munn was a peculiar fellow.”
“It was odd that he would lie about being pushed off the bridge. Jerry, will you write it for the paper?”
“The story isn’t worth more than a few lines, Penny. We can’t say that Munn was pushed off the bridge.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Munn would deny it, and then the Star would appear ridiculous.”
“If I owned a paper, I certainly would use the story,” declared Penny. “Why, it has wonderful possibilities.”
“I fear your father never would agree. You talk him into printing the yarn and I’ll be glad to write it.”
“Oh, I suppose we must forget about it,” Penny grumbled. “All the same, I’d like nothing better than to work on the story myself.”
Reaching the pavement, they cleaned mud from their shoes before walking on to the waiting taxi. Louise immediately plied them with questions, displaying particular interest in the octopus tattoo.
“Do you suppose the man knew who pushed him off the bridge?” she inquired thoughtfully.
“I’ll venture he did,” replied Penny. “Probably that was the reason he wouldn’t tell.”
The taxi crossed the bridge and made slow progress away from the river. As the road gradually wound toward higher ground, the fog became lighter and the driver was able to make faster time. A clock chimed the hour of eleven.
“How about stopping somewhere for a bite to eat?” Jerry suddenly proposed.
“Won’t Dad be waiting at the Star office?” Penny asked.
“He suggested that I keep you girls entertained until around eleven-thirty if I could.”
“That being the case, we’ll accept your invitation with alacrity,” laughed Penny. “How about the Golden Pheasant?”
“Oh, no, you don’t! Phillip’s Bean Pot is nearer my speed.”
A block farther down the street Jerry paid the driver and escorted the girls into a clean but low-priced restaurant.
“No item on the menu over ten cents,” he chuckled. “Do your worst. I can take it.”
Penny and Louise ordered sandwiches, while the reporter fortified himself with a plate of scrambled eggs, two doughnuts, and a cup of coffee. Returning to the front counter for a forgotten napkin, he nodded carelessly at an elderly man who sat alone, sipping a glass of orange juice.
The man acknowledged the greeting in an embarrassed way, quickly lowering his head. Within a few minutes he left the café.
“Jerry, who was he?” Penny inquired curiously. “I am sure I’ve seen him before, yet I can’t remember where.”
“That was old man Judson. Matthew Judson.”
“Not the former publisher of the Morning Press!”
“Yes, the old man’s been going to pieces fast since he closed his newspaper plant. Looks seedy, doesn’t he?”
“His clothes were a bit shiny. I thought he seemed rather embarrassed because you spoke to him.”
“Old Judson feels his come-down I guess. In the flush days he wouldn’t be caught dead in a beanery.”
“Is he really poor, Jerry?”
“Probably down to his last hundred thousand,” the reporter grinned.
“What you say is conflicting,” declared Penny impatiently. “First you imply that Mr. Judson is poor, and then that he’s rich. I wish you would make up your mind.”
“Frankly, I don’t know. Judson owns a fine home on Drexell Boulevard which he’s allowed to run down. I’ve been told he sold the Morning Press building several months ago. Some say he has plenty of cash salted away, others that he’s broke.”
“How did he lose so much of his money, Jerry?”
“No one seems to know for certain. According to rumor he plays the stock market heavily.”
“It’s strange he closed down the Morning Press,” Penny remarked thoughtfully. “I always thought it was a profitable paper.”
“So did everyone else. The Press had a large circulation. But one bright Monday morning Judson posted a notice, closed the plant, and threw over a thousand employes out of work.”
“That was nearly a year ago, wasn’t it, Jerry?”
“Thirteen months to be exact. Why this sudden interest in Judson?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Penny replied vaguely. “His case seems rather pathetic. Then, too, he reminds me of someone I’ve seen recently. I wish I could recall—”
Jerry glanced at the wall clock, swallowing his coffee with a gulp.
“Time to move along,” he announced. “We mustn’t keep your father waiting, Penny.”
They left the café and Jerry hailed a passing taxicab.
“It’s only four blocks to the Star building,” protested Penny. “Aren’t you being too lavish with your money, Jerry?”
“Oh, I’ll add this item to my expense account,” he laughed. “Jump in.”
The taxi turned left at Adams street, rolling slowly through the downtown business section. Jerry peered from the car window at a large, four-story stone building which occupied a corner.
“That place sure looks like a morgue these days,” he commented. “The Morning Press.”
Penny and Louise likewise twisted sideways to stare at the dark, deserted building. Windows were plastered with disfiguring posters and the white stone blocks, once so beautiful, were streaked with city grime.
“When the Press closed, machinery, furniture and everything else was left exactly as it stood,” remarked Jerry. “Too bad an enterprising newspaper man doesn’t take over the place before it’s a complete loss. The present owner doesn’t even employ a watchman to protect the property.”
“It does seem a shame—” Penny began, only to break off. “Why, that’s funny!”
“What is?” inquired Jerry.
Penny had turned to glance back at the Morning Press plant.
“The building isn’t deserted!” she exclaimed. “There’s a light in one of the upstairs rooms!”
