CHAPTER 2 AN UNEXPLAINED DISAPPEARANCE
Sergeant Gray studied the strange drawing for a moment and then said to Albert Potts: “Can you explain the meaning of this picture? And the words written beneath it?”
For the first time since the start of the interview, the bank secretary seemed at a loss for words. Finally he stammered: “Why, no—I’ve never seen the drawing before. I don’t know how it got into Mr. Rhett’s desk.”
“You seemed to recognize the picture,” interposed Penny. “At least you called it a plumed serpent.”
“It is the symbol of an ancient cult, or at least that is what I take it to be. I’ve seen similar drawings in library books.”
“And the writing beneath it?” probed the sergeant.
“I am not sure,” the secretary murmured, ill at ease. “It slightly resembles Mr. Rhett’s writing.”
“You say you can’t explain how the paper came to be in Mr. Rhett’s desk?”
“My employer’s private life is none of my concern.”
“What do you mean—his private life?”
“Well, I hadn’t intended to tell you this,” Potts said unwillingly. “The truth is, Mr. Rhett was a strange man. He had queer interests and hobbies. I have been told he collects weird trophies of ancient cults.”
“Then this drawing probably has a connection with your employer’s hobby?”
“I wouldn’t know,” shrugged Potts. “If it weren’t for the handwriting, I might think someone had sent a warning to him. As it is, I’m completely in the dark.”
“Mr. Rhett had enemies?”
“He was a ruthless man and many persons disliked him. His friends were queer too. He preferred low class persons to people of culture and refinement. Why, only two days before his disappearance, he deliberately kept one of our largest stockholders waiting an hour while he chatted with a building porter! It was very humiliating! I had to tell Mrs. Biggs he was in conference, but I think she suspected the truth.”
“Do you have a photograph of Mr. Rhett?” the sergeant asked.
“I deeply regret I haven’t. For that matter, I never have seen a picture of him.”
“But you can describe the man?”
“Oh, yes. He is forty-five, though he looks older. His hair is gray at the temples. He wore an expensive tailored suit—brown, I believe. One of the most distinguishing marks I should say, is a scar on his left cheek.”
“I’ll send one of the detectives around,” Sergeant Gray promised. He had completed his investigation and with the other patrolman, started to leave the office.
Albert Potts drew a deep breath and seemed to relax. Only then did it occur to Penny that throughout the greater part of the interview he had stood in front of the outside balcony door, as if to shield it from attention.
Taking the plumed serpent drawing with them, Sergeant Gray and the patrolman left the office. Penny lingered, intending to ask Albert Potts a few questions about Mr. Rhett. But the man gave her no opportunity.
Barely had the others gone when he turned toward her, making no effort to mask his dislike.
“Now will you get out of here?” he demanded.
His tone annoyed Penny, and perversely made her determined to take her time in leaving. Deliberately she sidled over to the balcony door.
“Where does this lead?” she inquired.
“Outside.”
Penny opened the door, but Potts immediately barred the way.
“There’s nothing there except a balcony! Just get out of this office so I can lock up and go home! I’ve had a hard day, and you’re making it worse!”
For a reason she could not have explained, Penny felt a deep urge to annoy the nervous little man further. Ignoring his protests, she pushed past him out onto the balcony.
Guarded by a high iron railing and fence, it extended for perhaps fifty feet along several offices. At each end, projecting from the sloping slate roof, was a grotesque decorative gargoyle.
“You see!” rasped Potts. “There’s nothing here. Now are you satisfied?”
The gargoyle near the door had drawn Penny’s attention. Its carved stone body angled out from the building, terminating in a horned animal head with massive open jaws.
“Will it bite?” Grinning impishly at Potts she started to thrust an arm between the stone teeth.
To her astonishment, he suddenly seized her and gave her a hard shove through the doorway into Mr. Rhett’s office. She resisted and he immediately released her. But he locked the balcony door.
“You’re driving me crazy!” he cried furiously. “Now get out of here! Unless you do—”
Potts was such a ridiculous little fellow that Penny could not be afraid of him. However, she decided that her joke had been carried a trifle too far.
“Okay, I’m going,” she muttered. “Thanks for all your courtesy.”
“Mind you print only the truth in your paper,” Potts hurled after her as she went out the door. “If you don’t, you may have a lawsuit on your hands!”
Penny reached the street to find that the police car had gone and Louise was nowhere to be seen. Deciding that her chum had grown tired of waiting, she hastened to a nearby drugstore to telephone the Star office.
Editor DeWitt answered, and Penny gave him the story straight and fast.
“Hamilton Rhett, the banker!” he exclaimed. “Sure you got the name right?”
“Positive!”
“This is apt to be a big story, especially if the man was kidnapped or walked off with the bonds! Grab a taxi and run out to the Rhett estate. Get all the dope you can from Mrs. Rhett, and don’t forget pictures! We’ll want one of Rhett. Better take all she has of him to keep the Times from getting them! Got that straight?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, go right to town on the old gal and learn everything you can about her quarrel with Rhett! I’ll send a photographer out there as soon as I can round one up.”
Penny felt a trifle weak as she hung up the receiver. Editor DeWitt took it for granted she would bring in a bang-up story when she returned to the newspaper office. But from what she had learned of Mrs. Rhett, she surmised that an interview might not be granted willingly.
Looking up the address of the Rhett estate, Penny hailed a passing taxi. As the cab sped along the winding river boulevard, she speculated upon how best to approach Mrs. Rhett.
“I wish I were more experienced as a reporter,” she thought, nervously examining her pocketbook to be certain she had paper and pencil. “Something tells me this story will be hard to get.”
The only daughter of a distinguished newspaper owner and publisher, Penny considered herself an essential part of the Star office. Even as a youngster in pigtails, she had haunted the big noisy newsroom, pecking at the typewriters and making a pest of herself.
From her father, Editor DeWitt, Jerry Livingston, a star reporter, and the printers who adored her, the alert girl had gleaned much useful information. But there were yawning gaps in her newspaper experience. No one realized it better than she.
Gazing thoughtfully toward the river, Penny recalled the first story she ever had written, carried in the paper under the title, “Tale of the Witch Doll.” Another yarn, “The Vanishing Houseboat,” also had been bannered across the front page of the Star, but in acquiring that story Penny and Jerry had nearly lost their lives.
Slight wonder that Mrs. Maud Weems, the Parker housekeeper, was reluctant to see the girl she loved so dearly take up a journalistic career. Sadly she declared that Penny’s nose for news and mystery would lead her into serious trouble. Mr. Parker, however, did not worry. “Penny has good horse sense,” he said. “And she was born with printer’s ink in her blood stream!”
The taxi stopped with a jerk in front of a large red brick mansion. Large acreage was enclosed by a wooden rail fence flanked by tall untrimmed bushes.
“Shall I wait?” inquired the cab driver as Penny alighted.
She shook her head, started to pay him, then thought of a better idea. “Charge this to the Star,” she instructed.
The cab driver looked a trifle worried as if he were fearful of losing the fare, so Penny flashed her press card again. It worked like magic.
“Okay, a charge it is,” he agreed. He shifted gears and drove away.
No sooner had Penny dismissed the cab than she regretted it. Although she expected to catch a ride with the Star photographer back to the paper, the mansion had a deserted look. As she walked up the gravel path, she noticed that many of the shades were drawn.
“There’s no one here,” she thought. “I’ve wasted my time coming.”
Nevertheless, Penny walked on to the front door to ring the doorbell. Instead she found a brass knocker in the shape of an ugly carved face. She stared at it a moment, then let it fall against the brass plate.
As Penny had feared, no one came to admit her. She was turning away in defeat, when she fancied she saw a shade move in one of the upstairs rooms. Encouraged, she knocked again.
Still there was no answer, but distinctly she saw the curtain flutter. Stepping back a pace, she gazed upward.
A dark face was visible in a circular window of one of the tower rooms. For a moment appraising eyes focused upon her. Then the curtain jerked convulsively, and the man was gone.
