Signal
in the
Dark

By
MILDRED A. WIRT

Author of
MILDRED A. WIRT MYSTERY STORIES
TRAILER STORIES FOR GIRLS

Illustrated

CUPPLES AND LEON COMPANY
Publishers
NEW YORK

PENNY PARKER
MYSTERY STORIES

Large 12 mo. Cloth Illustrated

TALE OF THE WITCH DOLL
THE VANISHING HOUSEBOAT
DANGER AT THE DRAWBRIDGE
BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR
CLUE OF THE SILKEN LADDER
THE SECRET PACT
THE CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN
THE WISHING WELL
SABOTEURS ON THE RIVER
GHOST BEYOND THE GATE
HOOFBEATS ON THE TURNPIKE
VOICE FROM THE CAVE
GUILT OF THE BRASS THIEVES
SIGNAL IN THE DARK
WHISPERING WALLS
SWAMP ISLAND
THE CRY AT MIDNIGHT

COPYRIGHT, 1946, BY CUPPLES AND LEON CO.

Signal in the Dark

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

PENNY UTTERED A LITTLE CRY
“Signal in the Dark” ([See Page 195])

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [1 HELP WANTED] 1 [2 EXPLOSION!] 10 [3 SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT] 18 [4 THE MISSING PLATES] 26 [5 SHADOW ON THE SKYLIGHT] 35 [6 BEN’S STORY] 44 [7 MAN OVERBOARD!] 52 [8 A SWINGING CHAIN] 61 [9 THE METAL DISC] 69 [10 COUNTRY SKIES] 79 [11 A FAMILIAR CAR] 87 [12 THE PROFESSOR’S HELPER] 96 [13 BEHIND OFFICE DOORS] 104 [14 A NOTE FROM BEN] 112 [15 THE DEMONSTRATION] 120 [16 SUSPICION] 128 [17 MAJOR BRYAN] 137 [18 A SECOND TEST] 144 [19 THE LANTERN SIGNAL] 153 [20 A CROOK EXPOSED] 161 [21 IN SEARCH OF WEBB] 170 [22 SALT’S MISSING CAMERA] 178 [23 ESCAPE BY NIGHT] 184 [24 A RAID ON THE Snark] 192 [25 PICTURE PROOF] 200

CHAPTER
1
HELP WANTED

“The situation is getting worse instead of better, Penny. Three of our reporters are sick, and we’re trying to run the paper with only a third of our normal editorial staff.” Anthony Parker, publisher of the Riverview Star, whirled around in the swivel chair to face his daughter who sat opposite him in the private office of the newspaper. “Frankly, I’m up against it,” he added gloomily.

Penny, a slim girl with deep, intelligent blue eyes, uncurled herself from the window ledge. Carefully, she dusted her brown wool skirt which had picked up a cobweb and streaks of dirt.

“You could use a janitor around here too,” she hinted teasingly. “How about hiring me?”

“As queen of the dustmop brigade?”

“As a reporter,” Penny corrected. “I’m serious, Dad. You’re desperate for employes. I’m desperate for spending money. I have three weeks school vacation coming up, so why not strike a bargain?”

“The paper needs experienced workers, Penny.”

“Precisely.”

“You’re a very good writer,” Mr. Parker admitted. “In fact, in months past you turned in some of the best feature stories the Star ever printed. But always they were special assignments. We must have a reporter who can work a daily, eight-hour grind and be depended upon to handle routine stories with speed, accuracy and efficiency.”

“And you think I am not what the doctor ordered?”

“I think,” corrected Mr. Parker, “that you would blow your pretty little top by the end of the second day. For instance, it’s not easy nor pleasant to write obituaries. Yet it must be done, and accurately. On this paper, a new reporter is expected to do rewrites and other tedious work. You wouldn’t like it, Penny.”

“I’d take it neatly in my stride, Dad. Why not try me and see?”

Mr. Parker shook his head and began to read the three-star edition of the paper, its ink still damp from the press.

“Give me one sound, logical reason for turning me down,” Penny persisted.

“Very well. You are my daughter. Our editors might feel that they were compelled to treat you with special consideration—give you the best assignments—handle you with kid gloves.”

“You could take care of that matter easily enough.”

“If they took my instructions seriously, you might not like it,” the newspaper owner warned. “A reporter learns hard and bitter lessons. Mr. DeWitt, for instance, is a fine editor—our best, but he has a temper and—”

The frosted glass door swung open and an elderly, slightly bald man in shirt sleeves slouched in. Seeing Penny, he would have retreated, had not Mr. Parker called him back.

“What’s on your mind, DeWitt?”

“Trouble,” growled the editor. “That no-good, addle-brained boy we hired as night police reporter, just blew up! Said it was too confining to sit in a police station all night waiting for something to happen! So he gets himself a job in a canning factory! Now we’re another employee short.”

“Dad, let me take over the night police job!” Penny pleaded.

Both her father and Mr. DeWitt smiled as if suffering from intense pain. “Penny,” Mr. Parker explained gently. “Night police work isn’t suitable for a girl. Furthermore, it is one of the most undesirable jobs on a paper.”

“But I want to work somewhere, and you’re so stubborn!”

Mr. DeWitt studied Penny with concentrated interest. Hope flickered in his eyes. Turning abruptly to Mr. Parker he asked: “Why not, Chief? We could use her on the desk for rewrite. We’re mighty hard up, and that’s a fact.”

“What about the personnel problem?” Mr. Parker frowned. “How would the staff take it?”

“Some of the reporters might not like it,” Mr. DeWitt admitted, “but who’s running this paper anyhow?”

“I often wonder,” sighed Mr. Parker.

Detecting signs of a weakening, Penny appealed to Mr. DeWitt. “Wouldn’t I be a help to you if I were on the staff?” she urged.

“Why, sure,” he agreed cautiously.

“There, you see, Dad! Mr. DeWitt wants me!”

“Penny, it’s a personnel problem,” her father explained with growing impatience. “The other reporters might not consider you a welcome addition to the staff. You would expect favors.”

“I never would!”

“We need her,” said Mr. DeWitt significantly. “We really do.”

With two against him, Mr. Parker suddenly gave in.

“All right,” he agreed. “Penny, we’ll put you on as a cub reporter. That means you’ll start as a beginner with a beginner’s salary and do routine work until you’ve proved your merit. You’ll expect no special consideration. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly!” Grinning from ear to ear, Penny would have agreed to anything.

“Furthermore, if the work gets you down, I won’t have you coming to me asking for a change.”

“I’ll never darken your office door, Dad. Just one question. How much money does a beginner get?”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

Penny’s face was a blank.

“It will be more than you are worth the first few weeks,” Mr. Parker said.

“I’ll take it,” Penny declared hastily. “When do I start?”

“Right now,” decided her father. “DeWitt, introduce her to the staff, and put her to work.”

Feeling highly elated but a trifle self-conscious, Penny followed Editor DeWitt past the photography studio and the A.P. wire room to the main newsroom where reporters were tapping at their typewriters.

“Gang,” said Mr. DeWitt in an all inclusive introduction. “This is Penny Parker. She’ll be working here for a few weeks.”

Heads lifted and appraising eyes focused upon her. Nearly everyone nodded and smiled, but one girl who sat at the far end of a long typewriter table regarded her with an intent, almost hostile stare. And as luck would have it, Mr. DeWitt assigned Penny to the typewriter adjoining hers.

“This is Elda Hunt,” he introduced her. “Show Penny the ropes, will you?”

The girl, a blonde, with heavily-rouged cheeks, patted the rigid rolls of her hair into place. Staring at Mr. DeWitt, she answered not a word.

“I’ll have a lot to learn,” Penny said, trying to make friendly conversation.

Elda shrugged. “You’re the publisher’s daughter, aren’t you?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t think you’ll have too hard a time,” the girl drawled.

Penny started to reply, but thought better of it. Seating herself beside Elda, she unhooded the typewriter, rolled a sheet of copy paper into it, and experimented with the keys.

The main newsroom was a confusion of sound. Although work was being handled with dispatch, there was an air of tension, for press time on the five-star edition was drawing close. Telephones were ringing, and Editor DeWitt, who sat at the head of the big rectangular desk, tersely assigned reporters to take the incoming calls. Not far from Penny’s ear, the police shortwave radio blared. Copy boys ran to and fro.

Benny Jewell, the assistant editor, tossed her a handful of typewritten sheets.

“Take these handouts and make ’em into shorts,” he instructed briefly.

“Handouts?” Penny asked in bewilderment. “Shorts?”

“Cut the stories to a paragraph or two each.”

“Oh,” said Penny, catching on. “You want me to rewrite them.”

At her elbow, Elda openly snickered.

Color stained Penny’s cheeks, but she quietly read the first sheet, which was an account of a meeting to be held the following week. Picking out the most important facts, she boiled the story down to two short paragraphs, and dropped the finished copy into the editor’s wire basket.

Only then did Elda speak. “You’re supposed to make two carbons of every story you write,” she said pityingly.

The girl might have told her sooner, Penny thought. However, she thanked her politely, and finding carbon paper, rewrote the story. In her nervousness she inserted one of the carbons upside down, ruining the impression. As she removed the sheets from the machine, she saw what she had done. Elda saw too, and smiled in a superior way.

“She dislikes me intensely,” Penny thought. “I wonder why? I’ve not done a thing to her.”

Aware that she had wasted paper and valuable time, Penny recopied the story a third time and turned it in to the editor. After that, she rewrote the additional stories with fairly good speed. By watching other reporters she learned that the carbon copies were speared on spindles which at intervals a copy boy collected and carried away.

A telephone rang, and this time, Mr. DeWitt, looking straight at Penny, said: “An obituary. Will you take it?”

She went to the phone and copied down the facts carefully, knowing that while death notices were routine, they were of vital interest to readers of the paper. Any mistake of fact could prove serious.

Returning to her typewriter, she wrote the item. But after she had turned it in, Mr. DeWitt called her to his desk. He was pleasant but firm.

“What day are services to be held?” he asked. “Who are the survivors? Where did the woman die? Furthermore, we never use the word ‘Funeral Home’. Instead, we say ‘mortuary’.”

Penny telephoned for more information, and finally after rewriting the notice twice more, succeeded in getting it past Mr. DeWitt. But as he tossed the story to a copy reader, she saw that he had pencilled several changes.

“There’s more to writing routine stories than I thought,” she reflected. “I’ll really have to dig in unless I want to disgrace Dad.”

Penny was given another obituary to write which proved nearly as difficult as the first. Hopelessly discouraged, she started for the rest room to get a drink and wash her hands.

As she entered the lounge, voices reached her ears, and instantly she realized that Elda Hunt was talking to another girl reporter about her.

“The publisher’s daughter!” she heard her say scathingly. “As if we aren’t having a hard enough time here, without having to coddle her along!”

“I didn’t think she seemed so bad,” the other replied. “She’ll catch on.”

“She’ll be promoted over all our heads if that’s what you mean!” Elda retorted bitterly. “I know for a fact, she’s starting at fifty a week, and no experience! If you ask me, it’s unfair! We should walk out of here, and see how those fine editors would like that!”

CHAPTER
2
EXPLOSION!

Penny’s first thought was to accost the two girls and correct the misstatements. But sober reflection convinced her she could make no graver mistake. Far better, she reasoned, to ignore the entire matter.

She quickly washed her hands, purposely making enough noise to draw attention to her presence. Elda and her friend became silent. A moment later, coming through the inner door of the powder room, they saw her, but offered no comment. Penny hastily returned to the newsroom.

For the remainder of the day she worked with deep concentration, only dimly aware of what went on about her. Seemingly there were endless numbers of obituaries to write. Telephones rang constantly. Work was never finished, for as soon as one edition was off the press, another was in the making.

Now and then Penny caught herself glancing toward an empty desk at the far corner of the room. Jerry Livingston had sat there until a year ago when he had been granted a leave of absence to join the Army Air Force. Unquestionably the Star’s most talented reporter, he had been Penny’s best friend.

“I wish Jerry were here,” she thought wistfully. “But if he were, he’d tell me to buckle down and not let this job lick me! Dad warned me it would be hard, monotonous work.”

Penny worked with renewed energy. After awhile she began to feel that she was making definite progress. Mr. Jewell, the assistant editor, made fewer corrections as he read over her copy, and now and then she actually saw him nod approvingly. Once when she turned in a rewritten “hand-out”—a publicity story which had been sent to the paper in unusable form—he praised her for giving it a fresh touch.

“Good lead,” he commented. “You’re coming along all right.”

Elda heard the praise and her eyes snapped angrily. At her typewriter, she slammed the carriage. No one noticed except Penny. A moment later, Mr. DeWitt called Elda to his desk, saying severely:

“Watch the spelling of names, Elda. This is the third one we’ve checked you on today. Don’t you ever consult the city directory?”

“Of course I do!” Elda was indignant.

“Well, watch it,” Mr. DeWitt said again. “We must have accuracy.”

With a swish of skirts, Elda went back to her desk. Her face was as dark as a thunder cloud. Deliberately she dawdled over her next piece of copy. After she had turned it in, she returned to the editor’s desk to take it from the wire basket and make additional corrections.

“Just being extra careful of names,” she said arrogantly as the assistant editor shot her a quick, inquiring glance.

Thinking no more of the incident, Penny kept on with her own work. She took special care with names, even looking up in the city directory those of which she was almost certain. When she turned in a piece of copy, she was satisfied that not a name or fact was inaccurate.

Late in the afternoon, she noticed that Mr. DeWitt and Mr. Jewell appeared displeased about a story they had found in the Five Star edition of the paper. After reading it, they talked together, and then sorted through a roll of discarded copy, evidently searching for the original. Finally, Mr. DeWitt called:

“Miss Parker!”

Wondering what she had done wrong, Penny went quickly to his desk.

“You wrote this story?” he asked, jabbing a pencil at one of the printed obituaries.

“Why, yes,” Penny acknowledged. “Is anything wrong with it?”

“Only that you’ve buried the wrong man,” DeWitt said sarcastically. “Where did you get that name?”

Penny felt actually sick, and her skin prickled with heat. She stared at the story in print. It said that John Gorman had died that morning in Mercy Hospital.

“The man who died was John Borman,” DeWitt said grimly. “It happens that John Gorman is one of the city’s most prominent industrialists. We’ve made the correction, but it was too late to catch two-thirds of the papers.”

Penny stared again at the name, her mind working slowly.

“But Mr. DeWitt,” she protested. “I don’t think I wrote it that way. I knew the correct name was Borman. I’m sure that was how I turned it in.”

“Maybe you hit a wrong letter on the typewriter,” the editor said less severely. “That’s why one always should read over a story after it’s written.”

“But I did that too,” Penny said, and then bit her lip, because she realized she was arguing about the matter.

“We’ll look at the carbons,” decided Mr. DeWitt.

They had been taken from the spindles by copy boys, but the editor ordered the entire day’s work returned to his desk. Pawing through the sheets, he came to the one Penny had written. Swiftly he compared it with the original copy.

“You’re right!” he exclaimed in amazement. “The carbons show you wrote the name John Borman, not Gorman.”

“I knew I did!”

“But the copy that was turned into the basket said John Gorman. Didn’t you change it on the first sheet?”

“Indeed I didn’t, Mr. DeWitt.”

Scowling, the editor compared the two copies. Obviously on the original sheet, a neat erasure had been made, and a typewritten letter G had been substituted for B.

“There’s something funny about this,” Mr. DeWitt said. “Mighty funny!” His gaze roved about the typewriter table, focusing for an instant upon Elda who had been listening intently to the conversation. “Never mind,” he added to Penny. “We’ll look into this.”

Later, she saw him showing the copy sheets to the assistant editor. Seemingly, the two men were deeply puzzled as to how the error had been made. Penny had her own opinion.

“Elda did it,” she thought resentfully. “I’ll wager she removed the sheet from the wire basket when she pretended to be making a correction on her own story!”

Having no proof, Penny wisely kept her thoughts to herself. But she knew that in the future she must take double precautions to guard against other tricks to discredit her.

At the end of the day, the newsroom rapidly emptied. One by one, reporters covered their typewriters and left the building. A few of the girls remained, among them, Penny and Elda. Editor DeWitt was putting on his hat when the telephone rang.

Absently he reached for it and then straightened to alert attention. Grabbing a sheet of copy paper, he scrawled a few words. Eyes focused upon him, for instinctively everyone knew that something important had happened.

DeWitt hung up the receiver, his eyes staring into space for an instant. Then he seized the telephone again and called the composing room.

“Hold the paper!” he ordered tersely. “We’re making over the front page!”

The news was electrifying, for only a story of the greatest importance would bring an order to stop the thundering presses once they had started to roll.

Calling the photography room, DeWitt demanded: “Is Salt Sommers still there? Tell him to grab his camera and get over to the Conway Steel Plant in double-quick time! There’s been a big explosion! They think it’s sabotage!”

The editor’s harassed gaze then wandered over the little group of remaining reporters. Elda pushed toward the desk.

“You want me to go over there, Chief?” she demanded eagerly.

DeWitt did not appear to hear her. Seizing the telephone once more, he tried without success to get two of the men reporters who had left the office only a few minutes earlier.

Slamming down the receiver, his gloomy gaze focused upon Elda for an instant. But he passed her by.

“Miss Parker!”

Penny was beside him in a flash.

“Ride with Salt Sommers to the Conway Plant!” he ordered tersely. “Two men have been reported killed in the explosion! Get everything you can and hold on until relieved!”

Seizing hat and purse, Penny made a dash for the stairway. No need for DeWitt to tell her that this was a big story! Because all the other reporters except Elda were gone, she had been given the assignment! But could she make good?

“This is my chance!” she thought jubilantly. “DeWitt probably thinks I’ll fold up, but I’ll prove to him I can get the facts as well as one of his seasoned reporters.”

Penny was well acquainted with Salt Sommers, who next to Jerry Livingston was her best friend. Reaching the ground floor, she saw his battered car starting away from the curb.

“Salt!” she shouted. “Wait!”

The photographer halted and swung open the car door. She slid in beside him.

“What are you doing here, Penny?” he demanded, shifting gears.

“I’m your little assistant,” Penny broke the news gently. “I just started to work on the paper.”

“And DeWitt assigned you to this story?”

“He couldn’t help himself. Nearly everyone else had left the office.”

The car whirled around a corner and raced through a traffic light just as it turned amber. Suddenly from far away, there came a dull explosion which rocked the pavement. Salt and Penny stared at each other with alert comprehension.

“That was at the Conway Plant!” the photographer exclaimed, pushing his foot hard on the gas pedal. “Penny, we’ve got a real assignment ahead of us!”

CHAPTER
3
SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT

Darkness shrouded the streets as the press car careened toward the outskirts of the city where the Conway Steel Plant was situated. Rattling over the river bridge, Salt and Penny caught their first glimpse of the factory.

Flames were shooting high into the sky from one of the buildings, and employes poured in panic through the main gate. No policemen were yet in evidence, nor had the fire department arrived.

Pulling up at the curb, Salt seized his camera and stuffed a handful of flashbulbs into his pockets. Grabbing Penny’s elbow, he steered her toward the gate. To get through the barrier, they fought their way past the outsurging, panic-stricken tide of fleeing employes.

“Scared?” Salt asked as they paused to stare at the shooting flames.

“A little,” Penny admitted truthfully. “Will there be any more explosions?”

“That’s the chance we’re taking. DeWitt shouldn’t have sent you on this assignment!”

“He couldn’t know there would be other explosions,” Penny replied. “Besides, someone had to cover the story, and no one else was there. I can handle it.”

“I think you can too,” said Salt quietly. “But you’ll have to work alone. My job is to take pictures.”

“I’ll meet you at the car,” Penny threw over her shoulder as she left him.

Scarcely knowing how or where to begin, she ran toward the burning building. One of the smaller storage structures of the factory, it was not connected with the main office. The larger building remained intact. Workmen with an inadequate hose were making a frantic effort to keep the flames from spreading to the other structures.

Penny ran up to one of the men, plucking at his sleeve to command attention.

“What set off the explosion?” she shouted in his ear.

“Don’t know,” he replied above the roar of the flames.

“Anyone killed?”

“Two workmen. They’re over there.” The man waved his hand vaguely toward another building.

Unable to gain more information, Penny ran toward the nearby structure. The wind, she noted, was carrying flames in the opposite direction. Unless there were further explosions, danger of the fire spreading was not great.

Entering the building, she met several men who appeared to be officials of the company.

“I’m looking for Mr. Conway!” she accosted them. “Is he here?”

“Who are you?” one of the men asked bluntly.

“I’m Penny Parker from the Star.”

“My name is Conway. What do you want to know?”

“How many killed and injured?”

“Two killed. Three or four injured. Perhaps more. We don’t know yet.”

Penny asked for names which were given her. But when she inquired how the explosion had occurred, Mr. Conway suddenly became uncommunicative.

“I have no statement to make,” he said curtly. “We don’t know what caused the trouble.”

As if fearing that Penny would ask questions he did not wish to answer, the factory owner eluded her and disappeared into the darkness.

Running back to the burning building, Penny caught a glimpse of Salt taking a picture. From another workman she sought to glean additional details of the disaster.

“I was in the foundry when the first blast went off!” he revealed. “Just a minute before the explosion, I seen a man in a light overcoat and a dark hat, run from the building.”

“Who was he?”

“No one I ever saw workin’ at this plant. But I’ll warrant, he touched off that explosion!”

“Then you think he was a saboteur?”

“Sure.”

Penny did not place too much stock in the story, but as she wandered about among the excited employes, she heard others saying that they too had seen the strange man running from the building. No one knew his name nor could they provide an accurate description.

Sirens screamed, proclaiming the arrival of fire engines. As the ladders went up, and streams of water began to play on the blazing structure, Salt snapped several more pictures. His hat was gone, and his face had become streaked with soot.

“I got some good shots!” he told Penny enthusiastically as he sought her at the fringe of the crowd. “What luck you having?”

Penny told him everything she had learned.

“We’ll talk with the Fire Chief and then let’s head for a telephone and call the office,” Salt declared.

As they started toward the fire lines, a strange sound accosted their ears. Hearing it, Salt stopped short to listen. From the gates outside the factory came the rumbling murmur of an angry crowd.

“A mob must be forming!” Salt exclaimed. “Something’s up!”

He started for the gate with Penny hard at his heels.

At first they could not see what had caused the commotion. But as the group of angry employes swept nearer the gate, a man in a light overcoat who apparently was fleeing for his life, leaped into a car which waited at the curb.

“Quick!” Penny cried. “Take a picture!”

Salt already had his camera into position. As the car started up, the flash bulb went off.

“Got it!” Salt exclaimed triumphantly.

Penny tried to note the license number of the automobile, but the plate was so covered with mud she could not read a single figure. The car whirled around a corner and was lost to view.

“Salt, that man may have been the one who set off the explosion!” Penny cried. “The mob is of that opinion at least!”

Angry employes now were bearing directly toward Penny and Salt. Suddenly a woman in the crowd pointed toward the photographer, shouting: “There he is! Get him!”

Dismayed, Penny saw then that Salt wore a light overcoat which bore a striking resemblance to the garment of the fleeing stranger. Their builds too were somewhat similar, for both were thin and angular. In the darkness, the mob had failed to see the car roll away, and had mistaken Salt for the saboteur.

“Let’s get out of here!” Salt muttered. “One thing you can’t do is argue with a mob!”

He and Penny started in the opposite direction, only to be faced by a smaller group of workmen who had swarmed from another factory gate. Escape was cut off.

“Tell them we’re from the Star!” Penny urged, but as she beheld the angry faces, she realized how futile were her words.

“They’ll wreck my equipment before I can explain anything!” Salt said swiftly. He thrust the camera into her hands. “Here, take this and try to keep it safe! And these plates!”

Empty-handed, Salt turned to face the mob. Not knowing what to do, Penny tried to cut across the street. But the crowd evidently had taken her for a companion of the saboteur, and was determined she should not escape.

“Don’t let her get away!” shouted a woman in slacks, her voice shrill with excitement. “Get her!”

A car was coming slowly down the street. Its driver, a woman, was watching the flaming building, and had rolled down the window glass to see better. The window of the rear seat also was halfway down.

As the women of the mob bore down upon Penny, she acted impulsively to save Salt’s camera and the precious plates. Without thinking of the ultimate consequence, she tossed them through the open rear window onto the back seat of the moving car.

The driver, her attention focused upon the blazing factory, apparently did not observe the act, for she continued slowly on down the street.

“D F 3005,” Penny noted the license number. “If only I can remember!”

The factory women were upon the girl, seizing her roughly by the shoulders and shouting accusations. Penny’s jacket was ripped as she jerked free.

“I’m a reporter for the Star!” she cried desperately. “Sent here to cover the story!”

The words made not the slightest impression upon the women. But before they could lay hands upon her again, she fled across the street. The women did not pursue her, for just then two police cars rolled up to the curb.

Penny, greatly relieved, ran to summon help.

“Quick!” she urged the policemen. “That crazy mob has mistaken a reporter for one of the saboteurs who escaped in a car!”

With drawn clubs, the policemen battled their way through the crowd. Already Salt had been roughly handled. But arrival of the police saved him from further mistreatment, and fearful of arrest, the mob began to scatter. In another moment the photographer was free, although a bit battered. His coat had been torn to shreds, one eye had been blackened, and blood trickled from a cut on his lower lip.

“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously as Penny rushed to him.

“Oh, yes! But you’re a sight, Salt. They half killed you!”

“I’m okay,” Salt insisted. “The important thing is we’ve got a whale of a story, and we saved the camera and pictures.”

A stricken look came over Penny’s face.

“Salt—” she stammered. “Your camera—”

“It was smashed?”

“No, I tossed it into a car, but the car went on down the street. How we’ll ever find it again I don’t know!”

CHAPTER
4
THE MISSING PLATES

Salt did not criticise Penny when he learned exactly what had happened.

“I’d rather lose a dozen pictures than have my camera smashed,” he declared to cheer her. “Anyway, we may be able to trace the car and get everything back. Remember the license number?”

“D F 3005,” Penny said promptly, and wrote it down lest she forget.

“Let’s call the license bureau and get the owner’s name,” the photographer proposed, steering her toward a corner drugstore. “Gosh, it’s late!” he added, noticing a clock in a store window. “And they’re holding the paper for our story and pictures!”

“I certainly messed everything up,” Penny said dismally. “At the moment, it seemed the thing to do. When those women started for me, I thought it was the only way to save the camera.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Salt comforted. “I’ll get the camera back.”

“But how will we catch the edition with your pictures?”

“That’s a horse of a different color,” Salt admitted ruefully. “Anyway, it’s my funeral. I’ll tell DeWitt something.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” Penny said firmly. “I lost the pictures, and I expect to take responsibility for it.”

“Let’s not worry ahead. Maybe we can trace that car if we have luck.”

Entering the drugstore, Penny immediately telephoned Editor DeWitt at the Star, reporting all the facts she had picked up.

“Okay, that’s fine,” he praised. “One of our men reporters, Art Bailey, is on his way out there now. He’ll take over. Tell Salt Sommers to get in here fast with his pictures!”

“He’ll call you in just a minute or two,” Penny said weakly.

From another phone, Salt had been in touch with the license bureau. As Penny left the booth to join him, she saw by the look of his face that he had had no luck.

“Couldn’t you get the name of the owner?” she asked.

“It’s worse than that, Penny. The license was made out to a man by the name of A. B. Bettenridge. He lives at Silbus City.”

“Silbus City! At the far end of the state!”

“That’s the size of it.”

“But how did the car happen to be in Riverview?”

“The man or his wife probably is visiting relatives here, or possibly just passing through the city.”

“And there’s no way to trace them,” Penny said, aghast. “Oh, Salt, I’ve not only lost your pictures, but your camera as well!”

“Cheer up,” Salt said brusquely. “It’s not that bad. We’re sunk on the pictures, that’s sure. But unless the people are dishonest, I’ll get the camera again. I’ll write a letter to Silbus City, or if necessary, go there myself.”

Penny had little to say as she rode back to the Star office with the photographer. Editor DeWitt was not in the newsroom when they returned, but they found him in the composing room, shouting at the printers who were “making up the paper” to include the explosion story.

Seeing Penny and Salt, he whirled around to face them. “Get any good pictures?” he demanded.

“We lost all of ’em,” Salt confessed, his face long.

“You what?”

“Lost the pictures. The mob tore into us, and we were lucky to get back alive.”

DeWitt’s stony gaze fastened briefly upon Salt’s scratched face and torn clothing, “One of the biggest stories of the year, and you lose the pictures!” he commented.

“It was my fault,” Penny broke in. “I tossed the camera and plates into a passing car. I was trying to save them, but it didn’t work out that way.”

DeWitt’s eyebrows jerked upward and he listened without comment as Penny told the story. Then he said grimly: “That’s fine! That’s just dandy!” and stalked out of the composing room.

Penny gazed despairingly at Salt.

“If you hadn’t told him it was your fault, he’d have taken it okay,” Salt sighed. “Oh, well, it was the only thing to do. Anyway, there’s one consolation. He can’t fire you.”

“I wish he would. Salt, I feel worse than a worm.”

“Oh, buck up, Penny! Things like this happen. One has to learn to take the breaks.”

“Nothing like this ever happened before—I’m sure of that,” Penny said dismally. “What ought I to do, Salt?”

“Not a thing,” he assured her. “Just show up for work tomorrow the same as ever and don’t think any more about it. I’ll get the camera back, and by tomorrow DeWitt will have forgotten everything.”

“You’re very optimistic,” Penny returned. “Very optimistic indeed.”

Not wishing to return through the newsroom, she slipped down the back stairs and took a bus home. The Parker house stood on a knoll high above the winding river and was situated in a lovely district of Riverview. Only a few blocks away lived Louise Sidell, who was Penny’s closest friend.

Reluctant to face her father, Penny lingered for a while in the dark garden, snipping a few roses. But presently a kitchen window flew up, and Mrs. Maude Weems, the family housekeeper called impatiently:

“Penny Parker, is that you prowling around out there? We had our dinner three hours ago. Will you please come in and explain what kept you so long?”

Penny drew a deep sigh and went in out of the night. Mrs. Weems stared at her in dismay as she entered the kitchen.

“Why, what have you done to yourself!” she exclaimed.

“Nothing.”

“You look dreadful! Your hair isn’t combed—your face is dirty—and your clothes! Why, they smell of smoke!”

“Didn’t Dad tell you I started to work for the Star today?” Penny inquired innocently.

“The very idea of you coming home three hours late, and looking as if you had gone through the rollers of my washing machine! I’ll tell your father a thing or two!”

Mrs. Weems had cared for Penny since the death of Mrs. Parker many years before. Although employed as a housekeeper, salary was no consideration, and she loved the girl as her own child. Penny and Mr. Parker regarded Mrs. Weems almost as a member of the family.

“Where is Dad?” Penny asked uneasily.

“In the study.”

“Let’s not disturb him now, Mrs. Weems. I’ll just have a bite to eat and slip off to bed.”

“So you don’t want to see your father?” the housekeeper demanded alertly. “Why, may I ask? Is there more to this little escapade than meets the eye?”

“Maybe,” Penny admitted. Then she added earnestly: “Believe me, Mrs. Weems, I’ve had a wretched day. Tomorrow I’ll tell you everything. Tonight I just want to get a hot bath and go to bed.”

Mrs. Weems instantly became solicitous. “You poor thing,” she murmured sympathetically. “I’ll get you some hot food right away.”

Without asking another question, the housekeeper scurried about the kitchen, preparing supper. When it was set before her, Penny discovered she was not as hungry as she had thought. But because Mrs. Weems was watching her anxiously, she ate as much as she could.

After she had finished, she started upstairs. In passing her father’s study, she saw his eyes upon her. Before she could move on up the steps, he came to the doorway, noting her disheveled appearance.

“A hard day at the office?” he inquired evenly.

Penny could not know how much her father already had learned, but from the twinkle of his eyes she suspected that DeWitt had telephoned him the details of her disgrace.

“Oh, just a little overtime work,” she flung carelessly over her shoulder. “See you in the morning.”

Penny took a hot bath and climbed into bed. Then she climbed out again and carefully set the clock alarm for eight o’clock. Snuggling down once more, she went almost instantly to sleep.

It seemed that she scarcely had closed her eyes when the alarm jangled in her ear. Drowsily, Penny reached and turned it off. She rolled over to go to sleep again, then suddenly realized she was a working woman and leaped from bed.

She dressed hurriedly and joined her father at the breakfast table. He had two papers spread before him, the Star, and its rival, the Daily Times. Penny knew from her father’s expression that he had been comparing the explosion stories of the two papers, and was not pleased.

“Any news this morning?” she inquired a bit too innocently.

Her father shot back a quick, quizzical look, but gave no further indication that he suspected she might have had any connection with the Conway Steel Plant story.

“Oh, they did a little dynamiting last night,” he replied, shoving the papers toward her. “The Times had very good pictures.”

Penny scanned the front pages. The story in the Star was well written, with her own facts used, and a great many more supplied by other reporters. But in comparison to the Times, the story seemed colorless. Pictures, she realized, made the difference. The Times had published two of them which half covered the page.

“Can’t see how DeWitt slipped up,” Mr. Parker said, shaking his head sadly. “He should have sent one of our photographers out there.”

“Dad—”

Mr. Parker, who had finished his breakfast, hastily shoved back his chair. “Well, I must be getting to the office,” he said. “Don’t be late, Penny.”

“Dad, about that story last night—”

“No time now,” he interposed. “On a newspaper, yesterday’s stories are best forgotten.”

Penny understood then that her father already knew all the details of her downfall. Relieved that there was no need to explain, she grinned and hurriedly ate her breakfast.

Because her father had taken the car and gone on, she was compelled to battle the crowd on the bus. The trip took longer than she had expected. Determined not to be late for work, she ran most of the way from the bus stop to the office. By the time she had climbed the stairs to the newsroom, she was almost breathless.

As she came hurriedly through the swinging door, Elda Hunt, cool and serene, looked up from her typewriter.

“Why the rush?” she drawled, but in a voice which carried clearly to everyone in the room. “Are you going to another fire?”