E-text prepared by Stephen Hutcheson, Brenda Lewis,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)

The Clock
Strikes Thirteen

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, 1942, BY CUPPLES AND LEON CO.

The Clock Strikes Thirteen

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

PENNY HUDDLED AGAINST THE WALL WATCHING FEARFULLY.
“The Clock Strikes Thirteen” ([See Page 191])

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [1 SANDWICHES FOR TWO] 1 [2 NIGHT RIDERS] 11 [3 A BLACK HOOD] 20 [4 A NEW CARETAKER] 28 [5 OLD SETH] 38 [6 TALL CORN] 48 [7 MR. BLAKE’S DONATION] 55 [8 PUBLICITY BY PENNY] 63 [9 JERRY’S PARTY] 71 [10 IN THE MELON PATCH] 78 [11 PENNY’S CLUE] 89 [12 ADELLE’S DISAPPEARANCE] 97 [13 AN EXTRA STROKE] 106 [14 THROUGH THE WINDOW] 115 [15 TRACING BEN BOWMAN] 123 [16 A FAMILIAR NAME] 130 [17 FALSE RECORDS] 137 [18 ADELLE’S ACCUSATION] 147 [19 TRAILING A FUGITIVE] 155 [20 CLEM DAVIS’ DISCLOSURE] 163 [21 A BROKEN PROMISE] 170 [22 THE MAN IN GRAY] 178 [23 A TRAP SET] 185 [24 TIMELY HELP] 193 [25 SPECIAL EDITION] 203

CHAPTER
1
SANDWICHES FOR TWO

Jauntily, Penny Parker walked through the dimly lighted newsroom of the Riverview Star, her rubber heels making no sound on the bare, freshly scrubbed floor. Desks were deserted, for the final night edition of the paper had gone to press half an hour earlier, and only the cleaning women were at work. One of the women arrested a long sweep of her mop just in time to avoid splashing the girl with water.

“I sorry,” she apologized in her best broken English. “I no look for someone to come so very late.”

“Oh, curfew never rings for me,” Penny laughed, side stepping a puddle of water. “I’m likely to be abroad at any hour.”

At the far end of the long room a light glowed behind a frosted glass door marked: “Anthony Parker—Editor.” There the girl paused, and seeing her father’s grotesque shadow, opened the door a tiny crack, to rumble in a deep voice:

“Hands up! I have you covered!”

Taken by surprise, Mr. Parker swung quickly around, his swivel chair squeaking a loud protest.

“Penny, I wish you wouldn’t do that!” he exclaimed. “You know it always makes me jump.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Penny grinned, slumping into a leather chair beside her father’s desk. “A girl has to have some amusement, you know.”

“Didn’t three hours at the moving picture theatre satisfy you?”

“Oh, the show was worse than awful. By the way, here’s something for you.”

Removing a sealed yellow envelope from her purse, Penny flipped it carelessly across the desk.

“I met a Western Union boy downstairs,” she explained. “He was looking for you. I paid for the message and saved him a trip upstairs. Two dollars and ten cents, if you don’t mind.”

Absently Mr. Parker took two crisp dollar bills from his pocket and reached for the telegram.

“Don’t forget the dime,” Penny reminded him. “It may seem a trifle to you, but not to a girl who has to live on a weekly allowance.”

For lack of change, the editor tossed over a quarter, which his daughter pocketed with deep satisfaction. Ripping open the envelope, he scanned the telegram, but as he read, his face darkened.

“Why, Dad, what’s wrong?” Penny asked in surprise.

Mr. Parker crumpled the sheet into a round ball and hurled it toward the waste paper basket.

“Your aim gets worse every day,” Penny chuckled, stooping to retrieve the paper. Smoothing the corrugations, she read aloud:

“YOUR EDITORIAL ‘FREEDOM OF THE PRESS’ IN THURSDAY’S STAR THOROUGHLY DISGUSTED THIS READER. WHAT YOUR CHEAP PAPER NEEDS IS A LITTLE LESS FREEDOM AND MORE DECENCY. IF OUR FOREFATHERS COULD HAVE FORESEEN THE YELLOW PRESS OF TODAY THEY WOULD HAVE REGULATED IT, NOT MADE IT FREE. WHY DON’T YOU TAKE THAT AMERICAN FLAG OFF YOUR MASTHEAD AND SUBSTITUTE A CASH REGISTER? FLY YOUR TRUE COLORS AND SOFT-PEDAL THE PARKER BRAND OF HYPOCRISY!”

“Stop it—don’t read another line!” the editor commanded before Penny had half finished.

“Why, Dad, you poor old wounded lion!” she chided, blue eyes dancing with mischief. “I thought you prided yourself that uncomplimentary opinions never disturbed you. Can’t you take it any more?”

“I don’t mind a few insults,” Mr. Parker snapped, “but paying for them is another matter.”

“That’s so, this little gem of literature did set you back two dollars and ten cents. Lucky I collected before you opened the telegram.”

Mr. Parker slammed his desk shut with a force which rattled the office windows.

“This same crack-pot who signs himself ‘Disgusted Reader’ or ‘Ben Bowman,’ or whatever name suits his fancy, has sent me six telegrams in the past month! I’m getting fed up!”

“All of the messages collect?”

“Every one. The nit-wit has criticised everything from the Star’s comic strips to the advertising columns. I’ve had enough of it!”

“Then why not do something about it?” Penny asked soothingly. “Refuse the telegrams.”

“It’s not that easy,” the editor growled. “Each day the Star receives a large number of ‘collect’ messages, hot news tips from out-of-town correspondents and from reporters who try to sell free lance stories. We’re glad to pay for these telegrams. This fellow who keeps bombarding us is just smart enough to use different names and send his wires from various places. Sometimes he addresses the telegrams to me, and then perhaps to City Editor DeWitt or one of the other staff members.”

“In that case, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Penny said teasingly. “How about drowning your troubles in a little sleep?”

“It is late,” Mr. Parker admitted, glancing at his watch. “Almost midnight. Time we’re starting home.”

Reaching for his hat, Mr. Parker switched off the light, locked the door, and followed Penny down the stairway to the street. At the parking lot opposite the Star building, he tramped about restlessly while waiting for an attendant to bring the car.

“I’ll drive,” Penny said, sliding behind the steering wheel. “In your present mood you might inadvertently pick off a few pedestrians!”

“It makes my blood boil,” Mr. Parker muttered, his thoughts reverting to the telegram. “Call my paper yellow, eh? And that crack about the cash register!”

“Oh, everyone knows the Star is the best paper in the state,” Penny said, trying to coax him into a better mood. “You’re a good editor too, and a pretty fair father.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Parker responded with a mock bow. “Since we’re passing out compliments, you’re not so bad yourself.”

Suddenly relaxing, he reached out to touch Penny’s hand in a rare expression of affection. Tall and lean, a newspaper man with a reputation for courage and fight, he had only two interests in life—his paper and his daughter. Penny’s mother had been dead many years, but at times he saw his wife again in the girl’s sparkling blue eyes, golden hair, and especially in the way she smiled.

“Hungry, Dad?” Penny asked unexpectedly, intruding upon his thoughts. “I know a dandy new hamburger place not far from here. Wonderful coffee too.”

“Well, all right,” Mr. Parker consented. “It’s pretty late though. The big clock’s striking midnight.”

As the car halted for a traffic light, they both listened to the musical chimes which preceded the regularly spaced strokes of the giant clock. Penny turned her head to gaze at the Hubell Memorial Tower, a grim stone building which rose to the height of seventy-five feet. Erected ten years before as a monument to one of Riverview’s wealthy citizens, its chimes could be heard for nearly a mile on a still night. On one side, its high, narrow windows overlooked the city, while on the other, the cultivated lands of truck farmers.

“How strange!” Penny murmured as the last stroke of the clock died away.

“What is strange?” Mr. Parker asked gruffly.

“Why, that clock struck thirteen times instead of twelve!”

“Bunk and bosh!”

“Oh, but it did!” Penny earnestly insisted. “I counted each stroke distinctly.”

“And one of them twice,” scoffed her father. “Or are you spoofing your old Dad?”

“Oh, I’m not,” Penny maintained. As the car moved ahead, she craned her neck to stare up at the stone tower. “I know I counted thirteen. Why, Dad, there’s a green light burning in one of the windows! I never saw that before. What can it mean?”

“It means we’ll have a wreck unless you watch the road!” Mr. Parker cried, giving the steering wheel a quick turn. “Where are you taking me anyhow?”

“Out to Toni’s.” Reluctantly Penny centered her full attention upon the highway. “It’s only a mile into the country.”

“We won’t be home before one o’clock,” Mr. Parker complained. “But since we’re this far, I suppose we may as well keep on.”

“Dad, about that light,” Penny said thoughtfully. “Did you ever notice it before?”

Mr. Parker turned to gaze back toward the stone tower.

“There’s no green light,” he answered grimly. “Every window is dark.”

“But I saw it only an instant ago! And I did hear the clock strike thirteen. Cross my heart and hope to die—”

“Never mind the dramatics,” Mr. Parker cut in. “If the clock struck an extra time—which it didn’t—something could have gone wrong with the mechanism. Don’t try to build up a mystery out of your imagination.”

The car rattled over a bridge and passed a deserted farm house that formerly had belonged to a queer old man named Peter Fenestra. Penny’s gaze fastened momentarily upon an old fashioned storm cellar which marred the appearance of the front yard.

“I suppose I imagined all that too,” she said, waving her hand toward the disfiguring cement hump. “Old Peter never had any hidden gold, he never had a SECRET PACT with tattooed sailors, and he never tried to burn your newspaper plant!”

“I’ll admit you did a nice piece of detective work when you uncovered that story,” her father acknowledged. “Likewise, you brought the Star one of its best scoops by outwitting slippery Al Gepper and entangling him in his own Silken Ladder.”

“Don’t forget the Tale of the Witch Doll either,” Penny reminded him. “You laughed at me then, just as you’re doing now.”

“I’m not laughing,” denied the editor. “I merely say that no light was burning in the tower window, and I very much doubt that the clock struck more than twelve times.”

“Tomorrow I shall go to the tower and talk with the caretaker, Seth McGuire. I’ll prove to you that I was right!”

“If you do, I’ll treat to a dish of ice cream decorated with nuts.”

“Make it five gallons of gasoline and I’ll be really interested,” she countered.

Due to an unusual set of circumstances, Penny had fallen heir to two automobiles, one a second-hand contraption whose battered sides bore the signature of nearly every young person in Riverview. The other, a handsome maroon sedan, had been the gift of her father, presented in gratitude because of her excellent reporting of a case known to many as Behind the Green Door. Always hard pressed for funds, she found it all but impossible to keep two automobiles in operation, and her financial difficulties were a constant source of amusement to everyone but herself.

Soon, an electric sign proclaiming “Toni’s” in huge block letters loomed up. Penny swung into the parking area, tooting the horn for service. Immediately a white-coated waiter brought out a menu.

“Coffee and two hamburgers,” Penny ordered with a flourish. “Everything on one, and everything but, on the other.”

“No onions for the little lady?” the waiter grinned. “Okay. I’ll have ’em right out.”

While waiting, Penny noticed that another car, a gray sedan, had drawn up close to the building. Although the two men who occupied the front seat had ordered food, they were not eating it. Instead they conversed in low tones as they appeared to watch someone inside the cafe.

“Dad, notice those two men,” she whispered, touching his arm.

“What about them?” he asked, but before she could reply, the waiter came with a tray of sandwiches which he hooked over the car door.

“Not bad,” Mr. Parker praised as he bit into a giant-size hamburger. “First decent cup of coffee I’ve had in a week too.”

“Dad, watch!” Penny reminded him.

The restaurant door had opened, and a man of early middle age came outside. Immediately the couple in the gray sedan stiffened to alert attention. As the man passed their car they lowered their heads, but the instant he had gone on, they turned to peer after him.

The man who was being observed so closely seemed unaware of the scrutiny. Crossing the parking lot, he chose a trail which led into a dense grove of trees.

“Now’s our chance!” cried one of the men in the gray sedan. “Come on, we’ll get him!” Both alighted and likewise disappeared into the woods.

“Dad, did you hear what they said?” asked Penny.

“I did,” he answered grimly. “Tough looking customers too.”

“I’m afraid they mean to rob that first man. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

Mr. Parker barely hesitated. “I may make a chump of myself,” he said, “but here goes! I’ll tag along and try to be on hand if anything happens.”

“Dad, don’t do it!” Penny pleaded, suddenly frightened lest her father face danger. “You might get hurt!”

Mr. Parker paid no heed. Swinging open the car door, he strode across the parking lot, and entered the dark woods.

CHAPTER
2
NIGHT RIDERS

Not to be left behind, Penny quickly followed her father, overtaking him before he had gone very far into the forest.

“Penny, you shouldn’t have come,” he said sternly. “There may be trouble, and I’ll not have you taking unnecessary risks.”

“I don’t want you to do it either,” she insisted. “Which way did the men go?”

“That’s what I wonder,” Mr. Parker responded, listening intently. “Hear anything?”

“Not a sound.”

“Queer that all three of them could disappear so quickly,” the editor muttered. “I’m sure there’s been no attack. Listen! What was that?”

“It sounded like a car being started!” Penny exclaimed.

Hastening to the edge of the woods, she gazed toward the parking lot. The Parker car stood where it had been abandoned, but the gray sedan was missing. A moving tail light could be seen far down the road.

“There go our friends,” Mr. Parker commented rather irritably. “Their sudden departure probably saved me from making a chump of myself.”

“How could we tell they didn’t mean to rob that other man?” Penny asked in an injured tone. “You thought yourself that they intended to harm him.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you,” the editor answered, starting toward the parking lot. “I’m annoyed at myself. This is a graphic example of what we were talking about awhile ago—imagination!”

Decidedly crestfallen, Penny followed her father to the car. They finished their hamburgers, which had grown cold, and after the tray was removed, started home.

“I could do with a little sleep,” Mr. Parker yawned. “After a hard day at the office, your brand of night life is a bit too strenuous for me.”

Selecting a short-cut route to Riverview, Penny paid strict attention to the road, for the narrow pavement had been patched in many places. On either side of the highway stretched truck farms with row upon row of neatly staked tomatoes and other crops.

Rounding a bend, Penny was startled to see tongues of flame brightening the horizon. A large wooden barn, situated in plain view, on a slight knoll, had caught fire and was burning rapidly. As she slammed on the brake, Mr. Parker aroused from light slumber.

“Now what?” he mumbled drowsily.

“Dad, unless I’m imagining things again, that barn is on fire!”

“Let ’er burn,” he mumbled, and then fully aroused, swung open the car door.

There were no fire fighters on the scene, in fact the only person visible was a woman in dark flannel night robe, who stood silhouetted in the red glare. As Penny and Mr. Parker reached her side, she stared at them almost stupidly.

“We’ll lose everything,” she said tonelessly. “Our entire crop of melons is inside the barn, packed for shipment. And my husband’s new truck!”

“Have you called a fire company?” the editor asked.

“I’ve called, but it won’t do any good,” she answered. “The barn will be gone before they can get here.”

With a high wind whipping the flames, Penny and her father knew that the woman spoke the truth. Already the fire had such a start that even had water been available, the barn could not have been saved.

“Maybe I can get out the truck for you!” Mr. Parker offered.

As he swung open the barn doors, a wave of heat rushed into his face. Coughing and choking, he forced his way into the smoke filled interior, unaware that Penny was at his side. Seeing her a moment later, he tried to send her back.

“You can’t get the truck out without me to help push,” she replied, refusing to retreat. “Come on, we can do it!”

The shiny red truck was a fairly light one and stood on an inclined cement floor which sloped toward the exit. Nevertheless, although Penny and her father exerted every iota of their combined strength, they could not start it moving.

“Maybe the brake is on!” Mr. Parker gasped, running around to the cab. “Yes, it is!”

Pushing once more, they were able to start the truck rolling. Once in motion its own momentum carried it down the runway into the open, a safe distance from the flames.

“How about the crated melons?” Penny asked, breathing hard from the strenuous exertion.

“Not a chance to save them,” Mr. Parker answered. “We were lucky to get out the truck.”

Driven back by the heat, Penny and her father went to stand beside the woman in dark flannel. Thanking them for their efforts in her behalf, she added that her name was Mrs. Preston and that her husband was absent.

“John went to Riverview and hasn’t come back yet,” she said brokenly. “This is going to be a great shock to him. All our work gone up in smoke!”

“Didn’t you have the barn insured?” the editor questioned her.

“John has a small policy,” Mrs. Preston replied. “It covers the barn, but not the melons stored inside. Those men did it on purpose, too! I saw one of ’em riding away.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Parker demanded, wondering if he had understood the woman correctly. “You don’t mean the fire deliberately was set?”

“Yes, it was,” the woman affirmed angrily. “I was sound asleep, and then I heard a horse galloping into the yard. I ran to the window and saw the rider throw a lighted torch into the old hay loft. As soon as he saw it blaze up, he rode off.”

“Was the man anyone you knew?” Mr. Parker asked, amazed by the disclosure. “Were you able to see his face?”

“Hardly,” Mrs. Preston returned with a short laugh. “He wore a black hood. It covered his head and shoulders.”

“A black hood!” Penny exclaimed. “Why, Dad, that sounds like night riders!”

“Mrs. Preston, do you know of any reason why you and your husband might be made the target of such cowardly action?” the newspaper man inquired.

“It must have been done because John wouldn’t join up with them.”

“Join some organization, you mean?”

“Yes, they kept warning him something like this would happen, but John wouldn’t have anything to do with ’em.”

“I don’t blame your husband,” said the editor, seeking to gather more information. “Tell me, what is the name of this disreputable organization? What is its purpose, and the names of the men who run it?”

“I don’t know any more about it than what I’ve told you,” Mrs. Preston replied, suddenly becoming close-lipped. “John never said much about it to me.”

“Are you afraid to tell what you know?” Mr. Parker asked abruptly.

“It doesn’t pay to do too much talking. You act real friendly and you did me a good turn saving my truck—but I don’t even know your name.”

“Anthony Parker, owner of the Riverview Star.”

The information was anything but reassuring to the woman.

“You’re not aiming to write up anything I’ve told you for the paper?” she asked anxiously.

“Not unless I believe that by doing so I can expose these night riders who have destroyed your barn.”

“Please don’t print anything in the paper,” Mrs. Preston pleaded. “It will only do harm. Those men will turn on John harder than ever.”

Before Mr. Parker could reply, the roof of the storage barn collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks and burning brands. By this time the red glare in the sky had attracted the attention of neighbors, and several men came running into the yard. Realizing that he could not hope to gain additional information from the woman, Mr. Parker began to examine the ground in the vicinity of the barn.

“Looking for hoof tracks?” Penny asked, falling into step beside him.

“I thought we might find some, providing the woman told a straight story.”

“Dad, did you ever hear of an organization such as Mrs. Preston mentioned?” Penny inquired, her gaze on the ground. “I mean around Riverview, of course.”

Mr. Parker shook his head. “I never did, Penny. But if what she says is true, the Star will launch an investigation. We’ll have no night riders in this community, not if it’s in my power to blast them out!”

“Here’s your first clue, Dad!”

Excitedly, Penny pointed to a series of hoof marks plainly visible in the soft earth. The tracks led toward the main road.

“Apparently Mrs. Preston told the truth about the barn being fired by a man on horseback,” Mr. Parker declared as he followed the trail leading out of the yard. “These prints haven’t been made very long.”

“Dad, you look like Sherlock Holmes scooting along with his nose to the ground!” Penny giggled. “You should have a magnifying glass to make the picture perfect.”

“Never mind the comedy,” her father retorted gruffly. “This may mean a big story for the Star, not to mention a worthwhile service to the community.”

“Oh, I’m heartily in favor of your welfare work,” Penny chuckled. “In fact, I think it would be wonderfully exciting to capture a night rider. Is that what you have in mind?”

“We may as well follow this trail as far as we can. Apparently, the fellow rode his horse just off the main highway, heading toward Riverview.”

“Be sure you don’t follow the trail backwards,” Penny teased. “That would absolutely ruin your reputation as a detective.”

“Jump in the car and drive while I stand on the running board,” Mr. Parker ordered, ignoring his daughter’s attempt at wit. “Keep close to the edge of the pavement and go slowly.”

Obeying instructions, Penny drove the car at an even speed. Due to a recent rain which had made the ground very soft, it was possible to follow the trail of hoof prints without difficulty.

“We turn left here,” Mr. Parker called as they came to a dirt road. “Speed up a bit or the tires may stick. And watch sharp for soft places.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Penny laughed, thoroughly enjoying the adventure.

Soon the car came to the entrance of a narrow, muddy lane, and there Mr. Parker called a halt.

“We’ve come to the end of the trail,” he announced.

“Have the tracks ended?” Penny asked in disappointment as she applied brakes.

“Quite the contrary. They turn into this lane.”

Both Mr. Parker and his daughter gazed thoughtfully toward a small cabin which could be seen far back among the trees. Despite the late hour, a light still glowed in one of the windows.

“The man who set the fire must live there!” Penny exclaimed. “What’s our next move, Dad?”

As she spoke, the roar of a fast traveling automobile was heard far up the road, approaching from the direction whence they had just come.

“Pull over,” Mr. Parker instructed. “And flash the tail light. We don’t want to risk being struck.”

Barely did Penny have time to obey before the head-beams of the oncoming car illuminated the roadway. But as it approached, the automobile suddenly slackened speed, finally skidding to a standstill beside the Parker sedan.

“That you, Clem Davis?” boomed a loud voice. “Stand where you are, and don’t make any false moves!”

CHAPTER
3
A BLACK HOOD

“Good Evening, Sheriff,” Mr. Parker said evenly as he recognized the heavy-set man who stepped from a county automobile. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else this time.”

Sheriff Daniels put away his revolver and moved into the beam of light.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Thought you might be Clem Davis, and I wasn’t taking any chances. You’re Parker of the Riverview Star?”

“That’s right,” agreed the editor, “Looking for Clem Davis?”

“I’m here to question him. I’m investigating a fire which was set at the Preston place.”

“You’re a fast worker, Sheriff,” Mr. Parker remarked. “My daughter and I just left the Preston farm, and we didn’t see you there. What put you on Davis’ trail?”

“Our officer received an anonymous telephone call from a woman. She reported the fire and said that I’d find my man here.”

“Could it have been Mrs. Preston who notified you?” Mr. Parker inquired thoughtfully.

“It wasn’t Mrs. Preston,” answered the sheriff. “I traced the call to the Riverview exchange. Thought it must be the trick of a crank until our office got a report that a fire actually had been set at the Preston farm. By the way, what are you doing around here, Parker?”

“Oh, just prowling,” the editor replied, and explained briefly how he and Penny had chanced to be at the scene of the fire.

“If you followed a horseman to this lane there may be something to that anonymous telephone call,” the sheriff declared. “I’ll look around, and then have a talk with Davis.”

“Mind if we accompany you?” inquired Mr. Parker.

“Come along,” the sheriff invited.

Penny was hard pressed to keep step with the two men as they strode down the muddy lane. A light glowed in the window of the cabin, and a woman could be seen sitting at a table. The sheriff, however, circled the house. Following the trail of hoof marks he went directly to the stable, quietly opening the double doors.

Once inside, Sheriff Daniels switched on a flashlight. The bright beam revealed six stalls, all empty save one, in which stood a handsome black mare who tugged restlessly at her tether. Her body was covered with sweat, and she shivered.

“This horse has been ridden hard,” the sheriff observed, reaching to throw a blanket over her.

“Here’s something interesting,” commented Mr. Parker. Stooping, he picked up a dark piece of cloth lying in plain view on the cement floor. It had been sewed in the shape of a headgear, with eye holes cut in the front side.

“A black hood!” Penny shouted in awe.

Sheriff Daniels took the cloth from the editor, examining it closely but saying very little.

“Ever hear of any night riders in this community?” Mr. Parker asked after a moment, his tone casual.

“Never did,” the sheriff replied emphatically. “And I sure hope such a story doesn’t get started.”

Mr. Parker fingered the black mask. “All the same, Sheriff, you can’t just laugh off a thing like this. Even if the November elections aren’t far away—”

“I’m not worried about my job,” the other broke in. “So far as I know there’s no underground organization in this county. All this mask proves is that Clem Davis may be the man who set the Preston fire.”

The officer turned to leave the stable. Before he could reach the exit, the double doors slowly opened. A woman, who carried a lighted lantern, peered inside.

“Who’s there?” she called in a loud voice.

“Sheriff Daniels, ma’am,” the officer answered. “You needn’t be afraid.”

“Who said anything about bein’ afraid?” the woman belligerently retorted.

Coming into the stable, she gazed with undisguised suspicion from one person to another. She was noticeably thin, slightly stooped and there was a hard set to her jaw.

“You’re Mrs. Davis?” the sheriff inquired, and as she nodded, he asked: “Clem around here?”

“No, he ain’t,” she answered defiantly. “What you wanting him for anyhow?”

“Oh, just to ask a few questions. Where is your husband, Mrs. Davis?”

“He went to town early and ain’t been back. What you aimin’ to lay onto him, Sheriff?”

“If your husband hasn’t been here since early evening, who has ridden this horse?” the sheriff demanded, ignoring the question.

Mrs. Davis’ gaze roved to the stall where the black mare noisily crunched an ear of corn.

“Why Sal has been rid!” she exclaimed as if genuinely surprised. “But not by Clem. He went to town in the flivver, and he ain’t been back.”

“Sorry, but I’ll have to take a look in the house.”

“Search it from cellar to attic!” the woman said angrily. “You won’t find Clem! What’s he wanted for anyway?”

“The Preston barn was set afire tonight, and your husband is a suspect.”

“Clem never did it! Why, the Prestons are good friends of ours! Somebody’s just tryin’ to make a peck o’ trouble for us.”

“That may be,” the sheriff admitted. “You say Clem hasn’t been here tonight. In that case, who rode the mare?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” the woman maintained sullenly.

“Didn’t you hear a horse come into the yard?”

“I never heard a sound until your car stopped at the entrance to the lane.”

“I suppose you never saw this before either.” The sheriff held up the black hood which had been found in the barn.

Mrs. Davis stared blankly at the cloth. “I tell you, I don’t know nothin’ about it, Sheriff. You ain’t being fair if you try to hang that fire onto Clem. And you won’t find him hidin’ in the house.”

“If your husband isn’t here, I’ll wait until he comes.”

“You may have a long wait, Sheriff,” the woman retorted, her lips parting in a twisted smile. “You can come in though and look around.”

Not caring to follow the sheriff into the house, Penny and her father bade him goodbye a moment later. Tramping down the lane to their parked car, they both expressed the belief that Clem Davis would not be arrested during the night.

“Obviously, the woman knows a lot more than she’s willing to tell,” Mr. Parker remarked, sliding into the car seat beside Penny.

“Dad, do you think it was Clem who set fire to the Preston barn?”

“We have no reason to suspect anyone else,” returned the editor. “All the evidence points to his guilt.”

Penny backed the car in the narrow road, heading toward Riverview.

“That was the point I wanted to make,” she said thoughtfully. “Doesn’t it seem to you that the evidence was almost too plain?”

“What do you mean, Penny?”

“Well, I was just thinking, if I had been in Clem Davis’ place, I never would have left a black hood lying where the first person to enter the barn would be sure to see it.”

“That’s so, it was a bit obvious,” Mr. Parker admitted.

“The horse was left in the stable, and the hoof tracks leading to the Davis place were easy to follow.”

“All true,” Mr. Parker nodded.

“Isn’t it possible that someone could have tried to throw the blame on Clem?” suggested Penny, anxiously awaiting her father’s reply.

“There may be something to the theory,” Mr. Parker responded. “Still, Mrs. Davis didn’t deny that the mare belonged to her husband. She claimed that she hadn’t heard the horse come into the stable, which obviously was a lie. Furthermore, I gathered the impression that Clem knew the sheriff was after him, and intends to hide out.”

“It will be interesting to learn if Mr. Daniels makes an arrest. Do you expect to print anything about it in the paper?”

“Only routine news of the fire,” Mr. Parker replied. “There may be much more to this little incident than appears on the surface, but until something develops, we must wait.”

“If you could gain proof that night riders are operating in this community, what then?” Penny suggested eagerly.

“In that case, I should certainly launch a vigorous campaign. But why go into all the details now? I’m sure I’ll not assign you to the story.”

“Why not?” Penny asked in an injured tone. “I think night riders would be especially suited to my journalistic talents. I could gather information about Clem Davis and the Prestons—”

“This is Sheriff Daniel’s baby, and we’ll let him take care of it for the time being,” Mr. Parker interrupted. “Why not devote yourself to the great mystery of the Hubell clock? That should provide a safe outlook for your energies.”

The car was drawing close to Riverview. As it approached the tall stone tower, Penny raised her eyes to the dark windows. Just then the big clock struck twice.

“Two o’clock,” Mr. Parker observed, taking a quick glance at his watch. “Or would you say three?”

“There’s no argument about it this time, Dad. All the same, I intend to prove to you that I was right!”

“How?” her father asked, covering a wide yawn.

“I don’t know,” Penny admitted, favoring the grim tower with a dark scowl. “But just you wait—I’ll find a way!”

CHAPTER
4
A NEW CARETAKER

“I declare, getting folks up becomes a harder task each morning,” declared Mrs. Maud Weems, who had served as the Parker housekeeper for eleven years, as she brought a platter of bacon and eggs to the breakfast table. “I call and call until I’m fairly hoarse, and all I get in response is a few sleepy mutters and mumbles. The food is stone cold.”

“It’s good all the same,” praised Penny, pouring herself a large-size glass of orange juice. “There’s not a woman in Riverview who can equal your cooking.”

“I’m in no mood for blarney this morning,” the housekeeper warned. “I must say quite frankly that I don’t approve of the irregular hours in this house.”

“Penny and I did get in a little late last night,” Mr. Parker admitted, winking at his daughter.

“A little late! It must have been at least four o’clock when you came in. Oh, I heard you tiptoe up the stairs even if you did take off your shoes!”

“It was only a few minutes after two,” Penny corrected. “I’m sorry though, that we awakened you.”

“I hadn’t been asleep,” Mrs. Weems replied, somewhat mollified by the apology. “I’m sure I heard every stroke of the clock last night.”

“You did!” Penny exclaimed with sudden interest. “How many times would you say it struck at midnight? I mean the Hubell Tower clock.”

“Such a question!” Mrs. Weems protested, thoroughly exasperated.

“It’s a very important one,” Penny insisted. “My reputation and five gallons of gas are at stake, so weigh well your words before you speak.”

“The clock struck twelve, of course!”

“There, you see, Penny,” Mr. Parker grinned triumphantly. “Does that satisfy you?”

“Mrs. Weems,” Penny persisted, “did you actually count the strokes?”

“Certainly not. Why should I? The clock always strikes twelve, therefore it must have struck that number last night.”

“I regret to say, you’ve just disqualified yourself as a witness in this case,” Penny said, helping herself to the last strip of bacon on the platter. “I must search farther afield for proof.”

“What are you talking about anyhow?” the housekeeper protested. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

As she finished breakfast, Penny explained to Mrs. Weems how the disagreement with her father had arisen. The housekeeper displayed slight interest in the tale of the clock, but asked many questions about the fire at the Preston farm.

“That reminds me!” Mr. Parker suddenly exclaimed before Penny had finished the story. “I want to ’phone Sheriff Daniels before I start for the office. Excuse me, please.”

Pushing aside his chair, he went hurriedly to the living room. Not wishing to miss any news which might have a bearing on the affair of the previous night, Penny trailed him, hovering close to the telephone. However, her father’s brief comments told her almost nothing.

“What did you learn?” she inquired eagerly as he hung up the receiver. “Was Clem Davis arrested last night?”

“No, it turned out about as we expected. Apparently, Davis knew the sheriff was looking for him. Anyway, he never returned home.”

Jamming on his hat, Mr. Parker started for the front door. Penny pursued him to the garage, carrying on a running conversation.

“This rather explodes my theory about Clem not being guilty,” she remarked ruefully. “If he were innocent, one would expect him to face the sheriff and prove an alibi.”

“Davis can’t be far away,” Mr. Parker responded, getting into the maroon sedan. “The sheriff will nab him soon.”

Penny held open the garage doors, watching as her father backed down the driveway, scraping the bark of a tree whose gnarled trunk already bore many scars. Before she could reenter the house, Louise Sidell, a dark-haired, slightly plump girl, who was Penny’s most loyal friend, sauntered into the yard.

“Hi!” she greeted cheerily. “About ready?”

“Ready for what?” Penny asked, her face blank.

Louise regarded her indignantly. “If that isn’t just like you, Penny Parker! You make promises and then forget them. Don’t you remember telling Mrs. Van Cleve of the Woman’s Club that we would help sell tags today, for the Orphans’ Home summer camp?”

“Now that you remind me, I have a vague recollection. How many are we to sell?”

“Twenty-five at not less than a quarter each. I have the tags, but we’ll have to work fast or the other girls will sell all the easy customers.”

“I’ll be with you in two shakes,” Penny promised, heading for the house. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Weems where I am going.”

Returning a moment later with the car ignition keys, she found Louise staring disconsolately at the empty space in the garage.

“What became of your new car?” asked her chum.

“Dad’s auto is in the garage for repairs,” Penny explained briefly. “I didn’t have the heart to make him walk.”

“I should think not!” laughed Louise. “Imagine having three cars in one family—if you can call this mess of junk by such a flattering name.” Depreciatingly, she kicked the patched tire of a battered but brightly painted flivver which had seen its heyday in the early thirties.

“Don’t speak so disrespectfully of my property,” Penny chided, sliding into the high, uncomfortable seat. “Leaping Lena is a good car even if she is a bit creaky in the joints. She still takes us places.”

“And leaves us stranded,” Louise added with a sniff. “Oh, well, let’s go—if we can.”

Penny stepped on the starter and waited expectantly. The motor sputtered and coughed, but true to form, would not start. Just as the girls were convinced that they must walk, there was an explosive backfire, and then the car began to quiver with its familiar motion.

“You should sell Lena to the government for a cannon,” Louise teased as they rattled down the street. “What do you burn in this smoke machine? Kerosene?”

“Never mind the slurs. Where do we start our business operations?”

“We’ve been assigned to the corner of Madison and Clark streets,” Louise answered as she separated the yellow benefit tags into two evenly divided piles. “It shouldn’t take us long to get rid of these.”

Neither of the girls regretted their promise to help with the tag-day sale, for the cause was a worthy one. The campaign to raise sufficient funds with which to purchase and equip an orphans’ summer camp site, had been underway many weeks, and was headed by Mrs. Van Cleve, a prominent club woman.

Parking Leaping Lena at the designated street corner, the girls went to work with a will. All their lives they had lived in Riverview, and Penny in particular, had a wide acquaintance. Accosting nearly everyone who passed, she soon disposed of all her tags, and then sold many for her chum.

“They’ve gone fast,” Louise declared as the morning wore on. “We have only one left.”

“Don’t sell that tag!” Penny said impulsively. “I have it earmarked for a certain person—Old Seth McGuire.”

“The caretaker at the Hubell Clock Tower?” Louise asked in astonishment.

“Yes, he always liked children and I think he would be glad to help.”