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<h2 id="c9">CHAPTER 9 THE WIDOW JONES</h2> Caleb Corners scarcely was a stopping point on the narrow, dusty, county highway. By night the crossroads were dark and gloomy, unlighted even by a traffic signal. To the right stood a filling station, and directly across from it, a little grocery store, long since closed for the day. Salt turned in at the filling station, halting the press car almost at the doorway of the tiny office. Inside, a young man who was counting change at a cash register, turned suddenly and reached for an object beneath the counter. As Salt came in, he kept his hand out of sight, regarding the photographer with suspicion. “Relax, buddy,” said Salt, guessing that the station owner feared robbery. “We’re from the Riverview Star and need a little information.” “What do you want to know?” The young man still kept his hand beneath the counter. “We’re looking for a friend of ours who may have come out here a few minutes ago in a taxi.” “No cab’s been through here in the last hour,” the filling station man said. “This is a mighty lonesome corner at night. I should have closed up hours ago, only I’m expecting a truck to fill up here.” “Why not put that gun away?” Salt suggested pointedly. “We’re not here to rob you. Do we look like crooks?” “No, you don’t,” the man admitted, “but I’ve been taken in before. This station was broken into three times in the past six months. Only two weeks ago a man and woman stopped here about this same time of night—they looked okay and talked easy, but they got away with $48.50 of my hard earned cash.” “We really are from the Star,” Penny assured him. “And we’re worried about a friend of ours who slipped away from the hospital tonight. He was in an accident and wasn’t entirely himself. He may get into serious trouble if we don’t find him.” Her words seemed to convince the filling station man that he had nothing to fear. Dropping the revolver into the cash drawer, he said in a more friendly tone: “I guess you folks are on the square. Anyway, you wouldn’t get much if you robbed the till tonight. I only took in $37.50. Not enough to pay me for keeping open.” “You say a cab hasn’t been through here tonight?” Salt asked impatiently. “There’s been cars through, but no taxi cabs.” “Where do these roads lead?” “One takes you to Belle Plain and on to Three Forks. The other doesn’t go much of anywhere—just on to the swamp.” “Any houses on the swamp road?” Salt inquired. “An old trapper has a place up there, and the Hawkins’ farm is on a piece. Closest house from here is the Widow Jones’.” “How far?” “Oh, not more than three—four miles.” “Mrs. Jones drives a car?” Salt asked casually. “Her?” The filling station man laughed. “Not on your life! She has an old rattle-trap her husband left her when he died, but she doesn’t take it out of the shed often enough to keep air in the tires.” Penny and Salt inquired the way to the widow’s home. “You can’t miss it,” replied the station man. “Straight on down the swamp road about three miles. First house you come to on the right hand side of Crissey Road. But you won’t likely find the widow up at this hour. She goes to bed with the chickens!” On the highway once more, Salt and Penny debated their next move. Jerry’s failure to show up at Caleb Corners only partially relieved their anxiety. Now they could only speculate upon whether the reporter had remained in Riverview or had driven past the filling station without being seen. “Since we’ve come this far, why not go on to the Widow Jones’ place?” Salt proposed. “She may have seen Jerry. In any case, we can question her about that car she owns.” Bumping along on the rutty road, they presently rounded a bend and on a sideroad saw a small, square house which even in its desolation had a look of sturdy liveability. “That must be the place,” Salt decided, slowing the car. “No lights so I guess she’s abed.” “I see one at the rear!” Penny exclaimed. “Someone is up!” With a jerk, Salt halted the car beside a mailbox which stood on a high post. A brick walk, choked with weeds, led to the front door and around to a back porch. Through an uncurtained window, the pair glimpsed a tall, wiry woman filling an oil lamp in the kitchen. As Salt rapped on the door, they saw her start and reach quickly for a shotgun which stood in a corner of the room. “Who’s there?” she called sharply. “We’re from Riverview,” answered Penny. Reassured by a feminine voice, the woman opened the door. She towered above them, a quaint figure in white shirtwaist and a long flowing black skirt which swept the bare floor of the kitchen. “Good evening,” said Penny. “I hope we didn’t startle you.” Slowly the widow’s eyes traveled over the pair. She laid the shotgun aside and then said evenly: “’Pears like you did. Hain’t in the habit o’ having visitors this time o’ night. Whar be ye from and what do you want?” Salt told of their search for Jerry, carefully describing the reporter. “Hain’t seen anyone like that,” the Widow Jones said at once. “No one been by on this road since sundown ’cepting old Ezekiel Hawkins.” “By the way, do you drive a car?” Salt questioned. “Not if I kin keep from it,” the widow retorted. “Cars is the ruination o’ civilization! Last time I tried to drive to town, backed square into a big sycamore and nigh onto knocked all my teeth out!” “So you sold your car?” Salt interposed. “It’s a settin’ out in the shed. That no-good young’un o’ Ezekiel’s, Coon Hawkins, tried to buy it off’en me a year ago, but I turned him down flat.” “Didn’t he offer enough?” Penny asked curiously. “’Twasn’t that. Fust place, I don’t think much o’ Coon Hawkins! Second place, that car belonged to my departed husband, and I don’t aim nobody else ever will drive it.” “Then you didn’t have the car out today or loan it to anyone?” “No, I didn’t! Say, what you gittin’ at anyway with all these questions?” “Your car was involved in an accident this afternoon in Riverview,” Salt explained. “What you sayin’?” the woman demanded. “You must be out o’ yer mind! My car ain’t been out of the shed fer a month.” “We may have been mistaken,” Penny admitted. “The license number of the car was K-4687.” “Why, that’s the plate number of mine!” the Widow Jones exclaimed. “Leastwise, I recollect it is!” “You’re certain the car still is in the shed?” Salt asked. “You got me all confused now, and I hain’t cartain of anything. Come in while I get a lantern, and we’ll look!” Penny and Salt stepped into a clean kitchen, slightly fragrant with the odor of spicy catsup made that afternoon. On a table stood row upon row of sealed bottles ready to be carried to the cellar. The Widow Jones lighted a lantern and threw a woolen shawl over her bony shoulders. “Follow me,” she bade. At a swift pace, she led the way down a path to a rickety shed which stood far back from the road. The woman unfastened the big door which swung back on creaking hinges. Raising her lantern, she flashed the light on the floor of the shed. “Hit’s gone!” she exclaimed. “Someone’s stole the car!” Only a large blotch of oil on the cracked concrete floor revealed where the automobile had stood. “Have you no idea who took the car?” Penny inquired. Grimly the Widow Jones closed the shed door and slammed the hasp into place. “Maybe I have an’ maybe I han’t! Leastwise, I larned forty years ago to keep my lips shut less I could back up my words with proof.” In silence the widow started back toward the house. Midway to the house, she suddenly paused, listening attentively. From a nearby tree an owl hooted, but Penny and Salt sensed that was not the sound which had caught the woman’s ear. She blew out the lantern and wordlessly motioned for the pair to move back into the deep shadow of the tree. Holding her shirt to keep it from blowing in the night breeze, the woman gazed intently toward a swamp road some distance from the boundary of her land. For the first time, Salt and Penny became aware of a muffled sound of a running truck motor. “Sounds like a car or truck back there in the swamp,” Salt commented. “Is there a road near here leading in?” “There’s a road yonder,” the widow answered briefly. “It goes into the swamp?” “Only for a mile or so.” “What would a truck be doing in there at this time of night?” Penny probed. “I wouldn’t know,” answered the widow dryly. “There’s some things goes on in this swamp that smart folkses don’t ask questions about.” Without relighting the lantern, she walked briskly on. Reaching the rear porch, she paused and turned once more to Salt and Penny. “I be much obliged to ye comin’ out here to tell me about my car being stole. Will ye come in and set a spell?” “Thanks, we’ll have to be getting back to Riverview,” Salt declined the invitation. “It’s late.” “You’ll catch your death if you stay out in this damp swamp air,” the woman said, her gaze resting disapprovingly on Penny’s flimsy dress and low-cut slippers. “I’d advise you to git right back to town. ’Evenin’ to you both.” She went inside and closed the door. “Queer character,” Salt commented as he and Penny made their way to the roadside, “Forthright to say the least.” “I rather liked her, Salt. She seemed genuine. And she has courage to live here alone at the edge of the swamp.” “Sure,” the photographer agreed. “Plenty of iron in her soul. Wonder what she saw there at the edge of the swamp?” “It seemed to me she was afraid we might try to investigate. Did you notice how she advised us to go directly to Riverview?” “She did make the remark a little pointed. The Widow Jones is no dumbbell! You could tell she has a good idea who stole her auto, and she wasn’t putting out anything about that truck.” Salt had started the car and was ready to turn around. Penny placed a detaining hand on the steering wheel. “Let’s go the other direction, Salt!” “On into the swamp?” “It’s only a short distance to that other road. If the truck is still there, we might see something interesting.” Salt’s lips parted in a wide grin. “Sure thing,” he agreed. “What have we got to lose?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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