“That old coot will get a shock when he reads the Star,” Mr. Parker admitted, relaxing. “So will the publicity agent of the Indian Show. When I get through, the outfit won’t dare put on a performance in Riverview.”
“Do you suppose Franklin had any part in hiring Truman Crocker to fake those record stones?” Jerry asked, steering to avoid a floating box.
“Not in my opinion,” the editor replied. “He merely thought he would profit by selling them to the museum at a fancy price. It was immaterial to him whether or not he sold fake stones or real.”
“You’ll certainly ruin his little business transaction,” chuckled Penny. “What will be done about Truman Crocker?”
“We’ll find him tomorrow and force him to tell the truth—that he was hired by Bill McJavins. With this stone as evidence, he can’t deny his part in the hoax.”
“Can’t you just see that special edition of the Star?” Penny asked gaily. “A big splashy picture of this Pilgrim Rock we’re towing, with a story telling how Truman Crocker faked the writing. Then, in the next column, a yarn about Mr. Addison’s arrest, and the recovery of the Marborough pearls.”
“It will be a real paper,” Mr. Parker agreed heartily. “By the way, how were Mr. Coaten and Carl Addison trapped? Our reporter got the story from the police, but he was a bit vague on that point.”
“I’m far too modest to tell you,” Penny laughed. “If you’re willing to pay me at regular space rates, I might be induced to write the story.”
“Trust Penny to drive a hard bargain,” grinned Jerry. “We might have guessed who was responsible, for she never fails to be on hand for the final round-up.”
Penny smiled as she gazed down the dark, turbulent river. Close by she heard the deep-throated whistle of a tug boat. Along the bank, tall buildings began to appear, and far ahead, she could see the twinkling lights on the Adams Street pier.