101 Mystery Stories

52 The Little Old Lady from Cricket Creek Len Gray

Art Bowen and I were trying to analyze performance evaluations when Penny Thorpe, my secretary, walked into the office.

“Yeah, Penny. What’s up?”

“Mr. Cummings, there’s a woman out in the lobby. She’s applying for the file clerk’s job.” Penny walked over and laid the application form on my desk.

“Good, good. I sure hope she’s not one of those high-school drop-outs we’ve been getting—” I stopped, staring at the form. “Age fifty-five!” I roared. “What the hell are we running around here? A playground for Whistler’s mother?”

Art put his Roman nose in it. “Now, Ralph, let’s take it easy. Maybe the old gal’s a good worker. We can’t kick ’em out of the building just because they’ve been around a few years. How’s the app?” Good old Art. The peacemaker. With about as much sense as a lost Cub Scout.

“Well,” I said doubtfully, “it says her name is Mabel Jumpstone. That’s right. Jumpstone. Good experience. Seems qualified. If she checks out. You game for an interview?”

“Sure. Why not? Let’s do one together,” which is against the company policy of Great Riveroak Insurance Company. All personnel interviewers are to conduct separate interviews and make individual decisions — at least that’s what we’re supposed to do. Usually we double up and save time.

Penny remained standing in front of my desk, tapping her pencil on the glass top. “Well?” she asked haughtily, which sums up her disposition perfectly.

“Okay, Penny. Send Mrs. Jumpstone in.”

She came shuffling into the office, smiling and nodding her head like an old gray mare. Her black outfit looked like pre — World War I. She had on a purple hat with pink plastic flowers around the brim. She reminded me of Ida Crabtree, my housekeeper, whose one passion in life is running over stray cats in her yellow Packard.

She sat down in the wooden chair and said, “Hello there!” Her voice was almost a bellow.

I looked at Art who was leaning forward in his chair, his mouth open, his eyes round.

“Ugh... Mrs. Jumpstone,” I began.

“Mabel. Please.”

“Okay, Mabel. This is Mr. Bowen, my associate.” I waved a hand at Art, who mumbled something inappropriate.

“This is a very interesting application, Mabel. It says here you were born in Cricket Creek, California.”

“That’s right, young man. Home of John and Mary Jackson.” She smiled at me, proud of the information.

Art bent over, scratching his wrist. “John and Mary Jackson?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, “the gladiola growers.”

He tried to smile. I’ll give him credit. “The — the — oh, yes, of course. It must have slipped my mind. Let me see that application, Ralph.” He grabbed it from the desk and took a few minutes to study it thoroughly.

Mabel and I sat and watched each other. Every once in a while she’d wink. I tried looking at the ceiling.

Art glanced up and snapped, “You worked at Upstate California Insurance for ten years. Why did you quit?” Sharp-thinking Art. He made a career of trying to catch people off guard. I’d never seen him do it yet.

Mabel shrugged her tiny shoulders. “Young man, have you ever lived up north? It’s another world. Cold and foggy. I just had to leave. I told Harry — that’s my husband who passed away recently, God rest his soul — that we had to come down here. Mr. Bowen, you wouldn’t believe how much I enjoy the sun. Of course, you’ve never been in Cricket Creek,” she added, which was true, of course. I doubted very much if Art had ever heard of Cricket Creek.

Art looked as if he wanted to hide. Mabel smiled brightly at him, nodding her head pleasantly.

“Mabel,” I said, “the job we have open entails keeping our personnel files up to date. Quite a bit of work, you know, in an office this size.”

“Really?”

“Really. Even requires a bit of typing. You can type?”

“Oh, heavens, yes. Would you like me to take a test?”

“Uh... yes, that might be a good idea. Let’s go find a typewriter. Coming, Art?”

He grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

We walked out of the office. Art whispered in my ear, “Maybe ten words a minute would be my guess.”

It turned out to be more like ninety. I handed Mabel one of our surveys on employee retention and told her to have a go at it. She handled the typewriter like a machine gun. The carriage kept clicking back and forth so fast that Art almost got himself a sore neck watching the keys fly.

Our applicant handed me three pages. I couldn’t find a single error. Art looked over each page as if he were examining the paper for fingerprints. He finally gave up, shaking his head.

Mabel went back to my office. Art and I walked over to a corner, Art holding the typed sheets.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked.

“She’s the best typist in the building. Without a doubt.”

“She’s different. But you’re right. Check her references.”

“And if they check out?”

He shrugged. “Let’s hire ourselves a little old lady from Cricket Creek.”

Art poked his head in my door the next day. “What about our typewriter whiz?”

“I just called her. Application checked out perfectly.”

He laughed. “I bet she raises a few eyebrows,” which wasn’t a bad prediction at all.

Within two months Mabel Jumpstone was the most popular employee in the building. Anytime someone had a birthday she brought in a cake and served it during the afternoon break. She never failed to make an announcement over the company P.A. system when she learned about new benefits. People with problems started coming to Mabel. She arrived early each morning and stayed late. She never missed a day of work. Not one.

Six months after we hired her. Art walked slowly into my office. His eyes were glassy and his mouth was slack. He plunked down heavily in a chair.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

“The cash mail,” he groaned. We receive quite a lot of cash from our customers. Once a week, on Friday, we take it to the bank. It was Friday.

“What about the cash mail. Art? Come on, what’s the matter?”

He looked at me, his eyes blinking. “Harvey was taking it to the bank. He called ten minutes ago. He was robbed. Conked. Knocked out. And guess who did it?”

“Who?”

“Mabel. Mabel Jumpstone. Our little old lady.”

“You’re kidding. You’ve got to be kidding, Art.”

He shook his head. “Harvey said she wanted a lift to the bank. After they got going she took a pistol out of her handbag and told him to pull over. Harvey said it looked like a cannon. The gun, I mean. He just woke up. The money and Harvey’s car are gone. So’s Mabel.”

I stared at him. “I can’t believe it!”

“It’s true. Every word. What are we going to do?”

I snapped my fingers. “The application! Come on.”

We ran to the file cabinets and opened the one labeled Employees. The application was gone, of course. There was a single sheet inside her manila folder. It was typed very neatly. “I resign. Sincerely yours, Mabel.” The name had been typed, too. There was no handwritten signature. Mabel had never written anything. She always insisted on everything being typed.

Art stared at me. “Do you remember anything on the application? Anything? The references?” He was pleading.

“For Pete’s sake. Art. it was six months ago!” I paused for a moment. “I can remember one thing. Just one.”

“What?”

“She came from Cricket Creek. I wonder if there is a Cricket Creek?”

We checked.

There wasn’t.

I finally got home to my two-bedroom bachelor apartment late that evening. The police had been sympathetic. Real nice to us. They didn’t even laugh when we told them they were after a little old lady of fifty-five. They asked for a photograph or a sample of handwriting.

We didn’t have either.

I opened a can of beer and then walked into one of the bedrooms.

Mabel was sitting on the bed, neatly counting the $78,000 into separate piles.

I looked at her, smiled, and said, “Hi, Mom.”