Music Welcome to Snewscast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snewscast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by Western Union Boys. Tonight we'll read the opening to The Clock Strikes 13, part of the Penny Parker anthology written by Mildred Wurt, also known by Mildred Benson. It was originally published in 1942. Penny Parker was a high school student turned sleuth, who also sporadically worked as a reporter for her father's newspaper. In this story, Penny investigates mysterious riders who are bothering farmers at night. Meanwhile, a man makes us a suspiciously generous donation to the Riverview Orphans camp. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now, take a few deep breaths. Chapter 1 Sandwiches for Two John Tilly Penny Parker walked through the dimly-lighted newsroom of the Riverview star, her rubber hills making no sound on the bear 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'm sorry, she apologized in her best broken English. I know 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 a broaded 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 shadow opened the door a 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 crin'd, 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 theater 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 Boydown stairs. 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. Absolutely, 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. Her 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 discussed. moving the corrugations she read aloud. Your editorial freedom of the press in Thursday's star thoroughly disgusted this reader. 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 mast head and substitute a cash

register? Fly your true colors and soft petal the Parker brand of hypocrisy. Stop it, don't read another line. The editor commanded before Penny had 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 $2.10.

Lucky I collected before you opened the telegram.

Mr. Parker slammed his desk shut with a force which rattled the office windows. The same crackpot 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? Everyone. The knitwear has criticized 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 correspondence, and from reporters who try to sell freelance stories. We're glad to pay for these telegrams. This fellow 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 to wit 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, clancing at his watch, almost midnight. time was 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 rustlessly while waiting for an attendant to bring the car. I'll drive, Penny said, sliding behind the steering wheel. In your present mood, who knows what might happen? my paper yellow, Mr. Parker muttered. His thoughts were verding to the telegram, 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 girls 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, alright, Mr. Parker consented. It's pretty late, though. The big clock 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 Hubble Memorial Tower, a grim stone building which rose to the height of 75 feet. Erructed 10 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 overlook 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 a strange!

Mr. Parker asked roughly,

Why? That clock struck 13 times instead of 12.

Bunk and Bosch.

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 cramed her neck to stare up at the stone tower. I know I counted 13. Why, Dad, there's a green light burning in one of those windows. I never saw that before. What can it mean? It means you watch the road. Mr. Parker cried, giving the steering wheel a quick turn. Where are you taking me anyhow? Out to Tonys. 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 in instant ago, and I did hear the clock strike 13. Cross my heart and hoped it 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 farmhouse that formally had belonged to a queer old man named Peter Finestra.

Penny's gaze fastened momentarily upon an old fashioned storm-seller which marred the appearance of the front yard.

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