Music Welcome to Snuescast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snuescast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by Undesguised Admiration. Tonight, we'll read the opening to the 1940 mystery, Danger at the Drawbridge, part of the Penny Parker anthology written by Mildred Wurt, also known by Mildred Benson. The first episode was The Green Door and aired on December 5, 2022. These stories aren't consecutive, so don't worry if you didn't hear the first episode, you can pick up on this one just fine. Along with being the heroine of the series, Penny Parker was a high school student turned sleuth who also sporadically worked as a reporter for her father's newspaper. The author Benson was a journalist and prolific writer under many pseudonyms who was best No for creating the Nancy Drew series. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now, take a few deep breaths. Penny Parker, leaning indolently against the edge of the kitchen table, watched Mrs. Wiem's stem straw berries into a bright green bowl. Tempting bait for dad's jaded appetite, she remarked, helping herself to the largest berry in the dish. If he can't eat them, I can. I do wish you'd leave those berries alone. The housekeeper protested in an exasperated tone. They haven't even been washed yet. No, I don't mind a few germs. Laptopenny, I just toss them off like a duck-shutting water. Shall I take the breakfast tray up to dad?" Yes, I wish you would, Penny. Side Mrs. Weems. I'm right tired on my feet this morning. Hot weather always did wear me down. She washed the berries and then offered the tray of food to Penny, who started with it toward the kitchen vestibule. Now, where are you going, Penelope Parker? Mrs. Wemme's demanded suspiciously? Oh, just to the automatic lift. Penny's blue eyes were round with innocence. Don't you dare try to ride in that contraption again?" Sculled at the housekeeper. It was never built to carry human freight. I'm not exactly freight. Penny said with an injured sniff. It's strong enough to carry me. I know because I tried it last week. You walk up the stairs like a lady, or I'll take the train myself.

Mrs. Weems threatened. I declare I don't know when you'll grow up. Oh, alright. Grumbled Penny good-naturedly. But I do maintain it's a shameful waste of energy.

Balancing the tray precariously on the palm of her hand, she tripped lightly up the stairway and tapped on the door of her father's bedroom. Come in. He called in a muffled voice. Anthony Parker, editor and owner of the Riverview Star, sat propped up with pillows, reading a day old edition of the newspaper. Morning, dad, said Penny cheerfully. I was our invalid today. I'm no more an invalid the new har returned Returned Mr. Parker testily. If that old quack, Dr. Horn doesn't let me out of bed today, you'll simply explode, won't you dad? Penny finished mischievously. Here, drink your coffee, and you'll feel less like a stick of dynamite. Mr. Parker tossed the newspaper aside and made a place on his knees for the breakfast tray. Did I hear an argument between you and Mrs. Weems? He asked curiously. No argument, Dad. I just wanted to ride up in style on the lift. Mrs. Weems thought it wasn't a civilized way to travel. I should think not. The corners of Mr. Parker's mouth twitch slightly as he poured coffee from the silver pot. That lift was built to carry breakfast trays, but not in combination with athletic young ladies. What a bore this business of growing up, sight Penny. You can't be natural at all. You seem to manage rather well with all the restrictions. Her father remarked dryly. Penny twisted her neck to gaze at her reflection in the dresser mirror beyond the footboard of the big mahogany bed. I won't mind growing up if only I'm able to develop plenty of glamour," she said, speculatively. Am I getting any better-looking, Dad? Not that I've noticed. Replied Mr. Parker, roughly, but his gaze lingered affectionately upon his daughter's golden hair. She really was growing prettier each day and looked more like her mother, who had died when Penny was a little girl. He had spoiled her, of course, for she was an only child, but he was proud because he had taught her to think straight. She was deeply loyal and affectionate, and those who loved her overlooked her casual ways and flippant speech. What happened to the paperboy this morning? Mr. Parker asked between bites of buttered toast. It isn't time for him yet, Dad," said Penny, demurly. He always expects him at least an hour early. First edition's been off the press a good half-hour. Grumbled the newspaper owner. When I get back to the star office, I'll see that deliveries are speeded up. Just wait until I talk to Roberts. Haven't you been doing a pretty strenuous job of running the paper right from your bed? Inquired Penny as she refilled her father's cup. Sometimes when you talk with that poor circulation manager, I think the telephone wires will burn off. So I'm a tyrant, am I? Oh, everyone knows your bark is worse than your bite, Dad, but you've certainly not been at your best the last few days. Mr. Parker's eyes roved about the luxuriously furnished bedroom. Tinted walls, chins, draperies, the rich, deep rug, were completely lost upon him. This place is a prison. He grumbled. For nearly a week, the household had been thrown completely out of its usual routine by the editor's illness. Overwork combined with an attack of influenza had sent him to bed, there to remain until he should be released by a doctor's order. With a telephone at his elbow, Mr. Parker had kept in close touch with the staff of the Riverview Star, but he fredded at confinement. I can't half look after things. He complained, and now Miss Hilderman, the society editor, is sick. I don't know how we'll get a good story on the Kippenburg wedding. Penny looked up quickly. Miss Hilderman is ill? Yes, to wit, the city editor telephone me a few minutes ago. She wasn't able to show up for work this morning. I really don't see why you should bother you about that, Dad. Can't Miss Hilderman's assistant take over the duties? The routine work, yes. But I don't care to trust her with the Kippenberg story. Is it something extra special, Dad? And surely you've heard of Mrs. Clayton Kippenberg. The name is familiar, but I can't seem to recall. Clayton Kippenberg made a mint of money in the chain drug business. No one ever knew exactly the extent of his fortune. He built an elaborate estate about 125 miles from here, familiarly called the castle, because of its resemblance to an ancient feudal castle. The state is cut off from the mainland on three sides and may be reached either by boat or by means of a picturesque drop-rich. Sounds interesting? Commented Penny. I never saw the place myself. In fact, Kippenburg never allowed outsiders to visit the estate. Less than a year ago, a rumor floated around that he had separated from his wife. There also was considerable talk that he had disappeared because of difficulties with the government over income tax of Asian and wished to escape arrest. At any rate, he faded out of the picture while his wife remained in possession of the castle. And now she is marrying again? No. It is Mrs. Kippenberg's daughter, Sylvia, who is to be married. The bridegroom, Grant Arthur Wald, comes from a very old and distinguished family. I don't see why the story should be so difficult to cover. Mrs. Kippenberg has ruled that no reporters or photographers will be allowed on the estate. Explain, Mr. Parker. That does complicate the situation. Yes. It may not be easy to persuade Mrs. Kippenberg to change her mind. I rather doubt that our Assistant Society editor has the ingenuity to handle the story. Then, why don't you send one of the regular reporters? Jerry Livingston, for instance. couldnt tell a tool wedding veil from one of Crinnellan, nor could any other man on the staff. I could get that story for you. Penny said suddenly, why don't you try me? Mr. Parker gazed at his daughter, speculatively. Do you really think you could? Of course! Penny spoke with assurance. Did I bring in two perfectly good scoops for your old sheet? You certainly did. Your vanishing houseboat yarn was one of the best stories we've published in a year of Sundays, and the town is still talking about

tale of the witch doll. After what I went through to get those stories, a mere wedding would be child's play. Don't be too confident. Warn Mr. Parker. If Mrs. Kippenberg doesn't alter her decision about reporters, the story may be impossible to get.

May I try?" Penny asked eagerly. Mr. Parker frowned. Well, I don't know. I hate to send you so far, and then I have a feeling, yes, Dad? I can't put my thoughts into words. It's just that my newspaper instinct tells me this story may develop into something big. Kippenberg's disappearance never was fully explained, and his wife refused to discuss the affair with reporters. Kippenberg might be at the wedding, said Penny, thinking out loud. If he were a normal father, he would wish to see his daughter married. You follow my line of thought, Penny. When you're at the estate, if you get in, keep your eyes and ears open. Then you'll let me cover the story?" Penny cried into light. Yes, I'll telephone the office now in a range for a photographer to go with you. Tell them to send salt summers, Penny suggested quickly. He doesn't act as know at all as some of the other lads. I had summers in mind. Her father nodded as he reached for the telephone. And I have a lot more than salt summers in my mind, laughed Penny, meaning another big story, Dad, a scoop for the star and this for you. he implanted a kiss on her father's cheek and skipped joyously from the room. CHAPTER 2 Reporters Not Wanted In the editorial room of the Riverview Star, heads turned and eyebrows lifted as Penny decked in her best silk dress and white picture hat, clicked her high-heeled slippers across the bare floor. Jerry Livingston, reporter, stopped pecking at his typewriter and stared in undisguised admiration. Well, if it isn't our bright penny, he bantered. To recognize you for a minute in all those glad rags, these are my work clothes. Replied penny, I'm covering the Kippenburg wedding. Jerry pushed his hat farther back on his head and grinned. Tough assignment. From what I hear of the Kippenburg family, you'll be lucky if they don't throw the wedding cake at you. Penny laughed and went on, winding her way through a barricade of desks to the office of the society editor.

Miss Arnold, the assistant, was talking over the phone, but in a moment she finished and turned to face the girl. Good morning, Miss Parker. She said stiffly.

And edge to her voice told Penny more clearly than words that the young woman was netdled because she had not been trusted with the story. Good morning, replied Penny politely. Dad said you'd be able to give me helpful suggestions about covering the Kippenberg wedding. There's not much I can tell you really. The ceremony is to take place at two o'clock in the garden, so you'll have ample time to reach the estate. If you get in, Miss Arnold placed an unpleasant emphasis upon the words, take notes on Miss Kippenberg's gown, the flowers, the decorations, the names of her attendants, try to keep your facts straight. Nothing infuriates a bride more than to read in the paper that she carried a bouquet of lilies of the valley and roses, while actually it was a bouquet of

some other flower. I'll try to not infuriate Miss Kippenberg, promise Penny. Miss Arnold glanced quickly at her, but the girl's face was perfectly Serene.

That's all I can tell you, Ms. Parker.

She said shortly.

Bring in at least a column. For some reason, the city editor rates the wedding and important story. I'll do my best. Responded penny and arose. Salt Summers was waiting for her when she came out of the office. He was a tall, spare-young man with a deep scar down his left cheek. He talked nearly as fast as he walked. If you're all set, let's go, he said. Penny found herself three paces behind, but she caught up with the photographer as he waited for the elevator. I'm taking Minnie along, salt-volunteered, holding his finger steadily on the signal bell. May come in handy. Minnie asked Penny, puzzled.. Miniature camera. You can't always use the Model X. Oh, murmured penny. Deeply embarrassed, she remained silent as the elevator shot them down to the ground floor. Salt loaded his photographic equipment into a battered press car which was parked near the loading dock at the rear of the building. He slid in behind the wheel and then, as an afterthought, swung open the car door for Penny. Salt seemed to know the way to the Kippenburg estate. They shot through riverview traffic, shaving red lights and tooting derisively at slow drivers. In open country, he pressed the accelerator down to the floor and the car roared down the road, only slackening speed as it raced through a town. How do you travel when you're in a hurry?" Penny gasped, clinging to her flopping hat. Salt grinned and lifted his foot from the gasoline pedal. Sorry, he said, I get in a habit of driving fast. We have plenty of time. As they rode, Penny gathered scraps of information. The Kippenberg estate was located six miles from the town of Corbin, and was cut off from the mainland on three sides by the joining of two wide rivers, one with a direct outlet to the ocean. Salt did not know when the house had been built, but it was considered one of the showplaces of the locality. Do you think we'll have much trouble getting our story?" Penny asked anxiously. All depends. Salt answered briefly. He slammed on the brake so suddenly that Penny was flung forward in the seat. Another car coming from the opposite direction had pulled up at the side of the road. he did not recognize the three men who were crowded into the front seat, but the printed placard, ledger, which was pasted on the windshield, told her they represented a rival newspaper in Riverview. What luck, less? Salt called, craning his neck out the car window. You may as well as turn around and go back. Came the disgusted reply. The old lady won't let a reporter or photographer on the estate. She had a guard station on the drawbridge to see that you don't get passed. The car drove on toward Riverview.

Salt sat staring down the road, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel. Looks like we're up against a tough assignment. He said, if Les can't get in, I'm not going back without at least an attempt. Announce Penny firmly. That's the spirit. Salt cried with sudden approval. We'll get on this state somehow if we have to swim over. He jerked the press card from the windshield and reaching into the back seat of the car, covered the Model X camera with an old gunny sack. The miniature camera he placed in his coat pocket, no use advertising our profession too early in the game, he remarked. 1230 found Penny and Salt in the sleepy little town of Corbin. Fortifying themselves with a lunch of hot dog sandwiches and pop, they followed a winding, dusty highway toward the Kippenburg estate. Presently through the trees, marking the end of the road, an iron drawbridge loomed up. It stood in open position so that boats might pass on the river below. A wooden barrier had been erected across the front of the structure, which bore a large, painted sign. Penny read the words aloud. Dangerous, drawbridge, keep off. Salt drew up at the side of the road. Looks as if this is as far as we're going, he said, and discussed. There's no other road to the estate. I'll bet that dangerous drawbridge business is just a dodge to keep undesirables away from the place until after the wedding. Penny nodded gloomily. Then, she brightened, as she noticed an old man who obviously was in a state guard standing at the entrance to the bridge. He stared toward the old car as if trying to ascertain whether or not the occupants were expected guests. I'm going over to talk to him, Penny said. Pretend that you're a guest. Suggested salt. You look the part in that fancy outfit of yours. Penny walked leisurely toward the bridge. Appraisingly, she studied the old man who leaned comfortably against the gear house. A dilapidated hat pulled low over his shaggy brows, seemed in keeping with the rest of his wardrobe. A blue work shirt and a pair of grease smudged overalls. A charred corn cob pipe thrust at an angle between his lips, provided sure protection against the mosquitoes swarming up from the river below. Good afternoon began Penny pleasantly. My friend and I are looking for the Kippen Berger State. We were at Corbin to take this road, but we seemed to make a mistake." He ain't made no mistake, Miss. The old man replied. Then, is the estate across the river? That's right, Miss. But how are guests to reach the place? I see the sign says the bridge is out of commission. Are we supposed to swim over? Not if you don't want to. The old man answered evenly. Mrs. Kippenberg has a launch that takes the folks back and forth. It's on the other side now, but we'll be back in no time at all. I'll wait in the car out of the hot sun," Penny said. She started away, then paused to inquire casually. Is this drop-rich really out of order? The old man was deliberate in his reply. He blew a ring of smoke into the air, watched it hover like a floating skein of wool, and finally disintegrate as if plucked to pieces by an unseen hand. Well, yes and no, he said.

It ain't exactly sick, but she sure is alein. I wouldn't trust no heavy contraption on this bridge. Condemned by the state, I suppose? No, miss, and I'll tell you why. This here bridge doesn't belong to the state. It's a private bridge, on a private road. Odd that Mrs. Kippenberg never had it repaired. Penny remarked, it must be annoying. It is to all them that don't like launches. As for Mrs. Kippenberg, she don't mind. Fact is, she ain't much afraid of the bridge. She drives her car across whenever she takes the notion. Then the bridge does operate. Penny exclaimed, Sure it does. That's my job to raise and lower it whenever the owner says the word. But the bridge ain't fit for delivery trucks in such like one of them big babies would crack through like going over sponges. Well, I rather envy your employer, said Penny lightly. It isn't every lady who has her own private drawbridge. She is kind of exclusive like that way, Miss. Mrs. Kippenberg, she keeps the drawbridge up, so she'll have more privacy. And I ain't blaming her. These here newspaper reporters always is a pastor in the life out of her. Penny nodded sympathetically and walked back to make her report to Salt. No luck, he demanded. Guess twice, she laughed. The old bridgeman just took it for granted that I was one of the wedding guests. It'll be alright for us to go over in the guest launch as soon as it arrives. Salt gazed roofily at his clothes. I don't look much like a guest. Think I'll pass inspection. Maybe you could get by as one of those poor relations. Grind penny. Pull your hat down and straighten your tie. Salt shook his head. A business suit with a grease spot on the vest isn't the correct dress for a formal wedding. You might get by, but I won't. Then should I try it alone? I'll have to get those pictures somehow," stated Salt Grimley.

Maybe we could hire a boat of our own, Penny suggested.

Of course, it wouldn't look as well as if we arrived on the gas launch.

Let's see what we can line up. Salt said, swinging open the car door.

They walked to the river's edge and looked in both directions. There were no small boats to be seen. The only available craft was a large motorboat, which came slowly downstream toward the empty drawbridge. Penny caught a glimpse of the pilot, a burly man with a red puffy face. Salt slid down the bank toward the water's edge and held the boat. Hey you, capp'em! He called, two bucks to take me across the river. The man inclined his head looks steadily at salt for an instant, then deliberately turned his back. Five shouted salt. The pilot gave no sign that he had heard. Instead, he speeded up the boat, which passed beneath the drawbridge, and went down the river. Perhaps he didn't hear you," said Penny, peering after the retreating boat. He heard me alright, growled salt as he scrambled back up the high bank. missing a small boy in dirty overalls who sat at the water's edge fishing, he called to him, say, sunny, who was that fellow, do you know? Nope, answered the boy, barely turning his head. But his boat has been going up and down the river all morning. That's why I can't catch anything. The boat rounded a bend of the river and was lost to view. Only one other craft appeared on the water. A freshly painted white motor launch, which could be seen coming from the far shore. That must be the guest boat now. Remarked Penny, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, it seems to be our only hope. Let's try to get aboard and see what happens. Propose the photographer. They walked leisurely back toward the guard at the drawbridge, timing their arrival, just as the launch swung up to the landing, with a cool assurance which Penny tried to duplicate, salt stepped aboard, nodded indifferently to the wheelsmen, slump down in one of the leather seats. you you