“Humph!” grunted Bill. “I suppose there’s a road up on the top of the hill?”
“Yes, a dirt road that passes the house and joins the highway some miles farther on after it leaves this valley.”
They walked on in silence toward the club house, each of the three busily formulating plans.
“I’ll tell you what,” Bill said suddenly as they reached his car. “Osceola and I will go up to this place you’ve been talking about, and we’ll go by the path near the mill. You wait here for the police, if you don’t mind, Mr. Davis, and pilot them round by road. If these rascals really have Deborah up there, they’re likely to have sentries posted near the house, so advise Mr. Dixon and the police to leave their cars some distance down the road. If you men don’t come across us by that time, surround the house and rush it. Because,” he added, with a grimace, “We’ll probably be needing your help rather badly.”
“But hadn’t you better wait for the police yourselves?” Davis looked worried.
“And have those guys cart Deb off through the woods while the bunch of us come up to the house from the road? No indeed,” Osceola answered vigorously. “Bill can do as he likes, but I’m going up by the mill path. They won’t be expecting visitors from this side.”
“I’m going with you, Osceola,” said Bill. “Thanks a lot for all you’ve done and are doing for us, Mr. Davis. The gang from Hartford ought to be here within the hour.”
Osceola stepped forward. “Sorry I spoke abruptly, Mr. Davis. I must apologize—”
“Don’t mention it, my boy,” Mr. Davis cut in. “No hard feelings—I understand your anxiety. Run along now and I’ll take care of the police when they arrive.”
The boys hurried off down the rutty road toward Route 136. Half a mile along the highway they came to a bridge across a bubbling stream. Above the road on their left the ruins of the mill pointed broken rafters toward a cloudless sky. On the water side, bearded by the spray from the falls, was the ancient wheel that indicated the industry of bygone days, when the farmers brought their grain to be ground.
“There’s the trail!” Osceola pointed to an overgrown path that led up the mountainside just beyond the mill, and with Bill at his heels, he darted up and under the overhanging arch of trees.
The beauty of the deep gorge, the milky water churning down the steep background of jet black rocks and green ferns, the series of waterfalls, blown in the breeze like filmy veils,—all were lost upon Bill and Osceola. With the thought of pretty Deborah a prisoner in the hands of ruffians, they concentrated upon two things only: to reach the house beyond the falls as quickly as possible, and to do so without attracting attention of watchers who might be on the lookout.
Osceola stopped shortly before they reached the top, and motioning caution, darted into the woods away from the stream. Then he paralleled the path upwards again for a hundred yards or so with Bill directly behind him. All at once, he dropped to the ground, Bill followed suit, and the two crawled over to a fallen log and peered over it.
Slightly ahead, and perhaps fifty yards to their left, was the lake Mr. Davis had described, sending its overflow down the gulley in a silver sheet of sparkling water. Between them and the waterfall, the path was bisected by a high gate in a fence of heavy wire mesh, whose top was at least ten feet above the ground. This ran in both directions, blocking intrusion along the mountain top. They could see that it ran even along the dam at the mouth of the lake, while on their side of the path it disappeared in the thick growth of bushes and trees.
But their whole interest was centered upon the man who lay flat on the ground behind the gate. They could see him plainly. He was watching the path, hidden from it by a tree trunk, and at his side lay a long-barrelled rifle.
“Deborah,” said Osceola in his normal tones, for the noise of the falls was almost deafening, “is over in that house behind the lake. I’d stake my life on it. Shall I pot this guy?”
Bill shook his head. “Better not—they might hear the shot at the house, you know. The buzzard deserves death, if he’s a kidnapper, and I suppose he is—but we’ll let the police settle with him.”
“Yeah, if they get him. Well, let’s be going. I wish I’d brought a tomahawk with me!”
Having uttered this altruistic thought, Osceola slithered off through the undergrowth very much in the same manner that a snake travels through long grass, and Bill, perforce, went after him. Presently the young Indian Chief stood up. The gate in the fence and its sentry were no longer in sight. Both lads climbed the high wire and dropped inside to the ground. Osceola took the lead again, and set off through the trees at a smart trot. When it came to woods-craft, Bill knew this young Seminole to be without a peer. He never argued with Osceola in the woods, but was content to do as his friend directed, for he knew that no white man could approximate the American Indian’s native cunning in the forest.
As they progressed the ground became hummocky, and soon developed into a swamp, but this did not cut the speed of the lads in the slightest. They leapt from tuft to tuft of the coarse grass clumps with the agility of mountain goats, and crossed the evil smelling place without wetting a foot.
Although he could not see it, Bill knew that the lake lay somewhere to their left. When Osceola struck off obliquely in that direction, he guessed that they had passed beyond it. And he soon saw that he was right. A few yards farther on the trees ended in a belt of thick and overgrown shrubbery. Just beyond, an unkempt lawn surrounded a hideously ugly house of the cupola-and-mansard-roof variety, painted bright yellow.
“Gosh!” muttered Bill to his guide, “if I lived in that dump, I’d perish of colic!”
Osceola gave him a savage look. “If you don’t keep quiet, we’ll both die with several ounces of lead in our hides! Shut up, now, and turn your mind to what I taught you down in Florida about crossing open spaces on your belly. I’ll go first.”
He dropped prone and wriggled through the grass to a large bush without a sound and at an amazing rate of speed. Bill then did likewise, and was soon at his friend’s side. Their next move was to a belt of rhododendrons which grew close to the yellow house, and in great profusion. Near them was an open window. Bill went to one side, Osceola to the other. They stood up and looked in.
Before them was evidently the living room of the house. At the far end, four men and a woman were seated about a small table, breaking their fast. On a couch across from the window, lay Deborah. She was neither bound nor gagged; she seemed to be asleep.
Bill’s eyes sought Osceola’s. The Chief nodded.
With the ease of the trained athlete, first Bill, then the Seminole, lifted himself swiftly to the window sill and sprang into the room.
The woman at the breakfast table was the first in the room to see Bill and Osceola spring through the open window. She screamed, the four men jumped to their feet, sending chairs crashing backward to the floor, the table rocking—and pandemonium broke loose.
Gripping their rifles by the barrels and swinging them like clubs, the lads charged the surprised kidnappers, who pulled revolvers and began shooting almost immediately. But after the first few shots, attackers and attacked became involved in a scrimmage so close and so heated that firing was impossible. Bill, wielding his rifle like a singlestick, managed to ward off the clubbing revolvers of his assailants, but Osceola, dropping his gun, went at them like a wild man, using fists alone.
In the midst of the fracas, a man sprang onto Bill’s back. By use of a jiu jitsu trick he catapulted his attacker over his head and on to the breakfast table which collapsed, sending broken china and glass in every direction. Osceola staggered and fell to the floor under the blow from a revolver butt, and Kolinski pressed the muzzle against the stunned Seminole’s temple. Like a streak of light, Bill jerked his automatic from its holster and the Pole went over backward with a bullet through his shoulder. Then Bill saw the woman, who still stood behind the debris of the breakfast table, pick up a plate and sail it through the air at him. He tried to duck, but was again held fast from behind. A burning pain seared his eyeballs and he, too, dropped insensible to the floor.
Bill awoke, gasping and sputtering, his head and shoulders drenched in water. His head was splitting, and the darkness round about him was shot with a myriad of dancing lights.
“Give the Indian another bucketful,” wheezed a cracked voice from the gloom.
Bill heard Osceola’s characteristic grunt as the water splashed over him. His mind began to clear, and soon he realized that he was bound hand and foot and that his eyes were bandaged. Again he heard the unmistakable wheeze in the cracked voice, and this time the high-pitched tones were full of sarcasm.
“And all this comes from entering where angels fear to tread!” A man’s voice, surely, thought Bill, but an old man—
The unseen speaker chuckled and went on with his monologue. “Although we have not met before, my young friends, I have climbed these many stairs to bid you goodbye. It pains me to send you off in this abrupt fashion,” again he chuckled, “but I cannot take you withme—and you are probably familiar with the adage that dead men tell no tales. You will be glad to hear that the young lady, Miss Deborah Lightfoot, will not mind her passing on to Happy Hunting Grounds quite as much as you two will. She was given a hypodermic in the car on the way up here, and is, to all intents and purposes, asleep.”
“But—surely you don’t mean to kill an innocent girl!” raged Bill.
“Ha-ha!” tittered the old man. “So that gets you on the raw, eh? What says the bereaved husband-to-be?”
“Sachems of the Seminole Nation do not waste their words on buzzards.”
“Thank you, young man,” wheezed the voice. “It is interesting to learn at first hand that the American Indian is as stoical in undergoing mental torture as in burning at the stake! But to return to your girl-friend on the floor over there—Miss Lightfoot made two bad mistakes. She had the misfortune to get a good look at one of my associates when he was searching for a certain emblem. And in the car, she ripped off my mask, andshe saw me! Against my wishes, I must send her away with you, or else certain plans of mine would be jeopardized.”
“Well, Osceola, old man,” said Bill, ignoring their tormentor. “Sorry I got you into this, and sorrier still we both have to listen to this pitiful drivel. Unless he stops his cackle soon, I’ll be forced to take a nap in self-defense.”
“So long, Bill, old sport,” Osceola replied in his deep, grave voice. “Happy hunting—and sweet dreams!”
“Very pretty, very pretty indeed, young gentlemen. So sorry to bore you longer. You will be interested to know that my lookout on the hill tells me the police have just left Heartfield’s in their cars. They should reach here in about fifteen minutes. But you must not become too impatient. You see, I have a surprise for you and for them. In slightly over a quarter of an hour, this house and those in it will go shooting skywards—in other words, blow up. Good-bye again,—I must fly now, and I’m sure my news will help you keep your courage to the very end.”
Bill heard footsteps creaking on bare boards, then a door slammed. He turned at once to his friend.
“How are you tied?”
“Roped—wrists behind my back—and ankles. Blindfolded, too.”
“Same here. Wriggle over and I’ll get my hands on the knots.”
“Coming—but rip off this bandage first, and I’ll do the same for you. Then I can use my teeth on your wrist bonds—it’ll be easier and quicker that way.”
Bill heard Osceola slither across the floor and the bandage was ripped from his head. He in turn pulled off the young Seminole’s bandage and while his friend’s sharp teeth were working on the knotted ropes that bound his wrists, Bill sat up and took in their surroundings.
He saw that they were in a small room, empty of furniture. There were two windows in each of the four walls of the room. A door cut off one corner, and near it, Deborah lay on the floor, deep in her drugged sleep.
“I’ll bet we’re in the cupola,” said Bill, his eyes on the girl. “If I’m right, it’s a four-story drop to the ground, and that door looks too strong for us to bash in before the explosion.”
Osceola grunted, then spat copiously. Bill found that his wrists were free, and swinging round, he began to work on the rope which bound his friend.
“Ugh,” uttered the Seminole in disgust, “my mouth is full of hemp. I always did hate the taste of it.”
“Well, what I want to know is how we’re going to get out of here—and with Deborah?”
“I can’t tell you. Wait till we get our legs free. Maybe the outlook from the windows will give us an idea.”
“And maybe it won’t,” snorted Bill, working with feverish haste on the tight knots. “You know, I believe that old devil hoped we’d get loose.”
“How come?” Osceola, his hands free at last, was tearing at the rope around his ankles.
“Wants us to get free of these things—then find out there’s no way down short of jumping—hello!” He cocked his head, “somebody’s idling an airplane engine!”
“So that’s what the old buzzard meant when he said he’d have to fly! The bunch are making their getaway, eh?”
“Guess so. Well, I’m free—how about you?”
“Yep.”
Both lads sprang to their feet, feeling very stiff and dizzy, and hobbled to a window. They saw that the cupola raised its ugly head on the very center of the slate roof. The roof looked almost flat, but in reality sloped slightly down to rusty tin gutters at its eaves. A glance to the sides showed that the house boasted two yellow brick chimneys. Directly in front of the old mansion, a large field spread out for a quarter of a mile toward the highway. On the field a large monoplane was taxying into the wind, preparatory to the take-off. “Fokker Universal,” muttered Bill.
“I wish we had her up here,” said the young Chief. “We’re wasting time, Bill. We can’t have more than five or six minutes left. Give me a hand with Deborah. We’ll get her out of this window and onto the roof.”
“And then what? There isn’t a tree near the house. If we had a rope—”
“I’ve got it! There must be rainpipes down from the gutters. We’ll go down by one of those.”
“You mean, the leader will go down with you! Those gutters are old and rusty and full of holes. The leaders are sure to be in as bad or worse shape. It would be suicide to try it, especially with one of us carrying Deborah’s weight.”
“Great grief, Bill! What can we do? Think of Deborah—blown to pieces—”
“Hey, hey—get a grip on yourself. Snap out of it and let me think.”
“Maybe the door isn’t locked, after all—” Osceola snatched at this desperate thought—
“Try it if you like. But I heard that old wretch or one of his men slam the bolt and so did you.”
Osceola ran to the door and tried the handle, but without success. Then he backed off and flung the full force of his weight against it. The sturdy oak hardly creaked.
“Don’t let the thought of Deb make you lose your nerve, man,” said Bill, still looking out of the window.
Osceola’s face grew grim. He walked back to Bill and grasped his hand. “Thanks, old pal. And goodbye. I’m going to Deborah now. At least, we can die together!”
“Here—just a minute—” cried Bill, “yes, by Jove! I believe we can do it!”
Osceola turned back. “Not that chimney you’re staring at! It’s got funnels at the top. We—”
“No—not the chimney, guy! The lightning rod! I forgot these oldtime houses had them. Quick now, with Deborah! I’ll go first. You pass her out to me.”
He leapt through the open window onto the slates a few feet below. Almost immediately, Osceola lifted Deborah’s limp body over the sill, where Bill caught her in his arms and hurried with his sagging burden toward a corner of the roof. There he put down the unconscious girl and lying flat, peered over the edge of the rotting gutter.
Osceola dropped beside him. “The rod looks strong enough, but do you think those rusty iron stanchions will stand the strain?”
“Our weight may pull a few loose, but that won’t bring the rod down. I just wanted to be sure there wasn’t any break—that it ran all the way to the ground.” He jumped to his feet. “Give me a hand with Deb.”
“But I’ll—”
“No, you won’t. I was trained to this at the Academy. Pick her up and hang her on my shoulders—not that way—head one side and legs t’other, so her body drapes round my neck. That’s it. Now rip off your belt and lash her wrists to her ankles. She mustn’t slip and I’ll have to use both hands on the rod. Got it fast? Fine. Will you go first?”
“No—you—I’ll help you over the edge. And Bill—we’ve only a minute or two left—”
With Deborah’s dead weight balanced on his shoulders and the base of his neck, Bill got down on his knees and keeping firm hold of the lightning rod that ran from the chimney across the roof on raised iron stanchions, went gingerly backwards over the creaking gutter. Then slowly, hand over hand he let himself and his burden down the rod. Notwithstanding his confident words to Osceola, he was fearful of pulling loose the staples, that at intervals of three or four feet secured the rod to the side of the house. He was obliged to use his hands as his sole means of support. If he pulled outward, pressing the rubber soles of his sneakers against the siding, the chances were the rotten wood holding the staples would give. For the same reason, he refrained from planting his feet on the stanchions themselves, as he let himself down.
The strain of the double weight was fearful. His shoulder muscles and biceps felt as though they were at the cracking point. And the corrugated rod lacerated the palms of his hands until they were bleeding badly.
He was descending the side of the house that looked over the field and the road. Suddenly he heard a shout from below, and the answering hail from Osceola just above his head told him that the police were arriving.
“Get back! Get back—all of you!” yelled the chief. “There’s a bomb in the house—likely to explode any time now!”
Bill’s right hand slipped. For an instant he thought he was gone but he managed to gain a hold with his lacerated left. Deborah hung like a millstone about his neck. As he felt for the rod with his toes, her legs and thighs slipped over his right shoulder, pinning that arm to his side, and bringing the full weight of her body on the left side of his neck and head. Bill found himself in the terrible predicament of being totally unable to move—either upward or down. Searing pain shot through his left hand—his head reeled. In one more second he must drop—
“Let go, lad—” called Mr. Dixon’s voice from below. “You’re almost down.”
Strong arms caught him about the knees. He released his grip, as they let him down. Then Deborah’s now unbearable weight was taken from his shoulders. Somebody far away cried—“Good Lord! the boy’s hands are in ribbons!” And Bill, for the first time in his life, fainted.
* * * * * * * *
Bang! Crash!
He felt himself hurtling through space to light head first on something fairly soft, but with a jar that almost loosened his front teeth.
“Don’t kick—that’s my face—or was,” growled a deep voice.
Bill was pushed violently to one side. He opened his eyes and sat up, feeling as though he had been pounded with a sledge-hammer.
“The other way—” said the same deep voice. “The wind of the thing sent us heels over teakettle.”
Bill turned his head slowly and painfully. Beside him sat a large and husky individual in the dark uniform of the Connecticut State Police. Possibly two hundred yards away, a huge mass of debris was burning. Over it hung a heavy cloud of jet black smoke.
“Yes, that’s the house, or what’s left of it,” explained the policeman. “Lucky we weren’t nearer. Talk about your fireworks! Say, how are you feelin’, kid?”
“Kinda woozy, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it—”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nuthin’—except that when you and I went up in the air, you dove headfirst into me stomach—and it sure does feel lousy!”
“Gee, that’s too bad—” Bill sympathized. “I certainly hope I didn’t dent your pretty belt buckle with my teeth—or what’s left of them! You were toting me, I take it?”
“Yeah. I was runnin’ wid you over my shoulder when the blast come.”
“And—er—woke me up.”
“You said it. I’ll bet that head o’ yourn rammed into me belt buckle a good eight inches! The inside o’ me backbone feels black an’ blue.”
They got to their feet. Bill’s head, though aching, was now perfectly clear. He saw that they stood in the knee-high grass of the field. Two cars were approaching along the drive. Several groups of men were spread out over the field. He recognized Osceola, carrying Deborah in his arms. Beside him walked Mr. Dixon. They were making for the motor cars.
A familiar voice hailed Bill, and looking around, he saw Mr. Davis behind him.
“Well, that was a very pretty tumble you and the sergeant took a while ago,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“It kind of woke me up,” said Bill, “but our friend here says he feels like the break-up of a heavy winter.”
“Square in the belly,” complained the policeman. He began to repeat the story of his bruised backbone, when Mr. Davis cut in on him.
“Goodness, Bolton, you’re covered with blood!”
“I am? Oh, it’s my hands—” Bill held out his torn palms.
Mr. Davis winced. “Great Scott! No wonder you passed out. How you ever managed to hold on—But here we stand talking. Come on over to the police car. They’ve got a first aid kit—we don’t want to let you in for blood poisoning.”
With the bleating sergeant bringing up the rear, he hurried Bill over the field to the car, where he pulled out a large tin case and laid it on the grass. Then he went to work on Bill’s hands with the deftness of a surgeon.
“Now then,” he said after a while, “that will hold you till you’re home and can get a doctor. This is only a makeshift.”
Bill stared at his bandaged hands. “Seems to me, Mr. Davis, you’ve made a mighty neat job of it. Looks like a full-fledged doctor’s work.”
“Oh, I had two years at medical school, when I was a youngster,” Davis said, as he closed the kit and replaced it in the car. “Couldn’t stand that racket longer, though, and went into business instead.”
“Well, I’m much obliged to you. Where do we go from here, now that the old gink has flew the coop and blown his house to smithereens?”
“So you saw the leader of the gang?”
“No. Only heard his voice. But you can take it from me, when it comes to being a real nasty customer, that guy wins hands down!”
Davis nodded. “I can quite believe it. You must tell us about it later. Hop in the car there, lean back and close your eyes. You look pretty rocky, and no wonder. I’ll have a chat with Dixon and find out what the plans are.”
Bill looked up a few minutes later as the car door opened, and saw that Davis had reappeared, with a tall man in the uniform of a police officer.
“Captain Simmonds, Mr. Bolton,” said Davis, as they took seats beside him.
“Glad to know you, Captain Simmonds,” Bill said affably, as the policeman in the driver’s seat threw the car into gear. “Sorry I can’t shake hands. Where do we go from here?”
“Back to Heartfield’s, first, Mr. Bolton. I want Mr. Davis, who, as you know, is something of a physician to take a look at Miss Lightfoot. Chief Osceola says she’s been drugged. They are in the car ahead with Mr. Dixon. Believe me, Mr. Bolton, when I say that I’ve never seen a finer piece of sheer grit and nerve than the way you brought the young lady down that rusty lightning rod.”
Bill shook his head. “We really ought to have waited for you chaps before we tackled that bunch in the house. But with Deb lying there on the lounge in plain sight, it seemed the only thing to do.”
“Suppose,” suggested Mr. Davis, “that you tell us about it—that is, if you feel able to do so now.”
“You see,” added Captain Simmonds, “except that we saw you shinning down the lightning rod, and that we got Chief Osceola’s warning just in time to prevent us breaking into the house, we really have no information as to what happened. The crowd of us arrived only in time to scamper off before the whole shebang blew up.”
“I realize that,” said Bill. Except for the burning pain in his hands and a certain stiffness in his arms and shoulder muscles, he was feeling pretty much himself again. “I’m quite able to talk about it now, and I’d like to. The sooner we get started after that old devil and put him behind the bars for keeps, the happier yours truly will be!”
“Let’s have it from the time you and the young Indian Chief left Heartfield’s,” suggested the Police Captain.
Bill told them the story in detail as the car bumped over the rutty road and his listeners sat silent, taking in every word.
“Jehosophat!” exploded Mr. Davis, when he had finished. “I’ve read about some of your other experiences, Bolton, but that is certainly one exciting tale! The old man with the wheezy voice is a maniac, of course, but people of that type can be exceedingly clever. In some ways, they often appear absolutely normal, too. That old bird, if he is really an old man, as you guessed from his voice, may appear to be a solid and possibly useful citizen, to the majority of his friends and associates. But he’s cracked, just the same—mad as a March hare on one subject—I’ll stake my oath on it!”
“And when we know what that one thing is,” chimed in Captain Simmonds, “We’ll be a long way ahead in solving this kidnapping. So he got away in a big Fokker! There aren’t so many of those busses around. You’d recognize his voice again, of course, Mr. Bolton?”
“I’ll never be able to forget it, Captain.”
“No, I guess not. Miss Lightfoot seems to be the only person we can lay our hands on who has seen his face, and she is under the influence of a drug! My men will search the ruins of that house. It’s unlikely, though, that they’ll find any clue in what’s left of it, and the ruins will be too hot for a couple of days, unless we have rain.”
“I wouldn’t pin too much hope on Miss Lightfoot, either,” said Mr. Davis. “It’s quite possible that she is suffering from shock, as well as having been drugged.”
“You mean,” said Bill, “that after the effects of the drug wear off, she may still be unconscious?”
“It is possible. On the other hand, the drug, plus what she went through before it was administered may make it impossible to question her without jeopardizing the poor girl’s reason.”
Captain Simmonds frowned. “That is serious,” he admitted. “How long will it be before we can get a description of this man from her, Mr. Davis?”
“Nobody can predict that, Captain. First, the effects of the drug must either be counteracted or it must wear off. Then it depends entirely upon the condition of the young lady herself. Please don’t think me a pessimist, but my advice is to follow any other clues you may have, and not count on Miss Lightfoot’s help at all. I’ve known cases where the patient was allowed to talk to no one for weeks.”
“My word,” said Bill. “Poor Deborah! And that is a pleasant prospect for us. I reckon, after what you’ve done to help us, Mr. Davis, that the Captain won’t mind my telling you that the only clue we have are the winged cartwheels, the numbered emblems of this organization we are up against. And so far, Mr. Davis, those silver dollars have brought us nothing but trouble.”
The long shadows of late afternoon cut intricate figures on the Bolton’s lawn. Bill, from his chair on the porch, let the book he had been reading slip to the floor. He watched sunlight and shadow dance on a background of multi-colored green, for a gentle breeze had set the treetops stirring. As an open car, a familiar figure at the wheel, rolled up the driveway he sauntered over to the top of the steps.
“Hello there, Mr. Davis! Glad to see you.” He waved a bandaged hand, as the car drew up and stopped.
Mr. Davis got out and walked up the steps. He was no longer the rather rough looking figure of the morning, but was now immaculate in gray flannels and a spick and span panama.
“Glad to see you, Bolton,” he smiled pleasantly, and Bill was again impressed by the keen intelligence in this gray-haired man’s eyes. “This is a rather unexpected pleasure. I really did not expect to be in New Canaan this afternoon.”
Bill pointed to chairs and they sat down. “I’ve been trying to read, but it’s a nuisance turning the pages with these hands!”
“How are they coming along?”
“Nicely, thanks. Our local medico had a look at them when we got back from Heartfield’s this morning. He says that the salve you used must be wonderful stuff—he’d never seen anything heal so quickly.”
Mr. Davis smiled, and pulling out his briar pipe, filled and lighted it. “By tomorrow you’ll be able to discard the bandages,” he observed. “Although you will have to go easy on the hands themselves for a couple of days. I came across that salve in the Near East some years ago. Some day, when I can snaffle a few weeks off the job, I’ll put the ointment on the market, and let it make my everlasting fortune.” Bill looked surprised.
“But I thought—”
“That old Davis was taking a cheap vacation, rent free! That is the story I pass out just now, Mr. Secret Service Operative Bolton! But—and I’m rather sorry to confess it—the story, though plausible, is untrue.”
“And what,” Bill spoke quietly, watching his visitor through half-shut lids, “gives you the impression that I am a secret service operative, Mr. Davis?”
“Perhaps you’d like to look at this.” Mr. Davis took a small leather case from his breast pocket and snapped back the flap, disclosing a green card. He held it so Bill could read it.
“Suffering cats! Soyou’reAshton Sanborn—head of—”
“Quite so. But to you and everyone else while we are on this case of the winged cartwheels, just plain ‘Mr. Davis’, if you please.” He laughed quietly at the look of genuine amazement on Bill’s face. “You see, one is never sure who may be listening, and I am fairly certain that the gentry we are dealing with have not got ontoMr. Davisyet!”
A telegraph messenger pedalled up the drive, sprang off his bicycle and ran up the steps to Bill.
“Wire for you, Mr. Bolton,” he said, handing him a yellow envelope. “The manager says he wrote out the message just as it came in, but he can’t make head nor tail of it—he—”
Bill ripped open the flap with his finger tips, drew forth the telegraph form and saw typewritten below his address a single line of words in an unknown language.
“Tell the manager,” he replied, “that the message is really for Chief Osceola and that it is written in the Seminole language. Anything to pay?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, stick your fist into this pocket of my coat and help yourself to a quarter.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bolton.” The boy grinned delightedly as he transferred the money to his own pocket. Then he ran down the steps, jumped on his wheel, and sped down the drive.
Bill looked at the secret service man and smiled. “No need to tell the manager all we know, Mister—er—Davis,” he said. “And especially when I really don’t know anything. Of course, the message is in code and although it was sent from New York City, I have a sneaking idea that it originated in Washington, D. C.”
The secret service man nodded. “You’re a good guesser, Bolton. Washington is taking no chances either. The code is a double interchange of letters. Simple enough when you know it and easy to remember. Hand it over. I’ll explain as I translate.” He laid the paper on his knee and took out a pencil.
“So you see,” he continued, after deciphering the code, “it reads: ‘Take your orders from Ashton Sanborn V8LR.’”
“V8 being my own number in the service,” said Bill, “and the initials those of the big boss. I want to add that I’m tickled to death to be working under you, Mr. Davis. All the world knows the big things you’ve put over. And just to think that when you were piloting Osceola and me up to Kolinski’s shack this morning, you probably knew a lot more than we did about the winged cartwheels!”
Mr. Davis made a gesture of dissent. “That’s where you’re wrong, Bolton. Until you told the story to Captain Simmonds and me in the car, I’d never heard of the emblems nor of the organization they represent.”
“But surely you—I mean, it is rather cheeky of me to ask questions, but if you knew nothing about the cartwheel gang, how did you happen to be in that out-of-the-way place?”
“It’s simple enough, Bill—I’m going to call you Bill. I’m old enough to be your father, and we’ll probably get pretty well acquainted before this case goes into the files completed.”
“Bill is what I like my friends to call me, Mr. Davis.”
“Thanks. Well, the truth of the matter is that I was in Heartfield’s to keep an eye on Kolinski. For some time, a big gang with headquarters in New York City has been doing a land-office business smuggling cocaine and other drugs into this country from Europe. The police came to a dead end on the case and that brought me into it. Kolinski, who is known to have been a dope pedlar in a small way, suddenly blossomed out with a big car and plenty of money. I had enough on that Pole before he took the house at Heartfield’s to put him behind bars for the remainder of his life. Instead, I followed him up there, because, after considering a number of things—I’ll tell you about them sometime—I had the hunch that he’d become a member of this big dope running gang.”
“Have you found out much about it?”
Mr. Davis tamped the glowing tobacco in his pipe with the flat end of a pencil. “Mighty little—nothing important, anyway. Kolinski has no flies on him, he’s a slick article. Even though he made one or two slips in the past, heseemsto have been walking the straight and narrow since he joined this racket; only of course I’m certain he’s been doing nothing of the kind!”
“Then you think this silver cartwheel business is nothing more than a dope smuggling ring?”
“I’m not so sure. However, our Department has been advised from France that large quantities of cocaine are being shipped to the United States. The French tracked down and located two of these shipments before they left Europe. The stuff was in small packets and had been placed in boxes containing truffles.”
“But surely,” argued Bill, “those truffles were addressed to someone in this country.”
“Right, they were. But those addresses led us nowhere. Upon investigation they proved to be two untenanted houses in New York City. The owners are perfectly respectable people. In both cases, the houses had been rented through agents and rent paid in advance for six months.”
“But how about the people who rented them?”
“They have never been seen. The business with the real estate firms was carried on entirely by correspondence. Inasmuch as postal orders covering the rent were sent by mail, references were not required. You must understand that because of the two shipments held up and confiscated by the French government, we naturally suppose that more of the stuff is being sent over. But we have no actual proof. On the other hand, when we find that several men like Kolinski, who are known to be small fry in this dope racket, suddenly desert their old haunts and become affluent without any visible means of support, we put two and two together. However, we have not been able to trace the source of supply further than I have already told you, nor have we been able to discover their method of distribution.”
“Has it occurred to you that it may be only a sideline of some much bigger racket?” Bill suggested diffidently. “It just doesn’t seem reasonable that that old geezer with the cracked voice would have got so stirred up if we’d merely horned in on a dope ring. The man talked like a lunatic, and as if we were spoiling some very definite object he had in view.”
“That, Bill, is exactly what I decided when I heard your story. Of course I had already disclosed my real identity to Captain Simmonds, and as soon as you left for New Canaan, we had a chat and I got Washington on the wire. I had known for a week or so that you’d been taken on by the Department, and so I requested your services on the job. The people down there thought it a good idea. They’ve given us free rein to handle this matter as we may see fit—and so here I am!”
“And I,” said Bill, “am very much honored that you should want me to help you.”
Mr. Davis smiled. “I think the regard is mutual, Bill, and I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly together. By the way, I suppose your Seminole friend is over at the Dixons’? I phoned their physician before leaving Heartfield’s and he said Miss Lightfoot was conscious now, but could not be spoken to until about eight.”