“Oh, no. No, that was certainly not Professor Fanely. Oh, dear me, no.” He laughed—an unpleasant sound, for all its softness. “That was Mr.—but his name does not matter. He is upstairs now, attending to Mr. Kolinski, our estimable butler. You must not place too much reliance on our Kolinski’s chatter, you know. He does not always tell the truth. In fact, to put it bluntly, Mr. Sanborn, Mr. Kolinski is not—er—unfamiliar with the inside of a jail!”
“I know that well enough. I’ve been instrumental in sending him up the river twice, myself.”
“Oh, dear me! Fancy that, now!”
There came a silence, during which Sanborn had the vaguely uncomfortable feeling that a third presence had somehow entered the room. Mechanically he lit his pipe, and, blowing the first mouthful of smoke upward, he carelessly subjected the ceiling to a covert scrutiny. Nothing doing. He stooped and tapped the bowl of his pipe on an ashtray which rested on a small table. No one on the left hand side of the room. He turned round quickly, ostensibly to adjust a cushion on his easy chair. A flutter of a curtain hanging near the door caught his eye. Then he seated himself and leaned back comfortably.
“Yes,” he answered the big man’s unspoken inquiry. “That is why I called—to warn you against Kolinski. But as you are already aware of his past delinquencies—well,—” he shrugged his shoulders and stood up. “This is beside the point, now, don’t you think? Perhaps you had better ring for the man so that I may place him under arrest.”
“They’ll never bring him in here!”
Bill Bolton swung the curtain back and stepped into the room, a revolver grasped in his gloved right hand. “Stick ’em up, Lambert,” he told the big man. “That’s right—stick ’em up and keep ’em up!”
“But Bill—” Sanborn began, his eyes on the man called Lambert who had complied with the curt order and was reaching toward the ceiling.
Bill shook his head impatiently. “No time for argument, sir. They are on to your visit and don’t intend to let you leave the house alive. Kolinski is their sacrifice in this deal. He’s probably been killed by this time.”
“Are you sure about this, Bill? How could you possibly learn—”
“We’ve got to hustle,” Bill cut him short. “Explain later. Oh, I’m sure enough, never fear!”
A colored rope was attached to the curtain. He disengaged it and tossed it to Sanborn.
“Now you—” he indicated Lambert, “take a walk to that chair and sit down.”
There was a murderous gleam in Lambert’s eyes as he retreated. He knew, of course, that these two were acting in conjunction, but could not understand these new secret service methods.
“Now tie him up. I’ll keep him covered. He’s got a gun. Better relieve him of it. His game was to shoot you just as soon as your back was safely turned.”
Ashton Sanborn did as he was told, cheerfully, albeit wonderingly. How Bill could have gained his information and what he was up to now were as yet unsolved mysteries. He took away the man’s gun, a blue-nosed automatic. Then, carefully, he tied Lambert’s arms to the back of the chair and roped his legs securely.
“Better lock the door,” was Bill’s next suggestion. “I’ll gag him.”
The detective hurried to the door. There was no key in the lock. He clutched the handle—rattled it—pulled—The door did not budge.
“What’s up, sir?” Bill’s voice betrayed his apprehension.
“Locked!”
“Then we’re in for it.” It was not so much the words as the way they were spoken that impressed the secret service man.
“But—if it’s trouble, Bill, we must find a way out,” he said calmly.
“There is no way. They’re likely to come in on us through that door any minute now.” Bill’s voice was steady, but Sanborn knew he was attempting to conceal his strong excitement.
“If the door’s locked on the outside, we’d better barricade it on the inside.” He looked round the room for a suitable means of fortification, and his eyes fell upon the huge Lambert.
The man’s face was pale, almost haggard, and beads of sweat stood out upon his forehead. He was afraid.
In spite of their potential danger, Sanborn smiled as the thought struck him. “Here, Bill, give me a hand.”
Young Bolton immediately saw the possibility. Together the pair dragged the mutely protesting Lambert to the door, and planted him firmly in his chair against the panels. Over two hundred-weight of solid humanity—an effective barrier.
“Now then, Bill. Where’s Osceola?”
“Outside the window. Or he was.” Bill’s voice was little more than a whisper. “We got here more than ten minutes before you drove up—legged it fast across the grounds, without running into a soul. The windows on this side of the house are too high to see into from the ground. Luckily Osceola spied a ladder leaning against an elm, on the way here, where some tree surgeon had left it, I guess. Anyway, it was just what we wanted, so we hiked over and toted it back. I climbed it and cut a hole in the glass just above the window-catch. I couldn’t see into the room because of the shade, but I could hear, all right. That big goop over there was talking with Professor Fanely. And by the way, there’s absolutely no doubt that old Fanely is the guy we’re after. His voice is the one I heard in the cupola. Osceola recognized it, too. Of course, when I got the piece of glass out of the window, they were in the midst of a conversation. I gathered that you’d been followed to New York today. Evidently they knew nothing about your conference, but the cabinet member was spotted going into the same office where you had been trailed. So, the old bird had figured out just about what did happen in New York. Take it from me, there are no flies on that old fellow! He guessed how you would be sure that he, Fanely, was the kidnapper from Deborah’s description, and how the lad from Washington would laugh at the idea. He even had the hunch that you would show up tonight! And while they were talking, Kolinski came in and said that a phone message had come through from the lodge, and that you were on the way up.”
“But I wonder how they guessed my identity?”
“Your car license—Kolinski said so. Those things seem to be working for both sides in this business. Kolinski, the poor chap, was scared to death, apparently. The old man had it in for him because he made the initial mistake of dropping that silver cartwheel out of his car, and making it possible for the girls to identify him. But he was only in the room a couple of minutes. When he’d gone, the Professor said that as soon as you came they’d go upstairs. They planned that after Kolinski had ushered you in here, they’d put him out of the way. And the next move was for Lambert to come down here and do the same for you. Of course, old Fanely thought you’d come armed, so he cautioned the big guy to watch his step. If it hadn’t been for that,—well, I guess I’d have been too late.” Bill bit his lip. “I don’t see how the old buzzard imagined he could avoid government suspicion by doing you in, as well as Kolinski—Well, that’s about all of it. When you rang the bell, they went out of here, so I unfastened the window catch and hopped in.”
“Good work, Bill. You’re the sort of a chap a man needs on a job like this—”
Bill grinned and shook his head. “I’m all right as far as I go, but I guess—“ he motioned toward the barricaded door—“I just didn’t go far enough. But Osceola’s outside somewhere, I thought he’d better stay on watch. So maybe—”
There was a knock on the door. They looked at each other and waited.
“Well, Lambert? Is the dear Mister Ashton Sanborn, alias Davis—er—non compos—I meanhors de combat?” A pause. “So, my dear Lambert, you have failed, eh?” A fierce menace in the words now.
The bound man’s face turned a sickly gray, and Sanborn felt a momentary pity for him. Then they heard whispered instructions outside the door, and the sound of running feet. Sanborn tried a bluff.
“Hi! you!—there’s a posse of police surrounding the house!”
A cackling laugh that ended in a snarl.
“Yes, I sawhimgo!”
“So he got away all right? Thanks very much. He should be back by this time, with about thirty others.” Sanborn listened intently in an effort to ascertain whether or not his shot had gone home. Then—“They are only awaiting my signal.”
“Then why not signal, my dear Sanborn?”
A second later a shot rang out. Simultaneously a round hole, splintered at the edges, appeared in the upper panel of the door, and a bullet whistled past the detective and buried itself in the opposite wall. The hole in the panel was about two inches above Lambert’s head, and with protruding eyes the wretched man endeavored to shrink into the chair.
Bill and Sanborn dropped to all fours and were making for the window, when a second shot was fired. This time it came from outside the house and shattered the lower window sash. Both the detective and young Bolton went flat on the floor. Sanborn beckoned to Bill to move closer. As the lad wriggled over the carpet toward him, the older man spoke to him in a low whisper.
“Sorry I got you into this. When they rush the place, start firing. We may be able to fight our way out—one of us, anyway.”
“Maybe—but—too bad we’re a good four miles from town. If Osceola got away to telephone the police, it’s going to be a near thing before they get here. But all I want is to get one shot at old Fanely!”
As if in reply to his name, the high, wheezing voice spoke again from beyond the door. “You gentlemen in there,” and they heard a horrible chuckle, “will be interested to know that your friend Chief Osceola ran foul of my men, after all. He is now taking a well-earned rest in the lodge. Good night, my dear gentlemen. Pleasant dreams, and may you awake—in heaven!”
As if to place a period on this unanswered monologue, another shot splintered through the door panels.
“And that’s that,” said Bill, still keeping his voice to a whisper. “Disgusting old beast! Let’s turn off the lights in here and try the window. Anything is better than lying here.”
“Wait a minute—I’ve an idea!” Sanborn pointed to the fireplace. Bill nodded and together they wriggled across the rugs.
The chimney, with its grate of glowing coals, was an old-fashioned structure. Although probably no older than this modern residence, it appeared to be a worthy monument of another generation. Wide at the base, it tapered toward the top, and on its inner walls a number of iron staples, rusty and covered with soot, led upward.
Sanborn stepped within the chimney and grasped the first staple. “Phew!” he gasped, jerking his hand away, “—hot!”
“And probably insecure.” Bill was beside him now. They were out of the line of fire from the door and windows. “I’ll tell you what—that ladder! Wait—” He picked up a small shovel from the hearth. “I’ll get these live coals into the scuttle. That should cool the chimney some.”
Sanborn helped with a tongs, and the coals were quickly transferred. Bill found a wall switch and turned off the light. Together they went to the window by which Bill had entered, and cautiously lifting the shade a couple of inches, they peered through the glass. Three men, revolvers in hand, were approaching the ladder across a flower bed.
“Get ’em in the legs,” whispered Sanborn.
Two shots rang out like one, and two of the attackers dropped in their tracks. The third, evidently deciding that distance lent enchantment, streaked for the shadow of the trees without returning their fire. They let him go.
Bill raised the window and they seized the topmost rung of the ladder and started to haul it into the library. It was half-way through the window when there came a flash from the corner of the house. The glass door of a bookcase was shattered, but neither Bill nor the detective paid any attention to it. A second more and the ladder was inside.
Sanborn mopped the perspiration from his brow. “Jiminy! That was close, Bill.”
Bill nodded and stuck his head out of the window. “Lucky they can’t see us, sir. They might try to snipe us from behind the trees.”
As though in answer to his challenge, without warning, the chandelier that hung from the ceiling in a spray of electric bulbs, sprang into light.
“Duck, Bill, duck!” A fusillade of shots rang out as the pair dropped to the floor.
Bill’s eyes fell upon the pile of black coal he had dumped from the scuttle before filling it with the hot ones from the grate. Motioning Sanborn to follow, he wormed his way to the hearth and picked up a good-sized piece of coal. He handed it to Sanborn and took a similar piece himself. Then he pointed to the electric bulbs, and winked cheerfully.
They hurled their missiles simultaneously. Bill’s was a bullseye but the detective’s fell short of the mark. With the “plop” and the tinkle of falling glass, one of the bulbs was out of action. Bill grabbed another coal and a moment later the room went dark again.
“Good shooting, Bill.”
“Not so worse. Now gimme a hand with the ladder, sir. We’ll push it up the chimney.”
It was easier said than done. The ladder was too long and the angle too acute.
“Never mind, Bill. We must chance it.”
Ashton Sanborn felt the staple he had tried before. It was still warm, but bearable to the touch. “I’ll go first. It’s a good thing you wore gloves.”
“Yes, but I wish they were leather, not cotton. Still, my hands feel all right.”
“That’s good. Got a handkerchief? Here’s mine. Stuff one inside each glove. They’ll protect the thin skin of your palms.”
“Thanks. Gee, this is a wild party, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to be throwing coal at light bulbs—or stuffing handkerchiefs in my gloves—but say, sir, what about Lambert?”
“Lord! I’d almost forgotten him. Here, lend me a hand with the ladder. It will be useful after all. We don’t want our friend to topple over with the chair and let them in that way.”
They placed the top of the ladder against the upper panel of the door and thrust the bound man’s head between two of the rungs. Then they jammed the foot of the ladder into one of the bookshelves, removing half a dozen books to make way for it. It fitted and held firmly.
“Good! Now, you keep the ladder nicely in position, Lambert,” warned the detective. “The chances are if they break down the door, they’ll break your neck. Sorry—but time means more than kindness just now. You weren’t too considerate of a certain young lady the other night, either. And it will probably save the state the price of a hangman—So long!”
They left the silent figure and again essayed the ascent of the chimney. The air was almost stifling, but the staples held. Through clouds of soot dislodged by their progress, the two made their way upward. There came a slope in the angle of the chimney, and a dim square appeared overhead, a shade less dark than the blackness that enveloped them.
Sanborn felt for his electric torch, then remembered he had left it in his car. Feeling in his pockets, he finally produced a box of matches. After considerable trouble, he managed to strike one. The draught immediately extinguished it. The nearer they got to the top, however, the less dark the chimney seemed. Meanwhile he had to feel round for every staple, sending showers of soot upon Bill with every movement.
Again Sanborn felt the wall. Yes, there was no doubt about it. A good twenty feet to go, and no more staples. Well, there was nothing for it except to travel mountaineering fashion, back braced against one wall, feet against the other. It seemed simple enough, but when he attempted it, the chimney proved too wide, and he all but crashed onto Bill just below.
A sudden gust of wind sent a cloud of smoke belching down the shaft. Sanborn shut his eyes and gripped the last staple. He could hear Bill coughing and spluttering down below, while the shaft slowly cleared. Then Sanborn discovered that just above his head the inlet of another chimney joined the main shaft. He decided that the smoke came from there. It must be passed, and quickly, for the air was foul enough without the addition of smoke. Again he tried to wriggle upward, but found that the heat and the fumes from the other shaft were too much for him. He eased down again to the comparative security of the staple. If he could manage to stand on that last staple, he might somehow get past the vomiting side vent. But even if the chimney narrowed above the other shaft, the smoke would be suffocating.
“Buck up, sir!” Bill’s voice sounded thick and weary. “What’s the trouble?”
Sanborn told him. “Guess we’ll have to go down,” he began, then stopped as the sound of splintering wood reached their ears from the library, and a crash. A moment later there was a rush of feet and a cry as Fanely discovered that their prisoners were missing. There was further scurrying, then that high, menacing voice.
“The chimney! That’s where they are!”
A moment’s silence, then the sound of a shot reverberated deafeningly up the shaft. The chimney immediately filled with particles of soot scattered by the percussion. Both Bill and the detective mentally blessed that change in the angle of the chimney.
“Ah!—” again that hideous voice,—“I have an inspiration—yes, an inspiration. We shall—er—relight the fire!”
Sanborn swore under his breath.
“Yes, yes, relight the fire. And I think a little gasoline is indicated. Lambert, you are well enough to phone the garage for a can or two? Jacques, go fetch some paper and wood. No, wait a moment. Shovels can be used, there is one on the hearth—to transport the fire from the dining room fireplace. Peter, you stand here and shoot them if they come down.”
For several minutes Bill and Sanborn clung to their precarious perches, each wracking his brain for a way out of this horrible snare.
“Listen!” cried Bill in a hoarse whisper. “Hold on tight. I’m going to climb up your body. Then I’ll get a foot on the top of the other shaft and haul you up. I can get on your shoulders again and get a grip on the top of the chimney. You can climb out and haul me after you. What do you think?”
“It’s a chance, Bill. And if we don’t smother in the attempt, it’s worth trying, anyway. Come ahead.”
Bill pulled himself upward and over Sanborn’s body until he stood on the detective’s broad shoulders. Then he gasped in astonishment. The heat and smoke from the other chimney had subsided and the air was now bearable. The explanation came like a flash. This must be the outlet from the dining room, from which the fire had been removed. There was not a moment to lose.
Dropping his legs into the dining room shaft, he lay bellywise across the junction of the two openings and reached down toward Sanborn.
“Hurry up, old sport,” he cried, gripping the detective’s extended hands. “That’s right—up you come!”
“But what—the smoke’s gone—”
“Never mind that now—drop down this shaft beside me. It’s narrow enough to brace with your back and legs. And make it snappy, too, or you’ll get singed.”
Ashton Sanborn swung back beside Bill. There was a subdued roar down the chimney. Then a sheet of flame shot upward.
“That got the dear gentlemen!” There came a rasping chuckle from below. “Yes, that sent them to their happy hunting ground. Too bad the Indian wasn’t with them, but he will serve another purpose.”
“Beg pardon, Professor—” It was Lambert’s subdued voice this time. “If those two are really done for—burned to death, why don’t the bodies fall?”
“Caught on the staples, you silly fool! But just to prevent any chance of survival, you’d better ignite the other can.”
For a moment there was silence, then the two at the top of the dining-room flue heard the same roar down the chimney and again the white hot flame rushed past them.
“Now are you quite satisfied?” whined the wheezing treble. “They are burned to a crisp, I tell you. Tomorrow I’ll have the chimney cleaned and their remains brought down. It’s too late tonight. Well, Lambert,” the voice went on testily, “what have you got to say to that? For a man who makes bad mistakes, you have become exceedingly critical.”
“Very good, Professor. But may I be allowed to suggest that they may have climbed out the top of the chimney before we started the gasoline? Even now they may be hiding on the roof.”
“Oh, no, they are not hiding on the roof, my dear young man! I grant you that the youth Bolton was a midshipman in the Navy and can probably climb like a cat. But we were a little too fast for them, Lambert—a little too fast. Ever since I knew they had taken to the chimney, Otto and Henry have been watching on the roof. Inasmuch as I see them both standing in the doorway now, I think we may take it for granted, my dear Lambert, that the intruders have departed—not escaped.” There was a wealth of ugly sarcasm in the old man’s tone. “Now, Otto,” he added sharply. “How about it? What’s your report?”
“Nuthin’ come up, sir, but the flames, sir. Them two is burned to a frazzle!”
“You see, Lambert—you see!” Professor Fanely’s wheeze was triumphant. “Perhaps Lambert, you will permit me to run my own affairs in future without interference on your part. Just remember that you are my paid employee—nothing more.”
Bill nudged the detective. “That ought to hold friend Lambert for a while,” he whispered. “I certainly hope nobody remembers that this vent leads into the main chimney.”
“Sh—! There’s Otto again.”
“Beg pardon, sir.” The deep tones floated up the chimney. “What shall we do about the stiff upstairs?”
“Ah! The late Mr. Serge Kolinski! That was an unforeseencontretemps, was it not, Lambert? Well, the man had his uses. My plan, as you may have guessed, was to place him in the car with the late Mr. Ashton Sanborn. They would have been run down the road half a mile or so, the car wrecked and a revolver, with two empty chambers left in the hand of the secret service man. Tomorrow’s newspapers would have stated that I had turned over my butler to Mr. Sanborn. That the two must have fought in the car, with the result that in the struggle, both were shot with the same gun.” He stopped and blew his nose loudly. “But there again, Lambert, you stepped in and messed things up. Now we have Kolinski and two other bodies on our hands. Let me see—? Ah, yes, we will do it this way. Henry, tomorrow morning you will place the three bodies in the small plane. Put them in the luggage cockpit, and take Thomas along. Fly across the Sound and Long Island, and keep straight out to sea. When you are twenty-five miles from shore, have Thomas throw them overboard. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then see that there are no more errors made. By the way, Otto, speaking of Sanborn’s car—what has become of it?”
“We used it to carry the young Indian feller down to the lodge, sir. It’s parked down there.”
“Very well. Go to bed now. At four o’clock go down to the lodge. Get the Seminole and drive him up to the laboratory. Don’t forget to change the license plates, though. We’ve had enough trouble through Kolinski’s oversight. I will leave later in the Fokker, so will arrive before you. And while I think of it, Otto, don’t drive up there by way of Heartfield’s. The state police may be watching that route. Drive from here to Bedford and up through Brewster to Pawling. I know that the road to Mizzentop is a bad one, but it’s safer that way. And thanks to Mr. Lambert, we shall all have to play safe for some little more. Have you got that straight now, Otto?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“Then good night all. We must be about early in the morning, remember.”
“Good night, sir,” murmured a chorus of voices.
“Oh, Lambert! Don’t forget to take the A44 notes in the morning. I will leave Mizzentop early in the afternoon for Washington. The President dines with me, you know, and we will want to go over the papers later.”
“Very good, sir. I shall bring them.”
There came the sound of footsteps, then all was quiet below.
“We’ll give them an hour,” Sanborn whispered. “You haven’t a flashlight, Bill?”
“No—why?”
“There’s no other way of seeing the hands of my wristwatch to gauge the time. These matches blow out—”
“Don’t worry, sir. My dial is luminous. Wait till I rub some of the soot off—great grief! it’s after eleven! We’ve been here nearly two hours.”
“Well, we’ll wait until midnight. Let’s get up on the junction of the shafts, it will be more comfortable. My back and knees are half paralyzed.”
They pulled themselves up and squeezed into the narrow space, seated side by side.
“The old boy,” Bill observed, “certainly has a screw loose—but what do you think is in back of it all?”
“I don’t know, my boy. But I think we’d better be quiet. We might be heard if we keep on talking—and I’ve got to straighten out a lot of things in my mind and try to plan what our next three or four moves will be.”
“O.K. I’m terribly tired, guess I’ll snatch forty winks.”
Improbably enough, he did fall asleep right there, wedged between the sooty chimney wall and Ashton Sanborn’s shoulder. He was lost in the dreamless depths of exhaustion when a hand pressed his arm.
“Gee,” muttered Bill, “where am I? Oh, yes—is it twelve o’clock, Mr. Davis?”
The detective patted his arm lightly. “Yes, Bill, it’s exactly midnight. And Sanborn will do in the future, you know.”
The way down proved much easier than the ascent. Five minutes later they were standing in the dark library. Silently Sanborn went to the broken window and very slowly and carefully drew up the sash. Then he thrust his head outside, made sure that no one was about and nodded to Bill just behind him. They slid over the sill, dropped to the ground, and soon skirted the flower beds and reached comparative safety beneath the elms.
“Well! I’m sure glad we’re out of that dive!” sighed Bill. “Professor Fanely is the perfect host, I don’t think! What’s the next move? Get Osceola?”
“Yes, we must get him out of the lodge. I first thought of going to the nearest phone and calling in the Greenwich police. But Fanely seems to learn of our every move almost before we make it. He’s probably got someone watching police headquarters in Greenwich, and by the time enough men were rounded up to make the raid effective, Kolinski’s body would have disappeared and the old boy would certainly deny all knowledge of the affair. There’d be only our word against his, and seeing that Washington thinks I’m chasing a mare’s nest anyway, in trying to connect this prominent old man with crime—well, Fanely and his crew would get off scot-free.”
“And Ashton Sanborn would lose his job!”
“Exactly, Bill.”
They continued to head through the landscaped park toward the lodge, but kept well away from the drive. They were nearing the main entrance to the property before the secret service man spoke again.
“I’ve been thinking it over, Bill. The only way to get anything definite on that slippery old customer is to corral him in that laboratory he talked about. I’ve a hunch we’ll find evidence in plenty at Mizzentop. That laboratory, to my mind, is the center of this spider’s web.”
“Where is Mizzentop?”
“Why, Mizzentop was one of the fashionable resorts of this country, my boy, during the ’70’s and ’80’s. It’s up on the mountain above Pawling, New York, and nine or ten miles across the hills from Heartfield’s. The house Fanely blew up must have been purchased so that the Professor could have a hangout conveniently close by and yet not near enough to arouse suspicion if discovered. Mizzentop is really the name of the old hotel up there, from which the little settlement takes its name.”
They stepped behind a high bank of shrubbery, beyond which they could see the dim blur of the lodge in the darkness.
“That,” said Bill, “seems to me a queer place to locate a laboratory—right near a summer hotel, I mean.”
“Oh, the hotel isn’t running now—hasn’t been for thirty years or more. I was up there a couple of summers ago. It’s a huge frame building, three or four stories high, with wide verandas completely encircling it. It seemed to be in pretty good condition, then. Somebody was evidently taking care of the property, lawns kept up and so forth, but the place was untenanted.”
“I wonder—”
“What? Have you got an idea? Let’s have it then we’ll go after Osceola.”
“Well, I was just figuring,” Bill’s voice sounded thoughtful, “suppose Professor Fanely had bought that hotel and is using it for his laboratory, or whatever he calls it.”
The detective slapped his thigh sharply. “That is a new slant on it, Bill! Sounds like a good one to me. Just as soon as we get Osceola I’ll check up on it by telephone. In fact, I’ve a lot of phoning to do. Captain Simmonds and the State Police will have to be brought in now, Washington or no Washington!”
“But do you think Fanely will fly up there as he plans to do—when we’re found missing?”
“Certainly. Of course our disappearance will worry him quite a bit. He’ll probably decide that we slipped down the dining-room flue, when he finds out that it connects with the main chimney. But his line is absolute denial, and of course, he’ll have no idea that we overheard his talk in the library, or that we’re planning a raid on Mizzentop.”
“You’re right, I think. So here’s hoping the old boy takes his hop. Now we can go ahead for the Chief—”
He stopped short. The piercing shriek of a soul in mortal anguish rent the night. By common impulse Sanborn and Bill dashed for the darkened lodge.
Again that horrid shriek. This time there was no mistake from whence it came. Half breathless from their sprint, Bill and the detective reached the lodge and looked about for a means of entrance.
“Somebody,” whispered the secret service man, “is torturing Osceola!”
“Sounds like it, all right,” panted Bill, “but I’d have thought you could cut that Seminole into little pieces and never get a peep out of him! They must be monsters—There’s a light—window in the rear—come on!”
Bill in the lead, they dashed round the house, then stopped short. Through the kitchen screen door they caught a glimpse of a stranger lying on the floor, and Osceola’s figure bending over him. Careful as had been their movements, Osceola’s keen ears detected them, for he reached up quickly and switched off the hanging bulb.
“Speak or I’ll fire!” His order came like a shot.
Bill laughed shakily. “It’s only me, you wild Seminole—me and a pal of ours—we’ve come torescueyou from your torturers—and by gosh!—here we find you, in reverse! What’s the idea, boy?”
“Wait a sec—I’m coming out.”
They saw the Chief’s tall form loom up beside them, although his approach had been made without a sound.
“What’s going on, anyway?” Sanborn’s nerves were badly shaken and his relief on seeing Osceola free and sound in body sharpened his tone.
“Yes, what’re you tryin’ to do—scalp the man?” added Bill.
Osceola chuckled. “My gosh, did you think that yell came from me? Why, no, Bill, I’m trying something a little harder than that. I was just about to learn something of interest to all of us, when you butted in.”
“But what on earth were you doing to the man?” asked Sanborn.
“Oh, the old match trick. But what have you chaps been doing to yourselves? You look like a pair of nigger roustabouts!”
“Roosting in a chimney—a nice sooty one, too.” Bill turned to the detective. “Those keen eyes of his have found us out. And the match trick, I believe, consists of placing a lighted match between the victim’s toes.”
“But we can’t have that—it’s torture!” exploded Sanborn heatedly.
Bill laughed.
“Shut up, this isn’t funny,” growled Osceola. “Do you want that guy in there to hear and spoil everything?” He leaned close to Sanborn. “It’s hardly ever necessary to let a low-class white feel the flame. This fellow screamed when I lit the match, and again when I put theunlighted endbetween his toes. You see? You just make a lengthy explanation of what is going to happen to him before you start. His imagination does the rest.”
“But Osceola—there is a possibility of burning—and I don’t like it.”
“All right, sir. I’ll light one match and stick another, an unlighted one, between his tootsies! He’ll bleat just the same. You see, when I was tied up I heard this man and his wife talking about a laboratory or factory that the Professor runs up at a place called Mizzentop. And I heard just enough to make me curious—I—”
“Go ahead, then. Find out what goes on in that laboratory, and we’ll know the answer to the winged cartwheels. But don’t you think you’re taking chances in a lighted room with nothing between you and the night but a screen door?”
“Huh—” grunted Osceola, “that fellow hasn’t had a bath in months—it’s a warm night, Mr. Sanborn. I prefer taking chances with bullets to being asphyxiated!”
Sanborn chuckled. “Go to it, Chief—but no rough stuff, remember. Turn on the light again if you wish. Bill and I will keep watch outside. The people up at the big house have gone to bed, but it’s just as well to take precautions. And we can hear anything your friend may have to say from the shadow of the porch.”
They walked up to the porch and Osceola went inside the house. Then the light went on in the kitchen and the young Seminole started speaking.
“Well, Mr. Skunk! Some friends of mine are out back. They are also interested in hearing about Mizzentop. So, that being that, I’m going to light another match—”
“No, no! I’ll tell—I’ll tell!”
“Good enough. But calm yourself, bozo—there’s no need to shout the glad tidings all over Connecticut!”
“But the Professor, sir—he will—”
“The Professor is having his own troubles, my friend. Anyway, for some time to come, you and your amiable wife in the other room will be occupying nice little cells in a big, safe jail! Out with it now—or I shall become impatient.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll tell.” Still thoroughly frightened, the man spoke submissively. “Just what was it you wanted to know?”
“Everything thatyouknow about this silver dollar business, and the place up at Mizzentop. Make it snappy, though! I don’t want to hang around here all night.”
“Yes, sir. Professor Fanely is crazy—crazy on one subject. I noticed it coming on last year, and this spring, he got worse. ’Twas then he started this token bunk. Him and that big secretary of his, Lambert. Every one of us was handed out one of them stamped dollars, and we was all sworn to secrecy and given a number. Mine’s thirteen, and it’s brung me nuthin’ but bad luck.”
“—So you’re the guy that broke into the Boltons!”
“I was, sir—got in by a winder. But I didn’t get nuthin’—and I lost my token into the bargain. Professor raised the roof about it, and docked my pay, too.”
“That was just too bad,” declared Osceola sarcastically. “Now go ahead with the rest of it—this organization, and old Fanely’s crazy fancy.”
“It weren’t no fancy, sir. Professor Fanely, for all his friendliness with the big bugs down in Washington, hates the whole bunch of ’em like poison. He wanted to be President, but they wouldn’t let him run—too old to be considered, I guess. It’s been preyin’ on his mind ever since the last election, but the old boy was foxy, he kept it pretty much to himself. Lambert told me, though, he used to blow up to him. Well, last spring he made up his mind to get even with the government. Nobody but a crazy man would have thought up the plan. Me and some of the others that worked for him didn’t want to go into it. It wa’nt no use, though; we knew what we’d get in the end if we welshed. And he raised our pay then, you see—”
“I see. But what was this crazy plan?”
“He hired a lot of thugs and dope runners in the big city, sir. And he’s been importing big lots of cocaine from Europe. The old hotel up to Mizzentop was bought and fitted up as a kind of laboratory-factory, and the dope was stored up there. That house he blew up was where the factory super and some of his head men stayed. Professor Fanely, of course you know, is terrible wealthy. For years he’s been what they call a great phil—philan—”
“You mean philanthropist, I take it?”
“That’s it—couldn’t think of it for a minute, sir. Well,—his speciality is canned goods. He spends millions every year on ’em. Has ’em distributed to the poor and the near poor all over the United States. Even his friends get big cases of canned goods from him at Christmas time. It’s his hobby—he’s known the country over for it.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about it,” said Osceola, “I remember his yen for giving away canned goods. He even sent down a large shipment to my Seminoles in Florida last winter. I ate some of the stuff myself, and wrote him a letter of thanks. But what do his canned goods have to do with the cocaine smuggling?”
“Why, the Professor has made a solution of the stuff, that he says is impossible to detect.”
“Detect—in what?”
Unconsciously Ashton Sanborn and Bill moved to a position just outside the screen door.