Chapter VTROUBLE
After releasing the rectractible wheel landing gear, which turned the big amphibian from a seaplane into one which could land on terra firma, Bill brought his big bus gently down to the ten acre lot behind the Bolton residence.
As the plane rolled forward on its rubber tired wheels and came to a stop, two men came walking in its direction from the trees at the edge of the field.
"Here come our respective fathers--" announced Bill, stripping off his headgear. "Remember--I take all responsibility for bringing you back in the plane."
"You--do nothing of the kind!" Dorothy's tone was final. She handed him her head-phone and running back through the cabin, vaulted the low bulwark to the ground.
Bill hurriedly made things secure in the cockpit and followed her.
"And so you see, Dad," he heard her say, as he approached where they stood, "Bill not only saved my life--he took all kinds of chances with his own, flying in a gale like that. And--oh! I forgot to tell you that he warned menotto go out in theScudthis afternoon!" she ended with a mischievous look toward Bill.
Mr. Dixon was a tall man, whose tanned, rugged features and searching gaze suggested the sportsman. He turned from his excited daughter, with a smile and an outstretched hand.
"I'm beginning to realize, young man, that I owe you an apology for my shortness over the phone. Judging from Dorothy's story, I can never hope to express my gratitude for what you've done today."
Bill mumbled an embarrassed platitude as he shook hands, and was glad when Mr. Bolton broke into the conversation.
"The Boltons, father and son, were probably born to be hung," he chuckled. "It's a family trait, to fall into scrapes--and so far, to get out of them just as quickly. Now, as nobody has been polite enough to introduce me to the heroine of this meeting--I'm the hero's fond parent, Miss Dorothy. We are about to celebrate this festive occasion by a housewarming, in the form of a scrap dinner at the hero's home--what say you?"
"But I thought you were coming to our house--" cried Dorothy. "I--"
"But me no buts, young lady. Your father has already accepted for you both and we simply can't take no for an answer."
Dorothy glanced at Bill, who stood rather sheepishly in the background. Then she laughed. "Why, of course, if you put it that way--I'd love to come; that is, if theherois willing!"
"Say, do you think that's fair!" Bill's face was red. He didn't think much of that kind of kidding. "I think it would be great, that is, if you mean me," he ended in confusion.
Amid the general laughter that followed, Dorothy uttered a cry of disgust. "But I can't come like this--" she pointed to her clothes, which were the things that Bill had laid out for her in the big plane's cabin.
"You look charming--" Mr. Bolton bowed, and Dorothy blushed. "However--"
"Make it snappy, then, dear." Mr. Dixon drew out his watch. "You have just fifteen minutes. And Mr. Bolton won't keep dinner waiting for you, if he's as famished as I am!"
"Oh, give me twenty!" she pleaded.
"All right--hurry, now!"
With a wave of her hand, Dorothy darted away.
"I'll look after the plane, Bill," said his father, as she disappeared among the orchard trees. "I want to show Mr. Dixon over it, and that will give you time for a slicking-up before dinner."
It was a jolly, though belated meal that was eventually served to them in the cool, green dining room of the Bolton's summer home that evening. Mr. Dixon, with the finesse of an astute business man, drew out Mr. Bolton and his son, and the two told tales of adventure by land and sea and air that fascinated the New England high school girl. It all seemed unreal to her, sitting in the soft light of the candles. Yet the Boltons made light of hairbreadth escapes in the world's unmapped areas--just as if these strange adventures were daily occurrences in their lives, she thought.
"It certainly is a shame!" she burst out suddenly. Coffee had been served and they had moved to the comfort of low wicker chairs on the terrace. The air was filled with the perfume of June roses.
"What's a shame?" Bill, now spick and span in white flannels, settled back in his chair.
"Why, all the wonderful times you and Mr. Bolton have had--while Dad and I were sticking around in New Canaan. I'd love to be an adventurer," she finished.
"I dare say you'd find it mighty uncomfortable at times," observed her father. "How about it, Bolton?"
"Like everything else, it has its drawbacks and becomes more or less of a grind when one 'adventures' day in and day out--" that gentleman admitted. "I'm only too glad to be able to settle down in this beautiful ridge country for a few months--to rest and be quiet."
"There you are, Dorothy." Her father smiled in the darkness. "And who would there be out in the wilds to admire that smart frock you're wearing, for instance?"
"Gee, Dad! You know I don't care half as much about clothes as lots of the girls--and that hasn't anything to do with it, anyway."
"I think we ought to break the news to her," suggested Bill, a white blur in the depths of his chair.
Dorothy sat up eagerly. "What news?"
"But perhaps we'd better wait until tomorrow. Tonight, she wants to become an explorer--and give away all her best dresses. She might not take kindly to it." This from Mr. Dixon, between puffs of aromatic cigar smoke.
"You're horrid--both of you. Don't you think it's mean of them to make such a mystery of whatever they're talking about, Mr. Bolton? Won't you tell me?"
"Of course, I will, my dear. What do you want to know?"
Dorothy choked with vexation. "Oh!"
"Let's tell her now--right now--" said Bill, his voice brimming with laughter.
"I don't want to hear."
"Yes, you do--all together: one--two--three! You--are--going--to--learn--to--fly!"
Dorothy sprang to her father's chair and caught his arm. "Will you really let me, Dad?" she cried in delight.
"Mr. Bolton says that Bill is an A-1 instructor--and he claims that flying is no more dangerous than sailing twenty-footers in a nor'easter, so I suppose--"
"Oh--youdarling!" Dorothy flung her arms about his neck.
"Here--here--" cried Mr. Dixon. "You're ruining my collar, and my cigar--"
"Have another," suggested Mr. Bolton. "I'd willingly ruin boxes of cigars if I had a daughter who'd hug me that way!"
"Aren't you nice!" She turned about and bestowed a second affectionate embrace on that gentleman. "That is because you aren't quite as mean as your son--he's the limit!"
"Never slang your instructor," sang out Bill. "That's one of the first rules of the air."
"Seriously, Dorothy," her father interposed. "This is a big responsibility Bill is taking--and I want your word that you'll do just as he says. No more running off and smashing up a plane as you did theScudthis afternoon!"
"All right, Dad. I promise. But what am I to learn in? Bill says that the Amphibian is too heavy--and she's not equipped with dual controls."
Mr. Dixon lit a fresh cigar. "I see that you've already started your flight training."
"Bill explained the procedure to me on our way up here this afternoon. But what are we going to do for a plane?"
"Bill has some scheme, I believe."
"Oh, I know," she decided. "Bill shall pick me out a nice little plane and--"
"I shall pay for it," said her father grimly. "Nothing doing. When you have won your wings--well--we shall see. Until then, you and Bill will have to figure without financial help from your fond parent."
"That's fair enough," agreed Mr. Bolton.
"O.K. with me, too," echoed Bill. "I happen to have an oldN-9, a Navy training plane, down at the shipyard near the beach club, that will do nicely. I was down there this afternoon having her pontoon removed. I want to equip her with landing gear so I can house her up here. The Amphibian uses up too much gas to go joy-hopping in."
A maid appeared on the doorstep.
"Mr. Dixon wanted on the phone, please," she announced, and waited while that gentleman preceded her into the house.
A moment later Mr. Dixon was back on the terrace.
"The bank's been robbed!" he cried. "Sorry, gentlemen, but I've got to hustle down there just as soon as possible."
"This way!" called Bill, springing down the steps to the garden. "My car's out here--come on!"
"That young chap can keep his head," thought Mr. Dixon as he ran beside his daughter and Mr. Bolton. "It would take a lot to fluster him."
Then they came upon him, backing slowly up the drive, both doors swinging wide so they could jump in the car without his stopping.
"Which bank, Mr. Dixon?"
Bill had the car in the road now and was racing toward the village.
"First National--Main Street, next the Town Hall. I'm president, you know."
"I didn't know. But I'm glad to hear it."
"How's that?"
"You should have a drag with the traffic cops. We are doing an even sixty now--and it would be a bad time to get a ticket."
Mr. Dixon grasped the door-handle as Bill skidded them into a cross road with the expertness of a racing driver. "Just get us there, that's all," he gasped. "The chief himself phoned me. I didn't wait to hear details--but from what I gathered, the hold up men got clean away before the police discovered the robbery. But time is always a factor in a case of this kind, so don't worry about traffic rules."
"I won't," said Bill and fed his powerful engine still more gas.
Along the straight stretch of Oenoke Avenue they sped, with Bill's foot still pressing the accelerator. They flashed past the white blur of the Episcopal Church and on down the hill into Main Street and the little town.
The car's brakes screamed and Bill brought them to a stop on the edge of the crowd of pedestrians and vehicles that blocked further progress.
"D'you want us to wait here?" asked Mr. Bolton.
"No--come along," returned his friend, jumping to the sidewalk. "We'll learn the worst together."
Chapter VITHE HOLD UP
With Bill at her right and Mr. Bolton at her left elbow, Dorothy pushed her way through the crowd behind her father to the entrance of the Bank. The policeman at the head of the short flight of steps to the doorway stood aside at a word from Mr. Dixon. The four passed inside and the heavy door swung shut behind them.
"Rather like locking up the barn after the sheep vamoosed, isn't it?" Bill nodded over his shoulder toward the police guard.
"Never mind, son--this isn't our party," rebuked his father.
A fat man in a dark blue uniform, rather tight as to fit and much be-braided, came bustling up. "Who are these men, Mr. Dixon?" he inquired pompously. "Can't have strangers around the bank at this time--"
"From what I hear, Chief, you and your men let some strangers get away with about everything but the bank itself a little while ago." Mr. Dixon's tone showed his annoyance. "These gentlemen are friends of mine. What's actually happened? Give me some facts. Anybody hurt? Anybody caught? Just what has been taken?" Questions popped like revolver shots.
"Well--it's like this, sir--" The Chief seemed pretty well taken down.
"Thunderation! You and your sleuths are enough to tempt any man to law breaking. There's Perkins! Perhaps I'll learn something from him."
Mr. Dixon strode toward the rear of the bank.
"You mustn't mind Dad," Dorothy said consolingly. "Just now he's half crazy with worry, Chief.--These gentlemen are Mr. Bolton and his son. They've bought the Hawthorne place, you know."
Chief Jones mopped his perspiring face with a red bandanna and then shook hands all around. "Terrible warm tonight--terrible warm. Well, let's go over and find out what's what. I was over to a party at my daughter Annie's--only just got in here myself. Annie--"
"Yes, let's find out what has happened." Dorothy cut in on this long-winded effusion, and led the way behind the tellers' cages to where her father and several other men were standing before the open vault.
"Ah, here's the watchman now!" cried Mr. Dixon as a man, his head completely covered with bandages, came toward them and sank weakly into a chair. "Now, Thompson, do you think you can tell us exactly what happened, before Doctor Brown drives you home?"
"Yes, sir. Glad to." The man's voice, though feeble, betrayed excitement. "He sure knocked me out, that bird did--but I'd know him again if I saw him. I c'd pick him out of a million--"
"That's fine," Mr. Dixon interrupted gently. "But start at the beginning, Thompson, and we'll all get a better idea of him."
"That I will, sir, and 'rightnow!' as that French guy says over the radio.... Well, it was about eight o'clock and still light, when the night bell buzzed. I was expecting Mr. Perkins. He'd told me he'd be back after supper as he had some work to do. I'd been readin' the paper over there by the window, so I got up and opened the front door. But it wasn't Mr. Perkins. A young fellow in a chauffeur's uniform stood outside."
"'I'm Mr. Dixon's new chauffeur,' he said. 'Here's a note from him. He tried to ring you up, but the phone down here seems to be out of order. He said you'd give me a check book to take back to him. Better read this.' He passed over a letter--"
"Have you still got it?" asked Mr. Dixon.
"I think so. Yes, here it is, in my pocket." Thompson handed the missive to the bank president, who read it aloud:
"'Dear Thompson:
'Please give the bearer, my chauffeur, a blank check book and oblige
'Yours truly,'John Dixon.'"
'Yours truly,'John Dixon.'"
"Looks like my handwriting," sighed Mr. Dixon when he had finished, "but of course I didn't write it!--What happened after that?"
"Well, sir, he asked me if he could step inside and take a few puffs of a cigarette, seein' as how you didn't like him to smoke on the job. So I let him in. Then I goes over to one of the desks for a check book and--I don't remember nothin' about what happened next, until I found myself in the far corner yonder, with Mr. Perkins near chokin' me to death with some water he was pourin' down my throat--and a couple of cops undoin' the rope I'd been bound up with. I reckon that feller must have beaned me with the butt of his revolver just as soon as I'd turned my back. Doc here, says as how the skull ain't fractured--but that bird sure laid me out cold. If I hadn't had my cap on, he'd of croaked me sure. Of course, I shouldn't of let that guy inside, but--"
Mr. Dixon's tone was abrupt as he silenced Thompson with a word. "Thank you, Thompson," he said. "You are not to blame. If you hadn't let him in, he might have shot you at the door. Doctor Brown is going to take you home now. Lay up until you feel strong. And don't worry."
He patted the man on the shoulder and Thompson departed, leaning on the doctor's arm.
"I guess you're next on the list, Harry." Mr. Dixon nodded to Perkins. "How did you happen in here tonight?"
The cashier, a slender young man, prematurely bald, and dapper to the point of foppishness, removed his cigarette from his mouth and stepped forward.
"Had that Bridgeport transit matter and some other work I wanted to finish," he said crisply. "Told Thompson I would be back about eight-thirty. Matter of fact, it was twenty to nine when I rang the night bell. I rang it several times, no answer; then tried the door and found it unlocked. I thought something must be wrong--and was sure of it when I stepped in and saw Thompson lying on the floor, his arms and legs bound. Saw that he was breathing, and went to the phone. It was dead--couldn't raise Central. I didn't waste much time then, but ran out and hailed Sampson, the traffic cop on the corner. Told him there'd been a holdup here, so he blew his whistle, which brought another policeman and we three raced back here."
"You brought Thompson to and cut his bonds--then what?"
"I went to the vault. The door was ajar, with books and papers scattered all over the place. Haven't had a chance to check up, but it looks as though everything in the way of cash and negotiable securities has been taken."
"But the door hasn't been damaged--they couldn't have blown it open!"
The cashier shook his head. "No," he admitted, "they opened it with the combination. Must have used a stethoscope or the Jimmy Valentine touch system--"
"Not with that safe, Perkins. But how about the time lock?"
"It is never put on, sir, until we have no more occasion to use the vault for the day. I notified the Protective System people that I would be working here tonight and would set it when I was through."
"Humph!" growled the president in a tone that boded ill for someone. "So the time lock wasn't set!"
"It is the usual practice, sir," explained Perkins nervously. "I--"
"Never mind that now. Anyone else know anything about this robbery?"
"Yes, sir. Sampson, the traffic policeman saw the car."
"Well, let's hear from Sampson, then, if he's here."
The officer came forward rather sheepishly.
"I was directin' traffic at the corner of Main Street and East Avenue, sir, when I seen your car run down Main and stop in front of the bank here."
"Mycar!" exploded Dorothy's father.
"Yes, sir--least it was a this year's Packard like you drive--and it had your license number on it--AB521--I ought to know, I see it every day."
"Yes, that's the number--but--well ... did you notice it further?"
"Yes, sir, I did. That was about eight o'clock. The chauffeur got out and rang the bell at the entrance to the bank. Then I seen him speak to Thompson and pass inside."
"Did you investigate?"
"Why, no, sir. The man came out almost directly and the door swung shut behind him. Then he jumped into the car and drove up the alley at the side of the bank. You always park your car there, sir, so I thought nothin' of it. About twenty minutes later, out he drove again and up Main Street the way he'd come. And that's the last I've seen of him."
"There was only one man in the car--the chauffeur?"
"I only saw one. If there was anybody else, they must've been lying down, in the bottom of the car."
"Very likely." Mr. Dixon turned to the chief of police. "And what has been done toward catching the thieves--or thief?"
"Nothing, as yet," the Chief confessed. "But I'll get busy on the wire with descriptions of the man and the car right away. You see, I only just--"
"Never mind that--get along now and burn up the wires. That car has had over an hour's start on you. I'll look after things here for the present."
The head of the local police force waddled off with much the air of a fat puppy who had just received a whipping, and Mr. Dixon walked over to Mr. Bolton.
"You can do me a great favor, if you will," he said.
"Name it, Dixon."
"Thanks. Go to the drug store down the block and call up the Bankers Protective Association in the city. You'll find their number in the directory. Tell them what's happened--that will be enough. I want you to call their New York headquarters. That will start them on the job through their branches in short order."
"Right-oh!" his friend agreed. "And when I get through with New York, I'll see what New Canaan can do to fix your phone here."
"Thanks. I'll appreciate it."
"Anything I can do, Mr. Dixon?" inquired Bill.
"Nothing here, thanks. But if you will take my daughter home and see that she doesn't get into any more trouble today, I'll be much obliged to you."
"Oh,Dad!" Dorothy, threw him a reproachful look, then stood on tiptoe and kissed her parent's cheek. "There, there. I know you're worried. Phone me when you want the car. I'll have sandwiches and coffee waiting when you get home."
Mr. Dixon gave her an affectionate hug. "You're a good little housewife," he praised, "but run along now--both of you. There are a million-odd things to be done before I can leave."
He beckoned to the cashier and disappeared with him into the vault.
"Not that way, Bill--" Dorothy's voice arrested Bill as he started for the door. "Come out the back way."
"What's up?"
"I don't know yet. But I've found something that the rest seem to have missed. It may be important--come and see."
"You're on, Miss Sherlock," he said. Catching her arm, he hurried with her toward the rear of the bank.
Chapter VIIGROUND TRAILS
Bill unlatched the back door of the bank, pushed it open and stood aside for Dorothy to pass through.
"Wait a minute." She put out a restraining hand. The full glare of the arc light in the alley fell on the damp ground at their feet. "Right over there are the tire marks of the holdup car. It's lucky it rained this afternoon. The prints are perfect in this mud."
"Well, that's interesting, but--"
"Oh, no. Of course they won't solve the mystery. That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" Dorothy's voice was mocking as she looked up at Bill. "But here--see these footprints? From this door to the car?" Her tone was triumphant now. "They ought to help just a little, don't you think?"
But Bill seemed unmoved at her discovery. "Probably hoofmarks of the cops," he said rather disparagingly.
Dorothy laughed. "If those footprints were made by policemen I'll eat them. Where are your eyes, Bill? The cops in this town wear regulation broad-toed shoes. When I heard the traffic cop tell Dad that he'd seen the robbers' car go up the alley, I dashed out here to have a look around. And as soon as I saw these prints I knew they were not made by broad-toed boots. Let's examine them closer."
Taking care to avoid stepping on the well defined trail that led from the door to the tire marks of the car, the two studied the line of footprints.
"One fellow wore rubber soled shoes--I guess you're right, Dorothy," acknowledged Bill, squatting on his heels. "The pattern on this set of prints could have been made by nothing else. But what do you make of these tracks here? Just holes in the mud with a flat dab right ahead?"
"High heeled shoes, Bill. One of this gang is a woman, that is clear enough. What bothers me is the third set--look!"
Bill stared at the footprints to which she pointed. "The right-hand one was made by a long, narrow shoe, but I'll swear that boot last was never made in America. It's too pointed," he said finally. "The shoe that made that imprint was bought in southern Europe, I'll bet--Italy, probably. But those queer looking marks to the left are beyond me," he frowned. Then he cried--"No, they're not! I have it--the man who made those prints was club-footed!"
Dorothy disagreed with him. "A club-foot couldn't make that mark. It is too symmetrical--straight on both sides and kind of rounded at the back and front. It wasn't made by a wooden leg, either, Bill!"
"No. That would simply dig a hole in the mud."
"Oh, I know! Why didn't I see it at once!" she exclaimed excitedly--"The man was lame!"
Bill snorted. "And he had long pink whiskers which he tied round his waist with a green ribbon!"
"Don't be silly--I know what I'm talking about."
"How so?"
"Iknowthat a lame man made that set of marks."
"Very well. May Doctor Watson inquire on what Miss Sherlock Holmes bases her astounding deduction?"
"On those queer marks, of course, stupid!"
"Thanks. The clouds have vanished. You make everything so lucid." Bill stood erect once more.
"But, Bill--did you ever see a lame man--whose left leg was shorter than his right?"
"Maybe I did. But I can't swear at this distant date which leg was the shorter."
"Well, I can tell you that in this case, the left was!"
"Maybe--"
"Maybe nothing! Why am I sure of it? Because the man wore a lame man's boot--the kind with a very thick sole. My grandfather wore one. He twisted his hip when he was a boy and that leg didn't grow as long as the other. What is more, he always walked on thesoleof his big boot--the heel never touched the ground!"
"I believe youareright," mused the young man, studying one of the queer footprints again.
"I know I am, Bill. That kind of a shoe would make exactly that print. Not such a bad hunch to take a look out here, was it?"
"You're a swell sleuth, Dorothy. Let's see. Now we know there were three in the gang this evening. The chap who played chauffeur and wore sneakers, a woman, and a lame man--probably an Italian."
"Yes. But that doesn't solve the mystery, does it?"
"No, but it helps a lot. How about the tire tracks?"
"Not our car. Daddy uses Silvertowns and those were made by some other kind."
"Goodyears, I should say. How about going in now and telling your father what we've learned?"
"I'd rather not, if you don't mind?"
"Why!"
"Well, you see, Bill, Dad hasn't much confidence in girls' views on what he calls 'the practical side of life'--mine especially. There'll soon be a bunch of detectives on this case. If they find out for themselves, it's O.K. with me--but I shan't tell them."
"You want to work up the case yourself?"
"That's exactly it. If you'll help me?"
"Certainly I will. But we may get into trouble--I mean it is likely to be dangerous work."
"Does that bother you?"
"I'd hate to have you get hurt--"
"I won't do anything on my own without telling you first. We'll work together. Does that suit your highness?"
"You bet! Where do we go from here?"
"Back to my house. We'll go down the alley and hop in your car. I want to ride up to our garage. I've got another hunch."
"The kid's clever," remarked Bill admiringly. "Want to tell me? I haven't a glimmer."
They turned out of the alley into Main Street before Dorothy answered.
"Suppose you guess," she suggested teasingly as she stepped into the car. "Or, better still, now that you've become my aviation instructor, I'll even things up and give you a short course in sleuthing."
"That's a go, teacher," grinned Bill. The car rolled up the hill past the white Memorial Cross on the village green. "But to a mere amateur in crime it looks as though you had barged into a pretty good mystery, no kidding."
"Sh--" commanded Dorothy. "Sherlock Holmes is thinking."
"Don't strain anything," Bill advised as he stepped on the accelerator.
Dorothy did not retort to this thrust, but remainder wrapped in her thoughts for the remainder of the ride. Bill turned the car into the Dixon's drive before she spoke again.
"Keep on to the garage, please."
"Right-oh! Still sleuthing, I take it?"
"Yes."
"Whatisthe big idea?"
"Wait and see."
He drew up under the arching elms with the glare of their headlights focussed upon the closed garage doors. Dorothy sprang out and ran forward.
"Locked," she affirmed, giving the handle a tug. "Wait a minute, Bill. I'll be right back." She disappeared in the direction of the house.
Bill shut off the engine and clambered down to the ground. Presently he saw her coming back, accompanied by a woman in maid's cap and apron.
"All right, Lizzie," her young mistress said, "I want to look at something first. Then you can tell us exactly what happened. That's right, give me the key."
She swung open one of the wide doors.
"The Packard's there, just as I told you, Miss Dorothy," volunteered Lizzie as the three stepped inside the garage. "It's your car that's missing."
"I left it at the beach club--" Dorothy cut herself short. "The license plates are gone from the Packard!"
"Wasn't that to be expected after what the cop told us in the bank?" There was a hint of mockery in Bill's voice.
"Of course. But the point is--were they taken this afternoon while Daddy had the car parked behind the bank--or later this evening after he drove home? He would never remember whether he drove from the bank with the plates still attached or not. He never notices details like that."
Bill seemed amused. "Perhaps not--but what's the difference?"
"Wait a minute. You'll soon get another slant. Now, Lizzie--start from the very beginning."
Lizzie spoke up eagerly. "Yes, miss. Cook and me was havin' our supper in the kitchen, miss--"
"Where was Arthur?--He's our chauffeur-gardener," explained Dorothy to Bill.
"It's Arthur's night off, miss. He went to the movies--said he'd get a bite at the lunch wagon in the village, though why a man should want to eat hot dogs and such trash with honest-to-goodness vittles waiting for him at home is more than--"
"Never mind that now, Lizzie.--You and cook were eating supper--?"
"Yes, miss. We was just finishin' when we heard a car pass the house on its way out to the garage. I thought it might be Arthur, back in the Ford for some supper. Cook said--"
"Oh, Lizzie, please! What happened then?"
"Why, a man came to the back door and asked for the key to the garage. Said as how he had orders to fix the Packard."
"What time was that?"
"About five minutes after we heard the car drive out here, miss."
"No--I mean the time of day."
"I couldn't rightly say, Miss Dorothy. The kitchen clock is down to Whipple's being mended. But it was just after you'd gone over to Mr. Bolton's for dinner."
"What did the man look like, Lizzie?"
"Like any young man, miss."
"But was he tall or short?"
"Kind of medium-like--"
"Dark hair or light?"
"I can't seem to remember--he had a chauffeur's cap on and was in his shirt sleeves, that I do know."
"Did you notice if he limped?"
"No, he didn't, miss--but the other fellow did--him with the big boot."
"Bull's eye!" cried Bill. "You're sure some detective, Dorothy!"
"Keep still?" ordered that young lady. And then to the housemaid: "We'll take up the man with the big boot in a minute, Lizzie. Now then, you gave the other one the garage key, I s'pose?"
Lizzie snorted. "That I didn't, miss. I took the key off the hook and walked out to the garage with him. Mr. Dixon wouldn't be thankin' me to let strange men fool round in the garage by theirselves!"
"Then how in thunder did they cop the license plates without your seeing them?" exploded Bill.
"Do shut up and let me talk!" Dorothy stamped her foot impatiently. "Now, Lizzie, what happened next?"
"Well, miss, I unlocked the doors and he started tinkerin' with the engine of the Packard there. Then all of a sudden he went out to the other car and spoke to somebody inside."
"What car was that?"
"The one he'd drove up in. It was parked out on the drive where the young gentleman has his'n now."
"Another Packard, was it?"
"I couldn't say, miss. I didn't pay much attention to it, except that it was a closed car--and there was a man and a woman in back."
Dorothy exchanged glances with Bill. "And then?"
"Then the young feller comes back and says as how the lady in the car was feeling sick, and could I fetch her a glass of water with a teaspoonful of bicarbonate of soda in it. I knew we had some in the medicine chest upstairs, so--"
"So you went back to the house and got it?"
"Yes, miss."
"Andthat'swhen they copped the plates!" declared Bill, the irrepressible.
"Bull's eye!" derided Dorothy. "How'd you guess it?"
"Form of genius some of us have."
Dorothy ignored this last and turned again to the maid. "What happened when you brought back the bicarb, Lizzie?"
"I give it to the young lady in the car, miss."
"Young, was she?"
"I couldn't get a good look at her face, for she was dabbin' her eyes with a handkerchief like she'd been cryin'. But she was dressed in some of those new-fangled pajamas like you wear to the beach, they was--sort of yellow-green color--and a wisp of her hair that had got loose from the bandanna she wore was red--the brightest red hair I ever see. She turned her head away when she drunk the medicine, but she thanked me prettily enough when she handed back the glass."
"Have you washed it yet?"
"No, miss. You see, I--"
"Then don't. I want that glass, just as it is. Was the lame man sitting beside her?"
"No. When I brought her the soda he was comin' out of the garage with the other fellow. He was carryin' a package wrapped in newspaper and he says as how he was takin' some part of the engine back to the shop. He spoke kind of funny, like a foreigner, I thought. And all dolled up in a light suit and a cane. Why, he'd even got lemon colored gloves on for all his lameness and the big boot he wore!"
"Did the girl and the other man wear gloves?"
"The man put them on when he started to tinker with the car, I remember. But the girl had no gloves on."
"You're sure?"
"Oh, yes, miss, because I noticed her shiny pink finger nails, particular. I thought at the time that washin' dishes couldn't be no part of her life."
"That's fine, Lizzie. You make a splendid witness."
"Thanks, miss. I got a good look at the lame man, too. He had a funny little black mustache like they wear in the movies and little gold knobs in his ears--what do think ofthat!" Lizzie paused dramatically as she gave this choice bit of information.
"Earrings?"
"Earrings, miss--and--"
"Thank you, Lizzie. You may go now."
"Remember those earrings, miss. And I'll keep the glass for you, and won't let cook touch it either, never fear!" Lizzie's slight figure faded into the darkness.
"So you've got pretty good descriptions of the gangandthe lady's fingerprints!" Bill summed up. "I've got to hand it to you, kid. Reckon you'll have to let your father know about it though. Those fingerprints will have to be examined by the police."
Dorothy nodded. "Guess you're right. I'll tell him what we found out."
"Whatyou'vefound out, you mean. As I think I told you before, when it comes to detective work, I'm a ground hog!"
"Nonsense! But that reminds me, Bill. Do I get a lesson tomorrow?"
"Do you think you can take time enough from your life work?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You may think I've finished fooling with this robbery when I turn over the dope to Daddy--but I haven't. I want a flying lesson, just the same, in the morning. Shall we go up in theLoeningagain?"
"No. I'll drive you down to the shore and we'll take theN-9out. Don't wait for your father to-night. Tell him what you want to at breakfast."
"But I've got to--"
"This is your flight instructor speaking, Dorothy. No lesson in the morning for you, young lady, unless you go straight to bed now and get a good night's rest. A clear head and steady nerves are the first requisites for flying."
"All right then. I'll turn in directly. Good night."
Bill was already seated behind the wheel of his car. "Good night, Dorothy. By the way,I'vegot a hunch about this bank business. After you've had some flight training we'll investigate together--and the plane will be a great asset," he added mysteriously. His foot pressed the self-starter.
"Don't be so vague--spill the news like a good fellow."
"Sh--" mocked Bill. "'Sherlock Holmes is thinking!'" His laugh rang out and the car disappeared in the deep shadows of the drive.
"He's not so dumb as he pretends," mused Miss Dixon. "What can he have up his sleeve?"
Slowly she moved off toward the back door of the house.
Chapter VIIINEXT MORNING
"You've done splendidly, my dear. I'm proud of you. This information you've dug up will be a lot of help in tracing that gang, I'm sure."
Dorothy and her father were seated at the table, taking their morning meal in the breakfast porch, just off the dining room. Although the bond of affection uniting father and daughter was a strong one, especially since the mother's death some years earlier, neither was particularly demonstrative. And Dorothy was not used to receiving unstinted praise of this sort from her father. The colour in her cheeks deepened, and she said off-handedly:
"I'm awfully glad, Daddy. You haven't had your second cup of coffee, have you?"
Mr. Dixon smiled, and passed his cup to her. His shrewd glance took in her evident embarrassment.
"No need to dissemble, daughter. Fact is, I keep forgetting you're no longer a child; and I don't mind telling you how valuable you are to me."
Dorothy smiled back at him. "Thanks a lot, Dad." She returned his filled cup. "Did the gang get away with much?"
"Plenty. A number of easily negotiable bonds, what currency we had on hand, etc. Of course, we're well covered by insurance--but the worst of it is, they took Mrs. Hamberfield's diamond necklace!"
"What! The Hamberfields, of Canoe Hill?"
"The same. They bought the old Adams place two years ago and keep it for a summer residence. More money there than--er--taste, I believe. Mrs. H. goes in for jewels on a big scale."
"Wears diamonds at breakfast, I'll bet, Daddy. She came to the Country Club last Saturday night, dressed up to the hilt and beyond it. I've never seen so much jewelry! Doug Parsons suggested that she'd been robbing Tiffany's. A regular ice-wagon with her diamonds!"
"Well, she's lost a lot of them, now. That gang evidently knew she had a habit of keeping some of them in her deposit box at the bank, for it was the only one they raided."
"That's interesting."
"In what way?"
"Never mind now. Tell me some more."
"Well, naturally, I phoned the lady last night--and well--she was most unpleasant--"
"The nasty cat! Serves her right to have them stolen!"
"Hardly that, dear. But the bank is responsible for her necklace and other gewgaws. And her husband is a power in the financial world."
Having breakfasted sufficiently for one day, Dorothy was busy with an orange lipstick.
"More unpleasantness for you, Daddy?" she asked through pursed lips, her eyes on the small mirror of her compact, open on the table before her.
"He is in a position to do the bank considerable harm--By the way, Dorothy, are you as efficient at manicuring as you are at making up your mouth?"
"P-perhaps. Why?"
"Good. Then, after this I'll get you to do my nails while I have my second cup of coffee each morning!"
"Aren't you horrid!"
"Aren't you the cheeky kid, using that thing in front of me?"
"You really don't mind, Daddy?"
"Do you think it an improvement over nature?"
"I know it isn't."
"Why use a lipstick then?"
"But--why do you wear that curly mustache?"
"More cheek?"
"Not at all. But it adds dignity to your face--what's more, your mustache is becoming and you know it."
"Nonsense!" Mr. Dixon's tone was derisive but there was a twinkle in his keen gray eyes.
Dorothy nodded decisively. "While my lipstick, properly used, is also becoming," she went on. "And it gives your daughter a sophisticated appearance otherwise lacking--" she broke off with a giggle as she saw her father's expression.
Dorothy snapped her compact shut and rose from the table. Going round to his side, she gave her father a hug and kissed him lightly on his mustache. "There!" she laughed. "Now I've added sophistication to your dignity, Daddy. You'll be able to run both the bank and that ritzy Mrs. Hamberfield like a charm today. So long! Bill is coming for me and we're going down to the beach. I'm to have my first real flight instruction this morning, you know."
"From all accounts you did pretty well yesterday, young lady. Don't you think you'd better come down to the bank and tell the story of your sleuthing to the Bankers' Association detectives? They'll be up here from New York this morning."
From the doorway, Dorothy shook her head. "Nothing doing!" she cried. "I love you a lot--but you have the story down pat yourself--and I've got a date I can't break. That glass with the fingerprints on it, you'll find nicely wrapped up on the hall table. 'By--" She was through the door and across the lawn before Mr. Dixon could reply.
He folded his napkin and laid it on the table with a sigh. "Heigho!" he murmured. "I wonder what her mother would say to that? Still, Dorothy grows more like her every day. The youngster has brains if she only uses them in the right way. She certainly has been a help on this robbery--and she is a comfort to me--but a great responsibility at that."
Then, carefully lighting his after-breakfast cigar, Mr. Dixon walked into the house.
Shortly after Mr. Dixon had left for the bank, Bill's horn honked in the drive.
Dorothy appeared presently, wearing a boy's outing shirt open at the neck and a pair of fawn-colored jodhpurs. She noticed as she approached the car that Frank, the Bolton's chauffeur, was seated in the rumble.
"I've got to run into New York and buy some flying clothes," she announced as she seated herself at Bill's side.
"Don't bother about clothes, for heaven's sake. They won't help you to fly. I've got several extra helmets and some goggles and those things you're wearing now will be just the thing. All you need are overalls--and I bought you those in the village this morning."
"Aren't you nice," she beamed. "But I do need a leather coat, don't I?"
"What for?"
"Didn't you tell me the cockpits of your N-9 were open--that they didn't have windshields?"
"Yes--but what of it?"
"Won't it be cold?"
"Not at this time of year. We're not out for an altitude record. Of course, when you get a couple of miles or so above the earth you have to bundle up--but the old OXX motor in my N-9 would never get you there. She's not built for that kind of work. Later on, you can order a monkey suit or a leather coat from the city."
"Yes, I'll get one of those sporty knee-length coats--" decided Dorothy gleefully.
"Not if I know it!"
"But why not? They're so goodlooking!"
"And more dangerous than a broken strut!"
"They are?" Dorothy's tone was horrified.
"Certainly. If you buy a coat, get a waist-length model. Anything longer not only hampers a pilot, it catches the wind and is likely to get caught around your stick or other controls and crash the plane."
"Oh!" said Dorothy disappointedly.
Bill slanted his eyes from the road and smiled at her. "Not everyone who wears a yachting cap is a yachtsman! You'll have plenty to think of during your flight training without bothering about such things."
"I guess you're right," she agreed. "How long will it take to teach me to fly, Bill?"
"It all depends upon your aptitude, Dorothy. Ask me again after ten hours of dual instruction. But no matter how apt you prove to be, flying is not learned in a day. I've mapped out a forty-hour course for you. Want to look it over?" He handed her a typewritten sheet.
She studied the paper interestedly. It was titled.