“Yes, I know. Osceola is with her, of course, and until you drove up here I’d nothing to do except think—and watch the shadows on the lawn. He’ll be coming back here for chow soon. We dine at seven. You’ll stop with us, of course?”
“Thanks very much, I’ll be glad to. And you will be interested to hear that I’ve been authorized to secure Chief Osceola’s services on this case. I’ve an idea he’ll prove a valuable man.”
“He sure will!” Bill replied enthusiastically, “—and after what these cartwheel fellows have done to Deborah, there’d be no keeping him out of it anyway.”
Mr. Davis looked grave. “That young lady holds the most important clue we have.”
“Yes,” said Bill. “Gosh, I can hardly wait till eight o’clock!”
Chapter XI
THE MAN WITH THE WHEEZE
Bill, Osceola and Mr. Davis walked across the lawn to the Dixon house a few minutes after eight that evening. Mr. Dixon greeted them at the door.
“Come in, come in,” he said genially, shaking hands with Davis and nodding to the lads. “Deborah, I’m glad to say, is much better. She is just finished with her supper. We can go up in a moment or two.”
“I’m sorry to intrude at this time, Mr. Dixon,” apologized the secret service man. “Chief Osceola tells me that your maids departed, bag and baggage, this morning, to further complicate matters, and I should think your household must be very much upset.”
“Dorothy,” pronounced her father, “is a mighty good little housekeeper. She’s been running the place in great shape, with the help of a girl we got in from the village. You haven’t met my daughter yet, have you, Mr. Davis?”
“No, but I’ve heard of her flying exploits. She’s by way of being quite a detective, too, isn’t she?”
“Yes, indeed. She saved me and my bank a heap of trouble earlier this summer,” said her father proudly. “Dorothy—” he called, “come here for a moment, please.”
“What is it, Daddy?” A door at the back of the hall burst open and Dorothy ran toward them. Her girlish figure was clothed in a blue linen frock and a white apron covered her from throat to ankles. There were some faint traces of flour clinging to her wrists as if she had been suddenly summoned from the bread bowl. She looked fresh and sweet, strong and healthy, and a certain grace of manner pleased Mr. Davis instantly. He saw that she had her father’s eyes and coloring, his air of self-reliance. He noticed, too, that when she spoke to her parent her voice was tempered with a particular tenderness. This pleased him most of all, for he had expected to see somewhat of a hoyden. This girl, for all her prowess as a flyer, was totally feminine. Mr. Dixon introduced them.
“I didn’t know young ladies made bread these days,” said the detective as he shook hands with her.
Dorothy smiled and glanced at her arms. “Not bread, Mr. Davis, rolls for breakfast. Daddy likes them home-made, and I hate to get up early, so I’ve been mixing dough.”
“Do you think, dear, that Deborah can see Mr. Davis now? He is in charge of the case, you know.”
“Why yes, that will be perfectly all right, Daddy. When I took down her supper half an hour ago, the nurse said that any time would be convenient. She stipulated, though, that Mr. Davis have only one other person with him, and that the interview be as brief as possible.”
“Certainly, we want to spare her as much as we can,” said Mr. Davis. “I have only a few questions to ask. And I think I’ll take Bill with me. He’s been wounded in the fray, and I think that under the circumstances he has the right to hear first whatever Miss Lightfoot has to tell us.”
“He certainly has,” chimed in Osceola. “He saved Deb’s life. I’ve seen her this afternoon, but the nurse wouldn’t allow us to talk. Make it snappy, you two. I’m on pins and needles to learn her story.”
“All right—” Bill waved a bandaged hand, and with Dorothy leading the way, he and Mr. Davis went upstairs.
When they reached the door to Deborah’s room, Dorothy excused herself and went in, leaving them waiting in the corridor.
“Let me do most of the talking,” cautioned the detective. “And if she can’t remember, be sure not to press her. It might have a very serious effect on the girl’s health.”
Dorothy opened the door. “You may go in now. The poor child feels rather rocky still. Those brutes hit her over the head, you know, and she is still in a good deal of pain.”
Deborah lay on a lounge by the window. When they entered she was apparently asleep. Across her forehead, covering her temples, two narrow bandages bound up her wound. As the detective and Bill crossed the room, she opened her eyes, and her bruised, discolored face broke into a smile. Then, noticing their evident anxiety, she sat up, leaning an elbow on her pillow. A trained nurse hovered in the background a moment, then noiselessly left the room.
“Bill—don’t look so upset. It’s nothing—I’ll be all right in a day or two. We Seminoles are hard to down, you know. They tell me you saved my life, Bill. I don’t know what to say to thank you—”
“Please don’t!” Bill smiled down at her and took one of the two chairs that had been placed near her couch. “I’ll bet they forgot to tell you that I was saving my own life just about that time!”
“Oh, your poor hands!” she cried, spying the bandages. “Are they very badly torn?”
“Only scratched up a bit. We Boltons haven’t the honor to be Seminoles, but we’re pretty tough articles, just the same.” Deborah smiled, and Bill indicated his companion. “This is Mr. Davis, Deborah. He is in charge of the case and he wants to ask you a few questions.”
“How do you do, Mr. Davis?” Deborah spoke brightly enough, but Bill could see that the excitement of their visit was proving a strain.
“Now, if you don’t feel well enough to talk, Miss Lightfoot, we’ll postpone our chat until tomorrow,” said Mr. Davis in his pleasant voice.
Deborah shook her head. “No, Mr. Davis—I know that if I can tell you anything which will help you in your search for these men, then the sooner you have the information, the more valuable it will be to you. Of course, except for the fight with them in this room, after which they carried me downstairs, and then, for a few minutes in the automobile before they jabbed a hypodermic needle into my arm, I really know nothing—”
“I realize that, Miss Lightfoot. Bill said ‘questions’ just now, but there is only one thing I’ve come to ask you.”
Deborah looked relieved, yet faintly puzzled. “What is that, Mr. Davis?”
“Do you think you could describe the old man whose mask you pulled off in the automobile? We have reason to believe he is the leader of these kidnappers.”
“I am sure I can. You must know that the car was a seven-passenger Packard. I was placed in the middle of the rear seat between two men, who held me. The man you mentioned was sitting in one of the two extra seats that let down, just in front of me. Although I was still struggling with my captors, and half frantic, I noticed him particularly because he wore a black mask that entirely covered his face. Above the mask, a fringe of white hair showed at the edge of a black silk skullcap. Although I never saw him standing, I judged he was not much taller than five feet two or three. He was thin and small-boned, and narrow-shouldered. His head was very large, it seemed too large to be supported by his skinny neck. His voice was high-pitched and shrill. He wheezed, too, as though he might have asthma....”
“Splendid!” said Mr. Dixon, as the nurse brought Deborah a glass of water. “What did he look like when you pulled off the mask?”
Deborah smiled a little grimly. “For all the world like an old bird of prey, Mr. Davis. And a very much frightened bird, at that. Those men, you see, had gagged me with a handkerchief. I managed to get the thing out of my mouth and in the struggle that followed, the old man, who was wheezing orders all the time, leaned toward me. He tried to get hold of my right arm which I had wrenched free. The man on that side of me was temporarily out of the running, because I had jabbed him with my elbow just under the heart a moment before. Well, when the old man leaned toward me I made a grab for his head. My idea was to get a grip on the back of his thin neck and hurl him into the man on my left who had me by the arm. As it was, the old boy drew back suddenly, and instead of his neck, I got the mask.”
“Can you describe his features?”
“I’m quite sure I can. His forehead, below the fringe of white hair, was high and broad; the brow of a scholar, almost. Bushy white eyebrows shaded little dark eyes, brown, probably, which seemed too small for his face. Between these a very thin, high-bridged nose jutted out. He was clean-shaven, with rather high cheek bones and hollow cheeks. His mouth below his beak of a nose was a straight, thin-lipped line. From his nostrils, two deep furrows ran down to the corners of his mouth, and his chin was long and pointed. His throat was flabby and the Adam’s apple prominent. Oh, I forgot to say that, his entire face, nose and all was crisscrossed with the deep wrinkles of old age.”
“You are a most observant young lady, Miss Lightfoot. I never expected to receive such a detailed description. I can picture the old villain perfectly.”
“I am glad.” Deborah smiled back at him. “I am Seminole, you must remember, Mr. Davis. Indians, men and women, are trained from childhood to notice detail.”
The secret service man nodded. Then suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation and leaned toward her.
“Can you tell me,” he asked, and all three of his hearers felt the excitement in his tone. “Can you remember, Miss Lightfoot, anything peculiar about this old man’s ears?”
“Yes, I—I can, Mr. Davis. I did notice them, particularly. They were small, set close to his head and absolutely lobeless. Also, with the single exception of Napoleon’s death mask, which I saw in New Orleans last year, I had never seen ears set so low on a person’s head. The top of both this man’s ears and those of the great French Emperor were on a line with the outside corners of their eyes!”
Mr. Davis leaned back in his chair, an oddly puzzled frown on his handsome features. “Miss Lightfoot,” he said slowly, “you will understand and pardon me when I say you are a very remarkable young woman—with a very fine memory.”
“I’m afraid I can’t agree with you, Mr. Davis. If my memory was really good, I could place the man. From the moment I glimpsed his face, I had a feeling that I’d seen him somewhere. Yet I haven’t the slightest idea where it could have been.”
“But you have told me who he is, just the same, hard as it is to believe the truth!”
“You know his name?” exclaimed Bill and Deborah simultaneously.
“I most certainly do. What’s more, I am pretty sure I know where Miss Lightfoot saw him—Excuse me for a moment.” He stood up. “I’m going downstairs, but I’ll be right back. In the meantime, I don’t want you young people to talk any more. Miss Lightfoot needs a rest and she must have it.”
He went swiftly out of the room and Deborah, now that further conversation was unnecessary, closed her eyes and lay back on the pillows. Bill sat, lost in thought, until Mr. Davis returned in a surprisingly short time.
In his hand he carried the Sunday roto-gravure section of a New York newspaper. Deborah looked up as he spread out the page and held it before her.
“Do you see your abductor here?”
Bill, who had risen and was looking over the detective’s shoulder, saw her point unhesitatingly to a large photograph at the top of the page, which portrayed two men, one middle-aged and the other old and wrinkled, seated in garden chairs on a lawn. Both were familiar faces, and the older was undoubtedly the man Deborah had just described. The picture was captioned: “President lunches with savant.”
Below, he read: “The President visited Professor Fanely on the latter’s ninetieth birthday, when he was the principal guest at the ‘Great Old Man’s’ birthday luncheon.”
“‘Great Old Man’ is right,” snorted Bill. “It takes some doing to run away with a young girl at ninety!”
“Do keep quiet, Bill!” Deborah’s pale face was serious. “Why, it seems impossible, doesn’t it, Mr. Davis? Of course I know Professor Fanely’s reputation as a scientist, everybody does, it’s world wide. Yet impossible as it may seem, I’m surer than ever that the old gentleman in the photograph there, sitting beside the President of the United States, was the man I unmasked early this morning!”
Mr. Davis took her hand in his. “I believe you, young lady,” he said kindly. “But Bill and I have a first class job on our hands. And I must ask both you and nurse over there not to breathe a word of this matter. What was formerly a serious affair has become a hundred-fold more so now. To know the truth is one thing: to be able to prove that truth quite another. And believe me when I say that if I am able to prove Professor Fanely, who is respected and loved the world over, the man who abducted you and tried to kill you, Bill and Osceola—I shall consider that I, too, am a world beater! Only I might as well say now that I haven’t the ghost of a show.”
Chapter XII
ARGUMENT
“Before we can think of arresting Professor Fanely,” remarked Mr. Davis, “we must have indisputable evidence that we can put before a jury.”
“But surely, Mr. Davis,” argued Osceola, “Deborah’s description of the old man—her recognition of his photograph should be sufficient to convict him.”
“On the contrary,” declared Bill. “Although it has put us wise to the old buzzard, it really is no evidence at all. Am I right, Mr. Davis?”
“You certainly are, Bill. We’d be hooted out of court in no time; and probably have countercharges of criminal libel brought against us by old Fanely into the bargain.”
The trio had just walked back to the Bolton house. Ensconced in comfortable chairs on the side porch, they had constituted themselves a Ways-and-Means committee.
Bill came back at his friend again. “You’re letting your personal feeling for Deborah enter into this, Osceola. It just can’t be done.”
“But Deborah is perfectly sure. She was in the car with the man, wasn’t she? Her word—”
“Is quite good enough for us, or for anyone who really knows Miss Lightfoot’s admirable character,” broke in the secret service man. He shrewdly guessed the impatience that raged beneath the young Seminole’s calm exterior. But rational discussion of the problem, and not heated argument was their object in conferring. He therefore proceeded to pour oil upon troubled waters. “You see, Chief,” he went on to explain, “this is not a case where anybody’s word, no matter who he or she may be, will count in the balance with the word of Professor Fanely himself.”
“Obviously, he’d deny it—” said Bill.
“Not only deny any charge preferred against him,” Mr. Davis said earnestly. “He would be sure to bring forth a cast iron alibi that no one could break. And, however illogical it might seem, in all probability his mere word would be adjudged sufficient. Think of the man’s life-long reputation—the things he has done. His name is a household word the world over. And with all that in his favor to prejudice public opinion, Professor Fanely is a Croesus. The patents on his scientific discoveries have brought him millions. And, to cap the pyramid of his fortifications, he counts as his friends the great men of both this country and Europe....”
Osceola turned his dark eyes from an unseeing study of the patterned porch rug, and nodded slowly. “I begin to see our difficulties—at least, some of them. I ask your pardon, Mr. Davis, for making a fool of myself!”
“Nonsense, my boy!” Davis leaned forward and patted him on the knee. “You made the natural mistake of believing we had to deal with a private individual.”
“Whereas,” grinned Bill, “the professor is really a national institution!”
“Exactly. We three are convinced that there is a screw loose somewhere in that great brain, but we’ve simply got to prove that. Merely saying that he is this and that would let us in for a lot of trouble, and only defeat our ends.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But what can we do about this mess if nobody will believe us?”
“Find out what racket old Fanely is running—and get him with the goods.”
“Easier said than done, Bill. Let’s kidnap the old boy and that Kolinski guy, for choice. Leave me alone in a room with those bozos for half an hour, and I’ll come out with a couple of signed confessions. They’re a pair of third degree artists themselves. I’m fed up with all this kid glove business. And they’ve got a whole lot coming from me before we break even.”
They were silent for a minute or two. Mr. Davis brought out his pipe, filled and lighted it. Tossing the glowing match over the porch rail, he turned toward the irate young chief.
“But such methods will get us nowhere. And even if we were able to follow out your suggestion, I, as servant of the Federal Government, could not countenance it. Bill is right. Only by learning what is really in back of this, will we be able to apprehend the ringleader, and put him where he can do no more harm. I’m old enough to be your father, chief, and I’ve been in this business since before you were born. As you know, I first thought that we were up against a dope smuggling gang. That is how I first came onto this case.”
“Then you’ve changed your mind about that?” inquired Bill.
“Yes and no. Dope smuggling from Europe may be part of it—but only part. That would be small potatoes for a man of the professor’s standing and wealth. There’s something else behind all this winged cartwheel affair, and we’ve touched only the edge of it. The next move on our program is to do exactly what Bill suggests: go and find out about it. Before Miss Lightfoot put us wise to Professor Fanely, I hadn’t the least idea where to turn. Her information gives us the lead and we shall certainly take advantage of it.”
Bill looked up. “The old boy has a big place in Greenwich, has he not?”
“Yes. And one or more of us will be in that house of his before thirty-six hours.”
“Why thirty-six hours?” This from Osceola. “Why not tonight? Greenwich is only just beyond Stamford—we can run down there in forty-five minutes by car.”
“There are two very good reasons, perhaps three, why we won’t do so tonight, chief. Fanely knows that Deborah has awakened by this time from the hypodermic injection he administered. He will figure that if she really got a good look at him, and knows him to be the famous scientist whose features the magazines and newspapers have made public property, he may expect trouble in some form at Greenwich tonight. He will therefore be very much on the lookout for it. Or he may take the initiative himself, and stage another kidnapping across the road before morning. In either case, we will be much more useful in New Canaan than in Greenwich.
“If his men do not come here tonight and nobody bothers him down there, the chances are, he will believe that your fiancee didn’t get such a good look at him after all. It was dark in that car last night. His vast knowledge and discoveries have been along chemical and electrical lines. It’s not likely he remembers or even knows the ability of your race to see so much better in the dark than his. So by tomorrow, when nothing happens, he’ll consider that incident closed and go about his business as usual.”
“And,” said Bill, “if we take a run down to his joint tomorrow night, I may be of some use. These bandages will be off my hands by then.”
“That is another point. Bill naturally wants to be in on anything we do—so you see, chief?—”
“I see,” nodded Osceola. “It never struck me, either, that there might be another attack on the Dixon’s tonight. What are your plans, Mr. Davis?”
“You and I will go over there in a little while. Mr. Dixon and I arranged for it earlier in the evening. We will sleep on cots in the library, and with Mr. Dixon we’ll divide the night into two-hour watches. With the three of us on hand, we can watch two hours and sleep four. The New Canaan police have two men patrolling the Dixon grounds right now. Two more relieve them at midnight and will remain on duty until daylight. And until this job is cleaned up, I’ve arranged to have a policeman on the place during the day as well.”
“Very nice, very nice indeed,” remarked Bill, only half stifling a yawn. “And where, may I ask, do I come in?”
Mr. Davis smiled. “Down at Greenwich tomorrow night, my boy. If anything happens across the way, you’d be no earthly use with your hands out of commission. My orders to you are to turn in and get a good rest tonight. Tomorrow when the Chief and I are making up for lost sleep, you can take your turn at duty.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Bill spoke submissively enough, but it took no great exercise of perception to realize that he was not a bit keen on that part of Mr. Davis’ plan.
Chapter XIII
PLANS
Bill awoke, yawned, then sat up in bed. Broad daylight was streaming into the room through the screened windows and a glance at his watch showed the time to be nine o’clock. The door opened and Osceola poked his dark head around the edge of it.
“How’s the bandaged hero this morning?” he inquired and came into the bedroom.
“Sleepy, thank you.” Bill swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretched luxuriously and stood up. “I’ll feel more human when I’ve had a shower. Nothing happened across the way last night?”
“Not a blessed thing, and Deborah, I’m glad to say, seems quite her old self this morning.”
“Good! Any orders from the boss?”
“Davis, you mean?”
“Yeah. What’s the old sleuth doing this merry morn?”
“He’s gone to New York. Left on the express an hour and a half ago, said he’d be back by six-thirty this evening at the latest.”
“What are we to do in the meantime?”
“Take it easy. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, so I’m going to make up for it. I peeped in here a couple of times, but you were a dead one.”
“Why did you wait for me to wake up?”
“Davis left some of that salve for your hands. I knew you couldn’t apply it yourself and get the bandages back on again, so—”
“You did yourself out of some sleep for my sake—Well, you certainly are a good chap, Osceola! Let me get under that shower and then we’ll go to it on the first aid job.”
When Bill’s hands were dressed, Osceola went to his room, while his host spent a quiet morning lazing about the house. After lunch the boys fetched Dorothy and Deborah and drove down to the Beach Club. While Bill lay on the sand in the sun, the other three took a dip in the invigorating waters of Long Island Sound.
After ice cream and cakes on the Club House porch, they drove up into the hills to New Canaan again, much refreshed by their outing. All mention of winged cartwheels had been taboo throughout the afternoon, and Bill felt that he was ready to face the forthcoming adventure in Greenwich with added vim and a head swept clear of the cobwebs of worry and too much excitement. They dropped the girls at the Dixons’ and after driving home, found Mr. Davis smoking on the porch.
“Well, you men,” he greeted them with a jolly smile, “have you had a real lazy—and therefore profitable—day of it?”
“We sure have,” said Osceola. “Not only ourselves but the girls as well. We’ve just come back from a swim in the Sound. Poor Bill missed out on that end of it, though.”
“Glad you’ve had a good rest,” observed the secret service man, “you both needed it. Let’s have a look at the hands, Bill.”
“They certainly feel all to the merry,” said their owner, as the bandages were removed.
“And they are all to the merry, Bill.” Mr. Davis gently wiped away the brown salve with a clean piece of linen. “Just a little red, that’s all. They’ve healed by first intention, as I knew they would. Go easy with them for a couple of days and they’ll give you no more trouble.”
Bill stared at them in amazement. “That salve sure is wonderful stuff, sir! It’s worried me all day—that they might put a crimp in my evening. But I guess I’d better wear a pair of gloves, eh?”
“Yes, cotton ones for choice.”
“I’ll drive down to the village and see if I can pick up a pair for you,” offered Osceola.
“You forget,” said Bill, “that once upon a time, I was a midshipman. White cotton gloves are part of the equipment.”
“That reminds me,” said Mr. Davis. “I had a wire early this morning in response to one I sent Washington last night. My conference today in New York was with no less a person that a member of the President’s cabinet. This is a very serious charge we’re making against a very big man—who is also a tremendous power in politics, unfortunately, although few people are aware of that fact. And when I tell you that the gentleman I met today came from the capital as the direct representative of the President of the United States and as his spokesman, you may begin to get an idea of the magnitude this winged cartwheels affair has assumed. Tonight’s reconnoiter, for it will be little more than that, must be handled with kid gloves.”
“White cotton for mine!” Bill grinned at Osceola.
“Right-o, boy!” laughed the detective. “Maybe I’m getting a little too serious. But I’ve staked my reputation on Professor Fanely’s being the person we are looking for and any slips on our part mean an end to your friend Ashton Sanborn so far as his career is concerned.”
“And whatever careers may be opening up for Bill Bolton, and Osceola, the Seminole, for that matter!” supplemented the young Chief.
“Exactly! Now I’m going to tell you this evening’s plans—and I expect implicit obedience.”
Both young fellows nodded.
“We—that is, the three of us, will leave here after dinner in my car, so as to arrive in Greenwich about nine o’clock. It will be dark then. You lads will get out of the car about a quarter of a mile before we come to the Fanely estate, while I go on in the car and call on Professor Fanely.”
“What? You’re going up to the house quite openly?” Osceola cried.
“Quite openly, Chief, and in by the front door. I shall have credentials with me, and the probabilities are I shall be granted an interview by the old man. My pretext for intruding upon him will be that the man Kolinski, for whom the federal authorities are seeking, has been seen in the grounds. I shall tell the old man that it is understood this Pole is in his employ, but that no matter what references Kolinski may have had, he is an impostor, and a pedlar of narcotics.”
Bill drew a deep breath. “Well, I know it’s not my place to criticize, and I hope you’ll forgive me. But don’t you think an approach like that is pretty poor stuff, Mr. Davis? It hardly seems reasonable to me that a man of Professor Fanely’s mentality would swallow bunk like that.”
Mr. Davis’ bright eyes twinkled. “I’ll be the most surprised man in Connecticut if he does,” he laughed. “But you’re missing the point, Bill, and naturally so. The only reason I’m calling on Professor Fanely is to make him talk.”
“But what about the master mind? Will it spill the beans?” Osceola asked incredulously.
“Why, not at all. As I said before, the idea is to get him to talk—and while he’s talking, you chaps will be outside the window, listening to his voice. Incidentally, I expect to make a mental note of his expression when Kolinski is mentioned to him. But, my young critics, your listening stunt is the one and only reason we’re going to Greenwich tonight. By orders of the President, I am not permitted to go further in this case until both of you have identified Professor Fanely’s voice as the one you heard, blindfolded, in that tower room yesterday morning.”
“But how,” asked Bill, “are we going to know in which room you two will be swapping lies? I’ve been past the Fanely place, and though the house is too far back from the road to see it well, they tell me it is about the size of an orphan asylum, and just as ugly. Have you any idea where your interview will take place?”
“I have. The man I conferred with in New York today says that Fanely always sees callers in his library. The library is at the front of the house, on the northwest corner. You’ll be able to stand in the shrubbery and see into the room very easily.”
“Thank heaven, it’s on the ground floor!” sighed Bill with relief. “I’ve had just about all the climbing I want lately.”
Mr. Davis gave Bill a grave smile. “Yes, it is just as well you’ll have no climbing tonight, with those hands. But to get back to the plan of campaign. When I leave you chaps, get into the grounds and make for the house. Chances are the old fellow is well guarded, so be on the watch. After the way you two went through the woods up at Heartfield’s, I’m sure you’re capable of making your objective without being seen. Choose one of the windows at the side of the house, if possible. And keep under cover. Listen to the conversation until you’re sure that Fanely is our man. Then go back to the road. I will pick you up there.”
“What if the windows are closed?” Osceola inquired. “This weather is warm enough, but the aged are never keen on drafts or fresh air, you know.”
“That’s a good point, Chief, and I’ve got something here that will take care of it.” He produced a small package from his coat pocket. “Putty and a diamond-tipped glass-cutter’s tool,” he explained. “Slap the putty on the window pane, then cut round it with the tool. The piece of cut glass will come away with the putty. If you lads stick with me for any length of time, I’ll soon have you trained as expert housebreakers,” he laughed.
“That,” said Bill, “is all right as far as it goes, but also suppose the old buzzard gets nasty. Our one and only interview with him gave me the impression that he could be fiendishly cruel when he chose.”
Mr. Davis looked puzzled. “I don’t think I quite get you, Bill.”
“I mean, sir, what provision have you made for your own safety? Supposing Old Fanely, who is nobody’s fool by your own admission, gets an inkling of what is really in the wind, and has his men jump you? The fiend was capable of having us put out of the way. He may try the same thing on you.”
“Oh, no, he won’t. In the first place he will know exactly who I am and what I represent. If I were done away with, his plans, whatever they are, would come tumbling down like a house of cards. Such procedure would jeopardize his enormous interests and immediately place him in a position where the police would step in and apprehend him for murder. I talked over such possibilities with the man I saw in New York and we discounted them. Professor Fanely, unless pushed to the wall, will do nothing so crude as that. This is simply a business call I’m making. He will probably deny any knowledge of Kolinski; I will string him along for a while so you two can get an earful and then bid him good night,—with apologies for taking up his valuable time.”
“Couldn’t we notify Captain Simmonds, or even the Greenwich police to keep a watchful eye open?” persisted Bill. “I hate to think of you putting yourself in that old devil’s power. The Chief and I have been in direct contact with him—you haven’t!”
Mr. Davis seemed touched. “It’s good of you boys to take so much interest in my safety, and I appreciate it, I need hardly tell you. But the thing is impossible. My orders are to keep this absolutely to ourselves. Not even the police must hear a rumor against the Professor. The gentleman from Washington ridiculed the idea of Fanely’s being connected with any scandal. He said frankly that he believed it to be a case of mistaken identity. And it was only after a long and serious discussion that I obtained permission to call on Fanely. He allowed me to outline my suppositions, but told me that if we continue on this trail, we must go it alone.”
“Which means, of course,” Osceola remarked, “that if Bill and I are caught in the grounds and manhandled for trespassing, you will deny that we were acting under your orders, and we’re just as likely to get a jail sentence for our trouble.”
“That,” said Mr. Davis, “is the case in a nutshell. I won’t insult you chaps by asking whether you’re willing to follow my lead. I shall carry a revolver and you do as you choose about going armed. Now then, all well?”
Both lads laughed, and nodded vigorous affirmative.
“Let’s go in and eat,” suggested Bill. “And here’s hoping we really get something on old Fanely after dinner.”
Chapter XIV
A FRIEND IN NEED
Shortly before nine o’clock that evening, Ashton Sanborn, or Mr. Davis, as he preferred to be known, waved a hand to Bill and Osceola and drove off along the highway. A minute or two later the road swung past the stone wall, fragrant with late honeysuckle, that bounded the Fanely estate. But instead of entering the drive, he kept going straight ahead for several miles.
When at last he felt that the lads had been given time enough to reach their destination, he turned the car round at a crossroad and came back, driving slowly. This time he turned in between the stone gate posts that marked the entrance. The bluestone road bed wound like a huge snake through wooded acres, and half a mile from the highway, entered a grove of tall elms that belted broad lawns landscaped with flower gardens and shrubs. The immense grey stone house looked much more like a public institution than a private dwelling.
Mr. Davis parked his car before a wide stone terrace. He walked sedately up the steps and rang the doorbell. While he waited he studied the beautiful outer door, intricately fashioned of wrought iron and glass. He could not see into the house, for a curtain was drawn close to the glass on the inside.
The door noiselessly opened, and framed in the ornate entrance stood a middle-aged man in evening dress. His left arm was held close to his body by a black silk sling.
“Ashton Sanborn!”
Mr. Davis peered closely at the man, who now looked as if he would willingly have bitten off his tongue for the ejaculation. But a moment later the recognition was mutual.
The secret service man smiled. “Blessed if it isn’t my friend Serge Kolinski! Fancy meeting you here, and without your mustache—no wonder I hardly recognized you!” Mr. Davis advanced with outstretched hand, while the Pole backed away.
While Sanborn stared at him, the man glanced furtively over his shoulder into the gloom of the spacious hall. He seemed to be in the grip of some overwhelming fear. Then, wetting his dry lips with the tip of his tongue, he turned to the detective.
“Mr. Sanborn—I—you must clear out of here—get away!” His speech now bore no trace of the foreign accent which the girls had mentioned. “You’ve always played the white man to me, Mr. Sanborn—never tried to frame me, or—But clear out, sir—do you hear?”
Sanborn laughed shortly. “I thought you knew me better than that, Kolinski.”
“Look here, Mr. Sanborn—don’t say I haven’t warned you—don’t say I’ve done you dirt!” Kolinski’s whisper was almost inaudible.
Mr. Davis frowned uneasily. The man’s fear was so genuine, his manner so agitated, that the detective felt a creepy feeling touch his spine. He shuddered involuntarily, then pulled himself together.
“I’d like to speak to Professor Fanely, Kolinski—”
“Don’t do it, Mr. Sanborn, don’t do it—you—”
“Show Mr. Ashton Sanborn into the library, Kolinski!”
The high-pitched, wheezing voice was cold and toneless, yet held an undercurrent of evil. Kolinski shivered, then placed a trembling forefinger on his lips.
“Y-y-yessir.”
“Then go to your room. I’ll attend to you later. You talk too much.”
Ashton Sanborn followed the thoroughly frightened Kolinski across the wide hall and into the library. It was empty, but a bright fire blazed on the hearth at the other end of the room. Shades were drawn over the windows. The room felt stuffy, and oppressively warm. Kolinski retired without a word. The unseen master’s voice had apparently withered his power of speech.
Sanborn stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing about the room, waiting for Professor Fanely to appear. The four walls were lined to the ceiling with books, and the place was austerely furnished. Sanborn felt uneasy, not only in Kolinski’s behalf, but somehow obscurely, in his own. There was something sinister in the very atmosphere. The wheezing voice and its unspoken menace echoed in his brain....
Five minutes passed. He wondered if Bill and Osceola were outside the windows, or whether they had been waylaid in the grounds by Fanely’s men. He took out his watch and looked at it. The five minutes extended to ten.
Ashton Sanborn began to fret at the delay. But the thought that this discourtesy was probably intentional somewhat curbed his impatience. He sat down in an armchair and pulled out his pipe and tobacco. If Professor Fanely chose to ignore his visit, then old Fanely would have to put up with breach of etiquette on his part. He was just on the point of lighting it, when a gentle, cultured voice spoke immediately behind him.
“That’s right, Mr. Sanborn. Make yourself at home!”
Ashton Sanborn swung round in his chair. Standing not three feet away, exuding goodwill with a benign smile, and rubbing his hands together, was the biggest man the detective had ever seen. Sanborn was startled, not so much at the man’s presence, but that he had not heard him enter the room. It seemed uncanny that such a huge man could move so quietly. The secret service man jumped to his feet.
“Good evening! I called to see Professor Fanely. My card, apparently, is not needed.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Sanborn. We—er—have heard of you, although, speaking for myself, I have never, to my knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing you before.” The big fellow stared down on Sanborn from his superior height. “Professor Fanely is not at home, Mr. Sanborn.”
“Out?”
“Ah! I’m afraid I express myself rather badly. I mean to convey to you that Professor Fanely is indisposed.”
“But I thought I heard him speak in the hall a moment ago?”