Bill stared down at Dorothy sleeping the sleep of exhaustion on the cold, wet sand. Her clothes, like his, were soaked with sea water and with rain. He realized that something must be done at once, or they would both be in for pneumonia. So stripping off his rubber coat and covering the unconscious girl, he started for the dunes.
Day was breaking as he left the shingle and commenced to plow through the loose sand. The storm was abating somewhat. Although the wind still blew half a gale, the sleet had turned to a fine, cold rain which bade fair to stop altogether once the sun was fully up. By the time Bill Bolton worked his painfully slow way to the top of the dunes it was light enough to see for a considerable distance.
At first glance the prospect was anything but alluring. His point of vantage was in the approximate center of an island of sand and shingle, a mile long, perhaps, by half a mile wide. Inlets from the white-capped Atlantic effectually cut off escape at either end of the outer beach on which a fearsome surf was pounding. Along the inner shore of this desolate, wind-swept islet a complicated network of channels intertwined about still other islands as far as the eye would reach. Nor could Bill make out any sign of human habitation.
“Water, water, everywhere, and not a gol-darned drop to drink,” he misquoted thoughtfully and wondered if by chewing the eel grass he would be able to get rid of the parched feeling of his mouth and throat.
He pulled a broad blade and chewed it meditatively. Then spat it out in disgust. The grass was as salty as the sea. It made him thirstier than ever. Turning seaward he swept the pale horizon with a despondent gaze.
Not a sign of a craft of any description could be seen. Wait a minute, though. Bill caught his breath. What was that—bobbing in the chop of the waves, just outside the bar of the eastern inlet? Could it be a boat? In this gray light a proper focus was difficult. It was a boat, open; a lifeboat, by the look of it. Waiting no longer for speculation, he hurried down the low hill toward the sea.
Once he struck hard sand, Bill raced into the teeth of the wind, with the boom of the surf on his right, and dire necessity lending wings to his tired feet. Forgotten were his thirst, the clammy cold of his wet clothes and his weariness. Every ounce of strength, the entire power of his will centered in the effort to come close enough to the boat to signal her assistance.
With his heart pumping like a steam engine, he passed Dorothy, who was lying exactly as he had left her. Then he got his second wind and running became less of a painful struggle. He could see the boat more plainly now. Surely it was an open motor sailor. Could it be the one belonging to Donovan and Charlie, he wondered. What irony!—to be rescued by the smugglers—and to lose liberty and the diamonds after all this storm and stress!
But the motor sailor was drifting—into the surf off the bar—without a soul aboard.
Coming to a halt at the inlet, he watched the tide pull the boat through the breakers on the bar to the smooth water. Off came his jacket and flinging it behind him on to the sand he waded into the water and swam for the boat. He reached her at last and with difficulty pulled himself aboard.
For a moment or two he rested on a thwart in a state of semi-collapse. As he had thought, it was the smugglers’ boat. But there was no sign of Donovan or Charlie. However, except for six inches or so of water that sloshed about his feet, the motor sailor seemed to be in good condition.
When he felt better, he started the engine and ran her ashore on the island. Then after inspecting the boat’s lockers, he buried her anchor in the sand and trudged back along the beach to Dorothy.
She was still sleeping, tousled head pillowed on her right arm, and it was some time before he could bring her back to consciousness.
“Let me alone,” she moaned drowsily, “I’m too tired to get up this morning, Lizzie. I don’t want any breakfast—go away and let me sleep!”
Bill raised her to a sitting position. “Wake up—wake up! You aren’t at home. And this isn’t Lizzie—it’s Bill—Bill Bolton! We’re still on the island.”
Dorothy opened her eyes, and looked at him wonderingly.
“The island—” he reiterated. “We were wrecked—had to swim for it. Don’t you remember?”
Suddenly she gained full control of her waking senses.
“I know. I know now, Bill. Guess I’ve been asleep. Ugh! I’m soaking. What did you wake me for? At least, I was comfortable!”
“Come to breakfast and dry clothes. You’ll get pneumonia if you stay here. Do you think you can walk? You’re a pretty husky armful, but I guess I can carry you to the boat if I must.” He grinned at her.
Dorothy was stiff and weary but she fairly jumped to her feet.
“What boat? Where is it?”
Bill told her.
“But you said ‘dry clothes and breakfast’—”
They were hurrying along the beach.
“That’s right. She’s got plenty of food aboard—and one of the lockers is packed with clothes. There are even dry towels, think of that! Those guys had her provisioned and equipped for a long trip.”
“What’s happened to them, do you think?”
“I can’t make it out. The boat has shipped some water, but nothing to be worried about. The motor’s O.K. and there’s plenty of gas. They may have got into the surf, thought she was going to founder, perhaps, and swam ashore like we did.”
“But they’re not on the island?”
“No. If they made the beach, it was somewhere else along the coast.”
“We should worry,” said Dorothy. “If they don’t want her, we do—and she certainly looks good to me.”
They walked down the shingle and Bill got aboard the boat.
“You wait on the beach,” he directed. “It’s pretty wet underfoot. I’ll pass the things overside. I think the best plan is for you to go up in the dunes and change there. Meanwhile, I’ll start in with the handpump and get rid of the water. I’ll have her good and dry by the time you get back. Then you can rustle a meal while I put on dry things. Catch!”
Dorothy found herself possessed of a bundle knotted in a large bath towel. Upon inspection it proved to contain dungaree trousers, a jumper, a dark blue sweater, woolen socks and a pair of rubber-soled shoes.
“They may be a trifle large,” said Bill. “But at least they’re dry and the clothes seem to be clean.”
“Nothing could be sweeter,” was Dorothy’s comment. “See you in ten minutes—so long!”
“O.K.,” replied Bill and turned to the handpump.
Quarter of an hour later he was completing his labors with the aid of a large sponge when he heard footsteps on the shingle and looked up to see a young fellow in blue dungarees and sweater coming toward the boat, carrying a bundle of clothes.
“Dorothy! Gee—what a change! For a minute I thought you were a stranger.”
“Somebody’s younger brother, I suppose,” she laughed. “These things are miles too big for me—but they’re darned comfortable and warm. You go ahead and change your own clothes. I’ll finish bailing.”
Bill stepped overside and on to the sand, carrying his dry rig and a towel. Dorothy was spreading her sodden clothing on the sand.
“Bailing’s over for today,” he told her, “don’t forget about breakfast, though. I could eat a raw whale.”
“Don’t worry, young feller,” she retorted. “Your breakfast will be ready before you are. Just let me get these things drying in the nice warm sun that’s coming up now, and you’ll see!”
With a wave of his hand he disappeared over the brow of the sand hills, and Dorothy clambered aboard the beached motor sailor. Much to her delight she found a small two-burner oil stove, already lighted, standing on a thwart. Nearby had been placed a coffee-pot and a large frying pan. The lid of the food locker lay open, as did the one containing the water keg.
“Bright boy,” she murmured approvingly. “You’re a real help to mother! Now let’s see what smugglers live on.”
She had set a collapsible table that hinged to the side of the boat and was busy at the stove when she heard Bill’s halloo.
“Breakfast ready?” he called from the beach.
“Will be in a jiffy,” she answered without looking up. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Sunny side up, if it’s all the same to you.”
“O.K. Spread your wet clothes on the sand and come aboard.”
She was serving his eggs on a hot plate when Bill’s head appeared over the side.
“My, but that coffee smells good,” he cried, and swung himself aboard. “How did you manage to cook all that food!”
“Come to the table, and see what we’ve got.”
He sat down and inspected the various edibles, ticking them off on his fingers.
“Coffee, condensed milk, bread and butter, the ham-what-am, fried eggs, marmalade and maple syrup! Say, Dorothy, those guys certainly lived high. Some meal, this!”
Dorothy turned about from the stove, smiling. “And here’s what goes with the maple syrup!”
“A stack of wheats!” He shouted as she uncovered the dish. “You’re a wonder, a magician, Dorothy. How in the world did you manage it?”
Dorothy laughed, pleased by his enthusiasm.
“Found a package of pancake flour in the locker. They’re simple enough to make. Now dig in before things get cold. Help yourself to butter—it’s rather soft, but this lugger doesn’t seem to run to ice.”
Bill set to work as she poured the coffee.
“Like it that way,” he replied, his mouth full of ham and eggs, while he plastered his pancakes with butter. “Well, we’ve sure put it over on Messrs. Donovan and Charlie this trip, not to mention your friend Peters. Got their diamonds and their boat and their clothes. Now we’re eating their breakfast,—the sun is shining once more—and all is right in the world.”
“Where are those diamonds, by the way?” exclaimed Dorothy suddenly, having taken the edge off her ravenous appetite.
Bill laid down his knife and fork. For a moment he looked startled, then burst into a great roar of laughter.
“We’re a fine pair of Secret Service workers!” he cried derisively. “But it’s my fault. You were all in.”
Dorothy’s jaw dropped. “Don’t tell me you left them on the beach!”
“Surest thing you know. I left them beside you on the sand and forgot all about the darn things when I spotted the motor sailor. Never thought of them again until this minute!”
Dorothy nodded sagely. “Which only goes to show that diamonds don’t count for much when one is tired and wet and hungry, not to mention being marooned on a desert island!”
“Ain’t it the truth! Another cup of coffee, please. I’ll fetch them when we’ve finished eating.”
“After we’ve washed up?”
“O.K. with me.”
Bill drank his third cup of coffee and leaned back with a sigh of content.
“Well, the old appetite’s satisfied at last,” he admitted comfortably. “And I don’t mind telling you that was the best meal I ever ate.”
“Thank you, kind sir. Though I think it is your appetite rather than the cook you should thank.”
Bill shook his head. “When it comes to cooking, you’re a real, bona fide, died-in-the-wool, A-1 Ace! How about it—shall we wash the dishes now?”
“I can’t eat any more, and if I don’t get busy soon, I’ll go to sleep again.”
“Pass the dishes and things overside to me. I’ll sluice ’em off in the water. We should worry. This will be our last meal on this boat. I’ll bet a rubber nickel those smuggler-guys wouldn’t have done this much if they’d got the Mary Jane.”
“Poor Mary Jane,” sighed Dorothy as they tidied up. “She was a staunch old thing. I wonder what Yancy will soak Dad for her?”
“Nothing. Uncle Sam pays for that boat. She went down on government service, didn’t she?”
“That’s good news,” smiled Dorothy. “Now, that’s the last plate. Let’s go along the beach. I’m getting worried about those boxes of diamonds. Do you think they’ll be there, all right?”
“Sure to be. Unless somebody has landed on this island while we were busy with the eats. Come along and we’ll see.”
“Do you really think they’ll be where we left them, Bill?”
“Why sure! You’re not worrying, are you?”
The two were hurrying along the beach toward the spot where Dorothy had dropped to the sand and fallen asleep.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, it’s Uncle Sam’s loot, not ours. And I reckon he cares more about knowing how the smuggling was done than the contraband itself, anyway.”
“I know. But that’s only half of it. The gang has got to be rounded up. We don’t know where they have their headquarters or who is in back of this business. So I’d hate to have to admit I’d lost the diamonds, after all.” Then, as Bill began to reply, she went on: “And don’t forget that Terry Walters is still missing—or was, when I flew over from New Canaan yesterday!”
“You’re right, pal. I just didn’t want you to take it too soberly. But that bearded aviator has got to be checked up. No easy matter, either, after what happened last night.” He broke off sharply. “There are the old boxes—just where I dropped them—so you see you’ve had your worry for nothing.”
“Just the same, we’ve been terribly careless!”
“Don’t rub it in,” said Bill, looping the line and its dangling load over his shoulder. “These things go to a bank for safe keeping just as soon as I can get rid of them.”
Dorothy caught his arm. “Let’s pry open one of the boxes, and make sure there really are diamonds inside.”
“Nothing doing,” Bill answered decisively. “They’re going to be turned over to the authorities—as is!”
“Well, you needn’t be so snooty about it. But I am crazy to see the sparklers—especially after all we’ve been through to rescue them!”
“Of course,—I’m sorry,” apologized Bill with a grin, “I’m kind of jumpy this morning, I guess. Me for bed as soon as I can find one. But you know, we really can’t open those things up, because we’d then be held responsible for contents—or no contents—as the case may be. See?”
“I didn’t think about that, Bill. But let’s forget the old boxes. I’m all in myself. Any idea what time it is? My watch has stopped.”
Bill glanced at his wrist. “Just seven o’clock. Seems like noon to me. This nice warm sun is a wonderful help—I was chilled to the bone.”
“Me too,” said Dorothy. “Well, here we are at the motor sailor. Nothing to keep us longer on this island. I vote we shove off.”
“Second the motion. Hop aboard and go aft. Your weight in the stern will help to raise her bow so I can push her out without breaking my back.”
“How’s that?” called Dorothy a minute later.
“Fine! Stand by for a shove!”
A heave of his shoulder against the bow loosened the boat’s keel from the sand and Bill sprang aboard as she glided into deep water.
“Don’t suppose there’s a chart of the lower bay stowed in one of those lockers?” he remarked as he started the engine. “The shallows are going to be the limit to navigate without running aground. Do you mind seeing what you can find, Dorothy?”
“Not at all—seeing I’ve already found one,” she laughed. “Came across it when I was looking for food.”
“Good.” Bill took over the wheel. “Let me see it, will you?”
Dorothy passed over the map. Bill studied it with a hand on the wheel.
“Thank goodness the deeper channels are marked,” he ruminated, “that’s a help, anyway.”
Dorothy peered over his shoulder.
“That island must be one of those in Jones Inlet. I had no idea we’d gone so far west.”
“All of fifteen miles as a plane flies to Babylon. No chance of making any time until we get into South Oyster Bay which is really the western end of Great South Bay. If we make Babylon by noon, we’ll be lucky.”
“No reason why we should both try to keep awake,” observed Dorothy. “I’ll skipper this craft for a spell. Make yourself comfortable somewhere and go to sleep. You’ll be called at ten o’clock.”
“But you need rest more than I do,” began Bill.
“Oh, I had a snooze on the Mary Jane,” she interrupted, “and got another on the sand this morning. Pipe down, sailor! This is your master’s voice what’s speaking. Excuse the ungarnished truth, but you look like something the cat brought in and didn’t want!”
Bill’s laugh ended in a yawn.
“Aye, aye, skipper. Call me at four bells. Night!”
He went forward and lay flat on the flooring, his head pillowed on his arms. He was asleep almost immediately.
For the next couple of hours Dorothy steered a winding course among low sandy islands and mudbanks. It was impossible to make any speed in these shallow, tortuous waters and she was taking no chances on running aground. It was monotonous work at best. She was deadly tired. There was little or no breeze and the sun, unshaded by the faintest wisp of cloud, fairly blistered the boat’s paint with its fierce heat.
At ten she roused Bill, and as soon as he was sufficiently alert to take over she went to sleep on the flooring in the shadow of a thwart.
It seemed as though she had but closed her eyes when Bill’s voice called her back to wakefulness.
“We’re almost in,” he reminded her. “Better run forward or I’m likely to ram the dock.”
Dorothy jumped to her feet and ran her fingers through her rumpled hair. She was astonished to see that the motor sailor was closing in on the dock of Yancy’s Motor Boat garage.
“We must have made wonderful time—” she yawned, stumbling toward the bow.
“Only fair,” Bill said. “It’s almost noon. Snap into it, kid, and fend her off with the boathook.”
Presently they were tied up to the dock and Dorothy was making a sketchy toilet with the aid of her compact.
“How about it, old sport?” she looked up from her mirror, busy with damp powder and lipstick. “What’s on the program now? Thank goodness Wispy is still at her mooring over there. I s’pose after we settle with Yancy for the Mary Jane, we’d better take the plane and fly home.”
“Eventually, yes,” decided Bill. “I’ll go up to the office and fix things with Yancy. I’ve got to do some long distance telephoning, anyway, and park these boxes in a bank. It will save a lot of time if you’ll go over this boat with a fine tooth comb while I’m gone. I don’t expect you’ll find anything much, but there’s no telling.”
“All right,” she nodded. “And while you’re about it, get hold of that letter I wrote Mr. Walters and phone Lizzy we will be home for a late lunch. The sooner we can get back to New Canaan and Little Dorothy can crawl between clean sheets, the better she’ll be pleased!”
“Yep. I’ll work as fast as I can.”
Bill clambered on to the dock and made off in the direction of the boat yard.
For the next hour Dorothy worked manfully, overhauling the motor sailor. Fierce rays of the noonday sun beat down on the open boat. She was worn out and dizzy, but stuck pluckily to her job, turning out the contents of lockers and investigating every nook and cranny of the smugglers’ craft. Except for an old coat and those odds and ends which accumulate aboard any boat as large as the motor sailor, she found absolutely nothing. Tired and hot and crazy for sleep, she decided to call off this unprofitable search, when Bill’s voice hailed her.
“Hello, there, pardner,” he sang out, stepping aboard. “How are things going?”
Dorothy straightened her back and wiped the perspiration from her forehead with a sodden handkerchief. She noted the deep circles below Bill’s eyes and the tired droop of his shoulders. He looked on the verge of collapse, but his voice still held its hearty ring.
“Not so good, old timer. There isn’t a blessed thing worth while aboard this scow. Finish your business?”
“Reckon so. Got Washington on the phone and the big chief is tickled silly with all we’ve done. Tell you more about it later. Yancy will be recompensed for the Mary Jane and will look after this motor sailor until the government men take her over. I got Lizzie on the wire. She expects your father home tonight.”
“Thanks. Did you get my letter, too?”
“It’s in my pocket. I put the diamonds in a safe deposit box at a bank uptown. And I guess that’s pretty much everything.”
“You look done up, Bill.”
“I’ve felt sprucer. But you look pretty rocky yourself.”
“Feel like a wet smack, thank you. The heat is terrible.”
“Wait till I collect my duds and yours,” he suggested, “and we’ll beat it for New Canaan and Home Sweet Home!”
“They’re rolled up in a sea bag,” she told him. “Here it is.”
She started toward him with the bag in her arms, stumbled and would have fallen had not Bill’s steadying hand prevented.
“Kind o’ wobbly, eh?”
“Not as bad as all that, Bill. Caught my toe in that floorboard. It’s loose.”
“Have you had them up?”
“Why, no, I never thought of that.”
Bill took the sea bag from her and tossed it on to the dock.
“Hop on a thwart,” he prompted. “I don’t suppose there’s anything but bilgewater under the boards but we might as well have a look.”
“Need a hand?” asked Dorothy, looking down at him.
“No, I guess not. These sections aren’t heavy—” He broke off with a sudden exclamation and fished up something from the wet.
“What is it?”
“Seems to be a notebook. Probably dropped out of either Donovan’s or Charlie’s pockets and got kicked under that loose flooring in the gale last night. But it’s soaking wet and its pages are stuck together. Wonder if we’ll be able to get anything out of it?”
Dorothy held out her hand.
“Give it to me. I’ll dry it out on the dock while you look some more.”
For the next few minutes Bill continued his search while Dorothy after placing the notebook on the decking of the dock watched it carefully, lest the light breeze blow it into the water.
At last he joined her and lifted the sea bag over his shoulder.
“How’s it coming?”
“Not so good. It’s going to take a long time to dry the book all the way through even in this sun.”
“Then let’s take it along to New Canaan. I’ll get Dad to put it in our oven as soon as we get home. That’ll do the trick. Get aboard that dinghy and I’ll row you over to the plane.”
Dorothy picked up the notebook and slipped it into her pocket.
“That’s the best thing you’ve said today,” she beamed, “I’ll be home and asleep in twenty minutes! Come along.”
Dorothy and Mr. Dixon were finishing breakfast next morning when the Boltons, father and son, dropped in.
“Good morning, stranger,” was Mr. Dixon’s greeting to Bill. “I understand you’ve been to Europe and back a couple of times since we saw you last. We’ve missed you, boy.”
“Thanks,” returned Bill. “I’m glad to be home again.”
“Which home?” asked his father with an amused smile. “When in New Canaan you seem to spend most of your time across the way here.”
“And why not?” protested Mr. Dixon. “Dorothy and I return the compliment often enough. Since you people moved here two lonely widowers have acquired another child apiece. It’s fine—both Dorothy and I are the happier for it.”
“And that goes two ways,” asserted Bill. “How about it, Dad?”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Bolton assented heartily. “The intimacy is one I enjoy immensely. But I’m afraid that Bill has begun the habit of leading Dorothy into all kinds of dangerous adventures. This diamond smuggling business, for instance.”
Mr. Dixon chuckled. “If you ask me, I don’t think Dorothy needs any leading.”
“Well, I should say not!” exclaimed his daughter. “If it weren’t for Bill, I’d never be able to get out of half the messes we drift into together!”
Mr. Dixon pushed his chair back from the breakfast table. “This meeting of the mutual admiration society is all very nice,” he announced with a twinkle in his eye, “But it is high time the ways and means committee got together on this last Bolton-Dixon hair-raiser. I vote we adjourn to the porch and learn what the subcommittee on the smugglers’ notebook has to report.”
“Second the motion,” chirped Dorothy. “I’m just crazy to hear what you’ve found out, Daddy Bolton. I suppose Bill has been hitting the hay, like me?”
“He put in nearly sixteen hours of uninterrupted slumber,” Mr. Bolton answered as they found chairs for themselves on the shaded porch, where the air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle.
“Well, I guess it was a dead heat,” she laughed. “I woke up less than an hour ago, myself.”
Mr. Dixon passed his case to Mr. Bolton and when their after-breakfast cigars were well alight, Bill produced the notebook.
“While you’re busy with that stogie, Dad, I’ll start the ball rolling.”
“Humph! That—er—stogie happens to be a fifty-cent Corona!” snorted Mr. Dixon who was touchy about his smokes.
“Means nothing to me,” replied Bill blandly. “Don’t use ’em myself and—”
“Say, will you please pipe down on cigars—” broke in Dorothy, “and get to the notebook?”
“Oh, what a pun—” groaned Bill, “you certainly—”
“Be still!” ordered his father. “She’s right. Let’s get down to business. Now, here’s the book,” he went on, opening the little volume. “I dried it in our oven and although the writing is blurred, it is still quite legible. As you see, only a few pages have been used, and they show a simple set of flag signals. The red flag means: ‘Meet Steamship.’ The yellow flag stands for ‘A.M.’; the white, ‘P.M.’ Then there are twenty-four flags to designate the hours and half-hours from one to twelve.”
“Is that all?” asked Dorothy, disappointedly.
“Absolutely. The rest of the pages are blank.”
“I remember hearing the men speak of the bosses’ red flag when I was listening outside the cottage,” she said slowly, “and that meant, of course, that Donovan and Charlie were to meet the steamer.”
“Quite. But until we are able to locate the spot where these signals are displayed we won’t accomplish much.”
Bill nodded. “And now that they know we have discovered their method of smuggling, they’ll probably shift their operations from Fire Island Lightship to some other point along the coast.”
“Very likely,” his father acquiesced. “Although it is my opinion they will discontinue, temporarily, and lay low for a while.”
“Still there must be other shipments in transit right now,” suggested Mr. Dixon. “But I suppose they could manage that by sending radios in code?”
Mr. Bolton carefully knocked the ash from his cigar.
“I think that’s beyond the point,” he argued. “We can only surmise what they may or may not do. The government men will watch the ships and the coast. Both Bill and I talked to Washington over the phone just before we came over here. And the officials there believe that the bearded aviator’s plane is a most important factor in the operations of the smugglers. And the Chief wants Bill to find that plane—”
Dorothy snorted derisively. “Well, he doesn’t want much! That airplane won’t fly over the Beach Club again, after this—”
Mr. Bolton smiled at Dorothy’s vehemence. “But you see, my dear, the Washington gentleman thinks that if Bill is able to follow the mysterious amphibian, it will eventually lead him to the headquarters of the gang.”
Bill burst out laughing. “It’s just like telling me to take a handful of salt—and if I can put it on the birdie’s tail, I will eventually catch the birdie! But it isn’t really the Chief’s order, he knows what we’re up against. It’s that assistant of his who wants to cover himself with glory. I asked him if I hadn’t better disguise my plane like a string of white boxes so they’d take me for a diamond necklace!”
“What’d he say?” giggled Dorothy.
“Oh, he spread on the soft soap until I got even more disgusted and turned him over to Dad!”
Mr. Dixon chuckled. “It’s a pretty large order. I don’t suppose your Secret Service friend gave you any valuable suggestions?”
“He did not,” sneered Bill. “That, as he explained, was entirely up to me!”
For several minutes no one spoke.
“We sure are up against it,” sighed Dorothy at last.
“You mean I am,” was Bill’s reply. “The only thing I can do is to start a series of patrols.”
“We will start a series of patrols,” she corrected. “Two planes will be better than one.”
“Just as you say.” Bill showed no enthusiasm. “My idea of something uninteresting to do is to fly around all day, hunting another plane, that’s probably safely housed in its hangar all the time.”
“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket! If none of us have brains enough to think of a plan to trap that fellow, there’s no use grouching over it!”
“That’s all very well. But where are we going to patrol? You told me, I think, that those lads planned to take you from the warehouse to their headquarters in Connecticut. This state’s not so big when you compare it with Texas or California—but when it comes to locating a single plane—”
“Listen!” cried Dorothy and ran to the porch steps. “Come here—all of you—quick!”
The deep drone of an airplane increased to a giant roar as a smart two-seater swept down toward the house.
“It’s the Mystery Plane!” she shrieked. “The nerve of him!”
On came the amphibian with throttle wide open, just topping the trees at the edge of the lawn. Then the four on the steps saw the pilot drop something overside and zoom upward missing the roof of the house by inches.
“I should say he has nerve—” Mr. Dixon pointed out on to the lawn. “Run out and get that parcel he dropped on the grass, Bill. This business is getting more interesting by the minute!”
Bill brought the package back to the porch.
“Oh, what do you think it is?” Dorothy grabbed Bill’s arm in her excitement.
“Calm down!” said her father, as Bill held out a small box covered with brown paper and sealed with dabs of red wax. “Handle it carefully—there may be explosive in it.”
“I don’t think so—” said Bill, “those things generally run by clockwork. There’s no tick in this box.”
“Come on—let’s open it,” exclaimed Dorothy impatiently. “I’ll bet it’s nothing dangerous. Couldn’t have been dropped from a plane without going off!”
“Wait one minute,” commanded her father. “We’ll be on the safe side, anyway. Don’t touch the thing till I come back.”
He ran into the house.
“Any address on it?” inquired Dorothy.
“Not the slightest bit of writing. If there is any, it’s underneath this outside wrapping.”
Mr. Dixon came out of the house carrying a pail of water, which he brought down to the lawn, where they were waiting.
“Drop that package into the water,” he ordered Bill. “A good soaking will take the sting out of any explosive.”
Dorothy burst out laughing.
“Maybe—but not in this case, Dad. Look, the thing floats!”
She snatched up the package and ripped off the outside paper, disclosing a white cork box, similar to those used for carrying the contraband.
Bill took a knife from his pocket and opened a blade that proved to be a small screwdriver. He took the box from Dorothy and removed the screws from the lid.
“Gee, do you think they’ve sent us a diamond?” she asked jokingly.
“Not a chance. This is a message of some kind, I’ll bet!”
The box was filled with jeweler’s cotton, from the center of which he drew a revolver cartridge. Around it, fastened by a rubber band, there was a small sheet of note paper. The others gathered close as he smoothed out the paper.
Blocked in capitals with a red crayon was the smugglers’ message.
“LAY OFF! THIS MEANS BOTH OF YOU.”
“Aha! And if we don’t lay off, we’ll be plunked with a bullet from a cartridge like this!” Dorothy summed up. “This affair is likely to get exciting before we finish it.”
Mr. Bolton studied the paper then returned it to the box with the cartridge.
“Has it struck you oddly,” he said quietly, “that these people should know that Bill was mixed up in this? That message, of course, is for Dorothy and Bill.”
“Yes, I was thinking of that,” admitted Bill.
“Strange—” cogitated Mr. Dixon. “You two flew from Babylon back here without a stop—and you both went straight to bed. Neither you, nor I, Bolton, have spoken to anyone about their exploits, I’m sure.”
“Somebody must have found out from the servants that our offspring flew back together,” his friend decided. “It could not have happened any other way. Then that fact, added to the glimpse they must have caught of a young man in the Mary Jane with Dorothy, when they rammed the smugglers’ motor sailor off the lightship, gave them a simple line of reasoning. And the joke of the matter is that their warning has done just the reverse from what they figured it would do!”
Mr. Dixon looked puzzled.
“I don’t quite see what you mean?”
“Why, it has given us the only real clue we have to the gang’s whereabouts,” smiled Bolton senior.
“Dad’s one up on me, too,” grinned Bill. “How about you, Dot?”
Miss Dixon stamped her foot. “You’ll dot, and carry one you’ll remember for the rest of your life if you murder my perfectly decent name that way, Bill! You ought to know by now that I won’t stand for it.”
“So sorry, Dorothy!” he apologized with mock politeness. “Will Miss Sherlock Holmes, the famous lady sleuthhound who solved the New Canaan Bank mystery, deign to say whether or not she also spots a clue in the villain’s message?”
“Aren’t you the bunk! Yes, I think I know what Daddy Bolton is talking about.”
“Well, Miss Cleverness, what is it then?”
“Oh, you make me tired! But just to prove that I’m not as dumb as you act, the clue is this—”
“Give me a chance,” begged Mr. Dixon, entering into the spirit of the game. “Your idea, Bolton, is to find out from the servants who they’ve been talking to and trace the smugglers from—”
“Cold as an iceberg,” broke in Mr. Bolton. “I’m sorry to admit it, but you and Bill don’t seem very quick on the uptake this morning. What do I mean, Dorothy?”
Dorothy made a face at Bill.
“We know that these men have headquarters somewhere in this state,” she began airily. “Why? Because Donovan said they must get me over to Connecticut. And later, in the warehouse, he told Peters not to rob me because the boss wanted me delivered just as I was. Daddy Bolton believes that because these men have been spotted so quickly that you are mixed up in it, Bill, their headquarters are much nearer to this house than we figured: that the chances are, it is only a very few miles from here that they’re to be found—or their system of spying on us couldn’t be so perfect!”
“That’s right,” concurred Mr. Bolton. “This smuggler boss or his accomplices over here must live in the neighborhood. Some of his servants know ours—have known them for some time or they would not have been able to ask questions without causing suspicion.”
Mr. Dixon looked suddenly serious. “You can’t mean that our neighbors along this ridge are mixed up in it? The Clarks, old Holloway, the Denbys, Miss Cross—and ten or a dozen others—are all old friends and eminently respectable people! Why, it’s preposterous to think—”
“I’m not trying to pin it on anybody yet,” countered Bill’s father. “But mark my words—when this business is cleared up, you’ll find that some eminently respectable New Canaan household is mixed up in it!”
It was finally decided that Dorothy and Bill should make a series of circular patrols, centering above New Canaan.
“We’ll each take a plane,” said Bill, “and keep each other in sight.”
“What’s the use of doing that?” Dorothy asked. “Why not make the patrols separately? When I come down, you go up. In that way we can stay in the air twice as long on the same amount of gas, and take a rest once in a while.”
“Too risky. These smugglers are desperate. We’ve already thrown a good-sized monkey-wrench into the works of their organization. That Mystery Plane is quite likely to pack along a machine gun—and use it if the pilot finds out we’re trying to follow him.”
“Are we going up unarmed?”
“You are—but I’m not.”
Dorothy raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Well, that’s nice of you!”
“Look here, young lady,” cut in her father. “I don’t know what Bill’s plans are, but if you’re going on these patrols, just remember that he is the captain of the outfit and must have obedience. Otherwise, I’ll not consent to your going at all.”
“Oh, I’ll be good, Daddy. But I do think—”
“But you mustn’t! Your job is to do what you’re told and let your captain do the thinking.”
“You see, Dorothy,” explained Bill, “in order to use a gun in the air, a pilot must have training and practice. Otherwise, all you do is to draw the enemy’s fire. If we meet up with this bird you’ll have plenty to keep you busy—a very important part to play. But if there’s any gunning to be done, I’ll do it. Before we go up, I’ll outline exactly what we’re to do in the event we sight the gang’s airplane.”
Dorothy got out of her chair.
“How about getting busy, then?” she suggested. “The longer we’re up, the more we are likely to accomplish.”
“Hold your horses,” laughed Bill. “Don’t think for a minute we’re going to patrol all day long.”
“Why not?”
“Waste of time.”
Dorothy plumped herself down in her chair again.
“Oh, all right. Have it your way. Personally, I can’t see doing a thing at all, unless one does it properly. You and your plans make me tired.”
“Don’t get peeved,” he bantered. “These won’t be endurance flights.”
“They won’t be anything at all unless we find that plane and you can’t expect it to take the air just when you want it to!”
“Stop quarreling, children,” admonished her father. “Bill knows what he is talking about.”
“Well, maybe he does. He can catch the old plane by himself. I’m through.”
“What you need is another nap, young lady. You’re tired and cross.”
“I’m not. Men always club together.”
“And what can a poor girl do?” supplemented Bill with a grin.
“Stop teasing, Bill!” commanded Mr. Bolton. “Apologize to Dorothy and tell her why you mean to take short hops. I can’t see the sense in such procedure myself—any more than she can. And just remember that an overdose of excitement puts anybody’s nerves on edge. She’s been through a lot more than you have during the last few days.”
At his father’s words, Bill’s face wore such a look of honest contrition, that Dorothy’s conscience smote her. They both began to speak at once.
“Gee, I’m sorry, Dorothy—”
“I’m an idiot, Bill—”
They burst into laughter simultaneously.
“Now we can get on with our discussion,” smiled Dorothy. “Go ahead, Bill.”
“Well, the smuggler’s pilot has been taking most of his flights—or I ought to say, the flights we know about—during the late afternoon. I haven’t the slightest glimmer why he chooses to fly at that time. But, as I see it, if he has done it day after day in the past, the chances are he’ll continue to leave his hangar at about the same time. My plan is for us to take off at about four each afternoon. We can remain in the air until six. If he comes from around here, we’d catch him shortly after he takes the air. That’s how I figure it.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Dorothy was still unconvinced. “But how about the warning we got a little while ago?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, we hadn’t had lunch yet—he dropped the message from his plane in the morning—not during the late afternoon!”
Bill yawned unblushingly and got to his feet.
“Cuts no ice,” he asserted. “That wasn’t a regular hop.”
“What then?” This from Mr. Dixon.
“A grandstand play, pure and simple. Those lads haven’t the brains I gave them credit for, if they really think they can steer us off with tripe like that!”
Mr. Bolton ground the butt of his cigar on an ashtray, and rose.
“Perhaps that wasn’t the idea,” he suggested.
Three heads were turned sharply toward him.
“What do you mean, Bolton?” asked Mr. Dixon.
“A come-on,” returned his neighbor.
“A come-on?” echoed Dorothy in a puzzled voice.
“Just that—nothing more nor less.”
“I get you,” Bill nodded. “Get us in the air, by that teaser—rely on us to go after the Mystery Plane as a matter of pride—and then fill us full of machine gun bullets. If they start anything like that—well—two can play the game and if that lad with the beard can’t shoot any better than he handled his plane when he zoomed the house just now—it is, as the French say, ‘to laugh’!”
“That’s all very well,” argued Mr. Dixon. “I don’t mind Dorothy flying, but I do draw the line at machine guns. That’s no game for girls. You keep your two feet on solid earth until this business is over, my dear.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Dorothy’s voice was full of disgust.
“Sorry, daughter, but I simply can’t let you take the risk.”
Mr. Bolton placed his hand on his friend’s arm.
“You know, I don’t think that Bill would have countenanced Dorothy’s going on patrols with him unless he felt assured she would run no danger. How about it, son?”
“If she does get into trouble, it won’t be with my consent,” he smiled. “But seriously, sir,” he turned to Mr. Dixon. “There will be a minimum of danger if Dorothy does as I tell her. In the first place, machine gun fire in the air is not nearly so potent as it is on terra firma. Try and hit a small object flashing by when you’re traveling like a bat out of—ahem!—Harlem. Try it and see how many planes you don’t hit! And in the second place, that bearded guy won’t get a chance to turn his gun in her direction.”
“Well, I’m no flyer and I haven’t the slightest idea of the technicalities that must arise in aerial combat work,” Mr. Dixon made this statement slowly and thoughtfully, “but still—”
“Daddy, don’t be ridic.” Dorothy’s tone was tolerantly amused.
“Do you really think I’m foolish, my dear child?”
“Oh, pigheaded is a better word, at times, if you insist on the truth!”
All four burst into roars of mirth.
“That’s one from the shoulder, Mr. Dixon,” choked Bill. “You’d better go the whole hog, now she’s a licensed pilot!”
Dorothy’s father shook his head in pretended sorrow. “You’re all against me, that’s obvious. And there’s much too much pig in this conversation to suit a conservative parent.” He threw an affectionate glance at Dorothy. “Ever since this tomboy daughter of mine was able to grip my finger when I leaned over her crib, she has pulled her old Dad hither and yon to suit her fancy. So I suppose I’ll have to give in again—acknowledge I’m wrong, and so forth. Run along, children, and see to it your airships are in apple-pie order.”
“You’re a darling!” His daughter bestowed a hearty kiss upon his left ear.
“Beat it—you scamp!” Mr. Dixon’s voice was gruff, though his eyes sparkled with merriment. “If you bother me much longer, it will be lunch time before I get down to the bank—and I’m likely to change my mind. Shoo!”
“Ogre—I defy you!” With a laugh, she beckoned to Bill and ran down the steps.
“Well, what shall it be?” she inquired when he joined her. “Your ship or mine, first?”
“Mine, I think. None of the three has been off the apron of the hangar since I left for Europe. Frank has been looking after them. He’s a great old feller, you know. When we brought him back from New York he didn’t know a fork from a gadget. Now he’s chauffeur, general factotem around the house, and practical mechanic for me. He knows his job all right, but my boats will need more overhauling than yours.”
“Which plane shall you use for this work?”
“The Ryan M-l, that the bank gave me after that Martinelli business. She certainly is a smart little bus—can fly rings around anything in this neck of the woods. Hello—” he broke off as they came down the drive, “somebody’s had a breakdown.”
Drawn up at the side of the ridge road stood a green coupe of the type motor car manufacturers advertise as “de luxe model.” As they came in sight, a young man crawled out from beneath the body.
“Why, that’s Mr. Tracey,” said Dorothy. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, I met him at Mr. Holloway’s house one night. Isn’t he the old boy’s secretary?”
“Yes, he is. He’s quite nice. Dad sees a lot of Mr. Holloway, you know.”
The secretary, tall and sleekly blond, was looking ruefully down at his grey flannel trousers, now streaked with the dirt of the roadway.
“Good morning, Miss Dorothy,” he greeted, clipping his words in a precise manner. “Afraid I’m not exactly presentable.” Then for the first time, he appeared to notice Bill. “Hello, Bolton,” he said affably. “You’re quite a stranger around here.”
“Got back a couple of days ago,” returned Bill casually. “Need any help?”
“Thanks, no. Loose nut, that’s all.” He patted his monkey wrench with a grimy hand. “This fixed her. Doing much flying, Miss Dorothy?”
“Yes, I go up quite often. Bill taught me, you know.”
“Yes, I remember. I’d like to take lessons, myself. How about giving me instruction—that is, if you’re not too expensive?”
“I’m really not in the business,” parried Bill. “You’d do much better at one of the schools. Glad to give you a hop, though, if you’d like to go up?”
“Thanks so much. I’ll be glad to take advantage of your offer. What about this afternoon? It’s a perfectly lovely day.”
“Sorry, but today I’m overhauling my planes. Been away some time, you see. I’ll probably take them up on tests about four. But of course I don’t want the responsibility of a passenger until I know they are running O.K.”
Mr. Tracey nodded and got into his car.
“I understand perfectly. Thanks for the invitation, though. I’ll give you a ring later in the week and allow myself the pleasure of going up with you. Goodbye. Goodbye, Miss Dorothy.”
With a wave of his hand the car moved off and Dorothy turned to Bill.
“Why did you tell him you were going to take the air about four?” she asked.
“Because if the smuggling gang know what I’m going to do it will save time if we pull off our little scrap this afternoon.”
Before this admission Dorothy had looked puzzled. Now her eyebrows went up in startled astonishment.
“Good Heavens, Bill! You surely don’t think that Mr. Tracey has anything to do with that! He’s as prim and prissy as a pussy-cat!”
“Just my opinion. Of course he knows nothing about the diamonds. But your prissy boy friend has the reputation of being the worst gossip in New Canaan. When he takes those gray bags of his to be cleaned, it will be all over the village that Bill Bolton is back and intends to test out his planes late this afternoon.—And that is just what I want.”
“Oh, I see,” Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. “But I’ll tell you one thing. If we are going up today, it’s high time we quit talking and got busy on the planes.”
With four airplanes to groom, the next few hours proved busy ones for both Dorothy and Bill. But by four o’clock everything was ready for their flight.
“Got your instructions down pat?” he inquired as Dorothy got aboard the Will-o’-the-Wisp. The airplane was resting on the concrete apron of the Dixons’ hangar, preparatory to the take off.
“Know them backwards,” she flashed with a smile.
“Good luck, then.”
“Good luck to you, Bill.”
He stepped swiftly to one side as she switched on the ignition. For a moment or two he stood there watching her amphibian taxi away from the hangar, gathering speed as it went. Then when the wheels left the ground and the big bird of wood and metal soared upward, he turned away and made off in the direction of his father’s property.
As Will-o’-the-Wisp climbed in great widening circles, Dorothy at the controls knew she had plenty of time to gain the position agreed upon before Bill could get under way. The air was smooth and still, without the slightest breath of disturbing wind. Perfect flying weather and wonderful visibility with a clear blue horizon unmarred by the smallest shred of cloud.
The Boltons had turned the ten-acre pasture behind their house into a level flying field. The old hay barn had been enlarged, partitions removed and a concrete floor laid. It now made a large roomy hangar, for their three planes.
Looking down as she kept on circling higher and higher, Dorothy saw Bill cross the ridge road and appear a moment or two later on his own flying field. She watched him hurry down to the hangar and could see Frank busy about the Ryan before its open doors. Then she saw Bill get aboard. When she looked again, his small monoplane was already in the air.
By this time the indicator on Will-o’-the-Wisp’s altimeter marked a height of between eight and nine thousand feet. According to instructions, Dorothy leveled off and bringing right rudder and right aileron simultaneously into play, she sent the plane into a wide circular turn. Far below, the Ryan was pursuing the same tactics, so that both planes were cruising over the township of New Canaan.
Dorothy and Bill continued to maintain the same relative positions for the next fifteen or twenty minutes. Then as Will-o’-the-Wisp swung round toward the west, Dorothy spied a third plane, streaking toward New Canaan at an altitude of some three thousand feet.
The fact that Bill had also spotted the intruder was evident, for he began to climb.
“Bill’s advertising plan worked,” muttered Dorothy with satisfaction. “If that amphibian over there isn’t the Mystery Plane, I’ll eat my ailerons!”
Dorothy reached beneath her seat, brought forth a pair of field-glasses and clapped them to her goggles. Focussed through the powerful lenses, there was no mistaking the Mystery Plane. And although at this distance it was impossible to see the pilot’s face, she could plainly distinguish the barrel of a machine gun that poked its wicked muzzle over the cockpit’s cowling.
“So the bearded aviator means mischief!” She returned the glasses to their case. “That guy must be a cold-blooded dog to try anything like that over a populated township. He’s likely to bite off more than he can chew if Bill and I have any luck. If he cracks up, I shan’t weep.”
At first sight of the smuggler’s plane, she brought Will-o’-the-Wisp back on an even keel, but now in order to get an unimpeded view directly below, she sent the plane into a steep bank.
Bill, in the Ryan, with an altitude of some twenty-five hundred feet and its nose slightly raised was streaking toward the smuggler.
Most air battles are fought in the higher ether, because combat flying often necessitates acrobatics and the ordinary pilot wants plenty of air below for such work. The smuggler being the aggressor in this case, naturally started to climb when he spotted the Ryan. He hoped, no doubt, not only to increase his altitude but to gain greater ascendency over Bill before diving at the monoplane with his machine gun going full blast.
It was time for Dorothy to act. As the smuggler’s plane began to ascend, she sent her amphibian diving toward him at a tremendous spurt of speed. The Mystery Plane nosed over and dove in turn at the Ryan, some five hundred feet below.
“Ha-ha!” Dorothy shut off her motor and brought Will-o’-the-Wisp’s nose gradually back to the horizontal. “Our scheme worked! That bird either doesn’t know his business or he’s lost his nerve!”
A fighting plane attacking has as its objective a position directly behind the hostile plane at close range. A position either above or below the tail is equally good. From these positions the enemy is directly in the line of fire, and in sighting no deflection is necessary.
The smuggler’s maneuver showed Dorothy that he was a novice; for instead of going into a climbing spiral which would have eluded her dive and made it possible for him to attain a superior position over both planes, he dove at the Ryan. This might have been a proper fighting maneuver if Bill’s plane had not been nosing upward toward him; and had the Ryan not been the faster of the two.
By this blunder he put himself in the direct line of fire from Bill’s machine gun. And had that young man been minded to use it the battle would have been over—almost before it started.
Seeing his mistake almost immediately, the bearded aviator broke his dive by zooming upward. Again Dorothy’s plane dove for his tail and right there he made his second error.
Instead of gaining altitude and position by making an Immelman turn, which consists of a half-roll on the top of a loop, he pulled back his stick sharply, simultaneously giving the Mystery Plane full right rudder. The result was an abrupt stall and a fall off, and his amphibian emerged from the resultant dive headed in the direction from which he had first appeared.
Dorothy sent her bus spiralling downward, while Bill simply nosed his Ryan into a steeper climb. By the time the Mystery Plane levelled off from its split-S turn it had lost over a thousand feet. Granted he was headed for home, if that had been his intention; now he was placed in the worst possible situation with regard to his opponents. For instead of one, both planes had attained positions above him.
For the next few minutes the man in the smuggler’s plane did his best to out-maneuver the elusive pair whose motors roared above his head like giant bees attacking an enemy. Never was he given a chance to better his position or to gain altitude. Every time he maneuvered to place one of the planes within line of fire from his machine gun, the other would effectually block the move; the menacing plane would sheer off at a tangent and its partner, crowding down upon his tail, would hurl forth a smoke bomb. By the time he floundered through the cloud, his antagonists would be back in their relative positions, again, the one directly above his tail plane, the other slightly behind him to the right.
The bearded aviator knew that he was being outclassed at every move, that gradually they were forcing him down to a point where he must land or crash.
Both Dorothy and Bill knew exactly when the man in the plane below guessed their purpose. For with a sudden burst of speed he shot ahead, streaking in the direction of North Stamford like a ghost in torment.
“We’ve got every advantage but one,” mused Dorothy, widening her throttle in pursuit. “He knows where he’s going—and we don’t. He’s up to some trick, I’ll bet.”
That her thoughts were prophetic was made apparent almost immediately. By shutting off his engine and by kicking his rudder alternately right and left with comparatively slow and heavy movements, the smuggler pilot sent his plane’s nose swinging from side to side. This evolution, known as fish-tailing, he executed without banking or dropping the nose to a steeper angle. Its purpose is to cut down speed and to do so as rapidly as possible.
The Mystery Plane slowed down as though a brake had been applied, sideslipped to the left over a line of trees and leveled off above a field enclosed by a dilapidated stone fence.
“Confound!” exclaimed Dorothy, with a glance behind. “He’s going to land and both Bill and I have overshot the field!”
Nose depressed below level, a lively flipper turn to left brought Will-o’-the-Wisp sharply round facing the field again with its wings almost vertical. Immediate application of up aileron and opposite rudder quickly brought the amphibian to an even keel once more. Then Dorothy nosed over, went into a forward slip, recovered and leveled off for a landing.
As the wheels of her plane touched the ground, she saw the Ryan come to a stop on the grass some yards to the right. Just ahead and between them was the Mystery Plane. It lay drunkenly over on one side, resting on its twisted landing gear and a crumpled lower wing section.
Dorothy stood up in her cockpit when Will-o’-the-Wisp stopped rolling and saw the smuggler-pilot vault the wall at the far corner of the field and disappear into a small wood. Bill was walking toward the disabled amphibian. She got out of her plane and hurried toward him.
“Pancaked!” she cried, pointing toward the wreck as she came within speaking distance.
“You said it—” concurred Bill. “That guy was in such a hurry he leveled off too soon. Usually I don’t wish anybody hard luck but that bird is the great exception. Too bad he didn’t break a leg along with his plane. Now he’s beat it and—”
“We are just about where we were before,” she broke in.
“Not quite, Dorothy. The Mystery Plane is out of commission.—I wonder where we are?”
“Somewhere in the North Stamford hills.”
“I know—but whose property are we on?”
“Haven’t the least idea.”
“I can’t see any houses around here. Did you notice any as you came down?”
Dorothy shook her head and laughed.
“My eyes were glued on this field,” she admitted. “I was too busy trying to make a landing myself to take in much of the landscape. Wait a minute, though—seems to me I caught a glimpse of the Castle just before I put Wispy into that reverse control turn. Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“The Castle?” Bill frowned. “What in the cock-eyed world is that?”
“A castle, silly!”
“Make sense out of that, please.”
“Sorry. You’re usually trying to mystify me—I just thought I’d turn the tables for a change.”
“Oh, I know—I’ll say I’m sorry or anything else you want. Only please tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Well, it seems that about fifteen or sixteen years ago, somebody built a castle about two or three miles from North Stamford village. It’s less than five miles from where we live. Not being up on medieval architecture I can’t describe it properly, but Dad says it is the kind that German robber barons put up in the fourteenth century. Anyway, the Castle is built of stone with a steep, slate roof, which spouts pointed turrets all over the place. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been built by a German—it certainly looks as Heinie as sauerkraut!”
“Who lives there?” asked Bill.
“Nobody, now. During the war, Dad told me, the place was suspected to be a spy-hang-out or something like that. Anyway, there was a lot of talk about it. What became of the owner, whoever he is, I don’t know. The place has been rented several times during the past few years. It is quite near the road. I drove past it just the other day on my way to and from Nance Wilkins’ tea and the old dump looked quite empty and forlorn.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Bill. “This bearded guy may have been heading for your Castle, but I doubt it. Fact is, he probably decided to land at the first convenient place when he found we were too much for him, and decided to trust to his legs for a getaway.”
Dorothy had been swinging her helmet by its chin strap in an absent-minded manner. Now she raised her eyes to his.
“What are we going to do about it?” she inquired. “We can’t try to break into the Castle in broad daylight.”
“Hardly. And after our experience with the bank gang, we’ll do no more snooping around strange houses on our own. I am going over to that little wood where our friend ran to cover. Maybe I can find some trace of him. You stay here with the planes.”
“Why can’t I go with you, Bill?”
“Because that smuggler may simply be hiding in the woods in hopes that we’ll come after him and that we’ll leave these airbuses unguarded. Then when we’re gone, he’ll come back here, grab one of them and fly quietly home.”
“All right. I see.”
“Have you got a gun?”
“That small Colt you gave me is in Wispy’s cockpit.”
“Get it and keep it on you—and if that guy shows up, don’t be afraid to use it.”
Dorothy shook her head. “I never shot at anybody in my life—”
“Don’t shoot at him—shoot him. You might have to, you know.”
“But surely, Bill—”
“Oh, I don’t mean for you to kill the guy. Plunk him in the leg—disable him. If you have any qualms about it, just remember that machine gun in his bus here. The man is as deadly as a copperhead and twice as treacherous. Look out for him.”
“I will. But su-suppose you get into trouble, Bill. How long do you want me to wait here before I come after you?”
“My dear girl,” Bill was becoming impatient. “I’m just going to try to find out where that lad is headed. I won’t be gone more than ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Yes. But suppose you don’t come back here!”
“Wait for half an hour. Then fly back home and tell Dad what has happened. He’ll know what to do. Don’t get nervous—I’ll be all right. So long. See you in a few minutes.”
With a wave of his hand, he ran across the field and Dorothy saw him hurdle the low wall and disappear between the trees of the wood where the bearded aviator had run to cover.