  Clocks in New Canaan were striking seven next evening when Bill turned the switch on the Loening’s instrument board which released the retractable landing gear of the plane. Five or six seconds later he spiralled down on the level field back of the Bolton place, and taxied toward the hangar. Wheelblocks in hand, he was climbing out of the cockpit when a man ran up from the direction of the Bolton garage. “Evening, Master Bill,” he greeted. “Glad to see you back again.” “Hello, Frank! I’m glad to get home myself, even though I won’t be staying long. Has my father returned home from Washington?” “No sir. That is, he ain’t back in New Canaan.” “After I get something to eat, I’m taking the Buick down to Stamford. It may be that I’ll come back tonight, but if not, I’ll need the Loening tomorrow.” “Very well, sir. I’ll fill her and give her a thorough looking over. Some doin’s there were here the night you left. By the time I waked up and got the cops on the phone, them guys had beat it. There was a wrecked car what had run into a rope, stretched out yonder, but they’d took the license plates with ’em. The cops think they can trace the car, though.” “Well, that won’t get them anywhere. I’ll bet a hat the car was stolen. Anyway, I know who the men were. I’ve got a date with one of them tonight.” “Is that so, sir? Better let me go with you, sir!” Frank was all eagerness. “There’s them what says I ain’t so worse in a scrap.” Bill laughed and shook his head. “Thanks just the same, Frank. Some other time maybe. There won’t be any scrapping where I’m going this evening. This is just going to be a quiet conference.” Frank looked disappointed. “Well, you never can tell, sir. If it looks like somethin’ interestin’, I hope you’ll give us a ring, an’ I’ll be wid yer in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.” “I’ll remember, but don’t be too hopeful. So long now. I’m off to get a bite at the house before I start off again.” “So long, Master Bill. I’ll have the Buick ’round front for you, soon as I wheel this crate into the hangar.” “Thanks,” said Bill again, and marched off toward the house. In the kitchen he encountered the cook. “Well, if it isn’t Master Bill home agin’,” beamed that buxom female. “Sure as I’m a sinner it’s yer dinner ye’ll be wantin’—an’ divil a bit av it cooked yet. I give the help theirn an hour ago!” “Oh, that’s all right, Annie. But would it be too much trouble to rustle me a couple of sandwiches—or maybe three?” Annie, hands on hips and arms akimbo, looked indignant. “It’s no sandwiches ye’ll be gettin’, Master Bill. In half an hour I’ll have something hot and tasty dished up. Can’t ye be waitin’ that long?” “Gee, I sure can, Annie. But don’t bother too much. Anything will do. I’m hungry enough to eat shoe leather!” “Now you leave that to me,” he heard her say as he went toward the front of the house and then up the stairs to his room. He shut the door and picked up the French phone from a night table by his bed. As soon as central answered he called a Stamford number. “Mr. Evans there?” he asked when a man’s voice answered. “Evans speaking. It sounds like Bill Bolton?” “Bill Bolton is right, Mr. Evans. I’m home—in New Canaan—just got here by plane. Deborah gave me your number.” “Then it must be important. Spill the story, boy. Tell me why you’re not up in Maine looking after my interests.” Bill told him, and it took him more than ten minutes to do so. “You see,” he ended, “while Deborah was giving us a midnight lunch on Pig Island, the five of us, Deborah, old Jim, Osceola, Ezra and myself, went into a session of the ways and means committee. After some argument, it was decided that on Charlie’s account, I must come down here, and at least pretend to follow Sanders’ orders—to report to Johnson at Gring’s Hotel, anyway.” “Yes,” concurred Mr. Evans, “I’m afraid there’s nothing else that you can do.” “I thought that perhaps you might have some men about, rush the joint and capture this Johnson. Kind of tit for tat, you know. We could swap him back to friend Sanders for Charlie. That would even up things a bit. Just now it seems to me that they have the bulge on us.” “There’s no doubt about it, Bill—they have. Your plan’s a good one, but it is impossible.” “But why?” “In the first place, although Slim Johnson is a very young man, he is one of the cleverest gangsters outside Sing Sing. Secondly, if he didn’t have an A No. 1 organization of cutthroats and gunmen behind him, I’d have kidnapped that young gentleman long ago. But tell me,” he went on anxiously, “what are you fellows up there doing about my boy?” “Just this: after it was arranged that I should come on here, Osceola elected himself a committee of one to locate Sanders’ hide-out, and to get his hands on Charlie. Parker decided to stay on the island to guard Deborah, for it seems that Jim is away most of the time on special duty for you, which he wouldn’t divulge.” “And quite right, too,” murmured Mr. Evans. “Jim’s work is a most important factor—most important.” “Well, it’s all Greek to me. And although you’re running this show, sir, and with all due apology, I must say it’s my opinion that you make a mistake in not putting more confidence in the people who are helping you. Look at me: Charlie blows in here and we beat it up to Maine as fast as my plane and good lead bullets will get us there. All kinds of hush stuff when we arrive, then you beat it off during the night, leaving us in a house that’s a warren of secret passages and what not—and to make it worse, you leave us absolutely no instructions. Consequently, one of us gets kidnapped, and the other all but loses his life, first by airgun bullets—and some airgun it must be to shoot that distance—and later, by drowning. Then I mistake the people on Pig Island for your enemies, make a fool of myself and darn near get kidnapped into the bargain. As a direct result, instead of being able to make myself useful in your interests around Clayton, I have to chase off down here to placate the chief of your enemies.” “There’s a lot in what you say,” replied Mr. Evans. “But you must understand that this is an extremely serious affair—in which an enormous sum of money is involved.” “Oh, you make me tired,” snapped Bill. “Why, I’ve had a sweet chance to sell you out—lock, stock and barrel. Money, money, money—that’s all you so-called big business men think of—and at that, you’re the guys we have to thank for the depression. Is any amount of money worth Charlie’s life?” “They wouldn’t dare—” “They dared with poor little Charlie Lindbergh. Are you any better than our national hero?” “But I don’t like the way you’re talking—” “And I don’t care a tinker’s hoop what you like. You’re not paying me anything. Listen to me—just as soon as we can find Charlie for you, I’m through! You want those who are helping you to trust you and your judgment, yet you won’t trust them, and seem to have as little respect for human life as did the German High Command during the war!” “Anything else?” inquired an angry voice at the other end of the wire. “Yes,” said Bill, “there is. A slight error on my part, or what might be construed as an error. When I inferred that you willingly risked human life in order to obtain money, I naturally made an exception.” “And that is?” “Your own valuable life, Mr. Evans!” With this Parthian shot, Bill slapped on the receiver and switched off the telephone extension to his room. “I guess that’ll hold him,” he muttered. “Gosh, I’m glad I got that off my chest!” He was under the shower in his bath when there was a knock on the door. “You’re wanted on the telephone, Master William,” called a maid’s voice. “It’s a gentleman—wouldn’t give his name.” “You tell the gentleman,” called back Bill, “that I’m busy. If he is insistent, say that I suggest he can go where snowballs melt the fastest.” He dressed in a leisurely manner and went down to the dining room, where he found a hot meal awaiting him. He did full justice to it, and about eight-thirty he went out the front door, climbed in his car and drove off. It was a twenty-minute drive down through the ridge country to the city of Stamford, where he parked his car in a garage off Atlantic Street. From there he walked down back streets and eventually came to Gring’s Hotel. He had passed the place many times, and knew that it held an unsavory reputation. The building was a five-story frame structure, and back in the early years of the century, it had been a famous hostelry. The neighborhood had gradually deteriorated, until now the once-fashionable tavern reared its ornamental faÇade amid slums of the worst type. The police department had raided the place so often that newspapers no longer regarded that sort of thing as news. The hotel still had a reputation for excellent food and service, but it drew its patronage almost entirely from the rough element, sometimes criminal, sometimes merely tough, with which every New England manufacturing town is more or less cursed. Bill ran lightly up the steps to the long veranda, a relic of better days. Paying no attention to the stares of the loungers in the lobby he crossed to the desk and caught the clerk’s attention. “’Phone up to Mr. Harold Johnson,” directed Bill. “Say that Bill Bolton is down here and would like to see him.” “One moment, sir,” returned the clerk and spoke a few low words into the phone at the rear of the desk. “Mr. Johnson will see you,” he announced a moment later. “Take the elevator to the fourth floor and turn left. The room number is 49.” |
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