  Bill opened the front door and let Osceola into the house. The chief was fully dressed. He looked tired and worried to death. “You’d better go over and dress now,” he said dispiritedly. “I’ve phoned the New Canaan police station and the Chief will be along in a few minutes. Meantime, I’ll locate the place where the telephone wire was cut and splice it if I can. There isn’t much we can do until morning, worse luck. By that time, we’ll have a chance to line things up a little better, and perhaps have some course of action planned.” “I’ve just got a hunch,” said Bill. “I’ll tell you about it when I come back. If the hunch turns out to be a good one, you and I will get on the job long before daylight.” “Then here’s hoping it will be a good one—” Osceola’s tone was more cheerful now, “there’s nothing worse than this rotten inaction.” Bill nodded. Then he called to Dorothy, who stood at the head of the stairs. “Where’s your father staying in Hartford?” “The Hiblein, I think—he usually does. If you ’phone him, tell him I’m all right, and give him my love.” “I will. So long!” He ran down the porch steps, and hurried across the lawn toward the highroad. When he got to his room, he went straight to the telephone where he called up the Hiblein Hotel at Hartford, and eventually heard Mr. Dixon’s voice on the wire. “Bill Bolton speaking—” he began abruptly and launched into an account of the night’s happenings. “My thanks to you, boy, and to Osceola,” said Dorothy’s father. “I won’t waste time now in talking about this outrage—but you can count on me being in New Canaan just as soon as the car can get me there.” “Just a moment, sir—there’s something else I want to tell you, and something you can do for us.” “Shoot,” said Mr. Dixon. Bill rapidly ran over the adventures of the silver dollars, gave his own suspicions of the case, and ended by mentioning his affiliation with a certain department in Washington. “Good enough, Bill. That explains why you resigned from Annapolis, of course. You undoubtedly have a flair for this kind of thing. But there doesn’t really seem to be any tangible clue to go on in this beastly kidnapping affair. Have you hit on anything yourself?” “The license number of the gangsters’ car, the one that’s parked in your drive at present, sir, may lead us somewhere. Of course it may have been stolen; and if not, the owner’s house would be the least likely place for them to take Deborah. Still, if we could locate that residence, Osceola and I might be able to get a line on the chap and his friends. What do you think, sir?” “That sounds like a mighty good plan. No telling what you may stir up. But where do I come in?” “Why, the office of the Commissioner of Motor Vehicles is in Hartford, you know, of course, and it won’t be open till nine in the morning. I thought that you, being the president of the New Canaan Bank, might have a drag with some of the politicians up there in the capitol, and that they might arrange it so you could get the information we want tonight. If you could do that, and ’phone it on to me, then Osceola and I might be able to get the jump on them, do you see? It’s not likely the owner of the car guesses that the girls took his license number this morning, especially as we did nothing about it right away. I’ll admit that that was an error on our part, but we hadn’t any idea of what we were up against then.” “Don’t let that worry you,” replied Dorothy’s father. “You’ve done splendidly—you’ve figured a logical why-and-wherefor to this business, and that’s a piece of constructive work. What are you doing now?” “I’ve come over here to put on some clothes, sir. I’m still wearing pajamas—” “I see. By the way, what’s that license number?” Bill gave it to him. “All right. Now go ahead and get dressed, then wait at your house until you hear from me. It won’t be long, because it happens that the State Commissioner of Motor Vehicles is an old friend of mine. We played golf together this afternoon. I’ll have the name and address of that car owner for you in short order.” He rang off and Bill hung up the receiver. He put on a bath robe and slipped his feet into a pair of moccasins. Then he went downstairs and out to the garage. There he saw to it that the gas tank of his own car, a high-powered sport coupe, was full, drove it round to the front door and went up to his room again. When he was completely dressed he went downstairs. He was beginning to feel hungry, and the prospect of a motor trip with no breakfast at the end of it made the idea of food all the more interesting. After he had cooked a substantial meal of bacon, eggs, and coffee, and had consumed every particle of it, he felt decidedly better and more in the mood to carry on at this early hour. Then he went into the living room and threw himself down on a large divan, where he relaxed tired muscles and brought his mind to bear on the matter of the winged cartwheels. Perhaps a quarter of an hour had gone by, when he sprang up and went into his father’s study. The telephone bell was jangling loudly. “That you, Bill?” He recognized the voice as Mr. Dixon’s. “Speaking, sir.” “Well, I rang up the commissioner and here’s the car owner’s name. He is a Serge Kolinski, a naturalized Pole, and he has a house in Sherman Township, Connecticut. Do you know where that is?” “Why, yes—the field where we picnicked is not so far from Sherman.” “Well, this time you’d better run up there by motor. It will be handier for getting round than a plane, and a car may be more useful to you. Do you happen to know where the old Heartfield’s Club is?” “No, I don’t. But I’ll find it.” “Here are your directions. When you get to Danbury, take Route 136, going north. About twelve or thirteen miles farther on, you’ll find that the road winds through a narrow valley. Where the valley widens out you’ll see a large square white house on the right, and a red barn behind it. That is the old clubhouse. You can’t miss it, for it’s the only house near the road in that part of the valley. The club itself no longer exists. It failed financially a few years ago.” “Then the club house is shut up?” “No, it’s not. A chap named Davis and his sister have rented the place for the summer. But what I want to say is this: on the side of the hill above the club house are several houses, built by members when the club was flourishing. Mr. Kolinski has rented one of them and is living there. Knock up Davis, who is by way of being a solid citizen, and he can tell you which is the Kolinski bungalow.” “Thanks very much,” said Bill. “We’ll get under way at once.” “Now hold on, young man. There’s something else. I’m driving over there myself, and with me will be two other cars filled with state police. Deborah Lightfoot is Dorothy’s guest, and very naturally, I intend to be in on this. You will, of course, arrive at Heartfield’s before I do. Get a line on Kolinski, and do a bit of reconnoitering, if you like, but don’t start any offensive until we come. Those are orders, remember.” “Suppose,” argued Bill, “that Deborah’s at Kolinski’s, and we see her being transferred to some other hiding place?” “Use your own judgment in that case, my lad. The object is to get Deborah back, unharmed, of course. But you’ve evidently got a first class thug to deal with. And by the way, get one of your friends to stay in the house with Dorothy, if you possibly can. The thought of leaving her there worries me.” “That will be taken care of,” returned Bill. “The New Canaan police have been notified. They are probably across the road now. I’ll see that she is well guarded.” “Thanks, Bill. Good luck—and be careful.” “I will—see you at Heartfield’s, sir.” Bill hung up the receiver and went out to his car. He was surprised to find that it was raining. |
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