  The long shadows of late afternoon cut intricate figures on the Bolton’s lawn. Bill, from his chair on the porch, let the book he had been reading slip to the floor. He watched sunlight and shadow dance on a background of multi-colored green, for a gentle breeze had set the treetops stirring. As an open car, a familiar figure at the wheel, rolled up the driveway he sauntered over to the top of the steps. “Hello there, Mr. Davis! Glad to see you.” He waved a bandaged hand, as the car drew up and stopped. Mr. Davis got out and walked up the steps. He was no longer the rather rough looking figure of the morning, but was now immaculate in gray flannels and a spick and span panama. “Glad to see you, Bolton,” he smiled pleasantly, and Bill was again impressed by the keen intelligence in this gray-haired man’s eyes. “This is a rather unexpected pleasure. I really did not expect to be in New Canaan this afternoon.” Bill pointed to chairs and they sat down. “I’ve been trying to read, but it’s a nuisance turning the pages with these hands!” “How are they coming along?” “Nicely, thanks. Our local medico had a look at them when we got back from Heartfield’s this morning. He says that the salve you used must be wonderful stuff—he’d never seen anything heal so quickly.” Mr. Davis smiled, and pulling out his briar pipe, filled and lighted it. “By tomorrow you’ll be able to discard the bandages,” he observed. “Although you will have to go easy on the hands themselves for a couple of days. I came across that salve in the Near East some years ago. Some day, when I can snaffle a few weeks off the job, I’ll put the ointment on the market, and let it make my everlasting fortune.” Bill looked surprised. “But I thought—” “That old Davis was taking a cheap vacation, rent free! That is the story I pass out just now, Mr. Secret Service Operative Bolton! But—and I’m rather sorry to confess it—the story, though plausible, is untrue.” “And what,” Bill spoke quietly, watching his visitor through half-shut lids, “gives you the impression that I am a secret service operative, Mr. Davis?” “Perhaps you’d like to look at this.” Mr. Davis took a small leather case from his breast pocket and snapped back the flap, disclosing a green card. He held it so Bill could read it. “Suffering cats! So you’re Ashton Sanborn—head of—” “Quite so. But to you and everyone else while we are on this case of the winged cartwheels, just plain ‘Mr. Davis’, if you please.” He laughed quietly at the look of genuine amazement on Bill’s face. “You see, one is never sure who may be listening, and I am fairly certain that the gentry we are dealing with have not got onto Mr. Davis yet!” A telegraph messenger pedalled up the drive, sprang off his bicycle and ran up the steps to Bill. “Wire for you, Mr. Bolton,” he said, handing him a yellow envelope. “The manager says he wrote out the message just as it came in, but he can’t make head nor tail of it—he—” Bill ripped open the flap with his finger tips, drew forth the telegraph form and saw typewritten below his address a single line of words in an unknown language. “Tell the manager,” he replied, “that the message is really for Chief Osceola and that it is written in the Seminole language. Anything to pay?” “No, sir.” “Well, stick your fist into this pocket of my coat and help yourself to a quarter.” “Thanks, Mr. Bolton.” The boy grinned delightedly as he transferred the money to his own pocket. Then he ran down the steps, jumped on his wheel, and sped down the drive. Bill looked at the secret service man and smiled. “No need to tell the manager all we know, Mister—er—Davis,” he said. “And especially when I really don’t know anything. Of course, the message is in code and although it was sent from New York City, I have a sneaking idea that it originated in Washington, D. C.” The secret service man nodded. “You’re a good guesser, Bolton. Washington is taking no chances either. The code is a double interchange of letters. Simple enough when you know it and easy to remember. Hand it over. I’ll explain as I translate.” He laid the paper on his knee and took out a pencil. “So you see,” he continued, after deciphering the code, “it reads: ‘Take your orders from Ashton Sanborn V8LR.’” “V8 being my own number in the service,” said Bill, “and the initials those of the big boss. I want to add that I’m tickled to death to be working under you, Mr. Davis. All the world knows the big things you’ve put over. And just to think that when you were piloting Osceola and me up to Kolinski’s shack this morning, you probably knew a lot more than we did about the winged cartwheels!” Mr. Davis made a gesture of dissent. “That’s where you’re wrong, Bolton. Until you told the story to Captain Simmonds and me in the car, I’d never heard of the emblems nor of the organization they represent.” “But surely you—I mean, it is rather cheeky of me to ask questions, but if you knew nothing about the cartwheel gang, how did you happen to be in that out-of-the-way place?” “It’s simple enough, Bill—I’m going to call you Bill. I’m old enough to be your father, and we’ll probably get pretty well acquainted before this case goes into the files completed.” “Bill is what I like my friends to call me, Mr. Davis.” “Thanks. Well, the truth of the matter is that I was in Heartfield’s to keep an eye on Kolinski. For some time, a big gang with headquarters in New York City has been doing a land-office business smuggling cocaine and other drugs into this country from Europe. The police came to a dead end on the case and that brought me into it. Kolinski, who is known to have been a dope pedlar in a small way, suddenly blossomed out with a big car and plenty of money. I had enough on that Pole before he took the house at Heartfield’s to put him behind bars for the remainder of his life. Instead, I followed him up there, because, after considering a number of things—I’ll tell you about them sometime—I had the hunch that he’d become a member of this big dope running gang.” “Have you found out much about it?” Mr. Davis tamped the glowing tobacco in his pipe with the flat end of a pencil. “Mighty little—nothing important, anyway. Kolinski has no flies on him, he’s a slick article. Even though he made one or two slips in the past, he seems to have been walking the straight and narrow since he joined this racket; only of course I’m certain he’s been doing nothing of the kind!” “Then you think this silver cartwheel business is nothing more than a dope smuggling ring?” “I’m not so sure. However, our Department has been advised from France that large quantities of cocaine are being shipped to the United States. The French tracked down and located two of these shipments before they left Europe. The stuff was in small packets and had been placed in boxes containing truffles.” “But surely,” argued Bill, “those truffles were addressed to someone in this country.” “Right, they were. But those addresses led us nowhere. Upon investigation they proved to be two untenanted houses in New York City. The owners are perfectly respectable people. In both cases, the houses had been rented through agents and rent paid in advance for six months.” “But how about the people who rented them?” “They have never been seen. The business with the real estate firms was carried on entirely by correspondence. Inasmuch as postal orders covering the rent were sent by mail, references were not required. You must understand that because of the two shipments held up and confiscated by the French government, we naturally suppose that more of the stuff is being sent over. But we have no actual proof. On the other hand, when we find that several men like Kolinski, who are known to be small fry in this dope racket, suddenly desert their old haunts and become affluent without any visible means of support, we put two and two together. However, we have not been able to trace the source of supply further than I have already told you, nor have we been able to discover their method of distribution.” “Has it occurred to you that it may be only a sideline of some much bigger racket?” Bill suggested diffidently. “It just doesn’t seem reasonable that that old geezer with the cracked voice would have got so stirred up if we’d merely horned in on a dope ring. The man talked like a lunatic, and as if we were spoiling some very definite object he had in view.” “That, Bill, is exactly what I decided when I heard your story. Of course I had already disclosed my real identity to Captain Simmonds, and as soon as you left for New Canaan, we had a chat and I got Washington on the wire. I had known for a week or so that you’d been taken on by the Department, and so I requested your services on the job. The people down there thought it a good idea. They’ve given us free rein to handle this matter as we may see fit—and so here I am!” “And I,” said Bill, “am very much honored that you should want me to help you.” Mr. Davis smiled. “I think the regard is mutual, Bill, and I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly together. By the way, I suppose your Seminole friend is over at the Dixons’? I phoned their physician before leaving Heartfield’s and he said Miss Lightfoot was conscious now, but could not be spoken to until about eight.” “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!” |
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