Dorothy Dixon Solves the Conway Case

“I sure will, Mrs. Johnson. If they’re still around, we’ll run ’em off quicker’n greased lightning.”

“You’re very good,” smiled Dorothy. “We saw a couple of suspicious characters hanging round the Cross River entrance when we came over here to headquarters just now.”

“I’ll rout ’em out,” Sam Watson promised. “If they kick up a fuss they’ll put in thirty days behind the bars. Well, I must be hoppin’ it. Glad to have met you folks, I’m sure. So long, everybody!”

With a stiff salute and a broad smile he was gone. They heard him tramp down the hall and then the front door slammed.

“Checkmate to J. J. J.,” murmured Bill.

Dorothy played chess with her father – “Not checkmate – check,” she corrected. “By the way, Mrs. Johnson, I wonder if we can trespass on your good humor still further?”

“Land’s sakes alive! I haven’t done nothing for you yet!” The superintendent’s wife was busy with hot water and a teapot.

“Do you happen to have an extra car that we could borrow for a few hours?”

“Why, sure I have, my dear. But there’s no hurry about your leavin’, is there? A cup of tea, now, to warm you up and some of these nice crisp crullers I made yesterday? Then I’ll get you and Mr. Bolton some dry things to put on and after dinner you can take the car and ride home. How’ll that be?”

Dorothy laughed and shook her head. “You’re awfully kind, really, Mrs. Johnson, but we can’t stay. We’ve got an appointment that just can’t be broken.”

“But your wet clothes, Miss Dixon?”

“Thanks for your offer, but we aren’t so wet now. I will have a cup of tea if I may, although we only finished breakfast a little while ago.”

“And don’t forget those crisp crullers,” protested Bill with a grin. “I certainly do love homemade crullers, ma’am.”

“An’ dey ain’t nuffin’ better ’an de ones Miz Johnson makes,” chuckled Uncle Abe. “I’se tasted ’em befo’ an’ dis hyar nigger knows!”

Mrs. Johnson beamed delightedly.

“Even if I do say so who shouldn’t,” she remarked modestly, “this batch came out pretty good. But are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay for Sunday dinner? We’re having fish chowder, chicken friccassee, with dumplin’s, and a pumpkin pie!”

“You sure do make my mouth water,” groaned Bill. “I only wish we could stop, and meet your husband, Mrs. Johnson. If you’ll keep the invitation open, we’d love to take advantage of it some other time.”

The good lady passed them their tea and a plate heaped with golden brown crullers.

“We’ll make it next Sunday noon then. Our children are all married, with homes of their own. Mr. Johnson and I miss not having young folks round the house. It’ll make it seem like the good old times again, if you come. Don’t forget now, next Sunday.”

“We’ll be here with bells on, Mrs. Johnson,” promised Bill.

“And we’ll try not to look like a couple of tramps then,” added Dorothy.

“You’ll always be welcome, no matter what you wear,” declared their hostess. “I’ll make another pumpkin pie for you.”

They chatted for ten minutes or so and then bade Mrs. Johnson goodbye.

“Uncle Abe will take you out to the garage,” she said in parting. “Take the Buick. You’ll need a closed car on a day like this.”

When the kitchen door had shut out the smiling, motherly figure, and they were following the old darky along the drive, Dorothy turned to Bill.

“And they say that New Englanders are not hospitable! Why, they’re the most hospitable people in America if you really know them!”

“Country people, no matter what part of the United States they live in, are generally friendly. Living in cities, where your next door neighbor is a stranger, makes a person suspicious. But I’ve found that most honest-to-goodness Americans will do a lot for a person in trouble.”

“Dere’s de kyar, Missy,” Uncle Abe interrupted apologetically. “Reckon dis hyar ol’ nigger’ll wish yo’all goodbye an’ mo’ comferble beds ternight.”

Dorothy caught the old fellow’s hand and held it between her own.

“Uncle Abe,” she said, looking straight into his shining eyes, “do you really like living up there in the woods, all by yourself?”

“Waal, dis nigger ain’t used ter much, Missy,” he said slowly, “an’ de cabin am a heap better ’an a barn er no roof atall. But, it sho’ do get mighty lonesome, ’times.”

“I bet it does. How would you like to live in quarters over our garage and work for my father? He was saying only a day or so ago that what with driving the cars and all Arthur has too much to do around the place. We need a gardener and general handy man. The job is yours if you’ll take it – and I don’t mind saying I’ll feel badly if you don’t.”

Ol’ Man River winked back the tears with a brave effort, although the little wrinkles at the corners of his mouth puckered in a smile.

“Yo’ sho’ is good ter dis hyar nigger, Missy!”

“And you want to come? I won’t take no for an answer – ”

“It do me good fer ter hear you sesso, Missy. Kaze yo’ sho’ is de qual’ty and dis hyar ol’ nigger never done had no real fambly ’time he come No’th.”

Bill winked at Uncle Abe.

“And if that nocount Dixon family don’t treat you right, you come right across the road to my house.”

“Spect I’ll git ’long tollerbul well on Miss Dor’thy’s side,” he chuckled.

“Well, what’s the good word now, Dorothy?” Bill motioned toward the Buick. “It’s about time we beat it over to Stoker’s, don’t you think?”

“I do think,” returned Dorothy. “And that’s why we aren’t going over there.”

“But surely – ”

“But nothing. The boys aren’t there or they’d have answered the phone. If you hadn’t heard the bell ring we could be fairly sure the wire was cut and that they were holding the house in a state of siege, so to speak. Now we know they aren’t there.” Bill did not seem impressed.

“If that line of reasoning is logical, I’m as cold on the right answer as a water tank in winter. How do you know Joyce’s men haven’t got them tied up in the house?”

“Because at this stage of the game, Joyce would hardly do that and leave them there for their friends to find. And if his men were still in the house, they’d be sure to answer the telephone. You and Uncle Abe get right into that Buick now. We are going to take a run up to Mr. John J. Joyce’s place.”

Bill did not attempt to hide his astonishment.

“Gee, whiz, Dorothy? – you’ve got a whale of a lot of nerve!”

Dorothy shrugged and looked steadily at Bill. “Well, are you game?”

For answer he followed her into the car.

“Pretty much like jumping feet first into the lion’s den,” he commented, “but considering your middle name is Daniel, or ought to be, I dare say we’ll have a roaring good time of it!”

“Stop talking jazz, Bill. How about you, Uncle Abe?”

The old man already lounged back on the rear seat.

“Reverse dis hyar injine inter de drive, Miss Dor’thy – an’ when yo’all turned round I’se gwine ter show yo’ where we’se a-gwine.”

Dorothy, smiling over the steering wheel, backed out of the garage and got the Buick headed toward the road.

“Well, Uncle?” she prompted.

“D’reckly in front of us, way over yonder on de far hill ez er big house.”

“The white one in the trees?” asked Bill.

“Yaas, suh, de only one any pusson kin see from hyar. Dat am Hilltop, Marse Conway’s ol’ place.”

“Where Mr. Lewis lives now!”

“Eggzackly so, ma’am. Marse Joyce’s place ez jus’ back er yonder.”

“Bet he calls it, ‘The Den,’” said Bill.

Uncle Abe cackled, “No, suh, Marse Bill – hee-hee – dat house done called ‘Nearma’.”

“Near ma?” repeated Dorothy in a puzzled tone. “There are some queer Indian names in this part of the country, but that’s a new one on me.”

“’Tain’t Injun, Missy. Dat dere hones’ ter goodness ’Merican. Marse Joyce’s ol’ Ma uster lib cross de ridgeroad. Dat how he come ter name de house ‘Near Ma’.”

“That old scurmudgeon! I don’t believe it!” cried Bill in an explosion of laughter.

“Dat am de spittin’ trufe, Marse Bill. De ol’ lady am daid, but he still call de place Nearma jus’ de same.”

“How do we get to it, Uncle?” Dorothy asked after a moment.

“Run out de entrance till we come ter de turnpike, Missy. Den right, long dat road to Cross River. From de village yonder we follers de road ter Lake Waccabuc, but we don’t hafter travel dat far.”

“Good enough.” The car swung round the side of the house and into the road. “I guess Sam got rid of the Watchers by the Gate – there’s nobody at the entrance.”

They swept into the highroad and on through the pre-revolutionary hamlet of Cross River. Half a mile further, as they were speeding along the top of a wooded ridge, Uncle Abe spoke again.

“Dat stone fence long de road ter de right b’long ter Hilltop,” he pointed out. “De house am set way back from de road behin’ de trees. Round de bend ahead yo’all gwine ter see ’nother higher wall, dat starts by three white birches. Yonder am where Marse Joyce’s land begins.”

“And what’s on the farther side of the Joyce property?”

“Dere ain’t nuffin, Missy, ’cept jes’ mo’ dese hyar woods.”

“Fine! And I suppose, after being up here for nearly ten years, you can find your way about in those woods?”

“Sho’ can, Missy. Ef dere’s er rabbit hole dis nigger a’ missed in dem woods, I wanter know.”

“Better and better. You’re a marvellous help, Uncle Abe.”

“What do you plan to do? Park the car near the road, hike back through the woods and cut over toward the house from that side?” Bill was not enthusiastic.

“Just about that.”

“And when you sight the historic mansion?”

“I’m going into the house.”

“Oh, yes, you are…”

“Oh, yes, I am!”

“And how do you expect to do that without being nabbed right off the bat?”

“Last night you told me I asked too many questions, Bill. And Uncle Abe says ‘what’s food for the goose is swell eating for the gander…’!”

Chapter XV

IN THE TOILS

“Ef yo’ll pahdon my sayin’ so, Miss Do’thy,” volunteered Uncle Abe as the car was run into the underbrush beyond the Nearma wall and parked behind a clump of scrub oak and evergreens, “I ’lows as how it sho’ would er bin better ter ’proach de house from de odder side. We could er travelled down Marse Lewis’ place and come in dat-a-way. Dere’s mo’ lan’scapin’ on dat side.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, Uncle,” Dorothy locked the ignition. “But I think we’ll keep just as far away from Mr. Lewis’ property as we can, for the present.”

“Do you think he really is mixed up with J. J. J. in this business?” Bill asked her.

“Can’t say – it certainly looks like it – and we’ll take no unnecessary chances.”

“How about the chances we’ll take in breaking into Nearma?”

“I said unnecessary! Anyway, I’m the one that’s going in there.”

“But look here, Dorothy! Do you think I’m going to let you walk into that place alone?”

“Not alone, old dear. Uncle Abe is coming with me.”

“Oh, is he? And what am I to do while you’re in the house mixing it up with those thugs? Do you expect me to stick out here with the car and see that somebody doesn’t steal the tires?”

Dorothy looked amused. Bill was annoyed with her and she did not blame him. “You’ll have plenty to do, Bill.” She gave his shoulder a good-natured pat and sprang out of the car.

“Come on, both of you. I’ll explain my plan as we go. Lead the way, Uncle Abe. I want to get to the kitchen door without being seen from the house if possible.”

Uncle Abe got out of the car. Bill was already beside her.

“Yo’all foller Ol’ Man River!” said the ancient darky and led into the woods away from the road.

“Well, what’s the dope?” Bill’s tone was less exasperated now, and side by side they swung in behind the old man.

Dorothy took his arm. “I guess you think I’m a brainless idiot,” she began, “with all my wild schemes – ”

“Well, I don’t quite see your idea in going in there alone – but it’s your show, so go ahead and explain.”

“Attaboy! Now this is the point. I want to do some scouting inside and I’ll need you to cover me as it were. Uncle Abe knows Joyce’s servants. And Mr. Joyce is looking for you and me. Well, don’t you see, if Uncle Abe brings a stray boy into the kitchen for a bite to eat, it won’t seem anything out of the way. In these clothes, I’ll never be taken for a girl.”

“But you won’t stay in the kitchen – I know you!” Bill was not quite convinced.

“Perhaps not – what I do inside will depend on circumstances as I find ’em.”

“Humph! And what is my important work to consist of?”

“I want you to watch this side of the house. If I need you, I’ll open a window and wave. If it happens to be a window on the ground floor, you can get in that way. If I open a second story window, come in through the kitchen. You’ve got a gun – that ought to be a help.”

“But – suppose you aren’t able to get to a window?”

“Oh, then wait half an hour; when the time’s up run down to Cross River in the car and phone the state police and get them up here just as soon as possible.”

“Why not get them up here now?”

“Because we really haven’t got anything to go on. Chances are they wouldn’t come and I want to be able to pin something good and definite on Mr. John J. Joyce before we get the police on the job.”

Bill seemed impressed by her reasoning. “I guess you’re right. If Stoker and Terry are in Nearma and we can prove it, J. J. J. will have a nice little charge of kidnapping to face.”

“And I want to get him for grand larceny and conspiracy as well,” she returned. “That may sound ambitious, but I want to land that gentleman and his friends on a bunch of counts that will send them to Sing Sing for a very, very long time.”

“You and me both. I don’t know what Joyce’s plans are, but after listening to his bark last night, I’ll bet they’re something pretty rotten. Hello! – There’s Uncle Abe beckoning.”

They caught up with the old darky who was peering through the woods to their right.

“Yonder’s de stone fence, Missy,” he announced, “an’ beyon’ am Marse Joyce’s prop’ty. De house am ’bout fifty yards from de fence.”

“Good. Bill, you go ahead and lay low behind some of the bushes near the house. Uncle Abe and I will be along in a minute.”

“Aye, aye, skipper. Take care of yourself.”

With a wave of his hand he climbed the low stone wall and disappeared into the shrubbery on the Joyce grounds.

Dorothy turned to Ol’ Man River. “I suppose you know the cook over there, Uncle?”

“Oh, yaas, ma’am. Liza an’ me’s bin frien’s fer ten years.”

“That’s fine. Now listen to what I say, because you’ve got your part to play in this affair and there mustn’t be any slipup.”

For several minutes she talked earnestly to the old negro.

“Is that all clear?” she ended presently.

“Yaas, missy. I’ll do what yo’all tells me to – but I ain’t ’zackly hankerin’ fer you to do all dis.”

Dorothy laughed. “Neither am I, Uncle. But it’s just got to be done, you know.”

They climbed the fence as Bill had done and set off in the direction of the house, which soon came into view through the shrubbery and trees. As they drew nearer, Dorothy saw that Nearma was a large white frame house with green shutters in the conventional New England style. A wide veranda ran along the front of the house and on the far side a massive fieldstone chimney broke the expanse of clapboard between the rows of windows. The drive swung round the front of the building and turned sharply to the rear cutting the wide lawn on the near side. The grounds were beautifully landscaped. On a bright summer’s day it must indeed be a lovely spot. Just then it looked bleak and drear in the steady autumn downpour.

They reached the drive without sighting Bill, and followed it to the back of the house. Presently Uncle Abe was knocking on the kitchen door.

His second knock was followed by the sound of footsteps and the door opened to disclose an enormously fat negress whose head was bound with a bright red bandanna. The angry glare on her round black face changed to a delighted grin as she recognized her visitor.

“Lord, lordy,” she exclaimed. “If it ain’t Uncle Abe River hisself. Come in outer de wet. You sure is a sight fer sore eyes. Ain’t seen you nohow fer a month er Sundays!”

Liza bustled her callers through an outer pantry into a spacious kitchen.

“I wuz over ter Cross River,” said Uncle Abe, seating himself in a proffered chair. “An’ you is allus so good an ’commydatin’, Liza, I ’lowed I’d drop in an – ”

“Find out whedder Liza would ask you t’ dinner,” chuckled that good natured person. “Reckon you ain’t livin’ so high now’days in dat der cabin.”

“Yo’ sho’ is a good guesser,” grinned Uncle Abe. “But I likes ter see ol’ frien’s an’ I wanted speshul ter ax if Marse Joyce could gimme a spell o’ work rakin’ leaves er sump’n.”

Liza pursed her lips an shook her head vigorously.

“’Tain’t likely dat man’d give you nothin’,” she said darkly. “De goin’s on hyar lately is sure terrubul. Wat wid all dese strange men in de house an’ de young gemmun dey brought in han’cuffed las’ night – an’ right froo dis hyar kitchen too – I’se jes’ ’bout ready ter give notice. But I mustn’t say nothin’! Who is dis hyar boy wid you, Uncle?”

Dorothy made a quick decision. “Not a boy, Auntie – a girl,” she said quietly. “ – And a friend of the young man who was brought here last night.”

“Sakes alive!” exploded the stout cook. “Wat’s all dis I’m a-hearin’?”

“Yo’all hearin’ de spittin’ trufe, Liza,” chimed in Uncle Abe earnestly. “Miss Do’thy am de qual’ty. Jes’ yo’ listen ter wat she say.”

Dorothy waited for no more comment. With a few deft word strokes she painted a vivid picture of last evening’s happenings at the Conway house. Then having aroused a wide-eyed interest in her story, she went on to tell of the adventure in Uncle Abe’s cabin and the morning’s experiences.

“I am not trying to make trouble between you and Mr. Joyce,” she ended, “but if you will help me to free that young gentleman – he must be either George or Terry – you’ll be doing a very fine thing and my father will see you come to no harm.”

“I’se ’spected fo’ some time Marse Joyce wuz er bad man,” said Liza, “but I ain’t askeert of him. Wat you want I should do, Miss Do’thy?”

“I just want you to tell me some things, Liza. Then you go on getting dinner and I’ll see what I can do for my friend.”

“Hadn’t I better call in Marse Bill?”

“No, not yet. If anything goes wrong in the house I want to have someone on the outside to phone for the police.” She turned to Liza. “Do you know where Mr. Joyce and his men are now?”

“Yes, ma’am. Marse Joyce an’ most of ’em done gone somewheres in de big car – left de house ’bout ’n hour ago.”

“How many are still here?”

“Two o’ dose no-count white men is somewhere in de front part of de house. An’ let me tell yo’all if dat white trash comes a-bustin’ inter my kitchen agin, dey a-gwine ter git a rollin’ pin bounced offen dere skulls!”

“If you can’t do it, Liza – I will – ” added Uncle Abe.

“Ho – how come I can’t do it, Abe? You jes’ watch dis pickaninny. I’ll bust ’em an’ bust ’em good!”

Dorothy giggled. Liza’s description of herself as a pickaninny had upset her gravity for the moment.

“I can see you’re both going to be useful. But tell me, Auntie – do you know where they’re keeping this young man?”

“He’s in de blue room, Missy. I done tote up his breakfas’ to de do’. Marse Joyce give de odder two girls de day off, so I’se cook an’ waitress an’ chambermaid today. You run along, Miss Do’thy an’ if dose cheap ivory rollers try ter git fresh – jes’ holler fo’ Aunt Liza – she’ll bust ’em!”

Dorothy had started for the pantry when Uncle Abe sprang out of his chair and caught her arm.

“’Scuse me, Missy,” he apologized then went on eagerly – “I’se got er idee.”

“Yes? What is it, Uncle?”

“Dey’s logs an’ dey’s kindlin’ in der entry, missy. I done seen ’em when we come in. Well, Miss Do’thy, you tote some kindlin’ – an’ I’ll carry a couple er logs an’ – ”

“Fine! We’ll do it!” Dorothy’s alert mind had grasped the plan before Uncle Abe’s tongue could give utterance to it.

“An’ de bes’ part of it is, honey,” grinned Liza, “dat all de rooms on dis flo’ has fireplaces an’ mos’ of dem upstairs too. Marse Joyce, he’s a crank on open fires.”

Dorothy chuckled. “Lucky break for us.” She took a small armful of kindling that Uncle Abe held out to her.

“Yo’all better foller me,” said the old darky, “I knows de way ’bout dis house, Miss Do’thy.”

He pushed open a swinging door and they slipped into a dining room, panelled in white pine. It was an attractive room and Dorothy decided that despite his criminal traits, John J. Joyce was a man of taste. Uncle Abe tiptoed across the room and paused in the doorway to the hall.

“We better see who’s downstairs befo’ we goes up,” he whispered, and trotted off along the corridor.

He stopped at a closed door near the foot of the staircase and lifted his hand to knock. But before his knuckles had touched the panel, the heavy oak swung inward and they were confronted by the prizefighter whom Dorothy had last seen heating a poker in the Conway house.

“’Scuse us, suh. We’se bringin’ wood fo’ de fire.”

The big man glared at them for a moment. Then apparently satisfied, he stepped aside. “O.K. Thought I heard someone snoopin’ around. Dump those logs in the box and then get out.”

He paid no more attention to them. Slouching stiffly in a big chair before the fire, he became immediately engrossed in the Sunday paper.

Uncle Abe dropped the logs into the woodbox, and Dorothy knelt on the hearth and piled her kindling beside it. In rising to her feet her head brushed Uncle Abe’s arm, knocking off the soft felt hat Bill had loaned her. Quick as a flash she retrieved it and thrust it back on her head.

“A boy with a girl’s bob!”

Dorothy turned sharply and found herself staring into the muzzle of an automatic.

“Stand right where you are,” barked the big man, as he got up out of his chair. “And you too, dinge – ” The revolver swerved for a second in Abe’s direction. “Ol’ Man River and the girl, of course – we expected you to show up. The laugh’s on you, all right. Where’s your boy friend?”

“Right here!” Bill Bolton stepped from behind the heavy window draperies, his revolver trained on the gangster’s stomach. “Drop that gun – drop it, or I’ll drill you!” Then as the automatic crashed to the floor, a smile spread over his tanned face. “And this time the laugh is on you, my friend,” he added softly.

“Oh, yeah?” came a rasping voice from the hall doorway. “You drop your rod, bo’ – and stick ’em up! Don’t move – you’re covered. Now laugh that one off – ha-ha!”

Bill’s gun fell to the floor and his hands rose slowly upwards. In the doorway stood the bald man – the other member that Dorothy had spied on in the library of the Conway house.

Chapter XVI

THE BOOK

The newcomer limped a couple of paces into the room. His left arm and one leg were swathed in bandages.

“What price rock salt?” remarked Bill pleasantly, still reaching toward the ceiling.

Despite her qualms, Dorothy could not help smiling. The bald man’s face became scarlet with fury.

“Another crack like that and I’ll give you a taste of something harder than rock salt,” her roared. “And when I get through with him that guy who was so free with his shotgun last night will wish he’d never been born!”

Bill ignored this outburst. “That gat was my only weapon,” he announced without rancor. “This house is in New York State, so if you want to burn in Sing Sing, shoot – I’m tired of holding up my arms.”

He lowered his hands and thrust them into his trousers pockets.

The bald man looked daggers but he did not pull the trigger. Instead he turned on his partner.

“Why don’t you do something, Chick?” he growled. “You know I’m laid up – oughta be in bed right now, for that matter.”

“Say, Eddie,” complained the burly fellow, “I’m stiff as a board myself – I got peppered all down my back and you know it.”

“Aw, quit yer grousin’. You can still move around. Tie ’em up and we’ll dump ’em somewhere till the boss gets back.”

“Yeah? An’ what do we use fer rope?”

Eddie scratched his head with the butt of his revolver and hobbled over to an armchair. “Stick that gat in yer pocket, Chick,” he ordered as he lowered himself carefully into the deep cushions. “I’ve got ’em covered. Beat it into the kitchen – that fat dinge in there’s got plenty of clothesline. Help yerself and tell her I’ll come in an’ bump her off, if she gets nasty!”