DOROTHY DIXON
and the Double Cousin
BY
Dorothy Wayne
Author of
Dorothy Dixon Solves the Conway Case
Dorothy Dixon and The Mystery Plane
Dorothy Dixon Wins Her Wings
THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY
CHICAGO
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Copyright, 1933
The Goldsmith Publishing Company
MADE IN U.S.A.
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To
Dorothea Hetty Gutmann
a New Canaan schoolgirl, who
loves our beautiful Ridge
Country, and whose fox terrier,
Professor, really ate the dictionary!
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CONTENTS
I The Encounter 15
II “Family Affairs” 27
III The Sleepwalker 39
IV Meet Flash! 55
V On Secret Service 67
VI Who’s Who? 79
VII Playing a Part 91
VIII “Walk Into My Parlor” 104
IX In the Night 116
X Surprises 127
XI Gretchen 142
XII Tests 156
XIII Winnite 168
XIV Professor 179
XV Tea and Orders 199
XVI Caught in the Act 212
XVII Professor Makes Good 228
XVIII The Christmas Spirit 246
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DOROTHY DIXON AND THE DOUBLE COUSIN
Chapter I
THE ENCOUNTER
“Why—good heavens, girl! How in the world did you escape?”
Dorothy Dixon heard the low, eager whisper at her elbow but disregarded
it. She was intent on selecting a tie from the colorful rack on the
counter before her. She spoke to the clerk:
“I’ll take this one, and that’ll make four. I hope Daddy will approve my
taste in Christmas presents,” she smiled, and laid a bill on her
purchases.
“But—please, dear, tell me! Don’t you know I’m worried crazy? Who let
you out?”
This time Dorothy felt a touch on her arm. She wheeled quickly to face a
tall, slender young fellow of twenty-two or three. As she stared at him,
half indignant, half wondering, she saw sincere distress in his brown
eyes, and in the lines of his pleasant face. Hat in hand, he waited
anxiously for an answer to his question, while the crowd of holiday
shoppers poured through the aisles about them.
Dorothy’s eyes softened, then danced. “It seems to me,” she said, “that
you have the wires twisted—it’s not I who’ve escaped, but you! Run
along now and find your keeper. You’re evidently in need of one!”
“Your change and package, miss,” the impersonal voice of the
haberdashery clerk intervened and Dorothy turned back to the counter.
“But why on earth are you acting this way, Janet?” The strange young man
was at her elbow again.
Once more Dorothy turned swiftly toward him but when she spoke her eyes
and voice were serious. “Do you really mean to say you think you’re
speaking to Janet Jordan? Because—”
“My dear—what are you trying to tell me?” He broke in impatiently. “I
certainly ought to know the girl I’m going to marry!”
Dorothy nodded slowly. “I agree with you—you ought to—but then, you
see, you _don’t_!”
The young man crushed his soft felt hat in his hands and took a step
nearer to her. “Look here—what _is_ the matter with you? I know you’ve
been through a lot, but—” He broke off abruptly, a gleam of horror and
suspicion in his honest eyes. “Janet! What have they done to you?”
Dorothy laid a firm hand on his arm. “Sh! Be quiet—listen to me.” Then
she added gently—“I am _not_ Janet Jordan, your fiancee.”
“You’re not—!”
“No. My name is Dorothy Dixon—and I’m Janet’s first cousin.”
The young man seemed flabbergasted for a moment. Then he
stammered—“Wh-why, it’s astounding—the resemblance, I mean! You’re
alike as—as two peas. If you were twins—”
“But you see,” she smiled, “our mothers, Janet’s and mine, _were_ twins,
and I guess that accounts for it. I’ve never seen Janet, but this is the
third time, just recently, that I’ve been taken for her by her friends,
Mr.—?”
“My name is Bright,” he supplied. “Howard Bright. Yes, now I can see a
slight difference, Miss Dixon. You’re a bit taller and broader across
the shoulders than she is. But it’s your personalities, more than
anything else, that are altogether unlike. I hope you’ll forgive me,
Miss Dixon, for making a nuisance of myself!”
“No indeed—that is, of course I will!” Dorothy laughed merrily. “You’re
not a nuisance, you know, but,” and her tone became grave, “I can see
that you’re in trouble. Is there—” she hesitated.
“Not I, Miss Dixon—that is, not directly. But,” he lowered his voice,
“Janet is—is in very serious trouble. And for a moment, when I saw you,
I thought that in some miraculous way she had escaped.”
Howard Bright’s face suddenly became almost haggard and Dorothy’s
sympathy and concern for her cousin deepened into resolve.
“Look here, Mr. Bright,” she said abruptly, “we can’t talk here, in this
shopping crowd, it’s a regular football scrimmage. Let’s go up to the
mezzanine. A friend of mine is waiting there for me now, I’m a little
late as it is, and—”
“But I can’t bother _you_ with this,” he protested, “and especially—”
“Oh, come along,” she urged, “Bill is a grand guy when it comes to
getting people out of messes. I insist you tell us all about it. After
all, Janet’s my cousin, you know, and you’ll soon be a member of the
family, won’t you?”
“There doesn’t seem much hope of that now.” Young Bright’s tone was
despondent. “But Janet certainly does need help, and she needs it
badly—so—”
Dorothy caught his arm. “I’m going to call you Howard,” she announced
briskly. “So please drop the Miss Dixon. And come on—let’s push our way
over to the elevators.”
The mezzanine floor of the department store was arranged as a lounge or
waiting room for customers. Comfortable arm chairs and divans invited
tired shoppers to rest. Writing desks and tables strewn with current
magazines gave the place a club-like appearance.
Dorothy and her newly found acquaintance stepped out of the elevator and
looked about. The place seemed especially quiet after the rush and
bustle on other floors, and was almost deserted, save for two elderly
ladies conversing in low tones near a window, and a young man, who rose
at their approach.
As the good looking youth moved toward them with the lithe, easy grace
of a trained athlete, Howard Bright saw that he had light brown hair,
and blue eyes snapping with vitality and cheerfulness.
“Hello, Dorothy!” He greeted her smilingly, “better late than never, if
you don’t mind my saying so. I’d just about figured you were going to
pass up our date.”
“Sorry, Colonel,” she mocked. “Explanations are in order I guess, but
they can wait. This is Howard Bright, Bill—Howard, Mr. Bolton!”
The two young men shook hands.
“Bolton—Dixon?” Howard’s tone was thoughtful. “Why!” he exclaimed
suddenly. “You two are the flyers—the pair who won the endurance test
with the Conway motor! I’m certainly glad to meet you both. The papers
have been full of your doings. Well, this is a surprise! But you know,
I’d got the impression that you were both older—”
“I’m sixteen,” smiled Dorothy. “Bill has me beat by a year.”
“How about lunch?” suggested Bill. He invariably changed the subject
when his exploits were mentioned. People always enthused so, it
embarrassed him. “You’ll join us, of course, Mr. Bright?”
“Thanks, Mr. Bolton. I really don’t think I can butt in this way—”
“There’s no butting in about it,” Dorothy interrupted. “Howard is
engaged to my cousin, Janet Jordan, Bill. And Janet’s in a lot of
trouble. I’ve promised we’d do everything we can to help.”
Bill, after one look at Howard’s worried face, sized up the situation
instantly. “Why, of course,” he said. “And we can’t talk with any
privacy in this place. I can see that whatever the trouble is, it’s
serious.”
“Janet’s in desperate peril,” Howard said huskily.
“You said something about her escape when we met,” Dorothy reminded him.
“Has somebody kidnapped her? Have you any idea where she is?”
“Yes, she’s a prisoner. A prisoner in the Jordans’ apartment on West
93rd Street.”
“Then her father is away?”
“No. He leaves tonight, I believe.”
“But, my goodness!—a girl can’t be kidnapped and made a prisoner in her
own home. Especially if her father is there. It doesn’t sound possible.”
“I know it doesn’t,” admitted Howard desperately, “it sounds crazy. But
it’s the truth, just the same. She’s in frightful danger.”
Dorothy looked horrified. “You mean that my uncle and Janet don’t get on
together—that they’ve had a row and you’re afraid he will harm her?”
“Oh, no, they’re very fond of each other.”
“Then Uncle Michael is a prisoner, too!”
“No, he is free enough himself, but he can do nothing—it would only
make matters worse.”
“Well!” declared Dorothy, “I don’t think much of Uncle Michael if he
can’t protect his own daughter.”
Bill stepped into the breach.
“What about the police—can’t you call them in?”
Howard Bright shook his head. “They would only bring this horrible
business to a climax,” he explained. “And that is exactly what must not
be done. It is more a matter for Secret Service investigation—but I
don’t think that even they could be of any real help.”
Bill and Dorothy exchanged a quick glance.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Ashton Sanborn, Mr. Bright?”
“Yes, I have, Mr. Bolton. Wasn’t he the detective who helped you unearth
that fiendish scheme of old Professor Fanely?”[1]
“Bull’s eye!” grinned Bill. “Only Ashton Sanborn is quite a lot more
than a mere detective. And it so happens that he is over at the Waldorf
right now, waiting for Dorothy and me to lunch with him. Let me tell
you, Bright, it’s a mighty lucky thing for Janet Jordan that he is in
town. Come along. We’ll hop a taxi and be with him in ten minutes.”
Howard hung back. “But really—”
Dorothy caught his arm. “Don’t be silly, now,” she urged.
“But I can’t call in a detective, Dorothy. I know I’m rotten at
explaining, but if these devils who have Janet in their power are
interfered with they will kill her out of hand!”
“But you spoke of the Secret Service just now. This is not for
publication, but Mr. Sanborn is the head of that branch of the
government. If anyone _can_ help Janet, he can do it.”
“I doubt it. I admit I’m half crazy with worry, but Janet is going to be
removed from the apartment tonight, and heaven only knows what will
happen then. It takes days, generally weeks, to get the government
started on anything.”
“Not Sanborn’s branch of it,” interrupted Bill. “We’re talking in
circles, Bright. If Sanborn can’t help Janet, he’ll tell you so. At
least you can give him the dope and find out. He’s an expert and you’ll
get expert advice.”
“All right, I’ll go with you. But I’m afraid it won’t do any good.
Please don’t think, though, that I’m not appreciating the interest
you’re taking. I don’t mean to be a wet blanket.”
“Of course you don’t, and you’re not.” Dorothy led toward the staircase.
“You’ll feel a whole lot better when you get the story off your chest.”
“And when you’ve got outside a good substantial lunch,” added Bill. “I
know I shall, anyway.”
“That,” said Dorothy, “is just like a boy. I believe you’d eat a good
meal, Bill, an hour before you were hung, if it were offered to you.”
“I’d be hanged if I didn’t,” he laughed and followed her down the steps
onto the main floor.
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Footnote 1:
See Bill Bolton and The Winged Cartwheels.