THE THREE RED LAMPS
In the wooded valley of the Silvermine, some three miles from the
village of New Canaan, lies the famous artists’ colony which bears the
name of that rippling little river. In the midst of this interesting
community, the artists have built their Guild House, where exhibitions
of paintings and sculpture are held. And here it is that once a year
they give that delightful entertainment known as the Silvermine Sillies.
The casts of the Sillies invariably comprise the pick of local talent
from the two communities. Dorothy had starred in the musical show given
by the New Canaan High School the previous winter. She had a lovely
voice and a natural talent for acting. She loved amateur theatricals.
But that she should have been assigned a part in the Sillies while yet
in High School was a compliment beyond her expectations. She had worked
hard at rehearsals and under an assumed calm was wildly excited on this,
the opening night of the show.
She left Terry on the beach, after cautioning that young man again not
to be late, and ran up the shingle to the Dixons’ cabana, which,
together with its gaily painted counterparts, flanked the long club
house at the top of the beach.
A surprisingly few minutes later, Dorothy reappeared, her bathing suit
having been discarded for an attractive linen sports frock, and jumped
into her car.
The distance between Tokeneke on Long Island Sound and New Canaan back
in the hills of the Ridge Country is slightly under eight miles.
Luckily, on her drive home, Dorothy encountered no traffic policemen.
Not withstanding summer traffic and the narrow, winding roads, she
pulled into the Dixon garage on the ridge a mile beyond the village, a
bare ten minutes later.
Another change of costume and she ran downstairs to the dining room. Her
father and a friend were about to sit down at the table.
“Sorry to be late, Daddy,” she apologized, slipping into her chair.
“Good evening, Mr. Holloway.”
“Good evening, Miss Dorothy,” returned the gentleman with a smile. “You
seem a bit blown.”
“Some rush!” she sighed, “but I made it!”
“Youth,” remarked her father, “is nothing if not inconsistent. We dine
early, so that Dorothy can get to the Sillies at some unearthly hour,
and—”
His daughter interrupted.
“Please, Daddy. I had an awfully exciting experience this afternoon. I’d
have been home in plenty of time, otherwise.”
“At the Beach Club?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Well, suppose you tell us the story, as penance.” He turned to his
guest. “How about it, Holloway? This should interest you, one of the
club’s most prominent swimming fans!”
Mr. Holloway nodded genially. He was older than Mr. Dixon, between fifty
and sixty, tall and rather thin. He had the brow and jaw of a fighter,
and his iron-grey side-whiskers gave him a rather formidable appearance.
But Dorothy liked him, for his eyes, behind his horn-rimmed spectacles,
beamed with friendliness.
“The Beach Club, eh?” He leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I take a dip
most afternoons. Wonderful bracer after mornings in the city in this hot
weather. You ought to get down there more often.”
“Well, there’s a pool at the Country Club, and I’d rather play golf,”
argued his host. “I haven’t been to the Beach Club this summer, but
Dorothy tells me that the cabana you’ve built is quite a palace—much
larger and more ‘spiffy,’ I think was the word, than those we ordinary
members rent!”
“I like to be comfortable and have some privacy when I entertain my
friends down there,” Mr. Holloway admitted. “But I’m interested in
hearing Dorothy’s story. I was there this afternoon, but I didn’t notice
anything unusual.”
“Did you see the airplane that landed in the cove?”
“Why, no. What time was that?”
“A little after five-fifteen.”
“I had already left for home. I’m rarely at the club after five o’clock.
I like a bright sun when I’m in the water. What about the plane?”
While Dorothy told of her experience with the bearded pilot, the two
gentlemen continued their meal in silence.
“A nasty customer—that!” snapped her father when she had concluded.
“But then, my dear, you shouldn’t allow your keenness for aviation to
over-excite your curiosity. Let it be a lesson to you not to interfere
with other people’s private business.”
“You say that he wore a false beard?” interjected Mr. Holloway. “Now I
wonder why the man wants to disguise himself? And why he was so
standoffish about his plane?”
“He’s probably in training for some test or endurance flight and wants
to keep his identity secret for the time being,” suggested Mr. Dixon.
“There’s often a lot of hush-hush stuff about such things—that is,
until the stunt comes off—and then the secretive ones become the
world’s worst publicity hounds!”
Dorothy remarked the change that came to their guest’s face: the eyes
narrowed, the mouth grew harder; something of his levity disappeared.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly. “But whatever his reason for wishing privacy,
we can’t have club members insulted by strange aviators in our own cove.
I shall take it up at the board of governors’ meeting tomorrow. In
future we will see to it that no more airplanes land on club waters. Do
you think you would recognize the man without his beard, Dorothy?”
“I don’t think so—but Terry, who was nearer to him, swears he could
spot him anywhere.”
“If he should do so, ask him to report the matter to me, and I’ll see
that the man at least offers apology.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holloway.” Dorothy was pleased at this interest. “I’ll
tell him.”
“You three had better leave well enough alone,” her father declared
bluntly. “The plane is probably being flown over a set course which
happens to take it over the club. That aviator seems to be a surly
customer. My advice is to forget it....”
Dorothy pushed her chair back from the table.
“You’ll excuse me, won’t you?” she smiled. “I’ve got to run, now.” She
went to her father and kissed him. “Please don’t be late, Daddy. I come
on the first time right after the curtain rises—it will spoil my
evening if you two aren’t there!”
Mr. Holloway’s kindly eyes twinkled behind his glasses.
“Nice of you to include me. I wouldn’t miss the first number for
anything. I’ll see that we’re both there in time.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Her father patted her hand. “We’ve got a
small matter of business to go over and then we’ll be right along.
Success to you, dearest.”
“’Bye!”
* * * * *
A fine rain was falling when Dorothy stepped into her car. As yet it was
more a heavy mist than a downpour. But with the wind in the east she
realized that this part of the country was in for several days of wet
weather. She drove carefully, for the winding wooded roads were
slippery. Upon arriving at the Guild House, she changed at once into
costume.
The Silvermine Sillies, like Mr. Ziegfield’s more elaborate Follies, is
invariably a revue, consisting of eighteen or twenty separate acts. As
Dorothy stood in the wings, waiting for her cue, shortly after the first
curtain rose, she was addressed by the stage manager:
“Have you seen Terry?”
“Not since this afternoon. Why?”
“He’s not here.”
Dorothy was fighting back the stage fright that always assailed her
while waiting to “go on,” but which always disappeared as soon as she
made her entrance. She turned her mind to what the manager was saying
with an effort.
“You mean he hasn’t shown up?” she asked a bit vacantly.
“Your perception is remarkable,” returned the harassed stage official
with pardonable sarcasm. “No, Terry isn’t here. Do you know whether he
had any intention of putting in an appearance at this show tonight when
you last saw him?”
Dorothy was wide awake now. “Of course he had!”
“He didn’t mention some more important date, perhaps?”
“Of course not. Terry wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“Well, he goes on in less than two minutes. Who in blazes am I to get to
double for him? Deliver me from amateurs! There’s your cue, Miss
Dixon—better take it!”
“Hey, you, Bill!” she heard him call to a stage hand, as she made her
entrance. “Duck into the men’s dressing room and bring me Terry Walters’
overalls and wig. Here’s where I do his stuff without a makeup!”
Terry failed to show up during the first part of the program, so during
the intermission, Dorothy slipped out front and sought the delinquent’s
father and mother in the audience.
“Why, my dear, I’m quite as surprised as you are,” gurgled Mrs. Walters.
“Isn’t this rain disgusting? You looked perfectly lovely Dorothy—and
you did splendidly, splendidly, my dear. I thought I’d die when your
rope of pearls broke and you went hunting for them—a perfect scream, my
dear—the funniest thing in the show!”
“Those were Betty Mayo’s pearls,” said Dorothy. “I wasn’t in that act.
You say Terry left the house in plenty of time, and he expected to drive
straight down here?”
Mrs. Walters had said nothing of the kind, but Dorothy had known the
lady for years, and had long ago devised a method of securing
information from her.
“He didn’t even wait for dessert, my dear. He probably went to the
movies or remembered some other date. Boys are like that!”
“Terry isn’t.” His father spoke up. “He must have been going to pick
someone up and give them a lift down here—then blew a shoe or
something. Still, I don’t like it. I hope the boy hasn’t met with an
accident.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Reggie! You make me feel positively faint. I know
he has gone to the pictures.” Mrs. Walters was nervously emphatic.
“Don’t be so silly, dear—I know he has.”
“You know nothing of the kind,” declared her husband.
“But, Reggie dear—”
Dorothy hurriedly excused herself and went back stage.
But by the time the final curtain was rung down, no Terry had appeared.
Dorothy was really worried. Betty was giving a party to a number of the
cast at her house in White Oak Shade, but despite protests, Dorothy made
her regrets and went to look for her father.
“I think I’ll beat it for home, Dad,” she announced, buttonholing him
near the door.
“I’ll be along in a few minutes, darling. I certainly am more than extra
proud of you tonight. I never realized what an actress you are. But you
look troubled—anything the matter?”
“I’m worried about Terry. I know he wouldn’t deliberately put us all in
this hole. He’s not that kind.”
“Probably had a break-down,” consoled her father. “Excuse me, dear, I
want to speak to the Joneses over there.”
* * * * *
Dorothy drove a six-cylinder coupe whose body had seen better days,
though she claimed for its engine that the world had not seen its equal.
With her windiper working furiously, she came cautiously along Valley
Road, her big headlamps staring whitely ahead. The rain was pelting down
now, and since she must have a window open, and that window was on the
weather side, one arm and part of the shoulder of her thin slicker were
soon black and shining.
“Something he couldn’t help—that’s what made Terry let us down,” said
her subconscious mind, and she wondered how any of the cast could have
expressed contrary opinions. She was glad she had refused Betty’s
invitation. She liked Terry and was deeply concerned about him. He
wasn’t the sort to default unless something unforeseen and unusual
occurred. Mrs. Walters said he had been full of the show at dinner and
had spoken about getting to the Guild House early. Something had come
up, that was certain. And that something, after he had started for
Silvermine in his car. The more she thought about it, the more
mysterious it seemed. She would phone the Walters again as soon as she
reached home. Maybe he would be back by that time.
The car skidded round the turn into the Ridge Road that ran past the
Dixon place. A mile farther on, Dorothy decided it would be well for her
to keep her mind on the road ahead. A few minutes before, a lumbering
truck had almost driven her into the ditch, and now, with a mile to go,
she saw ahead of her three red lights. She slowed her engine until she
came within a dozen yards of them.
They were red lamps, placed in a line across the road, and if they meant
anything, it was that the road was under repair and closed. Yet she had
passed the truck going at full speed just beyond the corner. From its
lights, she was sure it had come along this stretch of road.
She peered through the open window and saw on her left a dilapidated
stone fence, the top of which was hidden under a blanket of wild
honeysuckle. She saw by her headlights a gap where once she knew a
five-barred gate had blocked the way to the open field. All this she
took in at a glance, for Dorothy knew exactly where she was. Then she
turned again to her scrutiny of the road and the three red lamps.
“Well!” said Dorothy to herself. She switched out all the lights of the
car, and taking something from her pocket, she opened the door quietly
and stepped into the rain. She stood there for a while, listening.
There was no sound except the swish and patter of the storm. Keeping to
the centre of the road she advanced slowly toward the red lights, picked
up the middle one and examined it. The lantern was old—the red had been
painted on the glass. The second lantern was newer, but of entirely
different pattern. Here also, the glass pane had been covered by some
red, transparent paint. And this was the case with the third lamp.
Dorothy threw the middle light into the ditch and found satisfaction in
hearing the crash of glass. Then she came back to her car, got inside,
slammed the door and put her foot down on the starter. The motor whined
but the engine did not move. The car was hot and never before had it
failed. Again she tried, but without success.
“This looks suspicious,” she muttered to herself.
She sprang out into the rain again and walked to the back to examine her
gasoline tank. There was no need, for the indicator said, “Empty.”
“I’ll say suspicious!” she muttered again, angrily, as she stared down
at the cause of her plight.
She had filled up just before dinner, but notwithstanding that fact,
here was a trustworthy indicator pointing grimly to “E”; and when she
tapped the tank, it gave forth a hollow sound in confirmation.
Dorothy sniffed: the air reeked with fumes. Flashing her pocket light on
the ground she saw a metal cap and picked it up. Then she understood
what had happened. The roadway, under her light, gleamed with opalescent
streaks. Someone had taken out the cap and emptied her tank while she
was examining the red lamps!
She refastened the cap, which was airproof, waterproof, and foolproof,
and which could only have been turned by the aid of a spanner—she had
heard no chink of metal against metal. She did not carry reserve fuel,
but home was not more than a mile down the road, round the turn. And she
knew there was a path from the gap in the stone wall, across the field
and through a belt of woods that would halve the distance.
She sent her flashlight in the direction of the open gateway. One of the
posts was broken and the rotting structure leaned drunkenly against a
lilac bush. In the shadow behind the bush, she was certain that a dark
form moved.
Dorothy lingered no longer, but switching off her light, she turned on
her heel and raced up the road.