THE WARNING
Dorothy and Mr. Dixon were finishing breakfast next morning when the
Boltons, father and son, dropped in.
“Good morning, stranger,” was Mr. Dixon’s greeting to Bill. “I
understand you’ve been to Europe and back a couple of times since we saw
you last. We’ve missed you, boy.”
“Thanks,” returned Bill. “I’m glad to be home again.”
“Which home?” asked his father with an amused smile. “When in New Canaan
you seem to spend most of your time across the way here.”
“And why not?” protested Mr. Dixon. “Dorothy and I return the compliment
often enough. Since you people moved here two lonely widowers have
acquired another child apiece. It’s fine—both Dorothy and I are the
happier for it.”
“And that goes two ways,” asserted Bill. “How about it, Dad?”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Bolton assented heartily. “The intimacy is one I
enjoy immensely. But I’m afraid that Bill has begun the habit of leading
Dorothy into all kinds of dangerous adventures. This diamond smuggling
business, for instance.”
Mr. Dixon chuckled. “If you ask me, I don’t think Dorothy needs any
leading.”
“Well, I should say not!” exclaimed his daughter. “If it weren’t for
Bill, I’d never be able to get out of half the messes we drift into
together!”
Mr. Dixon pushed his chair back from the breakfast table. “This meeting
of the mutual admiration society is all very nice,” he announced with a
twinkle in his eye, “But it is high time the ways and means committee
got together on this last Bolton-Dixon hair-raiser. I vote we adjourn to
the porch and learn what the subcommittee on the smugglers’ notebook has
to report.”
“Second the motion,” chirped Dorothy. “I’m just crazy to hear what
you’ve found out, Daddy Bolton. I suppose Bill has been hitting the hay,
like me?”
“He put in nearly sixteen hours of uninterrupted slumber,” Mr. Bolton
answered as they found chairs for themselves on the shaded porch, where
the air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle.
“Well, I guess it was a dead heat,” she laughed. “I woke up less than an
hour ago, myself.”
Mr. Dixon passed his case to Mr. Bolton and when their after-breakfast
cigars were well alight, Bill produced the notebook.
“While you’re busy with that stogie, Dad, I’ll start the ball rolling.”
“Humph! That—er—stogie happens to be a fifty-cent Corona!” snorted Mr.
Dixon who was touchy about his smokes.
“Means nothing to me,” replied Bill blandly. “Don’t use ’em myself
and—”
“Say, will you please pipe down on cigars—” broke in Dorothy, “and get
to the notebook?”
“Oh, what a pun—” groaned Bill, “you certainly—”
“Be still!” ordered his father. “She’s right. Let’s get down to
business. Now, here’s the book,” he went on, opening the little volume.
“I dried it in our oven and although the writing is blurred, it is still
quite legible. As you see, only a few pages have been used, and they
show a simple set of flag signals. The red flag means: ‘Meet Steamship.’
The yellow flag stands for ‘A.M.’; the white, ‘P.M.’ Then there are
twenty-four flags to designate the hours and half-hours from one to
twelve.”
“Is that all?” asked Dorothy, disappointedly.
“Absolutely. The rest of the pages are blank.”
“I remember hearing the men speak of the bosses’ red flag when I was
listening outside the cottage,” she said slowly, “and that meant, of
course, that Donovan and Charlie were to meet the steamer.”
“Quite. But until we are able to locate the spot where these signals are
displayed we won’t accomplish much.”
Bill nodded. “And now that they know we have discovered their method of
smuggling, they’ll probably shift their operations from Fire Island
Lightship to some other point along the coast.”
“Very likely,” his father acquiesced. “Although it is my opinion they
will discontinue, temporarily, and lay low for a while.”
“Still there must be other shipments in transit right now,” suggested
Mr. Dixon. “But I suppose they could manage that by sending radios in
code?”
Mr. Bolton carefully knocked the ash from his cigar.
“I think that’s beyond the point,” he argued. “We can only surmise what
they may or may not do. The government men will watch the ships and the
coast. Both Bill and I talked to Washington over the phone just before
we came over here. And the officials there believe that the bearded
aviator’s plane is a most important factor in the operations of the
smugglers. And the Chief wants Bill to find that plane—”
Dorothy snorted derisively. “Well, he doesn’t want much! That airplane
won’t fly over the Beach Club again, after this—”
Mr. Bolton smiled at Dorothy’s vehemence. “But you see, my dear, the
Washington gentleman thinks that if Bill is able to follow the
mysterious amphibian, it will eventually lead him to the headquarters of
the gang.”
Bill burst out laughing. “It’s just like telling me to take a handful of
salt—and if I can put it on the birdie’s tail, I will eventually catch
the birdie! But it isn’t really the Chief’s order, he knows what we’re
up against. It’s that assistant of his who wants to cover himself with
glory. I asked him if I hadn’t better disguise my plane like a string of
white boxes so they’d take me for a diamond necklace!”
“What’d he say?” giggled Dorothy.
“Oh, he spread on the soft soap until I got even more disgusted and
turned him over to Dad!”
Mr. Dixon chuckled. “It’s a pretty large order. I don’t suppose your
Secret Service friend gave you any valuable suggestions?”
“He did not,” sneered Bill. “That, as he explained, was entirely up to
me!”
For several minutes no one spoke.
“We sure are up against it,” sighed Dorothy at last.
“You mean I am,” was Bill’s reply. “The only thing I can do is to start
a series of patrols.”
“_We_ will start a series of patrols,” she corrected. “Two planes will
be better than one.”
“Just as you say.” Bill showed no enthusiasm. “My idea of something
uninteresting to do is to fly around all day, hunting another plane,
that’s probably safely housed in its hangar all the time.”
“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket! If none of us have brains enough to
think of a plan to trap that fellow, there’s no use grouching over it!”
“That’s all very well. But where are we going to patrol? You told me, I
think, that those lads planned to take you from the warehouse to their
headquarters in Connecticut. This state’s not so big when you compare it
with Texas or California—but when it comes to locating a single
plane—”
“Listen!” cried Dorothy and ran to the porch steps. “Come here—all of
you—quick!”
The deep drone of an airplane increased to a giant roar as a smart
two-seater swept down toward the house.
“It’s the Mystery Plane!” she shrieked. “The nerve of him!”
On came the amphibian with throttle wide open, just topping the trees at
the edge of the lawn. Then the four on the steps saw the pilot drop
something overside and zoom upward missing the roof of the house by
inches.
“I should say he has nerve—” Mr. Dixon pointed out on to the lawn. “Run
out and get that parcel he dropped on the grass, Bill. This business is
getting more interesting by the minute!”
Bill brought the package back to the porch.
“Oh, what do you think it is?” Dorothy grabbed Bill’s arm in her
excitement.
“Calm down!” said her father, as Bill held out a small box covered with
brown paper and sealed with dabs of red wax. “Handle it carefully—there
may be explosive in it.”
“I don’t think so—” said Bill, “those things generally run by
clockwork. There’s no tick in this box.”
“Come on—let’s open it,” exclaimed Dorothy impatiently. “I’ll bet it’s
nothing dangerous. Couldn’t have been dropped from a plane without going
off!”
“Wait one minute,” commanded her father. “We’ll be on the safe side,
anyway. Don’t touch the thing till I come back.”
He ran into the house.
“Any address on it?” inquired Dorothy.
“Not the slightest bit of writing. If there is any, it’s underneath this
outside wrapping.”
Mr. Dixon came out of the house carrying a pail of water, which he
brought down to the lawn, where they were waiting.
“Drop that package into the water,” he ordered Bill. “A good soaking
will take the sting out of any explosive.”
Dorothy burst out laughing.
“Maybe—but not in this case, Dad. Look, the thing floats!”
She snatched up the package and ripped off the outside paper, disclosing
a white cork box, similar to those used for carrying the contraband.
Bill took a knife from his pocket and opened a blade that proved to be a
small screwdriver. He took the box from Dorothy and removed the screws
from the lid.
“Gee, do you think they’ve sent us a diamond?” she asked jokingly.
“Not a chance. This is a message of some kind, I’ll bet!”
The box was filled with jeweler’s cotton, from the center of which he
drew a revolver cartridge. Around it, fastened by a rubber band, there
was a small sheet of note paper. The others gathered close as he
smoothed out the paper.
Blocked in capitals with a red crayon was the smugglers’ message.
“LAY OFF! THIS MEANS BOTH OF YOU.”
“Aha! And if we don’t lay off, we’ll be plunked with a bullet from a
cartridge like this!” Dorothy summed up. “This affair is likely to get
exciting before we finish it.”
Mr. Bolton studied the paper then returned it to the box with the
cartridge.
“Has it struck you oddly,” he said quietly, “that these people should
know that Bill was mixed up in this? That message, of course, is for
Dorothy and Bill.”
“Yes, I was thinking of that,” admitted Bill.
“Strange—” cogitated Mr. Dixon. “You two flew from Babylon back here
without a stop—and you both went straight to bed. Neither you, nor I,
Bolton, have spoken to anyone about their exploits, I’m sure.”
“Somebody must have found out from the servants that our offspring flew
back together,” his friend decided. “It could not have happened any
other way. Then that fact, added to the glimpse they must have caught of
a young man in the Mary Jane with Dorothy, when they rammed the
smugglers’ motor sailor off the lightship, gave them a simple line of
reasoning. And the joke of the matter is that their warning has done
just the reverse from what they figured it would do!”
Mr. Dixon looked puzzled.
“I don’t quite see what you mean?”
“Why, it has given us the only real clue we have to the gang’s
whereabouts,” smiled Bolton senior.
“Dad’s one up on me, too,” grinned Bill. “How about you, Dot?”
Miss Dixon stamped her foot. “You’ll _dot_, and carry one you’ll
remember for the rest of your life if you murder my perfectly decent
name that way, Bill! You ought to know by now that I won’t stand for
it.”
“So sorry, Dorothy!” he apologized with mock politeness. “Will Miss
Sherlock Holmes, the famous lady sleuthhound who solved the New Canaan
Bank mystery, deign to say whether or not she also spots a clue in the
villain’s message?”
“Aren’t you the bunk! Yes, I think I know what Daddy Bolton is talking
about.”
“Well, Miss Cleverness, what is it then?”
“Oh, you make me tired! But just to prove that I’m not as dumb as you
act, the clue is this—”
“Give me a chance,” begged Mr. Dixon, entering into the spirit of the
game. “Your idea, Bolton, is to find out from the servants who they’ve
been talking to and trace the smugglers from—”
“Cold as an iceberg,” broke in Mr. Bolton. “I’m sorry to admit it, but
you and Bill don’t seem very quick on the uptake this morning. What do I
mean, Dorothy?”
Dorothy made a face at Bill.
“We know that these men have headquarters somewhere in this state,” she
began airily. “Why? Because Donovan said they must get me over to
Connecticut. And later, in the warehouse, he told Peters not to rob me
because the boss wanted me delivered just as I was. Daddy Bolton
believes that because these men have been spotted so quickly that _you_
are mixed up in it, Bill, their headquarters are much nearer to this
house than we figured: that the chances are, it is only a very few miles
from here that they’re to be found—or their system of spying on us
couldn’t be so perfect!”
“That’s right,” concurred Mr. Bolton. “This smuggler boss or his
accomplices over here must live in the neighborhood. Some of his
servants know ours—have known them for some time or they would not have
been able to ask questions without causing suspicion.”
Mr. Dixon looked suddenly serious. “You can’t mean that our neighbors
along this ridge are mixed up in it? The Clarks, old Holloway, the
Denbys, Miss Cross—and ten or a dozen others—are all old friends and
eminently respectable people! Why, it’s preposterous to think—”
“I’m not trying to pin it on anybody yet,” countered Bill’s father. “But
mark my words—when this business is cleared up, you’ll find that some
eminently respectable New Canaan household _is_ mixed up in it!”