Bill unlatched the back door of the bank, pushed it open and stood aside
for Dorothy to pass through.
"Wait a minute." She put out a restraining hand. The full glare of the
arc light in the alley fell on the damp ground at their feet. "Right
over there are the tire marks of the holdup car. It's lucky it rained
this afternoon. The prints are perfect in this mud."
"Well, that's interesting, but--"
"Oh, no. Of course they won't solve the mystery. That's what you were
going to say, isn't it?" Dorothy's voice was mocking as she looked up at
Bill. "But here--see these footprints? From this door to the car?" Her
tone was triumphant now. "They ought to help just a little, don't you
think?"
But Bill seemed unmoved at her discovery. "Probably hoofmarks of the
cops," he said rather disparagingly.
Dorothy laughed. "If those footprints were made by policemen I'll eat
them. Where are your eyes, Bill? The cops in this town wear regulation
broad-toed shoes. When I heard the traffic cop tell Dad that he'd seen
the robbers' car go up the alley, I dashed out here to have a look
around. And as soon as I saw these prints I knew they were not made by
broad-toed boots. Let's examine them closer."
Taking care to avoid stepping on the well defined trail that led from
the door to the tire marks of the car, the two studied the line of
footprints.
"One fellow wore rubber soled shoes--I guess you're right, Dorothy,"
acknowledged Bill, squatting on his heels. "The pattern on this set of
prints could have been made by nothing else. But what do you make of
these tracks here? Just holes in the mud with a flat dab right ahead?"
"High heeled shoes, Bill. One of this gang is a woman, that is clear
enough. What bothers me is the third set--look!"
Bill stared at the footprints to which she pointed. "The right-hand one
was made by a long, narrow shoe, but I'll swear that boot last was never
made in America. It's too pointed," he said finally. "The shoe that made
that imprint was bought in southern Europe, I'll bet--Italy, probably.
But those queer looking marks to the left are beyond me," he frowned.
Then he cried--"No, they're not! I have it--the man who made those
prints was club-footed!"
Dorothy disagreed with him. "A club-foot couldn't make that mark. It is
too symmetrical--straight on both sides and kind of rounded at the back
and front. It wasn't made by a wooden leg, either, Bill!"
"No. That would simply dig a hole in the mud."
"Oh, I know! Why didn't I see it at once!" she exclaimed excitedly--"The
man was lame!"
Bill snorted. "And he had long pink whiskers which he tied round his
waist with a green ribbon!"
"Don't be silly--I know what I'm talking about."
"How so?"
"I _know_ that a lame man made that set of marks."
"Very well. May Doctor Watson inquire on what Miss Sherlock Holmes bases
her astounding deduction?"
"On those queer marks, of course, stupid!"
"Thanks. The clouds have vanished. You make everything so lucid." Bill
stood erect once more.
"But, Bill--did you ever see a lame man--whose left leg was shorter than
his right?"
"Maybe I did. But I can't swear at this distant date which leg was the
shorter."
"Well, I can tell you that in this case, the left was!"
"Maybe--"
"Maybe nothing! Why am I sure of it? Because the man wore a lame man's
boot--the kind with a very thick sole. My grandfather wore one. He
twisted his hip when he was a boy and that leg didn't grow as long as
the other. What is more, he always walked on the _sole_ of his big
boot--the heel never touched the ground!"
"I believe you _are_ right," mused the young man, studying one of the
queer footprints again.
"I know I am, Bill. That kind of a shoe would make exactly that print.
Not such a bad hunch to take a look out here, was it?"
"You're a swell sleuth, Dorothy. Let's see. Now we know there were three
in the gang this evening. The chap who played chauffeur and wore
sneakers, a woman, and a lame man--probably an Italian."
"Yes. But that doesn't solve the mystery, does it?"
"No, but it helps a lot. How about the tire tracks?"
"Not our car. Daddy uses Silvertowns and those were made by some other
kind."
"Goodyears, I should say. How about going in now and telling your father
what we've learned?"
"I'd rather not, if you don't mind?"
"Why!"
"Well, you see, Bill, Dad hasn't much confidence in girls' views on what
he calls 'the practical side of life'--mine especially. There'll soon be
a bunch of detectives on this case. If they find out for themselves,
it's O.K. with me--but I shan't tell them."
"You want to work up the case yourself?"
"That's exactly it. If you'll help me?"
"Certainly I will. But we may get into trouble--I mean it is likely to
be dangerous work."
"Does that bother you?"
"I'd hate to have you get hurt--"
"I won't do anything on my own without telling you first. We'll work
together. Does that suit your highness?"
"You bet! Where do we go from here?"
"Back to my house. We'll go down the alley and hop in your car. I want
to ride up to our garage. I've got another hunch."
"The kid's clever," remarked Bill admiringly. "Want to tell me? I
haven't a glimmer."
They turned out of the alley into Main Street before Dorothy answered.
"Suppose you guess," she suggested teasingly as she stepped into the
car. "Or, better still, now that you've become my aviation instructor,
I'll even things up and give you a short course in sleuthing."
"That's a go, teacher," grinned Bill. The car rolled up the hill past
the white Memorial Cross on the village green. "But to a mere amateur in
crime it looks as though you had barged into a pretty good mystery, no
kidding."
"Sh--" commanded Dorothy. "Sherlock Holmes is thinking."
"Don't strain anything," Bill advised as he stepped on the accelerator.
Dorothy did not retort to this thrust, but remainder wrapped in her
thoughts for the remainder of the ride. Bill turned the car into the
Dixon's drive before she spoke again.
"Keep on to the garage, please."
"Right-oh! Still sleuthing, I take it?"
"Yes."
"What _is_ the big idea?"
"Wait and see."
He drew up under the arching elms with the glare of their headlights
focussed upon the closed garage doors. Dorothy sprang out and ran
forward.
"Locked," she affirmed, giving the handle a tug. "Wait a minute, Bill.
I'll be right back." She disappeared in the direction of the house.
Bill shut off the engine and clambered down to the ground. Presently he
saw her coming back, accompanied by a woman in maid's cap and apron.
"All right, Lizzie," her young mistress said, "I want to look at
something first. Then you can tell us exactly what happened. That's
right, give me the key."
She swung open one of the wide doors.
"The Packard's there, just as I told you, Miss Dorothy," volunteered
Lizzie as the three stepped inside the garage. "It's your car that's
missing."
"I left it at the beach club--" Dorothy cut herself short. "The license
plates are gone from the Packard!"
"Wasn't that to be expected after what the cop told us in the bank?"
There was a hint of mockery in Bill's voice.
"Of course. But the point is--were they taken this afternoon while Daddy
had the car parked behind the bank--or later this evening after he drove
home? He would never remember whether he drove from the bank with the
plates still attached or not. He never notices details like that."