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!"
Chick pocketed his revolver and started to walk stiffly across the room
when Liza's ample figure appeared in the doorway. In her hands she bore
a wooden mixing bowl, brimming with cake batter. The whites of her eyes
gleamed dangerously, as she glared at Chick; then she waddled into the
room and halted just behind Eddie's chair.
"I done heard what yo'all said jes' now, bald man--" She shook her head
slowly from side to side and stared down at the gangster's hairless
pate. "Seems ter me you was talkin' 'bout bumpin' somebuddy!"
With his gun covering the three prisoners, Eddie was unable to look up
at her. Chick undoubtedly hailed Liza's appearance as relief from the
painful necessity of a walk to the kitchen. He sat down on the edge of a
chair opposite Eddie and scowled at her sourly. Eddie took up the
conversation with the angry woman behind him.
"That's right, nigger," he chuckled hoarsely. "We want some clothesline,
to tie up these here nuisances--an' if you don't cough some up right
now--I'll bump you off, see?"
"Reckon you got your names mixed--" Without warning Liza brought the
solid mixing bowl down upon his unprotected skull.
Eddie collapsed beneath the forceful blow and as he crumpled to the
floor, Liza flung the bowl and its contents in Chick's face. Then with
an agility surprising in one so cumbersomely made, she catapulted
herself at the astonished ruffian. Over went his chair and they crashed
in a tangled heap of broken furniture, waving legs and cake batter.
Bill broke into a roar of laughter, but Dorothy wasted no time in being
amused at this spectacle. She dove for Bill's gun which Eddie had not
bothered to retrieve. She ran over the struggling pair on the floor and
held the muzzle to Chick's head.
"Stop fighting!" she commanded. "Stop it at once--"
Chick sat up and tried to scrape the batter out of his eyes. "I ain't
fightin'," he growled, "I'm half blind and I'm fair smothered. An' if me
back ain't broke it oughter be! Take that Mack truck offen my legs--I
can't move, much less put up a scrap!"
"Get up, Liza!" Dorothy had to smile at the fellow's plight. With Bill's
help she got the stout negress planted on her feet again. Uncle Abe
stood guard with a poker over Eddie. That glum gentleman was heralding
his return to consciousness with the most remarkable series of coughing
grunts.
"This sure is the craziest rough house I ever got mixed up in," laughed
Bill. "Old Baldy over there sounds like a French pig rooting for
truffles--"
Dorothy grinned absent-mindedly, her thoughts on the next move to be
made.
"We'll let dese two pigs burrer an' grunt down cellar," declared Liza,
straightening her turban and smoothing down her apron. "Dere's a empty
storeroom down dere--it's got a strong door an' a good bolt, too. Gimme
a gun, please Miss Dor'thy. Me an' Uncle Abe can 'tend ter dis white
trash."
The negress walked over to Eddie, who stared about the room, a dazed
expression on his face.
"Git up an' come along."
Then as Eddie continued to look at her vacantly, she picked him up as if
he were a baby and draped him over her broad shoulders.
"Yo'all go first, Liza," said Uncle Abe. He prodded Chick with the gun
he had taken from her. "Him an' me'll be right behin'."
Dorothy and Bill watched the odd procession pass from the room.
"Whew!" she exclaimed. "That was a hectic five minutes. But how did you
happen to be in here?"
"Got tired of sticking round outside, so slipped in by that window.
Eddie was asleep at the time, but he woke up right afterward. Then you
and Uncle Abe walked in--and you know the rest. Say, it must be Terry
these guys nabbed. Wonder what's become of Stoker and Betty?"
"Heaven only knows," said Dorothy wearily. "I'll go up and let Terry out
and I think the best thing you can do is to phone the state police. With
Terry here, we've got enough on Mr. John J. Joyce to hold him, now."
"We sure have. Wonder what the J in John J. Joyce stands for?"
"Well, it will stand for Jay, Jonah and Jinx all in one, _if_ you get
the police here before he comes back and sets his men free. By the way,
I may be going coo-coo with all this, but it seems to me that I keep
hearing shots every now and then. There's another--hear it?"
"Somebody's probably potting bunnies in the woods." Bill seemed
unconcerned. "I noticed it just after I got in here. Beat it upstairs
now, and I'll hunt up a telephone."
Dorothy found the room where Terry was held prisoner by the simple
expedient of opening each door as she came to it. The fourth door was
locked, but the key was on the outside. It was no surprise to her, upon
opening it, to see her friend lying on the bed. A quick glance showed
Dorothy that both windows were barred.
Terry sprang up with a glad cry. "It's sure good to see _you_!" He gave
her a good-natured hug. "How in the world did you manage this?"
Dorothy told him as briefly as possible. "What I want to know," she said
in conclusion, "is how they happened to catch you napping--and what's
become of George Conway and Betty?"
"They didn't catch me napping," Terry retorted. "You and Bill had been
gone about an hour and I expected Stoker back from taking Betty home any
minute. A Ford drove into the garage, there was a bang on the door and a
voice sang out--'Let me in. It's George.' Well, I opened up and--"
"It wasn't George--" supplied Dorothy, as usual going straight to the
point. "Joyce and his men nabbed you, of course. That's plain enough.
But where are Betty and George?"
"Search me."
Bill burst into the room and stood breathless before them.
"Did you get the police?" asked Dorothy.
"Got headquarters all right. But what do you think's happened?"
"Spill it, Bill. This is no guessing bee," said Terry.
"The sergeant told me they'd had a phone call from Lewis. The old man
was frantic. Joyce and his gang were trying to break into his house. The
whole caboodle from headquarters are up there now, rounding up John J.
Joyce and Company."
"That accounts for the shots we heard," cried Dorothy. "Get on your
rubbers, Terry. We're going to hike over to Mr. Lewis's place right now.
I want to be in at the finish."
"And I," added Bill, "want to find out what this mess is about!"
They raced downstairs and stopping only long enough to tell Liza and
Uncle Abe of this new development, set off for the Lewis property
adjoining.
Following hasty directions given them by the darkies, they hurried along
a path which led them to a gate in a high wall. The gate was not locked
and they continued along the path which crossed the Lewis estate.
Presently the dim shape of a large white house appeared through the
mist.
"Halt!" A gruff voice arrested them as they were about to ascend the
steps at the side entrance. A state trooper barred their way. "Who are
you--and what do you want?"
"We are friends of Mr. Lewis," said Dorothy. She explained the
circumstances of their arrival.
"Well, we've just sent Joyce and his men to the lockup. The whole crew
of 'em. We corralled 'em proper. They'd busted into the house, you know,
and it sure would have been a mixup if this fly cop that horned in on
the Joyce bunch hadn't clapped his gat to Joyce's head and held up their
game until we got here."
"Oh, that must have been Michael Michaels--the private inquiry agent who
came to Uncle Abe's last night," said Bill. "We'd like to go in the
house, officer."
"O.K. with me. There's some kind of a pow-wow goin' on in the living
room. I'll take you in there."
He opened the door and led them across the square hall into the living
room. Here they found a surprise awaiting them.
"Betty! George!" cried Dorothy. She flew across the room to her friend.
"I'm so glad you're safe. How did you get here?"
"Oh, darling! It's too exciting for words!" gurgled Betty as they hugged
each other. "And George was so brave--he--"
"Mr. Lewis and his chauffeur stopped our Lizzie last night," broke in
Stoker. "Told us Joyce and his men were likely to hold us up down the
road. So we left the Ford and came over here with Mr. Lewis. And we've
been here ever since."
"Listen, George!" said that old gentleman, and both girls giggled.
"Hadn't you better introduce your friends? This young lady in overalls
is Miss Dixon, I take it?"
"She certainly is," smiled Stoker and performed the necessary
introductions.
The other men in the room proved to be Michael Michaels and an inspector
of the state police. For a few minutes everybody seemed to be talking at
once. Bill told George and Mr. Lewis of his adventures with Dorothy,
while Terry explained his capture by the Joyce gang to the inspector and
Michaels.
"Listen!" said Dorothy and threw a reproving glance at the others'
unsuppressed smiles--"Will somebody please tell me what Mr. Joyce has
been trying to steal from Stoker?"
"Why, that's so," interjected Mr. Lewis, "you have no idea, of course--"
"No, except that it's probably mixed up with that book, _Aircraft Power
Plants_, I think it's called--"
The old gentleman looked at her in unfeigned astonishment. "Listen,
Michaels!" he cried. "She says this business is connected with that
book. Pretty good guess, eh?"
"Certainly is," returned the detective. "But the book is a mystery in
itself, and one we haven't yet solved."
"But what _was_ Joyce after?" interrupted Bill with a show of
impatience.
"The plans, of course," said Stoker Conway.
"But what plans?"
"The plans of my father's new aircraft engine. I knew nothing about it
until Mr. Lewis told me last night."
"Where are the plans, and what has the book to do with them?" broke in
Dorothy.
"Listen, young lady," began Mr. Lewis, when Michaels the detective
stopped him with a gesture.
"Better let me tell them, sir," he suggested. "These young people have a
right to know."
The old gentleman nodded approval and the detective, after biting off
the end of a cigar, continued to talk while the others grouped about
him. "About two weeks ago," he said, "Mr. Lewis called at my New York
office. There he told me the following story. Six weeks before his
death, Mr. Conway came over here and told Mr. Lewis that he had
perfected plans for an aircraft motor which would develop very high
power on a very small consumption of gasoline."
"That's just what all the inventors are after now," interposed Bill.
"Why, I should say so!" cried Dorothy. "If _Wispy's_ motor didn't lap up
the gas like a thirsty camel, I'd never have been forced to land in that
woodlot yesterday afternoon!"
"All very interesting, I'm sure--" Terry's voice was sarcastic. "But do
let's hear what Mr. Michaels is trying to tell us!"
"That's all right," smiled the detective. "Let's see--where was I? Oh,
yes, the motor: well, the inventor told Mr. Lewis that his partner and
sales agent had ruined him financially, and that now he was convinced
that he'd been swindled, and that Joyce was a crook. Mr. Lewis suggested
Mr. Conway take the matter to the courts, and offered to advance money
for legal expenses. Mr. Conway said he hadn't sufficient evidence for a
case; that Joyce had covered his tracks too well. Then he spoke about
the plans for this new motor he'd just completed. He said that Joyce
knew about it and was trying to get control of the thing; but that
outside of stealing the plans outright, Joyce could do nothing, as the
partnership had been dissolved. And at the same time he told Mr. Lewis
that he knew he was suffering from an incurable disease and could live
but a few months longer at most."
"Listen, Michaels--let me tell it," interrupted old Lewis. "You are
wandering all over the place.... Your father, George, said that should
he have the new motor built, Joyce would undoubtedly make trouble, and
he, Conway, wanted to die in peace. He told me he was going to entrust
me with the plans and would send them to me after he had made some
slight changes in them. And he said that he would send me his check to
cover the expense of building and exploiting the engine. 'After I'm
gone, you attend to it for George,' he said. 'That boy has no mechanical
ability, and he's too young to market a thing like this motor. Joyce or
other wolves like him would rob him of it in twenty four hours.' And
that, was the last time I saw John Conway alive."
The old gentleman pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose violently.
"He wouldn't see me when I called, nor would he mention the plans over
the phone. He died while I was in Boston on business. When I got back
the next day, I found a package from him waiting for me. Of course, I
thought it would contain the plans and his check. When I opened it up I
found nothing but a book--_Aircraft Power Plants_, by a man named Jones.
I was naturally surprised, and searched its pages from cover to cover,
but found no papers of any kind. I've even read every word of it since
then. And its pages have been tested for invisible ink. But I've had my
trouble and pains for nothing."
"I wonder why Father didn't tell me of those plans?" George remarked
rather wistfully.
"That I can't explain, my boy. As you know now, I thought you had them.
Either that you had removed them from the book before it left your
house, or that your father had changed his mind and given them to you.
Anyway, I decided to await developments. Nothing happened until Joyce,
who had been in Europe since Conway's death, returned home a couple of
weeks ago. He came to see me and asked me outright if I knew anything
about Conway's airplane motor plans. I never liked nor trusted Joyce,
but I saw no harm in telling him the truth. For of course I figured that
George must have set the wheels in motion for the sale of the motor long
before. Joyce could do nothing about it at this late date."
"But to my astonishment, the man told me the motor had not been
marketed--that he would have heard if any company had bought it. 'Either
that boy's got the plans,' he said, 'or Conway had two copies of the
book and sent you the wrong one--' I didn't understand how the book came
into it and told him so. 'Conway always sent important papers through
the mail by placing them between the pages of a book,' he assured me.
'Thought they would travel safer that way.'
"Well, he changed the subject then, and left. I got nervous about what
I'd told him, and hired Michaels to watch the fellow. Michaels dug up a
lot of things about Joyce, and managed to get himself placed on his
staff of roughnecks. If he could have been in two places at once, all
this trouble over at the Conway house last night would never have come
off."
Dorothy spoke from her place on the couch beside Betty. "How did you
happen to go there last night?"
"I wanted to find out if George really had another copy of the book.
Later I learned from Michaels that Joyce's men had tried to torture the
boy into telling them where the plans were--and that then he intended to
kidnap him. I was on my way over there to warn him when we met on the
road. He wanted to put young Walters wise, but I was sure the Joyce gang
wouldn't hurt his friend. I had promised Michaels not to go ahead on my
own hook until I saw him. Perhaps I was wrong, but I did what I thought
was best for George's interests. I've heard since that they just about
tore the house apart, looking for the other copy of that book!"
"Do you happen to have the copy that was sent you, here in the house?"
asked Dorothy.
"Yes--right here, on the table." Michaels handed it to her.
Dorothy pored over the book for a few minutes, then laid it down. "Mr.
Lewis, do you mind if I take it home with me?"
"Why, of course not--keep it as long as you wish."
"Thanks," she smiled. "Now, you gentlemen want to plan about what to do
with Joyce and Co., and Bill and I have some gas to buy and a plane to
fly home. So I'll say _au revoir_ for the present!"