[Illustration: THE CELLAR YIELDED NOTHING IN THEIR SEARCH BUT MOULDY
RUBBISH AND ANCIENT COBWEBS.
Frontispiece (Page 111)]
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_A SKIPPY DARE MYSTERY STORY_
PRISONERS IN DEVIL'S BOG
BY
HUGH LLOYD
Author of
The Hal Keen Mystery Stories
ILLUSTRATED BY
SEYMOUR FOGEL
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
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Copyright, 1934, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
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CONTENTS
I ON THE TRAIL
II CRASHING IN
III A BARGAIN
IV JOHN DOE
V A FRIENDLY FACE
VI A SUSPICION
VII THE HOUSE FORGOTTEN
VIII TIMMY
IX TRAPPED
X THE WAY OF DEVLIN
XI OVERHEARD
XII THE STORM
XIII THE EVERGREEN TREE
XIV TALK AMONG FRIENDS
XV HIS JOB
XVI A NOTE
XVII A CHANGE OF PLANS
XVIII THE SEARCH
XIX HOPE IN THE ATTIC
XX TIMMY?
XXI DO DREAMS COME TRUE?
XXII DEVLIN'S RETURN
XXIII NICKIE REASONS
XXIV WAITING
XXV A PASSING FACE
XXVI GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY
XXVII ACCUSATIONS
XXVIII THE MICE WILL PLAY
XXIX A SLIP
XXX DEVIL'S BOG
XXXI DOOMED
XXXII ANOTHER DAY
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PRISONERS IN DEVIL'S BOG
CHAPTER I
ON THE TRAIL
When Skippy Dare entered the big office building he found himself in an
enchanted realm. He had never before visited one of these commercial
palaces and he gazed about him in speechless awe. He found the
revolving door so delightful that it seemed like some freakish
entertainment in an amusement park, and he indulged himself with the
giddy sensation of going around and around in it until a uniformed
elevator starter brusquely ordered him out.
Instead, he went in.
Observing the rather ornate cigar and candy booth, he invested in a
gooey chocolate bar which he ate while studying the alphabetical list
of offices. He was deeply impressed with this imposing directory and
experienced a thrill of triumph when at last his searching eyes
discovered the name, INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY--7-721-728.
He was now on the trail, he told himself, though, to be sure, the least
false move might prove fatal (a phrase which he had read in a detective
story) for the eye of the starter was still upon him and he did not
look the more kindly on Skippy because of the liquefied chocolate which
now decorated the border of the boy's mouth. His spirit mounted when he
had attained the safety of a gorgeous elevator where every thrill of
its dizzy ascent brought him nearer to the famous detective agency's
offices.
Skippy, you must know, longed to be a great sleuth. He had lately read
in a newspaper of the rounding up of a gang of counterfeiters by the
famous Carlton Conne, head of the International office. That was the
spark which brought about the certainty that apprehending criminals was
the career which a kindly fate would offer him.
It must be understood that there was some color of reason to this
bizarre choice of a vocation. He had grown up on the waterfront among
characters sufficiently dubious. Few detectives, however great their
prowess and renown, had come into so much personal contact with the
lawless element of the river front as had Skippy. A motherless urchin
since infancy and lacking paternal care for a period in which his
father had been unjustly jailed, his forced association with this
motley crew had given him a remarkable insight about people in general.
That Skippy's father was at last liberated and his good name restored
is not a part of this narrative. Suffice it to say, that the hapless
man did not long survive after his liberation. He left his young and
lonely son to the tender mercies of an aunt who lived on the east side
of the great city. And, though Skippy was destined to have many narrow
escapes in the course of his spectacular career, perhaps the narrowest
of all was his escape from being put in an orphan asylum.
Like many great men he was denied the benefit of an early education.
Mrs. Kinney, weak in finances but strong in resolve, triumphed over the
Board of Education, and Skippy was given working papers which conferred
on him the inestimable privilege of earning his living.
So we find him stepping out of the elevator on the seventh floor of the
mammoth office building whistling blithely, yet distinctly conscious of
the long trousers (his first) which were such an integral part of the
new six dollar suit he was wearing. His aunt had parted with this
enormous sum only because of the inauguration of his business career.
On the door of room 721 was the magic word ENTER and Skippy paused with
his hand on the knob, giving himself a delicious moment before making
the grand plunge. It may be that he fully expected to see a handcuffed
burglar or two when he opened the door. But no such thrilling sight
awaited him. There was nothing more startling than a richly furnished
waiting room at the end of which sat a pretty young lady.
She peered over her gleaming mahogany typewriter desk and paused in her
typing with an air of bored expectancy.
"Well?"
"I gotta--eh, I wanta ... see ... Mr. Carlton Conne," Skippy stammered.
She extended her hand as if by force of habit and said wearily, "You
have a letter to deliver?"
"Nope. I--I wanta see Mr. Conne."
"Oh, you can't see Mr. Conne. He's a very busy man. What do you want?"
"I wanta job."
"We don't need any boys now." The young lady yawned discreetly. "If you
want to leave your name and address we'll send for you if an opening
occurs. Did someone send you here?" she asked, handing him a slip of
paper and a pencil.
"Nope. I bin wantin' to work for Mr. Conne since I first read about him
in the papers. I wanta learn from him how to be a regular detective
like him. That's the kinda job I want."
At this naïve confession the girl laughed while Skippy, embarrassed,
but still persistent, stood waiting. "So lemme see him?" he urged.
"No, certainly not," the girl answered a little tersely. "I told you
that Mr. Conne is a very busy man and he's a very important man--if you
know what that means. He doesn't see boys. If we should need an office
boy, we can send for you," she added with an air of finality.
It was a crucial moment to Skippy. He gave a furtive look toward a
closed door, beyond which, in some holy of holies, he imagined the
great Carlton Conne to be seated. He visualized that shrewd mouth and
those keen eyes which he had seen pictured in the newspapers at the
astonishing climax of the famous Hawley murder case. But there was no
hope. Skippy Dare was baffled by a mere girl at the very threshold of
the lion's den.
Suddenly the door opened and a trim looking young man emerged. It was
not the great Carlton Conne. Very casually, it seemed, he closed the
door and leaned against it.
"He one of 'em?" he asked briskly.
"Oh, no," said the girl.
"Well, I wish you'd get in touch up there with the principal, or one of
the teachers or somebody, and see if they can't round up two or three
of the kids who were run down. They ought to be able to identify one or
two of the gang in that stolen car. According to the wop that keeps the
banana stand, there were a bunch of 'em coming out of school when the
car ploughed through. There must be at least two who could make some
identification. The chief wants to get at least two of 'em down as soon
as possible."
"I'll see what I can do, but if the two who were run down were the only
ones that could identify...."
"Well, you know the chief; he wants what he wants when he wants it.
Even if their necks were broken he'd expect 'em to remember whether or
not they saw a machine gun in that car. So that's that."
The girl seemed listlessly tolerant. "I'll get in touch with them as
soon as I come back from lunch. Will that do?"
The young man nodded and the door closed behind him. Skippy too
departed, thoughtfully, hopefully, and with machine guns booming in his
active brain. _Gangsters, a stolen car!_ The International was on the
trail of something.
The question uppermost in his mind was--how long a time would the
typist remain out at lunch? He hurried down the hall, then darted into
the shadow of a stairway from which vantage point he could keep his
bright eyes on the International Agency's door.
There was no doubt of it now--Skippy too was on the trail of something.