BILL’S HUNCH
Bill opened the front door and let Osceola into the house. The chief was
fully dressed. He looked tired and worried to death.
“You’d better go over and dress now,” he said dispiritedly. “I’ve phoned
the New Canaan police station and the Chief will be along in a few
minutes. Meantime, I’ll locate the place where the telephone wire was
cut and splice it if I can. There isn’t much we can do until morning,
worse luck. By that time, we’ll have a chance to line things up a little
better, and perhaps have some course of action planned.”
“I’ve just got a hunch,” said Bill. “I’ll tell you about it when I come
back. If the hunch turns out to be a good one, you and I will get on the
job long before daylight.”
“Then here’s hoping it will be a good one—” Osceola’s tone was more
cheerful now, “there’s nothing worse than this rotten inaction.”
Bill nodded. Then he called to Dorothy, who stood at the head of the
stairs. “Where’s your father staying in Hartford?”
“The Hiblein, I think—he usually does. If you ’phone him, tell him I’m
all right, and give him my love.”
“I will. So long!”
He ran down the porch steps, and hurried across the lawn toward the
highroad. When he got to his room, he went straight to the telephone
where he called up the Hiblein Hotel at Hartford, and eventually heard
Mr. Dixon’s voice on the wire.
“Bill Bolton speaking—” he began abruptly and launched into an account
of the night’s happenings.
“My thanks to you, boy, and to Osceola,” said Dorothy’s father. “I won’t
waste time now in talking about this outrage—but you can count on me
being in New Canaan just as soon as the car can get me there.”
“Just a moment, sir—there’s something else I want to tell you, and
something you can do for us.”
“Shoot,” said Mr. Dixon.
Bill rapidly ran over the adventures of the silver dollars, gave his own
suspicions of the case, and ended by mentioning his affiliation with a
certain department in Washington.
“Good enough, Bill. That explains why you resigned from Annapolis, of
course. You undoubtedly have a flair for this kind of thing. But there
doesn’t really seem to be any tangible clue to go on in this beastly
kidnapping affair. Have you hit on anything yourself?”
“The license number of the gangsters’ car, the one that’s parked in your
drive at present, sir, may lead us somewhere. Of course it may have been
stolen; and if not, the owner’s house would be the least likely place
for them to take Deborah. Still, if we could locate that residence,
Osceola and I might be able to get a line on the chap and his friends.
What do you think, sir?”
“That sounds like a mighty good plan. No telling what you may stir up.
But where do I come in?”
“Why, the office of the Commissioner of Motor Vehicles is in Hartford,
you know, of course, and it won’t be open till nine in the morning. I
thought that you, being the president of the New Canaan Bank, might have
a drag with some of the politicians up there in the capitol, and that
they might arrange it so you could get the information we want tonight.
If you could do that, and ’phone it on to me, then Osceola and I might
be able to get the jump on them, do you see? It’s not likely the owner
of the car guesses that the girls took his license number this morning,
especially as we did nothing about it right away. I’ll admit that that
was an error on our part, but we hadn’t any idea of what we were up
against then.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” replied Dorothy’s father. “You’ve done
splendidly—you’ve figured a logical why-and-wherefor to this business,
and that’s a piece of constructive work. What are you doing now?”
“I’ve come over here to put on some clothes, sir. I’m still wearing
pajamas—”
“I see. By the way, what’s that license number?”
Bill gave it to him.
“All right. Now go ahead and get dressed, then wait at your house until
you hear from me. It won’t be long, because it happens that the State
Commissioner of Motor Vehicles is an old friend of mine. We played golf
together this afternoon. I’ll have the name and address of that car
owner for you in short order.”
He rang off and Bill hung up the receiver. He put on a bath robe and
slipped his feet into a pair of moccasins. Then he went downstairs and
out to the garage. There he saw to it that the gas tank of his own car,
a high-powered sport coupe, was full, drove it round to the front door
and went up to his room again.
When he was completely dressed he went downstairs. He was beginning to
feel hungry, and the prospect of a motor trip with no breakfast at the
end of it made the idea of food all the more interesting. After he had
cooked a substantial meal of bacon, eggs, and coffee, and had consumed
every particle of it, he felt decidedly better and more in the mood to
carry on at this early hour.
Then he went into the living room and threw himself down on a large
divan, where he relaxed tired muscles and brought his mind to bear on
the matter of the winged cartwheels. Perhaps a quarter of an hour had
gone by, when he sprang up and went into his father’s study. The
telephone bell was jangling loudly.
“That you, Bill?” He recognized the voice as Mr. Dixon’s.
“Speaking, sir.”
“Well, I rang up the commissioner and here’s the car owner’s name. He is
a Serge Kolinski, a naturalized Pole, and he has a house in Sherman
Township, Connecticut. Do you know where that is?”
“Why, yes—the field where we picnicked is not so far from Sherman.”
“Well, this time you’d better run up there by motor. It will be handier
for getting round than a plane, and a car may be more useful to you. Do
you happen to know where the old Heartfield’s Club is?”
“No, I don’t. But I’ll find it.”
“Here are your directions. When you get to Danbury, take Route 136,
going north. About twelve or thirteen miles farther on, you’ll find that
the road winds through a narrow valley. Where the valley widens out
you’ll see a large square white house on the right, and a red barn
behind it. That is the old clubhouse. You can’t miss it, for it’s the
only house near the road in that part of the valley. The club itself no
longer exists. It failed financially a few years ago.”
“Then the club house is shut up?”
“No, it’s not. A chap named Davis and his sister have rented the place
for the summer. But what I want to say is this: on the side of the hill
above the club house are several houses, built by members when the club
was flourishing. Mr. Kolinski has rented one of them and is living
there. Knock up Davis, who is by way of being a solid citizen, and he
can tell you which is the Kolinski bungalow.”
“Thanks very much,” said Bill. “We’ll get under way at once.”
“Now hold on, young man. There’s something else. I’m driving over there
myself, and with me will be two other cars filled with state police.
Deborah Lightfoot is Dorothy’s guest, and very naturally, I intend to be
in on this. You will, of course, arrive at Heartfield’s before I do. Get
a line on Kolinski, and do a bit of reconnoitering, if you like, but
don’t start any offensive until we come. Those are orders, remember.”
“Suppose,” argued Bill, “that Deborah’s at Kolinski’s, and we see her
being transferred to some other hiding place?”
“Use your own judgment in that case, my lad. The object is to get
Deborah back, unharmed, of course. But you’ve evidently got a first
class thug to deal with. And by the way, get one of your friends to stay
in the house with Dorothy, if you possibly can. The thought of leaving
her there worries me.”
“That will be taken care of,” returned Bill. “The New Canaan police have
been notified. They are probably across the road now. I’ll see that she
is well guarded.”
“Thanks, Bill. Good luck—and be careful.”
“I will—see you at Heartfield’s, sir.”
Bill hung up the receiver and went out to his car. He was surprised to
find that it was raining.