AT A DEAD END
“Here—just a minute—” cried Bill, “yes, by Jove! I believe we can do
it!”
Osceola turned back. “Not that chimney you’re staring at! It’s got
funnels at the top. We—”
“No—not the chimney, guy! The lightning rod! I forgot these oldtime
houses had them. Quick now, with Deborah! I’ll go first. You pass her
out to me.”
He leapt through the open window onto the slates a few feet below.
Almost immediately, Osceola lifted Deborah’s limp body over the sill,
where Bill caught her in his arms and hurried with his sagging burden
toward a corner of the roof. There he put down the unconscious girl and
lying flat, peered over the edge of the rotting gutter.
Osceola dropped beside him. “The rod looks strong enough, but do you
think those rusty iron stanchions will stand the strain?”
“Our weight may pull a few loose, but that won’t bring the rod down. I
just wanted to be sure there wasn’t any break—that it ran all the way to
the ground.” He jumped to his feet. “Give me a hand with Deb.”
“But I’ll—”
“No, you won’t. I was trained to this at the Academy. Pick her up and
hang her on my shoulders—not that way—head one side and legs t’other, so
her body drapes round my neck. That’s it. Now rip off your belt and lash
her wrists to her ankles. She mustn’t slip and I’ll have to use both
hands on the rod. Got it fast? Fine. Will you go first?”
“No—you—I’ll help you over the edge. And Bill—we’ve only a minute or two
left—”
With Deborah’s dead weight balanced on his shoulders and the base of his
neck, Bill got down on his knees and keeping firm hold of the lightning
rod that ran from the chimney across the roof on raised iron stanchions,
went gingerly backwards over the creaking gutter. Then slowly, hand over
hand he let himself and his burden down the rod. Notwithstanding his
confident words to Osceola, he was fearful of pulling loose the staples,
that at intervals of three or four feet secured the rod to the side of
the house. He was obliged to use his hands as his sole means of support.
If he pulled outward, pressing the rubber soles of his sneakers against
the siding, the chances were the rotten wood holding the staples would
give. For the same reason, he refrained from planting his feet on the
stanchions themselves, as he let himself down.
The strain of the double weight was fearful. His shoulder muscles and
biceps felt as though they were at the cracking point. And the
corrugated rod lacerated the palms of his hands until they were bleeding
badly.
He was descending the side of the house that looked over the field and
the road. Suddenly he heard a shout from below, and the answering hail
from Osceola just above his head told him that the police were arriving.
“Get back! Get back—all of you!” yelled the chief. “There’s a bomb in
the house—likely to explode any time now!”
Bill’s right hand slipped. For an instant he thought he was gone but he
managed to gain a hold with his lacerated left. Deborah hung like a
millstone about his neck. As he felt for the rod with his toes, her legs
and thighs slipped over his right shoulder, pinning that arm to his
side, and bringing the full weight of her body on the left side of his
neck and head. Bill found himself in the terrible predicament of being
totally unable to move—either upward or down. Searing pain shot through
his left hand—his head reeled. In one more second he must drop—
“Let go, lad—” called Mr. Dixon’s voice from below. “You’re almost
down.”
Strong arms caught him about the knees. He released his grip, as they
let him down. Then Deborah’s now unbearable weight was taken from his
shoulders. Somebody far away cried—“Good Lord! the boy’s hands are in
ribbons!” And Bill, for the first time in his life, fainted.
* * * * * * * *
Bang! Crash!
He felt himself hurtling through space to light head first on something
fairly soft, but with a jar that almost loosened his front teeth.
“Don’t kick—that’s my face—or was,” growled a deep voice.
Bill was pushed violently to one side. He opened his eyes and sat up,
feeling as though he had been pounded with a sledge-hammer.
“The other way—” said the same deep voice. “The wind of the thing sent
us heels over teakettle.”
Bill turned his head slowly and painfully. Beside him sat a large and
husky individual in the dark uniform of the Connecticut State Police.
Possibly two hundred yards away, a huge mass of debris was burning. Over
it hung a heavy cloud of jet black smoke.
“Yes, that’s the house, or what’s left of it,” explained the policeman.
“Lucky we weren’t nearer. Talk about your fireworks! Say, how are you
feelin’, kid?”
“Kinda woozy, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it—”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nuthin’—except that when you and I went up in the air, you dove
headfirst into me stomach—and it sure does feel lousy!”
“Gee, that’s too bad—” Bill sympathized. “I certainly hope I didn’t dent
your pretty belt buckle with my teeth—or what’s left of them! You were
toting me, I take it?”
“Yeah. I was runnin’ wid you over my shoulder when the blast come.”
“And—er—woke me up.”
“You said it. I’ll bet that head o’ yourn rammed into me belt buckle a
good eight inches! The inside o’ me backbone feels black an’ blue.”
They got to their feet. Bill’s head, though aching, was now perfectly
clear. He saw that they stood in the knee-high grass of the field. Two
cars were approaching along the drive. Several groups of men were spread
out over the field. He recognized Osceola, carrying Deborah in his arms.
Beside him walked Mr. Dixon. They were making for the motor cars.
A familiar voice hailed Bill, and looking around, he saw Mr. Davis
behind him.
“Well, that was a very pretty tumble you and the sergeant took a while
ago,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“It kind of woke me up,” said Bill, “but our friend here says he feels
like the break-up of a heavy winter.”
“Square in the belly,” complained the policeman. He began to repeat the
story of his bruised backbone, when Mr. Davis cut in on him.
“Goodness, Bolton, you’re covered with blood!”
“I am? Oh, it’s my hands—” Bill held out his torn palms.
Mr. Davis winced. “Great Scott! No wonder you passed out. How you ever
managed to hold on—But here we stand talking. Come on over to the police
car. They’ve got a first aid kit—we don’t want to let you in for blood
poisoning.”
With the bleating sergeant bringing up the rear, he hurried Bill over
the field to the car, where he pulled out a large tin case and laid it
on the grass. Then he went to work on Bill’s hands with the deftness of
a surgeon.
“Now then,” he said after a while, “that will hold you till you’re home
and can get a doctor. This is only a makeshift.”
Bill stared at his bandaged hands. “Seems to me, Mr. Davis, you’ve made
a mighty neat job of it. Looks like a full-fledged doctor’s work.”
“Oh, I had two years at medical school, when I was a youngster,” Davis
said, as he closed the kit and replaced it in the car. “Couldn’t stand
that racket longer, though, and went into business instead.”
“Well, I’m much obliged to you. Where do we go from here, now that the
old gink has flew the coop and blown his house to smithereens?”
“So you saw the leader of the gang?”
“No. Only heard his voice. But you can take it from me, when it comes to
being a real nasty customer, that guy wins hands down!”
Davis nodded. “I can quite believe it. You must tell us about it later.
Hop in the car there, lean back and close your eyes. You look pretty
rocky, and no wonder. I’ll have a chat with Dixon and find out what the
plans are.”
Bill looked up a few minutes later as the car door opened, and saw that
Davis had reappeared, with a tall man in the uniform of a police
officer.
“Captain Simmonds, Mr. Bolton,” said Davis, as they took seats beside
him.
“Glad to know you, Captain Simmonds,” Bill said affably, as the
policeman in the driver’s seat threw the car into gear. “Sorry I can’t
shake hands. Where do we go from here?”
“Back to Heartfield’s, first, Mr. Bolton. I want Mr. Davis, who, as you
know, is something of a physician to take a look at Miss Lightfoot.
Chief Osceola says she’s been drugged. They are in the car ahead with
Mr. Dixon. Believe me, Mr. Bolton, when I say that I’ve never seen a
finer piece of sheer grit and nerve than the way you brought the young
lady down that rusty lightning rod.”
Bill shook his head. “We really ought to have waited for you chaps
before we tackled that bunch in the house. But with Deb lying there on
the lounge in plain sight, it seemed the only thing to do.”
“Suppose,” suggested Mr. Davis, “that you tell us about it—that is, if
you feel able to do so now.”
“You see,” added Captain Simmonds, “except that we saw you shinning down
the lightning rod, and that we got Chief Osceola’s warning just in time
to prevent us breaking into the house, we really have no information as
to what happened. The crowd of us arrived only in time to scamper off
before the whole shebang blew up.”
“I realize that,” said Bill. Except for the burning pain in his hands
and a certain stiffness in his arms and shoulder muscles, he was feeling
pretty much himself again. “I’m quite able to talk about it now, and I’d
like to. The sooner we get started after that old devil and put him
behind the bars for keeps, the happier yours truly will be!”
“Let’s have it from the time you and the young Indian Chief left
Heartfield’s,” suggested the Police Captain.
Bill told them the story in detail as the car bumped over the rutty road
and his listeners sat silent, taking in every word.
“Jehosophat!” exploded Mr. Davis, when he had finished. “I’ve read about
some of your other experiences, Bolton, but that is certainly one
exciting tale! The old man with the wheezy voice is a maniac, of course,
but people of that type can be exceedingly clever. In some ways, they
often appear absolutely normal, too. That old bird, if he is really an
old man, as you guessed from his voice, may appear to be a solid and
possibly useful citizen, to the majority of his friends and associates.
But he’s cracked, just the same—mad as a March hare on one subject—I’ll
stake my oath on it!”
“And when we know what that one thing is,” chimed in Captain Simmonds,
“We’ll be a long way ahead in solving this kidnapping. So he got away in
a big Fokker! There aren’t so many of those busses around. You’d
recognize his voice again, of course, Mr. Bolton?”
“I’ll never be able to forget it, Captain.”
“No, I guess not. Miss Lightfoot seems to be the only person we can lay
our hands on who has seen his face, and she is under the influence of a
drug! My men will search the ruins of that house. It’s unlikely, though,
that they’ll find any clue in what’s left of it, and the ruins will be
too hot for a couple of days, unless we have rain.”
“I wouldn’t pin too much hope on Miss Lightfoot, either,” said Mr.
Davis. “It’s quite possible that she is suffering from shock, as well as
having been drugged.”
“You mean,” said Bill, “that after the effects of the drug wear off, she
may still be unconscious?”
“It is possible. On the other hand, the drug, plus what she went through
before it was administered may make it impossible to question her
without jeopardizing the poor girl’s reason.”
Captain Simmonds frowned. “That is serious,” he admitted. “How long will
it be before we can get a description of this man from her, Mr. Davis?”
“Nobody can predict that, Captain. First, the effects of the drug must
either be counteracted or it must wear off. Then it depends entirely
upon the condition of the young lady herself. Please don’t think me a
pessimist, but my advice is to follow any other clues you may have, and
not count on Miss Lightfoot’s help at all. I’ve known cases where the
patient was allowed to talk to no one for weeks.”
“My word,” said Bill. “Poor Deborah! And that is a pleasant prospect for
us. I reckon, after what you’ve done to help us, Mr. Davis, that the
Captain won’t mind my telling you that the only clue we have are the
winged cartwheels, the numbered emblems of this organization we are up
against. And so far, Mr. Davis, those silver dollars have brought us
nothing but trouble.”