ENTER WASHINGTON
The long shadows of late afternoon cut intricate figures on the Bolton’s
lawn. Bill, from his chair on the porch, let the book he had been
reading slip to the floor. He watched sunlight and shadow dance on a
background of multi-colored green, for a gentle breeze had set the
treetops stirring. As an open car, a familiar figure at the wheel,
rolled up the driveway he sauntered over to the top of the steps.
“Hello there, Mr. Davis! Glad to see you.” He waved a bandaged hand, as
the car drew up and stopped.
Mr. Davis got out and walked up the steps. He was no longer the rather
rough looking figure of the morning, but was now immaculate in gray
flannels and a spick and span panama.
“Glad to see you, Bolton,” he smiled pleasantly, and Bill was again
impressed by the keen intelligence in this gray-haired man’s eyes. “This
is a rather unexpected pleasure. I really did not expect to be in New
Canaan this afternoon.”
Bill pointed to chairs and they sat down. “I’ve been trying to read, but
it’s a nuisance turning the pages with these hands!”
“How are they coming along?”
“Nicely, thanks. Our local medico had a look at them when we got back
from Heartfield’s this morning. He says that the salve you used must be
wonderful stuff—he’d never seen anything heal so quickly.”
Mr. Davis smiled, and pulling out his briar pipe, filled and lighted it.
“By tomorrow you’ll be able to discard the bandages,” he observed.
“Although you will have to go easy on the hands themselves for a couple
of days. I came across that salve in the Near East some years ago. Some
day, when I can snaffle a few weeks off the job, I’ll put the ointment
on the market, and let it make my everlasting fortune.” Bill looked
surprised.
“But I thought—”
“That old Davis was taking a cheap vacation, rent free! That is the
story I pass out just now, Mr. Secret Service Operative Bolton! But—and
I’m rather sorry to confess it—the story, though plausible, is untrue.”
“And what,” Bill spoke quietly, watching his visitor through half-shut
lids, “gives you the impression that I am a secret service operative,
Mr. Davis?”
“Perhaps you’d like to look at this.” Mr. Davis took a small leather
case from his breast pocket and snapped back the flap, disclosing a
green card. He held it so Bill could read it.
“Suffering cats! So _you’re_ Ashton Sanborn—head of—”
“Quite so. But to you and everyone else while we are on this case of the
winged cartwheels, just plain ‘Mr. Davis’, if you please.” He laughed
quietly at the look of genuine amazement on Bill’s face. “You see, one
is never sure who may be listening, and I am fairly certain that the
gentry we are dealing with have not got onto _Mr. Davis_ yet!”
A telegraph messenger pedalled up the drive, sprang off his bicycle and
ran up the steps to Bill.
“Wire for you, Mr. Bolton,” he said, handing him a yellow envelope. “The
manager says he wrote out the message just as it came in, but he can’t
make head nor tail of it—he—”
Bill ripped open the flap with his finger tips, drew forth the telegraph
form and saw typewritten below his address a single line of words in an
unknown language.
“Tell the manager,” he replied, “that the message is really for Chief
Osceola and that it is written in the Seminole language. Anything to
pay?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, stick your fist into this pocket of my coat and help yourself to
a quarter.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bolton.” The boy grinned delightedly as he transferred the
money to his own pocket. Then he ran down the steps, jumped on his
wheel, and sped down the drive.
Bill looked at the secret service man and smiled. “No need to tell the
manager all we know, Mister—er—Davis,” he said. “And especially when I
really don’t know anything. Of course, the message is in code and
although it was sent from New York City, I have a sneaking idea that it
originated in Washington, D. C.”
The secret service man nodded. “You’re a good guesser, Bolton.
Washington is taking no chances either. The code is a double interchange
of letters. Simple enough when you know it and easy to remember. Hand it
over. I’ll explain as I translate.” He laid the paper on his knee and
took out a pencil.
“So you see,” he continued, after deciphering the code, “it reads: ‘Take
your orders from Ashton Sanborn V8LR.’”
“V8 being my own number in the service,” said Bill, “and the initials
those of the big boss. I want to add that I’m tickled to death to be
working under you, Mr. Davis. All the world knows the big things you’ve
put over. And just to think that when you were piloting Osceola and me
up to Kolinski’s shack this morning, you probably knew a lot more than
we did about the winged cartwheels!”
Mr. Davis made a gesture of dissent. “That’s where you’re wrong, Bolton.
Until you told the story to Captain Simmonds and me in the car, I’d
never heard of the emblems nor of the organization they represent.”
“But surely you—I mean, it is rather cheeky of me to ask questions, but
if you knew nothing about the cartwheel gang, how did you happen to be
in that out-of-the-way place?”
“It’s simple enough, Bill—I’m going to call you Bill. I’m old enough to
be your father, and we’ll probably get pretty well acquainted before
this case goes into the files completed.”
“Bill is what I like my friends to call me, Mr. Davis.”
“Thanks. Well, the truth of the matter is that I was in Heartfield’s to
keep an eye on Kolinski. For some time, a big gang with headquarters in
New York City has been doing a land-office business smuggling cocaine
and other drugs into this country from Europe. The police came to a dead
end on the case and that brought me into it. Kolinski, who is known to
have been a dope pedlar in a small way, suddenly blossomed out with a
big car and plenty of money. I had enough on that Pole before he took
the house at Heartfield’s to put him behind bars for the remainder of
his life. Instead, I followed him up there, because, after considering a
number of things—I’ll tell you about them sometime—I had the hunch that
he’d become a member of this big dope running gang.”
“Have you found out much about it?”
Mr. Davis tamped the glowing tobacco in his pipe with the flat end of a
pencil. “Mighty little—nothing important, anyway. Kolinski has no flies
on him, he’s a slick article. Even though he made one or two slips in
the past, he _seems_ to have been walking the straight and narrow since
he joined this racket; only of course I’m certain he’s been doing
nothing of the kind!”
“Then you think this silver cartwheel business is nothing more than a
dope smuggling ring?”
“I’m not so sure. However, our Department has been advised from France
that large quantities of cocaine are being shipped to the United States.
The French tracked down and located two of these shipments before they
left Europe. The stuff was in small packets and had been placed in boxes
containing truffles.”
“But surely,” argued Bill, “those truffles were addressed to someone in
this country.”
“Right, they were. But those addresses led us nowhere. Upon
investigation they proved to be two untenanted houses in New York City.
The owners are perfectly respectable people. In both cases, the houses
had been rented through agents and rent paid in advance for six months.”
“But how about the people who rented them?”
“They have never been seen. The business with the real estate firms was
carried on entirely by correspondence. Inasmuch as postal orders
covering the rent were sent by mail, references were not required. You
must understand that because of the two shipments held up and
confiscated by the French government, we naturally suppose that more of
the stuff is being sent over. But we have no actual proof. On the other
hand, when we find that several men like Kolinski, who are known to be
small fry in this dope racket, suddenly desert their old haunts and
become affluent without any visible means of support, we put two and two
together. However, we have not been able to trace the source of supply
further than I have already told you, nor have we been able to discover
their method of distribution.”
“Has it occurred to you that it may be only a sideline of some much
bigger racket?” Bill suggested diffidently. “It just doesn’t seem
reasonable that that old geezer with the cracked voice would have got so
stirred up if we’d merely horned in on a dope ring. The man talked like
a lunatic, and as if we were spoiling some very definite object he had
in view.”
“That, Bill, is exactly what I decided when I heard your story. Of
course I had already disclosed my real identity to Captain Simmonds, and
as soon as you left for New Canaan, we had a chat and I got Washington
on the wire. I had known for a week or so that you’d been taken on by
the Department, and so I requested your services on the job. The people
down there thought it a good idea. They’ve given us free rein to handle
this matter as we may see fit—and so here I am!”
“And I,” said Bill, “am very much honored that you should want me to
help you.”
Mr. Davis smiled. “I think the regard is mutual, Bill, and I’m sure
we’ll get on splendidly together. By the way, I suppose your Seminole
friend is over at the Dixons’? I phoned their physician before leaving
Heartfield’s and he said Miss Lightfoot was conscious now, but could not
be spoken to until about eight.”
“Yes, I know. Osceola is with her, of course, and until you drove up
here I’d nothing to do except think—and watch the shadows on the lawn.
He’ll be coming back here for chow soon. We dine at seven. You’ll stop
with us, of course?”
“Thanks very much, I’ll be glad to. And you will be interested to hear
that I’ve been authorized to secure Chief Osceola’s services on this
case. I’ve an idea he’ll prove a valuable man.”
“He sure will!” Bill replied enthusiastically, “—and after what these
cartwheel fellows have done to Deborah, there’d be no keeping him out of
it anyway.”
Mr. Davis looked grave. “That young lady holds the most important clue
we have.”
“Yes,” said Bill. “Gosh, I can hardly wait till eight o’clock!”