THE MAN WITH THE WHEEZE
Bill, Osceola and Mr. Davis walked across the lawn to the Dixon house a
few minutes after eight that evening. Mr. Dixon greeted them at the
door.
“Come in, come in,” he said genially, shaking hands with Davis and
nodding to the lads. “Deborah, I’m glad to say, is much better. She is
just finished with her supper. We can go up in a moment or two.”
“I’m sorry to intrude at this time, Mr. Dixon,” apologized the secret
service man. “Chief Osceola tells me that your maids departed, bag and
baggage, this morning, to further complicate matters, and I should think
your household must be very much upset.”
“Dorothy,” pronounced her father, “is a mighty good little housekeeper.
She’s been running the place in great shape, with the help of a girl we
got in from the village. You haven’t met my daughter yet, have you, Mr.
Davis?”
“No, but I’ve heard of her flying exploits. She’s by way of being quite
a detective, too, isn’t she?”
“Yes, indeed. She saved me and my bank a heap of trouble earlier this
summer,” said her father proudly. “Dorothy—” he called, “come here for a
moment, please.”
“What is it, Daddy?” A door at the back of the hall burst open and
Dorothy ran toward them. Her girlish figure was clothed in a blue linen
frock and a white apron covered her from throat to ankles. There were
some faint traces of flour clinging to her wrists as if she had been
suddenly summoned from the bread bowl. She looked fresh and sweet,
strong and healthy, and a certain grace of manner pleased Mr. Davis
instantly. He saw that she had her father’s eyes and coloring, his air
of self-reliance. He noticed, too, that when she spoke to her parent her
voice was tempered with a particular tenderness. This pleased him most
of all, for he had expected to see somewhat of a hoyden. This girl, for
all her prowess as a flyer, was totally feminine. Mr. Dixon introduced
them.
“I didn’t know young ladies made bread these days,” said the detective
as he shook hands with her.
Dorothy smiled and glanced at her arms. “Not bread, Mr. Davis, rolls for
breakfast. Daddy likes them home-made, and I hate to get up early, so
I’ve been mixing dough.”
“Do you think, dear, that Deborah can see Mr. Davis now? He is in charge
of the case, you know.”
“Why yes, that will be perfectly all right, Daddy. When I took down her
supper half an hour ago, the nurse said that any time would be
convenient. She stipulated, though, that Mr. Davis have only one other
person with him, and that the interview be as brief as possible.”
“Certainly, we want to spare her as much as we can,” said Mr. Davis. “I
have only a few questions to ask. And I think I’ll take Bill with me.
He’s been wounded in the fray, and I think that under the circumstances
he has the right to hear first whatever Miss Lightfoot has to tell us.”
“He certainly has,” chimed in Osceola. “He saved Deb’s life. I’ve seen
her this afternoon, but the nurse wouldn’t allow us to talk. Make it
snappy, you two. I’m on pins and needles to learn her story.”
“All right—” Bill waved a bandaged hand, and with Dorothy leading the
way, he and Mr. Davis went upstairs.
When they reached the door to Deborah’s room, Dorothy excused herself
and went in, leaving them waiting in the corridor.
“Let me do most of the talking,” cautioned the detective. “And if she
can’t remember, be sure not to press her. It might have a very serious
effect on the girl’s health.”
Dorothy opened the door. “You may go in now. The poor child feels rather
rocky still. Those brutes hit her over the head, you know, and she is
still in a good deal of pain.”
Deborah lay on a lounge by the window. When they entered she was
apparently asleep. Across her forehead, covering her temples, two narrow
bandages bound up her wound. As the detective and Bill crossed the room,
she opened her eyes, and her bruised, discolored face broke into a
smile. Then, noticing their evident anxiety, she sat up, leaning an
elbow on her pillow. A trained nurse hovered in the background a moment,
then noiselessly left the room.
“Bill—don’t look so upset. It’s nothing—I’ll be all right in a day or
two. We Seminoles are hard to down, you know. They tell me you saved my
life, Bill. I don’t know what to say to thank you—”
“Please don’t!” Bill smiled down at her and took one of the two chairs
that had been placed near her couch. “I’ll bet they forgot to tell you
that I was saving my own life just about that time!”
“Oh, your poor hands!” she cried, spying the bandages. “Are they very
badly torn?”
“Only scratched up a bit. We Boltons haven’t the honor to be Seminoles,
but we’re pretty tough articles, just the same.” Deborah smiled, and
Bill indicated his companion. “This is Mr. Davis, Deborah. He is in
charge of the case and he wants to ask you a few questions.”
“How do you do, Mr. Davis?” Deborah spoke brightly enough, but Bill
could see that the excitement of their visit was proving a strain.
“Now, if you don’t feel well enough to talk, Miss Lightfoot, we’ll
postpone our chat until tomorrow,” said Mr. Davis in his pleasant voice.
Deborah shook her head. “No, Mr. Davis—I know that if I can tell you
anything which will help you in your search for these men, then the
sooner you have the information, the more valuable it will be to you. Of
course, except for the fight with them in this room, after which they
carried me downstairs, and then, for a few minutes in the automobile
before they jabbed a hypodermic needle into my arm, I really know
nothing—”
“I realize that, Miss Lightfoot. Bill said ‘questions’ just now, but
there is only one thing I’ve come to ask you.”
Deborah looked relieved, yet faintly puzzled. “What is that, Mr. Davis?”
“Do you think you could describe the old man whose mask you pulled off
in the automobile? We have reason to believe he is the leader of these
kidnappers.”
“I am sure I can. You must know that the car was a seven-passenger
Packard. I was placed in the middle of the rear seat between two men,
who held me. The man you mentioned was sitting in one of the two extra
seats that let down, just in front of me. Although I was still
struggling with my captors, and half frantic, I noticed him particularly
because he wore a black mask that entirely covered his face. Above the
mask, a fringe of white hair showed at the edge of a black silk
skullcap. Although I never saw him standing, I judged he was not much
taller than five feet two or three. He was thin and small-boned, and
narrow-shouldered. His head was very large, it seemed too large to be
supported by his skinny neck. His voice was high-pitched and shrill. He
wheezed, too, as though he might have asthma....”
“Splendid!” said Mr. Dixon, as the nurse brought Deborah a glass of
water. “What did he look like when you pulled off the mask?”
Deborah smiled a little grimly. “For all the world like an old bird of
prey, Mr. Davis. And a very much frightened bird, at that. Those men,
you see, had gagged me with a handkerchief. I managed to get the thing
out of my mouth and in the struggle that followed, the old man, who was
wheezing orders all the time, leaned toward me. He tried to get hold of
my right arm which I had wrenched free. The man on that side of me was
temporarily out of the running, because I had jabbed him with my elbow
just under the heart a moment before. Well, when the old man leaned
toward me I made a grab for his head. My idea was to get a grip on the
back of his thin neck and hurl him into the man on my left who had me by
the arm. As it was, the old boy drew back suddenly, and instead of his
neck, I got the mask.”
“Can you describe his features?”
“I’m quite sure I can. His forehead, below the fringe of white hair, was
high and broad; the brow of a scholar, almost. Bushy white eyebrows
shaded little dark eyes, brown, probably, which seemed too small for his
face. Between these a very thin, high-bridged nose jutted out. He was
clean-shaven, with rather high cheek bones and hollow cheeks. His mouth
below his beak of a nose was a straight, thin-lipped line. From his
nostrils, two deep furrows ran down to the corners of his mouth, and his
chin was long and pointed. His throat was flabby and the Adam’s apple
prominent. Oh, I forgot to say that, his entire face, nose and all was
crisscrossed with the deep wrinkles of old age.”
“You are a most observant young lady, Miss Lightfoot. I never expected
to receive such a detailed description. I can picture the old villain
perfectly.”
“I am glad.” Deborah smiled back at him. “I am Seminole, you must
remember, Mr. Davis. Indians, men and women, are trained from childhood
to notice detail.”
The secret service man nodded. Then suddenly he uttered a sharp
exclamation and leaned toward her.
“Can you tell me,” he asked, and all three of his hearers felt the
excitement in his tone. “Can you remember, Miss Lightfoot, anything
peculiar about this old man’s ears?”
“Yes, I—I can, Mr. Davis. I did notice them, particularly. They were
small, set close to his head and absolutely lobeless. Also, with the
single exception of Napoleon’s death mask, which I saw in New Orleans
last year, I had never seen ears set so low on a person’s head. The top
of both this man’s ears and those of the great French Emperor were on a
line with the outside corners of their eyes!”
Mr. Davis leaned back in his chair, an oddly puzzled frown on his
handsome features. “Miss Lightfoot,” he said slowly, “you will
understand and pardon me when I say you are a very remarkable young
woman—with a very fine memory.”
“I’m afraid I can’t agree with you, Mr. Davis. If my memory was really
good, I could place the man. From the moment I glimpsed his face, I had
a feeling that I’d seen him somewhere. Yet I haven’t the slightest idea
where it could have been.”
“But you have told me who he is, just the same, hard as it is to believe
the truth!”
“You know his name?” exclaimed Bill and Deborah simultaneously.
“I most certainly do. What’s more, I am pretty sure I know where Miss
Lightfoot saw him—Excuse me for a moment.” He stood up. “I’m going
downstairs, but I’ll be right back. In the meantime, I don’t want you
young people to talk any more. Miss Lightfoot needs a rest and she must
have it.”
He went swiftly out of the room and Deborah, now that further
conversation was unnecessary, closed her eyes and lay back on the
pillows. Bill sat, lost in thought, until Mr. Davis returned in a
surprisingly short time.
In his hand he carried the Sunday roto-gravure section of a New York
newspaper. Deborah looked up as he spread out the page and held it
before her.
“Do you see your abductor here?”
Bill, who had risen and was looking over the detective’s shoulder, saw
her point unhesitatingly to a large photograph at the top of the page,
which portrayed two men, one middle-aged and the other old and wrinkled,
seated in garden chairs on a lawn. Both were familiar faces, and the
older was undoubtedly the man Deborah had just described. The picture
was captioned: “President lunches with savant.”
Below, he read: “The President visited Professor Fanely on the latter’s
ninetieth birthday, when he was the principal guest at the ‘Great Old
Man’s’ birthday luncheon.”
“‘Great Old Man’ is right,” snorted Bill. “It takes some doing to run
away with a young girl at ninety!”
“Do keep quiet, Bill!” Deborah’s pale face was serious. “Why, it seems
impossible, doesn’t it, Mr. Davis? Of course I know Professor Fanely’s
reputation as a scientist, everybody does, it’s world wide. Yet
impossible as it may seem, I’m surer than ever that the old gentleman in
the photograph there, sitting beside the President of the United States,
was the man I unmasked early this morning!”
Mr. Davis took her hand in his. “I believe you, young lady,” he said
kindly. “But Bill and I have a first class job on our hands. And I must
ask both you and nurse over there not to breathe a word of this matter.
What was formerly a serious affair has become a hundred-fold more so
now. To know the truth is one thing: to be able to prove that truth
quite another. And believe me when I say that if I am able to prove
Professor Fanely, who is respected and loved the world over, the man who
abducted you and tried to kill you, Bill and Osceola—I shall consider
that I, too, am a world beater! Only I might as well say now that I
haven’t the ghost of a show.”