<h2 id="c14"><span class="sc">Chapter XIV</span> <br/><span class="small">BILL BLOWS UP</span></h2>
<p>Clocks in New Canaan were striking
seven next evening when Bill turned the
switch on the <i>Loening’s</i> instrument board
which released the retractable landing gear
of the plane. Five or six seconds later he
spiralled down on the level field back of the
Bolton place, and taxied toward the hangar.</p>
<p>Wheelblocks in hand, he was climbing out
of the cockpit when a man ran up from the
direction of the Bolton garage.</p>
<p>“Evening, Master Bill,” he greeted.
“Glad to see you back again.”</p>
<p>“Hello, Frank! I’m glad to get home myself,
even though I won’t be staying long.
Has my father returned home from Washington?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_194">194</div>
<p>“No sir. That is, he ain’t back in New
Canaan.”</p>
<p>“After I get something to eat, I’m taking
the Buick down to Stamford. It may be
that I’ll come back tonight, but if not, I’ll
need the <i>Loening</i> tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Very well, sir. I’ll fill her and give her
a thorough looking over. Some doin’s there
were here the night you left. By the time I
waked up and got the cops on the phone, them
guys had beat it. There was a wrecked car
what had run into a rope, stretched out
yonder, but they’d took the license plates with
’em. The cops think they can trace the car,
though.”</p>
<p>“Well, that won’t get them anywhere. I’ll
bet a hat the car was stolen. Anyway, I know
who the men were. I’ve got a date with one
of them tonight.”</p>
<p>“Is that so, sir? Better let me go with you,
sir!” Frank was all eagerness. “There’s
them what says I ain’t so worse in a scrap.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_195">195</div>
<p>Bill laughed and shook his head. “Thanks
just the same, Frank. Some other time
maybe. There won’t be any scrapping where
I’m going this evening. This is just going
to be a quiet conference.”</p>
<p>Frank looked disappointed. “Well, you
never can tell, sir. If it looks like somethin’
interestin’, I hope you’ll give us a ring, an’
I’ll be wid yer in three shakes of a lamb’s
tail.”</p>
<p>“I’ll remember, but don’t be too hopeful.
So long now. I’m off to get a bite at the house
before I start off again.”</p>
<p>“So long, Master Bill. I’ll have the Buick
’round front for you, soon as I wheel this crate
into the hangar.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” said Bill again, and marched off
toward the house.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_196">196</div>
<p>In the kitchen he encountered the cook.
“Well, if it isn’t Master Bill home agin’,”
beamed that buxom female. “Sure as I’m a
sinner it’s yer dinner ye’ll be wantin’—an’
divil a bit av it cooked yet. I give the help
theirn an hour ago!”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all right, Annie. But would it
be too much trouble to rustle me a couple of
sandwiches—or maybe three?”</p>
<p>Annie, hands on hips and arms akimbo,
looked indignant. “It’s no sandwiches ye’ll
be gettin’, Master Bill. In half an hour I’ll
have something hot and tasty dished up.
Can’t ye be waitin’ that long?”</p>
<p>“Gee, I sure can, Annie. But don’t bother
too much. Anything will do. I’m hungry
enough to eat shoe leather!”</p>
<p>“Now you leave that to me,” he heard her
say as he went toward the front of the house
and then up the stairs to his room.</p>
<p>He shut the door and picked up the French
phone from a night table by his bed. As soon
as central answered he called a Stamford
number.</p>
<p>“Mr. Evans there?” he asked when a
man’s voice answered.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_197">197</div>
<p>“Evans speaking. It sounds like Bill
Bolton?”</p>
<p>“Bill Bolton is right, Mr. Evans. I’m
home—in New Canaan—just got here by
plane. Deborah gave me your number.”</p>
<p>“Then it must be important. Spill the
story, boy. Tell me why you’re not up in
Maine looking after my interests.”</p>
<p>Bill told him, and it took him more than
ten minutes to do so. “You see,” he ended,
“while Deborah was giving us a midnight
lunch on Pig Island, the five of us, Deborah,
old Jim, Osceola, Ezra and myself, went into
a session of the ways and means committee.
After some argument, it was decided that on
Charlie’s account, I must come down here,
and at least pretend to follow Sanders’
orders—to report to Johnson at Gring’s
Hotel, anyway.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” concurred Mr. Evans, “I’m afraid
there’s nothing else that you can do.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_198">198</div>
<p>“I thought that perhaps you might have
some men about, rush the joint and capture
this Johnson. Kind of tit for tat, you know.
We could swap him back to friend Sanders for
Charlie. That would even up things a bit.
Just now it seems to me that they have the
bulge on us.”</p>
<p>“There’s no doubt about it, Bill—they
have. Your plan’s a good one, but it is impossible.”</p>
<p>“But why?”</p>
<p>“In the first place, although Slim Johnson
is a very young man, he is one of the cleverest
gangsters outside Sing Sing. Secondly, if
he didn’t have an A No. 1 organization of
cutthroats and gunmen behind him, I’d have
kidnapped that young gentleman long ago.
But tell me,” he went on anxiously, “what
are you fellows up there doing about my
boy?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_199">199</div>
<p>“Just this: after it was arranged that I
should come on here, Osceola elected himself
a committee of one to locate Sanders’ hide-out,
and to get his hands on Charlie. Parker
decided to stay on the island to guard Deborah,
for it seems that Jim is away most of
the time on special duty for you, which he
wouldn’t divulge.”</p>
<p>“And quite right, too,” murmured Mr.
Evans. “Jim’s work is a most important
factor—most important.”</p>
<p>“Well, it’s all Greek to me. And although
you’re running this show, sir, and with all due
apology, I must say it’s my opinion that you
make a mistake in not putting more confidence
in the people who are helping you.
Look at me: Charlie blows in here and we
beat it up to Maine as fast as my plane and
good lead bullets will get us there. All kinds
of hush stuff when we arrive, then you beat
it off during the night, leaving us in a house
that’s a warren of secret passages and what
not—and to make it worse, you leave us absolutely
no instructions. Consequently, one of
us gets kidnapped, and the other all but loses
his life, first by airgun bullets—and some airgun
it must be to shoot that distance—and
later, by drowning. Then I mistake the
people on Pig Island for your enemies, make
a fool of myself and darn near get kidnapped
into the bargain. As a direct result, instead
of being able to make myself useful in your
interests around Clayton, I have to chase off
down here to placate the chief of your
enemies.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_200">200</div>
<p>“There’s a lot in what you say,” replied Mr.
Evans. “But you must understand that this is
an extremely serious affair—in which an
enormous sum of money is involved.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you make me tired,” snapped Bill.
“Why, I’ve had a sweet chance to sell you
out—lock, stock and barrel. Money, money,
money—that’s all you so-called big business
men think of—and at that, you’re the guys
we have to thank for the depression. Is any
amount of money worth Charlie’s life?”</p>
<p>“They wouldn’t dare—”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_201">201</div>
<p>“They dared with poor little Charlie Lindbergh.
Are you any better than our national
hero?”</p>
<p>“But I don’t like the way you’re talking—”</p>
<p>“And I don’t care a tinker’s hoop what you
like. You’re not paying me anything. Listen
to me—just as soon as we can find Charlie
for you, I’m through! You want those who
are helping you to trust you and your judgment,
yet you won’t trust them, and seem to
have as little respect for human life as did the
German High Command during the war!”</p>
<p>“Anything else?” inquired an angry voice
at the other end of the wire.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Bill, “there is. A slight error
on my part, or what might be construed as
an error. When I inferred that you willingly
risked human life in order to obtain
money, I naturally made an exception.”</p>
<p>“And that is?”</p>
<p>“Your own valuable life, Mr. Evans!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_202">202</div>
<p>With this Parthian shot, Bill slapped on
the receiver and switched off the telephone
extension to his room. “I guess that’ll hold
him,” he muttered. “Gosh, I’m glad I got
that off my chest!”</p>
<p>He was under the shower in his bath when
there was a knock on the door.</p>
<p>“You’re wanted on the telephone, Master
William,” called a maid’s voice. “It’s a
gentleman—wouldn’t give his name.”</p>
<p>“You tell the gentleman,” called back Bill,
“that I’m busy. If he is insistent, say that I
suggest he can go where snowballs melt the
fastest.”</p>
<p>He dressed in a leisurely manner and went
down to the dining room, where he found a
hot meal awaiting him. He did full justice
to it, and about eight-thirty he went out the
front door, climbed in his car and drove off.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_203">203</div>
<p>It was a twenty-minute drive down through
the ridge country to the city of Stamford,
where he parked his car in a garage off Atlantic
Street. From there he walked down
back streets and eventually came to Gring’s
Hotel.</p>
<p>He had passed the place many times, and
knew that it held an unsavory reputation.
The building was a five-story frame structure,
and back in the early years of the century,
it had been a famous hostelry. The
neighborhood had gradually deteriorated,
until now the once-fashionable tavern reared
its ornamental façade amid slums of the worst
type. The police department had raided the
place so often that newspapers no longer regarded
that sort of thing as news. The hotel
still had a reputation for excellent food and
service, but it drew its patronage almost entirely
from the rough element, sometimes
criminal, sometimes merely tough, with
which every New England manufacturing
town is more or less cursed.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_204">204</div>
<p>Bill ran lightly up the steps to the long
veranda, a relic of better days. Paying no
attention to the stares of the loungers in the
lobby he crossed to the desk and caught the
clerk’s attention.</p>
<p>“’Phone up to Mr. Harold Johnson,” directed
Bill. “Say that Bill Bolton is down
here and would like to see him.”</p>
<p>“One moment, sir,” returned the clerk and
spoke a few low words into the phone at the
rear of the desk.</p>
<p>“Mr. Johnson will see you,” he announced
a moment later. “Take the elevator to the
fourth floor and turn left. The room number
is 49.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_205">205</div>
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