Lawson was thoroughly surprised and looked it. “Yes—it naturally would be, seeing you know who I really am.”
“And all about you.”
“Oh, you do, eh? You were awake, of course, at the meeting?”
“Not me—Janet Jordan.”
“What do you mean—not you—Janet Jordan?”
“I mean that certain people have been making fools of you and your wife, Mr. du Val.”
“Is that so! In what way, may I ask?”
“Why, you see, I’m not Janet Jordan.”
“Not Janet Jordan!”
“I wish,” said Dorothy, “you wouldn’t echo my words. No, I am not—most decidedly, not Janet Jordan, although even you have guessed by this time that I look like her. We changed places on you, big boy! Night before last, just before you came into Janet’s room with her father, Janet was climbing out the window when you knocked the first time. It was rather embarrassing.”
“It’s going to be even more embarrassing for you in a moment or two, Miss Not Janet Jordan! You know too much to live. Who in thunderation are you—a government dick?”
“That’s right, big boy. I also happen to be Janet’s double cousin.”
“You’re her double, I’ll voucher that,” agreed du Val alias Lawson. “And all this high-hat cockiness ain’t going to do you one little bit of good. What’s the moniker, kid? Make it snappy, I’m pressed for time.”
“Dorothy Dixon’s my name. And—meet Flash!” Her right hand gave a quick twist and Martin Lawson dropped the exploding automatic with a scream of mingled rage and pain. She sprang for the revolver, covered the man and retrieved the knife from the floor just behind him. “Sit down over there!” She pointed to a chair. “You’re not really hurt, you know. Flash only skinned your knuckles. Better tie them up in your handkerchief though. You’re ruining the rug.”
Gretchen’s blond head peered round the door frame. “Oh, Dorothy!” she shrilled, and rushed into the room. “Are you hurt? Did he wound you?” She flung herself on her friend in a frenzy of fright and hysterics.
From the hall came Laura Lawson’s voice. “Martin!” she called. “They’re out in front of the house. They’ve got the car! Hurry!”
Lawson wasted no time. While Dorothy struggled with the excited Gretchen, he nipped out of the room and was gone.
“That tears it!” cried Miss Dixon, freeing herself from the little maid’s embrace, and she dove into the passage.
Under the gallery she stopped short. There was nobody in sight, but from the staircase came two sharp detonations of a revolver which were answered by two more from the dining room. Then as she moved warily forward, Bill Bolton ran into the hall with Ashton Sanborn close at his heels. Dorothy saw them disappear up the stairs and ran after them.
At the top of the stairs she spied them standing outside a bedroom door. She hurried to join them. “Hello! Gone to cover?”
“You’re a great guesser, kid.” Bill grinned and nodded.
“Where’s Tunbridge?” asked Mr. Sanborn.
Dorothy motioned toward the door. “In there. He’s got a broken head and he’s tied up into the bargain. Laura Lawson did it. That’s her room.”
“We’ve got to get the door down,” said Bill, and he stepped back for a rush.
“Just a sec, Bill!” Dorothy fired three shots from Lawson’s automatic into the lock.
“Smart girl!” Ashton Sanborn opened the door to disclose the detective-butler bound and unconscious, lying on the floor. Otherwise the room was empty of occupants. “I thought as much,” muttered the secret service man, while Dorothy ran to Tunbridge and began to cut his bonds. “They have beat it, all right!”
“Secret passage?” This from Bill.
“Yes, the walls are honeycombed with them. But Tunbridge never learned the secret of this room, poor fellow.”
“Doctor Winn would know,” said Dorothy. “His suite is right at the end of this corridor. He must surely be awake with all this racket going on.”
“I’ll get him.” Mr. Sanborn was half way to the door. “Look after Tunbridge, you two. Better phone for a doctor.” He was gone.
Dorothy and Bill lifted the unconscious man on to Mrs. Lawson’s bed. Then while young Bolton undressed him, Dorothy telephoned. She then gave Bill a hasty account of the night’s happenings.
“If Gretchen had only stayed put in her room, I’d have caught Martin Lawson, anyway,” she lamented.
“Mr. Jordan and the bunch outside will take care of that pair,” promised Bill. “Fetch a wet towel from the bathroom. This bird is breathing pretty hard.”
Dorothy sped to obey, talking the while. “Not Uncle Michael!” she called back in astonishment.
“Yep. Uncle Michael showed up in Sanborn’s New York office this morning, all on his own.”
“What was he doing—wanting to turn state’s evidence and peach on his pals?” She brought in the wet towel and laid it on Tunbridge’s hot forehead.
“Nothing like that, kid.” Bill was grinning. “Give another guess.”
“Then he wasn’t really a member of that gang with the numbers?”
“Sure he was—in good standing, too.”
“Oh, spill it, Bill! What do you think I’m made of, anyway?”
“Snips and snails and puppy dog’s tails,” said Bill promptly.
“Huh! The story book says ‘little boys’ belong in that category. Come, Bill, out with it!”
“Well, then, cutie pie,—Uncle Michael is a secret service man.”
“And Ashton Sanborn didn’t know it! Don’t talk rot, Bill!”
“I’m not talking rot, Dorothy. Uncle Michael happens to be in the British Secret Service, that’s why!”
“Ain’t that the nerts!” exploded Miss Dixon.
“You said it, kid! He got on to The Nameless Ones—that’s what they call themselves—over on the other side, in Europe, you know—worked his way into their confidence and joined up. Of course, with his government’s sanction.”
“And what were they up to?”
“Out to blow up the world with Winnite, I reckon. The Lawsons were to get two million plunks for the formula. Martie-boy was Number 1, by the way. The whole thing was financed by the Reds.”
“Nice people! What’s being done about it?”
“Plenty,” returned Bill. “Mr. Jordan brought in the goods—letters, confidential papers of the organization, and that kind of thing. All the ringleaders, both in this country and abroad, have been apprehended and jailed by this time.”
“Except,” she suggested, “the du Vals, alias Lawson.”
“That’s right! Let’s go downstairs and find out about them. Nothing more can be done for Tunbridge until that doctor shows up. He’s had hard luck all the way round this evening. The Lawsons fooled him nicely about the time—and then this crack on the nut into the bargain!”
“What do you mean—about the time?”
“Why, he overheard the fair Laura telling her hubby that they would vamoose at two this morning, and that she would nab the formula just before leaving. That’s why Tunbridge specified midnight. He thought that two hours leeway would have been plenty of time for you.”
“I ’spose they suspected him then, and were just giving him the razz?”
Bill nodded. “Q.E.D., old girl. You’re learning, aren’t you?”
Dorothy made a face at him and pushed him out of the room. “By the way,” continued Bill, as they entered the corridor, “I wonder if Mrs. Lawson got the paper away from Professor?”
“She did not!” declared Dorothy. “Look!”
They paused on the stairs to view the scene below in the entrance hall. Groups of frightened servants whispered among themselves and here and there a strange man was posted, with somewhat of an air of grim watchfulness. Crouched on the hearth and chewing up the last shreds of some white substance was the puppy.
“The end of a perfect formula,” declared Bill. “You’d better call the pup Winnite. He’s full of it by this ti
me. Lucky you made the copy, Dorothy.”
“It certainly is!” A voice spoke behind them and they turned to see Ashton Sanborn descending the broad stair. “Doctor Winn tells me the passageway from the Lawson woman’s room comes out into the sunken gardens a quarter of a mile from the house. And I distinctly heard the whirr of an airplane just now from his open window. They’ve made their getaway in fine style by this time.”
“Well—” Dorothy breathed a deep sigh. “I can’t help being glad of it.”
Bill stared at her. “Well!” he mimicked. “I must say you have astonishing reactions!”
“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Mr. Sanborn. “You’ve done brilliant work on this case, and then, you know, you’ve saved Winnite.”
Dorothy was not impressed. “That’s just it,” she retorted. “If I wasn’t a government servant for the time being, I’d destroy the copy of that terrible formula myself. As it is, I’ve got to turn it over to you!”
Ashton Sanborn laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Fortunes of war, Dorothy. Sorry, but you must, you know.”
“Oh, I know!” She took the sheet of paper from her slipper and handed it to him. “And that,” she announced grimly, “spoils all the fun on this racket.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
Christmas eve was, as Dorothy had predicted, a starry night of frost and blanketing snow. Red candles twinkled in every holly-wreathed window of the Dixon home, and a large fir tree before the house glittered with colored Christmas lights.
If old Saint Nick had peeped into the dining room windows, he would have seen a merry company standing round the dinner table, gay with the crimson-berried holly and waxy mistletoe. At the head of the table stood Dorothy, appropriately and becomingly dressed in ruby-red velvet. On her right there was an empty place, and beyond it, old Doctor Winn, a boutonniere of holly in the lapel of his dinner coat; Mr. Bolton, Bill’s father, was next down the table, and just beyond stood Ashton Sanborn. Facing Dorothy at the other end, her father chatted with a bright-eyed Gretchen, who had Bill on her right. Next to Bill came Doctor Winn’s ex-butler, John Tunbridge, looking none the worse for his part in the mixup of the fatal night. Beyond Tunbridge stood Dorothy’s Uncle Michael, and then another empty chair.
“Just a moment, Dorothy,” said her father as she was about to sit down. “We’ve a surprise for you.”
“Oh, are there more people coming?” She indicated the extra places to her right and left. “I thought our party was as nearly complete as possible. Of course it would have been swell if Janet and Howard could have been with us.”
“Dum—dum—de dum!” hummed Bill, beating time with his hand like an orchestra conductor. From the drawing room a piano crashed into the opening chords of Wagner’s beautiful wedding march.
“Here Comes the Bride…” sang the guests at table, and Dorothy’s heart skipped a beat.
Through the curtained doorway, walked a blushing girl, leaning on the arm of a tall young man. She wore a bridal gown of white satin, and her smiling face, below the draped tulle veil, was the exact counterpart of the astonished girl at the head of the table.
“Janet! Howard!” Dorothy ran to them and was caught in her cousin’s arms. “Where under the sun did you come from? I thought you sailed for South America last week!”
“That,” said Howard, grinning broadly, “is a surprise that Mr. Sanborn sprang on us the day after we were married. He persuaded me to give up the South American job and got me a much better one with Mr. Bolton.”
“Meet Mr. Howard Bright, the new manager of my Bridgeport plant,” cried Bill’s father, and everyone clapped.
“Why, that’s marvelous!” exclaimed Dorothy. “It’s only an hour’s drive over there from New Canaan. We’ll be able to see a lot of each other, Janet.”
Then Uncle Michael, looking very happy and proud, kissed his daughter and led her to the chair between his place and Dorothy’s.
“Daddy gave me the wedding dress,” whispered Janet. “It’s a little bit late for it, but he insisted.”
“You look simply darling,” began her cousin, then stopped. Doctor Winn, who had pushed in her chair, was addressing the company.
“Ladies, and gentlemen,” he said, “before we start on the Christmas cheer which our little hostess and her father have so graciously provided, I would like to propose a toast or two, and may I ask you to stand again while you drink them with me?” He held up his glass of golden cider. “First, let us drink long life and great happiness to our charming bride, Mrs. Howard Bright, and her gallant husband!”
The company drank the toast enthusiastically. Then Uncle Abe, the Dixon’s darkey butler, better known to some of Dorothy’s friends as “Ol’ Man River,” grinning from one black ear to the other, laid small leather jewel cases before Janet and Howard.
“Just a little Christmas gift, my children,” explained Doctor Winn.
“Oh, may we open them now?” asked Janet eagerly.
“You most certainly may, my dear.”
They snapped open the lids and the company leaned forward to get a better view of the contents.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor Winn,” began Howard, fingering his handsome gold repeater and chain.
“Nor I—why—my goodness! I never thought I’d have a string of real pearls. They are simply too exquisite for words!”
Doctor Winn laughed and held up a protesting hand. “I’m sure I’m glad you like them, but guests are requested not to embarrass the speaker. Now, I have another toast to propose; and this time we will drink a very Merry Christmas, long life and great happiness to Miss Margaret Schmidt, my new companion-housekeeper!”
Gretchen was overwhelmed and blushed furiously. Uncle Abe placed another jewel case before her, which she opened and found therein a pearl necklace, the counterpart of Janet’s. All she could do was to sit and gaze at it with her wide open china-blue eyes. Mr. Dixon raised the necklace, slipped it over the embarrassed girl’s head, and nodded to the old gentleman.
Doctor Winn took the hint and turned the attention of the table guests to himself. “Third and last, but not in any way the least,” he said, “we will drink to the heroine of the already famous case of the Double Cousins. Ladies and gentlemen, I pledge you Dorothy Dixon—whose bravery and loyalty to her country gained the nation’s thanks through its mouthpiece, our President in Washington this week. A very Merry Christmas, my dear, long life and great happiness to you and to our friend Professor, alias Winnite! By the way, where is the pup? I have a little remembrance for him, too.”
“He’s right here beside me, asleep in his basket, Doctor Winn.” Dorothy picked up the yawning pup and sat him on her lap.
The old gentleman took a slightly larger morocco case out of his pocket, this time, and laid it on the white cloth before her. With a smile of thanks, she pressed the spring and disclosed, lying on a velvet pad, a double string of gleaming pink pearls. She looked at him, speechless with pleasure, then down again at the necklace. As she did so, she started, for beneath the pearls lay an envelope.
She picked it up and drew forth a paper—“Why! why, it’s my copy of the Winnite formula!” she cried.
“The only existing copy, my dear, which I hereby present to your puppy.”
“But, Doctor Winn, I don’t understand!”
“My terms to the government were that Winnite should be used for national defense alone,” he said solemnly. “Washington would not agree. Therefore I wish the formula destroyed.”
“Oh, what a darling you are!” Dorothy leaned over and kissed him. “But let’s not give it to Professor this time, please. The last one made him horribly sick.”
She held the paper over a lighted candle and watched Winnite burn to charred ash. “I certainly am the happiest girl in the world tonight—but there is just one more toast I’d like to propose before we commence dinner. Here’s a long life and a Merry Christmas to Mr. and Mrs. Martin Lawson—if it hadn’t bee
n for them, think of all the fun we’d have missed!”
2 See Bill Bolton and The Winged Cartwheels.
DOROTHY DIXON WINS HER WINGS, by Dorothy Wayne
CHAPTER I
OUT OF THE NORTHEAST
“Hi, there, young lady!”
“Hi, yourself,—what d’you want?”
At the water’s edge, a girl of sixteen stopped in the act of launching a small skiff. She straightened her lithe figure and faced about, her brown hair blowing in the breeze, turning a pair of snapping grey eyes inquiringly upon the young man who walked down the beach toward her.
“Miss Dixon, isn’t it?” asked the stranger, his deeply tanned features breaking into an engaging smile. “I’m not sure I recognized you at first in the bathing suit—”
“No matter how you were dressed I’m sure I wouldn’t recognize you,” returned Dorothy, shortly. “I’ve never laid eyes on you before—that’s why.”
The young man laughed. “Quite right,” he said, “you haven’t. But I happen to be a near neighbor of yours, and I’ve seen you.”
“Up at New Canaan?”
“Yes. Dad has taken the Hawthorne place,—bought it in fact.”
For a full minute the girl stared at this tall young man with the blonde hair and the jolly smile. Surprise left her speechless.
Then—“Why—why—” she gasped. “Y-you must be the famous Bill Bolton!”
“Bolton’s the name, all right,” he grinned. “But that famous stuff is the bunk.”
Dorothy was herself again, and a little ashamed of her burst of feeling.
“But you are the aviator!” She went on, more calmly. “My father told me the other day that you and your father were coming to live across the road from us. And I don’t mind telling you we’re simply thrilled! You see, I’ve read about you in the papers—and I know all about the wonderful things you’ve done!”
“I’m afraid you’ve got an exaggerated idea—it was all in the day’s work, you know,” protested the blonde-headed young man, his eyebrows slanting quizzically, “I’m Bill Bolton, but I didn’t barge in on you to talk about myself. You’re starting out for a sail in that sloop that’s moored over there, I take it?”
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 160