Dorothy Dixon Solves the Conway Case

“What can those people be after if it isn’t the patents on Mr. Conway’s inventions?” she said in a puzzled tone, after a pause.

“Search me – what ever it is, the thing must be very valuable. They’d never take all this trouble otherwise.”

“Give us all this trouble, you mean. And here’s another riddle, Bill. Why was Hilltop sold?”

Bill threw her a glance and shrugged.

“Ask me something real hard,” he suggested, “You’re the Sherlock Holmes of this case. I’m only a mighty dumb Doctor Watson. And I’m no good at problems in deduction, even when my thinkbox is moting properly – which it isn’t at present.”

“But there must have been some good reason for the sale of that property,” she persisted. “When Stoker went back to Lawrenceville after the Easter holidays last spring, everything at home was going on just as usual – a big place, servants, cars, horses, plenty of money – everything. Then he came back from school in June, and all that everything just wasn’t!”

“And father had moved into that dump on the Stone Hill River road with a part-time maid-of-all-work, and that 1492 flivver… Deucedly clear and all that! By the way, do they teach English or just plain Connecticut Yankee at the New Canaan High? Your use of words at times is more forceful than grammatic.”

“Grammatical for choice. You’re not so hot on the oratory yourself, Bill. People who live in glass houses, you know – ?”

“Wish we were in one,” was his reply. “Anything with a fire and a roof that sheds water would suit me just now!”

“What are you trying to do, Bill, evade my question?”

Dorothy’s nap had done her good. Though still weary and stiff, she felt tantalizingly argumentative for all that she was wringing wet and horribly chilly. Talking helped to keep up her spirits. Just ahead their torch revealed a branching of the path.

“The map says we keep to the right,” announced Bill. “It’s only a step over to the Spy Rock trail now.”

“Glad to hear it – but it seems to me you are trying to evade my questions!”

“Questions?” He chuckled. “They come too fast and furious. And to be honest, how can you expect me to guess the right answers when you don’t know them yourself? You certainly are the one and only human interrogation point tonight.”

“And you’re so helpful,” she retorted. “This is the most mysterious affair I’ve ever been mixed up in.”

“Here we are at the other trail, praise be to Allah.”

“Turn to the right?” she asked.

“That’s it. In about a hundred yards we ought to run on to a path leading off to the left. That leads to shelter No. 6. The cabin’s quite near now, if this map in my pocket’s any good.”

They trudged along the trail and a couple of minutes later in the dim glow from the flash they saw an opening in the trees.

“Come on,” he said, quickening his pace. “We’ll be under cover in a jiffy.”

“We’ll probably have to break in.” Dorothy caught up with him as the path swung round in a quarter circle to the left.

“No, we won’t,” he replied, catching her arm and coming to a halt. At the same time he shut off the electric torch.

Straight ahead in the darkness they could make out the blur of a small building. Through a chink in what they took to be a closed shutter came a thin ray of light.

“Somebody’s got there ahead of us,” Bill observed more to himself than to Dorothy.

“What are we going to do?”

“Do? What can we do but knock them up and ask for shelter?”

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted. “Neither of us can go on until we’ve had rest and a drying out.”

“That’s how I look at it.”

“We’ve got to go easy, though. Remember what I trotted into with Betty at Stoker’s house?”

“Where do you get this ‘we’ stuff?” he said rather gruffly. “Here, take this gun and get behind a tree. I’m going over there. If they get nasty when they open up, I’ll sidestep – and you can use your own judgment.”

“I’ll use it right now, Bill. I’m going to the house with you. Don’t argue – ” She started on along the path.

Bill caught up with her. “Take the automatic, anyway,” he shoved the gun into her hand. “Shoot through your pocket if you have to. Better keep it out of sight. Stand to one side just out of the line of light when they open. All set?”

“Go ahead.”

Dorothy’s right hand gripped the revolver in her pocket. She slipped off the safety catch, pointed her forefinger along the snubnosed barrel and let her middle finger rest lightly on the trigger.

Rat-tat-tat – rat-tat-tat. Bill’s fist pounded the cabin door. There came a pause. She felt the quickened beats of her heart. Rain pounding on the gutterless roof dripped in a steady trickle on her bare head and down her neck. From somewhere nearby came the mournful cry of a hoot owl.

Bill knocked again. Within the little house they heard the sound of footsteps. Dorothy stiffened.

The bolts of the door were withdrawn, the door opened and Dorothy stepped up beside Bill. Framed in the lighted rectangle was an ancient, white haired negro. He peered out at them from beneath the cotton-tufts of his eyebrows, blinded for the moment by the night.

“Good evening, Uncle. Can we come in out of the wet for a little while?”

Bill’s tone held the gentle camaraderie of those brought up by darky servants in the South.

“Lordy, Lordy – white folks, an’ drippin’ wet!” exclaimed the old fellow, straightening his bent back and smiling pleasantly. “Walk right in, Capt’in – and you, too, Missy. Ol’ Man River ain’t got quarters like you is prob’ly useter – But it’s dry and it’s warm, an’ yo-all’s sho’ is welcome!”

Chapter XI

MR. JOHN J. JOYCE

“Thank you, Uncle,” said Bill and motioning Dorothy to go first, he stepped across the threshold.

The old darky slammed the door shut behind them blotting out the storm, and sent the bolt home.

“Yo’all go over ter the fire an’ drip,” he beamed, pointing to the blazing logs in the fireplace of native stone. “Lordy, Lordy, you chillen is sho’ ’nuf half drown’. But we’s gwine ter fix dat sho’ nuf in a jiffy.”

While the two warmed their hands at the hearth, he bustled off towards the rear of the cabin and disappeared through a doorway that led into another room.

Dorothy looked at Bill and smiled delightedly.

The cabin was primitive though there was a cozy and homelike air about it. The chinks between the bark of the logs which formed the walls were stuffed with dry moss and clay. There was no ceiling to the room. One looked up through the cross beams clear to the gable of the slanting roof. From these sturdy four-by-fours hung half a ham, several bunches of onions, a pair of rubber boots and other oddments. Wide boards had been laid across them in a couple of places, evidently to provide holdalls for other paraphernalia.

The small room’s principal article of furniture was a rustic, handmade table. Three stools without backs and an armchair of like manufacture completed the furnishings if one did not count several shining pots and pans that hung on nails driven into the logs and a huge pile of kindling that took up an entire corner. A steaming kettle hung from a crane over the fire and the floor of the room flaunted a large mat woven of brightly colored grasses.

“He keeps everything as neat as a new pin,” Dorothy whispered. “Isn’t he perfectly sweet?”

“Wonder how he happens to be here,” said Bill. “This shelter is state property.”

“Shush – he’s coming.”

The old darky ambled into the room again, grinning from ear to ear. Ol’ Man River, as he called himself, quite evidently enjoyed bestowing hospitality. Over one arm he carried a bundle of clothes.

“Ise mighty thankful dat yo’all come ’long dis evenin’,” he exclaimed. “It sho’ do get mighty lonesome up in dese hyar woods – speshally on a black night when de rain come an’ de wind howl roun’ dis cabin. I brought you all some clo’s. ’Twant much I could find, jes’ overalls and shirts, like what Ise got on. But dey is dry and dey is as clean an’ sweet as soap and rainwater can make ’em.”

Dorothy took the faded blue flannel shirt and overalls he held out to her. “Thank you, Uncle. You certainly are kind and thoughtful, but it’s a shame to use your clean clothes this way.”

The old man’s grin grew wider, his even white teeth gleamed in the wrinkled black of his kindly face.

“Don’ you menshun it, Missy. Dese clo’s ain’t nuffin. Dey ain’t no tellin’ what’s gwine ter happen ef you don’ hop inter de back room an’ take off yo’ wet things. While yo’ gone, de young genneman can change. An’ Ol’ Man River, he’s gwine ter dish up supper. Now, Missy, run away or yo’ll sho’ catch yo’ death in dose wet things.”

Dorothy hurried into the back room and closed the door. On a little table she saw an old fashioned oil lamp with a glass base and an unshaded chimney, which cast a cheerful glow of light over a home-made bed which filled one side of the cubicle. As she sat down, she found that instead of a mattress, the bed boasted fir and hemlock boughs, scented and springy to the touch. Several khaki-colored army blankets were neatly rolled at the foot of the bed. A row of hooks behind the door and rudely fashioned shelves which extended the breadth of the partition between the two rooms, completed the appointments of Ol’ Man River’s bedroom.

Dorothy saw that the partition did not rise clear to the peak of the roof, but ended at the crossbeams. The sound of Bill’s voice and the old darky’s came over the top, and a most appetizing odor of coffee and frying ham. It was just then that Dorothy realized how famished she was. A glance at her wristwatch showed that it was a quarter past midnight.

She continued to strip off her wet clothes and the wrappings from her feet. Picking up a couple of flour sacks from the stool by the shuttered window, she gave herself a thorough rub down. The home-made towels had been washed until they were soft as linen, and they sent a pleasant glow of returning circulation throughout her tired body. Warm and dry once more, she donned the overalls and shirt and drew on a heavy pair of gray wool socks. Though the overalls needed turning up and the shirt was too long in the sleeves and more than a trifle wide across her shoulders, it was on the whole a warm and comfortable outfit.

She rubbed her short, curly hair dry, then combed it into place before the cracked mirror which stood on the wall shelf. A deft application of powder and rouge from her ever-present compact completed her simple toilet. There came a knock on the door and Bill’s voice told her that supper was ready.

“Coming!” she called.

Picking up the sodden heap of clothes from the floor, she blew out the light, opened the door and marched into the other room.

“Transformation!” Bill saluted her gaily. “How about it, Uncle Abe? You’d never take her for the same person, would you?”

The old man, who was bending over the hearth, turned his head toward her and smiled.

“Roses,” he said, “roses in June!”

Dorothy laughed outright. “Thanks for the compliment, Uncle Abe, but I’m afraid these roses came out of a compact.”

She hung her wet clothes over a chair, near to Bill’s.

“Den I should’a said, fresh as a rose,” the old darky chuckled.

“And not half as dewey as when you let us in,” added Bill. “By the way, Dorothy, let me introduce our host, Uncle Abe Lincoln River – known to the world at large as Ol’ Man River, but to his friends he’s Uncle Abe. And the young lady who is parading around in your clothes, Uncle, is Miss Dorothy Dixon of New Canaan, known to many people as I-will-not-be-called-Dot! She looks kind and gentle, but if you value your life, never take her on in a wrestling bout. She’s Sandow, the Terrible Greek and the Emperor of Japan all in one.”

Dorothy waved him aside.

“Get out of my way, slanderer!” she cried. “I want to shake hands with Uncle Abe. Dry clothes seem to have gone to his head, Uncle.”

The aged negro stood up and took her outstretched hand between his horny palms.

“Why, I’se read about yo’all when I worked fo’ Misteh Joyce, Missy. Dey uster let me hab de papers after de folks up dar ter de big house done finished wid ’em. Airplanes, robbers, ebbryt’ing!” Ol’ Man River shook his head. “Sho’ wuz tuk back some ter see what ladies kin do dese days, ma’am!”

“Well, then you must have read about Mr. Bolton, here, too? Bill Bolton, the flyer – ?”

“Dat’s so, ma’am. I done heard tell o’ dis genneman, too!” He turned his rolling eyes in unfeigned admiration upon Bill.

Bill glared at Dorothy. “Oho! so you put the spotlight on me, do you?” He cried in pretended anger.

But Ol’ Man River motioned toward the table which was set with tin cups and plates and a very much battered metal coffee pot.

“Supper’s ready, Missy. I’se sorry I ain’t got a cloth. ’P’raps yo’all won’t mind dis time. Now if yo’ an’ Marse’ Bill will tak’ yo’ chairs, I’ll serve it up quicker dan whistlin’.”

“But you’ve only set two places,” protested Dorothy.

Uncle Abe wagged his woolly pate. “It ain’t right fo’ an’ ol’ niggeh ter sit down wid de quality, Missy.”

“Stuff and nonsense! Put another cup and plate on the table, Bill, and another knife, fork and spoon. Uncle Abe’s going to eat with us, or I won’t touch a thing – and believe me, this food looks tempting!”

“Well, if yo’ puts it thataway, ma’am, I will take a bite.” Uncle Abe gave a mellow chuckle. “I sho’ duz love ham. De smell of it in de pan fair do make my mouf water!”

Dorothy took up the hot skillet from the hearth. “I’ll put the ham on the plates, Uncle Abe, if you’ll bring over that pan of hot bread you’ve got warming in the ashes.”

“Not hot bread, Dorothy,” corrected Bill, “ – corn pone – real honest-to-goodness corn pone!”

“Mmmm – ” she exclaimed with eyes dancing, “hurry up, Uncle Abe, I just can’t wait!”

“Dey ain’t no butter,” explained Uncle Abe, “but if yo’all puts some o’ dis ham gravy over it, I reckon yo’ll fin’ yo’ kin eat it.”

“Ho, that’s the best way to eat it!” cried Bill. “Used to have it that way when I lived at Annapolis. If there’s anything that tastes better, I’ve yet to find it. And look, Dorothy, we’ve got molasses to sweeten our coffee! Uncle Abe sure does set a real southern table.”

The old man chuckled happily as they sat down to the meal.

“Marse Johnson done give me dat ’lasses,” he said as he filled the coffee cups from the battered pot. “He de big boss o’ de reservation. I don’t mind tellin’ yo’all, ma’am, if Marse Johnson didn’t wink at Ol’ Man River a-livin’ in dis hyar cabin, dis niggeh sho’ would be in a bad way. But dese reservation folks is no white trash. Dey knowed ’bout Marse Joyce turnin’ me loose after I’d worked fo’ him all dese years. I did odd jobs for ’em dis summer, an’ a while back, Marse Johnson, he ’lowed I could have de cabin, now it’s gettin’ kinda chilly fo’ de ol’ man to sleep in de barn.”

“That was pretty decent of him,” remarked Bill, with his mouth full of fried ham and hot corn pone. “But who is this Mr. Joyce you speak of, Uncle?”

Ol’ Man River wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Dat man’s name ez John J. Joyce, Marse Billy. He’s got dat big place on de ridge over yonder nexter Hilltop, Marse Conway’s ol’ home. I worked fo’ Marse Joyce fo’ ’bout ten years – eveh sence I come up no’th from Virginny where dis ol’ niggeh was raised.”

“And he let you go after you’d worked for him all that time?” cried Dorothy, setting down her coffee cup. “I call that rotten mean!”

“Yaas, ma’am – John J. Joyce is sho’ a hard man. I wuz one o’ de gard’ners on de’ ’state. One noon he calls us all up ter de big house. ‘Men,’ he say, standin’ on de gall’ry steps, ‘times is hard an’ they’s gwine ter be harder. I’se got ter do my bit fer dis ’ere depresshun like eve’y one else. Dat is why I’se a-cuttin’ you down from six ter three. De three what am de oldest can clear out. Dey ain’t wu’th as much ter me.’”

“The dirty dog!” Bill’s face was hot with anger.

“I should say so!” Dorothy’s tone matched Bill’s in vehemence.

Uncle Abe shook his head. “De Good Book say, ‘Him what has, gits, and him what ain’t got nuffin’ gits dat nuffin’ tuk’n away’,” he remarked a bit sadly. “But dis hyar niggeh ain’t got no complaint, ma’am. Ol’ Man River has sho’ got a warm cabin. He ken trap Brer Rabbit in de woods, and ’times he gits Brer Possum. Marse Johnson pays fer a spell o’ work once in a while and dat pays foh things he haster buy over to de store. I kinder git de idee, Missy, dat dis hyar ol’ man is livin’ on de top o’ de worl’.”

“Well, maybe,” answered Dorothy, “but I call it doggone mean, just the same. Tell me, Uncle, outside of being mean and heartless, what sort of man is this John J. Joyce?”

“Waal, you see’d how he done me, Missy. Jes’ git up an’ go – didn’t say he wuz sorry or nuffin’. He’s rich and he’s sharp. Maybe he’s honest, I don’t know, but I’se allus thought as how Marse Conway ’ud done better if he’d er hoed his own ’taters. But I reckon dis niggeh hadn’t oughter be crit’sizin’ de quality.”

“Quality, nothing!” exploded Bill. “Mr. Conway was all right – at least, George is – but the other fellow is the worst kind of a polecat!”

“Den yo’all knows Marse George?”

“Yes, Uncle, he’s a friend of ours,” said Dorothy. “And he is right up to his neck in trouble just now. Anything you can tell us about his father will be a big help.”

Uncle Abe pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows on the table.

“Dey ain’t much I kin tell,” he announced, “but I’se knowed Marse George since he wuz a l’il boy. He wuz allus nice an’ friendly with Uncle Abe.”

“You say that his father and Mr. Joyce were friends – that they had dealings of some sort together?” Dorothy inquired.

“Yaas, ma’am. Dey wuz pardners in bizness, I reckon. Leastways, like you said, dey had dealings togedder.”

“But if Joyce was in business with Mr. Conway, why didn’t Stoker mention that?” asked Bill of Dorothy.

“Perhaps he didn’t know about it, Bill. He was away at school, remember, most of the time. And he told us that his father never spoke of his affairs or encouraged him to ask questions.”

“But it doesn’t sound reasonable, Dorothy. A fellow must know the name of his father’s firm.”

“That’s true, in a way. But maybe there was no firm – of Joyce and Conway? Isn’t it possible that Mr. Joyce may have acted as Mr. Conway’s agent – sold the inventions for him, perhaps? Mr. Conway was not a business man. He was always too occupied in his laboratory or in his workshop.”

“Dat am de way it wuz, Missy,” broke in the old darky eagerly. “’Times, de gennemen ’ud walk in de garden an’ talk while dis hyar niggeh done his weedin’ or plantin’ or wotnot – neveh done pay ’tenshun ter Ol’ Man River. He don’t count fer nuffin’ atall. Marse Conway done make his ’ventions – Marse Joyce done what he call ‘put ’em on de market.’ Is dat what yo’all wanter know, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you, Uncle. I believe I’m beginning to see light at last.”

“Blest if I do,” commented Bill. “Joyce couldn’t try to steal patents registered in Mr. Conway’s name, could he?”

Dorothy smiled. “That can wait. It’s time we helped Uncle Abe wash up. Then maybe he’ll let us have a couple of blankets to spread before the fire. We’re dead for sleep and we’re keeping him up too.”

The old fellow started to answer, then cocked his head and lifted a warning hand.

“Is folks a-follerin’ yo’ chill’un?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes,” said Dorothy, “and they mustn’t catch us!”

“Dey’s someone a-comin’,” he whispered. “Don’ yo’ say nuffin’. Jes do like Uncle Abe tell yo’all and he fix it so nobody can’t find nuffin’ hyar!”

Chapter XII

VOICES FROM BELOW

“Take dose clo’es by de fire yonder,” directed the sharp-eared old man, “an’ go in de back room an’ shin up de wall shelves to dese fo’-by fo’s oveh our heads. Tote de clo’es ’long wid yo’ an’ lay flat on dem boards. ’Times I trap somefin’ out er season – dis niggeh’s got ter eat – dat dere’s mah hidin’ place. Nobody can’t see yo’all, nobody can’t fin’ yo’ dere!”

While he talked and the others snatched their half dried things from before the fire, the old darky was clearing the table of dishes. He flung the remains of the meal onto the blazing logs and scooping up the cups and plates, stacked them, dirty as they were, on a shelf.

Dorothy and Bill ran into the back room and scrambled up to the crossbeams. As they crawled along the boards which were laid close together in threes, they saw Uncle Abe light an ancient corncob, then pick up a tattered newspaper and sit down by the fire. No more had they laid themselves flat on their airy perch with their bundles of damp clothing, than there came a pounding on the cabin door.

“Who dat?” called out Ol’ Man River without moving from his chair.

“Open up, do you hear, River? I want to speak to you,” barked a voice from out the night.

“Yaas, suh – comin’!”

Peering through the cracks between the boards, his guests saw him rise slowly and shuffle to the door. Stretched out over the little bed chamber, with their heads close to the partition, they had an unobstructed view of the lighted room beyond. As the boards were laid over the middle of both rooms and ran nearly the length of the cabin, they realized with satisfaction that unless someone stood close to the side wall, it would be impossible to spy them out. Uncle Abe’s oil lamp sent its gleams but a few feet, and the rest of the room and the crossbeams lay in deep shadow which was an added protection to the hidden two.

Ol’ Man River drew the bolt and swung open the door.

“Walk right in, Marse Joyce,” they heard him say. And without waiting for a reply, he hobbled painfully back to his chair before the hearth.

Three men stamped into the cabin and banged the door shut on the storm.

“You’re keeping late hours, River,” the leader of the party snapped out without preamble.

From the tones of his voice, Dorothy and Bill knew him to be the same man who had spoken to them in the valley meadow, and who Bill had downed with the gasoline tin. He was a short, stocky person with a bulldog face and a scrubby toothbrush moustache. He and his companions looked tired and angry. They were also very wet.

The speaker walked over to the fire, leaving a track of little pools across the floor. Putting his hands over the blaze, he scowled down at Uncle Abe.

“Well,” he contended disagreeably, “I said you were up late. Answer me, can’t you?”

“So yo’ say, Marse Joyce. So yo’ say.”

Uncle Abe continued to gaze unconcernedly into the fire as though he had no idea the heavy set man was becoming angrier by the minute.

“You black whelp!” he thundered, “What do you mean by bandying words with me?”

Uncle Abe remained silent.

“Are you deaf?” cried Joyce. “Tell me what you’re sitting up for!”

“I’se takin’ a warm, suh.”

“Taking a —warm?”

“Yaas, suh. I’se a mis’ry in der feet – rhumytizzem. Can’t sleep nohow. So I sets an’ reads de paper by de fire – an’ takes a warm.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yaas, suh, I sho’ do.”

“Don’t answer me back that way, do you hear?”

The old darky continued to puff calmly on his corncob.

Mr. Joyce thrust his hands in his pockets and glowered at him. His companions stood silently by, watching Uncle Abe.

“Where are your visitors?” he asked suddenly.

Bill released the safety-catch on his automatic.

Uncle Abe puffed steadily on his pipe, but said nothing.

“Answer me! Where are they?” snarled John J. Joyce.

“Yaas, suh!” The old darky removed the corncob from his mouth and looked up at his late employer.

“Well, why don’t you speak?”

“Kase yo’ done tell me not ter answer a while back.”

“I tell you to answer me now.” Mr. Joyce glared threateningly into his face. “Are you just stubborn, or in your dotage? Where are your visitors?”

The old man spat with great precision on to a glowing cinder. “Dey right hyar, Marse Joyce,” he said.

“Right here? Where?”

“Hyar in dis room, suh. All three o’ yo’.”

“Say, are you crazy, or am I?” Joyce flung at him.

“No, suh, I ain’ crazy,” returned the old man, and Joyce’s companions broke into a roar of laughter at this none too subtle gibe.

John J. Joyce turned on them furiously.

“Shut up, you two! Go into that back room and pull them out!”

Still guffawing, the men disappeared through the doorway in the partition.