Dorothy Dixon Solves the Conway Case Read online

  Chapter V

  THE MOTIVE

  "And then I opened the back door and found you standing there, Bill.Phew!" Dorothy ended with a sigh. "It's almost more of an effort in thetelling than it was in the doing!"

  "I wouldn't believe it if I didn't know it was true," declared Terrysolemnly.

  "You've the great gift of stating things clearly, Terry," remarked BillBolton. "In other words, why must you put in your foot every time youopen your mouth? Dorothy, my girl, you said your piece nicely."

  "I'm not your girl, thank heaven! If I was at all interested, I'dcertainly burst into tears. Please don't try to be humorous--it'spainful, positively painful."

  "I guess I'd better begin my story," George decided diplomatically. "Orsomebody's likely to start throwing things. Where do you want me tostart?"

  "Like this," volunteered Terry, setting his empty coffee cup on itssaucer. "'I was born an orphan at the age of four, of poor but dishonestparents....'"

  "'And until the age of thirteen and three-quarters, could only walksideways with my hair parted in the middle,'" came George's quick followup.

  "He's all right," decreed Bill. "Let him speak his piece, gang--this isgoing to be good."

  "Of all the conceited nerve!" exclaimed Dorothy.

  "Do shut up and give George a chance," broke in Betty heatedly. "I wantto hear about it--and this is a serious matter, I--"

  "Now you're the one who's stopping him," accused her chum. "Forgoodness' sake, get going, George--we've got to drive to New Canaan sometime tonight."

  "All right," said George. "If you people don't find it interesting,well, you've brought it on yourselves. Surprising as it may seem, I wasborn at the usual age at 'Hilltop,' that big whitehouse on the ridge,overlooking the other side of the reservation. Father, you know, was aninventor. He was always an extremely reticent man and I realized as Igrew older that he was very much of a recluse. He never spoke to Motherand me about his inventions, but they must have brought him a goodincome. We kept up that big place and had plenty of servants, althoughwe entertained very little. After I got through the nursery stage, I hada French governess and later a tutor. Mother and I were great pals. Shemust have been a busy woman, for she superintended the running of ourmodel farm and dairy, but she was never too occupied with her duties butwhat she had time to romp and play with me. I know now that she musthave led a very lonely life.

  "My father spent nine-tenths of the time in his laboratory and workshop.He did not encourage friends or acquaintances and he never went anywherewith Mother. He had but one hobby, his work, and although I know he wasvery fond of us, the work came first. Even later, when I grew up, henever seemed like the fathers of other fellows I knew. It was hisreticence and absolute absorption in those inventions of his that keptus practically strangers.

  "Five years ago last spring, when I was twelve, Mother died. Her hearthad never been strong--her going took the only person I really lovedaway from me."

  George was unable to go on for a moment, and Betty caught his hand underthe table and held it. The tenderhearted little girl was very near totears. George smiled manfully, then went on with his recital.

  "Sorry," he apologized for his show of feeling, "I never quite got overlosing Mother. My governess had been replaced by a tutor a couple ofyears before this, but now Father decided I was to go to boardingschool. So I was packed off to Lawrenceville, a homesick, lonely littlekid if there ever was one. I'd never been thrown with boys of my own agebefore--I guess I was pretty much of a young prig--but as the poet says,'I soon learned different.'

  "During the holidays I used mostly to come back to Hilltop. Father nevermade a kick if I brought fellows back with me. We had the run of theplace, which he kept up just as it had been when Mother was alive. Onething was understood though: he must not be annoyed by my guests. Therewere saddle horses, for he rode regularly every morning beforebreakfast; cars to drive, and he also belonged to the club over atBedford, although I don't think he had ever seen the place. He gave meplenty of money to spend and always allowed me to accept invitationsfrom other fellows to visit at their homes. Altogether I had a prettygood time. The only trouble was that Father never took any real interestin me. I was lucky enough to get my 'L' at football, but he never camedown to Lawrenceville--not even to see a game."

  "I've got your number, now!" cried Terry, interrupting him. "You'reStoker Conway! I thought I'd seen you before. Say, Bill, this guy is toomodest. 'Lucky to make his letter,' I don't think! Conway captained theLawrenceville team last season. My cousin, Ed Durham (they call him BullDurham down there) played left tackle. I went down with Dad and UncleHarry last fall to see the Princeton freshman-Lawrenceville game."

  "I remember your telling about it," said Dorothy. "Somebody, I think,made a sixty-yard run for a touchdown."

  "I'll bet George did it," piped up Betty.

  "He certainly did! And let me tell you, Angelface, that your boy friendwas the fastest halfback Lawrenceville or any other school has seen inyears. All American stuff--that's what he is. Hard luck you didn't getto college this year, old man."

  "Can't always have what we want," remarked George philosophically.

  "Who won the game?" asked Bill. "The one you saw, Terry?"

  "Why, Lawrenceville, of course. Smeared 'em--outplayed those freshiesfrom start to finish and did it with a lighter team. Thirty-three tonothing--think of it!"

  Dorothy turned toward George.

  "Stoker Conway--I like that name, 'Stoker.' How did you get it?"

  George grinned. "I was a grubby little mutt--my first term atLawrenceville. Somebody pasted the name on me, and it stuck."

  "Three celebrities at one table," sighed Terry. "I knew we had two withus to-night--but a third! It's just too much. Betty, you and I have justgot to do something to make ourselves famous. There's practically nohope for me, I admit, but you will probably become a movie queen, whenyou're old enough--ash-gold hair and a baby doll face are all the rageon the screen!"

  "Oh, I don't know," hit back Betty, ignoring the laughter caused by thisleft handed compliment. "How about the fame you won in the diamondsmuggling case? You got plenty of newspaper publicity then."

  This sally turned the laugh on Terry, for as the three others knew, hehad played anything but an heroic part in that episode.

  But Terry was a jolly soul and his hearty laugh at his own expensejoined with the others.

  "Lay off, Betty!" he cried, "that was one below the belt. What do youbet I spot the motive in this mysterious case of Stoker's?"

  "See here, will you pipe down?" Bill expostulated. "All you will spot isyour clothes. Keep quiet and quit waving your arms--you nearly upset mycoffee. How can any of us learn anything unless you give Stoker a chanceto get on with his story?"

  Terry suppressed a retort and George hurried into the breach.

  "Here goes on the second installment, then," he said. "And it willprobably interest you all to know I'm pretty near the end. Let'ssee--where was I?"

  "Last fall, at Lawrenceville," prompted Dorothy. "You couldn't get yourfather to come down there."

  George nodded. "Yes, that's right. He never would come--not even when Igraduated last June. I wrote him specially about it, but, well, he washaving his own troubles about that time. Before I came home I passed myfinals for Princeton. It was on the books that I'd go there this fall.

  "Only I didn't," continued young Conway rather solemnly. "Father met meat the Bedford station in the flivver when I came back. On the way uphere he told me that reverses in business had forced him to sellHilltop. I knew, of course, that business conditions were pretty bad allover the country. But he looked ill and he had aged terribly since I'dseen him during the Easter holidays. I was much more worried about hisphysical condition, he seemed so played out, so feeble. But when wedrove into the yard and I saw this down-at-the-heels old house--well, Icertainly got another shock."

  "It must have been terribly hard,
" sympathized Betty. "Especially afterliving all your life in the big place on the hill."

  "A bit of a comedown," acknowledged George, "but I don't want any of youto think I was ashamed of the place. If Father had to live here, it wasgood enough for me. I felt so sorry for him, though. He'd never beenmuch of a mixer, as I said, but when he did talk to a fellow he wascertainly interesting, full of pep and vitality--and a sure hog forwork. Now all that was changed. He had no workshop or laboratory here.All day long and half the night he would sit reading in the libraryacross the hall. If I spoke to him, he would answer 'yes' or 'no' to aquestion--but never volunteered anything on his own account. He seemedmore like a man stunned--a man who realizes his life is a failure and nolonger cares to go on.

  "The woman down the road who cooks and keeps the house clean told me hehad moved in here the early part of April and that during the timebefore I came back, he had been exactly as I found him.

  "I wanted to get a job in the city. Even though I couldn't get him totalk about his affairs, I knew he couldn't have very much money, livingin a ramshackle place like this. But though I wanted to get out and earnsome money, I realized I must stay with him for the time being--and I'mglad I did. Father passed away in his sleep the night of July fourth.The doctor said it was his heart--like Mother.

  "Well, I guess that's about all of it. When the will was read I foundthat he'd left me everything. It amounted to two thousand dollars incash, and this house and the sixteen acres that go with it. I stuck onhere for the rest of the summer, trying to get the place in bettershape; gave the house a couple of coats of paint, re-shingled parts ofthe roof, and have done as much as I could. I'm trying to sell theplace, you know, and the agent told me I could never do it unless it wasput in better condition. It looks pretty bad still, but I've worked likea dog.

  "And I forgot to say, that Mr. Lewis bought Hilltop from father. Hedrops in here every once in a while for a chat. I know he's got areputation for being a skinflint, but I sort of like the old man,anyway."

  Dorothy, who had been absent-mindedly rolling bread pills on the tablecloth, threw him a sharp glance.

  "What happened tonight, before we came?" she asked.

  "Why, I was just about to get my supper, when the bell rang. I openedthe door and those two guys jumped me."

  "Not very subtle, were they? What do you suppose they were after?" Billlooked inquiringly at George.

  "Well, this is the funny part of it all. They said they'd come for theletter Father had left for me to read after his death--"

  "And you didn't give it to them?"

  "I'd never even heard of such a letter. I told them so."

  "And they wouldn't believe you, eh?"

  "They thought I was bluffing, of course."

  "But how on earth--did they say anything about the contents of theletter?" This question came from Dorothy.

  "No. Simply that they wanted it--and they knew I must have it. What Ican't understand is how they could be so sure that a letter exists--evenif I'd known about it, I wouldn't have given it to them--but it's all asclear as mud to me."

  "Has Mr. Lewis ever spoken to you about it?"

  "Never."

  "Have you any reason to suppose that your Father might have left aletter for you--any idea that he might have had an important message toconvey to you in that way?"

  "Not the slightest. You see, I--"

  "Look here," broke in Terry. "Do you think it possible that old Lewisknew that your Father wrote you that letter--and believes that it's inthis house? He might have hired those thugs to get it from you, thenwhen he found out they failed, he hopped over here himself and made thatoffer to buy your place, in order to get hold of it? There may besomething valuable contained in it, and he wants to get it at any cost."

  "Too crude," declared Dorothy with a shake of her head. "Perhaps he doeswant to buy it--but I doubt if he has anything to do with those holdupfellows. Mr. Lewis may be close but I'm sure he's a clever man. The veryfact that he came here so soon after the fracas clears his skirts oftrying to hold up Stoker. As I say, he may want to get hold of theletter himself, but I'm dead sure he's not the nigger in this particularwoodpile."

  "Then who is?" Terry wanted to know.

  "Tell us that, and you'll win the fame you're after," chuckled Betty.

  "Just a moment," Bill was speaking again. "If old Lewis is as clever asyou think he is, Dorothy, then the smart thing for him to do would beexactly what he _has_ done!"

  "How's that?"

  "Well, if he did hire those lads, he might figure that by coming overhere, Stoker'd begin to believe he was the man behind the gun. _But_, hemight have realized that on second thought, Stoker would discount theidea, for the very reason you have done so."

  "Gosh!" exploded Terry. "That's a stumper, Bill. What are we going to doabout it?"

  "That's the question--_can_ we do anything?" Dorothy flicked a breadpill across the table.