The Flying Boys in the Sky

A test of Detective Pendar’s acumen came in the same hour that he reached the town on the train. At the hotel he quickly fixed upon the two Italians who were registered under the names of Amasi Catozzi and Giuseppe Caprioni, and who spent most of their time in smoking cigarettes and lounging in the sitting-room or on the front porch. Pendar, as has been stated, assumed the character of a commercial traveler for a hardware house, and with no unnecessary delay entered energetically upon his duties. Like a true artist he did not over-do his part, and it is no small proof of his ability to say that he succeeded where almost any other one would have failed. The alert Italians agreed that he was what he represented himself to be, though they by no means relaxed their vigilance.

A point had been reached in the delicate business where a mistake was certain to be fatal. The detective must succeed or fail disastrously. Convinced that the child was held at some point in the adjoining forest, she must be rescued, if rescued at all, by a rush, – a charge, as might be said, that would scatter the wretches in such headlong flight as to compel them to abandon their little prisoner, whom they would not be likely to harm, since their own peril would be increased thereby.

It will be seen, however, that to carry out this coup, the officer must know the exact spot to assail. He could not spend hours in groping through the wood in search of the place, with the certain result that the abductors would take alarm and carry their captive to a secure refuge.

Such was the situation when the arrival of Harvey Hamilton in his aeroplane gave an unexpected turn to affairs. The plan of an aerial hunt for the kidnappers had never occurred to the detective until it forced itself upon him. Here was the means thrust into his hands, and it has been shown how he turned it to account, or, more properly, how he tried to turn it to account, for its success was alarmingly problematical.

The bag with its treasure was deposited in the big safe at the hotel, no one suspecting its contents. Before this time Pendar had reached the pleasing certainty that the two Italians felt no suspicion of him. When he strolled down the long, broad street, smoking a cigar, and now and then halting to look into the store windows, neither of the men shadowed him, as they had done earlier in his visit to Chesterton. The couple were warranted in believing that since Mr. Pendar was all he claimed to be and there were no other suspicious characters in town, they had nothing to fear, the game was still their own.

Thus matters stood when the detective reached the end of the street, and still leisurely walking, passed into the open country. It will be remembered that the moon was near its full and the sky was still unclouded. It was all-important at this point that the kidnappers should not have their attention drawn to him. A scrutiny of the road to the rear removed all doubt on that point.

“It was a pretty hard job,” he reflected, “but I have thrown them off the scent and that’s a big thing at this stage of the game.”

He had passed over the road several times in a carriage on business trips to nearby towns, and was familiar with the forest as viewed from the highway. He knew the precise spot where a path turned in among the trees, which presumably led to the cabin where Bohunkus Johnson had seen the little girl.

Under the shadow of the foliage at the roadside, Pendar stood for fifteen minutes scrutinizing every point in his field of vision. His heart gave a quicker throb when, while looking in the opposite direction from the town, he discerned the dim outlines of a man coming toward him. Pendar whisked back among the shadows, where he could not be seen by the individual approaching.

Whether he was Catozzi or Caprioni remained to be learned. If either of them, the meaning was sinister. From his concealment the watcher observed that the stranger was smoking a pipe. Moreover, he was bulky of frame, stooped with age and had a slouching gait. All this might have been assumed by a young man, but he would fling aside such disguises when believing he was under the eye of no one.

The man passed within ten feet of where Pendar stood behind the trunk of a maple, and in the vivid moonlight the watcher plainly saw the other’s profile. The snub nose and retreating chin could not belong to either of the Italians, and this being the fact, the detective had no cause to give the stranger further thought.

The point at which Pendar had stopped was where the path turned into the wood. As nearly as he could judge from the account of Harvey Hamilton, he had about a mile to walk in order to reach the headquarters of the kidnappers, though if the path were winding in its course the distance might be greater. He set out without delay.

It being the summer time, the foliage excluded most of the moonlight and his journey was mainly in darkness, relieved at intervals by spaces where the moonbeams partly penetrated. Even with such occasional help, his progress would have been difficult had he not possessed the skill of an American Indian in threading his way through a trackless forest. No one was ever gifted with keener eyesight or hearing, and he used the two senses to the utmost. He was liable to meet a stranger or to be shadowed by someone. Thus the front and rear had to be guarded. Above all things, he must avoid being discovered while traversing the path, where for most of the way he had to depend upon his sense of feeling. No stronger proof of his subtle woodcraft could be asked than the fact that he never once strayed from his course. He could not have advanced more smoothly had the sun been shining.

While doing this it was his practice to stop at intervals and listen. He reasoned that if some one was approaching from the front, he would not use the extreme caution of an enemy who was following him, for the latter would know of his presence, while an individual coming toward him would not.

The detective had traversed one-half the distance, when in the moonlight he saw a small stream, not more than a rivulet in fact, which wound across the path from the trees on the left and disappeared among those on the right. It was at the bottom of a slight declivity, where a small area was shown in the moonlight. He reflected that if anyone was near, he would see him as he crossed the illuminated space. This could be averted by turning into the wood on either hand, but listening revealed nothing except the faint rustling of the night breeze among the branches. With little hesitation, therefore, he leaped lightly across, hurried up the gentle slope and plunged into the gloom on the other side.

He had gone less than a dozen rods when he abruptly paused, turned his head and listened intently. A minute or two were enough.

“Someone is following me,” was his conclusion.

CHAPTER XXV

A FALSE CLUE

Detective Pendar instantly whisked out of the path, among the undergrowth and under the trees, where he was invisible to one a foot away. He had heard a faint footfall and the sound was repeated more distinctly when some one leaped across the rivulet and came up the gentle declivity. The officer had gone beyond sight of this open space and the point where the stranger must pass him was shrouded in darkness.

The watcher would have willed it otherwise, for it was important that he should gain a glimpse of the other, but time did not permit, since Pendar could not know how far he would have to hurry over the trail in order to reach such a favorable spot. The trunk of the tree beside which he stood was no more motionless than he. The straining vision saw nothing, but the keen sense of hearing located the stranger as clearly as if at high noon. He passed by like one who had no thought of hiding his progress and the soft footsteps speedily died out.

Before they did so, the officer was back in the path and stealing after him. Fear of detection caused the detective to linger farther in the rear than he wished, but if he erred at all, it was wise that it should be on the side of prudence. Because of the fact named, Pendar lost several chances of getting a sight of the man. The pursuer had decided to wait until the cabin was reached.

That was sooner than he expected, for when he thought he was a considerable way from it he came upon the clearing which had been described to him by Harvey Hamilton. One annoying part of the discovery was that he had lingered too long, for the individual passed through the door in the same moment that Pendar recognized his location. That which he saw told nothing of the form that crossed the threshold and was hidden by the closing of the door.

“Well, here I am,” was the thought of our friend, “and I must decide what to do next.”

It might have occurred to any one in his situation, that, inasmuch as he had definitely located the kidnappers, he should hasten back to Chesterton, summon several plucky men whom he had mentally selected two days before, and rush the place, showing scant mercy to the two Italians in town if they ventured to interfere.

But had he discovered the headquarters of the gang?

This question Simmons Pendar asked himself while standing on the edge of the clearing, and staring at the faintly outlined cabin on the other side. Although scarcely a shadow of doubt remained, he felt that that shadow must be removed. He would make further investigation before returning to the hotel.

It was comparatively early in the evening. There were not enough moon-rays to show the face of his watch, but it could not be ten o’clock. A light was burning within the structure, whose interior was hidden by a curtain drawn across each of the two windows, – one on either side of the door. All was silent, and the peering eyes detected no sign of life on the outside.

It was not to be supposed that the abductors of little Grace Hastings would maintain a guard at the cabin itself. Their pickets were at a distance, and unless they gave timely notice of the approach of danger, it would be fatal to the plans of the criminals.

“I wonder whether they keep a dog,” was the thought which held the watcher motionless for a little while; “if they do, he’ll play the mischief with me.”

Could he have been assured that a canine was on watch, the detective would not have dared to go a step nearer the dwelling, but would have made all haste to Chesterton and arranged for his raid, since discovery at this stage of the game would be the end of hope.

“It strikes me that if they have a dog on guard, he ought to have discovered me by this time – Thunderation! there he comes now!”

A canine as large as a wolf came trotting across the clearing, heading directly for Simmons Pendar. It was useless to run, for the terrible brute would have been at his heels in an instant. He laid his hand on his revolver.

“If he attacks, I’ll shoot him and then the fat will be in the fire.”

While the dog was several paces away and after Pendar had drawn his weapon from his hip pocket, he spoke in soothing tones to him. The animal did not bark or growl, but seemed to be pleased by his friendly greeting. He came on, and the man never used his persuasive powers more skilfully. He called him all the pet names he could think of, and when the brute was within reach, reached out and patted his head.

To his pleased astonishment, he completely won the good will of the dog, which wagged his bushy tail so energetically that it swayed his haunches. He whined, snuffed about the man’s knees, and then abruptly raised one of his big paws, which the eavesdropper was instant to seize and shake.

“Bully for you!” exclaimed Pendar in a guarded voice; “I don’t know that your owner would be pleased with your performance, but I’m mighty sure I am.”

He petted him a few minutes longer, when the canine turned about and trotted back to the house. There he scratched upon the door and whined until it was opened from within and he passed out of sight.

“Considered from my point of view,” said the detective grimly, “that dog is a model guardian of a house, but those who expect vigilance from him probably hold a different opinion.”

Nothing could be gained by remaining where he was, for all he could see was the shadowy outline of a tumble-down log cabin and a few scattered outbuildings. It was necessary to gain a look at the interior. The cheap faded curtains at the front windows shut out any view, but he was hopeful of success from the rear. He made a careful circuit of the building, keeping at a goodly distance until he reached a point opposite to that which he had first held. Then he began stealing forward. Before doing so, he noticed that neither of the rear windows possessed anything in the nature of a curtain. He had only to come close to them to see everything in the room where the light was burning.

Now that the dog was out of the way, even with his friendly disposition, the detective felt no apprehension, unless there might be some one on guard – a thing improbable – or a member of the company should draw near from the direction followed by himself.

The yellow rays of a tallow candle, aided by the moonlight, which had partial sway on this side of the cabin, made the task easy for Pendar. He crept steadily forward until under one of the windows, when he rose to his feet, just far enough to peer over the sill. Even before doing so, he was troubled by a misgiving. Something in all this experience was out of keeping with the character of a band of kidnappers.

The detective’s position could not have been more favorable, for the face of no one was turned toward the window, where he might have been discovered. What he saw was this:

Evidently the evening meal had been kept waiting to so late an hour in order to accommodate the last arrival, who was an old man, seated at the head of a plain deal table without cover, and with only several of the plainest dishes of food. Opposite at the farther end, sat the wife, a bulky, gray-haired, slatternly woman, presiding over the teapot and a few of the minor articles of food. The huge dog was sleeping on the floor near the hearth. On the side of the table, with her back toward the wall, sat a little girl, probably five or six years old, eating from a bowl of bread and milk. She was continually chattering, so that her profile was often shown to Pendar, whose heart sank within him upon the first good look at her features.

She was not Grace Hastings. The detective carried a cabinet picture of the stolen child with whose face he was as familiar as with that of his own child. It showed a chubby, comely little girl, with abundant curly hair, almost black. The one before him had straight, scant yellow hair and her face was thin, as if from recent illness. It would be hard to picture two children of tender years so different in appearance.

Something in the looks of the head of the family was familiar, and it took the officer but a few moments to identify him. You will recall Uncle Tommy, the famous local prophet, who told Harvey Hamilton what kind of weather to expect, when he descended at Chesterton. The man was Uncle Tommy and the others were his wife and child, or possibly a grandchild.

Detective Pendar gave utterance to a forceful exclamation, for he was filled with rage and chagrin. He would have made affidavit a few minutes before, and at any time after his talk with the young aviator, that he had located the headquarters of the gang of kidnappers, with the recovery of the stolen child only a question of a few hours.

He had failed utterly. He had reconnoitered the home of a plain, simple-minded inhabitant, who lived in poverty in this cabin, and was as innocent of stealing a child as Harvey Hamilton himself.

A faint hope held Pendar where he was for a brief while longer. It might be that the abductors had made their home in this cabin, whose owner and wife were under their domination and employ. But brief reflection showed the officer that no supposition could be more preposterous. He backed from the window, careless now whether discovered or not, threaded his course to the trail over which he had come with so much care, and started on his return to Chesterton.

“Josh Billings once said it is so easy for a man to be a fool that he can do so without knowing it. The difference in my case is that I know it; I’m mighty glad that none of the boys will ever hear of it.”