Dorothy Dixon Solves the Conway Case

For a moment they stared at it in startled silence. Then George spoke. “Somebody’s ringing the door bell,” he said slowly.

Chapter IV

VISITORS

“You girls stay in here – I’ll go,” continued George, his hand on the swinging door to the dining room.

“No, you shan’t!” Betty sprang before him, blocking his way.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” said Dorothy. “Somebody’s got to go. Come here!”

Her long arm shot out and Betty was held in a light embrace that seemed as unbending as tempered steel.

“Stop wriggling,” she commanded. “This is George’s job. Did you leave your gun in the library, George?”

“Yes. I’ll pick it up on the way.”

“Better not do that. Maybe it’s one of your neighbors.”

“Haven’t any. None of the people around here come to see me.”

The bell buzzed loudly again, and continued to do so. Someone was keeping a finger pressed on the button beside the front door.

“I have a plan,” Dorothy announced suddenly. “Betty, you stay here, and – ”

“And have them break in the back door while you two are in the front hall? No thanks – I’m coming with you, that’s all.”

Dorothy did not stop to argue. She hurried into the dining room and across the hall to the library, followed by the others.

“Look here,” she whispered, picking up the shotgun. “Slip on your jacket, George. That shirt will show anyone you’ve been in a fight. Betty and I will go into the front sitting room. It’s dark in there. Turn on the hall light and open the door as though everything were all right, and you expected a friend. If it is someone you know, they won’t see us in the sitting room. If it isn’t – and they try to start something, jump back so you’re out of line from the door to that room … and I’ll fill ’em full of salt!”

“Swell idea! A regular flank attack!” enthused the young man, struggling into his coat. “All set?”

He switched on the hall light. The girls ran into the sitting room. Dorothy stood in the dark with the shotgun pointed toward the hall and saw him turn the key and pull open the door.

“Good evening, George,” whined a high-pitched voice. “Mind if I come in for a minute or two?”

“Walk in, Mr. Lewis. Bad night, isn’t it?”

George’s face showed surprise but he swung the door wide and closed it with a bang as a tall figure, leaning heavily on a cane, shuffled into the lighted hallway. The man’s bent back, rounded shoulders and the rather long white hair that hung from beneath the wide brim of his soft black hat, all bespoke advanced age. Immensely tall, even with his stoop, the old man towered over George, who was all of six feet himself. Although the night was not cold, he was buttoned to the chin in a long fur coat. Dorothy caught sight of piercing black eyes beneath tufted white eyebrows. The long, cadaverous, clean shaven face was a network of fine wrinkles.

“What say?” He cupped a hand behind his ear.

“I said it was a bad night to be out in,” shouted George. “What can I do for you?”

“Yes, that’s it, my lad – there’s something I – Yes, it’s a bad night – bad storm. Listen, George!”

“Yes, sir.”

“What say?”

“I’m listening, Mr. Lewis.”

“Well, listen then.”

The sharp eyes peered up and down the hall. Dorothy moved further back into the dark room.

“Your father had a lot of books, George – a very fine library.”

“Yes, he had.”

“What say?”

“I said he had.”

The old man shook his head. His high voice became querulous.

“I know he’s dead,” he snorted. “I’m talking about his books.”

“They are not for sale,” said George.

“Bless you – I don’t want to buy ’em. But there’s one I want to borrow.”

“Which one is that?”

“What say?”

George’s reply sotto voce was not polite. He was getting impatient.

“I want to borrow a book called Aircraft Power Plants; it’s by a man named Jones.”

Dorothy pricked up her ears.

“All right,” shouted George. “I’ll try to find it.”

“What say? Listen, George! Speak distinctly, if you can. I’m not deaf – just a little hard of hearing. Don’t mumble – you talk as though your mouth was full of hot potato. That’s a bad eye you’ve got – been in a fight?”

George ignored this last. “Listen – ” he said, then stopped, controlling a desire to giggle as he realized his plagiarism. “Come into the library, Mr. Lewis. I’ll try to find the book for you.” He took the old man by the arm and led him down the hall.

Betty crept over to Dorothy.

“Do you know who he is?” she asked in a low tone.

“Mr. Lewis, I gathered,” said Dorothy, straining her ears to catch the muffled sounds coming from the library. “He talked loud enough, – quite an old gentleman, isn’t he?”

“Old skinflint, you mean.”

“You’ve seen him before?”