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THE CELLAR YIELDED NOTHING IN THEIR SEARCH BUT MOULDYRUBBISH AND ANCIENT COBWEBS.Frontispiece (Page 111)]
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_A SKIPPY DARE MYSTERY STORY_
PRISONERS IN DEVIL'S BOG
BY
HUGH LLOYD
Author of The Hal Keen Mystery Stories
ILLUSTRATED BY SEYMOUR FOGEL
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
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Copyright, 1934, by GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
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CONTENTS
I ON THE TRAIL II CRASHING IN III A BARGAIN IV JOHN DOE V A FRIENDLY FACE VI A SUSPICION VII THE HOUSE FORGOTTEN VIII TIMMY IX TRAPPED X THE WAY OF DEVLIN XI OVERHEARD XII THE STORM XIII THE EVERGREEN TREE XIV TALK AMONG FRIENDS XV HIS JOB XVI A NOTE XVII A CHANGE OF PLANS XVIII THE SEARCH XIX HOPE IN THE ATTIC XX TIMMY? XXI DO DREAMS COME TRUE? XXII DEVLIN'S RETURN XXIII NICKIE REASONS XXIV WAITING XXV A PASSING FACE XXVI GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY XXVII ACCUSATIONS XXVIII THE MICE WILL PLAY XXIX A SLIP XXX DEVIL'S BOG XXXI DOOMED XXXII ANOTHER DAY
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PRISONERS IN DEVIL'S BOG
CHAPTER I
ON THE TRAIL
When Skippy Dare entered the big office building he found himself in anenchanted realm. He had never before visited one of these commercialpalaces and he gazed about him in speechless awe. He found therevolving door so delightful that it seemed like some freakishentertainment in an amusement park, and he indulged himself with thegiddy sensation of going around and around in it until a uniformedelevator starter brusquely ordered him out.
Instead, he went in.
Observing the rather ornate cigar and candy booth, he invested in agooey chocolate bar which he ate while studying the alphabetical listof offices. He was deeply impressed with this imposing directory andexperienced a thrill of triumph when at last his searching eyesdiscovered the name, INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY--7-721-728.
He was now on the trail, he told himself, though, to be sure, the leastfalse move might prove fatal (a phrase which he had read in a detectivestory) for the eye of the starter was still upon him and he did notlook the more kindly on Skippy because of the liquefied chocolate whichnow decorated the border of the boy's mouth. His spirit mounted when hehad attained the safety of a gorgeous elevator where every thrill ofits dizzy ascent brought him nearer to the famous detective agency'soffices.
Skippy, you must know, longed to be a great sleuth. He had lately readin a newspaper of the rounding up of a gang of counterfeiters by thefamous Carlton Conne, head of the International office. That was thespark which brought about the certainty that apprehending criminals wasthe career which a kindly fate would offer him.
It must be understood that there was some color of reason to thisbizarre choice of a vocation. He had grown up on the waterfront amongcharacters sufficiently dubious. Few detectives, however great theirprowess and renown, had come into so much personal contact with thelawless element of the river front as had Skippy. A motherless urchinsince infancy and lacking paternal care for a period in which hisfather had been unjustly jailed, his forced association with thismotley crew had given him a remarkable insight about people in general.
That Skippy's father was at last liberated and his good name restoredis not a part of this narrative. Suffice it to say, that the haplessman did not long survive after his liberation. He left his young andlonely son to the tender mercies of an aunt who lived on the east sideof the great city. And, though Skippy was destined to have many narrowescapes in the course of his spectacular career, perhaps the narrowestof all was his escape from being put in an orphan asylum.
Like many great men he was denied the benefit of an early education.Mrs. Kinney, weak in finances but strong in resolve, triumphed over theBoard of Education, and Skippy was given working papers which conferredon him the inestimable privilege of earning his living.
So we find him stepping out of the elevator on the seventh floor of themammoth office building whistling blithely, yet distinctly conscious ofthe long trousers (his first) which were such an integral part of thenew six dollar suit he was wearing. His aunt had parted with thisenormous sum only because of the inauguration of his business career.
On the door of room 721 was the magic word ENTER and Skippy paused withhis hand on the knob, giving himself a delicious moment before makingthe grand plunge. It may be that he fully expected to see a handcuffedburglar or two when he opened the door. But no such thrilling sightawaited him. There was nothing more startling than a richly furnishedwaiting room at the end of which sat a pretty young lady.
She peered over her gleaming mahogany typewriter desk and paused in hertyping with an air of bored expectancy.
"Well?"
"I gotta--eh, I wanta ... see ... Mr. Carlton Conne," Skippy stammered.
She extended her hand as if by force of habit and said wearily, "Youhave a letter to deliver?"
"Nope. I--I wanta see Mr. Conne."
"Oh, you can't see Mr. Conne. He's a very busy man. What do you want?"
"I wanta job."
"We don't need any boys now." The young lady yawned discreetly. "If youwant to leave your name and address we'll send for you if an openingoccurs. Did someone send you here?" she asked, handing him a slip ofpaper and a pencil.
"Nope. I bin wantin' to work for Mr. Conne since I first read about himin the papers. I wanta learn from him how to be a regular detectivelike him. That's the kinda job I want."
At this naive confession the girl laughed while Skippy, embarrassed,but still persistent, stood waiting. "So lemme see him?" he urged.
"No, certainly not," the girl answered a little tersely. "I told youthat Mr. Conne is a very busy man and he's a very important man--if youknow what that means. He doesn't see boys. If we should need an officeboy, we can send for you," she added with an air of finality.
It was a crucial moment to Skippy. He gave a furtive look toward aclosed door, beyond which, in some holy of holies, he imagined thegreat Carlton Conne to be seated. He visualized that shrewd mouth andthose keen eyes which he had seen pictured in the newspapers at theastonishing climax of the famous Hawley murder case. But there was nohope. Skippy Dare was baffled by a mere gir
l at the very threshold ofthe lion's den.
Suddenly the door opened and a trim looking young man emerged. It wasnot the great Carlton Conne. Very casually, it seemed, he closed thedoor and leaned against it.
"He one of 'em?" he asked briskly.
"Oh, no," said the girl.
"Well, I wish you'd get in touch up there with the principal, or one ofthe teachers or somebody, and see if they can't round up two or threeof the kids who were run down. They ought to be able to identify one ortwo of the gang in that stolen car. According to the wop that keeps thebanana stand, there were a bunch of 'em coming out of school when thecar ploughed through. There must be at least two who could make someidentification. The chief wants to get at least two of 'em down as soonas possible."
"I'll see what I can do, but if the two who were run down were the onlyones that could identify...."
"Well, you know the chief; he wants what he wants when he wants it.Even if their necks were broken he'd expect 'em to remember whether ornot they saw a machine gun in that car. So that's that."
The girl seemed listlessly tolerant. "I'll get in touch with them assoon as I come back from lunch. Will that do?"
The young man nodded and the door closed behind him. Skippy toodeparted, thoughtfully, hopefully, and with machine guns booming in hisactive brain. _Gangsters, a stolen car!_ The International was on thetrail of something.
The question uppermost in his mind was--how long a time would thetypist remain out at lunch? He hurried down the hall, then darted intothe shadow of a stairway from which vantage point he could keep hisbright eyes on the International Agency's door.
There was no doubt of it now--Skippy too was on the trail of something.