Читать книгу The Smugglers' Secret - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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Sunset was painting the Western sky a vivid scarlet when the roadster climbed the dusty road to Hightown. The roofs of its few simple houses and general store could be seen between the trees. Hal glimpsed them eagerly and not a little thankfully, for their long, tiresome journey was over and the chill of early November was in the air.

They had the narrow highway completely to themselves—Connover had disappeared soon after they left New Jersey behind. Indeed, Hal had almost forgotten about the alert federal man and it was only when Tony alighted in front of Hightown’s general store to purchase some cigarettes that he was reminded of the long arm of the law.

His school chum had not walked two feet away from the roadster when a short, gray-haired man made his appearance from behind a nearby post. He hailed Tony cordially, then squinted over at Hal quite curiously and strolled leisurely into the store talking with the newcomer in an undertone.

Tony came out after a few minutes smiling significantly. He hopped behind the wheel and said nothing, however, until they had left the little village and were climbing up into the Adirondack wilderness. Then he chuckled aloud.

“Hal,” he said, “you were absolutely right about Connover. That man that spoke to me was Constable Collins and he quizzed me about you like the dickens. Wanted to know who you were and all that but never let on why.”

Hal laughed outright. “Didn’t I tell you? What did you say?”

“I told him you were my roommate at college and he wanted to know if I knew very much about you and your friends.”

“And why not!” Hal laughed.

Tony glimpsed at the shadowy woods which they were approaching and switched on his lights. “We have about an hour’s ride mostly through forest like this,” he explained. Then: “I never let on to Old Collins who you were, though. Honestly, I don’t know why in heaven’s name I aid and abet you in these crazy schemes of yours, but still I do. I just can’t seem to help myself!”

“Real friendship, Tony,” Hal teased. “You said yourself that Delamere Camp is pretty dead, so I’m just doing my part to whoop things up a bit. Connover’s kick won’t last but a second; soon as he finds out who I am it’ll be over. But depend upon it, it’ll be a kick while it lasts. That gink won’t take that kind of a trick gracefully—specially when he finds out that he turned the trick on himself!”

Tony smiled indulgently at his friend and suddenly whipped out a newspaper from his pocket. “Here,” he said, pulling up his emergency brake, “take a look at this and read it to me. I bought it along with the cigarettes when I was in the store. Noticed the headlines mentioned Ted Bellair.”

Hal spread out the paper and held it up to the fading light. “Seems they don’t know yet what it was Ted Bellair was doing,” he read, skimming over the reprint from the morning edition. “The customs inspectors simply got a tip that a plane was taking off every few nights from a certain field a little outside Toronto. They acted on the tip and watched, saw the plane land and went to ask the pilot his business. The one inspector, named Roberts, hardly got the words out of his mouth when there was a shot and down he fell. The other inspector saw the pilot run back and climb in and after an exchange of bullets, the plane took off like a shot.”

“Mm,” said Tony, “how do they know that Ted Bellair was the pilot, then? And how is it they’re just finding it out when it happened a month ago?”

“I’m coming to that,” Hal said perusing the sheet. “It says the other inspector, named Brown, saw the marks on the wing. They hunted it up and traced him through his license. Good stuff, huh Tony? Now reading on here,” he continued, “it says that detectives have visited Bellair’s home outside of a little village called Reardon in New York State. Sequestered place, nestled at the foot of the mountains and theirs is the only house within five miles. Mrs. Bellair, a middle-aged lady, is very shy and retiring and couldn’t say where either of her sons was.”

“Guess she knows where Hank is by this time,” Tony interposed sympathetically.

Hal nodded and went on. “The article concludes with an account of the aviation feats that Hank has performed in marked contrast with the ne’er-do-well accomplishments of Ted. He seems not to have done anything more heroic than to fly aimlessly about the country. Outside of that nothing could be learned from Mrs. Bellair who very sweetly and politely told all inquirers that her family and family history were distinctly her own and her family’s concern.”

“Then that’s that, huh?” Tony queried, interested.

“That’s that,” Hal replied folding up the paper. “Funny people, huh? Come to think of it, Hank wasn’t very chatty about his folks either. He seemed to think a lot of his brother Ted though and I remember how he mentioned that his brother was a sort of father to the family. Their own father died when they were very young. Well, that’s ended. Little I thought I’d be in on the closing chapter of anybody’s life this afternoon. Listen Tony, I’m going to let you in on a little secret....”

Three distinct rifle shots rang out in rapid succession, followed by the patter of running feet. Hal felt the momentum of the bullet that whizzed past his face and turned to see Tony slumped in his seat behind the wheel.

Suddenly a tall, dark young man rushed out from between the trees.