Читать книгу Prisoners in Devil's Bog - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 3

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When Skippy Dare entered the big office building he found himself in an enchanted realm. He had never before visited one of these commercial palaces and he gazed about him in speechless awe. He found the revolving door so delightful that it seemed like some freakish entertainment in an amusement park, and he indulged himself with the giddy sensation of going around and around in it until a uniformed elevator starter brusquely ordered him out.

Instead, he went in.

Observing the rather ornate cigar and candy booth, he invested in a gooey chocolate bar which he ate while studying the alphabetical list of offices. He was deeply impressed with this imposing directory and experienced a thrill of triumph when at last his searching eyes discovered the name, INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY—7-721-728.

He was now on the trail, he told himself, though, to be sure, the least false move might prove fatal (a phrase which he had read in a detective story) for the eye of the starter was still upon him and he did not look the more kindly on Skippy because of the liquefied chocolate which now decorated the border of the boy’s mouth. His spirit mounted when he had attained the safety of a gorgeous elevator where every thrill of its dizzy ascent brought him nearer to the famous detective agency’s offices.

Skippy, you must know, longed to be a great sleuth. He had lately read in a newspaper of the rounding up of a gang of counterfeiters by the famous Carlton Conne, head of the International office. That was the spark which brought about the certainty that apprehending criminals was the career which a kindly fate would offer him.

It must be understood that there was some color of reason to this bizarre choice of a vocation. He had grown up on the waterfront among characters sufficiently dubious. Few detectives, however great their prowess and renown, had come into so much personal contact with the lawless element of the river front as had Skippy. A motherless urchin since infancy and lacking paternal care for a period in which his father had been unjustly jailed, his forced association with this motley crew had given him a remarkable insight about people in general.

That Skippy’s father was at last liberated and his good name restored is not a part of this narrative. Suffice it to say, that the hapless man did not long survive after his liberation. He left his young and lonely son to the tender mercies of an aunt who lived on the east side of the great city. And, though Skippy was destined to have many narrow escapes in the course of his spectacular career, perhaps the narrowest of 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 the Board of Education, and Skippy was given working papers which conferred on him the inestimable privilege of earning his living.

So we find him stepping out of the elevator on the seventh floor of the mammoth office building whistling blithely, yet distinctly conscious of the long trousers (his first) which were such an integral part of the new six dollar suit he was wearing. His aunt had parted with this enormous sum only because of the inauguration of his business career.

On the door of room 721 was the magic word ENTER and Skippy paused with his hand on the knob, giving himself a delicious moment before making the grand plunge. It may be that he fully expected to see a handcuffed burglar or two when he opened the door. But no such thrilling sight awaited him. There was nothing more startling than a richly furnished waiting room at the end of which sat a pretty young lady.

She peered over her gleaming mahogany typewriter desk and paused in her typing 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, “You have 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 you want to leave your name and address we’ll send for you if an opening occurs. Did someone send you here?” she asked, handing him a slip of paper and a pencil.

“Nope. I bin wantin’ to work for Mr. Conne since I first read about him in the papers. I wanta learn from him how to be a regular detective like him. That’s the kinda job I want.”

At this naïve 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 you that Mr. Conne is a very busy man and he’s a very important man—if you know what that means. He doesn’t see boys. If we should need an office boy, 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 a closed door, beyond which, in some holy of holies, he imagined the great Carlton Conne to be seated. He visualized that shrewd mouth and those keen eyes which he had seen pictured in the newspapers at the astonishing climax of the famous Hawley murder case. But there was no hope. Skippy Dare was baffled by a mere girl at the very threshold of the lion’s den.

Suddenly the door opened and a trim looking young man emerged. It was not the great Carlton Conne. Very casually, it seemed, he closed the door 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 of the teachers or somebody, and see if they can’t round up two or three of the kids who were run down. They ought to be able to identify one or two of the gang in that stolen car. According to the wop that keeps the banana stand, there were a bunch of ’em coming out of school when the car ploughed through. There must be at least two who could make some identification. The chief wants to get at least two of ’em down as soon as possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but if the two who were run down were the only ones 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 or not they saw a machine gun in that car. So that’s that.”

The girl seemed listlessly tolerant. “I’ll get in touch with them as soon as I come back from lunch. Will that do?”

The young man nodded and the door closed behind him. Skippy too departed, thoughtfully, hopefully, and with machine guns booming in his active brain. Gangsters, a stolen car! The International was on the trail of something.

The question uppermost in his mind was—how long a time would the typist remain out at lunch? He hurried down the hall, then darted into the shadow of a stairway from which vantage point he could keep his bright eyes on the International Agency’s door.

There was no doubt of it now—Skippy too was on the trail of something.