SOMETHING DOING AT THE STANLEYS’
Chapman drove the automobile down into Harrimay only ten minutes later. It was a pretty but rather somnolent place, just a string of white-painted, green-blinded houses and two or three stores along both sides of an oiled highway. It was a long ten-minute jitney ride from the railway station.
“Perkins, Real Estate” faced the travelers from a signboard as they drove into the village. Chapman stopped before the office door, and the eager Jessie hopped out.
“I’m coming, too! I’m coming, too!” squealed Amy, running across the walk after her.
“Do be quiet,” begged her chum. “And for once let me do the talking.”
“Oui, oui, Mademoiselle! As I haven’t the least idea what the topic of the conversation will be, I can easily promise that,” whispered Amy.
A high-collared man with eyeglasses and an ingratiating smile arose from behind a flat-topped desk facing the door and rubbed his hands as he addressed the two girls. 157
“What can I do for you, young ladies?”
“Why, why––Oh, I want to ask you—” Jessie stammered. “Do you know who owns the farm over there by the track? The Gandy place?”
“The old Gandy stock farm, Miss?” asked the real estate man with a distinct lowering of tone. “It is not in the market. The Gandy place never has been in the market.”
“I just wish to know who owns it,” repeated Jessie, while Amy stared.
“The Gandys still own it. At least old man Gandy’s daughter is in possession I believe. Horse people, all of them. This woman––”
“Please tell me her name?”
“Poole, Martha Poole, is her name.”
“Oh!” cried Amy, seeing now what Jessie wanted.
But Jessie shook her head at her chum warningly, and asked the man:
“Do you know if Mrs. Poole is at the place now?”
“Couldn’t say. She comes and goes. She is always there when the racing is going on. It is supposed that some things that go on there at the Gandy place are not entirely regular,” said the real estate man stiffly. “If you are a friend of Mrs. Poole––”
“I am Jessie Norwood. My father, Mr. Robert 158 Norwood, is a lawyer, and we live in the Roselawn section of New Melford.”
“Oh, ah, indeed!” murmured the real estate man. “Then I guess it is safe to tell you that the people around here do not approve of Mrs. Poole and what goes on at the Gandy place during the racing season. It is whispered that people there are interested in pool rooms in the city. You know, where betting on the races is conducted.”
“I do not know anything about that,” replied Jessie, in some excitement. “But I thank you for telling me about Martha Poole.”
She seized Amy by the arm and hurried back to the automobile.
“What do you think of that?” gasped Amy, quite as much amazed as was her chum.
“I do wish Daddy was coming home to-day. But he isn’t. Not until dinner time, anyway. I do believe, Amy Drew, that poor Bertha is hidden away somewhere at that farm.”
“But—but––how could she get at any sending station to tell her troubles to—to the air?” and Amy suddenly giggled.
“Don’t laugh. It is a very serious matter, I feel sure. If the poor girl actually isn’t being abused, those women are hiding her away so that they can cheat Daddy’s clients out of a lot of money.”
“Again I ask,” repeated Amy, more earnestly, 159 “how could that girl, whoever she is, get to a sending station? We did not see the first sign of an aerial anywhere near that house and barn, or above the tower, either.”
“I don’t know what it means. It is a mystery,” confessed Jessie. “But I just feel that what we heard over the radio had to do with that missing girl—that it was Bertha Blair calling for help, and that in some way she is connected with that red barn and the silo and the two fallen trees. We traced the place from her description.”
“So we did!”
“And unless it is all a big hoax, somewhere near that place Bertha is held a prisoner. If that Martha Poole is in with some crooked people who break the state gambling law by radio, sending news of the races to city gambling rooms, she would commit other things against the law.”
“Oh!” cried Amy. “Both she and that Mrs. Bothwell look like hard characters. But there were no aerials in sight!”
Jessie thought for a moment. Then she flashed at her chum:
“Well, that might be, too. Some people string their aerials indoors. I don’t know if that can be done at a sending station. But it may be. They are inventing new things about radio all the time. You know that, dear.”
“And if that broadcasting station up there at the Gandy farm is used for the sending of private racing information, in all probability the people who set it up would want to keep it secret.”
“I see! So they would.”
“It is not registered, you can make up your mind. And as it is only used much when the racing season is on at the Harrimay track, the Government has probably given it little attention.”
“Could they find it, do you think, Jessie?” asked her chum.
“I have read that the Government has wonderful means of locating any ‘squeak-box’, as they call it, that is not registered and which litters up the airways with either unimportant or absolutely evil communications. These methods of tracing unregistered sending stations were discovered during the war and were proved thoroughly before the Government allowed any small stations to be established since.”
“Do you suppose the police knew that that woman was sending racing news to gambling rooms from up there at her farm?”
“We don’t know that she is. Mr. Perkins was only repeating gossip. And we did not see aerials up there.”
“But you say that maybe they could have rigging for the station without any aerials in the open?” 161
“It might be. I am all confused. There certainly is a mystery about it, and Daddy Norwood ought to know at once. Oh, Chapman! That was thunder. We must hurry home.”
“Yes, Miss Jessie,” said the chauffeur, looking up at the clouds that had been gathering. “I think I can get you home before it rains.”
He increased the speed of the car. They had circled around by another way than the Parkville road, and they came through the edge of New Melford. When the automobile shot into Bonwit Boulevard and headed toward Roselawn the first flash of lightning made the girls jump.
Chapman stepped on the accelerator and the car shot up the oiled way. The thunder seemed to explode right overhead. Before the first peal rolled away there was another sharp flash. Although the rain still held off, the tempest was near.
“Oh!” gasped Jessie, covering her eyes.
“There’s the church,” said Amy. “We’ll soon be home now.”
Even as she spoke another crackling stroke burst overhead. The green glare of it almost blinded them. The thunder shook the air. Jessie screamed.
“See! See! Look at the parsonage!” she cried in Amy’s ear.
“Why, the boys must have already strung their 162 wires and got a radio set established,” said Amy.
“Look at the window—that attic window!” Jessie exclaimed. “Don’t you see what I see, Amy Drew?”
“It’s smoke!” said the other girl, amazed.
“The house is afire! In the attic! That lightning must have struck there. It must have been led in by the wires, just as Momsy feared.”
“Then the boys never closed their switch!” cried Amy. “Oh! I wonder if Doctor Stanley or Nell knows that the house is on fire?”
A Great To-Do
Silk
Darry’s Big Idea