“Where are the plans, and what has the book to do with them?” broke in Dorothy.
“Listen, young lady,” began Mr. Lewis, when Michaels the detective stopped him with a gesture.
“Better let me tell them, sir,” he suggested. “These young people have a right to know.”
The old gentleman nodded approval and the detective, after biting off the end of a cigar, continued to talk while the others grouped about him. “About two weeks ago,” he said, “Mr. Lewis called at my New York office. There he told me the following story. Six weeks before his death, Mr. Conway came over here and told Mr. Lewis that he had perfected plans for an aircraft motor which would develop very high power on a very small consumption of gasoline.”
“That’s just what all the inventors are after now,” interposed Bill.
“Why, I should say so!” cried Dorothy. “If Wispy’s motor didn’t lap up the gas like a thirsty camel, I’d never have been forced to land in that woodlot yesterday afternoon!”
“All very interesting, I’m sure—” Terry’s voice was sarcastic. “But do let’s hear what Mr. Michaels is trying to tell us!”
“That’s all right,” smiled the detective. “Let’s see—where was I? Oh, yes, the motor: well, the inventor told Mr. Lewis that his partner and sales agent had ruined him financially, and that now he was convinced that he’d been swindled, and that Joyce was a crook. Mr. Lewis suggested Mr. Conway take the matter to the courts, and offered to advance money for legal expenses. Mr. Conway said he hadn’t sufficient evidence for a case; that Joyce had covered his tracks too well. Then he spoke about the plans for this new motor he’d just completed. He said that Joyce knew about it and was trying to get control of the thing; but that outside of stealing the plans outright, Joyce could do nothing, as the partnership had been dissolved. And at the same time he told Mr. Lewis that he knew he was suffering from an incurable disease and could live but a few months longer at most.”
“Listen, Michaels—let me tell it,” interrupted old Lewis. “You are wandering all over the place.... Your father, George, said that should he have the new motor built, Joyce would undoubtedly make trouble, and he, Conway, wanted to die in peace. He told me he was going to entrust me with the plans and would send them to me after he had made some slight changes in them. And he said that he would send me his check to cover the expense of building and exploiting the engine. ‘After I’m gone, you attend to it for George,’ he said. ‘That boy has no mechanical ability, and he’s too young to market a thing like this motor. Joyce or other wolves like him would rob him of it in twenty four hours.’ And that, was the last time I saw John Conway alive.”
The old gentleman pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose violently. “He wouldn’t see me when I called, nor would he mention the plans over the phone. He died while I was in Boston on business. When I got back the next day, I found a package from him waiting for me. Of course, I thought it would contain the plans and his check. When I opened it up I found nothing but a book—Aircraft Power Plants, by a man named Jones. I was naturally surprised, and searched its pages from cover to cover, but found no papers of any kind. I’ve even read every word of it since then. And its pages have been tested for invisible ink. But I’ve had my trouble and pains for nothing.”