“Speaking, sir.”
“Well, I rang up the commissioner and here’s the car owner’s name. He is a Serge Kolinski, a naturalized Pole, and he has a house in Sherman Township, Connecticut. Do you know where that is?”
“Why, yes—the field where we picnicked is not so far from Sherman.”
“Well, this time you’d better run up there by motor. It will be handier for getting round than a plane, and a car may be more useful to you. Do you happen to know where the old Heartfield’s Club is?”
“No, I don’t. But I’ll find it.”
“Here are your directions. When you get to Danbury, take Route 136, going north. About twelve or thirteen miles farther on, you’ll find that the road winds through a narrow valley. Where the valley widens out you’ll see a large square white house on the right, and a red barn behind it. That is the old clubhouse. You can’t miss it, for it’s the only house near the road in that part of the valley. The club itself no longer exists. It failed financially a few years ago.”
“Then the club house is shut up?”
“No, it’s not. A chap named Davis and his sister have rented the place for the summer. But what I want to say is this: on the side of the hill above the club house are several houses, built by members when the club was flourishing. Mr. Kolinski has rented one of them and is living there. Knock up Davis, who is by way of being a solid citizen, and he can tell you which is the Kolinski bungalow.”
“Thanks very much,” said Bill. “We’ll get under way at once.”
“Now hold on, young man. There’s something else. I’m driving over there myself, and with me will be two other cars filled with state police. Deborah Lightfoot is Dorothy’s guest, and very naturally, I intend to be in on this. You will, of course, arrive at Heartfield’s before I do. Get a line on Kolinski, and do a bit of reconnoitering, if you like, but don’t start any offensive until we come. Those are orders, remember.”