Ashton Sanborn swung open the screen door and strode into the kitchen. “Look here!” he thundered. “How long have these shipments been leaving Mizzentop?”
“Oh—but the Professor has had such a job perfectin’ his cocaine solution that only the first boxes of the goods is ready to leave the factory.”
Sanborn mopped his brow. “Thank God for that! Then none of it has gone out yet?”
“That’s so, sir. I believe Mike intends to take the first truck loads down to the Pawling railroad station in the morning.”
“Well, now that we know, what are we going to do about it?” asked Osceola.
“Raid the place with State Police, of course. We’ll pile this man and his wife into the car with us, and light out for the Greenwich Police Station. I’ve got to get Captain Simmonds on the telephone at once. You fellows grab the woman. I’ll take care of this chap.” He swung the trussed figure over his shoulders and tramped out of the house.
“This couple tied you up, did they?” Bill asked the chief as they made their way toward the front room.
“They sure did. And chucked me into an empty coal bin down cellar. The idiots tied my hands in front of me, though. Gosh, how I hate the taste of hemp!”
“Gnawed through the rope, eh?”
“Yep, and found a hatchet in the cellar. When I came up here, Number 13 and his spouse were playing cards at the kitchen table. I guess they thought the whole Seminole Nation had arrived when I hurled the young ax and pinned 13’s coat sleeve to the table! Well, that’s that.”