The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “That’s right!” agreed Tom. “Now the thing to do is to follow our track back to where we started. There must be some place where the car went to—some headquarters, or meeting place with some one, farther back in the lot. If we can only follow the trail back as well as we did coming, we may find out something.”

  “Well, let’s try, anyhow,” suggested Jackson.

  They had no difficulty in making their way back to the spot where they had first seen the queer marks. But from then on their task was not so easy. For sandy or bare patches of earth were not frequent, and they had to depend on these to give them direction, for the road was overgrown and not well defined.

  Often they would search about for some time after leaving one patch of the marks before they found another that would justify them in keeping on.

  “They have headquarters, or a rendezvous, somewhere back in this lot!” declared Tom, as they hurried on. “I think we’re on the track of a mystery.”

  “Unless it turns out that some farmer has treated himself to an auto with new tires of square tread, and is hauling wood,” said Jackson. “It may turn out that way.”

  “Yes, it may,” agreed Tom. “But, taking everything into consideration, I think we’re on the verge of finding out something. Even if we do discover that the owner of this auto is only hauling wood, he may be able to help us to a clue as to the whereabouts of Mr. Nestor.”

  “How?”

  “Well, maybe he was in his machine on the moor the night the call for help came. He may even have aided to carry Mr. Nestor away. And if he doesn’t know a thing about it—which, of course, is possible—the man who bought these queer tires can tell us who makes them, or who deals in them, and we can find out what autoists around here have their cars equipped with this odd tread.”

  “Yes,” agreed Jackson, “that can be done.”

  And so they kept on, scouting here and there to either side of the half-defined path, until they were far back from the spot where they had left the Air Scout.

  “We don’t appear to be getting any warmer, as the children say,” remarked Jackson, as he straightened up and looked about, for his back ached from so much stooping over to look for the odd marks.

  “We haven’t seen anything yet, I’ll admit,” said Tom. “But it won’t be dark for another hour or so, and I vote that we keep on.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of giving up!” exclaimed Jackson. “If there’s anything here—at the end of the route, as you might say—we’ll find it. Only I hope it doesn’t turn out to be just a wood pile, from which some farmer has been hauling logs.”

  “That would be a disappointment,” assented Tom.

  The day was waning, and they realized that they ought not to spend too much time on what might turn out to be a wild goose chase. They were in a lonely neighborhood, and while they were not at all apprehensive of danger, they felt it would be best to get to shelter before dark.

  “We’ll want to send word to Mr. Swift that we’re all right.”

  “Yes,” said Tom, “I’d like to get to a place where I can telephone to him or Mrs. Baggert. Well, if we don’t find something pretty soon we’ll have to turn back. I must complete work on the new motor, for if I’m to offer it to Uncle Sam for air scout purposes, the sooner I can do so the better. Things are getting pretty hot over in Europe, and if ever the United States needed aircraft on the western front they need them now. I want to help all I can, and I also want to help Mary—you understand—Miss Nestor.”

  “I understand,” said Jackson simply. “I only hope you can help her. But I’m afraid—this may turn out to be nothing—following these marks, you know.”

  “And yet,” said Tom slowly, “it would be strange if it was only a coincidence—the two tire marks being the same—the night Mr. Nestor disappeared and now.”

  And so they kept on, hoping.

  The half-defined path through the wood-lot led them in a series of turns and twists, and it extended through a dense patch of woods, growing thickly, where it was so dark that it seemed as if night had fallen.

  “We can’t spend much more time here,” said Tom. “If we don’t find something in the next half mile we’ll go back and take up the search tomorrow. I’m going to find out what’s at the end of this road—even if it’s only a wood pile.”

  For ten minutes more the two went on, making sure, by occasional glimpses at the marks, that they were on the right track. Then, suddenly, they saw something which made them feel sure they had reached their goal.

  In a clearing among the trees was a little cabin—a shack of logs—and from the appearance it was deserted. There was not a sign of life around.

  CHAPTER XXII

  CLEWS AT LAST

  For a moment, at sight of the deserted cabin, staring at Tom and his friend, as it were, from its hiding place amid the trees, the young inventor and his companion did not move. They just stood looking at the place.

  “Well,” said Tom, at length, “we found it, didn’t we?”

  “We found something anyhow,” agreed Jackson. “Whether it amounts to anything or not, we’ve got to see.”

  “Come on!” cried Tom, impulsively. “I’m going to see what’s there.”

  “There doesn’t appear to be much of anything,” said Jackson, as he looked toward the lonely cabin with critical eyes. “I should say that place hadn’t been used, even as a chicken coop, in a long while.”

  “We can soon tell!” exclaimed Tom, striding forward.

  “Wait just a minute!” cried his companion, catching him by the coat. “Don’t be in such a hurry.”

  “Why not?” asked Tom. “There isn’t any danger, is there?”

  “I don’t know about that. There’s no telling who may be hidden in that cabin, in spite of its deserted appearance. And though there aren’t any ‘No Trespass’ signs up, it may be that we wouldn’t be welcome. If there are some tramps there, which is possible, they might take a notion to shoot at us first and ask questions as to our peaceable intentions afterward—when it would be too late.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Tom. “There aren’t any tramps there and, if there were, they wouldn’t dare shoot. I’m going to see what the mystery is—if there is one.”

  But there was no sign of life, and, taking this as an indication that their advance would not be disputed, Jackson followed Tom. The latter advanced until he could take in all the details of the shack. It was made of logs, and once had been chinked with mud or clay. Some of this had fallen out, leaving spaces between the tree trunks.

  “It wasn’t a bad little shack at one time,” decided Tom. “Maybe it was a place where some one camped out during the summer. But it hasn’t been used of late. I never knew there was such a place around here, and I thought I knew this locality pretty well.”

  “I never heard of it, either,” said Jackson. “Let’s give a shout and see if there’s any one around. They may be asleep. Hello, there!” he called in sufficiently vigorous tones to have awakened an ordinary sleeper.

  Put there was no answer, and as the shadows of the night began to fall, the place took on a most lonely aspect.

  “Let’s go up and knock—or go in if the door’s open,” suggested Tom. “We can’t lose any more time, if we’re to get out of here before night.”

  “Go ahead,” said Jackson, and together they went to the cabin door.

  “Locked!” exclaimed Tom, as he saw a padlock attached to a chain. It appeared to be fastened through two staples, driven one into the door and the other into the jamb, at right angles to one another and overlapping.

  “Knock!” suggested Jackson. But when Tom had done so, and there was no answer, the machinist took hold of the lock. To his own surprise and that of Tom, one of the staples pulled out and the door swung open. The place had evidently been forced before, and the lock had not been opened by a key. The staple had been pulled out and replaced loosely in the holes.

  For a moment nothing could be made out in the dark interior of
the shack. But as their eyes became used to the gloom, Tom and his companion were able to see that the shack consisted of two rooms.

  In the first one there was a rusty stove, a table, and some chairs, and it was evident, from pans and skillets hanging on the wall, as well as from a small cupboard built on one side, that this was the kitchen and living room combined.

  “Anybody here?” cried Tom, as he stepped inside.

  Only a dull echo answered.

  The two could now see where a door gave entrance to an inner room, and this, a quick glance showed, was the sleeping apartment, two bunks being built on the side walls.

  “Well, somebody had it pretty comfortable here,” decided Tom, as he looked around. “They’ve been cooking and sleeping here, and not so very long ago, either. It wouldn’t be such a bad place if it was cleaned out.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Jackson. “Wouldn’t mind camping here myself, if there was any fishing near.”

  “The river can’t be far away,” suggested Tom. “And now let’s see what we can find, and see if we can get a line on who has been here. But first we’ll let in a little light.”

  He opened a window in the sleeping room, and pushed back the heavy plank shutter that had been closed. When the light entered it was seen that both bunks bore evidence of having been lately slept in. The blankets were tossed back, as if the occupants had risen, and in the outer room, on the stove, were signs that indicated a meal had been served not many days gone by.

  “Now,” observed Tom musingly, as he wandered about the place, “if we could only find out who owns this, and who has been here lately—”

  Jackson stooped over, and, thrusting aside an end of the blankets that trailed on the floor from one of the bunks, picked up something.

  “What is it?” asked Tom.

  “Looks like a leather pocketbook,” was the answer. “That’s what it is,” the mechanic went on, as he held the object to the light. “It’s a wallet.”

  “Let me see it!” exclaimed Tom quickly. He took the wallet from the hands of Jackson. Then the young inventor uttered a cry. “A clue at last!” he exclaimed. “A clue at last! Mr. Nestor has been in this cabin!”

  “How do you know?” asked Jackson quickly.

  “This is his wallet,” said Tom excitedly. “I’ve often seen him have it. In fact he had it with him on Earthquake Island, the time I sent the wireless message for help. I saw it several times then. He kept in it what few papers he had saved from the wreck. And I’ve seen it often enough since. That’s Mr. Nestor’s wallet all right. Besides, if you want any other evidence—look!” He opened the leather flaps and showed Jackson on one, stamped in gold letters, the name of Mary’s father.

  “Well, what do you make of it, Tom?” asked the mechanician, as he finished his examination of the wallet. “What does it mean? The pocket-book is empty and that—”

  “Might mean almost anything,” completed Tom. “But it’s a clue all right! He’s been here, and I’m pretty certain he was brought here in the auto with the odd tires—the one Mr. Damon and I saw traces of the night we heard the cries for help.”

  “But that doesn’t help us now,” said Jackson. “The point is to find out how lately Mr. Nestor was here, and what has happened to him since. There isn’t anything in the wallet, is there?”

  “Nothing,” answered Tom, making a careful examination so as to be sure. “It’s as empty as a last year’s bird nest. He’s been robbed—that’s what has happened to Mr. Nestor. He was waylaid that night, instead of being run down as I thought—waylaid and robbed and then his body was brought here.”

  “There you go again, Tom! Jumping to conclusions!” said Jackson, with a friendly smile, and with the familiarity of an old and valued helper. “Maybe he’s in perfectly good health. Just because you found his empty wallet doesn’t argue that your friend is in serious trouble. He may have dropped this on the road and some one picked it up. I’ll admit they may have taken whatever was in it, but that doesn’t prove anything. The thing for us to do is to find out who knows about this shack; who owns it, on whose land it is, and whether any one has been seen here lately.”

  “They’ve been here lately whether they’ve been seen or not,” said Tom positively. “There are the auto tracks. It rained two days ago, and the tracks were made since. Mr. Nestor must have been here within two days.”

  “He may or may not,” said Jackson. “Say, rather, that some one was here and left his wallet after him. Now see if we can find other clues!”

  They looked about in the fast fading light, but at first could discover nothing more than evidences that three or four persons had been living in the shack and at some recent date—probably within a day or two.

  They had had their meals there and had slept there. But this seemed to be all that could be established, other than that Mr. Nestor’s wallet was there, stripped of its contents.

  Tom was looking through the closet, from which a frightened chipmunk sprang as he opened the door. There were the remains of some food, which accounted for the presence of the little striped animal. And, as Tom poked about, his hand came in contact with something wrapped in paper on an upper shelf. It was something that clinked metallicly.

  “What’s that?” asked Jackson. “Knives, or some other weapons?”

  “Neither,” answered Tom. “It’s a couple of files, and they’ve been used lately. I can see something in the grooves yet and—”

  Suddenly Tom ceased speaking and drew from his pocket a small but powerful magnifying glass. Through this he looked at one of the files, taking it out in front of the shack where the light was better.

  “I thought so!” he cried. “Look here, Jackson!”

  “What is it?”

  “Another clue!” answered Tom.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE GOVERNMENT TEST

  For a moment Jackson thought Tom had discovered a clue to, or evidences of, some crime. He had an unpleasant suspicion, for an instant, that there was blood on the files, and that it might prove to be the blood of Mr. Nestor.

  But the satisfaction that showed on Tom’s face did not seem to indicate such dire possibilities as these.

  “What is it?” asked Jackson, unable to guess at what Tom was looking through the powerful glass. “What do you see?”

  “Metal filings on the grooves of these files,” said the young inventor. “And, unless I’m greatly mistaken, the particles of filings are from the case of my aircraft silencer!”

  “What!” cried the machinist. “Do you mean those are the files used in weakening the outer case of your new machine, so that it burst a little while ago?”

  “That what I think,” answered Tom. “I know it sounds pretty far-fetched,” he went on. “But take a look for yourself. If those particles on, the files aren’t exactly of the same color and texture as the material of which the silencer case is made, I’ll never build another machine.”

  Jackson peered through the powerful glass moving out a little farther from the shack, so as to get the best light possible on the subject of his examination. It was fast getting dark, but there was enough glow in the western sky for his purpose.

  “Am I right?” asked Tom.

  “You’re right!” declared his helper. “This is exactly the same metal as that of which your silencer case is made. It’s a peculiar mixture of aluminum and vanadium steel. I never knew it used in any shop but yours, and these filings are certainly of that metal. It would seem, Tom, that these were the files used to cut a crease in the case of your silencer to weaken it so it would burst.”

  “My idea exactly!” cried Tom. “The spy, who got into my shop in some undiscovered manner, did his work and then fled here to hide. He left his files behind. Mr. Nestor must have been here, either before or after. No, I’ll not say that, either. Finding his wallet here doesn’t prove that he was here. It might have been brought here by one of the spies and dropped. But I’m sure we’re on the track of the men who damaged my airship, as
well as those who know something of the mystery of Mr. Nestor.”

  “I agree with you,” said Jackson. “Of course there’s a possibility that the same peculiar metal you used in your silencer case may have been used in some other machine shop, and these files may have come from there, and have been employed in perfectly regular work. But the chances are—”

  “There’s only one way to make sure,” said Tom. “Let’s take the files with us and see if they fit in the grooves where the break came. We’ll take these back to where we left the Air Scout,” and he clinked the files he held.

  “We can just about make it before it gets black dark,” returned Jackson. “But that won’t give us any more time to look around here,” and he indicated the hut.

  “I fancy we’ve seen all there is to see here,” said Tom. “Mr. Nestor isn’t here, and whether he was or not is a question. Anyhow, some one was here who had something to do with him after his disappearance, I’m positive of that. And I’m sure some one was here who damaged my airship. Now we’ll run down both those clues, find out who owns this place, who has been using it, and all we can along that line. So, if you’re ready, let’s travel.”

  The two set out to make their way back to where they had left the stranded airship. It was fast becoming dark, but they could hurry along with more speed now, as they did not have to stop to look for the marks of the peculiar automobile tires. They had noticed the path along which they had traveled, and in half the time they had spent coming they were back where the Air Scout rested undisturbed in the meadow amid the trees.

  Making sure that, as far as they could tell, no one had visited the craft since they had left it, Tom and Jackson compared the file marks on what was left of the broken silencer case with the files they had found in the hut. They used a small, but powerful electric lamp to aid them in this examination, as it was too dark to see otherwise, and what they saw caused the young inventor to exclaim:

  “That settles it! These were the files used!”

  “That’s right!” agreed his assistant. “You’ve called the turn, Tom. The next thing to do is to find who connects with the files.”