The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Julia K. Duncan

  “Just like an automobile skids?”

  “Yes. But of course the danger doesn’t lie in hitting anything as in a car. A skidding plane loses her flying speed forward and drops into a spin. On the other hand, if you bank her too sharply, you go into a sideslip!”

  “And the result in both cases is a crash?”

  “Generally. But I think you’ve had enough instruction for today.”

  “Oh—but I want to know how you ended that turn. We’re flying straight again now—and I was so interested in what you were saying, I forgot to watch what you did!”

  “Well, after I had banked her sufficiently, I checked the wings with the ailerons and at the same time eased the pressure on the rudder. Then I maintained a constant bank and a constant pressure on the rudder pedal throughout the turn. To resume straight flight, I simply applied left aileron and left rudder: and when the wings were level again, I neutralized the ailerons and applied a normal amount of right rudder.”

  “My goodness!” exclaimed Dorothy—“and that is only one of the things I have to learn. I thought that flying a plane wouldn’t be much more complicated than driving a car.”

  “Oh, it’s simple enough—only you have to balance a plane, as well as drive it.”

  “Do you think I’ll ever learn?”

  “Of course you will. It takes time and practice—that’s all.”

  “I wonder how birds learn to fly?” Dorothy glanced down at the wide vista of rolling country over which they were traveling. The dark green of the wooded hills, the lighter green of fields, criss-crossed by winding roads and dotted with houses, all in miniature, seemed like viewing a toy world. And here and there, just below them, there was the occasional flash of feathered wings, as the birds darted in and out among the treetops.

  “Birds have to learn to fly, too. They get into trouble sometimes.”

  “They do?”

  “Certainly—watch gulls on a windy day—you’ll see them sideslip—go into spins—and have a generally hard time of it!”

  “Oh, really? I’d never thought of that. But of course they can fly much better than a plane.”

  Bill shook his head. “That’s where you are wrong. No bird can loop, or fly upside down. Reverse control flying and acrobatics—stunting generally is impossible for them.—But look below! Recognize the scenery?”

  “Why, we’re almost over New Canaan. There are the white spires of the Episcopal and Congregational churches—and there’s Main Street—and the railroad station!”

  “And over on that ridge is your house—and mine across the way,” he added. “Well, here’s where I nose her over. Hold tight—we’re going down.”

  CHAPTER V

  TROUBLE

  After releasing the rectractible wheel landing gear, which turned the big amphibian from a seaplane into one which could land on terra firma, Bill brought his big bus gently down to the ten acre lot behind the Bolton residence.

  As the plane rolled forward on its rubber tired wheels and came to a stop, two men came walking in its direction from the trees at the edge of the field.

  “Here come our respective fathers—” announced Bill, stripping off his headgear. “Remember—I take all responsibility for bringing you back in the plane.”

  “You—do nothing of the kind!” Dorothy’s tone was final. She handed him her head-phone and running back through the cabin, vaulted the low bulwark to the ground.

  Bill hurriedly made things secure in the cockpit and followed her.

  “And so you see, Dad,” he heard her say, as he approached where they stood, “Bill not only saved my life—he took all kinds of chances with his own, flying in a gale like that. And—oh! I forgot to tell you that he warned me not to go out in the Scud this afternoon!” she ended with a mischievous look toward Bill.

  Mr. Dixon was a tall man, whose tanned, rugged features and searching gaze suggested the sportsman. He turned from his excited daughter, with a smile and an outstretched hand.

  “I’m beginning to realize, young man, that I owe you an apology for my shortness over the phone. Judging from Dorothy’s story, I can never hope to express my gratitude for what you’ve done today.”

  Bill mumbled an embarrassed platitude as he shook hands, and was glad when Mr. Bolton broke into the conversation.

  “The Boltons, father and son, were probably born to be hung,” he chuckled. “It’s a family trait, to fall into scrapes—and so far, to get out of them just as quickly. Now, as nobody has been polite enough to introduce me to the heroine of this meeting—I’m the hero’s fond parent, Miss Dorothy. We are about to celebrate this festive occasion by a housewarming, in the form of a scrap dinner at the hero’s home—what say you?”

  “But I thought you were coming to our house—” cried Dorothy. “I—”

  “But me no buts, young lady. Your father has already accepted for you both and we simply can’t take no for an answer.”

  Dorothy glanced at Bill, who stood rather sheepishly in the background. Then she laughed. “Why, of course, if you put it that way—I’d love to come; that is, if the hero is willing!”

  “Say, do you think that’s fair!” Bill’s face was red. He didn’t think much of that kind of kidding. “I think it would be great, that is, if you mean me,” he ended in confusion.

  Amid the general laughter that followed, Dorothy uttered a cry of disgust. “But I can’t come like this—” she pointed to her clothes, which were the things that Bill had laid out for her in the big plane’s cabin.

  “You look charming—” Mr. Bolton bowed, and Dorothy blushed. “However—”

  “Make it snappy, then, dear.” Mr. Dixon drew out his watch. “You have just fifteen minutes. And Mr. Bolton won’t keep dinner waiting for you, if he’s as famished as I am!”

  “Oh, give me twenty!” she pleaded.

  “All right—hurry, now!”

  With a wave of her hand, Dorothy darted away.

  “I’ll look after the plane, Bill,” said his father, as she disappeared among the orchard trees. “I want to show Mr. Dixon over it, and that will give you time for a slicking-up before dinner.”

  It was a jolly, though belated meal that was eventually served to them in the cool, green dining room of the Bolton’s summer home that evening. Mr. Dixon, with the finesse of an astute business man, drew out Mr. Bolton and his son, and the two told tales of adventure by land and sea and air that fascinated the New England high school girl. It all seemed unreal to her, sitting in the soft light of the candles. Yet the Boltons made light of hairbreadth escapes in the world’s unmapped areas—just as if these strange adventures were daily occurrences in their lives, she thought.

  “It certainly is a shame!” she burst out suddenly. Coffee had been served and they had moved to the comfort of low wicker chairs on the terrace. The air was filled with the perfume of June roses.

  “What’s a shame?” Bill, now spick and span in white flannels, settled back in his chair.

  “Why, all the wonderful times you and Mr. Bolton have had—while Dad and I were sticking around in New Canaan. I’d love to be an adventurer,” she finished.

  “I dare say you’d find it mighty uncomfortable at times,” observed her father. “How about it, Bolton?”

  “Like everything else, it has its drawbacks and becomes more or less of a grind when one ‘adventures’ day in and day out—” that gentleman admitted. “I’m only too glad to be able to settle down in this beautiful ridge country for a few months—to rest and be quiet.”

  “There you are, Dorothy.” Her father smiled in the darkness. “And who would there be out in the wilds to admire that smart frock you’re wearing, for instance?”

  “Gee, Dad! You know I don’t care half as much about clothes as lots of the girls—and that hasn’t anything to do with it, anyway.”

  “I think we ought to break the news to her,” suggested Bill, a white blur in the depths of his chair.

  Dorothy sat up eagerly. “What news?”


  “But perhaps we’d better wait until tomorrow. Tonight, she wants to become an explorer—and give away all her best dresses. She might not take kindly to it.” This from Mr. Dixon, between puffs of aromatic cigar smoke.

  “You’re horrid—both of you. Don’t you think it’s mean of them to make such a mystery of whatever they’re talking about, Mr. Bolton? Won’t you tell me?”

  “Of course, I will, my dear. What do you want to know?”

  Dorothy choked with vexation. “Oh!”

  “Let’s tell her now—right now—” said Bill, his voice brimming with laughter.

  “I don’t want to hear.”

  “Yes, you do—all together: one—two—three! You—are—going—to—learn—to—fly!”

  Dorothy sprang to her father’s chair and caught his arm. “Will you really let me, Dad?” she cried in delight.

  “Mr. Bolton says that Bill is an A-1 instructor—and he claims that flying is no more dangerous than sailing twenty-footers in a nor’easter, so I suppose—”

  “Oh—you darling!” Dorothy flung her arms about his neck.

  “Here—here—” cried Mr. Dixon. “You’re ruining my collar, and my cigar—”

  “Have another,” suggested Mr. Bolton. “I’d willingly ruin boxes of cigars if I had a daughter who’d hug me that way!”

  “Aren’t you nice!” She turned about and bestowed a second affectionate embrace on that gentleman. “That is because you aren’t quite as mean as your son—he’s the limit!”

  “Never slang your instructor,” sang out Bill. “That’s one of the first rules of the air.”

  “Seriously, Dorothy,” her father interposed. “This is a big responsibility Bill is taking—and I want your word that you’ll do just as he says. No more running off and smashing up a plane as you did the Scud this afternoon!”

  “All right, Dad. I promise. But what am I to learn in? Bill says that the Amphibian is too heavy—and she’s not equipped with dual controls.”

  Mr. Dixon lit a fresh cigar. “I see that you’ve already started your flight training.”

  “Bill explained the procedure to me on our way up here this afternoon. But what are we going to do for a plane?”

  “Bill has some scheme, I believe.”

  “Oh, I know,” she decided. “Bill shall pick me out a nice little plane and—”

  “I shall pay for it,” said her father grimly. “Nothing doing. When you have won your wings—well—we shall see. Until then, you and Bill will have to figure without financial help from your fond parent.”

  “That’s fair enough,” agreed Mr. Bolton.

  “O.K. with me, too,” echoed Bill. “I happen to have an old N-9, a Navy training plane, down at the shipyard near the beach club, that will do nicely. I was down there this afternoon having her pontoon removed. I want to equip her with landing gear so I can house her up here. The Amphibian uses up too much gas to go joy-hopping in.”

  A maid appeared on the doorstep.

  “Mr. Dixon wanted on the phone, please,” she announced, and waited while that gentleman preceded her into the house.

  A moment later Mr. Dixon was back on the terrace.

  “The bank’s been robbed!” he cried. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I’ve got to hustle down there just as soon as possible.”

  “This way!” called Bill, springing down the steps to the garden. “My car’s out here—come on!”

  “That young chap can keep his head,” thought Mr. Dixon as he ran beside his daughter and Mr. Bolton. “It would take a lot to fluster him.”

  Then they came upon him, backing slowly up the drive, both doors swinging wide so they could jump in the car without his stopping.

  “Which bank, Mr. Dixon?”

  Bill had the car in the road now and was racing toward the village.

  “First National—Main Street, next the Town Hall. I’m president, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. But I’m glad to hear it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You should have a drag with the traffic cops. We are doing an even sixty now—and it would be a bad time to get a ticket.”

  Mr. Dixon grasped the door-handle as Bill skidded them into a cross road with the expertness of a racing driver. “Just get us there, that’s all,” he gasped. “The chief himself phoned me. I didn’t wait to hear details—but from what I gathered, the hold up men got clean away before the police discovered the robbery. But time is always a factor in a case of this kind, so don’t worry about traffic rules.”

  “I won’t,” said Bill and fed his powerful engine still more gas.

  Along the straight stretch of Oenoke Avenue they sped, with Bill’s foot still pressing the accelerator. They flashed past the white blur of the Episcopal Church and on down the hill into Main Street and the little town.

  The car’s brakes screamed and Bill brought them to a stop on the edge of the crowd of pedestrians and vehicles that blocked further progress.

  “D’you want us to wait here?” asked Mr. Bolton.

  “No—come along,” returned his friend, jumping to the sidewalk. “We’ll learn the worst together.”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE HOLD UP

  With Bill at her right and Mr. Bolton at her left elbow, Dorothy pushed her way through the crowd behind her father to the entrance of the Bank. The policeman at the head of the short flight of steps to the doorway stood aside at a word from Mr. Dixon. The four passed inside and the heavy door swung shut behind them.

  “Rather like locking up the barn after the sheep vamoosed, isn’t it?” Bill nodded over his shoulder toward the police guard.

  “Never mind, son—this isn’t our party,” rebuked his father.

  A fat man in a dark blue uniform, rather tight as to fit and much be-braided, came bustling up. “Who are these men, Mr. Dixon?” he inquired pompously. “Can’t have strangers around the bank at this time—”

  “From what I hear, Chief, you and your men let some strangers get away with about everything but the bank itself a little while ago.” Mr. Dixon’s tone showed his annoyance. “These gentlemen are friends of mine. What’s actually happened? Give me some facts. Anybody hurt? Anybody caught? Just what has been taken?” Questions popped like revolver shots.

  “Well—it’s like this, sir—” The Chief seemed pretty well taken down.

  “Thunderation! You and your sleuths are enough to tempt any man to law breaking. There’s Perkins! Perhaps I’ll learn something from him.”

  Mr. Dixon strode toward the rear of the bank.

  “You mustn’t mind Dad,” Dorothy said consolingly. “Just now he’s half crazy with worry, Chief.—These gentlemen are Mr. Bolton and his son. They’ve bought the Hawthorne place, you know.”

  Chief Jones mopped his perspiring face with a red bandanna and then shook hands all around. “Terrible warm tonight—terrible warm. Well, let’s go over and find out what’s what. I was over to a party at my daughter Annie’s—only just got in here myself. Annie—”

  “Yes, let’s find out what has happened.” Dorothy cut in on this long-winded effusion, and led the way behind the tellers’ cages to where her father and several other men were standing before the open vault.

  “Ah, here’s the watchman now!” cried Mr. Dixon as a man, his head completely covered with bandages, came toward them and sank weakly into a chair. “Now, Thompson, do you think you can tell us exactly what happened, before Doctor Brown drives you home?”

  “Yes, sir. Glad to.” The man’s voice, though feeble, betrayed excitement. “He sure knocked me out, that bird did—but I’d know him again if I saw him. I c’d pick him out of a million—”

  “That’s fine,” Mr. Dixon interrupted gently. “But start at the beginning, Thompson, and we’ll all get a better idea of him.”

  “That I will, sir, and ‘right now!’ as that French guy says over the radio.… Well, it was about eight o’clock and still light, when the night bell buzzed. I was expecting Mr. Perkins. He’d told me he�
��d be back after supper as he had some work to do. I’d been readin’ the paper over there by the window, so I got up and opened the front door. But it wasn’t Mr. Perkins. A young fellow in a chauffeur’s uniform stood outside.”

  “‘I’m Mr. Dixon’s new chauffeur,’ he said. ‘Here’s a note from him. He tried to ring you up, but the phone down here seems to be out of order. He said you’d give me a check book to take back to him. Better read this.’ He passed over a letter—”

  “Have you still got it?” asked Mr. Dixon.

  “I think so. Yes, here it is, in my pocket.” Thompson handed the missive to the bank president, who read it aloud:

  “Dear Thompson:

  Please give the bearer, my chauffeur, a blank check book and oblige

  Yours truly, John Dixon.”

  “Looks like my handwriting,” sighed Mr. Dixon when he had finished, “but of course I didn’t write it!—What happened after that?”

  “Well, sir, he asked me if he could step inside and take a few puffs of a cigarette, seein’ as how you didn’t like him to smoke on the job. So I let him in. Then I goes over to one of the desks for a check book and—I don’t remember nothin’ about what happened next, until I found myself in the far corner yonder, with Mr. Perkins near chokin’ me to death with some water he was pourin’ down my throat—and a couple of cops undoin’ the rope I’d been bound up with. I reckon that feller must have beaned me with the butt of his revolver just as soon as I’d turned my back. Doc here, says as how the skull ain’t fractured—but that bird sure laid me out cold. If I hadn’t had my cap on, he’d of croaked me sure. Of course, I shouldn’t of let that guy inside, but—”

  Mr. Dixon’s tone was abrupt as he silenced Thompson with a word. “Thank you, Thompson,” he said. “You are not to blame. If you hadn’t let him in, he might have shot you at the door. Doctor Brown is going to take you home now. Lay up until you feel strong. And don’t worry.”

  He patted the man on the shoulder and Thompson departed, leaning on the doctor’s arm.

  “I guess you’re next on the list, Harry.” Mr. Dixon nodded to Perkins. “How did you happen in here tonight?”