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

by Julia K. Duncan

  “Did the girl and the other man wear gloves?”

  “The man put them on when he started to tinker with the car, I remember. But the girl had no gloves on.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh, yes, miss, because I noticed her shiny pink finger nails, particular. I thought at the time that washin’ dishes couldn’t be no part of her life.”

  “That’s fine, Lizzie. You make a splendid witness.”

  “Thanks, miss. I got a good look at the lame man, too. He had a funny little black mustache like they wear in the movies and little gold knobs in his ears—what do think of that!” Lizzie paused dramatically as she gave this choice bit of information.

  “Earrings?”

  “Earrings, miss—and—”

  “Thank you, Lizzie. You may go now.”

  “Remember those earrings, miss. And I’ll keep the glass for you, and won’t let cook touch it either, never fear!” Lizzie’s slight figure faded into the darkness.

  “So you’ve got pretty good descriptions of the gang and the lady’s fingerprints!” Bill summed up. “I’ve got to hand it to you, kid. Reckon you’ll have to let your father know about it though. Those fingerprints will have to be examined by the police.”

  Dorothy nodded. “Guess you’re right. I’ll tell him what we found out.”

  “What you’ve found out, you mean. As I think I told you before, when it comes to detective work, I’m a ground hog!”

  “Nonsense! But that reminds me, Bill. Do I get a lesson tomorrow?”

  “Do you think you can take time enough from your life work?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You may think I’ve finished fooling with this robbery when I turn over the dope to Daddy—but I haven’t. I want a flying lesson, just the same, in the morning. Shall we go up in the Loening again?”

  “No. I’ll drive you down to the shore and we’ll take the N-9 out. Don’t wait for your father tonight. Tell him what you want to at breakfast.”

  “But I’ve got to—”

  “This is your flight instructor speaking, Dorothy. No lesson in the morning for you, young lady, unless you go straight to bed now and get a good night’s rest. A clear head and steady nerves are the first requisites for flying.”

  “All right then. I’ll turn in directly. Good night.”

  Bill was already seated behind the wheel of his car. “Good night, Dorothy. By the way, I’ve got a hunch about this bank business. After you’ve had some flight training we’ll investigate together—and the plane will be a great asset,” he added mysteriously. His foot pressed the self-starter.

  “Don’t be so vague—spill the news like a good fellow.”

  “Sh—” mocked Bill. “‘Sherlock Holmes is thinking!’” His laugh rang out and the car disappeared in the deep shadows of the drive.

  “He’s not so dumb as he pretends,” mused Miss Dixon. “What can he have up his sleeve?”

  Slowly she moved off toward the back door of the house.

  CHAPTER VIII

  NEXT MORNING

  “You’ve done splendidly, my dear. I’m proud of you. This information you’ve dug up will be a lot of help in tracing that gang, I’m sure.”

  Dorothy and her father were seated at the table, taking their morning meal in the breakfast porch, just off the dining room. Although the bond of affection uniting father and daughter was a strong one, especially since the mother’s death some years earlier, neither was particularly demonstrative. And Dorothy was not used to receiving unstinted praise of this sort from her father. The colour in her cheeks deepened, and she said off-handedly:

  “I’m awfully glad, Daddy. You haven’t had your second cup of coffee, have you?”

  Mr. Dixon smiled, and passed his cup to her. His shrewd glance took in her evident embarrassment.

  “No need to dissemble, daughter. Fact is, I keep forgetting you’re no longer a child; and I don’t mind telling you how valuable you are to me.”

  Dorothy smiled back at him. “Thanks a lot, Dad.” She returned his filled cup. “Did the gang get away with much?”

  “Plenty. A number of easily negotiable bonds, what currency we had on hand, etc. Of course, we’re well covered by insurance—but the worst of it is, they took Mrs. Hamberfield’s diamond necklace!”

  “What! The Hamberfields, of Canoe Hill?”

  “The same. They bought the old Adams place two years ago and keep it for a summer residence. More money there than—er—taste, I believe. Mrs. H. goes in for jewels on a big scale.”

  “Wears diamonds at breakfast, I’ll bet, Daddy. She came to the Country Club last Saturday night, dressed up to the hilt and beyond it. I’ve never seen so much jewelry! Doug Parsons suggested that she’d been robbing Tiffany’s. A regular ice-wagon with her diamonds!”

  “Well, she’s lost a lot of them, now. That gang evidently knew she had a habit of keeping some of them in her deposit box at the bank, for it was the only one they raided.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “In what way?”

  “Never mind now. Tell me some more.”

  “Well, naturally, I phoned the lady last night—and well—she was most unpleasant—”

  “The nasty cat! Serves her right to have them stolen!”

  “Hardly that, dear. But the bank is responsible for her necklace and other gewgaws. And her husband is a power in the financial world.”

  Having breakfasted sufficiently for one day, Dorothy was busy with an orange lipstick.

  “More unpleasantness for you, Daddy?” she asked through pursed lips, her eyes on the small mirror of her compact, open on the table before her.

  “He is in a position to do the bank considerable harm—By the way, Dorothy, are you as efficient at manicuring as you are at making up your mouth?”

  “P-perhaps. Why?”

  “Good. Then, after this I’ll get you to do my nails while I have my second cup of coffee each morning!”

  “Aren’t you horrid!”

  “Aren’t you the cheeky kid, using that thing in front of me?”

  “You really don’t mind, Daddy?”

  “Do you think it an improvement over nature?”

  “I know it isn’t.”

  “Why use a lipstick then?”

  “But—why do you wear that curly mustache?”

  “More cheek?”

  “Not at all. But it adds dignity to your face—what’s more, your mustache is becoming and you know it.”

  “Nonsense!” Mr. Dixon’s tone was derisive but there was a twinkle in his keen gray eyes.

  Dorothy nodded decisively. “While my lipstick, properly used, is also becoming,” she went on. “And it gives your daughter a sophisticated appearance otherwise lacking—” she broke off with a giggle as she saw her father’s expression.

  Dorothy snapped her compact shut and rose from the table. Going round to his side, she gave her father a hug and kissed him lightly on his mustache. “There!” she laughed. “Now I’ve added sophistication to your dignity, Daddy. You’ll be able to run both the bank and that ritzy Mrs. Hamberfield like a charm today. So long! Bill is coming for me and we’re going down to the beach. I’m to have my first real flight instruction this morning, you know.”

  “From all accounts you did pretty well yesterday, young lady. Don’t you think you’d better come down to the bank and tell the story of your sleuthing to the Bankers’ Association detectives? They’ll be up here from New York this morning.”

  From the doorway, Dorothy shook her head. “Nothing doing!” she cried. “I love you a lot—but you have the story down pat yourself—and I’ve got a date I can’t break. That glass with the fingerprints on it, you’ll find nicely wrapped up on the hall table. ‘By—” She was through the door and across the lawn before Mr. Dixon could reply.

  He folded his napkin and laid it on the table with a sigh. “Heigho!” he murmured. “I wonder what her mother would say to that? Still, Dorothy grows more like her every day. The youngste
r has brains if she only uses them in the right way. She certainly has been a help on this robbery—and she is a comfort to me—but a great responsibility at that.”

  Then, carefully lighting his after-breakfast cigar, Mr. Dixon walked into the house.

  Shortly after Mr. Dixon had left for the bank, Bill’s horn honked in the drive.

  Dorothy appeared presently, wearing a boy’s outing shirt open at the neck and a pair of fawn-colored jodhpurs. She noticed as she approached the car that Frank, the Bolton’s chauffeur, was seated in the rumble.

  “I’ve got to run into New York and buy some flying clothes,” she announced as she seated herself at Bill’s side.

  “Don’t bother about clothes, for heaven’s sake. They won’t help you to fly. I’ve got several extra helmets and some goggles and those things you’re wearing now will be just the thing. All you need are overalls—and I bought you those in the village this morning.”

  “Aren’t you nice,” she beamed. “But I do need a leather coat, don’t I?”

  “What for?”

  “Didn’t you tell me the cockpits of your N-9 were open—that they didn’t have windshields?”

  “Yes—but what of it?”

  “Won’t it be cold?”

  “Not at this time of year. We’re not out for an altitude record. Of course, when you get a couple of miles or so above the earth you have to bundle up—but the old OXX motor in my N-9 would never get you there. She’s not built for that kind of work. Later on, you can order a monkey suit or a leather coat from the city.”

  “Yes, I’ll get one of those sporty knee-length coats—” decided Dorothy gleefully.

  “Not if I know it!”

  “But why not? They’re so goodlooking!”

  “And more dangerous than a broken strut!”

  “They are?” Dorothy’s tone was horrified.

  “Certainly. If you buy a coat, get a waist-length model. Anything longer not only hampers a pilot, it catches the wind and is likely to get caught around your stick or other controls and crash the plane.”

  “Oh!” said Dorothy disappointedly.

  Bill slanted his eyes from the road and smiled at her. “Not everyone who wears a yachting cap is a yachtsman! You’ll have plenty to think of during your flight training without bothering about such things.”

  “I guess you’re right,” she agreed. “How long will it take to teach me to fly, Bill?”

  “It all depends upon your aptitude, Dorothy. Ask me again after ten hours of dual instruction. But no matter how apt you prove to be, flying is not learned in a day. I’ve mapped out a forty-hour course for you. Want to look it over?” He handed her a typewritten sheet.

  She studied the paper interestedly. It was titled.

  Course of Flight Training.

  I. Dual Instruction.

  First hour:

  Taxiing

  Straight flying

  Turns

  Glides

  Second hour:

  Take-offs

  Climbing

  S-turns

  Breaking Glide and leveling off

  Slow motion landings by instructor

  Third hour:

  Flying at leveling-off height

  (seaplanes only)

  Slow motion landings

  Normal landings, use of elevators only

  Fourth hour:

  Cut-gun landings, under three feet,

  elevators only

  Sixth hour:

  Normal landings

  Cut-gun landings

  Spirals

  Use of ailerons, rudder, throttle

  Approaches

  Elementary forced landings

  Ninth hour:

  Stalls and spins

  II. Elementary Solo Flying.

  First solo: Five minute flight, necessary turns, one landing

  First 5 hours: Take-offs, turns, landings

  Instruction flight: Instruction as necessary, including spins; power stall landings (seaplanes only)

  5 to 10 hours: Take-offs, turns, spirals, landings

  Instruction flight: Instruction as necessary, including spins

  10-15 hours: Same as 5 to 10 hours

  III. Advanced Flying.

  Instruction flight: Reverse control turns and spirals, side-slips, power spins

  15-20 hours: Take-offs, turns, spirals, landings; reverse control turns and spirals

  Instruction flight—Acrobatics

  20-25 hours: Acrobatics, with 20 minutes of each hour on elementary work

  Instruction flight: Precision landings, forced landings, figure-eight turns, wing-overs

  25-30 hours: Precision landings, forced landings, figure-eight turns, wing-overs

  Final instructions flight: Review; instruction as necessary.

  “Looks pretty complicated to me,” sighed Dorothy, handing back the paper. “Gee, but there’s a lot to learn!”

  “More than the average novice has any idea of. But don’t imagine that this course will make you or anyone else an experienced pilot. Additional time must be spent in the air before you can get an interstate commercial pilot’s license. But after the instruction I’ve outlined here, your knowledge of flying should be sufficient to enable you to go on with your training yourself.”

  “I hope so,” said Dorothy, but there was little confidence in her tone.

  Bill brought the car to a stop beside an open field.

  “Cheer up!” he encouraged. “Flying is like anything else worth while—troublesome to learn, but easy enough when you know how. Hop out, kid. There’s the N-9, with her new landing gear, over there. Frank will take the car back. We’ll fly up to my place now and I’ll give you your first real instruction over our own flying field!”

  CHAPTER IX

  AIR TRAILS

  Dorothy donned her overalls while Bill spoke to the mechanic who was waiting by the plane. Then the man got into a car and drove away, and Bill beckoned her to him.

  “All set?”

  “All set.”

  “Then we’ll begin. First of all, you must know the names of the different parts of the plane. Some you know already, but we’ll go over them just the same. That hinged movable auxiliary surface on the trailing edge of the wing is an aileron. Its primary function is to impress a rolling movement on the airplane. Got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then repeat what I just said.”

  Dorothy did so.

  “Good. Now this is a drag wire.”

  After twenty minutes of this kind of thing he asked her to point out an aileron and explain its use.

  “K.O.” he said at last. “We’ll go over parts each day for a while and the book work you must do at home will help to refresh your memory. Now nip into the forward cockpit and I’ll explain the working of the controls.”

  He gave Dorothy a hand up and when she was seated, swung himself on to the cowl of the cockpit.

  “First of all—and let this become habit—” he ordered, “adjust your safety belt. Yes, that’s the way. Now we’ll go ahead. That’s the stick there. Take hold of it. You’ll notice it is pivoted at its base. Forward movement of the stick increases the angle of attack of the elevators and depresses the nose. Backward movement decreases angle and raises the nose. Lateral movement of the stick operates the ailerons, movement to the right depressing the right wing, and to the left, the left wing.”

  When she was sure she understood the functions of one thing he explained the next.

  “Now tell me just what I have told you—” he commanded.

  Fully an hour had gone by before he was satisfied that she understood thoroughly.

  “Tired?” he asked at last.

  “Not a bit,” she smiled. “I’m afraid I’m kind of dumb—but all these gadgets, as you call them, are a little confusing at first.”

  “Oh, you’re catching on in first rate order,” he told her. “Nothing but practice will make you letter perfect. And that comes soon enough when you handle the
plane yourself. Now I’ll fly us home. All I want you to do is to fold your arms and listen. Keep your eyes in the cockpit and watch the movements of the stick and rudder bar. My cockpit aft is equipped with similar controls. When I move my stick—yours moves—and vice versa. All right?”

  “You bet.”

  He reached in his pocket and drew forth a small leather-bound book which he handed her.

  “Here’s your Flight Log Book, Dorothy. Write it up after every flight. There are columns for the date, type of plane, duration and character of flight, passengers or crew carried (if any) and remarks. A commercial pilot should have his log book certified monthly by an official of the company. For a student it is a good thing to commence during training. Stick it in your pocket,” he advised as she thanked him. “And put on this helmet. It’s a Gosport, with phones in both ear flaps, connected by a voice tube to this mouthpiece. I’ll use that end of it to coach you through during flight.”

  “But this helmet is hard and stiff,” objected Dorothy. “I’ll bet it isn’t nearly as comfortable as that nice soft leather one you’re wearing.”

  “Possibly not. But until you’re through with your instruction I want you to wear a ‘crash’ helmet. They’re a lot of protection for the head in case of minor accident. No instructor worth his salt permits a student to use a soft leather helmet until you’ve had a lot of experience.”

  “Oh, very well then,” she said, adjusting her heavy headgear, “you’re the boss!”

  “You bet I am when it comes to this kind of thing. If I weren’t sure you were willing to give me strict obedience, I’d never propose teaching you. And please remember that this isn’t a joy hop. The more attentive you are to instruction—the quicker you’ll learn.”

  “I’m your willing slave, sir,” she mocked good-humoredly, and drew the helmet strap tight beneath her chin.

  Then as the engine roared and the plane rolled forward she felt the same thrill she had experienced the afternoon before when she and Bill had taken off in the amphibian. The same tightening of her muscles and beating throb of the pulse in her neck. They were soaring upward now and the sensation of smoothness became apparent after the jars and bumps of taxiing over the rough field. The sting of the wind on her face was exhilarating, but her eyes were streaming. Realizing that she had forgot to adjust her goggles, she pulled them down from the front of her helmet.