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

by Julia K. Duncan

  A quick glance at the retractible landing gear sufficed to satisfy her that the wheels were securely blocked. Then she sprang aboard and gave the engine a short ground test. It was acting splendidly and she shut it off almost directly.

  A hurried trip aft to the cabin and she came back to the pilot’s cockpit, dragging the plane’s machine gun, which, after some trouble, she managed to set up on its tripod which she fastened to cleats in the decking.

  Certain now that the gun was secure, she adjusted the ammunition belt as Bill had instructed her. Then she raced aft again and overside. When she returned, she brought the wheel blocks with her. These she dropped in the cabin, saw to it that the door was properly fastened, then took her place at the controls forward.

  The night was overcast and starless; the ceiling unusually low, and so far as she could judge there was not the slightest breath of wind. She switched on the plane’s searchlight and started the engine.

  The trees at the far end of the wood lot were uncomfortably near and high. Yet Bill had judged a take off from such a place to be possible, or he would never have parked there.

  The big Loening was moving now—rolling drunkenly over the rough ground, yet gaining speed with every foot. She widened her throttle, steadily, fully—at the same time pushing the stick well forward. Then as the amphibian gained still more speed and she felt the tail lift clear, she eased the stick steadily back to neutral.

  They were racing over the field now. She gave the elevators a slight upward pressure. The wheels lifted clear, but the trees at the edge of the lot were perilously near. She knew that when a plane leaves the ground its speed is not far above stalling point. And with these trees so close, to stall now would precipitate a bad crash—and failure.

  Dorothy, therefore, kept the nose level for an instant or two, a dangerously short instant, she feared. Back came her stick again. The plane was climbing at last but at a frightfully precipitous angle. Would they make it? Would the throbbing engine continue to function under the unaccustomed strain?

  Dorothy bit her lip. She eased off slightly as the motor coughed; but pulled the stick back almost immediately.

  They were abreast the treetops now.—They were over. But with a margin so small that Dorothy was certain the wheels had brushed the branches.

  She eased their angle of ascent, but still continued to climb. Then when she was sure they were well above the crest of the hill, she leveled off and banked to the left.

  Once more she leveled off and turned on the electrical mechanism which raised the plane’s landing gear.

  Below her she could dimly make out the gangster’s farmhouse, the lake and the stretch of ground between them. She closed her throttle, pushing the stick forward as she did so, and at the same time applied right aileron and hard right rudder.

  As the plane shot downward she neutralized the elevators. Then did likewise with her ailerons as the proper bank was reached. Left aileron and hard left rudder were next applied until the wings became laterally level. Having completed a beautiful half spiral, Dorothy landed the amphibian on the little lake.

  Her next move was an unusual one, but on it depended the success or failure of her plan.

  With the airplane headed toward the lake’s low shore beyond which lay the farmhouse, she turned the switch which propelled the retractible landing gear downward and into the water. Then she opened the throttle for the last time.

  There came a bump and a jar. The tail tilted to a dangerous angle as the plane’s wheels struck the shallows. Would they mire in the soft ground at the lake’s edge she wondered, and cause the big bus to nose over and crash? But no—the plane, after a sickening wrench, rolled free. It glided over the sandy bank and on to the grass.

  Shutting off her engine, Dorothy permitted her amphibian steed to come to a stop at the porch steps, its ugly snout poked almost up to the open doorway of the house.

  Dorothy had been too busy guiding her bus to pay any attention to the reception accorded her arrival. A shot or two had been fired from the porch and she had caught a glimpse of dark figures silhouetted against the open doorway.

  But now, as the slowing wheels struck the steps, the porch was empty. The way was clear for Mike’s release. Together they would find Bill and make a clean getaway in the amphibian. What did it matter if the gang made their escape? Her life and the lives of her two friends were all that counted now.

  To speed the departing company she turned the Browning into action and sent half a belt of bullets whipping through the door. But Dorothy aimed high. She had no desire to play the part of executioner.

  From her place in the cockpit she got a good view of the front room. Mike, the Scotland Yard detective, still sat bound to his chair, but the others were streaking for the back of the house. She could see them tugging at the doors, which for some reason, seemed to give them difficulty of exit. Huddled at the far end of the room, they clamored and struggled to get out of range.

  Dorothy stopped firing and Bill Bolton hobbled up the porch steps.

  “Jumping Jupiter! girl, you’re a wonder!” he applauded. “Hold the Browning on ’em. They can’t get away. I locked those doors from the outside. Crawled through the wine cellar window to do it,” he panted. “Thought it might embarrass them some—but this stunt of yours makes it perfect.”

  He took a step forward and raised his voice.

  “Stick ’em up!” he cried. “Stick ’em up—every one of you—that’s better. Now line up, facing the back wall—and remember—just one bad break is all Miss Dixon wants to rip off another belt—aimed right, this time—” he added significantly.

  As the gangsters scrambled to obey his orders, Bill walked into the room and Dorothy saw that his wrists were still handcuffed behind his back.

  “Who’s got the handcuff key, Mr. Conway?” he inquired.

  “Johnny, I believe,” returned Mike quietly.

  “Johnny, have you the key?” This from Bill.

  “Y-yes, I got it.”

  “Got a gun?”

  “N-no, sir, it’s on the table.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Throw the key over your shoulder, then stick up your hands again.”

  Johnny complied with these demands, and Bill picked up the key by sitting on the floor and worming over to where it lay.

  “Think you can turn this with your teeth, Mr. Scotland Yard?”

  Mike nodded. Bill swung round and lifted his hands as high as his bonds permitted. The detective lowered his head and got his teeth on the key. A moment later there sounded a slight snap—and Bill was free.

  “Good job!” He worked his cramped shoulders. “That certainly is a relief!”

  He limped to the table, snatched a knife and a couple of seconds later Mike was on his feet. Without more ado they turned to, and roped the gangsters one by one.

  Dorothy got down from the plane and came into the room.

  “Who’s going to stand guard while the plane goes for the police?”

  “Nobody,” was Bill’s answer. “We’ll pile the bunch in the bus and take them to New Canaan ourselves. Gosh, there’ll be some big time in the town tonight, when we arrive!”

  “This morning, you mean,” yawned Dorothy. “It’s getting light. And you two may not know it, but I could go to sleep standing up—and right now!”

  “Brace up, kid! You’re some aviatrix, even though I did train you!”

  “I’ll second that—” beamed Mr. Michael Conway, grasping her hand. “I had a splendid view through the doorway—and when that big bus hurled itself out of the water like a hippo—and began to charge the house, I—”

  But Dorothy interrupted him with a shake of her head and an involuntary glance at Bill. “All I did was to take some awful chances with Bill’s property, Mr. Conway.”

  “Ah—incidentally—saving my life, and making the capture of this gang possible?” smiled the detective. “You’re a modest young lady, indeed. But I suppose we’d better be getting along—” and with a w
ave of his hand, he added, “it may interest you to know that the loot is in that kit bag under the table.”

  “O.K. We’ll attend to that,” said Bill.

  Then turning to Dorothy—“I’ll say you took some chances, young woman! How about getting a plane of your own to fool with from now on?”

  “Oh, Bill! Do you think Daddy will let me?”

  “I know he will.” Bill was serious now. “After what you’ve done tonight, you’ve certainly won your wings!”

  Those who have enjoyed this story will be interested in the next book of this series, entitled Dorothy Dixon and the Mystery Plane.

  DOROTHY DIXON AND THE MYSTERY PLANE, by Dorothy Wayne

  CHAPTER I

  AT THE BEACH CLUB

  “Here he comes again, Dot!”

  Terry Walters balanced on the edge of the beach club float and pointed upward toward the approaching airplane.

  Dorothy Dixon bobbed up beside the raft, blew the water from her nose and reached a long tanned arm for the young man’s ankle.

  “Here you come into the drink, you mean!” she gurgled.

  Terry yelped, lost balance, and recovering desperately, dived over her head. His departure rocked the float, so that Phil Stanton’s lanky figure poised on the diving board, lurched and fell awkwardly into the water.

  Betty Mayo, hugging her damp knees on the middle of the float, shrieked her approval of this double exploit.

  “Swell work, Dorothy!” she laughed as that young lady pulled herself aboard. “You’ll catch it in a minute though!”

  Dorothy stood up. Her scarlet bathing cap flamed against the ash blue sky and her wet suit clung to her slender form like a sheath of black lacquer.

  “Maybe!” Then, in quite a different tone: “Goodness, Betty, he’s missing!”

  Betty sprang to her feet. “You’re crazy—” she retorted as she caught sight of Phil and Terry knifing their way back to the float. “Why’d you try to scare me? Those boys are all right.”

  But Dorothy was staring skyward.

  “Not the boys! I mean the plane, Betty. Over there beyond the club house. His engine’s missing. Bet you an ice cream cone he’ll have to land!”

  “No, you won’t,” Betty flashed back. “I don’t know a thing about airplanes, and I’ll take your word for it. Ooh, Dorothy—do you think he’ll hit the roof?”

  “Oh, he’s all right—”

  “Yes, he’s over the roof now—but look!” Betty’s voice rose to a shriek. “He’s aiming the plane straight for us—it’ll hit this float—”

  The last word was no more than a gurgle. Betty had dived overside.

  Dorothy did not trouble to turn her head. With her bare feet firmly planted on the timbers, her straight body balanced easily to the float’s gentle rocking, she gazed interestedly at the big amphibian sweeping down toward her.

  On came the plane, losing altitude with every split second, and sailed over her head a bare thirty feet above the water. Then as she faced about to watch it land, the tail of her eye caught sight of Terry hauling himself over the edge of the float.

  “Get you for that last one!” he cried, and scrambled to his feet. “‘Who laughs last,’ you know!”

  “I know—” mocked Dorothy, evading his grasp and running up the springboard. She dived and her body entered the water with scarcely a sound.

  As she rose she turned lazily on her back.

  “Come and get me!” she tantalized. Then as she saw him start in pursuit, she rolled over and headed out toward the seaplane which now floated two or three hundred yards away toward the mouth of the inlet and Long Island Sound.

  Terry knew the speed developed by her flagrantly perfect crawl, and did not attempt to follow her. He chuckled as he watched the bob of scarlet and the flash of a brown arm that was all he could see of Dorothy.

  “Hey, where’s Dorothy?” called Betty as she and Phil clambered on to the raft.

  “Halfway to Boston, I guess. Race you to the beach for the cones!”

  All three cut the rumpled surface of the water with a single splash.

  Dorothy’s interest in the airplane that had just landed was twofold. Since qualifying for her private pilot’s license earlier in the summer, she had met most of the owners of planes living in or near New Canaan. To the best of her knowledge the Loening Amphibian which her father had given her for rounding up the Martinelli gang was the only one of that model privately owned in that part of Connecticut. That the plane lying just ahead on the water was a duplicate of her own meant that the owner was not a local person.

  Dorothy was a keen aviatrix and proud of her airbus. She wanted to compare notes with the owner of this amphibian. She was also curious to learn where the plane came from; and why every day for the past few weeks it had appeared over the Club at about this same time of an afternoon. At five-thirty sharp the crowd of young people on the beach would see it, a speck in the north, coming from over the ridge country back of the Sound. Flying at an altitude of not more than five hundred feet, it would swing over the beach club and cross the Sound, to disappear in the ether toward the dim line of the Long Island shore.

  Terry jokingly termed it the Mystery Plane. He told Dorothy that its owner made these daily flights in order to show her how a plane should be managed in the air. She usually returned his good-natured teasing with interest, but each time she saw the amphibian, her curiosity increased.

  As she swam nearer it was plain that this airship was actually the same stock model as her own. With the retractible landing wheels drawn up, the spoon-shaped hull of the biplane, with its two open cockpits aft of the inverted engine, floated easily on the water. The aviator, she saw, was busily engaged in going over his engine.

  Dorothy stopped swimming when she was a few yards from the amphibian.

  “Hello, there!” she called, treading water. “Need any help?”

  The man looked up from his work, evidently perceiving her for the first time. Dorothy was surprised to see that the face below the soft helmet and goggles was bearded to the eyes.

  “No, thank you,” he answered and went on tinkering with the motor. The words, although courteous enough, were spoken in a tone that showed plainly that he wished to end the conversation then and there.

  Dorothy was persistent and not easily discouraged.

  “Located the trouble?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” replied the man without lifting his head.

  “Looks like loose manifold, or gas connection, to me.”

  There was no reply to this helpful suggestion.

  She began swimming toward the plane again.

  “Mind if I come aboard?” she called.

  The bearded aviator straightened his back and faced her again, his right hand grasping a monkey-wrench.

  “No. I do not wish it,” he flared. “Why for do you bother me? Keep off, I tell you.”

  For the first time, the girl in the water noticed his strong foreign accent.

  “Aren’t you polite!” she mocked. “I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I come alongside and rest a moment?”

  “You stay where you are, young woman.” As the man’s anger grew, his accent became stronger. “I haf no time to bodder wid you. Go away—and stop away!”

  “But I just want—”

  “I don’t care what you want. Come alongside, and I’ll use this wrench on you!”

  “Oh, no you won’t!”

  Terry Walters slipped round the engine and tripped up the aviator. Before that irate person knew what was happening he found himself flat on his back with a hundred and sixty pounds of young American kneeling on his chest, menacing him with his own monkey-wrench.

  “That’s not a nice way to talk to a lady!” Terry remarked dispassionately eyeing his victim. “Ask her pardon like a good little boy. Do it quickly, my friend, or I’ll plant this wrench in the middle of that bush you call a face!”

  “I didn’t mean nossing,” the man grunted.

  “Try again!” Terry
whacked his captive’s shin with the wrench. “Also try to cut the double negatives. Our English teacher says they’re bad form and—”

  Terry’s banter stopped with a yelp of pain as the man’s head jerked upward and his teeth snapped on the hand which held the wrench.

  Dorothy, who had swum to within a few feet of the amphibian, saw Terry thrown to one side. Like cats, the boy and the man seemed to land on their feet—but now it was the strange aviator who held the monkey-wrench.

  “Look out, Terry!” shrieked the girl as she saw the man’s arm swing upward.

  The small deck forward of the lower wing section was far too narrow to permit dodging. Terry did the only thing possible under the circumstances to save himself. Three seasons on the football team of the New Canaan High had made that young man a quick thinker. He dove below the swinging blow and tackled the aviator just above his knees. It was a well aimed tackle and the two went hurtling overside to disappear with a splash.

  Terry’s blond head was the first to appear. Then as the aviator’s came popping up, facing the other way, young Walters seized him by the shoulders and sent him under once more.

  “Let the man alone, Terry!” commanded Dorothy. “Can’t you see he’s swallowed half the Sound?”

  “But he’d have brained me with that wrench, Dot—”

  “I’ll ‘Dot’ you if you take liberties with my first name!” Miss Dixon shook her fist above her head, “Anyway, it’s my fault. I butted in. That man and his plane are none of our business.”

  They were swimming back toward the float now and a glance over her shoulder told Dorothy that their late antagonist was pulling himself aboard the amphibian.

  Terry saw him too, and waved a hand. But the foreigner, occupied in wringing water out of his clothes, disregarded them.

  “I’ve had enough of the water for one day,” declared Dorothy between strokes. “How’s the wrist? You might have been badly hurt, Terry.”

  Terry motioned toward the float. “But I wasn’t, old thing,” he chuckled. “Come over to the raft a moment, before we go ashore. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

  “Make it snappy, then,” she rejoined. “You and I have got to be at Silvermine by seven-thirty, you know. Curtain up at eight-thirty—and you remember what Mr. Watkins said about any of the cast being late?”