DOROTHY DIXON AND THE MYSTERY PLANE
by
DOROTHY WAYNE
Author of
Dorothy Dixon Solves the Conway Case
Dorothy Dixon and the Double Cousin
Dorothy Dixon Wins Her Wings
The Goldsmith Publishing Company
Chicago
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Copyright, 1933
The Goldsmith Publishing Company
Made in U. S. A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
WINKIE
who has had a finger in each
of her Mummy’s books
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
I At the Beach Club
II The Three Red Lamps
III Where’s Terry?
IV The Thunderhead
V Hide and Seek
VI The House on the Dunes
VII Shanghaied!
VIII The Cork Chain
IX Deep Water
X Wrecked
XI From Out the Sea
XII The Notebook
XIII The Warning
XIV Up Against It
XV Run to Cover
XVI The Tunnel
XVII The Tombs
XVIII The Flags
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Dorothy Dixon and the Mystery Plane
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?”
Terry swung himself up on the decking and gave a hand to Dorothy.
“I’m only a chorus man,” he grinned. “We’ll both get to the Sillies in
time. Look at this—”
He opened his hand and held it out, palm upward.
“I’m not interested in seaweed!” Dorothy’s tone was full of disgust.
“Seaweed, nothing! That’s a piece of your friend’s beard!”
“You don’t mean to tell me you pulled it out?”
“Not out, dearie—off. That wasn’t his own hair that lad was wearing.”
“A _false beard_?”
“What else?”
Dorothy pursed her lips. “Well, that amphibian and its pilot are two of
the most mysterious things I’ve ever run into.”
“I wonder what he is up to, Dot—I mean, Dorothy?”
“I wonder, too. By the way, how did you happen out there—and just at
the right minute? I thought I saw you start a race for the beach with
Betty and Phil?”
Terry nodded his wet head and laughed. “That was only a bluff to make
you think I wasn’t coming after you. As I saw you were having an
argument with him, and I didn’t like the way he was acting, I swam
around the tail of his plane and got aboard on the farther
deck—and—well, you know the rest. Why did you want to go aboard?”
“Curiosity, pure and simple. Have you any idea why he flies over the
Club nearly every afternoon, and always at the same time?”
“No—have you?”
“Not the dimmest. But now that I know friend pilot wears false whiskers,
I’m certainly intrigued.”
“Come again,” frowned Terry. “I didn’t get that last one. Did you say
_intrigued_?”
“Cut the clowning. This is serious, Terry. That fellow is up to some
mischief, or he wouldn’t disguise himself.”
Behind them the amphibian’s engine sputtered, then roared.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Terry as the two watched the plane taxi out
toward the takeoff. “Why don’t you get your bus and follow that bird
some afternoon?”
“I’d already decided to do it tomorrow. Want to come?”
“You bet! How do you expect to work it?”
“Look here, if we’re going to make that show on time, we’d better go
right now. We’ll make our plans later. Come along.”
Their bodies cut the water with hardly a splash as they raced for the
beach. Out in the inlet the amphibian rose gracefully into the air and
headed into the mist which was creeping up Long Island Sound.