_A Mystery Story for Girls_
GYPSY FLIGHT
_By_
ROY J. SNELL
The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago
COPYRIGHT 1935
BY
THE REILLY & LEE CO.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Dark Lady 11
II The Vanishing Bag 34
III The “Flying Corntassel” 48
IV With the Aid of Providence 58
V Danby’s Secret 64
VI The Gypsy Witch Cards 75
VII A Strange Battle 83
VIII Trailing an Old Pal 94
IX Little Sweden 103
X One Wild Night 111
XI Goodbye Fair 118
XII Flying Through the Night 126
XIII Suspects 135
XIV Gypsy Trail 142
XV Lady Cop of the Sky 150
XVI A Suspicious Character 161
XVII A Surprise Visit 170
XVIII The Red Devil 178
XIX The Fire-Bird 189
XX Someone Vanishes 195
XXI An Astonishing Discovery 202
XXII The Silver Ship 211
XXIII The Gypsy’s Warning 217
XXIV 48-48 228
XXV Lost in the Air of Night 238
GYPSY FLIGHT
CHAPTER I
THE DARK LADY
Rosemary Sample adjusted her jaunty cap carefully, smoothed out her
well-tailored suit, then lowering her head, stepped from her
trans-continental airplane.
Oh yes, that was Rosemary’s plane. Rosemary was still young, and she
looked even younger than her years. A slender slip of a girl was
Rosemary, rather pretty, too, with a touch of natural color and a dimple
in each cheek, white even teeth, smiling eyes of deepest blue.
Strange sort of person to have a huge bi-motored plane with two 555
horse-power motors and a cruising speed of one hundred and seventy miles
per hour. It cost seventy thousand dollars did that airplane. Yet this
slip of a girl was its captain, its conductor, its everything but pilot,
as long as it hung in air. Rosemary was its stewardess—and that meant a
very great deal.
Rosemary stepped across the cement runway with a buoyant tread. “Life,”
she thought with a happy tilt of her head, “is just wonderful! It is
perfection itself.”
Rosemary loved perfection. And where may one find perfection of high
degree if not in a great metropolitan airport? Those giant silver birds
of the air, their motors drumming in perfect unison, wheeling into
position for flight—how perfect! The touch of genius, the brain and
brawn of the world’s greatest has gone into their making. And as to the
care of them, Rosemary knew that the most valuable horse in the world
never received more perfect treatment.
The depot, too, was perfect. Its hard white floor was spotless. The
ticket sellers, the loitering aviators, even the black-faced redcaps
somehow appeared to fit into a perfect picture.
“The travelers and their luggage,” she whispered, “they too fit in. No
shabby ones. No drab ones. Per—”
She did not finish for of a sudden, as if caught and banged against a
post, her picture was wrecked, for a young man apparently unsuited to
the place had dashed through the depot’s outer door and, grasping her by
the arm, said in a low hoarse whisper:
“I must speak to you personally, privately.”
For a space of ten seconds there was grave danger that Rosemary would
deviate from the path of duty, that she would smash Rule No. 1 for all
airplane hostesses into bits. “Courtesy to all,” that was the rule. And
in the end the rule won.
Getting a steady grip on herself, the girl glanced about, noted that the
small room to the right was at that moment vacant, motioned her
strangely distraught visitor—who, if appearances could be trusted, must
have slept the night before in an alley and fought six policemen
single-handed in the morning—inside, after which she closed the door.
“Than—oh thank you!” the young man gasped.
Then for a period of seconds he seemed quite at a loss as to what he
might say next.
This gave the girl an opportunity for a swift character analysis. She
was accustomed to this. She had flown for two years. Four hundred
thousand miles of flying were down to her credit. Passengers, usually
ten of them, flew with her. It was her duty to keep them comfortable and
happy. To do this she must know them, though she had seen them but for
an hour.
“He’s not as bad as I thought,” was her mental comment. “He’s not been
drinking. He needs sleep. There’s a lot of trouble somewhere. But it’s
not _his_ trouble—at least not much of it. He needs help. He—”
As if reading this last thought, the youth gripped her arm to exclaim:
“You must help me!”
“All right.” Rosemary displayed all her teeth in a dazzling smile.
“That’s my job. How shall I help you?”
“You’re flying west to Salt Lake City. Plane leaves in half an hour. I
must have a place in that plane.”
“I’m sorry.” Rosemary truly was. She had seen most of the other
passengers. They promised to be rather dull. But this young man—“I’m
sorry,” she repeated. “The trip was sold out forty-eight hours ago.”
“I know—” The young man’s tone was impatient. “But—but it must be
arranged. Here!” He crowded a small roll of bills into her hand. “You
can fix it. I can’t. You know who they are. There must be no fuss. No
one must know. You find one. You know folks; you can pick the right one.
Surely there’s one of them that will wait until the night plane. That’s
not sold out yet.
“Be-believe me!” His eyes were appealing as he saw her waver. “It’s not
for myself. If it were, I’d never ask it. It—it’s for a thousand
others.”
“No,” Rosemary was saying under her breath, “it’s not for himself. And
so—”
“All right,” she said quietly, “I’ll try.”
She went away swiftly, so swiftly he could not catch at her arm to thank
her.
On entering the main waiting room of the airport, the young stewardess
looked quickly about her. Twenty or more people were in the room. Which
were passengers, which mere sightseers? She knew some of the men who
were to be with her on this trip. They were old-timers, mostly traveling
men. She would not dare suggest to one of these that he sell his
reservation.
Her gaze at last became fixed upon a youth. “Must be about twenty,” she
told herself. “He’s going. First trip. Nervous, and trying not to show
it. He’ll welcome a delay, like as not. Have to try.” She took in his
ready-to-wear suit, his $5.99 variety of shoes, wondered vaguely why he
was going by air at all, then plunged.
“You mean to tell me,” he was saying slowly three minutes later, “that
some man will give me fifty dollars just to wait six hours for the next
plane? Say! I’d wait a week. Where’s the money?”
“Here! Here it is.” Rosemary felt a great wave of relief sweep over her.
She wanted to ask this youth a dozen questions, but there was not time.
“What’s the name of the man that’s taking your reservation?” the ticket
seller asked of the ready-to-wear youth.
“Why I—”
“I’ll have that for you right away, Charlie,” Rosemary broke in.
“O.K.” Charlie turned to other matters.
Ten minutes later Rosemary received the second shock of the day and from
the same source. Someone touched her on the arm. She wheeled about to
find herself looking at a young man in spotless linen, faultless gray
suit and traveling cap. In his hand he carried a dark brown walrus-hide
bag.
“I—I—why you—” she stammered.
“Quick change artist.” He smiled broadly. “Got hold of my bag, you see.”
It was the young man who only a brief time before did not fit into her
picture of perfection.
“Di-did you get it?” he asked. There was a slight twitch about his
mouth.
She nodded. “Step over here.”
“You’re a marvel!” he murmured. “I can’t tell you—”
“Don’t,” she warned.
“You’ll have to give your name and address here,” she said in a brusque
tone. Then, “Here Charlie. This is the man.”
“Name and address, please,” said Charlie.
“Danby Force, Happy Vale, Connecticut,” said the young man promptly.
“Goodbye,” said Rosemary, “I’ll be seeing you.” And indeed she
should—many times. The power behind all things, that directs the stars
in their courses, that keeps all the little streams moving downhill and
notes the sparrow’s fall, had willed that their paths should cross many
times and in many curious places.
“There is time,” Rosemary told herself, “for a stroll in the open air
before we take to the air.” Then, of a sudden, she recalled a curious
sort of plane that had landed but a short time before. “Wonder if it’s
still here.” She hurried out to the landing field.
“Yes, there it is! I must have a look.”
Speeding over the broad cement way, she crossed to a spot where a small
plane rested. Truly it was a strange plane. It had been painted to
represent a gigantic dragon fly. Its planes seemed thin and gauze-like.
This, she knew, was pure illusion.
“But how beautiful!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, it is beautiful.” To her surprise, she was answered by a
blonde-haired girl who had just stepped round the plane.
“Is—is it yours?” she asked in surprise.
“But yes.” The strange girl spoke with a decided French accent. “I am
the one they call Petite Jeanne. You have heard of me. No? Ah well, it
does not matter.” She laughed a silvery laugh. She was, Rosemary noted,
a slender girl with beautifully regular features and dancing eyes.
“Dancing feet too,” she whispered to herself. “They are never still.”
Unconsciously she had been following the girl round the plane. There, on
the other side, she met with a surprise. Seated on bright colored
bundles, close to a small fire over which a small teakettle steamed, was
a large, stolid-looking gypsy woman and a small gypsy girl.
“So the gypsies are taking to the air!” she exclaimed. “And you—” she
turned to the blonde girl, “are you a gypsy too?”
“As you like.” A cloud appeared to pass over the girl’s face. It was
followed by a smile. “Anyway,” she said, “I am flying now. And you,
since you are flying always, you may see me again in some strange new
place.
“Indeed,” she added after a brief silence, “Madame Bihari here, who is
my foster mother, was telling my fortune with cards.”
“Your fortune?”
“But yes.” The girl laughed merrily. “What would a gypsy be if she did
not tell fortunes?
“And in my fortune,” she went on, “I was to meet a stewardess of the
air. This meeting was to lead me into strange and mysterious adventures.
And now here you are. Is it not strange? It is very wonderful, truly it
is, this telling fortunes with gypsy cards. You must try it.”
“I will,” replied Rosemary. “But now it is almost time for my plane.
I’ll hope to be seeing you. I—”
“One moment please!” Bending over, the blonde girl picked up three small
sticks. “Wherever I land,” she went on, “I shall put two sticks so, and
one stick so, close to the door of the airport depot. If you see it you
will know that I have been there and may be there still.”
“I get you,” Rosemary laughed, “but what do you call that?”
“It is our gypsy _patteran_,” the girl explained soberly. “It is a
custom older than any of your country’s laws.”
“Good! I’ll be seeing you!” Rosemary hurried away. She was not soon to
forget this blonde-haired Petite Jeanne, whom so many of you already
know well. Nor was she to forget that even the gypsies had taken to the
air.
After casting a practiced eye over the interior of her ship, adjusting a
chair and looking to her supply of newspapers and magazines, Rosemary
stepped down from the plane into the sunlight of a glorious day.
A porter was wheeling the baggage cart into position, the chain was
being dropped. In an even tone through a microphone the announcer was
saying, “Plane No. 56 leaving for Omaha, Cheyenne, Salt Lake City and
points west, now loading.”
“We’ll be in the air soon,” Rosemary whispered to herself. The faintest
possible thrill ran up her spine. For this very-much-alive girl, even
after two years of flying, could never quite still the joy and thrill of
flight.
Then the sound of an excited voice reached her ears.
“I must take the bag with me in the cabin,” a woman’s voice was saying.
“But that is contrary to the rules,” the attendant at the gate replied
politely. “The cabin is small. A brief case is quite all right. But
bags, no. If everyone took a bag inside, there’d be no getting about. We
will give you a check for your bag. It will be locked in the baggage
compartment. Nothing can happen to it. In case of loss, the Company’s
millions insure you.”
“But I want—” The tall, dark-complexioned owner of the bag cast a
sweeping glance over her fellow travelers who stood awaiting their turn
at the gate. She appeared to suspect them, one and all, of having
designs on her bag.
The much-traveled commercial passengers smiled indulgently, two ladies
gave the dark-complexioned one a half sympathetic glance. But the young
man who had, through Rosemary’s good offices, so recently acquired a
place on the plane favored her with not so much as a look. He appeared
to have become greatly interested in a small yellow plane that was just
then taking off.
“He just _seems_ to be interested in that plane.” The thought leapt
unbidden into the young stewardess’ mind. “He’s more interested in that
woman than he’d like anyone to know. I wonder why?”
“Oh well, if you insist!” The dark-complexioned lady dropped her bag,
grabbed impatiently at the check offered for it, then hurrying past
Rosemary without affording her so much as a look, climbed aboard the
plane to sink into the seat farthest to the rear.
“As if she proposed to watch the others all the way to Salt Lake City,”
was Rosemary’s mental comment, although she knew the thought to be
unwarranted and absurd.
Ten minutes later, with all on board, they were sailing out over the
city. Rosemary settled down to the business of the hour. She loved her
work, did this slender girl. Hers was an unusual task. She performed it
unusually well. She was in charge of the “ship” while it was in the air.
She was hostess to the ten passengers entrusted to her care. At once her
alert mind took up the problems of this particular journey. She smiled
as two of the four traveling men launched forth on a discussion of the
country’s economic problems. “That settles them,” she told herself. The
third traveling man buried himself in the latest newspaper, and the
fourth dragged out papers from his brief case to pour over figures. Two
rather flashily dressed young men, who had not slept the night before,
asked for pillows. They were soon checked off to the land of dreams. Two
middle-aged women began discussing the feeding and training of children.
All this left to Rosemary’s care only the dark-complexioned woman in a
rear seat and the young man of great haste. “A very quiet trip,” she
told herself. In this, as all too often, she was mistaken.
“What can I do for you?” She flashed a smile at the dark-complexioned
woman. She received no smile in reply.
“Nothing.”
“Magazine? A pillow?”
“No. Nothing.” The woman’s black and piercing eyes were fixed upon her
for a full ten seconds. Then they shifted to the world beneath the
swiftly gliding plane.
Rosemary was neither dismayed nor disheartened. There were many such
people. All they wanted was to be left alone with their thoughts.
Perhaps flashing through the air thousands of feet from the ground
brought serious and solemn thoughts to some types of mind. She rather
guessed it did.
But how about the young man of great haste? He intrigued her. Perhaps he
was the kind who liked to talk. If he were, then perhaps he would tell
secrets. Men often told her secrets. She always guarded them well. “He
may tell me why he was in such great haste,” she thought to herself.
Some people like to talk, some to listen. It is the duty of an airplane
stewardess to talk or to listen as occasion demands. Rosemary was
prepared in this case, as in all others, to do her duty.
“Strange sort of profession, yours,” the young man said, smiling.
“It’s wonderful work!” Rosemary knew on the instant that she would do
most of the talking.
For half an hour he asked questions and she answered them. His
questions, never very personal, were about the life an airplane
stewardess leads. She answered them honestly and frankly. “He honestly
wants to know,” she told herself. “He is the type of person who absorbs
knowledge as a sponge does water. Delightful sort. I’d like to know him
better.”
“But look!” he exclaimed suddenly. “The propeller on this side is gone!”
“Oh, no!” She laughed low. “It’s not gone. Just going around so fast you
can’t see it.”
“But I saw it revolving when we started.”
“We were going slowly then.”
“So it is really still there, producing tremendous power, helping pull
us along—tons of people, mail and steel—at a hundred and seventy miles
an hour! And yet we cannot see it. Marvelous! Unseen power!
“Do you know,” he said, “that’s like God’s influence on our lives. You
can’t see it, you can’t feel it as we feel things with our hands; yet it
is there, a tremendous force in our lives.”
“Yes,” she agreed soberly, “it must be like that.”
At that moment she found herself liking this strange young man very
much. It was, she believed, because of his deeply serious thoughts.
Having discovered that the two traveling salesmen had settled all the
nation’s problems and were looking for reading material, she excused
herself, gripped the seat ahead to steady her, then moved swiftly
forward.
With all her passengers happy once more, she dropped into the one vacant
seat to indulge in a few moments of quiet meditation. Into this
meditation there crept, as she closed her eyes, a slim girlish figure.
Blonde-haired and smiling, she stood beside a plane that resembled a
dragon fly.
“The flying gypsy,” she whispered. “But is she a gypsy?” To this
question she found no answer.
That this slender girl was an interesting person she did not doubt. She
found herself hoping that the gypsy woman’s fortune telling might prove
a success—that they might meet many times.
“Mystery and adventure, those were the words she used.” Mystery and
adventure. Well, this day had not been without its mystery. There was
the strange man, Danby Force, and his urgent need for going somewhere.
Then too there was the dark woman with the bag which she had all but
refused to trust away from her, even in the locked compartment of a
trans-continental plane. What could she have in that bag? The girl
thought of one instance when it had been believed that high explosives
carried in a bag on an air-liner had brought disaster to a score of
persons. “But of course it would not be that,” she told herself.
Rising from her place, she moved back to where the dark-faced one rode.
She seemed fast asleep. But was this only a pose? She could not tell.
Someone forward beckoned to her. Routine duties were resumed.
The hours passed quietly. At five o’clock they were over the Rockies.
Marvelous moment! The golden sun was sinking over the distant prairies.
The mountains, half white with snow, half green with forests, lay
beneath them. They were beyond the timber line.
Suddenly the co-pilot’s light blinked at the back of the cabin.
“Signaling for me. I wonder why.” She moved swiftly forward.
“A storm roaring up the mountains from the west.” Mark Morris, the young
co-pilot, spoke in short jerky sentences. “Going down here. Landing
field of a sort. Laid out on the plateau. Hunting lodge below. No real
danger. Get straps hooked up. Usual stuff.”
Rosemary understood. She passed swiftly along the aisle. A word, a
whisper, a smile, that quiet, care-free air of hers did the work.
“Forced landing. What of that?” This was what the passengers read in her
face.
What indeed? They swooped downward, bumped with something of a shock,
bumped more lightly, glided forward, then came to a standstill.
The tall dark woman sprang to her feet, threw open the door, then swung
herself down. She was wearing low shoes and sheer silk stockings. She
landed squarely in eighteen inches of snow.
“Wait!” Rosemary cried in dismay. “Give her a hand up, some of you men.
I’ll fix you all up right away.”
There were, of course, neither high boots nor leggings in the airplane
cabin, but Rosemary was equal to the occasion. Tearing up a blanket, she
was soon busy fashioning moccasins for the ladies.
“Tie these cords about the bottoms of your trousers,” she said to the
men. “Yes, we’ll go down to the hunting lodge. Be three or four hours
anyway.”
“Where’s the trail?” She spoke now to the young co-pilot.
“See that big rock?”
“Yes.”
“Blazed trail starts there. Easy to follow. About half a mile. Fine
place. Been there three times. Big fireplace. Bacon and other things to
eat. You’ll enjoy your stay,” he chuckled.
“All airways are beaten trails to our pilots,” Rosemary murmured.
A cold wind came sweeping up the mountain. Sharp bits of snow cut at
their cheeks. They were impatient to make a start when, as before, the
dark-faced lady held them up.
“My bag!” she exclaimed. “I must have it!”
“Safe enough here,” said Mark. “All locked up. We’re staying, the pilot
and I.”
“But I insist!” She stamped the ground impatiently.
Five minutes of chilling delay, and she had it. Nor would she relinquish
its care to the most courteous traveling man. She plunged through the
snow with it banging at her side.
“Queer about that bag,” Rosemary murmured to Danby Force, who marched at
her side.
To her surprise he shot her a strange—perhaps, she thought, a startled
look.
“As if I had discovered some secret,” she thought to herself. “Well, I
haven’t—not yet.”
After floundering through the snow for some distance, they came at last
to a spot where a trail wound down the mountainside. Ten minutes of
following this trail brought them to a long, low, broad-roofed building
that, in the gathering darkness, seemed gloomy and forbidding.
“Fine place for a murder,” Danby Force whispered to Rosemary.
“Don’t say that!” She shuddered.
Stamping their feet on the broad veranda, they pushed the door open and
entered. Danby Force struck a match. Directly before him, at the
opposite side of the room, was a fire all laid in a broad fireplace. The
young man’s second match set a mellow glow of light from the dancing
flames searching out every dark corner. For the time at least, the place
lost its forbidding aspect. Indeed it might well have been the banquet
hall of some ancient British hunting lodge, of long ago.
Nor was the banquet lacking. Rosemary Sample was from Kansas. And in
Kansas mothers teach their daughters to cook. Fragrant coffee, crisp
bacon, candied sweet potatoes, plum pudding from a can, steamed to a
delicious fineness—this was the repast she prepared for the guests of
her trans-continental airplane.
All thoughts of the dark-faced lady’s mysterious bag, of Danby Force’s
urgent need, and of the gypsies’ fortune telling were forgotten in the
merriment that followed. One of the college youths, who had slept all
the day, discovered an ancient accordion and at once began playing
delirious music. The rough floor was cleared and all joined in a wild
dance—all but the dark-faced one who sat gloomily in a corner.
From time to time as the music died away, Rosemary listened for the
sounds that came down the chimney. There was a whistle and a moan, the
sighing of evergreen trees and then a rushing roar as if a giant were
blowing across a mammoth bottle.
“Be here all night,” she said to Danby Force at last.
“Guess so. Fine place for a murder.” He smiled at her in a curious way
as he repeated that weird remark of a few hours before.
“Strange place for a—” Rosemary could not make her lips form that
remaining word as, two hours later, staring into the dark, she whispered
that line. She was in the bunk room at the back of the lodge. The women
of the company were all sleeping there. The men had cots before the fire
in the main room.
The dark lady had dragged her traveling bag into the farthest corner and
had crept beneath her blankets after very little undressing. A very
strange person, this dark lady. Rosemary did not exactly like her, but
found in her a certain fascination. Even now, as she turned her face
toward that corner, she fancied that she could see her eyes shining like
a cat’s eyes in the dark. Pure fancy, she knew, but disturbing for all
that.
Just when she fell asleep she never quite knew. She was always definite
about the time of waking—it was just at the break of dawn. She was
startled out of deep sleep by a sudden piercing scream. Instantly Danby
Force’s words came to her. “Fine place for a murder.” But there had been
no murder.