OVER THE RADIO
Lieutenant Collins was a big man with a ruddy face and blue eyes that
smiled kindly over his massive desk. Like Chief Kelly at home he
inspired confidence, and Judy felt relieved to be talking with him
instead of the young sergeant they had found at the police station
before. With now and then an additional bit of information from Dale
and Pauline, she retold the story of Irene’s mysterious disappearance.
Then she explained Mr. Lang’s subsequent telegram leading them to
suppose Irene was safe and, finally, the discovery that Mr. Lang had
merely described a house in Brooklyn.
“You see, he lives in a small town. He didn’t realize that such a
description would be of no use to Irene here. And now,” Judy finished,
“we seem to be right back where we started from—without a clue.”
By this time quite a group of officers and young detectives had
gathered around the lieutenant’s desk.
“It’s beginning to look like an interesting case,” one of them remarked
with a smug satisfaction that caused Dale to glare at him. Irene was no
case! She was a flesh-and-blood girl—lost, alone. He did not think of
the many instances in his own stories where the detective had made
similar remarks. It never occurred to him that here was real experience
on which to build his imaginative tales. No one had told him that the
one thing his stories lacked was an intensity of feeling gained only by
living through an actual tragedy.
Judy thought of it. It seemed irrelevant, almost disloyal to Irene to
think of fiction and Dale’s future just then. But if they found Irene,
Dale’s future might be hers. How wonderful! And after those high-hat
girls in Farringdon had snubbed her so! It would be almost a triumph
for Judy, too—that is, if they could only find Irene and give this
Cinderella story a chance to come true.
The printed form Judy had previously filled in was still on file in the
police records. This was checked up and once more turned over to the
Detective Bureau. The description, Lieutenant Collins promised, would
be telephoned to the Bureau of Missing Persons and broadcast over the
radio at seven-thirty.
Dale looked at his watch. Only an hour and the whole country would be
hearing about Irene’s disappearance. Surely someone had seen her, and
whoever it was couldn’t forget the golden dress and slippers.
“Girls don’t vanish,” Judy declared as they turned to leave.
“Oh, but they do,” Pauline cried. “Joy Holiday vanished right out of a
locked room. And when they found her she was dead.”
None of them spoke after that. Automatically they went back to the
house and climbed up the three long flights of stairs. Blackberry
greeted them as they opened the door, but Judy had no heart for romping
with him.
“Go away!” she said, pushing him gently out of the way. “Cats can’t
understand human troubles.”
But instead of minding her, he rubbed his silky head against her
ankles. His soft, crackly purr seemed to say: “Cats do understand human
troubles. What you need is someone who loves you to sympathize.”
Tears came to Judy’s eyes. She thought of her father and mother
struggling with an epidemic of influenza when they had wanted a
vacation. She thought of her brother, Horace. She thought of Peter and
Honey and their two dear grandparents, of Arthur who had once helped
hunt for Lorraine Lee in his airplane. How she missed them all! How she
needed them! Oh, why had she and Irene ever left Farringdon at all? To
find adventure, she supposed. Now she felt sick to death of adventure
and only wanted all her friends together the way they used to be.
Irene, even the pale overworked Irene, would be better than this awful
uncertainty.
Walking over to the radio, Judy stood watching Dale as he fumbled with
the dials. In ten more minutes the police alarms would be on the air.
“A little more to the left if you want the city station,” Pauline
directed from her chair beside the desk. He turned the dials and, loud
and clear, a familiar dance tune broke upon their senses. It was
_Golden Girl_ and a well-known radio artist, Kate South, was singing in
an emotional, contralto voice:
My own golden girl. There is one, only one
Who has eyes like the stars and hair like the sun.
In your new yellow gown you’re a dream of delight.
You have danced in my heart on bright slippers tonight ...
Judy bowed her head and tears smarted in her eyes.
“Irene’s description,” Dale said fiercely. He shut off the radio and
did not turn it on again until the ten minutes were up.
Gongs sounded and then the announcer’s voice, very cold and
matter-of-fact, read through the list of missing persons. Irene’s name
came last:
MISSING SINCE JUNE TWENTIETH: IRENE LANG
OF FARRINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA; VISITING AT
120 GRAMERCY PARK, NEW YORK CITY. SEVENTEEN
YEARS OLD; HEIGHT: 5 FEET, 4 INCHES;
WEIGHT: 110 POUNDS; BLUE EYES; FAIR HAIR;
WEARING A YELLOW DRESS AND JACKET, NO
HAT, HIGH HEELED GOLD PUMPS AND CARRYING
A BROWN HAND BAG.
That was all. In a few seconds it was over and Judy was left with the
sick feeling that no one had heard.
* * * * *
In the living room of their little apartment two hundred miles away,
Mrs. Dobbs settled herself in a comfortable rocker ready to relax and
listen to the radio. Mrs. Dobbs loved music. Usually she listened to
the old-time melodies but there was something especially appealing
about the popular song that Kate South was singing. She called to her
grandson.
“Come here, Peter, and listen.”
The tall youth entered the room and stretched himself in a chair.
“Gee, Grandma! It makes a fellow feel lonesome. Why the dickens do you
suppose Judy had to spend her vacation so far away from folks who care
about her?”
“She’s with Irene,” Mrs. Dobbs replied, “and from what I hear, Pauline
Faulkner has taken a great liking to both of them. Honey was saying
only this morning that she wished she’d been invited, too.”
“I’m glad she wasn’t,” Peter returned with vigor. “At least I have a
little to say about what my sister is and isn’t going to do. Where is
she now?”
“Out with Horace. He’s been taking her out alone since Irene went
away——”
But Mrs. Dobbs stopped speaking as Peter held up his hand. The music
had played out and neither of them had been paying much attention to
the announcements that followed until the name, Irene Lang, broke upon
their senses. Missing, was she?
Peter gave a low whistle of surprise and then jumped to his feet.
“Where are you going?” his grandmother cried.
“Going to get the car,” he flung over his shoulder. “Judy will be
needing me.”
In the hallway he bumped into Horace and Honey just returning from a
short walk through town.
“Where’s the fire?” Horace greeted him. “If there’s something exciting
going on I want to hear about it. The paper’s starving for news.”
“Irene Lang has disappeared!” Peter gave out the “news” so suddenly
that Horace was dumbfounded for a moment.
“And I’m going to New York to help Judy,” he added. “She’s apt to go
too far with her flare for detecting. You might as well come, too.
Maybe the paper will finance the trip if we bring back a big scoop——”
“Sa-ay!” Horace broke in. “Don’t forget it’s Irene Lang who is missing.
News or no news, nothing goes into the paper that isn’t on the level.”
“Don’t I know it!” Peter replied. “Irene wouldn’t do anything that
wasn’t on the level and there’s Judy to consider, too.”
“I want to help,” Honey spoke up. “Won’t you let me come with you?”
Horace looked at her and shook his head. The trip wouldn’t be a very
safe one with Peter in his present mood and his car capable of a speed
exceeding sixty.
“Then can’t we do something here?” she begged. “Can’t we go and see
Irene’s father? Maybe he knows where she went.”
“Gosh!” Horace exclaimed. “That’s a real idea, Honey. You’ll be as good
as Judy if you keep on using those little gray cells of yours. Goodbye,
Peter! We’re off for the sanitarium.”
“Backing out, eh?” Peter gibed him.
“Backing out, nothing! If we learn anything important,” Horace
declared, “we can beat your car in Arthur’s airplane.”
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