THE CLUE OF THE GOLD COIN

In the case was a clue to the gold coin theft

THE VICKI BARR FLIGHT STEWARDESS SERIES

THE CLUE OF THE GOLD COIN

BY HELEN WELLS

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
New York

© BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1958

All Rights Reserved

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
Sunshine Assignment

SWIRLS OF HEAVY SNOWFLAKES, DRIVEN BY A BRISK wind that whistled across the vast expanse of concrete runways that is New York City’s Idlewild Airport, dashed against the big picture window in the Personnel Lounge and spiraled back into the murky whiteness of the winter morning. Inside the comfortable room, four girls, all dressed in the trim, blue uniform of Federal Airlines stewardesses, sat in soft leather armchairs.

“Of all the luck!” One of the girls, a tall brunette, grinned as she shook her head in mock despair. “Here it is, the middle of the worst winter we’ve had in years, and what do I draw as my new assignment? New York to Chicago! The two coldest towns in the world! And you two, you lucky kids, get the Florida run!”

Vicki Barr tucked a strand of her ash blond hair in place, and her laugh tinkled like Chinese chimes stirred by a gentle breeze.

“Your trouble, Sue,” she said, “is that you don’t wish on stars. Now the other night, flying down from Boston, I looked out the window and there was Venus hanging up in the sky as bright and pretty as you please. So I just said, ‘Star light, star bright, first star I’ve seen tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might get the wish I wish tonight ...’”

“Oh, now, go away!”

“No. I really mean it. I said, ‘I wish I am assigned to the Florida run.’ And the next morning the Chief Stewardess called me into her office and told me that my new assignment was New York to Tampa.”

Sue chuckled. “Vicki, you little vixen, I don’t know whether to believe you or not. But just the same I envy you. When I think of Chicago in this weather ...” She shuddered. “B-r-r-r-r! And I do mean B-r-r-r!”

“I envy you,” one of the other girls spoke up. “You kids are really going to have fun! I was reading the other day about the big pirate carnival they have every year about this time down in Tampa. It’s supposed to be as gay and giddy as the New Orleans Mardi Gras.”

“That’s the Gasparilla Pirate Festival,” the fourth girl, Vicki’s co-stewardess, volunteered. Cathy Solms was a tall, slender girl about Vicki’s own age, with flaming red hair that contrasted sharply with the pale blue of her perky cap. “And you’re right. Vicki and I are going to have buckets of fun.” She winked at her flight partner and grinned. “By the way, Vicki, I wonder what big things are happening out in Chicago this winter.”

“Don’t rub it in,” Sue said. She glanced at the pattern of snow swirling up against the wide window. “If this keeps up, it doesn’t look as if any of us will get away from New York.”

“Maybe not you,” Vicki replied. “But we go out on schedule. I checked with operations as I came in, and south of Washington there’s not a snow cloud in the sky. Remember, it’s the weather at landing, not at take-off, that counts.”

At that moment, Johnny Baker, copilot on Vicki’s flight, stuck his handsome, crew-cut blond head in the door.

“Let’s go, kids. No day off for you two,” he said with a wide grin. “We’re taking off on the nose. Meet you in five minutes at Gate Five.”

Vicki and Cathy picked up their flight bags and topcoats, and headed for the door that Johnny had closed after him.

“Give our love to the ice on Lake Michigan,” Cathy said over her shoulder.

“And don’t slip on the ice when you walk away from your ship,” Vicki added with a smile.

“Get out,” Sue said, “before we throw you out. And oh, yes,” she added, a smile twinkling in her eyes, “give our best to that pirate fellow!”

Four hours later the big DC-6-B four-engine plane put up its port wing as the pilot banked to swing into his landing pattern. Vicki, strapped in the stewardess’s jump seat for the landing, looked out the window at the tropical vista spread all around her. To her left, as the pilot banked, the window was filled with bright blue sky, cloudless except for a few white wisps that floated high overhead. Through the window across the aisle, she could look down on the sand of the beaches, gleaming golden in the early afternoon sun, the vivid aquamarine blue of the waters of the Gulf, and the crisp green of the lawns and gardens that surrounded the glistening white houses.

Then the plane straightened, passed over the busy streets of the old city, over the scattered houses in the suburbs, and at last the hangars and runways of Tampa International Airport swept into view over the leading edge of the wing. The big plane shuddered as Captain March, the senior pilot, lowered his wing flaps to check the landing speed. Then the runway rushed up to meet the ship, and there was a shrill whine as the tires hit the concrete strip.

In her natural element, the air, the huge plane was as effortless and graceful in flight as a soaring gull. But on the ground, her wings vibrated and seemed to droop, and she shook all over like some great, tired clumsy beast as she lumbered forward to the unloading gate.

The instant she felt the ship land and steady on its taxiing course, Vicki unfastened her seat belt and got to her feet, ready to help her passengers collect their things and get ready to disembark. Ten minutes later she and Cathy were standing in the open plane doorway saying good-by to the last of them, three small children, who, with their mother, had been making their first trip by air. The little girls had been fascinated by the flight, and Vicki had spent all of her spare minutes—which on a short flight like this one, and with hot lunches to be served to eighty passengers, were very few—answering their eager questions.

Then, rapidly, the two stewardesses checked through the big cabin for any belongings their passengers might have left behind.

“I hope our hotel is on the beach,” Cathy said, stopping for a moment to gaze out at the warm sunshine. “I can’t wait to start working on a Florida tan.”

“I’m staying with Louise Curtin’s family,” Vicki said. “At least for the first few trips.”

“Louise Curtin?”

“She was in my class at the University of Illinois,” Vicki explained. “Her family lives down here. When I wrote that I was going to be on the Tampa run, she phoned me the minute she got the letter and insisted that I absolutely must stay with them on my layovers.”

“It’s nice to have friends,” Cathy sighed. “Much better than a hotel room.”

Federal, like all other airlines, provided hotel accommodations for their crews when they were away from home. In New York, Vicki shared an apartment with several other Federal Airlines stewardesses.

“That reminds me. I have another friend in Tampa,” Vicki said. “I’ll have to look him up.”

“Ah!” Cathy said, brightening. “Do I smell romance in the air?”

Vicki laughed. “I hate to disappoint you, Cathy. But Joey Watson is a boy who works here in the Federal warehouse. He’s an orphan, poor kid, a cousin of Bill Avery, the pilot who taught me to fly.”

Cathy’s eyes widened. “To fly? Don’t tell me you’re a pilot as well as a stewardess!”

“I’ve had my private license for two years.” Vicki smiled. “But I don’t have a chance to get in much flying time when I’m in New York. Anyway,” she went on, “Joey was dying to learn to fly, and Bill asked me if I’d mind putting in a good word for him with Federal’s personnel department. There happened to be an opening here, and Joey got the job. So, you see, there goes your romance. I’m afraid Joey thinks of me more as a mother.”

Cathy surveyed Vicki’s slim, trim figure, looking her up and down with an expression of exaggerated appraisal on her face.

“You don’t look like the mother type to me, gal.”

“All right.” Vicki chuckled. “Make it big sister if that suits you better.”

At that moment the door to the flight deck opened and Captain March entered the main cabin, followed by Johnny Baker, the copilot. The captain had a leather brief case tucked under his arm and both men carried blue canvas overnight bags stamped with the name and insignia of the airline.

“How did it go, girls?” the captain asked.

“Smooth as silk,” Vicki answered. “Everybody seemed to enjoy themselves, and one or two went out of their way to say so.”

“Fine,” the captain said briskly. “That’s good. Now let’s check in and get out to the hotel. I could use a swim.”

As the four crew members walked from the plane to Federal’s operations office in the airport building, Vicki explained to Captain March about her invitation to stay with the Curtins.

“And oh, yes,” she continued. “A young friend of mine works as a cargo handler in the freight warehouse.” She told the captain briefly about Joey Watson and how she had helped get him his job. “Do you suppose it will be all right if I go over and say hello?”

“I don’t see why not,” the captain replied. “Just be sure to check with the foreman first. They don’t like to have unauthorized personnel wandering around.”

A few minutes after they had made their routine check-in, Vicki said good-by to her fellow crew members and strolled leisurely in the direction of the big warehouse building.

A heavy-set man lounged in the warehouse doorway, holding a half-consumed bottle of coke in his hand. He looked quizzically at Vicki as she approached.

“Can you please tell me where I can find the foreman?” Vicki asked politely.

“You’re talkin’ to him,” the man said. His square-cut face was expressionless, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

“I’d like to see Joey Watson for a minute. Is he on duty this afternoon?”

“Yep. You a friend of his?”

Vicki put on her prettiest smile. “Well, sort of,” she said. “I haven’t seen him for some time, and if I may, I’d like to say hello.”

“Just a second,” the foreman said. “I’ll go get him.” He turned and disappeared into the huge building.

Vicki looked in through the open door. Piles of boxes, cartons, and bulky sacks stood stacked like islands on the big expanse of floor. Cargo handlers were busy sorting these, loading some on small motor carts and unloading others that had just been taken off incoming planes. Backed up at a long platform that ran the length of the opposite side of the building were half a dozen trucks waiting to pick up the cargo for local delivery. Other workmen weighed outgoing boxes and bales, and nailed cartons up more securely. The whole place had an air of quiet efficiency.

A tall, young figure dashed out of the dimness of the big room and ran up to Vicki, a big smile spread all across his eager face.

“Miss Vicki!” he cried breathlessly, holding out his hand. “I never expected to see you here!”

“Hi, Joey!” Vicki greeted him. She took his outstretched hand, and he pumped hers in a warm but excited handshake. “How’s the job going?”

“Swell, Miss Vicki! Just swell!”

Joey Watson was eighteen, tall, thin, and with long arms that dangled awkwardly from his skinny shoulders. As he stood grinning contagiously, he reminded Vicki of a friendly, energetic, oversized puppy. She couldn’t help grinning back at him.

“Well,” Vicki asked, “are there enough airplanes around here to suit you?”

“There sure are. I’d have taken any kind of job, even sweeping the place out, just to be around planes. And I can’t thank you enough for getting this one for me.”

Just then the dour foreman reappeared.

“Oh, Van,” Joey said eagerly, “I want you to meet Miss Vicki Barr. She’s a Federal stewardess and—” he added, his eyes shining, “a pilot.”

Van mumbled an acknowledgment of the introduction. “Don’t take too long a break, boy,” he said to Joey. “Ed will need you on his cart to meet the three-fifty flight from Dallas.”

The foreman nodded briskly to Vicki and walked off. Vicki looked after his wooden, uniformed figure. Was he naturally chilly, or just a nose-to-the-grindstone type? Oh, well! It really didn’t matter. She’d probably never see him again. She turned her attention back to Joey.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a pilot”—she smiled—“whatever you may think.”

Joey’s face wrinkled up in a grin. “Anyone who can fly is pretty big in my book.” He pointed to an area of concrete strip between the warehouse and a service hangar next door. “See that Beech sitting over there?”

A small, twin-engine Beechcraft stood on the strip. The cowling had been removed from one of her engine nacelles and a man stood on a step-ladder tinkering with the motor.

“That’s Steve Miller,” Joey said. “He’s a charter pilot here at the field, and he’s promised to teach me to fly.”

“Why, that’s wonderful!” Vicki exclaimed, her eyes twinkling with pleasure. She knew that being able to fly was the most important thing in the boy’s life.

“Steve’s the best,” Joey went on enthusiastically. “So’s Van Lasher—he’s the fellow I introduced you to just now. Gosh! Everybody around this airport is pretty swell.”

“You just naturally like everybody that has anything to do with airplanes, don’t you, Joey?”

“I sure do,” he admitted. “Say, Miss Vicki, how long did it take you to solo? Were you nervous the first time?”

Vicki smiled. “See here, young man, if we start talking flying you’ll never get back to work.”

“I guess you’re right,” the boy said, laughing. “It wouldn’t do to lose this job, now that I’m getting ready to be a fly boy for real.”

Vicki said good-by and promised to look Joey up again. Then she walked back to the airport building.

Even though it had become a common, everyday sight to her, an airport waiting room never failed to fascinate Vicki. And this one at Tampa was particularly interesting. Passengers from incoming planes carried heavy coats that they had worn when they had left the northern winter weather. Sometimes friends, tanned and wearing gay-colored sports clothes, were waiting to greet them.

Through the big picture window She could see the air taxis waiting at one end of the field. Anyone who wished to fly across Tampa Bay to Clearwater or St. Petersburg, or across the Caribbean to Cuba or Mexico, could charter a plane like the one Joey’s instructor—Steve Miller—flew. Everything seemed so easygoing and carefree here, Vicki thought, in this sun-kissed land where the breeze was scented with the perfume of flowers.

She stopped at the Federal reservations counter where she had left her bag, picked it up, and then went out the building’s main entrance to look for a taxi.

Twenty minutes later the taxi pulled up at the Curtins’ home, and Vicki, carrying her bag and topcoat, stepped out. She stopped for a moment, after she had paid her fare, to look at the dignified old house. It was red brick, old-fashioned and comfortable-looking, surrounded by a close-clipped lawn and rambling flower gardens. Two tall palm trees flanked it on either side. She opened the iron gate and walked down a flagstone path to the front door.

Before she could ring the bell, the door flew open and there stood Louise, looking more grownup than Vicki remembered her, with her dark hair done up in a chignon and a big smile of welcome on her beautiful, delicately tanned face. Louise had written that she was doing social work, but Vicki found it hard to believe that this lovely, vivacious girl could confine her energies to anything so unglamorous.

“Vicki! How wonderful to see you again!” Louise hugged her and then stepped back and appraised her. “You’ve changed!”

Vicki laughed. “It’s pretty wonderful to see you, too. But you don’t have to sound so accusing. You’ve changed yourself!”

“You’re so poised now, Vicki, and so très chic in that lovely blue uniform. I remember you used to be shy.”

“Still shy sometimes, and I’m très delighted to be at your house. You were darling to ask me. Are you actually a social worker these days? You, our southern belle?”

“Only a volunteer, whenever the agency needs me. But tell me—”

A tall, slim figure ran lightly down a broad staircase at the end of the entrance hall.

“That’s enough of this college reunion stuff, Louise. Introduce your kid sister!”

Louise laughed, apologized, and introduced Nina. Nina managed to tell Vicki, all in one breath, that she was only a year younger than Louise, had left college to take a fashion job in a Tampa dress shop, and thought flight stewardesses “have the most glamorous job in the world.” When Vicki said her job involved some serious know-how about aviation and practical nursing, and dealing with people in general—and was not entirely glamorous—Nina refused to believe it.

“Sheer glamour,” she insisted. “Even better than being an actress. I’m sure of it.”

Louise looked amused and suggested that they had better invite their guest into the house. The girls showed Vicki to the guest room upstairs and waited, chattering about the plans they’d made for her, while she unpacked the few things she had brought with her and changed from her flight uniform into a bright cotton afternoon dress.

“Better bring more dresses on your next flight,” Nina warned. “You’ll need them for parties and going out.”

They went back downstairs to the living room, which in late afternoon was filled with cool shadows and perfumed with the fresh scent of flowers wafted in through the open windows.

“I’ll fix us something cool to drink,” Nina said, and disappeared. A few minutes later she reappeared with a tall, frosty pitcher of lemonade and three glasses on a tray.

“What does your sister do, Vicki?” Nina wanted to know. “College? Career? Romance?”

Vicki explained that Ginny was still in high school, and that her plans for the future kept changing from day to day as some new idea took her fancy.

Louise wanted to hear news about The Castle, the big rambling home of Vicki’s family in Fairview, Illinois, which got its name from the fact that its tower and balcony really did resemble a castle, and which Louise had visited as often as she could when she and Vicki were classmates at State University. She asked about Mrs. Barr’s rock garden; Freckles, the Barr spaniel; and what news Professor Barr brought home from the university. Vicki answered the torrent of questions as best she could, for it had been several weeks since she had been home.

The three girls chattered on and on without noticing the time, and were surprised when a cheerful male voice broke into their conversation:

“Well, where is she? Where’s the little flier?”

A gray-haired man of medium height stood in the doorway to the room. He was dressed in a dark-blue business suit and wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses.

“Dad!” Louise cried, jumping up.

Vicki got to her feet and went forward, smiling, to take Mr. Curtin’s outstretched hand. He was just the sort of father she’d expected Louise to have—a substantial businessman, soft-spoken, cheerful, cordial, good-humored. The smile he gave Vicki in return was the very essence of southern hospitality.

“It’s nice of you to take in a stranger,” Vicki said.

“You won’t be a stranger in Tampa very long, Vicki,” Mr. Curtin answered. “We’ll see to that, won’t we, girls?”

He sat down and lighted a cigarette.

“You came to town at just the right time,” he said, exhaling a spiral of smoke that drifted upward and hung in a golden ray of late afternoon sunlight which slanted in through a window. “You’ll be here for the Gasparilla Pirate Festival.”

“Dad’s on the committee,” Nina said excitedly. “He’s going to be a pirate. And Louise and I are going to be señoritas.”

Vicki smiled mischievously. “I’m afraid you don’t look like a pirate to me, Mr. Curtin.”

“You just wait until you see me in a big, black beard, a patch over one eye, and a bandanna tied around my head. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“Dad looks simply ferocious.” Louise grinned. “Why, he even frightens me!”

The four were talking and laughing gaily when the housekeeper came in to announce dinner. Mrs. Tucker was a large, comfortable-looking woman, with gray hair rolled into a knot on top of her head and wearing a crisply starched white dress. They followed her into the dining room and seated themselves at the table.

“I’m sorry Mother isn’t here to meet you, Vicki,” Louise said, as the housekeeper served the steaming dishes of food, “but she got a wire the other day saying that Grandma was ill, and she flew out to Oregon to see her.”

“Vicki will meet her when she returns,” Mr. Curtin said. “For I trust, young lady,” he said to Vicki, “that you will consider this your home whenever you are in Tampa.”

The pleasant conversation continued as they leisurely ate the delicious dinner. Inevitably it returned to the coming festival.

“One of the stewardesses was talking about it before we left New York,” Vicki said. “She said it was a sort of Mardi Gras, but that’s about all I know.”

“It’s an old tradition with us,” Mr. Curtin explained. “I think you might be interested in how it all started.”

“I certainly would,” Vicki answered. “It sounds intriguing.”

“Well, about two hundred years ago, in 1783 to be exact, an officer in the Spanish Navy named José Gaspar mutinied and seized his warship the _Florida Blanca_. Then he turned pirate, changed his name to Gasparilla, meaning Little Gaspar, and began to prey on the merchant ships of all nations. He made his headquarters in the islands around Tampa Bay, and whenever a merchantman came by, he rushed out, captured it, killed the crew, stole the cargo, and then burned the ship.”

“And this cutthroat is the patron rogue of Tampa,” Nina put in. “Louise thinks it’s too disgraceful.”

“Oh, really, Nina. I never said quite that—”

Mr. Curtin laughed as he went on with the story.

“Be that as it may, old Gasparilla’s luck held out for thirty-eight years. Then, one day in 1821, he made a fatal mistake. He pounced on a lone brig which he thought was an unarmed merchantman, but it turned out to be an American warship, the U.S.S. Enterprise. And Gasparilla’s goose was cooked. Within minutes, his ship was a mass of flames.”

“So the Navy finally captured him?”

“Not Gasparilla! The old devil wrapped a heavy iron chain around his waist and leaped into the sea, still brandishing his cutlass.”

“And now Daddy is going to be a lovely, bloodthirsty pirate too,” Nina said impishly.

Mr. Curtin smiled. “I’d better tell Vicki the rest of the story before she thinks we’re all crazy down here. You see,” he continued, “since Gasparilla had made Tampa Bay his headquarters, we decided to use him as an excuse for a mid-winter festival and a week of fun. A group of Tampa businessmen formed an organization called Ye Mystic Krewe. You spell Krewe with a capital K and an e on the end. And aside from Festival Week, we’re as sedate as any Rotary Club.”

“You’re not very sedate when you capture Tampa,” Louise said.

“No,” Mr. Curtin admitted with a grin, “I’m afraid that for that particular week we turn into little boys again playing pirate. A few years ago we raised the money to build a full-rigged sailing ship, an exact replica of Gasparilla’s Florida Blanca. On Monday morning—this year it will be February tenth—we all dress up in pirate costumes, sail the José Gasparilla up the Bay, and capture Tampa. Then, for the rest of the week, everybody has fun—dancing in the streets, balls, torchlight parades. Then, on Saturday, we sail away and give Tampa a chance to catch its breath until next year.”

Vicki’s eyes were shining with excitement as Louise’s father finished his story.

“It does sound like fun! I just can’t wait!”

“Nina and I are going to ride on one of the floats in the big torchlight parade,” Louise said, her own eyes Sparkling. “We’ll be all dressed up like Spanish señoritas, in mantillas, shawls, red dresses ...”

“And red roses clutched in our pearly teeth,” Nina insisted.

“Why can’t I be a señorita too?” Vicki demanded. “That is”—and her face fell at the thought that she might miss the fun—“if we’re not in New York that day.”

“Whoever heard of a blond, blue-eyed señorita?” Mr. Curtin teased.

“I have,” Nina said. “In the north of Spain—”

“Dad,” Louise interrupted, “tell Vicki about the old Spanish doubloons.”

Mr. Curtin explained that a collection of ancient gold coins, gathered together from all over the world, was currently on display at a museum in New York.

“And since pirates and old gold coins seem to go hand in hand,” he continued, “we thought it would be an added attraction for the Festival if we could put them on display here in the Royal Palms Hall during Gasparilla Week. So I wrote New York, and it turned out we were in luck. The exhibit is scheduled to close in New York just a few days before our Festival opens. And they agreed to let us exhibit them. So at least one part of the Gasparilla Festival will be authentic this year. Ye Mystic Krewe may be counterfeit pirates, but those gold coins will be the real thing. Very real indeed!”

The table talk drifted to other subjects—the Florida beaches, the Florida sun, Vicki’s and Louise’s school days at State University. And after dinner, Vicki and the two Curtin girls took a short walk along the moonlit, palm-lined streets.

Later, when Vicki had said good night and slipped into bed, she realized that the excitement of the day—seeing a romantic new city and meeting an old friend—had made her pleasantly tired. She dropped off to sleep almost as soon as her blond hair touched the cool linen pillow. And her dreams were filled with visions of pirate ships and pirate gold.

CHAPTER II
A Strange Trip

THREE MORNINGS LATER VICKI, CATHY, AND Johnny Baker strolled across the concrete apron in front of Gate Five at Idlewild to board the ship for their return run to Tampa. Today the skies were clear, but the wind blowing across the huge airfield carried the crisp, cold bite of winter, and small snowdrifts were still piled up against the heavy wire fencing that enclosed the passenger area.

“Where’s Captain March?” Vicki asked Johnny. “He’s late this morning, and that’s not like him.”

“Captain’s already on board,” the copilot said. “He boarded her in the hangar.”

“What’s the matter?” Cathy laughed. “Doesn’t he trust the ground crew to see that she’s ready to fly?”

“Don’t ask me,” Johnny replied, grinning good-naturedly, “I’m just the copilot. I take over the controls when the captain tells me to and I don’t ask questions. Then one of these days, if I’m a good boy, I’ll be a captain myself. I’ll know all the answers, but of course I won’t tell them to the rest of the crew. So there’s no use asking me anything—not now or a couple of years from now when I’ve got another stripe on my sleeve and am sitting up there in the captain’s seat.”

“You’re a big help,” Cathy scoffed.

“I told you I was,” Johnny said.

As the three entered the plane from the landing ramp, Captain March emerged from the flight deck, followed by a stocky man wearing a blue business suit under a light-gray topcoat.

“This is Mr. Jones,” he said, making the introductions. “Miss Barr, Miss Solms—Mr. Baker.”

Mr. Jones nodded briefly to each of the crew members in turn.

“Mr. Jones is making the flight with us,” the captain explained. Then he said to Mr. Jones: “Just take any seat you like, sir. These young ladies will see that you get anything you want.”

Mr. Jones removed his topcoat, handed it to Cathy, and sat down in an aisle seat opposite the door. He took a folded newspaper from his jacket pocket and began to read. Captain March and Johnny Baker disappeared through the forward door that led to the flight deck. Cathy had carried Mr. Jones’s topcoat to the wardrobe amidships. Vicki followed her down the aisle.

“It looks as if something’s up,” she said in a low voice.

“I don’t go to the movies for nothing,” Cathy remarked. “That Mr. Jones has ‘cop’ written all over him. We must be carrying something pretty important today. A shipment of diamonds, maybe, or gold.”

Gold! Suddenly Vicki remembered the antique gold coins that were being sent from the New York museum to the Pirate Festival in Tampa. Could they possibly have them on board this flight? That could account for Mr. Jones and the captain riding the ship out from the hangar. And especially if, as Cathy had suggested, Mr. Jones had “cop” written all over him. Oh, well—! She shrugged off the thought. If they were carrying a shipment of gold, she’d never know about it.

Vicki looked at the passenger list which she still had under her arm. There was Mr. Jones’s name all right, along with an assortment of other typical American names: Smith, Cooper, Levin, Carpenter, Fagan, Morris ... One name caught her eye. She pointed it out to Cathy.

“F. R. Eaton-Smith. My, that sounds important. Who do you suppose he could be?”

“Sounds English,” Cathy commented. “But let’s go. Here they come.”

An attendant had opened the wire gate, and now the passengers for the flight were streaming across the apron to the loading ramp. Vicki stood by the plane’s open doorway, the passenger list in her hand, and checked off the names one by one as the passengers entered.

“You are Mr.—?”

“Cooper.”

Vicki made a check beside his name.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Cooper. You’re bound for Atlanta.”

Atlanta was their one stop en route to Tampa. Vicki studied the man’s face quickly but carefully. Part of her job was to make her passengers feel welcome on board by remembering their names. The man walked down the aisle and took a seat by a window.

One by one the passengers filed through the doorway. An elderly couple. A woman with a little girl. A young man and woman in their early twenties who displayed all the familiar outward appearances of being honeymooners. The next man had a distinguished air about him. He was portly, dignified, well-dressed. His rimless glasses were so highly polished that Vicki could not see his eyes behind them, only brilliant reflections of sunlight.

“I am Mr. Eaton-Smith.” His voice was as dignified as his appearance.

So this was F. R. Eaton-Smith! His appearance certainly fitted his name. She turned to the next passenger.

He was a thin, frail old man, wearing a battered felt hat over his badly trimmed gray hair and a shabby overcoat with a frayed collar. He clutched a battered violin case under his arm, as though he had been unwilling to trust it with the rest of the luggage in the cargo compartment. He certainly didn’t look, Vicki thought, like a man who was accustomed to first-class air travel.

“Good morning,” Vicki said brightly. “Your name, sir?”

The old gentleman looked startled. “I—I’m Amos Tytell, miss.” He looked around the big cabin. “Where—uh, which seat is mine?”

“Take any seat you like, Mr. Tytell,” Vicki said. “But if you want to look at the scenery, I’d suggest that you sit next to a window. We’re going to have clear weather all the way.”

Finally the last of the passengers trooped aboard. The door was closed, the landing ramp wheeled away by the ground crew, and Captain March started his engines. One by one the big, four-bladed propellers whined as they turned over slowly, then coughed and spat small puffs of blue exhaust smoke and suddenly burst into a steady roar, the revolving blades making bright, shiny disks that gleamed and sparkled in the morning sun. The big ship vibrated with the pounding of the air stream against her sides and strained at the wheel brakes like a race horse impatient for the start. At last Captain March taxied out to the end of the runway, waited for his signal from the tower, and when he got it, gunned the ship down the concrete strip and lifted her into the air as smoothly and gently as a bird.

Once the airplane was off the ground and droning up to cruising altitude, and the No Smoking—Fasten Seat Belts sign had blinked out, Vicki and Cathy made their way up and down the aisle, chatting with their passengers, offering them chewing gum and magazines, and doing everything they could to make them comfortable and put them at their ease.

Mr. Eaton-Smith interested Vicki particularly. Maybe, she thought, it was his curious double name with the hyphen in the middle. Now, with his hat off, she could see that his large Roman-looking head was a little bald on top. And Vicki was again impressed by his air of dignity. When she came to his aisle seat, she said politely:

“Anything I can get for you, Mr. Eaton-Smith? A cup of coffee? A magazine perhaps?”

Mr. Eaton-Smith smiled. It was a curiously mechanical smile—polite but certainly not warm or cordial.

“No, thank you.” Then he added: “I think we’ll have a pleasant flight today.”

“Yes,” Vicki said. “Clear skies all the way. I can see that you’re a veteran air traveler, sir.”

Mr. Eaton-Smith seem flattered. “Yes, I think I might call myself that—since I’ve flown just about all over this globe of ours.”

“Oh?” Vicki said. “Are you a foreign correspondent? A writer?”

Mr. Eaton-Smith beamed. “No, but you’re close. I’m a travel lecturer, and I operate a small travel agency in Tampa. Just to have a sort of headquarters, as you might say.”

“Just ring if there’s anything I can do for you,” Vicki said.

“I certainly will, and thank you.”

The frail old man sitting across the aisle from Mr. Eaton-Smith was certainly not a veteran air traveler. Vicki could tell that at a glance. He actually looked frightened as he sat tensely in his seat, still wearing his overcoat and with his violin case clutched between his knees. A breath-taking panorama was unfolding just below the window next to which he was sitting. But he was paying no attention to it, staring intently at the back of the seat in front of him.

“Are you feeling all right, sir?” Vicki asked gently. “May I take your overcoat?”

“No—no, thank you, miss. I—I’m cold.”

Vicki bent over him anxiously. Why, this man was half fainting!

“Are you feeling ill, sir?”

“Hungry,” he whispered.

“Just a minute.”

Vicki hurried to the galley. Obviously, Mr. Tytell could not wait until lunch was served. She placed a sandwich and a cup of coffee on a tray and carried it back to the old man.

“There,” she said. “That should make you feel better.”

He was so exhausted, or so nervous or ill, that his thin, heavily veined hands shook, and Vicki had to help him hold his coffee cup. She did not attempt to talk to him as he ate. When he had finished, he smiled at Vicki gratefully.

“I feel better now.”

“That’s good. But why did you let yourself grow so weak?” She knew it was against the rules to ask personal questions, but she felt a genuine concern for this frail old man. “You didn’t have breakfast, did you?”

“No.” A tremor seemed to pass over his face.

And what a sensitive face it was, Vicki thought. She had known musicians before. She knew what dreamy, impractical people most of the old ones were. Was this man starving? His suit coat, underneath his overcoat, was worn and threadbare. His thin, gray hair looked as though it hadn’t been cut in months. His ticket showed that he was going to Tampa.

“The Florida sunshine will do you a lot of good, Mr. Tytell. Are you visiting your family in Tampa, or friends?”

He raised his weak, pale-blue eyes to hers. “All the family I have is my grandson. And he’s in—in a school in New York. Yes, I’m going to visit friends.” He hesitated and grew silent.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Vicki said hastily. “It’s a long flight and I just thought you’d like to talk. But now perhaps we’d better wait till after lunch.” She looked at her watch. “That won’t be long now, and you can have a good hot meal.”

She removed the tray from his lap and started to walk away, but the old violinist plucked at her sleeve.

“Please don’t leave, miss. I’m glad of a chance to talk. You don’t know how lonesome I am. And you’re the first kind person ...”

The eyes in his worn face were pleading. Vicki sat down in the empty seat beside him. Poor, frightened little scarecrow of a man!

She touched the violin case. “You must be a musician,” she said encouragingly.

“This isn’t a very good instrument. Just an old fiddle. I had to sell my good violin to pay for—” Again his voice broke off and he fell silent.

“You’ll be in Tampa just in time for the Gasparilla Festival,” Vicki said, trying to cheer the old gentleman up.

“The—the what?”

“The Pirate Festival. Didn’t you hear about it when you planned this trip? It’s the gayest time of the whole year.”

The old man sighed. “It isn’t as if I had exactly planned this trip.”

“Why, it sounds as if you didn’t want to go to Tampa at all, Mr. Tytell!”

“But if I—” The old man’s voice sounded scared. For an instant he closed his tired eyes. “I’m talking too much. Excuse me, miss.”

Vicki got up.

“Miss, what’s your name?”

“Victoria Barr. But all my friends call me Vicki.”

“Thank you, Vicki.” Mr. Tytell relaxed in his seat and closed his eyes.

As Vicki turned to go down the aisle to the galley, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Mr. Eaton-Smith, from his seat across the way, was looking at her and Mr. Tytell with a curious interest. The next moment, the dignified gentleman turned his attention again to the magazine he had been reading.

Now it was time for lunch, and Vicki and Cathy had their hands full preparing lunches for the more than sixty passengers who were on the flight today.

She glanced out a window. The ship was flying above Virginia now, where scattered white patches of snow were melting in the brown fields. Soon they would be approaching the green fields of the Carolinas. There wasn’t much time to get the passengers fed. Vicki forgot everything in her concentration on her job.

Vicki worked her way up the aisle of the plane serving the luncheons, carrying one tray at a time, making sure that each passenger had a cushion on his lap upon which to rest it, inquiring whether he would care for coffee or tea. When she came to Mr. Eaton-Smith’s seat, she noticed that he had moved across the aisle and was now sitting next to old Mr. Tytell. The old man was dozing, his eyes closed. Mr. Eaton-Smith put a finger to his lips.

“This gentleman seemed to be ill,” he whispered. “I thought I had better move over here and see if there was anything I could do for him.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Vicki said, as she placed Mr. Eaton-Smith’s lunch tray on his lap. Old Mr. Tytell’s eyes fluttered, and their glance caught Vicki’s for a split second. They looked like a begging puppy dog’s eyes, she thought.

In a few minutes she had brought the tray for the old man and helped him steady it on his lap. He picked up a fork and began to toy listlessly with his food, keeping his eyes fixed upon his plate.

Back in the galley, cleaning up the remains of the lunch, Vicki couldn’t get her mind free of the shabby old man.

Promptly on schedule, Captain March circled his plane over Tampa and landed.

The mysterious Mr. Jones was the first person to get off when the ground crew pushed the landing ramp up to the door. He spoke briefly to one of the crewmen on the ground, and the two of them stepped around to the tail of the plane, next to the baggage-compartment door.

Then Vicki saw the rest of her passengers off the ship and said good-by to each one as he was leaving.

“I hope you had a pleasant trip, Mrs. Peterson. Ride with us again, Mr. Levin. Good-by, Mr. Harper.”

She saw old Mr. Tytell coming toward her, still clutching his battered violin case. Close behind him was Mr. Eaton-Smith.

“Good-by, sir. Have a pleasant stay in Tampa.”

“Good— good-by, Miss Barr.” He glanced back over his shoulder for a moment in the direction of his seat, and when his eyes returned to Vicki they held an odd, hopeless look. “Thank you again.”

Behind him, Mr. Eaton-Smith was visibly impatient at the delay. He brushed against the old violinist’s shoulder, and Mr. Tytell, feeling the slight pressure, lowered his head and seemed almost to scurry through the exit door.

Speaking mechanically to the other passengers as they left, Vicki kept an eye on the tired old man as he went down the ramp and across the apron, Mr. Eaton-Smith following at his elbow. She wondered who was going to meet Amos Tytell. But he walked straight on through a group of people who were obviously waiting to greet incoming friends and was soon swallowed up in the crowd.

With the last of the passengers gone, Vicki and Cathy went rapidly through the big cabin on a final inspection tour. The empty seats were reclined at all angles; pillows, magazines, and newspapers were scattered over them in confusion. At one seat she picked up a small package that had been forgotten. She’d take it to the Lost-and-Found desk in the terminal building.

In the seat that old Mr. Tytell had occupied something peculiar caught her eye. It was a Tampa visitor’s guide, part of the travel literature and other reading matter carried in the plane’s seat pockets. But it was folded in the shape of a sort of pyramid and was standing upright on the seat.

“Odd,” Vicki thought, and reached over to pick it up. As she did so, she noticed that the exposed page was an advertisement for a restaurant located in Ybor City, Tampa’s old Latin Quarter. The restaurant was called the Granada, and under the name was the slogan: “The liveliest and most popular meeting place in Tampa’s famed Ybor City.”

The words “meeting place” were underlined by a wavery pencil scrawl!

Had the old man left this as a signal? She remembered his furtive over-the-shoulder glance as he was leaving the plane. Maybe he had a job at the Granada playing in the orchestra. But why hadn’t he come straight out and said so? Vicki wrinkled her pretty brows in a puzzled frown. Was something strange going on here? Or was she just imagining things?

She tucked the folder into her jacket pocket and went on with her work.

CHAPTER III
An Odd Offer

VICKI SAID GOOD-BY TO CAPTAIN MARCH, JOHNNY, and Cathy and strolled leisurely through the air terminal waiting room, watching the milling crowds of people which always fascinated her. One could certainly pick out the “Yankees” who had just come in, she thought. Their northern winter pallor contrasted sharply with the deep sun-browned skins of the local residents. It suddenly struck Vicki that she was a “Yankee” herself. “I’ll have to go to the beach and start working on my own sun tan,” she thought, “the first time I have a day off.”

A rack of colorful picture post cards caught her eye. Gosh! Here it was her second trip to Florida and she hadn’t sent a single card! That was the first thing any respectable Florida visitor did!

She selected a dozen of the most exotic cards, those that depicted wide sandy beaches, palm-lined streets, the moonlight over Tampa Bay, and the José Gasparilla sailing up the Bay with hundreds of bright pennants flying from its masts and its deck crowded with Ye Mystic Krewe.

Leaning on the counter, she addressed one to her father, one to her mother, one to Ginny (who adored getting mail in her own name), one to Bill Avery, and one to each of the girls who shared her apartment in New York.

Then, just for fun, she addressed one to Mr. Curtin, to Nina and to Louise. On each of these last three, she wrote: “I’m so glad to be here. Love, Vicki.”

She bought stamps from a machine on the counter, mailed the cards in a postal drop nearby, and strolled on to the main door to hail a taxi.

On her way, she passed the terminal snack bar. An ice-cream soda, it suddenly occurred to her, would taste just about right on a hot day like this. She pushed open the swinging glass doors and entered the dim, air-conditioned room.

The first person she saw was Joey Watson, sitting in one of the booths. She started toward him, then checked herself when she saw that another man was sitting in the seat opposite him. Vicki decided not to intrude in what probably was “man talk.” She slipped into the next booth, with her back to the man who was sitting with Joey.

Vicki decided not to intrude

The man was speaking in a low voice, but it was deep-toned and resonant. The man spoke with a soft Spanish accent, and had a peculiar, almost indiscernible, lisp. Since he was separated from Vicki only by a thin plywood partition, she couldn’t help hearing every word he said. She paid no attention to the conversation, and ordered her soda from the waitress.

Then a sentence caught her ear.

“... and you’re such a nice kid, Joey, that I want to help you. You’re smart and ambitious, and I like to help boys like you.”

“But why should you want to help me?” Joey’s voice was puzzled. “You never saw me before. And— Why, I don’t even know your name.”

“Now that does surprise me a little, Joey. With all the business I do with Federal Airlines, I’m surprised you don’t know the name of Raymond Duke.”

“I—I think I have seen your name on cargo consignments,” Joey said hesitantly.

“Sure you have, kid,” the man said. “I’m one of the biggest importers in Tampa. And you can bet that I’ve heard about Joey Watson. Your boss, Van— Van— What’s his name—?”

“Van Lasher.”

“Sure. Van Lasher says you’re the smartest man he’s got. He tells me you’re saving up for flying lessons, and that you need money real bad. Well, I can fix that, kid. If you work for me, I can put a lot of money your way.”

Vicki’s ears pricked up. This conversation was certainly taking a curious turn! Now she began listening intently, careful to catch every word. She felt responsible for Joey Watson, and the proposition this man seemed to be trying to make to him sounded mighty strange indeed!

“Now in my business,” the man went on, “I can always use a smart boy. Think you’d like to work for me? I pay mighty well.”

“Gee, Mr. Duke,” Joey said, “I’ve already got a good job. I like to work around airplanes, and I’m already starting to take flying lessons. Or I’ll be starting—any day now. No—thanks a lot—but I don’t think I’d like to leave the airline.”

“Who said anything about leaving the airline, kid? What I want you to do is work for me in your spare time—do odd jobs, run errands, things like that. Why, I’ve got a job coming up that will pay you— How does a hundred dollars sound?”

“A hundred dollars!” Joey almost shouted.

“Not so loud, boy! Not so loud!” the man cautioned. “I don’t go around offering good jobs to everybody I see. I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry pestering me for work. This is confidential. Just between you and me.”

“Gee,” Joey said, “I—I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? A hundred smackers would sure pay for a lot of flying lessons, boy. At the rate you’re going, you’ll be an old man before you get your pilot’s license. Look, Joey, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You agree to work for me, and I’ll give you twenty-five bucks in advance.”

Vicki heard the man flip some crisp bills.

“Look at that, kid. That’s just to show I trust you. And there’s plenty more where that came from!”

“Gosh, Mr. Duke, I’ll have to think it over.”