The Silver Ring Mystery

The Cherry Ames Stories

• Cherry Ames, Student Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Senior Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Army Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Chief Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Flight Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Veterans’ Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Private Duty Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Visiting Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Cruise Nurse
• Cherry Ames at Spencer
• Cherry Ames, Night Supervisor
• Cherry Ames, Mountaineer Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Clinic Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Dude Ranch Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Rest Home Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Country Doctor’s Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Boarding School Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Department Store Nurse
• Cherry Ames, Camp Nurse
• Cherry Ames at Hilton Hospital

The Vicki Barr Flight Stewardess Series

• Silver Wings for Vicki
• Vicki Finds the Answer
• The Hidden Valley Mystery
• The Secret of Magnolia Manor
• The Clue of the Broken Blossom
• Behind the White Veil
• The Mystery at Hartwood House
• Peril Over the Airport
• The Mystery of the Vanishing Lady
• The Search for the Missing Twin
• The Ghost at the Waterfall
• The Clue of the Gold Coin
• The Silver Ring Mystery

“And of course I kept the ring,” Lucy said softly

THE VICKI BARR FLIGHT STEWARDESS SERIES

THE SILVER
RING MYSTERY

BY HELEN WELLS

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
New York

© BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1960

All Rights Reserved

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

The author acknowledges with thanks the generous co-operation of the Eastern Region Stewardess Division of American Airlines and Miss Mary Cody and Miss Joan McGuckin, Supervisors of Stewardesses, for the information given in the preparation of this book.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
Aboard the Electra

“That’s why,” Vicki explained to her family, “the Electra is so challenging. Mary Carter warned us stewardesses, while she was retraining us for the Electra, that this beauty flies so fast there’s hardly time to get all our jobs done.”

“You mean it’s a hard assignment, don’t you?” said Ginny. She was fourteen, and Vicki’s younger sister.

Their mother, Betty Barr, said, “I’m sure if I had your job on a jet-prop—Or is it a jet? Which is it, Lewis?”

Professor Barr looked amused. “You know perfectly well. The all-jet without propellers,” he said, “the Boeing 707, is used more for long hauls—nonstop coast to coast, or across oceans. The Electra 188, with jet engines and propellers, is used mainly for intercity travel. I trust I have the facts correct, Victoria.”

He smiled at Vicki who looked so much like him—fair hair, light-blue eyes, the thoughtful Barr gaze—that it was a family joke.

“Well, anyhow,” said Vicki’s mother, “if I had to get sixty-eight passengers safely on, off, and fed, in two hours—Whew!”

“Fortunately I’m not going to have to do everything all by myself,” Vicki answered. “Jean Cox and I will work the New York-Chicago-San Francisco run together on the Electra.”

They were having a leisurely early lunch at home, at The Castle, before Vicki started out for Chicago. It was Thursday, February twelfth, Lincoln’s Birthday, an appropriate day to be in Lincoln’s state, Illinois. The holiday explained why Mr. Barr was not teaching at nearby State University that day. The holiday did not account for Vicki’s presence at home. As a flight stewardess, she often worked on holidays.

Vicki popped in and out of The Castle between assignments, whenever she could. That wasn’t often. Perhaps now that Federal Airlines was transferring her to the Electra and one of its transcontinental runs, she might be lucky enough to see her family more often.

Her mother was wondering about the same thing. “Will your being based in San Francisco mean that we won’t see much of you?”

Vicki went over her schedule again with her family. She and Jean Cox would fly regularly with the same crew on the New York-Chicago-San Francisco run, and return flight. They would have at least an overnight stop in Chicago, and some rest days in New York and San Francisco, “mostly in San Francisco where our plane will be serviced.” Also, since passenger traffic was sometimes heavier in the East, Vicki and Jean would occasionally fly the New York-Chicago and Chicago-New York “turn-around” run. The fast cruising speed of the Electra—up to five hundred miles per hour—made these schedules possible.

“Anyway, I’ll be in and out of Chicago,” Vicki told her family. “If I haven’t time to run down to Fairview to see you, maybe you’ll drive up to Chicago to see me?”

“I’ll come up,” her mother promised. “Now if you don’t start for Chicago, young lady, the Electra may take off for New York without you.”

“Heaven forbid! I’ve been studying, practicing, and dreaming jet-props!” So had her stewardess friends, so had pilots and navigators—all of them had been training intensively for the new aircraft at Federal Airlines’ schools in New York and Texas. “I wouldn’t miss today for anything!”

Her family drove Vicki to the Fairview station in plenty of time for the noon train to Chicago. Freckles, their spaniel, sensed Vicki’s excitement and ran around the platform so wildly that for safety they had to lock him in the car.

“Do you think, dear,” Mrs. Barr asked Vicki, “that you’ll meet any especially interesting people on this new plane?”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

They could hear the train coming. In another minute it pounded in alongside the platform. Vicki’s mother and sister hugged her. “Good luck! See you soon!” Mr. Barr picked up her overnight kit, helped her aboard the train, and found her a seat. He bent over to kiss her.

“You look mighty little to be flying coast to coast, Victoria.”

“I feel like an eagle in the sky—you know, the words of the spiritual? Dad! The train’s starting to move!”

He got off, and then her family was waving to her, and the train slid quickly out of the station. She was on her way.

By three o’clock Vicki was in Chicago, and a little before four she reached Midway Airport. That allowed comfortably for an hour’s preflight ground duties before departure time at five P.M. In the stewardesses’ lounge, Vicki changed into her blue uniform and cap, then picked up her topcoat, purse, and overnight kit. She walked over to the operations area where she initialed the crew check-in sheet, wrote in the time, and noticed that Jean Cox had signed in five minutes ago.

Vicki found Captain Jordan in the busy meteorologist’s room. Jean was there, too.

“Good afternoon, Captain Jordan—Jean. Reporting in for our very first Electra flight!”

The pilot, a graying, solidly built man in blue uniform, smiled at her and Jean grinned. Jean Cox looked like a good-natured imp, with her cropped brown hair and twinkling eyes. Vicki knew that her fellow stewardess, despite the elfish grin, was absolutely reliable—just as their million-mile Captain Tom Jordan was a rock of strength. He told his two stewardesses:

“Dan McGovern will be our copilot, and Chuck Smith our navigator. Good men, both of them. I expect the five of us will work together fine as a unit. Now, then—”

Captain Jordan gave Vicki and Jean the flight plan and briefed them on the route and the flight conditions for this trip. Vicki knew that the passengers who asked questions about the flight might include anyone from a businessman who flew his own private plane to an aviation engineer, so she listened carefully. The pilot planned to fly above the day’s overcast, at an altitude of around 22,000 feet. “Our cruising speed will be about 400 to 420 miles per hour,” he said.

Captain Jordan then handed Vicki and Jean the Stewardess Briefing Book, which they quickly read and initialed. He answered a couple of questions for them, discussed the ETA—estimated time of arrival—and said, “See you aboard.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Jean, for both of them.

The two girls hurried back to the stewardesses’ lounge. There they prepared the necessary report forms for the trip.

“Do I look all right, Vic?” Jean asked.

They both checked their appearance—a stewardess had to be perfectly groomed and turned out—before leaving the operations area of the building.

They hurried down a flight of stairs into Hangar One. In the vast high shed, Captain Jordan had two men in blue uniform with him. The five of them met beside a DC-7 which a repair crew was tuning up. The engines roared; Captain Jordan had to shout.

“Miss Vicki Barr, Miss Jean Cox, this is our first officer, Dan McGovern—”

The girls shook hands with their copilot, who was a large, quiet, serious-looking man.

“—and our navigator, Chuck Smith.”

Chuck Smith was young, small, and wiry, with an ingratiating grin.

“See you aboard,” they all said.

The two stewardesses went outdoors onto the windy airfield. A little distance away their immense silver Electra stood waiting for them. The plane was 104 feet long with a 99-foot wing span. Its sheer size took their breath away.

Vicki and Jean had forty minutes’ work to do before the passengers came aboard. They had many things to check—it would be just too bad if, once aloft, they discovered there was not enough water for making coffee, or found the ventilation or heating system wasn’t functioning perfectly. Hurrying up and down the long cabin aisle, they took pride in their handsome Electra. Wide reclining chairs were upholstered in blue, in beige, and a few in pumpkin color; the silver-beige walls and curtains and coral-colored carpet harmonized. Vicki took special satisfaction in the semicircular observation lounge with its wide windows in the rear of the plane.

While Jean checked their service kit, all emergency equipment, cabin and lavatory lights, seat belts, and a dozen or more other items, Vicki was busy in the buffet area amidship. The two tall, wide, metal buffets, facing each other, held drawers and compartments for everything she and Jean would need to store, heat, and serve sixty-eight dinners, and to brew gallons of fresh coffee. Vicki found it a big job to check every item. Next, the caterer brought aboard precooked dinners on individual trays, water, bags of coffee, and Vicki checked all items off on her report form. She called through the open service door to the commissary men on the ground:

“We’re short one dinner.” She saw the fueling crew hosing kerosene for the plane’s four jet engines into the storage tanks inside the wings. Daylight was fading; the first of their passengers were gathering behind the wire gate, looking on.

Captain Jordan came aboard and went into the cockpit. In a minute or two his copilot and navigator followed. The cockpit door stood open until departure time; Vicki could see the complex instrument panel, and the three airmen at work with their air maps and weather charts. She turned on the music—a little early, but they all were keyed up about this flight, and it helped to have lilting music fill the cabin.

Twenty minutes later Vicki and Jean were breathless but ready. They repowdered their faces, and smiled expectantly at each other. Jean said:

“I must say you look poised and calm.”

“Calm? Who, me? Well, here’s wishing us good luck.”

Jean said a fervent amen, and then pressed down on the switch which released a folding staircase from the plane to the ground. Slowly the stairs for the passengers’ use dropped down into place. Then Jean took up her post just inside the main entrance door, to greet their passengers. Vicki stood smiling in the aft cabin to greet them and assist them in getting seated.

Mothers with babies and small children straggled aboard first. Vicki directed them to window seats in the quieter locations.

“Miss, will you be able to heat my baby’s bottle?” one mother asked her.

“Yes, I’ll be glad to.”

Vicki turned to a young couple who looked like honeymooners. Their faces shone, and the girl wore flowers. “Welcome aboard,” Vicki said to them, and nearly added, “Congratulations.” She suggested the forward cabin compartment which was smaller and more private.

Most of the passengers, many of them businessmen with brief cases, found seats by themselves in the large main cabin and, beyond the buffet area, in the aft cabin. For several minutes the wide aisle swarmed with people.

“Please be seated,” Vicki said to them as they passed her, “and then I’ll hang up your coats.”

A white-haired, well-dressed couple came very slowly down the aisle. They must be in their mid-sixties, Vicki thought. The elderly woman looked pleasant, but the heavy-set man was scowling and grumbling about something. He had a look of authority, of command.

Vicki went forward to help them. “Good afternoon. Would you like to sit here?”

The man nodded curtly. He helped his wife into the window seat, then placed her hatbox up on the luggage rack.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Vicki, “may I put that hatbox in the closet? It might bounce off the rack during flight, and the sharp corners might hurt somebody.”

The elderly man sat down as if he had not heard her. Then he remarked, “The hatbox can stay where it is.”

Vicki gulped, and said with her sweetest smile, “Yes, of course, if you prefer.” The man’s wife half smiled at her as if to say, “You mustn’t mind.”

CHAPTER II
Vicki Meets the Bryants

All the passengers were aboard now. Jean had closed the main cabin door.

Captain Jordan flashed on the “No Smoking—Fasten Seat Belts” sign. Vicki went up and down the aisle checking to see that passengers had fastened their seat belts. The airplane began to vibrate. She made her welcoming announcement over the plane’s public-address system, adding, “Captain Jordan will keep you informed of flight data en route.” Then both stewardesses found seats—the observation lounge was the only vacant place—and strapped in for the take-off.

Suddenly the Electra was taxiing and in instants they were racing past the end of the runway. Even more suddenly—no wail, no warm-up of the engines—zoom! Whoosh! Up they went!

Jean and Vicki were so amazed that they stared at each other. “Jet engines!” they exclaimed. “Look at our rate of climb! And steep—almost straight up!”

The plane tore into the sky. The “No Smoking—Fasten Seat Belts” sign went off. Here in the cabin there were music, air at a comfortable temperature and pressure, newspapers, magazines, and pillows which Vicki and Jean distributed. The captain’s call button sounded on the board in the buffet area, and he spoke over the plane’s communications system to the two hostesses.

“Everybody comfortable?”

“Yes, Captain,” said Vicki.

“You can tell our passengers we reached our cruising altitude within five minutes after take-off. Anyone especially interesting aboard?”

“We’ll tell you soon, sir,” said Vicki.

The passengers were interested in the Electra and asked questions. With sixty-eight aboard, Vicki and Jean could not stop to visit. But they chatted with the passengers while they set up at each seat the tray tables for dinner and spread linen tablecloths. The white-haired couple, Vicki learned, were Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Bryant. The lady told her this; the elderly man had fallen asleep, as if overtired. One genial man was a movie star, perennially young, even though he had five children. Several passengers recognized him, judging by their interested glances. He asked Vicki several stiff technical questions about the jet-propelled Electra.

From across the aisle a woman touched Vicki’s sleeve. “My two youngsters are getting hungry, I’m afraid. Could you please—?”

“Yes, indeed, we’ll serve dinner soon. And we always serve the children first.”

Vicki made her way along the slightly swaying plane toward the buffet area. She was waylaid by only three passengers on the way. One man wanted to know if there was a razor aboard which he could borrow. There was. A woman asked Vicki how to adjust the individual air vents and reading lights. And a determined-looking man announced to the stewardess that he was a vegetarian.

“Y-yes, sir,” said Vicki, and made her smiling way to the sky kitchen. Once inside the closed accordion curtains, Vicki lost her smile and her face became as desperate as Jean’s, in her struggle with several oven drawers full of turkey dinners.

“Hi,” Jean greeted her. “Better put your smock on, like me. I’m scared we’ll still be serving dinners ten minutes after landing in New York.”

“We’ll do fine,” Vicki said without believing it, and started to make coffee.

“Parsley, parsley, where’s the parsley?” Jean muttered. “Somewhere in this overgrown filing cabinet—oh, yes, here.”

“Can we spare extra rolls for some hungry kids?” Vicki peered in the roll warmer. “Yes, we can.”

She collected nine rolls on a tray, one for each of the children aboard. On her way back to the buffet area with her empty tray, Vicki noticed that something was wrong in the Bryants’ area. Two men passengers were standing over Mr. Bryant, one loosening his collar and tie, and the call button rang. Vicki hurried to them. The people nearby were considerately snuffing out their cigarettes and opening air vents.

“My husband has a heart condition,” Mrs. Bryant said anxiously to Vicki. “I don’t think he’s having a heart attack, but he—”

Vicki concealed her alarm and looked at Mr. Bryant who was lying back weakly in his chair. He was conscious but exhausted, breathing with some difficulty. His face was pale and sweaty.

“Uncomfortable—” he muttered.

“He needs oxygen,” Vicki said. “I’ll get the oxygen bottle, Mrs. Bryant. Is he in any pain?... No? That’s good. I’ll be right back.” To the two men standing by rather uselessly, Vicki said, “Thank you, gentlemen. I am trained to give first aid.”

The men nodded and resumed their seats. Vicki sped to the storage compartment, being careful to look calm for the benefit of the other passengers, and hurried back down the aisle carrying a walk-around oxygen bottle and a blanket. She paused a moment at the buffet area.

“Jean, is there a doctor aboard?”

“Not among my passengers. Who’s sick?”

“That elderly man. Mr. Bryant. Heart condition.”

“Want me to notify Captain Jordan for you?” Jean asked.

“Yes, phone him. I’ll report soon. Please start serving dinners, Jean. We must keep it pleasant aboard just as usual.”

Vicki hastened back to the Bryants. She covered the man with the blanket.

“Miss Barr, I must tell you”—Mrs. Bryant made an effort to control her trembling voice and hands—“that my husband is more exhausted than ill. He had three quite tiring days in Chicago on business, and it’s been hard on him.”

Vicki said soothingly, “Certain people need extra oxygen at high altitudes, where the air is thin. Our cabin air is pressurized, but for someone who is a cardiac, and for other special needs, we carry extra oxygen.”

As she talked, she placed the oxygen bottle on Mr. Bryant’s lap; he was able to hold it steady. Vicki opened the bottle’s knob, then adjusted the constant-flow mask snugly over Mr. Bryant’s mouth and nose.

Almost at once his breathing grew easier. A little color returned to his face. When he seemed comfortable again, Vicki removed the mask and closed the knob. Just the same, she was worried. He was still weak, and he was an elderly person with an impaired heart.

“Mr. Bryant, Mrs. Bryant, if you wish to have a doctor’s care within just a few minutes,” Vicki said earnestly, “we can arrange it for you. The pilot can make an emergency landing. Captain Jordan will radio ahead to the nearest airport to have a doctor and ambulance waiting to meet our plane.”

Mrs. Bryant murmured, “That’s wonderful. What do you think, Marshall?”

“No. Not necessary. Make myself conspicuous. Inconvenience all these people.”

“Not at all, sir,” Vicki said. “Captain Jordan probably will be able to make up the time.”

“No. I’m all right. Only a weak spell. Thank you, anyway.”

Vicki asked respectfully, “Did a doctor give his permission for you to fly, sir?”

“The doctor most certainly did not—” Mrs. Bryant started, but the man interrupted. “Fool doctors would keep me in a rocking chair. I have to do what I think is right.”

Vicki mentioned briefly the regulation for Federal and all airlines: a person with a serious heart condition was not supposed to fly unless he had a doctor’s written permission to do so, on the grounds that the trip was necessary, and unless he had someone to accompany him who could nurse him. The airlines relied on cardiacs not to board a plane without such certification.

“If we had known in advance, Mr. Bryant,” Vicki said, “we would have been obliged to keep you off the plane.”

“Well, you took excellent care of me, young lady. It worked out, didn’t it?”

Mrs. Bryant shook her head. “You are so self-willed, Marshall. So stubborn.”

Vicki turned to her. “The oxygen I gave your husband is only first aid, you know. Do you feel a doctor should see him immediately?”

“Well, I’ve seen him have worse spells than this one—not in the air, either.” The elderly lady hesitated. “He does seem much better now—”

Vicki said that it was really up to the captain of the plane to decide whether to make an emergency landing. She excused herself, went forward past curious passengers, unlocked the cabin door, and stepped up into the cockpit.

In the cabin dozens of black-and-white dials on the instrument panel glowed, needles flickered, the radar screen flashed. At a signal from Captain Jordan, the copilot took over the controls.

“Well, Vicki? How is that man?”

“He came fairly close to fainting, Captain Jordan. He’s elderly, a little overweight, and he has a heart condition. However, since he’s had therapeutic oxygen, he’s not in any distress. And his wife seems fairly satisfied with the way he looks now.”

“I’d much rather land than take chances with a passenger’s life.” Captain Jordan looked at his wrist watch, thinking. “I’ll tell you what. Observe him for ten minutes and if he shows any sign of relapse call me. We can come down at Clarkville. In any case, Vicki, we’re going to have a doctor and an ambulance on hand at New York. We’ll radio ahead to La Guardia Airport.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said Vicki.

“That’s all for now, Vicki. Keep me informed.”

Vicki returned to the Bryants. Mr. Bryant was sitting up erect now; it was a relief to see that. She told them of the captain’s decision.

“I am so grateful!” Mrs. Bryant exclaimed. “I’m sure we won’t need to make a special stop.”

Mr. Bryant apparently was not a man to yield a point easily, but he did say, “Very good of you airlines people. Very good indeed.”

Vicki brought the Bryants their dinners right away, and both old people perked up as they ate the hot food. She raced through serving all her other passengers. Jean cheerfully doubled up on jobs, so that Vicki finished her in-flight chores on time.

“Do you know we haven’t sat down once since take-off?” Jean said breathlessly.

“Jean, you’ve been an angel on this trip! For a while there I thought you had four hands.”

“Save the compliments. We’re coming in for a landing in twenty minutes.”

Twenty-one minutes later they were down at La Guardia Airport. Vicki summoned the passenger agent. He gave Mr. Bryant his arm on the way out of the plane to the waiting ambulance. Vicki escorted Mrs. Bryant, walking slowly.

Vicki waited for the Bryants outside the ambulance while the doctor checked over the elderly man. She hated to leave Jean alone to say good-by to the other passengers and pick up in the cabin afterward, but she’d make it up to Jean some other time. The passenger agent had sent a man to locate the Bryants’ car and chauffeur. He would bring the car onto the airfield as near to the ambulance as possible.

The doctor stepped out and said to Vicki:

“All right, stewardess, he may go home. I think it’s safe for this gentleman to drive to the city now.”

He helped Mrs. Bryant down out of the ambulance, then Mr. Bryant. Their car pulled up at that moment. Captain Jordan came hurrying over, carrying his flight papers.

“Miss Barr, are both Bryants all right?”

“Yes, Captain. Tired but all right.”

The Bryants thanked him, and he went off. They particularly thanked Vicki. They climbed into their car, and asked Vicki if she wished to drive into metropolitan New York with them.

“It’s kind of you, but I still have some duties here.”

“Then you must come to lunch,” Mrs. Bryant said. “You’ve been a wonderful help, and I want a chance to thank you properly.”

“I was only doing my job,” said Vicki.

“Come to lunch tomorrow,” Mr. Bryant barked at her. “Can you?”

Vicki was so startled she stammered, “Y-y-yes, th-thank you.”

Mrs. Bryant smiled, and told her the address. “At twelve, Miss Barr?” Then she said an odd thing. “You know, my dear, we have a granddaughter whom we’ve never seen. Lucy. I hope she’s like you.”

Vicki must have looked puzzled, because Mrs. Bryant smiled again. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow. Good-by for now, little Miss Barr.”

CHAPTER III
The Story of Lucy

Vicki went to the Bryants’ house not knowing quite what to expect. It was Friday the thirteenth, but since she was not foolish enough to be superstitious, the date alone did not account for her sense of something special about to happen.

“Well, I can expect lunch and conversation,” Vicki thought, and went up the white marble steps of the Bryants’ house. She was a little intimidated by its grandeur, and by the butler who admitted her. “My goodness, this is much too grand for me,” Vicki thought. “They must be awfully rich.”

The butler said, “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Miss Victoria Barr.” Vicki tried to stand up taller than she was and look older. It never worked.

“Oh, yes, Miss Barr, you are expected.”

She gave the butler her coat and followed him from the entrance hall, past a formal high-ceilinged living room, and into a big, sunny sitting room. It was cheerful in here, with flowered chintzes, green plants, and several extraordinarily beautiful parakeets in cages shaped like pagodas and dollhouses. Vicki exclaimed aloud “Oh! Lovely!”—without meaning to, just as the butler announced her.

Mrs. Bryant was sitting half hidden in an immense wing chair. She put aside the needlepoint she was working on and made a point of getting up to greet her young guest.

“How nice to see you again, Miss Barr. You were so busy yesterday on your plane that there was almost no chance to visit with you.”

“I kept you busy, for one thing,” Mr. Bryant said. “A tiresome old codger, wasn’t I, young lady?”

Vicki smiled shyly, and said Mr. and Mrs. Bryant were kind to let her come. She asked Mr. Bryant how he was feeling.

“Better, thanks, better. Oh, I’m perfectly all right!” He started to pace up and down.

Mrs. Bryant changed the subject. She invited Vicki to sit next to her on the couch in the winter sunshine, and they chatted about the Electra. Mr. Bryant joined in with a question or two. He seemed less forbidding today. Still, Vicki thought, this imposing man would probably never be easy to get along with. She’d as soon attempt to be friends with a polar bear—he reminded her of an old, still powerful bear with his heavy, rolling gait and thatch of yellowish-white hair.

“Where’s Dorn?” he demanded. “Not here yet?”

His wife said, “Mr. Dorn telephoned to say he will be a little late. It was unavoidable, dear.”

“Humph. Well, I’ll lie down again for a few minutes. Excuse me, ladies.” He abruptly thumped out of the room.

Mrs. Bryant waited until he was out of earshot, then smiled at Vicki.

“When I invited you to lunch yesterday, Miss Barr,” said Mrs. Bryant, “I thought you would be our only guest. But this morning a young lawyer who is doing a particularly important piece of work for us telephoned and asked whether he couldn’t see us about noon today. So he’ll be here for lunch, too. I’m sure you and I will have our visit, anyway.”

Vicki was a little disappointed, and offered to leave rather than intrude.

“No, indeed!” Mrs. Bryant exclaimed. “I want you to stay. Mr. Dorn is going to tell us about Lucy—our granddaughter whom we’ve never seen.” She looked very thoughtful. “Does that seem odd to you?”

Vicki was not quite sure what to answer. “Unless,” she said, “your granddaughter has always lived at a great distance from you.”

“Yes, she has. In every sense. Tell me, Miss Barr, in the course of your stewardess work are you ever in San Francisco?”

“I’ll be in and out of San Francisco all the time, now that I’m based there.”

“That’s extremely interesting.” But Mrs. Bryant did not say why. “Well. Shall we look at my parakeets?”

Vicki walked along with Mrs. Bryant and admired the exquisite birds in their cages. Her elderly hostess pointed out the birds’ markings in every tone of blue and rose and green. Yet her mind seemed to be on something else.

“I hope you won’t find it tiresome at lunch, Vicki, listening to a conversation about a girl you know nothing about.”

“What is Lucy like?” Vicki asked.

Mrs. Bryant said helplessly, “I don’t know. It is odd, isn’t it? Our daughter’s daughter, and we don’t even know what she looks like. Except for an old snapshot. Lucy was ten when it was taken, and she’s twenty-one now.”

From a desk drawer Mrs. Bryant took a small, faded snapshot, in a frame, and handed it to Vicki. Vicki studied it. The little girl’s face was rather blurred. She could have been any little girl sitting on a porch step. Her hair was either dark blond or light brown; it was hard to tell which.

“I suppose Lucy’s hair might be darker by now,” said Mrs. Bryant, as Vicki gave her back the snapshot. “Our daughter Eleanor wrote in one of her rare letters that Lucy had my disposition. They named her Lucy after me, in spite of—everything. But I must be boring you.”

“I’m very much interested, Mrs. Bryant.”

“Well, I am rather keyed up about Mr. Dorn’s visit. So many old memories come to mind today. The silver rings, for one thing. I hadn’t thought about them in years. There are only two like them. Lucy has one and I have the other.”

Vicki glanced at Mrs. Bryant’s hand. Her hostess noticed.

“No, I’ve put mine away. I never wear rings of any kind,” Mrs. Bryant said. “They annoy me. But this pair of silver rings has an interesting history.”

They had an identical lacelike, open design. Mrs. Bryant had long ago given one ring to her daughter Eleanor, and Eleanor in turn had given the ring to her daughter, young Lucy.

“Almost all Mr. Bryant and I know about our granddaughter is that she has the ring. We had a few facts about her schooling and a sketchy description of her. Eleanor wrote us those things before she died.” Mrs. Bryant looked down at her tightly clasped hands. “As for the letters from Lucy’s father—” Mrs. Bryant stared past Vicki, past the birds. “We never answered certain of those letters and we were wrong. So terribly wrong!”

Then the whole grievous story of Lucy came tumbling out. Mrs. Bryant, in telling Vicki, tried hard not to blame her husband. But Vicki understood that Marshall Bryant was a man who valued money and important connections above all else. Mrs. Bryant could not cope with his domineering ways.

Mrs. Bryant handed the faded snapshot to Vicki

The Bryants had planned a brilliant marriage for their only child. They were bitterly disappointed when Eleanor married against their wishes a boy who had little money and limited education. They felt, unjustly, that Jack was a fortune hunter. Marshall Bryant made several attempts to break up the marriage. When he failed, he disowned his daughter. He was determined that Jack Rowe should never get hold of the Bryant money, no matter what the penalty to Eleanor or to any children Eleanor would have.

The young couple moved to California “—to get as far away from us as possible, I suppose,” said Mrs. Bryant, and also because Jack had job opportunities there. As for Jack’s family, they were scattered over the United States and were not in touch.

The young couple made several overtures to the Bryants, especially after their daughter was born. They named her Lucy after her grandmother. But the old couple refused any reconciliation. They never saw their granddaughter. “I wanted to, but Mr. Bryant was adamant. No one can blame Eleanor and Jack for feeling resentful.” A rupture and silence of many years ensued. Once Mrs. Bryant wrote to her daughter, offering aid for small Lucy, but Eleanor never answered.

When young Lucy’s mother died a few years ago, her father wrote this news to the grandparents and asked if they wished to attend the funeral. Marshall Bryant decided that they would not go. Mrs. Bryant murmured, “It was hard to lose Eleanor without ever seeing her again.” Jack Rowe had suggested that the Bryants might, at long last, wish to see their granddaughter. But Marshall Bryant hinted that Rowe’s motive was a desire to gain their fortune. Young Lucy’s father, as a result, felt freshly antagonized, and wrote them a bitter letter. Once more the two families ceased to communicate.

Recently, within the past year, Marshall Bryant had developed a severe heart condition. “He’s still active,” said Mrs. Bryant, “but he may not have long to live. This knowledge has—has modified his personality. He is more concerned than ever about what will become of his fortune after he and I pass away. I am afraid he is not a charitable enough man to leave the bulk of it to institutions for—as he says—strangers to enjoy. Also, he now feels great remorse for disowning Eleanor, and for refusing any contact with her daughter.”

As for herself, Mrs. Bryant said, she had grieved for years about the family rupture. For a long time she encouraged Marshall Bryant to make amends for the past. Finally, this past Christmas Day, they decided to find their granddaughter, Lucy Rowe, and arrange for her to inherit the Bryant fortune.

“If Lucy wishes to live with us, we’d be so happy.”

“I’m so glad,” Vicki said softly, “that you’re trying to find her.”

“You’re right to say ‘trying,’ because all we definitely know about her is her last address in San Francisco. That’s the one on Jack Rowe’s letter five years ago.” For a moment Mrs. Bryant closed her eyes. Then she said matter-of-factly, “A five-year-old address and an old snapshot aren’t much to go on, are they? That’s why were relying on Mr. Dorn to locate Lucy for us.”

Mrs. Bryant explained that she and her husband were too elderly, and he too ill, to travel to San Francisco and search for the girl themselves. Also, Mrs. Bryant said, they hesitated to approach Lucy directly, either in person or by mail. “After all the antagonism which my husband—and I, too—showed them, Eleanor and Jack naturally felt antagonistic toward us. I’m afraid some of that feeling may have been instilled in Lucy. She might not be glad to see her grandparents.”

So Marshall Bryant had engaged his law firm to locate young Lucy and bring her East. He planned to transfer a generous part of the inheritance to her immediately. The law firm assigned Thurman Dorn, a young man, to do the traveling and investigating involved in finding Lucy. Mr. Bryant was pleased with the choice. Though Thurman Dorn was relatively new in the firm, his uncle, now dead, had for many years done fine work for Mr. Bryant through the same law firm.

“My husband and I feel we know young Thurman Dorn,” said Mrs. Bryant. “Our lawyers have told us that he came from Chicago, his home town, with the highest recommendation from one of his law school professors.” She mentioned the name of the law firm, Steele and Wilbur. Vicki recognized it as a respected company. “Mr. Dorn has persuaded us to stay entirely in the background and to let him act as intermediary with Lucy. I do think that’s the most discreet way in such a delicate situation.”

A painful situation for a sick man and his elderly wife, Vicki thought. She said, “I do hope Mr. Dorn’s search will be successful in every way.”

“Thank you, my dear. Mr. Dorn was in San Francisco three or four weeks ago, and got his search for Lucy under way. Unfortunately he could not find her on that trip—she has been away—but perhaps he has some other leads or news to tell us about today.”

“Oh! Do you think he’ll bring Lucy with him?”

Mrs. Bryant smiled shakily. “I’m afraid to hope for so much. Let’s go find my husband. He’s feeling anxious, too.”

When Thurman Dorn arrived a few minutes later, he was alone. Vicki was impressed by his air of professional competence, and by his personal dignity. He was about twenty-seven, a formal, cool young man, evidently highly educated, very correct in his manners and attire. His meticulously tailored gray suit, his British-looking mustache, the stiff way he stood, reminded Vicki of a fashion plate. Or perhaps of a stone statue. She wished someone less formal, less unsentimental were to bridge the gap between young Lucy Rowe and her grandparents. Well, perhaps it took someone as cool, deliberate, and as obviously hard-headed as Mr. Dorn to trace Lucy in the first place. Vicki could see how highly Marshall Bryant valued this young lawyer.

Mrs. Bryant introduced Vicki and Thurman Dorn. He said “how do you do” to her with a delightful little bow and smile, and remarked—when Mrs. Bryant said, “Vicki Barr is a flight stewardess with Federal Airlines”—that he was an air-travel enthusiast. However, he quickly turned away, and had little further to say to Vicki during lunch. She was sure that Mrs. Bryant’s mention of her work did not interest him and probably never registered with him at all.

He was busy describing to Mr. Bryant—and to Mrs. Bryant, too, though secondarily—the progress of the search for Lucy in San Francisco.

“Now, Mr. Bryant, and Mrs. Bryant, you already know that this search is not proceeding as easily and quickly as we would wish,” Thurman Dorn said. “Reaching Miss Lucy takes time and patience. So will effecting a reconciliation.”

The elderly couple listened to him, their hopes visibly rising and falling as he spoke.

“You know that I made only partial progress when, at your request, I visited San Francisco for a week, and personally conducted a search for your granddaughter.”

“I remember receiving your bills from the St. Clair Hotel,” Mr. Bryant said dryly.

Young Dorn accepted this with a deferential smile. “And unfortunately I had to come back and tell you the disappointing news that by the time I had located Lucy’s present home and work addresses, she had just gone off for a trip. For, I believe, a month or more.”

Mrs. Bryant turned toward Vicki. “At least Mr. Dorn learned that Lucy has gone traveling with respectable friends, another girl and the girl’s mother.”

Mr. Bryant looked up from serving himself seconds from the dish the maid offered. “Well, sir, it’s about a month now since you’ve been out there. You say Lucy will be back in San Francisco soon. How soon can you go out there again, and get on with this job?”

“Very soon, I hope, sir,” Dorn said. “Although it would be a waste of my time and your money to wait around San Francisco until Miss Lucy returns.”

“Don’t see how a girl who you say is a secretary can afford to stay away longer than a month,” Marshall Bryant grumbled. “Dorn, are you certain that this Lucy Rowe is actually our granddaughter?”

“No, I’m not certain. It’s only a reasonable presumption at this point, Mr. Bryant. Let me actually see and talk to the girl. I want to question her—yes, discreetly—about certain particulars of the Bryant family history, which she would be likely to know. I want to see whether she has any of your old letters, or photographs of yourselves or your daughter Eleanor. That brings me to my reason, or one of the reasons, for asking you to let me come today.”

“The name Lucy Rowe isn’t so unusual,” Mr. Bryant interrupted. “Might be more than one girl by that name in a city as large as San Francisco.”

“Exactly my view, too, sir,” said Mr. Dorn. “You have told me many details of the family history and shown me documents, but a few questions occur to me. Also, it would help in proving this Lucy Rowe’s identity if you could let me really study those documents, and study any letters in your daughter Eleanor’s handwriting or any family photographs. If you happen to have any available that I could examine, say, overnight—or for a few hours this afternoon—”

“Good idea,” said Marshall Bryant. “Plenty of those things in the safe, right here in the house. I’ll lend them to you overnight or for a day or two. Whatever you say.”

“That will be a help,” said Mr. Dorn. “I’ll return them to you promptly.”

One thing puzzled Vicki. Why had no one at the luncheon table mentioned Jack Rowe, the girl’s father? She murmured her question to Mrs. Bryant.

“Because Lucy’s father died two years ago in an auto accident,” Mrs. Bryant answered her. “Lucy did not write and tell us. Lucy has never written to us, except one or two Christmas letters when she was a child—which my husband asked me not to answer.” Mrs. Bryant sighed. “So we had no way of knowing about Jack until Mr. Dorn investigated and reported to us about three weeks ago. I’m sorry about Jack, if only because his passing has left Lucy entirely alone in the world.”

“She has you and her grandfather,” Vicki said.

“If we can find her, and if she can forget old difficulties. However”—the elderly woman brightened—“on the basis of what he’s already learned, Mr. Dorn is hopeful that everything will work out well.” Then she said, “Oh, Mr. Dorn! Didn’t you say you had some further word about Lucy?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bryant. I’ve had a letter from one of her friends whom I was unable to meet in person. Her friend writes that Lucy is an accomplished swimmer and horsewoman. You know how Californians go in for sports and outdoor living. Her friend also wrote my firm—sorry I forgot to bring the letter—that Miss Lucy is fond of birds and knows something about them.”

“She’ll be interested in your parakeets,” Mr. Bryant said to his wife, “and she’ll enjoy the swimming pool.”

“Let’s hope so. We old people might be dull company for her. She sounds like a delightful girl, Mr. Dorn.”

The lawyer said, “From everything I’ve learned so far, she sounds like a charming girl, and a girl of considerable character.”

Marshall Bryant looked gratified, while his wife looked so eager that Vicki felt almost afraid for her. How every detail which Mr. Dorn was able to supply increased their desire to meet their granddaughter! How disappointed they would be if Lucy were not all they wanted her to be, or if—Heaven forbid—Dorn could not locate their granddaughter after all.

As they were rising from the dining table Mrs. Bryant reminded the lawyer about the silver ring. “If you want another look at it, it’s in the safe, too.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bryant. I will examine it again. It will be interesting to learn whether Lucy Rowe still has the silver ring which is twin to yours.”

“Now, young man, how soon are you going back to San Francisco?” Mr. Bryant pressed him. “How about this week?”

The lawyer was inclined to wait until the next week, in order to be sure that Lucy Rowe was back in San Francisco. He offered to telegraph her employers and friends there to learn if and when she had returned. This was reasonable, the Bryants had to agree, but they were disappointed about the delay.

“I am sorry about the delay, too,” said the lawyer, “but let us make haste slowly. Let’s be a little cautious and discreet. There is a large inheritance involved here, you are well known, and if any false moves were made, they’d invite a lot of publicity—newspaper stories, pictures in the paper, and so forth.”

Mr. Bryant made a gesture of distaste, while Mrs. Bryant pretended to shudder. There was a moment’s awkwardness. The lawyer turned to Vicki and said:

“I understand that you—ah—were of service to Mr. Bryant yesterday when he was taken ill.”

“Not at all,” said Vicki. “I’m just sorry Mr. Bryant didn’t feel well enough to enjoy his flight on the Electra. Mr. Dorn, when you fly out to the West Coast do you go on the Electra, via Chicago?”

She said it only to make conversation, thinking someday Dorn might be one of her passengers. But suddenly his expression changed. She was surprised at the odd look on his face. Was he thinking of something else?

Mrs. Bryant said, “I believe, Mr. Dorn, you told us your mother still lives in Chicago?”

“Yes, I sometimes go home week ends to see her. Very occasionally.”

“Of course. Well—I think my husband is waiting to see you.”

“Oh, yes. Will you excuse me, Mrs. Bryant? Miss—ah—” He had forgotten her name. The young lawyer followed Mr. Bryant into the library.

Vicki felt that it was time to say good-by to her hostess. But Mrs. Bryant led her back into the room with the parakeets. By now the sun had moved to the far end of the room, and the birds were asleep. Mrs. Bryant took Vicki’s hand.

“I hope all this talk about our granddaughter wasn’t dull for you.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Bryant! I couldn’t help thinking ‘Suppose it were my grandparents whom I’d never seen, who were looking for me—’”

“You’re sympathetic, Vicki. I wonder—You’re going to be in San Francisco often?” Vicki nodded. “Then I wonder whether I could ask you to do me a great favor—but only if it won’t take too much of your time.”

Vicki said, and meant it, that if the favor had anything to do with Lucy, she would be only too happy to give it her free time.

Mrs. Bryant smiled. “Then I wish very much that you’d see whether you can learn anything further about our granddaughter. While I have every confidence in Mr. Dorn and his careful, discreet approach, this delay is very hard. Even another week or ten days seem such a long time to wait.”

“I’ll be in San Francisco day after tomorrow,” Vicki said.

“Wonderful. If Lucy is back by then, won’t you try to telephone her and give her my love? All I have is her last address in Sutro Heights in the suburbs, it’s five years old—I think Mr. Dorn mentioned that she had moved in with friends in the city, in order to be nearer her place of employment. I wish I had thought to write down that firm name, but we are leaving everything, all the details, to Mr. Dorn.”

“Do you think Mr. Dorn will consider that I’m interfering? I wouldn’t want to cause any—any complications for him.”

“I don’t see how you could.” Mrs. Bryant went to her desk for Lucy’s last address, and copied it for Vicki. “It might be more tactful, though, not to let Mr. Dorn know that you are taking part.” Vicki agreed. “And let’s not mention it to my husband, either,” Mrs. Bryant said with a gleam of mischief. “Here’s the address, my dear. Thank you very, very much.”

“Don’t say that yet, Mrs. Bryant. First, let’s see what I can do.”

She thanked Mrs. Bryant for her hospitality, and said good-by. Mrs. Bryant walked to the front door with Vicki, and stood looking after her as she went down the marble steps. She looked so hopeful and yet afraid to hope that Vicki thought:

“I’m going to do everything I can to help those two old people.”

CHAPTER IV
A Puzzling Discovery

“I don’t even want to hear anyone suggest that we go sightseeing around San Francisco today,” said Jean Cox from the other twin bed, on Monday morning. “I want to stay right here in our nice hotel room and sleep.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest sightseeing—not yet, anyway,” said Vicki, at the mirror.

“Then why are you up and dressed so early? After those week-end runs we put in, why aren’t you unconscious, too?”

On Saturday their crew had flown from New York to Chicago, stayed overnight in Chicago, and on Sunday had flown on from Chicago to San Francisco. Now they were to have a day in San Francisco to rest. Vicki figured she would rest later and look for Lucy Rowe first. She told Jean her plans.

“Well”—Jean yawned and stretched under the covers—“all I can say is that a frail-looking, dreamy-looking little blonde like you has more stamina than some of us husky people.”

Vicki grinned. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

“Just go away, my love, and let me sleep.”

They arranged to be in touch later in the day. Vicki softly let herself out into the hotel corridor and went downstairs to the busy lobby. Part of the fun of being a flight stewardess was living all over the United States, and staying at the pleasant hotels where the airline put up their crews. Along with her breakfast Vicki enjoyed a magnificent view of San Francisco’s hills.

Ever since talking with Mrs. Bryant, Vicki had kept Lucy Rowe’s old address safely in her purse. Now she took it out. At the hotel desk she asked for directions to Sutro Heights. Vicki made her way there—riding up and down steep hills—walking down a long wooden stairway from one street level to another. She climbed past a cliff-top park with white-painted statues, high above beach and ocean.

“San Franciscans certainly have their ups and downs,” Vicki thought, puffing. “But what views!” On three sides she looked down over the blue Pacific. The air was sea-fresh, cool, springlike. Vicki was so enchanted that she almost forgot about the address in her purse.

It led her to a modest, leafy street and an unpretentious cottage. There were a yard and an attempt at flower beds; children’s toys littered the porch. When Vicki rang the doorbell, a pleasant young woman in shirt and jeans came to the door. She looked not much older than Vicki, or than Lucy’s age, twenty-one.

“I’m looking for Lucy Rowe,” said Vicki, and introduced herself. She was careful not to mention the Bryants, not to intrude on the lawyer’s province. She said she understood that the Rowes lived here, or used to. “I wonder whether you could tell me what Lucy Rowe’s address is now?”

“My goodness, I should be able to! Lucy and I went to high school together; we’re old neighbors, too. After her mother died my family bought their house. This house. Come in, Miss Barr. I’m Jill Joseph. Come in, don’t mind the boys—”

The living room seemed to be overrun with very small boys and puppies. Young Mrs. Joseph shooed the whole group outdoors, and she and Vicki sat down to talk.

“I haven’t any address for Lucy at the moment,” Mrs. Joseph said, “because she’s away. Lucy is a darling. Are you a friend of hers?”

“I’m a friend of a friend of hers,” Vicki said. “An elderly lady who hasn’t heard from Lucy, or had any news of her, since Eleanor—Mrs. Rowe died.”

“Why, that was five years ago!”

“Would you fill me in?” Vicki asked.

Jill Joseph nodded. “Five years ago Lucy and I still had another year to go in high school. Then she lost her mother. This house was quite a lot of work for Lucy and her father—you know how full the last year of high school is, and Mr. Rowe worked hard at—” She named a large San Francisco department store. “So Lucy and her father moved to a small apartment near here, and we bought their house.”

“I see. What sort of work did Mr. Rowe do?”

“For a long time he worked at any job the department store gave him. The Rowes never had an easy time of it financially.” The neighbor hesitated. “It was hard on Lucy’s mother; she seemed to be used to more than the Rowes could afford. A lot of us wondered about Eleanor Rowe. Not that she ever complained—