Dorothy Wayne - Dorothy Dixon and the Mystery Plane

“Here he comes again, Dot!”

Terry Walters balanced on the edge of the beach club float and pointed upward toward the approaching airplane.

Dorothy Dixon bobbed up beside the raft, blew the water from her nose and reached a long tanned arm for the young man’s ankle.

“Here you come into the drink, you mean!” she gurgled.

Terry yelped, lost balance, and recovering desperately, dived over her head. His departure rocked the float, so that Phil Stanton’s lanky figure poised on the diving board, lurched and fell awkwardly into the water.

Betty Mayo, hugging her damp knees on the middle of the float, shrieked her approval of this double exploit.

“Swell work, Dorothy!” she laughed as that young lady pulled herself aboard. “You’ll catch it in a minute though!”

Dorothy stood up. Her scarlet bathing cap flamed against the ash blue sky and her wet suit clung to her slender form like a sheath of black lacquer.

“Maybe!” Then, in quite a different tone: “Goodness, Betty, he’s missing!”

Betty sprang to her feet. “You’re crazy – ” she retorted as she caught sight of Phil and Terry knifing their way back to the float. “Why’d you try to scare me? Those boys are all right.”

But Dorothy was staring skyward.

“Not the boys! I mean the plane, Betty. Over there beyond the club house. His engine’s missing. Bet you an ice cream cone he’ll have to land!”

“No, you won’t,” Betty flashed back. “I don’t know a thing about airplanes, and I’ll take your word for it. Ooh, Dorothy – do you think he’ll hit the roof?”

“Oh, he’s all right – ”

“Yes, he’s over the roof now – but look !” Betty’s voice rose to a shriek. “He’s aiming the plane straight for us – it’ll hit this float – ”

The last word was no more than a gurgle. Betty had dived overside.

Dorothy did not trouble to turn her head. With her bare feet firmly planted on the timbers, her straight body balanced easily to the float’s gentle rocking, she gazed interestedly at the big amphibian sweeping down toward her.

On came the plane, losing altitude with every split second, and sailed over her head a bare thirty feet above the water. Then as she faced about to watch it land, the tail of her eye caught sight of Terry hauling himself over the edge of the float.

“Get you for that last one!” he cried, and scrambled to his feet. “‘Who laughs last,’ you know!”

“I know – ” mocked Dorothy, evading his grasp and running up the springboard. She dived and her body entered the water with scarcely a sound.

As she rose she turned lazily on her back.

“Come and get me!” she tantalized. Then as she saw him start in pursuit, she rolled over and headed out toward the seaplane which now floated two or three hundred yards away toward the mouth of the inlet and Long Island Sound.

Terry knew the speed developed by her flagrantly perfect crawl, and did not attempt to follow her. He chuckled as he watched the bob of scarlet and the flash of a brown arm that was all he could see of Dorothy.

“Hey, where’s Dorothy?” called Betty as she and Phil clambered on to the raft.

“Halfway to Boston, I guess. Race you to the beach for the cones!”

All three cut the rumpled surface of the water with a single splash.

Dorothy’s interest in the airplane that had just landed was twofold. Since qualifying for her private pilot’s license earlier in the summer, she had met most of the owners of planes living in or near New Canaan. To the best of her knowledge the Loening Amphibian which her father had given her for rounding up the Martinelli gang was the only one of that model privately owned in that part of Connecticut. That the plane lying just ahead on the water was a duplicate of her own meant that the owner was not a local person.

Dorothy was a keen aviatrix and proud of her airbus. She wanted to compare notes with the owner of this amphibian. She was also curious to learn where the plane came from; and why every day for the past few weeks it had appeared over the Club at about this same time of an afternoon. At five-thirty sharp the crowd of young people on the beach would see it, a speck in the north, coming from over the ridge country back of the Sound. Flying at an altitude of not more than five hundred feet, it would swing over the beach club and cross the Sound, to disappear in the ether toward the dim line of the Long Island shore.

Terry jokingly termed it the Mystery Plane. He told Dorothy that its owner made these daily flights in order to show her how a plane should be managed in the air. She usually returned his good-natured teasing with interest, but each time she saw the amphibian, her curiosity increased.

As she swam nearer it was plain that this airship was actually the same stock model as her own. With the retractible landing wheels drawn up, the spoon-shaped hull of the biplane, with its two open cockpits aft of the inverted engine, floated easily on the water. The aviator, she saw, was busily engaged in going over his engine.

Dorothy stopped swimming when she was a few yards from the amphibian.

“Hello, there!” she called, treading water. “Need any help?”

The man looked up from his work, evidently perceiving her for the first time. Dorothy was surprised to see that the face below the soft helmet and goggles was bearded to the eyes.

“No, thank you,” he answered and went on tinkering with the motor. The words, although courteous enough, were spoken in a tone that showed plainly that he wished to end the conversation then and there.

Dorothy was persistent and not easily discouraged.

“Located the trouble?” she asked.

“Not yet,” replied the man without lifting his head.

“Looks like loose manifold, or gas connection, to me.”

There was no reply to this helpful suggestion.

She began swimming toward the plane again.

“Mind if I come aboard?” she called.

The bearded aviator straightened his back and faced her again, his right hand grasping a monkey-wrench.

“No. I do not wish it,” he flared. “Why for do you bother me? Keep off, I tell you.”

For the first time, the girl in the water noticed his strong foreign accent.

“Aren’t you polite!” she mocked. “I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I come alongside and rest a moment?”

“You stay where you are, young woman.” As the man’s anger grew, his accent became stronger. “I haf no time to bodder wid you. Go away – and stop away!”

“But I just want – ”

“I don’t care what you want. Come alongside, and I’ll use this wrench on you!”

“Oh, no you won’t!”

Terry Walters slipped round the engine and tripped up the aviator. Before that irate person knew what was happening he found himself flat on his back with a hundred and sixty pounds of young American kneeling on his chest, menacing him with his own monkey-wrench.

“That’s not a nice way to talk to a lady!” Terry remarked dispassionately eyeing his victim. “Ask her pardon like a good little boy. Do it quickly, my friend, or I’ll plant this wrench in the middle of that bush you call a face!”

“I didn’t mean nossing,” the man grunted.

“Try again!” Terry whacked his captive’s shin with the wrench. “Also try to cut the double negatives. Our English teacher says they’re bad form and – ”

Terry’s banter stopped with a yelp of pain as the man’s head jerked upward and his teeth snapped on the hand which held the wrench.

Dorothy, who had swum to within a few feet of the amphibian, saw Terry thrown to one side. Like cats, the boy and the man seemed to land on their feet – but now it was the strange aviator who held the monkey-wrench.