Dorothy Dixon and the Mystery Plane

A surprisingly few minutes later, Dorothy reappeared, her bathing suit having been discarded for an attractive linen sports frock, and jumped into her car.

The distance between Tokeneke on Long Island Sound and New Canaan back in the hills of the Ridge Country is slightly under eight miles. Luckily, on her drive home, Dorothy encountered no traffic policemen. Not withstanding summer traffic and the narrow, winding roads, she pulled into the Dixon garage on the ridge a mile beyond the village, a bare ten minutes later.

Another change of costume and she ran downstairs to the dining room. Her father and a friend were about to sit down at the table.

“Sorry to be late, Daddy,” she apologized, slipping into her chair. “Good evening, Mr. Holloway.”

“Good evening, Miss Dorothy,” returned the gentleman with a smile. “You seem a bit blown.”

“Some rush!” she sighed, “but I made it!”

“Youth,” remarked her father, “is nothing if not inconsistent. We dine early, so that Dorothy can get to the Sillies at some unearthly hour, and – ”

His daughter interrupted.

“Please, Daddy. I had an awfully exciting experience this afternoon. I’d have been home in plenty of time, otherwise.”

“At the Beach Club?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Well, suppose you tell us the story, as penance.” He turned to his guest. “How about it, Holloway? This should interest you, one of the club’s most prominent swimming fans!”

Mr. Holloway nodded genially. He was older than Mr. Dixon, between fifty and sixty, tall and rather thin. He had the brow and jaw of a fighter, and his iron-grey side-whiskers gave him a rather formidable appearance. But Dorothy liked him, for his eyes, behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, beamed with friendliness.

“The Beach Club, eh?” He leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I take a dip most afternoons. Wonderful bracer after mornings in the city in this hot weather. You ought to get down there more often.”

“Well, there’s a pool at the Country Club, and I’d rather play golf,” argued his host. “I haven’t been to the Beach Club this summer, but Dorothy tells me that the cabana you’ve built is quite a palace – much larger and more ‘spiffy,’ I think was the word, than those we ordinary members rent!”

“I like to be comfortable and have some privacy when I entertain my friends down there,” Mr. Holloway admitted. “But I’m interested in hearing Dorothy’s story. I was there this afternoon, but I didn’t notice anything unusual.”

“Did you see the airplane that landed in the cove?”

“Why, no. What time was that?”

“A little after five-fifteen.”

“I had already left for home. I’m rarely at the club after five o’clock. I like a bright sun when I’m in the water. What about the plane?”

While Dorothy told of her experience with the bearded pilot, the two gentlemen continued their meal in silence.

“A nasty customer – that!” snapped her father when she had concluded. “But then, my dear, you shouldn’t allow your keenness for aviation to over-excite your curiosity. Let it be a lesson to you not to interfere with other people’s private business.”

“You say that he wore a false beard?” interjected Mr. Holloway. “Now I wonder why the man wants to disguise himself? And why he was so standoffish about his plane?”

“He’s probably in training for some test or endurance flight and wants to keep his identity secret for the time being,” suggested Mr. Dixon. “There’s often a lot of hush-hush stuff about such things – that is, until the stunt comes off – and then the secretive ones become the world’s worst publicity hounds!”

Dorothy remarked the change that came to their guest’s face: the eyes narrowed, the mouth grew harder; something of his levity disappeared.

“Perhaps,” he said slowly. “But whatever his reason for wishing privacy, we can’t have club members insulted by strange aviators in our own cove. I shall take it up at the board of governors’ meeting tomorrow. In future we will see to it that no more airplanes land on club waters. Do you think you would recognize the man without his beard, Dorothy?”

“I don’t think so – but Terry, who was nearer to him, swears he could spot him anywhere.”

“If he should do so, ask him to report the matter to me, and I’ll see that the man at least offers apology.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holloway.” Dorothy was pleased at this interest. “I’ll tell him.”

“You three had better leave well enough alone,” her father declared bluntly. “The plane is probably being flown over a set course which happens to take it over the club. That aviator seems to be a surly customer. My advice is to forget it…”

Dorothy pushed her chair back from the table.

“You’ll excuse me, won’t you?” she smiled. “I’ve got to run, now.” She went to her father and kissed him. “Please don’t be late, Daddy. I come on the first time right after the curtain rises – it will spoil my evening if you two aren’t there!”

Mr. Holloway’s kindly eyes twinkled behind his glasses.

“Nice of you to include me. I wouldn’t miss the first number for anything. I’ll see that we’re both there in time.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Her father patted her hand. “We’ve got a small matter of business to go over and then we’ll be right along. Success to you, dearest.”

“’Bye!”

A fine rain was falling when Dorothy stepped into her car. As yet it was more a heavy mist than a downpour. But with the wind in the east she realized that this part of the country was in for several days of wet weather. She drove carefully, for the winding wooded roads were slippery. Upon arriving at the Guild House, she changed at once into costume.

The Silvermine Sillies, like Mr. Ziegfield’s more elaborate Follies, is invariably a revue, consisting of eighteen or twenty separate acts. As Dorothy stood in the wings, waiting for her cue, shortly after the first curtain rose, she was addressed by the stage manager:

“Have you seen Terry?”

“Not since this afternoon. Why?”

“He’s not here.”

Dorothy was fighting back the stage fright that always assailed her while waiting to “go on,” but which always disappeared as soon as she made her entrance. She turned her mind to what the manager was saying with an effort.

“You mean he hasn’t shown up?” she asked a bit vacantly.

“Your perception is remarkable,” returned the harassed stage official with pardonable sarcasm. “No, Terry isn’t here. Do you know whether he had any intention of putting in an appearance at this show tonight when you last saw him?”

Dorothy was wide awake now. “Of course he had!”

“He didn’t mention some more important date, perhaps?”

“Of course not. Terry wouldn’t do such a thing!”

“Well, he goes on in less than two minutes. Who in blazes am I to get to double for him? Deliver me from amateurs! There’s your cue, Miss Dixon – better take it!”

“Hey, you, Bill!” she heard him call to a stage hand, as she made her entrance. “Duck into the men’s dressing room and bring me Terry Walters’ overalls and wig. Here’s where I do his stuff without a makeup!”

Terry failed to show up during the first part of the program, so during the intermission, Dorothy slipped out front and sought the delinquent’s father and mother in the audience.