Gypsy Flight A Mystery Story for Girls

Rosemary Sample adjusted her jaunty cap carefully, smoothed out her well-tailored suit, then lowering her head, stepped from her trans-continental airplane.

Oh yes, that was Rosemary’s plane. Rosemary was still young, and she looked even younger than her years. A slender slip of a girl was Rosemary, rather pretty, too, with a touch of natural color and a dimple in each cheek, white even teeth, smiling eyes of deepest blue.

Strange sort of person to have a huge bi-motored plane with two 555 horse-power motors and a cruising speed of one hundred and seventy miles per hour. It cost seventy thousand dollars did that airplane. Yet this slip of a girl was its captain, its conductor, its everything but pilot, as long as it hung in air. Rosemary was its stewardess—and that meant a very great deal.

Rosemary stepped across the cement runway with a buoyant tread. “Life,” she thought with a happy tilt of her head, “is just wonderful! It is perfection itself.”

Rosemary loved perfection. And where may one find perfection of high degree if not in a great metropolitan airport? Those giant silver birds of the air, their motors drumming in perfect unison, wheeling into position for flight—how perfect! The touch of genius, the brain and brawn of the world’s greatest has gone into their making. And as to the care of them, Rosemary knew that the most valuable horse in the world never received more perfect treatment.

The depot, too, was perfect. Its hard white floor was spotless. The ticket sellers, the loitering aviators, even the black-faced redcaps somehow appeared to fit into a perfect picture.

“The travelers and their luggage,” she whispered, “they too fit in. No shabby ones. No drab ones. Per—”

She did not finish for of a sudden, as if caught and banged against a post, her picture was wrecked, for a young man apparently unsuited to the place had dashed through the depot’s outer door and, grasping her by the arm, said in a low hoarse whisper:

“I must speak to you personally, privately.”

For a space of ten seconds there was grave danger that Rosemary would deviate from the path of duty, that she would smash Rule No. 1 for all airplane hostesses into bits. “Courtesy to all,” that was the rule. And in the end the rule won.

Getting a steady grip on herself, the girl glanced about, noted that the small room to the right was at that moment vacant, motioned her strangely distraught visitor—who, if appearances could be trusted, must have slept the night before in an alley and fought six policemen single-handed in the morning—inside, after which she closed the door.

“Than—oh thank you!” the young man gasped.

Then for a period of seconds he seemed quite at a loss as to what he might say next.

This gave the girl an opportunity for a swift character analysis. She was accustomed to this. She had flown for two years. Four hundred thousand miles of flying were down to her credit. Passengers, usually ten of them, flew with her. It was her duty to keep them comfortable and happy. To do this she must know them, though she had seen them but for an hour.

“He’s not as bad as I thought,” was her mental comment. “He’s not been drinking. He needs sleep. There’s a lot of trouble somewhere. But it’s not his trouble—at least not much of it. He needs help. He—”

As if reading this last thought, the youth gripped her arm to exclaim:

“You must help me!”

“All right.” Rosemary displayed all her teeth in a dazzling smile. “That’s my job. How shall I help you?”

“You’re flying west to Salt Lake City. Plane leaves in half an hour. I must have a place in that plane.”

“I’m sorry.” Rosemary truly was. She had seen most of the other passengers. They promised to be rather dull. But this young man—“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “The trip was sold out forty-eight hours ago.”

“I know—” The young man’s tone was impatient. “But—but it must be arranged. Here!” He crowded a small roll of bills into her hand. “You can fix it. I can’t. You know who they are. There must be no fuss. No one must know. You find one. You know folks; you can pick the right one. Surely there’s one of them that will wait until the night plane. That’s not sold out yet.

“Be-believe me!” His eyes were appealing as he saw her waver. “It’s not for myself. If it were, I’d never ask it. It—it’s for a thousand others.”

“No,” Rosemary was saying under her breath, “it’s not for himself. And so—”

“All right,” she said quietly, “I’ll try.”

She went away swiftly, so swiftly he could not catch at her arm to thank her.

On entering the main waiting room of the airport, the young stewardess looked quickly about her. Twenty or more people were in the room. Which were passengers, which mere sightseers? She knew some of the men who were to be with her on this trip. They were old-timers, mostly traveling men. She would not dare suggest to one of these that he sell his reservation.

Her gaze at last became fixed upon a youth. “Must be about twenty,” she told herself. “He’s going. First trip. Nervous, and trying not to show it. He’ll welcome a delay, like as not. Have to try.” She took in his ready-to-wear suit, his $5.99 variety of shoes, wondered vaguely why he was going by air at all, then plunged.

“You mean to tell me,” he was saying slowly three minutes later, “that some man will give me fifty dollars just to wait six hours for the next plane? Say! I’d wait a week. Where’s the money?”

“Here! Here it is.” Rosemary felt a great wave of relief sweep over her. She wanted to ask this youth a dozen questions, but there was not time.

“What’s the name of the man that’s taking your reservation?” the ticket seller asked of the ready-to-wear youth.

“Why I—”

“I’ll have that for you right away, Charlie,” Rosemary broke in.

“O.K.” Charlie turned to other matters.

Ten minutes later Rosemary received the second shock of the day and from the same source. Someone touched her on the arm. She wheeled about to find herself looking at a young man in spotless linen, faultless gray suit and traveling cap. In his hand he carried a dark brown walrus-hide bag.

“I—I—why you—” she stammered.

“Quick change artist.” He smiled broadly. “Got hold of my bag, you see.”

It was the young man who only a brief time before did not fit into her picture of perfection.

“Di-did you get it?” he asked. There was a slight twitch about his mouth.

She nodded. “Step over here.”

“You’re a marvel!” he murmured. “I can’t tell you—”