AFTER MR. CURTIN HAD EATEN A HURRIED LUNCH and departed for committee headquarters to await any new developments in the gold coin mystery, Vicki and her two hostesses went for a stroll through the ornate flower gardens that surrounded the big brick house.

“Look, Vicki. Did you ever see such gorgeous camellias in your life? And just look at these wonderful poinsettias. They’re just simply Mother’s pride and joy! Did you know that poinsettias were invented—I mean, actually invented—by a man up in Charleston named Mr. Poinsett? I don’t rightly know quite how he did it, but he crossed one flower with another, and ...”

Nina rattled on and on about the flowers that grew in such brilliant profusion in the gardens. Vicki nodded absently and tried her best to be interested, paying what she hoped were the right50 compliments at the right time. But she couldn’t seem to get her mind off the theft of the gold shipment and that her plane might have been carrying the valuable coins.

“Miss Vicki! Oh, Miss Vicki!”

It was Mrs. Tucker, calling from the porch steps.

“Miss Vicki, you’re wanted on the phone.”

Vicki hurried up the garden path, followed by Louise and Nina. She picked up the telephone in the hall.

“Vicki Barr speaking. ... Oh, hello, Captain March. ... But I thought we weren’t taking off until three-thirty. ... Oh? ... Yes. ... Yes, of course I can. ... Half an hour. ... Yes, sir. Good-by.”

“What’s up, Vicki?”

“I don’t know. That was Captain March, chief pilot of my plane. I have to report in half an hour to the airport manager’s office.”

Nina’s hand flew to her mouth. “Do you suppose it has anything to do with ... with the ...”

Vicki had to smile at the younger girl’s excitement.

“If you mean with the crate of gold that was stolen yesterday, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Now I have to change and run.”

Fifteen minutes later Vicki was again in the lower hallway, dressed in her flight uniform and with her blue flight bag in her hand.

51 “My convertible’s out front,” Louise said. “Hop in and I’ll have you at the airport in no time.”

“I’m coming too,” Nina declared.

The three girls piled into the sleek little car, and in minutes it was whisking through the city streets. Then they left the town behind and were rolling along the causeway, a long, sandy strip that ran across the bright blue waters of Tampa Bay. Palm trees swished their heavy fronds in the gentle breeze that blew across the Bay and silhouetted their umbrellalike tops against the blue sky. Bathers and surf fishermen lined the pink-yellow sand of the beach. Nina, as usual, wanted to talk, to speculate about the mystery. But Louise remained silent, concentrating on her driving, and Vicki replied to Nina’s avid questions with “I haven’t any idea, Nina!” or “Gosh, I wonder!”

At last they drew up before the entrance to the terminal building with five minutes to spare. Vicki hurriedly said so long to her friends, and went directly to the manager’s office.

Johnny Baker and Cathy Solms were standing outside the closed door. Both were wearing their flight uniforms.

“Hi, there,” Vicki greeted them. “What’s up?”

“You know as much as we do,” Johnny said, puzzled. “The skipper called the hotel half an hour or so ago—he’d left earlier this morning—and asked us to show up here. Maybe we’re hauling52 some important VIP back to New York this afternoon. But heck, that’s no reason to rush us out here, just before Cathy and I were going to take one last quick dip in the surf.”

Cathy’s eyes lighted up. “Maybe it’s a planeload of movie stars!”

“Or maybe some South American dictator who was kicked out last night.” Johnny laughed.

Vicki was pretty sure she knew why the crew was assembled here. She remembered Mr. Curtin saying: “The Tampa police have called in the FBI.” But she saw no point in mentioning this. Maybe, for all she knew, the FBI was keeping the whole thing a deep, dark secret while they worked behind the scenes.

So she simply said, “If I have my choice between South American dictators and movie stars, I vote for movie stars.”

At that moment the door to the manager’s office opened to reveal Captain March’s frowning face.

“Will you come in, please.”

The three filed in through the door.

Aside from Captain March, the only other person in the room was a short, heavy-built man in a tan gabardine suit. His crew-cut hair was salty black and he had a tired look about his eyes.

“Sit down, sit down,” he said briskly but courteously. “This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

53 Slowly, intently, his eyes went from one member of the crew to the other. Then he straightened his shoulders, rested his hands on the sides of the desk behind which he was sitting, and leaned slightly forward.

“My name’s Quayle. John Quayle. Special Investigator, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Well, she’d been right, Vicki thought. She stole a sidelong glance at Cathy and Johnny. Both were openmouthed with surprise.

“Captain March tells me that you were his crew on Federal Airlines Flight Seventeen, New York to Tampa, yesterday, February seventh.”

The copilot and the two stewardesses nodded automatically.

“Flight Seventeen,” Mr. Quayle continued in a droning voice, “was carrying an especially valuable item of cargo. A crate of antique gold coins from the National Numismatic Museum in New York consigned to the Royal Palms Hall here in Tampa. These coins were to have been put on display next week during the Gasparilla Festival. It is impossible to estimate the value of this shipment. I can only say that it was priceless.”

Mr. Quayle looked at his audience in silence for a long moment.

“When that crate was delivered to the Festival committee at the Royal Palms, it appeared to be exactly as it was when it left the museum. But54 when the committee members opened it, it was found to contain, not the gold coins, but an equivalent weight in iron-and-steel scrap.”

Johnny and Cathy gasped. Vicki looked at Captain March. His eyes were impassive. Naturally, she thought, he had been told about this before the rest of the crew.

“Only two possibilities have occurred to us,” the FBI man went on, “as to how the theft could have been accomplished. One: the crate could have been opened, the gold removed, and the scrap metal put in its place. Two: the crate of scrap could have been substituted for the crate of gold somewhere en route.”

Again he paused to let his words sink in.

“As to the first possibility, there was no sign of tampering. As to the second, the crate undoubtedly had been packed and labeled at the museum in New York. The label was genuine.”

Again Vicki noticed that Cathy and Johnny were listening in breathless silence.

“I might add,” Mr. Quayle went on, “that a private detective employed by the museum, a man named Jones, accompanied the gold on your flight. But his presence was only routine. It is quite obvious that nothing could have happened to the shipment while your plane was in the air. The gold could only have been stolen under the following circumstances: (a) at the museum in New York; (b) en route from the museum to Idlewild Airport; (c) at Idlewild55 itself; (d) while cargo was being loaded into your plane; ah ...” Mr. Quayle scratched his head and grinned a tired grin. “What’s the next number? ... oh, yes ... (e) during your brief stop in Atlanta; (f) while lying in the warehouse at Tampa overnight; and finally (g) while it was being transferred to the Royal Palms.”

He paused. “Do I make myself clear thus far?”

Johnny Baker grinned. “You lost me a couple of letters back.”

Everyone in the room took advantage of Johnny’s wisecrack to let off their tension with a laugh.

“At any rate,” Mr. Quayle said, “that is the picture. At the moment our agents are checking every possible angle in New York and Atlanta. I just wanted to have this talk with you because, after all, you were crewing Flight Seventeen, and I wondered if any of you had noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“May I ask,” Captain March inquired, “when the theft was discovered?”

“Your airplane landed at approximately three-fifteen yesterday afternoon. The cargo was taken from the ship to the warehouse. So far as we know, very few people knew that such a consignment was coming—only the people on the Festival committee—and so the airline didn’t want to make a special production out of it. They figured it would be safer to let it go through with the other air express. Nonetheless, Mr. Jones—the56 private detective who flew down with you—stayed in the Federal Airlines warehouse all night last night. Now, to answer your question, sir.”

Mr. Quayle nodded at Captain March and resumed his narrative ...

“A bonded air express truck picked up the crate this morning at seven-thirty and delivered it to the Royal Palms Hall. There the delivery of the crate was taken by a committee of the Festival people—I believe a Mr. Curtin was in charge—and it was opened. The crate was then found to contain only worthless scrap iron and bits of lead and steel.”

Vicki spoke up. “Mr. Quayle, I’m a house guest at the Curtins’. I learned about the theft from him at lunch, not quite an hour ago.”

All heads turned in Vicki’s direction, like those of spectators at a tennis match.

“Did Mr. Curtin say anything that I haven’t mentioned?” the FBI man asked.

“No, sir. He told me just about the same thing that you have.”

“All right, then. That is the entire picture. I might add that we have interrogated all of the airport employees and Federal Airlines people on this end who could possibly have come into contact with the shipment. The only reason that I am talking to you, Flight Seventeen’s crew, as I said a moment ago, is to ask if you noticed anything57 out of the usual routine either before, during, or after the flight.”

He looked around slowly, his penetrating eyes going from Captain March, to Johnny Baker, to Cathy, and finally to Vicki.

“As you are aware,” Captain March spoke first, “I knew that we were carrying an especially valuable cargo yesterday. Frankly I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t even look at the label. I met Mr. Jones by prearrangement in the hangar at Idlewild. This was an unusual arrangement, but it was orders and I didn’t question it. Together we supervised the loading of the crate into the cargo hold of my airplane. We then got aboard, and I personally taxied the ship up to Gate Five. There we picked up the rest of our crew”—he nodded his head at Vicki, Cathy, and Johnny—“and as soon as we had taken our passengers and their luggage on board, we took off. When we sat down at Tampa, Mr. Jones stayed with the plane until all cargo had been unloaded. I’m afraid, sir,” he concluded, “that that is everything I can tell you.”

“Very good, Captain,” Mr. Quayle said. “Have you anything to add, Mr. Baker?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir,” Johnny said. “I boarded the plane after Captain March had taxied her out to the apron in front of Gate Five. When all passengers had come aboard, the captain took her off and up to cruising altitude.58 That was fourteen thousand feet. He then turned the controls over to me. Bill and I—I mean, Captain March and I—then took turns spelling each other at the controls until we reached Atlanta, our one stop en route to Tampa. After leaving Atlanta, I again took over until we were ready for our approach to Tampa. The captain asked me if I would like to take her down, and I said I would. I touched down, I believe, at three-seventeen.”

Vicki couldn’t help smiling at Johnny’s serious recital. Three-fifteen wasn’t close enough to suit him! It had to be on the nose. Three-seventeen!

“And so, Mr. Baker, you saw nothing unusual?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

Mr. Quayle now turned to Cathy.

“And you, miss?”

“I—I’m afraid I haven’t anything to tell you either, sir. Miss Barr and I tried to make the passengers comfortable—she usually works the forward part of the ship while I work aft—and then it was time to serve lunch. Then we straightened up, and—Well, I honestly didn’t notice a thing out of the ordinary.”

“Thank you, Miss Solms,” Mr. Quayle said wearily. This was obviously a job that he had to do, and he wanted to get it over as quickly as possible. “Did you notice anything that might help us, Miss Barr?”

59 Vicki couldn’t erase the picture of the sick, tired old violinist out of her mind. It might all be silly, she told herself. But then again ...

She told the story exactly as it had happened. From the time he had boarded the airplane, bewildered, hungry, almost starved, until he had gotten off and she had found the folded travel brochure on his seat.

“But what makes you think this old musician had anything to do with the theft of the gold coins, Miss Barr?” Mr. Quayle asked, obviously impatient.

“Nothing makes me think so, Mr. Quayle,” Vicki answered. “You asked me if anything unusual had happened on the flight. Mr. Tytell was unusual, and I thought I had better tell you about him.”

“Quite right! Quite right!” John Quayle said, nodding his head and fumbling with a file of papers on the desk in front of him. “At the moment I can’t see how the incident could have any bearing on our investigation, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Captain March spoke up. “May I ask a question, sir?”

The FBI man looked up curiously. “Certainly. Of course!”

“What security precautions were taken here last night, between the time we landed the crate of coins and the time they were picked up this morning?”

60 “That’s a fair question,” Mr. Quayle said. “And since you were the crew that flew it down, I see no reason why you shouldn’t know. As I have told you, Mr. Jones, the private detective who flew down with you, stayed in the warehouse with the shipment all night. So did the foreman of the warehouse crew—a Mr. Van Lasher. He’s an old and trusted employee and I believe he’s been with Federal for quite some time. In any case, the coin shipment was moved into a small room within the warehouse where valuable cargo is often kept under lock and key. No flights were due in that night, and no night crew was on duty; so Jones and Lasher stayed with the shipment until the morning work crews reported, keeping awake with coffee and cigarettes. It was a lonely watch and pretty dull. Lasher admitted that he had dozed off lightly once or twice. And then Jones sheepishly admitted that he might have done the same thing. But they were both on guard all night, and one or the other was awake and alert at all times.”

“And nothing happened?”

“Only one thing. Shortly before midnight, Lasher had gone to an all-night lunch counter to refill the coffee jug, and Jones was in the warehouse by himself. The warehouse was dark, lighted only by a few scattered light bulbs.”

“Then the warehouse wasn’t locked?” Captain March asked.

“Oh, yes, the warehouse is always locked, unless61 a night crew is working. The only people who had keys were the foreman, Van Lasher, and the night watchman. The watchman made his regular rounds that night, but he saw nothing unusual.

“Well, as I said, Jones was by himself when he heard a sound, as though someone had stumbled into a pile of packages or crates that were stacked on the warehouse floor. He jumped to his feet and shouted, whereupon the intruder dashed across the warehouse and out the door that leads to the loading ramp. Lasher had left the door unlocked when he went to get the coffee. Jones could hear feet pounding over the concrete floor and tried to catch the intruder in the beam of his flashlight. Just as the man dashed out the door, he seemed to drop something.”

Mr. Quayle paused a moment, and Johnny Baker said, “Then you do have a suspect?”

“No,” Quayle said thoughtfully, “I’m not sure that we do. When Lasher returned with the coffee, he turned on the lights and the two of them looked around. What the prowler had dropped was a flashlight. From the name inked on a piece of adhesive wrapped around the handle, Lasher recognized it as belonging to a young fellow who worked in the warehouse day crew, a lad named Joey Watson.”

Vicki drew in her breath sharply, then quickly covered up her inadvertent expression of surprise62 by putting her fingers to her lips and coughing lightly. She looked quickly at Cathy and Captain March, remembering that she had casually mentioned Joey’s name to them the other day. But both the pilot and the stewardess seemed to have forgotten all about it.

Mr. Quayle continued. “When the crate was opened at the Royal Palms Hall about nine this morning and the theft discovered, the police immediately called me in on the case, since the interstate aspect of the affair put it under Federal jurisdiction. I immediately began questioning the ground crew and warehouse personnel. Young Watson was at work as usual and I questioned him along with the others. He admitted that the flashlight belongs to him; said he kept it in his locker in the warehouse. But he denied being around the airport at all after he knocked off work for the day. He claimed that he and a pal of his had gone to a movie last evening and then straight home to their boardinghouse. One of my men is checking his story as a matter of routine.”

Captain March was asking another question, but Vicki’s thoughts had gone off in a dizzying cycle of speculation. The flashlight that the prowler had dropped last night was Joey’s! Only yesterday afternoon a foreign-looking stranger had offered Joey a large sum of money to do some kind of “work,” the nature of which he had taken pains to keep obscure! On leaving63 Joey, the stranger had directed his taxi to the Granada Restaurant in Ybor City! On the plane, old Mr. Tytell had tried to call her attention to the same restaurant—or had he? Could there possibly be any connection between the seemingly unrelated events? Should she reveal these half-formed thoughts—that didn’t seem to make any sense even to her—to Mr. Quayle? He hadn’t been too impressed when she had told him about Mr. Tytell’s queer behavior on the plane. No, she decided. Joey was already under a cloud of suspicion. No use involving him any deeper. She’d have a talk with Joey first.

Her mind came back to the discussion that was going on.

“... and so,” Mr. Quayle was saying, “for the moment we’re at a dead end. The crate that was delivered to the exhibition hall was identical with the one shipped from the museum. If it had been opened and metal scrap substituted for the gold coins, it was the cleverest job I’ve ever seen.”

Vicki remembered Mr. Curtin saying the same thing.

“Maybe the coins were taken out of the crate in the museum in New York before the crate was shipped,” Johnny Baker ventured.

“That’s the baffling thing,” Mr. Quayle said. He shook his head, and his brows wrinkled in puzzlement. “The curator of the museum personally64 checked on the contents and stood by while the crate was closed and sealed just a few minutes before it was given to the crew of an armored truck for delivery to Idlewild.”

“Well,” Captain March concluded, “all I can say is that you’ve got the darnedest mystery on your hands that I ever came across.”

“You can say that again,” said Mr. Quayle.

Outside the office door, the crew of Flight Seventeen looked at each other for a long moment without speaking.

“What do you make of it, skipper?” Johnny Baker asked.

“I don’t even try.” The captain grinned. “I’ll leave that to the FBI.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll meet you all at the loading gate in forty-five minutes.” He turned and walked away.

“Come on, gals,” Johnny said brightly. “I’ll buy the cokes.”

“Not for me, thanks,” Vicki said. “I have an errand to do.”

She watched Johnny and Cathy stroll away in the direction of the soda fountain, and stood still a minute wondering what to do. Should she go over to the warehouse to talk with Joey? No, better not. No use calling attention to the fact that the stewardess of the plane that had brought in the gold was a friend of the only person thus far who was suspected of having a hand in stealing it. Maybe she’d find him in the snack bar. She directed her steps to the65 small air-conditioned restaurant. Inside, she looked all around, but there was no sign of Joey.

Well, she thought, there’s nothing she could do now. She’d just have to wait until she got back to Tampa on Sunday. Maybe a couple of extra days would give her a chance to straighten out these wispy, formless thoughts that were buzzing around somewhere in the back of her head.