HEAVY STORMS, CARRYING SNOW, HAIL, FOG, AND winds of gale proportions had swirled down out of the northwest and enveloped the entire Atlantic seaboard from the Carolinas northward in the worst weather of the year. All flights out of New York had been canceled for twenty-four hours, and so now it was Thursday afternoon, instead of Wednesday, when Captain March touched down the tricycle landing gear of his big DC-6-B on the concrete strip at Tampa airport.
The usually calm and placid air had been as rough as a rolling sea even at the plane’s normal “over weather” altitude for the first two hours of the flight; and since the ship was packed to capacity due to yesterday’s cancellations, Vicki and Cathy had their hands full.
But here, over Florida’s west coast, the sun shone brightly. The blue waters of Tampa Bay caught a billion sunbeams and threw them back105 up into the sky like a shower of tiny diamonds. Below, the palm trees fluttered their long fronds in the lazy breeze.
It had been just a week ago today, Vicki remembered, that their ship had carried the cargo of gold coins that had seemed to vanish so mysteriously into thin air. She wondered if Mr. Quayle had acted on the information she had given him after her adventures in Ybor City—or if there had been any new developments of any kind in the mystery of the stolen gold coins. Well, in any case, she’d soon find out. But right now she had better get a move on if she wanted to be in time for tonight’s big event.
It was late by the time she arrived at the Curtin home. Mrs. Tucker, the housekeeper, met her at the door.
“We heard about the bad weather in New York on the radio,” Mrs. Tucker said, “and weren’t sure whether you were going to make it today or not. The girls went on ahead to take their places on the float for the parade. They said to tell you to meet them for dinner about eight o’clock at the Spanish Park, the restaurant you all went to the other night.”
Vicki saw that Mrs. Tucker was carrying a light coat over her arm, as though she had been just about to go out. The housekeeper added:
“Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Vicki, before I leave?” She smiled half-apologetically, as though a woman of her age and dignity should106 be aloof from such gala goings-on. “I thought I’d go and see the parade myself.”
“You go right ahead,” Vicki said cheerfully. “Don’t worry about me. Maybe I’ll see you in Ybor City.”
She hurried upstairs to her room, slipped out of her blue uniform, showered, and then wriggled into a sleeveless, red silk dress with a flaring skirt that she had bought especially for the occasion. With her silvery blond hair she might not look much like a Spanish se?orita, but at least the bright crimson dress was a gesture.
When her taxi set her down on the edge of the Latin Quarter, the old streets, with their archways extending out over the sidewalks, were teeming with people. Some wore the light-colored sports clothes that marked them as tourists and sight-seers. Most of the men and women, and practically all the children—of whom hundreds were running around laughing and shouting—were in costume. Some were dressed in Spanish clothes, others wore pirate outfits. Music poured from loud-speakers over the sidewalks and from distant bands. Vicki supposed the unseen bands must be on the floats which were probably forming up somewhere out of her sight for the parade.
At the curbs the free bean-soup stands were doing a lively business. Red roses, geraniums, and varieties of other brilliant flowers spilled107 out of windows and strewed the sidewalks. Some of the younger people were dancing in the streets. Several groups were singing. Some people were already finding places along the street and craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the coming parade.
A gay spirit of carnival had Ybor City in its grasp, and Vicki joined in the laughter as she allowed herself to be carried along on the human tide of the huge crowd. She stopped at one sidewalk shop to buy a souvenir for her young sister Ginny. She chose one of the miniature imitation-gold pirate ships that seemed to be the Festival’s most popular souvenir, and slipped it into her handbag.
She paused again to buy a red rose from an old woman who was selling flowers under an arcade. As she slipped it into her hair, two boys with a guitar stopped and serenaded her with a few rhythmic chords. Vicki couldn’t control the impulse to whirl gaily around in a Spanish dance step.
She wound up against an iron grillwork gate and paused to catch her breath. She looked up and a familiar sign caught her eye: F. R. Eaton-Smith—Travel Agency. Underneath it was a hastily lettered cardboard placard: Welcome to the Gasparilla Festival. Open House—Refreshments.
Inside, the house was a blaze of light. People108 were going in and out in a steady parade. On impulse, Vicki walked up the three steps to the entryway and entered the hall.
At a long table against one wall, two se?oritas were serving cakes and fruit punch. Vicki accepted a cake from a tray and a glass of punch.
“Is Mr. Eaton-Smith around?” Vicki asked one of the serving girls. She thought it would be polite, and in the spirit of the evening, to thank her host for his hospitality.
The girl laughed gaily, and waved a hand aimlessly in the direction of the several rooms that led off the center hall.
“He’s around somewhere. Anywhere.”
“What a wonderful old house,” Vicki thought as she looked around. “It must be at least a hundred years old. Maybe............