then we've heard nothing. We sent out alarms to the fields at Nome and Flat, but we've had no word from him. He's disappeared completely.”
“If he was forced down,” Shorty said, slowly, “he could still have made contact by radio and given his position.”
“But he hasn't,” Bill said. He got up and paced the length of his office and back again. “I'm worried as hell,
Shorty! Remember, we lost Mort Henderson and Cy Hawkins within the last year. I'm slowing up, I guess.
I can't take these things any more. I—I feel that it's my fault. I shouldn't have let him go. It's too early in the year. Any one of a hundred things might have happened to his ship.”
“He's way below the Arctic Circle. Have you been in touch with young Reynolds' sister since Red disappeared?”
“No. What could she do about it? If she couldn't keep her half-witted brother from trying to fly to Russia for caviar, what could she do about this?”
“I don't know,” Shorty said. “Probably nothing. But it's funny we had no radio message from Red. If he knew he was going to crack up, he would have made contact at the last moment to let us know. Did you check up on the Reynolds girl in any way?”
“No. I couldn't see any necessity for it. She left a signed, blank check here to be filled in when we decided what the fee would be. The check had her name and coat of arms embossed on it.”
“Where did she get a coat of arms?” Shorty wanted to know. “Her grandmother got tired of taking in washings and her grandfather was an electrician. They got together through sheer fatigue and developed the Reynolds electric washing machine. I wonder———”
“You wonder what?” Bill snarled. “Do you think she was a phony? What are you getting at?”
“I don't know,” Shorty said, “except that the whole thing sounds a little screwy to me. It's funny this Reynolds dame hasn't made any inquiries of you.”
“About Red?” Bill asked. His teeth clamped down over his lower lip. “How did you know she hadn't?”
“I guessed again,” Shorty drawled. “I don't like this thing, Bill. It isn't like you to stick your chin out this way.”
“Like me!” Bill roared. “Listen. I'm slowly going nuts about this new light plane we're going to try to put on the market. Everything has gone wrong. I've been so busy I haven't had time to sleep or eat. I took this Reynolds thing in my stride and turned it over to Red and forgot about it. It merely looked like a routine investigation to me to be sure that there was no chance of young Reynolds being alive. What would you have done?”
“The same thing you did, probably,” Shorty said. “But what do you say we give this Reynolds gal a ring on the phone and maybe ask her some questions? I'd like to know why she lost interest as soon as Red started off.”
Bill reached for a Manhattan telephone book, turned the pages, and then took the telephone out of its cradle. He gave the Barnes Field operator a number and pressed the instrument to his ear.
“Ask her,” Shorty said, “if she has heard from Red.”
Bill nodded his head and a moment later spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Hello, Miss Reynolds?” he said.
“Who wishes to speak to Miss Reynolds, please?” a soft voice said in his ear.
“I recognize your voice. Miss Reynolds,” Bill said. “This is Bill Barnes speaking.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Barnes,” the voice said, “I will see if Miss Reynolds is in. I——”
_Bill heard a receiver click and another woman's voice cut into the conversation.
“Who is on the phone, please, Miss Johnson?” the second voice said.
Bill's forehead creased in long, sharply etched lines as a receiver clicked again and no one answered the inquiry. He waited for a moment and then he spoke,
“Hello, hello,” he said. “I am trying to get Miss Ruth Reynolds on the wire.”
“This is Miss Reynolds speaking,” a voice said that Bill had never heard before. “Who is this, please?”
“Who was on the wire a moment ago —on an extension, perhaps?” Bill asked quickly.
“It must have been my secretary, Miss Johnson,” the voice said. “Will you kindly tell me who you are?”
“Bill Barnes!” Bill barked. “I want to speak to Miss Reynolds!”
“You are talking to Miss Reynolds, Mr. Barnes,” the voice said. “What do you wish?”
“Don't you know me?” Bill asked. “I mean don't you know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are, Mr. Barnes,” she said. “But I don't know you.”
“Did you come to my field on Long Island about a week ago. Miss Reynolds, and ask me to make a search for your brother?” Bill asked.
“I have never been on your field,
Mr. Barnes,” she said. She heard Bill's explosion of breath and added, “What is wrong?”
“Plenty,” Bill snorted. “Miss Reynolds, will you please stay in your apartment until 'I arrive there? I'm going to take off from my field immediately and land at the seaplane landing at East Thirty-first Street. Your apartment is about Sixtieth Street, isn't it?”
“I was just going out,” she said.
“Can't you tell me——”
“I'm sorry,” Bill said. “I can't tell you anything over the telephone. But you will be very interested in what I have to tell you and what I have to show you when I arrive in about twenty-five minutes. Good-by.”
His face was a thundercloud as he slapped the telephone into its cradle. He lifted it off again and asked for “Scotty” MacCloskey, the dour old Scotsman who was the major domo of Barnes Field.
“Warm up the Lancer, Scotty,” he said. “I'll be out in a few minutes.”
“There seems to be something wrong,” Shorty said.
“There is, wise guy,” Bill snapped in his exasperation. “Get out of that overall and grab a hat. We're going over to call on Miss Reynolds. She says she was never here.”
III—A MESSAGE
EIGHT minutes later Bill climbed in the forward cockpit of the big silver sesquiplane that was the Lancer.
Following his regular custom, he checked over his ammunition counters and his two .50caliber machine guns and the 37mm. cannon mounted in the Vee of the cylinders.
“Let's ride!” he said into the inter-cockpit telephone to Shorty, and released his hand brakes.
He blasted the tail around and rolled down the concrete runway at terrific speed until he reached the center of the field where the various runways converged. Kicking his right rudder gently he nosed into the wind, rocked his control column gently forward to bring up the tail and then lifted the big ship into the air.
The tip of Brooklyn and the Brooklyn Bridge flashed under his wings a few minutes later. He sped above the other bridges that span the East River, circled the seaplane landing once and struck the water with a cloud of spray and roared up to the inclined turntable. A uniformed attendant wheeled up a set of steps. As Bill went down them he shouted instructions at the attendant and raced toward the taxi stand with Shorty by his side.
“If we don't get there fast, she won't wait,” Bill panted as he gave the driver the address and slumped back in the seat of a taxi.
“That kind never will,” Shorty said.
A maid answered the door and led them into the library of the Reynolds' twenty-room apartment.
“Please sit down,” she said. “Miss Reynolds will be right in.”
But Bill didn't sit down. Instead, he paced back and forth across the room. He was waiting to get a glimpse of Miss Ruth Reynolds. He heard the tap of high heels on the floor and faced the doorway. A short, rather stout girl of about twenty-six stepped into the room.
Bill's heart turned over and his stomach contracted as he stared at the girl who stood there. He knew he was being rude, but he couldn't help it. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth. He bowed his head for an instant to hide the anger and chagrin in his eyes.
“Mr. Barnes?” the girl said in a languid, bored way that made Bill more angry. He bowed again.
“And Mr. Hassfurther,” he said, indicating Shorty. “Miss Reynolds, unless she has already gone, call your secretary quickly!”
Miss Reynolds' eyes opened wide and her left hand fluttered toward her heart “Why, really———”
