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Authors: Stuart Palmer
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the bus, where the plump young man leaned on his horn.
“I hope he doesn’t go and die on me before we get him to town,” Phyllis murmured as they came up the walk. “Tell me, do you really think he was poisoned?”
“I do.” Miss Withers was very definite.
“And you think it was the same—the same as the man on the plane?”
Again Miss Withers was sure.
“Poor little Mister Jones,” Phyllis cooed. “Does he feel better now?” The little dog wriggled in her arms. “Oh, Lord! There it goes again!”
Hurriedly she put the dog down. But this time the invalid made no efforts to die, nor was there a single retch. As the two worried women bent over the tottering animal, they saw what it was that had impelled Mister Jones to want down.
With twin sighs of relief, they hurried on toward the bus while Mister Jones trotted soberly behind with the prize.
The bus swung away from the airport, leaving the landing to the motionless red-and-gilt Dragonfly with its dark secret. Overhead the gulls were screaming, and their dark shadows swept crazily across the faces of the two women who were riding back toward the city, a sadder but not wiser little dog cuddling between them with a crackerjack box beneath its paws.
CHAPTER VI
T HE WIND THAT BLOWS nobody good blew, upon that sunny August afternoon, a gratifying rush of business through the wide-open doors of Catalina’s approximation of a grand hotel, the St. Lena.
“You might as well get off here with me,” advised Miss Hildegarde Withers, as the red bus which bore Mister Jones, Phyllis La Fond, and herself came down out of the canyon and skirted the hotel grounds. “It’s the best and only hotel.”
“And I always stay at the best hotels,” Phyllis said. “Heaven only knows how.” She signaled the plump youth to stop.
“Unless I miss my guess,” went on Miss Withers, “We’ll have company before long. For Chief of Police Britt has put his foot down upon the idea of anybody leaving the island—anybody who was on the Dragonfly this morning.”
“It ought to be a regular old-home week here,” Phyllis remarked, as her bags were being carried through the door and up the stone steps. “We’ll sleep well, anyway—knowing that one of the party is a murderer.”
“Then you agree with me?” Miss Withers was gratified.
Phyllis grinned and enclosed an unwilling Mister Jones in the leatherette container. “I might as well agree with you,” she admitted. “You seem to be a person who is usually right, and I’m wrong nine tenths of the time. All the same, I don’t see who could have bumped off that little guy with all of us sitting right there in the plane.”
“That’s for him to know, and us to find out,” Miss Withers concluded. “When you register, young woman, insist that the clerk give you a five-dollar room. He has a few—the one next to mine was vacant this morning—but he’ll try to sell you one on the third floor for eight.”
“Yeah? Well, listen to me, sister. If that clerk at the desk was ten years younger and if I wasn’t so tired from that ride in our fresh friend’s wheelbarrow of a bus, I’d show you how to get a room on the third for five, or maybe even three-fifty.”
Phyllis held out her hand, with fingernails like dropsical rubies, and Miss Withers shook it gravely.
“I’ll probably see you at dinner, Miss—was it La Fond?”
“Among a lot of other things, yes. Born Schultz. My friends call me Phyd, and my enemies call me towhead. Take your pick.”
“His intimate friends called him Candle-ends, and his enemies, Toasted-cheese,” quoted Miss Withers. “Well, good-bye, Phyd.”
Miss Hildegarde Withers had enjoyed her quiet room near the stairs on the second floor for the past week in comparative seclusion. To that seclusion she now said a painless good-bye.
She washed quickly and changed her dress for dinner. In her bathroom she heard sounds of bustle next door which told her that Phyllis had succeeded in
“I hope he doesn’t go and die on me before we get him to town,” Phyllis murmured as they came up the walk. “Tell me, do you really think he was poisoned?”
“I do.” Miss Withers was very definite.
“And you think it was the same—the same as the man on the plane?”
Again Miss Withers was sure.
“Poor little Mister Jones,” Phyllis cooed. “Does he feel better now?” The little dog wriggled in her arms. “Oh, Lord! There it goes again!”
Hurriedly she put the dog down. But this time the invalid made no efforts to die, nor was there a single retch. As the two worried women bent over the tottering animal, they saw what it was that had impelled Mister Jones to want down.
With twin sighs of relief, they hurried on toward the bus while Mister Jones trotted soberly behind with the prize.
The bus swung away from the airport, leaving the landing to the motionless red-and-gilt Dragonfly with its dark secret. Overhead the gulls were screaming, and their dark shadows swept crazily across the faces of the two women who were riding back toward the city, a sadder but not wiser little dog cuddling between them with a crackerjack box beneath its paws.
CHAPTER VI
T HE WIND THAT BLOWS nobody good blew, upon that sunny August afternoon, a gratifying rush of business through the wide-open doors of Catalina’s approximation of a grand hotel, the St. Lena.
“You might as well get off here with me,” advised Miss Hildegarde Withers, as the red bus which bore Mister Jones, Phyllis La Fond, and herself came down out of the canyon and skirted the hotel grounds. “It’s the best and only hotel.”
“And I always stay at the best hotels,” Phyllis said. “Heaven only knows how.” She signaled the plump youth to stop.
“Unless I miss my guess,” went on Miss Withers, “We’ll have company before long. For Chief of Police Britt has put his foot down upon the idea of anybody leaving the island—anybody who was on the Dragonfly this morning.”
“It ought to be a regular old-home week here,” Phyllis remarked, as her bags were being carried through the door and up the stone steps. “We’ll sleep well, anyway—knowing that one of the party is a murderer.”
“Then you agree with me?” Miss Withers was gratified.
Phyllis grinned and enclosed an unwilling Mister Jones in the leatherette container. “I might as well agree with you,” she admitted. “You seem to be a person who is usually right, and I’m wrong nine tenths of the time. All the same, I don’t see who could have bumped off that little guy with all of us sitting right there in the plane.”
“That’s for him to know, and us to find out,” Miss Withers concluded. “When you register, young woman, insist that the clerk give you a five-dollar room. He has a few—the one next to mine was vacant this morning—but he’ll try to sell you one on the third floor for eight.”
“Yeah? Well, listen to me, sister. If that clerk at the desk was ten years younger and if I wasn’t so tired from that ride in our fresh friend’s wheelbarrow of a bus, I’d show you how to get a room on the third for five, or maybe even three-fifty.”
Phyllis held out her hand, with fingernails like dropsical rubies, and Miss Withers shook it gravely.
“I’ll probably see you at dinner, Miss—was it La Fond?”
“Among a lot of other things, yes. Born Schultz. My friends call me Phyd, and my enemies call me towhead. Take your pick.”
“His intimate friends called him Candle-ends, and his enemies, Toasted-cheese,” quoted Miss Withers. “Well, good-bye, Phyd.”
Miss Hildegarde Withers had enjoyed her quiet room near the stairs on the second floor for the past week in comparative seclusion. To that seclusion she now said a painless good-bye.
She washed quickly and changed her dress for dinner. In her bathroom she heard sounds of bustle next door which told her that Phyllis had succeeded in
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