CHAPTER XV

LADY COP OF THE SKY

But we must not forget Florence. At Danby Force’s request, she had arranged for a dance in the Community House. “Call it a waltz night,” he suggested. “All these older people love the old-fashioned dances and the waltz is the best of them all.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “there’s nothing quite like a waltz.”

She took great pleasure in arranging for this simple social affair. She sent a bevy of girls into the hills to gather branches of maple and sumac. These, all afire with colors of autumn, turned the rather drab social hall into an elfin grotto. High in one corner she hung a cardboard moon. Behind this was a powerful electric lamp.

“For the last waltz,” she whispered to Verna who was helping. “We will turn off all the other lamps and waltz by the light of the golden moon.”

“That,” said the happy girl softly, “will be grand.”

Their waltz night came and with it such a crowd as the Community House had never before known.

From the musicians of the community Florence had managed to assemble an excellent orchestra.

To the swinging rhythm of “The Beautiful Blue Danube,” Danby Force and Florence led the merrymakers away for the first dance.

“They’re happy,” Danby Force said as a pleased smile passed over his face. “Truly, peacefully happy. This waltz night idea is going to be fine. We’ll have several of them, have them all winter long.”

“Has he forgotten?” Florence asked herself. “Has the spy and my mission here slipped from his memory so soon?” It surely seemed so, for here he was planning her social service work for the distant future.

“Some day,” she told herself with a little shudder, “there will be a big blow-up around here. The spy will be found. Perhaps I shall find him. And then there will be no more social work done by little, big Florence.”

She resolved to forget all this and, for one night at least, enjoy life to its full.

The fourth waltz had come to a close with a glorious swing. She was seated on the side line with Danby Force when, of a sudden, a figure appeared on the narrow platform. A jolly-faced young man he was. His dark eyes were sparkling, his bushy black hair tumbled about his ears. His was a face to charm the world. From some woman’s gown he had snatched a broad belt of red cloth. A fantastic, romantic figure he cut indeed as he stood there waving his hands. “Well now, that was wonderful!” he shouted. “Beautiful! Artistic! Entrancing! Marvelous!

“And now—” his face became animated like a thing glowing with inner fire. “Now let’s have a little jazz.”

The orchestra leader beckoned. He bent low to listen. Then,

“No music? Bah! Who wants music? It goes like this!”

Like a clown in the circus, he produced a saxophone from nowhere at all, put it to his lips and began a series of strange sounds which everyone knew was jazz.

“Now!” He beckoned to the orchestra. His body swayed. His eyes shone. “Now!”

Who could resist him? Whether they could or not, no one did. The orchestra followed his lead. Dancers swarmed out upon the floor. Soon the place was a mad house of wild, hilarious dancing. Only Florence and Danby Force did not dance.

“Who is he?” Florence asked as a puzzled frown overspread her face.

“Hugo?” Danby Force said in a tone of surprise. “Haven’t you met him? Well, of course you might not. He’s an inspector, works in a back room. But in a place like this he’s what’s known as the life of the party.

“In fact,” he added, “that’s why I employed him. I thought, with his saxophone and his high spirits he’d stir things up. We’re a bit dull in this old town. Well—” he laughed an uneasy laugh. “He’s done it all right. He’s stirred us up. See for yourself. He’s only been here three months and he practically runs the town. Jolly fellow, Hugo.”

“Three months,” Florence was thinking to herself. “Then he’s one of the newcomers. He might be—”

Her thoughts broke off suddenly. Had she caught some movement behind her? A door stood ajar. Her keen eyes caught sight of a figure that vanished instantly. It was the little hunchback German, Hans Schneider, one of her suspects,—she was sure of that.

As if he had read her thoughts, Danby said: “The German people are the cleverest dye makers in the world. While the World War was on and we could not get their dyes, we made some very poor cloth I can tell you. But now—”

He did not finish. She knew what he would have said: “Now if we can but find this spy, if we can protect our interests, we shall lead the world and our little city may become the center of a great industry.”

“You don’t dance to that sort of music?” he said, nodding his head toward the squealing, squawking, sobbing orchestra.

“Is it music?” Florence smiled.

“I wonder!” He did not smile. He was watching the younger people in this mad whirlpool of motion and sound. “Sometimes I wonder,” he repeated. “I’ve been told that this jazz started in the dark heart of Africa, or perhaps in the black Republic of Haiti. That it used to be practiced as a wild, frenzied dance, mingled with a sort of madness, by the Voodoo worshippers before they performed something terrible—perhaps human sacrifice.

“Anyway—” his voice changed, “this wild revel does things to our people. There’s sure to be things happen tomorrow, a whole batch of color spoiled perhaps, or bolts of cloth ruined, perhaps valuable machines wrecked. People are nervous and jumpy after just one wild night. You can’t trust them to be themselves.

“Last time we had a revel like this,” he laughed low, “one of the girls was working near a vat of indigo blue coloring matter. She—she tried a new jazz step, I believe,—and—fell in! She was blue for a week after that.” He laughed aloud. Florence joined him and felt better. Her night of waltz music was spoiled, but here at least was amusement. “She would have been blue for life,” Danby went on, “only the coloring material wasn’t in its last stages.

“Well—” he rose. “I’ll be going. Got a lot of work to do. No more waltz tonight.”

“No—no more waltz!” Florence looked up at her imitation moon. She was disappointed and unhappy. She had pictured that last dance as something unusual and beautiful.

“Your Hugo is attractive at any rate,” she said to Danby.

Just at that moment Hugo went whirling by. He was dancing with Ina Piccalo, the dark-eyed girl who had carried away the dye.

“She’s wearing a purple dress,” Florence said to herself, “the very shade that was in the ink bottle. I wonder—” she was to wonder many times.

It was not many hours after Florence had returned to her small room in the bird-cage cottage, when Jeanne, in quite a different part of the country, started on her strange flight following the small silver plane.

“What can have happened?” Madame Bihari asked herself in utter astonishment as she watched the two planes, like homing pigeons, rapidly disappearing into the distance.

That which had happened was truly very simple. As Jeanne, after taxiing down the field, came in sight of that silver plane, she caught sight of a tall dark figure just entering the plane. One look was enough. Her lips parted in sudden surprise as she hissed under her breath: “The dark lady! The spy!”

She was about to spring from her place when the silver plane, whose propeller had been slowly revolving, started gliding away. There was nothing left but to follow.

Jeanne followed, not alone on the ground, but in the air. And did she follow? Miles and miles the two planes roared on. Perhaps some early milkman, looking up at the sky, wondered where they were going. Jeanne wondered also, but not once did she think of turning back. In her mind’s eye, she could see the earnest look on Danby’s face. She could picture his happy little city and her friend Florence working there.

“I’ll catch that so terrible spy,” she told herself. “Somehow I _must_!”

We feel certain that she would have accomplished her purpose, but for one thing. She and Madame had traveled far on the previous day. Their supply of gas was low. Just when Jeanne fancied that the silver plane was slowing up for a landing, her motor gave an angry sput-sput-sput, then went quite dead.

“No gas!” she exclaimed in sudden consternation.

Wildly her eyes sought the earth beneath her. There were plowed fields to the right and left of her, very soft and dangerous, she knew. Directly before her were corn shocks, hundreds of them. There were wide spaces between the shocks. Could she land between them?

With a little prayer to the god of the air, she set her plane to go gliding in a circle and land as nearly as possible in one particular spot.

She missed the spot and the space between the shocks completely. With a sudden intake of breath, she saw herself headed for an endless row of shocks.

“God take pity on one poor little gypsy girl!” she whispered.

The plane bumped softly. A brown bundle shot past her, another and another, five, ten, twenty. The earth and sky turned brown. Then, her plane quite buried in brown, she came to a standstill.

Realizing the danger from fire, she leaped from the plane to begin dragging at the bundles of corn fodder that covered her motor. To her surprise, she discovered that someone on the other side was engaged in the same occupation. When at last the motor was quite clear, a freckled youth, with two front teeth gone, came round the side to grin at her.

“Now you’ll have t’set ’em all up ag’in, I reckon.” He cackled a merry cackle.

“Oh no; you set them up.” Jeanne joined him in the laugh. Then, digging deep in her knickers pocket, she dragged forth a new five dollar bill. “You take this and get me some gas. You can keep the rest. Just enough gas to take me to the landing field. Where is the nearest one?”

“Thanks! Er—” the boy paused to cackle again. “Them shocks was just husked. I husked ’em. Weren’t tied none. If they wasn’t husked you’d might nigh cracked up, I reckon.

“I’ll get the gas,” he added hurriedly. “Sure I will. Landin’ field over thar.” He pointed north. “Ten miles. How come you all didn’t stop thar?”

“No gas.” Jeanne smiled a happy smile. “But say! You hurry!” she put in as he moved slowly away. “I’m a lady cop of the air. I was chasing a spy.”

“Gee Whillikins! A spy!” The boy was away on the run.