Vicki Barr #3 The Hidden Valley Mystery

THE HIDDEN VALLEY MYSTERY

THE VICKI BARR AIR STEWARDESS SERIES Silver Wings for Vicki Vicki Finds the Answer The Hidden Valley Mystery The Secret of Magnolia Manor The Clue of the Broken Blossom Behind the White Veil The Mystery at Hartwood House Peril Over the Airport The Mystery of the Vanishing Lady The Search for the Missing Twin The Ghost at the Waterfall The Clue of the Gold Coin The Silver Ring Mystery The Clue of the Carved Ruby The Mystery of Flight 908 The Brass Idol Mystery

THE VICKI BARR AIR STEWARDESS SERIES ________________________________________________________

THE HIDDEN VALLEY MYSTERY BY HELEN WELLS ________________________________________________________

GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS New York

© BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1948 All Rights Reserved

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS ________________________________________________________

CHAPTER

PAGE

I

PASSPORT TO MEXICO

1

II

HOME BASE

18

III

CROSSING THE BORDER

42

IV

COUSIN CISSY

62

V

VICKI GETS TO WORK

84

VI

THE INDIAN VILLAGE

95

VII

NEW FRIENDS

111

VIII

WARNING

124

IX

IN DANGER

140

X

GROUNDS FOR SUSPICION

156

XI

THE WEB TIGHTENS

171

XII

ANTIGUA CASTLE

178

XIII

TWO MANTILLAS AND A LETTER

188

XIV

THE ROAD TO AYUTLA

207

XV

ESCAPE BY PLANE

214

XVI

THE DOUBLE-RABBIT

228

XVII

ADIÓS! GOOD-BYE!

240

CHAPTER I

Passport to Mexico

The Christmas tree in the Barrs’ living room at the Castle was slightly the worse for wear. Even more battered was the telegram which Vicki, curled up on the gray velvet couch with the spaniel, opened and read for the twentieth time: “A

LITTLE TARDY RUT HERE’S YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT, VICKI. YOU’RE GOING TO MEXICO. CONGRATULATIONS!”

The telegram was signed “Ruth Benson,” assistant superintendent of flight stewardesses for Federal Airlines, and Vicki’s boss. Whenever Vicki read that message, her blue eyes grew softer and bigger than ever. A second telegram read: “START TAKING INOCULATIONS FOR FOREIGN TRAVEL AND SEND BIRTH CERTIFICATE SO WE CAN GET YOUR PASSPORT.”

Vicki had complied. Her photograph was already on file with the airline. 1

Vicki dreamily folded both telegrams and put them back in the pocket of her new blue dress (a Christmas present from her parents). The only question was, when was she to leave for Mexico? Miss Benson had told Vicki to go home, rest over Christmas, and await instructions. Vicki was waiting in a state of excitement; every ring of doorbell or phone made her heart leap. She might leave any day, any minute, now. Vicki roused herself enough to break into three pieces the last candy cane off the shedding Christmas tree. She gave one piece to Freckles, the whimpering little brown-and-white spaniel. “No, you can’t have it all,” she told him. “Ginny and I get a piece, too.” Freckles’s stubby tail thumped against the carpet as he gnawed and battled his candy. Vicki’s heart was thumping as happily, as she wandered around the long living room, daydreaming. Being chosen to go to Mexico, as a flight stewardess on Federal’s affiliated airline down there, was a dream about to come true! Vicki went out to the small entrance hall, and climbed the flight of tower stairs, leading to the second floor and the bedrooms. Halfway up, she stood beside a window looking out into dense trees. This window was Vicki’s favorite spot for daydreaming, and the tower which enclosed the 2

stairs was her favorite part of the Barr house. Dreaming there, her sensitive little face framed by soft ash-blonde hair, she seemed more like the lady of the castle than a modern young career woman. She knew it, uncomfortably. “Better start being practical. Better dig out my Spanish dictionary.” Vicki turned and went downstairs again, passing the hall mirror. The reflection of her figure, small and frail-seeming, halted her. She stood up as straight as possible, trying to look more capable, bigger, older. “It doesn’t help,” remarked a candid voice. “You look as though you were cut out for a life of bonbons and fancy embroidery, and hadn’t the strength or sense of a kitten.” “Ginny!” Vicki’s small face flushed. “Please show some respect for your elders!” “Well, it’s true, that’s how you look. Me, I know you’re not what you look, sweetie.” Her younger sister skipped the rest of the way down the tower stairs. Ginny was a practical-looking adolescent, with her flaxen hair in tight braids, her sturdy bare legs ending in orthopedic Oxfords, braces on her teeth, and temporary glasses. She glared pleasantly at Vicki, who had recently lived through this same chrysalis stage and emerged healthy, wiry, and exceedingly pretty. 3

“You know, Vic, I have to needle you when you come home on your rest periods. Why, prob’ly you’re so spoiled by your passengers, somebody has to turn your head back in place again.” “I am not spoiled by my passengers! A flight stewardess works hard!” Vicki retorted indignantly. “If you think being in charge of a planeful of passengers is a glamour job—” “Mexico isn’t glamour, huh?” Ginny grinned behind her glasses. “—but you wouldn’t trade jobs with anybody in the world, and besides you’re so excited about going to Méjico you can’t talk straight. Truce?” Vicki laughed, and put her arm around Ginny’s plump shoulders. The two sisters were on their way to dismantle the Christmas tree—something they had planned daily for the past three days, but hadn’t had the heart to do—when Mrs. Barr called. “Victoria! Will you come here, please?” “Yes, Mother!” Vicki called back. “Where are you?” “Here!” There was a pause. Vicki and Ginny exchanged glances. “Family life,” Ginny mumbled. “You’ll miss this in Mexico.” Ginny sang out, “Where’s here?” “In my room. Writing letters to Mexico,” their mother’s voice drifted back. 4

Although only Vicki was summoned, Ginny bounced along too, and the little spaniel came running. They all trooped upstairs into the big bedroom where Betty Barr sat at her desk. She was curly-haired, athletic, and at the moment, scowling. “How much postage from Fairview, Illinois, to Mexico City?” she asked. “Someone will have to take this down to the post office and inquire.” “Send Freckles,” suggested Ginny. She and Vicki sat down on the fragrant cedar chest, with the pup sprawled across both their laps. “Mexico—” Vicki quavered. “Who’s—I mean, whom—whom’s the letter to?” Mrs. Barr held up the envelope for her to see. “To Cousin Cissy. I’m writing to ask her to chaperon you while you’re down there.” Vicki let out a shriek. “Chaperon me! Why, I’m a career woman, I’ll be working most of the time, how can anyone chaperon— I never heard of anything so silly,” she finished, crestfallen. Ginny blinked indignantly. “Who is this old cousin, anyhow? She’ll spoil all Vicki’s fun!” Their mother turned around in her chair so emphatically that her short brown curls quivered. “Cissy isn’t an old cousin,” Betty Barr said. “She’s quite young—” “—about forty, I s’pose,” Vicki put in glumly. “—and though Dad and I rarely see Cissy since 5

her marriage,” their mother continued, “she is the only person we have in Mexico to keep an eye on you. You don’t remember her, Vic, because Cissy’s family moved to California when you were about three. Dad and I made a trip out there when you were about twelve, but you went to camp that summer. Ginny was a two-year-old; she went with us but she can’t remember Cissy, can you?” Mrs. Barr grinned. She fell to musing. “We never were in constant touch with that branch of the Barrs—it’s one of those families where you don’t see each other for years, but you can pick up ties as if you’d seen each other yesterday. “Anyhow,” Mrs. Barr said firmly, “I’m asking Cissy to chaperon you. Don’t moan and groan so, Vicki! In Latin-American countries, very conservative manners are still the custom. Very few girls earn their own livings. Manners are rather like those of your grandmother’s day—chiefly because those countries are still agricultural, while we have become a manufacturing country, and that’s changed our way of living. Anyhow, Vicki,” she concluded, “ ‘when in Rome, do as the Romans do.’ If you don’t, it’s a grave discourtesy—and you’ll make a donkey of yourself.” “All right, all right,” Vicki muttered. “A chaperon. How do you think this Cissy person will like it?” 6

“Maybe she wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole,” Ginny suggested flatteringly. “Maybe we’ll lose Cissy’s letter on the way to the post office,” Vicki said hopefully. “Oh, no, you don’t!” Mrs. Barr grinned. “Now go ask Dad if he has scared up any letters of introduction to take with you.” They crossed the upstairs hall, knocked on a door and poked their heads into Professor Barr’s study. It was empty, except for piles of books and mail. “We’ll try the kitchen,” Ginny said. “Dad’s probably cooking again.” Amateur cookery was the hobby of Professor Lewis Marvell Barr of the Economics Department at the near-by state university. Vicki had been a student there herself for two years, until she had (with her father’s reluctant and her mother’s enthusiastic permission) started out on her career in the sky. Professor Barr, tall, blond, and handsome, and made still taller by a starchy chef’s cap, was found peering solemnly into the oven. “Ssh! Walk on tiptoe!” he admonished his two daughters. “I am baking my first cake—and if anyone refuses a slice, I shall be deeply wounded.” “I get to lick the icing bowl,” Ginny announced. Professor Barr looked embarrassed. “I haven’t learned yet how to make icing,” he admitted. 7

“Good,” Vicki said quickly. “Then we can put chocolate syrup over the cake, instead.” Her father smiled. “My little diplomat, hey?” “She’s a pirate, that’s what she is!” Ginny burst out. “Next, she’ll suggest ice cream to go with the chocolate syrup.” “I was leading up to that,” Vicki admitted. “Ice-cream cake. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” Professor Barr dug under his long white apron and handed the girls some change. “If you don’t mind going downtown to buy ice cream,” he said dryly. “You may take the car.” They assured their father that they considered such an errand eminently worth while, and inquired about the Mexican letters of introduction. “Oh, yes. I have three letters for you to present, Vic, to friends of friends of mine. Two are to Mexican people, one is to a Chicagoan living there. Those letters will assure you of hospitality and friends, until you can make some friends of your own, as well. Of course we’re writing those three people on your behalf, before you arrive.” “Nice,” Vicki said. “I won’t be going as a complete stranger, then. Just think, friends in other countries. But, you know”—she cocked her fair head—“excited as I am, waiting for Ruth Benson to give me the go-ahead, and with these letters and packing and all—it still doesn’t feel as if I’m going 8

away.” “You’re going to leave the United States,” Ginny said soberly. “If you’d rather not go,” her father said promptly, “you can always return to the university. You didn’t finish—” “Have to mail Cissy’s letter now, Dad—’scuse us, please.” Vicki frankly fled. She had had a hard enough time originally to get Professor Barr’s permission to become a flight stewardess. Some hair-raising adventures had not increased his approval. Ginny, who had her own battle at school, stanchly fled with her. They seized hats, coats and overshoes, struggled into them, shoved Freckles into his leash and sweater, and raced each other out on the frozen lawn. “Wait a minute!” Vicki panted. Ginny, headed toward the garage, stopped. “Let’s see if the Christmas rose is still there.” They found the single perfect rose still abloom in the snow. Only this, and the dwarf fir trees banking The Castle, were green. Beneath the snow slept the rock garden and the rose-and-peony garden, the fruit trees and the little wood which led downhill to the lake. Vicki looked around and tried to realize she was leaving these dear things for a while. The Castle, with its miniature tower, and this frosty 9

white garden, made the hot lands south of the border seem hard to believe in, and very far away. For a moment Vicki choked up. “I’m homesick in advance,” she giggled at herself. Yet she felt forlorn. Ginny seemed to sense what Vicki was feeling, and let her alone. But at last the little girl grew tired of waiting. “Are you through daydreaming?” “Yes. Sorry. But it’s an odd sensation, Ginny, to be leaving home for a place so new and strange. If I were leaving The Castle to go back to New York and my crowd of stewardesses and our New York apartment—” Vicki’s blue eyes sparkled as she thought of the frolics, tiffs, parties, and gay hubbub that went on in that apartment. Six girls, and Mrs. Duff their housekeeper, with sometimes Dean Fletcher the young copilot, or newspaperman Pete Carmody, or The Three Bears dropping in to dance—and then suddenly the phone would summon them and the girls would be off on flights. What a life it was! “Mexico, or no Mexico, I’m going to miss my New York crowd,” Vicki confided to Ginny. She backed the car out of the garage into the curving driveway, then stopped to let Freckles and Ginny hop in. “Maybe some of your crowd will be sent to Mexico, too,” Ginny consoled her. “Maybe this 10

Cissy person won’t turn out to be so bad. Or you’ll find a mystery—you always do. Maybe—oops, watch where you’re going!” Vicki dismissed her daydreams long enough to drive safely downtown. At the Fairview post office, she handed the postmaster the letter addressed to Mexico City. With some misgivings she stamped it, then watched it go into the mailbag marked “Foreign Air Mail.” In a matter of days or hours, she herself would be flying to where that letter was addressed. And Vicki felt torn between love of home, right here in Fairview, and the thrill of exploring Mexico. That feeling was intensified by a visit to the candy shop, for the ice cream. Vicki’s old high school crowd was there, lingering over cokes and listening to the juke box. “Hi, Vicki!” Tootsie Miller hailed her. She was fat and jolly. “Is it the truth you’re going to leave the good old U.S.A.?” Handsome Dickie Brown and his pleasant sister, Lynn, came over too. “Hi, Vic. Guess you’re the first of our class to go abroad.” “It isn’t really abroad,” Vicki said, her heart sinking as if she were off to Siberia. “It’s still the Western Hemisphere—and a neighboring country— and, uh—” “Freckles!” Ginny protested. The little spaniel was challenging Guy English’s 11

setter pup. Freckles barked, reared and glared fearlessly. Guy had the setter on a leash. Guy grinned and said: “Call off your ferocious dog, ma’am. Have a coke, Vic, Ginny?” The two Kramer boys came into the candy shop, too, and Vicki found herself holding court as a world traveler. When she protested that she had not traveled much yet, Lynn Brown countered: “But you will. You’ll go all over the world, eventually, I’ll bet!” “Besides, Vic, you drew flying and that’s the most exciting job of all.” “Don’t forget us gringos when you’re in Mexico.” “I’ll never forget you kids,” Vicki said in a warm rush of feeling. That premature homesickness welled up in her throat. Driving home with Ginny and Freckles, she nearly considered calling the whole thing off. But at home a telegram had just arrived for Miss Victoria Barr. “REPORT NEW YORK TOMORROW. FREE FLIGHT ON ANY FEDERAL PLANE OUT OF CHICAGO THAT HAS ROOM FOR YOU. HAVE SECURED YOUR MEXICAN PASSPORT AND BUSINESS TRAVELER’S PERMIT. REGARDS, RUTH BENSON.”

Vicki clutched her blonde head to keep it from whirling. Leave tomorrow—that meant finish packing tonight. The Castle, even her family, suddenly lost their look of permanence for Vicki. 12

Racing up to the blue room, which she shared with Ginny, she hastily began folding garments into her lightweight suitcase. “Shoes, plenty of ’em for sight-seeing— Suntan lotion and my bathing suit—” The bathing suit, since this was Christmas week, had to be unearthed from the storage closet. “Camera and films, or will the customs agents at the border say no? Oh, yes, my Spanish-English dictionary. Thank goodness, it’s pocket size. Hmm, American tooth powder might be a good idea. And sunglasses! What else?” Vicki suspected she was packing entirely too many garments and gadgets. Inexperienced travelers usually did. Ruth Benson declared that a suit, two blouses, two hats, one dress, one coat, plus plenty of shoes and stockings and gloves and underthings, would take anybody quite decently around the world. “Besides, I have my flight uniform, waiting for me at the apartment in New York!” Vicki thought with shining eyes of the trim blue cap and uniform, and the proud silver wings pinned on its breast pocket. “But it’s warm in Mexico, even in winter. Ruth Benson said that the airline will want me to wear summer uniform.” Mrs. Barr came to the door of the blue bedroom and gave Vicki two brightly wrapped packages. “Gifts for Cousin Cissy. Some new books and 13

American stockings. I hope they fit her, at least approximately. You might buy her some candy in New York, too, Vicki.” “Doggone this Cissy person,” Vicki said half seriously. “The fly in the ointment. Off to the land of romance—shackled by a relative.” “I understand Cissy has a very pleasant husband.” Betty Barr grinned and moved off. “That makes two flies in the ointment.” Ginny trotted in, Freckles at her heels, bearing a remedy for upset stomach. “That’s a cheerful note!” Vicki protested. Ginny doggedly tucked the remedy in Vicki’s suitcase. “Dad says, quote, foreign cooking can be quite a surprise to American stomachs. Oh, Vicki, I squirtenly wish I was going with you! Even if we had stomachaches together!” “I squirtenly wish you were, too, baby.” The two sisters hugged each other. Freckles took advantage of the moment to climb into the open suitcase and start digging up Vicki’s neat packing. It was not until late that evening, after dinner was over and her family had given her advice and admonishments, and all her phone calls to Fairview friends had been made, and all but the very last packing was done, that Vicki began to think seriously. Until now, Mexico had been a bright-hued dream, a lighthearted, unreal lark. But with 14

departure slated for tomorrow morning, Vicki realized that the thought of leaving the United States brought a surprisingly painful wrench. “Well, I hope the Mexicans will like me,” she mused half aloud, “it’ll be part of my job to make them like me.” “Huh?” inquired Ginny from the other twin bed. “What are you mumbling about?” “I was just wondering,” Vicki said softly, “how I’m going to reconcile ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’ with ‘To thine own self be true.’ Foreign travel can be a problem!” “Why don’t you just go to sleep?” Vicki did. But the widening puzzles in her mind were not solved. Early the next morning the whole Barr household rose and, in an uproar, got their traveler off. “You didn’t touch your breakfast,” her mother fumed, rushing into the living room. “Here, at least swallow this glass of milk!” Vicki obediently gulped the milk, and with her other hand she buckled her overshoes. Ginny was kneeling on the lid of the stuffed suitcase, while Professor Barr locked and strapped it shut. Freckles raced around in circles, delightedly believing he was going along on this trip, too. “Don’t get too sunburned,” Mrs. Barr warned. “You know your hair always dries out to the color of 15

straw.” “If you get any free samples of anything,” Ginny begged, “send ’em to me for my collection. And please buy me some Mexican silver jewelry and a pair of huaraches and one of those ruffly blouses and a parrot if you can find a tame one and—” “Vic isn’t going on a vacation, she’s going to work,” Professor Barr reminded Ginny. “We mustn’t ask her to spend her free time doing errands for us. Although, Vicki, you’ll see some interesting books and magazines down there, and I’d appreciate—” “Absolutely.” Vicki grinned. “Mother, you haven’t said what you want.” Betty Barr, getting into her hat and coat, replied, “I only want you to take care of yourself and use good judgment in all things. And write us often, dear, so we won’t worry.” Vicki promised, and the entire family went out to the car. Professor Barr drove to the railroad station amid a babel of last-minute reminders. “And don’t dislike Cousin Cissy in advance!” As they stood in the wind on the wooden platform, hearing the train whistle shrill nearer and closer along the flat prairie land, Vicki shrank into her heavy coat. From this small town in the snow to a land of purple volcanoes—she only hoped she could jump that gap with her understanding as well 16

as with her two feet and her suitcase! The train, furiously snorting and puffing, as if pretending to be more than a small engine, a milk car, and two rattle-bang coaches, slowed to a stop. The ancient conductor, Mr. Stark, swung Vicki aboard. She hung down off the train step to kiss her family last good-byes. “I will—don’t worry, now— you write me, too—’bye, Freckles!” The train jerked and pulled away. Vicki went into the coach and dazedly sat down on a dusty seat. She was not crying but her nose was suspiciously pink. As the small town and then the farms slid by her window, they seemed gradually, confusingly, to turn into tropic beaches and groves of palm trees. At the Chicago airport two hours later, Vicki was in luck. She caught a New York-bound plane without delay. The crowded, busy field, the gleaming planes, travelers leaving and arriving, set Vicki atingle. She climbed aboard and relaxed against her comfortable plane chair. She was on her way, not only to New York, but to a new land.

17

CHAPTER II

Home Base

Vicki would have thoroughly enjoyed her flight had not the stewardess—Marion Delbeau, whom Vicki knew slightly—brought her a newspaper. Unsuspecting, Vicki let it lie in her lap for a while, as she gazed out at the sky scenery beyond the plane’s wing. Then she turned and looked professionally at the various passengers, watching the way Marion handled the dubious woman who was a first rider. Then she opened the newspaper and glanced casually at the headlines. Vicki did not remain casual for long. Her face changed as the headline glared up balefully at her: MEXICAN DOCTORS EXPERIMENT SEEK TREATMENT FOR TROPICAL SCOURGE The story was marked AP: an Associated Press release. That meant practically every newspaper in the country was carrying the story today. That meant 18

Professor Barr would see it! Vicki was a great deal less concerned about tropical diseases than about her father’s reaction. He had recently been working on a scholarly article on the relation between economics and disease, and was much concerned, at present, with public health matters. This dire-sounding headline might give him the impression I hat public health was bad in Mexico. “Dad’s never really approved of my flying—he wasn’t eager for me to go away—he’s been hinting to get me back to college. And now this!” Vicki hunched up in her seat. Being too young might wreck her plans. As the youngest stewardess on Federal Airlines, she had been accepted under the age limit. Keeping her job depended on her parents’ permission. If her father read this news item, he would begin to worry. “He’ll think it just isn’t safe for me to go.” Vicki tried to bolster herself with hope of support from her mother. Betty Barr had been for Vicki’s flying from the first. If necessary, she would put up a plea now. Besides, the news story itself was not very dire, as Vicki read it through. It reported that Mexican doctors were working to find better ways of treating amoebic dysentery. They had been working, too, on several of the different scourges which afflict people 19

in tropical lands, and felt sure they were well on the way to finding methods to combat some, but not all of them. “Amoebic dysentery . . . sure they are making progress . . . hmm, that doesn’t sound too alarming.” Still, Vicki felt mildly apprehensive. When Marion Delbeau brought her a tempting tray of lunch—the sort Vicki herself so often prepared and served to passengers—Vicki dropped the newspaper on the plane floor and planted her feet on it. “Stop worrying!” she told herself. But she was still worrying as the skyscrapers of New York lifted in steep, jagged outline against the sky. Her plane flew over the city, skimmed on to Long Island. They circled over the airport, and came down softly as a feather. Vicki clambered out of the plane. New York was home base for her flights, and the airport buildings she hurried toward were her official headquarters. Ruth Benson was just coming out of her office, a sleek, stunning young woman. “Vicki Barr! Hello! I was expecting you about now. You’re just in time to have lunch with me.” Vicki smiled back at her adored boss. “I’ve had lunch on the plane, thanks, but I’d like to come along with you.” “I’ll give you my dessert and we’ll talk about Mexico.” They started out of the small building and 20

across the windy airfield. “By the way, Vicki, I’ve just had the oddest telegram from your father.” Vicki gulped. “What did he say?” “He wired ‘Has Federal any statistics on the incidence of amoebic disorders and parasites among its employees who have worked in Mexico?’ Isn’t that a weird idea!” Miss Benson laughed. Vicki could not laugh with her. She explained that the professor was doing research on health matters. She did not mention what else was probably going on in her father’s head. She asked anxiously, “Did you wire back?” “Yes, of course. I thought his request odd, but supposed your father must be thinking of that news item. And I realized professors often ask for research information.” They dodged a truck dragging an airliner to the hangar. Vicki was seething with apprehension but tried to appear calm. “Wh-what did you wire back, Miss Benson?” Miss Benson shouted something over the sudden roar of a plane overhead but it was lost in the noise. “What?” Vicki wailed as the plane vanished, leaving windy stillness. “Oh, please!” “Why, Vicki. I wired back that Federal has no such statistics. I hope your father will be able to get his information elsewhere.” “I’m sure he will,” Vicki replied miserably as 21

they went into the big and beautiful Administration Building. It was awful. Professor Barr had an idea fixed in his mind now, and the professor with an idea was like Freckles worrying a bone. He did not give it up until he had exhausted every possibility. Vicki knew what she was in for. Miss Benson led the way into the coffee shop. She was happily oblivious of Vicki’s misery, and waved to a group of young pilots. Vicki exchanged hellos with boys and girls in uniform and in overalls, all across the big airy room. It felt good to be back among these youthful, lively comrades. In her pocket, Vicki crossed her fingers. Ruth Benson found a vacant table beside the wall-length window and they sat down. “I’ll have one of your jumbo hamburgers,” Miss Benson said to the waitress. “Vicki? Nothing? Something must be wrong with you.” Vicki dared not answer. If the airline believed Vicki’s father objected to her going to Mexico, they might schedule another girl in her place at once. Vicki kept a poker face and wished Ruth Benson would stop studying her so suspiciously. “Well, you’re flying down on New Year’s Day, day after tomorrow. Get out your summer uniforms—the ones of Palm Beach cloth. Go to the beauty salon.” She reeled off instructions, and Vicki listened 22

torn between exultation and quaking. Had Ruth Benson, when she was a flight stewardess and before she had worked her way up to this executive post, ever been in a jam like this? Vicki looked into Miss Benson’s brilliant, intelligent gray eyes and wished she could blurt out the truth. “—because not only will you be Federal’s envoy. You’ll represent the United States to every Mexican who lays eyes on you.” Vicki gave in to her desire to believe Mexico would come true for her. “That’s quite a responsibility,” she replied, meaning it. “Ah, here comes my hamburger! Here, before I forget—” Ruth Benson took a small, fat book from her purse. “A present for you from the airline. It’s an almanac about Latin America, tells about the history, economics, customs. Read it so you’ll understand what you’re seeing. It’s just a waste of time, it’s stupid, to travel without reading up first.” Vicki thanked her and tentatively took the volume, hoping she would not have to surrender it. Miss Benson called hello to teams of mechanics and researchers, took a bite of her lunch, and went on coaching her squirming stewardess. “Don’t squawk or make fun if the coffee doesn’t taste like the coffee back home. It isn’t meant to. For goodness’ sake, don’t wear slacks in Mexico, Mexican girls don’t wear them. Don’t spend like a 23

show-off. Speak their language, not yours. Incidentally, Vicki, it’s rude down there to say you’re an American. You’re a North American. Remember, the South and Central Americans are Americans too. The point is to be friends.” Vicki blinked her blue eyes, trying to absorb all this, and keep the longing out of her poker face at the same time. “Some North Americans have gone to other countries,” Ruth Benson continued, “and have been intolerant or boastful or greedy or bad-mannered, and left an unfortunate impression of us all. Vicki, international good will—what we nationalities think of one another—can tip the scales between peace or war! We just have to understand and get along with one another.” “I see.” Vicki was thoughtful. Her personal worries suddenly grew small beside this universal human problem. So she, just one person, must stand trial for the entire United States, in the minds of the Mexicans who might meet her. “In fact,” Miss Benson explained, “we’re sending down your North American flight crew as a means of getting better acquainted. Federal employs Mexican pilots and stewardesses on our affiliated Mexican line, as is only fair. And they’re grand. You and your crew,” she twinkled at Vicki, “will be a novelty.” 24

“Oh!” A great light burst on Vicki. She even glimpsed a hope of convincing her father. “You mean Federal is sending not only me, but a pilot and copilot as well? I thought—you had said you were looking for one or two stewardesses to send to Mexico and I assumed—I thought—” Miss Benson smiled. “You didn’t stop to think.” “Then I’m supposed to be going with—I mean, I will be going with a pilot and copilot. Oh, Miss Benson, which ones?” Ruth Benson looked amused. “Captain Tom Jordan and Copilot Dean Fletcher. Do you approve?” Vicki sighed deeply and rested her chin in her hand. “It couldn’t be nicer.” “Then why so woebegone about it?” Vicki had groaned at what she might be missing. But quickly she assumed a bright smile. “It’s perfect, Miss Benson. Dean Fletcher and I are very good friends. And as for Captain Jordan, he’s my favorite of all the older pilots I’ve flown with. My father would approve.” She could almost see before her Dean’s tall rangy figure and his serious flier’s eyes—could almost sense Captain Jordan’s capable, big-brother presence. These three had worked together so often, they had become very like a family. If she got left behind, because her father said no, she would feel 25

exactly like an orphan. “Couldn’t be nicer,” Vicki was ironically repeating, as she and Ruth Benson crossed the busy airfield back to the offices. Miss Benson wanted her to see Federal’s Pan-American supervisor, Mr. Robles. He had tested the stewardesses in Spanish. Now this amiable, dark-eyed man talked to Vicki of Latin courtesies, flying red bananas and flamingos as cargo, the different constellations of stars south of the border by which to locate direction. She listened, eagerly and painfully. Vicki rode the subway back from Long Island to Manhattan in a daze. So much tantalizing advice—it doubled her desire to go! She dreaded arriving at the apartment because almost surely a telegram from her father would be waiting for her. Vicki climbed up out of the subway. For once she did not exult at being back in New York. She rushed down the beautiful, long, busy streets and past stately Central Park etched in snow and ice. She raced into her apartment building and into the elevator. Since stewardesses slept at any hours they were not flying, Vicki did not ring but let herself in with her key. Halfway down the hall, she paused at the kitchen. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Duff, roly-poly, white-haired, and pink-cheeked, was beating eggs in a bowl with all her might. 26

“Hello, Mrs. Duff. How are you? Is there a telegram for me?” Vicki asked all in one breath. “Vicki! Ye gave me a turn! So ye’re back, child, an looking rosy as an apple.” “Not back for long, though, Mrs. Duff—one way or another. How’s everyone? Is there a telegram for me?” “My girls are flourishing, thanks be. I have a heap o’ messages for ye—mostly Christmas wishes from your passengers. That Mr. Dean Fletcher has telephoned and telephoned. He seems a mite happy about some matter. Ah, yes, there is a wire for you. ’Twas delivered early this morning.” Vicki nodded dolefully and marched off. At the living-room door, she saw the top of a fair head above the easy chair. It belonged to Charmion Wilson, the young widow. Jean Cox sat cross-legged on the floor, a tomboy with cropped brown head and merry face. She was sorting newspaper clippings, so absorbed that Vicki did not have the heart to interrupt. “This one says ‘by Peter Carmody.’ And this one has a by-line ‘by Peter Carmody, special feature writer.’ You know, Charmion, I think Pete’s pretty terrific!” “So I see,” Charmion gently teased. Vicki called out, “Glad to hear the Cox-Carmody romance is progressing so favorably.” 27

“Vicki!” Both Charmion and Jean sprang to their feet. “You wretch! Back from Fairview—this means you’re leaving for Mexico pronto!” “Oh, does it?” Vicki said gloomily. “Hello, you two.” “Aren’t you glad to see us?” Jean demanded. “We’re glad to see you.” Charmion smilingly drew her into the room. “You look fine, dear. But why such a long face?” “Where’s that telegram? Oh, I see it—on the bulletin board.” Vicki took it and stammered out, “Forgive me for being abrupt. Did you read about the Mexican research on tropical diseases? Well, my dad has already wired Ruth Benson about it.” She ripped open the telegram and read it unbelievingly. “Just look at this.” The telegram said: “HAVE YOU TAKEN ALL NECESSARY INOCULATIONS? PLEASE CHECK WITH A SPECIALIST TO MAKE SURE YOUR HEALTH IS THOROUGHLY GUARDED. AM WIRING COUSIN CISSY. MAY TELEPHONE

And it was signed, not “Dad” but “Father,” a bad sign. Vicki said apprehensively, “What on earth is he wiring Cissy about?” Jean grunted. “This sounds like trouble.” “Who’s Cousin Cissy?” Charmion inquired. She linked arms with the other two and led them to the couch. “Perhaps we can think of a way around this. Three heads are better than one.” YOU LATER.”

28

Vicki, squeezed on the couch between her pals, related the lugubrious details. She had not wanted to be involved with Cousin Cissy in the first place, and now this unknown relative’s reply to Professor Barr could decide Vicki’s whole fate. “What’s Cissy like?” Charmion ruminated. “If we knew that, we’d know how to figure.” Vicki shrugged. “Cissy is an unknown quantity.” She grasped a handful of ash-blonde hair despairingly. Jean got up and paced the living room. “Never mind Cissy! It’s your dad’s opinion that counts.” Vicki grinned wanly. “If I don’t go, Jean, then you’d get to go. You and I made the two highest marks on the Spanish exam.” “I don’t want to go to Mexico in your shoes!” Jean exploded. “Anyhow, Federal may send a second team and they promised I’d be the stewardess. Oh, Vic, I was figuring what fun we’d have together, down there—” Vicki turned to Charmion. “Will you please study Spanish, too? Now wait a minute, Jean. I’m not giving up without a fight.” Charmion nodded. “Your father isn’t an ogre, after all. He isn’t objecting simply to make you unhappy. He’s worried about your welfare and, I must admit, with some degree of reason. Now, if you think it out calmly, Vicki, I’m sure you can 29

convince him.” “Unless Cissy—” Vicki started and then shook her head at Charmion. “All right, I’ll calm down and wait for Dad and Cissy’s next move. How are Celia and Dot and Tessa?” The other three tenants of the apartment were out on flights today. Charmion reported that they hoped to be back for New Year’s Eve and its crop of parties. Vicki wondered where she would be on New Year’s Day. In the middle of the afternoon, a long-distance telephone call came through for Vicki. It was her father. “Hello? Vicki? Listen closely! Early this morning, right after you boarded the train, I saw a most alarming news item about—” “—about Mexican medical research. Yes, Dad.” “I at once wired Miss Benson—” “Yes, she told me.” “And I also wired Cousin Cissy. I now have her reply.” Vicki heard her father’s voice grow puzzled. “Cissy wired back: ‘Yes, we always have amoeba down here. Be sure Vicki is inoculated.’“ There was an ominous pause. “Vicki, I will not have you going into the midst of a possible epidemic.” “But there is no epidemic down there!” Vicki cried into the telephone. 30

“Ha! Cissy’s wire doesn’t deny it. It just hasn’t appeared in our news items yet. I was talking to Dr. Snyder—” “Dad, no! I talked to Mr. Robles this morning and he surely would have said— Dad, that wire of Cissy’s just isn’t clear—it’s just misleading you— After all, up North here we always have cold germs,” she pleaded. “Vicki,” her father said very firmly over the phone, “will you consider with the utmost care whether you want to run the risk of going to Mexico at this time? Let’s check up on this situation before you decide.” Vicki was somewhat shaken by her father’s serious tone. Though she wanted so badly to see Mexico, she did promise her father to think it over carefully, and not to leave New York until they had talked it over again. “I’ll be in constant touch with you.” Professor Barr hung up. Vicki dejectedly hung up, too, and pushed back her ash-blonde hair. Turning, she found Charmion and Jean hovering behind her with horror-struck faces. “We heard,” they said mournfully. Vicki told them what they had not heard. “Cissy wired be sure to get inoculated. I think that is what alarmed my dad.” 31

Vicki sadly pointed out that she had started taking inoculations in Illinois, planning to complete them here. Professor Barr, in one of his absent-minded moods, had paid no attention. “Why, inoculations are merely routine for travelers!” Charmion exclaimed. “Just a routine precaution against change of climate and water and food. An inoculation means nothing!” “Your dad doesn’t really think,” Jean asked incredulously, “that inoculations mean epidemic?” Vicki held her head. “Course not. Dad is a very thorough thinker, that’s all. He’s asking a million questions in case there might be a hint of a suspicion of a trace of an epidemic.” She stared forlornly at his telegram, lying on the table. The three girls sighed in unison. “Go get yourself the final inoculation, Vicki,” groaned Charmion. “Tomorrow, first thing,” Vicki muttered. “That Cissy is a dangerous woman. Ouch, what a day!” The three girls sat in deep gloom. After a long silence, Jean suggested: “How’s about your wiring Cissy?” “What, and practically invite her to plant another dangerous idea in my father’s head? No, thank you!” Charmion had a suggestion. “Don’t just sit and wait. Dig up all the facts and confront your dad with them.” “The voice of wisdom!” Vicki cried. She 32

immediately picked up this morning’s newspaper and read it again, carefully, slowly, the story of the medical fight. Until now, she had been too troubled to digest it thoroughly. She read it aloud to Jean and Charmion. “That doesn’t sound too alarming,” Charmion consoled. “Point out to your father that—” Jean said proudly, “Why don’t you call up Pete Carmody, since he’s a newspaperman, and ask him?” Pete could not be located at his newspaper office. But Vicki learned from the science editor that, to his knowledge, there was no epidemic in Mexico. The story in this morning’s papers had to do with an ever-recurrent problem in the tropics. Had there been an epidemic, menacing the health of travelers from the United States, the public health authorities would long ago have announced it and issued instructions to travelers. Vicki thanked the science editor of the newspaper and hung up, feeling better. “A good talking point,” Jean encouraged. “Now I’ll call up Mr. Robles.” He was just leaving his office, and in a hurry. He laughed at Vicki’s question about any tropical epidemic. “You North Americans have a comic opera notion of Mexico. No, no, Miss Barr. If there were any danger, Federal wouldn’t send your flight crew down. You know that.” 33

The three girls debated how Professor Barr would evaluate Mr. Robles’s statement. Vicki was still worried. She felt the professor would demand some genuinely official pronouncement. “Try the Mexican consulate.” Again Vicki picked up the telephone and was connected with accented voices. She was shuttled through to some man in authority. “W’at? Well, you can read in the papers is not serious, is nothing new, and are making good progress. Epidemic? No, absolutely no. Who told you that bad story?” Vicki described the special inoculations she had taken and would take, and inquired if the consulate recommended any others. The reply was that she was getting the only ones they knew about. As for parasites, the man on the telephone suggested that Vicki avoid eating raw vegetables and drink only boiled water. Vicki thanked him and hung up. With Jean and Charmion’s help, she composed a telegram relaying all this information to her father. She sent it off via the telephone, with a sigh of relief. They sat down to dinner in the windows overlooking Central Park. Vicki cheered up a little, with the aid of Mrs. Duff’s good cooking and Charmion’s encouragement. Then doll-faced little Celia Trimble came hurrying in, home from a flight, 34

hungry, and burbling with enthusiasm. “Popovers! Mrs. Duff, I declare! And Vicki’s home! Hello, Vic! I had the most darlin’ babies ever on today’s flight—two sets of twins, and nobody over eighteen months old”—Celia stuffed a popover in her mouth and pulled off her flight cap—“except the babies’ mothers, I mean.” The others smiled and made room for her at the table. The little southern girl prattled on about formulas and baby hammocks, part of her Babies’ Plane equipment. Suddenly she caught the glum mood. “What’s wrong?” Her eyes grew round. “Somebody’s in trouble. Who?” “Me,” said Vicki. She related how Professor Barr and Cousin Cissy, between them, threatened to thwart her assignment to Mexico. “That’s the meanest piece of luck I ever heard of!” Celia said. “What is?” called two more girls’ voices from the hall. Dot Crowley strode in. A reddish-haired, squarejawed, aggressive young woman, Vicki felt suddenly relieved to see her. Dot would think of something! Behind her came Tessa, dark and dramatic, entering the living room with the studied dash of an actress. Tessa forgot to act when she glimpsed Vicki’s miserable face. 35

There was a flurry of greetings. Dot and Tessa squeezed in at the dinner table. Vicki’s predicament was hastily explained to them. Redheaded Dot Crowley bridled. “This calls for action!” A warlike gleam shot from her eyes. “For once you won’t laugh at me for acting like a Big Executive—listen to this for a plan of action!” Dotty outlined a skillful counterattack against Professor Barr. “Yes! Yes!” The six flight stewardesses spent several minutes figuring out details. Dot thought up what she called “a plan of organization. “But will he do it?” “He’d better—they’d all better—or Vicki doesn’t fly to Mexico!” “It will take all day tomorrow, Vic,” Dot summed up. “I hope your plan works,” Vicki wailed. “Because tomorrow’s my last day before the Mexican takeoff—my last chance!” Next morning the six girls went to work on the plan. Celia and Tessa mumbled about tonight being New Year’s Eve, but everyone abandoned primping to come to Vicki’s rescue. She was touched at their loyalty and sufficiently heartened to go to the beauty salon, as per Miss Benson’s instructions. While Vicki was there, and later getting a final inoculation, her flying mates did some telephoning around town 36

and some persuasive talking. They also sent a telegram to Mrs. Barr with a plea for her help. Vicki returned to the apartment around noon. No further word had been received from Professor Barr, one way or the other. Mrs. Duff stopped Vicki at the door. “Well, the girls have rounded ’em up. I’ve concocted a grand buffet lunch to put ’em in a good mood. But, heavens to Betsy, what a phone bill we shall have!” “Thank you, Mrs. Duff,” Vicki whispered, and squeezed the housekeeper’s plump hand. “If all you people don’t get me to Mexico, not even a band of angels could.” Waiting in the living room, a bit mystified but pleased at being asked to this impromptu luncheon party, were four people from Federal Airlines. Ruth Benson was there, even more handsome than usual in her new Christmas suit. Mr. Robles had courteously made a long trip into town, when told that this was an emergency. The third was Captain Tom Jordan, pilot, a big comfortable man of about forty. “Is this a bon voyage party for the Mexico team?” Captain Jordan boomed. “Hel-lo, Vicki! All ready to leave?” Vicki grinned weakly at her pilot and mumbled. She turned to the fourth guest, the copilot and her 37

special friend, Dean Fletcher. Dean, never very happy at parties, had doubled up his lean length into a chair and was discussing plane engines with Jean Cox. He stood up to say hello to Vicki and beam at her. “Hi, Vic. Tomorrow at this time we’ll be on our way. All set?” Vicki looked up into Dean’s clear, serious gray eyes—flier’s eyes—and swallowed hard. “Uh— tomorrow at this time—yes.” The doorbell rang. Mrs. Duff ushered in the last guest, newspaperman Peter Carmody. He rushed in, gay and cocky, battered felt hat perched on the back of his head. “What’s up? Hello, everybody! Say, I smell something special going on!” “If you’ll all have some lunch,” Charmion invited them to the laden buffet table, “Dot Crowley will explain.” But first Dot, as per plan, gave the guests time to enjoy Mrs. Duff’s good food. Except that the six hostesses wore a distracted look, and Vicki kept consulting her wrist watch, it was a very pleasant little party. Then, when Vicki thought she could stand waiting no longer, Dot importantly explained. “—so because of the professor’s cautious, thorough, painstaking approach, and because of Cousin Cissy’s ambiguous replies, Vicki may not— 38

well, her father may not let her go to Mexico.” “What!” Ruth Benson was aghast. “Vicki, why didn’t you tell me? I’ll have to get someone else at once—” “But you have only half a day, Miss Benson,” Dean put in a quick argument. Captain Jordan and Mr. Robles both were looking sorry. The pilot asked if there was not something to be done, even at this late stage. Vicki shakily spoke up. “Yes, there is. My father can be reached at the other end of this telephone— I’m sure my mother has cooperated and kept him at home at this hour. Would it be too much to ask if you would— would—would—” They all laughed at Vicki’s excited stuttering. “Of course we’ll talk to your father!” Ruth Benson responded. Her gray eyes sparkled. “I only wish I could talk to your Cousin Cissy, too.” So Vicki called her home, via long-distance, and then Professor Barr was on the telephone. She knew perfectly well that her mother and Ginny were listening in anxiously on the extension phone. “Professor Barr?” said Ruth Benson smoothly. “This is the assistant superintendent of flight stewardesses of Federal Airlines, and I just want to tell you—” “Professor Barr?” said Mr. Robles with authority. “May I introduce myself, sir, the Pan-American 39

Supervisor of Federal Airlines, calling to reassure you, sir, that you are mistaken—” “Professor Barr? Captain Thomas Jordan, senior pilot, in charge of the Mexican flight,” said the flier tersely into the phone. “Professor, I am a pilot of many years’ experience and the father of three children myself—” “Professor Barr?” said Dean a little shakily, but Tom Jordan poked him. “Dean Fletcher calling, sir, copilot of the Mexican team, and I will particularly look out for your daughter—” “Professor Barr? Hello, sir, remember Pete Carmody of the New York Chronicle?” Pete fired into the phone. “Professor, I have here in my hand the latest press report from the United States Public Health Service, Border Information Bureau, stating there is no epidemic, nor any danger of epidemic, now going on in Mexico!” Vicki’s knees were shaking by this time and her palms were damp. Either her father was convinced or he was furiously angry. The others drew her to the phone. She gingerly picked up the receiver and said weakly: “Hello, Dad.” Professor Barr was laughing. “All right, all right, Vicki! You win! And please thank all your good friends for me!” That New Year’s celebration was unique. It 40

consisted of a spontaneous party right there in the apartment, starting with the moment Vicki called thanks and good-bye to her family, and hung up on Fairview. Their celebration lasted hilariously until Ruth Benson warned Vicki it was time to pack for her flight to Mexico.

41

CHAPTER III

Crossing the Border

There were planes direct from New York to Mexico City, but these planes were booked solid. Space was found for Captain Jordan’s crew on one of Federal’s planes flying to Laredo, Texas. They would stay in Laredo overnight, and cross the border into Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, the following morning. From Nuevo Laredo they would take a Mexican plane the rest of the way. The two pilots, Captain Jordan and Dean Fletcher, fumed a little about this delay. Vicki glanced at them across the aisle of the skimming, roaring, swaying plane, and smiled to herself. Tom Jordan’s lips moved as he pored over a large air map of Mexico. Dean was scowling and laboring with a Spanish-English dictionary of technical terms. The crew would fly not between Mexico and the United States but only within Mexico Itself. Well, she had better study, too—about a stewardess’s particular concern: people. The Latin-American almanac Ruth 42

Benson had given her lay ready in Der lap. She sat in one of the single seats, beside a plane window, so she could study without distraction. But Vicki was too excited to study just yet. The girls’ good-byes and congratulations and laughter still rang in her mind— “Here goes the baby of the class!” “Write us, Vicki, especially what Cousin Cissy’s like.” “Don’t forget you’re still one of Mrs. Duff’s girls!” “Good luck, Vic!” “Happy landings!” “Good-bye, goodbye!” It was afternoon now and the big ship was well on its way, somewhere over Maryland. Unconsciously Vicki drew a strand of silky ashblonde hair across her upper lip, mustache fashion. She stroked it as she daydreamed. Stopping over in Texas was not half bad. Even though it was to be only a few hours’ layover, she’d get a taste of a great state she’d never seen before. What was it Miss Benson had laughingly said to her once? “I’ve never seen such a glutton for change as you are, Vicki Barr!” “It’s true, I do yearn for new places,” Vicki thought, “and for travel and adventure. What sheer luck that I’ve landed a job in the transportation business! Just hope I do a really good job in Mexico, so that eventually Federal will send me all around the world!” But if she was going to turn in that superb 43

performance in Mexico, she had better understand her passengers there, Mexican people. And a good way to do that was to understand their past. Vicki opened her book to the index, found: Mexico, History of, and settled down to read. As her blue eyes skimmed across the pages, Vicki grew more and more fascinated. Centuries ago, emerging out of the mists of early time, the Aztec Indians had built up their empire in Mexico. For more centuries the Aztec empire endured, growing highly civilized in many ways: with free towns and citizens who voted, although Aztec kings ruled; with metropolitan cities having several hundred thousand inhabitants; with flourishing agriculture, fine arts, and a science of astronomy which has never been surpassed. Shortly after Columbus discovered that not India but rich, new continents lay to Europe’s west, Spain sent more men to seize and claim some of these riches. Cortés landed on Mexican soil in 1519. He was over-whelmed by the splendor of Montezuma’s court, and admitted that Aztec language, architecture, and society were as developed as those of sixteenth-century Spain. Cortés and his invaders had guns, the Indians had none. For three hundred years Mexico was a colony of the Spanish crown. Silver and gold from the Mexican mountains helped make Spain wealthy and 44

powerful, and the once-free Aztecs worked their mines and plantations as a slave people. Yet, to Mexico, the Spaniards brought the civilization of Europe, a new language and religion. But the Spaniards did not, or could not, impose their ways on the Indians. Both Spanish and Indian ways of life continued in Mexico, sometimes warring, sometimes existing side by side, sometimes intermingling. Gradually, marriages between Indians and Spanish descendants led to a new Mexican: the mestizo, which is the Spanish word for “mixed.” “I’m beginning to understand.” Vicki put down her book and looked out the plane window. “So I’m going to meet three types of Mexicans: pure Indian, pure Spanish or white, and the new breed, mestizo.” Her book said that now, of every hundred Mexicans, about twenty were of Spanish descent, forty were Indian, and forty were mestizo. Vicki read the rest quickly, for it told of stormy times. Mexico won her independence from Spain in 1821 and became a republic. At once other foreign nations and ambitious Mexicans tried to gain control of the young nation and her wealth. Wild confusion and violence followed. Then in 1858 an Indian, Benito Juarez, became president. Now at last it seemed as if the Indians, who, during three hundred years of the Conquest, had remembered their ancient freedom, would finally be free. 45

But Napoleon III coveted Mexico as a French colony. He installed as puppet emperor of Mexico, Archduke Maximilian of Austria and his wife, Carlotta, for a brief and tragic reign. The Mexicans revolted, shot Maximilian, and drove the French invaders out of) Mexico. Once more the young republic tried to patch up its wounds. A dictator, Porfirio Díaz, imposed law and order, but only he and his friends and a few foreign investors benefited. The Mexican people once again were kept impoverished, uneducated, and practically slaves. Resentment smoldered. Thirty years of dictatorship were endured before Diaz was overthrown. Finally, by 1910, Mexico had driven out all foreign invaders and domestic tyrants. Now she became a democracy in reality, writing a Constitution and a Bill of Rights—freeing the towns and villages—subdividing large land holdings among the citizens. Good presidents, Cárdenas, Camacho, Aleman, hastened this program along and introduced modern schools and Clinics and machinery. The Mexican Army fought alongside the other Allies in winning World War II. The most ultramodern farming techniques, industries, buildings, arts, and educational plans were now under way, Aztec and Spanish suddenly catching up with the twentieth century. 46

“I wonder,” Vicki mused, closing her book, “how I’d feel if I were a Mexican? I would have grown up poor and hungry and illiterate—with no rights—then practically all of a sudden, I’d be a free citizen. With a school and a hospital to go to, for the first time in my life. Maybe”—Vicki frowned, as an idea hit her—“maybe I’d be bewildered at first. Must be a colossal task to get over the effects of centuries of slavery.” “Whaaat?” Dean called across the aisle. Vicki flushed and grinned. “I was busy imagining I was a Mexican,” she called back. Captain Jordan fortunately did not hear. Dean stared at her, then announced resignedly, “You’re daft. I always suspected it.” His cool gray eyes appraised Vicki. “Besides, you’re too fair to be a Mexican.” Apparently he was picturing her in a serape and sombrero, with a rose between her teeth. “But, Dean, I was merely imagining—trying to put myself in the other person’s place—” Dean was too matter-of-fact to understand this. “You’d better wait till we get down there. Then you won’t have to imagine things.” He stretched his lean length in the chair. “Hummph! Still, I guess you’re no sillier than other girls.” Vicki chuckled. She knew Dean had four brothers, no sisters, more interest in aeronautics than 47

in girls, and a shy nature. So she cheerfully ignored his remarks. Captain Jordan leaned forward in his chair beside the window, to smile at her and Dean, the two youngsters in hi j crew. “Studying hard, Vicki? Getting tired? We’ll be there pretty soon now.” Afternoon shadows lengthened through the plane cabin. The sun was away over on the side of their ship now. Vicki saw that they were flying over miles of prairie, herds of cattle and horses, villages, oil towers, cactus, trees, and long highways. “Texas,” Captain Jordan called above the roar of the motors. “We’re going to fly over Dallas and Fort Worth. Watch for ’em.” They flew over the skyscrapers and pleasant residential areas of these two great cities, and on over great stretches of Texas. At San Antonio their plane landed. Vicki, Dean, and Captain Jordan left the plane, and walked around for a few minutes to un-limber their legs. Vicki stared at the men wearing boots and ten-gallon hats with their business suits, at the palm trees blowing in the mild January breeze, at the enormity and brilliance of the first evening stars. “We’re getting really south,” she said. Boarding a local plane, they took off for Laredo. Cabin lights went on. It was growing too dark to see much down on the ground below. Vicki must have 48

dozed, for almost abruptly they were coming down again. They had arrived in Laredo, last town within l he United States border. On the dark airfield Captain Jordan sought out the passenger agent. He verified that their luggage was being checked through—they carried with them only small overnight bags with a few necessities—and would catch up with them tomorrow at Mexico City. This done, the three of them climbed into a cab and drove into Laredo, to their hotel. Vicki was tired and hungry by this time but so interested she nearly fell out the taxi window. “It looks just like those rootin’ tootin’ wild West movies!” “But it has a Mexican flavor,” Tom Jordan said. Laredo, with its flat streets and low, balconied, wooden buildings, still looked like a frontier town. Vicki saw signs in English and Spanish, darkskinned boys in blue jeans, a purplish night sky. A barbecue vendor hawked his wares in a palm-lined square. But Vicki also noticed modern business buildings of white stone, good-looking shops, and tall municipal buildings, and pretty girls wearing the latest Hollywood styles and hair-do’s. “It’s Laredo, but it could just as well be Brooklyn—or Fairview!” In the lobby of the modest hotel, they registered. “Notice how much warmer it is here?” Dean said, mopping his face. He folded up the overcoat he had 49

worn in New York this morning. They had a makeshift supper, since it was late and not many places were open on New Year’s Day. Vicki’s eyes grew heavy and her lids drooped. She said good night to the two pilots and went to her room. The last thing she remembered was watching the old-fashioned ceiling fan spinning lazily over her hotel bed. She awoke to a hot, brilliant morning. The sky outside her window was turquoise. Downstairs, the hotel dining room swarmed with men in boots and ten-gallon hats. “Did you find the cattle that got away, Bob?” “Not yet.” “Been over to the oil wells this morning.” Vicki located her two pilots, looking strangely citified among these Texans. “Good morning, Vic! Ready to cross the border?” “All ready,” she replied calmly. But her heart rose in her throat. All three of them admitted to being excited, yet full of vague misgivings. “Let’s see, what terrible errors could we make?” Captain Jordan joked as they breakfasted. “Get lost in the Mexican air lanes?” “Get lost in one of those uncharted valleys,” Dean grunted. “—or Vic here could get off on the wrong foot with her Cousin Cissy,” Tom Jordan teased. “Or Professor Barr could decide Cissy isn’t a good chaperon and Vicki must come right home!” 50

“Don’t,” Vicki implored. “Just because you’re a parent yourself, Cap’n—” “Miss Barr, calling Miss Barr, Miss Victoria Barr,” chanted the bellboy. Beckoned to their table, he came over with a telegram. Vicki was not surprised, since she had given her family her itinerary, but she was disquieted. Captain Jordan tipped the boy while Vicki opened the envelope. “From your father,” Captain Jordan predicted, teasing, “saying ‘Turn around and come right home.’ ” “From Ruth Benson,” Dean said, grinning, “saying they’ve decided you’re too young for this assignment.” The telegram read: “COUSIN CISSY WIRES CAN YOU BUY HER A CANOE? DAD IS BEGINNING TO THINK SHE IS WACKY. BUT DON’T WORRY, MOTHER AND I ARE PROTECTING YOUR INTERESTS. LOVE, GINNY.”

In consternation Vicki turned to Captain Jordan. “So you thought you were joking, did you?” She handed him the telegram. “Why does Cissy want me to get a canoe?” “She probably can’t buy one in Mexico City at the moment,” Dean answered. “There are lots of lakes around there.” But he rubbed his head. “And I suppose Cissy thought her request would reach me in New York, where one can buy anything, any time. Poor Ginny! Poor Mother! They must be reassuring Dad like mad.” 51

Dean, too, read Ginny’s telegram. Although Cousin Cissy clearly loomed up as possible trouble for Vickie the request for a canoe—of all things— struck them funny. “Can’t you just see me?” Vicki laughed. “Getting off the plane at Mexico City with a nice new canoe strapped to my back?” Comfortable Captain Jordan glanced at his wrist watch and rose from the table. “Who’s ready to cross the Rio Grande? No, Vic, no time now to go hunting up a canoe. We have to pass through customs, so let’s get started.” Vicki excitedly went back to her room to get her coat and overnight bag. A middle-aged Mexican woman in bright pink and green was vacuuming the corridor carpet. “Buenos días,” she smiled at Vicki. “Uh—good morning—buenos días,” Vicki got out, and smiled back. She felt she was practically over the border already. A car took them and some other travelers down Laredo’s main street, to a bridge which crossed the broad, yellow, muddy Rio Grande. Stalled on that bridge in a long line of waiting cars, they were in neither one country nor the other. At the Mexican end of the bridge was Mexican customs: small houses with their doors open, a few dark men behind worn desks. Here Vicki unlocked her overnight bag 52

and one of the customs agents searched its contents. Their other luggage would be inspected routinely when it arrived. The customs agent looked at Vicki’s passport, required of visitors staying in Mexico more than six months, and waved her on. At other tables Dean and Captain Jordan were submitting to the same procedure. “Well, that was quick and easy!” “Yes. We’ll never get back in, through American customs, that easily,” Captain Jordan said. Vicki’s blue eyes flew open. “You mean we’ll have trouble getting back into our own country?” The pilot laughed, said no, and shooed her and Dean back into the same car. The other travelers piled in, too: everybody was going to the Nuevo Laredo airport. Nuevo Laredo, here on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande, was a sun-baked village of wooden shacks. Speeding along, the countryside suddenly changed, and became cactus-strewn desert. Vicki saw a bare-foot man in a white cotton suit astride a little burro or donkey. She looked back at the distant, white stone business buildings of Laredo and blinked. So borders were sometimes natural boundaries! Just a few miles across the river, but the temperature had shot up, the roads were sun-baked dust, and red, pink, and purple bougainvillea grew on the roofs of the occasional white clay huts. 53

“Bienvenido á Méjico!” their driver called proudly. “Welcome to Mexico!” “Strange,” Vicki muttered to Dean as they drove up to the sun-drenched airport. The airport building was small, handsome, ultramodern. But the airfield was a stretch of reddish clay and some tall grass. Their waiting silver plane bore the name of FederalMexico Airlines. In the grass beside the plane, cows grazed. “Cows and planes!” Captain Jordan muttered. “Guess this is just a local station.” Even when their shipload took off, in a blast of wind and dust, the cows did not look up from their chewing. Vicki suspected this was what “Mexico, History of” had meant by “the old and the new, side by side.” “The nonchalance of those cows!” she chuckled. As the plane rose and leveled off, Vicki had another surprise. Mountains appeared out of the sky to meet them—but what strange mountains! They hunched themselves up in huge brown lumps, bumps, and spines, like some prehistoric dinosaur. Vicki thought the earth must have looked like this, hot, bare, ungainly, at the beginning of creation. Almost immediately the going over those mountains got rough. The plane dropped, fell sideways, righted itself with an effort. Vicki looked with apprehension at Dean and Captain Jordan 54

across the aisle. They shrugged, as baffled as she was. But if her two pilots felt alarmed, they were not going to show it. A few seconds of calm flying, then the ship shook all over like a leaf in the wind, and abruptly dropped down. Vicki heard the pretty Mexican hostess say, in English, to someone back of her: “But there are no such things as air pockets, sir. No, sir, there is no cause for alarm, no, sir.” Up their ship went once more, shuddering, just in time to clear one of those rounded peaks that looked so deceptively low. Passengers began to open the small, round air vents in the plane wall above their heads. Cold air whistled in but it steadied shaking stomachs, Vicki’s included. In front of her, a baby started to cry. The pretty hostess fluttered up there with half a lemon, apparently the Mexican seasick remedy. “Dean!” Vicki called across the wind and engine noise. “What—why—?” He looked up from the air map which Captain Jordan had unfolded. “Don’t know. Pretty rugged, isn’t it?” Now the plane was being tossed around in earnest, us the mountains grew higher, denser, and even more strangely malformed. Vicki’s stomach seemed to bolt into her throat. She began to swallow often and earnestly. 55

Dean smiled wanly and beckoned to Vicki to lean across the aisle. He shouted consolingly in her ear: “Oh Mister Captain, stop the ship, And let me get off and walk! I feel so flipperty flopperty flip, We’ll never reach New York!” Vicki tried to grin but the plane bucked, dropped, veered up with the earth at a crazy angle, barely (it seemed) missed mountains outside the skidding silver wings. Vicki looked around in alarm for the hostess, for an explanation, for reassurance. The hostess was pale and hanging on for dear life to a baggage shelf. She caught Vicki’s urgent glance, staggered toward her, and said, “You’ll be all right once you are out in the air, señorita.” Out in the air? Vicki did not understand. Suddenly the flying felt worse than before. They were plummeting down to earth like an eagle pouncing on its prey. Vicki felt her insides violently protesting. Then all at once, the plane was rolling smoothly to a stop, and her stomach abruptly calmed right down to normal. “Whew!” “And I thought I knew something about flying!” This from Captain Jordan. 56

Dean took Vicki’s elbow and steered her out of the plane and into the open air. Once in the reviving air, they all felt fine again. “Where are we?” “Fuel stop. Middle of nowhere, it looks like.” They were in a ring of mountains, on a bare, cleared field. Sky, mountaintops, atmosphere, all were very blue—a deep, strong, tropical blue—and the air so clear they could see for miles. They strolled over to the Spanish-looking terminal house, to wait out the fifteen-minute stop in the shade. “There’s our pilot!” Tom Jordan seized Vicki’s arm. “Let’s go ask him if it’s always this rough over these mountains. You talk, Vic.” Obedient but scared, Vicki marched with him over to the young Mexican pilot. He was smallboned and of medium height, with small hands and feet. He had regular features, smooth dark complexion, and great, lustrous, black eyes framed in lashes like fringe. His face crinkled into a grin, as Vicki stammered: “Tenga la bondad de decirnos, Capitán, sí—sí— es siempre, sobre estes montes—?” “Please tell us, Captain, if—if—it’s always, over these mountains— ?” “That’s okay, miss, I speak English. No, this run over these mountains isn’t generally so hard. Of course, this is a very high range. Remember we’re 57

coming in to Mexico City, which is seven thousand feet above sea level. But we’re riding the end of a severe dust storm.” “No wonder it’s bumpy,” Dean said. The Mexican pilot grinned again. “The plane scheduled after us was grounded. We’re the last plane to be let through for two or three days to come. You are fliers?” “How’d you guess? We’d like to congratulate you on the way you handled that ship,” Captain Jordan said. He introduced himself and Vicki and Dean, explaining they were going to fly for FederalMexico, too. “Glad to know you. I’m Juan Arroyo.” They all shook hands. “We’ll be seeing one another around the Mexico City airport, then.” To Vicki he said, with a merry look, “Sería fácil encontrarle á Vd., Señorita Barr. Vd. es probablemente la sóla rubia en Méjico.”—“It will be easy to find you, Miss Barr. You’re probably the only blonde in Mexico.” Vicki flushed to the roots of her light hair, but was consoled as she glanced at her own two pilots. Here in this tropical sunshine, beside Juan Arroyo, Dean and Tom Jordan looked as pale and pasty as she felt. The Mexican pilot went off with his copilot to have a look at the engines. Dean muttered, “He speaks my language, makes me ashamed I can’t 58

speak his. Darn it, I’ll learn yet to talk Spanish as well as understand it! Just because pilots don’t have to converse with the passengers is no excuse.” Vicki made it her business, since the second half of the flight was smoother, to study the Mexican passengers and Mexican flight stewardess. These were the people she soon would deal with, or people like them. Vicki’s face grew thoughtful as she peered around the cabin, not able to see anything startling in the other passengers. The hostess appeared beside her with a tray of lunch. “Le gustaría?”—”Would you like this?” “Uh—creo que sí.”—”I think so,” Vicki answered, uncertain whether her stomach would cooperate, but willing to try. “Thanks.” The lunch was excellent. Vicki explored the hot and cold casseroles, knowing she was to serve this same sort of menu. She found steak, with a curious potpourri of vegetables she had never seen or heard of before. Fruit juice, roll and butter, fruit salad and cookies, were all recognizable but had a different tang than at home—riper and sweeter. The tray linens, the silver knife and spoons and forks sealed in cellophane, the complimentary guidebook to Mexico, comprised superb service, second to none. The hostess came by a little later and took Vicki’s tray with a smile. Vicki longed to talk, to ask questions, but the hostess was too busy with lunch. 59

She was an extremely pretty girl, dark-haired, very white-skinned, slim and athletic in her creamcolored Palm Beach uniform with white silk blouse. “That’s the same uniform I’ll wear,” Vicki thought. “And that girl will be one of my fellow stewardesses. Maybe I’ll get to know her one of these days.” Across the aisle, Captain Jordan was again following their course on the air map. Dean glanced up from the map to grin at Vicki, and point out the plane window. The mountain peaks had disappeared. They were flying toward fertile, reddish-brown plains, dotted with green trees. Here and there lay low, white, spread-out villages. From the pressure in her ears, Vicki knew they were still flying very high: this level ground beneath them must be a high plateau between higher mountains. “Almost there.” Dean nudged her. Now they flew over miles and miles of a big, cosmopolitan, Latin city—typically, a city of white buildings. But it was not, Vicki noticed, the bright white of north, snow, and antiseptic cleanliness. This was the creamy white of sun-baked clay haciendas, of hazy heat and slow, ancient time. This vast metropolis below her was the oldest city in the western hemisphere, once Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital, Mexico City now. 60

Vicki jammed on her hat. “I feel practically as excited as Cortés!” They were circling, dropping lower and lower. Vicki strapped in for the landing. She looked down on fine, large hangars, terminal buildings, and airstrips and—grassy fields, workers’ huts, and cows grazing! The cows went right on chewing as the plane zoomed past the huts and settled down lightly on the ground.

61

CHAPTER IV

Cousin Cissy

A note from Cousin Cissy was waiting for Vicki at their hotel. She took it as they registered in the picturesque lobby. “Chaperoning me already!” Vicki exclaimed. She read the small card gingerly, and could not quite decide what to make of it: “Will you go lunching and boating with us tomorrow at one? So eager to meet you. Love, Cousin Cissy.” A telephone number was scribbled in. On the face of the calling card was engraved: Mrs. Stephen Clayton. Dean wanted to know if you could have lunch in a canoe, short of disaster, and how Cissy had achieved a canoe, without Vicki’s help. The note made it clear that Mrs. Barr’s letter—the one Vicki mailed in Fairview herself—had now arrived and that Cissy was manfully going to do her duty. Anyway, Cissy was being cordial and hospitable. “Yes, I think we’ll have plenty of free time for 62

the next few days,” Captain Jordan said in answer to Vicki’s question. “Yes, go ahead and accept that invitation.” Dean looked so wistful that Vicki said she’d ask Cissy to extend her invitation to include him, too. Captain Jordan laughingly declined being included. “I’m too big. I’d sink any little boat.” He had several professional acquaintances to look up here, anyway. Vicki decided to telephone Cissy after dinner. “If Cissy turns out to be a stern, basso-voiced dowager, at least I want to be fortified with food,” Vicki said. “I’ll wire the family of our safe arrival after dinner, too. See you in half an hour, Cap’n, Dean.” She was fascinated with this foreign hotel. To show her to her room, the bellboy led her through lobbies filled with American tourists (Vicki might as well have been back in New York), then through a long, wide corridor where guests were having frosted drinks. This passageway was tiled in pink and green, cooled by fountains, set with Spanish tables and chairs of leather, wrought iron, and tile. It was lit by lambent green windows, and over it all wound great feathery palms, ferns, plants, orange trees in pots. Vicki felt she was in a tropic forest or under green, slightly moving water. “I’ll ask Cousin Cissy to tea here,” Vicki thought, mindful of her manners. “What a setting for a 63

romance! I suppose chaperons don’t approve of romance.” Soberly she trotted on after the bellboy. But when she saw the room he unlocked for her, Vicki cheered up. French windows opened onto a patio crowded with green plants and misty with twilight sifting down from the sky. The room held dark, carved, Spanish furniture and had a gaily tiled bath. The shower glittered with every American gadget plus some extras. Vicki rested for a few minutes in a deep chair facing the patio. She was surprised at how fatiguing travel could be. The balmy, dusky air soothed her. Someone’s radio played an American jazz number. Voices came in from adjoining apartments. A man in the next room was telephoning, a strong, clear, businesslike voice. “Send this cable to my embassy in—” he named a South American country. “Ready?—report on suspects . . . have identified . . . operative . . . antique smugglers . . . Acapulco . . .” Vicki doubted that she was hearing right. She had not caught everything he was saying, but how could he be so careless! Or had he forgotten the open doors and windows? Or was the message not so confidential that he needed to be discreet? “—appears questionable. Believe key man . . . smuggling . . . possibly in Acapulco . . . Letter 64

follows.—That’s all, operator.—Yes, sign my name.” Vicki heard a click as the man hung up. What was it all about? Without the least intention of eavesdropping, she had heard enough to rouse a lively interest. “Well, I’ll never know. People pass in and out of hotels by the thousands and are never heard of again.” But she thought of the overheard message as she finished dressing. Acapulco . . . That was a city on I he Pacific coast, she remembered. Captain Jordan and Dean stood waiting for her in the lobby, looking very scrubbed and very hungry. Nevertheless, they had a gardenia for her and presented it with a flourish. Dean blurted out: “We bought it from an Indian woman out on the sidewalk. She has baskets full. She says gardenias and orchids grow wild here, imagine.” “To celebrate our arrival,” Captain Jordan said as Vicki thanked them and pinned the flower on her shoulder. “Too bad Dean and I can’t wear gardenias, too.” In the high-ceilinged dining room, with its blue and yellow tiles and lace curtains, the Indian waitresses in neat, uniforms spoke no English and very little Spanish. Pointing to items on the menu did not help. Vicki and! her pilots simply ate what 65

was brought them. They were a little astonished at eggs ranchero and papaya salad, but roast beef and berry pie were familiar enough. The check said $5.50 apiece—a total of $16.50. “No, no, that’s pesos, not dollars,” Tom Jordan reminded them. “Five Mexican pesos equal one American dollar. Five centavos equal one cent. Fifty centavos equal ten cents. Same system, but they count in fives, we count in ones. Let’s go get our money changed into Mexican money.” They went to the exchange window in the lobby, marked “Cambio.” Here they turned in most of their United States money and received smaller bills and big, burnished coins in several sizes. “I’ll never learn all these,” Vicki sighed. Dean showed her how clearly they were marked. All she had to remember was to divide all Mexican prices by five. Captain Jordan said the exchange was now at 4.8. That is, instead of a full five pesos for a dollar, they received 4.8 pesos for a dollar, because business conditions just now were a little more favorable for Mexicans than for Americans. Seeing Vicki’s inquiring look, Captain Jordan explained that foreign exchange always fluctuated a little between all nations. With their money changed, telegrams sent to their three respective families, and an inquiry, far too soon, for mail from home, their chores were done. 66

Vicki was now free to telephone Cousin Cissy. She dreaded approaching her involuntary chaperon. “Maybe Cissy is still at dinner,” Vicki said hopefully. “Maybe I shouldn’t phone her yet. Besides, who wants to take a walk?” Captain Jordan said sternly, “Young lady, you phone your aunt or cousin or whatever she is. And we’re all going to our rooms. We’ve been up and on the go since early this morning. Do you know what time it is? Ten o’clock! Just because it stays light here for so long, and dinner is at eight or nine—” “—or ten,” said Vicki. “I read that in my almanac. It says people here dine at nine or ten, go to the theater at eleven, and to bed at two. Because the heat of midday— All right, all right, Cap’n. I admit I’m stalling. I’m going to my room right now and, yes, phone Cissy.” “Good luck.” Dean grinned. “Good night, Vic.” In her room, Vicki gazed at the telephone, too a deep breath, and asked for Cissy’s number. A ma answered in Spanish. “Señora Clayton, por favor,” Vicki said. A woman’s voice came on the wire. “Vicki?” “Why, yes!” Vicki gasped. “Is my Spanish accent that bad? How do you do, Cousin Cissy.” “Hello, my dear, and Steve—my husband—the one who answered the phone—says hello, too, don’t you, dear? No, Vicki, I knew it was you because 67

otherwise I would have been in bed asleep.” “I beg your pardon?” Vicki faltered. “I mean, my friends never call me after ten, they think I’m quite mad to keep American hours, of course, but you know I was brought up on a farm and I just can’t get used to these late Mexican hours, everyone gets up at five on a farm and is in bed by nine, here they do everything two to three hours late! No, no, Vicki, you haven’t wakened me— please don’t feel badly! How is Betty—your mother?” Vicki was left breathless by this speech, but she managed to say her mother was very well indeed, and sent her love. Vicki had got absolutely no picture of Cissy from the conversation so far. Cissy asked sweetly, “Did you bring me a canoe?” “I’m so sorry, I—” “Oh, you sent it, then! Naturally. I should have said ‘send.’ What sort of canoe is it?” “Cousin Cissy, I’m afraid you’re going to be awfully disappointed—” “Oh, that’s all right, Vicki, any canoe you picked out will be fine.” Vicki grasped the telephone and shouted into it: “I didn’t get you a canoe! Your request reached me too late! I am so terribly sorry, Cousin Cissy. Perhaps Dad or Mother can buy it—” 68

Vicki heard a little moan at Cecilia Clayton’s end of the wire. She wished she knew what Cissy looked like, or how old she was, before venturing any deeper into this conversation. “Never mind the canoe, Vicki, a plane will do instead.” “What?” cried Vicki, unable to believe her ears. “I’ve always wanted to fly, but we’ll go boating tomorrow, anyway, you and Steve and I. Shall we pick you up at your hotel at one?” Vicki said that would be perfect and, gulping, would Cissy be very generous and consider letting Vicki bring her friend and copilot, Dean Fletcher? Cissy said certainly, she just adored fliers and had always wanted to meet one. They would lunch on the water, no, no, Vicki mustn’t thank her, good-bye till one tomorrow. “My stars!” Vicki hung up and wandered over to the patio windows, in need of air. “What have I inherited—a chaperon or an amiable zany?” Cissy sounded sweet, all the same, and certainly not dull. Vicki went to sleep chuckling. Next morning Vicki and Dean engaged a car and a driver-guide, and had their first good look at Mexico City—called simply Mexico within the country. This national capital was enormous, cosmopolitan, elegant as Paris, gay as New York, so beautiful that Dean and Vicki gasped and exclaimed. 69

“Look at the palms! And this double boulevard! And the monuments and skyscrapers and the Indians in barefoot sandals!” “Look at the bullfighters on horseback and the stunning new automobiles!” This boulevard, the celebrated Paseo de la Reforma, had tall spreading trees and rows of tall, rich royal palms, many walks and benches and sculptures. For miles along the Paseo, fine white marble houses were set in flowering gardens, behind lacy black wrought-iron fences. Their car turned down side streets. The gardens disappeared and narrow city houses lined up against one another— houses creamy white, pale pink, blue, green, beige. Vicki and Dean glimpsed leafy patios within, as their car sped by. “Do we have to drive so fast?” Vicki cried. “Más despacio! Slower!” Their beady-eyed driver turned to smile at her, narrowly missing a bus. “I thought Americans were always in a hurry?” There were no traffic lights, everyone simply tooted his horn. At corners you stopped suddenly, inches from the car you nearly hit, smiled politely at the other driver, and sprinted off again, tooting. The sunny weather felt like spring, the trees and palms and abundant flowers bloomed in summery luxuriance. They followed the Paseo to the San 70

Angelina suburb (it took nearly an hour to drive there), to see brand-new homes like palaces out of a fantasy. Cream or pink stucco houses melted into walled gardens, red tile roofs drowned under flowering bougainvillea and roses and blue “cielo azul.” Vicki could not see into the tall, arched windows, made not of ordinary glass but of sparkling crystal, for they were carved like fine cut glass for table use. The gorgeous windows were protected outside by lacelike black iron grilles, and within, were heavily curtained in white lace. Such jealous privacy, typically Spanish, had come to Mexico via Spain from the Orient. “Spanish?” the driver repeated dryly. “This is the Spain of a real-estate promoter’s dream. I’ll show you something truly Mexican.” He showed them the plain house of the painter, Diego Rivera. Before it grew a fence of cactus, a tall formidable straggly row, like men of different heights in different postures, standing guard. “Wherever you see that cactus fence, out in the back country, you will find Indians.” “You need gas,” Dean noticed. The driver pulled into a filling station. It was exactly like an American one and sold American gasoline. The Indian or mestizo attendants wore sombreros and sandals along with their neat blue mechanics’ coveralls. Vicki stared at their flat black 71

eyes and high, blunt cheekbones; they were not very brown. They stared as inquisitively at tall, lean Dean and at Vicki with her light hair, but were very shy. When Dean spoke first, they grinned and responded: “You Americans? Hokay. Hallo. So long. Chum!” The driver laughed as they started away. “We learn English from Donal’ Duck. Also in school, but Donal’ is better. Where shall we go now?” They debated whether they had time, before meeting Cissy, to see the San Angelina Cathedral and the National Institute of Colonial Monuments adjoining it. Vicki looked at her watch. “It’s a shame to rush through them.” “But they’re just across the street,” said the driver. The cathedral, the first of many Vicki was to see in this devout land, was beautiful and old. It had been built when Mexico was a colony of Spain. Although now preserved as a museum, the old cathedral was filled with dark-red carnations, roses, and candles, and people knelt in meditation and prayer. Vicki, Dean, and their guide tiptoed through. “Now for what we chiefly came to see,” whispered the guide. He led the way through broken stone patios, past crumbling fountains still guarded by the life-size 72

stone lions of Spain. In silence they moved through tomblike cells containing cherished belongings of nuns and priests long dead: a book, a favorite handkerchief embroidered in the convent, an old gold stylus pen. On the wall was a foggy mirror that once showed other faces than Vicki’s, peering into it. As they were about to move on, a guard approached and spoke to their guide. Vicki could not hear what was said, but the man turned and asked in English: “You will excuse me for a few minutes, please? An old friend I have not seen in a very long time is here, and I would like to speak with him.” Vicki and Dean nodded. “Thank you very much,” the guide said. “Wait here, please. I shall not be long.” Vicki wandered toward the other side of the room where there was a dark open doorway. Dean followed and together they looked cautiously down a steep, broken flight of steps leading far down into a crypt. “Afraid to go down there?” Dean asked. “N-no. But shouldn’t we wait for the guide?” “He’ll catch up with us. Come on, I’ll go first.” Dean gripped Vicki’s arm and they descended, along subterranean stone stairs, past cellars at different levels. It was damp, silent, dimly lit with 73

candles and a flickering electric bulb or two. They emerged into a vault. Paved into the uneven stone floor lay long tablets marking tombs. Beneath them lay the dead. Suddenly Dean seized Vicki by the shoulders and whirled her around. “Go back!” he commanded. “I don’t want you to see it!” But she had seen and her gaze froze in horror. Standing almost upright in his uptilted wooden coffin grinned a skeleton, a Spanish nobleman dead three to four hundred years. Buckles rusted on his rotted pumps, his faded cravat was still knotted beneath his empty, eyeless skull. The grandee’s cloak, which his bony hands clasped about his frame, was eaten away to bits and fragments of dust. Vicki could not speak. Dean, too, was speechless before the grisly, pitiful sight. They turned away, hearing footsteps on the stairs and their guide calling them. “I thought I had lost you,” he said, coming into the vault. He smiled very cheerfully. “Now, in this room,” he pointed to the skeleton, “you see the Spaniard. Vandals long ago dug up his grave and stripped him of the valuable jewelry he wore, gold and precious stones.” He started to lead them into other rooms. But after the sight of the looted tomb, Vicki felt she had 74

had enough for one day. She suggested skipping the rest of the museum and perhaps returning some other time. Dean, too, was willing to leave and quite glad of the prospect of Cousin Cissy and a luncheon party in the sunshine. Back in the hotel lobby, the desk clerk told Vicki: “No mail yet, Miss Barr. But Mrs. Clayton is waiting for you in the Palm Corridor. She has been here about half an hour.” “Thank you.” Vicki turned to Dean. “Waiting half an hour! Poor Cissy! But, Dean, it’s still fifteen minutes before the time we were to meet. Why—?” “What does she look like?” Dean hissed in her ear, as they sped off in search of Cousin Cissy. “Gosh, I don’t know! Picking a person you don’t know out of a group of strangers—that’ll be just dandy.” Under the fountains and palms and potted orange trees, several tables were occupied. Groups of three and four and five people—no, Cissy was probably alone or with her husband. Vicki studied the two couples, trying not to stare. Was that Cissy, in the big hat with the man wearing sports clothes? Or were those two tall bony persons in glasses her cousins and chaperons? “She must be alone,” Dean muttered, putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again. A small, plump, dark young woman smiled at 75

them, but she was so obviously Mexican that Vicki knew the girl mistook them for somebody else. Besides, she was a youthful twenty-eight or thirty and Vicki expected someone much older. Vicki did not speak, merely looked pleasant. She and Dean strolled the length of the Palm Corridor, searching. But there was no other woman alone. They started back. “Hello,” called the young Mexican woman. “Aren’t you my cousin, Vicki Barr?” Vicki and Dean stopped at her table. Vicki stared. “Are you Cissy?” This small, roly-poly woman in the brilliant red dress had black hair, black eyes, and nut-brown skin, and a camellia in her hair. “I’m sunburned, but it’s me. My husband says I’ll soon be permanently sunburned, like some of our Mexican friends. But I can’t speak Spanish, can you? I can read it a little, but my accent is incorrigibly United States, so no one can understand me. Anyway, almost everyone in Mexico City speaks English, and I admit I didn’t try very hard to learn. But I do know Mexico by now. Hello, Mr. Fletcher,” as Vicki, stunned, failed to perform introductions. “I didn’t want to be late, you know. I’m a great believer in being early.” By now Dean was blinking, too. But Cissy Clayton was as appealing as a happy, eager puppy who wants to be friends. Dean smiled broadly and 76

Vicki felt a surge of relief. They sat down on either side of her while Cissy chatted on. “Steve will be here soon but I like to be early. Don’t you like to do things on time? Even in Mexico? I ought to explain to you about Mexicans and time, they don’t take time or money as seriously as Americans do, they’re more philosophical. Of course it’s partly because of the heat here, too. But they have a joke They say ‘Mexicans are more reliable than Spaniards. If a Mexican makes an appointment to meet you, h will show up. Maybe two or three or four hours late, it is true, but he will be there—the same day!’ ” Dean ventured to inquire whether being early in Mexico was an entirely practical procedure. Vicki found a break in Cissy’s lively talk to relay her family’s greetings and messages, and to thank Cissy for her answer to Professor Barr’s wire. “I do hope my wire put his mind at rest,” Cissy said, her shiny black eyes earnest. “He seemed so upset, I did my best.” “You did beautifully,” fibbed Vicki. “Ah— forgive me for asking—but are you old enough to chaperon anybody?” Cissy shook all over with laughter, plumply. “I’m a Mrs., aren’t I? I run a household and do community work and work a day a week in the American hospital, don’t I? Or would you rather be 77

chaperoned by someone around seventy?” “Horrors, no! And you’re sweet, honestly, to take me on.” Cissy dimpled, then shrewdly said, “Don’t think I’m as foolish as I sound. I’m not.” She squeezed Vicki’s arm. “I’ll bet you brought some presents for me.” That was so disarming they all laughed. Vicki trotted right to her room and brought back the stockings and books, and some candy and perfume she had bought in New York. She wished there were more gifts, as she and Dean watched Cissy’s real delight. “These are wonderful! Ooh, taste the chocolates!”—for Cissy had immediately untied the box and tasted its contents. “Why, all this is even better than a canoe!” Dean laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “Vicki tells me you want a canoe or a plane?” “I really want both,” Cissy confided, sniffing the bottle of perfume. “When we get to the Floating Gardens for lunch, you’ll understand about wanting a boat of my own. As for wanting a plane—well, Dean, you’re a flier. I hear you can rent planes, Piper Cubs and such.” “You can?” Dean cried joyously. “Vic, did you hear that? I’m going to rent me a little plane. We’ll all go flying around Mexico, on our days off!” 78

The two girls were delighted, Cissy in particular. “Steve and I always did want to explore!” She explained that parts of Mexico were so mountainous and wild that no car could get through. One had to travel on foot or horseback. “Or by plane,” she amended happily. “Vicki, I adore your shoes! Don’t we wear about the same size? Trade with me for today—no one’s looking.” Laughing, they traded shoes under the table. A nice-looking young man, conservatively dressed, strolled in, glanced around, and caught sight of them. He came over smiling. “My husband, Steve Clayton,” said Cissy, almost bursting with pride. Steve grinned at her indulgently, and shook hands with Vicki and Dean. He seemed to be the exact opposite of his wife—quiet, steady, brief-spoken, but just as amiable. “Hope we can make your stay here a pleasant one. Let’s get out to the car. I have to go back to the office later this afternoon.” During the drive out of Mexico City and into the country, Steve Clayton told them he represented an American automobile manufacturer here. He and Cissy had been living in Mexico for about two years. Steve had to make frequent business trips back to Detroit. He said: “I’m glad you’re here, Vicki. You, too, Dean. It 79

isn’t always possible to take Cissy along to Detroit with me and she gets pretty lonesome. Now she’ll have you for company.” Cissy hastened to say that she had plenty of friends here, both Mexicans and Americans, but cousins were something special, especially flying ones. “When Steve goes to Detroit, I don’t have to stay home, I can go gallivanting around with you two in that rented plane.” “Sure thing.” Dean asked, “Is there an American settlement in Mexico City?” Steve, driving, answered that. “Americans used to live all to themselves in Mexico City, concentrated in a few tight little blocks. Mexicans resented it, said it was arrogant and unfriendly, said we came down here to live and earn money in their country but didn’t bother to make friends with them, or even learn their language. They were right, of course. Our embassy—we have a big one down here, seven hundred people—suggested we live scattered all over town and speak Spanish and get better acquainted with our Mexican hosts. It’s working out happily.” Steve’s firm mouth tightened. “American settlements, you said. Bad thing. Stirs up international dislike. Europeans who come to Latin America never make such a mistake.” Vicki remembered what Ruth Benson had told her about travelers creating international good will 80

or ill will. By now pyramids and rounded mountain peaks distantly appeared. On those pyramids the Indians had offered human sacrifices to their gods. They drove on, stopping for herds of cattle to cross the road. Finally they entered a park. Small islands, covered with flowers and slim, tall cypress trees, floated in a narrow canal. Indian gardeners, stooping or kneeling, gravely worked on the islands, cultivating flowers, fruits, and vegetables. The car followed the winding canal until they reached a village, and then a large wooden pavilion. Here they parked, got out, took a picnic basket from the storage compartment, and followed Steve as he rented a boat. It was the most delightful boat Vicki had ever seen: a roofed gondola with tables and chairs. They boarded it, and a young man with a pole clambered on the rear platform and pushed the boat out onto the tree-lined canal. Dozens of gondolas glided softly along, in peaceful traffic. Each had a girl’s name painted on it: Rosita, Frida, Candelaria, Dolores. Their occupants sat smiling, visiting, eating and drinking, and the lovers held hands. Vicki sat with Dean and her hosts, breathing in the moist greenery and flowers, listening to water and birds and murmured voices, sun falling warmly across her lap. 81

“I never enjoyed anything so delicious!” Vicki exclaimed. An Indian girl in a shallow punt glided up alongside of them. Her shell was packed brimful with violets, gardenias, roses, sweet peas, camellias, tawny wild orchids, pansies, carnations, and jasmine. Vicki gasped with pleasure. Their boatman slowed down. “Flores?” asked the Indian girl, smilingly holding up corsages. “Un peso.” Cissy swooped on an armful of deep-purple violets. Vicki chose sweet peas, pink, rose, white, and yellow. Dean also bought her five little bunches of pansies, tied at intervals on a long straw string, and still wet from the river. Both girls buried their faces in the perfumed flowers. Cissy declared she was extra happy because she was wearing Vicki’s pretty shoes. Their boat moved along. Other boats slid up to them, offering food, pottery, jewelry, peasant garments for sale. Steve politely declined these but bought cool drinks. Cissy unpacked their picnic lunch. As they ate, another gondola drew up beside them. Six men in gaudy red-and-gold costumes, with guitars, violins, and marimba, played and sang to them. “How long has this been going on?” Dean murmured. 82

“Xochimilco is five hundred years old,” Steve said. “You’re being offered strictly Aztec recreation: trade, food and drink, music, meditation in a flowery place. Yes, you’re seeing pretty much what the Spanish conquerors saw.” Their gondola drifted on, under arched wooden bridges, past overhanging willows, up the canal. Time slowed and spun out, became a matter not of clocks and schedules, but of centuries.

83

CHAPTER V

Vicki Gets to Work

Vicki buckled down to work. first stop was a visit, with Captain Jordan and Dean, to the offices of Federal-Mexico Airlines. They met the various executives to whom they were responsible, and Vicki had a nice chat with Señorita Violeta Castro, in charge of flight stewardesses. The offices, people, and methods of work here were surprisingly like those back in New York. Vicki felt right at home. Next chore was to have her Palm Beach uniform and matching trench cap pressed, and quickly. Two other flight stewardesses, Elena Carrera and Maria Teresa Arroyo (Juan’s sister) obligingly took Vicki to the tailor’s. They were both tall, slim, and exceedingly pretty brunettes, friendly and gay. Vicki thought she had never seen such coquettes as these two. They talked Mexican slang which, when Vicki mentally translated it back into English, had a surprisingly familiar ring: “La cachaste?”—“Catch on?” 84

“Y cómo no?”—“And why not?” “Es terrífico!”—“It’s terrific!” The words were Spanish, but the spirit was native American. But when Vicki tried using the phrase, “It hits the spot,” both Elena and Maria Teresa demanded, “What spot?” Another matter Vicki attended to was calling up the three persons to whom she had letters of introduction. They received her cordially, although they were busy people and much older. Still, it was reassuring to know that she could turn to these substantial people, in case of any need. A letter to Ruth Benson was dispatched, and another to her family, and one to her New York crowd of girls. Mail from home was arriving now. Vicki’s mother wrote: “Fairview is bitter cold, and the lake is frozen over. It’s hard to realize flowers are blooming where you are. Yes, Vicki, we are all well. Dad is preparing a new course he is to teach at the university, and is too busy to cook, to my great relief! Ginny is back in school, under protest. Freckles and I are repotting all the shrubs and plants in the sunroom, so that we shall have a really fine garden next summer. . . . Tootsie Miller, and Dickie and Lynn Brown, wish to be remembered to you. Write often, dear, and be careful what you eat. With love from us all, Mother.” Jean and Charmion wrote jointly from New York 85

I hat new flight schedules had gone into effect the first of the year, and Ruth Benson had given all of them new runs. The prospects of Jean’s getting to Mexico appeared remote, but she was hoping. Tessa, their would-be actress, had almost been “discovered” by a talent scout riding her plane. Unfortunately he had turned out to be not a talent scout, but merely an amateur photography fan. Reading these letters in the hotel patio, Vicki thought, “It all seems so far away, now.” She was a good deal more excited about the beginning of her Mexican runs. She had better go to bed early! At four-thirty the next morning, Vicki put a last pat of powder on her nose, tilted her trench cap just so, sleepily left her room and headed for the elevator. Surely, surely, no Mexican would be mad enough to take a six-o’clock plane—she would be the only soul at the airport. The hotel lobby was deserted and dimmed. In the open doorway, Captain Jordan and Dean Fletcher were waiting for her, looking spruce in their uniforms and reasonably wide awake. Outside in the street, where a crew car waited, it was still night. They drove through a silent, moon-drenched city. Only a few peasants trotting beside their little burros, only the waving palm trees, were astir. But when after a long, fast, chilly drive they reached the Buena Vista airport, it was lighted up as gaily as a 86

circus. Planes arrived in the blowing grass, departed in the white moonglow and the yellower glare of beacon lights. Within the handsome airline station, the microphone boomed out flight announcements— Indian boys in rough white cotton suits carried luggage—travelers briskly read newspapers, or had dawn breakfast in the glass-enclosed restaurant, or bought Chanel No. 5 at the gift counter. Vicki stared at the travelers. She had made a test run with an experienced Mexican stewardess, but still it amazed her to see barefoot Indians with bright baskets full of roosters, boarding an airplane! Pretty young air hostesses, lingering around the desks of their own airlines, were exquisitely powdered, coifed, high-heeled. They made Vicki feel wind-blown after her drive. She went into the ladies’ lounge for repairs. A dark girl ran in, laughing and shivering. She was dressed in fleecy white sports clothes, white sandals, and her wedding ring was shiny new. “Voy á Acapulco!” she beamed at Vicki, as they shared the dressing table. “I’m going to Acapulco! I’ll be on the beach in a hour!” “Honeymoon?” Vicki smiled. “Luna de miel?’ The girl nodded joyously and Vicki wished her happiness. “You must go someday to Acapulco,” the bride urged her. “It is a paradise.” 87

But this morning Vicki was going to fly in the opposite direction, east, to cities on the Gulf of Mexico. The American crew’s first hop was to be to Veracruz and Port of Mexico, with stops on the way, and return to Mexico City. It was about a seven-hour flight, round trip. Rejoining her two pilots, Vicki went with them to the hangars, to get their plane in last-minute readiness for the flight. Engines were being tested, propellers spun, gasoline hosed into the tanks. Vic said hello to several Mexican mechanics and flight crews whom she had already met, and went to check through her cabin. The plane was taxied out on the field. The gangplank was put in place. Her passengers began to climb up, past Vicki, who stood in the plane doorway checking their names on her manifest. They included several businessmen, one sloe-eyed movie star, one Argentine bullfighter, in a business suit but carrying a cape and a case of swords, two attractive families, two pleasure travelers, and the shoeless, poker-faced Indian with the roosters. The chickens screeched and shed feathers all over the cabin floor, before Vicki could persuade the Indian to put them in the cargo compartment. Then a bank messenger, loaded with bags of silver pesos, came aboard. The pesos were bound for the Bank of Veracruz. The messenger started stacking the bags in the cabin aisle. 88

“Por favor,” said Vicki. “Put the peso bags in the cargo compartment!” She did not wish to be held responsible for several thousand pesos. “Is better here, for ballast. Always do like this.” And the man continued strewing the heavy bags around. Vicki followed him, distraught. “But they might be stolen!” she whispered in his ear. The Mexican stiffened. “Do you think we have no honor?” He was right; the passengers merely glanced at the bags without interest. Later, Vicki learned that in Spain and Spanish-speaking countries, often there are no locks on the doors. These people have too much pride to steal. When their plane landed half an hour later, Vicki closed her eyes and prayed. The airfield at this tenminute stop was the size of somebody’s front yard. As usual, there in the tall grass were the cows, not at all dismayed by a DC-3. It was quite an experience, that first Mexican run. All that sustained Vicki was the knowledge that Dean and Tom Jordan, up front, were as astonished as she was—that, and her passengers’ unfailing courtesy and good humor. She served a meal including frijoles, and a fruit called guacamote. Stopping at Tehuacán, she found three more passengers waiting on the airfield than she had seats 89

for. While Captain Jordan explained in English that they could not overload, the passenger agent wheedled in Spanish. “But these three have paid for their tickets. Just this one little old lady.” “Well, she is little. All right,” Tom Jordan gave in. Vicki translated. “Un momentito, she has a bundle.” The bundle turned out to be a large stalk of bananas, which the little old woman clutched to her. “Now that’s all,” the pilot said firmly. Vicki translated. “But her little daughter wishes to come, too.” The passenger agent waved at an impassive woman of about forty. “Please. Just her little daughter?” “I guess we have enough weight spread,” Captain Jordan figured. “All right, then, but that’s all.” Again Vicki translated. “And this child?” “This child” was a well-dressed boy of eighteen or so, but he was a brawny six-footthree and weighed proportionately. Tom Jordan looked at Vicki in desperation. “No más!” she said firmly. “Not a single one more!” She made rapid, elaborate explanations and apologies in Spanish, so that no one’s feelings would be hurt. Back on the plane, she had to admit to herself that the more colorful characters were 90

exceptions. Most of the passengers were very like North Americans. Vicki regretted that they had only a ten- or fifteen- minute stop at each town, and had to fly right back to Mexico City. In Puebla she would have liked to see the famous pottery market place. And in Córdoba, she heard, a nine-day fiesta was in full swing. “Never mind,” Dean consoled her. The three of them dined together nightly in the blue-and-yellow tiled dining room, eating whatever the stolid Indian waitresses brought them. “I’ve got a promise of a rented Piper Cub. I’ll have it any day now and we’ll go sightseeing. First free time we have. Cissy, too.” “Be careful,” Captain Jordan warned. “How is Cissy?” Dean asked. “Oh, Cissy’s fine, thanks. She told me on the phone that Steve is off to Detroit soon and she’s still wearing my shoes and has bought a beautiful parrot—all in one breath, like that.” Vicki grinned. “She’s longing to go flying with us, when we get the chance.” No free time presented itself. But Vicki realized her wish for a longer stopover. The American team was transferred to the brief Acapulco runs. This was only an hour or so by air from Mexico City, in the center of the peninsula, due west across the mountains to the Pacific. A dozen planes a day 91

shuttled back and forth, so the crews had a little time between flights to go from the airport into town, or to sit on the beach. Vicki all but wept for a swim in the warm blue Pacific, ringed by mountains, but there never was enough time. She envied her passengers, lighthearted vacationists. “If only I could be stationed here!” she moaned. “Stay here overnight, or for a day or two!” Captain Jordan looked at her sympathetically. “I’ll see what I can do. Wouldn’t mind being based here myself.” It was on one of these runs that an approaching storm forced them off their course. They had passed the level plateaus leading out of Mexico City and were soaring over miles of mountains, nearing the sea. At that point Vicki noticed Captain Jordan swerving. The usual landmarks, notably the redroofed town of Taxco perched on its mountain peak, did not come into sight. None of the passengers noticed anything unusual. Vicki went up forward into the pilots’ cabin. Dean was studying a map, which was his hobby. “What’s up?” she asked. “We are,” Captain Jordan said, “but in the wrong place.” “See that thunderhead?” Dean said, pointing to a towering mass of white cloud that looked like a mountain of whipped cream. “We’ll have to go 92

around it. It looks good enough to eat. But if we got inside it, we’d be tossed around like sand in a cement mixer. The air currents in it might actually tear the plane apart.” “Well, then?” Vicki balanced herself with a hand on either of the pilots’ two leather chairs. She leaned over Dean’s shoulder to look at the map he held. “Now look down,” Dean said. Vicki looked. Below them were mountains, winding highways cut into the cliffs, deep wedges of valleys. Suddenly she saw what Dean meant. This area was not indicated in detail on the map. “And there’s a village!” she exclaimed. The village did not appear on the map, either. True, i it was small and primitive-seeming, from this height and speed, but the map showed other villages. Vicki fished a pencil from her pocket and made an X on Dean’s map to indicate this village. It had already disappeared beneath them, as they flew on. Tom Jordan glanced at his instruments. “How’re we doing, Dean?” Everything was in good order. Captain Jordan swerved the plane once more. They were soon back on course and arrived without incident in Acapulco some minutes later. The unknown village captured Vicki’s imagination. She tried asking coworkers about it. Juan Arroyo said, “It’s probably just another 93

obscure Indian settlement. There are hundreds of them. Can’t indicate all of them. Why?” Amusement danced in his great, soft, dark eyes. “There’s not very much to see in those places,” he told Vicki, seeing her disappointment. Nevertheless, Vicki’s mild interest persisted. Dean had obtained the rented Piper Cub by now. Their first, precious stretch of several free days was due. Vicki suggested that for a lark they fly back to that village —“and come down and explore.” “One destination is as good as another,” Dean replied. “All right, we’ll do it. Call up Cissy.” When Vicki telephoned her cousin and invited her to go along, Cissy exclaimed: “I’d love to go! I even have a new hat for the trip—black straw with cherries. When? Tomorrow?” “Yes, tomorrow,” Vicki laughed. “It’s a date!”

94

CHAPTER VI

The Indian Village

Next day at their hotel, Cissy showed up promptly, looking browner and plumper and more eager than ever. Off went the two girls and Dean to the airport, where the rented Piper Cub waited. “Oh, no,” Vicki groaned when she saw it on the field. This plane was not only very little but battered from long use. Despite its brave new coat of yellow paint, it still resembled those model craft small boys glue together. Cissy and Dean thought it was fine. Vicki looked wistfully at the shining silver streamliners. But she crawled in behind Dean and squeezed into the second seat along with Cissy. Dean warmed up the small engine. “You’re navigator, Vic,” Dean said over his shoulder. “Aye, aye, sir.” “What am I?” Cissy called. “You’re assistant navigator,” Vicki said. The two 95

girls spread Dean’s map of the other day, with Vicki’s conspicuous X on it, across their four huddled knees. The plane vibrated as it accumulated power and the cherries on Cissy’s new hat did a small dance of their own. Off they rolled into the grass, narrowly missing a cow who was nearly as big as their Cub. Then up they went over the workers’ huts, the hangars, then high over the farflung white city. “Here, Vic,” Dean called. “Hold my camera, will you?” He handed back his camera. It was not a particularly fine or valuable one, but Dean was fond of it. “Take good care of it,” he admonished her. The flight went swiftly, probably because their thoughts raced ahead to their destination. Dean circled and took a careful look at the terrain before coming down into the valley, for it was very narrow and deep. From the air it looked like a mere slit between steep mountains. Dean circled again and again, then swooped toward an open space on the floor of the valley. Vicki held her breath. They came down with a bounce. They climbed out of the plane. They had landed near the edge of the unknown village but there was not a sound, not a soul in sight. Far up the mountainside, they saw a peasant in the usual white pajama-like suit, and his burro, plodding down the 96

sheer rock at a steep angle. “It’s a wonder they don’t fall on their noses,” Dean said, taking his camera from Vicki. “Where is everyone in the village?” Vicki listened: the hush was profound. “Maybe they’re hiding. Our plane may have frightened them.” Cissy said unexpectedly, “They’re afraid of us, not the plane, and they’re hiding, all right.” She started wading through deep grass toward the village. “The thing to do is find the leader. I haven’t lived in Mexico for two years for nothing. Come on!” The village, protected by trees and tall cactus fence, was roughly circular in plan. The houses were low, windowless, adobe squares, and could not have contained more than one or two rooms. Along the dirt footpaths, a flock of turkeys sauntered. Flowers and shrubs were planted everywhere—in pots, cans, hollow stones, tree stumps, hanging on a fence of dead volcanic lava. The stillness was uncanny. Ground corn lay on flat stones beside an open but smokeless fire. Wet garments had been abandoned beside a stream. “Go into the square,” Cissy directed and boldly wiggled her plump self through an opening in the cactus fence. Vicki and Dean uneasily followed her. “I don’t care much for this,” Dean muttered. 97

This center of the village was not a square or plaza, merely an open spot where—Cissy explained—the church, government hall, and the village store stood. There was also a tiny café, where a game of dominoes had been interrupted. These buildings, too, were of clay, with crude porches. Suddenly on the church porch appeared a tall, brown man resplendent in magenta shirt, white pajamas, a charro, and a sombrero winking with silver embroidery. He stood motionless, with unblinking dignity, staring at the three intruders. Vicki was distinctly scared. All three of them halted and stood still in the dust and hot sun. The man said something in a strange tongue. It was Aztec, a language fifteen centuries old, as old as the village itself. He seemed imperious but not threatening. They shook their heads, shrugged their shoulders, held out their hands to signify they did not understand. The man demanded in Spanish, “Who are you and why have you come here?” Dean nudged Vicki to reply. Cissy on her other side whispered, “You talk, Vicki. I honestly have such a terrible accent that I can’t make myself understood half the time. That man’s the leading citizen, all right.” Vicki saw a face peer out furtively from the church door. She opened her mouth to reply, forgot whatever Spanish she knew, and didn’t 98

know what to reply anyway. Then to her amazement she heard her own voice saying, quaveringly but with ceremonious courtesy: “We saw your flowering village from our airplane and came to admire it.” She recalled what Steve had said at Xochimilco of Indian pleasure in trading. “We have come to buy in your market place.” “Have you come far?” “We have come many miles.” “From whence do you come?” Vicki could not guess at the leader’s reason for asking. She replied, “We come from Mexico City. We do not wish to intrude. We will leave at once if it is the wish of your village.” The hard glint in the man’s black eyes flickered out. His eyes still were implacable as the mountain rock but on his blunt face a faint, wry smile began to spread. “You are welcome,” he said. He half bowed to Cissy and Dean so that they, too, should understand. “You are Americans? I thought so.” He clapped his hands, twice, loudly. At this signal the village came back to life. High-cheekboned women, in long black draperies and barefoot, crept inquisitively out of the huts. Ragged, silent children followed them. Stocky men, strongly built, with calloused hands and patient eyes filed out of the various adobe huts. Vicki was surprised at how 99

small these people were, with straight black heavy hair and delicate hands and feet. Even the burros, driven from around the wall and saddled with a meager sheaf of grain or some brightly colored woven stuff, were the tiniest of donkeys. Relief was chiefly what Vicki felt. Beside her, Cissy and Dean breathed more or less easily once more. The smiles of all three had the fixity of granite. The leader’s smile had broadened. He descended from the porch, stepped up to Dean, and held out his hand. Dean, weak with relief, grabbed it and wrung it. Two more gaudily dressed men followed the leader and then came, in a long queue, the rest of the village, about sixty people. They all wanted to shake the strangers’ hands, beaming and frankly curious and talking incomprehensible Aztec. Only one or two men could speak a little Spanish. The dazed receiving line of three smiled and pumped hands until they were aching and perspiring. A babel swelled to a cry. The leader announced in Spanish, addressing Vicki: “The village wishes you to be guests of honor at a feast.” Cissy muttered to Vicki that the feast, with its formal ceremonies, would last for days. Vicki stammered out their thanks in the politest 100

phrases she could think of. But she saw that the Indians were desperately poor. Their corn and chilies were sickly, for you cannot plow a stone mountain; their livestock was small, wiry, and gaunt like themselves. Even their pottery, which apparently was the village’s staple in trade with other Indian villages, was made only of the yellow clayey earth. Vicki suddenly realized how much of Mexico was barren mountain or unhealthy jungle, and would not yield a good living no matter how hard people worked. So this was why she had seen only very rich or very poor in Mexico! It dawned on her why the government, in Mexico City on the fertile plateaus, was sending tractors and fertilizers and teachers to these half-forgotten mountain fastnesses. A bitter, unending struggle with a hard land had kept the Indians from advancing, kept them poverty-stricken and primitive. There was not enough food here—why, she had no right to accept their invitation to a feast! The Indians with typical reserve did not press. Instead, the leader invited the three visitors to inspect the church, a simple oblong hut of which they all seemed very proud. Dean hesitated on the porch step. “Vic, ask if we may take pictures.” Vicki relayed the question to the leader in Spanish. He looked at her disapprovingly, but after 101

some hesitation, said: “What do you want to take pictures for?” “Why—why—for a souvenir.” “That is foolish.” Feeling somewhat dampened and self-conscious, Vicki started to relay this to Dean when the leader interrupted her. “Very well, if it is an American custom, you may take pictures.” “Oh, thank you!” Vicki said. “May we take one of you?” The Indian in the glittering garments stiffened. “It is a matter of principle. No pictures of the leader. I am sorry.” Dean and Cissy had gathered enough from the leader’s tone to realize that he was not exhibiting much enthusiasm for the idea. Dean took shots of the church, then of the two girls standing before the church. Then Vicki took one of the square. Cissy snapped Vicki and Dean together, and handed the camera back to the pilot. But all three almost regretted now having asked to take pictures in the first place, as the leader waited with some impatience to show them into the church. Once inside, Vicki blinked disbelievingly in the dimness of the adobe church. There was a lovely Madonna, with flowers and lighted candles before her, as Vicki had seen in the cathedrals. But also to 102

be seen here was a weird, red-and-gold figure. It was, the leader said reluctantly, the Double-Rabbit, an Aztec god. The leader turned away, displeased, and seemed to want I hem to leave the church. “I can’t believe it!” Vicki puzzled. “What?” Cissy whispered. “The Aztec god?” “No—that.” Vicki nodded her head in the opposite direction. On a shadowed altar gleamed a large chalice of pure gold. It was not Indian but of old Spanish design. The three of them gazed at it in wonder. A strange thing to find in a poor, obscure, Indian village . . . “Where did your village get this beautiful chalice?” Vicki inquired of the leader. His eyes glinted. “One of our sons who left the village and grew rich presented it in gratitude for his good fortune.” It was possible. The dull, rich gleam of the golden bowl winked at Vicki, as if it held another and older story. She glanced at the reverent faces of the Indians kneeling in the church around her. They were innocent and simple people. It was their leader who seemed a wiser and worldlier man than one would have expected to find in this place. At this point, Cissy dropped her purse on the floor. It fell open and its contents—at least two dozen small articles—flew helter-skelter. The Indians crowding the church door let out a shout: 103

they wanted to trade. Cissy made a grab for her things, and Dean, laughing, went to her rescue, first setting down his camera on a church table. Vicki helped too, but the Indians, laughing and eager, hurried the three Americans out into the square, to trade. The leader gravely explained that few manufactured articles were seen in this forgotten valley. They bought pottery from the Indians, as a gesture of friendliness. It was a lengthy, lively ceremony. The pottery was made of the orangeyyellow clay around this village, and had a black, painted design like arrowheads. One man, who spoke Spanish, told Vicki that this pottery was the village’s trade-mark. The villagers did not want money in exchange. They wanted things. Vicki and Cissy obligingly dumped the contents of their purses and Dean emptied his pockets. The Indians cried out in delight, and clamored for treasures seldom seen in these parts: two small mirrors, a lipstick, face powder, pocket combs, Dean’s magnifying glass for map reading, sunglasses, pencils. The greatest excitement was caused by American cigarettes and chewing gum. These were broken into small portions and shared. An Indian woman tugged at Vicki’s elbow, wheedling, pointing into Vicki’s purse. 104

“My reading glasses? No, I need those.” Then, remembering the woman did not understand, Vicki shook her head. “But here is something else.” Vicki handed her a new toothbrush wrapped in cellophane which she had purchased and forgotten to take out of her purse. Everyone crowded around to see the toothbrush. The leader in his magenta shirt and embroidered sombrero stalked over. “What is it for?—But why brush teeth, what for?—How do you brush?” Vicki showed them all, with gestures. She had never felt so topsy-turvy. Cissy, meanwhile, was good-naturedly yielding up her cherry-trimmed hat to two pleading men, in trade for a clay DoubleRabbit and a length of coarse fabric. Dean, in a knot of laughing, clamoring women, clung for dear life to his fountain pen. “Vic, let’s get out of here or we’ll lose our shirts! Shrewdest traders I ever saw! Only wish we had tools or machinery to give ’em—look over there in the cattle path, they’re hauling rock with their bare hands.” It was not easy to get away, but they left with the Indians as many “objects of wonder” as they could. The entire village accompanied them to the plane. Dean had to shoo them away, for the men poked into the Cub’s cockpit controls and the children climbed around the yellow wings. Only the leader sauntered 105

at the edge of the crowd, unimpressed. “Airplanes are strange to your people?” Vicki said to him politely, to counteract Dean’s shouts of “Go away!” “They often see and hear airplanes like great birds overhead. This is the first time they see such a bird on the ground,” the leader said. “You say ‘they,’ not ‘we.’ You yourself are familiar with planes?” Vicki inquired. She was not really curious, she said it to pay the leader a compliment due his office and his courtesy to three intruders. His change of expression startled her. The Indian leader hesitated, evading reply. Secretiveness struggled in his face with a look of vanity. Vanity won. He said condescendingly, “I am not so simple as my people.” What he meant to imply, Vicki could n imagine. Perhaps she never could guess what went on in an Indian mind. Dean had climbed into the cockpit and was calling to her. “Get the head guy to clear this area, so we can take off! Tell ’em safest to go back into the village!” It took the leader several minutes to convince the villagers. In silence they moved back from the plane. Cissy and Vicki climbed in. They waved but no one waved in reply. The black-draped figures stood motionless. Their faces, though friendly, were 106

stolid. “Wind’s changed. We’re going to have some trouble getting out! I’ll have to try a full stall takeoff!” Dean shouted over the engine’s whine. “This gorge is so darn narrow!” He drove the plane along the clay ground to the end of the open space, turned it into the wind and locked his brakes. Then he gunned his motor till the little plane shuddered and its tail rose from the ground. Before Vicki quite knew what was happening they were in the air. For a moment it seemed as if they would stall. The brink of the gorge came closer and closer. Vicki shut her eyes for an instant. They were going to crash. Dean put the plane’s nose down sharply. No, they might manage to clear the edge of the cliff. Vicki felt the impact as a tall shrub brushed the plane. Then, miraculously, they were rising. They had made it! “Was that dangerous?” Cissy yelled in Vicki’s ear. “Yes.” “It certainly was exciting, though!” She did not want to tell Cissy they might have crashed. Dean circled back over the valley. Vicki wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and would not look at Cissy. They joked in their relief. The flying now was smooth and easy, safely above the mountaintops. 107

Presently they fell to debating about the golden chalice. It was Spanish, no doubt about that. “Don’t you think the leader was holding back something?” Vicki asked uncertainly. “No. Why?” “He—well, he seemed awfully worldly for such a backwoods place.” “You mean he held back about the chalice? He did explain about the chalice.” Vicki was vaguely dissatisfied, but could not put her feelings into satisfactory words. That leader was a vain one, a shrewd one . . . “Doggone!” said Dean suddenly. “Vic, have you got my camera?” “Why, no.” “You had it last, didn’t you?” “No, don’t you remember, Cissy snapped you and me together beside the church. Then she gave the camera back to you.” “What’s the argument?” Cissy shouted. Vicki told her. “Dean had it in the church,” Cissy said. “I bet he left it there.” Vicki repeated this to Dean. He thought a minute and shook his head in annoyance. “I guess she’s right,” he said at last. “I think I put it down when I was helping Cissy pick up her stuff. Doggone.” Vicki sensed the sharpness of Dean’s irritation. It was not that the camera was particularly valuable 108

but he hated being careless. “It’s easy enough to remedy,” she called soothingly. “Just turn around and go back.” No answer came from Dean. After a few seconds, he said: “Can’t. The wind is all wrong now. It’s too dangerous. Didn’t we just have a hard enough time getting out of that valley?” “We’ll go back to that village another time, then,” Vicki called. “Never mind, Dean. Next time we have a day off we’ll go back for your camera.” “If the Indians don’t trade it in first,” he grumbled. Cissy said she did not think the leader would trade in the camera. “He seemed a pretty responsible sort. Don’t you think so, Dean?” “I guess the villagers won’t be mean enough to sell it,” Dean admitted, and he sounded relieved. “All right, we’ll go back. Someday.” Vicki sighed; she was relieved, too. It would really be fun to go back to that Indian village sometime. This day had been full of the excitement of discovery. She even had a proprietary feeling about the village in the unknown valley. Suddenly Cissy cried out. “There’s the Sleeping Lady!” Vicki and Dean turned their heads to look where Cissy pointed. The Sleeping Lady was a long, snow109

covered, blue-hazed stretch of volcano top, whose formation resembled a woman lying on her back, her head thrown back and hair streaming. At her feet, at a little distance, rose the conical peak of Popocatepetl. “Popo—that’s the Sleeping Lady’s lover, legend says.” There was affection in Cissy’s voice. “The Sleeping Lady and the Young Man.” It was beautiful and somehow touching. The plane veered, and they flew past the two lovers. As they neared the airport, Vicki turned to look back on them. Even older than the Indians she had seen, they, too, possessed secrets.

110

CHAPTER VII

New Friends

Captain Jordan had succeeded. The airline was assigning the American crew to a new, longer run: the five-hour flight from Acapulco south and slightly inland to Oaxaca, and the four-hour flight from Acapulco north and slightly inland to Uruapan. It meant their home base from now on would be Acapulco, that tropical paradise on the Pacific. Vicki, Dean, and Tom Jordan were all very happy about it. Even the hotel arrangements had been made, at all three terminal points. At home base in Acapulco, accommodations were crowded, and it had been impossible to find space for the crew in one hotel. The pilots would go to the Papagayo, or Parrot, while Vicki had reservations at the Monte Azul—the Blue Mountain. They flew into Acapulco from Mexico City with their luggage, early one bright blue morning. The brief flight, as passengers, was a joy ride. Best of all, they were to have this week end off. Vicki looked 111

down with a vacationer’s eyes, rather than a stewardess’s, as their plane darted in and out between mountain peaks, then circled the sparkling blue bay before landing. “I feel like I’m really seeing Acapulco for the first time!” she exclaimed lightheartedly. “What a glorious blue!” Sky, water, mountaintops were all clear hot tones of blue: cerulean—robin’s egg—bright sapphire sea with a long beading of white surf—gleams of turquoise between sculptured clouds—underdrifts of violet on the hillsides. Houses of white and pink adobe perched gaily on the mountain crests. At the base of the hills, facing on the palm-lined beach, was the heart of town. Acapulco was like a handful of jewels, all light and color. Vicki and her pilots did not linger at the grassy airport. Cars from the various hotels were waiting at the rose-laden pergola which served as airport station. Vicki climbed into the car marked “Monte Azul.” “We’ll telephone you shortly,” Captain Jordan said, directing her luggage into the car, “to make sure you get settled all right in your hotel. Whew!” The big pilot peeled off his jacket and put on his sunglasses. “See you pretty soon,” Dean said. He was lobster pink, but Vicki thrived in the tropical sun. They 112

were at the equator. “I’m melted,” Dean groaned. “We’ll go swimming and cool off,” she promised him. “It’s early enough to get in a morning swim.” He nodded and her car started off. The road took them along the afternoon beach, Los Hornos, which curved like arms embracing the water. On the other side of the road, amid gardens, stood villas and broad-porched hotels. Palm trees, flowers, white sand, and brilliant heat suffused this place. At every turn of the car Vicki saw blue mountains, blue water, blue sky. The hotel car drove in and through the dusty, white-clay town. It was crowded with Indian traders carrying baskets on their heads, loaded burros trotting along under the prodding stick, brown babies and flowers and shops with huge paper signs and tourists in American sports clothes looking out of place here. But when their car started up a steep, winding street, the engine stalled. The Mexican driver urged it forward. Up another hill they drove, then started to climb up sheer mountainside. The car skidded backwards, clung, slipped. “What’s wrong?” Vicki called to the driver. “The hotel car is old, there is something wrong.” “What’s wrong?” “With the brakes,” he said negligently. “But do not worry. This car will carry you to heaven!” 113

Yes, to heaven dead or alive, Vicki thought. Her heart was in her mouth as the car slidingly struggled up steep, spiral mountain roads. But it was worth it—what a view and what a breeze! At the very top of this mountain clung the Hotel Monte Azul, a terraced Spanish villa. Vicki stood on its courtyard steps, entranced. “Good morning, Miss Barr, welcome to Blue Mountain. Would you like some breakfast?” A handsome, black-eyed young Latin in white slacks and white sports shirt came strolling over to her, smiling in the sun. He was a very poised, elegant, and agreeable young man. “I’m Julio Perez,” he said in perfect English, “manager of this hotel. Miguel will take your luggage—Mike! Cuarto dos. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here.” “I know I will, Mr. Perez,” Vicki said, glancing around in delight. The hotel was a low one-story structure, of white clay and red tile roofs, built two steps up, here, and six steps down, there, as the rolling mountain dictated. Roman arches and colonnades and plazas connected the wings. Overlooking the mountains and sea were several open terraces, with flower boxes, tables, chairs, and enormous garden umbrellas. On a roofed, windswept terrace, the other guests were having breakfast. Except for the bedrooms, in a row along 114

the colonnade, every mosaic-tiled room in the Monte Azul was open to sea and sky and miles-long blue view. “It’s only nine-thirty, Miss Barr,” said Mr. Perez hospitably. “Come and have some breakfast.” He escorted her to a vacant table drenched in sun and wind, smiled, and wandered away among the other tables to his desk. Vicki settled into her straw chair with a sigh of rapture and stole a glance at the other guests. They were both Americans and Mexicans, in bright garments; several families had their children with them. “Buenos días, señorita.” It was the waiter, bringing her orange juice, red banana, and papaya. Vicki tasted the fruits in wonder. But when the waiter returned bringing steak with raw Spanish onion and tomatoes, and thick toast and coffee, Vicki buckled down and ate in real earnest. “It’s a good thing I have an appetite like a growing boy,” she chuckled to herself. Even the waiter looked slightly amazed at all this frailseeming little blonde girl could consume. Around her, everyone was leaving. Mr. Perez stopped at her table to explain: “Everyone’s going swimming, at the morning beach, La Caleta and Caletilla. Aren’t you going, too? Oh!” His black eyes sparkled. “Something for 115

you.” He strolled over to a phonograph and put on an ancient American jazz record. Vicki nodded her thanks. He was being very agreeable, as was his job. But she wished Mr. Perez would be just a shade less charming. Still, Latin elegance was proverbial. And being agreeable to the guests was part of his job . . . “I won’t be around the hotel much, between runs, or seeing much of the hotel manager, anyway,” Vicki supposed. She yawned, drowsy from the food and the heat. “This is a lazy, languorous sort of place.” She watched Mr. Perez idly stretched in a terrace chair, under a palm, smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee from a demitasse. He certainly fitted in with this climate. Captain Jordan telephoned her and the three arranged to meet for a swim. The narrow, dazzling white beach blossomed with palm trees and bright umbrellas, mountains hulking right behind them. Barefoot boys and girls ran up and down crying their wares: coconuts, shrimp, milk, chocolate, pineapples. Vicki and Dean immediately splashed into the heavenly blue Pacific. It was calm, heavy water, not very salty. Vicki, swimming underwater with her eyes open, saw starfish and a baby octopus asleep on 116

the sandy sea bottom. Afterwards, she and Dean sat on the sand in the shade, shivering but fearing a blazing sunburn. “Have some of my coconut,” Tom Jordan invited them. He was too lazy to swim. A roguish little boy brought over a big brown coconut, hollowed out, full of liquid, and with a straw stuck in it. He explained, Vicki translating, that after drinking the coconut milk, you split open the cracked nut and ate the meat. It took Captain Jordan a full hour to juggle with it, while Vicki and Dean ran in and out of the water until they were tired. Throwing themselves down on the sand, they noticed, traced there, a heart enclosing the words: Eugenio quiere Maria. “Look,” said Dean, and with his finger he traced: Dean quiere Victoria. “How’s that, huh?” “Now you look,” said Vicki. She smoothed sand over part of what he had printed and rewrote: Dean quiere aeroplanos. “Isn’t that the truth, Captain Jordan?” But Tom Jordan was fast asleep. That afternoon the three did not meet, but rested at their hotels. Vicki wanted nothing better than to recline in a deep chair on the terrace, and gaze out on mountains and sea. There were plenty of fishing boats and private planes to watch. A Mexican girl quietly took one of the reclining 117

chairs near Vicki—a girl scarcely as old, and not quite as tall, as herself. She had the biggest, brownest, gentlest eyes Vicki had ever seen. They seemed to fill her whole shy little face. Her lacy black dress and her piled-up, silky, black hair seemed to Vicki too grown-up a style for this small, slight girl. Her dignified air had a childlike appeal and impulsively Vicki smiled at her. The Mexican girl smiled back. “I am Señora Vallejo,” she said to Vicki in halting English. “This is my hotel. I hope it pleases you.” “It pleases me very much,” Vicki replied in English. “You say your hotel—do you own it, Mrs. Vallejo?” “Yes, señorita. My husband who is dead, this was his hotel. He left it to me.” The enormous brown eyes looked into Vicki’s trustfully. The little señora said in a rush, “Is difficult to run a hotel. I am only nineteen, only married it makes three years when my husband died, would be married four years now.” A smile lighted up her small, grave face. She waved a brown hand toward an Indian nurse with two very little boys. “My sons.” Vicki was astonished. Married at fifteen—left a widow with two babies at eighteen—why, this little señora was only a child who had been rushed into responsibilities before she had a chance to grow up! Now she had this big, busy hotel to run. That was a 118

job which would tax a woman much older and more experienced than this reed of a girl with her wondering eyes. “I hope—please, do you call yourself Victoria Barr? You are the one who is hostess in airplanes?” “Yes, señora.” “Hello.” The señora smiled at her and Vicki smiled back. “I hope you will remain here much time. Many guests come, many go, but all are too old for me. My family, my sister, are far distant and cannot come often. I am happy to find here a girl of my own age.” So she was lonely. Vicki replied she hoped they would become friends. “Won’t you tell me how you run this hotel?” The señora’s eyes grew more enormous than ever. “I do not run it. I do not know how. My husband always protected me very much and as a result I know nothing. But by good fortune Julio Perez is here to manage the hotel. He worked for my husband, for three years.” She sighed. “For the three years.” “Mr. Perez seems very nice.” “He is excellent. He manages the kitchen, the maids, the workmen, he welcomes the guests, makes the bills—without Julio Perez, this hotel would be nothing.” She brooded for a moment. “He wishes a hotel of his own. Naturally. He is ambitious. But 119

now! You tell me! How is it to work in the sky?” Vicki laughed and related one or two amusing anecdotes—in English, since the little señora earnestly had been talking English. Vicki suspected she did not understand too well, for she laughed at the wrong places, said, “More slow, please?” and in the middle of a story, confessed: “I like your shoes, I wish I had them. Such very high heels! When I go to Mexico City, I will buy some. What have you pretty?” “The shoes my Cousin Cissy is wearing,” Vicki said ruefully. All at once she noticed that the little señora was looking discomfited. Vicki turned and saw handsome Julio Perez gazing at the señora in a proud and cynical manner. He had appeared from around a pillar, cigarette and demitasse in hand, and sauntered over to his desk where he seemed to be silently laughing at them, or maybe at the world in general, as if he had some secret that made him scornful of other people. He made Vicki feel uncomfortable, too. “Come to my room,” Vicki said consolingly, “and I will show you what I have pretty.” They left the dazzling afternoon to go indoors, into Vicki’s room. Señora Vallejo waited taut with excitement as Vicki unlocked her suitcase and opened her hatbox. Vicki surmised that the little 120

señora had few pleasures except pretty things, and was eager as a child to try on other people’s treasures as well as her own. “I call myself Anita,” she offered timidly. “My name is Vicki. Here! Come to the mirror.” The señora stood very straight before the dresser mirror. Vicki took out a little hat of roses, put it on the señora’s black hair, fastened pearls around her slender brown throat, clipped gold flower earrings to her ears. The little señora pirouetted in front of the mirror, sighing with pleasure: “Is so lovely! And to you, I will show the lace.” “Oh, I love lace! You, too?” This was a real hobby they had in common. The two girls discussed lace for a long time. Señora Vallejo promised to show Vicki the various laces she had bought or been given or made, the lace Vicki could see in museums, and her lacemaking needles and hoop. She wished to do that some other day, not now, lest Mr. Perez reprove her for intruding on a guest. She seemed a little frightened or in awe of her hotel manager. The little señora took her leave, with many thanks to her new friend. Vicki wandered out on the terrace. The sun had blazingly and abruptly set. Suddenly day faded and the moon was shining out, streaming silver light over the sea at Vicki’s feet, while the west was still a shower of gold. Mr. Perez came up softly. They 121

stood leaning on the terrace railing. “Do you like our town?” he asked. “It is—there are no words for it.” He brushed his hand against a jasmine bush growing at Vicki’s shoulder. “Have you seen much of Mexico?” His tone was casual, but Vicki thought the man was looking at her in rather a peculiar way—almost as if he had seen her somewhere before and wanted to mention the fact. There was something—well, knowing—in his manner. But Vicki dismissed this and murmured a polite reply. It was time to go back to her room and shower and change out of this sports dress into something nicer for dinner. Her blue dress? Or the white— “Perhaps you are much interested in the way our people live?” the smooth voice went on, but with something more than politeness in it now. “What?” Vicki looked suddenly at Julio Perez’s white, dark-eyed face, dim in the dusk. “Why, yes, of course.” What was the man getting at? Or did he really mean anything by the question? “You North Americans often have a great curiosity,” Perez said lightly. “It is a quality I admire as a rule, Miss Barr. How would you like to take the moonlight walk to La Quebrada with Señora Vallejo and me? After dinner?” The invitation seemed so cordial and friendly that Vicki suddenly felt a little foolish. She was just 122

imagining things. “I’d love a walk, thanks. Heavens, dinner! I haven’t changed yet and I see the other guests already coming out!” Laughing, she started hastily across the terrace for the plaza, heading back to her room. Julio Perez switched on lights, so she could find her footing. He called gaily: “I think we’ll make a good threesome!”

123

CHAPTER VIII

Warning

It was glorious on the reach next morning. Vicki lay stretched out in a deck chair, between swims, while Dean splashed in the blue water. The row of manycolored umbrellas, the border of palm trees and flowers and rocks, the festive crowd of bathers, made a gay pageant. Vicki closed her eyes against the hot sun, remembering last night’s moonlight stroll, to jagged cliffs where the Pacific foamed far below. That, too, had been a romantic place, and the señora and Perez had been good company. Yet, Vicki realized now, in broad daylight, that there had been something disturbing in their evening walk. She thought over their conversation. With friendly questions, Perez had led her to talk at length. She had told quite a few things about herself, her work, what she wanted to do and see in Mexico. “Perez certainly did encourage me to talk. That’s it, he was too interested . . . Silly! Mr. Perez was 124

merely being polite to a tourist. I’m imagining things.” Dean came running up just then, dripping and grinning. “The water certainly is wonderful today! Aren’t you going in again, Vic?” “I should say so! You know I love to swim—I’m practically a fish.” She stiffened her arms at her sides and flapped her hands like fins. Dean laughed and sat down in the sand beside her chair. “You don’t look serious enough for a fish. You know that solemn expression a fish has.” Vicki pulled her mouth down at the corners and they both laughed. “Say, Vic,” Dean said, changing the subject suddenly, “I think I’ll go back soon and get my camera. But you don’t have to come along unless you want to,” he teased her. Vicki sprinkled a little sand on him. “So you think you can leave me behind. Well, Mr. Fletcher, now that I know your true nature, you needn’t think that we’ll ever be friends again. Give me back that stick of chewing gum I lent you a week ago Thursday.” They chuckled together. “Cissy would love to be in on this, wouldn’t she?” Dean said. “That adventurer!” “Can’t we invite Cissy to come along?” Vicki 125

asked. “The one thing I miss in Mexico is having another girl for company.” “Invite Cissy by all means. Don’t know just how soon we can go back to that village, though.” As usual, they had a heavy schedule of commercial flights. There was small prospect of free time. Besides, Dean’s rented Piper Cub was in Mexico City. He had lent it to his fellow pilot, Juan Arroyo, for a few days. “I know what!” Vicki said. She tugged at a silvery blonde strand of hair, thinking. “Ask Juan to fly the Cub over here, as soon as he has some free time. It’s only an hour’s flight. And he can easily get a lift back on one of Federal’s planes.” “Sold. You get in touch with Cissy.” Back atop her mountain, at the Monte Azul, Vicki considered telephoning Cissy long-distance. It would settle their plans more quickly than a letter could, and besides Vicki wanted a visit with her irrepressible cousin. She wandered out to the terraces, where Julio Perez was working at his desk. The telephones were all on his counter. Vicki wanted the Mexico City telephone book to verify Cissy’s number. “Hello, Miss Barr.” Perez went on searching in a file drawer of his desk, his back to Vicki. Since he seemed so busy, and since the Mexico City telephone book was lying 126

right there on his desk, Vicki reached over and picked up the directory. Snapshots were lying underneath it; she glanced at them automatically. Why, the pictures seemed to be of herself! Yes, they were—herself and Cissy standing before the church in the Indian village! Vicki started and exclaimed in astonishment. “What’s the matter, Miss Barr?” Julio Perez turned and in one glance saw what she had discovered. His dark face flushed. In a swift, disconcerted movement, his hands moved toward the snapshots, but then he coolly checked himself. “Miss Barr, do you know anything about these photographs?” “I? No! I’ve never even seen them before. I can’t imagine how they reached your desk!” “Neither can I. I hoped you’d know because this whole thing is a mystery to me. A guest gave me a roll of films to be developed and then checked out without paying for them. I had to stand the expense myself,” Perez said in chagrin. He looked at Vicki almost accusingly. “Are you sure you know nothing about it? After all, the pictures are of you.” Vicki stood there hardly knowing what to say. Perez’s manner made her feel awkward and half guilty—he was so suave and certain—made her feel almost as if she did have a friend who had left without paying for the films. 127

“But honestly, Mr. Perez, I don’t know the first thing about it!” She was flabbergasted, bewildered, annoyed, and scared, all in the same instant. Perez gave her a look. Then he sighed and shrugged. “The pictures are of you. And you’re looking straight into the camera. Surely you must know where and when these snapshots were taken.” “Why, naturally I know!” She blurted out that she, Dean, and Cissy had flown to the Indian village, for a lark, and had found the place so interesting that they had wanted pictures. At this, Perez’s irritation died down and he nodded. “Yes, those villages really are picturesque. In some of them, you can see some unusual things.” “We did in this one!” Vicki described the golden chalice. “That was an unusual treasure to find in a poor little village, wasn’t it?” Perez seemed genuinely interested. Encouraged, Vicki went on, “And I was even more impressed with the village leader. He seemed such a—a strong and educated person to find in that remote spot.” “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your sight-seeing jaunt, Miss Barr.” Perez picked up the snapshots and studied them. “I’d like to give you these, but I’d better wait awhile to see if that guest writes and asks for them. These pictures were made with a nice camera. Is it yours? May I see it sometime? I’m 128

something of a photography fan myself.” Vicki explained that the camera belonged to her copilot, Dean Fletcher, and that he had left it behind in the Indian village. “Oh, what a shame!” “But we’re going back for it,” Vicki said. She smiled. “All three of us, I guess. For another lark.” Julio Perez raised his eyebrows. He turned back to his desk, saying, “Now what can I do for you, Miss Barr? I see you have the Mexico City telephone book there—did you want to make a longdistance call?” His abrupt change of manner threw Vicki off balance. She mumbled, “Yes—no— On second thought, I guess I’ll write. May I have some stationery and stamps, please?” Some instinct warned her not to let Perez listen to anything she had to say. She went back to her room to write Cissy, and despite the heat, closed the door. Distrust of Perez rose up in her. Why, just now, he had again, as on last evening’s stroll, pumped her for information—all about the Indian village this time, and their intention to return. In fact, the whole conversation with him just now had been very strange! Then all at once Vicki recalled another strange conversation—that overheard telephone conversation. That man who had the room next to 129

hers in the Mexico City hotel—his voice had carried through the open doors and windows and patio— He had cabled his embassy in another country about some wanted persons—something about smuggling—about locating a key man— “Good heavens! The place he mentioned was Acapulco! Here!” Vicki stood stock-still before the writing desk, hands pressed to her cheeks. Why was she remembering this now? How could it possibly have any connection with Perez? No, she was letting her imagination run away with her just because Perez had behaved so oddly about the snapshots. But how did those photographs get developed and get to Perez’s desk? The last Vicki knew of those pictures, they had been undeveloped film, in the camera which Dean had left behind in the Indian village. Had the Indians traded the camera to some tourist, then? (Did any of them ever get to markets which tourists frequented, for that matter?) But if so, why had the supposed tourist bothered to have the films developed? It didn’t make sense. Vicki remained puzzled and scared—scared of Perez. “I’ll write the whole astonishing story to Cissy. She and Steve might know better what to make of it than I do. Besides, writing it out will help to straighten it out in my own mind.” She sat down at the desk beside her bed and 130

worked for a long time on the letter to Cissy. She even told Cissy about the overheard telephone conversation in the Mexico City hotel, remarking, “Odd things certainly do seem to happen in this country.” By the time the letter was finished, and the envelope sealed, Vicki was over her scare about Perez. But she knew now, definitely, that there was something strange about that young man. Vicki determined to avoid him as much as she could. But she was equally determined to return to the Indian village and find out what had happened to Dean’s camera. It was possible that the leader had traded it to a tourist, but in her heart Vicki did not believe it. “The clue to this whole mysterious business is back in that Indian village!” Vicki tried to put these matters out of her mind in the next few days. She had her work to attend to. The two commercial flights between Acapulco and Oaxaca and Uruapan were sometimes run together as one flight, making a grueling nine-hour stretch. Then the American crew would stay overnight at whichever terminal town the flight ended in, and rest up for the return flight next day. Vicki never grew tired of her local passengers with their colorful cargoes. The landscape was equally exotic: seaside lagoons, jungle, tropic coast. Oaxaca was baked dry 131

by the sun and split by earthquakes. Now and again, when Captain Jordan and Dean flew low enough, Vicki would catch sight of a cactus fence. A cactus fence . . . the mark of an Indian village. Were the villages they flew over like the one she had visited? Vicki wondered whether any other Indian village in all Mexico boasted a gold chalice gracing its adobe church. A Spanish chalice, at that. The “village son who grew rich,” as the leader described him, must have gained great riches indeed, to obtain the golden prize. How could anyone from so poor a place acquire great wealth? Or was there more to the story than the leader cared to reveal? Vicki was becoming more and more sure that there was. She did not venture to mention the Indian village to the little señora, although she wished there were some Mexican with whom she could speak frankly about this. But, excepting this one subject, Anita Vallejo and Vicki had become good companions. It was accidental: they were thrown together. Other people came and went, in a constant flux, through the Monte Azul. But the little señora, playing with her two children, and Vicki (between runs), leaning over the terrace rail, were always there. Perez often looked willing to join them, and sometimes suggested a game of cards or a walk. But Vicki tried 132

to avoid him. It was not too difficult to avoid Perez, for the hotel manager was in and out of the hotel regularly, always at the same hours, making two trips a day down the hill into the village on hotel business. He usually went at nine-thirty in the morning, to the bank and the post office, and at six, to dispatch the accumulated mail and telegrams and cables which the guests had given him during the day, and sometimes around the dinner hour at eight. Once or twice he invited Vicki to drive down with him, on these fixed trips, but she declined and generally kept out of his way. The few times Vicki did meet him, he greeted her suavely. And yet she was more than ever sure that Perez’s manner was edged with some strange meaning. Once she caught him looking at her with narrow-eyed speculation. It was the same cool look he had given her that time she had said they were going to return to the Indian village. In regard to that, disappointing news came from Juan Arroyo. Dean had a letter from him saying he could not get away, since his time was limited, and anyhow the Piper Cub was out of repair. He would try to fly it over when it was fixed and when he could. No word at all came from Cissy about the proposed return trip. Vicki began to wonder why 133

Cissy did not reply. Then a postcard came from Detroit. Cissy had gone off with her husband on one of his business trips. “Cissy must have left before she received my letter,” Vicki figured, “and I guess it wasn’t forwarded.” Vicki found a chance to tell Dean about Cissy’s postcard one day at the Oaxaca airport. It was just before a flight, and pilot and stewardess were waiting for the cargo loading to be completed. “Never mind,” Dean said. “We’ll get back to that village yet.” “Dean, I never told you about the snapshots, did I? Guess I put it off because I hoped I’d find out the whole story to tell you. This Perez, you know—” But Dean did not know Perez and his mind was on the plane. Besides, before Vicki could get started with the story, the loading crew called Dean away. “Meester Fletch! Meester Fletch! Por favor come look!” They had a heavy cargo this morning, and the loading crew wanted the pilots’ approval on weight spread and distribution. The cargo apparently was valuable: the accompanying papers showed it was heavily insured. Vicki eyed the wooden crates with curiosity, from the door of the passenger cabin. “What’s in them, Dean?” “Oh, a variety of things. Mostly machinery and chemicals. Stuff they don’t manufacture down here 134

and have a hard time getting. Where’s the logbook?” “Here you are, Dean.” She handed it down to him. “Mail’s aboard. All your passengers aboard?” “Aye, aye, sir.” Dean signaled to Captain Jordan, who was leaning out the cockpit window. “Okay, Vic. Get in.” She stepped back into the cabin, the passenger agent slammed the door shut, and she saw Dean run forward to climb up into his place beside the pilot. The motors warmed up, they taxied, stood still at the edge of the field ready for the take-off. Then the ship rose into the air. It was just a routine flight. Everything went smoothly until they were over the mountains, flying over a stretch higher and lonelier than most. Vicki heard a short series of explosions which she could not identify. Simultaneously there came a queer creaking noise from the tail. Hiding her concern from the alarmed passengers, Vicki looked out a window. The wings were all right. But the plane was bouncing, lunging, out of balance. The pilots were flying her terribly fast. The interphone was ringing, as passengers cried: “Stewardess! What happened?” “That noise came from the ground!” Vicki spoke into the interphone, trying at the 135

same time to soothe the passengers. “Vic,” came Tom Jordan’s voice. “Did you see anything?” “No, sir.” “Well, we were shot at. Tail’s hit. We’re coming down to fix it.” “Shall I notify the passengers, sir?” It was all she dared ask, with frightened faces turned to her. The ship had slowed its speed and was limping through the air. “Tell ’em we’re coming down for an unscheduled stop.” Vicki relayed this message, matter-of-factly, so as not to alarm the passengers. To questions of “Where are we coming down?” she could only reply, “To an emergency landing field. Fasten your seat belts, please.” That was a guess but an accurate one. With difficulty the wounded plane got down and landed on a bare plateau where a big airlines shed and a weather observatory stood. Three men ran out of the shed to the plane. Vicki knew what she had to do. She must create a diversion. To answer the passengers’ questions, she secured answers from the pilots and relayed them. Then she hastily served coffee and forced herself to talk cheerfully of everyday things, over pounding noises from the tail. 136

Dean poked his head in the cabin and motioned to Vicki. He helped her hop down to the ground. They walked the length of the silver airliner back to the tail. The tail was tied in place with a rope. “Good heavens!” Vicki gasped. Dean’s lean face was grim. “Yep. All they can give us here is a rope. We’re going to have to limp along like this to the nearest field.” “How far is that?” she asked fearfully. “Half an hour. Lucky we didn’t crash when they shot at us. I think we’ll make the field, all right.” “Who shot at us?” Dean jammed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t know. Keep your passengers calm. And it wouldn’t hurt to pray.” That was an anxious half hour. They flew cautiously and came down in real peril, Vicki knew, at a small hangar in the back country. Here the best repair that could be done for them was to patch them together with parts of another plane. By some miracle they managed to make home field at Acapulco. The ground crew came to stare at the stricken ship. Vicki, Dean, and Captain Jordan hurried away to the airline offices to demand, “Who shot at us, for heaven’s sake? Who’d shoot at a passenger plane?” The answer was bandits in search of booty, trying to bring the plane down. They wanted the valuable 137

cargo. The three Americans were incredulous. “They’d make a plane crash—kill the passengers and crew—to get hold .of the cargo?” “Maybe they wanted some person who was aboard?” Vicki asked. “Two prominent men were riding with us this morning—” No, the airline official insisted, it was not a political maneuver, nor attempted kidnaping, nor anything so lurid. It was banditry, plain and simple. “The equivalent of your American gangsters, Senorita Barr. Like the gangsters highjack trucks, I guess these fellows tried to highjack your plane. There was trouble like this once before, just once, though, in the Yucatan.” Dean muttered that anyone could easily find out what cargo the planes were carrying, by watching the loading. Captain Jordan added that the lonely mountains would make fine hiding places for any gangs. “Our interstate police,” the official said, “know these troublemakers and are on the alert for them. We have caught two men, who may be connected with others, maybe not.” He seemed a little evasive, perhaps unwilling to say too much. “But don’t worry,” he said earnestly. “I don’t believe you will have trouble like this again. Naturally I will report this matter to the police.” He stood up to indicate that the interview was 138

over. Out in the sunny square, Captain Jordan declared he could scarcely believe the official’s explanation. “Trying to shoot down a plane—why, it’s fantastic! Yes, I know, we were shot at, all right. But if you ask me, it was some crazy idiot. Some local fool with a bright idea and a shotgun.” “Highjacking does sound like the movies,” Dean said. Suddenly Vicki remembered the snapshots. “If you think highjacking sounds like the movies,” she said, “wait till you hear this.” She hastily told her pilots about uncovering the snapshots on Perez’s desk, and what had been said in that troubling encounter. Captain Jordan shook his head. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what that’s all about, either.” “And I don’t suppose I’ll ever see my camera again,” Dean added gloomily. “It sounds like it’s gone for good, doggone it!” The three parted, and Vicki took a taxi up the mountain to her hotel. All the way up, she kept thinking about the incident of the snapshots. It was as strange and inexplicable as the shooting. Suddenly, despite the heat of the afternoon sun, Vicki shivered, filled with a sense of foreboding.

139

CHAPTER IX

In Danger

Luncheon was in full swing on the shaded terrace. Vicki had to wait for a table to be vacated, so many new people had arrived. She sat watching them: they were mostly tourists, sunburned, laughing, carefree, in spendthrift, holiday mood. The Monte Azul courtyard was crowded with their parked cars. One party was just pulling out, their car laden with Mexican silver and fur coats for the trip north, starting out over lonely mountain roads. A waiter came up to Vicki. “The señora asks if you would care to join her at her table. She is sorry to see you waiting.” “Thank you, I will.” Vicki followed the waiter, threading her way through tables of guests to where the little señora sat with her two sons. Anita Vallejo looked childishly young in her usual lacy black, but she was being very much the mother and hostess. “Buenos días, Miss Barr. Is it too windy here for 140

you? But it is two o’clock, you must be hungry.” Vicki thanked her, and spoke to her two grave little boys. They were still only babies, with their young mother’s wondering, innocent eyes. As Vicki sat down, she realized she was not only hungry, and tired from her five hours’ flight, but trembling a little. It must be a belated reaction to the shooting— to this morning’s tension and excitement—now that she had left her passengers and no longer had to feign calmness. Vicki decided against upsetting the gentle señora with this violent piece of news. Instead, she remarked: “Where is Mr. Perez? I don’t see him around. Isn’t he usually here at lunchtime?” The señora’s hand, halfway to feed the youngest boy, hesitated in mid-air. “He—” She stopped, started again with a frown. “He has gone down to the village on an errand, I suppose. He was very— how you say?—cross.” Vicki smiled. The señora was so solemn about everything. “Well, what if he was cross? You’re not afraid of him, surely,” Vicki coaxed. Just the same, she thought the señora might be afraid of Perez. The man did seem to hide cruelty under his smooth exterior. “N-no. It is just that I depend on him so much. You see, I really could not find another manager so excellent as Julio Perez. Here, chiquito, eat another 141

bite.” She looked up at Vicki with more in her great dark eyes than she was saying. “Mr. Perez is so much more smart than I am.” There was an undertone of anxiety in her voice. She went on to say rapidly that her two small sons were usually fed in the nursery, Mr. Perez insisted on it, but today, since he was gone, she was making an exception. “They love to eat out here with the rest of the people. It is such a treat for them! And aren’t they well-behaved? Aren’t they good boys?” “They certainly are good boys,” Vicki said, smiling. The two tiny boys grew stiffer than ever with pride. “They will grow up to be fine men.” The older one piped up: “Seré aviador.”—“I’m going to be an aviator.” The señora said suddenly, urgently, “I wish my husband were alive, Miss Barr, running the hotel and helping me to raise the children. Sometimes— sometimes—” She broke off abruptly, almost as though she regretted making the admission, and would say no more. It left Vicki puzzled, and more convinced than ever that there was something peculiar, or even sinister, about Perez. After lunch, the señora took the children off for a nap, guests climbed into cars and taxis, going to the beach, or drifted around the terraces. Vicki found some mail from home awaiting her and took it to her room to read. Then she rested a bit, still shaken from 142

the morning’s “bandits.” She must have fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew, someone was tapping on her door. “Teléfono, señorita.” It was one of the maids, grinning at Vicki’s sleepy face. “Gracias. Vengo immediatemente.” Vicki ran lightly across courtyard and terraces to the hotel manager’s desk, where one telephone receiver was off its hook. Perez was typing out some bills, and gave Vicki an absent nod. She nodded back, and talked on the phone to Dean, who suggested going dancing at Los Homos beach tonight. And Dean had pleasant news. Tomorrow’s flights had been canceled because of a predicted dust storm. The crew would have the day off. “Cap’n says,” Dean reported over the phone, “let’s drive to Taxco and see the silver market. It makes a nice one-day jaunt. The dust storm won’t affect driving.” “I’d love to see Taxco,” Vicki replied into the phone. “Where’ll we get a car? . . . No, no chauffeur, Dean, more fun to drive ourselves . . . Look around, will you? Tomorrow is pretty short notice.” Dean said they had all better make inquiries and then settle it when they met this evening. He and Vicki hung up. 143

Mr. Perez glanced over the desk and smiled. “Shall I get you a car, Miss Barr? I couldn’t help hearing.” “Why—ah—thanks.” “Let’s see.” The young hotel manager glanced at some papers. “We aren’t expecting any new arrivals tomorrow. I could lend you the hotel car. It would save you the cost of renting one.” “Why, that’s kind of you, Mr. Perez,” Vicki said stiffly. “Not at all. The car would just stand here in the courtyard all day.” Vicki remembered her perilous ride in that car on the day she first came to the Monte Azul. “Isn’t there something wrong with the brakes?” Julio Perez looked distressed. “You’re right, there is—or was. Haven’t those brakes been fixed yet? I’ll speak to the driver about it before this day is over.” He scribbled a reminder and hailed a passing waiter, saying in Spanish, “If anyone sees the driver, tell him I want him. And will you bring some coffee?” Vicki felt disturbed. Mr. Perez had seemed outwardly only courteous and accommodating to offer the car, but a car with defective brakes—! Well, he was having it fixed. Nevertheless, Vicki determined not to use the hotel car. Her pilots could rent another one. It occurred to her, with a small grin, that the Mexican hotel driver had been—most 144

Mexicans were—blithely casual about mere mechanical things like brakes! Julio Perez had come around from his desk and stood beside her, lighting a cigarette. The waiter had returned with a pot of coffee and the fine, miniature demitasses which Perez affected. He set them on a small table between two cactus-straw chairs, placed before feathery palms. “Won’t you join me, Miss Barr?” Perez was already pouring her cup. “Thank you.” She did not want to, but could not quite bring herself to be downright rude. She sat down beside Julio Perez, struck afresh by the suave figure this young man cut. He sat, knees crossed, slim, dark, handsome in his meticulous white sports clothes, elegantly sipping and smoking, cigarette dangling from one relaxed hand. There was an instant’s challenging pause. “I hear you were shot at this morning,” Perez said. Vicki nearly dropped her coffee cup. “You know everything! Mr. Perez, you must be clairvoyant.” “Why, half the town has walked out to the airport to see your plane. Everybody’s talking about it.” “That’s right,” Vicki recalled, “you went down to the village at lunchtime on an errand.” “Who told you that?” His tone was so sharp that Vicki turned in her chair to look at him. He relaxed 145

under her scrutiny and half sighed, half smiled. “Forgive me, Miss Barr. I’ve had the most exasperating day. Everybody’s got my messages and instructions mixed up.” He laughingly shook his head. “Take my advice, don’t ever run a hotel. It ruins one’s disposition.” Vicki laughed. “The señora said you were pretty cross today.” “She had no right to say that!” Perez’s tone was again so harsh that Vicki was astonished. He tried to cover the awkward tension by pouring more coffee. He started again. “I guess I’ve been working too hard. I try not to show it, though. I think it’s undignified. I try at least to look leisurely—or is that a luxury only for a gentleman?” This viewpoint sounded odd to Vicki’s American ears. She said: “Still, it’s something to live in this paradise.” Perez looked out over the hills and sea. “Paradise, yes. But there is no future here for me.” They sipped their coffee. Presently Perez went on: “Yes, I work hard. I’ve been working hard for years and I’m scarcely closer to my goal—a hotel of my own —than I was when I started. This is a lonely life, Miss Barr. Many people around, but always strangers. I can’t afford to marry. It’s lonely.” He shook his dark head. “You go back to your room, to 146

a book, a cigarette . . .” “Yes, that is lonely,” Vicki murmured. “Besides, I’m tired of working for a pittance! I want to see some real money!” Then the young man smiled wearily. “For years I have been trying to get together enough money for a hotel of my own. But it’s just one trouble and obstacle after another. For ten years I’ve been trying.” He told Vicki that he had attended an American college on the West Coast for a year, but could not afford to continue. “You Americans are so rich and free,” he said enviously. “What are you going to do about your ambitions?” she inquired. He leaned his head back languidly against the chair. “Bide my time. Take whatever opportunities come along, I suppose.” He shrugged and rose from his chair. “I must go back to my duties. Remember,” he added, “I’ll expect you to use the hotel car for your trip to Taxco. “But—but—I’ll have to consult my pilots. They’ll probably want to rent a car,” Vicki stammered. But he had already moved away. Perez’s insistence on her taking the hotel car struck Vicki as odd. In fact, she had not liked this entire interview, pleasant though it seemed on the surface. She came away with the distinct impression 147

that Perez had confided his life story to her, and had been charming to her, in order to quiet her distrust of him—if he suspected any distrust. That evening Captain Jordan announced he had secured a car, had wired for accommodations at a hotel in Taxco, “and we’re all set. Did you know Taxco sits on top of a mountain which is a silver mine inside?” The big pilot sat in the gaily lighted dance pavilion and watched the crowd, while Vicki and Dean danced. Between numbers they brought him a coconut. “You’re my real chaperon, Cap’n Tom,” Vicki teased. “You’ve taken over Cousin Cissy’s job.” “Just getting into practice for when my own daughter grows up and goes dancing.” Next morning the two pilots drove up to the Monte Azul in a rented car to collect Vicki. Perez came out to the courtyard as Vicki was getting into the car. “Ah, Miss Barr,” he said, “you should really have taken the hotel car and saved these gentlemen the trouble of renting one.” Vicki could hardly avoid making introductions. Captain Jordan, Mr. Fletcher, this is Mr. Perez,” she said but with no encouragement in her voice. Julio Perez acknowledged the introductions. “Well, a good trip to you, anyway.” 148

As they drove away, Dean remarked, “Considerate chap. Seems nice. What’s this about the hotel car?” Vicki explained. “What’s the right turning?” Tom Jordan asked. They had left the seaside town of Acapulco and now their car was climbing into the hills. The mountains sparkled with a morning freshness, pristine and deserted as in the beginning of time. In an hour’s driving, they passed only a car of tourists and a boy and his yellow hound-dog jogging along on a burro. “Say, look!” Dean hung out the side of the car and peered down the sheer drop of mountain. “Doesn’t this valley look familiar?” Vicki took a careful look at the shapes of the mountain peaks. “Sure enough. This must be about where that Indian village is.” Captain Jordan looked down, too, and while he was looking, their car nearly veered over the edge of the mountain road. He grabbed the wheel, muttering that they were ten thousand feet up—two miles above the valley floor. “How did you ever get the Cub in and out of there?” he demanded of Dean. “Looks like this canyon is wide at the top but narrows at the bottom of the gorge, where you say the village is. I can’t even see it from here. 149

“That’s right.” Dean explained to Captain Jordan that the village lay in an extremely narrow canyon at the bottom of this larger valley. From the air was about the only way to spot it. “Why, that’s just a vertical pocket of space!” Tom Jordan mused. “How do the Indians get out of the valley pocket to the outside world?” That was a tantalizing question. Up here on the paved highway, they saw no roads, not even any trails, leading into the wilderness of rock. It seemed to them impossible that any car could get through, unless in these chasms and gorges were short cuts not visible to the eyes of foreigners. Still, not even that seemed possible. By foot or by burro would be the only way to struggle up and down that two-mile incline. They drove for another hour. They met only a gay little red bus, jammed with Mexicans going to Acapulco for a holiday. Once they passed an old man carrying a bag of grain on his back. The sun beat down on the empty air. The silence was as endless as the vistas of rolling mountain peaks. Vicki grew hungry, so they searched out a narrow spot alongside the road where they could park, and ate the basket of lunch which Captain Jordan had brought along. “I don’t even hear any birds up here,” Vicki noticed. 150

“It’s the top of the world.” “It feels as if we’re out of the world.” “Nobody left on earth but the three of us.” Their voices sounded small. It would be a relief, they admitted, to meet some living creature, an Indian or even a lizard, or see smoke from a fire, or hear another car, again. This vast, silent emptiness of sun and dust and rock unnerved them. They started off again, Dean driving. They were quite near to their destination when their wish to encounter another living being was fulfilled—with a vengeance. Halfway down a graded slope, shots rang out. The car skidded crazily, its rear tires shot out. Dean clutched the wheel with all his strength. The car banged and screeched along. Shots exploded again, close, crashing into echoes. Dean stepped on the gas and kept going, straining to hold the skidding car away from the mountain edge. Vicki, cowering back into the car, saw no one—only a puff of smoke rising from the rocks. Dean’s face was white, Vicki and Captain Jordan sat speechless. For ten eternal minutes they wound around the mountain in a speeding car whose clanking back wheels did not grip the road. Only Dean’s split-second maneuvering and his powerful pull on the steering wheel kept them from going over the side. 151

They careened into the hilly, cobblestoned town of Taxco, shaken and spent. Dean yanked on the brake, then crossed his arms on the steering wheel and laid down his head. “Good grief! What a narrow escape!” Vicki wiped his drawn face with her handkerchief. “You saved us, Dean.” “You kept going, boy!” Captain Jordan thumped Dean on the shoulder. “That’s what really saved us.” Dean lifted his head and blinked, trying to compose himself. “Shot at yesterday morning and this morning—both times in deserted mountain passes. What do you suppose they wanted this time?” “I imagine they thought we had luggage and money,” Tom Jordan replied. “Maybe they wanted the car, too.” “A stick-up,” Dean mused. “An attempted robbery, hey? Well, they didn’t get away with it!” Vicki swallowed hard in a dry throat. “Bandits, that’s what the airline official said. Jeepers, I didn’t believe in bandits before, but I certainly do now.” The two men got out of the car and went back to examine the two rear wheels. But Vicki was busy listening to an inner warning. Perez had known all along that their plane had been shot at—yet he had barely mentioned it, and 152

then only after he and Vicki had been talking for quite a while. Now Perez had learned that they were going to Taxco, and now they were shot at again. Was it only coincidence? Vicki wondered. “Vic!” Captain Jordan called, interrupting her thoughts, “Aren’t you coming into the hotel?” They went in to clean up and have cool drinks, leaving the car at the hotel garage to have the tires repaired, if possible. Otherwise they would have new ones put on. This was a small town and a small, peaceful inn. They were shown to a table in an open-air patio filled with plants and parrots and a splashing fountain. There were few other guests. “I wish I could talk to Cissy,” Vicki said. “She and Steve have lived here for two years. They ought to know whether we should report this shooting to the American Embassy.” “There are crime and criminals in any country,” Dean remarked. “Vicki’s right,” Captain Jordan interceded. “Call up Cissy long-distance and ask her.” Vicki rose from the table. “She may not be back from Detroit yet, but I’m going to telephone at once, if you’ll excuse me.” Luckily, in answer to the distant ringing, Cissy herself replied. “Yes, I’m home, can’t you tell? Hello, darling, 153

I’m so sorry I haven’t answered your letter, but—” “Cissy, listen.” Vicki cut her short. “Something very serious has happened.” She repeated the events of yesterday and this morning. There was a long pause at Cissy’s end of the wire. When Cecilia Clayton spoke again, her frivolity was gone. “Vicki, that’s dreadful. Are you sure you’re all right? . . . Honestly? . . . I’m certainly going to report it to our embassy, just to be safe. Vicki, listen—” “I’m listening. Cissy, do you think it was bandits? Attempted holdups? Or—or—?” “I think it was attempted robbery. Though it’s hard to tell at a distance. But don’t blame it on Mexico,” Cissy pleaded over the phone. “You leave your house door unlocked, because you can trust any ordinary citizen. But every once in a while there are bandit gangs. Like anywhere. You could get held up in New York or Chicago, or Paris or London, just as easily.” “Yes, that’s so. Oh, Cissy! What do you think of that strange business about our photographs? I guess maybe I was too excited when I wrote you, but it all seems very peculiar.” “Well, I thought it was pretty odd. But I don’t see any connection between that and these shootings, Vicki.” 154

“Maybe there isn’t any connection. Except”—an earlier doubt made Vicki ponder again—“except Perez does seem to be a rather strange character.” “I think,” Cissy’s voice came positively, “you’d better learn more about that young man.” Vicki hung up, determined to do just that. Her day in Taxco—shopping in the silver shops, visiting the cathedral, watching the fireworks at dusk— seemed dreamlike, less real than the presence, in her thoughts, of Perez.

155

CHAPTER X

Grounds for Suspicion

Perez had something definitely malicious about him. So Vicki reflected, drinking her breakfast coffee in the brilliant morning sun and watching Perez at his desk. It was her first free day after several commercial runs and she meant to use it well. Vicki lingered until the other guests deserted the dining terrace. Then she strolled over toward the desk where Perez sat, his back toward the terrace. He had already made his early morning trip to the village and was writing out bills. She was halfway across when one of the telephones rang. Perez answered. Vicki went on, thinking it might be Dean or Captain Jordan calling. “Bueno . . . yes, Monte Azul . . . yes.” Perez’s voice, usually polite, choked with rage. “What? Delivered what? I thought I gave you strict instructions—” Vicki backed away at the sound of that voice. It was vicious. Apparently Perez, with his back to 156

Vicki, believed himself alone on the deserted terrace, for he lashed out: “You senseless fool! What on earth made you do it? Don’t you realize what might be the results? . . . Yes, of course I’ll bring it when I can . . . But I’m warning you that it must never happen again! You do as I say!” Vicki, shaken by his sinister tone, ducked through an archway out of sight. From there she could see Perez slam down the receiver and glance around furtively. Then he sat down once more at his desk, mopping his face, which had gone deathly white. Vicki quietly moved off toward the lower terraces, using a side flight of steps away from Perez. How brutally he had revealed himself just now! So this was Perez with the veneer off. Vicki thought back to the day of her arrival, when Mr. Perez seemed just an unusually hospitable hotel manager. And now . . . What was it that had been delivered to the hotel, apparently by mistake? Why was Perez going to bring it back, and to where? Vicki was determined to find out all she could about him. She spotted a small figure on the farthest terrace. It was Anita Vallejo, strolling all by herself. Vicki went toward her, feeling sorry for the little señora. It must be unpleasant to have to put up with a manager as domineering as Perez, with his moods and 157

temper. The gentle Anita was easily intimidated by Perez. She could even be easily cheated by Perez. It dawned on Vicki for the first time that an ambitious, hot-tempered man like Perez—if he was unscrupulous enough—might even try to wrest this hotel away from the childlike señora. “No, ‘ambitious’ isn’t the word for Perez,” Vicki thought as she walked. “Because he isn’t willing to work too hard for what he gets. He probably thinks he’s too clever to have to work. He’s not ambitious, he’s only greedy.” She hastened on toward Anita Vallejo, wanting to protect her from the terrible temper she had just seen Perez unleash. “Good morning, Miss Barr. How happy to see you! But why you are not at the beach?” “Good morning! Why aren’t you?” Vicki countered, smiling. As the señora gravely explained that her presence as owner was needed at the hotel, Vicki felt a little catch in her throat. Anita Vallejo was as natural and innocent a part of these tropics as a drifting cloud. She gazed down, dreaming, at the blue sea below. She would hardly be a match for Perez. Her dark face on its slender stalk of neck reminded Vicki of a flower on a stem. “I never showed you my lace, Miss Barr,” the señora said shyly. “But this, I make it myself—” She spread out the hem of her black dress, with its filmy 158

flounce of black lace. “It’s beautiful.” Vicki bent to admire the fine handiwork. “What a great deal of work and skill.” “Is nothing. For truly fine lace, antique, handmade you should drive to the Lace House. Is not far from here. A privately owned collection. Oh, Miss Barr, the most beautiful lace!” The little señora sighed with such delight that Vicki laughed. “Do not laugh. Wait! You will see the Spanish rose and carnation embroideries in all colors, on net. And the sun pattern worked in gold. And—and—” Anita’s dark eyes grew enormous. “Best of all are the mantillas! Of Spanish lace, in either black or white. Oh-h-h, the mantillas!” “You’d like to have one?” Vicki asked. “My dream! But is impossible. That lace is priceless. Very rarely offered for sale.” Both young women turned as they heard Julio Perez call them. He came across the terraces waving a handful of letters. “No, none for you, señora. I am sorry. All these are for Miss Barr.” He perched on the balustrade for a moment. “What were you talking about?” “Lace. I tell Miss Barr about the Lace House.” “And the señora tells me she longs for one of those mantillas.” The young man said gallantly he wished he could 159

get them each a mantilla, a black one for Anita, a white one for Vicki. He and the señora both were staring curiously at the letters in Vicki’s hand. “Is postmarked New York,” Anita Vallejo breathed in wonder. “How I should like to see New York! Please to open and read?” There were letters from her family, from Miss Benson, from her crowd of flight stewardesses. Vicki read the letter from Charmion and Jean, parts of it aloud, Jean would not be sent to Mexico, after all. Charmion had a new admirer. Dot Crowley, reddish-haired and square-jawed, had taken up counting to ten at explosive moments, a promise she had made to Charmion. Mrs. Duff was sick. New York was freezing under its third day of snow. “What is snow?” puzzled the señora. Vicki tried to describe it, assisted by Julio Perez, who had actually touched snow once on a mountain hike. But Anita persisted in thinking snow was a sort of sherbet, without the flavoring. They all burst out laughing. “I’ll ask my friends to mail a package of snow to Acapulco,” Vicki teased, “so you can see it for yourself.” “Will melt, no?” worried the señora. “Will melt, yes.” Perez laughed. “Such a question! Just like you.” The little señora winced. “That is unkind of you.” Vicki quickly said something about how exciting 160

New York was, they must see it someday. As she chattered, she noted Perez’s expression. Nettling the señora seemed to console him for his subordinate position. “Yes,” said Perez, “I want to travel to New York someday. If I can’t have a hotel, I’d be willing just to be rich.” He smiled at his joke, but something about the way he said it made Vicki uncomfortable. Anita turned away, then said quietly, “What have you pretty?” Vicki realized she wanted to get away from Perez. “Want to come to my room? I’ll show you some more of my things.” “Can try on? Hats? Jollería—jewelry, too?” Perez seemed to laugh at them as they departed across the courtyard. A short time later, the fashion show was over and an elated little señora departed. Vicki was putting hats away when she heard a car start and Perez call, presumably to the driver: “I’ll be ready to go in a moment.” Instantly Vicki was alert. The hotel manager never drove down into the village at this time of day. Perhaps this was related to the cryptic telephone call. Vicki closed her room door and went out into the hot courtyard. The car which had just pulled in was 161

the hotel car, the one Perez had offered for the Taxco trip and which Vicki had declined. The driver was the same cheerful, middle-aged man who had once assured Vicki that this car could “carry her to heaven.” Perez had disappeared into the hotel. “Buenos días,” Vicki said to the driver, and continued in Spanish, “How are the brakes today?” He leaned out the car window and grinned. “No hay freno. No hay. There are no brakes. There simply aren’t any. All burned out.” As if it were the most natural thing in the world. Vicki blinked. “Then why don’t you have new brake bands put in?” “You can’t put brakes in this car,” and he gave her a ridiculous explanation. “But driving up and down mountains with no brakes!” Vicki gasped. “You’re going to have an accident someday.” The driver grinned and shrugged. “I drive it all the time without brakes and nada pasa, nothing happens.” Vicki caught sight of Perez coming across the courtyard, carrying a large, wrapped bundle. It was impossible to tell what was inside. He seemed a little irritated to find Vicki there. “You’re giving up a swim on this fine day?” he said. He carefully stowed the bundle in the back seat of the car. “I only wish I could go for a swim.” 162

“Mr. Perez!” Vicki demanded lightly. “Honestly, aren’t there any brakes in this car?” A grin of relief spread over his handsome face. “Oh, you Americans are too particular. We had the old brake bands taken out several times, and new ones put in.” He talked very rapidly, as if to divert her. “In the meantime, we have to use the car, brakes or not. Pedro, cuándo tendremos el freno? Miércoles? . . . Driver says the brakes will be ready Wednesday.” Perez climbed in and joked nervously with Vicki. “Want a lift downtown? No brakes, you know.” “In that car? No, thanks!” “I knew you wouldn’t accept. Anything I can bring you from the village? . . . Pedro, get out. I’ll drive myself. You stay here and help Mike with the pump.” The driver looked puzzled. He continued to sit reluctantly behind the wheel. Perez said impatiently: “Go along, man, you’re needed more here. I can drive myself for once. Adiós, Miss Barr.” The driver climbed out and plodded off toward the back of the hotel. Perez slid into the driver’s seat, stepped on the gas, waved to Vicki, and the hotel car went sailing downhill and around curves at crazy speed. A bicycle parked in the courtyard caught Vicki’s eye. It belonged to one of the guests, who had told 163

Vicki she was welcome to use it whenever she wished. The car was barely out of sight when Vicki ran to get the bicycle, and set out after Perez. It was only a short distance down to the village and by coasting downhill and then pedaling at a brisk pace, she could not lose track of him. It would be easy to find the hotel car parked somewhere on one of the few main streets of Acapulco. Vicki passed rich hotels, then shabby hotels named after kings and queens: “Quinto Eugenio . . . Reina Maria Teresa . . .” She passed a settlement of poor homes and women on their knees beside a stream, scrubbing clothes on flat stones. As she passed a church clock, she was reminded again that this was not Perez’s regular hour to come down to the village. Two separate memories linked together and clicked in her mind. Once before Perez had made an unscheduled midday trip down the mountain—the day her plane was shot at! And he had been furious when she told him that the señora had mentioned it! Vicki was trembling. But further than this, she could not figure. In the dusty village, Vicki rolled along crowded streets, threading her way among tourists and beggars and shopkeepers. Indians, come to town for the day, sold trays of sweetmeats and woven baskets. Then she sighted the hotel car, parked near 164

a shabby café. Vicki dismounted and sat down on a park bench across the street. Other loungers surged around her, so that she could see and yet not be seen from the café. Presently Perez came out of the café. Vicki watched him climb into the car and drive off. She was starting over to her bicycle when she saw another man stride out of the café, with what looked like the same bundle Perez had carried. She would recognize that tall, insolent figure and hard face anywhere. It was the leader of the obscure Indian village! Instinctively Vicki ducked behind a great tree so that he would not see her. She stood against the tree trunk for two or three minutes, her heart pounding. Though she could not clearly name the reason for her fear, she certainly did not want to confront him. When she looked again, the leader had disappeared. “Whew! Well, I did discover something after all! Or did I?” Why was the leader now carrying Perez’s bundle? Had Perez come to see him? What was the link between the leader, the camera, the developed films, and Perez? Was Perez perhaps a “fence” for stolen goods? The leader might have brought him the camera, Perez could have sold it, and they could have split the money. But that seemed an awfully 165

petty thing for Perez to be doing. No, it wasn’t that, Vicki decided. Yet Perez certainly was not conducting routine hotel business with that man. Vicki wanted to talk it over with Dean. She walked down the beach road and stopped at the Hotel Papagayo. Luckily Dean was on the porch, studying a book on electronics. He was glad to see her. “But, Vic, you look as if you’d seen a ghost!” “I saw something nearly as startling.” She told Dean what she had just witnessed, a few blocks away. They talked it over and speculated together. But after half an hour of fruitless discussion, Dean admitted: “There’s nothing we can really do about the whole thing. After all, we have no proof of anything; we can’t just report suspicions. We can’t even prove anything about the camera.” Vicki was discouraged. Dean invited her to stay for lunch with Captain Jordan and himself. “Thanks, but no. I want to spend this entire day at the Monte Azul seeing what I can learn about Perez.” “At least I can put you in a taxi—oh, you have a bicycle.” Dean awkwardly patted her hand. “This Perez really has upset you, hasn’t he? Let me know if I can help in any way.” 166

After lunch Vicki stayed around the terraces, hoping to find out something more. But Perez, busy at his desk, was bland and noncommittal. The señora was with her children in the nursery. Nothing happened except that some new guests, well-to-do Mexicans, pulled into the courtyard in their car with the rear tires shot out. They were frightened and angry. Bandits had held them up on a mountain road and robbed them of all their luggage. “Brand-new alligator suitcases!” the man fumed. “You were lucky they did nothing worse,” Perez said seriously. “You had better notify the police.” But that happened at two o’clock. By five o’clock Vicki was regretting a wasted afternoon. She had learned nothing further. Then, at five, the señora came out alone on the terrace and asked Vicki if she would like to take the walk to La Quebrada. “Indeed I would!” “It is just a short stroll. We can talk, yes?” By now Vicki understood that the señora could not talk freely in the hotel which she owned. Anita and Vicki went down hot, peaceful dust roads, smelling of summer. They came to the famous cliffs of jagged rock, with a stone staircase leading into the swirling sea below. The two girls sat down a little apart from the other people wandering here. 167

Anita pointed to the narrow, jagged slit in the cliffs where Mexican boys dived for five-peso pieces thrown in the water. She said an American boy had tried it and had been dashed to death on the rocks below. Vicki shivered. “Not a very cheerful story.” “I do not feel very cheerful. Miss Barr, I—I—” The little señora lifted tormented eyes. “I have to tell someone. Not my family, they worry, they do not understand. I like to tell you. I—I am afraid.” “Of Perez.” “Yes, of Perez.” They sat in the hot wind, looking out over the Pacific. Vicki could understand why Anita feared Perez. The man was plainly worried about his double existence. His fury on the telephone this morning proved he was worried. He was not a strong enough character to hide his worries entirely. And he took it out on the señora, bullying her, intimidating her. “Señora, why don’t you get another manager in his place?” “I told you! Very hard to find good managers, any managers. Besides, even if I could find someone, is difficult to make a change. The hotel would lose much money while the new man learns all about the Monte Azul. Perez knows for four years how to run it.” 168

Anita looked down unhappily at her hands. There was a pause. Vicki asked softly, “What are you afraid Perez might do?” “I do not know. Only that I am afraid.” “What could Perez do to hurt you? He wants a hotel of his own, I know. Do you think he—” The little señora laughed without mirth, and smoothed back her blowing, silky black hair. “Try to get the hotel away from me? I have thought of that. But how could he do it? A trick? Vicki, I am not so foolish as to sign any papers. My father and brother told me never to sign anything without I ask them first, they will come here if need be. The lawyer, and the man at the bank too, they look out for me. Executor, I think you call it. So how could Perez own my hotel? No. He cannot even cheat me of the hotel’s earnings. My husband left all the papers very safe, very sure, for me.” Vicki listened and recognized the truth of what Anita Vallejo was saying. Well, then? An odd thought occurred to Vicki. Perez might be using the Hotel Monte Azul as a front for some other activity. Everything pointed to that. Or, if he did have an acquisitive eye on the hotel, it was probably incidental. Yes, a respectable front to hide whatever he was up to. But how did the leader, and Vicki herself, all tie in? 169

The señora stood up. “Is late, Vicki.” They scrambled up the rocks and climbed slowly back up the mountain to the hotel. Perez, sitting on the balustrade overhead, saw them coming and called: “Have a nice walk?” “Very nice,” they called back up to him, and smile because there was nothing else to say or do.

170

CHAPTER XI

The Web Tightens

A few mornings later, between flights, Vicki dragged Dean to the Lace House. They drove to an estate not far from Acapulco. “I don’t know anything about lace,” Dean grumbled. But he loyally helped Vicki out of the taxi and strode beside her into this beautiful small white building. In the marble foyer, an elderly man who seemed to be both curator and caretaker questioned them. He asked to see identification papers, explaining that he must be careful to admit only responsible persons to this private art collection. “You understand that the laces here are priceless. Señor and Señora”—he named the owners, a wealthy elderly couple—“have made a hobby of collecting lace, for a lifetime. Very well, your papers seem satisfactory. You may go in. Please do not touch anything.” Vicki tiptoed into the long, stately salon with its walls of palest green Mexican jade. Delight was all 171

over her sunburned little face. Dean clumped after her, determined to be bored. But both of them were breathless at the beauty on display in glass cases. Unfurled here were exquisite, foamy lengths of fairylike fabric which had taken innumerable needlewomen years to embroider, and which had covered the shoulders of queens and emperors and church dignitaries. Here was a gossamer wisp of handkerchief, the lion of Castile and the castle of Leon woven into it, once carried by an ill-fated little princess of Spain. A white lace fan, were it not mute, could have told the secrets of a conqueror. From two eras of Mexican history, Aztec tribal robes and lace-yoked cotton blouses lay side by side. And from the walls of this hushed salon, from shadowy oil portraits, the long-dead looked down upon their fans and cassocks and mantillas, which had endured beyond themselves. Vicki shuddered a little. “Remember the Spanish grandee at San Angelina, that time we went down into the crypt?” she whispered to Dean. “Remember his cape and buckled shoes? You can’t help thinking about the people who once used those things.” Dean whispered back, no longer matter of fact. “It feels as if the dead are still around, looking over your shoulder. Makes you realize you’re part of a long, long human chain.” He started to say he had never until now understood what history was, when 172

they came to a locked door. Footsteps sounded behind them. The elderly man in charge came hurrying up to them with a key. “You have arrived so early that I have not yet unlocked all the rooms for the day.” He turned the key in the lock, swung the heavy door ajar, and took a few steps into the next, dim room. Then the man cried out in horror. “It’s gone! It’s gone!” “What’s gone?” Vicki and Dean asked. They craned their necks to see. But the man rushed past them, crying: “It’s gone! Arturo! Beatriz! Ven acá! The robes are stolen! Last night—it must have been during the night—!” He disappeared at a run up a miniature staircase. A young man and a girl appeared in bewilderment on an upstairs balcony, to meet him. The three conferred in hushed excitement. The elderly man was crying indignantly, “Vandals! Stealing from the dead! Stealing treasures which belong to the whole nation!” Vicki and Dean saw that visitors were unwanted now. They started for the main door. “Dean, what do the thieves want with these art objects?” “Sell ’em. Make a fortune.” “But, Dean,” Vicki asked as they got back into 173

their taxi, “where could the thieves sell historic art objects? Disposing of, say, a king’s crown would stamp the thief at once.” “Sell ’em abroad. There’re plenty of dealers who won’t ask how or why a crown or a painting turns up where it is. They pay and keep quiet.” Pulling into Acapulco, they found news of the museum theft had already reached there. The town was abuzz with it. On the terraces of the Monte Azul, Vicki heard universal indignation over this outrage. “It’s a national scandal!” said the Mexican guests. “We regret,” said the Mexicans to the American guests, Vicki among them, “that you witness this unpatriotic theft. Private collection, yes, but almost all private collections are eventually bequeathed to the government and the nation. This theft of Mexican and Spanish art is a disgrace!” Vicki saw that the Mexicans, so proud of their beautiful country, were really deeply ashamed. The Americans pointed out that crime could happen anywhere, in any country. But the Mexicans were not consoled, “Disgrace,” they repeated fierily. Someone asked the Mexicans, “Have there been museum thefts like this before?” “Once, we think, not long ago. And once, years ago.” “Is there a gang behind this raid? And what about 174

the occasional holdups in the mountains? Is that a gang, do you think?” The Mexicans shook their heads in a puzzled way. “No organized gang exists, to the best of general public knowledge.” After lunch Vicki went over to see Perez at his desk. She was curious to learn his reaction to the robbery. Julio Perez looked at her across the desk counter. “Ah, Miss Barr! Good afternoon, Miss Barr!” His satirical courtesy was not pleasant. Vicki said hello and made a few inquiries about mail. Then she asked, “Mr. Perez, what do you think of the robbery at Lace House?” “Shocking.” He grinned. “What did you expect me to say?” His tone was so cynical, so rude, that Vicki felt stunned. Then a fighting glint appeared in her soft blue eyes. She retorted, very politely: “I’m so glad to have your considered opinion on the matter.” His eyes flickered. He heard the unmistakable challenge in Vicki’s voice and he hadn’t expected it. Vicki took her mail, thanked him, and started to walk away. “Miss Barr!” Perez called after her. He had risen from his chair and seemed anxious to detain her. “I hope you didn’t misunderstand me just now—” 175

But Vicki, with the briefest of smiles, did not stay to listen. She hurried on. His tone had been really anxious, Vicki realized. Could he have found out that she followed him to the café that day? She faltered on the step. That was a chilling possibility. As Vicki walked toward her room, the little señora darted out from the nursery. She anxiously caught Vicki’s hand and drew her around an archway, out of sight. “What was Perez saying to you just now?” Anita demanded. Vicki smiled wryly. “The words didn’t matter. We were—measuring each other.” She drew a long, deep breath. “Did you ever hear of an Indian village where they make yellow clay pottery?” “Is many kinds of such pottery.” “This is a peculiar orangey yellow with a painted black design, like arrowheads. I guess each village has its own design and colors.” “No. Why?” There was nothing to be gained by telling Anita of the village, and the leader. The girl obviously had no helpful information. And there was no need to alarm her. At least it was good to know that Anita and the hotel were in no danger. Perez was mixed up in something else. So Vicki smiled at Anita and fibbed reassuringly: 176

“It’s not important about the pottery. I was just curious, that’s all.” She said a few pleasant and comforting things to Anita. But Vicki wanted to be alone, because she was beginning to put things together in her mind. They chatted for a few minutes, of nothing in particular. When Vicki left the señora, a dozen people were frantically searching for Perez—guests, the kitchen staff, two mechanics. There was a long-distance call for him. Perez could not be found. Finally one of the waiters remembered seeing him drive off in the hotel car, although this was not his scheduled hour to leave the hotel. “He’s gone to the village,” Vicki guessed. “To that same café? Nearly every time violence occurs, before or after—shooting, thefts from travelers, now a theft from a museum—Perez goes down into Acapulco village. Vicki sat down on a step in the shade, and tried to fit together what she knew. Perez and the village were connected, she was sure. The village . . . it was probably like a thousand others, except that it boasted of a golden chalice—given by “a village son who grew rich.” Perez? No, Perez was not rich nor was he Indian nor even part Indian. Vicki had to give up, for the time being. She pushed back her light hair and sighed. 177

CHAPTER XII

Antigua Castle

During the week which followed, Vicki talked things over with Dean and Captain Jordan, between their commercial flights. Captain Jordan agreed with Vicki’s surmise that Perez might be involved in a racket of some kind. But he warned: “Keep out of it, Vic, unless you gain some definite evidence to turn over to the police. Even so, I’d feel a lot easier if you’d just keep out of it altogether.” Dean sided with Vicki. “A man of Perez’s type is despicable. If we can get any evidence against him, I say let’s do it.” Vicki murmured that—in view of the two shootings and the mysterious affair of the snapshots—their motive in clearing up Perez’s doings might well be one of self-defense. “I’ll tell you what,” Dean promised her. “We’ll hurry up that return trip to the Indian village. It might just provide the clue. At least we could check 178

up on the camera.” “Don’t do anything foolhardy,” Captain Jordan cautioned them. Dean wrote promptly to his fellow pilot in Mexico City, Juan Arroyo, again asking him to fly the rented Piper Cub to Acapulco. The little ship was in good repair once more, and Juan wrote back that he would deliver it in Acapulco very soon. Simultaneously, Vicki wrote to Cissy telling her of the plan, and saying this time they would not let any obstacles whatsoever stand in the way. Cissy wrote back, very soberly for her, asking they let her know the date. When the date would be was not foreseeable, just yet. But they all held themselves in readiness. Cissy also wrote that she and Steve had reported the two shootings to the American Embassy. The embassy had no immediate advice for Vicki and her pilots, but would discuss things with the Mexican police. The airline had already reported the plane incident. It was admittedly difficult to track down a few isolated men hiding out in the mountains, even for Mexico’s highly efficient, interstate motorcycle police. “Isolated?” Dean questioned, reading Cissy’s letter. They were in the lobby of the old-fashioned tropical hotel in Oaxaca, one terminal of their run. “Seems to me those isolated few men have been 179

pretty busy. Or maybe that’s just a polite way to tell us not to interfere.” Captain Jordan looked up from his newspaper. “You’ve seen too many gangster movies back home, Dean, that’s what’s the matter with you.” He rattled his American newspaper in annoyance. “This doggone paper is three days old. Wish I could read the Spanish-language papers. Vic, be a good girl— —?” “Certainly, Cap’n.” She took the coin he gave her, and with Dean crossed the mosaic-tiled, palmfilled lobby to the newsstand. They bought this evening’s! Mexican newspaper. “Hel-lo!” she whistled as a headline caught her eye. “What?” Tall Dean leaned over her shoulder but could not translate the headline. “Come over here.” She hastened back to where Captain Jordan sat, Dean with her. The three huddled together over the newspaper. “Will you listen to this!” Vicki, translating, read aloud the article marked: BULLETIN! EXTRA! “ ‘A historical collection of art treasures was raided today at Antigua Castle, less than a week after the robbery at Lace House. Thieves made their way to the ancient monastery castle, located off the main highway, which is preserved as a shrine. They boldly entered in daylight, trussed up three guards, 180

and made off with beaten gold dishes, antique laces, and paintings. “ ‘How this second raid, again on a private collection, and an even greater desecration, was accomplished was a question the three elderly guards could not explain. There are no roads leading to Antigua Castle and the mountain terrain is almost impassable . . .’ ” Vicki pricked up her ears. All around them in the lobby, she heard growing indignation over this second piece of banditry. “Dean,” she said, “let’s go to Antigua and just see what we can see.” Dean’s gray eyes snapped. The reticent young man was aroused. “We practically witnessed the first robbery, Vic! Now there’s a second! Okay, you and I are going to Antigua Castle.” “I’d like,” she said, “to go for the sight-seeing jaunt, even if we can’t do any detecting. There’s so much excitement over this robbery, it’s made me curious.” Next morning they did go. Captain Jordan did not entirely approve, and refused to go along on the expedition. The castle had once belonged to a Spanish grandee and was now preserved as a religious and artistic relic. It lay between Oaxaca and Acapulco. The devout made pilgrimages there. Vicki and Dean had no idea how they were going to 181

find the place. But they had instructions from people at the Oaxaca hotel, a map, and an unusually good sense of direction. They rented a car, to carry them until the roads ended. “Wish Juan had already flown us the Piper Cub,” Dean remarked. “We sure could use it this morning.” They were driving through blinding sun and lonely rock, hunting for Antigua Castle. “Say, Vic. Do you think Cap’n Tom was right when he said we’ve seen too many gangster movies?” “We-ell.” They grinned at each other. Vicki replied seriously, “I haven’t a shred of actual proof against Perez. All I have as evidence are those unexplained snapshots, that angry telephone call, and the fact that he happened to be in the same café as the village leader. ’Tisn’t much,” she admitted. Then she giggled, “Oh, shucks, Dean, we’re just going exploring today, anyway.” “Two would-be detectives on their day off,” ho agreed. It was a long, hard drive. Antigua Castle seemed to lie a little nearer Acapulco than Oaxaca, or at least appeared easier of access from there. At length Dean stopped the car, completely lost. But an Indian boy trudging up the road directed them. If they would leave their car on the next slope, 182

the boy said in Spanish, they could go on by foot. On the next slope they parked, climbed out of the car, and stood uncertainly in the sun and dust. No road was visible except the one to the sea. The Acapulco-Mexico City plane flew by high overhead, but there was no other sound or sign of life. “Which way?” Dean demanded. He mopped his flushed face. “I don’t see a thing.” “I think I do.” Vicki walked between two enormous yellow rocks, her gaze on the ground. Yes, there was a faint trail here, with a few footprints and tiny hoof-marks of burros. Vicki and Dean followed the trail, their feet skidding down the steep mountainside. Sparse, occasional bushes afforded little foliage to grab at and hang on to, in case they missed their footing in the pebbly, shifting soil. But they made it, helping each other, and then —since the trail ended and they had to guess—eased their way down hot, bare rocks. Now they stood at the edge of a gently rolling, green meadow. Vicki lifted her arm straight ahead. “That must be Antigua.” Gray turrets, clusters of bell towers, rose up against the hills and sky. Miles from anywhere, this castle stood in lonely grandeur. Vicki marveled at the devotion of Mexican people which would bring them on this hard journey to an historic shrine. They waded through deep grass. As they came 183

nearer, the castle loomed up enormous. They could see its gray stone walls were crumbling. Pillars in the arcade had fallen and birds nested there. “That castle looks like a regular honeycomb,” Dean muttered. It had a dozen wings, towers, terraces, arcades, tunnels, crisscrossing one another. Vicki looked down at the violets and cacti they trod in order to enter the deserted stone courtyard. The fountain, with its stone lions of Castile standing guard, was cracked and dry. Over all the decay, wild flowers grew. They heard voices. Vicki and Dean immediately stiffened. Dean peered through the heavy-leaved branch of a tree. “I see ’em,” Dean said in a low voice. “Police. Poking around the ruins. Checking up, I suppose.” “They haven’t seen us,” Vicki whispered. “If they do, they won’t let us in and that would be a shame— to go back without seeing anything. Let’s go in quietly and look around anyway.” They crept soundlessly through a side archway and into a tunnel. In the dimness they groped along past cells, sunken rooms, and an abandoned prison until they found a flight of stairs. Something smooth and warm struck Vicki sharply in the face. She started to cry out, but restrained herself. It was a great, evil-looking bird, frightened out of its hiding place. Vicki watched with held breath as it flapped away. 184

“Want to turn back, Vic?” Dean asked gently. “No.” They pushed on to the top of the stairs and found, as Dean had said, a very honeycomb of rooms. This was an almost medieval place, high-ceilinged, stonewalled, with high slits for windows, cold, silent, empty. The only new things were the glass display cases, in which a few scattered articles remained on display. “Vic! I think I hear someone!” “If the police find us here now, they’re likely to arrest us as accomplices!” Up a ravaged staircase they ran. Yet still they fancied they heard someone just behind. Up, up, into a j bell tower they climbed. It was like being chased by a phantom. Panting, and laughing quietly at their own foolishness, they stood in the bell tower gazing out over miles of desolate country. “I guess we’d better go down,” Vicki said finally. Dean nodded toward the ground three stories below. There the law officers, with their motorcycles parked alongside, questioned some local men in the pajama-like white cotton suits. Three little gray burros, looking like toys, nibbled at cactus. “Vic, let’s go see if we can learn anything from the police.” The uniformed men were puzzled to see a young 185

man and girl walking out of Antigua Castle toward them. They scolded the two adventurous Americans for entering, but were too occupied with yesterday’s robbery to pay much attention to Vicki and Dean, or the local bystanders. It was quite easy to loiter in the hot sun and overhear what the armed policemen were saying among themselves. “It’s the work of the Santos gang, no doubt about it.” “It’s the Santos gang’s mountain area. Typical of their jobs. They must have come by burro or on foot.” “As usual. Remember the two shootings we’re working on, the shootings against those Americans?” “Same locale, same technique. It’s the Santos gang, all right.” Vicki gasped. Dean, who had not understood the Spanish, pressed her arm to keep her quiet. So the police admitted now that there was a gang! And it was the Santos gang whom they suspected of the shootings. At least, Vicki thought, I’ve not just been imagining everything. The policemen dragged forward their motorcycles, preparing to depart. A heavy-set man with iron-gray hair, who seemed to be the chief, turned to the by-standers. He raised his voice and said angrily: 186

“Just in case anyone thinks these outrages are going to go on! We’re going to get tough. Anyone connected! with the Santos gang had better watch his hide!” They disappeared in a roar and a cloud of dust. Behind Vicki, a Mexican gave a sad laugh. “No one even knows exactly who’s in the Santos gang, or where they hide out. Why, the very fact that they exist is just barely coming to light. Ay, madre mía! That’s why it’s never been officially admitted that there is a gang.” “Es nada,” Vicki heard another man reply. “Ruiz was angry just now, didn’t you see? Ruiz will fish up plenty in the police dragnet. The Santos gang will wish they had never been born.”

187

CHAPTER XIII

Two Mantillas and a Letter

The Mexican police kept their word. Within three days after Vicki and Dean’s visit to Antigua Castle, the police caught two men, in the mountains around Acapulco. The captives had confessed to being members of the mysterious Santos gang, but so far refused to name the other members or reveal where the loot was hidden. All Mexico was talking about the affair. The dragnet was out: the other members of the Santos gang were presumed to be lying low. Vicki had had an extremely busy flight schedule during these three days. She had been in and out of the Monte Azul simply to eat and sleep, at rather odd hours, and had no chance to see either Perez or the señora. One of the waiters had told her Perez was ill, but working at his job nevertheless. This blazing midafternoon she climbed tiredly out of the taxi she had taken at the airport, and stood in the Monte Azul courtyard with a sigh of relief. A refreshing breeze blew up here on the mountaintop. 188

She had a blessed rest coming to her, and she certainly had earned it. It still surprised her, sometimes, how tiring it was to work in high altitudes. Vicki did not even pause to ask for mail from home. She trudged to her room, wriggled out of her crumpled flight uniform, showered, brushed out her pale-gold hair, and slipped on a pink cotton dress. She felt a lot cooler. Luncheon was over an hour ago but perhaps the cook would take pity on her and send out a tray. She’d ask the hotel manager. Julio Perez was at his desk, looking pale and plainly worried. Against his satiny black hair, his skin was the color of chalk. He lifted dull eyes as Vicki came up. “Hello, Miss Barr. A Mr. Arroyo telephoned just now, while you were changing, that he brought over the Cub for your trip.” Perez tried to keep curiosity and apprehension out of his glance. “Thanks,” Vicki said noncommittally. She wished Perez had not heard this piece of news. “You’d like some lunch? If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’ll see that something is brought you.” Impersonal . . . polite . . . efficient. Julio Perez was treating her exactly as he treated any other guest. I But he seemed to want to get her away quickly. 189

Vicki strolled across the shaded terrace and leaned against the balustrade, looking at the sparkling blue Pacific. Soon one of the waiters brought her a tray. Perez was a few paces behind him, on his way back to his desk with a demitasse. Vicki called to him. “Have you any mail for me? Anything from Mexico City?” “Yes, there’s a letter from Mrs. Clayton.” Vicki looked surprised and Perez explained hastily, “Saw her name on the envelope. Here it is.” Vicki thought, “You slipped up just then, didn’t you?” She took Cissy’s letter and started for a table, eager to read her mail as she lunched. But someone called her. It was an American woman who had once been a passenger on Vicki’s plane. Vicki was reluctantly drawn into sitting with her. The letters had to wait. By the time she finished her lunch, in the flowerspiced wind, and got away from the tiresome woman, she realized she should call Dean and find out if he knew the Cub had arrived. She rang his hotel, but was told he had gone out. A maid told Vicki the señora wished to see her. She stopped at the nursery door, was motioned by the Indian nurse to the señora’s apartment, and knocked. 190

Anita Vallejo, fairly dancing with excitement, invited Vicki in. The two young women had barely exchanged greetings when the little señora cried: “Fiesta tonight! You must come! Everyone in Mexican costume. I will lend to you what’s pretty. Say yes!” “Yes!” said Vicki, laughing. “I’d love to attend a fiesta. Thank you very much.” Anita tied a red sash around her small, supple figure and struck a dancing pose in front of the mirror. “No, no good,” she decided. She threw the sash aside and led Vicki over to two chairs. “Forgive me, I am so happy for the fiesta, I forgot to ask you to sit down!” Vicki smiled. “I’ve never seen you so pleased over anything.” The little señora cocked her head to one side. “Is not all for the fiesta. I am happy for— Is supposed to be a secret but is so beautiful, I must show you!” She raced over to a chest of drawers and tenderly lifted out something wrapped in tissue paper. “But first, the combs!” Anita took from the drawer two carved, towering, Spanish combs, of dark tortoise shell. She stood one up in her own piled-up black hair and handed the other to Vicki. Vicki did not know quite how to place it. “Oh, your hair is short, comb will not stay. Bueno, I fix— Hold still—” She tied a narrow 191

ribbon around Vicki’s blonde head and secured the tall comb in the ribbon. “Beautiful,” Vicki sighed as they looked together in the mirror. “Fancy dress on me—” “You haven’t seen the best! Now! Look!” From the tissue paper Anita lifted out two long, narrow, lace mantillas. One was black, one white, both exquisitely encrusted with medallions of net and embroidery. Vicki could not believe her eyes. They were as fine as any she had seen at Lace House. She took the lace in one hand, almost afraid to touch the frail stuff. “Señora, where did you ever get these wonderful things?” “Are they not magníficas? My dream come true. Antique, you see? Such lace is no more made in the world.” “But, Señora Vallejo, these two mantillas must be worth a fortune! How did you come by them?” Anita’s childlike face fell. “Is a secret.” Then she was all excitement again. “Look, this is how to wear a mantilla.” She draped the white mantilla over Vicki’s tall comb, drawing it over her hair, so that lace framed Vicki’s face and fell in long cascades over her shoulders. Turning to the mirror, Anita draped the black mantilla on her own comb. Then she snatched up red roses from a bowl on the table, shook the 192

water from them, broke off the stems and leaves, and filled the base of her comb with red roses, atop her lace-covered hair. Vicki could only stare, the effect was so ravishing. “Es linda, no?” Her vanity was ingenuous. “Are you going to wear it to the fiesta this evening?” “I wish it very much. But is too valuable to wear outdoors, might rain. Besides, Perez said is very rare, so be careful not to—” “Perez?” There was a stinging silence. The little señora sighed like a scolded child, and turned forlornly away. “Now you know the secret. Do not tell.” Vicki promised. “Perez gave you these mantillas?” “Yes.” Anita turned back to Vicki, her enormous brown eyes begging her to understand. “Julio gave me these to say he is sorry for not being very nice to me, lately. He is temperamental, I guess. Poor Julio, it was only because he was sick.” Julio! This was the first time Vicki had ever heard Señora Vallejo call her manager by his first name. And the sympathy in her voice—‘poor Julio,’ indeed! ‘Temperamental’—nonsense! What had Perez been saying to the little señora, these last few days while Vicki was away, to bewitch her like this? 193

And why? For what purpose had Perez suddenly changed his tactics? Vicki felt terribly alarmed. She said earnestly to Anita Vallejo, “Where did he get such beautiful things? Did he tell you?” Anita explained happily. “They belonged to an aunt of his who died recently, she left them to him.” Vicki wondered if this was really how the mantillas had come into Perez’s possession. She wondered why Perez, who hungered for wealth, had not sold these valuable laces instead of giving them away. He could have realized a handsome sum on them. It was all too possible that they were stolen goods. Vicki grew more and more alarmed for Anita. She groped for information, in order to be able to help her in this obvious danger. “But, señora— This may sound tactless but I am sol anxious for you— Why did Perez give the mantillas to you?” “Julio has no women relatives to give them to. No one else. You know how alone he is. It would be a pity to lock them in a box. And he knows,” she added gratefully, “how much I love lace. Who could resist such a gift?” she pleaded. Vicki thought worriedly that if these were stolen goods, Perez would be too clever to sell them, at least for a while. He might be “planting” them on the señora, to put the blame on her in case of 194

discovery. Oh, that was pretty farfetched! Perez was not timid, and probably he had some more purposeful reason in flattering his employer with this rich gift. “You and Julio Perez—” Vicki ventured. Her voice was strained. “You are on good terms again?” “Oh, yes! After all, as he says, we are old friends.” “Hmm.” “Julio says, running the Monte Azul, we face the same problems, we have a special sympathy for each other. He says, too,” Anita hesitated, “that in the midst of strangers, we two are alone.” Vicki frowned. “It sounds to me as if he were leading up to a proposal of marriage.” Anita dimpled. “How you Americans say?— could be. Oh, he is really so very nice to me, so sweet. Yesterday when it was very hot, even though he did not feel well—” The señora prattled along about some small attentions Perez had showered on her. But Vicki was not listening. She did not like Perez’s sudden and aggressive change of tactics toward Anita. Marriage was a maneuver by which Perez could gain ownership of the Monte Azul. Vicki had believed he did not really want this hotel, or any hotel, in spite of all his glib talk. But now she was not so sure. Or, she might have been correct up to now, and he could have 195

actually changed his mind within these last three days. These three days in which the Antigua robbery was on everybody’s lips and two of the Santos gang had been caught . . . Abruptly, as if she had turned a page, Vicki saw the situation from a different angle. Assume that Perez was mixed up in some way with the robberies and therefore with the Santos gang. His being ill coincided with the man hunt. Maybe Perez was ill with worry and anxiety. Another thing. He had been cocky when the police were still in the dark, but now he was acting diplomatic. Still another conclusion tied in, too. While the bandits were getting away with their acts, it looked as if Perez had not tried in any way to gain control of the Monte Azul hotel. But now that the Santos gang’s exploits had been cut short, and that road to quick wealth-without-work had been blocked, Julio Perez seemed to be courting the Monte Azul’s owner. If he married Anita, he could get the hotel and pose as a respectable man of property! “That assumption certainly fits the facts!” Vicki thought. She turned to the little señora, pirouetting in her lace. Perez certainly had worked fast. Well, men did sweep girls off their feet sometimes. Perez had succeeded, and so quickly, because the girl was gullible. Yet, Vicki reflected with pity, Anita’s foolishness was not her own fault. She had always 196

been so protected and gently treated that a scoundrel could fool her with soft words and gifts and an appeal to her sympathies. The little señora stopped prattling to stare at Vicki. Vicki came out of her thoughts. “Sorry to be absent-minded.” Anita searched her face. Then she said slowly, “You think is something bad?” Vicki met her eyes squarely. She said bluntly, “I think the mantillas may have been stolen. I—” She broke off. It would be hopeless to say it aloud to the señora. Perez was clever, bold, and still a little cocky underneath. Sooner or later most schemers overplayed their daring and made a slip. Perez made his slip when he presented the señora with these mantillas of doubtful origin. “Señora, you must listen to me! Yes, poor Julio is sick and all alone and he turns to you for sympathy—yes, it’s all very, very sad,” Vicki said wryly. “Please, señora! Come to your senses! The man is a schemer! If not worse . . . How many times have you mistrusted him in the past? Why, not long ago you told me you were afraid of him!” As Vicki said all this, Anita’s face slowly changed. Some of Vicki’s words, at least, seemed to be sinking in. “I was afraid, yes, because Julio was acting badly. But was only because Julio was sick— 197

temperamental—maybe overworked— He has said he is sorry. Is all right now. I forgive him.” Vicki looked at her and said very gravely, in Spanish, “Señora, Julio Perez is deceiving you! He whispers pitiful appeals in your ear to deafen you! He only wants to make use of you, señora! Don’t you understand?” “Oh, no,” Anita gasped out. “Surely Julio would not do that to me.” Yet her little brown face was uncertain and tears welled up in her eyes. Vicki took her hand. “Pobrecita,” she said softly. “You are only a poor little child. Listen. I will prove to you what I have said.” “Prove?” “Yes, prove. Because I must make you see that you are in danger.” Anita clung to her hand. “Please, how will you prove?” Vicki threw herself down in a chair, staring at the cluttered table before her. She sat thinking for two or three minutes. Anita waited. “I think I have it,” Vicki murmured at last. “We will use the mantillas to put Perez to a test.” She described to Anita a simple, dramatic action. It would take place when Perez came to escort both girls to the fiesta. The señora was nervous. Vicki talked a long time to persuade her. Vicki had misgivings, too, lest, when they confronted Perez, 198

the ruse failed to work. But Vicki counted on Perez’s hasty, almost uncontrollable temper. Vicki started to get up out of her chair, putting a hand on the table. Something on the table caught her eye. She picked it up, and began to tremble. She whirled on Anita. “Señora, what’s this?” “Why—why—is a little clay figure, that’s all. Perez gave it to me.” “What is it?” “Is the Double-Rabbit.” It was a Double-Rabbit of orangey-yellow clay, painted in black arrowhead design. Only one village in Mexico used that design. Now Vicki knew. She ran out of the señora’s room, out of the courtyard, and down the hill. She hailed a passing taxi and ordered the driver to take her as fast as possible to the Hotel Papagayo. Here was definite evidence against Perez! Captain Jordan and Dean should know about it immediately. The desk clerk at the big Hotel Papagayo had a message for Miss Barr. Captain Jordan and Mr. Fletcher had not had time to telephone her. They had left hurriedly, on a moment’s decision, right after arriving from their commercial run, to catch a deepsea fishing smack which sailed far out from the coast. The sail was a long one and the boat would not return until early tomorrow morning. And, oh, 199

yes, just after the pilots left, a Mr. Arroyo phoned he had left a Piper Cub at the Acapulco airport. The Papagayo clerk had, in the pilots’ absence, given Arroyo Vicki’s phone number. Vicki turned away, very much alone. She trudged back through Acapulco, passing the poor café, and found a taxi which took her back to her hotel. In her room, she put Cissy’s letter and a letter from Ruth Benson unopened into a drawer, to read later. She was in no mood to read them now: her mind was on more urgent things. She needed every minute now to gird up her courage and to think. The brief twilight, then the festive dinner hour, dragged by. Outwardly the early evening went pleasantly as usual at the Monte Azul. Vicki saw two carloads of travelers arrive, laden with luggage and silver. But inwardly she sensed a suppressed violence throbbing all around here. Whatever was going to happen crept closer and closer, with an awful inevitability. Vicki returned to her room and duly put on a bright yellow dress for the fiesta. Then she went to the señora’s apartment. Anita admitted her. She was wearing the black mantilla. She gave Vicki the white mantilla and Vicki laid it across her shoulders. Then both girls tensely sat down and waited in silence for Perez. At nine o’clock, as he had arranged with the 200

señora, Perez tapped on her door. Anita stood behind the door to open it. Perez waited for her to come out. The señora and Vicki remained motionless. In a moment Perez entered, not seeing them at first. Then his eye lit on the mantillas. His handsome face, already pale with sickness, turned an oysterish white with rage. “Take those things off! Take those mantillas off at once, both of you, do you hear me!” Anita cowered back. Vicki put a hand on her arm. Vicki’s hand was ice cold. “Good evening, Mr. Perez,” she said. “We’re all dressed for the fiesta.” “You are not going out of this room until you take off the mantillas! Give me that lace!” He advanced on them, his figure stiff and taut with rage. He turned on Vicki a gaze of such utter hatred that she suddenly decided not to provoke him too far. Not to corner him any more explicitly than this, not yet. A man such as Perez, in a fit of fury, might strike back at her with violence. “We didn’t intend to go out of the room in these mantillas,” Vicki said quietly. “You certainly aren’t. No one else is going to see that lace, no one. Anita. Anita!” he shouted at her. “Wh-what?” “Didn’t I warn you not to tell a soul? Why did you show the lace—particularly to this girl? Why? 201

Answer me!” The little señora was so frightened she could not answer. “Stop your bullying,” Vicki said to him scornfully. “Here, Anita. Put this away.” She took off the white mantilla and handed it over. “Take yours off, too, and put it away.” The señora put the two mantillas away in the drawer. As she did so, Vicki fingered the DoubleRabbit, for Perez’s benefit. He lost all self-control. “Listen to me, Vicki Barr!” he shouted. “Put down that thing! And stay out of the village it came from! D’you hear me?” Vicki held her breath. Anita’s appalled face showed that now she understood. Perez, trembling, made a dour effort to recover himself. “Bueno. The fiesta. Come along, Anita, we might as well go now.” He held open the door, with his usual polite gesture. Anita looked timidly at Vicki. But Vicki said: “No, I’m not coming after all. Thanks just the same.” Perez said stiffly, “Good night, Miss Barr.” She nodded as stiffly, and bade Anita good night. She watched them get into the hotel car and drive down the shadowy hill. Then Vicki went to stand on the terrace. 202

She felt afraid, as she looked down toward the village, gay tonight with bonfires and fireworks. She knew Perez’s hatred smoldered on. He would not forgive her for this. He might even try to get her out of the way, permanently. Should she, perhaps, go to the police? No, that was useless, what could she say? Far down the road she saw a truckload of young people, standing and holding flaming torches. They sang and laughed in the flickering light. On the square, a band played and fireworks spurted, while around it went the slow, stately promenade of the townspeople. Over their heads, a million unwinking stars shone down into the town and the sea, moving no more here at the equator than did the stationary moon. All night the heavens remained fixed, dogs barked, roosters crowed, iron church bells clanged, and the fiesta danced on. Vicki watched a little longer but the fiesta had become a nightmare. Finally she turned and went to her quiet room and shut the door on everyone, everything. In her bright yellow dress Vicki lay down on her bed. For a while she lay there, limp as a rag doll. That Double-Rabbit with its peculiar color and decoration, on the señora’s table—there was no doubt where it had come from. Vicki had never seen another, never in the markets, never in the various towns where she flew, only in the Indian village. 203

She sat up, realizing she must perform some simple task, just to keep busy and calm down. She cleaned her white shoes, brushed her hair, got ready for bed, turned down the sheets. But still she was not ready for sleep. She remembered the two letters she had put in the desk drawer unread. The letter from Ruth Benson, Federal’s assistant superintendent of flight stewardesses, was businesslike and gracious, and contained some news. The airline was considering calling Vicki’s American crew home sometime soon, in order to let a second American crew have its chance and gain experience here in Mexico. Vicki folded up Miss Benson’s letter. “I’ll be sorry to leave this beautiful country. But perhaps I ought to get away from Acapulco, anyway.” Cissy’s letter was rather sticky around the envelope flap. When Vicki opened it, she found the peculiar look of dried rubber cement. Apparently the letter had been sealed, opened, and then sealed again, with rubber cement. Perez? But then Vicki noticed a P.S tacked on the end of Cissy’s letter. Cissy must have reopened the envelope to add the P.S.—none too neatly. Cissy wrote, after exuberant greeting: “Here I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to notify me of a date for our return trip to that Aztec 204

village. In the meantime, Vicki, why can’t we see each other anyway? My darling Steve has left for Detroit again, darn it, and I’m lonesome in this big house. If you don’t mind my inviting myself, I think I’ll come to Acapulco. Spend a few days with you while Steve is away. Even if you have to leave on flights, I can stay on at the Monte Azul and see you between times. I do need a vacation; have been working like all get-out at the hospital on my volunteer job. Besides, I am dying to know if you have found out anything more about your mysterious Mr. Perez and what he is up to. Moreover, I have the answer to some of your questions, about the telephone conversation you overheard. “So, unless you wire me not to come, I’ll arrive day after tomorrow. Please don’t bother to meet me or anything, I’ll just come straight ahead to the Monte Azul. Not phoning you because no telling if and when you’re there. Ask for a room for me, will you, or else move over and squeeze me in! Till soon and with love, Cissy. “P.S. I loved wearing your shoes. They’re half worn out, I’m bringing you a new pair.” Vicki smiled. She was pleased that Cissy was coming. The arrangements were rather casual, but that was just like Cissy. She wondered if Cissy was coming by plane, train, or car; the letter did not say. 205

Vicki yawned, and relaxed for the first time in many hours. Cissy’s letter had comforted her. The knowledge that her cousin would be here tomorrow morning was reassuring, and thank goodness Captain Jordan and Dean would be back by then. With the prospect of three stanch friends by her side, Perez as a threatening figure dwindled. Vicki even laughed softly. She turned out her light, and went to sleep to the quiet splashing of waves.

206

CHAPTER XIV

The Road to Ayutla

Vicki was up by half past six next morning. She remembered Cissy was an early riser and had a passion for getting to places not only on time, but ahead of time. Vicki went out onto the terrace half expecting to find her redoubtable cousin already cheerfully sitting there. The terrace was deserted, except for a boy sweeping the paving stones with water. He and Vicki exchanged “Buenos días.” Everyone else seemed to be asleep after the all-night fiesta. “Miss Barr!” It was Julio Perez, hurrying up the lower terrace steps toward her. “Oh, Mr. Perez, I wanted to see you.” They met halfway on the steps. Vicki searched his face for some sign of last night’s anger, but he was inscrutable. Between them was only the polite impersonality of hotel manager and guest. “I wanted to ask you to reserve a room for my cousin, Mrs.—” 207

“Mrs. Clayton. Yes. You have a telegram from her. It arrived ten minutes ago.” Perez handed Vicki a telegram. She opened the envelope and read the typed message: “MY TRAIN DERAILED IN AYUTLA. NOT A WRECK, JUST A DELAY. MAY HAVE TO WAIT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. CAN YOU COME AND GET ME? CISSY.” Vicki was concerned. “Ayutla is on the way to Oaxaca, the next goodsized town from here, isn’t it?” Vicki figured. “My cousin has been derailed there. I would like to go and get her.” “Would you like the hotel car?” Perez asked indifferently. “We-ell—” Vicki glanced around the courtyard, thinking that if a train was derailed, going to Ayutla by train was probably out of the question. She couldn’t fly the Cub herself, and Dean was absent. She would have to drive over to Ayutla for Cissy. “Mr. Perez, can you get me a taxi?” “Yes, I can phone down to the village for one. That will mean the usual twenty minutes’ wait, as you know. Or, as I said, you’re welcome to the hotel car. The brakes are in perfect condition now. I’ve just had new brake bands put in.” Vicki mistrusted that car. But it was standing right there in the courtyard. Mr. Perez added, “I can’t send the driver with 208

you, I’m afraid. He’s slated to help some of the workmen this morning. I can’t possibly let Pedro go, not until eleven o’clock at the earliest.” “That’s all right,” Vicki murmured absently. “I’ll drive myself. Now, how can I be sure my cousin won’t start off again, while I’m on the way?” Julio Perez took a railroad timetable out of his pocket. “There’s no train again for another hour, even if the derailment permits other trains to get through. If you drive fast, you should be able to get to Ayutla within an hour. If you like I’ll wire to the station agent and ask him to get word to Mrs. Clayton to wait for you. Vicki thanked Julio Perez with real gratitude. He replied that it was only part of his job, gave her a road map, checked to see if the car had sufficient gasoline. I He filled up the gas tank from a spouted tin container while Vicki ran back to her room to get her purse. Then Vicki climbed in behind the steering wheel, tested the brakes, found them holding firm, and started off after her stranded cousin. She drove down into Acapulco, through the town, and up again onto the main highway, leaving the sea behind her. She did not like the way the car coughed now and then, but decided it was the strain of the mountain roads. It would be safer to drive slowly. But there was no time to lose; Cissy might not stay put. Anyhow, Vicki did not want to keep her 209

waiting. She got onto the first big high curve, saw the road was clear, and increased her foot’s pressure on the gas. The car jumped ahead and went spinning along the empty, paved highway. For a while, the going was smooth and easy. She ventured from twenty to twenty-five miles per hour. The car spurted ahead, taking the banked curves a little closer to the edge than Vicki intended, for the drop into the valley was nearly two miles down. “This old jalopy doesn’t come as fully under control as the cars at home,” she grumbled. “I ought to slow down.” A glance at her wrist watch, a glance at the speedometer said she had no time to slow down. She kept going, a little nervous at the way the car picked up speed when she came to the downslopes, despite her foot on the brake. It was hitting thirty—thirtytwo—thirty-five. Too fast on this road! The brakes caught firmly and slowed the speed down. When she came to a slight upgrade again, the car did not respond as she wanted it to. She shifted into second. “Doggone this old car. Why does it cough like that?” She tried to drive carefully. By now the car was racing downhill again. Almost forty. She swung away from the mountain edge and drove along the 210

center of the not very wide road. “Gosh, I hope I don’t meet another car coming around one of these curves!” Up and up the road led again. Vicki had to force the car now. It coughed and slipped. The motor sputtered, missed a beat: something was not working. Was the feed line clogged? Or could she— heavens!—be running out of gas? By the time Vicki nursed the car along midway to the top of the stretch, she was wet with perspiration—from physical effort and from worry. She did not want to get stranded on this mountain highway. At least she ought to find a place where she could turn around. Straining, feeling carefully to give it just the right amount of gas, Vicki managed to wheedle the car to the top of the hill. She stopped at a flat, slightly wider point on the highway and got out, shaking. Maybe Perez had deliberately not told her about whatever was wrong with this car. Maybe he wanted something to happen to her. An accident for which he could not be held responsible. He wouldn’t care about the car. It did not belong to him, but to the hotel. This could be why he could not spare the driver this morning. Vicki’s suspicions were thoroughly aroused. She went around and had a look at the gas tank. There was no sign of a leak, no trail of gasoline. She unscrewed the cap, poked a long twig in, and was 211

horrified at what she discovered. There was almost no gas! Less than a half-inch on the twig was wet! “So that’s how Perez ‘filled ’er up,’ when I went to get my purse.” Vicki began to figure, staring at the twig. There was enough gas in the car to take her a few miles farther, but not all the way to Ayutla. Also there must be dirt in the gasoline feed line. She sat down on the running board. A blinding headache and realization struck her at the same time. Perez intended her to run out of gas and get stranded on this lonely road. Perez wanted her out of his way. Quite by accident, the feed line had clogged and got balky—and warned her. Well, it was lucky she was only about ten miles out of Acapulco. If she shut off the engine and coasted down long hills, there might be enough gas in the tank to get her back. If she had discovered this a little later on, she would have had to get out and walk. Was Cissy really waiting at Ayutla? Vicki had nobody’s word for it but Perez’s. She recalled the sticky, resealed flap on Cissy’s envelope. Why couldn’t Perez have steamed Cissy’s letter open, read it, resealed it—nothing could be easier, since Perez handled all the guests’ mail. Then he could have cooked up this emergency, this “derailed train” story of Cissy stranded at Ayutla, and typed it out on 212

the telegram forms all hotels keep for the convenience of their guests, the forms which Perez took to the telegraph office in Acapulco Village late every afternoon with the outgoing mail. Perez was shrewd enough to make the faked telegram sound like Cissy. “And I was to drive to the rescue in a car with inadequate fuel!” Vicki thought grimly. “ ‘Drive fast, Miss Barr,’ he told me. Drive fast—along mountain roads in an old car with not enough gas!” She stood up in the road. She wasn’t even going to try to get to Ayutla. Probably Cissy was not there. She was going to turn around and drive back to Acapulco, slowly and with caution. Gingerly, Vicki turned the car around and coasted down this long hill, saving her gas. The engine was clogged: it coughed and missed a beat every now and then. But the car did limp along. Vicki used all her skill, feeling her way, not feeding too much of the limited gas. Every hill she had to climb was an ordeal. After what seemed an endless time, she just made it into Acapulco. She left the hotel car parked on the village street and took a cab up the mountain to the Monte Azul hotel. She thought wryly that Perez would be surprised to see her. And she wondered what his next move would be. 213

CHAPTER XV

Escape by Plane

When Vicki got out of her taxi in the courtyard of the Monte Azul, Perez was nowhere around. Instead, she caught sight of Cissy on the terrace, in a bright orange dress and hoop earrings, brown and plump and bursting with health. Cissy was eating a big breakfast and trying to convince Miguel, one of the waiters, that she was not a Mexican girl. Despite the bad experience she had just been through, Vicki laughed and felt better. She ran over to her cousin. “Cissy! You’re all right, aren’t you?” Cissy’s shiny black eyes beamed on Vicki. “Flourishing. How are you?” She offered her a plate of toast, as if they had met just yesterday. “Where were you? Still asleep?” “Not exactly. Cissy, did you get off the train at Ayutla?” “Isn’t that silly! I couldn’t get off the train because I took the plane, and anyhow, I wasn’t going to Ayutla. Was I supposed to?” 214

Vicki took a deep breath. Then she patted her cousin’s brown, dimpled hand and murmured that it was a misunderstanding, it didn’t matter. She urged Cissy to hurry up with her breakfast, and quickly drank a cup of hot, black coffee herself. That fishing boat generally returned to Acapulco early in the morning, Vicki remembered. The hotel clerk at the Papagayo had mentioned it. She said to Cissy: “We have some urgent business. We’re going right down to the village.” Cissy pouted. “You didn’t even ask how Steve is, or whether I bought a canoe. Vicki, those new shoes I brought you—they’re red ones I” But Vicki was anxiously looking around for the señora. She was, Miguel said, in the nursery giving the children their breakfast. The waiter reported that Mr. Perez had left very early this morning, on foot, and had said he might not be back until late in the day. “I might have known he’d duck out of sight when things came to a head!” “Vicki, you aren’t listening to a word I say.” Vicki lifted her soft blue eyes, the pupils dilated with excitement. “Cissy dear, we’ll visit together later. Sorry to hurry you, but—come on!” Cissy crammed the last bite into her mouth and stood up. “All ready,” she mumbled. Vicki did not wait to telephone for a taxi. She almost dragged Cissy down the steep hill, all but ran 215

down into town. There they hopped into a parked cab and drove to the Hotel Papagayo. Dean and Captain Jordan were on the palm-blown dining porch, still in rough sailing clothes and sunburned brick-red. Both appeared tired, relaxed, jovial. When the two young women entered, the pilots stood up and invited them to breakfast. “Thanks, we’ve had breakfast,” Vicki said distractedly. “But we’d like to sit down and talk.” “We certainly want a visit with Cousin Cissy,” Captain Jordan began. “How’s Mexico City, Mrs. Clayton?” Dean’s gray eyes twinkled at Cissy in amusement. “Get your canoe?” Vicki cut short the leisurely talk. In a low voice, which could not be overheard at adjoining tables, she narrated what had taken place since yesterday afternoon: discovering the mantillas, the DoubleRabbit, Perez’s telltale fury, and this morning, his lie about Cissy and the empty gas tank. Three pairs of startled eyes fixed on her. They all were deeply concerned, Dean especially. “You’re sure you’re all right, Vic?” he kept saying. “Yes! A nervous wreck,” she laughed a little, “but really fine.” Captain Jordan slapped both hands, palm down, on the table. “My advice is stay out of this 216

dangerous affair. Dean and I just received a letter from Federal saying we’re going home in a few weeks, anyway. So can’t you just sidestep—” Cissy wailed. “You’re leaving Mexico? Oh, Vic! How soon?” “Not immediately, dear. Well, I don’t want to leave, either. But as for forgetting about Perez, Captain Jordan—” Vicki shook her silvery-blonde head. “Since I’m involved this deeply already, I’d like to try and get real, final evidence about him. We might find it if we go back to that village. Captain,” she pleaded, “I can’t back out and leave Señora Vallejo in the palm of his hand. I just can’t do that to Anita.” The senior pilot disapproved. He argued. But Dean, Vicki knew from his keen, faraway look, was already figuring mileage, speed, winds. “Well— The Cub’s all ready to go. Are we?” Dean said. He stood up, then looked down from his six feet at Vicki and grinned. They had understood each other without a word. Captain Jordan walked them as far as the flowery hotel gate. “At least,” he said gravely, “I am going to notify somebody official around here where you three reckless kids are going.” The Papagayo was near the airport. They found the Piper Cub easily. It was shipshape, even its gas 217

tank was filled up. Dean and a couple of Indian mechanics pulled the little, light plane out onto the grassy field, beside the sea. Dean climbed into the cockpit, then Cissy and Vicki got in behind him. One of the mechanics spun the propeller and stepped aside. “All ready!” Dean shouted above the sputtering engine. “All ready,” Vicki answered. They took off smoothly and flew over Acapulco, then past the pink villas hovering on mountaintops. Dean maneuvered the Cub between peaks of the mountain ring embracing Acapulco. They flew over bare, wild country. Vicki took from her purse Dean’s map, on which she had penciled a large X the day they first spotted the village from the air. Acting as navigator, she called directions to Dean every few minutes. “That village was pretty close to Acapulco, wasn’t it?” Cissy asked. “If I remember correctly?” “That’s right, near Acapulco,” Vicki confirmed. Vicki looked down at the spiral white ribbons which were roads winding around the mountains. She advised Dean that they were almost at the spot. Then she sighted a deep wedge of valley, coming into view. “This is it!” she called. Dean grunted. Cissy, peering down, declared she 218

saw only trees and would not recognize there was a village down there unless she had been told. “It certainly is well hidden.” “Hold fast!” Dean shouted. “Coming down!” The little ship began to bump as Dean circled, then spiraled downward, gradually losing altitude. They made a hazardous drop, between two jagged mountain cliffs. Vicki and Cissy kept swallowing. Down and down they circled, while the green blur grew nearer and separated into trees, white adobe huts, and the remembered cactus fence. Figures of men in white ran out to stare. They landed on the flat clay stretch, outside the circular village. A few Indians walked toward them, not frightened this time. Dean and the two girls climbed out of the ship. “Hello! Hello!” they cried to the Indians. “Buenos días! Cómo están?” The Indians remembered the three Americans. Friendly smiles appeared on their flat, reticent faces and they answered in Aztec. Beside the whitegarbed men, a few barefoot women in black draperies now appeared. They wanted to trade, they conveyed in gestures, and motioned the three visitors from the sky into their village. The three went along with the villagers. Dean said to Vicki, “What’s the plan?” Cissy, too, waited for a cue. 219

“I think I’d like to see that golden chalice again. And I want to know the leader’s name and—and more about him.” When they had slipped through the protective cactus fence and gained the dusty open area which served as village square, they halted. Rather uncertainly they stood in the dust and hot sun. Villagers ran out of huts and left their grinding stones, to mill around them, offering their orangeyyellow clay pottery in trade. Suddenly a hush fell. The tall, brown leader, in his magenta shirt and white pajamas, stood on the porch of the adobe church. He motioned the Indians to be silent and fixed a stony pair of eyes on the visitors. In Spanish he sternly addressed Vicki: “Why have you returned?” “Are we unwelcome?” she countered. “The last time we were here, your village did us the honor to offer us a feast. We have returned for my friend’s camera.” The leader’s beady eyes bored into them. He especially scanned Dean. His face betrayed no expression. Behind him, in the open doorway of the rude church, two more men loomed up. Like the leader, they were taller than the small Indians of this village, and their two faces were marked with a cynical wisdom. 220

She said, determined to see the chalice again: “May we come in once more to your church?” The leader hesitated. His face knotted into a cruel smile. “You are welcome. Come in.” He admitted the three Americans. With his arm he barred the church to any of the simple, puzzled villagers. Vicki saw him exchange glances with his two henchmen. They all entered the shadowy church and the leader closed the door. He barred it from within with iron rods. The windows were six-inch slits. Vicki began to look around when she felt a presence. She turned, and jumped at what she saw. Perez was standing in the shadows. The leader went over to him and asked, “These are the ones?” “Yes.” “Good. They won’t leave our village in a hurry.” Julio Perez sauntered over. He might have been elegantly carrying his demitasse and cigarette, only now a gun dangled from his hand. “Well, our Miss Barr. So nice to see you!” Malice twisted his handsome young face. He bowed slightly. “Mrs. Clayton. Mr. Fletcher. A real pleasure to have you here. You will stay quite a while. Yes, a long, long while. I might say forever.” The three Indian men laughed coarsely. Vicki 221

shivered. She felt Cissy fumble for her hand. Dean beside her was tense and still, but with every nerve alert. Outside the murmur of the villagers sounded remote. Perez barked at the leader, “Santos, did you do as I told you?” Santos! Vicki jumped. So this was the Santos gang, the heart of it, and no mistake! And the village leader was Santos himself. Except that Perez, not Santos, seemed to be in charge. Vicki thought fleetingly that Santos was a Castilian name—was it the Indian’s real name? Santos in his gaudy magenta shirt was almost subservient before the dapper Julio. “I did as you said.” “Miss Barr,” Perez said with mocking courtesy, “you are a visitor to Mexico. You and your friends would like to see some of our art treasures? Permit me to show them to you—since they are mine to show,” he boasted. He added ominously, “You will never have a chance to talk about them.” Perez all but preened himself. Master here, he ordered the three Indians to draw aside a curtain and unlock a sort of wide closet. He turned to Vicki, Cissy, and Dean, his eyes glittering. “So you thought I was a poor, humble, little hotel employee! A servant to Anita Vallejo. So you thought I wanted to be a mere innkeeper. That, my 222

dear Miss Barr, is beneath a man of my pride and talents. That talk, that job, is an excuse, a convenient cover-up for my real business now. For I have become probably the richest man in Mexico.” “But—you—” It was the first syllable Vicki had uttered since entering this dim, locked room. Outside, voices rose in Aztec. “Yes?” Perez bent toward her evilly. “Do go on.” She could not speak in her terror. Perez clapped his hands, twice. The three Indians drew the crude curtains and unlocked the closet doors. A walllength opening was revealed. There, on shelves, in careless stacks, jammed to the ceiling and stacked on the floor, lay laces, paintings, antique books, the robes which must have been taken from Lace House, beaten gold dishes—the items tallied with what had been stolen from Antigua Castle. In the corner lay a heap of fur coats and, beside them, several new alligator suitcases. Travelers’ belongings! Adjoining, on a crude altar and near the red-andgold Double-Rabbit, gleamed the golden chalice. Without warning Cissy uttered a piercing scream that carried easily to the villagers outside. Vicki and Dean took their cue. They too started shouting. Outside, voices answered them. The Indian voices swelled into a loud cry. Fists beat on the door from the outside. Above the others, a voice cried in halting Spanish: 223

“What are you doing in our church! You are defiling our church! Get out—all of you!” Perez ordered, “Keep them quiet, Santos! Can’t you at least keep those simple fools under your thumb? Thought you said this village was the perfect disguise?” Over Dean’s shouts and thumping, and the growing noise from outside, Santos yelled, “I did not count on this.” “Go out and silence them!” Perez’s face was harsh. He had begun to tremble with uncontrollable temper. “Go on, I said!” One of the henchmen said apologetically, “But we don’t want to open the door—they may— Por favor, Perez—” Julio Perez’s face contorted. He pointed his gun. “Go out and calm them!” he screamed. “Do you want them breaking in here? Seeing all this stuff? Santos, you coward, you fool! Are you good for nothing? Are you afraid of only fifty, sixty people? They aren’t the whole Mexican Army! Go out to them!” The Indian leader hesitated. The two henchmen cowered back. Perez raised the gun a little, leveling it at them. The noise outside went on—shouts and crowding footsteps and a pounding on the door until it shook. “Stop the fighting in our church!” came the one 224

man’s cry in Spanish. “They’re trying to storm the door!” Vicki thought. Dean started for the iron-barred door. Perez noticed. He turned away from Santos and yelled at Dean, “Keep away from there or I’ll shoot!” Perez looked sideways at one of the henchman and muttered an order. The man seized Dean unexpectedly from behind, twisting and pinning back his arms in a jujitsu hold. Perez barked at the two girls to get over into a corner. The second henchman moved threateningly toward Vicki and Cissy. And still, from outside, the little Indian village shouted its protests. “Open up,” Perez ordered Santos again. “Do as I say!” “But they will mob me! They believed in me! They elected me and never suspected—” Perez spat out, “What do I care what they believe! You fool!” Meanwhile Cissy glared at the second henchman who crowded her and Vicki into a corner. “Keep away from me!” Cissy said indignantly. The man grinned and shook his head, not understanding, not caring. Without warning, Cissy stamped on his foot. The man yelped and turned on Cissy with surprise and hate in his face. 225

In that one free moment Vicki ran. She tugged and pulled at the iron bars. They gave. She swung the door open. Faces peered in. A knot of Indian men pushed into the room. “You are desecrating our church!” the one man shouted in Spanish for them all. Perez’s gun blazed and cracked right past Vicki’s shoulder. The confusion and yelling in this small, dim room was so great that she could make out nothing clearly. Except Dean’s voice, yelling: “Run! Run for the plane!” “Cissy!” Vicki shrieked. “Where are you?” “Here! Run!” Vicki pushed her way out of the seething room through the crowd of angry villagers toward the dusty square. Cissy was right behind her. She could not see Dean. Was he still caught in there? The angry, unthinking mob could be as dangerous as Perez. A man’s brown face pushed close to Vicki’s and stopped her flight. “What they do to you?” he demanded brokenly. “What they do in there, in our church?” “They wanted to kill us, I think. They—” She broke off to stare at him and the other dazed faces around him. “Don’t you know?” “Know what?” 226

“You haven’t heard of the Santos gang?” she asked incredulously. More faces crowded around. “Santos gang, yes, we hear at market in other town. But who is Santos?” “Your leader,” Vicki said. “No, no! His name is Tiohi.” “Your leader is Santos himself.” The man translated her words to the crowd and the stunned, angry villagers made way for her and turned toward the church, muttering. Vicki saw Dean then. He had pushed his way through the crowd onto the church porch. He seized Vicki and Cissy by the hand. The three ran for all they were worth out of the village and toward the plane. “Perez—Santos—they’ll be mobbed!” Vicki gasped out. “They have it coming,” Dean muttered. “We’ll notify the police—” Cissy, peering over her shoulder, panted heavily as she ran. They made the plane, got into it, and hastily, recklessly, took off. Fifty feet off the ground, a shot grazed the Cub’s tail. Dean kept the plane going, forcing it up. Spiraling, they looked down on the village and saw Santos on the roof of the adobe church, gun in hand, aiming at them once more. 227

CHAPTER XVI

The Double-Rabbit

They flew back safely to Acapulco. There Dean, Vicki, and Cissy hurried to the police station. The police were not surprised: Captain Jordan, suddenly apprehensive about the three young people, had called. The police were already doubly on the alert because of the two robberies, and Ruiz was on the war path. Interstate troopers had been dispatched to the Indian village very shortly after the Piper Cub left. The three Americans were ordered not to return to the Indian village. Neither were they permitted to go now, at noon, to their hotels. Very courteously, but firmly, Vicki, Dean, and Cissy were detained in the Acapulco headquarters of the Mexican interstate police. Nearly an hour went by. Vicki, sitting here in this quiet, sober office, imagined a scene of violence in that village. She shuddered. She hoped—for all that she detested Perez—that the police had arrived in 228

time. Dean sat staring at his hands. Cissy looked sick. None of them had the heart to talk. They waited another hour or more. Then a great roar of motorcycles filled the Acapulco street. Vicki heard curious voices, people running, other voices issuing curt orders. Ruiz, the gray-haired police chief, stomped in, with a look of grim satisfaction. Behind him marched eight young policemen, holding in custody four huddled men. The sauntering prisoner dressed all in white was Julio Perez. Santos and his two henchmen had to be dragged along. More minutes went by. Vicki, Dean, and Cissy were not summoned. They saw the airline official arrive, then the elderly, agitated custodian from Lace House. Captain Jordan came in, saw them, and after giving his name to the clerk, sat down on the narrow wooden bench with them. “Well!” The big pilot was angry with them, trying to hide his concern. “Did you have enough?” “Yes,” said Vicki faintly, “I guess we did.” Ruiz sent a trooper to the door to motion them in. They went into a large office where Ruiz sat at a desk, dominating the room. Perez sulked in a chair at his right. The three Indians were immobile and expressionless as brown statues. A court stenographer unobtrusively took up his place at a table. 229

The proceedings began. It was afternoon when they started, and dusk by the time Ruiz had dragged all the facts from the four stubborn members of the Santos gang. The other persons present were questioned briefly from time to time. No one was permitted to leave this locked office during the long session. The story was this: Santos, the Indian whose true name was Tiohi, was “the village son who had left the village and grown rich.” Gone several years, he returned to dazzle his village and had—somewhat to his surprise—been acclaimed mayor, or leader. He was flattered to be looked up to by his village and for a time Santos honestly fulfilled his trust as a village official. But after a while the prestige of leadership no longer was enough to satisfy his greed. Santos hit on a plan whereby he could hold on to his agreeable position and, at the same time, turn it to account. Rounding up a handful of unscrupulous men—the two henchmen from his own village and a few from surrounding valley settlements—he organized a secret gang to hold up travelers on the lonely mountain roads. The village was perfectly located for such a purpose, since the highway could be reached by foot or by burro, but was far enough out of sight so that the villagers never suspected. No one, in the village or out, guessed that such a gang existed. 230

The occasional robberies went so successfully that Santos grew restless for bigger jobs, a better organized plan. By chance, one day in Acapulco, he met Julio Perez, who for ten years had been working as a hotel manager. Perez was getting nowhere, dissatisfied, drifting, and was willing to listen to any proposition that came along. Santos had a proposition. Since the Santos gang preyed on travelers, especially tourists, it would be useful to them to know which travelers carried wealth, and when and where they were traveling along mountain roads. Perez, being a hotel manager, possessed this information. All Santos asked was that Perez point out the likeliest victims. He would be well paid. Perez accepted. As the money rolled in, from the sale of seized travelers’ goods, Perez began to ask himself why he should work hard at running a hotel, when it was possible to grow rich effortlessly, by racketeering. Little by little he egged the Indians on to bigger, bolder thefts. It was not hard to do: Perez was a man of infinitely more education than these simple, if shrewd, backwoods peasants. It did not take long for Perez to become “brain man” of the gang, and then for the real leadership to pass from Santos to Perez. The first of the really big jobs which Perez conceived and planned, and the Indians executed, had netted them the golden chalice. With childlike 231

delight at his success, Santos superstitiously offered the chalice in thanks to his Aztec god, the DoubleRabbit. Meanwhile, Julio Perez kept his job as manager at the Monte Azul because of the information about travelers which it yielded for the gang. But he kept the job chiefly because it provided a respectable front to hide his racket. Under questioning, Perez admitted that recently, when the police caught two of their men and then went on a man hunt after the Antigua robbery, it looked as if his racketeering was over. Sick with fear, he had hastily decided to marry Anita Vallejo and gain possession of the Monte Azul. But he had wanted the hotel only as an emergency measure, when the easy money seemed to be cut off. It was Perez who had planned, and the Indian gang who had carried out, the robbery at Lace House and the one at Antigua Castle. The mantillas Vicki had seen had been taken from Antigua Castle. Perez now admitted he had presented them to Señora Vallejo to further his mercenary courtship. He risked this because he felt that Anita, always shy, could be intimidated into keeping the mantillas secret. It was Vicki, Perez admitted, “and those two other troublesome Americans, with a plane,” who by poking their noses into the Aztec village spelled the 232

beginning of the end for the Santos gang. On their first visit, Santos had learned that they came from Mexico City, a long distance off, and therefore thought they would never return. Santos did not anticipate the Americans’ transfer of residence to Acapulco. He had merely reported their first visit to Perez. As for the camera which Dean had left behind in the village, Perez was more cautious than Santos. He had the films developed, partly out of curiosity, partly to have a look at the visitors who, Santos reported, snapped each other. Then when Vicki turned up at the Monte Azul, Perez was afraid. Santos had said the Americans were inquisitive about the chalice. Perez, knowing they had gone to the valley once by private plane, feared they might take it into their heads to go again—if only to try to recover the camera. And Perez did not want Vicki ever to make a return visit to the Indian village. For the loot was locked away there, unknown to the villagers. It was brought in secretly under cover of night, hidden in large burlap sacks of grain. Perez planned to smuggle the historic antiques out of the village, out of the country, and sell them abroad. The men mentioned in the telephone conversation Vicki overheard in the next room at the Mexico City hotel, were Perez’s agents for this purpose. They 233

were then being sought for evading customs. When Vicki saw the snapshots on Perez’s desk, she had remarked that she and her two friends would doubtless be flying back into the hidden valley. Perez decided then that Vicki Barr and the pilot Dean Fletcher, with his all-too-nimble plane, had to be put out of the way. At Perez’s order, the Santos gang tried to bring her commercial plane crashing down. The valuable cargo aboard that day was an added plum. But they failed. Perez was so enraged at their failure that he vented his displeasure on the señora, and made Vicki all the more curious and hostile. Then, when Perez overheard Vicki plan the Taxco trip, on the Monte Azul telephone, the Santos gang attempted to waylay her car just outside of Taxco. That failed, too. The day Arroyo telephoned to say he had brought the Piper Cub, Perez began to lose his head. He was already worried sick. Shortly before that, the gang had delivered some of their loot to him at the hotel, a thing he had strictly forbidden. He had taken the stuff to Santos at the café rendezvous, but he knew it was terribly dangerous and a major mistake. (Had he known that Vicki had followed him, he might have taken even more drastic measures.) In his panic, Perez had steamed open the letter from Cissy, thinking that if only he knew more about Vicki and her plans he could figure out what to do. Cissy’s 234

letter had given him just the chance he thought would solve everything. He decided to trick Vicki into taking the hotel car. When, later, Anita showed Vicki the mantillas, Perez knew even more certainly that he must get rid of this troublesome American girl. That night at the fiesta, under cover of the crowd, Perez met one of the two henchmen—whom he regularly met in the Acapulco café. Perez instructed him to have bandits lie in wait for Vicki just outside Ayutla. In the morning Perez had typed a fake telegram and reduced the gasoline supply. He knew the hotel car; he knew that this small amount of gas would be just enough to carry Vicki to the lonely stretch where the Santos gangsters would be waiting for her. Vicki would have to get out and walk. Members of the gang, scattered on foot along the lonely road, would find her before she ever reached Ayutla. The pilot, Dean Fletcher, would be taken care of later. So would Cissy Clayton, if she made trouble. Vicki listened to this with her blood running cold. She looked at Santos. The Indian was obviously frightened. At a sharp question from Ruiz, he admitted he feared the villagers’ anger at the desecration of their church—using a holy place as a cache. Perez answered one more routine question. To 235

reach the almost hidden valley from Acapulco, Perez drove by car—the hotel car or one of the gangsters’ cars—along the highway to the point above where the village lay, two miles below. Usually one of the gang members was there to meet him, with a burro for the rocky descent. If not, Perez struggled down on foot. Perez went seldom, for it was so difficult to get in and out of the village. But its very inaccessibility made it the perfect cache for the stolen treasures. Today Perez, after sending Vicki off to Ayutla on a fool’s errand, had hastened to the Indian village. He felt the noose around his neck tightening. If Vicki was killed, the hotel manager would likely be questioned. If Vicki returned alive, the game was up. Perez had intended never to return to the Monte Azul. He planned to hide out in the Aztec village until agents, with whom he was already in communication, could smuggle his antiques out of Mexico. Then Perez himself was going abroad to sell the treasures, and live the rest of his life on this wealth. Perez had not counted on the three Americans’ returning to the Indian village just when he was so close to success. Yet, he admitted, when they appeared today, he thought it a providential chance to silence them all forever. Thus he had boldly boasted to them, and paraded his wealth. Where 236

Perez had made his mistake was in underestimating the Indian villagers. He had thought of them all along as stupid, spiritless, blind dupes and little better than work animals. He had placed them too low, and himself too high. That was all. Julio Perez and the three Indians—all that remained of the Santos gang since the recent police arrests of other members—were marched away to prison cells. Perez wept as he was led away. Everyone else in the room was dismissed. Vicki overheard Ruiz instruct the police stenographer to send a copy of these minutes to the American Embassy in Mexico City. Vicki wearily followed her two pilots, with Cissy, out into the street. It was tropic twilight, with moonlight streaming on the still-blue Pacific and the west ablaze with red and gold. The four of them stood there, too tired to talk. “Shall we take you up to the Monte Azul?” Captain Jordan offered. “Thank you, but we’ll take a cab,” Vicki replied. “Please go rest, Cap’n. You look as exhausted as the rest of us.” Dean nodded wearily but Cissy said brightly that she wanted to go swimming. “A swim will revive us. Besides, I’ve got a great big chiffon handkerchief. Bet I could catch a fish in it!” 237

“Cissy, you’re unsquelchable,” and Vicki tugged her by the arm to a taxi, calling good-bye to her pilots. At the Monte Azul, the little señora ran into the courtyard to meet them. “You are all right, Vicki? You, Señora Clayton? I have hear. The whole town has hear. Oh, I am so afraid for you.” Vicki murmured that everything was all right. She went to the terrace, the señora and Cissy at her heels, and sank down into a chair in the breeze. The señora anxiously bent over her. “I’m all right, honestly, Anita, I am. But tell me—” “Anything!” Cissy discreetly walked away to lean over the balustrade. “Anita, you don’t feel hurt or—or heartbroken about Perez, now that the truth is out? You weren’t really falling in love with him, were you?” The señora looked ashamed of herself. “I should have listened to you. Even at the moment he gave me the mantillas, something in me said ‘Anita, you are fooling yourself about this Julio.’ I only half believed his soft words. And I believed only because I was so lonely and wanted to believe here was a romance. Like when you know quite well something is not true, but you pretend it is true because—well, 238

because you have nothing better. Fooling yourself.” “You’re well rid of Perez,” Vicki consoled her. The señora nodded. “I know.” They were silent for a few minutes in the gathering dark. “Anita, will you do something for me?” “I should love to do anything at all for you!” “Would you—would you give me the DoubleRabbit? To keep? I’d like to take it home with me, as a memento. I’ll need the Double-Rabbit, back home in the United States, to remind me that these fantastic things actually happened.” Anita ran off in the shadows and presently returned. She pressed into Vicki’s hand a small, cool, clay figure. Vicki laughed under her breath. “The DoubleRabbit. The image of an Aztec god. A savage god to whom human beings were offered as sacrifice. That’s what Perez planned to do to me. Only his god was wealth, wasn’t it?”

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CHAPTER XVII

Adiós! Good-Bye!

On the day Federal Airlines summoned them home, Vicki said a deeply felt good-bye to the little señora. She was sorry but satisfied to leave now that Perez could no longer threaten Anita. In her heart Vicki was saying good-bye to this brilliant seaside town, too. She would never again smell jasmine without remembering the jasmine bush here with its blossoms growing like stars, nor forget the small wine-red carnations of Mexico, laid on quiet altars. Nor would she forget the mariachi singers with their guitars, nor the fiestas, nor swimming in the calm blue Pacific. One dazzling hot morning, with Dean, and Cissy, who had come for another visit, she climbed into the little Piper Cub, bound for Mexico City. As usual, beside their plane, cows grazed in the deep grass. Captain Jordan was riding to Mexico City as a passenger in one of Federal’s silver ships. They waved au revoir to him, and took off. It was just 240

time for the morning swim as their plane rose. Vicki looked down on Acapulco, hating to leave it. When they flew right over the Monte Azul, she saw little Anita on the terrace scanning the sky for them. Dean flew on over La Caleta beach, through all the blueness of sky and water and air. They soared past the first ring of mountains. Acapulco was out of sight. Gone! “What’s the matter?” Cissy asked. “I—nothing. Cissy, you must come to visit me.” “You’ll come back to Mexico. Someday.” Vicki nodded. “And chaperon you,” she joked weakly. Despite all that had happened with Perez, she did want to come back to this beautiful country. Vicki turned, lips parted, suddenly breathless. They were flying into the most fantastic world of clouds. If great fountains had frozen, they might have taken such lovely forms as these—or were these like strange, white-coral shapes that grew on some ocean bottom? A second later, Vicki thought it was a garden of enormous, nebulous flowers, such as never grew on land or sea. “But this is the sky,” she reminded herself, as all her love of flying surged back. Here at noon she was in a different world, a sky-world; she forgot the green earth which had given her birth. Vicki felt as if she had been reborn and existed completely anew in a new element: air. 241

Cissy shook her by the shoulder. “What are you dreaming about?” “It’s this—this cloud ballet.” Cissy fixed her with the same suspicious glance that Ginny so often used. “You’re crazy,” said Cissy affectionately. “Not nearly so crazy as you are!” And Vicki hugged her erstwhile chaperon. Then she turned again to watch out the little plane’s windows. There were simply no words to describe the thrill of flying. Feelings came alive in Vicki for which the earth and sea had never taught her names. “I want to do more flying, lots and lots of it!” She saw, from a distance, the Sleeping Lady and Popo. Their plane passed the legendary lovers. A short time later they were flying low over Mexico City, then landing. Dean left the Piper Cub in the hangar for Juan Arroyo, and they left farewell messages for him. Vicki checked to see that she had the Mexican books, silver bracelets, blouses, huaraches, for which her family had asked— everything except the parrot Ginny had requested. Steve Clayton was at the airport station to meet them. It had to be hello and good-bye, good-bye to Cissy, too, right there at Buena Vista airport For the American crew was scheduled to board immediately a huge airliner which would carry them back to the 242

States. “Adiós! Good-bye!” they all cried. Cissy and Steve remained standing and waving behind the visitors’ wire fence. Vicki, Dean, and Captain Jordan climbed up the gangplank in the sun, stooped through the low door, and found seats in the plane. From her small, curtained window, Vicki waved once more to Cissy. But not for long. The big ship taxied off along the field, found its direction, then glided off and up. The white metropolis below them spread for miles in the sun. Vicki bent to take a last, remembering look at Mexico City. But superimposed on the white, Latin city she seemed to see New York, and the gay, laughing faces of her flight stewardess crowd. And beyond them, in the heart of the United States, she saw Fairview and the faces of her mother and Ginny and her professor father, and Freckles galloping in front of The Castle. Vicki was not sorry to be going home. And yet— and yet— “This was my first trip abroad.” Vicki smiled to herself, as the plane headed north over mountains. “But it won’t be my last! It’s only the beginning.”

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