Five minutes later, Bill looked down from his seat in the rear cockpit and saw that she was going to land near the tennis courts in the broad parking space behind the cabanas at the beach club. The members had become used to seeing her land Will-o’-the-Wisp on the club grounds. Their descent therefore caused little or no notice. The plane stopped rolling and a man in the club uniform of a beach attendant ran up.
“Hello, Jeffries,” waved Bill. “I thought you might be here. How are things?”
“We caught Donovan and Charlie Myers over at Babylon. But they’re small fry. Anything new, Bolton?”
Bill got out of the plane and helped Dorothy to descend.
“I should say there is! Tell you about it in a minute. Dorothy, let me present Mr. Arthur Jeffries, one of the very big men of the United States Secret Service. Arthur, this is the famous Dorothy Dixon!”
Arthur Jeffries said some polite things which caused Dorothy to blush modestly, and in a few pithy sentences Bill told the story of their afternoon.
“So you see, old man,” he ended. “You won’t have to wait around this club any longer disguised as a goldfish or what have you—because the bearded aviator won’t fly the Mystery Plane over here any more—that is to say—not for twenty years or so at the soonest.”
“He’ll get all that or more,” Jeffries commented crisply. “But the man he worked for—sunning himself over there on the sand—old Holloway, I mean—he’s the nigger in the woodpile! The boss of this gang of diamond smugglers—but I can’t arrest him on that evidence!”
Dorothy made an eager gesture. “Will you come with me—I want to show you two something. We’ll go around the far side of that big cabana on the end of the boardwalk. We’re going inside.”
“Holloway’s bath house?” This from Bill.