Riddle of the Storm

Curlie Carson’s eyes widened first with surprise, then with downright terror. His ears were filled with the thunder of a powerful motor. Yes, he heard that. But what did he see? That was more important. A powerfully built monoplane with wide-spreading wings was speedily approaching. Even through the swirl of snow all about him he could see that the plane was painted a solid gray.

“The ‘Gray Streak’!” he murmured.

Could it be? What tales he had heard of this mysterious plane! During his three weeks of service on the Mackenzie River Air Route in northern Canada, extravagant tales had reached his ears. “This gray plane bears no identification mark, no name, no letters, no numbers. It swoops down upon some lone cabin, robs the owner of food and blankets, and is away. It is a phantom ship, a Flying Dutchman of the air. No pilot at the stick!” What had he not heard?

But now—now it was directly over him. Cold terror gripped his heart. A part, at least, of the reports was confirmed; the plane carried no insignia. No name, no letter, no number gave it identification. And these were required by law.

“The ‘Gray Streak’,” he murmured again.

His fear increased. The plane was flying low along the river. He was standing close to his own plane, the one entrusted to his care by the Midwest Airways. It was a superb creation, and almost new. Suppose this stranger, the man of mystery, outlaw perhaps, should drop to the smooth surface of the river’s ice and compel him to exchange planes!

“Suppose only that he should descend to rob me of my cargo!” His heart raced. It was a valuable cargo and had come a long way by air.

While these terrifying possibilities were passing through his mind, the plane moved steadily onward. He was able to study every detail: her skids, her wings, her cabin, her motor.

The drumming of her motor did not diminish.

“They are passing!” he whispered. “Thank God, they are going on. I—”

His words were checked at sight of some white object that, whirling with the wind, seemed at first a very large snowflake.

“But no. It—it’s—”

He was about to dive forward in pursuit of it when an inner impulse born of caution caused him to halt.

Dividing his attention between the vanishing plane and the fluttering object, he stood for a space of seconds motionless. Then, as the snow-fog closed in upon the plane, he dashed forward to retrieve a small square of cloth.

“A handkerchief!” He was frankly disappointed.

“But—a woman’s handkerchief.” His interest quickened. One did not associate a woman with this mystery plane.

“Perhaps, after all, it’s a boy’s,” he told himself. “But a boy? One—”

His eyes had caught a mark in the corner. There were words written there, very small words.

Hurrying to his airplane, he climbed into the cabin; then, switching on a powerful electric torch, he studied the words.

“I am a captive,” he read.

And beneath this was a name: “D’Arcy Arden.”

“D’Arcy,” he murmured. “What a strange name! Would it be a boy or a girl?”

For a long time he sat staring at that square of white, trying at the same time to patch together the rumors that had come to him regarding this mystery ship of the air.

“No use,” he told himself. “Can’t make head nor tail of it.”