Puzzle of the Pepper Tree Read Free Page B

her lap. Suddenly the starboard windows showed that they were dropping along the steep slope of a bright green mountain. As if to make up for her bronco-like antics in the air, the Dragonfly came to rest on the water in the lee of the cliff softly as a tired sea gull.
    A little ahead of them Phyllis saw a half-moon of beach, bisected by a concrete runway that led up to a cheerful little yellow building, bright with colored tiles and landscaped gardens. Beyond the gardens waited an open bus, a bright red bus with a sprinkling of brightly dressed people aboard.
    Even the green-blue water through which the Dragonfly nosed her way was several shades more brilliant than other water, and the fish which darted away on either side were a bright yellow gold in color.
    French brushed past Phyllis again and knelt to spin the crank which dropped two gray rubber doughnuts of landing gear. With a precision that was beautiful to watch, Chick rolled the dripping amphibian up the runway and out upon a concrete turntable. He roared the motors once and then cut them dead.
    French ran swiftly back along the aisle and unlocked the door in the rear. Then he looked at his watch.
    “Sixteen minutes running time,” he announced. “One at a time please, going out.”
    Obediently the passengers filed out, singly. Forgotten was their common discomfort, their common sympathy and terror. French, standing on the cement, helped them to alight, and saw that each took his own baggage.
    Phyllis was last, and she came down the step with a bag in one hand and a black case in the other which showed a frantic muzzle behind its wire window.
    She put both bags into the hands of the waiting bus driver, turning a deaf ear to the eager whines for freedom. She was looking back, over her well-rounded shoulder, and her eyes were filled with a vague alarm as they met those of the young pilot.
    “The man—the man who said he didn’t want to die! He doesn’t get up!” Her voice was puzzled.
    French stared at her and then went slowly up and into the cabin, just as Chick appeared in the doorway of the pilots’ room, pulling off his gloves. Together they bent over the man in the brown sport outfit, who had ceased to strain against his bonds.
    He hadn’t wanted to die, but he was dead.

CHAPTER II
    U P A SLOPING WALK of varicolored tile moved the passengers of the Dragonfly, through the landscaped formal garden with its fountain, stone benches, and gay sun-brellas, toward the waiting red bus at the gate. Their transient unity was gone—the kaleidoscope had shaken, and this scattered design of humanity had rearranged itself.
    Leading the way, a stained canvas sea bag at his side, was the freckled man with the bright blue eyes. He walked with a swing, glanced neither at the looming mountains nor at the picturesque Spanish villa which served as an office, and spoke to nobody.
    Behind him, hand in hand, was the young couple—the girl with the red curls and the youth with the rapt expression and the slickened hair. They were gazing at the dark hump of mighty Mount Orizaba to the west, but they did not see it.
    Fourth, fifth, and sixth in the scattered procession came the three men in turtleneck sweaters—the great Ralph O. Tate ahead, carrying a cigarette, and his henchmen close behind, carrying suitcases, brief cases, and still cameras. The seventh was the paunchy T. Girard Tompkins, whose elk’s tooth swung wildly as he strode along.
    Last came Phyllis La Fond, plaid skirt whipping in the wind. She was still looking back over her shoulder—looking down to the smooth slope of concrete where the Dragonfly was poised on its turntable.
    As she watched, the white-uniformed figure of Lew French appeared in the door of the plane. His mouth was open. He dropped to the ground, and then set out for the yellow villa at a ludicrous trot. Almost immediately he reappeared and trotted back to the plane, with an older man in a blue uniform and carpet slippers in tow.
    As she stood