  As she left the cool shade of that porch, Mary was thinking of just two things, her reunion with the men of the big bomber flight and their plans for the immediate future. One thing surprised her. When they had entered the school an hour before, the sun had been shining brightly. Now it was raining hard. “What a change!” she exclaimed as she and Judy raced for the car. “It’s the start of the rainy season,” Judy explained, once they were inside the car, gliding along. “When it starts it keeps right on. It’s too bad you didn’t arrive a week sooner.” “Why?” “At this season of the year terrible storms sweep over the Himalaya Mountains. You’ve got to cross them, you know.” “Is it very dangerous?” “They say it’s one of the most dangerous passes in the world. Once a flight of five planes with Chinese pilots started over the pass. Not one of them was ever heard of again. “Yes,” Mary thought, “we’ve got a real ship.” For all that, she could not help recalling the many times “real ships,” big passenger planes, had crashed against the stone wall of the Rockies. “The Himalayas are much higher than the Rockies,” she said. “Oh, much higher! One peak has never been scaled. It’s been tried time and again. Many a poor climber is buried beneath their snows.” Mary scarcely heard this last remark for the airport loomed just ahead. Having bidden Judy good-by with a promise to join her again in an hour, she found herself in the midst of a veritable mob of U.S. airmen, who, in their joy at seeing her, threatened to wreck her precious flying hands, squeezed the life out of her and talked her deaf and dumb, all in the same five minutes. After that, order was restored and they led her to a back room. There they set her on a stool to join her in a toast to the god of the Himalayas and the future, drunk with honest-to-goodness American coffee. By the time she managed to drag Sparky into a corner for a private conference, she was quite out of breath. She Cornered Sparky for a Private Conference “We’ll be here for at least another day.” Sparky’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t like it. The rainy season is here. Every day it will get worse. We’ve made it this far alone and, considering the circumstances, got on pretty swell.” “Sure we have, Sparky—just wonderful.” “But orders are orders,” Sparky sighed. “We’re to go over with the rest of the flight.” “That’s so they’ll pull us off a mountain peak in case we get stuck,” Mary suggested. “Something like that. That’s the toughest bit of flying in the whole trip, so everything has to be a little more than all right. Our ship is ready to go right now.” “Thanks to Sparky’s endless hours of toil.” Sparky grinned. “Have it any way you like. The other planes are not ready, won’t be for a day, sooo—” “What about the quinine?” Mary asked eagerly. “I wanted to talk to you about that. There’s time to get over to the Burma line and back before we start.” “Oh! Sparky!” Her eyes shone. “But not with our plane,” he went on. “It’s too risky. The balance of our cargo is the most important part. Our ship must be in first class shape for that last lap.” “Well, we might,” Sparky spoke slowly. “Thing is, I hate to leave our ship and its cargo for a single hour. You know all the things that have happened.” “Yes, Sparky, I know.” Her voice was husky. “We’ve had a lot of luck, Mary.” He hesitated. “Tell you what, you show up here just before dawn tomorrow and we’ll see what can be cooked up.” “I’ll be here, Sparky. And now look! There’s my car waiting for me.” “You’ve made some swell friends.” “I sure have. See you in the morning.” She went racing away. “You look tired,” said Judy when they were once again headed for the school. “How would you like to take a nap in my room for a couple of hours?” “That will be just swell,” said Mary. “By that time it will be early twilight, just the right time to visit the other side of the river.” “Oh, yes, the other side of the river.” “It’s quite different, I assure you. When I am in a strange little world I’ve never seen before, I like to see it all, not just part of it.” “Oh, so do I.” “Well, this time you’ll not see it all. No one has ever seen all of India, but you can see the other side of the river.” When she was awakened, it seemed she had just fallen asleep, but a dash of cold water on her face and a demitasse of very black coffee brought her back to life. “We’ll do the other side,” said Judy. “We’ll not take too long for it. Then we’ll dine in one of those strange, little restaurants. You may not like the food but you’ll like the setting. The fruit is always good and the tea—um!—such tea as you have never before tasted.” “Sounds all right.” “And after that—” “After that I’d like to run over to the airport for just a moment. Won’t take long. Want to check on some things.” Down deep in her heart Mary was hoping that Sparky would have things all fixed for her trip to Burma with the quinine. She really had her heart set on that trip. To visit a real battlefield, to see the men who for months had been fighting in mud and blood for victory. That would be like visiting another world, something she’d never forget. And to be able to tell some of them that she had done a little, just a very little, to bring them new health and happiness. Ah! That surely would bring a thrill. “Why don’t they kill the monkeys?” she asked. “Then there would be more for the people to eat.” “Oh! You can’t do that! If you killed just one monkey you’d be mobbed.” Judy was shocked. “In goodness name! Why?” “The monkeys are sacred. Religion is a potent force to these people. But don’t let’s get started on that. Come on. Let’s go.” Judy hurried on. Each filled with her own, long thoughts they wandered on and on. As the shadows darkened, the streets narrowed. At last they were in the very heart of the city. “Look!” Mary whispered, suddenly gripping Judy’s arm. “See that tall woman in the black dress?” “Yes, a Moslem.” The woman was moving across an open space where the afterglow of the sun brought her out in bold relief. “Does she—would you say there was anything unusual about her?” These words were said by Mary in so tense a whisper that Judy turned to look at her. “How could you know that?” Mary asked in a startled voice. “I teach art and I paint quite a bit. You know an artist, a really good one, makes you conscious of a beautiful figure, even though it is loaded down with robes. It’s the way you sit and stand and move. That woman does not belong here. I’ve never seen anyone like her. There is a spring in her step. Her body is like a tight wire. I’d hate to meet her in the dark. I—” Just then, as if conscious of the fact that she was being talked about, the woman turned and looked back. As if startled, she quickened her pace. To say that Mary was startled and alarmed would be to put it very mildly. She was not dreaming that, here in India, she had come across the Woman in Black, and yet this woman did seem to have something in common with her. It was strange. “Come on!” she whispered. “I want to see—” She did not finish. What did she want to see? Perhaps she did not know. She saw sooner than she wished. The woman had turned a corner. As they appeared, rounding that same corner, she made a sudden movement. Something bright gleamed in her hand. In the nick of time Mary dropped flat. There was a flash, and a report, then a scream. Quicker than any cat, she bent low to escape his grasp, then vanished into a dark and narrow street. After bending over to pick up the woman’s pistol, the man walked toward the girls in long strides. “She almost got you that time, miss,” he spoke gruffly. “Now, what would nice girls like you be doing in such a place as this? And one of you in uniform!” “Say!” His tone changed. “You don’t happen to be the young lady who helped bring that quinine from America?” “That’s who I am,” Mary admitted. “Say! You’re a real hero! Shake!” He gripped her hand until it hurt. “Here,” he said, “take this gun. You may need it.” He held out the pistol. Mary dropped it into her pocket. “What’d she shoot at you for?” he demanded. “It’s a long story.” Mary hesitated. “At least I think it is.” With long, swinging strides he led the way out of the narrow labyrinth of streets. “What were YOU doing back there?” Mary asked, as they neared the river. “Me?” He laughed hoarsely. “That’s a good one. Me, I’m a Flying Tiger. Nobody ever touches a Flying Tiger. They don’t dare!” “A Flying Tiger!” Mary was thrilled. Judy nodded her confirmation. Then she whispered: “That’s what he is and one of the best!” “You’d be honorin’ me if you’d have a bite to eat with me,” said Mary’s new-found friend. “Both of you. I’m Scottie Burns and I’m with an American squadron now.” “It will be a pleasure,” Mary said. “And I’m sure—” “Yes, yes,” Judy hastened to add. “It will be a real joy.” “And will you name the place?” Scottie begged. “I’m not so well acquainted here.” Judy led them to a quiet place run by a native Indian chef, who had spent several years in America and who knew how to prepare Indian food as Americans liked it. It was a jolly and delightful occasion. After some urging Scottie told with laughter and tears of his experiences with the Flying Tigers. “Nobody Dares Touch a Flying Tiger!” “And now,” he turned to Mary, “how about this black-robed lady who wishes you were dead?” “Oh! It’s nothing at all, after what you’ve been telling, but I’ll tell you all the same—” Mary told the story of her journey while Scottie listened with rapt attention. “Young lady!” he exclaimed when she had finished, “you’ve got what it takes!” “I’m only one of the thousands of American women who have joined up to help win the war,” said Mary. “And they’ve all got what it takes.” “Glory be for that!” Scottie exclaimed. “Now I know the fight will soon be over. When the ladies get into Hitler’s hair there’s nothing left but the shouting. “And here’s a secret.” He leaned forward and his eyes shone. “There is talk of sending me to Burma with that quinine early to-morrow morning.” “Oh!” Judy exclaimed. “That wouldn’t be fair. Mary and Sparky should do it. They’ve earned the right.” “Of course it wouldn’t be safe,” Mary stepped in. “I don’t know the route. The quinine is too precious. I wouldn’t think of risking it.” “Of course not,” Judy smiled. “But if Scottie were sent with it and if he were to ask that you be sent along as his co-pilot?” “Oh! I’d accept!” “You would?” Scottie exclaimed. “Then what’s keeping us?” “Only Sparky’s okay!” “And orders from headquarters. I’ll get it all fixed within the hour. Where’s my hat? Oh—oh, yes, waiter! Waiter! Bring the checks!” With the least possible ceremony and no apology, Scottie paid the charge and bounded from the room. “A Flying Tiger!” Judy exclaimed. “He flies even when he’s on the ground.” “All the same, I like him a lot.” Mary’s eyes shone. “Who wouldn’t? I envy you. That will be something to remember—the trip.” “Everything we do is something to remember,” said Mary. “That’s why I like flying.” “If I had the flying hours I’d resign tomorrow and join the WAFS.” “I’ll think about it,” Judy replied soberly. They left the place to wander slowly back toward the school. As they crossed the long bridge, the dark waters of the river sweeping beneath them seemed to whisper of the thousands who had swarmed its banks since time began. “Do you know,” said Mary, “I am obsessed with a strange notion that this black-robed woman who shot at me tonight is a French woman I saw at the port we reached after we had flown the Atlantic.” “In North Africa!” Judy exclaimed. “That’s impossible.” “Yes, I suppose so but I seem to have been haunted by women in black all the way.” “That’s possible and it is also possible that they were all spies.” “But they were all so very much alike,” Mary insisted. “That,” said Judy, “is even probable. I have a friend, here in India, who is a counter-spy. He told me once that women spies were all very much alike, that is, the successful ones were. They are smart, he says, keen in their own way, usually well educated and all that. Their smartness is like the smartness of a dagger, if you can say a dagger is smart.” Judy paused to reflect. “Smart and beautiful,” said Judy. “I have a friend who has a collection of what he calls ‘beautiful daggers.’ They are beautiful too, hilts of gold, some with pearls set in silver, mother-of-pearl handles and a lot more. But they all have one thing in common, an ugly, dangerous blade. Women spies are alike, I suppose, in very much the same way. That’s why this one seems like the others.” “Probably so,” Mary agreed. “But say! I’d like to go over and see Sparky before we go to bed. He might have something more to tell me.” “I’ll drive you over,” Judy volunteered. “It’s all fixed, Mary,” were Sparky’s first words to her when she reached the airport. “That Flying Tiger, Scottie, will fly with you to Burma first thing in the morning.” “Scottie’s a fast worker.” Mary was pleased. “He sure is, and a good one. They say he’s downed more Japs than anyone in China, and he’s barely twenty-two.” “Twenty-two years old!” She stared. “That’s right. They grow old fast over here. But he’ll turn young again when this is over.” “Sparky,” her voice dropped, “if I shouldn’t come back, you can get a good co-pilot to go with you on that last lap to our journey’s end.” “Oh! So that’s the way it is,” Mary laughed. “You bet your life, it is. We’re going to finish this thing, you and I. “But I want you to go with Scottie,” he added. “You’ve had a lot of grief on this trip. I want you to see just how worthwhile it is.” “Thanks, Sparky.” Her voice went husky. Their hands met in a good stout grip. A half hour later Mary crept between cool, white sheets in the teachers’ home at the school, prepared for a good sleep before the dawn of one more big day. |
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