Norma Leaned Over Close, Talking Low
Norma Leaned Over Close, Talking Low
Norma Leaned Over Close, Talking Low
“Just left it in the air?”
“I thought she was going to tell me later, but then she appeared to change her mind. How would you explain it?” Norma asked. There was an eager note in her voice. She really wanted it explained.
“Fascinated by airplanes, perhaps,” was the slow reply. “Some people are that way. Climb in, you know. Touch something here, another there, and away they go. Children often do that with a car.”
“But Rosa’s not a child!”
“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Betty said after a moment’s thought. “We’ve got a real job to do. We can’t have things going wrong. But Lena,” she suggested. “She never did anything as bad as that, did she?”
“Perhaps yes, and perhaps no. Let me tell you. Then you be the judge.” Norma leaned close. “I followed Lena and the Spanish hairdresser into a place as dark as a stack of black cats.”
“You didn’t!”
“I certainly did.”
“Then what happened?”
“The door silently locked itself.”
Betty caught her breath. “What chances you take!”
“I just sort of walked into that one.” Norma sighed. “There were voices. Then I saw a hand. The hand gripped my arm until it hurt. A man’s rough voice said something. He was very angry.”
“And then?” Betty breathed.
“All of a sudden his voice changed. He was humble, apologetic. He said, ‘You are one of the lady soldiers. You came here by mistake perhaps.’”
“But how could he know you were a WAC?”
“Only by the feel of the material in my WAC coat. Wasn’t that strange!”
“Perhaps he’d been a tailor. It’s wonderful the things you can do by the sense of touch when your hands are trained.”
“He let me out,” Norma said quietly.
“And you never went back?”
“Never!”
“We’ll watch Lena, too,” Betty said.
“If there’s a traitor in our ranks, it’s Lena.”
“You can’t be sure of that. In a murder mystery, it’s always the one you least suspect.”
“Yes, but in a murder mystery you always have a murder. What has Lena done that she could be arrested for?”
“Nothing that we know about. All the same, we’ll watch her. We’ll watch them both.”
Just then Lieutenant Warren’s voice rang out. “Our station is next. Get your coats on. And don’t forget your parcels.”
At Indian Harbor Betty whispered, “Lots of hard work and some little adventure.”
“Or perhaps the other way round,” Norma laughed low.
The train came to a jolting stop and they all piled off. “Indian Point!” Lena exclaimed. “So this is it! But where’s the city?”
“It’s not quite a city,” Lieutenant Warren said. “Two thousand people in summer, one thousand in winter, I should say. But there are year-round stores and shops.”
“And a beauty parlor?” Lena asked.
“Oh, yes, I should guess so. At least a hairdressing establishment.”
At that both Norma and Betty laughed. Lena gave them a sharp look.
Two large ancient cars appeared, together with a truck. Their bags were piled into the truck; they crowded into the cars and were driven away.
“Harbor Bells, that’s the name of our little hotel,” their leader explained. “And they call the building where we’ll be working the Sea Tower.”
“What fascinating names!” Betty exclaimed.
“You’ll find them as fascinating as their names,” Lieutenant Warren prophesied.
“And there’s the sea!” Norma exclaimed. “How I shall love it!”
“It comes almost to our door when there’s a storm. And the Sea Tower really gets its feet wet.”
The road twisted and turned, first along the rocky slope, then above the edge of a beach that Norma thought must be grand in summer.
“There it is!” Lieutenant Warren exclaimed as they rounded a turn. “There’s our Harbor Bells!”
Just as she said this their ears were treated to a shock—a great booming roar shook the silent air.
“Good grief!” Millie exclaimed. “Are we being bombed?”
“Not yet,” Lieutenant Warren laughed. “That came from the fort up there on the cliffs, two miles away. You can see just a little of its wall from here.”
“One gun salute for us,” Norma suggested.
“Hardly that. Probably a practice shot. They don’t waste shots like that on a handful of WACs.”
At that they all laughed. And here they were at the gate of Harbor Bells.
Leaving their bags to be brought in by the truck driver and his assistants, they paired off and marched soldierwise up the broad sloping path to the wide veranda of the hotel.
Above the door hung five bells of different sizes.
“Oh! Harbor Bells!” Betty exclaimed.
Seizing a small wooden hammer that lay on the ledge, she struck the bells one at a time. Then, as they all stood by enchanted, she played in a simple manner a tune they all loved:
“Sweet evening bells, sweet evening bells,How many a tale their music tells.”
“Sweet evening bells, sweet evening bells,How many a tale their music tells.”
“Sweet evening bells, sweet evening bells,How many a tale their music tells.”
“Sweet evening bells, sweet evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells.”
“Glorious Harbor Bells!” Norma exclaimed.
Harbor Bells, as they discovered very quickly, was no ordinary summer hotel. It had been built for both summer and winter. In the rich days when people had plenty of gasoline, tired business men from far and wide drove to Harbor Bells for the weekend.
Mrs. Monahan, the proprietor, was a rare cook. Her clam chowder, swordfish steaks, and home-fried chicken were famous.
“And this,” said Lieutenant Warren after she had explained all this, “is Mrs. Monahan herself. She’s agreed to stay with us and take care of us for a while, at least.”
“Sure, an’ if ye can stand to have me about!” Mrs. Monahan, a round, red-faced lady, let out a cackling laugh.
“We’ll stand you for the duration if you’ll only stay,” the Lieutenant exclaimed.
At Harbor Bells there was both a large and a small dining room, with a huge fireplace, and plenty of cozy rooms upstairs. When the girls had eaten a hearty meal of fried swordfish steak, baked potatoes, blueberry pie, and coffee, and had settled themselves in their rooms, they were for the most part ready for a good long sleep.
Not so Norma and Betty. Mrs. Monahan had kindled a fire on the open hearth. Before this theydragged large, comfortable chairs and settled themselves for a good chat.
“This,” said Betty, “is the real thing! But boy! Is it going to be hard to work here! It’s too much like Natoma Beach in Florida. Dad has a shack down there. Oh, quite a place! And that’s where we have our fun—or did, before the war.”
“We have a shack—a real one,” Norma said. “Nothing fancy—not even a fireplace, just a big kitchen stove—up on Isle Royale, in Lake Superior. It’s really grand!” There was a pause.
“Work?” she murmured. “Oh, I guess we’ll work right enough, and hard.”
“You’re just right you will!” It was Lieutenant Warren who spoke.
“Oh!” Norma exclaimed. “Let me drag you up a chair.”
“No. Sit still. I’ll get it.”
“No! No!”
In the end they all took a hand at bringing up the chair.
“Umm! I like this!” Lieutenant Warren murmured.
“Who wouldn’t?” Betty exclaimed.
“And you’ll love the Sea Tower.”
“I’m eager to see it,” said Norma.
“You know,” Lieutenant Warren mused, “every time I settle down in a new place I feel an urge to tell a story of a rather strange thing that happenedto me in India. It’s a spy story, really, although it didn’t start out that way.”
“India!” Betty exclaimed.
“A spy story!” came from Norma. She gave the Lieutenant a searching look.
“Does it have a moral for young WACs?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then please tell it to us,” Norma urged.
“Just after I finished college,” Lieutenant Warren began, “a friend secured a position for me as a teacher of English in a high-class school for British girls, in India.
“The school was located close to a fort, very much like Fort Des Moines, only much larger. Ten thousand British troops were stationed there.
“On my way over I had taken many pictures and wanted to get them developed and printed. I was told that a very good German photographer had a shop facing the army parade ground, so I hunted him up.
“‘Oh, no! I couldn’t do your pictures!’ he exclaimed when I suggested it. ‘I am far too busy. Besides, amateurs, they never take good pictures. Never! Especially young women! Their pictures are always horrible!’
“I didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at him and then at his studio. It was a remarkable studio. Every inch of the wall was covered with pictures—remarkable pictures, too. All the leadingBritish officers were there, and rich rulers of India, too. And there were pictures of wild animals in the jungle, elephants, tigers, and water buffalo.
“Did you do all these?” I asked.
“‘Yes, and many, many more. You see, Miss, I am really very famous as a photographer.’
“He was a remarkable man. His hair was white, and stood straight up. And his face was lined but round and smooth—unnatural, as if it might have been made up for a stage performance.
“‘And you won’t do my pictures?’ I asked him.
“‘I can’t waste my time and money on such rubbish,’ he fairly fumed.”
“I can just see him.” Betty laughed. “But did he do the pictures?”
“Oh yes. I was young then, and usually got my way. I told him that at least he wouldn’t be wasting his money, for I meant to pay him. So he said:
“‘Oh, all right! Bring them in and we shall see!’
“Well.”—Lieutenant Warren leaned back in her chair. “My father was a good amateur photographer, he had taught me how to take pictures. My pictures came out very well. This eccentric photographer, who hadn’t had time for me, complimented me.”
“And after that,” Norma laughed, “Herr Photographer was one of your best friends.”
“Not quite that. But he did make many pictures and took an unusual interest in showing me his treasures.”
“And that was how you discovered he was a spy?” suggested Betty.
“Well, yes—and no. Truth is, when I left India I had not the slightest notion that he was a spy.”
“Then how in the world—” Norma broke in.
“Now—now!” the Lieutenant exclaimed mockingly. “No turning to the back of the book.”
“But to make a long story short,” she went on, “this photographer had a beautiful place back up in the hills. Once he took me there in his car. It was a gorgeous estate. Palm trees, rare birds, a fountain fed by springs, and a house built of teakwood.
“Back of the house were dovecotes where many rare varieties of pigeons billed and cooed. Some were jet black, the only black ones I’ve ever seen.
“Dogs! He had a dozen of them. Some of them really looked ferocious. And there were monkeys staring at you from the trees.”
“Regular menagerie.” Norma drawled.
“Yes, just that. And all for a purpose.”
“What came of it?” Norma asked.
“Well,” Miss Warren went on, “he made many pictures for me. We became quite good friends. He helped me and complimented me often.
“For all that he appeared to be a very strange person. He took pictures if it suited his fancy. If not, he refused. Some stuffy old grand dame wanted to sit for a picture and he refused to do the work. Then too he was away for weeks at a time. How he couldsupport his shop and that mansion in the hills with so little real work I could never understand.
“In summer, when it was hot, I went to stay in a very lovely resort high up in the mountains. The resort keeper wrote Herr Photographer, asking him to come up and take some pictures. His reply was:
“‘Miss Rita Warren is with you. She can take them as well as I.’”
“And were you flattered!” Betty laughed.
“Naturally. I went to see him as soon as I returned. He was very cordial. ‘Come,’ he said, taking my hand as if I were a child. ‘I have a picture to show you. It is, I think, a masterpiece.’
“He led me into a fairly large room and switched on a light. There were three objects in the room—a large picture in a dull gilt frame, and two very ordinary chairs.
“‘Sit here,’ he said, ‘it is the best light.’ I sat down.
“‘You know,’ he said, ‘that this part of India was once ruled by the French. Far up in the mountains is one of their ancient churches. I found this picture in the tower of that church. I think it is a Madonna by Godin.’
“I had studied art in college and was inclined to agree with him.
“One thing that struck me as strange was that in the background, on a large rock, sat three black pigeons. Then too, in many places there were overtonesof color that did not appear to belong there. Strangest of all, there were in places faint suggestions of geometric figures.
“He read the look on my face. ‘I am now restoring it,’ he explained.
“‘Well, I don’t like your part of the work!’ I had spoken without thought.
“This appeared to offend him. Or did it? I couldn’t quite tell.
“He let a cloth fall over the picture. Then with a look that seemed to say: ‘You may know too much,’ he led me from the room. That look puzzled me for a long time.”
“But it doesn’t any more,” Norma suggested.
“Bright girl!” Lieutenant Warren exclaimed. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Why? What happened?” Betty asked.
“Well. I left India and returned to America. I heard nothing from my photographer for a long, long time. Then England and Germany went to war.
“One day I had a letter from a friend in India. In it she said, ‘You know that photographer who took such a shine to you? Well, he’s dead. The British jerked him up and shot him as a master spy.’”
“Oh!” Norma breathed.
“End of romance,” Betty exclaimed.
“Oh, it wasn’t quite that, but I was shocked, to think that I could be so dumb. Those pigeons were,of course, for carrying messages all over India to his fellow-spies. The dogs were to ward off strangers.”
“And the pictures?” Norma questioned.
“I never found out about that for certain.” Lieutenant Warren rose. “However, I have been told that pictures such as those are often shipped from place to place to convey secret information. Each bit of ‘restoring,’ as they call it, means something. Properly coded, that picture could tell a whole lot.
“Well,” she sighed. “He’s dead. But he was rather good fun while he lasted.” The three girls looked into the fire in silence.
“Millie is our bugler,” Lieutenant Warren suddenly said, as she started for the stairs. “When you hear that bugle you’ll know what it means.”
“Breakfast, then work,” Norma said.
“Yes, and lots of it. You get two weeks of hard training. Then you take over.” She was gone.
“Do you suppose she suspects we’re natural-born spy chasers?” Norma whispered.
“Can’t tell.” Betty whispered back. “But jeepers! If she didn’t know that man was a spy, what about us?”
“We’ve not even got a clue.” Norma agreed. “And, yet—” She did not finish.
Betty went at once to her room, but Norma, having caught a gleam of light through a window, stepped out on the porch for a look at the moon.
To one who sees it for the first time, the moon casting shadows over the rugged cliffs and painting a path of gold across the sea is a gorgeous sight.
Slipping silently to the top of the steps leading to the path, she stood there in the shadows.
Then, for some reason, or perhaps none at all—she snapped on the flashlight she held in her hand to paint her own path of gold down the gravel walk.
Then it was that she got a shock, for there, half hidden by the broad stone post of the street wall stood a man. He wore no hat. White hair gleamed over a round face. In his hand he held a black box with a reflector at the top, the sort of camera used most by newspaper men and other professionals.
To say that she was startled would be to put it mildly. This mood ended quickly, for the man snapped at her in the voice of an angry dog:
“Keep your light to yourself! This is a public street. I’ll stand here as long as I choose.”
Turning about, the girl marched back into the hotel. She was trembling all over.
“Right out of that story,” she whispered. “Halfway round the world.”
As she climbed the stairs she thought. “I’ll not tell a soul. I didn’t really see him—just imagined it.”
As if to verify this, she went to her window and looked down. The moonlight was brighter now. There was no one by the gate. And yet, cold reason told her she had seen that man beside the pillar.
The Sea Tower was all that could be desired. To Norma’s romantic young mind it offered both comfort and romance.
“It used to be a lighthouse,” the young sergeant, who led them up the stairs next morning, explained. “There are dangerous shoals off shore around Black Knob Island. Fishing boats have often been wrecked there in storms. Now there are modern lights to the north and south of us.”
“I saw one flashing from the north,” Millie put in.
“That’s Fisherman’s Home light. The light in this tower was taken out long ago. It’s been empty for a long time.”
“And now it’s been all fixed up for us, like Mrs. Hobby’s stables.” Norma laughed.
“You going to work here?” the sergeant asked in surprise.
“Sure enough!”
“Well, blow me down!” He stared for a moment—then without further comment, led them to a large circular room where three officers and six enlisted men were working with maps, charts, andtypewriters.
“You won’t be working here,” the Major in command explained. “We just want you to see it. I’m Major Henry Stark. Sort of in charge here, you might say.”
He was a big man, not at all pompous, nor soft, either. His was a friendly smile.
“Want you to take the thing quite seriously from the start,” he said. “Look at that map. We’re way up here. Not close to any cities. Rather unimportant post, you might say.
“But look at this globe.” He whirled a large globe around, then put his finger on a spot. “That’s Norway. Here’s Greenland. Planes coming from Norway to bomb Boston, New York, or Pittsburg would pass right over this post.”
“We’d be the first to spot them,” said Betty.
“That’s the truth, Miss. And no mistake. So—” he let out a big breath—“we are important. Mighty important.” He let that sink in.
“Lieutenant Warren tells me you’re all serious-minded gals. Gals.”—he laughed—“That’s what she called you. That’s fine. I take it she spoke the truth, and if so, we can use you.”
“I—I hope so,” Norma spoke for the group.
“We can, all right! Just wait and see!” he exclaimed.
There was little of adventure or romance in the days that followed for, as in Fort Des Moines, they were hard at work learning the tasks that lay ahead. Up at five forty-five each morning, they were glad enough to creep into their fine, warm beds at nine-thirty each night.
“Take a Look at This Globe,” the Major Said
“Take a Look at This Globe,” the Major Said
“Take a Look at This Globe,” the Major Said
During the first week they worked only during the day. They were being instructed, that was all. Eventually they would be divided into three eight-hour shifts, and the task of watching would go on and on round the clock. When the work really started in earnest, Norma, Millie, and Rosa were to work in one shift. Norma would be in charge of marking maps and charts; Millie would manage the switchboard and receive calls; Rosa’s job was to carry messages and be on the alert for any task.
In the second shift Betty took Norma’s place. A girl named Mary ran the switchboard, and Lena took Rosa’s place.
The third shift was made up of the remaining girls of the squad.
Saturday, with its half-holiday, arrived. Norma and Betty rented bicycles and went for a joyous ride into the country. Norma, who had stocked up on films, took many interesting pictures, but on Major Stark’s suggestion, avoided all military subjects.
It was because they were, as yet, working only in the daytime that an exciting event occurred that threatened disaster. One morning as the WACs were enjoying their wheatcakes, Vermont maple syrup, and coffee, Major Stark came walking intothe room.
“Good morning, Major Stark,” Lieutenant Warren exclaimed. “You’re just in time. I’ll have a plate set on for you.”
“Thanks, very much.” The Major’s smile was slow. “I’ve had my breakfast. It’s your young ladies I wished to talk about. Now, zeal is a commendable virtue. But I really can’t have them coming to the Sea Tower demanding further education near midnight. It’s a bit demoralizing and, besides, that is the most important hour of all.”
“But I don’t understand,” Miss Warren looked puzzled. Turning to the girls she said:
“Which of you went to the Sea Tower after hours?”
Not a girl spoke.
“Do you see, Major?” She smiled. “Not one was there.”
“But are they all here now?”
“Yes, all here.”
“Then it was the ghost of a WAC, for Tom, my most trustworthy sergeant, told me a woman in a WAC uniform and with her identification card all correct, was at the Tower for an hour learning about charts and other matters last night. She looked dark and sort of Spanish,” he said.
They all looked at Rosa, but Rosa shook her head.
“She was in bed,” Lena stated simply. “We’re roommates.”
“And besides, she doesn’t look Spanish,” said the Major. “Well, there’s a mystery for you. I’ll send for Tom at once.”
Norma leaned over to whisper in Betty’s ear:
“The Spanish hairdresser!”
Betty nearly fell off her chair.
They were all in the big living room when the Major returned with a good-looking young sergeant.
“Now then, Sergeant,” he challenged. “Which one was it?”
Sergeant Tom looked them over carefully, then replied:
“None of these, sir.”
“Well now, Tom, make up your mind!” The Major’s temper was rising. “You’ve been saying one was up there, and now you say—”
“There was a WAC uniform with a lady in it at the Tower last night!” Tom insisted.
“But don’t you know all these ladies, Tom?”
“No, Major. I don’t. I work at night, you know.”
“So all the soldiers don’t know all the WACs?” the Major exclaimed. “We’ll fix that. We’ll hold a dance.”
Then suddenly his face purpled. “By thunder!” he exclaimed. “It’s happened! A lady spy in a WAC uniform! It was bound to be that way. But why must we be her first victims! Tom, how much did you tell her?”
“To tell the truth. Major,” Tom smiled sheepishly, “I didn’t tell her much—at least nothing of importance. The truth is, sir, some of us boys sort of feel that having the girls around—well, sir—that’s fine. But when they start doing our work—”
“Then you didn’t tell her about secret devices and all that?” the Major broke in.
“Not a thing that she couldn’t have gotten out of a book.”
“That’s fine!” the Major exclaimed. “Glad to see you so cautious.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Tom. “But this is my time for sleeping. I’ll see you all at the dance.” He grinned broadly as he went out.
“This thing must be looked into at once,” said the Major. “I’ll have a man in for that purpose. I shall need your help.”
“We’ll give you every assistance possible,” said Lieutenant Warren.
At that the Major bowed himself out. Fresh coffee was poured, and the meal resumed.
“How terrible!” Millie exclaimed.
“The Spanish hairdresser,” Norma whispered to Betty once more.
Late that afternoon the Major returned, bringing with him a bright-eyed little man who called himself Mr. Sperry.
“Mr. Sperry wishes to know,” he explained, “if any of you can give him a clue regarding the younglady who undoubtedly is masquerading in a WAC uniform.”
“That’s it,” the little man cackled. “Just that. The sergeant in charge tells me she had an identification card—forged, no doubt. Have any of you, by chance, lost your card?”
There followed a hasty delving into purses and pockets. Each girl held up her card.
“Ah, yes! I see! All quite in order. I suggest that fresh photographs of these ladies be taken—each young lady in uniform—and that they be placed on identification cards. These should bear your signature. Your men are acquainted with that signature?”
“Every man,” the Major agreed. “The pictures shall be taken. There’s a good photographer—excellent man, but eccentric—at Granite Head. Lieutenant Warren, have your young ladies ready at nine tomorrow. I shall send cars for them.”
“Now,” exclaimed the little man, dancing about. “Any of you know a young lady who wears her black hair high, and has rather slanting Spanish eyes?”
“Here?” Norma asked.
“Anywhere.”
“There was one at Fort Des Moines,” Norma hesitated. “But that—that’s a long way off.”
“Was she in training?”
“No. One of our hairdressers.”
“Ah!” The little man whistled between his teeth.“Just the type! You haven’t seen her here?”
“No.”
Mr. Sperry asked the other girls about the hairdresser. Some recalled her and some did not. Watching out of the corner of her eye, Norma thought she saw Lena start as her name was called.
“Oh, yes. I remember her,” she said in a low drawl. “She did my hair many times. She was really good. But I don’t see—”
“No, of course not.” the little man snapped. “That’s not to be expected.”
At that he closed his notebook and indicated by a nod that he had finished.
“The jeeps will be here at nine.” said the Major.
“The girls will be ready,” replied Lieutenant Warren.
“Oh, I just remembered something!” Norma exclaimed in a whisper a short time later.
“What was that?” Betty asked.
“I took a few pictures at Des Moines, but never had the film finished.”
“Well?” Betty drawled.
“One was a picture of that Spanish hairdresser, just as she passed through the gate. Just a snap, but in bright sunlight. It should be good.”
“That might be something.”
“Sure, Mr. Sperry could show it to Sergeant Tom for identification. I have three films now. I’ll take them to that photographer tomorrow.”
Next morning at nine the girls, all but Lena, who had obtained permission to ride ahead on a bike, piled into two jeeps and were driven away to the photographer’s studio.
The moment Norma stepped into the studio she had a strange feeling that she had seen it before. Its walls were crowded with pictures, many of them officers in uniform—from the fort above their post, she guessed. Then too, there were ship’s officers, some of them from the United States and British Navies. There were pictures from the wilds of Maine and Canada as well, wolves prowling over the snow, a moose charging up from the waters of a lake, and many others. There were many wonderful pictures in the collection and she was charmed at the thought of having her films developed and printed here.
If the studio had been a surprise, the proprietor, as he came bustling into the room, was a great shock. His hair was white and bristling. His face was lined in spite of its round softness. It was he whom she had seen at the gate of Harbor Bells, he who had growled at her because she threw her light uponhim.
“Good grief!” she whispered to Betty. “I hope he doesn’t recognize me!”
“Recognize you?” Betty murmured in surprise.
“Shish!” Norma warned. She had never told Betty of that other encounter.
In her hand she held the films she wished developed. “Will you do these for me?” she asked.
“Amateur work!” he exclaimed. “Bah! What do amateurs know about pictures, especially young women? No! I cannot waste my time and money.”
“But you’ll not be wasting your money.” Norma felt like one speaking a piece. “I expect to pay you for them.”
“Put them down there on this table,” he replied rudely. “We shall see.”
“And now—” His voice took on a professional tone. “You are soldiers, is it not so?”
There came a murmured “Yes—yes.”
“Lady soldiers! Ha—ha—ha! This is delightful! And I am to take your pictures. No retouching. Is it not so?”
“That’s right.” It was Betty who spoke.
“Then you will not be very beautiful in these pictures.” He laughed again.
“They are for identification cards.” Norma said—a suggestion of irritation creeping into her voice. “Beauty doesn’t count. They must look like us, that’s all. They are to keep spies from pretendingthey belong to our group.”
“Spies? Ah! Is that so!” he said seriously. “Then they shall be very real indeed, these pictures.”
He began his work at once. Since she did not particularly like the man and wished to get her part over with, Norma posed first. She realized at once that he proposed to take her in an unfavorable light and at a bad angle, yet she made no objection. As he was about to make the shot, she managed a derisive grin.
“No! No!” He stomped the floor. “That way you spoil the picture!”
Norma at once put on a perfectly dumb look. Then the picture was snapped.
“What’s wrong with you?” Betty demanded in a whisper when they were alone.
“Nothing.” was the quiet reply.
“Lena’s not here.” said Rosa.
“She’ll be here.” Norma said.
While the other pictures were being taken Norma wandered along the wall looking at pictures until she was near an open door leading to another room.
As she stood there she heard a man’s voice say:
“You must!”
“I won’t!” came a woman’s reply.
Carl Langer, the photographer, must have heard, for he said, “Excuse me, ladies,” and shut the door.
“What wonderful ears!” Norma thought. “He should be a plane spotter.”
“No! No! That Way You Spoil the Picture.”
“No! No! That Way You Spoil the Picture.”
“No! No! That Way You Spoil the Picture.”
When the pictures had been taken and the girls were filing out of the room, Betty said to Norma:
“Lena didn’t show up.”
“Oh! Sure she—” Norma hesitated. “Well, anyway, her picture will be in the lot, you can depend upon that.”
As they climbed into the jeeps, Norma heard a pigeon cooing and, looking up to the studio roof, she saw two pigeons. They were jet black. This gave her a start, but she said never a word.
They were halfway back to the post when suddenly she realized that she had left her films without any decision having been made about them.
“I left my films,” she said to Betty. “Do you suppose he’ll develop them?”
“My guess is that he will.”
Betty’s guess was right. And this Norma would live to regret.
“All the while I was there I felt I had been in that place before,” said Norma.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” was Betty’s strange reply.
There was one extra person in the squad which meant that while the others were taking their turn at training, three at a time, one was free to undertake some special task. This was Norma’s day off.
“Norma,” Lieutenant Warren said to her after she had spent the greater part of the day working over some special type of chart, “I think you told me once that you had ridden a motorcycle.”
“Oh, yes, many times,” was the quick reply. “My father and I used to cover part of his territory on a motorcycle.”
“Good! One of our tasks is to be that of keeping in touch with the plane spotters in our territory. They are all volunteers. They work without pay and are, I am sure, very conscientious people.”
“They must be.” Norma agreed. “And do you know, I really like these real New Englanders.”
“They seem more genuinely American than most people I’ve come to know,” Miss Warren agreed. “What I wanted to suggest was that now and then you take a motorcycle—there are two in the basement room of the Sea Tower—and visit these spotter sheds. There’s one near Granite Head.”
“I think I saw it as I passed this morning.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it. You might like to take a run out there right now,” the Lieutenant suggested.
“That would be real fun. Thank you so much.” A quarter of an hour later, dressed in her fatigue suit and with stout coveralls drawn over it, Norma leapt on her motorcycle and went pop-popping away.
She was not long in reaching the place in the road nearest the spotter shed.
As she paused to study the steep road leading up to the shed, two girls who were undoubtedly twins came hurrying from the opposite direction. Seeing that they were about to start the climb, Norma said:
“Going up? Hop on behind. I think this thingwill take us all up.”
“Oh, fine!” they exclaimed. “We’re late.”
“Late for what?” Norma asked.
“We’re spotters. I’m Beth and this is Bess, my sister,” one of the twins explained.
“We’re on from now until midnight,” the other said.
“Whew!” Norma exclaimed. “That’s a long spot for a spotter.”
“Oh, we don’t mind,” said Beth, laughing. “Only one is needed to watch at a time.”
“The other one studies. We’re still in high school,” said Bess. “Sometimes we fall asleep.”
With a final snort the motorcycle reached the crest of the hill, then circled to a stop at the foot of a crooked stairway leading to a crow’s-nest perch above.
Up, then around, then up again, they climbed thirty feet into the air to arrive at last at a broad enclosed platform.
“All right, girls, you may take over.” A tall man with prematurely gray hair turned toward a door leading from the platform. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, turning half about. Behind his thick glasses Norma saw keen, smiling eyes.
“Why, she—” Beth hesitated.
“I’m one of those WAC’s,” Norma laughed, holding her cap bearing the insignia in the light.
“Oh! We’ve been reading about you. Welcome toour community.” He held out a hand for a firm and friendly clasp. “So when we report ‘One single, flying high,’ we’ll soon be talking to a lady soldier?”
“Guess that’s right,” Norma agreed. “My name’s Norma Kent.”
“I’m Vincent Garson,” he said. “Here’s hoping we meet again.”
“Oh, we shall,” Norma exclaimed.
At that a distinguished-looking man opened the door and stepped out.
“And this is Jim Marston,” said Garson. “Used to be a parson. Now he’s a plain American.”
“And that,” said the retired parson, “is a great privilege.”
“They’re really very famous men,” Beth whispered as they disappeared down the stairs. “Mr. Garson designed the stained glass windows for half the big churches in Boston. And Mr. Marston was a famous Bishop. It takes all sorts, you see,” she added.
“Well, here we are,” Bess exclaimed. “This is our spotter shed. Isn’t it neat?”
“Neat, and very comfortable.” Norma held her hands before the glowing coal fire.
“It cost a thousand dollars. Everyone chipped in, but it’s worth it. It must stand for the duration,” said Beth.
“So you’ll be listening to our reports?” said Bess. “It’s nice to know you. We—we’ll all stand together.”
“That’s right, we must.” Norma’s heart was warmed.
“Oh!” Bess exclaimed. “We’ve forgotten we’re late. It’s time to talk to grandfather.”
Hastily unlocking a closet door in the corner, she wheeled out a strange-looking mechanism with a square of glass at its front.
After connecting some heavy electric wires, she turned on a switch and at once there came a low buzzing sound.
Night was falling. The room was full of shadows.
“Watch,” said Bess.
The square of glass gave forth a faint glow. Then at the center of it, something moved.
“A hand!” Norma thought, with a start.
It was true. Behind that glass appeared a pale hand. It moved. It took on different forms. Now it was clenched with the thumb outside. Now three fingers were folded in while the forefinger and thumb stuck straight out. This was repeated. Once again the hand was clenched, this time with the thumb folded in tight. Three fingers up, one down—all fingers down, thumb bent in, then again three fingers down, forefinger and thumb up, and repeat.
Then the hand vanished.
“He says ‘All is well.’” Bess said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Talking with the dead,” Norma thought with a shudder.