CHAPTER IV
Steve's Place

A red buoy marked the entrance to Martins Creek. Rick, at the helm, passed it close to starboard and headed into the center of the creek. Past the wooded shores of the creek entrance, he could see fields, obviously tended, and more woods.

"Steve's place should be the second on the left," Scotty said. "The first house with a dock."

"Use the binoculars," Rick suggested. "We should be able to see it when we round the next bend."

The houseboat passed the first house, a small, modern dwelling set close to the water. A rowboat was hauled up on the shore. The creek rounded a wooded promontory and the next house came into view. Steve's!

Rick's eager eyes saw an attractive farmhouse, set well back from the water in a frame of willows and white oaks. There was an acre of green lawn in front of the house, the lawn running down to the water's edge. A small dock jutted out into the creek. Tied to one side of it was a sturdy runabout with an outboard motor.

"Pretty," Scotty approved.

Rick nodded. The farmhouse was half frame, half white brick, with a slate roof. It was apparently only one story high. On impulse, Rick gave a long blast on the boat horn.

The front door opened and a man looked out, then walked swiftly down to the dock, waving. The boys waved back.

"Get the lines ready," Rick requested. "I'll back in."

He throttled down and let the houseboat move slowly past the dock while he yelled a greeting to Steve Ames. There were no obstacles, and just enough room for the boat. He reversed his motors and threw his helm hard over, backing slowly into position. Scotty stood ready with a line, which he heaved to Steve. Then Scotty ran lightly to the foredeck and got the bowline ready. The houseboat nestled against the dock smoothly and Rick killed the motors. Then the three old friends were shaking hands and grinning from ear to ear.

"I've been watching since yesterday afternoon," Steve told them. "That storm last night worried me some. I didn't know whether you could ride it out or not."

"No trouble," Rick said. "We ran into Swamp Creek on the north side of the river and spent the night there." He watched the agent's face closely, but Steve didn't react.

"Come on in," Steve invited. "Coffee's on. Had your breakfast?"

"We ate before hauling anchor," Scotty said, grinning.

Steve Ames knew the boys well. "Something's up," he stated. "Rick is watching me like a suspicious sand crab and your tone of voice is wrong, Scotty. Coffee first, then talk. Come on."

Rick shook his head in admiration. It was impossible to catch Steve off guard. The agent had a deceptive appearance, athletic and good looking, with the forthright friendliness of a college undergraduate. But his trained eyes and ears missed nothing.

Steve's living room was attractive and comfortable, with bookshelves between the windows, a stone fireplace, a striped rug, and deep, restful chairs. There were lamps in exactly the right positions for reading.

The agent brought in a tray of coffee cups, with a pot of coffee and platter of doughnuts. "Even if you've eaten breakfast, you can manage a couple of these." He poured coffee and made sure the boys were comfortable, then sank into an armchair and looked at them quizzically.

"All right. Out with it."

Rick chuckled. "You're too sharp," he accused. "We had a plan all cooked up. I was going to comment on the fishing and hunting, and then ask – very innocently – when the season for flying stingarees opened."

The agent's eyebrows went up. "Flying stingarees? Swimming ones, yes. Open season any time. Flying ones, no. What is all this?"

"Rick saw one last night in the storm," Scotty explained.

"That's not all," Rick added. He told of their conversation at the Narrows and of the talk with Orvil Harris that morning. "So there's something fishy around here besides crabs and rockfish. We thought you might know," he concluded.

Steve shook his head with obvious admiration. "Leave it to the Spindrift twins! If there's a mystery afoot, you'll unearth it. Nope, lads. Never heard of your flying stingarees, or flying saucers, either. But that's not surprising. I'm down here mostly on weekends, sometimes with a friend or two, and the only local folks we see are at the store or gas station. Usually I'm in too much of a rush for small talk. I don't get the local papers, and when I listen to the radio or watch TV, it's either a Washington or Baltimore station. So I'm not in touch with local events."

"Anyway," Rick said, "stingarees don't fly."

Steve had been in the Virgin Islands, too, and had been involved in the adventure of The Wailing Octopus. "You found out that the octopus didn't wail," he reminded them, "but for a while it looked as though you'd found a new species. Maybe this is the same thing. What makes the stingaree fly?"

"It would be fun to find out," Scotty admitted.

"You'll have time to make a start, and I won't be in the way with plans for fishing or crabbing. I'm sorry, boys, but I'll be in and out of Washington for a few days. Got a hot case working that I can't leave for long."

The boys protested. "You deserve some vacation," Rick said hotly.

Steve held up his hand. "Whoa! I'm getting a vacation. This case should be settled in three or four days, and I'll be with you. Meanwhile, you move in here. You can drive me to the airport at Cambridge and pick me up when I come back. That will leave you a car, and you can use the motorboat for exploring or for fishing. If you feel like skin diving, you can try for rock or hardheads off the northern tip of Taylors Island, right at the mouth of the river. Did you bring gear?"

"The whole set," Rick replied. "Lungs, compressors, guns, and even suits."

"You won't need suits. The bay is shallow and warm. At night you can relax right here. Plenty of books, TV, radio, or a chessboard. If it gets cool, there's wood for the fireplace."

"Sounds good," Scotty agreed. "But we wanted you with us."

"I will be. Before the weekend."

"When do you have to leave?" Rick asked.

"Three this afternoon. I have an evening meeting at headquarters. I'll be back on the four-o'clock flight tomorrow afternoon, and, with luck, I won't have to go again. If I do, it will be only for a day."

"Okay," Rick said reluctantly. "We'll settle in, but we won't move in. We'll sleep on the boat. No need to use up your linens and stuff when we have sleeping bags if the weather is cold and cotton blankets when it's warm. Besides, housekeeping is easier on the boat."

Steve grinned. "I'll bet it is. If I know you two, you eat out of cans and never use a dish if you can help it. Your idea of washing a coffee cup is to hold it under running water or to dip it in the bay. Wait until your mother and the girls join you. Life will undergo a drastic change."

"Don't rub it in," Scotty said ruefully. "Now, how about showing us over this estate of yours?"

Steve was pleased by the request. He obviously was proud of his creekside home, and with reason. There were fifty acres of land, mostly oak forest, with a private access road. Electric power came in from the public power lines, but he had a gasoline generator in case of failure, and his own artesian well. He explained:

"The house has been completely remodeled, but it's really quite old. When it was built, there was only a wagon track. In those days, the rivers and creeks were the highways, and the people traveled by boat. You'll see old mansions fronting on the rivers here. The back doors face the roads. Water transport was the reason. The landed gentry had barges rowed by slaves. The poor folks rowed their own. Of course, there were plenty of sailing craft, too. There still are."

The creek in front of the house proved deep enough for swimming, and the three went for a dip. Rick tasted the water. It was salty, but not like the ocean. The backwaters of the bay were brackish, with low-salt content.

In the afternoon, the boys – somewhat reluctantly – got into what they referred to as "shore-going clothes." These consisted of slacks, sport shirts, light casual jackets, and loafers. Steve had a bag packed. They got into his car, a late-model convertible, and headed for Cambridge.

The plane, a small twin-engine craft, was late coming from Norfolk. By the time Steve was en route to Washington, it was nearly the dinner hour.

"Eat out?" Rick suggested.

"Absolutely. More crab cakes?"

Rick shook his head. "Crab imperial. Maybe some steamed clams."

"You're making me hungry," Scotty protested. "I'll say one thing for the bay area. The folks eat well. How about some terrapin stew?"

"Crab imperial," Rick said again. "Baked in a crab shell. Lots of mayonnaise, paprika, and butter. I'll have a hearts of romaine salad on the side, with oil-and-vinegar dressing. Maybe tarragon vinegar. A few French fries, too. But first, a couple of dozen steamed clams. What do they call 'em here? Manos, pronounced Man! Oh!"

"Just tell me where," Scotty begged. "Say no more."

"How about that place we passed just before we got to Cambridge? The one built like a Colonial mansion."

"The Bay Gourmet," Scotty remembered. "Okay. You're driving."

Rick put the convertible in gear and moved out of the airport driveway onto the highway. "We're on our own," he said. "It's up to us to entertain ourselves. But food isn't enough. Man cannot live by bread alone, the Scriptures say."

"I knew it." Scotty slumped down in the seat and sighed. "Since man cannot live by bread alone, his life must be filled with other things. And guess what things!"

Rick smiled in anticipation. "Uh-huh. Flying stingarees."

CHAPTER V
The Face Is Familiar

The Bay Gourmet was all that its outside appearance promised. A waiter, elderly and courteous, his voice soft with the Eastern Shore accent, led them to a table in a main dining room that was like something out of early American history, Maryland style. The Maryland colony had not been poor, and many of its settlers had been of the English nobility. They had brought with them furniture, paintings, and chinaware from England and France, and their homes were gracious and livable.

The restaurant followed the pattern. Rick wouldn't have been surprised to see the ghost of Lord Baltimore walk through one of the arches.

The boys pored over the menus and finally settled on crab gumbo, clam fritters, and crab imperial. While they waited, Rick opened the subject that was on his mind. "How does a stingaree fly?"

Scotty shrugged. "Easy. He climbs to the top of a tall tree, spreads his wings, and takes off. He flaps his wings to gain altitude. He steers with his tail."

"I'm serious," Rick said sternly, his eyes twinkling.

"So am I. Alternate method: the stingaree climbs on a fence and lassos a passing airplane. Or catches a ride on an eagle's tail feathers. Take your choice."

"I've got a better way. The stingaree poses for his picture. The picture is used as a model for making a kite, probably of black plastic. The kite gets flown in the wind."

Scotty stared. "Maybe – just maybe – you've got something there. The stingaree shape would make a good kite. Could what you saw have been a kite?"

"It's possible." Rick nodded. "The wind was funneling down the creek pretty fast, and it would have carried a big kite. There's only one small difficulty. Why launch a kite that has no string?"

"You certain it didn't have a string?"

"In that wind, the string would have had to be a cable. I'd have seen it, and maybe felt it. The kite – stingaree, that is – just missed. Of course, the string might have broken."

"There's another small difficulty," Scotty said thoughtfully. "If it was a kite, where was it launched and why?"

"Up the creek somewhere. We don't know what's up there."

"True. From the looks, I'd say not much. Maybe some opossums and muskrats, which don't launch kites."

Rick spread butter liberally on a hot biscuit. "We can always take a look."

"We can. In Steve's boat, the creek would be only a few minutes away."

Rick savored the biscuit and took another bite that finished it. "I could eat a ton of these. What else would make a stingaree fly?"

Scotty accepted a pitcher of honey from the waiter and poured a disgraceful amount on a biscuit. "How about some kind of experimental aircraft?"

Rick shook his head. "The stingaree was vertical. An experimental plane in that position would have to be rising straight up, and this creature was traveling almost horizontally, with the wind. Besides, I heard no motor or any kind of power plant."

"You're as lucid as lamplight, ol' buddy. You explain everything – except what made that stingaree fly."

Rick grinned wryly. "I'll never get a swelled head with you sticking pins in it."

"Only carrying out my proper function," Scotty said virtuously.

The first course had arrived. Crab gumbo turned out to be spicy, hot, and very, very good.

"I may decide to live here," Rick said as he spooned up the last mouthful.

"I'm a native already," Scotty stated. "The Chesapeake Bay is my home, if the rest of the meal lives up to the soup."

The clam fritters were light, crisp, and succulent. "Meet a brand-new Marylander," Scotty announced.

Rick started to reply, then stopped as a party of three entered the dining room and were shown to a table nearby. He knew one of the men, but he couldn't remember where they had met.

"Scotty," he said softly, "look around at the group that just came in. Who's the man in the plaid jacket? I know him, but I can't remember."

Scotty's napkin "accidentally" fell to the floor. He had to turn to pick it up. When he straightened, he shook his head. "The face is familiar, but I can't place it."

Rick studied the man through half-lowered lids, not wanting to be rude by staring openly. The familiar face was lean, and lined. It was not a pleasant face, although its owner would be described as a "distinguished-looking man of middle age." The lips were not especially thin, but they were tightly held. The chin was firm, with a shadow of beard even though the man looked freshly shaven. His hair was crisp, wavy, and pure white.

"Could be of French or Italian ancestry," Rick said. "Or, maybe, Spanish or Portuguese. Anyway, I'd vote for Southern European."

"On the button," Scotty agreed.

Rick's eyes dropped as the man looked their way. The eyes were dark brown, he saw, with heavy lids. The eyebrows, in startling contrast to the white hair, were dark.

The boy looked up again, his glance guarded. The man was smartly, but conservatively dressed, in dark-blue slacks, white sport shirt open at the collar, and a linen sport jacket of subdued plaid, much like those affected by some Ivy Leaguers.

The other two men were not familiar. One was almost bald, with a wisp of sandy hair combed in a pitiful and useless attempt to conceal the baldness. He wore glasses with clear plastic frames. They sat on a nose that could have served as a golf-ball model. His lips were almost nonexistent, and his chin receded so far that Rick wondered why he didn't conceal it with a beard. He seemed like a complete non-entity. In contrast to the white-haired man's style of dress, the nondescript man wore a rumpled black suit of synthetic fabric, a regular white shirt, and a tie that a color-blind old aunt might have given him for Christmas two decades past.

The third man was the largest of the three, with an expressionless face and eyes that never stopped moving. He sat motionless in his chair, apparently completely relaxed. Rick knew that the relaxation was deceptive. Steve Ames at times looked relaxed like that, but it was the same kind of quietness one finds in a coiled spring that has not yet been released. The man had brown hair, light-brown eyes, and a heavy tan. He spoke only twice while Rick watched, and then only to give orders to the waiter. The other two men talked steadily, but in such low tones that the boys could not hear words.

The crab imperial arrived, and the riddle of the familiar face was forgotten in a new taste treat. After one luscious bite, Rick said, "I'm going to bring the folks here and order a duplicate of this meal. They'll go crazy."

Excellent food was a tradition in the Brant household. Mrs. Brant was a superb cook, and both she and Hartson Brant had taught the Spindrift young people to appreciate a well-prepared dish.

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