by C. Daly King
The lieutenant appeared around the tail of the ’plane. ‘Everybody in,’ he announced in a satisfied tone. ‘Pilots and stewardess, too. There was a minister of some kind in the gang who made a fuss. Thinks he’s a tough baby. He ain’t.’
‘Well, I guess we’re ready to go, so far as I am concerned.’
‘Oh, a couple of messages for you, Captain.’ Swain reached into the recesses of his uniform. ‘Hell, I nearly forgot them, what with that minister and all.’
Lord took the messages. The first was from Darrow, and had already been decoded for him by Chicago. It contained nothing of immediate importance: the Secret Service had turned up no new lead. Fonda Mann was reputed in her own set to have had a continuous series of love affairs, commencing when she was yet at finishing school – ‘probably harmless episodes,’ Darrow believed. Anne Cutter had been engaged to Dr Gesell long ago, before she had married even for the first time; Gesell had been an intimate of the Cutter family then, but after the engagement was broken the friendship had waned, although there was still an apparently friendly acquaintanceship. ‘Good luck,’ the message concluded.
He opened the next one, an ordinary telegraph form, and regarded it with some surprise. ‘Does all go well?’ it asked. ‘Wire Physicians and Surgeons. Gesell.’ He read it again; somehow it was the last thing he would have expected to get. His impression of the elderly German had not indicatedso much solicitude. Yet the occurrence must have been an unusual one for him; and of course if he had once been a close friend –
At Lord’s side appeared a leather-coated aviator, as suddenly as if he had sprung from the ground. ‘Is this Captain Lord? I’m Captain Thrumm of the Air Service; going to take you as far as Des Moines. If you’ll let me know when you’re going up, I’d like to take off a bit ahead.’
‘All set now, I guess.’ Lord looked inquiringly at the manager.
‘All clear, I believe. You can be up in a few minutes.’
The aviator smiled, waved a hand, strode off rapidly toward a hangar at the far end of the field where his tiny ’plane had been refuelled. Two minutes later he was taxi-ing rapidly across the field; he whirled his ’plane round in a sudden turn, was off ahead of the dust-cloud from his own propeller, zoomed sharply, flattened a little, zoomed again, was high above the airport.
The transport followed him, rising far more slowly, sweeping thunderously over the Control Tower with the roar from its powerful motors, banking toward the west.
‘PX 59 STRUTHER OM Dl : 36 CH’
3400 FEET
The passengers sat at luncheon. Tomato juice cocktail, hot broth, club sandwiches, coffee, fruit and biscuits, more coffee. Not a bad luncheon at all, in a sky flecked with fleecy clouds, blustery but not uncomfortably rough. The stewardess moveddeftly up and down the aisle, replenishing plates or bearing a steaming Thermos jug
Captain Lord and Dr Pons now occupied the two rear seats, but it was the one in front of Pons that was vacant this time. They were both making an excellent meal; Pons, indeed, might be said to have been making a super-excellent one.
‘We seem fated to eat together on these trips, Lord,’ suggested the psychologist, thinking of another meal they had had at ground level not far from their present location. ‘Or was that west of Omaha? . . .You missed a grand row when you got out at Chicago and left us all cooped up in here.’
‘Ugh,’ grunted Lord between mouthfuls of club sandwich. T suppose you mean the minister?’
Pons looked his astonishment. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Swain. The police lieutenant . . . Told me.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that rumpus.’ Pons’ eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘The Reverend Whats is name has been taking it rather neatly on the chin – not that I object. He’s a pompous fool, trying to buck a tough Chicago cop. But that was only an aftermath. He got his dominance all worked up taking on young Isa before we were herded out of the cabin. An appetitive type, on the make, just as I guessed.’
Lord, commencing his second sandwich, raised interrogative eyebrows.
On his side Pons took an enormous bite, swallowed and went on: ‘I don’t know how it started. I rather gathered when I went back to my seat – I was just opposite him, you know – that he had already made some advance to the girl and had been rebuffed. He was just trying again when I sat down.’
‘Don’t tell me he is taken with Isa Mann’s charms?’ Lord regarded his companion quizzically, for he had been unable to discern these attractions himself.
‘Eh? Oh, hardly. She’s almost masculine, and he is a typical appetitive male. No, quite different motivation, I’d say. They’re a prominent family, and he thought he saw a chance to worm himself in with one of them. That’s what I mean; that type are continually on the make, never let an opportunity slip . . . What is the fellow’s name, anyhow?’
‘Bellowes,’ said Lord. ‘Manly Bellowes.’
‘Hah . . . Well, he was trying to give her some nonsense about condolences. “My dear young lahdy,” ‘ Pons strove in vain to attain unctuousness, and merely succeeded in achieving an unpleasantly querulous tone, ‘ “in this time of sorrow,” and so on. The Mann girl said she thought she had told him once to pipe down, and what business was it of his. What damned business, I think she said. He now-now-ed her a bit, and then she turned around in her chair and let him have it. Told him just what she thought of ministers in general, and of him as a particular example. Called him a voodoo doctor, without even the excuse of believing in his own voodoo. V.D., she said he ought to be, not D.D. Playing off a cheap superstition against what he could cadge from his wealthy parishioners. Corrupt politicians, she trusted, would find themselves at a rather higher level in hell than he would. And more to the same effect. Hot stuff. Couldn’t have done better myself, although perhaps I should have been a bit more technical.’
Pons paused and Lord inquired, ‘How long did this go on?’
‘She ran out of breath just before we were let out. Bellowes was beginning the counter-rebuttal when your cop started yelling at us. That’s what started the fuss between those two. I imagine Bellowes had some retort up his sleeve that he believed would restore his dignity and put the girl to shame; and the policeman wouldn’t give him time to pull it off. Isa just walked away from him, and you can see she is now as far away as she can get.’ This was apparent. The Rev. Bellowes now occupied the seat Fonda had had to Chicago, while the latter sat in Isa’s former chair at the head of the starboard line. Isa, however, had moved to the rear, choosing the seat just ahead of the vacant one beyond Pons.
Lord noticed her changed position for the first time. ‘My word, Pons,’ he admonished, ‘I’ll wager she’s heard everything you’ve been saying.’
‘Not that I care,’ the psychologist returned. ‘And I don’t believe she does, either.’
They sat in silence for some minutes, finishing their luncheons. The stewardess brought them fresh plates and fruit. She was small, blonde, plump and pretty in her freshly-pressed, short-skirted uniform. ‘What is your name, if you don’t mind?’ asked Pons, regarding her appreciatively.
Her blue eyes scrutinised the big scientist carefully, observing his pleasant face and genial appearance with increasing favour. ‘Miss Gavin,’ she remarked coolly after a short moment. ‘Marjorie Gavin to you, sir.’
‘Hah!’ Pons seemed the slightest bit flustered at this frank reply. He thought of a pun, started it, abandoned it abruptly. ‘I am Dr Pons,’ he told her, ‘and this is my friend, Michael Lord, the boy detective. A master mind,’ he finished, and thought it pretty laboured himself.
Lord smiled. ‘Let me know if he annoys you,’ he requested. ‘Big but harmless.’
‘Most of them are,’ the girl assured him, departing forward. On her way she almost collided with the junior pilot, who was coming aft with a piece of paper in his hand.
The pilot came directly up to Lord and said, ‘A telegram has just been relayed from the Chicago field, sir. It is addressed to Dr Amos Cutter, an
d we thought it had better be given to you.’
‘Quite right,’ answered the detective. ‘May I see it?’ He held out his hand.
The paper changed possession. Lord spread it out on his knee. It was a sheet from the pilots’ notation pad, and the writing was in pencil: ‘Dr Amos Cutter, care Amalgamated Air Transport, Chicago. Patient sinking rapidly Stop My opinion operation necessary immediately Stop Communicate. (Signed) MacKenzie.’
‘H’m.’ Lord leaned back, and his gaze wandered toward the ceiling. ‘This tells us something.’
Pons had been looking over his shoulder at the message and added, T should say it does. It tells us there is probably going to be a vacancy in the President’s Cabinet before the sun goes down.’
Lord’s glance came back, to settle almost idly on the doctor’s expression. ‘No ... I didn’t mean that . . . However people in New York may have been misled by our preparations, it is plain that Reno has always known Dr Cutter would be coming out by ’plane. They even knew approximately what ’plane, for this telegram was addressed to Chicago just about when we were actually there.’
Dr Pons said nothing; he was unacquainted with the New York ruse concerning Cutter’s departure. His friend thought in silence for a few moments, and presently took out a fountain pen. Unscrewing the cap and turning the paper over on his knee, he wrote: ‘Dr Mackenzie, Reno Hospital, Reno. Operate only if absolutely necessary. Advise delay if possible. Your opinion to govern. – Cutter.’
The pilot, when he had read, looked at Lord doubtfully. ‘You’re sure this is all right, sir? You have signed a dead man’s name to it.’ He glanced perplexedly from the paper to the detective.
‘It is perfectly all right, pilot. You don’t know all the circumstances of this case. Please get that off just as fast as you can.’
The young man, reassured by the authority in Lord’s voice, hesitated no longer. ‘Very well, sir. I don’t want to be mixed up in it. I’ll send her off this minute.’ He passed up the aisle toward the cockpit.
Dr Pons broke the silence with a low whistle. ‘You don’t care whose life you take a chance with, do you, Lord?’ He surveyed the detective’s calm face with a very speculative eye. Lord returned his gaze without any change of expression.
4700 FEET
Omaha had been passed, and they were mounting above the rising ground ahead. The farms were fewer below them now, for they had passed from the Middle West into the real West.
Lord had spent the hour and a half before their last stop, sitting silently, with an occasional glance out the window at his side, thinking. Pons, meantime, had made tentative advances to Isa Mann, moving for this purpose into the vacant seat behind her. Surprisingly, he found himself welcomed, not very heartily, it must be admitted – but, still, welcomed. Isa wanted to talk, apparently, and the psychologist’s friendly but common-sense approach succeeded where Bellowes’ more wily technique had failed. They had talked steadily for more than an hour.
At Omaha Lord and the pilots had left the ’plane. Pons, begging at the last moment to be allowed to stretch his legs, had been permitted to do so, for the detective was not the man to fear making an exception he knew to be justified, and Dr Pons was the only passenger on the ’plane of whom he was absolutely sure. They had descended together behind the two aviators, and Lord had made certain that the door was closed and locked behind them.
His first concern had been the baggage compartment. He made his way there immediately and, producing his key, opened the entrance. Climbing in, he had knelt in the low compartment and bent over Dr Cutter. The surgeon’s face was bloodless as he lay still and rigid on the stretcher; grey lips, blue-grey eyelids, ashen cheeks. Lord examined the straps fastening him and the lashings by which the stretcher was made fast. He found them all as firm as when they had left Chicago. There was nothing more he could do, and he backed slowly out of the compartment.
On the ground, as he closed the door and tested its security, he found Pons awaiting him. The psychologist, somewhat near-sighted, had been peering through the opening, endeavouring to make what he could of his friend’s activities. In this he had succeeded.
‘All fast?’ asked Pons, when they stood together beside the ’plane.
‘All fast. We stay here until the ship is ready to leave.’
‘What for? I don’t get this, Lord. What can happen to Cutter now? A dead man is in a fairly conclusive condition, after all.’
‘Who knows what can happen to him?’ the detective replied affably. ‘There is such a thing as an autopsy, you know; and I’m not at all sure that one attempt has not already been made to alter the effects of whatever he took in that bulb.’
‘Yes, and that’s another thing I don’t get. Why didn’t you have him taken off the ’plane at Chicago? That was the place for the autopsy. The longer you wait, the harder you make it for your own surgeon. I’m surprised the Chicago people let you go on.’
‘A special courtesy from them to us with love and kisses. As a matter of fact, it’s a question where the jurisdiction lies in a case like this. Ohio might even claim it, but we’re handling the case from New York, and I don’t think there will be any interference until an arrest is made, anyhow. As to taking Cutter’s body along, it will have to be brought to Reno in any event, for that is where their family burial ground is, and you haven’t forgotten that there is a criminal in that cabin still to be caught. I couldn’t very well hold everybody indefinitely in Chicago. With Cutter out of it, I still have the job of arresting his enemy; and I don’t know yet who his enemy is. It might be any one of them. This is the easiest way to keep them together until I’m sure ... So there you are, doctor.’
‘Hmph,’ commented Pons noncommittally. He began a short promenade up and down between the wing and the port elevator on the ship’s tail, while Lord leaned negligently against the baggage door and lit a cigarette.
Presently he paused in his pacing in front of the detective and remarked, ‘It’s surprising how fast these things travel. Remember the last time we were in Omaha, on the Transcontinental? Took us two full days from New York, and a few hours over; and what a storm when we pulled out of her in the middle of the night. I’m glad we haven’t got it now . . . Well, we left Newark at nine this morning, and so far, as I make it, that’s just about seven and a half hours.’
Lord nodded. ‘They travel fast, no doubt about that . . . Ah, there’s the pilot. Cabin door hasn’t been opened, has it?’
The flyer strolled up, ground out his last cigarette for the next three and a half hours. ‘It’s closed up tight,’ he assured Lord. ‘All clear to start; we’re a minute and a half late, as a matter of fact. It’s raining at Lincoln, ceiling 3000. Clear beyond, but squally at Cheyenne.’
The other glanced behind him doubtfully. ‘Think he’ll be all right in there? The lashings are fast enough now.’
‘Oh sure. It won’t be very rough, at the worst. Probably calm, anyhow, by the time we get to Cheyenne. I wouldn’t have told you if there had been anything to worry about.’
They made their way around to the other side of the ’plane. Another little mail truck was just backing away from the ship’s protruding snout as they passed; it slipped into first, skidded into a turn and dashed away. They entered the cabin.
Lord sat now in his accustomed place, as Bellowes advanced ponderously down the aisle. He watched the approaching clergyman with prophecy in his heart. Nor was he mistaken, for Manly Bellowes stopped at Pons’ chair opposite and asked in the resonant voice that had thrilled four hundred worshippers simultaneously, ‘Would you object, sir, to exchanging seats with me for half an hour? I believe it my duty to communicate certain facts to the authorities.’
Dr Pons glanced up in a manner which he made no attempt to pretend was friendly. ‘I’m not so – ’ In looking up, his eyes had fallen across the clergyman’s chair, the most forward one in Lord’s row; just opposite sat Fonda Mann, her shoulders drooping disconsolately, gazing out the window. ‘Very well,’ said Po
ns, ‘I’ll try it. I may want my own seat again before the next half-hour, however.’ He walked off without further remark.
The Rev. Bellowes observed him with surprise, gave a dignified shrug and sat down. When he spoke, his voice was unctuous, causing Lord for the first time to realise what the psychologist had previously been trying to imitate. ‘I am a man of God. You sir, I presume, are a God-fearing man.’
‘Is that the information you desire to give me? I am an officer of the New York Police Department, and at present engaged, as you know very well, upon the solution of a crime.’
‘A mortal sin has been committed on board this ’plane,’ Bellowes announced sternly.
‘All right, you can call it a sin, if you want to; I call it a crime. The point is, what do you know about it?’
‘There is a woman on board this ’plane who is an infidel and an atheist. She espouses feminism, that modern disease which would even go so far as to place women in God’s pulpit, thus sinning against the Holy Ghost. She has aspersed the revealed Word of God, and she has raised her piping voice against His minister, she is a sinner and capable of deadly sin.’
Lord’s first surprise, having given way to a slight amusement, was now giving way to something else. It was difficult to be amused with the cold, light eyes of Manly Bellowes boring into him and the righteous indignation of the clergyman’s voice hammering at his ears. He said evenly, ‘Dr Bellowes, it is neither my duty nor my interest to take any part in your controversy with Miss Isa Mann. Most assuredly I am not inclined to take any steps against her in order to convert her to what, I may tell you frankly, I consider your private prejudices.’
The minister looked with quick suspicion at the detective. His voice was no longer unctuous, as he demanded, ‘Are you a God-fearing man? Do you believe in the revealed Word of God?’
‘I am not a Christian, if that is what you mean.’
‘You are an infidel, sir; a blasphemer!’