by C. Daly King
‘Have it your own way, and good-day. There are more important matters to claim my attention just now.’
‘You refuse to hear my information?’
‘If you have any information bearing upon the crime which has been done, I shall be glad to hear it. However, you shall have to confine yourself specifically to that. Do I make myself entirely clear?’
‘Your soul is lost,’ declared Bellowes grimly. ‘I doubt if God, who is a jealous God, will forgive your grievous blasphemy . . . Nevertheless, it is my bounden duty to tell you of the transgressor whose iniquities have now had a fatal result . . . That person is the Mann woman.’
‘Indeed?’ Lord regarded the man opposite him coldly. ‘Is this a formal accusation? I presume you are acquainted with the law of libel?’
‘I am well acquainted with it. There can be no libel in laying a charge against a confessed criminal.’
‘Are you telling me that Isa Mann has confessed to this crime? I don’t believe it.’
‘She has confessed inadvertently. Her sins have betrayed her. That is the information I have to lay before you.’
‘Very well; but let me tell you first what you will have to show. You will have to show that Isa Mann, in substituting the poison bulb, adopted some means whereby just that single bulb would eventually reach her uncle, alone of all the passengers in this ’plane. Do not forget that I myself was the one actually to select the bulb for Dr Cutter, and that the box had passed from her hands through several others, some of whom took bulbs themselves.’
‘That is not the issue at all. That was simply a matter of chance.’
T have some knowledge of murderers, Dr Bellowes. They do not operate by chance.’
‘She did not intend to kill her uncle. You do not understand the situation at all, sir. It was the Almighty who made her his executioner against a trespassing sinner. Her own intended sin, however, was as heavy.’
Lord was frankly puzzled. He said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you are talking about. Do I understand you to assert now that she didn’t care who was killed? That some supernatural force decided that of those in the cabin, it was Dr Cutter who should take the fatal bulb?’
‘I am not unaware of the activities of Dr Cutter.’ The minister dropped his voice to an austere murmur. ‘He was an infidel who gave his life to seeking the Spirit in the coarse texture of men’s bodies. Almighty God would not permit so wicked a life to go unpunished.’ His voice rose again resonantly. ‘ “Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord.’
Michael Lord said, ‘Now, see here, I am not going to be drawn into a fruitless discussion. Your suggestion is monstrous; it is more blasphemous than anything your opponents have ever said of you ... If you have definite information regarding a confession of Miss Mann’s, inadvertent or not, kindly give it to me at once.’
‘She has confessed. Her sin has betrayed her.’
‘So you said. In exactly what words,’ demanded Lord with exaggerated patience, ‘has she confessed to the purpose of murdering anyone on this ’plane?’
‘She told me,’ Bellowes answered sternly, ‘that she would rather die than live longer in a Christian community.’
‘But what in – ‘
The minister hurried on over Lord’s interruption. Dr Pons, returning, had just sat down in the vacant seat ahead and was giving his undisguised attention to the recital. Across the aisle, the novelist who sat in front of the detective had obviously been listening for some time, while Isa also had turned in her chair, the better to hear what was said.
Bellowes’ words came faster now, but his tone was solemn, thoroughly in earnest. ‘As she has to live in a Christian community, she plainly intended suicide. It was the judgement of God upon her sinfulness. For a long time I had noticed her with the box of bulbs open in her lap, fingering them, examining them. There is no doubt that she had placed a poisoned one among them with which she intended to take her life. But time and again her courage failed her; she has no recourse, no help in time of trouble, and, suddenly, while she was still hesitating, the box was called for and she passed it back automatically. Only then did she realise that the fatal bulb was still among them, but she dared not make an outcry and give herself away. Possibly she trusted chance would bring her back the box with her bulb unused; but the Almighty interfered and another transgressor perished in his wickedness.’ Bellowes’ voice, raised as he had made his points, ceased, and the drone of the motors became audible in the silence.
For some moments the detective sat with his mouth partly open, too surprised to speak. ‘I did no such thing!’ Isa cried out suddenly. ‘That is as cheap a lie as even he has gotten rid of in a good long time.’
Dr Pons turned forward and patted her arm. ‘Don’t take him so seriously, my dear.’ He turned back to Lord. ‘Michael,’ he said slowly, ‘you know of my work, and I believe you even have a certain admiration for it. I am not infallible, as you also know, but I will stake my professional reputation on the fact that this young woman is as far from a suicidal type as can well be found . . . As to the man you are talking to, he is so definitely abnormal that he ought to be shut up for the benefit of society.’ Pons glared at the minister next to him with every evidence of active hostility.
‘Have you given me all the evidence you possess for your remarkable accusation?’ Lord demanded of Bellowes.
The latter had risen, and towered in the aisle above the others. ‘The Lord has made me the discoverer of the sins against His name. I have given you the truth, as was my duty. Do you or do you not intend to act upon it?’
The detective looked up at the man beside him. ‘Certainly not,’ he replied shortly. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘Then I wash my hands of the whole matter,’ Bellowes’ stern accents returned, as with a dramatic gesture he suited the action to the word. ‘You are no more than a pack of infidels, pitting your puny strength against God. “Those that live by the sword, shall perish by the sword.” ‘
With this cryptic sentence he stalked stiffly forward, as Lord remarked pleasantly, ‘I remind you once again, Bellowes, about that law of libel.’
Hugh L. Craven, novelist and playwright, swung one long leg over the other. He was observing the scene with interested amusement.
5900 FEET
6.55 Central Time, 5.55 Mountain Time. In the Control Room at Cheyenne the dispatcher sat with his eyes on the airway clock, a large affair with letters and numerals scattered along its outer edge. The hand ticked to the minute; opposite the minute stood the letters, ‘W.B.,’ westbound ’plane. It was time for one of the three-times-an-hour routine reports. He pressed the transmitter button.
‘Cheyenne Amalgamated calling Struther in 59. Go ahead, Frank!’
There was a moment’s silence, then the pilot’s voice crackled into the headpieces and the loud speaker. The dispatcher repeated the message in a habitized monotone. ‘All right, Frank. You are approaching Ogallala at 5900 weather clearing ceiling unlimited rain over North Platte, okay, Frank. I am calling you again at fifteen past at fifteen past okay.’
He cut off the transmitter and sat with the headpieces still clamped over his ears. There was no minute in the hour, no hour in the day or night when the Control Room could not be called by any ’plane in its division.
In the cockpit of 59 the senior pilot dropped the microphone into his pocket and leaned forward to switch on the instrument lights. The sun had fallen behind the rearing mountains to the west, leaving a short twilight, orange and violet bands across the westward clouds. Below them the earth was merging into a uniform darkness, with here and there the twinkle of a tiny light. To the south a succession of twin tin-points where automobiles followed the invisible Lincoln Highway. Still farther south a series of minute, red spark-showers as a big freight locomotive strained at the head of its unseen cars.
Except for the glow of the shaded lights behind the instruments the cockpit was dark, the door to the cabin closed, its window covered by a snap-down shade . . .
suddenly, directly ahead and underneath, a brilliant, white beam, the light beacon at Ogallala, followed by a red dot-dash signal giving its number. Beyond and slightly southward another white beam flashed, and beyond that another; the Big Springs and Chappell beacons were sparkling along the airway, and in the far distance away to the west came the intermittent reflection of the Sidney flash. On both sides of the cockpit, where the motors jutted out from the wings, the flickering of the exhaust flames showed up weirdly.
In the cabin the stewardess had turned on the lights, and despite the falling temperature outside, it was bright and warm within. Lord closed the ventilator at his side and looked at the clock on the forward wall. An hour and a half, more or less, before they would reach Cheyenne. He leaned forward, tapped Craven’s shoulder just ahead.
‘Have you any ideas about what has happened?’ asked Lord conversationally. ‘Have you seen or heard anything that might be of use to me?’
The Englishman turned sideways in his chair, stretching his long legs into the aisle, his back against the fuselage wall. ‘Scarcely my affair, is it, old chap?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the detective answered easily. ‘It’s more or less the affair of all of us, I’d say. It might turn out that I’d have to hold everybody as material witnesses when we get to Reno,’ he added pleasantly.
‘That would be embarrassin’.’ Craven smiled, seemingly not greatly disturbed.
‘Cutter had an enemy on this ’plane,’ Lord went on. ‘That enemy is still here with us, and I can’t let this little company disperse until I find out who that person is.’
‘Quite.’
‘Well, do you know anything at all about the situation?’
‘Of course,’ Craven considered, T could hardly help knowing something. After all, I’ve been here all the time, and I couldn’t help overhearing one or two conversations . . . Damned interestin’, as a matter of fact; right along my line, a situation like this . . . Still, I’d rather thought it wasn’t up to me to push in.’
‘Forget that,’ Lord advised him, ‘and let me hear what you think about the whole thing. How did you like the last theory we heard, about someone slipping up on a proposed suicide?’
‘My word, I don’t put anything on it! The girl never did anything of the kind. You don’t think so yourself. Fella’s a fanatic, that’s all. Wouldn’t give it another thought, if I were you.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ The detective brought out cigarettes, offered one to Craven, who declined, lit one for himself. ‘Oh, you’re right about Bellowes, of course; he’s a belligerent wind-bag making his last stand with a system that’s done for. But the theory – consider that; never mind for the moment to whom we apply it. There is a suicide on the ’plane; the man’s upset, nervous, going over his reasons and arguments again and again in his mind. Naturally he’s not normal; might do anything in a state like that. Finally, while he still hesitates his bulb gets mixed up with the others and comes to Cutter merely by chance. You know, that’s the one hypothesis so far that accounts for the fact that I, who was guarding him, actually gave him the fatal bulb.’
Craven, busy with a pipe, did not answer for so long a time that Lord turned to Dr Pons across the aisle. ‘What do you think of the suicide notion, doctor?’
Pons stretched and yawned prodigiously. Finally he said, ‘Oh yes, you’re entirely correct. That is the only theory – so far – that explains how the bulb reached Cutter.’
Lord remarked, ‘You don’t sound very convinced. Have you an alternative hypothesis, by any chance?’
‘Afraid not, Michael,’ was the response. ‘No, I haven’t any hypothesis for this case. No suggestions at all. Sorry.’
6000 FEET
In the cockpit Struther had taken over the ’plane, while his co-pilot, with ear-phones adjusted, was checking the beacons, watching the instruments, observing the night sky for the lights of other ’planes. Cheyenne was reporting freshening winds from the north, clouds banking up in that quarter also.
Abruptly another voice rasped into the junior pilot’s ears, arresting his attention. ‘Amalgamated 59. Amalgamated 59. Where is your yellow light? Show your light, 59. Lieutenant Philips, Army Air Service, speaking.’
The pilot reached for his microphone with one hand while closing the unaccustomed little switch clipped to the lower edge of the instrument panel with the other. He pressed the microphone button.
‘Lieutenant Philips, Air Service. This is Lee in 59, Lee in 59. Sorry about the light; we forgot it. Is it okay now?’
After a moment the ‘phones crackled again. ‘Okay, 59. Light shows up well. I am escorting you at 7500. There is a ’plane dead ahead proceeding northward. Are you landing at Cheyenne, 59?’
‘59 is landing at Cheyenne, landing at Cheyenne.’
‘Okay, 59.’
‘Okay, Lieutenant.’
Silence once more in the cockpit. Droning motors. Lee dropped the microphone back into his pocket, shifted slightly so that his automatic dangled down over the edge of his chair. Through the semicircle of glass the ’plane seemed to be suspended motionlessly in a dark void. The scattered lights below approached so slowly that their movement was scarcely perceptible; as they quietly vanished under the wings, others rising from the distant horizon took their places. The beacons flashed, beckoning the ’plane across the night. Steadily the big transport throbbed onward . . .
6100 FEET
In the bright cabin behind the cockpit the novelist had got his pipe going at last. Ramming down the burning tobacco, he took a long draw and raised his eyes to Lord’s.
‘That suicide theory is’ – puff – ‘foolish,’ he drawled. ‘I’d count it out.’
‘And just why would you do that?’ the detective wanted to know.
‘Because it’s too far-fetched, under the circumstances. You would have to stretch a super-imagination to credit it . . . You told us all that this man Cutter had received a warning or a threat of some sort. Somebody was after him, and after him hard enough for you to take a two-thousand mile journey purposely to guard him. Then, when he’s killed, it is suggested that quite another person, some entirely unsuspeced suicide, made a mistake, and that Cutter only died by chance. I can’t see that.’
‘Too much of a coincidence, you think?’
‘Rather!’
‘Well, there is something in your idea, certainly.’
‘By the way,’ Craven continued, ‘how specific was this threat? Was any time mentioned, for example, in regard to the attempt to do away with the man?’
‘Yes, there was,’ Lord had to acknowledge. ‘Twelve o’clock, Central Time.’
‘And when did he take that bulb, as a matter of fact?’
‘Twelve o’clock, Central Time. Or so close to it as to make no difference.’
‘Well, you see.’ The novelist shrugged expressively. ‘What’s the use? It’s much too pat. Simply impossible that his death should have been accidental in view of all this.’
Lord admitted the point smilingly. ‘But just consider,’ he suggested, ‘where that leaves us.’
‘It leaves you,’ Craven declared, ‘just where you were. Somewhere there is a criminal, right enough; but I don’t think you are going to find him, no matter if you keep us all together for a fortnight. Incidentally, there is a British Consul at Reno, and I don’t believe that I shall be delaying there very long after I get in touch with him.’
The novelist’s tone had been a pleasant one, but Lord realised that in all probability the prophecy was far from idle. He remarked casually, ‘Of course, this criminal might conceivably be none other than yourself, Craven.’
‘Oh rather.’ Craven’s tone was now emphatically disinterested.
‘No, I’m serious,’ the detective pursued. ‘How do I know that you are not in the employ of some foreign government? Cutter’s brother, you know, is our Secretary of State. He is desperately ill, and the surgeon is one of the few men who can save his life.’
For the first t
ime the Englishman looked surprised and genuinely interested. His voice was no longer so slow a drawl. ‘So that’s it, eh?’ he surmised. ‘I wondered why we have been under escort of a combat ’plane all the way out . . . But that’s as far-fetched as the other theory. You’re not serious, really?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, really, y’know. Foreign spies are all right in magazines. I have a colleague who writes about little else, but in actual life, I imagine, they are fairly small fry; certainly in peace times. We read about “spy rings” being discovered in Paris or Warsaw, but I’ll lay a wager the whole show is mostly Latin imagination. What could these music teachers or what-not find out that cannot much more readily be turned up in the standard reference books? I have never heard much about “spy rings” at home, or over here, either, for the matter of that. Pshaw, we’re not on the films, old boy!’
Lord leaned back in his chair, comfortably relaxed, as he observed the other with an attentiveness which he succeeded well in concealing. For some time the cabin had been tilted slightly upward; now its forward end rose even more noticeably as they climbed into higher altitudes. The pointer of the altimeter showed 8900 and was still moving.
‘It is true, of course,’ Lord remarked, ‘that, spy or not, the modus operandi of getting that bulb into Cutter’s handkerchief remains the crux of the problem.’
‘Oh, that. No, that’s simple enough, if you would only stop being far-fetched and use common sense.’
‘You don’t say so?’ It was now the detective’s turn to show interest, and he sat up straighter in his chair. ‘I should be very glad to hear you explain how you believe that was done.’
‘No,’ said Craven slowly. ‘I don’t think I shall tell you.’
‘Ah! You know but you won’t tell me. May I ask why not?’
‘I know, certainly. There is only one possibility in the present case. As to why I won’t tell you, that is merely because you would not believe me if I did. You are hypnotised, Captain, just as almost everyone else is; you cannot and will not admit to yourself facts which stare you in the face and which, except for this hypnotism, would be as plainly perceived as they are plainly evidenced . . . But you can’t see them, so why enter into a bootless argument?’