Troubles in the Brasses

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “I see. Rintoul will go back and claim my father was one of those Brit bullies who can’t adjust to our informal Canadian ways.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, a real Captain Bligh.” Joe was having a lovely time now. “But you don’t act like a Brit.”

  “Not I. I was born on this side and never wanted to leave. My wife’s a New Brunswicker. We live in Fredericton.”

  “That’s a nice city. I bet you wish you were back there right now.”

  “You can say that again, Joe. Were you planning to cook supper tonight?”

  “If it’s a case of cook or get pinched, sure. What are we having?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. What is there to have?”

  “I’ll scout around the kitchen and see what I can scare up. Say, Madoc, do you think maybe we ought to start going easy on the grub in case we get stuck here for a while?”

  “I don’t know what to think. We can’t be too far off the beaten track if this place is able to function as a tourist trap, and Ace Bulligan knew about us from this morning’s early news broadcast. It doesn’t seem possible he’s the only one to come searching. I think I’ll go see if I can’t persuade the old buzzard to talk a little sense for a change.”

  Madoc left Joe to research the food situation and walked out toward the plane. He’d have to take up the matter of the violin string with Houdon, when he could get him into a corner. There was also La Bellini to tackle. What a turn-up that she’d once been married to the lubberly Ochs. Could either of his parents have known? If so, why couldn’t they have told him? Was it possible his father and Madame Bellini—no, it was not possible.

  Somewhere around the closed-up ghost town MacVittie and Naxton had found a couple of not very safe-looking wooden ladders. They’d propped them up against the side of the Grumman and got part of the cowling off. Now they were standing side by side, brooding with bewilderment over the innards thus exposed.

  “Any luck?” Madoc called up to them.

  Ed Naxton scrambled down and beckoned him over. “Be my guest. Steve can show you better than I.”

  Since the ladder hadn’t crashed under Ed, Madoc decided there was the off chance it wouldn’t break under him, either. He went up, testing each rung before he put his weight on it, and peered into the technological tangle with no hope of comprehension. Steve wasn’t much help.

  “See, it’s pretty clear what happened. This clyde here must have joggled loose when we took that big drop and started to bounce. The clyde hit that thing there and tore out this other thing, which in turn dislodged the thing underneath it and knocked hell out of the whole damned business. See what I’m saying?”

  “Frankly, no,” Madoc admitted. “I do see that things appear to be in a good bit of mess there. Is there anything you can do about it?”

  “Without tools, spare parts, or any idea which end is up, not a hell of a lot. We figured we’d try faith healing, but we’re not sure how well it works on airplane engines.”

  “Well, keep at it. One never knows. How’s our sleeping beauty?”

  “A picture no artist could paint. Have a look.”

  Willingly, Madoc climbed back down the shaky wooden ladder and back up the short metal one into the body of the plane. Ace Bulligan was still stretched out on the plushy club chair, making horrible noises through his sunburnt nose. Sparse, long strands of gray-white hair framed a face that wore an expression of bliss beyond measure. He’d feel a damned sight less euphoric, the old pirate, when he woke up and tried to move his head. Though Madoc was not a vindictive man by nature, he took some satisfaction in the prospect.

  Maybe the ancient aeronaut’s senses had been sharpened by his life in the backlands. Anyway, he must have realized that somebody was standing over him, for he opened one eye in a tentative and experimental manner.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Inspector Rhys of the RCMP. We’ve met before, remember?”

  “No. Pretty damned fancy jail you got here.”

  “You’re not in jail this time around. You’re in a private airplane that came down last night in Lodestone Flat with members of the Wagstaffe Symphony Orchestra aboard.”

  “You don’t say! What’d you pinch them for?”

  “Disturbing the peace. Mr. Bulligan, do you mean to say you don’t remember flying in here this morning? You told us you’d heard a radio broadcast about a missing plane, and had come to find it.”

  “Wait a minute. Hold your horses. It’s beginnin’ to come back to me. You’re the sneaky bugger that pizened the other bugger.”

  “No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m the nice fellow who gave you the drink.”

  “Drink?” Bulligan sat up and flung aside the blanket. “Did I leave any in the bottle?”

  “No, you drank it all.” It was a lie in a good cause, Madoc easily managed to convince himself. “However, I might be able to get some more. It would depend on how willing you are to help us out of here.”

  “Huh. I knowed you was a sneaky bugger. Gripes, my mouth’s full o’ fuzz. What’d I do, swaller the blanket?”

  “Would you like a mug of tea? Or some black coffee?”

  “Hell, no, not if I can get anything better. What about that hooch you was goin’ to get hold of?”

  “I’d have to call somebody up and tell them to bring it,” Madoc replied guilefully. “Who’s got the nearest telephone or radio hookup around these parts?”

  “Right over there at the hotel.”

  “Then you do remember where you are. You might also remember that I told you this morning they hadn’t left any spare batteries.”

  “Goddamnedest, meanest set o’ stingy buggers I ever run into. Got sore when I borried a couple first winter they’d been up here an’ ain’t left none since. You sure that bugger you’re goin’ to call up will bring the whiskey?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die, Mr. Bulligan. You ought to know a Mountie’s as good as his word. It says so right in Renfrew of the Mounted.”

  “I dunno, you still look like a sneaky little bugger to me. Last time I saw any Mounties, it was down in Calgary. They was all wearin’ them Stetson hats an’ red coats an’ ridin’ horses.”

  “Yes, I know. We do that sometimes. But you see, the pilot wouldn’t let me bring my horse on the plane. As a flyer yourself, you must surely see that it wouldn’t have done. And if I didn’t have the horse, I wouldn’t be needing my red coat and Stetson hat, so I didn’t bring them, either. It’s just the same as your not needing to wear your goggles and helmet when you’re not flying your plane.”

  “The hell I don’t. I’d o’ wore ’em to sleep in, only some bugger took ’em an’ hid ’em on me.”

  “They’re right here on the floor beside your chair, Mr. Bulligan. Why don’t you come over to the hotel and get some coffee into you, then we’ll decide what to do about making that telephone call.”

  “I ain’t budgin’ from this seat till I get the reward.”

  “What reward is that?”

  “The reward for findin’ the murderer.”

  “What makes you think there’s one being offered? Did they say so on the radio?”

  “No, but they got to, ain’t they?”

  “Like hell they do.” Madoc decided he’d better talk a language Bulligan could understand. “Those stingy buggers down there aren’t going to give you a plugged nickel. They’re a bunch of rotten skinflints. The only reward you’re going to get is the whiskey you’ll get from us, and we can’t give you that till we get hold of the chap who’s going to bring it in. Have you got that straight? Look, if you don’t feel up to walking as far as the hotel, why don’t I go get some coffee and bring it out to you? In the meantime, you’d better be thinking over what I’ve said.”

  If Bulligan was still capable of thought. As Madoc left the plane, he began to see what would have to be done. It was going to be dark in another hour or so. There’d been no sign of a rescue plane yet and there might not be one tomorrow. The
search must be taking place in the area over which they were supposed to have been flying, and that could be a very long way from where they actually were. Janet couldn’t know there was quite possibly a murderer among them; even so, she must be frantic. The festival staff must be frantic. Even Sir Emlyn must be close to the edge of panic, though he hadn’t yet shown much sign of it. Here he came now, back from his walk and looking much like his usual self. Madoc walked out to meet him.

  “Hello, Tad. What’s out there?”

  “A great deal of nothing I care to see again, son. There is a road, but it doesn’t look as if it went anywhere. Are they making any progress on the plane?”

  “They seem to have discovered the problem, but they say there’s nothing much they can do about it without tools and parts. How desperate is the situation with the festival?”

  “If we’re not there by tomorrow night, I shall have no chance to rehearse and get hold of replacements for my brass section. If we don’t make it by Wednesday for the opening, we shall have forfeited our contract and quite possibly ruined the festival, or at the very least caused its producers a good deal of bother having to get substitutes at such short notice, should that be possible. I suppose there’s some kind of insurance; nevertheless, it would cost both the orchestra and the sponsors a great deal of money.”

  Sir Emlyn was letting the bitterness show, as who could blame him? “I’ve never missed an engagement before, Madoc, even during the Blitz of London. The prospect of having to do so now is bitter to me, I have to confess, though I ought to be ashamed of so paltry a feeling in view of what so many other people, including our dear Janet, must be going through; not knowing whether we’re alive or dead. Is there no way out of this, Madoc?”

  “I hope so, Tad. I’m working on a plan right now.”

  “Can I help in any way?”

  “Yes. Get hold of Mother and keep her occupied for the next fifteen minutes or so. Come on in with me, I was about to get Ace Bulligan a cup of coffee.”

  “You still have hopes of him, then?”

  “I think he can be made to see reason. It’s just a matter of getting him back into flying condition.”

  “But where does your mother come in?”

  “That’s just the point, Tad. My plan’s more likely to come off if Mother doesn’t come into it at all. Bulligan isn’t used to women of her sort, and Mother does tend to be helpful.”

  “Yes, I know, bless her heart. Very well, my boy, no sacrifice is too great. I shall come down with a sudden attack of gastritis and let her doctor me. You wouldn’t mind if I attribute my indisposition to your pancakes and Spam? It’s got to be something I can recover from quickly, you know. Actually I found them quite good.”

  “No problem at all. Joe Ragovsky’s going to cook supper, by the way.”

  “What a pity he didn’t do lunch. Then I could lay the blame on him instead of you.”

  “Not on your life! I’d much prefer that you have a miraculous recovery as a result of tasting his superb cuisine. Even if my plan should work, there’s not much chance of our leaving here tonight. That means somebody will still have to cook breakfast in the morning. I’d much rather let Joe do the work and reap the glory.”

  Chapter 13

  WHEN MADOC WENT BACK out to the plane with Ace Bulligan’s coffee, he was also carrying Joe Ragovsky’s coat. This was a down-filled parka with a fur-edged hood and a pair of buckskin mittens in the pocket. The garment was a bit heavy for a concert tour at this time of year; Joe said he’d brought it along mainly for company. However, the parka was ideal for what Madoc had in mind; much too big for him, but that was all to the good. It would cover his thighs, even his knees. As for his feet, he could swipe a blanket from the Grumman to wrap them in.

  While Ace drank the hot coffee and ate some crackers and peanut butter out of Ed Naxton’s private store, Madoc nipped out to the Moxie Mabel and measured her gas tank with a dipstick. As he’d suspected, she had more fuel in her than Bulligan had led him to believe. The old pirate must actually have meant to sit tight until he’d pressured somebody into turning over that mythical reward. Well, let him earn it instead.

  Madoc was gambling on the premise that early airplanes, especially beat-up crates like this one, didn’t have much lifting power. When he’d watched Bulligan come in for his landing, the Moxie Mabel had been cruising at a leisurely rate not more than fifteen or twenty feet off the ground. With an extra hundred and sixty pounds of passenger aboard, it might not even be able to get that high, which meant there wouldn’t be far to fall if the engine dropped out or the wings came off. Of course there was also the possibility that the plane wouldn’t get off the ground at all, but he’d worry about that when it happened.

  While the coffee was brewing, Madoc had shoved a box of biscuits and a tin of corned beef hash into one of Joe’s pockets, and filled a plastic jug of water. These and a bottle of whiskey, borrowed from MacVittie and Naxton, he stashed in the rear cockpit and hid under the parka. He didn’t intend to starve in the foothills while waiting for a rescue. Ace couldn’t have come far on so little juice. Now to get that scoundrel back into his cockpit.

  That was the hard part. If Bulligan hadn’t been a man with a thirst, Madoc might never have managed. The aeronaut was greatly disposed at the moment to loll back in his comfortable chair, nurse his hangover, drink his coffee, and regale his captive audience with lies about his flying prowess and scurrilous tales of buggers he had known.

  Trying not to fret about the dimming daylight and the unnerving possibility of his mother’s leaving Sir Emlyn to that chimerical tummy ache and coming out to offer a helpful suggestion, Madoc managed to sort out from Ace’s ramblings that there did exist a ranger’s station not far away, that the ranger had a two-way radio, and that he and his family were well-disposed toward Ace for reasons that Madoc could not even conjecture.

  “Splendid, Mr. Bulligan!” he cried. “The very person we want to see. He’ll help us get that whiskey to you in jig-time. Have you any preference as to the brand? How do you want it? Jugs, barrels, or small bottles you can carry with you at all times?”

  Babbling and cajoling, he succeeded in prying Ace loose from the chair and getting him over to the plane. Steve and Ed trailed along behind, wondering what the hell was going on. When they actually saw Madoc put on Joe Ragovsky’s parka and climb into the rear cockpit, they were aghast.

  “Jesus, Madoc, are you stark, raving crazy? You’re not going up in that bag of bolts?”

  “That remains to be seen. Would you be good enough to twirl the propeller and see if the engine starts? I believe that’s how it’s done. Isn’t it, Mr. Bulligan?”

  “Yeah, what the hell. Give ’er a whirl. Maybe somethin’ will happen. Where do you want to go, Mountie?”

  “Straight to the ranger station.”

  “What ranger station?”

  Madoc tried not to groan. What, he asked himself, would Sergeant Renfrew have done in a case like this? “The one you were just telling us about,” he replied through clenched teeth. “Where your friend Ranger Rick lives. The chap with the radio.”

  “Oh, him? Why in hell didn’t you say so? Sure, I know Rick. Only what if he ain’t home?”

  “Then we’ll simply go in and use his radio. Rick won’t mind. He’s a pal of yours, remember?”

  “Is he? Glad to hear it. Okay, boys, let ’er rip. Off we go, into the wild blue yonder!”

  Being tone-deaf was probably an advantage, Madoc thought, as far as Ace Bulligan’s singing was concerned. Anyway, he didn’t get to hear much of it. Steve MacVittie gave the hand-carved propeller a few heaves in a spirit of aeronautical research and, wonder of wonders, the engine started. The old plane crawled forward, bumped across the ground at a snail’s pace, gradually picked up a little speed, and to the astonishment of all present, left the ground.

  Madoc remembered too late that he’d forgotten to bring that blanket, but it didn’t look as if high-altitude chill was going to cause him any rea
l problem. Moxie Mabel wasn’t rising much higher than a pan of baking-powder biscuits. That was fine with him until they got over among the rocks, where sudden updrafts and downdrafts added a stimulus he hadn’t counted on.

  Ace Bulligan appeared to find them great fun. Madoc did wish the crazy chap wouldn’t turn around and yell “Whee!” at every lurch and joggle. He wished the wheels wouldn’t skim quite so close to the peaks, and he wished those three sets of wings wouldn’t flap so much. He wished it weren’t getting dark so fast. He tried to take a detached sightseer’s interest in the scenery so very close below, but those jagged spears of rock failed to appeal.

  Then he noticed something off to his right, something that looked like a great snake twisting and winding among the humps and jags. A road! And a house! And a radio tower! He leaned forward and patted Ace Bulligan on the back.

  Ace turned around, showing all seven of his brown snags in a grin of triumph. “There she be. Don’t look like there’s anybody home, eh. I wonder if they took their batteries with ’em.”

  “Oh Jesus!”

  Madoc was not a profane man. His outcry was more in the nature of a supplication, and it worked. A light flashed on over the back door of the house. Two children ran out waving their arms and screaming. He never in his life had seen more appealing moppets. Now if only Ace Bulligan didn’t squash them on the way down.

  No, Ace wouldn’t squash them: A young woman in blue jeans and a green jersey was rounding them up, herding them back toward the house. Now they were all three standing on the doorstep, waving at the plane. Madoc waved back. Ace, he was relieved to note, kept his hands on the joystick and his eyes on the space that had been cleared for a landing strip. At the far end sat a small single-engine plane painted a businesslike forest-green.