The Lost Pilots

by Corey Mead

  Our reason for not writing this immediately was by no manner of means a desire on our part to deceive you. We talked it over repeatedly and inevitably concluded there was nothing to be gained by upsetting you while the Mexican project was hanging fire. The night you called us up from Hollywood I felt like a snake, but there was a room full of people playing bridge at my elbow and it was entirely out of the question to do anything but to deny everything in emphatic monosyllables.

  . . . Needless to say, this has been entirely confidential. I have communicated with my wife and have made arrangements for an immediate divorce. Chubbie and I plan to marry as soon as it is granted. . . .

  Please think it all over sanely, Bill, and try to see your way clear to help us get it over with as smoothly as possible. If do you lose your head, I’m afraid I can do nothing but meet you half way. It would break Chubbie’s heart if either of us did anything violent, but the decision regarding this is entirely up to you.

  Yours,

  HADEN

  The finality of Jessie and Clarke’s vigorous declarations of love for each other, coupled with the heartsickening news that they were soon to be married, hit Lancaster with an almost physical force. He proceeded to, he wrote in his diary, “behave like a schoolboy,” collapsing in sobs as he handed the letters over to Shelton. Shelton tried to bolster Lancaster’s spirits, dragging him over to their friend F. Q. Watts’s house to drown his sorrows in alcohol, but no amount of comforting could relieve the agonized Lancaster. “Drink pint of real scotch but it does not affect me,” Lancaster wrote that evening, after phoning Jessie twice. Do you want me to come back? he had asked her. She assured him that she did.

  Whatever agony Lancaster endured that evening he kept to himself. The following morning he wired Jessie and Clarke a telegram that betrayed no hint of his inner turmoil: “Am no dog in manger, but hold your horses kids until I arrive. Insist on being best man and being friend of you both for life. Happiness of you my happiness. Hope arrive tomorrow night or Wednesday latest. Love, Bill.”

  Was Lancaster being genuinely selfless despite the harsh personal toll, as it would seem from his frequent declarations that his life’s priority was Jessie’s well-being? Was he putting a brave face on the crushing misery he felt? Or was the message a feint, a calculated attempt to put Jessie and Clarke at ease while Lancaster plotted a darker turn of events? These were questions that would soon loom large—in the pages of America’s newspapers, and in a Miami courtroom—over Lancaster’s fate.

  14

  A TERRIBLE THING

  Haden Clarke received no comfort from the letters he and Jessie wrote Lancaster. He lived in fear that Lancaster and Jessie’s love would reassert itself upon Lancaster’s return, and that he, Clarke, would be cast off. His self-doubt seemed to feed upon itself, resulting in increasingly frequent violent outbursts that alternated with periods of gloom and hopelessness. His spirits plunged even further when he received a telegram from his wife detailing the shocking news that their divorce, which he’d expected any day, had been delayed until 1933.

  Meanwhile, in St. Louis, Shelton’s father had agreed in principle to Lancaster and Shelton’s plans to buy an amphibian, but he wanted to hold off on specifics until Lancaster’s Miami affairs were in order. To that end, Shelton Sr. loaned Lancaster a hundred dollars for the flight back to Miami.

  His homecoming imminent, Lancaster turned to his remaining errands in St. Louis. Having pawned Ernest Huston’s gun in Tucson, he needed to buy a substitute weapon before returning to Florida. Searching the city, he found a .38 Colt revolver, for which he paid thirty dollars of Shelton’s father’s money. Lancaster spent his final day in St. Louis getting a license.

  On April 19—the same day that Clarke received the surprise telegram from his wife—Lancaster flew from St. Louis to Nashville, where he woke at 4 a.m. the following morning. The skies were still dim as he departed for Atlanta, his last refueling stop before Miami. From Atlanta he wired Jessie to say that he would land in Miami by late afternoon.

  Jessie and Clarke drove to Viking Airport, on the Venetian Causeway between Miami and Miami Beach, to pick Lancaster up. They arrived at 4:30 p.m., but the Robin had encountered strong headwinds, and Lancaster didn’t touch down until almost 7. As he taxied to the hangar, Jessie and Clarke strode across the tarmac to greet him. The mood was tense all around, but with airport workers lurking in the background, a forced politeness was in order.

  “Hello, darling, I’ve missed you,” Lancaster greeted Jessie, as he stepped down from the cockpit. He turned briefly to Clarke and delivered a tightlipped, “Hello, old man.” As they headed to the car, Jessie thought Lancaster appeared weary, mournful, and ill.

  The trio drove off in the Lincoln, stopping first to buy Clarke cigarettes. Lancaster handed him a five-dollar bill, telling him to keep the change. On Flagler Street they stopped at a market to buy cheap steak, again on Lancaster’s dime, before heading to a Laundromat to gather Clarke’s clothes. Clarke balked at the thought of Lancaster and Jessie enjoying even a moment of privacy in the car together. After talking it over, the three walked into the Laundromat as a group. Clarke pulled Jessie aside and said he was too embarrassed to let Lancaster pay for his wash, so Jessie handed him two dollars. “You pay for it; what’s mine is yours,” she told him. But in the meantime, Lancaster had paid the bill.

  “I’m nearly dead for a drink,” Lancaster announced after they had returned to the car. “Let’s stop and get some.” They headed for a nearby bootlegger’s. But when Jessie and Clarke mentioned that they’d temporarily given up drinking, and explained the reason why, Lancaster changed his mind: “We won’t bother then. I never drink alone.”

  As they approached Coral Gables, Lancaster finally broached the topic that was foremost in their minds. “Chubbie, are you sure you know your own mind?”

  “Yes, Bill, I am,” she replied, in a firm but gentle tone.

  “Ever since I’ve known you my only desire has been your happiness.”

  Chubbie assured him that she knew.

  Shifting his focus to Clarke, Lancaster asked, “Do you think you can make her happy?”

  The reply was strident: “I’m damn sure I can.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “We didn’t want to add to your troubles in Mexico,” Clarke explained. “We thought you had enough to worry you already.”

  Seemingly reassured, Lancaster said that on their wedding day he would give them a check for a thousand dollars, though he didn’t mention how he would raise the money. “I’m only going to ask one thing,” he added. “To make absolutely sure that you’re doing the right thing, I want you to agree not to get married for at least a month.”

  When they arrived back at the house, Lancaster grabbed the stack of mail that had accumulated for him during his absence, and then headed upstairs for a bath. Jessie and Clarke went into the kitchen to prepare the steak. The dinner itself passed uneventfully, with Lancaster relating tales of his adventures with Latin-American Airways, and Jessie and Clarke gossiping about the latest news in Coral Gables. At one point Lancaster raised the possibility of booking Jessie on a worldwide lecture tour, which would presumably generate attention for the book. No one mentioned the emotional discomfort that remained hidden beneath the surface cordiality.

  They had finished their steaks and moved on to coffee and cigarettes when Lancaster returned to the real matter at hand. Giving Jessie and Clarke a mournful look, he turned in his chair, and asked, “Now, what’s this really all about?”

  Clarke was defensive: “Chubbie and I want to get married. It’s as simple as that.”

  Lancaster’s voice was more weary than accusatory as he responded, “Haden, old man, I trusted you and you did this to me. You haven’t behaved like a gentleman.”

  Lancaster’s composure did little to steady Clarke’s sudden rage. He shoved his chair against the wall, rose to his feet, and bellowed, “I resent that!”

  This
was just the kind of moment Jessie had dreaded. “If you two are going to fight,” she said, “I’m going to bed.” Chastened, Clarke regained his self-control. Now that uneasy politeness had given way to true emotion, Chubbie felt the full burden of the situation. The three started to head into the living room when the high-strung Clarke experienced another abrupt mood shift, this time to regret. “I guess you’re right, Bill,” he admitted shamefacedly, acknowledging his betrayal.

  Jessie went to the kitchen to wash dishes, where she was joined a minute later by an exhausted-looking Lancaster. “This is a mess, isn’t it?” he asked, before uttering a humorless laugh. Jessie was so overcome with despair that she leaned her head on Lancaster’s shoulder and began to sob. As Bill offered her a consoling hug, Clarke stormed into the room. His fury had returned.

  “Leave her alone!” he shouted at Lancaster. “It’s my right to comfort her now. I won’t have you trying to break down my wagon!”

  “I’ll give you a year to make her happy,” Lancaster replied, “and if you haven’t, I swear I’ll come back and take her away from you.”

  “Leave her alone!”

  “She’s always come to me in time of trouble,” Lancaster said, but Clarke was not to be appeased.

  “She’ll come to me now,” Clarke insisted, yanking Jessie to his side. “I won’t have him talking to you alone,” he petulantly told her. “Anything that’s said must be said in front of all of us.”

  “I think it’s only fair to let me talk to Bill alone,” a still-crying Jessie said, but Clarke repeated that he wouldn’t stand for it.

  Lancaster tried to reason with him. “I’ve known Chubbie for five years. It’s natural we should want to talk alone.”

  Again Clarke refused.

  Jessie had heard enough. “Leave me alone, both of you,” she said with disgust, and sent them out to buy more cigarettes. When they returned, Jessie was in her room. She took out a stack of newspaper clippings regarding Latin-American Airways and the three again discussed Lancaster’s experiences with Tancrel and Russell. As they talked, Lancaster sorted through his unopened mail, which included several letters from the National Air Pilots Association insurance company. When Jessie told him that the company had gone bust just one day earlier, Lancaster looked stunned. Jessie was confused by his response, until a thought flashed through her mind: Had Lancaster taken out a thousand-dollar insurance policy? Was that where his promised wedding present would come from? She immediately asked if he was planning to commit suicide while flying so that she and Clarke would receive the money. Lancaster said no, but Jessie kept pushing, and he finally confessed. “No one would ever know,” he told her. “If a ship spins, who is to know what happened?”

  Eventually the conversation drifted back to Lancaster’s trip out west. He described troubles he’d encountered on the various flights themselves, the poor weather conditions, how he had handled the Robin. Jessie, as a pilot, was engrossed by this information, which threw Clarke into another fit. He accused Lancaster of trying to win Jessie back through her interest in flying. “You can’t blame me for trying to win her back any way I can,” Lancaster replied. For the third time Jessie told them that if they continued to argue she would leave them to themselves.

  The three went back down to the living room, where Lancaster plopped in a chair and Jessie and Clarke settled on the chaise longue. They talked about their precarious finances and of various ways they could make money in the future. Lancaster relayed Shelton’s father’s promise to buy them an amphibian. He also said he’d visit Ernest Huston in the morning to discuss the money Latin-American Airways owed him, though Jessie thought privately that Lancaster was pursuing a lost cause.

  Clarke’s temper continued to flare throughout their discussion, as he alternated between aggressiveness and surliness. Finally Jessie said that she and Clarke needed to talk alone. Lancaster whistled for the dog, headed out to the car, and went for a late-night drive around the neighborhood. “He’ll try to get you back,” Clarke complained to Jessie. “I know what he’s up to.” Clarke said he would never feel secure until he and Jessie were married. “I talked to Huston about it,” he told her, “and he said we could probably get married legally here now, provided we stay out of California.” In every other state they would be considered legally married. But Jessie was having none of it. Lancaster returned to the house after driving around for thirty minutes. When he walked into the living room he told Jessie and Clarke that he was leaving at once.

  “Leave where?” Jessie asked, surprised.

  “Back to St. Louis, where I can make some money and send it to you kids,” Lancaster answered.

  Jessie protested that he couldn’t leave the house in the middle of the night, so Lancaster agreed that he would sleep there, and depart for St. Louis first thing in the morning. Pleading exhaustion, he then took his stack of letters and headed up to the sun porch.

  Jessie and Clarke continued lying on the couch, awash in misery. The situation was far worse than either had imagined. Jessie, for her part, felt nearly suicidal with despair. “I wish we could end it all,” she told Clarke. He said he felt the same way. They discussed Clarke’s physical desire for her, and his dismay at not being able to have sex until his syphilis was cured. “I can’t stand it any longer, I’m going nuts,” he complained. A few minutes later he announced that he was going to bed.

  “I want you to promise me to lock your door,” he told Jessie, but she said she preferred to keep her door open for fresh air. Clarke protested: “I don’t want that son of a bitch coming in to try to talk you out of our marriage.” Jessie gave in.

  After turning off the downstairs lights, Jessie headed up to her room, which was eighteen feet from the sun porch where Lancaster and Clarke slept. She saw them sitting on their respective beds, Lancaster still sorting through his mail. She walked into their room to set the alarm clock. “Yes, I want to get up early tomorrow,” Lancaster said. “I’ve got lots of things to do.” As Jessie left the room she said, “Good night, chaps,” but Lancaster didn’t respond, so she tried again. “Good night, Bill,” she said with a little smile. This time Lancaster looked up and said, “Good night.” Clarke shot her a disapproving look.

  According to Lancaster, after Jessie left, he and Clarke began to talk. In Lancaster’s telling, Clarke was suffering from syphilis-related pains, and he told Lancaster not to worry if he heard him pacing during the night: it was due to the pain, not because he was going to Jessie’s room. He was almost in tears as he described to Lancaster his symptoms. Clarke also tried to justify his actions with Jessie. He’d had many affairs, he told Lancaster, but this was true love, and he was going to put all his efforts into making Jessie happy. He then showed Lancaster the letter his wife had sent from Los Angeles. It would cost him fifty dollars to obtain a divorce in Miami, Clarke complained.

  Clarke also said his mother was having a difficult time because the University of Miami was withholding her salary, prompting Lancaster to remark that it would have been better for everyone if Mrs. Clarke had indeed moved into 2321 S.W. 21st Terrace. Clarke admitted further that he was concerned about finishing the book with Jessie. “I’m worried I won’t make the grade,” he said.

  Finally Clarke moved on to some deeper confessions. He sheepishly admitted that he wasn’t thirty-one, as he had pretended to be; he was only twenty-six. Nor had he graduated from Columbia University or worked extensively in journalism. “Do you think it will make any difference with Chubbie?” he anxiously asked Lancaster, who responded that Clarke should tell her the truth first thing in the morning.

  Lancaster tried to lighten the mood by telling amusing stories about Latin-American Airways. Clarke reclined on his bed with his hands behind his head, laughing at the tale of Tancrel and the Wallpaper Hangers’ Union. Shortly before turning off the light, Clarke said, “Bill, you are the whitest man I’ve ever met.”

  Jessie could hear Lancaster and Clarke laughing as she lay in bed reading. After leaving their
room, she had changed into pajamas, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and wound her alarm clock. The time was 12:45 a.m. She locked her door, placed a pack of cigarettes on her nightstand, and got into bed, where she stayed up for nearly an hour reading a detective story about a man being pushed off the roof of a building. When she finished the story, Jessie turned off her light and went to sleep.

  The next thing she knew Lancaster was banging furiously on her door, shouting for her to wake up. Groggily, Jessie rose to her feet and unlocked her door. Lancaster was standing in the hallway with a panicked look in his eyes.

  “A terrible thing has happened,” he said. “Haden has shot himself.”

  15

  FORGERIES

  That’s ridiculous,” Jessie said. “There’s no gun in the house.”

  “Yes, there is,” Lancaster told her. “I brought one back for Huston.” Jessie hustled to the sun porch, where Clarke lay convulsing on the bed, a gaping bullet wound in his right temple. Gurgling moans escaped his throat; blood coated his face and matted his hair. The full moon outside shone its radiant light through the porch screen, highlighting the creeping death-pallor of Clarke’s skin. “Speak to me,” Jessie urged; when Clarke didn’t respond, she ran into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. She sat on the bed and began wiping the blood from Haden’s face. “Call the doctor,” she ordered Lancaster, who ran downstairs to the phone. She grabbed a bowl in which to rinse the washcloth, then continued bathing Clarke’s face. Even as she washed him, gently lifting his head with her hand, blood continued to pour from his wound.

  Downstairs, Lancaster banged the telephone receiver several times before remembering it was a dial phone. When he finally connected with the operator, he told her to send a doctor to 2321 S.W. 21st Terrace in Coral Gables. Returning upstairs to the sun porch, he went over to Clarke’s bed, saying, “Haden, old man, speak to me.” But Clarke only continued his guttural groaning, his body jerking and twitching. Lancaster went over to Haden’s desk, where the typewriter was located.