by Otto Penzler
Ben Todd climbed up. Someone had switched the light on over his bed. Someone had left a slip of paper stuck into his pillow with a large safety pin. The determined script on the paper was Sarah Watson’s. It said: “Next stop 3:25. Get ready. The girl is dead.”
There was no signature. There was a smudge of red near the ragged lower edge of the note.
Ben Todd sat hunched up, staring. His freckles began to take on a darker hue against the whitening of his face. Presently, the paper began to shake a little in his hand.
It was sixty seconds before he began frenziedly adjusting the few garments he had removed that night. He was badly handicapped by the jerki-ness of his breathing and the fumbling of his fingers.
At 3:24, he was sitting cross legged on his berth, gripping his valise. There was no sound from the berth beneath him.
At 3:25, the train stopped. Still no sound from below.
At 3:25%, there was a stir in the aisle. Ben Todd peered down, saw a man dashing into the vestibule of the car.
At 3:26, the conductor’s whistle blew from the platform outside the train, and the train gave a preliminary lurch.
Sarah Watson erupted from her berth, charged down the aisle. Ben Todd swung his long legs over at the same instant, ignored the ladder, leaped, followed her, caught up with her in the vestibule. The conductor was just mounting the steps. Sarah put a hand on his chest and shoved. She went by him like a blast.
The conductor leaped back on the moving train, cursing. Ben Todd slid into the next vestibule and jumped. He landed sitting down on the dark platform, the few scattered lights of the town beyond the station pinwheeling in his head.
A firm hand hauled him up. A hoarse voice said: “Stop resting, feller. I’ve got a car waiting.”
Together, they dashed around the dark bulk of the station, dived into the lone car waiting in the dreary street beyond. The taxi began to move. There was only one other car in sight, its tail light rapidly diminishing. Ben Todd said: “Sarah! That poor girl! How—?”
Sarah lifted her black gloved hands. She crooked the fingers suggestively. She said: “This is the way it happened, Bennie.”
“God!” breathed Ben Todd. “Strangled! Sarah, what in the name of hell are we going to do now?”
“We’re going to keep quiet if you know what’s good for you,” said Sarah, with a glance at the driver’s back. “This is no place to discuss—”
Sarah broke off and leaned toward the driver. She said:
“This flying field, young man. It is the only one hereabouts? You’re sure? Good! Now, listen, young feller, a lot depends on this. You sure there ain’t a single solitary private plane to rent at that field, for love nor money?”
The taxi driver kept his head over the wheel and nodded. They were making speed. The tail light of the single car ahead was growing larger.
Sarah said: “Then you’re damn sure, young man, that there ain’t a plane of any kind or description flying out of this place until the regular passenger plane comes through at four a.m. and takes off again?”
The driver nodded. He said, “You can stake your life on it.”
“Maybe I am,” said Sarah, quietly, and leaned back against the cushions.
Ben Todd spent the next ten flying minutes hunched in his corner, staring at Sarah Watson’s rugged profile, which looked white in the flash of occasional street lamps, dark and brooding in the intervals between.
The taxi swerved on to a dirt road, bumped to a stop in front of a fenced field. There was a gate in the fence, and beyond the fence, a square, boxlike structure.
Ben Todd reached for the door handle on his side of the car. Sarah gripped his arm. She said: “Wait!”
The man standing just inside the gate of the flying field moved on, passed into shadows, emerged again and walked through the door of the square building beyond the gate.
Sarah said: “All right, now,” thrust a crumpled bill into their driver’s hand and got out. They passed through the gate and halted, Sarah’s fingers digging into Ben Todd’s arm, in their ears, the diminishing sound of the car they had come in. Sarah Watson said: “We’ve got about fifteen minutes to wait, if the plane’s on time. Don’t spend any of ‘em in the light, Ben Todd, and don’t go near that waiting room, until the last minute, and then get our tickets. If you can change your appearance any while you’re hanging around in the dark, do it. And give me your valise. I need the duds in it.”
“Sarah!” Ben Todd’s voice sounded as though rust had attacked his vocal chords. “Sarah, you’re not going to try to get into my clothes? They won’t fit you and you couldn’t get away with it anyway, old girl. Listen! I’d do anything to get you clear of this terrible thing, Sarah, but…”
“Idiot! Give me that bag. Remember, keep out of sight ‘til the last minute. I’ll meet you just before the plane leaves the ground.”
Sarah Watson grabbed Ben Todd’s valise from his nerveless hand and strode away and was lost in the shadows at the far side of the field.
Ben Todd located the spot where the plane would settle down to discharge and admit passengers. Thereafter, he skulked in shadows, his forehead beaded with perspiration in spite of the cool wind of approaching dawn. Once or twice, he thought he saw the dark bulk of Sarah’s figure melt into the darker bulk of the shadowed side of the waiting room structure. Several times, he was sure he saw a flashlight darting there, close to the ground. Then, the distant drone of a big plane came to his ears and he lifted anxious eyes. The stars were fading out and gray was washing into the ceiling above him.
Like a monstrous, murmuring white bird, the plane rested in the white path of the runway. The trim stewardess stood at one side of the rear door, the collar-ad co-pilot at the other side, watch in hand. Faces peered out of the windows of the plane, waiting.
The co-pilot snapped his watch shut, grinned at the stewardess, put his foot on the first of the two little steps up to the plane’s door.
A woman ran out from behind the waiting room, carrying a man’s valise in one hand, a yellow cardboard suitcase in the other. An enveloping, bright yellow rain coat flapped as she ran. The bags smacked against her thighs as she came on.
She slowed. She lifted the hand with the valise in it and straightened the exotic creation of black velvet and nodding violets which had slid forward off her grey hair and was threatening to blind her. She came to a full stop, set the valise down, and adjusted the polka-dotted veil which hung from the hat, drawing it well down and over her prominent chin.
A long legged young man shot out from the waiting room door and joined her. She thrust the bags into his hands.
“Here,” she said. “You handle it. Tell ‘em we know the suitcase weighs too much, but your valise don’t weigh anything, because it’s empty now. Tell ‘em to divide the weight of the suitcase between us, because we’re travelling together. Don’t bollix it, feller. It’s important—”
Sarah Watson charged on, thrust a ticket under the co-pilot’s handsome nose and entered the plane. She went in with no more sound than the rattling of her stiff yellow raincoat, and she took a seat at the rear.
The seats were brown leather, four seats on each side of the aisle. A man and woman sat on one side, rather white and tense. In front of them, an elderly gentleman, evidently a person of means, read a book.
On the other side, Ben Todd sat in the last seat, with his back against a walled-off cubicle labelled “Stewardess.” In front of him, sat Sarah Watson. In the front seat on that side of the aisle, just behind the glass partition which separated the passengers from the pilots, a man sat. All that was visible of the man from the rear was a section of dark hair and a soft felt hat.
The plane soared. The squares of dark and light on the earth beneath grew smaller, then began to take form in the growing light. Here and there, sunlight glinted on a steeple.
Sarah Watson turned in her seat. Ben Todd leaned forward. Sarah said, through her veil: “Well, we made it. But I can’t say I think much of your ideas
of disguise. Any fool can turn up his coat collar and pull down his hat. Couldn’t you have rustled a false mustache or something, Bennie? Not that it matters now. We’re on and nobody can get off this thing until—”
“Sarah, listen! You can’t get away with it, old girl! The cops will be waiting for you at the next stop.”
“Waiting for me?” Sarah thrust her proboscis close to Ben’s. “Waiting for me? Ben Todd, do you mean to say you’ve been thinking that I—do you mean to say that you’ve been thinking that poor girl is dead because I—?”
Ben Todd stared into the eyes behind Sarah’s dotted veil. For a long time, neither of them moved, except to sway slightly with the swaying of the plane. Ben Todd said, slowly: “I’ve been a damn fool, old girl. But you’ve got to admit you acted like you had something damn unpleasant to run away from.”
“Not from,” said Sarah, hoarsely. “After! Look ahead, Bennie. Ain’t there something familiar about the back of that head?”
Ben Todd stared at the dark hair resting on the leather cushions of the seat up the aisle. He stared at the soft felt hat on top of the hair. Presently, Ben Todd said, very quietly:
“Wart face!”
“Exactly,” said Sarah.
“But listen—if you mean you think he killed—”
“I know he killed her.”
“Well, then, why the hell all the dramatics? Why the hell didn’t we get him at the landing field?”
“You’re forgetting we also want to get the necklace.”
“What of it? If he killed her, he’s got the necklace. We’d have got it. You could simply have claimed it for old Hecker.”
“And had the cops hold it as evidence for months? Listen, Bennie. I set out to steal that necklace, and I’m going to steal it, for reasons of my own. Bennie, in which of a man’s pockets do you think he’d be likely to hide a diamond—a necklace he thought was diamonds?”
“Listen, you damn fool woman. If that guy has the necklace, let him keep it. He’s dangerous!”
“Bennie,” said Sarah, “don’t worry about me. Now, think! Where’d he be likely to put that necklace?”
“God knows. The Gautier necklace is pretty bulky, so the imitation must be, too. He might hide it in his luggage, far as that goes.”
“He has no luggage. He must have hopped that train in a hurry, must have learned at the last minute that the necklace was on board. Think, now, Bennie! Which pocket?”
“Wait a mo,” said Ben Todd, slowly. “I’m remembering something—in the dining car, while you were shovelling in grub, I was watching. I saw that guy take his wallet out to pay. He took it out of an inside coat pocket, left hand side. The pocket seemed to have some special kind of zipper arrangement on it.”
“Bennie, you’re worth your wages, sometimes! Let’s see, now. The next landing is in three quarters of an hour. In about half an hour, Bennie, I’m going to be sick.”
“Sick? Whad’ya mean, sick?”
“Sick. Lots of people get sick on planes. I never rode on a plane before, and I’m a sensitive nature, Bennie. I’m not only going to be sick, but I’m going to get hysterical. I’m going to do some staggering and some screeching. I’m going to stagger up front and then I’m going to stagger back.”
“Listen, Sarah, for hell’s sake! That fellow’s a killer. He’s dangerous.”
“After I stagger back, Bennie, I’m going to stagger into that little cubbyhole right behind you. Your job is to see that that little snip of a stewardess don’t follow me in there. After I’m in, Bennie, just let things take their course … just let things take their course.”
Sarah turned squarely around. She became absorbed in peering out of her window. Ben Todd regarded the grey, rocky knob of hair on the back of her head for a long time. His lips moved silently. A lip reader reading those lips would have blushed.
Presently, Ben Todd relaxed and stared down from his window. Below, the earth revolved, slowly. Above, the thin, pink tinted clouds raced.
Sarah Watson stirred. She glanced at the small, plump watch pinned on her bosom. She rose.
Sarah gulped dangerously as she stood up. She gulped again and lurched into the aisle. She made some loud, unintelligible noises. She began to sway up the aisle.
The alert stewardess started down the aisle to meet her. Sarah stumbled, knocked the stewardess sidewise, went on with a rush. Sarah was screeching now, loud, thin screeches from which words were beginning to emerge.
“Stop the plane! I’m scared! I’m scared stiff! Something’s going to happen—”
Ben Todd was in the aisle, racing after the stewardess. The stewardess was racing after Sarah. Sarah was now at the glass partition which separated the pilots from the passengers. Sarah was banging on the glass with clenched fists. She was yelling her terror.
The stewardess reached Sarah, clawed at the yellow rubber which covered Sarah’s broad back. Sarah went on yelling, went on pounding.
Ben Todd reached the stewardess. He put firm hands on the stewardess. He said: “The old lady’s scared into a fit. You can’t handle her. Let me.”
Sarah Watson wheeled suddenly. She staggered. One of her thick arms went out in a wild, wide sweep. The fist at the end of the arm struck Ben Todd on the point of the chin. Ben Todd staggered. His long arms sawed the air. One of the arms struck the stewardess.
With a last weird yell, Sarah Watson collapsed. She collapsed over the dark gentleman sitting directly behind the glass partition. The dark gentleman and Sarah became a conglomerate, moving mass of waving arms and legs, a mass slipping and sliding over the leather seat, a mass vocal with grunts and gasps.
The stewardess recovered. She leaped into the fray. She clawed indiscriminately at portions of Sarah’s anatomy and portions of the dark gentleman.
Ben Todd gripped the edge of the dark gentleman’s seat. Ben Todd swung out a long arm and curved it about the slender waist of the stewardess. Ben Todd lifted the stewardess up and out into the aisle. He said:
“I told you I could handle her. Lay off!”
Suddenly, Sarah Watson was on her feet. She was sagging against Ben Todd. She was pulling down her veil as she sagged. She was moving rapidly toward the rear of the plane, moaning as she moved, and taking Ben Todd with her.
The dark-haired gentleman was straightening himself. He was gulping in deep breaths. He was putting his hand to his left side. He was rising from his seat.
Sarah reached the door of the little cubicle marked “Stewardess.” She opened the door. She said, loudly:
“No! Leave me alone! I want to be alone! Oh, I’m so ashamed!” and she slammed the door of the little cubicle shut in Ben Todd’s face.
The stewardess was at Ben Todd’s shoulder. The stewardess was reaching past Ben Todd, trying to open the door of the little cubicle.
Ben Todd closed his fingers about the wrist of the stewardess. He said: “Leave the poor old thing alone. She just got scared, and now she’s ashamed.”
A new voice rose over the tumult, the voice of the dark haired gentleman:
“I’ve been robbed!” he screamed. “Robbed!” The dark haired gentleman was in the aisle now, facing the rear, his arms raised, his wart revealed to all who cared to look. “Robbed!” he screamed again.
The door of the little cubicle burst open. Sarah Watson came out of the cubicle with a rush, covering her veiled face with her hands.
“A man in there!” she howled. “A man! He hit me. Oh, my! He hit me and he jumped out of the window in there. He jumped and he’s going down with one of those parasol things!”
The passengers were all on their feet now, swaying and jerking, momentarily in danger of entangling with each other in the center of the aisle. As Sarah’s screech reached them each followed with his eyes the direction of Sarah’s stubby, pointing finger, and each scrambled into a seat, peered out a window.
“Look! A man—she’s right—his parachute’s stuck—no, it’s unfolding—he hit her—he must have been hid in there all the time!�
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The dark haired man got back into the aisle again. He raised an arm and pointed it at Sarah. He yelled:
“I’ve been robbed! That woman robbed me!”
“What?” Sarah’s answering yell was hoarse. “You’ve been robbed? You’re accusing me—me? Look down there, man. Look! There goes your thief!”
“I’ve been robbed!” yelled the dark haired man. “She took them. She took the diamonds— my diamonds! She … that woman …”
“Diamonds?” said Sarah hoarsely. “My dear man! Just look out of the windows, as everybody else is looking!”
The passengers ceased staring with popping eyes at Sarah and the man with the wart. The passengers pressed their faces again against the windows:
“Look! He said diamonds—wait—the wind is carrying the parachute this way. What’s that shining down there in the man’s hand? Diamonds—he said diamonds—there’s something shining in that man’s hand. He’s got away with the diamonds—he must have been hiding in there all the time. It’s a blessing we’re not all dead!”
The man with the wart got out into the aisle again. He raised his arms and shook his fists. He cried:
“That man’s got my diamonds! That man! Stop the plane! That thief has my diamonds. He’s going to land any minute! Stop the—”
And suddenly the man with the wart ceased yelling and crowded to a window and fixed his eyes avidly on the figure slowly drifting down, drifting now very close to earth, near the wide spread of a red factory’s roofs!
The plane tilted, began to point its nose toward the earth. The man with the wart lost his balance on the slippery seat upon which he had been kneeling. He slid, he clawed at the seat, he banged his head against the back of the seat in front, and he fell.
The stewardess ran to him and said, “The plane’s stopping very soon now, anyway, sir— the regular stop. And you must have seen where that thief landed with your diamonds—”
Sarah Watson settled in her seat and folded her hands complacently. She turned her head and Ben Todd leaned toward her.
“Bennie,” she said, close to Ben Todd’s ear, “Bennie, I’ve always said that all men were alike, but the one that just landed under that parachute is different, Bennie, because I made him myself. I had a hell of a time finding enough scrap iron about that airport to weigh him down, and a hell of a time stealing a parachute there, too, and, of course, there’s a good suit of yours gone to pot to clothe him, but we can charge the suit to Mr. Hecker.”