The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  Frost was like that. In the morning, it took definite form. It wasn’t nebulous any longer. That air-mail job hadn’t been an accident. It was premeditated. Everybody thought it was just one of those things that have to be a part of any new field of endeavor when man pits his brain and brawn against nature. But Jerry was willing to bet his life it had been premeditated.

  Once, down south, when they were having a lot of fun with Salazar and Madero, a grizzled veteran had said, “Kid, when you get a hunch—ride it!” Well, that wasn’t always so easy. The odds were big. No matter if you had a strong body, the odds were big. But Jerry Frost had a hunch. And he was going to ride it.

  It all depended on one thing, and he went out to see about that. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when he discovered the spot where the train had been held up was but a few hundred yards from Withers Field, the municipal airport. He had expected it.

  He telephoned the Secret Service chief and the Jamestown chief and made the same request of both. It was for them to forget they had seen him.

  Irrespective of the theories of the investigators, and their verdicts, Jerry was convinced the mail plane had been tampered with. To do that required cold nerve and daring that not every criminal possessed. Find the man who conceived that idea and you had the brains behind the train robbery. And he was a man who would need and who would have a sound knowledge of airplanes.

  That afternoon he reported to the hangar of the Mid-West Air Transport Company at Withers Field with a letter of introduction to Captain Eads. An hour before Captain Eads had been telephoned that one Thomas Femrite, a name Jerry adopted for obvious reasons, was to be given employment as a mechanic and test pilot.

  He knew, of course, that there was little chance of any of the bandits being at the Field now. But that flying field once had been the center of their operations. That wasn’t much to work on, but it was something. It was considerably more than anybody else had decided.

  “Captain Eads?” Jerry asked.

  A man seated at the inside desk turned and looked. Before him in the door stood a man six feet tall and as brown as a nut. He had long arms, long legs and good eyes. He looked every inch a flyer. There is something about a new man who comes to a flying field that compels attention. You immediately size him up and wonder how much stuff he’s got, and whether he’s going to be a heel or a good fellow, and whether or not he can fly. Captain Eads decided this lad would do.

  “Mr. Femrite, reporting for duty.”

  “Come in, Mr. Femrite. An old army man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought so. What outfit?”

  “The Forty-seventh.”

  Captain Eads lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah? Pretty good gang of crate-busters. The downtown office telephoned me about you. How many hours have you had?”

  “Oh, six or seven thousand.”

  “Whoosh! That’s plenty. Well, you’ve come to the right place if you’re a seven-thousand-hour man. We need men who can assemble motors and who aren’t afraid to fly those same motors. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Red!”

  An oily individual who escaped being a dwarf by a few inches shoved his auburn head through the door.

  “Take Mr. Femrite around and make him acquainted. He’s going to work for us.”

  Getting acquainted with the Mid-West crew was the work of but a few moments. Red was short, Jerry learned, for Fred Walker, and apart from him the only other veteran was Slimmer King. There were a couple of youngsters but they didn’t count. They hadn’t passed the prop-spinning stage.

  Going over big was simple with Red and Slimmer. Jerry spoke their language. The kids were aloof, but after he had stunted one of the rickety Travelairs one afternoon, they warmed up and immediately made him a model.

  Nor had his maneuvers hurt his prestige with the old-timers. Jerry had all but knocked the knob off St. Peter’s gate. That particular day he went crazy. What he didn’t do with that old bus hadn’t been invented.

  “Gee, you looked great!” Red beamed. “But I thought once or twice we oughta kissed you good-bye before you left the ground.”

  “Stop kidding, Red. I bet you can do things with a crate I’ve never thought of.”

  “Naw,” Red confessed. “I ain’t much of a stunter. I can get ’em up there and get ’em down and that lets me out. I wasn’t born to kick no rudder bar. My head belongs in a motor.”

  After that, things came easier for Jerry. The ice had been broken. He came to know something of the other fellows on the Field. He was particularly attracted to the bunch in the No. 6 hangar. They were commercial men.

  He sensed a sort of rivalry between the Mid-West fellows and the bunch in No. 6. There was no particular reason for it, but he did. Ostensibly, they just about had the commercial business at the field sewed up. The Mid-West wasn’t in competition with them, yet they growled and glared every time Jerry got close. He spoke to Red about it.

  “They’re just a gang of five-dollar-a-lick boys,” Red said. “Don’t pay them any attention. They haul passengers, but personally, I wouldn’t let one of ’em push me in a wheelbarrow. I just don’t crave their company.”

  “There’s no reason for them to be sore at me,” Jerry said.

  “That’s their way. They’re sore at everybody. The farther away from those guys you stay the better off you’ll be.”

  But he had no intention of staying away. He was curious. So the next day, under the pretext of borrowing a porcelain, he invaded their hangar. He went up to the fellow who had been pointed out as Casey.

  Casey gave him the porcelain. He was stocky and careless in his personal appearance, even for an airplane mechanic. “Where you come from, feller?”

  “Oh, all over,” said Jerry.

  “I saw you yesterday doing some fancy flying. Looked like you’d wobbled a stick before.”

  “Yep—I’ve wobbled ’em before.”

  “You a new air-mail pilot?”

  “Nope, just a mechanic.”

  “Well, there ain’t many mechanics can fly like that.”

  “Oh, I dunno.”

  “A guy like you is wasting his time meddling with spark plugs and pushing a gasoline truck over a flying field. You’d ought to get in the big money. Commercial stuff.”

  “Sounds pretty good.”

  “It is good.” Casey was positive. “Any guy what can bust clouds like you can is wasting his time drawing two hundred bucks a month. Interested?”

  “Maybe. Much obliged for the porcelain.”

  That night Captain Jerry Frost reported to the Adjutant-General by telephone. He reported that he had become established and that the outlook was promising and that something possibly would happen soon.

  The Adjutant-General, still annoyed, retorted that something would happen soon—to the entire force. “They’re still raising hell,” he said bluntly. “Let me send you some help.”

  “Now, listen,” said Jerry firmly. “Any outside interference will gum the whole works. You sit tight and stop worrying. And don’t send anybody! Forget all about it.”

  The Adjutant-General grumblingly agreed, and then told himself he was glad Frost was on the job. If anybody could do it, Jerry could.

  Jerry was convinced the gang in No. 6 hangar wasn’t all everybody thought it was. He had been made an overture, and he expected another. To bring it about, he spent the next few days in direct defiance of all the laws of flying. He was either a plain damn fool or the sweetest pilot who ever brought a bus down on one tire. He almost tore the ships to pieces. All this time the gang in No. 6 looked on.

  One night Casey and another man, of a distinct continental air, visited the Transport hangar.

  “Meet Mr. Crouch,” said Casey. “He’s the boss of our outfit.”

  Jerry shook hands with him.

  “I’m glad to know you,” Crouch said. “I saw you the other day and I wanted to congratulate you. I’ve seen a lot of flying in my time, but
I don’t think I ever saw the equal of that.”

  The man spoke with a slight accent, and a high voice. It was an unusual tone. Something in Jerry’s memory stirred. He looked into the face closely. Gray mustache. Black eyes, sharp and deep-set. A small mouth and thin lips.

  He had seen that face somewhere before. But where? The panorama of his life passed swiftly. It produced nothing.

  “Thank you, sir,” Jerry said. “I sometimes think I was born with my feet on a rudder bar.”

  “You were,” Crouch agreed; “and that’s just the point. You are the type of man commercial flying needs. Would you consider a change?”

  “Well,” said Jerry, “a fellow always needs—”

  “Exactly. And you’re worth just twice as much to us as you are to the air-mail people.”

  Jerry debated for a moment. He had no idea of refusing; he just didn’t want to be too anxious.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Good! When can you leave?”

  “When do you want me?”

  “Tomorrow. We’re opening a hangar at Waco. You’ll be on hand in the morning?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t think they’ll hold me.”

  “Of course they won’t! If necessary, tell ’em to go to hell!”

  Getting his release was simple. He merely got in touch with the home office, where the officials knew his mission and identity, and explained the situation. They in turn notified the Field. There was little comment. There seldom is. Young flying men are notorious nomads.

  Waco was but an hour’s hop from Jamestown, and as Jerry was eager to get there he left at once. During that hour he rolled his memory before him, seeking to pull from its kaleidoscope the face of the man called Crouch. That high voice rang in his ears above the drone of the motor; and gradually the years fell away.

  Flying now, as he was flying then, the slender threads of memory were picked up more easily.

  Once more he was in the air over Bapaume with the 47th. This was Richthofen’s old stamping ground and the Boche knew it like birds. Jerry was flying a Camel at 8,000 feet. They were climbing in close formation. He looked ahead and to the right. There was Bapaume in all its raggedness, half-obscured in the mist. On his left were a couple of youngsters. They waved. They were going through the agony of their first patrol. He had gone through it two months before. But it hadn’t wrecked him. He hadn’t a lot of imagination. He was sure of himself. But he knew it must be hell on the youngsters. He thought he’d better keep an eye on the eaglets.

  There were clouds above—gray blanket clouds that came together in a solid roof, with only a gaping hole here and there to reveal the blue. Bad stuff. The squadron leader knew. He kept them climbing. Jerry glanced again at the youngsters. It bucked him up a bit to think about them. They were green. He squinted his eye and put up his thumb to have a look around the sun. They were up above now. He warmed his guns. The chatter reminded him that he was tired. So this was war. Well, they could have the damned war for all he cared. He was tired. He wished … And then he caught himself. A fellow couldn’t do that. It wasn’t decent. He was in it, no use wishing he was out. Then he saw he was straggling. Straggling was suicide. They were out in Richthofen’s country. The Baron’s men were devoted to stragglers. They ate ’em alive. He looked up. His intuition again.

  His throat closed abruptly and his knees melted. An Albatross was coming down fast. His wing fabric was ruffling into lace and the wood of his camber ribs was splintering. He pulled up sharply and pressed his trigger. Both guns vomited. He was firing wildly. The Albatross slipped under him. Oh, for a fast bus! His Camel would do 100. An S.E. would do 135. A Spad would do 140. And an Albatross would beat that. A butterfly-winged Albatross. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Sping! A shower of gasoline. His motor conked. He fell over in a dive. The Albatross followed him down. The Spandaus were rattling. He could hear them above the bite of the motor. A hundred red-hot needles hit him in the shoulder. Her dammed something warm back with his lips. Something warm and wet. The dirty, lousy swine! Fine stuff! What the hell? He was done … he was falling. The Spandaus rattled fortissimo. A drumlike roar, blackness swept, swirled over him.…

  A high-ceilinged room. The penetrating smell of anesthetics. A face that bent over and shut out the depth of the room. An enormous face by contrast. He slowly made it out. He moved his body and winced. Bandaged. The face grinned. It spoke.

  “Never,” said a high, irritating voice, “break formation. How did I hit everything but your head?” The face came closer. The Pour le Mérite swung out on its ribbon. “Byfield, my name is. You’re my personal prisoner.…”

  Jerry tried to laugh. Instead he fainted.…

  That had been eleven years ago. The vision passed and its present significance came upon him so suddenly he went into a renversement that almost popped his neck. Byfield! The German Ace! Crouch! By God! There was dirty work somewhere. His first vague hunch, even so soon, assumed the form of reality. There could be no doubt that he was on a trail that would lead somewhere.

  Out of the mists loomed the Amicable Building, perennial landmark, sentinel of the Brazos, gaunt and lonely for want of companionship. Bearing to the left, he came over the field and settled down. He was trembling as if he had been out on his first patrol.

  Byfield!

  A luxurious cabin plane idled down and disgorged two men. One was Casey. The other was Crouch, né Byfield. It was all Jerry could do to keep his hands off the man’s throat.

  “You must have been in a hurry,” said the high voice.

  That voice! There was no doubt of it now. Von Byfield. Every step of the way now was fraught with danger. He half hoped Crouch wouldn’t see it in his face.

  “I was,” he said finally.

  “Well, there’s a lot to do. We’ll brush up and visit the newspapers.”

  They brushed, breakfasted, visited. Crouch planted all his ideas. But that was simple. He had them talking about it already. There were a dozen pilots coming in from New Mexico and Arizona to take part in the circus. A dozen men who, Jerry knew full well, were bums. And then he thought it was funny that he should be walking beside this man in such a placid way … the man who called himself Crouch, who had shot him out of control and then followed him down. He had prayed to meet him a hundred times—and now he had. And he was helpless. Funny.

  That afternoon the pilots dropped in. That afternoon they were not an impressive collection. Just as Jerry thought, they were tramps. He thought they were a tough-looking bunch of eggs to be pilots. Had it come to the point where there was as much evil in the air as on the ground? God forbid. The air was the last outpost of chivalry. Of romance. It was dead as hell everywhere else. And it wouldn’t be long—

  But his big shock came later in the afternoon.

  e discovered a portion of the hangar falsely constructed. From the outside it seemed all right, but from the inside it seemed shorter than it should be. He opened a door and stepped into semi-darkness. A ghostly form confronted him. And another.

  There is nothing quite so ghostly as to come across an airplane in a poorly lit hangar. Even if you are expecting it, you are half startled. There is something weird about it, even if you are an airman. It strikes at the roots.

  Jerry recovered from his shock and opened the door wide.

  The light revealed two planes. Two planes so lovely, so trim that his breath came in a swift intake of admiration. Two tiny planes that seemed unreal. Watch fob types. He moved closer. And stopped.

  He saw they weren’t so lovely. They were grim. Trench mortars looked like that. They looked like playthings—until they belched. Then they were hideous. On the cowling of each of the planes was mounted a machine-gun, its squat muzzle merging almost indistinguishably into the background.

  He was amazed. He hadn’t, in his wildest fancies, anticipated anything like this. He hadn’t seen a plane like this since he had left the Polish front. Not even then. Those things were hayracks compared to this. Before him st
ood two of the highest products of scientific civilization.

  “Good-looking, eh?”

  The voice cracked through the hangar like a sputtering electric wire that has found a ground. For a moment Jerry was disconcerted. Only for a moment.

  “I’d give a month’s salary to fly one of them!” he breathed.

  “Yes?” It was evident Crouch didn’t know whether to be angered or amused. He decided on the latter course. “Maybe you will. They’re patented. I’m trying to sell them to the government. I wouldn’t like for anybody to know I had them.”

  Jerry caught the faintest hint of a threat in the words. Of course, it was a lie. It wasn’t even a good lie. He knew that, and he knew that Crouch knew he knew. Crouch must have thought he was several different kinds of a prize fool to swallow that one. But he was just as anxious to repair the damage as his employer.

  “Not a word. You can trust me.”

  When they went out, Crouch locked the door with a padlock. Jerry looked back over his shoulder and decided the compartment was well hidden. And he decided something else. To dally with this thing was to play with T.N.T. Crouch and his gang were dangerous. One man couldn’t stand in their way. They had too much to protect.

  But what had the air circus to do with it? Jerry felt that everybody knew more than he did. The flyers knotted into little clans and got their heads together. He stumbled around stupidly. It made him, for the first time since he had won his wings, terribly self-conscious.

  He stopped Casey later in the day. “Say, I guess I stumbled onto a little family secret this morning.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I saw two of the sweetest little battle wagons—”

  “Easy, feller.” Casey turned on him and glowered. “Don’t go around popping off your face. They’re inventions. The old man’s a nut. He’s afraid somebody might steal his plans.”

  Jerry gestured disdainfully. “Don’t make me laugh. I wasn’t born yesterday. How come I don’t rate some of the secrets.”

  “Listen, you! If there are any secrets, the old man’ll let you in on them. In the meantime, keep your trap shut—tight!”