by Ed McBain
Quite curiously, Carruthers had been along on the Burbank-to-Frisco segment of the hop, as company observer. He’d disembarked at Frisco, and his wife, Janet, had boarded the plane there as a non-revenue passenger. She was bound for a cabin up in Washington, or so old man Ellison had told Davis. He’d also said that Janet had been looking forward to the trip for a long time.
When Davis found Captain Nicholas Carruthers in the airport restaurant, he was sitting with a blonde in a black cocktail dress, and he had his arm around her waist. They lifted their martini glasses and clinked them together, the girl laughing. Davis studied the pair from the doorway and reflected that the case was turning into something he knew a little more about.
He hesitated inside the doorway for just a moment and then walked directly to the bar, taking the stool on Carruthers’ left. He waited until Carruthers had drained his glass and then he said, “Captain Carruthers?”
Carruthers turned abruptly, a frown distorting his features. He was a man of thirty-eight or so, with prematurely graying temples and sharp gray eyes. He had thin lips and a thin straight nose that divided his face like an immaculate stone wall. He wore civilian clothing.
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“Milton Davis. Your father-in-law has hired me to look into the DC-4 accident.” Davis showed his identification. “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?”
Carruthers hesitated, and then glanced at the blonde, apparently realizing the situation was slightly compromising. The blonde leaned over, pressing her breasts against the bar top, looking past Carruthers to Davis.
“Take a walk, Beth,” Carruthers said.
The blonde drained her martini glass, pouted, lifted her purse from the bar, and slid off the stool. Davis watched the exaggerated swing of her hips across the room and then said, “I’m sorry if . . .”
“Ask your questions,” Carruthers said.
Davis studied him for a moment. “All right, Captain,” he said mildly. “I understand you were aboard the crashed DC-4 on the flight segment from Burbank to San Francisco. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Carruthers said. “I was aboard as observer.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary on the trip?”
“If you mean did I see anyone with a goddamn bomb, no.”
“I didn’t—”
“And if you’re referring to the false alarm, Mister Whatever-the-Hell-Your-Name-Is, you can just start asking your questions straight. You know all about the false alarm.”
Davis felt his fists tighten on the bar top. “You tell me about it again.”
“Sure,” Carruthers said testily. “Shortly after take-off from Burbank, we observed a fire-warning signal in the cockpit. From number three engine.”
“I’m listening,” Davis said.
“As it turned out, it was a false warning. When we got to Frisco, the mechanics there checked and found no evidence of a fire having occurred. Mason told the mechanics—”
“Was Mason pilot in command?”
“Yes.” A little of Carruthers’ anger seemed to be wearing off. “Mason told the mechanics he was satisfied from the inspection that no danger of fire was present. He did not delay the flight.”
“Were you satisfied with the inspection?” Davis asked.
“It was Mason’s command.”
“Yes, but your wife boarded the plane in Frisco. Were you satisfied there was no danger of fire?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Did your wife seem worried about it?” Davis asked.
“I didn’t get a chance to talk to Janet in Frisco,” Carruthers said.
Davis was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “How come?”
“I had to take another pilot up almost the moment I arrived.”
“I don’t understand.”
“For a hood test. I had to check him out. I’m chief pilot, you know. That’s one of my jobs.”
“And there wasn’t even enough time to stop and say hello to your wife?”
“No. We were a little ahead of schedule. Janet wasn’t there when we landed.”
“I see.”
“I hung around while the mechanics checked the fire-warning system, and Janet still hadn’t arrived. This other pilot was waiting to go up, so I left.”
“Then you didn’t see your wife at all,” Davis said.
“Well, that’s not what I meant. I meant I hadn’t spoken to her. As we were taxiing for take-off, I saw her come onto the field.”
“Alone?”
“No,” Carruthers said. “She was with a man.” The announcement did not seem to disturb him.
“Do you know who he was?”
“No. They were rather far from me, and I was in a moving ship. I recognized Janet’s red hair immediately, of course, but I couldn’t make out the man with her. I waved, but I guess she didn’t see me.”
“She didn’t wave back?”
“No. She went directly to the DC-4. The man helped her aboard, and then the plane was behind us and I couldn’t see any more.”
“What do you mean, helped her aboard?”
“Took her elbow, you know. Helped her up the ladder.”
“I see. Was she carrying luggage?”
“A suitcase, yes. She was bound for our cabin, you know.”
“Yes,” Davis said. “I understand she was on a company pass. What does that mean exactly, Captain?”
“We ride for a buck and a half,” Carruthers said. “Normally, any pilot applies to his chief pilot for written permission for his wife to ride and then presents the permission at the ticket window. He then pays one-fifty for the ticket. Since I’m chief pilot, I simply got the ticket for Janet when she told me she was going up to the cabin.”
“Mmm,” Davis said. “Did you know all the pilots on the ship?”
“I knew one of them. Mason. The other two were new on the route. That’s why I was along as observer.”
“Did you know Mason socially?”
“No. Just business.”
“And the stewardess?”
“Yes, I knew her. Business, of course.”
“Of course,” Davis said, remembering the blonde in the cocktail dress. He stood up and moved his jacket cuff off his wristwatch. “Well, I’ve got to catch a plane, Captain. Thanks for your help.”
“Not at all,” Carruthers said. “When you report in to Dad, give him my regards, won’t you?”
“I’ll do that,” Davis said. He thanked Carruthers again, and then went out to catch his return plane.
He bought twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of insurance for fifty cents from one of the machines in the waiting room, and then got aboard the plane at about five minutes before take-off. He browsed through the magazine he’d picked up at the newsstand, and when the fat fellow plopped down into the seat beside him, he just glanced up and then turned back to his magazine again. The plane left the ground and began climbing, and Davis looked back through the window and saw the field drop away below him.
“First time flying?” the fellow asked.
Davis looked up from the magazine into a pair of smiling green eyes. The eyes were embedded deep in soft, ruddy flesh. The man owned a nose like the handle of a machete, and a mouth with thick, blubbery lips. He wore an orange sports shirt against which the color of his complexion seemed even more fiery.
“No,” Davis said. “I’ve been off the ground before.”
“Always gives me a thrill,” the man said. “No matter how many times I do it.” He chuckled and added, “An airplane ride is just like a woman. Lots of ups and downs, and not always too smooth—but guaranteed to keep a man up in the air.”
Davis smiled politely, and the fat man chuckled a bit more and then thrust a beefy hand at him. “MacGregor,” he said. “Charlie or Chuck or just plain Mac, if you like.”
Davis took his hand and said, “Milt Davis.”
“Glad to know you, Milt,” MacGregor said. “You down here on business?”
&n
bsp; “Yes,” he said briefly.
“Me, too,” MacGregor said. “Business mostly.” He grinned slyly. “’Course, what the wife don’t know won’t hurt her, eh?”
“I’m not married,” Davis told him.
“A wonderful institution,” MacGregor said. He laughed aloud, and then added, “But who likes being in an institution?”
Davis hoped he hadn’t winced. He wondered if he was to be treated to MacGregor’s full repertoire of wornout gags before the trip was over. To discourage any further attempts at misdirected wit, he turned back to the magazine as politely as he could, smiling once to let MacGregor know he wasn’t being purposely rude.
“Go right ahead,” MacGregor said genially. “Don’t mind me.”
That was easy, Davis thought. If it lasts.
He was surprised that it did last. MacGregor stretched out in the seat beside him, closing his eyes. He did not speak again until the plane was ten minutes out of San Francisco.
“Let’s walk to the john, eh, Milt?” he said.
Davis lifted his head and smiled. “Thanks, but—”
“This is a .38 here under my overcoat, Milt,” MacGregor said softly.
For a second, Davis thought it was another of the fat man’s tired jokes. He turned to look at MacGregor’s lap. The overcoat was folded over his chunky left arm, and Davis could barely see the blunt muzzle of a pistol poking from beneath the folds.
He lifted his eyebrows a little. “What are you going to do after you shoot me, MacGregor? Vanish into thin air?”
MacGregor smiled. “Now who mentioned anything about shooting, Milt? Eh? Let’s go back, shall we, boy?”
Davis rose and moved past MacGregor into the aisle. MacGregor stood up behind him, the coat over his arm, the gun completely hidden now. Together, they began walking toward the rear of the plane, past the food buffet on their right, and past the twin facing seats behind the buffet. An emergency window was set in the cabin wall there, and Davis sighed in relief when he saw that the seats were occupied.
When they reached the men’s room, MacGregor flipped open the door and nudged Davis inside. Then he crowded in behind him, putting his wide back to the door. He reached up with one heavy fist, rammed Davis against the sink, and then ran his free hand over Davis’ body.
“Well,” he said pleasantly. “No gun.”
“My name is Davis, not Spade,” Davis told him.
MacGregor lifted the .38, pointing it at Davis’ throat. “All right, Miltie, now give a listen. I want you to forget all about that crashed DC-4, I want you to forget there are even such things as airplanes, Miltie. Now, I know you’re a smart boy, and so I’m not even going to mark you up, Miltie. I could mark you up nice with the sight and butt of this thing.” He gestured with the .38 in his hand. “I’m not going to do that. Not now. I’m just telling you, nice-like, to lay off. Just lay off and go back to skip-tracing, Miltie boy, or you’re going to get hurt. Next time, I’m not going to be so considerate.”
“Look . . .” Davis started.
“So let’s not have a next time, Miltie. Let’s call it off now. You give your client a ring and tell him you’re dropping it, Miltie boy. Have you got that?”
Davis didn’t answer.
“Fine,” MacGregor said. He reached up suddenly with his left hand, almost as if he were reaching up for a light cord. At the same time, he grasped Davis’ shoulder with his right hand and spun him around, bringing the hand with the gun down in a fast motion, flipping it butt-end up.
The walnut stock caught Davis at the base of his skull. He stumbled forward, his hands grasping the sink in front of him. He felt the second blow at the back of his head, and then his hands dropped from the sink, and the aluminum deck of the plane came up to meet him suddenly, all too fast . . .
Someone said, “He’s coming around now,” and he idly thought, Coming around where?
“How do you feel, Mr. Davis?” a second voice asked.
He looked up at the ring of faces. He did not recognize any of them. “Where am I?” he asked.
“San Francisco,” the second voice said. The voice belonged to a tall man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and friendly blue eyes. MacGregor had owned friendly green eyes, Davis remembered.
“We found you in the men’s room after all the passengers had disembarked,” the voice went on. “You’ve had a nasty fall, Mr. Davis. Nothing serious, however. I’ve dressed the cut, and I’m sure there’ll be no complications.”
“Thank you,” Davis said. “I wonder . . . did you say all the passengers have already gone?”
“Why, yes.”
“I wonder if I might see the passenger list? There was a fellow aboard I promised to look up, and I’m darned if I haven’t forgotten his name.”
“I’ll ask the stewardess,” the man said. “By the way, I’m Doctor Burke.”
“How do you do?” Davis said. He reached for a cigarette and lighted it. When the stewardess brought the passenger list, he scanned it hurriedly.
There was no MacGregor listed, Charles or otherwise. This fact did not surprise him greatly. He looked down the list to see if there were any names with the initials C.M., knowing that when a person assumes an alias, he will usually choose a name with the same initials as his real name. There were no C.M.s on the list, either.
“Does that help?” the stewardess asked.
“Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll find him now.”
The doctor shook Davis’ hand, and then asked if he’d sign a release stating he had received medical treatment and absolving the airline. Davis felt the back of his head, and then signed the paper.
He walked outside and leaned against the building, puffing idly on his cigarette. The night was a nest of lights. He watched the lights and listened to the hum of aircraft all around him. It wasn’t until he had finished his cigarette that he remembered he was in San Francisco.
He dropped the cigarette to the concrete and ground it out beneath his heel. Quite curiously, he found himself ignoring MacGregor’s warning. He was a little surprised at himself, but he was also pleased. And more curious, he found himself wishing that he and MacGregor would meet again.
He walked briskly to the cyclone fence that hemmed in the runway area. Quickly, he showed the uniformed guard at the gate his credentials and then asked where he could find the hangars belonging to Intercoastal Airways. The guard pointed them out.
Davis walked through the gate and towards the hangars the guard had indicated, stopping at the first one. Two mechanics in greasy coveralls were leaning against a work bench, chatting idly. One was smoking, and the other tilted a Coke bottle to his lips, draining half of it in one pull. Davis walked over to them.
“I’m looking for the mechanics who serviced the DC-4 that crashed up in Seattle,” he said.
They looked at him blankly for a few seconds, and then the one with the Coke bottle asked, “You from the CAB?”
“No,” Davis said. “I’m investigating privately.”
The mechanic with the bottle was short, with black hair curling over his forehead, and quick brown eyes that silently appraised Davis now. “If you’re thinking about that fire warning,” he said, “it had nothing to do with the crash. There was a bomb aboard.”
“I know,” Davis said. “Were you one of the mechanics?”
“I was one of them,” he said.
“Good.” Davis smiled and said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jerry,” the man said. “Mangione.” His black brows pulled together suspiciously. “Who you investigating for?”
“A private client. The father of the girl who was a passenger.”
“Oh. Carruthers’ wife, huh?”
“Yes. Did you know her?”
“No. I just heard it was his wife. He’s chief pilot down Burbank, ain’t he?”
“Yes,” Davis said.
Mangione paused and studied Davis intently. “What’d you want to know?”
“First, was the fire-warning system ok
ay?”
“Yeah. We checked it out. Just one of those things, you know. False alarm.”
“Did you go into the plane?”
“Yeah, sure. I had to check the signal in the cockpit. Why?”
“I’m just asking.”
“You don’t think I put that damn bomb on the plane, do you?”
“Somebody did,” Davis said.
“That’s for sure. But not me. There were a lot of people on that plane, mister. Any one of ’em could’ve done it.”
“Be a little silly to bring a bomb onto a plane you were going to fly.”
“I guess so. But don’t drag me into this. I just checked the fire-warning system, that’s all.”
“Were you around when Mrs. Carruthers boarded the plane?”
“The redhead? Yeah, I was there.”
“What’d she look like?”
Mangione shrugged. “A broad, just like any other broad. Red hair.”
“Was she pretty?”
“The red hair was the only thing gave her any flash. In fact, I was a little surprised.”
“Surprised? What about?”
“That Tony would bother, you know.”
“Who? Who would bother?”
“Tony. Tony Radner. He brought her out to the plane.”
“What?” Davis said.
“Yeah, Tony. He used to sell tickets inside. He brought her out to the plane and helped her get aboard.”
“Are you sure about that? Sure you know who the man with her was?”
Mangione made an exasperated gesture with his hairy hands. “Hell, ain’t I been working here for three years? Don’t I know Tony when I see him? It was him, all right. He took the broad right to her seat. Listen, it was him, all right. I guess maybe . . . well, I was surprised, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Tony’s a good-looking guy. And this Mrs. Carruthers, well, she wasn’t much. I’m surprised he went out of his way. But I guess maybe she wasn’t feeling so hot. Tony’s a gent that way.”
