by Max Hennessy
Alix came running across the grass towards them as the DH swung round in front of the hangar, the rudder fishtailing, the propeller blowing up a great cloud of yellow dust.
‘Bang on the dot,’ she said, as the propeller jerked to a stop. ‘I timed you myself. You’re not more than five minutes out. I bet you peeked.’
Courtney appeared behind her. ‘How did it go?’ he demanded.
‘I thought of setting course for Paris,’ Sammy said, his eyes enormous in his goggles. ‘Then I thought we ought to come down and get some grub.’
Alix gave him a wide eager smile. ‘This calls for a celebration,’ she said. ‘Let’s all eat out!’
Courtney shook his head. ‘Not tonight, Alix,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go north again.’
Alix swung round, her pleasure forgotten in a worried frown. ‘For God’s sake, Pa! Already? You only just arrived!’
Courtney shrugged. ‘Problems,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’m still after that loan. I’ve got to see Joe Hughesden.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Pa, you’re not making a deal with Joe Hughesden, are you? Just to raise dough?’
Courtney smiled. ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said.
She didn’t appear to trust him. ‘I heard Lave on the phone with him, arranging something.’
He patted her arm. ‘Joe Hughesden makes parts for my cars,’ he said. ‘We’re always talking business. I’ll be back in a few days.’
She stared at him for a second and came to a sudden decision. She gestured at the Pierce Arrow outside the hangar. ‘I’ll drive you up,’ she said. ‘Slowly. We’ll stop a couple of days on the way somewhere like Wilmington or Hatteras and rest up. It’ll do you good. I’ve got to go to New York. I haven’t been out to my place on Long Island in weeks.’
Courtney glanced at Boyle and Ira caught the hint of a nod from the old man.
‘OK,’ Courtney agreed reluctantly. ‘And when I come back we really will have a celebration.’
As they left the field, Woolff stared after them, his eyes troubled. ‘He didn’t leave that dough with me again,’ he said. ‘I asked him and he said he would.’
* * *
They had the engine in at last, a huge black spider attached to the nose of the aeroplane and awaiting all the minor linkups that would make it a living thing. The nine big-finned cylinders were aluminium and steel, a magnificent construction of machinery whose lightness of weight and extremes of power were to carry them over 3,600 miles of ocean.
They stood beneath it, staring up at it, their feet among the sawdust, shavings and oiled wrappings, awed despite their experience. By the side of the hangar the eight-foot laminated wooden airscrew lay in its crate, its metal tips catching the sun.
The Courtney was looking like an aeroplane at last, a clean red creature with white wings, poised just inside the factory doors. Every man in the place had stopped work to watch the engine being bolted into place, standing around in a small half-circle among the hanging chains of the purchases, eyes on the gleaming black metal.
‘Ought to get you there, Ira,’ Woolff commented laconically. He had the placid look of a well-fed cat. He was proud of his aeroplane and the arrival that morning of a money draft on a Boston bank had put him at ease at last.
The Wright engineer who’d appeared for the delivery and installation of the engine stepped back from tightening the last bolts. ‘Two hundred and twenty horses,’ he said. ‘Sure, she’ll get you there. Whirlwinds have been flying for thousands of hours without failures. All the airlines are installing them, these days, they’re so safe, and this one’s had a special inspection. Only one thing’ – he paused – ‘you’re relying on a cam pump to transfer gas from that big fuselage tank.’
Woolff frowned. ‘Sure! Nothing wrong with that, is there? It’s a Hughesden. The Boss has an arrangement with Hughesdens for his automobiles.’
The Wright engineer looked doubtful. ‘I’d recommend you to get the best there is,’ he said.
They glanced at each other quickly and he went on with a gesture. ‘It’s not my business to design your aeroplane or run down other people’s products,’ he said. ‘But I’d suggest that the Hughesden’s not tough enough for the work it’ll have to do. It might run for fifty-sixty hours, which is enough. On the other hand, it might pack up after thirteen, which isn’t.’
‘They’ve always worked on Courtney autos,’ Woolff pointed out.
The engineer didn’t seem impressed. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But their aircraft pumps haven’t been properly developed yet. We prefer the Viking internal-gear type.’ He shrugged. ‘But you’re the customers. We can’t insist, only advise, but the Viking’s more reliable than a cam job and it’ll go on as long as the engine’s turning.’
He paused. ‘There’s one other point,’ he continued. ‘Being what it is, the Hughesden has to be fitted to the floor to work properly. I’ve seen ’em. That’d mean the pipes would go under your seat where you couldn’t get at ’em. I’d always rather have fuel leads where I can see ’em. Especially over the sea.’
He had put up a good argument for the Viking. ‘How long would it take to fit one?’ Ira asked.
‘It could be done as soon as you arrive in New York. We could have it ready for you.’
Ira nodded agreement. ‘You’d better,’ he said.
Woolff nudged him as the Wright engineer stared into the engine. ‘Ira,’ he hissed. ‘You sure we can afford it?’
Ira’s head jerked round. ‘I thought we got a bank draft from Boston,’ he said.
‘Sure, but there are a lot of bills to pay, and the motor’s here now. I don’t want to ask for any more. It’s all “Gimme, gimme, my name’s Jimmy”.’
Woolff’s round face was anxious and Ira nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay for it myself.’
They discussed fitments and instruments for some time, then a dry waspish voice behind them, as cold as a winter wind, swung them round.
‘She sure looks swell.’
Robert E. Lee Nestor, the newspaperman, was watching them with a blank pale face, pointing with the soggy end of his cigar at the Courtney.
Woolff turned on him quickly, his eyes bright with dislike, and gestured at the high square shape of the old Ford Nestor had left in the shadow of the hangar.
‘We don’t park autos there, Mr Nestor,’ he said. ‘And put that cigar out! There’s a lot of gasoline around.’
Nestor silently dropped the cigar and ground it to extinction with his heel, but he made no attempt to leave. ‘Heard there were things happenin’,’ he said. He indicated the aeroplane. ‘Dandy-lookin’ ship. Don’t know how Courtney manages to afford it.’
Woolff scowled. ‘Why shouldn’t he manage to afford it?’
Nestor shrugged. ‘Hell, I don’t know why he shouldn’t afford it,’ he said. ‘Only I heard he was down in town just before he left, trying to negotiate a loan.’
Woolff was staring at him with troubled eyes now. ‘You sure?’ he asked.
‘God’s unvarnished and unbuckled truth. The bank manager told me.’
‘That manager does a lot of talking for a guy who’s supposed to keep his mouth buttoned about his customers’ business,’ Woolff snapped.
‘Sure does,’ Nestor agreed amiably, his pale eyes shrewd. ‘All the same I heard there were bills outstanding.’
‘Regular bird-dog, aren’t you?’ Woolff growled. ‘Well, there aren’t. I got a new draft from Boston today. It’ll cover everything.’
Nestor nodded, his face as expressionless as a fish’s, and turned to Ira. ‘When you-all aimin’ to get her off the ground, Captain?’ he asked. ‘I guess I ought to be here. She looks great. Even Robert E. Lee Nestor’d be willin’ to go up in that one.’ He turned away towards his car, then he stopped and looked over his shoulder at them.
‘Why in hell would a guy as big as Courtney try to negotiate a loan in a hick town bank like we’ve got here?’ he said. ‘He tryin’ to keep somethin’ dark?’
He
bent over the starting handle and cranked it, and as the Ford quivered to life he climbed in, and, settling his hat on the back of his head, grasped the steering wheel firmly as though he were trying to wrench it off. Cautiously, a pious follower of the new motoring fad but clearly uncertain of his capabilities as a driver, he let in the clutch and the car moved jerkily on to the road.
Sammy grinned. ‘He’s so scared of that car, Hal,’ he pointed out, ‘I bet he drives with the brake on.’
Woolff wasn’t listening. He was staring after Nestor with narrowed eyes, his brows down in a heavy frown. ‘“Trying to keep something dark,”’ he repeated slowly. ‘Now what in hell did he mean by that?’
Chapter 2
Alix arrived the same afternoon, and Sammy, standing just inside the hangar door, turned to where Ira was running his hands over the fabric sides of the fuselage.
‘Hold your hat on, boy,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Alix is back.’
To their surprise, she was driving a battered, second-hand Chevrolet that swung round the end of the hangar in a wide sweep on to the grass, the front wheels bouncing over the bumps, until it slid to a stop with locked brakes. Woolff opened the door for her, staring in bewilderment at the shabby car.
‘Where’s the Pierce Arrow?’ he asked.
‘Sold it,’ she said shortly.
‘Aw, hell, Alix!’ Woolff looked shocked. ‘I thought you loved that car like your own child.’
‘I was short of dough,’ she snapped.
He waited for her to enlarge, but she offered no further explanation and strode towards the hangar, her short dark hair flying, her eyes frowning.
‘Where is it?’ she demanded. ‘How far have we got?’
Woolff had been gazing at the sorry old car, clearly unable to understand why anyone would want to drive an old Chevrolet instead of the powerful Pierce Arrow, and he came to life with a start and set off after her. But as she turned the corner, she stopped dead and her frown vanished as she stared up at the workmanlike snout of the aeroplane. They had attached the propeller now and secured the bright red aluminium spinner over the bolts.
‘My God!’ she said. ‘You’ve been quick! Nobody can be as quick as that!’
Woolff beamed with pleasure at the praise. ‘I guess we have, Alix,’ he said. ‘We’re way ahead of everyone but the Keystone. We aim to start test flights any day now.’
She didn’t appear to hear him and seemed unable to take her eyes off the Courtney, with the single white word dixie painted on her fuselage.
As she stood back, her eyes wide with pleasure, Ira and Sammy raised the tail of the machine and swung it round to face her.
‘She’s just an engine attached to wings,’ Ira said.
‘She’s a dream,’ she whispered. ‘A dream.’
She moved at last, from one side of the machine to the other in a quick, jerky movement, still fixedly staring up at the propeller.
‘What will she do?’ she asked.
‘Hal says a hundred and thirty. More, perhaps.’
She gazed at them, her black eyes disbelieving, all the anger that had been in her face when she’d arrived completely gone. ‘That’s a hell of a speed! Nothing can go that fast!’
‘I think this one can,’ Ira said. ‘It’s only a guess yet, though. We haven’t tested her.’
She didn’t seem to believe him and stood gazing at the aeroplane, her expression a mixture of delight and wonder, a smile lifting her mouth, while they all stood in a group round her – Sammy, Ira, Woolff and all the workmen.
‘When?’ she was saying softly, her eyes still held ecstatically by the sleek red machine. ‘When does she have her tests? I’ve got to know, because I’ll provide champagne for every man that had anything to do with her, even the kid who mixed the glue. Real champagne, not something cooked up in a basement. I think we’ve built a winner here. I’m going to wire Pa. It’ll do him good just to see this.’
* * *
Courtney himself arrived within twenty-four hours, driving from the station with Boyle in a hired car, and pounding his hand on the horn in an imperious tooting to summon them all from the hangar.
‘Where is it?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s this top-drawer, gold-plated, hundred-per-cent Courtney plane Alix says we’ve built?’
Woolff jerked a hand, grinning. ‘In the hangar, Mr Courtney,’ he said. ‘Right over here.’
As they approached the hangar, Courtney stepping out in front with his huge comical strides, Sammy saw him coming and, with a couple of mechanics, hurriedly began to push the great doors back.
Courtney stopped dead as the plane came into view, his eyes glinting, two bright little spots of colour appearing on his cheeks.
‘That her?’
‘That’s her,’ Woolff said.
Courtney’s lined face softened and he began to smile. ‘She sure looks good,’ he said slowly in a low voice.
Ira was just climbing down from the cabin as he moved forward again and halted once more in front of the machine, staring up at the propeller. Alix had joined Woolff and Boyle and they caught him up now and stood just behind him. Courtney was obviously awed by what they had produced.
‘Will she do it, Ira?’ he asked in a low breathless murmur. ‘Will she get across?’
‘Ought to,’ Ira said. ‘Barring accidents.’
Courtney was still eyeing the machine. ‘There can’t be accidents,’ he breathed, almost as though he were praying. ‘There can’t!’
‘I meant weather. No one can guarantee the weather.’
Courtney didn’t take his eyes off the plane. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘The weather! There’s got to be a good forecast before we try anything. We’ll wait if necessary. There’s got to be no mistake with this thing.’
He walked slowly round the aeroplane, nervously tapping the taut fabric of the fuselage as though afraid he might damage it, then he climbed into the cockpit to sit behind the controls.
‘When do I see it fly?’ he called down through the sliding window at his shoulder.
‘One week, Mr Courtney,’ Woolff said. ‘One week from now.’
Courtney grinned suddenly. ‘Rush it, Hal,’ he said. ‘I have to go to Boston again and I’d like to see her off the ground before I leave.’
‘Mr Courtney’ – Woolff ‘s tones were firm – ‘we can’t rush it. With this thing, you have to move step by step or you’ll do something so wrong the whole thing’ll fall apart.’
Courtney stared down at him. He seemed to be bursting with impatience. ‘Try!’ he pleaded. ‘Try, Hal! I’ve got to see her fly! I’ve just got to!’
Alix glanced at Ira and jerked her head to move a loose lock of hair from her eyes. ‘This is going to be one hell of a week,’ she said in a low voice.
* * *
As they put the finishing touches to the Dixie, special tyres arrived from Cleveland and all the instruments were fitted with the exception of the compasses.
‘The Pioneer earth inductor’s on order,’ Woolff explained to Alix. ‘Most people use an earth inductor for long trips. Once the needle’s adjusted, it warns the pilot if he’s straying off course.’
‘It’d better be good,’ Alix said briskly. ‘It’s got my two and a half grand riding with it.’
Courtney was in a twitter of excitement, desperate to see the machine fly and constantly putting off his return to Boston.
‘I’m losing money every day I stay down here,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to see her in the air.’
He was like a child in his excitement, the greying rusty hair wilder than ever, his suit pockets jammed with bundles of papers, his attaché case always crammed with more. He spent the days in the office with Boyle, trying to deal with his business in the north yet never able to put the aeroplane out of his mind, breaking off constantly to watch the work or make suggestions that invariably arrived after they’d already been made by someone else, terrified always that one of the other teams would finish their trials first and be away before they were
ready.
‘Noel Davis is the only man you’ve got to fear, Ira,’ he announced. ‘They say that Pathfinder of his is nearly ready.’
He shoved a newspaper at them, folded at a photograph of the huge Pathfinder with its three engines and tapered wings.
Sammy stared at it cynically. ‘I’d like plenty of air under me if I was in that thing,’ he observed. ‘I reckon it’ll climb like a sick cow on a mountain.’
‘They say it’s fast,’ Courtney insisted. ‘Hundred-forty-five miles an hour. I read a report from Pennsylvania on it.’ He lit a fresh cigar and gestured with it. ‘Byrd’s almost ready, too. And that Fokker tri-motor’s a good ship. He’d have set off by now if he’d intended going.’
‘He’s not after the Orteig prize, Pa,’ Alix pointed out. ‘He says he’s not.’
Courtney shrugged. ‘Yeah. I read it: “The flight is to be made solely in the interests of aeronautical science and international goodwill.”’ He grinned. ‘If he got over there first, though, I guess he’d not say “No” to twenty-five grand. Maybe he’s hedging his bets in case we whip him. They’re saying in New York that Tony Fokker’s hopping mad at the way he’s delaying, because he wants his machine first across.’
* * *
As the petrol lorry drew away, the young man on the wing screwed down the cap of the petrol tank, then the big engine crackled to life, smashing the clothes of the mechanics and their labourers flat against their bodies with the propeller’s wash. A huge cloud of dust almost obliterated the old De Havilland, and set its wings shuddering as the blast struck them. They all stood by the hangar door, their eyes screwed up against the flying grit, while Woolff sat in the cockpit working the throttles, the Courtney surging and quivering against the chocks like a living thing as the nine cylinders gave out their full power. The exhausts howled metallically, the propeller only a sparkling circle of light, throwing out a hurricane that flattened the grass and sent more clouds of yellow dust whirling across the field.
As the throttle was cut and the circle dissolved into a red-tipped propeller which finally jerked to a stop, Woolff put his head through the cabin window.
