The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  “Those barnstormers have been popular for years,” I said. “I wonder why they never came here before.”

  “Because Art Zealand didn’t have his flying school till now,” she answered reasonably. “They had no landing field. But aviation’s the coming thing. People are flying across the country. I have an aunt who traveled from Los Angeles to New York last year in forty-eight hours! They flew by day and transferred to trains at night because it’s too dangerous to fly after dark. She was on the maiden flight and Charles Lindbergh himself piloted the plane.”

  “You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?”

  “I sure am,” she conceded. “They’re going to let me interview Ross Winslow for the Bee. He’s the head of it. Look how handsome he is.”

  The head of Winslow’s Flying Circus was an attractive fellow with curly black hair and a pencil-thin mustache. Looking at his picture on the front page of the paper I was struck by the notion that men like Ross Winslow were the forerunners of a whole new world. They were the ones that girls like Bonnie Pratt hankered after, not dull country doctors like myself.

  “I’d like to meet him,” I said. “The only experience I’ve had with fliers was back in ’27 when they shot part of a moving picture here.”

  She nodded, remembering. “I’d just gone off to college. Look, if you’re interested you can come with me Friday to meet him. They’re flying in around noon.”

  The idea intrigued me. “Let’s see how things go. If Mrs Haskel doesn’t have her baby I should be able to get away for a few hours.”

  So that was how I happened to accompany Bonnie Pratt out to the Zealand Flying School on Friday noon to watch the big Ford Trimotor and the two smaller planes settle down for perfect landings on the grassy field. Art Zealand was there to greet them himself, of course, looking like his idea of a World War flying ace with a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck. Art was in his mid-thirties, about my age, and like me he was unmarried. He’d moved to Northmont a year or so earlier to start his flying school and there were unconfirmed rumors of an abandoned wife and children somewhere down south. He was pleasant enough when the need arose but kept to himself much of the time.

  “Good to see you again, Sam,” he greeted me as we drove up in my new Stutz Torpedo. “The doctoring business must be pretty good these days,” he added, patting the car’s shiny black fender. The body itself was tan, the contrasting red upholstery on its twin seats matching the red wheels. It was a flashy car for a country doctor, but it was my one extravagance.

  “I figure I need something good for these bumpy country roads,” I replied.

  “I’ll bet you could buy an airplane cheaper than that car.”

  We went off across the field to welcome the barnstormers. Ross Winslow was easy to spot climbing down from the lead plane, waving and walking forward to shake hands. Bonnie Pratt was highly excited as she introduced herself and me. “Hope we don’t need your services, Doc,” Winslow joked, shaking my hand with an iron grip. “But then I don’t guess we will. If I fall off a wing up there, you won’t be able to do much for me.”

  Art Zealand had met Winslow before and he pointed out the area where the three planes should be parked. There was some discussion about the crowds that might be expected and a low-keyed conversation about Winslow’s share of the gate. Apparently Zealand guaranteed him a flat sum of a few hundred dollars plus anything he earned from the plane rides.

  I turned my attention to the other members of Winslow’s Flying Circus, who seemed to be three in number. Two were men a bit older than I – a blond fellow with a scar on his cheek, whose name was Max Renker, and a short jolly fellow named Tommy Verdun. But my real interest centered on the fourth member of the team, a long-haired blonde named Mavis Wing who gave me a slow smile like nothing I’d ever seen in Northmont.

  “I can’t imagine women barnstorming and walking on wings,” I said when I’d found my tongue.

  “Oh, we do it, Dr Hawthorne.” The slow smile was back. “Lillian Boyer has her own plane with her name in big letters on the side. That’s what I’m aiming for. My name’s really Wingarten, but that wouldn’t look good on the side of a plane, would it?”

  “You could just use your picture. That would be enough,” I replied gallantly.

  “Oh, come now, Dr Hawthorne – you’re something of a flirt, aren’t you?”

  Before I could pursue the subject, Winslow gave them instructions for parking the planes and Bonnie and I went off with him for the interview. Art Zealand had provided a table and chairs in the hangar, where Bonnie took rapid notes as Winslow spoke.

  “Max and Tommy both flew in the war,” he explained, “so they’re a leg up on me. I took pilot training but it was all over before I ever got to France. The three of us got together nearly ten years ago and decided to try barnstorming. You’ve probably read about Sir Alan Cobham, the famous European barnstormer. His circus has performed all over the Continent and we hope to do the same thing on this side of the Atlantic. There’s a lot of competition, of course, and we try to outdo each other dreaming up wild stunts.”

  “What about your planes?” Bonnie asked without looking up from her notes.

  “In this country we all use Jennies, those little biplanes with the double set of wings. They’re JN-4D trainers the Army built near the end of the war. By the time they were finished the war was over and the government started selling thousands of ’em for as little as three hundred dollars each. A lot of us who flew in the war, or who trained to fly like me, went out and bought ourselves a plane. Max and Tommy and I started with three Jennies but last year we traded one in for that Ford Trimotor transport. We found out that after watching our stunts the crowd was really ready to fly. We’d have thirty or forty people lined up for a five-minute ride in a Jennie, so we decided that if we could take up ten at a time, for a slightly longer flight they’d still pay five dollars and we’d make a lot more money.”

  “Tell me about your stunts,” Bonnie urged. “That’s what’ll get the people out.”

  “Well, we start out by buzzing the town with the two Jennies while Max and I walk out on the wings. Then Mavis does her wild act, actually hanging by one arm from a wing while I fly the plane. That’s been known to make people faint. Tommy Verdun is our clown and he’s liable to do anything. Sometimes he dresses up like a woman and waits in line for a ride in one of the Jennies. The pilot gets out and Tommy gets in and pretends the plane is taking off with him at the controls, out of control. It’s guaranteed to get screams out of the spectators. Then I wind things up by transferring from one plane to the other, either using a rope ladder or walking across, wingtip to wingtip.”

  “Do you make good money at this?”

  Ross Winslow snorted. “Hell, no. We do it because we love it. Somebody said the most dangerous thing about barnstorming is the risk of starving to death, and he’s right. We were going to give it up this year, but they say the country’s heading into a depression and where would we find jobs? We figure if we can keep at this for another year or two, till the airlines really get established, they’ll take us on as commercial pilots. Then maybe we’ll start making real money.”

  “What about Mavis Wing?”

  “She’s great. Wait till you see her up there. Mavis joined us last summer and business shot up right away. There’s nothing like seeing a girl hanging from that plane to get the crowds cheering and biting their nails. I make her keep her hair long so they know she’s a woman from a distance, and she wears knickers so they see a little bit of leg.”

  “It sounds like a great show,” Bonnie said. “I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow.”

  As we were preparing to leave Winslow asked her, “What’s there to do in this town at night? Got any good bars?”

  “With Prohibition?” she asked in mock horror.

  “Come on – I’ll bet you know the places to go.”

  “There’s a lunch counter where you can get a shot of whiskey in a coffee cup. Will that do
?”

  “For starters. Will you go with me?”

  She hesitated only a second. “Well – sure, I guess so.”

  “Fine. Can I pick you up at your office?”

  “In your plane?”

  He chuckled. “Art said I could use his car while we’re in town.”

  So it was decided. I drove her back to the Bee office in my Stutz, amazed that Ross Winslow had gotten a date with her so easily and wondering why I’d never thought to ask her for one myself.

  The Northmont Bee was published on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons, with the Friday edition being designated for the weekend. Of course, back in those days most people worked at least a half day on Saturdays, but the Friday edition still had the most readers of the week, which is why I’d run the ad for my car in it. Friday evening brought several interested callers, and one of them – the son of the town banker – came by on Saturday morning to close the deal.

  With the car sold I felt I could relax for the weekend. Mrs Haskel’s baby still hadn’t made it into the world and showed no signs of doing so before Monday, so I decided to close the office early and take my nurse April out to the flying circus.

  “You mean to say I’ll get to ride in your new car?” she asked. I think that was a bigger treat for her than the prospect of seeing the barnstormers.

  “It’s the only car I’ve got now,” I told her. “I sold the old one this morning.”

  “If I’d had the money I’d have bought it myself. You take good care of your cars, Dr Sam.”

  She was thrilled by the ride in the Stutz, holding down her hair as the wind whipped through it on the way to the flying school. When we arrived a little before noon, I saw that the adjoining field was already crowded with parked wagons and automobiles. Their noise made the horses nervous, but as the planes flew back and forth in their opening salute the crowd roared its approval.

  “Everyone in town must be here,” April said.

  Sheriff Lens and his new wife Vera were there, and I was pleased to see them. Married life had made the sheriff almost a stranger, though I was glad to see he was still his old self. “Doc, Vera was just sayin’ the other day we gotta have you over for dinner some night. We been back from the honeymoon six months and the only time we seen you was at that church social in the spring.”

  Vera took up the urging. “How about next week, Sam? What evening is best for you?”

  I knew Vera was still working at the post office and I was reluctant to force dinner preparation on her at the end of a working day. “Maybe Sunday would be good. A week from tomorrow?”

  “Perfect,” she agreed. “Do I get a ride in your new car?”

  “Of course.”

  April tugged at my sleeve. “Look, Sam!”

  The two Jennies had landed but now one had taken off again, and I saw a figure with long blonde hair, a white blouse, and knickers edging out on the wing. It was Mavis, beginning her act. I left April with the sheriff and Vera and walked around the fringes of the crowd for a better view. I’d reached the hangar area, nodding now and then to familiar faces in the crowd, when I encountered Bonnie Pratt standing beside Ross Winslow. He was wearing a short leather flying jacket and had his arm lightly around her waist. “Hello, Bonnie,” I said.

  “Hello, Sam.” She edged free of his arm.

  “That was a nice opening,” I told Winslow. “I thought you’d be up there flying for Mavis.”

  “Max is flying her today. After Mavis does her stunts I’ll take some passengers up in the Tin Goose.”

  Zealand came into the hangar, looking troubled. “Can I see you alone, Ross?”

  They walked back to the office together and I said to Bonnie, “So you showed him the town last night. Did he enjoy it?”

  “I think I’m in love with him, Sam. He’s so handsome and dashing. I feel like he’s a war hero. The local boys just don’t compare to him.”

  “He’s only here for the weekend, Bonnie. Don’t get your hopes too high.”

  “He talks about settling down, maybe here in Northmont. He says he may have had enough of flying.”

  I wondered how many girls in how many towns had heard that same line over a weekend. But I said simply, “I hope it works out for you, Bonnie.”

  Zealand and Winslow returned, and I heard the school owner mutter, “I didn’t know what I was getting into when I booked your crew.” Winslow didn’t reply but flashed his familiar smile when he saw Bonnie.

  “Will you be going up again?” she asked him.

  He nodded, glancing at the sky. Mavis was hanging from the plane by one arm as the crowd screamed its delight and apprehension. “She’ll be finishing soon. Come on, I’ll show you the inside of the Trimotor.” The invitation seemed to include me so I tagged along with Bonnie.

  It was a big plane by any standards I knew then. The body was covered with corrugated metal and the high wings supported two of the three engines, the third being at the front of the plane. Inside were two rows of wicker-backed chairs separated by an aisle. I sat down in one of the chairs. It felt about like a lawn chair. “Not too comfortable,” I commented to Winslow.

  “The wicker saves weight, but the airlines are deciding the same thing. Comfort is important. We were able to get this plane fairly cheap because they’re phasing it out in favor of a new Douglas aircraft. These things are noisy, and if you fly too high they’re cold.”

  “When will the new planes be flying?”

  “Not for a few years, unfortunately, but when they are they’ll probably put Ford out of the flying business completely. Ford owns the Detroit airport, you know, but Henry Ford won’t allow it to be open on Sundays.” He patted the side of the metal craft affectionately. “Still, this is what we’ve got today and it gets you where you’re going most of the time. Would you like to go up for a spin?”

  I wanted to, very much, but I felt guilty going without April. “I should take my nurse along,” I explained. “We’ll go later.”

  “How about you two?” he asked Bonnie and Zealand.

  “Sure,” Art Zealand answered. “Let’s go up. I want to see what the customers get for their $5.”

  I left the plane as Winslow went up a few steps into the cockpit and closed the door behind him. He called out the window to a ground crewman to move the blocks from under the wheels and then started all three engines. I watched him slide the window closed and taxi out to the grassy runway. Then he gunned the motors and the plane shot ahead, lifting its wheels from the ground with ease.

  I glanced up and saw the Jennie still circling the crowd. Mavis had lifted herself onto the wing again, and was climbing back into the front cockpit. The second Jennie was still on the ground and I wondered what had become of the other team member, Tommy Verdun.

  I strolled back to where April still stood with Sheriff Lens and Vera. “Were you on that plane?” April asked. “I thought I saw you.”

  “I just took a look. Winslow is taking Art Zealand up, and Bonnie Pratt from the Bee. When he lands they’ll start taking paying passengers.”

  “I’d like to go up,” April said.

  “I figured you would.”

  The spectators were pointing toward the sky again and I saw that the Jennie piloted by Max Renker had moved into position quite close to the larger Ford Trimotor. They were flying almost wingtip to wingtip, and Mavis waved to the crowd as she started walking out on the Jennie’s upper wing again.

  “What in hell is that gal goin’ to do next?” Sheriff Lens wondered.

  “I think she’ll try to walk over to the other plane’s wing,” I said, remembering what Winslow had told us of their stunts.

  And that she did, stepping over as easily as she might cross the street. The crowd cheered as the planes flew overhead, so low I could see Bonnie’s face at one of the Trimotor’s windows, straining for a view of the wing above her head. “The passengers are missing the performance,” Vera remarked.

  Then Mavis hurried back, hopping onto the wing of the Jen
nie, and the two aircraft drifted slowly apart. I watched her climb into the open cockpit of the Jennie as it circled one more time and came in for a landing at the far end of the field. The Trimotor landed right behind it, taxiing to a stop near us.

  We waited for the door of the passenger compartment to open, but nothing happened. I couldn’t see Winslow through the cockpit windows, although there was movement inside the passenger compartment. Finally, after another few moments, the passenger door was shoved open and Bonnie’s head appeared. “Dr Sam!” she shouted.

  I trotted across the trampled-down grass of the field, already sonsing that something was wrong. “What is it, Bonnie?”

  “Ross is still in the cockpit with the door locked. We’ve been calling him and he doesn’t answer. I think something’s wrong!”

  I climbed through the door and hurried up the aisle between the wicker seats. Art Zealand was pounding on the cockpit door, shouting, “Winslow! What’s wrong? Open up!”

  “Should we put a ladder up to the cockpit window?” Bonnie asked.

  I tried the door myself. “If it’s something like a heart attack every second counts. This feels like a flimsy lock.” I glanced at Zealand for permission. “Should I force it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I hit the cockpit door with my shoulder and the door started to give. Once more and it sprang open.

  Ross Winslow was visible at once, toppled from the pilot’s seat onto the unused copilot’s seat next to it. I saw the blood and heard Bonnie’s high-pitched voice from the aisle. “What? – What is it?”

  I took a deep breath and told Zealand, “Get her out of here, off the plane. Right now.” Then I stepped forward and bent over the pilot’s seat examining the body. There was no doubt that he was dead.