Groggy, my mouth filmed with a medicinal aftertaste and the thickness of sleep, with perhaps just a hint of Lobster Newburg, I blinked under the glare of a high overhead light, a conical shaft of brightness that singled me out in a darkened room. For the second time tonight, I was in the spotlight. If this was still tonight….
I sat slumped in a chair, a simple metal folding chair, and my hands were free; I ran one of them up over my face and felt the stubble of beard and ran my fingers into my scalp and massaged. My Florsheimed feet were roped to the legs of the chair; another rope looped my midsection, tying me to the chair. I was in the pants of my garbardine suit and in my white shirt, my suitcoat gone, my tie gone. And needless to say, the nine-millimeter and .38 I’d stuffed in my waistband were long gone.
The glare of the overhead lamp made it hard to focus, but gradually I achieved a sense of where I was. Beyond the cone of light I sat within was a vast, cool darkness, but a certain amount of light—moonlight and perhaps electrical light—came from high distant windows. The smell of gasoline and oil and wing dope wafted through the drafty structure. Gradually, dark bulky shapes within the darkness made themselves known, like beasts crouching in jungle night shadows.
A melodramatic response, perhaps, to being held captive in an airplane hangar, but justifiable. I had knocked the shit out of a couple of Miller’s cronies and now Miller had me—or someone Miller had turned me over to had me—and the only reason I had any hope of getting out of this alive was that I wasn’t dead yet.
Footsteps echoed in the cavernous room, footsteps in the darkness, hollow clops punctuated by gun-cock clicks.
Then I could make out the outline of him, moving out from between the large shapes that were parked aircraft, and finally he stepped just inside my circle of harsh light.
“Forgive the precautions,” William Miller said in that mellow balm of baritone.
Again his lanky frame was draped in a dark undertaker’s suit, navy with a red-and-white-striped tie. It was hard to see where his gray hair began and the grayish flesh left off. He stood with folded arms, his full lips pursed in an amused smile, but his eyes dark and cold under the black ridges of eyebrow.
“Stand a little closer,” I said. “I can’t hear you.”
He waved a scolding finger my way. “Don’t make me sorry I didn’t bind your hands, as well. You did quite a thorough job on Smith and Jones.”
“Are they military intelligence? Or am I contradicting myself?” My tongue felt thick and my head throbbed with a headache almost as blinding as the glare of the overhead lamp. But I was damned if I’d let him sense that.
Now his hands had moved to his hips. “Are you aware that the FBI has a file on you?”
“I’d be flattered if I gave a damn,” I said. “Is that who they were?”
He chuckled. “I understand you once spoke to Director Hoover ‘disrespectfully.’”
“I told him to go fuck himself.”
The dark unblinking eyes had fastened on me, appraisingly. “You also prevented him from being kidnapped by the Karpis and Barker gang. And I understand, from Elmer Irey, that you were helpful last year, in the ongoing IRS investigation of the late unlamented Huey Long’s confederates in Louisiana.”
“If this is a testimonial dinner,” I said, “go ahead and roll out the cake with the stripper in it.”
He began to pace, slowly, measured steps, not nervous, in an arc that traced the edge of my circle of light. “I also gather that you’re a friend of Eliot Ness, that you aided him on various matters when he was with the Justice Department and, later, the Alcohol and Tax Unit.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular Junior G-man. You can untie me now.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said ambiguously. “You’re also a known confidant of the criminal element in Chicago. You left the police department under a cloud, and you’ve had frequent dealings with members of the Capone mob.”
“So which is it? Am I a public-minded citizen, or a lowlife crook?”
His mouth smiled faintly but there was no smile in his eyes, at all. “That’s up to you…. You mind if I make myself comfortable?”
“Please. Come sit on my lap if you want.”
Miller chuckled again. “I like your sense of humor. Very droll.”
That was a new word for it.
He stepped outside the circle into the darkness, but my eyes were accustomed enough to that darkness that I could make out his movement. He took something from somewhere and came walking back. Another metal folding chair. He placed it at the edge of the pool of light and sat. Crossed his legs. Folded his arms. Smiled meaninglessly.
“You see, we’re aware that you’re considering going to the press with what you’ve learned,” he said. “I mention these various aspects of your life and career to show why we feel you might be willing to cooperate with your government…”
It was out in the open now.
“…and, if you decline to help, to remind you how easily we might discredit you and anything you came up with.”
I laughed once but it was loud enough to echo. “So all you wanted was to talk this over with me? Is that what your friends ‘Smith and Jones’ were doing in my cabin? Looking for me? Under my bed? In my suitcase and dresser drawers?”
“Actually, we were looking for this….” And he withdrew from his side suitcoat pocket my little notebook; he held it up as if it were an item on auction. “…and anything else pertinent, any other notes or documents you might have assembled.”
Then he tossed it to me.
I caught it, and thumbed through. All the pages relating to Amy were missing.
“Everyone you’ve spoken to, we’ll be speaking to,” Miller said.
“Tied to chairs?”
His smile broadened. “No…. You’re really the only one who requires…special treatment.”
“You forgot the kid gloves.”
Now the smile disappeared. “We intend to appeal to the patriotism of these individuals, Mr. Heller…. We don’t anticipate any problems with any of them. Mr. McMenamy would surely not like to have his ham radio operating license pulled, nor would any of the other buffs who’ve reported hearing similar transmissions. The Myers youth is…a youth. He’s unlikely to make a fuss and, even so, who would pay attention? Miss DeCarrie will understand that it was Miss Earhart’s wish to cooperate with her government, and will respect the wishes of her employer and friend. Mr. Mantz and Mr. Tisor occasionally work on government contracts and I’m sure will do the right, public-spirited thing.”
“Or you’ll yank whatever licenses they need to do business. You bastards’ll turn me into a Republican yet.”
“Mr. Heller, stumbling around in the dark…” And he gestured to the blackness of the hangar surrounding us. “…flying blind as you have, you’ve imperiled a top-secret government operation. We are trying as best we can to…stage-manage what could become an international incident of such proportions that the next world war could be precipitated.”
The volume of his voice had gradually risen; it was now reverberating in the vast chamber.
“And, Mr. Heller, speaking with a certain insider’s knowledge of both military and naval intelligence, I can tell you with all honesty and no small regret that your country is at this time in no shape to enter such a conflict.”
This was a new one on me: I’d never been accused of almost precipitating a world war, before.
I said, “I’m just supposed to take your word for all this.”
Both feet on the floor now, he folded his hands in his lap and tilted forward. “Mr. Heller, the disappearance of Amelia Earhart is big news. But how long do you think the disappearance of a corrupt private detective would sustain the interest of the American people?”
Were there others in the darkness around us? I sensed as much, but couldn’t be sure.
I said cheerfully, “Too bad your boys Smith and Jones didn’t stop by my motel a little earlier…. They might have intercepted that detailed le
tter I sent my attorney.”
He sat back and folded his arms again and the soft mouth formed a sort of kiss. Then he said, “All right…. Now we’ve exchanged threats. Mine is not empty, whereas yours is a fairly pathetic improvisation, but let’s treat each other with a little mutual respect, nonetheless. I’ll pretend I believe there’s a real chance that such a letter exists. And I won’t remind you that a blowtorch to the soles of your feet might elicit the truth in this matter and/or the name of your attorney. I won’t insult your intelligence in that manner.”
“You’re a swell guy, Miller. I feel so good with the security of my nation in your principled hands.”
“You’re a funny one to talk about principles…. You forget I’ve read your FBI file. You have a reputation for looking the other way, when money’s involved.”
“Then let’s see the color of yours.”
“An interesting notion, and I don’t rule it out…but I think in this instance we’ve gone past your innate avarice and passed into an…emotional realm. You see I’m aware—unlike Mr. Putnam, who is cooperating with us, but knows less than he thinks he does—of your…this is delicate…friendship with Mr. Putnam’s wife.”
Funny how a guy threatening to torture me with a blowtorch a few seconds ago now felt the need to indulge in arch euphemism.
“I’ll tell you this,” I said. “I know Mr. Putnam’s wife well enough to know that she wouldn’t get in bed with the military. She hates war.”
“Yes, and she cooperated with us for that very reason…and because she and her husband could not get sufficient backing for the world flight, otherwise.”
I leaned forward as far as the rope around me would allow. “Why Amelia? Why drag a public figure, a beloved public figure, into your dirty business?”
He sighed. “This was a service only she could provide, Mr. Heller. As the most famous civilian aviatrix in the world, she enjoyed an unparalleled advantage: the freedom to fly anywhere in that world, including places where her own country was banned.”
I sneered at the son of a bitch. “She was a civilian, and a heroine to America, and you cheapen that into making her a spy? Not to mention putting her life at risk!”
He waved that off. “That Lockheed of hers can outrun any unfriendly plane—and Mr. Noonan is not a civilian; he’s the anchor of this mission. We did not consider Miss Earhart to be in any danger. Even the Japs would think twice before shooting down Amelia Earhart because she was off course!”
“Off course in a plane whose belly’s packed with aerial survey cameras.”
That rated a shrug from Miller. “The world would write that off as the Japanese trying to cover up for their ill-advised actions. Which is something the Japs, who are hardly stupid, would figure out for themselves.”
“Then what the hell happened? It looks like they did fire on her….”
Another shrug. “Just trying to force her down…. She did stray off course, after her mission was accomplished. It’s unfortunate….”
“You screwed up.”
Something like regret touched the impassive features. “Actually, Amelia did. She’s not really much of a flier.”
“You knew where she was, when she was radioing for help. You knew she was down in Jap waters.”
He said nothing.
“But you didn’t go in after her, did you?”
Now he put his hands on his knees and leaned forward just a bit, as if lecturing a precocious but difficult child. “Mr. Heller, we believe Japan is building military bases throughout the tiny islands of the Pacific. They are forbidden by treaty to do this, but their islands in the Marshall, Carolines, and Mariana groups are closed to ‘foreigners’ like us. We believe they’re fortifying for war, Mr. Heller, violating their covenant with the League of Nations.”
“And you want to prove that.”
The tiniest shrug. “We at least want to know it. The President has to know, if he’s to carry out his responsibility to provide our country with an adequate defense, should the Philippines or Hawaii be attacked.”
“Sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”
He stood. His voice was firm; though he wasn’t speaking terribly loud, echo touched his words: “Amelia agreed to cooperate. She did this in part as a favor to her friend, President Roosevelt. If you make this public, you will not only go against her wishes, but tarnish her image not just here, but abroad.”
I raised a forefinger. “Plus start the next war. Don’t forget that.”
“Your actions may endanger her—might cause her captors to…destroy the evidence.”
“Execute her, you mean.”
“We believe she’s alive. We prefer to keep her that way.”
“I doubt that. The best thing for you people is for her never to be seen again.”
“We’re not monsters, Mr. Heller. We’re soldiers. But so is Miss Earhart.”
I had to laugh. “She’d slap you for that…. Did your people hear what Robert Myers and I heard last night?”
An eyebrow arched. “Frankly, no…. But various of our ships in the Far East fleet have intercepted coded messages sent by Japanese vessels and shore installations in their Mandated Islands back home to Japan…messages that indicate Miss Earhart and Mr. Noonan are indeed in Japanese hands.”
“Jesus! Why don’t you negotiate their release, then?”
“We can’t admit we sent Earhart and Noonan,” he said, “and the other side can’t admit they have Earhart and Noonan. That is the reality of world politics on this very shaky stage.”
I looked at him for a long time, his oval face with its lifeless features, the dead eyes, the soft mouth. Then I asked casually, or as casually as a man tied in a chair could ask, “You just shared top-secret information with me, didn’t you, Miller?”
“Classified material, yes.”
“That means if I don’t cooperate, you’re going to kill me.”
The mildest amusement puckered the soft lips. “Oh, Mr. Heller…I would never do that. You’re a citizen of the United States of America, the country I love, the country I serve.”
“You’d have somebody else do it.”
“Precisely.”
I held out my hands, palms up. “These are free because you want me to sign something.”
“Perceptive…. Yes. It’s a contract, actually.”
“A contract?”
He withdrew the document, folded lengthwise in thirds, from an inside suitcoat pocket. “A backdated contract. You’ve been working for the government, in the capacity of investigator. As such, you’re subject to a policy of strict confidentiality.”
“Really,” I said, taking the contract, reading it over quickly, finding it surprisingly simple and in keeping with what he’d outlined. One portion remained to be filled in. “What are you paying me?”
“You’ve suffered a lot of inconvenience, Mr. Heller, and had considerable travel expense. What would you say to two thousand dollars?”
“I should throw this in your face.”
“Have I insulted you, suggesting you take payment to walk away from a matter so personal to you?”
“Make it five.”
I agreed to take their money, for two reasons. First, money doesn’t know where it comes from, and this foul sum would spend just like money that smelled better. Second, this would convince Miller and those he represented that I would forget what I’d seen and heard.
“You are going to try to get her back,” I said, as I signed the contract, using my leg as a desk.
“Of course…but it will be delicate. It’s difficult for a country that denies responsibility to arrange the release of prisoners whose captors deny their presence.”
He took the contract from me, then looked sharply into the darkness just over my shoulder and nodded and footsteps came up quickly behind me and a hand reached around in front of me and again a chloroform-soaked cloth masked my face.
I awoke in a private compartment of a train eastbound for Chicago. I found my nine-millim
eter in my packed suitcase. Neatly folded in my billfold was a five-thousand-dollar check from the Office of Naval Intelligence. In the inside suitcoat pocket of my blue garbardine, which I wore, was my copy of the contract, with Miller’s signature.
Legal and aboveboard.
On July 19, the Navy abandoned its efforts and declared the search for the Electra over. Though intercepted radio messages (never made public) indicated Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan had been picked up by the Japanese almost two weeks earlier, the Navy used the continuing search as an excuse for continued, expanded reconnaissance of this strategic area of the Pacific. They were not allowed into Japanese-controlled waters, however, though the Japanese professed to be helping in the search.
Ten ships, sixty-five airplanes, and four thousand men had scoured two hundred and fifty thousand square miles of Pacific Ocean in a four-million-dollar effort. Not a trace of the Electra or its crew or even a life raft turned up. No oil slick, no scrap of floating debris. Nothing.
One month to the day after the search for Amy ended, Paul Mantz married Terry Minor in Hollywood’s fabled wedding chapel, the Wee Kirk o’ the Heather. When the papers covered it, they described Mantz as “technical advisor for Amelia Earhart,” and quoted him as saying, “It’s time to get on with our lives.”
Miller apparently got to everyone I’d talked to, because no one came forward, and I certainly didn’t go to the papers.
I was a good American, after all; and anyway, I had no desire to be the government’s next disappearing act. But as the days and months passed, I would open the paper each morning, looking for the headline announcing her return. Amy’s good pal President Roosevelt wouldn’t let her rot in some Japanese jail, would he? An arrangement would be made; some exchange; something that would allow both countries to achieve their goals and the honorable Japanese tradition of saving face.
But the headline never came. Amelia Earhart had vanished from the pages of the papers as completely as she had somewhere over the Pacific. She had flown out of the news and into the pages of history, where she lay prematurely buried.
Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 10 Page 23
