Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  "A woman then," Beatrice said. The detective glared at her. "It's a very warm evening. None of the men are wearing gloves."

  "Save us from middle aged female amateur detectives," the policeman muttered.

  "Anyone can put on a pair of gloves, ma'am," the detective said.

  "Listen," Mitch said. "I've told you everything I know. Any chance I could get out of here? It's nearly midnight and I've got a race to fly tomorrow."

  The detective nodded. "Ok. But you need a pat down before you leave, same as all the other guests. Whoever grabbed this thing is probably thinking they can walk out with it." He looked at Beatrice. "We've got a policewoman to do a pat down of all the ladies."

  "Of course," she said.

  By the time they got back to the front hall the crowd had thinned, about half the guests queued up to be searched before they left. Some of them were protesting, but most seemed to find the detective work an exciting feature of the party.

  "Well," Mitch said. "It's been a pleasure meeting you."

  "And you," Beatrice said. "I hope we'll have a chance to talk more some other time."

  "So do I," Mitch said. "But now I'd better find my team and see if we can all get some shut eye."

  "Good luck in the race!"

  "Thank you," Mitch said, and started hunting for the rest of them. For that matter, where was Henry?

  He found them all out on the lawn clustered around the Terrier, and for a moment his heart skipped a beat. Nothing could be wrong with his plane. Nothing.

  "...we need to get gassed up and out of here right now," Alma was saying to Henry.

  Mitch took the last yards at a dead run. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, as far as we can tell," Lewis said. He'd climbed up on the fuselage to check out the rudder control surfaces, his black tie gone and his hair mussed out of its slicked back Valentino style.

  "As far as we can tell," Alma said. "But Henry, you know as well as I do that we can't see a damn thing out here! It's dark."

  “So taxi her back over to the hangar,” Henry said. “You can look her over there, the shop’s certainly good enough.”

  “I will,” Alma said. “I want to make sure she’s airworthy. But then we’re flying down to Grand Central.” She held up her hand, forestalling Henry’s protest. “No offense to you or your people, Henry, but I know they’re keeping a close eye on the competitors’ hangars.”

  Henry seemed inclined to protest, but Mitch ignored him. "What happened?""Nothing," Jerry said shortly, leaning on his cane. "But there was a strange woman hanging around the plane, and then it was entirely alone while everyone was hunting for Henry's damned necklace in the house. Alma thinks some other team may have tried to sabotage it."

  "Might have," Alma said impatiently. "Might. We've done a cursory search and there's nothing amiss, but I can't break the engines down in the dark or get a good look at the fuel lines. If someone wanted to bring down an airplane or get us out of the race, that would be the way to do it."

  "I don't see anything wrong right now," Lewis said. "But it's hard to tell in this light."

  “We were going to fly out before dawn anyway,” Alma said, to Henry. “Grand Central will like us better coming in late rather than early, and we’ll know it’s secure with the race authorities watching it. And I can go over it with a fine-toothed comb.”

  "We'll go over it," Mitch said, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nothing could be wrong with the Terrier. Nothing he couldn't fix.

  Henry nodded. "Ok," he said. "Maybe the whole necklace thing was a diversion. And if that’s true, then I need to take a hard look at my people. That's some big money riding on the race, especially when you figure in the whole publicity angle. I sure don't want my plane having to bow out."

  "My plane," Alma and Mitch said at the same time.

  Henry grinned, though he looked tired. "Your plane, kids. Just promise me you’ll be sure the fuel lines are clear before you take off?"

  “Absolutely,” Alma said.

  “Then I’ll call Grand Central and tell them to wait up for you,” Henry said.

  "Perfect," Lewis said, starting to climb down.

  "Not you," Alma said. She reached up and took Lewis' hand as he slid down onto the wing. "Somebody's got to be fresh to fly the first leg tomorrow. You stay here at Henry's like we'd planned, you and Jerry, and get a good night's sleep. Mitch and I will take the Terrier apart. We can nap when you're flying tomorrow."

  "I thought Mitch was going to fly the first leg," Lewis said. He looked at Mitch. "It's your baby."

  "You can fly it," Mitch said, and it only gave him a little twinge to say so. "I'll take her apart tonight. I can fly the third leg, the one you were supposed to fly."

  "Ok." Lewis gathered Jerry into his gaze. "Then we'll hit the sack."

  Henry started off toward the house, calling for Miss Patterson, and Alma dusted her hands off on her ink-blue evening gown. She gave Mitch a rueful smile. "Every time I wear this dress, something strange happens."

  "Leave it at Henry's," Mitch said. "It's already been in one air crash. No need to jinx us."

  It was a long night. It hadn’t taken long to be sure the Terrier was at least safe for the short hop to Grand Central, or to follow the tower beacon in to a safe landing, but after that had come the niggling job of making sure there was no more subtle sabotage. By five Mitch was scrubbing his eyes as he made one final check of the rudder controls. Perfect, just like everything else they'd looked at. Alma looked as tired as he did, lip rouge long since worn off, dark circles under her eyes. "I can't find a thing," Mitch said, climbing down and coming over to her.

  Alma nodded. "I haven't found anything wrong either." She gave him a wan smile. "Probably I just kept us both up all night for nothing."

  "Not for nothing," Mitch said. "If somebody had sabotaged the Terrier.... I don't even know."

  "I do," Alma said. "If something went wrong tomorrow, when we're over the desert..."

  "Today," Mitch said. "The race starts in three hours."

  Alma sat down in the doorway, her legs out before her. "Not much point in trying to go to bed now."

  "Henry will be here soon, and there will be a million reporters." Mitch stretched, trying to unkink his back. "But Lewis had a good night's rest. That was a smart move. He can get us through the first stage."

  "There are already some fans outside." Alma glanced toward the hangar doors.

  A couple of dozen people were milling around in the growing light, hardcore fans who wanted to get the best places, or maybe to get a glimpse of crews and planes preparing. Most of them were men, but Mitch caught sight of an angular brunette in black trousers who was reading the posted information with interest. High cheekbones softened by finger waves, with the kind of smile he liked...

  "Mitch?" Alma waved her hand in front of his face. "I asked if you wanted to go get a cup of coffee. Henry's guys can watch the plane and they're not about to let anyone monkey with the engines."

  "Sure," Mitch said. He was not quite falling down tired, but some coffee would be a good thing. "Let's do that." He put his arm affectionately around Alma's waist as they went out, just in time for a flash to go off in his face. "Aw crap," he said as the reporter smirked. "Mrs. Segura stumbled."

  "If you say so, buddy." The reporter danced back out of their way, camera in hand. The brunette fan gave him an arch look.

  "I hate these reporters," Alma muttered.

  "We'll lose them in the air," Mitch said. Dawn was coming. It wouldn't be long until takeoff.

  Lewis hopped out of Henry's car at a quarter until six, Jerry making his way more sedately behind him. Though the sun wasn't yet over the horizon there was quite a crowd around the entrance to Henry's hangar, twenty or thirty people milling around while Henry's mechanics chatted with them. Inside, the Terrier stood under big work lights. Everything looked ok from where he stood.

  Alma was drinking coffee out of a paper cup by the wing, and Mitch was glancing over th
e weather report spread between them.

  "How's the Terrier?" Lewis asked.

  "Fine," Alma said. "Mitch and I can't find anything wrong. We've been over her thoroughly, and she looks ok to us."

  "Good as new," Mitch said. "Better than new, if we can make her that way." He looked tired but like he was getting his second wind. He'd probably spent as many early mornings on the flight line after a sleepless night as Lewis had, during the war. Of course that was more than ten years ago, and both of them were closer to forty than twenty now.

  "Good to hear," Lewis said, walking around the back. Everything looked trim and shipshape. Even the paint gleamed.

  Mitch reached down and latched the exterior luggage hatch. "We're ready. And it looks like the weather's going to be just about perfect for the first leg. A hot start and a fast pace."

  "I'm game," Lewis said.

  "Did they ever find Henry's necklace?"

  Lewis shook his head. "The police found the box in the bushes by the pool but no necklace. They searched all the guests but I guess somebody smuggled it out somehow." Lewis dropped his voice. "Unless Henry snitched it himself and hid it somewhere and it will turn up in a day or so."

  Mitch looked shocked. "Why would he do that?"

  "Publicity." Lewis shrugged. "That's what some guy at the party last night said."

  "I don't think so," Mitch said. His voice was also low. "Why would Henry break his own ward? The police wouldn't know the difference. He could just not ward the thing."

  Lewis' reply was forestalled by Henry and Jerry approaching, Jerry looking uncommonly keen and fresh given the hour.

  "All ready?" Henry asked cheerfully.

  "Ready," Alma said.

  “Passengers here, please,” the man with the clipboard called. “Official passengers, over here.”

  Jerry turned slowly, careful in the crowd and on the concrete floor of the hangar. The last thing he wanted was to go sprawling, tripped up by his artificial leg. He felt reasonably rested, despite the late night; he’d shaved carefully and worn his own best suit, the one he’d had made in Chicago four years ago. It was a little old-fashioned, but it wouldn’t disgrace the team.

  Mitch frowned. He hadn’t had time to shave, and there were circles under his eyes. “What — is this the drawing?”

  Jerry nodded. This was the first of the publicity stunts: the passengers would draw their teams’ starting position an hour before the first plane left. He thought it was unfair, leaving everyone stewing and in doubt about their strategy, but Alma had just shrugged, and he’d left it at that. “Any particular position you want me to try for?”

  He was good at influencing probabilities — dice, cards, lotteries — and he could see Alma consider it for a moment before she shook her head. “No. There’s ten minutes between each start, and it’s all elapsed time anyway, so — let’s save that for later.”

  “Ok,” Jerry said, and started for the door.

  The organizers had gathered the official passengers at the steps that led up to the platform, and one of the handlers was checking them off on a clipboard.

  “Dr. Ballard,” he said, making his mark. “Gilchrist Aviation. Please stay right here.”

  “Of course,” Jerry said, and leaned more heavily on his cane. At least he wasn’t the only man in the group. Comanche Air’s passenger was a craggy-faced man with the weathered skin of a cowboy; he caught Jerry’s glance and gave him a wry grin and a flick of the eyebrows that encompassed the gaggle of pretty girls surrounding them. Jerry smiled back, but didn’t move any closer.

  It was easy to pick out the girls who belonged to the three mail lines, all of them blonde and curvy, with expensive makeup and dresses cut to make a show without actually being immodest, and all of them practiced at catching the camera’s eye. Up-and-coming actresses, all of them, Jerry remembered, though the one flying with American was supposed to be engaged to one of their pilots. The girl from Consolidated was a brunette, pert and pretty and equally at home in front of the cameras, a long scarf in Consolidated’s colors wound about her neck. She was a contract player at RKO, Jerry remembered from the party, and a would-be flyer herself. The remaining women had done their best, but next to the starlets they looked positively drab. May Saltonstall’s suit was well-cut, an expensive gray wool that would look perfectly fine in Boston, but in California made her look twice her age, and her face was pink from sun and nerves. The other two, representing Jezek Air and Bestways Air Transport, had done their best, but their frocks were last year’s colors, and the woman from Jezek had opted for an artificial silk that wilted in the morning heat. She was doing her best to pretend it didn’t matter, but Jerry could see the strain behind her smile.

  “You’re from Jezek?” he asked, and she turned, relaxing slightly as she realized he wasn’t a reporter.

  “Yes. And you’re — Gilchrist?”

  Jerry nodded. “Mr. Kershaw warned us we’d need to watch out for the Corsair.”

  She snorted. “Connie — my husband — tried to sell him on the design when he worked for Republic. But — we’ll see.”

  “Hey! Mrs. Jezek! How’s the Polish Jalopy holding up?” That was one of the photographers, moving closer with his big camera.

  Mrs. Jezek closed her eyes for a moment. “We are Czech, actually.”

  “How about a smile?”

  She managed one, and the girl from Consolidated linked arms with her, offering a bigger smile and a flash of leg.

  “Don’t let ’em needle you, hon,” she said, under her breath. “They’re all going to follow Winchell’s lead.”

  Mrs. Jezek managed a more natural smile, leaning closer to the Consolidated girl, auburn hair against rich brown, and the photographer raised his camera.

  “Nice one! Hey, Doc, how ‘bout you join them?”

  Jerry moved in, forcing a smile of his own, and the photographers snapped away.

  “Passengers! Passengers on the platform, please!” one of the organizers shouted, and Jerry pulled away, hanging back a little so that he could go last, where there would be room to haul himself up in spite of the artificial leg.

  “Gentlemen on the ends, please,” a young woman was saying, as she sorted them into the most photogenic pattern. “Miss Collins in the middle, you ladies here — yes, perfect, thank you.”

  She stepped back, and Jerry looked down to find himself next to May Saltonstall. She gave him a wry smile. “Quite a production — Professor Ballard, is it?”

  Of course she’d been to Radcliffe, just as her brothers had been to Harvard. Jerry nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Saltonstall.”

  “I think we have a mutual acquaintance —”

  A crackle of static from the speaker above them drowned out what she might have said, and Jerry composed himself to listen as the day’s master of ceremonies — the manager of Grand Central, a nice bit of publicity — stepped up to begin the proceedings. He ran through the race rules for the benefit of anyone who hadn’t been reading the papers — six legs from Los Angeles to Coconut Grove, all planes to be stock passenger planes, each one to carry a non-pilot passenger — while the sun beat down on the open platform, and Jerry felt the sweat begin to worm its way down his back. He kept his face unmoving, schooled to the same bland smile he’d worn under bombardment, and beside him May Saltonstall dabbed nervously at her mascara. Below them, a couple of hundred people crowded onto the tarmac, reporters and photographers filling the first rows, while the newsreel cameras ground away, black boxes poking up out of the edges of the crowd.

  “— draw for starting positions,” the manager said at last, and another pair of pretty girls in bright red dresses made their way up onto the platform. They carried a long silver tray between them, nine envelopes laid on in a row against the polished metal. “Hold on to your envelopes, please, until everyone has chosen. Ladies first.”

  They began with Mrs. Jezek, who hesitated only for an instant before grabbing the middle one. The girls in red moved down the line,
letting the women pick, so that there were only two envelopes left when they got to Jerry. He considered for an instant, then took the left-hand one, and the girls brought the almost-empty tray back to the man from Comanche Air.

  “Ladies — and gentlemen, of course,” the manager said. “You may open your envelopes now.”

  Jerry ripped his open, saw the others doing the same, and unfolded his paper to reveal a large number five printed in heavy black ink. The girl from Consolidated held hers up at chest height, displaying a big 2, and the other women copied her. Jerry did the same, glancing down the line. United was first out, then Consolidated, then the Corsair — a nice break for them, if only for the publicity — then TWA. Gilchrist would follow them, with the Harvards next, and Comanche, Bestways, and American rounding out the field. For all that Alma swore the starting order didn’t matter, Jerry couldn’t help wishing he’d drawn a higher number. Below them, the camera shutters clattered, the photographers calling smile and look this way, and Jerry obeyed mechanically, looking over the crowd toward the hangar. It was time to get underway.

  Chapter Six

  Lewis leaned over Alma’s shoulder, looking at the fuel calculations she and Mitch had been struggling over. Despite the late night, he felt pretty good — yeah, he could have used another couple hours’ sleep, but he was certainly ready. Mitch and Alma both looked worse, dark circles under Alma’s eyes, Mitch showing an unusual hint of stubble. Lewis touched his own chin in reflex, reassuring himself that he still looked presentable. He had a heavy beard, and had to shave twice a day if he wanted to look decent, and the last thing he wanted was to disgrace Gilchrist. Or Henry, he supposed, but it was really Alma who mattered.

  He made himself focus on the numbers. “We’re not going with full tanks?” he asked, pitching his voice low to keep from being overheard.

  Alma shook her head. “Mitch and I worked it out,” she said, lowering her voice to match. “Two hundred twenty gallons still gives us a decent margin, especially with a light tail wind predicted the whole way. And we’ll be three hundred pounds lighter.”