Харлан Эллисон: Murder Plus: True Crime Stories From The Masters Of Detective Fiction

Mrs. Griffin’s sons and Hubert were at once released. Following several hours of sleep, the aging widow summoned officials and went on to explain how, following the crime, she had had no regrets and no remorse. She said that each afternoon, as soon as her housework had been completed, she made a habit of going down to the basement and sitting for several hours while she knitted on a quilt she was making for her daughter. She liked to keep an eye on the trunk.

Officers, at first perplexed that the body had lain in the cellar so long without giving off telltale odors, explained it when they realized the trunk had been of such construction that, when closed, it was virtually hermetically sealed.

On the morning of March 21, 1942, Mrs. Minnie Lee Griffin, head high and eyes defiant, stood erect and unflinching as she was indicted on charges of first degree murder and held without bail for the grand jury.

Harry Whittingtonis remembered as the “King of the Paperback Original,” and not without reason. From 1950 to about 1970, he published more than 150 novels in categories as diverse as detective fiction, horror, science fiction, westerns, backwoods romance, hospital confessions. More remarkable than his sheer output is the fact that each of them (or at least, each of the more than 50 I’ve been able to hunt down) were written with grace uncharacteristic of the genre. Fast-paced, well-plotted, unimaginably sparse, bleak, and always suspenseful. Whittington’s heroes were always disillusioned, tragic men, tarnished angels in the heat of personal battle. (See Forgive Me, Killer; Ticket to Hell, A Moment to Prey, Murder Is My Mistress). Maybe that is what attracted him to this true case about two high-flying pilots, desperate men who make one last desperate gamble. If “Invaders from the Sky” appears familiar, that’s because he later “structured the true events” of this “botched, bourbon and laced crime” into the 1960 novel, The Devil Wears Wings.

The small, silver Cessna cabin plane cleared the Tampa airfield at 5:45 A.M., and cut radio contact with the operations tower. Daybreak, October 24, 1957, was crisp, and in the Florida flatlands, sudden and complete.

The man at the controls glanced earthward with a faint grin. Thirty, he was stocky, handsome. His companion in the Cessna two-seater was four years younger, fair-haired, lean, long-legged. One thing they shared: a look of unbearable tensions, anxiety, inner pressures.

By nature both were gamblers, but had never hit the jackpot which they considered their right; new they were determined to play for high stakes. Their plan was new, even fantastic, full of risk, and this showed in their faces. They were risking everything in one wild gamble — they would no longer be denied: they were desperate men!

The taller, younger chap pulled a whiskey bottle from his jacket.

“Don’t start that!” the pilot shouted.

The other laughed, removed the cap, drank deeply. “You run the plane. I’ll do my part.”

“Just be sure you can.”

They followed the black lane of the city’s Campbell Causeway west across upper Tampa Bay, where they would execute the next play in their carefully plotted Operation Invasion.

At the Clearwater airfield, the pilot set the silver Cessna down on the strip occupied by other private planes. His scheme included the stealing of another airplane; two were needed for this maneuver.

The fair-haired younger man took one more drink, as if sucking courage through the mouth of the bottle.

He sauntered around the Cessna, checking it. From a distance it might appear that the silver and yellow-trimmed ship had developed some minor defect and that its owner was concerned about its condition.

The stocky pilot took a brief gander at the deserted field. It was so early in the day that the attendants hadn’t come out when the plane had landed. He strode to a larger, more horse-powered airplane which was parked nearest the Cessna. He swung into the cockpit quickly, moving with the assurance of a man who lives planes from jennies to jets. He set the controls, pressed the starter.

His companion’s head jerked around at the balky engine whine, face stark. Twice the motor almost caught, then died noisily.

Suddenly the fair-haired man ran around the Cessna, voice tense. “Come on!” he yelled. “Forget that plane. Let’s get out of here. One of those grease monkeys has spotted you—”

Faintly angered because he’d been frustrated in his theft by any plane motor, the stocky man unwillingly swung out, and in a moment the Cessna was airborne again, moving inland south by west. It was not yet 6 A.M....

By 9:30 A.M. they raised Winter Haven’s Gilbert Field, about 70 air miles inland from Florida’s Clearwater. The pilot had now been drinking, too.

His voice betrayed the anger still rankling at their first failure to steal a second plane. “We’ve got to do better than that. I hope the rest of this plan goes better. Couple more slips like that—”

“Forget it.” The fair-haired man laughed. “We’ve been over it. Every step. Plenty. It’s not about to go wrong.”

“Just the same, I don’t like this plane being spotted down here. We’ve got to get another one that can’t be traced to us. My boss thinks I borrowed it for a business trip. I’ve got to get it back safely.”

“So what? Who’ll be out this time of day? We’ve got a right to fly where we want.”

The pilot muttered something, pinpointed the silver Cessna to a spot beside a bright yellow Aeronca parked on Gilbert Field. He left the Cessna’s engine purring, swung out, raced across the runway. The fair-haired man changed seats and took over the controls of the Cessna.

This time the plane theft was accomplished quickly. The Aeronca sputtered to life, the pilot waved his arm in a motion that said more clearly than words: “This time we got a break, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Both planes took off without mishap. Flying the Cessna, the younger man kept his companion’s stolen yellow Aeronca in sight as the two fliers returned westward. Excitement was building in the fair-haired youth now. Another detail was complete, they were moving nearer to that jackpot which they both needed so urgently. His pulse raced. A vein throbbed in his temple. He could not control sudden bursts of laughter.

He watched the Cessna settle to the broken runway of an abandoned airstrip that they’d cased days ago outside Plant City, Florida. They’d returned to within 30 miles of Tampa now, but it was all planned — it was going to work.

He knew his partner was still cobbed about that plane’s not starting in Clearwater. Sure, it would have been smarter to abandon a stolen plane in Winter Haven in exchange for the Aeronca; it would have covered their trail a lot better, but that was a minor matter, no longer important.

He put the Cessna down on the strip, realizing that he didn’t fly as expertly as the older man. This fact didn’t upset him either — few men could fly that well.

There was little concealment on this abandoned airstrip, but he taxied the Cessna near the hedgeline, killed the engine. He swung out and ran across to the Aeronca, carrying his bottle. He was laughing as he clambered in.

“You happy now?” he said. “Let’s go.”

“We’ve got plenty of time. Let me have a drink.”

The two thieves had cleared Gilbert Field at about 9:45 A.M. It was now almost 11. The pilot checked the radio, but so far as he could learn, the loss of the Aeronca had not been reported.

“Slick!” the tall man said, laughing. “Not a hitch. They might not miss this plane all day. Come on, fellow, let me see you laugh. What’s the matter, you hate bein’ rich?”