Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“I see. What happened next?”

“The aircraft reported at 2050 that it was leaving three thousand feet, and I told them they were to contact Boeing Tower on 118.3 for landing instructions. They acknowledged with ‘Roger,’ and that’s the last I heard of them.”

“Did you hear the explosion?”

“I heard something, but I figured it for static. Ground witnesses heard it, though.”

“But everything was normal and routine before the explosion, that right?”

Porchek nodded his head emphatically. “Yes, sir. A routine letdown.”

“Almost,” Davis said.

He called George Ellison from a pay phone. When the old man came on the line, Davis said, “This is Milt Davis, Mr. Ellison.”

Ellison’s voice sounded gruff and heavy, even over the phone. “Hello, Davis,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Ellison. I’d like out.”

“Why?” He could feel the old man’s hackles rising.

“Because the FBI and the MPs are already on this one. They’ll crack it for you, and it’ll probably turn out to be some nut with a grudge against the government. Either that, or a plain case of sabotage. This really doesn’t call for a private investigation.”

“Look, Davis,” Ellison said, “I’ll decide whether this calls for...”

“All right, you’ll decide. I’m just trying to be frank with you. This kind of stuff is way out of my line. I’m used to trailing wayward husbands, or skip-tracing, or an occasional bodyguard stint. When you drag in bombed planes, I’m in over my head.”

“I heard you were a good man,” Ellison said. “You stick with it. I’m satisfied you’ll do a good job.”

“Whatever you say,” Davis said, and sighed. “Incidentally, did you tell anyone you’d hired me?”

“Yes, I did. As a matter of fact...”

“Who’d you tell?”

“Several of my employees. The word got to a local reporter somehow, though, and he came to my home yesterday. I gave him the story. I didn’t think it would do any harm.”

“Has it reached print yet?”

“Yes,” Ellison said. “It was in this morning’s paper. A small item. Why?”

“I was shot at today, Mr. Ellison. At the scene of the crash. Three times.”

There was a dead silence on the line.

Then Ellison said, “I’m sorry, Davis, I should have realized.”

It was a hard thing for a man like Ellison to say.

“That’s all right,” Davis assured him. “They missed.”

“Do you think — do you think whoever set the bomb shot at you?”

“Possibly. I’m not going to start worrying about it now.”

Ellison digested this and then said, “Where are you going now, Davis?”

“To visit your son-in-law, Nicholas Carruthers. I’ll call in again.”

“Fine, Davis.”

Davis hung up, jotting down the cost of the call, and then made reservations on the next plane to Burbank.

Nicholas Carruthers was chief pilot of Intercoastal Airways’s Burbank Division. The fatal flight had been made in two segments; the first from Burbank to San Francisco, and the second from Frisco to Seattle. The DC-4 was supposed to let down at Boeing, with Seattle-Tacoma designated as an alternate field. It was a simple ferry flight, and the plane was to pick up military personnel in Seattle, in accordance with the company’s contract with the Department of National Defense.

Quite curiously, Carruthers had been along on the Burbank-to-Frisco segment of the hop, as company observer. He’d disembarked at Frisco and his wife, Janet, had boarded the plane there as a nonrevenue passenger. She was bound for a cabin up in Washington, or so old man Ellison had told Davis. He’d also said that Janet had been looking forward to the trip for a long time.

When Davis found Captain Nicholas Carruthers in the airport restaurant, he was sitting with a blonde in a black cocktail dress, and he had his arm around her waist. They lifted their martini glasses and clinked them together, the girl laughing. Davis studied the pair from the doorway and reflected that the case was turning into something he knew a little more about.

He hesitated inside the doorway for just a moment and then walked directly to the bar, taking the stool on Carruthers’s left. He waited until Carruthers had drained his glass and then he said, “Captain Carruthers?”

Carruthers turned abruptly, a frown distorting his features. He was a man of thirty-eight or so, with prematurely graying temples and sharp gray eyes. He had thin lips and a thin straight nose that divided his face like an immaculate stone wall. He wore civilian clothing.

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“Milton Davis. Your father-in-law hired me to look into the DC-4 accident,” Davis said, and showed his identification. “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?”

Carruthers hesitated, and then glanced at the blonde, apparently realizing the situation was slightly compromising. The blonde leaned over, pressing her breasts against the bar top, looking past Carruthers to Davis.

“Take a walk, Beth,” Carruthers said.

The blonde drained her martini glass, pouted, lifted her purse from the bar, and slid off the stool. Davis watched the exaggerated swing of her hips across the room and then said, “I’m sorry if...”

“Ask your questions,” Carruthers said.

Davis studied him for a moment. “All right, Captain,” he said mildly. “I understand you were aboard the crashed DC-4 on the flight segment from Burbank to San Francisco. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Carruthers said. “I was aboard as observer.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary on the trip?”

“If you mean did I see anyone with a goddamn bomb, no.”

“I didn’t—”

“And if you’re referring to the false alarm, Mr. Whatever-the-Hell-Your-Name-Is, you can just start asking your questions straight. You know all about the false alarm.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it all over again,” Davis said.

“Sure,” Carruthers said testily. “Shortly after takeoff from Burbank, we observed a fire-warning signal in the cockpit. From the number-three engine.”

“I’m listening,” Davis said.

“As it turned out, it was a false warning. When we got to Frisco, the mechanics there checked and found no evidence of a fire having occurred. Mason told the mechanics—”

“Who’s Mason?”

“Pilot in command.” A little of Carruthers’s anger seemed to be wearing off. “He told the mechanics he was satisfied from the inspection that no danger of fire was present. He did not delay the flight.”

“Were you satisfied with the inspection?” Davis asked.

“It was Mason’s command.”

“Yes, but your wife boarded the plane in Frisco. Were you satisfied there was no danger of fire?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Did your wife seem worried about it?” Davis asked.

“I didn’t get a chance to talk to Janet in Frisco,” Carruthers said.

Davis was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “How come?”

“I had to take another pilot up almost the moment I arrived.”

“I don’t understand.”

“For a hood test. I had to check him out. I’m chief pilot, you know. That’s one of my jobs.”

“And there wasn’t even enough time to stop and say hello to your wife?”

“No. We were a little ahead of schedule. Janet wasn’t there when we landed.”

“I see.”

“I hung around while the mechanics checked the fire-warning system and Janet still hadn’t arrived. This other pilot was waiting to go up. I left.”

“Then you didn’t see your wife at all,” Davis said.

“Well, that’s not what I meant. I meant I didn’t speak to her. When we were taxiing for takeoff, I saw her come onto the field.”