Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“Alone?”

“No,” Carruthers said. “She was with a man.”

“Do you know who he was?”

“No. They were rather far from me, and I was in a moving ship. I recognized Janet’s red hair immediately, of course, but I couldn’t make out the man with her. I waved, but I guess she didn’t see me.”

“She didn’t wave back?”

“No. She went directly to the DC-4. The man helped her aboard, and then the plane was behind us and I couldn’t see any more.”

“What do you mean, helped her aboard?”

“Took her elbow, you know. Helped her up the ladder.”

“I see. Was she carrying luggage?”,

“A suitcase, yes. She was bound for our cabin, you know.”

“Yes,” Davis said. “I understand she was on a company pass. What does that mean exactly, Captain?”

“We ride for a buck and a half,” Carruthers said. “Normally, any pilot applies to his chief pilot for written permission for his wife to ride and then presents the permission at the ticket window. He then pays one-fifty for the ticket. Since I’m chief pilot, I simply got the ticket for Janet when she told me she was going up to the cabin.”

“Did you know all the pilots on the ship?”

“I knew one of them. Mason. The other two were new on the route. That’s why I was along as observer.”

“Did you know Mason socially?”

“No. Just business.”

“And the stewardess?”

“Yes, I knew her. Business, of course.”

“Of course,” Davis said, remembering the blonde in the cocktail dress. He stood up and moved his jacket cuff off his wristwatch. “Well, I’ve got to catch a plane, Captain. Thanks for your help.”

“Not at all,” Carruthers said. “When you report in to Dad, give him my regards, won’t you?”

“I’ll do that,” Davis said.

He bought $25,000 worth of insurance for fifty cents from one of the machines in the waiting room, and then boarded his return plane at about five minutes before takeoff. He browsed through the magazine he’d picked up at the newsstand, and when the fat fellow plopped down into the seat beside him, he just glanced up and then turned back to his magazine again. The plane left the ground and began climbing, and Davis looked back through the window and saw the field drop away below him.

“First time flying?” the fellow asked.

Davis looked up from the magazine into a pair of smiling green eyes. The eyes were embedded deep in soft, ruddy flesh. The man owned a nose like the handle of a machete, and a mouth with thick, blubbery lips. He wore an orange sports shirt against which the color of his complexion seemed even more fiery.

“No,” Davis said. “I’ve been off the ground before.”

“Always gives me a thrill,” the man said. “No matter how many times I do it.” He chuckled and added, “An airplane ride is just like a woman. Lots of ups and downs, and not always too smooth — but guaranteed to keep a man up in the air.”

Davis smiled politely, and the fat man chuckled a bit more and then thrust a beefy hand at him. “MacGregor,” he said. “Charlie or Chuck or just plain Mac, if you like.”

Davis took his hand and said, “Milt Davis.”

“Glad to know you, Milt,” MacGregor said. “You down here on business?”

“Yes,” he said briefly.

“Me, too,” MacGregor said. “Business mostly.” He grinned slyly. “Course, what the wife don’t know won’t hurt her, eh?”

“I’m not married,” Davis told him.

“A wonderful institution,” MacGregor said. He laughed aloud, and then added, “But who likes being in an institution?”

Davis hoped he hadn’t winced. He wondered if he was to be treated to MacGregor’s full repertoire of worn-out gags before the trip was over. To discourage any further attempts at misdirected wit, he turned back to the magazine as politely as he could, smiling once to let MacGregor know he wasn’t being purposely rude.

“Go right ahead,” MacGregor said genially. “Don’t mind me.”

That was easy, Davis thought. If it lasts.

He was surprised that it did last. MacGregor stretched out on the seat beside him, closing his eyes. He did not speak again until the plane was ten minutes out of San Francisco.

“Let’s walk to the john, eh, Milt?” he said.

Davis lifted his head and smiled. “Thanks, but—”

“This is a .38 here under my overcoat, Milt,” MacGregor said softly.

For a second, Davis thought it was another of the fat man’s tired jokes. He turned to look at MacGregor’s lap. The overcoat was folded over his chunky left arm, and Davis could barely see the blunt muzzle of a pistol poking from beneath the folds.

He lifted his eyebrows a little. “What are you going to do after you shoot me, MacGregor?” he asked. “Vanish into thin air?”

MacGregor smiled. “Now who mentioned anything about shooting, Milt? Eh? Let’s go back, shall we, boy?”

Davis rose and moved past MacGregor into the aisle. MacGregor stood up behind him, the coat over his arm, the gun completely hidden now. Together, they began walking toward the rear of the plane, past the food buffet on their right, and past the twin facing seats behind the buffet. An emergency window was set in the cabin wall there, and Davis sighed in relief when he saw that the seats were occupied.

When they reached the men’s room, MacGregor flipped open the door and nudged Davis inside. Then he crowded in behind him, putting his wide back to the door. He reached up with one heavy fist, rammed Davis against the sink, and then ran his free hand over Davis’s body.

“Well,” he said pleasantly. “No gun.”

“My name is Davis, not Spade,” Davis told him.

MacGregor lifted the .38, pointing it at Davis’s throat. “All right, Miltie, now give a listen,” he said. “I want you to forget all about that crashed DC-4. I want you to forget there are even such things as airplanes, Miltie. Now, I know you’re a smart boy, and so I’m not even going to mark you up, Miltie. I could mark you up nice with the sight and butt of this thing.” He gestured with the .38 in his hand. “I’m not going to do that. Not now. I’m just telling you, nice like, to lay off. Just lay off and go back to skip-tracing, Miltie boy, or you’re going to get hurt. Next time, I’m not going to be so considerate.”

“Look...” Davis started.

“So let’s not have a next time, Miltie. Let’s call it off now. You give your client a ring and tell him you’re dropping it, Miltie boy. Have you got that?”

Davis didn’t answer.

“Fine,” MacGregor said. He reached up suddenly with his left hand, almost as if he were reaching up for a light cord. At the same time he grasped Davis’s shoulder with his right hand and spun him around, bringing the hand with the gun down in a fast motion, flipping it butt end up.

The walnut stock caught Davis at the base of his skull. He stumbled forward, his hands grasping the sink in front of him. He felt the second blow at the back of his head, and then his hands dropped from the sink, and the aluminum deck of the plane came up to meet him suddenly, all too fast.

Someone said, “He’s coming around now,” and he idly thought, Coming around where?

“How do you feel, Mr. Davis?” a second voice asked.

He looked up at the ring of faces. He did not recognize any of them. “Where am I?” he asked.

“San Francisco,” the second voice said. The voice belonged to a tall man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and friendly blue eyes. MacGregor had owned friendly green eyes, Davis remembered.

“We found you in the men’s room after all the passengers had disembarked,” the voice went on. “You’ve had a nasty fall, Mr. Davis. Nothing serious, however. I’ve dressed the cut, and I’m sure there’ll be no complication.”