Rat Race (14 page)

Several days, several flights later I telephoned the Board of Trade. Diffidently. Sneering at myself for trying to do their job for them, for thinking I might have thought of something they hadn’t worked out for themselves. But then, I’d been on the flight with the bomb, and they hadn’t. I’d seen things, heard things, felt things that they hadn’t.

Partly for my own sake, but mainly because of what Nancy had said about the bomb merchant still running around loose with his motives still rotting away inside him, I had finally found myself discarding the thought that it was none of my business, that someone else could sort it all out, and coming round to the view that if I could in fact come up with anything it might be a profitable idea.

To which end I wasted a lot of brain time chasing down labyrinths of speculation, and fetched up against a series of reasons why not.

There was Larry, for instance. Well, what about Larry? Larry had had every chance to put the bomb on board, right up to two hours before I set off to collect the passengers from White Waltham. But however strong a motive he had to kill Colin or ruin Derrydowns, and none had so far appeared bar a few trivial frauds, if it was true it was a radio and not a time bomb he couldn’t have set it off because when it exploded he was in Turkey. If it had been Larry, a time bomb would have been the only simple and practical way.

Then Susan… Ridiculous as I thought it, I went over again what the Board of Trade man had said: she was going out occasionally with a demolitions expert. Well, good luck to her. The sooner she got married again the better off I’d be. Only trouble was, the aversion therapy of that last destructive six months seemed to have been just as successful with her as it had been with me.

I couldn’t believe that any executive type in his right mind would bump off his occasional girl friend’s ex-husband for the sake of about six thousand pounds of insurance, especially as the longer I lived, the greater would be the sum she eventually collected. I had three years ago stopped paying any more premiums, but the value of the pay-off automatically went on increasing.

Apart from knowing her incapable of the cold-blooded murder of innocent people, I respected her mercenary instincts. The longer I lived the better off she would be on all counts. It was as simple as that.

Honey Harley… had said she would do ‘anything’ to keep Derrydowns in business, and the blowing up of the Cherokee had eased the financial situation. One couldn’t sell things which were being bought on the hire purchase, and if one couldn’t keep up the instalments the aircraft technically belonged to the H.P. company, who might sell it at a figure which did little more than cover themselves, leaving a molehill for Derrydowns to salvage. Insurance, on the other hand, had done them proud: paid off the H.P. and left them with capital in hand.

Yet killing Colin Ross would have ruined Derrydowns completely. Honey Harley would never have killed any of the customers, let alone Colin Ross. And the same applied to Harley himself, all along the line.

The Polyplane people, then? Always around, always belligerent, trying their damnedest to put Derrydowns out of business and win back Colin Ross. Well… the bomb would have achieved the first object but have put the absolute dampers
on the second. I couldn’t see even the craziest Polyplane pilot killing the golden goose.

Kenny Bayst… livid with Eric Goldenberg, Major Tyderman and Annie Villars. But as I’d said to Colin, where would he have got a bomb from in the time, and would he have killed Colin and me too? It didn’t seem possible, any of it. No to Kenny Bayst.

Who, then?

Who?

Since I couldn’t come up with anyone else, I went back over the possibilities all over again. Larry, Susan, the Harleys, Polyplanes, Kenny Bayst… Looked at them up, down, and sideways. Got nowhere. Made some coffee, went to bed, went to sleep.

Woke up at four in the morning with the moon shining on my face. And one fact hitting me with a bang. Up, down and sideways. Look at things laterally. Start from the bottom.

I started from the bottom. When I did that, the answer rose up and stared me in the face. I couldn’t believe it. It was too darned simple.

In the morning I made a lengthy telephone call to a long lost cousin, and two hours later got one back. And it was then, expecting a fiat rebuff, that I rang up the Board of Trade.

The tall polite man wasn’t in. He would, they said, call back later.

When he did, Harley was airborne with a pupil and Honey answered in the tower. She buzzed through to the crew room, where I was writing up records.

‘The Board of Trade want you. What have you been up to?’

‘It’s only that old bomb,’ I said soothingly.

‘Huh.’

When the tall man came on the line, she was still listening on the tower extension.

‘Honey,’ I said. ‘Quit.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Board of Trade.

Honey giggled, but she put her receiver down. I heard the click.

‘Captain Shore?’ the voice said reprovingly.

‘Er, yes.’

‘You wanted me?’

‘You said… if I thought of any angle on the bomb.’

‘Indeed yes.’ A shade of warmth.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ I said, ‘about the transmitter which was needed to set it off.’

‘Yes?’

‘How big would the bomb have been?’ I asked. ‘All that plastic explosive and gun powder and wires and solonoids?’

‘I should think quite small… you would probably pack a bomb like that into a flat tin about seven inches by four by two inches deep. Possibly even smaller. The tighter they are packed the more fiercely they explode.’

‘And how big would the transmitter have to be to send perhaps three different signals?’

‘Nowadays, not very big. If size were important… a pack of cards, perhaps. But in this case I would have thought… larger. The transmissions must have had to carry a fairly long way… and to double the range of a signal you have to quadruple the power of the transmitter, as no doubt you know.’

‘Yes… I apologise for going through all this the long way, but I wanted to be sure. Because although I don’t know
why
, I’ve a good idea of
when
and
who
.’

‘What did you say?’ His voice sounded strangled.

‘I said…’

‘Yes, yes,’ he interrupted. ‘I heard. When… when, then?’

‘It was put on board at White Waltham. Taken off again at Haydock. And put back on again at Haydock.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It came with one of the passengers.’

‘Which one?’

‘By the way,’ I said. ‘How much would such a bomb cost?’

‘Oh… about eighty pounds or so,’ he said impatiently.

‘Who…?’

‘And would it take a considerable expert to make one?’

‘Someone used to handling explosives and with a working knowledge of radio.’

‘I thought so.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘look, will you please stop playing cat and mouse. I dare say it amuses you to tease the Board of Trade… I don’t say I absolutely blame you, but will you please tell me which of the passengers had a bomb with him?’

‘Major Tyderman,’ I said.

‘Major…’ He took an audible breath. ‘Are you meaning to say now that it wasn’t the bomb rolling around on the elevator wires which caused the friction which persuaded you to land…? That Major Tyderman was carrying it around unknown to himself all the afternoon? Or what?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘And no.’

‘For God’s sake…’ He was exasperated. ‘I suppose you couldn’t simplify the whole thing by telling me exactly who planted the bomb on Major Tyderman? Who intended to blow him up?’

‘If you like.’

He took a shaking grip. I smiled at the crew room wall.

‘Well, who?’

‘Major Tyderman,’ I said. ‘Himself.’

Silence. Then a protest.

‘Do you mean suicide? It can’t have been. The bomb went off when the aeroplane was on the ground…’

‘Precisely,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘If a bomb goes off in an aeroplane, everyone automatically thinks it was intended to blow up in the air and kill all the people on board.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Suppose the real intended victim was the aeroplane itself, not the people?’

‘But why?’

‘I told you, I don’t know why.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. You are saying that Major Tyderman, intending to blow up the aeroplane for reasons unknown, took a bomb with him to the races.’

‘Yes.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘Looking back… He was rigidly tense all day, and he wouldn’t be parted from his binocular case, which was large enough to contain a bomb of the size you described.’

‘That’s absurdly circumstantial,’ he protested.

‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘Then it was the Major who borrowed the keys from me, to go over to the aircraft to fetch the
Sporting Life
which he had left there. He wouldn’t let me go, though I offered. He came back saying he had locked up again, and gave me back the keys. Of course he hadn’t locked up. He wanted to create a little confusion. While he was over there he unscrewed the back panel of the luggage bay and put the bomb behind it, against the fuselage. Limpet gadget, I expect, like I said before, which came unstuck on the bumpy flight.’

‘He couldn’t have foreseen you’d land at East Midlands…’

‘It didn’t matter where we landed. As soon as everyone was clear of the aircraft, he was ready to blow it up.’

‘That’s sheer guess work.’

‘He did it in front of my eyes, at East Midlands. I saw him look round, to check there was no one near it. Then he was fiddling with his binocular case… sending the signals. They could have been either very low or super-high frequencies. They didn’t have very far to go. But more important, the transmitter would have been very low powered… and very small.’

‘But… by all accounts… and yours too… he was severely shocked after the explosion.’

‘Shocked by the sight of the disintegration he had been sitting on all day. And acting a bit, too.’

He thought it over at length. Then he said, ‘Wouldn’t Someone have noticed that the Major wasn’t using binoculars although he was carrying the case?’

‘He could say he’d just dropped them and they were broken… and anyway, he carries a flask in that case normally as well as the race glasses… lots of people must have seen him taking a swig, as I have… they wouldn’t think it odd… they might think he’d brought the flask but forgotten the glasses.’

I could imagine him shaking his head. ‘It’s a fantastic theory altogether. And not a shred of evidence. Just a guess.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Shore, I’m certain you’ve done your best, but…’

I noticed he’d demoted me from Captain. I smiled thinly.

‘There’s one other tiny thing,’ I said gently.

‘Yes?’ He was slightly, very slightly apprehensive, as if expecting yet more fantasy.

‘I got in touch with a cousin in the army, and he looked up some old records for me. In World War II Major Tyderman was in the Royal Engineers, in charge of a unit which spent nearly all of its time in England.’

‘I don’t see…’

‘They were dealing,’ I said, ‘With unexploded bombs.’

It was the next day that Nancy flew Colin to Haydock. They went in the four seater 140 horse power small version Cherokee which she normally hired from her flying club for lessons and practice, and they set off from Cambridge shortly before I left there myself with a full load in the replacement Six. I had been through her flight plan with her and helped her all I could with the many technicalities and regulations she would meet in the complex Manchester control zone. The weather forecast was for clear skies until evening, there would be radar to help her if she got lost, and I would be listening to her nearly all the time on the radio as I followed her up.

Colin grinned at me. ‘Harley would be horrified at the care you’re taking to look after her. “Let them frighten themselves silly,” he’d say, “Then he’ll fly with us all the time, with none of this do-it-yourself nonsense”.’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘And Harley wants you safe, too, don’t forget.’

‘Did he tell you to help us?’

‘Not actually, no.’

‘Thought not.’

Harley had said crossly, ‘I don’t want them making a habit of it. Persuade Colin Ross she isn’t experienced enough.’

Colin didn’t need persuading: he knew. He also wanted to please Nancy. She set off with shining eyes, like a child being given a treat.

The Derrydowns Six had been hired by an un-clued-up trainer who had separately agreed to share the trip with both Annie Villars and Kenny Bayst. Even diluted by the hiring trainer, the large loud voiced owner of the horse he was running, and the jockey who was to ride it, the atmosphere at loading time was poisonous.

Jarvis Kitch, the hiring trainer, who could have helped, retreated into a huff.

‘How was I to know,’ he complained to me in aggrieved anger, ‘That they loathe each other’s guts?’

‘You couldn’t,’ I said soothingly.

‘They just rang up and asked if there was a spare seat. Annie yesterday, Bayst the day before. I said there was. How was I to know…?’

‘You couldn’t.’

The loud voiced owner, who was evidently footing the bill, asked testily what the hell it mattered, they would be contributing their share of the cost. He had a north country accent and a bullying manner, and he was the sort of man who considered that when he bought a man’s services he bought his soul. Kitch subsided hastily: the small attendant jockey remained cowed and silent throughout. The owner, whose name I later discovered from the racecard was Ambrose, then told me to get a move on as he hadn’t hired me to stand around all day on the ground at Cambridge.

Annie Villars suggested in embarrassment that the captain of an aircraft was like the captain of a ship.

‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘In a two bit little outfit like this he’s only a chauffeur. Taking me from place to place isn’t he? For hire?’ He nodded. ‘Chauffeur.’ His voice left no one in any doubt about his opinion on the proper place of chauffeurs.

I sighed, climbed aboard, strapped myself in. Easy to ignore him, as it was far from the first time in my life I’d met that attitude. All the same, hardly one of the jolliest of trips.