The Case of the Murdered Muckraker (19 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
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On top of one barn a wind stocking floated from a flagpole, and nearby stood several aeroplanes: three biplanes, a monoplane, and an unwieldy triplane.
“An aerodrome!” Alec cried. “Great Scott, don't tell me he's hoping to escape by air!”
In front of the farmhouse, a single-engined biplane was preparing for flight. The four-bladed wooden propeller turned idly, and a helmeted man in the cockpit was leaning out to call something to a couple of men on the ground.
Even before the first taxi had braked to a halt twenty yards from the aeroplane, Pitt jumped out. His suitcase in his left hand, he brandished a pistol in his right. Then he took careful aim, and a shot rang out.
The aviator ducked. The men on the ground threw themselves flat, while several others emerged from the house and hangars. Pitt ran towards the aeroplane.
“Holy cow!” breathed the second cab driver, swerving as he jammed on his brakes.
Lambert sprang out, automatic in hand.
“Don't shoot, you fool!” yelled Alec, diving after him as he squeezed the trigger.
The gun failed to fire. Alec hit Lambert behind the knees and he measured his length on the grass, losing both his weapon and his spectacles.
Daisy perched on the running board for a better view. She saw Pitt reach the aeroplane, drop his suitcase, and clamber into the open cabin in the rear of the fuselage. He leant forward to hold his revolver to the pilot's head. The pilot cried out to the ground crew. One of them chucked the suitcase up after Pitt.
The engine roared, the propeller speeded to a blur. The men on the ground crept to the wheels, pulled away the chocks, and scampered clear. The aeroplane started to move, then gathered speed across the tarmac.
After it lumbered the first taxi driver, bellowing, “Hey, what about my fare? What about my fare?”
H
is spectacles restored to him, Lambert was almost weeping with frustration. “Gee whiz, why did you stop me? I could have arrested him. That was U.S. Government property he was shooting at.”
“Government property?” Daisy queried, shading her eyes to gaze after the ascending biplane.
“You can't go shooting towards a plane!” Alec expostulated. “Hit the fuel tank or lines and the whole thing goes up in flames. Anyway, your pistol misfired.”
“I dropped it eighteen storeys,” Daisy reminded him. “Government property?”
“Didn't you see the Post Office insignia on the side?” Lambert shook his head angrily. “They shouldn't have given in to him so easily.”
“He had a gun,” said Alec, “one which didn't misfire. If he had started shooting again, your precious government property would more than likely have become an inferno, and the government employees incinerated with it.”
“Air piracy, by George!” said an exhilarated and very English voice behind them. “Bally bad show! I say, what
was all that about, if you don't mind my asking?”
They turned to see a tall, thin man in flier's leathers, a helmet dangling from his hand and a pipe from his mouth. He had a splendid handlebar moustache, a Roman nose, and very blue eyes, which widened as he saw Alec's face.
Alec's mouth dropped open. “Great Scott, it's Dipper!” he exclaimed, just as the other said, “By
George
, if it isn't the Arrow! What ho, old chap!” They wrung each other's hands and slapped each other on the back.
Lambert interrupted this touching reunion. “Say, Mr. Dipper, do you have an airplane? I guess you're not an American citizen, but the U.S. Government would sure make it worth your while to chase that air pirate.”
The blue eyes lit up. “By George, there's an idea. Not that I need the bally rhino, but what a lark! As it happens, I've got a four-seater just about ready to take off. Let's go!”
The next quarter of an hour was utter confusion. Alec made hasty introductions—Dipper turned out to be Sir Roland Amboyne, a friend from RFC days. But Alec considered the whole notion of chasing the fugitive through the skies crazy.
He was overborne by Sir Roland's enthusiasm, aided by Lambert's insistence that the kidnapper of a federal employee must not be allowed to disappear into the blue vastness.
“While you follow him, I'll alert the federal authorities,” he said importantly.
“Oh no,” said Alec, “you're coming along. You're the only one of us with the official standing to arrest the miscreant, if by some miracle we catch him. Daisy's perfectly capable of notifying whoever needs to be notified.”
“Me!” Indignation overruled both grammar and pleasure
at this unwonted compliment. “I'm going with you. Darling, you said you'd take me up in an aeroplane one day.”
Alec's dark eyebrows lowered forbiddingly. “Not on a crazy wild-goose chase with gunfire possible.”
Daisy didn't bother to argue. She was not going to be left behind. She hurried after Sir Roland, who, as soon as Alec agreed to pursue Pitt, had loped towards the group by the farmhouse, calling out instructions and requests.
As she followed him into the building—it had a sign over the door saying HAZELHURST FIELD—someone thrust a leather flying suit into her arms and pointed her towards a door at the rear of the big front room. Finding herself in a sort of scullery turned into an office, she scrutinized the outfit. Though it was several sizes too large for her, she decided reluctantly that she couldn't stuff her skirt inside. Her petticoat would fit, and might help to keep her warm even if it made her bulge around the bottom, and her jacket and blouse could stay on under the top. She started to undo buttons, fingers fumbling in her haste. She was
not
going to be left behind.
A plump girl bounced in, carrying a pair of trousers and a pair of smart leather boots. “Hi, I'm Leora. I do the record keeping around here. Jake—he's one of the mechanics and on the small side for a guy—he says you can borrow his pants and he'll go home in his overalls. You'll need something under that suit. And I brought you my boots.”
“Gosh, thanks, Miss … Leora.”
“I guess they'll about fit you. Your feet'll freeze if you go up in those shoes, but I'd kinda like them back sometime if you can. Here, lemme give you a hand. You don't hafta wear that helmet in the cabin, but you may want it when
it gets cold. And take your coat to tuck around your knees. It won't go on over these.”
As Leora efficiently inserted her into the flying suit, Daisy heard Alec in the next room dictating telegrams. Still speaking as he tied his bootlaces after changing, he didn't see her when she and Leora entered. She was careful to keep out of his sight.
Lambert, shaking too much to dress himself, was being stuffed into his borrowed kit. He ventured a last feeble protest: “But Rosenblatt said not to leave New York!” No one took any notice.
One of Sir Roland's flying colleagues came in through another door, his arms full of paper bags, boxes, and other small containers. “Anyone else have a lunch pail or Thermos flask to donate to the cause? O.K., I'll take these out to the plane.”
Daisy sneaked out with him. She helped him store the supplies in the cockpit and minuscule cabin of the biplane, and he helped her squeeze into one of the seats and fasten the safety belt. A short man in greasy dungarees gave her a grin and a thumbs-up. Lambert was marched out by two more men and inserted beside her, moaning quietly. One of them handed Daisy a couple of folded paper bags.
“In case of airsickness,” he said.
“I don't get seasick,” Daisy said hopefully.
Hooking a wordless thumb at Lambert, he lowered the wood-framed canvas roof over the passenger compartment.
Sir Roland was already in the open cockpit, going over a checklist with a second mechanic. Alec came out of the house and strode across the tarmac, looking frightfully romantic in the flying suit, a green silk scarf around his neck and goggles perched on top of his helmet. Glancing
around, he saw Daisy's face as she peered at him through the celluloid side panel of the cabin.
He scowled, eyebrows meeting, then raised brows and eyes to heaven, shrugged, and scrambled up into the cockpit with Sir Roland.
He strapped his safety belt and helmet, lowered his goggles over his eyes, and pulled on his gauntlets. “Right-oh, Dipper, take her up.”
“Good-bye!”
“Good luck!”
“Go get 'em!”
Through streaky glass, Daisy saw one propeller begin to turn, and then another. The muted hum of the engines rose to a rumble, and the aeroplane began to taxi.
She was actually going up in an aeroplane!
Beside her, Lambert huddled with his eyes shut and his hands over his ears. For a moment, Daisy was tempted to follow his craven example. Curiosity saved her from the ignominy. What a subject for an article!
They bumped across the grass and turned into the wind. The rumble became a deafening roar as they picked up speed. Daisy saw Dipper press the stick forward, and the tail rose so that she was sitting upright instead of leaning back. With the skid off the ground, the joggling lessened. Faster and faster they raced across the airfield.
Then Dipper eased the stick back. Daisy's stomach lurched as the hard vibration of wheels on earth suddenly ended. They were airborne.
Lambert clutched his mouth and middle and began to sweat.
Handing him a paper bag, Daisy turned away, giving all her attention to the blurred view beyond the celluloid. Engine
bellowing with effort, the biplane swung upward in a wide spiral. The ground tilted below.
Proud of her
sang froid
, Daisy gazed down. The white farmhouse, the group of people still standing on the tarmac watching, the motionless planes, the hangars, the field, trees and bushes, all grew smaller beneath her. Long Island spread out, its greenness seamed with roads and streams, patched with leafless woodland and villages.
The aeroplane levelled off. Relaxing, Daisy discovered how tense she had been.
She couldn't see much out of the window now. The engine noise had lessened slightly with the end of the climb, though it was still a terrific din. Now she could distinguish the sounds of the wind as it whistled through the forest of struts stiffening the wings and twanged the wires. It played the taut canvas of the wings like tympani, half a dozen different booming notes at once. The fabric sides of the cabin flapped in and out, slap, slap, slap, like a housemaid beating a carpet.
Daisy realized, too, that the apparent smoothness of flight was merely in contrast to the jolting acceleration across the grass. A constant vibration set every loose oddment to rattling. She only hoped no vital gadget was going to fall off.
She and Lambert would have to shout if they wanted to converse. Fortunately, she had no great desire to communicate with him, even if he were in a condition to speak. She cast a quick sidelong glance his way. At least he didn't appear to have actually been sick, but the way he was curled around his inner workings reminded her of Alec on the Atlantic crossing.
Looking forward through the glass pane separating the cabin from the cockpit, she saw Alec leaning sideways to peer around the edge of the windscreen, binoculars in hand. As she watched, he straightened, pushed up his goggles, undid his safety belt, and to her utter horror stood up.
If her determined pursuit of Wilbur Pitt led to her husband performing such risky stunts, Daisy wanted nothing more to do with it. She banged on the glass.
“Alec! Sit down!”
He and Dipper either didn't hear or ignored her. Alec scanned the skies, shading his eyes with his hand, while the aeroplane droned steadily onward. Suddenly he stopped, stiff as a pointer scenting prey. He raised the glasses. For a long moment he stared, then sat down with a sharp nod. Pointing, he said—or rather, shouted—something to Dipper, which Daisy couldn't hear but assumed to be on the lines of “That's him!”
Dipper altered course slightly. The chase was on.
Now Daisy had the leisure to contemplate what she had wrought. Her recognition of Pitt as the man on the stairs in the Flatiron Building had brought them to this fragile craft sailing through emptiness, high above Mother Earth. How certain was she of her identification? What if she was wrong?
She tried to picture the pale, frightened face of the man who had run from the scene of Carmody's death. It was vague in her memory, eclipsed by Pitt's face as she had last seen it at the Brooklyn station yard. Had she imagined the likeness? The face beneath the bowler hat had been nondescript, as she told Gilligan and Rosenblatt. So was Pitt's,
but for his distant resemblance to his cousin.
Daisy acknowledged reluctantly that she just might be mistaken.
What was worse, even if she was right, she had no proof that Pitt had shot his cousin. Of course he
had
behaved suspiciously, galloping off down those stairs, playing least in sight, then doing his utmost to evade her and Alec and Lambert. But suppose he had fled in fear of his life, perhaps because of a family feud as posited by Mr. Thorwald?
Still, though maybe he had not shot Carmody, he had most certainly pirated the air mail aeroplane. A dozen or more witnesses could swear to that. He was a criminal.
A horrid thought struck Daisy: what if her relentless pursuit had driven a previously innocent Pitt to the desperate step of kidnapping a federal employee? If he had recognized her and Lambert from the Flatiron Building, he could reasonably believe that they had killed his cousin and were now after his blood.
At that moment, had she been able to communicate with Alec, she would have called off the chase and let the poor man try to escape the forces of the law without her interference.
The force of the American law she had brought with her, in the shape of Lambert, cowered at her side, in no state to arrest anyone. His eyes were still determinedly shut and his hands once again covered his ears, the threat of sickness apparently past. The thrill of flight was not for him.
In fact, the thrill of flight was definitely wearing off for Daisy. The take-off had been exciting, but for what seemed like hours she had been stuck in this cramped, vibrating, fearfully noisy box. She couldn't even see much because the
celluloid blurred the distant view. In spite of numerous draughts (less than a handsbreadth is a draught, more than a handsbreath is fresh air, her nanny had always said when flinging up the sash in midwinter), the air was growing stuffy.
The man who had helped her into the cabin had shown her how to open the side window. Daisy followed his instructions.
The air blasting in was more gale than draught, cold but exhilarating. It roused Lambert from his unhappy apathy, but after one glance at the open window he shuddered and returned to contemplation of his misery. It made Daisy's eyes water. She pulled on and buckled the helmet she'd been lent, and fastened the goggles over her eyes. Now she could see out.

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