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.”
“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.”