Hyperbole, to be sure, but despite his best efforts to appear nonchalant, he’d nearly bitten through the unlit cheroot between his teeth, and the fingers of his right hand were gripping the steel door frame of the Ford Model 48 sedan so tightly that visible dents had appeared.
That wasn’t to say that Nora was a bad driver. Indeed, the simple fact that she had somehow avoided colliding with any other vehicles during their egress from the city was a testament to her skill behind the wheel. Even Hurricane would have grudgingly admitted that Nora was in fact an excellent driver. She just also happened to be a very aggressive one, as well.
Once away from the confines of the city, Hurricane began to relax a little. Out on the open highway, without traffic to weave in and out of, there seemed to be less chance for some catastrophic accident… in the straight stretches, at least.
“So,” he ventured, when he was finally able to release his death grip on the door frame. “This is Lightning Bug’s car? I must say, I expected something flashier.”
“‘Lightning Bug?’” Nora glanced over at him and burst into laughter. “Don’t knock it. It’s got a V-8.”
“Which you seem to be enjoying very much.”
“Rodney doesn’t drive, so even though the car is technically his, I kind of feel like it’s mine, too.”
“You’re a regular ‘girl Friday,’ I reckon.”
She flashed a coy smile. “You might say that.”
“Are you an’ he…?” Hurricane raised an eyebrow, meaningfully.
“Oh, goodness no. Our relationship is strictly professional. I know him too well to… let’s just say I’m immune to his charms.”
“Charms?” It was Hurricane’s turn to chuckle. “That’s one word for it. He certainly makes quite a first impression.”
Nora’s smile slipped into something more like resignation. “That he does.”
Hurricane studied her, trying to decipher the riddle that seemed to be lurking just under the surface. “Still,” he ventured after a thoughtful pause. “He’s not a half-bad writer.”
She glanced sidelong at him, the smile returning. “You’ve read them? Rodney’s stories, I mean.”
“I have. I’m something of a connoisseur of purple prose.” He managed a grin and waggled his cheroot. “It’s one of my many vices.”
“And does Mr. Dalton share your opinion? He didn’t exactly seem enthusiastic about meeting us.”
Her expression had unexpectedly become serious, and Hurricane sensed that, for reasons beyond his grasp, Dodge’s opinion of Lightning Rod’s literary abilities was very important to Nora Holloway. He waved the cigar dismissively. “His feathers were a mite ruffled by the news. I’m sure it’s just a touch of professional jealousy.”
She turned her attention back to the task at hand, and not a moment too soon, as a hairpin turn loomed ahead. She might have tapped the brake pedal a little; Hurricane couldn’t say with certainty. “Do you think they’re all right?”
Hurricane grimaced — whether because of the gravity of the question, or as a reaction to the G-forces that pressed him up against the sedan’s door, even he couldn’t say for sure.
The question had been occupying his thoughts, but strangely, they had not spoken of it as they made their way from the Empire State Building to the Clarion Building where Lafayette’s car was parked. After a brief stop at Nora’s apartment, where she quickly changed clothes and wiped away some of the dust from the explosions, they had gotten on the road, and while they had talked a little about what they hoped to accomplish by tracking down Walter Barron, at no time had the discussion turned to the matter of whether Newcombe and Lafayette were safe.
He plugged the cheroot between his teeth once more. “Well, Miss Nora, here’s how I see it. I don’t know what Dodge’s new best friend has been telling him, but she and hers were the ones that started tossing sticks of dynamite around. Them fellows in the gyros, why, all they did was pluck Newton and Lightning Bug from the middle of a dangerous situation. So, if Barron — and that’s assuming he’s behind all this — wanted to hurt our friends, it seems like there were better ways to go about it.”
“But he — they — did take Rod and Dr. Newcombe. Against their will, or so it seems.”
He reached out and gave her arm an avuncular pat. “There’s more going on here than meets the eye, that’s for sure. But we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
The airfield at Lakehurst Naval Air Station near Manchester Township, New Jersey had become permanently fixed in the public consciousness following the disastrous events of May 6, 1937. On that fateful day, the LZ-129 Hindenburg, an eight-hundred-foot long hydrogen-filled zeppelin, had burst into flames as it was landing. Thirty-five of the ninety-seven passengers and crew were killed in the fire, along with one ground crewman. The destruction of the airship took less than a minute, but it was a minute immortalized by Herbert Morrison’s live eye-witness radio broadcast, and particularly by his agonized declaration: “Oh, the humanity!”
Dusk was settling as Nora and Hurley pulled up to the main gate at the Air Station. A guard directed them to the Royal Industries hangar, and a few minutes later, they arrived in front of the structure that looked like a Quonset hut for a fairy-tale giant. The massive sliding doors at the end of the hangar were closed tight, but light issued from the windows of a smaller adjoining building.
Despite his aches, Hurley extricated himself from the Ford and hastened around to the other side of the car where, ever the gentleman, he opened Nora’s door. “All right, Miss Nora, we don’t really know what’s going to happen when we start asking questions. You’re here against my better judgment, but for the time being, you’re going to need to trust me. Let me do the talking, and be ready to duck or run if I give the word.”
A retort seemed to be forming on the brunette’s shapely lips, but then she appeared to think better of it, and simply nodded.
Hurricane led the way to the door into the small building, and opened it to reveal a lone security guard, sitting in a tilted-back chair, reading a newspaper. He looked up as they entered, his expression showing nothing more than mild curiosity. “We’re closed for the day,” he said. “Everyone’s gone.”
“Well that’s okay,” Hurricane said, his voice a friendly growl. “I reckon you can probably tell us what we need to know.”
A flicker of irritation crossed the guard’s face. “And what’s that?”
“We’ve heard tell that Royal Industries owns a pair of autogyros. We’d like to see ‘em, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Hurley smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. He flexed his hands and curled them into fists, but before he could begin to project menace, he felt Nora’s hand on his forearm. “Hurricane, let me handle this.”
“What?” The guard’s chair hit the floor. “Hurricane? Are you Hurricane Hurley?”
The big man was momentarily dumbfounded, but Nora chirped: “He sure is!”
The guard was on his feet in an instant, his hand extended. “Gosh, this is just the best thing ever. I’m a huge fan of you and Captain Falcon. I read it to my kids every Sunday over dinner. I’ve got to get your autograph… I mean, if it’s all right with you.”
Still speechless, Hurricane shook the proffered hand, after which the guard began rooting through a stack of newspapers.
“See?” Nora whispered. “My way works even better.”
“Your way?” Hurley affected mock disdain. “I’m the famous one.”
“Here,” the guard announced, holding up a Sunday edition of the Clarion. He flipped through it until he found the page with an installment of The Adventures of Captain Falcon, and then thrust the tabloid, along with a fountain pen, into Hurricane’s hands. The big man scribbled his signature under the headline and handed it back.