‘But everything was normal and routine before the explosion, is that right?’
Porchek nodded his head emphatically. ‘Yes, sir. A routine letdown.’
‘Almost,’ Davis said. He thanked Porchek for his time, and then left.
He called George Ellison from a pay phone. When the old man came on the line, Davis said, ‘This is Milt Davis, Mr. Ellison.’
Ellison’s voice sounded gruff and heavy, even over the phone. ‘Hello, Davis,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Ellison. I’d like out.’
‘Why?’ He could feel the old man’s hackles rising.
‘Because the FBI and the MP’s are already onto this one. They’ll crack it for you, and it’ll probably turn out to be some nut with a grudge against the government. Either that, or a plain case of sabotage. This really doesn’t call for a private investigation.’
‘Look, Davis,’ Ellison said. ‘I’ll decide whether this calls for...’
‘All right, you’ll decide. I’m just trying to be frank with you. This kind of stuff is way out of my line. I’m used to trailing wayward husbands, or skip tracing, or an occasional bodyguard stint. When you drag in bombed planes. ‘I’m in over my head.’
‘I heard you were a good man,’ Ellison said. ‘You stick with it. I’m satisfied you’ll do a good job.’
Davis sighed. ‘Whatever you say,’ he said. ‘Incidentally, did you tell anyone you’d hired me?’
‘Yes, I did. As a matter of fact...’
“Who’d you tell?’
‘Several of my employees. The word got to a local reporter somehow, though, and he came to my home yesterday. I gave him the story. I didn’t think it would do any harm.’
‘Has it reached print yet?’
‘Yes,’ Ellison said. ‘It was in this morning’s paper. A small item. Why?’
‘I was shot at today, Mr. Ellison. At the scene of the crash. Three times.’
There was a dead silence on the line. Then Ellison said, ‘I’m sorry, Davis, I should have realized.’ It was a hard thing for a man like Ellison to say.
‘That’s all right,’ Davis assured him. ‘They missed.’
‘Do you think — do you think whoever set the bomb shot at you?’
‘Possibly. I’m not going to start worrying about it now.’
Ellison digested this and then said, ‘Where are you going now, Davis?’
‘To visit your son-in-law, Nicholas Carruthers. I’ll call in again.’
‘Fine, Davis.’
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’ 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 to let down at Boeing, with Seattle-Tacoma designated as an alternative 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 non-revenue 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’ 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 grey 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 has hired me to look into the DC-4 accident.’ Davis 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, Mister What-ever-the-Hell-Your-Name-Is, you can just start asking your questions straight. You know all about the false alarm.’
Davis felt his fists tighten on the bar top. ‘You tell me about it again.’
‘Sure,’ Carruthers said testily. ‘Shortly after take-off from Burbank, we observed a fire-warning signal in the cockpit. From 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—’
‘Was Mason pilot in command?’
‘Yes.’ A little of Carruthers’ anger seemed to be wearing off. ‘Mason 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, so I left.’
‘Then you didn’t see your wife at all,’ Davis said.
‘Well, that’s not what I meant. I meant I hadn’t spoken to her. As we were taxiing for take-off, I saw her come onto the field.’
‘Alone?’
‘No,’ Carruthers said. ‘She was with a man.’ The announcement did not seem to disturb him.
‘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, bit I guess she didn’t see me.’