The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 60

"He's only here for the weekend, Bonnie. Don't get your hopes too high."

"He talks about settling down, maybe here in Northmont. He says he may have had enough of flying."

I wondered how many girls in how many towns had heard that same line over a weekend. But I said simply, "I hope it works out for you, Bonnie."

Zealand and Winslow returned, and I heard the school owner mutter, "I didn't know what I was getting into when I booked your crew." Winslow didn't reply but flashed his familiar smile when he saw Bonnie.

"Will you be going up again?" she asked him.

He nodded, glancing at the sky. Mavis was hanging from the plane by one arm as the crowd screamed its delight and apprehension. "She'll be finis.h.i.+ng soon. Come on, I'll show you the inside of the Trimotor." The invitation seemed to include me so I tagged along with Bonnie.

It was a big plane by any standards I knew then. The body was covered with corrugated metal and the high wings supported two of the three engines, the third being at the front of the plane. Inside were two rows of wicker-backed chairs separated by an aisle. I sat down in one of the chairs. It felt about like a lawn chair. "Not too comfortable," I commented to Winslow.

"The wicker saves weight, but the airlines are deciding the same thing. Comfort is important. We were able to get this plane fairly cheap because they're phasing it out in favor of a new Douglas aircraft. These things are noisy, and if you fly too high they're cold."

"When will the new planes be flying?"

"Not for a few years, unfortunately, but when they are they'll probably put Ford out of the flying business completely. Ford owns the Detroit airport, you know, but Henry Ford won't allow it to be open on Sundays." He patted the side of the metal craft affectionately. "Still, this is what we've got today and it gets you where you're going most of the time. Would you like to go up for a spin?"

I wanted to, very much, but I felt guilty going without April. "I should take my nurse along," I explained. "We'll go later."

"How about you two?" he asked Bonnie and Zealand.

"Sure," Art Zealand answered. "Let's go up. I want to see what the customers get for their $5."

I left the plane as Winslow went up a few steps into the c.o.c.kpit and closed the door behind him. He called out the window to a ground crewman to move the blocks from under the wheels and then started all three engines. I watched him slide the window closed and taxi out to the gra.s.sy runway. Then he gunned the motors and the plane shot ahead, lifting its wheels from the ground with ease.

I glanced up and saw the Jennie still circling the crowd. Mavis had lifted herself onto the wing again, and was climbing back into the front c.o.c.kpit. The second Jennie was still on the ground and I wondered what had become of the other team member, Tommy Verdun.

I strolled back to where April still stood with Sheriff Lens and Vera. "Were you on that plane?" April asked. "I thought I saw you."

"I just took a look. Winslow is taking Art Zealand up, and Bonnie Pratt from the Bee. When he lands they'll start taking paying pa.s.sengers."

"I'd like to go up," April said.

"I figured you would."

The spectators were pointing toward the sky again and I saw that the Jennie piloted by Max Renker had moved into position quite close to the larger Ford Trimotor. They were flying almost wingtip to wingtip, and Mavis waved to the crowd as she started walking out on the Jennie's upper wing again.

"What in h.e.l.l is that gal goin' to do next?" Sheriff Lens wondered.

"I think she'll try to walk over to the other plane's wing," I said, remembering what Winslow had told us of their stunts.

And that she did, stepping over as easily as she might cross the street. The crowd cheered as the planes flew overhead, so low I could see Bonnie's face at one of the Trimotor's windows, straining for a view of the wing above her head. "The pa.s.sengers are missing the performance," Vera remarked.

Then Mavis hurried back, hopping onto the wing of the Jennie, and the two aircraft drifted slowly apart. I watched her climb into the open c.o.c.kpit of the Jennie as it circled one more time and came in for a landing at the far end of the field. The Trimotor landed right behind it, taxiing to a stop near us.

We waited for the door of the pa.s.senger compartment to open, but nothing happened. I couldn't see Winslow through the c.o.c.kpit windows, although there was movement inside the pa.s.senger compartment. Finally, after another few moments, the pa.s.senger door was shoved open and Bonnie's head appeared. "Dr Sam!" she shouted.

I trotted across the trampled-down gra.s.s of the field, already sonsing that something was wrong. "What is it, Bonnie?"

"Ross is still in the c.o.c.kpit with the door locked. We've been calling him and he doesn't answer. I think something's wrong!"

I climbed through the door and hurried up the aisle between the wicker seats. Art Zealand was pounding on the c.o.c.kpit door, shouting, "Winslow! What's wrong? Open up!"

"Should we put a ladder up to the c.o.c.kpit window?" Bonnie asked.

I tried the door myself. "If it's something like a heart attack every second counts. This feels like a flimsy lock." I glanced at Zealand for permission. "Should I force it?"

"Go ahead."

I hit the c.o.c.kpit door with my shoulder and the door started to give. Once more and it sprang open.

Ross Winslow was visible at once, toppled from the pilot's seat onto the unused copilot's seat next to it. I saw the blood and heard Bonnie's high-pitched voice from the aisle. "What? What is it?"

I took a deep breath and told Zealand, "Get her out of here, off the plane. Right now." Then I stepped forward and bent over the pilot's seat examining the body. There was no doubt that he was dead.

"What is it, Doctor?"

I turned as Mavis Wing stepped into the c.o.c.kpit, still wearing her stunt clothes. "Ross Winslow is dead," I said.

"What?"

"He's been stabbed to death. Go get Sheriff Lens for me, will you? He's a stocky man over at the edge of the crowd."

Sheriff Lens merely shook his head and stared at me. "What you're sayin' is downright impossible, Doc. Winslow was stabbed to death while he was alone inside this locked c.o.c.kpit and you're trying to tell me it wasn't suicide?"

"It wasn't suicide," I repeated. "Look at where the knife went in between the ribs on his left side, toward the back. No suicide would stab himself there. It's an almost impossible angle, certainly an unnecessary angle. Besides, when would he have done it? He landed the plane, remember, and taxied up to the crowd. Are we to believe he suddenly decided to kill himself then, by stabbing himself in the back at a nearly impossible angle?"

The sheriff stroked his chin, thinking about it. "Well, that leaves only one other explanation. Zealand and Bonnie Pratt got him to open the door and they killed him together."

"Zealand and Bonnie barely know each other. Why would they conspire to kill Winslow? Besides, you're forgetting the cabin door was locked from Winslow's side. I had to break it in with my shoulder."

"Yeah," he answered glumly.

"We'd better talk to them," I decided. "Whatever happened in that c.o.c.kpit, they must have heard something."

They were both waiting in the hangar. I spoke with Bonnie while Sheriff Lens questioned Zealand separately. "I didn't hear a thing from the c.o.c.kpit," she a.s.sured me. "You can barely hear yourself think in that plane, Sam! It's the noisiest contraption imaginable! Art Zealand told me that on commercial runs they give the pa.s.sengers cotton to plug their ears."

"The landing seemed smooth from where we stood."

"It was smooth. There was nothing at all unusual until the plane came to a stop and Ross just didn't come out the door." Her composure cracked on the last word and she started to sob.

"Bonnie," I said softly, "I have to ask you this. How serious was it between you and Winslow? You only met him yesterday."

She turned her tear-streaked face to me. "I'd never known anyone like him, Sam. I never believed in love at first sight, but I guess that's what happened to me."

"Did it happen to him too?"

"He said it did. We we spent the night together."

"I see."

"He told me he wanted to settle down in a town like this, give up barnstorming and raise a family."

"Maybe he told that to lots of girls, Bonnie."

"I don't think so, Sam. I believed him." She wiped her eyes.

"But if you came out here this morning to watch the circus and then discovered he'd lied to you, it might have made you want to kill him."

"Do you think that?"

"I don't know what to think, Bonnie."

She collected herself and dried her eyes. "Well, suspect or not, I still work for a newspaper. I guess I'd better go write this up for Monday's edition."

I left her in the hangar and went in search of the sheriff. When I found him he told me Zealand's story agreed with Bonnie's. The noise of the plane had kept them from hearing anything unusual from the c.o.c.kpit. "What now?" Sheriff Lens asked, gazing uncomfortably at the cl.u.s.ter of townspeople still waiting at the edge of the field. They'd been told there was an accident and the show had been cancelled, but most of them refused to budge even after the ambulance from Pilgrim Memorial Hospital came and removed the body.

I thought the best thing I could do then was stop Mavis Wing before she took off with her two companions. I told Sheriff Lens what I had in mind and he trailed along. Mavis and the others were in Zealand's office, staying clear of the crowd. I took her aside and asked, "What was your relations.h.i.+p with Ross Winslow?"

She stared hard at me. "I don't know that I need to answer that. You're not the police, are you?"

"No, but I am," Sheriff Lens told her. "Answer the question."

"Maybe I should clarify it," I continued. "Winslow spent the night with a local girl. Might that have made you jealous enough to kill him?"

"Certainly not. And you're forgetting I was up in the sky at the time."

"On the wing of his plane," I reminded her. "He could have slid open the c.o.c.kpit window to call to you and been killed by a knife you threw, then managed to slide the window closed before he died." I saw the sheriff make a face as I spoke. Even he could see the impossibility of that theory.

"You can't see into the c.o.c.kpit from the top of the wing," Mavis told us. "Try it if you don't believe me. Besides, I was on the wing for only a few seconds, and visible from the ground. No one saw me throw anything. Throw anything! I was too worried about keeping my balance."

"We'll try it," I a.s.sured her, but I knew I was on the wrong track. I turned to Sheriff Lens. "Have you identified the knife?"

He nodded. "Zealand says it was a utility knife from the hangar. Anyone could have picked it up."

"Did you see anyone with a knife?" I asked Mavis Wing.

"No."

"Did you see anything unusual while you were on the wing of the plane?"

"No."

"All right," I said with a sigh. "The sheriff may want to question you again later."

"What about the other two?" Lens asked as we left the office. "Renker and Verdun?"

"Renker was flying Mavis's plane up there, right next to the Trimotor. Verdun was somewhere on the ground. Maybe Renker threw the knife from his c.o.c.kpit."

"Oh, come on now, Doc you know that couldn't 'a happened. First of all, that knife's not balanced for throwin', especially not up in the sky with the wind blowin'. And the wound was in the side, around toward the back, and slantin' upward. No knife thrown through the plane's window could have hit him there."

"Of course not," I agreed readily. "I realized that as soon as I said it to Mavis. And that lets Renker off for the same reason. But let's talk to him anyway."

Max Renker was in his mid-thirties, and his blond hair and the scar on his right cheek reminded me of German war aces with university dueling scars. He answered our questions directly, but added little to our knowledge.

"Did you actually see Winslow in the c.o.c.kpit of the Trimotor?" I asked.

"Sure, I saw him. I waved to him, even. He was alive and well them but of course he'd have to be, to fly the plane."

"I want to go up on the wing, like Mavis did," I said suddenly.

His eyes widened. "You mean up in the sky?"

"No! On the ground. Can you get me a ladder and help me up there?"

"Sure."

Renker went first and then helped me up onto the wing, some ten feet off the ground. Although the front of the c.o.c.kpit could certainly be seen, Mavis was right the angle of the gla.s.s prevented a view of the pilot's seat. "That's what I wanted to know," I said. "Let's go back down."

"Wing-walking on the Trimotor is more dangerous than on the Jennies," Renker explained as he helped me down the ladder. "The smaller planes have cables on top we can cling to or brace our legs against. You can't see them from below but they're a big help."

I reached the ground and walked around to the front of the plane. "What's this?" I asked, pointing to a small metal door beneath the c.o.c.kpit windows on the right side.

"Compartment for luggage and mail sacks. We use it for tools."

"Is there any opening from here to the c.o.c.kpit?"

"No. Take a look and see for yourself."

I went back inside the plane, walking up the slanting aisle between the rows of wicker seats, then up the few steps to the c.o.c.kpit door I'd battered open. I checked the windows and noticed each had a little inside latch that was firmly in place. "We modified the c.o.c.kpit area to our own needs," Renker explained over my shoulder. "The door is placed a bit differently than in commercial planes, and we added those latches so kids wouldn't be climbing through the c.o.c.kpit windows when the plane's parked overnight at some hick airfield."

"So the door and the windows were latched on the inside," I mused. "And no knife could have been thrown from outside even if a window was open." I turned to Renker in the cramped c.o.c.kpit. "What about it? You must have some idea how he was killed."

He leaned against the wall next to the door. "Sure. Art Zealand and the girl stabbed him. Ross staggered back into the c.o.c.kpit, latched the door to keep them out, and died. I hear people can do things like that, even with a fatal knife wound. Isn't that so, Doc?"

"Yes," I agreed. "But it's hard to believe they're both lying. Besides, I don't see any blood by the door, only right by the seat here, as if he was stabbed sitting down."

"Then what are you left with? Suicide?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Suicide isn't very likely either."

"Well, I sure had no reason to kill him. Ross was the star of the show, he and Mavis. Tommy and I are nothing without them."

"I'd better talk to Tommy," I decided. "He was on the ground maybe he saw something the rest of us missed."

Tommy Verdun was a small man with short dark hair. He sat in the office wearing a long white duster pulled around him as if to ward off a chill. "I don't know anything about it," he grumbled. "I sure didn't kill him."