Ed McBain

After all these years, it’s difficult to say anything new about Ed McBain/Evan Hunter. Yes, for all practical purposes, he remains the most important procedural writer of all time-even more important, one thinks, than those who take credit for founding the genre. And yes, his books are quintessentially American; and state-of-the-art entertaining; and yes, he sure does seem to write his fair share of books; and yes-
Yes, he gets taken for granted, too much so. Like Marcia Muller, you can chart the American dream by his McBains-nice cozy sit-com 87th books of the fifties; much darker and angrier in the sixties; downright cynical by the seventies; sort of stunned and in shock by the eighties, their city (like most cities) starting to seriously come apart; and then, in the nineties, seeming to circle back toward the fifties again, their spiritual values a little more certain now, even though their city is still disintegrating around them.
For the most part, the 87th books get better each time out, McBain trying to give them the richer textures of the novel rather than the simpler acrobatics of the thriller. It’s difficult to imagine a more important-or purely entertaining-body of work of crime fiction in this half of the century.
Long live McBain.

Death Flight

Squak Mountain was cold at this time of the year. The wind groaned around Davis, and the trees trembled bare limbs, and even at this distance he could hear the low rumble of planes letting down at Boeing and Renton. He found the tree about a half-mile east of the summit. The DC-4 had struck the tree and then continued flying. He looked at the jagged, splintered wood and then his eyes covered the surrounding terrain. Parts of the DC-4 were scattered all over the ridge in a fifteen-hundred-foot radius. He saw the upper portion of the plane’s vertical fin, the number-two propeller, and a major portion of the rudder. He examined these very briefly, and then he began walking toward the canyon into which the plane had finally dropped.
Davis turned his head sharply once, thinking he had heard a sound. He stood stock-still, listening, but the only sounds that came to him were the sullen moan of the wind and the muted hum of aircraft in the distant sky.
He continued walking.
When he found the plane, it made him a little sick. The Civil Aeronautics Board report had told him that the plane was demolished by fire. The crash was what had obviously caused the real demolition. But the report had only been typed words. He saw impact now, and causing fire, and even though the plane had been moved by the investigating board, he could imagine something of what had happened.
It had been in nearly vertical position when it struck the ground, and the engines and cockpit had bedded deep in soft, muddy loam. Wreckage had been scattered like shrapnel from a hand grenade burst, and fire had consumed most of the plane, leaving a ghostlike skeleton that confronted him mutely. He stood watching it for a time, then made his way down to the charred ruins.
The landing gear was fully retracted, as the report had said. The wings flaps were in the twenty-five-degree down position.
He studied these briefly and then climbed up to the cockpit. The plane still stank of scorched skin and blistered paint. When he entered the cockpit, he was faced with complete havoc. It was impossible to obtain a control setting or an instrument reading from the demolished instrument panel. The seats were twisted and tangled. Metal jutted into the cockpit and cabin at grotesque angles. The windshield had shattered into a million jagged shards.
He shook his head and continued looking through the plane, the stench becoming more overpowering. He was silently grateful that he had not been here when the bodies were still in the plane, and he still wondered what he was doing here anyway, even now.
He knew that the report had proved indication of an explosion prior to the crash. There had been no structural failure or malfunctioning of the aircraft itself. The explosion had occurred in the cabin, and the remnants of the bomb had shown it to be a home-made job. He’d learned all this in the past few days, with the co-operation of the CAB. He also knew that the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Military Police were investigating the accident, and the knowledge had convinced him that this was not a job for him. Yet here he was.
Five people had been killed. Three pilots, the stewardess, and Janet Carruthers, the married daughter of his client, George Ellison. It could not have been a pleasant death.
Davis climbed out of the plane and started toward the ridge. The sun was high on the mountain, and it cast a feeble, pale yellow tint on the white pine and spruce. There was a hard grey winter sky overhead. He walked swiftly, with his head bent against the wind.
When the shots came, they were hard and brittle, shattering the stillness as effectively as twin-mortar explosions.
He dropped to the ground, wriggling sideways toward a high outcropping of quartz. The echo of the shots hung on the air and then the wind carried it toward the canyon and he waited and listened, with his own breathing the loudest sound on the mountain.
I’m out of my league, he thought. I’m way out of my league. I’m just a small-time detective, and this is something big...
The third shot came abruptly. It came from some high-powered rifle, and he heard the sharp twang of the bullet when it struck the quartz and ricocheted into the trees.
He pressed his cheek to the ground, and he kept very still, and he could feel the hammering of his heart against the hard earth. His hands trembled and he waited for the next shot.
The next shot never came. He waited for a half-hour, and then he bundled his coat and thrust it up over the rock, hoping to draw fire if the sniper was still with him. He waited for several minutes after that, and then he backed away from the rock on his belly, not venturing to get to his feet until he was well into the trees.
Slowly, he made his way down the mountain.

“You say you want to know more about the accident?” Arthur Porchek said. “I thought it was all covered in the CAB report.”
“It was,” Davis said. “I’m checking further. I’m trying to find out who set that bomb.”
Porchek drew in on his cigarette. He leaned against the wall and the busy hum of radios in Seattle Approach Control was loud around them. “I’ve only told this story a dozen times already.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could tell it once more,” Davis said.
“Well,” Porchek said heavily, “it was about twenty-thirty-six or so.” He paused. “All our time is based on a twenty-four-hour clock, like the Army.”
“Go ahead.”
“The flight had been cleared to maintain seven thousand feet. When they contacted us, we told them to make a standard range approach to Boeing Field and requested that they report leaving each one-thousand-foot level during the descent. That’s standard, you know.”
“Were you doing all the talking to the plane?” Davis asked.
“Yes.”
“All right, what happened?”
“First I gave them the weather.”
“And what was that?”
Porchek shrugged, a man weary of repeating information over and over again. “Boeing Field,” he said by rote. “Eighteen hundred scattered, twenty-two hundred overcast, eight-miles, wind south-southeast, gusts to thirty, altimeter twenty-nine, twenty-five; Seattle-Tacoma, measured nineteen hundred broken with thirty-one hundred overcast.”
“Did the flight acknowledge?”
“Yes, it did. And it reported leaving seven thousand feet at twenty-forty. About two minutes later, it reported being over the outer marker and leaving the six-thousand-foot level.”
“Go on.” Davis said.
“Well, it didn’t report leaving five thousand and then at twenty-forty-five, it reported leaving four thousand feet. I acknowledged that and told them what to do. I said, ‘If you’re not VFR by the time you reach the range you can shuttle on the northwest course at two thousand feet. It’s possible you’ll break out in the vicinity of Boeing Field for a south landing.’ “
“What’s VFR?” Davis asked, once again feeling his inadequacy to cope with the job.
“Visual Flight Rules. You see, it was overcast at twenty-two hundred feet. The flight was on instruments above that. They’ve got to report to us whether they’re on IFR or VFR.”
“I see. What happened next?”
“The aircraft reported at twenty-fifty that it was leaving three thousand feet, and I told them they were to contact Boeing Tower on one eighteen, point three for landing instructions. They acknowledged with ‘Roger,’ and that’s the last I heard of them.”
“Did you hear the explosion?”
“I heard something, but I figured it for static. Ground witnesses heard it, though.”
“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 MPs 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 realised.” 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 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 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 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 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 realising 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 Whatever-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 firewarning 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 recognised 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.”
“Mmm,” Davis said. “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 thanked Carruthers again, and then went out to catch his return plane.
He bought twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of insurance for fifty cents from one of the machines in the waiting room, and then got aboard the plane at about five minutes before take-off. 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 colour of his complexion seemed even more fiery.
“No,” Davis said. “I’ve been off the ground before.”
“Always gives me a thrill,” the man said. “No matter how many times I do it.” He chuckled and added, “An airplane ride is just like a woman. Lots of ups and downs, and not always too smooth-but guaranteed to keep a man up in the air.”
Davis smiled politely, and the fat man chuckled a bit more and then thrust a beefy hand at him. “MacGregor,” he said. “Charlie or Chuck or just plain Mac, if you like.”
Davis took his hand and said, “Milt Davis.”
“Glad to know you, Milt,” MacGregor said. “You down here on business?”
“Yes,” he said briefly.
“Me, too,” MacGregor said. “Business mostly.” He grinned slyly. “Course, what the wife don’t know won’t hurt her, eh?”
“I’m not married,” Davis told him.
“A wonderful institution,” MacGregor said. He laughed aloud, and then added, “But who likes being in an institution?”
Davis hoped he hadn’t winced. He wondered if he was to be treated to MacGregor’s full repertoire of wornout gags before the trip was over. To discourage any further attempts at misdirected wit, he turned back to the magazine as politely as he could, smiling once to let MacGregor know he wasn’t being purposely rude.
“Go right ahead,” MacGregor said genially. “Don’t mind me.”
That was easy, Davis thought. If it lasts.
He was surprised that it did last. MacGregor stretched out in the seat beside him, closing his eyes. He did not speak again until the plane was ten minutes out of San Francisco.
“Let’s walk to the John, eh, Milt?” he said.
Davis lifted his head and smiled. “Thanks, but-“
“This is a .38 here under my overcoat, Milt,” MacGregor said softly.
For a second, Davis thought it was another of the fat man’s tired jokes. He turned to look at MacGregor’s lap. The overcoat was folded over his chunky left arm, and Davis could barely see the blunt muzzle of a pistol poking from beneath the folds.
He lifted his eyebrows a little. “What are you going to do after you shoot me, MacGregor? Vanish into thin air?”
MacGregor smiled. “Now who mentioned anything about shooting, Milt? Eh? Let’s go back, shall we, boy?”
Davis rose and moved past MacGregor into the aisle. MacGregor stood up behind him, the coat over his arm, the gun completely hidden now. Together, they began walking toward the rear of the plane, past the food buffet on their right, and past the twin facing seats behind the buffet. An emergency window was set in the cabin wall there, and Davis sighed in relief when he saw that the seats were occupied.
When they reached the men’s room, MacGregor flipped open the door and nudged Davis inside. Then he crowded in behind him, putting his wide back to the door. He reached up with one heavy fist, rammed Davis against the sink, and then ran his free hand over Davis’ body.
“Well,” he said pleasantly. “No gun.”
“My name is Davis, not Spade,” Davis told him.
MacGregor lifted the .38, pointing it at Davis’ throat. “All right, Miltie, now give a listen. I want you to forget all about that crashed DC-4, I want you to forget there are even such things as airplanes, Miltie. Now, I know you’re a smart boy, and so I’m not even going to mark you up, Miltie. I could mark you up nice with the sight and butt of this thing.” He gestured with the .38 in his hand. “I’m not going to do that. Not now. I’m just telling you, nice-like, to lay off. Just lay off and go back to skip-tracing, Miltie boy, or you’re going to get hurt. Next time, I’m not going to be so considerate.”
“Look...” Davis started.
“So let’s not have a next time, Miltie. Let’s call it off now. You give your client a ring and tell him you’re dropping it, Miltie boy. Have you got that?”
Davis didn’t answer.
“Fine,” MacGregor said. He reached up suddenly with his left hand, almost as if he were reaching up for a light cord. At the same time he grasped Davis’ shoulder with his right hand and spun him around, bringing the hand with the gun down in a fast motion, flipping it butt-end up.
The walnut stock caught Davis at the base of his skull. He stumbled forward, his hands grasping the sink in front of him. He felt the second blow at the back of his head, and then his hands dropped from the sink, and the aluminium deck of the plane came up to meet him suddenly, all too fast...

Someone said, “He’s coming around now,” and he idly thought, Coming around where?
“How do you feel, Mr. Davis?” a second voice asked.
He looked up at the ring of faces. He did not recognise any of them. “Where am I?” he asked.
“San Francisco,” the second voice said. The voice belonged to a tall man with a salt-and-pepper moustache and friendly blue eyes. MacGregor had owned friendly green eyes, Davis remembered.
“We found you in the men’s room after all the passengers had disembarked,” the voice went on. “You’ve had a nasty fall, Mr. Davis. Nothing serious, however. I’ve dressed the cut, and I’m sure there’ll be no complications.”
“Thank you,” Davis said. “I wonder... did you say all the passengers have already gone?”
“Why, yes.”
“I wonder if I might see the passenger list? There was a fellow aboard I promised to look up, and I’m darned if I haven’t forgotten his name.”
“I’ll ask the stewardess,” the man said. “By the way, I’m Doctor Burke.”
“How do you do?” Davis said. He reached for a cigarette and lighted it. When the stewardess brought the passenger list, he scanned it hurriedly.
There was no MacGregor listed, Charles or otherwise. This fact did not surprise him greatly. He looked down the list to see if there were any names with the initials C.M., knowing that when a person assumes an alias, he will usually choose a name with the same initials as his real name. There were no C. M.s on the list, either.
“Does that help?” the stewardess asked.
“Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll find him now.”
The doctor shook Davis’ hand, and then asked if he’d sign a release stating he had received medical treatment and absolving the airline. Davis felt the back of his head, and then signed the paper.
He walked outside and leaned against the building, puffing idly on his cigarette. The night was a nest of lights. He watched the lights and listened to the hum of aircraft all around him. It wasn’t until he had finished his cigarette that he remembered he was in San Francisco.
He dropped the cigarette to the concrete and ground it out beneath his heel. Quite curiously, he found himself ignoring MacGregor’s warning. He was a little surprised at himself, but he was also pleased. And more curious, he found himself wishing that he and MacGregor would meet again.

He walked briskly to the cyclone fence that hemmed in the runway area. Quickly, he showed the uniformed guard at the gate his credentials and then asked where he could find the hangars belonging to Inter-coastal Airways. The guard pointed them out.
Davis walked through the gate and towards the hangars the guard had indicated, stopping at the first one. Two mechanics in greasy coveralls were leaning against a work bench, chatting idly. One was smoking, and the other tilted a Coke bottle to his lips, draining half of it in one pull. Davis walked over to them.
“I’m looking for the mechanics who serviced the DC-4 that crashed up in Seattle,” he said.
They looked at him blankly for a few seconds, and then the one with the Coke bottle asked, “You from the CAB?”
“No,” Davis said. “I’m investigating privately.”
The mechanic with the bottle was short, with black hair curling over his forehead, and quick brown eyes that silently appraised Davis now. “If you’re thinking about that fire warning,” he said, “it had nothing to do with the crash. There was a bomb aboard.”
“I know,” Davis said. “Were you one of the mechanics?”
“I was one of them,” he said.
“Good.” Davis smiled and said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jerry,” the man said. “Mangione.” His black brows pulled together suspiciously. “Who you investigating for?”
“A private client. The father of the girl who was a passenger.”
“Oh. Carruthers’ wife, huh?”
“Yes. Did you know her?”
“No. I just heard it was his wife. He’s chief pilot down Burbank, ain’t he?”
“Yes,” Davis said.
Mangione paused and studied Davis intently. “What’d you want to know?”
“First, was the fire-warning system okay?”
“Yeah. We checked it out. Just one of those things, you know. False alarm.”
“Did you go into the plane?”
“Yeah, sure. I had to check the signal in the cockpit. Why?”
“I’m just asking.”
“You don’t think I put that damn bomb on the plane, do you?”
“Somebody did,” Davis said.
“That’s for sure. But not me. There were a lot of people on that plane, mister. Any one of ‘em could’ve done it.”
“Be a little silly to bring a bomb onto a plane you were going to fly.”
“I guess so. But don’t drag me into this. I just checked the fire-warning system, that’s all.”
“Were you around when Mrs. Carruthers boarded the plane?”
“The redhead? Yeah, I was there.”
“What’d she look like?”
Mangione shrugged. “A broad, just like any other broad. Red hair.”
“Was she pretty?”
“The red hair was the only thing gave her any flash. In fact, I was a little surprised.”
“Surprised? What about?”
“That Tony would bother, you know.”
“Who? Who would bother?”
“Tony. Tony Radner. He brought her out to the plane.”
“What?” Davis said.
“Yeah, Tony. He used to sell tickets inside. He brought her out to the plane and helped her get aboard.”
“Are you sure about that? Sure you know who the man with her was?”
Mangione made an exasperated gesture with his hairy hands. “Hell, ain’t I been working here for three years? Don’t I know Tony when I see him? It was him, all right. He took the broad right to her seat.
Listen, it was him, all right. I guess maybe... well, I was surprised, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Tony’s a good-looking guy. And this Mrs. Carruthers, well, she wasn’t much. I’m surprised he went out of his way. But I guess maybe she wasn’t feeling so hot. Tony’s a gent that way.”
“Wasn’t feeling so hot?”
“Well, I don’t like to talk about anybody’s dead, but she looked like she had a snootful to me. Either that, or she was pretty damn sick.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Hell, Tony had to help her up the ladder, and he practically carried her to her seat. Yeah, she musta been looped.”
“You said Radner used to work here. Has he quit?”
“Yeah, he quit.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
Mangione shrugged. “Maybe you can get his address from the office in the morning. But, mister, I wouldn’t bother him right now, if I was you.”
“Why not?”
Mangione smiled. “Because he’s on his honeymoon,” he said.

He slept the night through and when he awoke in the morning, the back of his head hardly hurt at all. He shaved and washed quickly, downed a breakfast of orange juice and coffee, and then went to the San Francisco office of Intercoastal Airways.
Radner, they told him, was no longer with them. But they did have his last address, and they parted with it willingly. He grabbed a cab, and then sat back while the driver fought with the California traffic. When he reached Radnor’s address, he paid and tipped the cabbie, and listed the expenditure in his book.
The rooming house was not in a good section of the city. It was red brick, with a brown front stoop. There was an old-fashioned bell pull set in the wide, wooden door jamb. He pulled this and heard the sound inside, and then he waited for footsteps. They came sooner than he expected.
The woman who opened the door couldn’t have been more than fifty. Her face was still greasy with cold cream, and her hair was tied up in rags. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Tony Radner,” Davis said. “I’m an old friend of his, knew him in the Army. I went out to Intercoastal, but they told me he doesn’t work for them any more. I wonder if you know where I can reach him.”
The landlady regarded him suspiciously for a moment. “He doesn’t live here anymore,” she said.
“Darn,” Davis said. He shook his head and assumed a false smile. “Isn’t that always the way? I came all the way from New York, and now I can’t locate him.”
“That’s too bad,” the landlady agreed.
“Did he leave any forwarding address?” Davis asked.
“No. He left because he was getting married.”
“Married!” Davis said. “Well, I’ll be darned! Old Tony getting married!”
The landlady continued to watch Davis, her small eyes staring fixedly.
“You wouldn’t know who he married, would you?”
“Yes,” she said guardedly. “I guess I would.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Trimble,” the landlady said. “A girl named Alice Trimble.”
“Alice Trimble,” Davis said reflectively. “You wouldn’t have her phone number, would you?”
“Come on in,” the landlady said, finally accepting Davis at face value. She led him into the foyer of the house, and Davis followed her to the pay phone on the wall.
“They all scribble numbers here,” she said. “I keep washing them off, but they keep putting them back again.”
“Shame,” Davis said sympathetically.
“Hers is up there, too. You just wait a second, and I’ll tell you which one.” She stepped close to the phone and examined the scribbled numbers on the wall. She stood very close to the wall, moving her head whenever she wanted to move her eyes. She stepped back at last and placed a long white finger on one of the numbers. “This one. This is the one he always called.”
Davis jotted down the number hastily, and then said, “Well, gee, thanks a million. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
“I hope you find him,” the landlady said. “Nice fellow, Mr. Radner.”
“One of the best,” Davis said.
He called the number from the first pay phone he found. He listened to the phone ring four times on the other end, and then a voice said, “Hello?”
“Hello,” he said, “May I speak to Miss Trimble, please?”
“This is Miss Trimble,” the voice said.
“My name is Davis,” he said. “I’m an old friend of Tony Radner’s. He asked me to look him up if ever I was in town...” He paused and forced himself to laugh in embarrassment. “Trouble is, I can’t seem to find him. His landlady said you and Tony...”
“Oh,” the girl said. “You must want my sister. This is Anne Trimble.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise...” He paused. “Is your sister there?”
“No, she doesn’t live with me any more. She and Tony got married.”
“Well, now, that’s wonderful,” Davis said. “Know where I can find them?”
“They’re still on their honeymoon.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” He thought for a few seconds, and then said, “I’ve got to catch a plane back tonight. I wonder... I wonder if I might come over and... well, you could fill me in on what Tony’s been doing and all. Hate like the devil to go back without knowing something about him.”
The girl hesitated, and he could sense her reluctance.
“I promise I’ll make it a very short visit. I’ve still got some business to attend to here. Besides... well, Tony loaned me a little money once, and I thought... well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave it with you.”
“I... I suppose it would be all right,” she said.
“Fine. May I have the address?”
She gave it to him, and he told her he’d be up in about an hour, if that was all right with her. He went to the coffee counter, ordered coffee and a toasted English, and browsed over them until it was time to go. He bought a plain white envelope on the way out, slipped twenty dollars into it, and sealed it. Then he hailed a cab.
He found the mailbox marked A. Trimble, and he realized the initial sufficed for both Alice and Anne. He walked up two flights, stopped outside apartment 22, and thumbed the ivory stud in the door jamb. A series of chimes floated from beyond the door, and then the peephole flap was thrown back.
“I’m Mr. Davis,” he said to the flap. “I called about-“
“Oh, yes,” Anne Trimble said. The flap descended, and the door swung wide.
She was a tall brunette, and her costume emphasized her height. She was wearing tightly tailored toreador slacks. A starched white blouse with a wide collar and long sleeves was tucked firmly into the band of the slacks. A bird in flight, captured in sterling, rested on the blouse just below the left breast pocket.
“Come in,” she said, “won’t you?” She had green eyes and black eyebrows, and she smiled pleasantly now.
Davis stepped into the cool apartment, and she closed the door behind him.
“I’m sorry if I seemed rude when you called me,” she said. “I’m afraid you woke me.”
“Then I should be the one to apologise,” Davis said.
He followed her into a sunken living room furnished in Swedish modern. She walked to a long, low coffee table and took a cigarette from a box there, offering the box to him first. Davis shook his head and watched her as she lighted the cigarette. Her hair was cut close to her head, ringing her face with ebony wisps. She wore only lipstick, and Davis reflected that this was the first truly beautiful woman he had ever met. Two large, silver hoop earrings hung from her ears. She lifted her head, and the earrings caught the rays of the sun streaming through the blinds.
“Now,” she said. “You’re a friend of Tony’s, are you?”
“Yes,” he answered. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the sealed envelope. “First, let me get this off my mind. Please tell Tony I sincerely appreciate the loan, won’t you?”
She took the envelope without comment, dropping it on the coffee table.
This is a very cool one, Davis thought.
“I was really surprised to learn that Tony was married,” he said.
“It was a little sudden, yes,” she said.
“Oh? Hadn’t he known your sister long?”
“Three months, four months.”
Davis shook his head. “I still can’t get over it. How’d he happen to meet your sister?”
“Like that,” Anne said. “How do people meet? A concert, a club, a soda fountain.” She shrugged. “You know, people meet.”
“Don’t you like Tony?” he asked suddenly.
She seemed surprised. “Me? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I think he’ll be very good for Alice. He has a strong personality, and she needs someone like him. Yes, I like Tony.”
“Well, that’s good,” Davis said.
“When we came to Frisco, you see, Alice was sort of at loose ends. We’d lived in L.A. all our lives, and Alice depended on Mom a good deal, I suppose. When Mom passed away, and this job opening came for me... well, the change affected her. Moving and all. It was a good thing Tony came along.”
“You live here alone then, just the two of you?”
Anne Trimble smiled and sucked in a deep cloud of smoke. “Just two little gals from Little Rock,” she said.
Davis smiled with her. “L.A., you mean.”
“The same thing. We’re all alone in the world. Just Alice and me. Dad died when we were both little girls. Now, of course, Alice is married. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m very happy for her.”
“When were they married?”
“January 6th,” she answered. “It’s been a long honeymoon.”
January 6th, Davis thought. The day the DC-4 crashed.
“Where are they now?” he asked.
“Las Vegas.”
“Where in Las Vegas?”
Anne Trimble smiled again. “You’re not planning on visiting a pair of honeymooners, are you, Mr. Davis?”
“God, no,” he said. “I’m just curious.”
“Fact is,” Anne said, “I don’t know where they’re staying. I’ve only had a wire from them since they were married. I don’t imagine they’re thinking much about me. Not on their honeymoon.”
“No, I guess not,” Davis said. “I understand Tony left his job. Is that right?”
“Yes. It didn’t pay much, and Tony is really a brilliant person. He and Alice said they’d look around after the honeymoon and settle wherever he could get located.”
“When did he quit?”
“A few days before they were married, I think. No, wait, it was on New Year’s Eve, that’s right. He quit then.”
“Then he wasn’t selling tickets on the day of...”
Anne looked at him strangely. “The day of what?”
“The day he was married,” Davis said quickly.
“No, he wasn’t.” She continued looking at him, and then asked, “How do you happen to know Tony, Mr. Davis?”
“Oh, the Army,” Davis said. “The last war, you know.”
“That’s quite a feat,” Anne said.
“Huh?” Davis looked up.
“Tony was in the Navy.”
Once again, he felt like a damn fool. He cursed the crashed plane, and he cursed George Ellison, and he cursed the stupidity that had led him to take the job in the first place. He sighed deeply.
“Well,” he said. “I guess I pulled a bloomer.”
Anne Trimble stared at him coldly. “Maybe you’d better get out, Mr. Davis. If that’s your name.”
“It’s my name. Look,” he said, “I’m a private eye. I’m investigating the crash for my client. I thought...”
“What crash?”
“A DC-4 took a dive in Seattle. My client’s daughter was aboard her when she went down. There was also a bomb aboard.”
“Is this another one of your stories?”
Davis lifted his right hand. “God’s truth, s’help me. I’m trying to find whoever put the bomb aboard.
“And you think Tony did?”
“No, I didn’t say that. But I’ve got to investigate all the possibilities.”
Anne suddenly smiled. “Are you new at this business?”
“No, I’ve been at it a long time now. This case is a little out of my usual line.”
“You called yourself a private eye. Do private eyes really call themselves that? I thought that was just for the paperback trade.”
“I’m afraid we really do,” Davis said. “Private Investigator, shortened to Private I, and then naturally to private eye.”
“It must be exciting.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s usually deadly dull.” He rose and said, “Thanks very much for your time, Miss Trimble. I’m sorry I got to see you on a ruse, but...”
“You should have just asked. I’m always willing to help the cause of justice.” She smiled. “And I think you’d better take this money back.”
“Well, thanks again,” he said, taking the envelope.
“Not at all,” she said. She led him to the door, and shook his hand, and her grip was firm and warm. “Good luck.”
The door whispered shut behind him. He stood in the hallway for a few moments, sighed, and then made his way down to the courtyard and the street.
The time has come, he thought, to replenish the bank account. If Ellison expects me to chase hither and yon, then Ellison should also realise that I’m a poor boy, raised by the side of a railroad car. And if a trip to Vegas is in the offing... the time has come to replenish the bank account.
He thought no more about it. He hailed a cab for which Ellison would pay, and headed for the old man’s estate.

The butler opened the door and announced, “Mr. Davis, sir,”
Davis smiled at the butler and entered the room. It was full of plates and pitchers and cups and saucers and mugs and jugs and platters. For a moment Davis thought he’d wandered into the pantry by error, but then he saw Ellison seated behind a large desk.
Ellison did not look old, even though Davis knew he was somewhere in his seventies. He had led an easy life, and the rich are expert at conserving their youth. The only signs of age on Ellison were in his face. It was perhaps a bit too ruddy for good health, and it reminded him of MacGregor’s complexion-but Ellison was not a fat man. He had steel-gray hair cropped close to his head. His brows were black, in direct contrast to the hair on his head, and his eyes were a penetrating pale blue. Davis wondered from whom Janet had inherited her red hair, then let the thought drop when Ellison rose and extended his hand.
“Ah, Davis, come in, come in.”
Davis walked to the desk, and Ellison took his hand in a tight grip.
“Hope you don’t mind talking in here,” he said. “I’ve got a new piece of porcelain, and I wanted to mount it.”
“Not at all,” Davis said.
“Know anything about porcelain?” Ellison asked.
“Not a thing, sir.”
“Pity. Volkstedt wouldn’t mean anything to you then, would it?”
“No, sir.”
“Or Rudolstadt? It’s more generally known as that.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Davis said.
“Here now,” Ellison said. “Look at this sauce boat.”
Davis looked.
“This dates back to 1783, Davis. Here, look.” He turned over the sauce boat, but he did not let it out of his hands. “See the crossed hayforks? That’s the mark, you know, shows it’s genuine stuff. Funny thing about this. The mark so resembles the Meissen crossed swords...” He seemed suddenly to remember that he was not talking to a fellow connoisseur. He put the sauce boat down swiftly but gently. “Have you learned anything yet, Davis?”
“A little, Mr. Ellison. I’m here mainly for money.”
Ellison looked up sharply and then began chuckling. “You’re a frank man, aren’t you?”
“I try to be,” Davis said. “When it concerns money.”
“How much will you need?”
“A thousand will do it. I’ll probably be flying to Vegas and back, and I may have to spread a little money for information while I’m there.”
Ellison nodded briefly. “I’ll give you a check before you leave. What progress have you made, Davis?”
“Not very much. Do you know a Tony Radner?”
Ellison looked up swiftly. “Why?”
“He put your daughter on the DC-4, sir. Do you know him?”
Ellison’s mouth lengthened, and he tightened his fists on the desk top. “Has that son of a bitch got something to do with this?” he asked.
“Do you know him, sir?”
“Of course I do! How do you know he put Janet on that plane?”
“An eyewitness, sir.”
“I’ll kill that bastard!” Ellison shouted. “If he had anything to do with...”
“How do you know him, Mr. Ellison?”
Ellison’s rage subsided for a moment. “Janet was seeing him,” he said.
“What do you mean, seeing him?”
“She fancied herself to be in love with him,” Ellison said. “He’s a no-good, Davis, a plain...”
“You mean she wanted to marry him, rather than Carruthers?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean she was seeing Radner after she and Nick were married. She... she had the supreme gall to tell me she wanted a divorce from Nick.” Ellison clenched his hands and then relaxed them again. “You don’t know Nick, Davis. He’s a fine boy, one of the best. I feel toward him the way I’d feel toward my own son. I never had any boys, Davis, and Janet wasn’t much of a daughter.” He paused. “I’m grateful I’ve still got Nick,” he said.
“Your daughter wanted to divorce Carruthers?”
“Yes,” Ellison said.
“Did she tell Carruthers?”
“Yes, she did. But I told her I’d cut her off without a penny if she did any such damn-fool thing. She changed her mind mighty fast after that. Janet was used to money, Davis. The idea of marrying a ticket seller didn’t appeal to her when she knew she’d have to do without it.”
“So she broke it off with him?”
“On the spot.”
“When was this?”
“About six months ago,” Ellison said.
“And she hadn’t seen him since?”
“Not that I knew of. Now you tell me he put her on that plane. I don’t know what to think.”
Davis nodded. “It is a little confusing.”
“Do you suppose she was going to keep a rendezvous in Washington with Radner?” Ellison shook his head. “Dammit. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“I don’t think so. At least... well, I should think they’d have left together if that were the case.”
“Not if she didn’t want to be seen. She was travelling on a company pass, you know.”
“That seems odd,” Davis said. “I mean-“
“You mean, with all my money, why should she travel on a pass?” Ellison smiled. “I like to help Nick out, Davis. I keep him living well; did it when Janet was alive, and still do it. But he’s a proud boy, and I’ve got to be careful with my methods of seeing to his welfare. Getting Janet her ticket was one of the things that kept his pride going.”
“I see.” Davis washed his hand over his face. “Well, I’ll talk to Radner. Did you know he was married now?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes. On the day of the crash.”
“On the day... then what on earth was he doing with Janet?”
“That’s a good question,” Davis said. He paused, and then added, “Can I have that check now?”

It was not until after supper that evening that Nicholas Carruthers showed up. Davis had eaten lightly, and after a hasty cigarette he had begun packing a small bag for the Vegas trip. When the knock sounded on the door to his apartment, he dropped a pair of shorts into the suitcase and called, “Who is it?”
“Me. Carruthers.”
“Second,” Davis said. He went to the door rapidly, wondering what had occasioned this visit from the pilot. He threw back the night latch, and then unlocked the door.
Carruthers was in uniform this time. He wore a white shirt and black tie, together with the pale blue trousers and jacket of the airline, and a peaked cap.
“Surprised to see you, Carruthers,” Davis said. “Come on in.”
“Thanks,” Carruthers said. He glanced around the simply furnished apartment noncomittally, then stepped inside and took off his cap, keeping it in his hands.
“Something to drink?” Davis asked. “Scotch okay?”
“Please,” Carruthers replied.
Davis poured, and when Carruthers had downed the drink, he refilled the glass. “What’s on your mind, Carruthers?”
Carruthers looked into the depths of his glass, sipped a bit of the scotch, and then looked up. “Janet,” he said.
“What about her?”
“Let it lie. Tell the old man you’re dropping it. Let it lie.”
“Why?”
“How much is the old man paying you?” Carruthers asked, avoiding Davis’ question.
“That’s between the old man and myself.”
“I’ll match it,” Carruthers said. “And then some. Just let’s drop the whole damn thing.”
Davis thought back to the genial Mr. MacGregor. “You remind me of someone else I know,” he said.
Carruthers did not seem interested. “Look, Davis, what does this mean to you, anyway? Nothing. You’re getting paid for a job. All right, I’m willing to pay you what you would have made. So why are you being difficult?”
“Am I being difficult? I didn’t say I wouldn’t drop it, did I?”
“Will you?”
“It depends. I’d like to know why you want it dropped.”
“Let’s just say I’d like it better if the whole thing were forgotten.”
“A lot of people would like it better that way. Including the person who put that bomb on the plane.”
Carruthers opened his eyes wide. “You don’t think I did that, do you?”
“You were aboard the plane. You could have.”
“Why would I do a thing like that?”
“I can think of several reasons,” Davis said.
“Like what?” Carruthers sipped at the bourbon again.
“Maybe you didn’t like the idea of Janet playing around with Tony Radner.”
Carruthers laughed a short, brittle laugh. “You think that bothered me? That two-bit punk? Don’t be ridiculous.” He drank some more scotch and then said, “I was used to Janet’s excursions. Radner didn’t bother me at all.”
“You mean there were others?”
“Others? Janet collected them the way the old man collects porcelain. A hobby, you know.”
“Did the old man know this?”
“I doubt it. He knew his daughter was a bitch, but I think Radner was the first time it came into the open. He squelched that pretty damn fast, you can bet.”
“But you knew about it? And it didn’t bother you?”
“Not in the least. I’m no angel myself, Davis. If Janet wanted to roam, fine. If she thought of leaving me, that was another thing.”
“That you didn’t like,” Davis said.
“That I didn’t like at all.” Carruthers paused. “Look, Davis. I like money. The old man has a lot of it. Janet was my wife, and the old man saw to it that we lived in style. I could have left the airline any time I wanted to, and he’d have set me up for life. Fact is, I like flying, so I stayed on. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let my meal ticket walk out.”
“That’s not the way I heard it,” Davis said.
“What do you mean?”
“Janet’s gone, and the old man is still feeding the kitty.”
“Sure, but I didn’t know it would work that way.”
“Didn’t you?”
Carruthers swallowed the remainder of his scotch. “I don’t get you, Davis.”
“Look at it this way, Carruthers. Janet’s a handy thing to have around. She comes and goes, and you come and go, and the old man sees to it that you come and go in Cadillacs. A smart man may begin wondering why he needs Janet at all. If he can be subsidised even after she’s gone, why not get rid of her? Why not give her a bomb to play with?”
“Why not?” Carruthers asked. “But I didn’t.”
“That’s what they all say,” Davis told him. “Right up to the gas chamber.”
“You’re forgetting that I didn’t know what the old man’s reactions would be. Still don’t know. It’s early in the game yet, and he’s still crossing my palm, but that may change. Look, Davis, when a man takes out accident insurance, it’s not because he hopes he’ll get into an accident. The same thing with Janet. I needed her. She was my insurance. As long as she was around, my father-in-law saw to it that I wasn’t needing.” Carruthers shook his head. “No, Davis, I couldn’t take a chance on my insurance lapsing.”
“Perhaps not. Why do you want me to drop the case?”
“Because I want a status quo. The memory of Janet is fresh in the old man’s mind. I’m coupled with the memory. That means he keeps my Cadillac full of gas. Suppose you crack this damned thing? Suppose you find out who set that bomb? It becomes something that’s resolved. There’s a conclusion, and the old man can file it away like a piece of rare porcelain. He loses interest-and maybe my Cadillac stops running.”
“You know something, Carruthers? I don’t think I like you very much.”
Carruthers smiled. “Why? Because I’m trying to protect an investment? Because I don’t give a damn that Janet is gone? Look, Davis, let’s get this thing straight. We hated each other’s guts. I stayed with her because I like the old man’s money. And she stayed with me because she knew she’d be cut off penniless if she didn’t. A very simple arrangement.” He paused. “What do you say, Davis?”
“I say get the hell out of here.”
“Be sensible, Davis. Look at it...”
“Take a walk, Carruthers. Take a long walk and don’t come back.”
Carruthers stared at Davis for a long time. He said nothing, and there was no enmity in his eyes. At last he rose and settled his cap on his head.
At the door, he turned and said, “You’re not being smart, Davis.”
Davis didn’t answer him.
Maybe he wasn’t being smart. Maybe Carruthers was right.
It would have been so much easier to have said no, right from the start. No, Mr. Ellison, I’m sorry. I won’t take the case. Sorry.
That would have been the easy way. He had not taken the easy way. The money had appealed to him, yes, and so he’d stepped into something that was really far too big for him, something that still made very little sense to him. A bomb seemed an awfully elaborate way of killing someone, assuming the death of Janet Carruthers was, in fact, the reason for the bomb. It would have been so much easier to have used a knife, or a gun, or a rope, or even poison.
Unless the destruction of the plane was an important factor in the killing.
Did the killer have a grudge against the airline as well?
Carruthers worked for the airline, but he was apparently well satisfied with his job. Liked flying, he’d said. Besides, to hear him tell it, he’d never even considered killing his wife. Sort of killing the goose, you know. She was too valuable to him. She was - what had he alluded to? - insurance, yes, insurance.
Which, in a way, was true. Carruthers had no way of knowing how Ellison would react to his daughter’s death. He could just as easily have washed his hands of Carruthers, and a man couldn’t take a chance on...
“I’ll be goddamned!” Davis said aloud.
He glanced at his watch quickly. It was too late now. He would have to wait until morning.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he said again.
It would be a long night.

Mr. Schlemmer was a balding man in his early fifties. A pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose, and his blue eyes were genial behind them.
“I can only speak for Aircraft Insurance Association of America, you understand,” he said. “Other companies may operate on a different basis, though I think it unlikely.”
“I understand,” Davis said.
“First, you wanted to know how much insurance can be obtained from our machines at the San Francisco airport.” Schlemmer paused. “We sell it at fifty cents for twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth. Costs you two quarters in the machine.”
“And what’s the maximum insurance for any one person?”
“Two hundred thousand,” Schlemmer said. “The premium is four dollars.”
“Is there anything in your policy that excludes a woman travelling on a company pass?” Davis asked.
“No,” Schlemmer said. “Our airline trip policy states ‘travelling on ticket or pass.’ No, this woman would not be excluded.”
“Suppose the plane’s accident occurred because of a bomb explosion aboard the plane while it was in flight? Would that invalidate a beneficiary’s claim?”
“I should hardly think so. Just a moment, I’ll read you the exclusions.” He dug into his desk drawer and came out with a policy which he placed on the desk top, leafing through it rapidly. “No,” he said. “The exclusions are disease, suicide, war, and of course, we will not insure the pilot or any active member of the crew.”
“I see,” Davis said. “Can I get down to brass tacks now?”
“By all means, do,” Schlemmer said.
“How long does it take to pay?”
“Well, the claim must be filed within twenty days after the occurrence. Upon receipt of the claim, and within fifteen days, we must supply proof-of-loss forms to the claimant. As soon as these are completed and presented to us, we pay. We’ve paid within hours on some occasions. Sometimes it takes days, and sometimes weeks. It depends on how rapidly the claim is made, the proof of loss submitted-and all that. You understand?”
“Yes,” Davis said. He took a deep breath. “A DC-4 crashed near Seattle on January 6th. Was anyone on that plane insured with your company?”
Schlemmer smiled, and a knowing look crossed his face. “I had a suspicion you were driving at that, Mr. Davis. That was the reason for your ‘bomb’ question, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Was anyone insured?”
“There was only one passenger,” Schlemmer said. “We would not, of course, insure the crew.”
“The passenger was Janet Carruthers,” Davis said. “Was she insured?”
“Yes.”
“For how much?”
Schlemmer paused. “Two hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Davis.” He wiped his lips and said, “You know how it works, of course. You purchase your insurance from a machine at the airport. An envelope is supplied for the policy, and you mail this directly to your beneficiary or beneficiaries as the case may be, before you board the flight.”
“Yes, I’ve taken insurance,” Davis said.
“A simple matter,” Schlemmer assured him, “and well worth the investment. In this case, the beneficiaries have already received a check for two hundred thousand dollars.”
“They have?”
“Yes. The claim was made almost instantly, proof of loss filed, the entire works. We paid at once.”
“I see,” Davis said. “I wonder... could you tell me... you mentioned suicide in your excluding clause. Was there any thought about Mrs. Carruthers’ death being suicide?”
“We considered it,” Schlemmer said. “But quite frankly, it seemed a bit absurd. An accident like this one is hardly conceivable as suicide. I mean, a person would have to be seriously unbalanced to take a plane and its crew with her when she chose to kill herself. Mrs. Carruthers’ medical history showed no signs of mental instability. In fact, she was in amazingly good health all through her life. No, suicide was out. We paid.”
Davis nodded. “Can you tell me who the beneficiaries were?” he asked.
“Certainly,” Schlemmer said. “Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner.”

He asked her to meet him in front of DiAngelo’s and they lingered on the wharf a while, watching the small boats before entering the restaurant. When they were seated, Anne Trimble asked, “Have you ever been here before?”
“I followed a delinquent husband as far as the door once,” he answered.
“Then it’s your first time.”
“Yes.”
“Mine, too.” She rounded her mouth in mock surprise. “Goodness, we’re sharing a first.”
“That calls for a drink,” he said.
She ordered a daiquiri, and he settled for scotch on the rocks, and he sipped his drink slowly, thinking, I wish I didn’t suspect her sister of complicity in murder.
They made small talk while they ate, and Davis felt he’d known her for a long time, and that made his job even harder. When they were on their coffee, she said, “I’m a silly girl, I know. But not silly enough to believe this is strictly social.”
“I’m an honest man,” he said. “It isn’t.”
She laughed. “Well, what is it then?”
“I want to know more about your sister.”
“Alice? For heaven’s sake, why?” Her brow furrowed, and she said, “I really should be offended, you know. You take me out and then want to know more about my sister.”
“You’ve no cause for worry,” he said very softly. He was not even sure she heard him. She lifted here coffee cup, and her eyes were wide over the brim.
“Will you tell me about her?” he asked.
“Do you think she put the bomb on the plane?”
He was not prepared for the question. He blinked his eyes in confusion.
“Do you?” she repeated. “Remember, you’re an honest man.”
“Maybe she did,” he said.
Anne considered this, and then took another sip of coffee. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
“I want to...”
“Understand, Mr. Davis...”
“Milt,” he corrected.
“All right. Understand that I don’t go along with you, not at all. Not knowing my sister. But I’ll answer any of your questions because that’s the only way you’ll see she had nothing to do with it.”
“That’s fair enough,” he said.
“All right, Milt. Fire away.”
“First, what kind of a girl is she?”
“A simple girl. Shy, often awkward. Honest, Milt, very honest. Innocent. I think Tony Radner is the first man she ever kissed.
“Do you come from a wealthy family, Anne?”
“No.”
“How does your sister feel about-“
“About not having a tremendous amount of money?” Anne shrugged. “All right, I suppose. We weren’t destitute, even after Dad died. We always got along very nicely, and I don’t think she ever yearned for anything. What are you driving at, Milt?”
“Would two hundred thousand dollars seem like a lot of money to Alice?”
“Yes,” Anne answered without hesitation. “Two hundred thousand would seem like a lot of money to anyone.”
“Is she easily persuaded? Can she be talked into doing things?”
“Perhaps. I know damn well she couldn’t be talked into putting a bomb on a plane, though.”
“No. But could she be talked into sharing two hundred thousand that was come by through devious means?”
“Why all this concentration on two hundred thousand dollars? Is that an arbitrary sum, or has a bank been robbed in addition to the plane crash?”
“Could she be talked,” Davis persisted, “into drugging another woman?”
“No,” Anne said firmly.
“Could she be talked into forging another woman’s signature on an insurance policy?”
“Alice wouldn’t do anything like that. Not in a million years.”
“But she married Radner. A man without money, a man without a job. Doesn’t that seem like a shaky foundation upon which to build a marriage?”
“Not if the two people are in love.”
“Or unless the two people were going to come into a lot of money shortly.”
Anne said, “You’re making me angry. And just when I was beginning to like you.”
“Then please don’t be angry. I’m just digging, believe me.”
“Well, dig a little more gently, please.”
“What does your sister look like?”
“Fairly pretty, I suppose. Well, not really. I suppose she isn’t pretty, in fact. I never appraised her looks.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
“Yes, I do.”
She put her purse on the table and unclasped it. She pulled out a red leather wallet, unsnapped it, and then removed one of the pictures from the gatefold. “It’s not a good shot,” she apologised.
The girl was not what Davis would have termed pretty. He was surprised, in fact, that she could be Anne’s sister. He studied the black-and-white photograph of a fair-haired girl with a wide forehead, her nose a bit too long, her lips thin. He studied the eyes, but they held the vacuous smile common to all posed snapshots.
“She doesn’t look like your sister,” he said.
“Don’t you think so?”
“No, not at all. You’re much prettier.”
Anne screwed up her eyebrows and studied Davis seriously. “You have blundered upon my secret, Mr. Davis,” she said with mock exaggeration.
“You wear a mask, Miss Trimble,” he said, pointing his finger at her like a prosecuting attorney.
“Almost, but not quite. I visit a remarkable magician known as Antoine. He operates a beauty salon and fender-repair shop. He is responsible for the midnight of my hair and the ripe apple of my lips. He made me what I am today, and now you won’t love me any more.” She brushed away an imaginary tear.
“I’d love you if you were bald and had green lips,” he said, hoping his voice sounded light enough.
“Goodness!” she said, and then she laughed suddenly, a rich, full laugh he enjoyed hearing. “I may very well be bald after a few more tinting sessions with Antoine.”
“May I keep the picture?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she said. “Why?”
“I’m going up to Vegas. I want to find your sister and Radner.”
“Then you’re serious about all this,” she said softly.
“Yes, I am. At least, until I’m convinced otherwise. Anne...”
“Yes?”
“It’s just a job. I...”
“I’m not really worried, you understand. I know you’re wrong about Alice, and Tony, too. So I won’t worry.”
“Good,” he said. “I hope I am wrong.”
She lifted one raven brow, and there was no coyness or archness in the motion. “Will you call me when you get back?”
“Yes,” he said. “Definitely.”
“If I’m out when you call, you can call my next-door neighbour, Freida. She’ll take the message.” She scribbled the number on a sheet of paper. “You will call, won’t you, Milt?”
He covered her hand with his and said, “Try and stop me.”
He went to City Hall right after he left her. He checked on marriage certificates issued on January 6th, and he was not surprised to find that one had been issued to Anthony Louis Radner and Alice May Trimble. He left there and went directly to the airport, making a reservation on the next plane for Las Vegas. Then he headed back for his apartment to pick up his bag.
The door was locked, just as he had left it. He put his key into the lock, twisted it, and then swung the door wide,
“Close it,” MacGregor said.
MacGregor was sitting in the armchair to the left of the door. One hand rested across his wide middle and the other held the familiar .38, and this time it was pointed at Davis’ head. Davis closed the door, and MacGregor said, “Better lock it, Miltie.”
“You’re a bad penny, MacGregor,” Davis said, locking the door.
MacGregor chuckled. “Ain’t it the truth, Miltie?”
“Why are you back, MacGregor? Three strikes and I’m out, is that it?”
“Three...” MacGregor cut himself short, and then grinned broadly. “So you figured the mountain, huh, Miltie.”
“I figured it.”
“I wasn’t aiming at you, you know. I just wanted to scare you off. You don’t scare too easy, Miltie.”
“Who’s paying you, MacGregor?”
“Now, now,” MacGregor said chidingly, waving the gun like an extended forefinger. “That’s a secret now, ain’t it?” Davis watched the way MacGregor moved the gun, and he wondered if he’d repeat the gesture again. It might be worth remembering, for later.
“So what do we do?” he asked.
“We take a little ride, Miltie.”
“Like in the movies, huh? Real melodrama.”
MacGregor scratched his head. “Is a pleasant little ride melodrama?”
“Come on, MacGregor, who hired you?” He poised himself on the balls of his feet, ready to jump the moment MacGregor started wagging the gun again. MacGregor’s hand did not move.
“Don’t let’s be silly, Millie boy,” he said.
“Do you know why you were hired?”
“I was told to see that you dropped the case. That’s enough instructions for me.”
“Do you know that two hundred grand is involved? How much are you getting for handling the sloppy end of the stick?”
MacGregor lifted his eyebrows and then nodded his head. “Two hundred grand, huh?”
“Sure. Do you know there’s a murder involved, MacGregor? Five murders, if you want to get technical. Do you know what it means to be accessory after?”
“Can it, Davis. I’ve been in the game longer than you’re walking.”
“Then you know the score. And you know I can go down to R and I, and identify you from a mug shot. Think about that, MacGregor. It adds up to rock-chopping.”
“Maybe you’ll never get to see a mug shot.”
“Maybe not. But that adds another murder to it. Are they paying you enough for a homicide rap, MacGregor?”
“Little Millie, we’ve talked enough.”
“Maybe we haven’t talked enough yet. Maybe you don’t know that the Feds are in on this thing, and that the Army...”
“Oh, come on, Millie. Come on now, boy. You’re reaching.”
“Am I? Check around, MacGregor. Find out what happens when sabotage is suspected, especially on a plane headed to pick up military personnel. Find out if the Feds aren’t on the scene. And find out what happens when a big-time fools with the government”
“I never done a state pen,” MacGregor said, seemingly hurt. “Don’t call me a big-time.”
“Then why are you juggling a potato as hot as this one? Do you yearn for Quentin, MacGregor? Wise up, friend. You’ve been conned. The gravy is all on the other end of the line. You’re getting all the cold beans, and when it comes time to hang a frame, guess who’ll be it? Give a good guess, MacGregor.”
MacGregor said seriously, “You’re a fast talker.”
“What do you say, MacGregor? How do you feel, playing the boob in a big ante deal? How much are you getting?”
“Four G’s,” MacGregor said. “Plus.”
“Plus what?”
MacGregor smiled the age-old smile of a man who has known a woman and is reluctant to admit it. “Just plus,” he said.
“All right, keep the dough and forget you were hired. You’ve already had the ‘plus,’ and you can keep that as a memory.”
“I’ve only been paid half the dough,” MacGregor said.
“When’s the rest due?”
“When you drop the case.”
“I can’t match it, MacGregor, but I’ll give you a thou for your trouble. You’re getting off easy, believe me. If I don’t crack this, the Feds will, and then you’ll really be in hot water.”
“Yeah,” MacGregor said, nodding.
“You’ll forget it then?”
“Where’s the G-note?”
Davis reached for his wallet on the dresser. “Who hired you, MacGregor?” He looked up, and MacGregor’s smile had widened now.
“I’ll take it all, Millie.”
“Huh?”
“All of it.” MacGregor waved the gun. “Everything in the wallet. Come on.”
“You are a jackass, aren’t you?” Davis said. He fanned out the money in the wallet, and then held it out to MacGregor. MacGregor reached for it, and Davis loosened his grip, and the bills began fluttering towards the floor.
MacGregor grabbed for them with his free hand, turning sideways at the same time, taking the gun off Davis.
It had to be then, and it had to be right, because the talking game was over and MacGregor wasn’t buying anything.
Davis leaped, ramming his shoulder against the fat man’s chest. MacGregor staggered back, and then swung his arm around just as Davis’ fingers clamped on his wrist. He did not fire, and Davis knew he probably didn’t want to bring the apartment house down around his ears.
They staggered across the room in a clumsy embrace, like partners at a dance school for beginners. Davis had both hands on MacGregor’s gun wrist now, and the fat man swung his arm violently, trying to shake the grip. They didn’t speak or curse. MacGregor grunted loudly each time he swung his arm, and Davis’ breath was audible as it rushed through his parted lips. He did not loosen his grip. He forced MacGregor across the room, and when the fat man’s back was against the wall Davis began methodically smashing the gun hand against the plaster.
“Drop it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Drop it.”
He hit the wall with MacGregor’s hand again, and this time the fingers opened and the gun clattered to the floor. Davis stepped back for just an instant, kicking the gun across the room, and then rushed forward with his fist clenched.
He felt his fist sink into the flesh around MacGregor’s middle. The fat man’s face went white, and then he buckled over, his arms embracing his stomach. Davis dropped his fist and then brought it up from his shoe-laces, catching MacGregor on the point of his jaw. MacGregor lurched backward, slamming into the wall, knocking a picture to the floor. Davis hit him once more, and MacGregor pitched forward onto his face. He wriggled once, and was still.
Davis stood over him, breathing hard. He waited until he caught his breath, and then he glanced at his watch.
Quickly, he picked up the .38 from where it lay on the floor. He broke it open, checked the load, and then brought it to his suitcase, laying it on top of his shirts.
He snapped the suitcase shut, called the police to tell them he’d just subdued a burglar in his apartment, and then left to catch his Las Vegas plane.

He started with the hotels. He started with the biggest ones.
“Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner,” he said. “Are they registered here?”
The clerks all looked the same.
“Radner, Radner. The name doesn’t sound familiar, but I’ll check, sir.”
Then the shifting of the ledger, the turning of pages, the signatures, largely scrawled, and usually illegible.
“No, sir, I’m sorry. No Radner.”
“Perhaps you’d recognise the woman, if I showed you her picture?”
“Well...” The apologetic cough. “Well, we get an awful lot of guests, sir.”
And the fair-haired girl emerging from the wallet. The black and white, stereotyped photograph of Alice Trimble, and the explanation, “She’s a newlywed-with her husband.”
“We get a lot of newly weds, sir.”
The careful scrutiny of the head shot, the tilting of one eyebrow, the picture held at arm’s length, then closer.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t recognise her. Why don’t you try...?”
He tried them all, all the hotels, and then all the rooming houses, and then all the motor courts. They were all very sorry. They had no Radners registered, and couldn’t identify the photograph.
So he started making the rounds then. He lingered at the machines, feeding quarters into the slots, watching the orange and lemons and cherries whirl before his eyes, but never watching them too closely, always watching the place instead, looking for the elusive woman named Alice Trimble Radner.
Or he sat at the bars, nursing along endless scotches, his eyes fastened to the mirrors that commanded the entrance doorways. He was bored, and he was tired, but he kept watching, and he began making the rounds again as dusk tinted the sky, and the lights of the city flicked their siren song on the air.
He picked up the newspaper by chance. He flipped through it idly, and he almost turned the page, even after he’d read the small head: FATAL ACCIDENT.
The item was a very small one. It told of a Pontiac convertible with defective brakes which had crashed through the guard rail on the highway, killing its occupant instantly. The occupant’s name was Anthony Radner. There was no mention of Alice in the article.
Little Alice Trimble, Davis thought. A simple girl. Shy, often awkward. Honest.
Murder is a simple thing. All it involves is killing another person or persons. You can be shy and awkward, and even honest-but that doesn’t mean you can’t be a murderer besides. So what is it that takes a simple girl like Alice Trimble and transforms her into a murderess?
Figure it this way. Figure a louse named Tony Radner who sees a way of striking back at the girl who jilted him and coming in to a goodly chunk of dough besides. Figure a lot of secret conversation, a pile of carefully planned moves. Figure a wedding, planned to coincide with the day of the plotted murder, so the murderers can be far away when the bomb they planted explodes.
Radner gets to see Janet Carruthers on some pretext, perhaps a farewell drink to show there are no hard feelings. This is his wedding day, and he introduces her to his bride, Alice Trimble. They share a drink, perhaps, but the drink is loaded and Janet suddenly feels very woozy. They help her to the airport, and they stow the bomb in her valise. None of the pilots know Radner. The only bad piece of luck is the fact that the fire-warning system is acting up, and a mechanic named Mangione recognises him. But that’s part of the game.
He helps her aboard and then goes back to his loving wife, Alice. They hop the next plane for Vegas, and when the bomb explodes they’re far, far away. They get the news from the papers, file claim, and come into two hundred thousand bucks.
Just like falling off Pier 8.
Except that it begins to get sour about there. Except that maybe Alice Trimble likes the big time now. Two hundred G’s is a nice little pile. Why share it?
So Tony Radner meets with an accident. If he’s not insured, the two hundred grand is still Alice’s. If he is insured, there’s more for her.
The little girl has made her debut. The shy, awkward thing has emerged.
Portrait of a killer.
Davis went back to the newsstand, bought copies of all the local newspapers and then went back to the hotel.
When he was in his room, he called room service and asked for a tall scotch, easy on the ice. He took off his shoes and threw himself on the bed.
The drink came, and he went back to the bed again.
The easy part was over, of course. The hard part was still ahead. He still had to tell Anne about it, and he’d give his right arm not to have that task ahead of him. Alice Trimble? The police would find her. She’d probably left Vegas the moment Radner piled up the Pontiac. She was an amateur, and it wouldn’t be too hard to find her. But telling Anne, that was the difficult thing.
Davis sat upright, took a long swallow of the scotch, and then swung his stockinged feet to the floor. He walked to the pile of newspapers on the dresser, picked them up, and carried them back to the bed.
He thumbed through the first one until he found the item about Radnor’s accident. It was a small notice, and it was basically the same as the one he’d read. It did add that Alice Trimble was on her honeymoon, and that she had come from San Francisco where she lived with her sister.
He leafed through the second newspaper, scanning the story quickly. Again, basically the same facts. Radner had taken the car for a spin. Alice hadn’t gone along because of a headache. The accident had been attributed to faulty brakes, and there was speculation that Alice might have grounds for suit, if she cared to press charges, against the dealer who’d sold them the car.
The third newspaper really did a bang-up job. They treated the accident as a human-interest piece, playing up the newly-wed angle. They gave it the tearful head, “FATE CHEATS BRIDE,” and then went on to wring the incident dry. There was also a picture of Alice Trimble leaving the coroner’s office. She was raising her hand to cover her face when the picture had been taken. It was a good shot, close up, clear. The caption read: Tearful Alice Radner, leaving the coroner’s office after identifying the body of her husband Anthony Radner.
Davis did not notice any tears on Alice Trimble’s face.
He looked at the photograph again.
He sat erect and took a long gulp of his scotch, and then he brought the newspaper closer to his face and stared at the picture for a long time.
And he suddenly remembered something important he’d forgotten to ask Anne about her sister. Something damned important. So important he nearly broke his neck getting to the phone.
He asked long distance for Anne’s number, and then let the phone ring for fifteen minutes before he gave up. He remembered the alternate number she’d given him then, the one belonging to Freida, the girl next door. He fished the scrap of paper out of his wallet, studying the number in Anne’s handwriting, recalling their conversation in the restaurant. He got long distance to work again, and the phone was picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Freida?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Milt Davis. You don’t know me, but Anne said I could leave a message here if...”
“Oh, yes. Anne’s told me all about you, Mr. Davis.”
“Well, good, good. I just tried to phone her, and there was no answer. I wonder if you know where I can reach her?”
“Why, yes,” Freida said. “She’s in Las Vegas.”
“What!”
“Yes. Her brother-in-law was killed in a car crash there. She...”
“You mean she’s here? Now?”
“Well, I suppose so. She caught a plane early this evening. Yes, I’m sure she’s there by now. Her sister called, you see. Alice. She called and asked Anne to come right away. Terrible thing, her husband getting killed like...”
“Oh, Christ!” Davis said. He thought for a moment and then asked, “Did she say where I could reach her?”
“Yes. Just a moment.”
Freida put the phone down with a clatter, and Davis waited impatiently. By the time she returned, he was ready to start chewing the mouthpiece.
“What’s the address?” he asked.
“It’s outside of Las Vegas. A rooming house. Alice and Tony were lucky to get such a nice...”
“Please, the address!”
“Well, all right,” Freida said, a little miffed. She read off the address and Davis scribbled it quickly. He said goodbye, and hung up immediately. There was no time for checking plane schedules now. No time for finding out which plane Anne had caught out of Frisco, nor for finding out what time it had arrived in Vegas.
There was only time to tuck MacGregor’s .38 into the waistband of his trousers and then run like hell down to the street. He caught a cab and reeled off the address, and then sat on the edge of his seat while the lights of Vegas dimmed behind him.
When the cabbie pulled up in front of the clapboard structure, he gave him a fiver and then leaped out of the car. He ran up the front steps and pulled the door pull, listening to steps approaching inside. A white-haired woman opened the door, and Davis said, “Alice Radner. Where?”
“Upstairs, but who...?”
Davis shoved the woman aside and started up the flight of steps, not looking back. There was a door at the top of the stairwell, and he rapped on it loudly. When he received no answer, he shouted, “I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door!”
The door opened instantly, and Davis found himself looking into the bore of a .22.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice said softly.
“Where is she?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I had to tie her and gag her. She raised a bit of a fuss when she got here.”
He stepped into the room, and she closed the door behind him. Anne was lying on the bed, her hands tied behind her, a scarf stuffed in her mouth. He made a move toward her and the voice carne from the doorway, cool and crisp.
“Leave her alone.”
“Why?” Davis said. “It’s all over now, anyway.
She smiled, but there was no mirth in her eyes. “You should have stayed out of it. From the very beginning.”
“Everybody’s been telling me that,” Davis said. “Right from go.”
“You should have paid more attention to them, Mr. Davis. All this might have been avoided then.”
“All what?”
She did not answer. She opened the door again, and called, “It’s all
right, Mrs. Mulready. He’s a friend of mine.” Then she slammed the door and bolted it.
“That takes care of her,” she said, the .22 steady in her hand. She was a beautiful woman with a pale complexion and blue eyes set against the ivory of her skin. She stared at Davis solemnly.
“It all seemed out of whack,” Davis said, “but I didn’t know just where. It all pointed to Tony Radner and Alice Trimble, but I couldn’t conceive of her as a murderess. Sure, I figured Tony led her into it. A woman in love can be talked into anything. But when I learned about Tony’s accident here, a new Alice Trimble took shape. Not the gal who was talked into anything, and not the gal who’d do anything for love. This new Alice Trimble was a cold-blooded killer, a murderess who...”
Davis saw Anne’s eyes widen. She struggled to speak.
“Anne,” he said, “tell me something. Was your sister a redhead?”
Anne nodded dumbly, and he saw the confused look that stabbed her eyes. It was then that he realised he’d unconsciously used the past tense in talking about her sister.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry as hell, Anne.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “Alice is dead.”
It was almost as if he’d struck her. She flinched, and then a strangled cry tried to shove its way past the gag.
“Believe me,” he said, “I’m sorry. I...” He wiped his hand across his lips and then said, “I never thought to ask. About her hair, I mean. Hell, I had her picture and that was all I needed to identify her. I’m... I’m sorry, Anne.”
He saw the tears spring into her eyes, and he went to her in spite of the .22 that was still pointed at him. He ripped the gag from her mouth, and she said, “I don’t understand. I... what... what do you mean?”
“Alice left you on the sixth,” he said, “to meet Tony Radner, allegedly to marry him. She didn’t know about the trap that had been planned by Tony and Janet Carruthers.”
Anne took her eyes from Davis and looked at the .22 in the woman’s hand. “Is... is that who...”
“Janet Carruthers,” Davis said, “who wanted to be free of her husband more than anything else in the world. But not at the expense of cutting herself off without a cent. So she and Tony figured it all out, and they started looking for a redhead who would take the hook. Your sister came along, starry-eyed and innocent, and Radner led her to the chopping block.”
Davis paused and turned to the redhead with the gun. “I can fill it in, if you like. A lot of guessing, but I think I’m right.”
“Go ahead,” Janet said. “Fill it in.”
“Sure. Alice met Tony as scheduled on the day they were to be married. He probably suggested a drink in celebration, drugged her, and then took her some place to get her into some of your clothes. He drove her to the airport because your signature was necessary on the insurance policy. You insured Alice, who was now in Janet Carruthers’ clothing, with Janet Carruthers’ identification in case anything was left of her after the crash, for two hundred thousand dollars. And Janet Carruthers’ beneficiaries were Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radnor. You knew that Nick would be on the DC-4, but outside of him, no one else on the plane knew what you looked like. It would be simple to substitute Alice for you. You left the airport, probably to go directly to City Hall to wait for Tony. Tony waited until Nick took a pilot up on a test, and then he brought Alice to the plane, dumped her into her seat, with the bomb in her suitcase, and left to meet you. You got married shortly after the DC-4 took off. You used Alice Trimble’s name, and most likely the identification-if it was needed-that Tony had taken from her. The switch had been completed, and you were now Mrs. Radner. You flew together to Las Vegas, and as soon as the DC-4 crashed, you made your claim for the two hundred G’s.”
“You’re right except for the drug, Mr. Davis. That would have been overdoing it a bit.”
“All right, granted. What’d Tony do, just get her too damned drunk to walk or know what was going on?”
“Exactly. Her wedding day, you know. It wasn’t difficult.”
Davis heard a sob catch in Anne’s throat. He glanced at her briefly and then said to Janet, “Did Tony know he was going to be driving into a pile of rocks?”
Janet smiled. “Poor Tony. No, I’m afraid he didn’t know. That part was all my idea. Even down to stripping the brakes. Tony never knew what hit him.”
“Neither did all the people on that DC-4. It was a long way to go for a lousy hunk of cash,” Davis said. “Was Tony insured, too?”
“Yes,” Janet said, “but not for much.” She smiled. “Enough, though.”
Davis nodded. “One after the other, right down the line. And then you sent for Anne because she was the only living person who could know you were not Alice Trimble. And it had to be fast, especially after that picture appeared in the Las Vegas paper.”
“Was that how you found out?” she asked.
“Exactly how. The picture was captioned Alice Radner but the girl didn’t match the one in the photo I had. Then I began thinking about the colour of Alice’s hair, which I knew was light, and it got clear as a bell.” He shook his head sadly. “I still don’t know how you hoped to swing it. You obviously sent for Anne because you were afraid someone would recognise you in Frisco. Hell, someone would have recognised you sooner or later, anyway.”
“In Mexico?” Janet asked. “Or South America? I doubt it. Two hundred thousand can do a lot outside of this country, Mr. Davis. Plus what I’ll get on Tony’s death. I’ll manage nicely, don’t you worry.” She smiled pleasantly.
Davis smiled back. “Go ahead,” he said. “Shoot. And then try to explain the shots to your landlady.”
Janet Carruthers walked to the dresser, keeping the gun on Davis. “I hadn’t wanted to do it here,” she said, shrugging. “I was going to take Miss Trimble away after everyone was asleep. You’re forcing my hand, though.” She opened a drawer and came out with a long, narrow cylinder. The cylinder had holes punched into its sides, and Davis knew a silencer when he saw one. He saw Janet fitting the silencer to the end of the .22 and he saw the dull gleam in her eyes and knew it was time to move. He threw back his coat and reached for the .38 in his waistband. The .22 went off with a sharp pouff and he felt the small bullet rip into his shoulder. But he’d squeezed the trigger of the .38 and he saw her arm jerk as his larger bullet tore flesh and bone. Her fingers opened, and the silenced gun fell to the floor.
Her face twisted in pain. She closed her eyes, and he kicked the gun away, and then she began swearing. She kept swearing when he took her good arm and twisted it behind her back.
He heard footsteps rushing up the stairs, and then the landlady shouted. “What is it? What is it?”
“Get the police!” he yelled through the closed door. “Get them fast.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Janet said. “This will kill my father.”
Davis looked over to where Anne sat sobbing on the bed. He wanted to go to her and clasp her into his arms, but there would be time for that later.
“My father...” Janet started.
“Your father still has Nick,” Davis said, “and his porcelain.” His shoulder ached, and the trickle of blood down his jacket front was not pleasant to watch. He paused and lifted his eyes to Janet’s. “That’s all your father ever had.”