The Treasure Hunt of the _S-18_
By
Graham M. Dean
THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1934
The Goldsmith Publishing Company
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
1. The Man of Mystery
2. A Secret Service Case
3. The High Flyers
4. The Mad Pursuit
5. Death Rides the Air
6. Another Visitor
7. On the Trail of "Mr. Seven"
8. A Sudden Attack
9. In the Valley
10. "Mr. Seven's" Secret
11. Rescue from the Air
12. Against Time
13. Eastward Bound
14. The _S-18_
15. An Unknown Intruder
16. The First Test
17. On the Bottom
18. The Missing Cook
19. The Warning Note
20. Isle of the Singing Trees
21. The Battle with the _Iron Mate_
22. Trapped
23. Desperate Hours
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Treasure Hunt of the _S-18_
CHAPTER ONE
The Man of Mystery
The high pitched drone of a wasp engine sounded over the municipal
field at Atkinson and Tim Murphy, famous flying reporter of the
Atkinson _News_, poked a grease-smudged face out from behind the
cowling of a trim biplane and squinted skyward. Against the brilliant
sky of the late summer afternoon was the outline of one of the new high
speed transports of the Red Arrow Transcontinental Air Express Company.
The _Day Express_, Chicago to the west coast, was swinging around,
preparatory to landing on the smooth, crushed-rock runway. Tim watched
with appreciative eyes. The new transports, capable of winging their
way from coast to coast at better than three miles a minute, always
fascinated him. He envied the trim, clear-eyed young chaps who sat at
the controls while they in turn would have been willing to exchange
their daily routine for the adventurous news assignments which often
came Tim's way.
The twin motors, mounted in nacelles projecting from the sturdy wing,
idled as the ship drifted downward to touch lightly on the runway and
roll smoothly toward the main hangar.
"Star gazing again?" asked a quiet voice at Tim's elbow.
The flying reporter turned quickly. Carl Hunter, manager of the
airport, was beside him.
"I always get a thrill watching those high speeds come in. There's
something in it that gets into my blood and makes it tingle."
"They're the finest transport planes in the world," nodded Hunter.
"I'd like to fly one of them," mused Tim.
Hunter looked at Tim shrewdly. The flying reporter was slender but his
muscles were like tensed steel. His blue eyes were clear and
unwavering. There was a pleasant twist to his lips but from experience
the field manager knew that they could snap into an uncompromising line
of determination.
"I'll get you a job on the Transcontinental any day you want one," he
said. "Come over to my office and fill out the application blank."
"That would mean leaving the _News_," said Tim. Then, as Hunter grinned
broadly, he added, "I guess the smell of printer's ink is stronger than
the call of the skyways. I'm a reporter first and a flyer second."
"I wouldn't rank either of your abilities ahead of the other. You're
first class at both."
"Thanks, Carl. That reminds me. Have one of the boys finish up this
job. Give all of the plugs a good cleaning. I'd almost forgotten I've
got another column to write for my department in tomorrow's paper."
"I'll make out a work ticket right away."
Tim slipped out of his jumper and followed the field manager toward the
main hangar. The usual crowd of curious people was lined up inside the
ropes to watch the passengers as they disembarked. Tim, always on the
lookout, scanned them as they came down the steps from the plane.
Two attractive girls were first. They looked as though they might be
movie actresses. He'd check the passenger list with the stewardess to
make sure. An actress was always worth a paragraph or two.
The last man to leave the ship drew Tim's attention. There was
something vaguely familiar in the carriage of the head and the set of
the jaw.
The stewardess came by and Tim hailed her. "Who's the tall, well-built
fellow in the gray suit?" he asked.
The girl scanned the passenger list.
"Sorry, I can't tell you. He isn't listed."
"What do you mean by that? Is he traveling on a pass?"
"Hardly. I collected his fare in Chicago and he's getting off here."
"Then you must know his name."
"He didn't give me his name and instructions from the general manager
were to do as he directed so I've listed him on my seat chart as 'Mr.
Seven.' That's the chair he occupied on the trip out."
Tim thanked the stewardess and hurried into Carl Hunter's office.
"Who's the mysterious man who came in on the _Day Express_?"
"He's just as mysterious to me as he is to you," replied the field
chief. "Why don't you ask him what it's all about? I've had a radio
from the general manager to extend him every courtesy and not to ask
questions, but I guess that doesn't cover you."
"Asking questions is one of the things I do best," grinned Tim as he
left the office.
"Mr. Seven" was superintending the unloading of his luggage from the
plane. Three large traveling bags were pulled out of the baggage
compartment and Tim whistled as he thought of the excess fees which
must have been paid for the transport of the heavy bags by air.
When "Mr. Seven" had made sure that his baggage was in proper order,
Tim stepped up.
"I'm Tim Murphy of the Atkinson _News_," he said. "Your face seems
vaguely familiar but I can't place your name. Since you are stopping
here, I'd like very much to have a story."
"Sorry, Murphy, but there's nothing I can tell you. I prefer not to
talk to reporters."
Tim was undaunted. "Do you plan on staying long in Atkinson?"
"That's another question I decline to answer." The muscles around the
stranger's jaw were tightening and Tim sensed stormy weather ahead.
Normally he would have let the whole matter drop but there was
something so definitely perplexing in the other man's attitude that he
persisted in his questioning.
"You must have some special mission here," said Tim.
"I told you before that I wouldn't talk. You can fire away with
questions all the rest of the afternoon and you'll get the same
result--zero. Now if you'll be good enough to suggest your best hotel,
I'll be on my way up town."
Tim named the city's leading hotel. "I'll be glad to take you there in
one of the _News_' cars," he added.
"Thanks, but I'd have to parry too many of your questions."
"It's a draw so far," smiled Tim, "but I'll bet I know your name before
another 24 hours, 'Mr. Seven.'"
"Why call me 'Mr. Seven?'"
"That's what the stewardess did. You were in chair seven coming out
from Chicago."
"It's as good a name as any other."
"Except your real one," interjected Tim.
"Mr. Seven" bundled his bags into a taxi and whirled away toward the
city while Tim stood on the ramp and gazed after the car.
"That fellow's face is familiar," he muttered half aloud, "and I'm
going to dig into our files at the office until I find his picture.
Unless my hunch is way wrong, there must be a big story connected with
him."
Tim's hunches were notoriously right and just how correct this one was,
even Tim would never have dared dream.
CHAPTER TWO
A Secret Service Case
When Tim reached the _News_ office he found a note rolled into his
typewriter asking him to see the managing editor. He crossed the large
news room and knocked at the glass-panelled door which bore the printed
words, "George Carson, Managing Editor."
"Come in," boomed a voice from behind the door and Tim stepped into the
office. "You wanted to see me?"
"Sit down, Tim," smiled the sandy-haired editor who guided the
destinies of the _News_. He motioned toward a chair.
"I've had some correspondence with Ace McDowell of the High Flyers, a
flying circus that is rated one of the best in the country. He wants to
bring his show in here this week-end under the auspices of the _News_.
What do you think about it?"
"I've never met Ace or any of his fliers," replied Tim, "but they have
the reputation of putting on a good air show."
"It struck me as rather a good idea," went on the managing editor. "We
could give the show a lot of space in the _News_ and it would help
popularize the airport. Some people are kicking about the taxes they
have to pay to help support the field. Do you think you could arrange
things with Carl Hunter so the show can come in Saturday afternoon and
put on their stunts Sunday? Of course they'll be carrying passengers
between stunt flights."
"I'll call Hunter at once," promised Tim.
He left the managing editor's office and placed the call from one of
the telephones in the editorial room.
"I've no objections to the High Flyers," the airport manager said, "but
they'll have to pay the field the usual percentage for taking up
passengers."
"I'll put that in the contract," promised Tim. "Keep this under your
hat for I wouldn't want the _Advance_ to print the story of our own air
show first."
"I'll forget all about it until I read your story tomorrow," promised
Hunter.
Tim returned to the managing editor's office.
"Hunter has no objections but the High Flyers must pay the field
fifteen per cent of all the money they take in on passenger rides.
That's the customary percentage for barnstormers."
The managing editor had the contract from the High Flyers on his desk
and Tim, at his suggestion, filled out the blank.
"I'll telegraph McDowell that we will expect them to land here
Saturday," said Carson. "They're over at Charleston this week."
"You might ask him to send on any pictures of the flyers and planes
that are available," suggested Tim.
When Tim left the managing editor's office he knew he was in for a busy
week. There would be stories every day about the flying circus and then
the problems of parking and policing the airport, for a huge crowd
would be on hand to see the stunt flying.
"Get the Jupiter all tuned up?" asked someone behind him.
Tim turned to face Ralph Graves, another _News_ reporter who had been
his flying companion on many an adventure. Two years before when news
had been breaking fast on the skyways, Tim had trained Ralph in flying
and the other reporter now held a transport license. They were bosom
companions and their managing editor counted on them coming in with any
story to which they were assigned.
"I didn't get all of the plugs cleaned," said Tim, "so I'm having the
boys at the field finish the job."
"What's on Carson's mind?" asked Ralph, jerking a thumb toward the
managing editor's door.
"He's just contracted to sponsor the appearance here of Ace McDowell
and the High Flyers. They'll be in Saturday and put on their stunts
Sunday afternoon."
"Which means plenty of work for us," commented Ralph.
"It will mean plenty of work but it will have everyone talking about
the _News_ being alive and wide awake and that's what we want. The
_Advance_ is slipping every day and some morning this fall I wouldn't
be surprised if we wake up and find that our rival paper has folded up
and, like the Arabs, silently stolen away."
"That won't hurt my feelings a bit," said Ralph. "The fellows on the
_Advance_ have made it mighty tough for us these last few months. They
lie, cheat and steal to get their stories and I've run into some actual
bribery."
"So have I, but it won't win for them in the long run. I'm glad we're
working for a paper and an editor that's clean from top to bottom."
Returning to his desk, Tim rummaged through the drawers until he found
an aviation magazine which contained an illustrated sketch of Ace
McDowell and his flying circus. McDowell was short and swarthy with
eyes that were a little too close together to suit Tim. But the _News_
reporter knew that the head of the flying circus was a real flyer and
would put on a good show. There was no sense in building up a prejudice
just from a picture.
Tim rolled a sheet of copy paper into his typewriter and after a
moment's thought on the wording of his opening sentence, started
hammering out the story announcing the coming of the flying circus. By
the use of plenty of adjectives he contrived to write a full column
and, after reading over the story and correcting one or two minor
errors, he laid it on the copy desk.
Dan Watkins, veteran head of the desk, looked up from beneath his green
eye-shade.
"Good story?" he asked.
"One of the best you'll ever read when it comes to writing a lot from a
little," grinned Tim. "As a matter of fact, Dan, we're promoting an air
circus next Sunday and I have a hunch that Mr. Carson will want a full
page headline on one of the inside pages tomorrow."
The chief copyreader scanned the story with practiced eye.
"I should say your hunch is correct. I'll mark it for an inside banner
right now."
The chief copyreader was the only one at the large desk and Tim sat
down on the edge of the horseshoe-shaped work table.
"I wish you had been at the airport this afternoon," he said. "You've
an uncanny memory for faces and names and it would have come in handy."
"See someone you couldn't place?"
"There's something vaguely familiar about him. I've seen his picture
some place and I've a hunch there's a mighty good story connected with
his coming to Atkinson."
"You can always ask them questions," grinned Dan.
"I asked plenty of questions and didn't get a thing."
"Wouldn't he talk?"
"He talked but he didn't say anything. I tried the stewardess and also
Carl Hunter but both of them had received instructions from the general
manager of the line in Chicago to extend this man every courtesy and do
as he directed. The stewardess had him down as 'Mr. Seven' because he
occupied chair seven coming out. When I tackled him about that he said
that 'Mr. Seven' was a good enough name. I couldn't make a dent in him.
He's smooth as silk and as hard as steel."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know exactly. I'll try to keep tab on him at the Ransom House
where he is staying but with this flying circus coming to town I won't
have much extra time. I'm going to dig into the files and see what I
can find there. I'm positive I've seen his picture in the last year."
"I'll trail along over to the hotel with you if you'd like. Maybe I
could identify him. I've got one of those card index memories."
"I thought maybe you'd help me out, Dan. We'll have a try at it after
supper. I'll meet you at the Ransom House."
Tim and Ralph had dinner together down town and Tim told of his meeting
the mysterious "Mr. Seven."
"Sounds like a story to me," chuckled Ralph, "and I'll be way wrong if
you don't dig it out. Guess I'll invite myself in on the party tonight
and trail over to the Ransom House with you."
"Glad to have you. Maybe you'll be able to identify my mysterious
stranger."
They discussed plans for the flying circus and after leaving the
restaurant proceeded to the city's leading hotel. Dan Watkins was
waiting for them in the lobby.
"I'll see what name he registered under," said Dan. Inquiry at the desk
revealed that the object of Dan's curiosity had registered as Mr. G.
Seven of Chicago.
"He's in the dining room," said Tim when he rejoined his companions.
"We might as well sit down here. He'll have to pass almost directly in
front of us, which will give Dan a good chance to see him."
"If Dan can't identify him, I'll be glad to help you go through the
files," offered Ralph.
"Thanks. With all of the details necessary in arranging for the flying
circus I'll be glad to have a little extra help. Look sharp now. Here
comes our man."
"Mr. Seven" was dressed in the same well-tailored suit he had worn when
he stepped out of the _Day Express_ and into the life of the flying
reporter. He walked slowly from the dining room toward the elevators in
full view of the sharp eyes of the newspapermen. They watched the
elevator doors close and turned to pool the results.
Dan Watkins shook his head.
"I'm afraid I'm of no help. There's something definitely familiar about
the face but I can't place the name. Maybe it will come to me later."
Tim swung around to Ralph. "What about you?"
"I'm just another disappointment and in the same fix as Dan. 'Mr.
Seven's' face is familiar but that's as far as it goes. His name is
among the missing."
"If 'Mr. Seven' will only stay around until this air circus is over
Sunday I'll find out what's behind his mysterious coming to Atkinson,"
said Tim, who felt that "Mr. Seven" had challenged his ability as a
reporter.
On leaving the hotel, they parted, the chief copy reader returning to
his bachelor headquarters and Tim and Ralph going to the _News_
building where they hauled out files of the paper and spread the
heavily-bound books on their desks.
"We'd better check together," suggested Tim. "Then there will be no
chance of our missing a single tip."
For an hour they poured over one volume, scanning each page and
watching with especial care the picture page which was a daily feature.
"I'm too sleepy to go on," said Tim when the city hall clock chimed
eleven times. "Being outdoors most of the afternoon working on the
plane gave me a yen for bed even though I want to keep on digging into
the file. I might go right on over the very picture I'm looking for."
Ralph picked up a telephone and called the Ransom House, where he
ascertained from the clerk on duty that Mr G. Seven had indicated he
would be a guest there for at least a week.
Relaying that information on to Tim, Ralph added, "Now you can go to
bed tonight and sleep soundly."
They had just finished putting away the files when the door of the
editorial room swung open and a stranger walked in. He was middle aged,
with close-cropped, iron-gray hair, piercing blue eyes and large,
capable hands.
"I'm looking for Tim Murphy and Ralph Graves, flying reporters of the
_News_" he said.
"I'm Murphy," said Tim, "and my companion is Ralph Graves."
"Then I'm fortunate to find you together. My card may give you some
idea of what I want."
Tim took the engraved piece of pasteboard and read the following words:
"Henry Prentiss, United States Bureau of Narcotics."
"I'm glad to know you, Mr. Prentiss," said Tim, "but I'm afraid your
card hasn't given me any clue on what you're here for."
"I understand the High Flyers and Ace McDowell are going to put on
their air circus here Sunday under the auspices of the _News_."
"That's correct, but no announcement has been made yet."
"Then you're likely to have two stories for your paper next Monday, the
actual story of the flying circus and the story of the arrest of Ace
McDowell as the head of a notorious ring of dope smugglers."
CHAPTER THREE
The High Flyers
The federal narcotic agent sat down on the edge of Tim's desk and
smiled at the amazed expressions on the faces of the flying reporters.
"Do you mean that you are going to arrest McDowell on a charge of
smuggling dope?" asked Tim.
"I'm going to do my best to take him in custody. He's a slippery
customer but I think we've got all the evidence we need this time."
"What a sensation this will make," whistled Ralph.
Tim was thoughtful. "It's too bad the _News_ is sponsoring the
appearance of the High Flyers if their leader is to be arrested on a
federal charge," he said.
"I'm afraid it's too late to make any changes now," said Mr. Prentiss.
"As a matter of fact, it will make a stronger story for, even though
you are now aware of McDowell's identity, you will go on and help a
federal law enforcement agency to carry out its duty."
"You're right on that point," agreed Tim. "I'm sure that the _News_
will do all in its power to help you."
"I'm wondering why you looked us up," said Ralph. "You could just as
well have waited until Sunday."
"True enough," nodded the narcotics agent, "but I know that both you
and Murphy, as a result of your efforts toward the apprehension of the
Sky Hawk and his gang, were made officers of the state police. I may
need a little official help Sunday and I want men I can trust in an
emergency."
It was a fine compliment to the undaunted courage of the young
newspaper men and it pleased them both. Prentiss had made warm friends
and allies on whom he could count in any emergency.
"McDowell has been smuggling for a long time," went on the federal
agent. "We've been after him for two years but he's a shrewd flyer and
a shrewder smuggler. It wasn't until I got one of my own men into his
outfit that I commenced to get results."
"You've actually got one of your agents flying with McDowell?" asked
Ralph.
"He's rated the next best flyer in the outfit, Tommy Larkin, by name."
"I've heard of him," said Tim, "but I never dreamed he was a federal
agent."
"Neither does McDowell or I'm very much afraid Tommy would be among the
missing."
"Meaning what?" asked Ralph.
"That it would be comparatively easy for McDowell to arrange a crack-up
of Tommy's plane somewhere on a long hop if he ever became suspicious."
"That would be unthinkable," said Tim.
"Not for McDowell. You might as well realize right now that he is ready
to go to any length to save himself from arrest. According to
information from Larkin, McDowell will receive a new shipment of drugs
just before they take off from Charleston on their flight here.
McDowell is to keep it in his ship until they reach Nemaha, their next
stop after they finish their exhibition in Atkinson. That means
McDowell will have the stuff on his ship for at least 24 hours. He
flies a four passenger cabin plane most of the time but for one of the
stunts he goes aloft in a fast two-seater. That's when I'll have a
chance to seize the dope in his cabin ship and take him when he lands."
"Sounds fine if nothing slips," nodded Tim.
"There'll be no slips this time," promised the federal agent.
They discussed plans for the apprehension of McDowell at length and
before he left the office, Prentiss promised to see the managing editor
the next day.
"I'm counting on you two to be with me Sunday," he said before leaving.
"There might be a leak if I called in the local police or even some of
the state troopers at the barracks here."
When the narcotics officer had gone, Ralph wiped his brow and slumped
down in the chair at his own desk.
"Talk about news," he said. "Things never come singly in a newspaper
office. First you bob in with the mysterious Mr. Seven, then we put on
an air show and now we find the head of the air circus is wanted by
Uncle Sam for peddling dope. What next?"
"Learn the identity of 'Mr. Seven,'" grinned Tim.
"You can worry over that one," snorted Ralph. "It's almost midnight
now. I'm going home and I expect I'll have all kinds of nightmares."
"If you suddenly discover the identity of 'Mr. Seven' I'll be glad to
answer the phone even if it is three in the morning," said Tim.
"Just for that, I won't phone you even if I do suddenly open some
hidden recess in my brain and recall who he is." Ralph threw the words
over his shoulder as he left the editorial room.
Tim picked up the aviation magazine which contained the picture of the
High Flyers and looked again at the printed likeness of Ace McDowell.
The eyes were cruel, hard, merciless. Even on the inanimate page there
was something disturbing about them. Next to McDowell was the picture
of Tommy Larkin. He was about the age of Tim or Ralph, stocky and
well-built.
Tim placed the magazine back in one of the drawers, snapped off the
light, and left the office. As Ralph had observed, things never came
singly, and Tim felt a weight of apprehension settling on his shoulders.
The next morning a board of strategy met in the office of the managing
editor. Grouped around the table facing the heads of the _News_ were
the narcotics officer, Tim and Ralph.
"Of course we'll help in every way possible," the managing editor
assured Prentiss. "You can rely upon Tim and Ralph to give you the
utmost assistance and you'll not find their courage wanting in the
pinches."
"That's why I came to them," smiled Prentiss. "I need two men on whom I
can count."
In the rush of plans and details which had to be worked out for the
coming of the High Flyers, Tim was forced to relegate thoughts of "Mr.
Seven" in the far depths of his mind. He managed to drop in at the
Ransom House once a day to check on the presence of the mysterious
stranger and each time learned that the object of his interest was
still in Atkinson.
The High Flyers arrived late Saturday afternoon, wheeling down out of a
cloudless sky. There were eight ships, three mechanics and two stunt
men. Six of the planes were trim, modern crafts but two of them were
old trainers that should have been on the junk heap long ago. Tim was
surprised to see that type of craft.
By agreement, Prentiss had stayed away from the field for McDowell knew
him by sight.
As soon as the ships had rolled up oh the ramp, Tim stepped out to
greet McDowell. The head of the High Flyers was even shorter and
swarthier than Tim had expected. His hand was cold and limp and Tim
felt a chill run along his spine as the close-set eyes seemed to bore
into him.
"Nice field," commented McDowell. "Hope we have a good crowd."
"We've been giving the show plenty of publicity," said Tim.
"That's good. I'm pulling a new stunt tomorrow afternoon. It's a
head-on collision at 2,000 feet between two planes. That's why I'm
wheeling those ancient trainers along. They'll go up in smoke tomorrow."
"Pretty risky sort of a stunt, isn't it?" asked Ralph.
"Not as much so as it sounds. The pilots will chase each other for a
while and then come on head first. Just before they crash both men will
dive over the side in their chutes."
"Who's going to handle the ships?" asked Tim.
"I'll fly one of them. Tommy Larkin will handle the controls in the
other. By the way, you must meet Larkin. He's a fine flyer."
At the mention of Larkin's name, Tim felt a sickening premonition. It
was the fear that McDowell suspected Larkin of being a federal agent.
It would be so easy for him to crash into Larkin before the scheduled
time.
McDowell called to a flyer who was squirming out of coveralls.
"Tommy," he said, "come over and meet the flying reporters from the
_News_. There isn't enough going on here on the ground, so these
fellows hop around in the clouds hunting stories."
"Glad to know you," grinned Tommy, as he shook hands with Tim and
Ralph. "I've read a lot about you, first getting the Sky Hawk and then
cleaning up the rustlers in the mountains west of here."
"I was in on the pursuit of the Sky Hawk," said Ralph, "but Tim ran
down the rustlers single-handed. He's getting to be quite a sleuth."
Tim saw McDowell's eyes narrow and he felt them boring into him. He
changed the trend of the conversation at once.
"We brought several cars from the _News_ down," he said. "Let's get out
your baggage and we'll be glad to take you uptown."
By pre-arrangement, Ralph stepped over to help McDowell while Tim went
with Tommy Larkin. They reached into the baggage compartment of
Larkin's monoplane and Tim whispered, "Prentiss is in town. He got your
message and everything's set for tomorrow afternoon."
"Tell him the stuff is in McDowell's ship in a special compartment
under the floor. Be careful. I've a feeling that McDowell doesn't trust
me."
"Then don't risk your life by going up tomorrow in one of those old
trainers and staging that crazy stunt."
"I'll keep a sharp lookout. McDowell will never be able to crash me
before I jump. Better not say anything more or try to talk to me. It
might arouse suspicion."
Tim nodded and picked up the large suitcase. Together they walked
across the ramp and joined Ralph and McDowell.
They left the flyers at the Ransom House and Tim caught a glimpse of
"Mr. Seven" in the lobby. As soon as the flying circus was out of town
he'd get on the trail of "Mr. Seven" again and see if he couldn't learn
his real identity. There was a story there if he could dig it out.
Sunday, the day of the big air show, dawned clear and windless, ideal
for the stunt flying and just warm enough to insure the attendance of a
large crowd. The first stunts were scheduled for ten o'clock and half
an hour before Ace McDowell went aloft to do an outside loop there were
more than a thousand cars parked in the roped off spaces around the
field with more arriving every minute. Tim's plans for handling the big
crowd were working out smoothly and he felt some of the tension
slipping from his shoulders.
At an early morning conference in the _News_ office with Tommy Larkin
and his chief, it had been decided to arrest McDowell when he floated
down in his chute after the plane crash. In the meantime, Prentiss
would seize the dope in the flyer's plane and they would spring the net
from which there would be no escape for McDowell. Tim and Ralph were
content to be on the sidelines for they knew the danger in crossing a
man like McDowell.
The other flyers in the circus were quiet, competent chaps, most of
them under thirty and, as far as the narcotics agent could learn, had
no connection with McDowell's smuggling activities. The show started
with McDowell's stunt flight, which left the crowd gasping and
speechless but not so paralyzed but what as a large number rushed for
the ticket sellers and bought rides in the other planes. The next stunt
program was at one o'clock with Tommy Larkin going aloft with one of
the wing walkers, who capered all over the ship in a series of
sensational stunts.
By early afternoon the crowd had increased to such an extent that the
special police estimated more than 15,000 were watching the air show;
and the passenger planes were running to capacity on every flight.
Prentiss, who had arrived at the field, was remaining out of sight in
Carl Hunter's office and once, when McDowell entered, was forced to
make a hasty retreat into the washroom.
The loudspeakers were blaring with the announcement of the next stunt
flight, the crash of the two planes in mid-air. Tim heard the words
vaguely.
"The greatest air thriller ever performed," the announcer was informing
the crowd. "Two costly airplanes, speeding at more than 100 miles an
hour, will positively crash head-on at an altitude of 2,000 feet. It's
daring, death-defying, breath-taking in its thrills. You'll be glued to
your seats when you see these ships hurl towards each other piloted by
Ace McDowell and Tommy Larkin, two of the foremost flyers in the
nation. They'll go aloft in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, there's
time for one more ride in the passenger planes. Let's go, folks."
The old trainers had been kept in the hangars where a field crew had
given them a hasty coat of paint that morning. They glistened bravely
in their new dress and the motors, which were turning over slowly,
sounded sweet.
Tim inspected the ship that Tommy was to fly. If it held together long
enough to get to 2,000 feet Tommy would be lucky but with a chute on,
he'd be able to get out if anything happened before they straightened
out for the crash.
McDowell's ship was in better condition. It was well rigged and Tim,
squinting under the hood, was surprised to see a big Barko 16-cylinder
motor turning the prop over. The old plane's lines were good. It was
still plenty fast enough to give the average modern ship a good race.
Too bad to sacrifice a sturdy old veteran like that just to appease the
thrill-seekers.
Tim looked around for Ralph, who had gone over to the pilot's room in
the administration building. His companion was nowhere in sight but
McDowell and Tommy, their chute packs banging awkwardly against their
legs, were making their way toward the hangar. McDowell's own monoplane
had been rolled inside.
McDowell was giving Tommy final instructions as they entered the hangar.
"We'll take our time getting up to 2,000," he said. "Then we'll circle
around and make several false rushes at each other. After three or four
times I'll waggle my wings and the next time we'll let them go. We'll
be west of the field where the ships won't do any damage when they
crash. Stick with them as long as you can and then go overboard. Got
that all straight?"
Tommy, a little grim, nodded.
"I'll handle my end of it," he said, climbing into the cockpit of the
ancient trainer.
McDowell, eyes narrowed to slits as hard as steel, looked at the crowd.
"They're going to get a real thrill," he said savagely, smacking his
clenched hands together.
Tim looked at him curiously. McDowell outwardly wasn't nervous yet he
appeared to be laboring under a great strain. Could he suspect Tommy's
real identity? The question burned itself into Tim's mind. If McDowell
was suspicious he might fake the crash and after Tommy went over the
side, roar away in the trainer. That might explain why the old ship had
such a powerful motor.
Tim stepped over to Tommy's ship and climbed up so he could yell into
Tommy's ear.
"I don't like the way McDowell looks," he said. "Be careful."
Tommy nodded.
"I'm not taking any chances this afternoon. The first thing that looks
funny will find me going over the side in the chute."
The loud speakers were blaring. The field was being cleared and the
tension in the crowd increased.
"In the Number one plane," boomed the announcer, "is Ace McDowell. In
the Number two ship is Tommy Larkin. Here they come."
The flyers gunned their motors and the old ships, gleaming under their
coat of hastily applied paint, rolled out on the ramp.
A mighty roar went up from the crowd. The field was finally clear of
the passenger carrying ships. The signalman in the control tower waved
his flag at Tommy. The young flyer opened his throttle, the venerable
craft waggled its wings, felt the call of the skies, and rolled
smoothly down the runway. Tommy took his time in getting off the field.
With as little strain as possible on the ancient wings he lifted his
plane into the air.
The flag waved again and Ace, pushing his throttle ahead hard, flipped
the tail of his ship up and went scooting after the leisurely soaring
Tommy.
The planes climbed in easy circles with Ace going up much faster than
Tommy. They were up a thousand feet when Tim felt a tug at his arm and
turned to face the narcotics inspector. "Give me a hand and we'll see
what we can find in McDowell's plane," said Prentiss. They hastened
into the hangar and climbed into the cabin. Tommy had given them the
exact location of the hidden compartment and without wasting time
Prentiss took an iron bar and smashed his way to it. With eager fingers
he ripped away the splintered wood of the top and delved inside. When
his hands came into view again they held small white containers.
"We've got McDowell with the goods this time," said Prentiss. "When he
comes down I'll arrest him. I'll turn this over to the field manager to
place in his safe while I'm out getting McDowell."
Prentiss turned back to Tim as he started for the administration
building.
"Better come along when I go after McDowell," he said. "I may need some
help. Bring your friend with you."
"I will if I can find him," promised Tim. "He disappeared about half an
hour ago and I haven't seen him since."
A commotion near the pilot's quarters drew his attention just then.
Someone broke away and started running toward him. It was Ralph,
staggering slightly, and holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his
head.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Mad Pursuit
Something was radically wrong and Tim, forgetting for the moment the
drama soon to be enacted in the sky, ran toward Ralph. He caught his
friend in his arms as he stumbled. Blood was flowing freely from a long
gash on the right side of Ralph's head.
Ralph was on the verge of unconsciousness but he made a heroic effort
to speak.
"It's Tommy," he whispered. "McDowell's slashed his chute. If he ever
steps over the side he's gone."
Tim's face whitened at Ralph's alarming words. Tommy's chute slashed!
He glanced aloft. The planes were almost up to 2,000 feet. In a few
more minutes they would be rushing headlong toward each other and Tommy
would step over the side to hurl like a falling star to the ground.
Tim's eyes closed to shut out the image which flashed across his mind.
Prentiss reached his side.
"What's happened?"
"I don't know exactly," said Tim, "but McDowell's slashed Tommy's chute
with a knife. Take care of Ralph. I'm going up to stop Tommy."
"Take him into my office," directed Carl Hunter, who had arrived on the
run and overheard Tim's words.
Prentiss gathered Ralph in his arms and stalked toward the
administration building while Tim and Hunter ran down the ramp.
Tim scanned the field. It would be impossible to get the fast Jupiter
which the _News_ owned or the American Ace which he and Ralph operated
out of their hangars. He turned toward the other planes on the field.
It would take a fast ship to get up there in time to stop the crash of
the two planes. His eyes rested on McDowell's own monoplane. It was
trim and fast and the 300 horsepower motor was capable of pulling it
almost vertically skyward.
"I'll take McDowell's plane," he told Hunter. The field manager gave
him a hand and between them they whipped the ship around and headed it
toward the open field.
Tim climbed inside, stumbled over the smashed boards which had hidden
the secret compartment, and sat down in the pilot's seat. The controls
were slightly different from the ships he had been accustomed to flying
but he knew he could handle the plane without trouble. He glanced at
the gas gauge. The tank was a quarter full.
One of the High Flyers ran toward him, protesting on the use of the
monoplane, but Hunter waved him back with a curt explanation. Tim
turned on the starter and the motor, still warm, caught on the first
turn.
He was about to give the ship the gun when Prentiss ran toward him, a
rifle in hand. The narcotics inspector clambered into the cabin and
slammed the door.
"Let's go," he shouted. Tim nodded and opened the throttle. The field
had been cleared for the stunt and he sped out of the hanger and
rocketed into the air. With the motor taking a full flow of gas, he
shot the speedy monoplane into the air. They danced skyward in a crazy,
climbing turn that saw the earth dropping away from them.
"How's Ralph?" Tim shouted.
"He'll be all right. Got a nasty bump on his head but there's a doctor
patching him up now. He's weak from loss of blood more than anything
else."
Tim, with the stick jammed back between his knees, was watching the
drama of the circling planes. He was careful to keep behind McDowell as
much as possible.
The old trainers had levelled off and were jockeying for the first dash
toward each other. Tim's hands gripped the stick hard as he saw them
start. Then he relaxed a little. Ace hadn't waggled his wings. There
would be no crash this time.
The old ships soared past each other with little room to spare and Tim
almost pulled his own ship higher by the sheer tension he was on.
Tommy was circling slowly for another dash toward Ace when Tim flashed
past him waving frantically. In pantomime he went through the motions
of jumping and then shook his head vigorously while Prentiss attempted
to indicate to Tommy that his chute was damaged.
As he flashed by a second time Tim caught the look of alarm in Tommy's
eyes and saw the other examining the chute pack. There was the sudden
roar of another motor and McDowell, forgotten for the moment, shot down
toward them.
"He's after us!" cried Prentiss.
Without looking Tim sent the monoplane into a tight roll and the wings
of the old trainer almost brushed their landing gear as they flopped
over. A bullet crashed through the bottom of the cabin.
"He's on to us," said Tim grimly, "but we'll keep him busy until Tommy
can land that crate of his."
Tim whipped the monoplane out of the roll. Below him McDowell was hard
after Larkin's plane. It was evident that he was out to destroy the
other flyer if at all possible. He was going at Tommy head-on again.
This time there seemed little doubt but what the ships would crash in
spite of all that Tommy could do to escape the trap. McDowell's plane
was too fast. He met every maneuver of Tommy's and played him one
better.
For the moment he had forgotten Tim in his terrible concentration of
destroying the flyer he felt sure had turned in the evidence which
would lead to his arrest. If he had not forgotten Tim, he had sadly
underrated the flying ability and nerve of the reporter.
With wind screaming past the struts and motor on full, Tim dove
headlong toward McDowell. Some sixth sense must have warned his prey
for McDowell threw a startled glance over his shoulder. Instantly he
changed tactics and left Tommy to make a hurried landing with the old
trainer while he took up the new feud with his unforeseen foe.
Prentiss opened the windows on the right side of the cabin and steadied
the rifle. There was a grim purpose written on the tensed lips. If he
could line his sights on McDowell, the rifle would spit flame and
death. Crouched on the floor of the cabin, finger crooked on the
trigger, cheek resting on the gunstock, he waited for the chance he
felt was sure to come.
Below them the startled thousands watched the deadly duel, craned their
necks as the planes twisted and darted through the air, and at times
seemed almost to crash before one of them flipped this way or that just
in time to avert a catastrophe.
Tim and Prentiss had the advantage of a slightly faster plane but
McDowell had a chute. If they crashed he would have a chance of
escaping while the flying reporter and the narcotics inspector would be
pinned in the falling wreckage of their ship.
McDowell was playing the game for his life. In spite of their danger
Tim thrilled to the masterful flying which it required to escape the
mad rushes of the other.
For half an hour the grim battle went on. Then it ceased as suddenly as
it had started. McDowell, giving his plane a full gun, darted away
southwest. He was making a break for safety. With a heavy bank of
clouds rolling up in the west, night would drop its mantle early. There
was just a chance that he might remain aloft until he could find
shelter in the darkness. Tim saw through McDowell's strategy at once.
Undoubtedly the other had a full tank of gas and since the old trainers
usually had large tanks, sufficient to keep the ancient craft aloft
until after nightfall. The flying reporter glanced again at the gauge
on the instrument board of the monoplane. He didn't need to. He knew
what the needle indicated without looking but perhaps there had been
some mistake.
The gauge showed only an eighth of a tank of gas. Another half hour in
the air; perhaps a little more. Then they would be forced down and
McDowell would wing on alone.
Tom leaned back and shouted to the inspector.
"We've got only enough gas for another half hour. Want to land now,
fill up the tank, and then try to overtake McDowell, or keep after him
until our fuel gives out?"
"Something might happen to his ship before our gas gives out. We'll
keep going as long as we can," Prentiss shouted back.
Tim nodded and set out in full pursuit. In three minutes he was on
McDowell's tail and he throttled down. No use to push the motor any
harder than necessary.
The minutes droned on. Tim checked their direction. It was obvious that
McDowell was heading for the border. It was a long hop; impossible in
one jump, and he wondered where the pilot ahead of him intended to
refuel. He probably had some out-of-the-way airport where he could come
down, replenish his supply of gas and oil, and get away without being
reported.
Fifteen minutes went by the clock. The needle on the gas gauge dropped
lower. Probably McDowell, up ahead, was chuckling for he certainly knew
the amount of fuel in the monoplane he had left behind.
Prentiss tapped Tim on the shoulder.
"How much longer?"
"Not more than 15 minutes."
"Close in on him and I'll see if this rifle can't convince him that
it's time to come down."
Tim's right hand jammed the throttle on full and the trim monoplane
leaped ahead, overhauling the old trainer rapidly.
McDowell, hearing the deeper drone of the motor behind him, looked back
at them. Tim banked to give Prentiss a clear shot and the federal agent
pressed the trigger. Tim could hear the sharp spats of the gun as the
bullets sped on their way. Holes appeared in the fuselage of McDowell's
ship. Prentiss was shooting better. McDowell, pointing an automatic at
them, emptied the magazine. His aim was wild and not a bullet struck
the monoplane.
McDowell put the old biplane into a dive and Tim promptly followed.
Twisting and turning, they resumed the battle they had waged over the
Atkinson airport. Tim was flying rings around McDowell now and Prentiss
pumped shot after shot toward the biplane but the air was rough and it
was hard to gauge the distance accurately.
"Concentrate on his motor," Tim shouted. "We can't stay up more than
five minutes more and you may be able to put his ship out of
commission."
Prentiss filled the magazine of the rifle again and, firing steadily,
directed his bullets toward the motor of the biplane. Tim could see the
black splashes as the bullets struck the cowling. There was just a
chance that he might be able to disable McDowell's motor.
The motor of their own ship coughed. Tim switched on the emergency tank
and it barked steadily again. Their minutes in the air were numbered
for he had no way of knowing whether the emergency tank was full or how
much it held.
"I'm going to try to bring him down," Tim yelled at Prentiss.
"What are you going to do?"
"See if I can't run my wheels through his prop. Hang on."
"Won't that wreck your landing gear?"
"We'll have to take a chance on that. If it does we'll get down
someway. Are you game?"
"Go ahead," said the inspector grimly. "I'll try it once. There may not
be a second time."
"I'll get you down all in one piece," grinned Tim. Then he turned to
the job at hand.
McDowell was just a little above them and about a thousand feet ahead.
Gunning the motor hard, Tim climbed above their quarry and with the
motor on full, dove headlong for the biplane. McDowell must have sensed
what was in Tim's mind for he stood up in his cockpit and took
deliberate aim with the automatic. Bullets plunked into the wing of the
monoplane, but Tim kept on. Prentiss's rifle was silent for the moment
for at that angle he was unable to fire.
Down they dropped like an eagle after its prey. McDowell dove back into
the cockpit just as the monoplane crashed down on him, the wheels of
the ship above almost raking his head. Tim steeled himself for the
expected crash as the propeller of the biplane bit into the landing
gear but it did not come. By some trick of magic which Tim would never
know McDowell dropped the biplane down almost ten feet at the last
moment. Or perhaps fate had taken a hand and the ship had struck an air
pocket. At any rate the monoplane sped on overhead and McDowell was
safe again.
"What happened?" asked Prentiss.
Tim shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe the biplane hit rough air and
dropped. I thought surely we had him that time."
The motor coughed, rapped out a few more revolutions, and then died.
"That's about all for us," said Tim bitterly.
"And there goes McDowell," said the inspector.
The flying reporter scanned the ground for a safe landing place. They
were up a little better than 4,000 feet. To their right was a small
town and a fair-sized pasture at one edge, flanked by a white highway.
Tim nosed the monoplane down. As they glided toward the field he caught
the sound of another airplane motor. He glanced up. Perhaps McDowell
was coming back. But McDowell's ship was winging steadily along on the
1,200-mile hop to the border.
"Someone back of us," said Prentiss. There was no need to shout now and
the inspector's voice sounded unnatural.
Tim glanced back. The ship was familiar. His heart leaped. It was the
fast Jupiter owned by the _News_. Someone had managed to get it out of
the hangar and was coming to help them.
The flying reporter opened the window on his left and waved wildly,
pointing downward. The pilot of the other plane waggled his wings in
understanding and dropped toward the pasture with Tim following him
down.
"Looks like Tommy Larkin in the other plane," said the inspector.
"That's the _News_' ship and I don't care who's flying it," said Tim,
"just as long as it's got a full tank of gas. McDowell is going to be
in for a surprise when we shoot up in the Jupiter. That's an airplane."
The pasture proved surprisingly smooth and they rolled across the
field. The pilot who had brought in the Jupiter had it swung around and
had it ready for them when they tumbled from the cabin of the monoplane.
"Tommy!" cried the inspector. "Great work, boy!"
"I couldn't stay out of this shindig," grinned the flyer McDowell had
planned to destroy.
"What a break," chuckled Tim. "Plenty of gas?"
"The tank's full to overflowing. That's some plane; fast and easy to
handle."