can get gas in this town and fly back to Atkinson."
"I'll make out all right," grinned Tommy. "You fellows get after
McDowell. Gosh, I'd like to see his face when you come barging down on
him again."
"He's heading for the border," said Tim.
"Yeah. That old tub carried about a ton of fuel and he's got a field
way over in western Kansas where he can land and refuel without
trouble. He knows it so well he can even land at night but unless I
miss my guess he won't be in the air by nightfall."
Tim climbed into the Jupiter and the inspector scrambled in after him.
Tim checked the gauges, tank nearly full of gas, motor temp right, oil
pressure up. He released the brakes, opened the throttle, and waved to
Tommy as the plane shot down the field and rocketed away in pursuit of
McDowell, whose plane now was only the tiniest of dots in the
southwestern sky.
The Jupiter was fast and Tim cruised along at an easy, mile-consuming
150 miles an hour.
"We'll overtake McDowell in no time," he told the inspector, who was
busy refilling the magazine of the rifle.
"I've only about twenty rounds of ammunition left," shouted Prentiss.
"My shooting will have to improve."
The dot in the sky ahead grew in size and took on the shape of an
airplane. Tim was flying high and there was little chance that McDowell
would see them until they were on top of him.
The flying reporter's thoughts went back to Atkinson. He wondered about
Ralph and the wound on his head, and there was no mercy in his heart as
he guided the Jupiter on the now relentless chase after the fleeing
McDowell.
The outline of the old biplane grew larger and larger as the
fast-flying Jupiter cut down the distance. Tim had planned a new
campaign of action. In the Jupiter, knowing every movement and
capability of the ship, he felt confident that he could ride McDowell
into the ground, out-maneuver and out-speed him until the other would
welcome the chance to fight it out below.
The Jupiter was flying a thousand feet above the old trainer when Tim
dropped the nose down and opened the throttle for a power dive. As they
swooped down, he saw McDowell look up, saw the surprise and alarm on
the other's face. Then they were by with less than ten feet to spare
between the ships. Tim climbed the Jupiter dizzily until he was back on
McDowell's tail, riding it hard and close. The flyer ahead emptied
another magazine at them and then threw his automatic away in disgust.
He was out of ammunition. Now it was a case of plane against plane,
pilot against pilot, and nerve pitted against nerve for Prentiss was
unable to shoot now.
Closer and closer Tim drove the Jupiter. He was just above and behind
the biplane, riding it down, relentlessly and with grim intent.
McDowell twisted and turned, but always the cream and green biplane
rode his tail. He dodged to the right and then to the left, looped,
barrel-rolled, but it was all in vain. Tim guessed his every maneuver
and went him one better.
"Country's getting rougher," cried Prentiss.
"Bad place for a forced landing," agreed Tim.
They were flying at a little under 3,000 feet and Tim was riding
McDowell's plane down, foot by foot. It was a slow and nerve-wracking
process but it seemed destined for success. Once in a while he would
veer his ship enough to let Prentiss get in a shot, but none of them
found their mark.
The air was getting rougher. Even the steady, easy-flying Jupiter was
rocking and pitching and Tim could see that the old biplane ahead of
them was bucking hard.
Prentiss turned around.
"Look at the biplane's wings," he cried.
Tim watched closely. The wings were flapping, threatening to break
loose from the ship at any moment. The chase was nearly over. McDowell
would be forced down. Tim glanced at the country below. It was rough
and broken, almost impossible for a safe landing.
A startled cry from Prentiss drew his attention back to the biplane.
The old ship was breaking up! McDowell had been pushing it too hard,
the spins and rolls and loops had been more than the ancient spruce
could stand. The right wing was giving way, the top section drooping
down in the lower one.
CHAPTER FIVE
Death Rides the Air
McDowell was making a game fight, attempting to nurse the old craft
over the rough country to the more level reaches ahead. Tim eased up on
the throttle of the Jupiter, like the eagle giving its prey a moment's
respite before the last swoop.
The left wing of the old trainer was wobbling uncertainly now. The end
was near and still they were over the rough country.
Fascinated, Tim and Prentiss watched the drama ahead of them. The
biplane was weaving from side to side, the right upper wing now almost
touching the lower one. With a rending of linen and wood, the wing tore
loose and floated away in the backwash of the propeller. Then the lower
right wing collapsed under the strain and the ship started to fall away
rapidly.
McDowell, game to the last, methodically prepared to go over the side.
"He'd better hurry," shouted Prentiss.
Tim glanced at the altimeter. They were still up 2,500 feet. There was
plenty of time for McDowell to bail out and float down safely. The dope
smuggler poised himself on the edge of the cockpit as the ship started
to spin.
He waved at them in sheer bravado and then dived headlong from the
plane. McDowell somersaulted once, then jerked the rip-cord. The chute
pack unfolded and Tim and Prentiss saw the silken umbrella billow out.
It caught the wind and unfolded. Then, before startled eyes, they saw
the chute collapse and McDowell plummeted from their sight.
"Don't look!" Tim shouted at Prentiss. He closed his own eyes, but even
then the image danced in his mind. In the single second in which the
chute had opened he had seen the long slit in the silk. In some
unexplained manner McDowell had knifed his own chute instead of Tommy
Larkin's when he had plotted the death of Larkin at the Atkinson
airport. It was a just vengeance but a merciless one.
Tim opened his eyes. Prentiss, white-faced and shaking, looked at him.
"Is there anything we can do?"
"Not a thing. We'll find out where the county seat is and notify the
sheriff. That's about all that can be done."
Tim checked their position. The county seat was about fifteen miles
back on their return to Atkinson. The afternoon shadows were
lengthening when they dropped down on the tiny airport on the outskirts
of Walford. Inspector Prentiss climbed stiffly from the plane.
"I'll find a phone," he said. "You might as well wait here."
Tim nodded and cut the motor. There were no attendants at the field and
he was glad that there was plenty of fuel left in the Jupiter's tanks
to take them back to Atkinson.
Half an hour later the inspector returned.
"I located the sheriff and explained what had happened," he said.
"Everything will be taken care of. A party will leave at once to hunt
for McDowell so we might as well go on back to Atkinson."
Tim pulled the Jupiter into the air just as the sun dipped behind the
horizon. The earth below was shrouded in the half-light of early
evening as they roared steadily along at 2,500 feet and some of the
strain which had gripped him during the afternoon slipped from his
weary shoulders.
The mantle shrouding the earth deepened. Stars came out overhead and he
switched on the wing lights. A crimson patch on the eastern horizon
indicated where the moon was struggling upward. Clusters of lights
passed beneath them and occasionally the streaking lights of a car
could be seen. It was restful up there away from the earthy smells.
An hour slipped by and the lights of Atkinson glowed ahead. The airport
was outlined in the red, green and white lights that marked its
boundaries and indicated to an incoming pilot the runaways. Smoothly,
easily, Tim dropped the Jupiter down and the swift biplane rolled up to
the ramp near the administration building. Tim blinked in the glare of
the bright electrics.
A familiar figure loomed out of the glare. It was Ralph, a bandage
around his head, but able to move under his own power.
"Where's McDowell?" asked Ralph. "Did he get away?"
Tim looked at Prentiss. The inspector spoke slowly.
"No, he didn't get away," he said as Tommy Larkin joined the group.
"His ship started breaking up and he went over the side in his chute.
The chute didn't open."
"Didn't what?" asked Tommy incredulously.
"Someone had ripped it open with a knife."
A grim smile flickered around Tommy's lips.
"I guess I can explain that," he said. "McDowell and I use exactly the
same type of chutes and our packs look so much alike we can hardly tell
them apart. He ripped one of the chutes, folded it back, and then
picked it up himself. Fate certainly took a hand in the events around
here this afternoon."
"What happened to you?" Tim asked Ralph, who was leaning against the
biplane.
"Plenty," grinned Ralph. "I caught McDowell in the pilot's room with a
knife in his hand and the chute ripped. He was just ready to repack the
umbrella. When he saw me he came at me with both hands going and I went
down in a heap. He must have socked me with a wrench when I was down
for I've got about a two inch gash on the right side of my head. The
next thing I knew I heard planes buzzing around and woke up enough to
come out and give the alarm."
"I guess we can write 'finis' to this smuggling case," said the
inspector slowly. "I hadn't expected it would end in quite this
fashion."
"What will the other members of the flying circus do?" asked Tim.
"Half of them have left the field already," said Tommy. "They're pretty
much of a happy-go-lucky outfit. Some of them suspected that McDowell
was smuggling but they wouldn't turn in information on him. They'll
catch on with some other circus."
"My head feels like someone was using a trip hammer on it," said Ralph.
"I'm going home and to bed."
"Here comes a reporter from the _Advance_," interjected Tim. "He'll
probably want to know all about the McDowell case," the last words were
directed at the inspector.
Mogridge, police reporter for the _Advance_, nodded to Tim and Ralph.
"I'd like to get all the facts on this story," he said to Inspector
Prentiss.
"Sorry," smiled the inspector, "but since the _News_' men played such
an important part I'm afraid that the story will have to be exclusive
with them."
"Then you haven't anything to say?"
"Not a word."
It was obvious from the set of the inspector's chin that no amount of
argument or cajolery would change his mind. Mogridge shrugged and
walked away.
"Thanks, Inspector," said Tim.
"It was the least I could do," replied the federal agent. "Without your
assistance McDowell would undoubtedly have succeeded in his dash for
the border."
Ralph took a cab for home while Tim superintended the return of the
Jupiter to its hangar. Then, with the inspector and Tommy Larkin, he
climbed into the _News_' car he had used that morning and started
uptown.
"This is a long ways from the McDowell case," said Tim, "but I've got a
pet mystery all my own." Briefly he told the inspector about "Mr.
Seven."
"I'll be glad to have a look at him in the morning," said Inspector
Prentiss. "I've a faculty for remembering names and faces. Perhaps I
can help you out."
"Then I'll meet you here after breakfast," said Tim as the federal men
left the car in front of the Ransom House.
"Right," agreed the inspector. "Say about eight-thirty. Good night."
"Good night," replied Tim as he eased in the clutch and headed the car
for the garage behind the _News_ building.
It was getting late, but tomorrow he would be on the trail of "Mr.
Seven." In spite of the let-down after the strain of the afternoon, he
went up to the editorial office, switched on the light over his desk,
and wrote the story of McDowell.
It was a smashing action story, tense and alive to every bit of the
great drama which had been played in the air. Page after page of copy
rolled from Tim's typewriter as he spun his thread of verbs and
adjectives, creating a living, pulsating picture with his words. He sat
back exhausted when he had finished the last line and banged out the
last period. He was too tired to read it over and he tossed the handful
of sheets on the copy desk, turned out the light, and somehow got to
his room where he tumbled into bed.
When Tim awoke the next morning the sun was streaming through the
windows. He glanced at his wrist watch. Eight o'clock. Time for him to
be at the office. He had overslept.
Seizing the phone he called the copy desk. Dan Watkins answered.
"Did you get my story?" he asked.
"I'll say we did. There'll be an extra on the street before nine
o'clock. Great yarn."
"I overslept," explained Tim, "and I've got an appointment to meet
Inspector Prentiss at the Ransom House in half an hour. If the office
can stagger through another hour without me I'll have breakfast before
I meet the inspector."
"After the yarn you turned in last night I guess you can take the day
off if you want it," said Watkins.
Tim stopped at a restaurant for breakfast on his way to the hotel and
reached the lobby of the Ransom House exactly at eight-thirty.
Inspector Prentiss was equally prompt.
"Let's have a look at your mysterious 'Mr. Seven' and see if we can't
strip a little of the mystery from him," he suggested.
Tim went up to the desk.
"Is 'Mr. Seven' in?" he inquired.
"Sorry, he left last night," replied the clerk. Tim's hopes crashed.
"Didn't he leave a forwarding address?"
"No, he checked out of his room but he left his baggage with the
porter."
"Then he's coming back soon?"
"I presume so."
Tim went to the check room to question the porter. The information
gained there was a little more helpful.
"Yes sir, there's 'Mr. Seven's' bags over there," said the porter. "He
said he'd be gone several days and for me to keep a close watch on
them. I guess they must be pretty important 'cause he gave me two
dollars in advance for watching them."
"Didn't you hear him say where he was going?" pressed Tim.
"He didn't say a thing except ask where there was a rent-a-car garage?"
"What did you tell him?"
"I gave him the name of several. Kelleys and Brackens."
There was no further information to be gained from the porter and Tim
rejoined the inspector, to whom he recounted the slight information he
had gleaned.
"'Mr. Seven' appears to be an interesting character. I'd like to stay
here and help you run him down, but I've another case in the southern
part of the state that is needing immediate attention. Sorry I can't be
of any real help."
Tim watched the inspector depart with a sinking heart. He had counted
more than he cared to admit upon the ability of the federal officer to
strip away the secrecy which had surrounded "Mr. Seven" since his
arrival in Atkinson.
But tracing down "Mr. Seven" wasn't a newspaper assignment and Tim
turned his steps toward the office where Ralph eagerly awaited news of
the visit to the Ransom House.
"What's the good word?" he asked.
Tim shook his head glumly.
"There isn't any. 'Mr. Seven' checked out last night but left his
baggage at the hotel."
"Then he's coming back?"
"Undoubtedly, but that is another question, and what's more, he may be
doing something right now that is big news."
"Why don't you go to Carson and get a couple of days off. That would
give you a real chance to run down this story."
"The managing editor would probably laugh at my hunch. Nope, I'll keep
my eye on the story and try to grab on to 'Mr. Seven' when he comes
back to the hotel."
Ralph had an assignment in an outlying district of the city and he left
the office at once while Tim sat down to write a column of aviation
news.
The chief copyreader left his desk and joined Tim.
"I overheard what you were telling Ralph," he said. "Too bad that 'Mr.
Seven' got away before Inspector Prentiss could see him."
"Just my luck," muttered Tim.
"What are you going to do next?" asked Dan.
"Keep a close check at the hotel and also find out where 'Mr. Seven'
rented a car. It's from one of two places and I may be able to learn
where he has gone."
CHAPTER SIX
Another Visitor
The battery of presses in the basement awoke with a roar and newsboys
scurried on to the street, their shrill cries of "Extra! Extra!"
echoing between the lanes of buildings.
A copy boy came up from the press room with an armful of papers so
fresh the ink was soft and smeary on the page. He handed one to the
chief copyreader and another to Tim, then proceeded down the room
leaving them at the various desks where they were eagerly scanned by
reporters and copyreaders.
"You turned in a great story on the pursuit and death of McDowell,"
said the copyreader.
"Thanks, Dan," smiled Tim. "Coming from you, those words mean
something."
The managing editor stuck his head out of his office and, seeing Tim,
beckoned to him. In one hand he held a copy of the extra.
"Fine work," Carson told the flying reporter, "but I guess we have
gotten in the habit of expecting good stories from you."
"The answer to that is easy," grinned Tim. "I like reporting and if you
really like a thing I believe you can do it well."
"Any flying assignments for you today?"
"Not so far."
"I'm glad of that. After your gruelling flight of yesterday it will do
you good to be out of the air for at least a day."
Tim returned to his desk and sat down to the routine task of gleaning
enough aviation news to make an interesting column. He always tried to
work a day in advance on the column. It was well after mid-forenoon
when he had completed the column and turned it in at the copydesk.
The city editor, Ed Campbell, a comparative newcomer on the staff,
looked up from his assignment book.
"I've just received a wire that June O'Malley, new star of the
Hollywood Follies, is coming through on the noon plane eastbound. Can
you hop down to the field for an interview?"
"Right away," promised Tim.
"Better take a cameraman."
Tim stopped at the photo department and a photographer was assigned to
accompany him.
Interviewing the latest sensation of the film capital was little more
than routine and Tim found that the girl had little that she could or
would say. The photographer got several snaps and they returned uptown
where Tim managed, by hard work, to grind out half a column on the
visit of June O'Malley to the airport.
"This is poor stuff and I'm making no apologies," he said as he laid
the sheet and a half of copy on the copydesk. "She didn't have anything
to say and I don't believe she could have said it if she had."
"They're usually pretty poor copy," nodded Dan, "but you should kick on
a few assignments like this after your thrilling flight of yesterday."
"I guess you're right at that," nodded Tim.
"I know what's the matter," said Dan. "You can't get thoughts of 'Mr.
Seven' out of your head."
"You'd better have a sign painted and start in the mind reading
business," grinned Tim.
"It didn't take a mind reader to figure that one out." Dan dialed the
automatic telephone. "Ransom House? This is the _News_. Has 'Mr. Seven'
returned?"
"Not back yet," said Dan as he hung up the receiver. "Let's go out to
lunch?"
Tim agreed and they had their noonday meal at a nearby restaurant.
"How far are the garages where 'Mr. Seven' might have rented a car?"
asked Dan.
"Only three or four blocks. The porter at the Ransom House recommended
both Kelleys and Brackens."
They paid their checks and Tim turned toward the _News_, but Dan
stopped him.
"Things are light today. We'll take a few extra minutes and see what we
can learn at the garages."
Kelleys, the first rent-a-car agency visited, could supply no
information but at Brackens they found their visit more fruitful.
The man in charge of the office consulted his records and informed them
that on the Saturday night previous a "Mr. G. Seven" had rented one of
their best cars, putting up a cash deposit of $100 since he intended to
take the car outside the city limits.
Tim described "Mr. Seven" in detail.
"That's the man," said the garage employe firmly. "There's no mistake
about it; he's got one of our cars. Is he in some kind of trouble?"
"Not as far as we know," replied Tim. "Did you hear him say where he
was going?"
"No, but I saw him looking at the state map on the wall over there. He
was a little different from the average run of our customers and I kept
an eye on him. He was looking at the roads leading into the Cedar river
country."
"But there aren't any really good roads in that part of the state,"
said Tim.
"That's one reason why I noticed him looking at that section of the
map. He made a detailed study of it, but never asked a question of me
nor any of the boys who serviced the car for him."
There was no further information to be gained at the garage and Tim and
the chief copyreader returned to the _News_ office.
"Looks like you're on the trail of a real story," commented Dan.
"What's going to be the next angle of attack?"
"The files. I'm going to start with this month and go back into them
day by day. Somewhere I'm sure there will be a picture that will give
me the identity of 'Mr. Seven.'"
The afternoon passed in routine tasks but when the final edition rolled
from the press Tim went over to the room which housed the paper's
library and ordered out the files for the last year. When they were
available he carried the large, sturdily bound books to his desk where
he placed them one on top of another. Ralph's desk was not in use and
he opened the last volume of the file and placed it there. Drawing up a
chair he started the slow task of scrutinizing every picture which had
appeared in the _News_ for the last year.
The job was doubly difficult since one of the boasts of the _News_ was
that it carried an interesting picture on every page. Members of the
staff left the office, one by one, until Tim alone remained, bent over
the file and scanning the pages as he riffled through them.
Daylight faded and he snapped on the light over Ralph's desk. Under the
glow of the electric he continued his task until his shoulders ached
from the continued strain of bending over. When he finally straightened
up it was 7:30 o'clock and the telephone was buzzing.
"Atkinson _News_," said Tim.
"Hello, Tim," said Carl Hunter. "There's a big amphibian coming in
within the next half hour. Thought you might want a story. We don't get
many ships like that here."
"Who's on board?"
"Haven't got anything on that yet. Will you be down?"
"Right away," promised Tim. He closed the file, snapped off the light
and hurried around to the garage in the rear where he signed an order
for one of the _News_' cars.
Hunter was waiting for him at the airport. In one hand he held one of
the pink slips on which the radiograms were copied.
"Just got a report on the ownership of the amphib," said the field
manager. "It belongs to some fellow by the name of Sladek in New York
City."
"Is it Jack Sladek?" asked Tim.
"Can't say. The message asking for refueling here is just signed
Sladek. You know someone by that name?"
"No, but I've read a lot about a Jack Sladek of New York. He's
something of an international figure; been mixed up in a lot of
different things, South American revolutions, Arctic explorations,
underwater treasure hunts and rum running when that business was
profitable. I've seen feature stories in eastern papers that credit
Sladek with having made a fortune in deals that are just inside the
law."
"You'll have a chance to see him first hand," grinned Hunter, "for the
ship was over Spencer half an hour ago. It should be here in another
fifteen minutes."
"That's just time enough for me to get a lunch. I got interested in a
little work at the office and forgot to go out and get supper." Tim
ordered a hot lunch and while he ate scanned the last edition of the
_Advance_, the rival newspaper. He chuckled once or twice as he read
the story of the pursuit of McDowell. The _Advance_ had only the
sketchiest of details and all of the rest of the story was obviously
the product of the imagination of Mogridge, the reporter who had been
assigned to the story. It could not compare with the brilliant
accurately written story which Tim had woven for the _News_ and which
had been featured on the front page through all the editions that day.
As Tim finished his lunch the drone of twin motors sounded high
overhead. The amphibian was coming in. He stepped out of the lunchroom.
The riding lights of the plane were visible as it circled to come down
into the wind. Tim walked over and stood beside Hunter as the big ship
dropped down and rolled to a stop on the ramp.