You’ve probably heard heard of Les Fernald. He was on the
round-the-world flight. He was a powerful, well-built chap of medium
height with a pair of steady eyes, a nice smile, and the ability to fly
a big ship about as well as it is given to man or beast to do anything.
He’d had a lot of experience on Martins, whereas I only had a test
flight with Lawton before I left. But I’d had some Caproni flying over
in dear old France on some of my days away from Paris, and I’d lumbered
through the ozone between Long Island and Texas with a three-motored
Tankwing under me.
Out at the factory late that afternoon the two mechanics and ourselves
inspected the ships, and then Fernald and I flew them on a test flight.
They ticked away like clocks, and were perfectly rigged. I took Marston
along on the flight, and he nodded his satisfaction to me at the same
time that his rainbow-hued eyes glowed his dislike into my own.
We landed again on the private flying field of the factory and
announced that we’d leave early next morning. So saying, we hied
ourselves down to a hostelry while the mechanics got the ships gassed,
oiled and ready to ramble. They were to be stabled for the night in a
canvas hangar at the edge of the factory flying field.
At our early breakfast next morning a headline caught my eye, and as a
result a scalding gulp of coffee went down the wrong tunnel. The java
ended up in my right lung, I think, and I coughed enough to make the
citizens of Cleveland think the lake breeze had become very strong all
of a sudden.
“Listen, Les,” I said at length, wiping the tears from my eyes.
“‘HANGAR ON MARTIN FLYING FIELD BURNED. Two Martin Bombers, VALUED AT
$100,000, COMPLETELY DESTROYED.’”
If you told Les Fernald that the continent of Europe had sunk into the
sea, and that North America was expected to follow it into the briny
deep, he’d probably say:
“Well, let’s improve the time we’ve got left and see a good show, or
have a drink or something.”
So the rise I got out of him was:
“Read on, Slim. You interest me.”
The story, peeled down to the core, was simply that the two ships we
were to fly to Langham that day had been burned up, that no one could
figure how the fire had started, and that the entire factory had been
in great danger of ignition, so to speak. Only herculean efforts had
saved it. Three fires, at different points, had been discovered before
they got burning merrily enough to be out of control.
We cantered out to the factory without delay, and found a very
mystified bunch of men, from the G. M. down. The only possible
explanation they had for it was that a group of ten workmen had been
fired a few weeks after the discovery that they were grafting, and that
possibly they had started the conflagration to get revenge. We wired
Washington, and were ordered to stay in Cleveland a few days until the
next two Martins were ready. The factory schedule on the army contract
was four ships a week.
Marston poked around in his sullen, scowling way, and when I ran across
him out at the excited factory I inquired casually:
“Did you happen to see the fire? We were in bed early and never knew it
until this morning.”
“No, sir. I was in bed before midnight.”
Which proved to be an unadulterated lie. Fifteen minutes later I
overheard Bailey--this was out at the factory--say to Marston--
“Well, did you tear the town loose last night?”
“Nah--nothing doing,” rasped Marston in return.
There was nothing for us to do at the factory--they were all running
around ragged out there anyway--so as we left it I herded Bailey to one
side. Marston had left by himself, but I wanted the conversation to be
private.
“Marston living with you?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir,” said the slim young Bailey.
“He was out late last night, was he?”
“Yes, sir. About three A. M.”
“I see. Just wanted to know. Come in drunk?”
Bailey was troubled. He didn’t want to tell tales, I could see. So I
went on:
“Don’t be scared to tell me. I just don’t want Marston to be in bad
shape for the trip.”
“He wasn’t, sir. He’d been drinking, but he wasn’t drunk.”
“Thanks. That’s all.”
I wondered why George William had lied about being in bed early. It was
a senseless thing to do. Not that I connected him with the fire at all,
of course. But I was just curious. He went around with a chip balanced
precariously on his shoulder all the time, that was sure, and seemed to
crave no company of any kind whatever. The only reason he lived with
Bailey at all, I presume, was to save money.
It worried me a little, taking it by and large. Finally, as we reached
our palatial suite of two rooms and connecting bath in the most ornate
hostelry in Cleveland, I put it up to Fernald. He knew the history of
Marston and me.
“Why do you suppose he lied?” I asked him.
“Probably thought it was none of your business where he was last
night,” Fernald grinned.
“In which assumption,” I admitted, “he would be entirely correct. But,
the question once asked, there was no reason----”
“Except that he is as fond of you as a bull is of a red kimono,” Les
reminded me. “Well, let’s step out and see the town.”