"Some of our biggest news stories will break above the clouds. The
skyways are going to unfold great tales of romance, of daring, possibly
of banditry, but whatever it may be, we must have the stories. Do you
want the job of getting them?" George Carson, the sandy-haired managing
editor of the Atkinson News, fired the question at the reporter standing
at the other side of his desk.
"Do I want the job?" There was amazement in Tim Murphy's voice. "Give me
a plane and I'll bring you some of the best yarns you ever printed." His
clean-cut features were aglow with interest.
"All right Tim," said Carson. "This afternoon the News will announce the
first flying reporter. I thought you'd like the job. That's why we sent
you to an aviation school--so we can have the jump on the Times and the
Journal. They can hire plenty of aviators but it will take them time to
train a first class reporter to fly."
Tim grinned and his blue eyes snapped. Even though he was one of the
star reporters on the staff he liked the managing editor's indirect
compliment.
"We've got a plane all ready for you at the municipal airport," went on
the managing editor. "It's one of those new Larks with a Wasp motor that
will take her along at 150 miles an hour. She's all ready to go. The
sky's your assignment--go the limit to get your stories."
Tim hurried back to his desk where the half completed story of a
down-town fire was still in his typewriter. He picked up a pad of notes
beside his machine and turned to the reporter at the next desk.
"Finish up this fire story for me, will you Ralph? Here's all the dope
and the city editor wants it for the noon edition."
"What's the big idea?" Ralph Parsons wanted to know.
"Big idea is right," fairly exploded Tim. "I've got a new job--flying
reporter. Carson has just bought a dandy new plane and I'm going to
pilot it and write the stories."
"Good, Tim. I don't blame you for being excited. It's a great chance.
I'll finish up the fire story for you. Will you give me a ride if I run
out after I'm through this afternoon?"
"Sure, Ralph, a dozen if you want them," and with that Tim seized his
hat and dashed through the door of the big news room, down the stairs
and into the street where he found one of the flivvers used by the
reporters.
Fifteen minutes later Tim tucked his elongated legs into the cockpit of
the trimmest little plane he had ever laid eyes on. He ran the motor up
and down the scale, then gave it the gun, darted over the surface of the
field, flipped the tail up--and the flying reporter was in the air.
It was a glorious feeling to be in the air--to be free of the smoke and
smell of the city and for an hour Tim circled over Atkinson. High, then
low, he dived, banked, zoomed and looped--did everything to test the
flying qualities of the little plane. At the end of the test flight he
was more than pleased. It was perfectly rigged.
Tim, an orphan who had joined the News after school days, had worked up
from cub reporter to the police run and then up to special assignment
writer. He had been sent to an aviation school three months before and
while there had written a series of Sunday features on learning how to
fly. Tim hadn't dreamed of being given a flying assignment but he had
mastered the intricacies of an airplane with the same wholesome
enthusiasm which characterized everything he did. That was one of the
reasons why he was a star reporter in spite of his comparative youth,
for Tim had just turned twenty-one.
The Lark was still swooping over the field when one of the cars used by
News reporters dashed through the main gate of the big airport. Tim cut
the motor, made a three point landing, and climbed out of the cockpit.
Ralph Parsons hopped out of the car and ran toward the plane. He shoved
an extra into Tim's hands.
"TRANSCONTINENTAL AIR MAIL ROBBED; $200,000 TAKEN." The headlines, in
heavy, black type, fairly screamed the story at Tim. In brief clear
sentences he read how the eastbound mail plane, which had left Atkinson
at midnight, had been found a hundred miles east near Auburn, a village
in the valley of the Cedar River. The plane was a mass of tangled
wreckage, its pilot dead, the registered mail sacks looted.
"Carson says for you to hump yourself and get over there before dark,"
said Ralph. "He wants a lot of copy for the early editions tomorrow. The
roads over that way are practically impassable and we can't get enough
of the details over the telephone. The air mail people are sending out a
ship but we don't know when they'll be back. It's bad country to fly
over, Tim, so be careful."
Ralph's well meant warning was lost on Tim. Calling a mechanic, the
lanky young flyer swung his ship around, opened up the powerful motor,
and sped down the field and into the air. The flying reporter was off on
his first assignment.
The air was smooth and cool. The late winter sun glinted through the
lazy clouds in the west and flashed off the crimson wings of the little
plane. Tim headed straight east. Far behind him the Great Smokies reared
their heads in a dim outline while a hundred miles ahead of his whirling
propeller the Cedar River carved its way.
Atkinson, with its bustling streets, its busy factories and 200,000
inhabitants, was soon left behind. For almost an hour Tim held to his
course. When he sighted the silver ribbon that was the Cedar River, he
swung south until he picked up the village of Auburn. It was little more
than a cluster of houses on the right bank of the mighty river.
There was no regular landing field at the village but Tim found a
pasture a mile back from the river that looked large enough for his
purpose. He stalled down, taking his time. There was no use risking a
crackup with his new ship. The pasture was cuppy and there was a slough
on one side but Tim killed his speed quickly after he set the Lark down
and pulled up less than twenty feet from a fence.
Tim had sighted the wreck of the air mail in a timber patch half way to
the village. After landing his own craft it took him less than ten
minutes to find what was left of the mail. There was little in the pile
of wreckage to resemble the sturdy, silver craft which had left the
Atkinson airport the night before. It was just a heap of tangled wires
and struts, scraps of canvas and twisted rods. It looked like a crackup,
with the mail looted after the smash, but to Tim's carefully trained
news sense there was something more. He couldn't have defined his
feelings in so many words but he played his hunch and examined the
remains of the big plane. He had almost completed his examination when
something on the motor caught his attention. He bent over it and when he
straightened up there was a new gleam of interest in his eyes.
With the aid of a farm boy Tim managed to get a fence post under the
motor and half rolled it over. A few minutes more of hard work and he
succeeded in removing several parts from the engine.
By the time the flying reporter had completed his task the light was
fading fast and, satisfied with his survey of the wrecked plane, Tim
hurried toward the village.
Auburn was small but friendly and he soon found out what little the
residents of the valley knew.
The east bound mail usually roared over the village about 1 o'clock in
the morning, speeding through the night at better than one hundred miles
an hour. But that morning the mail plane had failed to go over. That, in
itself, was not unusual, for occasionally bad weather forced the
cancellation of the trip. Tim, by careful inquiries, learned that one
old man, living about two miles from the village, had heard the sound of
a motor. His attention had been attracted by the high-pitched drone for
the song of the mail was a heavy throbbing that once heard is seldom
forgotten.
It had been mid-day before a farmer had found the wreckage of the mail,
its pilot trapped in the cockpit, the registered mail sacks, with a big
shipment of currency, looted.
Tim had enough material for his first story. Using the one long distance
telephone wire in the village, he got in touch with the News office in
Atkinson and dictated a detailed story. To spice it up, he added a hint
about a mystery plane. It would make good reading.
The flying reporter had scarcely finished telephoning when the heavy
throbbing of the motor of a plane echoed from the clouds. Hurrying out
into the street from the telephone office, Tim could discern the riding
lights of a mail plane as the pilot, hunting for a place to land,
circled over the village.
Tim hired a car and sped toward the make-shift field where he had
managed to land his own plane. When he reached the pasture he hastily
piled some brush at one end of the field and set it afire. Then he raced
for the other end and swung the car around so that its headlights
outlined the far boundary of the pasture.
The roar of the mail plane's motor lessened as its pilot cut his
throttle and brought his craft down to earth. The big ship bounced and
swayed, threatening once or twice to nose over, but the mail flyer
jammed his wheel brakes on hard and succeeded in stopping before he
crashed into the fence.
Tim left the car and hurried to meet the newcomer.
"That you, Tim?" boomed a deep voice from the cockpit of the mail ship
as the new arrival shut off his motor.
Tim smiled. The voice was familiar and Tiny Lewis, who weighed some 250
pounds, eased his bulk gently to the ground.
"Thanks a lot, Tim," he roared. "I was sure in a pickle. Figured on
getting here before dark but made a forced landing about 50 miles back
when two of the spark plugs fouled and I had to replace them."
Before starting for the village, Tim and Lewis put tarpaulins over the
motors of their planes and staked them securely lest some freakish wind
upset their craft.
When they reached the little hotel and had ordered their dinner, Tim
told Lewis all he knew about the wreck of the air mail. When he had
completed his story, Tiny whistled.
"Looks bad," he admitted, "and I guess there isn't much that I can do
except make arrangements here for them to crate up what's left of the
plane and ship it in to Atkinson. The post office inspectors will be
here sometime tomorrow and they'll take charge of the investigation."
"I expected they'd be on hand," said Tim, "but I've got a little hunch
all my own I'm going to see through to the finish. If it works out as I
hope, it will be a real scoop for the News."
"Here's wishing you luck, Tim," said Tiny. "I'm going to roll in now. I
flew in from the west today with the mail and then they sent me on out
here. It's been a long day but I'll see you the first thing in the
morning. Good night."
"Good night, Tiny," replied Tim.
After the mail flyer had lumbered up to his room, Tim went out to the
hotel porch where he had laid the salvaged parts from the engine. He
picked them up and lugged them up to his room. There, under the yellow
light from a kerosene lamp, he strained over the broken bits. When he
finally completed his minute examination, there was a grim smile on his
lips.
After breakfast with Lewis the next morning, Tim phoned the News office,
and putting a bug in the managing editor's ear that he had stumbled onto
a real clue, got permission to free lance for the rest of the day.
Tim carefully wrapped up the engine parts and carried them to the field
where he loaded them into his plane. Lewis was busy supervising
operations for the crating and shipping of the remains of the mail plane
and with a wave of his hand, Tim dodged over the trees that bordered the
pasture and headed for Prairie City, two hundred miles away, where the
state university was located.
Noon found Tim closeted with the head of the engineering school of the
university, an international authority on electricity. Tim told his
story in quick, clear sentences and in less than fifteen minutes the
famous scientist had a graphic picture of what must have taken place in
the midnight sky over the Cedar River valley.
For two hours the flying reporter and the scientist worked behind closed
doors while messenger boys hurried to and from the telegraph offices,
delivering telegrams that were eagerly grasped and hastily opened.
By late afternoon Tim was winging his way back to Atkinson, a smile of
conquest lighting up his face. In his pocket was a paper with the secret
of the destruction of the air mail plane, in his mind was a plan to
catch the sky bandits.
When Tim reached Atkinson and entered the big editorial office of the
News, he found it deserted for it was early evening and the staff on an
afternoon newspaper completes its work before 6 o'clock. A scrub woman,
busy at one end of the long room, paid no attention to the flying
reporter as he sat down at his desk.
Tim sat before his battered typewriter until far into the night,
recording his strange story. He told how the mail plane, speeding
through the night over the valley of the Cedar River, had fallen
earthward in a death spin, its motor silent, its pilot paralyzed in his
seat while over the twisting, falling plane hovered its destroyer.
In glowing language he pictured the scene that must have taken place. A
plane loitering in the night over the hills and valleys of the Cedar
River in the path of the air mail. Then the red and green lights of the
mail as it flashed out of the west, a quickening of the vulture's motor,
a short dash through the night, a flash of invisible death, the mail
plane careening down--a dead and fluttering thing.
And Tim wrote more, much more--of how he had found the motor of the mail
plane a congealed mass, the pilot's body a husk of a man, burned by a
powerful but invisible electric ray.
Still Tim went on. He told how the invisible ray recently invented and
of which little was known, could be shot from a small gun. He described
how he had consulted the famous scientist at the state university and
how together they had found that one of the few invisible ray guns in
existence had been stolen. This, concluded Tim, must be the weapon of
the sky pirates.
From then on Tim conjectured as to how one of the men in the bandit
plane must have taken to his parachute and followed the mail earthward,
robbed the registered pouches of their fortune in currency, and escaped
in a waiting car.
He had just completed his story and was reading it over for corrections
when the lights all over the editorial room flashed on and the managing
editor, who had dropped in on his way home from a theater, trotted up to
his desk.
Carson was reputed to be capable of scenting a good story a mile away
and he devoured Tim's copy, but not without evident astonishment and
several open expressions of his admiration for the flying reporter's
work.
"It's great stuff, Tim, great stuff," exclaimed the managing editor when
he had finished reading the story. "I'm glad I dropped in tonight. I'll
edit it now and schedule it for the early mail editions tomorrow. It
will certainly set the town talking."
"I wish you wouldn't print that story tomorrow, Mr. Carson," said Tim.
The managing editor, who had started for his desk, spun on his heels.
"And why not?" he demanded. "Didn't you just tell me it was all right?"
"The story is all right, Mr. Carson," explained Tim? "but if you print
it tomorrow the gang responsible for the robbery of the air mail will
never be captured. If you'll hold the story for twenty-four hours
there's a good chance that they can be apprehended."
"Not much," snorted the managing editor, "at least not as long as they
have the death ray machine."
"You're wrong there," persisted Tim. "It's not only possible that they
can be captured, but if you'll give me permission to use the News' plane
I think I can turn the trick."
Carson was too surprised for words and before the managing editor could
regain his poise Tim continued, driving his argument home. For over an
hour they talked in low, strained voices, with Carson openly protesting
at times as Tim explained his plan. Finally the managing editor gave his
consent and Tim arose to go.
"Good luck, Tim," said Carson, "I'll see the air mail people the first
thing in the morning and fix everything up for you."
Dead tired, Tim went to his room and turned in, but sleep would not
come. Through the rest of the night his mind pictured the lurking bandit
plane, the helpless mail flyer, the death ray fired from the gun, and
then the bandit drifting earthward to feast on the spoils of the
wreckage. Tim turned and tossed, enraged that men should stoop to such
villainy, that an achievement of science should be turned to such low
ends.
All next day Tim and a crew of mechanics at the municipal field worked
desperately on the Lark in a secluded hangar. Carefully they sheathed
the motor cowling and the fuselage with thin layers of lead and zinc,
alternately spreading them on for they were as thin as paper. By
nightfall the crimson plane was half gray with the cockpit and its vital
parts protected by the thin sheathing of metal.
The Lark was ready for the test and the chances were that it would come
that night. The two previous nights had been clear as crystal with a
full moon riding the sky. The pilots of the mysterious vulture of the
air would not be abroad on such nights for the risk of detection would
be too great. Now, however, a thin cloud film at high altitude had
spread over the heavens, making an ideal night for another raid on the
air mail. And there was no doubt in Tim's mind but that they would raid
again. They had not the slightest reason to believe that their secret
had been discovered and certainly the valuables carried nightly by the
mail plane would lure them into further attacks.
Well, Tim was ready for them, but the thought of actually doing battle
in the air gave him many a nervous chill as he waited that evening for
the time to go into action.
A figure hurried across the field and toward the hangar.
"Tim! Tim!" called an anxious voice.
"Who is it?"
"It's Ralph. Where are you?"
"Here at the southeast corner of the hangar. Look out you don't fall
into the ditch."
"Say Tim, what are you up to to-night?" demanded Ralph as he panted up
to the hangar. "There are all kinds of wild rumors floating around the
office. Carson's sitting at his desk watching the clock and getting
whiter every minute."
"I'm going to catch the gang that robbed the mail the other night," said
Tim quietly. He hoped that his voice did not betray his emotion for
inwardly he was seething with excitement. The waiting was what got on
his nerves. He was tense, eager to be in the air and away.
"I had a sneaking idea that's what you were up to," said Ralph. "Count
me in on the expedition," he continued. "I stopped at the police station
and borrowed one of Chief Flaherty's riot guns." From beneath the
topcoat which protected him from the raw night air, Ralph produced a
sawed-off shot gun, capable of scattering a veritable hail of lead in
whatever direction it was aimed.
Tim laughed heartily at his friend's determination but his next words
were not easy to say. Ralph and Tim had worked on many a story together
and their bond of friendship was close, but Tim could not afford to risk
any life other than his own.
"I'm sorry, Ralph," he said, "but I can't take you along tonight. You're
not used to flying, and, besides, this is a one man game."
"But Tim, something might happen to you," protested Ralph.
"Something might," conceded Tim, "and then what would you do a couple of
thousand feet up in the air and traveling at 100 miles an hour? No,
Ralph, not to-night."
The roar of the mail coming in from the west halted their conversation
and Tim turned to direct the work of the mechanics while Ralph,
realizing his helplessness, watched the final preparations.
Just as the mail trundled to a stop the lights on the field blinked out.
There were shouts and calls for flashlights and a minute or two later
the mechanics started their work of servicing the plane. In ten minutes
it was ready to continue its eastward flight.
The pilot, slouched in his cockpit, waved for the mechanics to pull the
blocks and gave his ship full throttle. Down the field he sped, then
leaped into the air. His riding lights were disappearing in the east
when the field beacons flashed on again.
Speeding into the night at one hundred miles an hour, Tim looked back
and chuckled. In place of the regular mail plane, his own trim, fast
little craft was rocketing eastward with dummy sacks of mail. It had
been carefully camouflaged to look like the regular plane and when the
lights went out, the larger ship had been pushed into a hangar and Tim's
wheeled out in its place.
In less than another hour Tim would know just how good his theory and
plans had been. He was willing to stake his life on them. The night air
was exhilarating. Tim didn't want to die; in fact, he had no intention
of doing so. As he raced through the scudding clouds, he carefully
checked his plans. Ahead of him two long black machine guns peered over
the edge of the cockpit.
For nearly an hour the racy little ship flew through the half clear
night. When Tim sighted the curving light line that was the Cedar River,
he eased the throttle. His greatest assignment was just ahead--if the
air raiders were waiting!
Tim cut his speed to that of the regular mail plane. His riding lights
glowed brightly. The young flyer tensed; eager for the test.
Whrrrrrrr! A roaring black plane flashed from the clouds above, it
powerful motor spitting flame. Tim's heart leaped. His mind was racing
madly.
The black plane bore down on him. Tim ducked, and the vulture of the
skies stormed past. Tim's own plane held its course. He had escaped from
the invisible death. Instead of falling, a wisp of humanity in a
lifeless plane, he was hard on the tail of the bandits' plane.
Tim pushed his little craft hard. The bandits, amazed that the first
attempt had failed, were startled when the usually sluggish mail doubled
its speed and took after them.
The gap between the two planes closed rapidly. Tim, crouched behind his
guns and protected from the invisible rays by the lead and zinc which
covered the cockpit, waited. Ahead loomed the black plane, its two
astonished occupants glancing back at him.
Tim tripped his machine guns and a stream of tracer bullets, singing
their song of death, streaked the blackness of night with threads of
sparkling crimson as they coursed through the sky.
The black plane dodged this way and that, but always Tim was at their
heels. He flew with the fury of a man possessed. Again and again it
seemed as though the black plane must be destroyed by the leaden hail
but each time its pilot managed to escape.
Tim zoomed quickly, the nose of his ship pointing into the belly of the
bandit craft. Suddenly, with a grinding chatter, his guns jammed and his
exultation became maddening disappointment. The chased became the
chaser, and Tim was now on the defensive.
His plane had withstood one attack of the death ray but a second time
the bandits might find a vulnerable spot. The pilot of the black ship
quickly realized that Tim's guns had jammed and that his nervy pursuer
was at his mercy. He lost no time in banking swiftly to make quick work
of Tim.
The flying reporter, a desperate plan in his mind, cut his motor and
drifted. It was his only chance and Tim staked the success of his
midnight venture on a slender possibility. The bandit plane was storming
down on him.
Again Tim ducked, again the breathless moment and again the thin
covering of lead and zinc saved him from death.
The bandits, completely bewildered by the plane and pilot who defied
destruction, slowed down. It was Tim's chance. Savagely he jammed the
throttle on full. The Lark leaped and quivered, a roaring, pulsating
king of the air. It was eating up the space separating the two planes.
Tim's brain was in a whirl. Did he dare, would he succeed, what would
happen if he failed? But the die was cast; he was almost on the black
destroyer.
Hastily he loosened his safety belt, climbed to the edge of the cockpit
and before the startled bandits could aim their death ray gun at him,
leaped into space.
Then the planes crashed. As Tim floated downward, his parachute
billowing out above, he heard the scream of breaking wires, the crash of
struts, the last wild, defiant roar of speeding motors as his own plane
ate its way into the other. To his left Tim could see two other
parachutes drifting earthward. The bandits had not been caught in the
crash!