Eddie Bride had got himself a reputation as a hard luck
flyer in France, and seemed to be out for a new record
with the Philippine Air patrol
It’s strange how some men will remember a face and forget a voice, while
others will pick up a lost thread in just the opposite way. In my case
I’m pretty good at registering a face. But it isn’t that way with Prop
Owens. When it comes to picking out a voice—he’s a wizard. And his eyes
let him down on human face shapes. Actually, he doesn’t care about a
man’s looks. But he claims he can tell almost everything by the way a
fellow speaks up, or doesn’t speak. Maybe he’s right.
Hot? The old Walled City _can_ be hot in the dry season when there isn’t
much of a breeze edging in toward Manila from Cavite and the bay.
Everything is so dry that it crackles, and you get that tired feeling
inside and a dry taste along the roof of your mouth. The natives and
Chinks move along and grin about it. The whites move along, but they
don’t always grin. They curse the luck that keeps them away from Baguio
up in the mountains.
Prop Owens didn’t curse any such luck. As a couple of Army pilots we
didn’t rate Baguio trips, not at this time of the season, anyway. We
were due out at Burton Field in about two hours; Juan Rizaros had set us
up to a pretty decent meal over in the Walled City. We were a bit
stuffed and we figured that the walk up to the Army and Navy Club,
overlooking one end of the Luneta, wouldn’t do any harm. So we walked.
And it was while we were walking that we heard the voice. It pulled us
up short.
“—got her over in a loop—and let go both guns. The left one jammed—but
the other baby poured out a nice stream of lead. Did I get that Boche?
I’ll say so! Got him plenty, if I do say it myself. Got him plenty!”
I looked at Prop. He was staring with wide eyes toward the screened
windows beyond one of the several balconies of an old section house. The
place was similar to many in the Walled City; the voice was not. It had
a peculiar grating quality. And it used air words. There aren’t so many
flyers in Manila that it didn’t give me a little jolt—that combination
of voice and words. And it was clear that it gave Joe Owens a greater
jolt.
Prop was still staring up toward the screened windows. His eyes were
narrowed now.
“Hell!” he breathed. “It’s Eddie Bride! It’s the Jinx!”
I stared back at Prop. We’d all heard about Bride at Burton. He was
something of a joke in the Service and yet not such an awful joke, at
that. He could fly, but everything he climbed into got into trouble.
“Jinx” Bride they’d tagged him when I was down on the Border patrol in
Texas. He’d been at Nome then and had just cracked up with a ranking
major. The major went out in the crash, but Bride had got off with a few
goggle cuts. I never had met him. His whole Service history seemed to be
a sequence of tough breaks, tougher for the other guy in the ship than
for Bride.
“When did you see him last, Prop?” I asked in a low tone.
Prop smiled grimly. He’s tall and rather lean and he got his tag for
designing one of the sweetest big ship propellers they’re using today.
His gray eyes went up toward the window again. But the voice had died;
apparently those inside had gone into another room of the house.
“Come on!” Prop grabbed me by the arm. “Up to the Escolta for a drink.
We’ll pass up the club. I want to locate Bert. He’ll be around Clark’s,
most likely. Likes the Dutch music.”
I grunted. Something was up, that was clear. Prop was thinking hard and
he was thinking _back_. He was passing up the club for Clark’s soft
drink place where the music wasn’t Dutch at all, but native—stringed
instruments strummed by Filipinos—but Prop always termed it Dutch music.
Easier to say, was his theory, which isn’t such a bad one in a hot
country.
“Why chase Bert Allen?” I asked as we walked along, our pace set by Prop
considerably faster than it had been before. “And are you sure it was
the Jinx?”
Prop swore softly.
“I’ll never forget that voice,” he stated. “Long time since I’ve heard
it, Mac. Ten years, over in France. It’s Bride, all right. He’s
transferred to Burton, ten to one. The _Thomas_ got in today. He’s come
in on that transport. The Jinx at Burton Field! And Bert Allen—”
He’d been thinking out loud and he caught himself suddenly and shut up.
I swore softly. It was almost dark, but it was still too hot for such
walking. We were both getting soaked.
“To hell with the Jinx!” I muttered. “I’m not killing myself because a
bum pilot got transferred down to these Islands. Take it easy.”
I had slowed down, and I was talking to the air. Prop was moving faster
than ever; his long legs had carried him yards ahead of me. It looked as
if he’d forgotten I’d existed. I stared after him, slowed down some
more, lighting a pill. Let him go—that was the thing to do. And I did
it. It was too hot for speed.
But the thing that got me was why Prop was going in for it. What did he
care? And where did Bert Allen come in? Bert had been in France with
Prop, but what of that? A lot of us had been in that country ten years
ago. Bride had been across, too. I grinned.
* * * * *
“Maybe he owes Bert money,” I muttered to myself. “Bert owes Prop some,
and the lean guy figures he’ll put Bert wise so that he can collect from
the Jinx and pay up.”
But I didn’t really figure it that way. I turned toward the bay, toward
the Army and Navy Club. Across the Luneta, where the band played at
twilight, rose the shape of the Manila Hotel. Two weeks ago I’d nearly
pulled a court-martial for coming close to leaving a wing on its roof. I
swore when I thought of that. The tropic heat didn’t help ship engines
to keep you in the air. It would be a nice field for this fellow
Bride—the Islands. Hard enough without jinxing yourself.
I climbed the steps of the club. It was too hot to worry about tomorrow.
And Prop would be back in a little while. I went around to the bay side
and sprawled in a fan-backed wicker chair. I slept a bit on the screened
porch. The breeze that came in from the bay was tepid, ghastly, but it
was a breeze.
Something gripping my shoulder woke me in a hurry. It was Prop’s right
hand. His face held a grim expression.
“Lieutenant Bride’s been picked up by native policemen,” he told me.
“They’ve taken him to the hospital. Fractured skull and some bad cuts on
his face. Happened a half hour ago, around the corner from the Anderson
place where we heard him bragging. He met the Andersons in Frisco and
went over right away, right after he landed. Bride’s almost finished.”