CHAPTER FIVE

Girard Takes a Trick

ACROSS the gray sky from which the sun had gone floated an airliner, its wings defined by red and green sparks—running lights. The soft whir of the engines lingered in the twilight until the gentle crunch of wheels against earth ended the flight.

The remaining rays of the sun outlined spindly clouds, tingeing them with a faint red.

Mel King sighed and rose from the folding chair outside the Pilot’s Club. Smoke started to get up, but she pressed him back with a touch of her slender hand.

“Don’t, Smoke. You aren’t well enough.”

Smoke snorted, and grinned. “All right, Mel. If you’d had your way about it, I would have been in bed a year instead of a month.”

“Before I go, Smoky, tell me once and for all. Are you really entering that Air Derby to South America?”

Smoke sighed and watched the darkening sky.

“But you have no ship, Smoke. None at all. And I won’t release the rights or title of the Mystery Plane.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he said gently.

“But you want me to. Smoky, I’d do anything for you. You know that. But I don’t . . . don’t want to lose you, that’s all. When I think of the jungles and the Andes, I—”

“Too late to think of that,” said Smoke. “I’ve committed myself. The papers—”

“Oh, the papers! Print on a white page! You’re not a publicity hound, Smoke. Not a bit of it.”

Alex Montague rounded the edge of the building and came on, his dark, excitable eyes gleaming like a car’s headlights—or almost as brightly. At the sight of Mel he stopped and removed his hat with a bow.

She nodded to him and walked toward the roadster. Slamming the door, she started the purring motor. Her brace of red lights was gone, melting with the swarm on the highway.

“Another fight?” asked Alex.

“No,” said Smoke. “Just a one-sided argument. What’s the news, Alex? You’re all apuff.”

“Listen, Smoke. See here!” He thrust a paper under Smoke’s nose. It was a short space, small print, no head. In the fading light Smoke could hardly read it.

“Sure,” said Smoke. “It says the Hedstrom plant has just turned out an airliner that can go three hundred or better. What of it?”

“We’ll make a stab at getting one!”

Smoke grinned and fished for a cigarette. Finding none, he relaxed and continued to grin. “Those things only cost about fifty thousand, Alex. What is the state of finance?”

Alex paced restlessly back and forth. “Don’t joke about it, Smoke. We’ve got to do something. Here it is within two days of the race and we’ve got no plane. That’s a hell of a shape to be in! We’ll have—”

“—To steal a Hedstrom to get one,” finished Smoke. “Now let me see. There’s a note for two thousand on the ZT. And a hospital bill for eight hundred on me. And a hotel bill of four hundred for both of us. And my watch brought three dollars yesterday.”

“Smoke,” said Alex, placing his hand on Smoke’s shoulder, man to man, “why don’t you listen to reason? It’s all for your own good, old fellow. We need a plane and we need funds. We’ve got to have backing. If we don’t, we’ll be on the rocks, sued right and left. It’s only because people think you’ve got money that they keep off us for these bills. And that won’t go on long. If we don’t do something about it soon, we’ll have to steal that Mystery Ship from Mel and give it to Girard. And he’ll get the credit for three years of your work.”

Smoke was grinning, teeth flashing in the darkness. “Be human, Alex, and forget the high-pressure salesmanship. What do you intend to do?”

“It’s you, Smoke. Now listen. Old Man King has plenty of money—many, many millions more than he needs. And as a special favor to his future son-in-law, he’d think nothing of lending you—”

“Alex, how many times have I got to turn that down? This is the second time today. You’re wearing me out with that line. I’m not going to ask King for money just because of Mel. That’s out!”

“All right, all right,” said Alex, backing off. “I know what you’re afraid of. You think if Mel King finds out you’re broke, she’ll give you the gate. You’re afraid to put it to a test. You’re yellow, Smoke!”

Smoke stared through the dusk, listening to the faraway drone of a mail plane traveling north. Mel would also hear it and look up at it.

Smoke’s voice was almost inaudible. “Yes, Alex, I’m yellow.”

“Hell, Smoke! I’m sorry. But everything is—well, sort of up in the air, and I’m worried about you. It’ll break your heart if you have to turn that ship over to Girard. And I know—”

“Forget it, Alex. I know what you mean. Women and wings—I guess they don’t mix so well.”

“Oh, come on, now, Smoke. Don’t go moody on me. We’ve got a tough enough nut to crack without that. What are we going to do?”

“Steal the Mystery Plane and use it. It’s a two-cockpit job and it will qualify.”

Alex shook his head. “Don’t joke about it, Smoke. You go from one extreme to the other.”

“I mean it.” Smoke got up and looked toward the operations office, which was glittering with lights. A man came out and approached the Pilot’s Club. He stopped and touched Smoke’s arm.

“How’s it going?” he said.

“Okay, Ben. Listen, Ben. Are you taking the Nine out?”

Ben smiled at Smoke. “Want to use my car? Go ahead.”

Smoke stepped off in the direction of the parking line. Alex, shaking his head doubtfully, followed.

Humming something about a dying aviator, Smoke cheerfully climbed in and started the engine. Alex slammed the door.

“You’re not kidding me, Smoke?”

“No. We’re going to steal the ship out of the King hangar, repaint it tonight, and use it in the race.” He was about to pull out when Patty thrust her feline nose up at the window, pleading. She had been asleep and her gaze was reproachful when she discovered she had not been invited.

Smoke climbed out and opened the rumble seat. The hunting leopard did not seem to exert an ounce of strength. She flowed into the seat and curled up, content at the sound of the engine.

The hangar at the King estate was lighted, its open doors loosing a yellow glare which lay upon the concrete runway, a splotch of life in dead darkness.

Smoke Burnham eased the car into a lane that flanked the field, cutting off the engine. He stepped out and looked toward the squat building. Alex stepped down beside him and stared over his shoulder.

“Why should the hangar be lighted at this time of night?” demanded Alex.

“Maybe Mel’s tucking the Mystery Plane in bed. Come on.”

“You’re not going right down there, are you?”

“Why not? If no one’s there, I’ll fly the plane out. And if someone is there, I’ll make my apologies. But I refuse to be a sneak thief, Alex.”

Wearily, Alex plodded behind him toward the hangar. Patty hopped down from the rumble seat, a shadow of rippling muscles, and stalked third in the procession. A man who did not know Patty would have been startled out of his wits. A cheetah is not a heartening companion in the dark—it looks too much like a leopard and its teeth and claws are much too long.

A sound of voices came from the interior, softened by distance and darkness. They were immediately followed by the roar of an engine—the engine of the Mystery Ship, unmistakable to Smoke.

Smoke broke into a loping run. The engine rose in crescendo. A hand on the throttle was gunning nervously.

Rounding the edge of the doors, Smoke came to a halt. He stared up at the mighty disc of a whirling prop. It was advancing toward him!

“Stop!” he bellowed, but his voice was unheard in the din of engine and racketing club. The plane was gathering speed, bound for the field.

Smoke sprang to one side, trying to grab at a wing. The low foil was elusive and he tripped and fell to the concrete.

A white face was visible for an instant over the cockpit rim, and then the Mystery Plane hurtled down the runway and into the blackness.

Jumping up, Smoke scrutinized the hangar interior. A door slammed at the far end. Smoke leaped toward the sound. A dun-colored streak went by—Patty.

Outside the hangar a scream shrilled. It was immediately followed by a tinkle of glass. When Smoke reached the rear door, it was ajar.

Patty’s snarling cry was hair-raising. Smoke laid hands on a twisting body which strove mightily to get away. Patty stood back, licking her lips, thoroughly enjoying herself, waiting to get into the fray once more. Trained to give chase to anything which would run, Patty thought that the quarry was hers, and hers alone.

The man Smoke held was suddenly aware that hands were upon him. Redoubling his efforts, the quarry slid to one side. In the darkness, footing was precarious. Smoke suddenly found himself holding an empty coat.

Patty was off again. Gears clashed, and Patty howled as though in pain. Headlights streaked across the field and a car hurtled away.

Patty came back disconsolately, limping, but she bore a patch of ragged cloth in her sharp teeth.

Smoke swore loudly and at some length. He slammed the coat down to the ground.

Alex materialized like a genie. “Who was it?”

Smoke stopped swearing. “He forgot to give me his card,” he said sarcastically. Then he looked down at the coat and towed it into the hangar lights. He delved in its breast pocket and brought forth a wallet.

The name, stamped in gold on leather, was “J.C. Smith.” When Smoke opened it, a sheaf of greenbacks came to light. He pulled out the bills and counted them.

“Five hundred dollars,” he said.

“Smith,” said Alex. “Girard’s secretary!”

“Sure it is. Girard wants this plane and he wants it bad. Well, he got it.”

“But we can press suit,” said Alex.

“Certainly we can. And he’d claim it was all a mistake or something. We haven’t a leg to support us, Alex. He controls the headlines. We won’t even be able to prove that Girard took it. And if we pressed suit too hard, then we’d wake up and find ourselves very accomplished daisy-pushers.”

“But, damn it, why should he steal the thing?”

“He needs it, that’s why. After all those promises to give the government the best pursuit ship ever built, he’d look silly not being able to hand it over. Then there’s prestige connected with it. And circulation—and therefore, much, much money. He’s got us, Alex, and there’s no use hollering about it.”

“But aren’t you going to make a fight?”

“Sure. In the International Air Derby.”

“Wait,” said Alex pensively. “There’s something about this—something— Look here, Smoke. He couldn’t have been so wary of our winning this race. We haven’t even got a ship, and he knows it. Listen, Smoke. This is serious. He . . . he knows if we take that International Air Derby, we’ll—”

“We’ll what?” Smoke demanded.

“He knows we’ll never come back,” Alex finished quietly. “He’s set a trap for us if we ever take off. If we got lost down there, we wouldn’t be able to turn the Mystery Ship over to him.”

Alex sighed. “Yes, and I just happened to think that Smoke Burnham lost would bring plenty of publicity and money for Girard. He could play it up for weeks and weeks. Searching planes, searching parties on the ground. Threshing through the wilds and jungles of Brazil. And, of course, they’d never find us.”

Smoke shook his head, bleakly. “Well, I don’t feel so bad about that five hundred bucks.”

“Neither do I. We’ll charge them that for plane rental while we’re gone. And boy, could I eat a big, juicy steak with—”

Another voice cut in and Patty sat up straight, expecting more excitement. It was Mel King.

She came into the hangar with quick, rapid steps. Her eyes were hot coals and her shoulders were as straight as a toy soldier’s.

“Smoke,” she said, coming to a stop. “Where is that plane?”

“Plane! Why, they took it, of course. How are you, Mel?”

She stepped close to him. “You’re lying, Smoke Burnham. You stole that ship. What are you, an Indian giver? A sneak thief? Because I took it away from you so that you’d live long enough to—” She turned and walked away, back toward the mansion on the hill. Her shoulders were no longer straight, her splendid head no longer erect.

Smoke would have followed her, but Alex stopped him. “You can’t convince her, Smoke. She’s a woman, worrying about her man. Don’t blame her. She’ll come around all right. Let’s leave here and get something to eat.”

Smoke turned slowly around. He was smiling with set lips. “I’ll say she’s going to come around,” he muttered.

“Meaning what?”

“Wait and see, Alex, wait and see. We’re grabbing the first train out for the Hedstrom plant. That new transport plane is going to win the International Air Derby, Girard or no Girard. And in spite of Melanie King. Let’s go.”

Patty cat-footed in their wake, still clinging to the scrap of cloth.