Obelists Fly High Read online

  Up the cabin he saw, without noticing, the backs of his nieces’ heads beyond those of the other passengers. Fonda’s hair, a bright, marcelled profusion escaping from underneath the right side of her pert little hat; Isa’s hair, close-cut beneath the brim of a masculine felt. Both girls were dressed in travelling suits, tailored; Fonda, of course, would discard hers for something far more alluring at the earliest opportunity, but Isa would keep hers on. All her clothes were equally severe, as close an approximation of male attire as the most high-priced and faddish couturier would permit.

  Out the window beside the surgeon the sky was bright and, far below, lay the map-like expanse of fields, roads and towns, moving past with deceptive slowness. There were dark clouds away to the north, but it seemed certain that the ’plane would skirt to the south of them and skim contemptuously beyond their menace. That scene, too, he saw without being aware of it.

  His thoughts were altogether concerned with the mission toward which he was winging at so high a speed. Well, he could do it, if that detective fellow – what was his name, now, Lord? – got him there all right. Very dangerous and very delicate, that operation; almost certain to fail if conducted by an ordinary surgeon. But he could do it. He had done it before, he could do it again; he had, and always had had, plenty of confidence. He could pull the man through, brother or not, if he reached him in time, and if he got there alive.

  He had never felt fear in his life, so he thought, and he did not feel it now. But he couldn’t deal with assassination. The threat of it merely angered him, and anger he knew to be an inefficient, blundering emotion. His mind was tempered to deal with clear, hard facts; before threats, however definite, from the nebulous unknown he was helpless. He was a realist, and so he had taken his warning seriously; but there he halted. As an expert, he had put his problem into the hands of other experts. It was up to Captain Lord to see that he reached the man he would save, in a fit condition to save him.

  An air bump changed the direction of his thoughts. Lucky he had brought his assistant, young Tinkham. A brilliant young man, the best assistant he had ever had, although foolishly apprehensive about that heart attack business. Already Tinkham had pestered him twice, despite the low altitudes at which they were flying, and the third time, no doubt, he would have to take an injection, just to keep the man quiet. There he was, up ahead, just visible from Cutter’s own seat, the last in the cabin and almost against the wall of the small compartment behind, which was occupied only by inanimate supplies. Tinkham ahead and Captain Lord in the chair directly across the narrow aisle.

  It had been rough for the last hour, ever since leaving Cleveland, uncomfortably rough. If it kept on much longer he would have to fasten his safety belt again. Unexpectedly the stations had commenced reporting unsettled weather from all directions. Spring vagaries, local storms; those clouds out the window were one of them. Already on this hop the passengers had passed back the box containing the little glass bulbs that did so much to overcome air nausea. He glanced at the clock in the cabin’s forward wall and was surprised to see that it now showed a few minutes before noon; he remembered its having been retarded an hour from Eastern Time just as they were passing over the southern outskirts of Toledo. But that was the time; twelve noon, Central Time, was the threatened hour of his death!

  A succession of sharp bumps and a giddy little slip caused general discomfort along the cabin. He was beginning to feel a trifle sick again, himself. Opposite him the detective – Lord – was leaning forward and passing up the word for another trip of the box of tiny bulbs. It was somewhat slow in coming back; three of the passengers, he did not notice whom, availed themselves of its assistance before handing it along.

  Now Lord had it. He took out one of the bulbs, broke it, inhaled, then leaned over and offered one to Cutter.

  He didn’t need it. He shook his head; but the detective, with a significant glance toward the clock, pressed it on him. ‘Better take one now, while I have them here. The effect will last for some time.’

  Well, perhaps he had better. Nearly twelve o’clock. He felt but very slightly upset, but it would be better to feel perfectly fit if anything did happen at noon. He saw Tinkham rising from a chair ahead; coming back, probably, to be on hand beside his seat when the hands of the clock coincided at twelve. He nodded and said, ‘Might as well.’ He took the bulb.

  At the first long inhalation he stiffened sharply. There was a momentary burning sensation from his lungs; then blankly, like the dropping of a colourless curtain – nothing. He slumped forward, swaying in his chair. His body fell into the aisle, where it lay curiously huddled at the detective’s feet . . .

  On the forward wall of the cabin the hands of the clock were vertical.

  Part III – Titillation

  2900 FEET

  In the face of emergency Captain Lord acted quickly and calmly. Standing directly above the body in the aisle, he quickly adjusted the surgeon’s seat to its recumbent position, and with Tinkham’s assistance lifted Cutter and placed him upon it.

  Tinkham, his fingers on the surgeon’s wrist, said, ‘No pulse. Severe heart attack,’ and started to open the small bag he had brought with him when approaching Cutter’s chair. He had already extracted a hypodermic needle and was in the act of rolling back his patron’s sleeve when the detective interrupted him curtly.

  ‘No injection,’ said Lord sharply.

  Tinkham paused, stared. ‘What?’

  ‘Dr Cutter is not to be tampered with in any way.’

  ‘What do you mean, tampered with?’ The assistant’s face was pale with anger and his voice had taken on the same strained timbre Lord had remarked when he spoke of vivisection. ‘This man is seriously ill. Have you forgotten that I am a doctor? I shall examine him and treat him at once.’

  ‘You will neither examine him nor will you treat him,’ Lord answered with complete certainty. ‘Possibly you have forgotten that my authority is final in this matter. Possibly also you are unaware that, with very few exceptions, everyone in this ’plane is suspect of having done Dr Cutter the violence he has already suffered.’ The detective raised his voice. ‘Dr Pons! Will you come back here, please?’

  Dr Pons rose with alacrity and it was apparent that Lord’s voice need not have been raised to summon him. The attention of all the passengers was focused upon the group at the rear of the cabin, and a protest was, in fact, already rising from the direction of the Rev. Manly Bellowes at Lord’s interference with Tinkham. Pons, on his way down the aisle, took occasion to silence it by announcing, ‘This man is a detective of the New York Force. I have known him for years, and you may take it he knows what he is doing.’

  As the psychologist approached, Lord cut short the assistant’s angry remonstrances and turned to the man in the seat directly ahead of Cutter’s. He pointed to the surgeon’s handkerchief lying in the aisle where it had fallen. ‘Professor Didenot,’ he requested, ‘will you kindly take that handkerchief and sniff it. Be careful, don’t get your nose too close to it. Just a sniff.’

  Didenot, surprised at being addressed by name, leaned over and retrieved the handkerchief. Undoubtedly he brought it too close to his nostrils when he raised it, for he swayed and grasped at the back of his chair, then commenced to cough and retch violently.

  Lord nodded. ‘I thought so. Cutter had no heart attack at this altitude. He was poisoned by the bulb he inhaled . . . Put your face to the ventilator, Didenot, and don’t do any more sniffing.’ The advice was unnecessary; the philosopher was already leaning against the side of the fuselage, with his nose to the ventilator, continuing to cough – but gradully recovering. Lord took the handkerchief from his limp fingers, folded it carefully and put it in his wallet.

  ‘I insist,’ began Tinkham, ‘on examining – ‘

  ‘Just a minute. Pons, take a look at Dr Cutter, will you, and see what you make of his condition.’

  Pons stepped forward, his weight easily pushing the smaller assistant out of his path. He bent f
orward and scrutinised the prone form of the surgeon closely, searched for a pulse, felt of his skin and finally turned back one of the closed eyelids.

  ‘I’m not a physician, as you know, Lord,’ he said, straightening up, ‘but I think there is no doubt at all that this man is dead. I can assure you of my own knowledge, also, that he did not die of a heart attack, for I happen to be familiar with the symptoms of that. That’s about as far as I can go for you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You see,’ Tinkham’s voice cut in with angry emphasis, ‘this man is not a doctor. I insist upon examining Dr Cutter at once and rendering whatever assistance may be possible.’

  Michael Lord turned and eyed the young man coldly.

  ‘We may as well have a showdown right now.’ he said incisively; then, raising his voice, ‘Gentlemen, I want no one to be in any doubt as to the situation which has arisen. First of all, I am Captain Lord of the New York Police Department; I intend to have my badge passed around the cabin, so that no one shall have any excuse for doubting my credentials.’ He drew a small gold badge from his pocket and handed it to Didenot who, after a brief observation, silently passed it on to the man ahead, as the detective added, ‘The pilots are already aware of my identity, as is Dr Pons, and that constitutes more corroboration than is necessary for anyone.’

  He continued, ‘Dr Cutter has received a threat of death and I have been accompanying him in order to protect him. It is apparent that I have failed, but I assure you that I shall discover and arrest his assailant before this trip is over. When we reach Chicago no one is to leave this cabin until I give my permission; and if the culprit is not then found, the passengers will transfer directly to our next ’plane under guard.

  ‘There is no question but that Dr Cutter met his death through the agency of the small bulb which he broke in his handkerchief and inhaled. That was the means used by the criminal to attack him. The first thing is to discover the origin of that box of bulbs. Will someone see if the junior pilot can step back here for a few moments?’

  Isa Mann, with a set face but dry-eyed, got up from her seat and opened the door to the pilots’ compartment. Across the aisle from her Fonda sat in shocked immobility, her hands twisting in her lap, but without any other apparent sign of emotion. As Isa’s head disappeared around the narrow doorway, the detective added, ‘I have full authority to handle this situation as I think best. I am armed, and you may count upon it that the pilots, who are also armed, will back me up in any decision I may make. For the time being you will all please consider yourselves under my orders. There is a murderer in this small company, and it will alleviate a very bad situation if my instructions are obeyed promptly until this criminal has been discovered.’

  Lord’s voice ceased, and the passengers, who had watched and listened silently, were unquestionably impressed. Their varying expressions indicated everything from comprehension to fear, and, as his concluding words were heard, more than one involuntary glance of suspicion was cast among the fellow-travellers. The junior pilot, his youthful face stern, came down the aisle just as Professor Didenot handed back the badge, which had now made a full circuit of the cabin.

  ‘Is everybody satisfied as to our present status?’ Lord demanded.

  There was no dissenting reply; there were, in fact, no replies at all and, taking the silence for acquiescence, he addressed the pilot. ‘Can you tell us anything about the box of aromatic buds we have been using in this ’plane?’

  The pilot was plainly surprised. ‘What about them?’ he asked.

  ‘Mainly, where did they come from? Who put them on the ’plane? Who has had a chance to tamper with them since they were put on and before we commenced to use them?’

  ‘Oh, why, I put them on board myself. I drew that box from the Commissary myself just before we left Newark and locked it in the supply cabinet before anyone else had gotten aboard. When I brought it out, just before we passed Bellefonte, the box was still sealed, so no one could have been fooling with it up to then. But why? What about them?’

  ‘One of them contained poison gas of some kind. Dr Cutter, who inhaled it, has died from its effects.’

  The pilot stiffened as if suddenly stung. ‘What! Is this passenger dead? I thought he was just sick.’ The young man’s hand went unconsciously to the holster at his side. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘That is what we are trying to find out. First, we must eliminate any chance that this poison bulb was brought into the ’plane in the box with the rest of the bulbs. Fortunately you can tell us where the original box came from. Was it an ordinary issue, just as usual, or was there anything out of the ordinary about the box when you got it?’

  ‘Nothing at all out of the ordinary about it, sir. It came off the top of the stack that’s always in the Commissary. The clerk just turned around, took the top one and handed it to me. I put it under my arm and brought it aboard. It looked just like every other one to me.’

  ‘I see. That means that the poison bulb was substituted, then, by one of the passengers some time after you first opened the box and passed it around near Bellefonte. By the way, here is the box. I want you to lock it up and when we reach Chicago, the remaining bulbs will be turned over to the police department for examination.’

  The pilot, having fulfilled this instruction and returned the keys of the locker to his pocket, asked, ‘What do you want done, Captain Lord? We have orders to follow your requests so far as possible. Do you want to land, or shall we go on to Chicago? We’re less than an hour from there now.’

  ‘We shall go right through to Chicago – and beyond.’ Lord paused and considered. ‘I want to get the history of that box as clearly as possible. With whom did you leave it after you first passed it around? It was only passed around once by you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I only passed it the first time, when I told the passengers how to use the bulbs. I don’t know how many more times it was used, of course. When I had finished I went up the aisle and left it –’ Suddenly the young man’s face flushed and he caught his breath perceptibly. It was quite evident that he had abruptly recognised the bearing of the question. He stammered, ‘I don’t know – I’ve forgotten who I left it with.’

  ‘You left it with me,’ said Fonda Mann in a choking voice, but with a look at the pilot that plainly said, ‘Thank you just the same.’ The young man’s face became redder than ever.

  Isa’s voice, without any emotion at all, asserted, ‘And I had it part of the time. Twice after it had gone around, anyhow.’

  Lord repressed a smile at the expense of the discomfited pilot. Never had he seen a clearer instance of beauty interfering with the pursuit of an investigation. ‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. ‘Miss Fonda Mann had it after its first trip around, and after that Miss Isa had it until it came back for the last time. Well, it’s hardly conclusive of anything; everyone in the cabin has had the box at one time or another with sufficient opportunity for substitution.’

  He turned once more to the pilot. ‘Can you send a message for me?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, sure. I mean, of course, sir.’

  ‘To whom will it go?’

  ‘It will go to the Chicago field. We wouldn’t be calling them for another fifteen minutes or so, but I can get them any time.’

  The detective scribbled rapidly on a page from his small note-book . . . ‘Stretcher to meet us on field. Also detail of eight police to form cordon around ’plane and escort passengers to departing ship . . . ‘ He handed the sheet of paper to the pilot.

  The latter took it, read. ‘You want these messages sent right away?’

  ‘Please. Send them to the manager of your field and sign them with my name: Lord, Captain, New York Police Department. Be sure they are understood. If there is any doubt, let me know.’

  As the pilot made his way forward, Cutter’s assistant got up from the seat across the aisle into which he had subsided when pushed aside by Pons. ‘Now, this nonsense – ‘ he began.

  Lord turned to him in some ex
asperation. ‘Tinkham,’ he said, ‘I’ve had enough of it. There is nothing stupid about you; you understand clearly my position and my authority. If you continue your interference, I tell you plainly I’ll handcuff you, and you can ride that way to Chicago, where I shall place you under formal arrest.’

  The eyes of the two men met and held, Tinkham’s obviously hostile, the detective’s appraising. Lord continued, ‘I have made no charge against you, and I am not prepared to do so – now. Nevertheless, you are one of several suspected people, and you will certainly have no special privileges and no opportunity to meddle with Dr Cutter’s body. Someone gave Dr Cutter a poisoned bulb, and until that person is found, you, like everyone else in this ’plane, will obey my orders. I assure you I mean every word of it.’

  Tinkham’s voice, icicled, said, ‘You are the man who handed him that bulb. I saw you.’ He turned on his heel and walked back to his chair up the cabin. He sat down, placed his bag across his knees; his posture assumed the rigid, immobile lines of repressed animosity.

  3000 FEET

  Lord returned to his own seat and Dr Pons, who had stood aside to the rear during the preceding exchange, sank into the vacant chair just forward of the detective’s. There was a pause: the passengers sat silently for the moment, digesting the significance of the drama in which they so suddenly found themselves involved. Then gradually conversation sprang up, first in one place, then in another. The Rev. Bellowes, whose chair was directly behind Isa’s, leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder.

  Professor Didenot arose and was standing beside Lord’s chair, somewhat timidly. He looked pale and his breathing, either from embarrassment or from the remaining effects of his sniff at Cutter’s handkerchief, was slightly irregular.