Airport (113 page)

Alongside Demerest, Anson Harris was still holding the aircraft in its gentle turn, using only the slightest amount of hank. It was a perfect turn, exactly executed, as demonstrated by each pilot’s needle and ball indicator–the granddaddy of aviation flight instruments, still used on modern jets, as it was used in Lindbergh’s
Spirit of St. Louis
, and airplanes long before. The needle was tilted, the ball dead center. But only compass and gyro betrayed the extent of the turn–that Flight Two was coming around a hundred and eighty degrees in course. Harris had declared that passengers would be unaware of the course reversal, and he would be right–unless someone, peering through a cabin window, happened to be familiar with positions of stars and moon in relation to westerly and easterly courses. Then they would observe the change, but that was a chance which had to be taken; fortunately, the ground being obscured by cloud meant that no one could see and identify cities. Now Harris was beginning to lose height also, the aircraft’s nose lowered slightly, with throttles pulled back the barest amount, so that the note of engines would change no more than was usual during any flight. Harris was concentrating, flying with textbook precision, ignoring Gwen and Demerest.

Gwen handed the message pad back.

“What I want you to do,” Demerest instructed her, “is go back and locate this man. See if there’s any sign of the bag, and whether there’s a good chance of getting it away from him. You realize that one of us from here can’t go back–at least for now–in case we scare him.”

“Yes,” Gwen said. “I understand that. But I don’t need to go either.”

“Why?”

She said quietly, “I know where he is already. In seat fourteen-A.”

Vernon Demerest regarded her searchingly. “I don’t have to tell you that this is important. If you’ve any doubt, go back and make sure.”

“I haven’t any doubt.”

Half an hour or so ago, Gwen explained, after serving dinners in first class, she had gone aft into the tourist section to help out there. One of the passengers–in a window seat on the left–had been dozing. When Gwen spoke to him he awakened instantly. He was nursing a small attaché case on his knees and Gwen suggested that she take it, or that he put it down, while having dinner. The passenger refused. He continued to hold the case where it was, and she noticed that he clasped it as if it were important. Later, instead of letting down the folding table from the back of the seat ahead, he used the case, still held on his lap, to support his dinner tray. Accustomed to passengers’ peculiarities, Gwen thought no more of it, though she remembered the man well. The description in the message fitted him exactly.

“Another reason I remember is that he’s sitting right alongside the old lady stowaway.”

“He’s in a window seat, you say?”

“Yes.”

“That makes it harder–to reach across and grab.” Demerest was remembering the portion of the D.T.M.‘s message: IF SUPPOSITION TRUE, LIKELY THAT TRIGGER FOR EXPLOSIVES WILL BE ON OUTSIDE OF CASE AND EASILY REACHABLE. THEREFORE USE EXTREME CAUTION IN ATTEMPTING TO SEIZE CASE FORCIBLY. He guessed that Gwen, too, was thinking of that warning.

For the first time a feeling, not of fear but doubt, intruded on his reasoning. Fear might come later, but not yet.
Was
there a possibility that this bomb scare might prove to be more than a scare? Vernon Demerest had thought and talked of this kind of situation often enough, yet could never really believe it would happen to himself.

Anson Harris was easing out of the turn as gently as he had gone into it. They were now headed around completely.

The Selcal chime sounded again. Demerest motioned to Cy Jordan, who switched radios and answered, then began copying down a message.

Anson Harris was talking once more with Toronto Air Route Center.

“I wonder,” Vernon Demerest said to Gwen, “if there’s any chance of getting those other two passengers alongside Guerrero out of their seats. That way he’d be left there, in the three-seat section, on his own. Then maybe one of us could come from behind, lean over and grab.”

“He’d suspect,” Gwen said emphatically. “I’m sure he would. He’s edgy now. The moment we got those other people out, whatever excuse we used, he’d know something was wrong and he’d be watching and waiting.”

The second officer passed over the Selcal message he had been copying. It was from D.T.M. Lincoln. Using the hooded light, Gwen and Demerest read it together.

NEW INFORMATION INDICATES EARLIER POSSIBILITY OF EXPLOSIVE DEVICE IN POSSESSION OF PASSENGER GUERRERO IS NOW STRONG PROBABILITY REPEAT STRONG PROBABILITY. PASSENGER BELIEVED MENTALLY DISTURBED, DESPERATE. REPEAT PREVIOUS WARNING TO APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION. GOOD LUCK.

“I like that last bit,” Cy Jordan said. “That’s real nice, wishing us that.”

Demerest said brusquely, “Shut up!”

For several seconds–apart from routine flight deck sounds–there was silence.

“If there were some way,” Demerest said slowly, “…some way we could trick him into letting go of that case. All we’d need would be a few seconds to have our hands on it, then get it clear away… if we were quick, two seconds would be enough.”

Gwen pointed out, “He wouldn’t even put it down…”

“I know! I know! I’m thinking, that’s all.” He stopped. “Let’s go over it again. There are two passengers between Guerrero and the aisle. One of them…”

“One of them is a man; he has the aisle seat. In the middle is the old lady, Mrs. Quonsett. Then Guerrero.”

“So grandma’s right beside Guerrero; right alongside the case.”

“Yes, but how does it help? Even if we could let her know, she couldn’t possibly…”

Demerest said sharply, “You haven’t said anything to her yet? She doesn’t know we’re on to her?”

“No. You told me not to.”

“Just wanted to be sure.”

Again they were silent. Vernon Demerest concentrated, thinking, weighing possibilities. At length he said carefully, “I have an idea. It may not work, but at the moment it’s the best we have. Now listen, while I tell you exactly what to do.”

IN THE TOURIST section of Flight Two most passengers had finished dinner, and stewardesses were briskly removing trays. The meal service had gone faster than usual tonight. One reason was that due to the delayed takeoff, some passengers had eaten in the terminal and now, because of the lateness of the hour, they had either declined dinner or merely nibbled at it.

At the three-seat unit where Mrs. Ada Quonsett was still chatting with her new friend, the oboe player, one of the tourist cabin stewardesses–a pert young blonde–asked, “Have you finished with your trays?”

“Yes, I have, miss,” the oboist said.

Mrs. Quonsett smiled warmly. “Thank you, my dear; you may take mine. It was very nice.”

The dour man on Mrs. Quonsett’s left surrendered his tray without comment.

It was only then that the little old lady from San Diego became aware of the other stewardess standing in the aisle.

She was one whom Mrs. Quonsett had observed several times previously, and appeared to be in charge of the other girls. She had deep black hair, an attractive, high-cheekboned face, and strong dark eyes which at the moment were focused, directly and coolly, on Ada Quonsett.

“Pardon me, madam. May I see your ticket?”

“My ticket? Why, of course.” Mrs. Quonsett affected surprise, though she guessed immediately what lay behind the request. Obviously her stowaway status was either suspected or known. But she had never given up easily, and even now her wits were working. A question was: how much did this girl know?

Mrs. Quonsett opened her purse and pretended to search among its papers. “I know I had it, my dear. It must be here somewhere.” She glanced up, her expression innocent. “That is, unless the ticket man took it when I came aboard. Perhaps he kept it and I didn’t notice.”

“No,” Gwen Meighen said, “he wouldn’t have. If it was a round-trip ticket, you’d be holding a return flight coupon. And if it was one-way, you’d still have the ticket stub and boarding folder.”

“Well, it certainly seems strange…” Mrs. Quonsett continued fumbling in her purse.

Gwen inquired coldly, “Shall I look?” From the beginning of their exchange, she had shown none of her customary friendliness. She added, “If there’s a ticket in your purse, I’ll find it. If there isn’t, it will save us both wasting time.”

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Ouonsett said severely. Then, relenting: “I realize you mean no harm, my dear, but I have private papers here. You, being English, should respect privacy. You
are
English, aren’t you?”

“Whether I am or not doesn’t matter. At this moment we’re talking about your ticket. That is,
if
you have one.” Gwen’s voice, pitched louder than usual, was audible several seats away. Heads of other passengers were turning.

“Oh, I have a ticket. It’s just a question of where it is.” Mrs. Quonsett smiled engagingly. “About your being English, though, I could tell you were from the very first moment you spoke. So many English people–people like you, my dear–make our language sound delightful. It’s such a pity so few of us Americans can do the same. My late husband always used to say…”

“Never mind what he said. What about your ticket?”

It was hard for Gwen to be as rude and unpleasant as she was being. In the ordinary way she would have dealt with this old woman firmly, yet remained friendly and good-natured; Gwen also had a reluctance to bully someone more than twice her own age. But before she left the flight deck, Vernon had been explicit in his instructions.

Mrs. Ouonsett looked a little shocked. “I’m being patient with you, young lady. But when I do discover my ticket I shall certainly have something to say about your attitude…”

“Will you really, Mrs. Quonsett?” Gwen saw the old woman start at the use of her name, and for the first time there was a weakening behind the prim faqade. Gwen persisted, “You
are
Ada Quonsett, aren’t you?”

The little old lady patted her lips with a lace handkerchief, then sighed. “Since you know I am, there’s no point in denying it, is there?”

“No, because we know all about you. You’ve got quite a record, Mrs. Quonsett.”

More passengers were watching and listening now; one or two had left their seats to move closer. Their expressions were sympathetic for the old lady, critical of Gwen. The man in the aisle seat, who had been talking with Mrs. Quonsett when Gwen arrived, shifted uncomfortably. “If there’s some misunderstanding, perhaps I can help…”

“There’s no misunderstanding,” Gwen said. “Are you traveling with this lady?”

“No.”

“Then there’s nothing you need concern yourself about, sir.”

So far, Gwen had not let herself look directly at the man seated farthest away, by the window, whom she knew to be Guerrero. Nor had he looked at her, though she could tell by the inclination of his head that he was listening intently to everything that was being said. Also without being obvious, she observed that he was still clasping the small attaché case on his knees. At the thought of what the case might contain she experienced a sudden, icy fear. She felt herself tremble, with a premonition of something terrible to come. She wanted to run, return to the flight deck and tell Vernon to handle this himself. But she didn’t, and the moment of weakness passed.

“I said we know all about you, and we do,” Gwen assured Mrs. Quonsett. “You were caught earlier today as a stowaway on one of our flights from Los Angeles. You were placed in custody, but you managed to slip away. Then, by lying, you got aboard this flight.”

The little old lady from San Diego said brightly, “If you know so much, or think you do, it won’t do any good arguing about it.” Well, she decided, it was no good worrying now. After all, she had expected to get caught; at least she hadn’t been until she’d had an adventure and a good dinner. Besides, what did it matter? As the redheaded woman back at Lincoln admitted, airlines never prosecuted stowaways.

She was curious, though, about what came next. “Are we going to turn back?”

“You’re not that important. When we land in Italy you’ll be handed over to the authorities.” Vernon Demerest had warned Gwen to let it be thought that Flight Two was proceeding on to Rome, certainly not to admit that they were already turned around and heading back. He also impressed on her that she must be rough with the old lady, which Gwen had not enjoyed. But it was necessary to make an impression on the passenger Guerrero, to carry out Demerest’s next step.

Though Guerrero didn’t know it–and if all went well, he would not know until too late to make any difference–this entire performance was solely for his benefit.

“You’re to come with me,” Gwen instructed Mrs. Quonsett. “The captain has had a signal about you, and he has to make a report. Before he does, he wants to see you.” She asked the man in the aisle seat, “Will you let this woman out, please?”

For the first time the old lady looked nervous. “The captain wants me?”

“Yes, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Hesitantly, Mrs. Quonsett released her seat belt. As the oboe player moved out, unhappily, to let her pass, she stepped uncertainly into the aisle. Taking her arm, Gwen propelled her forward, conscious of hostile glances all around–directed at herself–as they went.

Gwen resisted an impulse to turn, to see if the man with the case was watching too.

“I’M CAPTAIN Demerest,” Vernon Demerest said. “Please come in–as far forward as you can. Gwen, shut the door and let’s see if we can squeeze everybody in.” He smiled at Mrs. Quonsett. “I’m afraid they don’t design flight decks for entertaining visitors.”

The old lady from San Diego peered toward him. After the bright lights of the passenger cabin from which she had just come, her eyes were not yet adjusted to the cockpit’s semidarkness. All she could make out were shadowy figures, seated, surrounded by dozens of redly glowing dials. But there had been no mistaking the friendliness of the voice. Its effect and tone were far different from what she had braced herself to expect.

Cy Jordan pushed an armrest upward on an empty crew seat behind Anson Harris. Gwen–gently, in contrast to her behavior of a few minutes ago–guided the old lady into the seat.