Airport (80 page)

The single element on which everything else hinged was the explosion. Obviously it must be adequate to destroy the airplane, but–equally important–it must occur at the right time, For the second reason D. O. Guerrero had decided to carry the explosive device aboard and set it off himself. Now, within the locked bedroom, he was putting the device together, and despite his familiarity–as a building contractor–with explosives, was still sweating, as he had been since he started a qLiarter of an hour ago.

There were five main components–three cartridges of dynamite, a tiny blasting cap with wires attached, and a single cell transistor radio battery. The dynamite cartridges were Du Pont Red Cross Extra–small but exceedingly powerful, containing forty percent nitroglycerin; each was an inch and a quarter in diameter and eight inches long. They were taped together with black electrician’s tape and, to conceal their purpose, were in a Ry-Krisp box, left open at one end.

Guerrero had also laid out several other items, carefully, on the ragged coverlet of the bed where he was working. These were a wooden clothespin, two thumbtacks, a square inch of clear plastic, and a short length of string. Total value of the equipment which would destroy a six and a half million dollar airplane was less than five dollars. All of it, including the dynamite–a “leftover” from D. O. Guerrero’s days as a contractor–had been bought in hardware stores.

Also on the bed was a small, flat attaché case of the type in which businessmen carried their papers and books when traveling by air. It was in this that Guerrero was now installing the explosive apparatus. Later, he would carry the case with him on the flight.

It was all incredibly simple. It was so simple, in fact, Guerrero thought to himself, that most people, lacking a knowledge of explosives, would never believe that it would work. And yet it would–with shattering, devastating deadliness.

He taped the Ry-Krisp box containing the dynamite securely in place inside the attaché case. Close to it he fastened the wooden clothespin and the battery. The battery would fire the charge. The clothespin was the switch which, at the proper time, would release the current from the battery.

His hands were trembling. He could feel sweat, in rivulets, inside his shirt. With the blasting cap in place, one mistake, one slip, would blow himself, this room, and most of the building, apart, here and now.

He held his breath as he connected a second wire from the blasting cap and dynamite to one side of the clothespin.

He waited, aware of his heart pounding, using a handkerchief to wipe moisture from his hands. His nerves, his senses, were on edge. Beneath him, as he sat on the bed, he could feel the thin, lumpy mattress. The decrepit iron bedstead screeched a protest as he moved.

He resumed working. With exquisite caution, he connected another wire. Now, only the square inch of clear plastic was preventing the passage of an electric current and thereby an explosion.

The plastic, less than a sixteenth of an inch thick, had a small hole near its outer edge. D. O. Guerrero took the last item left on the bed–the string–and passed one end through the hole in the plastic, then tied it securely, being cautious not to move the plastic. The other end of the string he pushed through an inconspicuous hole, already drilled, which went through to the outside of the attaché case, emerging under the carrying handle. Leaving the string fairly loose inside the case, on the outside he tied a second knot, large enough to prevent the string from slipping back. Finally–also on the outside–he made a finger-size loop, like a miniature hangman’s noose, and cut off the surplus string.

And that was it.

A finger through the loop, a tug on the string! Inside the case, the piece of plastic would fly out from the head of the clothespin, and the thumstacks would connect. The electric current would flow, and the explosion would be instant, devastating, final, for whomever or whatever was nearby.

Now that it was done, Guerrero relaxed and lit a cigarette. He smiled sardonically as he reflected again on how much more complicated the public–including writers of detective fiction–imagined the manufacture of a bomb to be. In stories he had read there were always elaborate mechanisms, clocks, fuses, which ticked or hissed or spluttered, and which could be circumvented if immersed in water. In reality, no complications were required–only the simple, homely components he had just put together. Nor could anything stop the detonation of his kind of bomb–neither water, bullets, nor bravery–once the string was pulled.

Holding the cigarette between his lips, and squinting through its smoke, D. O. Guerrero put some papers carefully into the attaché case, covering the dynamite, clothespin, wires, battery, and string. He made sure the papers would not move around, but that the string could move freely under them. Even if he opened the case for any reason, its contents would appear innocent. He closed the case and locked it.

He checked the cheap alarm clock beside the bed. It was a few minutes after 8 P.M., a little less than two hours to flight departure time. Time to go. He would take the subway uptown to the airline terminal, then board an airport bus. He had just enough money left for that, and to buy the flight insurance policy. The thought reminded him that he must allow sufficient time at the airport to get insurance. He pulled on his topcoat quickly, checking that the ticket to Rome was still in the inside pocket.

He unlocked the bedroom door and went into the mean, shabby living room, taking the attaché case with him, holding it gingerly.

One final thing to do! A note for Inez. He found a scrap of paper and a pencil and, after thinking for several seconds, wrote:

I won’t be home for a few days. I’m going away. I expect to have some good news soon which will surprise you.

He signed it
D.O.

For a moment he hesitated, softening. It wasn’t much of a note to mark the end of eighteen years of marriage. Then he decided it would have to do; it would be a mistake to say too much. Afterward, even without wreckage from Flight Two, investigators would put the passenger list under a microscope. The note, as well as all other papers he had left, would be examined minutely.

He put the note on a table where Inez would be sure to see it.

As he went downstairs D. O. Guerrero could hear voices, and a jukebox playing, from the greasy-spoon lunch counter. He turned up the collar of his topcoat, with the other hand holding the attaché case tightly. Under the carrying handle of the case, the loop of string like a hangman’s noose was close to his curled fingers.

Outside, as he left the South Side building and headed for the subway, it was still snowing.

Go to Part Two

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8:30 P.M. - 11 P.M. (CST)

C
APTAIN VERNON DEMEREST
stood back from the cupboard door he had opened, and emitted a long, low whistle.

He was still in the kitchen of Gwen Meighen’s apartment on Stewardess Row. Gwen had not yet appeared after her shower and, while waiting, he had made tea as she suggested. It was while looking for cups and saucers that he had opened the cupboard door.

In front of him were four tightly packed shelves of bottles. All were miniature bottles of liquor–the ounce-and-a-half size which airlines served to passengers in flight. Most of the bottles had small airline labels above their brand names, and all were unopened. Making a quick calculation, Demerest estimated there were close to three hundred.

He had seen airline liquor in stewardesses’ apartments before, but never quite so much at one time.

“We have some more stashed away in the bedroom,” Gwen said brightly from behind him. “We’ve been saving them for a party. I think we’ve enough, don’t you?”

She had come into the kitchen quietly, and he turned. As always since the beginning of their affair, he found the first sight of her enchanting and refreshing. Unusual for one who never lacked confidence with women, he had at such moments a heady sense of wonder that he had ever possessed Gwen at all. She was in a trim uniform skirt and blouse which made her seem even younger than she was. Her eager, high-cheekboned face was tilted upward, her rich black hair lustrous under the kitchen lights. Gwen’s deep dark eyes regarded him with smiling, frank approval. “You can kiss me hard,” she said. “I haven’t put on makeup yet.”

He smiled, her clear melodious English voice delighting him again. As girls from upper-crust British private schools somehow managed to do, Gwen had captured all that was best in English intonation and avoided the worst. At times, Vernon Dermerest encouraged Gwen to talk, merely for the joy of hearing her speak.

Not talking now, they held each other tightly, her lips responding eagerly to his.

After a minute or so, Gwen pushed herself away. “No!” she insisted firmly. “No, Vernon dear. Not here.”

“Why not? We’ve time enough.” There was a thickness to Demerest’s voice, a rough impatience.

“Because I told you–I want to talk, and we don’t have time for both.” Gwen rearranged her blouse which had parted company with the skirt.

“Hell!” he grumbled. “You bring me to the boil, and then… Oh, all right; I’ll wait till Naples.” He kissed her more gently. “All the way to Europe you can think of me up there on the flight deck, turned to ‘simmer.’ “

“I’ll bring you to the boil again. I promise.” She laughed, and leaning close against him, passed her long slim fingers through his hair and around his face.

He groaned. “My God!–you’re doing it right now.”

“Then that’s enough.” Gwen took his hands, which were around her waist, and pushed them resolutely from her. Turning away, she moved to close the cupboard he bad been looking into.

“Hey, wait a minute. What about all those?” Demerest pointed to the miniature liquor bottles with their airline labels.

“Those?” Gwen surveyed the four crowded shelves, her eyebrows arched, then switched to an expression of injured innocence. “They’re just a few little old leftovers that passengers didn’t want. Surely, Captain, sir, you’re not going to report me for possession of leftovers.”

He said skeptically, “That many?”

“Of course.” Gwen picked up a bottle of Beefeater gin, put it down and inspected a Canadian Club whisky. “One nice thing about airlines is, they always buy the best brands. Care for one now?”

He shook his head. “You know better than that.”

“Yes, I do; but you shouldn’t sound so disapproving.”

“I just don’t want you to get caught.”

“Nobody gets caught, and almost everybody does it. Look–every first class passenger is entitled to two of these little bottles, but some passengers use only one, and there are always others who won’t have any.”

“The rules say you turn back all the unused ones.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! So we do–a couple for appearances, but the rest the girls divide between them. The same thing goes for wine that’s left over.” Gwen giggled. “We always like a passenger who asks for more wine near the end of a trip. That way, we can officially open a fresh bottle, pour off one glass..”

“I know. And take the rest home?”

“You want to see?” Gwen opened another cupboard door. Inside were a dozen filled wine bottles.

Demerest grinned. “I’ll be damned.”

“This isn’t all mine. My roommate and one of the girls next door have been saving theirs for the party we’re planning.” She took his arm. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

“If I’m invited, I guess.”

Gwen closed both cupboard doors. “You will be.”

They sat down in the kitchen, and she poured the tea he had made. He watched admiringly while she did it. Gwen had a way of making even a casual session like this seem an occasion.

He noticed With amusement that she produced cups from a pile in another cupboard, all bearing Trans America insignia. They were the kind the airline used in flight. He supposed he should not have been stuffy about the airline liquor bottles; after all, stewardess “perks” were nothing new. It was just that the size of the hoard amazed him.

All airline stewardesses, he was aware, discovered early in their careers that a little husbandry in airplane galleys could relieve their cost of living at home. Stewardesses learned to board their flights with personal hand baggage which was partially empty, using the space for surplus food–always of highest quality, since airlines purchased nothing but the best. A Thermos jug, brought aboard empty, was useful for carrying off spare liquids–cream or even decanted champagne. If a stewardess was really enterprising, Demerest was once assured, she could cut her weekly grocery bill in half. Only on international flights where, by law, all food–untouched or otherwise–was incinerated immediately after landing, were the girls more cautious.

All this activity was strictly forbidden by regulations of all airlines–but it still went on.

Another thing stewardesses learned was that no inventory check of removable cabin equipment was ever made at the termination of a flight. One reason was that airlines simply didn’t have time; another, it was cheaper to accept some losses than make a fuss about them. Because of this, many stewardesses managed to acquire home furnishings–blankets, pillows, towels, linen napkins, glasses, silverware–in surprising quantity, and Vernon Demerest had been in stewardess nests where most items used in daily living seemed to have come from airline sources.

Gwen broke in on his thoughts. “What I was going to tell you, Vernon, is that I’m pregnant.”

It was said so casually that at first the words failed to register. He reacted blankly. “You’re what?”

“Pregnant–p-r-e-g-n…”

He snapped irritably, “I know how to spell it.” His mind wasitill groping. “Are you sure?”

Gwen laughed–her attractive silvery laugh–and sipped her tea. He sensed she was making fun of him. He was also aware that she had never looked more lovely and desirable than at this moment.

“That line you just said, darling,” she assured him, “is an old cliché. In every book I’ve ever read where there’s a scene like this, the man asks, ‘Are you sure?’ “