Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 10 (20 page)

“Not the weather. Margot, you better get back in there before he notices you’re gone. You may get fired for talking to me, anyway, and letting me in the house and all.”

Her heart-shaped face was lovely in the moonlight. “I don’t care. At this point, I don’t care…. Nathan, we hadn’t finished talking.”

“I thought we had.”

She touched my arm with cool fingers. “No. There’s something…important…and personal. You have to know it.”

“What is it?”

“Can we go somewhere? Where are you staying?”

“Lowman’s Motor Court.”

Her anxious expression melted into a nostalgic smile. “That’s where you spent time with A. E., isn’t it?”

“Christ, how much did she tell you about us?” That wasn’t like Amy; she was usually so private.

“She told me a lot…. We could talk in your room.”

I wasn’t sure what she had on her mind, but looking at her was enough to put something on mine.

“First tell me,” I said, and touched her face. “What’s this personal something you need to share?”

“Well…we were in the kitchen, having coffee, A. E. and me…it was just two days before she left…and I can’t remember her exact words, but she said when she came back she was going to give up flying, give up celebrity, and ‘just be a woman.’”

“What does that mean?”

“I think it’s because she thought she might be pregnant…. Nathan? Nathan, are you all right?”

“…You go back in now, Margot.”

She leaned toward me. “She didn’t mention your name or anything, but I knew she’d just seen you in Chicago and—”

“Good night, Margot.”

And she stepped out of the Terraplane, and padded down the sidewalk in her kimono like a geisha. I drove back to the motor court, where a bed waited but not sleep.

Nine o’clock the next morning found the sun slanting through high windows like swords in a magician’s box, seeking out Ernie Tisor and the other two mechanics who were busy at work on an older plane, mending a fabric wing with “dope,” the liquid tightening agent that filled the hangar with a pungent bouquet.

Shielded from sun and smell within his glassed-in office, Mantz—typically dapper in a navy shirt, white tie, and tan sport jacket—sat at his desk, flipping through some paperwork; famous framed faces on the wall behind him seemed to be looking over his shoulder, while others noticed me coming in. Though airfield and hangar noise had entered with me, he didn’t look up.

“What is it, Ernie?” he asked.

“It’s not Ernie,” I said, shutting the door behind me. I was wearing the same yellow polo shirt and tan slacks as yesterday and they probably looked like I’d slept in them, which I had.

His brow furrowed, his eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. “I’ve had warmer welcomes. I thought you wanted to hire me.”

He threw the papers on his desk and smirked in disgust. “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it? You look like you fell off a moving train.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

His smile was as straight as his pencil-line mustache. “Don’t tell me Nate Heller’s developing a conscience. Little late for that, isn’t it, boy?”

“Just
how
late, do you figure?”

The smile disappeared; he leaned back in his swivel chair, and began to rock. “I talked Amelia through ditching the Vega, before the Pacific flight, and I did the same thing where the Electra’s concerned, before this one. But it’s not the kind of thing you can really prepare for—and you don’t exactly wanna go out over the water and practice.”

“Assume the best.”

He tented his fingertips, stopped rocking. “Okay, let’s say she wasn’t over choppy waters, first of all. Then let’s say she lowered her flaps at the right moment, glided on in perfectly, stalling out at just the right height above the water, and let’s also say the plane stayed in one piece after impact—and, classically, the tail section’ll break off in a ditch like that—you still have the plane in a nose-down floating posture, due to the empty fuel tanks and the heavy engines. Assuming she and Noonan overcame all that, based on the Electra’s specs, I give her nine hours at best before that ship sank.”

“Even with the ping-pong balls?”

He frowned. “What ping-pong balls?”

“I understand they stuffed every spare space on that plane with ping-pong balls for better flotation.”

A harsh laugh rose from his chest. “That’s a new one on me. Maybe it
would
buy ’em more time; if they could drop the engines in the sea, they might make a boat out of that plane and float for a good long while.”

“Could they do that?”

“I sure as hell don’t know how. They did have a life raft and other emergency equipment on board, but in those waters, they’d be better off staying in the plane, if it’s floating.”

“Why? They could paddle the raft.”

There were no teeth in his smile, and no humor, either. “Those are shark-infested waters, Nate. What the hell
are
you doin’ here?”

I rubbed my burning eyes with the heels of my hands. “I’m not trying to find Amelia and Fred. I’m pretty goddamn sure they’re not in Southern California.”

Another harsh laugh. “You are a hell of a detective, aren’t you?”

“You were right, Paul…dead right: G. P. did get Amelia tangled up in some kind of espionage mission.”

He began rocking again; his eyes were half-closed, but he was looking at me with a quiet intensity. “What can we do about it, now?”

“There’s a lot of rich Republicans who don’t like FDR.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I laughed. “I can hardly believe I said that; if my old man knew what I was thinking…he was an old union guy from way back. Socialist to the bone. I’ve been a Democrat myself, as long as I can remember.”

“I still don’t follow you.”

I leaned an arm on his desk. “I made a wisecrack to G. P. last night—”

Alarm widened his eyes. “You saw G. P.?”

“Yeah. In that bungalow with gland trouble, down the street from your old digs. I had a little chat with him, and before that, I talked to that cute secretary that works over there.”

Now the eyes narrowed. “You see that guy Miller?”

“Sure did. Kind of like an All-American version of Bela Lugosi, isn’t he?”

He was sitting way forward, shaking his head. “What in God’s name are you getting yourself into? Don’t think you’re getting
me
in—”

“You called me, remember?”

“Over a goddamn
month
ago!”

“Like I was saying, I made a wisecrack to G. P. about going to the
Tribune
with this lovely story, and on reflection, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea. This is the kind of bullshit presidents get impeached for, if somebody doesn’t shoot ’em first.”

He held both palms up, as if he were balancing something invisible. “What good does that do Amelia?”

“Probably nothing. But it puts G. P.’s nuts in a wringer, and everybody from the White House down who thought it was a good idea to con Lady Lindy into playin’ Mata Hari’ll find themselves all over the front page and out of work and maybe in jail.”

“You really didn’t get any sleep last night, did you?”

“I caught about two hours, after the sun came up. Don’t you like my idea?”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to kill G. P.?”

“I don’t rule that out. I’d rather have him publicly humiliated first.”

Mantz was gazing at me as if I were insane; imagine that. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“Not in the least. You take that cocksucker up for a ride, I’ll toss him out of the plane. Deal?”

“You need some rest….”

“I’m not looking for you to subsidize my investigation, Mantz. I’m off the clock; call it a busman’s holiday. All I ask is for a little information, a little help; I need you to approach some people and set up some meetings.”

He was shaking a hand in the air, as if waving goodbye. “Look—I was all for this…”

“
You
pulled
me
in.”

“…but that was when Amelia hadn’t left the country, yet. We coulda done some good. We coulda saved her. But right now, her best chance is the government, the Coast Guard, the Navy, that they find her. And if she’s workin’ for them, it benefits them to find her—they gotta be spendin’ millions on this search—”

“Further proof you were right. Since when does the government, who can barely get Congress to give ’em two nickels for defense, go spendin’ that kind of dough looking for a downed stunt pilot?”

His expression was grave. “I’m sorry, Heller. I’m out.”

“You got a charter today?”

“…No.”

“You do now.” I reached in my hip pocket for my notebook. “I want to talk to these radio nuts…. McMenamy, who I understand has done work for you, and this Myers kid, in Oakland.”

“Well…”

“You want dough? Here.” And I dug in my front pocket for my money clip, and tossed two double sawbucks on his desk. “That cover the charter?”

“You want me to fly you to Oakland to talk to a fourteen-year-old kid with a ham radio.”

“That’s right. And I want you to set up a meeting for me here, with the other guy, McMenamy.”

“Heller…stop….”

“Earlier, you assumed the best. Now let’s assume the worst: she crashed in the ocean and if she was unlucky and didn’t die on impact, the sharks made screaming meals out of her and Noonan. That’s a menu courtesy of G. P. Putnam and Uncle Sam.”

“I’ll make the calls,” he said. “And take your goddamn money. Get it off my desk.”

“Okay,” I said, and put the twenties back in my money clip, not giving a damn whether he took them or not.

That’s how far gone I was.

Within the hour, Walter McMenamy was seated before me at a table at the back of the Burbank terminal’s Sky Room restaurant. He’d been doing some work at Patterson Radio Company for his friend Karl Pierson, chief engineer for the firm and a fellow amateur radio enthusiast.

“We’re designing an entirely new type of short-wave receiver,” McMenamy said, his voice soft yet alive with enthusiasm. Probably in his mid-thirties, and despite his businesslike dark suit and navy and red tie, McMenamy came across as a husky kid, his oblong head home to a high forehead with dark widow’s-peaked hair, and boyish features: bright eyes, snub nose, full, almost feminine lips.

“Thanks for dropping everything,” I said, “to come talk to me.”

It was midmorning, and we were drinking Coca-Cola on ice.

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Heller,” McMenamy said. “I’ve been busting to tell somebody, and when Paul said you’re looking into this mess, you couldn’t keep me away.”

“What have you been busting to tell somebody?”

He leaned forward. “Well, did Paul fill you in on what my role was to be, on the first attempt at the world flight?”

“Yes he did.”

McMenamy had been retained by the Putnams, at Mantz’s advice, as a technical advisor, selecting and installing the latest radio equipment in the Electra. He’d also been enlisted to assemble volunteers among fellow members of the Radio Relay League, a worldwide short-wave radio club, to follow the Electra, particularly over the more isolated regions on its flight path. A base station on Beacon Hill, near Los Angeles, was selected for optimal reception.

“We had a big responsibility,” McMenamy said, obviously relishing the thought, “providing en route communications that’d help ensure Amelia’s safety, and Mr. Noonan’s—particularly weather reports and forecasts.”

“And you could relay information to G. P. Putnam,” I said, “to feed the press.”

He nodded. “Day-by-day progress reports. It would have really built public interest.”

“What happened, Mr. McMenamy?”

“Call me Walt.”

“Call me Nate.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what the heck happened, Nate. I used to see Amelia a couple of times a week, but after the Luke Field crackup, I never spoke with her again. She came back from Honolulu on the
Malolo…
why are you smiling?”

“Sorry. I took a trip on the
Malolo
once. Just thinking about what a small world it is.”

“Not so small when you’re going around it in an airplane. Anyway, we went down to meet the ship, Karl and I, wanting to be waiting there to let Amelia know that her bad luck, cracking up the Electra and all, hadn’t dimmed our faith in her. That we were game for a second try, if she was…. Boy, were we in for a surprise.”

He seemed to want me to ask: “How so?”

He leaned forward again and spoke in a near whisper: “She came down the gangplank surrounded by Navy personnel—officers and, what, Shore Patrol or MP’s? Anyway, it was a combination of brass and armed guards, and they whisked her right past us and into a Navy staff car.”

“Did she see you?”

He sat back, smirking disgustedly. “Oh, yes. She acknowledged me with this…pitiful smile…but didn’t say a darn word! And that was the start of it.”

“Of what?”

He was shaking his head, his expression gloomy. “Of the government completely taking over. Some Naval Intelligence officers, plainclothes guys, met with Karl and me at a restaurant. They said any messages from Amelia, that came in from the Beacon Hill station, would go through them, and then to the press. We weren’t to initiate contact with Amelia, either—just monitor her messages as they came in, which hardly any did. Some of what they released was false. They also swore us to secrecy.”

“Why are you telling me, then?”

A faint smile formed on the babyish lips, “Two reasons. First, Mantz says you’re okay. Second, Amelia’s missing. If we’d been allowed to maintain contact with her, if we hadn’t been shut out—who knows?”

“They didn’t shut you out entirely…”

“The only reason for that is they needed our technical expertise and equipment. We had better gear than the government. And they knew we’d be able to monitor Amelia’s signals anyway.”

“I’m sure they didn’t like that.”

“No. But we were doing it under their watchful eye.”

I glanced around the restaurant, which had only a scattering of patrons. “You think you’re under their watchful eye right now?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think I was followed here. We shut the Beacon Hill operation down a couple days ago…but I still listen at home.”

“You say that like you heard something.”

His face might have been young, but his eyes suddenly seemed old. “I still am…at night. The daytime frequency, 3105 kilocycles, I don’t pick anything up; too weak. But at night, on 6210 kilocycles, I’m still hearing her…she’s still out there.”

I leaned forward. “What are you hearing?”

“The prearranged signal—two long dashes, if they were on water, three if they were on land. She’s been sending the two long dashes. Ask Paul—he’s heard them.”

“Christ. And the Navy, the Coast Guard, they know?”

“Of course they do. I’ve heard a voice, too, weakly, through the static…SOS, SOS, KHAQQ, KHAQQ…”

“I know what SOS is…”

“KHAQQ—her call sign.”

“And she’s still there—on the water?”

He swallowed, and nodded.

Mantz popped in the restaurant, spotted us and strode over. “You boys getting along all right?”

“Fine,” I said. “You didn’t tell me you heard her signal.”

McMenamy, sipping his glass of Coke, watched Mantz reply.

“Hell, Nate, it could have been anybody. There’s a lot of sick hoaxing going on right now…. Look, this Myers kid, in Oakland, there’s no phone in his house, but I got the airport manager to send somebody over…and you’ll be glad to know I’ve got this high-level conference between you and Jackie Cooper all arranged, for three this afternoon.”

“I appreciate this, Paul,” I said, and I meant it.

“I’ll fly you over in the
Honeymoon Express
…. Been a while since you flew in a Vega, I bet.”