32 Caliber

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE MECHANICIAN

“We've got it! We're on the trail at last!” I exclaimed. “I just found out at the club that Woods left his dinner hurriedly and was not seen again until twenty-five minutes past eight.”

“We've got to go slow,” cautioned the coroner. “A man who is ingenious enough to devise this means of murdering a man won't be tripped up for lack of a perfect alibi.”

“I've found what that is too. He has the bartender at the club half believing that he was in the bar at the time the murder was committed.” I told him briefly what I had discovered.

“See!” the coroner pointed out. “If they bring him into court, the bartender won't be able to swear he wasn't in the bar and the short time that he was absent will convince the jury that Woods is telling the truth and that our theory is all bunk.”

“But we're not going to leave things as they stand, just when we are hot on the trail. What do we do now?”

“I'm of the opinion that there is a short-cut to the solution of the whole affair. Woods must have had a mechanician with him on the night of the murder.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked rather impatiently.

“Because we know Woods came back to the club immediately after the murder and played cards the rest of the evening. He returned to the city in another man's car; obviously, then, some one else must have taken the aeroplane back to its hangar, since it would have caused too much comment had it been on the links in the morning. Our plan, then, is to find that mechanician and bribe or threaten him into telling the truth. If Woods hasn't got rid of him, he ought to be around the aviation grounds. We must wait until we are certain Woods is not there before trying to see our man.”

“Then there is no better time than right now, for I know Woods is taking a certain young lady automobiling this afternoon.”

“Let's go quickly then,” exclaimed the coroner.

We climbed into the car and sped toward the city. Since Eastbrook is on the aerial postal route, we have a well-equipped aviation field just outside the city. Several of our younger set with special sporting proclivities have taken up aerial joy-riding since the war, so that there is always a group of mechanicians and hangers-on around the field.

I proposed to the coroner that we stop for Simpson and he agreed. When Simpson heard who it was he came down at once. As we sped toward the aerodrome I told him of our findings of the afternoon. He was astounded.

“You know, I'll hand it to the man who thought up that scheme. That's the cleverest piece of work I ever heard of, if your theories are correct and he really did do it.”

“What makes you think Woods didn't do it?” I questioned.

“Not a thing,” Simpson answered, “only I didn't know Woods kept a plane in Eastbrook. Of course, it would be easy enough for him to get one. Lord! Think of the possibilities it opens up. It fairly takes your breath away. Automobile bandits aren't in it. Imagine trying to cope with a gang of thieves who add an aeroplane to their kit of tools. Suppose they decide to rob the Guarantee Trust Company of New York or Tiffany's. The robbery itself would be the simplest part of the thing. It is getting the swag away that worries the criminals. Suppose they pull this robbery off and the police put a net around the city to guard against their escape. Mr. Thief and his gang sail away calmly over the heads of the police. Think of your diamond smugglers! Why, that big British dirigible could have flooded the American market with diamonds and laughed in the face of the customs authorities. I say it gets you.”

“Yes, but in the meantime, we get Mr. Woods,” I said grimly.

“Don't be too sure of that!” Simpson warned. “The man who thinks up such a scientific way of murdering people isn't going to be an easy man to catch.”

Memories of big whole-hearted Jim came to my mind and I swore I would get Woods if I had to hang for it. Woods—murderer of Jim, after stealing his wife away, and now making love to Mary Pendleton, putting his bloody hands on her! The thought almost drove me mad.

We stopped our machine at the entrance to the field and walked toward the hangars. Three aeroplanes were out, being tuned up. They looked like birds, ready to take wing at the slightest disturbance. The coroner walked over to one of the helpers.

“Can you direct me to the hangar Mr. Frank Woods uses?”

“Woods?” the man repeated with a puzzled frown. “I don't remember any such machine here. I know most of 'em, but I don't think any Woods has a machine here. Wait! I'll ask Bill. He'd know if any one did.”

He walked over to a group of mechanicians and returned in a moment.

“It's the last one down. He ain't had a machine here only two weeks. That's the reason I didn't know the name.”

We thanked him and started for the other end of the field. A pilot climbed into one of the machines. Two mechanicians spun the propeller and the engine sputtered and roared. The plane wabbled and swayed drunkenly out on to the field, then as the roar increased, it gathered speed and was off.

At the door of the Woods hangar, a red-haired mechanic of powerful build was cleaning and oiling some delicate-looking piece of mechanism. He looked up with a questioning frown as we approached, then became engrossed again in his work.

“Is this where Mr. Woods keeps his aeroplane?” the coroner asked.

“Un-hu,” grunted the mechanician, continuing with his work.

“Mr. Woods isn't here, is he?”

“No,” was the laconic reply.

“Are you Mr. Woods' mechanician?”

“One of 'em,” the red one responded.

“How many has he?”

“Three.”

“Are the others about?” continued the coroner.

“One of 'em is,” said the mechanic, “and he just loves to answer fool questions.”

The coroner laughed. “Excuse me, my friend, but I am in need of some important information. Will you tell me which one of the mechanicians was with Mr. Woods when he visited the country-club two weeks ago last Thursday night?”

The mechanic scrambled to his feet and advanced toward the coroner, his face twisted with passion. For a moment I thought he was going to attack us, but he stopped a foot in front of the coroner and snarled: “I don't know who you are, nor what you are, nor what you want, but I ain't no information bureau—See? So git t' hell out o' here if you know what's good for you!” With that he turned and disappeared inside the hangar.

We looked at one another. The signs seemed propitious.

“Would it do any good to try to bribe him?” I asked.

“You can try it if you want to; I don't care for the job,” Simpson smiled.

“No,” the coroner interposed. “He was with Woods that night and he won't talk.”

“Shouldn't we get the police?” suggested Simpson.

“That wouldn't do any good,” the coroner replied. “Wait a minute! I think I've got it.” And with that he went inside.

Above us we heard the hum of a plane. We turned to watch it dip and glide and loop, in the afternoon sunlight. The sun, catching its wings, made it stand out against the blue sky like some fiery dragon-fly. It flew up, turned a somersault and nose-dived for a thousand feet, swung around in a wide circle, flew across the field at about four hundred feet, circled again and slid downward. Closer and closer it came to the ground, until the horizon was lost and it seemed to be gliding along the earth itself at terrific speed. Finally it nosed up, touched the earth, bounced away as though it were a rubber ball, touched again, and at last came to a stop within a hundred yards of where we were standing.

A girl climbed from it, and with a sickening clutch at my heart I recognized who it was. Mary had been aeroplaning with Woods instead of automobiling as I had supposed. At the sight of her, laughing gaily at some witticism that Woods made as they walked across the field toward us, my head spun with hatred and jealousy of the man.

I had no time to observe more, for there were angry shouts within the hangar and the coroner came bounding out, with the red-haired mechanician close behind him. The coroner had in his hand what looked like an iron crow-bar, and as the mechanician caught him, this bar became the center of the struggle. We hurried to the coroner's aid, but before we could reach him, the mechanician gave him a vicious kick in the stomach that sent him sprawling and helpless. With a curse, the mechanic picked up the tool they had been struggling for and dashed back into the hangar.

The coroner lay writhing where he had fallen, and could not speak. His breath was completely knocked out. We pumped his arms until at last he was able to gasp: “Get that——! Get that——!”

“It looks as though you had a little disagreement here,” a laughing voice sounded behind us. “This isn't at all my idea of a hospitable reception for my guests.”

We all turned to look into the smiling face of Woods. As we helped the coroner to his feet and began brushing him off Woods continued: “Gentlemen, if you are going to present me with the key to the city, please make it as unostentatious as possible.” His smile still continued, but there was an odd glint in his eyes. Mary had left his side and was walking away. She had evidently seen me and did not want to speak to me.

The coroner cleared his throat. “Mr. Woods, I'm not here to make any presentation speeches. I am here to accuse you of the murder of James Felderson.”

Not for an instant did the smile leave Frank Woods' face, nor did his expression change. He looked us over calmly and slowly and then he said: “Why, that is very interesting, but you seem to forget that I have already been accused of that murder once.”

“You were accused on mere suspicion before, but now we have the proof.”

The red-haired mechanic sauntered out of the doorway and walked over toward the aeroplane. Behind him followed another youth with a bunch of waste in his hand. The coroner pointed to the former.

“I had the machine gun with which you did the murder until your man there kicked me in the stomach and jerked it away from me. It's in the hangar now. But we don't need the gun, we've got enough evidence without it to convict you.”

Woods looked us over carefully. He was by far the calmest one of the party.

“Gentlemen, I have already sent to the papers a statement that I am able to produce testimony as to my whereabouts during every minute of the night when James Felderson was killed. When the trial comes, I shall produce that testimony. If you think that machine gun is any proof against me, just step inside and I'll show you that it is of an entirely different caliber from the gun that killed Felderson.”

We hesitated for a second, I think because of the brazen effrontery, the splendid calmness of the man. A doubt began to form in my mind as to whether he had anything to do with the murder at all. Woods noticed my hesitation and turning to me said with a smile: “Surely you aren't afraid of me, Thompson, when you so readily trust me with both your sister and your fiancée.”

I longed with all my soul to hit the man between the eyes, to crush that half-sneering smile into his face with my heel, but I let the insult pass and followed the others inside.

“Here is the machine gun, gentlemen. If you will notice, it is a 36 caliber and not a 32 at all. If you will wait one minute, I'll get you the magazine. That will prove it to you beyond a doubt.”

He left the hangar and the coroner picked up the gun.

“I could have sworn that the gun I had hold of was a 32. The barrel seems too small for a 36. Why, look here! This is a 32. Here is the caliber marked on it.”

From outside came the sputter and crack of an aeroplane engine. Simpson caught it first and dashed to the door.

“It's Woods' plane. He's going to escape.”

We ran out of the hangar and across the field toward the aeroplane which, by now, was enveloped in blue vapor. Before we had gone half-way, it was taxi-cabbing across the field, careening first to one side and then to the other. Suddenly it swerved and turned in our direction. We stood there, a little breathless, to see what it would do. The engines of the plane droned higher as it came toward us.

Suddenly Simpson clutched my arm and yelled: “Look out! he's trying to run us down.”

I ran wildly to one side of the field, not daring to look back but only trying to reach a place of safety. The sound of the engines came crashing to my ears like the staccato roar of a hundred machine guns. My legs felt as if they were lead. I seemed to be standing still. One frightened glance over my shoulder showed the machine, like some monstrous vulture, bearing down on me. I could feel it gaining and gaining. The heavy drone of the engines seemed to fill the air with its noise. A pitiful sense of helplessness gripped me. I knew I was going to die like a rat in the jaws of a fox terrier. I screamed aloud in my terror and pitched headlong on the turf. With a roar, and a rush of wind that almost lifted me from the ground, the aeroplane passed over me, its wheels no more than four feet from my head.

I am not sure to this day, whether Frank Woods tried to kill me or not. I don't know whether he was cheated of his game when I stumbled and the speed of his motor carried the plane off the ground, or whether he was just trying to put the fear of God in me. I will swear, however, that as the motor passed over my head, I heard Frank Woods' voice raised in a demoniacal laugh.

As the drum of the motor passed and I knew that I was safe for the moment, I raised my head to see if the devil should be planning to come back. With joy I saw he had risen to the height of fifteen or twenty feet. Suddenly the plane swooped up as though Woods were trying to loop. For a second it tipped sidewise like a cat boat reeling over in the wind, and then there was the sound of splintering wood and tearing silk, and the plane crashed miserably to the ground.