III
You’ve probably heard heard of Les Fernald. He was on the round-the-world flight. He was a powerful, well-built chap of medium height with a pair of steady eyes, a nice smile, and the ability to fly a big ship about as well as it is given to man or beast to do anything. He’d had a lot of experience on Martins, whereas I only had a test flight with Lawton before I left. But I’d had some Caproni flying over in dear old France on some of my days away from Paris, and I’d lumbered through the ozone between Long Island and Texas with a three-motored Tankwing under me.
Out at the factory late that afternoon the two mechanics and ourselves inspected the ships, and then Fernald and I flew them on a test flight. They ticked away like clocks, and were perfectly rigged. I took Marston along on the flight, and he nodded his satisfaction to me at the same time that his rainbow-hued eyes glowed his dislike into my own.
We landed again on the private flying field of the factory and announced that we’d leave early next morning. So saying, we hied ourselves down to a hostelry while the mechanics got the ships gassed, oiled and ready to ramble. They were to be stabled for the night in a canvas hangar at the edge of the factory flying field.
At our early breakfast next morning a headline caught my eye, and as a result a scalding gulp of coffee went down the wrong tunnel. The java ended up in my right lung, I think, and I coughed enough to make the citizens of Cleveland think the lake breeze had become very strong all of a sudden.
“Listen, Les,” I said at length, wiping the tears from my eyes. “‘HANGAR ON MARTIN FLYING FIELD BURNED. Two Martin Bombers, VALUED AT $100,000, COMPLETELY DESTROYED.’”
If you told Les Fernald that the continent of Europe had sunk into the sea, and that North America was expected to follow it into the briny deep, he’d probably say:
“Well, let’s improve the time we’ve got left and see a good show, or have a drink or something.”
So the rise I got out of him was:
“Read on, Slim. You interest me.”
The story, peeled down to the core, was simply that the two ships we were to fly to Langham that day had been burned up, that no one could figure how the fire had started, and that the entire factory had been in great danger of ignition, so to speak. Only herculean efforts had saved it. Three fires, at different points, had been discovered before they got burning merrily enough to be out of control.
We cantered out to the factory without delay, and found a very mystified bunch of men, from the G. M. down. The only possible explanation they had for it was that a group of ten workmen had been fired a few weeks after the discovery that they were grafting, and that possibly they had started the conflagration to get revenge. We wired Washington, and were ordered to stay in Cleveland a few days until the next two Martins were ready. The factory schedule on the army contract was four ships a week.
Marston poked around in his sullen, scowling way, and when I ran across him out at the excited factory I inquired casually:
“Did you happen to see the fire? We were in bed early and never knew it until this morning.”
“No, sir. I was in bed before midnight.”
Which proved to be an unadulterated lie. Fifteen minutes later I overheard Bailey—this was out at the factory—say to Marston—
“Well, did you tear the town loose last night?”
“Nah—nothing doing,” rasped Marston in return.
There was nothing for us to do at the factory—they were all running around ragged out there anyway—so as we left it I herded Bailey to one side. Marston had left by himself, but I wanted the conversation to be private.
“Marston living with you?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir,” said the slim young Bailey.
“He was out late last night, was he?”
“Yes, sir. About three A. M.”
“I see. Just wanted to know. Come in drunk?”
Bailey was troubled. He didn’t want to tell tales, I could see. So I went on:
“Don’t be scared to tell me. I just don’t want Marston to be in bad shape for the trip.”
“He wasn’t, sir. He’d been drinking, but he wasn’t drunk.”
“Thanks. That’s all.”
I wondered why George William had lied about being in bed early. It was a senseless thing to do. Not that I connected him with the fire at all, of course. But I was just curious. He went around with a chip balanced precariously on his shoulder all the time, that was sure, and seemed to crave no company of any kind whatever. The only reason he lived with Bailey at all, I presume, was to save money.
It worried me a little, taking it by and large. Finally, as we reached our palatial suite of two rooms and connecting bath in the most ornate hostelry in Cleveland, I put it up to Fernald. He knew the history of Marston and me.
“Why do you suppose he lied?” I asked him.
“Probably thought it was none of your business where he was last night,” Fernald grinned.
“In which assumption,” I admitted, “he would be entirely correct. But, the question once asked, there was no reason——”
“Except that he is as fond of you as a bull is of a red kimono,” Les reminded me. “Well, let’s step out and see the town.”