A grim smile flickered around Tommy’s lips.
“I guess I can explain that,” he said. “McDowell and I use exactly the same type of chutes and our packs look so much alike we can hardly tell them apart. He ripped one of the chutes, folded it back, and then picked it up himself. Fate certainly took a hand in the events around here this afternoon.”
“What happened to you?” Tim asked Ralph, who was leaning against the biplane.
“Plenty,” grinned Ralph. “I caught McDowell in the pilot’s room with a knife in his hand and the chute ripped. He was just ready to repack the umbrella. When he saw me he came at me with both hands going and I went down in a heap. He must have socked me with a wrench when I was down for I’ve got about a two inch gash on the right side of my head. The next thing I knew I heard planes buzzing around and woke up enough to come out and give the alarm.”
“I guess we can write ‘finis’ to this smuggling case,” said the inspector slowly. “I hadn’t expected it would end in quite this fashion.”
“What will the other members of the flying circus do?” asked Tim.
“Half of them have left the field already,” said Tommy. “They’re pretty much of a happy-go-lucky outfit. Some of them suspected that McDowell was smuggling but they wouldn’t turn in information on him. They’ll catch on with some other circus.”
“My head feels like someone was using a trip hammer on it,” said Ralph. “I’m going home and to bed.”
“Here comes a reporter from the Advance,” interjected Tim. “He’ll probably want to know all about the McDowell case,” the last words were directed at the inspector.
Mogridge, police reporter for the Advance, nodded to Tim and Ralph.