Tycoon of Crime: Phantom Detective Saga - Robert Wallace

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and below. Visibility was fairly good now. Not far ahead, Bentley saw the Balesville beacon funneling upwards, blinking like a white tentacle in the sky.

      Yet, in the light from the myriad-instrumented dashboard, the young ace pilot's rugged, wind-swept face was etched tense. His broad shoulders were braced as if against some invisible foe. Veteran of thousands of flying hours, the big Douglas was a placid baby in his skilled hands—and yet, somehow, he did not feel right tonight.

      A grim responsibility weighed him down. This was a maiden flight—for a big airline. Important people were in this plane; and there was important cargo too. Bentley had seen the armored truck come up on the Chicago field, seen the strong boxes being loaded into the great plane. Exactly what they contained he didn't know. But he did know he was carrying a fortune of some kind.

      His keen eyes narrowed, thinking about the passengers. Two of them had acted queerly when they went aboard. The pilot had overheard a few words, tense words. Now that he thought of it, he realized that was what had created the uneasiness in him.

      Garth and Truesdale. Two big scientists. Working, just now, Bentley knew for the Empire and Southwest Railway line. He grinned crookedly. That railway was in a slump: the growth of airline travel hadn't helped it any—Why had Truesdale looked so frightened when he climbed into the plane?

      And why had Garth looked so icily cold?

      Bentley cursed himself inwardly. He well knew just what part of his nature made him so curious about things like this. Once a newspaper man—

      Yes, he had worked for a paper, a big New York paper. For several years he had been a flying reporter, and a radio news commentator. His voice had become as famous for its rapid-fire reports as Floyd Gibbons. He had covered many "exclusives," but now his real love, flying, had claimed him again and he had welcomed the job of piloting this new transport.

      "It's just nine, Pat. Better call in Newark." The voice of the young co-pilot held the proper amount of respect for his "skipper."

      "Right!" Quickly Pat Bentley snapped out of his reverie. "Take her, Bill." And added, listening to the neutral sound of the radio compass. "She's right smack on the beam now."

      He released the Dep-wheel and rudder bars in precise synchronization with the moment that his co-pilot took them in control. Adjusting earphones under his trim visor-cap, he picked up the radio microphone.

      "—Number One calling Newark—Number One calling Newark."

      "This is Newark," came the prompt answer. "Go ahead, Number One."

      "We're passing Balesville now. Visibility okay at eight thousand. How's the weather ahead?"

      "Ceiling nine thousand. Visibility good."

      "We may still beat the schedule," Bentley stated, hopefully, then broke off.

      A buzzer had sounded in the little glass-windowed compartment in the nose of the big ship. It rang once, then again—imperatively. The co-pilot jerked up his head.

      "Someone ringing, Pat."

      "Just a minute," Bentley clipped into the microphone.

      He reached back with annoyance, to unlock the partition door. And then his annoyance changed to sudden surprise.

      His eyes went wide, stark, with horrified amazement!

      Chapter II.

       One Did Not Die

       Table of Contents

      "Just a minute."

      In the modernistic, gleaming radio cupola of Newark Airport, those words of Pat Bentley's had emanated from the loudspeaker.

      Two uniformed operators sat at tables in the brightly lighted room, handling two microphones. Two more stood at the big sets, with earphones glued on, their eyes watching the great, humming transmitters, the many tubes and condensers. From this room planes in the sky and on the field were guided; and though the atmosphere was tense, the work was performed with smooth efficiency.

      Tonight, attention had been focused chiefly on the new flight from Chicago. While no other planes had been neglected, the men in the airport cupola had given their utmost cooperation to the big Douglas to see that the trip was smooth and successful.

      The confident, incisive voice of Bentley had kept them reassured, even when the Douglas had been flying in the high clouds of fog. They had followed its every move, knew the exact position with which it should correspond with the big map on the wall.

      As Bentley's voice said "Just a moment," the radio man at the microphone who had conducted the conversation with the plane relaxed, smiling.

      "Two to one he beats the schedule!" he offered, and had no comers. "This is going to boost the Harvey Airlines all right. It's the fastest Chicago run in the air! And with Bentley the safest—"

      He broke off, suddenly jerking up his head. From the loudspeaker came a low exclamation. Then—

      "Wait!" Bentley's voice, no longer crisp but suddenly sharp, agitated. "Something's the matter! Something's wrong!"

      The four men in the room stiffened, their confidence changing to quick alarm. The man at the microphone jerked forward.

      "What's the matter, Bentley?" he snapped. "What—"

      Then it came!

      Of a sudden the loudspeaker seemed to burst into a din of raucous sound, which filled the cupola and brought a cry of alarm from every throat.

      The first sound was like some rumbling detonation, brief yet reverberating. It was followed by a terrible, rending crackle! Horrified, the men in the cupola froze into rigid immobility, aware that something dreadful had just happened out in the night sky. And then, curdling their blood, came the hoarse scream:

      "She's burning! She's burning!"

      Pat Bentley had screamed those ghastly words! Screamed them more, it seemed, with horrified amazement than fright. Screamed them above that horrible, crackling roar.

      "Fire!" Bentley shrieked, "It's broken out! The whole ship's burning like so much paper!"

      "Bentley!" Helpless, the radio operator was wringing his hands at the microphone. "Good God, Bentley, what are you saying? What—"

      The dreadful sounds from the night grew to a crescendo in the loud speaker. The crackling roar filled the room, And now, faint but horrifying, came other sounds—human cries. Cries of terror, of panic, of agony.

      "God, she's going down! She's going to crash!" Bentley's frenzied voice came again. "The fire's creeping up—I can feel the heat—getting worse—worse! No hope! Going to crash—"

      Abruptly the voice and the sounds ceased.

      The radio went dead. In that awful moment, the aviation men's eyes showed the vivid horror of their air-trained imaginations. As if they could see a flaming Douglas plane, crashing like a fiery torch somewhere out in the night miles away. The fire consuming it, its radio crumpling, its passengers and its pilot caught helpless, without a chance of escape!

      Then came swift reaction. The radio men hurled into a simultaneous rush of action. All other work was momentarily suspended. Both microphones carried frantic messages as their operators spoke in rapid fire.

      "Trenton! Calling Trenton! Any more signals from Number One?"

      "Balesville, Pennsylvania! Any reports of Number One in that vicinity?"

      One of the operators picked up a phone. "Hangar Five! Send out planes to locate Number One!" He gave details, then: "Get me the commanding officer of Miller Field—Hello! Can you send out some flyers to aid in reported burning of transport?"

      The continued calls set into motion every available machinery. As always, an air disaster brought swift cooperation from the Army Air Force, as well as from all commercial

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