1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (23 page)

Vic kept on. Minutes later, he saw a flashing sign that was spelling out the word G-a-l-t-e-x: the first service station on the road. It would be here, if he had any luck, that the

Cadillac had had to stop for gas. He slowed, swung the car into the circular drive and brought the car to a screeching stop.

A big man in the Caltex uniform came hurrying out of the office. Vic got out of the car.

“Brother!” the attendant said. “You sure scared me. You going to a fire?”

“Did a blue and white Cadillac stop here for gas about ten minutes ago?” Vic asked, trying to steady his voice. “Two women and a man in the car?”

Happy to have information to give, the attendant nodded. “Why, sure. They left about five minutes ago. Friends of yours?”

Vic drew in a long breath. Friends? He thought of Carrie.

“Did they say where they were going?”

“One of them - one of the girls - asked where the nearest air taxi service was,” the attendant told him. “I put them on to the Boswick airport: a couple of young guys run it . . .

nice fellas . . . I thought I'd do them a good turn.”

“Have you a telephone?”

The attendant raised his arms helplessly.

“It's been out of order all day. Sorry, but there it is . . . the times I've had to tell folks . . .”

“You wouldn't have a gun you could lend me?” Vic asked as he began to move back to the Lincoln.

The attendant stared at him.

“Gun? What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” Vic said and slid under the driving wheel.

“What's this about a gun?” the attendant demanded, coming up to the car.

“Never mind,” Vic snapped and sent the car roaring along the highway. He knew where the Boswick airport was. He had often passed the signpost on his way to Boston Creek.

So they were going to try to get away by air, he thought.

If he could rely on the gas attendant, they were only five or at the most ten minutes ahead of him, they couldn't charter a plane and take off under an hour. He was now certain to reach the airport while they were still there.

As soon as he saw the lights of the airport, he would have to turn his headlights off. He would then have to approach slowly so they wouldn't hear the car's engine. He would have to leave the car some distance from the airport and then approach on foot. His only weapon, he reminded himself grimly, was the weapon of surprise.

Ralph Boswick a heavily-built, sandy-haired young man, replaced the telephone receiver, took his big feet off the desk and stood up.

His partner, Jeff Lancing, lolling in a discarded aircraft chair, looked at him inquiringly.

“Who was that?”

Boswick lit a cigarette, striking the match on the seat of his cavalry twill pants.

“Believe it or not. . . the F.B.I.” he said and grinned. “Seems kidnappers could arrive here. A man and a woman have snatched a woman and could be heading our way. They're nuts! For the past week, no one has headed our way!”

Lancing, short, barrel-chested and dark, slightly older than Boswick, looked sharply at his partner.

“They give a description?”

“Oh, sure. The man is tall, powerfully built and dark. He's wearing a black leather outfit. The woman is his twin sister. The other woman has reddish hair and she's pretty. They say the kidnappers are armed and dangerous.”

Lancing got to his feet.

“This is just the place they might come to!” he said. “Dangerous, huh?” He went to the desk, pulled open a drawer and took from it a .45 automatic.

Boswick laughed.

“Be your age, Jeff! That iron isn't safe to fire. It hasn't been cleaned or oiled in years, and besides, we haven't any slugs for it.”

Lancing hesitated, then with an embarrassed grin, he put the gun back in the drawer.

“We'd look pretty dumb if they did come here,” he said.

“They won't,” Boswick said. “No one comes here. Jeff . . . I hate to say this, but I've been looking at our figures. If something doesn't happen soon, we're going to be in the hole. This idea of ours isn't working out.”

“The trouble with you,” Lancing said, “is you're always looking for the fast buck. Everything takes time. You see, in a couple of months, we'll be in the black again.”

“If we go on like this,” Boswick said, taking a file from a drawer in the desk, “we'll be sold up. I mean it, Jeff. Here, take a look at these figures.”

With a resigned sigh, Lancing came to the desk. Together, the two men began to go over the bills that they owed. They worked for the next hour, then Lancing tossed aside his pencil and stood up.

“I didn't realize it was this bad,” he said glumly. “What are we going to do?”

“What other mugs have to do,” Boswick said, shrugging. “We'll have to find another mug. We . . .” He paused as the door leading into the small office swung silently open. A girl, her hair carelessly dyed blonde, wearing a flowered cotton dress with a full skirt, her eyes very alert and watchful, stood in the doorway.

“I want a plane to take me and my friends to Frisco right away,” Chita said. “What can you do for me?”

Lancing's face split into a happy grin.

“Why, sure. The kite's all ready. We could be on our way in less than an hour after clearing with Frisco. That fast enough for you?”

“What do you want to clear with Frisco for?” Chita asked suspiciously.

“Have to get permission to land,” Lancing explained. “It won't take long.”

Boswick was studying the girl. He didn't like the look of her. He suddenly remembered the warning he had had from the Federal Field Office.

He said casually, “Take the lady and her friends to the waiting room, Jeff. Maybe they'd like coffee while they're waiting. I'll get the clearance.”

“Sure,” Lancing said and moved towards Chita. “This way. Won't keep you waiting long. You . . .” He stopped short as Chita lifted the gun in her hand that she had kept concealed behind the folds of her skirt.

“No telephoning,” she said. “We just take off. Get away from that desk!”

Under the threat of the gun and the snap in her voice, Boswick moved over to where Lancing was standing.

Lancing was gaping at Chita.

“What's all this?” he asked. “What . . .?”

“Wrap up!” Chita said and moved further into the office.

She was followed by Riff who was shoving Carrie before him. At the sight of Riff's black leather outfit, Lancing remembered the F.B.I.'s warning and realized who these three were.

Riff went over to the telephone and yanked the cable free from the wall.

“If you two jerks want to stay alive,” he said as he threw the telephone receiver across the room, “you'll do what you're told! We're in a hurry! We want to get over the border and into Mexico . . . you're taking us! So let's have plenty of action!”

Boswick said, “Mexico? It can't be done. I would have to get permission to land from Tijuana. You'll run up against the passport control authorities. You just can't fly into Mexico this way.”

“Yes, we can,” Chita said. “You put us down in a field. . . any place. We don't have to land at any airport. We're going to Mexico and you're taking us!”

“I tell you, it can't be done,” Boswick said. “You can't put a light plane down in a field. What field? You ever been to Mexico? It can't be done!”

Riff looked uneasily at his sister.

“We're wasting time. Maybe we'd better keep moving. I never did think this idea . . .”

“Shut up!” Chita said, her voice vicious. She looked at Boswick. “We're going to Mexico! You're going to take us unless you want a hole in your belly! Get moving!”

Boswick hesitated, then shrugged.

“If that's the way you want it, then I guess that's how you'll have it,” he said. “I'm not arguing with a gun, but I warn you, we could crash land! The kite's only got a short range. We could run out of fuel before we found enough flat land to park on.”

“We'll worry about that when it happens,” Chita said “You talk too much! Get going!”

Boswick looked over at Lancing. His left eyelid flickered.

“Better see to the kite, Jeff.”

“Sure.” Lancing was worried. Boswick was the dominant partner. Lancing had an uneasy idea that Boswick was planning something that could be dangerous.

Riff said to Chita, “You go with him. I'll stay here and watch these two.”

“Come on, buster,” Chita said to Lancing, “and don't get any bright ideas.”

She followed Lancing out of the office.

* * *

Ed Black, one of Dennison's men, dropped the telephone receiver back on its cradle.

“Every service station is now alerted, Chief,” he said, “except the Caltex Station outside Boston Creek. Their telephone is on the blink.”

Dennison looked up from the map he was studying.

“Get a patrol officer to call in,” he said impatiently. “That's probably the one place they could have stopped at.”

Black picked up the microphone. Seconds later he was in contact with a patrol car heading towards Boston Creek.

Patrol Officer Benning said he would proceed at once to the Caltex Station and report back.

Again, without knowing it, the Cranes had a lucky break. The time now was one o'clock in the morning. The Caltex attendant who had given Vic the information about the air taxi station had gone off duty and had been replaced by his sidekick who took over the shift to nine o'clock the same morning.

“I wouldn't know,” he said when Benning questioned him. “I've only just come on. Fred might know something, but he's gone home.”

“You got his telephone number?” Benning asked.

“Sure, but our telephone is on the blink: besides, Fred won't be home yet. He always stops off in Boston Creek some place for his dinner.”

Benning got Fred's telephone number and his address then he returned to his car and alerted Dennison.

“Find him, and find him fast!” Dennison snapped.

There were a number of all-night cafes in Boston Creek, but finally Benning found the Caltex attendant just as he was leaving for home. The time now was one forty-five.

Before Benning could get all the information he needed from Fred, and by the time he had again reported to Dennison, it was a few minutes after two o'clock.

Tom Harper had arrived at headquarters, gingerly carrying the Dermott baby who had bawled without ceasing during the drive, and was still bawling, although he was being fussed over by two flustered policewomen.

“They're heading for the Boswick air taxi station,” Dennison said to Harper who was looking inquiringly at him. “It's a safe bet they're going to make for Mexico. They have an hour's start on us . . . too long for us to do much, but Dermott must be right behind them. See if you

can raise the airport and warn them.”

Harper found the telephone number in the book, dialled, listened and hung up.

“The line's out of order.”

Dennison shoved back his chair.

“I've told Benning to go up there, but to be careful. We can't close in on them so long as Mrs. Dermott's with them,” he said, paused, then abruptly made up his mind. “Come on, Tom. I can't keep out of this. We'll go by helicopter.” He turned to Black. “Alert Benning we're on our way and to keep in touch with us by radio. He's to get close to the airport, but he's not to take any action unless he's sure Mrs. Dermott can't get involved. Alert all patrol cars to converge on the airport but to keep out of sight. No action's to be taken until I get there.”

He strode out of the office and Harper went after him.

* * *

Halfway up the dirt road leading to the airport, Vic switched off his headlights. He drove slowly, and when he reached the airport gate, he pulled up. He went around to the boot of the car, opened it and searched in the tool kit.

He selected a tyre lever, the only possible weapon he could find, then moving fast, but cautiously, he made his way towards the small lighted reception hut and office over which was a flashing sign of an aircraft in flight.

He saw the Cadillac outside the office. As he reached the car, the office door opened and a man followed by a girl he immediately recognized as Chita came out. Vic ducked down behind the Cadillac. He heard Chita say, “Make with the legs, buster. You paralysed or something?”

Vic watched the two: the man ahead, Chita about three feet behind him, walk quickly towards the hangar. He waited until they were some yards away, then he moved silently to the office and cautiously peered through the window.

A heavily-built man leaned against the wall facing Riff who sat on the desk, gun in hand. Standing away from these two, big-eyed and white-faced, was Carrie.

Vic looked at her for a long moment, wrestling with the temptation to burst into the room and attack Riff, but he knew he wouldn't stand a chance so long as Riff had the gun. He moved back into the shadows, then he had a sudden idea. He went quickly to the Cadillac and looked into the back seat. On the seat were the two suitcases in which he had packed the money. He grabbed hold of them, lifted them from the car and then looked anxiously towards the hangar.

Lancing had got the hangar doors open and he, followed by Chita, was moving into the hangar. Carrying the suitcases, Vic ran around to the back of the office and into the darkness of the night.

In the hangar, Chita, standing well away, watched Lancing get the aircraft to readiness.

“Listen, buster,” she said, “you're not doing this for free. It's worth a thousand bucks to you if you get us to Mexico. From the look of this crummy joint, you could use that kind of money.”

“Think so?” Lancing said shortly. “How's about if I crash the kite?”

“Oh, forget it! You're insured, aren't you? Get going, buster!”

In the office, as Boswick leaned against the wall, eyeing Riff, he suddenly noticed Riff's swollen, bruised wrist. It flashed into his mind if he could get close enough to Riff and make a dive for the gun, he could get it from Riff without any opposition. With a wrist like that, the guy was practically one-armed.

“My partner can't run the kite out without help,” Boswick said. “It needs two men to push it. If you're in all that of a hurry, maybe we should go over to the hangar.”