Текст книги "The Thousand Coffin Affair "

Автор книги: Michael Avallone

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THE DEATH ROOM

FOR ONE wild second, a sense of doom fought to dominate him. Thrush had bottled him up like a mouse in a Mason jar and no amount of banging away at the lid was going to help. There was no time to lose now. No reason to stop and wonder just how long a man can live without oxygen or how long it would take for the vent to pump out every bit of good air left in the room. Time enough for post-mortems later.

Getting out of the room was the first order of the day. He considered the possible means of escape. There was, of course, the telephone—but when he picked it up he found the line was dead. He wasn’t surprised. It would also be useless to use his machine pistol. No amount of bullets could blow that door—nor any of the windows. He silently cursed the lack of any explosive equipment in his suitcase. This was one time he had none of the jelly compounds that could blow a bank vault wall to smithereens. He hadn’t expected to have to enter any bank vaults this week—much less that he’d find himself trapped inside one.

There was only one chance.

The very one that Thrush itself had given him.

Solo hurried to Denise Fairmount where she lay on the lounge. Her head lolled as he pulled her to a standing position. He brought his open hand sharply against her face, slapping her quickly on both sides of her nose. She moaned and he dragged her to the coffee table, scooping up the bottle of wine. He held it to her lips, forcing the contents into her mouth. The wine sloshed over her face, ran down the front of her gown. Solo paid little heed. He wanted this woman awake, sitting up and taking notice—

Already, he could sense the change in the atmosphere of the room. There was a sudden giddiness in his head—a light, airy feeling as though he had had too much of the same wine he was pouring over the woman. She stirred, and coughed as the wine went down her throat.

“Come on, Denise,” he snapped. “Wake up, wake up!”

“What—what—” She sputtered, her eyes opening wide, blanching when she saw him, trying to pull away.

He gripped her wrists tightly, keeping his voice steady.

“Listen. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you awake? Nod your head so that I know you understand me. Nod, I said!” He jerked her savagely to him. Her eyes popped but she nodded, her tongue licking at the droplets of wine on her mouth.

“Your playmates have walled us up in this room. With steel doors and windows and everything. You understand? There’ll be no air to speak of in here in a very little while they’re also sucking the air out through the air-conditioning vent. I know of a way we can get out—but you’ve got to help. Listen to me, Denise. We will slowly suffocate to death without oxygen. You won’t look pretty to the undertaker with your tongue sticking out. Now tell me—where is that transistor for the master device? I must know—or we’re both going to die.”

“You’re trying to trick me—” she gasped. “You hit me—”

“Nod, I said. Don’t waste air with talking. Breathe. Can’t you tell? Come on, Denise. Where is it?”

She read his eyes and she read the warning there. She nodded and her own gaze swung back to the coffee table. Not on top of it. Under it. The candles had already begun to gutter warningly. Solo released the woman and darted to the table. He explored its bottom quickly until his hands found a square metal box, no bigger than the motor of a tiny music box. Denise Fairmount had fallen to the lounge, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Solo ignored her and ripped open his traveling bag. He knew what he had to do. A risk he had to take. There was no estimating the effect of the maser device when let loose—but he knew what it could do.

He scooped his neatly piled clothes to one side and uncovered the short-wave radio set hidden there. He had short-circuited the suite’s electrical outlet, but the radio set had its own powerful batteries. He hoped they would be strong enough for what he had in mind.

He placed the maser device at the very center of the front door, between the sealed slit and the bottom of the barrier. Then he adjusted the short-wave set, turned it on and manipulated the frequency button. He pushed it to its fullest power. Then he yelled on last warning at Denise Fairmount: “Put your fingers in your ears! This is going to be rough!”

Almost immediately, the wildly throbbing humming sound of generated sound rose in the stuffy room. Solo held his ears tightly, his eyes never leaving the door. He remained by his suitcase. If it didn’t work, at least he could turn the sound off before that killed them first. A small difference in terrible ways to die—

But the maser device was trained directly on the door; the sound which buffeted him and Denise was only that which bounced off and spread around the room.

He watched the door. He felt the room tremble. He could see the objects of furniture in the room start that weird vibrating dance again as the sound waves reached them. He bit his lip, beads of perspiration popping on his brow. It was a million to one shot—could the heightening of electrical current into sound force open a steel barrier?

Denise Fairmount was again writhing in pain on the lounge, her eyes two beacons of shining terror. But she did not cry out or protest—she knew what was at stake.

Solo waited—

The furnishings danced. And then a slight tremor shook the door. The hinges seemed to want to move out of their iron hasps. Even with his hands pressed to his ears, the room-filling sound penetrated almost maddeningly.

Solo’s nostrils and throat ached with the pain of trying to breathe the thin air remaining now in the sealed room. He felt as though he were being strangled. Yet he could not take his eyes off that door—

It was like a magic act.

Suddenly the door was shaking and the panels warping before his very eyes. And then there was a mammoth thunderclap of sound, and the barrier had surged outward, crumpling like so much cheap tin and discarded metal. The door flew back, ripping off its hinges, shattering into splinters against the sheet of metal which was disintegrating before it.

Groping almost blindly, Solo found the frequency button and turned the short-wave radio set off. The influx of air from the corridor was a buffeting wind which threw over the candles from the table and flattened the drapes against the far wall. He didn’t waste any time looking for the maser device in the wreckage of the doorway. Chances were pretty good that it had shattered into bits once its maximum peak of effect had been reached. As for the woman—

She was gone.

In the decreasing flurry of noises from the blasted threshold of the room, he could hear her high heels running down the corridor. For a fleeting second he considered giving chase, but then he shook the notion off. There was only one thing for him to do now—get out of this damn hotel alive before Thrush came back to try again.

Shaking his head to clear it, breathing in long gasps of fresh air, he retrieved his traveling bag and stepped quickly from the room. The aftermath of the explosion was reaching that point when rudely disturbed guests would be ringing the desk to see what the hell was going on.

Solo took the back stairway out.

Twenty minutes later, he had compartmentalized the anger in his mind and found a late-cruising taxicab on short notice. The tinseled lights of the Eiffel Tower burst like a Fourth of July sparkler on the horizon. Solo had brushed his hair back, straightened his tie and assumed the demeanor of pure tourist. The French cabbie was a gray little man with a wise face and a gold tooth.

“Monsieur?”

“Le Bourget. Tout de suite.”

The cabbie looked dismayed.

“You are meeting a plane? None at this time.”

“I am taking a plane, my friend.”

The cabbie smiled triumphantly. “Mais non, Monsieur. There will be none at this hour.”

Solo frowned. He knew the Paris airport as well as he knew La Guardia. Flights nearly every hour. He plucked a crisp five hundred franc note from his billfold.

“Look, garçon. Just drive, will you?”

The driver turned around to show appreciation of the bill; yet there was a touch of sadness in his eyes.

“Possibly Monsieur has not heard.”

“Let me hear it.”

“Le Bourget had the big explosion a few hours ago. Five runways were destroyed. Such a fire! All flights have been canceled. You understand?”

“Yeah. Pay now. Fly later.”

“Comment?”

Solo nodded, keeping his face blank. “Yes, I understand, friend. But don’t you recognize a newspaperman when you see one? I’ll have you know I’m the Paris correspondent to The New York Times.”

“The New York Times?” The cabbie’s eyes rolled in appreciation of such lofty environs. “Forgive me, Monsieur. But of course. Immediatement!”

The cab leaped  into gear, found the main artery of traffic and zoomed toward Le Bourget. Napoleon Solo drummed his fingers reflectively on the sky-blue Tourister sitting across his lap.

Now here was calamity piled atop coincidence.

A cablegram from Mr. Waverly and a concerted effort on his life.

Now, he needed an airplane and Le Bourget was incapacitated. Of course, there might be other, smaller fields in Paris, yet that was unlikely.

What had happened to Stewart Fromes out there in Oberteisendorf?

The telegram in his coat pocket was beginning to burn a hole there. Hot stuff, maybe. Real hot stuff. Hotter than even Mr. Waverly had let on, despite the William Daprato warning.

Beyond the cab’s window, the Paris night twinkled with warm, friendly stars.

At U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Alexander Waverly had a visitor. A distinguished visitor whose presence would normally have occasioned the unified popping of assorted flashbulbs and trained questions by batteries of metropolitan reporters. No one in the building was even aware of the identity of this particular individual. He had entered U.N.C.L.E. in Waverly’s private elevator from the entranceway which no other man in the organization knew. Only Waverly could ever reveal the fifth unknown ingress of U.N.C.L.E.

Had Napoleon Solo been on hand, he would have been surprised at the difference in Waverly’s attitude. It was marked by a definite concern, a worried crease of the gray brows above the strong nose.

Waverly’s visitor was at the window, seemingly lost in contemplation of the United Nations Building shining in the night. The long, erratic conga of lights lighting up the Queens skyline hung like fireflies in the far off darkness.

The eternal pipe, in this instance a meerschaum, worked back and forth in Waverly’s fingers, revealing his agitation.

The man at the window, tall and statuesque, said without turning, “Well, Waverly. Is there one chance in ten million?”

Waverly did not turn around either.

“There’s always that chance, of course,” he said, regretfully.

“If even that chance is there, then we indeed have something to worry about.”

“I would say so, sir. Fromes was not explicit, of course. He couldn’t afford to be, under the circumstances. Security has its drawbacks. But—”

“Go on, Waverly. Say it. Say it all. This is no damn time for the niceties of protocol and diplomatic bushwah.”

Waverly swiveled in his armchair and pointed the meerschaum for emphasis. “Fromes gave me enough data to suspect the worst. If Thrush has come up with such a weapon—and there is evidence to support their participation in this business—then we have something far worse to worry about than missiles and nuclear war.” The man at the window faced Waverly. His face was hidden in the half-light of the room.

“You mean that obscure African village—Utangaville, was it? And Spayetville in the highlands of Scotland.”

“Yes, yes,” Waverly said, almost impatiently. “If they can destroy towns like that with a mere thimbleful of the stuff, there’s no estimating the consequences. Test towns, pure and simple.  Places that would not attract the notice of the world. What else? Typical Thrush tactics, sir. We have to be prepared for the worst.”

The visitor shook himself. His voice rose, almost sadly.

“I have a large illumined globe of the world in my office. A gift of the people who pay the taxes. Now, there is a nation named Thrush in the world. You know it and I know it. Yet if we were to examine that globe as carefully as possible, we wouldn’t find the name engraved anywhere. And time and again, I’ve passed my fingers over that globe, on country after country, never really knowing which one has become a territory under the domination of Thrush. Satraps, my political advisors call them—satraps for the supra-nation we call Thrush. And they intend to dominate the earth. By degrees, they can turn a country into a satrap—or do the same with a school or a hospital. Or an industrial plant. Who knows? And all we can do is sit, wonder and play international chess while they work underground. Waverly, Waverly—what can we do this time?”

Waverly rubbed his pipe.

“The recovery of Fromes’ body is all we can do at this point, sir.”

“No ideas at all what killed him?”

“The laboratory will have to answer that. The acquisition of his body is our first and only step.”

The distinguished visitor shook his head. “I wish I could share your enthusiasm, Waverly. Were the corpse that important, they wouldn’t have been so cooperative about returning it, don’t you think?”

“Hard to say. Blocking our efforts to do so might have proved more dangerous.”

“I’m sure you know what you’re talking about. I tend to high pessimism these days.” The man straightened. “Who is claiming Fromes’ body?”

Waverly’s gloomy face brightened a trifle.

“Solo. My best man.”

“Odd name. Well, Waverly, I’d best be going. You’ll keep me up-to-the-minute on this, I trust? I have my own VIP’s to keep alerted.”

“Of course, sir.”

Both men shook hands warmly. “Waverly.”

“Yes?”

“It is a comfort that U.N.C.L.E. exists. A far greater comfort than I can ever publicly laud or acknowledge. Do you understand?”

“I think so, sir. Thank you.”

Waverly was still fingering his pipe in happy memory of what the man had said long after the secret elevator had whisked its important passenger down to the underground garage where the Secret Service agents waited. Fromes’ body was the key to the whole Thrush matter. And Napoleon Solo was the man to turn that key.

SHADOWS OVER OBERTEISENDORF

LE BOURGET WAS a red glare against the inky backdrop of the Paris sky. Blinding, powerful arc lights traversed the airdrome. A long line of fire trucks and police cars filled the perimeter of the terminal. It was quite like the night Lindbergh had landed on his historic one-man solo flight from New York to Paris. Hordes of onlookers thronged the outskirts of the field, their jostling and shouting drowning out all sanity and order.

Napoleon Solo dismissed the cab driver and alighted. The front doors of the terminal were yet a good quarter of a mile away. Though it was fairly obvious that normal civilian entry was now impossible, Solo walked slowly in that direction. He only paused when he found one of those glass-walled telephone booths. Amidst the hubbub and uproar, he was but another meaningless figure added to the bedlam. The night was alive with sound and fury. It was impossible to estimate exactly what had occurred. An explosion, the cab driver had said. Accident or sabotage?

Solo dodged a trio of hurrying, overalled, grease-stained men, and stepped into the booth. He dropped a coin into the slot and waited. When an operator answered, he asked for a number in the Overseas Press Club. Soon he was connected with a man named Partridge.

“Partridge here,” a British accented voice said.

“What is good for hives, Mr. Partridge?’

“Bees.”

“What flies forever and rests never?”

“The wind.”

“When is a door not a door?”

“When it is ajar.”

Solo breathed easy. The simple code, though no great shakes, was unfailing.

“Billy, Le Bourget is in flames.”

Partridge’s chuckle was grimly unhumorous. “Indubitably, old sport. Somebody set off a few big ones on the runways at seven this evening. Anything to do with you?”

“It’s a possibility. I am supposed to fly out of here.”

“What’s your destination?”

“Hitler’s backyard. Any ideas? Time is, as they say, of the essence.”

He could almost hear Partridge thinking before the answer came. The ex-Major Partridge of British Army Intelligence was U.N.C.L.E.’s liaison man in Paris, a safety guarantee factor for just such exigencies as this one.

“Got a car?”

“I’m walking so far.”

“I see. How far into the backyard are you going?”

“The Redoubt. I’m picking up Fromes.”

“Listen carefully.” Partridge spoke quickly now. “There’s an air strip at the northeastern tip of Rouen. Nothing much. But a Frenchman named Landry will rent you a plane for a price. Good man. No political convictions save money. Try him.”

“That’s fine. How do you suggest I get to Rouen?”

“Hmmm.” There was another pause. “Where are you now?”

Solo peered through the glass walls of his booth. There was a painted sign and a number staring down at him from the stucco side of a shed of some kind.

“Le Bourget. Tool shed seven-oh-three-three-nine. About five hundred yards from the eastern approach to the main terminal.”

“Stay put. A Jeep will be there directly. You may leave it with Monsieur Landry.”

“Partridge, I love you.”

“Don’t mention it. And I am sorry about Fromes. He was a decent chap.”

Napoleon Solo hung up soberly, staring for a moment at the silent phone box. A decent chap. A glorious testimonial to a man who had given his life for his country. Fromes would understand though. There were no medals, no financial bonuses, no awards to win with U.N.C.L.E. Only the memory of men like Partridge.

Outside the booth, the thick aroma of smoke mixed with gasoline and oil assaulted his nostrils. He winced, turning up his collar. The night air was biting, despite the proximity of the smoldering blaze igniting the area as far as the eye could see.

Sighing philosophically, he fished out a pack of French cigarettes and lit one from his jet-flame lighter. He reversed his Tourister on the shorter end and sat down to wait.

All about him, Le Bourget was a madhouse.

To American GI’s of World War Two, Rouen had been easily, almost charitably, dubbed The Road to Ruin. For it was here that the long march into Germany to end the combat in the European Theater of Operations usually began. Once troopships landed at devastated Le Havre, Rouen was the first step on the leg of the journey for all ETO Task Forces. Solo had served in Korea, being but a stripling in the days of Pearl Harbor, but many a retread on Heartbreak Ridge had regaled him with yams about Rouen. Armored Division men had long memories, and their GI French was interwoven with the history of the little border city just outside the harbor. Patton had filled his gas tanks there; every Army of the U.S. that swept through fortress Europe had known Rouen for at least a day.

Now, as he wheeled the jeep swiftly over the unpaved roads, with forests of trees engulfing him on either side, Solo thought about Waverly’s cryptic note. Memories. of Rouen had recalled William Daprato, the combat M.P. to whom Waverly had referred in his cable. Daprato had been in Rouen. His outfit had landed there after a stint in North Africa. It was here that his poignant warning had been given birth.

A squad of his men had entered a bistro on a mop-up campaign following the German evacuation of the town. When one unwary M.P. had picked up a bottle of Pommard wine and foolishly tugged up the cork, there had been little left of the soldier save a bloody mass of flesh. “Booby traps for booby troops,” Corporal Daprato had cursed bitterly. The remark had become legendary—filtering down through the ranks, the divisions, the platoons and squads until one night it had reached the ears of First Lieutenant Napoleon Solo, First Cavalry Regiment. He had burned the remark into his consciousness of war. When the time came for his fitness report as a member of U.N.C.L.E., it had been included as code information on his file. Hence the simple use of the name William Daprato meant a volume of words—a code no enemy could ever break because it only meant something to Napoleon Solo.

But what did its usage mean in the assignment of recovering Stewart Fromes’ corpse? Did Waverly actually mean to suggest that he thought Fromes’ body was mined in some way? That was ridiculous—or was it? Still, it was something to think about, wasn’t it?

Solo thought a great deal about it as he spurred the jeep along, the needle far beyond the 60-mile mark. The mechanized bug shot over the road, whipping like the mechanical rabbit at a quinella. The slipstream flung Solo’s tie like a pennant in the breeze.

The stars had vanished behind a sudden all-enveloping darkness. It was hazardous going. Solo peered carefully through the windshield, his eyes alert to abrupt dips and bends in the roadway.

Partridge’s jeep had been delivered by a silent U.S. Army sergeant who had done little more than turn over the ignition keys and make an idle comment about the Le Bourget fire. Partridge had his own methods, obviously. Solo had quit the vicinity of the airfield as soon as was possible. He hadn’t quite forgotten the nasty set-to in Denise Fairmount’s company. Something was up all right, and it all seemed to point to Stewart Fromes—and/or Thrush.

Bright lights winked up ahead. Rouen.

Solo slowed for a high grade, put the jeep in low gear and rose sharply. The lights were to his left. He consulted his watch. Close to ten-thirty. He found a map in the glove compartment of the jeep and scanned it thoroughly. The compass needles set artfully in the watch face indicated northeast. Grimly, he swung the jeep where the road suddenly forked to the right. Landry’s airship shouldn’t be too far away, by his reckoning.

It wasn’t.

Past a cluster of houselights and streets of poor illumination, he spotted a dirt road leading to the northeastern end of Rouen, then a bevy of scattered farms. A cow mooed in the night. Solo concentrated. It would be easy to lose sight of his destination in the deepening gloom.

Then he saw what he was looking for: ten kerosene markers glowing in the night. There was a wide expanse of earth lighter-colored than the rest of the brown French ground, then a long, low hangar of sorts. Dimly against the horizon he spotted the trim outlines of the airplane.

Landry was waiting for him. “You fly, my friend?”

“Yes. I will pay you well.”

“Good—on both counts. I am sure you will like the plane we have for you.”

The man was a parody of France—fat, bereted, potbellied and dirty as a swine. A burned-down cigarette barely peeked from beneath a clump of walrus mustache. Solo’s nostrils curled. The man wasn’t worth trusting. Yet, Partridge had vouched for him.

“I would like to leave immediately.”

“As you will, my friend. The plane is already being warmed up.”

Solo reached into his pocket for his billfold. His eyes searched Landry’s unkempt face. Landry shrugged his mountainous shoulders.

“I prefer American money if you have it. One thousand dollars will do nicely.”

It was Solo’s turn to shrug. “Will ten traveler’s checks at one hundred each do?”

“Quite nicely, yes.”

From outside, came the muted roar of the aircraft. Swiftly, Solo signed ten checks, tore them neatly from the blue folder and handed them to Landry. The Frenchman grunted and tucked them in the waistband of his dirty trousers. Ludicrously, he wore a fashionable cummerbund about his expansive middle.

“How long will the flight take?” Time was the main concern now.

‘Where do you journey?”

“Oberteisendorf or any place near enough to make it worthwhile.”

Landry considered that. “Three, maybe four hours. As I say, the plane is a good one.”

“I’m sure of it. Au revoir, my friend.”

To Solo’s great surprise, he found the plane to be a modern, streamlined Beechcraft Debonair: a real custom-built American job, the plaything of millionaires and Riviera scions. His respect for Landry mounted. He waved back a farewell to the shed where Landry stood at the window.

Solo reached the ship, the fine swath of propeller shining like a million stars in the gloom. He spotted a figure, helmeted and goggled, sitting in the cabin, jerking a gloved thumb at him. Solo pulled the airdoor back and placed his Tourister in the roomy space beyond the two front seats of the cabin job. As he squeezed in, the helmeted figure slid over to the far seat. Solo frowned. Before he could mutter a surprised protest, the short, snout-nosed barrel of an automatic pistol jammed against his midsection.

“Climb in and close the door and don’t make any other moves,” a bright voice snapped.

Solo’s eyes went cold but he did as he was told. The closeness of the cabin made the gun held against his rib cage seem like the bore of a cannon.

“Is this part of Monsieur Landry’s plane service?” he asked drily.

“It’s my idea,” the voice answered. In the gloom of the cabin, he could not make out the face of his captor. “Now prove to me that you are Napoleon Solo. You look like him and you talk like him, but that’s not enough. Can you show me some proof?”

Solo sighed and stared straight ahead, eyes probing the night.

“May I reach for my identity card?”

“Go ahead. But no tricks.”

Very carefully, he took from his inner pocket a small stack of business cards and plastic-coated licenses, and handed them over.

“Here,” he said. “Leaf through those, find the one you want, and perhaps you will win a large, shiny automobile someday.”

“You fool!” But his captor said nothing else and took the cards. Solo folded his arms, listening to the smooth tune-up of the Debonair’s engine. For a brief second, he watched as the helmeted figure took his U.N.C.L.E. identity card and applied a small applicator of some kind to its surface. A drop of some form of liquid washed over the face of the card. Nothing happened. There was a satisfied grunt from the occupant of the other seat in the cabin.

“Very good. On all counts. You may take us up now, Mr. Solo. It’s time we got out of here.”‘

Solo shrugged and busied himself with the controls. He too wanted to get into the air. He swung the Debonair about, pointing its nose to the East, and began to taxi along the hard, lumpy earth. He checked his instrument panel and .hummed to himself. The slender figure at his side had pocketed the snout-nosed automatic quite suddenly.

He drew back gently on the stick, his mind occupied with the takeoff. The nose of the plane knifed forward, seeming to head straight for the high wall of trees before them. Gradually, almost unnoticeably, the wheels left the ground and the Debonair lifted like a graceful bird. The propeller clawed. The instrument gauges danced, the multiple needles busy with recording the flight into darkness.

The dark earth fell away; the trees vanished. Monsieur Landry’s fortuitous landing strip faded back into the past.

Solo rubbed at his right eye, yawning, feeling the strain of the night’s events. He looked idly at the figure who was now sitting quietly at his side.

“Well, unknown friend and fellow traveler. Are you going to tell me all about it or do we ride in perfect silence the rest of the way?”

His companion’s nose, in profile, was as straight as a ruler, the mouth almost lush. A confirming bell went off in Solo’s head. He laughed lightly, waiting for the answer to his question.

“You are not a man, I take it. Neither are you somebody who is crazy about airplanes and would do just about anything for a joyride.”

The snapping voice laughed back.

“You win, hero. I came here specifically to go with you on your trip. My destination is your destination.”

“I see. Will you unmask now or are you going to hide behind the helmet and goggles forever?”

The girl laughed—a warm, vitamin-packed laugh which had all the vigor and go-to-hellishness of a Marine drill sergeant. He looked on admiringly as the helmet and goggles were swept to one side by a long, taperingly slim hand. Coppery, shoulder-length hair spilled in a golden cascade. A bright, brown-eyed face smiled at him through a chocolate film of grease over the lower half, framing white, impeccable teeth.

“Allow me to introduce myself. This is your co-pilot, Geraldine Terry. On unchartered flight to Oberteisendorf, Germany. I tested your ID card with a special acid and since it didn’t corrode, it’s the real thing. I didn’t kill the man who was supposed to warm up your plane—just cooled him with a little Judo and helped myself to his clothes so that I could get onto the field. Any more questions to relieve your mind?”

He stared at her. It was inconceivable, but there she was. Bright, sunny, a real American Beauty, yet she had maneuvered as sweet a switch as he had ever encountered.

“Geraldine Terry,” he mused. “Girl spy?”

“Government girl if you please,” she snapped back, her eyes on the air lanes ahead as if she still didn’t trust him. You can call me Jerry Terry.”

The Debonair plunged on smoothly through the night skies over France.