“You want to get results, don’t you?”
“Certainly I want to get results, but I want to get them so there’s some adventure in it. It’s like fishing for swordfish; you could use a gun, a harpoon, a big line and a winch, but it’s more fun to use light tackle.”
Jim Grood nodded emphatically. “Yeah,” he said, “more fun because you’re taking a chance on the fish getting away. That’s just what’s likely to happen in this case — the fish are going to get away.”
The mechanic nodded his head to Bowman. Bowman laughed, tucked his fingers under Jim Grood’s arm and said, “In we go, Jim; it’ll soon be over.”
“Yeah,” Grood remarked dryly, “that’s what I’m afraid of.”
He braced himself against the current of wind thrown back by the propellers, wormed his way through the open door of the cabin. Bowman followed him, took his place at the control. The mechanic slammed the door shut.
“How much flying experience did you say you’d had?” Grood shouted above the roar of the motors.
Jax Bowman grinned. “Enough to get you there and get myself hack,” he remarked, as he gunned the right motor, then throttled back, gunned the left and waved his hand to the mechanics.
The mechanics jerked the blocks out from under the wheels. Bowman opened the throttles. The big plane roared down the runway and slanted into a smooth take-off. When the ship was well out over the bay, Bowman worked the mechanism which drew up the landing wheels and converted the ship into a hydroplane. The motors roared a smooth song of power. San Francisco stretched out below them, glistening buildings reflecting the sunlight which filtered through the fog. Ahead of them lay the dark forest of the Presidio; over to the left the long narrow stretch of Golden Gate Park. Out by the Cliff House and Sutro Baths, where the surf was thundering against the rocks on which sea lions basked, there was a thick wall of fog.
Bowman tilted the plane to climb above the fog. Jim Grood, the safety belt strapped across his thighs, gripped the sides of his chair until the skin showed white over his big, battered knuckles.
The plane roared higher. Suddenly, as it swept over the area where the fog was disintegrating, it struck an air bump. For a moment everything seemed to stop, while the plane settled — then suddenly it bounded up into the air, wobbled drunkenly, then continued on its course, only to strike another air bump.
Bowman, at the controls, keeping the ship as nearly on an even keel as possible, turned to grin reassuringly at Big Jim Grood.
The big ex-cop had his eyes closed — his lips were tightly clenched.
A moment more and they were over the bumpy area. Fog reached out and closed about them, shutting out the light. Moisture misted the windows of the enclosed cabin; then, as though it had been a projectile shot from a gun, the plane zoomed up above the fog and into bright sunlight.
It was smooth flying here. Jim Grood ventured to open his eyes, saw the clear blue of the sky, looked down a couple of hundred feet to the top of the fog bank, a brilliant, dazzling white under the rays of the sun. The shadow cast by the big plane scudded over the uneven floor of white clouds like some huge bird.
The plane flew steadily until the fog became patches of isolated white clouds, below which could be seen the blue ocean, looking almost dead-black. Bowman carefully calculated his position, swung the plane in a wide circle, then throttled down the motors. The nose of the plane tilted sharply downward as it swept toward the ocean in a long circle. Big Jim Grood, looking down the slanting wing of the plane, saw a tiny speck of white resting upon the dark surface of the ocean.
Once more he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his lips a thin, straight line.
The plane spiraled down to the ocean, straightened out, to skim over the water like a flying gull; then, with a splash of spray, it struck the top of a wave, plowed for a moment through water, and came to a stop. A small boat put out from the yacht.
Bowman opened the cabin door, slapped Big Jim Grood reassuringly on the back, lowered Grood’s bag to the men in the boat. A moment later Grood himself was seated in the bobbing skiff. Jax Bowman shouted greetings to the yachtsman, then pointed to the yacht which had ceased to be merely a white speck upon the ocean, but now showed as a trim, serviceable craft, looming against the skyline.
“This will beat the old police methods, Jim,” he said. “Take a look at her. Isn’t she a beauty?”
Jim Grood, looking rather green around the gills, turned to look and nodded his head mechanically. There was no enthusiasm in his eyes.
Bowman waved farewells, gunned the motors into revolution, made a smooth take-off, spiraled up into the air and, as he made his first turn, looked down at the skiff. Something that he saw made him reach for his binoculars and adjust them to his eyes.
Big Jim Grood, his head over the side of the small boat, was being violently ill.
Chapter III
Phyllis Proctor
The arrival of the White Nomad, the palatial yacht which had come up from the Galapagos Islands after cruising about the west coast of Mexico, attracted some attention. Waterfront reporters dropped down to get a story, and heard one which sent them scurrying for telephones.
The owner of the yacht reported picking up a castaway on one of the deserted islands. The man had been cast ashore when a small fishing boat on which he had taken passage had been wrecked in a storm. But this shipwreck, which would have been a tragic adventure to most men, was to this individual but an incident in a life which had fairly bristled with dangerous adventure. He was, it seemed, none other than Sidney Proctor, whose death had been recently reported in the press when a companion had reached civilization to report the disaster which had overtaken the exploring expedition.
Sidney Proctor gave a brief statement to some of the reporters, but he was rather taciturn and noncommittal, and he objected to being photographed. He went from the yacht directly to the Palace Hotel.
Among those who met the yacht on its arrival in the early morning was Jax Bowman, the multi-millionaire, who had traveled incognito to San Francisco. Bowman was a close friend of Franklin Stanza, the owner of the yacht, and Stanza introduced Jax Bowman to Sidney Proctor, and, since the introduction took place in the presence of newspaper men, Stanza kept his countenance gravely serious as he performed the introduction.
Big Jim Grood, masquerading as the rescued explorer, crushed Bowman’s hand in a mighty grip.
“Have a pleasant voyage?” Bowman asked, with an attempt at facetiousness as he winced from the pain of the crushing grip.
“Swell,” Jim Grood said, increasing the pressure of his mighty hand. “I lost a few pounds, but that was to be expected.”
“You evidently didn’t lose any strength,” Bowman said, wiggling the fingers of his hand, as though to test them for broken bones.
“I lost everything else,” Jim Grood muttered in an undertone.
Jim Grood registered at the Palace Hotel under the name of Sidney Proctor. He kept to his room, refused to give any further interviews, and refused to be photographed. Jax Bowman had a room on the same floor. He was, he explained to reporters, taking a pleasure trip, but managed to convey the impression he might be interested in purchasing a ranch which could be reached by airplane and on which there was good hunting and fishing.
Having cast out his bait, Jax Bowman sat back to await results.
His telephone rang within half an hour after the newspapers had hit the streets. Big Jim Grood’s voice was cautious: “Coast clear?” he asked.
“Yes,” Bowman said.
“Leave your door open, then; I’m coming down.”
A moment later Bowman heard the sound of his confederate’s steps in the corridor, then the knob twisted and Rig Jim Grood pushed his way into the room.