“Always gives me a thrill,” the man said. “No matter how many times I do it.” He chuckled and added, “An airplane ride is just like a woman. Lots of ups and downs, and not always too smooth — but guaranteed to keep a man up in the air.”
Davis smiled politely, and the fat man chuckled a bit more and then thrust a beefy hand at him. “MacGregor,” he said. “Charlie or Chuck or just plain Mac, if you like.”
Davis took his hand and said, “Milt Davis.”
“Glad to know you, Milt,” MacGregor said. “You down here on business?”
“Yes,” he said briefly.
“Me, too,” MacGregor said. “Business mostly.” He grinned slyly. “Course, what the wife don’t know won’t hurt her, eh?”
“I’m not married,” Davis told him.
“A wonderful institution,” MacGregor said. He laughed aloud, and then added, “But who likes being in an institution?”
Davis hoped he hadn’t winced. He wondered if he was to be treated to MacGregor’s full repertoire of worn-out gags before the trip was over. To discourage any further attempts at misdirected wit, he turned back to the magazine as politely as he could, smiling once to let MacGregor know he wasn’t being purposely rude.
“Go right ahead,” MacGregor said genially. “Don’t mind me.”
That was easy, Davis thought. If it lasts.
He was surprised that it did last. MacGregor stretched out on the seat beside him, closing his eyes. He did not speak again until the plane was ten minutes out of San Francisco.
“Let’s walk to the john, eh, Milt?” he said.
Davis lifted his head and smiled. “Thanks, but—”
“This is a .38 here under my overcoat, Milt,” MacGregor said softly.
For a second, Davis thought it was another of the fat man’s tired jokes. He turned to look at MacGregor’s lap. The overcoat was folded over his chunky left arm, and Davis could barely see the blunt muzzle of a pistol poking from beneath the folds.
He lifted his eyebrows a little. “What are you going to do after you shoot me, MacGregor?” he asked. “Vanish into thin air?”
MacGregor smiled. “Now who mentioned anything about shooting, Milt? Eh? Let’s go back, shall we, boy?”
Davis rose and moved past MacGregor into the aisle. MacGregor stood up behind him, the coat over his arm, the gun completely hidden now. Together, they began walking toward the rear of the plane, past the food buffet on their right, and past the twin facing seats behind the buffet. An emergency window was set in the cabin wall there, and Davis sighed in relief when he saw that the seats were occupied.
When they reached the men’s room, MacGregor flipped open the door and nudged Davis inside. Then he crowded in behind him, putting his wide back to the door. He reached up with one heavy fist, rammed Davis against the sink, and then ran his free hand over Davis’s body.
“Well,” he said pleasantly. “No gun.”
“My name is Davis, not Spade,” Davis told him.
MacGregor lifted the .38, pointing it at Davis’s throat. “All right, Miltie, now give a listen,” he said. “I want you to forget all about that crashed DC-4. I want you to forget there are even such things as airplanes, Miltie. Now, I know you’re a smart boy, and so I’m not even going to mark you up, Miltie. I could mark you up nice with the sight and butt of this thing.” He gestured with the .38 in his hand. “I’m not going to do that. Not now. I’m just telling you, nice like, to lay off. Just lay off and go back to skip-tracing, Miltie boy, or you’re going to get hurt. Next time, I’m not going to be so considerate.”
“Look...” Davis started.
“So let’s not have a next time, Miltie. Let’s call it off now. You give your client a ring and tell him you’re dropping it, Miltie boy. Have you got that?”
Davis didn’t answer.
“Fine,” MacGregor said. He reached up suddenly with his left hand, almost as if he were reaching up for a light cord. At the same time he grasped Davis’s shoulder with his right hand and spun him around, bringing the hand with the gun down in a fast motion, flipping it butt end up.
The walnut stock caught Davis at the base of his skull. He stumbled forward, his hands grasping the sink in front of him. He felt the second blow at the back of his head, and then his hands dropped from the sink, and the aluminum deck of the plane came up to meet him suddenly, all too fast.
Someone said, “He’s coming around now,” and he idly thought, Coming around where?
“How do you feel, Mr. Davis?” a second voice asked.
He looked up at the ring of faces. He did not recognize any of them. “Where am I?” he asked.
“San Francisco,” the second voice said. The voice belonged to a tall man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and friendly blue eyes. MacGregor had owned friendly green eyes, Davis remembered.
“We found you in the men’s room after all the passengers had disembarked,” the voice went on. “You’ve had a nasty fall, Mr. Davis. Nothing serious, however. I’ve dressed the cut, and I’m sure there’ll be no complication.”
“Thank you,” Davis said. “I wonder... did you say all the passengers have already gone?”
“Why, yes.”
“I wonder if I might see the passenger list? There was a fellow aboard I promised to look up, and I’m darned if I haven’t forgotten his name.”
“I’ll ask the stewardess,” the man said. “By the way, I’m Dr. Burke.”
“How do you do?” Davis said. He reached for a cigarette and lighted it. When the stewardess brought the passenger list, he scanned it hurriedly. There was no MacGregor listed, Charles or otherwise. This fact did not surprise him greatly. He looked down the list to see if there were any names with the initials C. M., knowing that when a person assumes an alias, he will usually choose a name with the same initials as his real name. There were no C. M.s on the list, either.
“Does that help?” the stewardess asked.
“Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll find him now.”
The doctor shook Davis’s hand, and then asked if he’d sign a release stating he had received medical treatment and absolving the airline. Davis felt the back of his head, and then signed the paper.
He walked outside and leaned against the building, puffing idly at his cigarette. The night was a nest of lights. He watched the lights and listened to the hum of aircraft all around him. It wasn’t until he finished his cigarette that he remembered he was in San Francisco.
He dropped the cigarette to the concrete and ground it out beneath his heel. Quite curiously, he found himself ignoring MacGregor’s warning. He was a little surprised at himself, but he was also pleased. Even more curiously, he found himself wishing that he and MacGregor would meet again.
He walked briskly to the cyclone fence that hemmed in the runway area. Quickly, he showed the uniformed guard at the gate his credentials, and then asked where he could find the hangars belonging to Intercoastal Airways. The guard pointed them out.
Davis walked through the gate and toward the hangars the guard had indicated, stopping at the first one. Two mechanics, in greasy coveralls were leaning against a work bench, chatting idly. One was smoking and the other tilted a Coke bottle to his lips, draining half of it in one pull. Davis walked over to them.
“I’m looking for the mechanics who serviced the DC-4 that crashed up in Seattle,” he said.
They looked at him blankly for a few seconds, and then the one with the Coke bottle asked, “You from the CAB?”
“No,” Davis said. “I’m investigating privately.”
The mechanic with the bottle was short, with black hair curling over his forehead, and quick brown eyes that silently appraised Davis now. “If you’re thinking about that fire warning,” he said, “it had nothing to do with the crash. There was a bomb aboard.”