'The R-103 Incident'

By Phineas Redux

—OOO—

Summary:— Fiona ‘Fay' Cartwright & Alice ‘Al' Drever are private detectives in an East Coast American city, in the 1930's. The ladies are asked to provide security onboard a large passenger-carrying British airship.

Note :— In reality there was no R-103, as British government-backed airship design ceased with the fatal crash of R-101 in 1930. This present tale, also, is not a re-telling of the ‘ Hindenburg ' disaster—which occurred in 1937, nearly four years after the events featured in the following story. Nothing like that happens to R-103.

Caution:— There is a certain amount of light swearing in this story.

—O—

Part 9 of The 'Drever & Cartwright' series
1. The Packer Building Incident.
2. The Fowler St. Incident.
3. The Pier 7 Incident.
4. The Elevated Rail Incident.
5. The Charioteer Insurance Co. Incident
6. The Grand Banks Hotel Incident
7. The Vanishing Girl Incident
8. The R-103 Incident.
9. The Stolen Sappho Incident

—O—

Meidener Field had two points of interest for the discerning citizen of Delacote City, NH. One was the large horse-racing track, with its big Stand, restaurants, and capacity to effortlessly relieve innocent punters of vast amounts of cash; not to mention the nationally important races held there throughout the season. The second was the airfield, located just to the west of the horse-track, allowing resigned spectators of the hopeless nags limping in last in any particular race to also watch the comings and goings of the airplanes landing on the single long concrete runway less than half a mile distant. On this fresh, but not yet too chilly, morning of Saturday 21 st October 1933, the onlookers of the Winter Sprint Series at the track were vastly outnumbered by a swirling crowd taking up all the available space round the main building of the airstrip. To the eastern side of which a skeletal steel-joisted mooring mast, an impressive seventy feet wide at the base whilst tapering to twenty-five feet in width at the extreme top, now soared some two hundred feet into the sky. Though in future expected to form an enduring feature of the city's business landscape, the primary aim and recent construction was wholly to benefit the visiting British airship R-103, presently on a national tour and now honouring Delacote with its exalted, and dramatic, presence.

“I can see it. I can see it.” Alice lowered the small pair of binoculars, hanging round her neck by their cord, and turned to her companion with a wide grin. “God, it looks bloody huge.”

“That'll be ‘cause it is, darling.” Fiona shrugged her shoulders with a fine air of disinterest. “They don't build these things small, y'know.”

“Why's that? I mean, it's nearly the size of an ocean-liner.”

“Space for the gasbags, I suppose.” Fiona scratched her chin, as she gazed at the still distant gleaming speck in the sky over to the south-west. “They need a huge amount of gas t'hold ‘em up.”

Alice contemplated for a while the silver streak glinting in the sky, several miles away yet, then brought up a point about their coming voyage which had been rankling in her mind since first learning of it earlier in the week.

“Are we really gon'na have to go on this jaunt without any firearms, Fay?”

“You heard what Mr Hargreaves, the British spokesman, said on Tuesday when he engaged us for this bunfight, didn't'cha?” Fiona smiled mirthlessly. “No guns, because of the gas. The airship's bung full'a hydrogen, y'know.”

“Is that really so bad?”

“Yes, darlin', it really is.” Fiona curled her upper lip slightly. “Set it alight, an' the blast an' flash would probably be seen an' heard in Massachusetts; and Maine, come t'that. Highly volatile, an' there must be thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of cubic feet o' the stuff in the Limey airship.”

“I thought all airships were filled with, what is it, halliam, horium, um—”

“Helium, darlin', helium.” The black-haired detective looked pityingly at her brunette other half. “Doesn't catch fire at all, but it's only the American airships that use it.”

“How so?”

“Seems we got the corner on helium; nobody else in the world can make anythin' like the amount we got in our reserves—don't know why, but there it is.”

“Why don't we sell it abroad, then?” Alice long ago had cottoned onto the pertinent aspect of having a corner in any kind of goods. “It'd make a pretty profit for Uncle Sam, after all.”

“I think there's political, an' military, reasons against that policy.” Fiona shrugged without much interest. “For one, Uncle Sam don't like that crazy dude over in Germany. They have a good thing goin' with their Zeppelins, y'know,—but the Socialist system they're dead set on putting together don't sit easy with good ol' democratic America, y'see.”

“Oh, that's interestin'. Still, a shame about our guns, all the same.” Alice pursed her lips somewhat despondently. “I feel kind'a hampered, without my trusty ol' .38 Special.”

“Never mind, ya probably wouldn't have hit anythin', anyway, goin' by past experience.”

“ Hoy! That ain't fair.” The brunette was incensed at this baseless critique. “I've a better chance o' hittin' a barn door than you'll ever have, lady. Remember, I've seen you let loose at all an' sundry with that automatic cannon you carry in your purse.”

Before this petty altercation could escalate into an international incident the representative of the British airship hove into view, wearing a bowler hat and looking as harassed as the first time the women had set eyes on him just over a week previously.

“Ah, here you are, ladies.”

Mr Hargreaves was slight of build; narrow-faced; rather balding; somewhat prissy in nature; and, at the moment, twitching as if all the anxieties of the world bore down on his unimpressive shoulders. He wore a three-piece suit of pin-striped black serge which set him out as a Britisher as clearly as if he went about everywhere brandishing his passport. His voice, clearly determined to match his exterior, rang palely in a high tremolo issuing from thin lips. He gave the impression of being a prime example of a classic English Bank manager. In fact he was one of the supreme aeronautical engineers of present times, and was part of the team which had designed and built the approaching monster of the skies.

“Yep, we're all ready an' waitin', Mr Hargreaves.” Fiona gave the little man a quick steady smile, as of a woman in full control of her natural environment. “All shipshape an' Bristol fashion, as it were. We got your instructions down t'a tee, so no worries there.”

“Say, Mr Hargreaves, are we really gon'na have to climb up into the air on that metal jigsaw-puzzle pylon thingy t'reach the entrance of the ship?” Alice had been harbouring this worry ever since arriving at the airfield earlier that morning. “After all it's, what, near two hundred feet high. Not far short o'the Eiffel Tower.”

“We've been through this before, Miss Drever, if I am not mistaken.” The Englishman was not one for suffering fools gladly, and to him anyone who wasn't an engineer was, ipso facto, a fool; this being one of the minor of his several peccadilloes. “Getting the airship off the ground initially is a highly complex and difficult procedure. It's all to do with the gas; distribution of weight; and balance: including all sorts of other exceedingly technical circumstances which need taking into account. Once it's airborne much better it hovers thereafter at a high mooring pylon than return to earth only to have to take-off once more.”

“Are y'sure? I mean, I still think it'd be easier for it to land properly, like an aircraft?” Alice still harboured serious doubts about the viability of her coming experience. “Stands t'reason—don't it?”

“No, Miss Drever.” The Englishman brought all his patience to bear on this somewhat petulant query. “The airship is one hundred and forty feet in height. The top of the mast—which is, as you say, exactly two hundred feet high,—will connect with a mooring-point in the extreme nose of the craft. At which time the airship will still be some one hundred and thirty feet above the ground. The passenger entry is across a gangplank in the second-top level of the tower—covered and secured, of course—then through a door just under the airship's nose, giving access to a long internal corridor eventually leading, via a flight of stairs, to the Main passenger deck. The experience is much like using a gangplank similar to those of ocean liners, only at a greater height. Now, are you both sure you have my previously explained important instructions well in hand? I would, after all, like this trip to go smoothly with no, ha , unnecessary hindrances.”

Both women exchanged weary glances, having come to recognise this as the normal day-to-day attitude of the famous engineer; though this did not make it any easier to suffer.

“Yes, we kind'a know what we need'ta do.” Alice, defeated for the moment, took it on herself to answer the wholly superfluous question. “Once on board we stick with the team of experts who're going to show the local bigwigs over the ship. In fact we stick close to both the engineers and the bigwigs; a sort'a umbrella operation, y'might say. Like you told us a few days ago; y'want some low-key security, just so the VIP's can feel they're being looked after properly. Are you sure we can't bring our guns, Mr Hargreaves? Sort'a difficult, if a situation arises, to offer real security otherwise, y'know.”

“Madam,” The Englishman was having none of it. “in Britain we have been used to an unarmed police force for a trifle over one hundred years now. If we can do so, I see no reason why you yourselves should not competently aspire to the same level of capability, if only for the short period of the flight. This is, of course, putting aside the fact there are well over four million cubic feet of hydrogen gas aboard the airship. Let me hear no more about firearms, if you please.”

By this time the trio had made their way to the base of the mooring pylon, where the motley group of local important persons invited to be passengers on the coming flight were standing awaiting the imminent arrival of the mighty vessel of the skies. An open space had been cleared by a posse of uniformed officers around the nearer environs of this tower and the entrance to its metal-runged stairway which, via several inclined sections, led up through the interior of the open framework of girders. There were also a substantial group of members of the National Guard, plus a selection of ordinary shirt-sleeved airport workers, who had been co-opted to act as ground-crew for the great airship's arrival and departure. All-in-all everything seemed under control; which was just as well as the excitement in the seething crowd approached a peak; the outline of the airship, now on its final approach, seeming to fill the sky in the near distance.

—O—

“Now that things have settled down a bit, after everyone coming aboard, we can see about putting you two, ah, in the picture, as it were. We have plenty of time while they all sort themselves out on the various areas of the Main deck—the Lounge, Saloon, the few cabins allocated to certain of the passengers, and, er, so forth.”

Mr Hargreaves crossed to a desk on the right of the small, and also windowless, office; an electric ceiling bulb providing the only source of illumination, and returned to the central table with a roll of plans. These he commenced to spread out so Fiona and Alice could have a clear view. Then taking a pencil out of his jacket pocket he used this as an improvised pointer.

“There seem t'be several decks.” Alice waved a finger in a general way over the crackling paper. “But all pretty low in the, er, structure of the ship.”

“Yes.” Hargreaves nodded in a quick nervous manner. “To keep the centre of gravity down, y'see. As I explained earlier, the aerodynamics of an airship are a sensitive and delicate matter. A little bit too much weight in the wrong place, I'll have you know, can easily mean the difference between taking-off or not. Also, in flight, if the whole system isn't balanced just exactly to a tee; then, once more, things can become a trifle, er, dicey.”

“How much, um, lifting-weight can the ol' tu—airship, handle?” Fiona frowned over the plans; clearly not over-impressed by what they revealed. “Seems t'be a huge empty space within the whole body of the machine, above these three decks.”

“It is an airship, madam.” Hargreaves tone rang coldly; then, with a visible effort, he regained his sang froid. “Er, excuse me, the strain of the, er, preparations for this voyage, y'know. The bulk of the internal space within the body of the ship seems empty because the gasbags take up almost all the available space therein; giving an approximate total, as I believe I have already mentioned, of substantially more than four and a half million cubic feet of hydrogen gas. You can't fit that into a car petrol tank, y'see. We can lift fifty tons, no more. And that includes all extras—by which I mean general furniture, provisions, kitchen equipment, engine fuel, luggage, drinking-water reserves; and, of course, the passengers themselves. We are, by the way, certificated to take fifty passengers, with forty-five crew.”

“So you're sayin' the ship'll have less than one hundred people aboard, on any particular flight?” Fiona liked to get the details of any case she was engaged in clear in her mind. “Not exactly an ocean liner, is she?”

“That, I'm afraid, is unavoidable.” Hargreaves gazed sadly at the open plans. “The lifting-force of the gas is simply insufficient to allow of any more. And we have to pare everything to the bone to achieve as much. The glass, for instance, in the long promenade-saloon windows on each side of the ship, isn't glass at all but a form of thin plastic. Likewise the cutlery you will soon be using for the upcoming lunch in the Dining-room is aluminium. You'll also find that the chairs everywhere, including the cabins, are all wicker—saves just that extra few ounces of weight, don't y'know.”

“What about the floors and walls of the public rooms and the cabins?” Alice had spotted a flaw in the designer's argument. “They must be, what?—wood of some sort?”

“By no means.” Hargreaves was on top of his game. “The floors, admittedly, are thin planks, of plywood—but only in the Public rooms and cabins. Very thin plywood, in fact,—I shouldn't attempt the ‘ Lindy Hop ', or any other spirited dance, if I were you, if you don't wish to crack the floor and gain a broken ankle. Everywhere else has wire-mesh flooring. The walls on all decks are actually doped linen; hardened and painted where necessary. So please don't try to nail a favourite picture or photograph on any wall, if you please.”

“Linen, eh.” Fiona mused on this interesting fact; then let her doubts see daylight. “So what you're sayin' is—anyone can hear anythin' anyone else is sayin', in adjoinin' cabins; or even out in the corridors?”

“Well, yes.” The proud director of the enterprise had to admit this unappealing fact. “If you want to have an argument in loud voices, I expect the whole corridor would benefit by the exhibition.”

“An' apropos of that,” Fiona continued her careering course through Hargreaves' peace of mind like an out-of-control Juggernaut. “if Alice an' I were to have, let's say, an important private discussion in our cabin about details surrounding our plans and activities—any neighbour or passer-by'd overhear us without strainin' their hearin' apparatus?”

“Er, umm, aah—”

“That, if I may be so bold Mr Hargreaves, definitely comes under the heading of plain old horse feathers.” Alice was incensed, and took no pains to conceal her own discontent. “That puts a whole different perspective on the enterprise, no kiddin'. To start with, we need a more private cabin. Somewhere where we can be assured the hoi polloi ain't gon'na be parading past at any particular moment. Can ya sort that out?”

The unhappy British engineer pondered this crack in his otherwise smooth existence, scratching his chin industriously the while. He was a man who thought deeply, but slowly. Finally light seemed to pervade his appreciation of the matter.

“Ah, not easy—no, not easy.” He glanced quickly from one woman to the other, remarkably like a rat caught in a trap—which also now realised its remaining portion of existence was likely to be short and painful. “Nothing on the Main Deck comes to mind. And we can't have you on the Lower Deck—crew quarters; officers working areas; kitchens; stores; that kind of thing. But the Upper Deck; mmm, now that may be possible. Let me see—yes, there are various small rooms, of a storage or equipment nature, you understand; but I think we can accommodate you in one which may be unused at the moment. Yes, I think we can do that. So, you won't be taking up quarters in your reserved cabin, then?”

The expressions on both his listeners faces gave adequate answer to this obviously redundant question. Hargreaves smiled weakly; and made off at a fast pace out of the office in search of a quartermaster to re-arrange his security personnel's living-accommodation. Although never having been one for thinking he was owed an easy life, he did at present feel he was experiencing a clear personal insight into Odysseus's state of mind, in Homer's famous poem.

—O—

The Dining-room, was surprisingly wide. A row of slightly angled windows ran down the right-hand side, while the ceiling was higher than either Fiona or Alice expected when they entered. The room held a multitude of tables, surrounded by wicker chairs, at which the majority of the VIP passengers were now congregated. With well-honed expertise a white-coated waiter took their names then led them to a neat little reserved table near the far side of the crowded room.

“Gods! These chairs creak a bit, don't they?”

“Get used to it.” Fiona wriggled into a comfortable position, put her small handbag on the table, and glanced around. “Well, the gang's all here at any rate. Can't see anyone missing; can you, dearie?”

Alice took a slow considered recce of her local environment; then turned to her partner with raised eyebrows and a light shrug of her shoulders.

“I suppose not. Is Johnson around? Oh yes, over there.” She quickly eyed the patrons once more. “And there's Mulhoney, with his usual circle of admirers, an' lookin' like he could kill for a cigar.”

“No chance o' that here.” Fiona sniggered, not altogether in a ladylike manner. “Definitely verboten , y'know. I think smokers have to scuttle down t'some dark inconvenient hole on the lower deck, surrounded by asbestos, an' puff away there—like prisoners in a cage.”

“Yeah, they do seem t'be sharp on the fire thing, Fay.” Alice nodded, still keeping an eye on the activity around their table. “The Purser cornered you as we came aboard, an' held you back talking; but were you asked, like me, to cough up any matches or lighters on your person?”

“ ‘Fraid so, they got me on that ticket too.” Fiona grunted at the remembrance. “The guy behind me, Walker I think he was, took umbrage at the crewman who requested his handin' over his goods; an' was still bellyachin' about his Constitutional rights the last I saw of him.”

“Here comes Hargreaves, lookin' all official.” Alice made a slight gesture with her right hand in his direction. “Fancy we're gon'na have to suffer a welcoming speech. Am I alone in this, or is this goin' t'be a bloody boring voyage all round. God, I wish I had my gun; I feel naked.”

“Well, y'don't look it, sunshine—sad t'say.” Fiona flashed a wide grin on her paramour. “Come on, let's keep our peepers sharp; we are here t'enforce Law an' Order, y'know.”

Hargreaves walked to the further end of the long room, where a table held the upper echelon of the group of VIP's now aboard the airship. Most were British technical and business personnel, with a scattering of local bigwigs along for the joyride. Hargreaves leant over to pick up a teaspoon with which he lightly tapped the edge of its attendant porcelain cup; the ringing tone bringing everyone satisfactorily to order.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome aboard the R-103.” He gazed around the crowded tables, like the kindly head of a large family. “We, the Directors of the enterprise, are most glad to see such important members of local business and the legislature with us as honoured guests. Now, it hardly needs me to explain that a major aspect of this, ahem, party is to show off the airship's features and capabilities. Unlike modern passenger aircraft we have room for our patrons to walk about and take their ease during a voyage—there is, in fact, nearly as much room as on an ocean liner; and, unlike aircraft, you are not more or less trapped in your seat for the duration. We also have, as you can see for yourselves, a large Dining-room supplying excellent high-class provender and, now that Prohibition is more or less over, spirits.—”

His peroration was interrupted here by a hearty cheer from the seated listeners, who were all of the same mind on this topic.

“—there is also a well-appointed Lounge further along on this deck. And so to a description of the more technical details.” Hargreaves settled on his feet, like someone now well within their comfort zone; even allowing a small grimace—which did duty as a warm smile—to flicker across his otherwise austere features. “We have six Beardmore Tornado eight cylinder Diesel engines, with two-bladed propellers. These give a cruise speed of approximately sixty-eight miles an hour; with top speed of approximately seventy-five miles an hour. We have a range of around four thousand five hundred miles, and can carry fifty passengers with forty-five crew. —”

“Bit slow, ain't she?” Someone, a man, piped up from amongst the throng.

“Slower than an aircraft, yes—but much more stable in the air and, as I've pointed out, far more luxurious and comfortable.” The British expert wasn't going to allow such a feeble heckle to make him stumble. “In fact, we can cross the Atlantic from Britain to New York in less time than any liner—just over two days, to be exact. It is this relative speed, rather than large passenger or cargo-carrying capability, which we aim to bring to the fore as the main feature of choosing to voyage on the R-103.”

“Exactly how long an' wide is she? An' what about cargo? Shouldn't think you'd be much of an opponent to ships there?” This from a lady who bore all the hallmarks of the Press.

“Ah, Miss Henderson, of the ‘ Delacote City News ', if I am not mistaken.” Hargreaves was obviously well up on his local information. “We have never claimed to be a cargo-ship, madam. For everyone's information, the R-103 is seven hundred and fifty-two feet in length; with a diameter of one hundred and thirty feet. Height is one hundred and forty feet; and the gas capacity is four million, seven hundred thousand cubic feet. Our aim is quality and comfort, allied with speed. And to that end it may be as well to acquaint you all with the hitherto mysterious nature of this present voyage. This is not just a short flight to give you all an exciting hour or so in the air. No, we have planned an altogether more particular destination for your stay with us—one which we hope will show-off all the best points about the R-103. We are, in fact now headed for New York; or, at least, its approximate latitude, for we aim to head somewhat out over the ocean—our intention being to meet up with the incoming RMS ‘ Mauretania ' and escort her into New York Harbour!”

“ Hell's Bells! ” Alice growled low in her throat.

—O—

There were two promenade-saloons; one, obviously, on each side of the Main deck of the huge airship. There was, however, no direct connecting passageway; passengers wanting to go from one to the other having to meander through a series of tight corridors across the width of the ship. After luncheon had finished most people chose to stay as a group, and be ushered around by Mr Hargreaves and two of his subordinates; only a few deciding to take a break in their personal cabins. As this was not strictly a security operation dealing with individual people's safety Fiona and Alice stayed with the main set; delicately pretending to be mere spectators while, in fact, keeping a close eye on the milling important persons. Having reached the port promenade area, with its line of angled windows looking out on the clouds and the grey sea far below, they found themselves further harassed by the clam-like presence of Miss Henderson—who appeared determined to mine them, like a silver lode, for any loose information which might be up for grabs.

“Say, gals, Seen ya both around an' about.” She was fair-haired, just missing out on the perfect blonde ideal, and when she had a purpose in mind never let it go till it had offered up all its purest essence. “Coupl'a private dicks, ain't ya? Yeah, knew I'd seen ya both, here an' there. How's things in the hoodlum trade these days? Bit quieter seein' Prohibition's near enough revoked, I bet.”

“We still make a buck or two, along the way.” Alice gave her interlocutor the benefit of a neutral expression which barely teetered on the still friendly side of outright hostility. “We got plenty o' business.”

“Like this here jaunt?” It would take more than an unfriendly frown to stop Miss Henderson in her tracks. She was made of sterner stuff than that. “What'cha doin', actually? Is there someone really big aboard, who needs protectin'?”

“Oh, we're just takin' the air, along with everyone else.” Fiona lowered a black brow menacingly; the sharp cold light of a mountain glacier stream flickering in her hazel eyes. “Just moseyin' around, with the gang. That's all.”

“I bet.” Miss Henderson cast a quick glance up and down the long wide deck; its slanted series of windows protected by a waist-high rail. “There's some pretty high-livin' customers sashayin' about at the moment. I been in Delacote long enough t'recognise the nobs when I see ‘em altogether. Look, fer instance, there's Mrs Chandon. Proud widow of no less than two newspaper magnates; bunged t'the gills with greenbacks, an' loves t'show off. She must be lappin' up this here party. An', knock me down with a pink ostrich feather, if that ain't Cicely Maitland, the film star—what's she doin' here, I wonder?”

“Lady, if you don't mind—” But Alice wasn't given the chance to finish.

“Is that Jerry Gardner?” If nothing else the female reporter seemed to have everyone of notes' details at her fingertips. “Yep, it is. District Attorney, headin' for the Mayor's office, as we all know. An' talkin' of the old darlin' dear, where's—ah, there he is, Bertie Mulhoney as large as life. D'ya know, this may be the first time the Mayor's been seen in public without a cigar stuck in his mouth. Where's Tommy?—I got'ta get a pic o'this—front page news, y'know.”

The reporter chose this moment to depart, like a shark coursing silently through the water after its next victim; leaving only this last sarcasm in her wake.

“God, glad t'see the back of her .” Alice was never much for seeing the bad side of people; but there were exceptions. “One more minute of that tirade, an' I'd have made a good effort at seeing if these here plastic windows can resist the force of a female body flung at ‘em. The fact she hasn't a parachute bein' merely the icin' on the cake.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows; gave the ceiling a close inspection; and let a quiet breath out through slightly parted lips—but said nothing, knowing well when it was politic to keep her silence. Alice fully enraged always took on the aspect of an ancient Amazon with but one aim in life—revenge, accompanied by malice aforethought of the very nastiest nature.

“How's about we split up, an' take a saunter along the deck?” Fiona brought the subject up after a considerable pause had allowed her brown-haired companion to regain her composure. “I'll hang around here for a while longer. You go on up to the other end; see what's happenin' there. I'll join ya shortly.”

“It's a plan; not much of a plan, but it'll do.”

With this half-hearted acceptance Alice hitched the red leather belt around her waist, above a long narrow blue tweed skirt whose tight hem stopped just short of tickling her ankles; felt in the pocket of her waist-length blueish-grey jacket with centre white buttons; mopped her nose industriously with a pink silk handkerchief almost as large as a bedsheet; returned this useful item to its natural lair; gave her significant other a cross between a simper of pleasure and a reserved smile; and wandered off; trying, more or less successfully, to appear uninterested in all around her.

Fiona, left on her lonesome, took careful stock of those around her. The promenade-saloon was long enough, and wide enough, not to create a pushy crowd when lots of passengers took advantage of its facilities. Now she stepped back a few paces from the waist-high rail which prevented over-enthusiastic spectators from falling against the thin windows, thereby possibly precipitating themselves out into an aery voyage to an early and very sudden grave.

She had dressed, at Alice's insistence, in as insignificant a manner as her height and commanding presence would ever allow. Her long, but not close-fitting, skirt was a light yellow; almost pale cream, in fact. Her short tight-waisted jacket of cream toned tweed was open, revealing a light grey silk blouse with an open neck. Her shoes were brogues in dark red leather. Like Alice she too had forsworn a hat, letting her lightly waved long black hair flow freely. If she had just been able to control the sharp, all-seeing nature of her stare she might well have gotten away with the pretence of being merely along for the ride—but her piercing glare, whenever any particular person caught her attention, gave her away in an instant to even the meanest of intellects as either a policewoman, or private dick. This was acted out within a minute when a young child, a girl of around eleven years of age dressed in a bright red coat, walked purposefully across and stood looking up at her.

“You're a cop, ain't ya?” The girl nodded sturdily, obviously fully agreeing with her own question. “I seen ya from all along there—the other end o'the deck, where my Mother is. It's great up here, ain't it? See how far down ya can see out them winders; right down t'the sea. If Bobby Thompson was here I wouldn't half laugh if he fell out an' zonked all the way t'the water. Bet it'd be a mess. Here, I got'ta little paperback book here, Mother called it a descriptive pamphlet, I want your autograph—sign here, on this blank bit on the back. Got your own pencil? I left my big fountain pen at home.”

Fiona gazed, less than happily, at this specimen of upcoming American womanhood. She noted the resolute determination of the young lady; her open, wholly unembarrassed, glance; and the tight set of her lips, which clearly showed she was here on a mission and nothing was going to stop her. Fiona sighed mournfully, finding herself for the first time in total agreement with Boris Karloff's short way with that young girl at the lake. God, if only—

“Wha'd'ya want my autograph for?” Fiona tried to vacillate, without much hope of success. “The film actress, Cicely Maitland, is just over there. Wouldn't she be a better vict— target?”

“Huh!” The signature-hungry girl merely vouchsafed the star in question a dismissive sneer, before returning to her real prey. “She's just a comic actress—she ain't no Merle Oberon. So, what's the hold-up? Can't ya write, or what? My Mother'll be getting' anxious—she always gets anxious when I slope off t'talk t'strange people. An' you count as a strange people, bigtime, lady. Signature—right there.”

Thinking to herself the girl's mother had good reason for her anxiety, Fiona caved in and dragged a pen from her jacket inside pocket, unscrewing the top with as strong a look of disdain as she could muster for the brat—er, inquisitive member of American youth.

“Here, gim'me the da—the, um, booklet.” Fiona took as much revenge as was left to her by scrawling a ragged mark that looked like the track of a drunken beetle, and returned the pamphlet with compressed lips. “There, satisfied? Can I get on with my job, now?”

“Hmm.” The girl pored over her memento, frowning deeply; then looked up at her defeated quarry. “It's just like Miss Haringay, at the Middle School, says about grown-ups—most o'them can't write their own name for taffy. Thanks anyway, see ya around. Bye.”

—O—

Alice, for her part, was enjoying a much more positive experience. Having missed, by the narrowest of margins, being grabbed by the famous Mrs Chandon—who seemingly wanted as large a gang of admirers around her as she could possibly muster at short notice—Alice made it to the far end of the deck. Here there were a younger group of voyagers, mixed with British technicians. One of these latter; employing, to the brunette detective's tender ear, an over-refined upper-class accent, was describing details of the airship to a couple of businessmen and the Mayor. Bertie Mulhoney was always more at home chewing on a large cigar, generally as big as a Conestoga wagon; but present circumstances forbidding this cheerful and satisfying hobby, he now held the aspect of a hungry tiger at feeding time which had mislaid its false teeth. Alice took pity on the heavy-set man.

“Hi-ya, Mulhoney. What's up? This jaunt comin' up t'expectations, or what?”

“Dam' imbeciles won't lem'me smoke a ceegar.” He was well-known as a man who could handle only one important thought at a time. “As if a ceegar was gon'na do anyone any dam' harm. Who? What? Wha'd'ya say? Who're you?”

“I'm the security, Mr Mulhoney.” Alice thought it best to sketch her purpose in life as clearly as possible. “Lookin' after your back; an' everyone else's here at the same time. Makin' sure no-one falls out'ta this pile o'junk, or starts a fight, or whatever. Mr Hargreaves given you the spiel yet? He sure does love this airship.”

“Yeah, I got caught by the old bore.” Mulhoney nodded glumly, obviously deciding this lady could keep her mouth shut. “Y'look like y'can keep stum, when needed. Well, now's the time; I need someone t'bellyache to. Come along, let's get out'ta this crowd. God, I hate crowds; y'never know when an unhappy voter means t'stick y'in the back with a Bowie. I could do with some more personal security, now the elections are comin' up. Let's talk.”

The crowd in the promenade-saloon going peacefully about their business, of being suitably impressed and overawed by their flight, Alice decided it would be useful to survey some other parts of the airship's interior. So, she let the big man direct her through a door and along a narrow passageway. After some few twists and turns he opened a further door to usher her into a large room on the starboard side of the ship, sporting another row of high wide windows; the Lounge.

There were a variety of tables, free-standing couches, and leather-padded benches lining the walls. A man in a white jacket held overall command of the room, and approached as they entered, showing all the smooth efficiency of a long-time waiter.

“Anything I can get you, sir, madam?”

“A whiskey an' soda, for me—an' ya can forget most o'the soda.” Mulhoney had this important aspect of life down to a well-oiled routine. “An' for you, ma'am?”

“Oh, just an orange juice; I'm on duty, y'know.”

“An orange juice for the lady, then. Make sure nary a drop o'that whiskey feels lonely in the glass, waiter.” The Mayor settled on one of the ubiquitous wicker chairs, with a deal of squirming. “ Hurph , they ain't got the least idea o'comfortable furniture on this ship,—I mean air- ship. God, wish I was on a real plane. So—what?”

“What?”

“What d'ya think of the whole crazy thing?” Mulhoney fixed his dull brown eyes on his listener, with a remarkably perceptive expression. “Is this airship project a goin' concern, d'ya think? By the way, are you Drever, or Cartwright?”

Alice looked up sharply, meeting the man's intent gaze across the table. She, along with most of the ordinary citizens of Delacote City, had long accepted the widely-held judgement of the Mayor's public persona as being that of a somewhat slow-witted common Joe; but now she realised there was more substance to him than was visible at first glance.

“Ah, so you've recognised me, eh?” She raised an eyebrow at the man, pondering the matter. “I'm Drever, Alice Drever. You knew me from the get-go?”

“Yep, I'm better informed than maybe appears, y'know.” Mulhoney smiled broadly. “Gives me an edge over opponents. While they're still takin' me for a mountain-man, down t'the big city t'buy pork an' beans, I'm already three moves ahead o'them. Surprised a lot of political enemies that way, y'know. Never let anyone see all your cards, that's my motto. Bear rememberin', that.”

“Y'could well be right, Mr Mulhoney.” Alice frowned as she leant her elbows comfortably on the table. “We, Fiona and I, aren't a large enough company t'operate a full scale long-term security job for a single customer. We specialise in detective work. Sorry.”

“Oh well, worth askin'.” Mulhoney sat back as the drinks arrived, holding his tumbler up to the light. “Nice amber colour; smells sweet; mmm, goes down smoothly; dam', it really is the real thing, at last.”

“Been a while, eh?”

“Y're not wrong there, sister.” The Mayor beamed with pleasure. “If'n I can't have my ceegars, this may well suffice instead. You'd think bein' the Mayor, an' all, I'd have easy access to spirituous liquors. Cast that thought aside; they, my people, y'know, steer me away from temptation like an Abbess keepin' tabs on a novice nun. This is about the first real drink I've had in, oh, a year. Got'ta give Hargreaves credit for this, at least.”

There was a pause, as the Mayor took time out to fully appreciate the joys of drinking real whiskey; Alice being content to sit back and scrutinise her companion. There were a multitude of questions hovering round the edges of her mind, and she was impatient to let some of the more imperious come to the fore.

“So, what's the core of the problem, Mr Mulhoney?” She had growing suspicions, but wanted them clarified straight from the horse's mouth. “Y'didn't bring me t'this sky-high saloon merely t'imbibe the juice of the, er, whatever it is they make whiskey from. So, what's eatin' you?”

“As t'that, t'return to my first question—what d'you really think about this idea of runnin' an airship across the Atlantic an' back?” He was in no hurry to broach the main subject on his mind. “Got any chance o'turnin' a profit, d'ya suppose?”

“Well,—just off the top of my head, y'realise—I fancy it can't carry enough passengers to have any hope of a real yearly profit.” Alice considered the topic on its merits; being herself well versed in the arcane byways of the nefarious art of accountancy. “The overheads'll be astronomical; an' the profit level from such a low number of passengers just wouldn't be cost effective. T'tell you the truth I can't see how Mr Hargreaves could ever have had any belief in it, at all.”

“Yeah, he's headin' for a fall, nothin' clearer.” Mulhoney nodded in agreement. “An' this here regulation about not smokin', at least unless ya grovel in somethin' very like the Black Hole o'Calcutta, ain't gon'na appeal t'the good ol' American consumer, mark my words. I mean, if ya can't smoke a good ol' stogie at your leisure, where's the fun in goin' anywhere?”

As this was clearly unanswerable Alice forbore the attempt. Instead she leaned forward, stuck her chin out, and tried to pin down the Mayor's gaze, like a basilisk eyeing its supper.

“OK, show's over. What's on the menu, Mulhoney?” Alice had always loved the chance, when on a difficult job with Fiona, to be the bad cop when they needed to interrogate some low-life. It wouldn't do any harm, she thought, to show her hard side in present circumstances; especially if it brought the big man to heel quickly. “I got a partner over in the wilds of that promenade viewing-area, who's probably beginnin' t'wonder by now if I've jumped ship. She's liable t'come in pursuit, any minute. Think a mix of Anne Bonny, an' Eleanor Roosevelt. You have been warned. What's on your mind?”

“Ha, a gal who gets right t'the point; I like ya.” He shuffled more comfortably, then placed his glass on the table and contemplated the brunette beside him with interest. “Wish your other half were here, too. But maybe it's just as well this way. Less notice t'be taken by those, um, passengers out there. Well, the thing is, young lady—”

“Name's Alice, that'll do OK.”

“Ah, Alice, then.” He took up the burden of his thought, with a slight smile hovering at the edge of his lips. “It wasn't Hargreaves who hired you two. It was me. Y'don't think I've been Mayor o'this here Principality of Delacote City for three years, an' not made it one o'my prime necessities t'get to grips with the background of all the detectives' in the city register, d'ya? I—that is, the Mayor's Office,—has been followin' the course of your career, along with Miss Cartwright's, for some time. Mighty fine work you've both done, too. So, after due thought, my advisors an' I—mainly I, if the truth be told—have decided to let ya both into the secret, on the ground floor. Well, the gist of the thing is—we got us a real live enemy agent aboard this here airship, an' he ain't here just t'wave a Nazi flag out the window. He's German, y'see. The Nazis, that's the crowd o'bozos who're running that country into the ground at the moment, they—”

“Yeah, I've heard o'them.” Alice thought it politic to show her knowledge of world events. “Not a nice bunch o'thugs, at all. Especially their leader. He's cracked, for sure.”

“We're reading from the same page, Alice.” He nodded again, then looked up as the Lounge door opened to reveal a tall black-haired woman with an enquiring expression peering suspiciously around. “Ah-ha, reinforcements! Here, Miss Cartwright, join us, please. I've just been filling in your partner with some, er, interesting information. Lem'me order ya a drink. Hey, waiter.”

—O—

A little later, refreshed by a glass of lemonade, Fiona was sitting beside the light of her life listening to the last of Mayor Mulhoney's reprise of his chat with Alice.

“Holy Smoke.” She liked to effect the dramatic touch, on occasion. “Who is he? Where is he at the moment? What exactly is he aimin' t'do? An' why the Hell weren't we warned before, instead o'havin' t'undergo this idiotic security farrago? Start anywhere ya like, Bertie.”

“I quite see how ya might wan'na get hot under your collar.” Mulhoney waved a hand in a somewhat lackadaisical gesture of appeasement. “Security, an' Safety, an' Secrecy, are the three big S's of the modern political Age. Y'can't hope to progress without they all three are packed safely away in your back pocket, an' not causing ructions o'any nature—an' that ain't ever an easy thing t'pull off, I can tell ya.”

“We're both sheddin' tears o'pity over your political shenanigans, Bertie.” Fiona let all the sarcasm she felt come through in her voice—though her target didn't seem overly unsettled. “But that don't answer the questions—whose dimwitted idea was it to, first, let the agent actually board the airship for this flight; an' second, keep us both in the dark till it's dam' nearly too late?”

“That, er, would be me.” Mulhoney shrugged, then leaned over the table eyeing both women at once. “The heart of the matter is, the only way we can be absolutely sure of his breaking his cover is to let him aboard. We don't actually know who he is—could be any of a number of possibilities. An' for keeping you both in the dark—well, it seemed the best way at the time. Though I ain't beneath admittin', with hindsight, we'd probably have done better enlightening ya beforehand. But Hell, too late now—we got'ta make the best o'the present situation.”

Alice had been listening to this tale of woe, with just about as much disbelief as her partner. Now she attempted to extract whatever nuggets of logical planning may have survived the initial, clearly botched, concept.

“So, how d'things stand at the moment? What's happening now?”

“Well, there are, I'm told, forty-five members of the crew.” Mulhoney stretched out the fingers of one hand and eyed them closely, as if this helped his thought processes. “That's counting the officers, too, y'understand. As you'd expect, they're mainly Limeys, with a sprinkling of French, Dutch, and South African. I think there's a couple of Irish along for the ride, as well. It's all rather complicated. Well, our boy, the German that is, can apparently speak English without an accent—and isn't one o'those up an' coming Nordic blonde types they all seem so keen on over in Germany at the moment.”

“Yeah, don't know where they got that ridiculous idea from.” Fiona sniffed contemptuously. “Have ya seen the newsreels o'that idiot, Hitler? He ain't no Aryan God, by a long way.”

“T'get back on track, are there any other security or police officers aboard, apart from ourselves?” Alice thought it time to attend to the important aspects of the case. “We could do with some back-up. What's this agent gon'na try an' do, by the way? Sabotage the airship? I'd a thought that'd be easier when its moored or on the ground.”

“Perhaps that; perhaps something else.” The Mayor shuffled uncomfortably in his seat again. “Y'see, initially we—that's the Mayor's Office, an' the police Dept.—were under the impression he was just an agent, out t'ferret secrets from the boffins on the airship. Steal their plans, an' so forth, y'understand. But recently, in the last few hours, we've changed our minds on that score.”

“That Mayor's Office o'yours seems t'have had as much idea of what's goin' on as a two-year old baby.” Fiona sneered comprehensively. “Ever thought about makin' your own mind up on important matters, Mulhoney?—instead o'always leavin' it to a bunch o'fools who obviously couldn't tie their own shirt buttons without assistance?”

“Huh! Gim'me a break, will ya. I'm doin' my best, as it is.” The Mayor grunted and waved an arm expressively. “What we got'ta do is identify the bastard just as quickly as ya like. Inspector Fletcher, who's around somewheres as we speak, thinks—”

“Fletcher? He's aboard?” Fiona laughed out loud, giving Alice a sideways grin. “Our ol' pal. Well, lead us to him. The sooner we figure out a concerted plan o'action the better. How many cops has he in tow?”

“Er, not many.” Mulhoney looked unhappy. “Can't hide an army on an airship, y'know. Maybe four or so.”

“God, well, at least it's something.” Alice shrugged, less than happily. “Where is he at the moment?”

The Mayor rose from his chair and the trio moved back across to the door. He was pursing his lips in thought and finally shook his head as they entered the corridor once more.

“I don't exactly know. On the Upper deck, somewhere—where the engineering an' gasbags are.” The big man stuck a hand in a pocket, as if searching for something to relieve his feelings; then brought it out again empty, hunching his shoulders despondently. “ Jeesus , I'd kill fer a ceegar! I'd better collar that Hargreaves character. He knows the layout o'this tub better'n anybody. He designed it, after all. This way.”

—O—

They only had a short walk back along the corridors before reaching Hargreaves' small poky office cum centre of operations again, located somewhere near the centre of the Main deck. Here Mulhoney left the women while he went off to show face in public once more. Hargreaves, after some embarrassed toing and froing—obviously as a result of his earlier perceived keeping the ladies in the dark—eventually escorted them along to a steep ladder, with handrail, leading to the Upper deck where they were met by a guard of a particularly suspicious nature.

“Atkinson, these ladies wish to meet the police officer; see them sorted out for footwear and that sort of thing.” He motioned around, aimlessly and wholly ineffectively, with one arm. “ er , Atkinson'll take care of you from here on. He's in on the situation, so you can speak openly; he's absolutely trustworthy. Goodbye.”

The women now found themselves on an open decking, surrounded by loose slightly flapping canvas walls, with wire mesh as the flooring; while all round them, on this Upper deck, there seemed to be a curious high-pitched humming sound. Atkinson opened a small cupboard and extracted a couple of pairs of what looked like oversized woolen slippers.

“Here y'are, ladies.” He spoke, unknown to the two Americans, with all the rich patois of Wapping. “These is in order that your shoes don't create sparks when walking. Sparks is no-go, ladies, up ‘ere. Sparks is, oh, ever so bad. Sparks, y'see, could mighty easy set orf the gas! An' I'm ‘ere t'tell you, ladies, yer don't want the gas set orf, no marm', not by any means. So if you'd like to put these over yer shoes, that'd be hunky-dory, thanks.”

Suitably clad they followed their leader as he took them along a wide corridor enclosed, at first, by the loose canvas which seemed to make up the majority of the wall surfaces; then this opened out onto a wider deck, surrounded on both sides by high aluminium scaffolding behind which curving acres of tightly stretched silver-coloured doped cotton fabric seemed to reach limitlessly above their heads. Light was provided by a few distantly spaced low-power electric bulbs, though there was a fairly bright aura from outside sunlight penetrating the hull of the airship.

“What're these?” Alice was first to enquire about the objects towering around them as they progressed along the deck. “Are they, er,—”

“The gasbags, ma'am.” Atkinson nodded knowingly. “Nigh on five million cubic feet o' the Devil's breath—hydrogen, ma'am. Look at it the wrong way, an' it'll go off like—like—well, somethin' awful, ma'am. Y'wouldn't want t'be close by if it did, that's all I say. This here's the Inspector's office. Looks like a tool store, ‘cause that's what it is normally. ‘ere, lem'me open the door, it sticks a trifle.”

Inside, in dark shadow only slightly relieved by a little battery-powered electric lamp, Inspector Fletcher sat at a small table with two of his men by his side—looking for all the world like the cast of a particularly badly directed play on a badly designed and ill-lit set. He was not overly enthusiastic about his latest visitors.

“ Huh! You've both finally arrived. Took ya long enough.”

“We love ya too, Fletch.” Fiona never stood on etiquette where the notoriously grumpy officer was concerned. “So, what's doin' with this whole set-up? Sounds like a busted flush t'me. Why not just grab the guy; clap him in irons; then let us get off this monstrosity, an' head for some lunch back on terra firma?”

“Because Life is hard; and Life is unforgiving, that's why.” Fletcher growled unsympathetically, his short grey hair standing up like a wire brush. “We got us a ghost t'find; we know somethin' about him, but not so much we can pin him down on sight. We got'ta be circumspect. At least, that was our original plan, but now the gloves are off. Things have moved along.”

“Tell us, I can take it.” Alice accepted a wicker chair one of the anonymous officers offered and sat with some relief. “What's the position, now?”

“We've decided, from recent information you needn't bother yourselves with, that he's probably goin' t'try to fire off a bomb at some point on the voyage—”

“And how exactly did he manage to spirit such a thing aboard, under the noses of your security cordon?” Fiona could see little noteworthy of professionalism in this latest detail. “I mean—a dam' bomb!”

“Take it easy; no need t'bust your corset.” Fletcher grunted dismissively. “When I say ‘ bomb ', what I really mean is almost any thing at all. It needn't be explosive, even, in the strict meaning o'the term. Hell, a box of matches—lit, an' thrown in the right place—would be just as useful. What we got'ta do is find this guy, before he has the chance.”

“How long away may that be?” Alice had put some serious logical deduction into the situation, as presently outlined. “What's his idea? Y'confident he's a Nazi, at all? Surely he must be one of a very few suspects? A crewmember?—there ain't that many of them, after all. Are the officers out the picture, by the way?”

Before answering this tsunami of questions Inspector Fletcher ruffled a sheet of paper in his hand which he had been studying before his guests turned up. Clearly a lot of thought and discussion had been going on, in official circles, around the whole problem.

“We've given up the crewmember ploy.” He shook his head miserably. “What we're working on now is he's one of the crowd of sightseer's that came along with you. He could be anyone; an' he could be anywhere on the ship at the moment. But what we do have a strong line on is what his intention an' modus operandi will probably be.”

“Oh God!” Fiona, who had collared another spare chair, now sat looking at the police-officer gloomily. “An' that will consist of—what?”

Fletcher paused to glance at his two henchmen, then across at his female visitors. The subject didn't seem to hover with the smell of violets in his nostrils, and he appeared reluctant to continue; but, finally, necessity had its way.

“As Hargreaves has been telling everyone aboard, this airship is presently headed for a rendezvous with the RMS ‘ Mauretania ' somewhere out in the Atlantic.” His voice gained power and authority as he continued. “When we reach it the plan is to overfly the liner. When that happens we expect the spy t'let off whatever trigger device he has about him. Thereby, y'see, making the airship crash onto the liner.”

“A pretty kettle o'fish, that'd be.” Alice raised an eyebrow as she visualised this extraordinary event. “Make a bit of a mess, eh?”

“There'd be International repercussions, Miss Drever.” Fletcher assumed his official expression for tendering bad news to the Public. “The political ripples would have unknown consequences.”

“In short, there'd be Hell t'pay?” Fiona nodded, having grasped the outcome with sharp clarity. “Well, I suppose we better get off our butts, an' see about grabbing this bozo toot sweet. Wha'd'ya mean t'do, right now?”

The Inspector raised a knowing eyebrow, casting a suspicious glance towards the door as if expecting crowds outside to be bent over the keyhole listening. Many who had met the police officer came away thinking his middle name was ‘ Caution '.

“Here, Davis, just take a step outside, an' keep tabs on the door.” Fletcher watched the man's retreating behind till the door closed on him. “Can't be too careful, especially in a case like the present. Well now, I've two men placed as extra crewmembers. Couldn't wangle any more, what with weight restrictions an' there not being enough authentic jobs going spare, anyway. The other couple I have up here with me, ready for action. You two, on the other hand, are free spirits. I've known ya both long enough t'accept it'd be useless tryin' t'make either of ya toe the line an' follow orders.”

“Y'ain't wrong there, Fletch.” Fiona nodded agreeably.

“Kindly don't interrupt; an' don't call me Fletch.” The Inspector frowned as he returned to the theme of his argument. “Information came through an hour or so ago via the airship's communication system—radio an' telegraphy, y'know,—to the effect that our suspect ain't a crewmember, but one of the day-trippers now swanning around all the dark corners of this, um, machine. Have either of you ever thought about an airship as a hiding place for low-lifes up to no good? I have, and my conclusion is ya can't get a finer all-round hidey-hole. There's goddam corridors every-dam'-where; most leading to God-knows-where, as far as I can see.”

“Don't let yourself be disheartened, Fletcher, we're here now.” Alice couldn't refrain from this golden opportunity. “Fay an' I'll see you right.”

“Very funny.”

Fiona leaned forward, catching the Inspector's attention with her beady hazel eyes. She'd been listening to a lot of suppositions, guesses, and theories. Now she felt it time to bring the cold hard light of logic to the affair.

“At least we can do some useful dismissing of possible parties.” She smiled evilly, being now on known territory. “First, as you've indicated, we cut out the officers an' crew. That leaves, as you so cogently say, the sightseers. But we can also eliminate a fair number of them, too.”

“Yeah, the kids for a start.” Alice jumped in with her contribution. “D'you realise almost every grown-up here seems t'have brought along young Tommy, or young Elsie, for the ride. There's scores of the, er, youngsters milling around. Why, I saw one talking t'you, Fay, down on the Promenade-saloon not so long ago. Looked a sweet little girl.”

“Well, she wasn't.” Fiona's waspish tone said it all.

The Inspector, after a slow start, had caught up with the direction of the argument. He nodded, too; realising the importance of this method.

“Yeah, I see where you're comin' from.” He scrubbed a couple of fingers industriously across his by now stubble-lined cheeks. “So, let's see. Without the kids that leaves the women an' men. Again, for heretofore secret reasons based on concrete information, we know it's a single young man working on his own. So, how many o'those are presently bunging up the free space aboard this junk-heap, d'ya suppose?”

It was Alice's turn to shine in the deduction stakes. She had reached a conclusion which bordered on the brainwave level, and was girlishly eager to share her conclusions.

“I got something! Here, listen.” Her speech almost stuttered with excitement as she let fly with what she honestly thought was cool logic. “Thinkin' about it like that, there's still probably around thirty, maybe forty, men takin' up breathin' space aboard the old boat. But, an' here's the rub, gals an' guys—we already know a lot o'them, don't we? Well, don't we?”

There was a short quiet interlude in the conversation, as the other two pondered this inference—then light, a happy clear golden light, dawned on Fiona and Fletcher almost as one.

“Hah! Yeah, you're right.” Fiona leant over to give the brunette a hug round the shoulders; after all good work should always be suitably rewarded. “I'm with ya.”

“God, that's right.” Fletcher ran a stubby paw over his forehead. “Let's see, who does that eliminate?”

“Mulhoney, an' the three guys who're tailin' him—from the Mayor's Office, y'know. God, they almost keep him under lock an' key, like a prison inmate. I feel sad for the poor sap.” Alice grinned at Fiona gleefully. “Who else?”

“We could, I suppose, knock out all the elderly Joe's.” Fiona mused on this aspect. “Ya sure the suspect's a youngish guy, Fletch?—er, Fletcher?”

“Yep, dead t'rights; he's a late twenties jackanapes, without mistake. I got my sources.”

“Well, that hones things down even more.” Fiona hauled a notebook from her reticule, and handed it over to her other half, with an accompanying pencil. “Here lady, make yourself useful—lists.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“So, who else's first out'ta the firing line?” Fiona put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin. “Talkin' of that, are ya tooled up for business, Fletcher?”

“No I ain't; nor my boys.” Fletcher replied with a huffy grunt of disdain. “I tried; God, did I try, but none o'the people in authority would stand for it for a single second. Not after that old bore, Hargreaves, told ‘em all—in glowing rainbow colours—exactly what a single microscopic spark might be capable of aboard this bloody gasbag.”

“Yeah, there's that.” Fiona growled in accord.

“This hydrogen stuff seems more trouble than it's worth, if you ask me.” Alice voiced a conclusion she had formed some while ago. “Can't think why they use the muck, at all. Just sayin'.”

Fiona looked at Alice, then glanced away with a shrug; Fletcher also looked at Alice; thought about some witty reply which was obviously on the tip of his tongue; then, remembering the somewhat volatile nature of the brunette's feelings—not altogether dissimilar to the explosive nature of the gas under discussion—chose the wiser path of prudent silence.

“Jerry Gardner, the D. A. is out.” Fiona considered those passing the stringent test of being known bozos to Alice and her.

“J. Gardner, D. A. Got him. No.4.” Alice liked to keep neat records.

“That guy, Caccioli. His secretary, or somethin'.” Fletcher rose to the occasion.

“Caccioli, no first moniker. D. A.'s Office. No.5.” The brunette was beginning to enjoy her role.

“Halligan, Thompson, Bertholdsen, an' Davenport.” Fiona reeled this list off in one breath. “All well-known businessmen out an' about dear ol' New Hamp.”

“God, gim'me a moment.” The shorthand purveyor now began to feel the pressure. “OK, go on.”

“There's Larriday.” Fletcher glanced across at his two confreres. “He's here, I saw him. Y'know, into recycling rubbish, paper an' what not. Old iron an' steel, as well. Think he operates a ship-breaking company in Portsmouth.”

“If he's here, for what I can only imagine is the only reason he would be here—well, he's surely bein' a trifle presumptuous, in my opinion.” Alice took time off from her authorial career to let fly with this cogent surmise. “I mean, scrap metal. Does that make him a suspect, Fletcher?”

“No, it don't. Try an' keep your eye on the ball, Alice.” Fletcher grunted with contempt. “Time's a runnin' out here; an' what we're searchin' for is incisive an' logical intuition.”

“Huh! Thank you, kind sir.” Alice pouted like a schoolgirl, then raised her eyes from the notebook. “Cassidy's on board, along with his teenage son. They were just ahead of me as we climbed up that god-awful mooring-mast. An' ain't Johnson, the lawyer, takin' up otherwise useful space somewhere—I know he's aboard. An' Walker, the fancy socialite, he's annoying people by his unsavoury presence, too. I'll put ‘em all down.”

A silence ensued, after this, as they all racked their brains—but the pool of likely candidates seemed to have run dry.

“OK, that's just over a dozen, ain't it?” Fletcher took command of the situation; giving the women an eloquent look, while he plumbed the depths of his long experience. “There are a whole other bunch o'businessmen sloping about as well, don't forget. Just because we neither know them by sight, nor by name, don't mean they ain't anything but innocent. You two, an' I, are pretty well used t'marking out a guy's character at first glance. I think we can tell the difference between a real businessman, an' a fake, pretty easily. Especially now we know the small group, includin' age-limits, we need t'concentrate on. How's about we get on out there, an' kick butt?”

This seemed the next logical move, and both women nodded in agreement. Then Alice, always liable to step on the wrong toes at the wrong time, brought up a delicate subject.

“What about if the lunk's loaded for bear when we corner him?” She raised her elegant eyebrows at the lord of the 5 th Precinct. “We'd look pretty silly if he starts blasting, pretty much anywhere on this hulk. What'd maybe stop him in his tracks, till we could disarm him?”

“Well,” Fiona now innocently poured oil on the smouldering flame of Alice's well-meant query, in a wholly benevolent attempt to bring levity into the discourse. “if a beautiful houri were to suddenly appear, completely nude, an' make, er, suitable motions in his direction—that'd surely give him something t'think about for a few seconds.”

“Huh!” Fletcher sadly shook his head. “If Alice, here, were t'appear in front o' me that way, it'd certainly make me consider the alternatives. I'd run; like anyone else with any sense.”

Fiona, only too aware of Alice's boiling outrage, judiciously placed herself between the warring factions.

“OK-OK, take it easy, lady. Y'know how much I abhor blood. Conversations over; let's make tracks, an' catch this petty hoodlum.”

—O—

The first port of call for the search-party was the radio/communications room, placed just ahead of the middle of the airship on the Lower deck. The opening of a circular access shaft, supplied with a row of vertical rungs leading down, lay in one corner; this being, as Fletcher explained, the entrance to the Steering-gondola slung on supporting arms under the main body of the airship. Fiona and Alice declined to avail themselves of the opportunity to meet the Captain, in situ, as it were—both citing more urgent appointments.

There being no new messages for the Inspector the three here decided to split up—he to take one of his officers on a tour of the rear portion of the Main deck, while the ladies took care of the forward area. Two police-officers remained on the Upper deck, as security in case the saboteur attempted in the meantime to reach that section.

“Y'know, Fay, these figure-hugging long skirts ain't the best o'clothes t'carry out a manhunt in.” Alice had been having trouble with her ankle length narrow-hemmed example of the species ever since climbing the steep mooring-mast stairs. “Wish someone'd invent somethin' more comfortable. Maybe we should'a worn slacks, eh?”

“Hardly the professional's dress.” Fiona was disinterested, her skirt being of the free-flowing variety, as opposed to the ankle-constraining type with which her partner now struggled. “Can't just look as if we' were headin' for a pool-party, after all, can we. Here, let's give the Lounge the once over.”

The long wide saloon held nothing of interest for the women, however. There were a handful of guests availing themselves of the facilities, but none came within the narrow boundary of the sub-set required by the detectives. Leaving the Lounge they carried on along the corridor, which eventually opened out into a sort of anti-chamber with two further corridors leading away on left and right.

“Humph.” Fiona recognised the set-up at once. “These'll be the passenger-cabins. Like hotel corridors, with rooms of various sizes on both sides.”

“Well, we can't go knocking on each door.” Alice pointed out the snake in the woodpile. “Anyways, most of the sightseers on board ain't been given a cabin, at all. They'll mostly be empty, I presume. An' there's too many for us to waste time examinin'.”

“Yep, come on, then. Onward we go.”

The corridor they chose to take them past the series of cabins eventually brought them to a blind alley; at the end of which was a single closed door that, on Fiona's trial, proved to be locked.

“Fay, it occurs t'me we're forgettin' somethin' important.”

“An' little you've remembered this important somethin', that everyone else's missed, baby?”

“Can it, lady.” Alice knew how to handle obstreperous partners. “The thing is, Mulhoney said this guy we're lookin' for wasn't, that's wasn't , an Aryan or Nordic type. D'you see what I'm getting' at? We should be lookin' for some kind'a unathletic, nondescript, unassuming, kind'a geezer, as these Limey's say.”

“Aah—umm.” Fiona pondered this snippet of wise advice as they retraced their steps. “Yeah, there's merit in that; I'll give ya that. Does it help, in the present state of affairs?”

Alice stopped in her tracks, the two women taking up all the space in the narrow corridor, and grasped her companion's elbow.

“Back in the promenade-saloon, just after I'd left you earlier, Fay, remember?” The brunette warmed to her purpose, as memory flooded back. “I met ol' Mulhoney, bewailin' the state o'the nation like he always does—only this time more so ‘cause he'd been parted from the joy of his heart—ceegars.”

“Is this traipse down Memory Lane leadin' anywhere significant? I only ask in an endeavor t'find true happiness.”

“Idiot!” Alice punched her lover lightly on the arm, and carried on undeterred. “There was a British boffin there, holdin' his audience in thrall by the power of his voice and personal charm alone—the Britishers can do that, Fay, y'know. Anyway, there were two businessmen trapped by his Siren tones, as well as the mayor. Now that I come t'think on it one o'those was a smallish, thinnish, insignificantish sort'a character. Didn't make much impression on me at the time; but I think he definitely comes within the meanin' o'the Act, as far as we're concerned.”

“Well, so where is he, d'ya suppose, right now?”

“God knows, don't ask me. On board the airship, somewhere.”

“Oh, great.”

—O—

On their return to the vicinity of the Lounge the women found Fletcher heading in their direction, with a morose cast of mind well to the fore.

“This looks like a case of ‘ Ill met, by moonlight ', Fletch.” Alice couldn't help twisting the knife, when opportunity permitted. “Or have you found out anything useful?”

“I've found out, long ago lady, people who don't understand Shakespeare shouldn't quote him. Bite on that.” He growled morosely under his breath, obviously feeling the pressure of the times. “No, I ain't seen anything of our customer. How about you two?”

A few minutes were now spent while Alice outlined her theory of the physical bearing of their prey. Fletcher nodded in agreement, accepting the general direction of her supposition, and passed on with his single police officer companion; heading, primarily, for the Lower deck, crew quarters, and Bridge-gondola. Alice and Fiona, meanwhile, deciding to hit the promenade-saloons once more, choosing the starboard side to begin with.

“Oh God, there's Hargreaves. See? Way towards the far end.” Fiona's sharp eyes had spotted the Director in an instant. “Looks like he's trapped another couple o'businessmen for one of his entertainin' lectures. Don't he ever call it a day? What's he up to exactly, by the by?”

“Either tryin' t'push the chap beside him through the angled window; or pointing out something outside, below.” Alice shrugged, then suddenly snapped to attention. “ Jeesus! Have we found the ‘ Mauretania ' already? Come on, lets take a gander ourselves.”

Her guess proved correct in every detail. Far below, at the head of a wide white streak slicing across the grey waves of the sea, a long thin sliver of black and white could be discerned. The black hull, with white decks, and three bright red funnels with black bands round their tops, easily identified the famous liner—they had reached their destination.

“Well, if anything's goin' t'happen; it's gon'na be soon now, lover.”

Alice looked across at her compatriot, silently agreeing as she put out a hand which was quickly captured in a firm grasp.

“So, we better take a jaunt along the deck.” Fiona continued, eyeing those around with an intent gaze. “Keep your peepers wide, darling. An' if anybody looks the least bit suspicious, fall on ‘em like a ton o'coal. We can sort out any mistakes later.”

They had hardly paced halfway along the expanse of the deck when a door to their left opened to reveal the slim shape of the long-lost Miss Henderson, representative of the local newspaper, who recognised them instantly.

“Hi there.” She projected a sassy devil-may-care brazen-ness about life generally, allied with a not-so-innocent determination to take that one step too far; a mixture guaranteed, she was unaware, to always set her two listeners' teeth on edge. “Glad t'find ya both. I need a good long report on the doings aboard this heap o'scrap, an' you're just the right people t'ask. I got my notebook with me, right here. By the way, you're pretty lucky to see me here at all; I was just comin' along past where that ladder leads t'the Upper deck, an' a wiry little bozo nearly knocked me down on his way up there. He was in some hurry, no kiddin'. Hey! Where ya both goin'? I got'ta article t'write here. Damn!”

By now familiar with the winding nature of the corridors, it took the women only a minute to reach the ladder to the Upper deck. Hardly pausing in their stride they leapt up to stand in the chamber above. Here they found the unmoving body of their erstwhile guide, Atkinson—a large bruise forming on his forehead.

“Unconscious, but not badly hurt.” Fiona's experience in this kind of affair allowed a quick summing-up of the man's situation. “Come on, let's get on. Which way d'ya think he went? Fore, or aft?”

“We're up towards the front of the ship, here.” Alice had a fair idea of their relative position. “Lots more gasbags behind us. I think he went aft.”

“OK, follow me.”

“Fay, we ain't got those soft slippers—what about sparks?”

“No time t'waste, just hope for the best.”

They ran along the canvas-lined passageway until it opened into the wider gallery bordered on both sides by the gasbag scaffolding. The same low hum could still be heard, as various electric instruments went about their businesses. Suddenly, far along the wire-mesh floored gangway, a crouching figure came into view.

“ Jeez , that's him. What'd we do?” Alice slowed down as Fiona came up beside her.

“He'll turn an' see us in a few seconds. Come on; never mind concealment, let's get up there an' collar the bugger.”

The deck was just wide enough for them to run alongside each other; but this necessarily meant their footfalls echoed in the hall-like confines of the gasbags. While they were still some twenty yards off the man glanced up in their direction; seemed to quiver all over; then began to twist round, with one hand low near one of his pockets. A moment later both women were covered by a short-barreled revolver.

“Keep back. Don't move.”

The man spoke in a high-pitched voice, made more so by excitement and fear. He looked as if he was on the crumbling edge of his reason; capable, perhaps, of any foolhardy action.

As Fiona and Alice stopped some fifteen feet away, debating their next move, they both noticed a quiet flickering shadow some way in the man's rear advancing towards him with silent efficiency. On finally rising to its feet the huge, and unexpected, frame of Inspector Fletcher was revealed. He carried on resolutely progressing towards his victim, like a revenging angel. Then one false step made an echoing clang, as a shoe hit part of the metal gangway. The still crouching saboteur snapped his head round to focus on this extra peril, then began turning to point his weapon at the obviously dangerous officer.

With all the grace and lithe fluidity of a ballet dancer Alice bent, removed one of her shoes, and flung it at their quarry with all the power in her arm.

Alice was no mean baseball player, and that shoe had some density to it—enough that, hitting him in the chest unawares, he lost his balance. He was up in an instant; his small lean frame helping in this; then he was off along the gallery like a hare, heading for a small connecting gangway between him and the now rapidly advancing Fletcher. The women just had time to notice, as they passed the place where he had been crouching, a small metal box, a packet of matches, and a short knife. There did not seem to be any noticeable damage to the gasbags or structure of the airship in the vicinity, so they carried on after their prey.

Still some twenty yards away from Fletcher, but only a matter of feet from the pursuing women, the man decided this was leeway enough to face-off the weaker of his hunters; allowing him the first, easy, chance of retribution. He stopped as he reached the side gangway, turning to face the oncoming women, but had sadly misjudged the lessening distance separating them. Now only ten feet away, Alice dived forward and rugby-tackled him to the wire-mesh deck.—the pistol, jerked from his grip, careering along to stop at Fiona's foot.

There were a few harsh grunts; the slithering scramble of a fight in a confined space; then the snap of a couple of punches reaching their lawful destination. A small slim body fell in a heap, and Alice's slightly taller frame rose to stand over her defeated opponent—like a victorious Amazon of old towering over a wounded Spartan.

“Well, darling, that seems t'have sorted his nonsense.” Fiona nodded approvingly. “Nice job, Al. Hey , hallo, Fletch, nice t'see ya. Just in time t'be in at the kill, Good o'you t'distract the bastard, at the right moment. Good work. Don't worry, Alice has him bang t'rights, an' no mistake. So, who's gon'na get the credit? Us, or you? Is there a nice round salary goin'—there better be, after all the nonsense Al an' I've been through. You got a pair of handcuffs, by the way? Al seems t'be makin' signs that way. Be my guest.”

“ Huumph! ”

—O—

“Fay?”

“Yep, Keeper-of-my-Heart?”

“This bed's nice an' warm.”

“Is that all ya wanted t'say?”

“Well, I was wondering.”

“It's a free country—wonder away.”

“Fay?”

“ God! What?”

“I don't wan'na go up in an airship ever again.” The brunette, almost invisible under a violet silk sheet, turned to face her companion. “Here, lem'me pull this up a bit, you're nearly bare. On second thoughts, you'll do. Fay?”

“ Good God, woman! Get t'the point.”

“Fay, what about we take a break—a long comfortable vacation somewhere.” Alice stretched a hand out to lay over her lover's chest. “I'm fed up. I want sunshine; I want fun; I want t'lie in bed with you for a week. I'm feelin' like Oliver.”

“Oliver?”

“Yeah, I don't want much, darling; only a little more of it, that's all.”

“Hah! Ya don't need a vacation, t'get more sun.” Fiona turned, to run a gentle hand through soft brunette locks. “Remember that poem y'like. ‘ To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere .' That about covers it, I think.”

A gentle caress moved slowly over silken skin; a tender touch grasped warm flesh; two bodies came together as one; and sweet words of unfailing affection passed between two lovers whose joining was more than body, more than mind, reaching to the very intertwined and inseparable souls of each. Searching needful lips touched together in sweet passion; their kisses a mutual delight. Then there was no further need for words, that moonlit night.

The End

—O—

To be continued in the next instalment of the ‘ Drever & Cartwright ' series.

—OOO—

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