Airport (107 page)

“Well, thank you. Thank you very…” The voices faded.

Mel went to the door, intending to close it.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said to Cindy. Now that the two of them were alone again, he was not sure what else they had to say to each other, if anything.

Cindy said icily, “It’s par for the course. You should have married an airport.”

At the doorway, Mel noticed that one of the men reporters had returned to the anteroom. It was Tomlinson of the
Tribune
.

“Mr. Bakersfeld, could I see you for a moment?”

Mel said wearily, “What is it?”

“I got the impression you weren’t too smitten with Mr. Freemantle.”

“Is this for quotation?”

“No, sir.”

“Then your impression was right.”

“I thought you’d be interested in this,” the reporter said.

“This was one of the legal retainer forms which Elliott Freemantle had distributed at the Meadowood community meeting.”

As Mel read the form, he asked, “Where did you get it?”

The reporter explained.

“How many people were at the meeting?”

“I counted. Roughly six hundred.”

“And how many of these forms were signed?”

“I can’t be sure of that, Mr. Bakersfeld. My guess would be a hundred and fifty were signed and turned in. Then there were other people who said they’d send theirs by mail.”

Mel thought grimly: now be could understand Elliott Freemantle’s histrionics; also why and whom the lawyer was trying to impress.

“I guess you’re doing the same arithmetic I did,” the reporter, Tomlinson, said.

Mel nodded. “It adds up to a tidy little sum.”

“Sure does. I wouldn’t mind a piece of it myself.”

“Maybe we’re both in the wrong business. Did you cover the Meadowood meeting too?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t anyone over there point out that the total legal fee was likely to be at least fifteen thousand dollars?”

Tomlinson shook his head. “Either no one thought of it, or they didn’t care. Besides, Freemantle has quite a personality; hypnotic, I guess you’d call it. He had ‘em spellbound, like he was Billy Graham.”

Mel handed back the printed retainer form. “Will you put this in your story?”

“I’ll put it in, but don’t be surprised if the city desk kills it. They’re always wary about professional legal stuff. Besides, I guess if you come right down to it, there’s nothing really wrong.”

“No,” Mel said, “it may be unethical, and I imagine the bar association wouldn’t like it. But it isn’t illegal. What the Meadowood folk should have done, of course, was get together and retain a lawyer as a group. But if people are gullible, and want to make lawyers rich, I guess it’s their own affair.”

Tomlinson grinned. “May I quote some of that?”

“You just got through telling me your paper wouldn’t print it. Besides, this is off the record. Remember?”

“Okay.”

If it would have done any good, Mel thought, he would have sounded off, and taken a chance on being quoted or not. But he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He also knew that all over the country, ambulance chasing lawyers like Elliott Freemantle were busily signing up groups of people, then harassing airports, airlines, and -in some cases-pilots.

It was not the harassing which Mel objected to; that, and legal recourse, were everyone’s privilege. It was simply that in many instances the homeowner clients were being misled, buoyed up with false hopes, and quoted an impressive-sounding, but one-sided selection of legal precedents such as Elliott Freemantle had used tonight. As a result, a spate of legal actions–costly and time-consuming–was being launched, most of which were foredoomed to fail, and from which only the lawyers involved would emerge as beneficiaries.

Mel wished that he had known earlier what Tomlinson had just told him. In that case he would have loaded his remarks to the delegation, so as to convey a warning about Elliott Freemantle, and what the Meadowood residents were getting into. Now it was too late.

“Mr. Bakersfeld,” the
Tribune
reporter said, “there are some other things I’d like to ask you–about the airport generally. If you could spare a few minutes…”

“Any other time I’ll be glad to.” Mel raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Right now there are fifteen things happening at once.”

The reporter nodded. “I understand. Anyway, I’ll be around for a while. I hear Freemantle’s bunch are cooking up something down below. So if there’s a chance later…”

“I’ll do my best,” Mel said, though he had no intention of being available any more tonight. He respected Tomlinson’s wish to dig below the surface of any story which he covered; just the same, Mel had seen enough of delegations
and
reporters for one evening.

As to whatever else it was that Freemantle and the Meadowood people were “cooking up down below,” he would leave any worrying about that, Mel decided, to Lieutenant Ordway and his policemen.

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W
HEN MEL
turned, after closing the door of his office as the
Tribune
reporter left, Cindy was standing, pulling on her gloves. She remarked acidly, “Fifteen things happening, I believe you said. Whatever the other fourteen are, I’m sure they’ll all take priority over me.”

“That was a figure of speech,” Mel protested, “as you know perfectly well. I already said I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen–at least, not all at once.”

“But you love it, don’t you? All of it. Much more than me, home, the children, a decent social life.”

“Ah!” Mel said. “I wondered when you’d get to that.” He stopped. “Oh, hell! Why are we fighting again? We settled everything, didn’t we? There’s no need to fight any more.”

“No,” Cindy said. She was suddenly subdued. “No, I suppose not.”

There was an uncertain silence. Mel broke it first.

“Look, getting a divorce is a pretty big thing for both of us; for Roberta and Libby, too. If you’ve any doubts…”

“Haven’t we been over that already?”

“Yes; but if you want to, we’ll go over it fifty times again.”

“I don’t want to.” Cindy shook her head decisively. “I haven’t any doubts. Nor have you, not really. Have you?”

“No,” Mel said. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

Cindy started to say something, then stopped. She had been going to tell Mel about Lionel Urquhart, but decided against it. There was plenty of time for Mel to find that out for himself, later. As to Derek Eden, whom Cindy had been thinking about during most of the time that the Meadowood delegation had been in the office, she had no intention of disclosing his existence to Mel
or
Lionel.

There was a knock–light but definite–on the anteroom door.

“Oh, God!” Cindy muttered, “Isn’t there
any
privacy?”

Mel called out irritably, “Who is it?”

The door opened. “Just me,” Tanya Livingston said. “Mel, I need some advice…” As she saw Cindy, she stopped abruptly. “Excuse me. I thought you were alone.”

“He will be,” Cindy said. “In hardly any time at all.”

“Please, no!” Tanya flushed. “I can come back, Mrs. Bakersfeld. I didn’t know I was disturbing you.”

Cindy’s eyes flicked over Tanya, stiff in Trans America uniform.

“It’s probably time we were disturbed,” Cindy said. “After all, it’s been a good three minutes since the last people left, and that’s longer than we usually have together.” She swung toward Mel. “Isn’t it?”

He shook his head, without answering.

“By the way.” Cindy turned back to Tanya. “I’m curious about one thing. How you were so sure who I am.”

Momentarily, Tanya had lost her usual poise. Recovering it, she gave a small smile. “I suppose I guessed,”

Cindy’s eyebrows went up. “Am I supposed to do the same?” She glanced at Mel.

“No,” he said. He introduced them.

Mel was aware of Cindy appraising Tanya Livingston. He had not the slightest doubt that his wife was already forming some conclusion about Tanya and himself; Mel had long ago learned that Cindy’s instincts about men-women relationships were uncannily accurate. Besides, he was sure that his own introduction of Tanya had betrayed something. Husbands and wives were too familiar with each other’s nuances of speech for that not to happen. It would not even surprise him if Cindy guessed about his own and Tanya’s rendezvous for later tonight, though perhaps, he reflected, that was carrying imagination too far.

Well, whatever Cindy knew or guessed, he supposed it didn’t really matter. After all, she was the one who had asked for a divorce, so why should she object to someone else in Mel’s life, however much or little Tanya meant, and he wasn’t sure of that himself? But then, Mel reminded himself, that was a logical way of thinking. Women–including Cindy, and probably Tanya–were seldom logical.

The last thought proved right.

“How nice for you,” Cindy told him with pseudo sweetness, “that it isn’t just dull old delegations who come to you with problems.” She eyed Tanya. “You did say you have a problem?”

Tanya returned the inspection levelly. “I said I wanted some advice.”

“Oh, really! What kind of advice? Was it business, personal?… Or perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

“Cindy,” Mel said sharply, “that’s enough! You’ve no reason…”

“No reason for what? And why is it enough?” His wife’s voice was mocking; he had the impression that in a perverse way she was enjoying herself. “Aren’t you always telling me I don’t take enough interest in your problems? Now I’m all agog about your friend’s problem… that is, if there is one.”

Tanya said crisply, “It’s about Flight Two.” She added. “That’s Trans America’s flight to Rome, Mrs. Bakersfeld. It took off half an hour ago.”

Mel asked, “What about Flight Two?”

“To tell the truth”–Tanya hesitated–“I’m not really sure.”

“Go ahead,” Cindy said. “Think of something.”

Mel snapped, “Oh, shut up!” He addressed Tanya, “What is it?”

Tanya glanced at Cindy, then told him of her conversation with Customs Inspector Standish. She described the man with the suspiciously held attaché case, whom Standish suspected of smuggling.

“He went aboard Flight Two?”

“Yes.”

“Then even if your man
was
smuggling,” Mel pointed out, “it would be into Italy. The U.S. Customs people don’t worry about that. They let other countries look out for themselves.”

“I know. That’s the way our D.T.M. saw it.” Tanya described the exchange between herself and the District Transportation Manager, ending with the latter’s irritable but firm instruction, “Forget it!”

Mel looked puzzled. “Then I don’t see why…”

“I told you I’m not sure, and maybe this is all silly. But I kept thinking about it, so I started checking.”

“Checking what?”

Both of them had forgotten Cindy.

“Inspector Standish,” Tanya said, “told me that the man–the one with the attaché case–was almost the last to board the flight. He must have been because I was at the gate, and I missed seeing an old woman…” She corrected herself. “That part doesn’t matter. Anyway, a few minutes ago I got hold of the gate agent for Flight Two and we went over the manifest and tickets together. He couldn’t remember the man with the case, but we narrowed it down to five names.”

“And then?”

“Just on a hunch I called our check-in counters to see if anyone remembered anything about any of those five people. At the airport counters, nobody did. But downtown, one of the agents did remember the man–the one with the case. So I know his name; the description fits… everything.”

“I still don’t see what’s so extraordinary. He had to check in somewhere. So he checked in downtown.”

“The reason the agent remembered him,” Tanya said, “is that he didn’t have any baggage, except the little case. Also, the agent said, he was extremely nervous.”

“Lots of people are nervous…” Abruptly Mel stopped. He frowned. “No baggage! For a flight to Rome!”

“That’s right. Except for the little bag the man was carrying, the one Inspector Standish noticed. The agent downtown called it a briefcase.”

“But nobody goes on that kind of journey without baggage. It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s what I thought.” Again Tanya hesitated. “It doesn’t make sense unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you happen to know already that the flight you’re on will never get to where it’s supposed to be going. If you knew that, you’d also know that you wouldn’t need any baggage.”

“Tanya,” Mel said softly, “what are you trying to say?”

She answered uncomfortably, “I’m not sure; that’s why I came to you. When I think about it, it seems silly and melodramatic, only…”

“Go on.”

“Well, supposing that man we’ve been talking about isn’t smuggling at all; at least, in the way we’ve all assumed. Supposing the reason for him not having any luggage, for being nervous, for holding the case the way Inspector Standish noticed… suppose instead of having some sort of contraband in there… he has a bomb.”

Their eyes held each other’s steadily. Mel’s mind was speculating, assessing possibilities. To him, also, the idea which Tanya had just raised seemed ridiculous and remote. Yet… in the past, occasionally, such things had happened. The question was: How could you decide if this was another time? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the entire episode of the man with the attaché case could so easily be innocent; in fact, probably was. If that proved true after a fuss had been created, whoever began the fuss would have made a fool of himself. It was human not to want to do that; yet, with the safety of an airplane and passengers involved, did making a fool of oneself matter? Obviously not. On the other hand, there ought to be a stronger reason for the drastic actions which a bomb scare would involve than merely a possibility, plus a hunch. Was there, Mel wondered, some way conceivably in which a stronger hint, even corroboration, might be found?

Offhand, be couldn’t think of one.

But there was something he could check. It was a long shot, but all that was needed was a phone call. He supposed that seeing Vernon Demerest tonight, with the reminder of the clash before the Board of Airport Commissioners, had made him think of it.