Soaring Home. Christine Johnson
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Devlin see how the woman affected him, so he sauntered across the room and peered into the print shop, where, near as he could tell, no one was working. “Just wondered how many reporters you have on staff.”
“Enough to do the job. Aha.” Devlin held up a fat cigar and then ran it under his nose. “Sure you don’t want it? Next best thing to Cubans, at half the price.”
Again Jack waved it off. Accept a cigar; accept the interview. He had to keep this story out of the newspapers. His bosses at Curtiss weren’t going to be happy when they heard about the locked engine. A sensational news story would put an end to long-distance test flights and tie him to the airfield.
“So the plane’s a prototype.” Devlin puffed to light the cigar. “Military use, eh?”
Jack preferred Darcy’s questions. She just wanted a ride in the plane. Impossible, of course, but he admired her tenacity.
“What’s it going to be used for?” Devlin propped his feet on the desk, sending papers tumbling to the floor. “Bombing? Scouting? Reconnaissance?” A cloud of smoke followed each word.
Such questions from Darcy would be called persistent. From Devlin they were just annoying.
“I can’t tell you any more than I could tell Miss Shea.” When Devlin frowned at the mention of her name, Jack realized he’d struck proverbial gold. He could turn the conversation away from the plane and toward her. “Speaking of Miss Shea, is she from here?”
“Born and raised.” Devlin pulled down his feet and leaned forward. “Is the army going to use the plane in the war? Advantage in the air is advantage on the ground, I say.”
Jack ignored Devlin’s question. “I expect everyone was born here. This is the kind of place a person would hate to leave. She married?” He could not believe he’d just asked that.
“Definitely not.” Devlin chuckled before returning to his questions. “Is the plane destined for European or North African duty?”
“Can’t say.” He wished Devlin had explained that little laugh. What was so funny about Miss Shea not marrying? Most women did. “Her friend is engaged?”
“To the richest bachelor in town.”
“You don’t say.” Jack didn’t care about the pretty blonde. His thoughts clung to the bundle of fire who insisted he give her a plane ride. Spirited. Determined. Fearless. All the qualities of a top-notch aviator. If she was a man.
“For which company do you fly?” Devlin asked.
Jack, still contemplating Darcy’s attributes, answered without thinking. “Curtiss Engineering.”
“That the same as Curtiss Aeroplane?”
Jack choked. He shouldn’t have said that. No one was supposed to know about the scout plane. “This model is just in testing. There’s a long way to go before it’s ready for production—if it’s ever produced.” He was digging himself out of a job. If the powers at Curtiss discovered he’d talked to the press, he’d be fired before he climbed out of the cockpit. “That’s strictly off the record. Can’t jeopardize the war effort.”
Devlin just grunted.
The newspaperman was not going to forget this. Confidential information would end up on the front page if Jack didn’t come up with a bigger story. He ran a hand through his hair, clueless how he could patch up this fiasco.
Thankfully, the telephone rang. Unthankfully, Devlin got to it first.
The newspaperman listened a long minute before saying, “Yep, got it Cora.” He hung the receiver on the wall hook. “Your man’s not there.”
“Not there?” Jack checked the time. Four-thirty. Burrows should have arrived an hour ago.
“Cora talked to the hotel manager. Seems your mechanic hasn’t checked in.”
Things were getting worse. If Burrows hadn’t arrived in Chicago yet, he wouldn’t get to Pearlman until late tomorrow at the soonest. Another day’s delay. Jack blew the air out of his lungs slow and steady. “Guess I’ll send a wire.”
“Should have said so while I had Cora on the line. She sends the cables around here.”
“The same person?”
Devlin scowled. “Pearlman has every advantage of the largest cities.”
“Good.” Jack glanced at his watch again. “I’d better hurry. Get there before she closes. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He fled the office before Devlin resumed the interview. At the bottom of the steps he met a well-dressed man better suited to the streets of Manhattan than a country village. The young man doffed his hat, revealing dark hair that gleamed like engine oil. Jack instinctively mistrusted the type.
“Blake Kensington.” The man extended his hand with a surprisingly open smile. “You the pilot that landed in Baker’s field?”
Jack couldn’t hide his surprise that the news had already spread around town. Nonetheless, he grasped Kensington’s hand and completed the introduction.
“Buy you a soda?” Kensington’s quick, almost imperceptible lift of one eyebrow told Jack the invitation involved more than a simple beverage.
“I need to send a wire first.” One soda couldn’t hurt. He’d hear the man out, and if he proved a pompous fool, beg off.
“The drugstore’s just across the street from the telegraph office. I’ll meet you after you’re done.” Kensington leaned close and whispered, “Back door. Knock twice, wait a second, and then knock three more times.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder and yanked open the door. “Devlin?”
Jack’s flutter of unease blew into a gale when he overheard Kensington say, “I told you front page. Make it right or you’ll hear from my father.”
Jack hurried down the sidewalk past Kensington Mercantile and Kensington Bank and Trust, trying to come up with an excuse to get out of that soda. He idly noted the emptied racks inside Kensington Bakery and the tidy desks inside Kensington Farmer’s Insurance Company. Did that family own the whole town?
On the next corner stood a weathered storefront with a freshly painted sign proclaiming it the communications hub of Pearlman, as well as the town’s official United States Post Office.
He pushed open the door, and a woman in her thirties popped up from behind the heavy oak counter. Her small eyes, snub nose and generous rump gave her an unfortunate resemblance to a sow. Cora, he presumed.
“You must be Mr. Hunter.” She beamed. “Beatrice Fox was right.”
“Miss Fox? About what?”
“Never mind,” Cora giggled.
Jack had lost patience with tittering single women. He had a problem to fix and little time to do so. “I’m here to—”
“—place a wire. What did you want to say in it?”
Small towns. Too nosy. Too personal. Better to live in the city, where a man could blend into the teeming sidewalks. But instead of snapping at Cora, he forced a smile.
“Send it to the Palmer House hotel in Chicago, care of Dick Burrows.” He made out the cable, paid the fee and tucked his wallet inside his jacket.
Cora didn’t budge. She also didn’t send the wire. She stood at the counter, twisting a dull brown curl around her index finger.
“Did I give you the correct amount?”
“Oh, yes,” she sighed without blinking.
“I need it sent right away.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll do it now.” But her glare made it perfectly clear that she would not send the wire while he waited.
Jack