Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“Hold up now! Agent . . . what’s your name?” Pancho asked, making a rare effort to corral her sharp tongue.
“Pullman. Chet Pullman, BOI.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Agent Pullman,” Pancho offered him a smile and her hand.
The BOI agent stared at her hand, frowning, and didn’t take it.
So much for making nice with the angry-looking G-man. She let her hand drop.
Marvel piped up. “We’re grateful you came all the way out here in case Phoebe crashed and needed help. That’s mighty kind of you, gentlemen. We were terribly concerned about her.”
“Were you, now?” Pullman asked skeptically, his tone making it clear he wasn’t buying their charm act for a second.
Marvel poured it on even thicker. “That’s right! We’re in a big air race. The whole nation is going to be following it. There’ll be radio broadcasts and parties along the whole route, and dozens of newspaper reporters will follow us all the way to Cleveland.”
Pancho chimed in. “You should’ve seen the crowds at Clover Field this afternoon.
Hundreds of folks turned out to see us and our planes.
We expect even bigger crowds this weekend and huge crowds at every airfield we land at.
This is Phoebe Omlie . . . Just two years ago, it was her and her husband that helped out all those folks affected by the Mississippi floods.
Ground transportation was wiped clean out.
Even the governor officially thanked her for helping all those stranded citizens. ”
Pullman looked completely unconvinced.
Pancho added, “All three of us, Mrs. Omlie, Miss Crosson, and me, are late for an important meeting with the race organizers to go over safety procedures and how the race will run. It’s mandatory for all of us pilots.”
Phoebe piped up, “I explained to Agent Pullman I was looking for Clover Field but couldn’t find the runway lights in the fog, and then I ran out of gas, so I landed here.”
Pancho burst out, “Now that you mention it, I don’t think the runway lights got turned on tonight! In all the chaos of spectators and reporters and worrying about where you were, it didn’t dawn on me until just now.”
“We’re so relieved you’re safe,” Marvel said earnestly. “But we should get back to the airport right away and make sure someone turns on the runway lights. Mary Haizlip still hasn’t turned up. She could be in the same pickle as you were.”
There was a small tearing sound from the tail of the aircraft. All three women gasped like outraged mothers.
“Don’t harm my plane!” Phoebe exclaimed in horror.
“Didn’t you hear us say she’s got to race in that plane on Sunday?” Marvel demanded indignantly. “It’s not even her plane. This here American Eagle is sponsored by the Mono Aircraft Company.”
As for her, Pancho was done trying to be nice.
Diplomacy never had been her strong suit anyway, and it steamed her good to watch these careless brutes vandalizing Phoebe’s plane.
She burst out angrily, “You can get your ignorant paws off that airplane right this second! It’s worth more than the lot of you put together!
” She launched herself toward the gaping men, fully ready to defend her fellow aviator’s plane with her fists if need be.
“Cuff her!” Pullman ordered stridently.
Pancho wasn’t going down without a fight.
She was already covered in mud and pig manure.
Getting down and dirty with these oafs would be a pleasure.
Two agents grabbed her, and she twisted violently, dropping like a rock, taking both men down with her.
Pancho might’ve grown up in a wealthy family, but she’d much preferred wrestling with her boy cousins than attending tea parties with her girl cousins.
It took four men to subdue her, but eventually they got handcuffs around her wrists in front of her and hauled her upright.
Pancho was pleased to see they were as muddy and disheveled as she was.
Apparently, Marvel and Phoebe hadn’t given up peacefully either.
Pullman’s tie was askew, and his hat was lost somewhere in the dark.
He had a split lip as well, and a trickle of blood ran out of his nose.
He wiped the back of his hand across his upper lip and left a smear of mud on it like a bad mustache.
She hoped one of the girls had slugged him good.
“Ready for round two?” Pancho asked gamely. “I dare you to uncuff me and go one-on-one with me, Pullman.”
He merely glared daggers at her, not rising to the bait. Instead he turned to the farmer. “Any chance you’ve got a phone, sir?”
The farmer nodded, wide-eyed.
“Gotta call in reinforcements to handle three itsy-bitsy women?” Pancho demanded while she and the other ladies were marched over to the farmer’s house. “We’re just the start of your problems. Amelia Earhart is waiting back at Clover Field. Bet she’s already called Eleanor Roosevelt.”
“I’m not impressed with name-dropping, lady,” Pullman growled.
“Keep bending my ear with nonsense, and I’ll lose the key for a few days after I throw you in the slammer.
We have a dope-smuggling ring in this area.
I aim to shut it down. None of you or that plane is going anywhere until everything is checked out. ”
Pancho felt her temper boiling, but there was something else, a warning from her brain telling her that this guy believed in his duty.
So he wasn’t bad.
Just standing between her and what she needed to be doing.
“One call to Clover Field, and you’ll get all the answers you need. Might not even need to make a call. Bet the other pilots are on their way over here as we speak.”
Pullman was stonily silent the rest of the way to the house.
They trooped into the farmer’s kitchen, tracking in copious mud and muck to the horror of the farmer’s wife.
The poor woman scurried outside as the BOI men sat Pancho, Marvel, and Phoebe down at the table.
Pullman headed for the wooden phone box the farmer pointed out on the wall beside the back door.
Phoebe begged in desperation, “Please, Agent Pullman. Just call Clover Field. Talk to the race officials.”
Marvel added in that shy, diffident way of hers, “They’ll tell you Phoebe’s no smuggler and we’re all racing in the Women’s Air Derby.”
Pullman ignored them and smugly called for a paddy wagon.
Silence fell in the kitchen, interrupted by the rhythmic squeak of a water pump outside the back door.
The farmer’s wife slipped in, carrying a bucket of water she set just inside the door beside a mop.
But she seemed to lose her courage in a roomful of angry lawmen and abandoned her mop, fleeing into the living room.
Pancho made a mental note to write an apology to the woman tomorrow. This kitchen floor was going to be a bear to clean.
A few minutes passed, and one of the sheriff’s men poked his head in the back door. Until now, the local law enforcement bunch had stayed out of the fray and out of the Feds’ way. The deputy announced, “We’ve got another car pulling up out here. And there’s more dames in it.”
Pullman groaned under his breath, and Pancho took deep satisfaction in his distress. Lady Luck was turning her smile toward them at last.
“That will be Amelia Earhart,” Pancho informed him.
“Impossible,” Pullman exclaimed. “No real pilot flies after dark.”
“As I mentioned before, I was lost.”
It sounded like the sheriff was trying to stop the women on the back porch, but Amelia, Louise, Ruth, and Blanche barged right past him, piling into the kitchen, with the sheriff and his men trailing behind, looking flustered.
The newcomers stepped gingerly between the clumps of mud, exclaiming with relief when they spotted Phoebe at the table. They talked over one another, bombarding her with questions about what had happened to her in flight, how her plane had fared when she landed, and if she was okay.
When they got their first good look at Pancho, the four women burst out with a whole new set of questions about why she was handcuffed, how come she smelled like a barn, and how she’d gotten covered in mud.
“Ladies . . . ladies . . . I must insist that you depart. This is official business,” Pullman declared.
“Recovering Phoebe is very much our concern,” Louise informed him. “The mayor is waiting on us this very moment.”
Amelia was tall to begin with, almost as tall as Pullman. She stared him in the eye, clearly measuring him up, before saying, “Pray tell, sir. Of what, exactly, are these fine ladies accused?”
Pancho was impressed. Amelia had delivered her words in the sweetest of honey-coated Southern drawls, twisting the question into syllables that made the men squirm uncomfortably at her ladylike delivery.
Pullman seemed at a loss for words, but Phoebe jumped in to answer indignantly, “First, they accused me of running liquor, then of running drugs. Then they accused me of being a spy! They even searched my plane and broke one of the tail fins looking for contraband! Pancho had to make them stop.”
Amelia stared in patent disbelief at Phoebe and then asked the lawmen as a group, “And did any of you find contraband aboard Miss Phoebe’s aircraft, gentlemen?
” Not bothering to wait for a reply, she said, “Of course, you didn’t.
Let me tell you what you did discover, though.
I’m guessing you found a few cans of motor oil, a spare airplane tire, some tools for making emergency engine repairs, a bunch of maps, three days’ worth of canned food, a few gallons of water, a suitcase with a nice dress, several changes of pants and socks .
. . and some ladies’ delicates.” She paused for effect, ending with, “And not one teensy bit of contraband.”
Pullman snorted, clearly irritated at the accuracy of her assessment. “This investigation isn’t finished.”
Amelia continued, “Are you aware that every single woman in this room is a famous pilot for one reason or another? Between us, we currently hold over a dozen world records. We are extremely busy furthering the cause of aviation for this great nation of ours.”