Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pancho frowned. The telegram identified no sender.
“I found it on the seat of my plane,” Thea informed them. “I do not see who put it there.”
Pancho shared worried looks with Amelia and Marvel. But then Marvel looked around and suggested, “Agent Pullman’s standing over there. Maybe he could make himself useful.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Amelia said grimly.
Pancho whistled loudly and yelled, “Hey, Pullman . . . got something for you to see!”
“Subtle, Barnes,” Amelia said dryly.
“Efficient,” Pancho retorted. “It’s not long till the race is supposed to start. I’m not letting my plane out of my sight.”
There was a collective sound of agreement with more than one side-eye toward the telegraph.
Her whistle drew over several more women pilots whose planes were close by.
Phoebe, Blanche, and Louise came over, and Marvel showed them the telegram.
They were clearly alarmed, but Blanche hissed, “Everyone, smile. Look normal. Like nothing’s wrong.
There are cameras pointed at us from every direction. ”
Agent Pullman held his position, merely shooting a bland look their way as they all pasted on vapid, fake smiles. But when Marvel held up the telegram and waved it at him enticingly, his expression changed. His steps seemed grudging, but he did head over to join them.
His stern expression didn’t improve when he reached them, and Marvel said quickly, “Thea, here, received an anonymous telegram sometime in the past few hours. It was left in her plane for her to find.” Marvel offered the slip of yellow paper to Pullman.
Pullman stared at the telegram for long enough to read it a dozen times over. When he finally looked up, eyeing Thea, he asked, “Anyone you know have a reason to threaten you?”
Thea shook her head. “I think no, sir.”
Pullman’s eyebrows lowered. “You’re German, ma’am?”
Thea nodded, her lips compressing into a thin line. The Great War was still very present in many people’s minds on both sides of the Atlantic.
“Come on, Pullman,” Pancho urged the BOI man. “Just because she’s German doesn’t mean she ought to be subject to threats.”
“In point of fact, Mrs. Barnes,” Pullman drawled, giving the telegram a little shake, “this isn’t a threat at all. It’s a warning.”
“That telegram warns of a threat against us all,” Amelia declared. “Doesn’t matter whose plane it was found in. You can’t tell us it isn’t cause for concern.”
Pullman looked less than convinced.
“I’m feeling a whole lot more than mere concern right now,” Pancho snapped. “What we want is action. You need to find out who’s planning to sabotage this race.”
“Normally, I might agree with you,” Pullman replied, “but this place is a zoo, sure as the sun is in the sky. You ladies willingly signed on to be here. With as much press coverage as this derby is getting, you’re bound to attract the attention of some folks who don’t want you to succeed.”
Rankin’s threat to have her institutionalized echoed in Pancho’s mind.
He would be downright ecstatic if she died and her entire fortune went to him.
He would be free to remarry and live out his days in the lap of luxury with some spineless broodmare of a wife who agreed with every word he uttered and was content to wait on him hand and foot for the rest of her life.
Have I pushed him too far?
Now wasn’t the time to think about her personal issues. Pancho returned her attention to the present.
“You mean we’ll draw the attention of folks who don’t want women pilots to succeed, don’t you?
” Marvel said pointedly. “I’m no stranger to prejudice.
I was the first woman to fly in the Ford Reliability Air Tour last year.
There was plenty of grumbling by the male racers about the organizers allowing me in the race. ”
“My plane doesn’t care what’s inside my jodhpurs. Why should anyone else? A pilot’s a pilot,” Pancho stated bluntly.
Pullman made eye contact with her, even though he spoke to all of them.
“You ladies demand to be out here in the big, wide world, standing shoulder to shoulder with the men. It’s a rough place.
If you want to be coddled and sheltered from reality, go back to your homes.
Out here, men fight for what they think is theirs.
Most only care about winning. They will justify the means with their conscience. ”
Pancho drew in a stiff breath. She couldn’t count how many times she’d heard this exact argument from men over the years. Pullman was speaking the truth.
He continued more heatedly, “In case you’ve all had your heads in the clouds too much to notice, Prohibition has led to a rapid rise in organized crime. Every city is saturated with mobsters who are running speakeasies and gambling dens, smuggling alcohol and dope, selling . . . errm . . .”
“Sex?” Pancho offered baldly.
He leveled a disapproving look at her. “Yes. That. Here’s the thing.
Aviation is the future. Everyone sees it.
That’s why this airfield is jam-packed with people eager to see you and your planes.
Precisely because of its bright future, mobsters are going to fight to control the flying game.
You ladies can either go home and hide behind your men or stay out here and get ready for the fight of your lives. ”
“I’m staying,” Pancho said firmly.
Pullman locked gazes with her, and she was surprised by an unmistakable glint of approval in the lawman’s eyes.
That was a first. Men didn’t approve of her. Pancho told herself she didn’t care, but in that moment, she realized she appreciated knowing Pullman respected her courage.
Marvel reached for the telegram, but Pullman was faster and tucked it inside his suit coat. “I believe I’ll hold on to this.”
“Why?” Pancho asked. “You planning on investigating it?”
Pullman frowned at her. “An anonymous warning isn’t hard evidence, Mrs. Barnes.”
“Call me Pancho,” she warned him. “Heck, we all know this race is dangerous. But sabotage is an altogether different kind of danger, and you know it.”
Pullman tilted his head to one side and sent her a frank look. “What would you have me do? I have no names, no suspects, no motives—other than you’re women—no idea what kind of sabotage might be planned, no way to stop a person I can’t see or a threat I can’t anticipate.”
Pancho scowled at him, but she wasn’t able to overlook his argument. “Why don’t you go get yourself a good seat, Agent Pullman, so you can watch us take off. We’re going to stare down and beat every threat that comes our way.”
Pullman looked at her—at all of them—for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. At length, he nodded. “Thank you for the invitation. I believe I will stay and watch.” He reached up to touch the brim of his hat, then turned and walked away without looking back.
Pancho quelled an urge to chase after him and insist he do something to protect the other racers. The thought of something terrible happening to one of these ladies she so admired, and was rapidly coming to think of as friends, was almost more than she could stand.
So, what can he do?
It was a valid question.
Pancho realized she was looking for guarantees. It was a fatal quest. If she couldn’t find the courage to spit in the wind, she might as well go home like the agent had said.
The world was a competitive, dangerous place.
Pullman disappeared into the crowd.
Come on, girl, don’t let that telegram shake you . . .
She shared a determined look with Amelia and Marvel before she turned to Thea and the other women pilots.
She gazed at each of them and said loudly enough for them all to hear, “We’ve got the newest and best planes there are.
We’re some of the best pilots in the world, male or female.
We’ve got this. And it’s going to be a race for the history books.
In nine days, the whole world will know that women aviators are every bit as good as their male counterparts. ”
“Huzzah!” Marvel cried enthusiastically.
“I couldn’t ask for better company,” Amelia added, smiling warmly.
Thea spoke up gamely, saying, “It is my great pleasure to fly with all of you.”
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Nikrent’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Cliff Henderson is about to fire the opening shot in Cleveland, Ohio.”
A phone receiver was held up close to the microphone. A hush fell over the crowd, allowing them to hear the muffled sound of the starting gun being fired.
“And there we have it. Ladies, to your planes!” Nikrent exclaimed.
The women traded silent looks, wishing their competitors luck and safe flying. Then they broke apart, heading for their planes.
Pancho’s legs felt weak as she climbed the ladder a flight mechanic was holding for her and strapped herself in.
She tucked her map of the day’s route firmly under her left leg.
One of the newest ones, it had different colors corresponding to changes in topography and was folded to display her whole route to San Bernardino, so she could glance down at it and make sure she was on course whenever she flew over the landmarks she’d memorized for this flight.
She’d heard this morning that just last week, San Bernardino had joined the ranks of cities painting their names on the roofs of their airfield buildings.
Small towns across America were starting to paint their names on water towers, too, as aviation became more popular and pilots needed to know where they were.
She stepped on her brakes and signaled to the mechanic that she was ready to crank the engine.
Her assigned flight mechanic stepped up to the right side of the plane just behind the engine and inserted a two-foot-long metal crank handle into the receptacle on the side of the engine just behind the propeller.