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DEATH TAKES THE JOYSTICK

 

CHAPTER I

 

BICKERINGTON AERODROME

 

Police Constable Brown viewed the crowds assembled at Bickerington Aerodrome with a distaste almost amounting to disgust. It should have been his day off, but now it seemed it might be a lifetime before he could go off duty.

Further, it was an uncomfortable November afternoon. The drizzling rain seemed to just soak into one, but the weather had not been sufficiently bad to keep the crowds away from awaiting the arrival of Tony Bull, the transatlantic flier, who was due to arrive at any minute now. The air was inclined to be chilly, but it was warm enough to make the wearing of a cape unpleasant if one wanted to walk at a brisk pace.

Constable Brown was wondering how soon it would be before everything would be over, so that he could make his way to his own cheerful quarters. Idly, he surveyed the people walking leisurely around him. All of them were chattering excitedly. On the tarmac, a plane was being warmed up to take off. He watched it indifferently. To his right, he noted a man, somewhat inebriated, to judge by the manner in which he clutched at his two companions for support. As the representative of Law and Order, Constable Brown pondered vaguely for a moment whether he ought not to do something about it. Then, definitely he looked the other way, lest his official zeal should urge him too strongly to invite another guest to accept H.M.’s hospitality. The erratic trio came abreast of him, and apparently the drunken man was in the mood to insist upon not being ignored by a world which, at the moment, must have appeared very friendly. Looking down from his calm official height, the constable frowned majestically and disapprovingly. Then, with appropriate dignity, he walked away.

Constable Brown was just looking round to find what else he could take an interest in, when there was a shout from the crowd, and all faces were lifted skywards. To the west, a tiny spot had appeared against the grey clouds. It was the plane carrying the airman whom they had all come to welcome. As it gradually drew nearer, a diversion took place. A hatless man broke from the crowd, and rushed towards a machine that the constable had noticed being warmed up, hotly pursued by two of the ground staff. However, he easily outpaced them, and had leaped into the cockpit, and started the plane forward before they had drawn level with it. A moment later he had left the ground, and all they could do was to gesticulate at him in impotent anger.

The constable shouldered his way through the crowd, and strode over to them.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

The men swung round and confronted him.

“It’s Leslie Renaird,” one explained. “He’s as drunk as an owl. About an hour ago we got a message over the phone to have his plane ready for him. We didn’t realize, of course, that he’d arrive in the state he did. As soon as we saw him, we did our best to persuade him not to take off, but he insisted. Then we tried to detain him by force. In the end, we had to lock him in a room. Somehow, he got out, and before we knew what had happened, he was tearing across to his plane. He’s not capable of controlling it.”

“He seems to be all right up there,” the constable commented.

As he spoke, the plane circled above the aerodrome, then swooped, flying so low that the crowd involuntarily ducked their heads, and, losing interest in the rapidly approaching transatlantic airman, concentrated their attention on the eccentric gyrations of the plane now zooming upwards again at a perilous angle.

“The mad fool,” one of the men muttered angrily. “He’ll manage so long as he stays in the air. It’s when he tries to land that the trouble will come. He’ll crash, or else I’m a Dutchman!”

Apparently, however, the pilot had decided not to repeat his previous exploit, for, at a height of about a thousand feet, he flattened out. The crowd lost interest, and craned their necks to watch the transatlantic plane, which had landed at the extreme end of the aerodrome, and was slowly taxi-ing to a standstill. The groundsmen ran out to secure it, and the crowd surged forward.

Suddenly a man shouted; women began to shriek. There was a general stampede in all directions. The plane that had been flying so evenly overhead but a few minutes before, was now spinning to earth. Its nose hit the tarmac with a terrific crash. For an instant it remained poised, like some huge top, then it slowly sagged over with a rending tearing noise. Fortunately, the crowd was clear of the point where it had landed, and now they turned to gaze at the wreckage in stricken awe. Already a fire engine was dashing up to it. The police quickly took control of the situation, and, joining hands, formed a ring around it. The word fire passed from mouth to mouth. Men were beginning to tear aside the shattered fuselage, in search of the body of the man who had piloted it.

The transatlantic flier was forgotten. . . .

 

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