“Let’s go,” said Jessup. He took the younger man by the arm and drew him away. “Is the office sending up a camera team?” he asked.
“Yes, but there’ll be a pretty full coverage by everyone. Even the newsreels may make it in time.”
“H’m. Remind the office to cover the possible evacuation of houses over near the bridge. The same man can stay on the boundary of the field. If he climbs the fence he may get one or two lucky shots of the crash — and get away quicker than the others. What about this guy who is flying the plane?”
“A George Spencer of Toronto. That’s all we know.”
“Well, the office will get our Toronto people on to that end. Now grab a pay booth in Reception here and don’t budge out of it, whatever happens. Keep the line open to the office.”
“Yes, Mr. Jessup, but—”
“I know, I know,” said Jessup sadly, “but that’s the way it is. If there’s a foul-up on the phones in the press room, we’ll need that extra line.”
His coat flapping behind him, he strode across the concourse, head down like an angry bull, out of Reception and along to the press room. There several newsmen were already foregathered, three of them talking together, another rattling at one of the six or eight typewriters on the large center table, and a further couple using two of the telephone booths that lined two sides of the paneled room. On the floor were dumped leather cases of camera equipment.
“Well,” said Jessup sardonically, “what kept you boys?”
“Hi, Jess,” greeted one of the men. “Where’s Howard? Have you seen him?”
“On his way, I’m told.” Jessup shook himself out a cigarette. “Well, who knows what?”
“We just got here,” said Stephens of the
“You fellows have it easy on this one,” Jessup remarked, lighting his cigarette and spitting out a shred of tobacco. “It’s too late for the mornings and in plenty of time for the evenings, unless you put out special midmorning runs. It’s easy to see who’s doing the work.” He indicated the two men in the telephone cubicles, one from CP and the other UPA.
“Wrap it up, Jess,” said Stephens. “To listen to you wire service fellers, you’d think—”
“Quit horsing around,” cut in Abrahams of the
They turned as a youngish man entered, holding in his hand some slips of paper. This was Cliff Howard, high-spirited and energetic, whose crew-cut hair, rimless spectacles and quietly-patterned English neckties were a familiar and popular sight at the airport. He did not smile at the newsmen, although most of them were personal friends of his.
“Thanks for staying put,” he told them.
“We very nearly didn’t,” returned Stephens. The two agency men had hurriedly terminated their calls and joined the others.
“Let’s have it, Cliff,” said one of them.
Howard looked at Jessup. “I see you’ve come straight from bed like me, Jess,” he remarked, nodding at the pajamas under Jessup’s jacket.
“Yes,” said Jessup shortly. “Come on, Cliff. Snap it up.”
Howard glanced down at the papers in his hand, then back at the men gathered round him. There was a film of perspiration on his forehead. “All right,” he said. “Here it is. A Maple Leaf Empress was chartered in Toronto to bring supporters to the ball game today. On the Winnipeg leg to here both the pilot and the copilot have been taken ill. A passenger is at the controls. He hasn’t had experience of this type of airplane before. We’re talking him down — Captain Paul Treleaven, Cross-Canada’s chief pilot, is on the job — but the authorities thought it advisable to take precautionary measures in clearing the area and bringing in extra help in case of accident.”
There was a pause. “Well?” growled one of the newsmen.
“I guess there’s not much more I can tell you,” said Howard apologetically. “We’re doing all we can and I’d sure appreciate it if—”
“For God’s sake, Cliff, what are you giving us?” protested Stephens. “How does it happen
Howard shrugged uncomfortably. “We don’t yet know for sure. It may be some kind of stomach attack. We have doctors standing by—”
“Now listen,” Jessup interrupted tersely. “This is no time to play the innocent, Cliff. There have been enough leaks on this story already to sink a ship. Everything you’ve just said, our offices knew before we got here. Let’s start again. What’s the truth about the rumor of food poisoning?”
“Who is the guy who’s piloting the ship?” added Abrahams.
Howard breathed deeply. He smiled and made a dramatic gesture of flipping notes to the floor. “Look, boys,” he said expansively, “I’ll lay it on the line for you — you know I never hold back from you if I can help it. But if I stick my neck out I know you’ll play along with me. That’s fair, isn’t it? We don’t want to get the thing out of perspective. What’s happening tonight is a big emergency — why should I pretend it isn’t? — but everything that’s humanly possible is being done to minimize the risk. The whole operation reflects the greatest credit on the airport organization. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything—”
“The story, Howard!”
“Sure, sure. But I want you to understand that nothing I say can be taken as an official statement, either on behalf of the airport or the Maple Leaf Airline. The airline is very properly giving all their attention to getting the plane down safely, and I’m just filling in to help you boys along.” A telephone shrilled, but no one made a move towards it. “All right, then,” said Howard. “So far as my information goes, there has been an outbreak of sickness on the plane which may very possibly be food poisoning. Of course we are taking—”
“Do you mean,” someone interposed, “that the food on board the plane was contaminated?”
“No one can answer that question yet. All I can tell you is this, and I want you to get it straight. Fog delayed the departure of the Empress from Toronto and it was late on arrival at Winnipeg — so late that the normal caterers were not available. Food was obtained from another firm instead. Some of that food was fish, and some of that fish, gentlemen, may, I repeat may, have been contaminated. The usual procedure is being carried out by the public health authorities in Winnipeg.”
“What about the guy who’s taken over?” repeated Abrahams.
“Please understand,” continued Howard, “that the Maple Leaf Airline has the very strictest standards of hygiene. An accident like this is a million-to-one freak that could happen despite the most stringent—”
“The guy at the wheel! Who is he?”
“One at a time,” said Howard shrewdly, as if warding off a barrage of questions. “The plane’s crew is one of Maple Leaf’s most experienced teams — as you know, that’s saying a lot. Captain Lee Dunning, First Officer Peter Levinson and Stewardess Janet Benson — I’ve got full details right here—”
“Save that,” said Jessup. “We’ll pick it up later.” Two more newsmen hurried into the room and pushed into the group. “What’s the story on the passenger who’s flying the crate?”
“My information is that the first officer, then the captain were taken sick. Luckily there was a passenger on board who had piloted before and he took over the controls with the most remarkable smoothness. Name of George Spencer, from Winnipeg, I assume — he joined the plane there.”
“When you say he has flown before,” persisted Abrahams, “do you mean he’s an ex-airline pilot?”
“Well, no,” admitted Howard. “I believe he flew extensively in the war in smaller aircraft—”
“In the war? That was years ago.”
“What kind of smaller aircraft?” Jessup demanded.
“Spitfires, Mustangs, quite a wide range of—”
“Hold it. Those were fighters. Is this man a fighter pilot from the war?”
“Flying is flying, after all,” Howard insisted anxiously. “He’s under radio tuition from Captain Paul Treleaven, Cross-Canada’s chief pilot, who will talk him down.”
“But hell,” said Jessup almost disbelievingly, “the Empress is a four-engine job. What’s its horsepower?”
“Oh, around 8,000, I’d say.”
“And you mean that an ex-wartime pilot who was used to single-engine fighters can handle after all these years a multi-engine airliner?” There was a scramble as two or three of the newsmen broke away to the telephone
