as Vernon was leaving — on a flight for Rome. He remembered what Vernon had said about enjoying Italian sunshine tomorrow. Mel could do with a little of that, a little less, at this moment, of aviation’s logistics of the ground. Tonight the surly bonds of earth seemed surlier than usual.
Police Lieutenant Ned Ordway, who had left Mel Bakersfeld a few minutes earlier, heard the announcement of Flight Two through the opened doorway of a small security office just off the main concourse. Ordway was in the office receiving a telephoned report from his desk sergeant at airport police headquarters. According to a radio message from a patrol car, a heavy influx of private automobiles, crammed with people, was coming into the parking lots, which were having difficulty accommodating them. Inquiries had revealed that most of the cars’ occupants were from Meadowood community — members of the anti-noise demonstration which Lieutenant Ordway had already heard about. As per the lieutenant’s orders, the desk sergeant said, police reinforcements were on their way to the terminal.
A few hundred feet from Lieutenant Ordway, in a passenger waiting area, the little old lady from San Diego, Mrs. Ada Quonsett, paused in her conversation with young Peter Coakley of Trans America, while both listened to the announcement of Flight Two.
They were seated, side by side, on one of a series of black, leather padded benches. Mrs. Quonsett had been describing the virtues of her late husband in the same kind of terms which Queen Victoria must have used when speaking of Prince Albert. “Such a dear person, so very wise, and handsome. He came to me in later life, but I imagine, when he was young, he must have been very much like you.”
Peter Coakley grinned sheepishly, as he had done many times in the past hour and a half. Since leaving Tanya Livingston, with instructions to remain with the old lady stowaway until the departure of her return flight for Los Angeles, their talk had consisted chiefly of a monologue by Mrs. Quonsett in which Peter Coakley was compared frequently and favorably with the late Herbert Quonsett. It was a subject of which Peter was becoming decidedly weary. He was unaware that that was what Ada Quonsett astutely intended.
Surreptitiously, Peter Coakley yawned; this was not the kind of work he had expected when he became a Trans America passenger agent. He felt an absolute fool, sitting here in uniform, playing dry nurse to a harmless, garrulous old dame who could have been his great-grandmother. He hoped this duty would be over soon. It was bad luck that Mrs. Quonsett’s flight to Los Angeles, like most others tonight, was being further delayed by the storm; otherwise the old girl would have been on her way an hour ago. He hoped to goodness that the L.A. flight would be called soon. Meanwhile, the announcement about Flight Two, which was continuing, made a welcome, if brief, respite.
Young Peter Coakley had already forgotten Tanya’s cautioning words: “Remember … she’s got a barrelful of tricks.”
“Fancy that!” Mrs. Quonsett said when the announcement ended. “A flight to Rome! An airport is so interesting, don’t you think, especially for a young, intelligent person like you? Now there was a place — Rome — which my late, dear husband wanted us both to visit.” She clasped her hands, a wispy lace handkerchief between them, and sighed. “We never did.”
While she talked, Ada Quonsett’s mind was ticking like a fine Swiss watch. What she wanted was to give this child in a man’s uniform the slip. Although he was plainly becoming bored, boredom itself was not enough; he was still here. What she had to do was develop a situation in which boredom would become carelessness. But it needed to be soon.
Mrs. Quonsett had not forgotten her original objective — to stow away on a flight to New York. She had listened carefully for New York departure announcements, and five flights of various airlines had been called, but none was at the right moment, with any reasonable chance of getting away from her young custodian, unnoticed. Now, she had no means of knowing if there would be another New York departure before the Trans America flight to Los Angeles — the flight which she was supposed to go on, but didn’t want to.
Anything, Mrs. Quonsett brooded, would be better than going back to Los Angeles tonight. Anything! — even … a sudden thought occurred to her … even getting aboard that flight to Rome.
She hesitated. Why not? A lot of things she had said tonight about Herbert were untrue, but it
Of course, the flight might be full, with no space for a stowaway or anyone else, but that was always a chance you took. Then for a flight to Italy, she supposed, people needed passports to get aboard; she would have to see how that worked out. And even now, if there was a flight announcement for New York …
The main thing was not just to sit here, but to do
Mrs. Quonsett fluttered her frail, lined hands. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “Oh dear!” The fingers of her right hand moved, hovering near the top of her old-fashioned, high-necked blouse. She dabbed at her mouth with the lace handkerchief and emitted a soft, low moan.
A look of alarm sprang to the young ticket agent’s face. “What is it, Mrs. Quonsett? What’s wrong?”
Her eyes closed, then opened; she gave several short gasps. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I don’t feel at all well.”
Peter Coakley inquired anxiously, “Do you want me to get help? A doctor?”
“I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“You won’t be …”
“No.” Mrs. Quonsett shook her head weakly. “I think I’ll just go to the ladies’ room. I expect I’ll be all right.”
The young ticket agent appeared doubtful. He didn’t want the old girl dying on him, though she looked ready for it. He asked uneasily, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, quite sure.” Mrs. Quonsett decided she didn’t want to attract attention here, not in the main part of the terminal. There were too many people nearby who would be watching. “Please help me up … thank you … now, if you’ll just give me your arm … I believe the ladies’ room is over there.” On the way, she threw in a couple of low moans, producing anxious glances from Peter Coakley. She reassured him, “I’ve had an attack like this before. I’m sure I’ll feel better soon.”
At the door to the women’s room she released young Coakley’s arm. “You’re very kind to an old lady. So many young people nowadays … Oh, dear! …” She cautioned herself: that was enough; she must be careful not to overdo it. “You’ll wait here for me? You won’t go away?”
“Oh, no. I won’t go.”
“Thank you.” She opened the door and went in.
There were twenty or thirty women inside; everything at the airport was busy tonight, Mrs. Quonsett thought, including washrooms. Now she needed an ally. She looked the field over carefully before selecting a youngish secretary-type woman in a beige suit, who didn’t seem in a hurry. Mrs. Quonsett crossed to her.
“Excuse me, I’m not feeling very well. I wonder if you’d help me.” The little old lady from San Diego fluttered her hands and closed and opened her eyes, as she had for Peter Coakley.
The younger woman was concerned at once. “Of course I’ll help. Would you like me to take you …”
“No … please.” Mrs. Quonsett leaned against a washbasin, apparently for support. “All I want is to send a message. There’s a young man outside the door in airline uniform — Trans America. His name is Mr. Coakley. Please tell him … yes, I would like him to get a doctor after all.”
“I’ll tell him. Will you be all right until I get back?”
Mrs. Quonsett nodded. “Yes, thank you. But you will come back … and tell me.”
“Of course.”
Within less than a minute the younger woman had returned. “He’s sending for a doctor right away. Now, I think you should rest. Why don’t …”
Mrs. Quonsett stopped leaning on the basin. “You mean he’s already gone?”
“He went immediately.”
Now all she had to do, Mrs. Quonsett thought, was get rid of this woman. She closed and opened her eyes
