she take it, or that he put it down, while having dinner. The passenger refused. He continued to hold the case where it was, and she noticed that he clasped it as if it was important. Later, instead of letting down the folding table from the back of the seat ahead, he used the case, still held on his lap, to support his dinner tray. Accustomed to passengers’ peculiarities, Gwen thought no more of it, though she remembered the man well. The description in the message fitted him exactly.
“Another reason I remember is that he’s sitting right alongside the old lady stowaway.”
“He’s in a window seat, you say?”
“Yes.”
“That makes it harder — to reach across and grab.” Demerest was remembering the portion of the D. T. M.’s message:IF SUPPOSITION TRUE ,LIKELY THAT TRIGGER FOR EXPLOSIVES WILL BE ON OUTSIDE OF CASE AND EASILY REACHABLE . THEREFORE USE EXTREME CAUTION IN ATTEMPTING TO SEIZE CASE FORCIBLY. He guessed that Gwen, too, was thinking of that warning.
For the first time a feeling, not of fear but doubt, intruded on his reasoning. Fear might come later, but not yet.
Anson Harris was easing out of the turn as gently as he had gone into it. They were now headed around completely.
The Selcal chime sounded again. Demerest motioned to Cy Jordan, who switched radios and answered, then began copying down a message.
Anson Harris was talking once more with Toronto Air Route Center.
“I wonder,” Vernon Demerest said to Gwen, “if there’s any chance of getting those other two passengers alongside Guerrero out of their seats. That way he’d be left there, in the three-seat section, on his own. Then maybe one of us could come from behind, lean over and grab.”
“He’d suspect,” Gwen said emphatically. “I’m sure he would. He’s edgy now. The moment we got those other people out, whatever excuses we used, he’d know something was wrong and he’d be watching and waiting.”
The second officer passed over the Selcal message he had been copying. It was from D.T.M. Lincoln. Using the hooded light, Gwen and Demerest read it together.
NEW INFORMATION INDICATES EARLIER POSSIBILITY OF EXPLOSIVE DEVICE IN POSSESSION OF PASSENGER GUERRERO IS NOW STRONG PROBABILITY REPEAT STRONG PROBABILITY. PASSENGER BELIEVED MENTALLY DISTURBED, DESPERATE. REPEAT PREVIOUS WARNING TO APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION. GOOD LUCK.
“I like that last bit,” Cy Jordan said. “That’s real nice, wishing us that.”
Demerest said brusquely, “Shut up!”
For several seconds — apart from routine flight deck sounds — there was silence.
“If there were some way,” Demerest said slowly, “… some way we could trick him into letting go of that case. All we’d need would be a few seconds to have our hands on it, then get it clear away … if we were quick, two seconds would be enough.”
Gwen pointed out, “He wouldn’t even put it down …”
“I know! I know! I’m thinking, that’s all.” He stopped. “Let’s go over it again. There are two passengers between Guerrero and the aisle. One of them …”
“One of them is a man; he has the aisle seat. In the middle is the old lady, Mrs. Quonsett. Then Guerrero.”
“So Grandma’s right beside Guerrero, right alongside the case.”
“Yes, but how does it help? Even if we could let her know, she couldn’t possibly …”
Demerest said sharply, “You haven’t said anything to her yet? She doesn’t know we’re on to her?”
“No. You told me not to.”
“Just wanted to be sure.”
Again they were silent. Vernon Demerest concentrated, thinking, weighing possibilities. At length he said carefully, “I have an idea. It may not work, but at the moment it’s the best we have. Now listen, while I tell you exactly what to do.”
In the tourist section of Flight Two most passengers had finished dinner, and stewardesses were briskly removing trays. The meal service had gone faster than usual tonight. One reason was that due to the delayed takeoff, some passengers had eaten in the terminal and now, because of the lateness of the hour, they had either declined dinner or merely nibbled at it.
At the three-seat unit where Mrs. Ada Quonsett was still chatting with her new friend, the oboe player, one of the tourist cabin stewardesses — a pert young blonde — asked, “Have you finished with your trays?”
“Yes, I have, miss,” the oboist said.
Mrs. Quonsett smiled warmly. “Thank you, my dear; you may take mine. It was very nice.”
The dour man on Mrs. Quonsett’s left surrendered his tray without comment. It was only then that the little old lady from San Diego became aware of the other stewardess standing in the aisle.
She was one whom Mrs. Quonsett had observed several times previously, and appeared to be in charge of the other girls. She had deep black hair, an attractive, high-cheekboned face, and strong dark eyes which at the moment were focused, directly and coolly, on Ada Quonsett.
“Pardon me, madam. May I see your ticket?”
“My ticket? Why, of course.” Mrs. Quonsett affected surprise, though she guessed immediately what lay behind the request. Obviously her stowaway status was either suspected or known. But she had never given up easily, and even now her wits were working. A question was: how much did this girl know?
Mrs. Quonsett opened her purse and pretended to search among its papers. “I know I had it, my dear. It must be here somewhere.” She glanced up, her expression innocent. “That is, unless the ticket man took it when I came aboard. Perhaps he kept it and I didn’t notice.”
“No,” Gwen Meighen said, “he wouldn’t have. If it was a round-trip ticket, you’d be holding a return flight coupon. And if it was one-way, you’d still have the ticket stub and boarding folder.”
“Well, it certainly seems strange …” Mrs. Quonsett continued fumbling in her purse.
Gwen inquired coldly, “Shall I look?” From the beginning of their exchange, she had shown none of her customary friendliness. She added, “If there’s a ticket in your purse, I’ll find it. If there isn’t, it will save us both wasting time.”
“Certainly not,” Mrs. Quonsett said severely. Then, relenting: “I realize you mean no harm, my dear, but I have private papers here. You, being English, should respect privacy. You are English, aren’t you?”
“Whether I am or not doesn’t matter. At this moment we’re talking about your ticket. That is,
“Oh, I have a ticket. It’s just a question of where it is.” Mrs. Quonsett smiled engagingly. “About your being English, though, I could tell you were from the very first moment you spoke. So many English people — people like you, my dear — make our language sound delightful. It’s such a pity so few of us Americans can do the same. My late husband always used to say …”
“Never mind what he said. What about your ticket?”
It was hard for Gwen to be as rude and unpleasant as she was being. In the ordinary way she would have dealt with this old woman firmly, yet remained friendly and good-natured; Gwen also had a reluctance to bully someone more than twice her own age. But before she left the flight deck, Vernon had been explicit in his instructions.
Mrs. Quonsett looked a little shocked. “I’m being patient with you, young lady. But when I do discover my ticket I shall certainly have something to say about your attitude …”
“Will you really, Mrs. Quonsett?” Gwen saw the old woman start at the use of her name, and for the first time there was a weakening behind the prim facade. Gwen persisted, “You are Ada Quonsett, aren’t you?”
The little old lady patted her lips with a lace handkerchief, then sighed. “Since you know I am, there’s no point in denying it, is there?”
