“You really didn’t get any sleep last night, did you?”
“I caught about two hours, after the sun came up. Don’t you like my idea?”
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to kill G. P.?”
“I don’t rule that out. I’d rather have him publicly humiliated first.”
Mantz was gazing at me as if I were insane; imagine that. “You’re not joking, are you?”
“Not in the least. You take that cocksucker up for a ride, I’ll toss him out of the plane. Deal?”
“You need some rest….”
“I’m not looking for you to subsidize my investigation, Mantz. I’m off the clock; call it a busman’s holiday. All I ask is for a little information, a little help; I need you to approach some people and set up some meetings.”
He was shaking a hand in the air, as if waving goodbye. “Look—I was all for this…”
“
“…but that was when Amelia hadn’t left the country, yet. We coulda done some good. We coulda saved her. But right now, her best chance is the government, the Coast Guard, the Navy, that they find her. And if she’s workin’ for them, it benefits them to find her—they gotta be spendin’ millions on this search—”
“Further proof you were right. Since when does the government, who can barely get Congress to give ’em two nickels for defense, go spendin’ that kind of dough looking for a downed stunt pilot?”
His expression was grave. “I’m sorry, Heller. I’m out.”
“You got a charter today?”
“…No.”
“You do now.” I reached in my hip pocket for my notebook. “I want to talk to these radio nuts…. McMenamy, who I understand has done work for you, and this Myers kid, in Oakland.”
“Well…”
“You want dough? Here.” And I dug in my front pocket for my money clip, and tossed two double sawbucks on his desk. “That cover the charter?”
“You want me to fly you to Oakland to talk to a fourteen-year-old kid with a ham radio.”
“That’s right. And I want you to set up a meeting for me here, with the other guy, McMenamy.”
“Heller…stop….”
“Earlier, you assumed the best. Now let’s assume the worst: she crashed in the ocean and if she was unlucky and didn’t die on impact, the sharks made screaming meals out of her and Noonan. That’s a menu courtesy of G. P. Putnam and Uncle Sam.”
“I’ll make the calls,” he said. “And take your goddamn money. Get it off my desk.”
“Okay,” I said, and put the twenties back in my money clip, not giving a damn whether he took them or not.
That’s how far gone I was.
Within the hour, Walter McMenamy was seated before me at a table at the back of the Burbank terminal’s Sky Room restaurant. He’d been doing some work at Patterson Radio Company for his friend Karl Pierson, chief engineer for the firm and a fellow amateur radio enthusiast.
“We’re designing an entirely new type of short-wave receiver,” McMenamy said, his voice soft yet alive with enthusiasm. Probably in his mid-thirties, and despite his businesslike dark suit and navy and red tie, McMenamy came across as a husky kid, his oblong head home to a high forehead with dark widow’s-peaked hair, and boyish features: bright eyes, snub nose, full, almost feminine lips.
“Thanks for dropping everything,” I said, “to come talk to me.”
It was midmorning, and we were drinking Coca-Cola on ice.
“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Heller,” McMenamy said. “I’ve been busting to tell somebody, and when Paul said you’re looking into this mess, you couldn’t keep me away.”
“What have you been busting to tell somebody?”
He leaned forward. “Well, did Paul fill you in on what my role was to be, on the first attempt at the world flight?”
“Yes he did.”
McMenamy had been retained by the Putnams, at Mantz’s advice, as a technical advisor, selecting and installing the latest radio equipment in the Electra. He’d also been enlisted to assemble volunteers among fellow members of the Radio Relay League, a worldwide short-wave radio club, to follow the Electra, particularly over the more isolated regions on its flight path. A base station on Beacon Hill, near Los Angeles, was selected for optimal reception.
“We had a big responsibility,” McMenamy said, obviously relishing the thought, “providing en route communications that’d help ensure Amelia’s safety, and Mr. Noonan’s—particularly weather reports and forecasts.”
“And you could relay information to G. P. Putnam,” I said, “to feed the press.”
He nodded. “Day-by-day progress reports. It would have really built public interest.”
“What happened, Mr. McMenamy?”
“Call me Walt.”
