"026 (B016) - The Spook Legion (The Ghost Legion) (1935-04) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Chapter 2. NUT?

THE average American lives in a high-pressure world where things happen with rapidity. He is not inclined to become wildly excited about an occurrence which does not menace him directly.
These plane passengers were no exceptions. They merely looked around. Those farthest away stood up. Nobody screamed. Nobody yelled.
The stewardess went forward and said something to the two men in the control compartment. The assistant pilot left his seat, came back and confronted the fat man with the revolver.
"What's the idea, brother?" he demanded.
The man with the gun moistened his lips, then reached up and absently adjusted his black felt hat.
"I'm terribly sorry," he said.
The co-pilot did not seem impressed, but repeated, "What was the idea?"
The plump man became glib.
"I am an actor," he said. "I was mentally rehearsing a scene from my new show. My enthusiasm got the better of me, and before I realized this was no place for such a thing, I had leaped up and reenacted a bit from my part."
The fat man was still standing up, and he absently reached around and stowed his handkerchief in a hip pocket. The paper which had blown over the back of the empty seat was still in the hand which held the handkerchief.
The man carefully stowed the paper in an inner pocket.
The assistant pilot whipped out a hand suddenly and seized the other's gun before he could resist.
"You might have shot somebody," he said angrily.
The portly man rolled his eyes, then fixed them downward at the empty seat. Perspiration beads came out from under the band of his black hat.
"I fired blank cartridges," he said.
The associate pilot broke open the gun, ejected the cartridges, and three empties and two slugs came out. With a finger he indicated the leaden pellets in the two unfired cartridges.
"This don't look like it," he said.
"The first three were blanks!" the plump man gulped.
"Yeah?" The flier scowled. "I'll see about that. The bullets should have hit somewhere."
He leaned over, as if to get into the empty seat and hunt for bullet holes.
The fat man did a surprising thing. He leaped back, threw out his arms dramatically and began to speak in a stagelike voice.
"The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured," he intoned. "And the sad augurs mock their own presage. Incertainties now crown themselves assured, and peace - "
The associate pilot straightened.
"What the hell?" he demanded.
"Shakespeare," declared the plump man. "The supreme dramatist, my good fellow. The supreme dramatist! And a very good friend he was indeed" The man winked and crossed two fingers. "He and I were like that."
The pilot smiled slightly and his weather-beaten features assumed a knowing look. He winked at the other passengers, then dropped an arm over the fat man's shoulder.
"So you and Shakespeare were buddies," he said, with the manner of one agreeing with a person he considers insane. "Tell me about it, mister. I've always wanted to meet someone who knew Shakespeare."
"Shakespeare was the supreme dramatist," said the fat man. "Knowing him was a pleasure, a supreme pleasure. Indeed it was!"
"Sure, sure," said the pilot.
The aviator thrust the portly one down in his seat, then sat on the chair arm and encouraged him to talk ramblingly of Shakespeare, who had been dead hundreds of years. The plane swung down toward the landing field.
The passengers had been interested in the little drama. Two or three had crowded close, among these the big fellow who looked like a prizefighter. He had looked closely at the empty seat into which the gun had been discharged.
There were no holes or tears in the seat where a bullet might have struck.
The prizefighter individual went back to his seat. Seated in such a position that no one could see his hands, he opened one hand and examined the object which it held. This was the fat man's handkerchief, the one which had been wrapped around the gun muzzle. It had been filched from the owner with consummate cleverness.
There were holes in the handkerchief, undoubtedly holes made by leaden bullets ripping through.
THE plane landed without event, and the portly man arose to get his baggage and disembark with the rest of the passengers. But the co-pilot grasped his arm firmly and requested, "Please wait."
The plump man's next words were not nearly as inane as his earlier ramblings.
"What for?" he demanded.
"Shakespeare wants to see you," said the flier.
It looked as if the portly one was on the point of venting an explosive, "Hell!" but he did not. Instead, he stated, "Shakespeare has been dead a long time."
"Well, you'd better talk to this fellow who says he is Shakespeare," said the assistant pilot, and went forward to consult with the airport operations manager.
They discussed the fat man and the shots.
"He's daffy," said the co-pilot. "Something ought to be done about a guy like that running around with a gun. He'll kill somebody."
"Put him in a car and take him to the police station," suggested the manager.
"Good idea," agreed the co-pilot.
"The pilot will help you," added the manager.
There were two observers to this conference, neither of whom was close enough to overhear. The fat man was one, standing and fumbling his black hat uncertainly. The prizefighter individual was another, although he looked on in a fashion calculated not to arouse suspicion. He was ostensibly fumbling over his baggage.
The plane had emptied by now, and mechanics had appeared to wheel it into a hangar. One of them drove a small caterpillar tractor, which was hitched to the ship and pulled it toward the hangar.
The pilot and co-pilot approached the fat man.