ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE SCHELLING

"There's absolutely nothing we can pin it down to with any real certainty," Kessler said. "No mechanical defects that we're sure of, no sabotage we can put our finger on, no murder or suicide schemes, nothing! We've put that plane back together so perfectly that it could almost fly again! We've got dossiers an inch thick on practically everybody who was aboard, crew and passengers. We've done six months' work and we don't have one single positive answer. The newspapers were yelling about the number of insurance policies issued for the flight but none of them looks really phony."

He stood at the huge window of Senator Brogan's office, looking out at the shimmering sunlight on one of Washington's green malls. Over the treetops he could catch a glimpse of the Capitol dome.

Brogan sat comfortably in the big chair behind his desk. "But weren't there an unusually large number of policies issued?" he asked. His big hands toyed with a little silver airplane propeller, a souvenir of his long-standing interest in the problems of commercial aviation. "You know," he went on, leaning forward on his elbows and replacing the propeller neatly on the base of his fountain pen stand, "this is a matter of interest to me in more than an official sense. Eileen Bennett was one of my wife's best friends. She was on her way to Washington to visit us after a stopover in New York."

Kessler nodded. "I know that's one of the reasons you wanted to compare notes." He stood with his back to the window now, a stocky man with a jaw to match and short-cropped graying hair. "The newspapers were quite right, of course. There were an unusually large number of insurance policies issued for the flight but nearly all were for the minimum amount."

"What about Pearlow?"

Kessler frowned. "Pearlow had reason to be nervous. You know he survived a crash just three years ago. But anyway, the fact remains that we've looked into the backgrounds of every one of those people. None of them was facing any real financial difficulties!"

"That sounds odd in itself," George Brogan said, smiling slightly.

Kessler ran his hand over his hair and returned to sit in a leather chair beside the senator's desk. He smiled in response. "I know it sounds odd but it's true. Their troubles were all run-of-the-mill—getting taxes paid, the mortgage, a new car, a long-overdue raise in salary—that sort of thing. Nothing that anybody in his right mind would kill or commit suicide over."

Brogan lifted a bushy eyebrow in question. "Maybe you've put your finger on it there?"

Kessler ticked off his reply, holding up one hand. "One former mental patient, pronounced cured ten years ago and apparently perfectly normal; a well-established businessman; a used-car dealer; three currently under psychoanalysis; a college girl twenty-one; a housewife with four children; an injured veteran just out of service. None showed any violent tendencies according to their doctors."

"Any criminals?"

Kessler regarded him wryly from beneath his eyebrows. "Don't kid me, senator. I know you've done your own investigation on this. But to answer your question: Evan Prewitt's your man—only one who could qualify. Tried on a manslaughter charge for killing his brother-in-law while they were out hunting. He said it was an accident and the jury agreed. He was acquitted. True, he had one of the large insurance policies, but then I'm sure you know Miss Bennett had one, too."

The senator nodded. "I knew that. But I know very little of Eileen's financial situation otherwise. Not," he added hastily, "that I would for a moment suspect Eileen Bennett of harming a fly. She's one person I could rule out. It would be just like her to fall down the steps getting off the plane, but as for her planning her own death or anyone else's, that's out of the question. She was much too scatterbrained. I hope that's not speaking ill of the dead."

Kessler frowned. "You'll forgive me, senator, in that regard, if I ask you a question? Miss Bennett didn't drink, did she?"

"Eileen? Heavens, no! Oh, she'd have a drink to be sociable, but it was usually a sherry and half the time she wouldn't finish that. I don't suppose you were envisaging the possibility that she highjacked the plane from four officers and two stewardesses and then wrecked it?" This time he smiled the broad toothy smile that made him a favorite with Washington news photographers.

"Hardly. The thing is, I've gotten so I feel I knew every one of those seventy-three people personally. You know, I've interviewed almost two thousand friends and acquaintances of those people and I'm not quite finished yet, just hoping I'll run across something that makes sense. I could have told you Miss Bennett's habits with a glass of sherry, that's why I was a little surprised."

Senator Brogan shook his head. "Oh, no, I didn't mean to suggest anything like that. It's just that Eileen was ... well, clumsy is an unkind word ... unco-ordinated I guess, though she tried to make a joke of it. She was always bumping into things, spilling her glass of water and things like that, but not because she had been drinking too much."

"As for drinking," Kessler said, "there were quite a few real guzzlers on the plane. I don't mean that actor, who was notorious. He'd just lost a part because of his drinking and he was sober for a change. But it's amazing what you'll turn up about respectable people when you start investigating."

"I'm very interested in that aspect, as you may know," Brogan said. "We periodically get bills which would outlaw drinking aboard planes. What are your ideas on that subject?"

"Well, I don't mind a drink aboard a plane myself. Helps me relax. But I have seen some pretty unpleasant things develop during a flight when you get a nasty drunk riled up."

"Did you find any suggestion of that?"

"Not really. The plane took off from Chicago just after lunch time and a good many of the people who got on there had had a drink or two, but there wasn't really enough time to make trouble. The plane had hardly cleared the runway. All the passengers, except one, had their seat belts fastened."

"Now there is something I didn't know! Who was this?"

"Preston, a lawyer from New Jersey. You know how tentative any reconstruction of events must be under the circumstances, but we're pretty sure of this, especially since there was no fire. Preston apparently broke a fingernail trying to fasten his seat belt and one of the stewardesses had brought him a little first-aid kit. He had torn open a Band-Aid and was trying to fasten it around his finger. Obviously this was just before the crash."

"But how do you know he did it with the seat belt?"

"Guesswork, except that it wasn't fastened and we think maybe it just got overlooked after he hurt himself."

"Was he one of the drinkers?"

"No, not at all. Never touched it. In point of fact, nobody was really drunk at the time of the take-off. The flight engineer however had had two drinks at lunch."

Brogan raised his eyebrows. "You were thorough. You're sure?"

Kessler nodded. "Brown was a problem drinker though it didn't seem to interfere with his work. The two drinks are all he had that day so far as we can determine. He showed up for lunch at a girl friend's apartment with a black eye. Made some joke about walking into a door and wouldn't tell her anything else about it. She gave him the drinks at his request, and a big lunch, and put a little makeup on his eye because he'd been pulled from a flight a few months before when he showed up looking as though he'd been in a scrap."

"How did he really get the black eye?"

"There you've got me. Maybe he was telling his girl friend the truth. He had an estranged wife, incidentally, but she hadn't seen him for years. Good riddance, she said."

Senator Brogan picked up the propeller again and rolled it reflectively between his palms. He looked intently at Kessler. "Nothing seems really conclusive, does it? You know some of the wild rumors that have been going around about this crash?" Kessler nodded and started to speak. Brogan held up his hand. "Let me finish. You know and I know—or at least we think we do—that there's nothing to most of these rumors. And I'm not even talking about the wilder ones, like the little people from outer space who are knocking our airplanes down without leaving a trace. You get three or four of these unexplainable accidents and somebody is sure to come up with a really crackpot idea. The general public will not be convinced that this sort of thing can happen with no discoverable reason. Usually we have no way of reconstructing what happened before the accident. Just a couple of unintelligible remarks on the radio, as there were here, and then everyone is dead, the plane is totally demolished, and witnesses on the ground come up with ten different hysterical accounts—if there are any witnesses at all!"

"But this was a little different, after all, senator," Kessler interjected.

Brogan held up his hand again. "Just let me have my say. You know we folks down here in Washington always have a lot to say and we hate being interrupted." He smiled briefly. "This sort of thing has been going on in aviation history for the last fifty years—these unexplained accidents—and there's nothing especially new about this last one. You're shaking your head, but let me continue. One of the reasons they are now getting so much attention is that with the big jets the loss of life is apt to be pretty appalling when an accident does happen, but the actual number of accidents per flight—as you well know—is far fewer than it used to be and has been going down steadily over the years."

Kessler, slumped deep in his chair, fingers arced together before him, stared morosely but said nothing. "Secondly," Brogan went on, "it is not true that these accidents are happening more to American planes than foreign ones. Again it is chiefly that we are scheduling more and more flights. On the law of averages we are doing very well. You know how many crashes the foreign carriers have chalked up in the last year. And just about the same proportion are these so-called unexplainable crashes. It's not that they are unexplainable! It's simply that we don't have the information that would explain them! The very circumstances preclude that. Am I making any sense?"

Kessler nodded. "Yes, senator, I suppose you are, but it doesn't make me any happier. I want to find out why and stop them."

"So do I, I assure you. But let me finish briefly. Among the other wild rumors are suggestions that we are being sabotaged by foreign agents or by their tools. Well now, I'd be the last one in the world—you know my record—to deny the possibility of some folks doing this if they thought they could get away with it. If I thought for one moment—or if I thought that you thought for one moment—that there was some international sabotage going on here, I'd say go on with your investigation till you get the answer!"

Brogan flung himself back dramatically in his big chair, throwing out his arms. "Meanwhile, what are you accomplishing? You've spent—and I happen to know this for a fact—almost a million dollars on this investigation. By your own account you have personally talked to two thousand people about it! You have kept this accident in the public eye and given it far greater importance than it deserves—through no malicious fault of your own, to be sure! But what have you got? Nothing. Exactly what I came up with. Nothing. Tell me, for example, where you got with the political possibilities of this thing. I know you didn't overlook it!"

Kessler smiled wearily. "Just about everything you say is true, George. Only, you see, I would probably never have ended up running this investigation if I were the sort of person that comes up with a question mark for an answer. I said 'human error' in my report, but that doesn't satisfy me. I want to know what human error. I don't think anything happens without a reason. Somehow I feel that it's all there, the answer, in those couple of million details we've pieced together about the plane and the crew and the passengers and it's staring me in the face if I could only see it."

"I agree with you." Brogan raised his hand again in his imperious gesture then dropped it to the desk. "No. I asked to have my say. Now you have yours." He sat patiently.

Kessler grinned. "Thanks, senator. As for the political sabotage possibilities, you've undoubtedly seen a copy of my confidential report. Three of the passengers had definite subversive connections in the past. I know, I'm not trying to make much of this. Their associations all date back to the 1930s and one of them was just a girl flirting with a Communist fellow student, but we didn't want to overlook any possibilities. Pearlow, on the other hand, was Russian born. He's the one who barely survived another airline crash three years ago."

"Pearlow was perfectly loyal. Just an ironic coincidence, that's all. I know the papers tried to make something out of it but I find it hard to believe that you took it seriously. As for Stepowski, he testified openly about his past here in Washington five years ago."

"I know. I even know that Stepowski's favorite television program was 'I Led Three Lives.' I tell you there's very little I don't know about anybody who was aboard, with one possible exception."

Brogan was alert. "Who's this?"

"Oh, it's no great mystery, senator. Robert J. Spencer, of Keokuk, Iowa. We know quite a bit about him, actually, but it's all third hand. He was a retired court stenographer, seventy-three years old, going to New York for his sister's funeral at the time of the crash. He boarded the plane at Chicago. He took a train to Chicago because he didn't like to fly, then he got sick there, apparently from some mushrooms he picked at home and had for lunch before he left. He had to lay over in Chicago for a day and then he got on the plane at the last minute so he wouldn't miss the funeral."

"Sounds to me as though you knew everything about him."

"Funny thing, though," said Kessler, "I have yet to speak to a single person who ever exchanged ten words with Robert J. Spencer. He lived alone, a complete recluse. Neighbors never saw him. Probably his sister would have been able to tell me something about him but she's dead. Actually, while I'm here in Washington I'm going to stop by and see an old acquaintance of his, a Miss Valeria Schmitt. They worked together as court stenographers in Iowa City more than twenty-five years ago. They were engaged but they never married. She moved here during World War II and they never saw much of each other after that." He shrugged. "I know it's a long shot, but I don't want to miss a chance."

Senator Brogan shook his head, smiling. "I have to admire you, Kessler. But may I express some little reservation? Do you really think looking up an acquaintance of Mr. Spencer's from twenty-five years ago is going to help materially in solving the mystery of a plane crash that occurred just last February? Or that the taxpayers could be very happy at this sort of expenditure of their money?"

Kessler flushed darkly and leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands. "Senator," he said, his voice cracking a little, "the taxpayers are not spending a cent currently on this investigation. My staff has been dismissed or returned to their regular duties. I went off the payroll three weeks ago. My final report has been submitted. I'm doing this at my own expense because I feel that I have to. I'm not satisfied. There has to be an answer!"

Brogan turned the emotion away from himself with professional skill. "Bob, look," he said, addressing Kessler by his given name for the first time during their interview, "I'm not criticizing you personally for a second. And that's not why I asked you to stop by. I asked you to come over and see me as a favor. You're not working for me and I don't pretend to be in any position of authority as far as your investigation goes. I asked you here because I'm deeply concerned myself about these accidents and I wanted to know if you could enlighten me in any way. May I say one personal thing though? Aren't you getting emotionally involved in this?"

"Of course I'm emotionally involved!" Kessler burst out. "I'm sorry, George." He passed his hand over his face and went on in a lower voice. "It's just that I've been eating, breathing, sleeping, dreaming this thing for the last six months. I feel as though I knew everyone of those seventy-three people personally. The Patterson girl, who looked as though she might be going to have a little good luck for a change. I even know that the pilot nicked himself shaving that morning. His friends called him Mike even though his name was Edward. He had a fight with his wife the night before. She wanted to eat out and he wanted to stay home. He was working with this crew for the first time though they all knew each other very well."

"Really?" Brogan perked up. "I suppose I knew that. Is it possibly significant?"

"Possibly, possibly. Everything is possibly significant but nothing really adds up. The routines were all standard, the four men were all vets. Aside from the pilot they had all worked together for years, off and on."

"Still, couldn't wires have gotten crossed as a result of some misunderstanding with a new pilot aboard?"

"Sure they could. What with the flight engineer being a souse and the pilot new to the crew and the co-pilot just back after a two-month layoff because of a ski accident. 'Human error,' that's what I said."

"Ski accident? I thought it was the stewardess that had the ski accident? I'm not going to trip you up in your own bailiwick now, am I?"

"Stewardess?" Kessler frowned. "You must be mistaken, senator."

"I felt quite sure," Brogan said musingly.

"I know your reputation for a fact, senator," Kessler said uncomfortably, "but a stewardess with a ski accident. Oh! Oh, yes. But not recent. That was Miss Sosnak, but it was almost a year before. The newspaper accounts got garbled. Both she and the other stewardess, Miss Prentiss, were ski enthusiasts. They were thinking about spending the weekend at Stowe after they got to New York, even though they had both broken ankles previously. Their friends in San Francisco were joking with them about it before they left. They gave Miss Sosnak a doll with a cast on its leg as a gag. The doll was found in the wreckage. Apparently Miss Sosnak had given it to the little girl who was killed on the flight, Barbara Patterson, who actually had a cast on her leg at the time. She had fallen and hurt herself a few days before."

A buzzer on Senator Brogan's desk hummed two short discreet hums. Brogan made no attempt to answer it. He stood and came around the desk, putting his hand on Kessler's shoulder. "Don't get up just yet," he said. "My secretary buzzes me every fifteen minutes in case I want to show my constituents how busy I am. If there's anyone waiting, let them wait. There's just a little bit more I'd like to say." He sat in the wide embrasure of the window and leaned forward on a crossed knee. He looked the picture of negligence but he was obviously pausing to choose his words with care. Kessler shifted his chair to face him.

"I won't mince words," Brogan said, "because I think we understand each other. We always have. Thanks to your splendid investigation, and my only little efforts perhaps, we know more about the circumstances of this crash than any other in aviation history. I had exactly your feeling that the answer ought to be there. But I don't see it and you don't see it. We know absolutely everything but one thing. We don't know what caused it. And we're never going to know that. I really think you are doing the aviation industry, yes and the country itself, a real injury by going on. I won't say what I think you're doing to yourself because it will sound like a sentimental appeal and you've known me too long not to know I'm pretty hard-headed."

"The investigation is over," Kessler said sullenly.

"Yes, I know, officially, but you've just told me you're going on with it personally."

"It's one last remote chance."

"Well, tell me this, Bob, if this last remote chance doesn't work out, will you call it quits and not start in on another last remote chance? Will you and Margaret get on up to that place of yours in Maine and take a good long vacation?"

Kessler smiled wryly. "Margaret has ideas of her own along that line. She's followed through on this with me all the way but she came down to Washington to meet me today and she says she's going to drag me off when I'm through here."

Brogan smiled his famous smile. "Good girl, Margaret. If she's here and has a leash on you, I know I don't have anything to worry about. There's nothing I admire more than a woman who has a mind and uses it. I'll tell you something else," he said, standing and permitting Kessler to rise this time. "I was truly sorry about Eileen Bennett's death on this plane, but Eileen was getting along like me. Sarah Pollitt's was the really tragic case, to have accomplished so much so young and with that fearful handicap! From childhood, too, wasn't it?"