Pulp Fiction | The Finger in the Sky Affair by Peter Leslie Read Online Free

where—that'll take weeks. And it's not a job that you can rush, by its very nature. If you lean too heavily on the man doing the reconstruction, he may in his haste destroy the very fragment holding the clue to the whole thing!"
    "I see. Then it seems our only lead is the survivors. Are there many?"
    Waverly sighed. His lined face looked suddenly tired and old in the harsh light streaming through the window from Queens. "From the five crashes," he said, abstracting a sheet of paper from the folder which still lay on his desk, "there are precisely five survivors."
    "How do they relate?" Solo asked.
    "A stewardess from the second Nice disaster—there were no survivors from the first. This burned fellow from the third crash there. And a steward and two passengers from one of the American crashes."
    "Which one, sir?"
    "The aircraft that stalled on take-off. A DC-6, it was. At Chicago."
    "No survivors from the other?"
    "None at all. It was a pressurized 707 that blew up in mid-air, somewhere over California, I believe."
    "Do we have any technical data, Mr. Waverly, on the supposed causes of these two American crashes?" Illya asked. "I mean, were they as incomprehensible as the three at Nice?"
    "There was no provable hypothesis—nothing in the nature of evidence that would convince an inquiry tribunal. But I understand Maximilian Plant—he's the head of T.C.A., as I expect you know—I understand he has a few ideas on what may have happened. I said we'd send somebody over to see him at their H.Q. on Fifth Avenue, right?"
    "Right, sir," Solo said. "I'll go over myself. Now, if you can let us have the names and addresses of these survivors, we'll get onto them right away."
    Waverly adjusted his spectacles and read from the paper:
    "James Lester, steward, suffered from severe burns; now back at his home; 1362 Venice Avenue, Cicero, Illinois. Olive McTaggart, passenger, multiple injuries and severe burns; still in St. Mary's Hospital, Chicago. Enrico Spaggia, passenger, two broken legs and second degree burns; back at home in Worsthorne Course, State Street, Wilmington, Delaware....That's the three in this country. In France, you have the stewardess, Andrea Bergen, and the poor fellow who ran out of the fire the other day—he hasn't recovered consciousness yet."
    Solo had been taking notes. He looked up. "Where can we find these two?" he inquired.
    "The girl's just come out of the hospital—she was very badly knocked about. You can find out her address in Nice from the T.C.A. bureau at the airport there. The man, Foster Andersen, he's in the Anglo-American hospital between Nice and Villefranche."
    "Okay," Solo said. "Illya—will you handle the two at Nice? I'll look after Maximilian Plant and the three here..."
    Waverly stared at the row of five enamel buttons inset into the top of his desk. After a moment he jabbed a finger at the yellow one in the middle. There was an amplified click and then the blonde's disembodied voice:
    "Yes, sir?"
    "Get me General Hartz at the Pentagon," Waverly barked at the invisible microphones. He scowled at the pipe rack while he was waiting for the connection and then, rejecting its entire contents with a shake of his head, hauled an old Meerschaum from the pocket of his baggy tweed jacket and placed it unlit between his teeth. A red indicator light was flashing on the wall.
    "Yes?" the Head of Section One said into the air.
    "General Hartz on the line, Mr. Waverly."
    "Put him on."
    Another click; a faint, high, singing noise. And then:
    "Alex? How's tricks, you old rascal! What can I do for you?"
    "I want an army jet, Number One Priority, to ferry an operative to Nice, France, as soon as possible, David."
    "Can do, as it's for you. How soon is 'as soon as possible'?"
    "Leaving here as of now."
    "Okay. Where are we gonna pick him up?"
    "I'll fly him to you by helicopter from the roof of this building. Can you have the plane ready by the time he gets to you?"
    "Sure thing, Alex. He'll carry the