"What good was a report if you couldn't identify the aircraft?"
A shrewd smile split Cashman's lips. "Ah may be a country boy, but mah momma didn't drop me outta her bottom this mornin'." He stood up and tilted his head toward a side door. "Major, ahim gonna make your day."
He led Pitt into a small dingy office furnished with only a battered desk that was decorated with at least fifty cigarette burn marks, two equally battered chairs and a huge metal filing cabinet. Cashman walked straight to the cabinet and pulled out a drawer, rummaged for a moment, found what he was looking for and handed Pitt a folder soiled with greasy fingerprints.
"Ah wasn't kidding' ya, Major, when ah said it was too dark to make out any paint markin's. Near as ah could tell, the plane had never been touch by a brush or spraygun. The aluminum skin was -,Is shiny as the day it let the factory."
Pitt opened the folder and scanned the maintenance report. Cashman's handwritin left much to be desired, but there was no mistaking the notation under AIRCRAFT IDENTIFICATION: Lorelei Mark V111-B1608.
" How did you get it?" Pitt asked.
"Compliments of a limey inspector at the Lorelei factory," Cashman answered, sitting on a corner of the desk. "After replacin' the seal on the nose gear, ah took a flashlight and checked out the main landin' gear for damage or leakage, and there it was, stuck away under the right strut as pretty as you please. A green tag sayin' that this here aircraft's landin' gear had been examined and okayed by master inspector Clarence Devonshire of Lorelei Aircraft Limited. The plane's serial number was typed on the tag."
Pitt threw the folder on the desk. "Sergeant Cashman!" he snapped.
Stunned at the brusque tone, Cashman jumped erect. "Sir?"
"Your squadron!"
"Eighty-seventh Air Transport Squadron, sir."
"Good enough." Pitts cold expression slowly worked into a huge grin and he slapped Cashman on the shoulder. "You're absolutely right, Sam. You truly made my day."
"Wish ah could say the same," Cashman sighed, visibly relieved, "but that's twice in the last ten minutes ya scared the crap outta me. Why'd ya want mah squadron?"
"So I'd know where to send a case of Jack Daniel's. I take it you enjoy good whiskey?"
A look of wonder suddenly came over Cashman's face. "By gawd, Major, you're sumthin' else. Ya know that?"
"I try." Already Pitt was plotting how to explain a case of expensive whiskey on his expense account.
What the hell, screw Sandecker, he thought; the tab was worth the consequences. Screw, the word bounded out of his mind 56
and caused him to remember something. He reached inside his pocket.
"By the way, have you ever seen this before?" He handed Cashman the screwdriver he'd found on the black Lorelei.
"Well, waal, fancy that. Believe it or not, Major, this here screwtwister is mine. Bought it through the catalog of a tool specialty house in Chicago. It's the only one of its kind on the island. Where'd you come across it?"
"In the wreck."
"So that's where it went," he said angry. "Those dirty bastards stole it. Ah should a known they were up to sumthin' illegal.
Ya just tell me when their trial is, and ah'fl be happier than a rejected hog at a packin' plant to testify against them."
"Save your leave time for a wor-thwbhe escapade.
Your friends won't be showing for a trial. They bought the farm."
"Killed in the wreck?" It was more statement than question.
Pitt nodded.
"Ah suppose ah could go on about crime not payin', but why bother.
If they had it coming', they had it coming'. That's all there is to it."
"As a philosopher, you make a great hydraulic specialist, Sam." Pitt shook Cashman's hand once more.