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D B
 DEAD A T TH E TAKE-OFF
BY

LESTER DENT

GO DOWN, DEATH
B Y

SUE BROW N HAYS

B EN EFIT PERFORMANCE
BY
RICHARD SALE

Published for the

D E T E C T IV E BOOK C LU B
by W alter J . Black
N E W Y O R K , N. Y .
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of these books may be reproduced

in any form without permission in writing
from the publishers

DEAD A T T H E T A K E -O F F

Copyright 1946
by Lester Dent

GO DOWN, D EATH

Copyright 1946
by Sue Brown Hays

B E N E F IT P E R F O R M A N C E

Copyright 1946
by Richard Sale

T H E D E T E C T IV E BO O K C LU B
Printed in the United States of America
 B EA D A T TH E TAKE-OFF
BY

LESTER DENT

Published by special arrangement with The Crime Club

 CHAPTER ONE
He swung his head away, tried to pass on. But the man named
Fertig saw him and thrust out an enthusiastic hand. “ Hello, Mr.
M olloy!” Fertig cried. “ H ow are you, Mr. Molloy? . . . God-
amighty, this is a nice surprise, Mr. M olloy!”
He felt trapped. He could not ignore Fertig, so he halted, but his
attitude made it plain that he had only paused on his w ay into the
terminal. He realized with relief that he barely knew Fertig. He did
not so much as know Fertig’s other name; therefore, Fertig must
scarcely know him. So he gazed at Fertig tolerantly, blankly, with­
out recognition, and waited. And presently Fertig’s face became
redder than the heat in the street had already made it. “ Aren’t you
Mr. M olloy?” Fertig asked.
“ N o,” he lied.
He let his tolerant expression become slightly smiling. But he did
not speak again, avoiding the chance that Fertig might become sure
of his voice. The heat pressed against him; it reflected up from the
sidewalk and hurt his eyes, and it was inside his crisp, medium-gray,
tropical-worsted suit. Suddenly he remembered where he had met
Fertig, at an executive session where Fertig had presented some dull
sketches for the new B E T A terminal in Atlanta. Fertig, an architect,
had impressed him at the time as being stodgy and without imagina­
tion, and he recalled disliking Fertig, resenting the man’s callow
glad-handing and obvious salesmanship; even R oy Cillinger, vice-
president in charge of maintenance, who had no imagination beyond
keeping air liners flying, had thought Fertig’s ideas stupid, and they
had dismissed Fertig as being quite inadequate, then had forgotten
about it. Nowr he felt no qualms at having to stare Fertig down.
“ Aren’t you Mr. M olloy?”
He shook his head.
“ That’s funny. . . . I ’d have sworn . . .” Fertig was smoking a fat,
mink-colored cigar, and he took it from his mouth with a quick
grab, leaving a damp flake of tobacco clinging to his moist, full
lower lip. “ I guess I made a mistake.”
3
4 DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF

He shrugged.
“ Sorry,” Fertig said.
1 he taxi driver came across the sidewalk with Molloy’s bag.
Fertig crowded into the revolving door ahead of the taxi driver and
simultaneously a colored porter, wearing gray trousers piped in
maroon and a white shirt, hastened for the bag, so that for a moment
all three Fertig, cabby, and porter—seemed to chase each other
around in the revolving door, while the door made tired breathing
and flapping sounds and emitted gasps of chilly, conditioned air
from within.
He waited. Fie was shaken. His plans, laid with such meticulous
care, now seemed menaced at the very beginning.
Presently the taxi driver came out again, and pushing on the door
with one hand and fending behind him with the other, accepted the
fare of two-twenty and a dollar tip with no visible surprise on his
perspiring face, and went to his cab.
The 1 evolving door was still turning when Molloy stepped into it
briskly. For a quick-stepping moment he was imprisoned in glass
with the hot street air. Swiftly, but only for a second, he was
affected by the dislike for tight places which he’d always had; he
jammed his palms against the door and shoved almost frantically
until he was able to jump clear of the confinement. He stopped then,
his eyes on the porter, who already stood on an escalator with the
bag, moving upward.
. Not liking the incident inside the door, he paused to compose
himself. The hot street air that had come in with him was fanned
away, and the cool, momentarily almost icy, air in the terminal
lobby made itself felt on his face and hands and crept coolingly up
his coat sleeves. He breathed deeply for a few moments, tying down
his emotions, before he stepped on tne escalator and was borne
quietly upward.
He addressed A E A ’s reservations clerk:
I am Air. Rand. . . . Walter Rand. I believe I have a ticket and a
reservation to Albuquerque.”
“ Do you recall what flight?” the girl asked.
“Fourteen.”
The girl rewarded him with a quick smile, for knowing the flight
number made her checkoff much easier. He leaned against the shiny
chrome edge of the counter, watching the porter tie an A E A tag to
his bag. Alert, the porter had heard him say flight fourteen, and
DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF
5
already the porter was stamping the tag with a large maroon 14.
The girl clerk, on the telephone, was telling the main office she was
ticketing Mr. Rand now. When she saw him glance at her she smiled
again to show him that all was well. She filled out his ticket and seat
check, tucked them in an envelope, and handed them to him.
“ You have seat fourteen, Mr. Rand. And you have almost an hour
to wait. When the limousine is ready it will be announced. In the
meantime, if you have nothing to do, there are reading material,
billiards, and ping-pong in the lounge. Just ask the lounge hostess
for whatever you wish. And thank you very much, Mr. Rand. I
hope you have a pleasant flight.”
He nodded pleasantly. Fertig stood facing him when he turned
around, and Fertig was looking at him with a puzzled expression.
He stepped around Fertig without changing expression and crossed
to the lounge, his footfalls silenced by the deep nap of the taupe
carpeting. He was sure Fertig had heard him called Mr. Rand.
When the lounge hostess, who was very pretty, came toward him
he shook his head. He passed to a deep chair done in bronze leather
and bright copper nails, in a secluded spot, and sank into it. He
selected a magazine from a low table, although he had no intention
of reading, was in no frame of mind for reading.
Relax. That was what he had better do. The tension he was under
was making itself felt in his muscles as a tightness, and certainly it
■ was affecting his nerves. Actually he had felt this w ay for days.
Anger was making the tension; there was nothing much he could,
or wanted, to do about the anger. But he knew he shouldn’t let it
do quite so much to him.
Finding there was a mirror in front of him, he inspected his reflec­
tion grimly. He saw a man with a bony but presentable face and
large hands, a ransry man with a businesslike and nearly hard neat­
ness about him. His brown eyes, wide open and earnest, betrayed
none of the rage that had been burning him for days. He opened
his mouth wide with surprise at the reflection, something he always
did when he looked at himself in a mirror; the mouth was mobile,
but the lips were firm, not given to smiling very much. He took off
his hat, and the sheen of his blond hair was a contrast to his darkly
tanned skin. He took a cigarette out of silver case and was tapping
it on the case when George sank into another chair, a few inches
from his own.
“ She’s here,” George said.
6 DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF

“ W here?”
“ In tnere, where you get your tickets.”
“ Alone?”
“ Yes.”
“ When did she arrive?”
“ Just now. A minute ago.”
“ I believe you should keep watch on her continually.”
“ Kiggins is doing that.”
He placed the cigarette between his lips and explored for a match.
George quickly struck a light, saying, “ Here you are, Mr. Molloy.”
He bent toward George’s match; the flame leaned toward his ciga­
rette three times as he drew on it. He was not an inhaler, and he
cleared his mouth of smoke before he spoke.
He said, “ Have any trouble?”
“ N o.”
“ Think she might know you have been trailing her? ”
“ N o.” S
He was sure of George. But he had never liked George’s bold
self-assurance any more than he liked George’s bawdy displays of
immorality. “ Every man is wrong once in his life,” he said sharply.
“ She left her hotel about nine,” George said. “ She rushed out
and did what every woman does at the last minute before she leaves
N ew York—bought a hat. Then back to the hotel. I trailed her out.
Kiggins brought her back. She didn’t see either one of us. And she
didn’t leave the hotel again until about fifteen minutes ago, when
she came straight here.”
“ Just so you’re certain she didn’t notice anything.”
“ Not a chance.”
“ I trust you’re neither one wearing the same clothes you wore
when you trailed her this morning.” He was still irked by George’s
assurance.
“ W e’re not, Mr. Molloy.”
“ A ll right then. . . . What did you say she is doing now?”
“ Getting her tickets, the last I saw of her.”
“ H ow many tickets?”
“ I don’t know.”
“ Find out.”
George came back presently and stated, “ She picked up two
tickets, Mr. Molloy.”
DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF 7
“ T w o ,” he said thoughtfully. Then he asked a question which had
occurred to him: “ How did she act when she came into the termi­
nal? Did she look around?”
George said, “ She looked around all right. Whoever she expected
wasn’t here, and then she seemed worried.” George consulted a
flashy yellow-gold watch held on his hairy wrist by an expanding
band of yellow gold. “W e haven’t too much time for what w e’ve
got to do to her,” George said.
He stubbed out his cigarette on the tray and hold out his hand to
George. “ Let me have the pictures.”
There were two photographs.
Janet Lord’s picture, both George and Kiggins had assured him,
was an excellent likeness. It was a studio shot, so probably it was
retouched. Janet Lord’s face was rather monotonously oval, the way
pretty girls’ faces are oval, but the mouth was nice, the nose had
character, and there was alertness about the eyes. His interest in
the picture was more than ordinary.
“ Some babe,” George said.
Molloy knew Janet Lord was twenty-five. He wondered why,
with all the Lord money and prestige in her background, she had
not yet married. . . . Janet Lord, he realized suddenly—rage whip­
ping through him—looked enough like her father, Senator Wendell
Lord, for it to hit him hard. Staring at the photograph, he noted the
Lord chin, the Lord eyes, even the Lord sweep of her hairline. His
rage—the wrath that had fired him for days—at Senator Lord, made
a taste like rusty nails in his mouth.
He put Janet Lord’s photograph aside. “ So this is her nephew,”
he said, looking at the other picture.
“ Yeah, the senator’s grandson. Wouldn’t guess it, would you?”
Taylor Lynn’s picture was a snapshot of a slight young man with
a girlish chin and pop eyes. Molloy, hating the young man whom
he did not know and had never seen, hating him because he was the
senator’s grandson—full of this abhorrence, Molloy searched for
some family resemblance young Lynn might bear to his grandfather.
He could perceive none. Taylor Lynn seemed much what Molloy
had heard he was, a dissolute scion, a weakling, a braggart with
more than a few vicious twists in his character.
He placed both photographs inside his coat, then straightened his
coat. He asked, “ What about this Taylor Lynn?”
8 DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF

George said, “ Huh?” George’s eyes were fixed on M olloy’s coat,

on the spot where Janet Lord’s photograph had disappeared.
“ Has Lynn shown?”
“ No. . . . N ot since he sent her that telegram telling her to get
two airline reservations to N ew Mexico and he would fly back to
the senator’s ranch with her, after he transacted some business in
N ew York.”
“ Taylor Lynn’s telegram was sent from Kansas City, wasn’t it?”
“ That’s right.”
“ Have you a copy?”
“ Yes.”
“ Let’s have it.”
He placed the copy, which was on a telegraphic blank but written
in pencil, in his outside right coat pocket.
He suddenly stood up. He felt tight, on edge; now he was appre­
hensive of what lay ahead, so concerned that he found it difficult
merely to sit any longer. “ What are the chances that T aylor Lynn
got in touch with her and had her cancel the reservations, so that
they won’t be going out on flight fourteen?”
“ Mighty little chance,” George said. “ W e covered telegrams and
telephone at her hotel, and she didn’t get any mail. Anyw ay, she just
picked up two tickets, didn’t she?”
“ If she picked up two.”
“ Kiggins said she did.”
M olloy reshaped the crown of his hat, then put the neat dark hat
on his head.
Lie said, “ I think I ’ll have a look at Miss Janet Lord.”
“ W e haven’t got so much time, Mr, Molloy.” George was con­
cerned.
“ W e have enough,” he said.
H e walked across the lounge, jogged to miss a billiard table where
a small dark man with a lopsided smile was playing with a large man,
passed under an air-conditioning vent which blew coldly on him for
a moment, then on into the larger waiting room. Lie noticed Fertig.
The man was buying fat cigars, filling both upper vest pockets with
them. O f perhaps forty people in the room, four were at the T W A
ticket counter, five at United, the rest divided among the other air­
line ticket counters and the newsstand, the fountain, the long leather
seats.
DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF
9
He saw the one who must be Janet Lord. Because it was all right
for her to notice him, and might fit in well with the plan if she did,
he went over to stand beside her. She seemed to be looking at maga­
zines; he pretended to look at them, too.
Janet Lord was taller than he had expected, and better-looking
than in the photograph. She wore deep navy, with barely enough
white in accessories to lend a frosty crispness. He searched, from the
corner of an eye, for the family resemblances to the senator which
he had discovered and which had stirred his anger in the photograph.
Surprisingly he could see none, none at all, in the profile view he
was getting of her.
Doubt seized him. There was a chance he had mistaken the girl,
and this was not Janet Lord, but in a moment he saw Kiggins
standing primly at the soda fountain with a limeade in her hand.
Kiggins, when she had his eye, nodded almost imperceptibly.
So she was Janet Lord. She had not, apparently, noticed him. She
would be astonished, he was inclined to think, if she were aware of
how much he knew about her. A believer in fullest preparation, he
had learned all he could about her in the time available. George and
Kiggins had done a good job of corralling information, helped,
probably, by a private-detective agency; he did not know what
methods George and Kiggins had used, and did not consider it impor­
tant. Long ago he had trained himself to be concerned with only the
conception of an idea and its final outcome; it had not been easy for
him to learn to hand the mechanics of executing projects to sub­
ordinates, but he had mastered the facility and it had been, he was
sure, an important acquisition; it had been his making as an executive.
Janet Lord . . . Five feet six, weight one-eighteen, twenty-five,
unmarried, unengaged, a Stephens graduate, Kappa Phi, held a
private pilot’s license, made very good amateur photographs, danced
well. Pier brand of cigarettes was Virginia Rounds; when she drank,
which was infrequently, she preferred manhattans. . . .
Factual, but unimportant, he had thought. He felt that, detailed
as his investigation of her had been, it had not, somehow, given him
a feel of her character. These things about her—fairly ordinary
things they were too—were too external. T hey portrayed her, to his
disbelief, untouched by the hard, eccentric, piratelike nature of her
father, Senator Lord. He did not believe this. He did not think it
was possible. The senator was an amateur photographer of fame,
IO DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF

and she had the same hobby, but something like that somehow
hadn’t been what he was seeking. It wasn’t the sort of stark inward
thing he had expected to find. He regarded the senator as nothing
less than a devil, and he had expected to find the devil’s daughter.
H e hadn’t. He wasn’t satisfied and he was disturbed, also, because
what he planned to do might become very distasteful if she were
not a true Lord.
Fie studied her. Yes, she would be surprised if she were aware of
how much he knew about her. Another thought leaped into his mind
•—how horrified she would be if she knew his intent.
He watched her hands, supple, slender, tuck a magazine she had
selected under her arm. Then her hands became busy with her purse
that was black corde piped in white. A moment later the magazine
escaped from under her elbow, fell to the floor.
“ Oh—damn!” She grabbed for the magazine and missed and
slapped her thigh with her hand instead.
He picked up the magazine and returned it to her.
“ Thank you,” she said, her voice without interest.
He had planned to smile pleasantly; if he could make a genteel
pickup at this point, fine; it would save time and skulduggery. But
his smile wouldn’t function; it became congealed in the muscles of
his face when he saw her family resemblance to Senator Wendell
Lord. Now, when she had faced him, the likeness was shocking.
He would have been affected less, infinitely less, if she had turned
out to have a snake’s head.
He said, “ Y ou’re on flight fourteen also, aren’t you? . . . Be nice
if we hit some cooler weather, wouldn’t it?” Emotion—the hate—-
made him sound crude.
She looked through him and beyond him and said, “ Thank you for
picking up my magazine.” The words made her meaning plain. She
was squelching him. She turned and paid for the magazine and
walked away.
I pushed too hard, he thought.
He went back into the lounge and sat where he had sat before.
George grinned at him and said, “ She’s not too bad, didn’t you
think?”
Lie said, “ Get Kiggins.”
Waiting, he lit another cigarette, watching his hands to see
whether they were shaking. T hey were not. The two men were still
DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF II

playing billiards, the small dark man with the lopsided smile and the
large man. He watched them and estimated that their chances of
overhearing a conversation were slight. He removed his hat and
placed it on the low table, on top of the magazines, and leaned back
to wait, but almost at once he picked up the hat again and put it on
his head; then, recognizing the business of the hat as a sign of
nervousness, he grimaced briefly. George and Kiggins came and
seated themselves in the chairs, close on either side, in listening
attitudes.
“ George,” he said, “ will get her purse.”
“Jeez, you mean steal it?” George’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“ That’s right.”
“ W hen?”
“ Right away.”
“ That may not be so easy,” George said.
He contemplated George thoughtfully. “ You had better make it
easy, and quiet,” he said grimly. “I don’t want her to know you’ve
got her purse. As soon as you’ve got it I want you to go into the
men’s washroom and wait for me. You won’t have to wait long.”
“ What if somebody sees me pulling this dip job?”
“ You will make sure nobody does.”
“ I don’t get it,” George said.
“ Kiggins will help you.” His eyes dropped to the ribbon of blue
smoke that was lifting from his cigarette. “ You might work it like
this: Kiggins can walk up to her and pretend to mistake her for an
old school chum. She was a Kappa Phi, and I happen to remember
that Kiggins was also a Kappa Phi. Kiggins, you can give her what­
ever Kappas give each other, but make it gushing. Distract her while
George gets her purse. Maneuver her into standing up so she will
leave her purse lying on the seat.”
“ Women keep their purses in their hands,” Kiggins said.
“ Hers is large and heavy. She will probably have it lying on the
seat beside her, not on her lap.”
Kiggins nodded. “ It may work.”
He said, “ If it doesn’t work, think up something else that will.”
“ I don’t get it,” George repeated.
The billiard game had halted. The large man threw a five-dollar
bill on the table; the small man put his hand on one end of the bill;
the large man, angry, immediately placed his hand on the other end,
12 DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF

and they began to argue in low voices. The small dark man pointed
at various places on the table with his free hand. He no longer wore
his hat, and there was a bone-colored bald spot on top of his head.
Molloy drew on his cigarette. “ The idea is this: A few seconds
after George gets her purse I will go to her and say I saw the fellow
who got it. I will convince her I can recover it quietly and quickly,
and proceed to do so. That should arouse her interest in me, give me
an in. Once I have that, I think I can finish the job.”
“ It’s corny, Mr. Molloy,” George said. “ But if it comes off . . .
Yeah, it’s not bad.”
He tapped ash into the tray. “ I’m not saying it is good, mind you.
I f you have a better idea w e’ll try that.”
“ This sounds as good as any.”
“ Let’s shoot, then.”
George arose and left, a stocky man with wide hips and sloping
shoulders. Kiggins remained seated a few moments. Her knees were
primly together, her skirt pulled down. He knew Kiggins was
looking at him with grave, nunlike disapproval; he did not meet her
gaze and presently he knew she had gone away.
He looked after Kiggins coldly. She often made him feel ill at
ease. Kiggins was a strange, icy woman from whom he had never
seen a single display of a warm emotion. He didn’t think she was
frigid inside. He suspected Kiggins of being made like a bomb, with
a hard casing.
Arising, he carried his cigarette with him. He passed the two
billiard players, who were no longer arguing, although the game
seemed to have ended abruptly, and drew again from his cigarette.
He was a few steps into the waiting room when he realized one of
the billiard players—the small dark one— had seemed to be watching
him, and he swung his eyes back quickly, but the small dark man
had lost, or was now concealing, his interest. The little man had
walked over and was picking his hat off a chair. Molloy went on
toward the waiting room with purposeful strides.

CHAPTER TWO
The dead man lay on his back. He was near the window of the hotel
room, and the window was open. T hey had opened the window
DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF 13
after they killed him, hoping the circulation of air would help dry
the carpet. T hey had spilled some water during the earlier stages
of killing him, when they had first shoved the rubber hose down his
throat.
T hey had killed him by forcing water into his lungs and stomach
through a hose, over and over, until he was dead. It had been a
messy business.
T hey had tidied up the hotel room, though. It was now neat and
in order; surely the room maid, if she noticed anything, would think
that someone had spilled some drinks; hotel guests frequently spilled
drinks.
The wind, sultry warm and freighted with carbon monoxide from
the automobiles in the street, was springing gustily through the
window, shaking the curtains and scrubbing the room.
He lay, in death, with his legs apart, wider apart at the knees than
at the ankles, and with his right arm upflung, so that with a little
imagination he might have been conceived as in the attitude of riding
a polo pony and grasping a polo mallet. He had played considerable
polo. He had not been good at it, but he had professed to be. Once,
only once, had a magazine printed his picture on a pony and dressed
for the game, and he had bought scores of copies of the periodical;
an impressive sportsman’s publication printed on coated paper, cir­
culating mostly among the wealthy, and handed out the copies to
those he called friends without realizing they were only associates.
Truthfully, he had no friends. He had made some and lost them.
He was known as a rat.
Outdoors, above the hotel roof, thunder ran with a loud gobbling
across the sky. Tall, violent cumulo-nimbus clouds had come a few
minutes ago and quenched the sunlight, turning the air to murk; the
wind that was now whistling in the window, making the curtains
dance a mad buck and wing, was the forerunner of an imminent
storm.
He had small teeth, like a rat. Friendless, he lay, alone and dead.
Few would mourn his passing, but they would be amazed if they
knew the truth.
The remarkable thing was that he had died twice. A t least citizens
were now dragging a reservoir in N ew Mexico for his body. The
draggers wouldn’t find his body in the deep gray sage-and-alkali-
flavored waters, since his body now lay dead in this N ew York hotel
 DEAD AT THE TAKE-OFF
14
room; just as dead as it would have been if he had drowned in the
reservoir surrounded by yucca-studded hills. Also, the cause of death
was the same. Drowning.
It was not as complicated as it might seem. He had known in
N ew Mexico that they—the men who later killed him—were hot
on his trail. He had taken flight in N ew Mexico. They had cornered
him as he was driving the reservoir road in his Diana cream roadster;
they were behind him; they had blocked the road ahead of him.
Cunningly he had driven his roadster through a guard rail, and it
had hurtled outward and downward, remaining upright, not turning
in the ah' the w ay cars do in the movies. The waters, where it landed
with a great splash, were forty feet deep. He had not been in the
car. He had leaped out before it went over the edge and had
crawled away through the mesquite and sage, pleased with his
acumen, and did not discover until he reached N ew York, and
they closed in on him again, that he had only delayed their pur­
pose.
He had wondered during the early part, before he was too
involved in the horror of dying, w hy they were killing him with
water.
N o friends. And only two or three who loved him; these probably
being his aunt and his grandfather. These had to love him because
people of families are made that way, the w ay the earth is made
round and rotating on its axis.
Again and again, in the sky, the thunder rattled itself. A double
page of a newspaper, snatched by the wind from the street and
carried upward, went whirling past the open window, giving a
flash of grayish white, like a soiled ghost; presently it flopped against
the brick wall of the hotel and was held there by the wind, com­
pletely motionless.
Presently a man came out of the bathroom to stand and look at
the body. He was a slight, middle-aged man. He had been in the
bathroom washing his hands, over and over again; he had washed
his hands seven times in the last two hours. This was the first man he
had killed.
He watched the body. He thought: That boy was a fool, for he
was born into one of the richest families in the nation, and while he
was not a sole heir, his inheritance would have been considerable
had he merely been satisfied to live and let live. Only the man did
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Valves 19
Valves—mechanism 21
Water cooling system 37
Water pump 38
Wiring diagram—four-cylinder 34
Wiring diagrams—single-cylinder 32
 ANOTHER BOOK BY THE SAME AUTHOR
A bigger and more comprehensive work
on the same subject.

“The How and Why of the Automobile”

DID you ever read a book which gave you just
the information you wanted without being
compelled to go through page after page of
introduction and history?
¶ Did you ever talk to a man who came over on
your side of the fence and talked WITH you and
not AT you—who explained things in such a way
that you laughed at yourself afterwards for not
understanding the subject before—it was really
so simple?
Do you remember when you used to study by outlines—how difficult problems unfolded
themselves—how the logical sequence of facts seemed to make what you expected to find
hard, readily understandable?
Do you remember the innumerable times you have said to yourself “If I only had somebody
here to explain things—someone who would go through this proposition with me until I
understood it—someone who would use homely and familiar examples to explain things,
instead of talking over my head by using technical terms?”
The author realized all these difficulties himself, because he has been through it all. Not only
that, but his experience as an instructor of a large motor school taught him the way to
explain the various parts of a motor vehicle in simple language, so that even the boy of
fifteen could understand and appreciate them.
For instance, did you ever think that the physician uses a form of carburetor whenever he
gives chloroform or ether—do you realize that a shotgun is a form of gas engine whose
action is almost identical with that of an automobile motor?
Do you want to know what a sliding gear transmission is—explained in such simple
language that anyone can understand it?
Would you like to see what’s inside of an automobile engine—would you like to know the
name of every part—be able to talk intelligently about it and be your own mechanic—tell
your chauffeur what to do—know when he is bluffing you?
In a word, would you like to know all about a motor car—how it works—how to drive it and
how to take care of it? Then subscribe for a copy of

“THE HOW AND WHY OF THE AUTOMOBILE”

By FAY L. FAUROTE
PRICE, $1.00 PREPAID
Don’t delay—send in your order to-day. Get the complete story of a motor car—the advanced course of which
the book you have just finished is only the beginning.

Address,
Motor Text Book Dept. ROBERT SMITH PTG. CO., Lansing,
Mich., U. S. A.
 “THE HOW AND WHY OF THE AUTOMOBILE”
A book of practical information for seekers after the fundamental facts regarding the
gasoline engine and its application to the motor car.
Interesting and instructive to both the beginner and the expert—the former for
information, the latter for reference.
Written by Fay L. Faurote, B. S. (M. E.), for five years closely associated with the
Experimental Department of a pioneer automobile factory, for two years instructor in the
Detroit Motor School.
The book, which is handsomely bound in full cloth, printed on high-grade enameled
paper, contains over 200 pages and 250 illustrations and covers the following subjects:
CONTENTS
General Theory of Gas Engines—Simple explanation of cycle—The four-
stroke cycle—The two-stroke cycle—Advantages and disadvantages of each.
Motor Design—Cylinder, what it is and its use. Valves, mechanical and
automatic—Forms of valves—Valve timing and its influence on the motor—
Valve grinding, how to do it—Valve nomenclature. Crank Case—The
construction Bearings—Accessibility—Working parts—Uses. A crank case
oiling system. Crank Shafts—What they are—One, two, four and six-cylinder
crank shafts—Crank case diagram, showing instantly conditions in all cylinders
—Diagram showing firing points and sequence of same. Connecting Rods—
Construction and material—Bearings and lubrication. Pistons—Piston rings—
Piston pins.
The Carburetor—A very simple explanation of carburetion—The mixing valve—
A few of the first types—Some of the modern carburetors—Foreign carburetors.
Ignition—The make and break system—A simple explanation of the apparatus
used. The Jump Spark System—Electrical units. Sources of Electricity—
The dry cell—The storage cell—Dynamos and magnetos—The spark coil—
Commutators and timing devices—Spark plugs—Wiring diagrams.
Cooling System—Air Cooling. Water Cooling—Direction of circulation—
Radiators—Water pumps—Fans—Anti-freezing solutions.
The Transmission—Reason for and use of transmission. Simple Explanation
of Action—Individual clutch type—The sliding gear—The three speed
progressive—The three speed selective—The four speed selective—Planetary
gear—Friction drive.
Methods of Driving—Single chain drive—Double chain drive—Bevel gear drive.
Running Gear—Front Axle—Construction of—Steering Gear. Rear Axle—
Differential gear—The live axle—The dead axle—Wheel construction—
Bearings.
Horse Power Determinations—Engine testing—Indicated horse power—Brake
horse power—Mechanical and heat efficiency—Road testing.
 What a Prominent Trade Paper Says About It.
A Handbook of Practical Value—The latest addition to the popular type of
automobile handbook. “The How and Why of the Automobile,” by Fay L. Faurote, fulfills
what its author has set himself to achieve, namely, to present a plain, easily understood
description of the modern automobile. Assuming that his reader knows nothing about the
subject, the author introduces the automobile in as simple and untechnical a manner as
possible. The entire field is covered and covered so completely that the work can be
recommended as a handbook for beginners or those with only a limited knowledge of this
subject.—Automobile, April 18.
Send in your order at once—don’t delay. The price is $1.00 postage pre-paid, and the
address is

Motor Text Book Dept., ROBERT SMITH PTG. CO., Lansing,

Mich., U. S. A.
 Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made
consistent when a predominant preference was found in the
original book; otherwise they were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced
quotation marks were remedied when the change was
obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.
Illustrations in this eBook are shown as close as possible
to their original positions in the printed book, so several of
them actually are mid-paragraph. This was done because
some of them are referenced only by their content, not by their
names.
The index was not in good alphabetical order; Transcriber
re-sorted it. It was not checked for correct page references.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOY'S TEXT
BOOK ON GAS ENGINES ***

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