The Navy moved in on Brewster Aeronautical Corp. last week, seized Brewsters two plants in Long Island City (where it manufactures dive-bomber parts), its big, new, final assembly plant in Johnsville, Pa. (where it is supposed to be zipping out finished planes) and its plant at Newark Airport (where it makes wingtip floats and other gear for Consolidated Catalina Flying Boats). Brewster was the fifth U.S. firm to be seized by the Government since war began in Europe.* The others had all been taken over in the midst of their labor wrangles, but in this case there was no strike. Washington threw no light at all on the seizure. Said the White House: "Dissatisfaction with the management." Said the Navy, in a controlled tone: "The corporation holds contracts for combat-type aircraft, the orderly and regular delivery of which is essential to the war effort. The existing private control. . . has not proved adequate."

Apparently Navys airplane-production staff, headed by onetime General Motors Man James D. Mooney, had made up its mind that Brewster needed a strong hand. From inside the plants came an account of the "inadequacy": that the FBI had found several dozen saboteurs working for Brewster (in the morning big swastika-shaped holes were sometimes found punched in plane wings); that when the company attempted to fire suspected men, the union intervened; that the Navy stepped in to end sabotage. From the plants also came rumors that confusion, inefficiency and mismanagement had delayed production. From aircraft circles came gossip: Brewster officials had bitten off more than they could chew. From James Work, chairman of the Brewster Board, who has seen his company mushroom from a little subcontractor into a big prime contractor with over $100,000,000 worth of orders, came only silence.

But a satisfied smile wreathed the jowls of chunky, brick-solid little Congressman Albert Engel of Muskegon, Mich., a passionate and indefatigable private investigator whose only other hobby is bricklaying. In the smile was a hint of what Engel believed: at least part of the trouble at Brewster was what happens when a few greedy men get their hooks in a company. Not so long ago Congressman Engel arose in the House, piled brick upon brick of accusation against Felix William Zelcer, onetime vice president of Seversky Aircraft Corp., before that proprietor of the White Horse Tavern in Manhattan; and the suave Miranda Bros.—Alfred Joseph Jr., and Ignacio Joseph. Congressman Engels story:

Mexican-born, merchants for bombs, grenades, guns, other lethal wares of war, the Miranda Bros, were jailed in 1940 for selling munitions destined for Bolivia in violation of an arms embargo in the Gran Chaco War. Never idle, even in jail, the Mirandas arranged to handle sales for the Hayes Manufacturing Co. (airplane parts) of Grand Rapids, Mich. They got Hayes an order for parts from Brewster Aeronautical Corp. Their own commission was 5%. Out of jail, they joined Partner Zelcer in their Manhattan office, and arranged with Brewster to handle the sale abroad of its Buffalo fighters. They operated as the "Brewster Export Corp.," charged up to 12½% commission, and were in a position to collect on sales of parts to Brewster and sales of Brewster planes abroad. They stood to make hundreds of thousands of dollars before wars end. They also bought into Hayes and Brewster, acquiring some 10% of the stock of each.

Mr. Engel wanted to know what service the Mirandas & Zelcer could render to justify the payment of such commissions, which must ultimately be added to the taxpayers bill for the war. Stockholders grew curious, too. One of them sued the directors and officers of Brewster, charging that the Mirandas dominated Brewster and got "excessive commissions." Congressman Engel asked the Vinson Naval Affairs Committee to investigate. But the Navy, also impatient, moved in first. No one said that the Miranda setup had anything to do with the Navys seizure. But chunky Mr. Engel, who loves to lay bricks, knows that bricks that are piled carelessly atop one another will finally collapse. Around Washington this week ran the rumor that Brewster, first plant to be seized for other than labor troubles, might not be the last. The military had a cold eye on other plants where bricks were piled too high.

The Brewster Aeronautical Corp. of Long Island City is among the most substantial U.S. production fizzles of World War II. Earlier in the war, Brewster made a fighter plane, the Buffalo, that got into action in the Far East before Java and Singapore fell. By 1942 it had converted to making the Buccaneer, a not-so-hot dive-bomber, and is about to start making the Vought Corsair, an excellent Navy fighter. But the biggest trouble is not with the quality of Brewster planes, but with the quantity, which is a very meager military secret. Thus far the Axis has had little to fear from Brewster.

Last week a Manhattan Supreme Court judge listened to a settlement designed to unravel Brewsters main financial tangle: a stockholders suit claiming that the corporation had been milked by three supersalesmen who took enormous commissions on foreign war contracts that Brewster would have got anyway. The salesmen: the brothers Alfred J. and Ignacio J. Miranda, and their partner, Felix William Zelcer. The settlement: the trio got clear title to $2,800,000 in commissions already paid them, to $800,000 they were paid as brokers on accessory sales, and to $500,000 of the $2,300,000 still due them.

Miraculous Mirandas. Mexican-born (1897, 1898), U.S.-naturalized (1930) Alfred and Ignacio Miranda have had quite a career. When their fathers New York City export business went broke (he backed the wrong general in Mexicos Madero revolution of 1910), they left school to learn the export business themselves. By 1921 they knew enough to form their own outfit, Miranda Bros. Inc., prospered by selling things below the Rio Grande. First it was automobiles. Then they became minor-league merchants of death, unloading leftover U.S. war supplies in Latin America and in the Balkans. The leftovers ran out. So the Mirandas formed their own manufacturing company, American Armament Corp., to make light artillery and ammunition. On the side Miranda Bros. Inc. found plenty of other things to sell. In 1926 they tied up with Major Alexander P. de Seversky, sold transport planes for him in Europe and Asia. They hawked Captain Melvin Maynard Johnsons famed semi-automatic rifle, finally landed him a big Dutch order. Through Seversky they hooked up in 1938 with Felix William Zelcer, a Polish-born ex-speakeasy operator with a yen for aviation.

The Mirandas have had lots of bad luck. Most of their corporate clients (like Seversky) did not really get into the big time until after the Mirandas contracts had run out. One of their Latin-American deals ended, in 1940, in a Federal sentence for violating the Presidents 1934 neutrality proclamation by selling bombs to Bolivia (via Chile) in the Gran Chaco War. The bombs went into Curtiss-Wright planes and Curtiss pleaded guilty to the same charges — but the Mirandas were sent to Lewisburg Penitentiary while Curtiss got a $220,000 fine. This year their main American Armaments plant was requisitioned by the Government, turned over to Vultee. Badgered Brewster. For the Mirandas, the Brewster deal was the saddest of all. In 1939, brother Ignacio decided that Brewsters export arrangements were 1) feeble, 2) expensive. Brewster paid a 3% finders fee" commission on all business, plus 10% to the resident foreign agent, but had almost no foreign business.

Ignacio sold Brewsters president James Work on the Miranda Bros, at a 12½% maximum commission. (The purchaser paid for it in higher prices.) Miranda-sold orders poured in from Britain and Holland, both rearming. Brewsters James Work slashed their commission to 4.6%, then to 4.1%. Needing capital, he sold 50,000 shares of stock to the brothers and Zelcer at $12 ($1.50 above the market and twice what it sells for now). The Mirandas invested $250,000 in Hayes Manufacturing Corp. at above-market prices, to help finance accessory sales to Brewster, and paid $700,000 more to clamoring ex-Brewster foreign agents. Thus, even before their overhead began, the Mirandas sank $1,550,000 in their Brewster venture, bringing a $107,000,000 foreign backlog to the company.

Brewsters Buccaneer dive-bomber was full of mechanical bugs. The U.S. Navy took over, then moved out in a month and put in aviation oldtimer Charles A. Van Dusen. By this time the Miranda-Zelcer 10% stock interest was frozen in a voting trust, the commissions due them on new deliveries were frozen in stockholders suits, and Brewster itself was solidly frozen in production and financial red tape. In came still another management — this time Miracle Man Henry J. Kaiser himself. To other stockholders, who had seen Brewster earn less than $300,000 while the Miranda threesome were due to earn $5,400,000 (and had already earned $2,800,000), all this looked somewhat fancy. The Mirandas claimed that Brewster bad management was not their fault. To them, Brewsters low earnings had no connection with their own.

Everybody Happy? Last weeks settlement, like most compromises, appeared to make everyone reasonably happy. Said the Mirandas lawyer: "A complete vindication." (The brothers need it to bolster their plea for a Presidential pardon on their prison sentence.) The opposing lawyers pointed out that any "exoneration" of the Miranda group must wait until Justice J. Sidney Bernstein gives final court approval later this month. And some Buccaneers are finally in action. In any case, whatever earnings there are on its current backlog (around $257 million) will henceforth belong to Brewster. But the Mirandas are too busy planning a bigger & better export business after the war to bemoan the fact that they are pretty much on the sidelines for the duration. Right now they are dreaming of air-conditioning Latin America.