by Tony Medawar
He was out to break the solo record from the Cape to Croydon, flying the Central route. Messages from the air—he was carrying wireless—recorded his progress for a few hours. He had gained a slight lead on the record.
Shortly before reaching Bechuanaland[1], his voice was picked up, sharp-edged with anxiety, announcing that oil was streaming from a leak in the piping.
He was next heard of near Lichtenberg, reporting that his oil tank was now practically empty and he would have to land.
Garnett brought off an excellent landing in a field, tramped two miles to a house, and here managed to send a messenger into Lichtenberg. A garage proprietor came out hot-foot to make the necessary repairs and soon Garnett was in the air again, but the delay had lost him all chance of the record. Garnett would, therefore, never have been heard of by the public on his arrival at Croydon three days later had it not been for an unexpected event.
Garnett landed, taxied up to the tarmac and cleared Customs. Several airline pilots, with the chivalry of their kind, went up to the aeroplane to congratulate him on what had been a fine achievement in flying, even if it had brought him no laurels.
Garnett was quite cheerful, they said afterwards, though naturally the strain of continuous flying showed itself on his face. When a ground engineer came up to manoeuvre his plane into the hangars, he said he would taxi it in himself—a matter easy enough, for the airport hangars have an enormous span of door.
With a grin and a wave, he opened the throttle again and the little plane lolloped into the far hangar. They heard what was apparently the backfire of an engine, but, when a ground engineer went in later, Garnett’s head was leaning over the side of the cockpit, a bullet through his temple and a slightly surprised expression on his face. Green oil dripped on him in patches from the oil tank above.
The hangar was deserted …
Charles Venables, Crime reporter of the Mercury, was drinking a modest bitter in the bar of the aerodrome hotel, having called in there for refreshment on the way back from a holiday at Brighton. With him was Murgatroyd, a reporter on the same paper.
Captain Mainwaring, of Planet Airways, came into the bar looking a little pale, ordered a brandy quickly and then stared at Venables with an expression of startled incredulity.
The recognition was mutual, for Mainwaring was Planet Airways’ private charter pilot and had often flown Venables on Mercury assignments.
‘How on earth,’ began Mainwaring, ‘did you get here so soon? Damn it, it’s not possible. It only happened three minutes ago!’
A faintly wolfish look came into Murgatroyd’s eyes. Venables gazed blandly at his glass.
‘You know what we newshounds are. We know a man’s going to bite a dog before it happens. Tell us your version, Duggie.’
Mainwaring shrugged his shoulders.
‘There’s not much to tell you. Garnett landed and we said the kind word. Then he taxied out of sight. There was a bang and there he was.’
‘There he was,’ repeated Venables. ‘Er—dead?’
‘Of course. I say, though, how did you know?’
‘We didn’t, to tell you the sober and honest truth. We just butted in. What luck! But what are you doing in the public bar, Duggie, instead of being in the pilots’ room?’
Mainwaring looked a trifle confused. ‘Oh, I rather liked Garnett,’ he said jerkily. ‘I didn’t somehow want to discuss—you know what it is—he’s not popular here—stunt merchant, you know—still, a good lad—’
Mainwaring broke off abruptly and gulped down his brandy. Venables and Murgatroyd hurried off to the aerodrome.
At the entrance a uniformed attendant stopped them.
‘That’s all right, my man,’ said Venables haughtily. ‘We’re from the Department of Works and Buildings.’
The attendant stepped aside respectfully.
‘We’ve come to count the partridges on the aerodrome,’ added Murgatroyd, who could never let a joke alone. ‘We understand these airliners have been disturbing them, which is serious, as they are all the perquisites of His Majesty’s Master of Buckhounds.’
By this time, however, Venables was halfway towards the hangars and no harm was done.
‘Self-inflicted?’ asked Venables gently of the doctor, who was wiping the drying blood from the wound.
The doctor was non-committal.
‘That’s for the coroner. Here’s the revolver that fired the shot, clasped in his hand.’
‘And could the wound have been self-inflicted?’
‘It could,’ admitted the doctor.
It was, decided the jury, after listening to the coroner’s brief summing-up.
‘You have heard evidence to the effect that Garnett was deeply in debt,’ the coroner had said, ‘and was relying on the successful outcome of this flight to get him out of his difficulties. You have heard the evidence of friends who tell you of his depression before he left for Cape Town. One of them admits that, before Garnett left, he said that if he didn’t make a success of this last attempt, he would blow his brains out.
‘He may not have been serious, of course, but we cannot overlook it. He deliberately refused the help of a ground engineer when taking his plane to the hangar, as if he had some purpose to accomplish which could only be done in secret.
‘The doctor has told you that there is scorching on the skin, showing that the muzzle of the revolver was held almost in contact with the temple. In these circumstances it is difficult to see how the action could have failed to be deliberate, although we have no trustworthy evidence of his state of mind. I hope the example of this gifted but unstable young airman will dissuade other youngsters from rash and hazardous attempts to get rich quick.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ grumbled Venables to Mainwaring that evening, ‘but why wasn’t anything said about the oil tank? There it was, with a great rent in it big enough to put your hand in, oil splashed all over the machine, and over Garnett, too; and yet no one says a word about it at the inquest! It’s not fair and it’s not right, Duggie.’
‘But what could they have said about it?’ asked Mainwaring, reasonably enough.
‘Nothing! Therefore all the more reason to mention it. I don’t like it at all. Things like that ought to be explained.’
‘He had oil leakage on his trip over South West Africa,’ Mainwaring reminded him.
‘Be reasonable, Duggie, please be reasonable! And you an airman and all. Garnett’s trouble then was a leaky connection, with the oil seeping out gradually. But, good-night, every pint of oil in the tank would drop out of the hole we found! It isn’t as if the oil tank were under the cowling, where he couldn’t see it, as it usually is.’
‘Ah—ha,’ said Mainwaring, ‘we’ve been studying our aviation, have we? So you think there’s something serious, eh?’
‘I will not deny,’ answered Venables, ‘that I do. As I was saying, the oil tank is in the centre section above the pilot, and he couldn’t help noticing a leak. Besides, the hole has obviously been made with some kind of tin-opener.’
‘Well, Venables,’ answered Mainwaring more seriously, ‘I won’t deny that Garnett was the last person I should have imagined would take the coward’s way out. He had a pretty tough streak in him. I could imagine him getting into any kind of trouble; in fact I had to caution him before this last show about the company he was keeping. But as to killing himself, no, that’s not Garnett!’
‘Pity you couldn’t have told me all this before, Mainwaring,’ said Venables, turning a pair of keen eyes on the other’s cheerful, ruddy face. ‘What sort of company, eh?’
Mainwaring looked uneasy. ‘Keep it under your hat, Venables. It’s like this. There’s a certain crowd who’ve got an ancient “Moth” which they’ve been using for smuggling in saccharine from Germany. A risky job. I saw Garnett hanging round with the little German who runs the show; and I stopped it.’
‘Stopped it?’
‘Yes. I told the German that if he tried to get Garnett mixed up in his game
I’d blow the gaff to the police. I haven’t done it before because I believe in keeping my nose out of other people’s business. Of course, as a result Garnett quarrelled with me and we weren’t on speaking terms when he left; but I do know that he wasn’t mixed up in that game.’
‘There’s a fishy smell about this, Mainwaring! I wish I’d gone into things closer. Can’t you think of some reason for that confounded oil tank?’
Mainwaring scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘Dashed if I can, Charles.’
Suddenly his face brightened. ‘Here’s an idea. Supposing the revolver were fastened inside it, so that when Garnett switched off the engine, the gadget automatically fired it?’
‘And automatically thrust the revolver into his hand, at the same time blowing sky-high all traces of the remarkable apparatus. My poor dear Duggie, what have you been reading?’ Venables laughed. ‘Well, don’t look so depressed. Tell me, do you know anything about Africa?’
‘’Fraid I don’t. But Fawcett, who’s on our Cape service, is in London now. He’s South African born.’
Venables had a long conversation with Fawcett and promptly went on to see Detective-Inspector Bray, an old friend of his.
‘Bernard, do you remember a neat little suicide at Croydon aerodrome?’
‘I do,’ said Bray, looking at him suspiciously.
‘Quite sure it was suicide?’
‘Oh, so you’ve got your nose on the trail, have you, you old devil!’
‘I’m just asking; are you sure?’
‘Well, the coroner was satisfied.’
‘Bernard, don’t be so damned diplomatic. Cough it up.’
Bray laughed. ‘Ask our Press Bureau.’
Venables gave a groan. ‘Look here, Bernard, I promise not to breathe a word. And if you tell me anything that’s of any use, I’ll turn in my information later before publishing it. That’s fair enough!’
Bray considered. ‘I can’t tell you anything. But you ask and I’ll answer.’
‘Fingerprints on the revolver?’
‘No smears of any kind. Wiped beautifully clean. Except the murdered man’s.’
‘No fingerprints! Very suspicious. Of course, Scotland Yard didn’t think of examining the cartridges.’ Venables dug Bray in the ribs.
‘Got it in one!’ said that gentleman. ‘You’re a sharp little cuss, aren’t you? Yes, there were nice fingerprints on the cartridges.’
‘Which perhaps matched the ones on the oil tank?’ suggested Venables casually.
‘Yes, confound you, they did. Has anyone here been gossiping?’
‘Not a soul. All Charles’ own deduction. Well, give us a print. I swear I won’t let it go out of my sight.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Bray agreed. ‘Now what do you make of it?’
‘It’s what I’m going to make of it. Watch my dust!’
A little later, Mainwaring was surprised at the earnestness with which Venables pressed upon him a whisky and soda. He would have been even more surprised had he seen the sleight by which Venables replaced the used glass with another.
‘Well, it’s not Mainwaring, thank Heavens,’ said Venables later, comparing the prints. ‘A pity one has to be so suspicious in this game.’
Nathan Marcovicz, merchant of Hatton Garden, looked up with a smile of welcome on his face.
‘Why, Venables, this is delightful!’
He had often pressed Venables to come in and look him up, ever since Venables had traced the missing Borridge diamond, which had disappeared while under Marcovicz’s care.
Venables had refused to accept any reward from him, ‘But one day I’ll come down on you for help like a ton of bricks.’
Marcovicz, nervous, dark, with the slow stare of the short-sighted, had renewed his protestations of gratitude.
‘Marcovicz, old boy, I’m in the market for diamonds! Lots of them.’
Marcovicz did not blink. ‘Certainly. What weight and water? And how do you want them cut?’
‘In the raw, if you please. Any size or shape, and so forth. But lots of them.’
Marcovicz frowned. ‘But if you would tell me what you want them for—’
‘I don’t want them, see? You’ll have to get them in on appro. in sackloads. Then when I’ve found out what I want, find some excuse to return them. I leave that to you.’
The diamond merchant was silent for a long time.
‘You put me in a difficult position, Venables. I suppose the diamonds you want have been stolen. Well, I can get in touch with what we call the black diamond market here. I’ve kept clear of it before, of course, but I’ll do it for you. But if the diamonds are stolen, I shall first be asked to give my word that I won’t let anything out to the police. Naturally, in the ordinary way I should have nothing to do with such a promise. But if I had to give it for you—’
‘You won’t,’ said Charles. ‘The diamonds I want are the lawful property of the owner. He may even tell you where he got them from, if you ask him. And look here, I’m making you a present of a pretty little set of Woolworth’s lighters. See that any likely client uses one, will you, and don’t get them mixed up.’
Venables called in a few days later and found Marcovicz jubilant. ‘I’ve got the bloke you want, I think. A fellow with pretty nearly a pint of large diamonds, won’t say where he got them but swears they are his property. They’re all uncut and I can’t place them for the moment. They’re not from the Kimberley deposits.’
‘No, they’re not,’ said Venables. ‘Let’s have a squint at the lighter.’ He compared the fingerprints. ‘Yes, he’s the man I want. Name and address? Sydney Jones, Marshalsea Hotel! Right! Send Jones a message to say that your client will come round to deal with him personally and send back the diamonds at the same time.’
‘Right-ho!’
Venables fingered the dull-looking pebbles. Then he sniffed them. ‘Do diamonds generally smell of petrol?’
‘Good Lord, no!’
‘Very interesting!’ said Venables thoughtfully.
Humming gently to himself, Venables put several large rings on his fingers.
‘What an invaluable place Woolworth’s is!’ he murmured, as he adorned his tie with a large emerald pin. ‘I think I look like the sort of person who would buy diamonds in quantity.’
With a silk hat on the back of his head and a large cigar in the corner of his mouth, Venables took a taxi to the Marshalsea Hotel and called on Mr Jones.
Mr Jones was a small man, looking rather like a prematurely bald monkey and dressed in violet plus-fours. Venables, who for the occasion talked in a loud American accent, began to discuss the diamonds expertly, having been instructed by Marcovicz.
Suddenly, in the middle of the conversation, he rose with a groan, clutched at his breast and, with contorted face, sank writhing on the carpet.
‘Heart!’ he muttered and then doubled up with pain again. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment,’ he went on hoarsely. ‘Do you mind popping out to the chemist and getting some sal volatile? I’ll be right as rain when this attack’s over.’
As soon as Jones had left, Venables recovered miraculously. He had already noted that the nearest chemist was some distance away. This gave him time to search Jones’ luggage. He soon found what he wanted: a badly oil-stained shirt and coat sleeve thrust at the bottom of a trunk.
Carefully placing them in the briefcase he had brought with him, Venables equably awaited the arrival of Jones. Jones held out his purchase and, as Venables’ hand came out to meet it, the little man suddenly found his arm seized in a grip of iron.
‘Don’t struggle, my dear soul,’ said Venables chillingly, all trace of American accent gone. Otherwise there’ll be a nasty wrenching sound. You’re in quite the most effective grip, as taught at Peel House.’
‘What is this outrage? Are you a thief?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ said Venables unblushingly. ‘I happen to be a police detective.’
‘You don’t sound like a nark to me,�
� said the other suspiciously. ‘Not the way you speak now.’
‘I’m one of the police college products, dear old boy. Would you like to see the school colours on the underwear?’
The little man’s eyes were wary now. He had gone pale, or rather his tan had become unappetisingly mottled. ‘What’s the charge?’ he said in a low voice.
‘Being in unlawful possession of stolen goods!’ said Venables.
A feeling of immense relief crossed the other’s face. ‘What utter nonsense! I have every right to those diamonds.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I can, but I don’t choose to.’
‘Then I’m afraid the charge must go on. And we shall make a few enquiries about you. Searches and so forth.’
The little man hesitated. Venables absent-mindedly tightened his grip and he yowled with pain.
‘All right,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll tell you. You know in Bechuanaland there are deposits of diamonds in exposed places? You can go and fill your pockets with them. But you aren’t allowed to dispose of them: or take them out of the province. Otherwise the diamond market would fall to pieces. Almost every native knows he can get a reward for information about diamond smuggling. But we got a few out of the country: and those are the diamonds.’
‘Oh, Mr Jones! What a story! Diamonds you can pick up!’
‘I swear it’s true! Ask any South African.’
‘Even if it is true you’ve been a bad boy. You smuggled them.’
‘Yes, but it isn’t an extraditable offence. I can make a good delivery of the diamonds here. You ask any lawyer. You can’t touch me.’
‘Got anyone who can back your story up?’
‘Sure I have. Two friends here in London now!’
‘Well, Jones, old boy, I like your frankness. You write down your piece in my little book, with the names and addresses of your friends, and I’ll try to get the chief to believe it. I’m afraid I’ll have to hang on to your left arm a bit longer, till you’ve done the writing.’
‘Now can I go?’ said Jones, when he had written down his story.
‘By no means, no!’ said Venables, bringing his wrists together and expertly clicking a pair of handcuffs in place.
