Death of an Airman

by Christopher St. John Sprigg

  “I take it you are suggesting I ought to visit Paris?”

  “I fear so.” Archie turned to the bearded man who was writing quietly at a desk. “I say, Georges, do you know anything about the Gazette—anything to its discredit particularly?”

  “A rash question to ask about any French paper,” said Georges, removing his pince-nez to tap his teeth with them. “But its political activities are no more and no different from those of most papers of that particular bloc. A little subsidy, no doubt. It changed hands a few months ago, if that interests you.”

  “Yes, I thought I remembered Romain having sold it. Who was the buyer?”

  “That I do not know. Ferrand, their correspondent here, says the rumour is it was bought by some rich American who lives in Paris. But he admits this is only a rumour.”

  “Thanks, Georges.” Archie waved a casual farewell. “Give my regards to Paul if you see him. There you are, Bernard. That’s something to bite on. Now where does this ghastly net of intrigue have its source?”

  “Baston,” Bray told him. “Inspector Creighton is in charge of the case. But for Heaven’s sake don’t let on that I put you on his track. You found it out yourself, remember.”

  “I shall be as discreet as always. Baston? I can’t remember any murder there.” Archie wrinkled his brows. “Our local correspondent must be pretty dead. We’ve never had a bleat from that quarter.”

  “Well, it’s all yours, my boy. But keep my name out of it.”

  “Of course. I don’t wish to be flung into the oubliettes of Scotland Yard, to be tortured by nice policemen in dress suits. Cheerio. I must be getting back to work.”

  ***

  Creighton, while his London colleague was trying to discover the import of the newspaper they had pursued to Glasgow, was busy on trails leading more directly to the murder of Furnace.

  Creighton himself was not, of course, satisfied that the innocence of Gauntlett’s Air Taxis had been proven even negatively. On the contrary, his suspicions had been awakened by the sudden appearance of Miss Sackbut at Sankport. Moreover, he thought it still more strange, in the light of his new suspicions, that it should have been through Valentine Gauntlett that the revolver had been found embedded in the aerodrome surface. His mind had recurred to this because on his return from Glasgow he had found a letter from the Home Office expert confirming Creighton’s belief that this revolver had fired the bullet which had killed Furnace.

  Creighton, therefore, was really back at the old position. Irrespective of drugs or letters from Furnace, Miss Sackbut was the only person who had the time and opportunity to shoot Furnace. It was still necessary to prove motive. He had, he admitted, been relying on the drug distribution for this. But as far as Bray was concerned—and Bray had been his main hope—this had proved impossible to follow up. Therefore he needed some fresh evidence to connect the two incidents. He still believed there was a connection. At this point Creighton decided to go down again to Baston Aerodrome.

  He ran down in his baby car and was just about to go into the club-house when the Bishop came towards him with all the appearance of flying from some real and urgent danger.

  “Creighton! Talk to me! Lead me aside! Save me from that accursed woman!”

  The Inspector observed the unmistakable figure of the Countess of Crumbles on the skyline, and understood much.

  “Why, come to that, my lord, I should like a word with you!”

  “Walk rapidly away with me,” said Dr. Marriott agitatedly. “That woman is determined to get me on her Executive Committee, and I am equally determined not to join. At the same time, I have promised Miss Sackbut not to offend Lady Crumbles, although, upon my soul, I shall find it exceedingly difficult to comply with that promise.” The Bishop was looking really frightened, and Lady Crumbles was now almost within hailing distance. She showed every sign of being about to hail.

  “Lady Crumbles is very difficult to dodge, my lord. She was a patroness of our last Policemen’s Theatricals, and I had some experience of her.”

  “I am absolutely determined to avoid her,” said the Bishop decisively. “There must be some place at least where she will not pursue us. I think I shall go and wash my hands.

  “No hot water!” exclaimed the Bishop a little later. “That’s what happens when Miss Sackbut goes away. Well, well! Now, Inspector, you have kept very close during the last few days. Have you no clues? Or is it policy? Far be it from me to attempt to force myself into your confidences, but, none the less, I do feel entitled to be apprised of any really grave discovery in view of my original part in detecting the affair.” The Bishop hesitated, then he smiled at the Inspector. “To be perfectly frank also, I have other objects in asking you. I have been thinking over the whole case more often than I care to admit, and various interesting possibilities occur to me that it would be as well to explore.”

  “Well, in a sense we’ve got further, and in a sense we haven’t,” answered Creighton cautiously. “Now, my lord, you’ve got some medical knowledge, as we know, and a deal of observation, as you’ve shown. You’ve met most of the members here. Would you say that any of them were drug addicts?”

  “Good gracious me!” exclaimed the clergyman, dropping a nailbrush in his surprise. “I certainly should not! A most healthy lot of youngsters, and though certainly I might sometimes wish they would drink a little less and be somewhat less boisterous, I saw not the slightest evidence of any degeneracy. On the contrary. Dismiss it from your mind, Inspector. But what suggested it in the first place?”

  “Undoubtedly the motive for the murder is tied up in some way with drugs,” asserted the detective. “Furnace was blackmailing someone before he died; we have proof of that. He took a sample of a certain powder to be analysed shortly before his death and it proved to be cocaine. He accounted to the analyst for his possession of it by a fatuous story. As you see, this blackmail at once provides a motive for the murder, and we are trying to establish a connection between Furnace, this club, and the drug traffic. We thought at first that there might be some method of aerial distribution, but our first researches in that respect have been fruitless, I am afraid.”

  “These are large accusations, Inspector, against a man of Furnace’s unblemished record,” said the Bishop in his most solemn manner. “On what grounds do you suggest that he was a blackmailer?”

  “For the last two years his income has been swelled by large, irregular payments in cash which cannot be accounted for in any other way.”

  The Bishop considered this carefully. “That is something, but not everything. On what grounds do you suppose this was accounted for by blackmail?”

  “Because of his interview with the analytical chemists. He obviously came on this powder accidentally, but in a way that aroused his suspicions. His suspicions proved well founded. Yet he did not reveal his knowledge to the police, in spite of his promise to do so. Therefore he must have been making use of that knowledge for some unlawful purpose—namely, blackmail.”

  “Excellent reasoning.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Unfortunately, it has a flaw which renders it fallacious.”

  “Ah?” said the Inspector, a little nettled at the ecclesiastic’s positive tone.

  “You say he had been drawing blackmail for two years. You say he only took this sample—in ignorance—to the chemist’s a few days before his death. Therefore this occasion was the first time he knew it was cocaine, and there could be no connection between the two. Therefore the drug had nothing to do with the blackmailing, so far as we know. Therefore doubt is thrown even upon the hypothesis that the source of the money is blackmail.”

  Inspector Creighton blushed. “Believe it or not, my lord, I completely overlooked that. Completely! Good gracious me! Really, you have a remarkable brain.”

  The Bishop waved the hairbrush, with which at the moment he was sleeking his greyin
g but abundant hair, in a gesture of disavowal. Then he looked sharply at the policeman with a sudden distrust. But there was no hint of mockery in the Inspector’s impassive face. “Logic is still part of the equipment of a theologian,” said the Bishop. “The flaw in the syllogism was obvious.”

  The Inspector gave a despondent sigh. “That brings us back to where we were then, doesn’t it? And very difficult it makes it too.”

  “It does.” The Bishop considered it a good time to administer a kindly rebuke. “Particularly as I feel you are completely on the wrong track. Inspector, whatever the appearances, Miss Sackbut had no part in this.”

  “Of course not, my lord. I am sure no one would think so,” answered the policeman with a hurt expression.

  “I am not such a fool as I look,” said the Bishop impatiently. “It is obvious to a mean order of intelligence that you not only suspect Miss Sackbut, but suspect her alone.”

  The Inspector hesitated. “It’s very difficult,” he said more humanly. “You see, I can’t get away from the fact that the only person who had access to Furnace between the time the body was out of the hands of those three and the time that it came under your supervision was Miss Sackbut.”

  “Isn’t that almost a point in her favour?” pressed the Bishop astutely. “After all, surely no murderer would murder someone when it was a proven fact that she was the only person able to do it?”

  “I’m not so sure. The other circumstances of the murder suggest that there was a desperate need for Furnace to be finished off. And desperate needs don’t wait for alibis.”

  “We still have no inkling of the desperate need,” the Bishop reminded him. “Even the possibility of Furnace having discovered a plot which caused his crash is ruled out by the Air Ministry’s evidence.”

  “I don’t rule it out, expert or no expert,” answered Creighton irritably. “Otherwise, the whole business is absolutely inexplicable.”

  “I feel it is that, anyway. There is, also, another point which I must say you seem to have overlooked. So far you have established five possible murderers.” The Bishop raised his plump hand and spread the fingers. “One, two, and three: Randall, Vane, and Ness (but if so they must have worked in co-operation); four: Miss Sackbut; five: myself.”

  “Oh, my lord!” protested the Inspector.

  “Five: myself,” insisted the Bishop. “At all costs let us be logical. But you have forgotten one other possibility. It occurred to me when I was reviewing the case in my mind at a time when, I admit, I might have been better occupied.”

  “And who is that, if I may ask?” The Inspector’s eyes were very watchful.

  “The person or persons who may have come upon Furnace between the time when the ’plane crashed and the ambulance arrived on the scene.”

  “That’s a fact! I must say I never thought of that. You do have some ideas, my lord. But there’s not much time, is there?” Again the Bishop looked at the policeman to see if he was being sarcastic, and again encountered the blank wall of Creighton’s face.

  “Quite enough. Let us assume the person who planned the murder was watching its effect concealed at the far end of the aerodrome. Furnace crashes. The person rushes up to see that all is well. He sees there is some sign of consciousness. So he murders Furnace and makes his getaway. Or possibly he conceals himself. Upon my soul,” said the Bishop, temporarily carried away by his imagination, “the murderer may have been watching us at the very moment we were dragging Furnace out of the ’plane!”

  The Inspector nodded. “I like that theory, my lord. But, you see, it brings us back to the same difficulty. What was the scheme which brought a perfectly sound aeroplane out of the air at the murderer’s feet, as you might say, dead against what the Air Ministry allows to be possible?”

  Dr. Marriott waved the objection aside. “I leave that to you. But, you see, Miss Sackbut is by no means the inevitable suspect. I do assure you, Inspector, that no girl who can do a half-roll off the top of a loop as neatly as that girl could be guilty of such a crime. I, sinner that I am, cannot even land a Moth.”

  “Each to his trade, my lord. No doubt she would make a precious poor hand of a sermon, now,” answered the Inspector solemnly, “or at detecting the flaws in a—syllogism, was it?”

  “Possibly, possibly; but certainly not so bad in her way as flying is in mine.”

  The Inspector, however, was pertinacious, and refused to allow the Bishop to change the subject. “You still haven’t given me your opinion, my lord. Do you think that someone did kill Furnace in those few minutes?”

  The prelate smiled blandly. “Well, well, that’s a difficult decision. What do you think of Bastable?”

  The Inspector was momentarily baffled by the twistings of the other’s mind. “Bastable? Oh, he’s very hard-working and respected. Been the police surgeon for years. Very well liked locally.”

  “A worthy man, yes, certainly. But just a little bit of a fool, I fear, Creighton, and too slap-dash in his methods. These busy G.P.’s so often are. It’s not my business, of course, except to suffer people of his kind gladly, as the Apostle advised, but if I were in your position I should get further medical advice on that bullet wound in Furnace’s head—if it’s not too late, that is. Isn’t there some central organization?”

  “The Home Office?”

  “Ah, that’s it. Yes, the Home Office. Now, if you were to get them to consult with Bastable…It might be difficult to do it without hurting his feelings. Perhaps you could raise some fresh point you need medical advice on? Of course, don’t say I suggested you should do so.”

  Creighton looked at the other shrewdly. “That’s your opinion, is it, my lord? Well, I think I can do it easily enough. H’m, very interesting. Thank you.”

  “Not at all. I hardly know why I suggest it,” answered Dr. Marriott airily. “Well, I think we might venture out now. The Crumbles peril should have gone now. How I dislike that woman, Inspector; clean against all Christian charity! Dear me, I shall be late for the navigation classes. A very interesting subject, navigation, Inspector. But a very intricate one!”

  Chapter XI

  Scotland Yard in Paris

  Bray had been given an introduction to Monsieur Jules Durand, of the Paris Sûreté. Durand’s prosaic name is associated with some of the most wildly romantic trials of French criminology, and Bray appreciated the honour when, on sending in his letter of introduction, Durand himself came down to meet his British confrère and showed him into his pleasant little office.

  The Frenchman placed his time and attention unreservedly at the disposal of his distinguished colleague. He hoped Monsieur Bray would do him the favour of being his honoured guest during Bray’s stay in Paris.

  Bray accepted all this with thanks.

  “And now, dear friend, what criminal have you tracked to our city?” Durand, bulky, but with a neat little moustache, and pink-and-white features as smooth and delicate as the face of a wax doll, pushed across a cigarette-box. Then he lay back in his chair to listen to his colleague with the reverent concentration of a devotee of music. “I seem to remember your name in connection with one or two famous drug-traffic cases?” he murmured. “Were you not commended by Russell Pasha in a recent report?”

  Bray was flattered, being unaware of Durand’s quick call through to Records on receipt of the letter of introduction.

  “It is on a drug-traffic case that I am in Paris now,” he admitted. “I believe that this French newspaper I have here is being used to give messages about the drug traffic to British addicts. How or why such an elaborate device has been employed I cannot understand. In fact, I have come over to investigate just this point. The cuttings I have pinned to the paper explain the story, I think.”

  Durand silently took the copy of the paper and the cuttings. When he opened it and saw the title, however, he was unable to repress a little exclamation.


  But he said no more and read through the cuttings. Then he looked up with a grin. “A strange affection for Royalty! Snobs, these criminals! What do you make of it? A code of some sort, of course, but a rather unusual one.”

  “Undoubtedly a code, and I believe it to mean nothing more than that the drug is available at the usual place on the date mentioned in connection with the Royalty.”

  “And you hope to find out more over here? I am puzzled, my friend. La Gazette Quotidienne is a paper of the utmost respectability, neither Socialist nor Royalist, and much read by civil servants and teachers.”

  “Didn’t it change hands recently?”

  “You seem to know much already. It did. Naturally, such things are of importance to us; perhaps even more important than in your country, so we will know all about it.” He lifted his telephone. “Charles? The Gazette Quotidienne dossier, if you please. Monsieur Bray, I hope if you continue your investigations you will use the extremest discretion. I know you will, of course, but I mention it because in the affair of a newspaper these enquiries are delicate here. They would have the ear of our superiors, you understand, if they wish to complain.”

  “You needn’t worry,” Bray reassured him. “I shall make my enquiries entirely independently, and it needn’t even be known that I consulted you.”

  “Excellent. Ah, here is the dossier. It was two years ago that this change of ownership took place. Well, here we have something interesting. It seems we do not yet know who the real proprietor is. It has been bought by Maurice Roget, who is a notaire of whom we know nothing but good, but it is plain that he is the agent of another man. In fact, I see from our notes here that he has said so in conversation with the staff, and has even stated that the principal is a rich American.”