Death of an Airman

by Christopher St. John Sprigg

  “I’m quite all right, thank you,” said Vane coldly. “I’m probably a damn’ sight richer than you are, since the slump.”

  The Judge smiled. “You’re bitter, son, but I understand. Take my name, will you, Captain, in case I’m wanted? I’d like to give evidence for the defence about this young man’s character.”

  Bray had been discussing something in a low voice with Creighton while the Judge was talking to Vane. He now seemed to have made up his mind.

  “Will you wait here a little longer, Judge? There is something I would like you to hear; you can probably help us.

  “Vane, or Hartigan,” went on Bray, his young lawyer’s face suddenly menacing, “I’m going to put to you a reconstruction of some of the evidence you have told us, and which I consider you have distorted for your own ends.” The detective looked down at his notes and compressed his lips, as if what he saw there had finally decided him. “You declare that the shooting of Furnace was suicide. That, certainly, was the view we ourselves had arrived at, but it was severely shaken by the murder of Ness. Ness was not killed by you, Vane. We admit the strength of your alibi there. But I think you know who murdered him, and I think it was the Chief.”

  “Possibly!” Vane shrugged his shoulders. “Supposing it was. Does it get you much farther?”

  “It leads me to the conclusion,” went on Bray calmly, “that the first suicide was a murder after all. I must admit you have an alibi of sorts, and, to be perfectly candid, if Furnace was murdered, I see no way in which it can be proved whether you or the Chief murdered him.”

  “Indeed!” said Vane mockingly. “Perhaps on the facts of the case you can explain how he was murdered at all.”

  “That is what I am about to do. The Judge, unconsciously, has supplied the missing link which puzzled me in the chain of events. We know that the machine crashed, and we know that Furnace was shot a minute or two before the impact that wounded his forehead. My theory explains how this could be reconciled with murder. I assert that at a date which I cannot put later than the previous day, Furnace was shot. I do not think it was you who shot him, for you seem to have had an alibi for most of the preceding day, as did Ness. But you might have done it. The main point is that, difficult as it is to believe, Furnace was shot the day before the crash. That is the only explanation of the circumstance which has always defeated every other theory—which we have had to neglect or explain away in every other theory.”

  “The rigor, I suppose?” interjected Creighton.

  “Yes, the rigor! It was not present when the Bishop watched by the body, nor again when the doctor examined it. When we discovered the bullet-wound in the head, we attributed the absence of rigor to the fact that Furnace had been shot a few minutes before the Bishop examined the body, and that the rigor had not set in even at the time when the doctor came on the scene. But when we went back to the theory that Furnace was a suicide, and shot himself just before he crashed, the rigor was again a stumbling-block, for by all the laws of physiology, with a normal subject like Furnace, the rigor should have been developing when the Bishop saw the body, and fully developed when the doctor attended to it. But it wasn’t.”

  Creighton nodded. “Yes, Bastable was positive about that.”

  “There is only one possible explanation: Furnace was killed before the crash, long before—the preceding evening in fact. Why? Because that would mean that he had been killed so long before that the rigor had come and gone. You will remember that this was Bastable’s first assumption—that the rigor had passed off by the time he saw the body. The Bishop’s evidence made him suppose that the rigor had not yet set in. In fact, it had come on normally and had passed off normally. This means that Furnace had not been killed in the crash, and, knowing that the rigor takes up to twenty-four hours to pass off, one must assume he was killed the preceding afternoon.”

  “Good lord! Of course!” exclaimed Creighton.

  “Now do you see my point?” said Bray triumphantly. “Whatever the explanation of the absence of rigor, it was incompatible with Furnace’s suicide. For if the rigor had not come on when the doctor examined Furnace, as we thought at first, he must have been killed after the crash. But Furnace wasn’t shot after the crash, according to the medical report.

  “If, on the other hand, the rigor had come and gone, it meant that Furnace was killed some time before the crash, and that again was incompatible with the medical report that he was shot a minute or two before the impact. So that either explanation of the rigor involved contradiction, and yet I was unable to believe the suicide theory. It is true Bastable ought to have been able to fix the time of death, and he would have been able to do so had he made a careful examination when he arrived. It is true he arrived very late, and therefore it would not have been a precise time. But it would have been near enough. Unfortunately, but naturally, he accepted the story of the crash and only made sure that life was extinct.”

  “I had constructed various possible explanations, but none of them fitted. Judge Innes has provided me with the one possible explanation. Furnace was never in the aeroplane at all!”

  “What?” exclaimed Creighton, genuinely startled.

  Vane said nothing, but watched the detectives with a cold smile on his face.

  “Furnace was shot the previous afternoon,” went on Bray calmly, “and almost immediately was hit on the head with an instrument to simulate the effect of hitting the edge of the dashboard. This blow also covered up the traces of the bullet-hole, but in case the bullet was ever found the revolver was embedded in the soil of the aerodrome to give a possible explanation of suicide.”

  “Why shoot him at all? Why not kill him at once by a blow on the head?” queried Creighton.

  “Because it is not easy to go up to a strong man and hit him a fatal blow on the temple, with the certainty that the blow will be of a kind to look as if it had been done in a crash. You can’t use an ordinary ‘cosh’ or club because the resulting wound will be obviously wrong. Probably the Chief is a small man and not too skilful at physical violence. No, the shot is understandable enough.”

  Creighton reflected. “I still don’t understand how the body was taken from the wreckage if Furnace was killed the previous day?”

  “I do now,” answered Bray. “Vane took up a club aeroplane and spun it into the ground so that its landing-place was out of sight of the aerodrome. I went wrong because, as a layman, I never realized it would be possible for a pilot, however skilful, deliberately to crash a machine with a reasonable chance of escaping with his life.”

  “Good lord!” interrupted Creighton. “Now I come to think of it, that agrees with the evidence of the Air Ministry’s technical expert at the inquest. He said that the main force of the impact had been taken by the wing-tip, and he was surprised at Furnace being killed.”

  “Exactly,” replied Bray. “It seems that this man Hartigan, who deliberately posed as the most foolish of pupils, is a pilot who made his reputation at Hollywood at that kind of thing. Isn’t that so, Judge?”

  Judge Innes nodded silently.

  “Apparently Furnace suspected Vane of being a better pilot than he pretended to be,” recollected Creighton. “I remember the Bishop telling me of a queer little incident when Furnace span the aeroplane and Vane was forced to right it himself. That would explain it. And Winters always told me Vane used to ‘put on’ his fear of flying. ‘Showing off,’ Winters called it.”

  “Very well,” went on Bray. “Vane crashes the machine harmlessly—”

  “Not harmlessly,” interrupted Creighton, “for I remember at the inquest one of the witnesses remarked that Vane had hurt his arm. They assumed he had done this when freeing the pilot from the wreckage. Obviously he had done this in the crash.”

  Bray nodded. “A good point. Then as soon as the crash took place, Ness rushed out of the hangars in the ambulance tender. He must have been waiting for this,
sitting in the driver’s seat, with the engine running.”

  “Yes,” said Creighton, “at the inquest he explained his promptness by the excuse that he had been overhauling the engine and that it was actually running at the time.”

  “He tore at full speed out of the garage, and beside him, not too easily discernible (for the driving-seat was enclosed), was a figure. That figure wore the flying helmet and mask and enormous coloured scarf and leather coat which were recognized sartorial eccentricities of Tommy Vane. But it was not Tommy Vane—it was the corpse of Furnace.”

  There was a low whistle of amazement from Creighton. The Judge looked tired and old. Tommy Vane was still smiling thinly.

  “The rest was easy,” said Bray. “Behind the trees the corpse of Furnace was laid on the ground, and Vane now put on the coat, scarf and helmet. The dashboard had doubtless previously been smeared with blood and hairs from Furnace’s head, and possibly slightly battered, to give the appearance of having inflicted the fatal blow. The seat belt had parted when Vane crashed, and so the illusion was perfect by the time Randall, and later the Bishop, Miss Sackbut and Lady Laura, arrived on the scene.

  “There was just one flaw. The chances against it were enormous, but there it was. The Bishop of Cootamundra had some medical knowledge, and he was watching by the body at a time when the rigor should have just been developing, and it wasn’t present. That might have been explicable by a delayed development of the rigor, but when he spoke to the doctor he found that it still had not been present, and the doctor had, in turn, attributed this to an early development. That flaw wrecked the whole scheme because it brought about investigation. Creighton probed into Furnace’s past and found that analyst’s letter which gave us a clue to unravel the whole skein finally.”

  “Finally?” asked Vane mockingly. “Have you found out who the Chief is? As the Chief murdered Furnace—you are quite right about it, and I congratulate you—you are still as far away from the solution of the murder as ever!”

  “I should have thought the Chief was a fiction of your imagination,” Bray said quietly, “if it hadn’t been for Ness’s murder. But he was murdered. And you weren’t there. And I think Ness’s murderer killed Furnace. But I admit I’m still as far off finding the Chief’s identity as ever, until I can go into the papers we’ve got.” Bray looked at Judge Innes. “Can you help us? Do you know any criminal in Los Angeles with whom Hartigan associated?”

  The Judge and Vane exchanged a look.

  “I know no criminal in Los Angeles with whom Hartigan associated,” Innes answered slowly. “And I seem to have done mischief enough already to a lad my wife and I were very fond of.” He looked kindly at the young man.

  Vane’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing, and his eyes fell before the Judge’s.

  There was a knock upon the door. Murgatroyd came in with a telegram.

  “For you, sir,” he said, handing it to Inspector Bray.

  Bray tore it open. Then he swore.

  “The chief of the German organization, Graf von Fahrenberg, has got away! Apparently he was on the aerodrome and he slipped into a fast machine and escaped. Damn it, they ought to have known that as a war ace he’d try and make an aerial getaway!”

  Bray drummed irritably on the table with his thin fingers. “They say the machine was heading for this direction, and may have had time to warn the organization here, as the Germans found it necessary to act a little before our zero hour.”

  “Good lord!” exclaimed Creighton. “Would that be the German pilot who swooped down on the aerodrome and shot off a red light just before we came? They told me about it in the Control tent. They were rather annoyed with him.”

  “Great Scott—of course!” said Bray. “But we got here in time. Or did we? Creighton, do you think he came here to warn the Chief?”

  “Gosh, if he did! And the Chief’s slipped through our hands!” The two detectives stared at each other in silent consternation.

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference, as we don’t know who the Chief is yet,” said Bray philosophically. “All right, Murgatroyd, there’s no answer.”

  Murgatroyd shifted uneasily on his feet in front of Creighton. “There’s just one thing, sir. Miss Sackbut is very worried about some note Lady Laura left with her that a friend of Lady Laura’s might be asking for. She says will you take charge of it, as she’s got to go to the station? All her friends were arrested, she says, so it’s your responsibility.” Murgatroyd handed over the orange-coloured envelope.

  “What the devil does she think I am?” grumbled Creighton. “No name on the note, either,” he added. “Just ‘To be Called for.’ How the hell can I know who will call for it?”

  “Miss Sackbut didn’t know herself, sir,” said Murgatroyd, and grinned. “But I gathered it would be someone who’s—well, sweet on Lady Laura, if I might say it without offence.”

  Vane laughed discordantly.

  Bray, suddenly catching sight of the envelope, drew an audible breath.

  “God Almighty, Creighton, what have you got there!”

  With an excitement he could not control, he almost seized the envelope from Creighton and tore it open. He picked up the note which fluttered out and, before reading it, held it up to the light. Then he glanced at the contents.

  Creighton was startled to see the expression of surprise which had come over Bray’s face. At last the detective passed the little slip of orange-coloured paper to Creighton.

  “Written on the gang’s special notepaper,” Bray said with an effort at calmness; “read it.”

  Dear Inspectors (the note ran),

  I have left this note with Sally, unaddressed, knowing that sooner or later you will suspect me and it will come into your hands. Sally, of course, knows nothing about it.

  Please excuse the theatricality of this last gesture of mine. It is the last, you see, and it is only human to want a certain amount of drama in the final moment of one’s life. I don’t know how you discovered the flaw in our organization. I’d rather not know, it might give me too low an opinion of myself! Luckily Count von Fahrenberg, a gentleman even in the last emergency, was able to get here to give me the agreed warning. I played for a time with the idea of fighting matters out to the end. After all, you had very little “on me,” and the documents you have doubtless impounded will be of no use. All the same, there’s something degrading in being hounded by the law, and baited by their watchdogs, in public, in open court, don’t you think? You’ll understand, Inspector Bray, even if Inspector Creighton doesn’t! So here you are:

  I, and I alone, shot Furnace and killed Ness and (this at least is something to be proud of) devised the scheme of Furnace’s crash. I’m not proud of the Ness business, but it was done in a hurry. I didn’t know how much the little rat had given away. The suggestion I made to you about the murder of Furnace, and which with Tommy’s help I foisted on Mrs. Angevin, was one of my earlier ideas for the murder, discarded, as being too risky.

  Inspectors darling, I’ve saved you a whole lot of trouble, will you do something for me in return? Let my husband Tommy down lightly. He was only doing what I planned, you see. Give him the note I enclose.

  Laura Vanguard.

  (“The Chief”).

  A small folded sheet of paper which had fluttered out when the Inspector had torn open the envelope now caught his eye. He picked it off the desk, read the inscription and, after a moment’s hesitation, handed it to Vane without unfolding it. Vane thanked him with a look.

  Vane read it. He looked as if he were about to weep, and his face, youthful always, seemed now like that of a mere boy. But the next moment he gave a bitter smile, and the paper, crumpled between his fingers, fell to the floor. It was some time afterwards that the Judge, taking pity on the scrap fluttering about, torn and trodden on, picked it up. The Judge glanced at it once before he shook his head and put it carefu
lly in his breast pocket.

  It read:

  Good-bye. Good luck.—Laura.

  The Judge added this last tender message of one of the most callous murderesses he had known to his collection of problems of psychology. He had come across many in the course of a life which had taught him much, without ever affecting a certain simplicity of his, alternating between childishness and profound wisdom.

  “You knew they were married?” Bray asked the Judge, when Creighton had finished reading Lady Laura’s letter.

  “I did,” he acknowledged. “They were married from my house. It’s been like some bad dream, sitting here these last few minutes and learning gradually what sort of thing Hartigan got mixed up in and what this wife of his had done. They came to me in Hollywood to be married and asked me to keep it quiet. I did. Lady Laura’s distinguished parents were reason enough, and I never thought much more about it. I will say that Maggie detested Lady Laura from the moment they met. ‘A ruthless woman,’ she would say. ‘She may love Spider,’ she told me, ‘but that won’t prevent her ruining him. Oh, you may laugh, Silas,’ she’d say to me, ‘but she is the sort of woman who does ruin men—ruthless and cold she is, and cleverer than you’ve any inkling of.’’’

  “Shut up, shut up!” screamed Vane, his self-control suddenly leaving him. His face worked hysterically: “Do you think I care a damn what you think of Laura, you lousy little yokel! She was the greatest woman I’ve ever known, really great, and you talk about her as if she were a pickpocket! Oh, don’t stare at me all of you. Don’t you realize that she’s gone; she’s flying away bravely perhaps into the sea, perhaps straight into a hillside. Perhaps even now she’s crashed and dead!” He broke off suddenly with a sob and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, damn the lot of you!”

  There was a silence in the little room. Innes went forward as though to pat the young man on the shoulders and then thought better of it. In the silence, the raucous voice of Sir Herbert Hallam could be heard drifting in the open windows from the loud-speakers. All listened with a kind of fascinated attention.