Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  ‘I’ll give them all up for you,’ she said, but without a mountain of conviction.

  ‘Maybe you will one day, my darling. But the life of a wife of a penniless private eye in Torquay would be coming down with a hell of a bump. I think, if you were honest, you’re not really ready for that yet. Now come on, darling, admit it.’

  She bit her lip. ‘I guess we need two more towels.’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ I said and went out to the linen chest on the landing. Never in the history of mankind have towels and blankets seemed so necessary, yet so damnably hateful.

  *

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Her voice startled me. I thought she had succumbed to the sandman at least half an hour before. I rearranged my frame on the spindly camp-bed, Tracy being at least a foot higher on my own bed behind the towel and blanket curtain.

  ‘Guess,’ I said.

  ‘Seagrave?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Think he did it?’

  ‘It or its?’

  ‘Either. Both.’

  ‘First “it” being his wife, maybe. Second “it” being Daphne Phipps. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I thought I sort of did until ...’

  ‘Until what? Don’t leave me in the air.’

  ‘Well, until I saw Henry Swindon with the police yesterday. He was distinctly jumpy and defensive. Not quite like someone who is as innocent as a newborn babe would be.’

  ‘No actors can be as innocent as newborn babes,’ Tracy laughed, then added, ‘Sorry, go on. Are you going to say you think Swindon might be behind that girl’s disappearance?’

  ‘I really can’t say. I just have a feeling he might know a little more than he’s ready to admit at the moment.’

  ‘So you’ll keep an eye on him?’

  ‘As far as I can. Single-handed. I can’t keep an eye on everyone who might have some bearing on this case.’

  ‘You need a trusty girl assistant, my darling.’

  Drat, I should have seen it coming. I changed the subject. I had no desire for Tracy to end up missing as well.

  ‘And then again, there’s this ginger-moustached guy with the Massey mouth.’

  ‘And the Indian motor-cycle.’

  ‘Spot on. He’s the kind of complication I don’t need at the moment. I don’t even know how to go about tracing him, let alone eliminating him. No one I’ve asked so far has ever clapped eyes on him.’

  There was silence for a moment, only broken by the hoot of a barn owl outside on a forage from Dartington Woods.

  ‘Maybe ginger moustache and Swindon are one and the same,’ she offered.

  I had already thought of that one. ‘But Briggs said his hair was sandy coloured. Swindon’s is brown.’

  ‘So actors have access to wigs.’

  ‘There’s another problem. Swindon has a part share in an old Trojan. He’s most unlikely even to have a part share in an Indian motor-cycle as well. Besides, he does not look the motor-cycling type. The wind would expose his bald patch too much.’

  ‘Didn’t you say Briggs reported that ginger moustache was wearing some kind of helmet?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ I replied reflectively. ‘A funny kind of helmet, he said. Same went for his goggles. I had forgotten that.’

  ‘What was funny about them?’

  ‘I didn’t go into it. I just took it that they were probably old-fashioned or somewhat eccentric.’

  ‘Supposing they were new-fashioned?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, what else do you wear helmets and goggles for?’

  I sat up so suddenly in my camp-bed that the frame collapsed. ‘Hell, Tracy, you’re right. I should have thought of that myself.’ She pulled aside a towel and peered down at me sprawled on the floor.

  ‘And you call yourself a flying fanatic, darling.’

  She sat up and leaned towards me, thus giving me a glimpse of rewards I definitely did not need at that moment.

  ‘Whoops, what’s happened to your bed?’

  ‘It’s grounded,’ I grinned. ‘A bit like me.’

  She extended an arm. ‘Here, let me help you up.’

  I must now draw a discreet veil over what happened next and resume the Seagrave saga as from the next morning.

  Ten

  Before we left for Burgh Island, I leafed through the telephone book to find the numbers of all the aerodromes and flying clubs I knew of in the vicinity. One by one, I rang them, but, unfortunately, could not raise a reply from over half of them, efficient administration not really being the forte of the flying fraternity. Those that did have the old phone manned, pleaded complete ignorance of anyone with a ginger moustache and lop-sided way of speaking. So having drawn a blank, I resolved to phone the non-repliers again on my return from the Island.

  However, our luck was in, as far as our proposed visit was concerned. For the sun was bright and hot enough to crack the hedges when we left — and that meant that our little heiress might well be enticed down to the beach where Tracy and I would have more chance of meeting her accidentally than in the hotel. But all this, of course, assumed that Seagrave would not have got to her first. To find out more about the chance of the latter, I ended my phone calls with one to the hotel garage at Bigbury. To my relief, no red Alvises were reported as having checked in so far that morning, and my spy confirmed that he had not actually spotted an Alvis since our little palm-greasing arrangement. I just hoped Seagrave had not got to his palm first.

  As always in good weather, the journey to Burgh Island was a delight, as the road via Kingsbridge, Churstow and Aveton Gifford passes through some of the most charming and serene scenery Devon has to offer; breath-taking glimpses of estuaries and the sea to the left, the dramatic rolling outline of Dartmoor to the right. And us in the middle, windscreen and hood lowered, eating up the miles at a fair rate of knots in Tracy’s SS.

  The journey went only too quickly and in seemingly no time, we were parking between a stately Daimler Straight Eight and a real cad’s car, the low and racy Railton Fairmile. I re-greased my contact’s palm, then Tracy and I set out hand in hand across the thin strip of sand that the tide had left exposed between Bigbury and the island.

  Quarter way across, Tracy kicked off her shoes and started to pull me towards the gently lapping water. I had no alternative but to follow suit and doff my socks and brogues. For I have a feeling that even the Thin Man would lose a little of his magic if he tried to warn off naive heiresses with his shoes squelching and brimful of the old briny.

  Tracy started to trail her hand in the water, then flick some in my direction.

  ‘Oh Johnny, if only we could forget all about the horrors going on in the world and just be kids again.’

  I stopped and looked across at her. She looked stunningly beautiful against the sea’s shimmer, more like some magical seductive water sprite than a child. Though her grin was always that of a mischievous kid. It reminded me of the day she had climbed down from the cockpit after her first solo, smiling the smile, not of mature achievement, but of immature delight.

  We splashed lazily over to the Island and the reason for our slow pace was not hard to define. As we put our shoes back on, sitting on the slope that winds up round to the hotel, Tracy sighed.

  ‘Well, here goes, darling. I just hope our Susan likes the sun as much as we do.’

  I stood up and helped her to her feet.

  ‘I just hope she’s around at all. And that our friend hasn’t spirited her away somehow. But Lord knows how.’

  ‘Maybe he’s got a boat. That could be it, couldn’t it? He picks her up and sails or motors her round the coast to Torquay. It’s not very far, after all, and would not take long in one of those new speed boats. That would explain no Alvises.’

  I had to admit it was a possibility, but now we were nearing the hotel, the grounds seemed to be alive with guests in sporting apparel, either off to tennis or swimming, golfing or sunbathing. From then on, we kept
mum and joined a frisky group of young men and women in boaters and big floppy hats, making their way to the steps that led down to the private beach.

  Once down, our frisky friends appropriated all but one of the last vacant deckchairs. I offered it with a gallant flourish to Tracy, who accepted with a ‘We’ll take turns’. She relaxed back in the chair, the split in her skirt revealing her long brown legs.

  ‘She’s not here, yet,’ she breathed.

  ‘I know,’ I whispered back. ‘Just our luck.’

  ‘Maybe the whole family has upped and left.’

  ‘Doubt it. She was still around the night before last. More likely they’d leave at the weekend than mid week.’

  I sat down on the platform beside her.

  ‘However, I’ll go and check at the desk if she doesn’t turn up in the next quarter of an hour or so.’

  And that’s how we left it. I took off my blazer and cravat and loosened my shirt and very soon regretted not having brought swimming gear. For the private beach was a veritable sun trap, the rock walls bouncing their heat back into the pool area. Tracy seemed to thrive on it, but of course, the few garments she was wearing were gossamer light compared to my flannels, shirt and socks.

  I watched her anoint her arms and shoulders with sun-tan oil. It smelt of warm coconut. She smiled down at me.

  ‘Ten more minutes and you can have the chair.’ Winking, she added, ‘I don’t want you getting haemorrhoids.’

  I laughed. ‘Have you felt this platform, Tracy? It’s like a grill. It’ll be burns yours truly will be getting, not what-you-m’call-its.’

  Just then, I thought I heard a very familiar sound. Coming from across the rocks and out to sea. A moment later and my suspicion was confirmed. It was, without doubt, the distant hum of a Gypsy Major. My adrenalin rose instantly.

  Tracy, as always, sensed my reaction.

  ‘Down, boy,’ she smiled.

  I was down. Down for ever, damn it. Every beat of the Gypsy Major reminded me.

  We both looked out across the rocks for a first glimpse of the aircraft.

  ‘Probably towing a banner to exhort us to drink Ovaltine,’ she smiled, ‘or Guinness.’

  ‘Well, it can’t be for the Sunday Dispatch this time. It isn’t Saturday.’

  We waited, scanning the sky. It was not long in coming. But this was no weary work horse towing a drag-producing banner, but a bright red and yellow biplane, with long, sleek floats projecting beneath it that only just missed the flag pole atop the hotel tower, as it flew across.

  ‘Whew!’ Tracy sat up. ‘That pilot’s got some nerve.’

  ‘Just showing off, I expect,’ I smiled. ‘We’ve all done it at some point in our careers. Pilots are rarely introverts, you know.’

  From the sound of the aircraft, it was clear it was circling to land on the water, somewhere over to our left, where the bay stretches across to Bantham.

  I got up.

  ‘Not time yet,’ Tracy grinned.

  ‘No, I’m not after your chair. I’m interested in that seaplane. I think I’ll go up and get over to the beach. Watch it taxi in and anchor.’

  She looked at me strangely. ‘But what if Susan P suddenly appears?’

  ‘Get into conversation. Begin the therapy. At least, keep her here until I’m back. I won’t be long.’

  I was pretty hot by the time I had climbed up all the steps to the hotel, but the breeze at the top refreshed me, as I descended again to the sana causeway between the island and Bigbury-on-Sea. By the time I reached the beach, there were quite a few people gathered to watch the Fox Moth seaplane taxiing into its anchoring point. I joined them by the edge of the water and was surprised to see how far in the Moth could get without grounding, demonstrating the effective buoyancy of its floats.

  Two small boys started to wade in towards the Fox Moth the moment its propeller ceased to turn, their gleeful shouts betraying the excitement they felt at its arrival. I waited and watched, as a slim figure in flying helmet and goggles climbed out of the rear cockpit, down onto the port side float and threw out a small anchor. He then reached over to the door of the forward cabin to help his passenger alight. As he did so, the passenger emerged and I immediately recognised the bland but handsome features of Michael Seagrave.

  Just as I was recovering from the shock, the pilot, before stepping down into the water, removed his own flying gear and for the first time, I could see him clearly. Sandy hair, ginger moustache and a lop-sided mouth — Briggs’ brief description could not have been more spot on.

  I guess I stood mesmerized for a few seconds too long, for as Seagrave let himself down from the float into the water, our eyes met. I instantly turned and moved back through the onlookers, hoping against hope that Seagrave’s memory of the man from the British Sports Car Association was as fleeting as our present eye-to-eye. I did not dare look back as I made my way up onto the island and down again to the private beach. But as I descended the cliff steps, I saw right away that Tracy had company and the company we had been seeking — the blond Miss Prendergast.

  *

  ‘Ah, Johnny,’ Tracy beamed, but her eyes belied her smile. ‘Meet Susan Prendergast. Susan, Johnny Black.’

  We shook hands. She was certainly a pretty girl, more outdoor Scandinavian than an indoor English rose and with a freshness that only youth and inexperience can provide.

  ‘We’ve been talking about the seaplane, Johnny. Apparently, it’s been dropping by quite often recently.’ She turned to Susan. ‘Bringing a friend of yours to visit, you tell me.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the young girl blushed. ‘He always flies low over the hotel as a signal that he’s arrived. When I hear it, I order drinks from the bar, then come down here.’

  ‘Your friend a pilot?’ I tried.

  ‘No. A friend of his flies him over.’

  ‘I used to fly,’ I went on. ‘Maybe I know this friend.’

  ‘Well, his name is Tom Dawlish.’

  I pretended to think. ‘Name doesn’t quite ring a bell yet. Tell me, what flying club does he belong to?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m not sure he belongs to any. You see, he works for an aerial advertising company. Normally, he’s towing those banner things all over the sky.’

  ‘Is that who the seaplane belongs to — the advertising company?’

  ‘I believe so. My friend hires it from them when he wants to.’

  I looked back towards the cliff steps. Still no sign of Seagrave or the pilot, but I knew I had to move fast.

  ‘Your friend wouldn’t by any chance be a Michael Seagrave, would he?’

  Her eyes sparkled in the sun. ‘Yes. Why, do you know him?’

  ‘Not really. But I know a bit about him.’

  She looked at me with a desperately sincere and serious expression.

  ‘He’s a wonderful man and, as you know something about him, you will remember what a terrible tragedy he’s trying to recover from.’

  ‘Yes. His wife was killed, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Killed?’ she repeated in horror. You make it sound so ... brutal.’

  ‘Death can be brutal, Miss Prendergast.’

  ‘But it was an accident. Her scarf got caught in the car’s wheels. Accidents aren’t brutal, Mr Black, just very, very tragic.’

  I was about to comment, when I saw I no longer had her attention. She was staring up at the cliffs and waving. I did not need to look at whom.

  Tracy came across and took my hand.

  ‘Well, Susan, maybe we’ll see you later when your friend has gone.’

  ‘Oh — that would be nice but, er, Michael is taking me up on Dartmoor after lunch.’

  ‘By seaplane?’ I asked incredulously.

  She giggled. ‘No, Mr Black, by car, of course. He’s having a new one he’s bought delivered here at noon. It’s smashing too. I’ve seen the sales catalogue. It’s a Lammas-Graham Coupe.’

  She said the name with considerable reverence. I knew the make. Brand new on the mar
ket. Supercharged American engine, British bodywork a la Bentley. A cool seven hundred pounds. Seagrave wasn’t wasting time spending his wife’s fortune.

  Tracy squeezed my hand. ‘We had better not keep you from your friend, had we, Johnny?’

  ‘Thanks. Bye.’ The young girl waved and ran off towards the steps.

  ‘We’d better keep facing towards the water,’ Tracy remarked between gritted teeth. ‘Otherwise, he’ll spot you.’

  ‘I have a feeling it may be a bit late for that. Our eyes met as he was getting out of the plane.’

  ‘Think he recognised you?’

  ‘I have no idea. All I wish is that we’d brought our swimming gear. Then we could have swum away from here and onto the rocks and out to the beach, without having to test his powers of recognition.’ ‘Perhaps we will be able to sneak up the steps whilst he’s still in the throes of greeting his new beloved, poor girl.’ She looked behind for a split second, then squeezed my hand until it hurt.

  ‘Watch out, Johnny. Forget what I just said. He seems to be making straight for us.’

  I’m afraid I forgot myself at this point and came out with a combination of words that even Bernard Shaw hasn’t used yet. Then I took a deep breath and turned around — to find Michael Seagrave only a couple of feet away, his Tyrone Power features now anything but bland, in the distortion of his anger.

  ‘All right, Mr White of the British Sports Car Association,’ he railed, ‘or is it really Mr Black, as I gather you’ve just told Susan?’

  ‘I have to confess, Mr Seagrave, that it is Black.’

  ‘You don’t need to confess, Mr Black. I knew your real name some time ago.’ He laughed. ‘You don’t think I swallowed all that twaddle you told me the day you called, do you?’

  By now, he was uncomfortably near and I could smell whisky on his breath. He must have a different yardarm from me. I let him rail on.

  ‘First of all, I’m not such a complete ignoramus that I don’t know the main motoring clubs. And there’s no such organisation as the British Sports Car Association. Secondly, my gardener told me you arrived in a big plush American La Salle — he read the name on the bonnet. Now, no British sports car buff would go around in a La Salle, would they, Mr Black?’