Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  I was tempted to say, ‘No, it’s me’, but let it pass.

  ‘That’s okay, Babs. We all make mistakes. Now have you got a minute?’

  ‘I think so. Mr Ling is stock-taking right now.’

  ‘Well, listen carefully. Go to my filing cabinet and get out the Seagrave folder. Okay?’

  She was gone but thirty seconds. ‘Right, I’ve got it, Johnny.’

  ‘About half-way through it, you’ll find a couple of pages of press cuttings of the inquest on Seagrave’s wife’s death ... Found them?’

  ‘Yep. Think so. Do you want me to read them all out?’

  I laughed. ‘No thanks, Babs. I just want you to turn up the one that I think has a headline something like, “It’s Isadora Duncan all over again, says husband in tears’’. When you’ve found it, read down until you come across the description of the scarf that caught in the sports car wheels. All I want to know is its colour. Okay?’

  ‘Right ... er ... seven feet long ... Handwoven in Scotland ... Bought in Harrods ... Ah, here goes. It was plain cer — u — lean blue.’

  I hardly recognised the word, as she pronounced the ‘c’ of ‘cerulean’ hard.

  ‘Is that all you want, Johnny?’

  ‘That’s all I want, Babs,’ I smiled. You’re an angel — from out of the cerulean sky.’

  *

  It was just the whiff of a clue, I well recognised, no more substantial than the red threads themselves. But it did show that some material other than the actual scarf had got itself caught in the Frazer-Nash’s transmission. Whether that material had been fed in by Seagrave in some dress rehearsal for his wife’s death, or whether it had been picked up from some other source accidentally, I had no means of knowing. My sliver of satisfaction came only from the fact that the red threads fitted with my preconceived notion that a man like Seagrave would definitely have tried out his Isadora Duncan type plan before relying on it as evidence of his innocence.

  I rang Diana Travers once more, but to no avail. I tried unsuccessfully twice more before six o’clock, when I turned on the news on the wireless. As I had been expecting, the newsreader mentioned the recapture of the Dartmoor prisoner and his wearing of Henry Swindon’s jacket. But no body, as yet, had been discovered, despite the combing of the area by some fifty members of the Devon Constabulary, working up to their knees and beyond in the boggy sections.

  I wondered whether Seagrave and his pal were tuned into their respective wirelesses, waiting with bated breath for the news that might just undo them. I certainly hoped so. And I prayed that news would not be too long in coming. For without any bodies, there really wasn’t any sustainable case against Seagrave, red threads or no red threads.

  But, dam it, there was a good chance that the actor might never be found. Dartmoor tends to like to keep its secrets and thus, if Seagrave and Dawlish kept their heads after our subterfugue of the morning, then ...

  I eventually became more than a little depressed and switched the radio on again, hoping that Monday Night at Seven might cheer me up. But somehow, the light-hearted banter and badinage of the programme only emphasized the seriousness of my problems. I soon turned it off and rang my employer again. This time, to my huge relief, she answered.

  I brought her up to date with the news, including that from Dartmoor, which she hadn’t heard, and my discovery of the red threads. The latter she deemed interesting, but her evident distress at the thought that the actor had actually been murdered overshadowed everything — to the point where she reiterated her fears about continuing our investigations at all. I tried to buoy her up, but it was an uphill task, made steeper by the news she was now to tell me.

  ‘Johnny, I think I was followed this afternoon.’

  ‘How do you know? Where did you go?’

  ‘I went into Dartmouth to do some shopping, take my mind off things. You know how windy those roads are? Well, I didn’t see it all the time in my mirror, but very often there seemed to be a small blue sports car behind me.’

  ‘Recognise the make?’

  ‘No. It seemed very modem. Not like Tracy’s SS100, for instance. More streamlined, headlamps in the wings, no chrome radiator. Looked a bit foreign to me.’

  I racked my brains. ‘Do you remember if it had a “V” windscreen, instead of a flat one?’

  ‘Yes, I think it did. Yes, it came to a “V”. I remember the strip down the middle.’

  ‘Could have been the new BMW sports car. All the rage with the Brooklands set right now. But I have yet to see one down here in Devon. Anyway, how far did it follow you?’

  ‘I first noticed it just before Totnes. I thought it might turn off at Halwell, but it didn’t. Kept on behind me all the way to Dartmouth.’

  ‘See who was driving?’

  ‘Not terribly clearly. He had the top down and was wearing a helmet and goggles.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have been a flying helmet, would it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was brown, I think and sort of bulky. Why do you ask? Think it might have been that man Dawlish?’

  ‘I don’t know. He doesn’t have a BMW though. Just an Indian motorbike. Anyway, did you see him at all while you were shopping or on the way back?’

  ‘I didn’t whilst I was in Dartmouth. But on the way back, I thought I saw a blue sports car on a couple of occasions. But it wasn’t right behind me, so I couldn’t be certain. Oh, Johnny, let’s call the whole thing off. Please. It’s all turning out to be much more terrible than I ever dreamed.’

  I thought for a second and then said, ‘You mean that Seagrave may have murdered more people than just your sister?’

  ‘Well, even that —’ she began and then stopped.

  ‘Even that what, Diana?’ I asked firmly.

  ‘Oh nothing. Really. I don’t know what I’m saying. The experience this afternoon has really unnerved me. I even had to drop off to get a drink on my way back. Most unlike me, going into a pub on my own. Not very ladylike, is it? That’s what made me late.’

  I realised I would have to wait for Tracy to report before I probed her further.

  ‘Don’t let this sports car thing panic you, Diana. After all, he could have just been a guy going into Dartmouth for the afternoon, just like you.’

  ‘But he had plenty of chances to pass me, though he didn’t. And his car was obviously much faster than mine.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just bought it and he’s running it in,’ I offered, but without much conviction. ‘So, don’t lose your head. I’ll give you a ring in the morning.’

  ‘I still think we should call it off.’

  ‘No you don’t, Diana. Now is just the time when we may be heading for a breakthrough. Be in touch.’

  I put the receiver back before she could protest further. Five minutes later, I was in the old La Salle and heading towards Teignmouth.

  *

  There’s something about aerodromes at night. A kind of spookiness. Maybe it’s the black silhouettes of aircraft against the dark grey of the sky. The spread of wings eager to feel the slipstream of the morning, the lift that will bring them back to life. Or it’s the curious whispering of the wind as it plays with the planes’ rigging, before coursing off again across the short mown grass of the landing field. Or maybe it’s the stillness, a tranquillity so deep you could drop a pebble into it. A quiet that waits to be broken at dawn by a thousand horses from engine after engine, as they run up to start the day’s work.

  I parked the La Salle near the only place I could see lights — the main hangar. There were two other cars parked there but neither was a BMW. I made my way to the gap in the hangar doors from which the light was coming. Inside two men were working on one of the engines of a Railway Air Services Rapide. Both looked up as they heard my footfalls.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ the fatter of the two smiled. ‘You from RAS? If you are, I’m afraid this one won’t be ready until at least midday tomorrow; if then. We’ve got to wait for a new piston to be flown in.’

  I explained I was
not from Railway Air Services, but just looking for a friend of mine.

  ‘Tom Dawlish? He hasn’t been in today,’ the thinner man answered. ‘He told us on Saturday he would be taking the day off.’

  ‘Say what he’d be doing?’ I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

  ‘Sure. Lucky blighter,’ the fat one grinned. ‘Wish I was in his shoes.’

  I went in and rested back against the rear of the engine nacelle. ‘Oh? What’s old Tom got in his brogues then?’

  ‘Hasn’t he told you? Told everybody else. He took the day off to pick up a new sports car.’

  ‘German job,’ the thinner one piped up.

  ‘Made by the same people who make aero-engines, BMW.’

  I expressed both pleasure and surprise. ‘Good for old Tom. Didn’t know he had that kind of money, though. Last time I saw him he still had his Indian bike.’

  ‘He did till today. But I don’t blame him changing, now that his aunt’s died and left him a tidy bit of money.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘So old auntie has at last kicked the bucket, eh? Well, she was seventy-two. Can’t live for ever.’

  The fat man put down his spanner. ‘Coo, was she really only seventy-two? Tom told us she was ninety-eight.’

  I grinned. ‘Oh, you know Tom. Likes spinning a bit of a tale now and then. Never know when to take the old lad seriously.’

  The fat man turned to his colleague with a laugh.

  ‘Yeah. Don’t we know it, eh Bert? You ought to hear the things Tom comes out with sometimes. They’re absolute murder.’

  Having found out what I wanted, I turned to leave.

  ‘I bet they are,’ I said. ‘I bet they are.’

  ‘Shall we say who called?’ he shouted after me.

  I thought for a moment, and then replied. ‘Tell him Henry was asking after him. Henry Swindon — from the Drake Theatre.’

  *

  The next morning there was still no news on the wireless that the actor’s body had been found. So after feeding Groucho and myself, I hightailed it in the La Salle down to Salcombe. There I hired a small boat with an inboard motor from a fisherman, who seemed thunderstruck that anyone like me would want to go out on such a cool, grey day.

  It took about ten minutes to start it, but thereafter, it phutted well enough all the way round to the little cove which I guessed from the map must mark the marine edge of Seagrave’s property.

  As I rounded the headland, jacket collar up against the cold and hand numb on the tiller, I saw more or less what I had been expecting. A white painted boat-house and wooden jetty long enough for yachts of a considerable draught and, certainly, small floatplanes. But the only thing moored there that morning was a beautifully streamlined American Chris-Craft power boat that looked brand spanking new. Seagrave was, indeed, on a spending spree of some proportions, now that his wife’s fortune was his. I mentally totted up the cost of the Lammas-Graham, the BMW and the Chris-Craft and whistled into the wind. It whistled back.

  I kept in close by the headland for around quarter of an hour, just watching. Seagrave’s mansion was only just visible, almost on the horizon of the hills and his land tumbled in richly green folds down to the grey-brown rocks and the long stretch of beach where he had exercised his Frazer-Nash, Isadora Duncan style. But there was no sign of life, just the bobbing Chris-Craft and swooping sea-gulls. Frozen to the old marrow, I at last turned back for Salcombe. For I had found out what I came for — that a seaplane could come and go from Seagrave’s property more or less without being seen by anybody. And even if a passing fishing boat did see it, it would hardly venture sufficiently in shore to be able to spot the difference between a live plane passenger and a dead one. And that would be in daylight. Now in the dark ...

  After I had returned the boat, I raced back into Torquay, anxious not to miss any call Tracy might be making. Babs met me at my office door, all agog with excitement.

  ‘Been two people on the phone for you, Johnny.’ She announced the news as if there had been at least two hundred.

  ‘The first one was a man. He wouldn’t leave his name or number. Just said he’d ring back.’

  I went over to my desk. ‘The second one?’

  ‘That was Tracy. I mean Miss Spencer-King.’

  ‘Does she want me to ring her back?’

  ‘No, Johnny. You’ll find her message on the pad on your desk.’

  I went over and read, in Babs’ over-round but readable hand, ‘Miss King rang at ten thirty-two am. Says she has seen Mr Trenchard and it was a success. News too difficult to tell over the phone, so motoring down. Be with you, she says, as soon after lunch as she can. Sends her love, Babs.’

  ‘Make sense?’ Babs asked nervously.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘Thanks. But I wish I’d been back in time to take the call, all the same.’

  ‘Her news important, Johnny?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Miss Spencer-King sounded quite excited, so I thought it must be.’ She edged towards the door. ‘Well, I had better be going. Got a lot of celluloid dolls to unpack.’

  I waved my hand, as she hit the door knob. This time I had to say, ‘Look, Babs, maybe we should wrap a cloth or something round that knob to save you getting black and blue every time you go out.’

  Her face turned as red as a traffic light.

  ‘Oh, no! Really, Johnny, it’s my fault, not the door handle’s. I’m always bumping into things.’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘My mother says she’ll move heaven and earth to see I never learn to drive a car.’

  ‘Be all right,’ I grinned, ‘as long as you wrap enough bandages round it.’

  *

  Quarter of an hour after I had made a call to Diana Travers to see that she was all right and to confirm I thought Seagrave’s jetty could well accommodate a seaplane, the man from Babs’ first message came through on the line. It turned out to be Mr Percival Prendergast, father of the pretty but naive Susan of Burgh Island.

  ‘Relieved to get hold of you at last, Mr Black. I’m sorry to bother you with a personal problem, but I would like to see you about-well, about my daughter, actually.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Prendergast. I’m glad you rang. I’d like to see you, too. And I have a feeling it’s about the same matter. But tell me, how did you get hold of me? We don’t know each other.’

  ‘Oh, I do apologize, Mr Black. I should have told you. My daughter mentioned your name to me. You’ve met, I believe. I made a few enquiries around and soon found out you run a detective agency called Black Eye. Now a private detective is just the kind of person I need to see right now. So that’s why I’m ringing.’

  ‘Is it about your daughter and a man called Michael Seagrave?’

  ‘The very same, Mr Black. I can see I’m talking to the right kind of man. Now, when can we meet? I’d like to make it as soon as possible.’ I looked at my watch. It was eleven twenty.

  ‘How about twelve fifteen, today? I can just about get to Burgh Island at that time.’

  ‘Oh, er I’d rather not meet at the hotel, if you don’t mind. I don’t want anybody to see us together really — especially my daughter.’

  ‘Name a place,’ I invited.

  ‘Tell you what. I don’t know many places round here, but I do know the Clipper Ship, just outside Salcombe. Yachting friend of mine took me there once. We could meet there and have a spot of lunch, maybe.’

  I knew the place. It was at the top of the steep narrow hill that wound down into Salcombe.

  ‘All right. Thank you, Mr Prendergast. I’ll meet you there at the same time — twelve fifteen.’

  ‘Twelve fifteen it is, Mr Black,’ Prendergast confirmed, his surprisingly vigorous and youthful voice now sounding far less full of worry.

  *

  The Clipper Ship bar was starting to fill up by twelve thirty, yet there was still no sign of Prendergast. I wasn’t yet worried, as I guessed that tycoons of the Prendergast scale might well have delaying business calls
to make, even when on holiday. So I ordered myself another Scotch and was quite happy to wait awhile. For it helped fill in a bit of the time before Tracy was due later in the afternoon; and gave me a pause in which to consider whether I should own up to Prendergast that I had been the anonymous caller who had warned him about Seagrave some days before.

  But by one o’clock, I was definitely starting to feel both edgy and rather annoyed at the high-handedness of those with business empires, and by quarter past, I was incensed enough to go to the hotel phone in the lobby and put in a call to Burgh Island. But the receptionist there coolly informed me that Mr Prendergast and his family had chartered a plane and flown to Jersey for two days and would not be back until tomorrow night.

  I went back to the bar and ordered another Scotch to try to restore a modicum of self-confidence. For I kicked myself for not realizing that I had been duped. After all, Prendergast’s voice had certainly sounded youthful for a man of his obvious age and, on reflection, the answer given to the question of how he found me had not exactly been a winner. I left the bar, feeling that I had certainly been paid back now for my own anonymous phone call to the real Mr Prendergast.

  *

  Unfortunately, the many Scotches I’d downed in the Clipper Ship, rather than buoying my spirits, inflamed my anger which, I’m afraid, I took out on my La Salle. Now normally, like most pilots, I am most considerate of machinery. But once in the car, a kind of demon seemed to grip me and I accelerated out of the car park like a Prince Bira off the starting grid, and with a scream of tyres, turned right onto the road towards Malborough. With all eight cylinders pushed to the limit, the speedometer soon showed eighty on the first short straight, which, to be frank, was about thirty miles an hour more than the road allowed in safety. I wound down the window. I needed the raw rush of air to the face, the sense of speed, the blur of the scenery flicking past to revive me, to remind me of who I was and, maybe, of who I had been. For a moment, it was almost like being back in the open cockpit, soaring across limitless landscapes, temporary king of the world around — only now the wind from outside was tearing at bare eyes, not the glass of goggles. Tears started to haze my vision. I took one hand off the wheel to wind my window back up. As I did so, I spotted the roof of a charabanc appearing above the hedgerows around the next corner.