Black Eye (A Johnny Black Mystery)

by Neville Steed

I put my foot on the door catch, then glanced at Tracy. ‘Hold onto your hat, old girl.’

  ‘I’m not wearing a hat,’ she grinned bravely. ‘I’m three-quarters naked or haven’t you noticed?’

  I had no time to reply, before a face appeared at the door window. I waited until the eyes started to relax and a smile to lift the ginger moustache, then I pressed my foot down on the catch and pushed with all my might at the flimsy door.

  There was a scream, followed by a horrendous scratching sound. Then an almighty splash.

  I edged my way cautiously out of the door. But there was no sign of Seagrave’s brother. I got onto the lower wing, then heard more screams. This time they weren’t of surprise, but of supplication. Still encumbered with the backrest and my hands tied behind me, I felt very unsteady on the wing, as the plane bobbed about with every wave. The cries were now receding, as I peered out across the black water, trying to spot any sign of the pilot. As the moon came out from behind a cloud, I saw the white of some disturbed water. But it was a good two hundred feet away. My immediate instinct was to jump in and try to rescue what was obviously a man who couldn’t swim well enough to survive in that swell. But I remembered in time that my hands were tied — quite literally. All I could do was watch helplessly until an arm came vertically out of the water for the last time.

  Eighteen

  Removing the backrest was comparatively simple, if time consuming. For the now broken structure of my seat provided ample chafing points. Once unfettered, I released Tracy, who then insisted on embracing me for a further ten minutes. Still, that part couldn’t be reckoned a hardship in anybody’s old book.

  And taking the controls of an aeroplane (by necessity, please note) would have been the greatest lift in the world after our gruesome experiences, had I possessed such things as a flying helmet and goggles. And, what’s more, had 1 ever flown a seaplane before in my life. Correction — taken off and landed a seaplane before. The flying along part, I could do blindfold with any aircraft.

  However, with the luck of a novice who had read just enough about floatplanes in his life to know about such things as ‘porpoising’ and ‘getting up on the step’ and the like, I just about got us unstuck from the water without destroying the whole flimsy structure, and by dint of a little primitive celestial navigation, flew us to the bright lights of Torquay.

  The sight of a Fox Moth calmly cruising into the harbour at that hour of the night caused more than a few old salts’ mouths to gape, as they strolled around on the quayside, having a last pipe in the balmy spring air. But what made then stop and salivate was the sight of the two occupants, nude except for underpants and the scantiest of scan-ties, and shivering with cold from the freezing flight.

  In fact, word of our arrival got round so fast that we didn’t have to seek out the police ourselves at all. And no more than ten minutes after tying up at the quay, we were getting into a black Wolseley, blankets around our shoulders like a couple of Peruvian peasants and on our way to join the other Wolseleys that they told us had been at Sea-grave’s place since around nine thirty. So it hadn’t been just wishful thinking about the headlights I had seen from the plane’s window, as

  Seagrave’s brother had taken off on his murder mission. But what I dearly wanted to know was how they’d got there.

  I was soon to learn. For as our car pulled up in front of the mansion, I was amazed to see Babs coming down the steps and getting into one of the Wolseleys parked in the drive.

  I got out of the car before it had totally stopped, and ran over to her, before the policeman could close her door. In my hurry, my blanket had parted somewhat and I saw her baby-blue eyes go from my face to my underpants and back again with blank astonishment.

  ‘Johnny,’ she eventually cried out, ‘thank heaven you’re safe.’ By the time she was out of the car and embracing me, she was crying her eyes out.

  ‘It was you, Babs, wasn’t it?’ I exclaimed. ‘What on earth did you do to get the police here? I’ve never really told you anything about the case.’

  She stood back from me, tears coursing down the powder on her cheeks.

  ‘I know, Johnny. That’s why, after the ambulance had come and taken poor Dolly Randan away, I took the policemen back to your office and I found your file and made them read it. You see, I guessed you would be in some kind of trouble, Johnny, chasing that gunman. I hope you don’t mind.’

  I clasped her to me. ‘Mind, Babs? Are you kidding? You couldn’t have done better. You know something? You have got the makings of a real professional.’

  She looked up at me, her eyes now brimming with tears and excitement. ‘Do you mean it, Johnny? Can I leave Mr Ling and come and work for you? Say yes, oh, please, Johnny.’

  She had really caught me on the hop, but what could I say to a girl who must have only escaped Dolly Randan’s bullet by a flutter of an eyelash?

  ‘All right, Babs, directly I get another big case, you’re on.’

  The next moment she gave me a hug of which a jolly old grizzly could have been proud. By this time, Tracy was at my side and she quickly disengaged and immediately asked, as you might expect, what on earth had happened to us both and, as she said to Tracy, ‘your lovely clothes’?

  I was about to reply, when a skeletal hand descended on my shoulder. I looked round and into the face of Inspector Wyngarde.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Black, but I gather from my colleagues that you and I,’ he turned to Tracy, ‘and your friend, here, Miss King — have I got your name right? —’

  ‘More or less,’ Tracy smiled and he went on — ‘have quite a lot to say to each other. Would you care to come in? I can have a constable drive over to your home to get some clothes.’

  I stopped him. ‘Before that, Inspector, you’ve got to tell me — is Seagrave still here? Did you catch him?’

  He gave a thin smile. ‘He’s still here, Mr Black, don’t worry.’

  ‘And has he confessed to killing his wife and Henry Swindon and ...?’

  ‘Uncle Tom Cobley,’ he grinned. ‘Well, he didn’t right away. Denied everything, of course. And I began to think you and Miss Morgan here had led me up the garden path.’

  I put my arm around Babs’ shoulder. ‘I’d never do that, Inspector, honest, I’d never ...’ she began, but Tracy calmed her down.

  ‘But he’s come clean now?’ I pressed on.

  He nodded. ‘Wonderful thing, wireless,’ he said. ‘Wish we’d had the benefit of it in our cars years ago.’

  ‘What’s that got to do —?’ I began, but he raised his hand to silence me.

  ‘That’s how we heard about your and Miss King’s arrival in Torquay. One of our Wolseleys is equipped with a wireless unit. I naturally imparted the gist of your news to Mr Seagrave, who, after a final bluster, confessed, with a performance that was quite worthy of the London stage. Half-way through, we all started to feel the whole thing was unreal, Mr Black, and that we were just an audience in the stalls of some theatre.’ He nodded in the direction of the house. ‘He’s only just finished. It’s a pity you and Miss King missed it. It was a quite extraordinary experience.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Once a ham actor, always a ham actor, Inspector.’

  Tracy pinched my arm. ‘You should know,’ she grinned.

  *

  So that, more or less, is how Black Eye’s first significant case ended. Seagrave confessed to killing both his wife and Daphne Phipps. In court later, he described, in graphic detail, the macabre method of the latter’s death. He had hung her from the rafters in one of his bams. ‘I had always wanted to hang a woman for real. And that was my chance. After all, no one would see the rope marks on her neck at the bottom of the English Channel.’

  However, he categorically denied killing Henry Swindon and attributed that death to his over-hasty and emotional brother. ‘There was no need to kill him. He could prove nothing. This time my dear brother had not made the mistake of panicking in front of him. But he panicked the next day. I should ha
ve known he would. He phoned Swindon and made a late night appointment, as if he was going to hand over money. He drove him in his car to a place near the aerodrome. There he battered him to death, then put his body aboard a plane and inverted the craft over the bogs on Dartmoor. He was too much of a coward, you see, to fly out over the sea in a land plane, which was all he could lay his hands on that week.’

  Michael Seagrave was hanged in Pentonville on a raw and blizzard swept December dawn. It seemed somehow inappropriate to disturb the virgin white of the snow to hide him six feet under. No trace of Daphne Phipps was ever found. As for poor Dolly Randan, she recovered well from her shoulder wound and was back on the dance floor within two months. But not that belonging to Herr Adrian Feather. She moved to Exeter to the Stardust School of Dancing, a much larger and more sophisticated academy. Last thing I heard, she was engaged to be married to an ex-airship rigger from Cardington.

  And Diana Travers? We were in time to stop her flight to Le Touquet the morning after Seagrave’s arrest. When the police had finished with us, we spent most of the next day with her. For the final revelations, I think, had shaken her to the core, especially the terrible end of the over-ambitious Daphne Phipps. I guess guilt was eating away at her soul for having loved such a man once and then having more or less given her blessing to his pursuit of her tragic sister. Whatever the reasons, they were enough to persuade her eventually to sell up and move away. But not before she had presented me with a most handsome cheque and a beautiful silver box from Aspreys, on which is mounted a stunningly accurate model of a Hawker Hart.

  At present, she is living near Dover and now frequently crosses the Channel to visit a man she met at her friend’s house in Le Touquet. (Yes, she did at last visit her.) I hope they make something of it. Diana Travers deserves some happiness while she is still young enough to revel in it.

  Which brings me to dear old Buick-less Bobby Briggs. Naturally enough, he didn’t take too kindly to the idea of his car now being a jolly old submarine, but a generous cheque from my client soon turned his dismay into delight and he at once resumed talking to me, if not lending cars. However, he did do a wonderful job on my La Salle, which was back with me by the end of June, bright and shiny and rarin’ to go. And Mrs Briggs, I’m sure, had worked on him about the bill. It totted up to only a pony, bless her.

  Diana Travers’ cheque naturally did wonders for my ego and my cottage. The latter is now much more shipshape and Bristol fashion and even sports a decent bathroom, with one of those modern panelled baths. The tiles on the old walls reflect my singing well too.

  And from that moment on, to my intense relief, Black Eye began to take off and soon I no longer needed those little adverts in the local rag.

  Last, but not least, of course, there’s Tracy. Not was, but is. She’s still around and I’m mighty proud she is. What she sees in me, really, I don’t know. But I do know what I see in her. The list begins with ... a jolly fine pilot when I feel like flying, a jolly fine chauffeur when I’m taking a back seat, a jolly fine cheerer-upper when I’m down in the dumps, a jolly fine friend when I’m lonely, a jolly fine ally when things gang up, and a jolly fine ... Well, she’s coming round in a few minutes and if she finds me still writing, she’ll kill me — and that’s without reading what I’ve written!

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