by David Marcum
Our charming friend smiled at us. “Mr. Page is available, Mr. Holmes, and he will be out shortly.” She motioned us to a luxurious divan in the waiting area. No sooner had we settled into the plush leather than an athletic looking man in a dark gray suit rushed through a double door and greeted us enthusiastically. He pumped our hands vigorously.
“It is indeed a pleasure to meet such a famous person as yourself, Mr. Holmes. It is an honor. And you also, Dr. Watson. May I say that I have read everything that you have written, and have enjoyed those stories a great deal? In fact, I read them to my daughters at least once a week.” He indicated that we follow him through the great doors.
“My name is Gordon Page, and I am Mr. Ortieg’s consulting aeronautical engineer.” He guided us down a well-appointed hallway, with several doors leading to small offices, and on to his office at the end of the hall. This room was large and comfortable, and featured two great windows commanding imposing views of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty. Paintings of airplanes were spaced about the two remaining walls. A table against one wall was over-flowing with blueprints, maps, and a myriad of documents. After we had settled into some wooden chairs, we began our interview.
“As you may no doubt be aware, Mr. Page, Dr. Watson and I have been commissioned by Miss Consuelo Hatmaker and Mr. Robert Nungesser to investigate the unfortunate disappearance of Captain Nungesser and Francois Coli. Our clients, justified or not, suspect some nefarious motive behind this unfortunate event. Our intention here is to get a feel for the other American entrants and to deduce if there was anyone who had a motive to see the French fail,” said Holmes.
Mr. Page shook his head in dismay. “I’m afraid that just about every entrant has motive to see the others fail, but no one had any particular grievance against the French team. $25,000 is quite an incentive, you can imagine. Not all the entrants are officially registered with us. Nungesser and Coli are technically outsiders, but eligible in any case.”
Page tapped the blotter on his desk with his fingers. His fingers were those of a man well acquainted to using tools and getting dirty, a workingman’s fingers. “As you may be aware, Mr. Holmes, several men have already perished in the attempt. Others are currently in the hospital. Now that Mr. Lindbergh has succeeded in his flight, I would absolve any of those of any wrong-doing.” Page paused and glanced out the window. Clearly he was wrestling with a difficult issue.
“There was one man,” he continued, “whom I would consider a prime suspect if any criminal activity were involved. Not because I have definitive proof, you understand. I would only suspect him because of his odious manners and unscrupulous business practices. His embarrassingly outspoken contempt for his fellow aviators is particularly abhorrent to me.”
I broke in, “Can I conclude that you are speaking of this Monson person, the one who took out that charming advertisement in the papers earlier this month?”
Page looked at me with an expression of astonishment. He broke into a grin. “Exactly the man I was thinking of. William R. Monson. Possibly the most annoying and detestable person ever associated with aeronautics. Sorry for my odd reaction, Doctor, but it was like you were reading my mind and your sarcasm took me by surprise. Yes, Monson. How can one not suspect him?” Page smiled broadly and waggled an accusatory finger at me. “‘Charming’ indeed! You had me there, Doctor. That man would do anything, and I mean anything, to gain the upper hand on anyone, or anything, that stood in his way.
“You see, it is my duty to review each entrant’s proposal. I had to examine their planned flight route, the aircraft they intended to use, fuel loads, safety equipment, and other minor details. And still, most of them failed in their attempts. Too many died. I would make some suggestions to the ones who appeared better prepared than others.” He barked a laugh. “Why, we even had one man enter a Curtiss Jenny that was over twenty-years old and was falling apart as I watched!
“All submitted proposals. That is, except Monson. He was rude and secretive regarding his airplane, his experience, and his plans. Downright combative. Even before I had a chance to inform him that cooperation was in his best interest, he slapped ten $100 bills on my desk!” He tapped his blotter. “He said, ‘These should be documents enough to prove my validity, Page.’ Imagine that! A bribe! Well, I shoved the money back across the desk to him. ‘Mr. Monson,’ I said, ‘This review is for your own safety. I am offended that you think me of such low caliber that I would consider any bribe. Please leave my office immediately.’ I demanded. With that said, I stood to show him I meant business.”
“And what did our esteemed Mr. Monson do after that?” asked Holmes, steepeling his fingers before his face.
Page laughed angrily. “The scoundrel glowered at me, scooped up the cash and stormed from the office. He said something at the door that caused me some concern.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow and motioned with his forefinger for Page to continue.
“He said, ‘This is not over, Page. Not by a longshot.’ Then he left the building. I immediately informed Mr. Ortieg, and he assured me that I acted in the best interest of the prize commission. He would personally inform Mr. Monson, by letter, of his exclusion from the race.”
“Did anything happen after that?”
“In fact, yes. There were some odd occurrences over the following weeks. I received unmarked, unaddressed letters in my mailbox, both at home and here, each containing ten $100 bills. I turned each one over to Mr. Ortieg.”
Holmes had assumed his classical pose when interviewing a witness: fingers before his face, eyes closed, and his mouth set grimly. “And what did Mr. Ortieg make of this?”
“When I told Mr. Ortieg the whole story, he gave the money to some veterans’ charities.”
“Did Monson ever gain legitimate entry into the competition, say through another agent of Ortieg’s?”
Page shook his head. “Monson never presented any aircraft, maps or flying logs. After the fiasco with me, he took to the newspapers, trying to pressure Mr. Ortieg and myself with public opinion. Claimed his ‘secret’ aircraft was so amazing that he would fly not just to Paris, but beyond. To Berlin or Cairo. He was unabashedly bragging. Nobody in the know bought any of his nonsense.”
While Holmes was questioning Mr. Page, I had busied myself with rummaging through the stacks of engineering drawings, maps and legal documents. I turned back to Page. “Could somebody claim the prize if they were not officially entered in the competition?”
Page thought for just a few seconds. “Yes. Mr. Ortieg stated when Nungesser and Coli took off that whoever successfully made the flight first could claim the prize, regardless of the technicalities.”
Holmes abruptly stood and paced to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “Tell me, Mr. Page, did Mr. Monson ever attempt to bribe either Mr. Ortieg or any of the directors?”
Page answered without hesitation. “No! Absolutely not!”
“Then, in your educated opinion, would Mr. Monson attempt sabotaging either airman or aircraft?”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Page, enunciating each word, “you have not heard all the facts of Mr. Monson’s crooked business activities. The man is as ruthless and cunning as a pirate. And about as subtle. He is obsessed with winning at any cost, regardless of how large or small the reward. Regardless, even, of the consequences. I haven’t anything solid to tell you that wouldn’t sound like mean-spirited gossip, but the man has few friends and fewer people willing to do business with him. I, for one, have no idea how the bastard has stayed solvent for so long.”
I asked, “Where could we speak to Mr. Monson? Get his take on the matter?”
“Monson’s factory, if one could call it that, is located in Kingston, New York, on the Hudson River,” replied Page.
Holmes turned from the window and extended his hand to Page. “Thank you for your time and your honesty, Mr. Page.
We shan’t bother you further.” Holmes took up his hat and coat from the chair, then paused. With his face towards the floor, he peered at Page sidelong. “Would it be possible, Mr. Page, for Dr. Watson and I to obtain a copy of the entrants listing? Names and addresses and the like?”
“Certainly. I shall have Miss Cannella type a copy for you immediately. I can bring it to your hotel tomorrow morning, myself.” He then offered to loan us his folder concerning Monson.
“Splendid,” said Holmes. “Here is our hotel.” He scribbled the address on a scrap of paper. “Thank you, Mr. Page, for your cooperation.”
As Holmes and I left Page’s office, he called after us.
“One other thing, Mr. Holmes. I almost forgot about it. Just before Lindbergh took off, a suspicious man was arrested snooping around Lindbergh’s hangar. The Mineola Police have him in custody. They suspect that he was either trying to steal a souvenir from Slim or sabotage the aircraft. He had a knife, wire cutters, and a hand file on him. Does that give you any clues?”
Holmes and I exchanged surprised looks. “Why yes, Mr. Page. That may be a thread worth looking into. Good day.”
As we reached the sidewalk, I said to Holmes, “Then we are off to Mineola, Holmes?”
“In due time, Doctor. In due time. I wish to see Monson’s factory first.”
We returned to our hotel and collected our thoughts. Mr. Page had given us his folder on Monson and his flight proposal. To be honest, both Holmes and I were out of our element with these aeronautical details. I checked with the front desk to inquire about trains running to Kingston. There was one at nine a.m. the following day. We planned on partaking of an early breakfast and taking the early train north.
The next morning, Tuesday the 24th, after a rather unpleasant train ride and a bumpy cab ride with a surly driver, we arrived at Monson’s Kingston factory. To our surprise, while we expected a bustling center of aeronautical activity, the Monson factory was all but deserted. A lone security guard was on duty at the kiosk before the entrance, sullenly reading a newspaper.
We addressed him and inquired about speaking with Mr. Monson. He knew of no such man, only that he had to spend ten hours each day sitting in this run-down shack, turning away everyone seeking employment. When Holmes ensured the rummy guard that we were not seeking employment and wished to speak with someone in charge, he directed us to the main entrance and told us to ask for Mr. Sutton.
At the main entrance, we encountered another disheveled person of indeterminate age, sitting behind a wobbly wooden desk. He, too, was reading a newspaper and appeared to have no other function than to keep the unkempt lobby occupied. On his desk he had a single old telephone.
“Good morning, we should like to speak to a Mr. Sutton, please,” said Holmes, as pleasantly as he was able. The old man looked at us with squinted eyes and an attitude of suspicion and contempt.
“Why?” he said.
“We have business with Mr. Sutton. That should be sufficient,” replied Holmes.
The old man muttered something insulting under his breath and picked up the phone. He dialed a single number. After a second or two, he spoke. “Sutton? Two clowns here to see you. You comin’ down to fetch them or you want me to send ‘em up to you?” There was a pause. “Yeah,” he said and hung up the phone abruptly. “He’ll be down in a minute,” and went back to his newspaper.
Holmes and I stepped away from the desk and examined the dilapidated surroundings. Paint and wallpaper pealing from the walls. Darker rectangles showed where once pictures hung. Magazines five years out of date littered a sagging coffee table, with no chairs or sofas to sit on. The room spoke of prosperous times long gone.
The echoes of footsteps caught our attention and we turned to watch a middle-aged gentleman, with graying hairs and sagging jowls, approach. He wore no jacket, no vest, but a dingy white shirt and stained dark slacks. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened and askew.
“Is that them, Ralph?” he said, addressing the guard.
“Who do you think? Sure it’s not President Harding over there in the corner?” the guard replied. “Moron,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. Sutton ignored him.
He walked over to where we stood. “Yeah? What can I do for you guys? Want to buy an airplane, go somewhere else.”
“Mr. Sutton, I presume,” said Holmes extending his hand. “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague, Doctor Watson. We would like to speak to you about Mr. Monson.”
Sutton looked at Holmes’s gloved hand as if it were a venomous reptile. Then he looked at both of us in turn, I felt as though the man had not seen another human being in ages.
“Monson? Yeah, I’d like to speak to him too. Haven’t been paid in two weeks. I sit here day after day working on his damned blueprints and I can’t get an answer to any of my calls, letters, or telegrams. Man’s like ghost around here.”
“May we talk in your office, Mr. Sutton?” asked Holmes. Sutton nodded, albeit reluctantly, and turned about to lead us down a dingy hallway. Dirty floor-to-ceiling windows along one side of the hall admitted a depressing, grayish light. Sutton turned into a large office, without a door or windows. Several drawing boards were scattered about, and piles of drawings and notebooks cluttered them all. A layer of dust indicated that the office hadn’t been fully occupied in some time. Sutton swept some magazines off two creaky chairs and motioned for us to be seated. He took his seat behind a large drafting table, intertwined his fingers, and stared at us.
“What do you do for Mr. Monson, Mr. Sutton?” inquired Holmes. I looked around the room, noticing the same dilapidation as in the lobby. The whole place gave me the feeling of being lost in time.
Sutton did not smile. In fact, his face remained passive and his dark eyes fixed Holmes with a disgusted glare. “I’m his draftsman and designer. Not that there’s much work to do, so I draw up houses for the local architect. I’d be broke if it weren’t for him.”
“Does Monson produce any airplanes here? This place looks like it has fallen on hard times,” said I.
“Hah!” Sutton guffawed. “Hasn’t been an airplane built here in months. Last ones were the two Amphibian Patrol Planes Monson was hoping to sell to Argentina. Now, they’re gone. Don’t ask me where, I don’t know. You guys here to foreclose on us?”
Holmes and I glanced at each other. So the Monson Airplane factory was in financial difficulty. “No,” said Holmes, “we wish to speak with Mr. Monson about some matters regarding missing airplanes.”
“Ah! That French plane business, right? I knew that bastard had something to do with it. He’s been ranting and raging about the Nungesser feller since April. Almost obsessed with him. Ever since Monson’s own Trans-Atlantic plane crashed, he started going on and on about how it should be an American that wins, that the Frenchies had no business with airplanes, stuff like that. Made me real nervous, when he would go on about it like that. Would work himself up into real frenzy. Start talking about how America should invade France and put an end to them all. Real crazy stuff, you know?”
Holmes steepled his fingers and stared intensely at Sutton. “So Monson wanted to win the Ortieg Prize himself. When was the last time Mr. Monson spoke to you, personally?”
Sutton lit a cigarette as he thought. “Maybe a few weeks ago. Haven’t seen him at least since the end of April. Doesn’t answer his phone, either. Last time I called, the Operator said the line was disconnected. Can’t get in touch with Mr. Woodhouse, either.”
“Who is Mr. Woodhouse?”
“That’s Mr. Monson’s chief designer, test pilot, and right hand man. Haven’t seen him or his wife since the first week in May.”
Holmes rose from his chair. “Thank you, Mr. Sutton.”
We hand the outside security guard call a cab for us, which he did with an outstretched hand. Holmes gave him a silver dollar. Th
e cab deposited us at the train station.
On the train back to New York, Holmes spoke quietly. “We have an unusual case before us, Watson. Two missing people, two missing and probably deceased aviators, and a multitude of questions. Our main suspect has been revealed as a man with an intense hatred of all things French, and the owner of an airplane that has crashed and two others that are unaccounted for. His colleague and the colleague’s wife are nowhere to be found. We shall need to speak with Mr. Page once more. See if he is aware of Monson and Woodhouse’s whereabouts.”
The train ride back to New York was concluded in silence as Holmes stared sullenly out the windows. I scribbled my notes and examined the list that Page had provided us. No other suspicious characters grabbed my attention. I was perplexed.
I slept fitfully that night, but I heard Holmes snoring loudly from the opposite bed. It was a long night.
On Wednesday, the 25th, we proceeded to take the train out to Mineola, where we met with Detective Raymond Detmer. The detective informed us that the suspect, Carter, had confessed to being hired by a local gangster named Feliciano to break into the Lindbergh hangar and loosen some screws on the plane. He was caught before he could jimmy the window open. Further questioning proved fruitless. Carter was merely a thief who had been paid for work that he was sure he would not carry out. He stated that he wanted to watch Lindbergh take off, and admitted that he could not do what Feliciano wanted. Holmes asked to see Carter.
When we were led to Carter’s cell, Holmes simply stared at the man, who was clearly disconcerted by the hawkish man glaring at him. After several minutes of silence, Holmes spoke. “Why did Feliciano want you to sabotage Lindbergh’s plane, Carter? Did he have some stake in the matter?”
Carter cowered upon his cot, trying to will himself deeper into the concrete corner. “Don’t know, mister. When Mr. Feliciano asks you to do a job, you do it. Whether you want to or not. Paid me five dollars, though. Not a lot, but it bought a bottle of whiskey.”
