The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  Holmes gestured for Detmer to hand him a photograph of Monson. He held it out for Carter to see. “Ever see this man before?”

  Carter squinted at the picture. His eyes brightened with recognition. “Yeah! Saw that guy talkin’ to Mr. Feliciano a few nights before the job. In a local bar here. Seemed like he was outta place, y’know? Nice coat and tie, fancy shoes. Looked like he knew Mr. Feliciano. They was talkin’ like they was ol’ friends.” Carter turned to Detmer. There was near panic in his voice. “You promised you were gonna protect me if I flipped on Feliciano. You promised, Detmer.”

  “Yeah, Carter, we will. Just waiting for transportation is all. Nice place upstate.” Detmer replied.

  “May we speak privately, Mr. Holmes?” Detmer asked as he walked towards the stairs to the offices above. Holmes and I followed. Once we were in Detmer’s office, Holmes paced to a window overlooking the street. Today, the sun shone and the air was warm and humid. I noticed that Detmer was perspiring and had loosened his cravat.

  “Page and I spoke yesterday about Carter and his connection to organized crime. Let’s just say that Page was more than upset about this getting into the press.” Detmer said.

  I was watching Holmes. “Why did you inform Page about this?” I asked.

  Detmer was intent, watching Holmes stare outside. He said, “Mr. Page was to be informed about any illegal activities surrounding the competitors’ hangars. It was a secret request originated by Raymond Ortieg. Matter of security and safety. We checked it all out. Page is on the up and up.”

  “Tell me, Detective Detmer, what do you make about this whole affair regarding the missing French flyers? Could Feliciano have had something to do with it?”

  Detmer thought a minute, twiddling a pencil in his fingers. “To be honest, Mr. Holmes, I don’t think Feliciano had much to do with it. Yeah, he’s mobbed up, but his main business is running booze from Canada into Maine and Long Island. I doubt he cared who won as long as people celebrated with his booze.”

  “And where would you place Monson in all this?” asked Holmes.

  “That’s easy, sir. Monson and Feliciano grew up together, ran with the same crowd. Monson sometimes gave Feliciano a plane to get booze for some special customer, but we could never get enough evidence on that to indict him as an accessory. The plane always turned up missing. But Monson is cut of the same cloth as Feliciano, though I think Monson has a few more screws missing than that dago crook. Y’know what I mean?”

  Holmes suddenly turned to Detmer. “May I use your telephone to make a call, Detective? I need to ask Mr. Page a few questions.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. I will connect you to our switchboard.”

  While Holmes was busy talking with Page in New York, I questioned Detmer on his knowledge of the Nungesser and Coli disappearance.

  “As local police, Doctor, we are not privy to all the investigations that are undertaken outside our jurisdiction, but we were notified to contact the Coast Guard should anything arise in that matter. I can put you in touch with our contact at the Guard, if you choose.”

  “That would be splendid, Detective. Yes, I should like to discover if they have learned anything new.”

  Detmer lead me into an adjoining office and, while Holmes continued speaking to Page, I was connected to a Commander Belanger, who updated me on the search for the missing aviators. Belanger informed me that there were a dozen or more people in Newfoundland, all around the Harbor Grace and Saint Pierre Island area on the south coast of the island, who either heard or saw a white airplane pass overhead. He also informed me that a single witness in rural Maine claimed to have seen a white airplane pass over him and heard it crash in a lake on which he was canoeing. Belanger stated that he would be more than honored to assist “his hero, Mr. Holmes” in his search for The White Bird. I told Belanger that we would contact him for more assistance shortly.

  I rejoined Holmes in Detmer’s office. “Well?” I inquired.

  “Page said that Monson was facing bankruptcy. He had tried to fly a plane for the trans-Atlantic attempt, unregistered either to the Ortieg Foundation or to the federal authorities. The plane crashed for reasons undetermined killing all aboard. Monson, against all regulations, disposed of the wreckage before a full investigation could commence. He may also have ‘stolen’ his two patrol airplane prototypes to prevent them from being seized by the banks. Monson, he confirmed, hasn’t been seen in public since late April. Page doesn’t know anything about Feliciano, only that he’s deeply involved with bootlegging. What about you? What did you learn from the Coast Guard?”

  I consulted my little notebook. “I spoke to a Commander Belanger in Bangor, Maine. He has been assigned to coordinate the Coast Guard search with the Canadians. There are a dozen people in Newfoundland who claim to have seen The White Bird pass overhead. I think we should arrange to meet Belanger in Newfoundland and speak to these people. What say you, Holmes?”

  “It seems to me, Watson,” my friend said, “that we are about to get acquainted with the island of Newfoundland.”

  Holmes and I gathered a portfolio of pictures of The White Bird airplane, Nungesser and Coli, Monson, Woodhouse, Feliciano, and the Monson Amphibians, and proceeded to meet with Belanger at Harbor Grace, Newfoundland. Between then and the 30th, we interviewed eighteen witnesses, showed them all the pictures. Few recognized the pictures of Charles Nungesser and Francois Coli. None recognized Monson’s picture, or Woodhouse’s. Holmes grew frustrated that the witnesses identified both The White Bird and the Monson Amphibian as the airplane that flew overhead. There was a visual similarity to the two machines, but since none could differentiate between the two, we were left to concede that The White Bird could have flown overhead.

  We were confronted with a similar situation with the few witnesses at Saint Pierre Island, about one-hundred-and-fifty miles west-southwest from Harbor Grace. Our efforts in Newfoundland came to naught, but Holmes was beginning to formulate the timeline of events in his head. As to the fate of The White Bird, he was still perplexed. I began to suspect that rum-runners may have shot down the plane by mistake near Saint Pierre Island, for two witnesses, both fishermen, claimed to have heard machine gun fire, but they could not attest to where or when.

  Belanger offered to fly us in his Coast Guard amphibian to Machias, Maine, where we would interview the Round Lake witness. We stopped in Halifax, for fuel. While we waited, Belanger was informed that a strange white airplane was found abandoned in the vicinity of Lubec, Maine. What was more, there was a body in the cockpit. Immediately our plane was fueled, we flew to Lubec, as small town on the border between Maine and New Brunswick.

  By the time we reached Lubec, the authorities had identified the body in the plane, dead for a while now, as one H. G. Woodhouse, Monson’s right hand man and chief pilot. The police attempted to inform his widow, but she could not be found. The airplane was confirmed as one belonging to Monson. When we reached the site, the Coast Guard had already secured the airplane, which was partially submerged in a marshy area south of the city of Lubec. The airplane was armed with four Browning machine guns, the ammunition boxes were empty, and there were indications that the guns had been used. Woodhouse’s autopsy revealed a single gunshot wound to the forehead.

  We re-boarded Belanger’s amphibian to make the short hop to Machias. Holmes sat beside Belanger in the cockpit for the take-off. The man was like a child in a toy store. After we had climbed to 5,000 feet and were set upon our course, Holmes came back into the cabin and sat beside me.

  “Occasionally I still sometimes question whether Mr. Monson is truly deeply involved with the disappearance of Nungesser and Coli,” said Holmes.

  I said, “But why, Holmes?”

  “Monson is the most obvious suspect, Watson, because of the fact that he has been so blatantly conspicuous in his hatred of Nungesser and his extreme nationalism. And tha
t is the problem. Is he too obvious a suspect?”

  I was thrown off my balance at this statement. “Too obvious? Holmes, do you suspect a conspiracy? What would be the ultimate motive?” I paused and regarded my friend. “If there was a conspiracy, then, to me, the obvious suspect would be that Feliciano fellow. A rum-runner and known murderer, ties to organized crime. Ah, but why would gangsters have motive to see the French fail?”

  Belanger called from the cockpit, “Perhaps they had a tidy wager on the outcome and wished to ensure that they won?”

  “Do you really believe such a thing, Holmes?” I said.

  “Do you, Watson? Consider your hypothesis thoroughly.”

  Yes, I thought, it did seem rather petty. But who could the other suspects be? “Would Page have motive for murder, Holmes? What about Ortieg himself, or any of the other contenders?”

  “No, Page would have no motive. He is a man above reproach. So is Raymond Ortieg. Neither man would benefit from having either an American or European win. The same holds true for the other contenders. Let us not forget the number of men who have already died in the attempts and so far, no one has gained anything from their sacrifice. No, Watson, the only person who would benefit from a French failure, indeed, any failure would be a man in similar straits as Monson.

  “Consider the facts: Monson’s company is in foreclosure with no contracts and no production. Therefore, financial motive.” Holmes ticked the points off on his fingers. “Monson’s colleague and pilot is found dead inside a plane that had disappeared from Monson’s own factory, and found near an area where Monson owns property. Monson is known to have ties to organized crime; therefore he may owe substantial sums to gangsters. Monson, Feliciano and Mrs. Woodhouse are missing. Where are they and why? The White Bird appears to have overflown areas where Monson has connections. Belanger mentioned to us that Monson owned some property in Passamaquoddy Bay in New Brunswick, the area that The White Bird would have flown close to. No, Watson, to my thinking, while obvious, Monson can be the only suspect here. No others have his distaste for Nungesser and things French; he stands to gain from an American victory. In fact, he would stand to gain even more if it were he that won. But he is missing with the rest.”

  Holmes shook his head slowly. “I must say, Watson, that I do not like this case, and I find myself at odds as to suspects and motive. I say we return to New York at the earliest and inform Miss Hatmaker and Mr. Nungesser that we have little to offer them.”

  I had never heard my friend utter such a desolate opinion in any case. For him to even suggest retiring from an investigation was completely unlike him. Has he grown weary of the effort, the hunt? Perhaps he was merely tired and wished to withdraw gracefully. Again, it was unlike him. Holmes returned to the cockpit while my mind whirled. Could the Great Detective could be wearing down?

  Our stop at Machias was brief and non-productive. The witness there, Andrew Berryman, turned out to be the owner of an illegal still and a well-known vagrant. He had been arrested on the 10th in downtown Machias for public drunkenness, and began boasting about seeing a white airplane fly over his head. Holmes and I could not get anything solid from the poor man’s addled brain.

  As we again boarded Belanger’s plane for the final trip back to New York, and I prayed for no more flights, Holmes said, “Our case just grew more interesting. Commander Belanger here has just informed me that a gangster named Feliciano was found murdered last night in a flop house outside of Mineola.”

  I was stunned at the news. I turned to Belanger. “How did you find out?”

  Belanger smiled. “Detective Detmer of the Mineola Police and I served together in France. We have kept in touch with each other over the years, and he knows that I am assisting with the case. He called my office in Bangor to inquire about my whereabouts, knowing that I was with you and Holmes. They radioed my amphibian to inform me that one of my suspects was now deceased. I got the message while you and Holmes were interviewing Berryman.”

  “You suspected Feliciano?” said I. “As the primary suspect?”

  “Not on this case. He was under investigation for rum-running, but now I think he was involved somehow with Monson. Want to know what else I was informed, Doctor?”

  I nodded my head and observed Holmes from the corner of my eye grin.

  Belanger continued, “It seems that the late Mr. Woodhouse had some property on Long Island that he kept as a ‘play house’, if you will. Entertained young ladies there supplied by Mr. Feliciano. Seems that Mr. Monson used the house as well, for similar assignations. The house is in Mrs. Woodhouse’s name, can you believe that?”

  I looked to both men and their smiles annoyed me. They were keeping information from me, I felt it. Then it suddenly dawned on me: “Monson used the ‘play house’ to stage his planes!”

  “No, Watson, but close. Mrs. Woodhouse was observed two nights ago shopping for medical supplies in South Jamesport. Commander Belanger has summoned the New York State Police to inspect the Woodhouse property near there,” Holmes said. “We are heading for Long Island right now.”

  We flew first to Boston for more fuel, then directly to South Jamesport, Long Island, where Belanger landed his amphibian in the bay just to the west. We sailed up and onto the beach below a small white cottage, with dark shingled roof, and sea green shutters and trim. Aside from the three police vehicles on the side of the cottage, there were two others in the driveway; one a fancy roadster convertible, the other a black Ford that had seen better days. Detective Detmer met us on the beach. The four of use made our way up to the cottage, and Holmes made a bee-line for the roadster. The front seat was covered with blood, and an 1898 Broom-handled Mauser pistol was laying on the passenger’s floor. Holmes bent close to examine the weapon. “Gentlemen, I believe that this is the weapon that killed Mr. Feliciano. It has been fired recently, you can smell the gunpowder, and the magazine is empty.”

  Holmes stood abruptly and strode into the cottage. Belanger and I followed. The cottage was small with only a living room, small kitchen and a single bedroom. In the living room, sprawled on the single couch, was Monson. Kneeling beside him on the floor, was a weeping woman, Mrs. Woodhouse. Monson’s shirt was bloodied and the man was barely alive.

  Holmes stepped past the grieving woman and stooped close to Monson. The dying man opened his eyes, focused on Holmes and said, “Nungesser. Did he make it?”

  Holmes spoke softly. I heard him whisper, “No.” Monson began whispering something else, but I could not hear from my position just inside the door. Holmes stooped lower to hear. Then he stood. “Mr. Monson is dead,” he said matter-of-factly. Mrs. Woodhouse burst into wailing sobs.

  “What did he say, Holmes?” Belanger asked.

  Holmes pushed past me and walked onto the tiny porch. With his back to us, Holmes said, “‘Damn. At least an American did it.’”

  Holmes withdrew his pipe and lit it, puffing thoughtfully. “I believe that I can assemble a scenario that has just concluded. Monson has always held a hatred of the French and of Charles Nungesser in particular. I am sure that we can extract the exact details from Mrs. Woodhouse, whom I surmise, according to her presence here and her emotional reaction to Monson’s passing, was having an illicit affair with Monson. Monson, on his part, did not wish to see Nungesser and Coli win the Ortieg Prize. Why, you may ask? Because any person who won the prize would have much to celebrate: prestige, personal appearances and endorsements, even increased sales of the airplane used to make the crossing. Monson’s xenophobia would not permit such to happen. His pride, his ego would insist that not just any American plane win, but it must be his, piloted by himself.

  “He tried last year, as Sutton told us, and the plane crashed. When Monson heard of Nungesser’s declaration, he could not abide his hated rival to succeed. Since his own plane failed, and he was facing bankruptcy and the prospect of not being able to construc
t a new plane in time, then he would have to eliminate his rivals, starting with Nungesser.

  “His connections to Feliciano, a known rum-runner and gangster, could mean that Monson hired Feliciano’s associates to sabotage Nungesser’s aircraft in France. However, because Nungesser and Coli took-off from Paris, we can assume that sabotage efforts there failed. Therefore, how could Monson stop Nungesser?

  “I believe by this time, Monson’s paranoia and his overinflated ego combined to rob the man of a certain degree of rational thought. He would, he concluded, have to physically destroy The White Bird in flight. He took his only assets that could accomplish the job, his two armed patrol amphibians, and stationed them along Nungesser’s projected route. It is possible, considering Feliciano’s business, that rum-running boats were used along the route to radio reports of The White Bird’s progress. Somewhere around Passamaquoddy Bay, where if you will remember, Monson owned lake-side property, he waited for the French aircraft to pass.”

  “But there were two planes, Holmes,” said Belanger.

  “Correct, Commander. Monson and Woodhouse flew in one plane and two other men flew the other. On the fateful day, both planes would have been patrolling, waiting to catch Nungesser and Coli. The French aviators would be exhausted at this point and probably not very alert. Monson or Woodhouse spotted The White Bird, then swooped to attack. I am not an aerial combat expert, nor am I an expert pilot, but I will assume that one has only seconds to fire at another target. The weather that day was cloudy, according to Commander Belanger, foggy, rain, quite poor visibility. I will assume Monson made a single pass at Nungesser, but wounded or killed both men. I have spoken to several experts who flew in the Great War, and they said that the first thing an unarmed pilot would do was to seek refuge in the clouds. This I am sure Nungesser and Coli did. Monson, after his first attack, had lost sight of The White Bird, but suddenly saw another white airplane before him and, believing it to be his hated enemy, opened fire. Woodhouse, however, probably recognized the aircraft as Monson’s other amphibian.