by C. Daly King
Through the glassed sides nothing of the earth below was visible, not even a pinpoint winkled. From ahead a beacon flashed, and was extinguished. ‘Nice and snug,’ Lord commented. ‘Am I mistaken or is it beginning to get a little grey outside?’
‘Not yet. We’re up pretty high, but it will be another hour before the false dawn.’ Lovett reached into his pocket for the microphone. ‘Will you excuse me; it’s time for our twenty-minute report.’
‘Go ahead, of course. You won’t forget about my message, will you?’ Lord’s head and shoulders withdrew, and the small door closed.
As he turned about, he saw there had been a change in the cabin. Upon the camp stool he himself had occupied next to Pons at the rear end, Hugh L. Craven was sitting propped back against the wall. He was peacefully smoking his pipe.
8000 FEET
Lord looked at him doubtfully as he stepped down into the aisle.
Had Craven been prowling about the darkened cabin? And if so, what for? He was certain the Englishman had been lying back, to all intents asleep, when he had passed forward a little while before. So the man had certainly gotten up and passed along the aisle, in order to reach his present position. Lord realised that his suspicions were on the alert. Maybe the man’s purpose had been no more than his ostensible one of going back to enjoy a smoke.
‘What woke you up?’ he asked, approaching the seated figure.
Craven looked up lazily. ‘Nothing special, I imagine,’ he responded in a casual tone, ‘I found myself awake and thought I’d have a bit of a pipe before lying down again. Didn’t want to disturb the chaps next to me.’
‘I see.’
‘Aren’t you going to get any sleep at all to-night? Better have a spot of nap yourself, hadn’t you, old chap?’
‘Not to-night,’ said the detective grimly. ‘To-night I’m working.’
‘How’s your head? Rather a bump you got.’
‘It’s O.K. now,’ Lord lied. ‘I wouldn’t know it had been scratched.’
A short silence. Then, ‘You haven’t solved the mystery, what? No arrest?’
‘H’m.’ Well, he might as well make use of the fellow, now that he was here. ‘By the way, Craven, you can’t remember seeing Isa Mann anywhere, either in the cabin or on the field, back at Medicine Bow, can you? I’m especially anxious to establish just when she left the cabin.’
‘Afraid I can’t help you with that. I got down just after the pilots, y’know. I’m certain she must have been in the cabin when I left, and I’ve no idea when she may have decided to come out on the field ... Of course I know when she reached the little house, but I’ve told you that already, I believe.’
‘What’s that? You know when she reached the house? You haven’t told me about it, that’s sure.’
Craven blinked with apparent surprise. ‘Oh, didn’t I? Well, you may be right, I had a notion I’d told you back there when you were asking where I’d been myself. Why, she came in the door just after me; no sooner had I closed the door than she opened it.’
‘So that was Isa,’ said Lord, with satisfaction. ‘I knew some one had entered behind you, but I didn’t know who it was. That anchors down one end, anyhow. You and Pons went into the room at 8.40 and, if she was right behind you, that makes 8.40 for her also and puts the question as to what she was doing all that time. She didn’t go out to investigate the combat ’plane, I’m positive.’
The playwright’s attention was caught by the suspicion in Lord’s tone. ‘Are you really still tryin’ to pick out one of us for the dock?’ he inquired curiously. ‘You won’t be able to do, y’know . . . Your chap’s in Africa, what? Rather out of your jurisdiction for the moment.’
The detective in turn observed his companion with curiosity, as he spoke. ‘A joke’s a joke. It gets silly after a while. You don’t seriously entertain those absurd theories about “projection” and all the rest of that stuff, of course.’
‘My dear fellow,’ Craven retorted easily, ‘of course I do, because, y’see, they’re not theories, but merely phenomena that occur and are reported circumstantially. There is as much evidence for them as there is for a goodish lot of so-called scientific “facts.” More, for some of them.’
‘Pshaw.’
‘Well, there you are; that’s as intelligent an argument as I’ve ever heard brought against them, and I’ll wager you would believe anything a “scientist” told you just because he had letters after his name and was a supporter of currently fashionable ideas . . . But I don’t want to shake your confidence. It’s comfortable to stay hypnotised.’
There ensued a short silence while Craven puffed contentedly on his pipe. Lord was trying to frame a question that would not seem too leading and the task was proving difficult. It was to be an important question.
‘That stuff – what do you call it, Fortean? – was all right as long as you thought Cutter had been killed by the bulb I gave him this morning, but it’s washed up now.’
‘I never did think you poisoned the man,’ the other reminded him.
(There, that was the thing!)
‘Why not? It happened right in front of your nose and every one else thought so.’
‘But I told you why.’ Craven, at ease, shrugged. ‘Probably every one else did think so; this atmosphere of scientific credulity surrounding the educated ends up by making them credulous all along the line. But detectives don’t poison the persons they are guarding. They don’t do it even in stories; certainly they don’t do it in actual circumstances. Wotan Mann wanted Cutter’s death and Cutter died, in full view of all of us, without being attacked by any one present. The only man near him was, in fact, guarding him. Well?’
‘Oh surely; but we have passed beyond that set-up. Cutter met his death in a quite different fashion. His throat was cut.’
‘And again, curiously enough, in the absence of a weapon.’
‘Not at all. I have the weapon in my pocket . . . No, I found it to-night, while you were asleep.’
‘You found the knife?’
‘Not a knife, Mr Craven,’ said Lord softly, ‘not a knife. It was Fonda Mann’s scarf clip and I found it hanging on her scarf with Cutter’s blood on it.’
The Englishman twisted his long body into a more upright position. He spoke sharply, ‘It’s ridiculous, and you call my ideas fantastic! No one could cut a man’s throat with a scarf clip.’
‘It could be done with this one, all right,’ he was assured. ‘The thing is more than four inches along one blade and the blades are spade-shaped. Also they are of some strong, rigid metal and the edges are as sharp as the point. Not as sharp as a knife, it’s true, but plenty sharp enough to slash an unconscious man’s throat.’
‘Well,’ Craven drew a long breath, ‘if you think Fonda Mann went out and cut her uncle’s throat with her scarf clip, you’re batty. It’s unpleasant work, slitting throats; they bleed like hell. A girl like Fonda Mann? By Jove, you might as well bring Wotan before a jury as bring her.’
‘For once I agree with you.’
‘Oh, I see. Fonda is not suspected.’
‘As I have pointed out before, that leaves the rest of you. Especially the rest of you who have no alibis for the period in question. You can’t strengthen your own, I suppose? You have had some more time for recollection now.’
‘Can’t do. I can’t get very worried, either . . . There is one thing I forgot to tell you about my journey, though. I only remembered it after we had got back in the ’plane. When I was coming up to the house on the field, just before I met up with the Pons chap, I saw some one scrabblin’ around in the snow about fifty yards back as if he’d lost something and was damn anxious to find it.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Don’t know, I’m sure. I had only a glance through the snow and didn’t think much about it. Just gave it to you now because you seem to be interested in anything you can find out about that field. I’ve something more amusin’ than that for you, if you want it.’
‘Y
es?’
‘Yes. Since I’ve been asleep, some one’s hopped it with my gun.’
The detective’s interest was evident in his voice. ‘Suppose you tell me all about that right now.’
‘There’s not much to tell,’ Craven responded. ‘I had a gun, a little German thing with eight bullets in it. It was in my coat pocket when I lay back and went to sleep after we left the emergency field. When I woke up just now, it wasn’t there. That’s all.’
‘It didn’t merely drop out, I suppose?’
‘It did not merely drop out. I looked about a bit with a flash.’
They sat for some moments pondering this situation. Lord said finally, ‘I’ve been here all the time. Of course I got out at Salt Lake City, but a number of you were stirring about then, which would more or less count that time out ... I have been working, of course, but most of the time Pons has been with me. Although he went to sleep back here once. I suppose it could have been done while I was working on that message. The only other time was when I was speaking with the pilots just now. Do you think you could have been awakened by the thief? Just now, I mean.’
‘It’s possible, I imagine. I don’t recall anything of the kind, however. It seemed to me that I merely woke up, not that I was awakened by anything.’
‘It’s a foolish thing to have done,’ Lord considered. ‘Very foolish. The murder is finished, and no one can possibly get away from this cabin with your property. Do you want me to make a search for it now?’
‘Wouldn’t think of it, old chap. Wakin’ everybody up; there’s no such hurry as that. If it doesn’t turn up by the time we reach Reno, that’s soon enough for searching people. As you say, it can’t get away.’
‘Just the same, there’s something very funny about this.’ Lord fell silent, turning over several possibilities in his mind, until the other rather abruptly got to his feet.
Craven knocked the ashes from his pipe into a container. ‘I’m turning in again for an hour or so,’ he announced. ‘Sorry you can’t see the light about the main thing. Mann could easily have transported that clip to his enemy’s throat and then have transported it back to a scarf when it had done its job of work. Transmediumisation can be about as “miraculous,” when viewed by “scientists,” as they want it.’
Lord’s only answer to that was a grunt. Craven walked easily down the aisle and subsided skilfully into his reclining chair. The detective strained his eyes to see whether or not he pulled a blanket over him. He did not. As doubtfully as when he himself had come down the aisle to find the novelist at the rear of the cabin, Lord continued to stare at the reclining figure in the seat.
8100 FEET
Craven (Lord considered from the little camp stool that now was becoming definitely uncomfortable) was most assuredly a cool customer. Just a touch too cool for compatibility with complete innocence. His theories possessed a patness to any emerging factor in the situation, which suggested that they had been considered beforehand in anticipation of such eventualities.
And such theories! He didn’t know which was more incredible, the theories themselves or Craven’s calm assurance that he could get any one else to take them seriously. Was it possible that the playwright himself took them seriously? Hardly. As an intellectual pastime, yes. Undoubtedly he was intrigued by them; his intimate acquaintance with their details showed that he had spent some time, at least, over the bizarre notions of this fellow, Fort, but as a significant basis of explanation for real occurrences, for a murder that had been committed not ten feet from this very cabin – no, Craven struck him as far too well balanced for that. ‘If he found himself in my place with a criminal to catch,’ Lord muttered, ‘I’ll bet he wouldn’t waste much time thinking about Africa.’ Transmediumisation – the ‘transportation’ of the clip from a scarf in the cabin to Cutter’s throat and back to the scarf again! My God!
Of course, Craven didn’t know the circumstances of the clip’s loss and subsequent discovery on the cabin floor. Or else he was pretending not to know. For he, as well as the other suspects, had had an equal opportunity to pick it up and plan its use . . . He hadn’t inquired about the details of the clip, how Fonda had happened not to have it when it was being used, where Lord had found the scarf, or anything else; which in itself was surely peculiar under the circumstances. It rather looked as if Craven had not been anxious to discuss the matter of the clip. A few questions would have been more natural. No discussion, no possibility of slips, perhaps?
And yet when he was talking, he seemed so entirely convinced of his strange viewpoint that it was difficult to doubt his sincerity at such times. What if he did actually believe in ‘projection’ and the rest of it? Well, no use mulling that over again. It could have nothing really to do with the case; it was either an aberration or it was a clever smoke-screen. If the latter, it was suspicious. What else was suspicious, that was the point now.
The Englishman had been a British secret agent during the war, Felix wired. A spy, in short; and at the very beginning of the case there had been reason to think about spies. A British spy, naturally, was out of the question; Lord found it impossible to conceive of the British Foreign Office being involved in an attempt, even an indirect one, upon the life of the American Secretary of State. They had, in fact, far more reason to protect his life, for James Cutter was as notoriously pro-British as he was anti-French.
That, however, hardly altered matters. Craven had once been a British agent; why not now a French one? Or even an Oriental one? The detective had vague ideas that, once in that game, one’s services were generally on the market for the highest bidder. The playwright had pooh-poohed spy rings in peace times, and, ordinarily, Lord would have felt inclined to agree with him; but if he were actually a spy himself, the pooh-poohing became a natural reaction to such suggestions. Another pat attitude.
A corroboratory remark edged its way into the detective’s consciousness. Craven had spoken not only calmly but with familiarity concerning throat cutting. No doubt spies inevitably learned something of this art; or became casualties instead of spies. His unruffled treatment of the murder was certainly not entirely assumed. There was no doubt that he felt reasonably at home in an atmosphere of violence and sudden death. That much could be said anyhow, for it was established that Craven had lived among the vicissitudes of the Secret Service for some time at the least. The question was whether his real profession now was literary or semi-military.
And, in addition, he might have had another motive. Even if he were totally innocent of foreign employment, there remained his friendship with Wotan Mann; and it became increasingly plausible that a man who had certainly killed in the past, who had in fact been a legalised criminal during the war, would not hesitate to revive his abilities on behalf of a friend if the affair appeared safe. As he had probably accomplished far more difficult feats in the past, there was no reason why he should lack confidence here. Confidence was a quality possessed especially by deliberate murderers, by those, for example, who dispatched death threats in advance of their deeds. Whatever else might be said, it was growing clear that, of the three suspects left, Craven was by far the best equipped, both temperamentally and by experience, for the commission of the crime.
And he lacked an alibi as completely as either of the others, now that Isa’s arrival at the house had become known. Or had it? Could Craven’s evidence be trusted on this or any other point? After a little reflection Lord saw that, so far as concerned the case against the girl, it could be. If Craven were guilty, it could not be, but if Isa were the criminal, then it could be, for that meant the Englishman’s innocence.
And Isa, now that he thought of it, had the temperament, if not the experience, of her fellow suspect. She was disagreeable, she was appetitive; more than that, she was plainly rude and quarrelsome. She went out of her way, when talking with people, to sneer at them and insult them. She did with men, at all events. Even if she had wanted to, she could not have concealed her violent antipathy to them from any on
e. Without exaggeration it could be said to go to the extent of hatred . . . That crude slashing of Cutter’s neck had been an act of hatred rather than a job of workmanlike competence . . . The actual details of the murder fitted Isa better than they did Craven. From this angle.
Her motive? Lord was beginning to see the outlines of a possible motive for Isa. He would have to get more on that, though, before it shaped up into anything. Incidentally, he had better set about getting it. Time was slipping past. He looked at his watch – good heavens, yes! Too bad to wake them up. Nevertheless, there was no choice now; he would have to do it.
8000 FEET
Fonda moved restlessly as he touched her. She opened her eyes and said, ‘Michael,’ in a soft murmur. She smiled sleepily.
They whispered together for some minutes. At first there seemed reluctance as well as drowsiness in her manner, but then, more fully awake, she answered his questions with accurate detail. At their conclusion he patted her shoulder, avoided provocatively upraised lips (for which he was sorry an instant later), and stepped back to Dr Pons’ chair.
The psychologist, snoring gently on his back, was more difficult to arouse; but he stumbled down the aisle after Lord, grunting and grumbling, once he was awake. ‘Hell, Michael, is this a trip or a laboratory experiment of some kind?’
‘Sorry, doctor, but time is drawing short.’
‘It must be nearly morning.’
‘It is. That’s just the trouble, and I haven’t got my three suspects sorted out yet at all.’ The detective ran a hand over his injured head and paused, as Pons drew off no less than six cups of water from the wall fixture and gulped them down in rapid succession.