The Lost Pilots

by Corey Mead

  “You roomed together from the first day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did any other person share a room with Clarke except yourself?”

  “Yes, women.”

  “How many times?”

  “On at least three occasions.”

  “After Clarke moved in, did he do any writing?”

  “He started to.”

  “How much did he do?”

  “Very little,” Lancaster answered, before qualifying his reply. “I blame myself for that, somewhat, because he always wanted to accompany me on walks, when I took the ship up, and whatever else I did, and I let him.” To the courtroom, Lancaster’s acceptance of partial blame seemed the answer of a decent man.

  “Would Clarke fly into rages?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would he do?”

  “Oh, just shout a bit.” Lancaster’s English reticence, and his seeming reluctance to denounce Clarke, again played well with the room.

  “Do you recall some of the occasions?”

  “Well, once, when [a creditor] took the tires off his car and put them on his own. He [also] got into a temper one day in Huston’s office.”

  “Was there drinking at the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “Oh, all of us, and any guests we might have.” Lancaster didn’t mention how much greater Clarke’s and Jessie’s alcohol intake had been than his own.

  Guided by Carson, Lancaster described how he and Clarke had grown close. Leaning forward in the witness chair, he said, “A day before I left for the West on the trip I hoped would recoup my financial fortunes, I told Haden Clarke the story of my love for Chubbie, of our intimacy over a five-year period, and asked him to protect her and watch over her while I was gone. I asked him not to let her drink and I asked him not to drink. His reply to me was, ‘Bill, I will care for her in such a way as to make you remember my friendship forever.’ ” At this, Lancaster’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile and he settled back in the witness chair.

  Carson then questioned Lancaster about his initial meetings with Tancrel and Russell. “Was the contract with Tancrel signed before you met Clarke?”

  Lancaster consulted his diary. “Yes, the day before.” He mentioned his initial suspicions of Tancrel, and his inability to locate navy records that would confirm Tancrel’s service. “I was still doubtful,” Lancaster said, “but as I had accepted money—over two hundred dollars—I felt I should go through with the deal. If I had had two hundred dollars at the time I would have returned his money.”

  “Did you have any suspicions of Russell?”

  “None, except that Tancrel said he didn’t trust Russell.”

  “He didn’t have a uniform,” Carson said, grinning.

  Lancaster didn’t acknowledge the joke. “Russell never posed as anything,” he replied. “At one time he showed me his honorable discharge from the army. He was a private.” Again, Lancaster’s apparent unwillingness to deprecate his enemies impressed the court.

  Carson opened a new line of inquiry. “Captain Lancaster, who saw you off on the start of your Australian trip?”

  “Many people, my wife among them.”

  “What is your wife’s religion?”

  Hawthorne immediately objected to the question, calling it irrelevant. Judge Atkinson sustained the objection. But Carson argued that Kiki Lancaster had been brought into the testimony by the state and that he should be allowed to question Lancaster about her. Judge Atkinson then reversed his ruling and allowed Lancaster to respond.

  “She is Roman Catholic,” Lancaster said.

  Carson’s question had not been as random as it appeared. He was underscoring the fact that Kiki had refused, on religious grounds, to grant Lancaster a divorce. By this Carson hoped to shine a gentler light on Lancaster’s abandonment of his wife and children by implying that Lancaster had been forced to live illicitly with Jessie not because he was morally corrupt but because Kiki had acted unreasonably.

  Carson’s effort to present Lancaster as an upstanding individual continued as Carson questioned him more closely about his trip out west with Latin-American Airways.

  “When and where did you discover the true purposes of the expedition?”

  “I doubted Tancrel’s story of the expedition’s purpose from the start,” Lancaster answered, “but I wanted to make sure. This I couldn’t do without going. At El Paso, Tancrel said Russell had talked to him about Chinamen. . . . [I]n El Paso [Tancrel] suggested that the company could ford Chinamen across the border.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told him I would have nothing to do with anything illegal.”

  “When was dope first mentioned?”

  “While in El Paso.” Lancaster said he had again informed Tancrel and Russell that he would not engage in any illegal activities, and that when they’d repeated their proposal later on he had told them, in disgust, that he was returning to Miami.

  Thus the theme of Carson’s questioning continued: though surrounded by crooks, physically starving, and desperate for money, Lancaster had behaved morally. He was an honest man, no matter how dire the circumstances.

  To emphasize the point, Carson rolled out an impressive roster of character witnesses: five famous aviators, all friends of Lancaster, who had traveled to the trial of their own volition—and on their own dimes—from as far away as France to testify on his behalf. The papers had trumpeted the news, calling it “Aviation Day” at the trial, and increasing the already swollen crowd that had swarmed the courthouse that morning, making the day’s attendance the largest yet. Now, Captain Frank Upton, a Congressional Medal of Honor winner; Lieutenant A. Irving Boyer, a British war flying hero; Rex Gilmartin, a World War I ace and past commander of the American Legion’s Aviators Post; Clyde Pangborn, a round-the-world and transpacific flier; and Keith Bon, another World War I hero, each took the stand to sing Lancaster’s praises. For twenty minutes they spoke of Lancaster’s sterling reputation among the world’s top aviators, calling him “generous,” “calm,” “peaceful,” “honorable.” When their testimony was complete, the court recessed briefly, and the five fliers chatted with Lancaster at the defense table.

  When Lancaster resumed his place on the witness stand in the late afternoon, his spirits seemed considerably buoyed by the visit from his friends. Carson took him through the sequence of events that had led to his departure from Latin-American Airways and his arrival in St. Louis, where he had read the letters from Jessie and Clarke informing him of their intention to marry. Lancaster said he’d been deeply depressed by the news and “acted like a schoolboy.” After spending time in the city, he had borrowed a hundred dollars from Gentry Shelton’s father and bought a gun to replace the one Huston had loaned him. Heading east, Lancaster spent the first night out in Nashville, where he loaded the gun. The following day he flew to Miami and was met at Viking Airport by Jessie and Clarke. Lancaster testified that he kissed Jessie in greeting and was cordial to Clarke.

  At this the courtroom clock ticked 5 p.m., and court was recessed for the day.

  On Wednesday, August 10, Lancaster resumed his place on the stand. Carson began by asking whether he and Clarke had ever foraged for food.

  “Yes,” Lancaster responded. “Haden and I went to a place he knew of and took some rabbits and chickens.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “Ate them.”

  As Carson intended, Lancaster’s forthright admission of wrongdoing—another mark for his apparent honesty—impressed the courtroom.

  “Did you ever tell Tancrel and Russell you were going back to Miami and get that lousy bastard?”

  “No.” Lancaster’s tone was resolute. “The entire testimony of both Tancrel and Russell was a tissue of lies.”

  “Yesterday, you testified you loaded the gun at Nashville,” Carson said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know why exactly. Mr. Huston’s gun was loaded when he gave it t
o me and I wanted to return it in the same manner.” This answer, like Lancaster’s previous ones, appeared guileless. Surely a liar, the implication went, would have spun a more elaborate tale.

  Carson questioned Lancaster about the night of his return to Miami, his argument with Clarke at the dinner table, and how he had at one point left the house to buy cigarettes. When he returned, Lancaster said, Jessie and Clarke were reclining on the chaise longue. He had talked with them briefly and then headed upstairs, where he’d sat on his bed in the sun porch and sorted through his mail. Eventually Clarke had joined him.

  “And then what did you talk about?” Carson asked.

  Lancaster paused a moment before responding. “I refrained from telling Mr. Hawthorne much of our conversation when I was first arrested,” he said. “I did this to protect Clarke’s name and to keep his mother from knowing about the malady from which he suffered. I do not want to tell of that conversation now and I will not unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  “On my shoulders rests responsibility for the conduct of your defense,” Carson said. “Please answer my questions.”

  With seeming reluctance, Lancaster said, “Haden talked of his illness. He was almost in tears. He expressed great remorse and regret over what had happened between him and Chubbie. Previously we had discussed the beginning of their intimacy.”

  “Was there any discussion then regarding the permanence of Clarke’s and Chubbie’s love for each other?”

  “Yes, he was very frank. He said, ‘I have had many affairs in my life, but this time I am absolutely in love. I shall do everything in my power to make her happy. Now I have something to work for.’ I was impressed with his sincerity.”

  “Was the question of his age discussed?”

  “Yes. He said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not thirty-one.’ He said he was either twenty-six or twenty-seven, I can’t remember which, and he asked if I thought it would make any difference to Chubbie.”

  “Did you discuss any of his other false claims?”

  “Only about the book. He said he didn’t know whether he would be able to put it over. I remember the phrase he used. He said he didn’t know if he could ‘make the grade.’ He also told me he didn’t have his degree.”

  “Did he say anything about his writings being accepted?”

  “Yes. He said the Depression had started everybody writing. He remarked how terribly hard it was to get money, and he showed me the telegram from his wife, remarking it would cost him from fifty to one hundred dollars to get a divorce in Miami and that he didn’t know how to raise the money.”

  “Was anything said of the month’s delay?”

  “Yes, I told him to talk to Chubbie in the morning, that he must tell her what he had told me tonight, and that if she loved him she would overlook his misstatements.”

  “Was any other subject discussed?”

  “Yes. I remember switching the subject. He appeared so frank and honest and so very sorry at what had happened that I tried to get his mind off it by telling him of the trip. I remember telling one incident at which he laughed, about Tancrel’s statement in El Paso. I said, ‘Can you imagine a United States Navy captain carrying a paper hanger’s union card and claiming to have hung thousands of square miles of wallpaper?’ ”

  “Was Clarke’s mother discussed?”

  “Yes. He acted rather as if he treated me as a father-confessor. He talked of how he might have done more for her than he had and how sorry he was. He said, ‘Mother is having a tough time. The University of Miami is not paying her salary.’ ”

  “Had you previously discussed Mrs. Clarke, that is, before you left on the western trip?”

  “He explained that it was difficult for him to work with her around. In that confidential conversation the day before I left, I . . . asked him why he didn’t have his mother come to the house. He said they were the best of friends apart but couldn’t get along together. Both were temperamental and got on one another’s nerves. He wouldn’t have it.”

  “Was there anything else said?”

  “I was lying back on my bed yawning, half asleep, and I said, ‘Let’s talk it over in the morning with Chubbie.’ I can remember his last words: ‘You’re the whitest man I ever met.’ Then I turned off the lights. It was brilliant moonlight that night.”

  “Were you tired?”

  “Darned tired.”

  “How was the trip?”

  “Bad trip.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I was awakened by a noise. . . . A ‘bang.’ When I first came to I was under the impression a window had fallen. I called out, ‘What’s that, Haden?’ ”

  “And what did you hear then?”

  “A gurgling sound came from Haden’s bed. I turned on the light and looked at Haden’s bed. I could see something had happened. It was blood running over his face.”

  “Did you see the pistol?”

  “No. I said to him, ‘What have you done?’ His right arm was bent upward at the elbow, with the hand turned in toward the body. Then I saw the pistol half under his body.”

  “When and where did you last see the gun?”

  “On the table between our beds. Haden had picked it up and I told him to be careful, it was loaded. We had talked about my buying the gun to replace Huston’s, earlier in the evening.”

  “Where did you first see blood on Clarke?” Carson asked.

  Lancaster pointed to his own lower right jaw and under his neck.

  “What did you do?”

  “I asked him a second time to speak to me. He just moaned. I looked around for a note indicating what had happened.”

  “When did you first see the wound on Clarke?”

  “Before typing the notes.”

  “When did you type the notes?”

  “After trying to get him to speak to me the second time, I sat down at the typewriter. It took me about five minutes. I then took a pencil and the notes and went to the bed and asked Haden to speak to me again. I asked him to try to sign the notes. Then I shouted ‘Chubbie’ and got no reply. Then I did something I should not have done. I scribbled ‘Haden’ on one note and wrote ‘H’ on the other.”

  Lancaster then related for Carson the rest of that night’s events, including his comments to Officer Hudson that he wished Clarke would talk so he could explain his actions. He seconded Ernest Huston’s claim that Hudson had picked up the pistol from the center of Clarke’s bed, wrapped it in his handkerchief, and slipped it into his pocket without its box.

  By the time Carson concluded his questioning, Lancaster had been on the stand for a total of nine hours and ten minutes over a three-day period. But Carson’s friendly inquisition had been merely a warm-up. No sooner had Carson resumed his seat than Hawthorne began the state’s cross-examination.

  19

  AMERICAN JUSTICE IS ALL WET

  The courtroom steamed in the afternoon heat. The trifling breeze through the windows did little to ease the wilting discomfort of the jurors, the jammed-in spectators, or the pale, exhausted Englishman on the witness stand. But Hawthorne, despite his sweat-soaked suit, was all bustling energy as he kicked off his interrogation.

  “Captain Lancaster,” Hawthorne began, “the first question asked you this morning was, ‘Did you kill Haden Clarke?’ Your answer was in the negative. Who did kill him?”

  Lancaster appeared unruffled: “Haden Clarke committed suicide.”

  “In your presence?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “Was it in your presence?”

  “I must have been in the room with him.”

  Hawthorne picked up one of the forged suicide notes and read it aloud. “This note on Latin-American Airways stationery. Did you write that note?”

  “Yes.”

  “Positive?”

  “Yes.”

  Hawthorne picked up the second note. “This note addressed to Chubbie. Is that your work?”

  “It is,” Lancaster replied uncomfortabl
y.

  “Positive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you as positive as you were on April 23 that it wasn’t yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did anyone ask you in my office on that date if you wrote these notes?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t Jones?”

  “No.”

  “Did you afterwards send word to Jones that you were sorry you didn’t tell him the truth about the notes when he asked you?”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant I was sorry I acted a lie.”

  “When you were shown these notes in my office and the discrepancies between the typing of Clarke and the typing of the notes, and the similarity between them and your own, what did you say?”

  “I believe I said, ‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’ ”

  “What else did you say?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  “When you were being examined in my office were you being subjected to abuse or discourtesy by anyone in the office?”

  “No.”

  “Were you more excited in my office than when you wrote these notes beside Clarke’s body?”

  “I was less excited.”

  “What else did you say about these notes?”

  “I suggested getting outside experts to look at them.”

  “What was your purpose in suggesting that?”

  “To put you off the scent.”

  Hawthorne then returned to the matter of the pistol. Lancaster confirmed that he had bought it for thirty dollars at a sporting goods store and registered the gun’s number with the local sheriff.

  “Did you give a check to Gentry Shelton, Sr.?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Yes, for a hundred dollars.”

  “On what bank was that check drawn?”

  “On my bank,” Lancaster said. “I gave him that check with the understanding it was not to be presented.”

  “Then he, too, betrayed your trust, Captain Lancaster, by presenting that check?”

  “No, he didn’t present the check.”

  “Would you recognize that check?” Hawthorne asked.

  “I certainly would.”

  Hawthorne handed Lancaster a paper slip. “Examine this and see if you can identify it.”