Death of an Airman

by Christopher St. John Sprigg

  Winters was a lean man, with hair greying round the temples, and an air of gentle melancholy easily explicable by the fact that he had been a club instructor for ten years. Tommy Vane was now wearing large flannel trousers which trailed on the ground and an offensive canary-yellow pullover with a bright green scarf.

  “I’m pretty ghastly, aren’t I, boss?” he said cheerfully to Winters as they came up.

  “As a matter of fact, Tommy,” answered the other seriously, “you’d be quite good if only you’d get over this casual manner of yours. You don’t seem to have your mind on the job. You’ve got good hands and quick reaction. But there’s something lacking here.” He touched his head.

  “The truth is,” said Tommy confidingly, “I’m so scared all the time I’m up in the air that my mind just goes round and round!”

  Flight-Lieutenant Winters smiled at Vane. “I should say you’re singularly free from nerves.”

  Creighton buttonholed Vane and managed to lead him aside. He gave the same explanation for his enquiries that he had given to the ground engineer.

  “Can’t you let poor old Furnace rest in his grave?” protested Vane. “Well, if you want to give me a once-over, let’s do it elsewhere.”

  In spite of the Inspector’s protests, Vane insisted on going into the bar lounge. They sat at a table. The Inspector consented to accept a bitter, and Vane brought back a stiff-looking double Scotch for himself. Creighton was a little staggered to see the youth swallow it neat, almost at a gulp, and follow it with a mouthful of soda-water. In fact, he began to look at Vane more closely. At least he was a more promising suspect than the ground engineer, that quiet, peaceable body. Though the Inspector was a shrewd judge of character, Vane puzzled him.

  He had one of those pale, noncommittal faces, with frank blue eyes and rather babyish red lips which show little trace of age, so that the Inspector found it genuinely difficult to decide whether he was twenty or twenty-seven. He spoke in an accent the Inspector found it equally difficult to locate. It was well-bred English basically, but overlaid with something else. Was it a trace of dialect? Behind his ingenuous bearing and boyish face there were occasional hard streaks that made the Inspector thoughtful. He had come across this type among young men who drove cars with such consistent and unreasonable recklessness that the Inspector’s efforts had generally resulted either in a trial for manslaughter or a permanently suspended driving licence.

  On the face of it, however, Vane got off as scot free as Ness. He had helped get the body out and had never been near it again.

  “So he says. We’ll see,” was the Inspector’s mental comment.

  He had lunch at the club, parrying with the skill of years Miss Sackbut’s pressing enquiries. After lunch he went out with her on to the club lawn, and she pointed to the horizon, where a tiny speck could just be made out.

  “That’s a Gull,” she said. “Gauntlett is the only bloke with a Gull round here, so it’s probably Randall.”

  “You said he was on a taxi job,” remarked the Inspector. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “An air-taxi flight,” answered Miss Sackbut. “Sixpence a mile or what-have-you. Valentine Gauntlett runs our air-taxi show and does very well. I’m damned if I know how he gets so much business from this one-eyed place. Of course, newspaper deliveries between Paris and London help a bit. Randall’s doing a newspaper delivery job now.”

  “I’m surprised an airman as well known as Captain Randall needs to do that sort of thing.”

  “Good lord, there’s not so much money in that kind of transatlantic business as people think. It’s like getting blood from a stone to screw the bonuses out of the aircraft and petrol people now. Still, Randall needn’t do it. It’s only because he’s got a half-share in Gauntlett’s air-taxi business, so if he’s down here and they’re short of pilots he sometimes goes off on a job. It keeps his hand in, you see, and it isn’t like regular work. That really would be fatal for Randall.”

  By this time the Gull had arrived. Randall taxied it into the hangar, and then Creighton, deftly shaking off Miss Sackbut, intercepted him as he walked back to the Gauntlett Air Taxi’s scarlet-and-yellow hut.

  Randall, the Inspector felt, was the least likely candidate of the three. Whether the Inspector had been prejudiced by a long-standing admiration for the airman was another matter. Randall had, apart from his blond impressiveness, a certain direct manner, deprecating his own achievements, and resolutely insisting that commercial motives alone inspired him. This was refreshing, and the Inspector had liked him for it.

  Randall continued to be frank and also disconcertingly penetrating. “Look here, Inspector,” he said, when he had heard the Inspector’s story, “the suicide business doesn’t wash. I’m sure you wouldn’t come round here in full cry just because of a suspicion it was suicide. There’s something more behind it, eh? Do you suspect someone of monkeying with the machine?”

  “That’s as may be,” answered the Inspector.

  “I don’t want to pump you, but look here, what the devil difference does it make what happened after the crash?”

  “Everything counts,” said the Inspector with an air of innocence.

  “Have it your way. Anyway, there’s nothing much to tell. By the time I got there poor Furnace was laid out cold. I helped get him into the crash tender and drove back with him. We put out trestles in the hangar office—the room that’s boarded off—and laid the poor bloke on it, with something over him, of course. Then Sally shooed us away and she was there all the morning, and like the dear he is, the Bishop was there in the afternoon.”

  The Inspector groaned. The case seemed infernally free from any loophole for suspicion. He walked thoughtfully away.

  The interview with Miss Sackbut was a little wearing. She returned with insistence to the point that the enquiries he was making were entirely irrelevant. The Inspector possessed himself in patience and extracted from her a confirmation of the stories of the other three. Furnace’s body had been put in the hangar. She had never left it until the Bishop relieved her.

  It was only then that the Inspector told her, as if incidentally, of their discovery.

  “You see, it’s all very difficult, miss. Major Furnace wasn’t killed by the crash. He was shot afterwards.”

  “Shot!” exclaimed Sally, turning white. “Do you mean murdered?”

  The Inspector nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then he wasn’t dead when he was pulled out?”

  “It seems so.”

  “Poor George. We might have saved him. Oh, why didn’t we try—”

  The Inspector interrupted. “No; from what the doctor says, he wouldn’t have lived anyway. That makes it all the more extraordinary, miss.”

  “Oh, something is wrong!” exclaimed Sally. “For there were several of us with him up to the time he was put in the hangar. And then I was with him until the Bishop relieved me.”

  “Exactly, miss,” said the Inspector. Their eyes met, Sally’s sad, distracted, surprised; the Inspector’s sharp and inscrutable. Then the Inspector made his exit.

  Early next morning he left Baston for London and walked from Victoria to Gwydyr House. He climbed the stairs to the Department of the Inspector of Accidents thoughtfully. A lot depended on the clues he could pick up here, but after Flying Officer Felix Sandwich had listened carefully to his story his hopes were dashed.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” said the expert, “but I can’t hold out any hope at all. This was one of the few cases where we could be extremely sure about what happened. The machine was not much damaged by the spin and, in addition, it was watched by several people who were themselves pilots. The aircraft spun into the ground in an absolutely normal way. The engine had been deliberately throttled down and was in perfect condition. The control cables were unbroken and there was no sign of jamming. All the main members were structurally i
ntact except for damage which could only have been caused by the accident. Quite frankly, I shouldn’t waste any more time over any theory that includes the idea of sabotage. Either there was an error of judgment or a deliberate act. But the machine was in no way to blame.”

  More thoughtful than ever, the Inspector returned to Baston.

  He explained his doubts and difficulties to the Bishop with almost complete candour. The Bishop was recovering from a painful argument with Miss Sackbut, who, for some reason known only to herself, had decided that the Bishop was to blame for the whole deplorable affair. His episcopal blandness had been nearly shattered by her recriminations, and he had preserved his even temper with difficulty. While reproaching Miss Sackbut for her unreasonableness, he appeared to show a trace of the same failing by passing the blame on to the Inspector.

  “I intended to go down and break the news gently to her,” he said to Creighton. “It must have come as a shock to her when you blurted it out. What on earth did you want to rush down like that for?”

  “Pure thoughtlessness, I’m afraid, my lord,” said Creighton innocently.

  “Well, it’s done now. What is the present position, if I may ask, Inspector?”

  “Undoubtedly the three men, Ness, Vane, and Randall, were together until the body passed into Miss Sackbut’s care. No one, I understand, approached it during that time, and she was subsequently relieved by you. I take it you noticed nothing suspicious before then yourself?”

  “No; and he was certainly dead when I saw him, for I looked at him fairly closely.”

  “Quite. Now here is the position,” said Creighton frankly. “We are faced with two very difficult problems. First, I am assured by the Air Ministry that either the crash was accidental or it was suicide. We must rule out the question of foul play. Since we have the letter to Lady Laura, we must, I think, incline to the suicide explanation.”

  “Yes, that would be only logical. But it only makes the subsequent murder more unreasonable and more unpremeditated.”

  “Exactly. Now we come to the murder. As far as my inquiries go, none of the three men was left alone with the body even for an instant. So that rules them out. But the whole of the intervening period until you came on the scene, my lord—and Furnace was then dead—is accounted for by Miss Sackbut having been with the body.”

  “Look here,” said the Bishop, “you aren’t surely suspecting that child of having anything to do with this dastardly business?”

  “Of course not. Had I suspected her, I should naturally have warned her before questioning her, as required by regulations.” The Inspector looked indignant. “I am merely recounting the position. It is difficult, very difficult.” He sighed. “We must find a motive.”

  Chapter VII

  Admission of an Analyst

  Thereupon the Inspector began his fruitful search for the motive which had caused some person or persons unknown to slay George Furnace with so little apparent provocation or necessity. Had the Inspector been a member of a French police organization, no doubt he would have started by making discreet enquiries about Furnace’s lady friends and the friends of the lady friends. This did not occur to him as the first line of attack. Instead, he paid a visit to Furnace’s bank manager, and took the dead man’s ledger record home with him to study. This gave him ample material for reflection. He made a few notes on the back of an envelope and called in on Sally Sackbut.

  “What was Furnace getting from the club as an instructor?” he asked her.

  “Four hundred pounds a year and flying pay,” answered Sally, a trifle defiantly. “It’s not much, I know, but since the subsidy was cut down it’s been no easy job making the club pay. Though goodness knows I suppose we’re lucky to get anything. In fact, if it weren’t for that sweet old dear, Lord Anchorage, who gave us a Moth—”

  The Inspector interrupted. “What would that amount to in all with flying pay?”

  “About six hundred pounds on an average year.”

  “Would he have earned anything from any other source?”

  “Well, he used to do taxi-flying for Gauntlett when it didn’t interfere with club flying. That was part of the arrangement. In fact, I used to help him out by doing the instructing myself when he’d had a fat taxi job offered him. It was the main reason why I got an instructor’s endorsement on my B licence.”

  “I see. Could you tell me how much his earnings there would amount to, in round figures, over a year?”

  “Damned if I know. Might be anything. You’ll have to pop across and ask Gauntlett.” She peered out of the window. “We’ll go along now and see him. His car’s outside, so he must be in the office. What do you want to know for?”

  “A matter of form, miss,” answered the Inspector woodenly. “We have to ask these questions.”

  They went across to a small tin shed painted in bright yellow. On it was written in scarlet lettering, “Gauntlett’s Air Taxis”.

  Miss Sackbut banged on the door and called imperiously, “Hi, Val!”

  Valentine Gauntlett emerged. An impassive young man. He was slim but wiry, dressed in white overalls and carrying a white helmet of rather a foppish cut. He had bright expressionless blue eyes and an extremely decisive chin. He lived up to the Inspector’s expectations of an airman, which were somewhat romantic, and, in fact, Gauntlett was a good pilot of the dashing amateur class, racing a good deal in machines that started from scratch and either won or blew their engines up. It was said that he was very rich and only went in for commercial aviation as a hobby. It was therefore all the more surprising that his taxi business had apparently been a financial success, for the fleet grew and the scarlet-and-yellow machines were seen at some time or other at every aerodrome.

  “This is Inspector Creighton, the brightest jewel in our local constabulary,” said Miss Sackbut. “He’s trying to stir up mud over George Furnace’s death. He’s asked me a question that you can answer best, I think. I’ll leave you both, because I can see that rat Sammy trying to sneak off without clocking in on his flying time. So long, Inspector.”

  Sally hurried off, and Gauntlett showed the Inspector into his private office, which was half of the hut, furnished with a luxury contrasting a little oddly with the ramshackle building.

  “Have a cigarette?” asked Gauntlett, looking at him narrowly. “I’m curious to know how I could possibly tell you anything useful about George Furnace’s death.”

  “It’s a small matter,” said the Inspector, “but you know we deal in small matters. How much did Furnace get from you in the way of remuneration in the course of a year?”

  Gauntlett looked surprised. “Good lord, is that all you want to know? I thought at least you would ask me when I last saw the victim.” He pressed a bell. “Saunders,” he said to a clerk who answered it, “look up the outside pilots’ salary list and see what we paid Furnace in flying pay and retainer during the last twelve months.”

  Saunders returned with a pencilled slip and Gauntlett pushed it over to the Inspector. “There you are. Hardly worth murdering him for it, what? Anything else, Inspector?”

  On the slip was written, “Retaining fee £50. Fees £189 15s.” The Inspector made a note of it.

  “That’s all I wanted from you at the moment. Glad to have met you, Mr. Gauntlett.”

  On his way home the Inspector did a small sum on paper. £400 plus £200 plus £50 plus £189 15s. made a total of £839 15s. Perhaps not a generous salary for a man of Furnace’s age and skill, but less than that earned by most other pilots. The Inspector did not consider that. He was more struck by the fact that Furnace had banked during that year over £2000. Nearly £850 of this had been cheques from Baston Aero Proprietary or Gauntlett’s Air Taxis. The remainder had been banked in the form of large, irregular amounts of cash. Policemen are by nature suspicious of large cash bankings.

  The Inspector remembered that no near relatives
had come forward at the inquest, and the administrator finally appointed to wind up the intestate estate had been an old fellow officer of Furnace’s who had not seen him for two years. That suggested that Furnace was a lonely man, with no one bound to him by close ties. If not from relatives or friends, from whom then was this extra money coming? Not from investments, for then it would not have been in cash. It might have been a continuous realization of assets such as cars, furniture, and so forth, over a period, but in view of Furnace’s previous history of poverty this seemed unlikely. But the £1150 not accounted for by salary must come from somewhere.

  It was equally interesting to notice where the money was going to. Furnace had apparently had some difficulty in living on £850 a year, for red entries indicating an overdraft were frequent until the mysterious increment of cash had begun. Then there had been money saved, about fifteen hundred pounds of it, until shortly before his death this had been paid out by two large cheques to a person of the name of Parker. He skimmed through the ledger account again, and he noticed with a rising excitement that during the five years covered by the record cheques to this same Parker had appeared at regular intervals on the debit side.

  “He was being blackmailed!” exclaimed Creighton. “I might have guessed it!”

  ***

  Inspector Creighton paid a formal visit to the administrator appointed by the Court.

  Major Harries lived in London and he was singularly unhelpful as to Furnace’s personal affairs. Creighton had no reason for supposing he was concealing anything. Harries explained that although they had been very friendly during the war, they had gradually drifted into different spheres. All that had remained was a kindly feeling and occasional meetings devoted to reminiscences of their war-time days. There had been a few debts to pay and matters to clear up, and Harries had offered to take charge of them for old time’s sake, mainly because Furnace had once mentioned that if he made a will he would appoint Harries executor. Harries had never heard of the name of Parker. However, he had all Furnace’s private papers done up in parcels, and if the Inspector liked to take them away he might be able to turn up something himself.