Death of an Airman

by Christopher St. John Sprigg

  “Yes, the Old Man’s nephew!” repeated the Superintendent grimly. “Can you conceive a more unlikely criminal! Do you realize he was left a couple of million in trust by his father? He even does a job of work, which shows he’s a steady sort of fellow in spite of his wealth. Any more impossible candidate for our attentions I can’t imagine.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to give you a shock, sir,” said Bray gravely. “My attention was directed to Gauntlett’s Air Taxis because I found that his ’planes were distributing in this country copies of a French newspaper which had some connection with a dope organization. It took me a long time to trace the connection, but I found it—in Paris. I travelled over this morning on a Gauntlett Air Taxis ’plane, pretending to be a member of the organization. I took this out of some of the bundles of newspapers carried by that ’plane. It’s just a sample. They were all the same.”

  After one glance at Bray’s serious face, the Superintendent took a copy of that day’s La Gazette Quotidienne. He opened it, and almost at once noticed that a sheet of newsprint had been pasted over the centre fold to make a kind of bag which bellied suspiciously. He split the belly with his fingers, and a shower of white powder fell out and sifted on to the worn carpet of the Superintendent’s room. The Superintendent looked at Bray.

  Bray nodded. “I’m afraid so. Dope! We’ll have it analysed to make sure. But there can’t be much doubt, can there?”

  “I’m afraid not,” admitted the Superintendent.

  “And that’s not all. There seems to be a murder mixed up with it down at Baston.”

  The Superintendent looked dismal. “Ye gods, Bray, this is going to be the most ghastly scandal! We’ve got to go through with it, but we must go carefully. Tell me the whole story as you know it.”

  Bray settled down in his chair and accepted a cigarette. “It’s the story of the most complex international dope distribution organization I’ve ever heard of. Its source seems to be Paris, but who its head is I don’t know. It appears to be a man who goes by the name of Vandyke, who, I fear, may prove to be Valentine Gauntlett. But it may not be so. For all I know as yet, Vandyke may be a tool for someone higher up.”

  “How does a newspaper come into it?” asked the Superintendent.

  “They’ve chosen a newspaper for two reasons, as I see it. It gives an excuse for an international distribution by air, with the minimum of handling, for a parcel of newspapers is the kind of thing that can be rushed through without any query as to why there is a rush. Secondly, the advantage of the newspaper as a vehicle for a drug is that it can be bought openly by any kind of person without suspicion and that it can itself carry messages to the customer. For instance, of the various Customs men who come on duty at Sankport Aerodrome, two have been bought by the gang. No doubt this has been done in all the countries where the dope organization operates. Consequently the drugs can only be smuggled through on the days when these men happen to be on duty together. This day is known a short while beforehand, however, and a simple code message in the newspaper gives the date. No doubt it is a different code message for each country. So far I have only discovered the English message, which appears on the first Monday in the month, and always contains a reference to some royal personage. The subscriber then knows when the dope is to be contained in his daily newspaper and takes great care that he gets it on that day. On any other day it is a perfectly ordinary and respectable newspaper.”

  Superintendent Learoyd looked helplessly at the torn newspaper and nodded.

  “The use of aerial newspaper deliveries has other advantages, of course,” went on Bray. “It cleans the whole business up so quickly. The drug is in the hands of the customers all over Europe by the afternoon of the same day.”

  The Superintendent agreed. “That’s smart; very smart. Our main hope in this drug traffic is that the stuff passes through so many hands and takes so long to reach the consumer. These people have got over that. But was it really necessary for the gang to buy a newspaper?”

  “I think so,” answered Bray. “The essence of the scheme was the delivery by air. But the only way you could make regular delivery by air without exciting suspicion is by delivering newspapers. No other goods are distributed by private charter regularly, and it would only ask for investigation suddenly to start delivering say, cigarettes by air, for it is obviously an uneconomic method. Once you admit the necessity of using newspapers, and actually concealing the drug in the newspapers, it is necessary to be in control of the publishing department at least. In fact, control of the newspaper is almost inevitable. And as they only bought the control, and not any other charges, it probably wasn’t expensive. I suspect other reasons for buying the newspaper as well—reasons which explain why it was done from Paris.”

  The Superintendent pursed his lips. “Oh, I see. Politics. That makes it difficult, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it does. But we’ve always suspected it, haven’t we? You remember that with the help of the League’s Narcotics Bureau we proved conclusively that an enormous consignment of white drugs was being despatched to Paris from Macedonia every month, and we traced the O.K. to let it through to a certain politician not in the Ministry but possessing influence. La Gazette supports that politician through thick and thin, and I’m afraid—”

  “That that was the price of the support? Quite. These things happen on the Continent,” said the Superintendent with a lofty British pride. “But you remember we didn’t worry much, because so long as it didn’t get to England, it didn’t concern us. But now that we find it is getting over here, it’s serious,” he reflected. “I say, Bray, what about finance? The expense of running this organization must be colossal?”

  “Yes, but so must the revenue. I don’t know how it works, but I rather expect that each drug addict pays a subscription to the paper. It might be one hundred pounds a year—it might be five hundred. We don’t know. For this he gets some kind of token, possibly a card, possibly a password which is changed every so often. This entitles him to become a customer of one of the agents, of which no doubt there are a dozen or so in England, three or four in each large town. These agents are probably paid an annual capitation fee per head, according to the number of customers. Even if they were only paid ten pounds a head, there is no reason why it should not be extremely paying to be an agent, say, with a couple of hundred customers and no expenses.

  “Then there is the cost of the central organization,” the Superintendent reminded him.

  “Yes, but the paper has a perfectly solid and respectable history,” answered Bray, “except for its support of one politician, and it probably pays for itself. There is the foreign publisher, Grandet, and his four assistants to be looked after. They must be paid well as they handle the drug from the bulk to the distribution. Then there is the bribery of the Customs officers in each country—a pretty heavy item. And finally the expense of the aerial distribution. This must be the worst drain, but if they have several thousands of customers, as they seem to, they must be dealing in revenues of a million or more.”

  “All the pilots and van-drivers would have to be bribed heavily. That can’t be cheap.”

  “No, it’s a heavy expense. What is worse from the gang’s point of view is that there are a large number of people who could give away the secret. It’s the one defect in the plan, but inevitable, I suppose, in such a large-scale organization. And what an organization it is!” said Bray enthusiastically. “It really staggers one to think of the efficiency. The dope comes in in tons from Macedonia to the publishing office of the Gazette. The stuff is stored there, and almost every day it is slipped into copies of newspapers—for Germany one day, England another day, and so on. Before nightfall it’s in the customers’ pockets, scattered among towns hundreds of miles away. It makes ordinary business look inefficient!”

  “H’m, yes,” grunted Learoyd. “They’re very dependent on their Customs men.”

&nb
sp; “Perhaps, but with so vast an organization as the Customs, and so much money at the gang’s disposal, it’s not surprising they can find two bad hats among them in a whole country.”

  “Supposing their two men got moved to another aerodrome?” queried the Superintendent.

  “Quite simple. They find some excuse for the aeroplanes to make that their new port of entry. It’s easy enough to change. I’ve found that an aeroplane from abroad on private charter can clear at any Customs airport, from Lympne to Manchester.”

  “It certainly sounds a foolproof system. How did we get on to it?” asked the Superintendent curiously.

  “Pure accident,” admitted Bray. “It looks as if one of their pilots threatened to squeal. Doing a bit of blackmail, I fancy, and pushed it too far. So they shot him and tried to hide it up. It got past the coroner as an accident, but Creighton, of the local constabulary—quite a smart man—found something fishy about it and investigated, and came across cocaine. Then he got on to me, and that started the whole business.”

  “Queer! It’s the sort of accidental way these things do start. Now, Bray, you know the position, what do you think should be our plan of action?”

  “It’s probably the same plan as you are thinking of, sir, but for different reasons—going slow. We’ve got all the minor people in the organization in our hands. We could get them any time. First we must take the names of all the Gauntlett pilots and van-drivers engaged in the newspaper delivery, and one of the straight Customs men can make a note some day of the people these newspapers go to, when he is examining them. We already know the two Customs men who are bribed. We can get all the warrants written out and ready.

  “But I suggest that we don’t do anything until we can pull in the big men. I’ll write Durand of the Sûreté to-night so that he can do the same, and we’d better get in touch with our liaison men in Germany and Switzerland, and anywhere else where Durand finds the Gazette is distributed by air, so that the police there act in concert with us. These small fry don’t matter much. When the time comes, we can sweep them all in together in a really big killing. What is really vital is that we catch the big men, particularly the Chief, who is a murderer as well, and I think that means sitting back a little.”

  “Do you think you can scare one of the small men into giving the Chief away?” said the Superintendent thoughtfully. “One generally can, you know.”

  “They may not know who the Big Noise is,” objected Bray. “But I can try, of course. I’m not sure that it mightn’t best be done from Creighton’s end. You see, these little men, when they hear there’s a charge of murder in the air, may get the wind up, which they wouldn’t on an ordinary dope prosecution. I shall have to work in with Creighton in any case, because Baston Aerodrome must have a pretty close association with headquarters, even if Gauntlett isn’t the Queen Bee. But I suspect he is.”

  “It’ll be pretty ghastly for us if he is,” said the Superintendent slowly. “It’s bad enough for Durand, because he’ll have to fight against this politician bloke who gets the stuff into the country for him. But the nephew of our new Home Secretary! Gosh!”

  Bray hesitated. “You don’t suspect…I mean it’s not possible is it…?”

  The Superintendent shook his head vigorously. “Of course not. Good lord, Entourage wouldn’t buy a cigarette after hours to save his life! But what on earth possessed a man with money and reputation like Gauntlett to get mixed up in an affair of this kind?”

  Bray shrugged his shoulders. “Excitement, I suppose. It’s difficult to account always for what makes criminals criminal. It’s generally a case of ‘we needs must love the lowest when we see it,’ I think. Shall I go down to Baston?”

  “Yes. But have a talk with me first, after you’ve got all your facts in order. I’ll get our plan of action drafted and the arrangements with the French and foreign police generally all mapped out. We must take care that nobody hops it while we’re waiting. It’s going to take a lot of men, of course, but it’s worth it. It’ll be the biggest round-up of my time, at any rate. Is there anything you want done right away?”

  “Yes, sir, I’d like Finch to get a few photos of Valentine Gauntlett from the news agencies and take them down to the people at Banchurch Street to see if they identify him as Vandyke. Let me see, he won some air race which ended at Baston the other day. There’s sure to be a group of the prize-winners taken at the end of the race.”

  “Right-ho. I’ll look after that. Sorry to have to take the main conduct out of your hands, Bray, but you see it’s an international matter now. You’ll get the credit. Bung down to Baston as soon as you can, there’s a good chap. I’ll wait in this evening till you’re ready for handing over everything here to me, so that I can settle details with the Chief. I leave it absolutely to your discretion what you do down at Baston, subject to the usual reports. Do you get on with Creighton all right? It’s technically his territory.”

  “He won’t make any difficulty,” said Bray decisively; “he’s a decent old bird. I’ll tell him enough to make him realize how important it is, and drop a hint that he’ll get a share of the credit in the main round-up when it comes. In any case he’s already brought us in by consulting me, you know, so there’s no difficulty there.”

  “Good; and look here, Bray, if they murdered someone to prevent a squeal they must be pretty tough. So look after yourself.”

  Bray laughed and went. The Superintendent looked after him and sighed when the door closed.

  Chapter XIV

  End of an Engineer

  “To think that all this should have come out of an accident on an aerodrome!” exclaimed Inspector Creighton, in the tones of one who has seen a ten-foot djinn rise out of a medicine bottle.

  Bray had told him in brief outline of the organization that was behind Gauntlett’s Air Taxis, and Creighton had listened with delighted attention. “Well, our trip to Glasgow wasn’t wasted expense after all! I must tell the Superintendent that!”

  “How have your investigations into the murder gone, Creighton?” asked the Scotland Yard man, with no great expectations from the answer.

  “Far enough to prove it’s no murder at all!” answered the other with relish.

  “What! Look here, are you certain of your ground?” said Bray with a start.

  “Perfectly. The Bishop and I worked it out together. It is the only possible explanation. These are the facts.” Creighton held up one thick finger. “According to the Home Office expert—here’s the report—Furnace was shot dead two minutes before he was wounded by the blow from the dashboard as his aeroplane crashed. Now that apparently admits of two possible explanations.” The Inspector tentatively elevated two additional fingers. “One explanation is that he was shot at by a passenger or by someone flying near, and that the aircraft fell, out of control, and crashed, with its pilot already dead. But this explanation is positively contradicted by several circumstances. There were people watching the ’plane, and they are prepared to swear that no one was flying near it. There couldn’t have been a passenger or he would have crashed with the aeroplane.”

  “Or escaped by parachute,” suggested Bray.

  “And been seen by everyone,” countered Creighton triumphantly. “Moreover, if anyone else had been in the aeroplane, Ness, the mechanic, would have noticed him. No, the idea of a passenger is impossible. And even if the murderer had been flying near Furnace unobserved, I do not see how he could have shot him neatly in front of the temple. It would almost certainly have been a slanting shot from the back or the side. No, everything shows the impossibility of another person being involved.” Creighton lowered two fingers and left the third in sole possession of the argumentative field. “That allows us only the second explanation, the one which explains everything. Furnace shot himself, and almost immediately the aeroplane crashed, and he fell limply against the dashboard as it struck the earth.”

  Br
ay looked at Creighton for a moment, an ironical smile on his clear-cut features.

  “It explains a great deal. But it doesn’t explain the most important point of all—the starting point of your investigations.”

  “You mean the cocaine? It seems to me to fit in all right. Remorse or fright would be motive enough for suicide.”

  Bray shook his head. “No, I’m not referring to the cocaine. There is a little matter of post-mortem rigor. The Bishop and Bastable both told us that rigor had not set in when they saw the body, and they both assure us this could only mean that Furnace was still alive when he was taken out of the ’plane—and for some hours afterwards.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense!” groaned Creighton.

  “No, it doesn’t,” admitted Bray happily. “But it makes an interesting problem. The man was killed a few seconds before the crash, yet a few hours after the crash he was still living! No, Creighton, it’s not as simple as we hoped. Whether it is accident or design I don’t know, but the circumstances are such that the murder is an impossibility, and yet it is equally impossible that he was not murdered.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” confessed Creighton. “The medical evidence seems to go clean against the weight of the facts.”

  “That’s not altogether fair,” pointed out Bray. “It’s fairer to say that one half of the medical evidence goes against the other half. If only Bastable hadn’t arrived so late, and been so cocksure he knew what had happened, and such a blithering idiot anyway, he might have noticed something which would help us. Post-mortem stains, for instance. But we’ve got to go on what we’ve got, and as far as I can see it’s a gamble. You’re just as entitled to your suicide theory as I am to my murder theory.”