“No; we’ll have to let her play around for a while,” admitted Creighton. “Do you think she’s the Chief?”
Bray shook his head. “Head not cool enough. And yet, I don’t know. It may have been acting. If so, it was jolly good acting.”
Creighton shook his head. “There was something besides acting in it. I don’t know quite what. What’s the matter, Murgatroyd?” he asked irritably as the constable poked his head into the office.
“Are you free?” he asked. “Can I have a word with Inspector Bray?”
“Yes, what is it?” asked Bray, surprised.
“A Sergeant Finch from the Yard is enquiring for you, sir. Shall I fetch him in?”
“Yes, please.” Bray turned to Creighton. “Finch may have news about this Vandyke bloke, you know. I hope he has been identified as Valentine Gauntlett. It will help us a lot if he has.”
Sergeant Finch walked into the room with his accustomed ponderous and deliberate air, which deceived many who did not realize that behind the façade of walrus moustache and ruddy cheeks lurked the sensibilities of a psychological artist.
“Any luck, Finch?”
“I have and I haven’t, sir.” Finch slowly opened an envelope and laid a photograph upon the table. The two detectives bent over it. It depicted Valentine Gauntlett, smiling and clasping a trophy, being “chaired” by a group of Baston Aero Club members. “Both the porter and the charwoman were sure that this gentleman with the cup wasn’t Vandyke, sir. But, to my surprise, they both identified this young man in the foreground as him.”
The sergeant’s finger rested on a grinning young man in a large scarf and an open-necked shirt.
Bray looked at Creighton for enlightenment and saw him gasp.
“Good lord!” Creighton said. “Vandyke! Why, it’s that youngster, Tommy Vane!”
Chapter XVII
Difficulties of Two Detectives
Bray and Creighton met again in the afternoon of the next day. The intervening time had been spent by both in investigating the antecedents of Tommy Vane, now identified as Vandyke.
“I find he came to Baston about two years ago,” said Creighton, who had been working on the local end. “Nothing appears to be known about his previous history. He occasionally gets letters from America, according to his landlady. He does nothing in Baston and he goes up to town three times a week. The landlady has always assumed that this was in connection with business, but she doesn’t know.”
“It can’t be to go to that office in Banchurch Street,” answered Bray, who had looked after the London investigations, “because he doesn’t go there more than once a week as a rule. There must be some regular meeting of the dope organization in London. That means putting a man on to tail him for his next trip. In fact, I’ve a good mind to do it myself.”
“Well, that’s really all I can find out,” went on Creighton, “except Miss Sackbut’s statement. I told you about that yesterday. Lady Crumbles states Vane is a man called Spider something or other whom she met in Hollywood.”
“Yes,” answered Bray; “so when I got to London I sent the tele-photo of Vane’s head and shoulders to the Los Angeles police, and I’ve got a cable back already. Quick workers, those boys! Here it is.
“Re your confidential cable 5639/B. T.V. Man is Frank Hartigan, alias Spider Hartigan. Well-known Hollywood extra for two years; nationality English; born 1907; height 5 ft. 8 in.; blue eyes, dark hair, mole right-hand corner mouth; discovered to be agent Chinese black drug smuggling organization, Los Angeles, and deported two years ago. Subsequent history unknown.
“He was on black drugs then—that’s hashish and opium, you know,” explained Bray. “Cocaine is a white drug, so it’s not likely to be the same organization here as was operating in America.”
“Still, it seems to place him either as the head of the dope-smuggling business here—or very near the head.”
“I don’t think he’s the boss,” said Bray positively. “The kind of man who’d be the boss would be someone with unimpeachable credentials, not a fellow who’s been deported from America.”
“A man such as the nephew of a Cabinet Minister?” suggested Creighton.
Bray nodded, his face grave. “Exactly! The real puzzle, of course, is this: if Lady Laura’s theory of the murder is right—and I thought it was—then someone was in the air at the time of Furnace’s death, flying a club aeroplane. Now at first we thought this was Mrs. Angevin, and Vane’s evidence confirmed it. But now we know Vane is a member of the gang, and we can hardly believe he would go out of his way to convict one of his own people. On the other hand, Mrs. Angevin had in her favour the evidence of Gauntlett and Miss Sackbut, also believed to be of the gang.”
“It is a hopeless tangle,” admitted Creighton. “It points to Miss Sackbut and Gauntlett being innocent, if they’re working against Vane.”
Bray shook his head. “Impossible. After all, you can’t get away from the fact that Gauntlett’s Air Taxis is doing the dope-running and Miss Sackbut has helped in it. No; I can only think that Vane had to say what he did without consulting Gauntlett and Miss Sackbut, and so they were at cross-purposes yesterday afternoon.”
“In any case,” pointed out Creighton, “it seems to let out Mrs. Angevin, and if she’s not in on the dope-running, she’s hardly likely to be concerned in the murder. What do you think of Tommy’s apparent passion for her? Fake, I suppose?”
“I’m afraid so.” Bray looked thoughtful. “I fancy Mrs. Angevin saw it pretty clearly that afternoon. Hence the slap on the face. Poor woman! One can understand her feelings. I don’t quite see Tommy Vane’s object in playing her up—it seems to have begun before the murder—but it is obvious enough it’s not a genuine feeling. What a diabolically clever actor the little swine is! I was utterly taken in by the convincing way he lied about her and then denied his lies in front of her so as to make them sound all the more truthful.”
Creighton looked again at the cable from America. “And yet in spite of his record he didn’t murder Furnace? Or Ness either, because he was attending a navigation lesson while Ness was being murdered. So we come back to the same old point. Who killed Furnace?”
“Ness was right about Vandyke not being the murderer,” suggested Bray. “He was also right about Vandyke not being Gauntlett. He also said that Vandyke wasn’t the Chief, which is what we think now. Oughtn’t we to assume that he was telling us the truth about everything?”
“H’m.” Creighton looked sceptical. “In that case Furnace was shot by the Chief the evening before the crash. And Ness was killed by the Chief for saying too much to us. But in that case Lady Laura’s theory, which is the only workable theory we’ve had up to date, has got to be abandoned. We’ve got to believe instead that Furnace was shot the day before, and yet crashed immediately after being shot, and yet crashed the following morning, which is nonsense.”
“I’m afraid we’ve got to give up Lady Laura’s theory,” admitted Bray, “once we agree that Mrs. Angevin is innocent. For, apart from her, there doesn’t seem the slightest evidence to show that the other school aeroplane was in use during the time when Furnace appeared to crash. On the contrary, no one seems to have seen it until Mrs. Angevin landed in it.”
“Here’s another idea,” suggested Creighton. “Supposing Ness was telling what he thought was the truth, but suppose he was mistaken? Suppose he really thought Furnace was murdered the day before, but was wrong. Then we can continue to look round for some means of making Furnace crash in the morning.”
“Well, that would rule out Vandyke as the murderer, and I still feel he ought to be the murderer,” the Yard man reflected. “I’m afraid he’s innocent, anyway, for Finch told me he established that Vandyke was in his office in London until late on the previous day, and Murgatroyd discovered that immediately on his return Vane went with Ness to the pictures. I admit that visit to the pictures l
ooks like an attempt to establish an alibi, but we policemen are apt to forget that people do go to the pictures sometimes merely for amusement.”
“Mightn’t Furnace have been killed after Vane had left the pictures with Ness?” asked Creighton.
“I don’t think so, because Ness suggested that the pictures were a perfect alibi for himself, and he wouldn’t have done so unless he knew the murder had taken place while he was there. So you have either got to believe with Ness that Furnace was murdered the day before—against all the evidence—in which case Vane is innocent, or that he was killed just before he crashed, in which case again Vane is innocent. And Vane couldn’t possibly have killed Ness, because he was having a navigation lesson at the time and, anyway, he cannot fly. We don’t want to multiply our murderers if we can help it. Whoever murdered Furnace must be able to have murdered Ness. I’m afraid Vane gets off without a stain on his character as far as the murders are concerned, blast him!”
Creighton groaned. “All this is very logical reasoning, but we are back exactly where we started. How in the name of all that’s holy was that fellow killed in the air. Wait a bit, though. We have been relying on the evidence of the crash given by the two men who found the body. They were Vane and Ness—both up to the neck in the dope-running. Pretty suspicious, don’t you think?”
“I agree, but other witnesses saw the crash taking place,” Bray pointed out. “Miss Sackbut, the Bishop, Lady Laura and Randall were on the spot immediately after the crash occurred. So I don’t see how there could be any dirty business there. A crash is a crash after all. And, in the long run, we mustn’t forget that letter of Furnace’s which gives us a strong presumption of suicide.”
The two detectives thought it over in silence.
“If only the Bishop weren’t in it!” lamented Bray at last. “We can assume that Randall and Miss Sackbut are in the gang, but the Bishop we can’t get over.”
Creighton scratched his head. “Yes, he’s an intelligent sort of bloke too. A good witness. Doesn’t pretend to see more than he did.”
“I suppose he is a real Bishop and not a fraud?” suggested Bray cheerfully.
“I went into that before the inquest,” admitted Creighton in a grudging tone which would have surprised Dr. Marriott. “I was very suspicious of him at first. But he’s perfectly genuine, and had only just arrived in England after eight years of absence. So unless when Bishop he acted as head of the Australian dope organization, and had come to England to report progress—which is unlikely—we must take his evidence as true. And I’m blest if I can see on that evidence how Furnace was murdered, either in the morning or the night before.”
“Look here,” suggested Bray eagerly, “here’s an idea! Supposing Ness was falsely told by the Chief that Furnace was dead, on the evening before the crash.”
“Why should he be told that?”
“To see how he would react. The Chief might reason that if Ness went yellow and threatened to squeal when he heard about it, the Chief could explain that Furnace was alive after all and that he was only testing Ness. If Ness accepted the situation, the Chief could go quietly ahead with the murder, knowing that Ness could be relied upon.”
“H’m,” said Creighton dubiously, “it’s a bit extravagant. Now how did he murder Furnace the next day?”
“He didn’t,” answered Bray blithely. “While Ness believed Furnace was already a corpse, and while the Chief was getting ready to make him one, Furnace goes and kills himself, as per his letter to Lady Laura.”
“God bless my soul, Bray, what an imagination!” exclaimed Creighton. “It depends a good deal on coincidence, doesn’t it? And here’s another objection. Surely when Furnace had killed himself, they wouldn’t go on letting Ness think the Chief had killed him?”
“They might,” argued Bray, “on the principle that if Ness believed himself accessory to murder he would be less likely to squeal than if he had merely helped in some dope-running. Or again, the Chief may have told Ness it was suicide and Ness may have disbelieved him.”
Creighton smiled. “You win!”
“Oh, it’s all very provisional,” admitted Bray with an answering grin. “But suppose we let the theory stand for the moment. It gives us one suicide and one unexplained murder.”
“Do you think Ness could have been a suicide too?” suggested Creighton solemnly. “That would clear the whole business up.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t be sarcastic, old chap!” pleaded the Yard man. “You’ll discourage me altogether. No, Ness wasn’t a suicide, because someone must have pulled his belt fastenings away and someone must have piloted the aeroplane. We know it wasn’t Vane or Mrs. Angevin. What about the Gauntlett Air Taxis’ people. Randall, for instance?”
“I’ve tried them, Bray. The pilots were all out on jobs, and Randall and Gauntlett were up in Glasgow after some big charter job. That’s cross-checked by my people. The staff all seem to have been in their hut. The mechanics aren’t all accounted for, but I don’t think any can fly. No, I’m pretty sure the Chief crept on to the aerodrome and wasn’t seen at all. It’s easy enough. He found Ness in the hangars and decoyed him for a flight. But whoever the murderer is, I should think it’s someone who’s known on the aerodrome, otherwise it would be risky.”
“I suppose so. But that might be any one of a hundred persons!”
“He’s a pilot, anyway,” pointed out Creighton.
“As I believe there are about ten thousand people who can fly in this country, it doesn’t help us much,” answered Bray discouragingly.
“Well, let’s put our unknown murderer aside for a moment. Do we at least agree that Vandyke isn’t the Chief?”
“I think so, Creighton. We ought to trust our own judgment and Ness’s statement there. Vandyke is just one of the tools. After all, if the Los Angeles police spotted Vane, he can’t be first-class at this dope racket. I think he was just picked up by the Big Noise as a useful tool, bearing in mind his record.”
“Right; I agree,” said Creighton. “Now can we simplify matters by assuming that Ness’s murderer is the Chief?”
“Yes, provisionally,” agreed Bray. “Ness evidently seemed to think that the Chief did his own murders, because he told us that the Chief shot Furnace. And, after all, if you have decided on murder, it’s a dangerous thing to leave to subordinates, especially if the welfare of a flourishing business organization you’ve built up yourself depends on it.”
“Wait a moment, though,” exclaimed Creighton. “We’ve forgotten that we originally placed Gauntlett as the Chief, but Gauntlett was away in Glasgow when Ness was murdered.”
Bray sighed. “Very well. Let’s assume that someone other than Gauntlett is the Chief. After all, can we be so sure that Gauntlett is the Big Noise? Mightn’t he just be C.O. of the English section by virtue of providing the distributing organization?”
“That sounds plausible. Let’s assume there’s still another man above Gauntlett. He’s the man we have to get, both as murderer and brains of the organization. You agree to that, Bray?”
“Certainly,” said the Yard man positively. “I suppose you feel as I do, that we ought to give them still a bit more rope?”
“Yes. The first step is to shadow Vane.”
“I’m doing that,” Bray told him. “There’s just a chance he may lead us to the central organization.”
Thus the conference ended, a conference which, in spite of the logic and exhaustiveness of its discussions, ended up somewhat wide of the truth.…
***
Bray picked up Thomas Vane as he walked along the prim avenue in which he lived. Vane was no longer dressed in any of the varieties of violent sports garb which he usually affected. He wore a neat lounge suit and a bowler and carried an umbrella and gloves. Vane, in fact, had already become Vandyke.
Bray had no difficulty in getting on the same train, and he did no
t anticipate any trouble in London, since shadowing is a fairly easy matter to an experienced man unless the victim is aware of it. In the latter case, at least two men are necessary.
Vane dodged round Victoria Station until Bray thought for a moment that he was being deliberately shaken off. But Vane was only buying a ticket to Waddon, and Bray, standing behind him, did the same. They got into different carriages, and Bray kept a sharp look-out to make sure that his man did not get out at an earlier station, that favourite and rarely effective trick of shadowed persons.
It did not, however, seem that Vane suspected anything. He got out at Waddon. Bray walked behind him and presently found that Vane’s destination was Croydon Air Port. Vane turned in and went straight to the hangars. An aerodrome official saluted him. It appeared he was known there.
A few minutes later Vane emerged from the hangar, wheeling a small biplane by the tail. The engine was started up, and to Bray’s chagrin the machine taxied out into the aerodrome and took off in an easterly direction.
“I’ve lost him! Damn!” muttered Bray. “Of all the impossible things to shadow, an aeroplane is the limit! But what in hell’s name is Tommy Vane doing flying an aeroplane when he is supposed to be incapable of making a solo flight?”
He got into conversation with some of the engineers on the field, but learned no more than that Vane—known there as Vandyke—had frequently chartered a machine from the local air taxi service on a “fly yourself” basis. Vandyke was assumed to be an American, as the first time he had tried to charter an aeroplane he had produced an American licence, but it was not considered acceptable owing to certain clauses in the firm’s insurance policy.
A fortnight later he had turned up with an A licence and had mentioned he had passed the flying tests in Belfast. Vandyke had told one of the ground engineers that he had a thousand hours’ flying experience. This, according to the ground engineer, was a lot for an amateur, and he thought Vandyke was “shooting a line.” Still there was no doubt he was a competent pilot. He had, however, been rebuked by the Control Office for looping near the aerodrome, and there was a general feeling that he was inclined to “show off.”
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