The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  Holmes said during dinner, “What say we make our way to Battery Park tomorrow afternoon and watch The White Bird alight in the harbor?” He made a reference to the name of Nungesser and Coli’s white painted airplane, L’Oiseau Blanc, or The White Bird. He was positively giddy with excitement.

  The following day, it was Monday the 9th, Holmes and I joined the throngs of well-wishers at Battery Park. It was foggy and raining lightly. Cold and damp, and I am to understand, quite typical for New York at that time of year. “The weather is quite dreadful, don’t you think? We are not young men anymore, Holmes. This dampness and fog is not good for my old injuries.”

  “Posh!” said Holmes. “A little fog would do you wonders, old man! Loosen up those creaky lungs of yours, get the sinuses open, and all that.”

  The time of arrival of the intrepid French aviators came. The throngs that had gathered in Battery Park and other convenient places along the southern tip of Manhattan in anticipation of their arrival, and simultaneously snubbing that cur Monson, waited in the drizzle and fog. There was no sign of The White Bird. We waited another hour without sign of the French airplane. The weather was getting worse, and we made our way back to our hotel on Park Avenue. Holmes was obviously feeling the weather as well. He said “Well, then, you old curmudgeon. We shall at least listen to the great achievement on the radio. They have fuel enough to last them for another few hours. Probably weather forced to take a longer route. They shall be here before dinner.” Holmes and I listened avidly to the radio reports in the comfort of our hotel room, warm and snug. We heard, over the radio, that The White Bird had been sighted near Portland, Maine, but no further sightings were reported. Surely they must be close to New York now.

  Around 4:30, Holmes and I wandered up to the hotel roof to enjoy a before-dinner smoke, something Holmes inaugurated shortly after our arrival, and after several guests complained of the odor of Holmes’s favorite tobacco. We chatted about the French fliers when, shortly before five o’clock, three large seaplanes roared overhead bound to the east. “I suspect that they have found the Frenchmen and are on their way to bring those brave men to the city,” Holmes said with confidence. It proved to be unfounded.

  Six o’clock passed - well past the time when their fuel would have been exhausted. Then seven and still no sign of The White Bird. When the clocks tolled nine, many began to give up hope and sullenly wandered to warmer and dryer accommodations. A kind of pall of worry had settled over the city. The Frenchmen were long overdue. But there were stalwarts who proclaimed that the duo had landed on Long Island or Cape Cod and would proceed to New York on the morrow. The Ortieg Prize had been won and the two French fliers would triumphantly enter the city tomorrow to collect their grand prize of $25,000.

  Sadly, there were no reports of a successful landing. The following day, the 10th, Nungesser and Coli were officially declared missing. The searches began immediately; even Floyd Bennett, confined to a hospital after his earlier crash, began a search at the behest of a newspaper that would last for nine days, and prove fruitless. Several millionaires offered a total of $32,000 reward for the discovery of the missing flyers. Holmes was rather concerned and began to ponder, sometimes mumbling to himself, what could have happened. “There were storms near Newfoundland, Watson. Quite possible that they crashed somewhere on that island and are even now being cared for by the local inhabitants,” he would say. His concern grew as the days passed. He paced incessantly, interrupting our evening meal to wander to the hotel bar and listen to the radio there. There wasn’t a newspaper that he wouldn’t buy to read of the latest searches.

  No news, no sightings, no hope.

  Our days passed in this now gloomy city with conferences with my publisher, and conferences and lectures at local police precincts, one as far out as Paterson in New Jersey. We endured stuffy luncheons with New York’s influential and prosperous. All quite dull and, at times, excruciatingly tedious. I doubt that the continuing mystery of The White Bird was ever far from Holmes’s consciousness. Indeed, I often caught him with that intense gaze, indicative of his mind wrestling with a difficult enigma. Already, Holmes was working on a solution.

  We had made plans for an extended stay in America, at the behest of none other than Raymond Ortieg, the benefactor of the New York-to-Paris endeavor, who nervously pestered Holmes with questions. Ortieg gave me the impression that he would like us to investigate the matter, but was walking a tightrope between the press and the government. The government wanted to handle the search itself.

  On the 19th, the Coast Guard found what they hoped was a piece of The White Bird in Fort Pond Bay, Long Island. It turned out to be from another Coast Guard plane that force landed earlier. So many false leads and rumors.

  On the 20th of May, a Friday, we found ourselves enveloped in a chill mist and drizzle in the early morning hours at Roosevelt Field outside of the town of Mineola, Long Island. We waited for the latest entrant in the Ortieg Prize to begin his perilous journey.

  Charles Lindbergh, whom we met very briefly just a few hours before, paced by his silver airplane, The Spirit of St. Louis, glancing nervously at the ominous skies to the east. Finally, a break in the weather occurred, and within minutes Lindbergh’s little monoplane was roaring across the marshy field.

  I know that I was holding my breath as the little, silver plane barely cleared the trees at the east end of the aerodrome. Once he had cleared the grove and was disappearing into the watery dawn, I heard Holmes beside me heave a great sigh of relief.

  “An amazing and thrilling endeavor, eh, Watson?” said Sherlock Holmes, quite softly. There was a rousing cheer from the gathered throng, and I could barely hear him over the din. I turned and watched his aquiline profile as he stared after the diminishing flying machine. To me, it seemed rather appropriate that this hawk of deductive reasoning and thought should be so taken with the eagle of this new era.

  Holmes turned and tapped me with his walking stick. “Shall we be off to luncheon, Watson? I understand that there is a café here where we can mingle with some of Mr. Lindbergh’s colleagues and partake of that icon of American cuisine, the hamburger.” I nodded distractedly, because I had noticed a striking young woman and a dapper young man slowly approaching us. The woman’s attention was focused on the numerous puddles around her and she stepped daintily between them. The man stared directly at us and his stride was purposeful and proud.

  We, too, were concentrating on keeping our boots dry, when they stopped before us. Confidently, and with a melodious voice that thrilled, the woman addressed us. “Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson? I am Consuelo Hatmaker, Charles Nungesser’s ex-wife. We should like to engage you to find my ex-husband.” The young man then spoke. “And I am Robert Nungesser, Charles’ half-brother. I, too, would like you to investigate my brother’s disappearance.”

  Holmes and I were somewhat astounded by the beauty of this young woman, and by her confidence and presence. Her angelic face was, however, marred by an expression of extreme sorrow and despair.

  Holmes took Miss Hatmaker’s elbow and we all began walking slowly to the hangars, where numerous taxis and limousines awaited. “What makes you to assume that I can be of any service to you in this simple matter of an aviation tragedy, Miss Hatmaker, Mr. Nungesser? Surely you do not suspect foul play?” Holmes said.

  Miss Hatmaker’s face contorted in grief and anger. “But I do, Mr. Holmes, I do suspect that something terrible has happened. Someone did not want Charles to succeed, and particularly did not wish for Charles and me to re-marry. In that matter, I suspect my father, James R. Hatmaker. He despised Charles because he was a pilot.” Her voice broke and tears flowed down her cheeks. “Charles wrote me a week before his flight that when he landed, he would stand in the cockpit and salute and search the crowd for me. He said that he would not smile until he saw my face. After his flight, we planned to re-marry. Charles would have the money to support
me and, being an international hero, my father would have to respect him and accept him. Whether my father approved or not, we would marry.”

  Holmes observed the distraught woman closely, from the corners of his eyes. I saw him study her face, her posture, the way she dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes.

  “Do you truly believe,” I interjected, “that your father would do something to harm monsieurs Nungesser and Coli? Do you believe him to be that ruthless and black hearted, Miss Hatmaker?” She turned to me with sorrow in her eyes, pondering the question for just a few seconds. Then her head drooped and she seemed to sag before us. “Actually, Doctor, I do. My father did not approve of Charles and hated the fact that Charles and I were in love. He forced me to divorce Charles two years ago by threatening to terminate my allowance and write me out of his will. I never forgave him for that.”

  “Could your father have contracted with someone to sabotage the French aircraft?” asked Holmes. Miss Hatmaker’s face paled.

  Robert Nungesser said, “Yes. At first, we suspected that her father may have had someone tamper with Charles’ airplane. There was a slight fire on the 3rd, but there was little damage. However, Mr. Hatmaker is a respectable business man. I may not like the man, but I have a difficult time believing that he would do such a thing.”

  “Still,” said Holmes, “It is not entirely out of the question, is it?”

  Both Miss Hatmaker and Mr. Nungesser looked taken aback. “No,” said Miss Hatmaker, quite sheepishly. Holmes stood before the girl. “Then why would you suspect your father? He must have given you reason. Did he not?”

  “Well,’ she stammered, “Well...” Her voice trembled, and she could not go on. The expression on her face revealed to us that her suspicions were indeed the result of anger. She obviously failed to think the matter through entirely.

  By this time, we had reached the hangars and the various limousines and taxis awaiting their fares for a return ride to Manhattan. We were only yards away from the little café Holmes had mentioned. The enticing aroma of grilling onions and beef mingled with the heady odor of strong coffee. My mouth watered and my shivers demanded something hot to drink.

  “Miss Hatmaker,” Sherlock Holmes began, ““I am sure that a man of your father’s respectability and stature is not the suspect you imagine him to be. However, I do suspect, like you, that someone has contrived to prevent your beloved from attaining his goal, and that the disappearance is more than mechanical failure, nasty weather, or simply a tragic navigational error. We will look into it, though. Will you accompany us back to the city in our cab? We can then discuss the details of the case in relative comfort. Watson, would be so kind as to purchase some hot coffee for the four of us?”

  The four of us rode back to Manhattan. On the ride back, Mr. Nungesser mentioned that the aeronautical entrepreneur, Monson, the very man who had published the vile newspaper advertisement, had once attended a lecture that Charles Nungesser had presented to the veterans of the Lafayette Escadrille, in which his half-brother had served during the Great War. Monson had interrupted the proceedings with ugly accusations of Nungesser’s incompetence and his deliberate destruction of a scouting airplane Monson hoped to sell, and had to be escorted out. I considered this rather interesting and said so. Holmes agreed. We dropped the two at their respective homes and continued on to our hotel in silence. We adjourned to our room and unburdened ourselves of our damp coats and hats. Holmes called the front desk to have some sandwiches brought up and the latest newspapers as well. He was anxious to learn of Mr. Lindbergh’s progress.

  Immediately we finished our lunch, and after I had pestered Holmes about his promise of American hamburgers, my friend began his ritualistic pacing. “What do you make of it, Watson? Do you feel this Monson character a suspect? How about Mr. Hatmaker?” He turned to me and tapped his foot.

  I was sitting by a window looking out at a wind and rain swept Park Avenue. I mulled the matter over in my mind. I had of late, been more assertive in my give and take with Holmes, no doubt a product of my advancing years. “It is surely justifiable to suspect some manner of treachery in this matter, particularly when one considers the amount of money to be made from a successful endeavor, and the amount of money a person could lose should they fail. I agree with you that foul weather, errors in navigation, or catastrophic mechanical failure are the most likely causes of this unfortunate state of affairs,” said I. “But one cannot entirely rule out some criminal mischief, again considering the amount of the prize money. However, we have little evidence as to the nature of the plot, if one exists, or as to who could be responsible for the deed.”

  Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed shut his eyes. He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. He stepped to the windows and peered out intently. I knew from his fierce expression that his mind was miles away.

  Almost to himself he said, “We may be correct in assuming a purely natural, but still tragic, conclusion to this matter. Yet the first successful crossing of the Atlantic represents a great advance in not just aeronautical technology and capability, but would result in the winning country reaping more than just simple prize money.” He turned to me, his eyes serious and intense. “Think of the consequences of a successful flight, Watson. Men could make or lose huge fortunes! And let us not forget those of lower morals who would make bets on the outcome. There, too, you would have men, some of them of a very criminal nature, who stand to win or lose large sums of capital. There are those among them who would be very upset should someone borrow a large amount to make a wager, then not have the funds to repay the loan.”

  “Great rewards for great risk.” I added.

  As though he had not heard me, Sherlock Holmes continued, “I would like to speak with Mr. Raymond Ortieg again. See if there is anyone who stands out in his mind who could be involved. Someone who stands to gain a healthy sum for a victory.”

  “Holmes,” said I, “you must be aware that Mr. Ortieg is a very busy man right now? He may not be able to indulge us at this time.”

  Holmes looked at me curiously. “Ah, never mind, we shall pay a visit to his offices and find someone who will speak to us about this.”

  I looked intensely at my friend. I knew that look only too well. “You already have someone in mind, don’t you? Tell me who is on your list, Holmes. Let us compare lists!”

  Holmes smiled at me as one would an intelligent, precocious child. He chuckled. “Yes, Watson, I do have someone in mind. Several suspects, in fact. But I wish to gather more information before I give voice to my suspicions. You will have to wait until later, I’m afraid.”

  I leapt to my feet, which may not have been a bright idea considering my sore knees and back. “It is that scabby Monson fellow, isn’t it, Holmes! That Francophobe scoundrel who took out that despicable advertisement!” I cried.

  But Sherlock Holmes had already left the room and was proceeding down the corridor.

  I called after him, “At least have them send up one of those hamburgers to me, Holmes! Holmes?”

  That night Holmes paced about the room, occasionally turning on the radio to listen for news of Lindbergh’s progress.

  The next day, as Lindbergh was plying the clouds over the Atlantic, Holmes and I went to the New York Public Library to read what we could find about Mr. Ortieg, Mr. James Hatmaker, and Mr. Monson. Mr. Ortieg and Mr. Hatmaker proved to be above reproach. We found nothing but glowing praises about their character and business practices. However, Monson proved to be cut of a different cloth. We discovered that he had been involved in several court cases for fraud and misappropriation of funds, even two cases in which he was acquitted of racketeering. Articles about his airplanes were less than favorable. One aeronautical expert, Mr. Gordon Page, wrote that Monson’s airplanes were flying death traps. Lastly, we discovered that Monson’s company was on the verge of bankruptcy, and that he owed several people, i
ncluding some of rather disreputable character, large sums of money.

  It proved to be an interesting day.

  We were just beginning an early dinner when the news came that Lindbergh had safely made it to Paris. The dining room erupted in cheers and impromptu dancing. Even Holmes, very uncharacteristically for him, cheered and danced with a very young girl around our table. “Watson!” he shouted above the din, “Watson! A new age, Watson! Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!” We did not get to bed until after midnight.

  The next day was a Sunday, if I remember, the 22nd. There was nothing to get done, so Holmes and I stayed at the hotel and reviewed our case notes. Holmes sent for a large map of the Newfoundland area and of eastern Long Island, trying to trace a route that the Frenchman may have taken. He was still convinced, as many others were, that The White Bird was forced down in the wilderness somewhere and the pilots were desperately awaiting discovery and rescue.

  Early the following morning, the 23rd, Holmes and I took a cab to Raymond Ortieg’s offices downtown. Upon inquiring at the reception desk, we were informed that Mr. Ortieg was currently in Paris, on vacation with his wife. They had left the previous week.

  Holmes smiled at the pretty dark-haired girl behind the ornate desk. He looked at the nameplate on her desk. “Yes, Miss Cannella is it?” She nodded. “Yes, my dear Miss Cannella, I am aware of where Mr. Ortieg is. You may have misunderstood my English accent. I wanted only to speak with someone on Mr. Ortieg’s personal staff who is familiar with the entrants for the prize. Someone who is responsible for the daily operations of this grand endeavor. Do you see what I am asking now, Miss Cannella?”

  Relief washed over the pretty girl’s face. “Well, then let me see if Mr. Ortieg’s aeronautical advisor, Mr. Page, is available.” She buzzed an intercom and asked another young lady if Mr. Page was, indeed, available.