Death of an Airman (10 page)

“Well, in a sense we've got further, and in a sense we haven't,” answered Creighton cautiously. “Now, my lord, you've got some medical knowledge, as we know, and a deal of observation, as you've shown. You've met most of the members here. Would you say that any of them were drug addicts?”

“Good gracious me!” exclaimed the clergyman, dropping a nailbrush in his surprise. “I certainly should not! A most healthy lot of youngsters, and though certainly I might sometimes wish they would drink a little less and be somewhat less boisterous, I saw not the slightest evidence of any degeneracy. On the contrary. Dismiss it from your mind, Inspector. But what suggested it in the first place?”

“Undoubtedly the motive for the murder is tied up in some way with drugs,” asserted the detective. “Furnace was blackmailing someone before he died; we have proof of that. He took a sample of a certain powder to be analysed shortly before his death and it proved to be cocaine. He accounted to the analyst for his possession of it by a fatuous story. As you see, this blackmail at once provides a motive for the murder, and we are trying to establish a connection between Furnace, this club, and the drug traffic. We thought at first that there might be some method of aerial distribution, but our first researches in that respect have been fruitless, I am afraid.”

“These are large accusations, Inspector, against a man of Furnace's unblemished record,” said the Bishop in his most solemn manner. “On what grounds do you suggest that he was a blackmailer?”

“For the last two years his income has been swelled by large, irregular payments in cash which cannot be accounted for in any other way.”

The Bishop considered this carefully. “That is something, but not everything. On what grounds do you suppose this was accounted for by blackmail?”

“Because of his interview with the analytical chemists. He obviously came on this powder accidentally, but in a way that aroused his suspicions. His suspicions proved well founded. Yet he did not reveal his knowledge to the police, in spite of his promise to do so. Therefore he must have been making use of that knowledge for some unlawful purpose—namely, blackmail.”

“Excellent reasoning.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Unfortunately, it has a flaw which renders it fallacious.”

“Ah?” said the Inspector, a little nettled at the ecclesiastic's positive tone.

“You say he had been drawing blackmail for two years. You say he only took this sample—in ignorance—to the chemist's a few days before his death. Therefore this occasion was the first time he knew it was cocaine, and there could be no connection between the two. Therefore the drug had nothing to do with the blackmailing, so far as we know. Therefore doubt is thrown even upon the hypothesis that the source of the money is blackmail.”

Inspector Creighton blushed. “Believe it or not, my lord, I completely overlooked that. Completely! Good gracious me! Really, you have a remarkable brain.”

The Bishop waved the hairbrush, with which at the moment he was sleeking his greying but abundant hair, in a gesture of disavowal. Then he looked sharply at the policeman with a sudden distrust. But there was no hint of mockery in the Inspector's impassive face. “Logic is still part of the equipment of a theologian,” said the Bishop. “The flaw in the syllogism was obvious.”

The Inspector gave a despondent sigh. “That brings us back to where we were then, doesn't it? And very difficult it makes it too.”

“It does.” The Bishop considered it a good time to administer a kindly rebuke. “Particularly as I feel you are completely on the wrong track. Inspector, whatever the appearances, Miss Sackbut had no part in this.”

“Of course not, my lord. I am sure no one would think so,” answered the policeman with a hurt expression.

“I am not such a fool as I look,” said the Bishop impatiently. “It is obvious to a mean order of intelligence that you not only suspect Miss Sackbut, but suspect her alone.”

The Inspector hesitated. “It's very difficult,” he said more humanly. “You see, I can't get away from the fact that the only person who had access to Furnace between the time the body was out of the hands of those three and the time that it came under your supervision was Miss Sackbut.”

“Isn't that almost a point in her favour?” pressed the Bishop astutely. “After all, surely no murderer would murder someone when it was a proven fact that she was the only person able to do it?”

“I'm not so sure. The other circumstances of the murder suggest that there was a desperate need for Furnace to be finished off. And desperate needs don't wait for alibis.”

“We still have no inkling of the desperate need,” the Bishop reminded him. “Even the possibility of Furnace having discovered a plot which caused his crash is ruled out by the Air Ministry's evidence.”

“
I
don't rule it out, expert or no expert,” answered Creighton irritably. “Otherwise, the whole business is absolutely inexplicable.”

“I feel it is that, anyway. There is, also, another point which I must say you seem to have overlooked. So far you have established five possible murderers.” The Bishop raised his plump hand and spread the fingers. “One, two, and three: Randall, Vane, and Ness (but if so they must have worked in co-operation); four: Miss Sackbut; five: myself.”

“Oh, my lord!” protested the Inspector.

“Five: myself,” insisted the Bishop. “At all costs let us be logical. But you have forgotten one other possibility. It occurred to me when I was reviewing the case in my mind at a time when, I admit, I might have been better occupied.”

“And who is that, if I may ask?” The Inspector's eyes were very watchful.

“The person or persons who
may
have come upon Furnace between the time when the 'plane crashed and the ambulance arrived on the scene.”

“That's a fact! I must say I never thought of that. You do have some ideas, my lord. But there's not much time, is there?” Again the Bishop looked at the policeman to see if he was being sarcastic, and again encountered the blank wall of Creighton's face.

“Quite enough. Let us assume the person who planned the murder was watching its effect concealed at the far end of the aerodrome. Furnace crashes. The person rushes up to see that all is well. He sees there is some sign of consciousness. So he murders Furnace and makes his getaway. Or possibly he conceals himself. Upon my soul,” said the Bishop, temporarily carried away by his imagination, “the murderer may have been watching us at the very moment we were dragging Furnace out of the 'plane!”

The Inspector nodded. “I like that theory, my lord. But, you see, it brings us back to the same difficulty. What was the scheme which brought a perfectly sound aeroplane out of the air at the murderer's feet, as you might say, dead against what the Air Ministry allows to be possible?”

Dr. Marriott waved the objection aside. “I leave that to you. But, you see, Miss Sackbut is by no means the inevitable suspect. I do assure you, Inspector, that no girl who can do a half-roll off the top of a loop as neatly as that girl could be guilty of such a crime. I, sinner that I am, cannot even land a Moth.”

“Each to his trade, my lord. No doubt she would make a precious poor hand of a sermon, now,” answered the Inspector solemnly, “or at detecting the flaws in a—syllogism, was it?”

“Possibly, possibly; but certainly not so bad in her way as flying is in mine.”

The Inspector, however, was pertinacious, and refused to allow the Bishop to change the subject. “You still haven't given me your opinion, my lord. Do you think that someone did kill Furnace in those few minutes?”

The prelate smiled blandly. “Well, well, that's a difficult decision. What do you think of Bastable?”

The Inspector was momentarily baffled by the twistings of the other's mind. “Bastable? Oh, he's very hard-working and respected. Been the police surgeon for years. Very well liked locally.”

“A worthy man, yes, certainly. But just a
little
bit of a fool, I fear, Creighton, and too slap-dash in his methods. These busy G.P.'s so often are. It's not my business, of course, except to suffer people of his kind gladly, as the Apostle advised, but if I were in your position I should get further medical advice on that bullet wound in Furnace's head—if it's not too late, that is. Isn't there some central organization?”

“The Home Office?”

“Ah, that's it. Yes, the Home Office. Now, if you were to get them to consult with Bastable…It might be difficult to do it without hurting his feelings. Perhaps you could raise some fresh point you need medical advice on? Of course, don't say I suggested you should do so.”

Creighton looked at the other shrewdly. “That's your opinion, is it, my lord? Well, I think I can do it easily enough. H'm, very interesting. Thank you.”

“Not at all. I hardly know why I suggest it,” answered Dr. Marriott airily. “Well, I think we might venture out now. The Crumbles peril should have gone now. How I dislike that woman, Inspector; clean against all Christian charity! Dear me, I shall be late for the navigation classes. A very interesting subject, navigation, Inspector. But a very intricate one!”

Chapter XI

Scotland Yard in Paris

Bray had been given an introduction to Monsieur Jules Durand, of the Paris Sûreté. Durand's prosaic name is associated with some of the most wildly romantic trials of French criminology, and Bray appreciated the honour when, on sending in his letter of introduction, Durand himself came down to meet his British
confrère
and showed him into his pleasant little office.

The Frenchman placed his time and attention unreservedly at the disposal of his distinguished colleague. He hoped Monsieur Bray would do him the favour of being his honoured guest during Bray's stay in Paris.

Bray accepted all this with thanks.

“And now, dear friend, what criminal have you tracked to our city?” Durand, bulky, but with a neat little moustache, and pink-and-white features as smooth and delicate as the face of a wax doll, pushed across a cigarette-box. Then he lay back in his chair to listen to his colleague with the reverent concentration of a devotee of music. “I seem to remember your name in connection with one or two famous drug-traffic cases?” he murmured. “Were you not commended by Russell Pasha in a recent report?”

Bray was flattered, being unaware of Durand's quick call through to Records on receipt of the letter of introduction.

“It is on a drug-traffic case that I am in Paris now,” he admitted. “I believe that this French newspaper I have here is being used to give messages about the drug traffic to British addicts. How or why such an elaborate device has been employed I cannot understand. In fact, I have come over to investigate just this point. The cuttings I have pinned to the paper explain the story, I think.”

Durand silently took the copy of the paper and the cuttings. When he opened it and saw the title, however, he was unable to repress a little exclamation.

But he said no more and read through the cuttings. Then he looked up with a grin. “A strange affection for Royalty! Snobs, these criminals! What do you make of it? A code of some sort, of course, but a rather unusual one.”

“Undoubtedly a code, and I believe it to mean nothing more than that the drug is available at the usual place on the date mentioned in connection with the Royalty.”

“And you hope to find out more over here? I am puzzled, my friend.
La Gazette Quotidienne
is a paper of the utmost respectability, neither Socialist nor Royalist, and much read by civil servants and teachers.”

“Didn't it change hands recently?”

“You seem to know much already. It did. Naturally, such things are of importance to us; perhaps even more important than in your country, so we will know all about it.” He lifted his telephone. “Charles? The
Gazette Quotidienne
dossier, if you please. Monsieur Bray, I hope if you continue your investigations you will use the extremest discretion. I know you will, of course, but I mention it because in the affair of a newspaper these enquiries are delicate here. They would have the ear of our superiors, you understand, if they wish to complain.”

“You needn't worry,” Bray reassured him. “I shall make my enquiries entirely independently, and it needn't even be known that I consulted you.”

“Excellent. Ah, here is the dossier. It was two years ago that this change of ownership took place. Well, here we have something interesting. It seems we do not yet know who the real proprietor is. It has been bought by Maurice Roget, who is a
notaire
of whom we know nothing but good, but it is plain that he is the agent of another man. In fact, I see from our notes here that he has said so in conversation with the staff, and has even stated that the principal is a rich American.”

“That's the story I heard over in England,” admitted Bray. “It is self-evident he was rich to have bought it, and as even to-day Americans are often rich, it doesn't really help us much.”

“Not necessarily rich,” qualified Durand. “The control of the
Gazette
is vested in a fairly small
compagnie anonyme
, but the bulk of the capital was provided by debentures. Roget has only bought the
compagnie
, which might not have been expensive. In any case, French newspapers are on a much smaller scale than yours, with their fabulous circulations and insurance against twins. Besides, although the
Gazette
has been established so long, it is one of the smallest Parisian dailies.”

“We're up against another mystery here, then. Bit curious, isn't it?”

Durand smiled. “Perhaps—perhaps not. There are many mysteries in Parisian journalism. But it does not follow that they are concerned with the drug traffic.”

“Now, look here, Durand, I suppose you are on friendly terms with the members of the Press?”

“Profoundly so.”

“Can you give me an introduction to some journalist who knows most of them? I leave it to you whether you introduce me to him as an English journalist—a part I could, I think, sustain with a foreigner—or whether you tell this man the truth, but to the staff of the
Gazette
I certainly wish to appear as a journalist.”

“I understand. I know the very man—André Clair. I will tell him the truth—it is better—and he will help you more.”

André Clair, a lean, fragile-looking exquisite, with a gay wit, proved more than helpful. Bray explained that he was particularly anxious to meet the man who looked after the suspect column in
La Gazette
. Clair decided that would be, unquestionably, Molineux, the social editor, for the column, as could be seen, was mainly social and personal news. Molineux was often to be found at the Café Hongrois. Clair would take Bray, and if Molineux was there the introduction could be effected as by chance. The rest he would leave to Bray.

Clair seemed thoroughly to enjoy the whole affair, and his start of surprise on seeing Molineux was almost too good to be true, as was his little panegyric on the virtues of his
confrère
, Bernard Bray.

Bray's French, though sound, was not really good enough to join in the pleasant badinage which Clair was gaily exchanging with Molineux, studded as it was with political personages referred to only by their nicknames. Instead, he devoted himself to studying Molineux, who was a tall, gaunt-featured, fair-haired Norman type. Of course, the physiognomy of a foreigner is always difficult to read, but Molineux did not look anything of a criminal. On the contrary.

Bray's chance ultimately came when Molineux was chaffing Clair about some mis-statement in his dramatic criticism. Bray joined in, as light-heartedly as his French permitted.

“Even
La Gazette Quotidienne
is not always impeccable. I noticed in mine, as I came over three days ago, that the Crown Prince of Kossovia was to open a cycling championship to-morrow, but he has the ill grace to decide to stay in South America.”

Molineux laughed. “I absolutely refuse responsibility.”

“Come, come, Jules,” said Clair, taking the cue, “you can't. I know that column is under your care because you have been so truly kind as to publish in it little paragraphs about an actress friend from time to time.”

“And this is the thanks I get!” smiled Molineux. “But it is true. You see, I have a proprietor with queer whims. He sends me little batches of paragraphs—about his friends, no doubt, or people he hopes to make his friends—and all these have to go in, at the top of the column. And who is better entitled to dictate such matters than the proprietor?”

“But at least one corrects the proprietor's errors,” suggested Bray. “Or can he do no wrong?”

“That is the drollest part of it. Once he stated that some tiresome woman, the Hereditary Duchess of Georgina, I fancy, was to do something on a date I knew to be wrong. I altered it to the right one. My God, the trouble that caused, the panic, in fact! I have never heard such language as Maître Roget used to me—passed on, it seems, as it came hot from the proprietor on the London-Paris telephone. Since then those paragraphs go in without query.”

“An odd fish, your proprietor,” said Bray. “What is he like?”

“I haven't the remotest idea,” said Molineux carelessly. “He is almost a legend. He is always on the point of coming to the office to visit the staff, but he never does. He is a rich American, we are told, but who he is and what is his name are matters I am as ignorant of as you.”

After he had finished his
déjeuner
and bade farewell to the two journalists, Bray went for a leisurely stroll in the Bois de Boulogne to think. He was baffled by what he had heard. Assuming Molineux spoke the truth, it was not a case of a member of the staff being tampered with from the outside. On the contrary, the responsibility for that receded to the proprietorship itself. Some colour at least was lent to this by the fact that the proprietor was unknown even to the Sûreté, and had taken careful precautions to remain in the background. The rich American sounded a myth. He was the sort of person to whom eccentricities might be more safely attributed in Paris. But then why this fantastically complex and expensive machinery to publish a message which could have been put in
The Times
for fifteen shillings? And why, and how, suborn a Parisian
notaire
with a reputation?

Of course, Molineux might have been lying. He might have suspected Bray, even known his name as a detective, though that was extremely unlikely. If he had, however, it would be plausible that he had tried to clear himself by throwing the blame on an innocent but obscure proprietor. Yet Bray hardly believed that. The explanation had come so simply and instantaneously, without a change in tone or expression.

After all, now he came to think it over, perhaps the new explanation was not so fantastic. For while it was extraordinary to imagine that a dope organization should have gone to the trouble of tampering with the staff of a French newspaper merely to send messages to English customers, it was more understandable if in some way the proprietorship was already mixed up in the game. But how?

It was a lovely day and the air of Paris was going to Bray's head. He was beginning to feel dangerously untrammelled of the official restrictions which sat so heavily upon him in England. He therefore decided on a step he would never have dared to take in London. He decided to interview Roget under an assumed personality.

The lawyer's name was, he found, in the telephone directory, and he presented himself with assurance. To the clerk who interviewed him in the ante-room of the suite of offices occupied by the
notaire
he said curtly: “I come on business connected with the Crown Prince of Kossovia. That should be sufficient for your master.”

It was. It secured him instant admission to a puzzled little man with the lined forehead and lips of the lawyer, a physiognomy that transcends national boundaries.

“To what can I attribute the honour of this visit? Are you a member of His Royal Highness's suite?”

Bray nodded. When it was necessary to depart from the way of honesty, he still believed in telling as much of the truth as was practicable, and he now said: “I am an enquiry agent. I have been in the British Police Force. My name is Bray—Bernard Bray.”

“None is finer than the British Police Force,” said Maître Roget pleasantly.

Bray bowed. “Thank you. I came primarily about this.” He produced from a wallet the
Gazette
cutting relating to the Crown Prince's activities. “You will see it states here that His Royal Highness is to open a cycling championship to-morrow. He is, however, in South America, and it is plainly impossible for him to do so.”

Roget looked suitably apologetic after glancing at the cutting. “I am very distressed by this error. As you will appreciate, these mistakes will occur with all newspapers. If you will have the goodness to communicate with the editor-in-chief, the mistake will be rectified in to-morrow's issue.”

Bray bowed again. “If that were the only purpose of my visit, the task would have been carried out by one of the Prince's equerries. No, monsieur, the matter is serious.” Bray lowered his voice. “You will appreciate that an announcement of this nature, which will induce many people to expect the Prince, but without success, may compromise his popularity in this country.”

“Surely not!” smiled Roget.

“But yes. His advisers cannot help supposing some malicious influence is at work here.”

The lawyer looked genuinely startled. “Monsieur! A journalist's error! Surely you are taking too grave a view?”

“Not without reason, I assure you. Preliminary investigation has convinced me that the paragraph was not written in your office, but came from your proprietor.”

Maître Roget smiled weakly. “My compliments to the British Police Force. You are very acute. It may be the source of the paragraph, although I was not aware of it. But I assure you there is no element of malice.”

“Who is your proprietor?” pressed Bray.

The lawyer's lips closed firmly. “I regret to say that I cannot communicate the name of my client without permission.”

Bray managed an expressive shrug. “It is very strange. The Prince's advisers will hardly be satisfied.”

“I am desolated, monsieur. But the mistake was made in all innocence, I assure you. May I suggest that a statement to the effect that the Crown Prince is still in South America, despite erroneous rumours to the contrary, should be inserted in our next issue? Perhaps even a column article on the Crown Prince, appreciative in tone? The Prince's Press agent could write what he liked.”

Bray felt he was getting no further. In spite of his preconceived ideas, he was impressed by Roget, who showed every sign of being what he purported and was reputed to be, a lawyer of good reputation and practice. Moreover, it was quite plain that Roget's client, if such a person existed, had been absolute in his demands for secrecy. If, on the other hand, his client was a myth, then Roget would be even less informative.