Death of an Airman (18 page)

“That is really quite a good idea, Vane,” exclaimed Dr. Marriott. “If I am not visible when the show is over, please dig me out, as I shall be expected to give away the prizes. Do please remember, for I feel so abominably sleepy that I shall certainly not wake without being called. And look after the Judge for me. I believe he's my guest,” mumbled the Bishop, “but I feel so drowsy I can hardly remember.…”

The Bishop had climbed into the front seat with the agility necessary for this task and curled himself into the cockpit as well as he could. For a time the roar of an engine being run up near him beat an uneasy staccato accompaniment to his increasing drowsiness. His hand came upon a flying helmet in the dashboard cubby-hole, however, and putting this on he shut out the offending noise.

Just as he was coming up for the last time in the waters of oblivion before sinking into their woolly depths, some strange insistent warning seemed to be struggling to clear the mists. It was as if a danger lurking merely as a shadow at the back of his brain could now be more clearly perceived. But it was too late. With a final gurgle, the Bishop sank helplessly, fathoms deep into slumber.

After a final glance to assure himself that the Bishop was sound asleep, Vane covered him with a rug. Then he strolled slowly off in search of the Judge.

The Judge, with an expression of childlike wonder on his face, was watching fabulous monsters, distended with gas, being shot down as they floated over the public enclosures by pilots armed with shotguns.

He nodded when he saw Vane. “Well, have you settled matters with the Bishop, Spider?”

“Oh, he's all right when you handle him nicely,” said Vane carelessly. “Give him a drink and he'll do most things you want.”

“Drink!” exclaimed the Judge. “He struck me as very abstemious at the banquet.”

Vane smiled. “I expect he was, if he had to pay for the drink himself. The poor devil hasn't a bean.”

The Judge looked startled. “Land's sakes, but I thought your bishops got fat pay-rolls.”

“Ah, but when he was unfrocked all that kind of thing went,” Vane explained. “He hasn't a penny to his name now.”

The Judge looked genuinely horrified. “But I don't understand! What was he unfrocked for?”

“Oh, nothing much,” said Vane easily; “just habitual drunkenness. I call it rather narrow-minded of them really, particularly as he doesn't get fighting-drunk, only sleepy-drunk.”

“I find it impossible to believe,” protested the Judge. “Such a charming man! Besides, what was he doing at the Anglo-American banquet if he is like that?”

Vane shrugged his shoulders. “As he'd paid for his ticket I suppose they couldn't really refuse him. Not without making a scene. In fact, that was probably why he didn't drink anything. The waiters were no doubt instructed not to serve him with wine.”

“You really shock me!” The Judge's childlike eyes widened. “I cannot but believe there is some mistake.”

“Come with me, Judge, and see,” insisted Vane. “Believe it or not, but as soon as you left I stood the poor old buffer some drinks and he got as tight as an owl and crawled into that aeroplane to sleep it off.”

Vane led the now horrified American to the aeroplane in which the Bishop was reposing. They both climbed on to the wings and Vane shook the ecclesiastic violently by the shoulder. He gave no response beyond an incoherent mumble.

“Land sakes!” muttered the Judge.

“How much has he borrowed from you?” asked Vane.

“Why, not a cent!” answered the American. “He invited me to come down and watch this display as his guest.”

“By Jove, he must have got you fixed for a good killing,” laughed the young man. “It's not my business, but I should look out. I mean, be careful when he asks you to play cards. Well, look here, I must buzz off, Judge. Glad to have met you again after all these years!”

Thomas Vane walked off hurriedly, apparently on some urgent business. His bright scarlet-and-blue scarf, wrapped once round his neck, with the ends flung over his shoulders, trailed behind him as he hastened on his way.

None the less he spared the time, a moment later, to glance over his shoulder, and saw with satisfaction that the Judge, a perturbed expression on his face, was walking slowly towards the exit gate of the aerodrome. Vane's knowledge of his psychology had been proved accurate. A moment later and the Judge had vanished through the gate.

Vane's smile of satisfaction changed to an expression which was extremely disturbing on so young and boyish a face. He was looking at the club aeroplane in which the Bishop was sleeping invisibly, and the expression on his face seemed charged with sinister possibility for that unsuspecting man.

Vane's attention was distracted by a shrill whine in the sky, of a note that indicated, to his experienced ear, a supercharged high-powered engine. There were no R.A.F. machines taking part in the display, and the noise certainly could not have come from any of the low-powered light 'planes which were competing in the new event, and which now, with sideslips and wild swishes of their tails, were attempting to come to rest in the middle of a tennis-court marked out on the aerodrome.

The source of the noise was presently visible as a low-wing monoplane flying towards the aerodrome. As it flew nearer it could be seen that the undercarriage was retracted into the fuselage, and that the lines of the 'plane were those of a high-speed aircraft. It came straight towards the aerodrome, shot diagonally under one of the competing light aeroplanes as it apparently hung stationary in the sky, and made the little 'plane stagger for a moment in its backwash. Then the stranger turned in a tight bank round the aerodrome.

Something about the aeroplane seemed vaguely familiar to Tommy Vane, but, his brow wrinkled in a puzzled frown, he failed to place it. The head of the pilot, partly masked by the reflections from the sloping windscreen, could be seen, but the features were indistinguishable. The 'plane came still lower, and, lifting a glinting pistol above his head, the pilot fired a Verey light. The red rocket-star fell in a wide curve with a dramatic effectiveness that made the spectators glance hurriedly at their programmes. But in vain, for the new machine was not mentioned in that list of events.

In the Control tent it caused acute annoyance. “D-GGXX,” read out the Control official, scanning it through his field-glasses. “A German machine. Looks like a Heinkel. What the devil is he doing over here making a right-hand circuit and barging into our display? I've a damned good mind to report him to the Air Ministry.”

“Probably some German visitor who heard of our show and thought he would pay us a surprise visit,” answered Sally Sackbut mildly. “He doesn't mean any harm. Look, he's waving again. Now he's clearing off. Better leave him.”

The German Heinkel (if it was one), after a final circuit of the aerodrome at a low height, had climbed like a rocket and was rapidly dwindling into the distance. The display went on, the landing competition ended, and two red machines took off for a display of crazy flying.

The Bishop slept.…

Meanwhile Lady Laura had completed her duty at the microphone.

“Too exhausting, darling,” she moaned to Sally. “And I haven't yet finished writing out those slips for the trophies.” She produced some paper from her bag and began to cover them with her strong, sturdy calligraphy.

“It's awfully good of you, Laura, to help me all you have done,” insisted Sally. “You are an amazing person really, beneath your social butterfly crust. You've been invaluable with this display, bless you. I really don't know why you don't go in for something that would make use of your gifts!”

Lady Laura laughed, turning round from the desk at which she was sitting to smile at Sally. “You're the first person who has credited me with ability,” she answered. “Look, I've scrawled these cards very hurriedly. I must get back to Goring this afternoon. Make my apologies to Lady Crumbles for me, and while I remember it, I'm expecting a bloke to turn up looking for me. Give him this note and tell him he's arrived too late.”

Sally took the envelope. “You're very ruthless to your admirers! What's his name, by the way?”

“He will be too shy to give it, bless the poor lamb,” said Lady Laura with a smile. “But you'll realize it's he all right. So long, Sally. You're too good for this job, my dear.”

With a wave, Lady Laura was gone. Sally walked to the window and saw her spin the airscrew of a club machine, jump in, and fly away in the pause between the crazy flying event and the next item on the programme, the parachute descent.

The parachute descent passed off successfully, and the crowded enclosures were duly relieved or disappointed to see the flash of silk as the canopy puffed from its pack and safely lowered its human burden to earth. The parachutist was driven triumphantly round the enclosure, and then the voice of Sir Herbert Hallam, once again officiating in the Announcer's tent, was heard. Evidently Hallam had been refreshed by his rest, for his aitches were well under control again.

“The next item will be a display by the pilots of Gauntlett's Air Taxis, who, with the entire fleet of this remarkable concern, will give a demonstration illustrating the utility and resource of modern air taxis. You will see the fleet lined up at the end of the aerodrome with the pilots standing by. At the other end of the aerodrome…”

As Sir Herbert amplified his theme, the crowd turned their eyes to the brave show of scarlet-and-yellow machines at the far end of the aerodrome. They had only a hazy idea of what was the precise nature of the event, and therefore a little burst of applause went up when a tradesman's van shot into the aerodrome gates, and was followed by two more. They drove straight across the aerodrome and stopped opposite the air taxis, whose pilots stared at them in some surprise.

Sally Sackbut had seen it, and rushed out of her office. She grabbed the first club member she could find.

“Hi, Tommy Vane!” she said. “Dash along and turn those blighted lunatics off! Find out where they came from and take their names for trespass. Run along now.”

Tommy Vane jumped into his red Austin Seven and wallowed across the aerodrome, arriving just as Creighton was getting out of a van lettered with a baker's name.

The policeman pointed to him. “Take him first!” said Creighton to his assistant. “Thomas Vane
alias
Vandyke
alias
Hartigan.”

Tommy Vane turned white as the heavy hand of a police constable fell on his shoulder. But it was only a momentary disturbance, and a moment later he smiled back with boyish joy as if the Inspector had made a joke.

“What am I charged with?”

“Possession and distribution of illegal drugs,” said the Inspector shortly.

“I'm glad it's no worse,” sighed Vane.

Creighton turned to the constable. “Keep a close eye on him, Murgatroyd. He's more dangerous than he looks. Now pinch all those pilots, everyone you can see in scarlet-and-yellow uniforms! Impound their aeroplanes. Get that man in the light flannel suit—it's Gauntlett himself. Pinch that bloke with the competitor's armlet and wearing an eyeshade. That's Captain Randall. He's down in the list too.”

The Inspector consulted his notebook and turned to Bray, who had stepped out of another van. “We don't want anyone else for the moment except Sally Sackbut, the secretary. She'll be fairly easy to take. In fact, I see her racing across the aerodrome towards us now. I've given the cordon outside instructions that if anyone tries to make a bolt they're to be pinched, whoever they are, and you do the same, Murgatroyd, if you see anyone bolting. There's Lady Crumbles coming. Take my advice, Murgatroyd, and pretend you're dumb. I'm going over to the Announcer's tent, but don't tell her so.” The Inspector hurried off.

Chapter XIX

Method of a Murder

“This is Inspector Creighton of the Thameshire Constabulary speaking,” boomed the loud-speakers.

There had been signs that a panic might develop in the crowds in the enclosure, who had watched the little bunch of men in blue seize a dozen people and bundle them into the waiting vans. Inspector Creighton now did his best to create an atmosphere of reassurance.

“It has been necessary in the course of our duties to arrest certain people at the aerodrome to-day. It is nothing to do with the display now in progress, which no doubt will continue according to programme. Meanwhile, you are asked not to leave your enclosures until the display is finished. Police are waiting at all the exits, and they will not be taken off duty until we are sure that all our arrests have been successfully effected.”

“But how can we get on with the programme when the flying manager has been arrested?” wailed Lady Crumbles, who had worn down Murgatroyd at last and extracted from him the whereabouts of the Inspector. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! Four of my Airies are in hysterics with fear, and the Control tent people say they are not going to take any responsibility for the display without the flying manager, and she's under arrest.”

“I am sorry, my lady,” said Inspector Creighton firmly, who was able to deal with Lady Crumbles as an official although helpless before her as a private individual. “I am sorry, but we have to do our duty. You must rely on the other club members to help you out.”

“What has happened? What are you arresting everybody for?”

“Drug smuggling,” said the Inspector briefly. “And probably murder as well.”

Lady Crumbles gave a little scream. “Good gracious me! Why
ever
did I allow them to associate me with this dreadful display. Drug smuggling! Why, even at this moment my Airies may be sniffing opium or whatever it is. That dreadful woman Sally Sackbut! I always mistrusted her.”

“I don't think you need worry about the children, my lady,” answered Creighton dryly. “They are hardly likely to be given any drugs unless they can afford to pay for them, which I think improbable. You would be helping us much more, if I may say so, if you would go outside and get some flying machines in the air to distract the public, otherwise they'll certainly be asking for their money back.”

“Asking for their money back?” echoed Lady Crumbles, horrified. “Something must be done about it at once. Sir Herbert, have you any suggestions? Could you give a turn?”

Sir Herbert coughed. “My flying days are over, Lady Crumbles. But I don't see why our women's race shouldn't go ahead. Mrs. Robbins is 'ere, and Greta Forsyte, and Miss Gilberte. We shall 'ave to do without Lady Laura and Mrs. Angevin, as I believe they left a little while ago.”

Inspector Creighton sighed as Lady Crumbles swept out. Then he left the Announcer's tent and walked towards the hangars. There was a room at the end of them formed by partitioning and provided with windows, and here Bray was already seated at a table checking off a list.

“We've got them all now,” Bray told him. “Most emphatic protestations of innocence on the part of the pilots. Quite convincing, some of them. Really remarkable display of innocence in one case. But every one of them, as I saw from the records before I put them in the list, has carried drugs at some time. Valentine Gauntlett is breathing fire and slaughter and invoking his uncle's name. Randall seems, if anything, rather amused. Some of the other chappies are still protesting their innocence to Murgatroyd.”

“Are you taking any statements here?” asked Creighton.

“There's no need to hurry about taking anything from these people who swear they're innocent. But that Vane fellow is worth having along here, I think. He's been saying some rather odd things.” Bray turned to Creighton's assistant: “I say, Murgatroyd, if Vane still says he wants to make a statement, bring him along, will you? The other two tenders can go away. Right!”

“It's a damned awkward time to have to make the arrests,” grumbled Creighton. “Lady Crumbles is furious. Fortunately the Lord-Lieutenant has left.”

“It couldn't be helped,” Bray pointed out. “It was essential the arrests should be as simultaneous as possible. Even as it is, Germany acted a little earlier than we did, and it might have caused awkwardness. I don't think it has, though, as we seem to have got all the important people.”

“All?” queried Creighton.

“All—except the Chief,” admitted Bray. “We're hoping the papers we impound will give us enough clues to find out who he is. I still have a sneaking feeling that this fellow Thomas Vane, or Vandyke…Oh, here he is!”

Tommy Vane had by now completely recovered the careless gaiety which was his habitual mood. He looked absurdly young, with his cropped hair and extravagant scarf. He sat down in a chair facing the two police inspectors.

“You wish to make a statement?” asked Bray formally, and warned him.

“I do,” answered Vane.

“First of all, what is your real name and nationality?”

“I am British, the product of one of our leading public schools,” answered Vane cheerfully. “Need I shame it by mentioning it? Poor but honest parents; or, rather, honest and hence poor parents. Army people. My name is Hartigan, later called ‘Spider' Hartigan, because of a little trick I did in the States, crawling up and down a thin rope attached to an aeroplane. As to my other names, Theodosius Vandyke is my idea of what a rich young American might be called, and Thomas Vane, as you will please notice, is rather an ingenious version of the same names—same initials, for instance. Oh, my real Christian names are Claude Jeremy. Rather awful, don't you think? I'd prefer you to call me Spider.”

Both policemen maintained a stolid expression on their faces. Tommy Vane shifted uneasily in his chair.

“I don't quite know how you got on our track,” he went on boldly. “You seem to have been very thorough.”

“Possibly more thorough than you think,” commented Bray, watching him closely. “At the same time as the arrest here took place, round-ups were also made in Germany, France, Belgium, and Holland.”

Vane shrugged his shoulders. “Well, of course, if one organization went
phut
the others were bound to follow. That was our weakness, as I always told the Chief.”

“Who is the Chief?” asked Bray quietly.

Vane smiled. “All in good time. Where was I? Oh yes. I often used to point out the weakness of our organization to the Chief. But he insisted that it was holeproof. Now perhaps you had better begin my statement. I, Claude Jeremy Hartigan, being of sound mind and body—or is that only in wills? Anyway, put in the usual stuff—I declare that during the last two years I have been engaged in the nefarious practice of dope-smuggling. Nefarious is good, don't you think, or is it too literary for a police statement?”

“Will you kindly stick to a plain narrative?” said Bray patiently.

“I beg your pardon.…Practice of dope-smuggling.…Under the Chief I was the main executive officer and contributed no small part to the final shape of the scheme. The main outlines, I admit, were the Chief's. In any case, the most important point was that the Chief's political and social acquaintances were such as to make very easy the obtaining, without suspicion, of the central nucleus of our organization in Paris. By giving the Chief and the Chief's friends as references, I was able to impose myself upon Maître Roget as an eccentric millionaire and persuade him to act as my purchasing agent in the acquisition of
La Gazette Quotidienne
. The capital for this was provided not by the Chief or myself—we were both distressingly and revoltingly poor—but by a manufacturer of white drugs in Bulgaria whose goods, in turn, we promised to use exclusively. There is honour among thieves and criminals, and we kept this bond faithfully. By the way, did your French friends arrest Roget?”

“They did,” answered Bray.

“That's too bad,” Vane shook his head mournfully. “I should have thought Roget's reputation would have secured him from suspicion. He acted in good faith throughout, and no one will be more surprised, I am sure, than that worthy notary when he is told that the charming Mr. Vandyke—I went to some trouble to be charming—is a criminal.” Tommy Vane smiled genially at the policemen. “The whole beauty of our scheme was the degree to which we used innocent people. It was safer and so much cheaper. It was, I believe, the main reason why we were never suspected for so long. I assure you that only five people connected with
La Gazette
dreamed that it was a centre for drug distribution. Those five people were Grandet and his four assistants, all men with criminal records, but so carefully segregated in their sub-department that no one was likely to come into contact with them. I trust you will be good enough to forward this part of my statement to the French police.”

“I think I will,” said Bray thoughtfully. “I seem to remember Durand saying something of the sort, although the evidence against Roget was pretty damning.”

“Good. Poor little Roget must be cleared. Well, I suppose there is no need to go into the mechanism of the distribution in detail—you probably know it already. Its essence was the suborning of the necessary number of air Customs officials in each country, and an arrangement whereby the day when those officials were on duty was signalled to head office. The real touch of genius in the scheme was, of course, the use of air transport, so that the drug was in the hands of the consumer before the end of the day on which it left the centre. I hope you appreciated the neatness of that idea, and also the efficiency with which it was worked out?”

“We do appreciate it,” commented Bray dryly.

“Ah, but you don't, not fully,” expostulated Vane. “You have made the obvious clumsy error of thinking that it was a vast organization of bribery and corruption. But it wasn't. The really delicious part of it was that the air taxi people themselves were absolutely unaware of the nature of the cargo they were carrying!”

Bray and Creighton looked at each other with mutual surprise. “What! Do you mean to assert,” asked Bray, “that Gauntlett's Air Taxis
weren't
a part of your organization?”

“Most certainly I do,” answered Vane in surprise. “Our procedure in each country was to put the newspaper air delivery out to tender among the various air taxi firms. The best tender won it. This disarmed suspicion, because it meant we employed a firm which was known by the Air Ministry and the police to be perfectly honest!”

“But the risk! It seems tremendous!” exclaimed Bray.

Vane shook his head. “Only a tenth of the risk that would result if all the pilots and van-drivers were aware of the nature of their cargo. The secret would be bound to leak out then among so many. Besides, the difficulty of getting enough dishonest pilots would be immense. And the cost of the organization, if it were a dummy one, would be an impossible tax on the scheme.”

“Yes,” admitted Bray. “That point had puzzled us.”

“There was no real risk. The drug was done up into bundles of newspapers, and each bundle was sealed. Would any pilot dream of opening them in the ordinary way? There was no danger that the cross-Channel pilot would clear Customs anywhere except at the aerodrome where our men were on duty, because he would know the other smaller aeroplanes were waiting there to distribute the papers to the provincial centres. The scheme was absolutely safe.
La Gazette
contracts were fought for eagerly by the air taxi firms of a dozen countries, and all that part of the organization was taken off our shoulders. We only had two responsibilities, apart from getting the dope into France. One responsibility was to arrange for safe Customs clearance at one regular aerodrome at more or less regular dates. This was the most expensive and difficult thing in the whole scheme and took us longest to arrange, and we never knew from one week to another when our two men would come upon the rota. The other responsibility was to provide a newsagent in each large town ready to act as a drug distribution centre. As Inspector Bray will appreciate, that is a fairly easy task. Provincial distributors, and lists of likely customers, can both be obtained in the world of white drug smuggling fairly cheaply. In our case they were kindly provided for us by our drug manufacturer without charge. So you see really the organization was much simpler than it seemed, and that was the main charm. Most of the work was done as a commercial proposition, by very respectable firms, experts in their line. All we had to do was to keep a general organizing eye on each national distribution.”

“And where did you come in?” asked Bray.

“I came to Baston to look after the English side: hence my appearance as a novice member of the club. As Vandyke I went to Croydon regularly, chartered an aeroplane and flew to the Chief's headquarters for our conferences. I may say I adopted this method to shake off any roving policemen who might choose to follow me.”

Bray flushed, but said nothing.

“There is no point in giving you the heads of the other countries,” went on Vane. “Doubtless you have already got them. If not, well, you must look for them elsewhere. As you will have gathered by now, I don't propose to incriminate anyone besides myself in this statement.”

“You persist that none of the pilots engaged in carrying the drugs was aware of it?” pressed Creighton.

“Most certainly,” answered Vane positively. “That is my main point in making this statement. Gauntlett, Randall, Miss Sackbut, Downton, Thorndike—none of them has or had the slightest knowledge of what he or she was doing.”

Creighton gave an unbelieving smile. “I am afraid that story is too tall to believe. If, as you say, the pilots knew nothing about it, and had not to be bribed, can you explain why Furnace, before his death, had to be paid additional sums beyond his ordinary salary amounting to more than a thousand pounds per annum? Moreover, how did he come to be in possession of a drug which he knew to be cocaine—knew because he had taken it to a public analyst?”