Death of an Airman (6 page)

“I intended to go down and break the news gently to her,” he said to Creighton. “It must have come as a shock to her when you blurted it out. What on earth did you want to rush down like that for?”

“Pure thoughtlessness, I'm afraid, my lord,” said Creighton innocently.

“Well, it's done now. What is the present position, if I may ask, Inspector?”

“Undoubtedly the three men, Ness, Vane, and Randall, were together until the body passed into Miss Sackbut's care. No one, I understand, approached it during that time, and she was subsequently relieved by you. I take it you noticed nothing suspicious before then yourself?”

“No; and he was certainly dead when I saw him, for I looked at him fairly closely.”

“Quite. Now here is the position,” said Creighton frankly. “We are faced with two very difficult problems. First, I am assured by the Air Ministry that either the crash was accidental or it was suicide. We must rule out the question of foul play. Since we have the letter to Lady Laura, we must, I think, incline to the suicide explanation.”

“Yes, that would be only logical. But it only makes the subsequent murder more unreasonable and more unpremeditated.”

“Exactly. Now we come to the murder. As far as my inquiries go, none of the three men was left alone with the body even for an instant. So that rules them out. But the whole of the intervening period until you came on the scene, my lord—and Furnace was then dead—is accounted for by Miss Sackbut having been with the body.”

“Look here,” said the Bishop, “you aren't surely suspecting that child of having anything to do with this dastardly business?”

“Of course not. Had I suspected her, I should naturally have warned her before questioning her, as required by regulations.” The Inspector looked indignant. “I am merely recounting the position. It is difficult, very difficult.” He sighed. “We must find a motive.”

Chapter VII

Admission of an Analyst

Thereupon the Inspector began his fruitful search for the motive which had caused some person or persons unknown to slay George Furnace with so little apparent provocation or necessity. Had the Inspector been a member of a French police organization, no doubt he would have started by making discreet enquiries about Furnace's lady friends and the friends of the lady friends. This did not occur to him as the first line of attack. Instead, he paid a visit to Furnace's bank manager, and took the dead man's ledger record home with him to study. This gave him ample material for reflection. He made a few notes on the back of an envelope and called in on Sally Sackbut.

“What was Furnace getting from the club as an instructor?” he asked her.

“Four hundred pounds a year and flying pay,” answered Sally, a trifle defiantly. “It's not much, I know, but since the subsidy was cut down it's been no easy job making the club pay. Though goodness knows I suppose we're lucky to get anything. In fact, if it weren't for that sweet old dear, Lord Anchorage, who gave us a Moth—”

The Inspector interrupted. “What would that amount to in all with flying pay?”

“About six hundred pounds on an average year.”

“Would he have earned anything from any other source?”

“Well, he used to do taxi-flying for Gauntlett when it didn't interfere with club flying. That was part of the arrangement. In fact, I used to help him out by doing the instructing myself when he'd had a fat taxi job offered him. It was the main reason why I got an instructor's endorsement on my B licence.”

“I see. Could you tell me how much his earnings there would amount to, in round figures, over a year?”

“Damned if I know. Might be anything. You'll have to pop across and ask Gauntlett.” She peered out of the window. “We'll go along now and see him. His car's outside, so he must be in the office. What do you want to know for?”

“A matter of form, miss,” answered the Inspector woodenly. “We have to ask these questions.”

They went across to a small tin shed painted in bright yellow. On it was written in scarlet lettering, “Gauntlett's Air Taxis”.

Miss Sackbut banged on the door and called imperiously, “Hi, Val!”

Valentine Gauntlett emerged. An impassive young man. He was slim but wiry, dressed in white overalls and carrying a white helmet of rather a foppish cut. He had bright expressionless blue eyes and an extremely decisive chin. He lived up to the Inspector's expectations of an airman, which were somewhat romantic, and, in fact, Gauntlett was a good pilot of the dashing amateur class, racing a good deal in machines that started from scratch and either won or blew their engines up. It was said that he was very rich and only went in for commercial aviation as a hobby. It was therefore all the more surprising that his taxi business had apparently been a financial success, for the fleet grew and the scarlet-and-yellow machines were seen at some time or other at every aerodrome.

“This is Inspector Creighton, the brightest jewel in our local constabulary,” said Miss Sackbut. “He's trying to stir up mud over George Furnace's death. He's asked me a question that you can answer best, I think. I'll leave you both, because I can see that rat Sammy trying to sneak off without clocking in on his flying time. So long, Inspector.”

Sally hurried off, and Gauntlett showed the Inspector into his private office, which was half of the hut, furnished with a luxury contrasting a little oddly with the ramshackle building.

“Have a cigarette?” asked Gauntlett, looking at him narrowly. “I'm curious to know how I could possibly tell you anything useful about George Furnace's death.”

“It's a small matter,” said the Inspector, “but you know we deal in small matters. How much did Furnace get from you in the way of remuneration in the course of a year?”

Gauntlett looked surprised. “Good lord, is that all you want to know? I thought at least you would ask me when I last saw the victim.” He pressed a bell. “Saunders,” he said to a clerk who answered it, “look up the outside pilots' salary list and see what we paid Furnace in flying pay and retainer during the last twelve months.”

Saunders returned with a pencilled slip and Gauntlett pushed it over to the Inspector. “There you are. Hardly worth murdering him for it, what? Anything else, Inspector?”

On the slip was written, “Retaining fee £50. Fees £189 15s.” The Inspector made a note of it.

“That's all I wanted from you at the moment. Glad to have met you, Mr. Gauntlett.”

On his way home the Inspector did a small sum on paper. £400
plus
£200
plus
£50
plus
£189 15s. made a total of £839 15s. Perhaps not a generous salary for a man of Furnace's age and skill, but less than that earned by most other pilots. The Inspector did not consider that. He was more struck by the fact that Furnace had banked during that year over £2000. Nearly £850 of this had been cheques from Baston Aero Proprietary or Gauntlett's Air Taxis. The remainder had been banked in the form of large, irregular amounts of cash. Policemen are by nature suspicious of large cash bankings.

The Inspector remembered that no near relatives had come forward at the inquest, and the administrator finally appointed to wind up the intestate estate had been an old fellow officer of Furnace's who had not seen him for two years. That suggested that Furnace was a lonely man, with no one bound to him by close ties. If not from relatives or friends, from whom then was this extra money coming? Not from investments, for then it would not have been in cash. It might have been a continuous realization of assets such as cars, furniture, and so forth, over a period, but in view of Furnace's previous history of poverty this seemed unlikely. But the £1150 not accounted for by salary must come from somewhere.

It was equally interesting to notice where the money was going to. Furnace had apparently had some difficulty in living on £850 a year, for red entries indicating an overdraft were frequent until the mysterious increment of cash had begun. Then there had been money saved, about fifteen hundred pounds of it, until shortly before his death this had been paid out by two large cheques to a person of the name of Parker. He skimmed through the ledger account again, and he noticed with a rising excitement that during the five years covered by the record cheques to this same Parker had appeared at regular intervals on the debit side.

“He was being blackmailed!” exclaimed Creighton. “I might have guessed it!”

***

Inspector Creighton paid a formal visit to the administrator appointed by the Court.

Major Harries lived in London and he was singularly unhelpful as to Furnace's personal affairs. Creighton had no reason for supposing he was concealing anything. Harries explained that although they had been very friendly during the war, they had gradually drifted into different spheres. All that had remained was a kindly feeling and occasional meetings devoted to reminiscences of their war-time days. There had been a few debts to pay and matters to clear up, and Harries had offered to take charge of them for old time's sake, mainly because Furnace had once mentioned that if he made a will he would appoint Harries executor. Harries had never heard of the name of Parker. However, he had all Furnace's private papers done up in parcels, and if the Inspector liked to take them away he might be able to turn up something himself.

Creighton did so. He was favourably impressed by Harries, who was a quiet, solid sort of man with likeable eyes. The Inspector did not think he was the kind to hush things up under a mistaken idea he was being loyal to his friend. It was obvious that Furnace had not confided in him to any extent.

The Inspector went through the papers, and to his pleasure he found a fairly recent bundle of Furnace's cheques and among them several made out to “L. S. Parker.” The Inspector looked at the endorsement.

“H'm, a woman's handwriting!”

He made a note of the bank whose stamp was on the cheques as bank of paying-in. It was the Bognor Regis branch of one of the big joint-stock banks. Evidently L. S. Parker had an account there, for all the cheques were stamped in the same way. If it was blackmail, not much attempt had been made to cover up the tracks. He dictated a letter to the bank and continued his search for evidence.

He came on nothing else which was of immediate value, but one thing intrigued him so much that he decided to follow it up. It was a letter in a large envelope, marked “Private,” whose contents consisted almost entirely of family papers—Furnace's birth certificate, death certificates of his father and mother, his R.F.C. commission, and the like. Its presence in this collection gave it its main interest, for the letter itself was ordinary enough. It was from a firm of analytical chemists at Market Garringham, Baston's larger neighbour, and it read as follows:

Dear Sir,

We have now completed our analysis of the substance you left with us on the fifteenth instant. In the circumstances, we think it better if you would be so good as to call in and see our secretary when you are next in Market Garringham. He will be able to give you the results of the analysis, and there are certain points he wishes to raise which can best be discussed verbally.

Yours faithfully,
Swinton and Jackson.

“Now what exactly lies behind this letter?” reflected the Inspector.

***

The manager of the bank readily gave him Mrs. Parker's address—3, The Way, Bognor Regis—and the Inspector found himself knocking at the door of a dismal grey-stuccoed house whose dejected air proclaimed “Apartments” even without the evidence of the card hung slightly askew in one of the windows.

The Inspector had prepared himself in his mind's eye for various possibilities, but when the authentic Mrs. Parker stood before him he was surprised. She was about thirty-five, with one of those perfectly vacant faces which generally only result from living in the country alone for years on end. She was dressed in a slovenly way, but had obviously been pretty once, with that blonde, ruddy-cheeked prettiness which tends to get a little blowsy with the passage of time, particularly if, as seemed to be the case here, the owner of it becomes bored with its upkeep. The only thing that confirmed the Inspector's suspicion was that the woman was obviously frightened of him.

She dropped into a chair. “What do you want, please?” she asked, nervously clasping her hands.

“I come from Baston, in Thameshire, and I want to question you about certain matters arising from the death of George Furnace.”

“Oh dear!” said Mrs. Parker forlornly. “I knew it would come out!”

“Come out! What would?” asked the Inspector, a little surprised by her lack of caution.

“That I am—that is to say—that I was—his wife!” answered Mrs. Parker.

The Inspector performed a mental gymnastic. Perhaps it wasn't blackmail after all, then. In fact, if she was his wife it couldn't be, since it is legally impossible for a wife to blackmail a husband.

“You knew he was dead?” asked the Inspector.

Mrs. Parker nodded. “I saw it in the paper.”

“Then why didn't you get in touch with someone? You were his nearest relative.”

“Well, it's like this,” said Mrs. Parker, with a suspicion of a whine in her voice. “We'd been separated so long. During the war he married me, when he was staying on my mother's farm to get over his wound. He was a bit above me, I suppose; I didn't hit it off with his friends, I admit. It might have been different if there'd been a child, but there wasn't, and we used to quarrel. I'm not a saint myself, and I reckon it was six of one and half a dozen of the other. Be that as it may, we agreed to separate seven years ago; and I'll say this, he sent me money as regular as clockwork. I settled down here and went back to my maiden name, except I put a Mrs. before it, in case it ever came out accidental that I had had a husband.

“Well, about six months ago my lord wrote to me begging me to fix up a divorce. I wrote back I was willing enough, for I guessed what was in the wind—another woman I suppose, and I don't blame him. But look here, I said, before you take on more responsibilities, you fix me up properly. He wrote back quite pleasantly, and the upshot of it was he sent me fifteen hundred to buy this boarding-house and furnish it, and so forth, and I promised that I shouldn't ask for anything from him when we were divorced, but I'd slip out of his life altogether. Well, almost before I could call on the solicitors here I read about his death. It gave me a turn, and I was thankful he'd sent me the money. Seeing that he'd asked me to slip out of his life I just kept quiet. Then when the maid said, ‘Inspector Creighton,' I knew it had all come out.”

After a little cross-examination Inspector Creighton accepted her story. He made the mental reservation, however, that so far from her silence being due to fine feeling, it was due to a fear that she might have to restore the fifteen hundred pounds that had been sent to her. This emerged from her frequent hints, and the Inspector was able to reassure her that she had every right to retain the money. After this she became cordial, and recollected that she had some drink in the house.

The Inspector went back to Baston sorrowing. Undoubtedly he'd been barking up the wrong tree.

It was therefore in a melancholy frame of mind that he called on Messrs. Swinton and Jackson. The secretary was a fussy little person in whom the sight of the Inspector's card and the mention of Furnace's name produced a nervous spasm. He stared at the Inspector like a frightened rabbit.

“Dear, dear!” he panicked. “I told the chairman that we ought to have mentioned that business to the police.”

“Indeed!” The Inspector removed his pince-nez and methodically polished them, the while he fixed the secretary with a cold eye. “Indeed, Mr. Thompson. Then perhaps you will now explain this letter, which I imagine has something to do with the business you mention, whatever that may be.”