A Case of Suicide in St. James's Page 14

  ‘Unlike the Nugent Nuthatch. I suppose Westray will benefit from that?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Penbrigg. ‘It was rather unfortunate for them. I wonder what went wrong.’

  ‘Lord Browncliffe seems to think it was sabotage. He even went so far as to accuse Westray of tampering with the Nugent machine.’

  ‘That’s rot, of course!’ said Penbrigg indignantly. ‘One of their lot made a mistake, that’s all, and they tried to save face by accusing us of foul play. It’s jolly bad form.’

  ‘Then you don’t believe in the sabotage theory? According to Lord Browncliffe one of the fuel lines was cut.’

  ‘If it was, it was nothing to do with Westray. If you ask me, something wasn’t fastened tightly enough, and it worked loose.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. But whatever the cause, presumably it’s scuppered the Nuthatch’s chances of selling.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Penbrigg. ‘The Nuthatch is a good machine, and there’s another air show at the end of the month down in Shoreham. Perhaps it will do better this time.’

  ‘I take it the Ocelot will be there too. Incidentally, what will happen if you don’t get any orders for your plane?’

  ‘Then it won’t get made,’ said Penbrigg simply.

  ‘It’s a pity from your point of view that there won’t be a partnership between Westray and Nugent now. If Tatty hadn’t thrown Douglas over for Tom Chetwynd then the two companies might have joined forces and perhaps there would have been a promotion in it for you.’

  Penbrigg shrugged philosophically.

  ‘There’s no use in chewing on these things. Nugent put a lot of money into development, right enough, but there’s no saying whether they’d have wanted me. I might have found myself back in a junior position. No, I’m happy enough here.’

  He led Freddy out of the building and into a walled yard overgrown with weeds, at the end of which was a large hut of recent construction. He unlocked the door and they went in. This was Penbrigg’s workshop, although at first glance it looked more like a junk-room, such was its untidiness. It was darker than the aeroplane workshops, having smaller windows, and Penbrigg switched on an overhead light as they entered, which showed the mess in all its glory. Freddy gazed around him curiously. A long bench stood in the centre of the room, on which were scattered dozens of engine parts and half-built bits of machinery. A single propeller blade was leaning against one wall, and a couple of sections from an aeroplane wing stood against another. The floor was carpeted in wood and metal shavings. Freddy picked his way among the detritus.

  ‘You ought to have this place swept,’ he said.

  Penbrigg had picked up a piece of paper on which was sketched a rough plan, and was examining it.

  ‘I don’t let anyone in here normally,’ he said vaguely. ‘After someone threw away half the parts of a new type of radial I issued strict instructions that nothing was to be touched.’

  He seemed less self-effacing, more at home here. This was Penbrigg’s domain, and he was the master of it. He crossed the room and went through a second door, which led into a little office, and came out carrying some more plans, which he spread out on the bench. Freddy went to look at the wing sections.

  ‘Are you still working on wing slots?’ he said.

  Penbrigg looked up from his plans.

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s always more to be learned, and I’m almost certain the design can be improved further. I should like to develop a slot that allows a critical angle of attack of above twenty-five degrees.’ He saw Freddy’s look of polite incomprehension, and explained: ‘It means the aeroplanes of the future will be able to fly at very low speeds and still remain in the air.’

  ‘I see.’ Freddy turned to the workbench and saw a vice, which was clamped round a half-formed cylinder of metal, in which a number of holes had been drilled. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘An engine muffler,’ said Penbrigg. ‘That’s an early version. I have a new one that’s fully functional now, but that’s locked away until we can get it patented.’

  Freddy supposed he had learned his lesson from the disaster of the wing slot patent, and did not wish to leave anything to chance. He cast his eye across the bench and picked up a small device with a small, hook-like protuberance at one end, on which was stamped the name ‘Westray’ in tiny letters. ‘Sparking plug?’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. It’s quite an ordinary one, but with a new design of electrode. The first few we made had a flaw in the metal, and the electrode kept snapping off, but I think we’ve got it right now.’ He took the plug and regarded it critically, then laid it to one side. ‘So, how can I help you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’m still looking into this affair of poor old Douglas, and whether it really was suicide,’ said Freddy.

  Penbrigg looked surprised.

  ‘You don’t think he killed himself?’

  ‘Well I can’t prove anything to the contrary, and to be perfectly honest I was coming to the conclusion that it was all a mare’s nest—that is, until somebody tried to run me over deliberately.’

  ‘Not really? Run you over? How?’

  Freddy related the events of Saturday night and indicated the scrape on his left cheek.

  ‘So that’s where you got it,’ said Penbrigg. ‘I assumed you’d been fighting.’

  Freddy suppressed an exasperated sigh.

  ‘No, it wasn’t a fight—unless you call being smacked in the face by Fleet Street fighting. Anyway, as you can imagine, I take exception to having cars driven at me, and I’d rather like to know who did it and why.’

  ‘But what makes you think it had anything to do with Douglas’s death? Don’t you reporter fellows always have criminals out for your blood?’

  ‘Not as a rule. No, I’m almost sure someone heard me asking around and decided to put me out of the way—a mistake on his part, as all he’s done is to make me even more curious than I was before.’

  ‘Yes, I can see why. Very well, what do you want of me?’

  ‘I’d like to see Douglas’s office, if I may, and you’re the only person who can show it to me apart from Sir Stanley, but I didn’t want to agitate him.’

  ‘He’s away in Cowes with Alida and Lady Westray until Thursday, anyway,’ said Penbrigg. ‘Why do you want to see Douglas’s office?’

  ‘I gather someone broke into his drawer after his death, and I’d like to take a look. I don’t suppose it will help much, but one must explore all avenues.’

  ‘I suppose so. All right, I’ll take you in there. It’s in the main building.’

  They left the workshop and Penbrigg locked it carefully, then led Freddy into the factory and up some stairs to the first floor, to the room which had been Douglas Westray’s office. It was much plainer than Freddy had expected; in fact, there was not much to it at all—just a desk, a chair and one or two cupboards. Under the window stood a drawing-board, on which some blueprints were laid out.

  ‘Not exactly luxurious, is it?’ said Freddy.

  ‘I don’t think Douglas was especially interested in that sort of thing,’ said Penbrigg.

  Freddy went across to the desk, which was plain, like the rest of the room, and had only two drawers, of which the top one had been forced open. Inside were a few pencils, a pair of scissors and some bits of paper. Freddy flicked through the papers.

  ‘Nothing of interest,’ he said. ‘When did the break-in happen, exactly?’

  ‘Nobody’s quite sure. Douglas didn’t come into the factory that week, so it might have happened at any time—a few days before he died, even.’

  ‘And no-one knows what was taken, if anything?’

  Penbrigg shook his head.

  Freddy gave it up. He did not know what he had been hoping to find, but whatever it was, it was certainly not here. He thanked Penbrigg and prepared to leave.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Any further forward with Alida?’

  Penbrigg flushed.

  ‘N—no,’ he said.<
br />
  ‘I’d just ask her if I were you, old chap, before someone else comes in and swipes her from under your nose. Time and women wait for no man.’

  ‘She wouldn’t look at me. I can’t ask her anything until I’ve made a name for myself. She’ll say no.’

  ‘Not if she likes you. Oh well, I suppose you know best. And now I’d better get back to the office. Cheerio!’

  He started off towards the stairs, leaving Leslie Penbrigg staring after him.

  That evening Gertie telephoned Freddy, bursting to tell him about her adventure of that day. Freddy listened, preparing to be exasperated, but then grew interested as she told him of the office in Aldgate and the conversation she had overheard.

  ‘So he is up to something!’ he exclaimed. ‘And whatever it is, he’s being well paid for it. Who was the other man? Did you see him at all?’

  ‘No. I had to hide quickly when they came out, and didn’t get a chance to look at him. He spoke English but he was certainly foreign.’

  ‘Did you recognize the accent?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t one I’ve heard before—not French or German, or anything like that. And he had a gun! I heard him threatening Dauncey with it.’

  ‘My word!’ said Freddy. ‘Dauncey taking money from mysterious foreigners in exchange for his honour. I wonder what he’s doing. This could be a huge story, if only I can find out what he’s been up to.’

  ‘Well, you’d better hurry,’ said Gertie. ‘Your pal Corky is on his trail too.’

  ‘Corky? How do you know?’

  ‘Because he followed me and Captain Dauncey all the way to Aldgate and hid behind a curtain watching me while I was listening at the door.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He gave me the most awful fright. I don’t know how he got there without my spotting him.’

  ‘I imagine he slithered up through the sewers. He’s had plenty of practice.’

  ‘Would you believe they’ve got a book running at the Herald as to who I’ll get engaged to next?’ she said in disgust.

  ‘Surely not!’ said Freddy, doing his best to sound shocked, although in truth a similar scheme was in place at the Clarion. ‘Who’s favourite, by the way?’ he could not help asking casually.

  ‘Bill Delamere, if you’ll believe it!’

  ‘Delamere? Interesting. Why do they think that? Anything happening there?’ said Freddy, poised to take a note and recalculating odds in his head.

  ‘No! And why are you so interested, anyway? Listen, forget that, we need to find out what Dauncey is doing.’

  ‘What did you say was the name of the man the foreigner mentioned?’

  ‘Let me think. What was it, now? Something to do with fish.’

  ‘Mr. Rodd? Mr. Guppy? Mr. Haddock? Mr. Trout?’

  ‘No, silly. Something foreign.’ She thought. ‘Salmanov! That was it!’

  ‘And what exactly did the other man say about him?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. Dauncey just said he didn’t want to do whatever it was any more, and the foreign man said, “We shall see what Mr. Salmanov says.” Then Dauncey went into a miff.’

  ‘And what was the name of the company?’

  ‘Stamboul International Export Co.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it. I shall have to see what I can find out.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Gertie. ‘And in the meantime, what shall I do? I’ve a taste for investigation now, and I feel we’re hot on the scent.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much else you can do about Dauncey for the moment. If there are chaps waving guns about then you’re better off staying out of it.’

  ‘But I want to do something. Are you going to the Chetwynds’ garden-party on Saturday?’

  ‘I don’t remember whether I’ve had an invitation, but if I haven’t I shall crash the place in my capacity as press.’

  ‘Good. We can do some more investigating there. I’m almost sure we’re just about to discover something really important.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Freddy.

  The next day, Freddy left the Clarion’s offices at lunch-time and went to a stately-looking building on Gresham Street, where his father was normally to be found on weekdays. Herbert Pilkington-Soames was large and bald with a red face and a moustache, and was as unlike Freddy as it was possible to be. Although he was very fond of his wife and son, he much preferred a quiet life—something which was not to be had when in their company—and so he took every opportunity to escape to the City, where he passed his days reasonably peacefully as chairman of a large banking institution. When Freddy announced himself unexpectedly in the lobby of the building, a functionary gave him a glance of alarm and telephoned up to ask if Mr. Pilkington-Soames might be available to see his son. After some little delay, Freddy was told he might go up. When he went into his father’s office he found Herbert sitting behind his desk, dictating a letter collectedly to a cool young woman with very fair hair. She excused herself as soon as Freddy arrived, but Herbert’s eyes lingered on her as she left.

  ‘Hallo, Freddy, what are you doing here?’ he said jovially. ‘Oughtn’t you to be at work, rooting out scandals?’

  ‘I am—in a manner of speaking, at least. I want to ask you a question.’

  ‘What?’ said Herbert. An expression of panic passed briefly across his face.

  ‘It’s about a chap called Salmanov.’

  ‘Oh.’ Herbert’s face cleared. ‘Salmanov, yes. I’ve heard of the fellow. What do you want to know?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s go for lunch, and we can talk about it then.’

  Freddy needed no persuading, and they went to a place his father frequented regularly.

  ‘So, what do you know about this man Salmanov?’ prompted Freddy, once they had been seated in a comfortable corner.

  ‘That depends on whether it’s the same fellow,’ said Herbert. ‘I assume we’re talking about Anatoli Salmanov.’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. Who is Anatoli Salmanov?’

  ‘He’s a well-known figure in the world of international munitions and engineering. He’s what they call a “fixer”, and he’s behind some of the biggest procurement agreements of recent times between governments, but he’s not above sabotaging the competition in order to win a sale, and his name has been linked to a number of scandals, including the collapse of a huge copper mining company in the Dutch East Indies a few years ago.’

  ‘Not the Celebes scandal?’ said Freddy in surprise. ‘Is that the same chap? The one who’s always mentioned in hushed terms on the foreign news pages? I remember the copper mine affair—he sold it to a Dutch company after producing fraudulent evidence that there was plenty of ore left, but after the deeds had been signed it was discovered that the thing had been completely worked out. And then he was mixed up in some sabotage story in Spain—something to do with a new gunboat, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s the fellow,’ agreed Herbert. ‘Of course, he denies absolutely having had anything to do with any of these things, and claims that he merely acted as agent in both cases. But there’s no smoke without fire, as they say, and there are several other instances I could name but won’t, in which underhanded dealing has been suspected in connection with his name—mostly to do with the sale of faulty parts. So, what’s the story? Anything I ought to know about?’

  ‘I’m not sure. What’s he doing now?’

  ‘He went to earth for a while after the Spanish fiasco, but I rather think he’s working for one of Rawson Welbeck’s subsidiaries in Turkey or Greece, or somewhere like that.’

  ‘Rawson Welbeck? That’s interesting,’ said Freddy thoughtfully. Rawson Welbeck was an international conglomerate, much bigger than Westray Enterprises and Nugent Corporation, with interests in many countries. It was known for its ruthless business dealings, and had on many occasions been caught up in lawsuits with other companies, so it was hardly surprising to learn that such a man as Salmanov was working for them now. Rawson Welbeck had exhibited two of its own fighter p
lanes at the air show alongside the Nugent Nuthatch and the Westray Ocelot, and stood to benefit from the bad performance of the Nuthatch at the air display in the form of possible government contracts. If Captain Dauncey was taking money from Anatoli Salmanov, then it was almost certain that he had been acting to the disadvantage of Nugent Corporation. Had he, then, sabotaged the Nugent Nuthatch himself? What a risk he had taken, if that were so! Freddy could hardly believe it. Why, Dauncey might easily have died had he not managed to maintain control of the aircraft, and might easily have killed many other people in addition to himself. It was a testament to his expertise as a pilot that he had succeeded in landing it safely. It was starting to look as though Corky had been right, and that Captain Dauncey was not the man the nation believed him to be. But what, if anything, was the connection with Douglas Westray? Freddy felt he was close to finding out, but could not help thinking that a vital piece of the puzzle was still missing—and until he found that, the mystery would remain unsolved.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Chetwynds’ summer garden party had, in recent times, become quite a fixture in the social calendar. The first one had been held some five years ago, and had proved such a success that there had seemed no reason not to repeat it. So it was that on a convenient Saturday every August, the great and the good—and many others who could be classified as neither—flocked to River View Hall just outside Henley to enjoy the generous hospitality of Sir Thomas and Lady Bryce Chetwynd, eat their food, and drink their wine. As its name suggested, the house was set atop a gentle rise, from where its large lawns sloped down to the Thames at a point where the river curved in a particularly picturesque manner. The morning had threatened rain, but the danger had passed, and now the sky was blue and serene, with barely a wisp of cloud to be seen. When Freddy arrived he found the festivities in full swing, with at least a hundred people scattered around the lawn in groups, drinking champagne, talking and laughing. Freddy looked about him and soon spotted Lord and Lady Browncliffe talking to Alida Westray. Gertie was in attendance with her parents, the Earl and Countess of Strathmerrick, and was wearing her most innocent expression as she talked to Sir Thomas.