THE rain swept with summer violence down the Cannebière, giving it for the time a likeness to some English provincial town. Or so Paul thought, as with his Burberry buttoned up to his chin he hurried Adelaide across from the car to the door of the coiffeur’s. Inside it was warm and dry, full of the smell of scented soapsuds and singed hair. Adelaide peered through the plate-glass doors as she slipped off her mackintosh, and grimaced at the wet streets.
“You won’t know me at lunch time,” she laughed at Paul. “I intend having a positive orgy in here all the morning and shall emerge with every nail gleaming and every hair in place. C’est entendu then—I meet you both at the Café Bristol for apéritifs at half-past twelve—and we’ll go and wallow in bouillabaisse at Pascal’s afterwards.”
He said good-bye and left her reluctantly in the hands of an obsequious gentleman with permanently waved hair, but felt glad as he crossed over to the waiting car that she was to spend the morning in so scented and civilized an oasis.
Benvenuto looked at him critically as he got into the car.
“I was wondering which of us most nearly resembles a merchant prince,” he said. “I rather feel I do.” He looked into the driving mirror and carefully placed a bowler hat over his plastered head. “How’s that?”
“Charming,” replied Paul, regarding him in some astonishment. “But may I ask—”
“Got a card on you?” interrupted Benvenuto.
Extracting one from his case, he handed it to him, and watched him take out a fountain pen and add to the name of the club it already bore, “Directeur du Commerce Civil Aëronautique d’Angleterre.”
Regarding it with some satisfaction, Benvenuto said, “Most impressive. And I think for the time being, with your permission, the card is my own. You, of course, are Our Mr. Brown, and we represent an English firm desirous of arranging an air route between London, Paris, Marseille, and Nice with a view to supplying the Riviera with salmon, pheasants etc., and taking back flowers and fruit. We may require a hangar at Marseille and so, of course, wish to inspect the accommodations available.”
Paul laughed. “I don’t feel it has the makings of a commercial success,” he said, “but it certainly ought to get us round the aërodrome.”
They drove through the town, and leaving the outskirts behind them came presently to a big flying ground on which stood numerous sheds and hangars. Benvenuto drove through the gates and up to the manager’s office, leaving Paul in the car while he went in. The rain had subsided somewhat, and he got down and looked about him with interest. Through the open door of a hangar he could see mechanics at work on a machine, cleaning and polishing the gleaming metal, while in the distance across the muddy landing fields a big liner was taking off, the roar of its engine filling the air. Paul watched it bumping across the ground, the figures of the mechanics small and insignificant beside it, saw it rise into the air while its engine roared louder still, and then sail away in what seemed a curiously effortless flight over the distant trees and buildings, and gradually disappear into the grey clouds. He turned, to see Benvenuto and someone who was obviously the manager descending the steps of the office. Benvenuto’s personality combined with the card had worked wonders, and the man was being very polite and talking volubly. Paul was introduced as the secretary, and they started on a tour of the ground. Along one side was a row of small hangars which the manager explained were hired out to private owners, some of whom had their own mechanics, some employing those attached to the aërodrome staff. Several of them were open, with mechanics at work inside, and Benvenuto regarded them with interest. He lingered outside one shed to admire a very smart plane of the latest type, on which a man was working.
“Ah, yes,” said the manager. “It belongs to a Spanish monsieur, très riche, très sport, who has a house near Barcelona where he flies on visits to Madame his mother.”
They passed on, inspecting a hangar which was free and ready for occupation, and Benvenuto took elaborate notes in his notebook. The manager was politely enthusiastic about their commercial enterprise, and gave them all necessary details. Promising to let him know if the scheme matured, they shook hands and left him, got into the car and drove away.
Presently Benvenuto turned up a side road and circled round to the back of the flying ground. At a little distance over a field they could see the fence encircling it, and beyond, the backs of the row of small private hangars. He drew up to the roadside, stopped the engine, and took out his cigarette case.
“Five to twelve,” he said. “In five minutes exactly the mechanics will go to lunch, if I know anything about the French—and there is our chance to do a bit of investigation. The hangar with the monoplane in it is the third from this end, and I feel pretty well convinced it’s De Najera’s. If we can get inside we may be able to make certain, and also find out a few details about tank capacity, etc. Damn the rain!—it’s worse than ever. I hope to God it won’t keep those mechanics in the sheds.”
A few moments later a hooter blew, and they could hear the sound of heavy doors being pulled to and locked. They got out of the car, and standing on the step could see some men running over the landing ground in the rain toward the entrance gate. Benvenuto replaced his bowler with a béret and they started across the muddy field. When they reached the fence and looked through there wasn’t a soul about, and they scrambled over, and walked along to the third hangar, keeping a sharp look-out. Each hangar had a small door at the back, and after making sure there was no sound from inside, Benvenuto brought out a bunch of keys from his pocket and inserted one after another in the lock.
“I don’t want to break the lock if I can help it,” he said. “It would attract too much attention to our visit. I’m afraid these are all too small. Got any keys on you?”
“I don’t think so,” said Paul. “Here’s the key of my room in the hotel—try that.” This proved to be far too large, but after groping about he found another in the pocket of his mackintosh, which he handed to Benvenuto, who was so long fiddling about at the lock that Paul began to think they would have to break in. At last, however, the door gave and they stepped inside. Benvenuto slipped the keys into his pocket and cursed the rain as the water ran off their clothes.
“I hope to God this will dry up before the chap comes back from his lunch,” he said. “We’re flooding the place out. It’s bad luck because it’s not the sort of contingency one reckons with out here. Most unusual at this time of year. Was it wet when you left England?”
Paul nodded. “Rained like fury the night before I left, and probably hasn’t stopped yet. I say, what a beauty!”
The monoplane in front of them lay impressive, shining, and competent. Benvenuto took it in from propeller to skid with an expert eye, climbed into the cabin, and then, looking down at Paul, said, “Note down a few readings while I sing them out, will you?
“Cabin monoplane, L’Hirondelle. Six months old. High lift wing. Horsepower, on a rough calculation from the French, 375. Got that? Two seats, pilot and mechanic. Aerial charts have been removed. That’s food for thought. Mileage, roughly, 11,000. Can you beat it? Tanks. Here we are. Service tank, capacity 100 gallons, down to twenty according to the gauge. Reserve tank No. 1, same capacity, full. Reserve tank No. 2, same capacity, full. Reserve tanks 3 and 4, same capacity, empty. Most curious.”
He descended abruptly and seized Paul’s notebook and pencil.
“Now, the total gasoline capacity of this plane is 500 gallons, and the fuel consumption half a pint an hour for each horsepower of the engine. Any schoolboy, therefore, will tell you that it is capable of twenty hours’ flying without descending or refuelling, taking it that he’d use twenty-five gallons an hour. Actually he’d not use quite so much. But twenty hours, mark you! Fly to London? He could fly to New York.”
He stamped his foot irritably. “To the devil with these calculations. We can work them out later.” He turned to examine the hangar. A long bench with a row of tools above it; spare landing wheels slung to the roof; empty cans; and many complicated garnishings of modern flight. In a corner a couple of leather coats hung on nails caught his eye, and he promptly examined every pocket.
“Nothing.”
He turned away but as he did so his sleeve caught in a button of one of the coats, and it slid to the ground, disclosing a pile of papers carelessly stuck on a nail in the wall.
“Gasoline receipts. Good. Stick ’em in your pocket, Paul. No, wait a minute. Last Tuesday—a hundred gallons.” He had flicked off the top sheet and was examining it closely.
“A hundred gallons, Paul, on that day. We’re getting on.”
But he did not seem to Paul, who was getting nervous about the return of the mechanic, to be getting on. He stood still, looked at the ground, gave a deep sigh, and filled his pipe. Suddenly he roused himself, and murmuring, “All is vanity,” took Paul’s arm and they walked towards the door.
At the door Benvenuto stopped, still grasping his companion’s arm, and stared at him. Paul felt slightly embarrassed, and was about to suggest moving on when Benvenuto turned and walked back to the plane, saying, “Those reserve tanks, you know . . .”
He carefully unlaced the canvas covering of the fuselage behind the pilot’s seat and, bringing out an electric torch from his pocket, examined the tank tops with minute care. The cap of each one of the four reserve tanks had a bar across it fastened with a small but strong steel padlock and chain, making it impossible, short of forcing the locks, to unscrew the caps. Paul, watching with interest, was told to fetch a spanner from the bench.
“No time for scruples,” said Benvenuto, and taking the tool he got a leverage on the chain of tank No. 4, snapped it, and removed the round brass cap.
He looked quizzically at Paul. “The fate of a certain gentleman of our acquaintance depends on the brand of gasoline,” he remarked, and bending over the aperture he lowered his rather large nose into it and sniffed. There was a pause while he hung suspended over the tank and then he turned with a seraphic smile on his face.
“Smell it—I beg you’ll just smell it,” he murmured.
Paul smelt. Certainly it was not in the least like gasoline. A sweet, rather stimulating smell came from the tank.
“It’s cough mixture—or—no, toothpaste,” he said turning in perplexity to his companion.
Benvenuto laughed. “La sorcière glauque!” he said exultantly. “Never tasted absinthe, Paul? It’s forbidden in France—sent too many people mad—and, smuggled over from Spain in concentrated form very simply by our friend De Najera, it must be a paying commodity. Very paying indeed, I should say, judging by the price it fetches in the more dubious dives of Paris. Really, I admire the man.”
“But,” expostulated Paul, “he’s a wealthy chap. Why—”
“So would you be if you were a successful absinthe and dope smuggler,” returned Benvenuto shortly. “Let’s get to hell out of here—I don’t want to be shot up by his mechanic.”
They hurriedly left the hangar; Benvenuto, Paul noticed, didn’t trouble to relace the fuselage or even close the door, and when he asked him why, replied, “The game was up for De Najera when I broke the chain on the tank. Sure to be noticed. Why trouble to hide anything now?”
He relapsed into a gloomy silence.
As the car shot back down the Marseille road Paul thought to himself that this fresh evidence of De Najera’s criminal activities would be valuable to them when he was arrested for murder. What was even better, they had proved beyond a doubt that he could have reached London, killed his sister, and returned to St. Antoine well within the period of his alibi.