“VAMPIRE OF THE SKIES”

Manawatu Times, Volume 60, Issue 166, 17 July 1935, Page 7

“VAMPIRE OF THE SKIES”

(By JAMES CORBETT)

Instalment 5.

apology. M. Cambon must retract. He would show this insolent Frenchman that P.C. Gutteridge, X 4371, of Cottingdalc Constabulary, leading witness for the Crown, would not be treated in this manner. “What the devil do you mean?” lie blamed in righteous anger. “If you sav another word, I will put you under immediate arrest. You may be a friend of Mr Dacre, but you are no friend of mine. I belong to the Cottingdale Constabulary, and I know my duty td England. I have the use of my'eyes, my fine fellow, and I- have provided fifteen newspaper reporters with copy. Yes, fifteen of them, one after the other, and they all say. t acted with outstanding ability. . Idiot indeed 1 1 want your apology, sir, and I want it quick!” M. Cambon fidgeted with his watchchain. He realised that Dacrc was being interrupted In his task, that he was frowning heavily, so he pulled Gutteridge Into the deserted kitchen. There he continued the harangue. “Look here, you fool,” he said in a truculent voice—a ■ voice he often used at the Surete, “if you keep to that story of the airplane, and the mad pilot who chucked the girl out of the cockpit, you are going lo become the laughing-stock of England. Do vou realise what that means?” P.C. Gutteridge pushed his massive stomach to the front. He made a frantic endeavour to look dignified. His face went purple with cholerio rage. His hands trembled in a righteous passion. He felt sure there was going to be a second murder. He wanted to choke this Frenchman, to press his windpipe hard. Never had lie heard such. insolence, such unpardonnble cheek. Who the blazes was the fellow? And why had he come along with Mr Dacre? “Say, who are you?” he roared. “Or who do you think you are? Perhaps that’s more important.” “It is!” the French expert confided. “And if you want an aswer to that question. Gutteridge, I am Paul Gambon, of the French Surete, and Dacrc there will confirm it. Now you realise what a blithering idiot you are!” Yes, M. Cambon had a perfect grasp of the English language. There was not the

faintest doubt about it. P.C. Gutteridge swallowed hard. Yes, he had heard of the famous M. Cambon. He had read about him in the Police Gazette, but he did not know him from Adam. So this explained things? This was why he had accompanied Mr Dacre? Ah, the fellow must he speaking the truth. Perhaps he had better omit the apology. “A blithering idiot?” he repeated. “How do you make that out? I saw :he airplane. It buzzed round me seventeen times. It nearly made me tick, and then I saw what happened. The pilot pushed the girl from his nachine, and her body fell towards ihe earth, landing on top of that hay•ick. That’s evidence, sir. Ileal evilence!” P.C. Gutteridge was in a :omplex stale. He was both digified md hurt. This was no way to treat a >own witness. M. Cambon broke into a grin. “My priceless fool,” he said, “you nave only made matters worse. You say you saw an airplane, that it buzteii round you seventeen times, that if. made you sick. It made you queer ii your head. It made you see filings. Your imagination got to work —because you were devilish sick —and you thought you saw that body fall from the machine. Y'ou fancied cou saw it land on top of the hayrick. Out that was all moonshine. Y'ou night as well have imagined you saw ;he airplane land on the hayrick. Now et me tell you something that lias not iccurred to you. Perhaps there was i. murdered body on the hayrick. I hat ,s whv vou are lucky with your eoc.k-ind-bulf story. Gutteridge, I advise i (‘rtH ellmimr \filiv Cirtll

j-ou to go in for sliming, i our ftn in won’t stand the strain of your terrific imagination!’’ p.C. Gutteridpe could have said a tot. But he knew M. Gambon was an mportant individual —one of iiic elect, like nacre—and it would never do to offend him. It would he had taste if ne said what, lie thought of all Frenchmen. No, he had hotter keep Ms mouth shut. Wait until the ease was tried in Court! When it. came before the Judge of the Assize, when he. nutteridge, was a Crown witness, then M. Cambon would look foolish. “So von think it was imagination!” he jeered. "You think T ought to he put a wav Monsieur Gambon, that. I ,m a fit' applicant for a lunatic, nsylum ? In your eyes, I am nollnng but a priceless fool, eh? Well, if that is so I am not the only fool in Cottingiair The Chief Constable has believed my story. He has never doubled me for an instant.” “Then the Chief Constable is in the same category,” was the swift retort, “it means two idiots instead of one. Now, look here, Gutteridgn. if you take my advice, you will tell those reporters a new version, h on will make k. plain, next lime, that the airplanepilot got on your nerves, that be affected your thinking-machine, Unit he made von see things that did not. really happen. That is the only way to save your reputation, for believe me, P.C. 'nutteridge, a ghastly murder of this kind is not committed in an airplane—No!” What Did Dacre Find? With that parting shot, that left the constable speechless, Cambon turned and entered Hie sitting-room. Dacre was still busy, yet he had heard every word. Most of it he put down to Gambon’s peculiar temperament—

he knew him of old —but he was a bit nettled all the same. Hang it all. that was no way to treat the honest Gutteridge. After all, a dastardly crime could be committed anywhere, even in a balloon, and there was no reason to think Gutteridge was fooling. Finding the body on the hayrick was grim reality, and Gutteridge did not spend Saturday afternoons on top of hayricks. .. . At least he hoped not. “Well, how is the great sleuth progressing?” Cambon a.eked satirically, as he re-entered. “I was trying to drive sense into that fool Gutteridge, but, like a priceless ass, and like all your English police, he's as obstinate as a nude. He still clings to the absurd notion that he saw the

girl flung from the airplane. "Wonder what he had for lunch? Perhaps lie's a dope maniac! . . . Come, lets have a look. Dacre. Let me see this ghastly knife-wound with my , o v ' n eyes!” Dacre rose from the sofa, and the Frenchman took his place on the ground. lie withdrew his own scientific instruments from an inner pocket, and, in the most detached fashion, examined the dead body. Like Dacre, he scrutinised the ’knife-wound with a long survey, almost with the methodical care of a surgeon, noting the ragged nature of the wound and the marks of the human teeth. Then he stared at the girl's features a remarkably plain face —at the clothes she wore, at the brown shoes. Then lie rose and turned to his colleague, lie did not speak at once. Dacre flashed him another peouliar glance. “What is your verdict?” he asked. He had made his own deduction, his own personal analysis; lie had formed his own conclusion, he had noted everything important and relevant. Now he wanted to hear the opinion of the famous French expert. After ali, M. Cambon showed little sentiment. He was too much of a realist. All French detevtives are trained in that, hard school. “Well, a peculiar kind of knife was used," ho said slowly. “I doubt very much, Dacre, if you could find one like it on this side. If so, it has been brought from Southern Europe. It was. I venture to say, a dagger used by the Italian Fascist!, a derelict descendant of the famous Camorra band, one with a terribly ragged edge. A single thrust was sufficient. Death was instantaneous.” Dacre leaned forward. lie pointed towards the wound. “And the teeth?” M. Cambon shrugged his shoulders. “That presents a more sinister aspect. The inference is' that the murderer drank the blood of his victim, or performed some ghoulish act of that kind. It is all very bestial, but we

arc not concerned with that part of it. Tour first job, Dacre, is to establish identity. That, after all, should be a simple matter. The poor girl has been photographed ad nauseam. By to-morrow every paper will have her portrait; by Monday she will be identified. That will mean the turn of the tide. Until then, you can do nothing.” Dacre gave a slow nod. That reasoning was parallel with his own. When he glanced at Cambon, he saw the French expert had been talking mechanically. He stared at the corpse in detached fashion. He was interested merely from the scientific side. The luminosity hart disappeared from his blue eyes. His face was a trifle pale. He seemed in a kind of dream. Dacre wondered what he was thinking! Had a new inspiration occurred to Cambon? “So far. I agree,” Dacre said quietly. "Gutteridge, for the moment, is unimportant. He can add nothing to what he told the newspaper men, but I will have a few words with him later. The next move is fo get hold of Dr. Gibbs. He should he here any moment. What a pity, Cambon, there is no clue or pointer. That dress contains no pocket. There are no concealed letters, no love epistles, no documents of any kind. Now with a man it would have been different. His lettercasc would have told us something. But women are so mysterious. And they are all alike —baffling, elusive. treacherous." M. Gambon made a cold grimace. “Ay, this type had few secrets,”

he ventured. “In Paris, we have thousands of her kind. This is no la Gioconda. Just the quiet, hardworking type of milliner, unaccustomed to recognition, unused to luxury, unacquainted with evil. Yet, despite all that —or was it because of it?” she was taken for a joy-ride by some devil in the guise of an air-pilot! . . . Tiens, that story I do not swallow, Dacre Parbiieu, it is absurd, monstrous, illogical. . . . More like a motor-ride, then a quarrel, a sudden blaze of passion, the knife!" Dacre stared hard at his colleague. “M. Cambon,” he protested, “I do not follow. If beats me why you are so incredulous. To me, the airplane story is logical. And os for Gutteridge, 1 fear you do him a big injustice. 1 had a keen glance at him as I entered. No imagination there, my dear chap. Nothing but a loyal, methodical policeman, anxious io do his duty at all cost. He has told the truth. lam prepared lo believe him. Nay, ido believe him. Gibbs will confirm whether he is right. He can tell us about the body, whether it has fallen from a height. That we must have confirmed!” Gambon gave a dry laugh. He twirled his dark moustache. “Have it your own way,” he answered. “But if my observation counts, Dacre, I fancy a pilot in midair—well, at least four thousand f ce t—would have something else to think about than a ghoulish murder of this sort. I am a realist. That is why the Gutteridge story leaves me cold. . . . Hello, who have we here?” He turned and glared at the newcomer. It was Dr. Gibbs, followed by Muir, the Chief Constable.

“Here he is, Mr Dacre I” Muir exclaimed. “Report and everything written out. Gibbs, allow rne to explain why Cottingdale is honoured this evening.” A swift introduction followed, the Frenchman staring at the newcomer suspiciously. But Dacre followed convention, shook hands formally, and glanced at the report. “This is what I want,” he said quietly. ' “But, doctor, just let us have your views on one point. My colleague here is sceptical about the airplane. He thinks it too absurd, just a freakish kink in the brain of Gutteridge. May I ask what your examination revealed? Have you convinced yourself that this girl was