Free Death of an Airman by Christopher St. John Sprigg Page B

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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œHave 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.”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œThat’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