seemed unable to get to the point. Phryne bit into the brandy snap and waited.
Mrs McNaughton (who had not asked Phryne to call her Frieda) took a gulp of her watery tea and finally blurted out what was on her mind. ‘I’m afraid my son is going to kill my husband!’
Phryne swallowed her brandy snap with some difficulty. This was not what she had been expecting.
‘Why do you think that?’ asked Phryne, calmly.
Mrs McNaughton felt inside her large knitting bag, which had reposed on the sofa beside her, and handed Phryne a crumpled letter. It looked like it had been retrieved from the fire, for it was singed at one edge.
Phryne unfolded it carefully, as the paper was brittle.
‘If the pater doesn’t come to the party, it will be all up,’ she read aloud. ‘Might have to remove him. Anyway, I am going to talk to him about it tonight, so wish me luck, kid.’ It was signed, ‘Yours as ever, Bill.’
‘You see?’ whispered Mrs McNaughton. ‘He means to kill William. What am I to do?’
‘Where did you find this?’ asked Phryne. ‘In the grate, was it?’
‘Yes, how clever of you, Miss Fisher. My maid found it this morning when she was doing the rooms, it’s a carbon copy. Bill always keeps carbons of his letters. He’s so business-like. He made a special arrangement to talk to William in the study tonight about this new venture, and I,’ Mrs McNaughton’s voice wavered, ‘don’t know what to do.’
‘Remove could have other meanings than murder, Mrs McNaughton. What sort of venture?’
‘Something to do with aeroplanes. Bill is a pilot, you know, and has won all sorts of races and things. It’s so worrying for a mother, Miss Fisher, having him flying. Those planes don’t look strong enough to stay up in the sky, and I don’t really believe they can, you know, being heavier than the air. He conducts a school at Essendon, Miss Fisher, teaching people to fly. But he wants capital from William for a new venture.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Phryne, interested. She loved planes.
‘They want to fly over the South Pole — apparently the North Pole is old hat. “No one has tried planes down here,” he said to me. “It’s no use staying on the ground. It’s all ice and desert, but in the air we can cover miles in minutes.” And he wants William to put money into it.’
‘And your husband does not agree?’
‘He won’t do it. They’ve had some terrible fights about money. William put up the capital to start the flying school, and it hasn’t been going well. He insisted that he be chairman of directors of the company, and he has all the books brought to him every month, then he calls Bill in and they have an awful argument about how the business is going. He was furious about the purchase of the new plane.’
‘Why?’
‘He says that a company with such a cash problem can’t extend on capital — at least I think that’s what he said. I don’t know any of these business terms, I’m afraid. They are both big, hot tempered men with strong opinions — they are very like each other — and they have been fighting since Bill was born, it seems,’ said Mrs McNaughton with suprising shrewdness. ‘Amelia escaped a lot of it because she’s a girl, and William does not expect anything of girls. Anyway she’s dabbling in art at the moment, and she’s hardly ever here. She wanted an allowance to go and live in a studio, but William put his foot down about that. “No daughter of mine is going to live like a Bohemian,” he said, and wouldn’t give her any money, but she enrolled in the gallery school against his wishes and she only comes home to sleep. She’s no trouble,’ said Mrs McNaughton, dismissing her daughter with a wave of her teacup. ‘But Bill clashes. He disagrees with William to his face. I don’t think they’ll ever get on, and they behave as though they hate one another. Nothing but noise and shouting, and my nerves can’t bear much more. I’ve already had to go to Daylesford for the waters. I’m afraid that Bill will lose his temper and. . and. . do what he threatened, Miss Fisher. Can’t you do something?’
‘What would you like me to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ wailed Mrs McNaughton. ‘Something!’
It appeared that she had relied on Phryne to wave a magic wand. As her hostess appeared to be on the verge of the vapours, Phryne made haste to assent. ‘Well, I’ll try. Where is Bill now?’
‘He’ll be at the airfield, Miss Fisher. The Sky-High Flying School. It’s the red hangar at Essendon. You can’t miss it.’
‘I’ll go there now,’ said Phryne, putting down her cup. ‘And I don’t think you have any reason to be really upset, Mrs McNaughton. I think “remove” means “remove him from the board of directors” not “remove him from this world”. But I’ll talk to Bill, anyway.’
‘Oh, thank you, Miss Fisher,’ said Mrs McNaughton, fumbling for her smelling salts.
. .
Phryne started the Hispano-Suiza, which was her pride and dearest possession, and sped back to the Windsor Hotel. She had found a house and was moving out, and hoped that her new home would be as comfortable as the hotel. The Windsor had everything Phryne needed: style, comfort and room service. She parked her car and ran up the stairs.
‘Dot, do you want to come for a ride in a plane?’ called Phryne from the bathroom to her invaluable and devoted maid. Dot, who had come by way of attempted manslaughter into Phryne’s service, was a conservative young woman who had so far resisted the temptation to bob her long brown hair. She was a slim, plain girl and was wearing her favourite brown overall. Dot did not like the idea of the Hispano-Suiza, and the thought of being bodily hauled through the firmament, which should contain only birds and angels, did not appeal to her. She went to the bathroom door with a leather flying jacket over her arm.
‘No, Miss. I don’t want a ride in a plane.’
‘All right, ’fraidy cat. What are you doing this afternoon? Want to come and watch, or have you something interesting to do?’
‘I’ll come and watch, Miss, but just don’t ask me to go up in one of them things. Here’s your breeches, and the leather coat. What about a hat, Miss?’
‘There should be a flying helmet in the big chest.’ Phryne pulled on breeches, a warm jersey and boots, then rummaged in the trunk, finally finding what looked like a battered leather bucket.
‘Here we are. Take a coat, Dot, and come on. We have to go to Essendon to talk to Bill McNaughton. He’s got a flying school. His mother thinks he’s going to kill his father.’
Dot, inured to the shocking things that Phryne was prone to say, gathered up her blue winter coat and followed her employer down the stairs.
‘And is he, Miss?’
‘I don’t know. The mother is the most nervous woman God ever put breath into. Both father and son sound like bruisers. However, we shall see. It’s been too long since I was in a plane.’
The Hispano-Suiza roared into life. Phryne swung the big car out into traffic with efficient ease, and Dot closed her eyes, as she always did at the beginning of a journey in this car. It was so big, and so red and so noticeable, and Phryne’s style of driving was so insolent and fast, that Dot found the whole equipage unladylike.
They covered the road to Essendon in little over half an hour and pulled to a stop near a red hangar. A neatly painted sign informed them that this was the ‘Sky-High Flying School Pty Ltd, Prop: W. McNaughton’.
‘Here we are, Dot, and off we go. This may be a stormy interview, so stay on the edges of the crowd and be ready for a quick retreat.’
‘Why difficult, Miss?’
‘Well, you think of a delicate way to ask someone if they are going to kill their father.’
‘Oh,’ said Dot. She clutched her blue coat closer.
It was a cold, clear afternoon, with little wind. Perfect, as Phryne saw, for flying. Three small planes were up, more or less, being flown by nervous, amateur hands. A bigger, faster two seater did a quick wing-wobble and dropped neatly, landing and running along the grassy strip with the minimum of bounce. The pilot taxied the machine to its resting place and climbed out, shouting at the top of his voice. ‘A sweet little goer!’ he enthused. ‘Light on the controls, and just a bit nose heavy, but you warned me about that, Bill. Hello hello hello! Who’s the lady?’
Phryne walked close enough to put out a hand, and shook the airman’s gauntlet. ‘I’m Phryne Fisher. I’ve done a little flying, but I haven’t seen that ’bus before. What is it?’
‘Fokker, a German company, made it. One of theirs flew the North Pole, mounted on skis. Jack Leonard, Miss Fisher. Glad to meet you. This is Bill McNaughton. It’s his plane.’
