Complete works of nevil.., p.617
Complete Works of Nevil Shute, page 617
In this extremity, Benjamin bethought him of Roger Lechlane. Roger was a cousin of sorts — anyway, he was one of the family, and could be trusted to make these inquiries delicately and tactfully. It seemed to him that Lechlane would be a very good man to see about the active part of this business — that was, if he would take it on. He did not know very clearly what Lechlane was doing, or whether he would have time to spare for this business. But Lechlane was a secretary, and secretaries could get time off more easily than those who were bound by the routine of an office.
So Lechlane was summoned, and undertook to spend one or two odd days ferreting round these queer places in the suburbs. He returned after his first visit to Brooklands and dined with Benjamin at his flat.
‘I found out one or two facts of importance,’ he said. ‘He had a workshop down there — a sort of shed full of tools. One of those keys you gave me fitted the door; I marked it. I found a man who told me a good deal, too. He hadn’t any cars of his own there, only the tools that are in the workshop. He used to drive for the Phillips Company; you’d better send them a letter.’
‘I wish to goodness Malcolm had told me something about all this,’ said Benjamin fretfully. ‘There was a letter from the Phillips Company in that case of his — I forget what that one was about. There’s the case over on the sideboard — you might have a look through it and find that letter and read it out.’
Lechlane took the case and opened it. It was a battered old relic, stuffed full of letters and bills. Lechlane spread them out on the table; Benjamin watched him from the couch with half-closed eyes. Thank heavens he had found somebody to do the work of this business, under his direction. There could be no better man for the job; a friend of the family and a man, moreover, who knew something of Law.
‘This is it,’ said Lechlane. ‘It seems to be a bill for eighteen pounds sixteen and threepence — detailed, for repair to a car and general overhaul. That must be his two-seater, I should think.’
‘We can pay that out of the Croydon money,’ said Benjamin. ‘There was another letter about that car, came today. From some friend of his, a man called Morris who wrote from Southall, who wanted to buy the car at a valuation. I think that must be the man who was at the hospital that evening. I put the letter with the case, over on the sideboard.’
‘Better let him have it,’ said Lechlane. ‘You don’t want it, do you? It’s very shabby — not a car that one would care to go about in.’
Benjamin did not answer. Lechlane turned his attention to the contents of the case, mostly bills and receipts. These disposed of, he felt inside the case for anything that might have been overlooked. There was nothing in evidence. As he put it down, however, it seemed to be stiffer, to have more bulk and backbone than it should have, being empty. He picked it up and examined it more closely. There was a secret pocket in the lining, the sort of thing that might be intended to carry notes.
He pulled it out and two pencilled letters fell on to the table, one short and the other long. He opened the short one first; it ran:
Dear Sir,
With reference to the speed attainable by the early models of the Pilling-Henries single-seater fighter in your issue of the 10th inst, I can assure you that you are completely mistaken in your information. I had the pleasure [crossed out and ‘privilege’ substituted] of testing this machine in all its forms and I can assure you ...
The last words were scored out, and the letter ended in a small sketch of the head and shoulders of a girl, and another of a dropsical-looking pig. Lechlane turned to the other one.
This was a longer letter, written in a crabbed little hand upon two sheets, with many alterations and erasures. It took Lechlane quite a long time to read. When he had finished, he turned it over and read it a second time. Then he stole a glance at Benjamin. Benjamin was apparently in that comatose condition which precedes sleep; he was far from taking any active interest in the things of this world. Lechlane slipped the letter into his pocket.
‘Benjamin,’ he said distinctly.
The other opened his eyes.
‘I’ve sorted out these and put all the bills on one side. All told, leaving out that one from the motor company, they come to about twenty-two pounds thirteen shillings.’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Benjamin.
‘There was another pocket in this case,’ continued Lechlane, ‘but it only had a letter to a technical paper in it — a rough copy. It’s unfinished.’
‘Tear it up,’ said Benjamin. ‘I found a lot of that sort of stuff. What worries me is this aeroplane business of his; I seem to remember him telling me that he had three aeroplanes somewhere or other. It seems a lot.’
Two days later, Lechlane made a pilgrimage to Croydon aerodrome. He reported that evening to Benjamin.
‘It’s quite right about those aeroplanes,’ he said. ‘Only one of them seems to have gone — there are two there now. I saw them. And he had a partner in the business, a man called Stenning, a pilot on an air line to Paris. He’d just gone off when I arrived. I left a note suggesting that he should come here to supper next Sunday — I thought that would be the best thing to do. I expect he’ll know a lot, and anyway we can fix up this business of the aeroplanes then.’
So Stenning arrived on Sunday evening. It was a more prosperous Stenning altogether than a year before. He had made good as an air line pilot, having that steadiness and shrewd mechanical sense which apparently enable a man to fly day in and day out without suffering the least ill effect. He took no liberties with himself physically; he had a thoroughly good job and he meant to stick to it. He was making money at the rate of seven hundred a year with plenty of holidays — his firm were careful with their pilots. There seemed no reason why he should not go on flying for another five years or so, and then get a management job on some aerodrome.
Supper over, they got to business.
‘There aren’t any liabilities,’ he said, ‘except the rent of the hangar, which we’ve been dividing. One always hopes to get somebody to buy those machines — we’ve got rid of one. Riley said we’d better keep them till next spring and then sell them for scrap if we’ve still got them.’
He told them all he knew of Riley’s other ventures.
‘Then there was no one else but you two in the Isle of Wight Company?’ asked Benjamin finally.
‘Only one, a friend of Riley’s from Oxford. We paid him regular wages. He had no legal share in it, though he got a percentage of the profits. A chap called Morris.’
‘That would be the man who wants the car,’ said Benjamin.
Lechlane lit a cigarette. ‘Seems to me,’ he said indifferently, ‘that I must have met him. Do you remember what his college was? The man I mean looked more like a corpse than anything else.’
Stenning stiffened a little. ‘He was a very good pilot,’ he said, awkwardly defensive. ‘I never knew his college. He was Oxford, Riley said. Riley said he knew a lot of mathematics.’
‘That’s the man,’ said Lechlane. ‘What’s he doing now?’
Benjamin frowned. He was a man with an orderly mind; to him business was business and any insertion of other affairs partook of the nature of adulteration. One could not be too careful in these matters in the Law. He chafed a little; it was not like Roger to go wandering down side tracks when they were discussing business, even if he did happen to have struck the trail of a personal friend. He might just as well have left it till afterwards. It was not — business.
‘He went on to the design side when he left us,’ said Stenning, ‘into the Rawdon Company. Riley told me that he was doing very well there — on design work and test piloting.’
‘Test piloting — isn’t that very dangerous work?’
‘I don’t know about that so much — not under ordinary conditions. Riley used to know pretty well exactly what every new machine would be like before he flew it. But anyway, this man isn’t counting on remaining a pilot — I know that. He’ll get on all right on the technical side.’
Benjamin leaned back in his chair. This was going on for ever, apparently. He wished now that he could have kept the matter in his own hands. It was always like this whenever relations had a hand in business. They were too infernally casual.
‘I know him a little,’ said Lechlane. ‘Tell me, have you any idea what he’s making now — or what he’s likely to work up to?’
Stenning considered a little. He was by no means sure that Morris would like his affairs discussed in this manner, yet he couldn’t very well refuse to say what he knew.
‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘Riley told me just before — before the accident, that Rawdon thought a lot of him. I suppose he’s getting seven pounds a week or so. He’s got some money of his own, too. He’ll get on pretty well, I should think, and end up in partnership with some designer. Then I expect the flying brings him in a couple of hundred a year or so, in addition. Of course, I don’t know at all what terms he’s on — it’s only guesswork. I haven’t seen him since we broke up.’
‘He always was pretty bright in his own line,’ said Lechlane absently. He roused himself. ‘Did you ever hear anything of Malcolm’s business with the Phillips Company?’
Benjamin sat up with a sigh of relief.
Early in the summer, the Rawdon two-seater fighter with the Stoat engine had been completed and flown away to Martlesham by an Air Force pilot. She was a good machine, a great advance on anything the Air Force had, both in performance and manoeuvrability. Rawdon had high hopes for her; she had been an expensive machine to build experimentally — in fact he had built her at a loss. That did not matter; there would be a big contract coming along for her in a little time. That was certain.
The torpedo carrier, too, was in the workshops approaching completion. She was a good straightforward design, nothing very startling or original about her, rather like an enlarged edition of the fighter in appearance. Indeed, it was becoming increasingly difficult to design any military machine that had any pretence to novelty or aerodynamic advance. The design of every such machine had to pass stringent, if ill-informed, critics at the Air Ministry; what had not been done before was looked upon with grave suspicion, if not met with an absolute veto. A reliable machine must be produced for the taxpayers’ money — that was the one consideration governing all experimental contracts. Hence it came to pass that any innovations in design were applied first to commercial machines as a general rule.
This was the case of the Sesquiplane. During the previous year the French had coined that word and applied it to a racing machine that, they alleged, was neither monoplane nor biplane, but a combination of the two. Unimaginative people would have called it a strutted monoplane with a faired undercarriage axle; the French chose to call it a ‘one-and-a-half-plane’ and coined a new term for it. The scheme had occurred to Rawdon before as a possibility for a light commercial machine. It was purely experimental, though he had obtained an order for it. It was to be quite small; a three-passenger machine to be used on the air taxi service that Riley had been chief pilot for. Rawdon expected to be able to turn out a stiffer structure altogether than by the usual arrangements of struts and wires.
A model was made and Morris took it down to the National Physical Laboratory to be tested, staying to watch the tests and to assist. In two days he returned, bringing with him the model and a little booklet of ciphers. An examination of these revealed a better state of affairs than Rawdon had even hoped for; by some chance he had evidently hit upon a peculiarly happy combination of body and wing. There were mysterious features about this aerodynamics. Sometimes the air liked a model and flowed smoothly over it at any speed. Make a small alteration in some detail and the whole thing was upset; eddies evidently formed far away from the alteration, where no eddies had been before, and the resistance of the model might be half as much again. That meant less speed for a given horsepower, less load for a given speed. In fact, an inferior machine.
Rawdon leaned over Morris’s desk and studied his figures, his great brows knitted in a frown.
‘We must go easy with that strut fairing,’ he observed, ‘or we’ll be getting too much dihedral effect.’
‘It’s rather a pity we didn’t have a look at that when it was in the tunnel,’ said Morris.
The designer nodded. ‘We must manage to get a tunnel of our own,’ he said, ‘even if it’s only a little one. Simply can’t get on without it. We ought to have made a dozen comparative tests with this model — different arrangements of wing and body. We don’t know enough about it — not nearly enough.’
But there was little chance of finding the money for a wind channel just yet.
Indeed, as the winter drew on, the difficulty of finding money for many things became more acute. The orders for the two-seater fighter, so confidently expected, had not materialized; instead there came a rumour round the office that another experimental machine was to be designed. But this did not materialize, and work was concentrated on the design of the Sesquiplane. Presently the torpedo carrier was ready, and the question arose as to who was to fly it.
‘You’d better take it off,’ said Rawdon to Morris one day. ‘I’ll get that through with the Air Ministry. You were on Handley Pages in the war, weren’t you? That will make it all right with them.’
But it did not, for the Air Ministry, for reasons best known to themselves, flatly refused to allow Mr Morris to touch their torpedo carrier, ordered and paid for with the country’s money. If Captain Rawdon could produce no better pilot than Mr Morris for this important and delicate work, then they would provide a pilot from the Royal Air Force ... To which Captain Rawdon regretted that he knew of no pilot at present in the country, whether in the Air Force or out of it, to whom he would more readily entrust this work, but would be pleased to give any information about the machine to any pilot they cared to send down. The machine, completed but never flown, lay in the erecting-shop for several months, accumulating a rich coating of dust, till everybody had lost all interest in it, and hated the sight of it. Then the pilot was selected, arrived, and flew the machine away. Six weeks elapsed between its first and second flights. It never made a third, for they crashed it in an ill-advised attempt to land at a slower speed than that for which the machine was designed.
‘If only one could design for some country that knew nothing at all about aeroplanes — say the Argentine Republic,’ said Rawdon wistfully, ‘I believe one could turn out a really good machine.’
The non-technical side of the Air Ministry, however, admirably fulfilled its role of godfather to the industry. Provided with a tiny sum to spend annually on new aeroplanes, it distributed its favours in such a way that while every firm in the industry was on the verge of bankruptcy, the crash was somehow staved off from month to month. At this time it was admitted that if one firm had gone, the rest would have followed suit. But the one firm did not go. Somehow the industry was struggling along through the bad times, plaintively bemoaning the old days when there was a war on, fed with rare commercial orders, constantly saved from extinction by timely orders for military machines and, at all times, bitterly bickering with the Air Ministry. That was, perhaps, the healthiest sign of all.
Apart from that continual sign of life, however, things were not hopeful in the Rawdon Company. As the winter ran on its course, it became a matter of considerable doubt whether the firm would be able to keep going at all. It seemed inconceivable that such a firm should be allowed to break up, in the very interests of the country. Yet the facts were becoming obvious to everyone from Rawdon to the little girl. By Christmas, the design of the Sesquiplane was near its end; already it was beginning to come together in the shops. No more design work appeared, only a monotonous succession of odd jobs. There was a racing motor-car to be fitted with a streamline body, a privately-owned aeroplane to be fitted with a monstrous excrescence of a cabin, two or three Rabbits to be completed for the Dutch Government. In the workshops more than half the men had been sacked; it looked as if they would very shortly start on the office.
By the beginning of January they had already done so. It began with three draughtsmen who, instead of receiving their pay in a little envelope on Friday evening, were told to go and get it at the office. They returned with glum faces and instructions to take a short holiday — unpaid.
There was no more work done in the drawing-office that evening. It did not matter much; the work was of little importance. The men stood about in little groups beside each others’ desks, ostensibly in search of data, really in gloomy speculation as to where the blow would fall next.
‘Someone said that Pilling-Henries were taking on men,’ said James, the engine draughtsman, to one of the discharged men. ‘I’d have a shot there, if I were you, old man.’
The other looked a little pinched. He had no illusions about Pilling-Henries; though he would try it, with every other firm that he could think of. He would start tomorrow, walking and omnibusing all over London, calling at various firms, only to be turned away. The evening he would spend talking cheerily about his chances to his wife, and in writing letters to provincial firms. The first three hours of the night he would spend in sleep, and the remaining five in thought. Then the round would start all over again.
Morris was concerned about all this, uneasy as to how it would affect him. He did not think he would be sacked; he thought he would be kept on as the firm’s pilot, till the Sesquiplane was flown, anyway. He believed he was to fly it. After that it was difficult to say. If the firm went on, he might go on with it. But if the firm bust?
He did not know what he would do if the firm bust. He had no qualifications, no engineering degree or status whatever. He had saved a good bit during the last fifteen months; latterly he had been making something like six hundred a year, all told. It was on the strength of that that he had bought Riley’s car. He could not afford to get married, because the majority of his income came from piloting, and he did not regard that as a certainty. But he could afford to buy Riley’s little car.
