Thorpe's Candle

SMYTH

“I was thirty-two when that plane went down, Mr. Skyler, but I still remember it. Lost without a trace.” The gray-haired woman thumbed through the library-style drawers filled with index cards.

“So you'll have the records of the search attempts?”

“Oh, my, yes. We keep everything.”

Skyler wondered with today's technology how an arm of the British government could be so antiquated in its record-keeping procedures. He patiently watched from behind the massive counter stretching across the room on the third floor of the Royal Aviation and Marine Archives building. Located on Leadenhall Street near Lloyd's of London, the building had stood since 1881.

Skyler had fond memories of London, having spent three months doing research on eighteenth century British shipwrecks during the summer of his junior year. His flat had been on top of an Edwardian house looking south from Hampstead down over central London. At night, when the wind blew and the low clouds rolled past his window, he sometimes sat for hours staring at the city — St. Paul's Cathedral, Big Ben and the spires of Westminster. And in the mornings before going to the archives, he would stand on the Embankment and watch the River Thames move slowly past carrying with it the dust of ages. Skyler was glad to be back in London as he watched the old woman examining the reference cards.

“Here it is, Mr. Skyler.” She held up a card in a victory gesture. “Give me a moment and I'll have your files.” With a warm smile, she made her way past the card catalog file cabinets and disappeared into the cavernous records vault.

“Thanks, Gertrude,” Skyler said when she returned a few minutes later carrying a brown accordion folder. He took the bundle and went to one of the many long tables set up for researchers and investigators. The folder was fairly heavy, and as he untied the string that held it together, he expected to find reports from the Royal Air Force Search and Rescue, the Icelandic Coast Guard or Newfoundland's Civil Air and Search organization. What he found instead was a full ream of blank white paper. All the records of the search for Arctic Air Cargo 101 were gone.

“That was quick,” Gertrude said, looking up.

Skyler set the folder down on the counter. “Gertrude, do you have a record of the individuals who checked out this file before me?”

“Oh, yes, regulations you know.” She noted the reference number on the file folder and then searched through her sign-out logs. After five minutes of obvious frustration, she turned to Skyler. “I just don't understand. There's got to be a record, it's the rules. But there’s nothing here. Someone's misplaced it. I just don't understand.”

“Yes, I'm sure, Gertrude,” Skyler said with a half-smile

“I know it's here somewhere.”

As she continued her fruitless exercise, Matt Skyler turned and walked away already knowing that she could search forever — there would be no log. Without those reports he faced a dead end.

Skyler decided rather than take a taxi back to Knightsbridge Green, the Georgian hotel across from Hyde Park where he was staying, he would drop into the Woolpack, a smoky little pub he visited many years ago on his first trip to London. The financial district was closing and the sidewalks were crowded with office workers, stockbrokers, tourists, and bankers heading home. Strolling along Finch Lane, he got the feeling he was being followed, but a look over his shoulder from time to time revealed only the disinterested faces of those whose thoughts seemed miles away.

Young men and women who worked in the London Stock Exchange packed the bar. Laughing and joking, they were obviously glad to have finished the day. Skyler made his way through the crowd and slipped into a small booth near the back. A young girl with long red hair and freckles asked for his order.

“Guinness,” he said with a smile.

“Make that two.” The man slipped into the booth opposite Skyler. He appeared short and overweight with a balding head, thick glasses, and a double chin. He winked at the waitress. “I believe it's my turn to buy Mr. Skyler a drink.” The stranger placed a briefcase on the seat beside him.

Skyler remembered seeing the man on the street, but his rumpled, ill-fitted appearance didn't hint at unusual at the time. A mistake, he thought. The two men eyed each other as the waitress walked away. Then Skyler said, “I don't recall buying the last round, friend. Mind refreshing my memory?”

“Relax. You're in no danger. I'm here to get a little information.” He extended a meaty hand across the table holding a laminated plastic ID card in front of Skyler. “Walter Smyth, Chief Inspector, Gordan Insurance Company.”

The redhead returned with the two pints, smiled at Skyler and left.

“Okay, Mr. Smyth,” Skyler said. “You've got my attention. What do you want?”

“Why are you looking for the lost Arctic Air Cargo plane?”

“I run a salvage company. I've been contracted by the insurer to locate and recover it.”

“That's interesting, Mr. Skyler, since Gordan is the insurer. I'd say you were a liar.”

Skyler shrugged, aggravated that his quick thinking wasn't quick enough. “Guilty as charged. But first tell me why you want to know?”

“Two reasons. Number one — it's my job. Like I said, I work for an insurance company — we underwrite financial institutions. When a bank gets robbed or someone embezzles funds, I try to recover the money so Gordan Insurance doesn't have to pay.” He took a sip of his Guinness. “That's why I'm here.”

“Why the interest after all these years? The claim couldn't have been that much.”

“For the plane, no. But it's more than the loss of an old cargo plane. You see, back in 1961, a branch of Barclays was held up. The thieves got away with one and a half-million pounds. It took Scotland Yard over two years to round up the three men who pulled the heist. Funny thing. When the crooks were finally caught, they swore they only stole a million pounds. There was another half-million missing. Re-opening the investigation revealed that during the robbery, the bad guys locked two people in the vault — they were trapped overnight due to the time lock. One was a teller who was so traumatized that she died of a heart attack before they got her out. The other was a bank customer. Naturally the Yard wanted to know what happened to the rest of the money. When they went to question the customer, a fellow by the name of Henry Bristol, they discovered that he had died in a fire at his flat a short time after the robbery. Checking the official report, they found that arson was the cause of the fire — a blaze so intense, Bristol's remains could not be positively identified. But the general features — height and weight of the body — were identical. So the authorities assumed it was him. The police report also stated that witnesses saw Bristol on the night of the fire in the company of a local homeless vagrant. Next thing you know, the house burns down, they find a body that resembles Bristol, and for lack of any further evidence, the case fades away.”

“I assume that Gordan insured the stolen bank loot?” Skyler asked.

“Yes.”

“I still don't get the connection between Bristol and the plane.”

“We also insured Arctic Air Cargo. When the plane went down, the investigation revealed that a nervous little man matching Bristol's description showed up at Arctic Air's office and bribed the pilot of flight 101 to take him to Canada. I'm convinced that man was Henry Bristol. When he walked out of that vault, police reports stated he carried a duffel bag full of dirty clothes — he told them he was on his way to the laundry when he stopped by the bank to cash his paycheck. Nobody bothered to check it because they assumed he was the victim. Later, they found some old clothes stuffed in the bottom of a bunch of money pouches in the vault. I think Henry Bristol saw his chance to steal a bag full of money and I believe he was willing to kill for it. He was using flight 101 to flee the country when it disappeared. Really bad luck. My job is to prove it and get the money back. When I heard you were asking about the cargo plane, I ran a background check tracing you to London.”

“If Bristol was on that plane, who died in the fire?”

“I think it was the homeless vagrant, a fellow by the name of Lenny Smyth.”

“Any relation?”

“That's the second reason I'm here, Mr. Skyler. Lenny Smyth was my father. I want to put a proper headstone on his grave and get to the bottom of what really happened to him. Despite what my mother told me for years, I always believed he was a good man and didn't run out on us. So I've got to find that plane and recover the half-million. It's the proof I need to put this whole affair to rest.”

“There's a problem,” Skyler said. “Someone's taken the file on 101 from the archives. At this point, I have no idea where the plane crashed or where to start the search.”

“That means someone else is interested, too.” Smyth glanced suspiciously around the room. “Now I've told you my story. It’s your turn. Why are you looking for the plane?”

“Do you remember what the cargo was?”

“Ore. Insured for twenty thousand pounds.”

“There's your answer, my friend. Let's just say that the ore has appreciated in value.”

Smyth opened his briefcase and rummaged through a file. He pulled out a sheet of paper. “Korium,” he said, reading. “Mined from a small site in Iceland, ordered and shipped to a plating company in Buffalo, New York. So it's increased in value enough to interest an organization like OceanQuest?”

“And then some.”

“The search for 101 lasted two weeks. There was no trace of the wreckage. What makes you think you can do any better?”

“Trust me, Chief Inspector. Technology has come a long way since 1961. We'll find her.”

“You do come with some impressive credentials. If you say the ore is the reason you're snooping around, I believe you. That's why I'm going to extend an offer that will make your life a lot easier.” He opened his briefcase again, taking out a bulging folder. “A complete photocopy of the archive search file on Arctic Air. I made it years ago.”

“And the price?” Skyler asked with apprehension.

“A simple request. In return for the file, I want to be there when you find 101. I want to know first-hand that it was Bristol. Then I can sleep a little easier at night. What do you say?”

Skyler scanned the faces in the crowded bar and looked at the fat little man with the thick fingers and bald head. “I hope you've got a good warm coat, Mr. Smyth.” He reached for the file. “It's pretty chilly in the North Atlantic, even in the dead of summer.”