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'But you believe he is dead, and you would be bringing the case to court. It wouldn't work, Mr Billson. You needn't take my word for it, of course; you can ask your own solicitor. In fact, I strongly advise it.'

'Are you telling me that any cheap journalist can drag my father's name through the mud and get away with it?' Billson was shaking with rage.

Harcourt said gravely, 'I should watch your words, Mr Billson, or the shoe may be on the other foot. Such intemperate language could lead you into trouble.'

Billson knocked over his chair in getting to his feet. 'I shall certainly take legal advice,' he shouted, and glared at English. 'I'll have your hide, damn you!'

The door slammed behind him.

Harcourt picked up the magazine and flipped it to English's article. He avoided looking directly at English, and said to Gaydon, 'I suggest that if you intend to publish work of this nature in future you check with the legal department before publication and not after.'

'Are we in the clear?' asked Gaydon.

'Legally – quite,' said Harcourt, and added distastefully, 'It's not within my province to judge the moral aspect.' He paused. 'If the widow takes action it will be different, of course. There is a clear implication here that she joined with her husband in cheating the insurance company. How else could Peter Billson profit other than with his wife's connivance?'

Gaydon turned to English. 'What about the widow?'

'It's okay,' said English. 'She died a little over a year ago. Helen Billson married a Norwegian during the war and changed her name to Aarvik. It was when I stumbled over that fact that I decided to write up the story of Billson.'

Harcourt snorted and left, and Gaydon grinned at English. 'That was a bit close, Mike.' He picked up a pen. 'Be a good chap and pick up that chair before you leave.'

I bought English another drink. 'So Paul Billson didn't have a leg to stand on.'

English laughed. 'Not a hope. I didn't attack his reputation, you see. Christ, I'd forgotten the man existed.'

I said mendaciously, 'I'm not really interested in Paul Bill-son. Do you really think that Peter Billson faked his death to defraud the insurance company?'

'He could have,' said English. 'It makes a good story.'

'But do you believe it?'

'Does it matter what I believe?' He drank some scotch. 'No, of course I don't believe it. I think Billson was killed, all right.'

'So you were pretty safe in issuing that challenge to come forth.'

'I like to bet on certainties,' said English. He grinned. 'If he did defraud the insurance company he wasn't likely to rise to the bait, was he? I was on sure ground until his son popped up.'

I said, 'About that insurance.?100,000 is a hell of a lot of money. The premium must have been devilish high.'

'Not really. You must remember that by 1936 aeroplanes were no longer the unsafe string-and-sealing wax contraptions of the 'twenties. There wasn't a great deal of doubt that an aircraft would get to where it was going – the question was how fast. And this was at the time of a newspaper war; the dailies were cutting each other's throats to buy readers. Any premium would be a drop in the bucket compared with what they were spending elsewhere, and?100,000 is a nice headline-filling sum.'

'Did Billson stand a chance in the race?'

'Sure – he was a hot favourite. Flyaway – that Northrop of his – was one of the best aircraft of its time, and he was a good pilot'

'Who won the race?'

'A German called Helmut Steiner. I think Billson would have won had he survived. Steiner only won because he took a hell of a lot of chances.'

'Oh! What sort of chances?'

English shrugged. 'I don't remember the times personally – I'm not that old – but I've read up on it. This was in the times of the Nazis. The Berlin Olympics were on and the Master Race was busy proving its case. German racing cars were winning on all the circuits because the Auto-Union was State subsidized; German mountaineers were doing damnfool things on every Alpine cliff – I believe some of them dropped off the Eiger at the time. It didn't prove they were good climbers; only that they were good Nazis. Germany had to beat everybody at everything, regardless of cost.'

'And Steiner?'

'Subsidized by the Hitler regime, of course; given a stripped military plane and a crackerjack support team seconded from the Luftwaffe. He was good, all right, but I think he knew Billson was better, so he took chances and they came off. He pressed his machine to the limit and the engine blew up on him as he landed in Cape Town. He was lucky it didn't happen sooner.'

I thought about that. 'Any possibility of Billson being sabotaged?'

English stared at me. 'No one has come up with that idea before. That really is a lulu.'

'What about it?'

'My God, the lengths to which insurance companies will go! What will you do if Billson was sabotaged? Sue the German government for ?100,000? I doubt if Bonn would fall for that one.' He shrugged. 'Billson's plane was never found. You haven't a hope.'