The Air Pirate

by Guy Thorne

  ***

  At the time it appeared, I read the above to Charles Thumbwood, my valet, as I finished breakfast in my Half Moon Street chambers.

  "Not quite correct, Charles. You know almost as much about it as I do. To say nothing of a certain friend...."

  "I wouldn't say that, Sir John," said Charles, brushing my light overcoat. "Though I rode part of the course alongside of you, to say nothing of Mr. Danjuro." Thumbwood was a jockey before I took him into my service. "Are you going to write it all down, Sir John?"

  "That depends on several things, and on one person especially. I must think it over."

  Think it over I did as I drove to my offices in Whitehall -- the Scotland Yard of the Air -- and I discussed it afterwards with a certain lady.

  Which is how the following narrative came to be written, though I did not complete it until the best part of two years had elapsed.

  I never did any flying during the Great War. I was too young, being only fifteen and at Eton when Peace was signed. But from the very earliest days I can remember, aviation fascinated me as nothing else could.

  My father, the first baronet, left me a moderate fortune. He died when I was eighteen, and instead of going to Oxford, I entered as a cadet in the Royal Flying Corps. When I had earned my wings I joined the civil side of flying and became a pilot-commander in the Transatlantic Service. I had a good deal of influence behind me, and to cut a long story short, at twenty-eight I was Assistant, and at thirty Chief Commissioner of the British Air Police. I was answerable to Government alone, and within its limits my powers were absolute.

  It was on a morning in late June, the 25th to be exact, when the wheels began to move. I date the start of everything from that morning. About one o'clock on the preceding night Thumbwood had waked me from refreshing sleep. A wireless message, in code, had been received at Whitehall. It was addressed to me personally, and was from the Controller of the White Star Air Line at Plymouth. My people at Whitehall, on night duty, thought it of sufficient importance to send on even at this hour.

  As soon as I was thoroughly awake, and had done cursing Thumbwood, I read the message. It only said that a matter of the gravest importance required my personal presence at Plymouth, and would I come down at once.

  Considerable experience of the fussy great men who controlled the airliner companies, which linked up England with all parts of the world, had made me somewhat sceptical of these urgent demands for my presence. More than once I had to explain I was not at the beck and call of any commercial magnate, and if I had made myself disliked in certain quarters, I had at least made my office respected.

  Accordingly I scribbled instructions to the chief inspector on duty that he should send a wireless to Plymouth requesting further details. Then I went to sleep again.

  As a matter of fact, I was going to Plymouth the next morning in any case, though on private business. Sir Joshua Johnson, Controller of the White Star Line, did not of course know that. His midnight message was a coincidence.

  I could have flown down from Whitehall in my fast police yacht in an hour, but as it happened I was going to go by train from Paddington. Sir Joshua could wait until I turned up some time after lunch.

  How well I remember the morning of my departure from town. The long platform at Paddington was crowded with well dressed, happy looking people as I stood by the door of my reserved carriage in the Riviera Express -- that superb train, with its curved roof, which runs to Plymouth without a stop.

  Thumbwood, invaluable little man, had filled the carriage with flowers, great bunches of white lilac and June roses. The stationmaster, who came up for a chat, looked curiously at the bower my valet had made. The Chief Commissioner of Air Police was not wont to travel like that!

  For my part, I was wildly exhilarated, and at the same time as nervous as a boy making his first flight. Today might prove one of the happiest or quite the most miserable of my life. I was going to put it to the test. Confound it, why didn't Connie come?

  On this morning Miss Constance Shepherd, the young light-comedy actress, adored of London, and to me the rose of all the roses, was travelling down to Plymouth to catch the airliner starting from that port to New York at eight-thirty this evening. And she had promised to travel on this train with me!

  Would she have done so, I kept on asking myself, if she didn't know quite well what I meant to say to her? Or was it just friendliness? I knew she liked me.

  Why didn't she come? Here it was, only eight minutes before the train started. As I searched the platform, with an eye that strove to appear calm and unconcerned, I saw faces I knew -- faces of theatrical celebrities, two or three of the prettiest girls in England, a handsome, hook-nosed young man, who was perhaps the best known theatrical manager in London, and two eminent comedians carrying bouquets. The Press photographers were beginning to arrange their cameras....

  I had completely forgotten what a tremendous celebrity dear little Connie was. I might have known they'd have given her a send-off on her way to the States. All the same, it annoyed me, as it seemed to be annoying a tall, hatchet-faced man in Donegal tweeds, who scowled at the little crowd. Was he also a friend, I wondered?

  She came at last, very late of course, and after a brief smile at me, underwent the public ceremonies of the occasion, while I -- I admit it -- retired into the carriage for a minute or two. But I saw the cameras click, and the girls embrace, and the crowd of sightseers trying to push into the charmed circle, and then Connie was in the corridor, leaning out of the window, waving and smiling as the train began to move to an accompaniment of loud cheers.

  "My dear Connie, royalty isn't in it!" I said, as she stepped laughingly into the carriage, and I pushed the sliding door home.

  "Oh, they're dears!" she said. "And they do really mean well, despite the fact that we'll all be in the picture papers tomorrow morning, and that's good for business."

  "I thought you were never coming."

  "It is an impression I convey," she answered; "but I'm very careful, really. My maid was here with the luggage half an hour ago. What lovely flowers you've got for me, John!"

  She lay back in her seat as the train gathered speed and Ealing flashed by with a roar, and I feasted my eyes on the fairest picture in the world.

  She wore a simple travelling coat and skirt of white piqué, and the white lilac was all about her, framing her face as she held up a branch to inhale its fragrance. All England knew that face in the days when little Connie sang and danced herself into the heart of the public, but none knew it as well as I.

  How can I describe that marvellous hair of dark chestnut, those deep amethyst eyes, and the perfect bow of lips which were truer to the exact colour of coral than any I have ever seen? It's the expression -- the soul, if you like -- that makes the true face; and here was one so frank and kind and sweet that when one looked it seemed as if hands were placed beneath the heart, lifting it up!

  On one other day only did I see her more lovely than she was now.

  Well, it was too early to say what I wanted to say, and, besides, I was nervous as yet. We hadn't settled down. As I expected, her breakfast had consisted of tea and a macaroon, so I produced a basket -- lunch was to come later -- in which a silver box of caviar sandwiches was surrounded by crushed ice in a larger box of zinc. There was also iced hock and seltzer water. We both felt more at home in a few minutes.

  Someone passing along the corridor looked in on us for a moment. I had an impression of a brown face and a scowl. It was the man in tweeds I had noticed at Paddington.

  "That beast!" said Connie suddenly.

  I turned and looked at her. She was frowning adorably, and I thought she looked rather pale.

  "Do you know him, then?"

  "I did, and I simply hate him."

  "Who is he?"

  "I expect you've heard his name, John. Most people have in town. He is Henry Helzephron, a big man a bit like you once."

  I did know the name as that of a pilot of extr
aordinary courage and ability during the Great War. He had gained the Victoria Cross when a lad of twenty, and his exploits during two wonderful years formed part of the history of aviation. He had not flown for years now, and divided his time between the more dissipated haunts of the West End and an estate he had somewhere in Devon or Cornwall. He was a "has-been" with a sinister reputation, a lounger of thirty-six.

  "I know him. 'Hawk Helzephron' he used to be called. Gone all to pieces, I understand. But how do you know him, Connie?"

  "He did me the honour to ask me to marry him about two months ago," she answered, "and since then he's always putting himself in my way. He doesn't speak to me, but he comes to the theatre and glares. I'm always meeting him, and I hate the sight of him. He makes me afraid...."

  Here was my chance and I took it like a shot. She must never be unprotected from Helzephrons and all the tribe who haunt the stage door any more!

  A successful aviator takes instantaneous decisions. He must. If he hesitates he's lost.

  What I said, as the Riviera Express hurled itself through the summer noon, is not part of this narrative. I daresay I was no more original than most men, but the results were eminently satisfactory for, as we ran past the towers and winding river of Exeter, Connie and I were engaged.

  I remember how I lugged the ring out of my waistcoat pocket -- sapphires and diamonds, a top-shelf ring! -- precisely as we glided through Exeter Station.

  "O-oh!" said Connie, as the thing winked and shone in the sunlight; and then: "You wretch! I'll never forgive you -- never!"

  I wondered what was the matter. In fact, I asked her.

  "You made so sure of me that you actually bought this beforehand!"

  "It doesn't do to leave anything to chance," I said, and I made her put it on.

  For the rest of the journey, past the red cliffs and blue seas of Teignmouth and Paignton, we had a long and happy talk, finding out -- of course -- all sorts of delightful things about each other which we had only suspected before.

  Perhaps there is nothing fresher and more delightful in life than those first few hours of revelation, when a man and a girl who love each other have at last become engaged. It's like coming into harbour after an anxious voyage, and yet, all the time there is the splendid knowledge that there are new and marvellous seas waiting to be explored, this time -- together!

  Connie was to act in New York for a month and in Boston for a fortnight. It was a 'star' engagement, and six weeks would soon pass. Besides, now that Plymouth was barely thirty hours from New York, there was nothing to prevent me from popping over once or twice to see her. I was responsible to no one for my time, and half a dozen quite real matters in connection with my job would provide a valid excuse. After the six weeks were over, why, then, we would be married!

  "There is absolutely no reason on earth why we should wait," I told her, in sublime ignorance of what was in store for both of us. "I'll have a special licence ready, and the day you land again on this side you'll be Lady Custance, Connie!"

  So it was settled, lightly and happily enough, and when we left the train at Plymouth Station there was not a cloud in the sky or in our hearts.

  I found that my valet, Thumbwood, had been making excellent use of his time, even as his master had, for the man was assisting a demure and well-looking maiden to collect luggage, who turned out to be Connie's maid, Wilson.

  We left them to it and drove to the Royal Hotel, not before I had seen the train start again on its journey to Cornwall, with Mr. Helzephron -- whom I had quite forgotten -- standing in the corridor and regarding us with a malignant scowl on his hawk-like, dissipated countenance. But Mr. Helzephron, and all other men alive, were about six a penny to me just then.

  Connie was to leave the sea-drome at eight-thirty in that fine flying-liner Atlantis. She was a Royal Mail ship, and about the fastest and finest flyer in the Transatlantic service, with a carrying capacity of three hundred and fifty passengers, and a thousand tons dead weight of cargo. Her crew numbered forty, and she was commanded by Captain Swainson, one of the most reliable pilot commanders in the air. He was a man I both knew and liked.

  Connie wanted a rest and a sleep. "At least, I want to be alone to think it all over!" she said, so she went up to her room in the hotel at once. I arranged to call for her at five, when we would go for a stroll and afterwards have an early dinner. I washed my hands and strolled into the famous long bar of the hotel for a sandwich and a whisky and soda, before proceeding to the offices of the White Star Line on the Hoe.

  As I munched my sandwich, I wondered what the affair was that had made Sir Joshua Johnson send me a wireless message in the middle of the night -- a time when obese old gentlemen like him should be fast asleep in bed. I had told my people at Whitehall to ask for further particulars, but I had not the least intention of being bothered with them -- or any police business whatever -- until I had settled my own personal affairs with Connie.

  Accordingly, when I left my chambers in the morning to go to Paddington, I sent a message to Whitehall to say I was proceeding to Plymouth during the day, and would wait till my arrival to hear what the business was. Muir Lockhart, my assistant, would perfectly understand, and was quite capable of dealing with anything that might come along.

  The long bar was, as usual, full of naval officers, with a sprinkling of Air Merchant Service men in their uniform of grey, silver and light blue. I saw no one I knew, until the swing doors leading into the hotel were flung open, and a wiry little man in the black and silver uniform of my own corps came hurriedly in. His peaked cap, with the silver wings and sword badge, was pushed back on his head, and he was in a state of unenviable heat and perspiration. He was Pilot Superintendent Lashmar, chief of the Ocean Patrol stationed at Plymouth, with equal rank to a lieutenant-commander in the Navy, and one of my most trusted officers in the West.

  He went up to the bar and ordered a "long glass of iced ginger beer, with a dash of gin in it," and then I clapped him on the shoulder. He wheeled round in a second, and when he saw who it was his face changed from anxiety to relief.

  "Thank Heaven you're come, sir," he said, as he saluted. "We've been signalling to Whitehall all morning, and all we could get was that you were on your way. I've been backwards and forwards from the Air Police Headquarters to the White Star Office a dozen times."

  "I came down by train, Mr. Lashmar," I said, realizing in an instant that there really was something important afoot, and that by bad luck I was behind time. Sir Joshua Johnson was all very well, but when my own people began to send out signals -- that was quite another matter.

  "We thought you'd fly down in the yacht, sir, and we've been sending wireless trying to pick you up."

  "I couldn't. I have had some most important business to attend to. Anyhow, I'm here now. What's it all about?"

  "You haven't heard anything, sir?" he asked in amazement.

  Again I cursed my luck, but I wasn't going to give it away. "We'll go round to Sir Joshua Johnson at once," was all I said.

  "That will be best, sir, and then every detail can be put before you in sequence. I have my report with me, written up to date. I think I've taken all possible measures up to the present, but of course we've been waiting for you. Sir Joshua, as you may imagine, is half out of his wits."

  In a minute more Lashmar and I were on the Hoe and approaching the stately offices of the Line, which stood in the very centre of that famous promenade above the blue waters of Plymouth Sound.