The Air Pirate

by Guy Thorne

  Chapter 8

  The big car rolled down Piccadilly. She was a beauty to handle, as I discovered in the first two minutes. The very latest type of electric starter, a magnificent lighting installation -- every convenience was ready to my hand. I was in an extraordinary state of mind as I steered the car through the late theatre and restaurant traffic, purely mechanically and without conscious thought about it.

  The predominant sensation was one of immense overwhelming relief at the prospect of action. Mere office activities, the planning of guard and patrol airships, conferences with pilots and officials, had been quite powerless to calm the terrible fever of unrest within me. It was commanding other people to do things, not doing them myself. I knew all the time that I would have been happier piloting one of the warplanes over the Atlantic.

  Now, at any rate, I was doing something real. I was actually setting out, in my own person, upon a definite quest. It might be all moonshine. I was well aware that many hard-headed people would have laughed at this expedition, considering the slender evidence I had. They would have talked about "circumstantial evidence," the folly of pure assumption, and so forth. "Behold this dreamer cometh!" would have been their attitude.

  And although I was driving the big car up Park Lane towards Oxford Street and the road to the West, I did feel as if I were in a dream. My whole life had been altered by the events of the past few days, maybe ruined for ever. Tonight its stream was violently diverted from its course. Everything with which I was familiar had flashed away, and I was on the brink of the fantastic and unknown.

  There was not a man in London setting out on so strange an errand, under circumstances so unprecedented, as I was this night. We slid by a huge white house, set back from the railings, with all its windows looking out over the Park. It was the London palace that Mr. Van Adams had built for himself during the last five years, and the strangeness of my affair was intensified at the sight.

  Only a few hours ago the great man had been sitting in my chambers, and introducing the enigmatic figure that sat behind me in the car. Here was a dream figure indeed! It was impossible to think of Danjuro as a human being. He was just a brain, a specialized force, devoted to one object, and probably, as Van Adams had hinted, the supreme force of its kind in existence. Already I had placed myself in his hands, and not only my personal interests, dear as those were to me, but my responsibilities to the State as well, and that was no small thing for him to have achieved in so short a space of time. The unique detachment and concentration that was sitting behind me had an almost magical effect upon one's mind and will. With such help, surely, I could not fail?

  I fell to thinking about what Danjuro had already achieved: the quiet and masterly skill of his analysis, the cold audacity of his plot to keep Helzephron in London, the neatness and finish of his operations as witnessed by the periscope on the dinner table at the Mille Colonnes. Surely, Helzephron, or whoever was the master criminal, was a doomed man with Danjuro on his track.

  We were running out of Ealing now, and the traffic was almost gone in the long, straight westward road among the acres of market gardens and glasshouses that fringe the western approach to London. I let out the powerful engine, and as the car leapt like a spurred horse my heart leapt up into anger at the name Helzephron.

  Connie -- poor, lost Connie -- had told me herself how the man had pestered her, and I had seen him at Paddington with my own eyes. The investigations at the Parthenon Theatre by Thumbwood and Danjuro had put the details in the picture, and an ugly one it was. The man, VC as he was, had a bad reputation enough. I had watched him that very evening, marked every line on the hawk-like, cruel face, and thrilled when the vulgar pugilist attacked him. It was the next best thing to thrashing him myself! Yet -- I record this as an interesting point of my psychology at the beginning of the enterprise -- I was disgusted with and loathed the man only. I did not hate him, for I found it, even now, impossible to believe that he was the abductor of my girl.

  Understand me if you can. Danjuro had convinced my intellect, but not my heart. My state was the reverse of the ordinary state in such a situation. Plenty of people believe in anything -- a religion for example -- by faith, and cannot justify their faith intellectually. Their belief is always confident and strong. I believed intellectually, but had no faith, which was why this quest seemed shadow-like and a thing in a dream. No doubt the long night drive and my curious companion -- I was always conscious of him -- intensified the impression of unreality.

  About three in the morning Danjuro spoke through the tube and insisted on relieving me. I stopped the huge car in a dark, tree-bordered road where the moonlight lay in pools and patches of silver, and exchanged seats with the little man. As I stood on the road and stamped my feet to restore the circulation, the night breeze rustled in the leaves, and far away I heard the nightjar spinning. Never was such a still and solitary place. Danjuro's face in the moonlight seemed as immobile and lifeless as one of those Japanese masks of wax with eyes of opalescent glass for sale in the Oriental shops.

  I got into the rear of the car and, suddenly weary, sank back in the luxuriously cushioned seat. The car started again, and Thumbwood switched on a light in the roof. He produced a Thermos flask of hot soup, which I found delicious and refreshing.

  "How have you been getting on with Mr. Danjuro?" I inquired.

  "Very well, thank you, Sir John. He knows everything, I do believe. If there's one thing where I should detect a man who was talking through 'is 'at, it's 'osses. Stands to reason. But this gentleman knows 'osses like a blooming trainer, sir. And as for the games of the crooks in the ring and on the course, he's wide to every one of 'em. I generally carries a pack of cards in my pocket, sir, and I've got one with me now. The things 'e showed me passes belief. I've seen a good deal of that sort of work, but Mr. Danjuro's an easy winner. I wouldn't play poker with 'im, no, nor 'alfpenny nap, for a fistful o' thick 'uns!"

  We breakfasted at a hotel in Exeter, and I had the opportunity of a shave and a bath. I remember that when I was halfway up the hotel stairs a horrid thought struck me, and I hurried down again to consult Danjuro.

  How would the stuff he had put on my skin stand hot water and soap?

  He reassured me, however. Nothing would remove the beastly stuff but a preparation he carried with him, and I bathed in peace.

  It was a beautiful morning when we started again, and for many miles our route lay close to the smiling Devon sea. The waves were sapphire blue, framed in the red sandstone rocks, and the sky resembled a great hollow turquoise. It was a bright morning, and one side of me rejoiced in it; but the thought of my girl was always there, a constant sullen pain, for which the morning held no relief.

  Thumbwood drove on this stretch of the journey, and Danjuro sat inside studying innumerable maps, and now and then making notes in a pocketbook. I wondered what thoughts were seething and bubbling behind that massive dome of skull.

  Apart from the scenery, there was plenty to interest a Commissioner of Air Police. The sky was speckled with small private planes, converging on Plymouth or Exeter from many a pleasant country residence. There was no longer any need for the professional man or the prosperous tradesman to live within a very few miles of his place of business. Men flew to their day's work, and from considerable distances, and as a matter of course. A mile or two out at sea one distinguished the large steady-going passenger airships by which England was now ringed, and occasionally the Royal Mail flying boats cut the sky like javelins. More than once I spotted one of my police patrols. It was curious to remember that I, who sat here with a stained face and shaven lip, bowling along the Devon roads at a miserable forty miles an hour, had supreme control of all those aerial argosies.

  There were few cars on the roads at this early hour. Contrary to general opinion fifteen years ago, the popularity of flying had by no means killed the automobile. It had lessened their numbers in an appreciable degree, and made the roads more pleasant. I should, of course, have preferred
to reach our destination, or at any rate to have travelled the greater part of the way towards it by airship. The system of registration and the police regulations -- framed by myself -- would have given too much away. My actual identity and purpose might not have been discovered, but we should have been easily traced, and Helzephron -- if he was what we suspected -- would be the first to hear of a private aeroplane making its appearance in the solitudes where he lived.

  Towards midday we were approaching Plymouth, when I began to feel uneasy. The agony I had endured there a day or two ago, when Thumbwood burst into my bedroom with news of the Atlantis disaster, clouded my memory. I felt I never wished to see the Devon city again. This, though, was merely weakness which I crushed down. More practical considerations occurred to me. I made Charles stop the car and got inside with Danjuro.

  "Look here," I said, "hadn't we better run straight through the town and get on into Cornwall? We can lunch at St. Germans or somewhere."

  "You have some special reason for avoiding Plymouth, Sir John?" Danjuro asked politely.

  "Well, it's the airport for America. One of my largest stations is there. Dozens and dozens of people know me. I've always been a familiar figure in Plymouth, and never more so than lately, of course."

  Danjuro gave his weary smile. "I do not think you realize the alteration in your appearance," he said. "I assure you, and I am an expert in these matters, that no one at all would ever recognize you. I had proposed to stop in Plymouth for at least a couple of hours."

  "Why, exactly?"

  "For several reasons. One is that I shall be able to purchase some local Cornish maps and a directory or two, which I need, and found no opportunity of procuring in London. But that is not all. Here we are in the very centre of air matters, as far as the Atlantic is concerned. The place is still seething with excitement. Nothing else but the piracies is spoken of. The town is packed with correspondents of the principal European newspapers. It is in a ferment. I much wish to go about with my ears open for an hour or two. I do think, Sir John, that it would be unwise to neglect this opportunity, for you as well as myself. There is no knowing what we may pick up."

  "You're certain about my disguise?"

  "Perfectly certain. You will not, of course, enter into long conversations with anyone who knows you well, as your voice would betray you. Otherwise you may rest secure."

  "Yes, that's the weak point," I replied. "I've always heard that, however perfectly a man may be disguised, you cannot disguise his voice."

  He rolled a cigarette with the quick snatching movement of his fingers that always struck me as a miracle of dexterity.

  "It is not true," he remarked. "I have invented five methods, three mechanical and two medical or chemical, whichever you like to call them. When we have leisure I will show you. But there is no need for anything of the sort in your case. It will give you confidence, Sir John, to test the completeness of your new appearance. If you go to the Royal Hotel and lunch there -- keeping awake to hear the general talk -- I will join you about three."

  "Very well," I replied, though with some reluctance. "And the car?"

  "Mr. Thumbwood has been with you at the Royal, and he is not disguised. It would be better that he should not approach the hotel. We will put you down a short distance away. I will remain in the car and direct Thumbwood where to go."

  Nothing escaped this little man. He seemed to foresee and provide for everything, and when I alighted five minutes afterwards, some two hundred yards from the hotel, I felt fairly secure in my new character as Mr. Johns, the don of Christ Church, Oxford.

  Immediately I was in the street I became aware that Danjuro was right, and Plymouth was in a ferment. London is too vast for anything but a national calamity to alter the outward appearance of things, and even then it takes a sharp eye and a man well versed in the psychology of crowds to detect anything unusual. Not so a big provincial town.

  As I walked along the classic façade of the theatre and turned the corner to the main entrance of the hotel, I saw one thought on every face and heard one single topic of discussion. The streets, always so bright and cheerful with military and naval uniforms, seemed more crowded than their wont, and there was a definite electricity in the air.

  I ascended the massive steps of the hotel, my clean-shaven lips smiled to think with what interest I would be regarded if anyone had even an inkling of whom I was and on what mission.

  And then I had a shock.

  Standing in the big hall, and talking to a man in a black morning coat and a silk hat, was my second in command -- Muir Lockhart, Assistant Commissioner of Air Police! He was in uniform, a special uniform that we both wore for ceremonial occasions only.

  "Yes," he was saying, "I'm down here representing the Chief."

  I dared not stay to listen, but I walked towards them as slowly as I could. Muir Lockhart has a somewhat high, penetrating voice.

  "When did you come down?" asked the other man.

  "Arrived half an hour ago. Flew down from Whitehall this morning," said Muir Lockhart.

  "Then Sir John Custance isn't coming?"

  My assistant shook his head. "Utterly impossible," he said. "Sir John cannot leave town just now. He must be at the head of things. Can't possibly be spared. I saw him this morning before I left. He'd been working all night and was nearly dead. 'Explain my position to them,' he said. 'Nothing but strict duty would keep me away from Plymouth today.' So, you see how it is, Mr. Mayor?"

  "Oh, quite, quite! Well, I must be getting round to the Guildhall. You will march up your men at half-past one? Thank you."

  The man in the silk hat, who I realized must be the Mayor of Plymouth, hurried away. I was left face to face with Muir Lockhart.

  He stared at me, not offensively, but in such a way that he could not have missed a detail of my appearance. He always was an observant beggar. Then he passed by without a sign of recognition. Good! If my own colleague, who saw me for several hours each day, did not know me, no one else would. It seemed a good omen, and I blessed Danjuro in my heart.

  And what a splendid liar Muir Lockhart was. He knew I had gone away on my own, and he hadn't the least idea in the world where I was. It was a temptation to reveal myself, but I refrained.

  I was puzzled. What on earth was he doing here in uniform, and talking to the Mayor about? I hadn't a suspicion of the truth even then, and I had a curious sense of being out of things, forgotten and on the scrapheap!

  The long drive had made me hungry and I thought about lunch. Before going into the coffee room I wished to remove the stains of travel, so I went down the corridor to the washroom.

  When I entered, a man in his shirtsleeves was bending over one of the basins and sluicing himself with many splashes. As I was washing my own swarthy hands he emerged from a towel and gave me a casual glance.

  It was Mr. Van Adams!

  I could not repress a violent start, the thing was so sudden. What did this gathering of the clans mean? He noticed my movement at once, and looked at me with inquiry in his eyes. The room was quite empty save for our two selves, and my decision was taken at once.

  "Mr. Van Adams?" I asked.

  "Sure!" he replied. "You have the floor -- shoot!"

  "You don't know me?"

  "Not from the great Lum-tum, though your voice is kind of homey."

  "I'm Sir John Custance. Danjuro's been disguising me. He's down here with me."

  "Gee!" said Mr. Van Adams. "Aren't you the fresh thing now, Sir John! So you're down for the obsequies incog.? That's what I've come for -- matter of respect. Flew down from Park Lane after breakfast."

  "I'm on my way west. We only stopped here for an hour or two, as Danjuro had some business."

  "I've ordered lunch in a private room overlooking the square. Come right up, Sir John. You'll be able to see everything from there."

  "Thank you, but I'm still in the dark. I'm right away from the office now, as you know. I saw Commander Muir Lockhart here just now, but I couldn'
t speak to him...."

  He took me by the arm and led me along the corridor to the lift. "Captain Lashmar, of your force and the five men of the patrol boat are being buried today," he said. "Also Captain Swainson, of the Atlantis, and the boys murdered on his ship."

  I flushed under my dye. I had never heard a word of it. I felt an absolute beast as we entered the private room, and I tried to explain to the millionaire.

  "Think you callous and unfeeling?" he said in answer. "Guess I know better than that, my friend. You're out to prevent just such a spectacle as we're going to witness from ever happening again. You're playing a better game than prancing along at the head of a procession. You're getting busy at the heart of things. Now sit down and share the pork bosom and beans, or whatever they've given us. And tell me all about it."

  We sat down to lunch, and after a glass of Burgundy I told Van Adams of all that had occurred, and also expressed my complete confidence in Danjuro.

  "You're right," he said. "There isn't an investigator on the globe that'd carry a tune to him. He has his orders to stick to you right through, and he'll carry them out. That little man's got a brain like the Mammoth Cave, and he's without human passions, save only one -- he'd go to hell in a paper suit for me! See here...." and the millionaire told me a string of anecdotes about the uncanny little Japanese gentleman that would make the fortunes of a writer of Romance.

  He was still on the same subject when he stopped in the middle of a sentence.

  The noise in the square outside was suddenly hushed, and we heard a muffled chord of music. Rising from our chairs we went to the windows. Everywhere, as far as eye could reach, was a black sea of heads, from among which the slender clock tower on its island in the centre rose like a sentinel.

  The pavements were lined by troops, soldiers and sailors in equal proportions, and there was a flutter as of falling leaves as every head was bared and the piercing sweetness of Chopin's "Funeral March" filled all the air.

  Then they came, following the band: thirteen coffins covered with flowers, thirteen brave heroes who would never slant down the long reaches of the upper air again.

  After the hearses walked Paget and Fowles, the two heroic airmen who had called the rescuing ship by wireless, and then came the chaplains and Muir Lockhart.

  For my part I saw the whole procession in a dream. The head of the Transatlantic Air Line, the Mayor and Corporation in their robes -- the stately funereal pomp of it all seemed unsubstantial and unreal.

  Mr. Van Adams was kneeling a yard or two away from the window. His head was bent, he had a crucifix and a string of golden beads in his hands, and was saying prayers. Who would have thought it of this master of millions with the pike-like jaw? I suppose he was a Catholic.

  But my mind was far away, above the heaving wastes of the Atlantic, and I saw an unnamed, unknown ship rushing through the air, at a speed undreamed of hitherto in the history of flight. And in the pilot's seat I had a vision of a hawk-faced man with cruel eyes and a smile on his hard, thin lips....

  I stood there for so long that the very tail of the procession was passing by, and Mr. Van Adams rose from his prayers with the sign of the Cross, and touched me on the arm.

  "Look!" he said, pointing down into the street.

  I followed his finger and saw Danjuro standing on the opposite kerb. He was looking after the cortège, and his face, with the expression on it, was quite clear to see.

  In an instant I came out of my dream.