While he tried to straighten the puzzle out Sandy interrupted him twice.
Each time he was told, unceremoniously, to “Shut up!” Now Sandy could stand it no longer.
“Hey, Bill!” he said. “I think you're right about that being the Saver of
Souls. You know he jumped me over
Chesapeake Bay. I remember that swerve in to the left just before he tripped his guns. He was coming in on my starboard side, out of line of my guns. Just before we passed he kicked his ship around so that his bullets would slash right across my nose.
He underestimated his speed or he would have knocked my head off. Then he zoomed as I stuck my nose down.”
“That's right,” Bill said.
“But I don't understand what this is all about Bill. I can't put it together. What—”
“Listen, kid,” Bill said. “Don't ask me any questions. I don't know any more about it than you. That's why I'm going to stay on his tail and find out.”
“You want to be careful he doesn't lead us into a trap,” Sandy advised with all the wisdom of his seventeen years.
“
I'll watch that,” Bill said, “while you see if you can pick up Tony Lamport on the radio.”
Sandy worked with painstaking care while Bill held the Lancer on the tail of that dun-colored ship. He tried to get Tony on both of their secret wave bands without success. Finally he gave up.
“We're out of range Bill,” he reported.
At the same time Bill became aware of the cloud wall ahead. At first it was almost imperceptible. But as they neared the Irish coast the little amphibian ahead became a mere dot in the damp, swirling fog that engulfed it.
Bill tried desperately to stay on its tail, hoping the front would break before he lost it entirely. He plunged the Lancer into it, holding the same airspeed and course, flying entirely blind. When he came out on the other side the dun-colored ship had disappeared.
He cursed softly as he reached for the master tuning control on his radio panel and picked up the radio operator at Foynes, near the mouth of the Shannon. He got the direction and force of the wind and learned that he would have unlimited ceiling.
Forty-three minutes later he took the Lancer into the Irish air terminal for a workmanlike landing.
The manager of the terminal and the superintendent of operations met him on the apron. Behind them were a score of “tin knockers,” mechanics, grease monkeys and inspectors. They were there to get their first glimpse of Bill Barnes and his famous Silver Lancer. He killed his power plant to avoid injuring them as they swarmed toward him. He waited until the manager had cleared a way for them, then he and Sandy dropped over the side.
In the manager's office Bill tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he casually asked about the Memphis.
A worried expression fastened itself on the big Irishman's face. “We're worried about her, Barnes,” he said. “I thought perhaps you'd have some word about her. I thought you might have picked her up on your radio out over the Atlantic.”
“What's the matter?” Bill asked, quickly, to forestall a possible question he didn't want to answer.
“We don't know,” the manager said. “When she was three hours out we suddenly lost contact with her. She reported she was making good progress through a fog area. After that there was silence. We have made contact with steamers in her urea but they haven't been able to give us any information. Unless something went wrong with her motors she may be on the way back here. We're going to wait another half-hour before we send out an alarm. It may be only her wire-less that is out of order. We expect to hear from her at any time. But we can't help worrying. You must be worrying about her, too, being a large stockholder in Transatlantic.”
“I am,” Bill said. “I wonder if it is possible for me to get a telephone call through to the Duke of Malbury at Arunway Castle in Malthrop, England?”
“We can try,” the manager said, reaching for the telephone. “Ill start our operator working on it. You want to speak to the Duke of Malbury personally?”
“That's right. Have them try to locate him if he isn't at Arunway.”
Bill kept up a constant conversation while he waited for his connection to be made. He avoided answering direct questions about the Memphis a half-dozen times. He didn't want to tell this man about the things he had seen because he didn't know how the other would handle the situation. Bill realized he must get to the foundation of the thing and find the men who were responsible for the destruction of the Memphis if he was to save Transatlantic Transport. He knew it would be the death of the line if he could not tell the story and then prove it; He remembered quite distinctly how a ban had been put on the ships of a certain company after several unexplained mishaps. The company had disappeared into oblivion. And there was nothing he could do for the Memphis, her passengers or crew. They were beyond help.
He started nervously as a telephone bell clanged.
“Here's your party, Barnes,” the manager said. “They located him in London.”
Bill's hands were shaking as he took the instrument. “Hello, Mace,” he said into the mouthpiece to Norman Edward Chatagnier Eliott. Mace, the seventh Duke of Malbury, whom he had saved from death while he was excavating in the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings in Egypt.
“Are you there, Barnes?” Norman Mace answered with his precise British accent. “This is delightful.”
“No, it isn't,” Bill said, hoping Mace would get the idea. “I'm at Foynes on the Irish coast, as you know. I'm going to hop to Croydon within a few minutes. Can you meet me there?”
“I say, Barnes, what's up?” the Duke of Malbury asked.
“Ill tell you when I see you at Croydon in—about an hour and a half. Right?” Bill said.
“Right,” Mace repeated. “I'll be there, Barnes. And I repeat it will be delightful. Cheerio.”
Bill put the instrument in its cradle and immediately began a great fuss and bustle about getting away. He didn't want to be asked any more questions.
As he took the Lancer into the air, a man who was a visitor to the air terminal approached the manager on the apron. He was a small man with an olive skin and dark eyes. He might have been a native of any one of several countries of southern Europe.
“Wasn't that that American chap, Barnes?” he asked the manager in excellent English.
“That's right,” the manager said, admiration shining in his eyes. “Bill Barnes.”
“That is a great ship he has there. What is he doing over here?” the small man asked.
“I don't know,” the manager answered. “He's on his way to Croydon.” He looked down at the little man as Bill's ship became a mere speck in the air to the east. “Why?” he added.
The small man shrugged his shoulders with a true Latin gesture and moved away without answering.
VII—SPY SYSTEM
LONDON was a great mass of blurred lights through the fog hanging over it as Bill cut south to pick up the steady beacons of Croydon. He circled the great airport twice as he received landing instructions from the radio control tower, then took the big ship in with a precision landing that was characteristic of him.
He climbed out and saw the lean, tanned face of the man he had first known in Jogam as Colonel Mace, and later in Egypt as the Duke of Malbury, coming toward him. He noticed that his hair was a trifle whiter and his military mustache more closely clipped than the last time he had seen him. And then they were shaking hands. They were genuinely glad to see one another. When Malbury had finished with Bill he turned his attentions to the grinning Sandy.
“Are you still reading those books that teach you how to be the master of your fate?” the Duke of Malbury asked Sandy.
“No,” Bill said. “He has a new one now. At the moment he's collecting autographs. You'll hear about it.”
“Thanks for breaking it. Bill,” Sandy said, whipping the little leather-bound book out of an overall pocket. He turned over the pages and stuck a pencil in the Duke's
hand. “Just sign it there.”
The Duke of Malbury wrote his name and chuckled. “You still work fast, eh?”
“Can you arrange things so that they put the Lancer under lock and key for me here?” Bill asked him.
“Easily,” the duke said. “I have a motor here. Well roll down to London. I'm anxious to hear your story. Knowing you, I know it won't be prosaic.”
A short time later the three of them were settled in Malbury's chauffeur-driven Sunbeam landaulet.
“You'd better plug up that speaking tube so your chauffeur won't hear us,” Bill said when Malbury asked him a question.
“Righto.” Malbury stuck a handkerchief into the mouthpiece.
Then Bill unfolded the things that had occurred to him during the past twenty-four hours, interspersing them with an account of the man he called the Saver of Souls.
They were deep into the heart of the great city of London before Bill had finished. Malbury had only interrupted a half-dozen times to ask questions.
Now, his breath exhaled through his lips in a long, low whistle. His eyes were half-closed as he shook his head slowly from side to side.
“A tale I would not believe if it hadn't come from you, Barnes,” he said. “A most incredible thing.”
“It is,” Bill said. “I wouldn't believe it if it hadn't happened to me. The thing is, where shall we start to find this man? He must be somewhere in the British Isles. You know the ropes. You know who to go to to start such a search. The man must have a vast amount of money. You wouldn't hunt for him in the places you would look for the average dangerous character. Every possible landing place in Ireland and England must be checked to get trace of those dun-colored- biplanes.”
“We'll have to know everything before we release the facts,” Malbury said. “I have a friend, a pal. Lord Hereburn —he's the man to go to. We must start the ball rolling from the top. He is high up. All the machinery of the home office will begin to click it he gives the word. An ant couldn't get out of England then if they didn't want it to.”
“Where can we find him?” Bill asked.
“Easy does it, my boy,” Malbury said. “I'll have to locate him and talk to him alone first. He isn't the kind you can walk in on. You said you were going to the Hotel Cecil? You're sure you wouldn't like me to put you up at one of my clubs?”
“No,” Bill said. “I prefer to go to the Cecil until this thing is over. Then, I would like to spend a few days with you at Arunway. This,” he added bitterly, “is supposed to be a holiday for me.”
“Yes,” Malbury said. “We'll rest up out at the old pile of rocks when we get this thing straightened out. I'll drop you at the Cecil and start my hunt for Hereburn. I may reach him immediately, or it may be morning before I find him. You look as though you needed rest. You'd better get it now because there is nothing you can do. We'll have the jolly old ball rolling when you wake up.”
Malbury's chauffeur helped them into the lobby of the Cecil with the luggage they had brought with them.
“I'll ring you sometime tonight or the first thing in the morning,” Malbury said as he turned away.
“Eight,” Bill said. “I'll be anxious to hear from you.”
His eyes were two bright coals and his face was lined and haggard. Reaction had set in and he was tired as he could never remember being before.
They were assigned two rooms with a bath between them in a quiet spot on the third floor of the enormous hostelry. Bill picked up the telephone in his room and asked for a waiter with a menu.
“I suppose we've got to eat something,” he said to Sandy.
“Eat something?” Sandy said. “Say, if I don't get some food pretty quick something serious is going to happen. I'm famished. I haven't had anything to eat since we left Barnes Field.”
“Who ate all those chicken sandwiches you brought along—your automatic pilot?” Bill asked in disgust.
“I ate them,” Sandy said. “But there were only twelve of them.”
Bill ordered a light meal for himself and then turned the menu over to Sandy. He got a bath while Sandy was ordering because even the mention of food made him a little sick.
When the food was brought Bill couldn't help noticing the way the waiter's eyes roved over the room and their possessions. When the man brushed against him and let his hand flick across the two patch pockets in his dressing gown, he knew he was trying to find out if they were armed.
“The Saver of Souls knows how to handle his cutthroat business,” he said to himself. “He is probably going crazy because I stuck my nose in his little scheme.”
After they had finished eating Bill said to Sandy, “You hop in there and turn your light out and get some sleep, kid.” He followed Sandy into his room and saw that the fire escape that was outside his own room did not reach to Sandy's. There was a sheer drop of thirty feet to the roof of the next building.
“Good night, kid,” Bill said. “I'll let you know as soon as I hear from Malbury.”
“Okay, Bill,” Sandy said. “Gosh, I'm sleepy.”
VIII—THE QUIVERING KNIFE
WHEN Bill went back into his own room his nerves were jangling. He was tired to the point of exhaustion, yet he didn't want to risk falling asleep. He was almost certain that an attempt would be made to kill him before morning, and he realized he couldn't stay awake to defend himself. He thought of trying to get in touch with Malbury again and have him secretly get a couple of men from Scotland Yard to guard him while he slept. He discarded the idea as not being feasible. He finally decided that his nerves were jumpy and his imagination was running away with him.
But he didn't sleep in the soft, three-quarter bed that was in the room. Instead he rolled up a blanket and put it in the bed where he should have been. At the end of the blanket on the pillow he placed an overall bunched up to give the general outline of his head.
Then he lay down on the couch that was against a wall, determined to stay awake as long as he could. In three minutes his eyes were closed and he was deep in sleep.
The room was shrouded in darkness, except for a thin stream of moonlight cutting across the bottom of the window sill. There wasn't any sound or the faintest rustle to disturb the quiet of the night.
Suddenly Bill was wide awake. Instinct warned him not to move, not even to raise his arm to look at the luminous dial of his wrist watch. The muscles in his body became tense, and he could feel perspiration oozing from his face. He knew that something was in the room. He continued to draw deep, even breaths as though he was still sleeping.
Then a tiny beam of light danced across the bed and was gone. For an instant a lean brown hand had appeared in the beam of light—a hand that clasped a knife. The blade was only four inches above the form in the bed.
Bill waited to hear the knife swish down into the bedclothes and rolled blanket. But no such sound came to his ears. He knew that the person holding the knife had detected his ruse and was silently waiting until he located the spot from which the sound of breathing came.
Cold sweat ran into Bill's eyes as he conquered an almost overwhelming desire to shout or leap to his feet and snap on a light. He knew that when he moved he must be sure of the location of that figure or the knife would find a resting place in his body.
He saw a faint shadow moving toward the little hallway that led into the bathroom and Sandy's room. Slowly, without moving the rest of his body, he brought his legs up. He knew he must stop that form from getting into Sandy's room. Like a streak of lightning he whirled his body off the couch to the floor.
For sixty long, horrible seconds he stayed as still as death itself while he tried to locate the breathing of the intruder. His nerves were taut and screaming as he wriggled silently toward the wall. He tapped gently on the baseboard, then flattened himself out with his cheek hugging the rug.
Something swished above his head and thudded into the wall, where it vibrated back and forth angrily for a moment. Then the room was absolutely still again. He listened for the fa
intest sound, the scrape of a button or the exhaling of breath. When he could stand it no longer he began to edge along the floor toward the hallway, a fraction of an inch at a time. He knew the man across the room was waiting for another move, probably worming his way toward him.
A button of Bill's pajamas scraped the floor and he hugged the rug again. After a bit he continued. Beaching the ether side of-the room he began circling it inch by inch. His eyes began to become adjusted to the dark, and he could pick out various objects. None of them faintly resembled a man.
He pulled himself upright along the wall where he knew the light switch was located, and still there was no movement in the room. He cursed himself for not having stuck an automatic in his pocket before climbing out of the Lancer at Croydon. Switching on the light meant he would be a perfect target if the intruder had a gun. And it was beyond reason to hope that he didn't have a gun.
The cold, grey London dawn came creeping in the window while he stood there trying to make up his mind what to do. He was certain that the door to Sandy's room had not been opened, yet he was half afraid that it might have been. As the room became lighter and lighter he realized that in some mysterious manner the prowler had vanished. He switched on the light.
The room was empty.
His piercing scrutiny stopped when his eyes fell on the knife sticking in the wall, mute evidence that he had not been dreaming. He took two quick steps and threw the door of Sandy's room open. Sandy was peacefully sleeping.
Back in his own room he found that the door that led to the corridor was unlocked. He was positive that he had locked it before he lay down on the couch. He found the key on the floor and knew that it had been pushed out of the keyhole from the outside.
He searched the room for some further evidence of the intrusion but found nothing. The only memento was the wicked-looking knife sticking in the wall. He decided to leave it where it was until he had talked with Malbury again and it could be dusted for finger-prints. He knew that the waiter might easily have been the intruder. He wondered how he had managed to get out the door without making a sound.
Bill Barnes Takes a Holiday Page 4
