* * * *
There was no way out, no choice. Burke crouched over the wheel as the car roared madly on, and cursed under his breath. He had given his word, and this was something Denis Burke had never broken. Prison—deportation—no matter! Another man had trusted him, and must not trust in vain.
The buildings, the outspread palm groves, were behind him now. An open stretch ahead, then the hills, the railroad bridge, the road-fork. The mileage needle quivered and mounted, but Burke never looked at it. Somewhere ahead, the road from the camp came into the highway. Crepin was beaten! Not a car in sight!
Burke felt the heart upleap in him, felt the wild surge of exultation that comes from victory. A laugh on his lips, he drove at the curving road ahead, found the low hills closing in. His insane speed slackened. No car could take these curves at such wild pace—
A sudden fierce oath burst from him. Around a curve now; and dead ahead showed two cars, their headlights trained on the road, figures of men strung out. The two were placed with converging headlights—barely space for a car to pass between them. A soldier stood there, waving a flag, halting him.
Burke did not halt. He knew instantly that somehow he had been outguessed. Crepin might have sent that messenger, in fact; the whole thing was a trap. A trap! The blood thrummed at his temples. The soldier was waving frantically now. There was Crepin, in the full headlight glare, waving a pistol. Other men with rifles.
“To hell with you!” roared Burke, and opened the throttle wide again.
Wild, shrill yells from either hand. The man with the flag leaped frantically for safety as the Fiat thundered at him. Burke crouched low, saw one of the two cars shoved forward. The fools! Trying to wreck him! A red spat of rifles.
Then a crash, a shuddering shock. The Fiat seemed to stagger, and next instant was roaring on again full speed. A bullet came through the rear window, smashed the windshield before Burke’s eyes. He was through them, through! Ahead, his lights picked up the railroad bridge. Through them!
Then the Fiat plunged wildly.
Burke wrenched at the wheel with savage strength. Another plunge. A horrible lurch sideways, as the brakes screamed. Halfway down the descent, the Fiat swung across the road and came to a stop, with a tire shot out.
* * * *
And ahead, not half a mile distant, El Hanech waited.
A great sob broke from Denis Burke—half oath, half groan. Suddenly weak, he lowered his head on his hands, as they clutched the wheel. They were coming behind him, one car loaded down with men. No escape now, no evasion. He was taken. He had failed.
“Good evening, M. Burke,” said Captain Crepin stiffly. “Will you descend, if you please?”
Burke obeyed.
“Devil and all!” exclaimed Burke, with the shadow of his old gay smile. “I gave you a run for it, anyhow!”
Crepin, standing beside him, shrugged lightly.
“You will have a long repose,” he made dry response. “Out with those boxes, men! Smash into them.”
“Why waste time?” said Burke. “You have me, you know.”
Crepin smiled thinly beneath his clipped mustache.
“I have you, yes. But, my friend, I must have the evidence also.”
For one wild instant, Burke stared. Had Crepin stooped so low? Was there some planted evidence in his car? Impossible! There was a crash of wood, another. Then startled faces were turned to the two who stood there, and sudden silence fell. A sergeant, prying into one of the smashed boxes, straightened up and saluted.
“My captain! There is some mistake.”
Crepin craned forward, and Burke caught a suppressed oath from him. What the devil did it mean? Suddenly the intelligence officer turned on him fiercely.
“Eh? You, M. Burke—this is incredible! Here. Come with me.”
Burke obeyed. Crepin halted him at the roadside, spoke in a low voice.
“Come! You have just one chance. Tell me where they are hidden, or I’ll tear the cursed automobile apart!”
“What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Burke.
“The arms and ammunition for El Mekhnezi. I know all about it. Quickly!”
Burke knew that a laugh would ruin him—and suppressed it.
“Crepin—give me your word! Is that why you were after me?”
“You know it damned well,” snapped the other.
Burke fumbled in his pocket, produced cigarets, struck a match.
“I was offered thirty thousand francs to run that stuff to El Mekhnezi,” he said coolly. “That blackguard is a criminal, a murderer, and I’d be the same if I put arms in his hands. I refused.”
Crepin started, stood looking hard at him.
“M. Burke,” he said in a low voice, “there are some things it is hard to credit.”
“I’ve never broken my word,” said Burke gravely. “And I gave my word to El Hanech that tonight I’d bring him a car, with provisions. He wants to get out of the country, over the frontier.”
“El Hanech!” exclaimed Crepin sharply. “El Hanech! That poor devil!”
“Exactly. I supposed you wanted to shoot him down—”
“Damnation take you!” cried Crepin angrily. “Am I an assassin of hunted men?”
“You’re not far from it. Am I scoundrel enough to give El Mekhnezi guns?”
“Well, you’re the next thing to it,” snapped Crepin.
Burke broke into a laugh. He could afford it, now.
“Well, you know everything, or nearly everything! But you’ll not find out from me where El Hanech is hiding, so save your breath.”
Crepin turned to him with a savage oath.
“You’ve refused to obey orders to halt,” he said. “You’ve damaged government property—you wrecked my car back there! You’ll have all sorts of charges against you. Do you realize it?”
“Perfectly. Make the most of it.”
“I intend to do so. The court will fine you at least five hundred francs,” said Crepin. “Will you give me your word to appear in court tomorrow and answer the charges I shall lay against you?”
“Eh?” said Burke. “Why, of course! But—”
“As soon as my men have replaced that tire of yours, go on with your car,” said Crepin harshly. “And tell El Hanech I hope to thunder he gets away safe. Good night.”
TEST PILOT NUMBER ONE
It was a hot afternoon in Paris, which means that it was hot. Giraud was bald as a billiard ball, absolutely; he was mopping his bald pate when he made his surprising statement.
“If it hadn’t been for the first test pilot in aviation history,” he observed, “the first submarine mail would have been a total flop.”
He had come over from home about some airplane contract with the French government. Although born French, Giraud was an American citizen. Further, he was an Early Bird, one of the oldest pilots alive and probably the best.
I ran into Giraud, we both ran into Pollack, and Pollack took us up to the aviators’ club in the Bois de Boulogne, near the Porte Maillot. Pollack was growing bald too, these days. He was a spot ahead of me, but both of us were better off than Giraud, who had not a hair on his head behind his eyebrows.
“Germans pulled the first submarine mail during the war,” said Pollack.
“Nope,” stated Giraud in his positive way, running his eye over the room.
This club was a curious place, more American than French; most of the members, like Pollack, were old Lafayette Escadrille men. It was hung with trophies of all descriptions, souvenirs, mementoes of famous fights, flights and crashes.
“I have a letter in my pocket you boys ought to frame and hang up here,” went on Giraud, ordering another drink. “But I mentioned the first test pilot—that was Forain. He was French-American, like me. And he had too many brains to keep his hair—like me. I might even add, like others.” His twinkling gaze touched on me and Pollack. “Forain was a good technician. One of the first to volunteer for the air service.”
“I
never heard of any Forain,” Pollack said thoughtfully.
“Before your time. Back in 1870—the first air mail.”
Pollack looked bewildered. “No air mail then, man! Or submarines either!”
“No? Think back to the siege of Paris,” said Giraud. “The Prussian idea was to break down the morale of Paris and France by cutting off the capital completely. They did so. They even found a secret telegraph line sunk in the River Seine, and cut it. Paris sent out a regular service of balloons, the first air mail. The pilots were aeronauts, seamen, volunteers; they got the mail out, but could get none in. Hence, the submarine mail.”
“I think you’re cockeyed, but you’re interesting,” Pollack said. “To qualify as submarine mail, it would have to be a government project, with special letter rates and so on.”
“That’s what it was,” retorted Giraud. “The Prussians even stretched nets across the Seine to keep out floating bottles. No balloons could get back to Paris. Then, in the greatest secrecy, a project was devised that promised full success. That’s where Forain’s girl came in.”
“Pilots had girls in those days? Impossible!” I exclaimed. Giraud chuckled raucously.
“And what a gal! Marie Leon was a bright star in a dark sky. She lived near the old Nationale bridge, in a tremendously lousy quarter of Paris. Her folks were communists. All that quarter was composed of communists, who hated uniforms and authority. But not Marie; she had brains! Also, she had a job in the post office of that quarter. And she had Forain. And Forain intended to get Marie out of this environment and start fresh back in America with her. There’s the needed background.”
Giraud took out his wallet and produced a transparent envelope containing an old stained, discolored letter.
“I wish I had a picture of that gal,” he said, wistfully, shaking his bald head. “If you’re ever in Cincinnati, I can show you one. Her grandchildren live there. At the time, she was only nineteen, but there was no nonsense about her. She conveyed an impression of quiet capability, of true steel—that’s it, true steel! May not sound much, but it’s a big thing to find in a woman. When you looked into her face, as Forain gazed into it that night on the bridge, you felt this quality in her.”
* * * *
That night on the bridge, a cold December night in clear white light of stars, Forain had the feeling full force as he met her, clasped her hand, leaned on the railing of the bridge. It was not her shapely body, nor her alert, vivid intelligence and loveliness of feature; it was something deeper.
“You know, I feel as though I could count on you for anything, for ever!” murmured Forain, bringing her fingers to his lips. “I’ve had that feeling since our first meeting.”
She laughed softly. “You’re the same sort of person yourself, my dear! Just to know you makes life different. But I’m afraid of these meetings—for you. There’s a storm gathering, the Commune is taking form; my father, my brothers, our friends, are in it. All the lowest classes are talking about loot and bloodshed and, revolution. And if you’re seen here, in this army overcoat, it’d be just too bad.”
“Bah! The bridge is guarded,” Forain glanced at the pacing figures of sentinels under the bridge-end lights. “Besides, it’s too cold for anyone but lovers to be in the streets! Besides, my dear, this bridge is going to make history; and you’re going to help in the making.”
“The history of our love and lives?” she demanded archly. Holding a light to his pipe, he grunted dissent, then leaned his elbows on the railing and spoke under his breath, warming her cold hands in his own.
“Here’s a secret of the deepest, Marie; a word to anyone might mean disaster, for Prussian spies are everywhere: A plan has been devised to bring mail into Paris. I’ve been working on it as technical expert.”
Her fingers closed his lips.
“Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know any government secrets, my dear. It’s too dangerous.”
“Wait,” he broke in. “Here I need your help, I need it vitally!”
“That’s different.” She drew the shawl tighter about her head and relaxed. “You can count on me:”
“Of course; isn’t that exactly my thought?” He laughed joyously. “They say not five people in Paris know the project; you make six, and the most important of all! For upon you will depend its success or failure. All the wise men, all the officials, laugh at me; you shall help me laugh at them.”
“With all my heart; and together we’ll laugh at the whole world!” she exclaimed. “But first, the siege must be finished.”
“And the Prussians defeated; this project will have tremendous effect upon French morale,” said Forain. “I can’t tell you about it now; too blasted cold here. Can you come over to the factory tomorrow afternoon?”
The “factory” was the Gare d’Orleans, turned over to Godard Bros., government contractors who turned out the air mail balloons.
“Yes; I could get there about three, for an hour,” she said. “But to reach you is impossible. It’s the most closely guarded place in Paris.”
Forain laughed, and fumbled in his pocket. From the other side of the city drifted a rumble and mutter; the Prussian batteries were thundering. He extended a folded paper to the girl.
“Here’s a special pass I got for you; it’ll remove all difficulty.”
She took it, tucked it away. “Good. Expect me, then, at three.” She turned sharply, and caught her breath. “Ah! Here’s trouble. My brothers—”
“Slip away, quickly!”
“Not I,” she spat out scornfully.
* * * *
Four men were slouching along across the bridge, so obviously low-class Parisians that the sentries paid no heed; Marie’s two brothers, and two friends, gutter rats who had somehow evaded military service.
They came on silently, intent, shuffling about the two figures and halting.
“Fine gentleman from America, eh?” said one. “Army coat. You’ll be stood against a wall with the rest of the aristocrats, if you live that long.”
“He won’t,” said one of Marie’s brothers. “You! We’ve warned you before this to let our sister alone—”
Marie flamed out furiously angry words. With the callous cruelty and contempt of his kind for a woman, her brother caught her arm and dragged her toward him, slapped her across the face—and was driven headlong in the muddy snow by Forain’s fist.
“To me, comrades! To me, soldiers!” Forain lifted his voice, seeing a glint of steel in the starlight. He whirled on the nearest figure, lashed out again, dodged a knife, and drove his fist into a third.
Amid cries of rage and dismay, the four took to flight—soldiers were coming on the run, and this use of fists outraged all Parisian standards violently. Only American savages used their fists, especially with such pronounced effect. Marie, seeing the peril over, also took to her heels and was gone. The two soldiers ran up.
“Ha, comrade!” exclaimed one, at sight of the army overcoat. “Don’t you know better than to play with the women in these parts? The canaille around here would sooner knife one of us than kill a Prussian!”
“Your uniforms frightened them off; thanks a thousand times!” said Forain, with a laugh. He passed over a coin. “Drink to love at the nearest bistro, comrades, with my compliments!”
“Better luck next time,” was the ironical response. “Look, comrade; if these devils of communists ever get their way, it’s death and rape and loot everywhere! They’ll burn Paris if the Prussians don’t.”
“After which,” Forain said cheerfully, “the rest of France will stand them against a wall, eh? Well, good night!”
He swung off for home, little thinking that in this exchange of words had lurked prophecy, and that the ashes of Paris would be quenched in the blood of thirty thousand communists. That this encounter might result in oddly unpleasant results for him was far from his thought; he reckoned the matter ended, and only hoped that Marie would escape disagreeable consequences.
The Gare d’Orle
ans, next afternoon, was a busy place, despite the absence of all rolling stock. Forain, who was very largely a freelance worker, came back from a belated luncheon to find that Rampont, head of the entire postal administration and organizer of the air mail, was somewhere about the place, and proceeded to run him down.
In the vast shed of steel and glass, warmed now by gas, immensely long tables with women workers were installed; here the percaline fabric of the bags was sewn. Bags in all stages of completion hung from the high rafters—the distinctive yellow and red or blue bags of the Godard manufacture. Some were being oiled or varnished. Others were undergoing the contract tests—suspension, inflated, for ten hours, and afterward sustaining a weight of five hundred kilograms.
* * * *
Farther on, a corps of marines detached for this work were weaving the willow baskets or fabricating the rope net-work that surrounded the bags and sustained the baskets. The place was a pandemonium, and equipment lay on all sides—grapnels and coils of line, instruments of various kinds, ballast bags.
Rampont, an active, energetic man of forty, abandoned his talk with the engineering staff at sight of Forain, and took the latter aside.
“Any word from outside, M’sieu?” asked the American.
“Yes; a pigeon came in today with a message from the government at Tours,” was the eager reply. “The process has been tested satisfactorily; the government has accepted it.
“A special rate of one franc has been established for the service. Construction of the spheres is going forward. The first ones will be launched on January 2nd, ten days from now; four per day will be put into the Seine.”
“And my recommendations?” asked Forain. The other shook his head.
“My friend, nothing is said about them. I’ll say frankly that no one has taken them seriously; the formula which you gave for phosphorescent paint has been ridiculed.”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 93
