“Come on,” he said, “it’s up top.”
“What?”
“The means of getting back. The janitor just ordered a taxiplane by wireless telephone. We’ll find it up there.”
A further two minutes later, they were climbing into their taxiplane and setting off for the Villa Beauséjour’s mooring-strip.
“This little stroll has worn me out,” said Monsieur Cabrol. “I’ve got a headache.”
“Me too!” said Moderan.
“And me!” said Andoche. “I must have a klaxon in my head; I can feel my poor brain shaking.”
“We had to see that. This evening we’ll see what effect the night has on us…and tomorrow….”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we leave…”
“For the Pleasure Archipelago?”
“No, to follow the program: head for Panama and the Pacific Ocean, for Astra Island…but we’re arriving at the Airstrip.”
“Hang on,” said Andoche. “I don’t see the Villa. This isn’t the right place, then? But it is…there’s the elevator and the kiosk down there…so where’s the Beauséjour?”
Monsieur Cabrol jumped down on to the platform and looked around for a few moments, rubbing his eyes. “No—the Villa is no longer here!”
Andoche and Moderan had run behind a group of stout aircraft, behind which the Villa had been anchored to the landing-strip.
“No, it’s no longer here!”
“I’ll give the pilot a good ticking off when he gets back,” said Monsieur Cabrol. “He too must have wanted to go and cast an eye over the skyscrapers, but I don’t want him taking the Villa away when we’re not there.”
“Monsieur! Monsieur!” shouted a voice behind them.
It was the housekeeper, who was running and waving her arms, and seemed very upset. Phanor was bounding behind her, obviously no less upset, for he was punctuating and drowning out Melanie’s voice with his barking, sometimes furious and sometimes joyful—furious when she pronounced the name Barlotin and joyous when, on jumping up, he recognized the hand or face of Andoche, his master, which he wetted with his effusions of amity.
“Well, Melanie?” said Monsieur Cabrol, when Phanor let him get a word in. “We come back and find the house no longer here! Has Barlotin taken it on a little trip?”
“No Monsieur,” said Melanie, “not a trip—he’s stolen your house! I’ve just run to make a complaint, but I don’t know whether the police sergeant understood me. First, he was annoyed with Phanor, who had followed me, and with me, because I wasn’t speaking American; then I got annoyed too and I said some silly things in Limousin,27 so that he wouldn’t understand at all.”
“Explain yourself calmly, now, Melanie. What’s happened?”
“This: when you had gone, Barlotin went out on the pretext of sorting out something that was wrong with the mooring. He called to me for help, then climbed back up and made Phanor jump down. Then, all of a sudden, the Villa Beauséjour took off, turned around a little, then gained height and disappeared within five minutes…”
“That animal of a pilot is mad! Where has he gone with the house? He’ll come back soon, I hope!”
“No, Monsieur, he won’t come back. When I called to him to come back and told him that you wouldn’t be happy, he answered me by thumbing his nose and he went back into his cockpit. Thumbing his nose—him, who was always so polite to me, and everyone else! Hypocrite! Nasty fellow! And the Villa set off at speed. He’s stolen it from you, Monsieur! It immediately went up very high and headed that way, Monsieur. It wouldn’t have done any good to cry: “Stop, thief!” so I ran to the police station.
“Strange, strange!”
Perplexed, Monsieur Cabrol tugged at his moustache, gazing at the clouds strewn with aircraft of all kinds. Andoche and Moderan, shading their eyes with their hands, tried to discover the Villa Beauséjour among the swarm of aerial vehicles of every caliber, from great airships to minuscule miniplanes.
“Nothing, nothing!” they repeated. “And he’s taken our binoculars along with the house.”
“If only that were all he’s taken,” moaned Melanie, raising her handkerchief to her eyes.
“What else?”
“What! Think about poor Babylas, Monsieur! Our cat, who loves us so much, poor plump darling—such a nice animal! He’s taken him along with the house, the villain! Where are they now? Where are they?”
Melanie wept. Monsieur Cabrol felt upset. Andoche and Moderan were walking around nervously, shaking their fists.
“Animal! Villain! Scoundrel! Thief!”
“But it’s not impossible,” Monsieur Cabrol said, “that he’s gone to run an errand—I don’t know where. He’ll explain everything when he comes back—because he will come back!”
“No, no, I’m certain he won’t—that’s why I went to the police station without waiting for you.”
“You did the right thing, Melanie.”
“That’s what the police sergeant told me when he finally understood. He told me that it happens quite often, thefts like that. Aircraft are sometimes stolen from the Airstrip, or aircraft parked in quiet spots, ill-guarded camping aircraft, which the thieves disguise right away and sell 10,000 kilometers away—unless they make use of them in robberies. The sergeant told me that, but he reassured me. The police are alert, he told me, and they catch these thieves! They’ll catch ours, that Barlotin who’s carried off poor innocent Babylas! Not, Phanor, who would have escaped!”
“It’s necessary to catch him as soon as possible. I’ll run to the police station to hasten the pursuit. Keep a tight hold of Phanor, so that he doesn’t get mixed up in the conversation.”
Monsieur Cabrol ran to the Airstrip office and raced to the Tele, while his nephews ran this way and that, searching for the Villa down below, on the ground beneath the Airstrip, behind the nearest group of factories or in the sky, behind the skyscrapers. Nothing! Nothing at all! The Villa was nowhere on high, and nothing came back to the Airstrip.
They went around the office-kiosk, where bells were ringing.
Finally, Monsieur Cabrol came out.
“I’ve seen the superintendent of the fourth district and I’ve lodged a complaint of misappropriation. He immediately telephoned a description of the Villa and the thief everywhere. All the brigades of mounted police circulating in aircraft, describing arcs of a circle at different heights around the city, have been put on alert, as well as the coastguard brigades patrolling the gulf. There’s a good chance, the Villa Beauséjour having a rather distinctive profile, that the aeropolice have noted its passing. The superintendent advised me to go to the pound tomorrow. If he learns anything this evening, he’ll call me immediately. What an annoyance that trusted pilot is causing us! My God! As long as he doesn’t touch my great work, which I left on my desk…tell me, Melanie, you didn’t notice anything before he took off? Not the slightest suspicion?”
“Nothing at all. He was complaining, as usual, about feeling ill, this country not being to his liking…too much agitation, too much movement, he said.”
“I can understand that—but we’re only passing thorough!”
“Me, I like a quiet life, he said, watching little birds, fishing with a line in the shade, in a nice spot…that’s what I need! I’d heard him say it before, it was his obsession. This morning, he was walking on the balcony, saying: ‘Ontario or Vésinet?28 Vésinet or Ontario?’ And he kept repeating ‘Vésinet or Ontario?’ while looking at the maps in the cockpit.”
“He mentioned Ontario? That’s a clue—I’ll go speak to the superintendent on the Tele.”
“In the meantime, Monsieur, he’s carried off the provisions. I don’t have anything for dinner…”
“We’ll see about that in a little while—the nearest pharmacist.”
Walking around the Airstrip had become monotonous. Nothing was seen coming; the familiar outline of the Villa Beauséjour did not appear in the sky, among the crowd of aircraft of every sort that were touc
hing down on the Airstrip or disappearing into the clouds, rose-tinted by the setting Sun.
“And where are we going to sleep tonight? Moderan asked, sadly.
“Yes, where?” said Melanie, seemingly overwhelmed. “We haven’t any shelter.”
“I’ll take care of that; first, I’m going to see the superintendent.”
VIII. The Stolen Aerovilla Beauséjour
They had dinner, however. Monsieur Cabrol brought back the necessary provisions, and he also found a hotel of tranquil appearance, rising up a mere 38 stories into a sky traversed by fiery streaks of all colors, intersecting one another repeatedly in all directions, like rays of light escaped from the mouth of hell. Moving gleams burst out overhead: luminous sentences written in the black holes of the clouds; or advertising slogans seeming gigantic amid the stars. They hardly slept at all, thanks to the racket outside, the factory sirens, strident enough to tear through the most solid drumming, howling like demonic banshees. Thus, one nightmare after another, they arrived with difficulty at the morning.
Andoche, scarcely awake, ran to the window then looked out in the direction of the Airstrip, with the hope of finding the Villa Beauséjour returned to its berth. There was still no sign of it.
After dressing hurriedly and taking his morning pill, Monsieur Cabrol went to the pound to see if his villa had been recovered.
The pound was immense. At ground level, interminable store-rooms and hangars described a great circle, in the middle of which iron pylons supported the landing-ground 50 meters above.
Monsieur Cabrol went aloft immediately, and was transfixed. No Villa Beauséjour. A few aeroclettes here and there, a damaged dirigible, and that was all. He was already going away, dejected, when the attendant out to called him.
“Don’t despair, sir—have you looked down below?”
“Why down below? I didn’t see anything of interest to me?”
“This is the whole pound—look in the scrap-yard. It’s not very cheerful, but you need to search there all the same. Your house might be in pieces there.”
Monsieur Cabrol went pale; he had not thought about the scrap-yard. The descent in the elevator, which only took 12 seconds seemed long to him.
“Where’s the scrap-yard?”
“Not here, sir,” said an employee. “Only stray dogs. Next door’s the department of stolen hats, umbrellas, handbags and so on. It’s over there, on the other side of the department of children lost on buses…”
“Thank you!”
The scrap yard was huge. Gripped by terror, Monsieur Cabrol hesitated before going in. Finally, he plucked up courage and went through the gate. It was a vast enclosure filled with debris of every sort: cabins that were warped, torn open or crushed; little aircraft folded up like broken umbrellas, amid bristling spikes of twisted steel, dismantled machines, muddy engines…but nothing, still no sign of the Villa Beauséjour—fortunately!
Extremely discomfited, Monsieur Cabrol returned to the Airstrip, where he saw the superintendent once again on the Tele. No news there either—no message had come in, no police station had observed the passing of the stolen flying villa. The coastguard patrols had seen nothing.
What should he do? Wait. There was no cause for despair, though.
“Unless the thief immediately headed for Europe,” said the superintendent, “and flew over the bay before the coastguard had been alerted—but that’s scarcely probable, since the theft was discovered almost immediately.”
Monsieur Cabrol then asked for Paris on the Tele and gave Monsieur des Ormettes’ number. It took time, because it was night-time in Paris. Monsieur des Ormettes was asleep; he did not hear the phone; it was necessary to ring more loudly. Finally, Monsieur des Ormettes awoke and ran to the Tele. He uttered loud cries on learning what had happened.
“The Villa stolen! And stolen by Barlotin, a reliable man, a trustworthy pilot! It’s not possible. I recommend him to all my clients for tranquil little trips in the sky: no vices, no faults…except one, line-fishing, as in olden times. But that calm and blissful passion is another recommendation.”
“What does he do with his fish?”
“I don’t know anything about that. Do they catch fish, then, line-fishermen?”
“Sometimes, it’s said. They doubtless take them to a food-factory, where they’re made into extracts and pills. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Listen. Cabrol, keep us up to date. Can you come to the Tele tomorrow morning—which is to say, this evening, for you. I’m going back to sleep. I’m not worried—all will be explained.”
Monsieur Cabrol was about to leave the Tele to go back to the hotel when another bell rang. The superintendent reappeared.
“Villa recovered!” he said. “You see, my poor fellow, that one mustn’t become anxious too quickly. A message from Buffalo in Michigan…
“A Villa closely answering the description spotted this morning, proceeding at a very modest speed, flying low and tacking back and forth as if searching for something, along the shore of the lake. Summoned by wireless to stop, your house rapidly gained height to hide in a large cumulus cloud heading north-east. Police aircraft immediately gave chase, following the trail into the cumulus, where it lost it, but quickly found it again by means of its detector. The Villa attempted a rapid descent into a mountain gorge, hoping to find a hiding place in a pine-forest, but it was futile. After a quarter of an hour, the police were on to it. Hands up!—but no resistance. There was only one man aboard, who hid under a table, terrified. The man, interrogated, said his name is Barlotin, in the service of Monsieur Cabrol of Paris…
“I immediately ordered that the Villa and the thief be brought back here.”
“Thank you!” cried Monsieur Cabrol, relieved. “My compliments to the aeropolice, Monsieur Superintendent. When do you expect the Villa to arrive?”
“Oh, not more than half an hour.”
“Very good!”
Andoche and Moderan were just arriving at the Airstrip, with long faces. “Nothing, nothing—there’s no sign of it in the sky,” they said, looking down at the ground in discouragement.
“Good!” said their uncle. “Don’t worry—I’ve found our Villa Beauséjour myself. She’s coming from Buffalo, along with our thieving pilot. We have only to wait, while walking around the Airstrip.”
Monsieur Cabrol rubbed his hands together joyfully, but a sudden thought caused him to frown.
“So long as he hasn’t damaged our domain! Anyway, we’ll soon find out…”
They walked around the Airstrip, impatiently searching the swarm of airborne vehicles whose paths were crossing incessantly in the north-west, at every height, seeking to distinguish the familiar silhouette.
Finally, Andoche, who had good eyesight, called attention to a bright dot in the background of the sky. Gradually, the dot grew in size. A host of large air-freight dirigibles went past, masking the white dot. Then there were swirls of smoke melting into brown mist; the mist brightened and the Villa Beauséjour appeared quite clearly, with nothing changed. Three minutes later, it landed on the Airstrip. Andoche and Moderan each seized a mooring-rope.
“Hold tight, Andoche,” cried Moderan. “Don’t let it take off again!”
At the same moment, the elevator disgorged the police superintendent who had alerted Monsieur Cabrol, and a few employees of the Airstrip also came running up.
“Well,” said the superintendent, “We’ve recaptured your house very quickly, as you see. There’s so much surveillance up there to prevent malefactors from falling from the sky upon isolated wealthy towns or the upper stories of skyscrapers. We’re going to interrogate your thief—you can serve as my interpreter.”
The door of the Beauséjour opened; the air detective responsible for bringing the villa back appeared at the top of the ladder. The detective was a strong fellow with sturdy arms, armed with two revolvers and an immobilizer pistol in his belt; it would not have been a good idea for the pilot to attempt any resistance.
Monsieur Cabr
ol quickly climbed up, with his nephews and the superintendent.
Behind Monsieur Cabrol and the superintendent, Melanie rushed forward. With a single glance she glimpsed Barlotin, guarded by the detective, but that was not what she was looking for, and she went rapidly into the other rooms.
“Babylas! Babylas!” she shouted. “Where are you, Babylas? What has he done with Babylas, the scoundrel!”
Collapsed in a chair in a corner of the drawing-room, with cuffs on his hands, Barlotin, his head lowered so far that it seems to have retreated into his shoulders, did not dare to raise his eyes or open his mouth.
“Wretch!” said Monsieur Cabrol. “To abuse my trust in this fashion! What were you going to do? Where were you going?”
The pilot remained mute.
In a severe voice, the superintendent asked a few questions, which obtained no more response.
Melanie reappeared in a gust of wind, followed by Phanor, who was bounding and barking.
“I can’t find Babylas, Monsieur Superintendent. What has he done with him? He’s thrown him in the lake, Monsieur, or simply let him fall—he has to tell us!”
“No, no,” Barlotin moaned.
“When he saw that he was captured,” said the detective, “stricken by surprise and emotion, he talked. He confessed everything—the theft planned from the first moment of the arrival at the Airstrip, its premeditation during the sojourn in the Caucasian Archipelago; he’d been thinking about it for a long time.”
“That why he missed all the airships departing for Europe,” said Monsieur Cabrol. “Everything’s explained—but where was he going?”
“When I arrested him,” the detective said, “he was searching for a quiet little cove on the banks of the Ontario.”
“Don’t go to any trouble, Monsieur Superintendent,” Melanie put in, arriving unexpectedly once again. “He’s been found—look, here he is. Babylas had hidden in my wardrobe, for fear of all the upheaval yesterday. It’s Phanor who found him. Wasn’t it, Phanor?”
Delighted with his triumph, Phanor redoubled his barking.
Chalet in the Sky Page 19
