The young woman had not expected such curt language. As Escander drew away, she launched herself forward.
“No, no! I beg you, abandon your unrealizable project. I don’t want you to go! I don’t want it!”
But Escander pushed her away gently and ran toward the bow, leaving the young woman sobbing.
The journalist rejoined Alexis, already solidly strapped into his seat. Escander took the place reserved for him. The 21, set in motion, glided smoothly over the foredeck and immediately took flight. It banked steeply at low altitude, and, returning along the course traveled by the ship, flew over the sand. At that moment Escander gave a signal agreed in advance, and then the aircraft gained height, designing a great semicircle that was to take it above the aerobagne.
At sea, the captain of the Étoile polaire ordered: “Hold the helm! Engine full ahead! Three hundred revs!”
The Étoile polaire’s hull shuddered in its entirety, and cut through the swell more rapidly.
XVI. In the Air in Mid-Storm
The airplane rose up, no longer seeming anything but a dot in the sky, but at the same time, in the south-west, the black clouds of the daily tornado were accumulating.
Only Escander, sitting in the cockpit, was visible, looming over Alexis, who had had his seat lowered in such a fashion as only to have his eyes above the propeller housing.
The journalist, full of confidence in his pilot’s mastery and coolness, occupied himself buckling around his waist the straps of the lifebuoy, to which was attached the retention system of a silk parachute with an automatic safety-release. An extreme confidence animated him; certainly, he had a reputation as a daredevil, he knew that, but at the moment he felt much more tranquil and sure of his nerves than the day when, dressed as a dervish, he had entered the shadow of a forbidden temple in the depths of India, not far from Tibet, and each of the other times that he had risked his life.
When he had checked all the attachments of his safety-harness, he adjusted his leather helmet on his head and adapted the voice amplifier in order to be able to exchange a few words with Alexis—who, coiffed in a similar helmet, with earphones, was attentively supervising the progress of his aircraft.
“Can you hear me, Alexis?”
“Very clearly, Boss.”
“How long before we’re over the Boches?”
“A little more than an hour; we need to climb a lot further; we’re only at five hundred meters, but the wind’s beginning to get up and it’s against us…that’s a hindrance, and then again, it’ll carry you away in the fall. It’s therefore necessary to drop you behind the 32 to have any chance of falling on it.”
“That’s what I calculated.”
“Have you made certain of the straps?”
“Yes, don’t worry.”
“I’m afraid that the wind might ball up the parachute.”
“We’ll see.”
“While falling, hold your breath, don’t open your mouth and squeeze your legs together. There are two compartments in the buoy; one contains cordials and food concentrates, the other rockets. If you fall into the sea, don’t forget to send one up as soon as you return to the surface. You light it by popping off the tinplate capsule that covers one of the ends and dipping it in the water.”
“All duly noted, my dear Alexis. I’ll remember everything.”
Above all, don’t forget to release the parachute cord; the catch is just above your head. Do that two or three meters from the sea and you’ll slide in like velvet; the wind will carry the parachute away—otherwise, it might cover you and prevent you from getting back to the surface.”
“Yes, I have all the recommendations engraved in my memory, but it’s not into the water that I’m going to fall but on to the Boches. As soon as my fall commences, Alexis, you do exactly as I’ve told you to; it’s necessary to give them the certainty that there’s no one aboard the plane. As soon as you’re out of sight, set a course directly for the dunes of Iguidi, where you go down, alert the camp and await events.”
“You’ll be obeyed, Boss, but if the Boche aircraft doesn’t come down, it’ll be because you’re dead—then I’ll go up again in my cuckoo and stick my beak in; we’ll bring the company tumbling down!”
“I forbid you to do that.”
“Go ahead!” said Alexis. “I’m like you—when I have an idea, I stick to it, and as you won’t be there to prevent me, I’ll do as I like. Look out!”
A violent clap of thunder had just shaken the entire sky. The silhouette of aerobagne 32 was becoming more distinct, but Alexis, hampered by the wind, still had to climb to get above it.
“Need to hurry,” said Alexis. “We’re going to be caught by the tornado.”
He turned a handle; the propeller rotated with a crazy velocity, and the 21 continued to gain height more rapidly.
Would he have time to reach a calmer region? The valiant little bird was performing admirably, but the tornado burst.
The 21 was surrounded by an ocean of fire. Detonations, rumbles and rips succeeded one another, formidable and fearful, with no discontinuity. Under the action of the wind, the 21 went off course, recovered, and then, driven away again, bucking and rearing, continued the struggle.
For an hour, Alexis fought, his arms weary, his head buzzing. Finally, he succeeded in lining up with the 32, two hundred meters above it and slightly behind—about a hundred meters.
At that moment, a formidable flash of lightning seemed to envelop the frail aircraft, accompanied by a furious gust of wind, and the 21, performing a backflip, was turned completely upside-down.
Escander, projected, as it were, into the void, fell...
Paul Ménestin, who was coming out of his laboratory, stepped back in terror. The immense aerobagne, in the heart of the storm, seemed to be ablaze.
Half of the crewmen were at the emergency posts; the other half were at battle stations; the commandant and the first lieutenant, standing on the bridge, were exploring the sky, which seemed to be on fire, with their gaze. The airship was pitching, and large raindrops were already beginning to fall when, after several attempts, Ménestin was able to reach a favorable observation post. An airplane of a tiny model was perceptible, entirely blue. The poor little bird, carried away by the tempest, was behind the bagne and higher up.
Suddenly, abruptly, its wings dipped and it cartwheeled. The pilot was then seen waving his arms in distress, in falling, sustained by a partly-opened parachute.
As for the aircraft, it began to execute a series of loops, flew through the air like a projectile, and disappeared. In any case, no one was any longer paying attention to it. All gazes were following the man with the parachute, which had finally opened broadly, and as beginning to moderate his vertiginous fall.
The wind pushed the unfortunate fellow directly toward the bagne, and in spite of the maneuver that the commandant ordered to remove his vessel from the line of the fall, the pilot in perdition was bowled on to one of the supportive planes of the 32. People ran to help him; he was brought unconscious to the deck, and then taken to the commandant’s cabin.
XVII. Escander at Work
When Escander recovered his senses, he found himself extended on the floor of the cabin. Two men were leaning over him: the commandant and the first lieutenant, who were watching for signs of life. A third officer, dressed in a second lieutenant’s uniform, was standing to one side.
Never, since the day when Ménestin had discovered the secret of the woman who was posing as an officer, had those two individuals encountered one another again. Ménestin avoided the young woman, who similarly avoided him, and the French engineer had seen the withdrawal, one by one, of all the petty liberties that had been accorded to him.
Escander was not one of those who leaps into immediate action; he had a delicate cunning, which did not take a risk without mature reflection, which left nothing to chance and which, for the moment, was causing him to pretend to be in a worse condition than he actually was—for, although he was sti
ll completely shaken up by his terrible fall, he retained all his mental faculties. His jangled nerves, overly taut, had lost their spring, but his mind, fortunately, conserved all its lucidity.
The first lieutenant unclenched the teeth that he was holding tight deliberately, and slid a few drops of cordial into his mouth. Escander did not budge. The officer lifted his head and then released it. The patient let it fall back heavily.
“Who the devil is this intruder, Lieutenant?” asked the commandant, whose perplexity was translated by the stupid question.
“I don’t know, Kommandant, but we’re about to find out.”
So saying, the lieutenant had opened Escander’s flying-jacket, and found a card in his pocket bearing the inscription:
Aviation de l’Afrique Occidentale Française
Alexis-Charles Blin
Pilote
The lieutenant passed the card to the commandant, who, after having examined it, dropped it on to a table. It was obvious that neither of them understood French very well.
The two men fell silent. The tempest could be heard raging outside.
“Hmm!” said the commandant.
The first lieutenant perceived his superior’s embarrassment. “I think the best thing to do,” he said, “is let him recover his senses; afterwards, we’ll see. If we have any anxiety in his regard, we can always reattach his parachute to his shoulders and throw him overboard.”
Escander felt himself carried away. The rain wet his face again; then he divined that they were penetrating an enclosed space and he was laid on a bed. He was left alone. He opened his eyes. He was in a narrow cell, which he recognized, by the clutter, to be a miniature chemistry laboratory. A metal bed, equipped with a leather mattress, was the only furniture in the strange redoubt. He had some difficulty getting to his feet, because his aching limbs were making him suffer, but he finally managed to take a few steps.
An immense satisfaction filled his soul; the most difficult part was over; the rest depended on his ingenuity and his courage. He lay down on the bed again to get a little rest and reflect at his ease.
To begin with, one problem was posed: how to find out whether Paul Ménestin was really aboard. Few means presented themselves: a direct question in that regard would surely be answered by the reattachment of his parachute. Could he prowl round the airship? He would not be permitted to do that. Only one thing remained possible: to pretend ignorance of the German language. That would doubtless lead the commandant of the aerobagne to have him interrogated by the prisoner; but for that, it was necessary for none of the officers to know French. Would he be so lucky?
Calmly, he awaited events. Fortunately, he had not been searched thoroughly, and he still had his two automatic pistols.
Outside, the tempest had calmed down; only the rain was continuing, heavy and regular.
After an hour or so, a man suddenly came into the cell. He found Escander still recumbent, but his eyes were open. He immediately went out, and Escander heard footfalls running through the downpour. Ten minutes later, the two officers, enveloped in their cloaks, came into the cell.
The commandant approached the bed, the first lieutenant respectfully remaining a step behind.
“Who are you? Where do you come from?” interrogated the senior officer, in German.
Escander put on a profoundly bewildered expression, and risked: “I don’t speak German. I’m French.”
Then the first lieutenant approached and repeated the two questions in what he believed to be French. The result was pitiful. Escander pretended to be making superhuman efforts to understand, and then adopted a contrite expression, while rubbing his legs, which appeared to be causing him considerable pain. After much effort, he repeated: “French, I’m French. My name is Alexis-Charles Blin, pilot.”
The two officers looked at one another, nonplussed. To acquit his conscience, Escander continued: “I was going from Conakry to Amative. I was caught by the tornado. I had to gain height to try to find more manageable weather, but my cuckoo took a tumble and I only just had time to get out with my parachute. It’s lucky you were there.”
While speaking, he continued rubbing his legs, but he had just furnished a plausible explanation for his presence aboard the 32, and he promised himself not to depart from it.
The two officers looked at one another again. Their embarrassment was visible. Finally, the commandant seemed to make a decision; he murmured a few words to the first lieutenant, who deigned to acquiesce with a nod and went out—but he came back a minute later, flanked by a third person, whom Escander devoured with his eyes.
When I think, he said to himself angrily, that Mademoiselle Régis certainly has a photograph of her fiancé, and that I never thought to ask her to show it to me...
The commandant spoke for some time to the newcomer, who, for his part, gazed at Escander with feverish eyes
Mademoiselle Mathilde, the journalist thought, told me that Ménestin doesn’t wear a beard. This fellow has one that could serve as an apron. Still, we’ll see.
The bearded man spoke. “I’ve been instructed to ask you who you are and where you’ve come from.”
“And you, who are you? French?”
“Yes.”
“Tell them that I’m a pilot in the Senegal-Madagascar service, that my plane was damaged during the journey by the tempest and that I had to bail out…but what’s your name?”
The bearded man repeated word for word what the journalist had just said, but did not reply to the question he had been asked.
The two officers shook their heads and looked at one another in silence.
The bearded man took advantage of that brief moment to put his finger over his lips.
It’s him! thought the journalist, his heart leaping with joy.
“It’s necessary to separate them,” said the commandant, “and prevent them from communicating with one another. “As soon as we’re close enough to a center of habitation we’ll drop anchor and get rid of the intruder, by confiding him to his parachute.”
It was the commandant who, in response to the first lieutenant’s affirmative nod, committed the formidable, unexpected gaffe: “Stand down, Monsieur Ménestin.”
A discreet smile brushed Escander’s lips. He had suspected the truth. Now the name, even pronounced in a German accent, confirmed his conviction.
The bearded man saw the smile, and his gaze lit up with a fugitive gleam.
The officers conversed for a few moments more in low voices, and then the first lieutenant said to Ménestin: “Follow me.” The two men went out. On the threshold, they bumped into Second Lieutenant Eitel.
“What are the orders?” he asked.
“To lock this one up”—the first lieutenant pointed at Ménestin—“and post a sentry at his door.”
“Do you want me to take charge of that?”
The first lieutenant, wet and worn out with fatigue, had only one priority: to get to bed as soon as possible.
“Gladly,” he replied. And he drew away.
Eitel watched him disappear, and then turned to Ménestin.
“You must know, Monsieur, that it requires a powerful motive for the person who owes her greatest dolor and greatest humiliation to you to address speech to you. Know that you’re a prisoner here for life. If my government decided to return you to your people, or if, eventually you found some chance of escaping, you couldn’t do it. I’ve discovered, one after another, your flasks of explosive, and, as true as I hate you and am weary of living, I’ll blow up the airship.”
“With your father?”
“With my father and all the others, as long as you’re one of them.”
“I recognize the spirit of your race there. Is that all you have to tell me?”
“That’s all.”
Eitel took a step back. Ménestin went into his laboratory, and the second lieutenant, uttering a dull exclamation of rage, went to wake Weber in order to confide the guard of the prisoner to him.
Apart f
rom Weber, who was pacing up and down outside the cabins to which Ménestin and Escander had been relegated, in a very bad mood, everyone aboard the 32 seemed to be asleep.
However, without making any noise, Escander’s door opened, so softly that Weber did not hear anything. The two men on guard at the prow and the mechanics in the engine rooms could not see anything that was happening on the deck.
The feldwebel, lost in his sullen reverie, went past the door that stood slightly ajar and continued his route without seeing anything. Then the door opened fully. Escander, his feet bare, an automatic pistol. In his hand, appeared on the threshold. He advanced stealthily, and positioned himself directly in front of Weber when the other made his about-turn.
When the feldwebel saw the barrel of a pistol between is eyes, he did not utter a cry or make a gesture. Escander collected the electric carbine that the German was holding in a weak hand.
“March,” said the journalist, in a German as correct as could be. “Take me to the French prisoner, or you’re dead.”
The feldwebel obeyed, heading toward the laboratory door, on which he knocked. Escander stood behind him, pistol in hand. Finally, the door opened. Escander shoved his guide into the cell, brutally, and closed the door behind him.
“You’re Paul Ménestin,” said the reporter to the bearded man, who, not knowing what the other wanted, had grabbed a glass pestle as a weapon and was holding it defensively.
“Yes, I’m Paul Ménestin,” the man said, putting down the pestle.
“Finally!” said Escander, radiant. Then briefly, he explained: “I’ve come to rescue you. Your journal has made a lot of noise, but you’ll know that later. Your fiancée is at sea at this moment, a few kilometers away. For the moment, let’s act. Do you have any rope. We need to start by tying this man up.”
The Mirror of Present Events Page 34
