by Fergus Hume
It was as Dan said, for Vincent received the young men with a sour smile, which sat uneasily on his face, since he was more accustomed to frowning. However, as he was disposed to be amiable, Dan was thankful for small mercies, and expressed his feeling loudly when the inventor graciously placed at his disposal an aeroplane of the latest construction.
“I owe Mrs. Jarsell much,” said Vincent, leading the way towards the shed, “so her requests must be granted. Here is the machine, Mr. Halliday.”
“It’s very good of you—”
“It isn’t. Don’t thank me, but Mrs. Jarsell. Speaking for myself, I shouldn’t allow you to have the aeroplane,” said Vincent sourly. “I want to keep all my improvements to myself until I make a perfect machine.”
“Oh, I’ll keep all your secrets,” Dan assured him cheerfully as they entered the vast shed, “and I’ll share the prize money with you.”
“I don’t want it. Win the race and prove that my machine is the best. That is all I ask. By the way, where is Laurance?”
“Don’t you remember? We left him in the cottage with your niece.”
“I don’t want him to marry her, and he shan’t,” said Vincent with a frown, speaking on the subject unexpectedly, “and, what is more, since he’s a newspaper man, I don’t want you to talk too freely to him about my improvements.”
“Laurance can hold his tongue,” rejoined Dan somewhat stiffly; “your trade secrets are safe with him. So this is the machine,” he ended, to avert further discussion on the inventor’s part.
“Yes,” said Vincent, forgetting all else in the passion of his hobby, and he began to explain matters. “A biplane, as you see, and it can carry enough oil and essence for a twelve hours’ flight. Wheel it out,” he added, turning to a quartette of workmen. “Mr. Halliday will try a flight.”
Dan was only too ready, as the beauty of the machine appealed to him immensely, especially when he beheld it in the pale light of the sun, when it was brought into the open. The men wheeled it out of the back part of the shed onto a level lawn, which could serve as a starting-place. Vincent talked all the time in a great state of excitement, and pointed out the various improvements and beauties of the masterpiece.
The planes were not exactly horizontal, since Vincent considered that he gained more power by making them branch at a slight angle. The wings were doubly covered with fine canvas, and a broad streak of crimson ran through their white, which the inventor informed Dan was a characteristic of all his machines. “A sort of distinguishing mark, as it were,” said Vincent. Another improvement was that the aviator could steer with his knees on occasions, which gave freedom to the hands when necessary. The engine was light and powerful, with tremendous driving-power considering its size. Finally, the steering-seat—the bridge of the airship, as it might be—was fenced in comfortably with aluminium, and a broad expanse of mica protected the controller of the aeroplane from the force of the winds. It was really an admirable machine and Halliday was loud in his praises, to which, however, its maker paid little attention. Genius does not require laudation; talent does.
Dan inspected the machine in every direction, tried the steering gear which ran easily, saw that the engine was well supplied with fuel, and tested, as well as he could, the various spars and ropes and bolts. Then he took his seat in the pilot-box, and prepared for a trial flight.
“Not that she hasn’t been out before,” said Vincent, while Dan gathered his energies to start. “Ready, Mr. Halliday. Let her go.”
The workmen ran the machine along the lawn, Dan set the propellor going, and after lightly spinning along the ground for some distance the aeroplane rose into the grey sky like an immense bird. A side glance showed Dan that Mildred and her lover were running out of the shed, and had arrived just a moment too late to witness his start. However, he had no time to pay attention to terrestrial matters, for all his capabilities were given to handling the new craft. Up and up he went to a considerable height with the engine running true and sweet, then dived nearly to earth in switch-back fashion, only to tower again like a hawk. Shortly he was at a lofty elevation travelling along at top speed in the direction of the ten-mile-distant Thawley. Vincent and his workmen, Laurance and the girl, became mere black dots, and beneath him the earth slipped past at more than railroad speed. Once in the vast spaces of the firmament Dan let his engines travel at their fastest, and the vanes of the propeller spun, as an American would say, like greased lightning. Halliday’s pulses raced almost as fast, as the joy of playing with death seized him. In the delicate structure of the aeroplane—being its soul and controlling power —he felt like a bird and swooped in mighty arcs in proof of his mastership of the sky.
In a few minutes he was over Thawley, and a downward glance showed him innumerable black insects running with excitement here, there, and everywhere, as the machine was sighted. Dan dipped nearly to the weather-cock of the parish church, then slid out towards the northern portion of the town. Making his aerial way with the speed of the wind Thawley was soon left behind and the aviator hovered over a wide country dotted with villages, intersected with streams, and rough with more or less high hills that divided the many vales of the country. Ten minutes took him out of Hillshire, and he flew over the wild Yorkshire moors. The air sang past him on either side of the mica screen, which prevented his breath being taken away. Everything was taut and fit and neat, and in its right place, and the engine sang a song of triumph, which mingled with the droning hum of the screw. Below was the painted earth, above the grey sky, faintly illuminated by the wintry sunshine, and between the two Halliday flew with the swiftness of a kestrel sighting its prey. Dan was used to this sublime excitement, and could control his feelings—otherwise he would have shouted for joy, which would have been from his point of view, a mere waste of energy.
He finally reached York, circled round the Minster, and then turned his craft homeward in glee. The machine was certainly the best he had yet handled, and he made sure that, given moderately decent conditions, he would win the race and gain the £2,000 necessary to continue his search for Moon’s murderess. And the capture of her, as he reminded himself, meant his marriage with Lillian. No wonder the young man’s heart beat high, for it was not easy to come by so magnificent an aeroplane, and he felt as grateful to Vincent for building it as he felt to Mrs. Jarsell for procuring him the mastership of the same.
Those Dan left on the lawn behind the Sheepeak shed stared steadily into the grey distance, and shortly saw a dim spot moving towards them with the swiftness of an eagle. Larger and larger it grew, until they could distinguish the aeroplane’s construction, like a delicate tracery against the clouds. In a wide circle it moved gracefully and then like a bird folding its wings, settled gently at the very feet of its inventor. The trial was a complete success in every way.
Chapter IX. MAHOMET’S COFFIN
The aeroplane acquired by Halliday could be dismounted in three parts, so that it could easily have been taken to pieces and packed for transfer to London. But the race for “The Moment” prize was to take place within seven days, and Dan wished to familiarize himself with the machine as much as was possible in the interval. For this reason he decided to go by air to the metropolis, taking the journey in easy flights, with intervals of rest between. He therefore arranged to send his baggage back to town with Freddy, and carried only a small black bag containing absolutely necessary personal effects. Freddy did not object to this plan, as he did not wish to leave Mildred sooner than was necessary. Therefore Dan started and Laurance remained behind to pass golden hours in the girl’s society. However, he promised his friend to be in London within two days. And as Halliday, besides covering the hundred and sixty odd miles in short flights, desired to practise aviation in the open spaces of the country before getting to the capital, it was not needful for Freddy to return to his business until forty-eight hours had passed. This arrangement suited both the young men very well.
Vincent, who was now as hot in Dan’s favo
ur as he had been cold, presided at the start, and again and again went over various details in connection with the machine, which was much dearer to him than any child could have been. Now that his objections had been set aside by the intervention of Mrs. Jarsell, the inventor was desperately anxious that Dan should win the race, as such a triumph would undoubtedly show the value of the new-fangled biplane. Not that Vincent wished for the money, or even for the glory, but he very greatly desired to show other inventors that he was their master. His vanity, being purely concerned with the result of nights and days of meditation, could only be gratified by actual proof that he had conquered the air. Not entirely that is, for Vincent was far too thorough in his genius to believe that Rome could be built in a day; but at all events he trusted that his machine would reveal itself as the best that any man had yet constructed. So far as that was concerned Halliday, accustomed to aviation, believed that the sour old man had succeeded.
“If I don’t win the race, it won’t be your fault, Mr. Vincent,” Dan assured him, as he stepped into the pilot’s box, and with this farewell speech the inventor expressed himself very well content. He did not expect impossibilities, and he saw that the man to whom he had entrusted his darling airship was both cool and enthusiastic, qualities which go far towards gaining complete success.
It was a calm day with scarcely any wind when Dan began his flight, and as the biplane could easily attain sixty miles an hour he would have had no difficulty in reaching London early in the afternoon. But he did not make straight for the south, but circled gradually down to Rugby, where he proposed to remain for the night. Dawdling in the air, it was five hours before he alighted outside the town, and feeling weary with the strain on his nerves—for the machine required dexterous handling—he determined to rest. Without much difficulty he found a friendly farmer, who was willing that the airship should be housed in an empty barn for the night. When all was safe and Halliday had arranged that no one should enter the barn, he sought out a cheap inn on the borders of the place to rest for the night, within watching distance of his craft. Next morning, after breakfast, he concluded to start again, but after a visit to the barn to see that all was well, he returned to the inn for an hour.
It was necessary, he thought, to consider the situation and his future plans; therefore he wished for solitude to do so. Owing to his fatigue he had not been able to think much on the previous night before sleep overtook him.
The plan, which Dan intended to carry into effect when he reached town, was to force Penn into confessing what he actually knew concerning the perfume. He had obviously spoken falsely as to his being its sole possessor in England, since Mrs. Jarsell had given the like scent to her old governess. Yet, why should Penn lie in this fashion, unless there was some secret connected with the perfume, which he desired to keep concealed? And assuredly the scent had clung round the clothes of the dead man. Dan determined to force Penn into confession, and that could only be done by frightening him greatly. To carry out this plan, Halliday wrote to the man asking him for an interview, and when he came—as Dan was certain he would—intended, in some way, to inveigle him into taking a flight. Once Penn was in the air his fears could be played upon to some purpose. At least Dan thought so, and was hot to make the experiment.
Of course, the young man did not suspect Mrs. Jarsell of being connected in any way with crime of any sort. Still it was strange that the perfume from Sumatra should form a link between her and Sir Charles Moon with Penn intervening. It was also strange that Mrs. Pelgrin should hint that Mrs. Jarsell had secrets. She had not said as much in so many words, but the general trend of her cautious conversation went to show that Mrs. Jarsell was not entirely open and above board. The landlady had wondered where the owner of the Grange got her money. Now why should she so wonder, unless she had proofs that the said money was not come by honestly? And why, also, should she, in a quite unnecessary way, mention her nephew—who was the Thawley station porter—as being friendly with Mrs. Jarsell to such an extent that there was a chance of his getting a legacy? Ladies of wealth do not make friends of railway porters without reason, and Dan wished to learn the reason in this particular case. By a diplomatic question he had ascertained from Mrs. Pelgrin that her nephew was the sole Sheepeak person employed at the station. Consequently he would naturally be the sole person who knew Mrs. Jarsell and all about her; therefore it was not impossible that the lady befriended the man so that he might not speak of her visits to town. Yet why should he not do so, Mrs. Jarsell’s doings being entirely honest? Then there were three motor-cars, a quite unnecessary number for a lady to keep, especially as, according to her own story, she went out little and spent most of her time in attending to Miss Armour. On the whole, although his suspicions were vague, Dan had an idea that Mrs. Jarsell’s doings would not bear the light of day. Still—and especially since she had procured him the biplane—he would not have troubled about her rustic affairs save for the fact of the perfume. It might be—and this he hoped to discover—that Penn’s confession would show more plainly the link which connected Mrs. Jarsell with the Hampstead crime. Yet on the face of it the very idea seemed monstrous and Dan scorned himself for his folly as he wrote the letter to Penn. Nevertheless, something stronger than himself drove him to post the letter.
Afterwards, to get the unpleasant taste of conspiring out of his mouth, the young man wrote a lover-like epistle to Lillian, telling her about his capture of the aeroplane. “You and Mrs. Bolstreath must come and see the start of the race at Blackheath,” wrote Dan, “and your mere presence will inspire me to do my very best to win. Much hangs on my gaining this race, as I want the money to prosecute the search for your father’s assassin!” Then Halliday left business for pleasure, and, telling Lillian that he adored her to distraction, urged her not to see too much of Lord Curberry. Finally, he declared that he was hungering for a glimpse of her angel face, and now that he was returning to London intended to call and see her, despite the prohibition of Sir John. There was much more passionate writing to the same effect, and the letter ended with sentiments of lively and lofty devotion. If another man had written the letter Dan would have smiled at its vehemence, since the scribe cast himself under Miss Moon’s dainty feet to be trampled upon. But as Dan was the author of the epistle, he only regretted that he could not say more ardent things than he had set down. To such lengths does the passion of love carry the most matter-of-fact of men; and Halliday certainly prided himself upon being a very up-to-date child of this materialistic age, believing in nothing he could not see, or touch, or feel.
The letters having been posted, and the bill paid, and the black bag packed, Dan took his way to the barn of the friendly farmer. He found quite a number of people before the great doors, as the news that an aviator was in the neighbourhood had spread rapidly. The farmer did not wish to take any rent for the night’s lodging of the aeroplane, but as it had been guarded so carefully and was housed so comfortably, Halliday insisted upon the man having some recompense for his kindness. Then with the assistance of three or four willing onlookers the machine was wheeled out into the meadow wherein the barn stood. It was close upon mid-day when Dan started and the spectators gasped with awe and delighted surprise when the biplane, like a big dragon-fly, soared into the cloudy sky. Willing to give them pleasure, since an airship was not a common sight in the neighbourhood, Halliday did some fancy flying and circled and dipped and towered directly over the town before finally waving his hand in farewell. A thin cry of many throats came to his ears as he sped southward, and he was delighted to find how readily the machine answered to every motion of his hand. He almost felt that he was riding on a live thing, all nerves and energy, so obedient was the craft to his will. The machine was like a flying beetle, the planes motionless to sustain the body like the front wings of the insect, while the propeller, spinning vigorously, acted like the back wings to drive ahead. Dan had a faint idea of seeing some comparison of this sort in a magazine, and wondered if Vincent, having seen
it also, had constructed his aeroplane on insect lines. But he soon dropped all conjecture to attend strictly to his business, which was to reach London as speedily as possible; no very difficult task, considering the swiftness of his vehicle.
It was convenient that Dan should know a shed at Blackheath where he could house his machine, as Lord Curberry’s house was in that neighbourhood. Once on the spot it would be easy to have an interview with Marcus Penn, and perhaps not difficult to induce him to take the air in the lofty spaces of the sky. The neighbourhood was well known to Halliday, for his occupation of aviation brought him often there, and he had experimented with various inventions at various times, where the land afforded room for the departure and arrival of the machines; therefore, when he reached London’s outskirts he made for Blackheath, and without difficulty brought the aeroplane to earth, a stone-throw from the shed in question. It said a great deal for the capabilities of the biplane that her pilot was enabled to strike his destination so exactly. Of course, the usual concourse of people gathered when the great bird-like structure fluttered down from the sky, but Dan sent a messenger to the man who looked after the shed, and soon had Vincent’s masterpiece safely put away under lock and key. As he had been practising flying and strenuously testing the qualities of the machine, it was quite five o’clock before he was free to do what he would. As the distance from Rugby was just over eighty miles he could have arrived much earlier had he wished. But there was no need to do so, and every need to accustom himself to handling the biplane easily in view of the great race.
When Dan had given certain instructions to the man who looked after the shed and was responsible for the safety of the machine, he walked across the heath to a comfortable inn, where he was well-known, as he had put up at it many times previously. It was here that he had appointed the meeting with Marcus Penn for the next morning, but so eager was he to come face to face with the man and wring the truth out of him, that he almost decided to walk to Lord Curberry’s house, which was two miles distant. But a swift reflection that he could do nothing until the next morning—since Penn had to be coaxed on to the aeroplane and certainly would decline a night-run—decided him to wait. The “Black Bull” was a particularly comfortable hotel and the landlady supplied tasty dinners; therefore Halliday took the good the gods sent him and settled down for a quiet evening. After a stroll to the shed to see that Vincent’s creation was all right he returned to the inn and went to bed. His nerves speedily relaxed, and he slept deeply until nine o’clock in the morning. As he had invited Penn to see him at eleven, he had just time to take his breakfast comfortably, read the newspaper, and saunter out to breathe the fresh air before his visitor arrived.
