The Phantom Airman

An atmosphere of subdued excitement, primed with expectancy, seemed to pervade the camp. The whole party were eagerly watching and waiting for something. But what caravan, with its tinkling bells, its camels and spices, its rich silks and ladings from Persia or from Damascus had awakened the predatory instincts of these kings of the desert? Besides, were they not too few in number to engage a well-armed band of Baghdad merchants?

Nay, it was no rich argosy of the desert that these fierce men expected; their eyes were directed one and all towards the skies, for the days had now arrived of which the poet spoke, when he

"Saw the heavens filled with commerce,
Argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight,
Dropping down with costly bales;"

and they were awaiting, with evil intent, the passing of the Aerial Mail, which they knew to be carrying vast treasures of gold and other precious things from India to Cairo and Europe.

The three Europeans who had collected and organised these robber chiefs, by appealing to their hereditary instincts, were none other than our friends, Rittmeister von Spitzer, and his companions Carl and Max, the German irreconcilables, whom we left in the dark shadows of the Schwarzwald preparing for their adventure.

Already they had made a name greater than Muller of the Emden, but they had made themselves outlaws of the nations of the world, and though for a little while success and fame might attend them, yet they knew that sooner or later the agreed price of their adventure would be death.

"What news of the British air-liner, Max?" called von Spitzer, as his subordinate descended by a rope ladder from one of the smaller trees, where an observation post had been fixed, and an aerial mounted, for the purposes of wireless telegraphy and telephony.

"She left Delhi at mid-day yesterday, sir," replied the operator, unclamping the receivers which till now had been fixed over his ears.

"Then she's running to scheduled time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was it the official departure message that you tapped?"

"It must have been, Rittmeister, for it announced that a distinguished passenger had joined her at the last moment."

"Indeed! What was his name? Did you discover it?" asked the flight-commander, who, to maintain his influence over the wild sons of the desert, was wearing the loose, flowing robes of an Arab sheik, richly emblazoned and adorned.

"His name was the Maharajah of Bangalore," replied Max, the erstwhile Gotha pilot.

"What! the miscreant! He was the man who raised thirty thousand Indian troops for the Mesopotamian campaign, and made it possible for the British to advance on Baghdad after their disaster at Kut."

"That accounts for it. He is to be decorated at St. James's Palace for some eminent services he has rendered to the British Government."

"We're in luck's way, Max. I may spare his life, as I do not seek to take any man's life who does not oppose me. But it's a thousand to one he's carrying his jewels and his household gods with him; it is the custom of these eastern potentates. I will strip him as the locust strips the vine. I will give his jewels to these brave Arabs; it will confirm my hold upon them. We may need their help upon another occasion. But, this is by the way, was there anything from the professor?"

"Only this, Rittmeister; I have waited since dawn for it," and the operator handed to Spitzer a cryptic message of seven letters, which, to the receiver at least was quite unintelligible. Max had pencilled it down as follows:–"X–G–P–C–V–S–M," for it had come through the ether by wireless telegraphy and not by wireless telephone, like the first message. The reason was obvious. One message was for public intelligence and for use in the newspapers, and the other was for more secret and sinister purposes. The cryptogram had come from the professor, who, with his mechanic, had been left behind in the Schwarzwald to collect information for the brigands, and to obtain further supplies of uranis for the Scorpion.

The Rittmeister eagerly grasped the little strip of paper on which the message was written, and retired to the small hangar where the Scorpion was pegged down and stowed away, remarking:–

"This is evidently urgent; I must get the cipher-key and decode it at once. Meantime, I want you to rehearse the men in the parts they are to play, and give Carl a hand with the vibration drum. The great liner is almost due. You may tell the sheik that in addition to the large cargo of gold which the airship carries, an Indian Prince with jewels worth a king's ransom is on board."

"Your orders shall be carried out, Rittmeister," replied Max, who was glad to be relieved of his monotonous task of listening hour after hour for coded messages, and looked forward with some pleasure to the coming adventure.

Shortly afterwards, Max, having delivered his message to the Arabian chief, was standing beside Carl under the shadow of a cluster of trees on the very margin of the pool. That wonderful instrument, the vibrative drum, which is fashioned somewhat on the principle of the human ear, but with a large horn-shaped receptacle for receiving the very minutest sound waves, and focussing them on to a very sensitive drum, was engaging their attention.

Every now and then, when they fancied they heard a sound that broke the stillness of the desert, they would listen acutely, turning the horn this way and that way to discover whence came the sound.

"They are due about mid-day, the chief says," remarked Carl, after a brief pause in their conversation. "What time do you make it now?"

"A quarter of an hour yet," responded Max, consulting his chronometer, and making a rapid calculation to allow for the difference in longitude, for he still carried Central European time.

"And they're sure to follow the 30th parallel?"

"Yes, it's their shortest route," replied the wireless expert.

"Then they should pass within three or four miles from here," observed Carl.

"Yes, unless they've drifted a little out of their course."

"But we should hear them on the vibrator even if they were fifty miles away in a silent land like this."

"Undoubtedly."

"Listen! Can you hear anything?" exclaimed Max in a slightly nervous tone, after a brief silence.

"No, I don't think so, but those fellows over there must be quiet; they're getting excited about the promised loot."

"Go and tell them, Carl; you speak the best Arabic."

The German left the drum for a moment and after expostulating for a while with the sheik, he gained his point and the word was passed along for silence.

The Arabs were greatly mystified by this strange instrument, as well as by those aerial wires affixed to the trees, and most of all by that strange, weird machine, hidden away behind the sand-proof curtains of the little camouflaged hangar, like the sacred ark in the holy of holies.

With wondering eyes they had on occasion watched the Scorpion mount to the heavens with marvellous ease and descend with like facility–bearing its human burden aloft to the very skies and bringing them safely to earth again.

These strange gods which the infidels had brought with them to their desert home were greatly feared even by these brave, proud men, and it was only the largesse and the promise of still better things to come, from the great white chief, which prevented these sons of the desert from leaving this dreaded spot.

The scout pilot, having obtained his wish, now returned to the instrument, for his companion was already beckoning to him. Evidently the approach of the airship had been indicated by the sensitive drum, but, ere Carl reached the margin of the pool, he noticed the Rittmeister emerge from the hangar where he had been decoding the message, and wave for him to approach.

"What is it, Rittmeister?" he called.

"The message. Come here a moment!"

Max, who thought that a faint sound he had just heard from the instrument might portend the distant approach of the liner, left the drum, for he knew there would be plenty of time, and joined the other two by the hangar on the other side of the pool, for he also was curious about the cryptic message, which he had taken earlier in the day.

"Was it from the professor?" he asked in his first breath.

"Yes, he is in for a bad time, I fear," replied the Rittmeister. "He will not be able to communicate again for some time."

"What is the matter?" asked the others simultaneously.

"Why, Keane and Sharpe are on his track again. You know the rascals; they were secret service pilots and spies during the war, and now they are scout pilots in the British aerial police. They're the left-hand and the right hand of that confounded Tempest, the little tin god at Scotland Yard, and the brains of the aerial police."

"Himmel! I hope he can outwit them," exclaimed Carl. "They're keen birds, both of them, and they have some exploits to their credit."

"If he can't, then the length of our existence is the capacity of those remaining eight cylinders of uranis," ventured Max.