The Air Pirate

"Very well," I replied, though with some reluctance, "and the car?"

"Mr. Thumbwood has been with you at the 'Royal,' and he is not disguised. It would be better that he should not approach the hotel. We will put you down a short distance away. I will remain in the car and direct Thumbwood where to go."

Nothing escaped this little man! He seemed to foresee and provide for everything, and when I alighted five minutes afterwards, some two hundred yards from the hotel, I felt fairly secure in my new character as Mr. Johns, the don of Christ Church, Oxford.

Immediately I was in the street I became aware – you know how one does? – that the Japanese was right, and Plymouth was in a ferment. London is too vast for anything but a national calamity to make any alteration in the outward appearance of things, and even then it takes a sharp eye and a man well versed in the psychology of crowds to detect anything unusual. Not so a big provincial town.

As I walked along the classic façade of the theatre and turned the corner to the main entrance of the hotel, I saw one thought on every face and heard one single topic of discussion. The streets, always so gay and cheerful with military and naval uniforms, seemed more crowded than their wont, and there was a definite electricity in the air. I know that I felt stimulated, encouraged to persist, and as I ascended the massive steps of the hotel, my clean-shaven lips smiled to think with what interest I should be regarded if anyone had but an inkling of whom I was and upon what mission.

And then I had a shock.

Standing in the big lounge-hall, and talking to a man in a black morning-coat and a silk hat, was my second in command – Muir Lockhart, Assistant Commissioner of Air Police! He was in uniform, a special uniform that we both wore upon ceremonial occasions only.

"Yes," he was saying, "I'm down here representing the Chief."

I dared not stay to listen, but I walked towards them as slowly as I could. Muir Lockhart has a somewhat high, penetrating voice.

"When did you come down?" asked the other man.

"Arrived half an hour ago, flew down from Whitehall this morning," said Muir Lockhart.

"Then Sir John Custance isn't coming?"

My assistant shook his head. "Utterly impossible," he said. "Sir John cannot leave town just now. He must be at the head of things; can't possibly be spared. I saw him this morning before I left; he had been working all night and was nearly dead. 'Explain my position to them,' he said; 'nothing but strict duty would keep me away from Plymouth to-day.' So, you see how it is, Mr. Mayor?"

"Oh, quite, quite! Well, I must be getting round to the Guildhall. You will march up your men at half-past one? Thank you."

The man in the silk hat, who I realized must be the Mayor of Plymouth, hurried away. I was left face to face with Muir Lockhart.

He stared at me, not offensively, but in such a way that he could not have missed a detail of my appearance; he always was an observant beggar. Then he passed by without a sign of recognition. Good! I reflected, if my own colleague, who saw me for several hours each day, did not know me, no one else would. It seemed a good omen, and I blessed Danjuro in my heart.

And what a splendid liar Muir Lockhart was! He knew that I had gone away on my own, and he hadn't the least idea in the world where I was! It was a temptation to discover myself, but I refrained.

I was very puzzled. What on earth was he doing here in uniform, and talking to the Mayor about? I hadn't a suspicion of the truth even then, and I had a curious sense of being out of things, forgotten and on the scrap-heap! The long drive had made me hungry and I thought about lunch. Before going into the coffee-room I wished to remove the stains of travel, so I went down the corridor to the lavatory.

When I entered a man in his shirt-sleeves was bending over one of the basins and sluicing himself with many splashes. As I was washing my own swarthy hands he emerged from a towel and gave me a casual glance.

It was Mr. Van Adams!

I could not repress a violent start, the thing was so sudden. What did this gathering of the clans mean? He noticed my movement at once, and looked at me with inquiry in his eyes. The lavatory was quite empty save for our two selves, and my decision was taken at once.

"Mr. Van Adams?" I asked.

"Sure!" he replied. "You have the floor – shoot!"

"You don't know me?"

"Not from the great Lum-tum, though your voice is kind of homey."

"I'm Sir John Custance. Danjuro's been faking me up. He's down here with me."

"Gee!" said Mr. Van Adams. "Aren't you the fresh thing now, Sir John? So you're down for the obsequies incog.? That's what I've come for – matter of respect. Flew down from Park Lane after breakfast."

"I'm on my way west. We only stopped here for an hour or two, as Danjuro had some business."

"I've ordered lunch in a private room overlooking the square. Come right up, Sir John, you'll be able to see everything from there."

"Thank you. But I'm still in the dark. I'm right away from the office now, as you know. I saw Commander Muir Lockhart here just now, but I couldn't speak to him…"

He took me by the arm and led me along the corridor to the lift. "Captain Lashmar, of your force and the five men of the patrol boat are being buried to-day," he said; "also Captain Swainson, of the Atlantis, and the boys murdered on his ship."

I flushed under my dye. I had never heard a word of it. I felt an absolute beast as we entered the private room, and I tried to explain to the millionaire.

"Think you callous and unfeeling?" he said in answer. "Guess I know better than that, my friend. You're out to prevent just such a spectacle as we're going to witness from ever happening again. You're playing a better game than prancing along at the head of a procession. You're getting busy at the heart of things. Now sit down and share the pork bosom and beans, or whatever they've given us. And tell me all about it."

We sat down to lunch, and after a glass of Burgundy, I told Van Adams of all that had occurred, and also expressed my complete confidence in Danjuro.

"You're right," he said. "There isn't an investigator on the globe that'd carry a tune to him. He has his orders to stick to you right through and he'll carry them out. That little man's got a brain like the Mammoth Cave, and he's without human passions, save only one – he'd go to hell in a paper suit for me! See here – " and the millionaire told me a string of anecdotes about the uncanny little Jap that would make the fortunes of a writer of Romance.

He was still on the same subject when he stopped in the middle of a sentence.

The noise in the square outside was suddenly hushed, and we heard a muffled chord of music. Rising from our chairs we went to the windows. Everywhere, as far as eye could reach, was a black sea of heads, from among which the slender clocktower on its island in the centre rose like a sentinel.

The pavements were lined by troops, soldiers and sailors in equal proportions, and there was a flutter as of falling leaves as every head was bared and the piercing sweetness of Chopin's "Funeral March" filled all the air.

Then they came, following the band: thirteen coffins covered with flowers, thirteen brave heroes, who would never slant down the long reaches of the upper air again.

After the hearses walked Paget and Fowles, the two heroic airmen who had called the rescuing ship by wireless, and then came the chaplains and Muir Lockhart.

For my part I saw the whole procession in a dream. The head of the Transatlantic Air Line, the Mayor and Corporation in their robes – the stately funereal pomp of it all seemed unsubstantial and unreal.

Mr. Van Adams was kneeling a yard or two away from the window. His head was bent, he had a crucifix and a string of golden beads in his hands, and was saying prayers. Who would have thought it of this master of millions with the pike-like jaw? I suppose he was a Catholic.

But my mind was far away, above the heaving wastes of the Atlantic, and I saw an unnamed, unknown ship rushing through the air, at a speed undreamed of hitherto in the history of flight. And in the pilot's seat I had a vision of a hawk-faced man with cruel eyes and a smile upon his hard, thin lips…

I stood there for so long that the very tail of the procession was passing by, and Mr. Van Adams rose from his prayers with the sign of the Cross, and touched me on the arm.

"Look!" he said, pointing down into the street.

I followed his finger and saw Danjuro standing on the opposite kerb. He was looking after the cortège, and his face, with the expression on it, was quite clear to see…

In an instant I came out of my dream.

CHAPTER IX THE MAN WITH THE WICKED FACE

On the morning after our arrival I stepped out of my bedroom window at Penzance and stood upon the balcony.

Many times had I flown over Cornwall; never had I set foot in the Duchy until now. Plymouth had always been my furthest west.