CHAPTER I

THE COMMISSIONER OF AIR POLICE FOR GREAT BRITAIN RIDES TO PLYMOUTH IN

GOOD COMPANY

Nearly two years ago a leading London daily newspaper said: "The

Government have assured us that all danger from present and future air

piracies is now over, and that the recent events which so startled and

horrified both this country and the United States of America can never

recur. For our own part we accept that assurance, and we do not think

that the Commissioner of Air Police for the British Government will be

caught napping again.

"In saying this we do not in the least mean to imply that Sir John

Custance could either have foreseen or prevented the astounding

mid-Atlantic tragedies. Sir John, though barely thirty years of age, is

an official in every way worthy of his high position, an organizer of

exceptional ability and a pilot of practical experience. Press and

public are perfectly well aware that it is owing to his personal

exertions that our magnificent Transatlantic air-liners are no longer

stricken down by the Night Terror of the immediate past. And in saying

this much, we have both a suggestion and a request to make.

"The inner history of the piracies is only fully known to one man. It is

a story, we understand, that puts the imagination of the boldest writer

of fiction to shame. Such parts of it as have been made public hint at a

story of absorbing interest behind. The bad old days of censorship and

secrecy have vanished with the occasions that made them necessary. We

suggest that a full and detailed 'story' of the first--and we trust the

last--Air Pirate should be written, and given to the world. And we call

upon that most popular public man, Sir John Custance, to do this for us.

He alone knows everything."

At the time that it appeared I read the above to Charles Thumbwood, my

little valet, as I finished breakfast, in my Half Moon Street chambers.

"Not _quite_ correct, Charles. You know almost as much about it as I do.

To say nothing of a certain friend ..."

"I wouldn't say that, Sir John," said Charles, brushing my light

overcoat. "Though I rode part of the course alongside of you; to say

nothing of Mr. Danjuro." Thumbwood was a jockey before I took him into

my service. "Are you going to write it all down, Sir John?"

"That depends on several things, and on one person especially. I must

think it all over."

Think it over I did as I drove to my offices in Whitehall--the Scotland

Yard of the Air--and I discussed it afterwards with a certain lady....

Which is how the following narrative came to be written, though I did

not complete it until the best part of two years had elapsed.

II

I never did any flying during the Great War. I was too young, being only

fifteen and at Eton when Peace was signed. But from the very earliest

days that I can remember aviation fascinated me as nothing else could.

My father, the first baronet, left me a moderate fortune. He died when I

was eighteen, and instead of going to Oxford, I entered as a cadet in

the R.F.C. It is not necessary to detail how, when I had earned my

wings, I joined the civil side of flying and became a pilot-commander in

the Transatlantic Service. I had a good deal of influence behind me,

and, to cut a long story short, at twenty-eight I was Assistant, and at

thirty Chief Commissioner of the British Air Police. I was answerable

to Government alone, and, within its limits, my powers were absolute.

It was on a morning in late June, the 25th to be exact, when the wheels

began to move. I date the start of everything from that morning. About

one o'clock on the preceding night Thumbwood had waked me from

refreshing sleep. A wireless message, in code, had been received at

Whitehall. It was addressed to me personally, and was from the

Controller of the White Star Air Line at Plymouth. My people at

Whitehall, on night duty, thought it of sufficient importance to send on

even at this hour.

As soon as I was thoroughly awake, and had done cursing Thumbwood, I

read the message. It only said that a matter of the gravest importance

required my personal presence at Plymouth, and would I come down at

once.

Now considerable experience of the fussy great men who controlled the

air-liner companies, which linked up England with all parts of the

world, had made me somewhat sceptical of these urgent demands for my

presence. More than once I had to explain that I was not at the beck and

call of any commercial magnate, and if I had made myself disliked in

certain quarters I had, at least, made my office respected.

Accordingly I scribbled instructions to the chief inspector on duty that

he should send a wireless to Plymouth requesting further details. Then

I went to sleep again.

As a matter of fact, I _was_ going to Plymouth the next morning in any

case, though on private business. Sir Joshua Johnson, Controller of the

White Star Line, did not, of course, know that. His midnight message was

a coincidence.

I could have flown down from Whitehall in my fast police yacht in an

hour, but, as it happened, I was going to train from Paddington. Sir

Joshua could wait until I turned up some time after lunch.

How well I remember the morning of my departure from town. The long

departure platform at Paddington was crowded with well-dressed,

happy-looking people, as I stood by the door of my reserved carriage in

the Riviera Express--that superb train, with its curved roof, which runs

to Plymouth without a stop.

Thumbwood, invaluable little man, filled the carriage with flowers,

great bunches of white lilac and June roses, and the station-master, who

came up for a chat, looked curiously at the bower my valet had made. The

Chief Commissioner of Air Police was not wont to travel like that!

For my part, I was wildly exhilarated, and at the same time, as nervous

as a boy making his first flight. To-day might prove one of the happiest

or quite the most miserable of my life. I was going to put it to the

test. Confound it, why didn't Connie come?

On this morning Miss Constance Shepherd, the young light-comedy actress,

adored of London, and to me the rose of all the roses, was travelling

down to Plymouth to catch the air-liner starting from that port to New

York at eight-thirty this evening. And she had promised to travel with

me!

Would she have done so, I kept on asking myself, if she didn't know

quite well what I meant to say to her? Or was it just friendliness? I

knew she liked me.

... Why didn't she come? Here it was, only eight minutes before the

train started. As I searched the platform, with an eye that strove to

appear calm and unconcerned, I saw faces that I knew--faces of

theatrical celebrities, two or three of the prettiest girls in England,

a handsome, hook-nosed young man, who was, perhaps, the best known

theatrical manager in London, two eminent comedians carrying bouquets.

And the Press photographers were beginning to arrange their cameras....

I had completely forgotten what a tremendous celebrity dear little

Connie was. I might have known they'd have given her a send-off on her

way to the States. All the same, it annoyed me, as it seemed to be

annoying a tall, hatchet-faced man in Donegal tweeds, who scowled at

the little crowd. Was he a friend, too, I wondered?

She came at last, very late of course, and after a brief smile at me,

underwent the public ceremonies of the occasion, while I--I own

it--retired into the carriage for a minute or two. But I saw the cameras

click, and the girls embrace, and the crowd of sightseers trying to push

into the charmed circle, and then Connie was in the corridor, leaning

out of the window, waving and smiling as the train began to move to an

accompaniment of loud cheers.

"My dear Connie, royalty isn't in it!" I said, as she stepped laughingly

into the carriage, and I pushed the sliding door home.

"Oh, they're dears!" she said, "and they do really mean well, despite

the fact that we shall all be in the picture papers to-morrow morning,

and that's good for business."

"I thought you were never coming."

"It is an impression I convey," she answered; "but I'm very careful,

really. My maid was here with the luggage half an hour ago. What lovely

flowers you have got for me, John!"

She lay back in her seat as the train gathered speed and Ealing flashed

by with a roar, and I feasted my eyes on the fairest picture in the

world.

She wore a simple travelling coat and skirt of white piqué, and the

white lilac was all about her, framing her face as she held up a branch

to inhale its fragrance. All England knew that face in the days when

little Connie sang and danced herself into the heart of the public, but

none knew it as well as I.

How can I describe that marvellous hair of dark chestnut, those deep

amethyst eyes, and the perfect bow of lips which were truer to the exact

colour of coral than any I have ever seen? It only makes a catalogue

after all. It's the expression--the soul, if you like--that makes the

true face; and here was one so frank and kind and sweet that when one

looked it seemed as if hands were placed beneath the heart, lifting it

up!

On one other day only did I see her more lovely than she was now.

Well, it was too early to say what I wanted to say, and, besides, I was

nervous as yet. We hadn't settled down. As I expected, her breakfast had

consisted of tea and a macaroon, so I produced a basket--lunch was to

come later--in which a silver box of caviare sandwiches was surrounded

by crushed ice in a larger box of zinc. There was also iced hock and

seltzer water. We both felt more at home in a few minutes.

We had lit our cigarettes, and I was thinking hard, when someone passing

along the corridor looked in upon us for a moment. I had an impression

of a brown face and a scowl. It was the man in tweeds that I had noticed

at Paddington.

"That _beast_!" said Connie suddenly.

I turned and looked at her. She was frowning adorably, and I thought she

looked rather pale.

"D'you know him, then?"

"I did, and I simply hate him."

"Who is he?"

"I expect you've heard his name, John. Most people have in town. He is

Henry Helzephron, a big man in your way once."

I _did_ know the name as that of a pilot of extraordinary courage and

ability during the Great War. He had gained the Victoria Cross when a

lad of twenty, and his exploits during two wonderful years formed part

of the history of aviation. He had not flown for years now, and divided

his time between the more dissipated haunts of the West End and an

estate he had somewhere in Devon or Cornwall, a "has-been" with a

sinister reputation, a lounger of thirty-six.

"I know. 'Hawk Helzephron' he used to be called. Gone all to pieces, I

understand. But how do _you_ know him, dear?"

"He did me the honour to ask me to marry him about two months ago," she

answered, "and since then he is always putting himself in my way. He

does not speak, but he comes to the theatre and glares. I am always

meeting him, and I hate the sight of him. He makes me afraid...."

Here was my chance and I took it like a shot. She should never be

unprotected from Helzephrons and all the tribe who haunt the stage door

any more!

A successful aviator takes instantaneous decisions. He must. If he

hesitates he's lost.

What I said, as the Riviera Express hurled itself through the summer

noon, is not part of this narrative. I daresay I was no more original

than most men, but the results were eminently satisfactory for, as we

ran past the towers and winding river of Exeter, Connie and I were

engaged.

I remember that I lugged the ring out of my waistcoat pocket--sapphires

and diamonds, a top-shelf ring!--precisely as we glided through Exeter

Station.

"O-oh!" said Connie, as the thing winked and shone in the sunlight; and

then: "You _wretch_! I'll never forgive you--never!"

I wondered what was the matter. In fact, I asked her.

"You made so sure of me that you actually bought this beforehand!"

"It doesn't do to leave anything to chance," I said, and I made her put

it on, and gave her several other things of no particular importance

while she was doing it.

For the rest of the journey, past the red cliffs and blue seas of

Teignmouth and Paignton, we had a long and happy talk, finding out--of

course--all sorts of delightful things about each other which we had

only suspected before.

Perhaps there is nothing fresher and more delightful in life than those

first few hours of revelation, when a man and a girl who love each other

have, at last, become engaged. It is like coming into harbour after an

anxious voyage, and yet, all the time there is the splendid knowledge

that there are new and marvellous seas waiting to be explored, this

time--together!

Connie was to act in New York for a month and in Boston for a fortnight.

It was a 'star' engagement, and six weeks would soon pass. Besides, now

that Plymouth was barely thirty hours from New York, there was nothing

to prevent me from popping over once or twice to see her. I was

responsible to no one for my time, and half a dozen quite real matters

in connection with my job would provide a valid excuse. After the six

weeks were over, why, then, we would be married!

"There is absolutely no reason on earth why we should wait," I told her,

in sublime ignorance of what the Fates had in store for both of us.

"I'll have a special licence ready, and the day you land again on this

side you shall be Lady Custance, darling!"

So it was settled, lightly and happily enough, and when we left the

train at Plymouth Station there was not a cloud in the sky or in our

hearts.

I found that Mr. Thumbwood had been making excellent use of his time,

even as his master had, for the little man was assisting a demure and

well-looking maiden to collect luggage, who turned out to be Connie's

maid, Wilson.

We left them to it and drove to the Royal Hotel, not before I had seen

the train start again on its journey to Cornwall, with Mr.

Helzephron--whom I had quite forgotten--standing in the corridor and

regarding us with a malignant scowl upon his hawk-like, dissipated

countenance. But Mr. Helzephron, and all other men alive, were about six

a penny to me just then.

Connie was to leave the sea-drome at eight-thirty in that fine

flying-liner _Atlantis_. She was a Royal Mail ship, and about the

fastest and finest flyer in the Transatlantic service, with a carrying

capacity of three hundred and fifty passengers, and a thousand tons dead

weight of cargo. Her crew numbered forty, and she was commanded by

Captain Swainson, one of the most reliable pilot commanders in the air.

He was a man I both knew and liked.

Connie wanted a rest and a sleep. "At least, I want to be alone to think

it all over!" she said, so she went up to her room in the hotel at

once. I arranged to call for her at five, when we would go for a stroll

and afterwards have an early dinner. Then I washed my hands and strolled

into the famous long bar of the hotel for a sandwich and a whisky and

soda, before proceeding to the offices of the White Star Line on the

Hoe.

As I munched my sandwich, I wondered what the affair was that had made

Sir Joshua Johnson send me a wireless message in the middle of the

night--a time when obese old gentlemen should be fast asleep in bed. I

had told my people at Whitehall to ask for further particulars, but I

had not the least intention of being bothered with them--or any police

business whatever--until I had settled my own personal affairs with

Connie. Accordingly, when I left my chambers in the morning to go to

Paddington, I sent a message to Whitehall to say that I was proceeding

to Plymouth during the day, and would wait till my arrival to hear what

the business was. Muir Lockhart, my assistant, would perfectly

understand, and was quite capable of dealing with anything that might

come along.

The long bar was, as usual, full of naval officers, with a sprinkling of

Air Merchant Service men in their uniform of grey, silver and light

blue. I saw no one that I knew, until the swing-doors leading into the

hotel were flung open, and a wiry little man in the black and silver

uniform of my own corps came hurriedly in. His peaked cap, with the

silver wings and sword badge, was pushed back on his head, and he was in

a state of unenviable heat and perspiration. He was Pilot Superintendent

Lashmar, chief of the Ocean Patrol stationed at Plymouth, with equal

rank to a lieutenant-commander in the Navy, and one of my most trusted

officers in the West.

He went up to the bar and ordered a "long glass of iced ginger-beer,

with a dash of gin in it," and then I clapped him on the shoulder. He

wheeled round in a second, and when he saw who it was his face changed

from anxiety to relief.

"Thank Heaven you're come, sir," he said, as he saluted. "We've been

signalling to Whitehall all the morning, and all we could get was that

you were on your way. I've been backwards and forwards from the A.P.

Headquarters to the White Star Office a dozen times."

"I came down by train, Mr. Lashmar," I said, realizing in an instant

that there really _was_ something important afoot, and that by bad luck

I was behind time. Sir Joshua Johnson was all very well, but when my own

people began to send out signals--that was quite another matter.

"We thought you'd fly down in the yacht, sir, and we've been sending

wireless trying to pick you up."

"I couldn't. I have had some most important business to attend to.

Anyhow, I'm here now. What's it all about?"

"You haven't heard _anything_, sir?" he asked in amazement.

Again I cursed my luck, but I wasn't going to give it away. "We'll go

round to Sir Joshua Johnson at once," was all I said.

"That will be best, sir, and then every detail can be put before you in

sequence. I have my report with me, written up to date. I think I've

taken all possible measures up to the present, but, of course, we've

been waiting for you. Sir Joshua, as you may imagine, is half out of his

wits."

"He's not had very far to travel, then," I said to gain time. All this

was so much Greek to me, and I had to walk warily.

In a minute more Lashmar and I were on the Hoe and approaching the

stately offices of the Line, which stood in the very centre of that

famous promenade above the blue waters of the Sound.