CHAPTER IV

THE NEWSPAPERS IN FULL CRY

You are to imagine, if you please, the private room of the Chief

Commissioner of Air Police at Whitehall.

A soft Turkey carpet of dull brick-reds and blues covers the parquet

floor. The walls are hung with pictures of famous airmen of the past,

inventors, fighters, pioneers of the great commercial service of

air-liners which now fills the skies and has shrunk the planet--for all

practical purposes--to a fifth of its former size. There are two or

three huge writing-tables covered with crimson morocco; the chairs are

thickly padded and luxurious. A range of tall windows looks down upon

the endless stir and movement of the wide street, where the nerves of

Empire meet in one central ganglion.

Standing by one of these windows is a light-haired young man of thirty

in a lounge suit of dark blue. He wears a rather heavy,

carefully-trimmed moustache, and his face is seamed and furrowed with

anxiety and grey from want of rest.

Thus you see me in London, two days after Thumbwood brought the

terrible news to my bedroom in the hotel at Plymouth.

General Sir Hercules Nichelson, Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Flying

Corps, had been with me for half an hour, and was just taking his leave.

"Then all that is satisfactorily arranged, Sir John," he said. "We shall

supplement your patrol ships with three war-ships at Plymouth and three

at the Scillies. They will, of course, be air cruisers, both faster and

better armed than your boats, and between us both we shall put an end to

this pest before many days are over."

"I sincerely trust so," I said. "And I do not see how it is possible

that there should be any further outrages. The net will be too close.

America, with its much greater coastal area, is taking extraordinary

precautions."

"It will be impossible for these devilish scoundrels to escape," the

General repeated with confidence--the onus of it all was not falling

upon _him!_--"and now, we quite understand one another."

"Perfectly, I think, Sir Hercules."

"Your chief station officer is to be in full command, under you, at each

air-port."

"It was your suggestion, Sir Hercules, and since it came from you, I do

think it would be best. My men are always patrolling the air-lines. The

organization is complete already."

"Exactly. And as for my fellows, they will be proud to serve under such

gallant and experienced officers as those of the A.P."

"It's kind of you to say so."

"Not at all. It is the truth. And now, as an older man, let me give you

a little advice, if I am not taking a liberty. Don't let this affect you

too much, Sir John. Every sane man knows that neither you nor anyone

else could have avoided what has happened, or have provided against it.

It is a great thing to have an acute sense of responsibility; I honour

you for it. But don't overdo it. I know the strain you are enduring.

Don't let it go too far. If you were to break down now, that would be a

final disaster...."

The kind, white-haired old man shook me warmly by the hand, and left the

room.

Almost immediately young Bickenhall, my private secretary, came in.

"Here is the morning's Press, sir," he said, and upon my table he put

down various columns cut from the journals of that morning--all dealing

with the sensational and terrible events on the Atlantic that were now

the common knowledge of the world.

I sat down to glance through them--I was keeping an iron grip upon

myself these times--in order to gauge public opinion. It occurs to me

that, in order to acquaint you with the progress of events from my

awakening at Plymouth till the morning of which I speak, I cannot do

better than quote a paragraph here and there from the daily papers. It

will bring us up to date more quickly and concisely than in any other

way.

This, then, from one of the leading London journals, a weighty, somewhat

ponderous sheet, with considerable influence:

"... We have given an account of the first attack upon the air-liner

_Albatros_, under command of Captain Pring, whose conduct in such a

trying situation did not deviate from the best traditions of our British

aviators. Most people would have thought that after such a dastardly

outrage, the unknown pirate would have been content to rest upon his

infamous laurels and retire to his lair, with the valuable booty he had

secured. But it was not so. With an audacity unparalleled in the annals

of crime, this vulture, on the very next night, commits an outrage

which, for ferocity and daring, makes the first one seem like a mere

frolic.

"It is now possible to disentangle something of the truth from the

various conflicting stories that have reached us, and it is, moreover,

confirmed in its essential details by the authorities of the Air Police

at Whitehall, who have issued a guarded statement.

"It appears that two nights ago the famous air-liner _Atlantis_ left

the Plymouth sea-drome about nine in the evening. The Captain, Commander

Pilot Swainson, was one of the best known and trusted officers in the

Transatlantic service. He did not anticipate the slightest danger. Sir

John Custance, Chief Commissioner of the Air Police of Great Britain,

was himself at Plymouth, having hurried down from London upon receiving

news of the first piracy. Sir John insisted that the _Atlantis_ should

be escorted, for half of her journey to America, by the armed Patrol

Ship '1,' under command of Superintendent Pilot-Commander Lashmar,

D.S.O., himself an officer of great distinction. Half-way across the

Atlantic the liner was to be met by a similar escort of the United

States A.P., and let us here say that it is difficult to tell what other

precautions Sir John Custance could have devised.

"The _Atlantis_ carried the Royal Mail and a full complement of

passengers, among whom were some distinguished names. Mr. Bootfeller, of

the United States Senate, Mr. Greenwell, the well-known publisher, the

Duke of Perth, and 'Walty Priest,' the cinema 'star,' were among the

men, while in the list of ladies was Miss Constance Shepherd, a young

actress, of whom it is not too much to say that she has endeared herself

to the British public.

"About two o'clock in the morning disastrous and terrible news began to

filter through to the Plymouth wireless stations. It can be summarized

as follows: When not more than two hundred and fifty miles west of

Ireland, the patrol ship, which was flying three miles or so behind the

_Atlantis_, was suddenly attacked by an unknown airship. The moon had

set, the ten-thousand-feet level was dark, and the attack was delivered

without the slightest warning. Patrol Ship No. 1 was instantly disabled

by a rain of shells. Captain Lashmar was shot dead, and with him

perished all of the crew except three men, one of whom was so seriously

wounded that his life is despaired of, the other two being only slightly

wounded.

"An utter wreck, the patrol ship was just able to descend to the water,

where she rested like a wounded and dying bird.

"Meanwhile the unknown ship caught up with the _Atlantis_ and

commenced--as in the case of the _Albatros_--with shooting away her

wireless aerials. The rudder and stern propeller were then destroyed,

and the great liner forced to plane to the surface of the water. Six

masked and armed ruffians went aboard of her, and a systematic looting

of the ship commenced. Captain Swainson could not bear this. He drew a

revolver and shot one of the pirates dead. Then, calling on his crew to

assist him, he made a determined rush, regardless of consequences. The

fight was unequal. Captain Swainson was the only defender who carried

fire-arms, while the robbers were provided with heavy automatic pistols.

"Five men of the _Atlantis_ were killed almost instantly, and the rest

cowed, while the systematic robbery continued. And now, alas! 'horrors

upon horror's head accumulate.' Their evil work completed, the ruffians

sought out Miss Constance Shepherd and her maid, Miss Wilson, from among

the passengers. These unfortunate ladies were forced at the pistol's

mouth to embark upon the pirates' small boat, in which they were rowed

rapidly to the pirate ship and taken on board. The ship then rose from

the water and was lost to sight.

"Meanwhile two heroes were at work. On board the broken patrol ship two

able navigators, Paget and Fowles, were wounded, indeed, but not

entirely disabled. Both men had some knowledge of wireless, and with

superhuman toil, as the hours went on, they contrived to rig up a

temporary apparatus which, at last, served to send out a brief account

of the disaster and a call for help.

"When rescue ships arrived at early dawn, they found that the patrol

ship had drifted close to the _Atlantis_, and that Dr. Weatherall, the

surgeon of the liner, had swum aboard the No. 1 and rendered what help

he could to the wounded men.

"Press representatives are at Plymouth, but, so far, few of the

passengers of the _Atlantis_ have been able, and none have been allowed

by the authorities, to make personal statements for publication. This

embargo, we are assured, will be removed by this evening.

"This is a precise account of what has happened. We must now turn to the

consideration of the situation...."

Another journal, a weekly one this time, headed its remarks with a

portrait of my unhappy self. Underneath was written: "The Man the

Atlantic Pirates tricked!" The rag had an immense circulation in all the

tap rooms of England.

Well, I would see what the blackguards of the country were reading about

me. Shrewd young Bickenhall wouldn't have brought the unclean thing in

if he hadn't thought it worth while. I give it for what it's worth:

"Poor Johnny Custance! You're up against it good and thick to-day, and

no mistake, and Paul Pry"--this was the signature of the tout who wrote

the article--"can't say he's very sorry for you. For some time past a

little bird has been whispering in the clubs that all is not well in the

State of Denmark--to wit, the office of the Commissioner of Air Police

at Whitehall. The aristocratic young gentlemen who daily condescend to

drop into this palatial edifice for an hour or two have long held the

reputation of being the best dressed of all our minor Government

officials, and, considering the salaries they draw from the public

purse, this is not surprising. But I have never yet heard that they did

any work worth mentioning, or, indeed, anything to justify their

precious and beautiful existence.

"Flying Police we must have, and never has the necessity for them been

greater than at this moment; but there is a vast deal of difference from

the handy pilot of a patrol ship at Plymouth or Portland and the

bureaucratic popinjays of Pall Mall.

"Sir John Custance, Bart., is the typical Government official of the

musical comedy or the comic paper. He is an aristocrat who, after a

short experience in the air, is shoved into the highly-paid and

responsible position he holds without any reason that the man in the

street can understand. A baronet, and, if report speaks truly, a man of

considerable private means, I have--in common with many other

people--often asked myself what possible qualification this young

gentleman can have for his job. Johnny is a most estimable person, no

doubt, in private life. I have heard it remarked that his moustache is

one of the most perfect things in the West End of London, and he is

frequently to be seen adorning a stall or box at the Parthenon Theatre.

But few people have ever taken him seriously as the head of our Air

Police, and now nobody will."

There was a row of stars here, as if Mr. Paul Pry paused for breath, or

was stopping to pick up another handful of mud, and then he went on

again:

"If the nation is called upon to pay thousands and thousands a year for

the upkeep of an efficient service of Air Police, it is entitled to see

that it gets it, and that the man in charge is able to provide it. What

has happened? A crew of murdering ruffians in an airship have looted two

of our greatest air-liners, slaughtered several people, kidnapped one of

our most popular actresses, and escaped scot-free. Vanished into the

wide! While Sir John Custance twiddles his thumbs in Whitehall and calls

upon the air forces of the Admiralty and War Office to supplement his

own miserably inefficient organization.

"As usual, we are not without some very special and exclusive

information in this office. My readers know from past experience that

their Paul is not easily caught napping. I believe that I shall have

something to say that will startle everyone in next week's number,

though, for certain reasons, I cannot be more explicit at present.

Before concluding these remarks, however, I must say a word or two about

the extraordinary and sinister disappearance of delightful Constance

Shepherd. Sad as it is to hear of brave men shot down while doing their

duty, there is something peculiarly terrible in the carrying off of the

little lady to whom London owes so much. Dear little Connie! We of

Bohemia knew and loved you well! Many is the happy hour that Paul Pry

has spent in your company, many the bumper of bubbly water he has

quaffed to your success!

"No one could possibly have foreseen such a tragic ending to the

American journey which Miss Shepherd set out upon with such high hopes.

And yet, there was not wanting a slight shadow of premonition. Only a

week ago she said to me: 'Paul, I'm not so sure, after all, that

everything will go well. There are certain things. I can't tell you of

them----' But I must refrain from betraying a confidence. Let it be

enough to say that my little friend had her moments of dejection, when

she was not entirely happy about the future."

I put down the paper and rang for Bickenhall. "You've read this, I

suppose?" I asked, pointing to it.

He nodded. "Lies, of course," he said; "mere words to fill up the

column."

"No doubt. Still, the man hints all sorts of things, damn him! And one

can't neglect any possible clue." I was in a raging fury, and Bickenhall

saw it, though he was far from suspecting the true cause.

"The office is in the Strand," he said, "three minutes by taxi. I'll go

and interview this Paul Pry and put the fear of God into him."

I knew my Bickenhall. He is an energetic and hefty young man, and though

I had little hopes that he would discover anything of value, I had a

shrewd suspicion that Mr. Paul Pry was about to experience a peculiarly

unpleasant ten minutes.

I was right in both my conjectures.

The secretary returned in half an hour. "Just a ramp," he said. "I found

a greasy ruffian smelling of gin in a back room, and frightened him out

of his life. He's never met Miss Shepherd, and has no private

information whatever. Will apologize in any manner you like."

I am not going to bother you with what the journalists wrote. There were

hundreds of columns of suggestions, conjecture, reproof, alarm, and so

forth. On the whole my department was let down fairly lightly, and I was

glad. Please don't think that I cared twopence for myself. I did not.

But I should have bitterly resented any serious reflections on my staff,

officers and men, who were, and are, as able and loyal a body as can be

found anywhere in the world.