The Air Pirate
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.
CHAPTER V
THE FAMILIAR SPIRIT OF MR. VAN ADAMS
At mid-day I had an appointment with the Home Secretary. He received me
with the utmost kindness, and we had half an hour of highly confidential
talk. The purport of it will appear later. This is not the place for it.
Towards the end I informed him that I had a request to make.
"Tell me," he answered at once, "and let me repeat that the Government
has every confidence in you, Sir John. Don't take this too hardly, I beg
of you."
I had a sudden impulse. "I trust," I said, "that my anxiety for the
public welfare is in no degree overshadowed by a private sorrow. Indeed,
I am sure that it isn't. But, if I may speak in confidence, I should
like you to know, sir, that I was engaged to be married to Miss
Constance Shepherd."
There was a perceptible silence. I heard the great man take a long
inward breath, and murmur to himself, "Poor fellow!" Then he did the
right, the quite perfect thing: he stretched out his hand, and took mine
in a firm, warm grasp.
When I could speak, I returned to business.
"My request, sir, is this. I want to disappear for a month."
"Disappear, Sir John?"
"That's what it amounts to. Practically, I am going to ask for four
weeks' leave of absence. It must be private, though. If the news were
published the public would misunderstand, and think I was deserting my
post in a time of difficulty and danger."
"Whereas?"
"Whereas I want to investigate this affair in my own way. I believe that
the theories of the Press and public, and also those of Scotland
Yard--with whom I have been in consultation--are quite wrong. Nor do my
communications with America give me any reason to change my opinion.
This is a matter of life and death to me. I owe the Government, who have
promoted me so rapidly to the high position I occupy, a solution of this
mystery. I owe them and the public that the fiends who have committed
these outrages should be brought to justice. And, if God allows me, I
will do it. My honour and that of my department are at stake. Those two
things come before anything else. In addition, I have the private
reasons of which I have told you. And, in order to succeed, I am
persuaded that my way is the only way."
"You have certainly the strongest motives a man well could have to urge
you on. But can you be a little more explicit?"
"I want to leave Mr. Muir Lockhart in charge at the office. He is
perfectly capable of taking charge. He has everything at his fingers'
ends. And I shall arrange that he can always communicate with me at any
time."
The Home Secretary thought for a moment, and drummed with his fingers on
the arm of his chair. He had been a famous barrister, and renowned for
the perfection of his turn-out. His finger-nails were pink and polished
as the light fell upon them, and I wondered if he had them manicured.
Then he looked up. "Very well, do as you like," he said suddenly. "I
take it that you know what you're about. And heartfelt good wishes for
your success."
... This is how I plunged into a series of dangerous adventures, a dark
underworld of crime and almost superhuman cunning, probably without
parallel in modern times.
Arrangements were soon made at Whitehall. Muir Lockhart was an
understanding man, and by three o'clock in the afternoon I walked out
into the sunshine free from all official cares for a month. I took a
long, deep breath as I crossed the Horse Guards Parade and made my way
to the long, green vista of the Mall. "The first act is over," I
thought. "The curtain is rising on the real drama. Somewhere in this
world there is a man whose discovery and death I owe to Society and to
myself."
And I was a man who never failed to pay a debt.
I have given you but little indication of my mental state during the
last few days. It won't bear much writing about even now. A cold fury,
instead of blood, came and went in my veins, and my heart was ice. Every
now and again, especially when I was alone, agony for which there is,
there can be, no name got hold of me, and sported with me as the wind
sports with a leaf. I suppose I had a tiny foretaste of what is felt by
a soul that is eternally damned. I _dared_ not think too much of
Constance and her fate. If I had let myself go that way the running
waters would have risen and overwhelmed me utterly. But, thank God, my
intellect held. The streak of hardness which had served me so well in my
career, and had enabled me to push to the top at an early age, came to
the rescue now. Every faculty was sharpened; the will concentrated to a
single purpose. I was alone, and I walked in darkness, but I was
conscious of Power--charged to the brim as a battery is charged with the
electric fluid. As I walked calmly up St. James', on the way to my
chambers, I doubt if a more single-minded and dangerous man than I
walked the streets of London.
And I knew, by some mysterious intuition, that I should succeed in the
task before me. I had not, as yet, more than the most rudimentary idea
how I was going to set about it, but I should succeed. Don't
misunderstand me. I had hardly any hope of seeing my dear love alive
again. I believed that all the joy of life was finally extinguished. But
justice--call it vengeance rather--remained, and I was as sure that I
was the chosen instrument of that as I was that I had just passed
between Marlborough House and the Palace of St. James.
My expensive but delightful chambers in Half Moon Street were on the
second floor--sitting-room, dining-room, bed and dressing rooms and
bath.
The sitting-room was panelled in cedar-wood, which had been stained a
delicate olive-green, with the mouldings of the panels picked out in
dull gold. Connie and her gay young friends, when they came to have tea
with me, or supper after the theatre, used to say that it was one of the
most charming rooms in London.
I had spent an infinity of time and money on it, determined that it
should be "just so." For instance, the carpet was from Kairowan in
Tunisia, and had taken a whole family of Arab weavers five years to
make. Never was there a more perfect blue--not the crude peacock colour
of the cheaper Oriental rugs, but a blue infused with a silver-ash
shade, contrasting marvellously with the warm brick-reds and tawny
yellows. It was a bargain at four hundred pounds.
I had hung only half a dozen pictures in this room, all modern and all
good. My "Boys Bathing," by Charles Conder--better known as the painter
of marvellous fans--was a masterpiece of sunlight and sea foam which
made me the envy of half the collectors in town. Then I had a William
Nicholson--"Chelsea Ware"--that was extraordinarily fascinating. It was
just some old Chelsea plates and a jug standing on a table. It doesn't
sound fascinating, I know, but the painting was so brilliant, there was
such vision in the way it was seen, that one could look at it for hours.
There was an open hearth of rough red brick in the room, deep and
square, and when there was a fire it burned in a gipsy brazier of iron.
I had a lot of trouble to get this last of the right shape, and finally
it had to be made for me, from the design of an artist in Birmingham.
Such a room, with its perfect colour harmonies and severe lines,
required no knick-knacks. Nothing small or petty, however beautiful in
itself, could be allowed there. I had two cabinets of magnificent china
in my dining-room, but china would have been quite out of place here.
Along one wall, about four feet from the floor, was a single shelf of
old pewter--cups and flagons of the Tudor period with the double-rose
hall-mark--and that was all.
As I entered and flung myself wearily into a chair, the afternoon
sunlight poured in through the half-drawn curtains of sea-green silk. In
the ceiling a hidden electric fan was whirring, and the room was
deliciously cool. And as I looked round, the place seemed hateful beyond
all expression. I was sick of it, loathed its beauty and comfort; an
insane desire came to take a hammer and wreak havoc there as my eyes
fell on the only photograph in the room. It was one of Constance, in a
frame of dull silver, studded with turquoises, and she had given it to
me no longer than a fortnight ago.
Thumbwood slept at the top of the house. He came in, after I had been
resting for a few minutes.
"I've made the necessary arrangements, Charles," I said, "and we shall
start operations at once." I had no secrets from this devoted friend and
servant.
"Glad to hear it, Sir John. I've been round the town this morning, and
there's a lot of talk."
He followed me into the sitting-room and brought me cigars.
"You see," he went on confidentially, "a gentleman's servant, especially
if he belongs to the club just off Jermyn Street, and more specially
still if he's been a racing man, hears all that's going on quicker than
anyone. This morning I've been talking to the porters and valets of two
of the best clubs, Sir John. Then I 'ad a crack with Meggit, the
bookmaker, what does all the St. James' smaller commissions, and after
that I strolled to the Parthenon Theatre, and took out the stage
door-keeper and filled him up and made 'im talk a bit. 'Im and me is
great friends consequent of my taking so many messages and flowers for