“Let me go back to the aerodrome myself,” said Sir Richard suddenly. “You stay with the others. Then if there’s trouble I can come back —”
“No, we will both go,” said Jane. “We had better go at once.”
They went back to the hotel and found Bunce and Maisie hobnobbing together in the little sitting-room. Maisie had made tea, and Bunce was smoking his pipe — it was a very cosy and domestic scene. Sir Richard explained that he and Miss Forrest were going back to the aerodrome to see what had happened to the others. Bunce and Maisie seemed quite happy to be left behind and to leave all arrangements to their superiors.
“You’ll do what you think best, sir,” Bunce said. “That will be all right for me. Miss Walker and I will be all right here with the Miss Herveys till you come back.”
“Well, you seem very comfortable, I must say,” remarked Sir Richard with a smile.
CHAPTER
SIX
Taking Stock of the
Survivors
Sir Richard and Jane drove rapidly through the moonlit streets, it did not take them long to reach the aerodrome. There was a light in one of the windows of the Officers’ Mess, shining through a pink blind.
“They are still here,” Sir Richard remarked. He climbed out of the car and knocked at the door. After a few moments the door was opened about six inches and Day peered out at them with a revolver in his hand.
“Good Lord, it’s you!” he said in a relieved voice. “I thought it was those devils again. Come in, sir.”
“Has it come to that already?” Sir Richard asked, pointing to the revolver.
“I haven’t actually used it, if that’s what you mean,” replied the young man. “But come in. Fenemore is awake and we were just talking about you and wondering what had happened to you.”
Fenemore looked rested, he welcomed them warmly.
“I’m awfully glad you’ve come,” he said boyishly.
“We were just going to have a meal,” said Day, busying himself with tinned tongue and cocoa.
“As a matter of fact we were thinking of deserting the ship,” added Fenemore.
“Meaning?” enquired Sir Richard.
“Pushing off on our own,” explained Fenemore. “There’s a nice Moth in the shed. We thought of hooking it. Day has had a difficult time — I’ve been asleep.”
“Farquhar and I had our work cut out keeping people away,” put in Day. “Farquhar’s asleep now. Everybody wanted to see Fenemore — they seem to think he’s responsible for — well, I suppose you know the whole place is deserted?”
“Yes, we know,” Sir Richard said.
“You’ve found nobody?” asked Fenemore incredulously.
Sir Richard shook his head.
“I can hardly believe it,” said Fenemore.
“Where is Miss Bright?” enquired Jane.
“She and her maid and the manager fellow bagged a car and went off to Edinburgh,” replied Day — “she said she had friends there. Some of the others went to Glasgow, but they came back again and said it was empty. It’s horribly weird, isn’t it? What do you think can have happened, sir?”
Sir Richard explained quietly what he thought. He produced the cutting about Boddington and gave it to them to read. There was a strange silence.
“D’you really think we are the only people left?” asked Fenemore. “Nobody left in London, or — or anywhere?”
“I suppose there may be a few who were saved as we were saved,” replied Sir Richard. “You know whether that is likely much better than I.”
“Dashed unlikely,” Day said, “unless they were in a stratosphere balloon. We were only saved because Fenemore had a hunch that something queer was going to happen and was flying tremendously high — even then we would have been scuppered if anyone else had been at the controls —”
“Shut up,” said Fenemore affectionately.
Sir Richard lay back in his chair and said no more. It was necessary for the young fellows to adjust themselves to the position. Jane looked at their faces and wondered what they were thinking. Had they anybody very dear to them? Her unspoken question was answered almost immediately.
“My people were in Italy,” said Day. “I suppose there’s no chance — no, of course not — it’s difficult to get used to the idea all of a sudden.”
“I was to have been married tomorrow,” said Fenemore simply.
Sir Richard cleared his throat. “Don’t go by me, my dear fellow. There may be hope —”
“No,” said Fenemore quietly, “no, there’s no hope at all, not a vestige. I think I knew it all the time, only I did not want to let myself believe it was true. I had read about Boddington’s prophecies. I told you that, didn’t I? What fools we’ve been!”
“Fools?”
“Not to listen to the man. Instead of listening to him we laughed at him and said he was mad. Mad! He was the only sane man in the world.”
“What we really came for was a council of war,” Sir Richard said. “We’ve simply got to look forward — decide what to do.”
Day nodded. “It’s no use crying over split milk. Those men will go crazy when they realise what has happened. They are pretty nasty already. We haven’t much time. My advice is push off — push off while we can, before they tumble to it.”
“Where to?” enquired Fenemore.
“Anywhere,” replied Day. “We’ve got the whole world to choose from as far as I can see. They’ll never find us.”
Jane said, “We’ve got some responsibility towards them — don’t you think so? — and especially towards those two women.”
“Iris!” cried Day. “Good Lord, I should think Iris can look after herself if anyone can.”
“Under the new conditions I think she will be the most helpless of all,” said Jane slowly.
“Miss Forrest is right,” agreed Fenemore.
“But we don’t know where the woman is,” said Day.
There was a short silence. Everyone was trying to think.
“I suppose you have a passenger-list,” said Sir Richard at last.
“A passenger-list?” exclaimed Fenemore. “Oh yes, I see the idea. Yes, I happen to have it on me. And a list of the crew as well.” He took two printed forms out of his pocket-book and spread them out on the table. Jane leaned over Sir Richard’s shoulder, and read with interest.
1st Class.
Mr. Arthur Ackrington.
Sir Richard Barton.
Mr. Merton Maule.
Miss Hervey.
Miss M. Hervey.
Miss Forrest.
Miss Iris Bright.
Mr. Haviland.
Mr. Oswald Bolton.
Mr. Thomas.
2nd Class
Mr. Joseph Bunce.
Miss Maisie Walker.
Miss Alice O’Connell.
So much for the passengers.
Mr. Haviland was Iris Bright’s manager. He was the large glossy man who had been so impudent to Jane. Mr. Maule was the tall, thin, laconic individual with the monocle. Miss O’Connell was Iris Bright’s maid. Maisie had liked her, and said she had a sense of humour. Ackrington, Bolton and Thomas were mere shadows to Jane. She had not noticed them.
“Ackrington’s young,” said Day. “Rather a toff — no forehead, and less chin. He offered me a hundred pounds to take him to London in a Moth. Wanted to keep a date with his best girl in the Piccadilly Grill. Thomas is small and thin, with a moustache like a walrus.”
“I don’t like Bolton,” Sir Richard said. “He spoke to me in the lounge. Rather a powerful sort of brute —”
“I don’t care for any of them,” Fenemore said thoughtfully. “And Haviland — he’s a bad lot I should say. Some of the crew are yellow too.”
The crew numbered nine; they were as follows:
David Fenemore
•
•
}
Pilots
Thomas Day
•
•
John
Farquhar
•
•
}
Engineers
Fuller Brown.
•
•
Archibald Gosse
•
•
Radio Expert.
Frederick Lammer
•
•
Head waiter.
Ivan Bartoluzzi
•
•
Assistant waiter.
Wilfred Greig
•
•
Steward.
Pierre Sands
•
•
Chef.
“Well?” said Sir Richard enquiringly.
Fenemore and Day looked at each other, they knew what he meant.
“Well, to be frank,” said Fenemore, “there are four of the crew that Day and I don’t care for. We had asked the company to replace them, and this was their last trip. There was something shifty about them — I felt them inimical, and so did Day. Farquhar was dissatisfied with Brown.”
“They knew they were being sacked?” enquired Sir Richard.
“Yes. They were furious. They knew it was our doing. The whole thing was very uncomfortable.” He pointed out the four names on the list. “Brown, Bartoluzzi, Greig and Sands.”
“And what about Gosse?”
“Just a weakling,” Fenemore said. “Yellow all through. He showed up very badly when things went wrong. Farquhar and Frederick Lammer are the only two worth a damn.”
“What’s that?” Jane said suddenly. They stopped talking and listened. A car drove in at the gates and drew up before the door with a crunch of brakes. Day’s hand reached out for his revolver which lay beside him on the table.
“I’ll go and see,” he said.
Fenemore took up the other revolver, clicked it open, examined the chamber and followed him out of the door.
“You see,” Sir Richard said, with a half-humorous lift of his brows. “You see what you have let us in for, my dear.”
“I can’t believe it is necessary — all these precautions,” Jane said, wrinkling her nose. “Don’t you think those two are overacting their part a bit? — I don’t mean consciously — they are so young —”
“They are used to responsibility,” Sir Richard pointed out.
“After all, these men are human beings like ourselves,” argued Jane, returning to her first thought.
“They want different things,” Sir Richard replied, summing up the cause of all the troubles of mankind in four words.
“What do you mean — exactly?” Jane wanted to know.
“I mean they have different values,” Sir Richard replied. “The things that you and I value would seem dull to these men. They look at life from a different angle. When they realise what has happened they will want to enjoy themselves — to wring every scrap of pleasure out of life. And they will not consider other people’s feelings.”
“I don’t see how you can know what their reaction will be,” Jane told him.
“I may be quite wrong,” he agreed. “I hope I am quite wrong —”
The new arrivals were Miss Bright and her maid. Miss Bright was not looking her best. She was limp and bedraggled, her paint and powder had run in streaks, her hair was dishevelled, her smart green coat and skirt were torn and muddy. The maid was in better case, she, too, was torn and bedraggled, but her face was her own. Jane looked at the two women with deep interest — she might have to live with them for the rest of her life! Jane rose and helped the half-fainting Iris on to the sofa. She was anxious to show them friendliness, anxious to start right with them — it was vitally important.
“This is Miss Alice O’Connell,” Fenemore said, as he placed a chair for the maid. “They have been through a good deal, but here they are safe and sound.”
Jane and Sir Richard shook hands with Miss O’Connell. She was a tall dark Irish girl, with a quiet dignified manner. Jane liked the way she carried herself, and liked the firm clasp of her hand.
“Perhaps you would like to rest before you tell us what happened,” Jane suggested.
They all looked at her anxiously.
“I think I had better tell you about it now,” said Miss O’Connell in a deep musical voice. “There’s not much time. We ought to decide what to do. Mr. Haviland may guess where we are and come after us. He’s bad — bad all through. You may as well know it, and be prepared. There’s no need to go into details — no time either. We ought to get away from this place. I suppose you know that everybody’s disappeared?” She looked round at them and they all nodded. “There’s not a living creature to be seen — in Edinburgh — we went there — it was ghastly. I suppose there’s no chance of anybody being left anywhere, is there? Well, I thought as much. The world feels empty, doesn’t it? When Haviland realised what had happened he behaved like a maniac. We escaped, never mind how, I found a car I could drive and here we are. Haviland won’t be here for a few hours, he’s drunk,” she added baldly.
They all realised that there was a good deal more in the story than what they had heard, but there was no time to hear it now. The important thing was to leave the aerodrome while they could.
“Now, this very moment,” Sir Richard urged.
Day agreed with him, but Fenemore pointed out that it would be unfair to go without giving the others a chance.
“Well, you’ve got Farquhar here,” said Sir Richard impatiently. “Waken him, and we’ll go.”
“And what about Frederick Lammer?” Fenemore objected. “And Maule seemed decent. Are you going to condemn them to live the rest of their lives with rotters like Haviland and Fuller Brown?”
“No, we can’t do that,” said Jane firmly.
Jane had scarcely spoken when there were steps on the gravel outside and somebody knocked on the window.
“Who’s there?” demanded Fenemore.
“Oswald Bolton and Fuller Brown,” was the reply. “We want to speak to you.”
Fenemore said, “We’d better let them in — what do you think? We may as well know how we stand.”
“I’ll see that they shed their guns,” said Day cheerfully. He went out into the hall, and, after a few moments, returned with the two men.
“You’re all here, I see — or nearly all,” Bolton said as he sat down and looked round the room. Fuller Brown sat down too. They were bold-eyed men. Bolton seemed to be the leader; he was, of course, slightly higher in the social scale than the engineer (though the social scale mattered little now), but they both belonged to what Jane — for want of a better word — would have described as the rebel type. Bolton was thick-set and powerful (he was like a bulldog), with a thick neck and underhung jaw. Fuller Brown had bright beady eyes that darted from face to face as each person spoke. He was sly rather than powerful. His hair was dark red, and his face was pale and covered with large brown freckles — so, too, were his hands. Jane liked him less than anybody she had ever seen.
“You’ve been holding us off all day,” Bolton began, “but you can’t go on like that, you know. We’ve got to come to some understanding. There’s nobody else left anywhere. I suppose you know that. Maule and Bartoluzzi took a plane and went to Manchester, Maule had business there and Bart’s a pilot. Maule paid him a lot of money to take him. There’s not a creature in the place, and half of it’s on fire, so they came back. Thomas and I went to Glasgow — nobody there either.
“We know that,” Sir Richard said.
“D’you know what’s happened? Where has everybody gone? Greig thinks it’s the Day of Judgment and we’ve missed the boat —”
“Cut the cackle,” said Fuller Brown suddenly.
“You can — well shut up,” Bolton replied, “I’m spokesman, and I’ll conduct this show my own way — see? Well,” he added, turning to Sir Richard, “we’ve got to come to an understanding.”
“What about?” enquired Sir Richard.
“About everything, of course. What are you
going to do?”
“We haven’t decided.”
“Well, we have,” Bolton said. “We’re sticking together, all except Maule and Lammer. They want to throw in their lot with your gang, and we don’t want them. They’re not our style. We mean to enjoy ourselves.”
Sir Richard looked around the room, and, seeing consent on the faces of the others, he replied, “We shall be glad to have them with us.”
“Right,” said Bolton, “we’ll send them over. They’re not our style at all. The world seems to have gone bust, but we intend to have a good time — and each in our own way. Personally I don’t think it will be too bad —”
“Why can’t you get down to brass tracks?” Fuller Brown interrupted impatiently.
“You be quiet, will you!” shouted Bolton, glaring at his companion like a tiger. “I’ll do this my own way —”
“Well, if that’s all —” said Fenemore, half rising.
“It’s not all,” replied Bolton quickly, “not by a long chalk, it isn’t. We’ve got to have some of the women in our lot. You don’t suppose you’re going to walk off with all the women, do you?”
Fenemore and Day bounded out of their chairs, but Sir Richard held up his hand.
“Wait a moment,” he said amicably, “I suspected this all along.”
“It’s damnable —” cried Fenemore.
“Not at all,” Sir Richard interrupted him. “Of course, I see your point,” he added, turning to Bolton, “it’s quite a reasonable suggestion. If any of the ladies wish to join your — your party, you may be sure we shall not prevent them from doing so. It is perfectly fair that each person shall choose which party to join, irrespective of sex.”
“Me for Sir Richard’s lot,” said Iris Bright firmly.
“That won’t wash, Sir Richard,” Bolton said. “All that sounds fine, but it won’t wash. You’ve got to hand over two of the women — two of the young ones. You can keep the old ladies and welcome.”
“We shall hand over nobody,” Fenemore cried. “You can go back and tell them that —”
They were on their feet now, their hands itching to be at each other’s throats.
The Empty World Page 5