by Guy Thorne
Chapter 4
I was 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 will supplement your patrol ships with three warships at Plymouth and three at the Scillies. They will, of course, be air cruisers, both faster and better armed than your flying boats, and between us both we'll put an end to this pest before many days are over."
"I sincerely trust so," I said. "And I don't see how it's possible that there can 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!
"Perfectly, I think, Sir Hercules."
"Your chief station officer is to be in full command, under you, at each airport."
"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 lanes. 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 Air Police"
"It's kind of you to say so."
"Not at all. It's the truth. And now, as an older man, let me give you a little advice, if I'm 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 happened, or provided against it. It's 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're 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 on 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 on 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 airliner Albatros, under command of Captain Pring, whose conduct in such a trying situation did not deviate from the best traditions of our British aviators.
It appears that two nights ago the famous airliner 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 No. 1, under command of Superintendent Pilot-Commander Lashmar, D.S.O., himself an officer of great distinction. Halfway across the Atlantic the liner was to be met by a similar escort of the United States Air Police, 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 glide 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 firearms, 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. 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 today, 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 salarie
s 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 airliners, 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 on 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 will 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 other 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 would 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.