by Evelyn Weiss
and I can see nothing: we’re flying through clouds of mist, an almost solid wall of spray. We’re going to hit the Falls.
Everything around me turns white. Even though we’re crashing into the face of the Falls, I grip the sticks. Hold firm.
Seconds pass in a torrent of whiteness. And then I see something, like a light at the end of a white tunnel. Blue.
The sky.
“Agnes! Look straight ahead! We’ve caught the updraft from the Falls!”
We have, too. Like a feather blown on the breeze, the force of air rising above the colossal turbulence below the Falls has tossed the airplane upwards, carried us up over the lip of the cataract. The plane levels out, and I see flat water ahead of us.
Have I dreamt this? The roar of the engine was lost in the noise of the Falls – but now we’ve passed the edge, I still can’t hear the airplane’s motor. Except for the wind in my face, there’s silence. And I see crowds of people along the bank of the river. There’s ropes in the water ahead, a moored boat, flags, and I understand: that’s our landing place.
“Agnes. I’ve cut the engine. We’re gliding now. So we can descend.”
I wonder how Chisholm’s done that. I can already feel the loss of power. I keep the sticks firmly in position, and we drift down, peacefully, like a bird gently gliding to a halt. I can’t believe it’s this easy…
We hit the water like a brick wall. The skis bounce like billiard balls on the surface, and I’m thrown forwards, but fortunately I’ve fastened my safety belt. Chisholm holds the inert mass of Rufus’s body from being jerked from his seat. And we’re slowing. We hit a rope tied across the river between the moored boat and the shore. The rope is being reeled out to us, I see, by men on the boat. But there’s still enough tension in the rope to slow us gradually to a halt.
Chisholm looks at me, and holds up two ends of a severed pipe. They drip gasoline. I see what he’s done to stop the engine. He holds up a little knife too.
“Good thing I always carry a pocket knife. Last night Rufus explained to me how to steer an airplane – but not how to switch the damned thing off.”
My smile is short lived. We’re moving again – backwards this time. The rope has stopped our forward movement, but now the tremendous current of the river is carrying the airplane back, towards the Falls. Has no-one thought how stupid it is, to land on a moving current of water?
A second rope rises out of the water behind us and is pulled taut. The airplane drifts back and catches firmly on it.
Ah. I understand.
“The safety rope, Agnes. It will hold the airplane while we get out.”
I see another boat, coming towards us. I see waving hands, signaling triumph and joy. It’s all a blur because every nerve in my brain is still focused hard on staying alive, but somehow, within moments, men are holding my hands, helpful arms are pulling us into the boat, I see smiles, I hear hurrahs of congratulation. Only a few seconds pass, and I’m sitting in a wooden seat in the boat. Chisholm is helping the men lift Rufus’s body from the airplane. We’re safe, we’re safe.
“What the bloody hell happened?”
It’s Rufus’s voice. His face is the color of chalk, his bloodshot eyes are like red circles drawn on a death-mask. He’s promptly, and copiously, sick over the side of the boat.
23.At Chelsea Piers
I look out of the window of our first-class compartment. The train is pulling away from Syracuse: we’ve already traveled a good part of our journey back to New York. It’s now four hours since we managed to slip away from the reporters and photographers who swarmed around Rufus, and rejoined Professor Axelson at Niagara Falls railway station.
“So, Miss Agnes and Chisholm. Neither of you wanted to step forward and take any credit for the flight?”
I smile wryly. “All those men with cameras and notebooks went straight to Rufus, and immediately he started saying what a successful flight it had been. He was telling them such a fine heroic tale – all completely made up, of course, because he’d been unconscious most of the flight and couldn’t remember a thing. It seemed a pity to spoil his story, even if it was total fiction. And I guess he did successfully occupy the pilot’s seat, with two passengers, most of the way across Lake Ontario.”
Chisholm looks at Axelson. “Besides, professor – if the press knew what had really happened, that would hardly give people confidence in air travel. Which would be wrong, because of course the problems were nothing to do with the airplane or the flight: they were purely down to Rufus being ill.”
“Well you two – you are both, like the good old English phrase, ‘hiding your light under a bushel’. And you do that, even though it gives more credit to a blackmailer and possibly a murderer.”
“It’s unfortunate, but necessary.” Chisholm explains further. “Du Pavey is keen to sell his story now, and use it as a springboard for launching his commercial air-line idea. If we disagreed with him, it would be our word against his. It would just look like we were slinging mud at him. An unseemly dispute between us and him would not add credibility to our case later on, if we do need to seek his arrest, Professor.”
“There is only one thing that you say that I disagree with, Chisholm.”
“What’s that, Axelson?”
“You tell me that du Pavey was ill, as if it was an unfortunate accident. Given what has happened to us all so far, we have to consider that his loss of consciousness aboard the airplane could have been caused by foul play.”
“You mean, he could have been poisoned?”
“We know nothing at the moment, Chisholm. But we must keep that possibility in mind.”
The train is slowing to a halt at the platform at Utica, where the new, imposing Union Station is being built. I catch a glimpse of marble Italianate columns and arches among the scaffolding, as Chisholm speaks again.
“Professor, there are other things you must know too. Most important of all, the Gophers shipment is to be loaded at Chelsea Piers, in the small hours of tomorrow morning.”
“Loaded onto which ship, Chisholm? Not the Olympic, surely? We would not want the sailing delayed, for example if the police decide to conduct a search of the ship.” Earlier, Axelson was updating us on the news they had received at Olcott Lodge while Chisholm and I were in Canada. Like us, Gilmour and Gwyneth were booked to return to England on the next White Star liner for Southampton – the Adriatic, in five days’ time. However, Calvin Gilmour had received news that the Olympic’s departure from New York, which should have taken place three days after its arrival, had been delayed due to an engine repair.
So, the Olympic now sails at six o’clock tomorrow evening, and Gilmour, Gwyneth, and Unity Lloyd who is accompanying them, immediately changed their booking so as to sail on the Olympic. The professor took the liberty of doing the same for himself, me and Chisholm. So we depart America tomorrow evening: I won’t be seeing my family, after all. I’ve told the professor what I think of this sudden change of plan – but there’s no arguing with him. The situation, he says, is one of ‘extraordinary urgency’.
Chisholm answers the professor’s question. “I’m sorry, Axelson. I don’t know which ship that they are planning to use to smuggle their cargo. Inspector Trench picked up the Gophers’ message at the New Amsterdam Hotel, so he may know – but he didn’t mention it in his telegram. But if by unlikely chance it is the Olympic that the Gophers are using, I’m sure the police operation will stop them, long before they get near the ship.”
I see Chisholm smile at the professor in reassurance, but I’m already half-asleep: the regular movement of the train is lulling me, my head nods back against the seat cushions, and I drift off to sleep. Which I desperately need. When I awake, it’s nearly midnight, and the train is pulling into New York’s Central Station.
Chelsea Piers at night is a different world from the daytime bustle of embarkation and arrival. Our cab pulls up at the deserted sidewalk of Eleventh Avenue, and we step out into a quiet stillness. All along the sidewa
lk, stretching out into the distance, is the monumental stonework of the Piers’ façade. The pink granite has a rosy glow in the streetlamps: somehow, I’m reminded of the eternal silence of a ruined Egyptian temple. It’s two in the morning, and as the cab pulls away from us we look around: there’s not a soul anywhere. But then we see one solitary figure. A gaunt, lean man in a gray overcoat stands next to a small side door, well away from the main passenger gates. He waves, signaling to us, then turns his back to us as he unlocks the door. We step forward towards him, and he stands silently aside, ushering us into a small, unlit room. We enter, stand in the blackness, and hear him closing the door behind us. Only then does he switch on a flashlight, and I hear his voice.
“Good to see you all.” Inspector Trench sounds tired, hoarse: he takes a slight, stiff bow, like a formal greeting. “Miss Frocester, I trust you are well. Sir Chisholm Strathfarrar – you and I, of course, know of each other’s work, even though the only time we’ve actually met was when I came to your home in Kensington to investigate Kitty Murray’s disappearance. And it’s good to meet you again too, Professor Axelson. I’m sorry that I’ve not had the honor of working with you.”
“And likewise: I’m honored to be working with you too. It’s good that we are now able, at last, to join forces. And you have my word that I will maintain