Almost two years ago, one of London’s leading newspapers published an article about the end of the recent wave of air piracy:
“The Government has assured us that all danger from air pirates, both present and future, is now over. The terrible events that shocked and horrified Britain and the United States will never happen again.
“We accept that assurance. We also believe that Sir John Custance, the Commissioner of Air Police, will not be caught off guard a second time.
“We do not mean to suggest that Sir John could have predicted or prevented the astonishing tragedies that took place over the Atlantic. Although he is barely thirty, Sir John has proved himself fully worthy of his position. He is an exceptional organizer and an experienced pilot.
“The public and the press know perfectly well that it is largely because of his personal efforts that our magnificent transatlantic airliners are no longer being hunted down by the Night Terror that once threatened them.
“And now we have a suggestion—and a request.
“Only one man knows the full story behind the air piracy. We understand that the truth is stranger and more incredible than anything the boldest novelist could invent. What little has been made public suggests that an extraordinary story lies behind those events.
“The days of secrecy and censorship are over. There is no longer any reason to keep the truth hidden.
“We therefore suggest that a complete and detailed account of the first—and, we hope, the last—Air Pirate should be written and published for the world to read.
“And we call upon the popular Commissioner of Air Police himself, Sir John Custance, to tell that story.
“He alone knows the whole truth.”
When I first read those words, I was having breakfast in my rooms on Half Moon Street.
I picked up the newspaper and read the article aloud to my little valet, Charles Thumbwood.
When I finished, I shook my head.
“Not quite right, Charles. You know almost as much about the whole affair as I do.”
Charles continued brushing my light overcoat.
“And then there’s a certain friend who knows a great deal too,” I added.
“I wouldn’t say that, Sir John,” Charles replied.
I looked at him.
“You rode part of the journey beside me, after all.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we shouldn’t forget Mr. Danjuro.”
Charles smiled.
Before he became my valet, Thumbwood had been a jockey. He knew horses, racing, and anything that moved fast.
He glanced at me.
“Are you really going to write the whole story down, Sir John?”
“That depends on several things.”
I paused.
“Most of all, it depends on one particular person.”
Charles said nothing more.
I had already begun thinking about it.
As I drove to my offices in Whitehall—the Air Police headquarters, the Scotland Yard of the skies—I kept turning the matter over in my mind.
Later, I discussed it with a certain lady.
And that conversation was what finally led me to write the story that follows.
I did not finish it quickly.
Nearly two years passed before the whole account was completed.