The station superintendent met me in the brightly lit office. An electric fan was turning slowly overhead.
“I expect you’re feeling pretty worn out, Sir John,” he said.
“I am, Johnson. I’ll admit it.”
“There’s a bad thunderstorm coming. No doubt about that. The air should be much cooler afterward. Everything is ready for the prisoners, sir.”
The staff had been in touch with London all day about the prisoners, but I had heard nothing yet.
“What have they decided?”
“Our two prisoners, sir, along with the three already held at Penzance, are being sent to London tonight. They’ll appear briefly at Bow Street and then be remanded for a week, which should give you enough time to prepare your case. The Home Office will contact you.”
“Very well. How are they being transported?”
“The night mail leaves Penzance at midnight and reaches here at two. The other three prisoners will already be aboard, under heavy guard. Our two will join the train at Mill Bay Station. I’ve assigned Prosser and Moore to escort them.”
“Make sure the men are properly armed. And the prisoners?”
“They’re very quiet, sir. I think they know the game is up. They’ve eaten normally.”
“They’re together?”
“Yes, sir. We only have one cell that’s completely secure. But there’s no danger in keeping them together. An officer checks on them every half-hour. They never hear him coming, and he reports that they don’t even speak to each other.”
“They aren’t handcuffed?”
“No, sir. I didn’t think it was necessary while they’re here. They’ll be handcuffed and chained together when they leave for the train. We searched them thoroughly and took everything they had away shortly after they arrived. Would you like to see them?”
“I don’t think so, Johnson. I’ve had more than enough of their company these past few days. I don’t want to see Vargus again until he’s standing in the dock and I’m giving evidence against him.”
“He’s one of the most evil-looking men I’ve ever seen,” Johnson said with disgust.
“Well, good night, sir. I hope you get some sleep. I’ve told the station attendant to have your bath ready at eight. He’ll wake you then.”
Johnson left, and I was alone.
My head was aching, and I had no desire to sleep just yet. I undressed, put on my pyjamas, and sat down for one last pipe.
There was whisky, soda, and a bowl of ice beside me. I poured myself a drink.
Instead of relaxing me, it left me strangely depressed.
I suppose it was the natural reaction after everything I had been through. My nerves were exhausted, and the heavy air before the storm seemed to press down upon me.
I found myself thinking about something I had felt many times before: that even the greatest victories seemed strangely empty once they were over.
Every pleasure seemed to have some bitterness hidden inside it.
Life itself could be a poor and miserable thing.
And then I began thinking about how much suffering one evil man could create.
The gaunt figure of Hawk Helzephron rose before my mind.
I thought of all the dead men whose deaths could be traced back to him—the brave men of my own service, the men of the Transatlantic Company, and all the criminals he had corrupted and tempted, men who had been driven into eternity carrying their sins with them.
It was a dark and unhealthy train of thought.
But I was exhausted, and for a while I could not escape it.
Then I thought of Connie.
She had survived.
And I had been rescued.
Those thoughts finally broke through the darkness in my mind.
Ashamed of my mood, I forced myself to stop thinking about such things. I said my prayers and climbed into bed.
Yet even as I drifted toward sleep, the distant thunder sounded like the growling of those terrible dogs in the cave.
The flashes of lightning looked like the glare of the approaching airship.
Looking back now, I believe I had some unconscious warning that tragedy was already rushing toward me.
I was suddenly jolted awake.
At first I thought another flash of lightning had woken me.
It hadn’t.
The electric lights had been switched on, and several uniformed men were standing around my bed.
The wind was howling outside.
Rain was pouring down in torrents, and huge sheets of water were crashing against the windows.
Then I saw Superintendent Johnson.
His face was as white as a sheet.
“What is it?” I shouted.
He raised his voice above the roar of the storm.
“The prisoners, Sir John! They’ve escaped!”
“What?”
“They somehow picked the lock of their cell. They got into the passage and broke the bars from the window at the far end. None of us heard a thing!”
I jumped out of bed and immediately began shouting orders.
Then I saw the terror on Johnson’s face.
There was more.
“They got down to the water somehow, sir. They must have climbed down the lift rails.”
He swallowed hard.
“And they swam to the ship.”
“What ship?”
“Their own ship, Sir John. Somehow they got aboard. We’ve only just discovered it.”
“Where are they?”
“They killed the two men aboard and somehow started the engines. The ship has gone. The searchlights are sweeping the whole pool, but there’s no sign of her.”
He stopped speaking.
The words seemed to die in his throat.
At that moment, the other men drew together in fear as Danjuro slowly entered the room.
I have never seen a man look so terrifying.
When Europeans experience extreme emotion, their faces often turn white.
An Asian can turn grey.
Danjuro’s face was a terrible, lifeless grey.
Deep lines seemed to have been carved into it.
He looked like a man who had slept for a thousand years, awakened to find himself old, and discovered that he was in hell.
He came slowly toward me, moving as though something invisible were pulling him forward.
When he reached me, he began to speak.
I can never remember his voice without feeling fear.
It sounded like the voice of a man standing at the gates of Hell, where hope itself had been abandoned, listening to someone suffering in the flames below.
“During a break in the storm,” he said mechanically, “I went onto the deck of the May Flower to get some fresh air. Mr. Van Adams came with me.”
“We were looking toward the Pirate Ship when I noticed lights moving up and down inside the windows of the fuselage.”
“It seemed strange. We wondered what the two men aboard could possibly be doing.”
“Then we saw two men come onto the deck.”
“Suddenly there was a flash of lightning.”
“And I saw them clearly.”
“The men were Vargus and Gascoigne.”
“They were carrying the body of a man in uniform.”
“They lowered the body into the water.”
Johnson gasped.
Danjuro continued.
“I immediately fetched two pistols. Mr. Van Adams and I jumped into the electric launch, which was moored beside the May Flower on the opposite side from the Pirate Ship.”
“There was no time to call for help.”
“We raced across the pool just as the storm returned. Thunder exploded overhead, and the rain came down in sheets.”
“We were only a few yards from the Pirate Ship and were preparing to board her.”
“Then Mr. Van Adams switched on a powerful electric torch.”
“I saw Vargus holding a knife.”
“He was cutting through the mooring ropes.”
“At the same time, I noticed that the lights in the pilot’s cabin had been switched on.”
“I fired at Vargus, but missed.”
“Almost at the same moment, he fired directly at the light Mr. Van Adams was holding.”
“The bullet went straight through Mr. Van Adams’s heart.”
“He fell backward, dead in my arms.”
“I was steering the launch.”
“I fired every remaining round in my pistol, but the thunder drowned out the sound.”
“The Pirate Ship began to move.”
“I watched the lights along her side as she moved away.”
“Then she rose into the air.”
“And disappeared.”
Danjuro fell silent.
No one spoke.
Every man in that room stood frozen, as still as wax figures.
For three days, the Press and the public were told nothing about what had happened during the storm.
On the fourth day, just as I was beginning to believe that all my efforts had failed and that the Pirate Ship had disappeared forever, two long telegrams reached the Head Office in Whitehall.
One came from the Prefect of Finistère in France.
The other came from the Chief of Police at Quimper, the old cathedral city in Brittany.
A goat-herder had discovered the wreckage of a large airship on a remote and desolate Breton moor.
Beside it lay the body of a young man.
Only one body.
The French authorities urgently asked me to come at once.
I crossed the Channel in my fastest patrol boat.
The remains of the Pirate Ship lay among wild gorse and heather.
There was no possibility of repairing her. She had been completely destroyed.
And it was obvious that the destruction had been deliberate.
Someone had destroyed the ship methodically after she had landed.
Later, I saw the body in the morgue at Quimper.
It was Gascoigne.
He had not died in the crash.
Someone had stabbed him in the back.
He must have been dead for nearly two days before the goat-herder found him.
Of Vargus, however, there was no sign.
No one knew whether he was alive or dead.
I returned to London that same night.
I was about to go to bed in my flat in Half Moon Street when the bell rang.
Thumbwood answered the door.
“Mr. Danjuro wishes to see you, sir.”
Danjuro entered wearing evening dress.
Outwardly, he seemed to have returned completely to his old self.
There was only one obvious difference.
His black hair had turned completely iron-grey.
For a few minutes, we discussed the inquest into poor Van Adams’s death, which had been held privately.
We also discussed arrangements for the trial of the three surviving pirates.
Then I told him what I had discovered at Quimper.
“Mr. Muir Lockhart told me about the telegrams from France,” Danjuro said. “I went to Whitehall, but you had already left for Quimper, Sir John.”
“I apologize for calling so late. I was anxious to hear what you had discovered.”
“Now I know what I must do.”
“After such a terrible loss, I suppose you’ll return to America—or perhaps Japan—and settle down?”
He shook his head.
“You know, if you wanted it, there is an important and very well-paid position waiting for you in the Air Police.”
“I would be delighted to have you as my colleague.”
“Thank you, Sir John. But I have other work to do.”
“I am a wealthy man, but wealth means nothing to me except as a means to an end.”
“And when that end is reached…”
He made a strange gesture with his arm.
I didn’t understand it.
“What is this work you speak of?”
He looked at me with surprise.
“Vargus is still alive,” he said simply.
“He’ll be caught soon. Every police force in the world will be searching for him if he is alive.”
“I believe it will be a very long pursuit, Sir John.”
“He escaped with the treasure.”
“And I know certain things about Mr. Vargus that very few people know.”
“I don’t believe the police will ever capture him.”
“Then you intend to…?”
“It is my work.”
“I owe my patron’s spirit the blood of this man, and I intend to repay that debt.”
“Even if he hides at the bottom of the sea, sooner or later I will find him.”
“There is no power in this world strong enough to keep the two of us apart.”
His voice had fallen to a whisper.
The words came out like the hiss of a blade being sharpened.
“I wish you good luck,” I said.
I was about to say more—to thank him again for everything he had done—but he stopped me.
“I am leaving for Paris in half an hour,” he said. “So I must say goodbye, Sir John.”
“Please give my humble regards to Miss Shepherd.”
He bowed slightly, shook my hand with cold formality, and left.
Six weeks later, the day before my wedding, I received a magnificent old Japanese Satsuma enamel vase.
There was no address on the card that came with it.
I did not see that extraordinary man again for nearly two years.
When we finally met again, something happened that deserves its own brief epilogue.