Imagine, if you will, the private office of the Chief Commissioner of Air Police at Whitehall.
A soft Turkish carpet in dull brick-red and blue covered the polished floor. The walls were lined with portraits of famous airmen—great inventors, fighters, pioneers of the commercial air service that now filled the skies and had, for all practical purposes, made the world five times smaller.
Two or three enormous writing desks stood in the room, covered with crimson leather. The chairs were deep, comfortable, and expensive. A row of tall windows looked down on the endless movement of the broad street below, where the whole life of the Empire seemed to converge.
I was standing beside one of those windows.
I was thirty years old, dressed in a dark-blue lounge suit. My heavy moustache was neatly trimmed, but my face looked nothing like its usual self. It was pale, drawn, and lined with worry. I had hardly slept since the terrible news had reached me in Plymouth.
This was me in London, two days after Thumbwood had brought that news to my hotel bedroom.
General Sir Hercules Nichelson, Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Flying Corps, had been with me for half an hour and was now preparing to leave.
“Then everything is satisfactorily arranged, Sir John,” he said. “We shall reinforce your patrol ships with three warships at Plymouth and another three at the Scilly Isles.”
“They will be air cruisers, of course?”
“Yes. They will be faster and more heavily armed than your patrol boats. Between your men and mine, we should put an end to this plague within a few days.”
“I sincerely hope so,” I replied.
“I don’t see how there can be another attack. The net will simply be too tight.”
“I agree.”
“America is taking extraordinary precautions as well. Their coastline is much longer than ours, but they are tightening their defenses everywhere.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“It will be impossible for these damned criminals to escape,” the General said confidently.
Of course, none of the responsibility was going to fall on his shoulders.
“And now,” he continued, “I believe we understand each other perfectly.”
“Perfectly, Sir Hercules.”
“Your chief station officer will have full command under you at each airport.”
“That was your suggestion, Sir Hercules, and I agree that it is the best arrangement. My men are already patrolling the air routes. The organization is in place.”
“Exactly. And my officers will be proud to serve under such experienced and courageous men as yours.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s simply the truth.”
He paused for a moment.
“And now, as an older man, allow me to give you some advice. I hope you won’t think I’m interfering.”
“Of course not.”
“Don’t let this tragedy destroy you, Sir John. Any reasonable man knows that neither you nor anyone else could have prevented what happened. You could not possibly have prepared for something like this.”
“I understand.”
“You have a strong sense of responsibility. That’s admirable. But don’t let it consume you.”
I said nothing.
“I know the strain you’re under,” he continued. “Don’t allow it to go too far. If you collapse now, that would be a far greater disaster.”
The kind old man, his white hair shining against his weathered face, shook my hand warmly.
“Take care of yourself, Sir John.”
“I will.”
He left the room.
Almost immediately, my young private secretary, Bickenhall, entered.
“Here is this morning’s Press, sir.”
He placed a thick collection of newspaper cuttings on my desk. Every one of them dealt with the shocking events in the Atlantic that had now become known throughout the world.
I sat down and began reading.
I was forcing myself to remain calm. More than anything, I wanted to understand what the public was thinking.
Looking back, I think the quickest way to bring you up to date with what happened between my arrival in Plymouth and that morning in London is to let the newspapers tell part of the story themselves.
One of the leading London newspapers had published a long and serious article. It began:
“We have already reported the first attack upon the air-liner Albatros, under the command of Captain Pring. In that terrible situation, Captain Pring behaved exactly as one would expect from a British aviator.
“After such a criminal attack, most people would have assumed that the unknown pirate would be satisfied with his prize and disappear into hiding.
“But that is not what happened.
“On the very next night, with an audacity almost impossible to believe, this criminal struck again. This time his violence and daring made the first attack seem almost insignificant.
“We can now separate some of the truth from the conflicting reports that have reached us. The essential details have also been confirmed by the Air Police authorities at Whitehall, although their official statement has been deliberately cautious.”
I continued reading.
“It appears that two nights ago the famous air-liner Atlantis left the Plymouth sea-drome at approximately nine o’clock in the evening.
“The commander, Pilot-Commander Swainson, was one of the most respected officers in the Transatlantic service. He had no reason to believe that the slightest danger threatened his ship.
“Sir John Custance, Chief Commissioner of the Air Police, was himself in Plymouth at the time. He had hurried there from London immediately after receiving news of the first piracy.
“Sir John insisted that the Atlantis be escorted for half of her journey to America by Armed Patrol Ship No. 1, under the command of Superintendent Pilot-Commander Lashmar, D.S.O., an officer of outstanding reputation.
“At the halfway point, the Atlantis was due to meet an American Air Police escort.
“It is difficult to imagine what additional precautions Sir John Custance could possibly have taken.”
I stopped for a moment.
At least they were being fair about that.
I read on.
“The Atlantis was carrying the Royal Mail and a full complement of passengers. Several prominent people were among them.
“Among the male passengers were Mr. Bootfeller of the United States Senate, the well-known publisher Mr. Greenwell, the Duke of Perth, and Walty Priest, the famous cinema star.
“Among the ladies was Miss Constance Shepherd, the young actress who has become one of the most popular figures in Britain.”
My eyes stopped at her name.
I forced myself to continue.
“At approximately two in the morning, alarming reports began reaching the Plymouth wireless stations.
“The facts can now be summarized.
“When the Atlantis was about two hundred and fifty miles west of Ireland, Patrol Ship No. 1 was flying approximately three miles behind her.
“Without warning, an unknown airship suddenly attacked.
“The moon had already set. The air at ten thousand feet was completely dark.
“There was no warning whatsoever.
“Patrol Ship No. 1 was immediately hit by a storm of shells.
“Captain Lashmar was killed.
“Almost his entire crew died with him. Only three men survived. One was so badly wounded that his life was considered unlikely to be saved. The other two suffered less serious injuries.
“The patrol ship was wrecked. She could barely descend to the surface of the sea, where she floated helplessly like a wounded bird.”
I tightened my grip on the newspaper.
The article continued.
“The unknown airship then caught up with the Atlantis.
“As in the earlier attack on the Albatros, the pirates first destroyed the wireless aerials, cutting the liner off from the outside world.
“Then they destroyed the rudder and stern propeller.
“The great air-liner was forced down to the surface of the water.
“Six masked and armed men boarded her.
“They immediately began looting the ship.
“Captain Swainson could not stand by and watch this happen.
“He drew his revolver and shot one of the pirates dead.
“Then he called upon his crew to help him and led a desperate attack, regardless of the consequences.
“But the odds were hopeless.
“Captain Swainson was the only man among the defenders carrying a firearm. The pirates were armed with heavy automatic pistols.
“Five men of the Atlantis were killed almost immediately.
“The remaining crew were terrified into submission.
“The robbery continued.”
I read the next paragraph slowly.
“And then came the most terrible part of all.
“After completing their robbery, the criminals searched among the passengers for Miss Constance Shepherd and her maid, Miss Wilson.
“The two unfortunate women were forced at gunpoint to board the pirates’ small boat.
“They were taken rapidly to the pirate airship.
“The criminals then lifted the vessel from the surface and disappeared into the night.”
I lowered the newspaper.
For a few seconds I simply stared at it.
Then I picked it up again.
There was more.
“Meanwhile, two brave men were still fighting to save their shipmates.
“Paget and Fowles, two skilled navigators aboard the wrecked patrol ship, had been wounded but were still capable of action.
“Both men knew something about wireless equipment.
“With extraordinary effort, they managed to construct a temporary apparatus.
“After hours of work, they finally succeeded in sending out a short report of the disaster and a call for help.”
I read the final part.
“When rescue ships arrived at dawn, they discovered that the damaged patrol ship had drifted close to the Atlantis.
“Dr. Weatherall, the surgeon aboard the liner, had actually swum across to Patrol Ship No. 1 and was treating the wounded men as best he could.
“Several newspaper reporters are already in Plymouth.
“So far, however, only a few passengers from the Atlantis have been able to speak, and the authorities have not yet permitted any of them to make public statements.
“We are told that this restriction will be lifted by this evening.
“This is the most accurate account currently available.
“We must now consider what this terrible situation means.”
I put that newspaper aside.
Another paper caught my eye.
This one was a weekly scandal sheet. It had printed a large portrait of me beneath the headline:
“The Man the Atlantic Pirates Tricked!”
The paper had an enormous circulation among the sort of people who spent their evenings in cheap pubs.
I looked at Bickenhall.
“So this is what the country is reading about me?”
He nodded.
I knew him well enough to understand why he had brought it in.
He was too practical to waste my time unless he thought there might be something useful in it.
I read the article.
“Poor Johnny Custance!
“You’re in serious trouble today, and there’s no denying it.
“Paul Pry”—that was the writer’s name—“can’t say he’s particularly sorry for you.
“For some time now, a little bird has been whispering in certain clubs that things are not quite right at the office of the Commissioner of Air Police at Whitehall.
“The fashionable young gentlemen who stroll into that magnificent building every day have long been famous for being the best-dressed minor Government officials in London.
“Considering the salaries they receive from the taxpayers, perhaps that isn’t surprising.
“But I have yet to hear that they actually do any useful work.”
I frowned and kept reading.
“Of course, we need an Air Police service.
“Indeed, we need one now more than ever.
“But there is a world of difference between the practical pilot commanding a patrol ship at Plymouth or Portland and the bureaucratic dandies sitting comfortably in Pall Mall.
“Sir John Custance, Baronet, is the perfect example of the sort of Government official found in musical comedies and comic papers.
“He is an aristocrat who, after only a short career in aviation, was given a highly paid and extremely responsible position for reasons that ordinary people cannot understand.
“A baronet, and, if reports are correct, a man of considerable private wealth, he has often made me wonder what qualifications he possesses for the job.
“Johnny Custance is probably a perfectly respectable gentleman in private life.
“I have even heard that his moustache is one of the finest in the West End.
“He can also frequently be seen sitting in a theatre box.
“But very few people have ever taken him seriously as head of the Air Police.
“Now, after these disasters, no one will.”
There was a line of stars across the page.
Apparently Paul Pry had stopped to catch his breath—or perhaps to gather another handful of dirt.
Then he continued.
“If the country is expected to spend thousands upon thousands of pounds every year maintaining an efficient Air Police service, the taxpayers have a right to expect results.
“They also have a right to expect the man in charge to be capable of providing them.
“So what has happened?
“A gang of murderous criminals has attacked two of our greatest air-liners.
“They have robbed them.
“They have murdered several people.
“They have kidnapped one of our most popular actresses.
“And they have escaped without punishment.
“Vanished!
“While Sir John Custance sits comfortably in Whitehall, twiddling his thumbs and calling upon the Admiralty and War Office to rescue his hopelessly inefficient organization.”
I nearly tore the paper in half.
But there was still more.
“As usual, we have some very special information.
“My readers know that Paul Pry is not easily caught sleeping.
“I believe I shall have something to reveal next week that will shock everyone.
“For certain reasons, I cannot say more at present.
“But before I finish, I must say something about the extraordinary and mysterious disappearance of the delightful Constance Shepherd.
“It is certainly tragic when brave men are killed in the line of duty.
“But there is something especially heartbreaking about the disappearance of this charming young woman, to whom London owes so much.
“Dear little Connie!
“We in Bohemia knew and loved her.
“Paul Pry himself has spent many happy hours in her company and raised many a glass to her success.”
I stopped.
The next part made me sit up.
“No one could have imagined such a tragic ending to the American journey Miss Shepherd began with such high hopes.
“And yet, perhaps there was a warning.
“Only a week ago she said to me:
‘Paul, I’m not sure everything is going to go well after all. There are certain things. I can’t tell you about them—’
“But I shall respect my friend’s confidence.
“Let it be enough to say that my little friend sometimes seemed deeply troubled about the future.”
I put the newspaper down.
“Bickenhall.”
He entered almost immediately.
“You’ve read this, I suppose?”
I pointed at the article.
He nodded.
“Lies, of course,” he said. “Just words to fill a column.”
“No doubt.”
I tapped the newspaper with one finger.
“But the fellow is hinting at all sorts of things.”
Bickenhall looked at me.
“You think there might be something behind it?”
“I don’t know.”
I was furious, but there was another reason for my anger—one Bickenhall knew nothing about.
“One thing is certain,” I said. “We can’t ignore any possible clue.”
“The office is in the Strand,” he said. “Three minutes by taxi.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’ll go and see this Paul Pry.”
He gave me a grim smile.
“I’ll put the fear of God into him.”
I knew Bickenhall.
He was a strong, energetic young man, and although I had little hope that he would uncover anything useful, I had a strong suspicion that Mr. Paul Pry was about to spend ten extremely unpleasant minutes.
I was right on both counts.
Bickenhall returned half an hour later.
“Well?”
“Complete nonsense.”
He dropped into a chair.
“I found a greasy little fellow in a back room. He smelled strongly of gin.”
“And?”
“I frightened him half to death.”
I almost smiled.
“He admitted he had never even met Miss Shepherd.”
“So he knows nothing?”
“Nothing at all. No private information. No secret source. Nothing.”
“And the story?”
“Pure invention.”
“He’ll apologize?”
“In any way you want.”
I leaned back.
There was nothing more to be gained from him.
I won’t trouble you with everything the newspapers printed over the next few days.
There were hundreds of columns filled with theories, guesses, accusations, warnings, and demands for action.
On the whole, my department was treated fairly gently, and I was relieved.
Don’t misunderstand me.
I didn’t care what they said about me personally.
Not in the slightest.
But I would have been bitterly angry if they had seriously attacked my officers and men.
They were—and still are—among the most capable, loyal, and courageous people in the world.