The big car rolled smoothly down Piccadilly. I discovered within the first few minutes that it was a magnificent machine. It had the newest electric starter, superb lights, and every convenience a driver could want.
Yet I hardly noticed any of it.
As I guided the car through the late-night traffic of theatres and restaurants, my mind was somewhere else.
For the first time in days, I felt an enormous sense of relief.
At last, I was doing something.
All the work I had been doing in my office—organizing patrols, planning guard ships, holding conferences with pilots and officials—had failed to quiet the terrible restlessness inside me. I had been ordering other men to act while I remained behind a desk.
I had always known that I would have been happier flying one of the warplanes across the Atlantic myself.
Now I was finally doing something real.
I was personally setting out on a definite mission.
Perhaps it would all prove to be nonsense. I knew perfectly well what the practical men would say. They would point out how little evidence I actually possessed. They would talk about circumstantial evidence and the dangers of building a case upon assumptions.
They would probably laugh and say, “Here comes the dreamer.”
And yet, as I drove up Park Lane toward Oxford Street and the road west, I felt as though I really were living in a dream.
The events of the last few days had changed my whole life. Perhaps they had destroyed it forever.
Tonight everything familiar had disappeared, and I was standing on the edge of something completely unknown.
There was probably no other man in London setting out upon a stranger mission under more extraordinary circumstances.
Then we passed a huge white mansion set back behind the railings, its windows overlooking the Park.
It was the London palace Mr. Van Adams had built for himself during the past five years.
Seeing it made the whole adventure seem even more unreal.
Only a few hours earlier, the great millionaire had been sitting in my rooms and had introduced me to the mysterious little man now sitting behind me in the car.
Danjuro was a strange creature indeed.
It was almost impossible to think of him as an ordinary human being.
He seemed to be nothing but a brain—a highly specialized force devoted to a single purpose. If Van Adams was right, he might even be the greatest expert of his kind in the world.
Already I had placed myself completely in his hands.
Not merely my personal interests, precious as they were to me, but my responsibilities to the State as well.
It was remarkable that he had gained such control over me in so short a time.
There was something almost magical about his complete detachment and concentration.
With a man like that helping me, surely I could not fail.
I began thinking about everything Danjuro had already accomplished.
His quiet, brilliant analysis.
His audacious plan to keep Helzephron in London.
The precision with which he had carried out his operations at the Mille Colonnes.
And that extraordinary periscope on the dinner table.
Surely Helzephron—or whoever the real criminal might be—was doomed now that Danjuro was following his trail.
We were leaving Ealing behind us.
The traffic had almost disappeared, and the long, straight road west ran between market gardens and great glasshouses stretching along the outskirts of London.
I opened up the engine.
The car surged forward like a horse suddenly spurred into a gallop.
At the same moment, anger rose inside me at the very thought of Helzephron.
Poor Connie.
My lost Connie.
She had told me herself how that man had pestered her. I had seen him at Paddington with my own eyes.
Then Thumbwood and Danjuro’s investigations at the Parthenon Theatre had filled in the missing details.
And the picture was an ugly one.
Helzephron was a V.C., but his reputation was hardly respectable.
That evening I had watched him closely. I had studied every line of his cruel, hawk-like face.
When that vulgar prizefighter attacked him, I had felt a fierce thrill.
It was almost as satisfying as beating the fellow myself.
And yet there was something important about my feelings that I must record.
I hated the man in the sense that I loathed him.
But I did not hate him as the man who had abducted Connie.
Even now, I could not bring myself to believe that.
That was the strange thing about my state of mind.
Danjuro had convinced my reason.
He had not convinced my heart.
Usually, when people believe something deeply, the situation is the other way around. They may have faith in a religion, for example, without being able to prove it logically. Their faith remains strong and certain.
I had the logic.
I had no faith.
That was why this whole journey seemed like a shadow, something unreal that might vanish at any moment.
The long night drive only made the feeling stronger.
So did my strange companion, whose presence I was constantly aware of behind me.
At about three in the morning, Danjuro spoke through the communication tube.
“You have driven long enough, Sir John. I will take over.”
I stopped the huge car on a dark road bordered by trees.
Moonlight lay across the road in patches of silver.
We changed seats.
I got out and stamped my feet to bring the circulation back into them.
The night wind whispered through the leaves.
Far away, I could hear a nightjar calling.
There was an extraordinary stillness about the place.
In the moonlight, Danjuro’s face looked almost lifeless.
It reminded me of those Japanese wax masks with opalescent glass eyes that were displayed in Oriental shops.
I climbed back into the car.
Suddenly exhausted, I sank into the luxurious seat.
We started again.
Thumbwood switched on the roof light and produced a Thermos flask.
“Hot soup, Sir John.”
I drank some.
It was wonderfully refreshing.
“How have you been getting on with Mr. Danjuro?” I asked.
“Very well, thank you, Sir John.”
Thumbwood chuckled.
“He knows everything, I do believe.”
“Everything?”
“Well, if there’s one subject where I’d know when a man was talking nonsense, it’s horses. That’s only natural, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“But that gentleman knows horses like a professional trainer, sir. And when it comes to the tricks of gamblers and crooks, whether they’re in the boxing ring or on the racecourse, he knows every one of them.”
Thumbwood tapped his pocket.
“I usually carry a pack of cards with me, sir. I’ve got one now.”
He shook his head in amazement.
“The things Mr. Danjuro showed me were unbelievable. I’ve seen plenty of that sort of trick in my time, but he’s in a class of his own.”
He laughed.
“I wouldn’t play poker with him, sir. Not even halfpenny nap. Not for a fistful of sovereigns.”
We reached Exeter in time for breakfast.
I was able to shave and have a bath.
But halfway up the hotel stairs, a horrible thought suddenly struck me.
I hurried back down to find Danjuro.
“That stuff you’ve put on my skin,” I said. “Will it stand hot water and soap?”
He smiled.
“Perfectly. Nothing will remove it except a preparation I carry with me.”
I returned upstairs and bathed in peace.
It was a beautiful morning when we set out again.
For many miles the road ran close to the Devon coast.
The sea was a brilliant sapphire blue between the red sandstone cliffs, while the sky looked like an enormous hollow turquoise.
The morning was glorious, and part of me was happy simply to see it.
But Connie was always in my thoughts.
Her memory remained like a dull, constant pain that even such beauty could not ease.
Thumbwood drove for a while.
Danjuro sat beside him studying a mass of maps. Every so often he made a note in his pocket-book.
I wondered what was happening inside that enormous head of his.
What thoughts were moving through that extraordinary brain?
There was plenty to interest me as Commissioner of Air Police.
The sky was dotted with small private aircraft flying toward Plymouth or Exeter from country houses scattered across Devon.
The days when successful businessmen had to live close to their offices were long gone.
Men now flew to work every morning, often from considerable distances away.
Farther out over the sea, I could see the large passenger airships that now surrounded England.
From time to time, Royal Mail aircraft shot across the sky like javelins.
More than once I spotted one of my own police patrols.
It was a strange feeling.
Here I was, sitting in a car with my face stained and my upper lip shaved, moving along the Devon roads at a miserable forty miles an hour.
Yet I had supreme authority over all those aircraft in the sky.
There were very few cars on the roads at that early hour.
Fifteen years earlier, many people had predicted that the popularity of flying would kill the automobile.
They had been wrong.
Flying had reduced the number of cars to some extent, and the roads had consequently become more pleasant.
Naturally, I would have preferred to make the journey by airship, or at least to travel most of the distance that way.
But the registration system and police regulations governing aircraft had largely been created by me.
Using an aircraft would leave too obvious a trail.
Even if nobody discovered my true identity or purpose, our movements would be easy to trace.
And if Helzephron really was the man we suspected, he would be the first to hear about a private aircraft appearing in the lonely region where he lived.
Around midday, we were nearing Plymouth.
I began to feel uneasy.
My memories of the town were still poisoned by what had happened there only a day or two before, when Thumbwood had burst into my bedroom with the news of the Atlantis disaster.
For a moment I felt that I never wanted to see Plymouth again.
But that was weakness, and I forced it down.
Then a more practical thought occurred to me.
I told Charles to stop the car and climbed inside beside Danjuro.
“Look here,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be better to drive straight through Plymouth and continue into Cornwall? We could have lunch at St. Germans or somewhere.”
“You have a particular reason for avoiding Plymouth, Sir John?”
“Yes. It’s the main air port for America. One of my biggest stations is here. Dozens of people know me.”
I hesitated.
“I’ve always been a familiar figure in Plymouth. More so than ever lately.”
Danjuro gave me his small, tired smile.
“I don’t think you appreciate how completely your appearance has changed.”
“You really think nobody would recognize me?”
“I am an expert in such matters, Sir John. I assure you that nobody would recognize you.”
“I had intended to spend at least two hours here.”
“Why?”
“There are several reasons. First, I need some local Cornish maps and a few directories. I couldn’t obtain them in London.”
He paused.
“But there is another reason. We are now at the centre of everything connected with the Atlantic. The town is still in a state of excitement.”
“Because of the piracy?”
“Nothing else is being discussed.”
He looked at me calmly.
“The town is filled with newspaper correspondents from all over Europe. Everyone is talking, everyone is speculating. I want to walk around for an hour or two and listen.”
“You think we’ll learn something?”
“There is no way of knowing. But it would be foolish to waste such an opportunity.”
I considered this.
“You’re absolutely certain about my disguise?”
“Completely.”
“Even people who know me?”
“Of course, you must not have a long conversation with anyone who knows you well. Your voice could betray you.”
“That’s what worries me.”
I nodded.
“I’ve always heard that however perfect a man’s disguise may be, his voice cannot be hidden.”
Danjuro began rolling a cigarette with those astonishingly quick fingers of his.
“That is not true.”
“It isn’t?”
“I have invented five methods for disguising the voice.”
He calmly lit his cigarette.
“Three are mechanical. The other two are medical or chemical, depending upon how you prefer to describe them.”
“I’d like to see those methods sometime.”
“When we have leisure, I will show you. But you need none of them today.”
He looked at me.
“You should test your disguise for yourself. Go to the Royal Hotel and have lunch there. Listen carefully to the conversations around you. I will join you at about three.”
“Very well.”
I was still reluctant.
“What about the car?”
“Mr. Thumbwood has been seen with you at the Royal Hotel before, and he is not disguised. He should not go near the hotel.”
Danjuro had thought of everything.
“We will drop you a short distance away. I will remain in the car and tell Thumbwood where to go.”
Nothing escaped that little man.
Five minutes later, I got out about two hundred yards from the hotel.
I felt reasonably safe in my new identity.
Mr. Johns.
A don from Christ Church, Oxford.
The moment I entered the street, I realized that Danjuro had been right.
Plymouth was in a ferment.
You know the feeling.
Sometimes you can walk into a crowd and instantly sense that something unusual is happening.
London is too large for an event to change the whole atmosphere of the city unless it is a national disaster. Even then, only a sharp observer who understands crowds can detect the difference.
A large provincial town was different.
As I passed the theatre and turned toward the main entrance of the hotel, I saw the same subject on every face.
Everyone was talking about the piracy.
The streets, usually bright with military and naval uniforms, seemed more crowded than normal.
There was a strange electricity in the air.
Instead of making me nervous, it strengthened my determination.
As I climbed the hotel’s massive steps, I smiled to myself.
If only these people knew who I really was and what I was doing here.
Then I received a shock.
In the great lounge stood a man talking to someone in a black morning coat and silk hat.
I knew him immediately.
It was my second-in-command, Muir Lockhart, Assistant Commissioner of Air Police.
He was wearing the special uniform that both of us used only on ceremonial occasions.
“Yes,” he was saying. “I’m down here representing the Chief.”
I slowed my pace.
Muir Lockhart had a rather high, penetrating voice.
“When did you come down?” the other man asked.
“About half an hour ago. I flew down from Whitehall this morning.”
“Then Sir John Custance isn’t coming?”
Muir Lockhart shook his head.
“Impossible.”
He sounded completely certain.
“Sir John can’t leave London at present. He has to remain in charge of everything. He simply can’t be spared.”
I nearly smiled.
“I saw him this morning before I left,” Muir continued. “He’d been working all night and was almost dead on his feet.”
Then he added:
“He told me, ‘Explain my position to them. Nothing but the strictest duty would keep me away from Plymouth today.'”
The other man nodded.
“Of course. Quite understandable.”
He looked at his watch.
“I’d better get over to the Guildhall. You’ll bring your men up at half-past one?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
The man hurried away.
I realized that he must be the Mayor of Plymouth.
Now Muir Lockhart and I were standing almost face to face.
He looked directly at me.
He was an extremely observant man, and I knew he had examined every detail of my appearance.
Then he walked straight past me.
Without the slightest sign of recognition.
Excellent.
If my own colleague, a man who saw me for several hours every day, could not recognize me, nobody else was likely to.
I silently thanked Danjuro.
And what a magnificent liar Muir Lockhart was.
He knew I had left London on my own.
He had absolutely no idea where I had gone.
It was tempting to reveal myself.
I resisted.
But I was deeply puzzled.
What was he doing in Plymouth?
Why was he wearing his ceremonial uniform?
What had he been discussing with the Mayor?
I had no idea.
For the first time, I felt strangely cut off from my own organization, as if I had been forgotten and thrown onto the scrap-heap.
The long drive had made me hungry.
I decided to have lunch.
But before entering the dining room, I wanted to clean myself up after the journey.
I went down the corridor to the lavatory.
A man in his shirt sleeves was standing over one of the basins, splashing water over himself.
I began washing my own darkened hands.
The man dried himself with a towel.
Then he looked casually in my direction.
It was Mr. Van Adams.
I could not stop myself from jumping.
The meeting was so unexpected that for a moment I could hardly believe my eyes.
What did all this mean?
He immediately noticed my reaction.
The room was empty except for the two of us.
I made my decision.
“Mr. Van Adams?”
“Sure!”
He grinned.
“You have the floor. Shoot.”
“You don’t know me?”
“Not from Adam.”
He studied me.
“Though your voice sounds kind of familiar.”
“I’m Sir John Custance.”
His eyes widened.
“Danjuro has disguised me.”
“Gee!”
He laughed.
“Aren’t you something now, Sir John?”
He looked me over again.
“So you’re down here in disguise for the funeral?”
“That’s why I’ve come.”
“I came for the same reason. Thought it was a matter of respect. I flew down from Park Lane after breakfast.”
“I’m actually on my way west.”
I explained.
“We only stopped here because Danjuro has some business to attend to.”
“I’ve arranged lunch in a private room overlooking the square.”
He took my arm.
“Come on up, Sir John. You’ll be able to see everything from there.”
“Thank you.”
I followed him.
“But I’m still completely in the dark. I’m away from the office now, as you know. I saw Muir Lockhart here, but I couldn’t speak to him.”
Van Adams led me toward the lift.
“Captain Lashmar and the five men from your patrol boat are being buried today.”
I stopped.
“And Captain Swainson?”
“Yes. Captain Swainson of the Atlantis.”
He lowered his voice.
“And the men who were murdered aboard her.”
The news hit me hard.
I had not heard a word about the funerals.
Under my makeup, I could feel my face burning.
I felt like a complete brute.
When we entered the private dining room, I tried to explain myself.
Van Adams waved the thought away.
“You think you’re being cold and unfeeling?”
He shook his head.
“I know better than that, my friend.”
He sat down.
“You’re trying to make sure that what we’re about to witness never happens again.”
He smiled grimly.
“You’re playing a bigger game than marching at the head of some funeral procession. You’re working where the real trouble is.”
He pushed a plate toward me.
“Now sit down. Eat some of this pork and beans or whatever they’ve served us.”
Then he smiled.
“And tell me everything.”
We ate lunch together.
After a glass of Burgundy, I told him everything that had happened.
I also told him how completely I trusted Danjuro.
Van Adams nodded.
“You’re right.”
He leaned back.
“There isn’t another investigator on earth who could match that little man.”
“That’s how I feel.”
“He has orders to stay with you all the way, and he’ll obey them.”
Van Adams laughed.
“That brain of his is like the Mammoth Cave. And he’s almost completely free of ordinary human passions.”
“Almost?”
“There’s one exception.”
He pointed at himself.
“He’d walk straight into hell wearing a paper suit if I asked him to.”
Then he began telling me one strange story after another about Danjuro.
Any novelist could have made a fortune from those stories.
He was halfway through another when he suddenly stopped.
The noise from the square outside had disappeared.
A deep silence settled over the town.
Then we heard the muted sound of music.
We both stood and went to the windows.
The square below was filled as far as we could see with a black sea of heads.
In the middle, the slender clock tower rose from its little island like a solitary sentinel.
Soldiers and sailors lined the pavements.
Then, as one, the crowd removed their hats.
The haunting notes of Chopin’s “Funeral March” spread through the air.
The procession appeared.
Thirteen coffins covered in flowers.
Thirteen brave men who would never again fly through the upper air.
Behind the hearses came Paget and Fowles, the two heroic airmen who had summoned the rescue ship by wireless.
Then came the chaplains.
And Muir Lockhart.
I watched it all as if I were dreaming.
The head of the Transatlantic Air Line.
The Mayor and Corporation in their ceremonial robes.
The solemn military display.
The whole thing seemed unreal.
Then I noticed Mr. Van Adams.
He had fallen to his knees a few feet from the window.
His head was bowed.
In his hands he held a crucifix and a string of golden beads.
He was praying.
Who would have expected that from this master of millions with his powerful, jutting jaw?
I assumed he was a Catholic.
But my thoughts were far away.
They were above the Atlantic.
In my imagination I saw an unknown aircraft racing through the sky at a speed the world had never witnessed before.
And in the pilot’s seat sat a man with a hawk-like face, cruel eyes, and a thin, hard smile.
I stood there for a long time.
So long that the end of the procession was already passing below us.
Van Adams finally rose from his prayers, made the sign of the Cross, and touched my arm.
“Look.”
He pointed down into the street.
I followed his finger.
Danjuro stood on the opposite pavement.
He was watching the funeral procession.
His face was perfectly visible.
And so was the expression on it.
In an instant, the dream vanished.
I was wide awake.