MEMORIES CAN SAVE
As Milton’s car, driven by O’Shea, raced around the corner into the
square, all question of the fugitive’s identity was settled.
Just vaulting into a two-seater that had been parked over by the
railings was the man whose retreating figure I had seen as I leaned
from the window! I prayed that he might be unable to start. But my
prayer was not answered. Off he went, heading for Piccadilly.
One swift glance back he gave over his shoulder. And in the light of
the street lamp by which the car had stood, I saw the face of Zara!
I glanced at O’Shea beside me. His pale features were set like a mask.
I looked to right and to left; but not a soul was in sight. Berkeley
Square was apparently deserted. Often enough I had wondered how
certain notorious burglaries had been accomplished with all the
resources of civilization at beck and call of justice. This was the
answer.
We had no means of arranging for Zara’s interception--although a
constable was on duty at the corner of Bruton Street! We could only
hope to keep him in sight or else overtake him. The merest hitch, or
slightest traffic delay, would deliver him into our hands. But the
betting was equal. Such an accident might as well befall us as him;
and, the quarry once out of sight, our chances fell below zero.
O’Shea spoke never a word. His mind held but one single purpose. That
purpose, I firmly believe, was to wreak justice upon Zara with his own
hands.
Momentarily, I wondered about Milton. Of Nanette I dared not think.
But a cold fury was growing within me, and I fingered the pistol that
had been in my pocket since the raid upon the house in Porchester
Terrace.
Zara whirled round into St. James’s Street. The traffic in Piccadilly
was not great but there were a number of pedestrians about. I even saw
policemen in the distance. It all seemed utterly grotesque. Then, hot
upon the fugitive, we, too, were dropping down the slope. Far ahead I
could see the clock above St. James’s Palace. The hour was a quarter
past two.
Our speed was outrageous. We crossed Pall Mall at about thirty-five,
and came out into the Mall, heading for Buckingham Palace in
Brooklands fashion. We were gaining slightly. We crept from forty-five
to fifty. Broad thoroughfares, brightly lighted, offered no
obstruction; and we flew around the sharp bend by the Victoria
Memorial and headed east.
“Westminster Bridge!” I muttered.
O’Shea did not speak. Past the barracks we sped, and, undeterred by a
certain amount of traffic in Parliament Square, shot on to the
approach to the Bridge. We were now three lengths behind Zara, and on
the gradient began to improve upon it. Zara drove on the inside of the
car lines, hugging the pavement. And at about the centre of the Bridge
we passed outside him. I heard someone shouting.
“Cover him, Decies!” said O’Shea grimly. “Shoot if he doesn’t pull
up!”
I turned and gave a loud cry. Zara had slowed down and was already
twenty yards behind us!
“Stop, O’Shea!” I cried--“stop!”
He obeyed so suddenly that I nearly dived through the windshield. Then
we jumped, one on either side, and started to run back.
Zara had already dismounted, and I saw him peeling his coat. A picture
arose out of the recent past: a foggy night off Ushant: and I seemed
to hear again that eerie cry, “Man overboard!”
So it was that Zara had eluded us once before. Undoubtedly he was
going to do so again; and for all the cold hatred in my heart, I could
not entirely withhold admiration as I saw him bound upon the parapet,
raise his arms, and take that appalling dive into the Thames far
below.
I knew now, however, what I had not known formerly: that Adolf Zara’s
courage was the courage of madness. His was that disease of fanaticism
which, when it does not cough up a Tomsky, floods the criminal lunatic
asylums.
As we both craned over the parapet, peering down at the uneasy water,
I heard the sound of a runner and then the flat note of a police
whistle.
“There he is!” said O’Shea.
I stared but could see nothing, when:
“Hello, there! What’s the game! Who was it that went over?” cried a
loud voice.
We turned, as a breathless constable came doubling up.
“A very dangerous criminal,” O’Shea replied, “and we were chasing him.
Quick, officer! on which side of the Bridge shall we find a boat?”
The manner of one accustomed to give orders is unmistakable, and:
“West, sir,” the constable answered promptly. “There’s a boat at the
pier.”
“Good,” said O’Shea, and started to run to the car. I followed.
As we jumped in, turned, and headed back to where Big Ben recorded the
fact that only seven minutes had elapsed since we had passed St.
James’s Palace, I saw the constable coming after us. But, leaving the
car by the foot of the clock tower, O’Shea raced across to the gate at
the head of those steps that lead down to the pier. It was locked; and
here I thought that the chase ended. But I had counted without O’Shea.
London, unlike New York, normally is a very empty city at two o’clock
in the morning; but now, as if conjured up by a magic talisman, a
group began to assemble. I looked to my right--from which the
constable was bearing down upon us. Even as he ran, his bearing was
ominous. It occurred to me that he regarded O’Shea and myself with
justifiable suspicion, and I foresaw complications.
It was odd, I reflected, that we stood almost in the shadow of
Scotland Yard--representing Law and Order, the forces of Empire
against those of disruption--but that the very powers that should have
backed us were likely now to aid and abet a dangerous conspirator and
assassin in escaping the meshes of justice.
The constable rather windily began to blow his whistle again.
A resolute-looking man, clean-shaven, and of a very hard-bitten
countenance, suddenly appeared at my elbow.
“What’s the trouble?” he inquired--and challenged me with keen eyes.
An official note in his voice was recognizable. O’Shea turned quickly.
The ever-increasing group drew more closely around us. A second
constable was making his way across from Parliament Square.
“The trouble is,” said O’Shea, “that this gate is locked, and I want
to get on to the pier.”
The man, whose face seemed to have been chiselled out of seasoned
teak, stared in a curious way. Then the breathless constable burst
upon us.
“Just a minute!” he began. “I want to know some more about this
business!”
He became uneasily aware of the presence of our weatherbeaten
acquaintance. He stopped in the act of laying his hand upon O’Shea’s
arm. O’Shea, watching the man who had accosted us, spoke, and:
“Sergeant Donoghue!” he said.
The expression on the grim face changed. The man so addressed drew
himself smartly to attention. It was automatic--second nature; but his
smile was good to see.
“Thank you, sir,” said he, “for remembering me.”
O’Shea held out his hand.
“Stand easy, Sergeant,” he replied. “I gather that you have left the
Army and rejoined the Police.”
Donoghue’s eyes were glistening as he grasped the proffered hand.
“I have that, sir,” he said, “and without loss of rank. I am a
detective-sergeant now.”
He glanced at the two constables--for the Parliament Square
reinforcement had come up.
“Carry on,” he directed, “there’s a man drowning. Leave this to me.”
“Donoghue,” said O’Shea, “do you hate the Reds?”
“I do, sir!”
“Well, one of them has just jumped off the Bridge. He is a powerful
swimmer. I want to get on to the pier and into a boat.”
“You are in luck, sir,” Donoghue returned enthusiastically, “for
to-night I happen to have the key.”
When, a minute later, we pushed out into the stream, watched by an
ever-increasing group of idlers, I thought how proud a man must feel
to see a light like that which had crossed Donoghue’s face as he had
recognized the officer he had served under. One such silent tribute is
worth more than a thousand cheers.
“Do you remember the night behind the farm, sir?” Donoghue asked.
And O’Shea in reply merely laid his hand upon his shoulder and gripped
hard for a moment. But this apparently simple question had a
far-reaching result, as I was presently to learn.
A fairly strong current was running, which, together with O’Shea’s
recollection of the swimmer’s position as seen from the Bridge,
sufficiently indicated where we should lay our course.
Certain official steps had automatically been taken, and we were not
alone in our quest. Apparently, even at two o’clock in the morning, it
is contrary to County Council regulations for anyone to bathe from
Westminster Bridge.
Looking up from that unfamiliar viewpoint at certain London landmarks
outlined against the clear sky, I wondered why Fate always seems to
put a brake upon our joy-rides.
Untrammelled by an intense anxiety on account of Nanette that obsessed
me to-night, this queer adventure must have been definitely enjoyable.
But, like so many human experiences, it was less exciting in the doing
than it is in the telling. For exploration of unfamiliar by-paths, as
I have already mentioned, there is no vehicle like a cosy armchair.
That Zara would head for the nearest landing place, it was fairly
reasonable to suppose. Therefore we pulled hard across in the
direction of the County Hall, eagerly watching the surface of the
water. Suddenly:
“There he goes!” cried Donoghue.
But, even as he spoke, I had seen the swimmer--close in, under the
right bank, heading powerfully for the stairs. We raced for him and
made land almost simultaneously.
In the act of landing Zara stumbled and slipped back into the river.
He came up by the stern of the boat. O’Shea’s hand shot out, grasped
him by a soddened collar-band, and hauled him in against the side.
Dimly, I could see O’Shea’s face as he looked down at the upcast eyes
of Zara. I think I knew what was in his mind, and in those upturned
eyes was recognition of it--and acceptance.
Still grasping the helpless man, O’Shea glanced quickly at Donoghue.
“Yes, Donoghue,” he said coldly, “I remember the night behind the
farm. You have reminded me that I once had decent instincts. Sergeant,
here’s your prisoner.”