Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT. _See page_ 22.]
BURTON OF THE
FLYING CORPS
BY
HERBERT STRANG
_ILLUSTRATED BY C. E. BROCK_
LONDON
HENRY FROWDE
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
_First printed in 1916._
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY R. CLAY AND SONS, LTD.,
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
CONTENTS
I DEFENSE DE FUMER
Showing how Burton made a trip to Ostend in pursuit of a spy
II THE DEATH'S HEAD HUSSAR
Relating Burton's adventure in a French chateau
III BORROWED PLUMES
Showing how Burton caught a German in Bulgaria
IV THE WATCH-TOWER
Showing what followed an accident in Macedonia
V THE MISSING PLATOON
Relating an incident of trench warfare in Flanders
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
COLOUR PLATES
Through the Skylight . . . _Frontispiece_ (_see page_ 22)
An Interruption
Nonplussed
Hands up!
DRAWINGS IN LINE
"Oh, Mr. Burton, sir"
Signals of Distress
"I give him in charge"
Congratulations
"You have had an accident"
The German Way
The Marquis is hit
The Door fell in with a Crash
An Aerial Somersault
"He looks a terrible fellow"
A Discomfited Spy
"Dismount, sir"
Milosh waits
"A strange find, upon my word"
A Perilous Moment
The British Way
The Captain is annoyed
Headings on pages 9, 63, 129, 163, 246
[Illustration: Chapter I Heading]
DEFENSE DE FUMER
I
About one o'clock one Saturday afternoon in summer, a
hydro-aeroplane--or, as its owner preferred to call it, a
flying-boat--dropped lightly on to the surface of one of the many creeks
that intersect the marshes bordering on the river Swale. The pilot, a
youth of perhaps twenty years, having moored his vessel to a stake in
the bank, leapt ashore with a light suit-case, and walked rapidly along
a cinder path towards the low wooden shed, painted black, that broke the
level a few hundred yards away.
It was a lonely spot--the very image of dreariness. All around extended
the "glooming flats"; between the shed and Luddenham Church, a mile or
so distant, nothing varied the grey monotony except an occasional tree,
and a small red-brick, red-tiled cottage, which, with its flower-filled
windows, seemed oddly out of place amid its surroundings--an oasis in a
desert.
The youth, clad in khaki-coloured overalls and a pilot's cap, made
straight for the open door of the shed. There he set his suit-case on
the ground, and stepping in, recoiled before the acrid smell that
saluted his nostrils. He gave a little cough, but the man stooping over
a bench that ran along one of the walls neither looked up, nor in any
way signified that he was aware of a visitor. He was a tall, fair man,
spectacled, slightly bald, clean shaven, dressed in garments apparently
of india-rubber. The bench was covered with crucibles, retorts,
blow-pipes, test tubes, Bunsen burners, and sundry other pieces of
scientific apparatus, and on the shelf above it stood an array of glass
bottles and porcelain jars. It was into such a jar that the man was now
gazing.
"Hullo, Pickles!" said the newcomer, coughing again. "What a frightful
stink!"
The man lifted his head, looked vacantly through his spectacles for a
moment, then bent again over the jar, from which he took a small portion
of a yellowish substance on the end of a scalpel. Placing this in a
glass bowl, he poured on it a little liquid from one of the glass
bottles, stirred it with a glass rod, and watched. A smell of ammonia
combined with decayed fish mingled with the other odours in the air,
causing the visitor to choke again.
"Beautiful!" murmured the experimenter. He then poured some of the
solution into another vessel and gazed at it with the rapt vision of an
enthusiast.
Ted Burton leant against the doorpost. He knew that it was useless to
interrupt his friend until the experiment was concluded. But becoming
impatient as the minutes passed, he took out a cigarette, and was about
to strike a match. Then, however, at a sudden recollection of his
surroundings, he slipped out into the open air, taking great gulps as if
to clear his throat of the sickening fumes, and proceeded to light his
cigarette in ease of mind.
By and by a cheery voice hailed him from the interior.
"That you, Teddy?"
"If you've quite finished," said Burton, putting his head in at the
door, after he had first flung away his half-smoked cigarette.
"Glad to see you, my dear fellow. I say, will you do something for me?
You came in your machine, of course."
"Of course. What is it? It's about lunch-time, you know."
"Is it? But it won't take you long. I've run out of picric acid, and
can't get on. Just fly over to Chatham, will you, and bring some back
with you. You'll get it at Wells's in the High Street: you'll be there
and back in half an hour or so."
"Can't you wait till after lunch?"
"Well, I can, but it will be a nuisance. You see, the whole experiment
is hung up for want of the stuff."
"Oh, very well. By the way, you've done it at last, I see."
"Done what?"
"Pulled off the phenosulphonitro-something-or-other that you've been
working at I don't know how long."
"How on earth did you know?" inquired his friend with an air of surprise
and chagrin.
Burton pulled out a newspaper, unfolded it, and handed it over, pointing
to a short paragraph.
We understand that a new high explosive of immense power, the invention
of Dr. Bertram Micklewright, is about to be adopted for the British
Navy. Dr. Micklewright has been for some years engaged in perfecting
his discovery, and after prolonged experimentation has succeeded in
rendering his explosive stable.
"Well, I'm hanged!" cried Micklewright, frowning with annoyance. "The
Admiralty swore me to secrecy, and now they've let the cat out of the
bag. Some confounded whipper-snapper of a clerk, I suppose, who's got a
journalist brother."
"It's true, then?"
"Yes, by Jove, it's true! Look, here's the stuff; licks lyddite
hollow."
He took some yellowish crystals from a porcelain bath and displayed them
with the pride of an inventor.
"I say, Pickles, is it safe?" said Burton, backing as the chemist held
the stuff up for his inspection.
"Perfectly," said Micklewright with a smile. "It's more difficult even
than lyddite to detonate, and it'll burn without exploding. Look here!"
He put a small quantity into a zinc pan, lit a match, and applied it. A
column of suffocating smoke rose swiftly to the roof. Burton spluttered.
"Beautiful!" he gasped ironically. "I'm glad, old man; your fortune's
made now, I suppose. But I can't say I like the stink. Takes your
appetite away, don't it?"
"Ah! You mentioned lunch. Just get me that stuff like a good fellow;
then I'll prepare my solution; and then we'll have lunch and you can
dispose of me as you please."
II
Burton returned to the creek, boarded his flying-boat, and was soon
skimming across country on the fifteen-mile flight to Chatham.
He had been Micklewright's fag at school, and the two had remained close
friends ever since. Micklewright, after carrying all before him at
Cambridge, devoted himself to research, and particularly to the study of
explosives. To avoid the risk of shattering a neighbourhood, he had
built his laboratory on the Luddenham Marshes, putting up the
picturesque little cottage close at hand for his residence. There he
lived attended only by an old woman, who often assured him that no one
else would be content to stay in so dreary a spot. He had wished
Burton, when he left school, to join him as assistant: but the younger
fellow had no love for "stinks," and threw in his lot with a firm of
aeroplane builders. Their factory being on the Isle of Sheppey, within
a few miles of Micklewright's laboratory, the two friends saw each other
pretty frequently; and when Burton started a flying-boat of his own, he
often invited himself to spend a week-end with Micklewright, and took
him for long flights for the good of his health, as he said: "an
antidote to your poisonous stenches, old man."
Burton was so much accustomed to voyage in the air that he had ceased to
pay much attention to the ordinary scenes on the earth beneath him. But
he had completed nearly a third of his course when his eye was
momentarily arrested by the sight of two motor-cycles, rapidly crossing
the railway bridge at Snipeshill. To one of them was attached a side
car, apparently occupied. Motor-cycles were frequently to be seen along
the Canterbury road, but Burton was struck with a passing wonder that
these cyclists had quitted the highway, and were careering along a road
that led to no place of either interest or importance. If they were
exploring they would soon realise that they had wasted their time, for
the by-road rejoined the main road a few miles further east.
On arriving at Chatham, Burton did not descend near the cemetery, as he
might have done with his landing chassis, but passed over the town and
alighted in the Medway opposite the "Sun" pier. Thence he made his way
to the address in the High Street given him by Micklewright. He was
annoyed when he found the place closed.
"Just like old Pickles!" he thought. "He forgot it's Saturday." But,
loth to have made his journey for nothing, he inquired for the private
residence of the proprietor of the store, and luckily finding him at
home, made known the object of his visit.
"I'm sorry I shall have to ask you to wait, sir," said the man. "The
place is locked up, as you saw; my men have gone home, and I've an
engagement that will keep me for an hour or so; perhaps I could send it
over--some time this evening?"
"No, I'd better wait. Dr. Micklewright wants the stuff as soon as
possible. When will it be ready?"
"If you'll be at the store at three o'clock I will have it ready
packed."
It was now nearly two.
"No time to fly back to lunch and come again," thought Burton, as he
departed. "I'll get something to eat at the 'Sun,' and ring old Pickles
up and explain."
He made his way to the hotel, a little annoyed at wasting so fine an
afternoon. Entering the telephone box he gave Micklewright's number and
waited. Presently a girl's voice said--
"There's no reply. Shall I ring you off?"
"Oh! Try again, will you, please?"
Micklewright often took off the receiver in the laboratory, to avoid
interruption during his experiments, and Burton supposed that such was
the case now. He waited; a minute or two passed; then the girl's voice
again--
"I can't put you on. There's something wrong with the line."
"Thank you very much," said Burton; he was always specially polite to
the anonymous girls of the telephone exchange, because "they always
sound so worried, poor things," as he said. "Bad luck all the time," he
thought, as he hung up the receiver.
He passed to the coffee-room, ate a light lunch, smoked a cigarette,
looked in at the billiard-room, and on the stroke of three reappeared at
the chemist's store. In a few minutes he was provided with a package
carefully wrapped, and by twenty minutes after the hour was soaring back
to his friend's laboratory.
Alighting as before at the creek, he walked up the path. The door of
the shed was locked. He rapped on it, but received no answer, and
supposed that Micklewright had returned to the house, though he noticed
with some surprise that his suit-case still stood where he had left it.
He lifted it, went on to the cottage, and turned the handle of the front
door. This also was locked. Feeling slightly irritated, Burton knocked
more loudly. No one came to the door; there was not a sound from
within. He knocked again; still without result. Leaving his suit-case on
the doorstep, he went to the back, and tried the door on that side. It
was locked.
"This is too bad," he thought. "Pickles is an absent-minded old buffer,
but I never knew him so absolutely forgetful as this. Evidently he and
the old woman are both out."
He returned to the front of the house, and seeing that the catch of one
of the windows was not fastened, he threw up the lower sash, hoisted his
suit-case over the sill, and himself dropped into the room. The table
was laid for lunch, but nothing had been used.
"Rummy go!" said Burton to himself.
Conscious of a smell of burning, he crossed the passage, and glanced in
at Micklewright's den, then at the kitchen, where the air was full of
the fumes of something scorching. A saucepan stood on the dying fire.
Lifting the lid, he saw that it contained browned and blackened
potatoes. He opened the oven door, and fell back before a cloud of smoke
impregnated with the odour of burnt flesh.
"They must have been called away very suddenly," he thought. "Perhaps
there's a telegram that explains it."
He was returning to his friend's room when he was suddenly arrested by a
slight sound within the house.
"Who's there?" he called, going to the door.
From the upper floor came an indescribable sound. Now seriously
alarmed, Burton sprang up the stairs and entered Micklewright's bedroom.
It was empty and undisturbed. The spare room which he was himself to
occupy was equally unremarkable. Once more he heard the sound: it came
from the housekeeper's room.
"Are you there?" he called, listening at the closed door.
He flung it open at a repetition of the inarticulate sound. There, on
the bed, lay the old housekeeper in a huddled heap, her hands and feet
bound, and a towel tied over her head. This he removed in a moment.
[Illustration: "Oh, Mr. Burton, sir"]
"Oh, Mr. Burton, sir, I'm so glad you've come," gasped the old woman;
"oh, those awful men!"
"What has happened, Mrs. Jones?" cried Burton; "where's the doctor?"
"Oh, I don't know, sir. I'm all of a shake, and the mutton'll be burnt
to a cinder."
"Never mind the mutton! Pull yourself together and tell me what
happened."
He had cut the cords, and lifted her from the bed.
"Oh, it near killed me, it did. I was just come upstairs to put on a
clean apron when I heard the door open, and some one went into the
kitchen. I thought it was the doctor, and called out that I was coming.
Next minute two men came rushing up, and before I knew where I was they
smothered my head in the towel, and flung me on to the bed like a bundle
and tied my hands and feet. It shook me all to pieces, sir."
Burton waited for no more, but leapt down the stairs, vaulted over the
window sill, and rushed towards the laboratory, trembling with nameless
fears. He tried to burst in the door, but it resisted all his strength.
There were no windows in the walls; the place was lighted from above.
Shinning up the drain-pipe, he scrambled along the gutter until he could
look through the skylight in the sloping roof. And then he saw
Micklewright, with his back towards him, sitting rigid in a chair.
III
Burton drove his elbow through the skylight, swung himself through the
hole, and dropped to the floor. To his great relief he saw that
Micklewright was neither dead nor unconscious; indeed, his eyes were
gazing placidly at him through his spectacles. It was the work of a
moment to cut the cords that bound the chemist's legs and arms to the
chair, and to tear from his mouth the thick fold of newspaper that had
gagged him.
"Wood pulp!" said Micklewright, with a grimace of mild disgust, as soon
as he could speak. "Beastly stuff!--if I've got to be gagged, gag me
with rag!"
"Who did it? What's it mean?" said Burton.
"It means that somebody was keenly interested in that paragraph which
the Admiralty clerk so kindly supplied to his journalist brother."
"The new explosive?"
"Yes. Competitors abhor a secret.... The taste of printer's ink on pulp
paper is very obnoxious, Teddy."
"Hang the paper! Tell me what happened."
"It was very neatly done. As nearly as I can recollect, a man put his
head in at the door and asked politely, but in broken English, the way
to Faversham. Being rather busy at the time I'm afraid I misdirected
him. But it didn't matter, because a second or two after I was kicking
the shins of two other fellows who were hugging me; I'm sorry I had to
use my boots, but my fists were not at the moment available. You see how
it ended.
"They had just fixed me in the chair--printer's ink is _very_
horrid--when the telephone bell rang. My first visitor told one of the
others, in French, to cut the wire: it must have been rather annoying to
the person at the other end."
"I was trying to get you in the 'Sun.' But go on."
"Their next movements much interested me. The commander of the
expedition began to scout along the bench, and soon discovered my
explosive--by the way, I proposed to call it Hittite. He was a cool
card. He first burnt a little: 'Bien!' said he. Then he exploded a
little: 'Bien!' again. Then he scooped the whole lot into a brown
leather bag, just as it was, and made off, lifting his hat very politely
as he went out. He had some trouble in getting his motor-cycle to
fire----"
"They came on motor-cycles? I saw two crossing the railway at
Snipeshill as I went. Look here, Pickles, this is serious, isn't it?"
"Well, of course any fool could make Hittite after a reputable chemist
has analysed my stuff. I shall have to start again, I suppose."
"Great Scott! How can you take it so coolly? The ruffians have got to
be caught. Can you describe them?"
"Luckily, they allowed me the use of my eyes, though I've heard of
speaking eyes, haven't you? They were all foreigners. The commander
was a big fellow, bald as an egg, with a natty little moustache, very
urbane, well educated, to judge by his accent, though you can never tell
with these foreigners. The others were bearded--quite
uninteresting--chauffeurs or mechanics--men of that stamp. Their boss
was a personality."
"He spoke French?"
"Yes. You brought that picric acid, Teddy?"
"It's in the house. By the way, they gagged Mrs. Jones too."
"Not with a newspaper, I hope. I'm afraid the poor old thing will give
me notice. We had better go and console her."
They mounted on the bench, clambered thence through the skylight, and
slid to the ground.
"Look here, Pickles," said Burton, as they went towards the house, "I'm
going after those fellows. Being foreigners they are almost sure to
have made for the Continent at once. I'll run down to the road and
examine the tracks of their cycles; you've got an ABC in the house?"
"It is possible."
"Well, hunt it out and look up the boats for Calais. How long have they
been gone?"
"Perhaps three-quarters of an hour."
"A dashed good start!" exclaimed Burton. "We'll save time if you bring
the ABC down to the creek. Buck up, old chap; no wool-gathering now,
for goodness' sake."
They parted. A brief examination of the tracks assured Burton that the
cyclists had continued their journey eastward. They would probably run
into the highroad to Dover somewhere about Norton Ash. Returning to the
creek he was met by Micklewright with the buff-coloured timetable.
Micklewright was limping a little.
"There's no Calais boat at this time of day," he said.
"Did you try Folkestone?"
"It didn't occur to me."
Burton took the time-table from him and turned over the pages rapidly.
"Here we are: Folkestone to Boulogne, 4.10. It's now 3.35," said
Burton, looking at his watch. "I can easily get to Folkestone in half
an hour or less--possibly intercept the beggars if they don't know the
road: in any case be in time to put the police on before the boat
starts. You'll come, Pickles?"
"Well, no. I strained a muscle or two in scuffling with those
gentlemen--and I've had nothing but newspaper since eight o'clock. By
the way, you may as well take the only clue we have--this scrap of pulp.
It is French, as you see. And, Teddy, don't get into hot water on my
account. The resources of civilisation--as expressed in high
explosives--are not exhausted."
Burton stuffed the newspaper into his pocket, and in three minutes was
already well on the way to Folkestone. Micklewright watched the
flying-boat until it was lost to sight; then, pressing his hand to his
aching side, he returned slowly to the house.
The distance from the Luddenham Marshes to Folkestone is about
twenty-five miles as the crow flies, and Burton had made the flight once
in his flying-boat. Consequently, he was at no loss in setting his
course. A brisk south-west wind was blowing, but it very little
retarded his speed, so that he felt pretty sure of reaching the harbour
by four o'clock. Keeping at an altitude of only a few hundred feet, he
was able to pick up the well-known landmarks: Hogben's Hill, the Stour,
the series of woods lying between that river and the Elham valley
railway line; and just before four he alighted on the sea leeward of the
pier, within a few yards of the steamer.
A small boat took him ashore. He avoided the crowd of holiday makers
who had already gathered to watch him, and making straight for the pier,
accosted a police inspector.
"Have you seen three men ride up on motor cycles, inspector?" he asked.
"No, sir, I can't say I have."
"Three foreigners, one a tall big fellow?"
"Plenty of foreigners have gone on board, sir. Is anything wrong?"
"Yes, they've assaulted and robbed a friend of mine--you may know his
name: Dr. Bertram Micklewright, the inventor. They've stolen Government
property, and it's of the utmost importance to prevent their crossing
the Channel."
"Where did this take place, sir, and at what time?"
"At Luddenham Marshes beyond Faversham, just before three o'clock."
"They'd hardly have got here, would they? They'd have to come through
Canterbury, between thirty and forty miles, and with speed limits here
and there they'd only just about do it."
"I'll wait here, then. You'll arrest them if they come?"
"That's a bit irregular, sir," said the inspector, rubbing his chin.
"You saw them do the job?"
"Well, no, I didn't."
"Then you can't be sure of 'em?"
"I'm afraid I can't, but there wouldn't be two sets of foreigners on
motor cycles. You could detain them on suspicion, couldn't you?"
"I might, if you would take the responsibility."
"Willingly. I'll keep a look-out then."
It occurred to Burton that the men might leave the cycles and approach
on foot, so he closely scrutinised all the passengers of foreign
appearance who passed on the way to the boat. None of them answered to
Micklewright's description.
"Haven't you got any clue to their identity, sir?" asked the inspector,
who remained at his side.
"None; it happened during my absence. They tied up my friend and gagged
him. I came across country in my flying machine yonder."
"They'll lose this boat for certain," said the inspector, as the
steamer's warning siren sounded. "You're sure they are Frenchmen?"
"Yes; well, they left a French newspaper behind them."
"Do you happen to have it with you?"
Burton drew the crushed paper from his pocket, and handed it to the
policeman, who unfolded it, and displayed a torn sheet, with only the
letters IND remaining of the title.
"That's the _Independance Belge_," said the inspector at once. "I
expect they're Belgians, and aren't coming here at all. Ostend's their
mark, I wouldn't mind betting."
"Via Dover, of course. Is there a boat?"
"One at 4.30, sir. I'm afraid they've dished you."
"I'm not so sure about that," said Burton, glancing at his watch. "It's
now 4.20; this boat's off. If the Ostend boat is ten minutes late too I
can get to Dover in good time to have it searched."
"Then if I were you I'd lose no time, sir, and I hope you'll catch 'em."
Burton raced back to the boat that had brought him ashore. In five
minutes he was on his own vessel, in two more he was in full flight
before the favouring wind, and at 4.35 he dropped on the water in the
lee of the Admiralty pier at Dover. But he had already seen that he was
too late. The boat, which had evidently started on time, was at least
half a mile from the pier.
"Yes, sir, I did see a big foreigner go on board at the last minute,"
said the policeman of whom Burton inquired ten minutes later. "He was
carrying a small brown leather hand-bag. I took particular note of him,
because he blowed like a grampus, and took off his hat to wipe his head,
he was that hot."
"Was he bald?"
"As bald as the palm of your hand. A friend of yours, sir?"
"No," said Burton emphatically. "He's got away with a secret worth
thousands of pounds--millions perhaps, to a foreign navy."
The policeman whistled.
IV
Burton stood looking at the diminishing form of the steamboat. The
constable touched his sleeve.
"You see that gentleman there, sir?" he said.
Following his glance, Burton saw a slim youthful figure, clad in a light
tweed suit and a soft hat, leaning over the rail.
"Well?" he asked.
The constable murmured a name honoured at Scotland Yard.
"Put the case to him, sir," he added; "he can see through most brick
walls." Burton hastened to the side of the detective.
"A man on that boat has stolen the secret of the new explosive for the
British Navy," he said without preamble. "Can you stop him?"
The detective turned his keen eyes on his questioner and looked hard at
him for a moment or two.
"Tell me all about it, sir," he said.
Burton hurriedly related all that had happened. "A cable to Ostend
would be enough, wouldn't it?" he asked in conclusion.
"I'm afraid it would hardly do, sir," replied the detective. "Your
description is too vague. Tall man about forty, bald, with a
hand-bag--there may be dozens on the boat. It would be too risky. We
have to be careful. I saw a notorious diamond thief go on board, but I
couldn't arrest him, not having a warrant, and nothing certain to go
upon. You had better go to the police station, tell the superintendent
all you know, and leave him to communicate with the Belgian police in
due course."
"And give the thief time to get rid of the stuff! If it once passes
from his hands the secret will be lost to us, and any foreign Power may
be able to fill its shells with Dr. Micklewright's explosive. It's too
bad!"
He looked with bitter disappointment at the steamer, now a mere speck on
the surface of the sea. Suddenly he had an idea.
"If I got to Ostend first," he said, "I could have the man arrested as
he lands?"
The detective smiled.
"I don't think the Belgian police would make an arrest on the strength
of your story, sir," he said. "Why, you can't even be sure your man is
aboard. Arresting the wrong party might be precious awkward for you and
everybody."
"I'll risk that," cried Burton. "It's my funeral, any way."
"That little machine of yours is safe, I suppose, sir? It won't come
down and bury you at sea?"
"No fear!" said Burton with a smile. "Still, in case of accidents,
here's my card. All I ask is, don't give anything away to newspaper men
for a couple of days, at any rate. It's to a newspaper man we owe the
whole botheration."
"All right, sir; I'll give you a couple of days. I wish you luck."
Burton hurried to one of the small boats lying for hire alongside the
pier, and was put on board his own vessel. He started the motor, but in
his haste he failed to pull the lever with just that knack that jerks
the floats from the surface. At the second attempt he succeeded, and
the water-plane rose into the air as smoothly as a gull. The steamer
was now out of sight, but he had a general idea of her direction, and
hoped by rising to a good altitude soon to get a glimpse of her. The
wind had freshened, and time being of the utmost importance, Burton
congratulated himself on the possession of a Clift compass, by means of
which he could allow for drift, and avoid fatal error in setting his
course. The steamer had nearly an hour's start, but as he travelled at
least twice as fast, he expected to overhaul her in about an hour if he
did not mistake her direction.
His mind was busy as he flew. He had to admit the force of what the
detective had said. It would almost certainly be difficult to induce
the Belgian police to act on such slight information as he could give
them; and in the bustle of landing, the criminal, of whose identity he
could not be sure, might easily get away. Burton was beginning to feel
that he had started on a wild-goose chase when, catching sight of the
smoke of the vessel some miles ahead, he suddenly, without conscious
reasoning, determined on his line of action. Such flashes sometimes
occur at critical moments.
Waiting for a few minutes to make sure that the distant vessel was that
in which he was interested, he bore away to the east, instead of
following directly the track of the steamer. It was scarcely probable
that the flying-boat had already been noticed from the deck. He
described a half-circle of many miles, so calculated that when he
approached the vessel it was from the east, at an angle with her course.
He was still at a considerable height, and as he passed over the vessel
his view of the deck was obscured by the cloud of black smoke from her
funnels. In a few seconds he wheeled as if to return on his track; but
soon after recrossing the steamer he wheeled again, and making a steep
volplane, alighted on the sea about half a mile ahead. Then with his
handkerchief he began to make signals of distress. There was a
considerable swell on the surface, and it might well have seemed to
those on board the steamer who did not distinguish the flying-boat from
an aeroplane that the frail vessel was in imminent danger.
[Illustration: Signals of distress]
The steamer's helm was instantly ported; she slowed down and was soon
alongside. A rope was let down by which Burton swung himself to the
deck; and while he struggled through the crowd of excited passengers who
clustered about him, the flying-boat was hoisted by a derrick, and the
vessel resumed its course.
Burton made his way to the bridge to interview the captain.
"I'm very much obliged to you, sir," he said. "And I'm very sorry to
have delayed you. My engine stopped."
"So did mine," returned the captain, with a rather grim look about the
mouth, "or rather, I stopped them." Burton did not feel called upon to
explain that his stoppage also had been voluntary. "And I shall have to
push them to make up for the twenty minutes we have lost. You would not
have drowned; I see your machine floats; but you might have drifted for
days if I hadn't picked you up."
"It was very good of you," said Burton, feeling sorry at having had to
practise a deception. "It's my first voyage across Channel. I started
from Folkestone; better luck next time. I must pay my passage,
captain."
"Certainly not," said the captain. "I won't take money from a gallant
airman in distress. I have a great admiration for airmen; they run
double risks. I wouldn't trust myself in an aeroplane on any account
whatever."
Burton remained for some minutes chatting with the captain, then
descended to the deck in search of his quarry, to be at once surrounded
by a group of first-class passengers, who plied him with eager questions
about his starting-point, his destination, and the nature of the
accident that had brought him down. He answered them somewhat
abstractedly, so preoccupied was he with his quest. His eyes roamed
around, and presently he felt an electric thrill as he caught sight, on
the edge of the crowd, of a tall portly figure that corresponded, he
thought, to Micklewright's brief description. The man had a round red
face, with a thick stiff moustache upturned at the ends. His prominent
blue eyes were fixed intently on Burton. He wore a soft hat, and Burton,
while replying to a lady who wanted to know whether air-flight made one
sea-sick, was all the time wondering if the head under the hat was bald.
Disengaging himself by and by from those immediately around him, he
edged his way towards this stalwart passenger. It gave him another
thrill to see that the man held a small brown leather hand-bag. He felt
that he was "getting warm." No other passenger carried luggage; this
bag must surely contain something precious or its owner would have set
it down. Burton determined to get into conversation with him, though he
felt much embarrassed as to how to begin. The blue eyes were scanning
him curiously.
"I congratulate you, sir," said the foreigner in English, politely
lifting his hat. Burton almost jumped when he saw that the uncovered
crown was hairless.
"Thank you, sir," he replied, in some confusion. "It was lucky I caught
the boat."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he thought, "What an idiotic
thing to say!" and his cheeks grew red.
"Zat ze boat caught you, you vould say?" said the foreigner, smiling.
"But your vessel is a hydro-aeroplane, I zink so? Zere vas no danger zat
you sink?"
"Well, I don't know. With a swell on, like this, it wouldn't be any
safer than a cock-boat; and in any case, it wouldn't be too pleasant to
drift about, perhaps for days, without food."
"Zat is quite right; ven ze sea is choppy, you feed ze fishes; ven it is
calm, you have no chops. Ha! ha! zat is quite right. You do not
understand ze choke?" he added, seeing that Burton did not smile.
"Oh yes! yes!" cried Burton, making an effort. "You speak English well,
sir."
"Zank you, yes. I have practised a lot. I ask questions--yes, and ven
zey ask you chust now vat accident bring you down, I do not quite
understand all about it."
"It was quite an ordinary thing," said Burton, rather uncomfortably.
The explanation he had given to the questioners was vague; he was loth
to tell a deliberate lie. "Do you know anything about petrol engines,
sir?"
"Oh yes, certainly. I ride on a motor-bicycle. One has often trouble
viz ze compression."
"That's true," said Burton, feeling "warmer" than ever. The foreigner
was evidently quite unsuspicious, or he would not have mentioned the
motor-cycle. "We have excellent roads in England," he added, with a
fishing intention.
"Zat is quite right; but zey are perhaps not so good as our roads in
France, eh?"
"Your roads are magnificent, it's true; still--what do you say to the
Dover Road?"
"Ah! Ze Dover Road; yes, it is very good, ever since ze Roman times,
eh? Yes; I have travelled often on ze Dover Road, from Dover to
Chatham, and vice versa. Viz zis bag!"
Burton looked hard at the bag. He wished it would open. One peep, he
was sure, would be enough to convict this amiable Frenchman.
"I have somezink in zis bag," the Frenchman went on in a confidential
tone--"somezink great, somezink magnificent,--_eclatant_ as we say;
somezink vat make a noise in ze vorld."
He tapped the bag affectionately. Burton tingled; he would have liked
to take the man by the throat and denounce him as a scoundrel. But
perhaps if he were patient the confiding foreigner would open the bag.
"Indeed!" he said.
"Yes; a noise zat shall make ze hair stand on end. Ha! ha! Ah! you
English. You are ze great inventors. Your Sims, your Edvards, your
Rowland--ah! zey are great, zey are honoured by all ze crowned heads in
ze vorld. Zat is quite right! I tell you! ... No; it is late. You
shall be in Ostend, sir?"
"Yes."
"Zen you shall see, you shall hear, vat a great sensation I shall make.
Now it gets dark; if you shall pardon me, I vill take a little sleep
until ve arrive. Zen!..."
He lifted his hat again, and withdrew to a deck chair, where he propped
the bag carefully under his head and was soon asleep.
V
Burton strolled up and down the deck, impatient for the boat to make the
port. He was convinced: the man was French; he was tall, urbane, and
bald; he rode a motor-cycle; he knew the Dover Road; he guarded his bag
as something precious, and it contained something that was going to make
a noise in the world. What so likely to do that as Micklewright's
explosive!
One thing puzzled Burton; the man's allusion to English inventors--Sims,
Edwards, Rowland--who were they? Burton subscribed to a good many
scientific magazines, and kept closely in touch with recent inventions;
but he did not recall any of these names. It flashed upon him that the
Frenchman, rendered suspicious by his fishing questions, had mentioned
the names as a blind; he had spoken of Sims, Edwards and Rowland when
his mind was really full of Micklewright.
"If that's your game, it won't wash," he thought.
He determined, as soon as the vessel reached port, to hurry ashore,
interview the Customs officers, and warn them in general terms of the
dangerous nature of what the Frenchman carried. If only the bag had
been opened and its contents revealed, he would not have hesitated to
inform the captain, and have the villain detained. But the Customs
officers, primed with his information, would insist on opening the bag,
and then!--yes, there would undoubtedly be "a noise in the world," when
it became known that so audacious a scheme had been detected and foiled.
The sun went down, the steamer plugged her way onward, and through the
darkness the lamps of Ostend by and by gleamed faintly in the distance.
Burton made his way to the bridge again, and asked the captain to allow
the flying-boat to remain on the vessel till the morning; then he
returned to the deck, and leant on the rail near the gangway.
All was bustle as the steamer drew near to the harbour. The passengers
collected their belongings, and congregated. Some spoke to Burton; he
hardly heeded them. He had his eye on the Frenchman, still slumbering
peacefully.
The bells clanged; the vessel slowed; a rope was thrown to the pier; and
two of the sailors stood ready to launch the gangway as soon as the boat
came to rest. The moment it clattered on to the planks of the pier
Burton was across, and hurried to the shed where the Customs officers,
like spiders in wait for unwary flies, were lined up behind their
counter, cool, keen, alert. He accosted the chief douanier, described
the Frenchman in a few rapid sentences, suggested that the brown bag
would repay examination, and receiving assurance that the proper
inquiries should be made, posted himself outside at the corner of the
shed in the dark, to watch the scene.
The passengers came by one by one, and answering the formal question,
had their luggage franked by the mystic chalk mark and passed on.
Burton's pulse throbbed as he saw the tall Frenchman come briskly into
the light of the lamps.
"Here he is!" whispered the officers one to another.
"Have you anything to declare, monsieur?" asked one of them, with formal
courtesy.
"No, no, monsieur," replied the man; "you see I have only a hand-bag."
He laid it on the counter to be chalked.
"Be so good as to open the bag, monsieur," said the officer.
The Frenchman stared; the passengers behind him pricked up their ears as
he began to expostulate in a torrent of French too rapid for Burton to
follow. The officer shrugged, and firmly repeated his demand. Still
loudly protesting, the Frenchman drew a bunch of keys from his pocket,
selected one, and with a gesture of despair laid open the bag to the
officer's inspection.
Burton drew a little nearer and watched feverishly. The officer put his
hand into the bag, and drew forth a bundle of what appeared to be
striped wool. Exclaiming at its weight, he laid it on the counter, and
began to unroll it. His colleagues smiled as he held aloft the
pantaloons of a suit of pyjamas. He threw them down, and took up the
object round which the garment had been wrapped. It was a large glass
bottle, filled with a viscid yellowish liquid, and bearing a label.
"Voila!" shouted its owner. "Je vous l'avais bien dit."
The officer took up the bottle, eyeing it suspiciously. He examined the
label; he took out the stopper and sniffed, then held the bottle to the
noses of his colleagues, who sniffed in turn.
"It will not explode?" he said to the Frenchman.
"Explode!" snorted the man scornfully. "It is harmless; it is perfect;
it contains no petroleum; look, there is the warranty on the label.
Bah!"
He struck a match and held it to the mouth of the open bottle, which the
officer extended at arm's length. The flame flickered and went out.
"Voila!" said the Frenchman with a triumphant snort.
Then fumbling in his pocket he drew out a sheaf of flimsy papers. One
of these he handed to the officer, who glanced at it, smiled, said, "Ah!
oui! oui!" and replacing the stopper, rolled the bottle in the pyjamas
again.
"But it is not yet certain," he exclaimed. "Monsieur will permit me."
He plunged his hand again into the bag, whose owner made a comical
gesture of outraged modesty as the officer brought out, first the
companion jacket of the pantaloons, then a somewhat ancient tooth-brush.
He rummaged further, turned the bag upside down. It contained nothing
else.
"A thousand excuses, monsieur," he said, replacing the articles, and
chalking the bag.
"Ah! It is your duty," said the passenger magnanimously. "Good-night,
monsieur."
Catching sight of Burton as he was passing on, he stopped.
"Ah! my friend, here you are," he said. "I give you vun of my announce.
It has ze address. I see you to-morrow? Zat is quite right!"
Then he lifted his hat and went his way.
Burton thrust the slip of paper into his pocket without looking at it.
He felt horribly disconcerted. The fluid in the bottle was certainly
not Micklewright's explosive; that was a crystalline solid. He had made
an egregious mistake. It was more than disappointing; it was
humiliating. He had been engaged in a wild-goose chase indeed. His
stratagem was wasted; his suspicions were unfounded; his deductions
utterly fallacious. While he was dogging this innocent Frenchman, the
real villain was no doubt on the other side of the sea, waiting for the
night boat from Dover or perhaps Newhaven. He had made a fool of
himself.
Despondent and irritated, he was about to find his way to the nearest
hotel for the night, when he suddenly noticed a second portly figure
approaching the shed among the file of passengers. The man was hatless;
he was bald; he carried a brown leather hand-bag. His collar was limp;
his face was clammy, and of that pallid greenish hue which betokens
beyond possibility of doubt a severe attack of sea-sickness.
At the first glance Burton started; at the second he flushed; then, on
the impulse of the moment, he sprang forward, and reaching the side of
the flabby passenger at the moment when he placed his bag upon the
counter, he laid his hand upon it, and cried--
"My bag, monsieur!"
The bald-headed passenger glanced round in mere amazement, clutching his
bag.
"Excuse me, monsieur," he said quietly, "it is mine."
The Customs officer looked from one to the other: the pallid foreigner,
limp and nerveless; the ruddy Englishman, eager, strenuous and
determined.
"Ah! You gave me the warning. You were mistaken," he said to Burton.
"The other bag contained only pyjamas, a bottle, and a toothbrush;
nothing harmful. Monsieur is too full of zeal; he may be mistaken
again. He accuses this gentleman of stealing his bag? Well, that is a
matter for the police. I will do my duty, then you can find a
policeman. Have you anything to declare?" he concluded in his official
tone.
"Nothing," said the foreigner.
"A thousand cigarettes!" cried Burton at the same moment.
Each had still a hand on the bag. At Burton's words the passenger gave
him a startled glance, and Burton knew by the mingled wonder and terror
in his eyes that this time he had made no mistake.
"Comment! A thousand cigarettes!" repeated the officer. "Messieurs
must permit me to open the bag."
He drew it from their grasp. It opened merely by a catch. The officer
peeped inside, and shot a questioning look at Burton, who bent over, and
at a single glance recognised the small yellowish crystals.
"That's it!" he cried in excitement.
"Monsieur will perhaps explain," said the officer to the owner of the
bag, who appeared to have become quite apathetic. "There are no
cigarettes; no; but what is this substance? Is it on the Customs
schedule? No. Very well, I must impound it for inquiry."
The man, almost in collapse from weakness, began to mumble something.
The officer's remark about impounding the stuff disturbed Burton. If it
got into expert hands Micklewright's secret would be discovered.
Acting on a sudden inspiration, he took a cigarette from his case, and
struck a match.
"Eh, monsieur, it is forbidden to smoke," cried the officer sternly.
At the same time he nodded his head towards the placard "_Defense de
fumer_" affixed to the wall.
"Ah! Pardon! Forbidden! So it is," said Burton, who was shading the
lighted match within his rounded palm from the wind. He made as if to
throw it away, but with a dexterous cast dropped it flaming into the
open bag. Instantly there was a puff and whizz, and a column of thick
suffocating smoke spurted up to the roof. The officer started back with
an execration. A lady shrieked; others of the passengers took to their
heels. The air was full of pungent fumes and lurid exclamations, and in
the confusion the owner of the bag quietly slipped away into the
darkness. Burton stood his ground. His task was done. Every particle
of Micklewright's explosive that had left the shores of England was
dissipated in gas. The secret was saved.
[Illustration: "I give him in charge"]
Choking and spluttering the officer dashed forward, shaking his fist in
Burton's face, mingling terms of Gallic abuse with explosive cries for
the police. A gendarme came up.
"I give him in charge," shouted the officer, with gesticulations. "It
is forbidden to smoke; see, the place is full of smoke! The other man;
where is he? It is a conspiracy. They are anarchists. Arrest the
villain!"
"Monsieur will please come with me," said the gendarme, touching Burton
on the sleeve.
"All right," said Burton cheerfully. "I can smoke as we go along?"
"It is not forbidden to smoke in the streets," replied the gendarme
gravely.
And with one hand on the prisoner's arm, the other carrying the empty
bag, he set off towards the town.
VI
Two evenings later, Burton descended on the creek in the Luddenham
Marshes, and hastened with lightsome step to Micklewright's laboratory.
It was the time of day when Micklewright usually ceased work and went
home to his dinner.
"Still at it!" thought Burton, as he saw that the laboratory door was
open.
He went on quickly and looked in. Micklewright was bending over his
bench in his customary attitude of complete absorption.
"Time for dinner, old man," said Burton, entering.
"Hullo! That you! Come and look at this."
"Upon my word, that's a cool greeting after I've been braving no end of
dangers for your sake."
"What's that you say? Look at this, Teddy; isn't it magnificent!"
Burton looked into the bowl held up for his inspection, and saw nothing
but a dirty-looking mixture that smelt rather badly.
"You see, it's like this," said Micklewright, and went on to describe in
the utmost technical detail the experiment upon which he had been
engaged. Burton listened with resignation; he knew by experience that
it saved time to let his friend have his talk out.
"Magnificent! I take your word for it," he said, when Micklewright had
finished his description. "But look here, old man, doesn't it occur to
you to wonder where I've been?"
"Why should it?" asked Micklewright in unaffected surprise. He looked
puzzled when Burton laughed; then remembrance dawned in his eyes. "Of
course; I recollect now. You went after those foreigners. I had almost
forgotten them."
"Forgotten the beggars who had stolen your secret?" cried Burton.
"Hittite! Well, you see, it was gone; no good pulling a long face over
it, though it was a blow after three years' work. I groused all day
Sunday, but recognised it as a case of spilt milk, and this morning
started on a new tack. I'm on the scent of something else. Whether it
will be any good or not I can't say yet."
"Surely you got detectives down?"
"Well, no, I didn't. It's much the best to keep such things quiet. The
fellows had got away with the stuff, and before the police could have
done anything they'd be out of reach. So I just buckled to."
"Very philosophic of you!" said Burton drily. "I needn't have put
myself about, then. Well, hand over fifty francs, and I'll cry quits."
"Fifty--francs, did you say? Won't shillings do?"
"No; I was fined in francs. I won't take advantage of you."
"I seem to be rather at sea," said Micklewright. "Have the French
started air laws, and you broken 'em and been nabbed? But what were you
doing in France?"
"Come and let's have some dinner," said Burton, putting his arm through
his friend's. "I'm sure you don't eat enough. Any one will tell you
that want of proper grub makes you dotty."
Micklewright locked up the laboratory, and went on with Burton to the
house. Burton found his suit-case in the spare room and was glad to make
a rapid toilet and change of clothes. In twenty minutes he was at one
end of the dining-table, facing Micklewright at the other, and old Mrs.
Jones was carrying in the soup. Burton waited, before beginning his
story, until Micklewright had disposed of an excellent steak, and
"looked more human," as he said; then--
"Since I saw you last, I've been to Ostend," he began.