"Among the other attractions, there was a captive balloon--"
Morse brought his hand heavily down upon the table with a loud
exclamation in Spanish.
"Yes, there was, but--but it was quite half a mile away and never came
up anything like our height here."
"No," the boy answered, "not at that time. But do you remember how
during the fog last night I told you I had seen something, or thought I
had seen something, like a group of statuary falling before my bedroom
window?"
Something seemed to snap in my mind. "Good heavens! And I thought it was
merely a trick of the mist! Nothing was discovered?"
"No, but in view of what happened afterwards, I formed a theory. I put
it to the test this morning. I made a few inquiries as to the
proprietors of the captive balloon and the engine which wound it up and
down by means of a steel cable on a drum. I need not go into details at
the moment, but the whole apparatus did not leave Richmond Park when it
was supposed to do so. The wind was drifting in the right direction, the
balloon could be more or less controlled--certainly as to height. I have
learned that there was a telephone from the car down to the ground.
Desperate men, resolved to stick at nothing, might well have arranged
for the balloon to rise above the City--the cable was quite long enough
for that--and descend upon part of it by means of a parachute, or, if
not that, a hanging rope. More dangerous feats than that have been done
in the air and are upon record. It seems to me there is no doubt
whatever that this is the way the two men broke through all our
precautions."
There was a long silence when he had spoken. Mendoza Morse leant back in
his chair with the perspiration glittering in little beads upon his
face, but he wore an aspect of relief.
"You've sure got it, my friend," he said at length, "that was how the
trick was done! It was the one possibility which had never occurred to
me, and hence we were unprovided. Well, that relieves my mind to a
certain extent. We can take it that we are safe in the City, if
Midwinter has escaped. How are we to make an end of him?"
"The difficulty is," I said, "that we are, so to speak, both literally
and actually above, or outside, the Law. If that were not so, if
ordinary methods could deal with this man, or could have dealt with the
Hermandad in the past, Mr. Morse would never have planned and built the
eighth wonder of the world. No word of what has happened in the last day
or two must get down to the public--isn't that so?"
Morse nodded. "It goes without saying," he said. "We have our own law in
the City in the Clouds. At the present moment, there are three bodies
awaiting final disposal--and there won't be any inquest on them."
"That," Rolston broke in, "was something I was waiting to hear. It's
important."
He stopped, and looked at me with his usual modesty, as if waiting
permission to speak. I smiled at him, and he went on.
"It is an absolute necessity," he said, "to enter into the psychology of
Midwinter. We may be sure that his purpose is as strong as ever. The
death of Zorilla, and his present failure, will not deter him in the
least, knowing what we know of him?"
He looked inquiringly at Morse.
"It won't turn him a hair's breadth," said the millionaire. "If he was
mad with blood-lust and hatred before, he must be ten times worse now."
"So I thought, sir. He has lost his companion, as desperate and as
cunning as himself, but we can be quite certain that he is not without
resources. I think it safe to assume that he has practically an
unlimited supply of money. He must have other confederates, though
whether they are in his full confidence or not is a debatable question.
That, however, at the moment, is not of great importance. We have him in
London, let us suppose, for it is the safest place in the world for a
man to hide--in London, determined, and hungering for revenge. We have
no idea what his next scheme will be, and in all human probability he
hasn't planned either. He must be considerably shaken. He will know,
now, how tremendously strong our defenses are, and it will not escape a
man of his intelligence that they will now be greatly strengthened. It
will take him some time to gather his wits together and work out another
scheme. The only thing to do, it seems to me, is to force his hand."
"And how?" Morse and I said, simultaneously.
"We must trap him--not here at all, but down there, in London"--he made
a little gesture towards the floor with his hand, and as he did so, once
more the strange and eerie remembrance of where we were came over me,
lost for a time in the comfortable seclusion of a room that might have
been in Berkeley Square.
"Here _we_, that is the Press, come in," said Rolston, smiling proudly
at me.
I smiled inwardly at the grandiloquence of the tone, and yet, how true
it was!--this lad who, so short a time ago had got to see me by a trick,
was certainly the most brilliant modern journalist I had ever met. I
made him a little bow, and, delighted beyond measure, he continued.
"Let it be put about," he said, "with plenty of detail, rumor,
contradiction of the rumor and so on--in fact we will get up a little
stunt about it--that Mr. Mendoza Morse has tired of his whim. For a
time, at any rate, he is going to make his reappearance in the world. If
necessary, announce Miss Juanita's engagement to Sir Thomas. Get all
London interested and excited again."
Morse nodded, his face wrinkled with thought. "I think I see," he said,
"but go on."
"When this is done, let us put ourselves in Midwinter's place. I believe
that he will have no suspicion of a trap. He will argue it in this way.
We are too much afraid of him to attack ourselves. Hitherto, all our
measures have been measures of defense and escape. It will hardly occur
to him that we have changed all our tactics. He will think that, with
the failure of his attempt, the bad failure, and the death of
Zorilla--which I have no doubt he will have discovered by now--we
imagine he will abandon all his attempts. He will say to himself that we
now believe ourselves safe and that his power is over, his initiative
broken, that he will never dare to go on with his campaign. Everything
seems in favor of it. I should say that it is a hundred to one that his
line of thought will be precisely as I have said."
"By Jove, and I think so, too! Good for you, Rolston!" I shouted, seeing
where he was going.
His boyish face was wreathed in smiles. "Thank you," he said. "Well, we
are to lay a trap, and it is on the details of that trap that everything
depends. I see, by to-day's _Times_, that Birmingham House in Berkeley
Square, is to let. The Duke is ordered a long cruise in the Pacific. Let
Mr. Morse immediately take the house and issue invitations for a great
ball to celebrate Miss Juanita's engagement. If that house and that ball
are not to Midwinter as a candle is to a moth, then my theory is
useless! Somehow or other he will be there, either before or actually on
the occasion. By some means or other he will get into the house."
He stopped, and with a little apologetic look took out his cigarette
case and began to smoke. He really was wonderful. This was the lad,
airily ordering one of the richest men in the world to take the Duke of
Birmingham's great mansion, whose capital but a few short weeks ago was
one penny, bronze. I remember how he was forced to confess it to me,
even as I congratulated him.
We talked on for another half-hour, or rather little Bill Rolston
talked, the rest of us only putting in a word now and then. He seemed to
have mapped out every detail of the new campaign, and we were content to
listen and admire.
Of course I am not a person without original ideas, or unaccustomed to
organization--my career, such as it is, has proved that. But on that
night, at least, I could initiate nothing, and I was even glad when the
conference came to an end. Morse was much the same--he confessed it to
me as we left the room--and the truth is that we were both feeling the
results of the terrible shocks we had undergone. Rolston was younger and
fresher, and besides his peril had not been as great as mine or the
millionaire's.
Pu-Yi vanished in his mysterious fashion, and Morse, Rolston and I went
to dinner. There was no question of dressing on such a night as this,
but, if you believe me, the meal was a merry one!
It was Juanita's whim to have dinner served in a wonderful conservatory
built out on that side of the Palacete which looked upon the gardens
separating it from the eastern villa where Rolston and I were housed.
The place was yet another of the fantastic marvels conjured up by Morse
and his millions. It was an exact reproduction of a similar conservatory
at my host's house in Rio de Janeiro, and had been carried out at a
frightful cost by the greatest landscape gardener and the most
celebrated scenic artist in existence.
We sat at a little table, surrounded by tall palm trees rising from
thick, tropical undergrowth, a gay striped awning was over our heads,
protecting us from what seemed brilliant sunshine. On every side was the
golden rain of mimosa, masses of deep crimson blossoms, and wax-like
magnolia flowers. From a marble pool of clear water sprang a little
fountain--a laughing rod of diamonds. In the distance, seen over a
marble balustrade, was the deep blue of the tropic sea dominated by the
great sugar-loaf mountain, the Pao de Azucar.
It was an illusion, of course, but it was perfect. That sea, and the
gleaming mountain, which, from where we sat, seemed so real, was but a
cleverly painted cloth. The warm and scented air came to us through
concealed pipes, and down in the lower portion of the City, patient,
moon-faced Chinamen were at work to produce it. The sunlight, actually
as brilliant as real sunlight, was the result of a costly installation
of those marvelous and newly invented lamps which are used in the great
cinema studios. Only the trees and the flowers were real.
Outside, it was a keen, cold night. We were perched on the top of gaunt,
steel towers, more than two thousand feet in the air, and yet, I swear
to you, all thought of our surroundings, and even of our peril, was
banished for a brief and laughing hour. Like the tired traveler in some
clearing of those lovely South American forests from which the wealth of
Morse had sprung, we had forgotten the patient jaguar that follows in
the tree-tops for a week of days to strike at last.
I dwell upon this scene because it was another of those little
interludes, during my life in the City of the Clouds, which stand out in
such brilliant relief from the encircling horrors.
Juanita was in the highest spirits. I had never seen her more lovely or
more animated. Morse himself, always a trifle grim, unbent to a
sardonic humor. He told us story after story of his early life, with
shrewd flashes of wit and wisdom, revealing the keen and mordaunt
intellect which had made him what he was. A wonderful pink champagne
from Austria, looted from the Imperial cellars during the war, and
priceless even then, poured new life into our veins--it was impossible
to believe in the tragedy of the last few hours, in the shadow of any
tragedy to come.
We adjourned to the music-room after dinner, an apartment paneled in
cedar-wood and with a wagon roof, and Juanita played and sang to us for
a time. It was just ten o'clock when Rolston looked at his watch and
gave me a significant glance. I rose and said good-night, both Morse and
Juanita announcing their intention of going to bed.
As we came to the outside door, Bill turned to me.
"Hadn't you better go back to our house, Sir Thomas, and sleep? Remember
what you have been through."
"Sleep? I couldn't sleep if I tried! I feel as fit and well as ever I
did--why?"
"I've promised to meet Mr. Pu-Yi in the office of the chief of the
staff. Reports will be coming in of the search which has been going on
all the evening. I am anxious to see how far it has got, though of
course if Midwinter had been found, or any trace of him, we should have
been informed at once. And there is something else, also--"
He stopped, and I made no inquiries. "Well, I'm with you," I said; for I
felt ready for anything that might come, in a state of absolute,
pleasant acquiescence in the present and the future. I hadn't a tremor
of fear or anxiety.
One of those noiseless, toy, electric automobiles which I had already
seen when Juanita first showed me the City, was waiting. We got in, and
buzzed through the gardens, and down the tunnel which led to Grand
Square. As we went, I saw shadowy figures patrolling everywhere. The
whole place was alive with guards--my girl could sleep well this night!
As we came out of the tunnel I motioned to Bill to go slowly, and he
pulled the lever, or whatever it was, that controlled the speed. In
almost complete silence we began to circle the huge inclosure, the tires
making no noise whatever upon the floor of wood blocks.
The air was keen, cold, and wonderfully pure. There was not a cloud in
the heavens, and one looked up at a far-flung vault of black velvet
spangled with gold. Never had I seen the stars so clear and brilliant in
England, for the haze of smoke and the miasma of overbreathed air which
is the natural atmosphere of London lay two thousand feet below. The
Grand Square blazed with light. The buildings, with their spires, domes
and cupolas, stood out with extraordinary clearness against the
circumambient black of space. No outline was soft or blurred, everything
was vividly, fantastically real. A veritable scene from the old Arabian
Nights indeed! And something of the same thought must have come to my
companion, for he looked up and said: "I once saw an extraordinary
illustration by Willy Pogany of one of De Quincey's opium dreams--here
it is, only a thousand times more marvelous!"
The fountain in the middle of the Square--a long distance away it
seemed as we slowly skirted the buildings--made a ghostly laughter as it
sprang from its dragon-supported basin of bronze. The gilded cupola of
the observatory shone with a wan radiance, higher than all else, and a
black triangle in the gold told me that the patient old Chinese
astronomer surveyed the heavens, lost in a waking dream of the Infinite,
probably loftily unconscious of all that had been going on in the magic
city at his feet. I envied that serene, Oriental philosopher, Juanita's
special friend and pet, who lived up there in his observatory, and, so I
was told, hardly ever descended for any purpose at all. He was as
inviolate a hermit as Saint Anthony. It was especially curious that I
should have cast my glance heavenwards and have thought of that ancient
sage at this moment. You will learn why afterwards.
We stopped at one of the white kiosks, from the interior of which the
hydraulic lifts went down to the lower part of the City. It was in an
upper story of that that the chief of the staff had his office, and,
mounting a flight of steps, we entered, to find Pu-Yi sitting at a
roll-top desk, scrutinizing a handful of paper reports.
"It is nearly over, Sir Thomas," he said, rising and placing chairs for
us. "Almost every inch of the City has been searched, and but little
remains to be done. There is not a single trace of the man, Midwinter."
I own that to hear this was a great relief. We were all of us fired with
Rolston's plan of a trap down below in London. His theory seemed to be
correct. Midwinter had somehow escaped, and we should meet him in due
time--for I had never a doubt of that. Meanwhile, Juanita and her father
were safe.
"It is only what I expected, though how on earth he managed to get away
remains to be seen!"
"It will come to light in due course," Pu-Yi replied. "And now, Sir
Thomas, are you prepared to accompany me and Mr. Rolston? There are
certain things to be done, and I shall be glad to have you as a
witness."
"Anything you like--but what is it?"
"You must remember that the bodies of three dead men await disposal," he
replied. "What remains of Zorilla--he fell into the lake on the first
stage, though of course he was dead, strangled in mid-air, long before
the impact. Then there is Mulligan, who died in defense of the City;
finally Sen, the boy from my own province in China, of whose terrible
end you are aware."
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"We must keep to our policy of secrecy and noninterference by the
outside world. The bodies must be destroyed, and by fire."
I gave a little inward shudder, but I don't think he noticed it, and in
a minute more we were dropping to the lower City in a rapid lift.
It was in a furnace-room that provided some of the hot air for the
conservatories on the stage above that I witnessed the ghastly and
unceremonious finish of the mortal parts of the Spaniard and the
Irishman, and it was cruel and sordid to a degree--or so it seemed to
me. The long bundle of sacking which contained that which had housed the
evil soul of Senor Don Zorilla y Toro--I resisted a bland invitation on
the part of a stoker in a blue jumper and a pleased smile to examine the
stiff horror--was slung through an iron door into a white and glowing
core of flame. There was a clang as the long, steel rods of the firemen
pushed it to, and I cannot say that I felt much regret, only a sort of
shuddering sickness and relief that the door was closed so swiftly.
But it was different in the case of Mulligan. I blamed Morse in my
heart. The man had been strangled when saying his prayers. He was of the
millionaire's own religion, and there should have been a priest to
assist at these fiery obsequies of a faithful servant. I learned
afterwards, I am glad to say, that Morse had not been consulted, and
knew nothing about the actual disposal of the bodies until afterwards.
You see the shock came--Rolston felt it too--from the fact that these
bland and silent Asiatics were utterly without any emotion as they
performed their task. They were heathens, worshiping Heaven knows what
in their tortuous and secret souls. As poor Mulligan--they had put the
body in a coffin and it took eight struggling, sweating Orientals to
hoist and slide it into the furnace--vanished from my eyes, I put my
hands before my face and said such portions of the Protestant burial
service as I remembered, and they were very few.
"They're nasty beasts, aren't they, Sir Thomas?" Rolston whispered, as
we fled the furnace room. "Soulless, just like machines!"
We waited for Pu-Yi for a minute or two.
"I thank you, Sir Thomas, and Mr. Rolston," he said in his calm, silky
voice. "It was as well that you saw the disposal of the dead, though it
is only a remote contingency that there will ever be inquiry. And now,
if you wish, I will send you up again. I, myself, must attend to the
obsequies of my compatriot."
"Oh," I remarked, and I fear my tone was far from pleasant, "you propose
to be rather more ceremonious in the case of the lad, Sen?"
For a single moment I saw that calm and gentle face disturbed. Something
looked out of it that was not good to see, but it was gone in a flash.
This was the first and last time that I had a shadow of disagreement
with the man whose life I had saved and who saved mine in return. It was
natural, I think--neither of us was to blame. "East is East and West is
West," and there are some points at least at which they can never meet.
Poor Pu-Yi! He had as fine an intellect as any man I ever met, and was a
great gentleman. I wish I could look upon him once more as I write this,
but, though I didn't know it, the sand in the glass was nearly out and
our hours together dwindling fast.
We followed him through various twists and turns of the under City,
among the huts and storehouses, thronged with silent people--it was like
moving in the interior of a hive of bees--until, by means of an archway
and a closed door, we emerged in a sort of courtyard surrounded on three
sides by buildings. On the fourth was a rail, breast-high, and above and
around was open night.
"We can't take his body to China," said our guide. "We must burn it
here, and only the ashes will rest in the village of his ancestors. But
it is well. Such cases are provided for in my religion."
We then saw that in the center of the yard there was a low funeral pile,
apparently of wood. Two men in long, yellow gowns were pouring some
liquid over it.
"If you will do me the honor to come this way," said Pu-Yi, and we
entered a long, bare room. In the center of this place there was a large
square box of painted wood, the lid of which was not yet in place. The
body of the dead man was sitting in the box, the hands clasped round the
knees. The nose, ears and mouth were filled with vermilion, which, to
our Western eyes, gave a horrible, grotesque appearance to the brown,
wrinkled mask of the face. Poor Sen's countenance was placid enough, but
it was not like that of even a dead man, a fantastic image, rather.
A gong beat with a sudden hollow reverberation, and from another door a
file of mourners entered.
At the far end of the room was a table upon which was a painted tablet.
"It bears," whispered Pu-Yi, "the name under which Sen enters
salvation."
Two men swinging censers stood by the table, and two others, a little
nearer the corpse, held bronze bowls of water. First Pu-Yi, and then the
other mourners, dipped their hands in the water to purify them, and
then, producing paper packets of incense from their bosoms, they threw a
pinch into the censers with the right hand and bowed low to the table,
retiring backwards. It was all done with the precision of a drill and in
absolute silence, and for my part I found it no less ghastly and unreal
than the brutal scene in the furnace-room below.
"Come out," I whispered to Rolston, and we reentered the pure air,
walking to the rail at one side of the square.
We leant over. Far, far below, so far that it was sensation rather than
vision, was a faint, full glow, the night lights of London, but of the
city itself nothing could be seen whatever. Even the burnished ribbon of
the Thames had disappeared, and no sound rose from the capital of the
world. There was a thin whispering round us as the night breezes blew
through steel stay and cantilever, a faint humming noise like that of
some gigantic AEolian harp. And once, as we bathed ourselves in the cool,
the immensity and the dark, there was a rush of whirring wings, and the
"honk-konk" of the wild duck from the great lake fifteen hundred feet
below, as they passed in wedge-shaped flight on some mysterious night
errand. We leant and gazed, filled with awe and solemnity, until a low,
wailing chant and the thin, piercing notes of single-wire-strung violins
made us turn to see the square box hoisted on the bier, a torch applied,
and a roaring spitting column of yellow flame towering up above the
buildings and throwing a ghastly light on a hundred round, mask-like
faces, indistinguishable one from the other by European eyes.
As I read now, ten years afterwards, that scene among so many others
comes back to me with extraordinary vividness. And it seems to me as I
live my English life in honor, tranquillity, and happiness, that it was
all a monstrous dream.
Surely--yes, I think I am safe in saying this--there will never again be
such a place of horror and fantasy as the City in the Clouds.