CHAPTER XIX_The Air Pirate

LAST FLIGHT OF THE PIRATE AIRSHIP

The station superintendent met me in the office, which was brilliantly

lit and cooled by an electric fan.

"I expect you're feeling pretty well done, Sir John," he said.

"I feel pretty tired, Johnson, I own."

"There's a big thunderstorm coming up, not a doubt of it. The air'll be

cooler afterwards. All the arrangements about the prisoners are made,

sir."

The staff had been in communication with London all day upon this

matter, but I had not heard the result. I inquired from the

superintendent now.

"Our two birds, Sir John, and the three they've got at Penzance are to

travel to London to-night. They'll be brought up at Bow Street for a

minute or two, and remanded for a week to suit your convenience. The

Home Office will communicate with you, sir."

"Very well. How are they going?"

"The night mail train leaves Penzance at twelve, and gets here at two.

The other three will be on board and well guarded. Our prisoners will

join the train at Mill Bay Station. I've detailed Prosser and Moore to

escort them."

"See that the men are well armed. How are the prisoners?"

"Very quiet, sir. They seem to realize that it's all up with them.

They've taken their food all right."

"They are both together?"

"Yes, Sir John. You see, we've only the one cell that is absolutely

safe. But that can't make any difference. A man looks in every

half-hour. They can't hear him coming, and he reports that they don't

even talk."

"They're not handcuffed?"

"No, I didn't think it necessary, sir. They will be, and chained

together, too, when they leave for the train. We searched them

thoroughly, and took everything they had on them away half an hour after

they were brought in. Would you like to see them, sir?"

"I don't think so, Johnson. I've been a good deal too much in their

society during the last day or two. I don't want to look at that Vargus

again until he's in the dock, and I'm giving evidence against him."

"He's a wicked-looking customer, if ever I saw one," said the

inspector, with a face of disgust. "Well, good-night, sir, and I hope

you'll sleep well. I've told the station attendant to have your bath

ready at eight. He'll call you then."

The good Johnson went away, and I was left alone. My head ached, and I

felt disinclined for sleep at once. I undressed, however, and sat in

pyjamas as I smoked a final pipe. There was whisky, soda and a bowl of

ice, and I took a peg. I felt singularly low and dispirited. It was, I

supposed, the inevitable reaction of the nerves after all I had endured,

combined with the heavy pressure of the atmosphere and the electric

tension of the storm. At any rate, I remember feeling--as everyone does

at times--that the greatest triumphs and successes were worth very

little, after all, when once they were achieved. There is bitterness at

the bottom of every cup--_surgit amari aliquid_--and life was a poor

thing at best. And I fell to reflecting on the evil and misery that can

be wrought by one man.

The gaunt spectre of Hawk Helzephron haunted my mind, and the long row

of dead men that must be laid to his account, the brave fellows of my

own service, the Transatlantic people--to say nothing of the black

scoundrels that he had made and tempted, who had been hurried into

eternity with their crimes unrepented....

It was a morbid train of thought, but I was worn out, and the dark hour

had its way with me, until I thought of Connie and her merciful

preservation from harm, my own rescue. Then, rather ashamed of myself, I

made an effort to banish these gloomy imaginings, said my prayers, and

got into bed.

All the same, as I fell asleep, the stammer of the approaching thunder

and the white glare of lightning, which now and then flashed into the

darkened room, seemed like the growling of those awful dogs and the

glare of the advancing airship in the cave....

I think now that I must have had some unconscious premonition of the

tragedy which was racing towards me all the time.

... I was awakened sharply and suddenly, at first I thought by a flash

of lightning. But it was not so. The electrics had been suddenly turned

on, and there were men in uniform round my bed. The wind had risen and

was whistling outside. A deluge of thunder rain was in progress, and

great sheets of water were flung against the window.

I saw Superintendent Johnson. His face was white as linen.

"What is it?" I shouted.

He shouted in answer, and I heard his voice above the tumult of the

storm.

"The prisoners, Sir John," he wailed. "They've got away. They picked

the lock of the cell somehow, got into the passage, and broke the bars

of the window at the end. We none of us heard a sound!"

I leapt out of bed and began to bellow orders for pursuit--until I saw

Johnson's terrified face again, and knew that I had not heard all.

"... They got down to the water somehow, sir. They must have climbed

down the lift rails. _And they swam to the ship...._"

"Good God! _What_ ship?"

"Their own ship, Sir John. Somehow or other they managed to get on

board; we've just heard...."

"_Where are they?_"

"They did for the two men on board, and must have managed to start the

engines--_the ship's gone_. The searchlights are all over the pool, and

there's no trace of her. They were seen, Sir John, I ..."

He broke off short, the words drying up in his mouth. All the other men

shrank together in a frightened group as Danjuro came slowly into the

room.

I have never seen a figure so awe-inspiring, or terrible.

In moments of supreme emotion a European grows chalk-white, an Asiatic

grey.

The Japanese was livid grey now, and his face seemed carved with

fantastic gashes--grey rubber slashed with a knife. He was like a man

who had slept a thousand years and wakened to find himself old, and in

hell.

He came slowly up to me, moving like a thing on wheels drawn by a cord,

and when he was close, he spoke.

I can never recall his voice without an almost physical state of fear.

Suppose that you could go with Dante to that gate over which is written,

"_Abandon hope all ye who enter here._" And suppose, as you stood there

and listened, you heard a well-known voice far down, saying, "I am

tormented in this flame...."

Well, Danjuro's voice was like that.

"During a lull in the storm," he said, as if repeating a lesson, "I went

up on the deck of the _May Flower_ for a breath of air. Mr. Van Adams

accompanied me. We were looking over the water to the Pirate Ship, when

I saw lights flashing up and down through the portholes of the fuselage.

It struck me as strange. We wondered what the two men in charge could be

doing. As we watched, we were just able to distinguish two men coming up

on deck. Then there came a vivid flash of lightning, and I saw

everything plainly. The two men were Vargus and Gascoigne, and they were

carrying the body of a man in uniform, which they lowered into the

water."

Inspector Johnson gave a quick gasp. Danjuro continued:

"Without a moment's delay I got a couple of pistols, and Mr. Van Adams

and I jumped into the electric launch, which was moored alongside the

_May Flower_, though on the other side to that which faced the Pirate.

There was no time to summon help. We shot out into the pool just as the

storm began again with thunder-claps and a deluge of water. We were

within a few yards of the ship and making ready to board her, when Mr.

Van Adams flashed a powerful electric torch, and I saw Vargus with a

knife in his hand hacking at the mooring ropes. At the same time I

noticed that the lights in the pilot's cabin had been turned on.

"I took a snap-shot at Vargus and missed him. Almost simultaneously he

fired directly at the light of the torch which Mr. Van Adams held. The

bullet went through Mr. Van Adams' heart, and he fell back dead in my

arms--I was steering the launch. I fired off all the cartridges in my

pistol, but the thunder drowned the noise. The Pirate Ship began to

move. I saw the lights in her side moving along--and then she lifted and

disappeared."

The awful voice ceased, and all of us in that room stood like waxen

figures in a show.

* * * * *

For three days the Press and public were kept in entire ignorance of

what had happened during the storm.

Upon the fourth, just as I was beginning to think that all my measures

were in vain and that the Pirate Ship had vanished utterly, the Head

Office in Whitehall received two long telegrams from the Prefect of

Finistère in France and the Chief of Police of Quimper, the old

cathedral city in Brittany.

On one of the wild and lonely Breton moors a goat-herd had discovered

the wreckage of a large airship. By it was the body of a young man, but

only one body. The telegrams urgently asked me to come over at once.

I did so, in my fastest patrol boat. Lying in a wild wilderness of gorse

and heather were the remains of the Pirate Ship. It had been destroyed

beyond possibility of reconstruction, and destroyed methodically and

deliberately while at rest upon the ground. There was no doubt about

that. The body I afterwards saw in the Morgue at Quimper was that of

Gascoigne. He had not met his death by any accidental means, but had

been stabbed in the back.

He must have been dead for quite two days before the goat-herd made his

discovery, and of Vargus, living or dead, there was not a trace.

I was back in London again that night, and just as I was going to bed

in Half Moon Street the bell of the flat rang. Thumbwood went to the

door and announced that Mr. Danjuro wished to see me.

He was in evening dress, and quite his old self again to outward

appearances, except that his black hair had turned an iron grey.

For a moment or two we discussed details of the inquest that had been

held _in camera_ upon poor Van Adams, arrangements made for the trial of

the three surviving pirates, and so on. Then I told him what I had seen

at Quimper.

"Mr. Muir Lockhart told me of the telegrams from France," he said. "I

called at Whitehall, but you had already started for Quimper, Sir John.

I must apologize for such a late call, but I was anxious to hear your

news. Now I see my way clear."

"I suppose, after your great loss, you will go back to America, or

perhaps Japan, and settle down?"

He shook his head.

"You know," I continued, "that if you cared for it, there is a

highly-paid and important position open to you with the Air Police?

Nothing would give me greater pleasure, as you know, than to have you as

a colleague."

"I thank you, Sir John, but I have other work to do. I am a rich man,

but that only interests me, inasmuch as it is a means to an end. When

that end is reached ..."

He made a curious gesture with his arm, which I did not understand.

"May I ask what your work is?"

He looked at me with surprise.

"Vargus is still alive," he said simply.

"He will be caught soon. The police of the world are looking for him, if

he is alive."

"I think it will be a long pursuit, Sir John. He has got off with the

treasure, and I know one or two things about him which are not generally

known. I do not think that Mr. Vargus will fall into the hands of the

police."

"Then you ...?"

"It is my work. I owe the spirit of my patron this man's blood, and I

shall pay the debt. Were he to hide in the depths of the sea, sooner or

later I shall find him. There is no power strong enough in life to keep

us two apart."

He had dropped his voice. The words hissed like a knife upon a strop.

"I wish you good luck," I said at length, and was about to say more, to

express my gratitude again, when he cut me short.

"I am leaving for Paris in half an hour," he said, "and must bid you

farewell, Sir John. Convey my humble compliments to Miss Shepherd," and

with a low bow and a frigid handshake he was gone.

Six weeks afterwards, on the day before my wedding, I received a

magnificent Japanese vase of the old Satsuma enamel, but the card

enclosed bore no address.

I did not see this extraordinary being again for nearly two years. Of

that meeting I shall write in the following short epilogue.

EPILOGUE

In the winter of 19-- I was at Monte Carlo for three weeks, taking a

short holiday alone, and also looking out for a villa at Roquebrune or

Mentone for my wife, who was to come out with the baby as soon as the

house had been secured.

Now and again I went into the "Rooms" and staked a louis or two upon an

even chance or a _transversale_ at roulette; but, speaking generally,

the Casino bored me. The cosmopolitan crowd of smart people--like

champagne corks floating on a cesspool--the professional gamblers, with

their veil of decorous indifference concealing a fierce greed for money

which they have not earned--a sprinkling of wood-ash over a glowing

fire--presented little interest, and I much preferred long walks and

drives in the earthly paradise of Les Alpes Maritimes.

I stayed at the Métropole Hotel, making it the base of my excursions,

and one evening, after dinner, I paid one of my rare visits to the

Casino. I wandered about the gilded, stuffy saloons, with their

illuminations of oil-lamps--so that no enterprising gentleman may cut

the electric wires and make off with the money on the tables!--the low

voices and almost sanctimonious manner of the players, the over-dressed

demi-mondaines who glide about with their hard, evil eyes. The place was

very full. All the chairs round the roulette tables were occupied, and

people were standing behind the chairs as well. As I am tall, I was able

to reach over and place my stakes, and I did so several times. When I

had lost four louis with monotonous regularity, I decided that it was

not worth while, and thought I would go and smoke, for, contrary to the

usual pictures in the magazines, smoking is _not_ allowed in the

roulette or trente-et-quarante rooms.

So I went out into the Atrium, the great pillared entrance hall, which

looks like an important provincial corn exchange, and lit a cigarette.

The place was fairly full of people, walking up and down, or reading the

latest telegrams, which are fixed up upon a green-baize screen, and I

was watching them idly when, coming round the corner from the

cloak-room, I saw--Danjuro!

My heart gave a sudden leap, the sight of him was so utterly unexpected

and recalled so much. To tell the truth, he seemed to belong to a long

past and forgotten dream, for Connie and I, by mutual consent, hardly

ever spoke of the days of the pirates.

Danjuro was about fifteen yards away. I saw his face distinctly, and was

certain that I was not mistaken. Then he looked up, and I could swear

that he saw and recognized me.

Be that as it may, he turned and slipped round the corner like a weasel,

and when I got there he had vanished. I made a search, of course, though

I knew how futile it would be if he wished to avoid me, and the result

was as I expected. There wasn't a trace of him anywhere, and none of the

attendants or door-keepers had seen a Japanese gentleman anywhere.

I went for a walk on the terrace in the moonlight, and then returned to

the hotel and sought my bed. For a long time I could not sleep. The

sight of Danjuro had made me restless. A legion of memories trooped

through the brain, and curiosity marshalled the procession. What was

that enigmatic and sinister being doing here? Was he still upon his

ruthless quest, moving through the panorama of European life like some

wandering Jew of vengeance? Nothing had ever been heard of Vargus again.

For my part, I shared the opinion of the police bureaux of the

Continent, that the soft-voiced and malignant scoundrel was dead.

It was pathetic to think of Danjuro prowling through life to avenge his

patron, wasting his magnificent powers upon a hopeless quest. Pathetic,

yes--so ran my thoughts--but one can't think of Danjuro as an ordinary

human being. He was simply a single idea, clothed in flesh, a marvellous

machine designed for one operation only, a specialist so perfect that he

became a monomaniac.

Poor Van Adams, to protect and serve him had been Danjuro's whole life.

Every faculty of mind and body had been devoted to that one end. And yet

he must have loved the American to have served him so? And if he could

love he was human!

I wrestled with the problem till dawn, and got no nearer a solution. I

knew that, despite our companionship in peril and the extraordinary

adventures we had gone through together, if Van Adams had lived and for

any reason had told Danjuro to put me out of the way, the little man

would have executed the job with neatness, dispatch, and an entire

absence of compunction.

I decided that Danjuro, as a subject of psychological analysis, was

quite beyond me, and did my best to forget the incident. With an effort

I managed to do so, and got a few hours' sleep before Thumbwood called

me. I said nothing to him of having seen Danjuro, for he also is

unwilling to talk much of the days of terror--perhaps because his wife,

Wilson, that was, and is still, Connie's handmaid--so strenuously

objects to it.

About half-past eleven I left the hotel and strolled to the foot of the

funicular railway which hauls one up from the narrow ledge of land on

which Monte Carlo stands to the heights of La Turbie. I designed to

lunch at the excellent hotel at the top in the clear mountain air, and

then to walk along the Upper Corniche towards Roquebrune, Eze, and the

mountains above Mentone. There is much to explore in these high

regions--ruins of Roman and medieval forts, built as a defence against

the raiding Moors of the Mediterranean, and here and there delightful

villas among pine-woods and olive groves, far from the haunts of men.

It was a house of this description, a mountain hermitage, that I wished

to find and take for six months. I knew that they were occasionally to

be let, but somewhat difficult to come across upon the books of the

agents. In Monte Carlo I had been assured that personal exploration was

the best and quickest way.

I lunched at La Turbie on a magnificent _bouillabaisse_ and

_riz-de-veau_, and after an interval set out upon my walk. It was a

magnificent afternoon, the air golden clear. Far away out to sea Corsica

lay like a dim cloud. The mountain side fell in terrace after terrace

of olives to groups of painted houses looking like toys. Away to the

right were the red roofs and gleaming white buildings of the Monte Carlo

palaces, and the promontory of the Tête du Chien was perfectly outlined

in the azure of the sea.

"Yes," I thought, "upon this great height is the place to live when one

comes to the Côte d'Azur, and I won't go home to-night until I have

found something...." And I began to climb by a by-path.

The afternoon was hot. After a mile or two I rested in the shade of a

great rock and fell asleep. When I awoke the sun, which sets early in

winter, even on the Riviera, was declining. I was not quite sure of my

direction, but thought that I could make Roquebrune by an oblique path

over the spur of the mountain, and from there easily descend to Cap

Martin and get a carriage, and take the tram which crawls along the

cliff to Monte Carlo. So I set out.

The path, however, did not prove to be the right one, and it was

twilight, or that extremely short interval which does duty for it in the

south, before I came to three or four stone huts fronting a plateau with

an enclosure full of goats. I explained my predicament to a swarthy

woman who sat knitting at a door, and she gave me directions. She also

said, in mingled French and Italian, for the frontier was not five

miles away, that there would be a small empty villa to be let a mile

onwards--at least, she believed so.

"Can you tell me the name of the owner, madame?" I asked.

"But, no, m'sieu. It is a new gentleman. He has bought the villa and the

larger one, which is close to it but higher up the hill. He is a scholar

of some sort, and lives quite alone, so he cannot want the smaller house

on the road. It was, moreover, always let in the time of the last owner,

M. Visguis, of Nice."

I thanked the good dame, refused a cup of goats' milk, gave her a

five-franc piece and started on my way again rejoicing. My luck was in.

This mountain châlet would be just the thing, and I made up my mind to

interview the recluse on my way home.

The sun sank, and night came up with a rush out of the Mediterranean.

Everything was dead still. There are no birds in these solitudes, and

the hum of day insects was over. Although the moon rose almost at once

and gave sufficient light to steer by, the place was eerie. Immense

rocks threw ashen shadows. The stone pines stood like silent sentinels,

and the huge coronet of jewels--topaz against black velvet--that was

Monte Carlo seemed a hundred miles away.

Following my directions, I came at length to the garden wall of a

fairly large villa, painted all along the sides, with gigantic and

melancholy trees, and the moonlight shed a ghostly radiance upon it.

This, I knew, was the house in occupation. The one that might be let was

lower down the slope and on the other side of the road--to my right. I

could just see the roof of it as I peered over the parapet.

Pushing open a wooden gate, I went up the garden path towards the Villa

Turquoise--that I had discovered was its name. Tree frogs were croaking

round the house, but as it was winter, there were no friendly fireflies;

once or twice the fans of a palm clicked with a dry, rustling noise.

It was difficult to find the door as I came up to the villa, but after a

moment, I saw a broad band of yellow light coming from the side, and

turned towards it. I walked upon the turf of a little lawn, and threaded

my way between orange and pepper trees, with here and there a bush of

Cape gooseberries.

And up to that moment I never had a suspicion or a qualm. Indeed, I felt

at peace with myself and all the world, washed and purified by the sweet

Alpine air and all the loveliness my eyes had looked upon that day. Then

I heard, clear, strong and sudden, a chord of music on a piano.

I stopped dead still.

Again that crash of sound, and then a smooth and mellow arpeggio, as

masterly fingers ran up and down the keys of a magnificent instrument.

I grew cold, suddenly and horribly cold.

I could see nothing but a long French window glowing orange with light

in the dark side of the house. I had heard nothing but some chords upon

a grand piano.

But in that moment, though subconsciously, I _knew_.

I moved forward in little automatic jerks, listening with a dreadful

fear, a sick certainty. The second before I came to the window and

looked inside, it began.

Played by a master hand, I heard the opening notes of the Third Ballade

of Chopin....

Another step, and, in the darkness myself, I could see into the room.

The musician was Mr. Vargus.

He had grown a little moustache, which was waxed at the ends, and a

small black imperial on his chin. He was also much fatter than when I

had seen him last, and he wore a smoking jacket of purple velvet. On one

finger was a diamond ring, which flashed in the lamplight as the firm,

powerful hands rose and fell.

There was a soft smile in the sly eyes as he interpreted the beautiful,

fantastic music.

I am going to tell you what happened without comment or any reference

whatever to my own feelings.

The melody progressed to that marvellous passage which Beardsley saw in

line as a white horse ambling through a dark wood of pines, ridden by a

lady in a dress of black velvet.

At the opening chords of the theme a door behind the player opened

quietly. He heard nothing.

An awful and august figure entered.

It was Danjuro, but not the Danjuro I had ever known.

He wore a robe of yellow silk with wide kimono sleeves, and a sash of

purple round his waist. Into the sash was thrust the long scabbard of an

ancient Japanese sword--a scabbard of tortoise-shell and silver. His

hair was differently arranged, his lips compressed into a single line.

The eyes, which seemed curiously elongated, glittered like black lacquer

in a high light.

He crept forward and touched Vargus on the shoulder.

The man in the velvet coat leapt up with a short, sharp cry. Then he

whipped round and came face to face with Danjuro.

They remained, staring into each other's eyes for several seconds.

I saw a ghostly change beginning in the pirate's face. Inch by inch

something crept over it like a veil as life ebbed away. Then he fell in

a crumpled heap upon the carpet.

The Japanese looked down at him without a change in his dreadful stony

glare. Then he bent down and pulled the limp form out straight, turning

it with its face downwards. He drew the sword and lifted it high above

his head.

As it gleamed I shut my eyes....

When I looked again, sick with the sickness of death itself, the figure

in the yellow robe had raised both arms above its head. The sleeves had

slipped away and the coils of muscle stood out upon the brown flesh.

Danjuro's lips were parted. He seemed to be speaking rapidly to

something above him. His whole face was irradiated with joy, and the

sword in his right hand shone like a tall flame.

He remained there for some little time. Then he lowered his arms, and

taking a square of purple silk from his breast, he cleansed the sword,

and I knew what he was going to do.

He placed the jewelled hilt upon the carpet and adjusted the point at

his waist, steadying the blade with his left hand. Then, with a loud

cry, as if of exaltation, he fell heavily forward....

He had gone to his own place in the way appointed to the Heroes of Old

Japan.

THE END

PRINTED AT

THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS

KINGSTON, SURREY.

PATERNOSTER HOUSE,

PATERNOSTER ROW,

LONDON, E.C.

_July, 1919_.