At ten that Sunday morning the big Daimler, with the lunch packed and aboard, was standing before the gate of the King’s Road house, and Giles had just announced that all was ready, when Larson flung open the door of Durant’s room with an excited word.
“Durant! Come here—quick!”
Durant joined him. Standing well back from a window, which overlooked the street, Larson pointed. No words were needed. Coming up the hill, and looking at the house with evident interest, was the man they had left trussed and gagged aboard the boat-train.
“Pinched!” said Larson.
“Not yet.” Durant turned. “Shut your door—get packed!”
He darted to the stairs. “Giles! Here—quick, man!”
Michael Korin came up on the jump, and Durant pulled him into his bedroom.
“Look at that man across the street. Know him?”
One look, and the Russian drew back, a gray pallor in his face.
“Sacred name of a dog!” he exclaimed. “Yes! That’s Sir John Brentwood himself—of Scotland Yard.”
Durant gripped him by the arm, hard. “All right. Brace up, now! He’s looking the place over—we have time to get away. Something’s slipped; perhaps they’re after you, perhaps after me. We’ll get our luggage aboard the car, drop Baronne Glincka downtown, drop Dardent and his wife, get out to Croydon and make the noon plane. Understand? I’ll telephone for bookings. Warn Dardent, get rid of the cook instantly, clear the place. Go!”
The man slipped away, obviously badly shaken by what he had seen. Durant turned into Larson’s room.
“Get ready! I’ve got your money in my bag. We’re off in five minutes.”
“I’ll need ten,” said Larson, calmly enough. “I must get rid of this mustache, clap on some hair-dye, fix my face.”
“Take seven—move like hell!” snapped Durant.
Larson was already plunging for his bag. Catching up his own grips without bothering to pack his scattered belongings, Durant hurried downstairs to the telephone. In two minutes he had the Croydon aërodrome on the line.
“Mr. Durant speaking,” he said. “I have bookings for myself and a friend on the noon Paris bus tomorrow. We want to change and go over today. A third may go with us.”
“Very sorry, sir, we’ve just booked the last seat,” came the reply. “Hold on just a moment, will you?”
Durant held on, cursing softly to himself. Giles appeared, breathing hard.
“Off in five minutes,” he said. Durant nodded. Then came the voice on the wire: “Hello! I think we can take care of you, sir. We’re sending over a D H special to bring back a party of officials, and we can put you and the mail-sacks aboard, if you like. Would there be any trunks?”
“No, nothing but hand-luggage,” said Durant in sharp relief.
“Can do, sir. She’ll take off a bit ahead of the regular bus, though—about eleven-thirty. Can you get out here by eleven?”
“We’ve our own car,” said Durant. “Yes, we can get out by eleven or shortly after.”
“Right-ho!”
Durant hung up and glanced at the man beside him.
“Special plane going over to Paris. We must get to Croydon at eleven. You, I, Larson.”
“Good,” said the Russian. “I’ll arrange to have the Daimler picked up at the aërodrome—it’s a rented car. Or Dardent can attend to that detail.”
“We’d better all go out at once, carry our luggage, pile in and be off,” said Durant. “The house is being watched—you’ll have to make a dash for it and throw ’em off.”
Dardent appeared, waspishly excited, and the maid—in reality his wife—followed. Helen Glincka was on the stairs, and Durant took her bags and set them with his own.
“It’ll be touch and go,” he said, perceiving that the general feeling was that the police were after them all. Naturally, he alone knew the actual facts. “Depends on getting off on the jump. Not a word of anything wrong, now, before Larson! Helen, we’ll drop you at the Savoy. Go on to Paris tonight via Havre, as arranged; you’re in no danger. Dardent, where’ll we drop you?”
“Brompton Road,” said the little Frenchman. “Our apartment is there—Michael knows.”
“Good. Here’s Larson. All together, now—out to the car, pile in anyhow!”
And how Michael drove, out through Victoria and on to Croydon! Durant marveled at it; no American, accustomed to wide highways and a gradual sweep around other cars, could have tooled a car at any speed along these narrow English lanes, except with long practice. With a head-on collision apparently imminent, each car would give a jerky twist, out and back—and they would be past. There was a peculiar knack to it, and the Russian had this knack at his fingers’ ends.
“Why the general rush?” inquired Larson, when the two of them were alone in the car. “Everybody seemed in a devil of a hurry to get gone!”
Durant had already prepared for this, and broke into a laugh.
“We had to get out quickly—so I told ’em the cook had developed smallpox. Cleared out the maid and all, as you saw! Our pleasant chauffeur goes over with us. Here’s my bag—I’ll get out your money. Wrap it in this newspaper.”
They suited action to word, Durant having put his own bags inside the car. With a newspaper-wrapped bundle of sixty thousand dollars in his lap, Larson relaxed and lighted a cigarette. Now, for the first time, Durant had a good view of him, and whistled.
“You certainly have changed yourself! Hope you have your extra passport handy.”
“No danger. As to the change—that’s a cinch.”
It was also a complete success, to which Larson now added a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. With his mustache gone and his hair changed from gray to a glossy black, he looked twenty years younger; eyebrows had become black too, and subtle changes in the outline of his face, due probably to wads of cotton against his teeth, gave him an entirely new look, as did the goggles—stamping him in London as an American tourist.
Now they had turned past the Croydon Arms, and the big car thrummed along wide open until the huge gray hangars loomed ahead. They swung in between the rows of low buildings and came to rest in the parking-space beside the office. Two planes were already warming up—a huge silver giant, triple-engined, and a smaller De Haviland, on the concrete take-off. An orange-brown French machine was just circling to land.
“Mr. Durant?” A crisp, energetic youngster pulled open the car door. “Come along and I’ll rush you through—plane’s waiting now. We’ll have you off the ground before the bus gets here for the regular flight. Into the office, please.”
“The car will be sent for,” said Durant, and the other nodded.
There was no time lost in weighing in and checking the luggage, which was sent on to the Customs shed and put through perfunctorily, as it would be put through at the other end. In three minutes they were crossing to the passport control office. The Russian went through first; and as they waited, Larson jogged Durant’s elbow, indicating a man who sat beside the passport officer.
“Scotland Yard,” he said under his breath. “Now watch him!”
He followed the Russian, laid down his passport, waited. Though it must have been a tense moment for him, with his neck in the balance, Larson appeared quite cool. The Scotland Yard man glanced at the passport, glanced up at him, then leaned back and gazed out across the flying field, without interest. Stamped and returned, Larson picked up his passport and went on. Durant followed, and was put through without comment.
The three men stepped through the little door, and found their guide awaiting them. But as they followed out to where the machines were idling, the Russian fell back and joined Durant, in savage bewilderment.
“What’s it mean?” he snapped in French. “That one?” And he jerked his thumb toward Larson. Then Durant recollected that he must have seen the other’s altered appearance for the first time.
“Getting ready for Paris, I suppose,” he said with a laugh.
“Ar-r-rgh!” growled Michael Korin. “Think I’m a fool?”
The man strode on, but in his powerful features was stormy mingling of anger, suspicion, fear. Durant shrugged—what matter, now? He had already determined on his course, rightly estimating the Russian as one of Makoff’s chief aides, who must be put out of the way now or later. It might better be now. Only the fact of Larson’s predicament, indeed, had prevented Durant from putting the London police on the trail of Michael Korin.
When they reached the De Haviland, the pilot was already in place, testing his engine—a youngish man with twinkling blue eyes and a stubby yellow mustache. Their guide turned.
“All’s loaded,” he shouted. “You’ll be off at once.”
This eight-passenger car was much smaller than the big machines. All but three of the seats were piled high with luggage and freight, for the balance of the loads was most carefully arranged. Durant was given the empty seat forward, Larson the one just behind, and Michael Korin in the rear. Larson shoved his newspaper-wrapped package in the rack, got rid of his mufflings, and gave the staring Russian a sardonic grin.
That grin, Durant reflected afterward, must have done the business—for Korin was no fool.
The roar of the engines rose to a crescendo, and abruptly the De Haviland moved—glided over the ground, bumped, turned, swept madly across the field, bumped again, took the air. A turn, and with the slight bank Larson gripped his chair-arms hard, then laughed as he met the eyes of Durant.
“New experience for me!” he shouted. Michael Korin sat slumped in his chair, frowning savagely, eyes ablaze with sullen fires as he watched the other two men. The altimeter crept around—one—two—three thousand feet. The pilot unreeled his wireless antennae.
England lay below them.
The De Haviland had the wind with her and was doing her even hundred, so that in less than an hour the yellow sand-beaches of the French coast showed ahead. The glass window of the cockpit showed them the pilot’s head, and a notice beside it advised that it be opened for communication if necessary.
Durant took an old envelope from his pocket, and pencil, and began to write. His message was curt and to the point:
Passenger Hopper is Michael Korin, who murdered Grand Duke Vassily last year. Wanted by all police. Radio Paris police at once to arrest him on arrival.
Passenger Hopper is Michael Korin, who murdered Grand Duke Vassily last year. Wanted by all police. Radio Paris police at once to arrest him on arrival.
This done, Durant rose and went forward. He reached up and tried to open the little embrasure, but to no effect. The pilot turned, shrugged, and shook his head, shouting something that was lost.
Unable to pass the envelope through, Durant held it up to the glass. The pilot read it, and his eyes widened. Then he nodded comprehension and turned around again; craning up, Durant watched him lean forward, speaking into the microphone set before him. Already the Channel was far behind, the brown-green field-patches of France flitting past underneath....
To Durant it seemed to happen all in a flash, for he had been intent on what he was doing, and the roaring of the motor drowned out all lesser sounds. There was a rush of movement, the envelope was torn from his hand; losing balance, he staggered for an instant.
Recovering, he saw Michael Korin standing just behind him, glancing at the writing with inflamed eyes—Durant clutched at it, gained it before the Russian had read it—or half of it, at least. In doing so, he lost balance again, to the drop of the plane in an air-pocket, and went sprawling across the freight. As he went down, he saw the figure of Larson, limply sprawled in his seat, head sagging—dead or senseless.
Korin read what was gripped in his hand. It was the top part of the envelope, bearing the first sentence only—but this was quite enough. A scream rang through the cabin, above the thrumming roar of the engine—a scream of wild rage, inarticulate, bestial.
“Traitor!” shouted out the Russian, as Durant got to his feet. “Vile dog of a traitor! What sort of trap have you laid? You want to have me pinched and get away with the money yourself? Or—”
Words, evasion, all useless here! The man was swept by a passion of insane rage; nostrils dilated, lips drawn back in a snarl, eyes aflame, he was out of himself. For an instant Durant, who was unarmed, shrank before the memory of how Grand Duke Vassily had died, his throat torn out by teeth as by the teeth of a wild beast. And here was the wild beast!
Then, braced, Durant leaped and drove in a terrific blow to the stomach. The blow failed. Korin swerved, snapped hand to pocket, jerked out an automatic pistol. Durant’s fist smashed on his wrist, and the pistol fell. Then the two men were reeling, grappling, striking, locked in a mad embrace, hurling themselves about the narrow cabin in frenzied desperation of fight, while the earth rolled three thousand feet below.
The two men were reeling, grappling, striking, locked in a mad embrace.
The two men were reeling, grappling, striking, locked in a mad embrace.
Durant speedily knew that, save for luck, he was mastered. No man could cope with the insane fury of this wild beast—for such Korin had become. Though Durant’s fist hammered him relentlessly, sending crushing blows to face and stomach, though he himself knew nothing of fighting, Korin seemed made of living steel. Twice Durant got in smashes to the angle of the jaw, with absolutely no effect. Korin flung him about as though he were a child, swept him off his feet with the sheer force of a wild, flailing swing, picked him up and hurled him against the cockpit wall.
Then, leaping on him, Korin got him about the throat in a fearful throttling grapple, and reached for a grip with his teeth. Frantic, Durant broke the hold with the familiarjiu-jitsubreak of arms inside arms, brought up his knee in a deadly blow; for an instant thought the fight won. Korin staggered, and Durant deliberately smashed him under the chin and knocked him against one window, smashing the glass; then, even before Durant could follow it up, Korin was back on the rebound in another grapple, with a wild and shrill scream.
Durant glimpsed the face of the pilot staring back through the small glass inset, but the pilot was probably unarmed and helpless to intervene. Helpless, too, to keep the De Haviland on an even keel, for with the wild rushes and swift movements of the two men, she was lurching badly. The newspaper bundle was swept from the rack, and packages of bank-notes lay around.
Curtains were torn down, windows smashed; the body of Larson sprawled on the floor and tripped them as they fought. Then, once more, Korin hurled himself in and grappled, bearing Durant backward off balance. The plane lurched wildly. Both men went headlong, locked together— And Durant, underneath, was pitched head-first into the wall. This ended the fight for him.
When he woke up, realizing that he was not dead, Durant found that he lay half doubled into a seat, wrists and ankles lashed with curtain cords. If he had achieved nothing else, his blows had certainly knocked sanity into the Russian, who was terrifically battered. Some little time must have passed, for as Durant looked, he saw Korin smashing the little glass window of the cockpit, striking at it with his pistol.
“Land!” His voice rose shrill above the engine-roar, as he shoved his weapon into the face of the pilot. “Land at once!”
The air-man shouted a response which Durant could not catch. Korin was altogether too sane not to know that his life depended on that of the pilot—he dared not shoot the little Englishman who defied him.
He cursed, raved, threatened; then, with a wild laugh, he thrust out the pistol and fired, twice.
As the plane lurched, Durant caught his breath, thinking Korin had shot the pilot. But the crafty Russian had done better—he had smashed the propeller.
The wild roar of the engine was succeeded by a swift and terrible silence, through which drove the voice of Michael Korin in a wild blast. There was something splendid and magnificent about the man in this instant, as he stood watching the pilot and laughed in exultation, awaiting the result of his mad challenge to destiny.
“Now land, you swine-dog! Land, and if you try any tricks, you’ll get a bullet!”
“Blast you!” came the pilot’s voice, but that was all. The air-man was busy.
Korin was beyond thought of anything now except the money scattered about his feet, and what would happen somewhere in France, three thousand feet below. He stooped, caught up the packets of notes, stuffed his pockets with them, then straightened again.
Durant realized now that, given any half-decent landing-place, they stood in little actual danger. It all depended on the landing place—but this was a big gamble. Sharply banked, the De Haviland plunged earthward, gathering speed for the final straightening out; struts and braces quivered, thrummed madly; wind whistled and shrieked through the smashed side windows. His eyes going to the altimeter on the cockpit wall, Durant saw the needle shake and turn, twenty-five hundred—two thousand—fifteen hundred—a thousand feet! The whole ship was roaring, shivering, shrieking to the wild plunge earthward.
Something stirred in Durant’s brain—wonder at it. Why would Korin do such an insane thing? He must know that he could not escape, that mere landing would not save him, that at each moment the pilot must have been reporting into the microphone what was going on, that on the earth below must be a scurry of cars and motorcycles, police converging on wherever the landing-place would be! Yet there the Russian stood, furiously exultant, carried out of himself by the sheer sweeping excitement of the moment, pouring forth a stream of laughing oaths as he held himself braced and looked out upon the rising earth!
Then the explanation swept upon Durant in all its simple truth. Korin, as a matter of fact, knew nothing about the microphone! Very few people did know that these planes were so equipped, all of them.
The needle was nearly down, now. Korin was waiting, expectant, hawklike. The ship came to an even keel, floated—the pilot was cursing frantically as he worked. Then silence again, a shout from Korin, a heavy bump—and a crash. No—safe! The ship was bumping, rolling over ground, slowing down.
After this, the end was sharp, swift, dramatic enough even to Durant, who could see nothing of what passed outside the ship. Korin seized a suitcase and beat out the glass of the broken window beside him—needlessly, for he might have drawn the sash—and then crawled out. The voice of the pilot sounded:
“Here, I say! You can’t do it, you know—”
Korin laughed, and the sound of a shot brought silence.
A little after, Durant was aware of Larson bending over him, fumbling at his wrists, shaking, excited, yet also laughing.
“Men coming,” said Larson. “Two airplanes landing, too—looks like a landing-ground. For the love of heaven, Durant, keep your mouth shut about the money!”
“But he got away with it!” exclaimed Durant. Freed, he sat up, saw the high radio towers and the huts below. “This is Abbeville, just outside town—they can get him. I had the pilot radio his name and—”
“Lay off!” cried Larson frantically. “I got to get to Paris and drop out of sight quick—beat it! Understand? Our pilot ain’t dead—he only got a bullet through his leg. Let ’em all think the fellow was just trying to make his get-away—”
“And let the money go?” demanded Durant, incredulous.
“Sure, let it go!” said Larson, with a wink. “I got more of it. Let it go!” Durant shrugged.
Next morning, in his little hotel in the Rue Vignon, behind the Madeleine, Durant caught at theEcho de Parisbrought with his coffee and rolls. On the front page was the story he sought:
Michael Korin, the assassin of Grand Duke Vassily, was killed yesterday near Abbeville bygardes champêtres, in a running battle.It was no ordinary, sordid slaying; it was drama! This great criminal was crossing audaciously from London to Paris by avion.Recognized by one of the passengers, he brought the avion to earth by shooting away the propeller. The pilot, who was wounded, sent the alarm by radio. Unhappily for himself, Korin touched earth at the Abbeville aërodrome.
Michael Korin, the assassin of Grand Duke Vassily, was killed yesterday near Abbeville bygardes champêtres, in a running battle.
It was no ordinary, sordid slaying; it was drama! This great criminal was crossing audaciously from London to Paris by avion.
Recognized by one of the passengers, he brought the avion to earth by shooting away the propeller. The pilot, who was wounded, sent the alarm by radio. Unhappily for himself, Korin touched earth at the Abbeville aërodrome.
Durant, thrilled, laid down his paper. Korin was dead, then! And since the names of all air passengers were carefully registered, and the names of all hotel arrivals in Paris were at once deposited with the police, he would soon be traced here and interviewed.
What of Larson, then? Durant chuckled—for Larson was gone. He had slipped out of the Airways bus as it passed the Gare du Nord, after one hasty grip of farewell, and Durant had last seen him darting into the big station. Larson was gone, somewhere, like a rat hunting its hole. Why? He was safe enough here, surely. And he had still some money left. But what about the money Korin had taken? Surely Larson would claim it.
His eye fell on the paper again, and followed down to the final paragraph of the story. He read it, with stupefied astonishment. The whole thing swept upon him then, with stunning force. Here he had the explanation of Larson’s puzzling conduct—and the most astounding joke on Boris Makoff! For Makoff, at this very moment, must be reading this news-story too; he would not understand Larson’s share in it, perhaps, but he would quite understand for what he had expended money and brains prodigally, not to mention for what Michael Korin had thrown away his life.
“Bootlegging, indeed!” exclaimed Durant, mirth struggling against wonder and admiration. “The clever scoundrel! I bet a dollar he was never fooled a minute about Lord Northcote—I bet he was on to the whole game, and was playing us all for suckers. And this is why he wouldn’t claim the money, and why he’s probably outside France by this time, passing off his hundred-dollar bills on Belgians or Danes.”
For this final paragraph was curtly pointed:
In the pockets of the dead assassin were found quantities of American bank-notes, amounting to a very large sum. The fact that they were in Korin’s possession drew suspicion, and upon examination they have been pronounced forgeries. Undoubtedly Korin had intended passing them off upon our good merchants of Paris.
In the pockets of the dead assassin were found quantities of American bank-notes, amounting to a very large sum. The fact that they were in Korin’s possession drew suspicion, and upon examination they have been pronounced forgeries. Undoubtedly Korin had intended passing them off upon our good merchants of Paris.
Durant thought of what Boris Makoff must be saying—and laughed again.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 1926 issue ofThe Blue Bookmagazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 1926 issue ofThe Blue Bookmagazine.