Chapter 2

Under his
taciturn exterior he revealed a shrewd personality, as thoroughly
American as that of Durant himself. He had spent fifteen years in
America, ten years previous to that in England, while his education at
home in Denmark had been excellent. To realize that he sat opposite a
murderer, criminal, bootlegger, a charming old man who had made an
excellent unmoral living off society, was continually astonishing to
Durant. And Larson had asked no questions about his host or the reason
for an incognito—if he was curious, he bottled it up. So Durant
conjured up a history for himself, and it was accepted without a word.

“You know, I liked you at the start!” said Larson, when they lighted
cigars and adjourned to the garden for a look around. “You know Makoff
well?”

“Not well,” said Durant. “I met him aboard the boat. Why?”

“I don’t cotton to him,” said the other. “He may be a nobleman and all
that, and the cousin of Baroness Glincka—that the name?—but I know a
crook when I see one. I’d ought to, eh? Yes sir. That bird, for all
his society airs, is a bad one.”

“I believe you,” said Durant with a chuckle. Wary Makoff! The Russian
had sensed this suspicion in Larson, and did not intend to show
himself as a guest. “Makoff wont show up here, I’m glad to say. How do
you know I’m not a crook too?”

Larson glanced at him and grinned. “You’ve the makings of one, and a
good one—but I know a square-shooter when I see him! Let’s go attend
to that money, shall we?”

Durant nodded, and they went upstairs. He brought one of his own bags
into Larson’s room—a bag specially made, with Yale lock, though Durant
had nothing in it except clothes. Being fully aware, by sharp
experience, of the fallacious tourist belief that English-made clothes
were better than American, he had loaded up at home with a large
outfit.

Larson opened a suitcase and threw out on the bed half a dozen
packages wrapped in oiled silk and sealed. He broke one open to reveal
crisp new hundred-dollar bills.

“Six of ’em,” he said. “Open the others up if you like. Why the
suitcase?”

“To hold them until I can get into the safe,” said Durant. “Better
so.”

“Suit yourself.”

“What sort of receipt do you want?”

“Receipt, hell!” ejaculated Larson. “Don’t be a fool. I don’t need any
receipt from you.”

Durant calmly opened all the packages, found them to be as stated, and
then stowed them away in his grip, which he replaced in his room,
after locking. He chuckled again to think what Makoff would say to
this simple acquisition—after so much pains and expense had been
bestowed to get Larson in a murder-trap!

“Decidedly,” he said cynically, “it pays to be an honest man!”

* * * * *

Had Larson been anything but what he was, the composition of Lord
Northcote’s week-end party must have struck him as very singular, to
say the least.

The only woman in the party was Baroness Glincka, who arrived for
luncheon on Saturday. Count Dardent proved to be a worn-out, waspish
little man with waxed mustaches and dyed hair, who spoke fair English
and fluent Danish; he was French, and Durant made a shrewd guess that
he had left Paris very much for his health’s sake, not to mention his
liberty. He noted that Helen Glincka very obviously disliked the
little count.

After their day together, Larson and Durant had become almost
intimate.

Durant, at least, found his liking for the shrewd old rascal increased
by acquaintance. Nothing had appeared in the newspapers in regard to
the finding of a trussed-up detective aboard the boat-train, but this
meant nothing, except that an extensive secret search was being made
for Gunnar Hanson. No further word had come to Durant via Giles or the
maid. No other guests arrived, and the four sat down to dinner
Saturday night with Durant very much in the dark as to plans. Larson,
however, was clearly charmed by thus mixing with Continental and
English nobility, and enjoyed himself hugely.

Dinner was nearly over, when Giles leaned above Durant’s chair.

“There’s a gentleman asking for you, sir. In the library.”

Durant rose, excused himself without the fact appearing strange, and
passed into the library. He found Makoff awaiting him.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Russian. “Glad to find everything smooth. No
trouble?”

“None, with your perfect arrangements.”

“I’ll have to turn over the job to you and Michael after all,” said
Makoff. “I’ve been called to Paris in haste—making the nine o’clock
Southampton train tonight.”

“Who’s Michael?”

“Giles,” and Makoff chuckled. “Good man, eh? Dardent’s our regular
London agent. Michael has full instructions; I’ll give you yours now.
Larson, I believe, has fifteen or twenty thousand dollars in
currency—”

“Sixty,” said Durant. Makoff whistled.

“Sixty thousand? Whew! Still better.” He winked delightedly, rubbed
his hands. “This house was taken in his name, understand? The cook and
so forth engaged in his name. Now—what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Durant, repressing his consternation at this news. “I
was wondering what he’d say if he knew!”

Makoff chuckled. “The cook will be discharged tomorrow night. The maid
goes with Dardent—she’s his wife, by the way. The Baronne leaves
tomorrow night also, via Southampton, for Paris. You and Michael will
be here Monday morning. When Larson drinks his early tea, he’s done
for. Places are already booked for you and Michael on the noon plane
from Croydon for Paris. It’ll be another day or two at least before
Larson’s body is discovered, perhaps much longer. You and Michael will
bring the stuff. Your seat in the plane is booked in your own name,
Michael’s in that of Giles Hopper—his passport identity. All clear?”

“Quite,” said Durant, “except the necessity for murder. Why not rob
him and go? Murder in England means that the law will be at your heels
for life.”

“Certainly.” Makoff eyed him with a grim smile. “But why talk of
murder, my dear man? An empty vial of chloral, purchased in a New York
drug-store; a dead American, who has rented a house for three months
and occupied it for three days; a letter stating that speculations in
exchange have wiped out his fortune—who would call it murder? Guests,
servants, all dissipated as a dream!”

“It is artistic, certainly.” Durant’s tone was dry. “I only objected
to so much work. Why bother to kill him?”

“Because Americans have loud voices.” Makoff chuckled. “And certainly
we do not want the law after us! Surely you can realize this?”

Durant nodded and banished his frown. “Right! Indeed, it is
magnificent. This Michael is an admirable fellow—I congratulate you on
having him. He handles details wonderfully!”

“He should,” said Makoff. “He’s no other than Michael Korin, who
killed Grand Duke Vassily last year in Tours and turned over all his
papers to me. Well, I’ve no time to lose. Give my regards to the
charming Baronne—and this envelope. It’s her passage to Paris.”

Durant took the envelope, shook hands with Makoff and returned to the
dinner-table.

Inwardly he was in a ferment of anxiety and excitement; had it been
his own neck in peril, he would have lost no whit of his usual icy
coolness—but here was another matter. By this time, perhaps, the fact
would be known that Larson had rented a house in Richmond—and Scotland
Yard would be down on him full force. Had Boris Makoff only known it,
he could have robbed Larson with absolute impunity!

Durant looked at Giles, too, with new eyes, appreciating now the
frightful danger from this man. He knew of Grand Duke Vassily’s
murder—all Europe knew of it! The exiled Russian noble had been
hideously murdered and robbed—a crime so horribly brutal, so well
conceived and executed, that it was supposed to have been perpetrated
by Soviet agents. Indeed, the name of Korin had been mentioned as that
of the murderer, but the man had never been found.

Things were getting a bit thick, thought Durant to himself. In other
words, the simple situation was becoming extremely complex and
correspondingly threatening. The only relief in sight was that by
Sunday night the group would be scattered, leaving him and Larson
alone here with Giles—or Michael Korin. Yet would it be safe for
Larson to remain here another twenty-four hours? There was the rub.

The quartet adjourned to the garden for coffee. While Dardent and
Larson were deep in floods of Danish, the Baronne was temporarily left
to Durant.

“It’s confounded hard to get a word with you!” he complained, handing
her the envelope. “You’re booked for Southampton-Havre tomorrow
night.”

Her eyes questioned him anxiously. “And you?”

“Paris on Monday. I’ll show up, never fear! But Boris has caught a
Tartar this time and doesn’t know it, so I’m afraid you wont see our
honest Giles again.”

“Explain!”

“Sha’n’t do it. I’m going by results. I intend to show up in Paris and
open the fight on Boris—”

“You won’t find him!” she breathed. “He disappears. No one knows—”

“Tell that to the marines,” said Durant confidently. “Now, you suggest
a motor-trip tomorrow—I want to get out of here for the day.
Anywhere!”

* * * * *

The others rejoined them, and the coffee finished, they went into the
house and settled down to an evening of bridge. Durant had no more
chance that evening for a word with her—he had more than a suspicion,
indeed, that Giles was keeping a sharp eye on the Baronne. The motor
trip was settled upon for the next morning, with general acclaim.

It was late when the game broke up, and Durant saw his supposed guests
to their rooms, then turned in, dismissing his problems. He did not
waken until roused at seven-thirty by Giles, who bore his “early tea”
after the approved English fashion. Then he sat up in bed.

“Shut the door—that’s right! Look here, these Americans aren’t used to
the English custom of early tea, and I’m afraid your scheme will slip
up in the morning. Suppose you fix us up some coffee tonight, after we
take Baroness Glincka to her train—eh? That would make the matter more
certain.”

“Good,” approved the other, his high cheek-bones lending his aquiline
face a distinctly Tartar look. “Yes, a good idea. Thank you!”

Twenty minutes later, after a light knock at the adjoining door,
Durant stepped into Larson’s room. Larson was shaving, and nodded
cheerfully to him. Durant lighted a cigarette, drew up a chair, and
played the idea that had come to him.

“What do you think of that man of mine—Giles?”

Larson grimaced. “If you ask me, I think he’s a crook!”

“He is.” Durant laughed. “I overheard an interesting conversation this
morning. It seems that tonight, after our party breaks up, a nice
little game is to be played on you and me. Giles will fix us up some
coffee and sandwiches, and when we go to bed, we’ll stay a long
time—long enough for the get-away.”

Larson, holding his razor in air, turned and stared at him.

“Is that straight? Would they pull that stuff on a lord?”

“You ought to know—you’ve lived in England.”

“Hm! Good gosh, man—do they know about my money?”

“Probably suspect you have some, while they know I have some,” said
Durant. “What’s more, I gather that our friend Giles is wanted by the
police in several countries. Rather interesting to think what might
have happened, eh? I’ll turn him over to the police—”

“Don’t do that!” Larson faced him earnestly. “Not until I’m safe,
anyhow. Don’t you know their ways here? All hands would be gone over
with a fine-tooth comb, and that’d mean my finish!”

“Oh!” said Durant. “But what to do, then?”

“Take him with us,” said Larson promptly, and his blue eyes sparkled.
“We’ll take the Baroness to her train, see? But we’ll have our own
luggage aboard too. Then you spring it on Giles that we’re going
somewhere for the night—we can go to a hotel—and tell him to meet us
tomorrow and go to Paris with us. That’ll knock him off his feet,
believe me! I thought that fellow had a bad look to his eye, all
along.”

“All right; we’ll drop him in Paris, then. Meantime, about your money:
Giles will drive us today, and that’s why the place is safe enough
until tonight. We’ll go over by air, and there’s no Customs
examination that way; better make the money into a separate packet and
take it with you, however, as the luggage is packed in a separate
compartment.”

Larson nodded, and his wrinkled, shrewd old face cracked in a grin.
“Fine, My Lord, fine! We’ll have some fun, eh?” Durant rather thought
they would—before it was over.

* * * * *

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.

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.

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 familiar _jiu-jitsu_ break 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 the _Echo de Paris_ brought 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 by _gardes 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.

Durant thought of what Boris Makoff must be saying—and laughed again.