I glanced at the scrap of paper.
“Hydrogen not helium. … Not changed. … Sacrifice ship. … Fire. …”
“My God! you fellows”—Drummond was almost shouting in his excitement—“it’s stupendous. Don’t you see the tear in the paper there between sacrifice and ship? Ship doesn’t refer to the Megalithic: the word ‘air’ has been torn out. It’s the airship he is going to sacrifice. It is still full of hydrogen: Peterson wasn’t going to the expense of refilling with helium.”
He was pacing up and down, his hands in his pockets.
“That’s it: I’ll swear that’s it. It’s the Peterson creed. It’s the loophole of escape that he always leaves himself. He has decided to attack the Megalithic; why, we don’t know. Possibly a boatload of American multimillionaires on board. He’s got thirty of his own men in the ship, and that strange craft of his alongside. Let’s suppose the attack is successful. The liner disappears: sinks with all hands. Right: there’s nothing further to worry about. But supposing it isn’t successful. With the best of luck and arrangement it’s a pretty big job to tackle—even for Peterson. What’s going to happen then? In a few seconds the astounding news will be wirelessed all over the world that Wilmot’s dirigible is carrying out an act of piracy on the high seas of such unbelievable devilry that it would make our old pal Captain Hook rotate in his coffin if he heard of it. Suppose another thing too. Suppose it is successful, but that the wireless people in the Megalithic manage to get a message through before their gear is put out of action. Peterson gets that message on his own installation. What’s he going to do? He may be an institution all right at the moment, but he won’t have the mayor and a brass band out to welcome him on his return once the truth is known. So he descends from his airship either into this mysterious vessel of his, or else on to dry land. We know he can do that. What he does with the crew is immaterial. Probably leaves them with a few ripe and fruity instructions, and a bomb timed to explode a little later. And so Wilmot’s dirigible pays the just retribution for an astounding and diabolical crime, while Wilmot himself retires to Monte Carlo on the proceeds thereof. It’s what he has always said: there’s nothing like dying to put people off the scent. No police in the world are going to bother to look for the blighter if they think he is a perfectly good corpse in his own burnt-out airship. It’s a pity in a way,” he concluded regretfully, “a great pity. I should have liked to deal with him personally.”
“Well, why not?” said Jerningham.
“It’s too big altogether, Ted,” answered Drummond. “I never mind chancing things a certain amount with MacIver, but I don’t think we’d be justified this time. The consequences of failure would be too appalling. Let’s dump the sentries inside the hut, and then push off and have some breakfast. After that we’ll make for London and MacIver. Whatever is believed or is not believed, there’s one thing that Peterson is going to find it hard to explain. Why are his ballast tanks full of Gaunt’s poison?”
So we carried the men, who still lay bound and gagged, into the wooden hut. And there, having locked the door, we left them, with the scent of death still heavy in the air and their four gruesome companions.
“It breaks my heart,” said Drummond disconsolately as we strolled towards the car, “to think that we’ve got to pull in Scotland Yard. Still, we’ve had a bit of fun. …”
“We have,” I agreed grimly. “Incidentally what on earth are we going to do with Gaunt?”
“Well, since the poor bloke is bug house, I suppose we’ll have to stuff him in a home or something. Anyway that comes later: the first thing is to lead him to an egg or possibly a kipper. We can pretend he’s eccentric, if the staff go up the pole when they see him.”
And so we returned to the hotel, which I certainly had never expected to see again. Now that it was all over the reaction had set in, and I even found myself wondering whether it hadn’t all been some terrible nightmare. Only there sat Robin Gaunt to prove the reality, and in my pocket I could feel the sheets of his diary.
Sleep! I wanted it almost more than food: sleep and something to get rid of the racking headache which the fumes of that foul liquid had produced. And even as I waited for breakfast I found my head nodding on to the table. It was over: the strain and tension was past. One could relax. …
“Good Lord!” Drummond’s startled exclamation roused us all. He was staring at a newspaper, whilst his neglected cigarette burnt the tablecloth beside him.
“What’s the day of the week?”
“Thursday,” said someone sleepily.
“Look here, you fellows,” he said gravely, “pull yourselves together and wake up. The Megalithic sails today from Liverpool for New York.”
We woke up all right at that, and his next remark completed the arousing process.
“Today, mark you—carrying thirty million in bullion on board.”
“Instantaneous, universal death,” babbled Gaunt, but we paid no attention. We just sat there—all ideas of sleep banished—staring at Drummond.
“They must be warned,” he said decisively. “Even at the risk of making ourselves look complete and utter fools. The Megalithic must be wirelessed.”
He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out some letters.
“Give me a pencil: I’ll scribble down a message.”
And then suddenly he broke off, and sat looking blankly at something he held.
“Well, I’m damned,” he muttered. “I’d forgotten all about that. Tonight is the night of Wilmot’s Celebrated Farewell Gala Night Trip. Somebody sent me two complimentary tickets for it. Couldn’t think who’d done it or why. Phyllis was keen on
