Читать книгу The Amir's Ruby - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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With this decidedly ominous warning ringing in his ears, Colin Standish left his chief's sanctum and made his way towards the hangars. In spite of veiled hints of what might happen he felt distinctly elated. Whatever the nature of the task committed to him by Sir Rugglestone Gorton, it certainly smacked of adventure and danger. Ordinary flying, in the course of his professional duties, entailed both; at the same time there was a monotony about regular air-line flights that sooner or later made the pilot feel that he was merely engaged upon "the trivial round, the common task".

Yes, this was "it".

He knew perfectly well that he would not have to make a solo flight to the wilds of Bakhistan. There would be a reserve pilot and a mechanic. The choice of these would be left to him. Mr. Truscott never interfered in such matters. But the sole responsibility of the whole business from the time the long flight commenced until the plane returned to its shed at Bere Regis Aerodrome (if it ever did) would be his and his alone.

"Hello, Standish, old bird!" hailed a well-known voice. "Whither bound? Off for a chuck-up?"

Colin stopped and looked behind him.

The speaker was a young pilot who had flown with him on several previous occasions, but for the last two months had been making solo flights on one of the shorter stages of the British-Australian mail route, which, since speed was the primary consideration, Far Eastern Airways ran in a series of relays.

"Hello, Grey!" he replied. "You back again?"

"That's a fact," admitted Grey, touching his left arm. "Just off the sick-list. Some bat-eyed Arab mistook my bus for a vulture and let rip with his rifle. Quite a fluke, of course, but the bullet tickled my arm."

"Oh?"

Such trivial incidents hardly evoked interest. In fact Standish had been "potted at" by nomads in the Transjordan Desert more times than he chose to remember.

"What's your move?" reiterated Grey.

"Just a joy-flick," replied Standish. "Solo."

He volunteered no further information. Much as he liked and trusted his former flying comrade it was not advisable, in view of Mr. Truscott's warning, to give his destination.

Don Grey was certainly curious. It was unusual for first-class pilots to be employed upon "flicks" or individual flights of short duration; but he had sufficient sense to desist from making further questions.

"Good luck, then, old man."

"When will you be able to go up again?" demanded Standish.

"Now—why?" rejoined Grey, surprised at the bluntness of the inquiry.

"Oh, nothing much. May see you in the mess to-morrow."

Outside the hangars Standish was met by the ground foreman.

"No. 19 ready, Symes?"

"Yes, sir; overhauled on Monday and she hasn't been up since."

"Right, I'll take her."

No. 19 was one of a fleet of high-powered, double-seated monoplanes used primarily as aerial taxis. With all-metal body, slotted wings, and a perfect stream-line, she was capable of doing 150 miles an hour.

The foreman unlocked the door of the hangar. He was the only person with authority to do so. Even the Chief Engineer, that magnificent, highly-paid official who invariably wore light-coloured gloves when he went his periodical rounds of inspection, had to apply to the watchdog-like Symes to gain admission to the sheds.

The Company took no risks as regards unauthorized and possibly malicious attention to their fleet of aircraft!

The foreman blew a whistle. Three groundsmen came hurrying up. The monoplane was wheeled into the open and swung round head to wind.

Standish left nothing to chance. However conscientious the foreman was in attending to his duties, the pilot himself made sure that No. 19 was in a fit condition for flight. He examined the oil and petrol levels of the gauges, tested controls and made sure that the petrol flowed freely through the carburettor. Symes watched him without any resentment. He had an admiration for any pilot who was not content to take his word that the bus was fit for service.

Everything proving satisfactory Standish placed his suitcase in the after-cockpit, his aerial map in the non-inflammable celluloid case on the dash, donned his helmet and gloves and settled into the bucket-seat.

Symes produced his ground log-book. Glancing at the clock Standish saw that it was 2.15 p.m.

"Destination, sir?" inquired the foreman.

"Brighton!" replied the pilot.

"Probable time of return?"

"Say noon to-morrow, Symes."

"Right, sir."

"O.K.," shouted Standish to the attendants. "Contact!"

Although the monoplane was equipped with the standard self-starter the pilot preferred the older method. It saved "juice" and the starter might be wanted badly before the flight was over.

The engine fired promptly. Gathering way the machine ran for less than a hundred yards over the closely-cropped level turf before she rose swiftly and steeply into her natural element.

Standish had plenty of time. He swung the bus eastward. Even at this stage of his adventure he had no intention of stating his immediate destination even to the trustworthy Symes.

Flying steadily and without attempting to open out, Standish was over Brighton in less than an hour. Having cleared his conscience he altered course to the northward. Now, as far as pilotage was concerned, all was plain sailing. He had no need to consult his map. First the main line of the Southern Railway, and, beyond London, the North Eastern line would be a clear and infallible guide. Nor was he alone. Swarms of light aeroplanes were on the same route, carrying business men to and from the Metropolis. At frequent intervals, though at a lower altitude, were cross-country aerial routes; while refuelling planes, distinguishable by their vermilion and yellow bodies and wings, hovered overhead, ready at the recognized signal to swoop down over an airplane or dirigible that might be running short of petrol. And, naturally, with this vast increase of aerial traffic, steps had to be taken to enforce in the air regulations that had been drafted for the safeguarding of life and property. Hence the presence of "air-wardens" flying in swift machines capable of three hundred miles an hour and painted in colours that left no doubt as to the nature of their duties.

It was the first time that Standish had flown north of London. Compared with the wide open spaces of the Far East, the country beneath him looked a maze of roads and railways. As far as York the going was easy, but beyond that his map would have to come into service.

He was, however, mistaken on that score, for just south of York he passed over one of the great aerial junctions. Here, set in white stone let into a vast expanse of grassland, were enormous arrows radiating from a common centre. On each pointer were given the names of the principal towns.

Following the Scarborough route, which was crowded with aerial week-enders on their way to that watering-place, Standish noticed what appeared to be a silvery thread winding through dense masses of trees—the River Derwent.

He slowed down to sixty, keeping a sharp look-out for landmarks and comparing their positions with his map.

Presently, set between two masses of trees on a steep hillside—although at his present altitude the shadows alone gave him the information that it was a hill—he sighted a white building the plan of which resembled a squat letter H.

That was his immediate destination—Haxthorpe Hall.

Something, he knew not what, prompted Standish to glance back, over his left shoulder. He was not altogether surprised to find that a two-seater biplane was hovering over his tail. Yet the presence of this other plane did arouse his curiosity.

Acting upon the impulse of the moment Standish banked steeply and swung his monoplane through half a circle. She bumped in the wake of the other craft, the pilot of which had to climb steeply to avoid collision.

It was foolhardy on Standish's part. It was in direct contravention of aerial traffic rules, but quite unaccountably Colin felt annoyed and wanted to "make the other fellow sit up". Had the biplane purposely followed the machine bearing the Far Eastern Airway's markings because of Standish's mysterious commission?

"That's put the wind up the blighter!" he said to himself as the biplane set off in an easterly direction. "Now to make Sir Rugglestone's acquaintance."

He made a faultless landing, close to the open doors of a hangar. Two mechanics took charge of his machine. A young man, announcing himself as Sir Rugglestone's agent, offered to conduct him to the house.

Ten minutes before the appointed time Colin met his future temporary employer.

"I needn't ask you for your credentials, Mr. Standish," was his somewhat remarkable greeting. "I've taken the precaution of having your telephoto sent me. Now to business," he continued briskly. "You are, I take it, quite prepared to run more than ordinary risks. Good! Mr. Truscott has assured me that you are a man whose discretion is beyond reproach. I need hardly ask for your pledge of secrecy. Even if on hearing my requirements you think it wise to back out, I know that you will keep silent on the subject until the time for secrecy is past."

Standish, taking stock of his host, was rather impressed by his manner. Sir Rugglestone was about fifty years of age, slight and rather under average height, with a reddish complexion, blue eyes, and iron-grey hair turning white. Although it was late in the afternoon he had not got into a dinner jacket but wore a loose-fitting sports coat and rather exaggerated "plus fours". When he spoke he did so rapidly, yet distinctly, the while fixing his listener with his keen eyes.

"I'm not in the habit of backing out, Sir Rugglestone," rejoined Standish.

"Glad to hear it," replied the baronet. "All the same, when you've heard what you're expected to do, I shouldn't be surprised if you did. I'd only be disappointed. Now, then, this in brief is the proposition: in 1916 I was holding a military appointment that brought me in touch with Mir Ghani, Amir of Bakhistan. In fact, I got the old gentleman out of a very nasty hole when his subjects had all but been bought over by Mid-European agents. After the war, Mir Ghani, knowing I was going on the retired list, asked me to take his son and heir to England and be responsible for his education. I did so and at eighteen Abdullah, educated as far as our public schools could deal with a rather difficult Asiatic, returned to his native land. A few months ago Mir Ghani died—under decidedly mysterious circumstances, by the by—and Abdullah reigns in his stead. I fancy Abdullah's out for trouble, because, like Amanullah, late of Afghanistan, he's keen on introducing Western ideas to a fanatical crowd who won't have them at any price. Evidently Mir Ghani wasn't ungrateful, for on his death he left me the Atar-il-Kilk ruby, a gem that is supposed to be the third in magnitude in the world. That knowledge is common property. But—and here's the important point—the gem is to be handed over either to me or to my accredited agent by Amir Abdullah himself at his palace at Hakaab, the capital, if one can describe a collection of hovels as a capital, of Bakhistan. I don't mind confessing that at my age I don't hanker after another jaunt to Bakhistan. There are also other considerations that prevent that undertaking. But I do want that ruby, not exactly for myself, but for—well to be perfectly candid—for a wedding present to my youngest daughter. So I want to have the gem in my possession not later than the 30th of this month. That hasn't left any too much time, so that I have to have it fetched by air and you're the man to whom I look to carry out the job.

"And it's not going to be an easy one. In the first place the Bakhistanis aren't at all keen on letting the priceless ruby out of their country. They've got an idea, based upon a two-thousand-years-old prophecy—and that was long before Mohammedanism sprang into existence—that Bakhistan would lose its independence if the gem crossed its frontiers. Curiously enough, although wedged in by three relatively powerful states, Bakhistan has never been overrun by invaders and that's a record for Asia.

"Then another problem is the evasion of the gang of international crooks, who, knowing that the gem is coming to England, will be on the alert, leaving no stone unturned in order to seize this priceless booty."

"But, surely, if they did they couldn't dispose of it?" remarked Standish. "One of such a size would be unmarketable unless offered by a genuine owner."

"Agreed," replied Sir Rugglestone. "But there's nothing much to prevent the gem being sent to, say, Amsterdam, and being divided and recut. Each of a dozen pieces would be worth a fortune. And then there's the British crook to take into consideration, and he's not behind his continental and American confreres in skill and courage—far from it. So that's what you're up against, young man."

"A tall order, certainly, sir," admitted Standish. "But, given secrecy——"

"Ah!" interrupted Sir Rugglestone. "You've hit upon something there."

"It should come off all right," resumed Colin. "By the by, I ought to mention that a fellow in a biplane tracked me here."

His host smiled.

"Oh, that's Burt, my air-chauffeur," explained Sir Rugglestone. "He was just keeping his hand in, so to speak. I knew he was up this afternoon. Not a bad pilot within limits. For instance he runs me over to Paris and so forth. But he's hopeless off the beaten track. Early this year I wanted to attend a conference in Barcelona and he landed me in Majorca! Oh, no! Burt is too stupidly honest. He wasn't spying on you, my dear sir!"

But Sir Rugglestone Gorton was woefully mistaken in his opinion of Alfred Burt, for at that very time the man under discussion was intently listening by means of a skilfully concealed microphone to the confidential conversation between his employer and Colin Standish!