Prisoner in Space!
All the
astonishing scientific achievements of Professor Flaznagel, and the bravery and resourcefulness of CAPTAIN JUSTICE,
are thrown into the fight for the release of young Midge—from
the hands of the
man who has planned to steal the Wealth
of the World and make himself Ruler
of all Mankind!
Complete
By MURRAY ROBERTS
From The Modern Boy magazine, 23 June 1934, Vol. 13, No 333. Part 5 of 6
of The World in Darkness. Part 1 is here.
Surrender of the Flying Cloud!
“THOSE are my terms—the Flying Cloud in exchange for Midge. Refuse, and
you will never see the red-headed brat
alive again!"
The cold, passionless voice
of Marcus, self-styled Emperor of the
World, ceased to boom out from the
loudspeaker in the circular
control-room at the top of Titanic Tower-Professor Flaznagel's
gigantic headquarters in mid-Atlantic—from
which Captain Justice and his comrades
were conducting their wireless and
television interview with the
scheming scoundrel who had captured Midge and was holding him to ransom.
Stunned silence settled on the comrades.
This was the most terrible blow they had suffered since the
Black Menace had descended from
outer Space and plunged the whole
world into prolonged darkness. Justice, Professor Flaznagel, Dr. O'Mally, and
Len Connor stared at the
black-bearded man in the television
screen as if they could scarcely
believe their eyes and ears.
Yet they
might have known that Marcus' terms would be harsh. They knew that he planned
to pillage the darkened cities of the earth, stealing their
gold, so that when the great
darkness eventually dispersed, he would be able to make himself Emperor of the World.
Only one form of light could
penetrate the world-wide darkness—Professor
Flaznagel's infra-orange ray, the
secret of which Marcus had stolen. But Marcus could not carry out his plans
without some swift means of
transport. His ship, on which Midge was prisoner, was too slow. That was why he
was demanding the huge and speedy
airship, the Flying Cloud, in
exchange for Midge, the youngest of
Justice's band of adventurers.
Midge had fallen into his
hands at a time when Justice's yacht, on which he had been cruising with the captain, O'Mally, Len, and Ham Chow, the Chinese cook, had been wrecked, and before
Professor Flaznagel had come to their rescue and carried them
off to Titanic Tower.
Captain Justice gave a quick
glance at Professor Flaznagel. It was evident that Marcus' unexpected and
unconditional demand had come as a
stunning surprise to the old
scientist. He looked dazed and bewildered.
"Any negotiations for
Midge's release must be conducted through me," broke in Justice harshly.
"I am responsible for the boy's
welfare. This affair is not one in which the
professor can be forced to concede anything. The Flying Cloud is largely his
property."
"Fiddlesticks!" snapped
Marcus contemptuously. "I want that airship; and I mean to have it. Either that, or—"
"Or what?" It was
Flaznagel who spoke, coldly, incisively, his shaggy head thrust forward towards
the glowing television screen.
"Or what, Marcus? Supposing I refuse to consent to your terms?"
"Then there'll be one red-headed brat less in the world,” vowed the
big-bearded man callously. "I mean what I say, Flaznagel. Either the
Flying Cloud becomes my property
within the next hour, or our young
friend goes overboard to the sharks!"
O'Mally Tittered a strangled cry
of horror.
''Marcus, ye low spalpeen!"
he said shakily, thrusting out his great fists, knotted and gnarled like chunks
of oak. "If ye harm a hair of that boy's head, I swear by the beard of St. Patrick, that I'll tear ye to
pieces with my bare hands!"
Marcus laughed
contemptuously, glanced at the watch
on his hairy wrist, and said slowly:
"You have another ten seconds in which to decide,
professor."
"I have already
decided," said the professor
firmly. "Naturally there can be
only one answer. Your terms are accepted!"
THERE was a moment's silence. Even Marcus seemed surprised and
unprepared for the old scientist's
ready compliance with his
extortionate demands.
"Flaznagel, old man, I
can't allow this!" Justice laid a tense hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Let me deal with this scoundrel. There must be some
other way out. We can't turn a
dangerous power-and-riches-seeking fanatic loose on the
world in a craft like the Flying
Cloud. It would be a crime against humanity!"
"Leave this to me,
Justice," Flaznagel whispered. "No use haggling with the fellow. Midge has got to be released, so we
might just as well strike a bargain and have done with it.
"Flying Clouds can be
easily replaced. But Midge has only one life. We must think of the boy first."
With this typical, unselfish
remark, Flaznagel turned away, facing Marcus with lifted head, and a defiant
dignity of defeat.
"Bedad, the old boy's a real white man, if ever there was one!" said O'Mally huskily, blinking
a suspicious mistiness from his
eyes. "Sure, parting with the
Flying Cloud must be like tearing the
heart out of his own body."
"We'll get her back!"
vowed Len Connor fiercely. "By gosh, Marcus is not going to get right away
with a stunt like this. Twig the
professor? The old chap's got something
up his sleeve besides his funny-bone, or I'm a Chinaman."
"Well, you've had your
answer, Marcus," said Flaznagel curtly. "Your terms are accepted. The
Flying Cloud will be handed over to you immediately Midge has been released and
sent back to us."
"Guess again!"
snapped Marcus, revelling in his character of upper dog. "You've got
things the wrong way round. I'm
pulling the strings —not you. You'll
get the brat back when I and my men
are on board the Flying Cloud, and
not before. I'm going to make sure the
airship's in flying trim before there's
any swopping done. Now, here's the
programme. It only takes one man to navigate the
Flying Cloud. One of you can fetch her along, while another
couple come across by water, and
join me on my yacht.
"And if there's any trickery, or funny business, so much the worse for you—and the
brat!"
"Very well,"
snapped the professor. "Alter
your course to due west, and switch on your infra-orange ray beam, so that we
can determine your exact position. The Flying Cloud will be over you in exactly
twelve minutes."
"O.K., make it
snappy," replied Marcus. "I'll be waiting for you."
He waved a mocking hand, and
pressed a switch. Instantly his voice was silenced, and the
vision in the screen blurred and
vanished.
Len Connor drew a deep breath
and rubbed his eyes. The recent interview seemed more like a dream than an
actual happening.
"Bedad, and is it serious
ye are, professor?" blurted O'Mally incredulously. "Is it a fact that
ye're going to hand the Flying Cloud
over to that blackguard?"
"You heard the discussion. The matter is settled,"
answered Flaznagel curtly. "But," he added, with a mysterious smile,
"I am not going to guarantee that our friend Marcus is going to have
matters all his own way. He has made his own terms, and I have accepted them.
"I shall adhere to my
side of the bargain, and I have no
doubt he will do the same. But after
that—well, who knows what might happen?"
"You old spoofer! You've
got some diabolical scheme simmering
in that brain-pan of yours," challenged Justice. "Marcus may have won
the first round, but, by James, if
I'm any judges—"
"Ssh, the fellow may be listening," said the professor gravely, as he switched off the microphone. "The first thing to be done is
to surrender the Flying Cloud and
fetch young Midge along.
"I shall remain
here," he went on, indicating the
vast control-room with its motors,
switchboards, and other strange
apparatus. "If Marcus tries any underhanded business, I shall know how to
deal with him. Connor and O'Mally will take one of the
sub-aquaplanes and join Marcus aboard his yacht."
"Bedad, and how are we
going to find her?" blurted the
doctor, thinking of the ten miles of
darkened sea that stretched between them
and their objective.
"You will be steered by
wireless," explained the
professor. "I shall be in touch with you all the
time, following your course with the
telatoscope."
"And where do I come in?" asked Justice.
"You will take charge of
the Flying Cloud," replied the old scientist, "and hand her over to Marcus
the moment
you are assured of Midge's safety. You will return here in the subaquaplane, in company
with the others.
And then—"
Flaznagel made a vague
gesture, hinting at future operations that would not be to Marcus' advantage.
"Let's get going," snapped
Len Connor, buttoning his coat.
The Wizard
of Science!
WITHOUT palaver, Flaznagel's
orders were carried out. The little party split up and dispersed. By means of
an electric mono-rail car, traversing the
wide runway that curved in a graceful spiral from
top to bottom of the gigantic structure, Connor and O'Mally swooped
down to the harbour at the base of the
tower.
There they
found Bingley, the professor's head
mechanic, in charge of the speedy
subaquaplane—combination of tank,
submarine, and hydroplane—that was to convey them
to keep theirs appointment with
Marcus.
Justice's was a one-man job.
He needed no assistance to navigate the
Flying Cloud. A lift raised him to the
peak of the mooring-mast at the top of the
tower, where the huge airship
floated in space.
Once across the gangway, twenty paces brought him to the control-room
in the nose of the craft. The pressure of a button released the hold of the
electro-magnetic mooring gear and the
flick of a finger set the powerful motors
droning sweetly.
The dirigible lifted and
floated free. Then she raised her tail and dived steeply into the sea of darkness below.
Alone in his vast chamber of
wireless wonders and mechanical mysteries, Professor Flaznagel adjusted his big
spectacles, seated himself at the telatoscope, switched on its infra-orange ray,
and peered intently into the
luminous heart of the spinning
crystal globe. There a blurred picture of sea and sky and tiny, moving shapes
gradually formed, until it was as distinct and vivid as a view reflected in the screen of a camera-obscura.
Vigilantly he followed every
movement of the subaquaplane and the Flying Cloud, which were heading for the distant yacht, where Marcus awaited their coming
and the ignominious
surrender of the Flying Cloud.
The professor chuckled in his
ragged beard. His demeanour was not that of a crushed and defeated opponent who
had been forced to part with one of his most treasured possessions.
He had no shadow of doubt as
to the final issue of this battle of
wits and science between himself and Marcus.
The old scientist rotated a
dial on the telatoscope, marked with
the various points of the compass,
and in the crystal sphere came a
picture of a lean, sinister-looking craft, with turtleback bows and a round
superstructure, like the turret of a
monitor.
She carried no funnels and
showed no flag. But a feather of
white at her prow and a spreading wake beneath her stern showed that she was
moving.
"Marcus' yacht,"
muttered the professor, as if
verifying a point. "She's keeping much the
same position."
The scene blurred and changed
as he rotated the dial and picked up
the aquaplane and Flying Cloud again.
The great airship was only a few hundred feet above the
lean, grey shape of the leaping,
wave-hurdling subaquaplane, and as Flaznagel kept them
in sight, the yacht towards which they were heading came into view again.
The professor settled back in
his seat, drumming his fingers on the
edge of the ebonite switchboard. It
was in no way remarkable to him that he should be able to sit comfortably in his observatory above the clouds, watching scenes that were being enacted
in total darkness, ten miles distant from
Titanic Tower. Not for nothing had he been named
the Wizard of Science!
He was smiling grimly as he
watched the subaquaplane and the graceful dirigible converging on the yacht. He had been forced to accept Marcus'
terms, and he would adhere to them.
But once the exchange had been
effected, and Midge was safe at Titanic
Tower, he would be free
to act as he chose.
There was no corner of the earth where Marcus would be safe from the
future vengeance of Professor Flaznagel.
The Wizard of Science, with
his mild blue eyes and long, grand-fatherly
beard, had his own ways and means of dealing with anyone rash enough to incur
his enmity. The kidnapping of Midge, and the
anxiety and inconvenience it had caused—irrespective of the
loss of the Flying Cloud—was an
incident that Professor Flaznagel would not easily forget!
Silent as a
Ghost!
"BEDAD, 'tis pleasant it'll
be when this crazy journey is finished!" groaned Dr. O'Mally, as the floor of the
subaquaplane rose beneath him, and his bald head struck the
cabin roof with a resounding bang. "Faith, another
few minutes of this confounded jolting and jumping, and there
won't be a whole bone left in my body. I'll swear my skull's fractured, and my
knees have been driven up into my chest!"
Len Connor grinned feebly,
and clutched tightly at the edge of
his padded seat.
"We—we're certainly
having a pretty rough passage," he agreed. "Like crossing the Alps in a
wheelbarrow. But it can't last much longer. We must be nearly there by now."
The strange craft, in which they were distributed in narrow bucket seats, was
careering through the darkness in a
series of skimming movements arid gigantic leaps that hurled her clean out of the water.
Len Connor blinked at the instrument-board. A white dial informed him that
they were progressing at a speed of
a hundred and thirty miles per hour.
"Travelling pretty, and then some!"
he muttered, peering along the beam of
the infra-orange ray headlight, that
cut a dazzling path through the
blackness that hemmed them in on all
sides. "We ought to be sighting Marcus' yacht at any moment now."
" 'Tis mighty glad I'll
be when we're back at the tower
again!" groaned O'Mally. "By the
bones of St. Patrick, 'tis a fine dance that snub-nosed, carroty-headed young
spalpeen Midge has led us. But I'll be powerful pleased to set eyes on him again,"
he added fervently.
Bingley suddenly jerked a
switch and leaned back in his seat. The fierce drone of the
powerful motors gradually sank to a gentle whisper.
Len Connor's teeth snapped
together as he glimpsed the long grey shape of Marcus' yacht held in the spreading beam of the
subaquaplane's infra-orange ray searchlight.
"Take over the controls, Bingley," spoke the voice of Professor Flaznagel, from the
summit of Titanic
Tower, ten miles away.
"You fellows will go aboard the
yacht and wait for Captain Justice. He should be with you in a couple of
minutes."
Silent as a shadow the subaquaplane glided forward and nosed alongside the lean, sinister-looking yacht.
Her approach was observed,
and the snakish length of a Jacob's
ladder slid down from above.
"You may come aboard, gentlemen!" said the mocking voice of Marcus.
"Hark to the oily-tongued spalpeen," muttered O'Mally,
under his breath. " ‘Tis the
first time we've met, and I'm hoping it won't be the
last. Up ye go, Len, my boy."
Len Connor was taking no
chances. He knew that they were
dealing with a man who was as cunning and vicious as a wolf. His promise of a square deal meant nothing, until his word
had been put to the test.
Len's one hand closed around the automatic
in his coat pocket as he climbed actively up the
ladder, with Dr. O'Mally puffing and panting close behind him. Bingley remained
in charge of the boat, flooding the fore-deck of the
yacht with the soft yellow beam of the infra-orange ray.
"Mr. Connor, I presume?
And the worthy Dr. O'Mally?"
THERE was no doubt that
Marcus, would-be Emperor of the
World, was a fine figure of a man. He stood well over six feet in height, broad
in proportion, with a square-cut black beard, and the
coldest, most compelling eyes Len
Connor had ever stared into.
A dangerous man, one who
would stop at nothing to gain his own ends, and a worthy leader of such an
enterprise as he had planned to carry out. Connor could imagine him sweeping
like a flame through the darkened
world, looting, pillaging, and spreading terror in his path.
"A nasty bit of
work," he decided. "Hard, capable, utterly selfish and unscrupulous.
It'll need Captain Justice to knock him off his pedestal!"
O'Mally was in a truculent
mood after his uncomfortable trip in
the subaquaplane.
"Bedad, so this is the baby-snatcher?" he blared offensively.
"The bold, bad grabber
of innocent, unprotected boys. Faith, and why couldn't ye have kidnapped a
grown man?"
Marcus took no offence. He
laughed gently.
"My accommodation is limited, doctor," he said, in sly
reference to the Irishman's huge
bulk. "It is not size that counts in matters of this kind. But I have no
doubt I would find you easier to handle than your fiery-headed young friend. I
shall be glad to be rid of him—'pon my word I shall."
O'Mally beamed proudly at
this gratuitous testimonial to Midge's pluck and disturbing influence.
Marcus' expression suddenly
hardened. His eyes snapped as he surveyed his two visitors and the third man in the
subaquaplane.
"Let's get to business!"
he said curtly. "My terms demanded the
immediate and unconditional surrender of the
Flying Cloud."
"Your terms were
accepted," acknowledged Len Connor, "and they
will be carried out to the
letter."
"I have no doubt of
that," said Marcus coldly. "But I want no delay. Where is Captain
Justice? And where is the Flying
Cloud?"
"Begorrah, there she is now, and the
captain as well!" exclaimed
O'Mally, pointing into the wall of
darkness that loomed on the far side of the
yacht.
Silent as a ghost, the Flying Cloud had arrived to surrender herself to
the enemy!
The gigantic bulk of the great airship glided over Marcus' ship like a
lowering thundercloud, the base of
her gleaming tranzelonite hull almost touching the
yacht's two stumpy masts.
On the
railed platform, jutting like a lip from
below the control-room, stood the
trim, dapper figure of Captain Justice, cigar in mouth, his peaked cap tilted
aggressively over one eye.
He waved a hand casually to
his friends, and a length of metal cable, armed with an electro- magnetic
grappling-hook, slid down from
above.
There was a sharp click as the jaws of the
hook fastened themselves on the yacht's rail in a grip that only the switching off of the
electric current could release.
The dirigible was safely and
securely moored to the yacht, which
looked no bigger than a cork to a bottle in comparison
with the huge airship.
Justice stood for a moment with bowed head. He was feeling the wrench of parting with a craft that was rich in
memories of past exploits, perils, and triumphs, and was now about to be handed
over to the man who was waiting on the deck below, smiling covetously at his new
possession.
Then he stood erect, lifted
his hand in a farewell salute, and swung himself over the
rail on to the metal, rubber-treaded
ladder that dangled in space.
He reached the deck, jammed his hands in his pockets, and
strode briskly to where Marcus stood.
For several moments the
two men eyed one another in silence.
Marcus was the bigger in height and
breadth, yet he seemed to be the
smaller man. And he was the first to
drop his gaze beneath Justice's cold, steady scrutiny.
"We won't waste valuable
time, captain," he said brusquely. "I take it I have your assurance
that the Flying Cloud has not been
tampered with in any way?"
"You have!" snapped
Justice. "But she is open to your inspection if you care to reassure
yourself."
Marcus shook his head.
"Your word is good
enough for me. It is a pity," he went on seriously, "that you do not
feel disposed to join forces with me, Justice. Would you care to reconsider
your decision?"
Justice ignored the question. He flicked the
ash from his cigar and jerked a
thumb in the direction of the Flying Cloud.
"There's your
airship," he said icily. "How about the
boy? You will hand him over now—so that we can get away?"
Marcus gave an ugly laugh. He
was eager to find some means of
humiliating this steely-eyed, tight-lipped adventurer.
"Pardon me, it is I who
am making terms—not you, captain," he sneered. "The boy will be
released when I and my men are safely aboard the
Flying Cloud. In the meanwhile, I
will permit you to see for yourself that he is quite content, and unharmed.
Step this way!"
Marcus reached over and
closed the peephole.
"You have seen for
yourself that the boy has not been
harmed," he remarked. "This key will be handed over to you, so that
you can release the boy yourself, so
soon as I have placed my men in possession of the
airship."
Justice could see nothing
wrong with this arrangement. Midge was quite safe where he was for the time being. It was impossible for him to leave the cabin, so long as Marcus retained possession of the key.
"Begorrah, where is the snub-nosed gossoon, and what may he be
doing?" demanded O'Mally eagerly, as the
men reappeared on deck.
Justice told him. The
information caused the big Irishman's
jaw to drop in astonishment. He had been picturing Midge imprisoned in some black hole, far down in the
bowels of the ship, with no food or
water.
"Eating? Eating, ye
say?" he blurted incredulously. "By the
beard of the one-legged piper of
Dunmullion, did ever ye hear anything like it! And here's me with my pockets
full of biscuits and cheese and sausage-rolls, and all manner of good things,
thinking the poor spalpeen was
starving to death, confound the
greedy glutton!"
O'Mally insisted on going
below to witness for himself the
remarkable spectacle of Midge feeding in captivity, whilst the others
went into the yacht's control-room. He returned with a frown of disappointment on
his round, red face.
"Bedad, the boy's there
sure enough; but he's stuffed himself so full of food he's had to crawl into
bed, and there he is snoring away
like a gorged crocodile, begob, with his red head on the
pillow, and his clothes scattered
all over the floor."
After further talk, the
crew of Marcus' yacht assembled on deck. There were a dozen of them all told, as villainous-looking a gang of thugs
as Len Connor had ever set eyes on.
"Gosh, what a beauty
chorus!" he breathed. "I
wouldn't trust 'em with change for a shilling."
A Vain Sacrifice.
WITH a meaning glance at Len
Connor and O'Mally, and one hand gripping the
butt of his automatic, the captain fell in behind Marcus as the latter led the
way across the deck and down the main hatch.
The whole ship was
illuminated with infra-orange rays that kept the
sullen, crouching shadows of the
Black Menace at bay.
Marcus halted before a closed
door at the end of a narrow passage.
It was bolted, and there was a key
in the lock. The key he removed,
hooking it over one finger, while he indicated a small peephole in the upper panel of the
door.
Justice placed an eye to the aperture, and stared into a cabin that was
little bigger than an official prison cell. It was barely furnished, with a
metal cot, table and chair, all bolted to the
floor. There was a ventilator in the
ceiling and a porthole that was screened with an outer cover.
On the
bed lay Midge. There was no mistaking his flaming red hair and the familiar tuft on top, that no amount of
brushing, combing, and greasing
could reduce to order. It stuck straight up, like the
crest of a cockatoo.
On the
table beside the bed stood a
steaming cup of coffee and a plate piled high with sandwiches.
Justice smiled. Midge, as
usual, was eating. At regular intervals his arm would reach out and a sandwich
would vanish. Being kidnapped, and separated from
his friends obviously had not affected his appetite.
"Proper toughs, Bedad,"
agreed O'Mally. “But they must know their jobs, or they
wouldn't be any use to a man like Marcus. Begorrah, 'tis heartbreaking to see
that gang of cross-eyed, unwashed scallywags going aboard the old Flying Cloud."
Marcus had switched on a
couple of infra-orange ray searchlights, and directed their
beams on the gleaming envelope of the huge dirigible, that hovered gigantically over the yacht.
One by one the crowd of men ascended the
dangling ladder, and disappeared into the
interior of the airship, until only
Marcus and his visitors from Titanic Tower were left on deck. Marcus turned
to Justice with a triumphant smile.
"Well, gentlemen, I must
bid you farewell," he said mockingly. "Kindly present my compliments to Professor Flaznagel and tell him that
I shall be paying a visit to Titanic
Tower in the near future!"
Justice ignored the sly suggestion of future trouble. He had no
doubt that the man had not yet given
up hope of seizing Titanic
Tower, and using it as a
headquarters for himself and his gang.
"You are leaving the yacht?" he exclaimed in surprise, never
dreaming that Marcus had intended abandoning the
craft.
"Certainly, it is of no
further use to me now that I have the Flying Cloud to range the
world in," answered the man.
"I will leave her in your hands."
With another mocking smile, the
man turned away, and commenced to
ascend the ladder that dangled from the
airship.
"Bedad, he's going, sure
enough," declared O'Mally, without any regret. "And what about Midge?
Hey, where's that key, ye spalpeen? Did he give it to ye, captain?"
JUSTICE frowned and shook his
head. But Marcus was only playing for safety. It was not until he reached the platform, and the
ladder had been drawn up, that he leaned over the
rail and waved a derisive hand to those below.
There was a tinkle of metal
as the key to the
cabin in which Midge was imprisoned landed almost at Captain Justice's feet.
Justice picked it up and
slipped it into his pocket. He was on the
alert, his nerves tingling, his gaze fixed on the
huge airship overhead. The possibility that Marcus might have some master-stroke of cunning and treachery up his
sleeve was not to be lost sight of. It heartened him to know that Professor Flaznagel
was watching every movement through his amazing telatoscope.
But Marcus displayed only
elation and triumph as he peered mockingly down from
his lofty perch.
"So-long, captain,"
he gibed. "The time may come
when you will regret having refused to join me in this great enterprise."
"Away wid ye, ye
spalpeen!" muttered O'Mally. " 'Tis tired we are of listening to your
boasting and bragging."
The electro-magnetic
mooring-hook suddenly opened its metal jaws. With humming motors and spinning
screws the Flying Cloud soared
gracefully upward, swinging round until her bows were pointing due north-east.
Then she sped away at dizzy
speed and was lost to sight in the
darkness.
"What about the boy, Justice?" asked O'Mally. "Shall
we be fetching the spalpeen and taking
him along with us? Faith, 'tis glad he should be to see us again,"
"Be a big surprise for the young scamp," chuckled Len Connor, as
Justice led the way below. "I
don't suppose he knows that we've arrived and Marcus and his gang have cleared
off."
Midge was unusually quiet in
his cramped quarters. A deafening bellow from
O'Mally brought no startled response. Justice unlocked the
door and flung it open.
"Midge, ahoy!"
roared O'Mally. "Wake up, ye spalpeen!"
There was no sound or
movement from the
bed. Len Connor stepped forward and stripped off the
blankets. Cunningly arranged in the
centre of the mattress was a
bolster. On the pillow, now fully
exposed to view, was a red rubber sponge that, from
a distance, had quaintly resembled the
top of Midge's tousled, carroty head.
But there
was no Midge! The cabin was unoccupied.
"Bedad, he's not
here!" exploded O'Mally incredulously. "By the
beard of St. Patrick, we've been double-crossed. 'Tis only a dummy we've been
left with!"
"Impossible!"
snapped Justice. "The boy was here sure enough when Marcus brought me
here. He was wading into a hefty meal. There's the
remains of it!"
"And there are some
of his togs," declared Connor, indicating the
garments strewn on the floor.
"Where the dickens has the young idiot got to? He must have escaped. But—how?"
Captain Justice pointed
mutely to the ceiling, where yawned the opening to a round ventilator shaft leading to the deck above. The wire gauze had been torn away
and pushed upwards. The orifice was little over a foot in diameter, but there was just room
for a boy of Midge's small size to squeeze through.
"Begob, no wonder he had
to shed some clothes to wriggle in that rat-hole!" breathed O'Mally.
A dismayed silence was broken
by the sound of Bingley's voice,
hailing them excitedly from the
top of the stairs.
"Message from the
professor," he thundered. "He says young Midge has gone off in the airship, and we're to get back to Titanic Tower just as quickly as we can travel!"
Two minutes later Justice and
his companions sat in the cabin of the
speeding subaquaplane, watching the
lean shape of Marcus' abandoned yacht merging into the
darkness.
"Bedad, she's a trim
craft," muttered O'Mally, regretfully. "And I'm wondering why the professor didn't ask us to stay aboard and bring
her back to harbour."
The captain suddenly started
from his seat. Marcus' yacht had
vanished! Where she had lain a gigantic column of water erupted high in the air, spreading out in a huge cloud of smoke,
shot with stabs of crimson flame.
Several seconds later came the sullen rumble of a great explosion, and the rattle of falling debris on the roof of their
craft.
"There is the answer to your question, O'Mally," said
Justice grimly. "Had we remained aboard the
yacht, we would now be blown to shreds. A final gesture on Marcus' part. I
thought the scoundrel had something up his sleeve."
Len Connor's face was pale as
he watched the grey sea spreading
over the empty space where the shattered, sunken boat had floated. O'Mally
mopped his bald head with a shaky hand. He had suffered a bitter disappointment
and a nasty shock.
They had made a vain journey,
and a vain sacrifice in parting with the
Flying Cloud, for Midge was still missing, and Marcus was hopelessly beyond
pursuit, swallowed up in the
world-wide darkness of the Black
Menace!
Midge in a Muddle!
"GREAT haddocks, likewise
suffering cats, and agonized blinking elephants!"
Midge was merely relieving
his feelings and expressing his keen satisfaction as he balanced himself on the top of the
table and ripped away the circle of
tough wire mesh that covered the
mouth of the ventilator-shaft in the ceiling of the
cabin that had been his prison for the
past twenty-four hours.
"My hat, what a howling
chump I am not to have spotted this hole before!" muttered the red-headed youngster, sucking a scratched thumb,
and peering into the dark air
passage that extended to a metal cowl in the
deck above. He could feel a steady draught blowing cool against his flushed,
freckled face.
There was no obstruction. The
way was clear, but the narrowness of
the aperture caused Midge to wrinkle
his snub nose doubtfully.
"It's going to be a
blinking tight squeeze," he decided, measuring the
diameter of the shaft against the width of his shoulders. "Good job I haven't
had much to eat lately."
He temporarily replaced the wire mesh, lowered himself to the floor, and listened intently for several moments. There was no use attempting to effect an
escape if he was likely to be interrupted in the
middle of it.
There had been quite a stir
and a commotion aboard Marcus' yacht
during the past half-hour. He had
heard distant voices, the throb of a
motor, and a tramping of feet across the
boat deck.
And he had suddenly noticed the disc of wire mesh in the
ceiling above his head. Investigation had revealed the
air shaft, offering a possible means of escape from
his present quarters. True, he would still be a prisoner aboard the yacht, but one step to freedom might lead to another.
"And," he had determined
grimly, '"'if I can't put one over on that black-bearded, bottle-nosed,
two-legged talking shark, may I never look a fried egg in the
face again."
Midge knew quite well that he
was being held as a valuable hostage, and that negotiations for his release
were taking place between Marcus and Captain Justice.
But he had no idea that
Captain Justice and Professor Flaznagel had agreed to surrender the Flying Cloud in exchange for him.
Nor did he know that Justice,
Len Connor, and Dr. O'Mally were already aboard the
yacht.
Midge tiptoed to the door, and listened.
"Lot
of blinkin' jawing going on somewhere,"
he muttered. "Mebbe I can find out what it's all about when I get out of
this dump. Every time I look at that hole the
smaller it seems to get."
He realised that even his clothes were going to prove a handicap. Finally he
discarded coat, trousers, and shoes, and arranged the
bolster in the bed in such a manner
that anyone glancing into the cabin
after his departure would presume that he had turned in and gone to sleep.
With an eye to enhancing this
illusion, he placed a large red rubber sponge in the
centre of the pillow, so that it was
just visible beyond the edge of the blankets.
"Crumbs, that's not half
bad!" he grinned, surveying the
effect from a distance.
By clambering on to the metal table, the
youngster was able to thrust his head and shoulders in the
opening, and grasp a projection higher up the
shaft.
Despite his small size, Midge
was as strong and wiry as a young puma. It needed all his strength and activity
to accomplish the
task he had set himself. Inch by inch, straining and panting, he dragged
himself up into the shaft, barking
his knuckles, knees, and elbows in the
effort.
The length of the shaft seemed interminable.
"Like climbing up a blinkin'
factory chimney," he grumbled, just before he found himself at the top, clinging to the
edge of the ventilator, with the night air ruffling his damp red hair. He slipped
headfirst to the deck, where he lay
panting, and rubbing his bruised, aching limbs.
Midge was prepared to find
himself in the pitch darkness of the Black Menace. But the
faint glow of some kind of
light—evidently infra-orange ray—was reflected from
the far side of the deckhouse that loomed
above him.
He blinked and rubbed his
eyes. Dangling within a few yards of him was something
bright and tenuous, and gently swaying, that hung down from
the black sky.
Midge reached out a hand. His
fingers encountered cold steel uprights, with crossbars set in jointed
sections.
It was a ladder of some kind; a metal, rubber-runged, folding ladder,
that reached up from the deck of the
yacht to—where? Midge lifted his eyes, tracing its source, until his astonished
gaze rested on a huge dark shape, black and ominous
as a thundercloud, that was suspended motionless above his head.
The Flying Cloud! The
youngster's heart seemed to turn a somersault
as he recognised the familiar
outline-of the airship. There was no
mistaking the long, graceful craft,
with its ribbed tranzelonite hull, tapering bows, and flanged tail.
"The Flying Cloud! Great
cats, it's the old blimp right
enough!" gulped Midge, quivering with excitement as he followed the contours of the
great airship, and noted the
magnetic mooring-hook clamped to the
yacht's rail. "This means the
professor's arrived on the scene,
and the captain and the whole giddy bunch must be with him!"
Where the
Flying Cloud had come from he had no idea. But he guessed that the presence of the
dirigible meant that Justice and his friends were visiting Marcus' yacht to
negotiate for his release, and were even then
discussing terms.
Midge drew a deep breath as
he clutched the rungs of the dangling ladder and peered in all directions.
Apparently he was alone on deck. And he was free! Here was his chance to take the wind out of Marcus' sails, and save his friends
from being forced to accede to the man's extortionate demands.
Active as a monkey,
cool-headed as a steeplejack, the
plucky youngster commenced the ascent of the
swaying, jerking ladder. His heart was pounding against his ribs as he reached the railed platform that stretched from bows to stern along the
airship's keel.
Just by him was the entrance to the
control-room, and a metal ladder
leading to a look-out point in the
extreme nose of the craft.
He had no time to lose. He
could now hear voices below. Quick as thought he shinned up to the look-out point.
"This is going to be a
proper smack in the eye for old
Marcus, and a big surprise for the
captain!" he chuckled, crossing to one of the
windows, and peering down at the
platform below.
It was Midge himself who
received the metaphorical
"smack in the eye." The
platform was thronged with strange men, amongst whom
stood the tall figure of Marcus,
bending over the rail and smiling
mockingly down at Captain Justice, Len Connor, and Dr. O'Mally, who were
grouped together on the deck of the
yacht.
The scene was clearly lit
with an infra-orange ray beam. Even as Midge watched, dumbfounded with dismay,
Marcus took some bright, object from his pocket and tossed it into space. It was the key to Midge's prison.
Too late Midge realised the truth. Frantically he struggled to open the jammed window, shouting to attract his friends'
attention. His voice was drowned in a sudden drone of powerful motors. There
was a jolt as the mooring-hook was
freed, and the Flying Cloud shot
straight up into the air.
Midge's eyes bulged as he saw
the yacht dwindle to the size of a toy-and merge into the darkness. This was the
end of his gallant attempt to escape.
He had jumped out of the frying-pan into the
fire. He had exchanged one prison for another!
And now poor Midge's
chances of rescue seem utterly hopeless.... But Murray
Roberts has got some really
staggering surprises in store for you— and everyone concerned!— in
Next Saturday's Captain Justice Thriller!!!
Part 6 here.
