The Great Airship Part 10

"Of course, the thing would have been impossible had I not had a great deal of the work already in hand," he told his uncle. "You see, a Zeppelin can be constructed in three months, though the first models took a year perhaps. But you must remember that I had a complete rolling mill installed here at my works, which was able to turn out the girders and sheets we wanted as fast as we could put them together. Then again, the bending and fitting of celludine is a different thing entirely from that of steel or aluminium. Moderate heat will easily make the stoutest girder we have used bendable, while the sheets require only the gentlest pressure. Then riveting is far easier. The electric iron has saved us numbers of hours. As for the engines, I had them by me, having taken them from my other model. So, after all, there's nothing very wonderful about the business."

But if Joe Gresson modestly thought there was nothing to comment upon and no reason for congratulations to be showered upon him, there were others who thought quite the opposite. Andrew was hugely delighted. The authorities at the War Office and the Admiralty, sceptical as ever, took the thing up with a decision and an energy entirely foreign to them. And Mr. Carl Reitberg narrowly escaped a serious illness.

"What! Constructed their airs.h.i.+p already! Rescued people at sea!

Transparent! Able to hoist men into the air as if they were flies.

This--this is incredible."

He didn't say it all quite like that, for he was troubled with a distinct accent, one, too, which had stuck to him all his business life in spite of the fact that he had spent so many years beneath the protection of the Union Jack. He bl.u.s.tered, fumed, and raged, and finally went to bed. The following day he carefully investigated his financial position.

"It will ruin me, this challenge," he declared in despair. "One hundred thousand pounds! It is a gigantic sum. I was an idiot ever to listen to Andrew Provost and his fool of a nephew. But--_himmel!_ we shall see what we shall see. The s.h.i.+p is built, that is true enough. But can she circle the globe, and if she be able to do that, can she complete the journey in four months and a couple of weeks, all that remain now of the agreed-upon nine months? Ah! There is many a slip. She is fast, this s.h.i.+p. Eyewitnesses of her flight tell me that. She takes no notice of the wind. But Zeppelins have met with accidents: she may too!"

His fat little face was deeply puckered and seamed for the next half-hour. In fact, Mr. Carl Reitberg was considering matters very deeply and seriously. Then he took a sudden resolution. He donned a magnificent fur-lined coat, jammed a glossy hat upon his head, then, with a fat cigar protruding from his mouth, and wearing the ideal appearance of a very rich and prosperous financier, he stepped into his motor car and drove off to the place where the great airs.h.i.+p had been constructed. Sergeant Evans himself conveyed his somewhat large and obtrusive card to Andrew Provost.

"A gentleman to see you, sir," he said in his well-trained voice. "H-m!"

Andrew could tell almost without lifting his eyes to the Sergeant's face what his private opinion was of Mr. Reitberg; for the card bore that gentleman's name. Not that Sergeant Evans was apt to forget his position. He was too good and too old a servant for that. But he happened to have served in many parts, and, strangely enough, Mr.

Reitberg was known to him.

"Ever seen the gentleman before?" asked Andrew curiously.

"South Africa, sir."

"Ah!"

"Him and a crew of the same sort as himself, begging pardon, sir."

"Humph! I've thought as much myself," Andrew muttered, though exactly what his thoughts were he did not divulge. Still, from the curious manner in which Sergeant Evans spoke, from a queer inflection of his voice, Andrew gathered that he had not only met this Carl Reitberg before, but had little good to report concerning him.

"Long ago?" he asked laconically.

"Twelve years come Christmas, sir; during the Boer War."

"Ah! And my acquaintance has lasted for ten years perhaps. He was rich when I met him, and very pleasant. Was he, er--the same, Sergeant Evans?

Please speak out; don't hesitate to tell me what you know. You must understand that Mr. Carl Reitberg is the challenger who declared that the building of this s.h.i.+p was impossible, and that we could not construct and sail her round the world in nine months. Well, we've done the first part. We've got only to circle the world."

"And you'll have to watch him all the while, sir," whispered the Sergeant. "He's got to pay if he loses, sir?"

"One hundred thousand pounds."

The Sergeant let go a little whistle. "Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but when I knew this Carl Reitberg, same gentleman as is waiting outside, he was a slippery fellow. He was trading near Johannesburg, and he was in with foreigners, spies anxious to see the British troops beaten. I know that, for I was one of the police corps, and we'd our eyes on him. Show him up, sir?"

"Certainly."

It followed that the magnificent, if small and podgy frame of Mr. Carl Reitberg was introduced to the airs.h.i.+p, and that within five minutes, puffing heavily with the astounding wonders he saw, that same gentleman was seated in the saloon, staring upward through the transparent ceiling with positive amazement written on his face. An hour later he was back in the heart of London, when, dismissing his motor, he walked some distance up the street, hailed a taxi, and drove rapidly away in an easterly direction. Half an hour later, perhaps, he was closeted in a back room of a grimy house adjacent to Whitechapel, with an individual who looked the very opposite of himself. He was untidy, down at heels, even ragged, while his face with its half-sunken cheeks showed obvious traces of excitement. It was equally obvious also that Carl Reitberg and this individual were not entire strangers. To be precise, they had at one time been bosom companions, at the very time, in fact, when Sergeant Evans had had knowledge of them. Then they had parted, and the queer tricks Dame Fortune plays with various individuals had resulted in Carl Reitberg gathering wealth about him, while Adolf Fruhmann had become almost a pauper. And it had chanced that the wealthy and lucky man had caught sight of his old-time friend but a week before as he drove in his lordly motor down Whitechapel. He had seen Adolf Fruhmann hovering at one of the many corners; and though he pa.s.sed him then without so much as a nod--indeed, shrinking back out of sight--he now remembered the chance vision he had caught of the down-at-heels man, and with the view of obtaining help from him sought him out.

"But I must go carefully," he told himself, as he drove in his taxi.

"I'll leave the cab very soon, and then walk along the pavement. It shall be Adolf who shall recognize me, not I him. Then it shall be he who shall ask for help; I will give it."

The crafty little fellow followed out this plan to its successful conclusion. Looking the plutocrat admirably, he stepped briskly down the pavement of Whitechapel, and when he saw his man in the distance, gave vent to a grunt of pleasure. And yet he contrived matters so that it was Adolf who, looking up as the fur-coated man pa.s.sed, recognized an old partner.

"Hallo!" he called, while a sulky cloud gathered upon his sickly face.

"Carl Reitberg of all people!"

Now at any other time Mr. Carl Reitberg would, as we have hinted, not have been anxious to renew an acquaintance with such a man. His wealth had brought with it position. Carl Reitberg chose to forget his earlier days, and the people with whom he had consorted. But now he had an object in view, and halting at once he allowed first a look of amazement to spread over his fat and jowly face; and then a welcoming smile set his lips apart, while he stretched out a hand to grip Adolf's.

"You!" he cried. "Who could have thought it? And here of all places.

Why, we parted in South Africa."

"Johnny'sberg--yes; because the police----"

"H-hus.h.!.+ That's done with; I've forgotten," said Carl hastily. "But--but you're down on your luck. I haven't forgotten that we were friends then, at any rate. This place is too public for a meeting. Take me somewhere where we can be quiet."

And thus it happened that they were closeted in that back room in the grimy house adjacent to Whitechapel.

"And so you're down, penniless," said Carl, eyeing his one-time friend narrowly.

"Absolutely; hopelessly."

The opulent individual who had sought this interview so craftily lifted ten fat fingers to show his concern. Then he dipped with difficulty into a waistcoat pocket, pulled out a crinkling note of the value of five pounds, and handed it across the dirty table.

"That'll tide you over for a little," he said. "After that----"

"Ah! That's where the pinch comes. What am I to do?"

"You want work?" asked Carl.

"Well, yes. Not hard labour, mind you. The cla.s.s of thing we did out in South Africa wouldn't come amiss."

Whatever that task may have been one was not to hear it, for Carl held up a fat hand instantly.

"S-s-s.h.!.+" he said, somewhat angrily. "Least said soonest mended. We forget South Africa. But--yes, I might find a task for you, a congenial task. You've heard of this new airs.h.i.+p?"

Adolf Fruhmann looked puzzled. After all, when a man has fallen upon evil days and finds it hard to discover from where his next meal is to come, he is not apt to betray much interest in pa.s.sing events, nor has he, often enough, spare halfpence with which to purchase journals. But it happened that Adolf had seen an account in a paper, and since the story had now leaked out, and it was known how Mr. Carl Reitberg had issued a challenge to Andrew Provost and his nephew Joseph Gresson, he recollected that he had even noted the name of his one-time friend and a.s.sociate in connection with this wonderful airs.h.i.+p.

"Yes," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "One hundred thousand pounds, eh, Carl? A lot to lose if they win, and it looks as if they might do so."

A crafty look came across his face. He leaned farther across the table and whispered something. "Why don't you?" he asked.

"What! Impossible! I couldn't. It would be scandalous," came the instant answer, though Carl Reitberg's tones rather belied his words. "You don't mean to suggest that I should take steps to--to destroy the s.h.i.+p?"

He endeavoured to cast a tone of indignation into his speech now; but it seemed that Adolf knew his man well. He scoffed at that tone.

"Why not?" he asked quickly. "If they win, you pay one hundred thousand pounds. Eh? One hundred thousand sovereigns."

"True--but----"

"There is no but. They must not succeed. There are others who would willingly pay for the secrets of this airs.h.i.+p, and who long to hear that she has been wrecked. Give me the job. Keep in the background yourself.

Go down to the s.h.i.+p and wish them the best of success. Place yourself in a good light before them and the world. Let them believe you to be what is known to these fools as a sportsman. Yes, that is the word. A sportsman, almost anxious to see yourself lose, and ready at any moment to pay that hundred thousand pounds. Then leave the rest to me."