Surely if it was not O’Brien, there was reason for caution. And the only caution that now occurred to Lawrence was to keep ahead. Also he decided not to say anything about his suspicions to Mr. Ridgeway until something really serious occurred. And Lawrence hoped with all his might and main that his suspicions were all wrong. That seemed more than likely. Lawrence knew that his nerves were tuned up to the snapping point. He was suspicious of everything. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Mr. Ridgeway taking it easy. With an effort of will, Lawrence laughed his fears away. Yet every little while he looked back at the tiny object following them, and twice Lawrence slowed down his powerful engine until the car was in plain sight.
The second time he fancied that the other dirigible also slackened speed as though the pilot preferred not to lessen the distance between them.
Patiently Lawrence went through the secret manoeuvers but there was no response. Either the car was not O’Brien’s, or else O’Brien was never at the wheel. In either case, Lawrence found his anxiety growing.
There was no anxiety in the second dirigible. Smith was only conscious of a sense of annoyance to think that he was obliged to use the counterpart of O’Brien’s dirigible instead of his own racing airplane.
He felt almost unable to brook the delay of the few hours that must pass before they saw the white cliffs of England. Yet he knew that even if he had had the plane it would have been most unwise to attack in mid-ocean, where Mr. Ridgeway would be forced to sink the papers and gems if the battle reached that end. He had not known Mr. Ridgeway so long without having to learn that in a question of honor he would sacrifice his life rather than fail in his trust.
Over and over again he mentally tested out every small detail of his plot. Over and over he tried out his plans. There was but one flaw. Not one of the three men whom they had expected had appeared to take passage in the dirigible. Smith and Brown were alone. Where had John and the others been sidetracked? Not for a second did he doubt that they had obeyed him to the letter concerning O’Brien.
He chuckled as he thought of O’Brien. He was certainly a good man to have out of the way. There was something indeed snaky in the way Smith, holding the wheel with sure and practiced hands, allowed himself to dwell on O’Brien. How nearly the Irishman had come to tricking them all! If the plaster had held ... but it had fallen, and so had O’Brien! All was well. Somewhere back in Washington, in a dark alley, a crumpled, dishevelled figure had already met the eyes of the first passerby. Smith chuckled again as he saw it with his mind’s eye, and seemed to hear the stranger muttering “Drunk!” as he approached the tumbled figure that had been O’Brien. Then he lazily imagined the change in the man’s expression as he stooped curiously over the fallen man and saw in the bruised and soiled face not the sodden look of liquor, but that ominous, austere mask that death and death alone draws over the human countenance. Running, stumbling, the passerby would dash for the nearest street, colliding perhaps with a policeman, yawning away the last of his night beat. Then the quick return, the tap-tap-tap on the ringing pavement, and soon the rattle and clang of the city ambulance. But not before a crowd had gathered, one of the crowds that gather at any hour from everywhere and nowhere; curious, cold, morbid. And then the hasty shuffle through the fallen man’s pockets, and the awestruck whisper between the policemen, “It’s—it’s O’Brien! O’Brien, the detective!”
Then how their manner would change! No common drunk this, lying crumpled in the filthy gutter. O’Brien was one of themselves. If it could happen to O’Brien, it might happen to one of them. Hastily, yet with utmost care, they would hunt for clues, for cuts, for bruises on the dead man, to find nothing, to come up against a blank wall. Doctor, lawyer, merchant, or thief, no one could find a mark on O’Brien that meant murder. And Smith knew they would look for murder. A blank wall! To save their own skins, Smith knew that John and the others would leave the hypodermic in an unrecognizable state far away from the scene of the crime. Yes, he could trust the three cutthroats he had left behind. Smith did not depreciate himself. He knew that he ruled his underlings by fear, a cold loathing that they could not understand or overcome.
Smith never made the mistake of underpaying his servants, so common to many criminals. No; if possible he always gave them rather more than the shares they expected. So there was in everything he plotted the thrill of big rewards, of big profits. And they always knew that slip one word of rebellion, and for them, no matter where in the whole round world they might hide, sooner or later a shot out of the dark, a drop of poison in their cup would be the finish of the tale! Smith kept a clean slate.
These thoughts were pleasant ones for Smith as he steered his ship through the gentle currents of the upper air. He was glad that O’Brien was dead; he was glad that his eye was on the treasure boat ahead; he was not even sorry that the three men had missed their appointment with him. He knew that in an encounter such as lay ahead he and Brown would be perfectly capable of sending the dirigible ahead plunging down into the sea. And they would go down easily and quickly because of the fishing schooners that they would take for friends, and so let themselves down to the surface of the sea as soon as they could.