“All’s loaded,” he shouted. “You’ll be off at once.”
This eight-passenger car was much smaller than the big machines. All but three of the seats were piled high with luggage and freight, for the balance of the loads was most carefully arranged. Durant was given the empty seat forward, Larson the one just behind, and Michael Korin in the rear. Larson shoved his newspaper-wrapped package in the rack, got rid of his mufflings, and gave the staring Russian a sardonic grin.
That grin, Durant reflected afterward, must have done the business—for Korin was no fool.
The roar of the engines rose to a crescendo, and abruptly the De Haviland moved—glided over the ground, bumped, turned, swept madly across the field, bumped again, took the air. A turn, and with the slight bank Larson gripped his chair-arms hard, then laughed as he met the eyes of Durant.
“New experience for me!” he shouted. Michael Korin sat slumped in his chair, frowning savagely, eyes ablaze with sullen fires as he watched the other two men. The altimeter crept around—one—two—three thousand feet. The pilot unreeled his wireless antennae.
England lay below them.
The De Haviland had the wind with her and was doing her even hundred, so that in less than an hour the yellow sand-beaches of the French coast showed ahead. The glass window of the cockpit showed them the pilot’s head, and a notice beside it advised that it be opened for communication if necessary.
Durant took an old envelope from his pocket, and pencil, and began to write. His message was curt and to the point:
Passenger Hopper is Michael Korin, who murdered Grand Duke Vassily last year. Wanted by all police. Radio Paris police at once to arrest him on arrival.
This done, Durant rose and went forward. He reached up and tried to open the little embrasure, but to no effect. The pilot turned, shrugged, and shook his head, shouting something that was lost.