Unable to pass the envelope through, Durant held it up to the glass. The pilot read it, and his eyes widened. Then he nodded comprehension and turned around again; craning up, Durant watched him lean forward, speaking into the microphone set before him. Already the Channel was far behind, the brown-green field-patches of France flitting past underneath....
To Durant it seemed to happen all in a flash, for he had been intent on what he was doing, and the roaring of the motor drowned out all lesser sounds. There was a rush of movement, the envelope was torn from his hand; losing balance, he staggered for an instant.
Recovering, he saw Michael Korin standing just behind him, glancing at the writing with inflamed eyes—Durant clutched at it, gained it before the Russian had read it—or half of it, at least. In doing so, he lost balance again, to the drop of the plane in an air-pocket, and went sprawling across the freight. As he went down, he saw the figure of Larson, limply sprawled in his seat, head sagging—dead or senseless.
Korin read what was gripped in his hand. It was the top part of the envelope, bearing the first sentence only—but this was quite enough. A scream rang through the cabin, above the thrumming roar of the engine—a scream of wild rage, inarticulate, bestial.
“Traitor!” shouted out the Russian, as Durant got to his feet. “Vile dog of a traitor! What sort of trap have you laid? You want to have me pinched and get away with the money yourself? Or—”
Words, evasion, all useless here! The man was swept by a passion of insane rage; nostrils dilated, lips drawn back in a snarl, eyes aflame, he was out of himself. For an instant Durant, who was unarmed, shrank before the memory of how Grand Duke Vassily had died, his throat torn out by teeth as by the teeth of a wild beast. And here was the wild beast!
Then, braced, Durant leaped and drove in a terrific blow to the stomach. The blow failed. Korin swerved, snapped hand to pocket, jerked out an automatic pistol. Durant’s fist smashed on his wrist, and the pistol fell. Then the two men were reeling, grappling, striking, locked in a mad embrace, hurling themselves about the narrow cabin in frenzied desperation of fight, while the earth rolled three thousand feet below.
The two men were reeling, grappling, striking, locked in a mad embrace.
Durant speedily knew that, save for luck, he was mastered. No man could cope with the insane fury of this wild beast—for such Korin had become. Though Durant’s fist hammered him relentlessly, sending crushing blows to face and stomach, though he himself knew nothing of fighting, Korin seemed made of living steel. Twice Durant got in smashes to the angle of the jaw, with absolutely no effect. Korin flung him about as though he were a child, swept him off his feet with the sheer force of a wild, flailing swing, picked him up and hurled him against the cockpit wall.