The Trail of Death

“Over Abbeville,” the second in this remarkable series, includes one of the most unusual and exciting scenes ever described—a fight to the death waged in the narrow cabin of a London-to-Paris passenger plane.

Durant stood at the rail, watching the gleam of the Land’s End light twinkle across the night. The Tyrania was on the last leg of her voyage; at dawn she would be just off Plymouth, and all those who could change at the last moment would go into the lighter instead of on to Cherbourg, for dirty weather lay ahead of her. Durant had changed, but for other reasons.

A light step, and Durant turned to find the slender figure of Baroness Glincka at his side. Known aboard ship as Mrs. Robinson, her unhappy story was hidden with her name; only Durant knew how her dead husband’s cousin, Boris Makoff, held her gripped in tentacles of blackmail, forcing her to aid his little schemes, making her an unwilling but helpless member of his Paris coterie of genteel crooks. It was for her sake that Durant had wormed his way into this organization, getting the confidence of Makoff—waiting!

“You got the message?” she asked in the darkness.

“Yes, and changed. You’ll get off at Plymouth too?”

“Yes. Boris is planning something at London, before going on. I’m not sure what; but the victim is that white-haired man who keeps to himself. Larson, the name is. Boris introduced him to me tonight, using my real name. He’s a nice old man.”

“And a game’s on, eh?” Durant knew Larson by sight—a stiff, bronzed man with white hair and mustache, and shrewd, kindly old eyes, traveling alone.

“Something. Boris wants you to come into the smoking-room, and meet Larson. I think he’s a Dane who’s made a fortune in America and is taking a trip to Denmark—that’s my guess. I suppose Boris means to wring his neck in London by your help and mine.”

“Pleasant prospect,” said Durant.

“What will Lewis say when he learns the truth?”

“He won’t learn it. I’ve arranged—at a little expense. You’ll see in the morning.”

“Then you’re a magician!”

“Borrowed magic—from your beauty.”

* * * * *

She laughed a little and was gone into the darkness. Durant stared out at the gleaming light on the horizon, and thought over the past, back to those Paris days when he, a clerk in an American branch bank, poor, half-starved, struggling for life and health, had seen the beautiful Baroness Glincka come in three times a week to the next window.

And now he knew her, was fighting for her—was a crook for her sake! An odd turn of destiny. An almost forgotten relative dead, a legacy of almost forgotten land in Florida, a trip home—wealth! Then he headed back for Paris, to take his ease where he had starved and fought and sweated. So he had thought—but work had come to him.

“That you, Durant?” It was the voice of Lewis, who came quietly out of the darkness, a cigar-tip glowing redly. “First sight of England, eh? I’m leaving you in the morning.”

“But I’m going up to London too, instead of on to Cherbourg.”

“Good! Shall I see you in London?”

“No. Wiser not—wait for Paris.”

“Right. I’ll give you my address there. I’m going right on—taking the afternoon plane over tomorrow.”

Lewis fumbled for a card-case. He was a smallish man, very alert—a wholesale druggist from the Middle West, now engaged in smuggling a suitcase filled with cocaine into France—a task in which Durant presumably was aiding. True, Durant had saved him from Boris Makoff, had dumped the cocaine into the Atlantic and substituted baking soda for it—and for these services, known and unknown, Lewis was an ally. Once in Paris, he promised to be a most important ally.