Philip Farmer - The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Peerless Peer

He was right, of course, and all of us, including Holmes, I’m sure, felt abashed. But that conversation was not as irrelevant as we thought at the time.

An hour later, after receiving verbal instructions from Mycroft and Merrivale, we left in the limousine for the secret airstrip outside London.

Our chauffeur drove off the highway onto a narrow dirt road which wound through a dense wood of oaks. After a half a mile, during which we passed many signs warning trespassers that this was military property, we were halted by a barbed wire gate across the road. Armed R.N.A.S. guards checked our documents and then waved us on. Ten minutes later, we emerged from the woods onto a very large meadow. At its northern end was a tall hill, the lower part of which gaped as if it had a mouth which was open with surprise. The surprise was that the opening was not to a cavern at all but to a hangar which had been hollowed out of the living rock of the hill. As we got out of the car, men pushed from the hangar a huge aeroplane, the wings of which were folded against the fuselage.

After that, events proceeded swiftly — too swiftly for me, I admit, and perhaps a trifle too swiftly for Holmes. After all, we had been born about a half century before the first aeroplane had flown. We were not sure that the motor-car, a recent invention from our viewpoint, was altogether a beneficial device. And here we were being conducted by a commodore toward the monstrously large aircraft. Within a few minutes, according to him, we would be within its fuselage and leaving the good earth behind and beneath us.

Even as we walked toward it, its biplanes were unfolded and locked into place. By the time we reached it, its propellors had been spun by mechanics and the two motors had caught fire. Thunder rolled from its rotaries, and flame spat from its exhausts.

Whatever Holmes’ true feelings, and his skin was rather grey, he could not suppress his driving curiosity, his need to know all that was relevant. However, he had to shout at the commodore to be heard above the roar of the warming-up motors.

“The Admiralty ordered it to be outfitted for your use,” the commodore said. His expression told us that he thought that we must be very special people indeed if this aeroplane was equipped just for us.

“It’s the prototype model of the Handley Page 0/100,” he shouted. “The first of the ‘bloody paralyser of an aeroplane’ the Admiralty ordered for the bombing of Germany. It has two 250-horsepower Rolls-Royce Eagle H motors, as you see. It has an enclosed crew cabin. The engine nacelles and the front part of the fuselage were armour-plated, but the armour has been removed to give the craft more speed.”

“What?” Holmes yelled. “Removed?”

“Yes,” the commodore said. “It shouldn’t make any difference to you. You’ll be in the cabin, and it was never armour-plated.”

Holmes and I exchanged glances. The commodore continued, “Extra petrol tanks have been installed to give the craft extended range. These will be just forward of the cabin...”

“And if we crash?” Holmes said.

“Poof!” the commodore said, smiling, “No pain, my dear sir. If the smash doesn’t kill you, the flaming petrol sears the lungs and causes instantaneous death. The only difficulty is in identifying the corpse. Charred, you know,”

We climbed up a short flight of wooden mobile steps and stepped into the cabin. The commodore closed the door, thus somewhat muting the roar. He pointed out the bunks that had been installed for our convenience and the W.C. This contained a small washbowl with a gravity-feed water tank and several thunder-mugs bolted to the deck. [3] The good doctor probably intended to delete the references to sanitation in the final version of this adventure. At least, he always had been reticent to a Victorian degree in such references in all his previous chronicles. However, this was written in 1932, and Watson may have thought that the spirit of the times gave him more latitude in expression. Editor.

“The prototype can carry a four-man crew,” the commodore said. “There is, as you have observed, a cockpit for the nose gunner, with the pilot in a cockpit directly behind him. There is a cockpit near the rear for another machine gunner, and there is a trap-door through which a machine gun may be pointed to cover the rear area under the plane. You are standing on the trap-door.”

Holmes and I moved away, though not, I trust, with unseemly haste.

“We estimate that with its present load the craft can fly at approximately 85 miles per hour. Under ideal conditions, of course. We have decided to eliminate the normal armament of machine guns in order to lighten the load. In fact, to this end, all of the crew except the pilot and co-pilot are eliminated. The pilot, I believe, is bringing his personal arms: a dagger, several pistols, a carbine, and his specially mounted Spandau machine gun, a trophy, by the way, taken from a Fokker E-1 which Captain Wentworth downed when he dropped an ash-tray on the pilot’s head. Wentworth has also brought in several cases of hand grenades and a case of Scotch whisky.”

The door, or port, or whatever they call a door in the Royal Naval Air Service; opened, and a young man of medium height, but with very broad shoulders and a narrow waist, entered. He wore the uniform of the R.N.A.S. He was a handsome young man with eyes as steely grey and as magnetic as Holmes’. There was also something strange about them. If I had known how strange, I would have stepped off that plane at that very second. Holmes would have preceded me.

He shook hands with us and spoke a few words. I was astonished to hear a flat mid-western American accent. When Wentworth had disappeared on some errand toward the stern, Holmes asked the commodore, “Why wasn’t a British pilot assigned to us? No doubt this Yank volunteer is quite capable, but really...”

“There is only one pilot who can match Wentworth’s aerial genius. He is an American in the service of the Tsar. The Russians know him as Kentov, though that is not his real name. They refer to him with the honorific of Chorniy Oryol , the French call him l’Aigle Noir and the Germans are offering a hundred thousand marks for Der Schwarz Adler , dead or alive.”

“Is he a Negro?” I said.

“No, the adjective refers to his sinister reputation,” replied the commodore. “Kentov will take you on from Marseilles. Your mission is so important that we borrowed him from the Russians. Wentworth is being used only for the comparatively short haul since he is scheduled to carry out another mission soon. If you should crash, and survive, he would be able to guide you through enemy territory better than anyone we know of, excluding Kentov. Wentworth is an unparalleled master of disguise...”

“Really?” Holmes said, drawing himself up and frostily regarding the officer.

Aware that he had made a gaffe, the commodore changed the subject. He showed us how to don the bulky parachutes, which were to be kept stored under a bunk.

“What happened to young Drummond?” I asked him. “Lord Greystoke’s adopted son? Wasn’t he supposed to be our pilot?”

“Oh, he’s in hospital,” he said, smiling. “Nothing serious. Several broken ribs and clavicle, a liver that may be ruptured, a concussion and possible fracture of the skull. The landing gear of his craft collapsed as he was making a deadstick landing, and he slid into a brick wall. He sends his regards.”

Captain Wentworth suddenly reappeared. Muttering to himself, he looked under our blankets and sheets and then under the bunks. Holmes said, “What is it, captain?”