CHAPTER XXX.

MEMORIES CAN SAVE

As Milton’s car, driven by O’Shea, raced around the corner into the square, all question of the fugitive’s identity was settled.

Just vaulting into a two-seater that had been parked over by the railings was the man whose retreating figure I had seen as I leaned from the window! I prayed that he might be unable to start. But my prayer was not answered. Off he went, heading for Piccadilly.

One swift glance back he gave over his shoulder. And in the light of the street lamp by which the car had stood, I saw the face of Zara!

I glanced at O’Shea beside me. His pale features were set like a mask. I looked to right and to left; but not a soul was in sight. Berkeley Square was apparently deserted. Often enough I had wondered how certain notorious burglaries had been accomplished with all the resources of civilization at beck and call of justice. This was the answer.

We had no means of arranging for Zara’s interception--although a constable was on duty at the corner of Bruton Street! We could only hope to keep him in sight or else overtake him. The merest hitch, or slightest traffic delay, would deliver him into our hands. But the betting was equal. Such an accident might as well befall us as him; and, the quarry once out of sight, our chances fell below zero.

O’Shea spoke never a word. His mind held but one single purpose. That purpose, I firmly believe, was to wreak justice upon Zara with his own hands.

Momentarily, I wondered about Milton. Of Nanette I dared not think. But a cold fury was growing within me, and I fingered the pistol that had been in my pocket since the raid upon the house in Porchester Terrace.

Zara whirled round into St. James’s Street. The traffic in Piccadilly was not great but there were a number of pedestrians about. I even saw policemen in the distance. It all seemed utterly grotesque. Then, hot upon the fugitive, we, too, were dropping down the slope. Far ahead I could see the clock above St. James’s Palace. The hour was a quarter past two.

Our speed was outrageous. We crossed Pall Mall at about thirty-five, and came out into the Mall, heading for Buckingham Palace in Brooklands fashion. We were gaining slightly. We crept from forty-five to fifty. Broad thoroughfares, brightly lighted, offered no obstruction; and we flew around the sharp bend by the Victoria Memorial and headed east.

“Westminster Bridge!” I muttered.

O’Shea did not speak. Past the barracks we sped, and, undeterred by a certain amount of traffic in Parliament Square, shot on to the approach to the Bridge. We were now three lengths behind Zara, and on the gradient began to improve upon it. Zara drove on the inside of the car lines, hugging the pavement. And at about the centre of the Bridge we passed outside him. I heard someone shouting.

“Cover him, Decies!” said O’Shea grimly. “Shoot if he doesn’t pull up!”

I turned and gave a loud cry. Zara had slowed down and was already twenty yards behind us!

“Stop, O’Shea!” I cried--“stop!”

He obeyed so suddenly that I nearly dived through the windshield. Then we jumped, one on either side, and started to run back.

Zara had already dismounted, and I saw him peeling his coat. A picture arose out of the recent past: a foggy night off Ushant: and I seemed to hear again that eerie cry, “Man overboard!”

So it was that Zara had eluded us once before. Undoubtedly he was going to do so again; and for all the cold hatred in my heart, I could not entirely withhold admiration as I saw him bound upon the parapet, raise his arms, and take that appalling dive into the Thames far below.

I knew now, however, what I had not known formerly: that Adolf Zara’s courage was the courage of madness. His was that disease of fanaticism which, when it does not cough up a Tomsky, floods the criminal lunatic asylums.

As we both craned over the parapet, peering down at the uneasy water, I heard the sound of a runner and then the flat note of a police whistle.

“There he is!” said O’Shea.

I stared but could see nothing, when:

“Hello, there! What’s the game! Who was it that went over?” cried a loud voice.

We turned, as a breathless constable came doubling up.

“A very dangerous criminal,” O’Shea replied, “and we were chasing him. Quick, officer! on which side of the Bridge shall we find a boat?”

The manner of one accustomed to give orders is unmistakable, and:

“West, sir,” the constable answered promptly. “There’s a boat at the pier.”

“Good,” said O’Shea, and started to run to the car. I followed.

As we jumped in, turned, and headed back to where Big Ben recorded the fact that only seven minutes had elapsed since we had passed St. James’s Palace, I saw the constable coming after us. But, leaving the car by the foot of the clock tower, O’Shea raced across to the gate at the head of those steps that lead down to the pier. It was locked; and here I thought that the chase ended. But I had counted without O’Shea.

London, unlike New York, normally is a very empty city at two o’clock in the morning; but now, as if conjured up by a magic talisman, a group began to assemble. I looked to my right--from which the constable was bearing down upon us. Even as he ran, his bearing was ominous. It occurred to me that he regarded O’Shea and myself with justifiable suspicion, and I foresaw complications.

It was odd, I reflected, that we stood almost in the shadow of Scotland Yard--representing Law and Order, the forces of Empire against those of disruption--but that the very powers that should have backed us were likely now to aid and abet a dangerous conspirator and assassin in escaping the meshes of justice.

The constable rather windily began to blow his whistle again.

A resolute-looking man, clean-shaven, and of a very hard-bitten countenance, suddenly appeared at my elbow.

“What’s the trouble?” he inquired--and challenged me with keen eyes.

An official note in his voice was recognizable. O’Shea turned quickly. The ever-increasing group drew more closely around us. A second constable was making his way across from Parliament Square.

“The trouble is,” said O’Shea, “that this gate is locked, and I want to get on to the pier.”

The man, whose face seemed to have been chiselled out of seasoned teak, stared in a curious way. Then the breathless constable burst upon us.

“Just a minute!” he began. “I want to know some more about this business!”

He became uneasily aware of the presence of our weatherbeaten acquaintance. He stopped in the act of laying his hand upon O’Shea’s arm. O’Shea, watching the man who had accosted us, spoke, and:

“Sergeant Donoghue!” he said.

The expression on the grim face changed. The man so addressed drew himself smartly to attention. It was automatic--second nature; but his smile was good to see.

“Thank you, sir,” said he, “for remembering me.”

O’Shea held out his hand.

“Stand easy, Sergeant,” he replied. “I gather that you have left the Army and rejoined the Police.”

Donoghue’s eyes were glistening as he grasped the proffered hand.

“I have that, sir,” he said, “and without loss of rank. I am a detective-sergeant now.”

He glanced at the two constables--for the Parliament Square reinforcement had come up.

“Carry on,” he directed, “there’s a man drowning. Leave this to me.”

“Donoghue,” said O’Shea, “do you hate the Reds?”

“I do, sir!”

“Well, one of them has just jumped off the Bridge. He is a powerful swimmer. I want to get on to the pier and into a boat.”

“You are in luck, sir,” Donoghue returned enthusiastically, “for to-night I happen to have the key.”

When, a minute later, we pushed out into the stream, watched by an ever-increasing group of idlers, I thought how proud a man must feel to see a light like that which had crossed Donoghue’s face as he had recognized the officer he had served under. One such silent tribute is worth more than a thousand cheers.

“Do you remember the night behind the farm, sir?” Donoghue asked.

And O’Shea in reply merely laid his hand upon his shoulder and gripped hard for a moment. But this apparently simple question had a far-reaching result, as I was presently to learn.

A fairly strong current was running, which, together with O’Shea’s recollection of the swimmer’s position as seen from the Bridge, sufficiently indicated where we should lay our course.

Certain official steps had automatically been taken, and we were not alone in our quest. Apparently, even at two o’clock in the morning, it is contrary to County Council regulations for anyone to bathe from Westminster Bridge.

Looking up from that unfamiliar viewpoint at certain London landmarks outlined against the clear sky, I wondered why Fate always seems to put a brake upon our joy-rides.

Untrammelled by an intense anxiety on account of Nanette that obsessed me to-night, this queer adventure must have been definitely enjoyable. But, like so many human experiences, it was less exciting in the doing than it is in the telling. For exploration of unfamiliar by-paths, as I have already mentioned, there is no vehicle like a cosy armchair.

That Zara would head for the nearest landing place, it was fairly reasonable to suppose. Therefore we pulled hard across in the direction of the County Hall, eagerly watching the surface of the water. Suddenly:

“There he goes!” cried Donoghue.

But, even as he spoke, I had seen the swimmer--close in, under the right bank, heading powerfully for the stairs. We raced for him and made land almost simultaneously.

In the act of landing Zara stumbled and slipped back into the river.

He came up by the stern of the boat. O’Shea’s hand shot out, grasped him by a soddened collar-band, and hauled him in against the side. Dimly, I could see O’Shea’s face as he looked down at the upcast eyes of Zara. I think I knew what was in his mind, and in those upturned eyes was recognition of it--and acceptance.

Still grasping the helpless man, O’Shea glanced quickly at Donoghue.

“Yes, Donoghue,” he said coldly, “I remember the night behind the farm. You have reminded me that I once had decent instincts. Sergeant, here’s your prisoner.”