Winged Blackmail

by Jack London

　　

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PETER WINN lay back comfortably in a library chair, with closedeyes, deep in the cogitation of a scheme of campaign destinedin the near future to make a certain coterie of hostilefinanciers sit up. The central idea had come to him the nightbefore, and he was now reveling in the planning of the remoter,minor details. By obtaining control of a certain up-countrybank, two general stores, and several logging camps, he couldcome into control of a certain dinky jerkwater line which shallhere be nameless, but which, in his hands, would prove the keyto a vastly larger situation involving more main-line mileagealmost than there were spikes in the aforesaid dinky jerkwater.It was so simple that he had almost laughed aloud when it cameto him. No wonder those astute and ancient enemies of his hadpassed it by. The library door opened, and a slender, middle-aged man,weak-eyed and eye glassed, entered. In his hands was anenvelope and an open letter. As Peter Winn's secretary it washis task to weed out, sort, and classify his employer's mail."This came in the morning post," he ventured apologetically andwith the hint of a titter. "Of course it doesn't amount toanything, but I thought you would like to see it.""Read it," Peter Winn commanded, without opening his eyes.The secretary cleared his throat."It is dated July seventeenth, but is without address. PostmarkSan Francisco. It is also quite illiterate. The spelling isatrocious. Here it is:Mr. Peter Winn,SIR: I send you respectfully by express a pigeon worth goodmoney. She's a loo-loo--""What is a loo-loo?" Peter Winn interrupted.The secretary tittered."I'm sure I don't know, except that it must be a superlative ofsome sort. The letter continues:Please freight it with a couple of thousand-dollar bills andlet it go. If you do I wont never annoy you no more. If youdont you will be sorry. "That is all. It is unsigned. I thought it would amuse you.""Has the pigeon come?" Peter Winn demanded."I'm sure I never thought to enquire.""Then do so."In five minutes the secretary was back."Yes, sir. It came this morning.""Then bring it in."The secretary was inclined to take the affair as a practicaljoke, but Peter Winn, after an examination of the pigeon,thought otherwise."Look at it," he said, stroking and handling it. "See thelength of the body and that elongated neck. A proper carrier. Idoubt if I've ever seen a finer specimen. Powerfully winged andmuscled. As our unknown correspondent remarked, she is aloo-loo. It's a temptation to keep her."The secretary tittered."Why not? Surely you will not let it go back to the writer ofthat letter."Peter Winn shook his head."I'll answer. No man can threaten me, even anonymously or infoolery."On a slip of paper he wrote the succinct message, "Go to hell,"signed it, and placed it in the carrying apparatus with whichthe bird had been thoughtfully supplied."Now we'll let her loose. Where's my son? I'd like him to seethe flight.""He's down in the workshop. He slept there last night, and hadhis breakfast sent down this morning.""He'll break his neck yet," Peter Winn remarked, half-fiercely,half-proudly, as he led the way to the veranda.Standing at the head of the broad steps, he tossed the prettycreature outward and upward. She caught herself with a quickbeat of wings, fluttered about undecidedly for a space, thenrose in the air.Again, high up, there seemed indecision; then, apparentlygetting her bearings, she headed east, over the oak-trees thatdotted the park-like grounds."Beautiful, beautiful," Peter Winn murmured. "I almost wish Ihad her back."But Peter Winn was a very busy man, with such large plans inhis head and with so many reins in his hands that he quicklyforgot the incident. Three nights later the left wing of hiscountry house was blown up. It was not a heavy explosion, andnobody was hurt, though the wing itself was ruined. Most of thewindows of the rest of the house were broken, and there was adeal of general damage. By the first ferry boat of the morninghalf a dozen San Francisco detectives arrived, and severalhours later the secretary, in high excitement, erupted on PeterWinn."It's come!" the secretary gasped, the sweat beading hisforehead and his eyes bulging behind their glasses."What has come?" Peter demanded. "It--the--the loo-loo bird."Then the financier understood."Have you gone over the mail yet?""I was just going over it, sir.""Then continue, and see if you can find another letter from ourmysterious friend, the pigeon fancier."The letter came to light. It read:Mr. Peter Winn,HONORABLE SIR: Now dont be a fool. If youd came through, yourshack would not have blew up--I beg to inform you respectfully,am sending same pigeon. Take good care of same, thank you. Putfive one thousand dollar bills on her and let her go. Dont feedher. Dont try to follow bird. She is wise to the way now andmakes better time. If you dont come through, watch out.Peter Winn was genuinely angry. This time he indited no messagefor the pigeon to carry. Instead, he called in the detectives,and, under their advice, weighted the pigeon heavily with shot.Her previous flight having been eastward toward the bay, thefastest motor-boat in Tiburon was commissioned to take up thechase if it led out over the water.But too much shot had been put on the carrier, and she wasexhausted before the shore was reached. Then the mistake wasmade of putting too little shot on her, and she rose high inthe air, got her bearings and started eastward across SanFrancisco Bay. She flew straight over Angel Island, and herethe motor-boat lost her, for it had to go around the island.That night, armed guards patrolled the grounds. But there wasno explosion. Yet, in the early morning Peter Winn learned bytelephone that his sister's home in Alameda had been burned tothe ground.Two days later the pigeon was back again, coming this time byfreight in what had seemed a barrel of potatoes. Also cameanother letter:Mr. Peter Winn,RESPECTABLE SIR: It was me that fixed yr sisters house. Youhave raised hell, aint you. Send ten thousand now. Going up allthe time. Dont put any more handicap weights on that bird. Yousure cant follow her, and its cruelty to animals.Peter Winn was ready to acknowledge himself beaten. Thedetectives were powerless, and Peter did not know where nextthe man would strike--perhaps at the lives of those near anddear to him. He even telephoned to San Francisco for tenthousand dollars in bills of large denomination. But Peter hada son, Peter Winn, Junior, with the same firm-set jaw as hisfathers,, and the same knitted, brooding determination in hiseyes. He was only twenty-six, but he was all man, a secretterror and delight to the financier, who alternated betweenpride in his son's aeroplane feats and fear for an untimely andterrible end."Hold on, father, don't send that money," said Peter Winn,Junior. "Number Eight is ready, and I know I've at last gotthat reefing down fine. It will work, and it will revolutionizeflying. Speed--that's what's needed, and so are the largesustaining surfaces for getting started and for altitude. I'vegot them both. Once I'm up I reef down. There it is. Thesmaller the sustaining surface, the higher the speed. That wasthe law discovered by Langley. And I've applied it. I can risewhen the air is calm and full of holes, and I can rise when itsboiling, and by my control of my plane areas I can come prettyclose to making any speed I want. Especially with that newSangster-Endholm engine.""You'll come pretty close to breaking your neck one of thesedays," was his father's encouraging remark."Dad, I'll tell you what I'll come pretty close to-ninety milesan hour--Yes, and a hundred. Now listen! I was going to make atrial tomorrow. But it won't take two hours to start today.I'll tackle it this afternoon. Keep that money. Give me thepigeon and I'll follow her to her loft where ever it is. Holdon, let me talk to the mechanics."He called up the workshop, and in crisp, terse sentences gavehis orders in a way that went to the older man's heart. Truly,his one son was a chip off the old block, and Peter Winn had nomeek notions concerning the intrinsic value of said old block.Timed to the minute, the young man, two hours later, was readyfor the start. In a holster at his hip, for instant use, cockedand with the safety on, was a large-caliber automatic pistol.With a final inspection and overhauling he took his seat in theaeroplane. He started the engine, and with a wild burr of gasexplosions the beautiful fabric darted down the launching waysand lifted into the air. Circling, as he rose, to the west, hewheeled about and jockeyed and maneuvered for the real start ofthe race.This start depended on the pigeon. Peter Winn held it. Nor wasit weighted with shot this time. Instead, half a yard of brightribbon was firmly attached to its leg--this the more easily toenable its flight being followed. Peter Winn released it, andit arose easily enough despite the slight drag of the ribbon.There was no uncertainty about its movements. This was thethird time it had made particular homing passage, and it knewthe course.At an altitude of several hundred feet it straightened out andwent due cast. The aeroplane swerved into a straight coursefrom its last curve and followed. The race was on. Peter Winn,looking up, saw that the pigeon was outdistancing the machine.Then he saw something else. The aeroplane suddenly andinstantly became smaller. It had reefed. Its high-speedplane-design was now revealed. Instead of the generous spreadof surface with which it had taken the air, it was now a leanand hawklike monoplane balanced on long and exceedingly narrowwings.. . . . . .When young Winn reefed down so suddenly, he received asurprise. It was his first trial of the new device, and whilehe was prepared for increased speed he was not prepared forsuch an astonishing increase. It was better than he dreamed,and, before he knew it, he was hard upon the pigeon. Thatlittle creature, frightened by this, the most monstrous hawk ithad ever seen, immediately darted upward, after the manner ofpigeons that strive always to rise above a hawk.In great curves the monoplane followed upward, higher andhigher into the blue. It was difficult, from underneath to seethe pigeon. and young Winn dared not lose it from his sight. Heeven shook out his reefs in order to rise more quickly. Up, upthey went, until the pigeon, true to its instinct, dropped andstruck at what it to be the back of its pursuing enemy. Oncewas enough, for, evidently finding no life in the smooth clothsurface of the machine, it ceased soaring and straightened outon its eastward course.A carrier pigeon on a passage can achieve a high rate of speed,and Winn reefed again. And again, to his satisfaction, be foundthat he was beating the pigeon. But this time he quickly shookout a portion of his reefed sustaining surface and slowed downin time. From then on he knew he had the chase safely in hand,and from then on a chant rose to his lips which he continued tosing at intervals, and unconsciously, for the rest of thepassage. It was: "Going some; going some; what did I tellyou!--going some."Even so, it was not all plain sailing. The air is an unstablemedium at best, and quite without warning, at an acute angle,he entered an aerial tide which he recognized as the gulfstream of wind that poured through the drafty-mouthed GoldenGate. His right wing caught it first--a sudden, sharp puff thatlifted and tilted the monoplane and threatened to capsize it.But he rode with a sensitive "loose curb," and quickly, but nottoo quickly, he shifted the angles of his wing-tips, depressedthe front horizontal rudder, and swung over the rear verticalrudder to meet the tilting thrust of the wind. As the machinecame back to an even keel, and he knew that he was now whollyin the invisible stream, he readjusted the wing-tips, rapidlyaway from him during the several moments of his discomfiture.The pigeon drove straight on for the Alameda County shore, andit was near this shore that Winn had another experience. Hefell into an air-hole. He had fallen into air-holes before, inprevious flights, but this was a far larger one than he hadever encountered. With his eyes strained on the ribbon attachedto the pigeon, by that fluttering bit of color he marked hisfall. Down he went, at the pit of his stomach that old sinksensation which he had known as a boy he first negotiatedquick-starting elevators. But Winn, among other secrets ofaviation, had learned that to go up it was sometimes necessaryfirst to go down. The air had refused to hold him. Instead ofstruggling futilely and perilously against this lack ofsustension, he yielded to it. With steady head and hand, hedepressed the forward horizontal rudder--just recklessly enoughand not a fraction more--and the monoplane dived head foremostand sharply down the void. It was falling with the keenness ofa knife-blade. Every instant the speed accelerated frightfully.Thus he accumulated the momentum that would save him. But fewinstants were required, when, abruptly shifting the doublehorizontal rudders forward and astern, he shot upward on thetense and straining plane and out of the pit.At an altitude of five hundred feet, the pigeon drove on overthe town of Berkeley and lifted its flight to the Contra Costahills. Young Winn noted the campus and buildings of theUniversity of California--his university--as he rose after thepigeon.Once more, on these Contra Costa hills, he early came to grief.The pigeon was now flying low, and where a grove of eucalyptuspresented a solid front to the wind, the bird was suddenly sentfluttering wildly upward for a distance of a hundred feet. Winnknew what it meant. It had been caught in an air-surf that beatupward hundreds of feet where the fresh west wind smote theupstanding wall of the grove. He reefed hastily to theuttermost, and at the same time depressed the angle of hisflight to meet that upward surge. Nevertheless, the monoplanewas tossed fully three hundred feet before the danger was leftastern.Two or more ranges of hills the pigeon crossed, and then Winnsaw it dropping down to a landing where a small cabin stood ina hillside clearing. He blessed that clearing. Not only was itgood for alighting, but, on account of the steepness of theslope, it was just the thing for rising again into the air.A man, reading a newspaper, had just started up at the sight ofthe returning pigeon, when be heard the burr of Winn's engineand saw the huge monoplane, with all surfaces set, drop downupon him, stop suddenly on an air-cushion manufactured on thespur of the moment by a shift of the horizontal rudders, glidea few yards, strike ground, and come to rest not a score offeet away from him. But when he saw a young man, calmly sittingin the machine and leveling a pistol at him, the man turned torun. Before he could make the comer of the cabin, a bulletthrough the leg brought him down in a sprawling fall. "What do you want!" he demanded sullenly, as the other stoodover him."I want to take you for a ride in my new machine," Winnanswered. "Believe me, she is a loo-loo."The man did not argue long, for this strange visitor had mostconvincing ways. Under Winn's instructions, covered all thetime by the pistol, the man improvised a tourniquet and appliedit to his wounded leg. Winn helped him to a seat in themachine, then went to the pigeon-loft and took possession ofthe bird with the ribbon still fast to its leg.A very tractable prisoner, the man proved. Once up in the air,he sat close, in an ecstasy of fear. An adept at wingedblackmail, he had no aptitude for wings himself, and when hegazed down at the flying land and water far beneath him, he didnot feel moved to attack his captor, now defenseless, bothhands occupied with flight. Instead, the only way the man felt moved was to sit closer.. . . . . .Peter Winn, Senior, scanning the heavens with powerful glasses,saw the monoplane leap into view and grow large over the ruggedbackbone of Angel Island. Several minutes later he cried out tothe waiting detectives that the machine carried a passenger.Dropping swiftly and piling up an abrupt air-cushion, themonoplane landed."That reefing device is a winner!" young Winn cried, as heclimbed out. "Did you see me at the start? I almost ran overthe pigeon. Going some, dad! Going some! What did I tell you?Going some!""But who is that with you?" his father demanded.The young man looked back at his prisoner and remembered."Why, that's the pigeon-fancier," he said. "I guess theofficers can take care of him."Peter Winn gripped his son's hand in grim silence, and fondledthe pigeon which his son had passed to him. Again he fondledthe pretty creature. Then he spoke."Exhibit A, for the People," he said.

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