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Motor Pirate

<h2>THE MOTOR PIRATE</h2> <h3>By</h3> <h2>G. Sidney Paternoster</h2> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>CHAPTER I</h2> <h3>MAINLY ABOUT MYSELF</h3> <div class='unindent'>Of course every one has heard of the Motor Pirate. No one indeed could help doing so unless he or she, as the case may be, happened to be in some part of the world where newspapers never penetrate; since for months his doings were the theme of every gossip in the country, and his exploits have filled columns of every newspaper from the moment of his first appearance until the day when the reign of terror he had inaugurated upon the roads ended as suddenly and as sensationally as it had begun. Who the owner of the pirate car was? Whence he came? Whither he went? These are questions which have exercised minds innumerable; but though there have been nearly as many theories propounded as there were brains at work propounding them, so far no informed account of the man or his methods has been made public.</div> Nearly twelve months have now elapsed since he was[2] last heard of, and already a number of myths have grown up about his mysterious personality. For instance, it is not true, as I saw asserted in a sensational evening paper the other day, that the Motor Pirate was in the habit of abducting every young and attractive woman who happened to be travelling in any of the cars he held up. On only one occasion did he abduct a lady, and in that case there were special circumstances with which the public have never been made acquainted. His deeds were quite black enough without further blackening with printer's ink, and it would be a pity if the real Motor Pirate were lost sight of in mythical haze such as has gathered about the name of his great prototype, Dick Turpin. It has occurred to me, therefore, to tell the story of his doings—it would be impossible for any mortal man to give an absolutely detailed account of his life and actions—but I know more than the majority of people about the personality of the man. Of one thing my readers may be assured: I personally can vouch for the accuracy of every fact which I chronicle. You see I am not a professional historian. How it happened that I am in a position to give hitherto unknown particulars about the Motor Pirate will appear in the course of my narrative. Sufficient for the moment let it be for me to say that it was purely by chance that the opportunity was thrown in my way; though, as it happened, it was not entirely without my own volition that I became involved in the network of events[3] which finally resulted in the tragedy which closed his career. By that tragedy the world lost a brilliant thinker and inventor, though unfortunately these great talents were accompanied by an abnormal condition of mind, which led the owner to utilise his invention in criminal pursuits. It may probably seem strange that, being in possession of facts as to the identity of this mysterious person, I did not lay them before the police, who, at any time during the three months of his criminal career, would have given their ears to lay him by the heels. You may even think it is their duty to take proceedings against me as an accomplice. Well, I am quite prepared to answer any question which the police, or any one else for that matter, desires to put to me. James Sutgrove, of Sutgrove Hall, Norfolk, is not likely to change his address. When my poor old governor died he left me sufficient excuse, in the shape of real estate, for remaining in the country of my birth; though, if the necessity had arisen, I should not have hesitated about going abroad. At twenty-five, my age within a few weeks, a man has usually sufficient energy to enable him to carve out a career for himself in a new country, and I do not think I am very different to my fellows in that respect. But the fact is, I have nothing to fear from the police. My criminality was less than theirs. An ordinary citizen may be forgiven if he is blind to the meaning of things which occur under his nose, but the police are expected to be possessed of somewhat sharper vision. The utmost that can be urged[4] against me is, that if my eyes had been keener than those of Scotland Yard, reinforced by the trained vision of some hundreds of intelligent chief constables throughout the country, I might have been able to lay my hands upon the Motor Pirate before—but I must not anticipate my story. One word of apology, however, before I begin. In order to make my narrative fully intelligible I shall have to refer to matters which may seem of a purely personal nature. I will make these as brief as possible, but it was entirely through such that I was brought into closer touch with the Motor Pirate than, perhaps with one exception, any other person in the world. If therefore I seem to be devoting too much attention to what appears to be merely personal interest, I trust I may be excused. To begin, then, at the beginning. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> On the evening of March 31, 19—, I had arranged to dine in town with a couple of friends, both of them neighbours of mine. I am not going to mention the name of the restaurant. It was not one of the fashionable ones, or probably neither the cuisine nor the wines would have been so good as they were, though both would unquestionably have been more expensive. I prefer, therefore, to keep the name to myself. It was in the neighbourhood of Soho, however, and the reason I had invited my friends was in order to disabuse their minds of the idea that everything in that neighbourhood [5]was of necessity cheap and nasty. I had determined that their palates should be charmed by the dinner they were to eat, so, in addition to sending a note to the proprietor, I thought it as well to arrive at the restaurant a quarter of an hour before the appointed time, in order to make assurance doubly sure that everything was as I desired it. Had my guests been casual acquaintances, I must confess that I should never have taken this trouble. But they were not. One of them was the renowned Colonel Maitland. I never heard anything about his war service, but I do know that as a gastronomist his reputation is European. The cool way he will condemn an entrée, presented to him by an obsequious waiter, merely after casting a single glance upon it, speaks volumes for his critical insight; and as for wines—well, he can tell the vineyard and the vintage of a claret by the scent alone. I verily believe that were he to be served with a corked wine, the result would be instant dissolution between his gastronomic soul and body. Naturally I had to make some preparations, in order that such delicate susceptibilities should not be offended. In addition, I had a special reason for seeking to please him. Colonel Maitland had a daughter. I have only to mention the name of my other guest to reveal his identity to every one with any knowledge of the motoring world. It was Fred Winter, the Fred Winter, leading light of the Automobile Club, holder of more road records than I can count, in fact the most enthusiastic motorist in the country. It was in consequence of this, indeed, that he came to be my guest.[6] There were few questions in regard to motoring upon which Winter was not competent to give an opinion, and being myself a victim to the prevailing motor-mania, I was deeply indebted to him for many valuable tips. By this time I had passed my novitiate, and was still driving a neat little 9½-h.p. Clément in order to fit myself for a more powerful and speedy car. I arrived then at the restaurant about a quarter to eight, and having had a brief but satisfactory interview with the proprietor, I made my way to the table I had reserved in my favourite corner of the dining-room. Finding I had ten minutes to spare, to kill time I ordered a vermouth and the evening papers. The Globe was the first upon the pile the waiter brought to me, and following the example of most sane men, I skipped the parliamentary intelligence and turned to the "By the Way" column. I remember distinctly there was only one amusing paragraph therein, and I was about to throw the paper aside, with the customary lament as to the decadence of British humour, when my attention was arrested by a paragraph at the bottom of the next column. The heading was "Strange Highway Robbery." This was the paragraph:— "Our Plymouth correspondent reports a novel highway robbery on the road between Tavistock and Plymouth. Two gentlemen who had been for a run on their motor to Tavistock, left the latter town about eight o'clock last night. Their journey was uneventful until they reached Roborough, where they were suddenly[7] overtaken by a motor-car occupied by a man, who presented a pistol at their heads, and ordered them to stop. Thinking that the stranger merely intended to scare them, and that the summons was only an ill-advised piece of pleasantry, they paid no attention to the demand; whereupon the driver of the strange car, with a well-directed shot, so damaged the machinery of their vehicle that they were compelled to obey. Their attacker then demanded all the money and articles of value they had in their possession under threat of completely wrecking their car, and after securing his booty the highwayman decamped. In consequence of the damage to their motor, it was not until late at night that they reached Plymouth, and were enabled to give particulars of the occurrence to the police. From their description of the stranger's vehicle, identification should not be difficult. It is a long, low, boat-shaped car of remarkable speed, and from the little noise it creates is probably driven by an electric motor. As to the personal appearance of the driver, the gentlemen who were robbed could form no opinion, for he wore the usual leather coat affected by tourists, and his head was completely enveloped in a hood." On reading this paragraph, my first impulse was to lay aside the paper and indulge in a hearty laugh. My impression was that some wag had been hoaxing either the Plymouth correspondent or the London editor of the Globe. However, my curiosity was sufficiently aroused to lead me to take up another paper, to see if the Globe was the only paper which reported the occurrence.[8] The next paper on my pile was the Star, and the moment I unfolded the pink sheet, I perceived that this liveliest of evening journals was not going to be left behind by the Globe in providing the public with particulars of the latest sensation. Under the heading of "A Motor Pirate," with descriptive headlines extending across a couple of columns, and as attractively alliterative as the cunning pen of a smart sub-editor could make them, was the account of a similar incident. At first I thought it must be the same occurrence, but a brief perusal showed me that this impression was a wrong one. But I will give the Star account in full, and I do so the more readily, not only because it contains the first detailed account of the man whose extraordinary audacity was shortly to raise the interest of the public to fever pitch, but also because it tells the story with a force and colour of which my unpractised pen is incapable. Apologising therefore to the editor for the liberty I have taken, I reprint the Star account verbatim. I think, however, the story deserves a new chapter. <hr style="width: 65%;" />[9] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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