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Title: The Gold Comfit Box
   [American title: The Mystery of the Gold Box]
Author: Williams, Valentine (1883-1946)
Date of first publication: 1932 [The Gold Comfit Box];
   1936 [Preface to A Clubfoot Omnibus]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hodder & Stoughton, September 1936
   [A Clubfoot Omnibus]
Date first posted: 25 December 2010
Date last updated: 25 December 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #681

This ebook was produced by Al Haines and Mark Akrigg




[Transcriber's notes: this etext is one of four stories drawn from an
omnibus book.  The original chapter numbers have been retained.]






A CLUBFOOT OMNIBUS



THE GOLD COMFIT BOX


BY

VALENTINE WILLIAMS




H&S

LONDON

HODDER & STOUGHTON, LIMITED




The Publishers wish to express their thanks to Messrs. Herbert Jenkins,
Ltd., who have very kindly given their permission for The Man with the
Clubfoot and The Return of Clubfoot to be reprinted in this Omnibus.



First printed in this Omnibus Edition

September . . . . . 1936




Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited,

by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot.




PREFACE

Mr. Dooley remarks in the course of one of his conversations with his
friend Hinnissy that news is sin and sin news and that you can write
all the news in a convent on the back of a postage stamp.  The sage was
merely expressing in his own way the discouraging but inescapable truth
that evil makes livelier reading than good for the simple reason that
the blameless life is static while ill-doing implies action.  If as the
Good Book tells us, the way of the transgressor is hard, for the
purposes of fiction especially sensational fiction, it is incomparably
better value than the way of the just.  The descent to Avernus, from
the reader's point of view, is considerably easier going than the
primrose path.

Where authors congregate in the Elysian Fields it is no doubt a source
of gratification to the late Dean Farrar to know that generations of
schoolboys continue to devour _Eric or Little by Little_.  I am afraid
however, that the continued popularity of the good Dean's masterpiece
reposes more upon the tribulations of the well-intentioned but
unfortunate hero, and in particular, the fiendish machinations of
Barker the bully, than the elevating sentiments of worthy Mr. Rose.
The fact is that in fiction stained-glass heroes have a habit of
staying put in their windows: it is the bad boys, the men of flesh and
blood, that come to life--d'Artagnan and Tom Jones, Gil Blas, Figaro
and Hajji Baba.

Particularly the villains--those, at least, of the more plausible
variety--linger in the memory.  We may not recall the intricate plot of
_The Woman in White_ but who can forget Count Fosco, with his light
tenor voice and his canaries?  Still the mere names of Fagin, Long John
Silver, Dr. Nikola and Count Dracula send long shivers chasing down our
spines, however the exploits in which they figure be blurred in the
mind.

I wrote a book about a villain once--his name was The Man with the
Clubfoot--and it changed my whole career.  I think it was fated.
Desperate characters were ever my meat.  At a tender age, my mother
used to tell me, she discovered her sweet little boy directing his
sisters in a childish game of his imagining representing the police
(with handkerchiefs realistically tied over their noses) exhuming the
surplus wives whom the bigamous Mr. Deeming had interred under the
kitchen floor.

When my father took me as a schoolboy to the Adelphi melodramas my
delight was not the breezy and super-heroic Mr. Terriss but the
villainous Mr. Abingdon, with his black moustache, nonchalant air and
"faultless" evening dress.  I remember thinking, when we studied
"Hamlet" at school, that Shakespeare would have heightened the dramatic
effect of the play by giving us more of the King, so gorgeously
profligate, so resourcefully murder-minded.  I always felt that Conan
Doyle's Moriarty is no more than a rat in the arras--Sherlock Holmes
could only have gained in stature had the author bestowed on the
shadowy figure of the impresario of crime some of the tender care he
lavished upon the delineation of the harmless but necessary Watson.

When, in the midst of the World War, the spirit moved me to try my hand
at writing a "thriller," one of the first conclusions I arrived at was
that the surest and subtlest way to build up the hero's character was
by creating a reasonably plausible villain.  My hero was to be a quiet
Englishman of the regular officer type--it seemed obvious to me that,
the more ruthless his opponent could be made to appear, the more
effective the hero's nonchalance and resolute abstention from heroics.
The merit of the secret service setting with the Great War as a
background was that in this field, as I knew from a fairly intimate
acquaintance with the subject, there was absolutely no limit to the
perilous situations to be contrived.  Unconsciously, perhaps, _The Man
With the Clubfoot_ expressed the sense of bewilderment with which we
all discovered that in war anything can happen--and frequently does.

A novel resembles a dream in being a thing of shreds and patches, a
welter of impressions consciously or subconsciously absorbed.  Actually
my tale became for me an outlet of escape from the pent-up emotions of
the battlefield, for I wrote it when convalescing from wounds received
on the Somme.  One might say that the shell which blew me sky-high and
temporarily put an end to my military activities blew me into fiction,
for, before joining up with the Irish Guards, I had spent all my
working life in Fleet Street.  I was propelled aloft, that sunny
September afternoon, an experienced newspaper man and came down a
budding novelist.

_The Man With the Clubfoot_ embodies, as I discern in retrospect, some
of the "battle dreams," that familiar symptom of shell concussion,
which haunted my convalescence.  The Somme was probably the greatest
battle the world has ever seen: the carnage had no parallel in the
annals of war: we ate and slept and fought among piles of corpses.  The
Guards Division attacked twice in ten days and I took part in both
attacks.  In the first I was knocked flat three times by shell-bursts
but escaped injury: I had one orderly wounded and another killed at my
side: I received a bullet through the heel of my boot and a second
through the strap of my field glasses, but emerged unscathed as one of
the two or three surviving officers of my battalion, to go over the top
again in ten days' time.

Battle dreams are horrible.  I had visions of Hindenburg, as gigantic
as his wooden image reared in Berlin for patriots to knock nails into
on behalf of war charities, striding at me over mountains of dead: I
would fancy myself alone in a trench with walls a hundred feet high and
raked with monster shells.  But my most frequent nightmare, continually
recurring, was to find myself in war-time Germany without papers of any
kind and the whole of the secret police on my track.

When the time came for me to leave hospital and undergo three months'
convalescence, I faced the world in a miserable and terrified frame of
mind.  It was then that a gracious Royal lady came to my aid.  Princess
Louise, Duchess of Argyll, who was a patroness of the Empire Hospital,
Vincent Square, where I was a patient, offered me the use of Rhu Lodge,
on her Rosneath estate in Dumbartonshire.  In this charming retreat,
lapped by the waters of the Gare Loch, I found peace.  Violent exercise
or any form of excitement was forbidden me.  But after a crowded life
as newspaper man and war correspondent I could not remain inactive.
So, to occupy my mind, I resolved to write a "thriller."

Before the war I spent five years in Berlin as a newspaper
correspondent.  They were years when Anglo-German rivalry reached its
most acute phase and a certain type of German was at little pains to
conceal his true sentiments for Britain and the British.  Once, in the
press canteen of the Reichstag, an obscure German journalist,
representative of a pan-German and, consequently, violently
anti-British newspaper, tried to pick a quarrel with me.  The incident
was without importance, but I never forgot the berserk rage into which
this cantankerous fellow worked himself.  His blazing eyes, his
screaming voice, his large paunch shaking with ire, came back to me
when the character of Grundt, the master spy, was taking shape in my
mind.

The clubfoot was an added touch.  It seemed to me sound psychology to
ally physical deformity with a warped mind, as Hugo did with Quasimodo
and Dickens with Quilp: moreover, ever since I can remember, the
particular form of disability associated with a monstrous boot has
instinctively repelled me.  For the rest, Dr. Grundt's personality is
drawn from no one person but is an amalgam of the many different types
of Prussian functionary with which I came in contact during my years in
Germany under the Empire.

Although the reader may not appreciate it, actually a good deal of
first-hand observation of German Court life has gone into the
delineation of Dr. Adolf Grundt.  That rather pathetic figure, William
II, was absolute monarch and Supreme War Lord but largely for
window-dressing purposes--in fact he was the tool of the Camarilla, the
inner circle at Court.  Wherever you have an autocracy, you find
irresponsible advisers who, by a judicious admixture of flattery and
wire-pulling, exert even greater influence over the march of events
than the despot.  At the height of the ex-Kaiser's reign, for instance,
the most influential personage of the State, more powerful, even, than
the Imperial Chancellor, was the head of the Emperor's Civil Cabinet,
because he had the immediate ear of the sovereign.  If William II did
not have a personal secret service apart from the political police, he
might well have had one.  As things were in the entourage of the
monarch, if Grundt did not exist, he should have been invented, as
Voltaire said of God.

For myself, I set out to create a villain but must admit to having
acquired a sneaking regard for the Herr Doktor in the process.  He is
ruthless, but he has plenty of courage: he can be diplomatic on
occasion, but is full of character; and he has (or I like to consider
that he has) a sense of humour.  I am glad to know that many of my
readers do not consider him a hundred per cent. rascal, but speak of
him indulgently, nay, even affectionately, as "old Clubfoot."

Let me hope that, renewing acquaintance with him in this Omnibus
Edition, they will find that their feelings for him have stood the test
of time.


VALENTINE WILLIAMS

Estoril, Portugal,
  _March_, 1936.




CONTENTS


CHAP.

   86.  LONDON CALLING
   87.  THE SURVIVOR
   88.  THE GOLD BOX
   89.  "MON BAISER RESTE"
   90.  CONCERNING A CLUBFOOTED MAN
   91.  AT THE WEISSER HIRSCH
   92.  FACE TO FACE WITH CLUBFOOT
   93.  I CONFER WITH GARNET
   94.  A STEP ON THE STAIR
   95.  WHAT THE FLAMES REVEALED
   96.  NEWS OF THE BOX
   97.  DR. GRUNDT GOES VISITING
   98.  GODDESS FROM THE MACHINE
   99.  THE SILVER STAR
  100.  THE PLAN GOES AWRY
  101.  IN WHICH A KEY REVIVES HOPE
  102.  ESCAPE
  103.  DISASTER
  104.  GARNET STEPS IN
  105.  A GLASS OF BEER AT ANDRESEN'S AND WHAT IT LED TO
  106.  A GALLOWS DRAUGHT WITH DR. GRUNDT
  107.  WHAT THE BOX CONTAINED
  108.  WHICH TAKES GARNET OFF
  109.  ALFRED DOES HIS STUFF
  110.  MADELEINE SHOWS HER HAND
  111.  HANS ROTH, SPY
  112.  THE BLACK HAND CASTS A SHADOW
  113.  ALFRED BOBS UP AGAIN
  114.  THE LONG ARM OF DR. GRUNDT
  115.  THE CHASE IS ON
  116.  THE MAN IN THE HAMMAM
  117.  THE HOUSE WITH THE BLUE SHUTTERS
  118.  THE ASSAULT
  119.  "IT WAS NOT TO BE"
  120.  THE BOX GIVES UP ITS SECRET




THE GOLD COMFIT BOX



_It must be getting on for five years since I last had tidings of the
redoubtable Dr. Grundt, once known and feared in the world of
international espionage (by reason of a physical deformity) as "The Man
With the Clubfoot."  He was then said to be living on a small property
he owned in Southern Germany, devoting himself, as I have heard, to the
breeding of cats, an animal for which he displayed a peculiar
predilection._

_"How inexhaustible and alluring a study the cat!"  I recollect his
saying to me on the occasion of one of our most thrilling
encounters--the scene was the Villa Waldesruh' at Kiel and the
circumstances of our meeting will be found fully set forth in these
pages.  "How friendless, how aloof, how sublimely egoistic and
unfathomable!  What an example to all who follow our thankless yet
fascinating profession!"_

_And he broke into one of those peals of strident laughter which still,
all these years after, will sometimes go ringing through my dreams._

_He was always a man of mystery, was "der Stelze" (The Lame One), as he
was often catted in the inner circles of government in Imperial
Germany.  In the days before the war he was known by name and repute
only to the chosen few of us in the British Secret Service, and, of
these, I was the only one who, up to the outbreak of hostilities, had
come into direct contact with that ruthless and terrifying cripple.
For Grundt was not of Germany's official espionage services, neither of
Nicolai's branch of the Great General Staff, nor yet of von Boy-Ed's
Admiralty Intelligence._

_He was supposedly attached to Section Seven of the Berlin Police
Presidency (the Political Police).  In reality, however, he was head of
the personal secret service of the Emperor and derived his power and
authority from none other than the Supreme War Lord himself.  So far as
I have been able to discover, he possessed no official credentials and
there is no mention of his name in the innumerable publications dealing
with the Kaiser and his Court, even in the notorious Blow Memoirs.
Grundt worked in the dark, and German officialdom trembled before
him--the bureaucrat knows, none better, that the servant of the
autocrat is often more powerful than the autocrat himself.  It fell to
my lot to discover that, if the shadow of old Clubfoot (as we were wont
to call him among ourselves) fell across our path, it was a fight to a
finish._

_I shall be taking you back into the years before the war with these
memories of mine.  Time has healed the old wounds now and the foes of
yesterday are the friends of to-day.  But do not run away with the idea
that even at the worst periods of Anglo-German tension prior to the
fateful 4th of August, there was any particular animus between the
British and the German secret service.  Not at any rate where the
regular personnel was concerned.  As far as our outfit went, our job
was to find out as much as possible about Germany's warlike
preparedness and prevent the Germans from discovering what we were up
to; and our future enemies were at the same game._

_This task we both performed in a business-like, almost comradely
fashion, something after the fashion of rival newspaper men or
commercial travellers who, after doing their best to cut each other's
throats all day, settle down for a friendly drink together in the
evening.  The trouble sprang from the subordinate agents both sides
were obliged to employ--the cosmopolitan rabble of cashiered officers,
unfrocked clergy and other black sheep, of ex-criminals, sharpers and
touts of both sexes who, seeking only their own ends, deserved no
quarter and frequently received none.  I do not include Dr. Grundt in
this category, but the fact remains that, in contrast with the regular
Intelligence officers in his country and mine, he was an independent
agent, that is to say, he was responsible to no established authority.
I mention this because it explains the singular ruthlessness of the
constant war of brains between him and us._

_Well, I am out of the game now.  Twenty years in the British Army and
ten of them in the Secret Service--it was a good innings while it
lasted.  But the old Europe is dead and even the Europe reborn in the
smoke and flame of war seems fantastically far removed from the New
World where I have made my home.  From the mountain shack where I write
I look back over the dead years and wonder whether the young blade
Clavering who led the hunt for poor Charles Forrest's gold comfit box
is the same person as the staid, grizzled old fellow broken in the wars
who has sat down to write this story._

_The evening stillness rests like a benediction upon the lake.  The air
is scented with sylvan odours of balsam and spruce.  A chipmunk has
stolen from his hole under the veranda and is surveying me with his
devil's face and beady eyes.  At the water's edge the friendly little
mink which lives in the bank sits on a flat rock, arching its long and
graceful neck to sniff the evening air.  A bass leaps in the lake,
leaving an ever widening circle, reminding me that the hour is
propitious for casting a line before supper._

_But I linger at my typewriter, gazing down the vistas of my memory, as
dim and crowded with figures as are the woods with their hemlock and
spruce, maple and white oak, that girdle my mountain retreat about.  As
the blue shadows deepen on the Adirondack crests, I forget the old
stiffness in my shoulder where the barrage caught me at Bourlon Wood
and stretch forth my hands towards the graceful figure, that, when
evening descends, often steps out of the past to bear me
company--Madeleine with smile slow and wistful and eyes that have the
same liquid untamed regard as the woodland creatures about me._

_She fades and in her wake comes hobbling a vast and forbidding shape,
phantom returned from that dead Europe that plunged the world into war.
So real and tangible is the visitant that, with but a little
imagination, I can hear the thump of a monstrous boot upon the veranda
and turning, see the ape-like form of the terrible Dr. Grundt glowering
at me from behind my chair._

_I can neither forgive nor forget.  But ... Schwamm daruber!  The arms
are laid down to-day, Herr Doktor.  We have let the dead bury the dead,
your country and mine.  If you should chance to read this story you
will learn for the first time the secret of Charles Forrest's gold box
and how close you were to dealing the British Secret Service a
paralysing and wellnigh irreparable blow.  Now that time has dulled the
edge of the old bitterness I will grant that you were a stout fighter
and I suppose you strove to do your duty as you saw it, even as I
strove to do mine._

_And so, old Clubfoot, from the other end of the world I lower my sword
to you, if not in salute, at least in token of peace.  Cheerio, or, as
they say in your beloved Berlin, Mahlzeit!_

_Philip Clavering._




86

London calling

The strangest chapter of adventures in my career in the British Secret
Service opened on a vile, black night of storm and rain, the year
before the war.

Spring was late and March went roaring out of Brussels, according to
the old saw, with all the fury of the noble beast that is Brabant's
national emblem.  A deluge of icy needles, driven by a wind that blew
in gusts of tempest violence, stung my face as I emerged from the
lighted warmth of the Caf des Trois Etoiles to struggle the short
distance back to my hotel.  It was what the world was to learn to think
of as typical Flanders weather.

The street was a funnel of wind and water and reverberant with the
noises of the gale.  Head down, the collar of my raincoat turned up, I
battled my way along, the rain drumming upon glass, windows rattling,
awnings flapping, and ever and again a loud crash as a bill-board or
ash-bin was blown over.  It was half past one by the clock as I crossed
the Place.  I had been spending the evening with Stockvis, who was at
that time looking after things for us at Antwerp, and I thought the
fellow would never have let me go to bed.  I had been busy ever since
my arrival from London on the previous afternoon and I had a long
report to draw up before turning in.  The prospect of a pipe and a
nightcap from my flask in the snug quiet of my bedroom as I went over
my notes was very inviting as, leaving the gale behind me, I pushed
through the rotating door of the hotel.

In the lobby Albert, the night porter, said as he produced my key,
"They telephoned for Monsieur from London to-night...."

I glanced at him, puzzled.  "From London, Albert?"  I could not think
of anyone in London who would telephone me except the office.  But
Sunday, as a rule, was a quiet day at headquarters: besides, what with
the Treasury perpetually slashing at the Secret Funds, the Chief was
rarely lavish in the matter of long distance calls.  It was something
important, evidently.

The man nodded.  "Twice already.  They will ring up again...."

Curiouser and curiouser.  I felt a little stirring of excitement.  "At
what time did they call up?" I asked.

Albert referred to his book.  "At one eight, the first time, and again
not five minutes ago...."

"I'm not going to bed yet," I said.  "Don't let there be any mistake
about it when they telephone again...."

"Very good, Monsieur Dunlop...."

"A terrible night," I remarked, picking up my key.

"Monsieur may well say that.  Especially for all those unfortunate
people...."

"What people?"

"Monsieur hasn't heard then?"

"About what?"

"About the railway accident...."

"What railway accident?"

"The Berlin-Paris express was wrecked to-night...."

I whistled.  "When did this happen?"

"Around midnight.  It was derailed near Charleroi...."

"And many people were killed, you say?"

The porter spread out his hands.  "_Dame_, it would seem so.  The first
I heard of it was from your friend in London.  It had just come over
the news tape...."

I nodded.  It was the office that had called me, then--we had a news
ticker installed there.

"I told your friend I had no particulars.  But I rang up the _Petit
Bleu_.  They said that nearly all the land lines to Charleroi are down
owing to the gale and that only a single wire to the Ministry is
working.  But from what the lady told me, I fear the death-roll must be
considerable.  She said that two coaches turned over and she heard
people screaming...."

"What lady are you talking about?"

Albert lowered his voice impressively.  "A survivor, Monsieur Dunlop.
She arrived about ten minutes ago and engaged a room.  Her manner was
so agitated that I asked her if she was ill and she told me what had
happened.  The coach she was in was thrown over, but she managed to
scramble out unhurt.  Running into the village she found a car and made
the man drive her straight into Brussels...."  He tapped his forehead.
"Unhinged, savez-vous?  She made me promise not to mention her arrival
to anyone, said she didn't want to be bothered with reporters.  So, if
Monsieur would keep this to himself...."

"Of course," I said.  "Poor creature!  What a shocking experience!
There's nothing one can do, I suppose?"

"I offered to call a doctor to Madame, but she refused.  She said she
was going to bed.  By the way, Monsieur's friend from London asked me
if we had any news of the accident.  I told him just what I've told
you...."

"Thanks, Albert," I said.  "Well, put him through promptly when he
comes on again...."

I had scarcely got to my room, draped my dripping raincoat across the
bath-tub and kicked off my wet shoes, than the telephone whirred.  "_Je
vous dites_," a very English voice spoke in execrable French into my
ear, "_je veux parley avec Mossoo Dunlop_...."

I felt a sudden thrill.  It was the Chief himself.  This meant
business.  For six months now, I had been running the show in Brussels
and I was fair sick of it.  Brussels may be the "little Paris," but its
delights soon pall.  Every blessed Saturday morning, for six mortal
months in succession, I had caught the Ostend boat train from Charing
Cross, spent the rest of Saturday and the whole of Sunday in Brussels,
closeted with the prime collection of cosmopolitan riff-raff
constituting our intelligence rank-and-file in Belgium and Holland, and
returned to London on the Monday, consigning to the devil the secret
service and all its works that came between a fellow and his week-end
parties.  Little piffling reports--for the most part, a choice blend of
blatherskyte, exaggeration and sheer mendacity--to be sifted, rewards
parsimoniously doled out--a louis here, a hundred franc note there--and
less excitement than a curate shall find on a seven-day round trip to
Lovely Lucerne.  I was absolutely fed up.  And to think, I would tell
myself indignantly, that I had temporarily shed my horse-gunner's
shell-jacket for this dreary chore!

But here was the Chief telephoning me from London for the third time,
and at twelve bob a call.  On a Sunday night, too, when, as a general
thing, he was enjoying his Sabbath repose on the shores of his beloved
Solent.  That authoritative, deep-chested voice of his, so
well-remembered, brought him vividly before my eyes--I could almost see
before me that big, grizzled head, those bright, blue eyes that could
twinkle so humorously yet, on occasion, become as merciless as the
asp's, that clean-cut, uncompromising mouth and crag-like jaw.  "Here I
am, sir," I said.

"Is that you, Clavering?"  The stern voice was edged with anxiety.

"Yes, sir..."

      *      *      *      *      *

I had better explain, before I go any further that "Dunlop" was what
you might call an "accommodation" name at head quarters.  All of us,
even the old man himself, were "Dunlop" at odd times.  It was
convenient to have an alias in dealing with the funnies of
international espionage who had to be interviewed as part of the day's
work.  Thus, though my real name is Philip Clavering, at the week-end I
regularly became James Dunlop, a London business man with interests in
Belgium, and business cards, identification papers, and a most
important-looking leather portfolio to support my claim, all Bristol
and shipshape fashion, to quote a favourite expression of the Chief's.

      *      *      *      *      *

"Clavering," said the skipper, "you've heard about the train smash?"

"Yes, sir.  Just now...."

"Heard of any English casualties?"

"No, sir.  Why?"

"Charles Forrest was aboard that train...."

"I say!"  Forrest was one of our star turns.

"We've only had the bare announcement here.  What I want to do is to
ascertain as soon as possible whether Forrest is all right.  If you
can't find out in Brussels, get a car and drive over to the wreck--if
it's near Charleroi you ought to do it in an hour or so.  I hope to God
that Forrest has escaped, but what I'm concerned with at present is
that box of his.  You know it?"

I laughed.  "That snuff-box or whatever it is he carries?"

"That's it.  If he's injured and has had to go to hospital, get that
box at all costs.  If he's among the killed, don't leave the scene of
the wreck until you've found the body and recovered the box or
definitely established that it has been destroyed.  Understand?"

"Yes, sir....."

"Then get on with it.  And, hark'ee, Clavering, this matter is
absolutely vital.  'Phone or wire me the moment you have any news!"

"Very good, sir!"

I hung up, but only long enough for the line to be disconnected.  Then,
as in my experience newspapers are usually two or three jumps ahead of
official sources with the news, I followed Albert's example and rang
the _Petit Bleu_.  At the newspaper they were polite but not helpful.
About a dozen dead and injured had been extracted from the wreck, but
they had no names as yet.  I called the railway station and the
ministry of Railways with no better result.

There was nothing for it--it would have to be a car.  As I grabbed my
wet hat and raincoat and slipped my whisky flask into my pocket, I
heard the wind go howling round the house--a nice trip I had let myself
in for.  And supposing, when I reached the wreck, I found that old
Charles was all right, I would have had a cold and miserable journey
for nothing.

Suddenly I remembered the woman of whom the night porter had spoken.
She had been on the train; there must have been other survivors like
herself who had scrambled clear.  It was just possible that she might
have noticed Forrest, if he had been one of these.  The question was
worth putting to her.  I picked up the telephone again and asked for
the night porter.

"What was the name of the lady who escaped from the train wreck and
took a room here to-night?"

It was, Albert said, a certain Madame Staffer--at least, that is what
it sounded like.

"What's the number of her room?"

Madame had suite 123/124, the same floor as monsieur.  "She said she
was going to bed," Albert reminded me.

"That's all right," I told him.  "And listen, Albert, I shall probably
have to drive out to the scene of the wreck.  Can you get me a car, a
fast car, and have it standing by, in case I need it?"

Nothing ever defeats a Continental hotel porter.  If I had asked for an
elephant, I have no doubt Albert's affirmative would have been equally
swift and imperturbable.  I hung up and collected my hat and coat
again.  I was reluctant to disturb the lady, after the terrible
experience she had undergone.  But it seemed to me I had no choice--the
matter was urgent.  I went out into the corridor and walked along until
I came to 123/124.  A light shone from under the door.

That settles it.  I knocked softly.  There was no reply.  I knocked
again.  Silence.  I tried the handle and found, unexpectedly, that the
door was not locked.  I was looking into a small entry hall with a door
at the end revealing a glimpse of the sitting-room where a light burned
dimly.  I advanced to the sitting-room, rapped on the open door.  I
could see that the room was empty but that the light was on in the
bedroom leading off it.

A woman's voice, pleasant and cultured, cried, "_Entrez!_" and as I
crossed the sitting-room, called softly in German, "_Sind Sie es, Herr
Doktor?_"

I took off my hat and looked in at the bedroom door.




87

The survivor

The woman was in bed, propped up among the pillows.  She wore a
brilliant Chinese coat embroidered in red and blue and green, and a
long lock of hair, jet-black and lustrous in a band of light that fell
from the bedside lamp, hung down over one shoulder.  In the brief
instant during which she stared at me in stupefaction I had time to
observe that she was young and remarkably handsome--her eyes, in
particular, large and black-fringed, were magnificent.

At the sight of me she sat up abruptly, drawing the front of her gay
coat together.  "_Qu'est-ce que vous voulez, monsieur?_" she demanded
coldly.

I bowed and in my best French said, "Madame, I regret profoundly the
necessity which compels me to present myself to you unannounced, but I
understand that you were a passenger in the Berlin-Paris train which
was wrecked to-night...."

"Well?"  She continued to eye me askance.

"Permit me to introduce myself," I went on, with another bow.  "My name
is Dunlop and I come from London.  A friend of mine was on that train
and I wished to ask you if, by any chance..."

"I'm afraid I can be of no assistance to you," she replied quickly.
"You see, I didn't wait.  When the crash came, I seemed to lose
consciousness and the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground in
the dark with people crying out all around me.  The glass of the window
was broken and I crawled out, and then--and then--I seemed to find
myself in a car.  The driver says I stopped him in the village and told
him to drive me to Brussels but I myself have no recollection of
it...."  She looked at me nervously.  "In the circumstances, therefore,
I'm afraid I cannot relieve your anxiety about your friend...."

"I thought you might have noticed other passengers who escaped like
yourself," I put in.  "My friend's an Englishman, a small, dark man,
clean-shaven and very square-shouldered..."

"I tell you I remember nothing," she protested plaintively.  "I've had
a grave shock.  My nerves are on edge.  I want to rest.  Please go
away...."

"But, Madame," I urged suavely, "you were surely not the only person to
leave the wreck alive?  Won't you try and think whether you saw anyone
answering to my friend's description?  After the appalling ordeal
you've been through, I wouldn't insist, only the matter is of the
gravest importance...."

Her agitation was growing.  Her splendid eyes were shadowed with some
unnameable fear.  She seemed on the verge of an outbreak of hysteria.
"For the last time I tell you I remember nothing," she cried.  Then her
voice broke.  "By what right do you come here to torture me?  I want to
be quiet, do you understand? to be quiet.  Go away!  Go away!"  Her
tone rose shrilly.

It was obvious to me that I should get nothing out of this hysterical
woman.  But I lingered on.  "I was hoping you'd be able to save me a
long, cold journey in the rain," said I, fiddling with my hat.  "You
see, it's essential that I should find out immediately whether my
friend escaped.  You didn't notice him on the train, I suppose?"

"No, I tell you, no," she vociferated.  "I never saw your friend...."

"He joined the train at Berlin," I explained.  "His name's Forrest,
Charles Forrest...."

And then a very terrible and embarrassing thing happened.  Without the
slightest warning, she gave a little, moaning cry, her head drooped to
one side and she fainted clean away.

I was appalled.  This was what had come of my ill-timed persistence.  I
sprang to the bed and took one of her hands that lay outside the
coverlet--it was small and finely-wrought and cold as ice.  "Madame,
Madame," I cried, raising up her head.  But she lay there like the dead.

In desperation I gazed about me.  There was no water within sight and
she rested a dead weight in my arms, her dark head pillowed against my
tweed shoulder.  As I looked at her I could not forbear remarking the
exquisite shape of her face, the fineness of the skin, the
sensitiveness of the charming rather pouting mouth.

Then I remembered the flask in my pocket.  I drew it out, unscrewed it
and tried to force a little of the whisky between her lips.  But her
teeth were tightly clenched and the spirit trickled down on her coat.
She never stirred out of her death-like swoon.

I should have to summon a doctor.  As gently as I could I laid her head
down on the pillow and made for the door.  I did not wait for the lift
but raced down the three flights to the hotel lobby.  The porter was at
his desk talking to a man dressed for the street who, by the suitcase
at his feet, seemed to be a new arrival.

"Excuse me," I said to the stranger and drew the porter aside.  "The
woman in 123 and 4, she's fainted," I told him hurriedly.  "You've got
to get a doctor to her quick!"

The porter's glance was suspicious.  "How does Monsieur know this?"

"It doesn't matter how I know it," I retorted sharply.  "Is there a
doctor in this hotel?"

"For that," said Albert, turning in the direction of the new arrival,
"this gentleman is a doctor and he's a friend of Madame!"

On this the stranger hobbled forward.  As he moved I perceived that he
was lame.  One of his feet was encased in a clumsy surgical boot and he
leaned heavily on a crutch-handled stick.  He was wearing a hard felt
hat and an ample black overcoat.

At the sight of me he doffed his hat, disclosing a bony, square head
shaved to the scalp at the sides and, as to the top, a mass of
iron-grey bristles.  "Dr. Grundt!" he introduced himself in a thick
guttural voice, bowing stiffly.

"This gentleman says the lady the Herr Doctor was asking for has
fainted," the porter explained, dropping into German.

"So?" said the other, fixing me with a hard, glittering eye.

"A friend of mine is on that train that was wrecked to-night," I put in
hastily, "and, seeing that this lady is a survivor, I thought she might
have news of him.  Unfortunately, she's in a highly hysterical
condition and I fear my questions upset her...."  Then the woman's
question, as I had entered the suite, flashed into my mind.  "Is the
lady expecting you?" I asked the lame man.

I had gone instinctively into German which, I should perhaps explain, I
speak as fluently as English--one of the main reasons for the loan of
my services from the Regular Army to the Secret Service in the
difficult period of Anglo-German relations before the war.

The German bowed.  "The gracious lady is an old friend of mine."  He
turned to the porter.  "Since there is no further objection to my
seeing her," he said in his hard, metallic voice, "I propose to go
upstairs."

Albert insisted on accompanying us, with a certain prim air as though
he thought a chaperon was required, and the three of us moved in a body
to the lift.  As we went up I found my eyes unconsciously drawn to my
German companion.  In the months that stood before I was to have many
opportunities of studying the Man with the Clubfoot, as we used to call
him, but I have never forgotten my first sight of him on that night in
Brussels.

He was a type to arrest attention in any assembly, less by reason of
his appearance, which was striking enough, than the extraordinary air
of authority, of command he radiated.  There was a vitality, a
suggestion of reserve power, about him that had something of the lion
or the tiger or, better still, of one of the greater apes about it.
His bulk was enormous, the span of his shoulders so terrific that it
quite dwarfed his height, with arms so long that, when he stood erect,
they hung down on either side like any orang-outang's.

This simian suggestion was strengthened by his really disgusting
hirsuteness.  His eyebrows, protuberances as bony and projecting as a
gorilla's, were overhung with shaggy tufts; there were pads of hair
upon his cheek-bones, bristles at the nostrils and growing out of the
large, pointed ears; a ridge of hard, iron-grey stubble under the
squat, broad nose, and a thatch of dark down on the backs of the
enormous, spade-like hands.

But the most singular thing about the stranger was the unbridled
ferocity of his manner.  He was obviously a man of unusual intellect,
with a big head which he carried thrust forward at an angle, so alert,
so suspicious and challenging that I could think only of some giant ape
crashing its way through the jungle.  Moreover, a light smouldered in
his eyes, which were small and glittering and, let me admit at once,
indubitably courageous, that hinted at bursts of uncontrollable fury.
His lips were bulbous, and when smiling disclosed a row of yellow,
fang-like teeth; but for the most part they were set in a hard, grim
line bespeaking an arrogant and unconcealed contempt for his fellow-men.

By common consent Albert and I remained in the sitting-room while Dr.
Grundt went to the bedroom door, which I had left ajar, and rapped.
There was no answer and he went inside.  In a moment he was back.
"Hot-water bags," he ordered addressing the porter.

"Sofort, Herr Doktor," Albert replied obediently, and hurried away.
Grundt was eyeing me in his furtive way.  "We need not detain you," he
remarked.

"How is she?" I asked.

"She's come out of her faint, but her circulation is very low," he
replied.  "Gott, a woman's nerves..."

"Since the lady is in such good hands," I said, "I think I'll leave
you..."

I was interrupted by a faint cry from the bedroom.  "_Qui est la?_" I
heard.

Without another word Grundt turned and swiftly went back to the
bedroom, while I made my way to the lift.




88

The Gold Box

The accident had taken place near a station called Ablesse, Albert had
informed me--a village in the Charleroi coal-mining area.  There was no
one in the lobby when I descended, so I sent the elevator boy to find
the porter, and in the meantime sought to locate Ablesse on the large
railway map hanging behind the reception desk.  Measured on the map, as
the crow flies, it was about sixty kilometres from Brussels, in the
valley of the Sambre.  Then Albert bustled up.  The car was at the door.

I found a large open Minerva awaiting me.  It was one of the line of
automobiles that habitually stood before the hotel for the benefit of
hotel guests who wanted something more luxurious and faster than a mere
taxi for excursions to the field of Waterloo, Laeken and similar places
of interest.  Grard, its chauffeur-proprietor, had driven me before;
his cheerful, red face grinned me a welcome from under the streaming
sou'wester.  I told him our destination and promised him a
hundred-franc tip if we made it in the hour--no mean achievement, as
cars were in those days, and making allowances for the execrable _pav_
of most Belgian roads of the period.

"One will see," Grard remarked succinctly--he was a man of few
words--and I slipped into the driving-seat at his side.  It was ten
minutes to three and raining and blowing harder than ever.  Brussels
was a vista of shining asphalt, blurred lights and a hundred thousand
knives dancing on the deserted pavements.  The trams had stopped
running and there was little traffic about, so that we slid through the
sleeping city at a good clip.  But long before we were clear of the
octroi, I had given myself up to my thoughts and lost all count of my
surroundings.

I was thinking about Charles Forrest and his box.  Old Charles's box
was known to all of us in that small group of Intelligence officers
whom the Chief liked to call his "star turns."  I had spoken of it as a
snuff-box, but, properly speaking, it was a comfit box; in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, persons of quality used to carry
sweetmeats--_drages_, I think they called them--in boxes like these.
This one was a delightful specimen of seventeenth century goldsmith's
work, elaborately engraved with Amoretti and what not, about the size
of a tinder box, that is to say, it measured roughly about four inches
by three.

Charles's story was that the box had belonged to a French ancestor of
his mother's, a dancer at the Court of Louis XIV, to whom it had been
presented by a Venetian nobleman.  The dancer's name--Marie
Bertesson--was inscribed upon the lid and figured ingeniously in the
locking device.  The box had no key but between the two names stamped,
the one along the upper, the other upon the lower part of the lid,
there was the figure of Cupid with bent bow and arrow.  The arrow was
practical--that is to-day, it was superimposed on the figure and swung
on a pivot.  To open the box, one turned the barb of the arrow in turn
to each letter of the word "M-A-R-I-E," pressing each time upon the
little boss upon which it rotated, on which the lid flew up.

Old Charles was immensely proud of his heirloom which, to tell the
truth, was a very charming and probably quite valuable piece.  He
carried it with him everywhere, and I could well believe that he might
have taken advantage of its secret locking device to use it as the
receptacle of some document of importance; at any rate, it was obvious
that some such idea was present in the Chief's mind in giving me orders
to recover the box at all costs.  Of course, the box was very limited
in capacity.  At most, it would accommodate two or three sheets of thin
paper, folded small.  But that was neither here nor there--in this
bizarre job of ours fellows have lost their lives over a half-sheet of
note-paper.

I had not set eyes on Charles Forrest for months.  That's the way
things happened in our work; one would see a fellow every day for
weeks, and then, hey presto, he would vanish and no questions asked.
Sometimes he would never reappear, and by and by the Chief would take
from his desk a certain slim volume which was always kept under lock
and key, and run a red pencil through one of the names listed there.

A queer fellow, Forrest, not very likeable and hard to understand.  I
thought about him as the big Minerva went rushing through the night,
slithering about on the cobbles and sending the water spraying up from
the puddles.  He had brought it as far as lieutenant-commander in the
Navy, and then at forty-five had gone on half-pay and joined us.  I
always thought that his rather crabbed temperament had more to do with
his retirement from service with the Fleet than his efficiency as a
naval officer, for he was energetic and highly talented, and could
always be relied on to finish, and usually finish successfully any job
he undertook.  He had made a special study of the North Sea and the
Baltic--he had spent many leaves cruising those waters alone in a small
yawl he owned--and I did not doubt that he was now returning from some
such mission.  You will remember that with the breakdown of all
attempts to secure a "naval holiday" between Great Britain and Germany
in the years immediately preceding the War, the Anglo-German naval
situation became permanently and perilously acute.

It was a glare in the sky ahead that first told me we were nearing our
destination.  My first impression was that the wreck was in flames, but
we soon discovered that the reflection came from naphthalene flares
rigged up at intervals along the permanent way.  We drew up at a level
crossing where already at least a dozen automobiles were parked.
Grard's stubby finger prodded the luminous dial of the dashboard
clock.  The hands pointed to twenty minutes to four.  His grin was
triumphant.  "Good work, _mon vieux_," I told him.  "Wait for me here.
I may be some time."  And I hauled my stiff, cold limbs out of the
driving-seat.

Two hundred yards along the metals the guttering light of the flares
lit up a towering mass of wreckage.  Figures came and went against the
lurid background of flames and smoke.  It was not hard to see what had
happened.  A goods train, switched from a parallel track, had run into
the express from the side.  With the force of the impact the engine of
the goods train had clambered on the roof of the rear--the
baggage--wagon of the express, flinging the next two coaches clear off
the line.  These two coaches had plunged down the low embankment and
reposed in a tangled, splintered mass of wreckage at the foot.  Viewing
them, I marvelled at the miraculous escape from death of the little
lady at the hotel.

Lights and a long low roof gleaming darkly in the rain were visible
beyond the capsized coaches.  The murmur of voices, the ring of tools,
the hissing of steam reached my ears as I hurried forward.  An
occasional flash of light followed by a mounting cauliflower of snowy
smoke told me that the press photographers had reached the scene before
me.

I skirted the wreck looking for someone in authority.  Behind the prone
coaches the hedge fencing off the railway had been cut away.  Twenty
paces from the gap was the long low roof I had descried before, sides
open to the weather, earthen floor, shed at the end--one doesn't see
many of such places any more; it was a rope-walk.  Here, where the
ropemakers were wont to trudge to and fro spinning their hemp, a line
of forms shapeless as sacks were laid out.  It was dim in the
rope-walk, but light streamed from another building farther away, and
through the open door I caught a glimpse of a doctor's white coat.

I was about to pass through the hedge when a gendarme stopped me.  I
asked to speak to his officer.  The man bade me wait, and sent another
gendarme in search of the lieutenant.  I inquired from the first
gendarme whether there were any English among the dead.  He gave me a
curious look and said I had better ask the officer.  There were nine
dead and twenty-one injured, he told me in answer to a further question
of mine.  It was believed that most of the casualties had been removed
from the wreck.

A bearded officer, the hood of his mackintosh cape drawn over his
uniform cap, now appeared.  "_Mon lieutenant_," I said, "an English
friend of mine was a passenger on the express and I'm anxious to
discover whether he's all right.  The name is Forrest--Charles
Forrest----"

On that the lieutenant, even as his subordinate before him, seemed to
stiffen into attention.  "You're a friend of this Monsieur Forrest?" he
inquired rather tensely.

A sense of foreboding was growing upon me.  "Yes," I replied.  "I hope
you're not going to tell me that----"

The officer shook his head.  "He had no luck, that one," he said.
"Please come with me..."

And he led the way through the hedge and across the rope-walk to the
adjacent building.

It was the village school converted into a temporary hospital.
Acetylene flares; mattresses on desks and floor; bandaged heads and
arms; a white-coated group about a table; the strong reek of ether and
iodine.  With ringing spurs my escort clanked across the schoolhouse to
a door in the far wall.  This he thrust open and ushered me into a
small office, where a man, stripped to the waist, lay on his back on a
table.

One glance told me that the man was Charles Forrest; a second that he
was dead.

He was not disfigured or mutilated, and I saw no blood.  His eyes were
wide open and with the unrevealing glance of the dead those sightless
orbs stared up at the green-shaded oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.
Two men in dark clothes, one on either side of the table, were bending
over him; a third man, in surgeon's overalls abundantly splashed with
blood, stood apart, nonchalantly filing his nails.

I recognised one of the pair at the table.  It was Vandervliet, the
Chief of the Belgian Secret Police.  I knew those bristling whiskers,
that large paunch, of old; but I was very sure that he did not know me.

The gendarmerie officer had drawn him aside and was whispering to him.
Now Vandervliet addressed me.  He was a fat and frog-like man, with a
revolting habit of clearing his throat raucously at frequent intervals.
"You are a friend of Monsieur Forrest?  You can identify him?" he
demanded with a vaguely suspicious air, and hawked resonantly.

"Certainly," I said.

"What is his profession?

"He is a retired naval officer----"

"No occupation?"

"He's managing director of a shipping line," I replied, giving old
Charles's official cover.  He had actually acquired an interest in an
unimportant shipping concern--a line of tramp steamers--to account for
his frequent visits to the German and Dutch seaports.

"And who are you, monsieur?"  The question was peremptory.

"I'm an engineer," I said.  "I'm over here from London on business..."

"Your papers, if you please, m'sieu..."  The fat man's eye--it was
round and protruding, like a gooseberry--held mine.  I gave him my
business card---James Dunlop, Electrical Engineer, Victoria Street--and
passport; passports were rather rarities in those days.

Vandervliet unfolded my passport, glanced over it, then his face
changed.  Closing the passport, he handed it back to me; then,
addressing his aide, the gendarmerie lieutenant and the surgeon,
requested in his gruff, asthmatic voice: "Gentlemen, be good enough to
leave Monsieur and myself alone!"

The three men clattered out.  Vandervliet followed them to the door,
and closed it.  Then, turning to me, he croaked: "Monsieur Dunlop,
permit me to introduce myself.  I am Vandervliet, Chief of the Secret
Police!"

I bowed and murmured "Monsieur!" wondering what was coming next.

"Your name has been mentioned in certain very secret conversations that
have recently taken place between the British military attach in
Brussels and the Chief of our General Staff.  I feel justified,
therefore, in asking you a certain delicate question.  This one
here"--his thumb indicated the dead man--"was he, like yourself, of the
British Secret Service?"

I hesitated, looking from him to my dead comrade.  "Why do you ask me
that?"

"Because," the Belgian answered ponderously, "the wreck to-night was no
accident.  Or rather it was an accident resulting from a criminal
interference with the railway signals.  Someone tampered with the
signal outside Ablesse station and brought the express to a standstill,
with the result that a goods train, scheduled to follow it, crashed
into it while passing from one set of metals to the other----"

"But I don't understand," I interrupted him.  "Why was it necessary to
stop the express?"

"In order that the miscreant who had robbed your friend might leave the
train..."

I went cold with apprehension.  "Robbed?" I faltered.

"If not robbed, _mon cher_, then murdered.  That, at least, is
certain..."  He fumbled in a drawer and, taking something enveloped in
cotton wool, held it up to the light.  I saw the gleam of the blade--it
was a long, slender stiletto.  "This unfortunate Forrest," Vandervliet
went on, "did not lose his life in the accident, although such was the
impression at first.  He was stabbed to death with this..."  He shook
the dagger at me.  "When the surgeon examined him, this knife was
buried up to the hilt in Forrest's chest.  Look here!"

He stepped up to the table with finger pointing.  On the dead man's
breast, just above the left nipple, I perceived a narrow slit, plugged
with a tampon of cotton wool.




89

"Mon baiser reste"

I have always been highly sensitive to atmosphere, especially in the
more dramatic moments of my career.  Even after all these years, when I
think back upon that interview with old Vandervliet in that bare little
pitch-pine room, with the corpse of my poor comrade stretched out
between us, it is to hear again the loud tattoo of the rain upon the
tin roof of the schoolhouse, the gurgle of water in gutter and kennel,
the mad buffeting of the wind, and the deep panting of the breakdown
locomotive in the cutting outside.

I stared at the portly Belgian aghast, for the moment quite unable to
speak.

"He was of your service, _n'est-ce pas_?" he wheezed.

I nodded.

"Was he carrying documents of value?"

I hoisted my shoulders.  "I can't say for sure, but it's probable..."

"I thought as much," said the Belgian rather pompously.  He cleared his
throat and spat into his handkerchief.  "He spoke of some box..."

I caught his arm.  "You mean, he was alive when they found him?  What
did he say?"

"He was one of the first to be taken from the wreck.  It was the
level-crossing keeper who got him out--this man and his son heard the
crash and were on the scene within a minute or two.  They found Forrest
in the rear sleeper fully dressed--he must have lain down to sleep in
his clothes..."

"Yes, yes, but what did he say?"  The stolid Belgian was not to be
hurried.

"A beam had pinned him to the floor," he replied imperturbably.  "They
thought he was dead but when they lifted him clear and laid him on the
grass, he moved and spoke to them in French.  He was restless and kept
muttering about a box.  It was only a minute or two before he died,
however--internal hmorrhage, the doctor says.  Old Pierre and his boy
left him there to go on with the rescue work--they never noticed the
dagger and it was the doctor who discovered it.  But by that time, as I
say, your poor friend was dead..."

I frowned.  "He had a gold box--a sort of _bonbonnire_.  Was anything
of the sort found on him?"

Vandervliet's head shake was emphatic.  "No."  He pulled open a drawer.
"Here's everything he had in his pockets...."

I went and looked over his shoulder.  I saw in a heap a watch and
chain, bunch of keys, leather cigar-case, gold cigar-cutter, wallet,
some small change--English and German.  Vandervliet took out the
wallet, opened it.  "It was not money or valuables the murderer was
after.  _Regardez!_"  And he showed me three 5 notes tucked away under
a flap.

I examined the contents of the wallet myself.  Visiting cards, an hotel
bill--the Bristol, Berlin--some private letters, a photo or
two--nothing of the slightest moment.  "What about his luggage?" I
questioned.  Vandervliet's pudgy finger indicated a shabby suitcase
ranged against the wall.  "I went through it myself.  Only clothes and
a few books...."  He pitched me over the keys.  "And, as far as is
known he had no registered luggage--at any rate, he had no receipt on
him."

As a matter of form I hunted through the valise, shaking out coats and
shorts and underwear.  Just as I expected, there was no sign of the
box--I knew that old Charles never let it out of his sight.
Vandervliet flung me across a grey tweed overcoat and I went through
the pockets with the same negative result.

I tossed the coat aside and, putting my hands in my pockets, confronted
my companion.  "Monsieur Vandervliet," I said, "with your permission
I'm going to lay my cards on the table..."

"_Faites, m'sieu_," he wheezed amiably.

"I was sent here to-night on orders telephoned by my Chief in London to
recover that box at all costs.  I discern very clearly in this affair
the hand of the German counter-espionage..."

"Ah!" the Belgian croaked.

"Obviously, Forrest was shadowed from Berlin.  At what time did the
accident occur?

"The train was halted at 12.33.  The collision took place three or four
minutes later..."

I nodded.  "Quite.  The plan was to halt the express at an hour when
everyone had retired for the night.  The murderer, knowing the precise
moment at which the train would be stopped, was free to wait until the
last second before entering Forrest's compartment to secure the box.  I
don't suppose Forrest's death was intended: probably, he woke up and
the thief killed him to prevent his raising the alarm.  Now there's
this.  This device of stopping a train to enable a criminal to escape
isn't new.  It has often been employed by train bandits in the States.
Only it implies that the man on the train had accomplices in the
village to tamper with the signals and afterwards facilitate his
escape, probably with a car..."

The fat man leered at me cunningly.  "Exactly.  And there was a car..."

"Ah!"

"A big grey car, splashed with mud as though it had travelled a long
distance.  On learning that the signals had been wrongfully set against
the express, I immediately despatched the _brigade mobile_ to make
inquiries in the village.  They found a woman who has a cottage just at
the back of the school-house here.  She was sitting up with a sick
child.  Glancing out of her window, a few minutes before the express
passed, she saw this car on the road alongside the railway hedge, close
to where the accident occurred.  A man stood beside it as though
waiting for someone--she wondered what he was doing there at that time
of night.  On hearing the crash she stopped to see to the child and
slip on her clothes before rushing out.  When she reached the road
beside the cutting, the car had disappeared..."

"In which case," I said sombrely, "we may whistle for the----"  I broke
off; the little lady at the hotel had suddenly flashed across my mind.
"Monsieur," I cried excitedly, "did anyone notice a woman running away
from the wreck after the accident?"

He shook his head blankly.  "Not that I know of.  But all the
passengers have not yet been accounted for.  Two of the dead have not
been identified.  They're checking the lists now..."

I broke in upon him with my story of the interview I had had that night
at my hotel.  "Of course," I said, "the shock of the accident would
explain her hysterical behaviour.  But if she had really killed this
man....  Can you telephone Brussels and have her detained?"

"_Bien sr_," my companion remarked and waddled to the door.
"Laporte," he called, and his aide appeared.  He gave him a whispered
instruction.  "The coup is classic," he cackled placidly, returning to
me.  "The beautiful lady and the stiletto--you said she was beautiful,
I think?"

"I don't think I mentioned it, but as a matter of fact, she is..."

The Belgian rolled up his eyes with a seraphic expression.  "They
always are.  Not one of the regulars, I suppose?"

"I never saw her before.  I'd call her a rank amateur.  If she were an
old hand she'd never have let the porter get out of her the fact that
she'd been on that train..."

"The name is new to me," Vandervliet observed.  "Staffer--the name is
English, is it not?"

It was Stafford, of course--the idea had not occurred to me.  "Yes," I
replied.  "But it's an alias, as like as not.  She's not English,
however.  She's Hungarian, or Rumanian, or, perhaps, Polish..."

The pendulous cheeks trembled to an asthmatic chuckle.  "We'll know
more when we've printed those pretty fingers of hers..."

I started.  "By jove!  I was forgetting that dagger.  Did you look for
any prints on it?"

Vandervliet seemed to swell.  "You don't imagine that the great
Vandervliet would overlook a detail like that?"

"And there _are_ prints?

"_Bien sr_, there are prints.  Your comrade will be avenged yet, _mon
cher_...."

"It has just struck me," I put in, "that, since he was alive when they
found him, he must have seen his assailant.  I'd like to have a word
with old Pierre who, you say, was with Forrest when he died..."

"That is not hard.  I'll have him fetched...."  Vandervliet plodded to
the door.  As he opened it I caught sight of the brown uniform of a
Wagons-Lits conductor.  "The _contrleur_ of the rear sleeper,"
Vandervliet told me.  "I sent for him..."  He gave me a significant
glance which I interpreted as meaning that we should not take the man
into our confidence about the murder.

The conductor's face was ashen and a blood-stained bandage swathed his
head.  His uniform was stained with mud and oil.  My companion patted
him on the shoulder, called him "_mon brave_," and asked how he was.  A
little tap of nothing at all on the nut, the man explained modestly in
fluent Paris argot--he seemed to be a stout fellow.

We questioned him together.  When the crash came he was in the
conductor's compartment in the next coach, having a slight argument
about some missing towels.  He noticed that the train had stopped and
was about to comment on it to his colleague when he was flung violently
against the side of the compartment--and that was all he knew about it.
It was obvious, therefore, that he could have heard no cry or any sound
of a scuffle coming from Forrest's compartment.

The train was running very light, he said.  Only three compartments
were occupied in the rear coach.  There were four passengers--a
Frenchman and his wife who joined the train at Cologne and shared a
compartment; an Englishman, booked through from Berlin to Paris; and a
lady, likewise travelling from Berlin to Paris.  The Frenchman and his
wife were killed on the spot; the Englishman was also dead.  The lady
was missing.  They were still searching the wreck for her body.

Vandervliet and I exchanged a glance.  We asked about the lady.
Richard--that was the conductor's name--had seen her last during the
first service of dinner.  She was then sitting with the English
gentleman in his compartment, smoking a cigarette.  She and the
Englishman were obviously friends--they had lunched together; at least,
Richard had seen them going along to the restaurant car when lunch was
announced.

And that was the sum of information we extracted from the _contrleur_.

As we dismissed him, Laporte, Vandervliet's subordinate, appeared.
With a crestfallen countenance he announced that all telephone
communication with Brussels was interrupted.  Raspingly, Vandervliet
bade him take a car, go to the hotel, seek the lady out and remain on
guard over her until we should arrive.  "And if there's a lame
gentleman with her, he's to be detained as well," was the Chief's
parting instruction.  "We'll be on the safe side," he observed to me
humorously.  Little did we divine at the time the unconscious irony of
that remark.

Rather sombrely, I glanced at my companion.  Here was a thread clearly
discernible running back from the dead man to the woman at the hotel.
As old Vandervliet had said, the coup was classic--she had scraped
acquaintance with Forrest in the train, or perhaps she had picked him
up somewhere in Berlin, and, sitting with him in his compartment, had
marked down that gold box of his as the most likely receptacle for the
document or whatever it was her employers were in search of.  Or, more
probably, they knew what was in the box and had given her the direct
order to steal the box and leave the train at the arranged
stopping-place.

I wondered about old Charles.  I had never heard that he was
particularly susceptible to women, but then none of us knew very much
about his private life--he was always a secretive devil.  And I had
seen enough of life to realise how few of us are really proof against a
pretty face and such alluring black eyes as those of the little lady of
the hotel.  It made me positively hot under the collar to reflect that
I must have actually been within a few yards of the box when I was in
her bedroom.

I had made a special study of the personnel of the German secret
service in all its branches, but I could not place the clubfooted man.
He was a German, but that did not necessarily mean that he was in the
plot.  He might be a medical man settled in Brussels, a friend whom she
had called in to attend on her.  I was not favourably impressed by his
looks; but then my revered Chief would scarcely have taken a prize in a
beauty contest, either.

I looked at my watch--4.25.  I had little hope that she would still be
at the hotel: my inquiry about Forrest was enough to have frightened
her away.  I would have to hasten back to Brussels and take up the
pursuit from there.  But first I must speak with old Pierre.

I reminded Vandervliet about it.  "We'll go out and look for him," he
pronounced and picked up his large umbrella.

The schoolhouse had been evacuated.  In the rope-walk men with
flash-lamps and stretchers were preparing to remove the dead to a line
of ambulances parked along the hedge.  We paused an instant to
contemplate the grim and terrible array.

"They've all been identified except him there, _patron_...."  A
plain-clothes man, who was standing by, spoke up.  His foot pointed to
a blanket that left only a head and shoulders showing.

It was a man of middle age, undersized and narrow chested and shabbily
clad, with a long, sharp nose and snarling, rat-like mouth.  His eyes
were closed, the face stern and peaceful; but for its waxen pallor you
would have said he was asleep.

"He has no papers and no luggage and his clothing bears no marks," the
plain-clothes man explained.  "And none of the conductors remembers
having seen him on the train..."

I was staring fixedly at that livid mask; it seemed to me I should know
that vulpine face.  "Turn down the blanket," I bade the detective.

He hesitated.  "He's terribly crushed; he's not a pleasant sight..."

"No matter.  I want to see his arm..."

I turned to Vandervliet.  "There should be two crossed lances tattooed
on the forearm," I said.

The dead man's arm lay outside the coverlet.  Two lances were tattooed
there, just as I had predicted.

"It's H.79, otherwise Amschel Lipschtz," I told my companion in an
undertone.  "He did his military service with the Russian cavalry but
he's an old hand in the secret service of our friends across the Rhine."

"_Tiens_," old Vandervliet exclaimed, "you know him?"

"I know the rascal," I retorted.  "He's a stool-pigeon of the German
counter-espionage, a nasty bit of work.  He has a criminal record as
long as your arm: white slave traffic, dope, and the Lord knows what
else.  He's a Bessarabian by origin and started life as an informer for
the Okhrana--you know, the Russian secret police.  I've run across him
once or twice and always there was blood in his tracks.  I wonder how
he was involved in the smash since he doesn't seem to have been on the
train..."

"I think I can explain that," said Vandervliet and turned to the
plain-clothes man.  "Where did they find him?"

"Under the wreckage of the rear sleeper, _patron_.  There were tons of
stuff on top of him..."

Vandervliet nodded and drew me aside.  "Obviously he was of the party
that fixed the signal.  In all probability, he came to the sleeper to
guide the lady to the car and when the collision occurred the coach
toppled over on him..."

"You may be right," I told him.  "But I'm thinking of that dagger.  It
smells of H.79--he was always handy with the knife.  Will you take his
prints?  And I should like someone to question the survivors in case
one of them saw or heard anything suspicious before the crash occurred.
I've been here too long as it is.  I must get back to Brussels..."

"Leave it to me," said the Belgian.  "Apropos," he went on, "you wanted
to see old Pierre.  Here he is!"

A lanky old man in the peaked cap of the Flemish peasant shambled in
under the roof of the rope-walk.  A caped gendarme escorted him and a
lad of about twenty whom I took to be the son.  Vandervliet explained
to them that I wanted to ask some questions about the first victim they
had taken from the wreck, the English gentleman.

Old Pierre was voluble enough.  They had seen a hand sticking out and
had then perceived the "_pauvre monsieur_" wedged between the bed and
the side of the compartment.  They had extracted him with no great
difficulty.  He was so limp that they had believed him dead.  But as
they laid him on the grass he had opened his eyes and his hands
fluttered towards his jacket--old Pierre acted it for us.  The
gentleman kept muttering to himself, Pierre said--something about a box.

"What exactly did he say?" I asked.

The old man spread his hands and blinked his eyes at me--he had a
gnarled face and pouched eyes, like a lizard's.  "_Eh bien_," he
answered in his thick patois French, "he said like this, 'my box, my
box,' over and over again, and he kept trying to move his hands to his
chest.  I said to him, thinking he was in a delirium, 'It's all right,
_mon bon monsieur_, a little moment and you shall have your box'--you
know, to pacify him as one would a child.  But people were screaming
all round us and we had to help the others--we were afraid the wreck
might catch fire as happens so often but not in this case, thanks be to
God--so I told young Georges here to leave him and come on.  I could
see the poor gentleman was going--he was talking a lot of nonsense..."

"Do you remember anything else he said?"

The old man hoisted his narrow shoulders.  "_Ma foi_, I didn't pay
attention..."

On that the son struck in.  "He seemed to think he was speaking to a
woman..."

Vandervliet and I looked at one another.

"A woman?" I echoed.  "Did he mention her name?"

"No," young Georges replied.  "It was just from something he said..."

"Well, what did he say?" I demanded impatiently.

"It was in his delirium, you understand," the lad explained with an
embarrassed air.  "He spoke of kisses..."

"Of _kisses_?" I exclaimed.  My tone was incredulous.  This did not
sound in the least like old Charles.  I had a sudden vision of that
weatherbeaten face of his, tough as a figure-head, of his stern blue
eye and hard, cynical mouth.  "Are you sure of this?" I asked the youth.

"_Mais si, m'sieu_..."

"Can you remember his exact words?

"He said, like one who talks in his sleep, 'My kiss remains!'" he said.

"Look here," I broke in, "are you quite certain you aren't making this
up?"

"But, m'sieu, the poor gentleman said it three times: 'My kiss
remains!'  Like that!"

"He said three times"--I give the phrase in French, as young Georges
repeated it, and as, doubtless, Forrest, who knew French pretty well,
said it--"'_Mon baiser reste!_'?  Is that correct?"

The boy nodded emphatically.  "_Oui, m'sieu.  'Mon baiser reste!'_"

I repeated the phrase over to myself.  "Mon baiser reste!"  This beat
Banagher.  What was this woman to Forrest that his last thoughts should
be of her?  Well, one never knew about fellows and that was a fact.
"And he said nothing else, nothing more than this?" I asked old
Pierre's son.

"_Non, m'sieu_.  After the third time, his head fell back and Papa said
to me, 'Hurry thyself, little imbecile,' he said to me.  'Dost thou not
see he's gone?  Come on and let's give the living ones a chance,' he
said.  And then I perceived that the poor gentleman was dead..."

"And neither of you saw anything of a gold box when you lifted him
clear?" I asked.  Both the old man and his son shook their heads
vigorously.  I turned to the plain-clothes man.  "Have you been through
his pockets?" I asked, pointing to the corpse on the ground.

They brought me a bloodstained sack with the dead spy's few poor
belongings.  As I expected, Forrest's box was not among them.  Though
virtually certain that the woman had carried it off with her to
Brussels, I asked old Vandervliet to have a special search made of the
wreckage.  I told him I would pay a reward of 1,000 francs to the
finder of the box.  A thousand francs was 40 in our currency of those
days and I saw the Belgian's eyebrows go up.  "If the box is still
there, you'll get it back," he told me with considerable assurance.
"But for me," he added with a sage air, "it went with the little lady
back to Brussels!"

I waited only to impress upon my Belgian friend the need for absolute
secrecy--discretion is the very essence of our work--and he agreed with
me that nothing should be disclosed to the newspapers regarding the
true circumstances of Forrest's death.  Promising to see me very
shortly in Brussels, he wheezed a cordial farewell at me.  Five minutes
later, at Grard's side, I was racing back towards Brussels and the
unfriendly dawn.




90

Concerning a clubfooted man

The sky was flushed an angry red as we rolled into Brussels.  Brussels
gets to work in the morning earlier than any other European capital,
and I know them all.  Trams crowded with the first relays of
wage-earners thumped along the avenues, the dog-carts rattled on their
rounds with the milk--the cheerful stir was in singular contrast with
the gloom of my thoughts.  On stepping round a charlady as I entered
the lobby of my hotel, the first person I saw was Laporte,
Vandervliet's aide.

He was telephoning at the desk.  On catching sight of me, he hung up
the receiver and came bustling across the deserted vestibule.  "_Ca y
est!_" he announced with an air of profound dejection.

"Gone, are they?"

"Not ten minutes after you left the hotel.  Around three..."

"Both of them?"

He nodded.  "The doctor told the porter that the lady was sufficiently
rested and preferred to go on home at once...."

That settled that--the clubfooted man was in it, too.

"Where were they making for?"

Laporte made a contemptuous gesture.  "Where would they make for?  I
warned the frontier posts but, _que voulez-vous_?  I was too late.
Verviers reports that they crossed into Germany at four-thirty--a big,
grey car with a diplomatic _laissez-passer_...."

"The car that brought the lady from Ablesse, I suppose?

"Undoubtedly...."

"What have you found out about them?"

"Precious little.  The man was registered at the Hotel van
Gelder--that's a small German house in the Lower Town...."

"I know it," I said briefly.  "It's always creeping with their
agents...."

"He arrived last night.  Registered as from Berlin.  The woman who
keeps the hotel swears she never saw him before...."

I laughed my disbelief.  "_Et avec a?_"  Which is good Parisian for
"Tell me another."  "What about the lady?"

Laporte drew me across the lobby to the reception desk and opened the
register.  There she was, the latest entry, in a bold, attractive hand:
_Madeleine Stafford, Cologne_.

"And what do we do now?" the secret service man demanded blankly.

I clapped him on the shoulder.  "Nothing, _mon vieux_!"

If you are looking for a feverish chase half across Europe, I am afraid
I cannot oblige you--at least, not yet.  Laporte's tidings did not
surprise me.  They had secured a good start.  After a coup of this
kind, the first thing an agent does is to seek with all speed the
shelter of his own frontiers--and Aachen is only about seventy-five
miles as the crow flies from Brussels.  The secret service has no use
for extradition: it has its own methods for obtaining justice.  The box
had gone, but, more than this, we had lost a man.  If I knew the Chief,
he would see that the score was evened.  But it would be evened in his
own time.

The Chief was in town.  I went to my room and put through a call to
London, grateful to learn from the operator that the gale had spared
communications westward.  I had changed into pyjamas and turned on the
bath when the bell rang.  In a minute I heard the well-remembered
voice.  "Is that you, P.C.?"

"Yes, sir...."

"Well, what's the news?"

Telephones have ears: I had to be discreet.  "The consignment went
astray owing to a premature death in the family," I told him.

He was always sharp as a needle, was the skipper.  No indignation, no
inquest--right away he tumbled to it that I was giving him a message in
conventional language.  He asked no unnecessary questions, but only
said: "You mean our friend?"

"Yes," I told him.

"In the accident?"

His voice was even--the old man could always take it on the chin.

"The same sort of accident as Banquo had," said I.

His "Ah!" was perfectly steady.  "And the--er--consignment?" he
inquired gently.

"Gone where the sausages come from, sir," I reported.  "I'm writing you
a full report in cipher----"

A pause.  Then: "Better come over yourself, P.C.  Take the morning
train.  Are you in touch with anyone over this?"

"With Vandervliet, sir!"

"I'll send someone over to take your place.  Let Vandervliet know.
Good-bye!"

      *      *      *      *      *

The Chief was waiting for me when I reached the office that afternoon.
He greeted me cordially enough but his air was rather
forbidding--indeed, I did not know when I had seen him looking more
concerned.

"Clavering," said he, "this is a lad business--bad about poor Forrest
and bad about that box of his...."

He lifted an evening paper that lay upon the desk.  "I see the name of
an old friend among the list of dead, Amschel Lipschtz.  Does that
explain what you meant by saying that Forrest had met with the same
sort of accident as Banquo?"

"Not exactly, sir.  Lipschtz was found dead in the wreckage.  But the
person who stabbed Forrest was a woman...."

The Chief frowned.  "A woman?"

"A certain Madeleine Stafford...."

The Chief shook his head blankly.  "And the box has gone to Germany,
you say?"

"I'm afraid so, sir.  I offered a reward of 1,000 francs for its
recovery.  But Vandervliet telephoned me just before I left to say it
had not been found...."

The Chief's scowl deepened--with the large paper-knife he wielded, he
was punching holes in the blotter.  "Shall I tell you what was in that
box?" he went on.  "A complete list of our agents on the German coast.
Forrest was on the job for months, nosing out really efficient,
reliable people...."  He broke off and with a resigned sigh, pushed the
cigarettes across.  "Well, let's hear your story...."

He stopped me only once and that was right at the start when I told of
my meeting with the woman in the hotel.  "Just a minute," he said and
turned to his confidential secretary who sat at her desk in the corner.
"We don't know this Madeleine Stafford or anyone like her, do we,
Garnet?"

Garnet looked up from the file she was arranging.  (Her name was really
Miss Wolseley but, as she had the same surname as the celebrated Field
Marshal, from an easy association of ideas, everybody called her
"Garnet" _tout court_.)

"I don't think so, sir," she replied in her quiet, competent way.  "Not
under that name, at any rate.  Of course, Greta Gelbhammer, who works
for Abteilung Sieben, is dark and some people"--here Garnet glanced at
me rather pointedly through her spectacles--"might call her
handsome...."

Garnet was quite a bright girl but, like so many bright young women;
she was apt to be much too positive.  The Chief, who thought a lot of
her brains, did nothing to discourage her--that was left to some of us
in the office.

"Greta Gelbhammer is a Jewess," I retorted severely.  "Besides, she's
forty if she's a day and about as crude as they make 'em.  This girl
isn't more than twenty-five or twenty-six, a Christian and quite
obviously a lady...."

"Sounds like one of these damned amateurs," the old man grumbled.
"This trade of ours is being ruined by them, like another ancient and
even less honourable profession.  Go on!"

"And to think it was a fellow like Forrest who let us down," he
exclaimed when I had finished.  "'My kiss remains!'" he quoted with a
disgusted air, and snorted.  "Well, poor devil, he paid for it.  And
that's that.  But all his work in Germany will have to be done
again...."  He fell into a brooding silence.

"What about the people on that list of his?" I ventured to put in.

"The German counter-espionage will bag the lot," the old man rejoined
absently.  "Or worse, if my opposite number knows his job, he'll simply
hold his hand, feed 'em false information to send us and then, at the
most awkward moment for us, of course, swoop down and pinch the whole
boiling....

"It's not as if we weren't warned--I mean, you have a copy of the list,
I suppose, sir...."

Morosely the Chief shook his head.  "That's the devil of it, I haven't,
not a complete one anyway.  The list I have doesn't include Forrest's
last appointments.  All we can do is to keep tabs on the fellows whose
names we have and see if the counter-espionage gets after them...."

"You don't think that secret lock on Forrest's box may defeat them?"

The Chief laughed sourly.  "A locksmith will make quick work of
that..."  He grunted.  "It's a mess, Clavering, and that's a fact...."
He paused.  "This clubfooted man is new to me.  Grundt, you say his
name is?"

"Yes, sir.  Dr. Grundt...."

"It's odd," said the Chief, "but there's something hovering far in the
back of my mind about a club-footed man....  What is it, Garnet?"

Silently the secretary had laid an open file before him.  With a nicely
manicured finger-nail she now pointed to a sheet of paper bound up in
it.  On the sheet a German newspaper clipping was pasted with the
translation typed out beneath.  The Chief glanced through the
typewriting, then, with a grateful regard at his secretary, exclaimed,
"Garnet's a wonder!  She never forgets anything...."

He tapped the file.  "This is the case I was trying to remember.  Last
year a Guards officer, attached to the Great General Staff in Berlin,
was found dead in his rooms.  Officially his death was attributed to
heart failure.  But here's _Die Rote Zeit_, a Berlin Socialist
newspaper, spilling the beans.  It says that this officer was under
suspicion of selling military information to the Russians and that his
death took place immediately following the visit of a lame gentleman, a
certain Dr. G...."

He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and read out: "'If our information,
emanating from a sure source, is correct, not heart failure, but a
bullet fired by his own hand, was the cause of Major von L.'s sudden
demise.  This is not the first time, in military and naval circles,
that such fatal results have ensued upon the visit of the clubfooted
Doctor who, unless we are mistaken, receives his orders from a most
exalted quarter....'"

"Which," observed the Chief, surveying me maliciously over the top of
his spectacles, "can mean only the Emperor.  Here's a note appended to
the clipping which bears out this conclusion...."  Settling his glasses
on his nose again, he read out: "'The entire issue of _Die Rote Zeit_
containing the above was confiscated by the Berlin police, the Editor
arrested and indicted on a charge of _lse-majest_.'"

"Your little lady's visitor was no amateur, at any rate," the Chief
remarked with a short laugh.  Then the telephone on the secretary's
desk whirred.  Garnet answered it.  Her hand across the transmitter,
"Vandervliet," she said.

The Chief signed to me to take the call.  The Belgian's asthmatic
wheezing came distinctly over the wire.  "_Mon cher_ Dunlop," he said
when I had announced myself, "we have verified those prints on the
knife."

My first thought was of the Stafford woman.  "But how?" I asked,
puzzled.  "Lipschtz," was the answer.  "Lipschtz?" I echoed.  "_Mais
oui, mon cher_.  We took his prints as you suggested.  _Eh bien_,
they're identical!"

My original surmise was correct then--H.79 had run true to form.  I
must admit I was relieved to find the lady of the hotel cleared to this
extent.  There is a certain etiquette in secret service work as there
is in all professions and, save in certain definitely prescribed cases,
murder has no place in it.  Somehow, I had never been able to credit my
friend of the attractive eyes with a wanton crime such as this; and I
could now look forward with less bitterness to the ultimate reckoning
which I had promised myself would take place between us.  I remember I
said something of the kind in reporting old Vandervliet's announcement
to the Chief.  "Bah," said the skipper, "the woman doesn't matter.
It's this clubfooted man I'm after...."

Then I spoke out loud the thought that had been in my mind from the
very start of the interview.  "I'm hoping very much, sir," I said,
"that you're going to let me go into Germany and square up accounts
with him...."

The Chief shook his head.  "Francis Okewood left for Germany this
morning.  You're going back to Brussels...."

As you may imagine, I felt pretty sick at that.  Francis Okewood was a
top-hole man, as you who have read his secret service adventures during
and after the war* are aware; particularly, his knowledge of German and
the Germans was second to none.  But, after all, I was the only one who
had actually seen Dr. Grundt, and it seemed to me that I had the prior
claim.


* _The Man with the Clubfoot_ and _Clubfoot the Avenger_.


I said something of the kind to the Chief.  He was pretty short with
me.  "It isn't a question of squaring up accounts," he replied.  "We've
got to warn our people as far as we can.  Grundt will keep."  He smiled
grimly.  "I like my meat well hung...."

"And the box, sir?"

He frowned.  "If I'm not mistaken, we may whistle for it...."

The telephone rang again.  This time it was the War Office--the
Director of Military Intelligence.  "Give me two minutes, you two!"
said the Chief.  Garnet and I went into the anteroom.

"I'm puzzled about old Charles, you know," I told her.  "Somehow, I
can't quite see him doing a thing like this...."

"You said the woman was attractive, didn't you?" said Garnet, glancing
at her nails.  She had a very well-shaped hand.

"Most alluring.  I can understand any fellow falling for her.  I could
fall for her myself..."

"They lunched together on the train, you say?  And she was seen later
smoking a cigarette with him in his compartment?"

"Yes.  But that doesn't necessarily prove that he was in love with
her..."

"She was able to get that box off him, at any rate.  And what about
those last words of his?"

"Listen, Garnet," I told her, "I didn't know Charles Forrest very
well--none of us did.  But I knew him well enough to see that he was
wrapped up in his work.  It's absolutely unthinkable to me that he
should have put any woman before his job.  After all, the man's dead
and can't defend himself.  Why jump to the obvious conclusion at once?"

"I'm not jumping to any conclusion that I know of," she said severely.
"I'm simply going on the facts.  After all, those last words of his can
only mean one thing..."

"I don't care what they mean.  I can only tell you that that line about
kissing simply wasn't in his repertoire..."

"Nevertheless, it's what he said," she pointed out.

"All the same," I told her, "I shall want evidence a great deal
stronger than any we've got at present to believe that old Charles,
with all his experience, should have let himself be hoodwinked by a
common adventuress..."

I spoke with an air of conviction but my mind was torn with doubt.
From what little I had known about Forrest, he had never been what is
called a philanderer.  And he had always gone about his work with a
certain grim seriousness which seemed to rule out the possibility of
amorous adventure.  But I had lived long enough to agree with what Holy
Writ says about the way of a man with a maid and I realised that I
might well be mistaken.  I was not going to admit it to Garnet however.

"You men are all the same," she remarked crisply.  "You always stick up
for one another, don't you?"

I looked at her in some surprise.  Seeing the Garnet week in, week out,
always calm and unruffled and efficient we scarcely thought of her as a
woman but rather as one of ourselves.  I don't suppose she was a day
more than twenty-five or twenty-six, but she was so self-assured that I
imagine it made her seem older than she really was.  And when she took
off the hideous horn-rimmed spectacles she invariably wore in the
office, she was really not bad-looking.

"Never mind," she continued, "I like loyalty.  And I like you for
thinking the best about poor Forrest..."

A hail from the inner room put an end to our conversation.
"Clavering," said the Chief as we went in to him, "are you pretty
familiar with the present type of German service rifle?"

I had made a special study of fire-arms, as, of course, he knew.  "Yes,
sir," I replied rather puzzled.

"Expert enough to tell by handling a model whether the mechanism
displays any departure from standard?"

"I think so, sir..."

"Then I shall want you to take over a job I was nursing for Okewood..."

My spirits sank.  Not only had Okewood been entrusted with the mission
that by rights belonged to me, but I was also expected to accept his
leavings.

"Very good, sir," I answered dejectedly.

"I'll send you further instructions in due course," said the Chief.
"In the meantime, you'll follow up the Brussels end of this affair.
Keep in touch with Vandervliet..."

"Very good, sir," I replied submissively and turned to leave.  Not
another word about Grundt.  Was the skipper really going to take
Forrest's murder lying down?

I should have known him better.  He had fallen silent and was staring
down at the letter opener in his hand.  "Grundt, you said his name was,
didn't you?" he suddenly remarked.

That was the old man all over.  As Winston Churchill once said of Lord
Reading, he seemed to think by double entry.  "Yes, sir," I agreed,
brightening up.

Leaning across the desk, the Chief prodded me in the chest with the
paper knife.  "Don't forget that name, Clavering!  Because you and Dr.
Grundt are apt to have a show-down one of these days!"

It was to come sooner than either of us reckoned.




91

At the Weisser Hirsch

It was about a week after the events I have just described that, in the
dusk of a weeping April afternoon, I found myself entering the little
hostelry of the Weisser Hirsch at Schwarzental, a tiny hamlet just over
the German side of the Belgo-German frontier.  In obedience to orders,
after making my report to the Chief, I had returned to Brussels and
remained there, kicking my heels in a thoroughly disgruntled frame of
mind.

For Vandervliet could tell me no more than what I knew already, namely,
that Madeleine Stafford and her limping doctor had crossed the border
into safety.  Though he assured me that all frontier guards had been
specially warned to arrest them instantly should they attempt to return
to Belgium, I was convinced in my own mind that, as far as Belgium was
concerned, we had seen the last of them.  It chafed me to know that.
Francis Okewood was in Germany busy on a job that properly should have
been mine, and even when I received my instructions for this
Schwarzental mission, for which the Chief had already prepared me, I
could work up little enthusiasm for an undertaking which appeared to me
to be neither interesting nor exciting; but merely dangerous in a
hole-and-corner sort of way.

My orders were to investigate a specific report that the German
infantry were experimenting with a new type of rifle.  One of our
agents on the Belgo-German frontier, a Luxemburger named Balck, had
forwarded the story.  He lived at Eupen, a small German frontier town,
and his information was that the Jger battalion stationed there had
been issued with the new weapon.  Under instructions from London he had
arranged for one of the non-commissioned officers, a certain Oberjger
Brandweis--in the Jger sergeants are called "Oberjger"--to bring a
rifle to the inn at Schwarzental after dark for our inspection.  Balck
called himself an auctioneer, but I always suspected that he did a bit
of money-lending on the side.  Probably Brandweis was in financial
difficulties--that is the way most traitors are made.

Balck, of course, did not know one end of a rifle from the other and it
was not the Chief's habit, anyhow, to entrust a matter of this
potential importance to the judgment of a subaltern agent.  Under the
rigorous Prussian military laws it was horribly dangerous for
anyone--German or foreigner--to attempt to obtain secret military
information and Balck, accordingly, had done his best to induce the
wretched Brandweis to bring the rifle across the border into Belgium.
But Brandweis could not be persuaded to run this additional risk.  The
rendezvous was therefore fixed at the inn at Schwarzental which stood
on the German side of the line, no more than two hundred paces distant
from the black and white striped Prussian frontier posts.

Though I say it as shouldn't, I was not a bad-looking fellow in those
days, 150 lbs. stripped and five foot ten in my socks.  But as I
contemplated my appearance in the very wavy mirror of my tiny
whitewashed bedroom at the Weisser Hirsch, I flatter myself my own
mother would scarce have known me.  Even the Chief, no mean hand at
disguise himself when it came to it, would have had difficulty in
recognising not the least dapper of his young men in the stolid,
plump-faced individual, with straggling moustache, hair cut _en brosse_
and gold pince-nez anchored by a chain to the ear, whose reflection
confronted me in the glass.  I never went in much for false beards and
wigs, but in preparation for this particular stunt I had left my small
moustache untrimmed and sacrificed my parting to a ruthless cropping
with the shears.  Two small guttapercha pads on either side of my upper
jaw, between gums and teeth, rounded the naturally rather narrow shape
of my face in remarkable fashion.  A knickerbocker suit of green shoddy
which I bought at a reach-me-down establishment at Brussels gave me, as
I believed, the authentic appearance of a Belgian Tartarin.

For this was the essential part of my cover, as we used to call it.
The Chief, who was canny about such things, had not lost sight of the
fact that Brandweis might be merely a stool-pigeon.  If I were walking
into a trap, at least my identity must be carefully wrapped up to give
me a sporting chance of extricating myself.  Balck, it seemed, was a
sportsman of sorts in such leisure as he had left over from the
pursuits of espionage and usury.  His plan was that I should appear as
a Belgian guest of his at a shoot to be held by a syndicate of which he
was a member in the country round Schwarzental and that after lunch, on
the pretext of having sprained my foot, I should make my way,
ostensibly to rest, to the inn and there await the visit of Brandweis.

In accordance with this plan, I spent the night before the shoot as one
Gerrit Hasselt, of Bruges, at the hotel at Eupen.  Balck called for me
next morning.  I was not really surprised when he explained that he was
too busy to go out with us--subordinate agents, as a rule stand from
under on such occasions and I saw at a glance that he was half scared
out of his life.  It appeared to me that he had done all that was
reasonably to have been expected of him when he took me to a caf in
the environs of the town and presented me to a genial group of his
fellow-townsmen weirdly and wonderfully garbed for "_die Jagd_."

At a quarter past three that afternoon, three-quarters of an hour
before Brandweis was due to present himself, by which time, as
previously arranged, we found ourselves close to the belt of woods
through which the frontier line runs and about a mile from the inn, I
staged my "sprain."  I succeeded in eluding all efforts of assistance
and half an hour later a slatternly wench ushered me into the bedroom I
had asked for at the Weisser Hirsch.  For all that my mission bored me,
I was feeling rather pleased with myself.  I was decidedly flattered to
rind how unsuspectingly Balck's German friends had accepted me in my
Belgian rle.  We had an entertaining, if somewhat perilous, morning
after hare--perilous because the guns stood in the centre of an
advancing circle of beaters driving the game before them and everybody
blazed away at once.  Still, nobody was hurt and we bagged a lot of
hares.  I found myself smiling at my recollection of the scene.

I had told them below that a man would call to see me about a car.
This, of course, was Brandweis; he had been warned--quite needlessly, I
should have said--not to appear in uniform.  Four o'clock passed and he
did not come.  As time wore on I grew apprehensive.

I was in Germany and the German counter-espionage, especially on the
frontier, I knew was extremely alert.  Bribing a man serving in the
German Army to betray military secrets was high treason under German
law and punishable by a long term of penal servitude.  If I were
caught, my number would be surely up.  My own people would disown me;
for such is the rule of the service.

I went to the window.  It was on the back, looking out upon a small
gravelled yard some ten feet below, set about with arbours used in the
summer-time.  The forest came right up to the beer-garden--there was a
gate in the fence that gave access to it.

It was growing dark and patches of mist clung clammily to the
tree-tops.  Out of the depths of the woods the rustle of feet in the
undergrowth, an occasional voice calling in the distance, floated up to
me.  Villagers gathering firewood, I told myself; but I left the
window.  These vague sounds made me strangely nervous.

Then the door was tapped lightly.  I ran and drew the bolt.  A man
slipped in hastily.  He was in plain clothes, wearing a long raincoat.
His face was a sickly greenish yellow.  He bolted the door and faced
me, withdrawing from under his mackintosh a long package wrapped in
newspaper.  Silently, he extended a hand, grasping his package with the
other.  The package danced, he trembled so; and his eyes were lit with
terror, like the eyes of a wounded hare I had seen that morning.

I stepped to the casement and drew the curtains across, then touched a
match to the candle that stood upon the table--there was no electricity
in the little inn.  A sudden feeling of nausea overcame me--I hated the
mob, hated myself for what I had come there to do.  I knew the Jger
battalions for splendid troops, unsurpassed by any in the Prussian Army
for smartness and loyalty, and the thought of this unsavoury scoundrel
selling the honour of the regiment to a foreign power was almost more
than I could stomach.  Instead of giving this Judas his shekels into
his hand, I flung the envelope with the money on the table.  He
snatched it up and began to count the notes while I, picking up the
rifle, freed it from its swathings and started my examination.

I perceived immediately that my mission was futile.  The weapon was the
ordinary Muser, the German service rifle; a closer scrutiny showed me
that the only new departure was an unimportant alteration in the
sights.  Rifle in hand, I questioned the Oberjager.  But he, in a
whining voice, protested that the rifle was the new issue.

"Give me back my rifle, Herr," he begged huskily, rolling hunted eyes,
"and let me go!"  I pressed him further, for fraud of this kind is the
commonplace of espionage work, but received the same answer--it was the
new issue.

The sound of Balck's car in the street determined me--he was to drive
me back to Eupen.  I went to the door and unbolting it, handed
Brandweis his rifle.  "Get out of here!" I flung him in German.

My back was to the door as I faced him.  It was the almost demented
expression upon his face--such a frozen look of horror as I had rarely
seen on human countenance before--that caused me to swing about.  The
door-handle was turning slowly.  My first idea was that it was Balck.
Then some instinct of danger warned me.  Perceiving that Brandweis had
laid the rifle down upon the table, I snatched it up and thrust it
under the bed.  While I was thus engaged, the sergeant in two noiseless
strides had gained the window.  I turned in time to see him throw the
casement wide, fling a leg over the sill and vault out.

At the same moment the curtains blew wildly out into the room, the
candle flared and guttered and I saw that the door was open.  A huge
form bulked darkly in the entrance.

The candle burned up again.  The door had closed softly.  An enormous
man, hat on head, stood within the room, leaning on his stick and
regarding me balefully.

With a chill sense of foreboding I recognised the clubfooted man of the
hotel.




92

Face to face with Clubfoot

Once seen, the Man with the Clubfoot could never be forgotten.  With
his barrel chest and mighty torso, his flail-like arms and, before all,
his prodigious and repellent hirsuteness, he had left an ineffaceable
impression of sheer animal strength upon my mind.  But in the week that
had elapsed since I first clapped eyes on him, on that night of storm
in the lobby of that Brussels hotel, I seemed to have lost sight of the
extraordinary atmosphere of menace he spread about him.

No doubt my perceptive faculties were quickened by the peculiar
circumstances of his untoward appearance--that twilit room, the dark
and silent woods without, and at the open casement the curtains yet
swaying to the terror-stricken haste of my visitor's departure--and by
the instant realisation of the acute peril of my position.  Whatever
the reason, I found something unutterably sinister about this gigantic
cripple as he lurked there, his massive head tilted forward and to one
side as, with a spry, suspicious air, he sent his glance darting into
every nook and cranny of the modest bed-chamber--something sinister and
something inexorable, and I quailed.

My scalp was prickling.  I longed to get my hand on my pistol which was
in my inside pocket.  But this was no time for gun play: if he had
followed Brandweis to the inn, he was not alone.  My only chance was to
bluff myself out of my desperate predicament.

From under his beetling eyebrows Grundt was considering me with a
savage glare.  I perceived at once that he did not recognize me, and
the discovery gave me courage.

"It's customary to knock when you enter a private room," I said
severely in my best Belgian French.  "May I inquire what you want here?"

That fierce, dark eye was roving round the room again.  "Am I right in
supposing that the gentleman has had a visitor?" he questioned with
elaborate politeness.  He answered in French which he spoke fluently
enough but with a hard, guttural German inflection--his voice was
harsher than the creak of dry axles.  I had to think swiftly.  I could
not be sure whether he had seen Brandweis disappear through the window,
but it was fairly obvious that he knew the sergeant had been with me.
Denial was useless: boldly I took the plunge.

I giggled feebly, as I imagined a man who would buy a suit as dreadful
as those grass-green duds of mine would giggle, and rejoined brightly,
"If you'd call him a visitor.  I'd just come in from shooting and was
about to change my wet things when this man burst in and begged me to
hide him.  Then you came and he sprang through the window there.  What
was he?  A poacher.  They were telling me at the shoot to-day that the
poaching along the frontier is something terrible..."

Supporting himself on his stick the cripple limped a few steps towards
me--the thud of his heavy boot on the bare boards sounded like the
approach of leaden-footed destiny.  He halted in front of me.  "So?
The gentleman has been shooting, _hein_?" he growled out.  "A good
day's sport, my friend?"

"Capital," I said as nonchalantly as I could contrive with a throat
that was dry with apprehension.  "We bagged forty-one hares...."

"So, so?  You were after hare.  The gentleman must be a notable
marksman..."

I might have known that his saccharine civility boded no good.  He was
pointing towards the bed.  As my eyes followed the direction of his
rubber-shod stick, my heart seemed to miss a beat.  The dark butt of
the rifle projected from under the bed flounce which the draught from
the window must have displaced.

I did not hesitate.  I stooped down and pulled the rifle out.  "It's
not mine," said I with such boldness as I could muster.  "This fellow
put it there.  I'm afraid I'm not a good enough shot to go after hare
with a rifle...."

The big man chuckled--his mirth had an unpleasant sound.  "The
gentleman is too modest..."  He paused and moistened his thick lips
with his tongue.  "I, too, have a day's sport on hand.  But I'm no such
noble sportsman as yourself.  Vermin is _my_ quarry--the fox, the
weasel, the rat..."  His voice gathered volume on a rising note, then
sank to its normal level again.  "I, too, drive my game, my friend," he
went on softly.  "Into the centre of a circle, in our good old German
way..."  His hot eyes glittered.  "Is this the first time the gentleman
has taken part in a German hare drive?"

I don't know what I answered.  The underlying menace in his manner
indescribable.  Though the room was damp and chilly, the perspiration
broke out on my face and my hands were dank.  With a cold shiver of
fear running down my spine I asked myself _how much this man knew_...

"A thrilling sport, is it not?"--he was speaking again in that strident
voice of his.  "Especially if one puts oneself in the place of the
hare.  Master Long Ears hears footsteps, shouts, and flees before them,
doubles in his tracks and encounters them again; and all the time the
circle of beaters, closing in, inexorably, from all sides, grows
smaller.  Tighter and tighter the encircling ring becomes, more frantic
and despairing are the victim's efforts to escape.  But there is no
escape.  Fate is waiting in the centre.  Or nemesis, shall I call it?
the nemesis that waits on vermin--rats, and the other foul creeping
things I hunt..."

His voice had descended to a rasping undertone.  He ground his teeth on
the closing word and there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes fastened
with intent upon my face.  Suddenly whistles shrilled faintly in the
forest and then a single shot went reverberating through the darkness
outside.  On the instant my companion lifted his bull head and cocked
his ear towards the window, his whole expression alert and watchful
like a wild beast measuring the distance for its pounce.  My mind was
working rapidly and I profited by his absorption to steal a pace nearer
the solitary candle.

A second shot.  The cripple seemed to relax.  His smile was savagely
exultant.  "_Pan_," he cried triumphantly, imitating the report of a
gun, "to bring the rascal to earth.  And _pan_!  The _coup de grce_!
So may all traitors be exterminated, stamped out, annihilated!"  He
cleared his throat contemptuously.

No need to ask myself the meaning of those shots.  They had got
Brandweis--this was the climax my formidable visitor's parable had been
working up to.  The inn was surrounded; they had held, as it were, the
nose of a bag open to the traitor as he sped for his life through the
woods, and he had bolted straight into it.  The clubfooted man had been
playing with me while waiting for the shot which would tell him that
the trap he had laid had closed.  My turn, I doubted not, would be next.

The critical moment had arrived.  I stole a glance at Grundt.  His
appearance appalled me.  His heavy cheeks were shaking to a gust of
rage that shook him as a storm shakes an oak, leaving him speechless.
His regard was bloody: every hair of him seemed to bristle; and his
fleshy lips, twisted into a cruel leer, were flecked with beads of
foam.  And I was alone with him in this lonely inn, at the mercy of the
incalculable military strength of the vast German Empire.

"Vermin we shoot," he snarled, "and traitors like Brandweis we shoot.
But what death is not too good for those who make traitors?  Shall I
tell you why I, the unique and incomparable Grundt, sully my hands with
carrion like this dog I've just sent to his Maker?  It is because
Oberjger Brandweis belonged to a corps which is as the apple of his
eye to him whom I have the honour to serve, and my master must never
know that one of his trusted Jger could ever fall so low.  As for
you..."--his voice rose to a passionate shout--"who are you, you
sneaking cur, and who sent you spying here?"

I was cold as ice now--a crisis, when I am face to face with it, always
has that effect upon me.  I shrugged my shoulders.  "I don't know what
you're talking about and I don't like your tone.  This is my room.
Have the goodness to get out!"

On that he seemed to pounce.  "Ei, ei," he cackled shrilly.  "A good
disguise, my dear colleague, and excellently carried off.  But the
arrogant tone is not in your rle...."  He dropped into English.  "Tell
me please, how long this excellent Balck who now sits in Eupen jail,
has been in the employ of the English Secret Service?"

I knew then that Balck, the slimy hound, must have given the rendezvous
away--the danger with civilian agents, the Chief used to declare, was
that they are always the first to rat.  Inch by inch, my right hand was
moving towards the gun in my inside pocket.  But Grundt must have
detected the movement for he rapped out, "Reach for the ceiling, you
dog!"  I saw that one of his great, hairy hands was wrapped about an
automatic.

And now, in a fraction of the time it takes to set it all down on
paper, I found myself obliged to take a momentous decision.  Before me
was the man who, beyond a doubt, had planned and carried out the theft
of Charles Forrest's box.  He was a cripple and I was young and active
and, notwithstanding his gun, if I had had any certainty that the box
was still in his possession, I would have chanced my arm and gone for
him.  But I did not have this certainty and the price of failure was
either a bullet through the head or, at best, a long stretch in a
German convict prison.  With death in my heart, I had to tell myself
that in this case discretion was certainly the better part of valour.
By biding my time I should at least keep my real identity a secret
against a more promising chance to recover the box--though I feared
that it had already, long since, yielded up its secret.

My mind made up, slowly I raised my hands.  But when they were level
with the candle I suddenly shot out my right palm and flattened the
flame, dropping to my knees as the room went dark.  The roar of the gun
nearly burst my ear-drum but before Grundt could fire again I had dived
through the curtains and clear over the window-sill.  It was a crazy
thing to do, but I landed, crouching, on my feet.

In the obscurity of the yard a shape rose up beside me with hands that
grappled for my throat.  I had a fleeting glimpse of a red face and
bristling moustaches under a bowler hat and drove blindly at it with my
left as I scrambled to my feet.  It was a daisy of an upper cut with
all my weight behind it and the figure folded up with a soft grunt.

There came a second and a third thudding report in rear and I heard the
bullets go crashing through the leaves.  But by this time I was in one
of the arbours, bursting my way through the hedge.  Whistles were
blowing and a clamour of voices, dominated by one that trumpeted like a
wounded elephant, rang out behind me as the darkness of the sopping
woods swallowed me up.

In our game the old hand always marks down a line of retreat.  In
returning from the shoot that afternoon I had not failed to remark the
deep and tangled gully that wound its way across the frontier.  I
floundered considerably in the dark before I picked it up while sound
of pursuit echoed through all the trees about.  But my luck was in and
some twenty minutes later, my hands scratched, my hair full of burrs
and an ugly tear in the knickers of my lovely green suit, I stumbled
almost into the arms of an astonished Belgian customs man and knew I
was in safety.




93

_I confer with Garnet_

My instructions were, whatever my findings on the rifle might be, to
return to London without delay--the War Office, it seemed, were
apprehensive on the subject of the rumoured new weapon.  I managed to
hire a car at Verviers to take me to Lige where I got a train for
Antwerp and caught the night boat to Harwich.  On reaching my chambers
in the Albany next morning I shed my verdant reach-me-downs without
regret and after a bath and a shave, summoned a barber to restore my
moustache to its normal proportions.  Only then did I telephone the
office, to be told that the Chief wished me to lunch with him--would I
pick him up at one o'clock?

But when, a few minutes before that hour, I was ushered into his room,
only Garnet was there.  "Oh, my gracious," was her greeting, as she
stared hard at my cropped hair, "when did they let _you_ out?"

"Were you never taught as a child that it's rude to make personal
remarks?" I said.  "Where's the Big Noise?"

"He's been detained at Downing Street," she replied.  "He'll see you at
three..."  Her clear grey eyes contemplated me.  "Well," she demanded,
"how did you get on?  Is it an automatic rifle or what?"

"It's a wash-out," I told her with some feeling, "and I shouldn't be
surprised to know it was a plant from the beginning.  The only
consolation is that that lily-livered skunk, Balck, is in the clink.
The next time the Treasury starts chopping you down you can tell 'em
what comes of taking military information from a tinpot auctioneer.
But I didn't waste my time exactly.  I ran across our clubfooted friend
again..."

One of the most irritating things about our Garnet was that she never
allowed anything to surprise her.  If you were to tell her, for
instance, that Westminster Abbey had been burned to the ground, her
first question would probably be, "Was it insured?"--she had that kind
of a mind.  Accordingly, she displayed no astonishment now, but merely
enquired, "Did he have the box?"

After what I had been through, her question nettled me.
"Unfortunately," I rejoined very sarcastically, "I did not have the
opportunity of going through his pockets..."

"Why?"

"Because he happened to be holding a gun in his hand at the time.  A
loaded automatic, my dear, and by an odd coincidence it was pointed at
me..."

Her eyes were suddenly grave.  "Not joking?"

"I'm not joking," I told her.  "And the worthy Dr. Grundt wasn't
joking, either.  Unless, of course, he fired at me in fun..."

"You mean he actually fired at you?"

"I do.  He seems to believe in the old cowboy saying, 'First fire, then
inquire!'  So, in the circumstances..."  I shrugged my shoulders.
"Besides, how was I to know he had the box on him?"

She patted my sleeve.  "The great thing is to have you back safe.  And,
anyway, if you had searched him, I don't believe you'd have found the
box..."

"Why do you say that?"

She ignored the question.  "I suppose there's no doubt but that they
got away with it..."

"If you're implying they did not, let me tell you that every inch of
ground at the scene of the accident was gone over with a fine tooth
comb..."

"Would the finder necessarily hand it over?"

"Well," I said, "that box wouldn't fetch more than a couple of hundred
francs at a pawnshop.  And I offered a thousand francs reward.  Why
should you think that the woman didn't get away with it?  She was
obviously put on to shadow Forrest..."

Garnet nodded.  "Okewood thinks that Forrest was shadowed all the way
from Hamburg..."

"You've heard from old Francis, then?"

"Yes.  He has found out that a German secret service man was at
Strait's Hotel at Hamburg the night Forrest stopped there.  Forrest
spent two nights in Berlin, at the Bristol..."  She paused, regarding
me.  "The woman was there with him..."

"Who says so?"

"Okewood.  They were continually together, he says..."  She stopped.
"I know what you feel about Forrest," she went on gently, "and I don't
want to say a word against him.  But you must see now that he was
infatuated with this girl, so much so, indeed, that, at the very moment
of death, he fancied she was still with him..."

"What has Francis done about her?" I asked, without pursuing the
question.

"He has found no trace of her.  Of the clubfooted man, either.  But
your encounter with Grundt would explain that.  She's probably on the
frontier with him..."

"The Chief should have sent me instead of Francis," I grumbled.  "After
all, I know the pair of them.  I'd have run them to earth on the
frontier and joined hands with Francis..."

"And become infatuated with the lady like poor Charles?"

She could say the most annoying things.  "I don't see why you should
assume that..." I rejoined.

"Didn't you tell me you could fall in love with her yourself?"

The Chief was right: the Garnet forgot nothing.  "If I did make such a
remark," I retorted cuttingly, "I was probably relying, quite
unjustifiably, on your sense of humour..."

Her eyes smiled at me.  "Poor old Clavering..."  Then, growing serious
once more, she said, "After all, I can't help thinking that, for some
reason or other, that list has not yet been found..."

"They've got the box, haven't they?  You're not suggesting that the
list wasn't in it?"

"It was in it all right.  You know Brade?"

"That English coal importer who works for us at Hamburg, do you mean?"

"Yes.  He saw Forrest just before Forrest started for Berlin.  Forrest
showed Brade the box and told him that the list was in it, Okewood
says..."

"Then what?"

"Okewood has made the rounds of a number of the agents whose names we
have and no attempt has been made to molest them as yet..."

"That proves nothing..."

"Wait a minute!  Do you remember Andresen?"

"The big Dane who was always taking you out to lunch when he was here?"

She coloured slightly.  "He's not a Dane.  He's a naturalised German.
And I only lunched with him twice.  Andresen runs a beer-garden on the
harbour at Kiel.  He only gets away with it because he served in the
German Navy--you know how jumpy they always are at Kiel.  If any
suspicion attached to Andresen, he'd be under lock and key, especially
as a lot of men from the Fleet frequent his establishment.  Well, he
hasn't been interfered with--not up to the day before yesterday, at any
rate, Okewood says..."

It was certainly surprising, and I said so.  "But they've got that
box," I added.

"I'm afraid you're right," Garnet agreed thoughtfully.  "But aren't you
going to tell me about your meeting with Grundt?"

"It's a long story," I remarked, gazing at her.  Garnet looked rather
nice that day.  Black always suited her and she had a bunch of violets
tucked into the belt of her frock.  "Do you ever eat lunch, Garnet?" I
asked.  "I mean when there are no Danes about..."

"Oh, yes," she answered brightly, "nearly every day--oftener if I'm
invited.  And that reminds me..."

"Do you want to go along to the Savoy Grill with me?" I broke in.

"If you'd allowed me to finish what I was saying," she returned
severely, "I was about to convey to you an order from our esteemed
Number One.  He said you were to take me out to lunch.  And now you've
gone and spoilt everything by asking me..."

"Spoilt nothing.  All this means is that he'll foot the bill.  Or will
he?"

She gave her demure laugh.  "I doubt it..."

"We'll go to the Savoy just the same," I declared.

"Not the Savoy," she pleaded.  "It's so crowded.  Somewhere quieter..."

"Garnet," said I, fixing her with my eyes, "I believe you're paying me
a compliment..."

"If you believe that, my dear," she answered with calm, "you'll believe
anything.  Since it's to be a good lunch, let's go to the Maison Basque
where we can talk..."

"The Maison Basque be it," said I.  "Run for your bonnet and shawl
while I count up my money..."

      *      *      *      *      *

Garnet, of course, had something up her sleeve.  It was perfectly clear
to me that the Chief had told her to take me to the Maison Basque for
some ulterior purpose of his own--I knew these two of old.  Still,
nothing appeared at first and I was able to tell the story of my
experiences at Schwarzental without interruption.

My tale was finished and we had reached the coffee when Garnet remarked
casually, "Who would you say was the most interesting woman here?"

My first reaction to this quite unexpected question was that she had
brought be there to show me the Stafford wench lunching, say, with the
Chief of the Imperial General Staff.  We had a corner table and the
small, narrow room was quite crowded.  I surveyed the throng without
seeing any sign of the lady in question.

I turned to my companion.  "The price of the lunch," I remarked
facetiously, "does not include compliments..."

"No, but seriously," she said laughing, "look around and tell me which,
of the eight or nine women in the room, intrigues you sufficiently to
make you feel you'd like to meet her..."

I glanced down the restaurant again.  "Well," I remarked at length, "if
I were in search of adventure I believe I'd find it with the young
woman on the sofa over there with the man in grey..."

Garnet began to laugh softly, but I stopped her.  "Please remark," I
went on, "that my judgment is in no way influenced by the circumstance
that the lady is possessed of considerably physical charm and that
her--ah--retrouss nose and full lips denote what I will delicately
call considerable sensibility.  No, my dear Garnet, what intrigues me
about her is something so trivial that I am sure it would escape your
attention..."

"Oh," she said puzzled, "and what may that be?"

"It's a detail so small that it would elude the vigilance of anyone but
a--ahem--a trained sleuth like myself.  If you will cast an eye at the
dish before her, you'll observe that the lady is regaling herself with
a fillet steak.  Am I right?"

"As far as I can see--yes, she seems to be eating steak.  What of it?"

"Observe the red pepper in her hand.  And the bottle of Worcester sauce
on the table.  Now she's helping herself to it.  Surely you must see
that a woman who indulges in red meat lavishly besprinkled with
condiments must be a female of quite unusual force of character.  And
determined females, as you must have noticed, my dear Garnet, have a
fatal fascination for me..."

Garnet smiled.  "I hadn't remarked it.  As for the red pepper and the
rest of it, they're easily explained.  She's a Hungarian, and the
Magyars, as you should certainly be aware, like their food highly
seasoned..."

"You know her, then?"

"By sight only.  That's Mitzi Funda!"

Everybody has forgotten Mitzi Funda to-day, I imagine, except, perhaps,
a few old playgoers who will find in my narrative the true explanation
of her mysterious disappearance from London in the middle of the run of
a play.  George Edwardes or one of those fellows brought her over from
Budapest to do a dance number in some musical show and her youth and
grace so charmed the public that she stayed to appear in another
production.

"Why, of course," I said.  "I thought her face was vaguely familiar.
Who's the man?"

"British naval officer.  Submarines.  He wants to marry her..."

I glanced at my companion sharply.  "What's at the back of your mind,
Garnet?"

She laughed.  "Nothing.  Only if I were you I'd take a good look at the
lady..."

"I've done that, already..."

"And very usefully," she commented.  "Never mind, I'm always telling
the Chief that in our job it's not the most brilliant minds that pull
off the biggest coups..."

With which characteristically double-edged compliment she relapsed into
silence and began to draw on her gloves.




94

A step on the stair

"The man Grundt," observed the Chief when he had heard my story,
"begins to incommode me.  I don't like people who have my fellows
stabbed or take pot-shots at them, Clavering, and that's a fact.  But
we shall have to proceed warily..."

His tone was light, but the line of his mouth was forbidding.  "It's
evident that that Socialist rag was right.  Our limping friend
obviously takes his orders from an exalted quarter and, indeed, he said
as much to you.  We may, therefore, infer that investigations in which
he appears concern matters of particular interest to a certain erratic
gentleman who lives on the Spree.  It seems clear that, in the case of
Oberjger Brandweis, Grundt acted, in a preventive sense, off his own
bat, and I draw your attention to the fact that he enjoys sufficient
independent authority to have a man like this sergeant shot down and,
apparently, no questions asked--not to mention that he tried,
fortunately without success, to mete out the same fate to you.  We may
take it that the whole weight of his power was behind his resolve to
get that list of agents off Forrest.  And for the same reason..."

"I don't see that a list of British spies should be a matter of
especial concern to the Emperor," I objected.  "I mean, isn't it
primarily a routine job for the counter-espionage..."

"The Fleet, man, the Fleet," the Chief rapped out.  "William II
considers himself, and rightly, to be the creator of the modern German
navy, and thinks that its welfare and security are in his personal
charge.  Forrest was confident that he could build up an information
service on the German coasts that would prevent the Imperial Fleet from
making a single move unknown to us.  I don't know whether you ever
realized it, but Forrest was a marvellous judge of men.  Better of men
than of women..." he added rather sombrely.

I said nothing.  I knew it was of no use to try and alter the old man's
opinion on any subject on which his mind was made up.  "Forrest," he
went on, "was a damned judgmatical briber.  I don't know whether it was
because he was a cynic and embittered, and thought the worst of most
people, but he had a flair for smelling out potential traitors that
amounted to genius.  Before he went away, here, in this very room, he
mentioned the names of certain people, employed in the German dockyards
and so forth, whom he was confident of getting to work for us--well, it
would knock you silly.  If those names ever got out, if they're on that
list, knowing how the Emperor cherishes his pet toy, I tell you an
earthquake would be nothing to it..."

"But is that list in German hands?" I asked.

"All I can tell you," said the Chief irritably, "is that, as far as we
have been able to ascertain, no arrests have been made, and none of the
agents whose names are known to us have been interfered with.  Also
there is no evidence that our friends across the North Sea knew of the
existence of this list or were looking for more than the box.  But that
proves nothing.  Old Clubfoot works in the dark, behind a faade of
terrorism and mystery.  I may tell you that Okewood has got absolutely
nowhere with his inquiries about the man himself.  Most of the people
with whom Okewood has been in touch have never heard of Grundt, and
those who have absolutely refuse to talk about him.  As far as Okewood
can ascertain, the fellow has no headquarters but is continually moving
about..."

"What about the woman, sir?"

"Vanished into thin air for all we have been able to find out.  I have
had Brewster making inquiries in Cologne, but without success.  I take
it that was a fake address she gave.  I assume, however, that she's on
the Belgian frontier with Grundt.  Or was," he added rather ruefully,
"since he never seems to stay long in the one place..."

"I wish you'd let me go into Germany after them, Chief," I suggested.

He hoisted his broad shoulders.  "To what end?  If Grundt has the box,
he has the list.  And if the box has gone astray, you might as well go
looking for a needle in a haystack..."

"I was thinking the woman might lead me to it," I ventured to put in.

"Sheer waste of time.  If she had it, and everything suggests she did,
she passed it on to Grundt.  If Grundt is in Germany and has that box
in his possession, Okewood will get it, if any man can.  For the
present, I can't spare you.  What with this infernal Liberal Government
cutting down our funds, we're shorthanded and I have a job for you
right here in London.  Remember this about Grundt.  He's powerful and
well-protected.  If he were to walk into this office now I should have
no means of holding him, without bringing a first-class diplomatic
rumpus about our ears.  You realise that...?"

I nodded rather sombrely.  His words were to recur to me later.  "No
use crying over spilt milk," the Chief, noticing my mood, rallied me.
"If that list's gone, it's gone, and that's all there is to it.  As for
Grundt, don't worry.  We'll get him if it means waiting until we have
him sewn up, all shipshape and Bristol fashion, in a straight espionage
charge.  But caution, Clavering, caution!  The fellow is
dangerous--dangerous because he's thorough and because he never makes
the mistake of under-estimating his adversary..."

With that, for the moment, I had to be content, never guessing how Fate
was playing into my hands.

"And now," said the Chief, "for a word with you about the little lady
you saw at lunch..."

      *      *      *      *      *

The worst kind of fear is fear of the unknown.  When I was younger than
I am to-day, and before four years of War had racked the old engine to
bits, I used to flatter myself that my nerve was pretty steady.  It had
to be.  The level set in those days by the Chief himself, not to
mention the little band of high-flyers he had gathered about him, was
'way out of sight.  Fellows like Francis Okewood or Herbert Brewster,
who were happy only when carrying their lives in their hands, made the
running devilish hot for ordinary blokes like me.  But that evening, a
few hours after my lunch with Garnet at the Maison Basque and the talk
with the Chief that followed it, as I lurked in the darkness of Mitzi
Funda's sitting-room, I do not mind admitting that I was badly rattled.

It was that light, stealthy footfall on the staircase that did it.  You
see, I believed--indeed, I _knew_--I was alone in the great, gloomy old
house in Long Acre, on the top floor of which Mitzi Funda had her
apartment.  Save for this one flat, which the dancer rented furnished,
the whole place was given over to offices.  On letting myself in from
the street with my key, ten minutes before, I had closed the front door
behind me and mounted, past landing after landing of locked doors and
dark fanlights, to the apartment at the top.  And now, with my job
scarce begun, my ear caught the faint sound of footsteps breaking in
upon the grave-like hush of the ancient mansion as they ascended the
stairs.

The mission to the house in Long Acre had seemed so simple as the Chief
had unfolded it to me that afternoon.  The Funda, it appeared, had been
seen in the company of a certain Markus, a notorious Russian Secret
Service agent--you must not forget that then, as now, the activity of
the Russian Secret Service was an incessant thorn in our sides.  On the
grounds of the old adage about evil communications corrupting good
manners, the Chief was anxious to discover what connection existed
between an unsavoury ruffian like Markus--he was a most ignoble
rogue--and the little dancer, especially in the light of her friendship
with this lieutenant-commander of hers with whom it seemed, she was in
the habit of lunching almost daily at the Maison Basque.

"Garnet thought you might as well look the lady over, as you'll be
calling on her to-night," the Chief explained.

"Oh, so I'm calling on her, am I?" I put in.

"She won't be at home.  She goes to the theatre at seven, and you won't
be dropping round until eight or so.  But Garnet thought you'd better
know the lady by sight in case, by any accident, she should walk in on
you..."

"Most considerate," I commented.  "And is it Miss Wolseley's idea that
I should burgle the lady's apartment?"

That was his idea, the skipper confessed.  I should have a key; there
was no risk, really.  From seven o'clock, when the Funda left for the
theatre, until round midnight or later when she returned, the house in
Long Acre was empty--the daily woman who looked after the flat came
only in the mornings, and the offices closed at six.

"And so, Clavering, you can run the rule over her rooms without fear of
being disturbed.  I have a report on this naval pal of hers--he's doing
duty at the Admiralty just now.  He has an excellent reputation, no
money difficulties or anything like that, and there's nothing to
suggest that his interest in the lady is not entirely high-minded and
so forth.  But"--and here the Chief made a heavy pause--"a girl who
finds it necessary to have supper twice in one week at an obscure
restaurant at King's Cross with a gentleman of Markus's peculiar
reputation is, on the face of it, hardly a recommendable acquaintance
for a British submarine officer, particularly in view of our Russian
friends' interest in our last type of submarine.  Markus has, or used
to have, some kind of back-stairs connection with the stage--he once
ran a theatrical agency at Cracow or one of those places--and I'm quite
prepared to give the Funda a clean bill of health.  But not before
we've had a quiet look-see among her papers.  Especially as friend
Markus has been missing for the past twenty-four hours--I'm afraid our
people were a little too hot on his trail..."

With that the old man pitched a brace of brand-new Yale keys on the
blotter, explaining that one opened the street door and the other the
front door of the flat--the Lord knows how he got them, but he had a
marvellous faculty for simplifying things in that way.  "If there's a
locked desk," he said significantly, "I believe you'll be able to
handle it..."

You know Long Acre?--that rather dingy street of automobile shops where
modern office buildings rub elbows with dilapidated survivals of the
days when Covent Garden, close by, was the fashionable quarter of the
town.  The house in which the Funda lived was one of these old mansions
with a fine Queen Anne doorway.

Fortified by a chop and a pint of claret at my club, towards eight
o'clock, having ascertained that no policeman was in sight, I let
myself into the house with my key.  In the radiance of a street lamp
that fell through the ornate fanlight I saw a bare and shabby hall with
a staircase, blackened with age, winding its way into the silent
recesses of the upper floors.  Ghosts of the rococo age seemed to
rustle by me as I creaked up the stairs, until I found my further
progress barred by a door built across the topmost flight.

I listened as I fished out my key.  The house was deathly still.  The
front door opened straight into the sitting-room, oak-panelled and
quite large, with a bow window built out on one side.  There was the
glow of a fire at the end of the room, and by its light I switched on a
hand-lamp that stood on the baby Bechstein.  The furniture shouted hire
purchase, but the dancer had done her best to cover up the imitation
old oak with barbaresque draperies.  There were masses of flowers
everywhere, photographs on the mantelpiece and piano and a shelf of
books.  A very liveable room and, with that nice fire burning in the
old-fashioned hearth, cosy to come into out of the chilly night.

I began by taking rapid stock of the geography of the place.  A door on
the far side of the sitting-room gave on a passage where I looked in
upon a tiled bathroom and a bedroom adjoining and, at the end, a
kitchen out of which led a small room with a couple of wardrobe trunks
and some hat-boxes.  I dealt with the bedroom first--it did not take me
long to discover that its cupboards and drawers contained nothing but
wearing apparel.  Then I returned to the sitting-room.

I had already marked down the cheap oak desk that stood against a wall.
It was not locked.  The drawers yielded up nothing more incriminating
than some passbooks and bundles of cancelled cheques, some
correspondence in English and German about the dancer's London
engagement, her contract, a sheaf of bills and a mass of press
cuttings.  An oaken press and a chest of drawers revealed only an
overflow of clothes and shoes and hats; cutlery and table-linen were in
the drawer of the gate-leg table, obviously used for meals; other
drawers in the room were empty.  It looked very much as though I had
drawn a blank.

I glanced about me.  Invitation cards, and some of those fans given
away at restaurants, decorated the mantel, also some pictures of the
dancer in various rles, and a photo inscribed "Bill," in naval
uniform, of the man with whom I had seen her lunching at the Maison
Basque.  The only other man's photo in the room was on the piano--a
large head in a massive silver frame.  It was the face of a man, soft
and self-indulgent, the throat bared by an open tennis shirt.  A German
dedication, in facsimile handwriting, was engraved upon the frame--"_In
Herzenstreue, Dein Bubi_"--or, as one would say in English, "Always
your own Boy."

I was contemplating the picture and reflecting in a drowsy, idle sort
of fashion how quiet and remote the flat was, with the sound of the
theatre traffic in Leicester Square mounting to it like a faint
vibration, when my ear suddenly detected a creaking sound on the stairs
outside.  Then I heard a light footstep.  There was no possibility of
any mistake.  The house was as quiet as the tomb, and out of its
brooding silence I distinctly heard this soft and, as it seemed to me,
deliberately stealthy sound.

It could not be the dancer, for she was at the theatre.  My first
thought was of Markus.  The Chief said they had lost track of him.  He
might well have the keys of the flat and be coming there for refuge.
Whoever it was, I was properly trapped, for there was no exit except by
the front door.

There was sufficient light from the fire to distinguish anybody who
should come in.  So I switched off the lamp on the piano, and then, as
the footsteps approached the door, slipping back the safety catch of
the automatic in my side-pocket, I stole behind the curtains screening
the bow window, and waited.

That surreptitious footfall came on.  Grasping the curtains with one
hand, I kept a chink open through which I might command a view of the
door.  Now the intruder was on the landing--in the stagnant hush it
seemed to me I could distinguish the sound of rapid breathing on the
other side of the door.  A key scraped softly, then the door was gently
opened and immediately closed again.

Peering through the curtains, I was immediately dazzled by the white
beam of an electric torch that travelled slowly all round the room, up
and down the walls.  At first I could make out nothing save that a
tall, dark figure stood there just inside the door.  But presently the
light went out and, as the figure advanced into the room, I saw that it
was a woman.

Her face was still in shadow, but the silhouette was unmistakable--the
silhouette of a woman in evening dress.  I could discern ear-rings, the
outline of a high fur collar, the graceful line of a long evening wrap.
Her stealthy movements disposed of any idea that it was the Funda
herself--besides, the figure was taller than the dancer's.

The suddenly a pool of warm light illuminated the centre of the room,
and I saw, standing beside the piano where she had turned on the lamp,
not two yards from my hiding-place, the lady of the Brussels hotel.




95

What the flames revealed

A subtle perfume was in my nostrils, faint and strangely alluring.  It
brought back to me so vividly that first glimpse I had had of her
reclining in her bed in her gaudy Chinese jacket, that I was sure my
sense of smell must have unconsciously retained the memory of that
intimate, personal fragrance and instantly identified it.  She was all
in black and exquisitely _soigne_.  Her raven hair, drawn back from
her forehead and gathered in a loose knot on the back of her head,
gleamed like a black satin cap, and the long diamond ear-rings she
wore, setting off the exquisite oval of her face, flashed in the
lamplight.  She looked superb.

With entire self-possession she glanced about her, then, her bag and
long white evening gloves in her hand, stepped quickly to the door into
the passage and passed put of my line of sight; but I guessed she was
spying out the ground.  Behind the curtains I was taut with suspense.
My mission, which had appeared so easy, had suddenly become fraught
with all sorts of possibilities.  What was this woman, who worked for
the German Secret Service, doing here?  Or, more directly, what had Dr.
Grundt, her employer, to do with Mitzi Funda?  Here was a development
which the Chief and even the omniscient Garnet had certainly not
foreseen.

She was coming back.  Now she faced me, in the full light--she
certainly was an exquisite creature.  Her lovely face was
expressionless, sulky almost.  I felt for my pistol--she was making
straight for me.

But her objective was the piano which stood beside the bow window, so
that the breadth of the instrument was between her and me, where I
lurked behind the curtains.  Very composedly she laid her bag and
gloves upon the piano top, and picked up the photo in the silver
frame--the young man's photo I had already remarked.  She turned the
frame over, fingering the back.  Then, to my astonishment, I saw her
draw forth, as though from some slot or other hidden receptacle, a
number of thin blue paper sheets.

They were letters.  I could see the writing.  Putting the frame aside,
she spread out the sheets, which were folded lengthwise, and, propping
her elbows on the piano, bent forward to study them under the lamp.
She was so close to me now that, by putting forth my hand, I might have
touched her face; so close that, from where I stood, immobile and
scarce venturing to draw breath, I could read a word or two of the
sheets which she was conning with such rapt concentration.

They were, as I surmised, letters written in German script.  I exulted;
my "look-see," as the Chief had called it, was not to be so fruitless
after all.  Seeing her thus absorbed, I decided that the time had come
to act.  Measuring with my eye the distance between the curtain and the
letters, I raised my left hand to the opening, ready to part it, at the
same time placing my right hand, which grasped my pistol, above my
left.  Then, like a flash, with my two hands simultaneously, I flung
the curtains apart and, stretching across the piano, planted my left
hand, palm down, with a bang on the letters while, with my right, I
covered her with my gun.

She screamed softly and sprang back.  The sheaf of papers remained
under my hand.  I let her be for the moment and gathered up the sheets.
My first sensation was one of disappointment.  They were
love-letters--half a dozen of them--dated but without address,
beginning with such phrases as "_Ssses Mdel_," "_Meine kleine, ssse
Mitzi_," "_Teures Herz_" or similar German forms of endearment, and
signed, after protestations of considerable fervour, "Bubi," like the
photograph.  I ran through the lot hastily, while watching the woman
out of the corner of my eye for any attempt at flight--I could find
nothing of any consequence whatever about these pages covered with
lines of spidery German handwriting.

The woman had not moved.  She stood like a statue, her delicate face
almost as pale, regarding me out of dismayed and fearful eyes.  I
scanned her furtively, wondering whether she knew me again.  It was
scarcely probable, I reflected--she had seen me only for a few moments
and that in an indifferent light.  At any rate, I discerned no sign of
recognition in her face.  "What are you doing here?" I demanded,
looking up from my reading.  I spoke in English.

She shrugged her shoulders, a sullen look on her regular features.  "If
it comes to that," she replied--her English had a faint, slurring
accent to it--"I might ask you the same question..."

"You may take it from me, madam," I rejoined sternly, "that if there
are any questions to be asked I shall ask them.  Now will you answer my
question or"--I pointed to the telephone on the desk--"do I hand you
over to the police?"

She made a little movement of the hands.  "I think I have no need to
tell you what I am doing here."  Her English was very fluent--her
accent only noticeable in the way she rolled her "r's."

"You came to get these letters?"

She made me a little bow.  Two arm-chairs were drawn up in front of the
fire.  I pointed to one of them.  "Sit down," I bade her.

She hesitated and then, with a slight movement of the shoulders, let
slip her wrap which I took from her.  She appeared in a long black
velvet evening gown, armless and deeply _dcollete_, and exquisitely
draped about her faultless figure.  The only jewel she wore was a
diamond arrow pinned to her corsage.  Gathering up her bag and gloves
from the piano, she slowly moved to the chair and sat down.  With
complete self-composure she helped herself to a cigarette from an
enamel case which she took from her bag.

"Now then," said I, planting myself opposite her, "will you have the
goodness to tell me whose letters these are and what you want with
them?"

She paused an instant to light her cigarette.  "That," she remarked
glibly, throwing the match in the fire, "is neither here nor there.
The point is, are you authorised to treat?"

"And if I am?"

"Then you shall tell me what those letters are worth to you..."

"The letters are not for sale," I declared bluntly.

She gave a nonchalant shrug.  "You say stupid things.  Of what possible
use to you are letters written by a debauched fool to a designing
woman?"

"Of what use are they to you?"

She blew out a cloud of smoke and removed a speck of tobacco from her
scarlet lips.  "After all," she murmured, "there is no good reason why
you should not know the truth."  She raised her eyes to my face.  "But
do you have to stand over me like that?"

I took the other chair.  The letters I placed, convenient to my hand
and well out of my companion's reach, on the cushioned rail surrounding
the fireplace.  "_Voila_," she said.  "An officer of good family has
mixed himself up with this dancer..."

"A German officer?" I queried.  She shot me a quick glance from under
her long lashes.  "A German officer, if you will.  He has written this
woman letters--foolish letters: well, you can judge for yourself since
you've read them.  Now the affair is at an end, the gentleman would
marry and he wants his letters back.  But the lady is difficult.  And
so, to avoid a scandal, I come to recover the letters....  You see, I
am frank..."

"Admirably so," I commented dryly.

"To avoid a scandal, the family would pay, I think"--she flashed me
another sidelong glance--"a hundred pounds..."

"A hundred pounds is a lot of money for a German family to shell out,"
I observed.  "Who is this man?  That's his photo on the piano, isn't
it?  But I'd like to hear his name..."

She sighed impatiently.  "You may not believe me, but I don't know it.
All I can tell you is that he's related by marriage to one of the most
important families..."

She broke off abruptly.  Her hand was pointing at the letters as they
lay on the fender seat, their edges curling, up in the heat of the
fire.  I then perceived that, between the lines of sloping writing,
fresh rows of characters in brownish ink had mysteriously appeared.

I snatched up the topmost sheet.  I saw at a glance what the invisible
ink had concealed.  These were numbered answers in German to a series
of questions--the questionnaire is a favourite method of utilising the
services of agents--and they dealt with military matters, German
military matters at that--there was a reference to the defences of
Thorn, one of Prussia's chief fortresses on the Russian frontier, and
mention of experiments with an automatic recoil field gun at some
artillery ranges in Schleswig.  Momentarily forgetting my companion, I
held each letter in turn to the bars of the grate and in each instance
the warmth brought the same evidence to light.  I had in my hands a
series of detailed reports on Germany's defences against Russia.

I turned to the woman at my side.  She had not budged from her chair.
She was watching me with fascinated eyes.  "Love letters, eh?" I said,
looking at her.  "And now, madam, we'll have the truth..."

"I've told you all I know," she protested weakly.

"Not all, surely," said I.  "You haven't yet told me who sent you
here..."

"It was a gentleman acting on behalf of this officer's family...."

"Who is this officer?"

"I've told you already, I don't know his name.  But he's someone very
important..."

"How, important?  A general, do you mean?"

"His rank is only captain.  But he's a Serene Highness, a Prince.  He
was infatuated with this dancer: he wanted to marry her.  And so,
acting on behalf of very highly placed interests in Germany, this
gentleman I speak of asked me to get these letters back..."

"Fiddlesticks," I broke in crisply.  "Your officer may be a Prince.
But he's also a common or garden spy supplying information to the
Russian General Staff through their agent, Mitzi Funda.  And you're an
agent of the German secret service!"

She sat there like one annihilated.  She was so pale that I thought she
was going to faint as she had fainted that night in Brussels.  I
collected the letters and thrust them in my pocket.  Then I went across
to her with her wrap.  "And now," said I, holding it out for her to
slip on, "since neither of us wishes to be surprised here by the owner
of this apartment, we're going somewhere where we can have a quiet
talk."

At that she sprang up.  "You can't detain me," she cried.

"Perhaps not," said I, laughing, "but I'm going to.  And if you're
sensible you'll make the best of what I'll not conceal from you is a
very bad business."

She gave me a scared look and, without another word, let me help her
into her cloak.  Then I put out the light and we went downstairs
together.

I told the taxi to drive us to the Albany.




96

News of the Box

Her silence lasted while we were whirled through the lights and traffic
of Leicester Square and Piccadilly.  As for myself, my brain was busy
with my own thoughts.  We might conceivably hold the lady, I reflected,
on a charge of being found upon enclosed premises, a charge which would
lie, with equal force, against me; but the chance of any London
magistrate granting her extradition to Belgium on the available
evidence was of the slightest, and in any case I knew the Chief would
set his face against the publicity.  It did not escape me that in this
matter of Russo-German espionage we were to all intents and purposes
neutral, and a plan was forming in my mind by which we might make the
most of our situation as _tertius gaudens_.

I had directed the driver to set us down at the back, or Vigo Street
entrance of the Albany (which is locked after nightfall) in order that
our arrival might attract less attention.  I opened the wicket gate in
the iron shutter with my key and motioned to my companion to enter.
She obeyed submissively.  The covered way (styled by initiates "the
ropewalk ") which traverses this peaceful Piccadilly retreat was
deserted in the dim light of its old-fashioned lamps.  My "set" (as
suites in the Albany are called) was on the ground floor with two
windows, of the sitting-room and bedroom respectively, looking out,
across a patch of anmic grass, upon the ropewalk.  There was no one
about and my companion and I gained my chambers unobserved.

I led the way through the hall into the sitting-room and switched on
the light.  The little Madame was gazing curiously about her.  I did
not expect a lady of her exciting profession to betray any excessive
bashfulness at being ushered into a man's rooms after nightfall, but
all the same her self-composure struck me as remarkable.  She appeared
to have recovered from her fright: her bearing was relaxed and
debonair; evidently, she was a woman who was at her ease in any
surroundings.  The only emotion she displayed was the sort of furtive
curiosity which most women evince in similar circumstances.

"What is this place?" she asked, glancing round the sitting-room.

"It's called Albany," I told her.

"It is an hotel?"

"No.  It's more like an apartment house..."

"It is so quiet, like a convent..."

"Not much of the convent about it.  Only bachelors have apartments
here..."

"A monastery then?"  She was examining my prints.

I laughed.  "I wouldn't say that, either, although it's a strictly
masculine establishment..."

"A refuge for men?"

"If you like.  But for bachelors..."

"I understand.  A sort of"--her fingers groped--"a sort of home for
fallen men, is that it?"  And she laughed merrily.

I laughed, too--she had a pretty wit.  With her queenly air, she let
her wrap slide from her gleaming arms.  She seemed to take charge of
the proceedings.  I relieved her of her cloak, not sorry that the ice
was broken between us.  "Will you have a drink?" I said.  She shook her
head.  "But you may give me a cigarette..."  She sat down on the couch
before the fire.  I fetched her the cigarette box and gave her a light,
then placed myself at the other end of the couch.

"This is a clever woman," I said to myself, surveying her.  "She knows
when she's beaten.  And she has got all her wits about her..."  Aloud I
remarked "I'm wondering what nationality you are, Madame..."

"Does it matter?" she replied simply.

"You're obviously foreign and yet your name is English," I told her.

She turned her head quickly and gazed at me.  "You know my name?"

I laughed.  "I know more about you than you think, Miss--or should it
be--Mrs. Stafford?"

The expression of her face was unrevealing.  "They call me Mrs.
Stafford," she answered with a secretive air.

"You have an English husband?"

She shook her head.  "I was married.  But not to an Englishman.  It is
my mother's name.  She came from Scotland.  I use it because,
everywhere I go, I find the English respected.  Life is not easy for a
woman alone..."

She spoke with a gentle melancholy which was attractive.  I liked her
air of candour.  But I had to think of my job.  So I said, "I'm
wondering what you, who are not a German, are doing, working for the
German secret service?"

She sighed.  "In the circumstances I can't expect you to believe me,
but..."  She broke off, "I am not of the secret service," she affirmed
simply.  "What I told you was the truth, or what was represented to me
as the truth.  I was asked to recover those letters by someone who was
interested in extricating this officer from--how do you say?--a scrape.
I had no idea there was any question of espionage involved and, what is
more, I don't think the person who sent me knew it, either..."

"And who might this person be, Madame?" I questioned.  I knew, of
course, but I was anxious to see what she would reply.  With eyes
half-closed she shook her head.  "I mustn't answer that," she whispered.

I shrugged my shoulders.  "I hope you realise that you're not in a
position to refuse an answer to any of my questions..."

She nodded briefly.  "You don't know what you ask," she declared.
Suddenly she turned and with an engaging air, laid her hand on my
sleeve.  "Let us be frank," she pleaded.  "These letters, they are of
no importance to the English.  How does it affect the safety of this
country if a German officer who has forgotten his oath furnishes
military information to a Russian agent?  But these letters are of the
greatest importance to the man who sent me to fetch them..."

"Why?"

"Because the honour of a German princely house is at stake..."

I laughed.  "I'm afraid the argument leaves me comparatively cold.  In
any case, until I know who this man is..."

"I've told you I don't know his name.  Besides, what does he matter?
He is nothing."

"I agree.  But I wasn't thinking of the Prince.  I meant the man who
sent you.  Who is he and what is his name?"

She moved her slim body restlessly.  "If I tell you, will you let me
take those letters back?"

"I might--on conditions..."

"He is of the household of the Emperor.  His name is ... Dr. Grundt!"

"And why do you have to accept orders from him, may I ask?"

She was staring into the fire, one slim leg crossed over the other.
There was grace--the grace of some wild creature--in every line of her.
For a moment she was silent.  Then in a low voice she said, "Sometimes
a woman has no choice..."

"Meaning that you're in his power?"

She shook herself and sprang up.  "I have said too much already.  Give
me those letters and let me go!"

Eyes alight, one hand eagerly stretched out, she faced me.  "Not so
fast," I said.  "If I do this for you, I want a service in return..."

Her expression was suddenly cautious.  With a disappointed air she
turned from me.  "What is it?" she asked dully.

"I want you to tell me what you did with a certain gold box," I
answered.  I was watching her face.

This woman was incalculable.  This time she did not blench.  She simply
said, in the same leaden tones, "So?  You know about that?"

I fully expected now that she would recognise me as the intruder who
had burst in upon her that night in Brussels.  Rut she did not even
look at me, but remained, with head averted, staring absently down at
her fingers plucking at the arm of the couch.

"I know that you killed an Englishman named Forrest and robbed him of
this box," I declared.  The first statement I was pretty sure was
false, but I made it with the deliberate intent to provoke her.  In
this I succeeded for, on the instant, she whipped about and, eyes
blazing, cried out, "No, no, you mustn't say that.  I didn't kill
Forrest.  His death was an accident or, if not an accident, a fatality,
a horrible, ghastly fatality like any other cruel and needless murder.
If I were free, rather than associate with those who, even though
involuntarily, were responsible, I'd flee to the other end of the
world...."  She wrung her hands.  "Oh, how can I make you believe that?"

"By telling me the truth," I said sternly.

She shook her head.  "I can't--I daren't..."

"You know the alternative," I reminded her.  "And there's this.  The
Belgian secret police know all about you.  They'll be only too pleased
to claim you for extradition"--I made a deliberate pause--"on the
charge of murder..."

"But I tell you I didn't kill Forrest..." she cried desperately.

"You can explain that to the magistrate at Bow Street," I gave her back
brutally.

I could see she was wavering.  "You won't believe me if I do tell you
the truth," she said tensely.

"You must let me be the best judge of that..."

Her hands clasped tightly before her, she raised her splendid eyes to
the ceiling and let them range about the room as though she sought,
vainly, for some way of escape.  "You don't know what you ask of me,"
she whispered.  "If _he_ knew I'd spoken to you..."  She broke off and
fastened her splendid eyes entreatingly on my face.  "Oh, believe me,"
she said, "I'm not thinking only of myself now..."

"You needn't fear that I shall give you away," I assured her.

"If only I could rely on that promise..."

"I give you my word of honour..."

"You understand," she put in tremulously, "if ever he should discover
that I had spoken, it would mean ruin for me.  And--and not for me
alone..."

"All I want is the truth," I answered.  "Your relations with anybody
else don't concern me..."

She sighed.  Then, helping herself to a cigarette, she walked to the
mantelpiece and peered forward to gaze absently at her reflection in
the mirror hanging above it.  Presently she veered round to me.  "Sit
down," she said, indicating the couch with the point of her satin
slipper.  And as I obeyed, "You probably won't believe my story, but
you must let me tell it in my own way, without interruption..."

The whirr of the telephone bell cut across her words.  I was in no mood
to be disturbed just then.  I leaned forward to the instrument at my
elbow, lifted the receiver and dumped it down on the table.

Her glance thanked me.  "I met Forrest at the Bristol in Berlin," she
said.  "It was on the Friday, two days before we left for Paris.  Yes,"
she went on, anticipating my question, "my orders were to contrive that
he should speak to me.  It wasn't very easy.  He was--how do you call
it--shy.  And such a lonely, strange man.  But, _enfin_, these things
can be arranged.  After that, it wasn't difficult..."

"Were you his mistress?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"You expect me to believe that?"

With a thoughtful air she flaked the ash from her cigarette into the
fire-place.  "I told you my story was improbable.  He was not that sort
of man.  The sea was his mistress.  His talk was all of the sea and
boats..."

"Yet he used to kiss you?"

Her head, hands and shoulders moved together in a gesture of
indifference, while her eyes reproved me haughtily.  "You said you
would not interrupt..."

"I'm sorry..."

"Then shall I go on?"

"Please..."

"My orders were to get a certain gold box..."

"Why?  What did it contain?"

Her eyes narrowed suddenly.  "Why do you ask me that?"

I scented a trap.  "As far as I know the box contained nothing except
cigarettes, perhaps," I hastened to explain unconcernedly.  "You see,
it's an heirloom, and Forrest's family are anxious to get it back..."
This was an improvisation and fictitious at that.  For Forrest, as I
well knew, had been absolutely alone in the world.  "Didn't Grundt tell
you why he wanted it?" I persisted.

The name seemed to scare her and she lowered her voice.  "He told me
only that Forrest was under suspicion," she answered with a frightened
air.  "They had been through his luggage at the Bristol without finding
anything incriminating.  He was known to have this box, however, and I
was to get it for them.  My first orders were to find out where he kept
it.  That was not easy until one day when I borrowed a pencil from him
and when he opened his coat, I saw the bulge under his waistcoat and
guessed that he carried the box in a secret pocket in the lining.  I
reported this to Grundt and he told me I was to accompany Forrest to
Paris and steal the box on the train..."

"Why not at the hotel?"

"I think Grundt did not want Forrest to have any idea who had robbed
him.  Well, I told Forrest I had to go to Paris and we arranged to
travel together.  He booked us neighbouring compartments in the
sleeper.  I was warned that the train would stop for three minutes at
this village of Ablesse where a man would be waiting beside the
railway.  I was given a powder to put in Forrest's drink and a key to
open the communicating door between our two compartments.  I was warned
not to enter his compartment until the last possible moment in case
there should be any--how do you say?--hitch in the plan.  When I had
the box all I had to do was to go to the door at the front end of the
sleeper and hand the box to the man who would be waiting there..."

She paused and turned wearily away, crushing her cigarette out, with a
quick, stabbing movement of the hand, in the ash-tray that stood on the
mantelpiece.  "We dined together in the restaurant car that night," she
resumed, "but I could not find the opportunity to empty the powder in
his glass.  For that I had to wait until later when we were back in the
sleeping car.  I said I would like a drink before I went to bed--I had
some Perrier in my compartment and he had a flask.  _Allez_, it wasn't
difficult.  But it seems I had left it too late..."

"You mean the powder didn't take effect?"

"Not fully, although about eleven o'clock or so he began to get sleepy
and we said good night.  The train was to be halted at 12.33 in the
morning.  From midnight on I was ready waiting in my compartment,
trying to make up my mind to act before-the train stopped--three
minutes seemed such a little time.  At last, when it was half-past
twelve, I felt I could wait no longer..."

She broke off to light another cigarette.  "When I entered his
compartment," she continued presently, "I was horrorstruck to see, by
the blue bright light that burned in the roof, that he had lain down
fully dressed.  He was asleep but I was terribly afraid that the moment
he felt my hand under his waistcoat he would wake.  While I was still
hesitating the train suddenly began to rock and I heard the hiss of the
brakes--I knew we were stopping.  In a panic I thrust my hand inside
his waistcoat.  The box was there--I could feel the hard edge.  But the
pocket was buttoned up and I had to undo his waistcoat before I could
get the box out.  I managed it without arousing him and slipped the box
into my bag.  As I crept to the door, I was suddenly seized from
behind.  He had woken up and caught me by the arms.  He did not cry out
but I knew that he was trying to pinion me with one hand and with the
other turn the light full on to see who I was.  I was struggling
desperately when suddenly I saw a man in the doorway, a strange pallid
man who had a knife in his hand--I saw it glitter in the dimness.  He
seemed to strike Forrest with his fist and immediately I felt the grip
on my arms relax and Forrest reeled backwards.  Then there was a
terrific crash and the light went out..."

She laid her cigarette aside and covered her eyes with her hand.  She
remained silent for an instant thus.  Then she said, "I don't think I
lost consciousness.  I felt myself swept off my feet and glass was
falling all about me.  Instinctively I shut my eyes and clutched a
strap or something.  When I opened my eyes again I saw a gaping hole
beside me and crawled out.  There were clouds of escaping steam, shouts
and people screaming.  Before me was a hedge and, on the other side, a
man who ran up and down like a madman.  On catching sight of me, he
rushed over.  He seemed to know me--I discovered later it was a
chauffeur who had driven me in Berlin--and asked if I were hurt.  When
I said I was all right he began to question me about someone who he
kept saying had got into the train to find me.  But then I must have
fainted, for the next thing I knew I was in a motor-car going to
Brussels..."

"And the box?"

"Still in my bag..."

"What did you do with it?"

She did not speak at once: she had her back to me and was gazing down
into the fire.  "What did you do with the box?" I repeated.

She swung about and her earnest gaze considered me.  "Do you believe my
story?" she demanded rather tensely.

"Yes," said I, for it had the ring of truth, fitting in, as it did,
with the discovery of Lipschtz's dead body under the wreck and of his
finger-prints on the stiletto plunged in Forrest's chest.  Moreover,
she had spoken throughout with an air of simple frankness which had
made the strongest impression upon me.

"Do you now believe that it was not I who killed this man?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered.  "But you can't escape the moral responsibility for
his death..."

She bowed her head.  "I felt that, too.  It gives me no peace.  That is
why I did not hand over the box..."

Her answer electrified me.  Then Garnet's theory was right and
Forrest's list had not fallen into Grundt's hands.  Why, this
simplified matters beyond words!  "You mean, you have it still?" I
demanded incredulously.

She inclined her dark head again.  "It was the first time I'd ever done
a thing like this.  This Englishman had trusted me--he was different
from other men I have met, kind and chivalrous and, well, when it came
to the point, the thought of it almost disarmed me.  To have robbed him
was bad enough: to have sent him to his death..."  She broke off rather
breathlessly.  "After what had happened, to have handed over his box
would have made me a direct accomplice in his murder, or so it seemed
to me.  I felt it would bring me bad luck.  And so I kept the box..."

"But how did you explain to Grundt?  Didn't he ask you where it was?"

"I said it was lost in the accident, that I had it in my hand when the
crash came and that when I crawled out of the wreckage it had
disappeared.  If he had shown any regret, any anger against the
assassin..."

"What did he say?"

"Merely that it complicated matters and that someone whose name I have
forgotten would answer to him for exceeding instructions.  But he cared
nothing for the fact that a man had been murdered: his only thought was
of the box..."

"Did you gather why he was so keen to obtain possession of it?"

"He said several times that Forrest must have been carrying papers of
importance and that if they were anywhere they were in the box..."

"And when you said you hadn't got it, what did he do?"

She shuddered.  "He raged like a wild beast.  It was terrible.  I went
back to Germany with him and all the way he stormed at me.  It was to
appease him that I undertook this mission.  Now you understand why I
must take back those letters..."  She raised her liquid eyes to mine.
"You've been so understanding.  You're going to help me, aren't you?"

I stood up and went to her at the fire-place.  "Where is the box now?"
I asked.

"In Germany," she replied in a low voice.

"Where in Germany?"

"What does it matter?" she said rather petulantly.  "If I give you my
word to return the box, you will have it..."

"When?"

"It could not be before next week..."

"There's a boat train for Germany that leaves first thing in the
morning," I suggested.  "Why don't we catch it together?  You can then
hand me the box and in return I'll give you the letters..."

She shrunk away from me, aghast.  "You must be mad.  This man has spies
everywhere.  If I were seen with you..."  She fingered my coat lapel.
"Aren't you willing to trust me, _dites_?"

"That's not the point," I evaded.  "You say yourself you're under
observation and I'm not taking any risks....  By the way," I went on
and tried to make my tone as casual as possible, "since you've got the
box, you can probably tell me what's in it..."

She gave me a rapid, searching glance.  "Don't you _know_?" she asked
with a tinge of suspicion in her voice.

"What?" I asked as innocently as possible.

"Haven't you seen this box?"

"Not me," I affirmed solemnly.  "I told you the family had inquired
about it....  Why?"

"Because ... well, it can't be opened, that's all.  There's no lock or
fastening, only a sort of arrow that twirls in the lid.  A trick box,
it seems to be.  I tried to open it, and I couldn't see how it works..."

I could hardly control my excitement.  Not only was that list of spies
still out of Grundt's hands, but he had also no certain knowledge of
its existence.  Moreover, the secret lock was a safeguard against this
woman realising the importance of the box in the event of her wishing
to play false with me and supposing she had detained the box for some
undisclosed motive of her own--I had to admit to myself that her story,
to say the least, was romantic.  "Now, listen to me Mrs. Stafford," I
said to her, "this is the best I can do.  I propose to allow you to go
free from here and return to Germany unmolested..."

Her eyes danced.  "It's true?" she cried.  "Oh, I felt sure I did right
to trust you..."

"Let me finish," I put in.  "For the moment, the letters stay with
me..."

On the instant the glow died out of her face.  "Then what?" she said in
a hard voice.

"On a word from you," I went on, "I or some other properly accredited
emissary will bring the letters to any place you care to designate and
there exchange them against the box..."

She bit her lip, shaking her head sadly; she looked as if she were
going to cry.  "You're sending me to my death," she exclaimed brokenly.
"Without those letters I dare not return to him..."  She took my two
hands in hers: there was magnetism in the touch of her soft, warm
palms.  "For the love of God, my friend," she entreated, "do this for
me and I promise you you won't regret it..."

She looked entrancingly lovely as she appealed to me, her charming,
vital features transfigured with eagerness.  Once more that faint
exotic perfume she used enveloped me.  I felt my resolution slipping.
To hearten myself I said harshly, "It's the best I can do for you, my
dear, and it's no use discussing it further..."  She drew her hands
away and with a tiny handkerchief began dabbing forlornly at her nose.
"You say you're in the hands of this man, Grundt," I went on.  "If
you'd tell me more about it, we might see if we can't find a way to get
you out of his clutches..."

Before she had time to answer the door bell rang.




97

Dr. Grundt goes visiting

Albany--the definite article is frowned upon by initiates--is very
quiet at night.  The bell seemed to peal through the place like a fire
alarm.  The woman's glance consulted me fearfully.  "Must you open?"
"They can see the light from outside," I told her.  "Is there a back
door?" she asked.  I shook my head.  The bell trilled again.

Going to the bedroom door, I opened it and switched on the light.
"Step in here for a moment while I see who it is," I bade her.
Gathering up her wrap, her bag and her gloves, she disappeared hastily,
closing the door behind her.  I glanced round the room, replaced the
telephone receiver on its hook, shook up the cushions on the couch and
went out to the hall.

One glance at the massive shape bulking darkly in the trembling
gaslight of the landing told me who my visitor was.  I was dumbfounded,
less by seeing him there, I believe, than by the colossal effrontery of
the fellow in showing himself in London at all.  Big as a house, head
down in characteristic pose, leaning on his stick, he regarded me.
Then, lifting his bowler hat, he grated stiffly, "Pardon, if I disturb
you thus late.  You are Herr Dunlop, I think?"

"That is my name," I replied.

"I am Dr. Grundt," he grunted gutturally, "and I desire the favour of a
few minutes' conversation with you..."

"It's late," I observed without enthusiasm.  "It would suit me better
if you would call again in the morning..."

"In the morning I shall be on my way back to the Continent," he
rejoined heartily.  "Come, come, Herr, as between colleagues, I ask
you, is it friendly to keep me waiting in this draughty passage?"  And
he brushed unceremoniously past me into the hall where, with all due
deliberation, he slung his overcoat from his shoulders and hung it,
together with his hat, on the hat-rack.

I could have stopped him, but I held my hand.  The fact is that
everything about this man interested me.  I was fascinated by the
strong suggestion of the anthropoid ape in his demeanour: I could not
keep my eyes off him--it seemed to me I had never beheld a more
extraordinary-looking individual.  And I was enormously intrigued by
his visit.  There was something eminently worth while studying about a
fellow who thus blandly, imperiously, even, would walk straight into
the enemy stronghold--I mentally doffed my hat to his sublime and
invincible cheek.  One should lose no chance of becoming better
acquainted, I reflected, with a foe of this exceptional calibre.  As
for the lady concealed in my bedroom I scarcely gave her a thought.  In
the circumstances she would know better than to disclose herself, and
as far as I was concerned, I could guarantee that Grundt would not
discover her.  As I thought of the bargain Mrs. Stafford and I had
struck, I could not refrain from indulging, at my visitor's expense, in
a brief moment of what he would have called "_Schadenfreude_," that
untranslatable German portmanteau word for pleasure in another's
discomfiture.

We went into the sitting-room.  He declined a drink but accepted a
cigar.  You who read these old souvenirs of mine may wonder that,
having the man responsible for the death of my unfortunate colleague
there in my power, I did not instantly call up Vine Street and hand him
over to the police.  But that was not the way of the Secret Service.
The score was chalked up against this man and one day it would be paid
off.  But it would be paid off in our own time and our own way, if so
be with the aid of the police, then with the support of evidence a
great deal more specifically incriminating than any we possessed
against him at that time.  For the moment all we had against him was
that he had been seen in the company of a woman indirectly implicated
in a murder charge on foreign soil.

He had planted his big body down on the couch and was nonchalantly
rolling his cigar in his hairy fingers.

"So, my dear colleague?" he now said in his thick English.  "You
doubtless know what brings me here..."

"If I do," I told him bluntly, "then I'm better informed than I thought
I was..."

"You have not perhaps forgotten our meeting in Brussels?"

The man's nerve was colossal.  "I'm not likely to!" I blurted out
angrily.  But at the same time I made a mental note, not without a
certain glow of satisfaction, that my disguise at Schwarzental had
stood proof against that searching glance.

He clicked gently with his tongue.  "A most unfortunate mistake..."  He
scowled heavily.  "It is not, however, a mistake that the gentleman in
question will repeat.  A valued member of your staff, this Forrest?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I intervened loftily.  "As
far as I know Forrest was a shipping man..."  I was diverted by my
visitor's careful avoidance of any reference to Forrest's box.

He simmered gently.  "Quite, quite.  Discretion before everything..."
He paused.  "But we waste time.  Now, if you'll permit me, I shall
speak in German because, if I remember rightly, on that night in
Brussels you demonstrated your mastery of our language ... _also_,"--he
went into German--"to the point.  You visited a certain apartment
to-night.  You entered alone, but you left with a lady.  You drove here
with her and vanished through a locked door at which I, in my ignorance
of London, have been vainly hammering for the past twenty minutes.  And
when a compassionate constable referred me to the Piccadilly entrance,
it took me almost as long to discover from a singularly thick-skulled
night watchman the number of your apartment.  Of course he went on,"
with a sidelong glance at me, "had I known that, like Mahomet, you
possess a variety of names..."

He did not finish the sentence but, with a brusque gesture, thrust the
cigar he was fingering into his mouth.  Until I had seen Dr. Grundt
light a cigar I did not know that this comparatively straightforward
operation could serve as such a complete demonstration of character.
There was ferocity in the way in which, with a snap of his fang-like
teeth, he bit off the end, and contemptuous arrogance in the way in
which, disgustingly, he spat the severed tip far out upon the rug.  He
was concentration and deliberation personified as he carefully warmed
the cigar at the match flame and nursed the smouldering end to a glow:
the picture of luxuriant self-indulgence and animal enjoyment, too, as,
with his blubber lips pursed up, his great head thrown backward and his
bristling nostrils expanded to savour the aroma, he blew a long cloud
of smoke and emitted a resonant grunt of satisfaction.  Ferocity,
arrogance, concentration, self-gratification--there was the whole
portrait of Dr. Grundt.

He addressed me once more, cigar in hand.  "There were letters found
to-night, my friend," he said briskly.  "I want them..."

"Herr Doktor," I retorted, "it'll save us both a lot of trouble if
you'll understand, once and for all, that I'm answering no questions..."

"Remark," said he loftily, "that I ask none.  I do not inquire, 'Where
is the lady?'--I am, I hope, too gallant for that--or 'Where are the
letters?'  I merely state that I must have them!"

"My answer is, in any case, the same..."

"Ta, ta, ta, not so fast!  Let me explain.  What at first sight
appeared to be merely a piece of folly now appears, in the light of
information that has come to my knowledge since my arrival in London
this morning, to be a grave case of espionage..."  His voice took on an
authoritative tone.  "You've driven that ruffian Markus out of London,
they tell me?"

There was no reason why I should not admit it.  Markus was a notorious
double-cross.  "He didn't want much driving," I replied.  "He saw the
red light and skipped..."

"And now the little Funda has followed him?"

Grundt was as sharp as a needle.  I said nothing, but he detected the
surprise in my face.  "Is it possible I am telling you something you
didn't know, _lieber Kollege_?" he snarled.  "She did not appear at the
theatre to-night.  She sent a letter to say she had received bad news,
that she might go back to Hungary.  Markus fled from you, but she fled
from Markus.  Shall I tell you why?  Because she wanted to marry an
Englishman, an officer, as I hear, of your navy.  But you would know
about that better than I..."

I said nothing.  "Women, bah!" the big man rumbled.  "They are all the
same.  They love and suddenly"--he sawed the air with his great
paw--"they want to cut loose from their past.  So I fancy it was with
the little Funda.  But Markus thought otherwise.  From across the
Channel he would have sent you a denunciation of Frulein Mitzi.  But
the lady was too quick--she forestalled him.  Our Russian friends must
find a new agent and the English officer a new fiance.  And so the
affair is classified, finished, ruled off.  That being so, you will let
me take those letters, _nicht wahr_?"

"I know of no letters," I told him stiffly.

His face darkened and he had to make an effort to control himself.
"I'll be frank," he declared in his heavy bass.  "Without them I cannot
bring home the guilt of one who is a traitor to the most loyal and
devoted corps of officers in the world.  Give me those letters, Herr,
and let me finish my job!"

"As far as I'm concerned," I rejoined brusquely, "It's finished here
and now.  I didn't ask you here and the sooner you take yourself off
the better!"

On that he scrambled awkwardly to his feet.  "Give me those letters!"
he cried hoarsely.  His eyes were enraged.

"There are no letters," I affirmed.  "And if there were, you shouldn't
have them..."

"Don't lie to me," he trumpeted.  "You went into that house in Long
Acre before the woman--I saw you.  If you haven't got the letters, then
she has.  In that case, what is she doing here?"

All through our interview my ears had been strained for any sound from
the bedroom, but I had heard nothing.  I wondered at what point in our
conversation the woman had discovered the identity of my visitor.  The
door was solid mahogany; but it seemed to me that Grundt's last
strident shout must have penetrated it.  I could picture to myself the
frightened, graceful creature cowering behind it.

"There's no one here except ourselves," I lied stoutly, and at the same
time edged towards the bedroom door.  But he was facing me, his back to
it, and I could not pass him without attracting his attention.

"You brought her here with you," he thundered.  Then, raising his head,
he sniffed.  "Don't you think I know the perfume she uses?"  Like a
flash he whipped about and with bewildering agility for one crippled as
he was, made, hobbling, for the bedroom.  I tried to intercept him, but
I was too late.  He flung the door wide, then, lurching with his heavy
boot, stepped quickly back.

Garnet stood in the doorway.




98

Goddess from the machine

Grundt glared at her, then, slowly turning, directed a glance, charged
with suspicion and bewilderment, at me.  He seemed utterly
disconcerted, as, indeed, was I.  "What's all the noise about?" Garnet
demanded serenely.  She came slowly into the sitting-room.

She was in evening dress with a dark wrap and looked very presentable,
as, indeed, she always did when she laid aside those darned gig-lamps
of hers.  The German's face was a study.  He put me in mind of a wild
beast of the jungle disturbed by some unfamiliar sound or smell.  He
kept screwing his short neck round to glance from Garnet to me and from
us back to the bedroom.

"This gentleman," I observed suavely to Garnet, "is under the
impression that I have a lady friend of his concealed in my bedroom..."

Garnet shook her head at me.  "You're a desperate villain.  Where is
she?"  She advanced calmly into the sitting-room.

"How long ... how long have you been in there?" Grundt asked her
huskily.  His cigar had gone out and he was easing his collar with his
fingers.

Garnet laughed.  "Ever since you saw fit to disturb our
_tte--tte_..."  She looked at me.  "What time was it when you
brought me back from Long Acre?"

The cripple glowered.  "You were at Long Acre with him to-night?" he
asked her, breaking in before I could answer.

"Certainly.  I went to call on a friend of mine, but she was out.  I
found Mr. Clavering there and we came away together..."

I was in transports of delight at her quickness.  The German
grunted--he obviously did not know what to believe--and favoured us
again with his baleful stare.  Then muttering, "Permit me!" he limped
through to the bedroom.

I followed after.  The room was undisturbed, the curtains drawn across
the French window, the bed turned down for the night.  To my dismay I
was conscious of that subtle fragrance again.  Grundt caught it too for
I saw him cant over that bullet head of his and sniff.  Then
irresolutely he hauled himself across to the curtains, parted them.
The window was shut and bolted.  He opened a wall press, glanced in at
the adjoining bathroom, let his gaze rove around the room perfunctorily
and limped out.  Garnet, watching him from the doorway, stood back to
let him pass.

"You've forgotten something," she said.  He veered about.  He was
bristling with anger.  "You didn't look under the bed," she observed
demurely.  He scowled savagely.  "The young lady is pleased to be
facetious," he growled in his throaty English.  "But I have made no
mistake.  The woman I am looking for was here..."  He broke into a
sudden bellow.  "_Verdammt_, I know her perfume.  The whole place reeks
of it!"

With a little laugh Garnet waved the handkerchief she carried under his
nose.  "Your friend is not the only one to use scent, you know," she
remarked easily.  The hairy fingers shot out and seized the
handkerchief, pawing it over until they found the initials--I could see
them plainly from where I stood, "M.W."--for "Margaret Wolseley."  With
a snort Grundt thrust the handkerchief back into her hand.  Her laugh
followed him as, flinging away from her, he stumped out into the hall.
A moment later we heard the front door bang and a heavy, halting
footstep ring on the flagstones until the night peace of Albany
swallowed the sound.

I was already at the house telephone connected with the night porter's
lodge.  "A lame gentleman has just left me," I told the porter.  "He
will in all probability ask you to get him a cab.  You'll keep him
waiting for five minutes before you find one.  Is that understood?"
Then I rang up Vine Street police station which, for the benefit of
those whose geography of Central London is defective, I might explain
is practically next door to the Albany.

I found the calm Irish voice of the station sergeant very heartening.
"Considine," said I, "this is Major Clavering speaking.  There's a big
lame man waiting in the entrance of the Albany or just leaving.  How
long will it take you to put two of your plain clothes men on his
trail?  I don't want him interfered with: I merely want to know where
he goes..."

"Hould the line a minewt now, Meejor..."  There was a pause during
which I looked for Garnet and saw her calmly powdering her face in the
glass.  The station sergeant's voice spoke softly in my ear.  "They're
afther leavin'.  Will they report to you, sorr?"

"Please, Sergeant Considine..."  I hung up, then, lifting the receiver
again, asked for the Chief's home number.  Garnet turned round from the
mirror.  "You won't get him," she said.  "He's out of town for the
night.  But you can take it from me, you've done the right thing.  The
old man wouldn't want him interfered with..."  She shook her head at
the door through which Clubfoot had vanished.  "Ouf, what a brute!"

"Garnet," I exclaimed, replacing the receiver, "you're a wonder!  Talk
about Houdini--the cabinet trick is nothing to it.  But tell me
first--how did you get hold of her perfume?"

Garnet chuckled.  "That was easy.  All perfume smells alike to a man at
close quarters.  I happened to have some Ful-Nana on my hanky so I
pushed it under his nose.  That's all!"

I roared with laughter.  "You're a scream.  But the vanishing trick,
how on earth did you manage that?"

She was tapping a cigarette to rights on the back of her hand.  "I was
dining with friends at the Berkeley when someone who came to our table
mentioned that Mitzi Funda didn't appear at the theatre to-night.  So I
rang you at her flat to warn you, in case she showed up there, I mean.
When there was no reply I telephoned you here, but the exchange could
get no answer.  That was about three-quarters of an hour ago.  I rang
you again here about a quarter of an hour later and, after a lot of
bother, the exchange told me your receiver was off the hook.  So I came
round.  The night-porter said a big, lame man had called on you--a
foreigner who asked a lot of questions.  The porter seemed a bit
suspicious of him.  Then, as I was coming along the ropewalk, or
whatever you call it, I saw a woman in evening dress run across the
grass in front of one of the ground floor flats.  A window behind her
was open and I discovered that it was one of your windows.  I stepped
back into an entrance out of sight and saw her go by--she seemed to be
scared out of her wits.  So I took the liberty of nipping in at the
open window.  The first thing I heard, when I was in the bedroom, was
someone telling you in German in the next room that he'd followed you
and some woman here.  By the way," she added, "it is Grundt, isn't it?"

"Old Clubfoot in person," said I.  "Did you ever hear of such nerve?
And the woman you saw is Madeleine Stafford, poor Charles's Delilah..."

"Ah!" she said thoughtfully.  "She's very beautiful.  But she's
dangerous, too..."

"That remains to be seen," I rejoined.  With a meditative air Garnet
had seated herself upon the fender.  "Tell me!" she ordered composedly,
settling her frock.

"Not until I've mixed myself a drink," I told her, moving to the
sideboard.  "And you'd better have one, too.  That is, if your Puritan
principles permit..."

"I'm afraid my principles are blown sky-high," she returned quietly.
"Don't you realise I'm irretrievably compromised?  Our hop-and-go-kick
friend will carry back to Germany with him the most deplorable
impression of my morals.  In the circumstances I think I might venture,
don't you, if you make it a weak one?"

I could scarcely believe my ears.  This was a side of our Garnet I had
never seen in office hours.  Swinging her legs on the fender, while she
sipped her Scotch and soda, she listened to my narrative of the
evening's events.  "Let's take a look at those letters," she suggested
when I had finished.

To read them she had to put on those horrible glasses of hers and
immediately became the old official Garnet again.  She was an excellent
German scholar and made quick work of that spidery hand.  "This is the
real stuff," was her comment as she passed the letters back to me.  "No
wonder old Clubfoot wanted them..."  She leaned her brown head back
against the mantel-piece.  "And so you really think that this Stafford
woman will get the box back in exchange for those letters?" she
demanded.

Her tone ruffled me slightly.  "Yes, I do.  After all, the box is in
her possession and Grundt knows nothing about it..."

"At present, yes..."

"What do you mean by that?"

She swung a slim foot.  "Don't you realise you've let her see that
we're anxious to recover the box?"

"I made it perfectly clear that it was only for sentimental reasons..."

Her laugh was short.  "You don't imagine she believes that fairy tale,
do you?"

"I believe her to be absolutely genuine," I said.  "The trouble is that
she's not a free agent.  This man has got some hold on her..."

"Is this the story she told Forrest?" she asked sarcastically.

"I haven't the least idea," I said.

"I inquire," she rejoined delicately, "merely because it seems to me
I've heard it before..."

Women are odd creatures.  So many of them seem able to forgive another
woman almost anything except charm and good looks.  Garnet knew
absolutely nothing about Mrs. Stafford except that she was remarkably
attractive and that I was interested in her; but it was enough.

"You're quite wrong about her," I cried.  "I've met enough liars in
this job of ours to know when a person is speaking the truth.  Mrs.
Stafford is all right.  We'll get that box back: you see if we don't..."

Garnet sighed.  "Do you still think I was mistaken about Forrest...?"

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Well," she said slowly, "if she was able to tell you this tale so
successfully..."

"For an intelligent woman," I told her, "you make at times
astonishingly inept remarks.  Are you suggesting that I'm in love with
her, may I ask?"

Her eyes rested mildly on mine.  "Well, are you?"

"It's preposterous," I declared.  "A woman I've hardly exchanged two
words with ... Come on, I'm going to take you home.  And," I added
severely, "I must ask you not to go prejudicing the Chief against this
idea of mine...."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she answered calmly.  "I only said anything
now because I don't want you to get hurt..."

She said it very sweetly, but I was still sore and I answered crossly,
"I believe I can look after myself..."

"That, my dear," she retorted, "is the most absurd statement you have
made to-night!"




99

The silver star

But Clubfoot was too many for us.  At three o'clock in the morning, by
which time I had had a warning circulated to all railway stations and
ports in the country to be on the look-out for my lame visitor and,
possibly, a woman companion, I was knocked up by two crestfallen
detectives.  Their tale was of a taxicab chase that had ended in front
of a quiet house at Kew and of an indignant landlady in night attire
who would hear nothing against her German lodger until they had shown
her the open gate in the garden at the back and tyre marks in the mud
of the lane beyond.  By what underground route Dr. Grundt fled from
England, we never ascertained.  There are creeks in Essex where a motor
cruiser can lie up unobserved, and Norfolk and Suffolk coves remote
from the vigilant eye of the coast-guards--in fine, there are ways out
of England of which Bradshaw knows nothing.  Mrs. Stafford disappeared
without trace at the same time and there appeared to be no doubt that
Grundt took her with him--they must have had some prearranged
meeting-place.

A week slipped by.  I was busy winding up the Mitzi Funda case and
remained on in London.  Every day I looked for the summons that would
put me in possession of the box.  The Chief had fully approved my
action in the matter--indeed, he was good enough to say that he would
not have acted otherwise himself.  But I could see that he was mildly
sceptical as to the woman living up to her part of the bargain, and I
wondered whether Garnet had not been filling him up with her ideas.  As
for Garnet, I avoided her as much as possible.  It seemed to me, when
we met, that she wore an increasingly triumphant expression as the days
passed and no word came from the other side.  And then, without any
warning, which is the way things used to happen in our job, the Brander
case at Portsmouth claimed my entire attention.

Our people stumbled across Brander's trail by a pure fluke.  It was
Chief Petty Officer Gybe of H.M.S. _Fearless_, our latest
super-dreadnought, who gave the show away by flinging the money about
at Brighton races when on leave from his ship.  Now if, years before,
Gybe had not made a dead set against an A.B. called Griffiths, and
Griffiths on leaving the Navy, had not gone into the police, Gybe might
never have been caught, I should never have gone to Ostend, and
Grundt....  But there, once one starts on a string of hypotheses such
as these, there is no end.  Besides, I am anticipating....

Gybe's misfortune was that, although he was in mufti, he was recognised
by a plain clothes man on the course.  This was none other than his old
shipmate, Griffiths, who had never forgotten the treatment he had
received at Gybe's hands and who now lost no time in communicating to
the Special Branch at Scotland Yard (the executive end, so to speak, of
the secret service) his doubts as to the source of the petty officer's
new-found affluence.

In those years immediately preceding the outbreak of the world war,
when the counter-espionage on both sides of the north Sea was right on
its toes, the spectacle of a petty officer laying fivers and tenners on
the horses was one that merited the attention of sundry retiring
individuals in plain clothes who kept unostentatious watch on comings
and goings at our chief naval ports and dockyards.  A confidential call
was paid upon the captain of the _Fearless_ which led to a strictly
private search of C.P.O. Gybe's ditty-box on board the battleship.  It
revealed, sewn into the lining of a pea-jacket, a questionnaire
concerning the super-dreadnought's forthcoming gunnery trials.

Gybe went to sea again with the questionnaire still reposing in its
hiding-place, never suspecting that, night and day, during the week he
had spent ashore, he had been under supervision.  It was found that his
habit, when on shore leave, was to drop in at a tavern behind the Hard
at Portsmouth called "The Boatswain's Pipe."  It was a modest little
beer-house frequented by naval ratings and dockyard hands and was kept
by a man named Frederic Brander.

Nothing was known to Brander's discredit.  He had been in no trouble
with the police, he had no dubious acquaintances.  The Portsmouth
police had no reason for suspecting him to be anything but what he
professed to be, a purser retired after twenty years' service with one
of the smaller British steamship lines, as English as his wife, who
came from Ryde, across the water, undoubtedly was.

Then _Fearless_ returned from her trials.  This is where I appeared on
the scene.  I was one of the party of detectives who grabbed Gybe as he
landed from the leave pinnace, wearing his pea-jacket.  I have never
forgotten the expression on his face as we surrounded him.  He went a
horrible leaden colour and I guessed that, like most bullies, he was
yellow.  We hustled him into an office and on searching him found,
still sewn up in his jacket, the questionnaire.  But this time it was
filled in.

Well, he coughed up the whole story, blubbering and lamenting about his
wife and children--like all traitors, he was a poor sort of fellow.  He
was in the hands of the bookies and had misappropriated certain mess
funds to pay his debts.  A timely loan from his friend, Brander, had
saved him from exposure and court martial.  Then one day Brander, who
had been pressing him for repayment, suggested a method of liquidating
the debt and earning a little easy money besides.  He represented that
a friend of his, employed by a North of England armament firm, was
interested in H.M.S. _Fearless's_ gunnery trials.  If Gybe would answer
a few simple questions on the subject, his debt would be washed out and
there would be fifty pounds for him in addition.  The money would be
paid when the questionnaire, duly filled in, was handed over.

To obtain the necessary evidence against Brander, Gybe had to go
through the formality of delivering up the questionnaire.  So we
escorted him in a body through a network of little cobbled lanes to
"The Boatswain's Pipe."  The idea was that we should wait in the
passage while Gybe, now thoroughly cowed, went as usual to Brander's
parlour behind the tap.

But it was early in the morning--not ten o'clock--and the place was not
yet open for custom.  Brander must have been on the qui vive and seen
the little group approach--the sound of the shot rang out through the
locked front door before the tinkle of the old-fashioned bell had died
away.  On that we put our shoulders to the door, but we were too late.
We found Brander in the back room, sprawled across the breakfast-table
with his brains running out of his ear, and his wife raving over the
body.

Not a shred of evidence connecting the dead man with Gybe was found.
But what we did discover were Brander's discharge papers from the
German Navy, dated a dozen years or so before, and a photograph of the
dead man in petty officer's uniform taken in a group on board the
German battleship _Preussen_.  It struck me as being foolhardy to the
point of madness for a man working for the German secret service on
British soil to have kept such incriminating documents by him,
especially when, like Brander, he was posing as a British subject, and
I told the Chief so.

"Shows he wasn't a regular agent," the old man grunted.  "The fellow
was clearly a novice to have done a damfool thing like that.  We'll
know more about it when we discover to whom he was reporting...."

Not a line about the case appeared in the newspapers--that was the
Chief's doing, I assumed.  The inquest on Brander was dispensed with,
the body smuggled out and buried secretly, and Brander's wife, who was
hopelessly insane, quietly certified and removed to a lunatic asylum.
It was given out in the neighbourhood that Brander had gone away on a
holiday to recover from the shock of his wife's seizure, and a
detective, posing as a relative of the wife's, was installed to conduct
the business of the pub.

Then, three days after the tragedy, the Chief sent for me.

I found him highly elated.  A letter addressed to Brander at the
beer-shop had been sent up by the postal authorities, acting on a
confidential order from the Postmaster-General.  This communication had
arrived on the previous day, two days after Brander's suicide.  The
envelope, which bore the Brussels post mark, contained only a few lines
of typewriting in English without heading or signature and read:


_Await you on the 10th, 4 p.m., Caf Apeldoorn, rue de la Digue,
Ostend.  The silver star will identify._


The 10th was the following day.

"That our friends have to identify their emissary," the Chief declared,
"suggests to me that Brander is not known to them by sight.  I propose
to kill two birds with one stone.  They shall have their questionnaire,
or something so like it they won't know the difference, and we'll cash
in on it, too.  It amuses me to think of old Tirpitz contributing to
the office expenses.  And with the Treasury so sticky about funds a
hundred quid or so--it must be worth that--won't come amiss...."  He
cocked his shrewd old eye at me.  "How would you like to take a chance
and impersonate Brander at the rendezvous?  Do you think you could
carry it off?"

"Why not?" I answered light-heartedly.  "As you say, sir, it's fairly
evident that they don't know Brander by sight.  My German will pass the
test and I can play Brander's type on my head.  For the rest, I'm
perfectly willing to risk it..."

"What is it, Garnet?" the Chief broke in testily.  "Can't you see I'm
busy?"

I had not noticed Garnet before--the old man had few confidences from
her and she was almost like a part of the furniture posted at her desk
in the corner.  She had come forward with a sheet of foolscap in her
hand.  "It's Okewood's latest report, sir," she explained.  "It's
arrived only this morning.  You haven't seen it yet..."

"Well, it'll wait, won't it?"

The Garnet shook her head.  "No, Chief, you've got to read it now..."

With a resigned air the old man took the paper from her, frowning as he
adjusted his glasses.  I could see that two or three lines of the
typescript he held were underscored in red.  The stern face before me
cleared.  With a bang the Chief brought his hand down on the desk.  "By
God," he exclaimed, "I believe we've got him!"

He looked across the desk at me.  "Listen to this from Okewood," he
said, and proceeded to read out: "Though nominally attached to Section
Seven, in reality Grundt appears to control a small force of picked
secret service men whose duty it is, under his direction, to carry out
investigations in confidential matters in which the Emperor is
personally interested.  This organisation is said to act entirely
independently of all existing Intelligence services, although, such is
the degree of authority invested in its head, it has the right to call
to its aid at all times the forces of the State.  I have been unable to
obtain any information as to the numbers or names of those acting under
Grundt's orders, but I have ascertained that the badge of their
authority is a silver star, eight-pointed and surmounted with a 'G,'
signifying 'Garde'..."

He peered at me from over the tops of his horn-rimmed glasses and
repeated softly, "A silver star!"

My throat was suddenly dry.  "You mean that Grundt is behind this
Brander business?"

He nodded curtly, then, slowly, gleefully, began to rub his hands.
"Clavering," he said, "I have a notion that we have him where we want
him.  A word to Vandervliet and he'll have that caf surrounded,
waiting for our friend to hop blithely into the trap.  And this time
we'll catch old Clubfoot with the goods on him.  Openly conducting
espionage on Belgian soil against a nation with which Belgium is at
peace--it'll be ten year's penal servitude for him, at least.  And when
he realises that, he may be willing to talk business..."

"About the gold box?"

"About the gold box, no less..."

"And if he hasn't got it?"

The Chief laughed.  "That, my dear Clavering, is the only hypothesis
that interests me.  If he has the box, it's good-bye to that list of
agents; if he hasn't, then it's up to him to help us get it
back--otherwise..."  He broke off.  "I don't believe he'd like a
Belgian prison..." he added with a malicious smile.

"We've no certainty that Grundt himself will be waiting for Brander," I
pointed out.

"That's true," the Chief agreed.  "But remark that once more we are
dealing with one of those naval questions in which his august employer
is so passionately interested.  Nothing delights His Majesty more than
to be able to flourish first-hand information about the British Fleet
under the noses of his admirals.  An authentic report about Fearless's
gunnery trials would be a fine feather in the Imperial bonnet.  And
what a triumph for Grundt!"

A smooth voice struck in.  "You don't seriously intend to send
Clavering on this mission, do you, Chief?" said Garnet.

It was I who spoke first.  "And why not?" I demanded.

"He's seen you repeatedly," she answered, her forehead ruffled above
her glasses.  "He'll be able to penetrate through any disguise..."

The Chief pushed out his underlip.  "She's right Clavering," he told
me.  "I'd overlooked that..."

"I'm greatly obliged to Miss Wolseley for her solicitude,"  I rejoined,
"but in the first place I'm confident of being able to disguise myself
so that my own mother wouldn't recognise me, and that goes for speech
and gait as well as my personal appearance.  In the second place, if
Vandervliet makes a job of it and the trap is properly laid, there's
virtually no risk...."

"This man's a savage," Garnet interjected with a quite unusual amount
of heat.  "He'd think nothing of shooting you down--he tried to shoot
you once before.  Especially when he finds that he's trapped." ... She
turned to the old man who sat, with a face like a graven image, behind
his desk.  "I know it's no business of mine, sir, but--send somebody
else!"

The old man did not reply at once.  "I've never ordered a subordinate
of mine to undertake a job which might cost him his life," he observed
at last.  "Clavering here knows that, on a mission of this kind or any
other, a dead man's of no use to anybody.  If he thinks that it would
be foolhardy for him to undertake this trip to Ostend, I shall applaud
his common sense and appoint someone else in his place...."  He glanced
at me inquiringly.  "The decision is up to you, Clavering...."

"I go, of course, sir," I told him.

"Then I'll get on to Vandervliet at once.  Put in a call to Brussels,
urgent priority, will you, please, Garnet, my dear?"

Garnet did not look at me, but went to the telephone.




100

The plan goes awry

One of the things we were taught in the service was that the first
essential for the successful impersonation of another individual is to
_think_ oneself, so to speak, into the skin of the rle.  The Chief was
never strong on blue glasses and what he called "yellow ochre and crepe
hair."

"If you've sufficiently studied the type you are to represent," he
would tell us, "you'll have no difficulty in drawing his mentality like
a glove over yours.  And if you _think_ right, you will unconsciously
assume those mannerisms of conduct and gait which are better than any
grease paint and wig business."

"Remember, Clavering," he said, in giving me my final orders for my
Ostend mission, "that this Brander has followed the sea for many years,
not as a seaman, however, for the best part of his service, but as
purser, a characteristic type.  For the greater portion of his career
he was in British ships, acquiring a veneer that led everybody at
Portsmouth to take him for an Englishman.  Yet behind that veneer were
those twelve years he had spent in the German Navy.  This man had the
blind, unflinching obedience of the German noncommissioned officer in
his heart, as, no doubt, those who lured him into this espionage
business reckoned.  You mustn't forget that; it would have dominated
his attitude towards the emissary who was to meet him at Ostend...."

In the rush to get away from London and to work up the rle I had
elected to play I had had scarcely time to weigh seriously my chances
of success.  I knew that I could depend absolutely on the Chief, in
collaboration with my frog-like friend, old Vandervliet, to see that
there was no hitch in the arrangements at Ostend.  And in fact almost
the first person I saw, on landing from the afternoon boat, was
Vandervliet's gimlet-eyed assistant, Laporte.  In the garb of an hotel
tout he was loafing on the quay and, although he looked me square in
the face as I came off the second-class gangway with the crowd, I was
gratified to perceive that he failed to recognise me.  And when at
length, after threading a maze of mean streets at the back of the port,
I reached the squalid estammet that was the Caf Apeldoorn and saw the
party of men working rather aimlessly on the road before it, I knew
that the trap was set and read to close.

My instructions were simple enough.  I had a whistle.  On handing over
the questionnaire--the original document faked over, with immense
gusto, by the Chief himself--I was to blow my whistle, on which
Vandervliet's myrmidons were to rush in and detain everyone present.
But I confess I was not feeling too happy in my mind as I sat sipping a
glass of beer and waiting for the man with the silver star to show up.
Save for two navvies playing cards and a nondescript individual, in a
yellow overcoat, who, I fancied, might be a Belgian plain clothes man,
reading a newspaper in a corner, I had the place to myself.  I was
early at the rendezvous and in the interval of waiting I had abundant
leisure to reflect upon the hazards of my enterprise.

We were banking on the probability that the man with the silver
star--Clubfoot or another--did not know Frederic Brander by sight.  If
we were wrong, I realised I might have spared myself the trip, for I
conjectured that the emissary would take the opportunity of looking me
over as a guard against a trap before showing himself.  I had little
expectation of deceiving anyone already familiar with Brander's
appearance; the most I could hope to do was to present a type
approximating as nearly as possible to his.  With that, supposing the
man I was to meet had only a passing acquaintance with Brander, I might
still get by; but before all I had Grundt in mind.  Here was the
greatest risk; if, as the Chief had so confidently anticipated, Grundt
were the man with the silver star, I knew it would take the most
complete and baffling disguise to hide my real identity from that
savage, searching eye.

As far as was practicable, then, I had moulded my appearance on that of
the suicide.  Physically, we were much of a type--which probably
accounted for the Chief's initial proposal that I should impersonate
Brander.  We were, each of us, big-built, lean of face and aquiline of
profile, and wiry.  Brander, on the other hand, was fair, with light
hair as yet untouched by grey, and light eyebrows and lashes, while I
was dark.  Treatment with peroxide corrected that, however, with
results that still astonished me as I surveyed myself in the mirrored
wall behind my sofa seat in the caf.

A little stain had given my face and hands a brown and weatherbeaten
hue; my hair, now vividly golden, was clipped to the scalp even as
Brander's had been; and my low collar and worn blue serge suggested to
the life, or so it seemed to me, the mariner ashore.  My hat was a
cheap, stained felt, and in the lining, neatly folded, was the
document--or what purported to be the document--that had cost Brander
his life, Brander's wife her reason, and Chief Petty Officer Gybe his
career.  I felt that I could pass muster with anyone, even Grundt, if,
as we assumed, he were not already familiar with the appearance of the
man I was impersonating.

That "if" was a big one, however, and it rested like a leaden weight on
my spirits as I waited there.  In vain I told myself that, even if the
ruse were exposed, the danger was not great: one blast on my whistle
and the caf would be full of police--I had a sense of foreboding which
I could not throw off.  Gloomy thoughts drifted through my mind, of
Gybe's ghastly pallor as Waterhouse, of the Special Branch, tapped him
on the shoulder, of Brander stretched out across the table, of his
wife's piercing screams.  A stout fellow, Brander--death rather than
ruin for him.  I must remember that--it would help me to slip into the
skin of my trap.

I let my mind slide into German harness.  I tried thinking
strong-willed, self-opinionated thoughts such as the Prussian military
training hammers into a man.  With sentimental ecstasy I repeated to
myself such improving maxims as "_Gott mit uns_," "_Wir Deutschen
frchten Gott und sonst Nichts auf der Welt_" and recited, with some
excusable lapses the first verse of "_Deutschland, Deutschland ber
Alles_" under my breath.  Suddenly I became aware that the waiter was
hovering in the vicinity of my table.

The card-players had left the caf and only the man with the newspaper
and I remained.  It was half-past four.  My glass was empty and I
called the waiter over and ordered another bock.  Stooping to mop the
table with the soiled napkin he carried, as he picked up my glass, he
ground out between his teeth in German, "_Man wartet auf Sie_," that is
to say, "You are awaited."  Then aloud, in French, he said, "The
telephone?  This way, sir.  I'll show you!"  And he led the way to a
door behind the bar.

The moment had arrived.  My last glimpse of the little caf showed me
my _vis--vis_ furtively observing us from behind his newspaper.  My
left hand feeling for my whistle, my right groping inside my coat to
make sure that my automatic was in the inside pocket, I followed the
waiter into a dark passage where, at the end, a man stood looking out
from a doorway.

He was as solid as an ox; but it was not Dr. Grundt.  The bowler hat
crammed firmly on the shaven head, the black broadcloth, the large
umbrella crooked over his arm, the bristling Kaiser moustache--all
these things proclaimed as loudly as possible the Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar, as members of the plain clothes branch of the
German police are called.  As I approached the door he shot out a beefy
hand at me and opening it, displayed, cupped in the palm, a silver
star, eight-pointed and stamped with a "G," even as Okewood had
described.

"So?" I said in my stiffest German and doffed my hat.  "I have
something for you my friend..."  I began to feel in the lining; but the
man with the star stopped me.  "Not here!" he muttered in gruff German.
"Follow me!"

So saying he stepped backwards into the room, making way for me to
pass.  I went in and found myself immediately confronted by a trapdoor
in the floor raised up to disclose a flight of wooden steps descending
into a pool of darkness.

I hesitated and, as the door into the passage closed behind me, swung
about.  A frowsty-looking fellow in a yellow overcoat was just shutting
the door.  It was the man who had read the newspaper in the caf.  "All
right, Vogel?" the man in black demanded.  "All right," the other
agreed.  The first man gave me a little push.  "Down with you," he said
to me, jerking his thumb towards the stairs.  "Excuse me," I remarked
frigidly, centring my mind on the fact that the Germans are the most
pedantic race under the sun, "my instructions were to hand over a
certain paper to someone who should be identified by a silver star.
You have identified yourself, _also_..."  I fumbled in my hat.

"Don't be in such a hurry, _mein Junger_," growled the man in the
yellow overcoat.  Then to his companion he added, "Have you got your
light, Bauer?"  And, as the other switched on a torch, "So?  Now lead
on!"

I was in a dire quandary, sandwiched there between those two burly
detectives.  Here was a complication we had not foreseen.  In my
left-hand pocket my fingers gripped the whistle.  I had only to blow it
to bring assistance, yet to give the signal was to risk closing the net
prematurely and ruining everything.  On the other hand, since I had no
idea whither the stairs before me led, to go on was to risk passing
altogether out of Vandervliet's safety cordon and facing the ultimate
encounter singlehanded.  It seemed to me I had no choice and I followed
Bauer down the stairs.

It brought us to a dank cellar with an iron gate ajar at the far end.
We passed through the gate into a low passage, the white beam of the
torch lighting up walls that glistened with damp.  A deep laugh behind
me went echoing along the gallery.  "Smugglers!" said Vogel curtly but
expressively.

Instinctively I had begun to count our paces.  I had counted up to a
hundred or more when I felt the fresh air on my face and perceived a
glimmer of daylight in the distance.  At length we emerged into a
cellar, the floor of which was deep in sand, mounted a wooden ladder to
a sort of hatch cemented in the rock and surrounded by a circle of
stunted bushes, and found ourselves upon the dunes.

I had a brief moment of panic.  It was unpleasant while it lasted, but
it passed.  All our precautions had gone for nothing.  I had burnt my
boats.  It looked to me as if this adventure of mine was destined to
prove, as the Duke said of Waterloo, "a damned close-run thing."  The
surroundings were not calculated to cheer my flagging spirits.  Save
for a man in chauffeur's uniform who loitered there, his overcoat
collar turned up against the searching breeze, not a soul was in sight.
We were alone in a vista of sand and sea and sky.  Dusk was falling and
the wind sent the sand dancing in eddies before it to rattle among the
straining gorse clumps.  Half a mile away the ocean was a ragged,
discoloured smear.

Stark as a landmark a motor-car stood up among the dunes.  It was
halted on a road a good three hundred yards' walk across the loose
sand.  My companions made me enter first, then Vogel produced a large
scarf and, without comment, proceeded to bandage my eyes.  I did not
trouble to protest.  He had his orders and I had no wish to fray my
nerves and dissipate my energies in bickering with these underlings.

We had not been ten minutes under way when the car stopped and one of
the men descended--to unlatch a gate, as I imagined.  I heard the
crunch of gravel under our tyres and the smell of trees was in my
nostrils.  The car halted again, I was helped out and guided up some
steps and across carpet.

Then my bandage was whisked off and I saw the Man with the Clubfoot
standing before me.




101

In which a key revives hope

I have no recollection of that room for the simple reason that I had no
eyes for my surroundings.  My gaze was irresistibly drawn to the
awe-inspiring figure regarding me, this simian creature with the hot,
wrathful eyes and the merciless mouth.  Grundt seemed to have been
working, for the only light in the room was a lamp that shed its rays
on a desk strewn with papers.  Subconsciously I registered the fact
that the lighting was poor.  Both his face and mine were in shadow, and
the circumstance gave me a glimmering of hope.  For by this time I had
made up my mind that our ruse had failed and that I should be lucky if
I contrived to get home alive.

Grundt made a brief gesture to the two detectives who had entered with
me and they clattered out.  Instinctively I had fallen into my rle.
Bolt upright, chest out, hands to my sides, heels together, I
confronted the giant cripple.  "You're Friedrich Brander, from
Portsmouth, _nicht wahr_?" he rasped commandingly.

"_Jawohl, Exzellenz_," I roared in approved service fashion--I thought
the title would not displease him.

He snapped his fingers impatiently.  "The questionnaire!" he ordered.

I drew it from its hiding-place.  His hairy hand snatched it from me.
Limping to the desk, he spread out the sheet of flimsy paper under the
light.  As he read, his heavy face unknit and a gratified smile turned
up the corners of his gross lips.  His perusal at an end, he laid the
report on the desk and hauled a wallet from his pocket.  "You were well
spoken of to me, my friend," he growled.  "I'm glad to find that my
confidence in your loyalty to our good German Fatherland was not
displaced.  You and I may work together again.  Fifty pounds in English
money was the sum agreed, I think?"  He drew forth a wad of Bank of
England notes.

Everything had gone well so far and my spirits were rising.  The
Chief's remark about Tirpitz came into my mind.  I stole a glance at
that ogre face, noted the cupidity that revealed itself in the eyes,
and drew a bow at a venture.

"A hundred was the stipulated price, Your Excellency," I retorted.

The big man frowned.  "Grundt has no use for fancy titles," he declared
in his metallic voice.  "You can call me Herr Doktor, or even old
Clubfoot, if you're so minded.  And the price was seventy-five!"
Licking his enormous thumb, he proceeded to count off fifteen notes
from the packet in his hand.

He was engaged in this task when the door was softly rapped.  Vogel
thrust his face into the room.  "Herr Doktor..." he began.  "Well, what
is it?" Clubfoot demanded irascibly.  Instead of replying, the man
pranced a-tiptoe across the room and whispered in Grundt's ear.  "What
does the fellow want?  I'll not see him," the cripple roared angrily.
But he spoke too late.  A small, trim man, hook-nosed, grey-haired,
authoritative, came bustling in.

My heart sank into my boots.  I prided myself on spotting types--I had
devoted a great deal of time to this fascinating study.  And although
the newcomer was in plain clothes, I knew him immediately for a German
naval officer, and an officer of high rank at that.

Grundt's first words confirmed my suspicion.  "The Herr Admiral might
have waited at the hotel," he remarked with grudging civility.

After a brief glance at me--he had a bright blue eye that seemed to
drill right through me--the Admiral swung round to Grundt.  "Have you
got it?" he demanded crisply.

With a self-complacent air the other pointed to the desk.  "His Majesty
should be pleased," he observed ingratiatingly.  But the Admiral had
seized the report and with rapt interest was scanning it under the lamp.

"Our illustrious ruler knows," Grundt pursued purringly, "that he has
but to voice a wish and his devoted and loyal servant, so long and so
highly honoured by the confidence of his Imperial master..."

"But you can't show him this," the Admiral roared suddenly, his
grizzled head thrust forward under the lamp.  "If _he_ knows the
English can shoot like this, he'll upset the whole building programme,
_zum Donnerwetter_...."  He wheeled about, frowning.  "I suppose this
report is all right?  Where did it come from?  _Ach_, so..."

His steely eye had once more fallen on me.  With an effort I gathered
my wits about me, standing stiffly at attention, staring straight in
front of me.

"This is Herr Brander, a former petty officer of the Fleet," Grundt
explained suavely.

"Brander, Brander?  I seem to know that name," the Admiral barked.
"When were you discharged, my man?"

"At your orders, Excellency, in 1901"--that much, at least, I could
vouch for.

"What ship?"

"The _Preussen_, Excellency"--I was still on safe ground.

The Admiral rugged face lit up--he had a pleasant smile.  "The
_Preussen, zum diebel_!  Then you knew me, Admiral von Trompeter?  I
commanded her..."

There was, as I recalled later a glitter in his eye that should have
warned me.  But his bluff air had thrown me off the scent.  Though I
was sweating with sheer funk, I replied glibly, "But of course,
Excellency!  I recognised the Herr Admiral the moment His Excellency
came into the room..."

I broke off in a panic.  With an icy air the Admiral had turned to
Grundt.  "The fellow's an impostor," he announced.  "Ask them in the
Fleet about me, Herr Doktor, and they'll tell you that Trompeter has
the reputation of never forgetting a name or a face.  I remember Petty
Officer Brander quite well.  He was with me in the _Panther_ and later
in the _Stettin_.  This is not the man.  And I never commanded the
_Preussen_.  You may believe if you will that a man forgets the name of
his last captain in the service..."  He laughed, and his laugh was like
the tinkle of ice in a glass.  "So much for your famous report, Herr
Doktor!  I thought it was too good to be true.  The other aides-de-camp
of His Majesty will get a good laugh out of this..."

Inwardly I was cursing the Chief's sense of humour.  This is what came
of being too clever.  Gingerly I began to slide my hand to my side
pocket where my gun was.  But Grundt was too quick for me.  His draw
was the swiftest, as the automatic he levelled at me was the largest, I
had ever seen.  The blood suffused his face.  "You dog," he bellowed,
"you'd play tricks with me, would you?  Who are you?"  Seizing the lamp
with his left hand, while he held me covered with the pistol in his
right, he tilted it back until the light shone full in my face.

"No scandal, Herr Doktor," said the Admiral sharply, and picked up his
hat and overcoat.  His shoulders shook with a spasm of malicious
laughter.  "The rogue, whoever he is, played his part capitally.  A
pity for him that he did not have only you to deal with.  The next time
you entertain a naval guest you'd better send for old Trompeter, who
never forgets a face.  Always at your service, Herr Doktor..."  He
bowed ironically and tripped lightly out, still chuckling.

The Man with the Clubfoot paid no heed to him.  He was glaring at me,
his features convulsed with fury.  With that pitiless light beating on
my face, I felt that those tiger eyes of his were boring me through and
through.  As on that night in Brussels when we had first met, I was
acutely conscious of the animal force this primitive creature gave
forth.  It was as though he projected some deadly ray that held me
powerless in its ban.

My arms raised painfully above my head, I stood there, waiting for him
to speak.  I do not know how long we remained like that--it seemed an
eternity--but I remember how, in that paralysing silence, I strained my
ears for any sound and heard only the plangent voice of the wind.  In
the course of my career I found myself in some tight spots at times,
but usually there was some straw of hope to snatch at.  That evening,
however, face to face with Grundt in a house the very location of which
was unknown to me, was one of the rare occasions when I felt certain
that my last hour had struck.

There must have been a bell under the carpet by the desk, for suddenly
I heard the door behind me open, and Vogel's voice: "The Herr Doktor
rang?"--Grundt had made no move that I could detect.

"Search him," Grundt commanded harshly.  Vogel approached me from one
side, Bauer from the other.  They took away my gun, some Belgian and
English money and a packet of Gold Flake, and laid these finds upon the
desk--I had taken good care before leaving London to see that, apart
from these necessities, my pockets were empty.  Morosely, the cripple's
eye ferreted among these trophies.  Then, "Is there any place where we
can hold him in safe custody?" he asked.

The two detectives exchanged a glance.  "There's the wood-cellar,"
Bauer suggested.  "It has a stout door and the windows are barred....."

"Put him there," the cripple ordered, "lock the door and bring me the
key."

"Does the Herr Doktor wish him to be handcuffed?" Vogel inquired
submissively.  Grundt had put up his gun and turned away with a sombre,
reflective air.

"If the place is secure, that will suffice," he answered.  He dragged
himself cumbrously to the desk, adjusted the lamp and sat down.

The reaction was almost too much for me.  What did this unlooked-for
respite portend?  In a sort of daze I let them lead me away, through a
hall decorated with deer antlers, hunting-horns and the like, and down
a stairway to a basement, where they opened a heavy whitewashed door
and thrust me into a gloomy cellar.  There I heard a key grate in the
lock, and the footsteps of my escort recede into the distance.

My prison was dry, but its brick floor struck cold.  It was almost in
darkness, its only light being derived from two barred and unglazed
openings on a level with the ground outside.  My first action was to
inspect the door.  It was an old door and solid, and the lock did not
yield an inch as I softly tried it.  And the bars across the window
were inch-thick, firmly planted and set too close together for even a
child's body to pass.  In vain I scrutinised floor and walls, even
dragging down a pile of logs, for any other means of egress.  There was
none.  I was fairly caught, and I sat myself down on the chopping-block
to think things over.

The initiative--with rage in my heart I had to admit it to myself--had
passed out of my hands.  And as far as I could figure it out I had no
chance of regaining it.  No doubt, as time wore on and they received no
signal from me, Vandervliet's people would enter the caf.  Normally, I
imagined, the entry to that subterranean passage was carefully
concealed; but even supposing that Vandervliet's men searched the place
and found the trap-door, the passage would only bring them out upon the
dunes and they would be no nearer, effectively, towards rescuing me
than if they had stayed at the caf.  And I had absolutely no method of
communicating with them.

If there had been any servants in that infernal house I might
conceivably have revolved in my mind a plan for smuggling out a message
to Vandervliet or Laporte.  But the whole place was as silent as the
grave.  I was in the basement where presumably the kitchen was
situated, yet not a sound of any human activity reached me in my
cellar.  I could have shouted for help, of course, and banged on the
door, but this, I judged, would have brought me no other result than
handcuffs and a gag.  I did not doubt that Grundt and his two acolytes
were the only persons in the house beside myself, or that the house was
situated in some lonely spot--on the dunes, for instance, between
Ostend and Knocke; and Grundt had detained me because the isolated
location of the place favoured whatever design he harboured concerning
me.  I shivered--not alone with the cold in the cellar--and, springing
up, began to pace up and down.

I had been locked up there for a good hour by my watch, and the cellar
was quite dark, when I heard outside the sound of a motor-car starting
up, followed a minute or two later by the sound of its departure.  A
crazy idea took possession of me--I dare say I was a bit light-headed;
I had eaten nothing since breakfast, and I craved for a cigarette--were
my captors leaving me in the lurch in that empty house to die of
starvation?  For a moment my nerve cracked and I hurled myself at the
door, beating upon it with my fists and shouting, "Grundt, Grundt let
me out!"

The fit passed almost as soon as it came, and I stepped back from the
door, ashamed of my weakness.  As I stood there panting I fancied I
heard a movement in the passage.  I listened.  Yes, there it was again!
A rat, I thought.

Then something fell tinkling on the brickwork under my feet.  The door
was raised perhaps a foot above the level of the cellar, and I knew
that something had been pushed under it.  I stooped and groped in the
darkness.

It was a key.




102

Escape

Without a moment's hesitation I thrust it in the lock--after all, that
is what keys are for.  The key fitted and the ponderous door swung out.
I was free.  Outside all was dark, but enough light percolated from the
staircase to show me that the passage was deserted.  I paused an
instant to withdraw the key and lock the door on the outside, dropping
the key in my pocket--it occurred to me that it might delay pursuit if
they believed I were still a prisoner.  For I already had a theory as
to the identity of my deliverer.

I crept to the staircase, listened and, when no sound reached me from
above, tiptoed my way up to the hall.  A slight figure stood impassive
under the hanging lamp.  It was Madeleine Stafford.

We exchanged a long glance.  I had forgotten all about my disguise, my
stained skin, my chemical blondness, and for the moment was puzzled by
the look of bewilderment on that flowerlike face.  "You--you are Mr.
Clavering, aren't you?" she said at last uncertainly.  Smiling, I
nodded.  Then I suppose she read the apprehension in the quick look I
cast about me--at the door of the room where I had seen Grundt,
standing ajar; at the other doors--closed, these--leading off the hall;
at the broad staircase that mounted to a landing, to branch off at
right-angles to the upper stories--for she added quickly: "We shan't be
disturbed for the moment.  There's no one in the house...."  She gazed
at me wonderingly.  "What an amazing disguise!  But for your walk, the
way you carry your head..."  She broke off.  "Well," she asked archly,
"are you surprised to see me?"

"Not altogether," I answered her, "although somehow it had never
occurred to me that you would be here with him--not until that key was
pushed under the door, at any rate...."

"You hadn't lost faith in me altogether, then?" she demanded with a
quick intake of the breath.

I shrugged.  "You promised to send word.  When no word came..."

"This is the first time he has let me out of his sight since we left
England, and this is only a fortunate accident.  If he was not with me
himself, one or other of his people was my constant companion..."

"And to-night then?"

"He was unexpectedly summoned to the Emperor at Aachen.  He took one of
his men with him to drive the car.  The other--a man named Bauer--he
left behind on guard.  But Bauer has gone out, probably to the village
to drink beer..."

"You're sure of this, I suppose?" I questioned anxiously.

"I was watching from the landing up there and saw him leave by the
front door.  He locked it after him--the doors are always locked when
Grundt is away.  But come in here--we can talk more safely.  There are
French windows to this room.  We shall hear Bauer when he returns and
you can slip out into the grounds unobserved.  If he has gone to the
village he cannot be back for half an hour at least..."

So saying she led me into Grundt's study.  It gave me an odd feeling of
fear to find myself back in that room--the sinister presence of the man
seemed yet to linger there.  The reading-lamp was still alight.  We
left the door ajar.  My companion moved noiselessly to the curtains,
parted them and softly unlatched one side of the window.  This done,
she came slowly to the desk and faced me, a graceful, appealing figure
in her flowing black dress.  In the reflected glow of the lamp I
perceived that the lovely face was pale and distressed with dark
shadows about the eyes.

"Did they forget that the house has windows?"  I could not refrain from
inquiring.

She made a helpless movement of the shoulders.  "He knows only too well
he has no need of bolts and bars to prevent me from leaving him," she
rejoined sombrely.  "The doors are locked, but not against me.  It is
to keep out intruders..."

"How did you know I was here?" I asked.

"I saw them bringing you in blindfolded as I was coming downstairs..."

"And you recognised me in spite of my disguise?"  My tone was
crestfallen.

"There was something familiar about you--the set of your head ... I
don't know.  Ever since that night in London Grundt has been raving
against you.  I was expecting to see you sooner or later in his
power..."

"You are sharper than Grundt if you recognised me," I put in.

"He didn't know you again?  Are you sure?" she questioned
apprehensively.

"He has discovered that I'm not the man I represent myself to be, but
that's all.  If he'd guessed my real identity, I don't think I'd have
left that room alive...."

She nodded with troubled eyes.  "He is enraged against you.  He would
like to tear you--how do you say it?--limb by limb..."

"But I interrupted you," I excused myself.

"I shrank out of sight on the landing," she resumed, "and watched them
bring you in here.  I returned to my room and waited for about half an
hour.  Then Bauer came and said that Grundt wanted to see me.  Grundt
told me he was going to Aachen and that he would let me know to-morrow
where I was to join him.  He said nothing about you..."

"And nothing of a man called Brander?"

"No.  He did not mention that he had had any visitor.  But I saw a
large key lying on the blotter, and presently he put it away in a
drawer of the desk.  After that I went back to my room until I heard
the car drive off.  I was on my way downstairs to see if I could
discover from Bauer what had become of you when I caught sight of him
slipping out.  A moment later I heard you banging on the door and
calling from the basement.  That was the first indication I had that
you were still in the house.  It was then I remembered the key I had
seen.  I ran into Grundt's room and found it in the drawer where he had
put it.  I didn't wait to unlock the door in case Bauer should come
back.  I just pushed the key under the door and ran back to the hall to
keep watch..."

I put out my hand; she took it listlessly.  "You were a brick," I said.
"I can never thank you enough.  And now what?  In the first place, just
what is this house and where are we?"

"All I can tell you is that it is called the Villa Belgica, and that it
lies in the dunes three miles from Ostend.  We arrived here two days
ago and an old woman comes in daily to look after us.  Who the place
belongs to, or how Grundt happens to be here, I can't say.  I'm afraid
you'll have to walk into Ostend--there's no conveyance nearer than the
village and that's in the opposite direction.  There's a road across
the sand-hills--it passes the front gates.  You can't miss the way..."

"And what about you?"

She moved her shoulders nonchalantly.  "I stay here..."

"And when Grundt returns to-morrow and finds me gone?"

"I thought we might put that key back in the drawer.  Then he would not
be able to tell how you got out.  What did you do with it?"

I gave her the key and she replaced it in the drawer.  "That's no
good," I told her, "but it suggests an idea..."  I paused, considering
her.  "Unless I can persuade you to come with me..."

She gazed at me wide-eyed.  "Where?"

"To England--anywhere out of this man's clutches..."

She shook her head, aghast.  "No..."

"Ostend, you say, is only three miles away.  At Ostend I can guarantee
you absolute safety from any interference by Grundt..."

With even greater determination she shook her head again.  "It's
impossible.  I can never leave him..."

"Is there nothing I can do?" I said.  "Can't you see I want to help
you?"

She pressed my hand gently--that magnetic touch of hers sent the blood
coursing to my head.  "I know," she answered softly, "but there's
nothing you can do.  Except to swear on your word of honour as an
English gentleman that you will never disclose to him, if you are
recaptured, how you escaped from this place.  If he should find out..."

"He won't by the time I'm finished here," I told her, "since you're
resolved to stay.  Where do you suppose I can find such a thing as an
iron bar?"

"An iron bar?  What for?"

"Never mind.  Is there such a thing about?"

"There's a coal-cellar in the basement.  There might be one there..."

"Good.  Now listen.  Can you stay in this room?"

"Yes, I often sit here when I am alone..."

"Good.  Read or do some needlework--anything you like.  If Bauer
returns you've heard nothing and seen nothing--do you understand?"

"Where are you going?"

"Down to the basement to hunt up that bar.  I'll be back in a minute.
If you hear Bauer in the meantime, cough loudly..."

Without giving her time to reply, I crept away.

A search of the coal-cellar which flanked my late prison failed to
produce the crowbar I had hoped to find.  But among some parts of a
derelict stove I came upon a cast-iron stanchion about three feet long
which I thought might serve my purpose.  Thrusting it under my coat I
hurried upstairs again and, without disclosing my intentions to
Madeleine, passed rapidly through the study and out by the window.
Happily the night was not particularly dark and, making my way quietly
round the house, I came to the two windows of the wood-cellar.
Crouching down, I set to work with my stanchion upon the bars of one of
the openings, striving to force them apart.

It was hard work and I made a good deal of noise, besides badly
skinning my hands.  But at length, by dint of much battering and
bending, I had widened the grill sufficiently to admit, as far as I
could judge, the passage of a human body.  Then with my feet I made
some realistic scratches in the moss-grown stone in which the bars were
set, trampled down a plant or two in the flower-bed outside, and
deliberately left some foot-marks in the mould.  Feeling that I had
contrived a reasonably plausible setting for a dramatic escape, I
dropped my bar through the opening into the wood-cellar, and returned
to Madeleine in the study.

She was reading the _Klnische Zeitung_, but started up when I stepped
through the window.  Bauer had not returned, she said.  I told her what
I had done.  "Your next move," I declared, "is to go straight to bed
and be fast asleep by the time Bauer gets back.  In that way you will
have a sound alibi in the improbable case that Grundt should still
suspect you of conniving at my escape, the more so that Bauer, having
played truant, will naturally be anxious to prevent any inquiries from
being made as to how you passed the evening..."

On that her face cleared.  "That is clever," she said, smiling at me.
"I was wondering how I should face Grundt.  But now..."  She broke off
and gave a little gurgling laugh.  "You are intelligent.  I like
intelligence.  And you have great resourcefulness.  Are they all as
resourceful as you in the British Secret Service?"

"You're not so slow yourself," I answered with a grin.  "Tell me
something.  When we met in London the other day, did you recognize me
as the man who came to your bedroom that night in Brussels?"

She nodded rather mischievously.

"And you never let on?"

"I was afraid.  I didn't know you then..."

"You know me better now?"

She dropped her eyes and nodded.

"Well enough to trust me?"

She nodded again.

"You remember our bargain about the box?"

She flung her hands apart.  "How could I get it for you when he watches
me day and night?  When I give my word I keep it.  But in this case it
has not been possible..."

"How did you explain to him your failure to recover those letters?"

She shrugged.  "I told him the truth--that you were there before me..."

"Didn't he want to know why I didn't have you arrested?"

She coloured up.  "I told him I persuaded you to let me go..."

"And he believed that?"

"The way I described it, yes..."

"I see..."

"But if he'd known that I was in your bedroom when he came round to the
Albany..."  She paused, "It was good of you not to betray me..."

"Would it help you if you had those letters?"

She nodded.  "Yes.  This Prince, or whatever he is, stands high in the
Emperor's favour.  Without the letters Grundt cannot proceed against
him..."

"Needless to say, I haven't got those letters on me.  But you shall
have them the moment I reach London if you'll hand over that gold
box..."

"Have I not told you I have had no chance to fetch it?"

"Where is it, then?"

Her eyes grew apprehensive again.  "In Cologne..."

"Where in Cologne?"

"In my apartment there.  On the way back from Brussels with Grundt
after the railway accident I stopped there to get some clothes and put
it in a safe place..."

"Will you tell me where it is so that I can collect it?"

She was silent, considering.

"Your heart's not in the work you do for Grundt, is it?" I demanded.
"The German Secret Service doesn't mean anything to you, I know that..."

"I daren't risk it," she said piteously.  "If Grundt ever discovered
that I had played him false..."

"Yet you were not afraid to play him false to-night?"

"That was different," she said softly.  "Your life depended on it ...
as another life depends on this," she added in a breathless undertone.
"What is this box to you?  Is it true what you told me about Forrest's
family wanting it back?"

"No," I said.

"That, at least, is a truthful answer..."

"You say that one life depends on Grundt not discovering the
whereabouts of the box.  If I tell you that at least a dozen lives are
in jeopardy if it should fall into his hands.  I'll undertake to
collect that box and Grundt will never know a thing about it.  Won't
you trust me ... Madeleine?"

Abruptly she averted her eyes.  Then, standing up from her chair, she
took a turn or two up and down the room.  "Very well," she said at
length, stopping in front of me, "but it is on one condition, and one
condition only, that you fetch the box yourself..."

"There was never any other intention," I rejoined promptly.

"No," she countered at once, "but I want your word of honour that you
will take no other human being into your confidence so that if, by any
accident, you are prevented from going yourself, my secret remains
inviolate.  Is that agreed?"

"Absolutely," I told her.

"I have your solemn promise?"

"My word of honour..."

"It is enough," she said.  "Listen to me, then!  Write nothing down, do
you hear?  But remember this address.  Engel-Gasse 14--it is a small
street behind the Archbishop's Palace and my apartment is at the top.
It is in the name of Hagen, Marie Hagen.  At present it is shut up, but
here"--she thrust her hand down the front of her dress--"is the key!"
And she dropped a small shining key into my palm.

I was about to thank her, but she checked me.  "Wait," she bade me,
"you have yet to learn where the gold box is hidden.  You must go into
the kitchen--it is an old-fashioned kitchen with a great bricked-in
copper for boiling clothes.  At the back of the copper, under the
grate, there is a loose brick.  Behind it you will find the box..."

"I don't know how to thank you," I told her.  "You have no idea what
this means to us.  I shall be in Cologne to-morrow and you shall have
those letters next day..."

"Letters or no letters," she answered gravely, "if I didn't trust you,
for your intelligence as well as your sense of honour..."

"Then let me thank you for your trust," I said.  And raising her two
hands to my lips, I kissed each in turn--she had such pretty hands.

She gave me a whimsical, amused look.  "That colouring is dreadful.
Please be dark again by the next time we meet.  I don't like fair
men..."

"All the same," I gave her back, "if I hadn't been a fair man to-night,
old Clubfoot would have a different story to tell..."

The half-hour grace was long since past.  "I'll have to be moving," I
said.  "Where do you want the letters sent?"  Care of Thomas Cook &
Son, Berlin, would find her, she told me.  She gave me her hand.  "Good
luck," she said, "and come safe home!"

"I'll never forget what you've done for me to-night," I declared.
"Shall I tell you something?  I adore courage.  And you're the most
courageous woman I've ever met..."

She smiled wanly.  "Better to die with courage than to live on in
fear..."  She sighed.  "It's easier to die than to live..."  She put me
from her.  "Now go!"

I went to the window.  The last glimpse I had of her was standing by
the desk, with her secretive air, gazing wistfully at me.  If I had
known then what dark events impended for her, I would have carried her
off by force rather than have left her there in the power of that
sinister cripple.




103

Disaster

Bright and early next morning I was at Cologne.  I can abridge the
remainder of my Ostend adventure by saying that I made my way across
the dunes without incident and, on reaching the town, lost no time in
catching the first train out.  Clubfoot was off again--evidently he
had, like most of us, his own clandestine routes for crossing
frontiers--and for me to have gone to the police would only have led to
unpleasantness for my deliverer, besides being a sheer waste of time.
I did not even wire the Chief; time enough for that next day when the
box was in my possession, I reflected, browsing deliciously upon the
idea of walking into his sanctum and laying the box silently upon the
desk under his Garnet's incredulous gaze.  I waited only to cash a
cheque--since all my available funds had been taken from me at the
villa--at the Grand Hotel, where I was known, and then, with hopes
high, headed for Germany.

Eight a.m. appeared to me to be inconveniently early for running the
gauntlet of Madeleine's concierge.  So I whiled away a pleasant hour
over coffee and rolls and the _Klnische Zeitung_ at a caf off the
Dom-Platz, and towards nine o'clock, having ascertained from the waiter
that the Engel-Gasse was one of the streets abutting upon the little
square before the Cardinal-Archbishop's Palace, I strolled off in the
sunshine towards my destination.

It was a lovely spring morning.  The lacy spires of the Cathedral
tapered towards a canopy of azure as divinely blue as the sky above
Sorrento, and on the steps and under porches quite dwarfed by those
staring twin towers a cluster of Mass-goers was constantly ascending
and descending.  I was always fond of the Rhineland, with its spotless,
thriving cities and verdant, vine-clad hills, its friendly, easy-going
natives, whose temperaments seem to have absorbed most of the generous
qualities of the grape.  In the course of a somewhat adventurous life I
had discovered that even fear itself knows no thrill quite so poignant
as the sensation of acute danger safely surmounted.  The knowledge that
I was out of Clubfoot's clutches and about to add the crowning touch to
his discomfiture redoubled my enjoyment of my surroundings as, lighting
a cigarette, I turned my back on the great church and directed my steps
towards the hoary pile which is the Archbishop's residence.

The Engel-Gasse was a clean, old-fashioned street, narrow and lined
with lofty and rather gloomy houses.  At No. 14 the front door was open
and I was hoping to dodge unseen past the concierge's little window
when I bumped into that worthy herself.  She was a small, dried-up
woman in a blue apron and wooden shoes, who, with mop and bucket, was
swilling out the entrance.

"_Zu wem, bitte_?" she said, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

"Frau Hagen..."

She bestowed on me rather a sharp look.  "You were told yesterday that
the _gndige_ Frau is away..."

At the moment I did not really pay any particular attention to her
answer, although it was to come back to me later--my only thought was
to get up to the flat without delay.  I did not wish to divulge the
fact that I had the key to the apartment in case the woman might insist
on accompanying me upstairs.  I was turning over in my mind how I
should surmount this difficulty when the telephone rang in the lodge
behind her.

"And we don't know," she added, putting down her mop, "when she'll be
back..."

"In that case," said I, tipping my hat, "please excuse me..."  And I
turned away.

But out of the corner of my eye I saw her enter her lodge and presently
heard her speaking on the telephone.  From where I lingered I had a
clear view of her stooping to the instrument with her back to the door.
I slipped forward and up the stairs.

There was one apartment on each landing, each with the tenant's name
chastely inscribed in Gothic characters on a small porcelain plate
under the bell.  I had mounted to the top floor before I came upon the
name I wanted.  Without wasting another minute, I fished out the key
and let myself into the flat.

Drawn curtains and closed shutters darkened the living-room.  The
sparse sunshine, filtered through the slats, barred greenly furniture
swathed in holland and pictures enveloped in newspaper where they hung
on the walls.  I flung a window wide and hooked the shutter back,
admitting, together with light and air, the voice of the city.  The
cheerful symphony of carpet-beating, motor horns and tram bells was
quick to dissipate the atmosphere of desolation which seems to hang
about all dwelling-places abandoned by their owners.

I did not linger in the sitting-room but, leaving the window open to
light me on my way, threaded a corridor that led from the hall in
search of the kitchen.  A snug dining-room: a large bedroom furnished
in silver grey which I took to be Madeleine's: a somewhat antiquated
bathroom: a spare room--and, spellbound, I was at the goal of my long
chase.

The kitchen was large as kitchens go and bright with sunshine, for the
single window, looking out upon a shut-in court with the tall, grave
Cathedral towers rising above the housetops beyond it, was unshuttered.
There was an old-fashioned range, evidently abandoned, as was shown by
the small gas-stove that stood before it, and in the corner--my breath
came faster as I recognized it--the copper.

I was down on the tiled floor in a second, my arm thrust out under the
rusty grate where normally the fire to heat the boiler was laid.  At
first my fingers slid over the whitewashed brickwork, then my nails
encountered a slight excrescence.  I felt the loosened brick, prised it
from its seating, drew it out and put it on the ground beside me.  Once
more my hand was plunged into the aperture.

Triumph!  The box was there--I could feel its scalloped edges, the
chasing on the sides.  Now I had plucked it forth and it reposed on my
palm, this harmless-looking bonbonnire, fit plaything for a pretty
woman, that had cost my colleague his life.

Crouched on my knees I contemplated the charming toy, with its amoretti
and its swooning Cupid brandishing his barbed dart.  Mechanically, my
heart like to burst with my swelling sense of exultation, I found
myself repeating the name engraved along top and bottom of the
lid--Marie Bertesson!  The arrow lay in the vertical position between
the two names, pointing straight out towards the right-hand side of the
box.  I gloated--coups such as this made the game worth while.  Another
minute and the precious list would be in my hands--I tarried
deliberately, to prolong the joy of anticipation.

Now to see how old Charles was wont to open it.  I touched the arrow
gingerly with my finger.  It spun easily.  I swung the barb towards the
letter "M"...

At the same moment a harsh command in German shattered the silence:
"Drop that box and stand up!"

On the instant my house of cards collapsed about me.  I scrambled to my
feet in a panic and turned about.  In that fraction of a second I
verily believe I ran the whole gamut of the human emotions.  Surprise,
disappointment, mortification, rage--I was smitten to the ground,
annihilated.  But worst of all was the suspicion of treachery that
flashed across my mind, the staggering, crushing suspicion that I had
been lured into an ambush.

This feeling, however, promptly gave way to one of bewilderment as I
recognised the man who confronted me behind the levelled automatic.  It
was Markus--once seen, one was not likely to forget that snarling mask
that guinea-yellow hue, those black boot-button eyes, as restless as a
bird's--Markus, of the Russian secret police, pimp, procurer and, as I
always suspected, drug addict.  As he faced me now he had an air of
hysterical eagerness about him that suggested the influence of some
narcotic.

He should have recognised me, for we had known one another, on and off,
for years.  But I suppose my altered colouring baffled him.  At any
rate he gave no sign of recognition but, pointing to the kitchen table
that separated us, piped shrilly in German, "That box!  Put it on the
table!  Quick, or I shoot!"

I was greatly puzzled.  That Grundt should have taken Markus, with his
unspeakable record, into his service, I was unable to believe.  But if
not, what was Markus doing here in Madeleine Stafford's flat?
Something the concierge below had said came into my mind--she had
spoken of a man who had called on the previous day.  Markus, of
course--obviously he had been watching the apartment.  Why?  A sudden
light came to me.  Mitzi Funda's letters!  He had discovered in some
way that Madeleine had been sent to fetch them and on fleeing from
England had made straight for Cologne to await her arrival.

The box was still in my hands.  I was unarmed--my Scott Webley had been
taken from me at Grundt's--and the pistol that covered me was sagging
dangerously: I could see his fingers trembling on the trigger.
"Gladly," I said in English as nonchalantly as I could contrive.  "But
I don't see of what use that box will be to you.  You won't find Mitzi
Funda's letters there!"  I laid the box on the table.  Quick as a flash
he pounced on it, whirled about and stormed out of the kitchen,
slamming the door behind him.

I was dumbfounded.  My intention had been to parley with him and if
that failed, to try and get possession of his pistol.  But this
precipitate flight had ruined everything.  I was over that table and
out of the kitchen before he had reached the hall.  I saw him fumbling
with the door latch and noted mechanically that the door was closed, as
I had left it.

The door was banged to in my face, just as I reached it.  I plucked it
open and heard his feet thunder on the stairs.  Three steps at a time I
went plunging down in pursuit.  I had passed the first landing when a
shout and a shot, followed instantly by a second shot, a hubbub of
voices and a vast trampling of feet, brought me up short in a panic.

I peered over the banisters.  The reek of cordite was sour in my
nostrils and, below me, a haze of bluish smoke hung in the air.  Markus
was slumped face downward on the stairs--I could see his bald head and,
beyond it, his grey hat that had fallen from it--and two men in dark
clothes were bending over him.  Others were swarming behind--the
staircase was full of people: I caught a glimpse of the concierge's
terrified face in the throng.  Even as I gazed I perceived a burly
individual in a bowler hat detach himself from the group and with two
others come running up.

It was Grundt's bull-dog, Vogel!  At the sight of him I turned and sped
swiftly up the flight.  The front door of the apartment was open and,
darting inside, I closed it softly behind me.  I was sorely tempted to
bolt it and put up the chain: but I refrained, realising that to do so
would clearly indicate that somebody was still inside.

There was no backstairs to the flats, as my preliminary inspection of
the premises had shown me--if there had been, I reflected, they would
surely have been guarded.  My only chance of escape now was by the roof.

I was at the sitting-room window when already I heard the entrance
bell, its harsh alarm accompanied by thunderous knocking.  A flat,
narrow sill, lead-sheathed, ran below the window which was of the
dormer variety, jutting out from the steep-pitched roof, as were all
the other windows of the top story of the block...

I clambered out on the sill and, clinging to the shutter, closed, as
best I might, the two sides of the casement, and then, perilously,
swung the shutters to.  I could not, of course, fasten either window or
shutters as the latches were on the inside.  I found myself on a ledge,
a bare foot wide, on one side the large, old-fashioned ridged tiles of
the roof, on the other a precipitous, hair-raising drop of, perhaps, a
hundred feet to the cobbled mosaic of the roadway.  To the right of me,
three or four windows away, the block ended on an intersecting street.
One of these windows was open.  Dizzily I began to worm my way towards
it.  Within the house the pealing of the bell and the hammering went on
and I heard distant shouts for the "_Portierfrau_."

It was fortunate for me that, out of sheer, dithering terror of high
places, I moved with extreme caution for, just as I reached the window,
a man poked his head out.  The voices of the party at the apartment
door were loud in my ears now and I realised that the window must give
on the staircase--I wondered fleetingly whether perhaps Markus,
following me up the stairs, had not gained access to the flat that way,
via the window I had left open in the sitting-room.  With racing heart
I flattened myself back against the roof and almost at once, to my
enormous relief, the head was withdrawn.  With such haste as my
swimming head would allow I made off in the opposite direction.

It was urgent for me to find cover for, whether they broke the door
down or whether the concierge let them in, at any minute now they would
be in the apartment, and German thoroughness, I realised, would not
overlook an exhaustive search of the roof.  Besides, up there, with the
whole sunlit panorama of the city spread at my feet, I felt as
mercilessly exposed as a fly on the ceiling.  The first window I came
to was closed with the blinds drawn inside: before the second the
shutters were fastened; and it was not until I arrived at the third
that I found what I wanted--an open window and an empty room.

At least, I judged it from the pervading stillness to be empty.  As I
huddled there, stemming myself against the huge red tiles and
listening, I noticed that the window panes were spattered with
whitewash.  I concluded that the apartment in question was under
repair.  Hearing no movement within, I ventured to crane my neck for a
peep inside.

A confusion of ladders, paint-stained sheets, buckets and brushes met
my eyes.  Obviously the flat was being done up.  There appeared to be
nobody about, for the door into the hall stood wide and there was no
sound of any activity.  I hesitated no longer and, scrambling over the
window-ledge, dropped quietly to the floor inside.

Two or three painter's smocks hanging on the wall explained the absence
of the workmen.  They must have gone to breakfast.  The sight of those
smocks gave me my great idea.  Shade of Badinguet!  Did not Prince
Louis Napoleon escape from the Fortress of Ham in the working clothes
of a mason to found and destroy an Empire?  Why should not I adopt the
same ruse?  Heavy footsteps and stentorian shouts reverberated from
outside--God, they were on the leads already!  In a fever I grabbed one
of the smocks and at the same time, dipping my hand in a bucket,
smeared some whitewash on my hair and face and hat.  The smock was an
ample, coat-like affair, originally white but now abundantly flecked
with paint.  I did not stop to fasten it but, buttoning as I went, fled
into the hall.  The front door was open and I raced down the staircase,
only checking my headlong pace on coming in sight of the porter's lodge.

But I need not have worried.  The porter's lodge was deserted.  I
surmised that the concierge was one of the excited group of housewives
who were collected at the house door, all clacking together and peering
down the street.  The Engel-Gasse was in a turmoil.  People were
running from all sides and not a doorway or window but had its dressing
of awe-struck, curious faces.  "It's a police raid at No. 14.  They've
killed a man!"  I heard a youth on a bicycle call to a friend as he
pedalled madly by.  Looking neither to right nor left of me, I turned
my back on all the excitement and walked unconcernedly away.

      *      *      *      *      *

Markus was dead and the box was in Grundt's hands.  I was raging.  Not
against Markus, for he was an accident--one of those unforeseen twists
of Fortune's wheel against which the best-laid plans are not proof; but
against myself, for the child-like simplicity with which I had walked
into Clubfoot's trap.

Oh, but he was the deep one.  I could see it all now.  He had
disbelieved from the first Madeleine's story that the box was lost in
the train wreck and no doubt had taken the first opportunity of
searching her apartment to look for it.  When the box was still not
forthcoming, being too securely hidden, he had simply bided his time
until our fortuitous encounter in London: following upon our meeting at
Brussels, had suggested to his mind some connection between Madeleine
and me.  He had, of course, penetrated my disguise at the villa and on
the spot had conceived this plan of facilitating my escape not only to
test Madeleine but also on the chance--it was a long shot but how
shrewdly calculated!--that I would lead him to the hiding-place of the
box.

Well, thanks to Markus's disastrous intervention, Grundt had the box.
But I could not see that he had any good grounds for suspecting Mrs.
Stafford.  My escape from the villa, I reminded myself, was plausibly
contrived and Bauer would support her in any story she cared to tell.
Moreover, Markus, the only person who had seen me at the apartment, was
dead--it was obvious that he must have been hanging about the place for
some days and that the concierge had mistaken me for him.  The police
search of the apartment was only _pro forma_--they could have had no
certain expectation of finding me there.  Seeing that there was no
evidence that I had been at the flat, if Madeleine stuck to the story I
had told her to tell, that she had been in bed and asleep at the time
of my escape, Grundt could not reasonably suspect any collusion between
us.  She would not even have to explain the presence of the box in her
apartment; all that Grundt would know would be that it was found on the
dead body of Markus, who, for aught they knew to the contrary, might
have had it in his possession ever since the wreck.  The Russian spy's
anxiety to recover the Mitzi Funda letters, which she had been sent to
London to get, would sufficiently account for his appearance at the
Engel-Gasse.  I had been gravely concerned about Madeleine, and the
gradual realisation that, as far as I could see, she was adequately
shielded from Clubfoot's vengeance was the only ray of light I could
discern in one of the blackest moments in my career.

The box was gone and I had to get out of Cologne, get out of Germany,
as fast as possible.  The railway station, I guessed, would be watched,
but I decided to take the risk.  I knew from experience that no
disguise is so effective as one which misleads as to the professional
occupation of its wearer.  For example, if you are on the look-out for
a soldier and a man in sailor's dress appears, the chances are that he
will get through, especially in a crowded place where the powers of
observation are necessarily circumscribed.  Grundt's men were watching
for a tall, blonde, sunburnt man in blue serge with a nautical air:
their rather limited perceptive faculties, I judged, would scarcely
extend to a painter, his face smeared with whitewash, mingling in with
a crowd of humble folk, market gardeners and the like, swarming at the
fourth class booking office window.

And so it proved.  The big hall of the Haupt-Bahnhof was full of plain
clothes men, grasping their large umbrellas and staring into people's
faces.  But I passed through the barrier right under their noses in a
file of workpeople going across the Rhine to the industrial suburb of
Deutz for which prudently I had bought a ticket.  At Deutz I got rid of
my smock and washed my face in the wash-room, then boarded a train for
Wesel and late in the afternoon found myself at Cleves.  A few miles
from Cleves the great forest known as the Reichswald straddles the
German-Dutch frontier.  In my day there were paths known to the
smugglers by which a man might travel to and fro across the border
without ever catching sight of a customs officer's green uniform.  That
night I lodged at Nymwegen and next day, in a thoroughly dejected frame
of mind, took the first train for London.




104

Garnet steps in

Many people are under the impression that the alluring vamp of spy
fiction is a recognised figure of secret service work.  I hate to
disillusion you, but such is really not the case.  Women have their
uses in espionage, but the general experience has been that their
tendency to survey a situation through the glasses of their emotions
rather than their reason and, more particularly, to sentimentalise
their business relations with the opposite sex, make their value as
regular agents questionable.  In my years in the secret service I had
dealings with more than one woman agent of the siren order (more or
less) and those who were not out-and-out adventuresses, and eminently
untrustworthy, usually fiddled around with a little occasional spy work
as a side-line to an even older profession.

Of course, women were employed and, for aught I know, still are.  The
efficient ones, however, were much more likely to approximate to the
type, say, of our Garnet than a Madeleine Stafford.  Usually they were
selected for the very reason that they were lacking in those qualities
which would single out a striking creature like Mrs. Stafford from the
common herd.  Garnet herself, I might explain, had been known to carry
out missions with her habitual precision and competence.

When diplomatic relations were strained and it was found politic to
withdraw provisionally regulars like Francis Okewood, Herbert Brewster
or the writer from the scene of their activities, Garnet would
occasionally replace us.  Once or twice I saw her on her return from
such excursions and I marvelled at the skill wherewith she had
contrived to make herself appear even plainer and more
insignificant-looking than she really was.  With her hair scraped off
her forehead and screwed into a tight bun, in the steel-rimmed
pince-nez, tweeds and flat-heeled shoes of incorruptible virtue, she
was the very pattern of austere British virginity.  I could well
understand that on her travels abroad nobody would pay the slightest
attention to the harmless little Englishwoman, for all that she
concealed behind the placid self-assurance of a deaconess the memory of
a Datas and a really brilliant fluency in foreign languages.

With her richly exotic beauty and languid charm, Mrs. Stafford was a
woman to attract notice everywhere she went.  She was so obviously
alluring to men that the first glimpse of her would be apt to put the
old secret service hand on his guard; poor Forrest seemed to have been
the exception that proved the rule.  Grundt was the kind of man who
would use for his own ends anybody he found to his hand and I saw no
reason to discredit her story that she was a novice, forced into this
business against her will, in the fact that she was working for him.
What his hold over her was, I still had to ascertain; but I wondered
whether her nationality, whatever it was, did not contain the key of
the mystery.  The three great Empires of those days, Germany, Austria
and Russia, had many discontented subjects.  Poland, Finland, Bohemia,
Croatia were hotbeds of conspirators, the cockpits of incessant
underground warfare between the oppressed nationalities of their
oppressors.

On my return to London, however, I found that headquarters was far from
sharing my attitude towards Madeleine Stafford.  The Chief affirmed
unhesitatingly that she was playing a part at Grundt's instigation.

"All Grundt was after," he declared tersely, "was to get you off
Belgian soil, where he couldn't detain you indefinitely without
considerable risk to himself.  Once you were in Germany he had you
where he wanted you.  The box was the piece of cheese to bait the trap.
Of course, it has been in his possession.  It may well be that he's
still not clear as to the exact significance of that list and was
curious to discover whether it's of sufficient importance to us for you
to go into Germany after it.  In that event, you've told him precisely
what he wanted to know..."

He dismissed me ungraciously.  He seemed overworked and worried that
day.  Garnet followed me into the ante-room.  "You mustn't mind him,"
she said.  "The Admiralty have been making themselves
unpleasant--there's a spot of trouble on about our naval news from
Germany.  And the worst of it is that Okewood has had to clear out..."

"What has old Francis been up to now?  Not got himself expelled, has
he?"

"No.  But they made it too hot for him.  He says the counter-espionage
at Kiel is jumpier than ever.  So he hopped across into Denmark to let
things simmer down.  It has left us rather in a hole.  So you can
imagine that the old man wasn't too pleased to learn from you that
practically the whole of our secret organisation on the German coast is
in Grundt's hands..."

"I don't see why he should vent his feelings on me," I remarked.
"After all, I didn't lose the darned box..."  And then I remembered
something I had not dared to bring up to the Chief in the mood in which
I found him.  "Look here, Garnet," I went on, "you know those Mitzi
Funda letters?  I want you to get hold of them for me..."

She gave me one of her swift looks through her glasses.  "You don't
really propose to send them to that woman, do you?"

"Yes, I do.  After all, they're of no further interest to us.  Mitzi
Funda has disappeared and Markus is dead..."

"That may be..."  She moved her head petulantly.  "Gracious, I do hate
to see a man make a fool of himself...."

"That," I said stiffly, "is wholly a matter of opinion.  I made a
bargain with Mrs. Stafford.  She kept her part.  I intend to keep
mine..."

"Notwithstanding that the whole thing was a plant?"

"I don't agree with you.  I've told you from the outset that I believe
Madeleine Stafford to be genuine..."

She sighed resignedly.  "I daresay I can get those letters for you: as
you say, they're of no value to us.  But, Clavering, do be sensible
about this girl of yours.  Don't lose your head over her!"

Her calm assumption that she was right and that I was wrong angered me.
"Look here," I returned hotly, "when I want your advice, I'll ask for
it!"

Then, perceiving that I had been rude, I added less bluntly, "You don't
seem to realise that there may be two sides to this question.  Has it
ever struck you that you may have been just as wrong, about Forrest and
all the rest, as you think I've been?"

She nodded composedly.  "Oh, yes..."

"Take Forrest, for instance..."

"It was about him I was thinking..."

"I know this woman better than any of you and I tell you again she was
friends with Forrest and nothing more..."

"There I fancy you may be right," she rejoined with infuriating calm.

"Oh, I'm right, am I?" I cried.  "That's something, at any rate.
Perhaps you'd care to tell me why you've changed your mind about
Forrest?"

"I've been thinking, that's all..."

And, believe it or not, I could get no more out of her than that.  But
she gave me the letters that same afternoon, and, within the hour, they
were on their way, by registered post, to Mrs. Stafford in Berlin.
With them I enclosed the key of the apartment in the Engel-Gasse.

      *      *      *      *      *

As the Chief seemed to have a grouch against me--in fairness to him let
me say that these moods of his soon passed--and I had some leave owing,
I decided to fade from the picture.  Accordingly, I stuck a bag and
some clubs in my car and ran down to Sandwich for a little golf.  I had
been there a week when, on coming off the course late one afternoon--it
was, I remember, a Monday--I was met by a telegraph boy who had been
sent across from the hotel.  He had a wire for me from the Chief,
ordering me to report for duty urgently.  I was in London soon after
dinner and on entering the office was greeted with the startling news
that Garnet had disappeared.

It was a curious story the Chief unfolded.  On the previous Wednesday
Garnet, who had been working for several weeks without a break, asked
if she might take Friday and Saturday off as she wished to spend a long
week-end with her married sister at Hythe, saying she would be back at
work as usual on Monday.  The Chief, who was always urging her to take
things more easily, was delighted to give her leave.  Accordingly, on
Thursday evening, at her usual time, she went off.  That was the last
they had seen of her.  That morning she had neither appeared at the
office nor sent any word, with the result that her sister was
communicated with.  It was then discovered that Garnet had not been to
Hythe and that her sister knew nothing of her whereabouts.  Inquiry at
her London flat showed that she had left with a suitcase on Thursday
evening, informing the night porter that she would not be home until
Sunday night or Monday morning.

When by Monday lunch-time she was still missing, the Chief, now
thoroughly alarmed, requested the Special Branch at Scotland Yard to
make a discreet investigation at the railway stations.  The result was
surprising.  A plain clothes man on duty at Liverpool Street, who had
worked with us and knew Garnet by sight, had recognised her at the
terminus on the Friday night.  Suitcase in hand she was in the press of
passengers passing the barrier for the Hook of Holland boat train.  The
detective, whose name was McKenna, saved the office the trouble of
further inquiry by admitting, rather navely, that, knowing Miss
Wolseley to be connected with the secret service, out of sheer
curiosity he had asked about her at the booking-office and found that
she had taken a ticket through to Kiel.

I stared at the Chief in amazement.  "But why Kiel, sir?"

"Well," he said slowly, "I believe I can answer that.  You know
Andresen at Kiel?

"By name, yes..."

"Did you know that his name was on that list of Forrest's?"

The box again!  I pricked up my ears.  "I believe Miss Wolseley did say
something about it..."

"Andresen has always been absolutely reliable.  But of late his reports
have fallen off and well, they don't ring genuine.  I know that the
German counter-espionage has tightened up considerably at Kiel and it
may be that Andresen is afraid of giving himself away.  On the other
hand, there is the danger that he is being deliberately supplied with
false information or even that someone, using his code, is sending back
reports in his place.  I've been very concerned about it because, if
they're on to Andresen, it means that they're on to the whole of our
list, in which case..."  He shook his head dubiously.  "Garnet knew
I've been worrying about this situation.  She knew, too, that I'd never
agree to her going out to investigate--I told her as much last week
when she suggested it.  It's my belief that she slipped over to Kiel
over the week-end, without saying a word to me, to find out the truth
about Andresen.  You see, she knows Andresen--she met him when he was
over here..."

I chuckled.  "Don't I know it?  Why, they went out to lunch together
twice in one week.  He was one of our Garnet's most notable conquests.
She talked of him for weeks afterwards..."

The old man did not follow me into my bantering tone.  His eyes
considered me gravely.

"Well, sir," I said, "it's too late to make any connection with the
Continent to-night.  But I'll catch the Flushing train in the
morning..."

"You realise that Grundt may be at the back of this?" he queried
incisively.

I indicated that this reflection was not unconnected with my offer.

"No, Clavering," the skipper declared with emphasis.  "I'll have you
walking into no more traps.  Up to Friday, at any rate, Andresen was at
liberty.  That's to say, we had a telegram from him yesterday--it came
in the ordinary manner in conventional code via Copenhagen--which only
he, I imagine, could have drafted--it was in answer to a query about an
item in his last expense account.  I'm not going to run you into more
risk than is essential.  All you have to do is to drop in upon Andresen
at this beer-garden of his at Kiel--it's on the east bank of the
harbour on the road to Kitzeberg--and find out from him whether he has
seen anything of Miss Wolseley.  Andresen is a very knowledgeable chap
and he can make inquiries much more effectively than you can.  Let's
see, you've never been to Kiel, have you?"

"No, sir..."

"Then you can safely appear as an ordinary English tourist.  No
disguise, no faked identity; use your own name so that, if there is any
hitch, they'll have nothing against you and if you discover that Garnet
has really met with an accident, you can at need appear openly as a
friend of hers with a clear conscience.  But, understand this, Andresen
is to do the donkey work.  You stop in the background..."

"And if I come across Clubfoot's trail in this business, what then?"

"You'll report to me for further instructions..."

"But if she's been arrested?"

"Your orders stand!"  His tone was authoritative.

"You're not forgetting that Grundt has met her?"

"In evening dress, I think?"

"Yes..."

The stern features relaxed momentarily into a smile.  "If old
Hop-and-go-kick spots her for anything but the more objectionable type
of female British tourist, he's sharper than I give him credit for.
You know Garnet well enough to be sure that her cover's sound and that
in no conceivable circumstances will she ever disclose her connection
with this office.  What's happened, I fancy, is that she found things
at Kiel a trifle hectic and Andresen has advised her to lie low for a
bit..."

"Then why hasn't one of them advised you?

"For the same reason that I haven t attempted to communicate with
Andresen--with the situation as unclear as it is, it's too risky.  As
long as Garnet hasn't fallen off the boat or come to grief in a railway
accident, I'm not worrying unduly about her.  That young woman can take
care of herself in any circumstances.  Now, remember, Clavering," he
concluded, "I don't want you figuring on the butcher's bill.  Your job
is to locate Miss Wolseley and advise me.  No knight errant business!
You can leave that to Andresen and me!"

With which strictly practical homily, he wished me good luck on my
errand and bade me good night.




105

A glass of beer at Andresen's and what it led to

Ah, vanished days of a Europe that has crumbled into dust as utterly as
the walls of Tyre and Sidon!  I can still snatch a thrill from the
memory of starting out on those missions of mine, my well-worn hunting
flask on my hip, an automatic in my inside pocket and a belt of a
hundred good gold sovereigns round my waist.  At my back was London,
stolid old London, which always palled on me after a few months; before
me the Continent seemed, like a map in relief, to unfold itself,
parcelled out into its mass of States, great and small, nearly all with
its Emperor, King or Princeling hedged in with bayonets.  They knew me
on the Channel boats and on all the famous trains--the Nord Express
that would be my travelling home between the lights of Paris and the
winter snows of St. Petersburg of the Tsars; the Orient Express that
carried me so often across the great Balkan range to Constantinople
with its soaring minarets or the shores of the Black Sea; the Sud
Express with the leafy Castellana and the carriages of the excellent
Madriles at the end of its run or Lisbon, dreaming of fallen grandeur
by the broad waters of the Tagus.  More often than not the destiny
towards which those drumming wheels bore me was commonplace and banal;
but I never quitted the shores of England without a sense of
exhilaration born of excited speculation as to what the future held in
store.

I left London for Hamburg next morning, breakfasted beside the Alster
next day, and caught a train for Kiel which set me down at my
destination about noon.  I had previously reconnoitred my route on the
map with considerable thoroughness and duly made my way to the
Holstenbrcke where I boarded a little steamer to take me across the
harbour--the "Frde," as they call it.  It was a glorious day, sunny
and mild, and on landing at Kitzeberg, with its array of summer villas
gleaming whitely through the trees, I set off on foot through the woods
for Andresen's.

Five minutes' tramp brought me in sight of a rustic signboard inscribed
"_Zum Goldnen Adler_," which was the device of Andresen's
establishment, and beyond it, of a ramshackle kind of pavilion with a
dozen or so roughly carpentered tables, covered with red and white
cloths, set out in a clearing among the pines.  A deep silence reigned
and between the branches were glimpses of snowy sails on sparkling blue
water.  The place seemed deserted, but that did not surprise me.
Andresen's was clearly one of those establishments commonly found in
the environs of German cities where on Sundays workmen bring their
families for a glass of beer and a game of cards or skittles under the
trees.

As I entered the garden a woman appeared from the house with a pan of
water which she emptied on the grass.  She was a big-boned, rather
bovine female in a pinafore fastened over her clean cotton frock--I
wondered whether this was Frau Andresen.  On perceiving me, she put
down her dish and, wiping her hands on her pinafore, came across to
where I stood among the tables.

"It's warm walking," I remarked, doffing my hat.  "Do you think I could
have a glass of nice cold Pilsener?"

"Certainly," she answered, setting a chair for me.  "The Herr has come
far?"

"Only from Kitzeberg," I told her.  "And what about something to eat?
I haven't had any lunch..."

I could have an omelette or a Wiener-Schnitzel, she told me, and the
Gruyre was fresh.  She had rather a dour, reserved way with her,
accentuated by her strongly-marked dark eyebrows and abundant black
hair.  I said I would take the Schnitzel.  "And if Herr Andresen is
anywhere about," I added, "I'd like a word with him."  Herr Andresen
was out, she stated curtly, and went away.

She brought me my beer at once and, lighting a cigarette, I gave myself
over to the peace of the place.  The air was heavenly, soft and deeply
impregnated with the scent of the pines.  I drank my beer and wondered
about Garnet.  Andresen was evidently still about; but what could have
happened to her?

When the woman at length brought me my food I asked her when Andresen
was likely to be in.  She shrugged her shoulders.  "Is Frau Andresen
there?" I asked.  "I am Frau Andresen," she answered.

"A friend of Herr Andresen's from London has lately been at Kiel," I
explained, "and I'm anxious to find out where's she's stopping.  Her
name is Miss Wolseley.  She hasn't been here, I suppose?"

"An English lady with pince-nez?" she asked, looking at me out of her
bold black eyes.

"That's her," I said eagerly.

"She was here this morning to see my husband.  But he was out.  She
said she'd come back..."

This was distinctly encouraging.  "At what time?" I questioned.

She hoisted her shoulders.  "She didn't say..."

"Has she been here before to-day?"

"Oh, yes.  Several times..."

"And seen Herr Andresen?"

"Oh, yes.  She met him in London, it appears.  The Herr is English
also?"

Yes, I told her.

"For an Englishman the Herr speaks German brilliantly..."

I made some subtle rejoinder and asked if she knew at what time
Andresen would return.  She was more expansive now, standing there,
hand on hip, as I ate my lunch.  Her husband had gone to Kiel, she
confided.  She had expected him home for the midday meal but he must
have been delayed.  He would arrive at any minute.  "If the Herr wished
to see the English Miss, he'd better wait on a little."

"Thanks," said I, "I believe I will."  And I asked her if she knew
where Miss Wolseley was staying.  But she only shrugged her shoulders
and remarked that doubtless her husband could tell me.  Then she
retired into the house and left me to finish my meal.

She reappeared presently with my coffee, but this time she did not
linger.  The information I had gleaned made me much easier in my mind.
Whatever was the explanation of the falling-off in Andresen's reports,
it was clear that he was as yet under no surveillance.  From where I
sat I commanded the whole extent of the garden, with the fringe of the
woods on one side and on the other the carriage road to Kitzeberg
shining white through the palings.  Having drunk my coffee, I made a
leisurely tour of the enclosure, and even poked my nose out on the road
to make sure that no watcher lurked behind tree or bush.  Then I saw
Frau Andresen emerging from the house as though in search of me.

Her husband had telephoned, she told me; he was on his way home.  As
she spoke it seemed to me that she eyed me with an air of suspense, of
suppressed excitement; but I put the notion from me as fanciful.  That
was always a failing of mine.  I used to think that almost the only
real qualification I possessed for intelligence work was a certain
intuition which enabled me to read people and their moods with a fair
amount of accuracy.  The trouble was my reluctance to trust my first
impressions, so that I seldom profited by what was quite a useful gift.
Thus does Nature take away with one hand what she has bestowed with the
other.

"You'll wait for him, won't you?" the woman said.  "He won't be long
now, and I'm sure he'll be glad to see any friend of the English Miss.
I brought you the newspaper to read.  And if the Herr fancied a little
glass of cognac, or a sup of Danzig Goldwasser..."

I declined a liqueur, but I picked up the _Kieler Nachrichten_.  It was
a dullish little provincial sheet with a good deal of news of naval
promotions, movements of warships and the like.  I noticed that the
Emperor was at sea with the Fleet on naval exercises, and was expected
back at Kiel the following week.

As I sat there a few people began to arrive at the beer-garden for
their afternoon coffee which, in the German provinces at that date,
took the place of our English afternoon tea.  A middle-aged couple with
a flock of noisy children streamed in from the woods, and were
presently followed by two rather mincing females in black with
walking-sticks and a yapping Peke.  A little later an old-fashioned fly
disgorged at the road entrance a noisy party of two men and two women,
who had thriftily brought their eatables with them in a basket and
ordered two portions of coffee between them.  The beer-garden seemed to
be waking up.

It was getting on for four o'clock.  Still there was no sign of Garnet
or Andresen.  There was nothing for it but to wait.  Now that my
anxiety about Garnet was to a great extent relieved, I began to feel
considerably aggrieved against her.  It was an intolerable thing, I
reflected irascibly, that my leave should be broken off, my time wasted
and the office routine upset over this irresponsible jaunt of hers.  I
turned over in my mind a few pithy remarks in which to voice my opinion
when she should appear.

I laid aside the newspaper and, standing up, strolled across to the
decrepit-looking skittle alley which projected from a corner of the
garden.  The children I had seen arrive were playing there, and the air
rang with their shouts and the clatter of the ball among the pins.  I
was watching them at their game when I heard the throb of a motor
engine and, looking round, perceived that a motor-car had halted at the
gate.  A woman was getting out.  I saw at a glance that she was too
tall to be Garnet and I turned my attention to the children again.

Then a voice said behind me: "This is the Herr who has asked for Miss
Wolseley..."

I swung about.  Frau Andresen was there.  With her was the woman I had
noticed descending from the car.

I suppose Madeleine Stafford was the last person in the world I had
expected to see in that place.  My face must have betrayed my
astonishment, but she was quite unmoved.  "But this gentleman and I are
already acquainted," she said tranquilly in German.

Frau Andresen addressed me volubly.  "Since this lady, who comes here
to drink coffee sometimes, is also English, I asked her when she
arrived just now whether she happened to know your English friend.  And
now it appears that the gn' Frau knows the Herr.  _Gott_, it's a small
world, as the saying goes!"  She tittered shrilly.

"I think I should like some coffee," Mrs. Stafford observed in her
pleasant voice, "and I dare say the gentleman will join me..."

"I shall be delighted," I said.

"Two coffees?  At once," Frau Andresen exclaimed.  "And you'll tell the
gentleman where the English Miss is staying, _nicht wahr_?" she added
to Mrs. Stafford.  With that she bustled away.

With her nonchalant air Madeleine had seated herself at a table aloof
from the crowd, and was drawing off her gloves.  I took a chair
opposite her.  She seemed to be a long time peeling off her gloves.
She was outwardly composed, her lovely features unruffled, but this
instinct of mine, of which I have already spoken, told me that this
calm of hers was artificial.  I had the impression that she was making
an effort to appear self-controlled.

"Well," she remarked, smiling at me, "this is a surprise.  You've let
your hair go dark again.  It suits you!"

"That's dye," I told her.  "I couldn't stand looking like a blond
sheikh..."  I paused.  "I certainly never expected to meet you at
Kiel..."

I was thinking to myself that I should have anticipated it.  This was
no coincidence--the world was not so small as that.  The garden was
mellow in the afternoon sunlight, and about us the laughter and cries
of the children fended the pleasant quiet of the surrounding woods.
But it was as though a cold, black shadow had suddenly darkened the
sun, the silhouette of a monstrous human shape, crouching, with one
distorted foot drawn back.  And it seemed to me that danger stalked
close at hand.

"I'm staying at the hotel at Kitzeberg," she explained.

"With Grundt?"

She touched my hand.  "Be careful how you mention that name.  No, I'm
alone..."

"Where is he?"

"At sea with the Emperor..."

"When does he get back?"

"Not until next week..."

I nodded.  This confirmed the paragraph I had read in the newspaper.

"I often walk or drive over here in the afternoons," she went on.
"It's pleasant among the pines.  They all think I'm English--on account
of my name, you know.  So when Frau Andresen saw me arrive, she
naturally asked me about this friend of yours..."  She made a pause.
"There are not so many English stopping at Kiel, especially at this
time of year..."

"Do you happen to know where Miss Wolseley is staying?"

"She's at Kitzeberg..."

"At the hotel, do you mean?"

"No.  She's at a villa..."

"What villa?"

"The Villa Waldesruh'..."

"What's she doing there?"

She laughed and put up her slim hand as though to ward me off.
"Really, you cross-examine me as though you were a policeman.  I can't
tell you what she's doing there--I don't know the lady.  I've only seen
her in the village..."

"In the _village_?"  I was bewildered.

"Yes.  She looked so extremely English that I asked who she was.  She's
stopping with the Wahlstedters..."

"Do you know them?"

"Slightly.  A man and wife.  I can take you calling there if you want
to go..."  Perceiving that I was silent, she added: "You seem strangely
suspicious.  She's not in your service, is she?"

I laughed.  "Good Lord, no.  She's just a girl I know in London.  I
heard she was at Kitzeberg or one of these places along the harbour,
so, as I was at Hamburg, I thought I'd run over and look her up..."  I
paused.  "Please get rid of any idea that I'm here on business.  I'm on
holiday..."

"Then why so gloomy?"

"I'm not gloomy.  I was only thinking, isn't it rather an amazing
coincidence our running into one another like this?"

She gave a little shrug.  "Coincidences are the commonplaces of life.
But here's Frau Andresen with our coffee and some of that delicious
_Baumkuchen_ they serve here.  Would you like her to ring up the Villa
Waldesruh' and ask if we can come along?"

"I think I'd like a word with Miss Wolseley first," I said.  "Perhaps I
could talk to her..."

"As you like," she said indifferently.

Frau Andresen escorted me to the telephone and got the number.  "It's
Herr Wahlstedter himself," she informed me, handing me the receiver.  A
light German voice replied.  I introduced myself as a friend of Miss
Wolseley and asked to speak to her.  Herr Wahlstedter regretted that
the Miss was out.  Who should he say had telephoned?

I was debating whether to leave my name or not when I was aware, from a
faint fragrance that stole along the passage, that Madeleine was behind
me.  "Let me speak," she said, and took the receiver from me.  "This is
Mrs. Stafford," she announced.  "I have a friend of Miss Wolseley's
from London with me.  I wanted to bring him out to call on her this
afternoon ... she's only gone to the post office ... good ... we'll be
along in about a quarter of an hour..."

Well, that settled it.  I had burned my boats.  But I was determined to
get to the bottom of this mystery about Garnet.  For a moment the
Chief's orders to me obtruded themselves awkwardly into my mind.  But I
thrust them resolutely into the background.  Grundt was absent;
Andresen was at liberty--the circumstances were radically different
from any we had envisaged.

We returned to the garden and drank our coffee.  Andresen had not
appeared, and I purposely refrained from mentioning his name in front
of Madeleine; nor as I settled the bill, did Frau Andresen say anything
about him.  Andresen, I decided, would keep.  Then Madeleine and I
entered her car--she told me she hired it from the hotel--and were
whirled away along the coast road to Kitzeberg.

On the way I asked her if she had received the Mitzi Funda letters.
She nodded rather secretively and a little colour warmed her pale
cheeks.  I asked her what explanation she had given Grundt.  On which
she told me that she had not yet handed the letters over, as Grundt was
away, and rather brusquely changed the subject.  But now the box was on
my mind, and I inquired what Grundt had done with it.

She seemed surprised.  "Grundt?" she repeated.  "Didn't you get it?
You sent me back the key of the apartment..."

"I got it all right," I told her, "but our friend Markus took it off me
again..."

She gave me a rapid glance.  "Then you were at my apartment the day
that Markus was shot?"

"Yes.  But nobody knows it..."

"And Markus had the box, you say?"  Her manner had grown agitated.

"Yes.  Didn't Grundt tell you?"

She shook her head.  "I haven't seen him since that night at Ostend..."
She paused and was about to add something when the car stopped, and
immediately the door was opened.  A man in a white serving jacket stood
there, a scraggy little man with a livid scar down one cheek.  Behind
him was a gate in a grey wire fence, and beyond, up some shallow steps,
the front door stood open.

The Villa Waldesruh' was built on a steep hill that wound up from the
main street of Kitzeberg, one of a number of isolated villas standing
practically flush with the road with gardens at the back.
Deferentially, the man with the scar assisted my companion to alight,
and we entered the house.

Officiously, the servant bustled ahead.  "This way, Herr," he
announced, and opened a door that gave off the hall.  I stepped back
for my companion to lead the way, but, on looking round, found she had
vanished.  I hesitated.  "If the Herr will take the trouble to go in,"
the servant encouraged me, "the English Miss is at home and is
expecting him.  Frau Stafford went to her room.  She will join you in a
minute..."

My head full of Garnet and of the surprise she would get on seeing me,
I crossed the threshold unsuspectingly...




106

A gallows draught with Dr. Grundt

My first thought--irrelevant enough--on recovering from my surprise was
that I had never seen the Man with the Clubfoot taking his ease before.
He was ensconced in a high-backed arm-chair facing the door.  His
satyr's face, broad and bony, was deeply tanned as though with the sea
breezes, and his healthy complexion seemed to stress the animal energy
that streamed from him.  He wore a relaxed and almost jovial air as he
sat there, his crutch-handled stick within easy reach, his deformed
foot propped up on a low stool, and on his knee the largest white cat I
have ever seen.  His thick fingers ran up and down the arched spine of
this monster tom, the velvety down on the great hands, inky black
against the snowy fur.

His chair, angular and uncomfortable-looking and upholstered in faded
red rep, was in keeping with the old-German character of the room.
There was a vast mahogany desk, a stove (in green tiling) as big as a
family tomb, and heavy hangings of dingy brown damped down the light
from a bow window, diamond-paned in the best bogus medival style, that
overlooked a delightful garden.  Bookshelves, shoulder-high, ran round
the walls, and on one of these, flanked by a collection of Bavarian
beer-mugs, a terra-cotta bust of the Emperor was prominently placed.  I
saw in a glazed case on the wall a large collection of decorations
mounted on a bar, and there were many framed photographs about, mostly
of men in uniform, with lengthy dedications and signatures all twirls
and flourishes.  From these details, and from the fact that Grundt
seemed so completely at home, I inferred that I found myself in
Clubfoot's own house.

He did not raise his eyes on my entrance, but, gazing down at the great
cat in his lap while his fingers toyed with its coat, remarked
smoothly, as though carrying on a conversation already begun between
us: "How inexhaustible and alluring a study the cat, my dear Clavering!
How friendless, how aloof"--his hot eyes glittered and he bared the
gold in his teeth in a mocking smile--"how sublimely egoistic and
unfathomable!  What an example to all who follow our thankless yet
fascinating profession!"

He fell to chuckling and, progressing from chuckle to chuckle, broke
into a strident laugh.  At the sight of me the cat stood up, stretched
delicately and dropped lightly to the floor.

"See," Grundt chortled, "Adolphus is at peace on my lap.  Then you
appear, and at once he transfers his affections to the new-comer..."
And in truth the obese brute, a regular Daniel Lambert among cats, had
started to rub itself against my leg, purring like a dynamo the while.
"What perfect fickleness," Clubfoot pursued, "what resolute
opportunism!  So it is right, my dear colleague!  We may learn much
from Adolphus, you and I.  In our calling a man"--his voice dropped a
half-tone--"or even a woman, may befriend no one, trust no one.  Let us
be false--and strong!"  And, rubbing his hands together in a sort of
ecstasy of enjoyment, he exploded again into a great shout of laughter.

I listened to him tight-lipped and torn with conflicting emotions.  I
knew what he meant.  Madeleine Stafford was no more than a vulgar
decoy.  At his behest she had trapped me, as she had trapped Charles
Forrest.  No wonder she had not had the effrontery to face me, but had
fled away.  And Frau Andresen was her accomplice--if it was Frau
Andresen.  In any case, they had played their parts with consummate
skill.  Not that this reflection brought me any solace.  I was in a
tight spot, and it would take a great deal more than the gun in my
pocket to get me out of it.  For myself I was not afraid, but when I
thought of Garnet my blood seemed to stagnate with fear.

"But won't you be seated, my dear Clavering," the man in the chair
invited flutily.  "You will excuse me if I do not rise to welcome you
to this modest retreat of mine, but I have been of late in constant
attendance upon one of the most exhausting personalities on the world's
stage to-day--_na_, you know of whom I speak--and at my age a man has a
right to his little comforts.  You'll join me, I trust, in a glass of
wine.  My illustrious employer graciously sent me, as a Christmas gift,
a parcel of old Steinberger, on which I should like your opinion..."

So saying he pressed a bell on the desk beside him, I had taken a chair
at random.  I was bewildered, embarrassed--I found no words to come to
my aid.  In this cryptic, allusive mood Grundt seemed to me to be even
more sinister than in one of his blustering rages.

The door was opened softly.  The manservant stood there.  "A bottle of
the Steinberger, Alfred, and two glasses," Clubfoot commanded softly.
And as the man was about to withdraw: "By the way," he added, "have you
the Herr's pistol?"

I clapped my hand to my inside pocket.  It was empty.  Silently the
servant placed my gun on the desk and disappeared.  "An excellent
domestic who is nobly exerting himself to live down a criminal record,"
Grundt commented ingratiatingly as he locked the weapon away in a
drawer.  "Alfred might have gone far as a sleight-of-hand manipulator.
Unfortunately, his tastes lay in the direction of picking pockets.
Lack of ambition, my dear colleague--lack of ambition!"

The subject of this homily returning at this moment with a
dust-encrusted bottle and two long-stemmed glasses on a tray, Grundt
poured the wine and sent Alfred to me with my glass.  "When I ring,"
Clubfoot observed enigmatically to the man, and dismissed him.

Grundt raised his glass, passing it to and fro under avid nostrils,
then held it against the light, contemplating the amber wine clinging
like oil to the sides of the greenish-yellow beaker.  His look quizzed
me.  "To the protean Herr Clavering!" he said.

I lifted my glass in turn.  After all, I asked myself, why not?  The
wine had an exquisite bouquet redolent of honey and wild thyme.
Anything I could do to humour this man-ape in his present expansive
mood...  "_Auf Ihr Wohl_, Herr Doktor!" I answered his toast, and we
drank.

Smacking his bulbous lips loudly, the huge German set his glass down
upon the desk at his side.  "_Na_," he said jovially, "what do you
think of the Imperial cellars, young man?"

"A noble wine," I answered sincerely.  "One doesn't get a Steinberger
Kabinet to drink every day..."

"Truly spoken," Clubfoot rumbled.  "And so I reserve it for special
occasions to do honour to distinguished visitors like yourself..."

I bowed formally.  "The Herr Doktor is too kind..."

"Not at all," he countered.  "The laws of hospitality are always
respected under Grundt's roof.  The wine must be of the best, whether
it be a loving cup ... or a gallows draught!"  And he fell once more to
stroking Adolphus who had leaped upon his knee.

He spoke with a silken suavity which merely stressed the unambiguous
menace of his words.  I was conscious of a little stab of fear and my
throat was dry.  To cover up my discomposure I drank again.

"The fact that you've not taken the trouble to disguise yourself on
this occasion," said Clubfoot, tickling Adolphus's ear, "is, I infer, a
compliment to my humble self.  May I take it that you reckoned on my
absence from Kiel?"

"The Herr Doktor knows that I've always had the highest respect for his
intelligence..."  I was resolved to give nothing away.

He perceived the evasion and scowled.  But his tones were dulcet as
before.  "In point of fact," he remarked, "I was not due back until
next week.  It was only the fortunate circumstance that I happened to
be ashore this afternoon, attending a luncheon at the Imperial Yacht
Club, which enabled me to come home in time to make the requisite
arrangements to--er--welcome you..."

"There was really no need to put yourself out on my account," I replied.

"Ta, ta, ta!  It was a pleasure.  Besides, I wished to talk with
you..."  He paused, while his great hand softly stropped itself against
the arched back in his lap.  The drowsy purring of Adolphus was the
only sound in the room.  "I have a feeling," Grundt went on with a
thoughtful air, "that a certain measure of luck which has favoured you
in our encounters up to the present may have misled you as to the
efficiency of my organisation.  It may interest you to learn,
therefore, that your arrival at the al fresco establishment of the good
Andresen was reported to me at the lunch table of Prince Heinrich
within ten minutes of your arrival there..."

"By Frau Andresen, I presume?"

"By the lady who is momentarily replacing her," he corrected gently.
"Frau Andresen is in jail with her husband..."

I quailed.  This meant that Garnet had walked straight into the net
they had spread for her.  They had grabbed Andresen and his wife, put
in this woman as a decoy and waited to see what fortune would send
them.  To date, the bag was Garnet and I--not bad!

Clubfoot had shifted his gaze to me and was watching me, sidelong, from
underneath his shaggy eyebrows.  The dismay in my face appeared to
gratify him for he laughed contentedly.  "Ja, ja," he observed, "Frau
Andresen's substitute did her part well.  Five minutes later our dainty
Mrs. Stafford had her instructions.  A clever woman, that, Clavering,
a--clever--woman!  But your glass is empty.  Permit me!"  He refilled
our glasses.

I shrugged my shoulders.  "I fail to see where her cleverness comes in.
I was perfectly open with her.  I told her I wanted to find out where a
friend of mine, a Miss Wolseley, was staying, and she volunteered to
take me to her villa..."

"And why did you go looking for the lady at Andresen's, may I inquire?"
asked Clubfoot, holding his wine to his eye.

"Because she was a friend of his.  I had met them lunching together in
London.  Instead of taking me to Miss Wolseley's villa Mrs. Stafford
brought me here..."

The cripple simmered.  "Naturally.  Because your friend is stopping in
this house..."  He drank and replaced his glass.

I was unable to repress a start.  "Here?"  Then recovering myself, I
added drily, "And you're Herr Wahlstedter, I suppose?"

Grundt cleared his throat resonantly.  "One of the first maxims of our
engaging profession, as you should know is to eschew all unnecessary
lies.  In the bewildering series of aliases under which he was wont to
operate, I have never succeeded in discovering our good Alfred's real
name.  But Wahlstedter is the name he has selected for his service with
me.  And Frau Wahlstedter--if she is entitled to that appellation,
which is a matter of some doubt--is my cook..."  He paused.  "Would you
like to see Miss Wolseley?"

I scented a trap.  "Very much," I replied warily.

"Then I would ask you to do me the honour of presenting me..."

"You haven't met Miss Wolseley?"

"But I reached here only an hour before yourself, zum Donnerwetter.
I've been at sea for the past ten days--my exalted employer has never
been able to understand that some of us have work to do.  And since my
arrival,"--he pointed at the desk, littered with unopened mail and
dossiers--"I've had my hands full, as you see..."  He touched the bell.
"Which must be my excuse for not presenting my respects sooner to your,
ahem, charming compatriot!"

A moment later Garnet was ushered in.  If I had not been expecting her,
I do not believe I would ever have recognised her.  Without the use of
wig or greasepaint or disguise of any sort, she had managed to turn
herself into a perfectly terrible caricature of the Englishwoman
abroad.  Her clothes were dire--an indescribable yellowish tweed suit
of mannish cut with a man's stiff white collar and a bilious green
tie--and she wore some sort of open-work brogues or sandals that gave
her a grotesque, splay-footed appearance.  Her hair was dragged so
tightly back from her forehead that her eyebrows were permanently
elevated and her eyes bulged from her head, giving her the facial
expression of a startled animal.  Her face was devoid of powder or
other aids to beauty and, positively, she had a shining red nose.  By
some manipulation of the lips when she spoke she contrived to give the
impression that her upper teeth projected.  She looked like the wrath
of God.

With gold spectacles gleaming, she bounced into the room, quivering
with indignation.  "Mr. Clavering!" she exclaimed with a sort of
kittenish glee which was inimitable, as she saw me.  "How on earth do
you come to be here!  Are you aware that I was kidnapped and carried to
this house where I've been detained against my will ever since
Saturday?"  She glanced from me to Grundt.  "Who is this man?" she
demanded.  Then rounding on him, "Are you responsible for this
abominable outrage?" she cried irately.

Grundt had risen from his chair.  Leaning heavily on his stick he
scrutinised her with a suspicious, challenging air.  "Take off your
spectacles!" he suddenly roared at her.  She faced him, bridling--her
impersonation of an English spinster standing up for her rights was
masterly, a gem of acutely observed characterisation.  With a
determined mien she settled her spectacles firmly on her nose.  "I'll
do nothing of the sort," she declared acidly.

"Take 'em off," the German thundered, "or I'll do it myself!"  And
dragging his monstrous boot over the carpet he lurched towards her.  I
thrust myself between them.  "Out of the way, damn you," he trumpeted.
He was bristling with rage.

I turned to Garnet who had retreated behind me.

"I think you'd better do as he says," I advised her.  My back screened
her from the cripple's furious gaze and for a fleeting instant I saw
the real Garnet peep out of her eyes.

"Oh, very well," she observed snippily.  "Only it seems such an
exceedingly curious thing to ask.  Is the man drunk or mad or what?"

She doffed her glasses.  With a movement of his enormous arm, Grundt
swept me from his path.  Hobbling forward he pushed his hairy face into
hers.  "So!" he cackled triumphantly.  "It is as I suspected.  The good
Clavering's lady friend!  But this time, my dear, your _tte--tte_ is
with me!"

"If you've quite finished staring at me like a gargoyle," Garnet
frigidly interposed, "perhaps you'll allow me to put my glasses on
again.  I'm as blind as a bat without them!"

"Do what you like with them, liebes Frulein, do what you like with
them..."  Chortling consumedly, the cripple stumped back to his desk
and began hunting through the papers there.  "But let's have no more
play-acting, I beg!"

"Play-acting?" she echoed with a fine simulation of indignation.
Popping on her spectacles, she appealed to me.  "Mr. Clavering, how
long do you intend to allow me to be insulted?  Will you please take me
away!"

"Sit down, Miss Wolseley," Grundt bade her composedly.  "It was a
clever bluff, but your eyes betrayed you.  They were not in the
rle--if you'll permit me to say it without offence, they're too, na,
what shall I say?  too charmingly feminine for this _tour de force_ of
yours.  They told me what I suspected from the moment that our
excellent Clavering entered the room here, that you and he are in this
together..."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she broke in crisply.

"Surely you haven't forgotten our meeting in London?"

"I'm not aware that I've ever seen you before..."

"At friend Clavering's apartment," Clubfoot pursued evenly, "in
circumstances over which I--and you, too I feel sure--would prefer to
draw the veil..."

"This is outrageous!" she cried shrilly.  "Now you listen to me.  I
intend to lodge a strong protest with the British Embassy about this
business.  I give you fair warning--you'll detain me at your peril..."

"_Quatsch!_" said Grundt--he was looking through a drawer.

"Will you kindly have my suitcase put on a taxi..."

His glance flamed at her.  "Sit down," he barked, his eyes blazing.
"And shut up!"

To my surprise she made no further protest but, glancing about her for
a chair, found one at my side and seated herself composedly.  In a
somewhat bewildered frame of mind, I followed her example and sat down.
Her surrender daunted me considerably.  If Garnet chucked in the
sponge, then, indeed, things were looking black for us.

Her regard was fixed, rather earnestly, on the man at the desk.
Following the direction of her eyes I perceived that she was gazing,
not at Grundt's face but at his hands.

There was the sheen of gold between his hairy paws.  I saw that he was
holding Charles Forrest's box.




107

What the box contained

"You know this box?" he said to me.

I shook my head.

"Yet it belonged to your late colleague, Herr Forrest?"

"Did it?"

"Come, come," he rasped, "denials will serve you nothing.  I know that
you attached sufficient importance to it to offer a thousand francs'
reward for its recovery.  Do you deny that, too?"

"Forrest's family were anxious to recover it," I said huskily.  "It
seems it's an heirloom..."

"So?"  A sarcastic smile twisted the gross lips.  "You leave Brussels
at 3 o'clock in the morning for the scene of the railway accident in
quest of news of Forrest and you wish me to believe that, before you
knew whether he was alive or dead, or whether the box was still in his
possession or not, you were already provided with the instructions of
his family to offer a reward for its return.  Is that right?"

"I acted on my own responsibility.  I knew what value his people set on
the box...."

"Then you knew he had it with him?"

"Certainly.  He always carried it..."

Garnet's bag slipped to the ground with a gentle plop.  As I stooped to
restore it to her, I caught the warning frown on her face, without,
however, immediately comprehending its purport.

"Pay attention to me," Clubfoot bellowed irascibly.  "How did you know
he always carried it?"

"Because..."  I broke off, suddenly conscious of the pit that yawned at
my feet.  Too late I divined the meaning of Garnet's danger signal.
"... I was told so," I added lamely.

"Don't lie," Grundt shouted.  "You were sent in search of this box
because it was well known that Forrest never let it out of his sight
and he was carrying valuable papers in it.  What were these papers?"

"I haven't the least idea," I said indifferently.

The great cripple laid the box upon the blotter in front of him and
dropped into the desk chair, breathing rather hard.  Absently, his hand
clawed into the open cigar-box that stood on the writing-table and
fetched out a cigar.

"Now, you two, listen to me," he snarled.  "We've caught Andresen
red-handed with the goods on him.  Your tricky Mr. Okewood got away but
he left a trail behind that led back to the Goldner Adler with the
result that friend Andresen has been thoroughly investigated.  There
are telegrams to and from Copenhagen to be explained; bank deposits to
be accounted for--if he gets off with less than twenty years' penal
servitude..."  He broke off.  "And he's not the only one who'll see the
inside of a German Zuchthaus.  There are those who fetched and carried
for him, who brought him his instructions from London..."

"You can't frighten me, Grundt," I told him with an assurance I was far
from feeling.  "It's no offence under the law, criminal or military, to
call on a man and ask for a friend's address or, in Miss Wolseley's
case, to look up an old acquaintance.  You allege that Andresen is a
spy.  If he is, it's the first I've heard of it.  It pleases you to
insinuate that Miss Wolseley and I are implicated in some conspiracy
with Andresen against the safety of the State.  May I ask what evidence
of this you can produce?"

He struck a match savagely and applied it to his cigar.  "The evidence
will be forthcoming all right..." he growled.

I laughed easily.  "Not from Andresen..."

His eyes flickered restlessly to my face.  They were lit with a
yellowish fire.  "Don't be too sure," he rasped.  "There's a lot of
evidence at the end of a rubber club..."

He used the grim German word "_Totschlager_," literally,
beater-to-death.  His sombre mien, the cynical curl to his lips, gave
me a sudden, horrific vision of some bare, underground cell, a knot of
merciless, pertinacious questioners, bludgeons rising and falling
noiselessly, agonised screams.  For the moment I was unable to speak.

The clumsy fingers drummed.  "You'll be sensible, Clavering.  What does
this box contain?"

I licked my dry lips.  "Why ask me that, since it's in your possession?"

"It was handed to me but an hour ago.  I've not yet had the leisure to
examine it: I perceive, however, that it has a secret locking device.
I shall ask you to be good enough to open the box for me..."

"I'm afraid I can't oblige," I retorted.  "I've told you already I've
never set eyes on it before..."

Contentedly he puffed at his cigar.  "I feel sure you're going to be
reasonable.  I'm not unaware that a cold chisel would make short work
of the lock.  But my soul shrinks from such an act of vandalism.  A
masterpiece such as this--Italian, is it not--merits a better fate at
my hands.  Besides, I should like to preserve this delightful
_bonbonnire_ intact as a souvenir of a bizarre and not altogether
unsuccessful episode of my official career.  It will do to carry my
throat lozenges when my asthma troubles me in winter..."  He paused to
discharge a leisurely stream of smoke.  "The advantage of your opening
the box in my presence," he enunciated delicately, "is that, in the
event of the papers being in cipher, or any little difficulty like
that, you will be on hand to help us out..."  With extreme deliberation
his knotted forefinger pressed the bell-push.

Garnet, who had remained silent up till now, leaned forward in her
chair.  "Is it understood," she asked rather tensely, "that if Mr.
Clavering opens the box for you, you will let us go free?"

I was horror-struck.  Why, this was tantamount to an admission that I
was acquainted with the secret!  "It's no use discussing it," I put in
quickly.  "I'm not going to open the box, for the simple reason that I
don't know how to open it..."

Clubfoot was smiling complacently.  "Women are always so direct," he
observed.  "A practical question, my dear!  But based, I fear, on a
misapprehension.  You, of course, are not in any position to dictate
terms.  If your friend, however, decides to be reasonable, both you and
he may reckon on my indulgence..."

"Not good enough," said Garnet briskly.  "It's release or nothing.
That's a condition!"

The great eyebrows came down portentously.  "Condition?  You'd dare to
propose conditions to me?"  His voice dropped to a menacing whisper.
"Why, you poor fool, don't you realise that I hold you and your
accomplice in the hollow of my hand"--he thrust his huge palm at her in
illustration--"and that I can crush the pair of you"--he crooked his
hairy talons--"as I'd crush an egg..."  He swung about in his chair for
the door had opened.  "What the devil do you want?" he roared.

Alfred was there.  "The Herr Doktor rang?"

Grundt passed his hand across his face.  "_Ach_, so.  Yes!  Send Vogel
and Bauer to me here..."  The servant withdrew and Clubfoot turned to
me.  "Well," he cried in a loud, hectoring voice, "which is it to be,
yes or no?"

"If you're still talking about the box," I rejoined firmly, "I've told
you already that I can't oblige you.  Sorry, but there it is!  I'm not
aware that I ever saw Forrest open it.  You're surely not suggesting
that I'm cleverer than you, Herr Doktor?"

"I'm suggesting that you do as I tell you without any more play-acting
and lies," he croaked harshly.  "The woman spoke the truth just now
when she tried to bargain for your safety."  He pounded the desk.  "Are
you going to obey of your own free will or am I going to make you?"
His voice grew suddenly fluty.  "Or perhaps you think I haven't the
means?"  And his restless eyes shot a sidelong glance at Garnet.

"Look here, Grundt," I said rather desperately, "Miss Wolesley has
nothing to do with this.  Let her go and we'll talk things over..."

"That your fascinating lady friend," he returned with exaggerated
politeness, "should have been detained even an hour against her will in
my poor abode cuts me to the soul.  Nothing would give me greater
pleasure than to accede to your wishes.  Unfortunately, I may require
Miss Wolseley..."--he paused and his eyes rolled spitefully--"when I've
done with you.  _Verdammt_," raising his voice to a shout in one of his
lightning changes of mood, "do you realise that when I give an order,
it's to be obeyed?  _Himmelkreuzdonnerwetter_, you rat, do you know
you're wasting my time?  One of you two is going to do as I say before
you leave this house or I'll find a way to make you, _bei Gott_!"  And
he brought his leg-of-mutton fist down upon the solid oak desk-top with
a crash that sent the box slithering across the blotter.

I could read this shouting monster like a book.  Inflated with power as
he was, the mere idea of opposition infuriated him.  As he had himself
admitted, a chisel would have settled that lock in a trice; but it was
evident from the sort of sadistic light glowering under those fantastic
eyebrows that he was set upon bending one or other of us to his will.
My courage slipped a notch as I looked at Garnet.

A single loud knock interrupted him.  Vogel's janissary whiskers were
visible in the doorway, Bauer's livid countenance in rear.  The pair
marched in with faces of doom and took position beside the desk in an
expectant attitude.

Grundt picked up the box, balancing it in his fingers.  "This
gentleman," he said, addressing his two henchmen, "is about to open
this box for me.  You'll stand on either side of him and keep hold of
his arms to prevent any attempt on his part to destroy the contents.
Get on with it!"

The two men advanced stolidly, burly and forbidding, Vogel with his
heavy jowl and rampant moustache, Bauer, fat of face and sallow of hue,
with a dull and fish-like eye.  In silence they placed me between them.

Clubfoot held out the box to me.  "So..."

I put my hands in my pockets.

The blood rushed into his face, he snorted and his eyes glared murder.
All the primeval savagery of the brute seemed to flare up in the lodent
flame that leaped out from under the beetling brows.  He ground his
teeth and beads of foam bubbled at the purplish, twitching lips.  His
access of fury was so violent that the whole gross mass of him trembled
and quaked.  Incoherent sounds broke from him and his features writhed
with the exaggerated ferocity and hate you see concentrated in a devil
dancer's mask.  I thought he was going to have a stroke.

It was a terrifying exhibition.  The detectives on either side of me
were paralysed with fear.  Vogel was rocking on his heels and Bauer's
cod-fish orbs were popping out of their sockets.  I stole a glance at
Garnet and I was proud of her.  She sat relaxed and unafraid, in that
grotesque get-up of hers, nonchalantly nursing her knee.

Almost as quickly as it had seized him, Grundt's paroxysm passed.  One
enormous hand eased his collar, he grunted and murmured softly, hissing
the sibilant, "So..."

I faced him as boldly as I might but my spirits sank within me at the
unspeakable menace of his regard.  His eyes never left my face.
"So..." he repeated.  Then, head down and with a furtive air, he
glanced swiftly about the room.  "Vogel," he ordered softly, "have the
goodness to bring that radiator here!"

He pointed to where an electric stove, a round portable affair of the
common type that has an asbestos cone in the centre, stood in a corner.
Vogel placed the contraption on the desk.  "So!"  Clubfoot handed him
the length of flex.  "Just attach that to the plug in the wall behind
me, will you?"

I had no idea what these preparations portended, but I watched them
with much the same fascinated and fearsome interest as, I imagine, the
condemned felon may display in the mechanism of the gallows on being
introduced into the execution shed.  Vogel stooped to the foot of the
wall behind him and the heater warmed to a red glow--mechanically I
noted that the cord was very long to enable the radiator to be used at
will in different parts of the room.

"So!" Grundt muttered, on perceiving that the heater was duly
functioning.  Then, pointing at me, he cackled suddenly, exultantly.
"Now off with his shoes and socks and we'll warm his feet for him!"

I was appalled.  Even thus did marauding bands in the Middle Ages
compel their victims to reveal their hidden stores of money.  This was
torture-and I could not forget that the fate--the very lives,
perhaps--of the men and women on Forrest's list was in my keeping.  I
sprang back, but stumbled against a piece of furniture behind me.
Before I could regain my balance they were upon me.  The portly Bauer
hurled himself through the air like a flying elephant, while Vogel, in
a sort of rugby tackle, imprisoned my legs.  I staggered over backwards
upon a low couch with Bauer's enormous mass on my chest.

I heard Garnet's breathless scream, "No, no, you wouldn't dare?" and
Grundt's blustering rejoinder, "Dare?  I'll roast his soles clear
through to the instep if I have to..."  Then, despite my struggles, my
shoes and socks were torn off--I could not struggle much: Bauer must
have tipped the beam at fifteen or sixteen stone.  The tail of his
jacket flapping in my face momentarily blinded me: but Grundt's
snarling tones grated on my ear.  "Well, my friend," he inquired
mockingly, "are we going to be reasonable?"

"Go to hell!" I shouted.  Seeing nothing of what was going forward
around me, I suddenly found the suspense intolerable and made a supreme
effort to free myself.  But my resistance was in vain--Bauer had my
arms pinned to the couch and Vogel was planted solidly on my legs.
Then there came the sound of a scuffle, a woman's shrill cry and a
panting growl from Grundt, "Stand away from that window.  And if you
make another sound, I'll have you gagged..."  Thereafter, the creak of
the door and Grundt's voice, "Hold her, Alfred!"--and I knew that
Garnet, dear, plucky Garnet, had done her poor best to help me and had
failed.

Bauer's coat at that instant falling clear of my face, I saw Clubfoot,
the red-hot heater grasped in one enormous hand, hobbling eagerly
towards the couch where I tossed in the grip of his men.  "Hold him,
boys," he wheezed jovially as he stooped to set the radiator down upon
the floor.  Already I felt the heat on the sole of my right foot when a
clear voice cried out, "Stop!"

"A moment, Vogel!" Grundt commanded.

"I can't stand it," I heard a piteous wail.  "I'll open the box for you
myself..."

A thunderous shout of laughter rumbled through the study.  "_Ei ei_," a
mocking voice resounded.  "See, we're going to be reasonable at last!"

They let me up.  Grundt was just handing Garnet the box.  I was aware
of Alfred, the manservant, hovering in the background.  "Garnet," I
yelled, "don't be a damned fool!  Garnet!"  In my bare feet I hurtled
forward.  But Clubfoot thrust his great belly in my path.  "You keep
out of this, d'you hear?" he barked.

Dumbfounded, my heart swelling with rage and misery, I watched the
slight figure at the desk, flanked by Bauer and Alfred.  Garnet had put
the box down on the blotter and I saw her fingers twirl the arrow.
Grundt was facing her across the desk.  He suffered me to steal up
beside him, rightly divining that there was no fight left in me--I
noticed, however, that Vogel was behind me with a drawn pistol.
Clubfoot's simian traits were radiant with eagerness, his immense frame
rigid with suspense.  Garnet did not look at me.  Rather tremulously
and with flushed cheeks, she gave her whole attention to the spinning
dart.

It had never occurred to me that she was familiar with the secret.
Like a few of us in the inner circle she knew, of course, that Forrest
had this box; but, as far as I was aware, only Francis Okewood and I
were acquainted with the locking mechanism--in a rare moment of
expansion, one night when he and Francis were dining with me, Forrest
had shown it to us under the pledge of secrecy.

I should have known our Garnet better.  It was obvious now that, some
time or other, she must have persuaded old Charles to let her into the
secret.  Without an instant's hesitation, as I saw to my dismay, she
set the arrow on the M and pressed and so, through the A and the R and
the I of Marie Bertesson's first name, to the E.  On coming to the
final letter she paused for the fraction of a second and I had the
impression that she wanted to glance up at me, but was afraid.  Then
she pressed the dart for the last time and the lid flew up.

The box was empty.




108

Which takes Garnet off

Grundt swooped down upon the box, tearing it out of her hands, as in
Cairo I have had a kite filch a biscuit from between my very fingers at
the tea-table.  It was growing dusk and, switching on the desk lamp,
the cripple held the golden trinket beneath the light.  Cigar in mouth,
lips pursed up appraisingly, eyes sombre and unrevealing, he stared at
the box open in his hands.  But his examination availed him nothing.
The box was indubitably empty--I could see its gleaming gold interior
bare of so much as a speck of dust.

Beneath the cover of the desk a small, warm hand sought mine, clung to
it desperately.  For a fleeting moment Garnet was out of her rle.  The
brief, surreptitious look she gave me was brimming over with tenderness
and sympathy, and I fancied a tear glistened behind her disfiguring
glasses.  My heart went out to her.  She bad taken a fantastic risk;
but in the immense relief of the discovery that Forrest's list was
still immune from the terrible eye of Clubfoot I had forgotten my
erstwhile horror at her apparent indiscretion.  So I returned her grip
with a will and smiled encouragingly at her.

But it was a poor effort.  I was in no mood for smiling just then.  Up
to that moment I had been unconsciously making excuses for Madeleine's
betrayal of me; but it was now crystal-clear that she had
double-crossed me from the start.  In some way she must have mastered
the secret of the box and extracted the list--though for what purpose I
could not conceive, since, evidently, she had not passed it on to
Grundt.  The realisation of her treachery left me humiliated, mortified
and very sore against myself.  I turned on my heel and, crossing the
room, silently sat down on the couch and began to pull on my socks.

The staccato peal of the telephone on the desk roused Grundt from his
reverie.  He lifted the receiver.  A sudden wariness in the determined
face, a certain tenseness that became noticeable in his attitude as he
bent down to the instrument, told me that the call was an important
one.  "The _Hohenzollern_?" he repeated--that, if some of you have
forgotten, was the Emperor's yacht.  "Yes, I'll take the call!"  He
laid a tufted paw across the transmitter.  "Put them in the room across
the hall," he said to Vogel, jerking his head in our direction.

The plain clothes man marched us out into a small office summarily
furnished with a desk, a horsehair sofa, a plaster bust of His Majesty
and a shelf of official publications.  The window was barred.  Our
escort left us to ourselves, but we heard his heavy tread on the flags
of the hall outside.  The moment we were alone, Garnet caught me by the
hands.  "Oh, my dear," she cried, "did they hurt you much?"

I shook my head rather morosely.  "He was bluffing, I think..."

It was her turn to shake her head.  Emphatically.  "That was no bluff.
The man's a savage, a throw-back to the German Urwald.  He's as
primitive as the aurochs and as dangerous..."

"Well," I remarked dryly, "You didn't give me the chance to test it,
did you?"

"You couldn't expect me to sit by and let him torture you," she
declared with feeling.

I glanced at the door.  "How did you know that the box was empty?" I
whispered.

"I didn't know--not for sure, at least..."  She laid her hands on my
shoulder.  "Oh, it was crazy of you to come after me..."

"If you don't mind my saying so," I interjected severely, "you were the
crazy one for haring off here alone in the first place.  What on earth
possessed you to do such a thing?"

She coloured up.  "Well," she said slowly, "you know there was this
trouble about Andresen and his reports.  It seemed to me terribly
important to find out the truth about Andresen because if he had been
arrested, since his name is on that list of Forrest's, it would mean
that the list was in Clubfoot's hands..."

"It obviously isn't," I put in.  "They got on to Andresen through
Francis Okewood--Grundt admitted as much to me himself..."

"Of course, I didn't know that," Garnet replied.  "What really
determined me to run over to Kiel over the week-end was a Kiel message
I read in the _Berliner Tageblatt_--in the Court news, it was.  It said
that the Emperor had received on board the _Hohenzollern_ Dr Grundt,
inspector of secondary schools..."

I laughed.  "'Inspector of secondary schools' is good..."

"That suggested to me at once that old Clubfoot, as you call him, was
behind the Andresen puzzle.  I could see that the Chief believed that
Andresen had ratted; but I knew better.  I felt that I could appear at
Kiel quite safely, as I'd never been there before; and a word with
Andresen would clear everything up.  If, on the other hand, anything
had happened to Andresen, I could get at the facts with much less risk
than any of you fellows.  The Chief was standing clear of Kiel for the
moment and I knew that he'd never consent to my going; so it seemed
simpler to tell him nothing about it...."

"And a nice hash you made of things," I grumbled.  "Did you call on
Grundt?  Or did you think this villa was a boarding house or what?"

She shook her head soberly.  "It was much less complicated than that.
I left London on Thursday night, was at Hamburg next evening, slept the
night there and came on to Kiel next day--the Saturday, that is.  My
intention was to catch the night train back to London.  I got to
Andresen's about noon.  A woman there told me he was out..."

"She was one of Clubfoot's people," I explained.

"She said she was Frau Andresen..."

"Frau Andresen's in jail..."

"And Andresen?"

"The same..."

She nodded sagely.  "I guessed as much from what happened subsequently.
The woman at the beer-garden said Andresen would be back for lunch, if
I cared to wait.  So I sat down and ordered some coffee.  Then a man
appeared--it was Bauer, one of Grundt's two watchdogs, I discovered
later--and said his orders were to take me before the Chief of Police.
After a bit of an argument he brought me here and here I've been ever
since.  They treated me all right except that I was never allowed to go
out and that they refused to answer any questions.  Until this
afternoon I'd no idea I was in Grundt's house..."

"Well, you know now," I told her rather ill-humouredly.  "And if you'd
inform me as to how we're going to get out again, I'd be obliged.  Did
you see anything of Mrs. Stafford?"

"Is _she_ here?"

"Certainly.  It was she who brought me to the villa to see you.  Said
you were stopping with friends.  You realise, of course, that it was
she who took the list out of the box?"

"Yes, I suppose it was.  Unless..."  She broke off.

"Unless what?"

"Nothing..."  She paused.  "Grundt hasn't got the list, at any rate.  I
mean, he seemed to be genuinely astonished to find the box empty..."

"I agree..."

"Then what could Mrs. Stafford want with that list?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "I can't tell you.  But we can't get over the
facts..."

She nodded.  "Do you suppose we could persuade Grundt to give up the
box--now that he knows it's empty, I mean?"

"Nothing easier.  You've seen how amenable he is to suggestion.  I
daresay he'd fill it with cigarettes or chocolates for you, if you
asked him nicely..."

"No, but seriously, Clavering..."

"You don't seem to realise the hole we're in.  I don't want to scare
you, but as things are at present, we've an excellent chance of
standing our trial, as accomplices of Andresen, on a charge of
espionage.  And that means ... a German jail, my dear!"

She did not flinch: she was full of courage.  "I know.  But we've got
to get hold of that box..."

"To put in a glass case in the drawing-room, I suppose, as a souvenir
of our experiences--when we come out of prison?"

She gave me a penitent look.  "Don't rub it in..."

"I don't want to rub it in.  But I can't forget that you ran us into
this mess.  If you can't be helpful, try, at least, to be practical..."

"All the same," she repeated stubbornly, "we've got to get hold of that
box..."

I cautioned her to silence.  The door was opening.  Vogel stood there
beckoning.  He took us back to the study.  Immersed in thought,
Clubfoot squatted at the desk as we had left him, the gold box open
before him.

"I shall not require your presence further," he said to Garnet as we
were ushered in.  "One of my men will accompany you to Hamburg and see
you on board the Harwich boat.  My advice to you, Miss Wolseley," he
added, pulling down his matted brows at her and scowling, "is once
you're out of Germany, never to return..."  He glanced at Vogel.
"Who's on duty besides you and Bauer?"

"Matthi and Honig, Herr Doktor..."

"Let Honig escort the lady.  He worked in a lunatic asylum once, didn't
he?  He ought to know how to handle an obstreperous woman..."  He burst
into a loud guffaw.

"There's not the least necessity to disturb your keeper friend," Garnet
chipped in in her tartest manner.  "Believe me, I require no persuading
to leave this country..."  Her look consulted me.  "Mr. Clavering is
going to take me back to London..."

"I regret, but Mr. Clavering is not leaving at present," was Grundt's
impassive rejoinder.

"Then I stay too," she declared stoutly.

"Get out," Clubfoot bawled suddenly.  "And think yourself lucky that I
set you free.  Take her away, Vogel!"

She hesitated.  Her eyes appealed to me.  But I made no move.  I was
only too glad to see her out of this bull-ape's clutches.  Vogel tapped
her on the shoulder.  "Tell Honig he's to see her on board, and not let
her out of his sight until the moment of sailing," Grundt bade his aide.

"Very good, Herr Doktor."

Garnet and I exchanged a silent glance.  Then, slowly, she followed
Vogel out.  With a chilly feeling round the heart I watched her go,
then turned back to the man at the desk asking myself what fate he had
in store for me.

Blowing like a grampus, he was lighting a fresh cigar.  Alfred's
scarred countenance looked in at the door.  "I'll see Frau Stafford
now," said Grundt briskly.  He picked up the box, still open as Garnet
had left it, weighed it in his fingers and, with a brooding air,
replaced it on the desk.  Then head down, hands folded behind his back,
he began to limp up and down the carpet, a plume of cigar smoke
trailing in his wake.  My presence he ignored entirely.

Then the door opened and Madeleine came in.




109

Alfred does his stuff

This woman had as many moods as she had frocks.  She had changed her
tailored suit for a close-fitting indoor robe.  It was a barbaresque
affair, derived from the Boyar fashions which the Imperial Russian
Ballet had then but lately introduced into Western Europe, of heavy
figured brocade, in which red and gold predominated, fur-edged, with
tight sleeves that drooped below the elbow into extravagantly wide
panels and came to a point on the back of her tapering hands.  Her
eyes, darkened with mascara, were languorous behind the upturned lashes
and she seemed, in doffing her outdoor clothes for this gorgeous
creation, to have taken on the exotic and subtly provocative air that
went with it.  There was something faintly wanton in her manner that
made me think of a high-class cocotte.

_Soigne_ and _svelte_ and undulating in her long dress moulded to her
exquisite figure and exuding that subtle fragrance of hers that always
made my heart beat faster, she entered, a cigarette smoking between her
slender fingers.  "You asked for me?" she said to Grundt with her
little disdainful inflection.  By way of reply the cripple's stubby
index finger pointed at the desk.  Following the direction of his hand
with her eyes, she uttered a faint, croony cry.  "You've found it then?"

Grundt nodded, his eyes resting upon her without disfavour.  "Empty..."

She had moved to the desk.  The box was in her hands.  There was a
sharp click.  "Oh," she exclaimed in dismay and tugged at the arrow,
"now it's shut again and I can't get it open!"

Chortling good-humouredly, Clubfoot lumbered across to her.  Clumsy and
fearsome as a great orang-outang by contrast with her delicate
loveliness, he took the box from her hands and, steadying it on the
blotter, twisted the dart as he had seen Garnet do.  The lid flew up.

Madeleine gave a delighted cry.  "_a c'est mignon!_" she said softly
in her throat.  Nestling up to the ogre, she made him show her the
working of the lock, and presently, as absorbed as a child with a new
toy, she was twirling the arrow herself.  "Where did you find it after
all?" she asked.

Grundt was standing away from her now, drawing on his cigar.  He did
not answer her question, but asked one himself.  "Was Markus on the
train that night?" he demanded abruptly.

"Markus?" she repeated, and now for the first time she looked at me.
"Do you mean the Russian who was after the Mitzi Funda letters?"

"That's the man," said Clubfoot.

"If he were on the train, I shouldn't be any the wiser," she rejoined.
"I don't even know him by sight.  Why do you ask?"

"Because that box was found in his pocket..."

"At the scene of the accident, do you mean?"  Her air of innocent
curiosity was extremely plausible.

"No, _meine liebe_, on the stairs of your apartment at Cologne..."

In well-feigned amazement she stared at him.  "At the Engel-Gasse?
What on earth was he doing there?  As you know, the place has been shut
up for months.  Besides, I tell you, I don't know the man..."

"Nevertheless, the fact is that he was met by some of my people
descending the stairs from your apartment.  He opened fire and was shot
down.  When the body was searched, the box was found on him.  How do
you explain that?"

"I can't explain it," she answered haughtily.  "When did this happen?"

"About ten days ago..."

"Why was I not told about it?"

"My subordinates are not in the habit of babbling about my business.
And I, as you know, was at sea with His Majesty..."  He glanced at her
out of the corner of his eyes.  "What if friend Markus were working for
the British?"

She lifted her shoulders indifferently.  "You said he was a Russian
agent..."

He pawed the air in a gesture of indifference.  "To a weasel like
Markus--England, Russia, Germany--it's all one.  Supposing, by any
chance, this box had been hidden in your flat, my dear, and Markus,
instructed perhaps by our excellent Clavering here, had been sent to
recover it..."

"The only person who could have hidden the box at the Engel-Gasse is
myself," she countered bluntly.  "Is that what you're hinting at?"

Grundt spread his hands and bowed.  "The inference," he mouthed, "is
irresistible..."

With an angry toss of her head she turned away.  "You weary me with
your constant suspicions.  Here I have wasted a fine afternoon talking
to one of the dullest Englishmen I've ever met solely in your
interests, and my only reward is to be greeted with the most outrageous
accusations of treachery..."

Clubfoot's dark eyes flashed.  "I haven't forgotten that we called at
the Engel-Gasse on the day after the train wreck, and that you left me
while you went to the bedroom to pack your clothes..."

She stamped her foot.  "And what conceivable reason should I have for
lying to you?  You know as well as I do that I never even heard of the
wretched Forrest and his box until you ordered me to scrape
acquaintance with him and rob him.  Not only do I almost lose my life
in a railway accident, but, for all I know, I'm also suspected of the
murder of this man..."  Then, catching sight of me, she cried: "What is
this person doing here?  Do we really have to discuss all this in front
of him?"

"Don't worry," Grundt rasped, "we're telling him no secrets..."

She stamped her foot again, her face alight with anger--she was a
consummate actress.  "I'm sick of your constant innuendoes," she cried.
"You're so eaten up with suspicion of everyone and everything that
you're incapable of seeing the truth spread out under your eyes..."

He gave her a puzzled look.  "The truth?" he growled.

"Your precious Lipschtz who killed Forrest, wasn't he at one time in
the Russian secret police?  You told me so yourself.  Don't you see
that he double-crossed you, that he'd told Markus about this mission
and that Markus was on the train, waiting to snatch the box when he had
the chance.  For all I know, he was outside Forrest's compartment when
the crash came, and picked up the box when I dropped it..."

She was quick-witted.  No doubt of that.  I watched Grundt's face to
see how he would take this ingenious explanation.  He did not answer at
once, frowning and grinding his teeth on his cigar.  It was a
favourable sign, I decided.

"If that were so," he said unwillingly, "what brought Markus to your
apartment?"

"But my poor Grundt, the Mitzi Funda letters, of course.  Obviously,
the Russians knew that I'd gone to London to fetch them, and sent him
into Germany to trail me..."

Clubfoot grunted.  "So?  But that doesn't explain what he was doing
with this box.  Why didn't he turn it in to the Russians or the
British, or whoever his employers were?"

"Clearly because it was empty," she flashed back.  "Why hand over a
pretty thing like that?  Besides, it's gold, isn't it? and valuable..."
She laughed cooingly.  "Now that we know it is empty, I'm hoping very
much you're going to offer it to me as a souvenir..."

"That locking device is intricate," Grundt growled unwillingly.  "How
do you suppose Markus was able to open it when it defeated me?"

"But you opened it..."  she began.  "Oh, I see..."  And she looked at
me.  She shrugged her shoulders.  "Bah, the mechanism is not too
difficult.  You didn't have leisure to study it, that's all..." She
laughed softly.  "Somehow, I don't see you being beaten by a simple
trick like this..."

The man was inordinately vain.  He swelled to her praise.  "You're
right.  If I'd had the time to investigate it.  _Na_!..."  His mind
drifted away and I became aware that his menacing gaze was directed at
me.

Madeleine remarked it.  Leaning against the desk in a careless
attitude, she said, waving her cigarette in my direction: "Is our
English friend going to spend the summer with us?"

Grundt laughed dourly.  "Not at the Villa Waldesruh', I fear..."

"I merely ask," Madeleine rejoined, "because I happened to see his
friend, Miss Wolseley, driving off with her suit-case in one of the
cars..."

"The good Clavering is not leaving at present..."

"Why?  What do you want with him?"  Her question was nonchalant, but
her eyes were alert.  I realised now that she was trying in her subtle
way to help me.  After all, our interests were identical--in mere
self-preservation she could scarcely do otherwise.  My courage began to
revive.

"For one thing I intend that he shall answer to the courts of justice
in the Andresen affair," Grundt replied.  "It's high time the gentlemen
across the North Sea were taught to keep their prying noses out of
Germany..."

"The courts?  That means witnesses, doesn't it?"

"He'll have to be identified, of course..."

"By me?"

"Only behind closed doors.  Espionage cases are always heard _in
camera_..."

"_In camera_ or not, of what value shall I be to you henceforth if I
give evidence in this case?  No, no, _mon cher_, the thing's
impossible.  Besides, the Andresen affair is closed..."

"Who says it's closed?"

"Isn't it a fact that Andresen committed suicide in prison the night
after he was arrested?"

I started.  This was horrible.  "Who told you that?" Clubfoot demanded,
lowering at her.

"Do you deny it?" she countered.

He made no answer, drawing on his cigar, his brows knit in thought, and
I knew that it was true.  Andresen was dead, poor devil; but his
disappearance made things easier for me.

"Make no mistake about it," Grundt snarled at last, "I can put our
clever friend from London away for five years at least.  And I'll do
it"--he paused to glare at me--"unless he's prepared to be
reasonable..."

"If you want anything of him," Madeleine interposed quickly, "you'd
better let me ask it.  It's not the Mitzi Funda letters by any chance,
is it?"

As she spoke her hand had dipped down the front of her dress.  Now she
drew forth the letters, still in the envelope in which I had forwarded
them to her from London, and silently extended the packet to Grundt.
He snatched it from her and shook out the sheaf of azure-tinted sheets
upon the blotter.  With an inarticulate ejaculation he spread one
beneath the lamp.  "At last," he cried triumphantly.  "How did you
manage it?" he questioned as he pored over the letters.

With a careless air she was manicuring her nails on the back of her
hand, breathing on them and frictioning them vigorously.  "It may be
that my method of approach is more successful than yours..."

He was examining the envelope now.  "But these letters came through the
post from London!"

With eyebrows politely arched she gave smiling confirmation.
"Certainly.  Mr. Clavering sent them to me..."

Grundt's features were clouded with suspicion at once.  "So?  And why
should he do that, pray?"

"A gentleman always pays his debts of honour.  And Mr. Clavering is a
gentleman.  That's probably why he'll never make much success of secret
service work..."

"Stop talking riddles, _zum Donnerwetter_," the big German snapped
irritably.  "What's all this to do with the letters?"

It seemed to me that it was time I came to her aid.  "Perhaps you'll
let me explain," I said.  "When I surprised Mrs. Stafford that night at
Mitzi Funda's apartment in London I gave her my word to return those
letters, and I kept my promise.  We needn't go into the details of the
transaction..."

The great cripple stared at me, puzzled for a moment, then, slapping
his enormous thigh, burst into a hearty guffaw.  "_Ach_ so?" he roared.
"Kolossal!  I remember now, our little Mada told me something of this.
_Prachtvoll_!  Good work, my dear, good work..."  He was gathering the
letters back into their envelope.  "With those letters I shall demolish
certain clever gentlemen who cannot sleep at night for thinking of the
favours I enjoy at the hands of my Imperial master.  So," he murmured,
tapping his packet, "I'm an intriguer, am I?  A meddling fool who'd try
and sap His Majesty's confidence in a devoted and excellent Prince.
Ha!"  He cackled resonantly.  "The head of the Military Cabinet has no
intention of troubling the ears of the Emperor with idle gossip; the
Chief of the General Staff has investigated the matter confidentially
and finds no basis for Herr Doktor Grundt's grave insinuations.
_Pfui_!  Fools, dolts, sheeps-heads, I'll show them whether old
Clubfoot is past his work.  And as for this puffed-up popinjay"--his
hand struck the packet a smart blow--"this rotten, debauched princeling
who has forgotten his oath to the Throne and betrayed his country, I'll
hound him out of the army into the grave!"  His voice dropped to a
rumbling bass that was vibrant with menace, and he remained staring
moodily into space.

Then, rousing himself from his sombre spell, he shouted for Alfred.  He
bade the man fetch him his hat and overcoat.  Alfred was back in a
moment with the things and stood there stiffly, with the overcoat held
out, while Grundt stowed the envelope with the letters away in a
leather satchel.  Grundt was about to put an arm into the sleeve of his
overcoat when he perceived the little gold box glittering on the desk.
He grabbed it up and thrust it away in an inner pocket.  Then Alfred
helped him into his overcoat, handed him his hat and crutch-handled
stick.

"Go and ring up the _Hohenzollern_ in the roads."  Clubfoot dismissed
the servant who was fussing about him, pulling down his jacket behind
and brushing the broad shoulders.  "Say I am on my way to see the
aide-de-camp on duty with a communication of the utmost importance.
And tell Hermann I want the car immediately.  Be quick!"

The man fled.  Grundt's gaze, as he made a final survey of the room,
fell upon me.  "_Ach_, friend Clavering," he murmured, "I was
forgetting you..."  He paused, plucking at his chin and staring at me
abstractedly.  Ultimately, after a long silence, he swung round towards
the door and called "Vogel!"

His bull-dog appeared with an alacrity clearly born of long experience
of his master.  "Is there still time to catch the boat that leaves
Hamburg for Harwich to-night?" Clubfoot asked his aide.

Vogel dredged up a large silver watch from the tightly-stretched depths
of his waistcoat, conned it under the light and announced that it could
be done.  "Put him on the boat," said Grundt, pointing at me, "and stay
with him until she sails.  You'll do the job yourself.  Understand?"

"Very good, Herr Doktor!"

"And you," he snarled at me, "keep out of my path in future!"

So saying, with a swaggering gesture, he clapped his hat upon his head
and turned towards the door.  I saw Madeleine step up to him.  "Herr
Doktor..."

He patted her shoulder paternally.  "Don't delay me now.  I'll talk to
you later..."

"The gold box," she said in a soft, ingratiating voice, "aren't you
going to let me keep it?  It's of no use to you.  Besides, don't I
deserve a reward?"

I was electrified.  What a good sport she was!  Breathlessly I waited
for his rejoinder.  He was smiling at her indulgently.

His hand went to his pocket.  "So, the box..." He frowned suddenly,
then, putting his stick and satchel down on the desk, began to pat
himself furiously.  "But I put it in my pocket an instant ago," he
muttered.

"I know.  I saw you," said Madeleine.  "You must have it!"

"It's gone!" he growled.  He turned to Vogel, pointing at me.  "Search
him..."

"It's absurd," I protested.  "How could I get it?  I haven't been near
you..."  The detective's beefy hands were pawing me diligently.  "I'm
not a pick-pocket!"

At those words Grundt whipped about like a shot rabbit.  "Alfred!" he
yelled.

"Excuse me, Herr Doktor," Vogel interposed, "but Alfred is out..."

"Out?" Grundt thundered.

"Not two minutes ago.  He went off in the Herr Doktor's car..."

"In my car?  _Herr Gott_!"

And then, unexpectedly, Clubfoot began to laugh.  He threw his great
head back so violently that his hat fell on the floor, while he rocked
with gargantuan mirth.  "No, but this Alfred!" he repeated over and
over again, while his shouts of laughter went pealing through the room.
It was an astonishing exhibition, unbridled and violent like everything
about this bewildering personality.  "Pinched it off me under my very
eyes," he gasped weakly, "while he helped me into my overcoat.  _Aber
nein, dieser Alfred_!"  And he was off again, guffawing and threshing
about with his great arms.

When his transports had subsided, he wiped his eyes and, looking at me,
observed with a sort of gallow's humour expression: "The triumph of
automatism over morals, Clavering!  He felt that box in my pocket, and
pouf! all his good resolutions were wrecked!"  He turned to Vogel.
"We'll have to put the police on him.  Let Bauer see to it.  You'd
better get off now or you'll miss that boat!"

Vogel touched my arm and we went out together.  I caught Madeleine's
eye on the way to the door.  Her glance was charged with humour, and
she moved her shoulders helplessly as though to say she had done her
best for me and failed.  I smiled at her, but I asked myself what she
had done with Forrest's list.

Grundt was laughing again.  His stormy gusts of merriment pursued us
into the hall.




110

Madeleine shows her hand

I found Garnet on the Harwich boat.  She was overwhelmed with surprise
at seeing me there, and made me tell her everything that had happened
after her departure from the Villa Waldesruh'.  She was not as much
impressed as I thought she should have been by my account of how
Madeleine's ready wit had saved me.  "Obviously," she remarked with her
most non-committal air, "she had to lie for you to protect herself."
She was much more exercised at hearing of the disappearance of the box.
"That's bad," she said several times.  "We couldn't have foreseen it,
of course, but it's bad!"

"My dear Garnet," I replied somewhat curtly, for her unshakable
prejudice against Madeleine never failed to irritate me, "you must see
that the whereabouts of the box has no further interest for us..."

"I wonder," was the enigmatic reply.  "The trouble is," she went on,
wrinkling her forehead, "that, if I know anything of Clubfoot, this man
of his won't get very far with it..."

I laughed.  "A fellow who's smart enough to pull off a trick like that
oughtn't to have much difficulty in keeping out of the clutches of the
police.  Besides, what does it matter?  The box is empty and Mrs.
Stafford has got Forrest's list.  I've no doubt she'll take the first
opportunity to return it to me..."

But deep down in my heart I was not so positive.  Was this strange,
alluring creature an ally? or were her motives, as Garnet suggested
solely interested?  I wished I knew, if only to fortify myself against
my forthcoming interview with the Chief when I was aware I should have
to justify my disobedience of his explicit orders.

What passed between him and Garnet when, in due course, she reported
back at work, I never exactly heard.  But Garnet told me afterwards
that, all things considered, he did not take too harsh a view of her
exploit.  I was not so fortunate, however.  The old man had a bitter
tongue, and for the best part of five thoroughly uncomfortable minutes
he let me have the raw edge of it.

He did not seem to reflect that, if I had not accompanied Madeleine
Stafford to the Villa Waldesruh', we should never have known that the
box was empty when it fell into Grundt's hands, and consequently that
it was Madeleine who had abstracted Forrest's list.  The Chief could
only see, apparently, that the list was still missing, and that,
although Grundt might yet be in ignorance of its existence, the
security of our entire intelligence service on the German seaboard
remained in jeopardy.  My timid suggestion that Mrs. Stafford was well
disposed towards us and might yet turn the list in, if only as part of
the bargain over the Mitzi Funda letters, aroused his most savage irony.

"She'll turn it in all right," he declared in scornful tones.  "But
perhaps you'd allow me to draw your attention to the fact that with
that list in her pocket your lady friend can hold us up for any sum she
cares to name.  And what simplified matters so delightfully is that by
surrendering those letters you've handed over the only article of
barter we possessed.  You've made a fine mess of things, Major
Clavering.  What I can't pass over is that by flagrantly disobeying
orders you've effectively deprived me of any chance I might have had of
dealing with the situation in my own way.  You'd better go on leave!"

Which was the skipper's pet method of signifying his displeasure.  So,
with a flea in my ear and the wry reflection that Charles Forrest's
box, which had already cost four men their lives, was in all
probability fated to end its travels in a Continental pawnshop, I went
back to Sandwich and my golf.

I was still there when, about a week later, on coming down to
breakfast, I found beside my place a letter in a hand unfamiliar to me
and bearing the Amsterdam postmark.  It had been forwarded on from the
Albany.  Even before my eye fell upon the initials boldly scrawled at
the foot of the few lines it contained, I knew instinctively that it
was from Madeleine Stafford.  It was dated two days previously and
started off without address or superscription:


_I must see you urgently.  Please wire immediately to M. S., Poste
Restante, Amsterdam, what afternoon soon it will be convenient to meet
me between three and four at the Caf Tarnowski._


I was elated.  All the doubts I had nurtured concerning her--so greatly
against my personal sentiments--were swept away at a blow.  This could
only mean that she was going to deliver up Forrest's list.

Forthwith I telegraphed that I would be at the rendezvous next
afternoon, and caught the night mail for Amsterdam.

      *      *      *      *      *

Everybody who has ever been to Amsterdam knows the Caf Tarnowski,
which used to boast of being the largest establishment of the kind in
the world--I was told once that it took in, I think, some 800
newspapers and periodicals in different languages.  It is many years
since I last drank a glass of cool Amstel beer there, but in my day it
was a great, roaring place whose high roof echoed, all round the clock,
to the murmur of voices, the clatter of dominoes and the click of
billiard balls.

Shortly before three o'clock next afternoon, after spending a lazy
morning mooning about the city and lunching at my leisure, I entered
the caf.  I had told no one of my plans.  Especially not the Chief or
Garnet.  After all, I believed in this woman: they did not.  I was on
leave and quite free to spend a couple of days on the Continent if I so
desired.

She was there before me.  I saw her almost as soon as I came in--a
quiet, self-possessed figure in black with a fox fur and a natty Paris
hat, spooning a _caf ligeois_ at a table not far from the door:
evidently she had posted herself near the entrance so that I should
have no difficulty in finding her in that enormous place.  She had
dwelt so much in my thoughts during the last weeks that a sort of
intimacy had established itself between us in my mind; but it was only
on seeing her there before me that I recognised how greatly I had
looked forward to this meeting--we had so much to talk over.  I
approached her in all friendliness and confidence, for I recognised now
that, in the trick she had played on me at the Goldner Adler, she had
only been obeying an order which it was impossible to evade.  Once the
bogus Frau Andresen had reported my arrival at the beer-garden,
Madeleine, I realised, could not have put me on my guard without
instantly arousing Grundt's suspicions.

But now, when I stood before her, her greeting chilled me.  She was in
one of her hard moods, restive, aloof, secretive.  My welcoming smile
evoked no response in the white, set face.  Pointing to a chair she
said hurriedly, "Sit down, please, and listen to me--I have very little
time."

Somewhat chagrined I obeyed, waiting for her to speak.  Leaning towards
me, her chin propped in her hands, she went on tensely, "If I were to
tell you where you can arrest a German spy operating in England, how
much would that be worth to you?"

I stared at her, stunned.  Somehow I had never discerned a mercenary
streak in her character before.  "In money, do you mean?" I asked,
puzzled.

"Yes."  Her manner was eager.

I shrugged my shoulders.  "It would depend on circumstances.  Who is
it?"

"A first-class man, one of the most trusted and experienced of German
agents..."

"And he's operating in England, you say?"

"Yes..."

"One of Grundt's people?"

"He's working for Grundt at present..."

"And you're willing to denounce him?"

"Yes..."  Her face hardened.  "But you'll have to pay me..."

Of course, transactions of this kind were no novelty to me, but I could
never stomach them very well.  If to-day middle-age finds me cynical,
it is because, during my years in the secret service, I saw so much of
loyalties thus bought and sold over the counter.  But in those days I
still retained some ideals and the discovery that Madeleine was no
better than the common run of professional spies gave me a considerable
shock.  I realised that I had been living in a fool's paradise as far
as my little lady was concerned.

I glanced at her rather coldly.  "Is this why you sent for me?"

She met my scrutiny rather uneasily.  "Yes..."

"I thought, maybe, you had some news for me about the box..."

"The box?"  She looked puzzled.  "Oh, the gold box.  I'm afraid it has
never been recovered.  Alfred seems to have got safely away with it.
Anyway, it's empty, as you know.  If it ever contained anything of
value, Markus got it.  Now about this man in England..."

She was lying, of course.  Markus had had no time to open the box.  He
had snatched it from me and dashed downstairs to his death.  But I did
not tell her this.  Instead I persisted, "Then you didn't open the box
when it was in your possession?"

"I've told you already I didn't know how to open it.  Please don't
waste time with idle questions.  As I was saying, I can give you
information that will enable you to arrest this German agent..."  Her
eyes flickered to my face.  "But it will cost you ... two hundred
pounds."

I had swallowed my chagrin.  This was familiar ground to me.  The
haggling was about to begin.  I shook my head.  "You've come to the
wrong shop, my dear.  We don't pay prices like that.  If we're going to
do business, you'd better come down to earth..."

"Please understand that I'm not going to haggle," she cut in haughtily.
"The price is two hundred pounds.  And when you've arrested this man
and seen for yourselves the information he has collected, you will
agree with me that the price is not too high..."

"That remains to be seen," I rejoined bluntly.  "In any case, we don't
buy a pig in a poke..."

"I'm willing to trust you," she answered with dignity.  "That's why I
wrote to you in person.  Your word of honour will satisfy me.  If I
give you the information you require to arrest this man and you find
that the claims I have made are substantiated, do you promise to see
that I am paid this money in full?"

"I think I can say 'yes' to that..."

"And the price is two hundred pounds?"

"Agreed..."

"I make one condition, that my name is kept out of it..."

"That, too, can be arranged..."

"Especially"--her voice trembled a little--"_he_ must never know who
denounced him..."

"I'll see to it," said I and drew out my pencil.  "Now who is this guy
and where do we pick him up?"

She hesitated.  "Before I tell you this, when shall I be paid?"

"As soon as he's safely behind the bars and the charges against him are
established..."

"Will that take long?"

I hoisted my shoulders.  "Inquiries of this kind are sometimes a matter
of weeks..."

With a desperate air she shook her head.  "I can't wait.  I must have
the money in a week.  If you return to London to-night he can be
arrested at once, to-morrow..."

"Perhaps.  But the evidence..."

"I can tell you where to find it..."

"He may suspect something and destroy it..."

"He suspects nothing..."  She caught my hand.  "I'm desperate for this
money, I tell you.  You don't know what depends on it.  Say that you'll
help me..."

"I'll do what I can," I promised grudgingly.  "Where do you want it
sent?"

"Can you bring it to me here in cash?--English notes will do.
Telegraph me as before and I'll meet you.  But make it soon, I beg of
you.  And in any event not later than a week from to-day..."

"All right.  Now let's have the details..."

She paused for an instant, twisting and untwisting her slender fingers.
"The name is Hans Roth," she said at last.  "But he calls himself Henry
Rothsay.  He's posing as a retired Australian business man visiting
England..."

Roth?  The name was new to me.  "What's he after?" I inquired.

She glanced cautiously about her.  "Grundt has received orders to
investigate some story of an expeditionary force, which the English are
rumoured to be preparing, to act in co-operation with the French in the
event of a European war.  It is supposed to be a force of a hundred
thousand men to be held in readiness to land on the coast of Schleswig.
It seems that the Emperor is very excited about it..."

I pricked up my ears.  This rang authentic enough.  I had heard rumours
myself, of preparations at Aldershot, of combined manoeuvres of the
Army and Fleet.

"Grundt has been given carte blanche.  He took the best man he could
find.  Hans Roth looks like an Englishman and speaks English
perfectly--you would never know that he was not English."

"How long has he been over there?"

She shook her head.  "I can't tell you exactly.  I don't think he has
made any report as yet.  But I know where he keeps his notes and
sketches..."

"Ah..."

Again that stealthy glance around her.  "There's a false bottom to the
field-glasses he carries.  Everything is there..."

I nodded, then, with pencil poised, demanded, "And where is he to be
found?"

She opened her bag and, taking from it a letter, read out the name of
an hotel at Haslemere.  "He writes from Scotland..."

"From Scotland?" I repeated sharply--the great naval base at Rosyth,
constant objective of spies, came immediately into my mind.

"Yes.  From Edinburgh.  But he was going south next day.  To Haslemere,
in Surrey.  He expects to spend several weeks there..."

Haslemere!  Quiet and eminently respectable, where wealthy City men had
their homes, and hotels, boarding-houses and nursing-homes were tucked
away among the bracken and pines.  What better base of operations could
a spy, interested in doings at First Army Corps Head-quarters, select
than this tranquil beauty spot, not inconveniently distant from
Aldershot, yet sufficiently remote for a casual Australian tourist's
presence, amid the handful of American and Dominions visitors, always
registered at the hotels and boarding-houses, there, to excite no
comment?

As she folded the letter to put it back in her bag, my eye caught a
superscription, "_Meine geliebte Mada_!"  The spidery German characters
danced before my sight.  "My beloved Mada!"  When a German thus
addresses a woman, the deduction is irrefutable.

And she was selling her lover for two hundred pounds!

Did my manner reveal my thoughts?  The interview was at an end.  She
was touching up her lips in the mirror of her vanity case and I was
gazing about for a waiter to pay the bill.  Rather timorously she
touched my sleeve.  "What do you think of me?" she said humbly.

I shrugged my shoulders.  "Our job is to conceal our thoughts, not
reveal them..."  I paused and went on deliberately, "Since we are
talking business, are you sure there's nothing else you'd care to sell?"

She winced.  "What do you mean?"  Her voice was not very steady.

"No stolen documents or anything of that kind?"

With tragic eyes she stared at me.  "I don't understand..."

"I'm in the market to buy that paper you took from Forrest's box," I
told her curtly.

A spasm of pain crossed her face.  "Then you think I lied to you about
that?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "I'm not good at drawing fine distinctions,
I'm afraid..."

"Nevertheless, I told you the truth.  I never opened the box.  But I
can't expect you to believe that..."

"Is there any reason why you should?  Let's get down to brass tacks, my
dear.  A woman who'd sell her lover..."

Her face flamed.  "You read that letter?"

"I couldn't help seeing the beginning.  He is your lover, isn't he?"

She shook her head.  "Not any more.  But I'm no hypocrite.  If he were,
I'd sell him just the same.  Because I must have that money..."

"At least, you're frank about it..."

"You think I'm a Judas, don't you?"

"Judas was cheaper.  But the cost of living--or should it be
loving?--has gone up since those days..."

My heart went back on me when I saw the fleeting misery of her
expression.  It was as though I had stabbed her to the heart.  But I
would not retract.  Her brazen effrontery outraged me: I was sick with
pain and disappointment.

"I have delayed too long," she said quietly and stood up.  "Grundt
takes his siesta at this time and it's the only chance I have to get
away..."

"You're still with Grundt, then?"  It seemed to me she was running a
frightful risk.

She nodded and picked Up her bag.  "Send a messenger with the money,"
she repeated.  "I don't want to see you again..."

Then, without looking at me, she turned and went quickly out.




111

Hans Roth, Spy

To the British public at large Hans Roth, alias Henry Rothsay was just
another of those damned German spies.  Aged about forty, sunburnt and
taciturn, dressed in ready-made tweeds and speaking fluent English with
even a slight colonial twang, he looked to the life the rle he had
adopted.  But with the information we already possessed, supplemented
by the abundant material the case of his field-glasses supplied, we
speedily demolished his attempts to stand by his Australian alias.
This background shattered, nothing remained, for he immediately
relapsed into a stubborn silence about himself and his mission,
admitting nothing denying nothing.

His notes and sketches, however, the itinerary of his sojournings on
the Scottish coast and the record of his visits to Aldershot, Pirbright
and other military centres, gave us sufficient evidence as to have
secured his conviction ten times over.  It was, therefore, as Hans
Roth, an enigmatic nondescript believed to be of German nationality and
vaguely described on the charge-sheet--it was his own designation--as
"clerk," that he was charged at Bow Street and after very brief
proceedings _in camera_, as is the general practice in espionage cases,
remanded for further inquiries.

But neither his bourgeois-sounding name, nor his cheap clothes, nor the
obscure background he had so painstakingly built up for himself during
the four weeks he was operating in the British Isles, deceived me.  I
had formed my own conclusions about him, based upon his well-set-up
appearance, his careful courtesy and, above all, the uncomplaining
stoicism with which he resigned himself to the inevitable.  Although it
was I who brought the police to the hotel at Haslemere where he was
arrested, he seemed to bear me no ill will, and in the course of a
number of interviews I had with him during the days that ensued, while
he obstinately refused to give any information about himself, we became
quite good friends.  Not that I was ever completely at my ease with
him, for the secret of his betrayal (which the Chief alone shared with
me) weighed heavy on my conscience.

Frequently at our interviews I would find myself speculating as to what
episode in Madeleine's past this strange, lonely man represented.  More
than once I tried to draw him out about his earlier life, but always
without success.  It was as though an iron curtain had descended
between him and his background; and he opposed a mute, though smiling,
resistance even to attempts to induce him to reveal the names of any
relatives or friends he possessed.  A sum of a few hundred pounds
standing in his name in a London bank were used for his defence.

The evidence against him was overwhelming and when, at the end of the
stipulated week, I consulted with the Chief, he ruled that Mrs.
Stafford had earned her fee and that I should cross to Holland with her
blood-money the same night.  My part in the affair was at an end, for
our counter-espionage had taken the investigation out of my hands.  I
thought I would apply for a final interview with the prisoner.  I saw
him in the cells at Bow Street, after one of his appearances before the
police magistrate, while waiting to be conveyed back to the remand
prison.

I told him I should not be seeing him again, and he thanked me for
certain small attentions I had shown him while he was in jail.  I asked
whether I could not do anything about notifying his family.  He shook
his head.  "I have no one who matters now," he said rather wistfully.
"But if you would tell me one thing..."  He broke off to eye me with an
embarrassed, speculative air.

"If I can, I will," I promised.

His mien was very earnest.  "Who gave me away?"

He would not wait for me to put my negative head-shake into words.
"It's asking you to break a rule, perhaps?  Well, if I give you my word
of honour that nothing you say goes beyond these four walls?  Let me
finish!  Before you refuse, I'm going to tell you who I am so that you
may know that my word is not quite valueless.  But you must promise to
keep my true identity secret, even from your Chief.  You are an
officer: we shall speak, not as jailer and prisoner, but as comrades.
Is it agreed, Major?"

I knew then that my surmise was correct.  He was a German officer.
Once more he forestalled my refusal.  "This amiable gentleman who will
defend me will claim mistaken identity," he said quickly.  "But I have
no illusions.  Nothing you can tell me will save me from a long term of
penal servitude--I know that.  But I also know I was
denounced--otherwise, you would never have arrested me.  You won't deny
that, I suppose?"

"You must know that the regulations forbid me to answer any such
questions," I answered stiffly.

A nervous gesture of his hand cut me off.  "If I tell you my real name,
will you swear never to divulge it?"

"You've yet to stand your trial," I rejoined.  "How can you expect me
to let you bind our hands in this way?  We'll discover your real
identity, don't worry!"

He shrugged his broad shoulders.  "It's all one.  You'll see, there
will be no reason for my true name to come out.  In any case, I'm going
to leave it to your discretion..."

Even after all these years I do not feel justified in giving the name,
especially as it was not disclosed at the trial; but it was one famous
in Prussia's military history.  His family had furnished a regular
dynasty of officers to the Prussian Guards regiment to which he had
belonged.  "I may be a damned German spy," he said wryly.  "But my
hands are clean.  You can trust my honour..."

I had passed my word to Madeleine, however, and anyway, what he asked
was impossible.  The Service never reveals its sources--that was one of
the first things we used to learn.  "Man," he cried, in the first burst
of feeling I had seen in him, "you don't know what this means to me.
I'm not afraid of jail: what I can't face is the prospect of being
locked away for years without ever knowing, without ever being sure..."

He lifted haggard eyes to mine.  "For God's sake, comrade, answer me
this one question.  You don't have to speak; just move your head for
'yes' or 'no' and I shall understand..."  He paused, then demanded
hoarsely, "Was it--was it a woman?"

"Now see here, Roth," I said briskly.  "I'm devilish sorry for you as I
should be sorry for any other good chap in a mess.  But you're a
soldier the same as I am and you know damned well that what you want me
to do is out of the question..."

"But I'll go mad in prison unless I know," he exclaimed wildly.
"Forget you're a British officer, Clavering, and have a little pity..."

"Would you in my place?" I asked him sternly.

"You expect me to be logical when I'm almost out of my mind," he flared
back.  "Do this one favour for me, comrade.  No one shall ever find out
that you have spoken.  When I tell you that I ruined my career for this
woman, that my family cast me off, that if it was she who betrayed me
it means the end of my belief in human nature, in God Himself...

"It was eight years ago," he said, "when I first met her.  She was the
loveliest creature you can imagine.  A brother officer of mine had
picked her up while on manoeuvres in Silesia--she was a dancer in an
Austrian theatre troupe that was stranded at Liegnitz.  He brought her
to Berlin, set her up in a flat.  I fell in love with her at sight.
Her lover was a brute--she was glad to leave him for me.  There was a
scene between us: he insulted me and I called him out.  I killed him
and they took my commission away.  Four generations of my family had
served in the Guards: such a thing had never happened to one of us
before.  My father stopped my allowance and said he never wanted to see
me again.  I had no money but I landed a job in Poland and took the
girl with me..."

I pricked up my ears.  The Secret Service is the refuge of all broken
careers, and the Germans in those days ran a very active espionage and
counter-espionage service on their Russian frontier.

"She was never happy at Konigsberg," he went on.  "I was much away from
home and my pay was very small.  One day, without a word, she left me
and I lost all trace of her until I ran into her in Berlin the other
day.  It was at a railway station and we had only a few minutes
together, but it was as though we had never parted.  I promised to
write to her, and, like a fool"--his mouth was bitter--"I kept my
word."  Facing me he pounded his palm with the edge of his hand.  "That
letter was the only letter I wrote from this country.  She was the only
person to know the address at Haslemere where you arrested me.  Yet
still, fool that I am, I want to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Comrade, you know, you must know, the truth.  For the love of heaven,
set my mind at rest."

But I stood firm.  I knew nothing of the circumstances that had led to
his arrest, I assured him, and if I did, I should not feel at liberty
to disclose them.  I told this lie with the packet of notes that was
the price of his freedom in the inside pocket of my jacket.  Our job
had many such bitter, debasing moments.  I left him huddled up at the
table, his head between his hands, and I never saw him again.  A month
later he was sentenced to seven years' penal servitude at the Old
Bailey.

      *      *      *      *      *

Madeleine was at her old table when I reached the Caf Tarnowski next
afternoon.  Not knowing who might be observing us, I said: "The
envelope with the money is in my pocket.  What do you want me to do
with it?"

"Put it down on the table presently and I will take it before I go..."
Her manner was highly nervous and I noticed the pile of cigarette stubs
in the ash-tray.  "Did you ... did you see him?" she asked in a
faltering voice.

"Roth, do you mean?  Yes..."

"Does he know?" she asked in an undertone, her eyes cast down.

"I told him nothing.  But I think he guesses..."

She sighed.  "Will they send him to prison?"

I nodded and she sighed again.  "I suppose," she began and seemed to
swallow, "I suppose you think that what I did was unspeakable?"

"As I told you before," I retorted, "I'm not paid to think.  My job is
to achieve results.  And in this case, as far as we are concerned, the
results are eminently satisfactory..."

"You don't answer my question..."

I laughed.  "Well, it seems you're consistent, at least.  You left him
for money before..."

"That's a lie," she exclaimed hotly.  "I left him because I discovered
he was working for the German counter-espionage in Poland..."

"You're Polish, are you?"

She shook her head.  "I'm Serbian.  My father was a Serbian general,
and my husband was a Serb as well--a captain in the Serbian army..."

"And they're both dead?"

"My father was assassinated; my husband committed suicide.  I have
known nothing but tragedy in my life.  At twenty-four I was virtually
alone in the world.  It seems to be my fate that anyone I love or who
loves me meets with misfortune..."

"But how did Poland concern you, since you're a Serb?  Or were you
already working for the Secret Service when you were with Roth?"

A shadow darkened her face.  "During the three months I was with Hans
at Konigsberg I had no idea how he earned his living, until one day I
discovered he was pursuing someone"--she paused--"someone who was very
dear to me..."

"And why have you denounced him now?"

She shook her head.  "I mustn't tell you..."  She was drawing the
envelope stealthily towards her.  "But you've brought me the price of
my freedom!"  And she slipped the envelope inside her bag.  She held
out her small hand to me.  "Good-bye, my friend, and don't think too
hardly of me.  When next we meet, if all goes well, there'll be no more
lies, no more subterfuges, no more strife between us..."  Sweetly,
appealingly, she smiled into my eyes.

I took her hand and held it.  "When will that be?"

A strange light crept into the charming face.  She was transfigured;
she was like a woman waiting for her lover.  "Very soon, I hope..."

"And you'll let me see you again?"

She smiled mischievously; but she did not withdraw her hand.  "Who
knows?  Perhaps some day..."

"And Grundt?"

A shadow fell across the delicate features.  She shuddered and took her
hand away.  "There's the 'if,'" she said in a low voice.

Then, as at our last meeting, she turned from me and hurried out.




112

The Black Hand casts a shadow

The day I returned from Amsterdam I took Garnet out to dinner.  It was
the first chance we had had for a talk since our Kiel adventure.  My
mind was a mass of confused impressions about Madeleine.  Here was a
woman who had tricked Charles Forrest, trapped me and betrayed for
money the man who, after all, had wrecked his career to befriend her.
Was she, as she had represented herself to me, the plaything of Fate,
the helpless instrument of Grundt by reason of some association he had
discovered between her and the violent background of Serbian politics?
Or was she Clubfoot's accomplice--his mistress, even--and Roth merely
an inconvenient encumbrance whom Grundt had deliberately resolved to
sacrifice?  Such instances were not uncommon in our business.

For myself, I was conscious only of an overwhelming compassion for this
vital, charming creature.  I seemed to discern in all her changing
moods an unspoiled quality, a craving for happiness, which deserved a
brighter fate than the miserable life which had been hers.  I was in
love with her, I suppose--at any rate, I thought of her far too often
for my peace of mind.  But I did not know it then--I was only to
realise it when the final tragedy of her storm-tossed career was about
to snatch her from my arms.  Restless and depressed, I turned to Garnet
in the hope that her calm, unhurried judgment would appease the
troubled waters of my thoughts.

She did not scoff at Madeleine's story, as I had expected.  "The
history of the Balkans," she said, "is written in blood.
Assassination, bomb outrages, palace intrigues, conspiracies.  If I
know anything of modern Serbian politics, you'll find the Black Hand
lurking somewhere in the background of your little lady's history.
You've heard of the Black Hand, haven't you?"

"Vaguely," I said--the Balkans was not my subject.  "It's a secret
society, isn't it?"

She nodded.  "One of the most powerful and unscrupulous in the world
to-day.  It aims at the restoration of Greater Serbia.  For the Black
Hand Austria-Hungary that holds millions of Serb blood-brothers in
subjection is the arch-enemy.  There's a king in Serbia but the Black
Hand is the real ruler, as King Milan, who saved his life by abdicating
to it, and King Alexander, who opposed it and was butchered together
with his Queen, discovered to their cost.  The army supports it, the
Government, while officially repudiating its violent agitation, works
hand-in-glove with it behind the scenes.  And Germany, for whom the
preservation of the Habsburg monarchy intact is a matter of life and
death, is at the back of Austria-Hungary's Balkan policy.  If I'm right
and your Mrs. Stafford has got herself mixed up in one these Pan-Slav
intrigues, there's the explanation of Grundt's hold over her..."

"I believe you've hit it," I put in.  "She spoke of some friend of hers
being involved in espionage on Germany's Russian frontier..."

"Russia, as you know, uses the Balkan States, especially the Serbs and
Bulgars, as pawns against the Triple Alliance.  The Serbs and Bulgars
are at one another's throats already, now that they've beaten the
Turk"--this was the early summer of 1913--"but in reality it's
Austria-Hungary and Russia at grips by proxy.  I shouldn't wonder," she
added thoughtfully, "if they don't end by plunging Europe into war..."

The first warm spell of the year was on us.  We were dining that night,
as I remember, out of doors, on the terrace of the Royal Automobile
Club in the pleasant coolness of the overhanging plane trees.  Shaded
lights, quiet voices, the strains of the orchestra playing "Musetta's
Song" in the inner room--war seemed far removed from that setting of
luxury and elegance.

But I did not make light of Garnet's prophecy, although I was probably
the only man present that evening who would not have laughed her to
scorn, and neither of us could divine at that time how rapidly the
fulfilment of that prediction was drawing near.  In the service war was
the supreme eventuality that overshadowed and coloured all our waking
days: our job was to be ready for it when it should come.

Garnet roused me from my meditation.  "Do you remember once I told you
I didn't want you to get hurt?" she said in her tranquil way.

"Perfectly," I replied, not without a touch of stiffness in my tone.

"You weren't angry with me?"

"Not in the least..."

"Philip," she said earnestly--it was the first time she had called me
by my Christian name--"don't get your fingers burnt!  Madeleine
Stafford may be all you say she is, but she's not for you.  If she's
involved in these Balkan plots and counterplots, she'll drag you in
after her, ruin your life as she has ruined other men's and still
you'll never possess her wholly.  When a woman takes up a cause, it's
good-bye to love..."

I put my hand on hers.  "Dear Garnet," I answered, "you're right, as
you always are.  But it doesn't make any difference.  If Madeleine came
in the door there and called me I should follow her.  And the trouble
is, there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it..."

She sighed.  "The last time we spoke of this, you denied it," she
reminded me.  "You were even quite cross with me for suggesting it.
Now you don't even take the trouble to deny it.  It's a bad sign!"

Her tranquil glance considered me.  Her eyes were her best feature when
not masked by those blessed gig-lamps of hers.  Brown and wide-open and
thoughtful, they suggested unfathomed depths like the unruffled surface
of a lake.  I remarked once more how finely-made she was and how
beautifully groomed.  Her skin was lovely and I noticed in
particular--because she wore her dark brown hair in some new way that
disclosed them--what pretty ears she had.  I found myself thinking
again that, behind the careful competence of her in her working hours,
there was a Garnet that none of us knew really anything about.  "If I
had any sense," I told her, "I should fall in love with you, Garnet.
You'd make some fellow a wonderful wife."

She laughed and shook her brown head.  "Thank you, my dear.  I have
enough experience of men to realise that that's meant for a compliment.
But I'm afraid matrimony's not in my line.  A man wants too much
looking after.  Keeping people like you out of mischief gives me all
the worry I can conveniently manage without going out of my mind.  When
I think of Charles Forrest ... By the way, did you get anything out of
your fascinator about Wahlstedter?"

"Only that he's still at large..."

"With the box, that is?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "He's long since sold or popped it..."

"Scotland Yard has circularised every police headquarters on the
Continent, offering a hundred pounds reward for its recovery.  If
Wahlstedter sold or pawned it, we should have heard by this.  A hundred
pounds is a lot of francs, and marks, and lire..."

"Garnet," said I, cocking my eye at her, "I believe you have some
theory of your own about the box..."

"Why do you think that?"

"Well, I can't help feeling you _expected_ to find it empty that day at
Kiel..."

She laughed.  "Won't you give me credit for opening it to save you?"

"Yes, but..."

"But what?"  Her eyes laughed mischief at me.

"You'd have found some other way of bluffing Grundt.  You know
something about the box.  I wish you'd tell me what it is..."

"My theory, such as it is, is no good without the box, Philip.  Get the
box back and we'll see..."

"It beats me what happened to that list of Forrest's," I said.
"Against the obvious explanation that the box was empty from the start,
we have the positive assertion of what's-his-name at Hamburg..."

"Brade?"

"Yes.  As far as we know, Brade was the last of our people Forrest
spoke to before starting back on that fatal journey to England.  Brade
says that Forrest showed him the box and told him that the list was in
it.  Of course, Forrest may have taken out the list and concealed it
somewhere about him.  But in that case it would have been found on his
body.  And I'm convinced that Madeleine Stafford never had the list.
Or perhaps you don't agree with me?"

"Certainly I agree with you," was Garnet's impassive rejoinder.

"Do you believe that the list was in the box at the time of the railway
accident?"

"Yes, I think I do," she replied with irritating serenity.

"And you agree with me that Madeleine Stafford never had it?"

"Yes.  In fact," she added, "the more I think about it, the more I
incline to the view that Mrs. Stafford's account of her relations with
Forrest is true..."

"Then what?" I demanded, bewildered.

"Find the box," she laughed, "and we'll see..."

"But dash it all, Garnet, either the list is in the box or it isn't..."

"Exactly," she conceded sweetly.

"But, my dear girl..."

"Get the box back," she repeated, "and I'll explain what I mean.  And
now, if you're feeling as frivolous as I am, you may take me to a
revue..."

      *      *      *      *      *

A week later came the enigmatic summons that whisked me off, hot-foot,
to Vienna.




113

Alfred bobs up again

The letter, which was in English of the as-she-is-spoke variety, was
written on a very dirty sheet of that thin, ruled note-paper which at
most Continental cafs the waiter will supply on demand, together with
a penny bottle of semi-coagulated ink and a pen as full of hairs as a
badger's tail.  The writing, sprawling, smudgy and illiterate, was in
keeping with the literary style.  Which is not saying much, as the
communication itself, reproduced here _in extenso_ from the original
among my papers, will attest:


Without address or date, it began straight off: _Shall the mister
klavvering always yet hav interrest in his frends gold box he shall
komm most quik to hotel brischtoll at Wien he shall put inserat in
neues wiener tagblatt he shall say lik this angekommen K and wate
vissit of_

_a frend._


Which, being interpreted, signified that if I was still interested in
the gold box, I was to proceed at once to the Hotel Bristol at Vienna,
announcing my arrival by inserting an advertisement in the personal
column of the well-known Viennese newspaper, the _Neues Wiener
Tagblatt_, in the form "_Angekommen_ (that is to say, arrived) _K_."

In the service we were accustomed to correspondents whose epistolatory
efforts manifested even less Chesterfieldian elegance than this.  What
surprised me about the letter was that it was addressed to me
(insufficiently stamped, I might add) at my chambers at the Albany.
The writer was obviously Dr. Grundt's ex major-domo, Alfred
Wahlstedter, or some obliging proxy; what bothered me was how that
gentleman had contrived to procure my private address.

I was for ignoring the communication.  I still inclined to the view
that the recovery of poor Charles's heirloom no longer had anything but
a sentimental interest; besides, I was weary of travel and anxious to
avoid associations that would constantly bring Madeleine into my
thoughts.  It was Garnet who strongly urged that I should go out to
Vienna.  She still resolutely refused to explain the singular
importance she attached to the recovery of the box.  "Get it back and
we'll see if I'm right," was all she would say.  Garnet never proffered
her advice to the Chief unasked, or she said she didn't; but on this
occasion she managed to get him round to her point of view by
implanting in his mind the idea that it would be good for our prestige
to regain possession of an object which had been snatched away from
under the very nose of the terrible Dr. Grundt.  The result of her
interference was that the Chief, after agreeing with me when I first
brought the matter to his attention, now changed his mind.  I was
ordered to leave for Vienna forthwith, and authorised, since the motive
of the letter was undoubtedly pecuniary, to expend up to one hundred
pounds on buying back the box.

Garnet came to Charing Cross to see me off.  I was sulky and short with
her.  The season was at its height and I was finding in an occasional
game of polo and a round of week-end parties a certain anodyne for my
heart-sickness.  I was strangely loath to leave London--I have often
wondered whether I had a presentiment of what lay before.  "Vienna with
the lilac out and all the cafs in the Prater in full swing," Garnet
rallied me.  "I envy you.  I wish I was going myself..."

"You can have the lilac, and the Prater, too," I retorted glumly.  "The
more I think about this wild-goose chase, the less I like it.  How do
we know that this letter isn't just another trap to get me back into
old Clubfoot's clutches?"

She shook her head in the solemn way she had.  "Too obvious.  Let's
give Grundt his due.  At least, he's got brains..."

"Meaning that I've none, is that it?"

She sighed.  "If I stay here, you'll pick a quarrel with me.  I'd
better be getting back to the office.  So long, my dear.  Come back
safe and sound with the box."

"I'll come back with the box all right," I told her darkly.  "But it'll
probably be an elm box and I'll be safe and sound inside, neatly packed
in ice.  However, what matter, since you've had your way?"

She bit her lip.  "I think that's rather a rotten thing to say.  After
that, if anything should happen to you..."  She turned abruptly and
left me standing there beside the Pullman.  I called after her, but she
had vanished in the crowd.

I started on my journey in a worse temper than ever.

      *      *      *      *      *

The day after arriving at my destination, over my breakfast coffee and
rolls in my room at the Bristol, I unfolded the _Neues Wiener
Tagblatt_.  There was my advertisement, neatly sandwiched between a
notice of a lost bangle and the fervent entreaty that the lady in the
white hat should communicate with the gentleman she had smiled at in
the Karntner-Strasse.  Not half an hour later the telephone rang.

"Herr Clavering?" said a voice.

"Well?"

"Have you read the _Tagblatt_ this morning?"

"Yes."

"Will you repeat a certain advertisement?"

"'_Angekommen.  K._'--is that the one you mean?"

"Right!  Be on the left-hand pavement of the Graben at eleven o'clock
and walk up and down until the friend you have come to see accosts
you..."

The foregoing dialogue took place in German.  I should not have
recognised the engaging Alfred's voice again if I had heard it; and,
but for the livid scar on his face, I should have had some difficulty
in identifying Grundt's trim domestic with the seedy individual who,
shortly after eleven, suddenly barred my passage along Vienna's most
fashionable shopping street.  It was evident that our Alfred had fallen
upon evil days.  He was unshaven and his boots were broken, and from
the circumstances that, despite the warm morning, he kept the collar of
his threadbare jacket turned up I inferred that he was temporarily
dispensing with a shirt.

But it was Alfred right enough.  The shifty eye, the whining,
ingratiating tone of the old lag, were unmistakable.  His manner was
distinctly nervous.  "The gentleman recognises me, _nicht wahr_?" he
said, glancing apprehensively about him.  "From the Villa
Waldesruh'--the gentleman will remember?"

I was about to assure him that I remembered him very well indeed, when,
with an exceedingly dirty finger laid on his lips, he enjoined me to
silence.  "The gentleman will drink a glass of Pilsener with me,
perhaps?" he suggested leering.  "There's a place not a dozen steps
from here where we shall not be disturbed..."  So saying, he slipped
his arm in mine and led me, out of the press on the pavement, down a
flagged alley to a little tavern.

"The essence of trade," said he sententiously when the waiter had
brought our beer, "is supply and demand.  I happen to possess an object
which the gentleman would like to have.  We can therefore do business.
Is it not so?"

"Now look here, Wahlstedter..." I began briskly.  But he stopped me.
"Would it be agreeable to the gentleman if I ordered a little
sandwich?" he questioned carelessly.  "The fact is I overslept myself
and was obliged to leave home without my breakfast..."

I felt inclined to point out that he had likewise omitted to shave or
put on a shirt; but I told him to go ahead.  "Before we proceed any
farther," I said when he had given his order, "I want to know where the
box is.  Is it in your possession?"

"Herr Clavering," he replied with a heavy sigh, "I have had reverses.
My life at the Villa Waldesruh' was a psychological monstrosity.  Dr.
Grundt has no respect for the dignity of human labour.  He is in no
sense what the English call a 'chentleman.'  He treated me like a
slave, a serf, a peon, and when in anger did not scruple to throw up in
my face my unfortunate past which, as I shall presently make clear to
you, Herr Clavering, was due to no shortcomings of mine but to the
dastardly machinations of those whom I considered friends..."

"Quite.  But what about the box?" I cut him off.

"My present impoverished condition, I admit," he pursued unswervingly,
"is due to my own action.  In fleeing from the Villa Waldesruh', I
abandoned a singularly complete wardrobe, six of everything, Herr
Clavering, shirts, collars, socks, vests and drawers for summer and
winter wear..."

"Yes, yes.  But I want to know about the..."

"To say nothing of a devoted consort," he declaimed, his small eyes
flashing, "whose skill in preparing spare-ribs and sauerkraut alone
would have ensured her a position in the finest kitchen in the land and
enabled her to support me in my old age.  But I am a man"--he thumped
his chest--"a citizen of the world, and the measure of indignity heaped
upon me by the tyrant, Grundt, was brimful and running over.  I saw my
chance of freedom and I snatched it.  A Rumanian steamer leaving
Hamburg for Black Sea ports offered me the opportunity to get clear
away.  Unfortunately, the master was a brute of the stamp of Grundt and
did not scruple to put me to work in the stokehold, shovelling coal.
With the result that, on reaching Constantza..."

"You deserted and smuggled your way on a goods train as far as Vienna,
I know," I interposed impatiently.

"The gentleman shows remarkable perspicacity," Alfred affirmed
solemnly.  "That is exactly what I did.  Though how you should have
guessed..."

"My good Wahlstedter," I interrupted incisively, "my time is limited.
Will you please answer me, Where is the box?"

He looked up from the sandwich the waiter had placed before him.  By
the way he wolfed his food I should have said he had eaten nothing for
the past twenty-four hours.  "It is temporarily deposited with an
acquaintance of mine," he remarked with his mouth full.

"Pawned, do you mean?"

"My friend is not a pawnbroker," he replied with dignity.  "For a
hundred kronen I can regain possession of the box..."  He looked at me
out of the corner of his eyes.  "If the gentleman would advance me that
sum"--he paused--"on account..."

"And how much are you asking for the box?" I demanded.  He took a quick
swig of his beer.  "A thousand pounds in English money," he said
rapidly.  I laughed.  "Divide it by a hundred and we'll talk..."

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes.  "A thousand pounds is the
price," he reiterated.

"You're wasting my time," I said and rapped on the table with a coin.
"My bill!" I told the waiter.  "Don't be in such a hurry!" cried my
companion, affrighted.  And, as the waiter approached, he added,
"Perhaps he could bring me another sandwich?  And some more beer?"

I gave the order.  "I'm aware that the gentleman attaches the greatest
importance to the recovery of this box," he hazarded, playing with his
fork.

"Really?  And who told you that?"

"Frau Stafford..."  His tone was nonchalant, but I felt his small eyes
ferreting in my face.

"What has Frau Stafford to do with it?"

He pushed his plate aside and leaned forward confidentially.  "I had
been in Vienna for three days--I was starving..."

"I thought you told me you'd raised a hundred kronen on the box..."

He coughed.  "I was persuaded to take part in a game of cards..."

I laughed.  "What about your old profession, then?"

He drew himself up.  "There's such a thing as professional dignity,
Herr.  I work only the first-class places: I have always had a tiptop
clientele.  In my line I require smart clothes, a good address.  With
permission,"--he bowed formally--"I am not a common pickpocket..."

"You must pardon my ignorance," I said.

"Your apology is accepted," he retorted loftily.  "As I was saying, in
my distress, while walking on the Ring-Strasse, I encountered Frau
Stafford..."

"Here?  In Vienna?" I cried in glad surprise.

"No longer than four days ago.  Knowing her association with Grundt, I
offered her the box..."

"Well?" I broke in breathlessly.

"She refused it, Herr.  She said she was free of Grundt at last and was
on her way to Serbia to start a new existence.  Or words to that
effect.  'But why,' she told, 'don't you offer the box to Herr
Clavering, the Englishman you saw one day at the Villa Waldesruh'?
He'll pay you handsomely for it," she said.  "At least two thousand
pounds in good English money, she said..."  He spread his hands
deprecatingly.  "And I ask only half the sum," he added, his little
eyes darting furtive glances at my face.

I knew now where he had obtained my address at the Albany--the rest, of
course, was pure invention to screw the price up.

"If you took that box to a jeweller," I declared crisply, "the utmost
you'd get for it would be ten pounds.  And you wouldn't get that.  What
would actually happen is that he'd turn you over to the police, for you
may as well realise that that box has been notified as stolen at every
Police Head-quarters in Europe and the United States..."

Herr Wahlstedter's unhealthy face had gone a greenish tinge.  "It's a
lie," he faltered.

"If it were a lie, you'd have pledged the box at a regular pawnbroker's
long ago," I told him.  "As I happen to want the box I'll give you
twenty pounds for it.  But not a penny more..."

By this he had finished his second sandwich.  Glancing cautiously about
him he said, "And is twenty pounds the price the gentleman puts on the
lives of a dozen men?"

I glanced at him keenly before replying.  The miserable wretch had
discovered something.  It was going to cost us money.  "Reflect well,"
he went on with a crafty look.  "Is not the safety of Herr Forrest's
friends worth..."  He paused.  "Come, to show I'm not grasping--let's
say, five hundred pounds?"

I breathed again.  We had reached the haggling stage; therefore, the
box was as good as mine.  "I don't know what you mean," I said
indifferently.  "As far as I'm aware, the box is empty..."

He shrugged his shoulders.  "In that case, why does the gentleman
attach such importance to it?"

He had me cornered there.  Greatly intrigued, I sought, by dint of
seemingly innocuous questions, to discover what connection had existed
between him and Forrest.  But he refused to be drawn: he would talk
only figures and soon we were engaged, hammer and tongs, in a haggling
match that must have lasted for the best part of three hours.  The
upshot of it all was that I was to pay him immediately the sum of one
hundred kronen in order that he might redeem the box, and eighty-five
pounds in English money when the box was handed over.  The friend who
had accommodated him did business, apparently, only after dark so that,
as my companion resolutely refused to come to me at the Bristol, our
rendezvous was fixed for 11 o'clock that night at his room in the
Grnberg-Gasse.  I was to ask for Herr Alois Binzl, in which name he
was registered, and I was to come alone.

He was very insistent about this.  The Austrian secret police, he
declared, were utterly subservient to Grundt.  Let them once get a
suspicion that Herr Alois Binzl, the humble lodger of the
Grnberg-Gasse, was identical with the Alfred Wahlstedter, whose
description (he told me) Grundt had circulated far and wide in the
German-speaking countries, and all would be lost.  As he said this, he
shivered in his threadbare suit and raw fear shadowed his eyes.

Before we separated, I asked him if he knew where Madeleine Stafford
was staying.  He said she had informed him, the day he had met her,
that she was leaving Vienna the same evening for Belgrade.  I was
conscious of a pang of disappointment.  She was free of Grundt; and she
had never let me know.  She must have contemplated some such step at
our last interview--I remembered her parting words so clearly.  "When
next we meet, if all goes well, there'll be no more lies, no more
subterfuges, no more strife between us..."

She had regained her liberty, then; yet we were farther apart than ever.




114

The long arm of Dr. Grundt

The night porter at the Bristol showed me the location of the
Grnberg-Gasse on the map.  He twisted his face into rather a knowing
look as his pencil pointed to one of a ganglion of little streets
clustered about a small square called the Grner Markt.  His attitude
intrigued me until, having paid off my taxi on the square and followed
the directions he had given me, I found myself in what was
unquestionably Vienna's red light district.

Women lolled unashamed at the open casements of the small, mean houses;
figures slunk up quiet and sordid alleys to disappear through doors
that gave the impression of standing permanently ajar; and the jangle
of automatic pianos and cheap gramophones added a note of false gaiety
to the sombre and secretive atmosphere of the whole quarter.

The Grnberg-Gasse lay to one side of this labyrinth of vice and
squalor, a typical Old Vienna street of high, tumbledown houses with
small shops, cobblers and the like installed on ground floor and in
cellars, and apartments above.  Where, at a cellar entrance, a battered
light-sign advertised a caf with "_Damen-Bedienung_," a painted wench
called softly as I went by and I detected in the Grnberg-Gasse, for
all its tranquil, old-world appearance, the same sinister, brooding air
that hung over the adjoining streets.

House doors in Vienna are closed, by police order, at 10 p.m.  After
that hour, everybody, tenants and visitors alike, pay the concierge an
admission fee of twenty-five hellers--Sperrgeld, as it is called--or,
at least, such was the practice before the war.  "Herr Binzl?" said the
bearded hag who unlatched the street door in answer to my ring.  "Is
the gentleman expected?"  "_Jawohl!_" I told her.

"The apartment on the left, at the top," she mumbled, her grimy hand
clutching my Sperrgold through the little trap, and I started to toil
up seven flights.

Herr Binzl's door was shut and there was no bell.  The landing was
dark.  Striking a match, I rapped and waited.  No one came, so I rapped
again.  I rapped several times without result, then tried the apartment
across the landing.  But here, too, my knocking elicited no response.

I looked at my watch.  The luminous dial said five minutes past
eleven--I was not too early at the rendezvous.  I listened again at the
door.  No sound--clearly, the good Alfred had not yet returned from his
nocturnal call upon his friend, the amateur pawn-broker.  On an idle
instinct, I tried the door knob.  To my surprise, it yielded--the door
was not fastened.  At least, I told myself, here's somewhere to wait;
and I walked in.

The place was in darkness.  Lighting a match, I perceived that the
apartment consisted of but a single room, sparsely and shabbily
furnished and tucked away under the roof, with a ceiling, cracked and
crumbling like the walls, that descended precipitously on one side.
The trembling match flame revealed some dirty dishes and a candle,
stuck in a bottle, on a table.  I lit the candle and gazed about me.

I saw it at once, that dark and sack-like object dangling from a hook
in the ceiling and oscillating gently before the uncurtained window in
the slight draught from the open door.  Before ever I discerned the
purple features, the protruding tongue, I recognised by the threadbare
suit the man I had come to see, realised that he had hanged himself
from a staple in the ceiling, survival of some lamp that once had swung
there.

I had arrived too late.

Instantly, the box leaped to my mind.  Why had he done this thing?  And
had he taken his life before or after redeeming the box?  As I sprang
forward to investigate, something splintered under my foot.  A broken
plate rolled away over the bare boards; beside it lay the fragments of
a cup; beyond a chair was overturned.  Moreover, plaster from the
dilapidated wall was spattered all over the floor.  A desperate
struggle had taken place in that room.  And now I knew the truth.  This
was not suicide; it was murder.  There were livid rings on the dead
man's wrists to prove it, although the rope that had bound him had been
carried off, and the shoulders of his ragged jacket were white with
plaster where his murderer, or murderers, had flung him to the floor.
His murderers?  His executioners, rather.  They had overpowered him,
trussed him and strung him up.  Pitilessly.  Brutally.  A hirsute
countenance, savage and relentless, seemed to glare triumphantly at me
from the recesses of my mind.  Grundt!  This was his handiwork!

One glance at the distorted, livid face, the feel of those clammy,
pendulous hands, disposed of any idea that I should cut the body down
and seek to revive it.  The man had been dead for several hours.  I was
concerned with my own position; it was perilous enough, I had no
intention of notifying the police; yet without that, I had no chance of
establishing an alibi.  My only course was to leave no traces and
depart as swiftly as possible.  But first I had a duty to perform.

I shut the door and approached the ghastly figure.  It was not the
first time I had searched a corpse.  I had little hope of finding the
box; I did not even know whether he had been able to redeem it,
although the fate that had overtaken him suggested that he had.
Standing on a chair, the corpse swaying to my slightest touch, I went
through the pockets.  The box was not there; but I came across a paper
that confirmed my worst suspicions.  It was a receipt, dated that day,
for one hundred kronen "against pledge."  The signature was illegible.

So, once more, Grundt had snatched the prize from my hands.  That this
foul deed was of his contriving, if not actually of his doing, I had
not the slightest doubt.  Indeed, as I paused there an instant beside
that poor, dead, swaying thing, I wondered whether he himself had not
been the instrument of his own vengeance.  For I remembered what
Madeleine had told Alfred Wahlstedter, that she was free of Grundt, and
her own mistress again.  This could only signify that she was in
flight, perhaps with the aid of the two hundred pounds she had earned
from us.  But the man she had betrayed was an agent of Grundt's--she
had confided this to me herself; if Grundt had discovered her
treachery, as her flight seemed to suggest, the chances were that he
was already on her trail.  That she was technically out of his zone of
influence would not matter a whit.  If I knew anything of Clubfoot and
the crude processes of his mind, Vienna, Belgrade, Timbuctoo--they were
all one to him; he would pursue her to the ends of the earth.

Because of this growing conviction of mine that Grundt was in Vienna,
hot on her tracks, taking a fool-hardy risk, I stopped at the porter's
box as I was leaving the house.  "Can you tell me," I questioned
casually, "at what time Herr Binzl's lame friend went away?"

"The big lame gentleman who came with the other man?" the concierge
demanded without suspicion.

"That's the one," said I.

She made a deprecatory gesture of the hand.  "They're gone this long
time," she croaked.  "It was before I put the lentils on for our
supper, at any rate, and that was at eight o'clock!"

I thanked her and stumbled blindly out of that house of death.

      *      *      *      *      *

I was conscious of a sense of panic.  The patient deliberation of the
man appalled me.  I recalled him as I had seen him at the Villa
Waldesruh', doubled up with laughter at the idea that this
ex-pickpocket he had befriended should have robbed him; yet at that
very moment he must have been planning inexorable vengeance upon the
thief.  The fact that his victim was a vain, cringing, worthless
creature made the crime even more horrible, revealing as it did the
monstrous arrogance of his executioner.

A clock on the Ring-Strasse showed me that it was half-past midnight--I
had been walking at hazard for more than an hour.  My mind was clearer
now.  Grundt was in Vienna.  He had regained possession of the box and
had, roughly, four hours' start of me.  It might well be that, by this,
he was on his way back to Germany.  No matter: wherever he had gone, I
intended to set off forthwith in pursuit.  But how, in a strange city,
after midnight, was I to pick up his trail?

It was while revolving this point in my mind that I thought of my old
friend, Dr. Siegfried Binder.  He was a leader writer on one of the
chief Viennese newspapers, a gentle, grizzled, cynical little man.  I
had met him originally at a literary caf in Vienna and, finding him
friendly and amusing and, above all, exceptionally well-informed, had
got into the habit of dropping in on him at the _Neue Wiener Zeitung_
whenever I happened to be in the Austrian capital.  A man in our job
has to have a lot of friends--as many friends, as many news sources.

Binder went to the newspaper every night and the reason I remembered
him was that he was the only person I could think of who was available
at that nocturnal hour.  The _Neue Wiener Zeitung_ offices were quite
close, in a side street off the Ring, and five minutes later I was
shown into the big editorial room where, in a litter of torn proofs,
brimming ash-trays and beer mugs, the Herr Doktor composed his nightly
editorial on foreign affairs.

Wizened and myopic, he glanced up at me from under his green eye-shade
from a desk strewn with sheets of paper covered with his almost
illegible handwriting.  "_Grss' Gott_, Herr Clavering!" he cried.
"You arrive in time to give me your opinion of a masterly castigation
of the rascally Serbs I have just written!"  And before I could avert
it, he was reading out to me, in his lilting Viennese German, a long
and excessively complicated diatribe on Balkan politics.

It required considerable patience and diplomacy on my part to edge him
towards the subject that had brought me.  "Dr. Grundt?" he repeated the
name.  "No, I can't say I've ever heard of him.  But if he's a German
of any standing von Raup, who covers the German Embassy for us"--he
pointed to a figure writing at a desk across the room--"will know him.
I'll bring him over!"

Von Raup was a down-at-heels Austrian Baron in a frock coat, rather
shiny as to the seams, and a sweeping cavalry moustache.  At the
mention of Grundt's name he frowned heavily.  "Certainly, I know him,"
he said.  "A boorish Berliner, if there ever was one.  He was at the
Caf zur Post this afternoon with another German newspaper
correspondent..."

"Newspaper correspondent?" I echoed faintly.

"It's Dr. Grundt, of the Berlin _Tagespost_, you mean, isn't it?"

"I didn't know he was a journalist," I put in.  "A big man with a
club-foot..."

"That's the fellow.  He had the impudence to tell me that, but for the
Prussian Army at our backs, the Serbs would have long since crossed the
Danube and invaded Southern Hungary.  He's going down to Belgrade and
Macedonia to write a series of articles..."

I was suddenly taut with suspense.  My guess was not so wide of the
mark, after all.  Madeleine had gone to Belgrade; and here was Clubfoot
headed in the same direction.  "You don't happen to know where the Herr
Doktor is staying?" I asked.

"He was at the Habsburger Hof," said von Raup.  "But he left for
Belgrade to-night..."

To-night!  My spirits fell.  This meant that his start might easily be
extended to twelve or even twenty-four hours.  Besides, once in
Macedonia, where Serbians and Bulgarians even now were at one another's
throats, how was I ever to catch up with him?

"I suppose you're sure he went?" I inquired tremulously.

"I was at the train," the Herr Baron replied, "seeing off a friend of
mine, the Feldjger who travels with despatches for the German Embassy.
I saw your friend, Grundt, in the sleeper..."

I had learnt in a hard school that, despite all appearances, no
situation was ever hopeless.  My prospects of success were far from
encouraging, but my course was clear.  I must follow in pursuit.
Before going to my bed, I telegraphed the Chief, briefly and without
explanation, that I was leaving for Belgrade.  Then, with an eye to my
"cover," I took a leaf from Grundt's book and wired a London newspaper
editor, who was a friend of mine, to telegraph me credentials as a
special correspondent to Poste Restante, Belgrade.

Next day I caught the morning train for the Serbian capital.




115

The chase is on

And so the chase was on.

Looking back across the years upon that hot and tedious journey, I find
my memory a blank.  It is as though time mercifully stood still as the
day express bore me down to Budapest and beyond, through the endless,
sunlit plain of Southern Hungary, towards my goal.  It seems to me that
I began to live again only when the train steamed into Semlin and I
descried, on the farther bank of the yellow, swirling Danube, the
frowning walls of the white citadel that gave Belgrade its name.

I was frantic to catch up with Grundt.  I was only twelve hours behind
him.  He had to delay but a single day in Belgrade and I should draw
level.  To be honest, I was more concerned about Madeleine's safety
than the recovery of the box.  Did she know that Clubfoot was in
pursuit?  I had a vision of her, with the light of freedom in those
ever-changing eyes of hers, travelling in all serenity and confidence
towards her Serbian home, never suspecting that the implacable and
untiring avenger was on her trail.  I had no means of warning her: all
I could hope to do was to head Grundt off before he could reach her.

I did not expect to find Clubfoot in Belgrade, and I was right.  I knew
that he would not trouble to plan a trip into Macedonia unless he had a
very shrewd idea that Madeleine was bound in the same direction.  He
was four days behind her on leaving Vienna; but I anticipated that her
start would avail her little in Macedonia where such railways as
existed were in the hands of the military and roads were practically
non-existent.

My credentials as a special correspondent were awaiting me at Belgrade.
To go to Macedonia, I discovered, would require a permit which had to
be presented at Serbian General Headquarters at Uskub.  I wasted a
precious twenty-four hours on getting this permit.  My colleague of the
_Tagespost_, I learned, had written for his permit in advance.  It had
been brought to him at the train and he had travelled on to Uskub.
Thirty-six hours in arrears I followed him there, only to find he had
left, twelve hours before, for First Army Headquarters.

He had hired the only motor-car available for civilians and I had to
relinquish the lead I had gained in order to arrange for horses and a
groom.  Clubfoot was forty-eight hours ahead by the time I clattered
out of Uskub on the flea-bitten half-Arab I had bought from a wounded
officer of the Royal Guard, followed by my servant mounted on one of
the two sturdy Macedonian ponies I had acquired and leading the other
which was loaded with hastily procured camp equipment and stores.

The roads, which were nothing more than rutted tracks, were a
pandemonium of marching columns, supply trains, ambulances and walking
wounded, that sent the red dust swirling up.  It was sunset before we
reached the mountain-top on which the cluster of tents housing First
Army Headquarters was precariously perched.  Some newspaper
correspondents were quartered here and one of them, an Englishman, told
me that a lame German journalist in a car had reached the camp two days
previously.  He had stopped only long enough to pay his respects to the
Chief of Staff and departed again.  The lame man had not mentioned any
definite destination, but had informed one of the Austrian
correspondents that he intended visiting some of the field
dressing-stations between Uskub and the front line.

It was here, at First Army Headquarters, that I first got tidings of
Madeleine.  Up to my meeting with Major Dravitch, of the Army Medical
Service, all my inquiries after her had proved fruitless.  I had asked
for her everywhere, starting with the principal hotels, the newspaper
offices and the bank at Belgrade, but without success.  I was much
handicapped in speaking no Serbian and only a little Russian and, still
more, in not knowing her real, her Serbian name, which she would
undoubtedly be using.  It seemed to me, however, that there could not
be so many Serbian girls of good family, as she unquestionably was,
with Scottish mothers, and so I persevered.

Dravitch met me, travel-stained and weary, as I emerged from the
General Staff marquee.  Addressing me in excellent German--he told me
afterwards he had studied medicine at the Berlin Charit--he invited me
to his tent for a glass of Drina red wine.  His fat face and jovial
personality--he was an enormously stout man--invited confidence and
soon I found myself unfolding to him my difficulty.

The name of Stafford conveyed nothing to him at first.  It was only
after I had described Madeleine's appearance and mentioned that she was
the daughter of one Serbian officer and widow of another that a light
seemed to dawn on him.  "With a Scottish mother?" he repeated.  "That
can only be the sister of Peter Milanovitch.  Beautiful, you say she
is?"

"Very beautiful," I assured him.

"With dark and soulful eyes?"

"Yes, yes..."

He slapped his thigh.  "_Donnerwetter_," he cried, "there can't be
another woman like her in the whole of Serbia..."

"You know her?" I questioned eagerly.

"I talked with her no later than two days ago.  It was at the field
ambulance at Egri Palanka.  She had come up with Red Cross supplies
from Uskub..."

It was as though a chill hand clutched at my heart.  I thought of
Grundt and his tour of the dressing-stations and I quailed.

"She's a Red Cross nurse, you mean?" I faltered.

"_Jawohl!_"

"You don't happen to know her married name?"

He shook his head.  "They call her Sister Madeleine..."

"And where is she now?"

"At Egri Palanka, as far as I know.  By the way, you're not the first
person who has asked for her..."

I could not speak.  I thought of Grundt and his forty-eight hours'
start and waited, quaking for the Major to continue.  "There was a
German journalist here a day or two back," Dravitch went on, "who
questioned me about her.  Unfortunately, I wasn't able to help him, as
I hadn't met her then..."

I breathed again.  My companion was rattling on.  "Of course, she may
have returned to Uskub by this.  But wait, now I think of it, she told
me that her brother is due here next week.  He's coming to receive the
Cross of Saint Sava from our Crown Prince who, as you know, commands
this army..."

"And who is her brother?"

The Major's expansive smile was tinged with irony.  "A great national
hero, it would appear..."  He paused.  "I'm one of those Serbians who
believe that the realisation of Serbia's national ambitions will come
about naturally through the inevitable break-up of the Habsburg system.
But young Peter Milanovitch belongs to the forward movement..."

"The Black Hand, do you mean?"

"_Um Gottes Willen!_"  A shadow of apprehension crossed the plump face.
"Please, we don't talk about that here.  Milanovitch is unquestionably
a gallant fellow.  He was formerly of our Intelligence Service in
Austria-Hungary, but got into trouble with the German secret police and
was sent to the fortress of Schlatz from which he made a sensational
escape a few weeks ago.  He lost no time in returning home to offer his
services to the army and is now at the front..."

I listened breathless.  At last I began to see light.  I knew Schlatz
by reputation as a grim old Silesian stronghold where political
prisoners were incarcerated.  Did not this explain Grundt's hold over
Madeleine?  With her brother safely interned, probably without trial,
Grundt could force her to his bidding as he willed by the mere threat
of visiting any disobedience on her part upon the prisoner.
Milanovitch had escaped a few weeks ago, Dravitch had said, thereby, if
my theory were right, enabling Madeleine to regain her liberty.  Most
escapes of this kind, I knew from experience, were contrived by bribing
warders or guards.  That two hundred pounds of ours might well have
served to open to young Milanovitch the doors of his prison.  And the
dates approximately coincided as well.  Every bit of the puzzle dropped
smoothly into place.  Now I understood her distress on the occasion of
our two meetings at the Caf Tarnowski.  She had had to decide between
her German lover, the foe of the Slavs, and her patriot brother.  And
who should blame her for the choice she made?  Not I.

Her brother, Grundt's prisoner, was at the front and therefore out of
Grundt's clutches.  Not so Madeleine.  She might suppose that, as a Red
Cross nurse in the Serbian military service, she was safe from pursuit.
But I knew better.  In that lawless land, historical scene of
kidnappings and every other sort of crime of violence, home of the
Komitaji, with Clubfoot on her trail, she was constantly in danger.

Though night was at hand, I was on fire to take the road at once for
Egri Palanka.  Dravitch demurred.  He explained to me that the country
after dark was far from safe, what with troops of marauding deserters
and bands of komitajis whose vendettas, both public and private, have
diversified Macedonian history since the days of Alexander; besides, as
Egri Palanka lay towards the front line, I should require a pass in
order to traverse the line of sentries.  This only the Chief of Staff
could give, and he had left that morning with His Royal Highness on a
three-day tour of the front.  Egri Palanka was distant only three hours
by horseback from the camp across the mountains; as soon as I had my
pass, Dravitch said, he would be delighted to ride over there with me
and renew acquaintance with his charming compatriot.

The prospect of being cooped up there for three days on that sun-baked
hill-top appalled me.  All night long, in my tent under the stars, I
tossed, picturing to myself Grundt, grim and tenacious, nosing his way
through gorge and defile from ambulance to ambulance in search of his
quarry.  Towards dawn I fell asleep and dreamed that someone stood over
my sleeping-bag and shook me awake.  Opening my eyes--this was still in
my dream--I found myself gazing into the dead face of Charles Forrest.
I sat up with a loud cry and saw the bright sunshine outside and heard
the cheerful notes of rveill go clanging through the hills.  As I
shaved and dressed my mind was made up, although it was not until some
hours later that I had the chance of putting my resolution into
execution.

That morning the officer in charge of the Press was to conduct the war
correspondents attached to the First Army on a visit to some look-out
point whence a view of the whole front was obtainable.  I gladly
accepted his invitation to accompany the party.  Towards nine o'clock
we set out in a long cavalcade.  I purposely kept in rear of the
cortge.  For a long time we followed the dry bed of a river where the
whole party was in view of the officer who led the way.  But after an
hour's riding we entered a narrow defile, following a bridle path that
wound in and out among the crags.  As soon as the last man ahead of me
had disappeared, I dismounted, affecting to remove a stone from my
horse's hoof.  When no one came back for me, I sprang into the saddle
again and, putting my horse about, galloped off in the opposite
direction.  I was free.

I had taken the precaution of packing some bread and cold meat and,
since cholera was raging and all water suspect, a bottle of Giesshbler
in my saddle-bags.  I was, therefore, good for at least twenty-four
hours.  I had plotted out the exact position of my destination on the
Austrian General Staff map I had bought at Belgrade and knew that, once
I should strike the bed of the River Vardar on which Egri Palanka was
situated, I should be on the right road.  It was a blazing hot day and
I lost a lot of time leading my horse up and down precipitous trails in
the hills.  Towards noon, however, as I topped a steep ascent, a faint
rumbling sound, like the mutter of distant thunder, was borne to my
ears on the parching breeze.  It was gunfire; and I knew I was
approaching the front.  Far below, a silver trickle burbled noisily
over a broad, boulder-strewn bed.  It was the Vardar.  An hour later a
string of wretched hovels straggling over the mountain-side on either
curving bank told me that Egri Palanka lay before me.

I had met no one on my ride and, in the siesta hour, the squalid
village street was deserted save for a few scavenger dogs dozing in the
grilling sun.  There was a tiny mosque under a clump of trees faced by
a caf with a low building of wattle beside it, crowned by a dumpy
dome.  Then with a thrill, I perceived, farther along the street, a Red
Cross flag drooping over the door of a dilapidated, whitewashed
structure.

An orderly came out as I approached.  In my inadequate Russian I asked
for Sister Madeleine.  His face lit up and he broke into a flood of
explanation.  Then, seeing that I did not understand him, he pointed in
the direction whence the steady grumble of the guns proceeded and I
gathered that she had gone up to the front line.

I inquired when she was likely to be back.  He made some answer which
was beyond me and, seeing this, described with his hand a wide arc
extending from the sun above our heads to the westward.  I deduced from
this sign language that she would not be back until sundown.  I wanted
to ask him where she lodged, but this was too much for my rickety
Russian.  As I floundered there, he slipped into the building and
presently reappeared with a stout woman in Red Cross uniform whom I
took to be the matron.

She spoke a little German.  Sister Madeleine had left at dawn with an
ambulance column and would not return until late in the afternoon.  She
would scarcely be back at the ambulance that day; as she would have
finished her tour of duty when the column got in, she would probably
leave it at the entrance to the village and go straight home.  Sister
Madeleine found the hospital hot and overcrowded, she explained, and
had induced the authorities to place an empty house at her disposal
outside the village.

I made the matron tell me exactly how to find this place of
Madeleine's.  It was on the far side of the village, the matron said,
on the only road that existed in those parts, the road that traversed
the village and followed the river bed.  You rode out past the mosque
for about two miles--it was the Turkish house with a flat roof and blue
shutters that stood up alone on the river bank with a screen of cypress
behind it.

With Grundt ever present in my thoughts I asked the chatty matron
whether there were any other foreigners at Egri Palanka.  My question
seemed to amuse her.  No strangers ever came to Egri Palanka, she
declared.  "No newspaper correspondents, even?" I questioned.  "I met a
German journalist at Army Head-quarters who is interested in the Red
Cross Services..."  She shook her head.  "I've been here a month, and
in all that time the only foreigner we've had was an Austrian surgeon
who came with Major Dravitch, from Army Headquarters..."

My spirits mounted.  At last I was ahead of Clubfoot.  Since it looked
to me as though I should be at Egri Palanka for the night, I asked the
matron whether the village boasted an inn.  She shrugged her ample
shoulders.  One could eat after a fashion at the caf beside the
hammam; as for a bed--she spread her fat hands deprecatingly.

The hammam was, of course, the Turkish bath.  This, then, was the
odd-looking structure I had remarked over against the caf.  I was not
surprised to find a hammam at Egri Palanka, for many Macedonian
villages included a good sprinkling of Moslem inhabitants.  I was dusty
and stiff from my ride and I had not had a bath since leaving Belgrade.
Cholera or no cholera, if the place were only reasonably clean, I
decided to risk it.  A good sweat and a brisk rub, followed by a short
nap to make up for my broken slumbers of the previous night, would, I
reasoned, agreeably fill in an hour or two until it should be time for
me to ride out in quest of Madeleine.  For a couple of dinars a vague
individual in a tattered fez and baggy trousers, whom I routed up out
of the caf, conducted my horse to a stall in rear and, under my
vigilant eye, watered him and left him a feed of corn.  This duty
attended to, I entered the bath next door.

The hammam was picturesquely situated on the river bank in the shade of
some acacias with the stream rustling past.  Inside it was pure Arabian
Nights.  A small dark corridor led into a central chamber where the
sunlight, filtered through coloured glass let into the squat dome I had
observed outside, touched with rainbow hues the leaping jet of a tiny
fountain.  In the far wall was a door which, from the sound of running
water beyond it, appeared to lead to the various hot rooms.  At the
four corners of the chamber openings spanned by dwarf arches, so low
that I had to bend my head to pass beneath, gave access, as I
discovered on poking about, to a series of narrow, labyrinthine
passages broken at intervals by curtained recesses, each containing a
couch.

The attendant who presently emerged from the bath proper was quite in
the picture--a picaresque figure not above five feet in height, with a
single inflamed eye peering out of a saddle-brown countenance from
under the folds of an immense striped turban and no other clothing save
a pair of linen drawers.  Although the floor of the place was only
pounded mud, I had already noticed that it was well swept and that the
linen on the couches was scrupulously clean.  So I let Sindbad, as I
called him to myself, give me a white robe and a pair of babooshes and
conduct me, through a maze-like corridor, to a cubby-hole where I
undressed.  The place was as silent as the grave and I saw no sign of
any other visitor as I passed through the central chamber to the hot
room.

About an hour and a half later, thoroughly cleansed and agreeably
fatigued by the vigorous kneading I had received from Sindbad's
coppery, sinewy hands, I returned to my cubby-hole.  I looked at my
watch.  It was half-past three.  I was feeling pleasantly drowsy.  I
could rest for half an hour before setting out, I told myself, as I
flung myself upon the couch.  I let my mind dwell luxuriously upon my
meeting with Madeleine.  How astonished she would be to see me!  Would
she be as glad as I? I wondered.  At least, all strife was banished
between us, now that I knew the truth.  I let my thoughts glide happily
away...

In those last moments of consciousness, I believe I had quite lost
sight of the menace that, even as I slept, was hobbling in our tracks.




116

The man in the hammam

What was that strange parti-coloured beam of light that streamed upon
my hand as it rested on my chest?  What this narrow chamber in which I
found myself?  Bemused, I gazed around, saw above my head the window,
set with stars of purple and yellow glass, through which a wan and
sickly ray penetrated.  Beyond it the tiny room in which I lay was
thick with shadows.  It was the distant sound of running water, a
series of reverberating slaps faintly heard, that brought me to my
senses.  I realised that it was evening and that I was still in the
hammam.  I sprang up in a panic and flew to my watch.  A quarter to
eight!

In mad haste I tore into my riding things.  Pulling on my jacket as I
ran, I dashed out into the central chamber.  A savage-looking figure
waited stolidly there, a peasant in a frieze coat and sandals, a rifle
slung from his shoulder.  Seeing no sign of the attendant, I hurried
into the bath.

Sindbad stooped over the rubbing-table.  The low-roofed chamber echoed
to resounding slaps, asthmatic blowings, stifled grunts and groans.  I
had a glimpse of a shaven head, of a vast chest thatched like any
bear's with black hair, of a mighty, swelling paunch, on the slab under
the rubber's swiftly-moving hands.  On the instant, scarcely daring to
breathe, I had withdrawn swiftly out of sight behind the door.

The pounding ceased.  Sindbad poked his turbaned head out.  I beckoned
him into the central chamber.  The peasant was still there.  On seeing
the attendant he sprang forward fiercely.  But Sindbad waved him
aside--he had seen the money in my hand.  I paid him what he asked, on
which the peasant claimed him with a flood of excited talk and the two
men disappeared together through the door that led to the bath.

Grundt!  At Egri Palanka already!  Bitter self-reproaches assailed me.
While I, self-confident fool that I was, had slept, he had caught up
with me, effacing the lead I had so precariously won.  The sight of him
taking his ease in the hammam boded ill for Madeleine.  It meant either
that he had already had the reckoning with her that he had come so far
to seek--my throat went dry at the thought--or else that, having
discovered as I had, that she was temporarily absent, he was planning
to confront her in his own time, secure in the knowledge that he had
run her to earth.  It must be one thing or the other--in no other
circumstances would Grundt be willing to relax.

But he had left me out of his reckoning.  It was obvious that he could
have no idea of my presence at Egri Palanka or, for that matter, within
a thousand miles of him.  Otherwise, he would have combed the village
through, a simple matter, until he had found me.  I thanked my lucky
star for that maze of little passages wherein, safely hidden, I had
escaped his notice when he had arrived at the bath.  And now my courage
began to revive.  My horse was there next door.  If only Madeleine were
still from home, I might yet have time to reach her house and carry her
into safety before Grundt could follow us.  After all, he was there
without his clothes: he had yet to dress...

Great Scott, the box!  It must be there with his things.  He had left
Vienna immediately after the murder of Wahlstedter--he must have the
box with him.  But where were his clothes?  How on earth was I to find
the recess where he had undressed in that labyrinth of twisting
corridors?  The rub was the final stage of the bath; at any moment now
he might emerge.  If he came upon me there, my chances of rescuing
Madeleine were almost _nil_.  Dare I risk it?

I should have to.  At all costs I must retrieve the box.  Without
further delay I darted down the nearest passage.  Right and left little
runways branched off--heavens, the place was a veritable rabbit-warren.
Nothing there--every cubicle was empty.

I was back under the dome.  An angry, strident voice resounded from the
bath--I should know those tones.  I plunged into the nearer of the two
corridors on the far side of the chamber.  Here again my search was
fruitless.  As I was coming back I heard hasty footsteps crossing the
court and pausing, saw the armed peasant I had remarked before dash for
the exit.

One passage remained to be explored.  Triumph!  At the extreme end of
one of its two branches, where a curtain gaped half-open, I descried
garments hanging on the wall--a panama hat, a suit of khaki drill, a
shirt.  And on the floor a pair of boots, one huge and misshapen, with
a monstrous sole.

It seemed to me that I heard voices again.  But throwing caution to the
winds, I fell upon the coat and trousers, hunting feverishly through
the pockets.  It was easy to see that the box was not there--its weight
would have revealed it.

Crushed with disappointment, I stepped back.  At that moment I heard a
ponderous, limping step ringing hollow under the low, vaulted roof of
the passage.  And I realised that I was trapped in that mole-run of a
place.

My hand felt for my gun.  I should have to shoot my way out at need,
although I had no desire for a fight--I had Madeleine to think of.  My
eye, glancing round, fell upon Clubfoot's surgical boot.  At least, I
might delay pursuit, that is, provided I could get away.  I snatched it
up--it was immensely heavy with a good three inches of sole--and thrust
it under my coat.  Then I darted out.

The leaden, halting tread came nearer.  The cripple was still out of
sight.  Another dressing-room faced me across the corridor.  I slipped
inside.  Through the chinks of the curtain I watched Grundt approach,
naked save for a towel about his loins, wheezing and blowing as he
dragged himself painfully forward with the aid of two sticks.  His
fabulous hirsuteness, as he hobbled along, gave him the appearance of
some decrepit ape.  His broad face was glistening with perspiration; he
was grinding his teeth and muttering to himself.  His feet were
bare--one of them, I noticed, was a mere twisted lump.

He lunged past me into his cubby-hole.  My fingers gripped the butt of
my automatic.  God knows, I was sorely tempted, then and there, to put
him beyond the power of doing Madeleine further harm.  But I had my
orders to consider--until the gold box was in my hands, Clubfoot must
live.  And so my pistol stayed in my pocket.  But the instant he was
out of sight I emerged from my hiding-place and ran, tiptoe, along the
passage.

Where it joined the main artery I bumped, full tilt, into Sindbad,
shambling towards me with towels slung over his shining, brown
shoulder.  With an angry shout he sprang back.  But I was already on
him, driving at his chin.  The blow was not clean, for my fist slipped
on the moisture on his face and landed, glancing, on his mouth so that
his teeth cut my knuckles.  But he fell over backwards just as a roar
resounded from my rear.  There was an ear-splitting report and a bullet
smacked the clay roof just above my head.

But Grundt did not have time to go properly into action.  I was already
half-way up the corridor.  I heard a second bullet shiver the glass of
one of the windows in the dome as I crossed the little court and dashed
out into the street.  The caf yard was deserted and my good Osman let
me saddle him without demur while a growing hubbub of voices sounded
from the street.

I was cold as ice now.  Danger always had that effect me when I was
face to face with it.  The bulky weight under my jacket gave me
confidence.  I was out of sight of the hammam and Grundt was
immobilised for the time being.  I laughed to myself as I tightened up
old Osman's girths.

There was another exit to the yard--a gate giving on the river-bed.  I
was in the saddle before I noticed the gate, but at the same moment I
heard an infuriated yell and saw Sindbad and a rabble of peasants come
pouring into the yard.  In rear Clubfoot limped, stark as he was born,
brandishing a pistol.  Even as I glanced back, a bullet whined past my
face.

I had no experience of Osman's ability as a jumper.  But I set him at
that gate and he flew it like a bird.  We landed in the shallow
river-bed, in the centre of which a swift current of green water
murmured over the stones.  Over to the left (which was the direction I
wanted) I could see where the road through the village ran out and
merged itself in a rough track that followed the line of the
water-course.  I put Osman's head about and hell-for-leather we were
off.

The western sky flamed with the vestiges of a vivid sunset.  The solemn
crags that flanked our passage were a mellow brown in the crystalline
evening light.  A kingfisher darted over the stream and high in the air
above the mountains an eagle slowly wheeled.  Save for a solitary
horseman, whose tiny figure was visible on the road ahead, I had the
whole majestic panorama to myself.

My horse was swift, with the ethereal swiftness that Arab blood gives.
Quickly we overhauled that lonely rider.  Astride a little Macedonian
pony he was galloping furiously.  As I approached him I perceived it
was the peasant who had been at the bath.  I had a pang of dismay.  A
messenger from Grundt?

He shifted his head to look at me as we thundered by, but that was all.
Soon we had left him far in our wake and now, from afar, I descried the
house with the blue shutters.  I first identified it by the row of
tall, grave cypresses that sheltered it from the wind blowing from the
mountain behind.  No other dwelling was in sight and the place had a
desolate and abandoned air.  No smoke mounted from the chimneys and the
ground floor windows, closely shuttered, were splashes of faded blue
against the discoloured white faade.  Above, overhanging the
river-bed, ran a long loggia or balcony, jealously screened with
woodwork, the so-called mashrabiyeh that distinguishes the windows of
the women's quarters in every Turkish house.  There was an untidy yard,
enclosed by a thorn hedge, on the side from which I approached, with
outhouses tucked away under the mountain.

I was so engrossed in studying the place that I did not observe the
barrier across the road until we were close upon it.  It was a massive
affair of saplings with brambles laid on top.  I was reining in my
horse when a man who suddenly sprang up from the roadside snatched at
my bridle.  He was a peasant like the one I had seen before, in a
frieze coat, legs swathed in linen leg-cloths, and a rifle across his
back.

It was the horse that shook the fellow clear.  Osman shied violently,
all but unseating me, and reared.  I gave him his head and put him at
the barrier.  He checked, then cleared it like an angel.  Glancing back
I perceived that my assailant had rolled in the road.  But he was
unslinging his rifle and here was the horseman I had passed thundering
up the road.  Laying my face against Osman's neck I galloped furiously
for the shelter of the house, now not two hundred yards away.

There was no gate, but only an opening in the hedge.  I was through it
and in the yard when the rifle behind me cracked.  Osman shivered
violently, made a half-hearted spring to one side as the rifle cracked
again, and gently collapsed under me.  That involuntary movement on the
horse's part saved my life for I saw the plaster spurt up on the house
in a line with where my head would have been.

Poor Osman pitched over dead with the blood flowing from his ear as I
freed my feet from the irons.  Then I perceived that the house door
which faced me was slowly opening.  I dashed for it and slipped inside.
A dark figure stood within.  "Quick!" said a low, caressing voice in my
ear.  I heard the door slam and the crash of a heavy bar.

The next moment Madeleine was in my arms.




117

The house with the blue shutters

I don't know how it happened.  We were in one another's arms and I was
kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her lustrous black hair where it lay,
thickly clustering, about the nape of her firm, white neck.  The joy of
seeing her there before me, alive and unscathed, was almost unbearable.

She did not put me from her but let me have my way, her face radiant
with a sort of breathless wonder.  And when I sought her lips she
yielded them in sweetly eager surrender.  No word was spoken between us
at that time, for no word was necessary.  Our understanding was
complete.  It was as though she had been expecting me; and I had the
feeling that ever since that tragic night in Brussels, which marked the
beginning of our strange acquaintance, it had been written in the stars
that we should love one another.  So we clung to one another in
passionate abandon; for myself, in the unclouded bliss of that brief
moment, I lost all sense of time and place.

At length she stirred, smiled up at me.  "Then you know...?"

"Everything.  About your brother and Grundt.  It was Grundt who sent
him to Schlatz, wasn't it?  And that two hundred pounds was to finance
your brother's escape..."

She nodded.  "There was no one else to get the money.  They wanted two
thousand marks apiece, two thousand for the jailer and two thousand for
the sergeant of the guard..."  She sighed and fondled my hair.
"Nothing matters, now that you understand.  I was so terribly afraid of
you just now.  I was in the upper room.  For ages I watched you
galloping up the valley, never dreaming it could be you.  I recognised
you only when you pulled up at the barricade..."  She smiled dreamily
into my eyes.  "And then, somehow, I knew that all the time I had been
expecting you.  When I saw that man raise his rifle, I thought that my
life would end, too..."  She broke off and added breathlessly, "Tell
me, what are you doing here?  And how did you know that I was in
danger?"

Rather shyly, she had released herself from my embrace and stepped
back.  Swiftly, I swung about to the door behind me, listening for any
movement outside.  There were panels of yellow glass on either side of
the framework and through one of these I saw the yard, still and
deserted and eerily drenched in amber light, and poor Osman's corpse,
with legs stiffly extended, lying at the foot of the steps in a lake of
blood.  The silence, both within the house and without, was oppressive,
foreboding.  Against it I heard only the incessant tremor of the guns.

I turned round and for the first time surveyed my companion.  She was
dressed for riding--in her khaki shirt, open at the throat, and her
cord breeches she looked like a young boy.  She was still wearing her
hat, a funny little brown slouch hat, and her riding boots were thickly
powdered with the red dust of the valley, as though she had only
recently come in.  The entrance hall in which we found ourselves was a
ghostly, twilit place now that night was approaching, with a ceiling of
beams carved and gaudily painted, such as Orientals delight in, striped
hangings grey with dust draped about the two doors that led off it,
and, above our heads, a great brass lamp studded with lumps of coloured
glass, very cheap and garish.  An uncarpeted stair narrow and rickety,
mounted straight up to a little landing on the floor above.

With a backward jerk of my head I asked, "Who are these men?"

"Bulgarian komitajis," she replied, "and the arch-enemies of all us
Serbians.  There are many of them in the district.  I came home an hour
ago and soon afterwards, from a window, saw them skulking in the yard.
One was the man that fired at you; the other I saw a few minutes later
riding off at full speed in the direction of Egri Palanka..."

I had heard tales of the Bulgarian, komitajis, their ferocity, their
fiendish cruelty.  Fit allies for Grundt, I reflected.

"I know," I said.  "He was at the hammam there.  Evidently he rode in
to let Grundt know that you were back..."

"Grundt?"  She started from me, her hands pressed to her face.

For greater ease in riding I had stuffed the cripple's monstrous boot
in my jacket pocket.  Now I drew it forth.  "You'll have to be told
sooner or later, my dear.  Grundt's at Egri Palanka.  And here's his
trade mark to prove it!"  And I put the boot down on a chest that stood
there.

She shrank away.  "Grundt!" she said again.  Then, abruptly, she sat
down on the chest.  "So?" she murmured.  "Now I understand about those
men..."

"Grundt arrived at the bath while I was there," I explained.  "I stole
his boot to delay him.  Without it he can scarcely walk.  But if I know
anything of the ruffian, that won't stop him.  He's half-way here by
this.  My dear, we haven't a minute to lose..."

She shook her head.  "For what?"

"Why, to put you in safety, of course.  I'm going to take you to First
Army Headquarters.  What about horses?  Have you more than one?"

"There are no horses here," she rejoined quietly.  "When I have to ride
out to the front, an orderly brings me a mount from the village.  But
all that has no importance now.  We can't leave this house..."

"We can go on foot.  I'll undertake to rustle up some kind of
conveyance once we reach the village.  And if it's that bird at the
barricade that's on your mind, I've got a gun..."

"You don't understand," she said resignedly.  "The house is
surrounded..."

I gazed at her in concern.  "Surrounded?  Are you sure of this?"

She stood up.  "Come with me!"  She moved across the hall and ushered
me into the front room.  With the shutters closed, semi-darkness
reigned.  But Madeleine touched a match to a candle and, picking up
some small object that lay there, handed it to me.  "Do you know what
that is?"

I know a spent bullet when I see one, and so I told her.  She pointed
to a deep graze high up in the wall.  "Now open the shutter," she bade
me, "but be careful not to show yourself.  You understand?"

I nodded and went to the window.

"Ph-tt!"  A bullet kicked a splinter out of the woodwork beside my ear,
and "Ping!", a second rang a bell-like note on the heavy iron window
bars.  The two reports, almost simultaneous, echoed back clamourously
from the mountain.  I stepped back hastily and pulled the shutter to.

"I thought at first that they were planning to kidnap me," Madeleine
said.  "As I was all alone in the house and it was still light, I
thought I would go down and sleep at the ambulance.  But when I opened
the front door I saw this man who attacked you building a barrier
across the road.  So I went to the back, intending to take a path I
know of across the mountain.  But the moment I appeared I was fired at
from two directions--I saw one man peering out from behind a boulder.
These _komitajis_ are dead shots.  If their bullets flew wide, as these
did, I knew it was intentional--it was to warn me.  I opened a shutter
here and another bullet came ... well, you have seen for yourself..."

"Wait there," I bade her, and darted from the room.  "My dear, be
careful!" her cry of alarm rang after me.  She followed me out and
remained standing in the doorway while I went into the back room,
shuttered like the other.  I tried a window at the side, and a shot
rang out; again at the kitchen window I made the test and a bullet
spurted plaster over my sleeve.  There was no doubt about it.  We were
trapped.

Slowly I returned to the hall.  "Well?" she questioned.

"You were right," I told her, "But we've got to do something.  We can't
sit here quietly and wait for Grundt to arrive..."

"My dear," she said gently, "there's no alternative: At daylight a car
will come as usual to take me to the hospital.  Until then..."

"You mean, if we can hold out until morning we shall be safe?"

She bowed her head.

"Then we must hold out," I told her.

"I have a pistol," she said, "and so have you.  If needs be, we shall
know how to defend ourselves..."

"Yes," said I, "but not here..."  I was examining the front door.
"That door is stout enough.  But an axe will make short work of it.
Didn't you say that the balcony upstairs commands a view of the road
along the valley?  At least from there we shall see him coming.  How
are you off for ammunition?"

"I've none except what's in my pistol--seven cartridges, I think..."

"I've a box of fifty cartridges," I said.  "But they're in my
saddle-bags..."  My look consulted her.  "I'll not feel happy in my
mind unless I have them..."

"You're not going out there?" she whispered, affrighted, for I had laid
my hand on the door.

"I can reach those saddle-bags from the porch," I replied in a low
voice.  "As long as I don't leave the porch I ought to be under cover.
Besides, the horse should help to screen me.  Keep back now!"  And
noiselessly lifting the cross-piece, I let the door swing inward under
its own weight.

A segment of the yard, all rosy in the afterglow, came into view.  The
dead horse's head rested on the bottom steps, the saddle-bags just
beyond it.  I was about to move forward when my eye caught a movement
behind the hedge.  God, they were in the yard!  I had just time to
thrust the door shut with my foot and, grasping Madeleine by the waist,
to pull her down beside me on the floor.  A shower of glass descended
upon us, its tinkle merging with the crash of the shot.  The bullet had
gone through the door and shattered the lamp.

"That settles it," said I, and flattening myself against the wall, I
replaced the cross-bar.  "It's a siege, then.  This leaves us with
fourteen cartridges between us.  Is there any food in the house?  I ask
because I've had nothing to eat since breakfast.  My lunch is out there
in the saddle-bags..."

"Wait," she told me.  "There is food in the kitchen.  And a Primus
stove upstairs in my room.  I'll make you some coffee..."  She
disappeared through the door at the end of the hall.

What was keeping Grundt?  I wondered when she had gone.  Presumably he
still had his car.  Even deprived of his boot, he should have been here
before this.  As the boot came into my mind I saw it standing there on
the chest where I had put it down.  I thrust it back in my jacket
pocket.  It would be a curious souvenir of a curious adventure--if I
lived to tell the tale.  The brooding silence was getting on my nerves.
Was Clubfoot waiting until darkness should promise him and his band of
cut-throats complete immunity from interference?  It looked like it.
It was a quarter past eight.  In another three-quarters of an hour, I
judged, the last of the light would be gone.  And then...

There was the chink of crockery, and I saw Madeleine approaching with a
loaded tray--a flat Serbian loaf, butter, goat's milk cheese, a tin of
bully beef.  She refused to let me relieve her of her burden, but led
the way upstairs.

She had turned the former harem into her sleeping quarters, and with
Serbian rugs and draperies done her best to make the bare and draughty
room habitable.  At one end was the broad dais running from wall to
wall that is found in every Turkish house, now with the aid of army
blankets and a few bright cushions converted into a divan.  Her narrow
camp-bed stood against the wall.  There was a Primus on a box, a couple
of portable camp chairs and various empty packing-cases to serve as
seats or tables at discretion.  The cool air of evening entered through
the two unglazed windows, and the arched opening between that gave on
the screened loggia.

I stepped out.  There were little traps in the mashrabiyeh; but it was
not necessary to open them--through the wooden grill I could see the
river-bed winding away in the dusk towards the clustered roofs of Egri
Palanka where, here and there, a light was beginning to twinkle.  The
road was empty; not a human being was in sight.  Even the barrier
seemed to be unguarded, though I felt certain that its sentinel was
lurking somewhere not far away.  With some disquietude I noticed that
the entrance yard, being on the other side of the house, could not be
seen from the balcony.

Side by side on the divan we supped together, while slowly the darkness
deepened outside.  As we ate, Madeleine made me narrate the
circumstances which had brought me to Egri Palanga.  I told her of
Alfred Wahlstedter's letter and of the fate that had befallen him.
"Grundt must have got rid of the box in Vienna," I concluded.  "I take
it we've seen the last of it.  And that reminds me," I went on;
"there's a question I want to ask you.  Only I don't know how to put it
without seeming to doubt you.  It's about Forrest..."

"Whether he was my lover--isn't that it?"  She smiled rather wistfully.
"With a woman like me, one man or another, what difference does it
make?  But I told you the truth.  Forrest never even tried to kiss me.
He wasn't that sort of man..."

"He didn't kiss you?"

She shrugged her shoulders.  "Why so surprised?  There is such a thing
as platonic friendship, you know..."

"But, Madeleine, his last words before he died were 'My kiss remains.'
What language did you speak together?"

"English..."

"Well, he said this in French--'_Mon baiser reste_.'  I naturally
assumed he was thinking of you..."

"I shouldn't lie to you," she declared earnestly.  "If Forest spoke
these words, he must have been delirious.  In any case, they couldn't
possibly have had any reference to me.  Why, we were just good friends
together, nothing more..."  She stopped, staring fixedly before her.
"It was that brave man's death which determined me to break with
Grundt," she added tersely.

I slipped my arm about her.  "Tell me," I said,

"When I look back over my life I seem to have had two separate
existences," she answered.  "For the first twenty-four years of my life
nothing exciting happened to me.  I was born in Belgrade, but my mother
died when I was only eight, and my father sent me to the Ursuline
sisters in Vienna to be educated.  Then, one holiday, I met Dmitri
Gregorovitch.  He was a captain in the army and a protg and political
associate of my father's.  I was only sixteen and he was twenty years
older than I, but my father wished me to marry him, and I obeyed.  I
wasn't in love with him, of course, but he was a charming man and
always kind to me, and for the next eight years I lived quite happily
as an officer's wife in a small Serbian provincial town--my husband was
on the Staff at Nish.  And then the evil destiny struck that has
pursued me ever since..."

I drew her more closely to me.  But she remained impassive.

"My father and Dmitri belonged to a secret society--they call it the
Black Hand.  There was a plot to overthrow the Karageorgevitch dynasty.
My father was to raise the troops in Belgrade while Dmitri organised
the revolt at Nish.  But the plan became known.  Loyalist officers went
to my father's house at night and killed him with their swords and, on
hearing the news, my husband shot himself.  I was warned to flee
without delay, and some friends put me on the train for Vienna where
Peter, who was only twenty, was a student at the University..."

She broke off to listen, for there was a sound outside.  But it was
only a flock of rooks cawing lustily, as high above the river they
winged their way home.

"I had very little money, for they had confiscated all our property,"
she resumed.  "For months Peter and I starved in Vienna.  Then I got
work on the stage.  I had learnt the dances of our gipsies, and I
secured an engagement as a specialty number with a travelling troupe.
We toured all over Austria-Hungary and Germany.  Peter was the only
relation I had, and I used to send him money so that he could go on
with his studies--he was reading for the Bar.  Then one day in Silesia,
at a little town called Liegnitz, our manager bolted and left us high
and dry.  It was there I met von Altmann.  He was a Prussian officer, a
Guardsman--the Guards Corps was on manoeuvres in Silesia.  He made a
dead set at me; he was well-bred, dashing, and he seemed to have plenty
of money, while I was absolutely destitute.  I was in debt all over the
town, and Peter kept writing to me for money.  And so I gave up the
struggle and let Guido von Altmann take an apartment for me in
Berlin..."

"You needn't go into all that again," I interrupted.  "Roth told me
everything--about his duel with Altmann and his disgrace..."

"Guido von Altmann was a drunkard," she said tensely.  "And when he had
been drinking he was like a wild beast.  I lived with him for three
months, but after that I could stand it no longer.  Anybody could have
taken me away from him.  I never cared anything about Hans, although I
knew he ruined himself for me.  And when afterwards at Konigsberg I
discovered that he was hunting down my own brother..."  Her voice broke.

"Oh, my dear," I soothed her.

"I never knew until then," she went on, "that Peter was in the Serbian
Secret Service.  The Black Hand had got in touch with him.  He has a
marvellous talent for languages, and some time last summer he got
himself engaged as a gardener at Konopisht, the Archduke Francis
Ferdinand's estate in Bohemia, where the rose gardens are famous.  He
was there when, in October, the Kaiser arrived on a secret visit to the
Archduke.  Grundt was with the Emperor, and discovered Peter, who fled
into Saxony and thence into Poland, where Hans, instructed by Grundt, I
suppose, picked up his trail.  Hans never knew that Peter was my
brother, for I had kept my Serbian connection a secret--on the stage I
called myself Madeleine Stafford.  But Grundt discovered it--they found
letters of mine when they searched Peter's lodgings in Vienna.  I went
to Berlin on leaving Hans, and I was living in a single room there when
Grundt called on me.  I was distracted with anxiety about Peter, who
seemed to have completely disappeared.  Grundt told me that Peter was
interned at Schlatz, but that nothing would happen to him as long as I
was sensible and did as I was told.  Then Grundt unfolded his plan.  I
was to undertake secret missions for him from time to time.  At first I
refused, for my father had brought me up to regard the Germans as
Serbia's mortal foe.  But then Grundt explained that under military law
Peter was liable to be shot without trial..."

I shook my head.  "Bluff, my dear..."

"Nevertheless," she answered, "he had been before no tribunal.  No one
outside the fortress, except Grundt, knew that he was at Schlatz.  You
know as well as I do that, in these circumstances, political prisoners
have a habit of committing suicide in prison, as it is called..."

I nodded.  I could not gainsay her.  "I was helpless," she said, "and
so I agreed to work for Grundt.  It was the Forrest case that opened my
eyes.  I was horrified, I felt debased, humiliated.  And when I
discovered that I was forced to act as a decoy for you..."  She broke
off, her face aflame.

"For some weeks," she said, "Peter had been smuggling out letters to me
through a man, a Jewish jeweller called Bernstein, at Breslau.  All his
letters were full of plans of escape.  Then, while I was at Amsterdam,
he wrote and said that for four thousand marks--that's two hundred
pounds in your money--it could be fixed.  Grundt gave me board and
lodging and paid my dress bills, but very rarely any money, and I had
no idea how I could raise this sum for Peter until a letter came from
Hans.  I had run into him by chance some weeks before at the
Friedrichstrasse station in Berlin, and as it happened, a day or two
later, from something I overheard Grundt say on the telephone, I
discovered that Hans was working for him in England.  It was Hans or my
little brother and--well, you know the decision I made..."

The rest of the story was soon told.  The same afternoon on which I had
brought the two hundred pounds to the caf at Amsterdam, she had
telegraphed the money to Bernstein at Breslau.  Next day the wire had
arrived announcing that Peter was free, and that she was to join him at
Bale.  Within the hour she was on her way.

"And now that's told," said I when she had done, "let's forget it.
We'll see this thing through together, sweetheart, and then you're
coming back with me to England..."

On that abruptly she freed herself from my arms and, standing up, went
to the loggia door.  I joined her there and during a full moment's
silence, side by side, we looked forth along the silent valley.  The
darkness was almost complete.  Only in the western sky the light yet
lingered.  Here and there a star trembled.  "Madeleine," I said, "when
we've put all this behind us, I want you to marry me..."

She glanced up at me with her bright, affectionate smile.  But she
shook her head.  "No, my dear," she answered rather sadly.  "I wouldn't
do you this wrong.  I've been tossed like a ball from hand to hand; I'm
no fit wife for an honourable Englishman like you..."

"Honourable Englishman be damned!" I told her heartily.  "I'm only a
man like the rest, dearest, and you're the only woman I've ever met
that I wanted to marry..."  And I took her in my arms.

This time she did not resist.  "All the same," she said with a
secretive smile, "I shall not marry you..."

"You couldn't love me--is that what you mean?" I asked miserably.

The coolness of her hand on my face thrilled me as she gently stroked
my forehead.  "On the contrary," she said in a low voice, "I love you
very tenderly.  I loved you before I suspected it myself.  Only
to-night, when I saw that man raise his rifle to take aim at you did I
know how much.  But, _chri_, it is impossible.  I am ill-fated.  I
should bring you no luck..."

"Even if that's true, which it isn't," I gave her back, "I'm willing to
risk it..."

She shook her head sadly.  "I know what I know..."  Taking me by the
arm, she drew me out upon the balcony.  "I want you to remember this
view.  When in the future you see water shining under the stars, I'd
like you to think of me..."  Suddenly she was clinging to me, her face
buried in my coat.  "Hold me tightly, oh _mon bien aim_," she
whispered, "and then I shall not be so afraid!"

I caught her to me and lifted her face to mine.  Her eyes were wet.
"I'll take care of you," I said.  "There's nothing to be frightened
of..."  But even as I spoke I heard a faint humming sound mounting from
the end of the valley.

She rested in my arms, gazing up in my face.  She was smiling now.  "We
are to spend the night together," she murmured caressingly, "and I
don't even know your little name..."

"Philip," I told her.

"Philip!"  Daintily she seemed to savour the name.  Then drawing my
face down to hers, she kissed me on the lips.

Of a sudden that throbbing hum from the road below was loud in the
room.  Gently Madeleine slipped out of my arms and crept to the wooden
screen.  I followed after.

Two long beams of light cleft, trembling, the obscurity of the
river-bed.  It was a car.




118

The assault

A dark mass was visible above the line of the barricade--an open car
with two blurred figures in the front seat.  Black shapes moved to and
fro in the reflected glow of the headlights, and there was the hollow
clatter of timber as the tree-trunks were hauled off the road.  Then
the car slid slowly forward, bouncing on the rough track, its lights
picking out the stones with which its path was strewn.  It swung out of
sight round the corner of the house, and the next moment the throb of
the engine ceased.

We had not moved from the loggia, Madeleine and I, when the front door
below was loudly rapped.  Her small hand clutched mine.  "Don't go..."
she whispered.

"What does it matter?" I told her in the same tone.  "He knows we're
here..."  I was looking about me.  "That stair leading down to the
hall, only one man can mount at a time.  We can hold it if we barricade
the landing..."

The knocking was repeated.  A raucous, guttural voice called:
"Clavering!  Hey, Clavering!"

"Help me cart all these boxes out," I bade Madeleine.  "Your bed, too,
and those cushions.  Have you got your gun?"  She ran swiftly to the
bed and drew it from under the pillow.  "That's the idea.  Now lend me
a hand with the bed.  It'll do as a foundation..."

We bore the bed out on the landing.  Grundt was shouting again, above a
fusillade of knocks.  "Clavering, I know you're inside," he roared in
German.  "Open the door!  I want to talk to you..."

I stooped to Madeleine's ear.  "Go on building!  I'm going to parley
with him..."

"Don't go down!" she implored.  "They might shoot through the door..."

I nodded and, squeezing past the barrier, descended a few steps.  As I
went I drew my pistol, slipping back the safety catch.

A volley of savage blows rained upon the door.  By the sound I judged
that they were beating upon it with the butt end of a rifle.  The
clamour ceased for an instant and Clubfoot's raven croak, half
suffocated with fury, rang out: "Open or I'll break down the door, _zum
Teufel_!  Open, do you hear me?"

A reckless mood took possession of me.  The thought of what Madeleine
had suffered at the hands of this brute enraged me, while the mental
picture of the giant cripple hobbling painfully about in borrowed boots
filled me with malicious, if unsportsmanlike, glee.  Keeping myself
well out of range, on the upper steps of the flight, I cried blandly:
"Who's there?"

Instantly came the answer back: "It's I, Dr. Grundt!  Open the door,
_verflucht_!"  By the closeness of his voice, I guessed that he was on
the porch.

"Who?" I repeated innocently.

"It's Dr. Grundt.  You heard me..."

"Not Herr Doktor Grundt, of the Berlin _Tagespost_?" I queried
facetiously.

"Open the door!  I have to speak with you!"  His mighty fist hammered
at the panel.

"Then say what you have to say through the door," I told him.

"I'm going to speak to you in person, Clavering," he ground out through
his teeth.  "Do you mean to open or do I break down the door?  Answer
me, yes or no..."

"The answer is, no.  It's after office hours," I rejoined ribaldry.
"Call round in the morning.  Any time after ten..."

"Tell that man to bring the axe," I heard Clubfoot say.  I glanced over
my shoulder.  In the grey light that fell through the fanlight over the
door I caught Madeleine's eye as she stacked the boxes up.  Already the
barricade had risen to a good four feet--I noticed she had left a gap
for my return.  I grinned at her, just to keep her courage up, at the
same time motioning to her to take cover.  She gave me a wistful, brave
smile.  But she remained erect and went on stuffing the boxes with her
gay cushions.

"Listen to me, Grundt," I called out, "I've got a gun.  Stand away from
that door or I fire..."  Another voice, rasping out an order in
Serbian, cut across my words.  With a splintering crash the axe fell.
Aiming at the centre of the door I pressed the trigger of the
automatic.  The report in that confined space was terrific.  I heard a
shout of alarm outside, scurrying footsteps...

I was prepared for an answering shot, but not for the rain of bullets
that followed.  Crouched there on the top step, plaster, splinters of
wood and broken glass descended upon me.  With loud fracas the lamp,
its chain severed, landed in fragments on the floor.  As I cowered
there, my hands protecting my head, the assault on the door
recommenced.  Steadying my hand on my knee, I fired again--it was
against my better judgment, for it left us with but twelve cartridges
and I had no visible target--and another volley rattled about me.

"Philip!"  Madeleine's agonised whisper rustled in my ear.  I turned my
head: she was leaning through the gap in the barricade.  "I'm all
right."  I smiled at her through the drifting plaster dust that made my
eyes smart.  "For God's sake, get down!"  I glanced down at the door
again.  It trembled to fresh blows.  Now there was the glint of steel
as the axe was withdrawn through a jagged rent in a panel.

I held my fire until I saw a sinewy, sunburnt forearm slither through
the opening.  My automatic spat once, there was a gasping shriek, and
the hand disappeared.  I waited for the inevitable retaliation, and
when the volley had spent itself, scrambled back, in a deluge of
falling debris, behind the barricade.  Madeleine was there unhurt, her
face rather pale, her dark eyes shining.  Between us we pulled the last
of the packing-cases into the gap.

"You're not wounded?" her lips formed.  I shook my head.  I was craning
my ear toward a confused medley of muttering voices, of rustling
footsteps, which was audible outside.  "What are the chances of relief
to-night from the village?" I said to Madeleine.

"There are only some territorial guards there, old men, mostly.  We
can't count on them..."

"But they must have heard the firing," I expostulated.  "Won't somebody
come out to investigate, at least?"

She shook her head.  "The whole countryside is in a turmoil.  Every
night, almost, there is shooting in the mountains.  People know better
than to leave their villages after dark..."

It seemed to me I heard a step upon the porch.  I snapped my fingers at
my companion.  "Your gun..."  Obediently, she laid it in my hand and I
put it on the ground beside me.  "Thanks.  Now go into the bedroom and
stay there," I told her.  "And whatever you do, keep out of the range
of the windows..."

I durst not take my eye off the door to look at her.  But I was aware
that she had not budged.  "Do as I tell you," I ordered tersely.  "I
shall be much easier in my mind if I know you're out of danger..."

"No, no," I heard her whisper back, "I stay here with you..."

Without warning a bullet came whistling, the first of a fusillade,
under cover of which the axe once more was swung against the door.  I
fired two shots at random, but still the blows rained down.  Then with
a tearing, splintering sound the door burst inward.  I had three shots
left in my gun and I wanted to husband them.  So I waited for my
chance.  It came when, as the door gave, I had a clear view of a
peasant, rifle in hand, silhouetted in the opening.

I fired and he went down.  A bullet spat viciously by my ear and I
ducked, then fired at a second man who, taking a flying leap through
the doorway, landed in the middle of the staircase.  He cried "Ah!"
shrilly, but kept on.  At that moment there was an ear-splitting
detonation at my side and the man on the stairs, hands clawing the air,
bent over backwards and toppled to the bottom of the flight.  I flashed
a glance at Madeleine and saw her kneeling beside me, her pistol
smoking in her hand.  "Good work," I told her.  "But take it easy!  I'm
down to my last cartridge!"  By way of answer she thrust the gun into
my hand.  "You can make better use of it than I," she said.  "Give me
yours!"  And we exchanged weapons.

The man I had hit had disappeared, but Madeleine's _komitaji_ lay
huddled up where he had dropped.  Of a sudden the firing had stopped,
our assailants withdrawn out of range--through the wrecked door we
could see the yard stretching quiet and undisturbed under the stars.
Somewhere out of sight the jabber of excited voices mounted to our ears.

Madeleine's hand found mine, wrung it hard.  "We're not out of the wood
yet," I said.  "But we've given them something to go on with.  I wonder
where old Clubfoot is skulking..."  I suppose, what with one thing and
another, I was a bit light-headed, for I remember singing out: "Grundt,
you rat, where are you hiding?  Come out and show yourself, you old
devil!"  But there was no reply.  And now the voices ceased.

It was so dark outside that I could no longer distinguish Madeleine's
features as she knelt beside me.  This obscurity was, of course, to our
advantage, for we must have been practically invisible from the yard.
But the yard itself was now no more than a pool of blackness in which I
found it difficult to discern any movement.  And so it happened that a
_komitaji_ was able to slink up to the side of the porch unobserved
and, sliding his rifle round the door jamb, to fire at us almost
point-blank.

It was a close call for both Madeleine and me; for the bullet flew
between us.  I thrust her down with my hand, at the same time raising
my head to peer over the barricade.  I spotted the rifle thrust through
the doorway and was waiting for the marksman to show his head when,
with a shock that jarred me from wrist to elbow, my pistol was struck
from my hand and sent clattering down the steps.  I then perceived that
a rifle had opened fire from the other corner of the doorway.

"My gun's gone," I cried to Madeleine.  "Give me yours, quick!"  But at
that very moment a wild-looking figure appeared on the porch and in one
vigorous bound dropped sprawling on hands and knees half-way up the
flight.  Madeleine fired almost simultaneously.  With a scream like a
wounded hare's the intruder tumbled down the stairway, some heavy
object bumping after him.  At the bottom he gathered himself up on all
fours and, crawling, disappeared into the darkness beyond the porch.  I
turned to Madeleine--all I could see of her was the whitish blur her
face made in the gloom.  "There goes our last shot!" I said.

She made no comment but clutched my hand.  "Look!" she whispered
tensely.  "Smoke!"  The thin spiral of smoke to which she pointed and
the wooden box, lying athwart the stairs, from which it appeared to
emanate, the faint hissing sound accompanying it, told me on the
instant the whole story.  Quick as lightning I flung my arms about
Madeleine and dragged her away from the barricade and behind the angle
of the wall separating the head of the stair from the landing of the
upper floor.  I was only just in time.  The next second the whole house
dipped and rocked to the roar of the explosion.  The air hummed to the
whizz of flying chips of wood and glass and metal, and the mountain
echoed and re-echoed with noise.

I had handled high explosives myself: I knew a box of gun-cotton when I
saw one.  I remembered reading in the newspapers of bomb outrages
committed by _komitajis_.  We had had a miraculous escape: if the box
of gun-cotton had remained there on the upper part of the stairs, if it
had not rolled to the bottom of the flight with the man in his fall, we
should have been blown to pieces.

Filled with a sort of beserker rage, I gathered myself up and rushed
back to the barricade.  It had suffered but little from the explosion,
for the full force of the blast, deflected by the steps, had struck
mainly upwards.  A hole gaped in the stairway, and above my head a
great chasm was torn in the roof from which a tangle of beams and
plaster dangled precariously.  The air was thick with the sour fumes of
explosive and a dense curtain of dust that got into my lungs and made
me cough.  Through it I was conscious of a yellow, flickering light
that illuminated the yard.

As the dust began to settle I was aware that a figure was standing in
the shattered doorway.  It was Grundt.  The smoky glare of torches at
his back threw into hard, black relief the rugged mass of the gigantic
cripple.  In front of the half-circle of wild-looking mountaineers he
was planted there, the weight of his body propped on the crutch-handled
stick grasped in his left hand, a pistol in his right.  Bareheaded, the
tops of his khaki trousers stuffed into a pair of knee boots of
untanned hide such as the Serbian cavalry wore, a leather belt with
holster dangling about his ample waist, he looked like a Boer
commandant or a Vigilante of the Western plains.

He was stooped over his stick, his legs bent at the knee as though his
feet gave him intolerable pain.  In that eerie light, the perspiration
glistened on his hairy face and lines of exhaustion, drawn from the
tufted nostrils to the corners of the fleshy, cruel mouth, spoke of the
physical agony he must have been suffering.  Infuriated as I was
against him, I could not help feeling a certain grudging admiration for
the adamantine spirit animating this extraordinary individual.

The torchlight played about me as I appeared at the barricade.  Coated
with dust and plaster though my face was, Grundt recognised me--I saw
how at once he drew his bristling eyebrows down in a threatening scowl.
Lurching heavily, he took a pace forward, eager, determined,
notwithstanding the obvious effort it cost him to walk.  I jerked up my
empty pistol and covered him.  "Stay where you are, Grundt!" I bade
him.  I was listening sharply for any sound of Madeleine behind me,
praying to God that she would keep out of sight.

"Where's Mrs. Stafford?" said Clubfoot.  His voice had an icy,
sepulchral ring.  There was something finite, doomful about it.  It put
me in mind of the tone of a judge passing the death sentence or the
hollow sound of clods falling in a grave.

"Mrs. Stafford is not here," I told him boldly.  "She's gone back to
Uskub!"

A tremor passed over him and he shook like an oak caught by a sudden
gust of wind.  "Don't lie to me," he trumpeted, his voice rising to a
hoarse, snarling shriek.  "She's in this house.  Dead or alive, I mean
to see her..."

"You're misinformed," I retorted bluntly.  "And now--get out!"

With a wrathful snort he whipped his right hand up.  "Don't wave that
gun about," I warned him.  "I've got you covered..."  On which he flung
a swift glance over his shoulder at the knot of stolid, silent figures
mustered, with rifles at the ready, at his back.  A man in breeches and
leggings with a square, German head, who stood on the wing of the
group, cried out excitedly in German--I took him to be the interpreter.
I did not catch what he said but Clubfoot rasped at him, "Wait!" and
turned back to me.

For the moment my attention was distracted.  It seemed to me that some
unwonted sound had suddenly broken in upon the soft stillness of the
summer night, a faint rhythmic hammering.

Grundt was addressing me again.  "My quarrel's not with you,
Clavering," he said in a voice which he tried to make conciliatory.
"Be sensible.  The house is surrounded, and I've shown you, I think,
that I mean business.  Let's have no more bloodshed.  Send Mrs.
Stafford out to me here and I don't care what becomes of you.  You can
go back to Egri Palanka.  I give you my word of honour that you won't
be interfered with..."

The noise I had heard was coming nearer.  There was no mistake about it
now.  It was the sound of horses galloping up the valley.  My eye
caught a movement in the ring of peasants behind Grundt.  I saw one
slip away round the side of the house.

"Your word of honour, eh?" I rejoined sarcastically.  "That, of course,
is something I can rely on?"

"Oh, absolutely," Grundt assured me, blinking his eyes rapidly.

The man who had left the group came running back, shouting.  Instantly
the yard was in a turmoil.  The interpreter sprang forward and caught
Grundt by the arm.  But with an angry snarl Grundt threw him off.  To
my listening ear now the clatter of horses' hoofs was unmistakably
plain.

"Well," Clubfoot cried and advanced a pace--it brought him across the
threshold of the house.  "Where is she?"

"Nowhere where you can harm her, Grundt," I shouted exultantly,
confident in the belief that help was close at hand.  The group in the
yard had dispersed in all directions and from beyond the porch
resounded the drone of the motor-car starting up.  "And now, take
yourself out of this!  I shall count three and if at the end of that
time you're not out of sight I'll blow your ugly head off!  Unless, of
course, you prefer to answer to the Serbian military authorities for
this gross outrage upon a British subject.  I'm beginning to count.
One..."

He did not wait for me to finish but, with a stifled roar and an upward
throw of the wrist, with elbow bent pumped a shot at me.  The hideous
distortion of his features, the rolling eyes, the foam-flecked lips,
must have warned me--at any rate, a fraction of a second before he
fired, I ducked.  The wind of his bullet ruffled my hair, but in an
instant I was up again and with an angry shout flung my empty pistol at
him.

It caught him on the side of the head and sent him reeling back against
the wreck of the door.  His pistol went off again, but this time the
shot flew wide.  Now figures bulked blackly out of the gloom at his
back, grappling with him.  Plunging and struggling, they dragged him
away.  There were shots--the pop-pop-pop of an automatic--and shouts
near at hand.  We were saved.  If I could hold him how ... Unarmed as I
was I looked about me for some missile, found that monstrous boot of
his in my jacket pocket, hurled it at the cripple as he was hustled
across the threshold.  It missed him, crashed against the door jamb and
hurtled to the ground.  As it fell something tinkled on the broken
glass that strewed the floor, something that gleamed golden in the
vagrant beam of an electric torch that suddenly shone in from the yard.

In an instant I was over the barricade and, leaping that hole in the
stairs, was at the bottom.  There lay Clubfoot's boot, the deep sole
split along one edge.  Beside it, spilled from its hiding-place, was
Forrest's gold box.

"Madeleine!" I clamoured excitedly as I picked it up.  "Madeleine!"

"I'm here," she called back, "behind the barricade!"

Her voice was almost inaudible.  With a sudden sense of fear I dashed
madly back up the stairs.




119

"It was not to be..."

The end of this rambling yarn of mine approaches.  I find it the
hardest part to write.  Nineteen years have strewn my path with
memories both brave and terrible since that night at Egri Palanka.
Such abundant solace as a man may derive from unselfish love,
tenderness and heavenly understanding has been mine, and to the sweetly
gracious giver I am humbly and eternally grateful.  But sometimes, when
the night is warm and moonless like this and the stars mirror
themselves in the glassy surface of the lake, I find my thoughts again
with Madeleine and her whispered prayer, as we stood together in the
loggia: "When you see water shining under the stars, think of me!" and
I know, by the numbness in my heart, that the old wound has never
healed.

      *      *      *      *      *

She was behind the barricade, half-sitting, half lying on the ground,
her head resting against the wall.  It was pitch-dark behind the
barrier and I would have passed her by, for I thought she would be on
the landing or in the bedroom, but that she called my name.
"Madeleine, sweetheart," I cried aghast as I perceived her there, and
broke off, choking.

"Grundt..." she panted.  "I was just coming through the door ... that
last shot of his..."  A fit of coughing seized her.  I could feel her
eyes on mine in the dark.  "I heard horses outside," she said faintly
when the paroxysm had passed.  "They came out from the village, after
all..."

I slipped my arms about her, kneeling by her side.  "All danger's past
now, dearest.  Grundt and the rest of them have gone.  And I've got the
gold box..."  I tried to speak gaily.  "Where do you think it was
hidden?  In old Clubfoot's boot..."

She sighed softly.  "Dear Philip, I'm so glad..."

"Relax now," I told her.  "I'm going to carry you into the bedroom..."
And I lifted her up.  She was like a dead weight in my arms.  I was
afraid, afraid.

I was dimly conscious of a growing hubbub outside--more shots, shouted
commands, the neighing of a horse.  I paid no heed, but bore Madeleine
swiftly into the bedroom and laid her down on the divan.  I put a
pillow under her head and lighted the candle, set it down on the floor
at her side.

One glance at her in the light and I knew that she was going to die.
Her eyes had lost their sparkle and she breathed fitfully and in
spasms.  There was a dark stain on the front of her khaki shirt and
when I opened it there was blood between her breasts.  I would have
left her to fetch water to wash the wound, but her fingers entwined
about mine detained me.  "Don't leave me," she murmured in a whisper as
light as a sigh.  "Hold me close, Philip.  It's so ... dark!"

I put my arms about her and laid my face, begrimed as it was, against
hers.  The tears were running down my cheeks.  She noticed it and said:
"It was not to be, _chri_.  I told you..."  Then her eyes closed
wearily and she seemed to fall into a doze.  Thus, an instant later,
Major Dravitch found us as, with two other officers, he burst into the
room.

He took in the situation at a glance.  Bidding me bring water and a
basin he went to the bedside.  I stood back while he made his
examination.  His companions fastened on me.  One was the Press officer
from whose party I bad escaped.  He was very irate.  It was Major
Dravitch who had put them on the right track on their return to camp
that evening: they had set out for Egri Palanka at once and found the
place in a turmoil over the shooting.  The _komitajis_ had resisted
them at the barricade on the road.  A groom had received a bullet
through the ankle: two of the _komitajis_ were killed.  A motor-car was
seen to disappear during the shooting.  The Deputy Chief of Staff had
been highly incensed over my escapade: when he heard about its sequel
he would certainly withdraw my Press credentials...

I left him talking.  Dravitch had quitted the divan and was lighting a
cigarette.  On seeing me, he shrugged his shoulders.  Looking past him,
I saw that the laboured breathing had ceased and that the slight form
on the divan was lying still.




120

The box gives up its secret

Time has all but effaced from my mind the record of the succeeding
days.  With Madeleine's death I seemed to have lost the power of
registering emotion.  It was as though some part of my consciousness
had died with her and what survived dwelt with her only as I had known
and loved her in life, radiant with vitality and beauty, proud and
unconquerable.

Dry-eyed and unmoved, I listened to the thump of muffled drums as they
bore her on a farm-cart to the tiny village church, stood for hours
while the thuribles smoked and the deep bassos of the bearded priests
chanted their interminable "_Permileui Gospodin_" against the throb of
distant gun-fire, let the crash of volley and the wail of bugles over
the open grave beat with impunity upon my frozen heart.  And I have a
vague recollection of a stalwart, sunburnt young Serbian officer who
grasped me by the hand and who, they told me, was her brother.

The same with the investigation that followed.  Looking back, I have
the sensation that the Major Clavering of the British Secret Service
who sat closeted for long hours with the Serbian Chief of Intelligence
at Uskub was an individual altogether separate from myself.  I had
become a machine.  I was not even conscious at that time of any
particular rancour against Grundt.  When they informed me that his car
had disappeared without trace in the mountains, that it was believed
Bulgarian spies had facilitated his flight through the Serbian lines
into Bulgaria, I accepted it as the inevitable and unalterable fact.
Automatically, and from sheer force of habit, I wired the Chief that I
had recovered the box and was returning to London as soon as possible.

It was only when, from the deck of the Channel boat, I saw the white
cliffs of Kent loom up through the heat haze that I seemed to stir from
my lethargy.  I found myself seized with an uncontrollable revulsion
against meeting the Chief.  I knew I should be expected to tell him the
full story; but the thought of reliving the anguish of that night was
suddenly intolerable to me.  In an agony of indecision, instead of
going on to London, I went to an hotel on the Leas.  From there, on a
sudden instinct, I rang up Garnet.

She was sane and kind and soothing, I reflected.  I would tell her the
story and give her the box, then go away somewhere where there were no
associations with Madeleine to pluck at my heart-strings, try and
forget.  I had made up my mind to resign from the service; my battery
was in India; they would be glad to have me back.  The Chief would
disapprove--he hated a quitter; but I cared nothing about that.

Garnet arrived soon after nine that evening.  I was at the train to
meet her.  She got out of her carriage some distance from where I was
standing, came up to me and took my two hands in hers.  Her eyes were
deeply troubled.  "Philip," she said tremulously, "I scarcely
recognised you, you've grown so thin and worn.  Oh, my dear, did you
have to take it so hard?"

"You've heard about ... about Madeleine, then?"

She nodded.  "There was a despatch from the military attach at
Belgrade..."  She slipped her arm confidingly into mine.  "Let's go
somewhere where we can talk..."  My hand found hers and gripped it.
Dear Garnet, she was always such a stand-by...

The Channel was like a mill-pond that night, with a sickle moon that
spilled a swathe of gold upon the still waters.  For a long time we
walked on the cliff in silence.  Garnet asked no questions: she did not
speak at all.  She let the peace of our surroundings, the reassuring
touch of her hand upon my arm, do their work.  Ever since she was
twenty she had been with the Chief and if she had made a success of the
job it was not merely because her brain was always abreast of his
extraordinary rapid processes of thought but also because her equable
temperament was never ruffled by his not infrequent outbursts of
irascibility.  She had the gift of silent sympathy, and that night on
the Leas at Folkestone it dripped like balm upon my wounded heart.

And so it befell that, of a sudden, I was blurting out the whole story,
Madeleine's and mine.  She let me tell it in my own way, walking at my
side, her brown eyes, veiled and wistful, looking straight in front of
her.  When I had done she still said nothing, but only stretched out
her long, cool fingers so that they lay along the back of my hand.

"Garnet," I said desperately, "you're so wise.  Tell me what am I going
to do?"

"If I knew anything I could do to help you, I'd do it, Philip," she
answered in her warm, gentle voice.  "But this is one of those things
you have to go through alone..."

"I'm done with the service," I told her savagely.  "I shall resign
to-morrow..."

She nodded quietly.  "There I think you're wise..."

I laughed rather bitterly.  "I must say I never imagined that you would
approve..."

It doesn't matter what she replied.  It was, I think, the first
compliment she had ever paid me.  She said, in effect, that secret
service work exacted a certain tough fibre that placed the ultimate
objective above any consideration of morality and that this quality was
lacking in my composition.  "Do you remember I told you I was afraid
you'd get hurt?" she reminded me.

"It's not going to be easy for you in the months to come," she said.
"But there's this to bear in mind, Philip.  Madeleine was
right--marriage between you two would have been an impossibility.  When
the first bitterness of this tragedy has begun to wear away, think of
her settled in a London flat, after the life of excitement to which she
was accustomed, with you continually absent on missions, or, if not
that, then in an Indian cantonment, a Major's lady, and you'll realise
how shrewd her judgment was.  As things have fallen out, she has given
you a memory of sweetness and light that will last you throughout your
life.  For remember, Philip, that perfect love comes to very few of us
and that to love and be loved in return is a spiritual ecstasy which
death can modify but never take away..."  Her voice shook a little and
she stopped.  "It's easy to talk," she went on tremulously, "but, oh,
my dear, I've no words to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am for
you..."  I pressed her hand: I had no need to say anything; and she
knew it.

And then I drew out Charles Forrest's gold box and showed it to her.
"You told me to get it and there it is!" I said.  "Wasn't there some
theory of yours..."

Her nod was eloquent of suppressed excitement.  "Let's go to the hotel,
shall we?"

The hotel was close at hand.  It was past eleven o'clock and we had the
lounge to ourselves.  We sat down at one of the small tables and I
produced the box.  Garnet took it in her hands, scrutinised it for a
moment in silence, then said, as she deposited it on the table before
us, "You know the Wallace Collection in London?"

"Yes..."

"You may have forgotten it, but they have a marvellous array of
snuff-boxes and bonbonnires.  One of them, a gold comfit box not
unlike this, I remember quite well--as a matter of fact, I went back to
see it the other day.  It has a hidden catch and when you press the
sides of the box, a little spike shoots out and runs into your hand.
The theory is that the spike was poisoned--you sent the box to anybody
whom you wanted to put out of the way..."  She paused.  "You know the
history of this box of Forrest's, don't you?"

"Charles did tell us some rigmarole.  This Marie Bertesson was a
dancer, wasn't she? and the box was presented to her by some Italian..."

"A Venetian nobleman.  He had been her lover.  What does seventeenth
century Venice say to you, Philip?"

I jumped to her meaning at once.  "Poison, of course.  But I don't
see..."

"Wait a minute.  Did you ever get a satisfactory explanation of poor
Charles Forrest's last words?  You know, '_Mon baiser reste!_'..."

"No.  I don't think I told you that I questioned Madeleine and she said
the phrase could have no reference to her.  Because Forrest never
kissed her.  And that's the truth, Garnet..."

She patted my hand.  "I know, I know.  Give me a pencil!"

I handed her my pencil and she took a refreshment menu that stood in a
stand on the table and wrote on the back in block capitals the name
"Marie Bertesson."

Thus:

  MARIE BERTESSON

Then at random, as it seemed to me, she started striking individual
letters through, placing a number in succession beneath each letter as
she did so.  When she had finished the printed name looked like this:

  M A R I E  B  E  R  T  E S  S O N
  1 5 9 6 8  4 11 10 13 14 7 12 2 3


Taking her pencil, she aligned the letters in the order of her
arbitrary numeration:

   1. M
   2. O
   3. N
   4. B
   5. A
   6. I
   7. S
   8. E
   9. R
  10. R
  11. E
  12. S
  13. T
  14. E

and wrote below, "_Mon baiser reste_."

"An anagram?" I cried.  "And Forrest was trying to let us know the
secret with his last breath?"

She nodded, colouring up.  "I've told you the story backwards.  I came
across the anagram by accident: I had written down poor Charles's last
words and was puzzling my head as to what they could mean.  It was the
anagram that sent me back to the Wallace Collection to look at that
trick box..."

"Then you mean that this box of Forrest's has some secret poisoning
device like the other?"

"That's what I was wondering.  Look at the menace in that phrase, 'My
kiss remains!'!  Supposing this Venetian was a rejected lover,
abandoned by his French mistress..."

"Gad, Garnet," I exclaimed excitedly, "I believe you've got it.  And
all this time, unbeknownst to any of us except old Charles, there's
been a hidden compartment in the box.  Why on earth didn't you tell me
before?"

"It seemed so, well, so romantic.  And we didn't have the box..."

"Well, aren't you going to try it?" I urged.  "Obviously, it works like
the other..."  And to encourage her, spinning the dart round, I set it
on the M and pressed the boss.

I let her slender fingers replace mine.  In breathless silence we
watched the pointer swing from letter to letter through the anagram.
As the arrow rested on the final E and Garnet's hand touched the boss
for the last time, a narrow band of gold, not more than a quarter of an
inch in depth, noiselessly sprang out from the side of the box along
its lower edge.

"Oh, look, a secret compartment!" Garnet cried.  I snatched up the box
and peered into it.  "It's a false bottom all right, but it's empty..."
I gave the box a vigorous shake; but nothing dropped out.  "I see no
spike.  If poison was the idea, this compartment must have held a
poisoned letter or a poisoned handkerchief.  Something flat at any
rate, there's so little..."

I broke off.  Garnet was pointing silently to a little wad of flimsy
paper, folded small, that lay upon the table.

I snatched it up, spread it out.  A list of names and addresses in
Forrest's neat hand.  The force of the spring must have jerked the
paper from its hiding-place, unobserved by either of us.

The first entry on the list was Alfred Wahlstedter, Villa Waldesruh',
Kiel.

      *      *      *      *      *

I never saw Grundt again.  Two months later I sailed for Bombay to
rejoin my battery and was with it a year later when, with the Lahore
Division, we landed at Marseilles _en route_ for First Ypres.  I stayed
in France until the Cambrai show sent me home for good to find a peace
and contentment which I did not believe life could yet hold for me.

Garnet is calling me.  She likes me to say good night to our two
youngsters before they settle down to sleep.




THE END




Books by

VALENTINE WILLIAMS


HIS "CLUBFOOT" BOOKS

  The Crouching Beast
  The Gold Comfit Box
  The Spider's Touch

HIS MYSTERY, SPY AND DETECTIVE BOOKS

  The Three of Clubs
  Death Answers the Bell
  Mannequin
  The Eye in Attendance
  The Red Mass
  The Key Man
  Mr. Ramosi
  The Knife Behind the Curtain
  The Clock Ticks On
  The Portcullis Room
  Masks Off at Midnight
  The Clue of the Rising Moon
  Dead Man Manor
      and

  Fog
  by Valentine Williams
  and Dorothy Rice Sims


HODDER AND STOUGHTON LTD., LONDON




[End of The Gold Comfit Box, by Valentine Williams]
