by Mark Hodder
“You’ve got our own papers safe enough, and they won’t dare search us in the face of these passports.”
Blake poured himself out another cup of coffee, and was in the act of drinking it, when he suddenly set down his cup again.
“Listen!” he said quietly. “I think the tight corner is coming to meet us. Keep cool and bluff hard; also keep your automatic and a handy pocket in case of emergencies, if things don’t pan out all right. By Jove! That reminds me. I must get rid of that German cavalry revolver!”
He moved quickly to a window at the far end of the room that overlooked the canal, flung the revolver into it, and closed the window again, drawing the curtains.
He had barely done so when the innkeeper came rushing in.
“We are ruined!” he said hoarsely. “The Uhlans are coming, ten or a dozen of them!”
Blake nodded, and lit a cigar.
“I heard their horses a moment ago. Keep your head, and everything will be all right. How long have we been staying here?”
“Two days,” said the man, reassured by Blake’s coolness.
“Good! Now go and get another bottle or two of that excellent burgundy, and set it to warm. If I know anything about a Uhlan officer, it is that wine makes him talkative and prevents him asking too many awkward questions.
“They’ll be here in a minute now. Don’t be in too great a hurry to open the door—pretend to be sleepy and a bit fuddled, and see that the men have plenty of beer or schnapps. I shall give you an excellent character as a host. Off you get to the kitchen!”
The man grinned and withdrew.
“He’ll do all right,” said Blake, taking a long pull at his cigar. “Trust a Belgian peasant to do a bit of play-acting![7] You’re looking a bit pasty about the gills, old man. Have another glass of that burgundy, and pull yourself together!”
Tinker gulped down his wine, and there came a clattering of hoofs on the cobblestones outside, raucous words of command, and a heavy pounding at the door.
“Cheer up, Otto!” chuckled Blake. “We’re goin’ to have a real am-using time!”
“Sure!” said Tinker, imitating a Yankee drawl. “I guess I’m beginning to feel good!”
The hammering at the door grew more violent, and a helmeted face showed for a moment at the uncurtained window.
Then there came voices in the passage, and the door was flung open as a captain of Uhlans strode in.
“Say, what the tarnation snakes—” began Blake, half rising; and then, as if recognising the presence of an officer, he drew himself up, and gave a stiff military salute in true Prussian fashion.
“Good-evening, Herr Capitan!” he said, in German. “To what do we owe this honour?”
The officer scowled at them suspiciously, but he instinctively returned the salute.
“Your papers!” he demanded gruffly.
Blake blew out a cloud of smoke.
“Certainly,” said he, fumbling in his pockets. “You will find them all in order!”
He handed over his passport, and, turning to Tinker, said to him:
“Say, Otto, the officer wants to look at your blame passport. Tote it out right away. I guess these Germans have got passports on the brain these days! I reckon to have mine framed, and wear it as a chest-preserver!”
The officer glanced at the papers, and raised his eyebrows as he read the signatures of the visas.
“You are American citizens, I see,” he said, speaking in fluent, if rather guttural, English.
“‘The boy guessed right the very first time’,” intoned Blake, using the words of an old comic opera song. “Yes, sir, we are American citizens sure enough, vouched for by your government, as you can see for yourself!”
The signatures had evidently made an impression on the officer’s mind.
“Your business?” he asked, in a more civil tone.
“Is my own,” snapped Blake, “and I’m not giving it away to any old thing that may be a spy dressed up in a captain’s uniform!”
The officer dropped his hand to his sword.
Blake didn’t move a muscle.
“Say, don’t you try any of that funny business, sonny!” he said. “If you start in carving slices off me, I reckon you’ll be getting into trouble with the boss who runs your department.
“If you just look at the signatures on that bit of paper again, you will see that there are some of your generals who consider us mighty precious. In fact, they’d rather break up a score or so of junior officers than get us scratched, and you’ll be wise to remember it!”
The captain flushed and bit his lip. It was undoubtedly true that if he blundered he was likely to be stamped on first, and enquiries might or might not be made later.
“Your folk are mighty scary the way they bundle American citizens just now,” continued Blake. “They’re wanting all the sympathy they can get from us, and a good few other things as well. In fact, they’re inclined to slop over a bit about it!”
“Your pardon, Herr Schmidt. I take it from the names that you and Herr Adler have connections in the Fatherland?”
“Sure,” said Blake.
“Permit me to return you your papers. Truth to tell, there are two pestilential British spies at large. They’ve given us the slip so far, but my orders are to capture them at all costs. They have papers, you understand, of the first importance.
“You will pardon me, but I shall have to report your presence here, and must go through a perfectly formal enquiry—a mere matter of form.”
“Fire right ahead! Say, here are the keys of our grip sacks, if you’d like one of your men to go through them.”
He tossed a bunch of keys on the table as he spoke.
The officer took them up with a bow, and passed them to the sergeant behind him with a curt order.
“You have been here how long?”
“Round about a couple of days. We reckon to pull out tomorrow.”
“Your destination?”
“Stiltz.”
The officer looked surprised.
“I also go to Stiltz. It will give me pleasure to act as your escort as far.”
“Right you are!” said Blake. “And now, look here! You’re just itching to know our business, and I can’t tell it you, that’s flat; but I can give you a hint. I reckon there’s some things your folk could do with a lot more of. There’s copper—well, I guess the American mines are pretty good. There’s pigs—Amurrica is the home of the hog, canned or otherwise. There’s oil—what’s wrong with the wells in little Pennsylvania?
“There’s quite a lot of handy rations made in the States. Yes, sir, and there’s considerable raw material lying around. Down South we grow cotton. We do a big trade in copra, and we own some fine big ships to take things across the Atlantic Ferry in. You can bet on that. We are business people—what’s more, we’ve got the goods.
“What’s wrong with a big private syndicate buying up those goods, and sending them in trade to a neutral country without asking too many questions about what the neutral country is going to do with them? I guess Holland, say, isn’t at the opposite end of the earth to Belgium.
“I should surmise that whole heaps of things might be dumped down in a Dutch port, got into the wrong train, and slide over into Belgium by mistake; and if your folk—who seem to be running Belgium just now, all but one little corner—happen to confiscate those misguided trains, whose fault is it? Not ours! We don’t run the railroads this side, do we?
“There, sonny, I guess you know as much as is healthy for you. ‘Nuff said!”
“Herr Schmidt, I make you my apologies, and to the Herr Adler, too.”
“Well, captain, what’s wrong with a bottle of Burgundy? The barkeep here has got a first-class brand. There’s a sample of it warming by the fire right now; and I guess, as you’re cold after your ride, there will be nothing wrong with lacing it with some liqueur brandy. Otto, you tell the innkeeper to let us have a bottle of his best cognac and some clean glasses.”
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The captain beamed approval, and the liqueur was fetched. Blake poured him out a big goblet full of the mixture, and watched him gulp it down, and filled his glass again. His own glass he contrived to empty on the floor under the table, and Tinker was just going to do the same, when they were startled by the sound of a galloping horse.
Blake caught Tinker’s eye, and dropped his hands significantly to his coat-pocket. New arrivals might complicate matters unpleasantly.
The captain drained his glass, and, going to the window, flung it open.
“Who goes there?” he shouted; and one of the men on guard at the door took up the challenge.
Blake and Tinker also peered out, and then suddenly a riderless horse came hurrying out of the darkness. It was the mare which they had turned adrift, and which in some way had contrived to break its bridle, and headed for the nearest human habitation in hopes of warmth and a feed. It slowed down into a trot, as the sentry ran out and caught it. The captain and the others also went out.
“Thunder!” cried the captain, as soon as he got a clear view of the animal. “That’s Karl Elteir’s mare. I should know her anywhere. He’s lieutenant of B troop. See the metal-work on the bridle; and here’s the regimental brand mark. How the deuce does the mare come here in this state?”
“I guess she must have decanted your lieutenant into a ditch somewhere,” drawled Blake. “Girths must have snapped; saddle’s clean gone, irons and all; bridle’s busted. I guess there’s been an ill-forsaken smash.”
“Ach, so!” said the captain. “Karl was always heavy with his hands. And the mare has a vicious temper. I know her. She has thrown him before now. He was not a good horse-master. But, all the same, this alters affairs. I must push on to Stiltz at once. Does that suit your convenience, Herr Schmidt?”
“Sure,” said Blake. “But I reckon you’d better finish the bottle first. And I guess we can’t walk all the way—with your permission, I’ll ride Von Elteir’s mare. A bit of sacking for a saddle and a rope-bridle will fix me. And I guess one of your men can lend Otto here a mount?”
“We’ll leave our ‘grips’ right here in charge of the landlord, and look for them on the way back. I don’t reckon to be detained more than twenty-four hours in Stiltz, anyway. And we Amurrricans can get around this old globe comfortably with a toothbrush and a celluloid collar; we’re used to it. I’ll just pay my bill, and then I’m ready.”
He walked down the passage to the kitchen, purposely leaving the door open; but as soon as he got to the back of the house, where the innkeeper was, he laid his finger on his lips as a sign for caution.
“Keep an eye on your two prisoners,” he whispered. “We ride with the German officer because we must, to avoid suspicion. Also, he goes our way, and it will be easier for us.” Then he added in a loud voice, as he handed over some coins: “I reckon that squares our account and a bit over. We’ll call back for the luggage to-morrow, or maybe the day after.”
The man winked knowingly.
“It shall be as the Herr wishes,” he said; “and I’ll keep all his belongings very safely until he requires them,” he added, with a grin.
“Good for you, sonny,” said Blake, and returned to the main room.
The troop horses had been brought round, and the captain, rather befuddled, was waiting for them.
A rickety old saddle had been found for the mare, and a forage horse was ready for Tinker—alias Otto Adler—and they set out through the darkness for Stiltz.
It was a dull, wearisome ride. The roads were bad and slippery, the night was pitch-dark, and more than once they lost their way altogether, and went wandering down accommodation roads which led to nowhere in particular, or ended up at a gate and a ploughed field. It was at one such halt that Tinker suggested to Blake, in a whisper, that they should do a bolt, and ride for it. But the latter negatived the idea altogether.
“We’ve got to get to Stiltz somehow,” he whispered back, “and we can get there best with these fellows to look after us. Besides, that officer man isn’t quite such a fool as he looks. My mare is fast enough to beat anything they’ve got; but that old cow of a thing you’re riding couldn’t stay a couple of furlongs without breaking something.
And he knows it. He picked it out on purpose.
“You lie low, old man, and we’ll get through to Van Zyl all right.”
They rode on steadily through the night, and about eleven they reached their destination.
The captain made straight for an inn named the Three Crowns, billeted his men in the stables and hayloft, and ordered rooms for himself and his two “American” friends. Incidentally, he posted a couple of sentries at the door, with orders that they were to be relieved every two hours.
The little frontier town was very busy, and in spite of the lateness of the hour all of the cafés remained open, and were ablaze with light.
Pleading fatigue after their ride, Blake and Tinker elected to go straight to their room. The officer, too, was yawning and drowsy, and professed himself ready for bed, his room being next to theirs. The partition dividing the two was only thin matchboarding, and very soon they had the satisfaction of hearing him snore as only a German can.
“That’s good enough for us,” whispered Blake, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Give me the paper—quick! I’m off to try and find Van Zyl. The Lion d’Or is only a hundred yards or so away. I spotted it as we came by here. I shall go out by the window, to avoid giving the sentries pain. You must keep the door locked while I am gone, and snore like a grampus if there’s any disturbance. Stand by to give me a hand in when I come back. I may be in a hurry.”
“Right-ho!” said Tinker, and handed over the paper.
Blake took it, raised the window gently, and dropped out. It was only a short drop—six foot or so—and there was soft ground to land on. This was lucky, for there was still a light burning in the captain’s room, and the stables where the men were quartered were only just across the yard, and he could hear some of the horses moving restlessly in their strange quarters.
He skipped round through the big archway leading out of the yard, and glimpsed the sentries standing by the main door. They were drowsy, and obviously wearied of their job. Neither of them so much as glanced in his direction, and in a flash he was round the corner and out of sight.
He had taken his bearings well, and a sharp couple of minutes’ walk brought him to the Lion d’Or.
He did not dare ask for Van Zyl openly, for there were several German officers in the cafe; so he ordered himself a cup of coffee, and made a pretence of reading an evening paper.
Presently he noticed a big, weather-beaten man eyeing him curiously, and a trifle furtively, and after a little while the man got up and moved to Blake’s table, with a murmured grunt of apology, as he took his seat and ordered a glass of schnapps.
He sipped this slowly, and Blake continued to make a pretence of reading his paper, until, without a word, the big Dutchman’s hand slid out across the marble-topped table, and when it was withdrawn there lay on the table a piece of paper identical with one Blake had seen before, with the lower left-hand corner missing. At the same time the Dutchman’s eyelids fluttered perceptively, and with a jerk of his thumb he indicated the German officers at the next table.
Blake nodded, took up the piece of paper, rolled it into a spill, which he held to the candle-flame, and lit his cigarette with it.
“You are from Antwerp?” said the captain, in fair English. “Is it not? A description of you was sent on to me by a friend.” With a stub of pencil he scrawled his name on the table, and presently rubbed it out again with his forefinger. “There are spies—spies everywhere,” he said, in low tones; and once more he indicated the Germans at the next table. One of them was watching them keenly from time to time.
Blake, with a quick movement of his hand, slipped the precious document between the pages of the paper and yawned.
“You would care to read the paper?” he said in German. “It is dull.
There is no news.” And he slid the paper with the document concealed in it across the table under the very nose of the watching German.
Van Zyl took it composedly, with a grunt of thanks, and fumbled for a pair of all-removed glasses, which he perched on his nose, preparatory to reading. He turned over the pages, gave one swift glance at the document under cover of them, and pressed Blake’s foot under the table.
Then, after reading for a minute or two, he cursed the light volubly, folded up the paper, document and all, put it in his pocket, and, with a curt good-night, strolled out by a private door.
Blake finished his coffee leisurely, then he, too, got up, and went out by the main door leading onto the street, very conscious that the German officer was watching his every movement.
He made his way back to the Three Crowns, had to wait for a while as the sentries were just being changed, and then slipped in through the archway, and gave Tinker the signal agreed upon.
The latter was waiting in readiness, and in two minutes Blake was back in his room again, and the German officer next door was snoring, more like a hog than ever.
“Well?” asked Tinker, in a whisper.
“All serene!” said Blake. “The place is simply riddled with spies; but Van Zyl is as sharp as they make them, though he does look like a Boer farmer who has been to sea by mistake. His appearance is a treat. Guileless-looking sort of johnnie until you happen to notice his jaw, and then you see the man’s true self. Oh, he’s a hard nut to crack, and as cool as a cucumber with it all!
“Now it’s me for bed. We’ll pull out of here early in the morning. We’ve done all we guaranteed to do, and you can trust Van Zyl to do the rest!”