The Vanished Messenger

by Edward Phillips Oppenheimer

  "I haven't made up my mind yet, sir," the boy replied.

  Mr. Fentolin sighed.

  "Always that lack of initiative," he remarked. "A lack of initiative is one of your worst faults, I am afraid, dear Gerald."

  The boy looked up quickly. For a moment it seemed as though he were about to make a fierce reply. He met Mr. Fentolin's steady gaze, however, and the words died away upon his lips.

  "I rather thought," he said, "of going into Norwich, if you could spare me. Captain Holt has asked me to lunch at the Barracks."

  Mr. Fentolin shook his head gently.

  "It is most unfortunate," he declared. "I have a commission for you later in the day."

  Gerald continued his breakfast in silence. He bent over his plate so that his face was almost invisible. Mr. Fentolin was peeling a peach. A servant entered the room.

  "Lieutenant Godfrey, sir," he announced.

  They all looked up. A trim, clean-shaven, hard-featured young man in naval uniform was standing upon the threshold. He bowed to Esther.

  "Very sorry to intrude, sir, at this hour of the morning," he said briskly. "Lieutenant Godfrey, my name. I am flag lieutenant of the Britannia. You can't see her, but she's not fifty miles off at this minute. I landed at Sheringham this morning, hired a car and made the best of my way here. Message from the Admiral, sir."

  Mr. Fentolin smiled genially.

  "We are delighted to see you, Lieutenant Godfrey," he said. "Have some breakfast."

  "You are very good, sir," the officer answered. "Business first. I'll breakfast afterwards, with pleasure, if I may. The Admiral's compliments, and he would take it as a favour if you would haul down your wireless for a few days."

  "Haul down my wireless," Mr. Fentolin repeated slowly.

  "We are doing a lot of manoeuvring within range of you, and likely to do a bit more," the young man explained. "You are catching up our messages all the time. Of course, we know they're quite safe with you, but things get about. As yours is only a private installation, we'd like you, if you don't mind, sir, to shut up shop for a few days."

  Mr. Fentolin seemed puzzled.

  "But, my dear sir," he protested, "we are not at war, are we?"

  "Not yet," the young officer replied, "but God knows when we shall be! We are under sealed orders, anyway, and we don't want any risk of our plans leaking out. That's why we want your wireless disconnected."

  "You need say no more," Mr. Fentolin assured him. "The matter is already arranged. Esther, let me present Lieutenant Godfrey—my niece, Miss Fentolin; Mr. Gerald Fentolin, my nephew; Mr. Hamel, a guest. See that Lieutenant Godfrey has some breakfast, Gerald. I will go myself and see my Marconi operator."

  "Awfully good of you, sir," the young man declared, "and I am sure we are very sorry to trouble you. In a week or two's time you can go into business again as much as you like. It's only while we are fiddling around here that the Admiral's jumpy about things. May my man have a cup of coffee, sir? I'd like to be on the way back in a quarter of an hour."

  Mr. Fentolin halted his chair by the side of the bell, and rang it.

  "Pray make use of my house as your own, sir," he said gravely. "From what you leave unsaid, I gather that things are more serious than the papers would have us believe. Under those circumstances, I need not assure you that any help we can render is entirely yours."

  Mr. Fentolin left the room. Lieutenant Godfrey was already attacking his breakfast. Gerald leaned towards him eagerly.

  "Is there really going to be war?" he demanded.

  "Ask those chaps at The Hague," Lieutenant Godfrey answered. "Doing their best to freeze us out, or something. All I know is, if there's going to be fighting, we are ready for them. By-the-by, what have you got wireless telegraphy for here, anyway?"

  "It's a fad of my uncle's," Gerald replied. "Since his accident he amuses himself in all sorts of queer ways."

  Lieutenant Godfrey nodded.

  "Poor fellow!" he said. "I heard he was a cripple, or something of the sort. Forgive my asking, but—you people are English, aren't you?"

  "Rather!" Gerald answered. "The Fentolins have lived here for hundreds of years. Why do you ask that?"

  Lieutenant Godfrey hesitated. He looked, for the moment, scarcely at his ease.

  "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "The old man was very anxious I should find out. You see, a lot of information seems to have got over on the other side, and we couldn't think where it had leaked out, except through your wireless. However, that isn't likely, of course, unless you've got one of these beastly Germans in your receiving-room. Now if I can borrow a cigarette, a cigar, or a pipe of tobacco—any mortal thing to smoke—I'll be off, if I may. The old man turned me out at an unearthly hour this morning, and in Sheringham all the shops were closed. Steady on, young fellow," he laughed, as Gerald filled his pockets with cigarettes. "Well, here's good morning to you, Miss Fentolin. Good morning, sir. How long ought it to take me to get to Sheringham?"

  "About forty minutes," Gerald told him, "if your car's any good at all."

  "It isn't much," was the somewhat dubious reply. "However, we'll shove along. You in the Service?" he enquired, as they walked down the hall together.

  "Hope I shall be before long," Gerald answered. "I'm going into the army, though."

  "Have to hurry up, won't you?"

  Gerald sighed.

  "It's a little difficult for me. Here's your car. Good luck to you!"

  "My excuses to Mr. Fentolin," Lieutenant Godfrey shouted, "and many thanks."

  He jumped into the automobile and was soon on his way back. Gerald watched him until he was nearly out of sight. On the knoll, two of the wireless operators were already at work. Mr. Fentolin sat in his chair below, watching. The blue sparks were flashing. A message was just being delivered. Presently Mr. Fentolin turned his chair, and with Meekins by his side, made his way back to the house. He passed along the hall and into his study. Gerald, who was on his way to the dining-room, heard the ring of the telephone bell and the call for the trunk special line. He hesitated for a moment. Then he made his way slowly down towards the study and stood outside the door, listening. In a moment he heard Mr. Fentolin's clear voice, very low yet very penetrating.

  "The Mediterranean Fleet will be forty-seven hours before it comes together," was the message he heard. "The Channel Fleet will manoeuvre off Sheerness, waiting for it. The North Sea Fleet is seventeen units under nominal strength."

  Gerald turned the handle of the door slowly and entered. Mr. Fentolin was just replacing the receiver on its stand. He looked up at his nephew, and his eyebrows came together.

  "What do you mean by this?" he demanded. "Don't you know that I allow no one in here when I am telephoning on the private wire?"

  Gerald closed the door behind him and summoned up all his courage.

  "It is because I have heard what you were saying over the telephone that I am here," he declared. "I want to know to whom you were sending that message which you have intercepted outside."

  Chapter XXII

  Mr. Fentolin sat for a moment in his chair with immovable face. Then he pointed to the door, which Gerald had left open behind him.

  "Close that door, Gerald."

  The boy obeyed. Mr. Fentolin waited until he had turned around again.

  "Come and stand over here by the side of the table," he directed.

  Gerald came without hesitation. He stood before his uncle with folded arms. There was something else besides sullenness in his face this morning, something which Mr. Fentolin was quick to recognise.

  "I do not quite understand the nature of your question, Gerald," Mr. Fentolin began. "It is unlike you. You do not seem yourself. Is there anything in particular the matter?"

  "Only this," Gerald answered firmly. "I don't understand why this naval fellow should come here and ask you to close up your wireless because secrets have been leaking out, and a few moments afterwards you should be picking up a message and telephoning to London informat
ion which was surely meant to be private. That's all. I've come to ask you about it."

  "You heard the message, then?"

  "I did."

  "You listened—at the keyhole?"

  "I listened outside," Gerald assented doggedly. "I am glad I listened. Do you mind answering my question?"

  "Do I mind!" Mr. Fentolin repeated softly. "Really, Gerald, your politeness, your consideration, your good manners, astound me. I am positively deprived of the power of speech."

  "I'll wait here till it comes to you again, then," the boy declared bluntly. "I've waited on you hand and foot, done dirty work for you, put up with your ill-humours and your tyranny, and never grumbled. But there is a limit! You've made a poor sort of creature of me, but even the worm turns, you know. When it comes to giving away secrets about the movements of our navy at a time when we are almost at war, I strike."

  "Melodramatic, almost dramatic, but, alas! so inaccurate," Mr. Fentolin sighed. "Is this a fit of the heroics, boy, or what has come over you? Have you by any chance—forgotten?"

  Mr. Fentolin's voice seemed suddenly to have grown in volume. His eyes dilated, he himself seemed to have grown in size. Gerald stepped a little back. He was trembling, but his expression had not changed.

  "No, I haven't forgotten. There's a great debt we are doing our best to pay, but there's such a thing as asking top much, there's such a thing as drawing the cords to snapping point. I'm speaking for Esther and mother as well as myself. We have been your slaves; in a way I suppose we are willing to go on being your slaves. It's the burden that Fate has placed around our necks, and we'll go through with it. All I want to point out is that there are limits, and it seems to me that we are up against them now."

  Mr. Fentolin nodded. He had the air of a man who wishes to be reasonable.

  "You are very young, my boy," he said, "very young indeed. Perhaps that is my fault for not having let you see more of the world. You have got some very queer ideas into your head. A little too much novel reading lately, eh? I might treat you differently. I might laugh at you and send you out of the room. I won't. I'll tell you what you ask. I'll explain what you find so mysterious. The person to whom I have been speaking is my stockbroker."

  "Your stockbroker!" Gerald exclaimed.

  Mr. Fentolin nodded.

  "Mr. Bayliss," he continued, "of the firm of Bayliss, Hundercombe & Dunn, Throgmorton Court. Mr. Bayliss is a man of keen perceptions. He understands exactly the effect of certain classes of news upon the market. The message which I have just sent to him is practically common property. It will be in the Daily Mail to-morrow morning. The only thing is that I have sent it to him just a few minutes sooner than any one else can get it. There is a good deal of value in that, Gerald. I do not mind telling you that I have made a large fortune through studying the political situation and securing advance information upon matters of this sort. That fortune some day will probably be yours. It will be you who will benefit. Meanwhile, I am enriching myself and doing no one any harm."

  "But how do you know," Gerald persisted, "that this message would ever have found its way to the Press? It was simply a message from one battleship to another. It was not intended to be picked up on land. There is no other installation but ours that could have picked it up. Besides, it was in code. I know that you have the code, but the others haven't."

  Mr. Fentolin yawned slightly.

  "Ingenious, my dear Gerald, but inaccurate. You do not know that the message was in code, and in any case it was liable to be picked up by any steamer within the circle. You really do treat me, my boy, rather as though I were a weird, mischief-making person with a talent for intrigue and crime of every sort. Look at your suspicions last night. I believe that you and Mr. Hamel had quite made up your minds that I meant evil things for Mr. John P. Dunster. Well, I had my chance. You saw him depart."

  "What about his papers?"

  "I will admit," Mr. Fentolin replied, "that I read his papers. They were of no great consequence, however, and he has taken them away with him. Mr. Dunster, as a matter of fact, turned out to be rather a mare's-nest. Now, come, since you are here, finish everything you have to say to me. I am not angry. I am willing to listen quite reasonably."

  Gerald shook his head.

  "Oh, I can't!" he declared bitterly. "You always get the best of it. I'll only ask you one more question. Are you having the wireless hauled down?"

  Mr. Fentolin pointed out of the window. Gerald followed his finger. Three men were at work upon the towering spars.

  "You see," Mr. Fentolin continued tolerantly, "that I am keeping my word to Lieutenant Godfrey. You are suffering from a little too much imagination, I am afraid. It is really quite a good fault. By-the-by, how do you get on with our friend Mr. Hamel?"

  "Very well," the boy replied. "I haven't seen much of him."

  "He and Esther are together a great deal, eh?" Mr. Fentolin asked quickly.

  "They seem to be quite friendly."

  "It isn't Mr. Hamel, by any chance, who has been putting these ideas into your head?"

  "No one has been putting any ideas into my head," Gerald answered hotly. "It's simply what I've seen and overheard. It's simply what I feel around, the whole atmosphere of the place, the whole atmosphere you seem to create around you with these brutes Sarson and Meekins; and those white-faced, smooth-tongued Marconi men of yours, who can't talk decent English; and the post-office man, who can't look you in the face; and Miss Price, who looks as though she were one of the creatures, too, of your torture chamber. That's all."

  Mr. Fentolin waited until he had finished. Then he waved him away.

  "Go and take a long walk, Gerald," he advised. "Fresh air is what you need, fresh air and a little vigorous exercise. Run along now and send Miss Price to me."

  Gerald overtook Hamel upon the stairs.

  "By this time," the latter remarked, "I suppose that our friend Mr. Dunster is upon the sea."

  Gerald nodded silently. They passed along the corridor. The door of the room which Mr. Dunster had occupied was ajar. As though by common consent, they both stopped and looked in. The windows were all wide open, the bed freshly made. The nurse was busy collecting some medicine bottles and fragments of lint. She looked at them in surprise.

  "Mr. Dunster has left, sir," she told them.

  "We saw him go," Gerald replied.

  "Rather a quick recovery, wasn't it, nurse?" Hamel asked.

  "It wasn't a recovery at all, sir," the woman declared sharply. "He'd no right to have been taken away. It's my opinion Doctor Sarson ought to be ashamed of himself to have permitted it."

  "They couldn't exactly make a prison of the place, could they?" Hamel pointed out. "The man, after all, was only a guest."

  "That's as it may be, sir," the nurse replied. "All the same, those that won't obey their doctors aren't fit to be allowed about alone. That's the way I look at it."

  Mrs. Fentolin was passing along the corridor as they issued from the room. She started a little as she saw them.

  "What have you two been doing in there?" she asked quickly.

  "We were just passing," Hamel explained. "We stopped for a moment to speak to the nurse."

  "Mr. Dunster has gone," she said. "You saw him go, Gerald. You saw him, too, didn't you, Mr. Hamel?"

  "I certainly did," Hamel admitted.

  Mrs. Fentolin pointed to the great north window near which they were standing, through which the clear sunlight streamed a little pitilessly upon her worn face and mass of dyed hair.

  "You ought neither of you to be indoors for a minute on a morning like this," she declared. "Esther is waiting for you in the car, I think, Mr. Hamel."

  Gerald passed on up the stairs to his room, but Hamel lingered. A curious impulse of pity towards his hostess stirred him. The morning sunlight seemed to have suddenly revealed the tragedy of her life. She stood there, a tired, worn woman, with the burden heavy upon her shoulders.

  "Why not come out with Miss Fentolin and me?" he
suggested. "We could lunch at the Golf Club, out on the balcony. I wish you would. Can't you manage it?"

  She shook her head.

  "Thank you very much," she said. "Mr. Fentolin does not like to be left."

  Something in the finality of her words seemed to him curiously eloquent of her state of mind. She did not move on. She seemed, indeed, to have the air of one anxious to say more. In that ruthless light, the advantages of her elegant clothes and graceful carriage were suddenly stripped away from her. She was the abject wreck of a beautiful woman, wizened, prematurely aged. Nothing remained but the eyes, which seemed somehow to have their message for him.

  "Mr. Fentolin is a little peculiar, you know," she went on, her voice shaking slightly with the effort she was making to keep it low. "He allows Esther so little liberty, she sees so few young people of her own age. I do not know why he allows you to be with her so much. Be careful, Mr. Hamel."

  Her voice seemed suddenly to vibrate with a curious note of suppressed fear. Almost as she finished her speech, she passed on. Her little gesture bade him remain silent. As she went up the stairs, she began to hum scraps of a little French air.

  Chapter XXIII

  Hamel sliced his ball at the ninth, and after waiting for a few minutes patiently, Esther came to help him look for it. He was standing down on the sands, a little apart from the two caddies who were beating out various tufts of long grass.

  "Where did it go?" she asked.

  "I have no idea," he admitted.

  "Why don't you help look for it?"

  "Searching for balls," he insisted, "is a caddy's occupation. Both the caddies are now busy. Let us sit down here. These sand hummocks are delightful. It is perfectly sheltered, and the sun is in our faces. Golf is an overrated pastime. Let us sit and watch that little streak of blue find its way up between the white posts."