That name lent me new strength. No matter to what uses it was being put in this present imbroglio, to me it was a name ringing with honor and high emprise. It was the mantle of Elijah fallen from on high, and I the Elisha who would bear it worthily.
I looked about the room. It was bare of all decorations, even of furniture, save for an excessively plain table and a few purely utilitarian chairs. It looked like a room taken only for the specific purpose of a brief moment, and ready to be vacated at an instant’s notice.
My only companions were the black-masked guard and two other individuals, similarly protected, who sat at the table playing chess. White, I could see at a glance, had the advantage; and even as I observed the fact, the player of the white pieces spoke.
“Schach!” he said, in guttural glee.
Under other circumstances I should have regarded a chess game, even one conducted in German, as a pleasant evidence of cultural leisure. It is a game which I respect and admire, although I cannot lay claim to any especial proficiency. But in view of all that had gone before, I did not find chess at this moment a good augury. All too forcefully I remembered the remark of Holmes in “The Adventure of the Retired Colourman”: “‘Amberley excelled at chess—one mark, Watson, of a scheming mind.’”
White’s advantage was even more marked than I had noted, for in an instant he spoke again.
“Matt!” he said in tones expressive of the triumphant smirk which must lie hidden beneath the black cloth.
Black pushed back his chair. “Es geht doch immer so,” he sighed without any particular regret. “That’s the way it always goes.”
Throughout the time that I sat in this little room, the three men conversed in German, though I have here transcribed their remarks into English. My first thought was that this was a ruse to exclude me from knowledge of their conversation; but later developments have caused me to think differently. At all events the ruse, had it been one, would have failed of its purpose; for though I speak German indifferently at best, I can follow a conversation readily enough.
“Let the world go as it will,” White laughed. “Whether the vile forces of international Jewry triumph or we lead the world to a new and nobler life, one thing will remain fixed: I shall beat you at chess.”
“He has his uses, though,” the guard gestured at Black. “Who else was it who thought how to get rid of the body?”
“True,” White admitted. “It was a master stroke, that. And how fortunate that chance had brought us to this house where the window so conveniently overlooks a railroad track.”
I looked instinctively at the window; but the blinds were drawn down tight.
Black laughed. “It will be miles from here that it rolls off the roof of the car. And when it does, with the clothes changed and the face battered, who will know it for what it is?” Black looked across at me, as though for approbation of his brilliance. The smile which I contrived to assume might, I fear, have been strictly classified as sickly; but it seemed to pass muster at the moment.
“Our friend Altamont here is a silent individual, is he not?” the guard asked rhetorically. “But no matter. He is not our guest for social diversions; he has brought the crutch, and that is what counts.”
“It is funny, that crutch,” observed Black, who seemed to have a sense of humor all his own. “It is indeed as though we took from a cripple his crutch when from this Jew-ridden democracy” (he pronounced the word with infinite scorn) “we take its submarine plans.”
“They will be more useful to us by far,” said White calmly. “Another game while we wait for word from Grossmann?”
“He should be here any minute with the Irish girl,” the guard told them. “She may be useful if she does not resist too much.”
“We can at least make a start,” said White and Black whistled the phrase from “Tristan” which accompanies the words: “Mein Irisch Kind, wo weilest du?”
As they set up the men and commenced their game, I reflected upon the terrible situation which this careless conversation had revealed to me. Whoever Altamont was, he had been scheduled to be the means of conveying, through the use of the aluminum crutch, vital American submarine plans to this group of emissaries of the Nazi German government. What vital information could be conveyed in a message as brief as that I had found in the crutch, I could not imagine; but as the moments passed I realized more and more strongly that it was imperative that that message should never fall into their hands.
I found it hard to concentrate on my problem. For some ridiculous reason, the guard’s words concerning “the Irish girl” forced themselves constantly into the path of constructive reasoning. The phrase from “Tristan” haunted my mind, and with it, in superb incongruity to my surroundings, that opening passage of “The Waste Land” in which it is quoted. But this paper is no place in which to indulge in the fascinating subject of the results of free association.
To obtain anything but free association from my mind was, however, a task of supreme difficulty. At last I had reduced the problem to these simple terms:
A. I should shortly be escorted into the presence of this Grossmann.
B. Grossmann would expect me to hand over the crutch, and he would expect to find in it a cipher message.
C. If the crutch were empty, I should stand in great peril—a peril which might possibly involve the Irish girl as well.
D. Simple destruction of the message was therefore out of the question—the one possibility was substitution. There was a bare chance that the cipher might be one which Grossmann could not read off at once, but would have to decipher later or deliver to one who could do so. In that case …
Among the notes in my pocket was a copy of the list of numbers found in Stephen Worth’s brief case. If I could slip the submarine cipher out of the crutch and replace it with that list, I might gain time enough to make all good. I toyed with the crutch idly swinging and turning it, until finally it was reversed, with the armrest on the floor and the rubber tip in my hand. Twice, as I grasped the tip, I felt the guard’s eyes on me.
Then Black’s voice rose jubilant. “Schau mal hier!” he called. “Look at this! The world will never change, indeed! Tell this lout how he is to evade this trap!”
Now was my chance, now while the guard’s attention was fixed on the chess game. The rubber tip came off easily. With that concealed in my palm, I unscrewed the metal end. My fingers touched the paper. I my other hand waited the list of figures, ready for instant substitution.
But at this moment a knock sounded in the next room. “Grossmann!” the guard exclaimed. “Komm, Altamont!” He had turned his eyes full upon me; I could not attempt the substitution now.
There was only one chance, and I took it. Rising calmly, I continued to swing the crutch carelessly as I had been doing. I still swung it as I walked with the guard to Grossmann’s door. And as we passed under the electric light, I swung the crutch a little higher.
The bulb broke with a startling shotlike sound. In the instant darkness I heard the guard cursing me furiously, and realized as never before the truth of Holmes’ remark to Von Bork, that “‘though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages.’”
The darkness lasted only a moment. Then Grossmann’s door was flung open and light streamed into the room. But by that time the crutch contained a list of numbers, and the submarine cipher was in my mouth.
Grossmann’s name suited. He was not only large, in the German sense of the word, but also gross in the English sense. His mustache was unwaxed, to be sure, and his haircut was relatively American; but he looked as intolerably Prussian as the villain of a film of 1917 vintage.
He scarcely glanced at me. All that he had eyes for was the crutch. This he snatched from my hands with a curt “Dank’ schön, Altamont,” and eagerly unscrewed.
I trembled while he unfolded the paper. It was a tremor partly occasioned by fear lest he know instantly that this was a substitute message (for no matter how strong the German emphasis on
the merits of ersatz, I doubt if their enthusiasm extends to ersatz-naval secrets), but even more I trembled for purely physiological reasons. Swallowing a piece of paper is not nearly so simple a task as my reading had led me to expect. For one terrible instant I feared that I was going to give away the whole show by the exceedingly unheroic act of being sick all over Herr Grossmann’s office.
He glanced at the numbers and nodded. “Later,” he said curtly, “Number 17 will decode this. In the meantime, Herr Altamont, our thanks. Your reward you will receive in due time through the usual channels. Are there any questions?”
I had finally, as a compromise, lodged the fateful paper squirrel-like in my cheek. It seemed to produce no noticeable bulge, nor did it interfere with my speech. “Yes,” I replied, in what must have seemed childishly simple German, “one question. Where is the Irish girl?”
Grossmann appeared not to have heard me. “You will return as you came,” he growled. “Descend to the garage and enter the car. The driver will shortly return you to your dwelling.”
“Where is the Irish girl?” I repeated, advancing a step toward him.
“Underling!” he exclaimed. “Of me you ask that? Go to the car!”
As I took another step forward, the scream rang out. It came from a third room, opening off this. I turned toward it only to find Grossmann blocking my way with a drawn revolver.
Even though recent events seem to have involved me in an utterly unwonted number of physical combats, I have acquired no ability to describe them. I cannot say, “He led with this. I countered with that.” All that I know of this encounter is simply stated:
The crutch was close to my left hand. With one abrupt twist I swung it through the air and brought it down on Grossmann’s right, knocking the gun to the floor before he could fire. I closed with him. We exchanged blows. Then someone—possibly the guard had followed me into the room—struck a heavy blow on the back of my head. The scream sounded again as I lost consciousness.
When I recovered, it was to find a policeman bending over me. He helped me to my feet, and I said, “Thank you, officer.” That bit of paper was still in my mouth, and I am afraid my speech sounded somewhat thick. He looked dubious, but his doubts disappeared as I added, looking along the palm-lined street where I had been lying, “Could you please tell me what part of town I am in?”
Without a word he led me to the squad car at the curb. “Can you beat it, Joe?” he demanded of the man at the wheel. “Drunk at ten o’clock in the morning—and a nice-looking guy, too. Hop in, buddy,” he added to me.
As my indignant protesting seemed only to increase his suspicions, I reluctantly obeyed. “Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“Lincoln Heights jail,” he said. “Sorry, buddy, but we ain’t got much choice. Lying around like that don’t pretty up the streets none. What do you want to go hitting the bottle so early for?”
I disregarded the question. “Shall I see Lieutenant Finch there?” I asked.
“Finch—what’s Finch on now, Joe?” he turned to his companion.
“Headquarters—division of investigation,” said Joe.
“What do you want Finch for?” the other demanded.
“I don’t,” I replied. “But I think perhaps he wants me. If you could get him on your radio—”
“This is a one-way.” He thought a minute. “Look, Joe,” he said. “Pull up at the next call box. I’ll just check with Finch; there is something funny about this. What’s your name, buddy?”
At the next call box he descended. While waiting, I looked carelessly into the back of the car. There, on the floor, lay my aluminum crutch.
The brief remainder of this narrative is merely explanations. Lieutenant Finch told the patrolman that indeed one Drew Furness was wanted until further notice at 221B Romualdo Drive, whither the squad car brought me. The crutch they had acquired in the following manner:
The policeman on the beat had noticed men leaving what he knew to be a deserted house. Fortunately the squad car cruised past at that moment; he flagged the car and they gave chase. But the quarry had a brief head start, enough to lose themselves quickly. The police returned to examine the house, where they found nothing save a little cheap furniture and this crutch, which the squad car was taking to headquarters for whatever curious information might be obtainable from it. The house in which it was found, Joe added, somewhat surprised by my asking the question, was nowhere near a railroad track.
You will probably ask me now what conclusions I draw from this strange adventure and what bearing it has on the Worth case. For the moment, I prefer to stop at facts and leave theories until after I have heard the details of the, I gather, equally curious adventures which have befallen our other members. This much I will say: that apparently someone in this house is engaged in nefarious espionage, and that it is a blessing to our nation that I chanced to take his place this morning.
I have only one clue to the identity of this individual—the young man’s remark, “Get in the auto.” It is a most unlikely remark to make to one about to enter a taxicab. One might say, “Get in the cab,” or “Get in the taxi,” or, most likely, simply “Get in”—but hardly, “Get in the auto.”
It would be natural enough, however, to say, “Get in,” followed by a vocative. And the more I reflect upon the problem, the more I become convinced that the young man, knowing his fellow conspirator by name though not by sight, actually said, “Get in—Otto.”
Silence greeted the end of Drew Furness’ extraordinary narrative—a silence broken by a loud burst of laughter from Otto Federhut. The Austrian jurist’s shock of white hair trembled with the rhythmic amusement which shook his body.
“It is too much!” he gasped. “All things have I been called. Jew dog they used to call me when my decision went in all justice against some powerful Gauleiter. Atheist they have called me and filthy red and whore of Moscow. To these names am I accustomed; they no longer even amuse me in their inaccuracy of hysteria. But that I should now be called a Nazi agent—Herr Professor, you are sublime!”
Dr. Bottomley smiled. “It does seem, to say the least, a peculiar accusation. It might be better, Furness, if we postpone specific finger-pointing until we have heard all the narratives of today’s adventures.”
Drew Furness looked sorely confused by this reaction. “So that,” Maureen put in to console his bewilderment, “is why you called me at the studio today.”
But mention of this only added to his embarrassment. “Ah—yes,” he admitted hesitantly. “Naturally, I—that is, of course, I wished to check my experience from every angle, and it was naturally indicated, so to speak, that I should attempt to ascertain whether you—In other words, since no other Irish girl to my knowledge—”
“In short, Furness,” Dr. Bottomley broke in, “you were worried as hell about the girl and you wanted to find out if she was all right.”
“Must you force these tender confessions into the light, Doctor?” Harrison Ridgly drawled. “Let our professor hide his secret passion if he wishes; don’t make the poor chap bare his soul.”
“You will observe,” Jonadab Evans began didactically, “a certain curious parallelism in this adventure which we have just heard recounted.” Drew Furness cast him a grateful glance; that drily erudite voice was a welcome relief from the uncomfortable probing of Bottomley and Ridgly. “The Holmesianism of the experience runs even deeper than the aluminum crutch, the passwords, and the name Altamont. Combine the stolen secret of a submarine and the disposal of a body by placing it on top of a train and what do you have?”
“My word!” Furness exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. Of course! When you’re close to it, you can’t analyze so clearly; but it is an exact parallel.”
“To what?” said Sergeant Watson practically.
“To The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans,” Furness explained excitedly. “The same details—different in their application here, of course, but in essence—”
�
�More Holmes?” asked Watson patiently.
“Yes.”
“Oh,” said the Sergeant, and was silent.
“And now, Lieutenant,” Dr. Bottomley began, but broke off suddenly. “Where the devil is the Lieutenant?”
All turned to stare at the empty seat beside Maureen. “I don’t know,” she faltered. “He slipped out just as Drew was finishing his story. I—”
“Here I am,” Jackson said from the doorway. “Don’t worry—no melodrama about my disappearance. I just wanted to phone—not that I don’t trust you, Furness; but it never does any harm to check.”
“And you found—?” Bottomley asked.
“A squad car did pick up Furness just as he says, and the story of the men fleeing from the empty house and the crutch left there is all down in the records.”
“Merely corroborative detail,” murmured Dr. Bottomley, “though hardly, I trust, in the sense in which Pooh Bah used the phrase. And now, gentlemen, with your permission the chair will take the floor. I believe that, for proper chronological orders, my own story comes next. Mrmfk.” With careful gestures he smoothed his imperial, straightened his coat, and lit one of his miniature torpedoes.
Chapter 12
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TIRED CAPTAIN
being the narrative of Rufus Bottomley, M.D.
“I’m damned if I’m going to be hampered by a sheaf of papers to read from. If I am a scholar at all, I’m a talking scholar—the kind who settles down with his fellows of an evening, equipped with cigar and stein, and settles the literary, political, and medical problems of the world by means of the spoken word. I know I’m known as a man of letters ever since I published “G. P.”—and how I came to write that overrated mass of reminiscent pap, sound enough medical food to start with but carefully predigested and regurgitated for the curious layman, I’m damned if I know. Still less do I understand the size of my royalty checks.
The Case of the Baker Street Irregulars Page 13