The Penguin Book of First World War Stories

by None

  ‘No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.’

  ‘Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay. He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things. He is absolutely vital to my plans, and I have to study him, I assure you.’ They had strolled out on to the terrace again, and along it to the farther end, where, at a touch from the Baron’s chauffeur, the great car shivered and chuckled. ‘Those are the lights of Harwich, I suppose,’ said the secretary, pulling on his dust-coat. ‘How still and peaceful it all seems! There may be other lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place! The heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful, if all that the good Zeppelin promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?’

  Only one window showed a light behind them. In it there stood a lamp, and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.

  ‘That is Martha, the only servant I have left.’

  The secretary chuckled.

  ‘She might almost personify Britannia,’ said he, ‘with her complete self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au revoir, Von Bork!’ With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot forward through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the luxurious limousine with his thoughts full of the impending European tragedy, and hardly observing that as his car swung round the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the opposite direction.

  Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed that his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a new experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread house, for his family and household had been a large one. It was a relief to him, however, to think that they were all in safety, and that, but for that one old woman who lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole place to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his study, and he set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A leather valise stood beside his table, and into this he began to pack very neatly and systematically the precious contents of his safe. He had hardly got started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught the sound of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction, strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to the terrace. He was just in time to see the lights of a small car come to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang out of it and advanced swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a heavily-built, elderly man with a grey moustache, settled down like one who resigns himself to a long vigil.

  ‘Well?’ asked Von Bork, eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.

  For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above his head.

  ‘You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,’ he cried. ‘I’m bringin’ home the bacon at last.’

  ‘The signals?’

  ‘Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them – semaphore,8 lamp-code,9 Marconi10– a copy, mind you, not the original. The sucker that sold it would have handed over the book itself. That was too dangerous. But it’s the real goods, and you can lay to that.’ He slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from which the other winced.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’m all alone in the house. I was only waiting for this. Of course, a copy is better than the original. If an original were missing they would change the whole thing. You think it’s all safe about this copy?’

  The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs from the arm-chair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut features and a small goatee beard, which gave him a general resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked sodden cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and relit it. ‘Makin’ ready for a move?’ he remarked, as he looked round him. ‘Say, Mister,’ he added, as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the curtain was now removed, ‘you don’t tell me you keep your papers in that?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to be some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a can-opener. If I’d known that any letter of mine was goin’ to lie loose in a thing like that I’d have been a mutt to write to you at all.’

  ‘It would puzzle any of your crooks to force that safe,’ Von Bork answered. ‘You won’t cut that metal with any tool.’

  ‘But the lock?’

  ‘No; it’s a double combination lock. You know what that is?’

  ‘Search me,’ said the American, with a shrug.

  ‘Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get the lock to work.’ He rose and showed a double radiating disc round the keyhole. ‘This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for the figures.’

  ‘Well, well, that’s fine.’

  ‘So it’s not quite so simple as you thought. It was four years ago that I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and figures?’

  ‘It’s beyond me.’

  ‘Well, I chose “August” for the word, and “1914” for the figures, and here we are.’

  The American’s face showed his surprise and admiration.

  ‘My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing.’

  ‘Yes; a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is, and I’m shutting down to-morrow morning.’

  ‘Well, I guess you’ll have to fix me up too. I’m not stayin’ in this goldarned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair rampin’.I’d rather watch him from over the water.’

  ‘But you’re an American citizen?’

  ‘Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he’s doin’ time in Portland11 all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell him you’re an American citizen. “It’s British law and order over here,” says he. By the way, Mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to me you don’t do much to cover your men.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Von Bork asked, sharply.

  ‘Well, you are their employer, ain’t you? It’s up to you to see that they don’t fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever pick them up? There’s James –’

  ‘It was James’s own fault. You know that yourself. He was too self-willed for the job.’

  ‘James was a bonehead – I give you that. Then there was Hollis.’

  ‘The man was mad.’

  ‘Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It’s enough to make a man bughouse when he has to play a part from mornin’ to night, with a hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there is Steiner –’

  Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.

  ‘What about Steiner?’

  ‘Well, they’ve pulled him, that’s all. They raided his store last night, and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth Jail. You’ll go off and he, poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets clear with his life. That’s why I want to get over the salt water as soon as you do.’

  Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see that the news had shaken him.

  ‘How could they have got on to Steiner?’ he muttered. ‘That’s the worst blow yet.’

  ‘Well, you nearly had a darned sight worse one, for I believe they are not far off me.’

  ‘You don’t mean that!’

  ‘Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and when I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I want to know, Mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner is the fifth man you’ve lost since I signed on for you, and I know the name of the sixth if I don’t get a move on. How do you explain
it, and ain’t you ashamed to see your men go down like this?’

  Von Bork flushed crimson.

  ‘How dare you speak in such a way?’

  ‘If I didn’t dare things, Mister, I wouldn’t be in your service. But I’ll tell you straight what is in my mind. I’ve heard that with you German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not very sorry to see him put away where he can’t talk too much.’

  Von Bork sprang to his feet.

  ‘Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents?’

  ‘I don’t stand for that, Mister, but there’s a stool pigeon or a cross somewhere, and it’s up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow, I am taking no more chances. It’s me for little Holland, and the sooner the better.’

  Von Bork had mastered his anger.

  ‘We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of victory,’ said he. ‘You’ve done splendid work and taken big risks, and I can’t forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can come with us to Berlin or get a boat from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from now, when Von Tirpitz gets to work. But let us settle up, Altamont. I’ll take that book and pack it with the rest.’

  The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to give it up.

  ‘What about the dough?’ he asked.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The boodle. The reward. The five hundred pounds. The gunner turned durned nasty at the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it would have been nitsky for you and me. “Nothin’ doin’!” says he, and he meant it too, but the last hundred did it. It’s cost me two hundred pounds from first to last, so it isn’t likely I’d give it up without gettin’ my wad.’

  Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. ‘You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of my honour,’ said he; ‘you want the money before you give up the book.’

  ‘Well, Mister, it is a business proposition.’

  ‘All right. Have your way.’ He sat down at the table and scribbled a cheque, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to his companion. ‘After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr Altamont,’ said he, ‘I don’t see why I should trust you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?’ he added, looking back over his shoulder at the American. ‘There’s the cheque upon the table. I claim the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up.’

  The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a winding of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letters, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the master-spy glare at this strangely-irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his writhing face.

  ‘Another glass, Watson?’ said Mr Sherlock Holmes, as he extended the dusty bottle of Imperial Tokay. ‘We must drink to this joyous reunion.’

  The thick-set chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed forward his glass with some eagerness.

  ‘It is a good wine, Holmes,’ he said, when he had drunk heartily to the sentiment.

  ‘A remarkable wine, Watson. Our noisy friend upon the sofa has assured me that it is from Franz Joseph’s12 special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace.13 Might I trouble you to open the window, for chloroform vapour does not help the palate.’

  The safe was ajar, and Holmes, who was now standing in front of it, was removing dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it neatly in Von Bork’s valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping stertorously, with a strap round his upper arms and another round his legs.

  ‘We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption. Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be glad to hear that all is well.’

  The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtsied with a smile to Mr Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the figure upon the sofa.

  ‘It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all.’

  ‘I am glad of that, Mr Holmes. According to his lights he has been a kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?’

  ‘No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind. We waited some time for your signal to-night.’

  ‘It was the secretary, sir; the stout gentleman from London.’

  ‘I know. His car passed ours. But for your excellent driving, Watson, we should have been the very type of Europe under the Prussian juggernaut. What more, Martha?’

  ‘I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your plans, sir, to find him here.’

  ‘No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so on the hill until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You can report to me to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge’s Hotel.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I suppose you have everything ready to leave?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses, as usual. He received nine; I have these also.’

  ‘Very good, Martha. I will look into them to-morrow. Good-night. These papers,’ he continued, as the old lady vanished, ‘are not of very great importance, for, of course, the information which they represent has been sent off long ago to the German Government. These are the originals, which could not safely be got out of the country.’

  ‘Then they are of no use?’

  ‘I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least show our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good many of these documents have come to him through me, and I need not add are thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see a German cruiser navigating the Solent according to the mine-field plans which I have furnished. But you, Watson’– he stopped his work and took his old friend by the shoulders –‘I’ve hardly seen you in the light yet. How have the years used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.’

  ‘I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car. But you, Holmes – you have changed very little – save for that horrible goatee.’

  ‘Those are the sacrifices one makes for one’s country, Watson,’ said Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. ‘To-morrow it will be but a dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge’s to-morrow as I was before this American stunt – I beg your pardon, Watson; my well of English seems to be permanently defiled – before this American job came my way.’

  ‘But you had retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South Downs.’

  ‘Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum opus of my latter years!’ He picked up the volume from the table and read out the whole title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. Alone I did it. Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days,14 when I watched the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of London.’

  ‘But how did you get to work again?’

  ‘Ah! I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone I could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my humble roof –! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa was a bit too good for our people. He was in a class by himself. Things were going wrong, and no one could understand why they were going wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was evidence of some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary to expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look
into the matter. It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not been devoid of excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago, graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave serious trouble to the constabulary at Skibbereen,15 and so eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me as a likely man, you will realize that the matter was complex. Since then I have been honoured by his confidence, which has not prevented most of his plans going subtly wrong and five of his best agents being in prison. I watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they ripened. Well, sir, I hope that you are none the worse?’

  The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who, after much gasping and blinking, had lain quietly listening to Holmes’s statement. He broke out now into a furious stream of German invective, his face convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his swift investigation of documents, his long, nervous fingers opening and folding the papers while his prisoner cursed and swore.

  ‘Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages,’ he observed, when Von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion. ‘Halloa! Halloa!’ he added, as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before putting it in the box. ‘This should put another bird in the cage. I had no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long had an eye upon him. Dear me, Mister Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer for!’

  The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa and was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his captor.

  ‘I shall get level with you, Altamont,’ he said, speaking with slow deliberation. ‘If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you.’

  ‘The old sweet song,’ said Holmes. ‘How often have I heard it in days gone by! It was a favourite ditty of the late lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.’

  ‘Curse you, you double traitor!’ cried the German, straining against his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.

  ‘No, no, it is not so bad as that,’ said Holmes, smiling. ‘As my speech surely shows you, Mr Altamont of Chicago had no existence in fact. He was a concoction, a myth, an isolated strand from my bundle of personalities. I used him and he is gone.’