The Newhaven-Dieppe route is spasmodically popular. There are nights when the trains to Paris are crowded; other nights when it is possible to obtain a carriage to yourself; and it happened that this evening, when Elijah Washington booked his seat, he might, if it had been physically possible, have sat in one compartment and put his feet on the seat in another.
Between the two great branches of the Anglo-Saxon race there is one notable difference. The Englishman prefers to travel in solitude and silence. His ideal journey is one from London to Constantinople in a compartment that is not invaded except by the ticket collector; and if it is humanly possible that he can reach his destination without having given utterance to anything more sensational than an agreement with some other passenger’s comment on the weather, he is indeed a happy man. The American loves company; he has the acquisitiveness of the Latin, combined with the rhetorical virtues of the Teuton. Solitude makes him miserable; silence irritates him. He wants to talk about large and important things, such as the future of the country, the prospects of agriculture and the fluctuations of trade, about which the average Englishman knows nothing, and is less interested. The American has a town pride, can talk almost emotionally about a new drainage system and grow eloquent upon a municipal balance sheet. The Englishman does not cultivate his town pride until he reaches middle age, and then only in sufficient quantities to feel disappointed with the place of his birth after he has renewed its acquaintance.
Mr. Washington found himself in an empty compartment, and, grunting his dissatisfaction, walked along the corridor, peeping into one cell after another in the hope of discovering a fellow-countryman in a similar unhappy plight. His search was fruitless and he returned to the carriage in which his bag and overcoat were deposited, and settled down to the study of an English humorous newspaper and a vain search for something at which any intelligent man could laugh.
The doors of the coach were at either end, and most passengers entering had to pass the open entrance of Mr. Washington’s compartment. At every click of the door he looked up, hoping to find a congenial soul. But disappointment awaited him, until a lady hesitated by the door. It was a smoking carriage, but Washington, who was a man of gallant character, would gladly have sacrificed his cigar for the pleasure of her society. Young, he guessed, and a widow. She was in black, an attractive face showed through a heavy veil.
“Is this compartment engaged?” she asked in a low voice that was almost a whisper.
“No, madam.” Washington rose, hat in hand.
“Would you mind?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Why, surely! Sit down, ma’am,” said the gallant American. “Would you like the corner seat by the window?”
She shook her head, and sat down near the door, turning her face from him.
“Do you mind my smoking?” asked Washington, after a while.
“Please smoke,” she said, and again turned her face away.
“English,” thought Mr. Washington in disgust, and hunched himself for an hour and a half of unrelieved silence.
A whistle blew, the train moved slowly from the platform, and Elijah Washington’s adventurous journey had begun.
They were passing through Croydon when the girl rose, and, leaning out, closed the little glass-panelled door.
“You should let me do that,” said Elijah reproachfully, and she murmured something about not wishing to trouble him, and he relapsed into his seat.
One or two of the men who passed looked in, and evidently this annoyed her, for she reached and pulled down the spring blind which partially hid her from outside observation, and after the ticket collector had been and punched the slips, she lowered the second of the three blinds.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
“Sure not, ma’am,” said Elijah, without any great heartiness. He had no desire to travel alone with a lady in a carriage so discreetly curtained. He had heard of cases…and by nature he was an extremely cautious man.
The speed of the train increased; the wandering passengers had settled down. The second of the ticket inspections came as they were rushing through Redhill, and Mr. Washington thought uncomfortably that there was a significant look in the inspector’s face as he glanced first at the drawn blinds, then from the lady to himself.
She affected a perfume of a peculiarly pleasing kind. The carriage was filled with this subtle fragrance. Mr. Washington smelt it above the scent of his cigar. Her face was still averted; he wondered if she had gone to sleep, and, growing weary of his search for humour, he put down the paper, folded his hands and closed his eyes, and found himself gently drifting to that medley of the real and unreal which is the overture of dreams.
The lady moved; he looked at her out of the corner of his half-closed eyes. She had moved round so as to half face him. Her veil was still down, her white gloves were reflectively clasped on her knees. He shut his eyes again, until another movement brought him awake. She was feeling in her bag.
Mr. Washington was awake now—as wide awake as he had ever been in his life. In stretching out her hand, the lady had pulled short her sleeve, and there was a gap of flesh between the glove and the wrist of her blouse, and on her wrist was hair!
He shifted his position slightly, grunted as in his sleep, and dropped his hand to his pocket, and all the time those cold eyes were watching him through the veil.
Lifting the bottom of the veil, she put the ebony holder between her teeth and searched the bag for a match. Then she turned appealingly to him as though she had sensed his wakefulness. As she rose, Washington rose too, and suddenly he sprang at her and flung her back against the door. For a moment the veiled lady was taken by surprise, and then there was a flash of steel.
From nowhere a knife had come into her hand and Washington gripped the wrist and levered it over, pushing the palm of his hand under the chin. Even through the veil he could feel the bristles, and knew now, if he had not known before, that he had to deal with a man. A live, active man, rendered doubly strong by the knowledge of his danger. Gurther butted forward with his head, but Washington saw the attack coming, shortened his arm and jabbed full at the face behind the veil. The blow stopped the man only for an instant, and again he came on, and this time the point of the knife caught the American’s shoulder, and ripped the coat to the elbow. It needed this to bring forth Elijah Washington’s mental and physical reserves. With a roar he gripped the throat of his assailant and threw him with such violence against the door that it gave, and the “widow in mourning” crashed against the panel of the outer corridor. Before he could reach the attacker, Gurther had turned and sped along the corridor to the door of the coach. In a second he had flung it open and had dropped to the footboard. The train was slowing to take Horsham Junction, and the cat eyes waited until he saw a good fall, and let go. Staring back into the darkness, Washington saw nothing, and then the train inspector came along.
“It was a man in woman’s clothes,” he said, a little breathlessly, and they went back to search the compartment, but Mr. Gurther had taken bag and everything with him, and the only souvenir of his presence was the heel of a shoe that had been torn off in the struggle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - GURTHER RETURNS
THE train was going at thirty miles an hour when Gurther dropped on to a ridge of sand by the side of the track, and in the next second he was sliding forward on his face. Fortunately for him the veil, though torn, kept his eyes free. Stumbling to his feet, he looked round. The level-crossing gates should be somewhere here. He had intended jumping the train at this point, and Oberzohn had made arrangements accordingly. A signalman, perched high above the track, saw the figure and challenged.
“I’ve lost my way,” said Gurther. “Where is the level-crossing?”
“A hundred yards farther on. Keep clear of those metals—the Eastbourne express is coming behind.”
If Gurther had had his way, he would have stopped long enough to remove a rail for the sheer joy of watching a few hundred of the hated pe
ople plunged to destruction. But he guessed that the car was waiting, went sideways through the safety gates into a road which was fairly populous. There were people about who turned their heads and looked in amazement at the bedraggled woman in black, but he had got beyond worrying about his appearance.
He saw the car with the little green light which Oberzohn invariably used to mark his machines from others, and, climbing into the cab (as it was), sat down to recover his breath. The driver he knew as one of the three men employed by Oberzohn, one of whom Mr. Washington had seen that morning.
The journey back to town was a long one, though the machine, for a public vehicle, was faster than most. Gurther welcomed the ride. Once more he had failed, and he reasoned that this last failure was the most serious of all. The question of Oberzohn’s displeasure did not really arise. He had travelled far beyond the point when the Swede’s disapproval meant very much to him. But there might be a consequence more serious than any. He knew well with what instructions Pfeiffer had been primed on the night of the attack at Rath House—only Gurther had been quicker, and his snake had bitten first. Dr. Oberzohn had no illusions as to what happened, and if he had tactfully refrained from making reference to the matter, he had his purpose and reasons. And this night journey with Elijah Washington was one of them.
There was no excuse; he had none to offer. His hand wandered beneath the dress to the long knife that was strapped to his side, and the touch of the worn handle was very reassuring. For the time being he was safe; until another man was found to take Pfeiffer’s place Oberzohn was working single-handed and could not afford to dispense with the services of this, the last of his assassins.
It was past eleven when he dismissed the taxi at the end of the long lane, and, following the only safe path, came to the unpainted door that gave admission to Oberzohn’s property. And the first words of his master told him that there was no necessity for explanation.
“So you did not get him, Gurther?”
“No, Herr Doktor.’
“I should not have sent you.” Oberzohn’s voice was extraordinarily mild in all the circumstances. “That man you cannot kill—with the snake. I have learned since you went that he was bitten at the blind man’s house, yet lives! That is extraordinary. I would give a lot of money to test his blood. You tried the knife?”
“Ja, Herr Doktor.” He lifted his veil, stripped off hat and wig in one motion. The rouged and powdered face was bruised; from under the brown wig was a trickle of dried blood.
“Good! You have done as well as you could. Go to your room, Gurther—march!”
Gurther went upstairs, and for a quarter of an hour was staring at his grinning face in the glass, as with cream and soiled towel he removed his make-up.
Oberzohn’s very gentleness was a menace. What did it portend? Until that evening neither Gurther nor his dead companion had been taken into the confidence of the two men who directed their activities. He knew there were certain papers to be recovered; he knew there were men to be killed; but what value were the papers, or why death should be directed to this unfortunate or that, he neither knew nor cared. His duty had been to obey, and he had served a liberal paymaster well and loyally. That girl in the underground room? Gurther had many natural explanations for her imprisonment. And yet none of them fitted the conditions. His cogitations were wasted time. That night, for the first time, the doctor took him into his confidence.
He had finished dressing and was on his way to his kitchen when the doctor stood at the doorway and called him in.
“Sit down, Gurther.” He was almost kind. “You will have a cigar? These are excellent.”
He threw a long, thin, black cheroot, and Gurther caught it between his teeth and seemed absurdly pleased with his trick.
“The time has come when you must know something, Gurther,” said the doctor. He took a fellow to the weed the man was smoking, and puffed huge clouds of rank smoke into the room. “I have for a friend—who? Herr Newton?” He shrugged his shoulders. “He is a very charming man, but he has no brains. He is the kind of man, Gurther, who would live in comfort, take all we gave him by our cleverness and industry, and never say thank you! And in trouble what will he do, Gurther? He will go to the police—yes, my dear friend, he will go to the police!”
He nodded. Gurther had heard the same story that night when he had crept soft-footed to the door and had heard the doctor discuss certain matters with the late Mr. Pfeiffer.
“He would, without a wink of his eyelash, without a snap of his hand, send you and me to death, and would read about our execution with a smile, and then go forth and eat his plum-pudding and roast beef! That is our friend Herr Newton! You have seen this with your own eyes?”
“Ja, Herr Doktor!” exclaimed the obedient Gurther.
“He is a danger for many reasons,” Oberzohn proceeded deliberately. “Because of these three men who have so infamously set themselves out to ruin me, who burnt down my house, and who whipped you, Gurther—they tied you up to a post and whipped you with a whip of nine tails. You have not forgotten, Gurther?”
“Nein, Herr Doktor!” Indeed, Gurther had not forgotten, though the vacant smirk on his face might suggest that he had a pleasant memory of the happening.
“A fool in an organization,” continued the doctor oracularly, “is like a bad plate on a ship, or a weak link in a chain. Let it snap, and what happens? You and I die, my dear Gurther. We go up before a stupid man in a white wig and a red cloak, and he hands us to another man who puts a rope around our necks, drops us through a hole in the ground—all because we have a stupid man like Herr Montague Newton to deal with.”
“Ja, Herr Doktor,” said Gurther as his master stopped. He felt that this comment was required of him.
“Now, I will tell you the whole truth.” The doctor carefully knocked off the ash of his cigar into the saucer of his cup. “There is a fortune for you and for me, and this girl that we have in the quiet place can give it to us. I can marry her, or I can wipe her out, so! If I marry her, it would be better, I think, and this I have arranged.”
And then, in his own way, he told the story of the hill of gold, concealing nothing, reserving nothing—all that he knew, all that Villa had told him.
“For three-four days now she must be here. At the end of that time nothing matters. The letter to Lisbon—of what value is it? I was foolish when I tried to stop it. She has made no nominee, she has no heirs, she has known nothing of her fortune, and therefore is in no position to claim the renewal of the concession.”
“Herr Doktor, will you graciously permit me to speak?” The doctor nodded. “Does the Newton know this?”
“The Newton knows all this,” said the doctor.
“Will you graciously permit me to speak again, Herr Doktor? What was this letter I was to have taken, had I not been overcome by misfortune?”
Oberzohn examined the ceiling.
“I have thought this matter from every angle,” he said, “and I have decided thus. It was a letter written by Gonsalez to the Secretary or the Minister of the Colonies, asking that the renewal of the concession should be postponed. The telegram from my friend at the Colonial Office in Lisbon was to this effect.” He fixed his glasses, fumbled in his waistcoat and took out the three-page telegram. “I will read it to you in your own language—
“‘Application has been received from Leon Gonsalez, asking His Excellency to receive a very special letter which arrives in two days. The telegram does not state the contents of the letter, but the Minister has given orders for the messenger to be received. The present Minister is not favourable to concessions granted to England or Englishmen.’”
He folded the paper.
“Which means that there will be no postponement, my dear Gurther, and this enormous fortune will be ours.”
Gurther considered this point and for a moment forgot to smile, and looked what he was in consequence: a hungry, discontented wolf of a man.
“Herr Doktor, graciously permit
me to ask you a question?”
“Ask,” said Oberzohn magnanimously.
“What share does Herr Newton get? And if you so graciously honoured me with a portion of your so justly deserved gains, to what extent would be that share?”
The other considered this, puffing away until the room was a mist of smoke.
“Ten thousand English pounds,” he said at last.
“Gracious and learned doctor, that is a very small proportion of many millions,” said Gurther gently.
“Newton will receive one half,” said the doctor, his face working nervously, “if he is alive. If misfortune came to him, that share would be yours, Gurther, my brave fellow! And with so much money a man would not be hunted. The rich and the noble would fawn upon him; he would have his lovely yacht and steam about the summer seas everlastingly, huh?”
Gurther rose and clicked his heels.
“Do you desire me again this evening?”
“No, no, Gurther.” The old man shook his head. “And pray remember that there is another day tomorrow, and yet another day after. We shall wait and hear what our friend has to say. Good night, Gurther.”
“Good night, Herr Doktor.”
The doctor looked at the door for a long time after his man had gone and took up his book. He was deep in the chapter which was headed, in the German tongue: “The Subconscious Activity of the Human Intellect in Relation to the Esoteric Emotions.” To Dr. Oberzohn this was more thrilling than the most exciting novel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - IN CAPTIVITY
THE second day of captivity dawned unseen, in a world that lay outside the brick roof and glazed white walls of Mirabelle Leicester’s prison-house. She had grown in strength and courage, but not so her companion, Joan, who had started her weary vigil with an almost cheerful gaiety, had sunk deeper and deeper into depression as the hours progressed, and Mirabelle woke to the sound of a woman’s sobs, to find the girl sitting on the side of her bed, her head in her wet hands.
(1929) The Three Just Men Page 20