by J. R. Trtek
“He caught sight of me from the corner on his eye, and we looked at each other as he passed,” Hannay related. “And in that moment, I saw something spring into his expression, and that something was recognition. Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Holmes? You can’t mistake the look in a person’s eyes. It is a flicker, a spark of light. I was aware that he knew who I was, even though I didn’t know him.”
“I understand,” commented Holmes.
“The revelation made me freeze,” Hannay went on. “The man rushed out the door, and the sound of it slamming finally set me into motion. I strode down the hall and burst into the room where the meeting was still in progress.”
“The interruption took us all aback,” said Sir Walter. “However, Hannay’s entrance did not shock us so much as did his assertion that a German spy had just left.”
“And no one had questioned the presence of that individual?” asked Holmes, in whom I saw disguised exasperation.
“Everyone took him to be an aide to someone else at the table,” explained the admiralty representative. “Apparently, he spoke French to one of the war minister’s men, making that person believe he was with Reyer. On the other hand, he suggested to those from my entourage that he was with the army general staff.”
“The man was completely nondescript and forgettable,” said Reyer. “Even now, I cannot describe him, other than to say that he was somewhat plump. I believe he took a position by the wall during our meeting,” the Frenchman said. “He stood there with other underlings, and then volunteered to leave in order to fetch coffee when I expressed an interest in having some.”
“And that was after the Home Fleet dispositions had been explained openly?” Holmes asked.
“Yes,” replied the war minister. “But you see, no one but Reyer’s man took any form of notes during the gathering. The man who slipped out—whom Hannay believes to have been a German spy—could not have left with the information.”
“Yes, he could have done so,” corrected Reyer.
“But where did he mark down the information?” asked the minister.
“In his head,” replied the French attaché. “A good agent is trained to have a photographic memory, is he not, Sir Walter?”
“Quite so,” replied Bullivant. “Our best men can memorise places and distances in a host of provinces and still have room in their heads for financial accounts and troop rosters.”
“Places and distances,” whispered Hannay, whose face now took on a new expression. “By God, I know who that man was,” the South African declared, turning to Holmes. “He was the assistant to Moncrief, the archaeologist. He was the plump man who supervised my imprisonment up in Scotland.”
“What?” said Bullivant.
“Yes,” Hannay replied. “Remember? I mentioned him when I related my capture and escape from that damned house. He was the one who guessed what towns I had passed through and how far I’d gone. He spouted all those distances from memory. The fellow appeared different tonight, but in retrospect, I recall the eyes looked the same as they did in Scotland—they were his eyes.” Hannay looked around at us. “But is it possible for someone to so completely fool others by disguise alone?”
I looked at Holmes with raised brows, and my friend returned the gesture before responding. “My experience, Mr. Hannay, is that it is well within the realm of possibility.”
“But what must we do?” I asked. “Will the mobilisation plans for the Fleet be changed?”
“It would be most difficult,” said the Admiralty representative. “Geography is geography, and our current plans are the optimal ones.”
“Moreover,” said Reyer, “if you all recall, I also revealed many of the detailed dispositions my own government intends to make should war break out in the wake of Karolides’s murder.”
“The man who left with the information in his head must be apprehended,” said the War Minister. “But then, will he not just send that information to Berlin at once?”
“I doubt it,” replied Bullivant. “That may be the one saving grace of our situation.”
“Yes,” agreed Reyer. “Information of that import will be delivered in person. Those behind the infiltration will attempt to leave your country to accomplish that. We must intercept them.”
“But how?” asked the war minister.
Indeed,” chimed in the army representative. “We haven’t a rag of a clue.”
“Respectfully, I beg to differ,” said Sherlock Holmes.
All eyes fell upon the detective, and Hannay cocked his head. “What do you mean?” the South African said. “Do you speak of the notebook?”
“Yes,” replied Holmes, who pulled it from his jacket pocket. “I have completed more of the translation, and one item in it comes to mind.”
My friend set the small volume onto a table and pulled from his coat pocket the folded sheets on which we had written the deciphered text.
“There is an entry that Scudder made in the section on the Black Stone. Where is it? Here: ‘Thirty-nine steps at high tide—I counted them.’”
I saw that the admiralty representative was staring at Holmes wide-eyed, as if he thought the detective were half mad.
“But what would tides have to do with anything?” asked the war minister.
“My question exactly, Minister,” said Holmes. “What would tides have to do with anything involving our current predicament save access to the sea, and what relevance is the sea in this affair other than as an avenue of escape to the Continent?” The detective tapped the notebook. “Scudder must have discovered yet another lair of the Black Stone—”
“That is the code name for this group of German spies,” Bullivant whispered to the others, who had now gathered round the table where Scudder’s notebook sat.
“He had found another of their dens,” Holmes repeated. “Most likely, the location from which they entered and exited our island. A location for which the timing of high tide is somehow critical.”
“But they may have gone tonight,” someone said.
“No,” said Holmes. “I think not. When were the high tides today?” he asked.
“Late morning to midday, I believe, and then in the last two or three hours” said the Admiralty representative.
“There would not have been time for them to reach the coast this evening,” Holmes said. “And, if the tide is crucial to their departure, then we have until late morning tomorrow at the worst, and almost another twelve hours if we are fortunate. And these are Germans we are speaking of—they have their own well-perfected plans. They will not be rushed and will stay determined to work to a plan.”
“Quite so,” said Reyer. “You know them as well as we do, Monsieur Holmes. Are you perhaps in reality French, and English only by adoption?” the attaché asked facetiously.
“I am merely one-fourth Gallic,”80 my friend genially replied, “but that is enough to be confident in my judgment.” Then, laying both palms onto the great table, he asked, “Now, where can we get a book of tide tables?”
The war minister, suddenly appearing more hopeful than before, said, “Let us go to the admiralty.”
And so we boarded three of the waiting motorcars—all but Sir Walter Bullivant, who commandeered Jack James’s taxicab to take him to Scotland Yard in order to alert Inspector Magillivray.
Holmes, Reyer, the three other representatives of the British government and I, meanwhile, sped to the Admiralty Building. There we marched through empty corridors and huge, spare chambers where, at that hour, the King’s business was being conducted principally by charwomen. At length, led by the admiralty representative, we reached a little room lined with books and maps. Though it was now the middle of the night, a resident clerk was unearthed and asked to fetch the admiralty tide tables.
Hannay sat at a desk, Holmes standing over him, while the rest of us formed a semicircle before the two men.
“But where do we start?” exclaimed the South African after a moment. “There are hundreds of entri
es. How do we determine which are the relevant ones? What if we hunted up all the steamer sailings? Might there be one that is scheduled to leave at high tide?”
“They would not travel on a regular line,” asserted Holmes. “Indeed, I doubt they will be boarding any large-draught ship.”
“But then, why would the tide be of importance, if not to allow the ship to dock?” asked someone.
“I believe its importance lies not in allowing a ship to reach land,” said Holmes, “but rather in permitting those on land to more easily reach the sea. Is not the significance of the phrase the thirty-nine steps evident to everyone present?”
“The reference is to dock steps?” said the admiralty representative.
“Were that the case, there would be no need to mention their number,” replied Holmes. “Scudder must refer to some coastal place—a cliff of some sort—where there are several staircases leading down toward the water, necessitating the use of their number to specify which one.”
“And whichever set of steps has the correct number, that one must lead to the den which holds our nest of spies,” I said.
“Precisely, Watson. And there are other considerations,” Holmes said. “The man seeks a swift and secret passage to Germany. What point of departure would he seek? Not a big harbour, and not a site located on the Channel or the West Coast or our recent tramping ground, Scotland. Consider the map, if you will. He will try for Ostend or Antwerp or Rotterdam, and I fancy he will sail from somewhere on the East Coast between Dover and Cromer.”
Just then, Bullivant arrived in the company of Inspector Magillivray.
“I’ve sent out instructions to watch the ports and railway stations for your Mr. Moncrief, based on your description of him,” the inspector told Hannay and the rest of us. “Too bad the other fellow, the one who actually has the information in his head, is so forgettable. Without a description of him other than ‘plump,’ it’s rather hopeless to think we can catch him that way, should he be travelling alone.”
“Inspector? Sir Walter?” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I suggest that Moncrief’s house in Scotland, as well as its associated aerodrome, be immediately surrounded, and those within taken into custody?”
“That process has already begun,” declared his brother Mycroft, who stood at the doorway to the map room. Seeing that I and others had noticed his slightly unkempt hair, the elder Holmes brushed the balding top of his head with one pudgy hand and then stepped into our congregation.
“My man relayed your call, Sir Walter,” he informed Bullivant, “and I got here as quickly as I could. What is our situation, Sherlock?” he asked, implicitly selecting his sibling as spokesman for our group.
The detective explained all that we had discussed in the previous moments.
“They will attempt to leave in a trawler, yacht, or launch, yes,” agreed Mycroft, “and undoubtedly the point of departure will lie between Dover and the Wash,81 as you say. I myself would lean closer to Dover and consider seaside towns in Kent before any others. Tell me,” he said to the admiralty representative, “is there an inspector of coastguards we can rouse at this hour, someone who knows the East Coast well enough to suggest how we might refine our search?”
“There is one who lives in Clapham.”82
“Fetch him,” said Mycroft, and the admiralty representative left by car.
About one o’clock in the morning, the member of His Majesty’s Coastguard arrived. He was a strapping old fellow with the look of naval officer, which he might well have been in his earlier years. The man was deferential to all and listened attentively as Mycroft Holmes questioned him.83
“We are seeking locations on the East Coast where there are cliffs with more than one set of steps leading down to the beach,” the elder Holmes began.
“Well, sir,” the inspector replied, “there are plenty of places with roads cut down through the cliffs, and most have a step or two in them.”
“I want one with nothing but steps,” explained Mycroft. “A regular staircase—rather, regular staircases, plural.”
“Well,” said the man after a moment’s reflection, “I know of a place beside a golf-course where there are a couple of staircases to let gentlemen get a lost ball. It’s in Norfolk.”
“I am thinking of Kent,” said Mycroft. “And it is likely a place where there are houses, villas, resorts.”
“Oh,” replied the inspector. “Well then, I suppose the Ruff is the one for you, then.”
“The Ruff?” said the Frenchman Reyer.
“Yes,” replied the coastguard. “It’s a big chalk headland in Kent, right near Broadgate. 84 There are all sorts of villas for you on the top, and several of the homes have staircases down to a private beach. Very high-toned place it is. The residents prefer to keep to themselves.”
“An ideal environment in which to set up camp if you are a group of spies,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“Agreed, brother,” murmured Mycroft Holmes. “Let us choose it and pray.”
I suddenly noticed that Richard Hannay had begun feverishly flipping through the table of tides. All other eyes swiftly also turned in his direction.
“We are close!” exclaimed Hannay, planting a forefinger in the middle of a page. “This coming evening, high tide at Broadgate will be at ten twenty-seven. How can we find the exact time of the tide at the Ruff?”
“Oh, I can tell you that,” said the coastguard man casually, “for I’ve spent many nights there in June going deep-sea fishing. The tide at the Ruff precedes that at Broadgate by ten minutes.”
The two Holmes brothers looked at one another and nodded.
“There is now but one more thing to do,” said Mycroft.
“We must go to Kent, observe the different sets of steps running down the Ruff, and enumerate them,” answered Sherlock Holmes.
“You must go and enumerate them, dear brother. You are as able to count to thirty-nine as I.”
Images of Kentish hedgerows tearing past us in the night existed now only in memory as I stood early next morning with Holmes, Hannay, and Magillivray on a rocky outcrop overlooking calm seas. A lightship lay off shore, bathed in pink, and two miles down the coast, a small naval destroyer sat at anchor.
“My man Scaife should be aboard her now, making arrangements,” said Magillivray as we stared at the second vessel. “And we have small squads covering all the hotels; Inspectors Hartley and Carter are overseeing them.” Together, we surveyed the cliffs in the distance. “Do you think we should be gathered out here together like this, Mr. Holmes?” the inspector asked.
“The place is rather deserted at this hour,” replied the detective as a lonely caw sounded from above. “It is only ourselves and that single gull overhead. In any event, we three will now retire to the hotel room while you survey the stairs,” he told Magillivray. “You have the key that opens the gates of the staircases on the Ruff?”
The inspector turned toward the chalky precipice in the distance and pulled his fist from a coat pocket. Opening his fingers, he revealed a key on a chain. “I’ve never let go of it since obtaining it from that house agent,” Magillivray said with a spare grin. “He didn’t like being awoke at that hour, did he?” The man’s lawyerlike face settled into a determined look. “I’ll go and count the steps on the staircases, sirs, and join you in the room shortly.”
“Very good, Inspector,” said Holmes, who led Hannay and me farther along the little outcrop and back toward Broadgate itself. As we saw Magillivray make his way along the beach toward the greater expanse of the Ruff, my friend gave his goatee a gentle tug.
“I have acquired the habit of grasping this thing,” he commented jokingly. “I wonder if I will continue to seize the air once it is gone.”
“Will that be soon, you think?” I asked.
“It will not surprise, should that be the case,” he replied as we came up over a rise and Broadgate hove into view. “I believe Sir Walter will be forced to tear down our Von Bork façade in the near future.�
�� Holmes then explained to Hannay the substance of his past two years of work infiltrating the German spy ring.
“And so,” said Hannay, as we approached the town, “should we fail to stop the Black Stone in taking the naval information to Berlin, you must stop playing your role as—what was the name?”
“Altamount,” said Holmes quietly, hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, we must scuttle the Von Bork escapade in that event. However,” he said languidly, “Our work will hardly be over.”
“You refer to identifying the third part of Cerberus?” asked Hannay.
“Yes,” sighed Holmes as we entered the town of Broadgate. “But we now have the first of those parts by the throat, and we know the second lies with Von Bork. Let us concentrate on the former for the time being.”
It was almost two hours later that Magillivray returned to our room at the Griffin Hotel. Holmes, who was sipping coffee at the window, smiled wanly and cradled his cup in both hands as the man from Scotland Yard entered. I regarded the inspector expectantly from a table where I laboured at a game of Patience. Hannay, who had been reading old issues of several periodicals, rose quickly to his feet in anticipation.
“There were six staircases in all,” Magillivray declared as he pulled a paper from his coat pocket. Unfolding the sheet, he read from it. “The various counts of steps in each was as follows: twenty-one, thirty-four, thirty-five, forty-two, forty-seven, and…thirty-nine.”
Hannay seemed ready to shout, but he remained silent, quietly slapping fist against palm instead. “We have them!” he exclaimed at length.
“We have identified their probable lair,” corrected Holmes. The detective turned back to Magillivray. “And you approached the residence associated with those steps?” he asked.
“I did, Mr. Holmes.”
“What did you learn?”
“I got as far as the back door of the house,” said Magillivray. “I posed as an agent for sewing machines, as you suggested, and was able to get some idea of the place. It’s a red-brick villa with a veranda and a tennis lawn in back. The front sports the usual seaside flower garden, replete with marguerites and scraggly geraniums. There is a flagstaff standing before the house from which an enormous Union Jack hangs.”