by Otto Penzler
He was surprised to note that, notwithstanding the fact that the house was built apparently in the early Victorian era, it was scarcely typical of this country, and the furnishing seemed to Blackshirt to hint somewhat of the Continent; nothing tangible, nothing which he could positively say belonged to any other country than his own, yet, nevertheless, he was distinctly of the impression that he was in the residence of a foreigner.
His light came to rest eventually on a handsome, ornate secretaire, and the artist within him gazed with delight at its graceful lines, its exquisite inlaid pattern. Obviously an objet d’art, the possession of a connoisseur.
Blackshirt wished that he could have taken the desk away with him. He would cheerfully have left everything else could he have done this.
He tried to draw his attention away from the desk, but each time his eyes wandered glitteringly back to it, and at length he determined that he would at least glance within, not so much in search of anything that might be there—for he did not believe that it contained anything of any value—but more to taste of the splendid work which he knew would be carried out inside as well as externally.
He found it locked, but anticipated no difficulty in opening it, suspecting that it was kept closed by the usual type of lock.
To his surprise he discovered that the lock was of an unusually intricate pattern, and it was only after great difficulty that he was successful in forcing it, but he did not regret the waste of time. Undoubtedly the desk was one of the most beautiful he had seen.
Within were scattered papers and letters. With a smile he picked up one, as he thought to himself he might just as well know exactly where he was. The envelope was addressed to:
Count de Rogeri,
Versailles House,
Maddox Gardens.
Blackshirt raised his eyebrows. Maddox Gardens! Why, he had heard of this neighbourhood often, but, although he knew whereabouts it was, this was the first time he had actually set foot here.
He had indeed come to an affluent district.
What was wealth compared to the desk? If ever Blackshirt regretted having to leave anything behind he did so this time. His supple hands wandered lovingly over the carving, whilst his flashlight revealed its extravagant design.
His sensitive finger-tips came in contact with a slack panel, and he frowned. Evidently its owner was careless. He wondered how loose it was, and moved it slightly.
The next moment there was a click, and Blackshirt spun round, his light disappearing as he did so. He stood there, tense with nervous excitement, but could hear nothing; no voice was challenging him, no revolver threatening him, all was dark, still, and silent.
Uneasily he turned again towards the desk. He did not like mysterious sounds, but as he resumed his examination of the bureau the cause of the noise was revealed to him as, where before had been a plain piece of panelling, there was now an open drawer.
By the merest coincidence Blackshirt had discovered a secret recess.
With sparkling eyes, which were synonymic of the happy excitement he felt in this discovery, he noted that there were papers within.
Curiosity urged him to glance through them, but on opening the first one he was annoyed to find the contents in German. Of this language he knew a little, though not much, so he was about to thrust them back into the drawer when two or three stray words which he recognised caught his eye and arrested his attention.
For the next few minutes his puzzled brain was gradually translating the manuscript. When he had finished he remained motionless, unable to connect his thoughts together coherently, his discovery numbing his senses.
—
When Marshall retired from the C.I. Department of Scotland Yard he was fortunate in securing a small, self-contained flat over a greengrocer’s shop in Shepherd’s Bush, and here he settled down to finish the rest of his days. He was not entirely happy in his new occupation of a retired gentleman of leisure, for he was that type of man whose enjoyment was solely in his work, and this was particularly so where he was concerned, who considered his employment the spice of life.
He missed the routine, the discipline, and, above all, the interest. There was to him as much pleasure in capturing a criminal as there is in discovering a piece of Chippendale to an antique collector.
Every now and again he was fortunate in being engaged as a private detective, but cases in which he really took interest happened so few and far between that they were not nearly enough to keep him satisfied. Most of his undertakings seemed to be in connection with divorce, in which, apart from the simplicity of the work, he discovered that usually his sympathy was with the poor, misguided people he shadowed. Eventually he came to the conclusion that if all husbands and wives were all like the people who employed him, he would remain better off as he was—single.
He lived by himself, attended only by a housekeeper, who came every morning; but as he was usually out most of the day, and very often during the night as well, he did not suffer from loneliness.
This night, for once, he had found himself what he would have termed “at a loose end,” and when ten-thirty struck he went to bed in disgust, and very soon dropped into a heavy slumber.
Presently he dreamed—a weird, monstrous nightmare, in which the main plot was that everybody he knew would pick him up and throw him about, till he tired of this, and awoke to find himself looking into the muzzle of a revolver.
“Good God!” he muttered, and then glanced at the man who sat on the side of his bed, shaking him by the shoulder with his free hand.
There was no mistaking the black mask, the black shirt.
“Blackshirt!” he gasped involuntarily.
“At your service, Marshall,” mocked the other.
“What the hell are you doing here?” exploded the detective.
“My dear Marshall, that is precisely what I am about to explain; but in the meantime please do not make any movement, as I happen to be, as you will observe, covering you with a revolver, which, by the way, is your own, and which I took the liberty of borrowing from beneath your pillow. I hope you do not object?”
Marshall did not answer, but merely grunted with an amazed air.
“Thank you,” continued Blackshirt; “then I may take it you do not object. To continue, I have a great admiration for you, Marshall, and when I say this I want you to believe that I mean it sincerely; I am not just mocking you. I have several things about which I wish to speak to you, and I am not particularly keen to tire my arm out holding this gun out in this threatening attitude. Give me your word, Marshall, that you will make no attempt at my capture until I have left this building, and I will talk to you as man to man on a matter beside which my capture and your fame are as nothing, for it concerns what is more important to both of us—our own country.”
The detective thought rapidly. Should he or should he not give the required promise, and if he did, would he keep it? On this latter point he very soon made up his mind. He knew, come what might, he could not break his word to any man, not even to Blackshirt, for whose capture he would give his right hand. On the other hand, if he did not give the undertaking Blackshirt asked he might, by awaiting his opportunity, turn the tables.
Blackshirt read his mind. “It’s no good your thinking that, Marshall, for unless you agree I shall clear out now. I think you know me better than to give you the chance which you think might be yours if you don’t do as I wish.”
The detective shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I suppose you’re right. Yes, I give you my assurance.”
Blackshirt seemed relieved, and cast the revolver down on the bed beside Marshall.
“Thanks, Marshall; though I took the trouble to extract your ammunition beforehand.”
“Hang!” muttered the detective. “If I’d known that——”
“Yes, I dare say,” interrupted Blackshirt, not giving him time to finish, and smiled in his winning way, which even the black mask could not entirely cover. “I felt sure that I would arouse your
curiosity sufficiently.”
Marshall gazed at him admiringly. “You’re a cool card, whatever else you may be. However, what is it you want to tell me, and will you have a whisky-and-soda while you are saying it?”
Blackshirt laughed. “Not for me; thanks all the same, though. It’s apt to spoil one’s work to imbibe in the middle of it. But now to business.
“Tonight I went to bed—for a change, you are no doubt thinking; but, nevertheless, I do sometimes act as any other law-abiding citizen.
“For some reason or other I was restless, and was not successful, as novelists say, in the wooing of Morpheus, so I picked up an evening newspaper, and, greatly to my delight and amusement, had the pleasure of reading all about myself.”
“Yes, I read all that, too. They made it a bit hot towards the end.” Marshall grinned.
“Ah, well, that’s the penalty of being famous, eh, Marshall? To continue. The article had an unfortunate effect upon me, I confess, for it roused me to action. So you can therefore imagine me, an hour or so back, getting inside this picturesque outfit of mine, which has its uses. It will be a boon to the cartoonist in tomorrow’s paper.
“Having no fixed destination in mind, I determined to wander around until a clock struck three, and then to break into the nearest mansion, help myself to the valuables in the accredited way, and go back home to bed a richer and more sleepy man.”
His voice suddenly dropped its bantering tone, and Marshall sensed that he was coming to the point to which he owed this unexpected visit.
“Marshall, by some stroke of Fate, when the clock struck three I was outside what I afterwards discovered to be the residence of Count de Rogeri, who lives at Versailles House, Maddox Gardens.
“A few minutes later I was inside and examining a wonderful desk, an example of Italian art in the sixteenth century. Whilst doing so, by pure accident I touched a hidden spring, and a secret drawer was exposed to my view. There were papers within, and my curiosity urged me to look through them, to find they were in German.”
He paused, and unconsciously Marshall uttered an impatient “Go on, man!” so intent was he upon the narrative which was slowly being unfolded.
“I read those papers, though my knowledge of German is none too good, but it was sufficient for me to realise that what I held in my hand were the plans and specifications of the latest R.A.F. machine.”
“Good heavens! A spy!”
“Precisely.”
Again the silence, whilst the two men revolved in their minds the sudden revelation.
Presently Marshall spoke. “Why have you come to me?” he asked curiously.
“For several reasons, one of which I have already explained to you—that I trust you. Secondly, this spy must be unmasked. Obviously, were I, as Blackshirt, to write and inform Scotland Yard of this fact, the probability is that they would give no credence to my accusation. On the other hand, if I were to sign the name by which I am known to the world at large—such few people as I do know—my identity would be revealed, and Blackshirt would promptly see the inside of a prison, which is the last thing I desire.
“Again, there is no knowing when the Count is likely to go to that desk again. Perhaps by the time Scotland Yard had made up its mind, and arrived at his house for the proof, these papers might be on the way to Germany, and then there would be just my accusations against Count de Rogeri’s word. I have, therefore, brought the papers with me.”
Marshall shook his head. “You were wrong to do that. As it happens I was on the Special Section of the C.I. Department during the war, which, as perhaps you may know, devoted itself to spies, so that I learned quite a lot of the methods of this country in dealing with foreign agents.
“During the war it was just a question of capture, trial and execution; but in peace-time, no. We play a far more subtle game than that. Once a man is identified as a spy to our certain knowledge, from that time forward he is watched day and night. Every letter he writes, every parcel he sends, is intercepted, whilst every communication to him is copied before he receives it. In this way, not only does our own Secret Service become aware of every scrap of information which may be sent out of the country, but it also discovers the names and addresses of other spies who may get into touch with the one who was originally watched.
“Blackshirt—for this is the only name I can call you—by hook or by crook you must return those papers, and leave everything as you found it, so that your presence there will be positively unsuspected.
“Tomorrow I shall go to the Yard. In the meantime, for heaven’s sake get them back again.”
Blackshirt glanced at his watch. The time was twelve minutes past four. He pursed his lips.
“It can’t be done, Marshall. It’s too late. For all we know some of the maids may already be astir.” But Marshall knew that, despite what he said, he had already determined in his mind to act as the detective suggested.
Like a shadow Blackshirt disappeared, and a few seconds later Marshall heard the whir of an electric starter. Evidently Blackshirt had a car. He felt tempted to rush to the window and note the number, but he resisted. He could not play the dirty on the other, as he so aptly put it to himself.
Meanwhile, Blackshirt was speeding back towards Maddox Gardens. The car was a borrowed one. At the end of Maddox Road was a garage, from which Blackshirt had helped himself.
It was still dark when he was back at Versailles House once more, having returned the automobile, but there was a suspicious greyness in the east, and he calculated that the first streaks of daylight would be showing within half an hour.
Once again he crept across the lawn and round to the back of the house, and once more climbed up on to the balcony and entered the room through the tall French windows.
He listened intently, but there was not a sound. The tiny pin-prick of light from his torch travelled slowly round the room, but nothing had been moved. He breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently his presence had not been discovered, so that it would be a simple matter to return the papers.
With a quick, silent step he crossed the room, and, opening the desk, which he had left unlocked, he returned the papers to their hiding-place.
This time he knew it would be necessary to re-lock the desk, and he knelt down before it. He brought his delicate little instruments to work, and presently a faint click informed him that he had been successful.
No sooner had this occurred when he experienced an extraordinary sensation. At the back of his brain he felt an intuition that something had gone wrong. This communicated itself to the rest of his body, and his sensitive nerves jumped in unison.
He could not define what it was, but he seemed to sense that someone was watching him, that there was somebody else present in the room besides himself.
He listened acutely; there was not a sound to be heard. The house was as silent as a graveyard; yet the feeling became more insistent, till at last he became positively assured that he was under observation.
He almost groaned, for, were this indeed the case, and the unseen watcher the Count himself, what Marshall feared most would probably happen. Undoubtedly the Count’s suspicions would be aroused on seeing a man before the desk, when there was more valuable booty in another part of the room.
What must he do to allay this supposition? Before he could act the room was suddenly flooded with light.
He whirled round; the room was still empty. Incredulous and bewildered, he gazed in every direction, and confirmed that fact that only he himself was present. Instinctively, as he realised this fact, he stepped towards the window, but——
“Ah, so you are not armed!”
The heavy portière was flung aside, to reveal a man in evening dress.
“Good evening,” he said, with a pleasant smile, which was contradicted by the glitter in his eyes, and the menacing revolver which he held in his hand, pointing with unpleasant directness at the pit of Blackshirt’s stomach.
Despite the seriousness of his position, it
flashed through Blackshirt’s mind that it was not an entirely dissimilar situation to that in which he had been less than an hour ago, but then it was he who held the whip-hand.
He glanced at the newcomer, and gathered, as he had assumed, that he was Count de Rogeri himself. Dressed and groomed immaculately in the English style, there was to be recognised a faint soupçon of foreign blood, and Blackshirt wondered if he were not of mixed parentage, possibly French and German. A correct supposition, could he have known it, the Count’s mother being an Alsatian Frenchwoman, and his father a Prussian.
“Why, may I ask, have I the honour of this visit?” There was a fixed intensity in the Count’s voice, which confirmed the suspicion in his eyes.
Blackshirt turned over in his mind on what grounds he should meet the Count. Should he be an ignorant housebreaker, or should he remain just Blackshirt? He decided upon the latter course. With any luck the Count had read the papers.
Blackshirt shrugged his shoulders. “Why does one usually break into other people’s houses?”
The Count raised his eyebrows. “An educated voice, I observe. Forgive me if I smoke?” he asked with irony, and with his left hand he took out a handsome gold cigarette-case from his coat pocket, snapped it open, and placed a cigarette in his mouth, which he afterwards lit, never for a moment allowing his revolver to waver a hair’s breadth from the direction of Blackshirt’s body.
“I regret I cannot offer you one also,” he remarked presently, “but I prefer to see your hands remain where they are.” He paused. “Really, you look remarkably picturesque for an ordinary burglar.”
“But then, you see, my dear sir, I like to think that I am not an ordinary housebreaker.”
“Ah, I see. An Arsène Lupin!”
“And you, Ganimand!”
“Your choice of books is evidently picked with care, for I judge you have read the book.”
“In the original.”
“Ah, my admiration for you increases every moment! You are indeed worthy to be captured. If I talk much longer to you I shall almost regret having to call your big, flat-footed policemen.”