AN EPILOGUE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES2
IT WAS NINE o’clock at night upon the second of August—the most terrible August in the history of the world.3 One4 might have thought already that God’s curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shining brightly; and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay. The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden walk, with the long low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great chalk cliff on which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched himself four years before. They stood with their heads close together, talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of some malignant fiend looking down in the darkness.
A remarkable man this Von Bork—a man who could hardly be matched among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser.5 It was his talents which had first recommended him for the English mission, the most important mission of all, but since he had taken it over, those talents had become more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world who were really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present companion, Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of the legation, whose huge 100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited to waft its owner back to London.
“So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back in Berlin within the week,” the secretary was saying. “When you get there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest quarters of your work in this country.” He was a huge man, the secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speech which had been his main asset in his political career.
Von Bork laughed.
“They are not very hard to deceive,” he remarked. “A more docile, simple folk could not be imagined.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the other thoughtfully. “They have strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One’s first impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon something very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit, and must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insular conventions which simply must be observed.”
“Meaning, ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?” Von Bork sighed, as one who had suffered much.
“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an example I may quote one of my own worst blunders—I can afford to talk of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of my successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-end gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The conversation was amazingly indiscreet.”
Von Bork nodded. “I’ve been there,” said he dryly.
“Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a resume of the information to Berlin. Unfortunately our good Chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these matters,6 and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was aware of what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight up to me. You’ve no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing soft about our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I was two years living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours.”
“No, no, don’t call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it.”
“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your four-in-hand7 takes the prize at Olympia.8 I have even heard that you go the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result? Nobody takes you seriously. You are a ‘good old sport,’ ‘quite a decent fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club, knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet country house of yours is the centre of half the mischief in England, and the sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius, my dear Von Bork—genius!”
The Olympia.
Queen’s London (1897)
“You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim that my four years in this country have not been unproductive. I’ve never shown you my little store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”
The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which followed him, and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticed window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested did he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.
“Some of my papers have gone,” said he, “when my wife and the household left yesterday for Flushing9 they took the less important with them. I must, of course, claim the protection of the Embassy for the others.”
“Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to her fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them.”
“And Belgium?”
“Yes, and Belgium, too.”
Von Bork shook his head. “I don’t see how that could be. There is a definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a humiliation.”
“She would at least have peace for the moment.”
“But her honour?”
“Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a mediæval conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing, but even our special war tax of fifty million, which one would think made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the front page of the Times, has not roused these people from their slumbers. Here and there one hears a question. It is my business to find an answer. Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my business to soothe it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go—the storage of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements for making high explosives—nothing is prepared. How then can England come in, especially when we have stirred her up such a devil’s brew of Irish civil war,10 window-breaking Furies,11 and God knows what to keep her thoughts at home?”
“She must think of her future.”
“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future, we have our own very definite plans about England, and that your information will be very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers.” He sat in the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while he puffed sedately at his cigar.
The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the further corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large brass-bound safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch-chain, and after some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy door.
“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.
The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of the Embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such titles as “Fords,” “Harbour-defences,” “Aeroplanes,” “Ireland,” “Egypt,” “Portsmouth forts,”12 “The Channel,” “Rosyth,”13 and a score of others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.
“Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly clapped his fat hands.
“And all in four years, Baron
. Not such a bad show for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.
“But you have a good dossier there already.”
“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron—the worst set-back in my whole campaign. But thanks to my cheque-book and the good Altamont all will be well to-night.”
The Baron looked at his watch, and gave a guttural exclamation of disappointment.
“Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are moving at present in Carlton Terrace14 and that we have all to be at our posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did Altamont name no hour?”
Von Bork pushed over a telegram.
Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.
ALTAMONT
“Sparking plugs, eh?”
“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”
“From Portsmouth at mid-day,” said the secretary, examining the superscription. “By the way, what do you give him?”
“Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a salary as well.”
“The greedy rogue. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them their blood money.”
“I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker15 is a sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a real bitter Irish-American.”
“Oh, an Irish-American?”
“If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the King’s English as well as on the English King. Must you really go? He may be here any moment.”
“No. I’m sorry but I have already overstayed my time. We shall expect you early to-morrow, and when you get that signal book through the little door on the Duke of York’s steps16 you can put a triumphant Finis to your record in England. What! Tokay!”17 He indicated a heavily sealed dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a salver.
“May I offer you a glass before your journey?”
“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. I have to study him, I assure you.” They had strolled out on to the terrace again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the Baron’s chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. “Those are the lights of Harwich,18 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 Zeppelin19 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 so full of the impending European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford20 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 had 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 hand21 to-night, Mister,” he cried. “I’m bringing home the bacon at last.”
“The signals?”
“Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp code, Marconi22—a copy, mind you, not the original. 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 the copy?”
The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs from the armchair. 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. “Making 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 mug to write to you at all.”
“It would puzzle any crook 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.
“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 as 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 i
s, and I’m shutting down to-morrow morning.”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to fix me up also. I’m not staying 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 ramping. 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 doing time in Portland23 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 morning to night with a hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there is Steiner—”
The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Short Stories: The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow and The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes (Non-slipcased edition) (Vol. 2) (The Annotated Books) Page 75