The Mystery Ship: A Story of the 'Q' Ships During the Great War

by Percy F. Westerman

  CHAPTER XXII

  ON THE TRAIL

  PHILIP ENTWISTLE puffed thoughtfully at his briar.

  "That was the fellow right enough," he soliloquised. "Had I beeninformed directly the Air people made the discovery, I'd have nabbedhim before this."

  It was a few days after Karl von Preussen's hasty and almostpanic-stricken exodus from Edinburgh. Entwistle, Secret Serviceagent, with a highly respectable record, had been called in by theauthorities to trace the elusive spy. As usual, he was not consulteduntil after the police had declared themselves baffled. No doubt itwas a tribute to Entwistle's sagacity, but he looked upon it in atotally different light. To him it meant precious hours and minuteswasted.

  He remembered the wanted man. Entwistle was one of thosecomparatively rare individuals who hardly ever forget a face.Disguised as a country parson, he was returning from a case atAberdeen--he had convinced the naval authorities the whole thing wasa mare's nest and that a supposed spy was a harmless professor of aScottish University--when, having to change at Nedderburn Junction,he found himself in the same compartment with the man whom theAdmiralty, War Office, and Air Ministry wanted most particularly.

  And when von Preussen showed his railway warrant to the ticketinspector, Entwistle, taking cover behind the _Church Times_, hadmemorised the particulars written on the buff form. It was not idlecuriosity. It was to him a mental exercise. During the brief instantin which the inspector was holding the warrant to the light of thecarriage lamp Entwistle had committed the following facts to memory:the number and date of the warrant, the holder's name and rank, hispoints of departure and his destination--details that were jotteddown at the first opportunity in the Secret Service agent'spocket-book.

  Entwistle was sitting in his study at his house in Barborough. Thewindows were wide open. It was a bright, sunny morning, and fromwhere he sat he could see the rugged outlines of the distant hillsand the tall chimneys of the factories in the valleys.

  As he sat scanning the newly-arrived dossier of his latest case,Entwistle's thoughts went back to other scenes. The hills aboveBlackberry Cross and towards Tarleigh reminded him of the vonEitelwurmer case.

  "Wonder if this Fennelburt fellow (of course, that's an assumed name)has anything to do with the late Herr Eitelwurmer?" he mused. "May aswell go through those papers again, and perhaps it would be advisableto look up the von Gobendorff case."

  He unlocked a drawer and pulled out two bulky packets of documents,neatly tied with string. Entwistle had a distaste for red tape, bothmetaphorically and literally. For the best part of an hour he busiedhimself with the various and for the most part faulty clues,endeavouring from the tangled skein to weave a thread of conclusivefacts.

  The offer of the one hundred pounds reward had had its disadvantages.Amateur detectives and others attracted by the offer had seen"Captain Fennelburt" in a dozen or more different places atapproximately the same time. Copies of letters from these individualshad been included in the dossier sent to Entwistle from ScotlandYard. One was from a farmer at Penzance, who was certain that he sawthe wanted man making for Poldene Air Station. Another emanated froma fisherman at Wick, who stated that an R.A.F. officer answering tothe description of Captain Fennelburt stopped him and inquired theway to Loch Thrumster Flying School. Yet another correspondent,hailing from Ramsgate, reported that the spy was boarding at a smallhouse near Pegwell Bay.

  "Even in these days of high speed in aviation," thought Entwistle,"there are limits. We have yet to find conclusive evidence of a manstarting from Wick, say, at 9 A.M. and finishing at Penzance at 11A.M.--650 miles in two hours. And when he stops on the way topartake of refreshments at Ramsgate--involving a detour of anothercouple of hundred miles--the imagination is stretched beyondbreaking-point. I'm afraid these worthy people are following thered-herring trail. The R.A.F. uniform has put them on a false scent.Now, if I were in Captain Fennelburt's position--without, presumably,a change of clothes--in a fairly distinctive uniform, what would Ido?"

  His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a maid with atelegram.

  "No answer," said Entwistle briefly.

  The wire was from the stationmaster at Carlisle. No R.A.F. railwaywarrant bearing the number E99109 had been given up at Carlisle.

  "That is quite what I expected," thought the Secret Service agent."The warrant was a forged one, and Carlisle was a bit of bluff. He'sprobably lying low in Edinburgh. Suppose it's not much use trying topick up the trail there now? Yet--H'm! I'll risk it."

  He took an up-to-date time-table from a shelf. Experience had taughthim to be particularly careful as far as the times of departure oftrains were concerned.

  "H'm this will do. Arrive Waverley Station at so-and-so. Yes, thatwill do."

  In ten minutes Entwistle had made all necessary preparations, andwith a small hand-bag as his total luggage was walking briskly to thestation.

  It was not until the train stopped at Carlisle that he was fortunateenough to take a corner seat. Already he had scanned _The Times_ and_The Scotsman_ those hubs of the newspaper worlds north and south ofthe Tweed. The rest of the occupants of the compartment stillretained that insular reserve that has been partly broken down sincethe memorable August 1914, so Entwistle amused himself by admiringthe scenery as the train ascended picturesque Liddisdale. Many a timehad Entwistle travelled north by this route, but the beauties of theLowlands as viewed from the North British Railway never palled.

  As the train approached Galashiels it slowed down rapidly, coming toa standstill just outside the station. It was an unusual occurrence,for the express was supposed to make a non-stop run from Carlisle toEdinburgh. Carriage windows were opened and passengers thrust theirheads out to ascertain the cause of the delay.

  "A truck with a lot of luggage has fallen off the platform on to theline," remarked one of the passengers. "They've removed it now."

  The train began to move. Before it gathered much speed it was runningthrough the station. Suddenly Entwistle was all attention, forstanding on the opposite platform was "his man"--the _soi-disant_Captain Fennelburt.

  Entwistle recognised him at once, in spite of the fact that he worecivilian clothes. He was evidently waiting for a train bound south.

  For a brief instant the Secret Service man deliberated on the chanceof being able to leap from the train. He would have cheerfully runthe risk of violating the Company's rules and regulations, but thereare limits to personal activity. He would not have hesitated to jump,for he possessed more than a moderate amount of courage; but prudencepredominated. It would be of little use to find himself stranded atGalashiels with a broken limb, he argued; but there was thecommunication-cord.

  Even as he pulled the chain that gave the alarm in the guard's van,greatly to the surprise of his fellow passengers, another trainthundered past. There was not a moment to lose.

  "What's wrong, sir?" inquired eight or nine curious voices. "Are youill?"

  Without replying, Entwistle grasped his bag and stick, went into thecorridor, and began to make his way towards the guard's van. Thetrain showed no signs of slowing down. Already it must have run acouple of miles beyond Galashiels.

  Presently the vacuum brakes were put in action, and with a peculiarsensation, akin to the rapid stopping of a lift, the train drew up.

  "Guard!" exclaimed Entwistle peremptorily, as the uniformed officialattempted to hurry past him in the narrow corridor. "I pulled thecommunication-cord."

  "What for, sir?"

  Entwistle produced a card from his pocket and explained matters. Bythis time another two precious minutes had passed.

  "Very good, sir," said the guard, retaining the piece of cardboard."If you'll alight, we'll get on. It's a tidyish step back toGalashiels, d'ye ken?"

  The Secret Service man clambered down the footboard on to thepermanent way, his progress watched with unabated interest by scoresof passengers. Then, taking to his heels, he ran with the ease of atrained athlete towards the station.

  He was too late. Al
ready the train--a slow local--had taken up itsquota of passengers and was out of sight. Entwistle promptly tackledthe ticket collector.

  "A tallish chap in a grey overcoat and a bowler, sir?" inquired theman. "Yes; I remember him. He's got a ticket for Hawick. ...No, sir,third, single."

  "Is there a motor available?" asked Entwistle, loth to go to theextremity of telegraphing or telephoning to the Hawick police.

  One was--a powerful six-cylinder. The driver, rising to theexhortation to "drive like blue blazes," pressed heavily upon theaccelerator, and the car leapt along the road.

  There was every chance of reaching Hawick before the train, puncturesand other road mishaps excepted. The route through Selkirk waspractically a direct one, while the iron road made a considerabledetour through Melrose. Consequently, nothing happening to delay thecar, Entwistle found himself, cool but elated, waiting outside theentrance to Hawick Station a good six minutes before the advertisedtime of the train's arrival.

  Keenly alive to the necessity for prompt action, the Secret Serviceman took up a position immediately behind the open door.

  The train drew up. There seemed no hurry on the part of the arrivingpassengers to leave the platform. A boy wearing a tam-o'-shanter anda plaid was the first to appear, then an old woman bearing a largewicker basket. A couple of huge, red-faced farmers next jostledthrough the doorway, discussing in loud tones the latest rulingmarket prices of oats and oil-cake. After them a pale, thin-featuredwoman with a baby, and last of all a nervous young man who walkedwith hesitating steps as he fumbled for a mislaid ticket.

  "Confound it!" muttered Entwistle savagely.

  Leaving his place of concealment, he made for the platform. Luggagewas still being put out of the van. There might be time to look intoall the carriages. He would have to take the risk of "CaptainFennelburt" recognising him as the cleric who travelled with him fromNedderburn to Edinburgh.

  But Entwistle was again disappointed. The train, a non-corridor one,carried no passengers at all resembling the wanted man. "CaptainFennelburt" had adroitly covered his tracks.

  The baffled Secret Service man hied him to the telephone--the RailwayCompany's private wire--and rang up Galashiels.

  A brief but emphatic conversation both with the ticket collector andthe booking clerk elicited the information that the bowler-hatted manmight have alighted at one of the four intermediate stations.

  "You'll be for trying St. Boswell's Junction, mon?" came a suggestionon the telephone.

  Entwistle tried St. Boswell's Junction, with the result that a mananswering his description had left the train, and had booked forYork, via Alnwick and Alnmouth.

  The clue was developing into a man-hunt after Entwistle's own heart.It afforded him scant satisfaction to attain his object with littletrouble. The greater the obstacles, the keener became his interest.

  "'Fraid I don't want you again," he remarked to the waitingchauffeur, as he paid him.

  Inquiries resulted in the information that there was a fast trainthrough to Carlisle, whence it was possible to arrive at York withintwenty minutes of the East Coast express. Entwistle, having had timeto make a satisfying meal, was retracing his course.

  Luck was against him. It was not until about eight on the followingmorning that he alighted on York platform. His first step was to makeinquiries at the Postal Censor's Office. On presentation of his card,he was allowed to scan the duplicates of telegraphic messages sentduring the preceding twelve or fifteen hours. There was nothing toexcite suspicion. The foreign cables proved more fruitful, especiallyone from "Messrs. Grabnut & Plywrench to Mynheer Jakob van Doornzylt,woollen merchant, of Amsterdam."

  The message was in plain English (according to war time regulations),and referred to a consignment of merchandise about to be dispatchedfrom Leith to Ymuiden. On the duplicate was an official stamp "Passedby Censor."

  "Has this been dispatched?" asked Entwistle.

  "Yes," replied the postal official. "It was held back for three hoursaccording to procedure when dealing with foreign cablegrams, and wassent off at 7.50 P.M. yesterday."

  Entwistle, having provided himself with a copy, went to a desk in asecluded corner of the large room.

  "Close bales 251 in number--" began the message.

  Consulting his code-book (the identical one that he had taken fromthe spy von Eitelwurmer), Entwistle began his translation. "Close"signified "disguised," "bale" was the counterpart of "Q-boat," and soon. In ten minutes the secret message stood revealed as follows:--

  "Q-boat disguised as U 251 left Leith on 9th for Hoorn Reefs.--VONPREUSSEN."

  That was all--but sufficient to lure "Tough Geordie" Morpeth and hisgallant comrades into a veritable death-trap.