THE GATHERING OF THE SPIES
Action, or the promise of action, always acted on Desmond Okewood like
a nerve tonic. His visit to the inn, followed by the fencing with
Mortimer at dinner, had galvanized his nerves jaded with the inaction
of the preceding days. He averted his eyes from the future, he put the
past resolutely away. He bent his whole attention on the problem
immediately before him—how to carry off the role of Bellward in front
of four strangers, one of whom, at least, he thought, must know the man
he was impersonating; how to extract as much information as possible
about the gang and its organization before uncovering his hand;
finally, how to overpower the four men and the one woman when the
moment had come to strike.
Mortimer and he were in the library. By Desmond’s direction old Martha
had put out two bridge tables and cards. A tantalus stand with siphons
and glasses, an assortment of different colored liqueurs in handsome
cut-glass carafes and some plates of sandwiches stood on a side-table.
At Mortimer’s suggestion Desmond had told the housekeeper that, once
the guests had arrived, she might go to bed.
The library was very still. There was no sound except for the solemn
ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece or the occasional rustle of the
evening paper in Mortimer’s hand as he stood in front of the fire.
Desmond was sitting on the settee, tranquilly smoking, studying
Mortimer and thinking out the problem before him.
He measured Mortimer with his eye. The latter was a bigger man than
Desmond in every way and Desmond suspected that he was even stronger
than he looked. Desmond wondered whether he should try and overpower
him then and there. The other was almost certain to carry a revolver,
he thought, while he was unarmed. Failure, he knew, would ruin
everything. The gang would disperse to the four winds of heaven while
as for Mr. Bellward—well, he would certainly be “for it,” as the
soldiers say.
No, he must hold his hand until the meeting had taken place. This was
the first conference that Mortimer had summoned, and Desmond intended
to see that it should be the last. But first he meant to find out all
there was to know about the working of the gang.
He resolved to wait and see what the evening would bring forth. The
telephone was “a washout”: the motor-cycle was now his only chance to
summon aid for he knew it was hopeless to think of tackling
single-handed odds of four to one (to say nothing of the lady in the
case). It must be his business to _make_ an opportunity to slip away on
the motor-bike to Stanning. Ten minutes to get there, five minutes to
deliver his message at the police station (if the Chief’s people made
their headquarters there), and ten minutes to get back if they had a
car. Could he leave the meeting for 25 minutes without arousing
suspicions? He doubted it; but it must be. There was no other way. And
then with a shock that made him cold with fear he remembered Mortimer’s
motor-car.
If, during his absence, anything occurred to arouse their suspicions,
the whole crowd could pile into the car and be away long before Desmond
could be back with help. The fog had lifted and it was a clear night
outside. The car would have to be got rid of before he left the house,
that was all about it. But how? A means to that end must also be
discovered as the evening progressed. By the way, what had Mortimer
done with his car?
A very faint throbbing somewhere outside answered Desmond’s unspoken
question.
Mortimer flung aside his paper.
“Isn’t that a car?” he asked, “that’ll be they. I sent Max to Wentfield
station to meet our friends!”
There was the sound of voices, of bustle in the hall. Then the door
opened and a man came in. Desmond had a brief moment of acute suspense.
Was he supposed to know him?
He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a heavy
puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush moustache. He might
have been a butcher to look at. In the top edge of his coat lapel, he
wore a small black pin with a glass head.
“Well, Max,” said Mortimer. “Have you brought them all?”
The man was mustering Desmond with a suspicious, unfriendly stare.
“My friend, Bellward!” said Mortimer, clapping Desmond on the shoulder.
“You’ve heard of Bellward, Max!”
And to Desmond’s surprise he made some passes in the air.
The man’s mien underwent a curious change. He became cringing; almost
overawed.
“Reelly,” he grunted, “reelly now! You don’t siy! Glad to know yer,
mister, I’m shore!”
He spoke with a vile snuffing cockney accent, and thrust out his hand
to Desmond. Then he added to Mortimer:
“There’s three on ’em. That’s the count, ain’t it? I lef’ the car
outside on the drive!”
At this moment two more of the guests entered: One was a tall,
emaciated looking man of about fifty who seemed to be in the last
stages of consumption; the other a slightly built young fellow with a
shock of black hair brushed back and an olive complexion. He wore
pince-nez and looked like a Russian revolutionary. They, too, wore the
badge of the brotherhood—the black pin in the coat lapel.
“Goot efening, Mr. Mortimer,” said the tall man in a guttural voice,
“this is Behrend”—he indicated the young man by his side—“you haft not
meet him no?”
Then, leaving Behrend to shake hands with Mortimer, he literally rushed
at Desmond and shook him by the hand exactly as though he were working
a pump handle.
“My tear Pellward,” he cried, “it is a hondred year since I haf see
you, not? And how are the powers!”
He lowered his voice and gazed mysteriously at him.
Desmond, at a loss what to make of this extraordinary individual,
answered at random:
“The powers? Still fighting, I believe!”
The tall man stared open-mouthed at him for a moment. Then, clapping
his hands together, he burst into a high-pitched cackle of laughter.
“A joke,” he yelled, “a mos’ excellent joke! I must tell this to Minna.
My vriend, I haf not mean the great Powers.”
He looked dramatically about him, then whispered:
“I mean, the oggult!”
Desmond, who was now quite out of his depth, wagged his head solemnly
at the other as though to indicate that, his occult powers were
something not to be lightly mentioned. He had no fear of the tall man,
at any rate. He placed _him_ as a very ordinary German, a common type
in the Fatherland, simple-minded, pedantic, inquisitive, and a
prodigious bore withal but dangerous, for of this stuff German
discipline kneads militarists.
But the door opened again to admit the last of the guests. A woman
entered. Desmond was immediately struck by the contrast she presented
to the others, Mortimer with his goggle eyes and untidy hair, Max,
gross and bestial, Behrend, Oriental and shifty, and the scarecrow
figure of the tall man.
Despite her age, which must have been nearly sixty, she still retained
traces of beauty. Her features were very regular, and she had a pair of
piercing black eyes of undimmed brightness. Her gray hair was
tastefully arranged, and she wore a becoming black velvet gown with a
black lace scarf thrown across the shoulders. A white silk rose was
fastened to her bodice by a large black pin with a glass head.
Directly she appeared, the tall man shouted to her in German.
“Sag’ mal, Minna...” he began.
Mortimer turned on him savagely.
“Hold your tongue, No. 13,” he cried, “are you mad? What the devil do
you mean by it? You know the rules!”
By way of reply, “No. 13” broke into a regular frenzy of coughing which
left him gasping for breath.
“Pardon! I haf’ forgot!” he wheezed out between the spasms.
The woman went over to Mortimer and put out her gloved hand.
“I am Mrs. Malplaquet,” she said in a pleasant voice. “And you are Mr.
Mortimer, I think!”
Mortimer bowed low over her hand.
“Madame, I am charmed to meet one of whom I have heard nothing but
praise,” he said.
“Verry pretty!” replied Mrs. Malplaquet smiling. “They tell me you have
a great way with the ladies, my dear sir!”
“But,” she went on, “I am neglecting our host, my dear Mr. Bellward.
How are you, my friend? How well you are looking... so young... so
fresh! I declare you seem to have got five years younger!”
The keen black eyes searched Desmond’s face. He felt horribly
uncomfortable. The woman’s eyes were like gimlets boring right into
him. He suddenly felt that his disguise was a poor one. He remembered
Crook’s warning to be wary of women, and he inwardly quailed.
“I am so glad to meet you again!” he murmured. He didn’t like Mrs.
Malplaquet’s eyes. They assorted strangely with the rest of her gentle
and refined appearance. They were hard and cruel, those black eyes.
They put him in mind of a snake.
“It is so long since I’ve seen you,” she said, “that positively your
voice seems to have changed.”
“That’s because I have a cold,” said Desmond.
“Fiddlesticks!” retorted the lady, “the _timbre_ is quite different!
Bellward, I believe you’re in love! Don’t tell me you’ve been running
after that hank of hair that Mortimer is so devoted to!” She glanced in
Mortimer’s direction, but that gentleman was engaged in earnest
conversation with Behrend and the tall man.
“Whom do you meant” asked Desmond.
“Where are your eyes, man?” rapped out Mrs. Malplaquet. “The dancer
woman, of course, Nur-el-what-do-you-call-it. There’s the devil of a
row brewing about the way our friend over there is neglecting us to run
after the minx. They’re getting sharp in this country, Bellward—I’ve
lived here for forty years so I know what I’m talking about—and we
can’t afford to play any tricks. Mortimer will finish by bringing
destruction on every one of us. And I shall tell him so tonight. And so
will No. 13! And so will young Behrend! You ought to hear Behrend about
it!”
Mrs. Malplaquet began to interest Desmond. She was obviously a woman of
refinement, and he was surprised to find her in this odd company. By
dint of careful questioning, he ascertained the fact that she lived in
London, at a house on Campden Hill. She seemed to know a good many
officers, particularly naval men.
“I’ve been keeping my eyes open as I promised, Bellward,” she said,
“and I believe I’ve got hold of a likely subject for you—a submarine
commander he is, and very psychic. When will you come and meet him at
my house?”
Mortimer’s voice, rising above the buzz of conversation, checked his
reply.
“If you will all sit down,” he said, “we’ll get down to business.”
Despite all distractions, Desmond had been watching for this summons.
He had marked down for himself a chair close to the door. For this he
now made, after escorting Mrs. Malplaquet to the settee where she sat
down beside Behrend. Max took the armchair on the left of the
fireplace; while No. 13 perched himself grotesquely on a high
music-stool, his long legs curled round the foot. Mortimer stood in his
former position on the hearth, his back to the fire.
A very odd-looking band! Desmond commented to himself but he thought he
could detect in each of the spies a certain ruthless fanaticism which
experience taught him to respect as highly dangerous. And they all had
hard eyes!
When they were seated, Mortimer said:
“About the 14th of this month the British Admiralty will begin the work
of shipping to France ten divisions of American troops now training in
this country. The most extraordinary precautions are being taken to
complete this huge undertaking with success. It seems to me that the
moment has come for us to demonstrate the efficiency of our new
organization.”
He looked round at his audience but no one said a word. Desmond felt
very distinctly that there was a hostile atmosphere against Mortimer in
that room.
“I asked you to come here to-night,” Mortimer went on, “to discuss the
plans for sending prompt and accurate information regarding the
movements of these transports to the other side. I warn you that this
time our mode of procedure will have to be radically different from the
methods we have pursued on former occasions. To expend our energies in
collecting information at half a dozen different ports of war will be
waste of time. The direction of the whole of this enterprise lies in
the hands of one man at the Admiralty.”
Behrend, who had struck Desmond as a rather taciturn young man, shook
his head dubiously.
“That makes things very difficult,” he remarked.
“Wait,” replied Mortimer. “I agree, it is very difficult, the more so
as I have reason to believe that the authorities have discovered the
existence of our organization.”
Mrs. Malplaquet and Behrend turned to one another simultaneously.
“What did I say?” said Behrend.
“I told you so,” said the lady.
“Therefore,” Mortimer resumed, “our former activities on the coast will
practically be paralyzed. We shall have to confine our operations to
London while Max and Mr. Behrend here will be entrusted with the task
of getting the news out to our submarines.”
No. 13 broke in excitedly.
“Vork in London, vork in London!” he cried. “It is too dangerous, my
vriend. Vot do I know of London? Portsmouth” (he called it Portsmouse),
“Sout’ampton, the Isle of Vight... good... it is my province. But,
London... it is senseless!”
Mortimer turned his gig-lamps on the interrupter.
“You will take your orders from me as before,” he said quietly.
Behrend adjusted his pince-nez.
“No. 13 is perfectly right,” he remarked, “he knows his territory, and
he should be allowed to work there.”
“You, too,” Mortimer observed in the same calm tone as before, “will
take your orders from me!”
With a quick gesture the young man dashed his long black hair out of
his eyes.
“Maybe,” he replied, “but only as long as I feel sure that your orders
are worth following.
“Do you dare...” began Mortimer, shouting.
“... At present,” the other continued, as though Mortimer had not
spoken. “I don’t feel at all sure that they are.”
The atmosphere was getting a trifle heated, thought Desmond. If he
judged Mortimer aright, he was not the man to let himself be dictated
to by anybody. He was wondering how the scene would end when suddenly
something caught his eye that took his mind right away from the events
going forward in the room.
Opposite him, across the library, was a French window across which the
curtains had been drawn. One of the curtains, however, had got looped
up on a chair so that there was a gap at the bottom of the window
showing the pane.
In this gap was a face pressed up against the glass. To his
astonishment Desmond recognized the weather-beaten features of the odd
man, Mr. John Hill. The face remained there only for a brief instant.
The next moment it was gone and Desmond’s attention was once more
claimed by the progress of the conference.
“Do I understand that you refuse to serve under me any longer?”
Mortimer was saying to Behrend, who had risen from the settee and stood
facing him.
“As long as you continue to behave as you are doing at present,”
replied the other, “you may understand that!”
Mortimer made a quick dive for his pocket. In an instant Max had jumped
at him and caught his arm.
“Don’t be a fool!” he cried, “for Gawd’s sake, put it away, carn’t yer?
D ’you want the ’ole ruddy plice abart our ears?”
“I’ll have no disobedience of orders,” roared Mortimer, struggling with
the other. In his fist he had a big automatic pistol. It was a
prodigious weapon, the largest pistol that Desmond had ever seen.
“He threatened him, he threatened him!” screamed No. 13 jumping about
on his stool.
“Take it away from him, Max, for Heaven’s sake!” cried the lady.
Everybody was talking at once. The noise was so loud that Desmond
wondered whether old Martha would hear the din. He sat in his chair by
the door, a silent witness of the scene. Then suddenly, at the height
of the hubbub, he heard the faint humming of a motor-car. It lasted for
perhaps thirty seconds, then gradually died away.
“What did it mean?” he asked himself. The only living being he knew of
outside was John Hill, the odd man, whose face he had just seen; the
only car was Mortimer’s. Had the odd man gone off in Mortimer’s car? He
was thankful to note that, in the din, none save him seemed to have
heard the car.
By this time Mortimer had put up his pistol and Mrs. Malplaquet was
speaking. Her remarks were effective and very much to the point. She
upbraided Mortimer with his long and mysterious absences which she
attributed to his infatuation for Nur-el-Din and complained bitterly of
the dancer’s imprudence in consorting openly with notorious folk like
Lazarro and Bryan Mowbury.
“I went to the girl myself,” she said, “and begged her to be more
circumspect. But Madame would not listen to advice; Madame was
doubtless sure of her position with our revered leader, and thought she
could reject the friendly counsel of one old enough to be her mother.
Behrend and Max and No. 13 there—all of us—are absolutely agreed that
we are not going on with this sort of thing any longer. If you are to
remain in charge of our organization, Mr. Mortimer, we want to know
where you are to be found and how you spend your time. In short, we
want to be sure that you are not playing a game that most of us have at
different times played on subordinate agents... I mean, that when the
crisis comes, we fall into the trap and _you_ walk away. You had better
realize once and for all that we are too old hands for that sort of
trick.”
Here Max took up the thread. “Mrs. Malplaquet had put it very strite,
so she ’ad, and wot he wanted to know was what Mortimer ’ad to siy?”
Mortimer was very suave in his reply; a bad sign, thought Desmond, for
it indicated that he was not sure of himself. He was rather vague,
spoke about a vitally important mission that he had had to fulfil but
which he had now brought to a successful conclusion, so that he was at
length free to devote his whole attention once more to the great task
in hand.
Behrend brought his fist crashing down on the arm of the settee.
“Words, words,” he cried, “it won’t do for me. Isn’t there a man in the
room besides me? You, Bellward, or you, Max, or you, No.13? Haven’t you
got any guts any of you? Are you going to sit here and listen to the
soft soap of a fellow who has probably sent better men than himself to
their death with tripe of this kind? It may do for you, but by the
Lord, it won’t do for me!”
Mortimer cleared his throat uneasily.
“Our host is silent,” said Mrs. Malplaquet, “what does Mr. Bellward
think about it?”
Desmond spoke up promptly.
“I think it would be very interesting to hear something further about
this mission of Mortimer’s,” he observed:
Mortimer cast him a glance of bitter malice.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “you force my hand. I shall tell you of
this mission of mine and I shall show you the evidence, because it
seems essential in the interests of our organization. But I assure you
I shall not forget this want of confidence you have shown in me; and I
shall see that you don’t forget it, either!”
As he spoke, he glared fiercely at Desmond through his glasses.
“Let’s hear about the precious mission,” jeered Behrend, “let’s see the
evidence. The threats’ll keep!”
Then Mortimer told them of how the Star of Poland came into
Nur-el-Din’s possession, and of the Crown Prince’s embarrassment when
the German authorities claimed it for the regalia of the new Kingdom of
Poland.
“The Crown Prince,” he said, “summoned me to him in person and gave me
the order to make my way to England immediately and recover the gem at
all costs and by any means. Did I whine or snivel about being sent to
my death as some of you were doing just now? No! That is not the way of
the Prussian Guard...”
“The Prussian Guard?” cried No. 13 in an awed voice. “Are you also of
the Prussian Guard, comrade?”
He had risen from his seat and there was something almost of majesty
about his thin, ungainly figure as he drew himself to his full height.
“Ay, comrade, I was,” replied Mortimer.
“Then,” cried No. 13, “you are...”
“No names, comrade,” warned Mortimer, “no names, I beg!”
“No names, no names!” repeated the other and relapsed into his seat in
a reverie.
“How I got to England,” Mortimer continued, “matters nothing; how I
fulfilled my mission is neither here nor there. But I recovered the gem
and the proof...”
He thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and plucked out a
white paper package sealed up with broad red seals.
Desmond held his breath. It was the white paper package, exactly as
Barbara had described.
“Look at it well, Behrend,” said Mortimer, holding it up for the young
man to see, “it cost me a man’s life to get that. If it had sent twenty
men to their death, I should have had it just the same!”
Mrs. Malplaquet clapped her hands, her eyes shining.
“Bravo, bravo!” she exclaimed, “that’s the spirit! That’s the way to
talk, Mortimer!”
“Cut it out,” snarled Behrend, “and let’s see the goods!”
All had left their seats and were gathered in a group about Mortimer as
he began to break the gleaming red wag seals. One by one he burst them,
the white paper slipped off and disclosed... a box of cigarettes.
Mortimer stood gazing in stupefaction at the gaudy green and gold
lettering of the box. Then, running his thumb-nail swiftly along the
edge of the box, he broke the paper wrapping, the box burst open and a
shower of cigarettes fell to the ground.
“So that’s your Star of Poland, is it?” cried Behrend in a mocking
voice.
“Wot ’ave yer done wiv’ the sparklers, eh?” demanded Max, catching
Mortimer roughly by the arm.
But Mortimer stood, aimlessly shaking the empty box in front of him, as
though to convince himself that the gem was not there. Behrend fell on
his knees and raked the pile of cigarettes over and over with his
fingers.
“Nothing there!” he shouted angrily, springing to his feet. “It’s all
bluff! He’s bluffing to the end! See, he doesn’t even attempt to find
his famous jewel! He knows it isn’t there!”
But Mortimer paid no heed. He was staring straight in front of him, a
strangely woe-begone figure with his thatch of untidy hair and round
goggle eyes. Then the cigarette box fell to the floor with a crash as
Mortimer’s hands dropped, with, a hopeless gesture, to his sides.
“Barbara Mackwayte!” he whispered in a low voice, not seeming to
realize that he was speaking aloud, “so that’s what she wanted with
Nur-el-Din!”
Desmond was standing at Mortimer’s elbow and caught the whisper. As he
heard Mortimer speak Barbara’s name, he had a sudden premonition that
his own unmasking was imminent, though he understood as little of the
purport of the other’s remark as of the pile of cigarettes lying on the
carpet. As Mortimer turned to look at him, Desmond nerved himself to
meet the latter’s gaze. But Mortimer’s face wore the look of a
desperate man. There was no recognition in his eyes.
Not so with Desmond. Perhaps the bitterness of his disappointment had
made Mortimer careless, perhaps the way in which he had pronounced
Barbara’s name struck a familiar chord in Desmond’s memory. The unkempt
hair brushed down across the forehead, the thick glasses, the heavy
moustache still formed together an impenetrable mask which Desmond’s
eyes failed to pierce. But now he recalled the voice. As Mortimer
looked at him, the truth dawned on Desmond and he knew that the man
standing beside him was Maurice Strangwise, his comrade-in-arms in
France.
At that very moment a loud crash rang through the room, a cold blast of
damp air came rushing in and the lamp on the table flared up wildly,
flickered an instant and went out, leaving the room in darkness save
for the glow of the fire.
A deep voice cried:
“May I ask what you are all doing in my house?”
The secret door of the bookshelves had swung back and there, framed in
the gaping void, Desmond saw the dark figure of a man.