flashed between a sentence in the report which he had just been reading
and Parkinson’s discovery. He took out the sheets, ran his finger along
the lines and again read--“stated that the prisoner was the son of a
respectable bootmaker, and had followed the occupation himself.” “I know
how accurate you are, Parkinson, but this may be of superlative
importance. You see that?”
“I had not contemplated it in that light, sir.”
“But what did the incident suggest to you?”
“I inferred, sir, that Mr Slater must have had some reason for going out
again after the hotel was closed.”
“Yes, that might explain half; but what if he did not?” persisted
Carrados.
Parkinson wisely dismissed the intellectual problem as outside his
sphere.
“Then I am unable to suggest why the gentleman cleaned his muddy boots
himself and muddied his clean boots, sir.”
“Yes, that is what it comes to. He is wearing the same pair again this
morning?”
“Yes, sir. The boots that were dirty at ten o’clock last night.”
“Pay particular attention to Mr Slater’s boots in future. I have
transferred to No. 21, so you will have every opportunity. Talk to
Herbert about Tariff Reform to-morrow morning. In the meanwhile--Are
they any particular make?”
“‘Moorland hand-made waterproof,’ a heavy shooting boot, sir. Size 7.
Rossiter, of Kingsmouth, is the maker.”
“In the meanwhile go to Kingsmouth and buy an identical pair. Before you
go cut the sole off one of your oldest boots and bring me a piece about
three inches square. Buy yourself another pair. Here is a note. Do you
know which chamber-maid has charge of No. 21?”
“I could ascertain, sir.”
“It would be as well. You might buy her a bangle out of the change--if
you have no personal objection to the young lady’s society. And,
Parkinson----”
“Yes, sir?”
“I know you to be discreet and reliable. The work we are engaged on here
is exceptionally important and equally honourable. A mistake might ruin
it. That is all.”
“Thank you, sir.” Parkinson marched away with his head a little higher
for the guarded compliment. It was the essence of the man’s
extraordinary value to his master that while on some subjects he thought
deeply, on others he did not think at all; and he contrived
automatically to separate everything into its proper compartment.
“Here is what you require, sir,” he said, returning with the square of
leather.
“Come across to the fireplace,” said Carrados. “There is still no one
else in the lounge?”
“No, sir.”
“Who would be the last servant to see to this room at night--to leave
the fire safe and the windows fastened?”
“The hall porter, sir.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the outer hall.”
Carrados bent towards the fire. “It’s a million-to-one chance,” he
thought, “but it’s worth trying.” He dropped the leather on to the red
coals, waited until it began to smoke fiercely, and then, lifting it out
with the tongs, he allowed the pungent aromatic odour to diffuse into
the air for a few seconds. A minute later the charred fragment had lost
its identity among the embers.
“Go now, and on your way tell the hall porter that I want to speak to
him.”
The hall porter came, a magnificent being, but full of affable
condescension.
“You sent for me, sir?”
Carrados was sitting at a table near the fire.
“Yes. I am a little nervous. Do you smell anything burning?”
The porter sniffed the air--superfluously but loudly, so that the blind
gentleman should hear that he was not failing in his duty. Then he
looked comprehensively around.
“There certainly is a sort of hottish smell somewhere, sir,” he
admitted.
“It isn’t any woodwork about the fireplace scorching? We blind are so
helpless.”
“That’s all right, sir.” He laid a broad hand on the mantelpiece and
then rapped it reassuringly. “Solid marble that, sir. You needn’t be
afraid; I’ll give a look across now and then.”
“Thank you, if you will,” said Carrados, with relief in his voice. “And,
by the way, will you ring for Maurice as you go?”
A distant bell churred. Across the room, like a strangely balancing
bird, skimmed a waiter.
“Sair?”
“Oh, is that you, Maurice? I want----By the way, what’s that burning?”
“Burning, sair?”
“Yes; don’t you smell anything?”
“There is an odour of smell,” admitted Maurice sagely, “but it is
nothing to see.”
“You don’t know the smell?”
The waiter shook his head and looked vague. Carrados divined perplexity.
“Oh, I dare say it’s nothing,” he declared carelessly. “Will you get me
a sherry and khoosh?”
The million-to-one chance had failed.
“Sherry and bittaire, sair.”
Maurice deposited the glass with great precision, regarded it sadly and
then moved it three inches to the right.
“I ’ave recollect this odour, sair,” he remarked, “although I cannot
give actuality. I ’ave met him here before, but--less--less forcefully.”
“When?”
“Oh, one week since, perhaps.”
“Something in the coals?” suggested Carrados.
“I imagine yes,” pondered Maurice conscientiously. “I was ‘brightening
up,’ you say, for the night, and the fire was low down. I squash it with
the poker still more for safety.”
“Oh, then the lounge would be empty?”
“Yes--of people. Only Mr Slataire already departing.”
Carrados indicated that he did not want the change and dismissed the
subject.
“So long as nothing’s on fire,” he said with indifference.
“Thank you, sair.”
The million-to-one chance had come off after all.
* * * * *
Two days later, walking beyond the usual limit of the conventional
promenade, Carrados reached a rough wooden hut such as contractors erect
during the progress of their work. Having accompanied his master to the
door, Parkinson returned towards the promenade and sat down to admire
the seascape from the nearest bench.
Inside the hut three men had been waiting. One of the trio, a tall,
military-looking man with the air of a personage, had been sitting on a
whitewash-splashed trestle reading _The Times_. Of the others, one was
Inspector Tapling, and the third a dwarfish, wizened creature with the
air of a converted ostler. He had passed the time by watching the
Cliffhurst side through a knot-hole in a plank. With the entrance of
Carrados the tall man folded his newspaper and a period of expectancy
seemed to have come to an end.
“Good-morning, Colonel, Inspector and you there, Bob.”
“You found your way, Mr Carrados?” remarked the Colonel.
“Yes; it is not really I who am late. I had a letter this morning from
Wrattesley holding me up for a wire at 10.30. It did not arrive till
10.45.”
“Ah, it did come! Then we may regard everything as settled?”
“No, Colonel. On the contrary, we must accept everything as upset.”
“What, sir?”
Carrados took out the slim pocket-book, extracted a telegram and held it
out.
“What is this?” demanded the Colonel, peering through his glasses in the
indifferent light. “‘Laburnum edifice plaster dark dark late herald same
dome aurora dark vitiate camp encase.’ I don’t know the code.”
“Oh, it’s Westneath’s arrangement,” explained Carrados. “‘The individual
with whom we are concerned must not be arrested on charge, but it is of
the gravest importance that the papers in question be recovered. There
must be no public proceedings even if conviction assured.’”
There was a moment of stupefaction.
“This--this is a bombshell!” exclaimed the Colonel. “What does it mean?”
“Politics,” replied Carrados tersely.
“Ah!” soliloquised Tapling, walking to the door and looking
sympathetically out at the gloomy prospect of sea and sky.
“But I’ve had no notification,” protested the Colonel. “Surely, Mr
Carrados----”
“The wire is probably at the station.”
“True; you said 10.45. Well, what do you propose doing now?”
“Scrapping all our arrangements and recovering the papers without
arresting Slater.”
“In what way?”
“At the moment I have not the faintest idea.”
The Inspector left the door and came back moodily to his old position.
“We have reason to think that he is becoming suspicious, Mr Carrados,”
he remarked. “He may decide to go any hour.”
“Then the sooner we act the better.”
The stunted pigmy in the background had been listening to the
conversation with rapt attention, fastening his eyes unwinkingly on each
face in turn. He now glided forward.
“Listen to me, gents,” he said, throwing round a cunning leer; “how does
this sound? This afternoon....”
* * * * *
That afternoon Mr Slater had been for what he termed “a blow of the
briny,” as his custom was on a fine day. He was returning in the dusk
and had crossed the spacious promenade when, at a corner, he almost ran
into the broad figure of a policeman who stood talking to a woman on the
path.
“That’s the man!” exclaimed the woman with almost vicious certainty.
Mr Slater fell back a step in momentary alarm; then, recovering his
self-control, he went forward with admirable composure.
“Beg pardon, sir,” explained the constable, “but this young lady has
just lost her purse. She says she was sitting next to you on a seat----”
“And the minute after he had gone--the very minute--my bag was open like
you see it now and my purse vanished,” interposed the lady volubly.
“On the seat by the lifeboat where I passed you, sir,” amplified the
constable.
“This is ridiculous,” said Mr Slater with a breath of relief. “I am a
gentleman and I have no need to steal purses. My name is Slater, and I
am staying at the Rose and Plumes.”
“Yes, sir,” assented the policeman respectfully. “I know you by sight,
sir, and have seen you go there. You hear what the gentleman says,
miss?”
“Gentleman or no gentleman, I know my purse has gone,” snapped the girl.
“If he hasn’t got it why did it vanish--where is it now? That’s all I
ask--where is it now?”
“You’ve seen nothing of it, I take it, sir?”
“No, of course I haven’t,” retorted the gentleman contemptuously. “I was
sitting on a seat. The woman may have sat next to me--someone reading
certainly did. Then I got up, walked once or twice up and down and came
across. That’s all.”
“What was in the purse, miss?” inquired the constable.
“A postal order for a sovereign--and, thank the Lord, I’ve got the tag
of it--a half-crown, two shillings and a few coppers, a Kruger sixpence
with a hole through, a gold gipsy ring with pearls, the return half of
my ticket, some hairpins and a few recipes, a book of powder papers, a
pocket mirror----”
“That ought to be enough to identify it by,” said the constable,
catching Mr Slater’s eye in humorous sympathy. “Well, miss, you’d better
come to the station and report the loss. Perhaps you’ll look in as well,
sir?”
“Does that mean,” demanded Mr Slater with a dark gleam, “that I am to be
charged with theft?”
“Bless you, no, sir,” was the easy reassurance. “We couldn’t take a
charge in the circumstances--not with a gentleman of respectable
position and known address. But it might save you some inquiry and
bother later, and if it was myself I should like to get it done with
while it was red-hot, so to speak.”
“I will go now,” decided Mr Slater. “Do I walk with----?”
“Just as you like, sir. You can go before or follow on. It’s only just
down Bank Street.”
The two went on and the gentleman followed at a few yards’ interval.
Three minutes and a blue lamp indicated their destination. No other
pedestrian was in sight; the door stood hospitably open and Mr Slater
walked in.
The station Inspector was seated at a desk when they entered and a
couple of other officials stood about the room. The policeman explained
the circumstances of the loss, the Inspector noting the details in the
record-book.
“This gentleman voluntarily accompanied us as he had been brought into
the case,” concluded the policeman.
“Here is my card, Superintendent,” said Mr Slater with some importance.
He had determined to be agreeable, but dignified, and to enlist the
Inspector on his side. “I am staying at the Rose and Plumes. It’s deuced
unpleasant, you know, for a gentleman in my position to have to answer
to a charge like this. That’s why I came at once to clear the matter
up.”
“Quite so, sir,” replied the Inspector; “but there is no charge at
present.” He turned to the girl. “You understand that if you sign the
charge-sheet and it turns out that you are mistaken it may be a serious
matter?”
“I only want my purse and money back,” replied the young woman mulishly.
“We will try to find it for you; but there is nothing beyond your
suspicion that this gentleman has ever seen it. Probably, sir, you don’t
possess a sovereign postal order, or a Kruger coin, or any of the other
articles, even of your own?”
“I don’t,” replied Mr Slater. “Except, of course, some silver and
copper. If it will satisfy you I will turn out my pockets.”
The Inspector looked at the complainant.
“You hear that, miss?”
“Oh, very well,” she retorted. “If he really hasn’t got it I shall be
the one to look silly, shan’t I?”
On this encouragement Mr Slater made a display of his various
possessions, turning out each pocket as he emptied it. The contents were
laid before the Inspector, who satisfied himself by a glance of their
innocent nature.
“I should warn you that I am going to bring out a loaded revolver,” said
Mr Slater when he came to his hip-pocket. “I travel a good deal abroad
and often in wild parts, where it is necessary to carry a pistol for
protection.”
The Inspector nodded and examined the weapon with a knowing touch. The
last pocket was displayed.
“That’s not what I mean,” objected the girl with a dogged air, as
everyone began to regard her in varying degrees of inquiry. “You don’t
suppose that anyone would keep the things in their pocket, do you? I
thought you meant properly.”
The Inspector addressed himself to Mr Slater again in a matter-of-fact,
business manner.
“Perhaps you would like one of my men to put his hand over you to settle
the matter, sir?” he asked.
For just a couple of seconds there was the pause of hesitation.
“If nothing is found you withdraw all imputation against this
gentleman?” demanded the Inspector of the girl.
“Suppose I must,” she admitted with an admirable pose of sulky
acquiescence. In less exciting moments the young lady was a valued
member of the Kingsmouth Amateur Dramatic Society.
“Oh, all right,” assented Mr Slater. “Only get it over.”
“You quite understand that the search is entirely voluntary on your
part, sir. Hilldick!”
One of the other policemen came forward.
“You can stand where you are, sir,” he directed. With the practised
skill of, say, a Custom House officer from Kingsmouth, he used his
fingers dexterously about the gentleman’s clothing. “Now, sir, will you
sit down and remove your boots for a moment?”
“My boots!” The man’s eyes narrowed and his mouth took another line. He
glanced at the Inspector. “Is it really necessary----?”
“That’s it!” came from the girl in a fiercely exultant whisper. “He’s
slipped them in his boots!”
“Idiot!” commented Mr Slater. He sat down and slowly drew slack the
laces.
“Thank you,” said Hilldick. He picked up both boots and with them turned
to the table underneath the light. The next moment there was a sound
like the main-spring of a clock going wrong and the sole and the upper
of one boot came violently apart.
“You scoundrel!” screamed Slater, leaping from the chair.
But the grouping of the room had undergone a quiet change. Two men
closed in on his right and left, and Mr Slater sat down again. The
Inspector opened the desk, dropped in the revolver and turned the key.
Then all eyes went again to Hilldick and saw--nothing.
“The other boot,” came in a quiet voice from the doorway to the inner
room. “But just let me have it for a second.”
It was put into his hands, and Carrados examined it in unmoved
composure, while unpresentable words flowed in a blistering stream from
Slater’s lips.
“Yes, it is very good workmanship, Mr Frankworth,” remarked the blind
man. “You haven’t forgotten your early training. All right, Hilldick.”
The tool cut and rasped again and the stitches flew. But this time from
the opening, snugly lying in a space cut out among the leathers, a flat
packet slid down to the ground.
Someone tore open the oiled silk covering and spread out the contents.
Six sheets of fine tracing paper, each covered with signs and drawings,
were disclosed.
The finality of the discovery acted on the culprit like a douche of
water. He ceased to revile, and a white and deadly calm came over him.
“I don’t know who is responsible for this atrocious outrage,” he said
between his clenched teeth, “but everyone concerned shall pay dearly for
it. I am a naturalised Frenchman, and my adopted country will demand
immediate satisfaction.”
“Your adopted country is welcome to you, and it’s going to have you back
again,” said the Inspector grimly. “Here is a pair of boots exactly like
your own--we only retain the papers, which do not belong to you. You are
allowed twenty-four hours to be clear of the country. If you have not
sailed by this time to-morrow you will be arrested as Henry Frankworth
for failing to report yourself when on licence and sent to serve the
unexpired portion of your sentence. If you return at any time the same
course will be followed. Inspector Tapling, here is the warrant. You
will keep Frankworth under observation and act as the circumstances
demand.”
Henry Frankworth glared round the room vindictively, drew himself up and
clenched his fists. Then his figure drooped, and he turned and walked
dully out into the darkening night.
* * * * *
“So you let the German spy slip through your fingers after all,”
protested Mr Carlyle warmly. “I know that it was on instructions, and
not your doing, Max; but why, why on earth, why?”
Carrados smiled and pointed to the heading of a column in an evening
paper that he picked up from his side.
“There is your answer, Louis,” he replied.
“‘POSITION OF THE ENTENTE. WHAT DOES FRANCE MEAN?’” read the gentleman.
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Your German spy was a French spy, Louis, and just at this moment a
certain section of the public, led by a certain gang of politicians and
aided by a certain interest in the Press, is doing its best to imperil
the Entente. The Government has no desire to have the Entente
imperilled. Hence your wail. If the dear old emotional, pig-headed,
Rule-Britannia! public had got it that French spies were stalking
through the land at this crisis, then, indeed, the fat would have been
in the fire!”
“But, upon my soul, Max----Well, well; I hope that I am the last man to
be led by newspaper clap-trap, but I think that it’s a deuced queer
proceeding all the same. Why should our ally want our secret plans?”
“Why not, if he can get them?” demanded Max Carrados philosophically.
“One never knows what may happen next. We ought to have plans and
knowledge of all the French strategic positions as well as of the
German. I hope that we have, but I doubt it. It would be a guarantee of
peace and good relations.”
“There are times, Max,” declared Mr Carlyle severely, “when I suspect
you of being--er--paradoxical.”
“Can you imagine, Louis, an Archbishop of Canterbury, or a Poet
Laureate, or a Chancellor of the Exchequer being friendly--perhaps even
dining--with the editor of _The Times_?”
“Certainly; why not?”
“Yet in the editor’s office, drawn up by his orders, there is probably a
three-column obituary notice of each of those impersonalities. Does it
mean that the editor wishes them to die--much less has any intention of
poisoning their wine? Ridiculous! He merely, as a prudent man, prepares
for an eventuality, so as not to be caught unready by a misfortune which
he sincerely hopes will never take place--in his time, that is to say.”
“Well, well,” said Mr Carlyle benignantly--they were lunching together
at Vitet’s, on Carrados’s return--“I am glad that we got the papers. One
thing I cannot understand. Why didn’t the fellow get clear as soon as he
had the plans?”
“Ah,” admitted the blind man, “why not, indeed? Even Inspector Tapling
bated his breath when he suggested the reason to me.”
“And what was that?” inquired Carlyle with intense interest.
Mr Carrados looked extremely mysterious and half-reluctant for a moment.
Then he spoke.
“Do you know, Louis, of any great secret military camp where a surprise
fleet of dirigibles and flying machines of a new and terrible pattern is
being formed by a far-seeing Government as a reserve against the day of
Armageddon?”
“No,” admitted Mr Carlyle, with staring eyes, “I don’t.”
“Nor do I,” contributed Carrados.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IX
The Eastern Mystery
It could scarcely be called Harris’s fault, whatever the driver next
behind might say in the momentary bitterness of his heart. In the
two-fifths of a second of grace at his disposal Mr Carrados’s chauffeur
had done all that was possible and the bunt that his radiator gave the
stair-guard of the London General in front was insignificant. Then a
Railway Express Delivery skated on its dead weight into his luggage
platform and a Pickford, turning adroitly out of the mêlée, slewed a
stationary Gearless round by its hand-rail stanchion to spread terror
among the other line of traffic.
The most unconcerned person, to all appearance, was the driver of the
London General, the vehicle whose sudden stoppage had initiated the riot
of confusion. He had seen a man, engrossed to the absolute exclusion of
his surroundings by something that took his eye on the opposite
footpath, dash into the road and then, brought up suddenly by a
realisation of his position, attempt to retrace his steps. He had pulled
up so expertly that the man escaped, so smoothly that not a passenger
was jarred, and now he sat with a dazed and vacant expression on his
face, leaning forward on his steering wheel, while caustic inquiry and
retort winged unheeded up and down the line behind him.
It was not until the indispensable ceremony of everyone taking everyone
else’s name and number had been observed under the authority of the
tutelary constable that the single occupant of the private car stirred
to show any interest in the proceedings.
“Parkinson,” he called quietly, summoning his attendant to the window.
“Ask Mr Tulloch if he will come round here when he has finished with the
policeman.”
“Mr Tulloch, sir?”
“Yes; you remember Dr Tulloch of Netherhempsfield? He is on in front
there.”
A moment later Jim Tulloch, as genial as of old, but his exuberance
temporarily damped by the cross-bickering in which he had just been
involved, thrust his head and arm through the sash.
“Lord, lord, it really is you then, Wynn, old man?” he cried. “When your
Parkinson came up I couldn’t believe it for a minute, simply couldn’t
believe it. The world grows smaller, I declare.”
“At all events this car does,” responded Carrados, wringing the hearty,
outstretched hand. “They’ve got us two inches less than the makers ever
intended. Is it really your doing, Jim?”
“Did ever you hear such a thing?” protested Tulloch. “And yet that
wall-eyed atrocity yonder has kidded the copper that if he hadn’t
stopped dead--well, I should.”
“Was it a near thing?” asked Carrados confidentially.
“Well, strictly between ourselves, I don’t mind admitting that it might
have been something of a shave,” confessed Tulloch, with a cheerful
grin. “But, lord bless you, Wynn, the streets of London are paved with
’em nowadays, paved with them. You don’t merely take your life in your
hands if you want to get about; you carry it on each foot.”
“Look here,” said Carrados. “You never let me know that you were up in
town, Tulloch. What are you doing to-day?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Parkinson’s respectful voice, “but
the policeman wishes to speak with you, sir.”
“With me?” queried Tulloch restlessly. “Oh, good lord! have we to go
into all that again?”
“It’s only the bus-driver, sir,” apologised the constable with the
tactful deference that the circumstances seemed to demand. “As you are a
doctor--I think there’s something the matter with him.”
“I’m sure there is,” assented Tulloch. “All right, I’m coming. Are you
in a hurry, Wynn?”
“I’ll wait,” was the reply.
The doctor found his patient propped up on a doorstep. Having, as he
expressed it afterwards, “run the rule over him,” he prescribed a glass
of water and an hour’s rest. The man was shaken, that was all.