With the door shut, the room was almost wholly dark. It contained no
furniture but a plain deal table and a wooden chair. Kenneth sat down
and ruminated. His position was annoying, but also mildly exciting. It
would be something to tell his people when he got home, that he had been
arrested as a spy.
It was now five o'clock. Dinner was at seven: his train left at
half-past nine, and the stationmaster had advised him to be at the
station at least an hour in advance. He had addressed his note to
Finkelstein at the office, and expected that his friend would arrive
within half an hour or so and procure his release. In the absence of
any evidence against him a prolonged detention would surely be
impossible.
Perhaps half an hour had passed when he heard footsteps on the passage;
the key turned in the lock, and he started up, expecting to see
Finkelstein. But there entered a constable, bringing a mug of beer and
a piece of rye bread.
"My friend Herr Finkelstein has not come?" Kenneth asked.
"Nobody has come for you," replied the man.
"My note was taken to him?"
"If you wrote a note, I daresay it was."
"Aren't you sure?"
"I have only just come on duty, sir."
The constable set the food on the table and went out, locking the door.
Anticipating dinner, Kenneth was not tempted to eat the coarse fare
provided. He was still not seriously alarmed, though his annoyance grew
with the passing minutes. Finkelstein never left his office until
half-past six; there was plenty of time for him to have received the
note--unless there had been delay in delivering it. This possibility
was somewhat perturbing.
Kenneth began to wonder what had led to his arrest. He was quite
unknown to the police; nothing in his appearance was aggressively
English. So far as he knew he had no enemy in Cologne, so that it
seemed unlikely that anyone had put the police on his track out of sheer
malice.
His thoughts reverted to the incident of the afternoon. The discovery
that Hellwig was in the German secret service, surprising as it was,
made clear certain things that had puzzled him. During his frequent
visits to London, Hellwig was accustomed to stay at the Amorys' house,
and had many callers who came to see him privately, on the firm's
business, as Kenneth had supposed. It seemed only too probable now that
they were agents in the work of espionage.
A sudden suspicion flashed into Kenneth's mind. Was it possible that
his arrest was due to Hellwig? From what he had overheard it was clear
that Hellwig was a man of considerable authority in the secret service.
A word from him would no doubt suffice. But what could his motive be?
Kenneth was under no illusion as to the man's character. He had always
thoroughly disliked and distrusted him, and felt instinctively that the
dislike was mutual. Could it be that Hellwig, knowing himself
discovered, and fearing that Kenneth, on his return to London, would
inform the authorities, had taken this step to save himself? It seemed
an unnecessary precaution, for if war broke out between Britain and
Germany, Hellwig would make no more journeys to London for some time to
come.
The more Kenneth thought over the matter, the more convinced he became
that Hellwig, whatever his motive might be, had caused his arrest. The
conviction destroyed his confidence in an early release. The man would
stick at nothing. He would have foreseen an application to Finkelstein,
and taken steps to forestall it. What if the note should never reach
Finkelstein?
Kenneth was now thoroughly alarmed. The Germans had a short way with
spies, or those they regarded as spies, even during peace; it was likely
to be shorter and sharper than ever on the outbreak of war. The
prospect of being taken out and shot sent cold thrills through him.
Contemplating this dark eventuality he heard heavy footsteps overhead.
He looked up, and for the first time saw a glint of light from the
ceiling in one corner of the room. The footsteps passed: all was silent
again.
Kenneth sat thinking. If his suspicions were well founded, he felt that
his doom was sealed. It would be easy for a man like Hellwig to
fabricate evidence against him. In default of Finkelstein's assistance,
which Hellwig would take care to prevent, his only means of safety lay
in flight. But what chance was there of escaping from this locked and
shuttered room? An examination of the window showed the hopelessness of
it.
The faint streak of light above again attracted his notice. Noiselessly
drawing the table beneath it, he mounted to examine its source. A
portion of the plaster had fallen away from the ceiling, and the light
filtered through a narrow crack in the flooring above. This discovery,
under pressure of circumstances, gave him a gleam of hope. Taking out
his pocket knife, he began to scrape quietly at the plaster, gradually
enlarging the hole. What there might be above he could not tell;
judging by the passing in and out of the footsteps the room was
unoccupied.
While he was engaged on this work he heard steps in the passage without.
Springing down, he swept on to the floor, and under the table, the
plaster he had scraped from the ceiling, then stood waiting eagerly.
Perhaps it was Finkelstein at last.
The door opened. A man was thrust into the room, and the door again
locked. The newcomer swore.
"You're an Englishman?" cried Kenneth.
"Do I find a companion in adversity?" said the man. "We can condole."
"Who are you?"
"What is your father? How many horses does he keep? Bless me, how this
reminds me of my innocent childhood! 'More light,' as Goethe said. But
I can see well enough to know that you are a youngster. Sad, sad!"
Peering at the stranger, Kenneth saw a man of about thirty-five, with
hair _en brosse_, Germanic moustache, and a German military uniform.
"I should pass in a crowd, one would think," the man went on, smiling
under Kenneth's scrutiny. "But Fate is unkind."
"You are a spy?" said Kenneth.
"And you, my friend?"
"No. They say so, but I'm not."
"They say so, and they will have their way. Ah, well! They say also,
that it is a sweet and comely thing to die for one's country. I always
thought I should die in my boots."
"Can they prove it against you?"
"A scrap of paper! They can't read it, but what matters that? A note
in cipher is evidence enough. But I shall not die unavenged: they are
crying in the streets that war is declared, and I fancy that Emperor
William has bitten a little more than he can chew. What brings you to
this deplorable extremity?"
"I don't know: a private enemy, I think."
"Well, the rain falls on the just and the unjust. I'm sorry for you.
Haven't you any friend, though, who can get this door unlocked?"
Kenneth explained briefly what had happened. Then, feeling a strange
liking for his companion, he added:
"When you came in, I was wondering about the chances of escape."
"A waste of brain tissue, unless you have some talisman. But tell me,
you have some definite idea?"
"You see that hole in the ceiling? I was enlarging it."
"Ha! A man of action! Nil desperandum, eh? Let me have a look at it."
He mounted on the table, and thrust his hand into the opening.
"I say, youngster," he said, a note of eagerness in his voice, "there is
a chance, on my life there is. The boards above are not over firm. We
may be skipping out of the frying-pan into the fire, but one can only
die once. Continue with your work; I'll mount guard and warn you of
anyone approaching."
Kenneth scraped away with his penknife, until the hole was large enough
to admit his head and shoulders. The light, coming through a single
crack, did not increase, so that the enlargement of the hole might
easily escape notice if a constable entered. The stranger put the chair
on the table.
"Mount on that," he said; "put your back against the boards, and
shove--gently."
Kenneth did as he was instructed. The pressure of his back started the
nails, and a plank rose, with an alarming creak.
"That won't be heard through the rumble of traffic outside," said the
man. "Wait a little. You don't know anything of the room above?"
"Nothing. I heard somebody go in and out a while ago; I think it is
empty."
"Well now: let us keep cool. We can get into the room: that is certain.
Can we get out of it? We shall have to descend the stairs. Our chance
of life depends on one half-minute. 'Can a man die better than facing
fearful odds?' Look here: we'll toss. Heads: we'll go up; tails--why,
hang it, we'll still go up! Fortuna fortibus! Wait till we hear the
rumble of the next artillery wagon; then! ..."
They had not long to wait. Heavy traffic passed at short intervals.
"Now!" said the stranger.
Kenneth gave a heave. In a moment two planks were removed. Resting his
arms on the edges of those on either side of the gap, he hoisted himself
up. His companion quickly followed. They stood in the room.
The next half minute was filled to breathlessness. It was a bedroom. A
street lamp outside threw a little light into it. Hanging from a peg on
the door was a policeman's tunic and helmet.
"Fortune's our friend," murmured the stranger.
In ten seconds he had helped Kenneth to don the uniform. They crept out
of the room, and peeped over the stair rail. The way was clear. All
sounds within were smothered by the noise in the street. They stole
downstairs, past the closed door of the guardroom, through the outer
door, and into the open. "War with England!" shouted a newsman at the
corner.
"We win the first trick!" chuckled the stranger, as they hurried along.