A Fruitless Quest
From their places of concealment Ross and Vernon watched the boat train
run alongside the steamer. At last the weary vigil was a thing of the
past. All fatigue was forgotten at the prospect of witnessing the
capture of one of the active members of the German spy system at work
in this country.
For a quarter of an hour everything was in a state of bustle. There
was a continuous stream of passengers and porters, the latter bending
under the weight of trunks and boxes as they hurried up the steeply
sloping gangway.
At length the throng thinned. As yet there was no sign either of von
Ruhle or of Detective-inspector Hawke.
A man with his coat collar turned up ran through the driving rain and
entered the shed. It was Ferret.
"Something's gone wrong," he declared. "I've just had a telephone
message from my colleague. I'm off to the post-office. If you want me
during the next ten minutes you'll find me there."
Hawke had at length managed to get a word with his former
fellow-traveller, who happened to be a staff-officer of the Eastern
command. The detective had been under a misapprehension. The officer
had good reason for ordering his arrest; but the comedy threatened to
take a serious development. Even when the detective showed his
credentials the officer was not satisfied. He proposed telegraphing to
Scotland Yard, but Hawke, mindful of a former failure, induced him not
to do so. The detective, who had occasion to contrast unfavourably the
summary powers of arrest under the Defence of the Realm Act with those
allowed by the Civil Power, was eventually allowed to communicate with
his brother officer at Parkeston Quay. And then the military
authorities required a considerable amount of convincing. It looked as
if Detective-inspector Hawke would have to remain under arrest until
next morning.
While Ferret was losing time and patience in his efforts to release his
confrère, Ross and Vernon noticed a man hurrying along the quay. He
was short and thick-set. He wore a long mackintosh, the collar of
which was turned up and helped, with the peak of his cap, to hide his
features.
Suddenly the man's foot tripped over a ring-bolt. He cursed under his
breath, but sufficiently loudly for the lads to overhear.
Ross gripped his companion's arm. The fellow was swearing in German.
"Von Ruhle!" he whispered. He made a movement as if to issue from his
place of concealment, but Haye restrained him.
"Hold on!" he cautioned in a low voice.
The man paused on the gangway. A partly shaded electric light threw a
glare upon his face. He wore a heavy beard and moustache.
"You're wrong," whispered Vernon.
"He's a German, anyhow," persisted Trefusis.
The man still hesitated. Then he hailed a seaman.
"Where is the post office?" he asked. "I wish to telegraph. Is there
time before the boat sails?"
Receiving an affirmative reply the man hurried off.
"Come on!" exclaimed Ross.
Neither of the lads had now any doubts as to the man's identity. The
beard and moustache were false, but the voice was the same--von Ruhle's.
Keeping close to the wall of the line of sheds, the lads followed the
spy at a distance of about fifty feet. More than once von Ruhle
glanced furtively over his shoulder, as if suspecting that he was being
tracked.
Presently a man, reeling along the quay, approached. The spy made no
effort to avoid him. As the inebriated one rolled past he whispered a
few words. The effect was instantaneous. Instead of continuing his
way towards the post office, von Ruhle turned and made off abruptly in
the direction of the gate of the Company's premises.
"An accomplice," whispered Vernon. "He's been warned."
They had to wait until the man who had feigned drunkenness had
disappeared. By this time the German had gained a considerable
distance. To get the assistance of the detective was out of the
question.
"Come on!" exclaimed Ross, breaking into a run.
Concealment was no longer necessary. Should occasion arise, there
would be plenty of help forthcoming, for there were several dock
policemen and soldiers on duty close at hand.
Von Ruhle had increased his pace into a brisk walk when he heard the
noise of his pursuers. Then he, too, began to run.
"Stop him!" shouted Trefusis, calling to a group of uniformed men
standing in front of an abattoir.
Turning, the German made towards the quay-side. He was no match in
speed for his youthful pursuers; but he gained the water's edge before
Ross headed him off.
"Give in, von Ruhle!" he challenged.
The spy recognized the voice of the British lad whom he imagined to be
miles away, on board an unterseeboot.
With a quick movement, the spy plucked a leather case from his coat
pocket and hurled it over the edge of the quay, then, throwing up his
arms, he dropped lifeless upon the rain-sodden ground.
Rapidly a crowd collected. Amongst them was Detective-inspector
Ferret, who, having finished his conversation with his luckless
confrère, was leaving the post office when he heard the commotion.
"Well, what's all this?" he asked brusquely. He bent over the body of
the spy and flashed a pocket-lamp upon his face. "It's our man," he
continued, addressing the lads in an undertone. This remark was
needless, since they were already certain upon that point. "He's done
us out of a job. Heart disease? No fear: it's poison. Don't wait
here. Your work in this direction is done. I have still a few
unpleasant tasks to perform. Cut off to the hotel and await me there.
I may be an hour."
"One moment," protested Vernon. "We saw von Ruhle heave something over
the quay. It might float; if so, there might be a chance to pick it up
by means of a boat. The tide is almost slack. If it has sunk it will
be a diver's task to recover it."
"'Something' is always unsatisfactory," remarked Ferret reprovingly.
"Was it large, small, heavy, or light?"
"He was so jolly quick that I could hardly see it," replied Haye. "I
should think it was about the size of a cigar-case."
Directing two policemen to remove and take charge of the body, the
Detective-inspector accompanied the lads to the edge of the quay. It
was dead low water. There was hardly sufficient current coming down
the Stour to swing the anchored craft against the wind. Then the
investigators made a discovery. Although there was a good depth of
water at the greater extent of the quay, at this spot the mud was
uncovered at the base of the wall, while almost at their feet was a
flight of stone steps.
Ferret descended cautiously and switched on the light of the torch.
Almost within arm's length, and partly buried in the slime, was the
object which the spy had thrown away.
As the detective hooked at it with his stick a hoarse voice shouted:
"Ahoy there! What are you doing with that light?"
Apparently from nowhere a boat ploughed through the mud until its bows
were within a couple of feet of the steps. The next instant Ferret and
his companions were covered by a revolver.
It was a naval guard-boat, the watchful eye of the officer in charge
having discovered what he took to be surreptitious signalling.
Explanations followed, and were accepted. Ferret, holding the
recovered prize, ascended the steps, followed by Ross and Vernon, while
the boat backed noiselessly away. It was but one more example of the
ceaseless vigilance of the great, silent Navy.
Almost dead-beat, Trefusis and his chum made their way to the hotel,
had supper, and went straight to bed. Ferret, they decided, could wait
until morning.
At 6 a.m. Hawke, having secured his release, arrived at Parkeston,
having engaged a motor-car to bring him from Manningtree. Already his
vindictiveness towards the military had vanished. He had taken a
sensible view of the situation. He had played and lost, and the staff
officer was justified in the circumstances. As for the soldiers, they
had to obey orders.
Nevertheless he was chagrined when he heard his confrère's report. It
was galling to think that their spy had outwitted him by taking his own
life. The whole energies of the two detectives must, for the present,
be concentrated upon the capture of the master-spy, Von Hauptwald,
otherwise Dr. Ramblethorne.
Ross and Vernon met Hawke again at breakfast. He was now quite
cheerful.
"You managed to get hold of von Ruhle so well," he remarked, "that I
think you really ought to bear a hand with friend Ramblethorne,--that
is, unless you've had enough of man-hunting?"
"We'll do our best," said Ross. "It's our duty."
"When do you start?" asked Vernon.
"Almost at once," he declared. "Ramblethorne might be alarmed if no
telegram arrives from his fellow-spy. Again, the man who communicated
with von Ruhle on the quay last night might have given Ramblethorne
warning. It's not at all surprising to me, since what you told us, Mr.
Trefusis, that there has been an alarming outbreak of enteric at St.
Bedal camp."
He turned over several pages of a complex timetable.
"Here we are," he announced. "We must get to Paddington in time to
catch the 10.20 for Wellington. One thing, young gentlemen, you'll be
nearly home. Ferret has arranged about the inquest on von Ruhle. Your
evidence will be taken down in writing, and in that case you won't have
to put in an appearance at that grim farce."
Hawke spoke feelingly and from experience. In his opinion, based upon
circumstantial evidence, "crowner's quests" were a form of legal
absurdity.
The train journey to Liverpool Street was undertaken almost in silence,
as far as the four travellers were concerned. Hawke buried himself in
his paper; Ferret was poring over some document found in von Ruhle's
pocket-book, trying to unravel the complex code that, if deciphered,
would be of the utmost importance to the country. Ross and Vernon,
still feeling tired, tried to make up for arrears of sleep.
Taking a taxi across London, they were just in time to catch the Great
Western express, which would take them to Taunton. Arriving at that
place, they changed into a slow train that eventually landed them at
the little Somersetshire town nestling under the Black Down Hills.
Without delay the party proceeded to the regimental depot. Enquiries
for Captain Ramblethorne, R.A.M.C., only resulted in looks of
perplexity. He was unknown to the authorities.
"But we heard from St. Bedal that Captain Ramblethorne was ordered to
Wellington for recruiting duties," persisted Hawke.
The orderly-room clerk smiled sadly.
"Are you quite sure that it was this Wellington?" he asked. "We've had
similar mistakes before."
Detective-inspector Hawke felt like kicking himself. He, too, was
aware of the existence of the Shropshire Wellington, but, without
giving the possibility any consideration, he had rashly jumped to the
conclusion that the place to which Ramblethorne had been appointed was
the one nearest to St. Bedal.
Sorrowfully the four marched out of the office. More delay ensued
while a wire was dispatched to St. Bedal, asking for further details.
It took two hours before the reply came. "Regret not to have added
Salop to Captain Ramblethorne's address.--C.O."
"It's a long lane that has no turning," observed Ferret as they made
for the railway station.
Hawke bit his lip. He knew that had the spy been warned promptly he
might be out of the country by this time.
It was dark when, after a tedious journey, the four travellers alighted
at Wellington, Salop. Here, guarded enquiries elicited the information
that Captain Ramblethorne had gone to Bridgnorth to examine men "roped
in" at a recruiting meeting. He had left for Bridgnorth two hours
previously.
"There are no trains to-night," announced Hawke. "We'll have to get a
car."
Ten minutes later, Ross and his companions were speeding over the
horribly rough and hilly road between Wellington and Bridgnorth. Past
ironworks and coal-fields, over or under a network of railway lines,
the car tore; then, leaving the mining district behind, it entered the
picturesque valley of the Severn, where the road skirts a range of
towering limestone crags.
In spite of their fatigue, the lads could not restrain an exclamation
of surprise and delight as the town of Bridgnorth, bathed in moonlight,
appeared in sight--a cluster of houses perched upon a bold rock, and
dominated by the scanty ruins of the old castle. At the foot of the
cliff the Severn meandered placidly. In the midst of the greatest war
the world has ever known, Bridgnorth appeared to retain all the
characteristics of complete peace.
The recruiting office was closed for the night. With unerring instinct
the detective made for the principal hotel. Here they found that
Captain Ramblethorne had engaged a room, but the manager showed them a
telegram that had just reached him.
"Took wrong train cancel room arriving to-morrow morning Ramblethorne."
"A blind," mentally ejaculated Ferret. "He has been warned."
The telegram had been dispatched from Shrewsbury. Ferret was again at
fault, for the mistake was a genuine one. It so happened that the two
trains left Wellington at precisely the same time, the one for
Bridgnorth starting from a side platform. Before he realized his
mistake Ramblethorne found himself well on the way to Shrewsbury, for
the train stopped at no intermediate station.
"Shrewsbury, as hard as you can go!" ordered Hawke, addressing the
chauffeur.
At a pace averaging fifty miles an hour the powerful car bounded over
the road. Without mishap it gained the outskirts of the county town of
Shropshire, when an involuntary halt occurred.
It was on the English Bridge, a comparatively narrow structure crossing
the Severn. A belated drover was driving a herd of refractory cattle
into the town when a motor-bicycle whizzed down the hill.
The cattle stampeded. With a jerk that almost threw Ferret and Vernon
from the seat, the car brought up. At the same time the motor-bicycle
slowed down, and dexterously avoiding a huge bullock, glided past the
stationary car.
The moonbeams shone directly upon the rider's face as Ross thrust his
head out of the window. The motor-cyclist was Ramblethorne the spy.
The recognition was mutual. The spy, cool and collected, gave no sign
of recognition. The next moment he was travelling "all out" along the
Much Wenlock road.
"That's Ramblethorne!" exclaimed Ross excitedly.
"Botheration take him!" ejaculated Ferret. "Are we to get no rest
to-night?"
He opened the window in front of him. Hawke was sitting with the
chauffeur. Quickly the detectives arrived at their decision.
"After that chap!" exclaimed Hawke, addressing the chauffeur; "that
motor-cyclist who has just passed. Ten pounds if you overhaul and stop
him."
It was the bright moonlight that had tempted Ramblethorne to go for a
midnight ride. He was a keen out-of-door man. He could handle almost
any make of car or motor-cycle with the utmost skill. Finding himself
at Shrewsbury, he hired a motor-cycle from an agent, intending to have
a run along the road following the banks of the Severn as far as
Ironbridge. It was his practice, whenever in a strange place, speedily
to become conversant with the locality. It was, in fact, part of his
training as a spy.
Ramblethorne was somewhat taken aback when he saw Ross's face in the
moonlight, although he betrayed no sign of surprise. In an instant he
realized that, by some means, young Trefusis had escaped from U75;
more, he was with a party of men evidently hard on his track.
Quickly he made up his mind. His career as a medical officer to the
British Service was ended. He could no longer hope to serve the German
Government in that direction. Before morning a hue and cry would be
raised.
As he swung along the broad, level road he thought out his plans. He
would ride as hard as he could until his supply of petrol gave out--a
matter of about seventy or eighty miles. Then he would abandon and
hide the motor-cycle, and make his way on foot to the Essex coast.
There, he had means to get on board a nominally British fishing-boat,
which would run him over to a Dutch port.
Although the motor-cycle was travelling at close on forty miles an
hour, Ramblethorne glanced back over his shoulder. He hardly expected
to be pursued. If the car had turned to attempt to overhaul him, it
would almost to a certainty take the wider of the two fork roads--that
leading to Wellington.
Disagreeably surprised, the spy saw the two powerful head-lights of the
car less than a mile behind him.
The chauffeur of the pursuing vehicle had set his heart on winning the
promised guerdon. "All out" the car bounded along the road, leaving in
its trail a dense cloud of dust that slowly dispersed in the moon-lit
air.
Hanging on desperately to the sides of the swaying car, Ferret and the
two lads knelt upon the front seat of the coupe and peered through the
dust-flecked glass at the solitary motor-cyclist in front. They were
gaining--rapidly at first, but now the gap between lessened almost
imperceptibly.
At that tremendous rate, the bursting of a tyre would result in
complete disaster, yet not one thought did the pursuers give to the
danger they were running. Their sole attention was centred upon the
spy.
A sharp bend close to the village of Cressage enabled the car to get
within fifty yards of the motor-cyclist. Hawke drew a revolver from
his pocket. The chauffeur noticed the action out of the corner of his
eye. Purposely he toyed with the sensitive steering-wheel, causing the
car to swerve erratically.
"Put it up, sir!" he exclaimed, shouting in order to make himself heard
above the roar of the wind over the screen. "If you bring him down
we'll smash up on top of him before we can pull up. We'll have him on
Harley Bank right enough."
A sharp run down through the village of Harley brought the car within
sight of a very steep hill, up which the road wound like a silver
thread against the black slope. This was Harley Bank, one of the
steepest of many stiff Shropshire hills, its gradient averaging one in
seven.
Up mounted the motor-cycle. Ramblethorne was attempting to take it on
high gear.
The chauffeur of the car took no risks. He promptly dropped into
second gear, with the result that the gap between them increased to
nearly a hundred yards. Then the motor-cycle began to falter. Perhaps
Ramblethorne was not thoroughly acquainted with the mechanism of the
two-speed. By the time he got the friction-clutch into action the car
had more than regained the lost distance--and the fugitive had not yet
reached the stiffest part of the hill.
"Head him off--jam him up against that bank!" ordered Hawke.
"What for, sir?" asked the chauffeur. He had no objection to taking
part in a midnight chase, but his sense of prudence told him that it
was not advisable to deliberately smash up another vehicle.
"He's a spy," replied Hawke. "Don't hesitate. I will take all risks."
Fifteen seconds later the near front wheel of the car was abreast of
Ramblethorne's back wheel. Hawke leant sideways with the intention of
gripping the motor-cyclist by the collar, since the relative speeds
were practically the same. At the same moment the car edged a little
closer to the left-hand side of the road.
Ramblethorne realized the danger. A collision would with almost
certainty result in his receiving a broken neck; capture meant
ignominious death at the hands of a firing-party. There was yet a
third alternative--a dash for safety.
He threw out the clutch and applied both brakes, at the same time
bringing the motor-cycle on to the grassy bank. He alighted on all
fours, but almost immediately regained his feet. The car was already
twenty yards on ahead and still in gear.
He grasped his cycle by the handle-bars and raised it from its
recumbent position. One look showed that the glancing impact had bent
the front forks. The machine was no longer rideable. Without
hesitation he sprang up the bank. As he did so he heard the footfalls
of his pursuers.
"Be steady!" cautioned Ferret, as Ross and Vernon alighted from the
car. "He may be armed. We're the people to take the brunt of it--not
you."
They were now within a few feet of the summit of the road, which at
this spot ran through the hill by means of a cutting. Close by were
three excavations. Someone had evidently attempted to commence
quarrying there, but had abandoned the undertaking. As far as the
detective could conclude, these pits formed the only possible
hiding-place in the vicinity.
"Hist!" exclaimed Hawke, holding up one hand to enjoin silence.
All was still. No sound of stealthily retreating footsteps reached
their ears. Hawke knelt down and placed one ear to the ground.
"Someone breathing pretty hard," he whispered. "He can't be very far
away; in one of these holes most likely. Perhaps he's hurt himself."
An investigation of the first possible hiding-place produced no result.
At the second Ross heard a long-drawn sigh, emanating from a patch of
bushes and tall grass.
"Here you are!" he exclaimed.
The place was in shadow, yet he could discern some dark object lying at
full length in the midst of the grass.
In a trice the two detectives threw themselves upon their prey. For an
instant the man struggled wildly. Ross and his chum joined in the
fray, each hanging on desperately to his plunging legs. Ignominiously
he was dragged from his place of concealment into the bright moonlight.
Ferret was the first to give a gasp of astonishment. Their victim was
not Ramblethorne the spy, but a powerfully built tramp, who, finding
himself released, began to expostulate with alarming vehemence.
"Stop that!" exclaimed Hawke authoritatively. "We are police officers.
If you don't behave we'll take you in charge for sleeping out without
visible means."
The fellow, cowed into silence, slunk away.
"Confound it!" ejaculated Ferret. "We've let Ramblethorne slip away
under our very noses. He'll be clear by this time."
"I'm afraid so," agreed Hawke ruefully; then turning to the chauffeur
he told him to drive into the nearest village, which happened to be
Much Wenlock.
Here Ross and Vernon were able to secure a room at an inn, while the
Scotland Yard men were busy at the little police station, getting a
description of the spy issued through the countryside.
Next morning the lads set out on their return journey to Killigwent
Hall.