ON THE TRAIL
AT ten o'clock the following morning Peter Barcroft had a visitor.
The announcement, delivered by Mrs. Carter, was greeted with a flow
of forcible language.
"Tell the blithering idiot I can't see him now," shouted Mr.
Barcroft. "I'm busy. He must call again in an hour's time."
The Little Liver Pill departed with the message, to return with the
information that the caller came with news of "that there moke."
"In that case, show him in," decided Peter.
The informant was a short, thick-set, bowlegged man, with features
that had cunning stamped indelibly on every line. His watery blue
eyes and stubbly grey moustache contrasted vividly with his reddish
complexion, the colour of which reached its maximum intensity at the
tip of his turned-up nose. "The straight tip, guv'ner, an' no
questions axed," began the man, winking solemnly.
"What d'ye mean?" demanded Peter.
"Wot I says," replied the slightly inebriated one. "You offers in
this 'ere paper a bloomin' quid to any bloke as gives information
about your moke. 'Ere's the bloke--me. Na, 'ow abaht it?"
"Can you produce the animal?" asked Barcroft.
"Wot! Tike me fer a bloomin' conjurer? D'ye fink as 'ow I can make a
bloomin' moke come outer me 'at like a rabbit?"
"In that case I don't think I'll trouble you any further," said
Peter, placing his hand on the bell.
"'Old 'ard, guv'ner!" interrupted the man. "You mistakes my meanin.'
Wot I says is this, if you'll pardon my manner o' speech. I knows
where your donkey is. A chap wot I owes a grudge to 'as pinched it.
You pay me the quid, I'll give you the straight tip, s'long as you
don't bring my name inter it, an' there you are. You gets yer moke
back agen an' it's a jimmy o' goblin well spent."
Peter considered the points raised. He felt disinclined to treat
with the rascal. He might have telephoned for the police, but it was
hardly a case of blackmail. Quite possibly at the threat of the law
the fellow might be cowed; on the other hand he might shut up like
an oyster. Again, the whole story might be a cock-and-bull yarn with
the idea of getting money.
"Very well," said Barcroft at length. "I agree. Now tell me where
the animal is."
"Steady on, guv'ner," protested the man. "'Ow abaht it?--the quid, I
means."
"I've promised," said Peter. "My word is your bond."
"Sooner 'ave the brass."
"When I regain possession of the animal," decided the lawful owner
firmly. "You give me your name and address and directly I recover my
property I will send you the money. You cannot reasonably expect me
to trust you, an utter stranger, with a sovereign on the off-chance
that I may get the animal back on the strength of your information.
In fact, rather than do so, I would let the donkey go. Now, make up
your mind quickly. My time is precious."
The informer scratched the back of his head. "Look 'ere, guv'ner,"
he began. "I don't want to be 'ard on yer----"
"You won't, my man," interrupted Peter grimly. "Now, yes or no:
which is it to be?"
"Orl right," exclaimed the man in a tone of virtuous resignation.
"I'll tell, only you might 'ave parted with that there quid on the
nail. I won't give yer me name, but p'raps you won't object ter me
a-comin' round an' collectin' the brass when you've got the moke
back?"
To this Peter assented.
"You'll find the donkey at Bigthorpe," continued the fellow. "Third
archway of the viaduct across Thorpe Beck--Stigler's the name o' the
bloke wot pinched 'er, although she trotted into 'is father's place
down in Barborough. Stigler's a bad 'un, so yer wants to be pretty
fly or 'e'll be sellin' 'er to some one. That's the straight tip,
guv'ner, an' don't you ferget it--third archway o' Thorpe Beck
Viaduct. Supposin' I looks in fer that quid this day week?"
"Very good," agreed Peter, as he showed his visitor to the door. "By
the bye, what sort of man is this Mr. Stigler?"
"I reckon as 'ow 'e's a bit of a bruiser," was the not unexpected
reply.
When his caller had taken his departure Barcroft reviewed the
situation. Bruiser or no bruiser Mr. Stigler had to be tackled, and
Peter was not a man to be intimidated. He would go at once to
Bigthorpe. But perhaps it would be as well to have some one with
him. He thought of Philip Entwistle; he remembered his new-found
friend remarking that he was not particularly busy.
Although he detested having to use the telephone--he would much
rather have taken the trouble to go into Barborough to broach the
matter, only time was of importance--Peter rang up the vet. The
reply was to the effect that Mr. Entwistle was away from home and
was not expected back until to-morrow.
"That's done it," muttered Barcroft, "I'll go alone."
It was normally a two hours' railway journey to Bigthorpe, a fairly
large town in the East Riding of Yorkshire, but owing to various
unforeseen delays the clocks were striking four when Peter reached
his destination.
Having obtained direction from a porter as to the nearest way to
Thorpe Beck Viaduct Peter walked out of the station, and to his
surprise ran into the missing Andrew Norton.
"Hullo!" exclaimed the spy, somewhat guardedly, for he had to feel
his ground. "I hardly expected to see you here."
"Nor did I," replied Peter extending his hand, which the other
grasped with well-assumed cordiality.
"You've heard?"
"I've heard nothing."
"I wired to my housekeeper yesterday," explained the _soi-disant_
Norton. "Had a sort of nervous breakdown--complete loss of memory."
"The Zep. raid, I suppose?" asked Peter sympathetically.
"Yes, yes, precisely--the Zep. raid, confound it!" said the German
hurriedly. "I remember the bombs dropping, and I ran, goodness knows
where. Must have wandered about all night. Have some recollection of
finding myself at a strange railway station. Eventually I arrived at
Bigthorpe, not even remembering my name and address until I found my
registration card in my pocket. Deuced useful things those cards.
However, since I was at Bigthorpe, I thought I would stay there a
couple of days or so to restore my shattered nerves. Just back by
the 4.38."
"Can you postpone your return for another day?" asked Peter. "I'm
returning to-morrow. But perhaps I oughtn't to detain you, although
everything's all right at The Croft."
"Is it?" asked the spy. "Thanks awfully. No. I'm afraid I can't stop
here any longer."
"In that case I'll see you anon," said Peter. "Oh, while I think of
it: where were you staying here? I know nothing about the place and
must get a room at a comfortable hotel."
Von Eitelwurmer considered for a moment. He was not altogether sure
that Barcroft was not "pulling his leg." Early that morning the
"Trone" had arrived at a British port, and on landing the spy had
successfully maintained the role of McDonald the repatriated
prisoner from Eylau. He was now returning to Barborough, with a view
to making careful inquiries as to whether it would be quite safe to
return to his house at Tarleigh.
"Where was I staying?" repeated the spy. "At the 'Antelope.'
Wouldn't advise you, though. Not at all comfortable--catering
rotten, rooms wretchedly cold and draughty. Well, _au revoir_,
Barcroft. May look you up to-morrow night."
"Do," replied Peter cordially. "You know the time."
The question as to how he was to get the donkey home in the event of
Butterfly being found had hardly occurred to her owner until Peter
was in the train. In any case he could not hope to return that
night. To-morrow he might make arrangements with the railway
company. Meanwhile he must secure quarters at an hotel.
"I'll try the 'Antelope,'" he decided. "What's good enough for
Norton ought to suit me. Fortunately I am not altogether
unaccustomed to discomforts."
The exterior of the hotel rather belied his friend's disparaging
remarks; the interior even more so. The place seemed replete with
modern conveniences.
"I've been recommended by Mr. Andrew Norton, who has been staying
here for the last three or four days," announced Peter. "I require a
room."
"No gentleman of that name has been staying here, sir," replied the
hotel clerk. "At least, not recently. Yes, sir, this is the only
'Antelope.' Perhaps you would like to see the registration papers?"
Peter examined the documents. None were made out in the name of
Andrew Norton, nor were any filled in in his handwriting.
"Perhaps I have made a mistake," he said. "But that is of little
consequence. If you will let me have a room----"
Ten minutes later Barcroft was on his way to Thorpe Beck Viaduct.
Altogether he could not form a satisfying solution to Norton's
statement, until he came to the conclusion that in his excitable
state of mind his friend had muddled up the names of two or more
hotels.
"By Jove! I will take the rise out of him when I see him again," he
chuckled. "Fancy putting up at the 'Pig and Whistle,' most likely,
and imagining he was at the 'Antelope.' That's a great jape."
Presently he came in sight of the viaduct, the spaces between the
lofty granite arches of which were utilised as cow-sheds and
stables.
No, Mr. Stigler was not there, so a halfwitted, deformed lad
informed him. A donkey? Yes, there had been a donkey there. Mr.
Stigler had sold it that afternoon to a pedlar living at Scarby.
Where was Scarby? A matter of about ten miles and right on the
coast. Anybody at Scarby would tell him where old Joe Pattercough
lived.
Peter Barcroft rose to the occasion. Added difficulties only
increased his determination to see the thing through. He decided to
cancel his room at the "Antelope" and proceed by the first train to
Tongby, the nearest station to the seaside hamlet of Scarby.