THE MESSAGE
I was loth to leave him. What he had told me of the fate of his
friend, the man called Dutchey, made me feel a trifle apprehensive of
his own safety. And I had had a kind of feeling that, for all his
apparent calm, he was frightened. On looking back at my interview that
night with the beach-comber in his wretched shack, I realise there must
have been something unusually sweet about his personality. Its flavour
seemed to linger; for I left him, as I have said, reluctantly, and I
have thought of him many times since.
The back door led straight into a kind of open shed which, from the
stove and stacked-up wood pile, I judged to be Doña Luisa's
cooking-place. The shed gave on a dusty yard, small and narrow,
smelling horribly of poultry, with a high mud wall. In this wall I
saw--for the moonlight made everything as bright as day--a wooden door.
On reaching it I found that it was locked.
For a moment I had a mind to go back to the front and home by the way I
had come. But I felt doubtful as to whether I should be able to follow
in the opposite direction the intricate route by which Doña Luisa had
brought me, and I had no desire to be lost in the negro quarter at
night. So without more ado I scaled the mud wall and, dropping to
earth on the other side, found myself in the plantation of which the
beach-comber had spoken.
Here I was alone with the noises of the tropical night. Of human being
there was neither sound nor sign. However, I had Adams's directions
firmly in my head; and by following them to the letter came back at
last without incident, but very hot and sticky, to John Bard's bungalow.
The verandah was empty, the house very quiet. I looked at my watch.
It was half past eleven. Bard had gone down to the club for his usual
evening rubber of bridge but I had excused myself for I had meant to
write letters. I knew it would be at least an hour before Bard
returned; for he was a late bird. So I went through to my room, had a
sponge down and changed into pyjamas and made my way to the living-room.
It was a delightfully airy apartment, one side, glazed, opening on to
the verandah, the other walls distempered a pale green. There were
native mats on the floor and comfortable chairs stood about the room.
I went over to the writing desk in the corner, switched on the
reading-lamp and lit a cigar. Then I pulled out of my pocket the
package which I had received from the beach-comber.
The outer covering was a piece of greasy flannel which looked as if it
had been torn off an old shirt. With my knife I slit up the
stitches--it had been lightly tacked across with thread--and pulled out
a narrow pad of oilskin folded once across. Spread out it made a piece
roughly about nine inches long by six wide. Across it stood written
some lines hastily scribbled in indelible pencil. The hand was crabbed
and irregular, the writing indistinct and, in some places, almost
completely effaced. But I could distinguish enough to recognise that
both the hand and the words were German.
At this I felt my pulse quicken. A faint instinct of the chase began
to stir in my blood. For three long months I had dawdled deliriously;
for, in turning my face towards the sunshine of the New World, I had
deliberately turned my back on the thrills and disappointments, the
dangers and the _ennuis_ of the Secret Service. This almost
undecipherable scrawl, with here and there a German word clearly
protruding itself (I could read "_Kiel_" and "_siehst Du_") and, above
all, the indelible pencil, in whose pale mauve character gallant young
men wrote the real history of the war, brought back to me with vivid
clearness, memorable moments of those half-forgotten campaigning days.
I fumbled in a drawer of the desk for Bard's big magnifying glass, drew
up my chair and set myself stolidly--as I had so often done in the
past!--to the deciphering of what is in all circumstances, easily the
most illegible handwriting in the world.
In truth, no writing is harder to read than the German. In his
intercourse with the foreigner, the brother Boche, it is true, not
infrequently employs the Latin character. But, for communications
among themselves, the Germans continue to use their own damnable
hieroglyphics. I have often wondered to see how the most unintelligent
German will read off with ease a closely written scrawl of German
handwriting looking as though a spider, after taking an ink-bath, had
jazzed up and down the page.
This particular specimen of the Hun fist was a proper Chinese puzzle.
Where in places it was beginning to be decipherable, the heavy
indelible ink had run (under the influence of damp, I suppose) and
where the writing was not a mass of smears it was illegible in a degree
to make one despair.
Well, I got down to it properly. My knowledge of German (which I know
about as well as English) was a great help. Finally, with the
assistance of Bard's magnifying-glass, a deduction here and a guess
there, after nearly an hour's hard work, I produced what was, as nearly
as I could make it, an accurate version of the original. My greatest
triumph lay, I think, in establishing the fact that an unusually
baffling row of cryptic signs at the bottom of the thing was, in
reality, four bars of music.
But when I had set it all down (on a sheet of John Bard's expensive
glazed note-paper), I scratched my head and, despite my aching eyes,
took another good look at the original. For I could make no sense of
the writing at all.
The message (for such it seemed to be) was signed with the single
letter "U." And this is what I got:--
Mittag. 18/11/18.
"Primmer', Simmer' viel
"Die Garnison von Kiel
"Mit Kompass dann am besten
"Denk' an den Ordensfesten
"Am Zuckerhut vorbei
"Siehst Du die Lorelei
"Und magst Du Schätzchen gern.
[Illustration: music fragment]
Blankly I stared at this doggerel. Then I took down from the rack
another sheet of paper and jotted down a rough English translation:--
Noon. 18/11/18.
"Flash, flash much
"The garrison of Kiel
"Then with the compass is best
"Think of the Feast of Orders
"Past the Sugar-Loaf
"You'll see the Lorelei
"And if you desire the sweetheart.
U."
Leaning back in my chair, I cast my mind over the strange tale I had
heard that night from Adams, the story, whispered in the fierce noonday
heat of the calaboose of San Salvador, of the ship which had brought
the solitary white man and his gold out of the Unknown to Cock Island,
of the Unknown's death and of the message he had left so oddly behind
him. And, lest anyone should think that I was paying too much heed to
a rambling yarn told me at second-hand by a drunken outcast, a yarn,
moreover, based on a statement by a Kanaka deck-hand, let me say that
my whole training in the Intelligence had taught me never to reject any
statement, however improbable it sounded, until it had failed to
withstand an elaborate series of tests. Indeed, the major satisfaction
of this poorly paid and sometimes dangerous profession of ours is the
rare delight of seeing emerge out of some seemingly impossible tale a
solid basis of fact.
And, behind the beach-comber's rambling story, there _were_ certain
solid facts which, from the moment of discovering that the message was
in German, I could not afford to neglect. When William the Second
launched the world war like a big stone dropped in a pond, the ripples
reached to the uttermost ends of the earth. In many a lonely island of
the Seven Seas there had been, I knew, mysterious comings and goings,
connected with gun-running, submarine work and dark conspiracies of all
kinds. Did this scrap of stained oilsilk, picked off a lonely grave in
the Southern Seas, lead back to a secret adventure of this kind? I
decided that it might.
I turned to the message again. It was obviously written _by_ a German
and _for_ a German, it was fair to presume.... for some specific
German, furthermore, who would hold the key to the conventional code in
which this message was almost certainly written. Consequently, the
solitary stranger of Cock Island had expected to meet a German on the
island, _ergo_, the island was a meeting-place, some secret rendezvous
of the busy German conspirators in the war. This was borne out by the
remarkable evidence laid before Adams by Dutchey on their visit to Cock
Island to prove that some gang of desperadoes from San Salvador had
previously been there. The names mentioned by Dutchey were undoubtedly
Spanish--Black Pablo and Neque, for instance--but there might have been
Germans with them. El Cojo was also Spanish, to judge by the name; but
apparently he had put in an appearance later and had not visited the
island.
To what did the message refer? What would the solitary German, with
the hand of Death at his throat, wish to tell the man whom he was to
have met? Might it not be, as Adams had said, the whereabouts of the
gold, brought to the island by the Unknown, which, from the observation
of Adams' fellow prisoners at the calaboose, was apparently still on
the island? Various geographical indications in the message--the
Sugar-Loaf, the Lorelei (the latter the well-known crag on the Rhine)
seemed to confirm this.
But the message had remained in its bottle on the grave until, months
later, Adams and Dutchey had found it. It was, therefore, to be
presumed that the unknown German's friend, probably someone in El
Cojo's gang, had not kept the appointment. Why?
I stared in perplexity at the dead man's scrawl. Every one of my
deductions, I perceived all too clearly, led to a question to which I
was unable to supply an answer. I began to regret that I had not read
the message at Adams' hut and cross-examined him on it before I left.
But I realised I should never have been able to decipher the scrawl by
the flickering light of the oil-lamp in the shack. I resolved to go
down to the negro quarter and see Adams again in the morning.
I suddenly began to feel restless and rather unhappy. I knew the
symptoms. In me they always presage a burst of activity after a spell
of idleness. This infernal riddle had altogether upset me. I had no
desire to go to bed; the very idea of sleep was repugnant to me.
I measured myself out a "peg" of whisky and splashed the soda into it.
My eyes, roaming round the room, fell on the upright piano in the
corner. I crossed to the instrument and opening the lid, put on the
music rest the little square of oilskin. Then, summoning back to my
mind with an effort the hazy musical knowledge of my early school days,
with considerable deliberation I picked out on the piano the notes
indicated in the four bars of music appended to the end of the message.
I got the melody at once, or rather one movement of a melody which was
dimly familiar to me. It fitted itself to no words or voice in my
mind; but as I hummed it over, a silly little jingle, I suddenly had a
mental picture of a cheap German dance-hall such as you find in the
northern part of Berlin, with a blaring orchestra and jostling couples
redolent of perspiration and beer. I _knew_ the tune; but it was, I
thought, the words that were wanted to complete the dead man's message.
And they came not.
I was laboriously pounding the piano with one finger when I heard
Bard's heavy step on the verandah. The next moment he came into the
room, a big figure of a man in a tussore silk suit with a panama hat.
Somehow the sight of him made me feel easier in my mind. That sublime
sense of superiority, which we British suck in with our mother milk, is
a heartening thing when you find it in your fellow Britisher abroad,
thousands of miles from home. And John Bard, though, with his small
pointed beard and rather pallid face, he looked like a Spaniard, was
through and through British. Trader, merchant, financier and, on
occasion, statesman, his massive body bore scars which told of
thrilling years spent among the cannibals and head-hunters of the
Pacific islands.
But long years of exile had only served to make John Bard more
resolutely British. An uncompromising bachelor, abstemious in his
habits and puritanical in his outlook, his mental attitude towards his
fellow-man in this tiny republic of the Spanish Main was exactly what
it would have been had he been a London suburbanite suddenly translated
from his native Brixton to these distant shores. He was an eminently
common-sensible person who was generally reputed to run the miniature
republic of Rodriguez in which he had elected to settle down after his
adventurous life.
His unshakable phlegm lent him a reposeful air which I believe was the
first thing that drew me to him when, a few months before, for the
first time for many years, I had met him again in a New York hotel.
Six months' leave, unexpectedly offered, found me at a loose end and I
gladly accepted his invitation to travel down by one of his ships and
visit him in his Central American home. His cheery self-possession, as
he stepped through the open doors of the verandah, seemed to put to
flight the unpleasant shape which my mind's eye had seen rising from
the little piece of oilsilk.
Bard crossed the room without speaking and filled himself a glass of
soda-water from a syphon on the side-table. He tossed his soft panama
hat on a chair and brushed back his closely cut crop of iron-grey hair
from his temples. With his glass in his hand he dropped into a seat at
my side.
"There's a yacht in the harbour," he said. "That's what made me late.
She's called for some stuff they've got waiting for her at the
Consulate. Fordwich--that's the Consul, you know--is down with a go of
fever so I went round with his clerk to see about this consignment.
Whew! But it's warm walking!"
"What's the yacht?" I asked.
"Name of _Naomi_. She's come through the Canal".... "the Canal" in
these parts is, of course, the Panama Canal.... "and is going across to
Hawaii, I believe!"
He yawned and stretched his big frame. He drained his glass and stood
up.
"Heigho," he said, "it's after two. I'm for bed!"
Now between John Bard and me exists that sort of uncommunicative
friendship which is often found between two men who have knocked about
the world a good deal. Though I could tell by Bard's elaborate
affection of nonchalance that he noticed I was preoccupied, I knew he
would never demand the cause of this. If I wanted his advice I should
have to ask for it.
"John," said I, "just a minute. Who's El Cojo?"
I pronounced it in the English fashion but Bard gave the word its
rasping Spanish aspirate as he repeated it.
"El Cojo?" he queried. "That's a nickname, isn't it? What is he? A
bull-fighter, or a cigar?"
"I gather," I remarked, "that he's a gentleman of fortune!"
Bard laughed.
"The production of that type is an old industry in these parts, my
boy," he riposted. "And even _I_ don't know 'em all. I never heard of
your pal. Is he a citizen of this illustrious republic?"
I shook my head.
"I haven't an idea," I answered. "I only know that a man called Black
Pablo is mixed up with him...."
John Bard whistled softly.
"'_Dime con quien andas, decirte de quien eres_,'" he quoted. "That is
to say, tell me whom you go with and I'll tell you who you are. If
your pal is a friend of Black Pablo then he's 'no freend o' mine'!"
"Why?"
"Because," said John Bard slowly, and I noticed that his mocking air
had altogether disappeared, "because Black Pablo is the greatest
scoundrel on this coast.... and that's going some! During the war,
when, after a good deal of pressure, our most illustrious President
ultimately kicked out Schwanz, the German Consul, Black Pablo became
Germany's unofficial agent. He was mixed up with running guns for the
Mexicans to annoy the Yanks, and supplies for the Hun commerce raiders
to worry the British and every other kind of dirty work. As long as he
was merely a smuggler, a cut-throat and a hired assassin, as he was
before the war.... Bien! I had nothing to say to him. But when the
fellow had the blasted impudence to come butting into our war on the
wrong side, by George! one had to do something. The Americans were
devilish decent about it, I must say, and, with their support, we ran
the skunk out of here P.D.Q. That was around January, 1918, and I have
never heard of our friend since. But I'll give you a word of advice,
young fellow my lad. If you come across Black Pablo, give him a wide
berth. And mind his left! He keeps his knife in that sleeve!"
I pointed at the open cigar-box.
"Light up, John Bard," said I, "for I want to tell you a story and get
your advice!"
So, while, in the garden, trees and bushes stirred lazily to a little
breeze before dawn, I told him, as briefly as might be, the story I had
heard from Adams. My host never once interrupted me but sat and smoked
in silence till my tale was done. Even after I had finished he
remained silent for a spell.
At length he said musingly:--
"Cock Island, eh? Yes, it surely would be a good spot for a quiet
rendezvous."
"You know it then?" I asked eagerly.
"Aye," he averred. "I know it by name. But I was never there. It
lies off the beaten trade routes, you see. But I remember hearing once
that it had been a port of call for some of the old buccaneers like
Kidd and Roberts who plied their trade in these parts. And so you
think there's German gold hidden there, eh?"
"This"--I held up the fragment of oilsilk--"looks as if it might answer
that question. If only one could read it," I said. And I spread it
out before him. We put our heads together, under the lamp, while I
read out my rough translation. Then Bard, shrugging his shoulders,
leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke.
"What are you going to do about it, Desmond?"
"Well," I said slowly, "if there were any sort of certainty about it
not being absolutely a wild goose chase...."
"You'd go after it, eh?"
"It'd be a devilish amusing way of finishing up my leave."
John Bard smiled indulgently.
"It might be more exciting than amusing," he said, "if Black Pablo has
anything to do with this affair."
"Do you think there is anything in it?" I asked.
"In the latter stages of the war," my host replied, "I heard vague
rumours about some island off the coast where German commerce-raiders
used to rendezvous for supplies. But I never heard this island named.
It seems to me that the first thing to be done is to see your friend,
Adams, again. After all, he's been to the island. He might be able to
tell us more about it. Besides...."
He broke off and flicked the ash from his cigar. His manner had
suddenly become rather grave.
"Besides what?" I demanded.
"If Black Pablo and his friends are after that plan or whatever it is,
Adams is in pretty considerable danger."
"He knows it himself, I believe," I replied. "I didn't like leaving
him to-night, and that's a fact. He seemed to be frightened about
something. There was a man in the lane outside the hut who was singing
and...."
"A man singing?" Bard queried sharply.
"Yes, to a guitar," I answered, surprised by his tone. "He sang very
well, too!"
John Bard rose to his feet suddenly. He stepped to the verandah and
held up his hand for silence.
"Were you followed when you came back from Adams's?" he asked me.
"No, not as far as I know."
Bard was listening intently. All was quiet in the gardens below, save
for the murmurings of the sea breeze in the palms.
"Get into your clothes and come along, Okewood," he said, turning away
from the window. "And leave that damned plan behind."
"Why, what...."
"Hurry, man, or we shall be too late."
"But, damn it, John, explain!" I cried in exasperation.
"Black Pablo is renowned all along the coast for his exquisite singing
to the guitar. Be quick, be quick, old man, and don't forget your
gun!...."