I was caught red-handed--caught as neatly as any _bona-fide_ burglar who
ever picked a lock!
I had opened the trunk of a fellow visitor with a skeleton key; I had
been caught in the very act of pilfering the contents. Indeed, at that
very moment I held in my left hand a tiny leather box containing
Engstrom's diamond tie-pin and studs, while with my right hand I had
been delving into his big trunk. Never was a capture neater or more
complete. And, with the menace of the big revolver in Engstrom's hand,
and knowing something of my captor, I knew better than to attempt a rush
for escape. I should never have reached the door alive!
"Well, and what does this mean?" harshly demanded the Swedish engineer,
in bad French, still covering me with his pistol. "And who are you?"
Had Engstrom suspected who I really was, I knew he would have shot me
out of hand and chanced all consequences: indeed, he would have had
little to fear, for there would have been nothing more than a casual
inquiry into the shooting of a thief caught red-handed. Moreover, dead
men tell no tales, and Engstrom would have had no difficulty whatever in
excusing himself by some hastily concocted story that I had attacked him
as soon as he found me plundering his trunk. My disguise saved me, and
it was evident he had no suspicion that I was anything but a common
thief.
I broke instantly into a torrent of excuses, putting down the little
jewel box and the papers with as guilty an air as I could assume. The
situation obviously required both tact and cunning, for I realised that
I was in a tight corner and that a slip would cost me my life. I
pleaded desperate poverty; I was an honest workman driven to evil
courses by want; I am afraid I even invented a story of a wholly
mythical wife and family in the last stage of starvation. Finally, I
roundly promised amendment of my ways if he would but let me go.
"Forgive me this time," I implored. "Do forgive me--this will ruin me."
"You dog of a thief, I have caught you stealing from my room," was his
only reply. "I shall call the manager," and he slammed the door and
pressed the electric bell. "Send the manager here at once," he
commanded the messenger who answered the bell.
Luigi came immediately, and there was a great scene in which my friend
very cleverly worked himself into a state of virtuous indignation at the
slur I had cast upon his hotel's high reputation. He assured Engstrom
that justice should be done forthwith, and actually handed me over to a
police officer, and I was at once marched off as a common hotel thief.
Guess my surprise when, as soon as we had turned the first corner, the
officer whispered: "Monsieur Battini has told me all the circumstances.
He did not telephone to the Bureau, but called me in out of the street.
Dash away from me in a few moments when we come to a lonely place, and I
will merely pretend to follow you. But, monsieur, get away from Lucerne
as quickly as possible."
I smiled: Luigi had shown that he possessed a quick and ready
resourcefulness. It was most fortunate that Engstrom, finding me with
my skeleton keys on the floor, and his jewellery in my hand, had failed
to suspect the truth.
I slipped away at the first convenient corner, and an hour later was
well on my way by the St Gothard route to Milan, the excellent police
officer undertaking to let Luigi know whither I had gone. I learned
later that, when my "escape" was reported to him, Engstrom took the
matter very quietly, and, beyond roundly abusing the officer for letting
me slip through his fingers, did not propose any further action. As a
matter of fact, having lost nothing, he was probably well content that
the affair should end thus. I have no doubt that, masquerading in the
name of another man, publicity was the last thing he would desire.
Our problem now was how to deal with Engstrom and his associates.
Obviously to arrest them, even if we had good ground for doing so, would
have been to defeat our own object, for we wanted to find out all the
details of the plot upon which they were engaged. But, as a matter of
fact, they had done nothing up to this moment to bring themselves within
the clutches of the law. Engstrom, it is true, was posing as someone
else, but, so long as he did not attempt to profit by it, this was not a
criminal offence. I decided to continue our investigations.
Reaching Milan, I put up at the Cavour, where, of course, I was well
known. A few hours later I received a long dispatch in cipher from
Madame Gabrielle, and two days later an explicit letter from Luigi. I
was also able to secure some further information regarding the
mysterious engineer and his friends, and this decided me to go to Sweden
myself and see the real Mr Engstrom.
My journey to Malmo was uneventful, and, arriving there, I lost no time
in repairing to the yard of Messrs. Engstrom and Linner, the engineers.
There, in the private office of the head of the firm, I soon found
myself face to face with the principal, Mr Oscar Engstrom. He was a
short, dark, alert little man, with charming manners, and I took a
liking to him at once. I had not previously decided on my course of
action, but after a few minutes' conversation I decided on a policy of
complete frankness. As rapidly as possible, I told him the full story
of the man who had been using his name in London and on the Continent.
At first he expressed himself as completely puzzled. He could not, he
said, imagine what the object of the gang could be. They could hardly
commit the firm to anything which would profit themselves, for no one
abroad would act without inquiries. At length I happened to mention
that Johnson-Meads had told me that the man had for disposal something
connected with submarines.
"With submarines!" he exclaimed in obvious surprise. "Why, we have in
hand at this moment several submarine inventions, of which we own the
patents. Two of them are completely secret, and they are in use only by
France and Britain."
This put a new aspect on the affair. "I begin to see now," I said, "why
your name has been assumed. Have you heard of any attempt to secure the
submarine secrets?"
"None whatever," replied Mr Engstrom. "Moreover, it would be extremely
difficult, if not impossible. One of the appliances with which we are
concerned is of such importance that, while we make the greater part of
it, a vital portion is manufactured in England, and the apparatus is not
put together until the whole is actually on the submarine for which it
is intended. Consequently, unless a thief or spy secured copies of the
plans both here and in England he would be powerless to profit by
either. I may mention that this arrangement was arrived at with the
British Admiralty at our express wish and suggestion. I am quite frank
with you, Mr Sant."
"One more question, Mr Engstrom," I added. "You are in a position to
know of any important inventions in connection with submarine work.
Have you heard of any recent invention which would bring it within the
bounds of possibility that your double is acting honestly and has really
something to sell?"
"That is out of the question," returned the engineer decidedly. "Unless
the invention were German, in which case it would not come out of that
country, I think I should certainly have heard something of it. Of
course, we have rivals in our business, but there is a certain amount of
freemasonry even among business rivals. I know all the people who are
making submarine parts--there are very few who could or would tackle a
big invention. Besides, if the man has an honest bargain to drive, why
should he assume my name?"
This argument was unanswerable. But I confess I was still a long way
from guessing just what the bogus Engstrom and his friends were
plotting.
My next visit was to the Swedish police in search of information about
Madame Bohman. Here, however, I was quite at fault. It was evident she
was passing under an assumed name, and I could not succeed in
identifying her among the long array of photographs of known German
agents laid before me by the chief of the Swedish Secret Police.
Arriving at Bergen, I received, before I sailed for England, a long
telegram from Madame Gabrielle, telling me that Engstrom, Madame Bohman,
and Thornton had left for Paris. Fearing that they would immediately
recognise her if she followed them, she had telephoned the news to Hecq,
and that astute official had promised to take the suspects under his own
wing for the immediate future, pending my arrival.
I proceeded to London, where, to my dismay, I learned that, although
Madame Bohman had arrived in Paris with Thornton, Engstrom was missing.
Twenty minutes later I was speaking with Hecq at St Germain over the
official telephone. Three days later I heard that Hecq's men had
succeeded in running the elusive Engstrom to earth at Marseilles, where
he was staying at the Hotel Louvre et Paix under the name of Jansen, and
was constantly meeting a compatriot named Tegelmund.
The situation at this moment remained a complete puzzle so far as the
real objective of the gang was concerned. On the one hand, we had at
Marseilles the mysterious individual who posed as the Swedish engineer,
Engstrom. On the other, we had his known associates, Thornton and
Madame Bohman, in Paris. Engstrom was living quite openly, with no
appearance of concealment, at a good hotel, but he was quite obviously
doing nothing and meeting nobody. The other two, however, were just as
obviously lying low. They had taken apartments at a very small and not
very reputable hotel in the Rue Royale, and both had changed their
names, entering France with new and apparently perfectly genuine Swedish
passports, issued only a few weeks previously.
Our next discovery was a staggering surprise. One of our agents, who
had been watching Madame Bohman, came in and reported that, late the
previous night, she had left her hotel and walked swiftly to an obscure
cafe in the Quartier Latin. She had entered the place, taken a seat at
a table by herself, and called for a glass of wine. While she was
drinking it, a man, very untidy and apparently half intoxicated, lurched
up to the table and sat down facing her. She took no notice of him
whatever, or he of her. Calling a waiter, the man ordered a double
glass of Chianti. Our agent, seated at an adjoining table, saw her then
glance quickly at the stranger, and a moment later she ordered an
absinthe.
Now, an order for a double glass of Chianti is unusual, especially in a
disreputable cafe in a low part of Paris, and it is hardly customary for
women to follow wine with absinthe. Our agent was struck by the oddity
of the two orders and listened closely.
Directly the waiter had placed the drinks on the table and left, the
man, without even glancing at the woman, muttered something in an
undertone which our agent could not catch. It was, however, evidently
sufficient, for the woman drank up her absinthe, and, rising, left the
cafe. She took no notice whatever of the man, and he paid, to all
appearances, as little regard to her. Apparently half overcome by
drink, he remained at the table, nodding drowsily, for a quarter of an
hour. It was a clever bit of acting, but he forgot his eyes! Our agent
caught a sight of them, and realised at once that the drunkenness was
feigned.
At length the man got up and lurched towards the door. The police agent
at the same moment left by another exit into an adjoining street, and,
casually turning the corner in the direction the supposed drunken man
had taken, saw him a few yards ahead, walking steadily enough.
Five minutes later he had overtaken Madame Bohman, and, walking side by
side for a few hundred yards, they had a brief conversation and parted.
Our agent was in a quandary. He had the strictest instructions not to
lose sight of Madame Bohman, but he was a man of intelligence, and
realised that a new factor had appeared on the scene. Accordingly, he
decided to follow the man, and soon saw him enter a cheap
boarding-house, letting himself in with a latchkey. Five minutes later
we had the news, and a couple of men were at once detailed to take up
the watch. Madame Bohman, we soon ascertained, had gone straight to her
hotel.
The boarding-house which the mysterious stranger had entered was closely
watched all night. The next morning the man came out, and was
immediately recognised as none other than Halbmayr himself! How he had
got into France and Paris was a mystery, for the police had no register
of his arrival. I may say here that this point was never completely
cleared up, but it was very generally believed that he was put ashore by
a submarine, and intended leaving in the same way.
We now had him safely enough; he could not possibly escape. He was a
known spy, and there was ample ground for arresting him. But this would
have made mincemeat of our plans, as Hecq saw plainly enough.
"Halbmayr is very dangerous," he declared to me as I sat in his office
the same day. "Evil work is on foot somewhere, and our friend the
German is director of operations. He would not dare to show his face in
France after meeting Brahe in Lisbon unless he were playing for a big
coup. But, my dear Sant, what is his motive? What is he after? To
that question so far we have got no reply whatever. And we _must_ find
the answer."
I agreed with my chief most cordially. "Give him rope," I said, "and
see if he does not hang himself. At any rate, he won't escape us this
time; we shall get him even if we don't learn his secret. What worries
me is that he may have done his nefarious work, and inflicted untold
injury on the Allies before we nab him. But we must take some chances."
"The telegram sent by Brahe, or Thornton, to Engstrom just before the
former left Lisbon mentioned two things," said my chief. "The first was
that Johnson-Meads was with them--in other words, that his suspicions
had been allayed (which we know to be a fact)--and that `T.' was here in
Paris `to arrange further details and transit of machinery.' What
machinery? And who is `T'? `T' must be Tegelmund, the man in
Marseilles. We must look out for him."