THE CRYPTOGRAM
Nanette was with a party at the Hippodrome that night, and I had
promised to look in during the interval. The curtain had just fallen
and the orchestra was playing as I entered with O’Shea. The manager
met us at the top of the steps.
No doubt you remember him. He is unforgettable, being the best-dressed
manager in Europe. He was delighted to meet O’Shea and much happier in
greeting an officer of the Household troops who had come in for a
drink than in endorsing a plebeian check for the use of the Royal box.
Nanette came running out ahead of her party and stopped dead on seeing
O’Shea. He bowed in his grave, courtly fashion. She glanced at me
swiftly, and then:
“Oh, Major O’Shea,” she said, “I want to ask you to forgive me!”
“And I want to thank you,” said he.
“To thank me?”
Nanette looked up at him and then down again very swiftly. She began
tapping her foot upon the rubber-coated floor.
“To thank you,” he repeated, “once more. It seems to be my happy fate,
Nanette, to be always thanking you.”
“But what have you to thank me for?” she asked, industriously studying
the point of her shoe.
“For giving me an opportunity of redeeming my many failures.”
Nanette looked up--she was quite calm again--and met his eyes bravely.
“Some of them,” she said, “have been my fault.”
“You are wrong,” O’Shea assured her. “The fault has been mine from the
very beginning.”
“What do you mean?” she asked; and I turned aside, joining some
friends who had just come out from the stalls.
In spite of my determination about Nanette, it still hurt a little bit
to see that light in her eyes.
“I mean,” I heard O’Shea reply, “that I have tried to do something
that is impossible.”
I heard no more, nor did I want to.
That bell which indicates the rise of the curtain releases from the
bars of a London theatre certain characteristic types. The wet man
returning guiltily with guarded breath to his dry wife in the stalls,
having stepped out to “smoke a cigarette.” The bored man, who is
present under protest, and who goes to his seat like a martyr to the
stake. The victim of jazzitis who dances with his girl friend in the
lobby, and post-mortem examination of whose skull reveals the presence
of several perfectly formed saxophones but nothing else.
The curtain was about to rise and practically everybody was seated
when I learned that Nanette had straggled. She stood with O’Shea in
the opening at the back of the stalls. And I thought that I had never
before seen her so animated in his company.
Envied model of her girl friends, Nanette was a paragon of
self-possession in the company of all men, or had been until she had
met O’Shea. Never, hitherto, had I seen her at her ease with him. But
to-night she was--realized that she was--and her happy excitement will
be good to remember when I am ten years older.
One hand resting upon his arm, she looked up, talking gaily. He, too,
had relaxed, as any man must have done finding himself in the company
of an adorably pretty and spirited girl who loved him so much that she
didn’t care who knew. He was laughing like a schoolboy.
The curtain was up before Nanette tore herself away. She was very
flushed, and I know her heart was beating wildly. I pitied her escort,
foreseeing that she would be abstracted throughout the remainder of
the evening.
O’Shea turned to me, and his eyes were still glistening happily.
“Well, Decies,” said he, “what are you thinking?”
“I am thinking,” I replied honestly, “that we are about of an age.
That if Nanette had looked at me as I saw her looking at you, I should
have asked her to marry me before I let her go back to her seat.”
He stared very hard, his expression changing from second to second;
then:
“Being Celtic,” he said, “I suppose I am superstitious. At every turn
since I have met her Nanette has intruded in my life. I am beginning
to wonder.”
“About what are you thinking in particular?” I asked.
“About the letter that Zara dropped in the cab and that Nanette gave
to you.”
“Have you fathomed it?” I asked excitedly--“and the other?”
“Both are in the same code. But without the first I doubt that I
should have been able to read the second.”
“Then you _have_ read them?”
“I have,” O’Shea replied; “and this time Nanette has dealt me a full
hand.”
His suppressed excitement communicated itself to me.
“What have you learned?” I said eagerly. “Can I be of any assistance?”
“Your assistance is indispensable!” he returned. “Are you game?”
“Every time!”
“Good enough. Let us go along to your rooms, and I will explain what
to-night has in store for us.”
As the taxi that we presently hailed threaded its way through the
traffic of Cranbourne Street, and on through that of Piccadilly, I
glanced aside several times at my silent companion. I wondered if his
abstraction might be ascribed to the problem of the S Group, or to
that of Nanette. Not being an O’Shea, I hesitated to judge. But my
vote was for Nanette.
Arrived at my rooms and having sampled the whisky and soda:
“Now,” O’Shea began, “the mantle of Edgar Allan Poe not having fallen
upon my shoulders, I doubt that I should have solved this cipher but
for the happy coincidence of meeting our German friend in the very
shadow of Peter Pan. You will recall, too, that at the moment of his
departure, the clocks were chiming the hour of noon.”
“I remember,” said I.
“I turned it over in my mind, considering the thing from every
conceivable angle. Before I tackled the cipher--for of course the
messages were palpably written in some kind of cipher--one fact was
plain enough to me.”
“What was that?”
“The fact that Zara, an important member of the S Group, was not known
by sight to the member who spoke to us! He mistook _me_ for Zara, and
he mistook _you_ for one Comrade Wilson, of whom I had never heard,
and respecting whom I have no instructions.”
“So far I agree,” said I, “but what I simply cannot make out is why
this deranged German should walk up to two perfect strangers seated in
Kensington Gardens and take it for granted that they were the people
he was looking for.”
“His opening remark was non-committal,” O’Shea reminded me,
reflectively sipping his whisky and soda.
“Certainly it was; but am I to assume that the man was walking about
London addressing the inquiry, ‘Have you seen Comrade Zara?’ to every
male citizen he met on his travels?”
“The very point that led me to a solution of the problem,” O’Shea
returned. “I realized, of course, that the routine which you indicate
would have been insane, and I do not look for insanity of this kind
from members of the S Group. I recalled that we had been sitting by
the statue of Peter Pan, and that I had drawn your attention to the
presence of ‘Two London Bridges’ in the message. I noted that the
double bridges were preceded by a reference to Bond Street--or,
rather, by two references to Bond Street--and followed by another. I
remembered that the hour was noon.
“Treating the message as a cipher, I assumed, as a basis of
investigation, that the various well-known spots mentioned represented
letters and that all intervening words might be neglected. Now, I had
two almost certain clues to work upon.
“First, that our German friend clearly expected to meet Zara and
someone called Wilson by the statue of Peter Pan. Second, that he
expected to meet them there at noon. Think for a moment, and you will
realize that this must have been the case.”
“It is clear enough,” said I, “now that you point it out to me.”
“His handing me a second message in the same cipher,” O’Shea went on,
“suggested that the first related to the appointment which we, by
bounty of the gods, had accidentally kept. I therefore assumed that
the first message conveyed something of this sort: ‘Be at the statue
of Peter Pan at midday.’
“I began to examine it with this idea in mind. Particularly, I was
looking for a sequence to fit the name, Peter Pan. As you can see--”
he spread the original messages on my table before me--“it appears
unmistakably at the very beginning. Charing Cross is the first point
mentioned; four other London landmarks occur, and then Charing Cross
again. I assumed as a working theory that Charing Cross stood for the
letter P.
“This suggested that British Museum was E as it occurs next, is
followed by Mansion House, and then occurs again.
“Assuming Mansion House to be T, we get P-e-t-e. Calling Hyde Park R,
we get Peter. Charing Cross then crops up in its correct place.
Reading Piccadilly as A and Bond Street as N gives Peter Pan.”
He laid his cigarette in an ash-tray and bent over the writing
enthusiastically.
“This enabled me to cross-check, for Bond Street occurs again
immediately, with the two London Bridges which first attracted my
attention, followed by another Bond Street.
“Bond Street being N, it was reasonable to assume that London Bridge
was O, making--Peter Pan, Noon.”
“By gad!” I exclaimed. “It’s wonderful!”
“On the contrary,” O’Shea assured me, “it is elementary. To continue:
we now have Mansion House again, or T, followed by British Museum--E,
and two Berkeley Squares, hitherto unmentioned. Old Bailey and Crystal
Palace crop up next--very defeating--followed by a third Berkeley
Square. Then Tower Bridge. This is followed by London Bridge, O, and
Bond Street, N. Remembering the name of the Comrade for whom you were
mistaken, Decies, I very quickly determined that Berkeley Square stood
for L and the word following ‘Noon’ was ‘Tell.’ This gave me a pair of
blanks, then L, another blank, and o-n. Wilson was clearly indicated,
and I had my complete message. ‘Peter Pan noon, tell Wilson.’”
O’Shea replaced his cigarette between his lips and turned to me,
smiling.
“You mean,” said I, “that you have read the second message?”
“Naturally,” he replied. “It is childishly easy, once having got the
idea of the nature of the cipher. Without bothering you with details,
such as the letters implied by Buckingham Palace, Shepherd’s Market,
and Kingsway--places that don’t occur in the first message--I may say
that it reads as follows: ‘Porchester Terrace 365A--which I assume to
be the number of a house--midnight.’”
“Good heavens!” I glanced at the clock. “And he said the order was for
to-night!”
“To-night,” O’Shea returned, glancing up. “We have two hours.”
“We have two hours?”
“Precisely,” said he, and his gray eyes surveyed me unblinkingly.
“There are certain chances, but there is no game without chances, and
we shall be covered by a raid squad from Scotland Yard. Whether
Comrade Schmidt is more familiar with the appearance of Comrades Zara
and Wilson than his emissary seems to be, I cannot say. But to-night
at twelve o’clock I suggest that you and I present ourselves at number
365A Porchester Terrace, as Comrades Zara and Wilson! It is asking a
lot, Decies, but are you game?”
“Good God!” I said, hesitated for one electric moment, and then held
out my hand.
O’Shea grasped it.