In the course of the morning she made several mysterious inquiries of
her parent regarding nice points of international law as it concerned
murder, and it is probable that he would have been struck by the odd
nature of these questions had he not been unduly excited about another
matter.
“I tell you, we’ve got to get home!” he announced gloomily. “The German
troops are ready at Aix-la-Chapelle for an assault on Liege. Yes,
sir--they’re going to strike through Belgium! Know what that means?
England in the war! Labor troubles; suffragette troubles; civil war in
Ireland--these things will melt away as quickly as that snow we had
lastwinter in Texas. They’ll go in. It would be national suicide if they
didn’t.”
His daughter stared at him. She was unaware that it was the bootblack
at the Carlton he was now quoting. She began to think he knew more about
foreign affairs than she had given him credit for.
“Yes, sir,” he went on; “we’ve got to travel--fast. This won’t be a
healthy neighborhood for non-combatants when the ruction starts. I’m
going if I have to buy a liner!”
“Nonsense!” said the girl. “This is the chance of a lifetime. I won’t
be cheated out of it by a silly old dad. Why, here we are, face to face
with history!”
“American history is good enough for me,” he spread-eagled. “What are
you looking at?”
“Provincial to the death!” she said thoughtfully. “You old dear--I love
you so! Some of our statesmen over home are going to look pretty foolish
now in the face of things they can’t understand, I hope you’re not going
to be one of them.”
“Twaddle!” he cried. “I’m going to the steamship offices to-day and
argue as I never argued for a vote.”
His daughter saw that he was determined; and, wise from long experience,
she did not try to dissuade him.
London that hot Monday was a city on the alert, a city of hearts heavy
with dread. The rumors in one special edition of the papers were denied
in the next and reaffirmed in the next. Men who could look into the
future walked the streets with faces far from happy. Unrest ruled the
town. And it found its echo in the heart of the girl from Texas as she
thought of her young friend of the Agony Column “in durance vile” behind
the frowning walls of Scotland Yard.
That afternoon her father appeared, with the beaming mien of the victor,
and announced that for a stupendous sum he had bought the tickets of a
man who was to have sailed on the steamship Saronia three days hence.
“The boat train leaves at ten Thursday morning,” he said. “Take your
last look at Europe and be ready.”
Three days! His daughter listened with sinking heart. Could she in three
days’ time learn the end of that strange mystery, know the final fate
of the man who had first addressed her so unconventionally in a public
print? Why, at the end of three days he might still be in Scotland Yard,
a prisoner! She could not leave if that were true--she simply could not.
Almost she was on the point of telling her father the story of the whole
affair, confident that she could soothe his anger and enlist his aid.
She decided to wait until the next morning; and, if no letter came
then--
But on Tuesday morning a letter did come and the beginning of it brought
pleasant news. The beginning--yes. But the end! This was the letter:
DEAR ANXIOUS LADY: Is it too much for me to assume that you have been
just that, knowing as you did that I was locked up for the murder of a
captain in the Indian Army, with the evidence all against me and hope a
very still small voice indeed?
Well, dear lady, be anxious no longer. I have just lived through the
most astounding day of all the astounding days that have been my portion
since last Thursday. And now, in the dusk, I sit again in my rooms, a
free man, and write to you in what peace and quiet I can command after
the startling adventure through which I have recently passed.
Suspicion no longer points to me; constables no longer eye me; Scotland
Yard is not even slightly interested in me. For the murderer of Captain
Fraser-Freer has been caught at last!
Sunday night I spent ingloriously in a cell in Scotland Yard. I could
not sleep. I had so much to think of--you, for example, and at intervals
how I might escape from the folds of the net that had closed so tightly
about me. My friend at the consulate, Watson, called on me late in
the evening; and he was very kind. But there was a note lacking in
his voice, and after he was gone the terrible certainty came into my
mind--he believed that I was guilty after all.
The night passed, and a goodly portion of to-day went by--as the poets
say--with lagging feet. I thought of London, yellow in the sun. I
thought of the Carlton--I suppose there are no more strawberries by this
time. And my waiter--that stiff-backed Prussian--is home in Deutschland
now, I presume, marching with his regiment. I thought of you.
At three o’clock this afternoon they came for me and I was led back
to the room belonging to Inspector Bray. When I entered, however,
the inspector was not there--only Colonel Hughes, immaculate and
self-possessed, as usual, gazing out the window into the cheerless
stone court. He turned when I entered. I suppose I must have had a most
woebegone appearance, for a look of regret crossed his face.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, “my most humble apologies! I intended to
have you released last night. But, believe me, I have been frightfully
busy.”
I said nothing. What could I say? The fact that he had been busy struck
me as an extremely silly excuse. But the inference that my escape from
the toils of the law was imminent set my heart to thumping.
“I fear you can never forgive me for throwing you over as I did
yesterday,” he went on. “I can only say that it was absolutely
necessary--as you shall shortly understand.”
I thawed a bit. After all, there was an unmistakable sincerity in his
voice and manner.
“We are waiting for Inspector Bray,” continued the colonel. “I take it
you wish to see this thing through?”
“To the end,” I answered.
“Naturally. The inspector was called away yesterday immediately after
our interview with him. He had business on the Continent, I understand.
But fortunately I managed to reach him at Dover and he has come back
to London. I wanted him, you see, because I have found the murderer of
Captain Fraser-Freer.”
I thrilled to hear that, for from my point of view it was certainly a
consummation devoutly to be wished. The colonel did not speak again. In
a few minutes the door opened and Bray came in. His clothes looked as
though he had slept in them; his little eyes were bloodshot. But in
those eyes there was a fire I shall never forget. Hughes bowed.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” he said. “I’m really sorry I had to
interrupt you as I did; but I most awfully wanted you to know that you
owe me a Homburg hat.” He went closer to the detective. “You see, I have
won that wager. I have found the man who murdered Captain Fraser-Freer.”
Curiously enough, Bray said nothing. He sat down at his desk and idly
glanced through the pile of mail that lay upon it. Finally he looked up
and said in a weary tone:
“You’re very clever, I’m sure, Colonel Hughes.”
“Oh--I wouldn’t say that,” replied Hughes. “Luck was with me--from the
first. I am really very glad to have been of service in the matter, for
I am convinced that if I had not taken part in the search it would have
gone hard with some innocent man.”
Bray’s big pudgy hands still played idly with the mail on his desk.
Hughes went on: “Perhaps, as a clever detective, you will be interested
in the series of events which enabled me to win that Homburg hat? You
have heard, no doubt, that the man I have caught is Von der Herts--ten
years ago the best secret-service man in the employ of the Berlin
government, but for the past few years mysteriously missing from our
line of vision. We’ve been wondering about him--at the War Office.”
The colonel dropped into a chair, facing Bray.
“You know Von der Herts, of course?” he remarked casually.
“Of course,” said Bray, still in that dead tired voice.
“He is the head of that crowd in England,” went on Hughes. “Rather a
feather in my cap to get him--but I mustn’t boast. Poor Fraser-Freer
would have got him if I hadn’t--only Von der Herts had the luck to get
the captain first.”
Bray raised his eyes.
“You said you were going to tell me--” he began.
“And so I am,” said Hughes. “Captain Fraser-Freer got in rather a
mess in India and failed of promotion. It was suspected that he was
discontented, soured on the Service; and the Countess Sophie de Graf was
set to beguile him with her charms, to kill his loyalty and win him over
to her crowd.
“It was thought she had succeeded--the Wilhelmstrasse thought so--we at
the War Office thought so, as long as he stayed in India.
“But when the captain and the woman came on to London we discovered that
we had done him a great injustice. He let us know, when the first chance
offered, that he was trying to redeem himself, to round up a dangerous
band of spies by pretending to be one of them. He said that it was his
mission in London to meet Von der Herts, the greatest of them all; and
that, once he had located this man, we would hear from him again. In the
weeks that followed I continued to keep a watch on the countess; and I
kept track of the captain, too, in a general way, for I’m ashamed to say
I was not quite sure of him.”
The colonel got up and walked to the window; then turned and continued:
“Captain Fraser-Freer and Von der Herts were completely unknown to
each other. The mails were barred as a means of communication; but
Fraser-Freer knew that in some way word from the master would reach him,
and he had had a tip to watch the personal column of the Daily Mail. Now
we have the explanation of those four odd messages. From that column
the man from Rangoon learned that he was to wear a white aster in his
button-hole, a scarab pin in his tie, a Homburg hat on his head, and
meet Von der Herts at Ye Old Gambrinus Restaurant in Regent Street, last
Thursday night at ten o’clock. As we know, he made all arrangements to
comply with those directions. He made other arrangements as well. Since
it was out of the question for him to come to Scotland Yard, by skillful
maneuvering he managed to interview an inspector of police at the Hotel
Cecil. It was agreed that on Thursday night Von der Herts would be
placed under arrest the moment he made himself known to the captain.”
Hughes paused. Bray still idled with his pile of letters, while the
colonel regarded him gravely.
“Poor Fraser-Freer!” Hughes went on. “Unfortunately for him, Von der
Herts knew almost as soon as did the inspector that a plan was afoot to
trap him. There was but one course open to him: He located the captain’s
lodgings, went there at seven that night, and killed a loyal and brave
Englishman where he stood.”
A tense silence filled the room. I sat on the edge of my chair,
wondering just where all this unwinding of the tangle was leading us.
“I had little, indeed, to work on,” went on Hughes. “But I had this
advantage: the spy thought the police, and the police alone, were
seeking the murderer. He was at no pains to throw me off his track,
because he did not suspect that I was on it. For weeks my men had been
watching the countess. I had them continue to do so. I figured that
sooner or later Von der Herts would get in touch with her. I was right.
And when at last I saw with my own eyes the man who must, beyond all
question, be Von der Herts, I was astounded, my dear Inspector, I was
overwhelmed.”
“Yes?” said Bray.
“I set to work then in earnest to connect him with that night in Adelphi
Terrace. All the finger marks in the captain’s study were for some
reason destroyed, but I found others outside, in the dust on that
seldom-used gate which leads from the garden. Without his knowing,
I secured from the man I suspected the imprint of his right thumb. A
comparison was startling. Next I went down into Fleet Street and luckily
managed to get hold of the typewritten copy sent to the Mail bearing
those four messages. I noticed that in these the letter a was out
of alignment. I maneuvered to get a letter written on a typewriter
belonging to my man. The a was out of alignment. Then Archibald
Enwright, a renegade and waster well known to us as serving other
countries, came to England. My man and he met--at Ye Old Gambrinus, in
Regent Street. And finally, on a visit to the lodgings of this man who,
I was now certain, was Von der Herts, under the mattress of his bed I
found this knife.”
And Colonel Hughes threw down upon the inspector’s desk the knife from
India that I had last seen in the study of Captain Fraser-Freer.
“All these points of evidence were in my hands yesterday morning in
this room,” Hughes went on. “Still, the answer they gave me was so
unbelievable, so astounding, I was not satisfied; I wanted even stronger
proof. That is why I directed suspicion to my American friend here. I
was waiting. I knew that at last Von der Herts realized the danger he
was in. I felt that if opportunity were offered he would attempt
to escape from England; and then our proofs of his guilt would be
unanswerable, despite his cleverness. True enough, in the afternoon he
secured the release of the countess, and together they started for the
Continent. I was lucky enough to get him at Dover--and glad to let the
lady go on.”
And now, for the first time, the startling truth struck me full in the
face as Hughes smiled down at his victim.
“Inspector Bray,” he said, “or Von der Herts, as you choose, I arrest
you on two counts: First, as the head of the Wilhelmstrasse spy system
in England; second, as the murderer of Captain Fraser-Freer. And, if you
will allow me, I wish to compliment you on your efficiency.”
Bray did not reply for a moment. I sat numb in my chair. Finally the
inspector looked up. He actually tried to smile.
“You win the hat,” he said, “but you must go to Homburg for it. I will
gladly pay all expenses.”
“Thank you,” answered Hughes. “I hope to visit your country before long;
but I shall not be occupied with hats. Again I congratulate you. You
were a bit careless, but your position justified that. As head of the
department at Scotland Yard given over to the hunt for spies, precaution
doubtless struck you as unnecessary. How unlucky for poor Fraser-Freer
that it was to you he went to arrange for your own arrest! I got that
information from a clerk at the Cecil. You were quite right, from your
point of view, to kill him. And, as I say, you could afford to be rather
reckless. You had arranged that when the news of his murder came to
Scotland Yard you yourself would be on hand to conduct the search for
the guilty man. A happy situation, was it not?”
“It seemed so at the time,” admitted Bray; and at last I thought I
detected a note of bitterness in his voice.
“I’m very sorry--really,” said Hughes. “To-day, or to-morrow at the
latest, England will enter the war. You know what that means, Von der
Herts. The Tower of London--and a firing squad!”
Deliberately he walked away from the inspector, and stood facing the
window. Von der Herts was fingering idly that Indian knife which lay on
his desk. With a quick hunted look about the room, he raised his hand;
and before I could leap forward to stop him he had plunged the knife
into his heart.
Colonel Hughes turned round at my cry, but even at what met his eyes now
that Englishman was imperturbable.
“Too bad!” he said. “Really too bad! The man had courage and, beyond
all doubt, brains. But--this is most considerate of him. He has saved me
such a lot of trouble.”
The colonel effected my release at once; and he and I walked down
Whitehall together in the bright sun that seemed so good to me after the
bleak walls of the Yard. Again he apologized for turning suspicion my
way the previous day; but I assured him I held no grudge for that.
“One or two things I do not understand,” I said. “That letter I brought
from Interlaken--”
“Simple enough,” he replied. “Enwright--who, by the way, is now in the
Tower--wanted to communicate with Fraser-Freer, who he supposed was a
loyal member of the band. Letters sent by post seemed dangerous. With
your kind assistance he informed the captain of his whereabouts and the
date of his imminent arrival in London. Fraser-Freer, not wanting you
entangled in his plans, eliminated you by denying the existence of this
cousin--the truth, of course.”
“Why,” I asked, “did the countess call on me to demand that I alter my
testimony?”
“Bray sent her. He had rifled Fraser-Freer’s desk and he held that
letter from Enwright. He was most anxious to fix the guilt upon the
young lieutenant’s head. You and your testimony as to the hour of the
crime stood in the way. He sought to intimidate you with threats--”
“But--”
“I know--you are wondering why the countess confessed to me next day.
I had the woman in rather a funk. In the meshes of my rapid-fire
questioning she became hopelessly involved. This was because she was
suddenly terrified she realized I must have been watching her for weeks,
and that perhaps Von der Herts was not so immune from suspicion as he
supposed. At the proper moment I suggested that I might have to take her
to Inspector Bray. This gave her an idea. She made her fake confession
to reach his side; once there, she warned him of his danger and they
fled together.”
We walked along a moment in silence. All about us the lurid special
editions of the afternoon were flaunting their predictions of the horror
to come. The face of the colonel was grave.
“How long had Von der Herts held his position at the Yard?” I asked.
“For nearly five years,” Hughes answered.
“It seems incredible,” I murmured.
“So it does,” he answered; “but it is only the first of many incredible
things that this war will reveal. Two months from now we shall all have
forgotten it in the face of new revelations far more unbelievable.” He
sighed. “If these men about us realized the terrible ordeal that
lies ahead! Misgoverned; unprepared--I shudder at the thought of the
sacrifices we must make, many of them in vain. But I suppose that
somehow, some day, we shall muddle through.”
He bade me good-by in Trafalgar Square, saying that he must at once
seek out the father and brother of the late captain, and tell them the
news--that their kinsman was really loyal to his country.
“It will come to them as a ray of light in the dark--my news,” he said.
“And now, thank you once again.”
We parted and I came back here to my lodgings. The mystery is finally
solved, though in such a way it is difficult to believe that it was
anything but a nightmare at any time. But solved none the less; and I
should be at peace, except for one great black fact that haunts me, will
not let me rest. I must tell you, dear lady--And yet I fear it means the
end of everything. If only I can make you understand!
I have walked my floor, deep in thought, in puzzlement, in indecision.
Now I have made up my mind. There is no other way--I must tell you the
truth.
Despite the fact that Bray was Von der Herts; despite the fact that
he killed himself at the discovery--despite this and that, and
everything--Bray did not kill Captain Fraser-Freer!
On last Thursday evening, at a little after seven o’clock, I myself
climbed the stairs, entered the captain’s rooms, picked up that knife
from his desk, and stabbed him just above the heart!
What provocation I was under, what stern necessity moved me--all this
you must wait until to-morrow to know. I shall spend another anxious day
preparing my defense, hoping that through some miracle of mercy you may
forgive me--understand that there was nothing else I could do.
Do not judge, dear lady, until you know everything--until all my
evidence is in your lovely hands.
YOURS, IN ALL HUMILITY.
The first few paragraphs of this the sixth and next to the last letter
from the Agony Column man had brought a smile of relief to the face of
the girl who read. She was decidedly glad to learn that her friend no
longer languished back of those gray walls on Victoria Embankment. With
excitement that increased as she went along, she followed Colonel Hughes
as--in the letter--he moved nearer and nearer his denouement, until
finally his finger pointed to Inspector Bray sitting guilty in his
chair. This was an eminently satisfactory solution, and it served the
inspector right for locking up her friend. Then, with the suddenness
of a bomb from a Zeppelin, came, at the end, her strawberry man’s
confession of guilt. He was the murderer, after all! He admitted it! She
could scarcely believe her eyes.
Yet there it was, in ink as violet as those eyes, on the note paper that
had become so familiar to her during the thrilling week just past. She
read it a second time, and yet a third. Her amazement gave way to anger;
her cheeks flamed. Still--he had asked her not to judge until all his
evidence was in. This was a reasonable request surely, and she could not
in fairness refuse to grant it.