THE SPECIAL BRANCH
With a couple of sandwiches and a glass of sherry in lieu of lunch,
Seton Darville worked in that somber cozy room, examining many reports
handed to him by the trusty naval man whom he had, after the war,
appointed his secretary. The office staff were all either Foreign
Office officials or ex-officers, and all chosen on account of their
various accomplishments, such as languages, general knowledge of
Europe, and acquaintance with international politics. This staff,
one-half of which carried on by day, and the other half of which
carried on by night, never went abroad. The traveling agents, both
male and female, were all of them well trained, well paid, and highly
trustworthy. Each was known by a number, and each had his or her own
private code. No telegrams or letters were ever delivered at those
offices, but were sent to several entirely unsuspicious addresses in
London and in the provinces.
Though Darville’s department was entirely distinct from that dealing
with enemy espionage in our midst, yet no secret was safe from it,
because it had at its disposal a _cabinet noir_, or post-office
department, where the correspondence of suspicious persons could be
secretly opened and copied by those expert at such work, while the
Special Branch at Scotland Yard were always at its beck and call.
Few men--indeed, perhaps no other man--possessed such secret power and
influence as Seton Darville, but, straightforward, honest, and
patriotic, he never abused it. More than once a great financier or a
prominent statesman had approached him in confidence and offered him
big sums if he would order certain letters to be opened. But he had
always angrily refused such temptations. Not a member of his staff was
open to bribery, for they were all highly paid and loyal to a degree.
His head assistant, who lived mostly abroad, received the salary of an
Ambassador, yet he himself declined any emolument, and even paid for
his own postages.
Many people, because of his deep, thoughtful habit, his hesitation in
making friends, combined with his great popularity as a novelist,
declared him to be egotistical and exclusive. True, in hotels, in
which he spent half his time, he never mixed with the visitors, for he
had his work and his other interests, which absorbed him, and he
always declared that his circle of friends was already wide enough.
Had any outsider been able to read those reports which his secretary
put before him, and which he discussed with one of the staff, a man
named Charlwood Collings--ex-attaché at the British Embassy in Rome,
who was one of the greatest living authorities upon the complex
question of European politics--they would have marveled at the vast
amount of secret knowledge collected and classified for the purpose of
guiding His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs
in giving instructions to our diplomatic representatives abroad.
For over an hour they discussed a matter concerning a very serious
situation between Germany and Italy, which had only three days before
arisen, and had been at once reported by one of Darville’s agents in
the Eternal City. Almost as soon as the news was known at the Quirinal
it had been known, thanks to Darville’s vigilance, at Downing Street.
Time after time Darville spoke over one or other of the private
telephone lines in the room adjoining his, lines to Downing Street and
Whitehall. Afterwards he dictated to Bennett, the alert, well-set-up
man who was as sphinx-like as his chief, about a dozen telegrams,
addressed to strange addresses in Madrid, Stockholm, Berlin,
Bucharest, Belgrade, and other capitals, to be put into the various
codes and dispatched--instructions to those of both sexes who were in
Britain’s Secret Service.
At seven o’clock he dined at the St. James’s Club with Jacques Dupont,
the naval attaché at the French Embassy, and at five minutes before
eight he had again changed his clothes, and, wearing a blue serge
suit, he was lounging at the corner of Longridge Road.
Soon a parcel delivery-van turned into the road from the Earl’s Court
Road, and stopped before the house. From it Paton, again in the
uniform of the company, descended, rang at the door, and was at once
admitted.
“Yes,” said the maid, “Mr. O’Brien has just come in. I’ll go and
inquire if he’ll see you.”
Paton, with the precious parcel under his arm, stood in the hall until
the girl returned and asked him along the passage to a room at the
end, where stood the gray-mustached owner of the house.
“You’ve got a parcel for Mrs. Caborn, I hear,” he said, addressing the
Special Branch officer. “I know her, and I’ll give it to her.”
“Doesn’t she live here, sir?” Paton asked in apparent ignorance.
“Sometimes. But she’s not here now,” was the reply.
“In that case, sir, I’m afraid I can’t deliver it to you,” said Paton,
with regret. “It’s against my orders. Parcels specially insured have
to be delivered personally to the addressee.”
“But I can sign for it, surely! I live here, and am a responsible
person.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but it is insured for four hundred pounds--some
jewelry, apparently, sent from a foreign hotel.” And then, after
careful examination of the labels and of the receipt prepared, he
added: “It seems to have come from the Hotel St. George at Corfu.
Where’s that--in Italy, isn’t it?”
“No, in Greece,” was Mr. O’Brien’s reply, as he, too, looked at the
parcel with undisguised curiosity.
“Well, if you can’t tell me where she is, we’ll have to return it to
the sender,” Paton said in a disappointed tone.
“I can’t tell you where she is.”
“If she’s anywhere in Great Britain I can send it to our local agent,
who will deliver it, and obtain the lady’s signature. It seems a pity
to return it to Corfu.”
Mention of Corfu had set Mr. O’Brien thinking. The package was
evidently left behind at the hotel in the hurry of Joan’s flight.
“Is there no other way in which the packet can be delivered here to
me?” he asked. “I’m willing to give my personal guarantee for the
amount of the insurance.”
“I’m afraid that will be useless. The terms of the insurance policy
are that the packet be delivered into the hands of the person to whom
it is addressed, and nobody else,” was Paton’s firm answer. He felt
that Mr. Peke O’Brien, whoever he might be, would be too loyal to his
lady friend to give her address. Besides, he was not certain whether
she had come to England, after all.
“If she’s still abroad--what then?” asked the rather burly man.
“It is quite easy. We have agents in all the continental cities. As
you know, our company is the biggest firm of carriers in the world.”
This reply nonplussed O’Brien, a fact which Paton instantly realized.
Therefore he pretended impatience, and added:
“I don’t think there’s anything else to say, sir. I’ll report that you
refuse to give the lady’s address, and it will be returned to-morrow
to the sender. I’ve done my duty, and, as far as I’m concerned, the
matter is at an end.”
And he took up the parcel and papers, and made pretence of a hurried
departure.
“I don’t see exactly what I can do,” O’Brien said. “Can’t I call at
your head office to-morrow and give my signature?”
“That won’t be of any use, sir. I had a similar case a fortnight
ago--an insured parcel addressed to a man in Hammersmith. The lady I
saw offered to become guarantee, but the head office declined it, and
it was sent back to Buenos Ayres,” was Paton’s excuse. And he turned
to leave the room.
“Can I telephone to your office?” O’Brien asked. “Will there be anyone
there at this hour?”
“The office will be closed, sir. Only the sorters are on duty, and
they won’t be able to give you more information than I can,” the great
detective said.
“Then you really mean to send it back?”
“Most certainly. It’s the only way. You refuse to say where the lady
can be found and accept delivery, so I’ve got to do my duty and report
it. They’ll send it back to Corfu to-morrow. I fancy the firm were
bitten once by somebody signing for an insured parcel, which was not
addressed to him, and bolting with it. I’ve heard they had to pay five
hundred pounds. That makes them very careful.”
Sandy Paton was acting the part of parcels delivery-man to perfection.
“I quite see the point, of course,” said Mr. O’Brien while the
detective stood with his hand upon the door. “But what can I do?” he
repeated, with an expression of bewilderment.
“Nothing, sir, if you really don’t know where the lady is. Perhaps
she’ll still be abroad?” he added, hoping to ascertain the truth.
“No. She’s arrived here from Greece, but exactly where she is I have
no idea.”
“Well, tell me where you think she may be, and I’ll have the parcel
forwarded to-night, and it will be delivered to-morrow.”
Mr. Peke O’Brien hesitated. For a few moments he remained silent. The
dangling of jewelry insured for four hundred pounds beneath his nose
was proving too alluring, and Paton knew it. The ruse had been well
thought out by Darville, as, indeed, were all his subtle plans. Even
at that moment he was waiting beneath the street lamp at the corner to
learn the result.
“As a matter of fact, I have an idea where Mrs. Caborn might be,”
O’Brien said at last. “Of course, I’m not absolutely sure.”
“Well, sir, wherever she is, we can find her, no doubt,” Paton
replied, hoping that his ruse was being brought to a successful issue.
“Is she in England?”
“No, I believe she’s in Scotland,” was the reply.
“Then we can easily deliver it, if you’ll tell me where you think she
is, or of any person, indeed, who knows her whereabouts.”
Again Mr. Peke O’Brien hesitated. Paton, shrewd and observant, was
reading his thoughts. He was wondering whether, in the circumstances,
he dare give the address. Paton, seeing his hesitation, said:
“Of course, sir, if you have any reason for not giving the lady’s
address, I quite understand.”
“Well--the fact is that I fear she might be annoyed,” said the other
lamely.
“In that case, then, I’ll go. Nothing more need be said. But it seems
a great pity to send this valuable parcel back to Greece, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied the perplexed man. “It does.” And then, after a silence
of a full minute, he added: “After all, I think your people ought to
deliver it to her. They will probably find her in Edinburgh--at No.
286 Strathnairn Road.”
Instantly Sandy Paton scribbled it down upon the receipt with a stubby
piece of pencil he drew from his pocket.
“Very well, sir,” he said, well pleased at his success. “I’ll send it
up to Edinburgh by passenger train to-night.”
“Remember I’m not at all certain that she’s there. I may be mistaken,”
added O’Brien.
“Very well, sir,” replied Paton, repressing a smile of triumph. “We’ll
see.”
And he left, carrying the precious parcel beneath his arm.
Three minutes later he met Darville, who came forward from the shadow
at the end of the road.
“All right, Mr. Darville! I’ve got the address--up in Edinburgh.”
Seton Darville was alert and active in an instant.
“Edinburgh!” he echoed. “Right, Sandy. We catch the mail-train from
King’s Cross to-night. What did the fellow say?”
As they walked together in the direction of Earl’s Court Station, the
expert officer of the Special Branch briefly described the interview
he had had with the mysterious Mr. Peke O’Brien, and its result.
“Well, Sandy, we’ll go north to-night, and see what we can find.”
“Yes, sir, we will,” replied the fair-haired Scot. “But don’t you
think we ought to inquire as to who this Mr. Peke O’Brien may be? I
don’t like him, somehow.”
“He seems to know Mrs. Caborn’s movements. And that is in itself
suspicious,” Darville said, afterwards praising Paton for his
astuteness.
“Well, Mr. Darville, the idea is yours, you know. I only carried out
instructions--as I always do.”
“You’ve done very well indeed, Sandy,” he said, entering the
booking-office at Earl’s Court Station. “I’ll ’phone for our
sleeping-berths on the ‘Scotsman.’”
He entered one of the telephone boxes, and spoke to King’s Cross
Station, while Paton, entering the next, spoke to his lieutenant at
Scotland Yard in guarded terms, ordering watch to be kept upon Mr.
Peke O’Brien while he went North.
That night at half-past eleven Darville and Paton entered the
Edinburgh sleeping-car at King’s Cross. The platform inspector, who
knew Paton well, came into the car to see they were all right,
scenting some mystery, of course. He knew Sandy Paton to be the chief
inspector of the Special Branch, and had more than once chatted to him
when he had been lounging on the platform at the departure or arrival
of the Prime Minister or other members of the Cabinet, against whom
all sorts of cranks write daily threats.
“Well, Sandy,” said Darville, “I’m going to turn in. I’ve had a heavy
day, like you. I’ll see you in the morning. We’re due at the Waverley
Station at 7.30. I’ll have my tea at seven. Tell the conductor to
bring it to me, will you? Gad! I’m tired--and so you must be, Sandy.
Good-night.”
And he nodded to the great detective, who rose and left the
sleeping-berth.
Seton Darville slid the bolt and threw off his coat.
Had Peke O’Brien, the man of mystery up to the present, really given
away Joan’s hiding-place? Was he to be able to effect a coup, and
obviate the terrible disaster which the enemy had so cunningly
arranged, and which Caborn and his wife had arrived in Britain to
carry out?