PLAYING A DESPERATE GAME
On the 20th of December, 1908, it rained incessantly in London, and well
I recollect it. After lunch I sat in the club-window in St. James's
Street, idly watching the drenched passers-by, many of them people who
were up from the country to do their Christmas shopping.
The outlook was a gloomy one; particularly so for myself, for I had
arranged to spend Christmas with an aunt who had a pretty villa among
the olives outside Nice, but that morning I had received a telegram from
her saying that she was very unwell and asking me to postpone my visit.
The club was practically deserted save for one or two old cronies. Every
one had gone to country houses, Ray was spending Christmas with Vera's
father at Portsmouth, and in view of the message I had received I felt
dull and alone. It is astonishing how very lonely a man may be at
Christmas in our great London, even though at other times he may
possess hosts of friends.
I had received fully a dozen invitations to country houses, all of which
I had declined, and was now, alas! stranded, without hope of spending "A
Merry Christmas," except in the lonely silence of my own bachelor
chambers. So I smoked on, looking forth into the darkening gloom.
The waiter switched on the light in the great smoking-room at last, and
then drew the heavy curtains at all the long windows, shutting out the
dismal scene.
A man I knew, a hard-working member of Parliament, entered, threw
himself down wearily and lit a cigar. Then, idler that I was, I began to
gossip.
He was going up to Perthshire by the 11.45 from Euston that night, he
remarked.
"Where are you spending Christmas?" he asked.
"Don't know," I replied. "Probably at home."
"You seem to have the hump, my dear fellow," he remarked, with a laugh,
and then I confided to him the reason.
At last, about six o'clock, I put on my overcoat and left the club. The
rain had now stopped, therefore I decided to walk along to my rooms in
Guilford Street.
Hardly had I turned the corner into Piccadilly, when I heard a voice at
my elbow uttering my name with a foreign accent.
Turning quickly, I saw, to my great surprise, a man named Engler, whom I
had known in Bremen. He was a clerk in the Deutsche Bank, opposite the
Liebfrauen-Kirche, and popular in a certain circle in that Hanseatic
city.
"My dear Meester Jacox!" he exclaimed in broken English in his
enthusiastic way. "My dear frendt. Well, well! who would have thought of
meeting you. I am so ve-ry glad!" he cried. "I have only been in London
since three days."
I shook my friend's hand warmly, for a year ago, when I had spent some
time beside the Weser watching two men I had followed from London, we
had been extremely friendly.
I told him that I was on my way to my rooms, and invited him in to have
a chat.
He gladly accompanied me, and when we were comfortably seated in my cosy
sitting-room he began to relate to me all the latest news from Bremen
and of several of my friends.
Otto Engler was a well-dressed, rather elegant man of forty, whose fair
beard was well trimmed, whose eyes were full of fire, and who rather
prided himself upon being something of a lady-killer. He was in London
in connection with an important financial scheme in which his brother
and a German merchant in London, named Griesbach, were interested. He
and his brother Wilhelm were over on a visit to the merchant, who, he
told me, had offices in Coleman Street, and who lived in Lonsdale Road,
Barnes.
There was a fortune in the business, he declared, which was the
discovery of a new alloy, lighter than aluminium, yet with twenty times
the rigidity.
That evening we dined together at the "Trocadero," looked in at the
Empire, and returned to the club for a smoke.
Indeed, I was delighted to have found an old friend just when I was in
deepest despair of the dullness of everything, and of Christmas in
particular.
Otto Engler had one failing--his impudent inquisitiveness. After he had
left me it occurred to me that all the time we had been together he had
been constantly endeavouring to discover my recent movements, where I
had visited of late, where I intended spending Christmas, and my
subsequent movements.
Why did he desire to know all these particulars? He was a busybody, I
knew, and the worst gossip in the whole of that gossip-loving city on
the Weser. Therefore I attributed his inquisitiveness to his natural
propensity for prying into other people's affairs.
"Ah! my dear friend," he had said as he gripped my hand on leaving me,
"they often speak of you in Bremen. How we all wish you were back again
with us of an evening at the Wiener Cafe!"
"I fear I shall never go back," I said briefly. "Business nowadays keeps
me in London, as you know."
"I know--I know," he replied. "Remember, you have always had a true
friend in Otto Engler--and you always will, I trust."
Then he had entered the taxi which the hall-porter had called for him.
Next afternoon he called upon me at New Stone Buildings, as we had
arranged. Ray Raymond was seated with me. I introduced him, and we spent
a pleasant hour, chatting and smoking. Ray had also been in Bremen, and
the two men had, they found, many mutual friends. Then, when he had
left, Ray declared himself charmed by him.
"So different to the usual German," he declared. "There's nothing of the
popinjay about him, nothing of the modern military fop of Berlin or
Dresden, men who are, in my estimation, the very acme of bad breeding
and degenerate idiocy."
"No," I said. "Engler is quite a good fellow. I'm glad he's found me. I
expected to be deadly dull this Christmas."
"So do I," replied my friend. "I've got a wire this morning from the
Admiral saying he is down with influenza, and the Christmas house-party
is postponed. So I shall stay in town."
"In that case we might spend Christmas day together," I suggested.
This was arranged.
My German friend Otto saw me daily. I was introduced to his brother,
Wilhelm, a tall, thin, rather narrow-eyed man who, from his atrocious
German, I judged was from Dantzig. It was one evening in the Cafe Royal
that I first saw Wilhelm, who was seated playing dominoes with a rather
stout, middle-aged man in gold-rimmed spectacles, Heinrich Griesbach.
Both men expressed delight at meeting me, and I invited the trio to my
rooms for a smoke and a gossip.
We sat until nearly two o'clock in the morning. Griesbach had been many
years in London, and was apparently financing the scheme of the brothers
Engler, a scheme which, on the face of it, seemed a very sound
undertaking.
All three were thorough-going cosmopolitans, cheery, easy-going men of
the world, who told many quaint stories which caused my room to ring
with laughter.
Next day was Christmas Eve, and Griesbach suddenly suggested that if I
had nothing better to do he would be delighted if I would join their
party at dinner on Christmas night at his house over at Barnes.
"I regret very much," I said, "but I've already arranged to dine with my
friend Raymond, who shares chambers with me in Lincoln's Inn."
"Oh!" exclaimed Otto Engler, "I'm sure Herr Griesbach would be very
pleased if he came also."
"Of course!" cried the German merrily. "The more the merrier. We shall
dine at eight, and we'll expect you both. I'll send a note to Mr.
Raymond, if you'll give me his address."
I gave it to him, and nothing loath to spend the festival in such jovial
company, I accepted.
I entertained a shrewd suspicion that by their hospitality they wished
to enlist my aid, because I had one or two friends in the City who
might, perhaps, assist them materially in their scheme. And yet, after
all, Otto Engler had often been my guest in Bremen.
Next day I heard on the telephone from Ray that he would go down to
Barnes with me, and would call for me at six at Guilford Street.
Curiously enough, I had become so impressed by the possibilities of the
new alloy about to be exploited with British capital, that I had really
become anxious to "go in" with them. Ray Raymond, too, was much
interested when I showed him the specimen of the new metal which Engler
had given me.
"Do you know," said he when he called for me at six o'clock on Christmas
evening, "I was about town a lot yesterday and I'm quite certain that I
was followed by a foreigner--a rather big man wearing gold spectacles."
"Nonsense!" I laughed. "Why should you be followed by any foreigner?"
"It isn't nonsense, my dear Jacox," he declared. "The fellow kept close
observation on me all yesterday afternoon. When I got back to Bruton
Street, I looked out half an hour afterwards and there he was, still
idling outside."
"Some chap who wants to serve you with a writ, perhaps!" I laughed
grimly. "A neglected tailor's bill!"
"No," he said. "He's watching with some evil intent, I'm certain. I
expect he's somewhere near, even now," he added.
"Why!" I laughed. "You seem quite nervy over it! Next time you see him,
go up to the Johnnie and ask him what the dickens he wants."
Then, half an hour later, I put on my hat and coat, and together we took
a taxi past Kensington Church and Olympia, to Hammersmith Bridge, over
which we turned off to the right in Castelnau, into a long ill-lit
thoroughfare, running parallel with the river. Bare trees lined the
road, and each house was a good-sized one, standing in its own grounds.
Before one of these, hidden from the road by a high wall, and standing
back a good distance from the road, the cab pulled up, and, alighting,
we opened the gate, and passing up a well-kept drive pulled the bell.
Our summons was answered by a thin, rather consumptive-looking German
man-servant, who took our coats and ceremoniously ushered us into a big
well-furnished drawing-room, where Griesbach and his two friends were
already assembled awaiting us. All were smoking cigarettes, which showed
that no ladies were to be present.
The instant Ray entered the room I saw that he gave a start, and a few
moments later he seized an opportunity to whisper to me that the man who
had so persistently followed him on the previous day was none other than
our host Griesbach.
"Don't worry over it, my dear old fellow," I urged. "What motive would
he have? He didn't even know you!"
And then the gossip became merry in that room so seasonably decorated
with holly, while Griesbach assured us of his delight in having us as
his guests.
Dinner was served in the adjoining room, and a most excellent and
thoroughly English repast it was. Our host had been long enough in
England, he told us, to appreciate English fare, hence we had part of a
baron of beef with Christmas pudding afterwards, and excellent old port
and nuts to follow.
Two young Germans waited at table, and the party was as merry a one as
any of us could wish. Only Ray seemed serious and preoccupied. He was
suspicious I knew--but of what?
I now openly confess that I pretended a gaiety which I certainly did not
feel, for after Raymond had told me that he had recognised Griesbach, a
very strange thought had occurred to me. It was this. As we had entered
the garden to approach the house, I felt certain that I had caught sight
of the figure of a man crouching against one of the bushes in the
shadow. At the time I had thought nothing of it, so eager was I to meet
my friends. Yet now, in face of Ray's whispered words, I grew very
suspicious. Why had that man been lurking there?
When the cloth had been cleared and dessert laid, the elder of the two
servants placed upon the table before our host a big box of long
crackers covered with dark green gelatine and embellished with gold
paper.
"These are German bon-bons," remarked Griesbach, his grey eyes beaming
through his spectacles. "I get them each Christmas from my home in
Stuttgart."
The conversation had again turned upon the splendid investment about to
be offered to the British public, whereupon I half suggested that I was
ready to go into the affair myself. Griesbach jumped at the idea, just
as I expected, and handed round the box of crackers. Each of us took
one, in celebration of Christmas, and on their being pulled we
discovered small but really acceptable articles of masculine jewellery
within. My "surprise" was a pair of plain gold sleeve-links, worth fully
three or four pounds, while Ray, with whom I pulled, received a nice
turquoise scarf-pin, an incident which quite reassured him.
Our host refused to take one.
"No," he declared, "they are for you, my dear fellows--all for you."
So again the box was passed round, and four more crackers were taken.
That time Ray's bon-bon contained a tiny gold match-box, while within
mine I found a small charm in the form of a gold enamelled doll to hang
upon one's watch-chain.
As Ray and I pulled my cracker, I had suddenly raised my eyes and caught
sight of the expression upon the face of my friend Engler. It struck me
as very curious. His sallow cheeks were pale, and his dark eyes seemed
starting out of his head with excitement.
"Now, gentlemen," said our genial host, after he had passed the box for
the third time, first to his two compatriots, who handed the remaining
two bon-bons across the table to us, "you have each a final bon-bon. In
one of them there will be found a twenty-mark piece--our German custom.
I suggest, in order to mark this festive occasion, that whoever of you
four obtains the coin shall receive, free of any obligation, five shares
in our new syndicate."
"A most generous proposal!" declared my friend Engler, a sentiment with
which we all agreed.
The two Germans pulled their bon-bons, but were unsuccessful. The
prize--certainly a prize worth winning--now lay between Ray and myself.
At that instant, however, Griesbach rose from the table suddenly,
saying:
"You two gentlemen must settle between yourselves. It lies between you."
And before we were aware of his intention he had passed into the
adjoining room, followed by his two friends.
"Well," I laughed to Ray when we were alone, "here goes. Let's decide
it!" And we both gripped the long green-and-gold cracker. If the coin
were within, then I should receive a very handsome present, worth a
little later on, perhaps, several thousand pounds.
At that instant, however, we were both startled by a loud smashing of
glass in the next room, curses in German and loud shouts in English,
followed by the dull report of a revolver.
We both sprang into the room, and there, to our surprise, found that six
men had entered through the broken French window and were struggling
fiercely with our host and his friends.
"What in the name of Fate does this mean?" I cried, startled and amazed
at that sudden termination to our cosy Christmas dinner.
"All right, Mr. Raymond," answered a big brown-bearded man. "You know
me--Pelham of Scotland Yard! Keep an eye on those bon-bons in the next
room. Don't touch them at peril of your life!"
"Why?" I asked.
Then, when our host and our two friends had been secured--not, however,
before the room had been wrecked in a most desperate struggle--Inspector
Pelham came forward to where Ray was standing with me, and said:
"My God, Mr. Raymond! You two have had a very narrow escape, and no
mistake! Where are those bon-bons?"
We took him into the dining-room, showed him the remaining two, and told
him we had been about to pull them.
"I know. We were watching you through the window. Those men were flying
from the house when they ran into our arms!"
"Why?"
"Because they are a dangerous trio whom we want on several charges. In
addition, all three, and also the two servants, are ingenious spies in
the service of the German General Staff. They've been busy this last two
years. They intended to wreak upon both of you a terrible revenge for
your recent exposures of the German system of espionage in England and
your constant prosecution of their spies."
"Revenge!" I gasped. "What revenge?"
"Well," replied the detective-inspector, "both these bon-bons contain
powerful bombs, and had you pulled either of them you'd both have been
blown to atoms. That was their dastardly intention. But fortunately we
got wind of it, and were in time to watch and prevent it."
"And only just in the nick of time, too!" gasped Ray, pale-faced at
thought of our narrow escape. "I somehow felt all along some vague
presage that evil was intended."
The three spies were conveyed to Barnes police-station in cabs, and that
was the last we ever saw of them. The Government again hushed up the
matter in order to avoid international complications, I suppose, but a
week later the interesting trio were deported by the police to Hamburg
as undesirable aliens.
And to-day, with Ray Raymond, I am wondering what is to be the outcome
of all this organised espionage in England.
What will happen? When will Germany strike?
WHO KNOWS?
THE END
_Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey._
* * * * *
Transcriber's notes:
Punctuation has been standardized.
Hyphenation has been retained as it appears in the original
publication.
An additional title and list of chapters has been added before
the start of the book to be compatible with the HTML version.
In the ad at the beginning of the book:
"cloth bound" was underlined; this has been removed.
COUNTESS BARCY[`N]SKA: there is a grave accent over the N.
This is a possible typo for the Polish letter with an acute accent.
Page 13: "Minsister" changed to "Minister" (pooh-poohed by both the
Prime Minister)
Page 95: "day" changed "days" (in the days that were to follow)
Page 100: "depot" changed to "depot" (another depot at Burnham)
Page 104: "no" changed to "not" (not distant date)
Page 170: "o" changed to "to" (in order to threaten you)
Page 173: "fell" changed to "feel" (and you will, I feel)
Page 241: "denes" changed to "dunes" (neighbourhood of the dunes)