Official Hindrances
ON the day following the preliminary examination of the two alleged
spies the London evening papers published with double-leaded
headlines:
"TWO ENGLISHMEN ARRESTED AS SPIES"
(_Reuters Special._)
"Hamburg, Tuesday, 5 p.m. Telegraphic advice from
Heligoland reports that two Englishmen, giving the
names of John and William Smith, and aged about forty,
were arrested on a charge of espionage early this
morning. It is alleged that the prisoners, taking
advantage of a dark and rainy night, eluded the cordon
of patrol boats and succeeded in landing upon
Sandinsel. When arrested they were in the act of
photographing a highly important part of the defences.
The open motor boat in which they visited the island
has been seized, and drawings and photographs of
various government establishments and ships were found
concealed behind the petrol tanks. The accused, who
admitted that they were in the employ of the British
Intelligence Department, will be tried summarily by the
Governor of Heligoland, General Heinrich von
Wittelsbach, on Friday next. It is understood that the
British Consul at Bremen has applied to have access to
the prisoners."
This announcement naturally caused a great deal of comment amongst
the British public. The general opinion was that the alleged spies
knew the risk they were running and must take the consequences.
Various attempts were made on the part of the press to discover the
identity of John and William Smith. Enquiries at the Naval
Intelligence Department gave no tangible result. The authorities
there expressed their ignorance of the whole business.
The morning editions on the following day came out with highly
coloured reports emanating from imaginative German journalists; but
the only particle of truth was the information that the request of
the British Consul at Bremen had been refused. In order to give the
accused every possible advantage a military officer of high rank had
been dispatched from Berlin to act as "prisoners' friend". Owing to
the possibilities of important military and naval secrets being
disclosed at the impending trial, the proceedings were to be
conducted behind closed doors.
Even with this announcement the Great British Public maintained its
customary apathy. Had some Polish revolutionary been tried under
similar circumstances in far-off Russia a certain section of the
British Press would have howled itself black in the face at the
injustice and inhumanity of the proceedings. In this instance it was
merely an attempt on the part of two venturesome Englishmen to gain
notoriety at the expense of risking our amiable relations with a
friendly State. John and William Smith must take the consequences.
In a paper of the same date appeared a short column headed:
"FEARED FATALITY TO TWO ENGLISH YACHTSMEN
"A ketch yacht, named _Diomeda_, has been brought into
the port of Delfzyl by the Dutch steam trawler _Hoorn_.
The master of the trawler reports having found the
yacht derelict, with all sails set, nine miles N.N.W.
of Norderney. There are three yachts named _Diomeda_ in
Lloyd's Register, but from the Dutch skipper's
description the abandoned yacht is the property of Mr.
Octavius Valerian Smith of Lowestoft."
At ten o'clock a telegram was handed in at the London offices of _The
Yachtsman's Journal_. It was from that paper's Lowestoft
correspondent:
"Smith, owner _Diomeda_, reports yacht chartered
Sub-Lieutenant Hamerton, R. N. Owner starting Delfzyl
immediately. Shall I accompany?--Stirling."
The editor thought over the message for some minutes. Here was a
chance of obtaining copy direct from the scene of the disaster. He
would dearly like to steal a march on his contemporaries. The mystery
might prove far more exciting than it looked according to the morning
dailies. But there was the expense; _The Yachtman's Journal_ had not
a large amount of capital behind it. Of course, Stirling would not
want a large sum for the trip, but there were the travelling
expenses.
A thought struck him: why not consult his friend Thompson, the news
editor of the influential _Westminster Daily Record_?
"Is that you, Thompson?" he asked on the telephone after several vain
attempts to get through.
"Yes, old man," replied the editor of _The Westminster Daily Record_,
who recognized his friend's voice.
"Anything fresh about the yacht found adrift in the North Sea?"
"Nothing--why?"
"Just heard she was chartered by a naval officer. I fancy there's
something behind this. Stirling, my Lowestoft correspondent--a smart,
reliable fellow; I know him personally--has just wired to ask if he
should go to Holland."
"Well?"
"He can speak German and Dutch remarkably well."
"Hanged if I can see what you are driving at, old man. Send the young
chap by all means if you want to. By the by, what's the naval
officer's name?"
The editor of _The Yachtsman's Journal_ diplomatically ignored the
latter question.
"I'd send him like a shot," he replied, "only it's a question of, _£,
s., d._ What do you say? Will you guarantee half the expenses? It's a
chance of a good scoop, the information to be solely for our joint
use."
Thompson grunted.
"No," he said brusquely; "can't be done. It's not of sufficient
interest to the general public."
"Not when a naval officer is involved?"
"H'm--well, I'll tell you. Send your man. If the stuff's of use to us
we'll pay all expenses. Anything out of the ordinary he can wire us.
If there's nothing meriting notice we'll only pay a quarter of the
expenses. Game?"
Something seemed to whisper in the mind of the _Yachtman's Journal_
editor: "Accept his terms. You'll be sorry if you don't."
"Agreed," he replied.
"Right! Ring off," was Thompson's laconic acceptance, and he resumed
his chair in order to tackle the final proofs of the evening's issue.
Shortly after eleven Gordon Stirling, amateur yachtsman and yachting
correspondent of _The Yachtman's Journal_, received a wire from town:
"Proceed to Delfzyl. Wire report if urgent. All expenses
guaranteed.
"EDITOR."
Stirling gave a whoop of delight when he read his sailing orders, and
considerably astonished his landlady by executing a dance round the
room. Perhaps such an exhibition was pardonable in a high-spirited
youth of nineteen, but Mrs. Grimmer surveyed her paying guest with
evident concern and unrestrained curiosity.
"It's all right, Mrs. Grimmer," he explained. "I'm off to Holland for
a few days."
"Not in that little boat of yours, sir?"
"No, by steamer. I'll have to leave here before twelve. Now I must
pack my bag. You might ask Dick to take a note round to Mr. Smith for
me."
The note was simply to the effect that the writer had made
arrangements to accompany the owner of the _Diomeda_ to Delfzyl, and
would meet him at the station at 12.15.
This written and dispatched, Gordon Stirling proceeded to cram a
variety of clothing into a serviceable leather bag, regardless of how
they were stowed so long as the bag could be closed.
Stirling was very fortunately situated. He held an appointment at
Lowestoft under the Inland Revenue; he had just started his annual
leave and was meditating a trip on the Broads. To that end he had
drawn a small sum from the savings bank, to which was added the
greater part of his last month's salary, and thus he found himself
with a little over twenty pounds in his pocket and fourteen days in
which to spend it. Here was a chance of having a holiday on the
Continent, with the prospects of getting hold of some exciting news
and recouping all his expenses. Truly he was in luck's way.
"Glad you managed it," was Octavius Smith's greeting as the two met
at the railway station. "Look alive and get your ticket. Single to
Harwich only, mind."
Octavius Valerian Smith was a striking contrast to his companion, for
Stirling was a short, thick-set fellow with a perpetual beam on his
rounded features, whereas the owner of the _Diomeda_ was over six
feet in height and as slender as the proverbial barber's pole. It
would be difficult to describe his complexion. Exposure to the
salt-laden breezes of the North Sea had tanned his features to a
brick-red colour. In spite of his approximation to Euclid's
definition of a line he was muscular and sinewy, and as hard as
nails. Possessed of small private means, he augmented his income by
writing, and made a fairly good thing out of it. Few of the hundreds
of love-sick maidens who read the romantic stories appearing in
various women's journals under the name of "Reginald Beaucaire"
would recognize their favourite author in the person of the
taciturn-featured O. V. Smith.
Yet even in the flood tide of literary success there are irritating
counter-eddies--periods of pecuniary embarrassment. The owner of the
_Diomeda_, always careless with his money while he possessed any, had
a few days before found himself in low water.
This inevitable condition compelled him, much against his will, to
charter the yacht to Sub-Lieutenant Hamerton, and now he was on his
way to recover his most precious possession from the hands of the
Dutch salvors.
"You've got the yacht's papers, I hope?" asked Stirling as the train
glided out of the station.
"No, I haven't. How could I? They went with the boat."
"Then how do you propose to establish your identity? The Dutchmen
won't feel inclined to hand the _Diomeda_ over until you prove you
are the lawful owner."
"I've sufficient documentary evidence," replied Smith. "You leave
that to me."
"If you're satisfied I am," remarked Stirling. "By the by, what were
those fellows like who chartered her?"
The _Diomeda's_ owner proceeded to give a detailed description of the
unfortunate Hamerton and his chum Detroit. This done, he took up a
newspaper and began to read, while Stirling wrote an account of the
two supposed victims for the benefit of the patrons of _The
Yachtman's Journal_.
"By the by," said Stirling, "is there any more news about that spy
case? I suppose the two men are no relations of yours?"
"We all belong to the great and noble family of Smiths," replied the
literary man oracularly. "It's a bit confusing at times, especially
when one receives a blue envelope intended for a very distant
relation. I've had some."
Octavius once more buried himself in his paper. Stirling resumed his
scribbling, and thus the time passed until the train reached Harwich.
It was half-past eleven on the Thursday morning when Smith and his
companion arrived at Delfzyl. Both were dead tired, for the tedious
railway journey, especially between Zwolle and their destination, was
the last straw.
The good folk of Delfzyl were evidently thought-readers, for directly
the Englishmen left the station they were surrounded by a
gesticulating mob, every man, woman, and child in the crowd pointing
out the way to the quay where the _Diomeda_ lay.
It was low tide, the Dollart and the estuary of the Ems River were
one expanse of sand and mud. The yacht lay against a staging of
massive piles. On the quay was a line of stolid Dutchmen, all
peculiarly garbed in quaint cutaway coats, baggy trousers, klompen or
wooden shoes, and dull-black high-crowned hats. There they stood,
hands in pockets, long pipes in their mouths. Hardly a word was being
spoken. They seemed perfectly content to stand on the quay-side and
gaze meditatively at the mysterious craft that the steam-drifter
_Hoorn_ had brought in.
The arrival of the Englishmen with their attendant throng roused the
lethargic Dutchmen. They too added their voices to those of their
fellow townsfolk.
"Thank goodness the yacht seems all right," ejaculated Smith
fervently. "Let's get on board. It's the only way to escape the
babel."
The _Diomeda_ looked exactly as if she had been lying on her own
moorings in Lowestoft harbour. Her sails were neatly furled, her
flemished ropes were exactly where they ought to be, her decks had
been washed down, her brasswork glittered in the sunlight.
"How are we going to get on board?" asked Stirling, regarding the
twelve-foot drop from the stage on to the deck with apprehension.
"Besides, the cabin is locked, and you haven't the keys."
"I'll manage it," replied the owner confidently. "Stand by and throw
me down the luggage when I reach the deck."
At this juncture a man interposed his bulky frame and held up his
hands.
"Mynheer Englishman must see the harbourmaster," he announced.
"Where is the harbourmaster?" asked Smith.
A score of voices joined in giving him directions. Forty hands or
more pointed in the direction of the red-tiled house, with green
doors and window frames, where dwelt Cornelius van Wyk, the guardian
of the maritime interests of Delfzyl.
"You do the tongue-wagging, old chap," said Smith to his companion as
they were ushered into a spotlessly clean parlour. The mob of curious
townsfolk, debarred from entering by the sturdy demonstrations of the
harbourmaster's _hus-vrow_, lapsed into comparative silence. Pipes
were filled, precious matches handed round, and the expectant throng
waited for the Englishmen's reappearance.
The two travellers had to wait nearly an hour for the official's
appearance. Van Wyk had gone down the estuary on duty. Meanwhile his
wife brought refreshments, for which both men were truly thankful, as
they had eaten nothing since leaving The Hook.
"You, Mynheer, are the owner of this yacht?" asked the harbourmaster
on his return. He spoke excellent English, with an East Anglian
accent, acquired by reason of his frequent intercourse with vessels
hailing from the ports of Norfolk and Suffolk. "You, of course, have
the papers?"
"No," replied Smith. "They are on board."
"I think not, Mynheer. I had to make examination, and there are no
papers."
"They were in a cupboard on the port side of the for'ard bulkhead,"
asserted the owner.
Van Wyk shook his head.
"I remember that cupboard. It is empty."
"Is it likely that two men should disappear and take the yacht's
papers with them?" asked Smith.
The harbourmaster shook his head.
"Curious things happen at sea," he said. "Dirk Apeldoorn, the mate of
the _Hoorn_, told me the yacht had all her sails set. The tiller was
not lashed; her dingy was towing astern. She was pointing towards the
land, first on one tack and then on the other. It was this strange
thing that attracted his attention. But, Mynheer, why should the
papers disappear? Without them who can tell who is the owner?"
"I have these," replied Smith, pulling out several documents relating
to the transaction between Hamerton and himself.
"Heaven forbid that I should doubt you," exclaimed Van Wyk, "but duty
is duty. I have the keys; I am authorized to receive the money due
for salvage; but before I can allow you on board I must have a
declaration on oath that you are in truth the owner, and a copy of
the yacht's papers."
"But," expostulated Smith, "I am the owner, you know."
"It is easy to say so, Mynheer. I might say I am the Prince Consort,
but without proof----?"
"This looks like a week's business," said Smith savagely, as the
twain regained the cobbled street. "I suppose the old chap is within
his rights. We'll have to write off to the Board of Trade for
duplicates of the Certificate of Registry and the Declaration of
Ownership."
"And make a sworn declaration before a lawyer that you are indeed
Octavius V. Smith," added Stirling.
Two days later the owner of the _Diomeda_ skipped out of the post
office at Delfzyl, holding in triumph a blue envelope with the
inscription "On His Majesty's Service". Ten seconds later his
exultation was changed into deep disgust, for the Board of Trade
authorities had asked for additional information. They had already
heard that the yacht had been picked up practically intact. Her
papers were known to be on board when she left Lowestoft; what
explanation, they asked, had Mr. Smith to offer for their
disappearance? Pending satisfactory evidence the Board declined to
issue duplicate certificates.
Time was pressing. In desperation Octavius Smith penned a lengthy
epistle explaining that he was in utter ignorance of the fate of the
documents, and that the harbourmaster of Delfzyl had flatly refused
to give up possession of the _Diomeda_ until such documentary
evidence were forthcoming.
Two more days passed. Then, with a promptitude surprising for a
British Government Department, the duplicates arrived.
"Ah! That is all in order," exclaimed Mynheer van Wyk. "All that is
now required is to pay the salvage. Then you take possession."
"I see," agreed Octavius Smith, though not with any degree of
enthusiasm. He had no doubt that the executors of the supposed
deceased Jack Hamerton would ultimately pay all expenses in
connection with the redemption of the _Diomeda_, but for the present
he would have to be out of pocket. "What is the value of your yacht?"
asked the harbourmaster, who also held the office corresponding to
that of British Receiver of Wrecks.
"Two hundred pounds," replied the owner.
Van Wyk slowly turned over the documents before him.
"That may be so," he remarked; "but I see no copy of the bill of
sale. How am I to know that this is the value of the yacht?"
"My word for it," replied Smith heatedly.
"Is not good enough," added the harbourmaster.
"Then why in the name of thunder didn't you ask me to get it with the
other papers?"
Van Wyk shrugged his shoulders.
"I shall require it," he said simply.
"What's wrong now?" asked Stirling, as his chum rejoined him in the
street.
"Every mortal thing. Wants a copy of the bill of sale to prove how
much I gave for the yacht. Luckily I have that at home. I'll wire for
it. This petty officialdom is enough to make a fellow wild."
"I thought petty officialdom existed only in England. Such used to be
your opinion," said Stirling slyly. "Buck up, old man, we'll soon be
afloat. By the by, here is a newspaper. They've given these
sixty-ninth cousins of yours pretty stiff sentences, by Jove!"
Octavius Smith glanced at the printed matter, "'Pon my word, they
have," he replied. "After all, they were asking for it."