On the Scent
"THANK goodness we are on board at last!" exclaimed Octavius Smith, as
the two chums entered the companion-way of the _Diomeda_. "Those
Dutchmen seem the essence of honesty. As far as I can see not a thing
is missing."
"Except the papers," added Stirling.
"Of course; but I mean since the yacht was picked up. We'll have an
overhaul to make sure."
"Strikes me I am not setting the Thames on fire over this business,"
remarked Stirling ruefully. "I've sent off three separate reports,
but, between you and me, they are not startling enough to merit the
expense of sending me out here. I suppose I lack journalistic ability
to put the finishing touches to a rather bald account of the
accident."
"Conjecture ought to be the journalist's sheet-anchor."
"Unless his theories are contradicted in the next issue, my dear
chap. Then there's a breeze. But when do you propose sailing?"
"As soon as we get a fair slant of wind. I've no mind to go plugging
against a south-wester for a week on end."
"I hope to goodness we get a fair breeze before that, or my leave
will be up. But let's to work! We'll examine everything carefully and
make an inventory of all that belongs to the late charterers. We'll
turn out the contents of that rack first."
"Hold on; here's the logbook," exclaimed Smith. "I wonder if
Hamerton--poor chap--entered anything in it. By George, he has!"
The entries extended up to 1 a.m. on the fateful Tuesday morning. The
sighting of the Norderney light, the error in the compass course, and
the fact that the yacht had been steered in a north-westerly
direction to claw off the sandbanks and the mouth of the Elbe were
set down in the Sub's handwriting.
"Five fathoms. Something wrong. Still heavy rain," read the last
entry.
"Seems funny," remarked Stirling thoughtfully. "They speak of a strong
breeze, and sailing under reefed mainsail, close-reefed mizen, and
storm jib. That is early on Tuesday morning. That same evening the
yacht is picked up forty miles in almost the opposite direction to
the course shown in the log. Her reefs were all shaken out, and she
had her large jib."
"Perhaps the wind dropped during the day."
"Then why wasn't that part recorded in the log? Hamerton seems to
have been most conscientious in writing it up. Every hour there is a
fresh entry, yet at 1 a.m., when it is blowing hard, there is a
sudden break."
"H'm! I don't know. There's your chance to use your gift of
conjecture."
The work of clearing the rack on the port side of the cabin proceeded
apace. It was not a congenial task separating the effects of the two
missing men from such articles as belonged to the owner.
Suddenly Stirling gave a low whistle.
"What do you make of that, old man?" he asked, holding up a carefully
folded newspaper.
"Nothing," replied Smith laconically. "I can't make head or tail of
German: never could, and don't want to--why?"
"It's a copy of the _Tageblatt_."
"And what of it?"
"Look at the date: Tuesday the 10th inst. Now how would Hamerton get
hold of a German newspaper without going ashore? Mind you, this is
the date on which the accident is suppose to have occurred."
"Rather extraordinary. But perhaps the skipper of the _Hoorn_ left it
there."
"Hardly likely. He had been out in the North Sea for a week before he
picked up the yacht. Directly he brought her in here she was handed
over to the harbourmaster. I think I'll see Van Wyk. He may be able
to throw some light upon the matter."
"Wait till after lunch. He's bound to be out somewhere. Look here!
I'll finish this sorting business; suppose you carry on and fry that
steak."
"Righto!" replied Stirling, and reaching for a paper parcel
containing a pound of very juicy steak he disappeared into the
fo'c'sle.
Very soon the "Primus" stove began to roar, and an appetizing odour
filled the interior of the little craft.
Smith cleared away the pile of articles from the rack and proceeded
to prepare the table for the meal. In the midst of his activities the
sliding door of the fo'c'sle was thrust back, and Stirling's head and
shoulder's appeared, backed by a cloud of vapour with which the
little compartment was filled.
"Blessed if I can understand what's wrong with the oven," he
exclaimed, wiping the tears from his eyes, for the smoke had caused
them to water freely. "It went all right for about five minutes, then
there was a regular burst of beastly smelling smoke."
"Let me have a look at it," said Smith, with grim determination in his
voice. "I'll soon see what's wrong. Open that forehatch, old chap, and
let's get rid of the infernal smoke."
The raising of the hatch and the accompanying cloud of vapour was the
signal for a chorus of exclamations from the line of phlegmatic
Dutchmen on the quay, who, for want of something better to do, were
passing the time in meditative contemplation of the _Diomeda_. The
roaring of the stove deadened all external sound, but a minute later
the occupants of the fo'c'sle were saluted by a deluge of water.
Imagining that a fire had broken out on board, two of the good folk
of Delfzyl had adroitly poured a couple of buckets of water down the
forehatch.
Hurried explanations and a profound apology from the well-meaning
Dutchmen followed. The crew of the _Diomeda_ once more dived below to
change their saturated garments.
"Now let's have another shot at it," said Smith, as he removed the
steak, soaked with salt water, to a safe distance from the stove.
"There's something fizzling away in the double bottom. Hand me that
screwdriver, my young friend."
It was an easy task to remove the front of the stove, revealing a
deep cavity in which was a steaming mass of paper.
"That's the cause of it all," announced Octavius Smith, as he hooked
out the offending object. "It's a book. How on earth did it get
there?"
Stirling took the still moistened volume and examined the title page.
"It's a German book," he said. "Something to do with torpedoes."
"Is it?" grunted Smith. "I'll swear it wasn't there a fortnight ago.
Anyway, I don't want to get into trouble about it in case we have to
put into a German port. Heave the blessed thing overboard."
"Not much!" replied Stirling, quietly but firmly.
Smith looked at his companion with surprise depicted on his features.
Stirling was generally of a complaisant disposition.
"Why not, you silly cuckoo? That will be enough to get us five years
in a fortress, like my sixty-ninth cousins, John and Bill Smith. I'm
not taking any, thank you."
"All the same, I don't think I'll throw it overboard. I've got to go
ashore for more steak; we can't possibly eat that stuff--it's
smothered with salt water. I'll pack up the book and send it to my
address by registered post."
"Please yourself," retorted Smith ungraciously. "So long as it isn't
on board I don't mind, but I'm hanged if I can see what possible use
it can be to you."
"Never know your luck," replied Stirling as he backed into the cabin.
"I wonder if there's any brown paper on board."
"Why not dry the blessed thing first?" asked Smith, always more
thoughtful for others' pockets than he was for his own. "It won't
cost so much for postage."
"Not a bad idea," was the reply. "I'll hang it up under the skylight.
That's it. Now for the shore."
Presently Stirling returned with a fresh supply of steak. Once more
the stove was lighted, and without further mishap the meat was
served.
"Can't help thinking about those fellows who were collared at
Heligoland," remarked Stirling.
"Don't see why you need worry about them," said Smith. "I wonder you
don't suggest that they are our friends Hamerton & Co. in disguise.
Anyhow, they took the risk and failed. Spying is a rotten game, when
all's said and done."
"There I don't agree with you. It's an honourable profession. A few
men risk their liberty in trying to gain information that in the
event of war will save hundreds of their fellow countrymen's lives.
It's necessary; both Great Britain and Germany have regular men for
the purpose of espionage."
"Hanged if I looked upon it from that point of view; but it seems a
downright low trick for a fellow to sell naval and military secrets."
"Rather! There I agree with you. There's a vast difference between a
spy and an informer. The first is, I might also say, a humanitarian;
the second is a traitor. There's no doubt about it, the Germans have
the advantage of us in the espionage line. There isn't a Government
building, dock, or battery on the east coast but is known to the
German Government. They have spies everywhere."
"We have caught a few."
"Yes, we began at first by letting them off with a caution--gave
kindly advice, so to speak. Then they collared some of our
secret-service men and gave it to them fairly stiff. We retaliated,
and the business became a ding-dong affair, each country increasing
the severity of the punishments inflicted upon the spies they
detected. But, as you said, five years is a bit stiff."
"Hallo! There's the harbourmaster!" exclaimed Stirling, catching
sight of the official through one of the scuttles of the cabin. "I'll
ask him about the newspaper."
Both men ran on deck. The crowd of Dutchmen was still in evidence,
only the attention of the idlers was directed seaward, A telescope
was being handed round, the usually stolid Delfzylers showing
considerable eagerness to obtain a loan of the instrument.
"What is the matter, Mynheer van Wyk?" asked Smith.
"Only a German torpedo boat," replied the harbourmaster. "She is
lying off the Dollart, though why I cannot make out."
"Nothing out of the way, is it?" asked Stirling. "It's German
territory across the Dollart, isn't it?"
"Aye," replied Van Wyk. "But it is out of the common for a vessel of
war to remain there. We are sending out a tug to see if she requires
assistance. Look! We have signalled her, but she has made no reply."
"Are you busy for a moment, Mynheer?" asked Stirling. "We've found a
German newspaper on board, and we want to know how it got there."
"I do not love the Germans, Mynheer, nor do I ever look at a German
paper. I did not put it there. Perhaps your unfortunate fellow
countryman placed it there?"
"We think not. We have a reason for asking. Do you think the master
of the _Hoorn_ left it on board?"
"There stands Dick Apeldoorn, the mate of the _Hoorn_," said the
harbourmaster, pointing to a little wizened man leaning against a
bollard and looking at the torpedo craft through a pair of
binoculars. "He was the only man who went below, besides myself. Why
not ask him?"
Dick Apeldoorn was positive he had not handled a newspaper for days,
let alone a German one. He was a true Hollander, who looked upon the
Germans as land grabbers, intent upon overrunning Holland directly
they had an opportunity--if they could. He would scorn to be beholden
to the _Tageblatt_ for any information.
"That settles one point," remarked Stirling to his companion. "The
Dutchman didn't put the paper in the rack of the cabin; it's morally
certain Hamerton couldn't; so who did?"
"Speculate upon it, my dear fellow. It's worth a page in _The
Yachtsman's Journal_. Conjecture something startling, only leave me
in peace this afternoon. I must knock up a pot-boiler for _The
Gentlewoman of Fashion_, or there will be no shot in the locker when
I get home. As it is, this blessed salvage business has seriously
depleted the treasury."
Octavius Smith produced a "block" and a fountain pen, and was soon
lost to his surroundings in dashing off about a thousand words an
hour. When he did work he worked at a tremendous pace, and his
companion knew the risk he incurred should he disturb him. So
Stirling took up the log of the _Diomeda_ and began to follow it from
the time the yacht left Lowestoft on her momentous cruise.
As he read he compared the log with the chart, following Hamerton's
notations with the deepest interest.
Suddenly he gave an exclamation of surprise. Smith, deep in his work,
went on unheedingly. Stirling had come to the incident of the
_Diomeda's_ meeting with the German torpedo boats and the rescue of
Hans Pfeil.
"H'm! I wonder if I could get into touch with this fellow Pfeil," he
meditated. "Perhaps he might be able to throw some light on the
matter. At any rate I'll try. Here's the making of a sensational yarn
in the log. But, hang it all! would 'Hans Pfeil, H.I.M. Navy,
Germany,' be a sufficient address?"
Something prompted him to reach for the torpedo manual that hung from
a hook under the skylight. Its pages were now almost dry, but it
required a certain amount of caution to separate the leaves.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Stirling.
"Shut up, can't you!" ejaculated Smith.
"Not much!" retorted Stirling, for on the flyleaf appeared the words:
"Hans Pfeil. S.167;" and the counter-signature of the lieutenant
commanding the torpedo-boat destroyer. "Not much! Chuck it, for the
time being, old man, and listen. I've found out how the torpedo book
came on board. At least I think I have. Hamerton mentions that he
rescued a seaman washed overboard from a German destroyer. He gives
the man's name. It is the same as the one appearing in the book."
"Well?"
"This Hans Pfeil might be able to give us some definite information.
Of course I won't say a word about this book."
"I don't see what the fellow can do or say in the matter," objected
Smith. "Hamerton in the log says he was transferred to a tramp
steamer. That ends the business. Whatever happened to Hamerton and
Detroit occurred some time after the incident."
"All the same I'll have a shot at it. I'll write, and pack up the
torpedo book at the same time."
"All right!" drawled Smith. "Please yourself."
And with that he refilled his pipe and resumed work.