AT THE ADMIRALTY
"This business is a little too hot to hold," said the editor in a
final interview with T. B., who had persuaded him to keep back his
story, until he had bagged the "Nine Men." "To-night I must tell the
whole of the affair."
T. B. nodded.
"To-night," said T. B., "you can tell what you like. I shall have
played my stake for good or ill.
"I have been talking with Escoltier; we have got him lodged in
Scotland Yard--though you needn't mention that fact in your
account--and I think we know enough now to trap the 'Nine Men.'"
"Who are they and what does the 'C.' stand for in 'N.H.C.'?"
"I can only guess," said T. B cautiously. "Do you know anything
about wireless telegraphy?" he demanded.
"Not much," admitted the editor.
"Well, you know enough to realise that the further you wish to
communicate the more electrical energy you require?"
"That much I understand," said the journalist. "The principle is the
'rings on the pond.' You throw a stone into still water, and
immediately rings grow outward. The bigger the stone, the
farther-reaching the rings."
"At Poldhu," continued T. B., "Hyatt was in charge of the
long-distance instrument. As a matter of fact, the work he was
engaged on was merely experimental, but his endeavour seemed to be
centred in securing the necessary energy for communicating 900 miles.
Of course, wireless telegraphy is practicable up to and beyond 3,000
miles, but few installations are capable of transmitting that
distance."
"So 'C.' is, you think, within 900 miles of Cornwall?"
T. B. nodded.
"I have a feeling that I know 'C.,'" he said. "I have another
feeling that these wireless messages do not come from 'C.' at all,
but from a place adjacent. However,"--he took from his pocket a flat
exercise book filled with closely written columns of words and
figures--"we shall see."
He took a cab from Fleet Street; and, arriving at the block of
Government buildings which shelters the Lords Commissioners of the
Admiralty, he entered its gloomy doors.
A messenger came forward to enquire his business, but was forestalled
by a keen little man with tanned face and twinkling eyes. "Sailor"
was written on every line of his mahogany face. "Hullo, my noble
policeman," he greeted T. B. "Who is the victim--the First Sea Lord
or the Controller of the Victualling Department?"
"To be precise, Almack," said T. B., "I have come to arrest Reform,
which I gather----"
"No politics," smiled Captain John Almack, R.N. "What is the game?"
"It is what our mutual friend Napoleon would call a negative problem
in strategy," the Assistant-Commissioner replied. "I want to ask an
ethereal friend, who exists somewhere in space, to come in and be
killed."
Captain Almack led the way up a flight of stairs.
"We got a request from your Commissioner; and, of course, the Lords
of the Admiralty are only too pleased to put the instrument at your
disposal."
"They are very charming," murmured T. B.
"They instructed me to keep a watchful eye on you. We have missed
things since your last visit."
"That sounds like a jovial lie," said T. B. frankly.
In the orderly instrument room they found an operator in attendance,
and T. B. lost no time.
"Call N.H.C," he said; and, whilst the instrument clicked and snapped
obedient to the man's hand, T. B. opened his little exercise book and
composed a message. He had finished his work long before any answer
came to the call. For half-an-hour they waited whilst the instrument
clicked monotonously. "Dash-dot, dot-dot-dot, dash-dot-dash-dot."
And over and over again.
"Dash-dot, dot-dot-dot, dash-dot-dash-dot."
Then suddenly the operator stopped, and there came a new sound.
They waited in tense silence.
"Answered," said the operator.
"Take this." T. B. handed him a slip of paper.
As the man sent the message out with emphatic tappings, Captain
Almack took the translation that T. B. handed to him.
"To N.H.C. There is trouble here. I must see you. Important. Can
you meet me in Paris to-morrow?"
After this message had gone through there was a wait of five minutes.
Then the answer came, and the man at the instrument wrote down
unintelligible words which T. B. translated.
"Impossible. Come to M. Will meet S.E. Have you got the book?"
"Reply 'Podaba,'" instructed T. B., spelling the word. "Now send
this." He handed another slip of paper across the table, and passed
the translation back to the man behind him.
"Is Gibraltar intercepting messages?"
it ran. Again the wait, and again the staccato reply.
"Unlikely, but will send round to-morrow to make sure. Good-night."
As the instrument clicked its farewell, T. B. executed a silent
war-dance to the scandal of the solemn operator, and the delight of
the little captain.
"T. B., you'll get me hung!" he warned. "You'll upset all kinds of
delicate instruments, to say nothing of the telegraphist's sense of
decency. Come away."
"Now," demanded Captain Almack, when he had led him to his snug
little office; "what is the mystery?"
T. B. related as much of the story as was necessary, and the officer
whistled.
"The devils!" he swore.
"The discovery I was trying to make," T. B. went on, "was the exact
location of N.H.C. I asked him or them to come to Paris. As a
matter of fact, I wanted to know if they were within twenty-four
hours' distance of Paris. 'Impossible,' they reply. But they will
come to Madrid, and offer to meet the Sud Express. So they must be
in Spain and south of Madrid, otherwise there would be no
impossibility about meeting me in Paris to-morrow. Where are they?
Within reach of Gibraltar apparently, because they talk of sending
round to-morrow. Now, that phrase 'sending round' is significant,
for it proves beyond the shadow of a doubt exactly in what part of
Andalusia they live."
"How?"
"When people who live within reach of the fortress talk of going to
Gibraltar, as you know they either say that they are 'going across to
Gibraltar' or that they are 'going round.' By the first, they
indicate the route _via_ Algeciras and across the bay; by the latter,
they refer to the journey by way of Cadiz and Tangier----"
"Cadiz!"
The exclamation came from his hearer.
"Cadiz," repeated T. B. He bent his head forward and rested it for a
moment in his hands. When he lifted it, his face was grave.
"It's worth trying," he muttered. "And," he continued aloud, "it
will be bringing down two birds with one stone."
"Can I use the instrument again?" he asked.
"Certainly," said the officer readily.
T. B. rose.
"I'm going to Scotland Yard, and I shall not be away for more than
ten minutes," he said; and in a few seconds he was crossing Whitehall
at a run.
He passed through the entrance and made straight for the big bureau,
where day in and day out the silent recorder sat with his pen, his
cabinets, and his everlasting _dossier_.
T. B. knew he would be there, because there was a heavy calendar at
the Old Bailey, and the silent man was working far into the
night--arranging, sorting, and rearranging.
The detective was back at the Admiralty within the ten minutes, and
together the two made their way to the instrument room.
"N.H.C." responded almost at once, and T. B. sent his message.
"Tell George T. Baggin that another warrant has been issued for his
arrest."
The reply came immediately.
"Thanks. Get further particulars, but do not use names."
T. B. read the reply and handed it without a word to the other.
"Please God, I'll hang the man who sent that message," he said with
unusual earnestness.