It had gone nine by all the reliable clocks in town when the wild
race to the coast came to an end, and after darting swallowlike
through the wind-swept streets of Portsmouth, the limousine, mud
splashed and disreputable, rushed up to the guarded entrance of the
suspended dock master's house at Portsea; and precisely one and a
quarter minutes thereafter Cleek stood in the presence of the three
men most deeply concerned in the clearing up of this mystifying
affair.
He found Sir Charles Fordeck, a dignified and courtly gentleman
of polished manners and measured speech, although now, quite
naturally, labouring under a distress of mind which visibly disturbed
him. He found Mr. Paul Grimsdick, his secretary, a frank-faced,
straight-looking young Englishman of thirty; Mr. Alexander MacInery,
a stolid, unemotional Scotsman of middle age, with a huge knotted
forehead, eyebrows like young moustaches, and a face like a face of
granite; and he found, too, reason to believe that each of these
was, in his separate way, a man to inspire confidence and respect.
"I can hardly express to you, Mr. Cleek, how glad I am to meet you
and to have you make this quick response to my appeal," said the
Admiral Superintendent, offering him a welcoming hand. "I feel
that if any man is likely to get to the bottom of this mysterious
business you are that man. And that you should get to the bottom
of it--quickly, at whatever cost, by whatever means--is a thing to be
desired not only in the nation's interest, but for the honour of
myself and my two colleagues."
"I hardly think that your honour will be called into question, Sir
Charles," replied Cleek, liking him the better for the manliness
which prompted him in that hour of doubt and difficulty to lay aside
all questions of position, and by the word "colleague" lift his
secretary to the level of himself, so that they might be judged
upon a common plane as men, and men alone. "It would be a madman
indeed who would hint at anything approaching treason with regard
to Sir Charles Fordeck."
"No madder than he who would hint it of either of these," said Sir
Charles, laying a hand upon the shoulder of the auditor and the
secretary, and placing himself between them. "I demand to be judged
by the same rule, set upon the same plane with them. We three alone
were in this house when that abominable thing happened; we three
alone had access to the records from which that information was
wired. It never, for so much as the fraction of one second, passed
out of our keeping or our sight; if it was wired at all it must
have been wired from this house, from that room, and in that case,
one or other of us must positively have been the person to do so.
Well, _I_ did not; MacInery did not; Grimsdick did not. And yet,
as you know, the 'wiring' was done--we should never stand a chance of
knowing to whom, nor by whom, but for the accident which deflected
the course of the message."
"H'm! Yes! I don't think," commented Cleek reflectively. "It won't
wash, that theory; no, decidedly it won't wash. Pardon? Oh, no,
Sir Charles, I am not casting any doubt upon the telegraph operator's
statement of the manner in which he received the message; it is his
judgment that is at fault, not his veracity. Of course, there have
been cases--very rare ones, happily--of one wire automatically
tapping another through, as he suggested, there being a break and an
overlapping of the broken wire on to the sound one; but in the
present instance there isn't a ghost of a chance of such a thing
having happened. In other words, Sir Charles, it is as unsound in
theory as it is false in fact. Mr. Narkom has been telling me on the
way here that the operator accounted for the sudden starting of the
message to the falling of a storm-snapped wire upon an uninjured
one, and for its abrupt cessation to the slipping off of that broken
wire under the influence of the strong gale. Now, as we entered
the town and proceeded through it, I particularly noted the fact
that no broken wires were anywhere visible, nor was there sight or
sign of men being engaged in repairing one."
"Ah, yes," agreed Sir Charles, a trifle dubiously, "that may be quite
so, Mr. Cleek; but, if you will pardon my suggesting it, is there
not the possibility of a flaw in your reasoning upon that point?
The wire in question may not have been located in that particular
district through which you were travelling."
"I don't think there is any chance of my having made an error of that
sort, Sir Charles," replied Cleek, smiling. "Had I been likely to
do so, our friend the telegraph operator would have prevented it. He
recognized at once that the communication was coming over the
wire from the dockyard, I am told; and I have observed that every
one of the dockyard wires is intact. I fancy when we come down to
the bottom of it we shall discover that it was not the dockyard
wire which 'tapped' a message from some other, but that the dockyard
wire was being 'tapped' itself, and that the storm, causing a
momentary interruption in the carrying on of that 'tapping' process,
allowed a portion of the message to slip past and continue to the
wire's end--the telegraph office."
"Good lud! Then in that case----"
"In that case, Mr. Narkom, there can be no shadow of a doubt that
that message was sent by somebody in this house--and over the
dockyard's own private wire."
"But how, Mr. Cleek--in the name of all that is wonderful, how?"
"Ah, that is the point, Sir Charles. I think we need not go into
the matter of who is at the bottom of the whole affair, but confine
ourselves to the business of discovering how the thing was done,
and how much information has already gone out to the enemy. I fancy
we may set our minds at rest upon one point, however, namely, the
identity of the person whose hand supplied the drawing found upon
the body of the drowned man. That hand was a woman's; that woman, I
feel safe in saying, was Sophie Borovonski, professionally known
to the people of the underworld as 'La Tarantula.'"
"I never heard of her, Mr. Cleek. Who is she?"
"Probably the most beautiful, unscrupulous, reckless, dare-devil
spy in all Europe, Sir Charles. She is a Russian by birth, but owns
allegiance to no country and to no crown. Together with her depraved
brother Boris, and her equally desperate paramour, Nicolo Ferrand,
she forms one of the trio of paid bravos who for years have been at
the beck and call of any nation despicable enough to employ them;
always ready for any piece of treachery or dirty work, so long as
their price is paid--as cunning as serpents, as slippery as eels, as
clever as the devil himself, and as patient. We shall not go far
astray, gentlemen, if we assert that the lady's latest disguise was
that of Miss Greta Hilmann."
"Good God! Young Beachman's fiancee?"
"Exactly, Sir Charles. I should not be able to identify her from a
photograph were one obtainable, which I doubt--she is far too clever
for that sort of thing--but the evidence is conclusive enough to
satisfy me, at least, of the lady's identity."
"But how--how?"
"Mr. Narkom will tell you, Sir Charles, that from our time of
starting this morning to our arrival here we made but one stop. That
stop was at the Portsmouth mortuary before we appeared at this
house. I wished to see the body of the man who was drowned. I have no
hesitation, Sir Charles, in declaring that that man's name is
not, and never was, Axel von Ziegelmundt. The body is that of
Nicolo Ferrand, 'La Tarantula's' clever lover. The inference is
obvious. 'Miss Greta Hilmann's' anguish and despair were real
enough, believe me (that is why it deceived everybody so completely).
It is not, however, over the frightful position of young Beachman
that she sorrowed, but over the death of Ferrand. Had he lived, I
believe she has daring enough to have remained here and played her
part to the end, but she either lost her nerve and her mental
balance--which, by the way, is not in the least like her under any
circumstances whatsoever--or some other disaster of which we know
nothing overtook her and interfered with her carrying on the work
in conjunction with her brother."
"Her brother?"
"Yes. He would be sure to be about. They all three worked in concert.
Gad! if I'd only been here before the vixen slipped the leash--if I
only had! Let us have the elder Mr. Beachman in, if you please, Sir
Charles; there's a word or so I want to have with him. You've had
him summoned, of course!"
"Yes, he and the telegraph operator as well; I thought you might
wish to question both," replied he. "Grimsdick, go--or, no! I'll go
myself. Beachman ought to know of this appalling thing; and it is
best that it should be broken by a friend."
Speaking, he left the room, coming back a few minutes later in
company with the telegraph operator and the now almost hysterical
dock master. He waited not one second for introduction or permission
or anything else, that excited father, but rushed at Cleek and
caught him by the hand.
"It's my boy and you're clearing him--God bless you!" he exclaimed,
catching Cleek's hand and wringing it with all his strength. "It
isn't in him to sell his country; I'd have killed him with my own
hand years ago, if I thought it was. But it wasn't--it never was! My
boy! my boy! my splendid, loyal boy!"
"That's right, old chap, have it out. Here on my shoulder, if you
want to, daddy, and don't be ashamed of it!" said Cleek, and reached
round his arm over the man's shoulder and clapped him on the back.
"Let her go, and don't apologize because it's womanish. A man
without a strain of the woman in him somewhere isn't worth the
powder to blow him to perdition. We'll have him cleared, daddy--gad,
yes! And look here! When he is cleared you take him by the ear
and tell him to do his sweethearting in England, the young jackass,
and to let foreign beauties alone; they're not picking up with
young Englishmen of his position for nothing, especially if they
are reputed to have money of their own and to be connected with
titled families. If you can't make him realize that by gentle
means, take him into the garden and bang it into him--hard."
"Thank you, sir; thank you! I can see it now, Mr. Cleek. Not much
use in shouting 'Rule Britannia' if you're going to ship on a foreign
craft, is there, sir? But anybody would have been taken in with
her--she seemed such a sweet, gentle little thing and had such
winning ways. And when she lost her father, the wife and I simply
couldn't help taking her to our hearts."
"Quite so. Ever see that 'father,' Mr. Beachman?"
"Yes, sir, once; the day before he sailed--or was supposed to have
sailed--for the States."
"Short, thick-set man was he? Carried one shoulder a little lower
than the other, and had lost the top of a finger on the left hand?"
"Yes, sir; the little finger. That's him to a T."
"Boris Borovonski!" declared Cleek, glancing over at Sir Charles.
"No going to the States for that gentleman with a 'deal' like this on
hand. He'd be close by and in constant touch with her. Did she have
any friends in the town, Mr. Beachman?"
"No, not one. She appeared to be of a very retiring disposition, and
made no acquaintances whatsoever. The only outside person I ever
knew her to take any interest in was a crippled girl who lived with
her bedridden mother and took in needlework. Greta heard of the case,
and went to visit them. Afterward she used to carry work to them
frequently, and sometimes fruit and flowers."
"Ever see that bedridden woman or that cripple girl?"
"No, sir, never. Harry and I would be busy here most of the days,
so she always went alone."
"Did she ever ask Mrs. Beachman to accompany her?"
"Not that I ever heard of, sir. But it would have been to no purpose
if she had. The wife is a very delicate woman; she rarely ever goes
anywhere."
"Hum-m-m! I see! So, then, you really do not know if there actually
was a woman or a girl at all? Any idea where the persons were
supposed to live?"
"Yes. They hired a room on the top floor of a house adjoining the
Ocean Billow Hotel, sir. At least, Reggie--that's my youngest son,
Mr. Cleek--saw Greta go in there and look down from one of the top
floor windows one day when he was on his way home from school. He
spoke to her about it at the dinner table that night, and she said
that that was where her 'pensioners lived.'"
"Pretty good neighbourhood that, by Jove! for people who were
'pensioners' to be living in," commented Cleek. "The Ocean Billow
Hotel is a modern establishment--lifts, electric lights, liveried
attendants, and caters to people of substance and standing."
"Yes," admitted Beachman. "When I was suspended, sir, during the
examination and this house taken over by Sir Charles, I took Mrs.
Beachman and Reggie there, and we have remained at the place,
nominally under guard, ever since. You see, being convenient and
in a straight line, so to speak, it offered extra advantages in
case of my being summoned here at a moment's notice."
"H'm! Yes! I see!" said Cleek, stroking his chin. "In a straight
line from here, eh? House next door would, of course, offer the
same advantages; and from a room on the top floor a wire-tapping
device----Yes, just so! I think, Sophie, I think I smell a very
large mouse, my dear, and I shan't be surprised if we've hit upon the
place of reception for your messages the very first shot."
"Messages, Mr. Cleek? Messages?" interposed Sir Charles. "You surely
do not mean to infer that the woman telegraphed messages from this
house? Do you forget, then, that there is no instrument, no wire,
attached to the place?"
Cleek puckered up his brows. For the moment he had forgotten that
fact.
"Still, there are wires passing over it, Sir Charles," he said
presently; "and if a means of communication with those were
established, the 'tapper' at the other end could receive messages
easily. She is a devil of ingenuity is Sophie. I wouldn't put it
beyond her and her confederates to have rigged up a transmitting
instrument of some sort which the woman could carry on her person
and attach to the wire when needed."
Here Sir Charles threw in something which he felt to be in the nature
of a facer.
"Quite so," he admitted. "But do not forget, Mr. Cleek, that the
deflected message was sent last night, and that the woman was not
then in this house."