It may seem surprising that our good friend Captain Crouch (who was very
far from a fool) should have been gulled so successfully, and on no less
than two occasions, by Rudolf Stork. It must not be forgotten, however,
that Stork had been an actor, who knew well not only how to disguise
himself, but how to change his voice, and the expression of his face,
and to assume those habits and little mannerisms by which personality is
made evident. He not only looked the part of an old dry-as-dust
professor, but acted up to it so cleverly that both Crouch and Jimmy
Burke were quite deceived.
When he found himself overpowered and handcuffed, when he saw how
completely he had been duped, Captain Crouch could not conceal his rage
and mortification. He shouted at the full power of his lungs, in a vain
hope that some one would hear and hasten to his help, forgetful for the
moment that the building was utterly deserted, that Mrs. Wycherley was
not likely to return.
In any case, Rudolf Stork was not the man to run unnecessary risks; his
case was altogether desperate. To silence Crouch by means of a gag,
accompanied by a vicious kick in the ribs, was a task of not much
difficulty, nor one that took longer than a minute at the most.
Stork then rose to his full height, and placing both arms akimbo, looked
down upon his victims, who lay side by side upon the floor.
"If I had killed you out of hand," said he, "you'd have nothing but your
own cleverness to blame. You should have learnt by now to let sleeping
dogs lie. Let me tell you this, Captain Crouch, as one sailor to
another: you set foot on dangerous ground the moment you thought fit to
interfere with me."
Going down upon a knee, he turned out their pockets, finding first the
keys which Crouch had obtained from Mrs. Wycherley, and then the brace
of revolvers that they had purchased that very morning.
"You came prepared, I see," he grumbled. "It's just as well I thought
to disguise myself, or, like as not, I should have been shot on sight."
And then, in the inner pocket of Crouch's coat, he discovered the letter
written by "Valentine" in German, which had come in a sealed envelope
from the "Hotel Magnificent." Without a word, he read it to the end,
and then, folding it carefully, put it away in a letter-case which he
kept in a hip-pocket along with a jack-knife large enough to cut a loaf
of bread.
"The fat's in the fire," said he, turning to his companions; "there's no
doubt as to that. These fellows know more than is good for them. We
must put them out of the way. It's a nasty business, but war's war, and
those who employ me don't stick at trifles, such as the life of a tramp
skipper and a stowaway."
At that, one of the younger men lifted a hand--a quick, nervous gesture,
denoting at once surprise and consternation.
"Kill them!" he exclaimed.
"There's no other way," said Rudolf Stork.
"I don't like it," said the other.
The third man now spoke for the first time. "It would be madness," said
he, "and a cold-blooded business as well. We can leave them here,
handcuffed, gagged, and with their feet bound tightly."
"There's the old woman," said Stork. "She'll find them for a certainty
before twelve hours are past. For myself, I take no risks."
"I'll not be a party to it," said the man who had spoken first.
"Then you're a fool," cried Stork. "You fail to realize the gravity of
the business. A raid has been planned on the North Sea coast, and these
two know all about it. In any case, the raid will take place, there's
no time now to stop it; and if the British Admiralty is warned, the
result will be disastrous. Whatever happens, the lips of these two men
must be closed, for five days at least." Then on a sudden, he changed
his voice and slapped a hand upon his thigh. "I've got it!" he
exclaimed. "Valentine purchased the whole of this building, on behalf
of the German Secret Service, in order that we should have no
eavesdroppers in the way of next-door neighbours. I've got the keys
here. We'll lock them both up in one of the empty flats, the one on the
top floor for choice. There, they'll be well out of the way, and as
good as dead."
This idea commended itself to both the younger men. It was eminently
safe, and presented not the least difficulty. Also, it had the
advantage of evading the terrible responsibilities of wilful murder.
Accordingly, the two captives were carried up to the top storey of the
building, where, after their legs had been tightly bound, they were
locked up in an empty room. Here not even Mrs. Wycherley would find
them. From the amount of dust upon the floor and windows, and the
innumerable cobwebs suspended from the ceiling, it was evident that no
one had entered the flat since the very day upon which the last tenant
had left it. Even had Crouch and Jimmy not been gagged, and had they
shouted till they were hoarse, they could never have made themselves
heard. Neither was there any possible means of escape. They were shut
up in a room which had once been used as a bedroom, and the hall door of
the flat was locked from the outer side. The only window--which was
quite small--looked out upon the roofs and chimney-pots of the adjacent
houses several feet below.
Since Stork and his companions could afford to waste no time, the whole
of this dastardly business was carried out quickly and in silence. And
in less than ten minutes after the suggestion had been made, Crouch and
Jimmy Burke were left alone, listening to the receding footsteps of the
German spy and his confederates growing fainter and fainter as the three
men descended flight after flight of stairs.
The thoughts of a man who finds himself in such a situation cannot be of
the pleasantest. What Crouch's were, no one is ever likely to know,
since--for very shame, perhaps--he ever afterwards kept them to himself.
As for Jimmy Burke, he felt then, and quite believed, that from the very
days of his boyhood, his life, and every enterprise he had ever
undertaken, was doomed to failure. So far, nothing had gone well with
him; and now that his fortunes were bound up with those of Captain
Crouch, it seemed that he was to lead even the little
sea-captain--hitherto so masterful--along the straight and certain path
to unmerited disaster.
There are moments in the lives of us all when despondency obscures our
outlook upon life, in much the same manner as a thunder-cloud darkens a
summer sky. And yet, we should learn that Hope can remain with us to
the last. We can no more foresee the actions of other men that
influence our own lives--often indirectly--than we can foretell the
dispensations of Providence itself. Always, we are in God's hands; it
behoves us to act like men, and put our trust in Him.
It is possible to become so hopeless that we deliberately turn our backs
upon the brighter side of things; and this is what goes by the name of
pessimism. And now Jimmy Burke, giving himself up for lost, was quite
unable to remember that there still existed a very great possibility
that both he and Captain Crouch would be discovered.
Indeed, not more than ten minutes had elapsed after Stork had taken his
departure, when suddenly the whole house was made to echo with a dull,
thudding sound, as if some one were banging on a door. This noise
continued without ceasing for at least five minutes. It appeared to
proceed from the lower part of the building. At first, the boy could
not think what it was; and then, on a sudden, like a bright flash of
light in the midst of all the gloom of his despondency, he remembered
that Crouch had rung up Scotland Yard, and that in all probability it
was the police themselves who were below.
Apparently the same thought occurred to Crouch, for the little captain
made a sudden and desperate effort to free himself; and presently, by
some means or other, he managed to stagger to his feet, only to fall
once more prostrate to the ground.
For all that, he was not one to admit that he had failed so easily. He
got to his feet again, stumbled across the room and threw all his weight
upon the door.
Captain Crouch was neither tall nor heavily built; he could not have
weighed more than nine stone; and, naturally enough, he failed to break
open the lock--even if that had been his intention. He fell to the
ground a second time, bruised and out of breath; but there was a
possibility that the noise had been heard by those who were within the
building.
For some seconds they waited in suspense, listening intently, silent and
quite helpless. And then, they heard footsteps on the stairs, and the
sound of voices, and some one trying the doors.
Crouch got to his feet again. He could not cry out because of the gag
that was still fastened in his mouth. He had no other means of making
his whereabouts known than the method he had tried before. Again he
threw his weight upon the door and fell heavily to the ground.
This time there could be no doubt that he had succeeded in his purpose.
A man came to the outer door of the flat, tried to open it and failed,
and then called out in a loud voice, asking who was within.
Neither Crouch nor Jimmy could answer. It must also be remembered that
the room in which they were imprisoned was quite dark, save for the fact
that a full moon had arisen which had cast upon the floor a square
pattern criss-crossed by the shadows of the framework of the window.
Since the flat was quite unfurnished and the walls of the passages were
bare, human voices were magnified in sound, and it was possible to hear
quite distinctly what was said by those outside the door. The voice of
one man was particularly distinct. Not only was it louder than the
others, but its tones were authoritative; it was he who gave orders to
those who were with him. As they guessed from the very first, this was
Superintendent-detective Etheridge--a man whose reputation in his own
line of business was second to none.
"Go on, man!" he exclaimed. "Break the door down. There's no time to
waste trying to force the lock."
There was a dull thudding sound, as the full weight of a six-foot London
policeman was hurled against the door.
"Try again," said the detective; "and this time all four of us
together."
There was a pause, during which, no doubt, the detective and his
companions gathered themselves together; and then, as one man, they
threw themselves forward, so that four heavy shoulders struck the door a
single blow.
The combined weight of these men could not have been less than
fifty-four stone, at the very lowest estimate; and that is a shock that
a modern spruce-wood doorway was never constructed to stand. Not only
was the lock broken open, so that the woodwork of the jamb was
splintered for at least a foot, but the hinges were wrenched bodily
away. The outer door flung back with a crash, and a second later the
detective and his men found themselves in the passage of the flat.
"Which room is it?" cried Etheridge. "Where are you?" he shouted at the
full power of his lungs.
Crouch could not answer by word of mouth, but he could do just as well.
Sitting as upright as he could, he spun round like a top, so that his
two heels rapped out upon the door. Then he rolled over and over, until
he had gained the security of the centre of the room.
It was Etheridge who spoke again.
"Here!" he cried. "This room! All together, as before!"
The inner door was forced even more easily than the first. As it fell
inwards, and four burly figures burst into the room, both Crouch and
Jimmy were blinded by the sudden glare of three policemen's lanterns. A
moment later the gags were taken from their mouths, and they were free
to speak.
"Who are you?" asked the detective, assisting the little sea-captain to
his feet and unlocking his handcuffs.
"I'm the man who rang you up," said Crouch. "The rascals left here not
twenty minutes ago. Had you come sooner, you would have bagged all
three of them. As it is, there's no knowing where they've gone, nor
whether we'll ever see them again."
There were a hundred things the detective wished to know. As yet he had
been told nothing, beyond the fact that Captain Crouch had certain
information in regard to a gang of spies. Together they went down to
the first-floor flat, where they turned on the electric light, and where
Crouch answered the detective's questions, telling his whole story in
instalments, so to speak.
They had not a copy of the mysterious message which Jimmy Burke had
found on board the "Harlech"; but this made no difference, since both
Crouch and Jimmy knew it by heart. In order to explain to the detective
how they had discovered the address in the Edgware Road, Jimmy went to
the writing-table, and taking pen and ink, wrote out the message.
They explained to the detective how they had discovered the concealed
address in the first and last letters of every word; and then they were
able to see something of the peculiar workings of a great detective's
mind.
In this world, there is reason in all things--even in those things which
may seem most trivial and unimportant. The criminal investigator must
not be satisfied with facts; it is his business to find out the why and
wherefore of everything that comes in his way. Moreover, he must be
observant; he can afford to miss nothing. As often as not, a clue is to
be found in the most improbable place.
Superintendent-detective Etheridge had no sooner read the message a
second time than he laid hold upon a clue.
"This message," said he, waving the paper in his hand, "was written by a
man who does not know London well."
"How's that?" said Crouch. "As far as I can see, there's no way of
telling who wrote it. It was picked up on board the ship that I
commanded, that by all the laws of chance and methods of modern warfare
should have been sent sky-high, to be no more than a ton or so of
floating wreckage."
The detective preferred to hold to his own opinion; and it must be
confessed that that opinion was likely to be right.
"It was written," he repeated, "by a man who does not know London well.
Otherwise, he would have been able to spell 'Edgware Road.'"
Etheridge had now spread the paper upon the table, and both Crouch and
Jimmy were gazing over his shoulder, whilst the three plain-clothes
policemen stood together in the doorway.
"Edgware Road," the detective went on, "does not happen to be spelt with
an 'e.' This cypher was evidently concocted by a man who--if not an
Englishman himself--was well able to write--and, in all probability,
speak--the English language. He was not, however, personally acquainted
with London. For myself, in view of what you have told me, I should say
that it was written by one of the German gang you discovered in New
York."
"I have it!" cried the boy. "When I overheard the conversation that
took place in Rosencrantz's office, I remember that von Essling himself
said that, though he was well acquainted with the English language, he
had never been to London, but expected to go there shortly."
Etheridge, who had produced a large note-book from his pocket in which
he was scribbling a few hasty lines, closed it with a snap.
"That settles it," said he. "The Baron von Essling and this 'Mr.
Valentine' who lives at the 'Hotel Magnificent' are one and the same
person. I've no doubt of it whatever."
"What proof have you of that?" asked Captain Crouch.
"No proof," said the detective. "I set to work on bare suspicion, and
leave proof to the last. In this case my suspicions are well founded. A
few days before war was declared, a man, passing himself off as 'Lewis
Valentine,' landed at Liverpool, having crossed from New York on the
'Olympic.' He is known to have stayed at the 'Hotel Magnificent,' and
is supposed to have remained in London about three weeks. Afterwards,
evidence was forthcoming to the effect that he was one of the Prussian
military attaches in the United States, who was engaged upon Secret
Service work. Two days ago rumours reached me that this man was once
again in England; and the very reason I was late here to-night is that I
was first obliged to go to the 'Magnificent,' where I learned that
Valentine had left not an hour before. Take my word for it, this fellow
is von Essling."
"And he has gone to Edinburgh?" asked Jimmy.
"Not a bit of it!" said Etheridge. "It is no more likely he would tell
a charwoman his destination than his real name and business. He has
gone to Liverpool; and that's all the more probable since the 'Baltic'
sails early to-morrow morning."
"Thunder!" cried Crouch. "This is a greater game than big-game shooting
in the Sunderbunds. I never in my life picked up a spoor like this."
"One thing's a certainty," said Etheridge; "I leave for Liverpool
without delay. There's no fast train till morning; but I can get there
in an eighty horse-power car. But, first, you must both come with me to
the Admiralty. Jarvis," he added, turning to one of the policemen,
"don't forget to drop into the White Star offices to-morrow morning, and
tell them there's no fear this voyage that the 'Baltic' will be
torpedoed."