A Visitor from India
When French reached Victoria, the first person he saw on the platform
was Maxwell Cheyne.
“They told me at the Yard that you might be on this train,” the young
man said excitedly as he elbowed his way forward. “Any news? Anything
about Miss Merrill?”
He looked old and worn, and it was evident that his anxiety was
telling on him. In his eagerness he could scarcely wait for the
Inspector to dismount from his carriage, and his loud tones were
attracting curious looks from the bystanders.
“Get a taxi,” French answered quietly. “We can talk there.”
A few seconds later they found a vehicle, and Cheyne, gripping the
other by the arm, went on earnestly:
“Tell me. I can see you have learned something. Is she—all right?”
“I got news of her on Thursday last. She was all right then, though
still under the influence of a drug. The whole party has gone to sea.”
“To sea?”
“Yes, to sea in a small tramp. I don’t know what they are up to, but
there is no reason to suppose Miss Merrill is otherwise than well.
Probably they took her with them to prevent her giving them away. They
would drug her to get her to go along, but would cease it as soon as
she was on board. I wired for inquiries to be made at the different
signal stations, and news may be waiting for us at the Yard.”
A few seconds sufficed to put Cheyne in possession of the salient
facts which French had learned, and the latter in his turn asked for
news.
“By Jove, yes!” Cheyne cried, “there is news. You remember that Arnold
Price had disappeared? Well, yesterday I had a letter from him!”
“You don’t say so?” French rejoined in surprise. “Where did he write
from?”
“Bombay. He was shortly leaving for home. He expects to be here in
about a month.”
“And what about his disappearance?”
“He was ill in hospital. He had gone up to Agra on some private
business and met with an accident—was knocked down in the street and
was insensible for ages. He couldn’t say who he was, and the hospital
people in Agra couldn’t find out, and he hadn’t told the Bombay people
where he was going to spend his leave.”
“Did he mention the letter?”
“Yes, he thanked me for taking charge of it and said that when he
reached home he would relieve me of further trouble about it. He
little knows!”
“That’s so,” French assented.
Their taxi had been held up by a block at the end of Westminster
Bridge, but now the mass cleared and in a few seconds they reached the
Yard.
French’s first care was to get rid of Cheyne. He repeated what he had
learned about Joan Merrill, then, assuring him that the key of the
matter lay in the cipher, he advised him to go home and try it once
more. Directly any more news came in he would let him know.
Cheyne having reluctantly taken his departure, French made inquiries
as to what had been done in reference to his telephone from Antwerp.
It appeared that the Yard had not been idle. In the first place an
application had been made to the Moroccan Government, who had replied
that no ship had been chartered by them for freight at Casablanca, nor
was anything known of agricultural samples for the Italian market.
Lowenthal’s story must therefore have been an absolute fabrication. He
had, however, told it so readily that French suspected it had been
made up beforehand, so as to be ready to serve up to any inquisitive
policeman or detective who might come along.
Next Lloyd’s had been approached, as to the direction the _L’Escaut_
had taken, and a reply had shortly before come in from them. It stated
that up to noon on that day, the vessel had not been reported from any
of their stations. But this, French realized, might not mean so much.
If she had gone south down the English Channel it would have been well
on to dark before she reached the Straits of Dover. In any case, had
she wished to slip through unseen, she had only to keep out to the
middle of the passage, when in ordinary weather she would have been
invisible from either coast. On the other hand, had she gone north,
she would almost naturally have kept out of sight of land. It was true
that in either case she would have been likely to pass some other
vessel which would have spoken her, and the fact that no news of such
a recognition had come to hand seemed to indicate that she was taking
some unusual course out of the track of regular shipping.
French wired this information to the Antwerp police, and then, his
chief being disengaged, went in and gave him a detailed account of his
adventures in Belgium.
Chief Inspector Mitchell was impressed by the story. He sat back in
his chair and treated French to a prolonged stare as the latter
talked. At the end of the recital he remained sitting motionless for
some moments, whistling gently below his breath.
“Any theories?” he said at last.
French shook his head.
“Well, no, sir,” he answered slowly. “It’s not easy to see what
they’re after. And it’s not easy to see, either, why the whole gang
wanted to go. It looked at first as if they were just clearing out
because of Cheyne’s coming to the Yard, but it’s more than that. The
arrangements were made too long ago. They have been dealing with that
Antwerp firm for several weeks.”
“The hard copper was all a story?”
“Looks like it, sir. As a matter of fact every single statement those
men made that could be tested has been proved false. Even when there
didn’t seem any great object in a yarn they pitched it. Lies seemed to
come easier to them.”
“Well, I’ve known a good few cases of that, and so have you, French.
It’s a habit that grows. Now, what’s your next move?”
French hesitated.
“For the moment the outlook’s not very cheery,” he said at last. “All
the same I can’t believe that boat can go away out of the Scheldt and
disappear. In my judgment she’s bound to be reported before long, and
I’m looking forward to getting word of her within the next day or so.
Then I have no doubt that the tracing is some kind of cipher, and if
we could read it we should probably get light on the whole affair.”
“Why shouldn’t you read it? Try it again.”
“I intend to, sir. But I don’t hope for much result, because I don’t
believe we’ve got the genuine document. I don’t believe they would
have handed it, nor a copy of it either, to a man they intended to
murder, lest it should be found on his body. I’d state long odds they
gave him a fake.”
“I think you’re probably right,” the chief admitted. “Try at all
events. You never know your luck.”
He bent over his desk, and French, realizing that the interview had
come to an end, quietly left the room. Then, seeing there was nothing
requiring his attention urgently, and tired after his journey, he went
home.
But contrary to his expectations, the next day passed without any news
of the _L’Escaut_, and the next, and many days after that. Nor could
all his efforts with the tracing throw any light on that mysterious
document. As time passed he began to grow more and more despondent,
and the fear that he was going to make a mess of the case grew
steadily stronger. In vain he laid his difficulties before his wife.
For once that final source of inspiration failed him. Mrs. French did
not take even one illuminating notion. When the third week had gone
by, something akin to despair seized upon the Inspector. The only
possibility of hope now seemed to lie in the return of Arnold Price,
and French began counting the days until his arrival.
One night about three weeks after his return from Belgium he settled
down with a cigar after dinner, his thoughts running in their familiar
groove: What were these people engaged on? Was there any way in which
he could find out? Had he overlooked any evidence or any inquiries?
Had he neglected any possible line of research?
The more he considered the affair in all its bearings, the more
conscious he became of the soundness of the advice he had given to
Cheyne, and which in his turn he had received from his chief.
Unquestionably in the tracing lay the solution he required, and once
again he racked his brains to see if he could not by any means devise
a way to read its message.
On this point he concentrated, going over and over again everything he
had learned about it. For perhaps an hour he remained motionless in
his chair, while the smoke from his cigar curled up and slowly
dissolved into the blue haze with which the room was becoming
obscured. And then suddenly he sat up and with a dawning, tremulous
eagerness considered an idea which had just leaped into his mind.
He had suddenly remembered a statement made by Cheyne when he was
giving his first rather incoherent account of his adventures. The
young man said that it had been arranged between himself and Joan
Merrill that if either were lucky enough to get the tracing into his
or her possession, the first thing he or she would do would be to
photograph it. Now, in juxtaposition with that statement, French
recalled the facts, first, that Joan must have reached her flat on the
night of her abduction at least several minutes before Blessington and
Sime arrived with their car; and secondly, that during those minutes
she had the tracing with her—the genuine tracing, as there was every
reason to believe. _Had Joan photographed it?_
French was overwhelmed with amazement and chagrin at his failure to
think of this point before, nor could he acquit Cheyne of a like
astounding stupidity. For himself he felt there was no excuse
whatever. He had even specially noticed the girl’s camera and the
flashlight apparatus which she used for her architectural details when
he was searching her rooms, but he had then, and since then up till
this moment, entirely and completely forgotten the arrangement made
between the partners.
Late as it was, French decided to go then and there to ascertain the
point. The key of Joan’s flat was at the Yard, and twenty minutes
later he had obtained it and was in a taxi bowling towards Horne
Terrace.
He kept the vehicle while he ran up the ten flights to No. 12 and
secured the camera. Then hastening down, he was driven back to the
Yard.
By a piece of good luck he found a photographer who had been delayed
by other important work, and him he pressed into the service
forthwith. With some grumbling the man returned to his dark room.
French, too eager to await his report, accompanying him.
A few moments sufficed to settle the question. The camera contained a
roll of films of which the first seven had been exposed, and a short
immersion in the developer showed that numbers 5, 6, and 7 bore the
hoped for impress.
Gone was French’s despondency and the weariness caused by his heavy
day, and instead he was once more the embodiment of enthusiasm and
cheery optimism. He had it now! At last the secret was within his
grasp! Of his ability to read the message, now that he was sure he had
the genuine one, he had no doubt. He had always liked working out
ciphers, and since he had succeeded in extracting the hidden meaning
from the stock and share list which had been sent to the elusive Mrs.
X in the Gething murder case, his belief in his own powers had become
almost an obsession. He could hardly restrain his eagerness to get to
grips with this new problem until the negatives should be dry and
prints made.
The photographer was able to promise these for the following day, and
till then French had to possess his soul in patience. But on his
return from lunch he found on his desk three excellent prints of the
document.
They were only half-plate size, or about one-third that of the tracing
which had been given to Cheyne. He therefore instructed the
photographer to prepare enlargements which would bring the document up
to more nearly the size of the original. These were ready before it
was time for him to leave for home, and he sat down with
ill-controlled excitement to compare them with the document at which
he had already spent so much time.
And then he suddenly experienced one of the most bitter
disappointments of his life. To all intents and purposes the two were
the same! There were the same circles, the same numbers, letters, and
signs enclosed therein, the same phrase, “England expects every man to
do his duty,” spaced round in the same way! The tracing had not been
very accurately done, as some of the circles seemed slightly out of
place, but the discrepancies were trifling, and seemed obviously due
to careless copying. He gave vent to a single bitter oath, then sat
motionless, wrapped in the most profound gloom.
He took tracing and photographs home with him, and spent the greater
part of the evening making a minute comparison between the two. The
enlargement unfortunately was not exactly the same size as the
tracing, and he therefore began his work by covering the surfaces of
both with proportionate squares.
Taking the tracing first he drew parallel lines one inch apart both up
and down it and across, thus covering its whole surface with inch
squares. Then he divided the prints into the same number of equal
parts both vertically and horizontally and ruled them up in squares
also. These squares were slightly smaller than the others—about
seven-eighths of an inch only—but relatively the lines fell on each in
the same positions. A comparison according to the squares thus showed
at a glance similarity or otherwise between the two documents.
As he examined them in detail certain interesting facts began to
emerge. The general appearance, the words “England expects every man
to do his duty,” and the circles with their attendant letters and
numbers were identical on both sheets. But there were striking
variations. The position of certain of the circles was different.
Those containing numbers and crooked lines were all slightly out of
place, while those containing letters remained unmoved. Moreover, the
little crooked lines, while preserving a rough resemblance to the
originals, were altered in shape. The more he considered the matter
the more evident it became to French that these divergences were
intentional. The tracing which had been given to Cheyne was intended
to resemble the other superficially—and did so resemble it, but it had
clearly been faked to make it valueless.
[Illustration: A full-page image of dozens of circles. Their
arrangement appears to be random. Most circles contains either a
letter or a number, with the numbers ranging from 1 to 36. Eight or
nine circles instead contain a short, irregularly-shaped line. Words
are placed in between the circles, arranged in a loop through the
entire image, reading clockwise “England expects every man to do his
duty”.]
If French were right so far, and he had but little doubt of it, it
followed that the essential feature of the circles and crooked lines
was position. This, he felt, should be a useful hint, but as yet he
could not see where it led.
He pondered fruitlessly over the problem till the small hours, and
next morning he took the documents back to the Yard to continue his
studies. But he did not have an opportunity to do so. Other work was
waiting for him. To his delight he found that Arnold Price had reached
home, and that he and Cheyne were waiting to see him.
Price proved to be a lanky and rather despondent-looking individual
with a skin burned to the color of copper and a pair of exceedingly
shrewd blue eyes. He dropped into the chair French indicated, and
instantly pulled out and lit a well-blackened cutty pipe.
“Got in yesterday morning,” he announced laconically, “and wired
Torquay I was going down. By the merest luck I got a reply before I
started that Cheyne was in town. I looked him up and here I am.”
French smiled pleasantly. Though interested in the man, he could not
help noting with some amusement at once the restraint and the
completeness of his statement. How refreshing, he thought, and how
rare, to meet some one who will give you the pith of a story without
frills!
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Price,” he said cordially. “I suppose Mr.
Cheyne has told you the effect that your letter has had on us all?”
The other nodded.
“Not altogether surprising,” he declared. “There’s money in the
thing—or so I always believed, and this other crowd must believe it
too; though how they got on to the affair licks me.”
“We shall be very much interested to hear what you can tell us about
it,” French prompted. “Will you smoke, Mr. Cheyne?” He held out his
cigar case.
“I can’t tell you much,” Price returned, “and nothing that will clear
up this blessed mystery that seems to have started up. But this is my
story for what it’s worth. Before the war I was on one of the Hudson
and Spence boats and I had the luck to get into the R.N.R. when
hostilities broke out. I stayed on in my old ship till she was
torpedoed a couple of years later, then I was appointed third officer
on the _Maurania_. We were on a trip from South Africa to Brest with
army stores, when one day, just as we came into the English Channel,
we were attacked by a U-boat. We had an 18-pounder forward, and by a
stroke of luck we gave old Fritz one on the knob that did him in. The
boat went down and a dozen of the crew were left swimming. We put out
a boat and picked one or two of them up. The skipper was clinging on
to a lifebelt, but just as we came up he let go and began to sink. I
was in charge of the boat, and some fool notion came over me—I think
in the hurry I forgot he was a U-boat skipper—but anyhow like a fool I
got overboard and got hold of him. It was nothing like a dramatic
rescue—there was no danger to me—and we were back on board inside
fifteen minutes.”
French and Cheyne were listening intently to this familiar story. So
far it was almost word for word that told by Dangle. Apparently, then,
there was at least one point on which the latter had told the truth.
“We weren’t out of trouble,” Price resumed, “and next day we came up
against another submarine. We exchanged a few shots and then a British
destroyer came up and drove him off. But I had the luck to stop a
splinter of shell, and when we got to Brest I was sent to hospital.
The U-boat skipper had got a crack on the head when his boat went
down, and he was sent in too. By a chance we got side by side beds in
the same ward, and used to talk a bit, though he was a rotter, even
for a Boche.”
Price paused to draw on his cutty pipe, expelling great clouds of
smoke of a peculiarly acrid and penetrating quality. Then, the others
not speaking, he went on:
“It turned out that the wound on Schulz’s head—his name was Schulz—was
serious, and he grew steadily worse. Then one night when the ward was
quiet, he woke me and said he knew his number was up and that he had a
secret to tell me. We listened, but all the other fellows seemed
asleep, and then he told me he could put me in the way of a
fortune—that he had hoped to get it himself after the war, but now
that it would be a job for someone else. He said he would tell me the
whole thing, and that I might make what I could out of it, if only I
would pledge myself to give one-eighth of what I got to his wife. He
gave me the address—somewhere in Breslau. He asked me to swear this
and I did, and then he took a packet from under his pillow and handed
it to me. ‘There,’ he said, ‘the whole thing’s there. I put it in
cipher for safety, but I’ll tell you how to read it.’ Well, he began
to do so, but just then a sister came in, and he shut up till she
would leave. But the excitement of talking about the thing must have
been too much for him. He got a weak turn and never spoke again.”
“But,” Cheyne interposed, “what about the hard copper? Dangle told us
about Schulz’s discovery.”
Price gazed at him vacantly for some moments and then suddenly smote
the table.
“I’ve got it!” he cried with an oath. “Dangle! I remember that chap
now! He was in the next bed on the other side of Schulz. That’s right!
I couldn’t call him to mind when you mentioned him before. Of course!
He heard the whole tale, and that’s what started him on this do.”
“I know,” Cheyne returned. “He admitted that all right. But he told us
about the hard copper. You haven’t mentioned that.”
Price shook his head.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he declared. “What do you mean
by hard copper?”
“Dangle mentioned it. He was listening to the conversation. He told us
all that about Schulz’s story of the fortune, and about his wife and
all that, just as you have, but he said Schulz went on to explain what
the fortune was: that he had hit on a way of treating copper that made
it as hard as steel. The cipher contained the formula.”
Again Price shook his head.
“All spoof,” he observed. “Not a word of truth in it. Schulz never
mentioned copper or said anything more than I’ve told you.”
French spoke for the first time.
“We found this Dangle a man of imagination, all through, and it is
easy to see why he invented that particular yarn. By that time he had
undoubtedly read the cipher, and he wanted something to mislead Mr.
Cheyne as to its contents. The story of the hard copper would start a
bias in Mr. Cheyne’s mind which would tend to keep him off the real
scent.” He paused, but his companions not speaking, continued: “Now we
have that bias cleared away, at least one interesting fact emerges.
The whole business starts with the sea—the U-boat commander, Schulz,
and it looks as if it was going to end up with the sea, the tramp, the
_L’Escaut_.”
As French said these words an idea flashed into his mind, and he went
on deliberately, but with growing excitement:
“And when we connect the idea of a U-boat commander giving a message
which ends with a sea expedition, with the fact, which I have just
discovered, that the essence of his cipher is the _position_ of the
markings on it, we seem to be getting somewhere.”
Price smote his thigh.
“By Jemima!” he cried. “I’ve got you. That blessed tracing is a map!”
“A map, yes. That’s what I think,” French answered eagerly, and then
as suddenly he saw the possible significance of Nelson’s exhortation,
he went on dramatically: “A map of England!”
Cheyne swore softly.
“My word, if we aren’t a set of blithering idiots!” he exclaimed. “Of
course! ‘England’ is the title. That’s as clear as day! The other
words are added as a blind. Let’s have the thing out, Inspector, and
see if we can’t make something of it now.”
As French produced his enlarged photographs not one of the three men
doubted that they were at last well on the way towards wresting the
secret from the document which had so long baffled them.