ON THE TRAIL
PHILIP ENTWISTLE puffed thoughtfully at his briar.
"That was the fellow right enough," he soliloquised. "Had I been
informed directly the Air people made the discovery, I'd have nabbed
him before this."
It was a few days after Karl von Preussen's hasty and almost
panic-stricken exodus from Edinburgh. Entwistle, Secret Service
agent, with a highly respectable record, had been called in by the
authorities to trace the elusive spy. As usual, he was not consulted
until after the police had declared themselves baffled. No doubt it
was a tribute to Entwistle's sagacity, but he looked upon it in a
totally different light. To him it meant precious hours and minutes
wasted.
He remembered the wanted man. Entwistle was one of those
comparatively rare individuals who hardly ever forget a face.
Disguised as a country parson, he was returning from a case at
Aberdeen--he had convinced the naval authorities the whole thing was
a mare's nest and that a supposed spy was a harmless professor of a
Scottish University--when, having to change at Nedderburn Junction,
he found himself in the same compartment with the man whom the
Admiralty, War Office, and Air Ministry wanted most particularly.
And when von Preussen showed his railway warrant to the ticket
inspector, Entwistle, taking cover behind the _Church Times_, had
memorised the particulars written on the buff form. It was not idle
curiosity. It was to him a mental exercise. During the brief instant
in which the inspector was holding the warrant to the light of the
carriage lamp Entwistle had committed the following facts to memory:
the number and date of the warrant, the holder's name and rank, his
points of departure and his destination--details that were jotted
down at the first opportunity in the Secret Service agent's
pocket-book.
Entwistle was sitting in his study at his house in Barborough. The
windows were wide open. It was a bright, sunny morning, and from
where he sat he could see the rugged outlines of the distant hills
and the tall chimneys of the factories in the valleys.
As he sat scanning the newly-arrived dossier of his latest case,
Entwistle's thoughts went back to other scenes. The hills above
Blackberry Cross and towards Tarleigh reminded him of the von
Eitelwurmer case.
"Wonder if this Fennelburt fellow (of course, that's an assumed name)
has anything to do with the late Herr Eitelwurmer?" he mused. "May as
well go through those papers again, and perhaps it would be advisable
to look up the von Gobendorff case."
He unlocked a drawer and pulled out two bulky packets of documents,
neatly tied with string. Entwistle had a distaste for red tape, both
metaphorically and literally. For the best part of an hour he busied
himself with the various and for the most part faulty clues,
endeavouring from the tangled skein to weave a thread of conclusive
facts.
The offer of the one hundred pounds reward had had its disadvantages.
Amateur detectives and others attracted by the offer had seen
"Captain Fennelburt" in a dozen or more different places at
approximately the same time. Copies of letters from these individuals
had been included in the dossier sent to Entwistle from Scotland
Yard. One was from a farmer at Penzance, who was certain that he saw
the wanted man making for Poldene Air Station. Another emanated from
a fisherman at Wick, who stated that an R.A.F. officer answering to
the description of Captain Fennelburt stopped him and inquired the
way to Loch Thrumster Flying School. Yet another correspondent,
hailing from Ramsgate, reported that the spy was boarding at a small
house near Pegwell Bay.
"Even in these days of high speed in aviation," thought Entwistle,
"there are limits. We have yet to find conclusive evidence of a man
starting from Wick, say, at 9 A.M. and finishing at Penzance at 11
A.M.--650 miles in two hours. And when he stops on the way to
partake of refreshments at Ramsgate--involving a detour of another
couple of hundred miles--the imagination is stretched beyond
breaking-point. I'm afraid these worthy people are following the
red-herring trail. The R.A.F. uniform has put them on a false scent.
Now, if I were in Captain Fennelburt's position--without, presumably,
a change of clothes--in a fairly distinctive uniform, what would I
do?"
His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a maid with a
telegram.
"No answer," said Entwistle briefly.
The wire was from the stationmaster at Carlisle. No R.A.F. railway
warrant bearing the number E99109 had been given up at Carlisle.
"That is quite what I expected," thought the Secret Service agent.
"The warrant was a forged one, and Carlisle was a bit of bluff. He's
probably lying low in Edinburgh. Suppose it's not much use trying to
pick up the trail there now? Yet--H'm! I'll risk it."
He took an up-to-date time-table from a shelf. Experience had taught
him to be particularly careful as far as the times of departure of
trains were concerned.
"H'm this will do. Arrive Waverley Station at so-and-so. Yes, that
will do."
In ten minutes Entwistle had made all necessary preparations, and
with a small hand-bag as his total luggage was walking briskly to the
station.
It was not until the train stopped at Carlisle that he was fortunate
enough to take a corner seat. Already he had scanned _The Times_ and
_The Scotsman_ those hubs of the newspaper worlds north and south of
the Tweed. The rest of the occupants of the compartment still
retained that insular reserve that has been partly broken down since
the memorable August 1914, so Entwistle amused himself by admiring
the scenery as the train ascended picturesque Liddisdale. Many a time
had Entwistle travelled north by this route, but the beauties of the
Lowlands as viewed from the North British Railway never palled.
As the train approached Galashiels it slowed down rapidly, coming to
a standstill just outside the station. It was an unusual occurrence,
for the express was supposed to make a non-stop run from Carlisle to
Edinburgh. Carriage windows were opened and passengers thrust their
heads out to ascertain the cause of the delay.
"A truck with a lot of luggage has fallen off the platform on to the
line," remarked one of the passengers. "They've removed it now."
The train began to move. Before it gathered much speed it was running
through the station. Suddenly Entwistle was all attention, for
standing on the opposite platform was "his man"--the _soi-disant_
Captain Fennelburt.
Entwistle recognised him at once, in spite of the fact that he wore
civilian clothes. He was evidently waiting for a train bound south.
For a brief instant the Secret Service man deliberated on the chance
of being able to leap from the train. He would have cheerfully run
the risk of violating the Company's rules and regulations, but there
are limits to personal activity. He would not have hesitated to jump,
for he possessed more than a moderate amount of courage; but prudence
predominated. It would be of little use to find himself stranded at
Galashiels with a broken limb, he argued; but there was the
communication-cord.
Even as he pulled the chain that gave the alarm in the guard's van,
greatly to the surprise of his fellow passengers, another train
thundered past. There was not a moment to lose.
"What's wrong, sir?" inquired eight or nine curious voices. "Are you
ill?"
Without replying, Entwistle grasped his bag and stick, went into the
corridor, and began to make his way towards the guard's van. The
train showed no signs of slowing down. Already it must have run a
couple of miles beyond Galashiels.
Presently the vacuum brakes were put in action, and with a peculiar
sensation, akin to the rapid stopping of a lift, the train drew up.
"Guard!" exclaimed Entwistle peremptorily, as the uniformed official
attempted to hurry past him in the narrow corridor. "I pulled the
communication-cord."
"What for, sir?"
Entwistle produced a card from his pocket and explained matters. By
this time another two precious minutes had passed.
"Very good, sir," said the guard, retaining the piece of cardboard.
"If you'll alight, we'll get on. It's a tidyish step back to
Galashiels, d'ye ken?"
The Secret Service man clambered down the footboard on to the
permanent way, his progress watched with unabated interest by scores
of passengers. Then, taking to his heels, he ran with the ease of a
trained athlete towards the station.
He was too late. Already the train--a slow local--had taken up its
quota of passengers and was out of sight. Entwistle promptly tackled
the ticket collector.
"A tallish chap in a grey overcoat and a bowler, sir?" inquired the
man. "Yes; I remember him. He's got a ticket for Hawick. ...No, sir,
third, single."
"Is there a motor available?" asked Entwistle, loth to go to the
extremity of telegraphing or telephoning to the Hawick police.
One was--a powerful six-cylinder. The driver, rising to the
exhortation to "drive like blue blazes," pressed heavily upon the
accelerator, and the car leapt along the road.
There was every chance of reaching Hawick before the train, punctures
and other road mishaps excepted. The route through Selkirk was
practically a direct one, while the iron road made a considerable
detour through Melrose. Consequently, nothing happening to delay the
car, Entwistle found himself, cool but elated, waiting outside the
entrance to Hawick Station a good six minutes before the advertised
time of the train's arrival.
Keenly alive to the necessity for prompt action, the Secret Service
man took up a position immediately behind the open door.
The train drew up. There seemed no hurry on the part of the arriving
passengers to leave the platform. A boy wearing a tam-o'-shanter and
a plaid was the first to appear, then an old woman bearing a large
wicker basket. A couple of huge, red-faced farmers next jostled
through the doorway, discussing in loud tones the latest ruling
market prices of oats and oil-cake. After them a pale, thin-featured
woman with a baby, and last of all a nervous young man who walked
with hesitating steps as he fumbled for a mislaid ticket.
"Confound it!" muttered Entwistle savagely.
Leaving his place of concealment, he made for the platform. Luggage
was still being put out of the van. There might be time to look into
all the carriages. He would have to take the risk of "Captain
Fennelburt" recognising him as the cleric who travelled with him from
Nedderburn to Edinburgh.
But Entwistle was again disappointed. The train, a non-corridor one,
carried no passengers at all resembling the wanted man. "Captain
Fennelburt" had adroitly covered his tracks.
The baffled Secret Service man hied him to the telephone--the Railway
Company's private wire--and rang up Galashiels.
A brief but emphatic conversation both with the ticket collector and
the booking clerk elicited the information that the bowler-hatted man
might have alighted at one of the four intermediate stations.
"You'll be for trying St. Boswell's Junction, mon?" came a suggestion
on the telephone.
Entwistle tried St. Boswell's Junction, with the result that a man
answering his description had left the train, and had booked for
York, via Alnwick and Alnmouth.
The clue was developing into a man-hunt after Entwistle's own heart.
It afforded him scant satisfaction to attain his object with little
trouble. The greater the obstacles, the keener became his interest.
"'Fraid I don't want you again," he remarked to the waiting
chauffeur, as he paid him.
Inquiries resulted in the information that there was a fast train
through to Carlisle, whence it was possible to arrive at York within
twenty minutes of the East Coast express. Entwistle, having had time
to make a satisfying meal, was retracing his course.
Luck was against him. It was not until about eight on the following
morning that he alighted on York platform. His first step was to make
inquiries at the Postal Censor's Office. On presentation of his card,
he was allowed to scan the duplicates of telegraphic messages sent
during the preceding twelve or fifteen hours. There was nothing to
excite suspicion. The foreign cables proved more fruitful, especially
one from "Messrs. Grabnut & Plywrench to Mynheer Jakob van Doornzylt,
woollen merchant, of Amsterdam."
The message was in plain English (according to war time regulations),
and referred to a consignment of merchandise about to be dispatched
from Leith to Ymuiden. On the duplicate was an official stamp "Passed
by Censor."
"Has this been dispatched?" asked Entwistle.
"Yes," replied the postal official. "It was held back for three hours
according to procedure when dealing with foreign cablegrams, and was
sent off at 7.50 P.M. yesterday."
Entwistle, having provided himself with a copy, went to a desk in a
secluded corner of the large room.
"Close bales 251 in number--" began the message.
Consulting his code-book (the identical one that he had taken from
the spy von Eitelwurmer), Entwistle began his translation. "Close"
signified "disguised," "bale" was the counterpart of "Q-boat," and so
on. In ten minutes the secret message stood revealed as follows:--
"Q-boat disguised as U 251 left Leith on 9th for Hoorn Reefs.--VON
PREUSSEN."
That was all--but sufficient to lure "Tough Geordie" Morpeth and his
gallant comrades into a veritable death-trap.