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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-23 00:56:17 -0800 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-23 00:56:17 -0800 |
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max-width:21em; } - div.bcat dl dt { text-indent:-2em; margin-left:2em; } - p.bkad {font-size:125%; font-weight:bold; margin-top:2em; max-width:20em; margin-right:auto; margin-left:auto; } - p.bkpr {font-size:90%; } - p.bkrv { } - dl.blist dt { margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; } - dl.blist, dl.biblio { margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; max-width:25em; } - - dl.int { margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; max-width:25em; } - dl.int dt {margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; } - dl.int dd {margin-left:2em; } -</style> -</head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Clubfoot the Avenger, by Valentine Williams</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<table style='min-width:0; padding:0; margin-left:0; border-collapse:collapse'> - <tr><td style='padding:0'>Title:</td><td style='padding:0'>Clubfoot the Avenger</td></tr> - <tr><td style='padding:0'></td><td style='padding:0'>Being some further adventures of Desmond Oakwood, of the Secret Service</td></tr> -</table> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Valentine Williams</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 22, 2021 [eBook #65416]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Al Haines, Stephen Hutcheson & the online Project Gutenberg team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLUBFOOT THE AVENGER ***</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="img"> -<img class="cover" id="coverpage" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Clubfoot the Avenger" width="500" height="747" /> -</div> -<div class="box"> -<h1>CLUBFOOT THE AVENGER</h1> -<p class="center">BEING SOME FURTHER ADVENTURES OF DESMOND OKEWOOD, OF THE SECRET SERVICE</p> -<p class="center"><i>by</i> -<br />VALENTINE WILLIAMS</p> -<p class="center"><span class="large"><i><b>Secret Service Series</b></i></span></p> -<div class="img"> -<img src="images/p00.jpg" alt="Publisher logo" width="150" height="200" /> -</div> -<p class="center small">New York -<br />P. F. Collier & Son Company -<br /><span class="smaller">PUBLISHERS</span></p> -</div> -<p class="center smaller">COPYRIGHT, 1923 AND 1924, BY VALENTINE WILLIAMS -<br />All RIGHTS RESERVED -<br />PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.</p> -<p class="tbcenter"><span class="smaller">IN AFFECTIONATE MEMORY OF</span> -<br />“G”</p> -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> -<dl class="toc"> -<dt><span class="cn"> </span><a href="#c1">Introduction</a> ix</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">I. </span><a href="#c2">The Purple Cabriolet</a> 1</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">II. </span><a href="#c3">Enter Miss Vere Slade</a> 13</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">III. </span><a href="#c4">The Man with the Clubfoot</a> 34</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">IV. </span><a href="#c5">The Strange Experience of Miss Patricia Maxwell</a> 46</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">V. </span><a href="#c6">The Ikon of Smolensk</a> 61</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">VI. </span><a href="#c7">The Secret of the Ikon</a> 75</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">VII. </span><a href="#c8">The Unseen Menace</a> 91</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">VIII. </span><a href="#c9">The Top Flat</a> 101</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">IX. </span><a href="#c10">The Footstep in the Dark</a> 124</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">X. </span><a href="#c11">In which Desmond Okewood finds Clubfoot in Strange Company</a> 140</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XI. </span><a href="#c12">The Constantinople Courier</a> 154</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XII. </span><a href="#c13">Xenia</a> 166</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XIII. </span><a href="#c14">In which Check proves to be Checkmate</a> 179</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XIV. </span><a href="#c15">The Girl at the Hexagon</a> 188</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XV. </span><a href="#c16">The Decoy</a> 201</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XVI. </span><a href="#c17">The House in Pimlico</a> 214</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XVII. </span><a href="#c18">The Meeting</a> 236</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XVIII. </span><a href="#c19">The Chamois Leather Packet</a> 253</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XIX. </span><a href="#c20">A Flight and What came of It</a> 268</dt> -<dt><span class="cn">XX. </span><a href="#c21">In which Miss Mary Brewster speaks her Mind</a> 279</dt> -</dl> -<div class="pb" id="Page_ix">ix</div> -<h2 id="c1"><span class="h2line1">INTRODUCTION</span></h2> -<p>At the risk of straining an old and valued -friendship, I have persuaded Major Desmond -Okewood and his brother to allow me -to set down in narrative form some account -of a remarkable series of events that, for -reasons sufficiently obvious, have never been -fully described.</p> -<p>It is now some eighteen months since Dr. -Adolf Grundt, the notorious German Secret -Service agent, better known to the British -Intelligence Corps as “The Man with the -Club Foot,” was last heard of; and there appears -to remain no valid grounds why the -extraordinary happenings which marked his -reappearance in England should not now -be related, especially as they were sedulously -withheld from the newspapers at the -time.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_x">x</div> -<p>Though Major Desmond Okewood and -his brother, Mr. Francis Okewood, played a -prominent part in these strange adventures, -I have been unable to persuade either of -them to tell the story himself. It has therefore -fallen to my lot to be the Froissart of -this chronicle. I do not fear criticism; for -my severest critics have been the brothers -themselves. Desmond Okewood, for instance, -jibs strongly at what he calls my -“incurable love of the dramatic”; while -Francis, after reading through my much-censored -and revised manuscript, pitched it -back at me with the curt remark that the interesting -thing about Secret Service yarns -is what you are obliged to leave out.</p> -<p>On this plea, then, that in Secret Service -matters the whole truth can seldom be told, -I would claim indulgence; and, further, on -the score that this narrative has been pieced -together from talks, often spasmodic and disjointed, -with my two friends in all manner -of odd places—the golf links, the tennis -court, in the train, the Berkeley grill, the -smoke-room of the Senior. Sometimes I -questioned; but more often I was a listener -when a chance remark, a name read in a -newspaper, a face seen in a crowd, started -the flow of reminiscence. And so, little by -little, I gathered the facts about the reëmergence -out of the fire and smoke of the World -War of this extraordinary character, who, in -his day, wielded only less power in Imperial -Germany than the Emperor himself.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_xi">xi</div> -<p>In a short span of years immense changes -have taken place in Europe. To-day it is a far -cry to the times of Dr. Grundt and the “G” -Branch of Section Seven of the Prussian -Political Police. As head of the ex-Kaiser’s -personal Secret Service, “der Stelze,” as -the Germans nicknamed him from his crippled -foot, was the all-powerful instrument of -the anger and suspicion of the capricious and -neurotic William II. In Germany his very -existence was a mere rumour whispered only -in the highest circles; and abroad, except in -the innermost ring of the Secret Service, he -was quite unknown. In the archives of the -French Foreign Office there is, I understand, -a dossier dealing with his activities of the -time of the Algeciras Conference and, later, -on the occasion of King Edward’s meeting -with the Czar at Reval.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_xii">xii</div> -<p>My friends, the two Okewoods, are reticent -on this point; but I make no doubt that -they, who originally encompassed the downfall -of “der Stelze,” know more about the -secret history of his career than any other -man living, except the ex-Emperor himself. -Perhaps, now that memoirs are the fashion, -from the seclusion of the little property he is -known to possess in southern Germany, The -Man with the Clubfoot may one day give -the world some pages from his career. If -he tell the truth—and Desmond Okewood -says he is the kind of man who glories in -the blackest crimes—his revelations should -eclipse the memoirs of Sénart or Vidocq.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_xiii">xiii</div> -<p>I have begun, as a story-teller should, at -the beginning and set down the extraordinary -circumstances of the first case to engage -the attention of my two friends on the -reappearance of Dr. Grundt in England. -The affair of the purple cabriolet, which the -newspapers at the time reported as a case of -suicide, was actually the fourth link in the -horrifying chain of crimes which marked -Dr. Grundt’s campaign of vengeance against -the British Secret Service. I have made it -my point of departure, however, because it -was not until after the mysterious deaths of -Sir Wetherby Soukes, Colonel Branxe, and -Mr. Fawcett Wilbur that Desmond and -Francis Okewood, who had already retired -from the Secret Service, were called back to -the sphere of their former activity.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_1">1</div> -<h1 title="">CLUBFOOT THE AVENGER</h1> -<h2 id="c2"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER I</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE PURPLE CABRIOLET</span></h2> -<p>It was a wet night. The rain fell in -torrents. The low archway leading -into Pump Yard, Saint James’s, framed a -nocturne of London beneath weeping skies. -The street beyond was a shining sheet of wet, -the lamps making blurred streaks of yellow -on the gleaming surface of the asphalt. -Within, on the rough cobbles of the yard, the -rain splashed and spurted like a thousand -dancing knives.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_2">2</div> -<p>On either side of the small square cars -were drawn up in two long lines, the overflow -from the lock-ups of the garage set all round -the yard. At the open door of a plum-coloured -cabriolet, his oilskins shining black in -the pale rays of a gas-lamp above his head, a -policeman stood, peering over the shoulder of -a man in a raincoat who was busying himself -over something inside the car. Behind him -a glistening umbrella almost completely -obscured the form of another man who was -talking in whispers to a gnome-like figure in -overalls, a sack flung over his head and -shoulders in protection against the persistent -rain.</p> -<p>Presently from the direction of the street -came the grating of changing gears, the -throb of an engine. Blazing head-lights -clove the hazy chiaroscuro of the yard and a -car, high-splashed with mud, drove slowly -in. It stopped, the hand-brake jarred, and, -with a jerk, the headlights were extinguished. -A young man in a heavy overcoat laboriously -disentangled himself from behind the driving-wheel -and stepped out from under the -sopping hood, stretching his legs and stamping -his feet as though stiff with cold.</p> -<p>On catching sight of him, the man with -the umbrella fussed up. He disclosed a face -that was grey with apprehension.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_3">3</div> -<p>“Whatever do you think has happened, -Major Okewood?” he said in a hoarse whisper. -“There’s a dead man in the Lancia -there!”</p> -<p>He jerked his head backwards in the direction -of the cabriolet.</p> -<p>The newcomer, who was vigorously rubbing -his numbed hands together, glanced up -quickly. He had a lean, clever face with -very keen blue eyes and a small dark moustache. -Of medium height, he looked as fit -as nails.</p> -<p>“What is it, Fink?” he demanded. “A fit -or something?”</p> -<p>Fink, who was foreman of the garage, -shook his head impressively.</p> -<p>“It’s a suicide. Leastwise, that’s what the -doctor says. Poisoned hisself. There’s a -bottle on the mat inside the car!”</p> -<p>“Oh!” exclaimed the young man, interested. -“Who is it? One of your customers?”</p> -<p>“Never set eyes on him before nor yet the -car. He’s a poorly dressed sort of chap. I -think he jest crawled in there out of the wet -to die!”</p> -<p>“Poor devil!” Okewood remarked. “Who -found him?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_4">4</div> -<p>“Jake here,” said Fink, indicating the -dripping goblin at his side. “He had to -open the door of the Lancia to get by, and -blessed if he didn’t see a bloke’s boot sticking -out from under the rug!”</p> -<p>The gnome, who was one of the washers, -eagerly took up the tale.</p> -<p>“It give me a proper turn, I tell yer,” he -croaked. “I lifts the rug and there ’e wor, -lyin’ acrorst the car! An’ stiff, Mister! -Blimey, like a poker, ’e wor! An’ twisted -up, too, somethink crool! ’Strewth! ’E -might ’a’ bin a ’oop, ’e wor that bent! An’ -’is fyce! Gawd! It wor enough to give a -bloke the ’orrors, strite!”</p> -<p>And he wiped his nose abstractedly on the -back of his hand.</p> -<p>The young man walked across the yard to -the purple car. The doctor had just finished -his examination and had stepped back. The -torch-lamp on the constable’s belt lit up the -interior of the Lancia. Its broad white -beam fell upon a figure that was lying half on -the floor, half on the seat. The body was -bent like a bow. The head was flung so far -back that the arched spine scarce touched the -broad cushioned seat, and the body rested on -the head and the heels. The arms were -stretched stiffly out, the hands half closed.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_5">5</div> -<p>As the old washer had said, the face was, -indeed, terrible. The glazed eyes, half open, -were seared with fear, but, in hideous contrast, -the mouth was twisted up into a leery, -fatuous grin. He was a middle-aged man, -inclining to corpulence, with a clean-shaven -face and high cheek-bones, very black eyebrows, -and jet-black hair cut <i>en brosse</i>. He -was wearing a long drab overcoat which, -hanging open, disclosed beneath it a shabby -blue jacket and a pair of old khaki trousers.</p> -<p>“Strychnine!” said the doctor—he held up -a small medicine bottle, empty and without a -label. “That grin is very characteristic. -The <i>risus sardonicus</i>, we call it. And the -muscles are as hard as a board. He’s been -dead for hours, I should say. When did the -car come in?”</p> -<p>“Round about five o’clock, George said,” -the foreman replied. “A young fellow -brought it. Said he’d be back later to fetch -it away. My word! He’ll get a nasty jar -when he turns up!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_6">6</div> -<p>“Have you any idea who the dead man -is?” Okewood asked the doctor.</p> -<p>“Some down-and-out!” replied the latter, -dusting his knees. “There was a letter in -his pocket addressed to the coroner. The -usual thing. Walking the streets all day, no -money, decided to end it all. And everything -removed that could betray his identity. Seeing -that he used strychnine he might be a -colleague of mine come to grief. Somehow, -for all his rags, he doesn’t quite look like a -tramp!”</p> -<p>He bent forward into the car again and -sniffed audibly.</p> -<p>“It’s funny,” he said. “There’s a curious -odour in the car I can’t quite place. It -certainly isn’t strychnine.”</p> -<p>Okewood, who had been scanning the body -very closely, had already detected the curious -penetrating odour that yet hung about the -interior of the cabriolet, something sweet, -yet faintly chemical withal.</p> -<p>But now heavy footsteps echoed from -under the archway.</p> -<p>“It’s George back,” said Fink, looking up. -“He nipped across to the police station.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_7">7</div> -<p>George, who was one of the mechanics, -bareheaded, his hair shining with wet, was -accompanied by a well-set-up young man -with a trim blond moustache, who wore a -black bowler hat and a heavy overcoat. He -had about him that curious air, a mixture of -extreme self-reliance and rigorous reserve, -which marks the plain-clothes man in every -land.</p> -<p>“Good-evening, O’Malley!” said Okewood -as the young detective came face to face with -him.</p> -<p>The newcomer stared sharply at the -speaker.</p> -<p>“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “If -it isn’t Major Desmond Okewood! Are you -on this job, too, Major? They told me you -had retired!”</p> -<p>“So I have, O’Malley!” Desmond replied. -“No more Secret Service for me! I heard -that you had gone back to the C.I.D. after -you were demobbed from the Intelligence. -I’ve only blundered into this by accident. -I’ve just come up from Essex in my car. -This is where I garage it when I’m in -town . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_8">8</div> -<p>O’Malley plucked open the door of the -Lancia and began to examine the dead man. -The detective asked a few questions of the -doctor, read and took charge of the letter -found in the pocket of the deceased, and -made some notes in a black book. Then he -beckoned to Desmond.</p> -<p>“Anything funny struck you about this -chap, Major?” he asked in an undertone.</p> -<p>Desmond looked at O’Malley questioningly.</p> -<p>“Why do you ask that?” he said.</p> -<p>“Because,” O’Malley replied, “for a -tramp who has walked the streets all day, it -doesn’t strike me that his trousers are very -muddy. His boots are dirty, and the bottoms -of his trousers are wet. But they’re not -<i>splashed</i>. Look at mine after walking only -across from the station!”</p> -<p>He showed a spray of mud stains above -the turn-up of his blue serge trousers.</p> -<p>“And see here!” he added. He bent down -and undid the dead man’s overcoat. Beneath -it jacket and waistcoat were open and the -unbuttoned shirt showed a glimpse of clean -white skin.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_9">9</div> -<p>“That’s not the skin of a tramp!” the detective -declared.</p> -<p>Again Desmond Okewood gave the young -man one of his enigmatic looks. Then he -turned to the doctor.</p> -<p>“When a man dies of strychnine poisoning,” -he said, “death is preceded by the most -appalling convulsions, I believe?”</p> -<p>“Quite right!” the doctor assented, blinking -through his <i>pince-nez</i>.</p> -<p>“One would, therefore, look for some -signs of a struggle,” Desmond continued, -“especially in a confined space like this. -But see for yourself! The body lies stiffly -stretched out, the feet on the floor, the top -of the head touching the back of the hood, -the shoulders all but clear of the seat. Not -even the mat on the floor is disturbed.”</p> -<p>“Very singular, I must admit,” observed -the doctor.</p> -<p>“The man who found the body says it was -covered up with the rug. Isn’t that right, -Jake?”</p> -<p>“Quite right, sir,” chanted the washer. -“Covered up ’e wor, ’cept for ’is foot as stuck -art!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_10">10</div> -<p>“It strikes me as odd,” remarked Desmond -mildly, “that, in such ghastly convulsions -as strychnine poisoning produces, this man -had sufficient presence of mind to arrange -the rug neatly over himself”—he paused and -looked round his audience—“in such a way -as to delay discovery of the body as long as -possible!”</p> -<p>“By George!” said O’Malley excitedly—he -was young enough to be still enthusiastic—“you -mean to say you think he was -brought here dead!”</p> -<p>Without replying Desmond turned again -to the open door of the car. He took the -policeman’s lamp and turned it on the distorted -features of the dead man, the jet-black -eyebrows and hair.</p> -<p>“Do you see anything on the right ear?” -he asked.</p> -<p>“Yes,” O’Malley replied. “Looks like -soap or something!”</p> -<p>Desmond nodded.</p> -<p>“It is soap,” he said, “shaving soap,” and -opened his hand in the beam of the light. -Two or three tiny blond curls and a number -of short ends of blond hair lay in the palm.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_11">11</div> -<p>“I found these down the dead man’s collar,” -he explained. “So you see, O’Malley, -that your first impression that there is ‘something -funny’ about this tramp was perfectly -correct!”</p> -<p>But the detective only looked at him in a -puzzled way. Desmond pushed him forward -to the open door of the car.</p> -<p>“Sniff, man!” he cried.</p> -<p>“Rum sort o’ smell!” said O’Malley, “but -I don’t see . . .”</p> -<p>“Hair dye!” exclaimed Desmond.</p> -<p>In a flash the young detective whipped -round.</p> -<p>“Then you mean . . .” he began.</p> -<p>“I mean that this dead man is not a tramp, -but a person of some social standing; that in -life he was not dark and clean-shaven, but -fair with a blond moustache or, more probably, -a blond beard, and that he did not crawl -into this car to die, but was brought here -dead in the Lancia. You can assume, if you -like, that he shaved himself, dyed his hair, -and dressed up as a tramp before taking -poison, in order to conceal his identity, but -you cannot assume that he killed himself here -in this car. Someone brought the body here; -therefore there was collusion in his suicide -. . . if it <i>was</i> suicide . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_12">12</div> -<p>O’Malley pushed his hat back from his -brow and scratched his head.</p> -<p>“Murder, eh?” he remarked, addressing -no one in particular.</p> -<p>A light footstep sounded on the cobbles -behind the group, and a voice said:</p> -<p>“You’ve got my car back, then?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_13">13</div> -<h2 id="c3"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER II</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">ENTER MISS VERA SLADE</span></h2> -<p>The two men turned about as a young -girl, bareheaded, in a long ermine -coat, slipped between them and laid her hand -on the door of the Lancia. She was a dainty -creature, very fashionably dressed, and little -cloth-of-silver shoes peeped out from beneath -the fringe of her white satin gown. Before -they could stop her, she had pulled the car -door wide. She gave one glance inside the -cabriolet; then, with a little cry, she reeled -back. Desmond Okewood caught her in his -arms.</p> -<p>“It’s . . . it’s horrible!” she gasped. -“What . . . who is that inside my car?”</p> -<p>A large policeman now lumbered up, -panting.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_14">14</div> -<p>“It’s Miss Vera Slade,” he said to O’Malley, -indicating the girl with a fat thumb. -“She come into the station this afternoon -and reported as how her Lancia had been -stolen while she was having her lunch at the -Oracle Club in Piccadilly. After you’d left -to come here,” he added, turning to O’Malley, -“the sergeant on duty noticed that the -number of the missing car was the same as -that of the Lancia here—the mechanic as -fetched you reported the number, you know. -So the sergeant sent round to Curzon Street -at once to get Miss Slade. And here she -is . . .”</p> -<p>“You identify this car as yours, then?” -O’Malley asked the girl.</p> -<p>“Of course it’s mine!” she replied with -spirit. “I left it outside the Oracle Club -whilst I was lunching there to-day. When I -came out, it had disappeared. I first thought -that Mr. Törnedahl had taken it . . .”</p> -<p>“Mr. Törnedahl?” repeated O’Malley.</p> -<p>“Yes. The man I had lunching with me. -Towards the end of lunch he was called -away and was absent for some time—for -about a quarter of an hour. When he came -back to the table, he said he had been called -away urgently on business and would I mind -if he didn’t wait for coffee. And with that he -went off. I had my coffee and wrote a couple -of letters, and on going outside found that -my car had gone.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_15">15</div> -<p>“I suppose this Mr. Törnedahl didn’t say -anything about taking your car, did he, -Miss?” O’Malley asked.</p> -<p>“Oh, no!” she replied positively.</p> -<p>“Do you know why he left you at lunch?”</p> -<p>“A page came and said a gentleman was -asking for him.”</p> -<p>“Who was it, do you know?”</p> -<p>“No!”</p> -<p>“And did you see Mr. Törnedahl again?”</p> -<p>“I didn’t expect to. He was going to -Paris this evening on his way back to Sweden.”</p> -<p>“I see. Now about the car. Did the club -people notice anybody suspicious hanging -round?”</p> -<p>The girl opened her clear eyes and looked -at the detective.</p> -<p>“They wouldn’t, you know,” she answered. -“The police won’t let you leave a car unattended -in Piccadilly, so we park our cars -in a side street at the back.”</p> -<p>“Who is this Mr. Törnedahl?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_16">16</div> -<p>“He’s a timber merchant, a Swede. I -met him abroad.”</p> -<p>“What’s he like in appearance?” Desmond -asked suddenly.</p> -<p>“A fair man,” the girl replied, “with very -blue eyes and a blond beard, a typical Scandinavian -. . .”</p> -<p>The two men exchanged glances.</p> -<p>“When did this car come in?” demanded -O’Malley, excitedly, addressing Fink.</p> -<p>George, the mechanic, was thrust forward. -About half-past five, was his answer to the -detective’s question. A young man in a dark -suit had brought it. He seemed to be in a -great hurry. He backed the cabriolet into -a place in the line and made off hastily, saying -he would be back before midnight to -fetch the car away. He was a fairish sort -of chap, rather foreign-looking. He had a -long scar on his cheek, high up, near the -right eye.</p> -<p>“Was he alone?” O’Malley asked.</p> -<p>“Yes!” said George.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_17">17</div> -<p>But here Jake intervened. Coming back -from tea, it appears, he had met the young -man passing under the archway. He had -seen him join a man outside and go off with -him.</p> -<p>“What was this man like?” was O’Malley’s -question.</p> -<p>“A biggish sort o’ chap, ’e wor,” replied -the washer vaguely, “an’ went with a bit of -a limp!”</p> -<p>Anything more precise than this the -most persistent cross-examination of the old -man failed to elicit.</p> -<p>There was a pause. The rain poured -pitilessly down. Mournfully the twelve -strokes of midnight were hammered out -from the steeple of Saint James’s Church.</p> -<p>Presently Desmond turned to the girl, who -was sheltering beneath Fink’s umbrella.</p> -<p>“That dead man in your car,” he said diffidently, -“do you recognize him?”</p> -<p>The girl shuddered.</p> -<p>“Why, no!” she said. “How should I?”.</p> -<p>“I don’t want to frighten you,” the young -man resumed, “but I think you ought to look -again.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_18">18</div> -<p>He took the policeman’s lamp and opened -the car door. With awe-struck eyes the girl -approached slowly. She glanced quickly -within, then turned away her head.</p> -<p>“He looks so dreadful,” she said. “No, -no! I don’t know him!”</p> -<p>“You’re quite sure?” queried the other.</p> -<p>“Absolutely!” said she.</p> -<p>O’Malley was about to speak when he felt -a foot firmly press his. Desmond Okewood -was looking at him.</p> -<p>“I think we need not detain Miss Slade -any longer,” he observed. “If one of your -men could get her a taxi . . .”</p> -<p>A taxi was procured and they helped her -in.</p> -<p>“I shall hope to see you again in the morning, -Miss!” said O’Malley as he closed the -door.</p> -<p>When the cab had rattled out of the yard, -he turned to Desmond.</p> -<p>“Why did you tread on my foot just -now?” he demanded.</p> -<p>“Never force an identification, O’Malley!” -Desmond replied with his winning smile.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_19">19</div> -<p>“I see!” remarked the young detective. -“Well, I must be getting back to the station -to see about having him”—he jerked his -head toward the Lancia—“removed. I want -to call in at the Oracle Club on my way, late -as it is. Are you coming along with me, -Major?”</p> -<p>Desmond Okewood laughed and shook his -head.</p> -<p>“Not on your life!” he retorted. “I’m out -of the game for good . . .”</p> -<p>Little did he realize when, on those jesting -words, they parted, that, on the contrary, -within twenty-four hours Desmond Okewood, -late of the Secret Service, would have -resumed his old career.</p> -<p class="tb">He slept that night at the flat in Saint -James’s Street, which he had kept on since -his marriage as a <i>pied-à-terre</i> in town. His -wife, with the Okewood son and heir, was in -Lancashire on a visit to her father, and Desmond -had come up from a brief week-end -with his brother, Francis, in Essex, to resume -his duties at the War Office.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_20">20</div> -<p>At five minutes to eight on the following -morning the telephone beside his bed rang -deafeningly. At eight o’clock, very cross and -sleepy, he put his ear to the burbling receiver. -At a minute past eight he was sitting bolt -upright in bed, alert and eager, listening to a -well-known voice that came to him over the -wire.</p> -<p>It was the Chief who summoned him. -When the head of the Secret Service summons, -there is nothing for it but to obey. -About three-quarters of an hour later, accordingly, -Desmond Okewood entered the -little office, skyed at the top of a lofty building -near Whitehall, and once more saw the -strong, familiar profile silhouetted against -the long window that framed the broad panorama -of river bathed in the morning sunshine.</p> -<p>“Mornin’, young fellow!” was the well-remembered -greeting. “I’ve got a job o’ -work for you!”</p> -<p>“You’ll wreck the home, sir,” protested -his visitor. “You know I promised my wife -when I married that I’d drop the game entirely.”</p> -<p>The Chief seemed to be absorbed as he -vigorously polished his tortoise-shell spectacles.</p> -<p>“Clubfoot’s back!” he said.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_21">21</div> -<p>And, setting his glasses on his nose, he -calmly surveyed the young man’s face.</p> -<p>Clubfoot! Sometimes a mere name will -instantly put time to flight and bring one -face to face with yesterday. With a pang -like the fleeting anguish of an old bad dream -there flashed back into Desmond’s mind the -image of the forbidding cripple whose path -he had twice crossed. The fantastic vicissitudes -of that long and perilous chase through -war-bound Germany, when he and Francis -had so miraculously eluded the long reach -of Dr. Grundt to best him in the end; the -thrilling duel of brains in which he and Clubfoot -had engaged in that breathless treasure -hunt in the South Seas—how visionary, how -remote those adventures seemed from this -quiet room, perched high above the streets, -with the noise of the birds chirping on the -roof and the dull bourdon of the traffic drifting -with the winter sunshine through the -open window!</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_22">22</div> -<p>Clubfoot! The name stirred memories of -high adventure in the Silent Corps. For two -years the Chief’s small and devoted body of -helpers, all picked men, had not known the -Okewoods who soon after the war had retired -from the Service. From time to time -Desmond had felt the tug at the heartstrings. -Now and then in his room at the -War Office, in the stay-at-home billet which -the Chief had secured for him, an odd restlessness -seized him when an Intelligence report -came his way and he read that “X, a reliable -agent, reports from Helsingfors,” or, -“A trustworthy observer forwards a statement -from Angora . . .”</p> -<p>But these were vague longings that a -round of golf or a brisk game of tennis -would dispel. The name of Clubfoot, however, -was a definite challenge. He felt his -breath come faster, his pulse quicken, as he -glanced across the desk at the bold, strong -face confronting him with an enigmatical -smile playing about the firm, rather grim -mouth. He knew then that the Chief had -sent for him with a purpose and that, before -the interview was at an end, the Service -would claim him once more.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_23">23</div> -<p>“It was written,” the Chief resumed, -“that you two should meet again. Your -brilliant little experiment in practical criminology -last night makes it perfectly clear to -me, my dear Okewood, that you are the only -man to tackle old Clubfoot in his reincarnation -. . .”</p> -<p>Desmond stared at the speaker.</p> -<p>“You don’t mean . . .?” he began, and -broke off. “By George!” he exclaimed, -striking his open palm with his fist, “one of -the men at the garage said something about -seeing a big lame man go off with the young -man who drove up in the stolen Lancia -. . .”</p> -<p>“Listen to me!” said the Chief. “Three -days ago a certain Mr. Gustaf Törnedahl, a -Swedish merchant . . .”</p> -<p>“Törnedahl?” cried Desmond.</p> -<p>“Wait!” ordered the Chief. “A certain -Mr. Törnedahl, who rendered this country -various services of a highly confidential nature -in the war, came to see me. He was in a -mortal funk. He solemnly declared that, -since his arrival in London about ten days -before, two separate attempts had been made -on his life. A man had tried to knife him -down at the Docks, and, a few days later, -so he assured me, a fellow in a car had deliberately -sought to run him down in Jermyn -Street.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_24">24</div> -<p>“He asked for police protection and, because -I had reasons for taking his story even -more seriously than he did himself, I gave it -to him. At seven o’clock yesterday evening -the plain-clothes man detailed to shadow him -was found drugged, lying halfway down the -steps of the Down Street Tube Station, -which, as you know, is one of the loneliest -places in London. And shortly after midnight -the Yard rings up to tell me that a man, -believed to be Törnedahl, with his beard -shaved off and his hair dyed black, had been -found poisoned in a car in Pump Yard, Saint -James’s.”</p> -<p>“It <i>was</i> the little lady’s friend, then?” -said Desmond.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_25">25</div> -<p>“It was. He is the fourth victim of the -most amazing campaign of vengeance directed -against those who rendered our Secret -Service notable aid in the war. And in each -case—mark well my words, Okewood—a -clubfooted or a lame man has lurked in the -background, never very clearly seen, never -precisely identified. When Sir Wetherby -Soukes, the chemist, with whose work in detecting -the German invisible inks you are -familiar, committed suicide the other day, -his callers, on the afternoon in question, included -a certain Dr. Simon Nadon, stated to -be a French scientist, <i>who had a clubfoot</i>!</p> -<p>“Perhaps you read in the newspapers of -the unexplained death of Colonel Branxe, -who did so well in the counter-espionage. -Poor Branxe, you remember, was found on -the fifth green at Great Chadfold with a -knife in his back. Well, in the sand of an -adjacent bunker the police discovered the -footprint of a <i>lame man</i>—you know, with -one footprint turned almost at right angles -to the other. And lastly, in the inexplicable -affair of Fawcett Wilbur, who looked after -our end in Rumania during the German occupation, -his companion, when he jumped -in front of a train at Charing Cross Station, -was a Rumanian doctor <i>who was a clubfooted -man</i>! But every time, mark you, the -shadowy figure of this lame man has simply -faded away without leaving a trace.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_26">26</div> -<p>He broke off, and leaning back in his big -chair, scrutinized the keen and resolute face -that confronted him across the desk.</p> -<p>“Like all Germans, old Clubfoot is a man -of method,” he went on. “He is working -upwards, Okewood. To-morrow it may be -your turn, or perhaps he’ll have a shot at -your brother, Francis; and ultimately it will -be me!”</p> -<p>His mouth had grown very grim.</p> -<p>“It won’t do, my boy. We can’t take it -lying down. But you realize it’s going to -be a dangerous business?”</p> -<p>Desmond Okewood nodded. “No clues, I -take it?”</p> -<p>“Nothing essential!”</p> -<p>There was a little twinkle in the young -man’s blue eye.</p> -<p>“That settles it!” he remarked. “If we -can’t go to him, we’ll have to bring him to us. -This is my idea, sir . . .”</p> -<p>For two hours thereafter the Chief’s door -was barred to callers and a long list of engagements -completely dislocated.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_27">27</div> -<p>Two evenings later, Vera Slade dined with -Desmond Okewood at the corner table of the -grill-room of the Nineveh Hotel, which was -always reserved for Desmond when he was -in town. In a high-necked pale-green gown -fresh from Paris the girl looked most attractive. -Eyebrows just aslant gave a -charming suggestion of archness to her piquant -face with its dark eyes, rather wistful -mouth, and fine skin, framed in raven-black -hair. Woman-like, her spirits rose to the -interest which, as she clearly saw, she had -aroused in her host. His pressure of her -hand as he greeted her had lasted just long -enough to tell her that her appearance was -an undoubted success.</p> -<p>He had asked her to dine with him to discuss -the latest developments in the mystery -of the purple cabriolet. But, as usually happens, -it was not until the coffee came that the -matter actually arose. Then it was Vera -who brought it up.</p> -<p>“Do you know,” she said, “when I told -you yesterday I would dine with you, I’d no -idea what a celebrity was to entertain me?”</p> -<p>Desmond, who was lighting his cigar, -raised his eyebrows.</p> -<p>“Perhaps you haven’t seen yesterday’s -<i>Daily Telegram</i>?” she said.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_28">28</div> -<p>Desmond made a wry face.</p> -<p>“I’ve heard enough about it, God knows,” -he remarked. “But I haven’t actually seen -the paragraph.”</p> -<p>“I have it here,” said Vera, and produced -a cutting from her gold and platinum bag.</p> -<p>“‘Sensational developments are expected,’” -she read out, “‘in the case of the -mysterious stranger who poisoned himself in -a Lancia car at Pump Yard, Saint James’s. -From the circumstance that Major Desmond -Okewood, one of the most successful agents -of the British Intelligence in the war, has -been put in charge of the investigation, it -is surmised that the mystery has a political -as well as a criminal aspect.’”</p> -<p>She shook her head prettily at him.</p> -<p>“It’s lucky you didn’t deign to take <i>me</i> -into your confidence,” she said, “or you -would have certainly declared that a woman -had given you away!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_29">29</div> -<p>“I’m blessed if I know where the devil this -infernal rag got hold of the news,” Desmond -remarked forlornly. “I haven’t breathed a -word to a soul. As a matter of fact, I’m -going out to the country this evening to talk -things over with my brother Francis . . . -I want him to help me in the inquiry. That’s -why I asked you if you’d mind dining at -seven. My boss carpeted me over this infernal -par and properly washed my head. -Apparently the Home Office had been on to -him. Look at this, issued to yesterday’s -evening papers!”</p> -<p>He took out of his pocket a sheet of coarse -greenish paper with a printed heading “Press -Association.” He handed it to Vera. It was -marked “Private and confidential,” and ran -as follows:</p> -<blockquote> -<p class="center"><span class="sc">Notice to Editors</span></p> -<p>The Press Association is asked by the Home -Office to make a special request to the newspapers -to make no further reference to Major Desmond -Okewood’s inquiry into the Pump Yard case.</p> -</blockquote> -<p>“But how thrilling!” the girl exclaimed. -“Then what the <i>Daily Telegram</i> says is -right. It <i>is</i> a political crime, then? Tell me, -has the dead man been identified?”</p> -<p>Through a cloud of blue smoke Desmond -smiled at her.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_30">30</div> -<p>“Once bitten, twice shy!” he said. “I’m -afraid I can’t say anything about it, Miss -Slade!”</p> -<p>The girl made a little grimace.</p> -<p>“You needn’t be discreet with <i>me</i>, Major -Okewood,” she said softly. She raised her -dark almond-shaped eyes and let them rest -for a moment on his face. “Won’t you trust -me? Won’t you let me help you?”</p> -<p>Desmond looked at her doubtfully.</p> -<p>“It’s very difficult,” he remarked, pulling -on his cigar.</p> -<p>“How were you going to your brother’s -to-night?” she asked.</p> -<p>“I was going to catch the nine-ten from -Liverpool Street. He lives on the high -ground above Brentwood, in Essex.”</p> -<p>Vera leaned across the table. With her -soft white arms stretched out before her, -she made an appealing picture.</p> -<p>“Why not let me drive you down in the -car? Then we three could talk the whole -thing over. <i>Do</i> let me help!”</p> -<p>“By Jove!” exclaimed Desmond. “That’s -rather an idea! But look here, you’ll have -to promise to be very discreet about it!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_31">31</div> -<p>“My dear!” she cried joyously, “I’ll be as -mute as the silent wife. That’s settled, then? -Now I’m going to take a taxi to Curzon -Street and change my frock. I’ll be back -here with the car in half an hour if you’ll -wait for me in the hall.”</p> -<p>The thought of a long drive through the -night with such a charming girl as Vera -Slade seemed to please Desmond Okewood, -for he was smiling happily to himself as he -sat in the “Nineveh” lounge awaiting her -return.</p> -<p>Within forty minutes the hall porter -fetched him out. The purple cabriolet stood -throbbing at the door, Vera, in a <i>chic</i> little -felt <i>cloche</i> and a blanket coat, at the wheel. -It was a damp, raw night, and in the Mile -End Road the tram-lines were so greasy that -the girl, without hesitation, turned off into -a network of side streets.</p> -<p>“I know my way round here,” she explained. -“I used to drive a car in these parts -during the war.”</p> -<p>But at last she slowed down, peering out -of the open window at her side.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_32">32</div> -<p>“I think I must have missed the turning -just now,” she said. “This doesn’t seem to -be right!”</p> -<p>In front of them, through the rain-spotted -driving-glass, the blank wall of a <i>cul-de-sac</i> -was discernible. Vera stopped the car. She -was busy with the gears. Suddenly the -doors on either side were plucked violently -open. Desmond caught a glimpse of the girl -torn bodily out from behind the driving-wheel, -then a heavy woollen muffler fell over -his face from behind and strong arms pulled -him backwards.</p> -<p>A voice whispered in his ear:</p> -<p>“Not a sound, or you’re a dead man!”</p> -<p>But he was unable to speak; indeed, he -was almost choking with the thick cloth that -invisible hands thrust into his mouth. He -felt the sharp rasp of cords on his wrists and -ankles; his eyes were blindfolded; he was -raised up; for an instant the raw night air -struck chill on his cheek, then he was thrown -down unceremoniously into another car, -which immediately began to move.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_33">33</div> -<p>For the best part of an hour, so it seemed -to him, the journey lasted. The frequent -changing of gears and the many stops told -him that they were going through traffic. -It meant, therefore, that they had returned -to London. Then came a halt longer than -the rest. He heard the car door open; he -was once more lifted and carried upstairs, -or so he judged by the laboured breathing of -his unseen bearers. He heard a key turn in -a lock; he was dropped in a chair. Then the -gag was pulled out of his mouth and the -bandage removed from his eyes.</p> -<p>Before him, at a low desk, The Man with -the Clubfoot was sitting.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_34">34</div> -<h2 id="c4"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER III</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT</span></h2> -<p>The room was lighted only by a green-shaded -reading-lamp, which, standing -on the desk between Desmond Okewood and -Grundt, threw a dim, mysterious light on -the saturnine visage of the cripple. The bristling -iron-grey hair and low forehead, the hot -and fearless eyes under the beetling brows, -were in shadow; but a band of yellow-greenish -light, falling athwart the face, revealed -clearly the heavy clipped moustache, baring -the discoloured teeth, and the massive jaw. -From the cigar grasped in the great hairy -fist clenched, as though in defiance, on the -desk, a thin spiral of blue smoke rose aloft. -The monstrous right boot was concealed -from view.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_35">35</div> -<p>He had changed but little, Desmond reflected -as he looked at him. The gross body -was a little fuller, the iron-grey bristles were -perhaps more thickly sprinkled with white; -but there was nothing in the hostile, challenging -attitude of the man that told of the -misfortunes that had overcome his race. He -was as before the Prussian beast, unchanging, -unchangeable, revelling in his strength, -glorying in his power, ferocious, relentless, -unpardoning.</p> -<p>For a full minute he did not speak. Obviously -he gloated over the situation. It was -as though he were reluctant to forgo a moment -of his malicious enjoyment. His dark -and cruel eyes, lighted with a spiteful fire, -rested with a look of taunting interrogation -upon the young man, and, when presently he -raised his cigar to his mouth, he turned it -over between his thick and pursed-up lips -like some great beast of prey licking its -chops.</p> -<p>At last he broke the silence.</p> -<p>“Lieber Freund,” he said in a soft, purring -voice, “this is indeed a pleasure!”</p> -<p>He wagged his head as though in sheer -enjoyment of the sight of his <i>vis-à-vis</i>, bound -hand and foot, sprawling awkwardly in his -chair.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_36">36</div> -<p>“You always were a disconcerting person, -lieber Okewood,” he remarked, his little -finger flicking the ash of his cigar into a tray. -“I had not reached your name on my little -list—no, not by a round dozen or so! In -fact, you find me in a considerable quandary. -To be perfectly frank with you, teurer junger -Herr, I have not yet decided how I shall -put you to death!”</p> -<p>He placed his cigar between his fleshy lips -and drew on it luxuriously.</p> -<p>“For the lad of mettle that I know you -to be,” he continued, “you are remarkably -taciturn this evening. If I remember rightly, -you were more talkative in the past! Perhaps, -though, the trifling measure of restraint -I have been compelled to lay upon you -embarrasses you . . .”</p> -<p>His black-turfed eyebrows bent to a frown -and his eyes flashed hotly.</p> -<p>“I am taking no more chances with you, -young man!” he said in a voice of dangerous -softness.</p> -<p>Desmond Okewood struggled erect. Instantly -a young man appeared from behind -his chair. He was a typical fair young German, -his right cheek scored with a long white -duelling scar.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_37">37</div> -<p>“Let him be, Heinrich!” said Grundt.</p> -<p>“One of your hired assassins, eh, Herr -Doktor?” observed Desmond. “I believe you -will find it safer in this country to continue -to commit murder by proxy . . . at any -rate for a time!”</p> -<p>A little flush of anger crept into the cripple’s -black-tufted cheeks.</p> -<p>“You’re hardly in a position to be sarcastic -at my expense!” he said.</p> -<p>Desmond shrugged his shoulders.</p> -<p>“You’ve made a bad blunder, Herr Doktor,” -he said. “I greatly fear that by kidnapping -and murdering me you’re going to -bring a hornet’s nest about your ears!”</p> -<p>“That may be!” returned Clubfoot grimly. -“It is unfortunate that you will not be there -to see it!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_38">38</div> -<p>While they were talking, Desmond had -stolen furtive glances about the room. Furnished -unpretentiously enough, it had the -look of a dining-room; but the fumed oak -table had been pushed back against the wall -and the chairs that went with it aligned in -a row on either side of the apartment. The -obvious newness of the furniture and the -cheap and garish carpet suggested a furnished -house or lodgings. The only thing -in the room that had any pretence to good -taste was a handsome Jacobean oak press -with perfectly plain panelled doors that stood -against the wall behind Clubfoot’s chair.</p> -<p>The house was as silent as the grave. -Strain his ear as he would, Desmond could -detect no sound, not even of the traffic of the -London streets, other than the ticking of a -cheap clock on the mantelpiece which showed -the time to be five minutes to eleven.</p> -<p>Now Clubfoot noticed the listening look on -the young man’s face.</p> -<p>“Don’t buoy yourself up with false hopes, -Okewood!” said he. “My retreat is truly -rural. One never hears a sound here after -dark, nor, on the other hand, does any noise -ever penetrate beyond these walls. I’ve -tested it, and I know! When that poor Mr. -Törnedahl had a whiskey-and-soda with me -the other afternoon, I was glad to find that, -despite the proverb, <i>these</i> walls have no ears. -With deplorable carelessness I had entirely -forgotten that the victims of strychnine -poisoning emit the most distressing screams -in their convulsions. Heinrich, who is less -experienced than I am, was quite upset. -Weren’t you, Heinrich? You were quite -right, mein Junge, I should have used -cyanide of potassium. As for you, Okewood,” -he added in a sudden and surprising -access of fury, “I’m going to hang you! As -an example to other spies! There’s a nice -quiet death for you! Heinrich, will you see -to it?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_39">39</div> -<p>The young man with the scarred face went -out noiselessly. Desmond’s eyes were fixed -on the clock. The hands were creeping past -the hour of eleven.</p> -<p>“At least,” he said, “you’ll let the girl go -free, Grundt?”</p> -<p>Clubfoot laughed stridently. “And leave -a Crown witness behind?”</p> -<p>He lifted his head. “Heinrich!” he called.</p> -<p>A trap in the ceiling had opened. Two -ends of rope, one furnished with a stout -noose, came dangling down. The young -German’s face appeared in the opening.</p> -<p>“Herr Doktor?”</p> -<p>“Let Karl and Grossmann bring up the -young lady to witness the execution!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_40">40</div> -<p>“Sehr wohl, Herr Doktor!”</p> -<p>Clubfoot turned to Desmond. “We’ll -settle the girl later!”</p> -<p>“You . . . you ruffian,” exclaimed -Desmond. “I believe you’ve done it before!”</p> -<p>Clubfoot, his big body shaking with silent -laughter, did not reply, but stood up. Once -again Desmond, despite his desperate plight, -marvelled at the prodigious size of the man, -his immensely massive shoulders and his -great arms, as sinewy, as disproportionately -long, as the arms of some giant orang-outang.</p> -<p>The door opened and Heinrich appeared. -Behind him, escorted by two other men, was -Vera. Desmond had no time to exchange a -word with her, for the three men, on a sign -from Grundt, instantly hustled him under -the open trap and adjusted the noose about -his neck. Now Grundt was speaking; but -Desmond did not look at him. His eyes were -on the clock.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_41">41</div> -<p>“To show you that I do not act by proxy,” -Clubfoot snarled, “I am going to hang you -with my own hands. And when your cursed -brother’s turn arrives, I shall tell him, before -he dies—and his death shall be terrible, I -promise you, because of that bullet he once -fired into me—I shall tell him how you dangled, -throttling, from that beam above. I owe -your country a grudge, you snivelling Englishman, -and, bei Gott! I’m going to have -my pound of flesh. Every time my vengeance -falls, I exult! Donnerwetter! If you had -heard Branxe grunt when I gave him the -knife! If you had heard how that dog Wilbur -screamed when I thrust him before the -incoming train! And now, bei Gott! it’s -you!”</p> -<p>He grasped the rope. As the long spatulate -fingers closed on it, Desmond saw the -bony sinews stretch taut among the black -thatch on the back of the cripple’s hands. -He heard his heavy boot thump on the -floor . . .</p> -<p>A voice cried from the doorway:</p> -<p>“Hands up, Grundt!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_42">42</div> -<p>Then, with a sudden smash of glass, the -room was plunged into darkness. With a -deafening explosion a pistol spoke, a woman -screamed piercingly, and a door slammed. -Then suddenly the room was brightly lighted. -The place seemed full of men. Francis Okewood, -in motor-cyclist overalls heavily -splashed with mud, was at Desmond’s side, -swiftly slashing at the ropes that bound him.</p> -<p>“Good old Francis!” murmured Desmond. -“I knew you wouldn’t fail me. But, dash it -all, you cut it rather fine!”</p> -<p>He looked rapidly round the room. His -glance took in Vera, pale and affrighted, and -her escort, surrounded by plain-clothes men. -But of Clubfoot and of Heinrich there was -no sign. Even as he looked, from the Jacobean -cupboard, the doors of which stood -open, a large, red-faced man hastily scrambled. -Desmond knew him of old. It was -Detective-Inspector Manderton, of Scotland -Yard. Behind him followed O’Malley.</p> -<p>“I’m very much afraid he’s given us the -slip,” the Inspector said. “It’s a secret passage -leading to the next house with a locked -steel door between. Come on, some of -you!”</p> -<p>And he hurried out, taking two of his men -with him.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_43">43</div> -<p>“Major Okewood,” Vera cried out suddenly, -“won’t you please explain to these men -who I am? They want to handcuff me!”</p> -<p>Desmond walked stiffly, for his legs were -yet numb from his bonds, to the corner -where, between two plain-clothes men, the -girl was struggling.</p> -<p>“Vera Sokoloff,” he said, looking sternly -at her, “have you forgotten me?”</p> -<p>Slowly the colour drained out of her -cheeks, leaving only a little grotesque dab of -rouge on either side. Valiantly she sought -to meet his eyes.</p> -<p>“What . . . what do you mean?” -she faltered. “That is not my name . . .”</p> -<p>“It was your name in 1919 when I knew -you as a spy in Helsingfors,” Desmond retorted. -“Fortunately my disguise was a -good one or you would not have walked so -easily into the trap I laid for you. My -brother and his men have followed us every -step of the way to-night. I could not expect -you to know that I sent that notice to the -<i>Daily Telegram</i> myself . . .”</p> -<p>“You sent it?” cried the girl.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_44">44</div> -<p>“Certainly, in the hope that Clubfoot -would use you to decoy me to him as you -lured poor Törnedahl into the trap!”</p> -<p>“It’s not true!” the girl flashed out.</p> -<p>“. . . But,” Desmond continued unperturbed, -“I confess I feel rather mortified -that you should have thought me so insanely -indiscreet as to take a stranger like yourself -into my confidence!”</p> -<p>“This is an abominable outrage!” stormed -the girl. “You’re mad, I think, with your talk -of . . . of spies. I’m English . . . -I have powerful friends . . . I . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond held up his hand.</p> -<p>“You forget,” he said, “that the telephonist -at your club is a sharp little cockney. He -was much intrigued to hear two days ago -a telephone conversation between Miss Vera -Slade and a certain post-office call-box in -West Kensington beginning and ending with -a number. ‘A message for Number One -from Twenty Three,’ you said, and you went -on to say that Törnedahl was lunching with -you at one o’clock and that Number One -should come quickly. The car, you added, -was round at the back of the club . . .”</p> -<p>He stopped and looked at her.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_45">45</div> -<p>“Vera, my dear,” he said, “you were more -prudent than that at Helsingfors. You’re -losing your grip! The English are not so -stupid as they look!”</p> -<p>With a convulsive shudder she covered her -face with her hands and fell a-sobbing.</p> -<p>“They threatened me,” she wailed in German. -“I could not help myself, Herr Major!”</p> -<p>The door burst open. Manderton appeared, -hot and angry.</p> -<p>“Got clean away!” he cried, “and him with -a game leg! Damn it, he’s a deep one!” -And he plumped into a chair.</p> -<p>“Francis, old son,” remarked Desmond to -his brother, “do you know what?”</p> -<p>“I’ll buy it, Des.!” grinned Francis.</p> -<p>“The brothers Okewood,” Desmond announced -gravely, “are back on the job!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_46">46</div> -<h2 id="c5"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER IV</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF MISS PATRICIA MAXWELL</span></h2> -<p>Desmond and Francis Okewood faced -each other across the table in the snug -living-room of Desmond’s little service flat -in Saint James’s. The curtains were drawn, -for it was five o’clock of a winter evening; -and the tantalus, siphon, and glasses which -filled the tray between them suggested that -the two brothers were prepared to celebrate, -in their peculiar fashion, the rites of the -hour. However, a tea-wagon, appropriately -decked out, that stood near the window, indicated -that a visitor of less masculine tastes -was expected.</p> -<p>“Well,” remarked Desmond, resuming his -train of thought which he had interrupted to -light a cigarette, “if old Clubfoot, as you say, -has any money, I’d like to know where he -gets it from, that’s all!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_47">47</div> -<p>Francis grunted. “He’s got it all right, -don’t worry,” he retorted, “as Patricia Maxwell -will tell you in a minute . . .”</p> -<p>“Provided she hasn’t forgotten the appointment,” -said Desmond, looking at the -clock.</p> -<p>“She’ll be here to the tick,” his brother replied, -“unless she has altered from what she -used to be when I knew her in the States!”</p> -<p>“A friend of Monica’s, didn’t you say she -was?”</p> -<p>(Monica was Francis Okewood’s American -wife.)</p> -<p>Francis nodded. “They went to the same -school in America. We met her again last -year in California. That’s why she came -to me with this extraordinary story of hers. -But here she is, I think!”</p> -<p>Old Batts, the valet of the flats, appeared -at the door.</p> -<p>“Miss Maxwell!” he announced.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_48">48</div> -<p>Patricia Maxwell was of that not uncommon -type of American girl who in the daytime -looks as though she had stepped out of -the current number of a fashion paper, and -in the evening as though she would appear -in the forthcoming issue. From the crown -of her little brown hat to the sole of her -neatly shod foot she was absolutely flawless, -perfectly coiffed, perfectly dressed, perfectly -gloved, perfectly shod. An orphan, her more -than comfortable means enabled her, through -frequent visits to Europe, to appreciate her -country to the full, besides permitting her to -admit with impunity her real age which was -on the right side of thirty. Her little London -house, within a stone’s throw of the -Park, was, like herself, a gem of good taste. -She knew everybody and liked almost everybody, -and everybody liked her.</p> -<p>“So this is the famous brother?” she said -when Francis introduced Desmond. “If you -only knew how perfectly thrilled I am to meet -you two together! But you’ll have to promise -not to laugh at my story, Major Okewood! -I dare say it’ll seem just silly to -<i>you</i>!”</p> -<p>“On the contrary, Miss Maxwell,” Desmond -answered with his rather languid air, -“I am honestly quite extraordinarily curious -to hear it. Believe me, a yarn that’ll interest -this brother of mine must be something well -out of the ordinary!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_49">49</div> -<p>And over the tea-cups in that tranquil -room, while outside the cars and taxis purred -and hooted up and down the slope of Saint -James’s Street, she told her story. Long before -she had done, Desmond, nursing his -knee, his eyes fixed on the speaker’s face, had -let his cigarette go out as it dangled from his -lips.</p> -<p>“I expect your brother has told you,” she -said, “that I’m a collector of enamels. I -guess it’s a kind of hobby of mine. Every -time a special piece comes up for sale in London -or Paris or Vienna, one of the dealers -is pretty sure to notify me, and if it’s any -way possible, I go along and see it.</p> -<p>“Well, the other day a dealer friend of -mine called me on the ’phone and told me -that a Russian ikon—you know, one of these -sacred pictures you see in Russian homes and -churches—was to be sold at Blackie’s. It -was a beautiful piece, he said, with the figures -of the Madonna and Child in green-and-blue -enamel under a silver sheeting—probably -twelfth or thirteenth century work. -He thought it would fetch under a hundred -pounds and wanted to bid for me. But I like -auctions and I said I’d go myself. I went -into Blackie’s the day before the sale and fell -in love with the ikon at once. It was quite -small, not above about nine inches by six, -I guess, and heavy for its size, the silver covering -cut out so as to show the enamel figures -underneath—you know the way it is—black -with age.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_50">50</div> -<p>“Well, yesterday was the day of the sale, -and Süsslein, my little dealer, went along -with me. The ikon was part of the collection -of some Russian Count—I forget the name—one -of the <i>émigrés</i> from the Russian -Revolution who had served with Denikin -against the Bolsheviks. We sat there all -through the afternoon and by the time the -ikon came up the hall was three-quarters -empty.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_51">51</div> -<p>“One of the dealers started the bidding at -ten guineas, and between three or four of -us we ran it up to seventy-five. Then the -others began to drop out, and by the time -we’d got to a hundred there were only three -of us left—Harris, who buys for Lord Boraston, -me, and a funny-looking little runt of -a man with a grey chin-beard and spectacles. -He wasn’t one of the ordinary dealers, so I -sent Süsslein to find out just who he was. -When he came back he whispered to me he -was a man called Achille Saumergue, who -was believed to be a Frenchman. Nobody -had ever seen him before.</p> -<p>“At two hundred guineas we topped -Harris’s limit, and he passed away, leaving -me and old Saumergue to it. He and I kept -on quietly tossing the ball to and fro until—I’m -cutting this all short, you know—I -brought him up all standing with an advance -of fifty guineas on his three hundred and -fifty. I jumped the price up a bit because -Hermann, the auctioneer, who’s an old -friend of mine, kept looking at the clock, and -I knew the poor man was dying to shut down -and go home.</p> -<p>“Then old Saumergue asked if he might -telephone—I suppose he’d reached his limit. -As he went out, I noticed that Süsslein went -after him. He’s pretty slick, and I guessed -he meant to pick up what he could outside the -telephone box.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_52">52</div> -<p>“But, my gracious! in two minutes my -little friend was back in no end of a way. -Why, the man was so white I thought he was -ill! He started telling me a long story -about old Saumergue buying in the ikon for -some Russian family where it was an heirloom, -that it was really a rather inferior -specimen, and a lot of stuff like that. That’s -the line of talk dealers always hand out when -they want to shoo you off a piece.</p> -<p>“But it didn’t go any with me, Major -Okewood. I wanted that little old ikon, and -I meant to have it. But do you think what -I wanted mattered? Say, for about five -minutes that little Jew never let up knocking -that holy picture, saying the price was -ridiculous, and how I must be plumb crazy -to bid four hundred guineas for a thing that -wasn’t worth above forty!</p> -<p>“As Hermann picked up his hammer -again, I just waved the dealer aside. That -old skate and I went at it once more. Everybody -in the place was crowded round us now, -sort of in two camps—you know the way it -is—and it was so quiet you could almost -hear a pin drop, I guess.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_53">53</div> -<p>“‘May I say four hundred and fifty -guineas? It’s a lovely piece,’ Hermann calls -out in his soft voice, and the old man nods. -He was standing up, very serious, blinking -through his spectacles, but I could see his -hands shaking with excitement.</p> -<p>“‘Five hundred!’ I said from my place -just under the desk—they had given me a -Heppelwhite chair from the Zossenberg sale -next week to sit in.</p> -<p>“‘And twenty-five!’ says the old man with -a kind of gasp.</p> -<p>“‘Fifty?’ asks Hermann, looking at me. -I nodded.</p> -<p>“Süsslein pulled my sleeve. ‘Let him have -the ikon!’ he whispered. ‘It don’t matter -any to you, a common old thing like that! -For God’s sake, let him have it, Miss Maxwell!’</p> -<p>“I shook my head.</p> -<p>“‘Six hundred!’ I said.</p> -<p>“‘Any advance on six hundred?’ asks -Hermann, and brings his hammer down -pretty sharply. ‘Six hundred guineas I’m -bid. For the first time! It’s getting late, -and we all want to go home, I’m sure. For -the second time . . .’</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_54">54</div> -<p>“‘Seven hundred!’ says the old Frenchman -faintly.</p> -<p>“All this time Süsslein was whispering in -my ear. The man was all worked up. -‘You’ve got to let him have it,’ he kept on -saying. ‘Take my advice, Miss Maxwell, -and let the thing be. It’ll bring you no luck! -Believe me, I know what I’m saying!’ His -voice was shaking and his eyes were starting -out of his head.</p> -<p>“But I meant to have that ikon, though, -by this, the price was ’way beyond my figure. -The end came quick.</p> -<p>“‘Shall we say eight hundred?’ asks Hermann.</p> -<p>“I nodded. With that the old man turned -on his heel and walked straight out of the -place. The ikon was mine.</p> -<p>“Süsslein didn’t say any more. He left -me there. He seemed a changed man. And -I took the ikon home. As I told Süsslein, -I had it all planned out where I was going -to hang it in the little space between the -panels over the desk in my boudoir.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_55">55</div> -<p>“This morning, before I was up, Süsslein -was round at the house. He said he wanted -to speak to me urgently. He had come, he -told me, on behalf of a client to offer me a -thousand pounds for the ikon. I told him I -wasn’t selling. He asked me what I would -take. I told him I didn’t intend to part with -my treasure.</p> -<p>“‘My client,’ he said, ‘is most anxious, -for family reasons, to acquire the ikon,’ and -he offered me two thousand guineas, and -then three.</p> -<p>“By this time I was getting pretty peeved, -and I told Süsslein so. ‘If your client can -prove to my satisfaction,’ I told him, ‘that -this ikon really is an heirloom in his family, -it’s a different matter. At present it looks to -me as though you and he had realized too -late that I had got on to something pretty -good. I’m not selling, and you can tell your -client so!’ And with that I sent him about -his business.</p> -<p>“I had a lot of trouble to get rid of him. -Like so many dealers, he seemed to think -it was all a question of money. He couldn’t -realize that I’d never part with anything -that went so well with the dull green wainscot -of my boudoir unless, of course, they -could prove to me that the ikon had been -stolen or something of that kind.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_56">56</div> -<p>“Your dealer pal didn’t tell you the name -of his client?” asked Desmond.</p> -<p>“I asked him, of course, but he said he -was not at liberty to reveal it. But it didn’t -matter any, for, about an hour later, he -arrived in person.”</p> -<p>“The client?”</p> -<p>“Sure. A Russian, a certain Dr. Madjaroff. -I was sick and tired of the whole -thing, so I told the butler to say I was busy. -But he said he’d wait till I was disengaged. -So, just to get rid of him, I saw him. My -dear, he was the most extraordinary-looking -person, a vast man with a great bushy black -beard and a clubfoot . . .”</p> -<p>There was a crash from the fender. Desmond -Okewood had suddenly dropped the -knee he had been hugging and overset the -fire irons.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_57">57</div> -<p>“He spoke in French,” Patricia Maxwell -went on. “He said that, through a misunderstanding, -Monsieur Saumergue, who -had been bidding for him at Blackie’s yesterday, -had failed to secure the ikon. ‘But,’ he -said, ‘I am prepared to pay handsomely for -the mistake. I will now write you my cheque -for three thousand five hundred guineas!’ -And he actually produced a cheque-book and -a fountain pen!</p> -<p>“I told him I didn’t want to sell. But do -you think he’d take ‘no’ for an answer? Not -on your life! ‘Would I name my own figure?’ -he said, and when I stood up and repeated -that I meant to keep the ikon and -that he was wasting his time, he offered me -first five thousand guineas and at last, by -stages, six thousand five hundred.</p> -<p>“You know, that man rather frightened -me. I’m supposed to be a pretty determined -sort of person myself, but never in my life -have I run up against such a dominating -personality as this Dr. Madjaroff. He was -so big and hairy with the vitality of some -great animal like a buffalo or . . . or a -rhinoceros.</p> -<p>“When I turned down his offer of six -thousand five hundred guineas, he bent his -dark bushy eyebrows at me.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_58">58</div> -<p>“‘Miss Maxwell,’ he said, ‘I’ve set my -heart on that ikon. You’ve got to let me -have it.’</p> -<p>“I told him I was sorry, but it was quite -impossible.</p> -<p>“‘I’ve offered you thirty, fifty times its -value,’ he returned. ‘Believe me, you will -be well advised to accept my offer.’</p> -<p>“‘My mind is made up,’ I replied, and -rang to show him the interview was at an -end. ‘The ikon is not for sale.’</p> -<p>“Do you know, the queerest change came -over that old guy! All his hair seemed to -bristle and his eyes just burnt like two hot -coals. He raised up his stick—he had a -crutch-stick that he walked with—as though -to strike me, then turned his back on me and -hobbled out of the house. My! I tell you I -felt relieved to see him go . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond broke in quickly. “I hope you -didn’t leave the ikon hanging up in your -house?” he said. His languid air had given -way to a brisk and eager manner. His steely -blue eyes searched the girl’s face as he spoke.</p> -<p>“Why, no!” said Miss Maxwell. “As a -matter of fact, I brought it along to show -you!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_59">59</div> -<p>So saying she opened her capacious leathern -handbag and produced a flat brown -paper parcel. Unwrapping it, she drew -forth the ikon, which she handed to Desmond.</p> -<p>He bore it quickly to the electric-light -bracket by the fire-place and carefully examined -it. Once or twice he balanced it in -his hand as though appraising the weight.</p> -<p>“Now, why do you suppose,” the American -asked, “that this Russian is so dead set -on getting hold of this old ikon? It’s beautiful -work and all that, of course, but it’s not -worth six thousand five hundred guineas or -the half or even the quarter of the eight -hundred I paid . . .”</p> -<p>But Desmond had turned away and was -talking to his brother.</p> -<p>“We want to make sure,” he was saying. -“Tell him I’ll come round at once and see -him.”</p> -<p>Francis Okewood stepped across to a desk -in the corner on which the telephone stood -and asked for a number.</p> -<p>“Why,” exclaimed Miss Maxwell, “that’s -Süsslein’s number!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_60">60</div> -<p>But Francis held up his hand for silence, -the telephone receiver to his ear.</p> -<p>“I want to speak to Mr. Süsslein,” he said, -and stood listening for a moment.</p> -<p>“I see,” he said presently. “No, I hadn’t -heard.”</p> -<p>He hung up the receiver and faced them.</p> -<p>“Süsslein was found dead in his office -after lunch!” he said quietly.</p> -<p>“Dead?” exclaimed the American in a -shocked voice.</p> -<p>“He had hanged himself,” Francis answered -gravely.</p> -<p>“That settles it!” said Desmond, looking -up from his study of the ikon. “This means -that The Man with the Clubfoot is at his old -tricks again!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_61">61</div> -<h2 id="c6"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER V</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE IKON OF SMOLENSK</span></h2> -<p>Since his dramatic reappearance in the -affair of the purple cabriolet, Dr. -Grundt had passed wholly from Desmond -Okewood’s ken. The villa, on the outskirts -of Harlesden, to which Desmond had been -carried, together with the house next door, -had been taken furnished in the name of a -certain Mr. Blund, which alias covered the -identity of a gentleman only too well known -to Scotland Yard; but neither he nor Grundt -had returned to it. Though the Chief and -his young men remained on the constant -alert, though the police kept watch at all the -ports, there was no sign either of Clubfoot -or of his associates.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_62">62</div> -<p>The Special Branch at Scotland Yard took -the view that Grundt had fled the country. -It was, indeed, remarkable that, easily identifiable -as he was by reason of his monstrous -deformed foot, he should have contrived to -vanish without trace. In corroboration of -the police theory was the circumstance that -Clubfoot’s campaign of vengeance against -the British Secret Service, its agents and -helpers, which had already claimed some half -a dozen victims, was undoubtedly suspended.</p> -<p>Francis Okewood was disposed to believe -that Grundt’s narrow escape from justice -on the last occasion had disinclined him from -further adventures; but Desmond was sceptical.</p> -<p>“Clubfoot intends to get back on you and -me, Francis,” he said, “and if he’s quiescent -it means only that he’s planning some fresh -deviltry or that he’s short of funds!”</p> -<p>After their startling discovery of Süsslein’s -suicide, Desmond asked his brother to -escort Miss Maxwell home.</p> -<p>“I’m going to borrow your ikon for an -hour or two,” he told the girl, “and, if it -won’t shock your sense of propriety, to ask -you to put Francis up for the night . . .”</p> -<p>Patricia let her bright brown eyes rest -inquiringly on Desmond’s face.</p> -<p>“Why not both of you? There’s plenty -of room . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_63">63</div> -<p>“Maybe I shan’t want a bed at all!” replied -the other enigmatically.</p> -<p>“You think something’s going to happen?” -she challenged.</p> -<p>“Ever since you bought this ikon, Miss -Maxwell,” was Desmond’s impassive reply, -“I’ll venture to say there has not been a -minute in which your life has not been in -danger!”</p> -<p>“Oh, shucks!” she exclaimed. “What -about your famous British police? Do -you mean to tell me that foreign gunmen like -this Madjaroff guy are allowed to run round -and scare folks into hanging themselves? -I expect, if the truth were known, Süsslein -was in money difficulties, poor little -man . . .”</p> -<p>“This is not a matter for the police, Miss -Maxwell,” said Desmond. “If you’d left -this ikon hanging up in your boudoir, I’d -lay a small shade of odds that you wouldn’t -have found it on your return!”</p> -<p>With a glint of strong white teeth Patricia -Maxwell laughed outright.</p> -<p>“Now you’re trying to scare me!” she -affirmed.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_64">64</div> -<p>“Not at all,” returned Desmond. He -pointed to the desk. “There’s the telephone. -Just for the fun of the thing, call up your -house and see whether anything has happened -in your absence!”</p> -<p>His perfect self-possession and matter-of-factness -sobered the girl. She looked at him -curiously, then went slowly to the telephone. -The two brothers, talking in undertones by -the window, caught broken fragments of the -conversation. When Patricia Maxwell replaced -the receiver and faced them again, -her self-assurance seemed somewhat shaken.</p> -<p>“Well?” said Desmond.</p> -<p>“I . . . I guess I don’t rightly understand,” -she answered in a puzzled tone. -“Some one’s been in and ransacked my boudoir. -The butler says a man, claiming to -come from the electric-light company, called -this afternoon to look at the wall-plugs or -something. Barton—that’s the butler—left -him alone in the dining-room, which is separated -from the boudoir only by a curtain, -while he went to the back hall to answer the -telephone. He was at the instrument for two -or three minutes, he says, and when he returned -he found the boudoir window open, -the place upside down, and the man gone. -Say, who is this clubfooted man, anyway?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_65">65</div> -<p>But, before Desmond could answer, a -sharp “pss-t” from Francis called him over -to the window. Kneeling at the sill, his -brother was peering through the blind.</p> -<p>“I think they’re watching the house,” he -said. “Did you notice if you were followed -when you came here, Patricia?”</p> -<p>“I drove in a taxi,” the girl answered, -“so I can’t really say.”</p> -<p>On the opposite side of the street a young -man was pacing nonchalantly up and down, -his face raised to the houses across the way. -Even as they watched, they saw him lift his -hand. Something white fluttered . . .</p> -<p>“Wait a minute!” said Desmond, and -hurried into the adjoining bedroom.</p> -<p>The block of flats, of which he occupied -the top floor, stood at the corner of a turning -and the windows of the bedroom gave on the -side street. Before the shop occupying the -opposite corner a man was lounging. For -an instant the light from the shop front fell -on his face, a pale narrow face with a long -white scar running horizontally beneath the -right eye.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_66">66</div> -<p>“Heinrich’s at the corner!” announced -Desmond, returning to the living-room.</p> -<p>“Clubfoot’s aide, do you mean?” queried -Francis.</p> -<p>Desmond nodded. “Which his other -name is Kriege. Since he made that lucky -get-away with Grundt in the affair of the -purple cabriolet we have been looking up his -record. He is said to be a first-class linguist -and a marvellous hand at disguises. I -shouldn’t wonder if he were not Miss Maxwell’s -friend, Saumergue.”</p> -<p>He turned to the American.</p> -<p>“Would it bore you frightfully to stay -and dine with us?” he asked.</p> -<p>“Why, no!” she replied. “But I thought -you two boys were coming home with me!”</p> -<p>“It will be out of the question to leave the -house for the present—at any rate, by the -front door,” said Desmond, and picked up -the telephone.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_67">67</div> -<p>“I want to speak to Mr. Krilenko,” he -said when he got the number he had asked -for. “Is that you, Professor? Desmond -Okewood speaking. I want you to come -round here at once. You can’t? You’re in -bed with lumbago? Damn! Well, I’ll just -have to come to you, that’s all. Yes, I’ll -be along in twenty minutes.”</p> -<p>“It’ll have to be the overhead route,” he -said to his brother as he replaced the receiver.</p> -<p>Francis looked anxiously at him.</p> -<p>“Call up the Chief,” he said in an undertone, -“and get help. You’re so devilish reckless, -Des. What are you up to now?”</p> -<p>“If Miss Maxwell will lend me her holy -picture for an hour or so,” his brother retorted, -smiling graciously at the American, -“I’m going to make a few inquiries. No -need to worry the Chief—at least, not yet. -Bolt the front door, will you, old boy? And -if I were you I shouldn’t answer the bell -while I’m away.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_68">68</div> -<p>The little lobby between Desmond Okewood’s -bedroom and the bathroom was surmounted -by a skylight to which a ladder -gave access. When not in use the ladder was -hoisted out of reach by means of a rope and -pulley. Having buttoned the ikon beneath -his waistcoat, Desmond lowered the ladder -and mounted to the skylight. With a wave -of his hand to Francis and Patricia looking -up at him from below, he pushed up the skylight -and scrambled through, pulling the -ladder up after him; they heard the glazed -trap slam and he was gone.</p> -<p>With the sure gait of one who treads a -familiar path, Desmond made his way across -the black leads, a mere shadow dimly seen -between the soot-encrusted chimney-pots. -The wind blew keen and lusty across the -roofs, rattling a loose trap here and there -and merrily spinning the chimney-cowls. -Above the prowler’s head the sky glowed -redly with the reflection of the London -lights.</p> -<p>Desmond descended a rusty iron fire-ladder, -clambered over a chimney buttress, -scaled a railing, and at length halted in front -of a low grey door. His hand glided along -the stone cornice below until it came upon -what he was seeking. Within the house a -bell trilled faintly twice, then thrice. Then -the door opened. A grey-haired woman, -shielding against the draught a candle in -her hands, stood on the narrow stair.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_69">69</div> -<p>“Why,” she exclaimed, “you’re quite a -stranger, sir! It must be fully three years -since you last used the overhead route.”</p> -<p>Desmond grinned. “I thought I was out -of the profession, Mother Howe,” said he, -“but, dash it, I’m beginning to think they’ve -brought me back!”</p> -<p>“Won’t you take a little something, Major?” -said the woman, backing down the -stairs, “just for old times’ sake?”</p> -<p>“I can’t stop!” Desmond answered. “I’m -in the deuce of a hurry, Mother Howe, and -that’s a fact!”</p> -<p>Two minutes later he stood in Saint -James’s Street, waiting at the kerb for the -taxi he had summoned from the rank. Sixty -yards farther along two dim figures still kept -their silent watch beneath the lighted windows -of Desmond Okewood’s flat.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_70">70</div> -<p class="tb">Six o’clock was ringing out from the -clock-tower of Saint James’s Palace, that -authentic witness of the pageantry of four -centuries of English history, when Desmond -Okewood crept away across the roofs. -Francis and Patricia returned to the sitting-room. -Francis suggested double-dummy -bridge to pass the time of waiting. But -Patricia shook her head.</p> -<p>“I’m thinking about poor little Süsslein,” -she said. “I wonder why he committed -suicide!”</p> -<p>“He’s not the first that Clubfoot has -frightened into destroying himself!” said -Francis.</p> -<p>“But why? What had Süsslein done?”</p> -<p>“I don’t know. But I imagine he was -ordered to get the ikon out of you and he -simply couldn’t face the consequences of his -failure. Old Clubfoot has a devilish long -arm, Patricia!”</p> -<p>“Tell me about this man Clubfoot,” she -said.</p> -<p>So Francis gave her, as far as he knew it, -the history of the man of power and mystery -who, in the heyday of the Hohenzollerns, -had wielded an influence second only to that -of his Imperial master. He drew for her a -picture of the man, ruthless, resourceful, -vigilant, with the strength of an ox, the -courage of a lion, and the cunning of a rogue -elephant.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_71">71</div> -<p>“If he wants a thing,” said Francis, “he’ll -stop at nothing to get it. There’s only one -man who has ever got the better of him, and -that’s my brother Des. He’s a crazy devil, -that brother of mine. He simply can’t live -without taking risks. Ever since he left -the Secret Service he’s been perfectly miserable. -The reappearance of Clubfoot has -made another man of him. But I’m haunted -by the fear that Clubfoot will get him one -day. That’s what makes me so anxious -when he goes off suddenly like this.”</p> -<p>Patricia smiled rather incredulously.</p> -<p>“To hear you boys talk,” she remarked, -glancing down at her pinky polished nails, -“you’d think we were living in Ruritania -or one of those exciting places in Booth -Tarkington Land. I admit I was a bit taken -aback to find that some one had rifled my -boudoir; it may have been your clubfoot -man, or it may just have been a common -sneak-thief. But, for land’s sakes, what can -happen to your brother in a city like London?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_72">72</div> -<p>The telephone pealed suddenly. The bell -jangled noisily through the silent flat. The -man and the girl exchanged a glance. There -are moments when the sudden clamour of a -telephone bell has an oddly frightening effect. -Francis went to the instrument.</p> -<p>“Hullo! No, he’s not here. Who wants -him? Oh . . .”</p> -<p>His manner became slightly more <i>empressé</i>.</p> -<p>“This is Francis Okewood speaking. -Very good. Tell the Chief I’ll come right -along.”</p> -<p>He rang off and turned to Patricia.</p> -<p>“It’s an urgent call from the office,” he -said. “I believe I’ll have to go along at -once. It’s a quarter to eight. Des. must -be back any minute now. Do you mind being -left alone for a little?”</p> -<p>“Of course not! You run right along -and don’t mind about me.”</p> -<p>“You’re not frightened . . . or anything?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_73">73</div> -<p>“Frightened . . . nothing!” retorted Miss -Maxwell with considerable emphasis. “Say, -if that old dot-and-carry-one shows up, I’ll -vamp him so hard he’ll just beat it back to -Deutschland!”</p> -<p>Francis laughed. “Good for you. If you -want anything, just ring for Batts, will you? -I’ll be back as soon as I can. Bye-bye.”</p> -<p>The front door slammed.</p> -<p>As if struck by a sudden idea, Patricia -went to the window and peered beneath the -blind. The watcher still lounged on the opposite -pavement. She observed him for a -full two minutes. Then she saw him turn -suddenly and walk swiftly down the street.</p> -<p>“That’s for Francis!” she said to herself.</p> -<p>She took up the cards and began to play -Canfield. But she could not keep her mind -on the game; her thoughts were busy with -the strange and sinister figure who, that -very morning, had loomed so large in her -dainty drawing-room. She threw down the -cards and went to the telephone. She would -ring up the house and tell Barton she was -dining out.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_74">74</div> -<p>But now she could get no answer from the -exchange. The line remained completely -dead. She depressed the hook repeatedly -without any result. At last she hung up -the receiver, and going to the fire-place, -pressed the bell-push in the wall beside it. -Then she went back to the telephone.</p> -<p>No sound of life came to her over the -wires. The line must be out of order, she -thought. But then she remembered that -Francis Okewood had used the instrument -only a few minutes before. And no one -came in response to her ring. A little feeling -of fear crept over her like a trickle of ice-water -running down her back. Why were -both telephone and bell out of order?</p> -<p>Suddenly she heard the sitting-room door -behind her open. Ah! the valet at last.</p> -<p>“I rang,” she said, speaking over her -shoulder, at the same time depressing the -hook of the telephone instrument, “to ask -you what is the matter with the telephone. I -can’t get a reply from the . . .”</p> -<p>The silence in the room made her turn.</p> -<p>At the table Dr. Madjaroff, her visitor of -the morning, stood looking at her.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_75">75</div> -<h2 id="c7"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER VI</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE SECRET OF THE IKON</span></h2> -<p>She must have dropped the telephone receiver, -for a clatter sounded dully -in her ears. The strange and baleful glare -of the man at the table held her gaze. The -blood seemed to drain away from her heart -as she met the cruel menace of those blackly -bitter eyes. The bushy dark beard had vanished -and the fleshy scarlet lips pressed -together in a hard line were clearly visible -above the squarely massive chin. But -she knew her visitor again immediately. It -was as though she recognized the extraordinary -air of authority that his presence exhaled -without requiring the additional aid to -identification that the heavy misshapen boot -presented.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_76">76</div> -<p>She felt as though she must scream. The -mute telephone, the unanswered bell, the sudden -appearance of this frightening, apelike -creature in the room, above all, his forbidding, -ominous silence, produced a culminating -effect of terror upon her. And, though -she wilted before the fixed stare of those -burning eyes beneath the bristling black eyebrows, -she could not look away.</p> -<p>Suddenly there came an interruption. -Two men emerged from the bedroom door -and took up their position behind the -stranger. One was a narrow-chested youth -whose pointed nose and snarling mouth had -something of the rodent about them, his sallow -cheek slashed by a long white scar. The -other was a gross and burly fellow with a -bullet neck, close-cropped hair, and small pig -eyes.</p> -<p>“Niemand da?” asked the clubfooted -stranger.</p> -<p>“Kein Mensch, Herr Doktor!” replied the -youth with the scarred face.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_77">77</div> -<p>The voices broke the spell that had seemed -to bind her. Her eager American vitality -came to her aid. She began to study with -interest this man of whom Francis Okewood -had told her. “Strong as an ox, brave as a -lion, cunning as a rogue elephant,” he had -called him. And cautious as a cat, she told -herself as she watched him peering about -the room with quick, suspicious glances, his -gaze always returning to the door as though -he feared interruption.</p> -<p>He gave a curt order in German to the -men behind him, then removed his black -wide-awake hat, displaying a glistening mass -of iron-grey stubble.</p> -<p>“Miss Maxwell,” he said with a fawning -civility that struck chill upon her, “I have -come to fetch the ikon!”</p> -<p>This time he spoke in English, harshly, -with a thick guttural accent.</p> -<p>She clasped her hands tightly together. -They were as cold as ice.</p> -<p>“I—I have not got it,” she faltered.</p> -<p>A deep furrow appeared between the -cripple’s bushy eyebrows.</p> -<p>“I advise you not to play with me,” he -said. He took a step forward. The thud of -his heavy boot shook the floor. “Where is -it?” he cried hoarsely.</p> -<p>“I . . . I left it . . . at home!” stammered -the girl.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_78">78</div> -<p>His great arm shot out. A huge hairy -paw, hot and soft, clamped itself with a vice-like -grip about her wrist. Of a sudden his -face was distorted with fury, so that his -heavy sallow cheeks trembled beneath their -thatch of loose black hairs. He might have -been a huge man-ape chattering with passion -as he shook her in that iron grasp.</p> -<p>“You lie! You lie!” he spat at her. “You -brought it here to the spy, Okewood. That -ikon is here, you understand me? Donnerwetter, -are you going to give it up?” With -a supreme effort he regained his self-control. -But he did not relax his grasp on her hand. -“If you refuse, I have the means to make -you!”</p> -<p>“Herr Doktor,” said a suave voice from -the other side of the room, “won’t you let -go Miss Maxwell’s wrist? I’m afraid you’re -hurting her!”</p> -<p>With a roar Clubfoot swung round. A -large automatic was in his hand. His two -companions had likewise drawn and covered -Desmond Okewood, who, dapper and unruffled -as ever, his hat on the back of his -head, stood in the bedroom door, a brown -paper parcel under his arm. -Clubfoot laughed, a harsh and grating -laugh. “Put your hands up, my friend!” he -said menacingly.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_79">79</div> -<p>Desmond wavered. “But I shall drop my -little parcel . . .” he began.</p> -<p>“Put ’em up, zum Teufel nochmal!” -roared the cripple, his tufted nostrils twitching -with rage.</p> -<p>Desmond hesitated for an instant. He -shrugged his shoulders.</p> -<p>“I’m sorry, Miss Maxwell,” he said. “If -only Francis had been here . . .”</p> -<p>And, pitching his parcel on the table, he -slowly raised his hands above his head.</p> -<p>“Keep him covered, Jungens!” cried Clubfoot -and flung himself upon the parcel. -“Francis, indeed!” he exclaimed. “He had -an important telephone summons just now, -didn’t he, Miss Maxwell?” And he chuckled -noisily.</p> -<p>But the American did not heed him. With -a pink flush on her cheeks she was staring -fixedly at Desmond.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_80">80</div> -<p>The young man sought to avoid her gaze. -“It’s three to one,” he muttered, abashed. -“I’d no idea they’d be able to get in here! -I should never have brought it back if I’d -dreamed of . . . this!”</p> -<p>But now, with a shout of joy, Clubfoot had -drawn from its paper wrapping the ikon with -its blackened silver sheath. With a rapid -motion he thrust the little picture into the -capacious pocket of his overcoat. Then he -turned to Desmond.</p> -<p>“Lieber junger Herr”—he spoke in German -now—“if on this occasion I should neglect -to settle the debt which has for so long -been outstanding between us, believe me it is -because other considerations take precedence. -Do not delude yourself, however! -When I want you, I have only to stretch out -my hand”—he raised his long prehensile arm -with clutching fingers—“and crush you like -an egg! Heinrich, Max, vorwärts! Miss -Maxwell! Ich habe die Ehre!” He broke -into English. “It would have been wiser to -have accepted my offer of this morning, or, -better still, from this poor Süsslein’s point -of view, to have listened to reason last -night!”</p> -<p>He bowed to the American and, with head -erect, stumped out into the hall.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_81">81</div> -<p>Hardly had the door closed upon him than -Patricia Maxwell turned on Desmond.</p> -<p>“You . . . you quitter!” she exclaimed -with withering contempt in her voice. -“Are you going to let him beat you to it all -along the line? Are there no <i>men</i> in this -town?”</p> -<p>But Desmond held up his hand. He had -altogether discarded his rather abashed air. -Now his eyes sparkled and a little smile -played about his lips.</p> -<p>“Give me five minutes’ grace,” he said, -“and I’ll explain everything!”</p> -<p>“There’s nothing to explain!” cried Patricia -hotly. “He’s got my ikon, hasn’t he? -What’s there to explain about that, I’d like -to know!”</p> -<p>But Desmond Okewood had dashed out -into the hall. She heard him rattling loudly -at the front door. In a moment he was back -in the sitting-room.</p> -<p>“They’ve wedged up the front door!” he -cried and snatched the telephone receiver.</p> -<p>“The wire’s cut!” said Patricia coldly. -“And your man doesn’t answer the bell!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_82">82</div> -<p>“Damnation!” exclaimed the young man. -“I might have known he’d come here after -you! And there’s no time to get out by the -roof! To think that he’s walking calmly -down Saint James’s Street . . .!”</p> -<p>Again he tore out into the hall. The little -flat rang to the din of his frantic assault on -the front door. Presently the noise ceased. -She heard the voice of Francis outside.</p> -<p>“. . . Decoyed me away with a -bogus message from the Chief,” he was saying, -“and Batts is imprisoned in the lift with -the cable cut. What’s happened to Patricia?”</p> -<p>He came into the room.</p> -<p>“Thank God, you’re all right!” he exclaimed. -“Desmond rushed downstairs like -a madman. What’s happened, Patricia?”</p> -<p>She surveyed him coldly. “Nothing, only -your clubfooted friend came here to fetch -the ikon . . . my ikon. And your -brother had the . . . the presence of -mind to give it to him!”</p> -<p>“Desmond gave it to him?” Francis Okewood -seemed dazed.</p> -<p>She nodded.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_83">83</div> -<p>Desmond Okewood reappeared, panting. -Without speaking he crossed the sitting-room -and went into the bedroom.</p> -<p>“Are you sure?” asked Francis.</p> -<p>“Didn’t I see it with my own eyes?” said -the girl impatiently. “Without the least -show of fight!” she added contemptuously. -She gathered her furs around her. “Do you -think I could get a taxi?” she asked.</p> -<p>But Francis was staring past her. -“Des.!”</p> -<p>There was such unbounded amazement in -his exclamation that, involuntarily, the girl -turned round. Desmond Okewood stood behind -them. And on the table before him lay -the ikon. In the doorway of the bedroom -appeared a little yellow-faced man muffled -up to the eyes in an ulster and scarf.</p> -<p>Desmond’s eyes twinkled. “Let me introduce -Professor Krilenko, the celebrated Russian -art connoisseur,” he said. “Although -he is crippled with lumbago he came roof-climbing -with me to-night to help me get the -better of old Clubfoot. There’s friendship -for you!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_84">84</div> -<p>The Professor bowed and groaned piteously, -snatching at his back. “What a -man!” he said.</p> -<p>Patricia Maxwell stared in silence at the -pair. But her eyes were softer.</p> -<p>Desmond turned to the Professor. “Tell -them about it!” he said.</p> -<p>Krilenko picked up the ikon. “Fate has -placed in your hands, Madame,” he said in -fluent English, “one of the most revered -treasures of the Russian Church, none other -than the miraculous ikon of Our Lady of -Smolensk, smuggled out of Russia at the -time of the Bolshevik Revolution to save it -from desecration at the hands of the Reds. -It is probably a thousand years old, but the -tradition is that it was painted by the -evangelist Luke himself.</p> -<p>“Major Okewood, who knows this man -Grundt, doubted whether religious or artistic -fervour had anything to do with his determination -to acquire the ikon. With a perspicacity -which I can only ascribe as astounding, -he insisted that there was something -about the picture which enhanced its artistic -or intrinsic value . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_85">85</div> -<p>So saying he turned the ikon over on its -face. Four screws loosely set held the stout -wooden backing of the frame. He removed -the screws and lifted out the back. In four -slots sunk in the wood four little grey metal -tubes were visible. Round one of them a -slip of paper was wrapped.</p> -<p>“He suggested that we should remove the -back,” the Professor resumed, “if we could -do so without damaging the ikon. We -scraped the back and at length laid bare the -screws. Their presence had been very skilfully -concealed first beneath a layer -of . . .”</p> -<p>The Russian was evidently, like most experts, -a prosy person, but imperiously Patricia -stopped him before he could launch -out into technicalities.</p> -<p>“What are those little bits of lead?” she -asked.</p> -<p>“Radium!” Desmond replied. “Translate -the letter, Krilenko!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_86">86</div> -<p>He detached the slip of paper that was -rolled about one of the cases and handed it to -the Professor.</p> -<blockquote> -<p>I, Vladimir Lemuroff [Krilenko read out], -Professor of Chemistry in the University of -Moscow, being in imminent danger of arrest by -the Tcheka [“the Extraordinary Commission of -the Soviet Government,” Krilenko explained], -have in the presence of Bishop Tchergeroff, -whose signature is here appended, concealed for -safe custody in the blessed ikon of Our Lady of -Smolensk the four grammes of radium, the property -of the Moscow Chemical Institute, which I -took with me in my flight to save them for science -from the ruthless vandalism of the wild beasts -who are destroying Holy Russia.</p> -<p><span class="jr">(Signed) <span class="sc">Lemuroff</span></span> -<span class="jr">(Witness) <span class="sc">Tchergeroff</span></span></p> -<p>Smolensk, 13/26, July, 1919</p> -</blockquote> -<p>“By Jove!” ejaculated Francis. “Four -grammes of radium! Let’s see!—the market -price stands somewhere about £12,000 -a gramme, I think. That makes these four -little tubes worth something like £50,000. -No wonder old Clubfoot wanted that picture, -Des.!”</p> -<p>“But,” remarked Patricia, perplexed, “I -<i>saw</i> you give the ikon to the man Grundt!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_87">87</div> -<p>Desmond laughed. “I had to finesse him,” -he said. “Old Clubfoot never lets the grass -grow under his feet, and I wanted to gain -time to get your ikon into a safe place before -he could seize it by force. Directly I found -out from Krilenko here that this was one of -the famous miraculous ikons, I knew, from -my experience of Russia, that thousands of -copies must be in existence, for most of the -ikons you find in Russian churches and -homes are copies of these wonder-working -pictures. Krilenko, who has been a perfect -trump all through, routed up a Russian pope -he knows who remembered that there was a -copy of the Madonna of Smolensk in one of -the Russian churches in London. It was -nice and grimy, as it had hung there for -years.</p> -<p>“Krilenko and the priest did the rest. My -intention was to hang up the copy in your -boudoir for Clubfoot to steal, for I was -virtually certain that your house would be -broken into to-night. But, when we were -scrambling over the roofs just now, I heard -old Grundt’s voice coming up through the -skylight and I just couldn’t resist the chance -of bluffing him. My word, I could hardly -keep my face straight!”</p> -<p>He glanced humorously at Patricia. She -held out her hand.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_88">88</div> -<p>“I feel just terribly!” she said. “I’m -sorry I was so rude! But, oh! what an -actor!”</p> -<p>Desmond grinned. “It wasn’t bad, was -it? Especially the pathetic bit about their -being three to one . . .”</p> -<p>They all laughed.</p> -<p>“In the mean time Grundt is off again!” -observed Francis ruefully.</p> -<p>“He’s a clever devil!” said Desmond with -real admiration in his voice. “He simply -bunged up the front door and walked out, -knowing that one minute’s grace would be -enough to allow him, lame as he is, to get -away in the London crowd. Directly you -opened the door I bolted down to the street. -But I knew it was too late. We’ve just got -to wait for him to come back . . .”</p> -<p>“He might have shot you!” remarked -Francis.</p> -<p>“Not he! Clubfoot knows that you can -commit almost any crime in London as long -as you act normally. But a shot would have -aroused the whole block. Besides, he’s a -single-minded person. To-day he was after -the ikon. Next time it may be you or me. -I don’t worry about losing his trail, Francis. -He’s coming back after us . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_89">89</div> -<p>He chuckled with infinite relish.</p> -<p>“Des.,” said his brother, “tell us the -joke!”</p> -<p>“Well,” Desmond replied slowly, “when -we were weighting that duplicate ikon, I -couldn’t resist slipping in a note for Clubfoot. -I was just thinking of his face when -he reads it!”</p> -<p>And he chuckled again.</p> -<p class="tb">By Patricia Maxwell’s direction the -radium, duly tested and found to be genuine, -was handed over to the Russian Refugees’ -Fund. The ikon of Our Lady of Smolensk -went to take the place of the copy in the Russian -church, where, night and day, a great -candle burns before it in memory of the -donor.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_90">90</div> -<p>As for Clubfoot, the evening traffic of -Saint James’s swallowed up him and his companions, -and the unremitting vigilance of the -Secret Service, assisted by Scotland Yard, -threw no light on their whereabouts. But, -two days after the encounter in his flat, Desmond -Okewood found in his mail a postcard, -unsigned, with this epigrammatic message:</p> -<p class="center"><i>A sense of humour is a dangerous thing!</i></p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_91">91</div> -<h2 id="c8"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER VII</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE UNSEEN MENACE</span></h2> -<p>It was about the time of the adventure -of the top flat which I am going to narrate -that I became aware of a remarkable -change in my friend, Desmond Okewood. -We were in the habit of meeting once or -twice a week either for lunch or for a game -of squash at the Bath Club. Now, Desmond -Okewood, as his Christian name suggests, -is, on the distaff side, Irish, and from his -mother’s race he has inherited not only the -intuition and reckless courage which have -carried him so far in his career, but also -that sublime indifference to anything like -“nerves” that is one of the outstanding -characteristics of the Irish.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_92">92</div> -<p>It was, therefore, with considerable surprise -that, about this time, I became aware -that my old friend was looking decidedly -under par. His face had a drawn look that I -did not like, and his eyes were haggard. I -should probably have set it down to a succession -of late nights had not old Erasmus -Wilkes, the psychoanalyst, who was lunching -at our table at the Club one morning, drawn -me aside in the smoke-room afterwards and -put the matter in an entirely different light.</p> -<p>“You’re a friend of Desmond Okewood’s, -aren’t you?” he asked me, and went on: -“Then get him to tell you what’s on his -mind. I’m not pryin’, young fellow, but I -have some experience of these cases. If your -pal doesn’t confide in some one . . .”</p> -<p>He shrugged his shoulders and was about -to turn away when I caught him by the sleeve.</p> -<p>“We’re old friends, Desmond and I,” I -said; “but there are some confidences one -has to wait for. And Okewood’s a reserved -beggar. It might help things, Doctor, if -you’d give me a hint as to what is the matter, -with him. He’ll never say a word unless I -give him a lead.”</p> -<p>Old Wilkes looked at me thoughtfully. -“It’s fear,” he said.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_93">93</div> -<p>I burst out laughing. “Rot!” I exclaimed. -“You’ve made a bloomer there, Doctor. -Fear! Why, Desmond Okewood doesn’t -know the meaning of the word!”</p> -<p>Wilkes shook his head dubiously. “He -looks like a man who goes in fear of his life,” -he answered gravely. “He’s got the wind up -about something. You ask him and you’ll -see that I’m right!”</p> -<p>“I’ll ask him like a shot,” I retorted, “but -I bet you’re wrong!”</p> -<p>And, in due course, I did ask Desmond -Okewood. But he, as I expected, laughed -my question off and protested that he had -never felt better in his life. But old Wilkes -was right, and it was Francis Okewood, as -he afterwards told me, in whom Desmond -ultimately confided.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_94">94</div> -<p>It happened in this way. Francis had had -to make a quick trip to America on business -connected with some property of his American -wife, and Desmond had gone down in his -car to meet his brother at Southampton. -Storms in the Atlantic had delayed the arrival -of the liner, and after they had cleared -the baggage through the customs, it was -close on midnight before they took the road -to drive to Desmond’s bungalow in Surrey. -Yet, belated as they were, Francis was quite -unable to prevail upon his brother to exceed -a modest twenty miles an hour, which, as -they dropped down a deep slope into the -sunken road that led past the front gate of -Desmond’s bungalow, fell to somewhere -about ten.</p> -<p>Before them the road, like a profound -black trench, wound its way down into the -dark night. The bright headlights of the -car showed the high hedges on either side -and, above them, the tall trees that bordered -the road swaying and tossing with the violence -of the storm. The driving-glass was a -blur of wet; the side curtains flapped and -banged and strained to the fury of the gale, -and again and again a smother of icy rain -beat on the face of Desmond at the wheel and -of his brother at his side.</p> -<p>“Push her along, Des., for the love o’ -Mike!” urged Francis for about the sixth -time that night. “This is worse than the -Atlantic. And I want to go to bed.”</p> -<p>“Awkward bit of road, this,” was Desmond’s -answer as, heedless of his brother’s -remarks, he changed down to second.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_95">95</div> -<p>“But, good Lord, what are you going to -meet at three o’clock in the morning? Open -her up and let’s get home!”</p> -<p>“We haven’t far to go now,” Desmond -replied shortly, and so, without further -speech, they came at length to their destination.</p> -<p>At the front door Desmond handed his -brother the latchkey and took the car round -to the back of the house. Francis crossed -the wide hall and went into the dining-room, -where a pleasant fire glowed redly on the -silver and crockery that decked the table.</p> -<p>Without waiting to remove his heavy -ulster, Francis Okewood switched on the -lights and, going to the sideboard, mixed -two stiff whiskey-and-sodas. He still had -his hand on the siphon when there came an -exclamation from the door, and the room -was plunged into darkness.</p> -<p>“Here . . .” he began in expostulation. -There was a click at the window, followed -by a grinding noise. Then the lights -went up again.</p> -<p>Desmond, a curiously tense expression on -his face, stood in the doorway.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_96">96</div> -<p>“Sorry, old man,” he said awkwardly. “I -noticed that the shutter wasn’t closed. -We . . . we don’t turn the lights up here -as a rule unless the shutter is down . . .”</p> -<p>Francis Okewood turned his eyes to the -French window, which, as he knew, opened -on the croquet lawn at the back. It was -now concealed by a close-fitting steel shutter -that reached to the floor. He raised his -eyebrows and looked at his brother as though -about to speak. But there was close communion -between these two. In all the years -they had spent together in the Secret Service -their one invariable rule was that if no explanation -were vouchsafed, none was asked -for. So Francis held his peace.</p> -<p>“You must be starved,” said Desmond. -“Sit down and have some supper. You’ve -got a drink? Good. There’s a hot-pot -here . . .” and he struck an electric plug -in the wall, connected with a chafing-dish on -the table.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_97">97</div> -<p>They ate in silence. The sympathy between -the two brothers was not of the kind -that requires expression in words. When -they had done, Desmond pushed a box of -cigars over to Francis and made up the fire. -Then only Francis spoke.</p> -<p>“And Clubfoot?” he said.</p> -<p>Desmond, his feet stretched out on the -fender, appeared to study the end of his -cigar. Scrutinizing his features between his -half-closed eyes, Francis noticed for the first -time how worn his brother looked. The lines -on his face and an air of restlessness, most -unusual in him, were unfailing symptoms -of prolonged strain.</p> -<p>“Vanished into the Ewigkeit. Since the -affair of the Russian ikon he has not been -seen. The Chief thinks he has left the -country. In fact, two days ago the old man -went off to Holland on a clue . . .”</p> -<p>“Went in person, eh? It must be a good -one . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond shook his head wearily. “Clubfoot’s -still here, I think,” he said. “He’s -lying low, that’s all. Waiting . . .”</p> -<p>“For what?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_98">98</div> -<p>“To get you, me, the Chief . . .” He -shrugged his shoulders, drew on his cigar. -“He’ll never quit while breath is in him, -Francis. We beat him in Germany, brought -him to the ground, the man of might and -mystery, as they used to call him. When he -reappeared so mysteriously in the Pacific, I -spoilt his little game, and since he started -this campaign of vengeance against us, we -have pretty well held our own. But though -we have the honours he means to win the -rubber. Let him try . . .” He sprang -to his feet. “It’s this cursed uncertainty that -. . . that wears one down.”</p> -<p>“Sit down, Des.,” said Francis gently. -“I’m going to break the rules and ask you -a question. Why did you bring us up from -Southampton to-night like an old woman -driving a governess cart? That six-cylinder -of yours used to do better than -twenty . . .!”</p> -<p>Desmond frowned moodily. “I’m . . . -I’m ashamed of myself,” he replied. “I’m -windy, Francis—have been ever since they -put a steel cable across the sunken road outside -the gate here.”</p> -<p>“Ah!” said Francis.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_99">99</div> -<p>“That bus of mine will touch sixty when -I open her out. By the mercy of God on -this particular evening, a black night like this -with no moon, I had slowed down to tighten -up the wind-screen. The glass suddenly -shattered, but I had time to duck. There -was a steel rope spanned at the height of my -head from hedge to hedge . . .”</p> -<p>“I see. Any clue as to who put it there?”</p> -<p>“Not a trace. The Chief was wild when -I told him. But it gave me the jumps. I -stopped Marjorie driving her two-seater and -sent her off with the boy to her father’s. -She didn’t want to go, poor girl, but, by -George, I couldn’t stand the strain of looking -after her as well as myself. And I know -that if this doesn’t finish quickly, she’ll come -back. You know what a loyal pal she is!”</p> -<p>Francis nodded. “And that contraption -of yours at the window?”</p> -<p>Desmond heaved himself out of his chair. -“Come here. I want to show you something.”</p> -<p>He led the way across to the sideboard -which stood against the wall opposite the -shuttered window.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_100">100</div> -<p>“Six nights ago,” he said, “I was mixing -myself a drink here just as you did to-night. -Suddenly there was a shiver of glass from -the window behind me, and something struck -the woodwork not an inch from my head. -After that I had steel shutters fitted to all -the windows. Look! You can see the slug!”</p> -<p>Projecting from the polished oak of the -Jacobean buffet was a grey, irregular mass -of metal.</p> -<p>“Air-gun, eh?” commented Francis. “And -a devilish heavy one, too, Des.!” He clapped -his brother affectionately on the shoulder. -“Well,” he remarked, “there are two of us -now. I shall have to try what trailing my -coat-tails in front of old Clubfoot will -do . . .”</p> -<p>“The only consoling thing about it,” said -his brother, “is that it shows that old Clubfoot -is afraid to come out in the open.”</p> -<p>Francis rubbed the bridge of his nose -meditatively. “I wonder! He may be planning -something fresh and wants to get you -out of the way. Has any attempt been made -on the Chief?”</p> -<p>“No!”</p> -<p>Francis Okewood shook his head. “Bad, -bad! Clubfoot has got him out of the -country, Des., and he’ll strike at once!”</p> -<p>They had not long to wait.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_101">101</div> -<h2 id="c9"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER VIII</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE TOP FLAT</span></h2> -<p>At eight o’clock, not many hours after -they had gone to bed, Desmond appeared -in his brother’s room.</p> -<p>“You’ve got to get dressed at once,” he -announced. “We’re off to London!”</p> -<p>“Oh, I say!” protested Francis, rubbing -sleepy eyes.</p> -<p>“One of the confidential typists at the Air -Ministry has been murdered . . .”</p> -<p>“But what . . . why . . .?”</p> -<p>“I know nothing about it except that Alec -Bannington, the Chief of the Air Staff, has -been on to me on the telephone in the most -fearful state. I promised to go up and see -him at once. You’re coming, too. Don’t -stop to bathe or shave, but come!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_102">102</div> -<p>There was no twenty miles an hour about -Desmond Okewood’s driving that morning. -The rain had stopped, the wind had dried -the sandy Surrey roads, and well within the -hour they had reached Onslow Square, where -the private house of Air-Marshal Sir Alexander -Bannington was situated.</p> -<p>He received them in a small book-lined -room on the ground floor, a florid, well-fed -dapper man, whose shining, good-natured -face was ill-suited to the look of care it now -wore.</p> -<p>“Ah, Okewood!” he cried. “Thank God, -you’re here. This your brother? How de -do, how de do?” Then he clasped his red -hands together in a gesture of anguish, -which at another time would have been grotesque. -“The most shockin’ affair! Miss -Bardale, my confidential typist, was found -dead—murdered—in her flat this morning. -It’s a ghastly business, ghastly, and, what is -more, unless you can do something it means -ruin for me!”</p> -<p>“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us the -whole story from the beginning, sir,” said -Desmond. “It would help,” he added, “if -you would omit nothing!”</p> -<p>Francis cocked a shrewdly admiring eye at -his brother.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_103">103</div> -<p>The large man sighed heavily. “I see you -have already grasped that it is a confidential -matter,” he remarked. “A State secret of the -utmost importance is, in fact, at stake. As -Chief of the Air Staff it has recently been my -duty to draw up for submission to the Cabinet -a comprehensive scheme for the aerial -defence of the Empire. For this purpose -I have attended many meetings with the -First Sea Lord and the Chief of the Imperial -General Staff, as well as more than one sitting -of the Cabinet. Upon the notes I made -on these discussions I based my report. I -finished it in the rough yesterday afternoon -. . .”</p> -<p>“And gave it to your typist to make a fair -copy? Is that it?” Desmond interposed.</p> -<p>“Exactly.”</p> -<p>“At the office?”</p> -<p>“I gave it to her at the Ministry at six -o’clock yesterday evening. She was to take -it home, type it out after dinner, and let me -have it back this morning. You will say, -gentlemen, that I was criminally careless in -thus letting a vitally important document -out of the office. But I thought . . . I -never imagined . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_104">104</div> -<p>“It might be better, sir,” Desmond remarked -soothingly, “if we got at the facts -first . . .”</p> -<p>“Quite so, quite so,” agreed Bannington. -“Well, first thing this morning the resident -clerk at the Ministry rang me up to say he -had heard from the police that Miss Bardale -had been murdered and her flat ransacked -. . .”</p> -<p>“And your report?”</p> -<p>“Gone!”</p> -<p>Desmond nodded. Then he asked: “How -was the murder discovered?”</p> -<p>“By Miss Bardale’s daily servant when she -arrived at the apartment about half-past six -this morning. Miss Bardale occupies a small -flat consisting of a sitting-room, bedroom, -bathroom, and kitchen on the top floor of a -house in Crewdwell Street, off Baker Street. -It appears that last night she went out to -dinner with a young man, a certain Captain -Reginald Hollingway, who brought her back -to the flat shortly after eight o’clock. When -Miss Bardale’s servant, a certain Mrs. -Crump, entered the flat this morning, she -found Miss Bardale lying dead in the sitting-room -and all the rooms in the wildest confusion . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_105">105</div> -<p>“How had she been killed?”</p> -<p>“Strangled. There are deep finger-marks -on her throat. There had obviously been a -desperate struggle, for the carpet is disarranged, -the remains of a vase lie scattered -about the floor, and a clock had been knocked -off the table. This clock, by the way, furnishes -an important clue, for it had stopped -at sixteen minutes past eight, showing at -what time the murder was committed.”</p> -<p>“And your report, you say, is not to be -found?”</p> -<p>Bannington shook his head dismally.</p> -<p>“From what the police tell me, Miss Bardale -was actually engaged in typing it out -when she was attacked. The body was discovered -lying beside her typewriter in the -sitting-room. She had apparently reached -the third page, for a sheet of paper bearing -that number—just that and nothing else—was -still in the typewriter. But the rest was -gone.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_106">106</div> -<p>“You mean”—Francis Okewood spoke for -the first time—“that the assassin simply -snatched your manuscript and as much of it -as Miss Bardale had copied out from where -it lay beside the typewriter?”</p> -<p>“I suppose so, yes!” sighed the large man.</p> -<p>“Then why was the flat ransacked?”</p> -<p>It was Desmond’s turn to glance his appreciation -at his brother.</p> -<p>“By George!” the Air Marshal exclaimed, -“I never thought of that. Then Hollingway -must have made hay in the rooms just to -mislead us . . .”</p> -<p>“Hollingway?” ejaculated the two brothers -simultaneously.</p> -<p>“I was coming to him. Captain Hollingway, -gentlemen, is undoubtedly the murderer. -He is a young man of good family with an -excellent war record, but since demobilization -has done no work. He is an exhibition -dancer at night-clubs, and is in grave money -difficulties, so the police inform me.”</p> -<p>“Is he under arrest?” asked Desmond.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_107">107</div> -<p>Bannington nodded. “The porter at -Crewdwell Street saw him leave the building -in a state of profound agitation about twenty-five -minutes past eight or shortly after the -murder was committed. The police arrested -him at his rooms this morning. The report, -of course, had disappeared. With a clear -start of twelve hours he had naturally passed -it on. Ah!”</p> -<p>With a despairing exclamation the fat man -dashed his fist into the palm of his hand and -began to pace the room.</p> -<p>“There was some party, then, who had an -interest in obtaining possession of this report?” -asked Desmond.</p> -<p>Sir Alexander Bannington stopped in his -stride and turned round. “Yes,” he said. -“But in the present state of international -politics it is hardly safe even to mention the -name of the Power in question.” He leant -forward and whispered something in Desmond’s -ear.</p> -<p>“Ah! . . . yes!” was that young man’s -brief comment.</p> -<p>The large man extended two shaking hands -towards his visitors. “You must get this -report back for me. If it’s a question of -money you can draw on me up to any reasonable -amount. Hollingway must be made to -talk. The police will give you every facility: -I have arranged that. I shall be here all day. -I am not going to the Ministry. I can’t -face them. Let me know to-day . . . -soon . . . how you get on . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_108">108</div> -<p>Desmond and his brother had risen to their -feet.</p> -<p>“One question before we leave you, sir,” -said Desmond. “Are you quite satisfied that -Miss Bardale was trustworthy?”</p> -<p>“Enid Bardale,” the Air Marshal replied -in a voice that shook with emotion, “gave -her life for her trust. She was a splendid -girl and absolutely invaluable to me in my -work. I trusted her as I would trust my own -daughter. As a matter of fact, she was a -relative of my dead wife. She may have -been indiscreet in the matter of her friendship -with this scoundrel Hollingway; but -there was no question of collusion between -them in this affair.”</p> -<p>They left him bowed over his desk, his face -sunk in his plump, red hands.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_109">109</div> -<p class="tb">The girl’s body lay on its side on the black -carpet of the little sitting-room, the face an -agonized mask in a frame of clustering -brown hair. The sight was not pleasant, and -they did not let their glance dwell on it, for, -after all, their immediate business was not -with the murdered woman. They looked -long enough, however, to notice the deep -bluish-black marks on the throat, indicative -of a ferocious grip.</p> -<p>The flat, skyed at the top of a big mansion -which had been converted into apartments, -was tiny. The hall led into the small sitting-room, -very gay with its primrose-yellow distempered -walls and orange lamp-shades, with -bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen beyond. -Detective-Inspector Farandol, of Scotland -Yard, who opened the door in answer to their -ring, showed them the rooms. One of the -most reliable and experienced officers of the -older school of detectives, both Desmond and -Francis had come across him more than once -in the course of their work in the Secret -Service. He was a self-opinionated person -with a profound contempt for amateurs.</p> -<p>“Fourth floor,” remarked the Inspector. -“Nothing above and nothing below, for this -is the only flat in the building. The other -floors are let off as offices, and after 6 <span class="sc">P.M.</span> -the rest of the house is empty except for the -porter who lives in the basement. No wonder -no sounds of the struggle were heard.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_110">110</div> -<p>That a most violent and desperate struggle -had gone forward was abundantly evident -from the state of the sitting-room, which, as -Farandol was careful to point out, was exactly -as the police had discovered it. The -black carpet was rucked up, and athwart it, -in a mess of crushed petals and broken glass, -the remains of a vase of daffodils was scattered. -A string of crystal beads which the -dead girl had been wearing had broken, and -the beads, together with a number of hairpins, -strewed the floor. The telltale clock, of -which Bannington had spoken, had been retrieved -and now stood upon the table beside -the typewriter—a small French travelling-clock -in a leather case. The glass was -broken. They noticed that, as Bannington -had said, the hands pointed at sixteen minutes -past eight.</p> -<p>Farandol tapped the clock. “This is what -is going to hang Master Hollingway,” he -remarked.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_111">111</div> -<p>“Humph,” commented Desmond. “That -won’t bring us what we’re looking for, Inspector. -I suppose you know what I mean?”</p> -<p>Farandol nodded impressively. “Aye. But -he’s got rid of it by now, mark my words. -He’s one of your deep ones is Master Hollingway. -He thought he’d draw a red herring -across the scent. Look at this room and the -bedroom beyond! He’s even upset the flour-bins -in the kitchen!”</p> -<p>The rooms were, indeed, in a state of remarkable -confusion. In the sitting-room the -sloping top of a little mahogany escritoire -had been burst open and every drawer pulled -out. The doors of the oaken buffet stood -wide, and its contents, crockery and table -linen, were in part spilled out on the carpet. -In the bedroom a high-boy had been rifled -and garments of all kinds flung about the -room. The very bed had been pulled out -from the wall, the bedclothes rolled up in a -ball and the mattress dragged on one side.</p> -<p>“And all the time,” Farandol resumed, -“this precious document was lying there beside -the typewriter! All this”—he waved a -contemptuous hand at the disordered room—“play-acting -is meant to bolster up his -story about the footstep on the back -stair . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_112">112</div> -<p>“He’s made a statement, then?” queried -Desmond. “I suppose he denies everything?”</p> -<p>“He’s the innocent babe all right, same -as they all are at the first go-off,” observed -Farandol, fingering his waxed moustache. -“Briefly, his story is that he met Miss Bardale -in Soho for dinner at a quarter to seven. -They had arranged to dine early because of -this work that the lady had to do. Hollingway -brought her back shortly after eight, -and, he says, escorted her upstairs as far as -the door of her flat because she was feeling -nervous. On the previous evening—according -to what this Hollingway says she told -him—she had heard a heavy step outside her -kitchen on the back stairs . . .”</p> -<p>“Half a minute,” Desmond interrupted; -“is there a back entrance? I didn’t notice -it . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_113">113</div> -<p>Without replying, the detective walked -through the bathroom into the kitchen and -there lifted a chintz curtain, disclosing a -door. He turned the handle and showed a -series of iron staircases leading down.</p> -<p>“It’s really a fire-escape,” he remarked, -“but apparently Miss Bardale used it as a -tradesman’s entrance to the flat.”</p> -<p>It was chilly outside and they soon re-entered -the flat where Farandol resumed his -story.</p> -<p>“Hollingway left her at the door of the -flat, he says. He declares he did not go in. -He remained talking to the girl for about -ten minutes at the top of the staircase outside -her flat, and then went down while she -went indoors. Webb, the porter, who is on -duty all day long in the hall below—he’s an -old man with a game leg and can’t get about -much—saw them come in soon after eight -and saw Hollingway leave alone about -twenty minutes later. He knows Hollingway -well, and states that he was struck by the -change in the young man’s manner. He was -pale and upset-like and made no reply when -Webb bade him good-night. As far as the -police is concerned, Major Okewood, the case -is as clear as daylight; but it doesn’t bring -you any nearer what you’re after; I quite -realize that.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_114">114</div> -<p>With an abstracted air Desmond, who was -poking about amid the confusion of the -sitting-room, nodded.</p> -<p>“Does Hollingway attempt to account for -his agitation?” Francis said to Farandol.</p> -<p>“Oh, rather!” The detective replied. -“He’s got it all pat. Says he was in love -with the girl, has been for years, and last -night, when he again asked her to marry him, -she turned him down good and hard, told -him that a professional dancer was no good -to her as a husband and all the rest of it. -He tells it all very well,” the Inspector -added, musingly. He picked up his hat and -gloves. “They’ll be coming along presently -to take the body to the mortuary,” he said. -“I’m leaving one of my men to stand by. -I shall be at the Yard all the morning if I can -be of any assistance, gentlemen . . .”</p> -<p>“Right!” Desmond replied. “I’ll probably -be telephoning you, Inspector. I should -rather like to have a word with this porter -fellow, what’s his name—ah, yes, Webb. -Send him up, would you?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_115">115</div> -<p>Farandol laughed. “He’s a proper thickhead,” -he observed. “That dense, you -couldn’t hammer a tenpenny nail into his -skull without blunting it. I’ll send him up!”</p> -<p>“Pompous ass!” commented Francis as the -Inspector shut the front door behind him.</p> -<p>Then he swung round sharply. Desmond -had called to him in a tense voice. His -brother stood behind him holding a torn envelope -in his hand. He thrust it, and with -it a folded letter, at Francis.</p> -<p>“Look at that!” he exclaimed.</p> -<p>The envelope was addressed, in what -seemed to be a woman’s hand, to Miss Enid -Bardale, Flat 7, 31, Crewdwell Street, W.<span class="sc">I.</span> -The letter, written from an address at Saint -John’s Wood, and signed “Your affectionate -Mother, M. Bardale,” was to remind “Dearest -E.” that she was expected to dinner on the -following Saturday at seven-thirty.</p> -<p>“I don’t see . . .” Francis began.</p> -<p>“The postmark, man, the postmark!” cried -Desmond.</p> -<p>Francis turned to the envelope again. The -postmark was unusually clear. It read:</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_116">116</div> -<div class="img"> -<img src="images/p16.jpg" alt="ST JOHN’S WOOD NW8, 6 PM 23 MAR 1923" width="400" height="396" /> -</div> -<p>“Yesterday’s date!” said Francis.</p> -<p>“I found that letter in the drawer of the -typewriting table. It was posted at Saint -John’s Wood before six o’clock yesterday -evening,” Desmond exclaimed emphatically.</p> -<p>“It was, therefore, delivered here by the -last post. Now what time is the last delivery -in London?”</p> -<p>“Nine o’clock . . .” began Francis. -Then broke off. “By George, Des.,” he said -slowly. “I take my hat off to you. You can -give us all points. Of course, this letter -knocks the bottom out of old Farandol’s -theory. The girl was alone in the flat, therefore -to take this letter from the postman she -must have been alive at 9 <span class="sc">P.M.</span>, therefore the -murder did not take place while Hollingway -was here, that is to say, before eight-twenty. -Unless Hollingway came back . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_117">117</div> -<p>“That,” said his brother, “Webb, the porter, -must tell us. Here he is, I think!”</p> -<p>Webb was a forlorn-looking old man with -a shining bald pate and a haggard face intersected -with blue veins.</p> -<p>“Come in, Webb,” said Desmond, advancing -to the front hall to meet him. “I want -you to answer one or two questions. What -time did Captain Hollingway leave here last -night?”</p> -<p>“Captain ’Ollingway?” queried the old -man.</p> -<p>“Yes, the gentleman that brought Miss -Bardale home.”</p> -<p>The old man appeared to think. “It wor -about twenty-five minutes past h’eight, -Mister!”</p> -<p>“How do you know the time so exactly?” -demanded Desmond.</p> -<p>Old Webb cast him a sly look. “’Cos for -why from where I sets in the front ’all I kin -’ear the clock on Saint Jude’s strike. The -quarter ’adn’t long gorn and the ’arf ’adn’t -struck w’en the Capting come out. ‘Wish -you good-night, Capting,’ I sez . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_118">118</div> -<p>“But why should you have noted the time -so carefully?” Desmond broke in impatiently.</p> -<p>Old Webb’s rheumy eyes puckered up as -a cunning grin slowly broke out over his face.</p> -<p>“I was a-waitin’ for my supper-beer,” he -replied. “The gal brings it every night at -’arf-past h’eight!”</p> -<p>Desmond smiled. “I see!” he said.</p> -<p>“Were you on duty in the hall all the -evening?” he asked.</p> -<p>“I wor, sir, till midnight, w’en I locks up, -same as allus!”</p> -<p>“And you never left the hall?”</p> -<p>“No, sir!”</p> -<p>“Did Captain Hollingway come back?”</p> -<p>“No, sir!”</p> -<p>“You’re sure?”</p> -<p>“There worn’t nobody come the whole -dratted evenin’ arter ’im, only the pos’man!”</p> -<p>“Oh, the postman came eh? At what -time?”</p> -<p>“Round about nine o’clock or a bit arter!”</p> -<p>“Do you take the letters up or does he?”</p> -<p>“’E do! I can’t get around much along -o’ my bad leg!”</p> -<p>“Do you know if there were any letters for -Miss Bardale?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_119">119</div> -<p>“I dunno nothink about that!”</p> -<p>“Did the postman say anything?”</p> -<p>“’E wor put out ’cos, ’e said, there wor but -the one letter and ’e ’ad to carry it to the -very top!”</p> -<p>“To Miss Bardale’s, you mean?”</p> -<p>The old man shot his questioner a crafty -glance. “’E didn’t say nuthin’ about <i>’er</i>!”</p> -<p>“How long was he up there?”</p> -<p>“Not above a minute or so, Mister. ’E’s -a spry one for the stairs, is our postman!”</p> -<p>Desmond made a movement of impatience.</p> -<p>“Did you tell Inspector Farandol about the -postman calling?”</p> -<p>“No!”</p> -<p>“Why not?”</p> -<p>“’Cos ’e never arst me!”</p> -<p>“And now, old boy,” said Desmond to his -brother when, with some difficulty, they had -got rid of the ancient janitor, “let’s look at -the facts. We’ve advanced things by half -an hour. Hollingway is eliminated; the postman -is eliminated, for we know that he was -in the building only for a minute or two -altogether. No one crossed the front hall -downstairs after the postman’s departure, -and at midnight the front door was shut. -We therefore come back to our only other -indication . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_120">120</div> -<p>“The heavy footstep that Miss Bardale -heard on the back stairs on the previous -evening?”</p> -<p>“Just so. I was wondering whether that -point had struck you. We cannot assume -that the murderer was hidden in the flat -waiting for Miss Bardale’s arrival. He evidently -followed the couple back from dinner, -for he was sufficiently acquainted with their -movements to make this rather able attempt -to fix the guilt on Hollingway. You have -seen the front staircase: there is nowhere -to hide even a cat. And the floors below are -untenanted after six o’clock. We return, -therefore, to the back stairs.</p> -<p>“Back doors are usually kept locked. Not -only is the back door in this flat, tenanted by -a girl living alone, open, but the key is missing. -There are no marks of violence on the -lock outside: consequently, if the murderer -entered by that way, he must have used a -key; therefore he must be familiar with his -surroundings.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_121">121</div> -<p>“Did Miss Bardale open in person the last -letter she was destined to receive in this life, -or did the murderer, his ghastly job accomplished, -do so? I think that Miss Bardale -opened it, for I found it placed on the top -of a neat pile of correspondence in the drawer -of her typewriting table, where she was obviously -accustomed to keep her letters. -Therefore, at nine o’clock, or thereabouts, she -was alive. When was she murdered? I will -tell you . . .”</p> -<p>So saying, he lifted from the table the -little travelling-clock in its case of morocco -leather, lifted it out of the case, a dainty -thing of glass and gilding, and handed it to -Francis.</p> -<p>In the panel at the top was a small metal -knob.</p> -<p>“This is not the original case of the clock,” -said Desmond. “You see, it is a little too -large for it. The new case does not contain -the spring usually found to actuate the knob -of the repeater . . .”</p> -<p>“The repeater?” exclaimed Francis. “The -repeater, Des.?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_122">122</div> -<p>And he pressed the knob. There was a -little whirr and a clear bell chimed nine times, -then, on another note, the clock struck thrice.</p> -<p>“Nine-forty-five,” said Desmond, “showing -conclusively that Miss Bardale was -murdered, not between eight and eight -twenty, but between nine-forty-five and ten -o’clock. That case, concealing the repeater -mechanism, escaped the notice of the murderer -who set the hands back, as it escaped -Farandol’s. Neither, of course, was looking -for anything of the kind. What we have -got to do now is to find out who was on the -back stairs outside Miss Bardale’s flat between -nine-thirty and ten last night, and, -maybe, the night before as well. Whoever -it was, he came from this or one of the neighbouring -houses . . .”</p> -<p>“How do you know that?”</p> -<p>“If you will look out from the back door -you will see that this house and the houses -on either side are all furnished with these -fire-staircases descending to a common well -or court. Since we know that the murderer -did not enter from the front, he must have -come in from the back, either from this -house or from one of the adjacent houses. -Will you go off and explore the possibilities -of this house and its neighbours? I’m staying -on here for a bit. I’ll take a small bet -that the murderer can’t be far off . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_123">123</div> -<p>“I’ll go,” said Francis, grabbing his hat; -“but you’ll lose your money. He’s over the -hills and far away with Bannington’s report -by this time, whoever he is!”</p> -<p>“I wonder!” said Desmond enigmatically.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_124">124</div> -<h2 id="c10"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER IX</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE FOOTSTEP IN THE DARK</span></h2> -<p>At ten minutes to eight that evening -there came the rattle of nails on the -glass panels of the door of Flat 7. Desmond -opened and Francis darted in. He caught -his brother’s arm.</p> -<p>“Clubfoot!” he gasped.</p> -<p>Swiftly Desmond laid his finger on his -lips. He turned and closed the door leading -from the hall into the little sitting-room.</p> -<p>“One of Farandol’s men is inside,” he explained. -“I’ve been staving him off all the -afternoon, as I’m particularly anxious, for -the moment, to keep the police out of this—at -any rate, until I’ve heard your story!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_125">125</div> -<p>Francis nodded understandingly. “For a -week,” he said, “a lame man, a foreigner with -a misshapen foot, has been a patient in the -nursing-home which occupies the second, -third, and fourth floors of the house next -door to this. He calls himself Dr. Deinwitz, -a Czecho-Slovak lawyer, and was brought -here by his son, a fair young man with a scar -on his face. The son represented that his -father was suffering from acute neurasthenia -and was in need of absolute rest and quiet. -He made it a stipulation that his father’s -presence should be kept a secret, otherwise, he -said, he would be pestered to death by -visitors. In order to be quiet, the son insisted -that his father should have a room at -the back on the top floor.”</p> -<p>Desmond opened and clenched his hand. -“Is he still there?” he asked tensely.</p> -<p>Francis shook his head despondently. “He -went out for the first time to-day to go to -the City on business. He has kept his room -on, but I doubt—”</p> -<p>“He’s kept his room on?” Desmond almost -shouted. “Then all is not lost. Wait here -a second!”</p> -<p>He darted away, and presently Francis -heard him telephoning in one of the inner -rooms.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_126">126</div> -<p>“You’ve no idea what a day I’ve had,” -said Francis when his brother came back. -“Professional secrecy is a tremendously effective -cover against indiscreet inquiries. -Young Deinwitz, in whom, of course, I recognized -Clubfoot’s aide, Heinrich, seems -to have subtly conveyed to the fellow who -runs this nursing-home that his father was -on the verge of lunacy. Naturally the matron -and all of them shut up like oysters -when I came barging in with direct questions -at the front door. I had to get a letter of -introduction from a pal of mine in Harley -Street before I finally got into the place. -I flatter myself I was rather good as a nerve -specialist from Sheffield with a rich patient -to ‘place’ . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond laughed happily. “Disguise, -eh?”</p> -<p>“Only cheek pads and a toupet! But what -are you looking so cheerful about? Old Clubfoot -has given us the slip properly this -time . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond slipped his arm in his brother’s. -“Come inside and meet Sergeant Rushbrooke,” -he said.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_127">127</div> -<p>Francis found that the girl’s body had been -taken away, but otherwise no attempt had -been made to repair the disorder of the -rooms. In an armchair in the sitting-room -was a fresh-faced, blue-eyed young man -whom Desmond introduced as Sergeant -Rushbrooke.</p> -<p>A bell pealed through the flat.</p> -<p>“Bannington!” announced Desmond, and -hurried to the front door.</p> -<p>“I got your telephone message,” said the -Air Marshal, coming into the sitting-room. -“Have you any news for me, Okewood? -My God, this suspense is awful!”</p> -<p>He held out two trembling hands towards -the young man. Desmond was fumbling in -the inside pocket of his coat. He drew forth -a thick wad of blue foolscap, folded twice -across, which he handed to his visitor.</p> -<p>Bannington snatched at it and, with an -eagerness that was almost painful to behold, -unfolded it, scrutinized it.</p> -<p>“By the Lord! You’ve saved me!” he -gasped and dropped limply into a chair. -“How can I ever thank you, Okewood? -Man alive, it’s a miracle! Tell me all about -it!”</p> -<p>“Des.!” exclaimed Francis.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_128">128</div> -<p>Sergeant Rushbrooke opened wide his blue -eyes. “You didn’t say anything about this -to me, sir,” he observed in rather a ruffled -tone.</p> -<p>“You won’t be kept in suspense much -longer, Sergeant,” said Desmond, and -glanced at his watch.</p> -<p>He turned to the Air Marshal. “This was -the way of it, sir,” he said. “Last night -Miss Bardale was seated there at her typewriter -typing out your report with her back -to the bedroom door. The time was somewhere -about ten o’clock. Suddenly from behind -her she hears a noise in the kitchen. -Her first thought is not for herself, but for -her duty to you. She snatches up her papers—your -original and the two pages of the -fair copy she had made—and puts them in -a place of safety before she turns to meet -her murderer. When she sees his face, she -attempts to flee back into the sitting-room. -But, before she can escape, he is on her, -choking out her life with his great hairy -hands.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_129">129</div> -<p>“Then follows the frantic search to find -what he had committed murder to discover, a -search frantic, yet methodical in its way, -room by room, as you may see. It was the -circumstance that he had prolonged the -search to the very kitchen that made me -think he had possibly not achieved his object. -So I took up the hunt where he had left off -and . . .”</p> -<p>He produced from a drawer in the table a -filmy mass of pink edged with lace.</p> -<p>“She had rolled your papers up in her -nightdress and put it back under the pillow. -I found it wedged between the bed and the -wall!”</p> -<p>Sir Alexander Bannington blew his nose -violently. “But who was the murderer?” he -asked.</p> -<p>Again Desmond consulted his watch. “I -may be able to answer that question later,” -he said. “For the moment the sooner you -get that report in a place of safety the better, -sir.”</p> -<p>“I’m inclined to agree with you,” replied -Bannington. “Are you and your brother -coming along?”</p> -<p>Desmond shook his head. “My work isn’t -finished yet! But Francis will escort you -back to the Air Ministry . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_130">130</div> -<p>“No need, I assure you,” said Bannington. -“I have my car outside.”</p> -<p>“Believe me,” Desmond urged, “it would -be better for you to have an escort!”</p> -<p>Francis drew his brother aside. “It’s no -use trying to get me out of the way, Des.,” -he told him. “You’ve got something up your -sleeve. Now, haven’t you?”</p> -<p>He was smiling, but his brother remained -serious.</p> -<p>“The important thing,” Desmond said, “is -to get that report away quickly. Bannington -has no idea of the danger he runs. -When you’ve seen his memorandum into the -safe, come back here by all means. If I’m -not here I’ll be at the Yard. I may have -some news for you . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond leaned forward and whispered in -his brother’s ear.</p> -<p>Francis started. Then he said: “But I -can’t leave you to face it alone!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_131">131</div> -<p>“I shan’t be alone,” Desmond answered. -“Sergeant Rushbrooke is here to keep me -company, and I have asked the Yard to send -me down half a dozen men. Farandol was -not there when I telephoned just now, but -his substitute promised to send at once. -They should be here by this. If you should -meet them below, send the man in charge -up to me, will you?”</p> -<p>“Well, Okewood, are you ready?” Bannington -came out of the hall with his hat on -his head. He held out his hand to Desmond.</p> -<p>“If ever I can show my gratitude for what -you have done for me this night,” he said -with deep feeling, “believe me I will!”</p> -<p>“It’s all in the day’s work,” said Desmond -as he accompanied them to the door. “Good-bye.”</p> -<p>“<i>Au revoir!</i>” corrected Francis smilingly -as he followed the Air Marshal out.</p> -<p>For full five minutes after they had gone, -Desmond remained standing in the hall, sunk -in his thoughts. He was interrupted by -Sergeant Rushbrooke.</p> -<p>“Beg pardon, sir!” said the plain-clothes -man, “but I believe there’s some one on the -stairs outside!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_132">132</div> -<p>Like a flash Desmond’s hand shot out at -the electric-light switch at the door of the -sitting-room. There was a click and the -room was plunged in darkness. Desmond -pulled out an automatic.</p> -<p>“Have your gun ready!” he whispered to -the detective. “Keep very quiet, but be prepared -to shoot!”</p> -<p class="tb">The flat was in complete darkness. Before -them, as they crouched behind the table, -they saw the dim outline of the bedroom -door. Beyond, where the kitchen lay, was -blackness.</p> -<p>Very faintly, from the obscurity before -them, a key rattled. Presently the cold night -air softly brushed their faces. At the end -of the flat against a background of silver -moonlight a huge figure bulked immensely. -A door closed softly and darkness fell again.</p> -<p>A heavy limping sound approached them; -a step and a stump, a step and a stump, -muted but audible. They could hear the -floor boards straining as beneath some immense -weight.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_133">133</div> -<p>And now that uncouth shape loomed gigantic -in the doorway of the sitting-room. -Its breadth seemed to stretch from jamb to -jamb. Some movement must have betrayed -their presence, for there came the rasp of -a harsh ejaculation. Then the room was -flooded with light and Desmond’s voice rang -out: “If you move I’ll shoot!”</p> -<p>It was Grundt, bareheaded, in the clothes -of rusty black he always affected, his right -hand, plumed with black hair on the back, -grasping his rubber-shod crutch-stick. He -had made a half-turn in the doorway, and -now twisted his head round to stare at his -challenger, his burning eyes blazing defiance, -his cruel, fleshy lips pursed up in a contemptuous -sneer.</p> -<p>“You can put your hands up, Herr Doktor!” -said Desmond. “Quickly, please, or -there might be an accident! And you can -drop your stick!”</p> -<p>The giant cripple faced his aggressors -squarely. He hesitated for an instant, then, -with an almost imperceptible shrug of his -shoulders, he slowly raised his hands, his -stick rattling to the floor.</p> -<p>“Sergeant, would you mind . . .?” Desmond -remarked in a colloquial tone.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_134">134</div> -<p>Sergeant Rushbrooke crossed to the doorway -and, with a dexterity born of long experience, -ran his fingers lightly over the -big man’s pockets, not forgetting, you may -be sure, the inside breast pocket, where your -professional gunman mostly carries his -weapon, or the armholes of the waistcoat, -very handy for concealing a knife.</p> -<p>“He’s not armed, sir,” he reported.</p> -<p>Desmond smiled sardonically. “You’re -getting careless, Grundt! A few years ago -you would not have been taken off your -guard like this!”</p> -<p>But Grundt said no word.</p> -<p>“Your psychological powers are failing, -too, my dear Doctor,” Desmond continued. -“A woman’s wit defeated you. Celibacy has -its drawbacks. If you had been a married -man, now, you would have known that -women have as great a predilection for curious -hiding-places as a magpie!”</p> -<p>For the first time Clubfoot spoke. “You -again!” he said in a voice thick with anger. -“Always you!” His dark eyes were hot with -passion and they saw the veins swell knot-like -at his temples. “You are beginning to -incommode me, Okewood. I must advise -you to be careful!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_135">135</div> -<p>Desmond laughed. “If I hadn’t been careful -during the last few weeks, I shouldn’t -be here to-day,” he said. “You know that -well enough, Grundt. However, you’re not -going to do any more harm. Sergeant Rushbrooke!”</p> -<p>“Sir?”</p> -<p>“Go down and see if those police I asked -for are there. Explain to the man in charge -that it is essential that no one should leave -this house or the houses on either side for the -present, and ask him to be good enough to -step up here to me. When you have done -that, take a man with you and go to the -nursing-home next door and inquire whether -young Mr. Deinwitz is there. If he is, invite -him to accompany you to Scotland Yard. If -he won’t come, kidnap him! Understand?”</p> -<p>“Sir!” said the Sergeant who had learnt -discipline in the Brigade of Guards. He -seemed to hesitate. “Will <i>you</i> be all right, -sir?” he asked.</p> -<p>“Don’t you worry about me,” Desmond -smiled. “Dr. Grundt and I are old friends! -We shall enjoy a tête-à-tête!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_136">136</div> -<p>On that Rushbrooke clattered off and Desmond -turned to Clubfoot again. Grundt -seemed to have regained all his saturnine -good-humour.</p> -<p>“You’ll hang for this job, my friend!” -Desmond observed pleasantly.</p> -<p>Grundt bared his strong yellow teeth in a -smile and made a little bow. “You have, of -course, all necessary evidence against me. -Your English justice, if I remember rightly, -is exacting on this point.”</p> -<p>Unwittingly Desmond flashed an inquiring -glance at him.</p> -<p>The cripple was quick to notice it and -chuckled. “My dear Okewood,” he remarked -suavely, “you are too deliciously -naïve. Lieber Freund, do you really imagine -you will ever secure the conviction of a poor -neurastheniac for murder simply because, -on the night after the tragedy, attracted by -the light and the sound of voices, he penetrated -the scene of the crime?”</p> -<p>“The key, man, the key!” Desmond broke -in.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_137">137</div> -<p>“The key of my back door opens the back -door of this flat,” was the rejoinder. A -large key dropped on the carpet at Desmond’s -feet. “Try it and see!”</p> -<p>But now an interruption came. There -was a ring at the front door. Three men in -plain clothes appeared.</p> -<p>“From Mr. Farandol, sir,” said the foremost -of the trio, a short, thick-set fellow -with a dark moustache. “The Inspector was -called away to a big case at Colchester. Our -orders are to take the party to the Yard. -We’ve a car below if you’d care to come with -us.”</p> -<p>Desmond gave a sigh of relief. “By -George!” he said, “I certainly will!” The -perspiration glittered on his forehead. “I -shan’t feel happy till you’ve got him safe -under lock and key. Will you handcuff our -friend? I’m taking no chances!”</p> -<p>The spokesman of the plain-clothes men, -who gave his name as Sergeant Mackay, produced -a pair of handcuffs and clasped them -about Grundt’s hairy wrists. Clubfoot’s -face was an impassive mask; but his eyes -glinted dangerously.</p> -<p>They took him out of the flat and descended -the stairs in a little procession.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_138">138</div> -<p>A closed limousine stood at the door. -They made Grundt get inside, and the sergeant -shared the back seat with him; Desmond -and one plain-clothes man sat opposite -and the other man got up beside the driver.</p> -<p class="tb">It was a raw wet night. Baker Street was -a nocturne of black and yellow. The car -drove very fast, so fast, indeed, that Desmond -drew the sergeant’s attention to it.</p> -<p>“Tap on the glass, sir,” said Mackay, -“and tell the driver to slow down a bit.”</p> -<p>Desmond turned half round. At that -moment a damp cloth was clapped on to his -face. He sprang up in a desperate effort to -evade it, for on the instant his nostrils had -detected the sickly odour of chloroform. -His head struck the roof of the car a violent -blow; the pressure on his nose and mouth -increased: he strove to breathe and felt that -sickening, cloying sweetness drawn up into -his lungs. He tried to cry out as his senses -slipped away; he sought to struggle as a -numbing warmth stole over his limbs. The -car seemed full of faces and eyes that stared -. . . especially one face, grey and -bloated with cruel, fleshy lips that grinned -and grinned . . .</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_139">139</div> -<p>There was a click as Grundt’s handcuffs -fell apart. The big cripple chuckled and -tapped Sergeant Mackay on the knee.</p> -<p>“And the other?” he asked softly.</p> -<p>“The one that came down just now? -Heinrich settled him. The key of the office -below came in very useful, Herr Doktor! -The body is lying there now!”</p> -<p>Clubfoot purred his appreciation.</p> -<p>“Gut gemacht, Max, mein Junger!” he -said.</p> -<p>The car sped on through the dripping -night.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_140">140</div> -<h2 id="c11"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER X</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">IN WHICH DESMOND OKEWOOD FINDS CLUBFOOT IN STRANGE COMPANY</span></h2> -<p>“You’ve got this spy, Okewood, under -lock and key, Herr Doktor?”</p> -<p>The room was sparely lighted by a single -reading-lamp with a green shade, and its -sickly rays seemed to heighten the pallor of -the speaker’s face. He was a round-shouldered -man whose high cheek-bones and -slanting eyes betrayed his Mongol blood even -as his snuffling German jargon revealed his -race. He had a rabbit mouth, the upper lip -drawn up over long yellow teeth, and the -weakness of his chin was in part hidden by -a ragged fringe of reddish beard. He sat at -the desk, his whole body atwitch with some -nervous tic as he gnawed restlessly at his -fingers. In the burly apelike figure that -confronted him, with the relentless eyes beneath -their tufted brows, the cruel, savage -mouth and the heavy jowl, any one closely -acquainted with the dark ways of international -espionage would have recognized -the redoubtable Dr. Grundt, better known as -The Man with the Clubfoot.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_141">141</div> -<p>Slowly Grundt opened and shut his great -hairy hand.</p> -<p>“I’ve got him—<i>there</i>, Mandelstamm!” he -said in a voice that purred with exultation. -“We are old, we are exiled; but we are not -a back number yet. In this last affair of -Sir Alexander Bannington’s report in which, -I confess, my customary good fortune failed -me, this cursed Okewood had odds of three to -one on his side. He thought he had me -cornered; but now he, not old Clubfoot, sits -in the trap.”</p> -<p>He chuckled savagely with a sound that -was almost a snarl.</p> -<p>“I think,” he added, “that our young -friend will not altogether relish his prospects -when he awakes from his long sleep!”</p> -<p>“You drugged him, hein?” asked the Jew. -There was something vulpine in the way he -lifted his long aquiline nose.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_142">142</div> -<p>Clubfoot guffawed. “The neatest trick! -Max, whose performance as a Scotland Yard -detective was erstklassig—kolossal!—gave -him a whiff of chloroform just to keep him -quiet! And this poor Okewood believed he -was taking me off to Scotland Yard! Donnerwetter!”</p> -<p>He slapped his great thigh and laughed -uproariously. His companion’s mouth -twitched upwards at the corners displaying -another inch or two of dripping, yellow -fangs. It was like a fox’s grin if such a -phenomenon of natural history can be imagined.</p> -<p>“The Soviets find that spies, like meat, -don’t keep!” he softly lisped. “Why didn’t -you kill him, Herr Doktor?”</p> -<p>“Perhaps,” Grundt answered slowly, “because -I have other uses in view for our -enterprising young friend!”</p> -<p>Mandelstamm leant forward swiftly. -“Also doch!” he ejaculated.</p> -<p>“What Clubfoot promises he accomplishes,” -said Grundt, raising his voice menacingly.</p> -<p>“Of course, of course,” hastily agreed -<i>Tavarish</i> Mandelstamm, and slyly added: -“Only you didn’t secure the Bannington report, -did you, Herr Doktor?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_143">143</div> -<p>The blood slowly mounted in the other’s -swarthy face. “A mere miscalculation, my -friend! It was a trifling matter, anyhow, -and I have never been able to interest myself -in bagatelles. But this commission -of yours . . .” He glanced over -his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Do -you realize the task you’ve set me? Nein, -nicht wahr? Would it surprise you to learn -that within the past week the Foreign Office -has changed its codes? While the new ones -are being revised they are employing, for -Most Secret despatches, code 3A of the -Secret Service. You didn’t know that, did -you? Come closer! Hitherto, the working -of code 3A has been known to three persons -only—to the Chief of the British Secret Service, -to his confidential ciphering clerk, and”—he -dropped his voice to a whisper—“to -Major Desmond Okewood! . . .”</p> -<p>“Ach nein!” exclaimed the Russian admiringly, -cracking his knuckles. “With that -draft treaty in our hands . . .”</p> -<p>“<i>P-sst!</i>” warned Grundt, pointing at the -door.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_144">144</div> -<p>A broad-shouldered man with a heavy -dark moustache stood on the threshold of -the room.</p> -<p>“What is it, Max?” asked Grundt.</p> -<p>“The Englishman is coming round, Herr -Doktor!”</p> -<p>Clubfoot looked at his watch. “Midnight!” -he said. “You did your work thoroughly, -Max!”</p> -<p>“One does what one can, Herr Doktor!”</p> -<p>“You and Heinrich will take it in turns to -guard the Englishman throughout the night. -You can give him food. But watch him, he’s -slippery. If he escapes . . .” He broke -off and glared at the other. “Go now and remember -what I say!”</p> -<p>Grundt turned to the Russian. “The Constantinople -courier is expected to leave -Calais for Dover by the afternoon boat. -Everything is prepared. If all goes well he -should be here soon after dark. Sleep well, -Mandelstamm! The draft treaty will be in -your hands by to-night!”</p> -<p>Limping heavily with his huge misshapen -foot, he hobbled briskly from the room.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_145">145</div> -<p class="tb">Desmond Okewood was emerging painfully -from a long, incoherent dream. He -found his eyes fixed on an electric bulb caged -in steel bars, and set in the ceiling high above -his head. As he gazed, the light seemed to -come and go, to appear and vanish -again . . .</p> -<p>And then, with a jerk, he was fully conscious. -With a pang the memory of the -night came rushing back. The shame of his -position almost overwhelmed him. To think -that he, Desmond Okewood, had been deceived -by the common crooks’ trick of dressing -up confederates as detectives!</p> -<p>He looked about him. He was lying on a -couch in a bare and lofty room. Heavy -oaken shutters, secured with bars of iron -solidly padlocked, excluded every vestige of -daylight. He had no idea where he was or -what the time of day might be. When he -looked for his watch, he found that his -pockets had been emptied.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_146">146</div> -<p>The house was wrapped in silence. Not a -sound came to him from without. He tried -to review the situation. His position was -desperate. Clubfoot would not spare him. -This time he was doomed beyond hope of -escape. A train of odd incidents from his -long battle of wits with the master spy came -crowding into his aching head . . .</p> -<p>Still drowsy from the drug, he must have -dropped off to sleep, for when next he opened -his eyes it was to find some one shaking his -arm. A fair-haired youth stood beside the -couch, his rather crafty face barred by a -long white scar. Desmond recognized Heinrich, -Clubfoot’s acolyte in many an exploit.</p> -<p>On the table stood a tray decked for a -meal.</p> -<p>“Anything you want you can have,” said -Heinrich, “as long as it doesn’t require cutting -with a knife. I’ve brought you some -minced chicken and a whiskey-and-soda -. . .”</p> -<p>“Where am I?” asked Desmond.</p> -<p>“My instructions,” retorted the youth -with military precision, “are to feed you. -Nothing more. I shall return in half an hour -for the tray . . .”</p> -<p>“Can’t I have a wash?” demanded Desmond.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_147">147</div> -<p>The youth pointed to an oaken cabinet in -the corner. “You will find all you require -there!” he said. Then he left the room.</p> -<p>Hot water stood ready in a brass jug. -After he had washed and eaten, Desmond -felt his strength returning. When Heinrich -came to fetch the tray, he brought a cup of -coffee and a box of cigarettes.</p> -<p>“Quite a prison de luxe!” remarked Desmond -brightly.</p> -<p>“My orders are to make you comfortable!” -was the non-committal reply.</p> -<p>Each time the door opened, Desmond -noticed that a light burnt in the corridor. -He assumed, therefore, that it must be -evening. Consequently he must have slept -almost the round of the clock. The hours -dragged interminably on. He paced up and -down the room, smoking cigarettes, busy -with his thoughts. What had become of -Clubfoot? What was he waiting for? Why -didn’t he come in and finish it?</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_148">148</div> -<p>Slowly the numbing silence of the house, -the absence of any indication of time, the -artificial light, began to get on Desmond -Okewood’s nerves. This restriction on his -liberty was intolerable. He looked about for -a bell. There was none. He went to the -door—it was solid oak with no lock apparent -on the inside—and began to hammer it with -his fists and feet. He pounded until he was -tired. No one came.</p> -<p>He had fallen to striding up and down the -room again when suddenly the door opened. -Heinrich came in.</p> -<p>“Dr. Grundt is asking for you. Will you -come with me?” he said.</p> -<p>“Gladly,” retorted Desmond. “I’m particularly -anxious to have a word with the -Herr Doktor!”</p> -<p>“Don’t trouble to try to escape,” observed -the young man blandly as he held the -door for his prisoner. “Doors and windows -are barred and the house is closely guarded. -You’d only get hurt!”</p> -<p>The warning was spoken sincerely and -carried conviction. Desmond felt his heart -sink.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_149">149</div> -<p>It could not yet be morning, Desmond -decided, as he followed his escort down a -broad corridor with windows shuttered and -barred like that of his room. They descended -a flight of steps to a small tiled hall, -lighted, like corridor and staircase, by artificial -light. From a door that stood ajar -came the murmur of voices. Heinrich ushered -his prisoner into a long low-ceilinged -room.</p> -<p>Four men were seated at the end of an -oval table, their faces indistinctly seen -through a thin haze of blue tobacco smoke -that drifted in the close air.</p> -<p>Grundt presided at the head of the board, -a round-shouldered, red-bearded Jew on his -right, a grossly plebeian-looking man with a -face the colour of suet, thin greyish hair -plastered across a shining bald pate, and a -great paunch, sprawling in the chair on his -left. Next to him was a middle-aged man -with a stiff grey beard and a stiff face who -sat bolt upright, his hands folded in his lap.</p> -<p>“Be seated, Major,” said Clubfoot cordially, -and pointed to a chair next to the Jew. -“Mr. Blund, the cigars are with you!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_150">150</div> -<p>The full, deep voice was courteous, even -genial, and a jovial smile played about the -full lips. Desmond took the proffered chair, -but waved aside the box of Partagas which -the fat man pushed in his direction. He -felt his hands growing cold. By bitter experience -he knew that Clubfoot was never -so dangerous as in these moments of expansion.</p> -<p>“The fortune of war!” Grundt resumed. -“You played your cards admirably . . . -up to a point, lieber Okewood! I have always -said you were an opponent worthy of my -steel. Perhaps, in this instance, you were -just a trifle . . . shall we say over-confident? . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond, who had been taking stock of -his surroundings, pulled himself resolutely -together. The bland self-assurance of -Grundt, he noticed, was far from being -shared by his companions. The Jew was a -mass of nerves, rapaciously tearing at his -yellow, deeply bitten finger-nails, the little -pig eyes of the fat man were restless with -apprehension, and there was an air of tension -about the very rigidity of the enigmatical -greybeard across the table.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_151">151</div> -<p>“You and your rather unsavoury accomplices -are playing a dangerous game, Herr -Doktor,” he said as bravely as he might. -“The riff-raff of international espionage”—he -paused and gazed with cool deliberation -first at the Jew at his side and then at Greybeard—“live -from hand to mouth, as we -all know, and cannot be over-scrupulous. -But I must say I wonder what an Englishman”—he -stared pointedly at the fat man as -he spoke—“is doing in your ill-favoured -company!”</p> -<p>The fat man struggled up in his chair -with malice depicted in every feature of his -leaden-hued face.</p> -<p>“You keep a civil tongue in your ’ead, -d’jeer?” he spluttered.</p> -<p>But Clubfoot laid a hairy paw on his -sleeve. “Let us make allowances for Major -Okewood’s natural chagrin,” he counselled. -“Believe me, he is full of common sense. -He will presently recognize the value of -being polite and . . . and obliging with -us . . . otherwise”—he paused and -looked amiably round the board—“otherwise -we shall have to teach him manners, eh, -Tarock?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_152">152</div> -<p>“A gord round the head, with some hardt -knots, tvisted vith a baionette vould be a -good lesson to him,” muttered the grey-bearded -man.</p> -<p>“Don’t be hasty, Tarock,” said Grundt -gently.</p> -<p>“<i>Not</i> Tarock, of Cracow?” exclaimed -Desmond. “Why, now, isn’t that interesting? -I’ve heard of you so often, and we’ve -never met. Let’s see, you commanded a -company once in the Deutschmeister Regiment -in Vienna, didn’t you? And were -cashiered for stealing the company -money . . .?”</p> -<p>Greybeard moved uneasily in his seat.</p> -<p>“What a pity that the white-slave traffic -laws interfered with your new career at -Cracow!” Desmond resumed impassively. -“So many of your colleagues regard them -as the most unfair restriction of trade! -Dear, dear! Was it five or seven years -Zuchthaus they gave you?”</p> -<p>“Herr!” thundered Tarock, springing to -his feet.</p> -<p>The fox-grin had again appeared about -the thin lips of Mr. Mandelstamm. Clubfoot, -too, appeared to be enjoying the scene.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_153">153</div> -<p>“Personally, I always admired your versatility -as a spy,” Desmond went on, leaning -back out of reach of Tarock’s threatening -fist, “though the Austrians didn’t. They -sacked you for double-crossing, didn’t they, -Tarock? And the Russians followed suit a -year later. You were too dirty even for the -Okhrana to touch . . .”</p> -<p>“Kreuzsakrament!” roared Greybeard, -“I’ll have your life for that!”</p> -<p>His chair overturned with a crash. -Everybody had sprung to his feet, talking at -the same time. Suddenly the door of the -room burst open and three men came tumbling -in. Two of them were grappling with -a third, who, though gagged and bound and -bleeding, was plunging wildly and uttering -stifled shouts of rage.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_154">154</div> -<h2 id="c12"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XI</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE CONSTANTINOPLE COURIER</span></h2> -<p>An ear-splitting report sent them all -reeling back. The air stank with -the fumes of burnt cordite. Then Clubfoot’s -voice went booming through the room. A -great automatic was smoking in his hand.</p> -<p>“The next shot will go through your head, -Bewlay,” he roared at the prisoner who, -on the report of the pistol, had momentarily -ceased struggling. “Stand back there, -Tarock,” he thundered. “I’ll have no brawling -here. Sit down, all of you! Heinrich!”</p> -<p>The young German appeared in the doorway.</p> -<p>“Take Major Okewood on one side, and, -if he attempts to escape, shoot him! Max, -you look after Bewlay! Have you got the -bags? Bring them in!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_155">155</div> -<p>The dominating personality of the man -was extraordinary. Complete silence fell -upon the room. The men at the table resumed -their seats. Heinrich led Desmond -into a corner while Max unceremoniously -pitched the other prisoner on to a window-seat, -where he lay motionless. He looked -like an Englishman, young and of athletic -build, with close-cropped fair hair, now stiff -with matted blood from a great cut across -the head.</p> -<p>A man staggered into the room, his arms -piled high with white and green canvas bags -sealed with red wax. With a sickening heart -Desmond recognized them. They were the -valises of the King’s Messenger. “Bewlay,” -Grundt had called this fresh prisoner. Desmond -remembered the name now. Paul -Bewlay was the Constantinople courier.</p> -<p>The bags were tumbled in a heap on the -table. With scissors and knives Grundt and -his companions busied themselves with cutting -the strings that bound them. Soon -the table was heaped high with a litter of -letters, documents, newspapers, and packages.</p> -<p>Presently Clubfoot looked up from the -work. “You’ve searched him, Max?”</p> -<p>“Jawohl, Herr Doktor!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_156">156</div> -<p>The man took from his pocket a red bandana -handkerchief, heavily weighted down, -and handed it to Tarock. The Austrian -spilled out a mixed assortment of objects, -a watch and chain, a gold cigarette-case, a -pencil, and a little silver brooch—the Silver -Greyhound, the messenger’s badge.</p> -<p>“You’ve looked in the lining of his clothes, -Max?”</p> -<p>“Ja, Herr Doktor. There is nothing -there!”</p> -<p>The opening of the packages revealed -some curious things. There was an old brass -lamp, a pair of Jodhpore breeches, a couple -of Samarcand rugs, and some boxes of Turkish -Delight, enjoying, in strange promiscuity, -the hospitality of the diplomatic valise. -In the way of odd commissions, a King’s -Messenger is as useful as the village carrier.</p> -<p>The rummaging went on. Then Desmond -heard Mandelstamm’s reedy lisp.</p> -<p>“Your customary good fortune has failed -you again, Herr Doktor!”</p> -<p>“Unsinn!” came the angry retort. “It -must be here. He has been under observation -every step of the way. Patience, my -friend! We shall find it!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_157">157</div> -<p>The work was resumed in silence until -at length Mandelstamm left the table.</p> -<p>“It’s useless!” he cried, his voice shrill -with vexation. “You’re wasting our time, -Herr Doktor!”</p> -<p>Tarock, too, had left his seat and was -whispering to Blund, the fat Englishman, -in a corner. Grundt remained alone at the -table. His bulging brows were furrowed in -thought. Then, as though struck by a sudden -idea, he picked up one of the round -boxes of Turkish Delight, raised the lid and -shook the contents out upon the table. A -second, a third, and a fourth box he treated -in the same manner, and then, with a whoop -of joy, he plunged his hand into the sticky -pile of sweetmeats before him. When he -withdrew his hand he held a number of -sheets of white flimsy paper between finger -and thumb. Dusting the fine sugar off them, -he held them up for all to see.</p> -<p>“Herr Mandelstamm,” he said cuttingly, -“perhaps this will teach you that Dr. Grundt -does not promise what he cannot fulfil!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_158">158</div> -<p>But a ringing voice from the window-seat -broke in upon his words. “You damned -scoundrel!”</p> -<p>The King’s Messenger was standing erect. -The soiled scarf that had gagged him had -slipped aside. He was bound round with -rope like a mummy in its wrappings, and -his face was almost irrecognizable with the -smother of dried blood that had welled from -the wound in his head. But he stood up -and shouted his defiance into the room as -though he, and not Clubfoot, were the master -there.</p> -<p>Grundt looked up slowly. “Max,” he said, -without raising his voice, “take him away -and get rid of him. He is of no further use -to us,” he explained to the men at the table, -while Max fell upon his victim.</p> -<p>With alacrity Tarock scrambled to his -feet, drawing something from his hip pocket.</p> -<p>“I’ll attend to him!” he said in a voice -hoarse with pleasurable excitement. And he -hurried from the room behind Max and his -prisoner.</p> -<p>As he passed, Desmond, covered by Heinrich’s -automatic, saw that the Austrian carried -in his hand a long Norwegian knife.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_159">159</div> -<p>Mandelstamm extended talon-like fingers -towards the paper in Clubfoot’s hand.</p> -<p>“L-l-let me s-s-see.” He stuttered with -excitement.</p> -<p>“It’s in code,” said Grundt.</p> -<p>And all eyes turned to Desmond.</p> -<p>Grundt heaved himself up and, grasping -his rubber-shod stick, hobbled awkwardly -across the room to where Heinrich guarded -the prisoner. The cripple waved the guard -back.</p> -<p>“Okewood,” he said, “you are clever -enough to know when you are beaten. I -am well aware that your motto has ever -been, ‘While there’s life there’s hope!’ but -let me assure you that in this instance you -can derive very little solace from that saying. -The position of this house is so remote, its -precincts are so well guarded, that, even if -your friends were to discover your hiding-place—which -is most unlikely—and were in -hot cry hither, I should have ample leisure -to devise and carry out even the most -lingering form of death for you.” He -paused and scrutinized the young man’s face. -“I offer you your life on one condition.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_160">160</div> -<p>Desmond remained silent.</p> -<p>“Does it interest you?”</p> -<p>A long-drawn-out, gurgling scream, high-pitched -and shrill with the extremity of -agony, suddenly broke the brooding stillness -of the house. It was followed by a little -muffled cry from the room. From behind a -typewriter placed on a desk in the corner a -young girl had risen hesitatingly, one hand -clutching her cheek, terror in her eyes. Desmond -had not noticed her before.</p> -<p>“Xenia!” Mandelstamm cried harshly.</p> -<p>Listlessly the girl sank back into her seat.</p> -<p>Desmond looked straight into Clubfoot’s -eyes. “What was that? Who screamed?” -he asked, knowing full well the answer to his -question.</p> -<p>“I think it must have been Bewlay,” -calmly replied Grundt; and asked again: -“Does my proposition interest you?”</p> -<p>Desmond shrugged his shoulders.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_161">161</div> -<p>“Believe me, lieber Okewood,” Clubfoot -resumed persuasively, “murder in cold blood -is not one of my hobbies. One has to kill -at times, but it is always a messy business -unless one has the resources of a well-stocked -laboratory at one’s back. Listen to me. I -have here a message in your Secret Service -code number 3A. If you will decipher it -for us, you shall go free. We are willing to -give you any reasonable guarantee of your -life . . .”</p> -<p>“And if I tell you that I know nothing -of this code?”</p> -<p>“That would not be true, my friend! -Besides yourself, there are only two persons -who, before the Foreign Office adopted it, -were acquainted with its cipher . . . -your revered Chief (a remarkable man, my -dear Okewood, and a credit to our profession!) -and his confidential clerk, by name -Collins, I believe, who lives at Hatfield. Am -I correct? No, no, my friend, you won’t try -to deceive me. Old Clubfoot knows too -much!”</p> -<p>“And if I reject your offer?”</p> -<p>Again that terrible scream rang out, suddenly -checked this time and dying away in -a strangling gurgle.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_162">162</div> -<p>With an expressive movement of eyes and -head Grundt indicated the upper regions of -the house, now plunged once more into silence, -as much as to say: “You wouldn’t -drive us to <i>that</i>?”</p> -<p>Desmond Okewood put out his hand. -“Let’s see the despatch!” he said brusquely.</p> -<p>But Clubfoot held up a deprecating paw. -“No, no, my friend, not so fast,” he laughed. -“You might tear it or . . . or drop it in -the fire. I’ve been at a deal of trouble to -get it.” He raised his voice. “Fräulein -Xenia!”</p> -<p>The girl came slowly over from her corner. -She was a slender, graceful creature, with -slim hands and feet, glossy hair of jet-black -brushed smoothly down to conceal her ears, -and the clear, wide-open eyes of a child. -As she stood before the big cripple waiting -to hear his bidding, she let her black eyes -rest for a moment on Desmond’s face. They -were honest eyes, dark and appealing. Somehow -he drew comfort from them.</p> -<p>Grundt handed her the despatch. “Sit -down over there at the machine and make me -one copy of this. Be very careful and check -the ciphers carefully! Verstehen Sie?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_163">163</div> -<p>“Ich verstehe, Herr Doktor!” she answered -in a low voice, pleasant of timbre, but -lifeless and toneless.</p> -<p>As she crossed the room the door opened. -Tarock had returned. He was red in the -face and out of breath, and there was an air -of stealthy guilt about him that chilled Desmond -to the very marrow. He could not -save now, but only avenge poor Bewlay. If -his own hour were near, as he had a shrewd -suspicion it was, he meant, so he promised -himself, to risk all, if needs be, to send the -Cracow <i>souteneur</i> to precede him at the -Judgment Seat.</p> -<p>The brisk rattle of the typewriter fell upon -the quietness of the room. How matter-of-fact -it sounded! They might have been in -a lawyer’s office, not in this house of twilight -death, whence time and the daylight were -excluded.</p> -<p>The girl had finished her typing. Her -black head was bowed over her table. She -was revising the long list of numbers. In a -minute, Desmond told himself, he must make -up his mind how to act.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_164">164</div> -<p>Now she had crossed the room: now she -was giving the despatch and the copy to -Clubfoot. Was Bewlay really dead? Or -would he scream again? . . .</p> -<p>Clubfoot was speaking: “. . . Which -is it to be?”</p> -<p>Desmond cleared his throat. All his -senses were alert now. Those dreadful cries -had stung him into action. He must gain -time—time. By this the Chief and Francis, -his brother, than whom there were no -greater masters of their craft alive, would -be busy with plans for his rescue. But they -must have time to get on his track, unless he -were too securely hidden away for them ever -to find him . . . time, time . . .</p> -<p>“Give me the despatch!” Desmond exclaimed -suddenly. Silently, his suspicious -eyes searching the other’s face, Clubfoot -handed over the typewritten sheets. Desmond -studied them. Then, with a shake of -the head: “I can’t decipher it like this,” he -said. “Have you any dictionaries here?”</p> -<p>A glimmer of triumph shot into Grundt’s -face. “What dictionary do you want?” he -asked.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_165">165</div> -<p>“Peereboom’s English-Dutch Dictionary, -the edition of 1898,” Desmond answered -promptly.</p> -<p>“I’ll send for it. It’ll be in your hands -within the hour!” Clubfoot retorted and -clapped him, almost affectionately, on the -shoulder.</p> -<p>Then they took Desmond back to his room. -In the corridor on the first floor they passed -the body of the courier, lying, still swathed in -his bonds, lifeless, in a welter of blood.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_166">166</div> -<h2 id="c13"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XII</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">XENIA</span></h2> -<p>Dictionary codes are familiar in the -Secret Service as furnishing a cipher -which, without the key, defies detection. By -asking for a dictionary at random, without -reference to the cipher before him, Desmond -had hoped to gain a respite of several hours; -for he had reckoned that the little-known and -out-of-date work which he had requested -would not easily be forthcoming. Clubfoot’s -glib promise that the book would be on hand -within the hour dashed his hopes considerably, -and he reëntered his prison seriously -revolving in his head his chances of escape.</p> -<p>Of chances, properly speaking, he had -none. He had no knowledge of the geography -of the house or its location; he had -no arms; he had no accomplices. But the -murder of Paul Bewlay had made him reckless. -The sight of the body of that defenseless -man, done to death in his bonds, filled -his soul with rage. He must try to fight his -way out. But how?</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_167">167</div> -<p>He heard the door grate. Heinrich was -there with a tray.</p> -<p>“I’ve brought your dinner!” he said. His -tone was infinitely more genial than before.</p> -<p>Desmond stared at him blankly. “The -mince you served me for lunch was cold,” -he grumbled presently. “What have you got -there? Poached eggs? Hmph! And how -am I going to eat eggs without salt or pepper? -Good God, if I’m going to work for -you, can’t I be decently served?”</p> -<p>“Herr, Herr,” stammered Heinrich, “the -cruet is outside. A little minute and I bring -it!”</p> -<p>Desmond grunted and turned away. But -not so that he could not keep the door under -observation. In a moment Heinrich was -back with the cruet.</p> -<p>“So, Herr!” he remarked and dumped it -down on the table.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_168">168</div> -<p>But the Herr was still not satisfied. -“You’ve brought me tea to drink!” he protested. -“Do you take me for a teetotaller -or what? Where’s Grundt? Send for -Grundt . . .”</p> -<p>“Herr, Herr,” wailed Heinrich in an -agony of apprehension, “anything he wished -for, the Herr was to have, said the Herr -Doktor! What can I get you, Herr?”</p> -<p>“That’s better!” said Desmond. “You -can get me a large whiskey-and-soda. And -not too much soda, d’you hear? . . .”</p> -<p>Obediently Heinrich galloped from the -room. The moment his back was turned -Desmond was at the cruet. He whipped out -the pepper castor, rapidly screwed the top off, -and tiptoed swiftly to the door.</p> -<p>“A dirty trick!” he murmured to himself. -“A dirty Apache trick! Okewood, I’m -ashamed of you!”</p> -<p>Then the door swung back. On the threshold -stood Heinrich beaming, a brimming -club tumbler in his hand. Suddenly, with a -shrill gasp of agony, the youth snatched at -his eyes and the glass shattered on the floor. -Desmond flung the empty pepper-pot away -and dashed through the door.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_169">169</div> -<p>Running on the points of his toes he bolted -along the corridor making in the direction of -the staircase. Just as he reached it, he -heard a heavy step mounting the stairs and -the shining bald pate of Mr. Blund, the -Englishman, appeared on a level with the -landing.</p> -<p>The collision was as violent as it was inevitable. -By the force of the impact Mr. -Blund was flung back against the stair-rail. -But he had thrown his arms about Desmond -and now clung to him like grim death, -screeching in a voice wheezy with fear and -excitement: “’Elp! ’Elp! ’E’s escaping!”</p> -<p>With a savage twist Desmond wrenched -himself loose. But there is a dogged strain -in even the worst Englishman, and Mr. -Blund came at him again. With open hand -Desmond struck upwards at the other’s double -chin that sagged in heavy folds to the -thick neck. The violence of the blow, half -slap, half push, threw the fat man off his -balance. He reeled away, slipped on the polished -boards, and, with a hoarse cry, toppled -backwards over the banisters into the well -of the staircase, and, with a horrid, soft -thud, landed on the tiles of the hall.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_170">170</div> -<p>But the other gave him not a thought. -From the corridor behind him resounded the -angry bellowing of Heinrich. Without considering -where he was going, Desmond -plunged down the staircase and came to the -hall where, loose, like a sack of bottles, the -sprawling hulk of what had once been Mr. -Blund was lying.</p> -<p>Somewhere in the distance a door banged. -A curtain hung across one side of the hall. -In a flash Desmond parted it. Facing him -he found the front door with an immense -lock and no vestige of a key. He tried the -door. It was locked!</p> -<p>Behind him now all the house was in an -uproar. A hubbub of angry voices came -from the upper floors and heavy footsteps -thundered above him. Stealthily he peered -out from behind the curtain and came face to -face with Mandelstamm.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_171">171</div> -<p>The Jew was standing there listening, his -head half inclined to the stairway. He was -not two feet away, a magnificent mark, and, -to simplify matters, he turned his head -precisely at the right moment to bring the -point of his jaw in contact with Desmond’s -fist as, without hesitation, the young man -drove at him. Mandelstamm collapsed instantly -in a sitting position, then flopped -over, grunted once, and lay still.</p> -<p>Clubfoot’s stentorian voice went booming -through the house, shouting orders. Save -for Blund and Mandelstamm, the whole of -the party seemed to have been collected on -one of the upper floors. Now they all came -trooping noisily down.</p> -<p>The little hall with the locked door behind -him was, Desmond realized, a cul-de-sac, a -veritable death-trap. Three doors faced -him across the hall. With one stride the -young man was across the Jew’s body and, -choosing the middle door at random, opened -it swiftly and slipped through.</p> -<p>He found himself in the room where, less -than an hour before, he had confronted Clubfoot -and his confederates. Seated at the -oval table in the centre was the girl they had -called Mademoiselle Xenia.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_172">172</div> -<p>Loud exclamations from the hall, showing -that the party had discovered their casualties, -warned Desmond of the urgent danger of his -position. There was a key on the inside of -the door. He turned it and slipped it in his -pocket.</p> -<p>“I heard the fat Englishman cry out”—the -girl was speaking in her dull, listless voice—“I -wondered if you were free. But there -is no escape from <i>him</i>. Why, oh, why, did -you come here?”</p> -<p>A hand pounded noisily on the door.</p> -<p>“Xenia, Xenia!” came in Tarock’s gruff -voice.</p> -<p>Desmond turned swiftly to the girl. “Will -you help me?” he said.</p> -<p>With wonder in her mournful black eyes -she nodded.</p> -<p>“Is there no way out of this room except -by the door?” he asked.</p> -<p>She shook her head.</p> -<p>“The windows?”</p> -<p>“They are shuttered and barred with -steel!”</p> -<p>“Then help me to barricade the door!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_173">173</div> -<p>Already some one outside was hurling his -weight against it. But the oaken panels were -solid and held well. With great difficulty -Desmond and the girl dragged a tall black -cupboard across the room and stood it before -the door, subsequently reënforcing the -barricade with a steel filing-cabinet, the -heavy mahogany table laid on its side, and an -intricate zareba of chairs.</p> -<p>Something cold was laid in Desmond’s -hand. It was a Browning pistol.</p> -<p>“It has seven shots,” said Xenia. “I used -to think I might use it one day, but . . .” -She shrugged her shoulders and relapsed -into her habitual mournful silence.</p> -<p>“By George!” exclaimed Desmond. “This -puts new heart into the defence. The name -of Tarock, of Cracow, is written on one of -these bullets, did you know that, Mademoiselle -Xenia?”</p> -<p>For the first time the girl became animated. -A little warmth stole into her olive cheeks -and her dark eyes brightened.</p> -<p>“Kill him!” she said passionately. “Kill -him for me! Deliver me from this man and -I will kiss your feet! Kill him slowly, make -him suffer as he has made me and my family -suffer! . . .”</p> -<p>“We’ll do what we can!” said Desmond -cheerfully. The cold caress of the automatic -had raised his spirits a hundred per cent.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_174">174</div> -<p>A desperate assault was being delivered on -the door. It groaned and creaked and the -barricade before it rocked and swayed.</p> -<p>“This won’t do!” said Desmond, furrowing -his forehead. With an anxious glance -at the door, he crossed to the window. The -steel bars were deep-sunk in the face of the -shutter and padlocked in the centre.</p> -<p>“A shot would burst that lock!” remarked -the young man, fingering his gun.</p> -<p>“Useless!” replied the girl. “The window -is barred outside. There is no escape!”</p> -<p>And then the light went out.</p> -<p>“Ah!” said Desmond. “Clubfoot would -think of that.”</p> -<p>The room was pitch-dark.</p> -<p>“Xenia,” he called softly, “where are -you?”</p> -<p>“Here,” said her soft voice in his ear. And -her hand was gently laid on his arm.</p> -<p>“You must try to be brave,” he encouraged -her. “I think they’re going to rush us! The -door will go in a minute!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_175">175</div> -<p>Already a broad chink of light showed -that, though the lock yet held, the upper part -of the door was yielding to the savage battering.</p> -<p>“I am not frightened,” Xenia made -answer—and her voice was quite steady—“I -shall be glad to die! You will make it -easy for me. It is long since I knew a man -without fear!”</p> -<p>She placed her hand, small and warm -and soft, in his.</p> -<p>“My mother, my little sister, my two -brothers, they are all in the prisons of the -Tcheka,” she said. “I am hostage for them. -Tarock was the commissary who denounced -them. He brought me here as his secretary. -For almost a year now I have been in his -power. So you see I am happy to die . . .”</p> -<p>Then the door gave. There was a crash as -the topmost pile of chairs hurtled to the -ground. A broad beam of light clove the -darkness about the barricade.</p> -<p>“Okewood”—the challenge came in Clubfoot’s -deep voice—“the game’s up! Come -out quietly before you’re hurt!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_176">176</div> -<p>Desmond’s hand squeezed hard the little -hand that lay in his palm. “Courage!” he -whispered. “And listen! Do you hear anything -outside?”</p> -<p>Above the hubbub in the hall outside there -fell upon their ears the distant throb of a car.</p> -<p>Then he raised his voice. “Grundt,” he -cried out distinctly, “Grundt, you can go to -hell!”</p> -<p>A bearded face with dangerous, bloodshot -eyes appeared in the chink between door and -jamb. Desmond shot so swiftly that the -roar of the report, Tarock’s sharp exclamation, -and the thud of the body sounded almost -as one.</p> -<p>“Herr Gott!” bellowed Clubfoot. There -was a loud explosion and a bullet “whooshed” -above the heads of the man and girl. The -door was forced wider and the barricade was -split in twain.</p> -<p>Desmond pressed the girl to her knees. -“Keep your head down!” he whispered, and -fired again. The yellow flame from his -pistol lit up the darkened room. The odour -of burnt powder hung on the stale air. A -volley of shots from without answered him.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_177">177</div> -<p>But now loud knocking resounded from -the outer hall. Instantly the light beyond the -door went out. There was the scuffle of feet -and Clubfoot’s voice crying aloud: “Turn on -the light again. The front door is solid. -If we go, we’ll take the Englishman with us. -Ah, you miserable hounds! you . . .!”</p> -<p>For one brief, terrible instant a brilliant -orange glare lighted the dark gap between -the barricade and the door. Then there came -the deafening roar of an explosion immediately -followed by the sound of splintering -wood and the tinkle of broken glass. The -whole house seemed to shudder and settle -down again. Then came a moment of absolute -silence, and in the stillness the girl heard -a stealthy clip-clop, clip-clop across the tiles -of the hall.</p> -<p>And then came shouts and the sound of -the crunching and smashing of wood under -heavy blows. A voice without cried twice: -“Desmond! Desmond!”</p> -<p>In the darkness the girl sought the companion -at her side. “Hark!” she whispered. -“We are saved!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_178">178</div> -<p>There was no reply. She stretched out -her hand, groping in the place where Desmond -Okewood had stood. But he was no -longer there. Outside resounded the trampling -of heavy feet, and with a sudden crash -the barricade before the door was flung down. -A beam of white light from an electric torch -clove the darkness. In its ray Xenia saw -Desmond Okewood lying motionless at her -feet.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_179">179</div> -<h2 id="c14"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XIII</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">IN WHICH CHECK PROVES TO BE CHECKMATE</span></h2> -<p>When Desmond came to his senses -he was propped up in a limousine -that was slowly threading a broad street -crowded with trams and other traffic. The -Chief was at his side and, on the opposite -seat, Francis with the girl whose pale face, -dark eyes, and glossy black hair were vaguely -familiar.</p> -<p>With a bewildered expression the young -man looked from one face to the other.</p> -<p>“Where am I?”</p> -<p>“You’re in the Mile End Road, old man, -going home,” said his brother, patting him -on the knee.</p> -<p>“And Clubfoot?”</p> -<p>“Escaped down the river by launch!”</p> -<p>Desmond took the girl’s hand. “I remember -it all now,” he said. “It was this brave -girl that saved us. She gave me the automatic -with which I was able to keep them -off until you came. Without that gun . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_180">180</div> -<p>“I shouldn’t talk any more now if I were -you,” the Chief counselled.</p> -<p>“I’m all right,” said Desmond, “except -that my head is buzzing like a beehive. -What happened to me exactly?”</p> -<p>“You were hit by a ricochet off your precious -barricade,” his brother replied. “Actually -it only grazed your temple, but it put -you down for the count . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond was silent for a moment. “Escaped -by launch, did he?” he remarked presently. -“Francis, where <i>was</i> this house to -which they took me?”</p> -<p>“Down on the Thames flats, between -Rainham and Purfleet,” said his brother; -“about as lonely a spot as they could find.”</p> -<p>“But how on earth did you locate me?”</p> -<p>“Okewood,” interposed the Chief with -finality, “you are talking too much. That -story, like yours, will have to keep!”</p> -<p class="tb">Actually it only kept until the following -day, when Desmond, his head romantically -bound up in a bandage, entertained the Chief -and Francis to lunch at his chambers.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_181">181</div> -<p>“For our providential arrival,” remarked -the Chief, neatly spearing the cherry in his -cocktail as they stood round the fire, “you -can thank this brother of yours! Two nights -ago you vanished off the face of the earth. -We had no description of the man who kidnapped -you beyond that of old Clubfoot; -we had no particulars at all of the car, no -inkling of the route you took. And how do -you think Francis here grappled with <i>that</i> -situation? Tell him yourself, man!” The -Chief chuckled and drained his glass.</p> -<p>“Well,” said Francis slowly, “it was a -long shot, for I reckoned the odds at about -a hundred to one on Clubfoot murdering you -right off. But I thought there was a chance -he might hold you to ransom or something -of the sort; in that case he would have to -have a secure retreat to which he could convey -you. That retreat, I figured to myself, -must be within a reasonable distance of London, -for Clubfoot’s business is here. So, -within an hour of your disappearance, I arranged -for an inquiry to be sent by telephone -or telegram to every house and estate agent -within a radius of fifty miles of London as -to whether a house had recently been let to -any one answering Clubfoot’s description. I -offered a reward of five hundred pounds for -the information.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_182">182</div> -<p>“By noon I had my answer. They rang -up from Marlow and Wadding’s, the big -West-End agents, to say that one of their -clerks had an important statement to make. -In due course the man arrived. He had gone -down one day last week to inspect on behalf -of a client a property close to the river some -miles from Purfleet, a place called Rushdene -Grange. When he reached the house, he -found that it showed evident signs of occupation, -for smoke was rising from the -chimneys, though all the windows were shuttered.</p> -<p>“He supposed that the house had been -placed in the hands of more than one agent -for disposal and had been let without the -knowledge of his firm. He was standing at -the front door when a car came up the drive. -A big lame man, answering in every particular -to the description of our friend -Grundt, got out. He told the clerk very -gruffly that the place was let and vanished -into the house.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_183">183</div> -<p>“From inquiries my informant made locally -he ascertained that the house had been -let furnished to a man named Fitzroy, which, -the police tell me, is one of the various aliases -of Schmetterding, alias Blund, an old friend -of ours, Des., for, if you remember, it was -he who took that place at Harlesden for -Grundt in the affair of the purple cabriolet. -When we picked up the poor gentleman with -his neck so picturesquely broken at the foot -of the staircase at Rushdene Grange, Manderton -recognized him at once. He’s an -Englishman of German extraction, with a -fine list of convictions against him at the -Yard.”</p> -<p>Francis looked at his brother and smiled. -“A little rough with him, weren’t you, Des.?”</p> -<p>“He came butting in when I was trying to -escape,” replied Desmond, “so I landed him -a punch, and he went backwards over the -stairs.”</p> -<p>“And there was Tarock on his face in the -hall with a bullet in his temple . . .”</p> -<p>“Dead?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_184">184</div> -<p>“As dead as a door-nail!” Francis replied.</p> -<p>“I’m glad I nailed him,” Desmond remarked, -and added, addressing the Chief, -“Tarock, of Cracow, you know, sir!”</p> -<p>The big man nodded. “He’s no loss,” he -remarked. “He’d lived too long, anyway.”</p> -<p>“From what my house agent friend told -me,” Francis resumed, “we guessed that the -house would be a regular fortress. So I -took a charge of guncotton with the cutting-out -party the Chief let me organize and blew -the lock off the front door. How Clubfoot -escaped being killed by the explosion I don’t -know. When we got in, we found the nest -empty except for that choice specimen, Mandelstamm, -who was spitting teeth into the -basin in the bath-room out of the most -beautiful mouth you ever saw. Whew, Des., -you must have fetched him a clip!”</p> -<p>“He walked into my fist,” his brother retorted, -grinning. “But what about Grundt?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_185">185</div> -<p>“I’m afraid he got away through my -fault. The shooting inside the house rather -rattled me . . . on account of you, you -know . . . and I blew the lock before -our men had got into their stations at the -back. Clubfoot must have escaped through -the basement and got down to the river, for -we discovered afterwards that an electric -launch he used to keep up a creek had disappeared. -I presume he took Max and Heinrich -with him. They left poor Bewlay where -they killed him upstairs.”</p> -<p>“He died well,” said Desmond, giving him -his epitaph. He turned to the Chief. “And -this treaty, sir? Clubfoot has got away with -it, I suppose?”</p> -<p>“He has!” replied the big man grimly.</p> -<p>“He was under the impression that it was -coded in 3A,” Desmond went on. “It wasn’t, -you know, though I didn’t disabuse his mind, -of course. It was in no code <i>I</i> had ever seen -before.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_186">186</div> -<p>“Or will ever see again. The only two -keys in existence, one in Constantinople and -the other in London, were destroyed by my -orders within twenty-four hours of the -courier being kidnapped. The F.O., you see, -changed their minds about 3A and used a -special cipher. Do you know that the Bolsheviks -offered twenty-five thousand pounds -for a copy of that treaty <i>en clair</i>? The -Secretary of State has been in a perfect -agony of mind about it, for the party who -negotiated this document, with certain influential -Turks behind the scenes at the -Porte, was not an official emissary. And if -Parliament had got wind of the affair at this -stage . . .” He broke off and whistled.</p> -<p>“Chief,” said Desmond, “we must do -something for this girl Xenia. Her people -are all in prison in Russia, and now that -Tarock is dead . . .”</p> -<p>“That’s already seen to,” replied the big -man. “Mademoiselle Xenia is being cared -for by some friends of mine, and in a little -while, when she has got over this shock, I -think I ought to be able to utilize her knowledge -of Russian at one of our report centres -in the Baltic States. In any case, I mean -to remove her as soon as possible out of -Clubfoot’s reach.”</p> -<p>“He’s vanished into thin air, I suppose?” -Desmond remarked.</p> -<p>“A perfect Vidocq!” the Chief observed. -“But never fear: he’ll be after us again, -if only to pay us back for checkmating him -this time!” And he grinned with great contentment.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_187">187</div> -<p>“And what’s our next move to be, sir?” -asked Desmond.</p> -<p>“You and that brother of yours,” replied -the Chief, “will, each and severally, equip -yourselves with a bag of golf-clubs and report -to-morrow morning at a course not too -far removed from London and devote yourselves, -until further orders, to reducing your -respective handicaps.”</p> -<p>“But Clubfoot . . .” the two young -men broke out.</p> -<p>“Clubfoot will keep. But you’ll not beat -him with your nerves frayed out at the ends. -You two get out into the fresh air and forget -all about him. And in the mean time . . .”</p> -<p>“Luncheon is served,” announced Desmond’s -man.</p> -<p>“As good an occupation as any,” observed -the Chief, “in the intervals between the -rounds!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_188">188</div> -<h2 id="c15"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XIV</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE GIRL AT THE HEXAGON</span></h2> -<p>That the Okewoods obeyed the Chief’s -instructions to the letter I can testify, -for I happened to be drinking my after-luncheon -in the lounge of the hotel at Broadstairs -when they arrived with suitcases and golf-bags. -Desmond was wearing a bandage -about his head, and, after we had exchanged -greetings, I asked him what he had been -doing to himself.</p> -<p>“I got a crack on the head from a ball -playing racquets at Queen’s,” unblushingly -replied this master of improvisation, “and so -I’ve decided to revert to golf. We think -it’s less dangerous, don’t we, Francis?”</p> -<p>“Sure,” rejoined his brother, who likes to -flavour his speech at times with certain exoticisms -acquired from his American wife, “but -a heap less exciting, eh, old man?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_189">189</div> -<p>At this time, naturally, I had no idea of -the hidden meaning of these seemingly innocent -remarks. There was certainly nothing -to suggest their secret significance in the -blandly smiling countenances of the two -brothers. That is the Okewood pair all over. -Their team-work is wonderful. They always -remind me of two acrobats on a trapeze: -one is invariably there when he is required -to catch or support the other. I can -imagine no more devastating combination -than these two quiet but supremely competent -young men on any mission requiring a blend -of excessive tact and sublime audacity.</p> -<p>“Are you down here for long?” Desmond -asked me.</p> -<p>I told him I expected to stay for a month.</p> -<p>“Splendid!” he retorted. “That means -there’ll always be a partner for Francis or -me when we’re sick of playing against each -other.”</p> -<p>“It means nothing of the sort,” I replied, -indignant at such shameless opportunism. -“I’ve come down here to finish a book. I’m -not in the War Office, you know: I have to -work for <i>my</i> living.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_190">190</div> -<p>“‘The Industrious Apprentice Rebukes -His Idle Companion,’” quoted Francis. -“He’s being smug, Des. Let’s sit on his -head!”</p> -<p>The conversation degenerated into a most -undignified wrestling match, which ended, -after I had been nearly smothered by a -cushion, by my consenting, as a rare and -notable exception, to accompany them forthwith -to the North Foreland for a three-ball -match before tea.</p> -<p>Looking back, I find it hard to realize that -my light-hearted and amusing companions -on that blustery February afternoon were -living under a grave and terrible menace. -Even now I can scarcely bring myself to -believe that Desmond, as debonair, as bright -and as sparkling as ever, had only just -emerged from such nerve-racking experiences -as the affair of the purple cabriolet -and the case of the Constantinople courier. -Now that I come to think of it, I remarked -that his nervous air which had attracted the -attention of old Erasmus Wilkes had completely -vanished. I can well believe Francis -when he says that the one thing his brother -cannot stand is inaction and that danger is -his best tonic.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_191">191</div> -<p>In the upshot it proved that my two -friends could get on very well without me. -For the best part of four weeks I was left in -peace with my writing, and very often I did -not see the Okewoods until the evening when -we usually assembled in the bar for a cocktail -before dinner. If I had not been so absorbed -in my book, I should probably have noticed -that Desmond appeared to benefit very little -by his change. As it was, it was not until -my bulky parcel of manuscript had been -posted off to London and I accompanied them -to the golf-course for a round before lunch -that I observed how quiet and abstracted -Desmond had become.</p> -<p>I chaffed him mildly on his low spirits; -but he did not, as usual, take up the challenge -and my jokes fell flat. He was playing very -badly on this morning and, usually a strong -and accurate driver, was slicing and pulling -his balls all over the place.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_192">192</div> -<p>We were on the tee near the Captain Digby -public-house when a telegraph boy appeared -from nowhere, as telegraph boys do, and -thrust a telegram into my hand. Absent-mindedly -I opened it and read:</p> -<blockquote> -<p>Dine with me at Hexagon Saturday night -eight <span class="sc">P.M.</span>—Chief.</p> -</blockquote> -<p>At a glance I realized that the message was -not for me and, looking at the envelope, saw -that it was addressed to “Major Desmond -Okewood.” With a word of apology I handed -the telegram to my friend. The change in -his face, as he read it, was extraordinary. A -long sigh, almost a groan, of relief burst -from his lips and his whole face lighted up. -He showed the message to Francis, who -grinned cheerfully and said “Good.”</p> -<p>“Come on,” cried Desmond, suddenly addressing -me. “It’s your honour. I lay you -a new ball I take this hole off you.”</p> -<p>Needless to say, for my thoughts were -anywhere but on the game, I foozled my -drive. But Desmond who, as I have said, -had been playing disgracefully, hit a perfect -ball, and, from that moment on, recovered -his form. He was in the wildest spirits, and -to see him one would have said that the telegram -which had wrought this astonishing -change in him had brought him news of a -great inheritance rather than a banal invitation -to dinner at that rather disreputable -West-End haunt, the Hexagon.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_193">193</div> -<p>But even if he had known to what perilous -enterprise that invitation was the prelude, -I believe he would have shown himself no less -heartened. Danger, as Francis says, was -ever the best pick-me-up for Desmond Okewood.</p> -<p class="tb">“Okewood,” said the Chief quietly, “the -girl has just come in. Don’t look up for a -moment! She’s taken the table next to the -door: in black she is: you can’t mistake her, -she’s so deathly pale!”</p> -<p>The Chief fell to studying his plate with -every appearance of absorption, while Desmond -Okewood, from behind the cover of -the wine-list, glanced casually across the -roaring evening life of the Hexagon Buffet.</p> -<p>He saw the girl at once. Her extreme -pallor, as the Chief had been quick to note, -was her most distinctive feature. She wore -her hair, which was raven-black, piled high -in the Spanish fashion with a tall, white ivory -comb, richly carved, at the back. She had -retained her fur coat and against its shaggy -blackness one white shoulder gleamed milkily.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_194">194</div> -<p>She was obviously a familiar visitor at the -Hexagon Buffet, for the head waiter greeted -her with a friendly smile as he fussed the -table to rights. She ordered her dinner composedly -and without hesitation, as one accustomed -to fend for herself. In her whole -comportment there was an air of dignity, of -reserve, which clearly imposed itself on the -<i>maitre d’hôtel</i>, accustomed as he was to the -rather promiscuous familiarity of the other -unaccompanied ladies who frequented the -Buffet. Her orders given, the girl dropped -her eyes to her plate and remained seemingly -lost in thought, her long lashes resting like -black crescents upon her dead-white cheeks.</p> -<p>“Not quite the style of the Hexagon, eh?” -remarked Desmond.</p> -<p>“They get all sorts here now!” retorted -his companion. “The old Hexagon is quite -the rage again, I’m told!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_195">195</div> -<p>Fashion, always capricious, is never more -fickle than in the distribution of her favours -among those who cater for the <i>monde ou l’on -s’amuse</i>. For no apparent reason a grill-room, -a bar, a night-club, or the like will -suddenly receive from the hand of the goddess -the patent that confers fame. It lives its -little hour; for a spell it resounds to laughter -and music, the popping of corks, and the -scurry of waiters, while the shareholders -bask in the warmth of unwonted prosperity -like a cat in the sun. Then as mysteriously, -but also as suddenly as success, decline sets -in: the nightly line of private cars and taxis -outside the brilliantly lighted portico dwindles: -the gold lace on the porter’s cap begins -to tarnish; and ultimately provincials, to -whose ears the fame of the resort has only -tardily come, find themselves facing fellow -provincials across a vista of empty tables.</p> -<p>Sometimes the wheel turns full circle and -popularity comes back. So it had gone with -the Hexagon Buffet. Time was, in the days -of the “Crutch and Toothpick Brigade,” -when it had rivalled “Jimmie’s” as the haunt -of the <i>jeunesse dorée</i> in their skin-tight -clothes, their opera-capes, and their covert-coats. -Then oblivion had slowly claimed it -and, in the years between, the riff-raff of the -West End had gathered nightly at the long -bar with the battered brass rail where once -the chappies had stood and chaffed “Maudie” -and “May” over a “B. and S.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_196">196</div> -<p>But now, in the fullness of time, prosperity -had returned to the “old Hex.” The fine -proportions of its big central room left ample -space for a dancing-floor between the long -bar at one end and the railed-off enclosure at -the other where one dined or supped. A -jazz band of negroes and an expatriated -mixer who, when America knew not Volstead, -had enjoyed continental fame, showed -that the Hexagon had adapted itself to the -spirit of the age.</p> -<p>Custom flowed back. It was as though the -trainers and the jockeys and the bookmakers, -the fighting-men and their managers, their -impresarii and tame journalists, had suddenly -remembered the old Hexagon. At their -heels came the wealthy patrons of sport, the -older men at first, drawn by memories fast -fading of wild nights in the eighties, then the -young “knuts,” and with them, to dance a -little and eat devilled bones after the theatre, -chorus ladies, revue girls, and females, unattached -or attached, of varying ages and -social standing.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_197">197</div> -<p>But mingling with this heterogeneous -crowd were old frequenters of the Hexagon -in its evil days, mysterious “financiers,” confidence -trick men with their touts and runners, -slim Latins, with hair like blue satin -and the gait of a panther, from the dancing-clubs, -and benevolent-looking old ladies, a -little too freshly complexioned and a little -too bejewelled, who take an interest in any -girl that is young and pretty. In brief, the -Hexagon was preëminently a resort where -the head of a Secret Service organization, to -say nothing of one of his principal lieutenants, -might expect to make fruitful observations.</p> -<p>It was Saturday night and the Hexagon -was roaring full. On the dancing-floor, -crowded with gliding couples, the red-coated -blacks were syncopating themselves into an -epileptic frenzy; at the long bar, whence resounded -the rattle of the cocktail-shakers, the -white-coated attendants were opening oysters -as though their lives depended on it; while -at the far end of the room, waiters darted -incessantly between the thronged tables.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_198">198</div> -<p>Through the long violet curtains that -screened the Buffet from the outer lobby new -arrivals kept appearing, men and women, old -and young, in evening dress and in tweeds, -in ermine-collared opera-cloaks and in tailor-mades. -And from the merry, noisy, busy, -jostling assembly rose, as persistently as the -swathes of blue tobacco smoke that drifted -aloft on the overheated air, a confused -Babel of voices as incessant as the hum of -a threshing-floor or the pounding of the sea.</p> -<p>“Her name,” said the Chief suddenly, as -though he divined his companion’s thoughts, -“or at any rate the name by which she chooses -to be known, is Madeleine McKenzie. She -has been coming here now for a week or -more. Nobody knows much about her. -Ah!”</p> -<p>He nudged Desmond’s elbow. Two youths, -very sleek and impeccably attired in evening -dress, had sat down at the girl’s table. One -of them, a fair-haired, clean-looking boy, was -slightly merry with wine.</p> -<p>“And now”—unexpectedly the Chief’s -voice had become grave—“watch!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_199">199</div> -<p>His tone quickened Desmond’s whole attention. -Ever since the Chief had asked him -to dine at the Hexagon on this particular -Saturday night, he had been cudgelling his -brains to discover with what motive his -senior officer had wished to entertain him at -this amusing but very bohemian night-resort. -Over their Clover Club cocktails at the bar -and on various pretexts during dinner itself, -Desmond had sought in vain to probe the -depths of his host’s thoughts. Now came -this summons to watchfulness, stirring in -the young man that hunger for adventure -which had carried him to such heights of -success in the Secret Service.</p> -<p>The girl had finished her dinner and was -taking her coffee when a woman with a -basket of flowers approached the table. Desmond -had remarked the flower-seller during -the evening, a rather sinister-looking person -in black with neat lace apron and cuffs, plying -her wares at the bar and among the diners. -She stopped in front of the girl and her two -companions and, resting her basket on her -hip, took from it a little nosegay and laid it -silently upon the girl’s plate. The girl smiled -and pinned the flowers to the lapel of her fur -coat.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_200">200</div> -<p>“Did you see the flowers?” said the Chief.</p> -<p>“Of course,” replied Desmond.</p> -<p>“I mean, did you notice what flowers they -were?”</p> -<p>Desmond glanced across the room. “They -seem to be a white carnation with some sort -of blue flowers—cornflowers, probably—set -round it!”</p> -<p>“I see!” mused the other. “Then I think -we can be moving, Okewood!”</p> -<p>“And leave the charming and mysterious -Madeleine here?” queried Desmond.</p> -<p>“No,” replied the older man, signing to a -waiter, “she’s going too!”</p> -<p>Hardly were the words out of his mouth -when the girl rose up from her table by the -door, gathering her heavy coat about her. -It was quite obvious that the young men were -seeking to detain her. But laughingly she -put them off.</p> -<p>“Not to-night!” they heard her say as a -sudden lull came in the music. “I shall see -you here again!”</p> -<p>Then, without looking to left or right, she -hurried from the room.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_201">201</div> -<h2 id="c16"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XV</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE DECOY</span></h2> -<p>“My dear Okewood,” opened the Chief -when, half an hour later, he faced -Desmond across the fireside in his library, -“you find me grappling with what is probably -the most perplexing problem I have ever -tackled. For the past four weeks, since your -very ugly adventure with our old friend Clubfoot -in the affair of the Constantinople -courier, I have kept you and your brother -deliberately away from the Service . . . -against your own wish, I know . . . -frankly because you are too valuable to be -sacrificed to Dr. Grundt’s personal spite!”</p> -<p>At the mention of the name of his old -enemy, Desmond Okewood sat up eagerly in -his chair.</p> -<p>“Is Clubfoot up to his tricks again?” he -asked quickly.</p> -<p>The Chief shrugged his shoulders. “I used -to have the reputation of being a man who -knew his own mind,” he replied.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_202">202</div> -<p>Desmond looked at the beaklike nose and -the massive jaw appraisingly. The Chief was -worshipped in the Service for his quickness -of decision.</p> -<p>“But when I tell you, in answer to your -question, that one day I think he is and the -next day I think he isn’t, you will realize how -badly they’ve got me bothered. It’s not a -long story, Okewood, and you may as well -hear it because, I tell you honestly, the thing’s -got too big for one man to handle alone; -I ought to give the whole of my attention to -it, but I can’t; I’m too busy. If I did, I -should have to neglect other more important -affairs, and that is precisely what this campaign -of deviltry is meant to achieve.” The -Chief drew meditatively on his cigar. “You -knew Finucane, I think?”</p> -<p>“Who was lately in Brussels for you?”</p> -<p>The Chief nodded.</p> -<p>“Rather. But why ‘knew’?”</p> -<p>“He’s vanished, Okewood!”</p> -<p>“Kidnapped or . . .?”</p> -<p>“Murdered, almost certainly. It’s more -than a week since it happened. He knew too -much!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_203">203</div> -<p>Desmond nodded his assent. Brussels, the -half-way house to everywhere in Europe, is -the report centre for the espionage services -of every great European Power. The Secret -Service agent who can make good in Brussels -has little left to learn about the game.</p> -<p>“Yesterday a week ago Finucane crossed -over from Brussels to see me,” the Chief -resumed. “Between ourselves, Finucane has -been tightening up our report centres in -industrial Germany. You know Finucane, -Okewood: no Vere de Vere about him, but a -devilish clever fellow and a damned judgmatical -briber. His reports on the German -situation have been admirable, and the Prime -Minister was delighted. Finucane came over -to get his head patted and also to submit -certain plans for the development of our -arrangements in Germany.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_204">204</div> -<p>“Finucane got in from Brussels on Friday -evening by the train that reaches Victoria -at nine-twenty-five. He was to see me on -the following morning. He engaged a room -at the Nineveh, changed into evening dress, -and went off to get a bite to eat and see -life at the Hexagon. At five minutes to -midnight he left the Hexagon alone and apparently -perfectly sober. He never reached -his hotel and has neither been seen nor heard -of since!”</p> -<p>Desmond whistled. “Did he have the -goods on him?”</p> -<p>The Chief laughed dryly. “Not Finucane! -He carried it all under his hat!”</p> -<p>“And you’ve got no trace of him, no clue?”</p> -<p>Somewhere in the house an electric bell -trilled. The Chief looked at his watch.</p> -<p>“As far as we know the last person to -speak to Finucane before he disappeared was -Madeleine McKenzie,” he said. “By a fortunate -coincidence there happened to be present -at the Hexagon that night a young detective -from Vine Street named Rimmer, who was -keeping observation on a gang of West-End -crooks. This bright young man remembers -Finucane perfectly. Apparently Finucane -spoke to the girl and, sitting down at her -table, ordered a bottle of champagne. The -McKenzie girl left first and Finucane remained -to finish the bottle. Just before midnight -he paid the bill and went away. The -curious thing is that, while Finucane and the -girl were drinking together at the table, the -flower-woman approached, just as she did to-night, -and gave the girl a bunch of flowers. -And, again, just as we saw this evening, on -receiving the nosegay the girl promptly left -the place . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_205">205</div> -<p>“A signal, eh?” queried Desmond.</p> -<p>“Obviously,” said the Chief. “But what -does it portend?”</p> -<p>The door opened. Watkyn, the Chief’s -butler, a massively built ex-petty officer, -with a pair of shoulders like an ox, was there.</p> -<p>“Captain Elliott!” he announced.</p> -<p>“Perhaps Elliott can tell us!” remarked -the great man as the butler ushered into the -library that selfsame youth whom, slightly -merry with wine, they had seen but half an -hour ago at Madeleine McKenzie’s table at -the Hexagon.</p> -<p>The Chief wasted no time on introductions.</p> -<p>“Well?” was his greeting.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_206">206</div> -<p>“We carried out your instructions to the -letter, sir,” said the youth. “She’s a very -ladylike, attractive girl, not a bit the sort -of skirt you meet knockin’ about places like -the ‘old Hex.’ I pressed her very hard to -let me drive her home, and I really thought -I was getting on with her pretty well. But -all of a sudden she kind of dried up and said -she had to go . . .”</p> -<p>“When was that?” snapped the Chief.</p> -<p>“How do you mean, ‘when’?”</p> -<p>“At what stage of your conversation, with -the lady did this change come over her?” -said the Chief testily.</p> -<p>“Oh! after she was given some flowers by -old Bessie!”</p> -<p>The Chief nodded grimly. “Well, and -then?”</p> -<p>“We followed her taxi. She went home -to Duchess Street. I left Robin to keep -watch and follow her if she should leave the -house.”</p> -<p>Again the Chief nodded. “Thank you, -Peter,” he remarked, more gently this time. -“That’ll be all for to-night. You can pick -Robin up on your way home and send him to -bed. And hark’ee, the pair of you steer clear -of the Hexagon until further orders, do you -understand?”</p> -<p>“Yes, sir,” replied the young man. “Good-night, -sir.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_207">207</div> -<p>“Good-night, Peter.”</p> -<p>After the door had closed on him the Chief -turned to Desmond.</p> -<p>“We took a statement from the girl. Her -story absolutely tallies with Rimmer’s. She -had a touch of neuralgia, she says, and went -home early that night. She lives in furnished -rooms in a most respectable house -near the Langham Hotel, and if she is what -she seems to be, she certainly does not ply -her trade there. And yet what is the mystery -of these flowers?”</p> -<p>“Was she asked about them?”</p> -<p>The Chief shook his head. “I was afraid -of raising her suspicions. If it is a code a -question like that would make them change -it. But three times this week I’ve despatched -some of my people to the Hexagon to get into -conversation with the girl, different types -each time, and I’ve got only negative results. -The first man I sent posed as a rich Colonial -newly landed in London, exactly the sort of -fish that the West-End crooks and their decoys -are always trying to land. She let him -buy her a drink; Bessie, the flower-woman, -came across in due course and gave her a -bunch of white carnations, and presently she -made an excuse to join a party at another -table. But—note this well!—she did not -leave the place until closing time, when she -took a taxi home alone.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_208">208</div> -<p>“Two nights later I sent another fellow -along. His orders were to sit in the girl’s -line of vision, but on no account to address -her first. Nothing happened. She made -no advances to him; nobody else spoke to her, -and she received no flowers. She stayed -until closing time and again drove away to -Duchess Street by herself.</p> -<p>“To-night, by my instructions, young Elliott -took her on. As when Finucane was -with her, she received, as you saw, a nosegay, -not of white flowers only as my Colonial got, -but of white flowers mingled with blue. -Forthwith she drops young Peter and his -friend and goes home. Strange, isn’t it?”</p> -<p>“It is, indeed,” observed his companion. -“It would help us enormously if we knew -what flowers she was given the night that -Finucane disappeared!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_209">209</div> -<p>“I agree. But Rimmer didn’t notice. We -could have cross-examined old Bessie; but -if this is a code, she’s certainly in it too; and -I will <i>not</i> scare them off it until I see more -clearly . . .” He paused and, ticking each -point off on his fingers, resumed presently: -“If it’s a code, this is what I make of it. -General instructions to the girl: sit around -at the ‘Hex.’ every night, make no advances, -but only receive them. A white flower -means, ‘Drop the fellow; he does not interest -us, but stand by’; a white and a blue say: -‘The fellow does not interest us; you can -go home.’”</p> -<p>“By Jove!” commented Desmond, enthusiasm -in his voice, “this is getting jolly -interesting, sir!”</p> -<p>“Yes,” agreed the Chief. “But where -does it take us? Up against a blank wall. -And meanwhile Finucane’s disappearance remains -a mystery, and the <i>morale</i> of my staff -is being ruined! This negative result business -leads nowhere. I want something positive -to show whether Madeleine McKenzie is or -is not at the bottom of this baffling affair.”</p> -<p>“What about old Bessie? Who gives <i>her</i> -her orders?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_210">210</div> -<p>“We’ve drawn blank there, too! My men -are in the crowd at the ‘Hex.’ every night -to watch the old strap. Fellows often buy -flowers from her for ladies at the ‘Hex.,’ -but, as far as my young men have been able -to see, no one has sent any flowers to Madeleine!”</p> -<p>Desmond was silent for a moment. “In -that case,” he said presently, “there is only -one way of finding out whether the young -woman is being used as a decoy; that is, to -send her some one prominent, a really big -fish, and let her employers know, if possible, -that he’s coming. We shadow our decoy -and see where he leads us!”</p> -<p>The Chief chuckled delightedly. “What I -like about you, Okewood,” he said, “is that -your instincts are so unerring. You have -hit precisely upon my plan. Listen! There -is at present working for me in Germany a -gentleman who is commonly known in this -office as Murchison of Munich, you have -never met him, for he is a recent acquisition, -a banker by profession and a first-rate economist -with a natural ability for Intelligence -work. For the last eight weeks he has been -in southern Germany carrying out an investigation -into the transfer of German wealth -abroad. I flatter myself that we have been -able to cover up his tracks so successfully -that, in his capacity as secret agent, he is -actually known by sight to myself alone. Do -you follow me?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_211">211</div> -<p>Desmond nodded.</p> -<p>“Now,” the Chief continued, “the important thing -about his mission, from the standpoint -of our present dilemma, is that the big -German industrialists have lately become -aware of the presence of one of my fellows -in the inner ring of their councils without, -however, being able to identify him. I am -virtually certain that the kidnapping of Finucane -(to whom Murchison—did I tell you?—has -been reporting) was intended as a -warning to me that they are on the alert. A -word to a certain ‘double-cross’ of my acquaintance -giving away the identity of Murchison -of Munich, and a hint dropped in the -same quarter that, on a certain evening, the -party in question is to be found at the Hexagon, -will infallibly bring Clubfoot into the -open again . . .”</p> -<p>“Clubfoot? Why Clubfoot?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_212">212</div> -<p>“Because,” said the Chief gravely, “our -crippled friend, Dr. Grundt, the redoubtable -master spy of Imperial Germany, has transferred -his allegiance to the German industrialist -ring, which, as you know, is the heart -and soul of the great conspiracy to restore -the fortunes of Germany as a militarist monarchy. -Grundt to-day is the instrument of -the coal and steel bosses, the real masters of -modern Germany . . .”</p> -<p>“He has been working for them ever since -his reappearance, do you think?”</p> -<p>“Undoubtedly. Now, see here again. If, -when Murchison appears at the Hexagon, -Madeleine McKenzie is used as the decoy, we -shall have acquired the certainty that it was -she who lured Finucane away. And if subsequent -developments don’t lead us back to -old Clubfoot, damn it, I’ll eat my hat!”</p> -<p>“But supposing your surmise does not -prove correct,” Desmond objected, “you’ll -have given away one of your best men!”</p> -<p>The Chief smiled and shook his head. -“No, I shan’t! Murchison of Munich is -going to stay quietly where he is in South -Germany . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_213">213</div> -<p>The eyes of the two men met.</p> -<p>“Bear in mind,” added the Chief, “that -nobody has ever seen Murchison of Munich -except myself!”</p> -<p>There was a significant pause.</p> -<p>“And I do so hate painting my face!” remarked -Desmond irrelevantly.</p> -<p>The Chief laughed. “I knew I could count -on you, Okewood. Very little disguise will -be necessary if you will consent to sacrifice -your moustache. All I ask you to do is to -dine at the Hexagon at eight o’clock to-morrow -evening in the guise of Mr. Murchison -of Munich. You can leave the rest to me. -And if, in the course of the evening, you -should recognize that brother of yours—well, -don’t! Now as to this question of your -make-up . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_214">214</div> -<h2 id="c17"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XVI</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE HOUSE IN PIMLICO</span></h2> -<p>At five minutes to eight on the following -evening, Desmond Okewood took his -seat at the table which had been reserved for -Mr. Murchison at the Hexagon. Next to the -door, two tables away, the McKenzie girl -was seated, eating her dinner with the air of -quiet simplicity that Desmond had already -remarked in her. She was again in black, -but the Spanish comb was gone, and she now, -wore a smart little black hat whose curving -brim and sweeping black aigrette emphasized -the rather wistful piquancy of her features. -Desmond fancied he could detect about her -a vague air of excitement, of expectancy. -At any rate, there was a faint glow of colour, -in her pale cheeks.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_215">215</div> -<p>Desmond Okewood was feeling particularly -pleased with himself. I, who had -known him all his life, came in with a party -and passed him by without recognizing him, -as he told me gleefully afterwards. And yet, -as the Chief had said, very little disguise had -proved necessary. With grease-paint and -powder Desmond had blocked the healthy -tan out of his face, a touch of rouge on the -cheek-bones had altered the set of his features, -and a subtle change had been wrought -in the expression of his eyes by the simple -process of shaving off the outer corner of the -eye-brows and correcting their line with a -black pencil. The sacrifice of his moustache -and the addition of a pair of horn-rimmed -spectacles had sufficed to achieve the Chief’s -object, which was to render Desmond’s -general appearance both nondescript and negligible.</p> -<p>Suddenly the young man felt a little tingle -of excitement. Bessie, the flower-woman, -whom he had noticed offering her wares -among the serried ranks of loungers at the -long bar, was crossing the room. A man -at a table on the edge of the dancing-floor -bought a bunch of violets for the girl with -him. A nasty-looking old woman, Desmond -decided, as Bessie approached, with small -eyes, dull and lifeless, and thin lips set in a -fixed, unmeaning smile.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_216">216</div> -<p>She passed him by and stopped at the McKenzie -girl’s table. From her basket rested -on the white damask she took a cluster of -deep red carnations and laid them silently, -with her eternal smirk, beside the girl’s plate. -No word was exchanged between them; with -a grateful smile at the woman the girl pinned -the flowers in the front of her dress and -Bessie passed on.</p> -<p>Desmond waited. Excitement had dulled -the edge of his appetite, and he made a pretext -of eating while he narrowly watched -the girl. Once or twice he caught her glancing -archly at him from under her heavy black -lashes, and now, as he looked at her, she let -her dark eyes rest invitingly on his.</p> -<p>He beckoned to the waiter.</p> -<p>“Ask the lady in black by the door whether -I may offer her a glass of champagne,” he -said.</p> -<p>The man nodded understandingly, and the -next moment Desmond was facing Madeleine -McKenzie across the table.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_217">217</div> -<p>Her complete self-possession was the first -thing that struck him, for she was obviously -quite young. She was not coy about the -informality of their meeting, and she received -his introductory banalities about the crowd -and the band and the food with an air of -amused indifference which piqued him.</p> -<p>She made him talk about himself, parrying -with skill all his efforts to draw her out. -Little by little, so sure and sympathetic was -her touch, Desmond found himself entering -into the spirit of his part, talking of the life -of Munich, the Opera, the little <i>théâtres intimes</i>, -the huge, noisy <i>brasseries</i>.</p> -<p>“You are used to a life of excitement, -then?” she said.</p> -<p>It was Desmond’s cue. Swiftly he took it.</p> -<p>“Indeed I am,” he answered. “I’ve been -only a few hours in London, and I’m sick of -it already. Does any one ever have a good -time here?”</p> -<p>The girl flashed a glance at him from under -her long lashes. “If you know where to -look for it,” she said softly.</p> -<p>“I bet you know your way around,” Desmond -replied.</p> -<p>She shrugged her shoulders prettily. “My -ideas of a good time might not agree with -yours,” she countered.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_218">218</div> -<p>“What are your ideas of a good time?” -he asked.</p> -<p>She sighed. “Gambling!” she answered, -“if I could afford it.”</p> -<p>Desmond grew alert on the instant. Was -this the secret of Finucane’s disappearance, -cleaned out in a <i>tripot</i> and ashamed to show -his face again?</p> -<p>“Now you’re talking,” he said. He lowered -his voice. “Tell me, do you know where -there’s a game?”</p> -<p>She scrutinized his face, turned up to -hers. “If I thought you were to be -trusted . . .” she began.</p> -<p>He shrugged his shoulders. “If you think -I’m a police spy! However, I dare say I can -find my own way to the roulibouli!”</p> -<p>“Now I’ve offended you,” she said, and -laid her hand on his arm. “Are you really -keen?”</p> -<p>“Keen? Gambling’s the only sort of excitement -worth while, and I’ve tried most -sorts. The shaded lights, the green cloth, -the click of the ball, the scrape of the rakes—the -night should have four and twenty hours -if I had my way!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_219">219</div> -<p>“Come closer!” said the girl. “Leave me -here and drive to the clock outside Victoria -Station at the entrance to the Vauxhall -Bridge Road. Wait for me there. I mustn’t -be seen leaving with you. The police watch -the Hexagon!”</p> -<p>The crucial moment had arrived. Desmond -glanced quickly round the room. -There was no sign of Francis or any of the -Chief’s men. Well, his orders were to go -through with the adventure. He paid the bill -and left the girl at her table. Half an hour -later, as he waited in front of the clock-tower -at Victoria, a taxi drew up and a white hand -tapped softly on the glass.</p> -<p class="tb">The girl stopped the cab in front of one of -those tall, gloomy houses that face the river -in Grosvenor Road. Behind them, over an -arch of lights, the trams thumped across -Vauxhall Bridge; before them, beyond a -wilderness of warehouses and wharves, the -glow of South London shone luridly in the -night sky.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_220">220</div> -<p>The house was dark and, save for the taxi -quietly chugging at the door, the street was -deserted. The girl jumped out first and, a -latchkey in her hand, was already at the -front door as Desmond alighted. For an -instant he hesitated. What had happened -to Francis and the others? Had the Chief -failed him? Should he go on? His orders -left him no choice. He had to play his part -and leave the rest to the Chief. He felt in -his jacket pocket for the reassuring chill of -his automatic as he turned to pay the cab.</p> -<p>“How much?” he asked the driver, an -apple-cheeked greybeard.</p> -<p>“Something’s gone wrong, Des.,” replied -the man in a low voice, the voice of Francis -Okewood. “The Chief’s people were to have -followed us. Back out of this while you -can!”</p> -<p>“Psst!”</p> -<p>From the top of the steps the girl was -signalling to Desmond to make haste.</p> -<p>“Have you change for a ten-shilling -note?” Desmond said aloud to his brother, -and added in an undertone: “I’m going to -see it through. But get help quickly!”</p> -<p>And with that he followed the girl into -the house.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_221">221</div> -<p>They crossed the hall, a dingy place in -which a gas-jet in a stained-glass lamp -burned dimly. The girl stopped at a door -at the end and, producing another key, unlocked -it. They entered another lobby, very -spick and span with its white paint and red -Wilton pile carpet and brilliantly lighted. The -murmur of voices came from swing-doors -that led off it and the air was heavy with the -fragrant aroma of cigars.</p> -<p>At the end of the lobby, with their backs -to the entrance door, a man and a girl stood. -The man had his arms about the woman -and his face was buried in the aureole of her -golden hair. Desmond heard a sharp exclamation -from Madeleine.</p> -<p>“Paul!” she cried sharply.</p> -<p>The couple sprang apart. Like a fury -Madeleine turned on the woman.</p> -<p>“What are you doing with my husband?” -she demanded, and advanced menacingly -towards her, her eyes blazing with anger -and her thin hands shaking. “He’s mine, -you . . . you painted slut!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_222">222</div> -<p>The woman gave a cry of terror and bolted -through the door into the adjacent room. -Madeleine would have followed her, but -the man stepped between them and seized -the girl by the wrists. He was a big, showy -fellow, in the forties, in evening dress, very -well groomed, with sleek dark hair and a -dark moustache.</p> -<p>“Stop that, d’you hear?” he commanded. -He spoke with a marked foreign accent.</p> -<p>Furiously the girl wrenched herself free, -“I’m sick of it all!” she cried. “Sick of -being trifled with. Do you understand? -Haven’t I lowered myself to the dirt for -you? Haven’t I acted the part of a common -prostitute to help you, and this is all the -reward I get? . . .”</p> -<p>The man looked apprehensively at Desmond.</p> -<p>“Come, come,” he said to Madeleine in a -voice that was intended to be persuasive; -“don’t make a scene in front of our friend -here! It was—ha, ha—only a joke of mine—to -make you jealous, little woman . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_223">223</div> -<p>“Lies, lies, always lies!” the girl burst -in. “But I’m through with you now. Do -you understand? You’re welcome to your -Lotties and your Nancys and your painted -French women! I do no more dirty work -for you after this!”</p> -<p>The man bit his moustache. His eyes -were very evil. He controlled himself with -an effort.</p> -<p>“Dirty work?” he said. “What a horrid -word, Mado! Come, now, take your cloak -off! I’m sure our friend wants a -game . . .”</p> -<p>But the girl would not be pacified. “Horrid -word, is it? Then what became of the -other I brought here for you?”</p> -<p>The man’s face darkened horribly. -“That’s enough. Do you hear?” he cried, -and clapped his hand over the girl’s mouth. -But, with a fierce effort wrenching herself -free: “Go, go!” she cried to Desmond. -“For the love of God, get out of this house! -If you don’t . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_224">224</div> -<p>But her voice died away on a stifled -scream. Two men in evening dress had suddenly -appeared, and, lifting her bodily up, -bore her struggling away up a stair that -curved upward from the end of the hall. -Desmond, springing instinctively forward to -her aid, found his way blocked by Paul. Behind -him, in the doorway leading off the -vestibule, against a background of dim green -light, sullen and forbidding faces now -scowled. And a burly, thick-set man in a -dinner coat, with a broken nose, had quietly -posted himself between Desmond and the -door.</p> -<p>“Miss McKenzie,” said Paul suavely, “is -subject to these <i>crises de nerfs</i>. I must -apologize for the disturbance, Mr. . . . -Mr. . . .”</p> -<p>“Murchison!” said Desmond abstractedly.</p> -<p>He was wondering whether he had -alarmed himself unnecessarily. It was not -the first time he had been in a London gaming-hell, -and the curious muted hush beneath -the green-shaded lamps of the room off the -lobby was as familiar to him as the dim -figures he could descry about the table -watching with painful intensity the measured -movements of the banker as he drew the -cards from the shoe. Perhaps the scene he -had just witnessed was merely one of the -habitual encounters between a bully and his -victims.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_225">225</div> -<p>Yet the girl’s warning had obviously been -sincere. Who was “the other” of whom she -had spoken? Finucane? . . .</p> -<p>“My name is Geyer,” the man Paul was -saying. “Felix, take the gentleman’s coat.”</p> -<p>So saying, with a gesture of odious -familiarity, he clapped his arm about the -young man. Before Desmond realized what -he was up to, Paul had drawn from the -other’s jacket pocket the automatic pistol.</p> -<p>“You don’t mind?” he said. “It’s a rule -of the house!” And he handed it to the man -he had called Felix.</p> -<p>With a sinking heart, for now he knew he -had the worst to fear, Desmond silently -followed his mentor through the swing-doors.</p> -<p class="tb">An air of expectancy rested over the card-room. -The atmosphere was warm and so -thick with the fumes of tobacco that at first -Desmond was conscious only of a sea of -white faces turned towards the door. The -throng about the table parted to make way -for him as Paul Geyer led him up to the table.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_226">226</div> -<p>“A new member of our circle, my -friends,” Geyer’s voice trumpeted triumphantly -through the room; “a desperate gambler -who loves the green cloth!”</p> -<p>He stood between Desmond and the table, -his hands very white in the pool of light shed -by the low-hung, shaded lamps. He stepped -aside.</p> -<p>Desmond found himself facing The Man -with the Clubfoot.</p> -<p>Grundt was holding the bank. His great -hairy hands were spread out on the table, -one resting on the <i>sabot</i>, the other with its -knotted fingers sprawling over swathes of -shining playing-cards. His vast torso was -leant back in his chair and his red and fleshy -lips drew noisily on a glowing cigar held -securely between his strong, yellow teeth. -Beneath their shaggy, tufted brows his dark -eyes flamed defiance, insolence, triumph; -indeed, there was an indescribable air of -arrogance about his whole attitude and demeanour.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_227">227</div> -<p>Desmond’s first thought was Francis. -How long would he be in procuring assistance? -Help could not arrive yet awhile, for -it was not half an hour since they had parted. -Was not the immediate question rather how -long could Desmond hold Clubfoot off?</p> -<p>And then, with a sudden thrill of hope, -he remembered his disguise. Grundt would, -he knew, murder Desmond Okewood out of -hand. But might not Murchison of Munich -gain a brief respite? Yet would the disguise, -summary as it was, stand the test of those -keen and terrible eyes that even now were -searching his face?</p> -<p>There was no light in the room, Desmond -reflected with satisfaction, other than the -shaded table-lamps; and, for the present, -the features of Murchison, fully described -and circulated through the medium of the -Chief’s “double-cross,” were uppermost in -Clubfoot’s mind. But—and with a pang -the realization came to Desmond—the voice -was the great betrayer. If he must speak—and -he could not remain dumb without -arousing suspicion—disguise his voice as he -would, Grundt must inevitably recognize it.</p> -<p>But now Grundt was addressing him. -“Herr Murchison, hein? Es freut mich -sehr! A gambler, was?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_228">228</div> -<p>He grunted and puffed meditatively at -his cigar. “Gambling is a very pleasant -pursuit,” he continued amiably. Then his -voice grew grim: “But it has its drawbacks, -Herr Murchison. The loser pays!”</p> -<p>With an effort he straightened himself up -in his chair, shook the ash from his cigar -into a tray, and leaned across the table.</p> -<p>“Who’s been leaking to you?” he demanded.</p> -<p>Herr Murchison’s hands were shaking -violently. His pallid features seemed to be -distraught with sheer fright. Through his -large goggles he blinked feebly, idiotically, -at his questioner.</p> -<p>“My friend,” said Grundt, placing one -black-thatched hand palm downwards on -the green cloth, “your activities in South -Germany are inconvenient to me. With -your English gold you have been corrupting -my wretched compatriots, plundered and -pillaged by the rapacious French, your -allies . . .” His fingers clawed up a -card. “I shall crush your organization, you -and your helpers and your helpers’ helpers -. . . like that!” The gleaming -millboard wilted in his powerful grasp. -“Where are your headquarters?” he rapped -out, snarling, and added over his shoulder: -“Meinhardt, take a note of his answers!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_229">229</div> -<p>Herr Murchison cast a panic-stricken -glance round the silent, forbidding circle of -attentive faces.</p> -<p>“Answer me, you dog!” thundered Clubfoot. -“I’ve plenty of means at my disposal -to banish coyness! Come on! Out with -it! I’m not going to waste my time tearing -it out of you piecemeal! Are you going to -make a clean breast of it? Yes or no!”</p> -<p>Herr Murchison extended two trembling -hands. “Give me time!” he murmured -weakly. “I will tell you what I can!”</p> -<p>A light of sudden vigilance appeared in -Clubfoot’s eyes. The man’s whole manner -changed on the instant. He seemed to -bristle. “Time?” he repeated as though to -himself. “Paul,” he called, “come here!”</p> -<p>Paul Geyer crossed the room and stood -behind Grundt’s chair. Clubfoot whispered -something in his ear. Without leaving his -place, Geyer gave a muttered order to a man -at his side, who noiselessly left the room.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_230">230</div> -<p>Grundt took out his watch and laid it on -the table before him. “I have exactly five -minutes to spare,” he said. “In that time I -propose to turn you inside out, my friend, or, -by God, we’ll see what the old-fashioned -methods of cross-examination will do!”</p> -<p>He moistened his lips with his tongue, like -some great beast of prey licking its chops.</p> -<p>“I’m waiting!” he said.</p> -<p>Shaking in every limb, Herr Murchison -opened his lips to speak. “My headquarters -are . . . Munich!” he said in a strained -voice.</p> -<p>“Turn your head to the right!” shouted -Grundt suddenly. “Turn your head, I say! -Meinhardt, Felix! Thrust him down under -the lamp!”</p> -<p>Strong arms forced Herr Murchison -brutally forward until his chest rested on the -cloth. His spectacles fell off. The bright -light streamed full in his face.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_231">231</div> -<p>“Desmond Okewood, bei Gott!” roared -Grundt. “You poor fool, did you think -you could hoodwink me? Don’t you know -that a man can never disguise his ears? -Himmelkreuzsakrament, you and I have a -long account to settle, and this time”—his -voice shook with concentrated fury—“I’m -going to see that it’s paid!”</p> -<p>Then came a hoarse shout from without: -“The police!” and the sounds of a violent -scuffle. Immediately the room was a mass -of scrambling, jostling figures. The light -went out almost simultaneously . . . at -the very moment that Clubfoot clawed a -great automatic from his pocket. In the -clammy, noisy darkness Desmond flung himself -across the table straight at the throat of -that sinister gigantic figure facing him.</p> -<p>His opponent struggled fiercely, but the -chair impeded him. Desmond hung on -grimly, determined that, this time, his old -enemy should not escape him. Then the -light went up and Desmond found himself -looking into the mocking face of Paul Geyer. -Two uniformed constables pounced upon -him, and Desmond relaxed his grip.</p> -<p>“I’ll have the law on you,” gasped Geyer, -tugging at his torn collar. “Though I do -keep a table, that’s no justification for half -murdering me! Take his name and address, -Inspector!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_232">232</div> -<p>Touching his cap, the Inspector drew Desmond -Okewood aside. “You’ll be Major -Okewood, I’m thinking,” he said. “Your -brother has been like a wild man about you!”</p> -<p>“Where is he?” asked Desmond.</p> -<p>“There’s a passage under the road to a -wharf beside the river,” the Inspector -answered. “It connects with the house here -by a trap in the back hall. There’s a lame -man escaped that way . . .”</p> -<p>“A lame man?” queried Desmond in dismay.</p> -<p>“Aye! Mr. Okewood went after him with -a couple of my chaps!”</p> -<p>He was interrupted by the appearance of -Francis himself, breathless and dishevelled. -Only his taximan’s uniform remained to -recall his disguise of the night.</p> -<p>“He’s away!” he gasped, answering his -brother’s unspoken question. “Vanished -into the night! The men are beating the -place for him, but those blasted wharves are -a regular rabbit warren, and it’s as dark -as be-damned outside. Who’s your fat -friend?”</p> -<p>He indicated Geyer, who, violently protesting, -was being led away by his captors.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_233">233</div> -<p>“When the light went out,” said Desmond, -“Clubfoot changed places with him. He -knew this fellow only risked a fine for keeping -a gambling-den. It was my own fault. I -over-acted and put the old man on his guard. -Where’s the girl?”</p> -<p>“Disappeared. We’ll get her at Duchess -Street, I shouldn’t wonder!”</p> -<p>“What’s the bag here? Do you know?”</p> -<p>Francis made a grimace. “Nothing very -great, I’m afraid. Some vague foreigners -and a brace of bruisers. None of Clubfoot’s -gang, at any rate. They must have smelt -a rat, for as we were picking the lock a fellow -unexpectedly opened the front door and gave -the alarm!”</p> -<p>“I know,” said Desmond. “Clubfoot -got suspicious when I asked him to give me -time, and sent this chap out to see if there -were any police around. By the way, what -happened to the Chief’s crowd?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_234">234</div> -<p>Francis raised his eyes to heaven. “Somebody -will be sacrificed for this night’s work. -Their car burst a tyre in Victoria Street and -they lost sight of my taxi. The arrangement -was, you see, that they were to follow the -girl and not you. Instead of ringing up -headquarters to report, they went careering -all over Belgravia, and when I rang up the -Chief on leaving you they hadn’t turned up. -So we simply asked the nearest police divisional -headquarters to raid this place as a -gambling-hell. It seemed the quickest way -of getting assistance!”</p> -<p>They were silent for a moment. Then -Desmond said: “I must say I should like to -have known how those flower signals were -worked.”</p> -<p>“We pinched old Bessie to-night,” his -brother replied, “and she spilled the beans. -A confederate, instructed by Grundt, tipped -her off the colour by means of a handkerchief -as he stood at the bar—red, blue and -white, or white. As to the meaning of the -various colours, I think the Chief’s diagnosis -was correct. Clubfoot apparently had found -out that Finucane was an habitué of the -‘Hex.’ in the old days and laid this plot -to trap him. Poor Finucane! The girl got -the signal of red carnations for him, too!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_235">235</div> -<p class="tb">A week later a tug off Charing Cross Pier -fished up in its screw the dead body of -Finucane, bound hand and foot, with a bullet -through the head. The Hexagon Buffet -knew the McKenzie girl no more. Nor did -she ever return to Duchess Street. As an old -offender, Paul Geyer was given a month’s -imprisonment for keeping a gaming-house, -and, as an alien—he was Russian-born—recommended -for deportation. In respect of -the death of Finucane no charge was brought -against him, for want of evidence.</p> -<p>Meanwhile The Man with the Clubfoot -remained at large.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_236">236</div> -<h2 id="c18"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XVII</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE MEETING</span></h2> -<p>If, as the textbooks tell us, a successful -retirement be the greatest test of -strategy, then, indeed, Clubfoot can lay -claim to be one of the most skilful of generals -in the never-ending guerilla warfare that is -the daily life of the Secret Service. No man -can ensure himself against the surprises of -fate; but in one respect Dr. Grundt’s foresight -was never found wanting, and that was -in the provision of a safe and inconspicuous -line of retreat. Nothing is more devastating -to the <i>moral</i> of troops of pursuit than the -knowledge that their enemy, after each successful -raid, is able to retire in safety into -ambush to select his own time for the next -sortie.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_237">237</div> -<p>My two friends frankly recognized the -affair at the house in Pimlico as a serious -reverse. Not only had Clubfoot made away -with one of the Chief’s most expert and -trusted agents, but he had also eluded the -trap laid for him and arranged matters so as -to leave in the hands of his pursuers not a -single accomplice against whom anything -more serious than a simple misdemeanour -could be proved. In itself the check was bad -enough, but its results were even more grave. -The long list of unexplained crimes was -beginning to sap at the <i>moral</i> of the Service: -there were resignations among the weaker -vessels whom crises of this nature invariably -expose; and even the Chief, most dogged -and equable of mortals, who had his own -private reasons for anxiety, began to look -worried.</p> -<p>It therefore redounds the more to his -credit that at this juncture, some three -weeks after Clubfoot’s escape by river from -the house of Pimlico, the Chief should have -taken a decision that, it is safe to predict, -in any walk of life other than the Secret -Service, would have been denounced as sheer -lunatic foolhardiness.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_238">238</div> -<p>Once more Grundt had vanished away into -the Ewigkeit. It was as though the vast -bulk of the master spy had dissolved into -thin air. One clue, and one clue only—and -that nothing better than a report based -on more than doubtful authority—was -forthcoming pointing to his presence in Germany. -A “double-cross”—one of those -versatile gentlemen who carry on espionage -for both sides—sent word that a friend of -his had seen a burly lame man whose appearance -answered the description of Clubfoot -lunching at a small café on one of the islands -in the Havel, the river outside Berlin. No -corroboration was obtainable and nothing -more was heard directly of the redoubtable -German until one morning the Chief found -in his mail a letter from Dr. Grundt, posted -in the West Central postal district of London, -asking for an interview.</p> -<p>This the Chief decided immediately to -grant. By the rules of the game he knew -that the meeting would be privileged. In -according it he was aware that he undertook -to allow his visitor to come and go unmolested. -Such encounters are not uncommon -in the Secret Service. The “double-crosses” -form, as it were, an invisible bridge between -the most inveterate adversaries and, within -the limit of strange unwritten moral laws in -this most immoral of avocations, there are -pacts and understandings that not infrequently -are laid down at meetings no whit -less bizarre than the memorable interview -between Clubfoot and the Chief.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_239">239</div> -<p>With characteristic consideration the big -man sent for my two friends and informed -them of Dr. Grundt’s request.</p> -<p>“It’s . . . it’s incredible, sir,” said -Desmond Okewood.</p> -<p>“He wouldn’t have the nerve,” his brother -Francis put in.</p> -<p>“Clubfoot would,” grimly observed the -Chief, and pitched a letter on the desk in -front of them. “Read it for yourself!”</p> -<p>Strange and devious are the ways of the -Secret Service. Old hands at the game, -neither Desmond nor Francis Okewood had -been astonished on being bidden, severally -and secretly, to report at the office of Jacob -Melchizedech, commission agent, Shaftsbury -Avenue, to find the Chief installed in one -of the three modest rooms which Mr. -Melchizedech’s place of business comprised.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_240">240</div> -<p>Bizarre folk often have the pressing need -to unbosom themselves to those who pull -the strings behind the façade of public affairs. -But the social record of some of these -mysterious gentlemen and ladies is not always -one to inspire unquestioning confidence. -So, in the first instance, a non-committal -identity and a non-committal address are but -an elementary safeguard against blackmail -and the kindred practices of the “double-cross.” -Seldom did the Chief, known to few -only by sight and to fewer still by name, face -the casual visitor save under the cloak of an -unrevealing identity and an accommodation -address.</p> -<p>Desmond picked up the letter and read it, -while his brother looked over his shoulder.</p> -<blockquote> -<p>Dr. Grundt [the bold, upright handwriting set -forth] presents his compliments to his colleague, -the Director of the British Secret Service, and -requests the favour of a personal interview at a -time and place most convenient to the latter. A -reply by return in the Agony Column of <i>The -Times</i> would oblige.</p> -</blockquote> -<p>“Well, I’m damned!” Desmond exploded -violently. “You’re surely not going to receive -the fellow, sir?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_241">241</div> -<p>“Mr. Melchizedech on my behalf,” the -Chief retorted with a twinkle in his eye, -“will be pleased to hear anything our friend -wishes to lay before me!”</p> -<p>“We’ll be three to one, anyhow!” muttered -Francis Okewood.</p> -<p>The Chief shook his head. “No, we -shan’t,” he announced decisively. “You two -will be in the farther room . . .”</p> -<p>“But, Chief,” Desmond broke in vehemently, -“the man will be armed. He’s dangerous: -he stops at nothing . . .”</p> -<p>The big man shrugged his broad shoulders.</p> -<p>“I always meet an adversary halfway,” -he said. “And I would remind you that -Grundt and I have never yet come face to -face. I am inordinately interested, I must -confess, in this cripple who, when he directed -the ex-Kaiser’s personal secret service, exercised -such power over his Imperial master -that he was the most dreaded man in Germany. -You and your brother have told me -so much about his dominating personality. I -like encountering dominating personalities!” -he added reflectively.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_242">242</div> -<p>Desmond and Francis Okewood exchanged -a glance full of meaning. For -months the figure of the gigantic cripple had -haunted their thoughts. So deeply had -their long duel with The Man with the Clubfoot -impressed his figure on their brain that -in their mind’s eye they could see him now, a -simian silhouette with his vast girth, his immensely -long arms, his leering, savage eyes -beneath the shaggy brows—above all, his inevitable -undisguisable trade-mark, the monstrous deformed foot.</p> -<p>“I know you would meet anything or anybody -with your bare fists, sir,” Desmond -pleaded, “but Clubfoot is beyond the pale. -He has the profoundest contempt for our -English notions of fair play and, though you -may agree to this idea of his of an armistice -meeting, on <i>his</i> side you can bet your bottom -dollar it’s a plant! He’s a treacherous devil, -and the only way to treat him is to fall on -him the moment he appears, tie him up, and -lodge him as quickly and as securely as -possible in the nearest jail.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_243">243</div> -<p>“Well,” said the Chief slowly, “there may -be something in what you say. But in all -my career I’ve never yet refused to meet an -enemy who wrote and asked, fair and square, -for an interview. I shall see Grundt!”</p> -<p>“But, sir,” urged Desmond, “look at the -list of his victims since he started his campaign -of vengeance against the Service—Branxe, -Wetherby Soukes, Fawcett Wilbur, -Törnedahl, Miss Bardale, Bewlay, Finucane! -The man’s a wolf, a mad dog! He ought to -be shot at sight!”</p> -<p>The Chief’s strong face had grown very -stern. “I agree. But I want <i>my</i> sight of -him. Don’t worry, Okewood. I’ve got my -tally against our clubfooted friend. He’ll -get no change out of me . . .”</p> -<p>He looked at his watch. “Half-past six. -He’ll be here any moment now! Away with -the pair of you into the back room. If you’ll -remove the map of the tube railways hanging -on the partition wall you’ll find a trap which, -provided you don’t turn up the light, will—ahem!—facilitate -both seeing and hearing!”</p> -<p>“Sir, once more . . .” said Desmond.</p> -<p>The Chief shook his head.</p> -<p>“And I haven’t even got a gun!” muttered -the young man forlornly as he accompanied -his brother from the room.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_244">244</div> -<p>A “buzzer” whizzed raspingly through -Mr. Melchizedech’s office. Composedly the -Chief rose from his chair and, crossing the -outer room, opened the front door. An -enormous man in a black wide-awake hat -with a heavy caped ulster faced him. The -visitor leaned heavily upon a crutch-handled -stick.</p> -<p>“Mr. Melchizedech?” he wheezed, for the -stairs had temporarily robbed him of his -breath.</p> -<p>“That’s my name,” replied the Chief. -“Please come in.”</p> -<p>He stood back to let the stranger pass, -then led the way into the inner office.</p> -<p>“Won’t you take off your things?” he said, -and, pointing to a chair, remained standing.</p> -<p>With slow, deliberate movements the -visitor slid the ulster from his shoulders and -cast it with his hat on a couch. Then he -turned and faced the other, and, for a full -minute, the two men measured each other -in silence. They were something of the -same type, both of big build, both masterly -and virile, with iron determination shown -in the proud jut of the nose, the massive -cast of the jaw.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_245">245</div> -<p>There was, however, a marked difference -in their regard. The Englishman was suave, -self-possessed, restrained, and his manner, -though watchful and even suspicious, was -placid and polite. But in his every trait the -other, his visitor, was restless and provocative. -The baleful glare in his dark and -burning eyes was in itself a challenge, and -his movements had something of the menacing -deliberation of a wild beast. There was -an indescribable air of primeval savagery -about him with his bulging tufted brows, his -enormous deep chest, his long and powerful -arms, his short thick legs, as he confronted -the other across the desk.</p> -<p>Presently his eyes left the Chief’s face as, -with insolent deliberation, he let his gaze -sweep slowly round the room. It took in -the desk with its dusty bundles of papers, -the safe in the wall behind, the office calendar, -the clock, the hat-stand, and the filing-cabinet, -before coming to rest again upon the -impassive mask confronting him.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_246">246</div> -<p>With a comprehensive wave of his stick -he indicated their surroundings.</p> -<p>“Na,” he croaked, “as between colleagues -was there really any necessity for this -elaborate setting?” Shrewdly he watched -the other’s face.</p> -<p>“My instructions from the gentleman to -whom you wrote,” replied the Chief evenly, -“are to hear what you wish to say. I was -to add that, in according you this interview, -my Chief in no way binds his liberty of -future action, notably with regard to the -punishment he proposes to inflict upon you.”</p> -<p>Anger flashed swiftly into the hard, dark -eyes. “Punishment?” he exclaimed; then -dropped chuckling into a chair. “Bold -words!” he added. “So ist’s aber recht! -As between man and man!”</p> -<p>Impressively he laid one hairy palm downwards -upon the desk.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_247">247</div> -<p>“You have had ample warning of my -power,” he said. “I have decimated your -Service, Herr Kollege; its <i>moral</i> is profoundly -shaken; and, after the series of sanguinary -reverses you have sustained at my -hands, I can only suppose that a form of -puerile <i>amour-propre</i> prevents you from -recognizing the futility of continuing the -struggle. So I have come to you, frankly -and openly, as is our German way, to lay my -cards upon the table.”</p> -<p>Not by so much as the flutter of an eyelid -did the Chief interrupt the flow of this -harangue. He listened quietly, composedly, -his keen grey eyes fixed on his visitor’s face.</p> -<p>“My work here is almost done,” the other -resumed. “For many years I have lived my -life intensely, working early and late, contriving, -combining, braving danger and defeating -intrigues, for the greater glory of -my people. But the world is changing—was -ich sage! has changed, Herr Kollege, and -the hour has almost struck for old Clubfoot, -as they call me, to take his retirement. One -last mission remains to be fulfilled and then -old Clubfoot retires to his vineyard in -Suabia, and politics will know no more the -greatest man in our profession since -Fouché!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_248">248</div> -<p>He seemed to swell up as he uttered his -boast and his deep voice thrilled warmly to -the fire of his egotism. Then his mood -changed. With a crash he brought his fist -down upon the desk.</p> -<p>“This Bliss mission must not go through, -Herr Kollege,” he commanded.</p> -<p>For the first time a new light crept into the -steady grey eyes that watched him so closely -from across the table. The expression was -involuntary and vanished almost as soon as -it appeared. But, mere flicker though it was, -it did not escape Grundt.</p> -<p>“I surprise you, I see,” the cripple -remarked softly. “Nothing is withheld from -me, lieber Herr. Shall I tell you about Mr. -Alexander Bliss, senior partner of Haversack -and Mayer, brokers to the British Government, -and his mission to . . .”</p> -<p>An instinctive gesture from the other interrupted -him.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_249">249</div> -<p>“Discretion above all things,” Grundt -acquiesced. “To the capital of a certain State -contiguous to Russia, shall we say? You -are doubtless aware that its new-found liberty -has brought this ambitious Staatchen to the -verge of financial disaster. A brand-new, -spick-and-span army, costly missions abroad, -banquets to fête the promise of to-morrow -(but never the achievement of to-day), injudicious -speculation in the exchanges of its -neighbours have, as you undoubtedly know, -played such havoc with the national resources -that bankruptcy is the inevitable corollary. -The British Government, with the altruism -that has always distinguished its foreign -policy (I would not suggest for a moment -that the heavy commitments of British -capital in this quarter influence its actions in -the least!), has come to the rescue of . . . -of this State. Your Mr. Bliss, after a number -of most secret interviews with the -Finance Minister, has concluded a satisfactory -arrangement for the secret pledging in -London of the State jewels, the glories of the -nation’s past. I think I have summed up -the situation correctly.”</p> -<p>He leant forward across the desk, tapping -the blotter with stub forefinger.</p> -<p>“You will recall Mr. Bliss,” he said, “and -cancel the arrangement he has made. A -group of German financiers is prepared to -take such action as will avert the disaster that -threatens . . . this State. You will -recall Bliss!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_250">250</div> -<p>Very quietly the Chief shook his head.</p> -<p>“If the British Government declines assistance,” -Grundt resumed, “this Government -will be bound to fall back upon the offer -of the German group. The withdrawal of -the Bliss mission will enable the German -syndicate to arrange a loan on its own terms. -I observe that you are already familiar with -the existence of this German consortium. -You see I am perfectly candid with you. I -will push my frankness a step farther. This -Bliss affair will be my last case. The matter -satisfactorily adjusted, I retire, Herr Kollege, -and enable you to reorganize your shattered -and nerve-destroyed Service!”</p> -<p>Reflectively the Chief stabbed at his blotter -with his reading-glass.</p> -<p>“Don’t be too hard on us, Herr Doktor,” -he remarked. “The two Okewoods are in -excellent health!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_251">251</div> -<p>A warm flush crimsoned the pallid cheeks -of the cripple. Hot anger suddenly gleamed -in his dark and restless eyes. But he controlled -himself. He ran one hand over the -close iron-grey stubble that thatched the bony -head and his fleshy lips bared his yellow -teeth in a forced smile.</p> -<p>“Clever, clever young men, Herr Kollege!” -he murmured. “I congratulate you -upon your Okewoods. May they live long to -enjoy the fruits of their cleverness!”</p> -<p>In his mouth the wish became an imprecation, -with such glowing vehemence did he -utter it. He spoke with a snarl that for a -moment lent his features a positively tigerish -expression.</p> -<p>But the Chief had stood up. “Is that all?” -he demanded, and came round the desk.</p> -<p>Clubfoot, his hairy hands crossed above -the crutch of his stick, leaned back in his -chair and looked up at his interrogator.</p> -<p>“Yes,” he replied. “And now you know -what you’ve got to do!”</p> -<p>The Chief plucked open the door. “Get -out of here and go to hell!” he said without -raising his voice, with the same dogged composure -he had maintained throughout the -interview.</p> -<p>Like some great animal heaving itself -erect, Grundt struggled cumbrously to his -feet.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_252">252</div> -<p>“You . . . you refuse?” he blustered.</p> -<p>The Chief ignored the question. “If -you’re not out of here in one minute,” he retorted -with deadly calm, “cripple though you -are, I . . . shall . . . kick . . . you -. . . downstairs!”</p> -<p>Leaning heavily on his stick, The Man -with the Clubfoot hobbled slowly to the door. -On the threshold he stopped and, in a gesture -of sudden ferocity, thrust his face into the -other’s.</p> -<p>“You have passed sentence of death on -Bliss,” he said in a voice that fury rendered -hoarse and almost inarticulate, “and sentence -of death on yourself as well!”</p> -<p>Then he passed out and they heard his -heavy footstep pounding down the stairs.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_253">253</div> -<h2 id="c19"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XVIII</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">THE CHAMOIS LEATHER PACKET</span></h2> -<p>Three times in the course of the ensuing -week the Chief’s life was attempted. -There is reason to believe, Desmond -Okewood says, that, previously to this, -other attempts had been made; but he has -certain knowledge only of these three plots. -No word of the outrages passed the inmost -circle of the Service represented by the Chief -himself and Collins, his confidential clerk, -and Desmond learned of them only when, -visiting headquarters one day, he observed -that liftman, doormen, messengers, and -clerks had all been changed.</p> -<p>“Some one tampered with the lock of the -gate of the lift which works automatically -after hours,” the Chief explained reluctantly -when Desmond tackled him, “and, but for -a certain instinctive caution that has served -me well before now, I should have taken a -drop of six floors. Somebody inside did it, -so I made a clean sweep of the office staff -with the exception of Collins!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_254">254</div> -<p>But it was not until months afterwards -that Desmond heard of the youth who, -caught lurking in the area of the Chief’s London -house, was found to be carrying a hypodermic -needle filled with prussic acid, and of -the endeavour to derail the train by which the -Chief was travelling to a conference in the -north.</p> -<p>But when, one spring morning, the Chief -arrived by car at Desmond Okewood’s Surrey -bungalow, Desmond saw at once by -his face that the strain was beginning to tell. -The steady grey eyes were as keen as ever -and the mouth had lost nothing of its firmness; -but there was a set air of restraint -about the big man which did not deceive Desmond.</p> -<p>They breakfasted together and, the meal -done, the Chief proposed a walk in the garden.</p> -<p>“We can talk better in the open air,” he -remarked as he filled his pipe.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_255">255</div> -<p>It was an old garden whose high red -walls, now clothed with the blossom of peach -and apple, were a guarantee against eavesdroppers. -For a spell they strolled in silence -along the paths bordering the beds bright -with spring flowers, the busy clamour of -thrush and blackbird the only sound.</p> -<p>“Two days will see us through now,” the -Chief remarked suddenly. “Bliss has -reached Berlin with the jewels, Okewood. -He has had the most express injunctions to -hand them over there to a trustworthy messenger -of his choosing, for he himself, unless -I am greatly mistaken, is by this time a -marked man. The messenger will immediately -convey the jewels to Brussels where -you will take charge of them. A plane will -be waiting for you at the Brussels aerodrome, -you will fly straight back to Croydon where -a car will be in readiness day or night to take -you to the Bank of England. There you will -hand the jewels over to the Governor against -his receipt. Is that clear?”</p> -<p>“Perfectly!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_256">256</div> -<p>“To prevent leakage I forbade Bliss -throughout his trip to communicate with me -at all. I, however, have been able to send -him instructions from time to time. His -messenger was due to leave Berlin last night, -and will report to you to-morrow evening at -Box A at the Flora Theatre—it’s a music-hall—in -Brussels!”</p> -<p>Desmond nodded. “Who is it?”</p> -<p>“Bliss had no means of telling me. But -I have arranged a recognition signal. The -messenger will ask you the question: ‘Do -you know the Albany?’ to which you will -reply: ‘From the Mansion to Vigo Street!’ -On that answer, and on that answer only, the -jewels will be handed over. Have you got -that?”</p> -<p>Desmond repeated question and answer.</p> -<p>“It sounds idiotic,” said the Chief apologetically, -“but I had to improvise something -on the spot.”</p> -<p>“And when do I leave?” Desmond asked.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_257">257</div> -<p>“By the morning train from Victoria to-morrow. -You will be in Brussels by four -in the afternoon. A red Minerva car will -meet you at the station and will be at your -disposal for the whole of your stay. Just -say to the driver ‘Albany’ and he will obey -your orders. He will take you to the theatre -and afterwards drive you out to the aerodrome -to the machine that we have ordered -for you. I honestly believe that nothing can -go wrong, for the details I have given to you -were sent sealed by air to Bliss in Berlin, and -I have word that Bliss has received them. -Our plan is, therefore, known only to myself, -Bliss, and you . . .”</p> -<p>“And the messenger . . .” Desmond -put in.</p> -<p>“Quite so. But you can trust Bliss to -have picked a reliable person. He is, without -exception, the most suspicious-minded cove -I’ve ever come across . . . Hallo, -what’s this?”</p> -<p>A maid came hurrying up the garden path.</p> -<p>“The gentleman is wanted on the telephone, -please, sir,” she said to Desmond.</p> -<p>They went into the house, where Desmond, -discreetly, left the Chief at the telephone in -the study. He returned to find the Chief -staring moodily out of the window in an -attitude of abstraction most unusual for him. -On the sound of Desmond’s entrance he -turned round.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_258">258</div> -<p>“Bliss was found dead in his hotel in -Berlin with his throat cut this morning,” he -said. “A remarkable man, your friend Clubfoot!” -he added.</p> -<p>Desmond whistled. Then, with a shade -of anxiety in his voice, he added: “I hope -you’ll be cautious for a bit, sir!”</p> -<p>The Chief laughed dryly. “The warning -applies to you with stronger force, young -fellow,” he retorted. “Bliss’s messenger left -Berlin for Brussels last night <i>with the -packet</i>, as the message puts it. If only he -isn’t followed! . . .”</p> -<p class="tb">“If only he isn’t followed! . . .” The -Chief’s phrase accompanied Desmond across -the North Sea. The wheels of the Pullman -hammered it out as the boat train bore him -swiftly to the Channel shores, and it resounded -in the rhythmic thudding of the -waves against the sides of the Ostend packet. -He had a mental picture of the unknown -messenger being whirled across Germany, -even as he was speeding over land and sea, -towards that enigmatical point of contact, -Box A, at the Flora Theatre in Brussels.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_259">259</div> -<p>“If only he isn’t followed! . . .” The -phrase recurred to Desmond as the Brussels -train pulled out of Ostend’s shabby station. -Had they really eluded the long grasp of -the man of might and mystery? If not, at -what stage would he intervene? Would he -interpose his massy bulk between the two -emissaries speeding towards one another to -meet? Or would he let contact be established -and, once made, break it? . . .</p> -<p>It was satisfactory to know, at any rate, -Desmond reflected, that, so far as his experienced -eye could detect, he had not been -shadowed since leaving London. That he -could set his mind similarly at rest about the -man he was to meet! In the square outside -the Brussels terminus the red Minerva car -was waiting, and its driver, a button-nosed -cockney with a surprising bilingual gift, -showed his recognition of the password by -the cheeriest of smiles.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_260">260</div> -<p>Desmond drove to the Flora at once, -though it was only four o’clock. To his -great satisfaction, for he wished to make a -reconnaissance, he found that a matinée was -in progress. He was not in the theatre for -more than twenty minutes, and he spent the -remainder of the afternoon on the field of -Waterloo. Visits to La Haye Sainte and -Hougomont and the attempt to snatch from -their rather mournful atmosphere something -of that mighty clash of arms effectively -took his thoughts off the work before him.</p> -<p>In reality, however, he was looking forward -with the keenest relish to the surprises -of the evening. He dined well but wisely at -the “Filet de Bœuf,” and the half-pint of -champagne, which was his modest allowance, -seemed to quicken in him that lurking delight -in adventure which had first drawn him -towards the Secret Service.</p> -<p>The evening performance at the Flora was -billed to begin at nine o’clock, but when -towards that hour, the ouvreuse showed Desmond -into Box A, the house was not half -full. Comfortable-looking bourgeoisie with -their wives and often their children, mugs of -beer on the ledge before them, formed the -bulk of the audience, and Desmond, whose -thoughts were with the auditorium rather -than the stage, found some amusement in observing -them.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_261">261</div> -<p>The performance had been proceeding for -about half an hour and a troupe of comic -acrobats were giving their turn when behind -him he heard the door of the box open. He -felt a thrill—the Unknown had arrived. He -heard the wheezy voice of the ouvreuse: -“Voici, Madame! Merci, Madame!” the -door swung to with a click and, as he turned, -Desmond found himself facing a girl.</p> -<p>She was in evening dress, which, after the -fashion of women at theatres on the Continent, -she was wearing with a large black -hat. Petite and dainty, from the nape of -her neck almost to her feet she was swathed -in a long Spanish shawl, white, on which -huge crimson flowers were embroidered, -with a deep silken fringe.</p> -<p>“Madame, je regrette . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond stood up. The girl’s arrival was -most untimely. At any moment now the -messenger might appear. Seemingly, she -had mistaken the box. Yet the grim old -ouvreuse had let her in. She was a pretty -girl, about twenty-five, he judged, and her -dark eyes, with their curling lashes, the -smooth curve of her cheek, were admirable.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_262">262</div> -<p>The band was playing an interminable -quick-step, to which the tumblers performed -their tricks and contortions. The girl did -not advance into the box, but remained in -the half-light at the back.</p> -<p>“I demand a thousand pardons, Monsieur,” -she murmured in French from the -back of the box. “I was to have met some -. . . friends who have not yet arrived. If -I might remain a little at the back of the box. -It is impossible to wait in the promenade!”</p> -<p>“Je vous en prie, Madame!” said Desmond -politely, and advanced to the front of the -box to fetch a chair. But the next moment -he had stepped swiftly back from the red -velvet ramp and remained rooted where he -stood, staring, staring . . .</p> -<p>In the opposite box, with a party of men, -Clubfoot was seated. He occupied the place -of honour in the centre of the box, big, burly, -and determined. With an opera-glass he -was slowly sweeping the stalls.</p> -<p>“Damnation!” Desmond swore aloud. -He had forgotten all about the girl behind -him. Clubfoot had forestalled the messenger, -then, and had come to see the transfer -effected. It was ten o’clock already. What -<i>had</i> happened to Bliss’s man? . . .</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_263">263</div> -<p>“You are an Englishman, aren’t you?” -The girl’s voice, the voice of an educated -Englishwoman, broke in upon his meditation. -He swung round. “I beg your pardon for -swearing just now,” he answered in English. -“I’m afraid I forgot about you!” He cast -a swift glance at the box opposite.</p> -<p>The girl laughed. “You speak French so -well that I should never have taken you for -an Englishman,” she said.</p> -<p>“And, apart from your accent, I was convinced -from your appearance that you were -a Parisian,” retorted Desmond gallantly. -He kept back in the shadow as much as possible.</p> -<p>Few women are proof against compliments -on their good taste. The girl flushed -with appreciation.</p> -<p>“Are you from London?” she asked.</p> -<p>Desmond looked at her quickly. An incredible -suspicion had dawned upon him. -What if Bliss’s messenger were a woman? -There was no reason why it should not be. -Nothing had been said about the messenger -being a man.</p> -<p>“Yes,” he answered tensely.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_264">264</div> -<p>The girl was at the mirror on the side of -the box arranging her hat.</p> -<p>“<i>Do you know the Albany?</i>” she said.</p> -<p>The question was uttered casually. Like -a flash the reply came back: “<i>From the -Mansion to Vigo Street!</i>”</p> -<p>The girl whipped round, one hand beneath -her enveloping shawl.</p> -<p>“Thank God!” she whispered. “Quick! -Take them!”</p> -<p>“Be careful!”</p> -<p>Desmond gripped her hand and drew her -back into the dim recesses of the box. He -could see that Clubfoot, facing them across -the auditorium, now had his glasses focussed -in their direction.</p> -<p>“They’re watching us,” the young man -whispered to the girl. “Pass them to me -behind your back!”</p> -<p>A heavy packet, wrapped in soft chamois -leather, about the size of a cigar-box, was -thrust into his outstretched hand. It was -too large for any pocket of his suit, so Desmond -slipped it into the pocket of his grey -tweed overcoat, which he carried on his arm.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_265">265</div> -<p>“I was . . . <i>scared</i>!” the girl murmured. -“Bliss told me that an Englishman -would meet me, and I thought, when I saw -you, that I had got into the wrong box. I -didn’t dare go out into the promenade again -on account of the man outside . . .”</p> -<p>“You were followed here?”</p> -<p>The girl nodded. “All the way from Berlin. -I thought I had given him the slip at the -station here, but, if I did, he evidently picked -up my trail again.”</p> -<p>“What’s he like, this man who shadowed -you?”</p> -<p>“A young man, slim and fair. He has a -long white scar on his face and . . .”</p> -<p>“H-sst!”</p> -<p>Desmond pressed her arm. The handle of -the box door was being slowly turned. They -drew back behind the door as it opened. -Then in the mirror hanging on the velvet -tapestry of the opposite wall Desmond saw -a face, bloodless and crafty, barred with a -livid cicatrice, the face of Heinrich, Clubfoot’s -aide. He, on his side, must have seen -Desmond mirrored in the glass, for he -gasped audibly. The face disappeared.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_266">266</div> -<p>“He’s gone to warn the others!” Desmond -whispered. He glanced across the house. -“And Clubfoot’s left his box. If only this -turn would finish! They wouldn’t dare to -attack us when the lights are up . . .”</p> -<p>But the tumblers were the star turn, the -top of the bill. With shrill cries, to the -lilt of that never-ending quick-step, they -bounced and whirled across the stage, working -up to their grand climax.</p> -<p>Desmond turned to the girl. “Are you -game for a dash?” he demanded.</p> -<p>He plucked the door wide. The corridor -was deserted. Behind them, as they stepped -quickly outside, the theatre now rang with -the applause that marked the fall of the -curtain. Desmond, the girl behind him, -darted softly down a staircase marked -“Sortie d’Incendie” in red lights, that stood -almost opposite the box door. They descended -unmolested and Desmond congratulated -himself on his forethought in having -made that preliminary reconnaissance as he -pushed outwards the emergency door at the -foot of the flight.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_267">267</div> -<p>In the street without, by the side of the -theatre, the red Minerva waited. Desmond -thrust the girl inside, sprang in after her, -the self-starter whirred, the engine throbbed, -and they glided out into the broad and -brightly lighted avenues of Brussels.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_268">268</div> -<h2 id="c20"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XIX</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">A FLIGHT AND WHAT CAME OF IT</span></h2> -<p>From the barrier of the aerodrome, -where the Minerva pulled up, Desmond -could see the machine destined for their night -journey. What a puny thing it looked, -stranded there, forlorn and solitary, in the -centre of the vast open space swept by the -glare of the lights of the night landing-station -and surrounded by the long, low sheds -whose roofs were now silvered by the effulgence -of the moon!</p> -<p>On their way to the flying-field the girl -had told Desmond her history. Her name -was Mary Brewster, and for two years she -had been acting as confidential secretary to -the head of one of the British missions in -Berlin. Her General had recommended her -to Bliss as a trustworthy German-speaking -messenger, and though she was fully aware -of the danger of the mission, she had jumped -at the chance of a trip home at Government -expense.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_269">269</div> -<p>She was a funny little girl, Desmond decided. -Her work in Berlin had given her -some insight into the workings of the Secret -Service, and the grave seriousness with -which she took her mission amused Desmond, -grown blasé in eight years’ experience -of its ways. Her very conscientiousness -made her profoundly suspicious—even of -Desmond at first; and she subjected him to -a prolonged cross-examination as to the <i>bona -fides</i> of the chauffeur. When the last-named, -on their arrival at the aerodrome, -went off in search of the pilot, the girl -wanted to know whether he was sure that the -aviator was to be trusted.</p> -<p>“My dear child,” said Desmond, laughing, -“that’s not my responsibility. It’s the -Chief’s. Each of us has his job in this show. -The chauffeur’s is to bring me alongside -the aeroplane and hand me over to the -pilot . . .”</p> -<p>As he spoke they saw a hooded and muffled -figure detach itself from the knot of mechanics -gathered about the plane. It proved -to be the pilot, a swarthy young man, to -judge by as much as his helmet disclosed of -his features, short and stocky, in leather flying-kit. -He came up with the chauffeur to -the car.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_270">270</div> -<p>“You’re my passenger, I think,” he said -to Desmond. “We’re all ready for you!”</p> -<p>He shot an enquiring glance at the girl. -Desmond remarked that she was to accompany -them on their journey. The pilot -seemed put out. The machine was a two-seater, -he protested; and he had been warned -to expect only the one passenger. Besides, -the girl couldn’t travel in evening dress; -she would perish of cold.</p> -<p>Desmond swept aside these objections. -The girl, he announced with a humorous -side-glance at her, would sit on his knee.</p> -<p>“As for the cold,” he went on, “that extra -coat on your arm, which is doubtless intended -for me, will do very well for her. I’ve -got my overcoat!”</p> -<p>And he tapped his ulster bulging with the -packet of precious stones.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_271">271</div> -<p>The pilot made no further comment, but -led the way to the machine. Rather sullenly -he helped the girl into the belted leather -jerkin he had brought with him, while Desmond -swung himself up the short ladder into -the passenger’s seat, protected by a curving -shield of talc, behind the pilot.</p> -<p>The girl, helped from above and below, -clambered after, her hat in her hand. Almost -before they knew that the pilot was at -the joy-stick, the propellers began to roar, -the driver raised his hand, and all the world -except the lucent moon and the glittering -stars in the wide sky above them seemed to -slide away—the flares, the sheds, the trees, -the twinkling lights of Brussels in the distance.</p> -<p>Desmond gave a little sigh. “Safe!” he -murmured, and patted that comforting bulge -in his overcoat.</p> -<p>They had, indeed, he told himself, made -a clean escape, shaken old Clubfoot right -off their track. Since leaving the theatre -they had seen nothing of him or of any of -his men. If this were the last episode in the -master spy’s career, it had ended, the young -man reflected, in his signal discomfiture. -Desmond felt his heart swell within him as -the icy night air smote his cheek and, hundreds -of feet below, the dim chessboard of -the Low Countries swayed and heeled over -beneath the moon.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_272">272</div> -<p>Perched demurely on his knee, the girl -remained very still. Speech was impossible; -the deafening roar of the propellers saw to -that—but Desmond’s quick intuitiveness told -him she was uneasy. Perhaps she was nervous, -he told himself; night-flying is always -something of an ordeal.</p> -<p>The channel was yet a silvery streak -below them when the pilot, crouched over -the wheel in front, turned and made a vague -gesture with his gauntleted hand. With -his huge goggles and furry helmet he looked -like some gesticulating goblin. He seemed -to be pointing downwards. At the same -moment the rush of air increased, a long -black ridge, far below at first, seemed to -rise and rise at them while, with a suddenness -that was pain, the roar of the propellers -abruptly ceased.</p> -<p>“Engine missing!”—the pilot’s voice came -to them in a muffled roar—“hang on! -Forced landing!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_273">273</div> -<p>Out of the blackness, sweeping up at them -with hideous velocity, a light winked and -blinked. Coughing and spluttering, the -engine picked up again. Suddenly they were -bumping wildly over the fleeting ground past -a handful of stunted trees and bushes and, in -hard, black silhouette against the moon, -the dark shapes of some scattered houses.</p> -<p>The engine was shut off again and they -careered to a standstill, the machine trembling -to the gentle jar of the earth. The pilot -heaved himself up in his cockpit and pushed -the goggles back from his eyes.</p> -<p>“Sorry,” he said, and began some technical -explanation to which Desmond Okewood -paid no attention. His thoughts were busy -with the next step. He did not relish the -idea of wandering about the country-side at -dead of night with some hundreds of thousands -of pounds’ worth of jewels in his overcoat -pocket. He looked at his watch. Its -hands marked ten minutes to one on the luminous -dial.</p> -<p>“Have you any idea where we are?” Desmond -asked. “I am positive,” he added, -“that I saw a light as we were planing down, -but there’s no sign of it now.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_274">274</div> -<p>The pilot, who had jumped down and was -fussing with the landing-wheels, turned -round.</p> -<p>“Distance is very deceptive at night,” he -said. “That light is probably five or six -miles away. It’s devilish fortunate,” he -went on. “I know exactly where we are. -This is the War Office rifle ground at Stoke -Bay, about six miles out of Lympne. I was -at Dover during the war and know the whole -of this country like my pocket. So, when -the engine started petering out over the -Channel just now, I steered straight for this -spot.”</p> -<p>“How long is it going to take you to put -things right?” asked Desmond.</p> -<p>The pilot shook his head sadly at the plane. -“Can’t say. At any rate, I’ll never get up -here again in the dark. We’d break our -necks most likely. You’ll have to go on to -London in the morning.”</p> -<p>Desmond swore under his breath. It -seemed to him that the airman was taking -things very lightly.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_275">275</div> -<p>“That’s all very well,” he remarked with -some heat. “But I’m on duty, and it is -essential that I should get on to town without -delay. And in any case Miss Brewster can’t -spend the night in the open, you know. -What are we going to do about it? Isn’t -there anybody we can knock up?”</p> -<p>“It’s just occurred to me,” answered the -pilot, wiping his hands on a wisp of cotton -waste, “that I know a fellow who lives close -at hand. Magnus is his name, a very sound -chap. He has a bungalow a piece down the -beach road. We’ll knock him up. I’ve no -doubt when we’ve explained things to him -he’ll be pleased to give us a shake-down for -the night. He’s on the telephone, too. Just -let me turn off the juice!”</p> -<p>He clambered back into the cockpit and -busied himself with the engine. Desmond -and Miss Brewster alighted. Suddenly the -former felt his sleeve plucked. He turned -round to find Mary Brewster’s big eyes staring -at him. With an upward glance at the -machine, she drew her companion unobtrusively -aside.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_276">276</div> -<p>“Don’t trust him!” she whispered. “He’s -. . . he’s got a dishonest face! How do -you know that this landing isn’t a plant? He -cut off the engine on purpose; I’m sure he -did. He meant to land here all along. Look -at the ground! It’s perfectly smooth. It’s -an aerodrome . . .”</p> -<p>“Aerodrome?” broke in the pilot. He -had descended from the machine and was -standing behind them. “Of course it’s an -aerodrome, an experimental ground. That’s -why I steered for it.”</p> -<p>Desmond looked at him. Certainly the -fellow had a shifty eye. Now that he -regarded the pilot more closely, he noticed -that he seemed to be labouring under some -excitement. The man saw that the other had -remarked his distress.</p> -<p>“It’s a nervy business, landing in the -dark!” he was quick to explain.</p> -<p>Desmond felt that his suspicions were -ungenerous. He knew how airmen loathe -night-flying.</p> -<p>“You made a devilish good landing!” he -said. “I’m afraid you must have thought us -very unappreciative. Now, what about your -friend Magnus?”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_277">277</div> -<p>The girl said no more and they set off in -silence across the moonlit grass. In front of -them a black shape loomed immensely out of -the darkness. As they drew nearer, Desmond -saw, to his astonishment, that it was -an aeroplane, a huge machine with metal -wings on which the moonbeams glinted.</p> -<p>Desmond stopped. “What’s that plane -doing here?” he demanded.</p> -<p>The pilot shrugged his shoulders. -“They’re trying out machines all the time,” -he replied. “We’re getting too much to the -left,” he added. “We want to bear more to -the right or we’ll miss the gate!”</p> -<p>But Desmond was walking in the direction -of the machine.</p> -<p>“I say!” the pilot called out. “They don’t -like strangers monkeying about with . . .”</p> -<p>Desmond heard no more. He had reached -the machine. Mary Brewster was just behind -him. It was a tremendous machine and -its immense spread of wing quite dwarfed -them. A blast of warm air smote them on -the cheeks.</p> -<p>“Why,” cried Desmond, “the engine’s -warm. This machine has been out this very -night . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_278">278</div> -<p>He turned swiftly round to the girl. As -his eyes fell on her face, it blanched with -terror.</p> -<p>“Behind you! . . .” she gasped; but, -before he had time to defend himself, a cloth -fell across his face from the back and was -pulled taut, an iron grip clutched his throat -and he was borne to the ground. A guttural -voice said close to his ear: “A sound and I -blow out your brains!”</p> -<p>Out of the darkness rang a woman’s -scream.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_279">279</div> -<h2 id="c21"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XX</span> -<br /><span class="h2line2">IN WHICH MISS MARY BREWSTER SPEAKS HER MIND</span></h2> -<p>Blind and helpless, gagged and bound, -his eyes bandaged, Desmond felt himself -lifted up and carried swiftly along. -Presently he heard the sound of the sea and -his bearers’ feet grinding on shingle. Then -through his bandage he was conscious of a -brilliant light. He was flung violently down -and the cloth removed from his face.</p> -<p>Silhouetted against the garish light of an -acetylene hurricane lamp in the cheaply -furnished living-room of a seaside bungalow, -Clubfoot stood before him. A hideous tweed -cap pulled down until it rested on the tips of -his large projecting ears lent him a horribly -grotesque appearance. He looked like a -great ape dressed in man’s clothes. Mary -Brewster, trussed up even as Desmond was, -reclined in a chair. She had lost her hat and -her soft brown hair was disordered by the -wind. Her small face, pale and piquant, was -enigmatic in its absolute serenity.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_280">280</div> -<p>“He has not got the jewels, either, Herr -Doktor!” said a voice.</p> -<p>Desmond could not turn to see the speaker. -He glanced down at the pocket of his overcoat -where the packet had been. The parcel -had vanished. It had certainly been there -when they had set out to walk to the bungalow. -Had that rascally pilot stolen it? It -didn’t matter much now what had become -of it.</p> -<p>Clubfoot snarled out an order in German. -Rough hands brutally searched the Englishman’s -clothes. Clubfoot looked on impassively.</p> -<p>“Nothing!” reported the voice.</p> -<p>“It must be there!” thundered Grundt, -“unless one of you has stolen it.”</p> -<p>“The Herr Doktor was himself present -when we seized the Englishman,” the voice -protested. “The Herr Doktor knows that -nothing was found.”</p> -<p>“Ungag them!” ordered Clubfoot. “And -clear out! Warn the pilot to have the -machine ready for instant departure!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_281">281</div> -<p>The order was obeyed, a door was softly -closed, and Desmond nerved himself to face -what he divined was to be the crucial ordeal -of his career. Never had he been in so tight -a place. It wanted hours to daylight, and -he was bound and helpless in a lonely district -in the hands of a ruthless and remorseless -enemy.</p> -<p>“A false trail, eh?” said Grundt slowly, -his nostrils twitching ominously. “You’d -play tricks with me, would you, you dog? -Do you know what I’m going to do with you, -Okewood? I’m going to kill you, yes, and -the girl as well!”</p> -<p>Desmond felt his throat grow dry. “Not -the girl,” he said in a low voice. “She’s not -even of the Service, Grundt!”</p> -<p>“It shall be a lesson to her to mind the -company she keeps!” said Grundt grimly, -and produced an automatic from his pocket. -He bent to examine the magazine. Slowly -he raised the pistol.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_282">282</div> -<p>Then the girl spoke. “I shouldn’t do anything -hasty!” she said. “Kill us and your -career is at an end. You speak of retiring -voluntarily. One shot and your retirement -will be compulsory. And Stauber takes your -place!”</p> -<p>Clubfoot recoiled. “Stauber!” he muttered, -frowning.</p> -<p>“You’ve made a mess of things in England, -Grundt,” the girl continued serenely. -“Your employers, the big industrialists, -granted you this last chance. It rests with -you whether you give your employers your -own version of this affair, or whether they -take it from the English newspapers. Do -you understand me?”</p> -<p>Clubfoot stared at her like a man hypnotized.</p> -<p>In the same business-like manner Mary -Brewster proceeded: “Kill us and there’ll -be such a rumpus that the echoes of it are -bound to reach Germany. You can’t suppress -murder in England, Grundt. You’ve -missed your chance of getting the jewels, -and what you’ve got to do now is to put up -the best explanation you can. I know that -you have the reputation of being the man -that commands success. If you touch us, -that reputation is gone forever, for, you can -take it from me, the whole story, the true -story, will then come out and you’ll be saddled -with the greatest failure of your career. -And your rival, Stauber, gets your job . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_283">283</div> -<p>“That Schafskopf!” muttered Grundt. -He seemed half dazed by the vigour of the -girl’s onslaught. Then, “What have you -done with the jewels?” he roared suddenly, -recovering himself.</p> -<p>“They’re out of your reach!” said Mary -Brewster.</p> -<p>“But you’re not!” snarled Clubfoot. -“And you shall tell me where they are. Herr -Gott! You’re not the first woman whose -tongue I’ve loosened!”</p> -<p>But it seemed to Desmond that, for all his -bluster, much of Clubfoot’s wonted assurance -had disappeared.</p> -<p>The girl never flinched. “Make the best -of a bad job, Grundt,” she said. “Leave -things as they are and return to Germany -and you will hear no word from us to dispute -or disprove any story you like to tell -those who sent you. I repeat: You can kill -us, you can torture us, but you’ll never recover -the jewels. Make up your mind to that -and go—while you can!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_284">284</div> -<p>The hairy hand that clutched the pistol -faltered and slowly dropped to the cripple’s -side. Of a sudden he seemed to have grown -older. For a full minute he stood and -glowered at Desmond—the girl he ignored. -As the two men faced each other, it seemed -to the Englishman as though the scroll of -the years were unrolled and that, like him, -Grundt was telling over in his mind the many -bouts which these two had fought out between -them. Then slowly, listlessly, the -great hand went up and he thrust the Browning -into his breast pocket.</p> -<p>“I told your Chief, Okewood,” he said in -his deep, stern voice, “that this would be -my last case. Though he has taken this trick, -I think I may let my decision stand. But -tell him this from me—that, though he has -gained this trick, he has not won the game. -The cards have been against me throughout. -I have played a losing hand, dealt me by the -blinded, besotted fools”—his voice hissed -with anger—“who, in overthrowing my -master, destroyed our country. But do not -forget that in politics nothing is stable, that -the enemies of to-day may be the friends of -to-morrow, and vice versa, Okewood—vice -versa!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_285">285</div> -<p>He broke off, and for an instant the dark, -expressive eyes rested on the young man’s -face.</p> -<p>“Do not fall into the error of believing -that I am grown sentimental in my old age, -my young friend,” he resumed. “I have -always been a Realpolitiker, and in this -instance I have bowed my head to the unanswerable -logic of your companion just -as in different circumstances, should my -interest, or the interest of those I serve, have -required it, I should have had no hesitation -in putting the pair of you to death. Your -luck is in to-night, Herr Major. You can -tell your Chief that you owe your life to a -woman’s tongue!”</p> -<p>On that he turned and left them, and -limped, a lonely defiant figure, to the door, -where the night received him and swallowed -him up.</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_286">286</div> -<p>“My dear,” cried Desmond when the door -had closed behind him, “you’re a marvel! -In all the years I’ve known him such a thing -has never happened before. You beat him -fair and square! It was like a miracle the -way you laid him low! How on earth did -you come to think of it?”</p> -<p>“The man’s a mass of vanity like the rest -of you,” little Miss Brewster ejaculated -scornfully. “A little knowledge, a little -intuition, a little bluff”—she smiled rather -wanly. “You men take each other too -seriously, anyway . . .”</p> -<p>“But what has become of the chamois -leather packet with the jewels?” demanded -Desmond.</p> -<p>“It is in a rabbit-hole by that German -aeroplane,” said Miss Brewster. “When you -would not heed my warning about that -odious-looking pilot, I took the packet out of -your overcoat pocket—I thought the jewels -would be safer with me than with you. And -as that man attacked you from behind, I let -the packet slide into a rabbit-hole at my feet -and they saw nothing in the dark. It seemed -to me it was time I took charge. They’ll -never find that packet in the dark. But I -know the spot, and when it’s light and we’re -free, we’ll . . .”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_287">287</div> -<p>Her head drooped suddenly forward. She -had fainted. Out of the night resounded, -loud and challenging, the roar of propellers . . .</p> -<p class="tb">At noon next day the Chief received -Desmond Okewood and Mary Brewster. -They found Francis Okewood in the office -with a grey-haired man of distinguished appearance -who was in the last stage of restless -anxiety. It was to him that the Chief, having -received it from the hands of Mary -Brewster, presented the chamois leather -packet sodden with damp and stained with -Kentish marl. With trembling hands he examined -the seal, and, having found it intact, -muttered a broken phrase of thanks and -fairly bolted from the room, carrying the -packet under his arm. The Chief shook his -head and laughed.</p> -<p>“Cabinet Ministers have great responsibilities,” -he remarked, “only they are too -fond of shoving them off on other people’s -shoulders. And now, Miss Brewster, to hear -your story.”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_288">288</div> -<p>But Mary Brewster, who had faced The -Man with the Clubfoot unabashed, was -tongue-tied in the Chief’s rather forbidding -presence. It was Desmond who ultimately -narrated their adventures of the night ending -with their release at dawn by an astonished -fisherman who, on his way to inspect his lobster -pots, had answered Desmond’s cries for -help.</p> -<p>“They drugged and kidnapped the pilot -I had engaged for you,” the Chief said after -Miss Brewster had taken her leave, “and -slipped their man in his place. I have here a -telegram from Brussels about it. There’s -been a leakage somewhere which,” he added -grimly “is being investigated. In the mean -time, thanks to you, Okewood, and to this -young lady, with whom I intend to hold -some converse regarding her future career, -we’re rid, it would seem—for the present at -any rate—of Clubfoot and his gang.”</p> -<p>His manner grew reflective. “I wonder,” -he said, “when and where we shall see him -again!”</p> -<div class="pb" id="Page_289">289</div> -<p>A silence fell on the three men. Each felt -that a fourth was present, invisible save in -the mind’s eye—a vast figure of a man who, -with misshapen foot drawn up beside him, -leaned on his crutch-stick and glared at them -defiance from savage, cruel eyes . . .</p> -<p class="tbcenter"><span class="small">THE END</span></p> -<h2>Transcriber’s Notes</h2> -<ul> -<li>Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.</li> -<li>Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.</li> -<li>In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)</li> -</ul> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLUBFOOT THE AVENGER ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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