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diff --git a/old/65416-0.txt b/old/65416-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 944e129..0000000 --- a/old/65416-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6632 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Clubfoot the Avenger, by Valentine Williams - -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 -www.gutenberg.org. 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. - -Title: Clubfoot the Avenger - Being some further adventures of Desmond Oakwood, of the Secret - Service - -Author: Valentine Williams - -Release Date: May 22, 2021 [eBook #65416] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Al Haines, Stephen Hutcheson & the online Distributed - Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLUBFOOT THE AVENGER *** - - - - - CLUBFOOT THE AVENGER - - -BEING SOME FURTHER ADVENTURES OF DESMOND OKEWOOD, OF THE SECRET SERVICE - - _by_ - VALENTINE WILLIAMS - - _Secret Service Series_ - - [Illustration: Publisher logo] - - New York - P. F. Collier & Son Company - PUBLISHERS - - COPYRIGHT, 1923 AND 1924, BY VALENTINE WILLIAMS - All RIGHTS RESERVED - PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. - - - IN AFFECTIONATE MEMORY OF - “G” - - - - - CONTENTS - - - Introduction ix - I. The Purple Cabriolet 1 - II. Enter Miss Vere Slade 13 - III. The Man with the Clubfoot 34 - IV. The Strange Experience of Miss Patricia Maxwell 46 - V. The Ikon of Smolensk 61 - VI. The Secret of the Ikon 75 - VII. The Unseen Menace 91 - VIII. The Top Flat 101 - IX. The Footstep in the Dark 124 - X. In which Desmond Okewood finds Clubfoot in Strange Company 140 - XI. The Constantinople Courier 154 - XII. Xenia 166 - XIII. In which Check proves to be Checkmate 179 - XIV. The Girl at the Hexagon 188 - XV. The Decoy 201 - XVI. The House in Pimlico 214 - XVII. The Meeting 236 - XVIII. The Chamois Leather Packet 253 - XIX. A Flight and What came of It 268 - XX. In which Miss Mary Brewster speaks her Mind 279 - - - - - INTRODUCTION - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - - - - - CLUBFOOT THE AVENGER - - - - - CHAPTER I - THE PURPLE CABRIOLET - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -On catching sight of him, the man with the umbrella fussed up. He -disclosed a face that was grey with apprehension. - -“Whatever do you think has happened, Major Okewood?” he said in a hoarse -whisper. “There’s a dead man in the Lancia there!” - -He jerked his head backwards in the direction of the cabriolet. - -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. - -“What is it, Fink?” he demanded. “A fit or something?” - -Fink, who was foreman of the garage, shook his head impressively. - -“It’s a suicide. Leastwise, that’s what the doctor says. Poisoned -hisself. There’s a bottle on the mat inside the car!” - -“Oh!” exclaimed the young man, interested. “Who is it? One of your -customers?” - -“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!” - -“Poor devil!” Okewood remarked. “Who found him?” - -“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!” - -The gnome, who was one of the washers, eagerly took up the tale. - -“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!” - -And he wiped his nose abstractedly on the back of his hand. - -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. - -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 _en brosse_. He -was wearing a long drab overcoat which, hanging open, disclosed beneath -it a shabby blue jacket and a pair of old khaki trousers. - -“Strychnine!” said the doctor—he held up a small medicine bottle, empty -and without a label. “That grin is very characteristic. The _risus -sardonicus_, 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?” - -“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!” - -“Have you any idea who the dead man is?” Okewood asked the doctor. - -“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!” - -He bent forward into the car again and sniffed audibly. - -“It’s funny,” he said. “There’s a curious odour in the car I can’t quite -place. It certainly isn’t strychnine.” - -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. - -But now heavy footsteps echoed from under the archway. - -“It’s George back,” said Fink, looking up. “He nipped across to the -police station.” - -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. - -“Good-evening, O’Malley!” said Okewood as the young detective came face -to face with him. - -The newcomer stared sharply at the speaker. - -“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!” - -“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 . . .” - -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. - -“Anything funny struck you about this chap, Major?” he asked in an -undertone. - -Desmond looked at O’Malley questioningly. - -“Why do you ask that?” he said. - -“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 -_splashed_. Look at mine after walking only across from the station!” - -He showed a spray of mud stains above the turn-up of his blue serge -trousers. - -“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. - -“That’s not the skin of a tramp!” the detective declared. - -Again Desmond Okewood gave the young man one of his enigmatic looks. -Then he turned to the doctor. - -“When a man dies of strychnine poisoning,” he said, “death is preceded -by the most appalling convulsions, I believe?” - -“Quite right!” the doctor assented, blinking through his _pince-nez_. - -“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.” - -“Very singular, I must admit,” observed the doctor. - -“The man who found the body says it was covered up with the rug. Isn’t -that right, Jake?” - -“Quite right, sir,” chanted the washer. “Covered up ’e wor, ’cept for -’is foot as stuck art!” - -“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!” - -“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!” - -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. - -“Do you see anything on the right ear?” he asked. - -“Yes,” O’Malley replied. “Looks like soap or something!” - -Desmond nodded. - -“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. - -“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!” - -But the detective only looked at him in a puzzled way. Desmond pushed -him forward to the open door of the car. - -“Sniff, man!” he cried. - -“Rum sort o’ smell!” said O’Malley, “but I don’t see . . .” - -“Hair dye!” exclaimed Desmond. - -In a flash the young detective whipped round. - -“Then you mean . . .” he began. - -“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 _was_ suicide . . .” - -O’Malley pushed his hat back from his brow and scratched his head. - -“Murder, eh?” he remarked, addressing no one in particular. - -A light footstep sounded on the cobbles behind the group, and a voice -said: - -“You’ve got my car back, then?” - - - - - CHAPTER II - ENTER MISS VERA SLADE - - -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. - -“It’s . . . it’s horrible!” she gasped. “What . . . who is that inside -my car?” - -A large policeman now lumbered up, panting. - -“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 . . .” - -“You identify this car as yours, then?” O’Malley asked the girl. - -“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 . . .” - -“Mr. Törnedahl?” repeated O’Malley. - -“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.” - -“I suppose this Mr. Törnedahl didn’t say anything about taking your car, -did he, Miss?” O’Malley asked. - -“Oh, no!” she replied positively. - -“Do you know why he left you at lunch?” - -“A page came and said a gentleman was asking for him.” - -“Who was it, do you know?” - -“No!” - -“And did you see Mr. Törnedahl again?” - -“I didn’t expect to. He was going to Paris this evening on his way back -to Sweden.” - -“I see. Now about the car. Did the club people notice anybody suspicious -hanging round?” - -The girl opened her clear eyes and looked at the detective. - -“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.” - -“Who is this Mr. Törnedahl?” - -“He’s a timber merchant, a Swede. I met him abroad.” - -“What’s he like in appearance?” Desmond asked suddenly. - -“A fair man,” the girl replied, “with very blue eyes and a blond beard, -a typical Scandinavian . . .” - -The two men exchanged glances. - -“When did this car come in?” demanded O’Malley, excitedly, addressing -Fink. - -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. - -“Was he alone?” O’Malley asked. - -“Yes!” said George. - -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. - -“What was this man like?” was O’Malley’s question. - -“A biggish sort o’ chap, ’e wor,” replied the washer vaguely, “an’ went -with a bit of a limp!” - -Anything more precise than this the most persistent cross-examination of -the old man failed to elicit. - -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. - -Presently Desmond turned to the girl, who was sheltering beneath Fink’s -umbrella. - -“That dead man in your car,” he said diffidently, “do you recognize -him?” - -The girl shuddered. - -“Why, no!” she said. “How should I?”. - -“I don’t want to frighten you,” the young man resumed, “but I think you -ought to look again.” - -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. - -“He looks so dreadful,” she said. “No, no! I don’t know him!” - -“You’re quite sure?” queried the other. - -“Absolutely!” said she. - -O’Malley was about to speak when he felt a foot firmly press his. -Desmond Okewood was looking at him. - -“I think we need not detain Miss Slade any longer,” he observed. “If one -of your men could get her a taxi . . .” - -A taxi was procured and they helped her in. - -“I shall hope to see you again in the morning, Miss!” said O’Malley as -he closed the door. - -When the cab had rattled out of the yard, he turned to Desmond. - -“Why did you tread on my foot just now?” he demanded. - -“Never force an identification, O’Malley!” Desmond replied with his -winning smile. - -“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?” - -Desmond Okewood laughed and shook his head. - -“Not on your life!” he retorted. “I’m out of the game for good . . .” - -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. - - -He slept that night at the flat in Saint James’s Street, which he had -kept on since his marriage as a _pied-à-terre_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -“Mornin’, young fellow!” was the well-remembered greeting. “I’ve got a -job o’ work for you!” - -“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.” - -The Chief seemed to be absorbed as he vigorously polished his -tortoise-shell spectacles. - -“Clubfoot’s back!” he said. - -And, setting his glasses on his nose, he calmly surveyed the young man’s -face. - -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! - -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 . . .” - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -Desmond stared at the speaker. - -“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 . . .” - -“Listen to me!” said the Chief. “Three days ago a certain Mr. Gustaf -Törnedahl, a Swedish merchant . . .” - -“Törnedahl?” cried Desmond. - -“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. - -“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.” - -“It _was_ the little lady’s friend, then?” said Desmond. - -“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, _who had a clubfoot_! - -“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 _lame man_—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 _who was a clubfooted man_! But -every time, mark you, the shadowy figure of this lame man has simply -faded away without leaving a trace.” - -He broke off, and leaning back in his big chair, scrutinized the keen -and resolute face that confronted him across the desk. - -“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!” - -His mouth had grown very grim. - -“It won’t do, my boy. We can’t take it lying down. But you realize it’s -going to be a dangerous business?” - -Desmond Okewood nodded. “No clues, I take it?” - -“Nothing essential!” - -There was a little twinkle in the young man’s blue eye. - -“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 . . .” - -For two hours thereafter the Chief’s door was barred to callers and a -long list of engagements completely dislocated. - -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. - -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. - -“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?” - -Desmond, who was lighting his cigar, raised his eyebrows. - -“Perhaps you haven’t seen yesterday’s _Daily Telegram_?” she said. - -Desmond made a wry face. - -“I’ve heard enough about it, God knows,” he remarked. “But I haven’t -actually seen the paragraph.” - -“I have it here,” said Vera, and produced a cutting from her gold and -platinum bag. - -“‘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.’” - -She shook her head prettily at him. - -“It’s lucky you didn’t deign to take _me_ into your confidence,” she -said, “or you would have certainly declared that a woman had given you -away!” - -“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!” - -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: - - Notice to Editors - - 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. - -“But how thrilling!” the girl exclaimed. “Then what the _Daily Telegram_ -says is right. It _is_ a political crime, then? Tell me, has the dead -man been identified?” - -Through a cloud of blue smoke Desmond smiled at her. - -“Once bitten, twice shy!” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t say anything -about it, Miss Slade!” - -The girl made a little grimace. - -“You needn’t be discreet with _me_, 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?” - -Desmond looked at her doubtfully. - -“It’s very difficult,” he remarked, pulling on his cigar. - -“How were you going to your brother’s to-night?” she asked. - -“I was going to catch the nine-ten from Liverpool Street. He lives on -the high ground above Brentwood, in Essex.” - -Vera leaned across the table. With her soft white arms stretched out -before her, she made an appealing picture. - -“Why not let me drive you down in the car? Then we three could talk the -whole thing over. _Do_ let me help!” - -“By Jove!” exclaimed Desmond. “That’s rather an idea! But look here, -you’ll have to promise to be very discreet about it!” - -“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.” - -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. - -Within forty minutes the hall porter fetched him out. The purple -cabriolet stood throbbing at the door, Vera, in a _chic_ little felt -_cloche_ 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. - -“I know my way round here,” she explained. “I used to drive a car in -these parts during the war.” - -But at last she slowed down, peering out of the open window at her side. - -“I think I must have missed the turning just now,” she said. “This -doesn’t seem to be right!” - -In front of them, through the rain-spotted driving-glass, the blank wall -of a _cul-de-sac_ 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. - -A voice whispered in his ear: - -“Not a sound, or you’re a dead man!” - -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. - -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. - -Before him, at a low desk, The Man with the Clubfoot was sitting. - - - - - CHAPTER III - THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -At last he broke the silence. - -“Lieber Freund,” he said in a soft, purring voice, “this is indeed a -pleasure!” - -He wagged his head as though in sheer enjoyment of the sight of his -_vis-à-vis_, bound hand and foot, sprawling awkwardly in his chair. - -“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!” - -He placed his cigar between his fleshy lips and drew on it luxuriously. - -“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 . . .” - -His black-turfed eyebrows bent to a frown and his eyes flashed hotly. - -“I am taking no more chances with you, young man!” he said in a voice of -dangerous softness. - -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. - -“Let him be, Heinrich!” said Grundt. - -“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!” - -A little flush of anger crept into the cripple’s black-tufted cheeks. - -“You’re hardly in a position to be sarcastic at my expense!” he said. - -Desmond shrugged his shoulders. - -“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!” - -“That may be!” returned Clubfoot grimly. “It is unfortunate that you -will not be there to see it!” - -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. - -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. - -Now Clubfoot noticed the listening look on the young man’s face. - -“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, _these_ 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?” - -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. - -“At least,” he said, “you’ll let the girl go free, Grundt?” - -Clubfoot laughed stridently. “And leave a Crown witness behind?” - -He lifted his head. “Heinrich!” he called. - -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. - -“Herr Doktor?” - -“Let Karl and Grossmann bring up the young lady to witness the -execution!” - -“Sehr wohl, Herr Doktor!” - -Clubfoot turned to Desmond. “We’ll settle the girl later!” - -“You . . . you ruffian,” exclaimed Desmond. “I believe you’ve done it -before!” - -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. - -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. - -“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!” - -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 . . . - -A voice cried from the doorway: - -“Hands up, Grundt!” - -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. - -“Good old Francis!” murmured Desmond. “I knew you wouldn’t fail me. But, -dash it all, you cut it rather fine!” - -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. - -“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!” - -And he hurried out, taking two of his men with him. - -“Major Okewood,” Vera cried out suddenly, “won’t you please explain to -these men who I am? They want to handcuff me!” - -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. - -“Vera Sokoloff,” he said, looking sternly at her, “have you forgotten -me?” - -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. - -“What . . . what do you mean?” she faltered. “That is not my name . . .” - -“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 _Daily Telegram_ -myself . . .” - -“You sent it?” cried the girl. - -“Certainly, in the hope that Clubfoot would use you to decoy me to him -as you lured poor Törnedahl into the trap!” - -“It’s not true!” the girl flashed out. - -“. . . 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!” - -“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 . . .” - -Desmond held up his hand. - -“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 . . .” - -He stopped and looked at her. - -“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!” - -With a convulsive shudder she covered her face with her hands and fell -a-sobbing. - -“They threatened me,” she wailed in German. “I could not help myself, -Herr Major!” - -The door burst open. Manderton appeared, hot and angry. - -“Got clean away!” he cried, “and him with a game leg! Damn it, he’s a -deep one!” And he plumped into a chair. - -“Francis, old son,” remarked Desmond to his brother, “do you know what?” - -“I’ll buy it, Des.!” grinned Francis. - -“The brothers Okewood,” Desmond announced gravely, “are back on the -job!” - - - - - CHAPTER IV - THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF MISS PATRICIA MAXWELL - - -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. - -“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!” - -Francis grunted. “He’s got it all right, don’t worry,” he retorted, “as -Patricia Maxwell will tell you in a minute . . .” - -“Provided she hasn’t forgotten the appointment,” said Desmond, looking -at the clock. - -“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!” - -“A friend of Monica’s, didn’t you say she was?” - -(Monica was Francis Okewood’s American wife.) - -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!” - -Old Batts, the valet of the flats, appeared at the door. - -“Miss Maxwell!” he announced. - -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. - -“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 _you_!” - -“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!” - -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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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 _émigrés_ 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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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! - -“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. - -“‘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. - -“‘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. - -“‘And twenty-five!’ says the old man with a kind of gasp. - -“‘Fifty?’ asks Hermann, looking at me. I nodded. - -“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!’ - -“I shook my head. - -“‘Six hundred!’ I said. - -“‘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 . . .’ - -“‘Seven hundred!’ says the old Frenchman faintly. - -“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. - -“But I meant to have that ikon, though, by this, the price was ’way -beyond my figure. The end came quick. - -“‘Shall we say eight hundred?’ asks Hermann. - -“I nodded. With that the old man turned on his heel and walked straight -out of the place. The ikon was mine. - -“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. - -“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. - -“‘My client,’ he said, ‘is most anxious, for family reasons, to acquire -the ikon,’ and he offered me two thousand guineas, and then three. - -“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. - -“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.” - -“Your dealer pal didn’t tell you the name of his client?” asked Desmond. - -“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.” - -“The client?” - -“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 . . .” - -There was a crash from the fender. Desmond Okewood had suddenly dropped -the knee he had been hugging and overset the fire irons. - -“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! - -“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. - -“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. - -“When I turned down his offer of six thousand five hundred guineas, he -bent his dark bushy eyebrows at me. - -“‘Miss Maxwell,’ he said, ‘I’ve set my heart on that ikon. You’ve got to -let me have it.’ - -“I told him I was sorry, but it was quite impossible. - -“‘I’ve offered you thirty, fifty times its value,’ he returned. ‘Believe -me, you will be well advised to accept my offer.’ - -“‘My mind is made up,’ I replied, and rang to show him the interview was -at an end. ‘The ikon is not for sale.’ - -“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 . . .” - -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. - -“Why, no!” said Miss Maxwell. “As a matter of fact, I brought it along -to show you!” - -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. - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -But Desmond had turned away and was talking to his brother. - -“We want to make sure,” he was saying. “Tell him I’ll come round at once -and see him.” - -Francis Okewood stepped across to a desk in the corner on which the -telephone stood and asked for a number. - -“Why,” exclaimed Miss Maxwell, “that’s Süsslein’s number!” - -But Francis held up his hand for silence, the telephone receiver to his -ear. - -“I want to speak to Mr. Süsslein,” he said, and stood listening for a -moment. - -“I see,” he said presently. “No, I hadn’t heard.” - -He hung up the receiver and faced them. - -“Süsslein was found dead in his office after lunch!” he said quietly. - -“Dead?” exclaimed the American in a shocked voice. - -“He had hanged himself,” Francis answered gravely. - -“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!” - - - - - CHAPTER V - THE IKON OF SMOLENSK - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“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!” - -After their startling discovery of Süsslein’s suicide, Desmond asked his -brother to escort Miss Maxwell home. - -“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 . . .” - -Patricia let her bright brown eyes rest inquiringly on Desmond’s face. - -“Why not both of you? There’s plenty of room . . .” - -“Maybe I shan’t want a bed at all!” replied the other enigmatically. - -“You think something’s going to happen?” she challenged. - -“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!” - -“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 . . .” - -“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!” - -With a glint of strong white teeth Patricia Maxwell laughed outright. - -“Now you’re trying to scare me!” she affirmed. - -“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!” - -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. - -“Well?” said Desmond. - -“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?” - -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. - -“I think they’re watching the house,” he said. “Did you notice if you -were followed when you came here, Patricia?” - -“I drove in a taxi,” the girl answered, “so I can’t really say.” - -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 . . . - -“Wait a minute!” said Desmond, and hurried into the adjoining bedroom. - -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. - -“Heinrich’s at the corner!” announced Desmond, returning to the -living-room. - -“Clubfoot’s aide, do you mean?” queried Francis. - -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.” - -He turned to the American. - -“Would it bore you frightfully to stay and dine with us?” he asked. - -“Why, no!” she replied. “But I thought you two boys were coming home -with me!” - -“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. - -“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.” - -“It’ll have to be the overhead route,” he said to his brother as he -replaced the receiver. - -Francis looked anxiously at him. - -“Call up the Chief,” he said in an undertone, “and get help. You’re so -devilish reckless, Des. What are you up to now?” - -“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.” - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“Why,” she exclaimed, “you’re quite a stranger, sir! It must be fully -three years since you last used the overhead route.” - -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!” - -“Won’t you take a little something, Major?” said the woman, backing down -the stairs, “just for old times’ sake?” - -“I can’t stop!” Desmond answered. “I’m in the deuce of a hurry, Mother -Howe, and that’s a fact!” - -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. - - -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. - -“I’m thinking about poor little Süsslein,” she said. “I wonder why he -committed suicide!” - -“He’s not the first that Clubfoot has frightened into destroying -himself!” said Francis. - -“But why? What had Süsslein done?” - -“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!” - -“Tell me about this man Clubfoot,” she said. - -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. - -“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.” - -Patricia smiled rather incredulously. - -“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?” - -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. - -“Hullo! No, he’s not here. Who wants him? Oh . . .” - -His manner became slightly more _empressé_. - -“This is Francis Okewood speaking. Very good. Tell the Chief I’ll come -right along.” - -He rang off and turned to Patricia. - -“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?” - -“Of course not! You run right along and don’t mind about me.” - -“You’re not frightened . . . or anything?” - -“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!” - -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.” - -The front door slammed. - -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. - -“That’s for Francis!” she said to herself. - -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. - -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. - -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? - -Suddenly she heard the sitting-room door behind her open. Ah! the valet -at last. - -“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 . . .” - -The silence in the room made her turn. - -At the table Dr. Madjaroff, her visitor of the morning, stood looking at -her. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - THE SECRET OF THE IKON - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“Niemand da?” asked the clubfooted stranger. - -“Kein Mensch, Herr Doktor!” replied the youth with the scarred face. - -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. - -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. - -“Miss Maxwell,” he said with a fawning civility that struck chill upon -her, “I have come to fetch the ikon!” - -This time he spoke in English, harshly, with a thick guttural accent. - -She clasped her hands tightly together. They were as cold as ice. - -“I—I have not got it,” she faltered. - -A deep furrow appeared between the cripple’s bushy eyebrows. - -“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. - -“I . . . I left it . . . at home!” stammered the girl. - -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. - -“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!” - -“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!” - -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. - -Desmond wavered. “But I shall drop my little parcel . . .” he began. - -“Put ’em up, zum Teufel nochmal!” roared the cripple, his tufted -nostrils twitching with rage. - -Desmond hesitated for an instant. He shrugged his shoulders. - -“I’m sorry, Miss Maxwell,” he said. “If only Francis had been -here . . .” - -And, pitching his parcel on the table, he slowly raised his hands above -his head. - -“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. - -But the American did not heed him. With a pink flush on her cheeks she -was staring fixedly at Desmond. - -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!” - -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. - -“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!” - -He bowed to the American and, with head erect, stumped out into the -hall. - -Hardly had the door closed upon him than Patricia Maxwell turned on -Desmond. - -“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 _men_ in this town?” - -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. - -“Give me five minutes’ grace,” he said, “and I’ll explain everything!” - -“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!” - -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. - -“They’ve wedged up the front door!” he cried and snatched the telephone -receiver. - -“The wire’s cut!” said Patricia coldly. “And your man doesn’t answer the -bell!” - -“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 . . .!” - -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. - -“. . . 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?” - -He came into the room. - -“Thank God, you’re all right!” he exclaimed. “Desmond rushed downstairs -like a madman. What’s happened, Patricia?” - -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!” - -“Desmond gave it to him?” Francis Okewood seemed dazed. - -She nodded. - -Desmond Okewood reappeared, panting. Without speaking he crossed the -sitting-room and went into the bedroom. - -“Are you sure?” asked Francis. - -“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. - -But Francis was staring past her. “Des.!” - -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. - -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!” - -The Professor bowed and groaned piteously, snatching at his back. “What -a man!” he said. - -Patricia Maxwell stared in silence at the pair. But her eyes were -softer. - -Desmond turned to the Professor. “Tell them about it!” he said. - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -The Russian was evidently, like most experts, a prosy person, but -imperiously Patricia stopped him before he could launch out into -technicalities. - -“What are those little bits of lead?” she asked. - -“Radium!” Desmond replied. “Translate the letter, Krilenko!” - -He detached the slip of paper that was rolled about one of the cases and -handed it to the Professor. - - 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. - - (Signed) Lemuroff - (Witness) Tchergeroff - - Smolensk, 13/26, July, 1919 - -“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.!” - -“But,” remarked Patricia, perplexed, “I _saw_ you give the ikon to the -man Grundt!” - -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. - -“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!” - -He glanced humorously at Patricia. She held out her hand. - -“I feel just terribly!” she said. “I’m sorry I was so rude! But, oh! -what an actor!” - -Desmond grinned. “It wasn’t bad, was it? Especially the pathetic bit -about their being three to one . . .” - -They all laughed. - -“In the mean time Grundt is off again!” observed Francis ruefully. - -“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 . . .” - -“He might have shot you!” remarked Francis. - -“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 . . .” - -He chuckled with infinite relish. - -“Des.,” said his brother, “tell us the joke!” - -“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!” - -And he chuckled again. - - -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. - -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: - - _A sense of humour is a dangerous thing!_ - - - - - CHAPTER VII - THE UNSEEN MENACE - - -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. - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -He shrugged his shoulders and was about to turn away when I caught him -by the sleeve. - -“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.” - -Old Wilkes looked at me thoughtfully. “It’s fear,” he said. - -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!” - -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!” - -“I’ll ask him like a shot,” I retorted, “but I bet you’re wrong!” - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“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.” - -“Awkward bit of road, this,” was Desmond’s answer as, heedless of his -brother’s remarks, he changed down to second. - -“But, good Lord, what are you going to meet at three o’clock in the -morning? Open her up and let’s get home!” - -“We haven’t far to go now,” Desmond replied shortly, and so, without -further speech, they came at length to their destination. - -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. - -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. - -“Here . . .” he began in expostulation. There was a click at the window, -followed by a grinding noise. Then the lights went up again. - -Desmond, a curiously tense expression on his face, stood in the doorway. - -“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 . . .” - -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. - -“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. - -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. - -“And Clubfoot?” he said. - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -“Went in person, eh? It must be a good one . . .” - -Desmond shook his head wearily. “Clubfoot’s still here, I think,” he -said. “He’s lying low, that’s all. Waiting . . .” - -“For what?” - -“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.” - -“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 . . .!” - -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.” - -“Ah!” said Francis. - -“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 . . .” - -“I see. Any clue as to who put it there?” - -“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!” - -Francis nodded. “And that contraption of yours at the window?” - -Desmond heaved himself out of his chair. “Come here. I want to show you -something.” - -He led the way across to the sideboard which stood against the wall -opposite the shuttered window. - -“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!” - -Projecting from the polished oak of the Jacobean buffet was a grey, -irregular mass of metal. - -“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 . . .” - -“The only consoling thing about it,” said his brother, “is that it shows -that old Clubfoot is afraid to come out in the open.” - -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?” - -“No!” - -Francis Okewood shook his head. “Bad, bad! Clubfoot has got him out of -the country, Des., and he’ll strike at once!” - -They had not long to wait. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - THE TOP FLAT - - -At eight o’clock, not many hours after they had gone to bed, Desmond -appeared in his brother’s room. - -“You’ve got to get dressed at once,” he announced. “We’re off to -London!” - -“Oh, I say!” protested Francis, rubbing sleepy eyes. - -“One of the confidential typists at the Air Ministry has been -murdered . . .” - -“But what . . . why . . .?” - -“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!” - -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. - -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. - -“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!” - -“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!” - -Francis cocked a shrewdly admiring eye at his brother. - -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 . . .” - -“And gave it to your typist to make a fair copy? Is that it?” Desmond -interposed. - -“Exactly.” - -“At the office?” - -“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 . . .” - -“It might be better, sir,” Desmond remarked soothingly, “if we got at -the facts first . . .” - -“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 -. . .” - -“And your report?” - -“Gone!” - -Desmond nodded. Then he asked: “How was the murder discovered?” - -“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 . . .” - -“How had she been killed?” - -“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.” - -“And your report, you say, is not to be found?” - -Bannington shook his head dismally. - -“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.” - -“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?” - -“I suppose so, yes!” sighed the large man. - -“Then why was the flat ransacked?” - -It was Desmond’s turn to glance his appreciation at his brother. - -“By George!” the Air Marshal exclaimed, “I never thought of that. Then -Hollingway must have made hay in the rooms just to mislead us . . .” - -“Hollingway?” ejaculated the two brothers simultaneously. - -“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.” - -“Is he under arrest?” asked Desmond. - -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!” - -With a despairing exclamation the fat man dashed his fist into the palm -of his hand and began to pace the room. - -“There was some party, then, who had an interest in obtaining possession -of this report?” asked Desmond. - -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. - -“Ah! . . . yes!” was that young man’s brief comment. - -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 . . .” - -Desmond and his brother had risen to their feet. - -“One question before we leave you, sir,” said Desmond. “Are you quite -satisfied that Miss Bardale was trustworthy?” - -“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.” - -They left him bowed over his desk, his face sunk in his plump, red -hands. - - -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. - -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. - -“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 P.M. 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.” - -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. - -Farandol tapped the clock. “This is what is going to hang Master -Hollingway,” he remarked. - -“Humph,” commented Desmond. “That won’t bring us what we’re looking for, -Inspector. I suppose you know what I mean?” - -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!” - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -“He’s made a statement, then?” queried Desmond. “I suppose he denies -everything?” - -“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 . . .” - -“Half a minute,” Desmond interrupted; “is there a back entrance? I -didn’t notice it . . .” - -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. - -“It’s really a fire-escape,” he remarked, “but apparently Miss Bardale -used it as a tradesman’s entrance to the flat.” - -It was chilly outside and they soon re-entered the flat where Farandol -resumed his story. - -“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.” - -With an abstracted air Desmond, who was poking about amid the confusion -of the sitting-room, nodded. - -“Does Hollingway attempt to account for his agitation?” Francis said to -Farandol. - -“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 . . .” - -“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?” - -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!” - -“Pompous ass!” commented Francis as the Inspector shut the front door -behind him. - -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. - -“Look at that!” he exclaimed. - -The envelope was addressed, in what seemed to be a woman’s hand, to Miss -Enid Bardale, Flat 7, 31, Crewdwell Street, W.I. 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. - -“I don’t see . . .” Francis began. - -“The postmark, man, the postmark!” cried Desmond. - -Francis turned to the envelope again. The postmark was unusually clear. -It read: - - [Illustration: ST JOHN’S WOOD NW8, 6 PM 23 MAR 1923] - -“Yesterday’s date!” said Francis. - -“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. - -“It was, therefore, delivered here by the last post. Now what time is -the last delivery in London?” - -“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 P.M., therefore the murder did not -take place while Hollingway was here, that is to say, before -eight-twenty. Unless Hollingway came back . . .” - -“That,” said his brother, “Webb, the porter, must tell us. Here he is, I -think!” - -Webb was a forlorn-looking old man with a shining bald pate and a -haggard face intersected with blue veins. - -“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?” - -“Captain ’Ollingway?” queried the old man. - -“Yes, the gentleman that brought Miss Bardale home.” - -The old man appeared to think. “It wor about twenty-five minutes past -h’eight, Mister!” - -“How do you know the time so exactly?” demanded Desmond. - -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 . . .” - -“But why should you have noted the time so carefully?” Desmond broke in -impatiently. - -Old Webb’s rheumy eyes puckered up as a cunning grin slowly broke out -over his face. - -“I was a-waitin’ for my supper-beer,” he replied. “The gal brings it -every night at ’arf-past h’eight!” - -Desmond smiled. “I see!” he said. - -“Were you on duty in the hall all the evening?” he asked. - -“I wor, sir, till midnight, w’en I locks up, same as allus!” - -“And you never left the hall?” - -“No, sir!” - -“Did Captain Hollingway come back?” - -“No, sir!” - -“You’re sure?” - -“There worn’t nobody come the whole dratted evenin’ arter ’im, only the -pos’man!” - -“Oh, the postman came eh? At what time?” - -“Round about nine o’clock or a bit arter!” - -“Do you take the letters up or does he?” - -“’E do! I can’t get around much along o’ my bad leg!” - -“Do you know if there were any letters for Miss Bardale?” - -“I dunno nothink about that!” - -“Did the postman say anything?” - -“’E wor put out ’cos, ’e said, there wor but the one letter and ’e ’ad -to carry it to the very top!” - -“To Miss Bardale’s, you mean?” - -The old man shot his questioner a crafty glance. “’E didn’t say nuthin’ -about _’er_!” - -“How long was he up there?” - -“Not above a minute or so, Mister. ’E’s a spry one for the stairs, is -our postman!” - -Desmond made a movement of impatience. - -“Did you tell Inspector Farandol about the postman calling?” - -“No!” - -“Why not?” - -“’Cos ’e never arst me!” - -“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 . . .” - -“The heavy footstep that Miss Bardale heard on the back stairs on the -previous evening?” - -“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. - -“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. - -“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 . . .” - -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. - -In the panel at the top was a small metal knob. - -“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 . . .” - -“The repeater?” exclaimed Francis. “The repeater, Des.?” - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -“How do you know that?” - -“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 . . .” - -“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!” - -“I wonder!” said Desmond enigmatically. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - THE FOOTSTEP IN THE DARK - - -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. - -“Clubfoot!” he gasped. - -Swiftly Desmond laid his finger on his lips. He turned and closed the -door leading from the hall into the little sitting-room. - -“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!” - -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.” - -Desmond opened and clenched his hand. “Is he still there?” he asked -tensely. - -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—” - -“He’s kept his room on?” Desmond almost shouted. “Then all is not lost. -Wait here a second!” - -He darted away, and presently Francis heard him telephoning in one of -the inner rooms. - -“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’ . . .” - -Desmond laughed happily. “Disguise, eh?” - -“Only cheek pads and a toupet! But what are you looking so cheerful -about? Old Clubfoot has given us the slip properly this time . . .” - -Desmond slipped his arm in his brother’s. “Come inside and meet Sergeant -Rushbrooke,” he said. - -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. - -A bell pealed through the flat. - -“Bannington!” announced Desmond, and hurried to the front door. - -“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!” - -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. - -Bannington snatched at it and, with an eagerness that was almost painful -to behold, unfolded it, scrutinized it. - -“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!” - -“Des.!” exclaimed Francis. - -Sergeant Rushbrooke opened wide his blue eyes. “You didn’t say anything -about this to me, sir,” he observed in rather a ruffled tone. - -“You won’t be kept in suspense much longer, Sergeant,” said Desmond, and -glanced at his watch. - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -He produced from a drawer in the table a filmy mass of pink edged with -lace. - -“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!” - -Sir Alexander Bannington blew his nose violently. “But who was the -murderer?” he asked. - -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.” - -“I’m inclined to agree with you,” replied Bannington. “Are you and your -brother coming along?” - -Desmond shook his head. “My work isn’t finished yet! But Francis will -escort you back to the Air Ministry . . .” - -“No need, I assure you,” said Bannington. “I have my car outside.” - -“Believe me,” Desmond urged, “it would be better for you to have an -escort!” - -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?” - -He was smiling, but his brother remained serious. - -“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 . . .” - -Desmond leaned forward and whispered in his brother’s ear. - -Francis started. Then he said: “But I can’t leave you to face it alone!” - -“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?” - -“Well, Okewood, are you ready?” Bannington came out of the hall with his -hat on his head. He held out his hand to Desmond. - -“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!” - -“It’s all in the day’s work,” said Desmond as he accompanied them to the -door. “Good-bye.” - -“_Au revoir!_” corrected Francis smilingly as he followed the Air -Marshal out. - -For full five minutes after they had gone, Desmond remained standing in -the hall, sunk in his thoughts. He was interrupted by Sergeant -Rushbrooke. - -“Beg pardon, sir!” said the plain-clothes man, “but I believe there’s -some one on the stairs outside!” - -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. - -“Have your gun ready!” he whispered to the detective. “Keep very quiet, -but be prepared to shoot!” - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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!” - -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. - -“You can put your hands up, Herr Doktor!” said Desmond. “Quickly, -please, or there might be an accident! And you can drop your stick!” - -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. - -“Sergeant, would you mind . . .?” Desmond remarked in a colloquial tone. - -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. - -“He’s not armed, sir,” he reported. - -Desmond smiled sardonically. “You’re getting careless, Grundt! A few -years ago you would not have been taken off your guard like this!” - -But Grundt said no word. - -“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!” - -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!” - -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!” - -“Sir?” - -“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?” - -“Sir!” said the Sergeant who had learnt discipline in the Brigade of -Guards. He seemed to hesitate. “Will _you_ be all right, sir?” he asked. - -“Don’t you worry about me,” Desmond smiled. “Dr. Grundt and I are old -friends! We shall enjoy a tête-à-tête!” - -On that Rushbrooke clattered off and Desmond turned to Clubfoot again. -Grundt seemed to have regained all his saturnine good-humour. - -“You’ll hang for this job, my friend!” Desmond observed pleasantly. - -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.” - -Unwittingly Desmond flashed an inquiring glance at him. - -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?” - -“The key, man, the key!” Desmond broke in. - -“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!” - -But now an interruption came. There was a ring at the front door. Three -men in plain clothes appeared. - -“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.” - -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!” - -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. - -They took him out of the flat and descended the stairs in a little -procession. - -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. - - -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. - -“Tap on the glass, sir,” said Mackay, “and tell the driver to slow down -a bit.” - -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 . . . - -There was a click as Grundt’s handcuffs fell apart. The big cripple -chuckled and tapped Sergeant Mackay on the knee. - -“And the other?” he asked softly. - -“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!” - -Clubfoot purred his appreciation. - -“Gut gemacht, Max, mein Junger!” he said. - -The car sped on through the dripping night. - - - - - CHAPTER X - IN WHICH DESMOND OKEWOOD FINDS CLUBFOOT IN STRANGE COMPANY - - -“You’ve got this spy, Okewood, under lock and key, Herr Doktor?” - -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. - -Slowly Grundt opened and shut his great hairy hand. - -“I’ve got him—_there_, 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.” - -He chuckled savagely with a sound that was almost a snarl. - -“I think,” he added, “that our young friend will not altogether relish -his prospects when he awakes from his long sleep!” - -“You drugged him, hein?” asked the Jew. There was something vulpine in -the way he lifted his long aquiline nose. - -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!” - -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. - -“The Soviets find that spies, like meat, don’t keep!” he softly lisped. -“Why didn’t you kill him, Herr Doktor?” - -“Perhaps,” Grundt answered slowly, “because I have other uses in view -for our enterprising young friend!” - -Mandelstamm leant forward swiftly. “Also doch!” he ejaculated. - -“What Clubfoot promises he accomplishes,” said Grundt, raising his voice -menacingly. - -“Of course, of course,” hastily agreed _Tavarish_ Mandelstamm, and slyly -added: “Only you didn’t secure the Bannington report, did you, Herr -Doktor?” - -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! . . .” - -“Ach nein!” exclaimed the Russian admiringly, cracking his knuckles. -“With that draft treaty in our hands . . .” - -“_P-sst!_” warned Grundt, pointing at the door. - -A broad-shouldered man with a heavy dark moustache stood on the -threshold of the room. - -“What is it, Max?” asked Grundt. - -“The Englishman is coming round, Herr Doktor!” - -Clubfoot looked at his watch. “Midnight!” he said. “You did your work -thoroughly, Max!” - -“One does what one can, Herr Doktor!” - -“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!” - -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!” - -Limping heavily with his huge misshapen foot, he hobbled briskly from -the room. - - -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 . . . - -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! - -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. - -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 . . . - -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. - -On the table stood a tray decked for a meal. - -“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 . . .” - -“Where am I?” asked Desmond. - -“My instructions,” retorted the youth with military precision, “are to -feed you. Nothing more. I shall return in half an hour for the -tray . . .” - -“Can’t I have a wash?” demanded Desmond. - -The youth pointed to an oaken cabinet in the corner. “You will find all -you require there!” he said. Then he left the room. - -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. - -“Quite a prison de luxe!” remarked Desmond brightly. - -“My orders are to make you comfortable!” was the non-committal reply. - -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? - -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. - -He had fallen to striding up and down the room again when suddenly the -door opened. Heinrich came in. - -“Dr. Grundt is asking for you. Will you come with me?” he said. - -“Gladly,” retorted Desmond. “I’m particularly anxious to have a word -with the Herr Doktor!” - -“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!” - -The warning was spoken sincerely and carried conviction. Desmond felt -his heart sink. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“Be seated, Major,” said Clubfoot cordially, and pointed to a chair next -to the Jew. “Mr. Blund, the cigars are with you!” - -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. - -“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? . . .” - -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. - -“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!” - -The fat man struggled up in his chair with malice depicted in every -feature of his leaden-hued face. - -“You keep a civil tongue in your ’ead, d’jeer?” he spluttered. - -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?” - -“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. - -“Don’t be hasty, Tarock,” said Grundt gently. - -“_Not_ 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 . . .?” - -Greybeard moved uneasily in his seat. - -“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?” - -“Herr!” thundered Tarock, springing to his feet. - -The fox-grin had again appeared about the thin lips of Mr. Mandelstamm. -Clubfoot, too, appeared to be enjoying the scene. - -“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 . . .” - -“Kreuzsakrament!” roared Greybeard, “I’ll have your life for that!” - -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. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - THE CONSTANTINOPLE COURIER - - -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. - -“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!” - -The young German appeared in the doorway. - -“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!” - -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. - -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. - -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. - -Presently Clubfoot looked up from the work. “You’ve searched him, Max?” - -“Jawohl, Herr Doktor!” - -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. - -“You’ve looked in the lining of his clothes, Max?” - -“Ja, Herr Doktor. There is nothing there!” - -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. - -The rummaging went on. Then Desmond heard Mandelstamm’s reedy lisp. - -“Your customary good fortune has failed you again, Herr Doktor!” - -“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!” - -The work was resumed in silence until at length Mandelstamm left the -table. - -“It’s useless!” he cried, his voice shrill with vexation. “You’re -wasting our time, Herr Doktor!” - -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. - -“Herr Mandelstamm,” he said cuttingly, “perhaps this will teach you that -Dr. Grundt does not promise what he cannot fulfil!” - -But a ringing voice from the window-seat broke in upon his words. “You -damned scoundrel!” - -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. - -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. - -With alacrity Tarock scrambled to his feet, drawing something from his -hip pocket. - -“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. - -As he passed, Desmond, covered by Heinrich’s automatic, saw that the -Austrian carried in his hand a long Norwegian knife. - -Mandelstamm extended talon-like fingers towards the paper in Clubfoot’s -hand. - -“L-l-let me s-s-see.” He stuttered with excitement. - -“It’s in code,” said Grundt. - -And all eyes turned to Desmond. - -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. - -“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.” - -Desmond remained silent. - -“Does it interest you?” - -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. - -“Xenia!” Mandelstamm cried harshly. - -Listlessly the girl sank back into her seat. - -Desmond looked straight into Clubfoot’s eyes. “What was that? Who -screamed?” he asked, knowing full well the answer to his question. - -“I think it must have been Bewlay,” calmly replied Grundt; and asked -again: “Does my proposition interest you?” - -Desmond shrugged his shoulders. - -“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 . . .” - -“And if I tell you that I know nothing of this code?” - -“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!” - -“And if I reject your offer?” - -Again that terrible scream rang out, suddenly checked this time and -dying away in a strangling gurgle. - -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 _that_?” - -Desmond Okewood put out his hand. “Let’s see the despatch!” he said -brusquely. - -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!” - -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. - -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?” - -“Ich verstehe, Herr Doktor!” she answered in a low voice, pleasant of -timbre, but lifeless and toneless. - -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 _souteneur_ to precede him at the -Judgment Seat. - -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. - -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. - -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? . . . - -Clubfoot was speaking: “. . . Which is it to be?” - -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 . . . - -“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?” - -A glimmer of triumph shot into Grundt’s face. “What dictionary do you -want?” he asked. - -“Peereboom’s English-Dutch Dictionary, the edition of 1898,” Desmond -answered promptly. - -“I’ll send for it. It’ll be in your hands within the hour!” Clubfoot -retorted and clapped him, almost affectionately, on the shoulder. - -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. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - XENIA - - -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. - -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? - -He heard the door grate. Heinrich was there with a tray. - -“I’ve brought your dinner!” he said. His tone was infinitely more genial -than before. - -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?” - -“Herr, Herr,” stammered Heinrich, “the cruet is outside. A little minute -and I bring it!” - -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. - -“So, Herr!” he remarked and dumped it down on the table. - -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 . . .” - -“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?” - -“That’s better!” said Desmond. “You can get me a large whiskey-and-soda. -And not too much soda, d’you hear? . . .” - -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. - -“A dirty trick!” he murmured to himself. “A dirty Apache trick! Okewood, -I’m ashamed of you!” - -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. - -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. - -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!” - -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. - -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. - -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! - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“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 -_him_. Why, oh, why, did you come here?” - -A hand pounded noisily on the door. - -“Xenia, Xenia!” came in Tarock’s gruff voice. - -Desmond turned swiftly to the girl. “Will you help me?” he said. - -With wonder in her mournful black eyes she nodded. - -“Is there no way out of this room except by the door?” he asked. - -She shook her head. - -“The windows?” - -“They are shuttered and barred with steel!” - -“Then help me to barricade the door!” - -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. - -Something cold was laid in Desmond’s hand. It was a Browning pistol. - -“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. - -“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?” - -For the first time the girl became animated. A little warmth stole into -her olive cheeks and her dark eyes brightened. - -“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! . . .” - -“We’ll do what we can!” said Desmond cheerfully. The cold caress of the -automatic had raised his spirits a hundred per cent. - -A desperate assault was being delivered on the door. It groaned and -creaked and the barricade before it rocked and swayed. - -“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. - -“A shot would burst that lock!” remarked the young man, fingering his -gun. - -“Useless!” replied the girl. “The window is barred outside. There is no -escape!” - -And then the light went out. - -“Ah!” said Desmond. “Clubfoot would think of that.” - -The room was pitch-dark. - -“Xenia,” he called softly, “where are you?” - -“Here,” said her soft voice in his ear. And her hand was gently laid on -his arm. - -“You must try to be brave,” he encouraged her. “I think they’re going to -rush us! The door will go in a minute!” - -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. - -“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!” - -She placed her hand, small and warm and soft, in his. - -“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 . . .” - -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. - -“Okewood”—the challenge came in Clubfoot’s deep voice—“the game’s up! -Come out quietly before you’re hurt!” - -Desmond’s hand squeezed hard the little hand that lay in his palm. -“Courage!” he whispered. “And listen! Do you hear anything outside?” - -Above the hubbub in the hall outside there fell upon their ears the -distant throb of a car. - -Then he raised his voice. “Grundt,” he cried out distinctly, “Grundt, -you can go to hell!” - -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. - -“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. - -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. - -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 . . .!” - -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. - -And then came shouts and the sound of the crunching and smashing of wood -under heavy blows. A voice without cried twice: “Desmond! Desmond!” - -In the darkness the girl sought the companion at her side. “Hark!” she -whispered. “We are saved!” - -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. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - IN WHICH CHECK PROVES TO BE CHECKMATE - - -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. - -With a bewildered expression the young man looked from one face to the -other. - -“Where am I?” - -“You’re in the Mile End Road, old man, going home,” said his brother, -patting him on the knee. - -“And Clubfoot?” - -“Escaped down the river by launch!” - -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 . . .” - -“I shouldn’t talk any more now if I were you,” the Chief counselled. - -“I’m all right,” said Desmond, “except that my head is buzzing like a -beehive. What happened to me exactly?” - -“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 . . .” - -Desmond was silent for a moment. “Escaped by launch, did he?” he -remarked presently. “Francis, where _was_ this house to which they took -me?” - -“Down on the Thames flats, between Rainham and Purfleet,” said his -brother; “about as lonely a spot as they could find.” - -“But how on earth did you locate me?” - -“Okewood,” interposed the Chief with finality, “you are talking too -much. That story, like yours, will have to keep!” - - -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. - -“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 _that_ -situation? Tell him yourself, man!” The Chief chuckled and drained his -glass. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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. - -“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.” - -Francis looked at his brother and smiled. “A little rough with him, -weren’t you, Des.?” - -“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.” - -“And there was Tarock on his face in the hall with a bullet in his -temple . . .” - -“Dead?” - -“As dead as a door-nail!” Francis replied. - -“I’m glad I nailed him,” Desmond remarked, and added, addressing the -Chief, “Tarock, of Cracow, you know, sir!” - -The big man nodded. “He’s no loss,” he remarked. “He’d lived too long, -anyway.” - -“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!” - -“He walked into my fist,” his brother retorted, grinning. “But what -about Grundt?” - -“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.” - -“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?” - -“He has!” replied the big man grimly. - -“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_ had ever seen before.” - -“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 _en clair_? 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. - -“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 . . .” - -“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.” - -“He’s vanished into thin air, I suppose?” Desmond remarked. - -“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. - -“And what’s our next move to be, sir?” asked Desmond. - -“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.” - -“But Clubfoot . . .” the two young men broke out. - -“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 . . .” - -“Luncheon is served,” announced Desmond’s man. - -“As good an occupation as any,” observed the Chief, “in the intervals -between the rounds!” - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - THE GIRL AT THE HEXAGON - - -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. - -“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?” - -“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?” - -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. - -“Are you down here for long?” Desmond asked me. - -I told him I expected to stay for a month. - -“Splendid!” he retorted. “That means there’ll always be a partner for -Francis or me when we’re sick of playing against each other.” - -“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 _my_ living.” - -“‘The Industrious Apprentice Rebukes His Idle Companion,’” quoted -Francis. “He’s being smug, Des. Let’s sit on his head!” - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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: - - Dine with me at Hexagon Saturday night eight P.M.—Chief. - -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.” - -“Come on,” cried Desmond, suddenly addressing me. “It’s your honour. I -lay you a new ball I take this hole off you.” - -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. - -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. - - -“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!” - -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. - -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. - -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 _maitre -d’hôtel_, 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. - -“Not quite the style of the Hexagon, eh?” remarked Desmond. - -“They get all sorts here now!” retorted his companion. “The old Hexagon -is quite the rage again, I’m told!” - -Fashion, always capricious, is never more fickle than in the -distribution of her favours among those who cater for the _monde ou l’on -s’amuse_. 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. - -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 _jeunesse dorée_ 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.” - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“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!” - -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. - -“And now”—unexpectedly the Chief’s voice had become grave—“watch!” - -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. - -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. - -“Did you see the flowers?” said the Chief. - -“Of course,” replied Desmond. - -“I mean, did you notice what flowers they were?” - -Desmond glanced across the room. “They seem to be a white carnation with -some sort of blue flowers—cornflowers, probably—set round it!” - -“I see!” mused the other. “Then I think we can be moving, Okewood!” - -“And leave the charming and mysterious Madeleine here?” queried Desmond. - -“No,” replied the older man, signing to a waiter, “she’s going too!” - -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. - -“Not to-night!” they heard her say as a sudden lull came in the music. -“I shall see you here again!” - -Then, without looking to left or right, she hurried from the room. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - THE DECOY - - -“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!” - -At the mention of the name of his old enemy, Desmond Okewood sat up -eagerly in his chair. - -“Is Clubfoot up to his tricks again?” he asked quickly. - -The Chief shrugged his shoulders. “I used to have the reputation of -being a man who knew his own mind,” he replied. - -Desmond looked at the beaklike nose and the massive jaw appraisingly. -The Chief was worshipped in the Service for his quickness of decision. - -“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?” - -“Who was lately in Brussels for you?” - -The Chief nodded. - -“Rather. But why ‘knew’?” - -“He’s vanished, Okewood!” - -“Kidnapped or . . .?” - -“Murdered, almost certainly. It’s more than a week since it happened. He -knew too much!” - -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. - -“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. - -“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!” - -Desmond whistled. “Did he have the goods on him?” - -The Chief laughed dryly. “Not Finucane! He carried it all under his -hat!” - -“And you’ve got no trace of him, no clue?” - -Somewhere in the house an electric bell trilled. The Chief looked at his -watch. - -“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 . . .” - -“A signal, eh?” queried Desmond. - -“Obviously,” said the Chief. “But what does it portend?” - -The door opened. Watkyn, the Chief’s butler, a massively built ex-petty -officer, with a pair of shoulders like an ox, was there. - -“Captain Elliott!” he announced. - -“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. - -The Chief wasted no time on introductions. - -“Well?” was his greeting. - -“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 . . .” - -“When was that?” snapped the Chief. - -“How do you mean, ‘when’?” - -“At what stage of your conversation, with the lady did this change come -over her?” said the Chief testily. - -“Oh! after she was given some flowers by old Bessie!” - -The Chief nodded grimly. “Well, and then?” - -“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.” - -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?” - -“Yes, sir,” replied the young man. “Good-night, sir.” - -“Good-night, Peter.” - -After the door had closed on him the Chief turned to Desmond. - -“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?” - -“Was she asked about them?” - -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. - -“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. - -“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?” - -“It is, indeed,” observed his companion. “It would help us enormously if -we knew what flowers she was given the night that Finucane disappeared!” - -“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 -_not_ 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.’” - -“By Jove!” commented Desmond, enthusiasm in his voice, “this is getting -jolly interesting, sir!” - -“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 -_morale_ 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.” - -“What about old Bessie? Who gives _her_ her orders?” - -“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!” - -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!” - -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?” - -Desmond nodded. - -“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 . . .” - -“Clubfoot? Why Clubfoot?” - -“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 . . .” - -“He has been working for them ever since his reappearance, do you -think?” - -“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!” - -“But supposing your surmise does not prove correct,” Desmond objected, -“you’ll have given away one of your best men!” - -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 . . .” - -The eyes of the two men met. - -“Bear in mind,” added the Chief, “that nobody has ever seen Murchison of -Munich except myself!” - -There was a significant pause. - -“And I do so hate painting my face!” remarked Desmond irrelevantly. - -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 . . .” - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - THE HOUSE IN PIMLICO - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -He beckoned to the waiter. - -“Ask the lady in black by the door whether I may offer her a glass of -champagne,” he said. - -The man nodded understandingly, and the next moment Desmond was facing -Madeleine McKenzie across the table. - -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. - -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 _théâtres intimes_, the huge, -noisy _brasseries_. - -“You are used to a life of excitement, then?” she said. - -It was Desmond’s cue. Swiftly he took it. - -“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?” - -The girl flashed a glance at him from under her long lashes. “If you -know where to look for it,” she said softly. - -“I bet you know your way around,” Desmond replied. - -She shrugged her shoulders prettily. “My ideas of a good time might not -agree with yours,” she countered. - -“What are your ideas of a good time?” he asked. - -She sighed. “Gambling!” she answered, “if I could afford it.” - -Desmond grew alert on the instant. Was this the secret of Finucane’s -disappearance, cleaned out in a _tripot_ and ashamed to show his face -again? - -“Now you’re talking,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Tell me, do you -know where there’s a game?” - -She scrutinized his face, turned up to hers. “If I thought you were to -be trusted . . .” she began. - -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!” - -“Now I’ve offended you,” she said, and laid her hand on his arm. “Are -you really keen?” - -“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!” - -“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!” - -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. - - -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. - -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. - -“How much?” he asked the driver, an apple-cheeked greybeard. - -“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!” - -“Psst!” - -From the top of the steps the girl was signalling to Desmond to make -haste. - -“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!” - -And with that he followed the girl into the house. - -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. - -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. - -“Paul!” she cried sharply. - -The couple sprang apart. Like a fury Madeleine turned on the woman. - -“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!” - -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. - -“Stop that, d’you hear?” he commanded. He spoke with a marked foreign -accent. - -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? . . .” - -The man looked apprehensively at Desmond. - -“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 . . .” - -“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!” - -The man bit his moustache. His eyes were very evil. He controlled -himself with an effort. - -“Dirty work?” he said. “What a horrid word, Mado! Come, now, take your -cloak off! I’m sure our friend wants a game . . .” - -But the girl would not be pacified. “Horrid word, is it? Then what -became of the other I brought here for you?” - -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 . . .” - -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. - -“Miss McKenzie,” said Paul suavely, “is subject to these _crises de -nerfs_. I must apologize for the disturbance, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .” - -“Murchison!” said Desmond abstractedly. - -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. - -Yet the girl’s warning had obviously been sincere. Who was “the other” -of whom she had spoken? Finucane? . . . - -“My name is Geyer,” the man Paul was saying. “Felix, take the -gentleman’s coat.” - -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. - -“You don’t mind?” he said. “It’s a rule of the house!” And he handed it -to the man he had called Felix. - -With a sinking heart, for now he knew he had the worst to fear, Desmond -silently followed his mentor through the swing-doors. - - -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. - -“A new member of our circle, my friends,” Geyer’s voice trumpeted -triumphantly through the room; “a desperate gambler who loves the green -cloth!” - -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. - -Desmond found himself facing The Man with the Clubfoot. - -Grundt was holding the bank. His great hairy hands were spread out on -the table, one resting on the _sabot_, 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. - -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? - -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? - -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. - -But now Grundt was addressing him. “Herr Murchison, hein? Es freut mich -sehr! A gambler, was?” - -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!” - -With an effort he straightened himself up in his chair, shook the ash -from his cigar into a tray, and leaned across the table. - -“Who’s been leaking to you?” he demanded. - -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. - -“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!” - -Herr Murchison cast a panic-stricken glance round the silent, forbidding -circle of attentive faces. - -“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!” - -Herr Murchison extended two trembling hands. “Give me time!” he murmured -weakly. “I will tell you what I can!” - -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!” - -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. - -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!” - -He moistened his lips with his tongue, like some great beast of prey -licking its chops. - -“I’m waiting!” he said. - -Shaking in every limb, Herr Murchison opened his lips to speak. “My -headquarters are . . . Munich!” he said in a strained voice. - -“Turn your head to the right!” shouted Grundt suddenly. “Turn your head, -I say! Meinhardt, Felix! Thrust him down under the lamp!” - -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. - -“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!” - -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. - -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. - -“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!” - -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!” - -“Where is he?” asked Desmond. - -“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 . . .” - -“A lame man?” queried Desmond in dismay. - -“Aye! Mr. Okewood went after him with a couple of my chaps!” - -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. - -“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?” - -He indicated Geyer, who, violently protesting, was being led away by his -captors. - -“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?” - -“Disappeared. We’ll get her at Duchess Street, I shouldn’t wonder!” - -“What’s the bag here? Do you know?” - -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!” - -“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?” - -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!” - -They were silent for a moment. Then Desmond said: “I must say I should -like to have known how those flower signals were worked.” - -“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!” - - -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. - -Meanwhile The Man with the Clubfoot remained at large. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - THE MEETING - - -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 -_moral_ 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. - -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 _moral_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -With characteristic consideration the big man sent for my two friends -and informed them of Dr. Grundt’s request. - -“It’s . . . it’s incredible, sir,” said Desmond Okewood. - -“He wouldn’t have the nerve,” his brother Francis put in. - -“Clubfoot would,” grimly observed the Chief, and pitched a letter on the -desk in front of them. “Read it for yourself!” - -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. - -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. - -Desmond picked up the letter and read it, while his brother looked over -his shoulder. - - 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 _The Times_ would oblige. - -“Well, I’m damned!” Desmond exploded violently. “You’re surely not going -to receive the fellow, sir?” - -“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!” - -“We’ll be three to one, anyhow!” muttered Francis Okewood. - -The Chief shook his head. “No, we shan’t,” he announced decisively. “You -two will be in the farther room . . .” - -“But, Chief,” Desmond broke in vehemently, “the man will be armed. He’s -dangerous: he stops at nothing . . .” - -The big man shrugged his broad shoulders. - -“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. - -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. - -“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 _his_ 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.” - -“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!” - -“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!” - -The Chief’s strong face had grown very stern. “I agree. But I want _my_ -sight of him. Don’t worry, Okewood. I’ve got my tally against our -clubfooted friend. He’ll get no change out of me . . .” - -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!” - -“Sir, once more . . .” said Desmond. - -The Chief shook his head. - -“And I haven’t even got a gun!” muttered the young man forlornly as he -accompanied his brother from the room. - -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. - -“Mr. Melchizedech?” he wheezed, for the stairs had temporarily robbed -him of his breath. - -“That’s my name,” replied the Chief. “Please come in.” - -He stood back to let the stranger pass, then led the way into the inner -office. - -“Won’t you take off your things?” he said, and, pointing to a chair, -remained standing. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -With a comprehensive wave of his stick he indicated their surroundings. - -“Na,” he croaked, “as between colleagues was there really any necessity -for this elaborate setting?” Shrewdly he watched the other’s face. - -“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.” - -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!” - -Impressively he laid one hairy palm downwards upon the desk. - -“You have had ample warning of my power,” he said. “I have decimated -your Service, Herr Kollege; its _moral_ 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 _amour-propre_ 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.” - -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. - -“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!” - -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. - -“This Bliss mission must not go through, Herr Kollege,” he commanded. - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -An instinctive gesture from the other interrupted him. - -“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.” - -He leant forward across the desk, tapping the blotter with stub -forefinger. - -“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!” - -Very quietly the Chief shook his head. - -“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!” - -Reflectively the Chief stabbed at his blotter with his reading-glass. - -“Don’t be too hard on us, Herr Doktor,” he remarked. “The two Okewoods -are in excellent health!” - -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. - -“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!” - -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. - -But the Chief had stood up. “Is that all?” he demanded, and came round -the desk. - -Clubfoot, his hairy hands crossed above the crutch of his stick, leaned -back in his chair and looked up at his interrogator. - -“Yes,” he replied. “And now you know what you’ve got to do!” - -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. - -Like some great animal heaving itself erect, Grundt struggled cumbrously -to his feet. - -“You . . . you refuse?” he blustered. - -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!” - -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. - -“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!” - -Then he passed out and they heard his heavy footstep pounding down the -stairs. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - THE CHAMOIS LEATHER PACKET - - -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. - -“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!” - -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. - -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. - -They breakfasted together and, the meal done, the Chief proposed a walk -in the garden. - -“We can talk better in the open air,” he remarked as he filled his pipe. - -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. - -“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?” - -“Perfectly!” - -“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!” - -Desmond nodded. “Who is it?” - -“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?” - -Desmond repeated question and answer. - -“It sounds idiotic,” said the Chief apologetically, “but I had to -improvise something on the spot.” - -“And when do I leave?” Desmond asked. - -“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 . . .” - -“And the messenger . . .” Desmond put in. - -“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?” - -A maid came hurrying up the garden path. - -“The gentleman is wanted on the telephone, please, sir,” she said to -Desmond. - -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. - -“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. - -Desmond whistled. Then, with a shade of anxiety in his voice, he added: -“I hope you’ll be cautious for a bit, sir!” - -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 _with the packet_, as the message puts it. If only -he isn’t followed! . . .” - - -“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. - -“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? . . . - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“Madame, je regrette . . .” - -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. - -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. - -“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!” - -“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 . . . - -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. - -“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 _had_ -happened to Bliss’s man? . . . - -“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. - -The girl laughed. “You speak French so well that I should never have -taken you for an Englishman,” she said. - -“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. - -Few women are proof against compliments on their good taste. The girl -flushed with appreciation. - -“Are you from London?” she asked. - -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. - -“Yes,” he answered tensely. - -The girl was at the mirror on the side of the box arranging her hat. - -“_Do you know the Albany?_” she said. - -The question was uttered casually. Like a flash the reply came back: -“_From the Mansion to Vigo Street!_” - -The girl whipped round, one hand beneath her enveloping shawl. - -“Thank God!” she whispered. “Quick! Take them!” - -“Be careful!” - -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. - -“They’re watching us,” the young man whispered to the girl. “Pass them -to me behind your back!” - -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. - -“I was . . . _scared_!” 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 . . .” - -“You were followed here?” - -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.” - -“What’s he like, this man who shadowed you?” - -“A young man, slim and fair. He has a long white scar on his face -and . . .” - -“H-sst!” - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -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. - -Desmond turned to the girl. “Are you game for a dash?” he demanded. - -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. - -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. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - A FLIGHT AND WHAT CAME OF IT - - -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! - -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. - -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 _bona fides_ 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. - -“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 . . .” - -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. - -“You’re my passenger, I think,” he said to Desmond. “We’re all ready for -you!” - -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. - -Desmond swept aside these objections. The girl, he announced with a -humorous side-glance at her, would sit on his knee. - -“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!” - -And he tapped his ulster bulging with the packet of precious stones. - -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. - -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. - -Desmond gave a little sigh. “Safe!” he murmured, and patted that -comforting bulge in his overcoat. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“Engine missing!”—the pilot’s voice came to them in a muffled roar—“hang -on! Forced landing!” - -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. - -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. - -“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. - -“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.” - -The pilot, who had jumped down and was fussing with the landing-wheels, -turned round. - -“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.” - -“How long is it going to take you to put things right?” asked Desmond. - -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.” - -Desmond swore under his breath. It seemed to him that the airman was -taking things very lightly. - -“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?” - -“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!” - -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. - -“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 . . .” - -“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.” - -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. - -“It’s a nervy business, landing in the dark!” he was quick to explain. - -Desmond felt that his suspicions were ungenerous. He knew how airmen -loathe night-flying. - -“You made a devilish good landing!” he said. “I’m afraid you must have -thought us very unappreciative. Now, what about your friend Magnus?” - -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. - -Desmond stopped. “What’s that plane doing here?” he demanded. - -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!” - -But Desmond was walking in the direction of the machine. - -“I say!” the pilot called out. “They don’t like strangers monkeying -about with . . .” - -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. - -“Why,” cried Desmond, “the engine’s warm. This machine has been out this -very night . . .” - -He turned swiftly round to the girl. As his eyes fell on her face, it -blanched with terror. - -“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!” - -Out of the darkness rang a woman’s scream. - - - - - CHAPTER XX - IN WHICH MISS MARY BREWSTER SPEAKS HER MIND - - -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. - -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. - -“He has not got the jewels, either, Herr Doktor!” said a voice. - -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. - -Clubfoot snarled out an order in German. Rough hands brutally searched -the Englishman’s clothes. Clubfoot looked on impassively. - -“Nothing!” reported the voice. - -“It must be there!” thundered Grundt, “unless one of you has stolen it.” - -“The Herr Doktor was himself present when we seized the Englishman,” the -voice protested. “The Herr Doktor knows that nothing was found.” - -“Ungag them!” ordered Clubfoot. “And clear out! Warn the pilot to have -the machine ready for instant departure!” - -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. - -“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!” - -Desmond felt his throat grow dry. “Not the girl,” he said in a low -voice. “She’s not even of the Service, Grundt!” - -“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. - -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!” - -Clubfoot recoiled. “Stauber!” he muttered, frowning. - -“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?” - -Clubfoot stared at her like a man hypnotized. - -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 . . .” - -“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. - -“They’re out of your reach!” said Mary Brewster. - -“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!” - -But it seemed to Desmond that, for all his bluster, much of Clubfoot’s -wonted assurance had disappeared. - -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!” - -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. - -“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!” - -He broke off, and for an instant the dark, expressive eyes rested on the -young man’s face. - -“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!” - -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. - -“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?” - -“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 . . .” - -“But what has become of the chamois leather packet with the jewels?” -demanded Desmond. - -“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 . . .” - -Her head drooped suddenly forward. She had fainted. Out of the night -resounded, loud and challenging, the roar of propellers . . . - - -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. - -“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.” - -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. - -“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.” - -His manner grew reflective. “I wonder,” he said, “when and where we -shall see him again!” - -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 . . . - - - THE END - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - ---Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public - domain in the country of publication. - ---Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and - dialect unchanged. - ---In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the - HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.) - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLUBFOOT THE AVENGER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -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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