The Crouching Beast E-Book

Valentine Williams

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

It is 1914, but war has not yet broken out. Olivia Dunbar, a young English woman, is working in Germany as a private secretary. She obtains secret military information, and becomes entangled in a British secret agent operation, and encounters the terrifying Dr. Grundt, head of German counter-intelligence: the „crouching beast” of the title. „The Crouching Beast” by Valentine Williams is an example of the reluctant spy sub-genre, in which an innocent civilian finds himself caught up in the dangerous game of espionage. The twist in this book is that the innocent civilian is a young woman. She is also the narrator of the tale. Third in the seven book series about the dreaded German Secret Service Chief Dr. Adolph Grundt. „The Crouching Beast” is an effective and enjoyable espionage thriller.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE MUTTER OF THE STORM

II. A FOOTFALL IN THE GARDEN

III. THE GUN

IV. IN WHICH I FIRST HEAR OF THE LAME ONE

V. DR. VON HENTSCH CHANGES HIS MIND

VI. THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT

VII. “AUF WIEDERSEHEN!”

VIII. IN WHICH I LOSE MY JOB

IX. I AM KISSED BY A NICE YOUNG MAN AND MAKE AN ALARMING DISCOVERY

X. I ARRIVE IN BERLIN AND SCORE THE FIRST TRICK

XI. HOHENZOLLERN-ALLEE, 305

XII. ENTER THE PELLEGRINI

XIII. I CALL ON MR. BALE AND RECOGNISE A FAMILIAR OBJECT

XIV. THE CAFÉ ZUR NELKE

XV. NIGEL DRUCE

XVI. A COUNCIL OF WAR ABOUT A COUNCIL OF WAR

XVII. AT SCHIPPKE’S

XVIII. I ESCAPE FROM TWIN PERILS TO MEET WITH DISASTER

XIX. THE CROUCHING BEAST

XX. THE PHOTOGRAPH

XXI. IN WHICH I AM UNPLEASANTLY REMINDED OF AN UNIMPORTANT PERSONAGE

XXII. HEDWIG

XXIII. THE RECKONING

XXIV. CONCERNING A WAITER AND HIS TRAY

XXV. SANCTUARY

XXVI. TREED

XXVII. NEWS OF A FRIEND

XXVIII. DRUCE AND I FALL OUT

XXIX. THE MAN ON THE STAIRS

XXX. “HEUTE MIR, MORGEN DIR”

XXXI. IN WHICH WE PART FROM CLUBFOOT AND EMBARK ON A JOURNEY

XXXII. THE END OF THE JOURNEY

XXXIII. THE STORY OF MARSTON-GORE

XXXIV. “A FOOL, A FOOL, I MET A FOOL I’ THE FOREST...”

XXXV. IN THE CAPUCHIN CHAPEL

XXXVI. THE BAFFLING OF THE BEAST

XXXVII. “COME! SAYS THE DRUM”

XXXVIII. AFTERMATH

POSTSCRIPT

I. THE MUTTER OF THE STORM

Was the hush that rested over the garden of the old Kommandanten-Haus, that breathless July evening of 1914 which launched me on my strange adventure, symbolical of the lull before the storm which was about to break over Europe? Now that I look back upon that summer I spent at Schlatz I think it was. Personally, I was far too busy absorbing first impressions of life in a pleasant German garrison town to have ears to hear the ominous beat of the war drums, faint at first but growing steadily louder, like the tomtoms of “Emperor Jones.” But later, when I was a V.A.D. at Dover and at night the wind from the Channel would awaken us with the throbbing of the guns in France, thinking of those glorious summer days, I would picture myself sleeping peacefully, like almost everybody else, through the growling thunder of the approaching catastrophe.

On this evening, as I remember, dusk had fallen early. The sun had died in a riot of wrathful colour, and beyond the end of the garden the lemon-tinted sky set off in sharp silhouette the high wall of Schlatz Castle and the square tower, still higher, that rose to heaven above it like a stern prayer in stone.

Not a leaf stirred in the rambling and neglected garden which, between two blank grey walls, spread its train of green right up to the piled-up mass of the Castle. The air was warm, and through the open French windows of Dr. von Hentsch’s study the heavy fragrance of the roses mounted to me as I sat at the typewriter. I had the feeling that the garden was holding its breath, waiting, as it were, for something to happen, while the darkness slowly deepened and high up in the air yellow lights began to glimmer in the Castle windows.

I had just switched on the reading-lamp when I heard the postman coming up the gravel path at the side of the house. Nothing much ever happened at Schlatz; and we had so few visitors that it was not hard to identify our different callers by their step. Particularly Franz, our postman. Though Lucy von Hentsch and her husband were kindness itself, I was at times homesick for England. Letters made a great difference to me at Schlatz, even poor Bill’s, and I used to catch myself listening for Franz’s stolid, military tramp.

At his sonorous sing-song greeting, “Schon’gut’n Abend, Fräulein!” I looked up from Lucy’s manuscript to see him standing in the open window, his loose blue uniform all flecked with the July dust.

“There was nobody at the front, Fräulein,” he said, “so I thought I’d look round at the back, on the chance.”

“I didn’t hear the bell,” I explained. “The Herr Landgerichtsrat and Frau von Hentsch are dining out and the maids have gone to the Fair.”

“And the Miss”–“die Miss” was the way I was often addressed–“remains like that all alone in the house?” Franz was sorting through his bag.

I laughed. “The Miss has plenty to occupy her, Franz,” I told him, and pointed to the pile of manuscript beside my machine.

He wagged his head doubtfully.

“The newspapers are full of nothing but robberies and murders,” he observed with an air of gloom. “The Kommandanten-Haus is lonely, perched up here on the hill above the town. Frau von Speicher, the late Kommandant’s lady, she would never stay in the house by herself–nee, nee! The Fräulein should, at least, keep the windows closed.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me right under the noses of the Castle guards,” I answered, and took the letters he handed over–there was one for me, I saw with delight, from my married sister, Dulcie. “You must remember that English girls are used to taking care of themselves, Franz...”

“Na und ob!” the postman put in, as who should say, “Now you’re talking!” “It’s the men in England who need protecting, Fräulein, if the newspapers tell the truth about the goings-on of your friends, die Suffragetten...”

We both laughed. This was a stock joke between Franz and me. Like all Germans I met, he displayed a sort of incredulous interest in the fight for female suffrage in England which loomed so large in the newspapers that summer.

“Anyway, the Miss has nothing to fear from the prisoners,” the postman resumed, moving his head in the direction of the glowing windows of the Castle. “The Herren Offiziere amuse themselves far too well under arrest to think of escaping...”

I smiled my assent, for the same thought was in my mind. I should explain that Schlatz Castle, once the seat of the Dukedom of Schlatz–Herzog von Schlatz is one of the titles of the Kings of Prussia–was used to lodge officers sentenced to fortress imprisonment for offences against the military code such as duelling, gambling and the like. These officers were frequently let out on parole, to get their hair cut and so forth, and I used to see them about the town in undress uniform without their swords. As far as I could gather, their punishment consisted solely in the loss of promotion and the temporary deprivation of their personal liberty. Even Dr. von Hentsch used to say that the drinking and gambling up at the Schloss were a disgrace.

The garden of the Kommandanten-Haus ran right up to the Castle wall, and sometimes in the evening sounds of revelry would be wafted down to us from the detention quarters. Our house, as its name indicated, was really the official residence of the Castle Commandant. But when Major von Ungemach, who was a bachelor, was given the post, he preferred to occupy a suite in the Schloss and let the picturesque 18th-century house to Dr. von Hentsch, who was transferred about the same time to Schlatz as judge at the local courts.

“The Herren Offiziere won’t trouble the gracious Fräulein,” Franz added. “I meant tramps and such rabble. With the harvest a lot of bad characters drift into the town.” He wagged his head. “One can’t blame them. Hunger makes men desperate. As long as you have wage-slaves, you’ll have crime, Fräulein. Even in old England, which isn’t a police State like this...”

I stared at him in amazement. “Why, Franz,” I exclaimed, “you’re talking like a Socialist. You’d better not let the Herr Landgerichtsrat hear you...!”

His sun-browned face, bony and, in repose, rather severe, broke into a slow smile at the horror in my voice. I really was taken aback. Socialists at home I knew of mainly as shabby men in cloth caps who walked in procession to the Park on Sundays under huge banners. But in Dr. von Hentsch’s well-ordered household, where only thoroughly constitutional newspapers like the Kreuz-Zeitung were read, Socialists, or Social Democrats, as he called them, were mentioned only to be denounced as incendiary scoundrels dangerously favoured by parliamentary institutions. It sounded to me odd to hear this civil-spoken, rather staid Prussian postman in his trim uniform voicing Socialist doctrines.

“One can say things to an English Miss one wouldn’t say to a Prussian official,” he observed drily.

I hastened to change the subject, which I felt to be dangerous.

“I’m sure you’d like a glass of beer after your walk,” I put in.

“Since the Fräulein is so kind. It’s sultry out. I think there’s a storm coming up...”

As I ran through the adjoining dining-room, hung with Dr. von Hentsch’s collection of antlers, to fetch a bottle of beer from the cooler in the pantry, I heard a tremor of distant thunder go rolling across the garden. With a muttered “Pros’t, Fräulein!” Franz drained the glass at a draught. As he set it down and wiped his moustache, the lamp on the desk blinked.

“Oh, dear,” I exclaimed, “I do hope the light’s not going to fail again to-night. I want to finish all this typing before I go to bed...!”

“The power station’s overloaded,” remarked the postman, adjusting the sling of his bag over his shoulder. “After the entertainment of His Majesty when he visited Schlatz last winter there were no funds available for carrying out the necessary improvements. The town will have to wait for a decent electric light supply until a few more Social Democrats are elected to the council. That time isn’t far off now, Fräulein. The struggle is coming to a head...”

“I’m afraid I don’t know very much about your German politics, Franz,” I interposed evasively.

“This is something bigger than mere politics, Fräulein,” he answered in his earnest way. “The struggle is not simply a clash between parties. It’s a fight between the army and the people. It can end in only one way. There’ll be either a revolution or a war.”

Once more the thunder growled in the darkness without.

At that I laughed outright. “Revolution? War? Now you’re talking nonsense, Franz. If you said there was going to be a revolution in England, you’d still be wrong; but you’d be less far from the truth. Of course, if civil war does break out in Ulster, there’s no knowing what might happen. But in Germany! People who say things like that don’t know when they’re well off. You’ve got a Kaiser to be proud of, a prosperous country, good wages, beautiful cities with splendid theatres and music and open-air beer gardens where you can take your wife and children, all kinds of inexpensive pleasures that working-men in England don’t enjoy, I can tell you. As for war, you mustn’t believe all this scare rubbish you read in the newspapers. In spite of the Daily Mail relations between Germany and England were never better than they are to-day.”

With a brooding air the postman settled his red-striped cap on his head and hitched up his bag.

“All that may be true,” he said. “But if the military want a war, it won’t be hard to find a pretext. For the rest, you Engländer have a parliament that is a parliament, that can make and unmake Ministries; not a wretched talking-shop with no real power like our German Reichstag. This is a military State, Fräulein. The civilian doesn’t count. He’s only fit to be sabred, like the cobbler of Zabern, to teach him his place. There is no liberty for the individual in Prussia. If you were to report to the Post-Direktor what I have said to you this evening I should be flung into the street, into gaol, maybe, my pension would be taken away and my wife and children would starve. But the masses are getting restless under the rule of the sabre. As soon as the military believe that the people are getting out of hand, they’ll start a war. And that may be sooner than you think...”

I laughed incredulously. “A war? A war with whom?”

For a moment Franz was silent, and in the pause I heard a sudden wind brush shudderingly through the trees outside the window. Behind the jetty mass of the Castle the lightning flickered white across the sky; and louder now, but still reluctant and stertorous, the thunder muttered again.

Then the postman, having glanced cautiously over his shoulder, drew nearer and, dropping his voice, said:

“Strange things are happening up at the barracks. At the mobilisation store they are working day and night. There is talk of a new uniform to be handed out, a grey uniform which has never been seen before. Do you know what that means, Fräulein?”

His serious brown eyes, intelligent and trusting as any dog’s, were fixed on my face. His manner was so portentous that I fell back a step. He did not wait for my answer.

“This new uniform is clearly for service in the field,” he declared. “In other words, the German Army is preparing to mobilise. And that means...”–he paused, to wrench his mouth into a wry and bitter grimace, then added with measured deliberation–”... that means war!”

I was not greatly impressed. Why, only that afternoon I had been to a Kaffee-Klatsch at Frau Oberleutnant Meyer’s! All the young officers of the infantry battalion stationed at Schlatz had been there, including Rudi von Linz, a charming lieutenant who was a particular friend of mine, and we had danced until seven o’clock. And had not Major von Ungemach, the Castle Commandant, telephoned that very evening to ask whether he might call upon me? I had no intention of being alone in the house with the somewhat ardent Major and I had told him I was busy and couldn’t see him.

But when an army mobilises surely the officers haven’t time to go dancing or calling on their women friends? So I said, rather sarcastically, to Franz: “With whom, pray?”

He shook his head sagely. “That remains to be seen, Fräulein. I’m no politician. Perhaps over this trouble in the Balkans. The newspapers say that the Austrians intend to demand satisfaction from Servia for the murder of the Archduke...!”

“And quite right, too!” I cried. “Dr. von Hentsch says the whole thing was planned by the Servian Government. To think of that poor man, and his wife too, being shot down like that in cold blood!”

“Na,” said the postman, heaving up his satchel, “what will be, will be! I wish you good-night, Fräulein!” He glanced into the garden stretched out black and listless in the close air. “I must hurry if I’m to finish my round before the storm breaks.”

“Gute Nacht, Franz,” I replied, and turned back to the desk to read my letter.

At the window he hesitated. “The Fräulein will have the goodness not to repeat what I said to-night? It would get me into serious trouble if it were known...”

“Schwamm darüber!” I told him, or “Wash it out!” as you might say. “I’ve already forgotten it. And I advise you to do the same.”

He smiled whimsically and wagged his head in a gesture expressive of doubt. Then, “Gute Nacht, Miss,” he said. “Angenehme Rune!”

“Ebenfalls!” I answered, giving him back the stock reply to his wish that I might sleep well–German, like Chinese, bristles with ceremonial greetings and no less formal rejoinders–his feet rasped on the path and he was gone. A vivid lightning flash revealed to me a momentary glimpse of the garden with every leaf, as it seemed to me, hanging motionless in the sultry atmosphere. As I picked up Dulcie’s letter, once more the thunder rumbled sullenly out of the night...

II. A FOOTFALL IN THE GARDEN

The postman’s gloomy forebodings had left me vaguely restless. Not his talk of war. The activity at the barracks I set down to preparation for manoeuvres or the like; for, from the way the young officers grumbled, to me, at any rate, the battalion at Schlatz appeared to be constantly making ready for something, whether it were inspection by an incredibly terrifying military personage, a field day, or night operations. I was thinking of what Franz had said about tramps. The Kommandanten-Haus was certainly isolated from the town, and I had read in the German newspapers of ghastly crimes committed in lonely mansions.

But the night was airless, and with the windows closed I felt I should stifle in the stuffy study with its thick red curtains, heavy mahogany furniture, and great green-tiled stove gleaming dully in the corner. I contented myself, therefore, with opening the drawer of the desk in the centre of the room on which my typewriter stood and assuring myself that the big revolver which Dr. von Hentsch kept there was in its accustomed place. Leaving the drawer half open, I settled down in my chair beside the lamp to read my sister’s letter.

I came across that letter the other day, poor bit of flotsam to survive the deluge which was to sweep so much away. It is mostly about a plan we had made, Dulcie, Jim her husband, and I, to pass the summer holidays together in the Black Forest. I had been invited to spend the last week of July with some American friends in Berlin where Dulcie and Jim, her husband, were to meet me on the 1st of August. As the von Hentsches were leaving for their summer holiday at Karlsbad on 24th July, the arrangement just suited.

August, 1914!

As I re-read my sister’s letter the other day, I felt glad that fate had mercifully veiled the future from our eyes. Neither she who dashed off that cheery scrawl on the pretty, azure-tinted note-paper, nor I who read it in the quiet of Dr. von Hentsch’s study on that thundery July evening, with the summer lightning streaking the sky behind Castle Schlatz, could know that almost every date she mentioned was inscrutably marked down to be a milestone of history.

This 31st of July, for instance, when she and Jim, who now sleeps under Kemmel Hill, were to start off from London, was to see a brief cipher flash like a train of fire across two vast Empires and call millions of men to arms: this 1st of August, appointed date for our happy reunion in Berlin, was destined to live through the ages as the day on which, by mobilising against Russia, Germany took the irrevocable step: this 2nd of August, when we were to leave Berlin, was doomed to witness the first blood spilled on French soil by the invader. “Jim has booked our rooms in the Forester’s house at Kalkstein for the 4th,” Dulcie wrote: the fateful 4th of August, which was to bring the British Empire to its feet to face the challenge...

Dulcie wrote to me every week, adorable letters, a bit of herself. I have always been pals with Dulcie, for we had no brothers and Mother died when we were kids. And during the greater part of our childhood, Daddy was soldiering in India while we were being brought up at home.

Dulcie is domesticated, not, like me, “an adventurous romantic,” as Daddy used to call me. Before I went to Schlatz I lived with her and Jim at Purley. When Marie von Hentsch, who was at school with me–by the time I got to Schlatz she was married and living in America–proposed me to her mother as private secretary–perhaps I ought to explain that Frau von Hentsch was Lucy Varley, the popular American novelist–I was vegetating in a highly respectable, and abominably dreary, typing job in the city. Dulcie was all against my going out to Germany. But then she was all against my doing anything except marry Bill Bradley. She wanted me to marry Bill and “settle down.”

That is precisely what marriage with a thoroughly good-hearted, dull, dear fellow like Bill would have done for me. I should have “settled down” like porridge in a plate. But at twenty-two I didn’t want to settle down. On the contrary, I was mad to be up and doing. I wanted to see more of life and the world than I could observe from the windows of the 9.12 from Purley to London Bridge or from my desk in St. Mary Axe. So, having refused poor Bill for the umpteenth time, I went to Schlatz.

Darling old Dulcie! She always wrote reams, everything, just as it drifted into her pen, about Jim and her babies, and the new car ... and Bill. Her letter carried me right out of the tranquil old house with its faint, clean odour of much scouring blended with the summer scents of the garden. As I read on, sheet after sheet in her big, sprawling hand, I forgot all about Franz and his dark forebodings and the lightning flaming behind the Castle and the thunder growling ever louder overhead.

“Bill came in on Sunday after golf,” Dulcie wrote. “His first question is always: ‘How’s Olivia?’ You really ought to write to the poor fellow. He looked perfectly miserable although he’s won the monthly medal with a round of 78. He says you never answer his letters. He’s convinced you’ve fallen in love with some incredibly dashing Prussian officer. Have you? Jim says if you marry a German he’ll call him out and shoot him. Tell me about your conquests when you write. Don’t the German men rave about your blue eyes and black hair? They must be sick of blondes. I saw Mabel Fordwych at Murray’s the other night. She’s got a studio in Chelsea and has cut her hair short. She looked MOST eccentric and mannish. Everybody was staring at her. Great excitement here about the suffragettes. Did you see they tried to blow up the Abbey? Jim took me up to town for our wedding anniversary on Thursday. We dined at the Troc. and went on afterwards to see the new play at the Criterion. At least, it’s not a new play but an old one revived. Do you know it? It’s called ‘A Scrap of Paper.’ Stupid title but quite a thrilling story. Some of the crinolines were rather sweet. I suppose you can’t get any decent frocks out there. They say we’re all going to show our ankles next winter. The creature next door won’t like that, will she? You and I will be all right, anyway...”

The sudden loud swish of water plucked me away from Dulcie’s gossip. Outside the rain was coming down in a solid sheet. The garden rang with plashings and gurglings, and the clean savour of wet leaves and damp earth was wafted into the room.

Frau von Hentsch had lived long enough in Germany to be as fussy as any German Hausfrau about her belongings. I sprang to the window to close it; for the rain was spurting on the carpet. As I rose from the desk my eye fell on the clock. The hands marked a quarter to ten.

As I reached the window I thought I heard a soft footfall scrape the gravel outside. It was too early for the Hentsches or the maids to be back; and anyway the former would come in by the front door where the car put them down, while the servants would use the kitchen entrance.

Rather startled, I paused and called out: “Wer ist’s?” But the footsteps had abruptly ceased and only the hissing crash of the downpour answered me. The garden was inky black and I could see nothing beyond the silvery shafts of the rain, a couple of yards from the window, where the light from the room shone out into the night.

Suddenly the lightning flamed in a flash so broad and dazzling as to light up and hold, for the fraction of a second, in brilliant illumination the whole scene before me, from the little bushes, writhing and bending under the lashing rain outside the window, to the gilded fane on the summit of the Castle tower. On the edge of the turf, not a dozen yards from the window, I saw a man cowering in the shelter of a bush.

I was terribly frightened but I did not lose my presence of mind. As all went black once more, I seized the two doors of the window to shut them. But at that moment came a clap of thunder, so unheralded, so ear-splitting, that I staggered back into the room.

And then, without warning, the lamp at the desk went out and the study was plunged in darkness. Once more I heard that stealthy footfall on the path. There was a hollow sound as the wings of the window fell back again. Against the patch of semi-obscurity they framed, I saw a dark form slip into the room.

III. THE GUN

Before I could move or cry out, a quiet voice spoke in English out of the blackness:

“It’s all right,” it said. “Don’t be scared!”

It was a man’s voice, well-bred, a little breathless and, as it seemed to me, a trifle high-pitched from excitement. Still, it was an English voice–and I had not heard an English voice in the six months I had been at Schlatz. Somehow, the familiar timbre seemed to steady my nerves. Still rather tremulous, I answered: “Who are you? What do you want?”

I had stepped back and my hands were on the edge of the writing-table. That blessed light again! The switch of the reading-lamp turned ineffectually at my touch. Now my fingers groped in vain for the box of matches I had left beside the typewriter with my packet of cigarettes. I knew that a candle used for sealing stood on the desk.

A low laugh sounded out of the obscurity.

“It’s devilish awkward introducing oneself in the dark,” was the reply. “Don’t you think we could have some light? It is Miss Dunbar, isn’t it? Miss Olivia Dunbar?”

The utter conventionality of his remark went far to allay my fears. The humour of the situation struck me and I, in my turn, laughed.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m Olivia Dunbar. But the electric light has failed. Who are you? And what on earth do you mean by frightening me like that?”

“I say, I’m most frightfully sorry, really,” the voice broke in contritely. “I had no intention of scaring you. Of course, I thought you’d understand...”

The fright I had received had frayed my nerves. I felt distinctly irritable. This invisible visitor’s bland assumption that it was an intelligible proceeding for a complete stranger to burst into a private house at night at the height of a thunderstorm nettled me.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I retorted hotly. “How am I to know you aren’t a burglar, creeping in like that?”

I heard a sharp sigh.

“My gracious goodness, I can’t explain things like this in the dark. Can’t you light a candle or something? It’s simply preposterous, the two of us gassing away here like a couple of blind men. Hang it, I want to see you!”

His outburst had an almost pathetic ring which tickled my sense of humour.

“Not half so much as I want to see you,” I gave him back. “Am I supposed to know you?”

“Yes ... and no,” was his extraordinary answer.

“Well, give me a match!” I said.

He groaned audibly. “I haven’t got one. Have you?”

“There’s a box somewhere,” I replied, “but I can’t lay my hands on it in the dark...”

“Look here, if there’s a box about, the two of us should be able to find it...”

My eyes, growing used to the obscurity, could now discern a form vaguely silhouetted against the dim window. There was a brusque movement towards me.

“Stop where you are!” I ordered sharply. “Wait till I find the matches! Do you think I’m going to have you groping about after me in the dark?”

I heard a suppressed chuckle and the movement stopped dead. Then the lightning gleamed and revealed a youngish figure of a man standing bare-headed just within the room. The sight of him, brief as it was, linking up the vague, immaterial voice with a definite individual, steadied me.

“Can’t you borrow a light from somewhere?” came out of the dark. “I...”

A long, loud thunder peal drowned the rest of the words.

The sudden noise jarred me horribly.

“No, I can’t,” I answered crossly. “Everybody’s out, and I don’t know where there are any more matches.”

Scarcely were the words out of my mouth than I knew I had said a foolish thing. Until I had ascertained what this man wanted, I should never have let him know that I was alone in the house. I realised my mistake when I heard a sort of gasp come out of the obscurity and the voice remark:

“There’s nobody at home but you, then?”

I made no answer. I was round at the front of the writing-table now, hunting feverishly for those infernal matches. My hand touched the half-open drawer and I drew out the revolver and laid it on the desk beneath a sheaf of typing paper. Then to my intense relief I trod on the box of matches which had fallen on the carpet.

I struck a match and lit the candle in its silver holder. The wick, smeared with the wax of ancient sealings, burned low at first, spluttering, and by its feeble radiance I examined the stranger. I am bound to say that my apprehensions diminished with my first look at him. He was a little, gingery man, rather below medium height, whose outward appearance certainly confirmed the impression I had derived from his voice, namely, that he was a gentleman.

His grey tweed suit, though worn and rather crumpled, suggested a West End cut; and as, the candle burning brighter, the detail of his features became apparent, I saw that he was well-groomed, with thinnish, sandy hair brushed neatly back off his forehead and a small, carefully trimmed moustache. He seemed to be very wet and had his jacket collar turned up against the rain. When I first saw him in the light he was wiping the moisture from his face with what I remember struck me as being an exceedingly unclean pocket-handkerchief.

If I scrutinised the stranger, he appeared to study me with no less interest. As we stared at one another in silence, it struck me that he had an oddly watchful air, like a rabbit at the mouth of its warren. I noticed, too, that his eyes kept travelling from me to the half-open door of the dining-room and thence over his shoulder to the window and the garden, all rustling under the downpour, beyond. They were curious eyes, reddish in hue and set rather close together, with a reckless, almost an unbalanced expression in their depths.

He was the first to break the silence between us.

“You were not expecting me, then?”

Greatly mystified, I shook my head. “If you would tell me your name...” I ventured. But he ignored my lead.

“This is Sunday, isn’t it?” he demanded suddenly, very earnestly.

“Certainly,” I replied. I was beginning to feel uneasy again. He appeared to be perfectly sober; but didn’t those shifting, tawny eyes of his look a little mad?

“Sunday, the 19th of July, eh?” he persisted.

“Yes.

On that he fell into a brooding silence, puckering up his forehead and casting sidelong glances at me from under his reddish lashes.

“You don’t happen to know a party whose initials are N.D., I suppose?” he said at last.

“N.D.?” I repeated. “No, I don’t think so. Who is he?”

Again he evaded my question.

“And an Englishman hasn’t called to see you here during the past few days? Or written?”

“No,” I told him. “You’re the first Englishman I’ve seen for six months. You are English, aren’t you?”

“Me?” he said absently. “Oh, rather!” Then, harking back to his theme, he demanded again: “And you don’t happen to have seen this fellow about the town, I suppose?”

“I don’t know what he looks like,” I replied.

“No,” he rejoined absently, “of course, you wouldn’t. Party about thirty, very fit-looking, sort of quiet, with dark hair and very bright blue eyes...”

He rattled this off quickly, then paused, his furtive eyes eagerly fixed on mine.

“No,” I said, “I’ve seen nobody like that about the town. As a matter of fact, I believe I’m the only English person in Schlatz. And now,” I went on, rather impatiently, for his extraordinary air of mystery was getting on my nerves, “perhaps you would tell me what I can do for you. In the first place, how do you come to know my name?”

At that, on a sudden, he seemed to slough off his vague and despondent air.

“To tell you the truth,” he remarked brightly, “I was asked to look you up...”

“Oh,” I said, “by whom?”

“By your people in town...”

I looked at him sharply. Daddy’s only brother has a fruit farm in California, and Aunt Sybil, Mother’s sister, our only other near relative, is an invalid who lives at Bath. And Purley cannot be claimed as “town” by even the most optimistic of suburbanites.

“You’ve met my people then?” I replied. “Who was it told you to call?”

He paused for a second, and then answered rather hastily: “Why, your father! You’re Colonel Dunbar’s daughter, aren’t you?”

At that I stiffened. But, noticing how sharply, how eagerly almost, the stranger was eyeing me, I rejoined as nonchalantly as I could:

“Fancy your knowing Daddy! When did you see him last?”

“Oh, just the other day, in London...”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Someone introduced us at a club. The Senior, I think it was. Or was it the Rag? When he heard that I was going to Germany he said to me: ‘If you’re in the neighbourhood of Schlatz, mind you look up my daughter, Olivia. She’s secretary to Frau von Hentsch–Lucy Varley, the novelist, you know–at the Kommandanten-Haus!’ A splendid fellow your father, Miss Dunbar!”

“Yes, isn’t he a darling?” I replied. My heart was beating rather fast, and I was straining my ears for any sound within the house that should tell me of the von Hentsches’ return. But the clock warned me that it was not yet ten; and I could not hope that either they or the maids would be back before eleven. “You ... you haven’t told me your name,” I continued, as he did not speak and I felt I must say something.

He laughed rather nervously.

“Why, no more I have! It’s Abbott, Major Abbott. And now that I’ve introduced myself, Miss Dunbar,” he went on rapidly, “you must let me apologise once again for the way I frightened you. But I was sheltering from the storm under a tree out there, and when that terrific flash of lightning came I suddenly thought of the danger of trees in a thunderstorm, and ... and all that, don’t you know, and seeing you at the window I knew at once that you were English, so I just dashed in out of the rain, meaning to explain. And then the light went out. I expect you’re wondering what I was doing in the garden. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I wanted to see you on private and very urgent business. Before I rang the front door bell I thought I’d try and find out if you were anywhere about...”

He dashed off this fantastic explanation with the utmost glibness and paused, as though waiting to see what I should reply.

The house was very still. The rain was lessening now, and the thunder had ceased. The storm seemed to have passed over, but there was still some lightning about–I could see the flashes glint from time to time on the gleaming leaves outside the window.

“Well, now that you are here,” I said, and tried to banish the nervousness from my voice, “won’t you tell me what it is I can do for you?”

He laughed easily. “I’m in the most absurd predicament, really. It’s this way. I was going to meet this pal of mine here at Schlatz and travel with him to London. He was due here yesterday; but he doesn’t seem to have turned up. As you were the only person I knew here I gave him your name so that he could call–as I’d promised your father to look you up–in my place, in case I didn’t have time between trains. That was why I thought you might be expecting me. Do you see?”

“I see,” I answered without enthusiasm.

“Coming here in the train this evening,” he resumed, quite unabashed, “I was robbed. I fell asleep and when I woke up I found I’d lost my pocket-book with all my money, my bag, my overcoat, my hat, even. If my friend were here I’d be all right, see? And if I could stop over till the morning, I could wire Cox’s for funds, of course. But I must get on by the last train to-night. And so I’m in the embarrassing position of having to ask you, as the only person I know at Schlatz, for a loan, a hundred marks or so would do, just enough to buy my ticket. And perhaps if you could borrow a hat for me...”

All this time we had been standing up, he furtive and so very glib, between me and the window, I behind the desk with my hand clutching the revolver under the sheets of paper that covered it.

“Is that all?” I said when he had finished.

At my tone the easy smile fled from his face.

“I ... I think so” he rejoined. “You ... you believe my story, don’t you, Miss Dunbar?”

“Not a word of it,” I answered firmly.

“But why?” he broke in.

“Because,” I told him “my father died three months before I came to Schlatz!”

He was not in the least disconcerted. He ran a wiry freckled hand over his sandy hair.

“My God,” he ejaculated, “that’s torn it!”

“And now,” I said, “perhaps you’ll leave this room by the way you entered it?” And with my free hand I pointed at the window behind him.

He stood there, gazing at me forlornly, his pointed features twisted into an utterly woebegone expression, his forehead a mass of furrows.

“But I can’t do that,” he protested with a sort of desperate air. “Not without some money, and a hat, at any rate!”

“You’ll get no money from me, Major Abbott,” I retorted very scathingly. “And I strongly advise you to take my offer and disappear before Dr. von Hentsch comes back. He’s a German judge and you won’t find him as lenient as I am!”

“You don’t understand,” he exclaimed gloomily. “I can’t go. Look here, Miss Dunbar”–his voice grew warm–“be a sport! Think what you like of me; but lend me a hundred marks. You’ll get it back and you’ll render me a tremendous service...”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” I replied. “You’re nothing but a common cheat. Why should I give you money?”

“Because I must have it, I tell you!”

“I’m sorry,” I gave him back coldly, “but I can’t regard that as a sufficient reason.”

He shot a slow glance over his shoulder and remained like that for a moment, as though listening for any sound from the garden. The gesture frightened me, I don’t know why, and I disengaged the revolver, but held it down on the desk so that my typewriter hid it from his view. When he turned back to face me, his face was dark with determination.

“You make things very difficult,” he said. “But I’ve got to have that money.” And he stepped resolutely forward.

On that I raised the revolver and covered him.

“It’s loaded,” I warned him in a trembling voice. “If you come any nearer, I’ll shoot!”

He halted abruptly and held up his hands in front of him as though to ward me off. It irritated me to find that he was indignant rather than impressed.

“Haven’t you been taught never to point a loaded gun?” he cried sharply. “Put that damned pistol down!”

I stamped my foot angrily for, like a fool, I felt I might begin to cry. “Then go away!” I cried. “I tell you again you’ll get nothing here!”

But he did not budge. He stood there, facing the revolver which I could not keep from shaking in my grasp, his tawny eyes warm and friendly, a smile playing at his lips.

“By George,” he exclaimed, as though to himself, “I like your spirit. I wonder if I dare...!”

At that instant, with a roar that crashed and reverberated through the dripping night, the Castle gun was fired.

IV. IN WHICH I FIRST HEAR OF THE LAME ONE

Everybody at Schlatz knew the noonday gun.

It was a pudgy, little brass affair, mounted on a squat wooden carriage, its bright muzzle peering down from the age-mottled Schloss wall upon the red roofs of the town. Each day, a few minutes before noon, old Heinrich, the gunner who had left a leg at St. Privat might be descried stumping along the battlements to take up his position beside the cannon, lanyard in hand, eye on the Castle clock, whose dials were set in the four faces of the tower.

As the first stroke of high noon clanged out above his head, the loud bang of the gun would cut across the confused chiming of the mid-day bells down in the town. The other clocks did not always wait for the gun; for the Castle clock was not particularly accurate. It was a stock joke of Dr. von Hentsch’s that old Heinrich took his time from the Schloss clock and that the Schloss time was regulated by the noon gun. In all the months I had been at Schlatz, I had never known the cannon fired except at mid-day.

Even as the gun spoke now and the Kommandanten-Haus, according to its wont, jarred and shook to the concussion, I saw my visitor spring back from the window. At the same time, from sheer surprise, I forgot all about the revolver and, still clutching it, my hand sank down upon the desk.

“The Castle gun!” I whispered blankly. “Why are they firing it at this time of night?”

Without replying, the little man sprang to the window, closed it and drew the heavy curtains across. Even as he did so, within the lofty enclosures of the Schloss a wild hubbub broke loose. There came a sudden burst of shouting, a whistle shrilled thrice, a drum rolled. Then the cannon roared again, over-toning the din, and, as the noise of the explosion rolled away, an electric gong, brazen-throated, nerve-racking, like a fire-alarm, began to stutter its harsh summons through the night.

As I stood there, one hand pressed to my heart, and listened to that awesome racket, too insistent for either closed window or drawn curtain to drown, all the dank and clinging darkness outside seemed to be vibrant with dynamic energy. I had the feeling that, at the foot of the hill, the sleeping town was stirring into life, with voices upraised in affright and footsteps that raced madly through its narrow streets.

For the third time the gun boomed forth above the swelling tumult and the windows of the old house started and sang.

“Oh, what has happened?” I asked in a panic. “What does it all mean?”

My companion was cool and brisk.

“It means,” said he, and held me with his bright, bird-like eye, “it means that a prisoner has escaped from the Schloss.”

“A prisoner?” I repeated incredulously. And then the truth dawned upon me. “You mean...?”

He nodded cheerfully.

“But you’re English...?” I faltered.

“I’m English all right,” he retorted. “Nevertheless, I’ve been stuffed away in that damned stone jug up there for thirteen days without a trial...”

People at Schlatz were always talking about the imprisoned officers; but I had never heard of an Englishman being of their number. Many of the prisoners were known to me by name, too; for some of them were quite lionised in conversation, such as the young Hussar lieutenant who, to avenge his wife’s honour, had killed in a duel a brother officer, his senior in rank: the offences of others were passed over in silence, like that of Rittmeister von Krachwitz, a horrible, drink-sodden creature–I had seen him about the town–who had “accidentally” slain his soldier servant.

Yet this time it did not occur to me to doubt the statement of my odd visitor. For once his uncanny composure had forsaken him and his words, spoken heatedly, savagely almost, rang true.

Suddenly a lump came into my throat and I felt myself soften to this quiet, tawny little man. I had been many times to the Castle and knew its grim, high walls, its solid, frowning gates, iron-studded, guarding its cloistered intricacy of keep and covered way and courtyard, its ringed system of solemn, pacing sentinels.

My thoughts flashed back to that moment when, the candle flaring up, I had had my first clear glimpse of my mysterious visitant, a little breathless, wiping the rain out of his eyes with his grubby handkerchief, but no more flustered than one who has run for shelter from a sudden shower, he who, with what infinite resource, cool judgment and reckless daring, had but lately burst his way to freedom through massive doors, over lofty escarpments, past lines of guards!

I thought of him, with his gloomy prison at his back and the minutes of the precious start he had gained slipping, one by one, away, almost jauntily spinning to me the foolish yarn, by means of which, without disclosing the truth, he had hoped to enlist my aid. His motive for concealment was not hard to understand. With a rush I realised that this must be an almost incredibly cool and fearless man.

But now, in his clipped and jerky way, he was speaking to me.

“I’m a British officer on duty,” he exclaimed. “I can’t say more. That should be enough for you, a soldier’s daughter, to know. And I’ve got to get clear away. Never mind about those lies I told you: the service don’t encourage confidences. They smuggled a letter in to me up there “–he jerked his head backwards–“giving me your name and saying that Nigel Druce–you don’t know him, apparently, but he’s another one of us–would warn you to expect me. You’ve seen nothing of him, you say?”

“No,” I answered wonderingly.

“Then he’s dead,” snapped back my little man, very decisively. “Nigel never missed a date in his life. Listen, you’ll help me?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How much money have you got?”

I had already picked up my bag from where it lay beside the typewriter and was counting through my notes.

“A little over 300 marks.”

This, in those days, was fifteen pounds odd, a lot of money to me.

“Can you spare all of this?”

“Of course,” I lied.

He took the notes I gave him and stuffed them in his pocket.

“You’ll get it back,” he remarked. “Either from me or from my people. If you don’t, write in for it. Just drop a line to M.I. 5, War Office, and explain the circumstances. They’ll pay you.”

With a bland air he rubbed his hands together. “I must have a hat,” he announced. “And some sort of overcoat would be useful, too!”

“Dr. von Hentsch’s son, who’s studying law in Bonn, is away,” I replied. “There’s an old hat and, I think, a raincoat of his, in the hall. They’re not likely to be missed until he returns for the vacation. You could have those. I’ll fetch them...”

“Wait!” he bade me. He was looking at the clock. “Half-past ten now: at what time do you expect your people home?”

“Not before eleven at the earliest. The servants are supposed to be in by eleven. But they’ve gone down to the Kermesse and they’re sure to be late. And the von Hentsches are out playing bridge. They mayn’t be back until half-past eleven or a quarter to twelve. I don’t want to hurry you,” I added hesitatingly, “but don’t you think you ought to be getting on?”

“There’s no great urgency now that they know I’ve legged it,” he answered nonchalantly. “It’s always a sound plan to let the first heat of the chase spend itself before one takes to the road. I’ve got half an hour, anyway...”

“Not if they search the garden,” I suggested. “They’re bound to think of that, aren’t they?”

He wagged his head knowingly.

“Perhaps. Not at once, though. Our German pals haven’t got much imagination. I purposely laid a good strong scent on the ramparts on the other side from this, where that market garden comes up to the Schloss wall on the slope nearest the town. I’m trusting that they’ll start by following up that clue...”

“Then you escaped on this side?” I broke in eagerly. “Do tell me how! Not by our garden?”

His amused smile seemed to me to confirm my idea.

“But,” I exclaimed aghast, “the wall between this and the Castle is frightfully high and all studded with spikes and broken glass. And the door’s locked...!”

The door I spoke of was at the end of the garden, a little postern gate set deep in the immensely thick and lofty outer wall of the Schloss, and giving direct access to the courtyard. It enabled the Commandant of Schlatz to enter the Castle from his house without going round by the main gate. When Dr. von Hentsch went into residence at the Kommandanten-Haus, the door, being no longer in use, was locked and the key deposited in the Castle orderly-room.

“Locks can be picked,” bluntly retorted my little man. “But,” he went on, looking at me with a friendly air, “I’m not going to tell you anything. Bear this in mind, my dear: the less you know about me, the better for you. You’ve got to forget that you’ve ever seen me. You’re green to this game; but I want you to understand that there’s the worst kind of trouble in store for any one suspected of aiding me to escape...”

“Bah,” said I, little knowing how bitterly I was to think back upon the foolish boast, “they daren’t do anything to me. I’m English. I’m not afraid of them.”

The tawny eyes were, of a sudden, thoughtful.

“Don’t be too sure. ‘Der Stelze‘ don’t stop at anything.”

“‘Der Stelze‘?” I repeated. “That means ‘the lame one,’ doesn’t it? Who is ‘der Stelze‘?”

I was watching my companion and at my question I saw a curious change come over his face. The features seemed to grow rigid and, for an instant, an odd light, like a tongue of fire, flamed up in his wary eyes.

“God forbid that you should ever run foul of him, my dear,” he said, so earnest of a sudden, by contrast with his former easy, almost bantering, manner, that I stared. “But, remember what I say to you now, especially after what has happened to-night! If a lame German, a whopping great fellow with a clubfoot, comes inquiring after me, be on your guard! Don’t let him suspect you or ... beware!”

A little silence fell between us. All was still outside now. The tumult up at the Castle seemed to have died away. With a brisk gesture the little man buttoned up his jacket.

“And now,” he said smartly, “action front! By reason of what I’ve just told you, you mustn’t get mixed up in this. We’re going to put out the candle, you’ll fetch me that hat and coat and show me where the front door is. Then you’ll cut upstairs to your room as fast as your legs can carry you, nip into bed and stay there until morning...”

“And you?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I’m going to finish my job.” He extended his hand. “Good-bye, my dear, thank you a thousand times. I wish to Heaven I’d trusted you from the start. But a woman let me down once, and since then I’m being extra cautious.”

His lean hand clasped mine. My hands were cold as ice; but his grasp was warm and firm.

“Good luck,” I said. “I’m sorry I was so ... so unsympathetic at first, but I didn’t understand. Before you go I want to tell you this: I think you’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

He shook his head and laughed.

“Not brave. Only reckless. As a gambler’s brave who’s down to his last penny. I left my honour behind when they nabbed me and clapped me in gaol up there. But now, by God”–he pursed his lips into a grim line–“I’m going to fetch it back!”

“Your honour?” I echoed. I wondered what he meant. But his unflinching pluck touched me, and I said: “Listen, Major Abbott, I’ve done so little for you. Can’t I help in any other way?”

He shook his head. “You’ve been a perfect brick. But there’s nothing more you can do ... here.”

“Where are you making for?” I asked.

He hesitated and looked at me steadily.

“Berlin...” he said at last.

“Berlin?” I repeated. “Why, I’m going there myself next week...”

He paused, and his eyes narrowed. “The devil you are!” he muttered softly. Then he laughed. “No. You keep out of this. It’s no work for a charming girl like you...”

“I’m not such a helpless female as that sounds,” I told him. “I’m used to taking care of myself. And I really do know German well. If there was anything...”

He checked me with his hand. “I know. But I’ve got to plough a lonely furrow.” He turned to the desk. “Ready? I’m going to blow out the light...”

At that very moment an electric bell resounded through the house.

The little man was stooping to the candle on the desk. Now he straightened up and looked at me inquiringly. And for the first time his face was really anxious.

“There’s someone at the front door,” I explained in a rapid undertone.

“Who is it, do you know?” he whispered.

Mystified, I shook my head. “The von Hentsches wouldn’t ring. They have their key. And so have the servants.”

“Bad!” he commented briefly. “It must be the window for me, then. That path I saw outside the house, does it lead to the road?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Shut the window after me, then bolt upstairs and get into a wrapper. Come down, then, and see who’s at the front door. I’ll watch my opportunity and nip out on to the road...” The bell trilled again. “You can let ‘em ring for a bit. They’ll think you’re asleep.”

He tiptoed to the window. “Ready?” he said softly. Then I saw his body stiffen. He held up a warning hand. I listened; and out of the stillness I heard the gentle rustle of feet in the garden.

Quick as thought, my companion bent to the candle and the study sank into darkness. At the same instant another patient, enigmatic ring whirred through the silence. There were vague, muffled sounds in the garden; but not very close to the house, as it seemed to me.

A hot, staccato whisper rasped on my ear.

“You’re going to Berlin for sure?”

“Yes, on Friday. Why?”

“If anything should happen to me, can I rely on you to redeem a ghastly folly of mine?

“I’ll help you in any way I can.”

Our hands met in the dark.

“Listen, then! In the drawing-room of a woman called Floria von Pellegrini, an opera singer, who has an apartment at 305 Hohenzollern-Allee, a sealed envelope is hidden in the gramophone cabinet. It is in the lower part, thrust away behind a lot of old gramophone records, a blue envelope, you can’t mistake it. Do you think you could retrieve that envelope without this woman or any one else knowing, and take it to an address I’ll give you?”