The Gold Comfit Box E-Book

Valentine Williams

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Philip Clavering is a British agent using fake name James Dunlop while in Belgium. He found out that the train Berlin-Paris crashed. His boss calls and tells him that agent Charles Forrest was on this train, and Philip must find the gold box he was carrying. The woman who survived the crash is in his hotel, and he asks her if she has any information about Forrest. She is in a state of panic and loses consciousness. Returning to the lobby, he meets with Dr. Grundt, who rides upstairs to see the woman. He does not know who Grundt is. He will find out later.

Leseprobe

Contents

86. LONDON CALLING

87. THE SURVIVOR

88. THE GOLD BOX

89. "MON BAISER RESTE"

90. CONCERNING A CLUBFOOTED MAN

91. AT THE WEISSER HIRSCH

92. FACE TO FACE WITH CLUBFOOT

93. I CONFER WITH GARNET

94. A STEP ON THE STAIR

95. WHAT THE FLAMES REVEALED

96. NEWS OF THE BOX

97. DR. GRUNDT GOES VISITING

98. GODDESS FROM THE MACHINE

99. THE SILVER STAR

100. THE PLAN GOES AWRY

101. IN WHICH A KEY REVIVES HOPE

102. ESCAPE

103. DISASTER

104. GARNET STEPS IN

105. A GLASS OF BEER AT ANDRESEN'S AND WHAT IT LED TO

106. A GALLOWS DRAUGHT WITH DR. GRUNDT

107. WHAT THE BOX CONTAINED

108. WHICH TAKES GARNET OFF

109. ALFRED DOES HIS STUFF

110. MADELEINE SHOWS HER HAND

111. HANS ROTH, SPY

112. THE BLACK HAND CASTS A SHADOW

113. ALFRED BOBS UP AGAIN

114. THE LONG ARM OF DR. GRUNDT

115. THE CHASE IS ON

116. THE MAN IN THE HAMMAM

117. THE HOUSE WITH THE BLUE SHUTTERS

118. THE ASSAULT

119. "IT WAS NOT TO BE"

120. THE BOX GIVES UP ITS SECRET

86

London calling

The strangest chapter of adventures in my career in the British Secret Service opened on a vile, black night of storm and rain, the year before the war.

Spring was late and March went roaring out of Brussels, according to the old saw, with all the fury of the noble beast that is Brabant’s national emblem. A deluge of icy needles, driven by a wind that blew in gusts of tempest violence, stung my face as I emerged from the lighted warmth of the Café des Trois Etoiles to struggle the short distance back to my hotel. It was what the world was to learn to think of as typical Flanders weather.

The street was a funnel of wind and water and reverberant with the noises of the gale. Head down, the collar of my raincoat turned up, I battled my way along, the rain drumming upon glass, windows rattling, awnings flapping, and ever and again a loud crash as a bill-board or ash-bin was blown over. It was half past one by the clock as I crossed the Place. I had been spending the evening with Stockvis, who was at that time looking after things for us at Antwerp, and I thought the fellow would never have let me go to bed. I had been busy ever since my arrival from London on the previous afternoon and I had a long report to draw up before turning in. The prospect of a pipe and a nightcap from my flask in the snug quiet of my bedroom as I went over my notes was very inviting as, leaving the gale behind me, I pushed through the rotating door of the hotel.

In the lobby Albert, the night porter, said as he produced my key, “They telephoned for Monsieur from London to-night...”

I glanced at him, puzzled. “From London, Albert?” I could not think of anyone in London who would telephone me except the office. But Sunday, as a rule, was a quiet day at headquarters: besides, what with the Treasury perpetually slashing at the Secret Funds, the Chief was rarely lavish in the matter of long distance calls. It was something important, evidently.

The man nodded. “Twice already. They will ring up again...”

Curiouser and curiouser. I felt a little stirring of excitement. “At what time did they call up?” I asked.

Albert referred to his book. “At one eight, the first time, and again not five minutes ago...”

“I’m not going to bed yet,” I said. “Don’t let there be any mistake about it when they telephone again...”

“Very good, Monsieur Dunlop...”

“A terrible night,” I remarked, picking up my key.

“Monsieur may well say that. Especially for all those unfortunate people...”

“What people?”

“Monsieur hasn’t heard then?”

“About what?”

“About the railway accident...”

“What railway accident?”

“The Berlin-Paris express was wrecked to-night...”

I whistled. “When did this happen?”

“Around midnight. It was derailed near Charleroi...”

“And many people were killed, you say?”

The porter spread out his hands. “Dame, it would seem so. The first I heard of it was from your friend in London. It had just come over the news tape...”

I nodded. It was the office that had called me, then–we had a news ticker installed there.

“I told your friend I had no particulars. But I rang up the Petit Bleu. They said that nearly all the land lines to Charleroi are down owing to the gale and that only a single wire to the Ministry is working. But from what the lady told me, I fear the death-roll must be considerable. She said that two coaches turned over and she heard people screaming...”

“What lady are you talking about?”

Albert lowered his voice impressively. “A survivor, Monsieur Dunlop. She arrived about ten minutes ago and engaged a room. Her manner was so agitated that I asked her if she was ill and she told me what had happened. The coach she was in was thrown over, but she managed to scramble out unhurt. Running into the village she found a car and made the man drive her straight into Brussels...” He tapped his forehead. “Unhinged, savez-vous? She made me promise not to mention her arrival to anyone, said she didn’t want to be bothered with reporters. So, if Monsieur would keep this to himself...”

“Of course,” I said. “Poor creature! What a shocking experience! There’s nothing one can do, I suppose?”

“I offered to call a doctor to Madame, but she refused. She said she was going to bed. By the way, Monsieur’s friend from London asked me if we had any news of the accident. I told him just what I’ve told you...”

“Thanks, Albert,” I said. “Well, put him through promptly when he comes on again...”

I had scarcely got to my room, draped my dripping raincoat across the bath-tub and kicked off my wet shoes, than the telephone whirred. “Je vous dites,” a very English voice spoke in execrable French into my ear, “je veux parley avec Mossoo Dunlop...”

I felt a sudden thrill. It was the Chief himself. This meant business. For six months now, I had been running the show in Brussels and I was fair sick of it. Brussels may be the “little Paris,” but its delights soon pall. Every blessed Saturday morning, for six mortal months in succession, I had caught the Ostend boat train from Charing Cross, spent the rest of Saturday and the whole of Sunday in Brussels, closeted with the prime collection of cosmopolitan riff-raff constituting our intelligence rank-and-file in Belgium and Holland, and returned to London on the Monday, consigning to the devil the secret service and all its works that came between a fellow and his week-end parties. Little piffling reports–for the most part, a choice blend of blatherskyte, exaggeration and sheer mendacity–to be sifted, rewards parsimoniously doled out–a louis here, a hundred franc note there–and less excitement than a curate shall find on a seven-day round trip to Lovely Lucerne. I was absolutely fed up. And to think, I would tell myself indignantly, that I had temporarily shed my horse-gunner’s shell-jacket for this dreary chore!

But here was the Chief telephoning me from London for the third time, and at twelve bob a call. On a Sunday night, too, when, as a general thing, he was enjoying his Sabbath repose on the shores of his beloved Solent. That authoritative, deep-chested voice of his, so well-remembered, brought him vividly before my eyes–I could almost see before me that big, grizzled head, those bright, blue eyes that could twinkle so humorously yet, on occasion, become as merciless as the asp’s, that clean-cut, uncompromising mouth and crag-like jaw. “Here I am, sir,” I said.

“Is that you, Clavering?” The stern voice was edged with anxiety.

“Yes, sir...”

*****

I had better explain, before I go any further that “Dunlop” was what you might call an “accommodation” name at head quarters. All of us, even the old man himself, were “Dunlop” at odd times. It was convenient to have an alias in dealing with the funnies of international espionage who had to be interviewed as part of the day’s work. Thus, though my real name is Philip Clavering, at the week-end I regularly became James Dunlop, a London business man with interests in Belgium, and business cards, identification papers, and a most important-looking leather portfolio to support my claim, all Bristol and shipshape fashion, to quote a favourite expression of the Chief’s.

*****

“Clavering,” said the skipper, “you’ve heard about the train smash?”

“Yes, sir. Just now...”

“Heard of any English casualties?”

“No, sir. Why?”

“Charles Forrest was aboard that train...”

“I say!” Forrest was one of our star turns.

“We’ve only had the bare announcement here. What I want to do is to ascertain as soon as possible whether Forrest is all right. If you can’t find out in Brussels, get a car and drive over to the wreck–if it’s near Charleroi you ought to do it in an hour or so. I hope to God that Forrest has escaped, but what I’m concerned with at present is that box of his. You know it?”

I laughed. “That snuff-box or whatever it is he carries?”

“That’s it. If he’s injured and has had to go to hospital, get that box at all costs. If he’s among the killed, don’t leave the scene of the wreck until you’ve found the body and recovered the box or definitely established that it has been destroyed. Understand?”

“Yes, sir...”

“Then get on with it. And, hark’ee, Clavering, this matter is absolutely vital. ‘Phone or wire me the moment you have any news!”

“Very good, sir!”

I hung up, but only long enough for the line to be disconnected. Then, as in my experience newspapers are usually two or three jumps ahead of official sources with the news, I followed Albert’s example and rang the Petit Bleu. At the newspaper they were polite but not helpful. About a dozen dead and injured had been extracted from the wreck, but they had no names as yet. I called the railway station and the ministry of Railways with no better result.

There was nothing for it–it would have to be a car. As I grabbed my wet hat and raincoat and slipped my whisky flask into my pocket, I heard the wind go howling round the house–a nice trip I had let myself in for. And supposing, when I reached the wreck, I found that old Charles was all right, I would have had a cold and miserable journey for nothing.

Suddenly I remembered the woman of whom the night porter had spoken. She had been on the train; there must have been other survivors like herself who had scrambled clear. It was just possible that she might have noticed Forrest, if he had been one of these. The question was worth putting to her. I picked up the telephone again and asked for the night porter.

“What was the name of the lady who escaped from the train wreck and took a room here to-night?”

It was, Albert said, a certain Madame Staffer–at least, that is what it sounded like.

“What’s the number of her room?”

Madame had suite 123/124, the same floor as monsieur. “She said she was going to bed,” Albert reminded me.

“That’s all right,” I told him. “And listen, Albert, I shall probably have to drive out to the scene of the wreck. Can you get me a car, a fast car, and have it standing by, in case I need it?”

Nothing ever defeats a Continental hotel porter. If I had asked for an elephant, I have no doubt Albert’s affirmative would have been equally swift and imperturbable. I hung up and collected my hat and coat again. I was reluctant to disturb the lady, after the terrible experience she had undergone. But it seemed to me I had no choice–the matter was urgent. I went out into the corridor and walked along until I came to 123/124. A light shone from under the door.

That settles it. I knocked softly. There was no reply. I knocked again. Silence. I tried the handle and found, unexpectedly, that the door was not locked. I was looking into a small entry hall with a door at the end revealing a glimpse of the sitting-room where a light burned dimly. I advanced to the sitting-room, rapped on the open door. I could see that the room was empty but that the light was on in the bedroom leading off it.

A woman’s voice, pleasant and cultured, cried, “Entrez!„ and as I crossed the sitting-room, called softly in German, “Sind Sie es, Herr Doktor?„

I took off my hat and looked in at the bedroom door.

87

The survivor

The woman was in bed, propped up among the pillows. She wore a brilliant Chinese coat embroidered in red and blue and green, and a long lock of hair, jet-black and lustrous in a band of light that fell from the bedside lamp, hung down over one shoulder. In the brief instant during which she stared at me in stupefaction I had time to observe that she was young and remarkably handsome–her eyes, in particular, large and black-fringed, were magnificent.

At the sight of me she sat up abruptly, drawing the front of her gay coat together. “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, monsieur?„ she demanded coldly.

I bowed and in my best French said, “Madame, I regret profoundly the necessity which compels me to present myself to you unannounced, but I understand that you were a passenger in the Berlin-Paris train which was wrecked to-night...”

“Well?” She continued to eye me askance.

“Permit me to introduce myself,” I went on, with another bow. “My name is Dunlop and I come from London. A friend of mine was on that train and I wished to ask you if, by any chance...”

“I’m afraid I can be of no assistance to you,” she replied quickly. “You see, I didn’t wait. When the crash came, I seemed to lose consciousness and the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground in the dark with people crying out all around me. The glass of the window was broken and I crawled out, and then–and then–I seemed to find myself in a car. The driver says I stopped him in the village and told him to drive me to Brussels but I myself have no recollection of it...” She looked at me nervously. “In the circumstances, therefore, I’m afraid I cannot relieve your anxiety about your friend...”

“I thought you might have noticed other passengers who escaped like yourself,” I put in. “My friend’s an Englishman, a small, dark man, clean-shaven and very square-shouldered...”

“I tell you I remember nothing,” she protested plaintively. “I’ve had a grave shock. My nerves are on edge. I want to rest. Please go away...”

“But, Madame,” I urged suavely, “you were surely not the only person to leave the wreck alive? Won’t you try and think whether you saw anyone answering to my friend’s description? After the appalling ordeal you’ve been through, I wouldn’t insist, only the matter is of the gravest importance...”

Her agitation was growing. Her splendid eyes were shadowed with some unnameable fear. She seemed on the verge of an outbreak of hysteria. “For the last time I tell you I remember nothing,” she cried. Then her voice broke. “By what right do you come here to torture me? I want to be quiet, do you understand? to be quiet. Go away! Go away!” Her tone rose shrilly.

It was obvious to me that I should get nothing out of this hysterical woman. But I lingered on. “I was hoping you’d be able to save me a long, cold journey in the rain,” said I, fiddling with my hat. “You see, it’s essential that I should find out immediately whether my friend escaped. You didn’t notice him on the train, I suppose?”

“No, I tell you, no,” she vociferated. “I never saw your friend...”

“He joined the train at Berlin,” I explained. “His name’s Forrest, Charles Forrest...”

And then a very terrible and embarrassing thing happened. Without the slightest warning, she gave a little, moaning cry, her head drooped to one side and she fainted clean away.

I was appalled. This was what had come of my ill-timed persistence. I sprang to the bed and took one of her hands that lay outside the coverlet–it was small and finely-wrought and cold as ice. “Madame, Madame,” I cried, raising up her head. But she lay there like the dead.

In desperation I gazed about me. There was no water within sight and she rested a dead weight in my arms, her dark head pillowed against my tweed shoulder. As I looked at her I could not forbear remarking the exquisite shape of her face, the fineness of the skin, the sensitiveness of the charming rather pouting mouth.

Then I remembered the flask in my pocket. I drew it out, unscrewed it and tried to force a little of the whisky between her lips. But her teeth were tightly clenched and the spirit trickled down on her coat. She never stirred out of her death-like swoon.

I should have to summon a doctor. As gently as I could I laid her head down on the pillow and made for the door. I did not wait for the lift but raced down the three flights to the hotel lobby. The porter was at his desk talking to a man dressed for the street who, by the suitcase at his feet, seemed to be a new arrival.

“Excuse me,” I said to the stranger and drew the porter aside. “The woman in 123 and 4, she’s fainted,” I told him hurriedly. “You’ve got to get a doctor to her quick!”

The porter’s glance was suspicious. “How does Monsieur know this?”

“It doesn’t matter how I know it,” I retorted sharply. “Is there a doctor in this hotel?”

“For that,” said Albert, turning in the direction of the new arrival, “this gentleman is a doctor and he’s a friend of Madame!”

On this the stranger hobbled forward. As he moved I perceived that he was lame. One of his feet was encased in a clumsy surgical boot and he leaned heavily on a crutch-handled stick. He was wearing a hard felt hat and an ample black overcoat.

At the sight of me he doffed his hat, disclosing a bony, square head shaved to the scalp at the sides and, as to the top, a mass of iron-grey bristles. “Dr. Grundt!” he introduced himself in a thick guttural voice, bowing stiffly.

“This gentleman says the lady the Herr Doctor was asking for has fainted,” the porter explained, dropping into German.

“So?” said the other, fixing me with a hard, glittering eye.

“A friend of mine is on that train that was wrecked to-night,” I put in hastily, “and, seeing that this lady is a survivor, I thought she might have news of him. Unfortunately, she’s in a highly hysterical condition and I fear my questions upset her...” Then the woman’s question, as I had entered the suite, flashed into my mind. “Is the lady expecting you?” I asked the lame man.

I had gone instinctively into German which, I should perhaps explain, I speak as fluently as English–one of the main reasons for the loan of my services from the Regular Army to the Secret Service in the difficult period of Anglo-German relations before the war.

The German bowed. “The gracious lady is an old friend of mine.” He turned to the porter. “Since there is no further objection to my seeing her,” he said in his hard, metallic voice, “I propose to go upstairs.”

Albert insisted on accompanying us, with a certain prim air as though he thought a chaperon was required, and the three of us moved in a body to the lift. As we went up I found my eyes unconsciously drawn to my German companion. In the months that stood before I was to have many opportunities of studying the Man with the Clubfoot, as we used to call him, but I have never forgotten my first sight of him on that night in Brussels.

He was a type to arrest attention in any assembly, less by reason of his appearance, which was striking enough, than the extraordinary air of authority, of command he radiated. There was a vitality, a suggestion of reserve power, about him that had something of the lion or the tiger or, better still, of one of the greater apes about it. His bulk was enormous, the span of his shoulders so terrific that it quite dwarfed his height, with arms so long that, when he stood erect, they hung down on either side like any orang-outang’s.

This simian suggestion was strengthened by his really disgusting hirsuteness. His eyebrows, protuberances as bony and projecting as a gorilla’s, were overhung with shaggy tufts; there were pads of hair upon his cheek-bones, bristles at the nostrils and growing out of the large, pointed ears; a ridge of hard, iron-grey stubble under the squat, broad nose, and a thatch of dark down on the backs of the enormous, spade-like hands.

But the most singular thing about the stranger was the unbridled ferocity of his manner. He was obviously a man of unusual intellect, with a big head which he carried thrust forward at an angle, so alert, so suspicious and challenging that I could think only of some giant ape crashing its way through the jungle. Moreover, a light smouldered in his eyes, which were small and glittering and, let me admit at once, indubitably courageous, that hinted at bursts of uncontrollable fury. His lips were bulbous, and when smiling disclosed a row of yellow, fang-like teeth; but for the most part they were set in a hard, grim line bespeaking an arrogant and unconcealed contempt for his fellow-men.

By common consent Albert and I remained in the sitting-room while Dr. Grundt went to the bedroom door, which I had left ajar, and rapped. There was no answer and he went inside. In a moment he was back. “Hot-water bags,” he ordered addressing the porter.

“Sofort, Herr Doktor,” Albert replied obediently, and hurried away. Grundt was eyeing me in his furtive way. “We need not detain you,” he remarked.

“How is she?” I asked.

“She’s come out of her faint, but her circulation is very low,” he replied. “Gott, a woman’s nerves...”

“Since the lady is in such good hands,” I said, “I think I’ll leave you...”

I was interrupted by a faint cry from the bedroom. “Qui est la?„ I heard.

Without another word Grundt turned and swiftly went back to the bedroom, while I made my way to the lift.

88

The Gold Box

The accident had taken place near a station called Ablesse, Albert had informed me–a village in the Charleroi coal-mining area. There was no one in the lobby when I descended, so I sent the elevator boy to find the porter, and in the meantime sought to locate Ablesse on the large railway map hanging behind the reception desk. Measured on the map, as the crow flies, it was about sixty kilometres from Brussels, in the valley of the Sambre. Then Albert bustled up. The car was at the door.

I found a large open Minerva awaiting me. It was one of the line of automobiles that habitually stood before the hotel for the benefit of hotel guests who wanted something more luxurious and faster than a mere taxi for excursions to the field of Waterloo, Laeken and similar places of interest. Gérard, its chauffeur-proprietor, had driven me before; his cheerful, red face grinned me a welcome from under the streaming sou’wester. I told him our destination and promised him a hundred-franc tip if we made it in the hour–no mean achievement, as cars were in those days, and making allowances for the execrable pavé of most Belgian roads of the period.

“One will see,” Gérard remarked succinctly–he was a man of few words–and I slipped into the driving-seat at his side. It was ten minutes to three and raining and blowing harder than ever. Brussels was a vista of shining asphalt, blurred lights and a hundred thousand knives dancing on the deserted pavements. The trams had stopped running and there was little traffic about, so that we slid through the sleeping city at a good clip. But long before we were clear of the octroi, I had given myself up to my thoughts and lost all count of my surroundings.

I was thinking about Charles Forrest and his box. Old Charles’s box was known to all of us in that small group of Intelligence officers whom the Chief liked to call his “star turns.” I had spoken of it as a snuff-box, but, properly speaking, it was a comfit box; in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, persons of quality used to carry sweetmeats–dragées, I think they called them–in boxes like these. This one was a delightful specimen of seventeenth century goldsmith’s work, elaborately engraved with Amoretti and what not, about the size of a tinder box, that is to say, it measured roughly about four inches by three.

Charles’s story was that the box had belonged to a French ancestor of his mother’s, a dancer at the Court of Louis XIV, to whom it had been presented by a Venetian nobleman. The dancer’s name–Marie Bertesson–was inscribed upon the lid and figured ingeniously in the locking device. The box had no key but between the two names stamped, the one along the upper, the other upon the lower part of the lid, there was the figure of Cupid with bent bow and arrow. The arrow was practical–that is to-day, it was superimposed on the figure and swung on a pivot. To open the box, one turned the barb of the arrow in turn to each letter of the word “M-A-R-I-E,” pressing each time upon the little boss upon which it rotated, on which the lid flew up.

Old Charles was immensely proud of his heirloom which, to tell the truth, was a very charming and probably quite valuable piece. He carried it with him everywhere, and I could well believe that he might have taken advantage of its secret locking device to use it as the receptacle of some document of importance; at any rate, it was obvious that some such idea was present in the Chief’s mind in giving me orders to recover the box at all costs. Of course, the box was very limited in capacity. At most, it would accommodate two or three sheets of thin paper, folded small. But that was neither here nor there–in this bizarre job of ours fellows have lost their lives over a half-sheet of note-paper.

I had not set eyes on Charles Forrest for months. That’s the way things happened in our work; one would see a fellow every day for weeks, and then, hey presto, he would vanish and no questions asked. Sometimes he would never reappear, and by and by the Chief would take from his desk a certain slim volume which was always kept under lock and key, and run a red pencil through one of the names listed there.

A queer fellow, Forrest, not very likeable and hard to understand. I thought about him as the big Minerva went rushing through the night, slithering about on the cobbles and sending the water spraying up from the puddles. He had brought it as far as lieutenant-commander in the Navy, and then at forty-five had gone on half-pay and joined us. I always thought that his rather crabbed temperament had more to do with his retirement from service with the Fleet than his efficiency as a naval officer, for he was energetic and highly talented, and could always be relied on to finish, and usually finish successfully any job he undertook. He had made a special study of the North Sea and the Baltic–he had spent many leaves cruising those waters alone in a small yawl he owned–and I did not doubt that he was now returning from some such mission. You will remember that with the breakdown of all attempts to secure a “naval holiday” between Great Britain and Germany in the years immediately preceding the War, the Anglo-German naval situation became permanently and perilously acute.

It was a glare in the sky ahead that first told me we were nearing our destination. My first impression was that the wreck was in flames, but we soon discovered that the reflection came from naphthalene flares rigged up at intervals along the permanent way. We drew up at a level crossing where already at least a dozen automobiles were parked. Gérard’s stubby finger prodded the luminous dial of the dashboard clock. The hands pointed to twenty minutes to four. His grin was triumphant. “Good work, mon vieux,” I told him. “Wait for me here. I may be some time.” And I hauled my stiff, cold limbs out of the driving-seat.

Two hundred yards along the metals the guttering light of the flares lit up a towering mass of wreckage. Figures came and went against the lurid background of flames and smoke. It was not hard to see what had happened. A goods train, switched from a parallel track, had run into the express from the side. With the force of the impact the engine of the goods train had clambered on the roof of the rear–the baggage–wagon of the express, flinging the next two coaches clear off the line. These two coaches had plunged down the low embankment and reposed in a tangled, splintered mass of wreckage at the foot. Viewing them, I marvelled at the miraculous escape from death of the little lady at the hotel.

Lights and a long low roof gleaming darkly in the rain were visible beyond the capsized coaches. The murmur of voices, the ring of tools, the hissing of steam reached my ears as I hurried forward. An occasional flash of light followed by a mounting cauliflower of snowy smoke told me that the press photographers had reached the scene before me.

I skirted the wreck looking for someone in authority. Behind the prone coaches the hedge fencing off the railway had been cut away. Twenty paces from the gap was the long low roof I had descried before, sides open to the weather, earthen floor, shed at the end–one doesn’t see many of such places any more; it was a rope-walk. Here, where the ropemakers were wont to trudge to and fro spinning their hemp, a line of forms shapeless as sacks were laid out. It was dim in the rope-walk, but light streamed from another building farther away, and through the open door I caught a glimpse of a doctor’s white coat.

I was about to pass through the hedge when a gendarme stopped me. I asked to speak to his officer. The man bade me wait, and sent another gendarme in search of the lieutenant. I inquired from the first gendarme whether there were any English among the dead. He gave me a curious look and said I had better ask the officer. There were nine dead and twenty-one injured, he told me in answer to a further question of mine. It was believed that most of the casualties had been removed from the wreck.

A bearded officer, the hood of his mackintosh cape drawn over his uniform cap, now appeared. “Mon lieutenant,” I said, “an English friend of mine was a passenger on the express and I’m anxious to discover whether he’s all right. The name is Forrest–Charles Forrest–”

On that the lieutenant, even as his subordinate before him, seemed to stiffen into attention. “You’re a friend of this Monsieur Forrest?” he inquired rather tensely.

A sense of foreboding was growing upon me. “Yes,” I replied. “I hope you’re not going to tell me that–”

The officer shook his head. “He had no luck, that one,” he said. “Please come with me...”

And he led the way through the hedge and across the rope-walk to the adjacent building.

It was the village school converted into a temporary hospital. Acetylene flares; mattresses on desks and floor; bandaged heads and arms; a white-coated group about a table; the strong reek of ether and iodine. With ringing spurs my escort clanked across the schoolhouse to a door in the far wall. This he thrust open and ushered me into a small office, where a man, stripped to the waist, lay on his back on a table.

One glance told me that the man was Charles Forrest; a second that he was dead.

He was not disfigured or mutilated, and I saw no blood. His eyes were wide open and with the unrevealing glance of the dead those sightless orbs stared up at the green-shaded oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. Two men in dark clothes, one on either side of the table, were bending over him; a third man, in surgeon’s overalls abundantly splashed with blood, stood apart, nonchalantly filing his nails.

I recognised one of the pair at the table. It was Vandervliet, the Chief of the Belgian Secret Police. I knew those bristling whiskers, that large paunch, of old; but I was very sure that he did not know me.

The gendarmerie officer had drawn him aside and was whispering to him. Now Vandervliet addressed me. He was a fat and frog-like man, with a revolting habit of clearing his throat raucously at frequent intervals. “You are a friend of Monsieur Forrest? You can identify him?” he demanded with a vaguely suspicious air, and hawked resonantly.

“Certainly,” I said.

“What is his profession?

“He is a retired naval officer–”

“No occupation?”

“He’s managing director of a shipping line,” I replied, giving old Charles’s official cover. He had actually acquired an interest in an unimportant shipping concern–a line of tramp steamers–to account for his frequent visits to the German and Dutch seaports.

“And who are you, monsieur?” The question was peremptory.

“I’m an engineer,” I said. “I’m over here from London on business...”

“Your papers, if you please, m’sieu...” The fat man’s eye–it was round and protruding, like a gooseberry–held mine. I gave him my business card–-James Dunlop, Electrical Engineer, Victoria Street–and passport; passports were rather rarities in those days.

Vandervliet unfolded my passport, glanced over it, then his face changed. Closing the passport, he handed it back to me; then, addressing his aide, the gendarmerie lieutenant and the surgeon, requested in his gruff, asthmatic voice: “Gentlemen, be good enough to leave Monsieur and myself alone!”

The three men clattered out. Vandervliet followed them to the door, and closed it. Then, turning to me, he croaked: “Monsieur Dunlop, permit me to introduce myself. I am Vandervliet, Chief of the Secret Police!”

I bowed and murmured “Monsieur!” wondering what was coming next.

“Your name has been mentioned in certain very secret conversations that have recently taken place between the British military attaché in Brussels and the Chief of our General Staff. I feel justified, therefore, in asking you a certain delicate question. This one here”–his thumb indicated the dead man–”was he, like yourself, of the British Secret Service?”

I hesitated, looking from him to my dead comrade. “Why do you ask me that?”

“Because,” the Belgian answered ponderously, “the wreck to-night was no accident. Or rather it was an accident resulting from a criminal interference with the railway signals. Someone tampered with the signal outside Ablesse station and brought the express to a standstill, with the result that a goods train, scheduled to follow it, crashed into it while passing from one set of metals to the other–”

“But I don’t understand,” I interrupted him. “Why was it necessary to stop the express?”

“In order that the miscreant who had robbed your friend might leave the train...”

I went cold with apprehension. “Robbed?” I faltered.

“If not robbed, mon cher, then murdered. That, at least, is certain...” He fumbled in a drawer and, taking something enveloped in cotton wool, held it up to the light. I saw the gleam of the blade–it was a long, slender stiletto. “This unfortunate Forrest,” Vandervliet went on, “did not lose his life in the accident, although such was the impression at first. He was stabbed to death with this...” He shook the dagger at me. “When the surgeon examined him, this knife was buried up to the hilt in Forrest’s chest. Look here!”

He stepped up to the table with finger pointing. On the dead man’s breast, just above the left nipple, I perceived a narrow slit, plugged with a tampon of cotton wool.

89

“Mon baiser reste”

I have always been highly sensitive to atmosphere, especially in the more dramatic moments of my career. Even after all these years, when I think back upon that interview with old Vandervliet in that bare little pitch-pine room, with the corpse of my poor comrade stretched out between us, it is to hear again the loud tattoo of the rain upon the tin roof of the schoolhouse, the gurgle of water in gutter and kennel, the mad buffeting of the wind, and the deep panting of the breakdown locomotive in the cutting outside.

I stared at the portly Belgian aghast, for the moment quite unable to speak.

“He was of your service, n’est-ce pas?” he wheezed.

I nodded.

“Was he carrying documents of value?”

I hoisted my shoulders. “I can’t say for sure, but it’s probable...”

“I thought as much,” said the Belgian rather pompously. He cleared his throat and spat into his handkerchief. “He spoke of some box...”

I caught his arm. “You mean, he was alive when they found him? What did he say?”

“He was one of the first to be taken from the wreck. It was the level-crossing keeper who got him out–this man and his son heard the crash and were on the scene within a minute or two. They found Forrest in the rear sleeper fully dressed–he must have lain down to sleep in his clothes...”

“Yes, yes, but what did he say?” The stolid Belgian was not to be hurried.

“A beam had pinned him to the floor,” he replied imperturbably. “They thought he was dead but when they lifted him clear and laid him on the grass, he moved and spoke to them in French. He was restless and kept muttering about a box. It was only a minute or two before he died, however–internal hæmorrhage, the doctor says. Old Pierre and his boy left him there to go on with the rescue work–they never noticed the dagger and it was the doctor who discovered it. But by that time, as I say, your poor friend was dead...”

I frowned. “He had a gold box–a sort of bonbonnière. Was anything of the sort found on him?”

Vandervliet’s head shake was emphatic. “No.” He pulled open a drawer. “Here’s everything he had in his pockets...”

I went and looked over his shoulder. I saw in a heap a watch and chain, bunch of keys, leather cigar-case, gold cigar-cutter, wallet, some small change–English and German. Vandervliet took out the wallet, opened it. “It was not money or valuables the murderer was after. Regardez!„ And he showed me three £5 notes tucked away under a flap.

I examined the contents of the wallet myself. Visiting cards, an hotel bill–the Bristol, Berlin–some private letters, a photo or two–nothing of the slightest moment. “What about his luggage?” I questioned. Vandervliet’s pudgy finger indicated a shabby suitcase ranged against the wall. “I went through it myself. Only clothes and a few books...” He pitched me over the keys. “And, as far as is known he had no registered luggage–at any rate, he had no receipt on him.”

As a matter of form I hunted through the valise, shaking out coats and shorts and underwear. Just as I expected, there was no sign of the box–I knew that old Charles never let it out of his sight. Vandervliet flung me across a grey tweed overcoat and I went through the pockets with the same negative result.

I tossed the coat aside and, putting my hands in my pockets, confronted my companion. “Monsieur Vandervliet,” I said, “with your permission I’m going to lay my cards on the table...”

“Faites, m’sieu,” he wheezed amiably.

“I was sent here to-night on orders telephoned by my Chief in London to recover that box at all costs. I discern very clearly in this affair the hand of the German counter-espionage...”

“Ah!” the Belgian croaked.

“Obviously, Forrest was shadowed from Berlin. At what time did the accident occur?

“The train was halted at 12.33. The collision took place three or four minutes later...”

I nodded. “Quite. The plan was to halt the express at an hour when everyone had retired for the night. The murderer, knowing the precise moment at which the train would be stopped, was free to wait until the last second before entering Forrest’s compartment to secure the box. I don’t suppose Forrest’s death was intended: probably, he woke up and the thief killed him to prevent his raising the alarm. Now there’s this. This device of stopping a train to enable a criminal to escape isn’t new. It has often been employed by train bandits in the States. Only it implies that the man on the train had accomplices in the village to tamper with the signals and afterwards facilitate his escape, probably with a car...”

The fat man leered at me cunningly. “Exactly. And there was a car...”

“Ah!”

“A big grey car, splashed with mud as though it had travelled a long distance. On learning that the signals had been wrongfully set against the express, I immediately despatched the brigade mobile to make inquiries in the village. They found a woman who has a cottage just at the back of the school-house here. She was sitting up with a sick child. Glancing out of her window, a few minutes before the express passed, she saw this car on the road alongside the railway hedge, close to where the accident occurred. A man stood beside it as though waiting for someone–she wondered what he was doing there at that time of night. On hearing the crash she stopped to see to the child and slip on her clothes before rushing out. When she reached the road beside the cutting, the car had disappeared...”

“In which case,” I said sombrely, “we may whistle for the–” I broke off; the little lady at the hotel had suddenly flashed across my mind. “Monsieur,” I cried excitedly, “did anyone notice a woman running away from the wreck after the accident?”

He shook his head blankly. “Not that I know of. But all the passengers have not yet been accounted for. Two of the dead have not been identified. They’re checking the lists now...”

I broke in upon him with my story of the interview I had had that night at my hotel. “Of course,” I said, “the shock of the accident would explain her hysterical behaviour. But if she had really killed this man... Can you telephone Brussels and have her detained?”

“Bien sûr,” my companion remarked and waddled to the door. “Laporte,” he called, and his aide appeared. He gave him a whispered instruction. “The coup is classic,” he cackled placidly, returning to me. “The beautiful lady and the stiletto–you said she was beautiful, I think?”

“I don’t think I mentioned it, but as a matter of fact, she is...”

The Belgian rolled up his eyes with a seraphic expression. “They always are. Not one of the regulars, I suppose?”

“I never saw her before. I’d call her a rank amateur. If she were an old hand she’d never have let the porter get out of her the fact that she’d been on that train...”

“The name is new to me,” Vandervliet observed. “Staffer–the name is English, is it not?”

It was Stafford, of course–the idea had not occurred to me. “Yes,” I replied. “But it’s an alias, as like as not. She’s not English, however. She’s Hungarian, or Rumanian, or, perhaps, Polish...”

The pendulous cheeks trembled to an asthmatic chuckle. “We’ll know more when we’ve printed those pretty fingers of hers...”

I started. “By jove! I was forgetting that dagger. Did you look for any prints on it?”

Vandervliet seemed to swell. “You don’t imagine that the great Vandervliet would overlook a detail like that?”

“And there are prints?

“Bien sûr, there are prints. Your comrade will be avenged yet, mon cher...”

“It has just struck me,” I put in, “that, since he was alive when they found him, he must have seen his assailant. I’d like to have a word with old Pierre who, you say, was with Forrest when he died...”

“That is not hard. I’ll have him fetched...” Vandervliet plodded to the door. As he opened it I caught sight of the brown uniform of a Wagons-Lits conductor. “The contrôleur of the rear sleeper,” Vandervliet told me. “I sent for him...” He gave me a significant glance which I interpreted as meaning that we should not take the man into our confidence about the murder.