After the truly staggering disclosures made to him by Larose, von Ravenheim put down the receiver very slowly and with a white face leant back into his chair and gave himself up to a deep reverie.
That the three men had been caught and were now being detained by the police was disconcerting to a degree, and he breathed heavily at the thought at all which might follow. But it was not that he was fearing any of the men would give him away, and that his name would be dragged in. He was thinking of what would be the effect upon the supposed Herr Blitzen when he learnt what had happened.
If it were broadcast in the newspapers that an attempt had been made to abduct Cecily Castle and that the would-be abductors were of Baltic nationality, then his superior would guess at once that he, von Ravenheim, was the instigator of the whole business and a very little thought would make him realise it had been done with the deliberate intention of putting the girl out of his reach. Then he, von Ravenheim again, would be faced — not only with the cold and merciless wrath of a dictator towards one who had been found out endeavoring to cross his autocratic will, but with the far worse, flaming fury of a lover who had learnt of intended violence and suffering for the woman he loved.
But might there not yet be a way of avoiding the undoubted impending catastrophe? Although he himself lacked the divine fire and inspiration of the born leader of men, he was yet many times deeper and more subtle than his master. Yes, there was just a chance that he might manage to throw dust in the eyes of the Herr, or, at any rate, that he could so prepare the ground that when the news became known he could deny everything with the reasonable hope that he would be believed.
He went at once into Herr Blitzen, who was reading in one of the rooms which had been allotted to him for his private use, and, after a few casual words about nothing in particular, brought round the conversation to the two girls.
“It must be very lonely for Your Excellency,” he smiled, “to be now so much by yourself, when for so many days you have enjoyed the society of those young ladies.”
“Yes, it is lonely,” sighed the dictator. “Their companionship was a great break in my life.” He sighed again. “It was a revelation to me.” He laughed reminiscently. “How that little witch first came to make herself known to me in the lounge of our hotel was very clever. She was alone and sitting not far from me. Her wrist-watch fell off, and she pretended she couldn’t see where it had fallen. She almost put her foot on it, and I rescued it just in time. She thanked me so prettily, and then started chatting to me as she tried to fasten the watch on her wrist again. She seemed clumsy about it, and out of devilry and quite certain she would refuse, I asked if I could do it for her. Ha! Ha!”
“And she let you?” asked the ambassador, hiding his scorn with a question.
“Of course she did,” replied Blitzen. He nodded, with a far-away look in his eyes. “She held out her wrist to me, and it was blue veined and soft as a little child.” He sighed for the third time. “I think my affection began for her at that very moment.”
Von Ravenheim wondered unpleasantly what he would say when he learnt it had been contemplated to roughly seize that white and blueveined wrist and tie it with a cord. He shook his head, “But I don’t altogether like the idea of dainty girls like her getting mixed up in our intrigues. It is dangerous and lays them open to the spite of those whose secrets they have found out.”
“I bear no spite,” said Blitzen sadly.
“No, but others may, and, looking back, I think it must be that girl who uncovered Muller’s brother. The description sounds like her, and Muller has sworn to get revenge.”
The Herr showed his teeth. “If Muller or anybody else laid a finger on that girl, I’d”— his eyes glared —“I’d see how long he could bear pain before he died.”
Von Ravenheim nodded. “And so would I. A beautiful girl like Miss Cecily should turn the vengeance of the hardest-hearted man.” He spoke warmly. “Certainly she is beautiful, and if you take her back with you”— he smiled —“our countrymen will forgive everything when they see her,” and he congratulated himself upon his diplomacy when he noticed the approving look the Herr was now giving him.
They talked quite a lot about Cecily, and Herr Blitzen seemed almost boyishly happy in discussing her. He even shook the Ambassador’s hand warmly when they parted for the night, a kind of handshake he had never given the latter before.
And it was well von Ravenheim was in his good books when the Herr saw the newspaper the next morning, for he came into him white to the very lips with fury.
“Have you seen the papers yet?” he asked shakily.
“Yes, I’ve just been reading them,” replied von Ravenheim very gravely, “and was upon the point of coming in to speak to you.” He nodded. “It is as I thought. Someone wanted to get revenge and set those men on to kidnap her. They’ve probably been ambushed for many days by the house, waiting for her to return home.” He stretched out his hand. “Let me see your paper. I’ve only read ‘The Times.’”
He took the newspaper Blitzen gave him and, with a frown, read out the head lines and some of the leading paragraphs in the article below them. ‘Mysterious affair at Haslemere. Peaceful Hampshire town invaded by armed bandits.’ Then it went on to tell of the intended kidnapping of ‘two young ladies who work in a certain Government office.’ It said that all the would-be kidnappers had been arrested and were said to be foreigners. The police were very reticent, and the Misses Castle refused to be interviewed by the paper’s representative.
He looked up significantly. “So you see, the girls work for the Government. We were quite right there.” He drew in a deep breath, as if one of relief. “Well, those men didn’t get them, and we can be quite certain they’ll be safe now. No one will try a second time.”
“I wonder who the men were,” scowled Blitzen.
“I’ll find that out,” nodded the Ambassador. His face was very stern. “Then, if that Muller had anything to do with it, we’ll punish him severely. If we can’t get hold of him, we’ll make things hard for his family. I know he has an old mother in Dresden.”
“I’d like to go to Haslemere,” muttered the Herr, “and make sure they haven’t been upset by the shock.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t go there yet,” said von Ravenheim, quickly. “Wait until after the week-end, when we’ve finished with Lord Michael and the Foreign Secretary. Besides, if you are going to ask Miss Cecily to be your wife, it will be better to make her realise that you have not come to that decision in a hurry, but have thought it well over.” Then, as Herr Blitzen made no comment, he went on —“That reminds me, I am going down to look round about the grounds of Lord Michael’s place today. I have been there once as a guest, but I want to refresh my memory. I shall drive myself. You had better not come with me.”
“Because I look what I am,” grunted the Herr, “a true son of my country.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t want to come. When it is all over, it will be best that there is no chance of anyone remembering a foreigner was seen lately in the neighborhood. I’ll stop in here today.”
It was a good thing that Herr Blitzen was not aware of what exactly were the ambassador’s thoughts as the latter drove away from the Embassy that bright summer morning.
Von Ravenheim was now resolutely steeling himself into the determination that, in the interests of his great fatherland, the man passing as Herr Blitzen must disappear. It was a calamity, but less dire than that the great dictator, whose strength and resolution were an inspiration to his countrymen, should return to them as a weakling.
Married to a woman of a hated race, or indeed married at all, he would be in danger of becoming a broken idol. It was his asceticism, his austere mode of living, and his freedom from the weaknesses of the ordinary man that had contributed so much to his power and infallibility in the eyes of his countrymen, lifting him almost to the heights of a demi-god.
Another thing, too. With the Dictator no longer imposing his imperious will, contrary to all persuasion, the projected assassination of Lord Michael and Sir Howard Wake would not take place. He, von Ravenheim, had never approved of them, realising far better than his master did the horror that would surge through the whole civilised world.
Certainly, it might be that the murderers would never be brought definitely home to anyone of Baltic nationality, but still every one knew the Baltic people were regarding the two statesmen as their deadliest enemies and would guess who had assassinated them.
So with these thoughts running in the ambassador’s mind, it was with no intention of spying upon Lord Michael’s residence that he was driving now towards the muddied flats bordering upon the estuary of the sullen river Blackwater.
He was intending to find some lonely, unfrequented place where he could safely pistol the dictator and bury him where he fell; no suspicion, because of the loneliness of the spot to which he was being brought, need be aroused in the latter’s mind if he thought that it was there he was going to act the part of an executioner himself.
But for a very good reason the place would have to be somewhere in the vicinity of Lord Michael’s residence in Essex, because Herr Blitzen had already been there upon one of his motor drives with the girls, and so knew where it was. Following upon his meeting with Lord Michael at Wickham Towers, he had been curious as to where the Secretary for War lived and, accordingly, they had made an excursion to the estuary of the river Blackwater.
Proceeding down the Mile End road, the ambassador stopped to buy a pickaxe and a spade.
He journeyed by way of Maldon and then, passing through the little hamlet of Goldhanger, about a quarter of a mile farther on, turned off the main road into a narrow bye-lane, leading to the wide stretches of grasslands abutting on the river. It was a dry summer and, with the ground firm and hard, he congratulated himself his car would leave no tracks for curious-minded people to speculate as to who had passed by.
Soon the lane ended and he came to a stretch of country as lonely as anyone could wish. There was no habitation anywhere in sight, except that he could see, about a quarter of a mile away, Tollesbury Hall, the grounds of which were surrounded by a low wall. The track he was now following had every appearance of being very seldom used, and, certainly, it could be used only in fine weather. He left the car where the track dipped down a little and walked at right angles in the direction of the riverside.
Then, very quickly, he came upon the place he was looking for.
It was close to one side of the river bank, a little hollow which he guessed must be partly under water when any heavy rains fell. It was carpeted with big tussocks of rank, coarse grass.
He fetched the pick and the spade from the car and after some hard work had dug a shallow hole about two feet in depth. He made it of an irregular shape, to look as unlike a grave as possible. Then he filled it in again, knowing that ten minutes’ work would empty it when it was required. He hid the spade among the grass, close by.
Starting back for town at all speed, when he gained the main road he was greatly annoyed to find that one of his front tyres was becoming alarmingly deflated, making the steering hard and difficult. He hated the messy work of putting on the spare; and so, remembering that on his way out he had passed a small petrol station now only a little way ahead of him, he drove on to it, and had the tyre changed and the puncture attended to.
Then the garage man pointed out that the oil was leaking badly from the sump. That was also made right, and more oil was put into the engine. He was vexed at the additional delay because he had a lot to do when he got back to town.
Arriving at the Embassy much later than he had intended, he learnt that Herr Blitzen had gone out almost immediately after he had left, and had not as yet returned. This news made him feel very uneasy, as Herr Blitzen had stated so definitely he was not intending to go out at all.
“Damnation,” swore von Ravenheim softly. “I do believe he’s gone down to Haslemere. He looked very secretive when he said he should be remaining indoors all day.”
He thought for a moment and then, summoning one of his very trusted attendants, gave him some whispered instructions. Then he turned his attention to another matter.
A man whom he had been expecting was waiting to see him. Before he had left for Essex that morning, he had rung up a journalist who often made enquiries for him when there was something he wanted to know and did not consider it wise he should move in the matter himself.
The journalist was smart but unscrupulous and, if well paid, always willing to act the part of private detective. So now he had come well-informed about the so-called kidnapping affair.
The three men, he said, had been promptly taken before a hastily summoned bench of local magistrates and remanded, but within an hour orders had been received for them to be brought to London immediately. Nothing was known definitely as to the identity of two of them, as they refused to give any names or addresses, but the third was a Herr Sharpel, of Mornington Avenue, Hampstead, a hardware merchant, in Aldersgate Street, City. Both his premises had been raided, but what, if anything, had been found out the journalist did not know.
A man who had once been a detective at Scotland Yard was very much mixed up in everything. His name was Gilbert Larose. He had plenty of money now, having married a very wealthy woman.
But for him the three men would never have been arrested. He first saw them near the girls’ house; he telephoned the local policeman, he organised a party with double-barrelled sporting guns to cut them off; and it was he who provided the police with an excuse summarily to arrest them. He had made out one of the men was drawing a pistol, when he had not been attempting anything of the kind, and had sprung upon him. Then the police had found loaded automatics upon all three.
But the police were said to be now in a bit of a quandary, as they could not prove definitely that the men had been intending to kidnap the girls. It was thought that after this Herr Sharpel had been heavily fined for having false number plates upon his car — this Larose had been the one to first discover that, too — and the others fined for carrying pistols without a licence; they would all be deported, as they were undoubtedly all of Baltic nationality.
Larose had told the police that one of them was a servant at the Baltic Embassy. He had seen him there when he, Larose, had been visiting the Embassy only a few days ago.
Then the police had rung up the Embassy three times that morning; but all information had been refused and they had been told the ambassador would not be home until the afternoon, when no doubt any questions would be answered.
Oh yes, he knew all about this Larose. He had a swell place in Norfolk, Carmel Abbey, which, however, really belonged to his wife. He had a little flat, too, in London where he often stayed when he came up to town. It was upon the third floor in Carlyle Mansions, Sloane Square. He, the journalist, happened to know that, because he had been sent once to interview a well-known violinist who had a flat in the same building and he had then seen the exdetective letting himself into another suite of rooms. Later, he had been told it was Larose’s own flat.
No, he did not think many of the tenants of the building kept servants. The flats were expensive and well appointed, but they were all on the small side, and, as far as he could gather, looked after by the building attendants, male and female.
The journalist’s information was exhaustive, and von Ravenheim thanked him for his services and paid him ￡10. Then, when he had gone, he gnashed his teeth in his rage.
This Larose crossing his path again! This expoliceman fellow, who had bluffed him twice, was now ruining all his plans and placing him in a most difficult and even dangerous position! Ah, the man was most dangerous himself, too, and his mouth must be shut! He must be dealt with at once!
The ambassador was just preparing to go out again when he was informed that an inspector from Scotland Yard was waiting to see him. He showed no signs of the annoyance he felt, and ordered the inspector to be brought in.
The grim-looking inspector at once asked very curtly if any of the employees of the Embassy were then absent. Von Ravenheim seemed very puzzled at the question, but replied at once in the negative.
“Not a man about thirty-five,” asked the inspector very sternly, “five feet two, of heavy build, with a big square face and closely cropped reddish hair?”
“No-o,” said von Ravenheim hesitatingly, “but that description applies exactly to an attendant by name of Carl Bollin, whom I had to dismiss for drunkenness three days ago.”
“Then where does he live now?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea.”
“How long had he been with you?”
Von Ravenheim hesitated again. “I should say about three months, certainly not longer. He was really only a temporary employee, taken on when our carpenter fell ill, but he was very handy and we have retained him ever since!”
“Did you have any references with him?”
The ambassador smiled. “Of course.” He shook his head. “But I don’t remember now who gave them.”
“Still, you can find out,” grunted the inspector.
Von Ravenheim nodded. “I may be able to, but I can’t attend to it just now. I am very very busy. I’ll give you a ring later.” He frowned. “But why do you want to know about him? What’s he done?”
It was now the inspector’s turn to hesitate. Then he said slowly. “He’s been caught in very suspicious circumstances, carrying a loaded automatic.”
The ambassador raised his eyebrows. “I don’t expect he has a licence.”
The inspector looked scornful. “No, no one supposed he had when we found it on him.” He looked intently at von Ravenheim. “Now do you know a party called Sharpel, who lives in Mornington Avenue, Hampstead, and has a hardware shop in the City? He comes from your country.”
The ambassador laughed. “A great many people come from my country, Mr. Inspector, of whom I know nothing about. No, I don’t know this gentleman Sharpel who keeps a hardware shop. What’s he done?”
“Oh nothing,” said the inspector. “Good morning,” and he took his leave, feeling sure he had been lied to by this polite, good-looking man who represented the great Baltic nation at the court of St. James.
Von Ravenheim smiled to himself. “What a foolish, easy-going Scotland Yard! In our country, in such a matter our police would have wanted to cross-examine every employee here about their fellow servant.” He nodded. “But no, this inspector takes my word as a Baltic gentleman.” He shook his head. “A great mistake, for there is nothing gentlemanly about war or preparation for war.”
He took a taxi and was driven down to Clerkenwell. Then, dismissing his conveyance, he walked a couple of hundred yards to a small shop in a mean street. Over the lintel of the door was painted “F. O. Shane, Electroplater.” and in the shop window were displayed samples of the work which was done inside.
Fergus Shane was an Irishman and a fervent Red Patriot. He was a secret member of the Irish Republican Army, and had been responsible for not a few explosions in London, with attendant damage and loss of life. The authorities would have dearly loved to have hold of him, but all their efforts so far had failed to uncover him.
Von Ravenheim entered the shop and Shane came forward from a workroom at the back and greeted him with a smile. The ambassador was known to Shane as a generous contributor to the I.R.A. funds, and now in response to his request, he led him into the workroom.
“I’ve got a commission for you,” said von Ravenheim with no preamble and in most business-like tones, “and if you carry it out successfully for me I’ll give ￡500 to the cause.”
“Good,” exclaimed Shane. “We’re short of money and ￡500 is a nice sum. What do you want me to do?”
“Explode a bomb in a flat in Sloane Square,” replied the ambassador. “It shouldn’t be difficult, as there’ll be only one person there.”
“And you want that person upon the premises at the time, I suppose?” asked Shane. “Oh, well who is he?”
“He used to be a policeman, but he isn’t that now. His name is Gilbert Larose.”
Shane nodded. “I’ve heard of him. He’s pretty smart.” He considered. “But why do you want it done? Is it a personal matter?”
“Certainly not. He’s working for the British Secret Service, and he’s dangerous to all enemies of England.”
“That’s enough,” said Shane. “But when’s it got to be done?”
“Today, tomorrow, as soon as you possibly can. He’s staying at his flat now, but he’s not always there. So the quicker you set about it, the better.”
“All right,” said Shane. “Now give me all particulars of the place.”
In the meantime, Herr Blitzen had been doing exactly what von Ravenheim had both guessed and feared. He had hired a private car from a garage and been driven down to Haslemere, intending to tell Cecily Castle quite frankly who he was and ask her to become his wife. Really, however, it was not in his mind that he would actually ask her; he would just say he was resolved to take her and, accustomed as he was to being obeyed in everything, he was not entertaining the idea that she would refuse.
Arriving in the little town and, impatient at every moment’s delay in meeting her, he sent the chauffeur into a shop to find out where she lived. The direction was simple and, arriving at the entrance to the drive, he stopped the car and gave peremptory orders to the man that he was to wait there for him, no matter how long he might be gone.
Proceeding into the drive, he came upon a boy about fourteen weeding the gravel and, to make sure that he had come to the right house, asked him if the Misses Castle lived there.
“Yes, this is their house all right,” replied the boy, most interested in the foreign appearance of the questioner, “but you won’t find them at home. They’ve gone away and the house is shut up.”
“Gone away!” exclaimed Herr Blitzen with a dreadful pang of disappointment. “When did they go?”
“Late yesterday afternoon,” said the boy. He was pleased at the interest he had excited and added. “They couldn’t stick all the men from the newspapers who were coming down. There were car-loads of them here by five o’clock.”
“But where have they gone?” asked the Herr, still aghast.
“Don’t know. They didn’t tell anyone. They sent the servants away and then went off themselves.”
Herr Blitzen stood staring blankly at the boy, and the latter, with the idea of a good tip in his mind, thought it might pay to be communicative. So he went on. “You see, that rumpus frightened them a bit, and they didn’t know what might happen to them if they stopped.”
“Rumpus?” queried the Herr, whose study of the English language had not included that word. “What do you mean?”
The boy was delighted to meet someone who did not, apparently, know of the happenings of the day before, and spread himself out. “Why, haven’t you heard?” he asked. “There were three foreigners up that lane, waiting with pistols to carry them off. The pistols were all loaded and had got seven cartridges in them.” He shook his head ominously. “Oh, they meant business, those men, and someone must have paid them well for the job! They had got false number plates on their car!”
“Who were they?” asked Herr Blitzen sharply. “Was it found out?”
“They got the name of one,” said the boy. “It was Sharpel, and it was traced through the real number plates of his car which he’d hidden under one of the seats. They haven’t got the names of the two others yet, but they know one of them lives in some ambassador’s house in London, in Portland Place.”
Herr Blitzen drew in a sharp breath and for a few seconds his lips remained parted. Then he snapped his jaws together and ground his teeth so savagely that they gave him positive pain. The boy moved back a pace of two, feeling a little frightened.
“How do you know that one of them came from the ambassador’s house in Portland Place?” asked Herr Blitzen hoarsely. “You’re making it up.”
“I’m not,” said the boy indignantly. “My dad told us about it at tea.” He spoke proudly. “He’s the police constable here. He said a gentleman who’d been in the ambassador’s house had seen the man there. This gentleman had been a detective once, and it was him rang dad up and said the men were hiding in the lane. He’s called Gilbert Larose.”
The boy got no tip and, indeed, was lucky not to receive a savage kick from Blitzen in parting, the latter being so furious that he would have been only too glad to vent his rage upon anyone.
The journey back to town occupied fully two hours; and by that time the dictator had mastered his first fury. It was not lessened in any way, but he had got it well in hand and it had now taken shape in a cold and deadly determination to inflict upon the ambassador the utmost punishment.
He had not the slightest doubt that it was von Ravenheim himself who was responsible for the attempt to kidnap Cecily Castle. The fact that one of the embassy attendants had been there to help proved it. So, while outwardly he had been all sympathy and understanding with his superior’s love affair, von Ravenheim had really been guilty of the basest treachery, undoubtedly intending to carry the girl off to some hiding place and put her beyond all reach.
Then the ambassador was no longer to be trusted! He had become a secret enemy of the chosen ruler of his countrymen and, therefore, he was now an enemy of his country, also!
So he must be dismissed from his high post immediately, he must be sent back home and imprisoned, he must be —— but Herr Blitzen had suddenly remembered something.
The ambassador was very necessary for the next few days. In fact, he was indispensable, for it was he who was going to be the prime mover in the assassination of those two men and without him there seemed no possible hope of carrying it out.
Herr Blitzen cursed under his breath. He himself, unlike the ambassador who could shoot splendidly, was a poor performer with the pistol and, apart from that, he would not be able to locate the victims. Was not von Ravenheim at that very moment spying round the grounds of Lord Michael’s house, so that there should be no bungling the day after tomorrow when the two friends were to be caught together?
So von Ravenheim could not be unmasked yet, and he must not be allowed to suspect anything, either.
Then the proud autocrat cursed again. For two days, and perhaps longer, he would have to hide his feelings, and he was not accustomed to that. He would have to be in close association, too, with a man he now hated, and he would have to conceal from him everything which was in his mind.
Arriving back in town, Blitzen dismissed the car at Oxford Circus and proceeded the rest of the way on foot, not intending that anyone should see him drive up to the embassy in a private car. Now he had found out that the ambassador had been acting with such black treachery about Cecily, he was suspecting that a watch might even be set upon his, Herr Blitzen’s, movements. So henceforth he would keep the ambassador as much in the dark as possible.
But, within half an hour of his arriving back to the embassy, where he had been was known to the ambassador. The attendant posted by von Ravenheim had seen him alight at the Circus and recognised the driver of the car as coming from a nearby car-hire station in Great Portland Street, not a quarter of a mile distant from the embassy.
Then the rest had been very easy. The attendant had gone straight to the car station and, with a concocted story about a glove his recent passenger thought he had left in the car, had soon heard all the day’s happenings.
That night at dinner, Herr Blitzen congratulated himself upon how well he was playing his part and not giving von Ravenheim any idea of what was in his mind.
But if von Ravenheim had not been feeling so terribly uneasy he would have been inclined to indulge in a hearty laugh, for his superior’s efforts to hide his state of mind were almost elephantine in their clumsiness and would have deceived no one.
It is true he was not absolutely rude to the ambassador, but he sat with furrowed, scowling brows, making no conversation and replying only in monosyllables to the few questions he was asked.
Presently, the moment the butler had left the room, von Ravenheim, to retard the explosion he was expecting, leant towards Blitzen, and spoke earnestly and impressively.
“Well, we can finish with that little matter on Saturday night,” he said, “and everything should be quite easy. You know I was very lucky today. I was slowing down through Maldon, about four miles from Tollesbury Hall, when Lord Michael himself happened to come out of a shop there and, recognising me, waved to me to stop.”
“A pity you hadn’t put a bullet in him straightaway,” growled Herr Blitzen.
“But that would have hardly done, would it?” smiled the ambassador. He went on. “Then I made up some story to account for my being in the neighborhood and his lordship would insist upon my returning with him to the Hall to lunch. I didn’t want to go, but I’m glad I did now, for things couldn’t have happened better. He showed me a summer-house in one corner of the grounds, just by the low wall which runs all round, and told me he sat out there for a couple of hours after dinner every night at this time of year. He even mentioned that when his friend, Sir Howard Wake, was staying with him, it was their custom to play chess there, sometimes until long after midnight. Now what do you think of that?”
“You say the summer-house is close to the wall?” asked the Herr surlily.
“Barely ten yards, and it is a hundred and more from the house. So, all we shall have to do will be to get right up to the wall and fire over it. It’s only four feet high. Yes, we can’t miss them and, so far from the house, not a sound of our pistols will be heard. Indeed, it may not be until the next morning that their bodies will be found.”
“What time shall we get there?” asked Herr Blitzen.
“Not until well after dark,” replied von Ravenheim. “There should be some moonlight, the moon is only four days old, but in any case the lights of the house will guide us. Of course, we can’t take the car near. We shall have to leave it about half a mile away.”
“But what if it’s seen?” growled the Herr.
“It won’t be seen. I shall leave it in a little dip upon some lonely grassland where no one ever appears to come,” and Herr Blitzen, without a word, took himself off to his own room.
Now if von Ravenheim had spent a worrying day, Larose had passed one equally troubled. He was no nearer than he had ever been to a solution of the mystery which had first involved him in all this tangle.
Two men were in danger of assassination at the hands of those to whom bloody deeds were as nothing when anyone stood in their path, but as to whom these two men were he could form no idea. All he knew was that they were public men, they were going to be assassinated when together at some country house and that, for some reason, it was imperative they should be slain by the middle of the month.
Ah, by the middle of the month, and there were only four days more to go!
A thought suddenly came to him; and he drove off at once to have a few words with the assistant editor of a daily paper who was a personal friend of his.
“Look here,” he said in explanation of his visit, “I can’t explain things fully to you; but I’m at my old trade of poking my nose in other people’s business. Now can you name me two important public men in this country whose secret disappearance some time during the next four days would cause great consternation?”
“Certainly,” replied the journalist promptly, “young Frank Deeming, the challenger, and Balderwick, the Birmingham bruiser, who at present is the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. Tons of money have been betted on both of them for the fight on Saturday and if they went into smoke ——”
“Great Scot,” cried Larose, “nothing like that! I mean statesmen, financiers, or ——” he shrugged his shoulders —“well, I don’t know what.”
The journalist frowned and then considered. “Is the particular period of time, the four days, so important?” he asked.
“It’s everything,” said Larose. “That is all I have to go upon.”
The journalist considered again, a long time now, and then shook his head. “I can’t help you,” he said. “The four days completely blocks me. Of course, I know thousands of men whose secret disappearance — and by ‘secret’ I suppose you mean unlawful — would shock everybody, but I am aware of no one whose removal now would cause more consternation than at any time next week or the week after.”
Larose saw he would have to explain more. “But I believe these men to be in danger of assassination by some Baltic agents,” he said impressively. “Now, who among our public men do the Baltic hate most?”
The journalist smiled. “They hate everyone”— he smiled —“except the so-called appeasement party.”
“But tell me who, in your opinion, they hate most?” asked Larose irritably. “Who are doing them most harm at the present moment?”
The journalist rattled off, “Sir Israel Montefiore, the Jewish banker, who has a paramount influence in the money matters of the world; old Arnold Harker, in my own calling, whose influence is far-reaching and whose pen is dipped in venom as he impeaches them day after day; the eminent Professor Valder, of their own nationality, who has just published that damning story of his about their recent murders of scores of their own people, and”— he smiled —“perhaps, our own very efficient Foreign Secretary, Sir Howard Wake, who is alive to all their tricks and checkmates them every time.” He looked at the clock and picked up a blue pencil. “Now, that is all I can tell you, my dear fellow, so please just run away and play. I’m too busy to spare you any more time.”
Larose brooded disconsolately all day. Then suddenly an inspiration came to him and, all in the passing of a few seconds, his mind was flooded with a great light.
It all happened in this way. That night he went to see the beautiful film star, Mary Dream, and the inimitable Tom Walls featured in ‘The Jest of Life,’ and in the news reel which preceded the film, he idly regarded the well-known notabilities flashed upon the screen.
First came a race meeting at Kempton Park and he started as his eyes fell upon two members of the Cabinet in the private grandstand. They were Lord Michael and Sir Howard Wake and, seated side by side, they were evidently upon the most intimate terms, for Sir Howard patted his lordship upon the shoulder, as if in mock reproof at some remark the latter was apparently making, as two pretty girls waved their hands to him from the lawn below.
Then the next picture but one after that showed the two statesmen again together, this time at a flower show in Chelsea. They were having tea by themselves at a small table; and some joke must have been passing between them, as they were both regarding each other with laughing faces. The Foreign Secretary was of slight build compared with the figure of his martial colleague; and the great difference struck Larose most forcibly in the short time the picture was before him.
Lord Michael was the typical John Bull, so familiarised all the world over in caricature. He embodied the strength of the great British Empire, with his solidity, his frank open countenance; and the courage and determination that stood out in his big blue eyes. No wonder Herr Blitzen had glared at him so balefully that afternoon in the lounge at Wickham Towers for it was such as he who stood between the Herr’s country and all that it lusted after.
Then, thinking about Lord Michael’s appearance, Larose’s thoughts went back to Cramp, the butler at Wickham Towers. Cramp was another John Bull, too. How very much alike to Lord Michael he was, so much so, that in the distance, or in a bad light, he might easily be mistaken for the great lord himself.
Larose’s thoughts ran on. Poor old Cramp. Who could have had such a spite against him as to push him down the stairs that night as he had been coming out of Lord Michael’s room? Now if it had been Lord Michael who had been attacked, one could have understood it. Why, then Herr Blitzen himself might have been the culprit. He might have ——
Good God! It was as if a bomb had burst in Larose’s mind. He drew in a deep breath and thought after thought began avalanching through him. Oh, how dense he had been and might not chance, blind chance, be now thundering into him all he wanted to know?
With a great thrill of expectancy, he let his imagination run riot and lead him where it willed.
So, that night upon the stairs, Cramp, coming out of Lord Michael’s room had been mistaken for his lordship. Someone who wished Lord Michael harm had struck at Cramp, in mistake for him.
Then who was it? Who, among all gathered there at Wickham Towers that night would have been wanting to injure the British Secretary of State for War? Who would have hated him, for all he stood for in the preservation of the British Empire?
Who else but the mysterious foreigner, Herr Blitzen?
Had not he, Larose, seen an almost theatrical loathing in Blitzen’s eyes when the latter had been looking at Lord Michael?
But —— was Herr Blitzen likely to be one who would make such a dastardly attempt to cripple and, perhaps, fatally injure him by hurling him down the stairs? Of course he was! The Herr came of a nation whose leaders were lost to all sense of right and wrong, and to whom the instincts of the jungle were the highest moral code.
Besides, had not Herr Blitzen been hand in glove with von Ravenheim that night at the Embassy when he, Larose, was going to be put under torture, and would a man who was countenancing that, hesitate at inflicting injury upon anyone whom he thought was standing in his way?
Larose felt himself coming out in a bath of perspiration, but his thoughts had not finished with him yet and he could hardly get his breath in his excitement.
Lord Michael and Sir Howard Wake had been caught together by the lens of the camera twice within the course of a few days. Then they must be friends, and both Cabinet Ministers and undoubtedly thrown repeatedly together in these dreadful times through which the country was now passing, they would probably be great friends.
Then had not Sir Howard been picked out for him that very day as a man most hated by the Baltic nation?
Well, and Larose’s thoughts were very slow and deliberate. Now, if Sir Howard and Lord Michael were going to be at either of each other’s houses within the next four days, might not they be the two men marked out for assassination?
Larose left the cinema instantly and within five minutes was phoning up his journalistic friend.
“Here, I say,” he called out, “about that matter I came to you about this afternoon. Oh, I won’t keep you a minute, but please tell me this, are either Sir Howard Wake or Lord Michael engaged in any particular matter within that time I mentioned to you?”
“Not that I know of,” came sharply from the other end of the phone. “Oh, wait a minute. I think I can help you, but you ought to have been aware of it yourself from the newspapers. They were to have both sailed for New York next Monday; but, a week ago, their visit was put off for a month. Good-bye.”
“So that’s that,” sighed Larose, “and if I hadn’t been so busy with Pellew and Herr Blitzen and von Ravenheim, I might have picked up the trail long ago. But here goes now for Lord Michael.”
But Lord Michael was difficult to locate, for upon ringing up his town house straight away, as Larose’s name was not familiar to his butler, the latter refused to give any information whatsoever as to his lordship’s whereabouts, except to say that he was not at home.
And it was the same next morning. He could learn nothing about Lord Michael at his private house. Baulked there, he went to the War Office and, after a lot of pressing and stating he must see him and that the matter was very urgent, he was at last informed that the great man would be found at his country seat, Tollesbury Hall, in Essex.
So Larose got out his car and drove with all speed to the lonely situated hall upon the Essex coast. There, declining again to state his business, except that it was very urgent, he was shown into the room of Lord Michael’s private secretary, who was, fortunately, a man with all his wits about him and who, moreover, had heard something of the exploits of the one-time international detective.
So, within a few minutes of his arrival he was shaking hands with Lord Michael and reminding him that they had met only a couple of weeks previously at Wickham Towers.
“I remember your face,” smiled Lord Michael, “but I don’t think I could have caught your name.” He bowed. “If I had I should have been only too delighted to have a little talk with a man of so distinguished a reputation.”
Larose turned the conversation quickly. “But I have come to see you;” he said, “because, in some unofficial enquiries I have been making about quite another matter, I have heard rumors of an attempt being made upon your life, very shortly and when you are in residence here.”
Lord Michael sighed. “My dear man,” he said, “I am always hearing such rumors, and am always being told to look out. Not a week passes without some anonymous letter, either threatening me or giving me warning.” He smiled. “So your news does not upset me in the least. I am quite used to that sort of thing.”
“Well, is Sir Howard Wake coming to stay here with you for this weekend?”
Lord Michael at once looked much more serious. “He is,” he frowned, “but how you came to learn it I don’t know. No one here knows about it and they won’t know until he actually arrives. With no fears in our minds, but as a matter of simple precaution as Ministers of the Crown, all our movements are kept secret.” He looked intently at Larose. “Now, how did you find out?”
“I didn’t find out,” said Larose, “I only guessed it. I am only guessing it, too, about your being in danger. The rumor which reached me was that two prominent men, great friends, were to be attacked, and I put two and two together and thought of you and Sir Howard.”
“And who are these men who are going to attack us?” asked Lord Michael, looking very puzzled.
“I don’t know that either,” said Larose. He nodded. “But they would be the agents of a certain Foreign Power.”
“A-ah,” exclaimed Lord Michael, opening his eyes very wide, “then that would be our Baltic friends, of course.” He made a gesture of disgust. “They are the only nation who dirty their hands in that way.” He spoke briskly. “But you have no definite evidence about anything, have you?”
Larose shook his head. “None that can be produced to bring anyone to punishment under the law. I do know that a threat is, or was, hanging over some two persons but, as I have told you, I am only guessing about who these two people are.”
Lord Michael smiled. “Well, anyone trying to get at us here would have a very hard job. I have two men servants, two gardeners and a chauffeur and they are all exarmy men and all sleep in the house. Besides that, I have two big Alsatians and they always roam loose in the grounds at night.”
“Still, take special precautions this week-end,” said Larose, “and whenever you and Sir Howard Wake are together.” A thought struck him, “I suppose no strangers have been seen hanging about lately?”
“I don’t know,” said his lordship. He touched a bell. “But I’ll soon find out. As you must have noticed in driving up, this is a very lonely place and difficult to approach unseen.” He beckoned Larose to the window and pointed out the wide and open vista before them. “See, so much of this country surrounding my house is marshland and,” he laughed, “there is no cover for an attacking army. Just a few folds in the land where the ground is less marshy, but none anywhere near here.”
There was a knock upon the door and the butler entered.
“Have any strangers been seen about lately, do you know, Simpson,” asked his lordship.
“I don’t think so, my lord, I haven’t heard of any,” replied the man.
“Well, go and ask everyone and then come and tell me.”
Larose was helped to a whisky and soda and he and the Secretary for War chatted together for a few minutes until the butler returned. The latter had brought an awkward-looking, grubby boy of about fourteen with him.
“Tom here, my lord,” he said, “says he saw a car out over the marshland yesterday morning, but no one else has seen anyone.”
“You question him, Mr. Larose,” laughed Lord Michael. “It’s more in your line than mine.” Then he whispered, “He’s the gardener’s boy and not very intelligent.”
But after ten minutes, Larose had at least learnt something. It appeared that the previous morning, about eleven o’clock, the boy had been upon a pair of steps, nailing up some greenage trees by the east wall and, happening to look up once, had seen a car coming along the track across the grassland about half a mile or more away. He had only seen it for a few seconds, and then it had disappeared into a depression in the ground there. He thought at once that the driver must have made a mistake and taken the wrong turning, because he knew the track petered out and led nowhere. He had not seen the car turn back, but then he had only been on the steps a few minutes after that, and so might have missed it. He thought the car was of a black color.
“Now, I hope you are satisfied,” laughed Lord Michael when the butler and the lad had left the room, “still, thank you very much, sir. I’m most grateful to you for coming down and will certainly keep a good look out.”
Larose may have appeared satisfied, but he certainly was not and, slender though the clue was, he was intending to try and follow it up. He remembered that the gardener’s boy had said he thought someone must have lost their way by taking the wrong turning and, directly he got on the main road himself, he asked at a cottage he saw by the roadside if anybody in a car had lost their way the previous day and been making enquiries about directions. He explained he was looking for a dark colored car which had been stolen from Chelmsford, and had been seen in the neighborhood.
At the first and second cottage he approached, he learnt nothing, but at the third cottage only about a quarter of a mile or so from the little village of Goldhanger he was greatly heartened by what he was told.
No enquiries had been made there, but a girl of about eleven years old had seen a black car turn in a little lane higher up, a lane into which cars very seldom went. Not only that, but a long time afterwards, she was quite sure it must have been a long time because she had been home and had her lunch in the meanwhile, she had seen the same car standing opposite the little garage in the village. The gentleman who had been driving the car was having a puncture mended for him by Mr. Thompson, who kept the garage. Yes she was quite sure the car was the same one. It had such very big tyres and she had particularly noticed them.
In great expectancy, Larose pulled up at the little garage and told the same story about a stolen car.
Then he got a really dreadful shock for the description the garage man gave of his customer of the previous day was exactly that of Herr von Ravenheim, the Baltic Ambassador.
There was no doubt about it. The man said the owner of the car was very well dressed, he was good looking, with an oval face, he had eyes which looked you through and through, and he hardly spoke a word. One thing, however, he had said. He had asked for and been giving a piece of sticking plaster to protect a blister he had on the palm of his hand.
“And besides mending the tyre for him, sir,” said the garage man, “I had to screw up the nut at the bottom of the sump of the car. It had worked loose and the oil was leaking and he had lost quite a lot. I had to put more than a gallon into the engine. No, I don’t remember the number, but it was a London registration. I am sure of that.”
Larose thanked him and, filling up with petrol, gave him a good tip. Then he turned his car round as if he were going back to Tollesbury Hall.
He had no difficulty in picking out the lane the little girl had said the car turned into and soon was well away from the main road and had reached the track leading over the grassland.
His eyes were sparkling with delight for faintly, but most distinctly, he could see the drips of oil the ambassador’s car had left. Proceeding very slowly, he came at length to the little depression in the grassland and there his eyes fell upon quite a big patch of oil. Undoubtedly, von Ravenheim’s car had been stationary there for some time.
He got out of his car and proceeded most minutely to examine the ground. He could see where the car had been turned round, but that was all.
He sat down upon his running board and gave himself up to some hard thinking.
Von Ravenheim had left his car there for some considerable time, from what the little girl had said, for much longer even than an hour.
Then what had he been doing and where had he gone? If he were spying out the surroundings of Tollesbury Hall, he certainly would not have wanted to be seen, and therefore he would have kept as much as possible to the depression in the grasslands.
Good, then he, too, would keep to the depressions and this one would lead him towards the river.
He walked away very slowly, with his eyes roving round everywhere. But a couple of hundred yards or so brought him almost to the river side. The side was banked up to a height of about four feet to prevent the water flooding the grasslands when the river was running unduly high.
He set off, scouting along the land side of the bank and then, seeing he could get much nearer the hall that way without exposing to view more than his head and shoulders, he entered another fold in the land.
Then, suddenly, he stumbled upon something among the high grass tussocks and, to his amazement, saw it was a spade. There was a pick-axe, too, lying close near the spade and they were both bright and shiny, with the handles clean and new.
“Great Scot!” he exclaimed. “Now what the devil have they been left here for?” and, raising his eyes in wonder, they fell upon the patch of ground von Ravenheim had disturbed, and he stared hard and long.
He noted the patch was raised above the surrounding level, that there were stains, all about, of the dug earth before it had been flung back, and that the big grass tussocks were, even now, withering under the hot sun.
Then with a cry of horror he realised what it might all mean. He was standing before a newly-made grave! He was in the presence of the newly dead!
He cursed under his breath. Then von Ravenheim had buried a body here! He had murdered someone already!
Picking up the spade, almost reverently and with extreme care, he began returning the earth again, expecting every moment to uncover the remains of some poor murdered creature.
Then, suddenly, the whole expression of his face altered to one of great relief. There was nothing under the earth. The grave, if grave it was, was untenanted. The hole had been dug and then filled in again.
Again, for a long time, he gave himself up to his thoughts.
It could not be that von Ravenheim was thinking he could lure Lord Michael and Sir Howard there to be assassinated! Nor could it be that, having killed the two men somewhere near the hall, the ambassador was intending to drag the bodies all that way!
Yet the hole was undoubtedly von Ravenheim’s work and that was how he had got the blister upon the palm of his band.
At last Larose gave up trying to solve the mystery. He was very pleased, however, with all he had found out. He resolved to keep a watch upon the place as long as Lord Michael and Sir Howard Wake were together at the Hall.