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_Title:_ The Corpse on the Bridge
_Date of first publication:_ 1928
_Author:_ Charles Barry (ps. of Charles Bryson) (1877-1963)
_Date first posted:_ August 9, 2026
_Date last updated:_ August 9, 2026
Faded Page eBook #20260812

This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online
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                          [Cover Illustration]




[Illustration: “I put my hand on his shoulder and shook him.”]




                  _The Scotland Yard Mystery Library_

                              THE  CORPSE
                            ON  THE  BRIDGE


                                  _By_
                            _CHARLES  BARRY_




                             [Illustration]




                      McKINLAY, STONE & MACKENZIE
                                NEW YORK




            THE CORPSE ON THE BRIDGE, COPYRIGHT, 1928
            _BY   E.  P.   DUTTON   &   CO.,   INC._
            ALL RIGHTS RESERVED     ::     PRINTED IN U.S.A.

                   First Printing......   October, 1928
                   Second Printing.....   October, 1928
                   Third Printing......   October, 1928
                   Fourth Printing.....   October, 1928




                                   TO
                             M. R. K. Burge
                  without whose ingenious aid the body
                       could not have been placed
                             on the bridge

                                CONTENTS

               CHAPTER                                PAGE
                     I Gilmartin Is Puzzled.    .        3
                    II The Vanished Laybrothers .       10
                   III Abbot and Guestmaster    .       17
                    IV The Broken Silence Rule  .       26
                     V The Attack.    .    .    .       35
                    VI The Rector’s Opinion.    .       48
                   VII The Struggle in the Wood .       56
                  VIII The Guestmaster Returns  .       68
                    IX A Reappearance .    .    .       78
                     X Corroborative Evidence   .       88
                    XI The Vanished Lodger .    .       96
                   XII A Resemblance  .    .    .      107
                  XIII Shadowed  .    .    .    .      116
                   XIV Bill’s Story   .    .    .      125
                    XV The Chase .    .    .    .      137
                   XVI The Prisoner   .    .    .      145
                  XVII Bill Causes Trouble .    .      152
                 XVIII The Woman .    .    .    .      160
                   XIX Inconvenient Witnesses   .      170
                    XX Guy Fawkes Day .    .    .      179
                   XXI Father Kleinmichel  .    .      188
                  XXII Consultation   .    .    .      198
                 XXIII Another Attempt.    .    .      211
                  XXIV Meldrum’s Luck .    .    .      220
                   XXV Foo Wong Hui “Tells”.    .      228
                  XXVI The Raid  .    .    .    .      235
                 XXVII The Chapter    .    .    .      242
                XXVIII Peace.    .    .    .    .      252




                      THE  CORPSE  ON  THE  BRIDGE




                        The Corpse on the Bridge


                        I. Gilmartin Is Puzzled

As the District Railway train entered Westminster Station Chief
Detective Inspector Laurence Gilmartin got up and handed the penny
morning paper he had been reading to his neighbour, a costermonger whom
he had noticed making efforts to read it over his shoulder. He was the
first passenger to alight when the carriage doors had slid back into
their grooves, and he was already half-way to the street before any
others had left the platform. Like most indolent men he was capable of
extraordinary spurts of energy, and on this—the sixth—morning of
November he had overslept. As he turned the corner towards Scotland Yard
he threw a look up at Big Ben.

“Ten minutes late!” he murmured and lengthened his already long stride.

A tall, handsome Irishman was Gilmartin and, except for his height and
chest measurement unlike the popular conception of a detective. His
curly black hair, only slightly streaked with grey, and his luxuriant
moustache so unlike the toothbrush of the present day gave rather the
impression of a _beau sabreur_ out of one of Ouida’s books. The cut of
his clothes was military in its spruceness.

“Good morning, Phibbs!” he said to the constable under the archway who
without saluting gave nevertheless the effect by his attitude of a very
correct salute indeed, “Late, eh?”

“’Fraid so, sir!” the man smiled, “They’ve all come.”

Gilmartin strode up the shabby stairs three steps at a time and turned
down the corridor towards the room occupied by Assistant Commissioner
Roche—popularly known as “Cocky” or “The Beetle”—where a conference
with his principal superintendents was taking place.

“Sorry, sir!” the Irishman said to the grey-headed little man behind the
desk, “Overslept!”

Assistant Commissioner waved his pipe in acknowledgment of the apology
and went on with what he was saying.

“Yes, Meldrum,” he addressed one of the four men seated at the other
side of the desk, “It’s a very curious business indeed! What are you
doing about it?”

“I don’t see what we _can_ do!” Superintendent Meldrum replied, “It’s
just a matter of interrogating people who will admit having been in that
neighbourhood late last night.”

He looked at his colleagues and smiled.

“It’s my opinion,” he continued, “That it’s a case which Gilmartin will
get a lot of pleasure out of. He likes to start without a blessed thing
to go on.”

Gilmartin looked at his superior quizzically.

“Then,” he said, “You’re certainly trying hard to please me now. My own
fault, of course, but I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking
about.”

The others laughed.

“Well!” the Assistant Commissioner declared, “I had just thought of
Gilmartin myself. He hasn’t anything of any importance on at the moment.
So, for his benefit and ours, Meldrum, you might let us have the details
of what you told me before we came in here.”

“Very good, sir!” Meldrum replied and fingered a small sheaf of papers
on the desk before him, “Perhaps I’d better read the gist of the
statements they’ve sent along.”

Roche nodded and the others sat back to listen.

“The first statement,” the superintendent began, “Is that of Constable
Clarke and is as follows: ‘I relieved Constable Jones at the corner of
the Embankment and Wellington Street at midnight and proceeded at once
along Waterloo Bridge. In the first embrasure on the East side I noticed
a white figure which seemed to be sitting hunched up on the stone seat.
I threw my light on it and went over. Then I saw that it was a man
sitting in his underclothes with his feet on the seat. He had his hands
clasped round his knees which were bent and touching his chin. As I
approached him I tripped on what subsequently proved to be an old army
blanket which lay on the pavement by the seat. I thought that the man
was asleep and I said: “Hi! What are you doing here like that? You’ll
catch your death of cold! Get up!” The man did not move so I put my hand
on his shoulder and shook him. The man then fell to the pavement and
when I saw that he kept the same position I realised that he was dead. I
called out and some tramwaymen who were passing by came over to me. I
sent one of them to the corner of Wellington Street for the sergeant and
remained with the body.’”

Meldrum stopped reading for a moment and looked up.

“Then,” he went on, “The body was removed and Jones, the constable who
had been relieved was recalled and questioned. He stated that he had
passed over the bridge twenty minutes before his relief and had noticed
nothing there then. There had been quite a large number of passers-by
all the evening. He declares that he would have noticed if there had
been anybody in the embrasure, for as it happened he had walked along
that side of the bridge and thrown the light of his torch into each
niche. Personally, I can imagine that if the body had been covered by
the army blanket which is about the same colour as the stonework of the
bridge, Jones might not, in spite of his certainty, have noticed it.
That, of course, is only a personal opinion.”

The superintendent turned to another paper to refresh his memory.

“The next statement,” he continued then, “Is that of the sergeant who
went back with the tramwayman from Wellington Street. It merely tells
how he joined the constable and what measures—the usual ones—he took
afterwards. He describes the body, however. He says that it is the body
of a man of between forty-five and fifty years of age, clean-shaven,
grey hair clipped closely—a prison crop, in fact—bald on top. At the
mortuary they took the fingerprints of the body, but we have no record
of them in our files. The next thing is the report of the divisional
surgeon. Death, he says, was probably due to a violent blow of some
heavy instrument on the base of the skull. The skin was unbroken but the
spinal cord was severed and the neck dislocated. He uses big words to
say that, but that’s what he means. There will, of course, be a post
mortem when he will confirm this report or otherwise. Dr. Ellard
estimates that the man was dead five or six hours when he saw him, that
is to say, he must have been killed yesterday evening before seven
o’clock.”

“Nothing to show how the body got there?” Superintendent Pennell—one of
the listeners—asked.

“Not a thing,” Meldrum replied, “He might have been there all the
evening for all the trace there is of his having been placed there
afterwards.”

“What about the seat?” the Assistant Commissioner asked, “Has it been
examined for fingerprints?”

“Useless,” the superintendent replied, “It is too rough to take them.
The bridge parapet which in parts is smooth enough was handled by a
dozen people even before the body was removed.”

“Tchah!” Roche exclaimed irritably.

“You spoke of a prison crop,” Gilmartin interposed, “What about the
man’s hands? Were they calloused with work or——”

“No,” the superintendent answered, “On the contrary, they were soft,
except for a hardening of the skin of the tip of the index finger of the
right hand and the side of the middle finger.”

“H’m!” Gilmartin reflected, “That sounds like a pen.”

“Perhaps,” Meldrum agreed, “There was a slight stain of ink on the
middle finger.”

“Any marks on the underclothes?” the Irishman asked.

“Yes,” the superintendent, replied, “A number.”

He consulted his papers.

“Fifteen,” he added, “In Roman numbers—XV!”

“What quality of linen?” the Assistant Commissioner asked.

“Ah!” Meldrum exclaimed, “That is one of the strange things connected
with the case. I’ve never seen underclothing like that before in my
life. The stuff is coarse cotton material like the stuff they make flour
sacks out of. You know the material I mean?”

Gilmartin nodded.

“Both shirt and pants?” he asked.

“Yes! Both! The pants are loose baggy things fastened with white tape
and—listen to this!—tucked into long black woollen stockings—not
socks, but stockings reaching to above the knees like a woman’s! And
then the shirt! I’ve never seen such a garment! Not a button on it!
Fastened at the neck and at the wrists with tape!”

“That’s interesting!” Assistant Commissioner Roche exclaimed, “What do
you think about it, Gilmartin?”

The Irishman had straightened himself in his chair at the description of
the shirt, and appeared to be searching for something in his memory. He
ignored the Chief’s question.

“Now, where have I seen a shirt like that?” he murmured, “I’ve seen one
somewhere!”

His colleagues waited.

“No!” he said finally, “I can’t get it! But it’ll come back to me.”

“I think you’d better take charge of the investigations, Gilmartin,” the
Assistant Commissioner suggested rather than ordered, “If anybody can
make anything out of it you can.”

“Thanks for the compliment, sir,” Gilmartin grinned, “I’ll see what I
can do. Where’s the body now?”

“In the Westminster mortuary,” Meldrum replied.

“Did you make any arrangements for photographing it?”

“Of course! In fact the prints are probably ready by now.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Superintendent Forsyth—one of the officers
present—suggested, “To let the Press have them. Somebody might identify
the body if they were reproduced.”

“A gruesome sort of tit-bit for the picture page,” the Assistant
Commissioner commented, “But I think we’d better leave all these details
to Gilmartin now.”

“How is it that the Press hasn’t got hold of the thing?” Gilmartin asked
of nobody in particular. “I saw nothing of it in this morning’s papers.”

“I don’t know,” Meldrum replied, “whether it was because the whole scene
on the bridge only occupied a few minutes and almost passed unnoticed or
because of last night’s debate in the House.”

The Irishman rose.

“I’d better start in right away,” he said, “You don’t need me for
anything else, I suppose?”

“No,” Roche replied, “You might as well begin on the job at once. The
other matters we have to discuss won’t interest you.”

Meldrum handed the papers he held to Gilmartin who with a nod which
embraced everybody started for the door.

“Do you want any help?” the Assistant Commissioner stopped him.

“Not yet,” Gilmartin replied, “I want to have a look round on my own
first.”

“Right!”


                      II. The Vanished Laybrothers

A week’s investigation of what the newspapers called the Waterloo Bridge
Murder brought no results. Gilmartin spent most of the first morning
examining carefully the body of the murdered man and the scanty garments
which had covered it. He was intrigued by the underclothes, whose poor
quality and strange cut seemed to indicate that the wearer—too poor to
purchase the conventional type of underwear—had made them himself, for
the sewing was decidedly amateurish, and in the opinion of a seamstress
and a tailor whom the detective had consulted, the work of masculine
fingers. Contrasted with this was the fact that the body though thin was
that of a sufficiently well nourished man. The teeth had been
meticulously cared for—there was clear evidence that the dentist had
been visited at the least sign of caries. The finger and toe nails were
those of a man who, without being effeminate, was careful in these
details.

Inch by inch Gilmartin examined the clothing through a lens. The soles
of the black stockings, examined first, were clean and practically free
of dust. It was obvious that they had not been placed on the ground. It
seemed even that they had never been pressed against the inside of a
shoe or boot. Suddenly Gilmartin started and carefully extracted from
between the strands of wool a tiny white particle which on close
inspection proved to be a minute splinter of deal. The examination of
the other garments produced similar splinters, one of them from the
shirt sleeve near the wrist as tiny as that from the stocking, the
other, however, which Gilmartin found in the drawers on a level with the
hip bone was a sliver about as long and as thin as a sewing needle. The
army blanket gave up three more slivers. Having carefully placed them
between the pages of a small notebook the Irishman examined the features
of the body. He could not have said why he thus peered through a lens at
the skin of a corpse. In all probability if asked he would only have
answered: “You never know!”

“Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, “What’s this?”

He took a matchbox from his pocket and ran the end of a match inside the
curl of one of the ears. It came away covered with a greasy substance
faintly tinged with red.

With these meagre exhibits Gilmartin went to the analyst usually
employed by New Scotland Yard. The substance found in the curl of the
ear, he thus discovered, was merely vaseline mixed with a substance
which the analyst called erythrosine. The splinters of wood proved to be
slightly greasy and though the trace was very small the fatty substance
proved to be simply oleo-margarine.

“I can’t understand it!” Gilmartin reflected, “I wonder if he was
brought there in a packing case.”

“But no, hang it!” he told himself, “Somebody would have noticed it.
Besides, margarine is not put up in such big cases as all that. At least
I think not. I must find out!”

The examination, belated as it was, of the seat in the embrasure of
Waterloo Bridge gave nothing. A scratch about six inches long on the
parapet parallel with the pavement and about a foot above it did not
seem to have any bearing on the case inasmuch as it might have been made
by anybody before or after the placing of the body there.

At the end of a week during which the Press at the request of Scotland
Yard had daily published photographs of the number marked on the linen,
of the dead man’s face together with a minute description of every
feature, including measurements, Gilmartin had to report to the
Assistant Commissioner that he had made no progress whatsoever.

“First time I’ve ever known you to confess that,” Roche commented, “But
it certainly does seem pretty hopeless I must admit.”

“I can’t make it out,” the Irishman exclaimed, “Generally you find
dozens of people coming forward to identify a body, but in this case not
a single man, woman or child has done so.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it at that,” the Assistant Commissioner
declared, “We must, of course, put somebody on the case to continue the
inquiries, but we can’t afford to have a Chief Inspector’s time occupied
solely on it. You’d better—— Oh! Yes! Wait a minute! You’re Roman
Catholic, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Gilmartin replied with some surprise and a considerable
stiffness in his manner, “It’s pretty generally known that I’m a
Catholic.”

“I’m not trying to be impertinent, old man.” Roche laughed, “As a matter
of fact my question was purely rhetorical. I know you’re a Catholic,
though it’s no business of mine if you were a Buddhist.”

As he talked the Assistant Commissioner was rummaging among the papers
on his table.

“Ah!” he went on, “Here it is! The reason for my remark is this letter
from an old school friend of mine.”

The Irishman looked inquiry.

“Here!” Roche said, “Read the letter. The writer is the rector of the
parish mentioned.”

“Church of England?” Gilmartin asked, wondering what this had to do with
his own religious beliefs.

“Yes,” the Assistant Commissioner replied, “And as Protestant as they
make ’em! No new prayer books for him! He’s a broad-minded fellow,
though. No bigot by any means!”

Gilmartin read aloud:

                                                    “The Rectory
                                             “Alderborough, Hants.
                                                “12th November, 192—

    “My dear Dick,

    “On behalf of a friend of mine I wish to ask your advice and
    possibly your help on a matter which is worrying him. A common
    interest in early Christian archeology has gained me the
    privilege of the friendship of one of the foremost authorities
    on the subject—no other than Dom Bruno Chavasse, Abbot of the
    Benedictine Monastery of Alderborough, which, as you know, is in
    my parish, one of the most broad-minded members of the Romish
    clergy that I have ever met. I often have lunch with the
    monks—they are no sybarites, I might add, but the guest within
    their walls is indeed a guest. To-day was one of the occasions,
    and Dom Chavasse over a cup of coffee afterwards told me a
    strange story.

    “I had noticed that a centre table in the refectory at which the
    laybrothers sat seemed to have fewer brothers than usual and I
    commented—merely by way of small talk—on the fact. I could not
    help noticing that the guestmaster and the Abbot exchanged
    troubled glances after my innocent remark, but I naturally said
    nothing. However, later the Abbot himself returned to the matter
    and told me that he was very worried about the disappearance of
    several laybrothers. It appears that on the 7th November one of
    the laybrothers did not turn up in Chapel for Matins. Being
    charitable to human frailty Dom Chavasse, if he thought of it at
    all, concluded that the brother had slept on in spite of the
    bell, which rings at the unearthly hour of four in the morning.
    Later in the day, however, the laybrother was still absent not
    only from his duties in chapel but also from breakfast, which,
    it seems, is merely a snack taken standing. The sub-prior, who
    is as it happens a qualified medical man, visited the brother’s
    cell to see if he were ill, but found that his bed had not been
    slept in. He reported the matter to the Abbot who investigated
    the business, when it transpired that Brother Paul had not been
    at Compline—that is, night prayers—the night before.

    “They appear to have come to the conclusion that he had simply
    tired of the monastic life and had left without telling anybody,
    and though they wondered why he had gone in such manner they
    thought no more of it as the man was free to do as he wished in
    that respect. It does not seem to have occurred to the Abbey
    authorities at the time to wonder why he left in his monkish
    habit instead of in his civilian clothes which were stored in
    the linen room. It was only when on the following day another
    laybrother disappeared in similar fashion that things began to
    look strange to them, for he also had gone in his cassock—or
    tunic as they call it—and scapular. The Abbot explains to me
    that he has had experience before of such departures from a
    monastery on the part of laybrothers—who, by the way, are the
    manual workers and as a rule quite uneducated men—one departure
    often influencing another, so that even this second
    disappearance did not cause undue alarm.

    “The matter now seems more serious, for only last night two more
    brothers disappeared in the same mysterious manner and the Abbot
    is frankly afraid that some accident has befallen them. On the
    other hand, he is, if I mistake not, just a little apprehensive
    that they may have gone on what your son Jimmy calls the
    ‘razzle-dazzle’ and that a search for them might reveal a
    scandal which would give rise to a lot of ignorant and injurious
    comment. However, he has consented to my writing unofficially
    for your advice on the subject. Personally I am very fond of the
    old man and should be very much obliged to you for any help you
    may find possible to give him. I cannot suggest how, but perhaps
    you could send one of your discreetest officers to interview Dom
    Chavasse personally—if among them you have a Roman Catholic he
    would be best I think. The Abbey is not rich but I think they
    would willingly pay expenses if they are not too big. In any
    case, if that is the only hitch, I myself, as you know have
    quite as much money as is good for me. Write and let me know
    what you think.

    “Kindest regards to Ethel, and to my godson Jimmy, whose visit,
    please remind him, is due.

                                “Yours,
                                                “J. Brinsley-Seale”

“Well?” said Roche when Gilmartin had finished. “How would you like to
look into that little matter?”

“M’m!” the Irishman murmured thoughtfully, “It’s a funny business!”

“I think you’d better travel down into Hampshire and see this Abbot,”
the Assistant Commissioner went on, “Especially as you’re an R.C. At any
rate there’s no fear of you playing at matchmaking down there!”

This was a standing joke at New Scotland Yard where it was said that all
the Irishman’s big cases invariably ended in a series of marriages
between the people involved. Somebody had in consequence nicknamed him,
“The Fairy Godfather.”

Gilmartin laughed.

“Good! Well, that’s settled, eh?” Roche went on, “When can you go?”

“Any time to-morrow.”

“Good! Hand over this Waterloo Bridge business to—let me see, now—yes!
To your friend Peters. Give him all you’ve got and let him muddle along
from there.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if he solved the mystery, sir,” Gilmartin
smiled, “You underrate Peters.”

“Humph!” the Assistant Commissioner grunted, “It’s a good thing we have
room for all sorts here. And by the way, if you think it advisable call
on the local police to help you down there in Alderborough—but not
unless it’s absolutely necessary. There may be nothing in the thing at
all!”

Gilmartin nodded and rose. He was half-way to the door when he stopped
dead, his hand in the air.

“What is it?” Roche asked.

“By Jove!” the Irishman exclaimed, “I’ve got it! That underwear!”

“What the dickens are you talking about?” the Assistant Commissioner
inquired in surprise.

Gilmartin came back to the desk.

“You remember, sir,” he said, “That I tried to recollect where I had
seen such a shirt as that Waterloo Bridge body wore?”

Roche nodded.

“Well?” he said, “Have you remembered?”

“Yes. It was in a monastery—a Trappist monastery, it is true,”
Gilmartin replied, “But I’m a blooming Dutchman if that dead man wasn’t
a monk! One of the vanished laybrothers as sure as a gun!”


                       III. Abbot and Guestmaster

Dom Bruno Chavasse, Abbot of Alderborough was not at all the type of
ecclesiastic which the modern world associates with Benedictine
monasteries. Standing over six feet in height, erect as a guardsman,
with clear blue eyes and bushy grey eyebrows, close-cropped greying
hair, aquiline nose and firm chin, he approached more the popular
conception of a Knight Templar. One could, indeed, easily picture the
swing of the heavy sword accompanying the swish of his habit as he
strode along the silent cloister with firm, unhurried step. His
community—especially the younger members of it—might now and then have
been heard to refer to him jokingly as “the colonel,” since the day when
a new laybrother, an old ex-soldier of Infanterie Coloniale, had
responded to an order with a click of hobnailed boots and a “_Bien, mon
colonel!_” which resounded strangely in that abode of peace. The Abbot
himself had joined in the laugh that followed and with twinkling eye
reminded the abashed monk that though they both belonged to an Army
which was for ever on active service, military titles of the sort could
be dispensed with. The laybrother, chaffed later by his brethren in
their little recreation room had, however, growled in excuse:

“But he has a right to the title, _ma foi_! Did I not serve under him in
three African campaigns?”

When Chief Inspector Gilmartin, awaiting him in the reception room just
outside the cloister, saw him enter the room he also felt inclined to
give the military salute. Dom Chavasse, however, held out his hand so
quickly that the Irishman could only surrender his own to a hearty
clasp, remembering later that as a Catholic layman he might have been
expected to kiss the Abbot’s ring. The two men studied each other
frankly for a moment. Gilmartin saw, parenthetically, from the habit
that this was not an English Benedictine, for the cut and texture of the
black tunic and scapular had none of the smartness of those he had seen
worn by the monks of Downside or Ampleforth. Dom Chavasse smiled into
Gilmartin’s Irish eyes and waved him to a chair. When they were both
seated the Abbot spoke in perfect English with hardly a trace of alien
accent.

“I see,” he said, “that the influence of my friend Mr. Brinsley-Seale
with Scotland Yard is great, since they have so promptly sent a Chief
Inspector.”

He glanced at Gilmartin’s card which he held in his hand.

“He is an old school friend of my Chief’s,” the Irishman replied. “But
in any case, Father Abbot, we should not think of sending an officer of
low rank to interview you.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” the Abbot smiled. “Then you think that
the disappearance of our laybrothers is probably a serious matter?”

“Personally,” Gilmartin declared, “I am inclined to think that it is
very serious indeed.”

Dom Chavasse pursed his lips in a very unmonastic whistle and
abstractedly swung his pectoral cross to and fro. “What are we to do
about it?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” the Irishman suggested, “you would kindly tell me with as
many details as possible what you know of each disappearance in turn.”

“I will do better than that,” the Abbot replied. “I have had the whole
thing put into writing. The Fathers Prior, Sub-Prior and myself have
conducted an inquiry into the matter and you will find the statements of
every father, novice and laybrother who knew anything of the movements
of the brothers before their disappearance taken down _verbatim_.”

He went to the door and called from a little room opposite the old
laybrother who had admitted Gilmartin.

“Go, brother,” he ordered, “To Father Prior’s cell and ask him to give
you the papers we were reading together this morning.”

He turned back to the detective.

“I don’t know,” he said, “If you appreciate fully the delicacy of the
situation, but——”

“I think I do,” Gilmartin interrupted with a smile. “I am a Catholic and
not altogether unacquainted with ecclesiastical establishments.”

“Ah! Good! Then you see how we are situated. It is quite possible, of
course, that these laybrothers have left us in this irregular fashion of
their own free will. If so, in instituting a search for them we are
likely to arouse a great deal of needless—perhaps not very charitable
comment outside, for there are, I believe still people living in the
twentieth century who believe that a monastery is a place from which one
has to escape over the wall rather than by the front door.”

“M’m!” Gilmartin smiled, “I’ve met ’em!”

“Then again,” the Abbot continued, “I must not ignore the
possibility—though personally I think it extremely unlikely, to say the
least—that the laybrothers are absent on some not very creditable
escapade which would bring us as a community into disrepute. There may
still exist people who on the strength of one bad monk’s misdeeds are
capable of stigmatising all monasteries as dens of iniquity. In that
case, of course, I should like to find the laybrothers so that they
might be definitely—even publicly—expelled from our midst. The third
possibility is that something serious has happened to them, in which
case it is the province of the civil arm. I must say that I cannot
imagine why any harm should come to them individually or collectively. I
am seriously perturbed and mystified, Mr. Gilmartin, and it is this
third possibility which has made me confide in Mr. Brinsley-Seale, the
Anglican rector of this parish, who is the only Englishman—if I except
the bishop of the diocese who is absent in Rome—whom I know capable of
advising me. You see, being an alien, I am rather ignorant and perhaps
even afraid with that fear which ignorance engenders, of your English
methods of procedure.”

Gilmartin had only nodded now and then in appreciation of the Abbot’s
points.

“Well, Father Abbot,” he said now, “I am ready to help you—in fact, I
have orders to do so—whatever may be the reasons for these
disappearances. I am inclined to think that the third of your——”

He stopped as Dom Chavasse held up his hand. The old laybrother then
entered the room and drew from under his scapular a foolscap envelope
which he handed to the Abbot. At that moment the deep boom of a bell
sounded from somewhere near. The laybrother bowed and left them. The
Abbot rose and gave the envelope to Gilmartin.

“I must go now,” he said, “We have a Chapter to-night. You will, of
course, stay with us. I have given instructions to the Father
Guestmaster to have your room prepared. You will find a fire and a
writing-desk there.”

“I had not intended——” Gilmartin began.

“Later,” Dom Chavasse interrupted, “If you find it more convenient to
lodge elsewhere, of course you must do so, but I beg you will be our
guest for the present. Nobody—not even Father Prior—knows that I have
called you in, consequently no one will have the faintest idea of your
identity.”

“Very good, Father Abbot!” the Irishman replied. “Thanks! I shall go and
get my bag from the station cloakroom at once and then read these
documents if I may.”

“A laybrother can get your bag,” the Abbot said crisply with a smile,
“Give the ticket to Father Guestmaster. We need all your energies for
ourselves, Mr. Gilmartin. Dinner—or rather supper—will be in one hour
from now. Come with me and I will put you in the hands of our
guestmaster. He will look after you.”

In the cloister they found a solitary monk walking sedately up and down
with arms folded under his scapular. The Abbot made a sign and the monk
approached.

“This is Dom Massey,” he said with a smile, “A fellow-countryman of
yours, I think, Mr. Gilmartin, and our guestmaster. Will you show Mr.
Gilmartin his room, Father Massey, and come to Chapter later.”

Dom Columba Massey, who was of about the same age as Gilmartin and built
on much the same fairly generous proportions, shook hands with his
guest, and led the way up a staircase to a room where a fire burned
brightly.

“There’s your cell, son,” he said whimsically, “It’s just a little bit
warmer than mine, but then you chose the flesh-pots of Egypt instead of
going on with your theological studies.”

Gilmartin started and looked sharply at the monk.

“You seem to know me,” he said, “But I can’t place you.”

“No,” the guestmaster laughed softly, “I don’t suppose you’d know me,
but I knew you as soon as Father Abbot named you. I was in First
Divinity when you were in the Junior House.”

“What! Maynooth?”

“Where else?” Father Massey replied characteristically. “Man! They lost
a fine centre-forward when you left! But I must be going. I’ll come up
to bring you down to supper, but first of all what about your things?
Are they at the station?”

Gilmartin nodded and gave the monk the cloakroom receipt.

When the guestmaster left him the Chief Inspector sat down in front of
the fire and read the documents which the Abbot had handed him. There
was scarcely anything in them of essential importance which the rector
had not already written in his letter to the Assistant Commissioner. One
fact, however, was brought out: that at least two of the vanished
laybrothers had been in the habit of taking a walk in the abbey grounds
every evening after supper.

“Humph!” Gilmartin reflected when he had finished reading, “I must see
these grounds! Too late now to do it to-day!”

He returned to the papers.

“Just like the proceedings of a military court of inquiry!” he mused,
“I’ll bet the Abbot’s an old soldier!”

Again the bell boomed forth.

“Supper, I suppose!” the Irishman said to himself, “And I’m hungry!”

He was still splashing water when the guestmaster returned and knocked
at his door.

“I presume,” that worthy said as Gilmartin was twisting his moustache
into shape before a mirror, “You’ve come about these disappearances. I
seem to have heard somewhere that you were a policeman of sorts.”

“You know too much altogether, Father Massey,” Gilmartin laughed, “Your
Abbot has just told me that nobody here is aware of my identity.”

“Oh! I see!” Dom Columba exclaimed, “It’s a secret, is it? All right!
Nobody will learn it from me. Ready?”

Gilmartin nodded and followed the monk downstairs. In the refectory they
found the monks, each standing with folded arms in front of his place.
When the detective had been shown to his place at the guest table the
community sang grace in a plainsong recitative and the meal began.
Gilmartin from his place could see practically the whole community. The
Abbot sat in lonely state at a table on a raised platform at one end of
the room. The guest table was immediately in front. Round the walls were
seated the thirty odd black-clad figures of the fathers while at the
farther end of the room were half a dozen novices whose status Gilmartin
identified from the fact that they wore knee-length scapulars instead of
the full-length ones worn by the fathers. At a table which ran down the
centre of the room were seated a dozen brown-clad laybrothers. All were
waited upon by two monks who wore over their black habits long white
aprons.

The Irishman could not help noticing that the meal served to the
community was less copious than that which was set before him by the
guestmaster who interrupted his own meal to put the dishes before him,
and he saw that while they drank water he was given a pitcher of
generous brown ale. His ears only half attentive to the voice of a monk
who read aloud in the pulpit in one corner the detective studied the
faces of the monks.

“A rum crowd!” he mused, “And of half a dozen nationalities I’ll swear!”

When grace after meat had been sung he followed the Abbot out of the
refectory, the rest of the monks coming behind. Dom Chavasse drew him
along the cloister and asked:

“Have you read the papers I gave you?”

“Yes, but there is very little in them that I didn’t know already,”
Gilmartin replied. “I should like to have an opportunity, however, of
asking you a few questions which they have suggested to me.”

“Let us walk up and down!” the Abbot proposed, “Ask me anything you
like. If I can answer I will, and if we haven’t enough time before
Compline I shall have to break our silence rule and continue then,
that’s all.”

“Before I ask anything else,” the Irishman said, with his hand in his
breast pocket, “I should like to ask you to look at this.”

He handed to Dom Chavasse a photographic print. The Abbot looked at it.

“Yes?” he queried.

“You don’t recognise the face, then, Father Abbot?”

“No! It looks to me to be the face of a dead man, but I do not know it.”

“It bears no resemblance, then, to any of the missing brothers?”

“Not the slightest!”

Gilmartin’s face fell.


                      IV. The Broken Silence Rule

The detective attended the short but impressively severe service of
Compline in the Abbey chapel, not only because night prayers were a
habit with him, but also with the object of getting a better view of the
monastic community than he had obtained in the refectory. The chapel was
also a place of public worship, and he took his place beforehand in the
darkness of the nave in order to watch the monks, all—except the
novices—clad in voluminous cowl over their habits, file through the
door behind the altar into the choir. The laybrothers did not enter the
choir, but occupied stalls somewhere behind the altar. Gilmartin found
his expectation of seeing the monks disappointed from the beginning, for
the only lights were those of the hanging sanctuary lamp before the
altar, and of two candles which illuminated a lectern where a novice
read in English from the _Imitatio Christi_ until stopped by a signal
given by the Abbot’s gavel on his _priedieu_, when he broke off and
intoned the opening request for a benediction:

“_Iube, domne, benedicere!_”

The Abbot’s voice as clear as a bell responded:

“_Noctem quietam et finem perfectam concedat nobis Dominus omnipotens._”

Before going to his place in the stalls the novice extinguished the
candles and the service went on in almost total darkness, for the monks
from long practice were word perfect.

As the final echoes of the Antiphon _Salve Regina_, sung to the
traditional Gregorian air by the rough, untutored, but by no means
unpleasing voices of over thirty monks died away in the vaulted
emptiness of the Gothic chapel Gilmartin’s Celtic soul could not repel a
presentiment that the peaceful tenor of the lives of these men of prayer
and study was to be rudely disturbed as a result of his inquiries into
the mysterious disappearances. These Benedictine monks, as they stood in
their rows of stalls singing the praises of the Divine seemed so remote
from all the trouble and strife of the outside world with its
accompaniments of pain and pleasure, sorrow and gaiety, that he
experienced a poignant regret that the peace of their retreat should be
ruffled by the irruption of mundane evils and anxieties.

Something of this he tried to express to Dom Bruno Chavasse later as
they sat together in the Abbot’s room—a bare cell containing a narrow
bed, two chairs, and a writing table—after the evening prayer. The
Abbot was silent for a moment.

“It may seem a curious thing for me to say, Mr. Gilmartin,” he said
then, “And it is probable that our Founder, St. Benedict would not agree
with me, but I think that it is sometimes not a bad thing for us to have
our tranquillity disturbed from time to time. We are liable to get
slack—or, what is worse, complacent—in times of peace and quietness,
and like you people of the outer world, need jogging up. I could,
however, have wished that the stimulant were just a little
less—er—violent than this. However—you wished to ask me some more
questions, I think.”

Gilmartin’s notebook was at once in his hand.

“Yes, Father Abbot,” he replied, “First of all, I wonder if you could
let me have a complete list of the members of your community, fathers,
novices and laybrothers.”

“Certainly,” the Abbot at once agreed, “In fact I have one here which I
can let you have. But why do you want it? Surely you don’t think that
these disappearances are due to any evil influence from within?”

The Irishman was embarrassed for a moment.

“W—well!” he hesitated, “One never knows. You see, Father Abbot, there
may be somebody in here whom you don’t know really well yet—a novice,
for instance, or a monk from another monastery.”

“M—yes,” Dom Chavasse murmured, “I see! I quite understand your point
of view. As a police officer you must, of course, envisage every
possibility.”

“Precisely.”

Without a word the Abbot rose and took from among his papers on the desk
the list demanded.

“Another thing, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin went on, taking the paper,
“Have you had any guests staying in the monastery lately?”

“No! Not for some weeks. We have had guests to lunch once or twice of
course, but none of them could possibly have had any contact with the
laybrothers.”

“Nevertheless,” the Irishman asked, “May I have their names? I shall not
inconvenience them in any way if they are all right.”

“Very well,” Dom Chavasse consented, “I will make a note of it for
Father Guestmaster.”

“Oh! By the way,” Gilmartin exclaimed, “Your guestmaster knows who I am,
Father Abbot.”

“Indeed? How?”

The Irishman smiled.

“I am,” he replied, “What we call in Ireland a ‘spoiled priest,’ that is
to say——”

“I understand the expression,” the Abbot interrupted returning the
smile, “You were studying for the priesthood and gave it up. Ah! So Dom
Massey knew you at Maynooth? He is a Maynooth man. He joined us several
years after his ordination.”

“Yes,” Gilmartin nodded, “I understood him to mean that he knew me or
heard of me there.”

“H—m!” Dom Chavasse commented, “He should have told me. I hope he has
said nothing to the other fathers.”

“I don’t think so,” the detective declared, “I told him that it was a
secret—for the present at any rate. And, Father Abbot, I’m afraid it
cannot remain one very long. I shall probably have to question the monks
who made the statements which you gave me to read.”

“I realise that,” the Abbot replied, “But I think that we had better
keep it up as long as possible—just in case there is some sinister
influence inside the cloister itself.”

“I agree,” said Gilmartin, again consulting his notebook, “There is just
another point, Father Abbot. I notice that in the statements I have read
the fathers are all referred to by their surnames, whilst the
laybrothers are called ‘Brother Paul,’ ‘Brother Adrian’ and so on.”

“Yes, that is our custom.”

“I should like,” the Irishman continued, “To have the surnames of the
laybrothers as well.”

“You will find them,” the Abbot informed him, “In the list I have given
you—in brackets after their names in religion.”

“Another thing,” Gilmartin went on, “I will ask you to do, and that is
to give me—in strict confidence, of course—some idea of the
laybrothers who have gone, I mean their characteristics, etcetera. I
shall also want, naturally, a personal description of each.”

“H’m!” the Abbot said slowly, “I can give you the result of my own
observations, of course, Mr. Gilmartin, but you will realise that I do
not know them quite so intimately as I know the others—the choir monks.
Father Cresson, our organist, is in charge of the laybrothers and will
be able if necessary to supplement and possibly amend my remarks.”

Gilmartin’s pencil was poised.

“Brother Paul,” Dom Chavasse went on after a pause, “The first to
disappear, is a Londoner, a little thin man of—well—about five feet
four inches in height, with a very red face, blue eyes and reddish hair.
He has a birthmark on his left cheek about the size of a broad bean and
about the same shape. He was, I believe, a costermonger before he came
to us. He is a widower. That is all I can remember of his superficial
attributes, except that his nose is what I think you call in English a
snub nose.”

“Quite an adequate description, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin smiled.

“His disposition,” the Abbot continued, “Is cheerful. In fact he is
always getting into trouble on account of his exuberance. Suddenly, for
example, in the middle of his work during silence hours he will forget
himself and burst into song—not always sacred song by any means. Though
I have often rebuked him in Chapter I am afraid I am never able to do so
with the requisite severity because of the difficulty I have in
repressing a smile. His very contrition is so comic.”

The Abbot was smiling as he spoke.

“He was sorely tried for a long time,” he went on, “By a terrible
temper, and his efforts to govern it were pathetic. However, he has been
with us now for four years and I think that he has succeeded on the
whole very well.”

“What was his special work in the monastery?” Gilmartin asked.

“He takes his turn at the usual routine duties,” Dom Chavasse replied,
“But his special task is the garden—the vegetable garden. He was given
that work at his own request. As he quaintly put it to his novice-master
at the time: ‘I’ve been selling vegetables for so long that it’s nearly
time I knew which end grows uppermost.’ I may add that he speaks with
such a decided Cockney accent that I have considerable difficulty in
following him.”

Gilmartin silently admired the Abbot’s insistence on the present tense
as he spoke of the vanished brother.

“Then,” Dom Chavasse went on, “There is Brother Adrian—also English,
but of a very different type. He, like Brother Paul, was in the Army
during the War, in a Yeomanry regiment—the Worcestershires, I
believe—mostly in Egypt and Palestine. He is a tall fair man, very slow
of speech, and as placid as Brother Paul is vivacious, rather stupid,
perhaps, but good-humoured. I do not know if you have ever heard of the
traditional monastic joke about St. Michael. On a feast of the first
class as you probably know, relics of the saint honoured, if we have
any, are exposed. Invariably on Michaelmas day some wag—for we have
wags, Mr. Gilmartin—is sure to send a newcomer to Father Prior for the
relic of St. Michael. Poor Brother Adrian was an obvious victim; he went
solemnly and asked for the relic and only realised what had happened
when Father Prior asked him when he thought the Archangel had shed a
feather from his wing. He took it very well and was seen to laugh
quietly to himself several times during the day that followed. There is
nothing very distinctive about his personal appearance except that a
wound in his knee sometimes gives him trouble and then he walks slightly
lame. He attends to our few cows and horses for he is very fond of
animals.”

“M’yes!” Gilmartin mused aloud, re-reading what he had written, “There
is very little to go on in that.”

“Very little indeed,” the Abbot agreed, “As for Brothers René and Denis,
their disappearance mystifies me more than the others. They are both
Frenchmen, and only speak enough English to make themselves understood
by their _confrères_. They are remarkably alike physically and
temperamentally. Both are dark and small, both rather stout but very
active, though curiously enough their trades are indoor; Brother René is
our tailor and Brother Denis our shoemaker. One thing that
differentiates them is that Brother Denis is bald while Brother René has
a thick black head of hair. They are intelligent men, considering their
education, and very alert. But I think, on the whole, you would be well
advised to see Dom Cresson if you want more intimate details.”

“Yes,” Gilmartin agreed. “I will do so if it becomes necessary.”

He unfolded the list of monks and scanned it.

“Are all these—novices of course excepted—monks of long standing in
your community, Father Abbot?” he asked.

“Hardly that, Mr. Gilmartin,” Dom Chavasse replied, “The professed monks
vary from those who have not yet been ordained priests and therefore as
a rule generally young, to those who have been in the monastic life
twenty years or even more. Then there are some who, though monks for
many years have come to us from other monasteries either for a long or a
short time for some special reason.”

“For example?” Gilmartin inquired.

“Well,” the Abbot explained, “Take the case of a monk from Maredsous—in
Belgium—who is engaged in historical research. He finds in the course
of his work that some of the authorities he requires to consult are most
accessible at the British Museum, so his Abbot asks us, who are nearest
to London of all the abbeys, to extend hospitality to him. He then
becomes a temporary member of our community, is subject to our Rule,
except that he may go up to the Museum Reading Room for his work.”

“I understand,” Gilmartin nodded.

He held out the paper to the Abbot.

“You are tired, Father Abbot,” he said, “But if you will kindly tick off
on this the names of those who are temporary members of your community,
and note the name of their parent house I shall leave you for to-night.”

The Abbot took a pencil from his desk.

“M’yes.” He murmured half-aloud, as he marked the sheet, “There is Dom
Gatard from Solesmes, Dom Cammaerts from Maredsous, Dom Baumgartner from
Einsiedeln——”

“What!” the detective could not help interrupting, “Not _the_
Baumgartner who——”

“The same.” Dom Chavasse replied, continuing to mark off another name or
two, “The ‘wireless monk’ as your papers quaintly call him. He has come
over to talk to the Marconi people about some new invention of his.”

“I thought he never left his monastery,” Gilmartin commented, “That is
what I read in some paper at any rate.”

“Well,” the Abbot smiled, “You cannot expect a Benedictine monk to show
himself to the public and advertise his goings and comings in the same
way as a society lady, can you?”

“No! I suppose not.”

“As a matter of fact,” Dom Chavasse continued, “It is through no desire
of his own that he has come over. Were it not for the fact that his
invention is likely to be taken up by Marconi’s and to bring in money
for his Abbey he would be quite content to go on inventing for the mere
pleasure of it.”

“Yes,” Gilmartin laughed, “Inventors are often not practical men.”

“And Dom Baumgartner is notoriously unpractical,” the Abbot added, “His
Abbot tells me also that he is just as notoriously absent-minded. He
proved it on his arrival at Victoria, for he had his suitcase stolen.
Fortunately there was nothing in it except some linen and a tunic and
habit. It would have been rather terrible if his diagrams and plans had
been in it.”

Gilmartin was sitting up in obvious excitement.

“When did he arrive?” he asked, “Recently?”

“Yes,” the Abbot replied, “He came on the—let me see! To-day is the
14th—yes, he came on the 5th.”

“And the first laybrother disappeared when?—on the 7th?”

“Yes, or on the evening of the 6th, but——” Dom Chavasse was now
startled out of his calm. “Then you think——”

“Father Abbot,” the Irishman replied slowly, “I’ll lay you anything
you——”

The Abbot smiled.

“Sorry,” Gilmartin resumed, “I mean, that as sure as God made little
apples, some gang of crooks is after those wireless diagrams of Father
Baumgartner’s.”


                             V. The Attack

“But—but,” Dom Chavasse objected, “Why should such a gang of—what is
your word? Crooks?—Why should they harm my poor ignorant laybrothers?”

The Irishman had a theory ready.

“My idea is,” he replied, “That the gang has been hanging round the
grounds of the abbey on the chance of getting hold of Father
Baumgartner. Perhaps they don’t know him by sight, and seeing your
laybrothers taking a walk, pounced on them in the dark on the chance
that one of them might be the Father.”

The Abbot considered this for a moment.

“No,” he decided finally, “I don’t think, Mr. Gilmartin, that that is
what happened. In the first place if they are the same persons who stole
Father Baumgartner’s suitcase they must know him by sight; besides, the
laybrothers are dressed in brown whilst——”

“_La nuit tous les chats sont gris!_” Gilmartin quoted irreverently in
the Abbot’s own language. “They would not be able to distinguish colours
in the dark. Until we find a better theory I’ll stick to that one, I
think. You see, disappointed in their expectation of finding the plans
in the suitcase, they—— Oh! By the way, where are the plans kept? In a
safe, I hope.”

“They have not yet arrived,” Dom Chavasse replied, “Dom Baumgartner’s
assistant at Einsiedeln is making the final copies and specifications
and is sending them on by registered post.”

“At what time do the mails arrive here?” the detective asked excitedly.

“The first comes about eight o’clock; the others at various times in the
course of the day. Brother Gregoire can tell us exactly.”

“H’m!” Gilmartin reflected, “I wonder when a registered letter from
Switzerland would arrive—by one of the later deliveries, I suppose.”

Then he asked:

“Does the postman bring the letters right up, or does he leave them at
the lodge?”

“The lodgekeeper—a laybrother—takes them in at the lodge.”

“In that case,” the Irishman decided, “If you don’t mind I shall be at
the lodge to-morrow and until the package comes. I shall bring it up
here myself. Have you a safe?”

“The Father Procurator has the Abbey safe in his office,” the Abbot
replied.

“Good! The plans must _not_ be put in it. It’s too obvious! Now, Father
Abbot, I am convinced that these wireless diagrams or plans, or whatever
they’re called, are behind the disappearances, and we must find your
laybrothers. The only way to do that is to catch the gang or some member
of it. They are evidently desperate enough to attempt to burgle that
safe. If so, I’ll get them.”

Gilmartin was now walking up and down the Abbot’s cell. He stopped
suddenly when Dom Chavasse remarked in his quiet even voice:

“And what, Mr. Gilmartin, if the package has already been stolen?”

“What? How? Oh! Lord!”

“It may very well be,” the Abbot continued, “That Brother Gregoire was
not at the lodge when it came and that one of the brothers who has
disappeared—Brother Denis was the last, on the eleventh—signed for it,
and was attacked on his way up here with it.”

“Oh!” Gilmartin repeated helplessly, “Oh, Lord!”

He turned suddenly and faced the Abbot.

“But,” he said, “How would they know that the plans were coming by
post?”

“If your theories are correct, Mr. Gilmartin,” the Abbot retorted, “How
did they know of their existence?”

“That’s a fair question,” the detective admitted and was silent for a
moment.

“The only thing to do,” he said then, “Is to find out to-morrow if your
theory is a possible one, and then to wire to the Abbot of Einsiedeln
and ask him if the things have been sent. I’ll do that myself and sign
your name, Father Abbot. At the same time I shall make inquiries at the
local post-office.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

When he left Dom Chavasse the detective lay awake thinking over their
conversation, and wondered if he had not jumped to conclusions too
quickly in making the inference that the disappearance of the
laybrothers was connected with a criminal plot to get hold of the plans
and diagrams of Dom Baumgartner’s wireless invention. With the coming of
drowsiness his mind wandered off in speculations as to the importance of
the invention itself. He knew the Swiss monk’s reputation in the radio
world; he had laughed to himself on reading the ambiguous sobriquet of
“The Wireless Monk” given him by some enterprising young journalist on
the staff of one of the Sunday papers, and he knew from his omnivorous
reading that the Benedictine had been responsible for many of the
improvements which had led to the extension of radio-telephony over the
greater part of the civilised—and some of the uncivilised—world. He
smiled at the thought that this modern invention owed something to a
member of a mediæval monastic order and was drowsily amused at the
recollection that the first conversation—widely blazoned in all its
details—between San Francisco and Cape Town consisted of sweet nothings
between the two most popular idols of the cinema-going public of the
English-speaking world.

“Humph!” Gilmartin mumbled disjointedly as he dropped off to sleep,
“Sign of the times, I suppose! Wonder which of those monks was
Baumgartner. Must have a talk with him to-morr——”

A light sleeper, he jumped up as he heard the Abbey bell boom forth, but
turned round contentedly on the other side when by the light of a match
he saw that it was the call to Matins at what the Rector of the parish
had called the “unearthly hour of four.”

“Heavens!” he reflected, “Who would be a Benedictine monk! And—oh,
hang! I kept the poor old Abbot out of bed until the Lord knows when!”

In spite of this interruption of his slumbers he was at the lodge gates
before the pale November sun had attempted to pierce the misty air. He
found that Brother Gregoire, the laybrother in charge, had already been
instructed to hand over the mail to him. He questioned him as to the
possibility of any of the vanished brothers having taken the letters up
to the monastery on the day of his disappearance. Brother Gregoire—a
very corpulent little Frenchman who was glad to find that his questioner
spoke fluent French—admitted the possibility but was vague as to dates.

“You see, Monsieur,” he said, “I am responsible, and I make a point of
being here when the postman comes. Of course, if the postman comes at an
unusual hour it is another matter. And even then, before leaving here, a
brother would have to be relieved by me and would probably tell me if he
had taken in any letters.”

“I see,” Gilmartin nodded, “But have you no recollection of a case when
the brother has not waited to be relieved?”

“Oh! That happens sometimes, Monsieur, if the brother knows that I am
coming down from the Abbey. Sometimes the porter telephones down when I
am coming.”

After a short silence Gilmartin remarked:

“I presume, Brother, that you know why I am here?”

“I have an idea, Monsieur. I know nothing for certain, but Father Abbot
has ordered me to answer all your questions as if it were he who asked
them.”

The Irishman said nothing more, noticing that the laybrother returned to
a book of devotions which he had laid down on the detective’s entrance.
He drew from his own pocket a little book whose contents were far from
devotional and until the postman came they sat in the little front room
of the lodge, the lips of the one moving in silent prayer, of the other
curling now and then with amusement at some of the jokes of his
favourite Aristophanes. The crunch of footsteps brought the laybrother
to his feet. Gilmartin followed more slowly to the door.

“’Mornin’, Brother Greegore!” Gilmartin heard outside, “Coldish sort of
a mornin’! Not a big post this mornin’! G’mornin’!”

“Hi!” the detective called after the postman as he was leaving, “Just a
minute!”

“Yessir!”

“Are you the postman who delivers the registered letters?”

“Yessir! Ten o’clock, sometimes five o’clock,” the man replied jerkily.

“Do you remember delivering any registered packages to this lodge during
the past week?” Gilmartin asked.

The postman looked at the laybrother before answering. The latter
nodded.

“Eet ees all right, George,” Brother Gregoire reassured him, “Ze
gentleman ’as ze Fazzer Abbot’s permission to ask.”

“Ah!” the postman exclaimed, “That’s O.K. then! Yes, sir, I delivered a
registered package ’ere the other evening—what day was it now?—yes,
Sat’day it was. I was a bit late, too. But it wasn’t Brother Greegore as
signed for it. It was another one—a little bald-’eaded one—I ’eard ’is
name—now——”

“Not Denis?” Brother Gregoire asked.

“Denis it was, Brother Greegore!” the postman replied, nodding
emphatically, “Denis and no other! That’s right!”

“Did you notice what he did with the package!” Gilmartin went on.

“Yes, sir, partickler I did! There was another brother—it bein’ darkish
I didn’t see which—just a-goin’ up the drive to the monastery and ’e
called after ’im to take it up. I see ’im runnin’ after ’im as I goes
out o’ the gate. Why, sir? Is the package missin’? No trouble about it I
’ope.”

“Oh, it has been mislaid somewhere,” Gilmartin evaded, “Nobody seems to
know where it’s gone so I thought I’d ask you about it—just to refresh
people’s memories.”

“I see, sir. Well, g’morning, sir!”

“Just a minute,” the Irishman stopped him, “I’m sorry to keep you from
your round but I want to know if it is the package I think it was. Did
you notice the postmark? Was the package bulky or not?”

“Bulky it was, sir,” the postman replied, “An’ the stamps! Now I didn’t
notice partickler. They was furrin, I know. French, likely as not; most
of the letters here is French.”

“They weren’t Swiss by any chance?”

“Now, there you ’ave me, sir! They might ’a’ been an’ yet they might
not. But I’ll tell you what, sir! They could tell you at the
post-office. Bein’ a registered package they’d ’ave a record—like—of
it.”

“Right! Thanks very much, I’ll inquire. And just one thing more: the
Abbot authorises me to tell you not to take anybody’s signature in
future except Brother Gregoire’s or mine, that is to say until further
orders.”

“Right you are, sir! I’ll remember that! G’morning, sir.”

When the obliging official had disappeared Gilmartin turned to the
laybrother and smiled ruefully.

“I don’t know how much you know, Brother Gregoire,” he said, speaking
English without thinking, “But I’ll tell you this: things look pretty
blue to me.”

“I do not know, per’aps, as moch as you, sair,” Brother Gregoire replied
in the same language, “But I sink sings looks black—not blue.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” the detective agreed, “And now let’s see
what sort of a mail we’ve got.”

The laybrother handed him the half-dozen letters. Gilmartin read the
addresses aloud.

“H’m! Dom Columba Massey, O.S.B.” he muttered, “Irish Free State stamp!
The Father Procurator! H’m! Two for him! Dom Augustin Gortaud! Who’s
that?”

“Ze Fazzer Prior, sair!”

“Ah! Le Révérendissime Père, Dom Bruno Chavasse! Two for him also.
Right! Brother Gregoire, I’ll take these up.”

“_Bien, monsieur!_”

Gilmartin strode up the drive toward the monastery. Holding the letters
openly in his hand he was apparently careless, but his eyes darted from
side to side towards the wood on one side and the sunk garden on the
other.

“Jolly good spot for an ambush!” he reflected, “Especially at night!”

He started as a rustling from the wood on the left struck his ear.

“Ah! There you are!” he heard, and then he saw the guestmaster coming
down a path towards him, “I was looking for you to take you in to
breakfast.”

“Thanks very much,” the detective answered, “I was just coming up to
look for some food.”

“I see you’re acting postman to-day.” Father Massey went on joining him
on the drive.

“Yes, I thought I’d save Brother Gregoire the walk.”

The guestmaster was silent for a minute.

“Father Prior usually takes the letters and hands them out,” he
volunteered as they entered the cloister.

“Father Abbot is going to do it to-day.” Gilmartin replied, and his tone
was a little sharper than he had intended.

“Sorry,” the monk apologised, “I am evidently interfering with something
that doesn’t concern me.”

When the detective had seated himself at a table which had been laid for
him in a little library he placed the letters beside his plate, and
whether by accident or by design that addressed to Father Massey was
uppermost. The guestmaster, however, who was attending to his wants,
made no sign that he noticed it. Half-way through the meal the Abbot
came in, and at his signal Father Massey left the room.

“Nothing this morning, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin reported after
greetings, “And I’m afraid we are too late.”

He recounted his conversation with the postman, and handed over the
letters, at which the Abbot barely glanced.

“H’m!” Dom Chavasse reflected, “I wonder! The delay is certainly
strange, but there is a possibility that the registered package you
mention is something quite different—proofs to be corrected or
something like that.”

“I hope so,” Gilmartin replied, “I shall inquire at the post-office.”

“If it is not impertinent of me,” the Abbot said, “May I ask what you
are going to do to-day?”

“First of all, I am going to send a telegram in your name to the Abbot
of Einsiedeln, then, as I have said, inquire into this registered
package business. And then, Father Abbot,” the detective added
apologetically, “I’m afraid I shall have to take the local police into
our confidence to some extent.”

Dom Chavasse shrugged his shoulders.

“If you must, you must,” he said philosophically, “I should perhaps have
done so myself from the beginning. I was perhaps wrong in saying
nothing.”

“That,” Gilmartin replied with a smile, “Is a matter which is very
difficult to decide, but I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you,
Father Abbot. My object now in wishing to tell the local police is
simply to ask them to have an eye on all strangers who come in and out
of your grounds.”

“They would need a small army to do that efficiently,” the Abbot
reflected, “There are nearly two miles of road on three sides of the
wood. Then there are the fields which march with those of various
farmers and others around.”

“It won’t be easy,” the Irishman admitted, “But we’ll see what can be
done. By the way, what is your procedure with regard to letters? The
prior distributes them, I believe.”

“Yes,” Dom Chavasse replied, “In theory, you see, we have a censorship
of correspondence. In practice, it consists of reading letters addressed
to novices and distributing the other unopened, unless there is
suspicion of unauthorised letter-writing. I delegate all that to Father
Prior.”

“I see! Then——”

There was a knock at the door followed by the rather hurried entrance of
a tall monk whose fiery red hair and steel blue eyes would have made him
conspicuous anywhere. He was panting with either exertion or excitement.

“What is the meaning of this, Father Prior?” the Abbot asked severely,
“Why this——”

“Sorry, Father Abbot,” the prior apologised in English with a slight
foreign accent, “But I—I thought I must report immediately.”

“Yes? What is it?”

The prior looked doubtfully at Gilmartin.

“Don’t mind Mr. Gilmartin,” the Abbot directed, “What is wrong?”

“Father Baumgartner has just been attacked in the upper wood by two
laybrothers!”

“What!” Dom Chavasse exclaimed incredulously, “By two laybrothers? Which
laybrothers?”

“I should have said,” the prior amended, “Two men in laybrothers’
habits; they are not any of ours.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps,” Gilmartin suggested mildly, “With your permission, Father
Abbot, Father Prior will sit down and explain as rapidly as possible.”

The Abbot nodded and Dom Gortaud sat down.

“I went out,” he began rapidly in French, “To take my usual short walk
after breakfast when I met coming from the wood one of the
novices—Brother Guthrie—supporting Father Baumgartner, whose habit and
face were stained with mud. I asked what had happened, and Brother
Guthrie explained. He was walking in the wood and as he turned the
corner near the Farnshot road he saw Father Baumgartner walking in front
of him. Further ahead he saw what seemed to be two laybrothers coming in
the opposite direction. He thought it strange, he says, as generally at
this hour they are all occupied with their duties, and also because two
were together during Silence. When they came up to Father Baumgartner,
Brother Guthrie saw them stop and then suddenly throw themselves on the
Father. He ran forward at once to help Father Baumgartner, but did not
reach them, for the two attackers fled when they saw him coming. He
found that Father Baumgartner was not seriously injured, beyond a slight
sprain caused by the fall, and some abrasion of the skin on his face.”

“Where is Father Baumgartner now?” Gilmartin asked.

“In his cell. The Brother Infirmarian and Father Sub-prior are attending
to him.”

“May I see him?”

“Certainly, Mr. Gilmartin,” the Abbot replied, and turned to the prior.
“Will you please, Father Prior, assemble the community in the Chapter
Room at once. I wish to give orders that nobody is to leave the cloister
after dark, and that in the daytime nobody is to go out of sight of the
cloister except in case of urgent necessity.”

“And even then,” Gilmartin interposed, “If I may advise, he should be
escorted by another monk or laybrother. If he has to go outside the
grounds, I suppose that will not always be easy, but then it is not very
probable that an attack will be made on a frequented road. However, we
must devise some means of protecting your people, Father Abbot, and your
measures seem to be the best we can do for the present at any rate.”

“Yes. Later in the day we may be able to supplement these measures. And
now, Father Prior, ask Father Guestmaster to show Mr. Gilmartin to
Father Baumgartner’s cell.”

Gilmartin hurriedly finished his coffee.

As he left the room he thought he saw the old Abbot’s lips moving in
prayer.


                        VI. The Rector’s Opinion

The detective found Father Baumgartner sitting in an arm-chair which had
been moved into his cell. The infirmarian had just finished his
ministrations.

“A little rest, Father, and you will be all right,” he was saying as the
guestmaster introduced Gilmartin into the cell.

“I hope you haven’t been seriously injured, Father Baumgartner!” Father
Massey asked in a tone which struck the detective as insincere.

“No, it is only a scratch on de fa-ace,” the Swiss monk replied in an
atrocious accent, “And a liddle tvisd of de leg wen I vos against de
dree knogged. It is nodding.”

The guestmaster introduced the detective.

“Would you mind telling me exactly what happened, Father Baumgartner?”
the Irishman asked, and sat down on the edge of the monk’s narrow bed.

Father Massey discreetly withdrew.

“I vos in de vood valking,” the monk began in a deep guttural growl,
“Ant I see doo laybrudders who towards me kom. I know dem not but I
greed dem mid de usual greeding. Von of dem say: ‘You are Fadder
Baumgartner from Einsiedeln, yes?’ I admit de fact ant von of dem—de
odder von—said: ‘you have your blans received, no?’ I answer dat such
madders the concern of laybrudders are not, and den de first von hit me
ant I fall. Den dey run avay ant de Brudder Novice koms and to my feet
helps me. I understand not dist’ing.”

The monk shook his head and looked at Gilmartin in bewilderment. The
detective privately thought him something of a comic sight as he sat—a
lank, bony figure—in the arm-chair with his hands under his scapular.
His bulging short-sighted eyes seemed to be trying to come out of his
head. A broken pair of spectacles lay on the table beside him, and their
absence from his nose made him lean forward as if anxious to scan every
line of Gilmartin’s face.

“In what language did these men speak?” the detective asked.

“In English.”

“Could you describe them?”

“Von vos dall ant de odder vos small,” Father Baumgartner replied, “Bud
deir faces I notiss not.”

“That’s a pity,” Gilmartin reflected, “Are these plans of yours very
important?”

“Vell!” the monk said philosophically with a smile made crooked by the
court plaster on his cheek, “Vorld-like speaking, I subbose dey are very
imbordant indeed, but ve can midout dem de Gingdom of Heaven reach.”

The Irishman laughed.

“But not the Republic of Argentina, I presume,” he replied without a
pause, “By wireless at any rate.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” the Swiss father laughed throatily, “Ver’ goot! Ver’
goot! Bud nod kvite droo! Von can already de Rebublic of Archentina
reach, bud von musd von’s turn vait. My infention vill anywere all
togedder to reach possible make.”

“What do you mean exactly, Father?” Gilmartin asked, now interested, “Do
you mean that with the help of your invention several people will be
able to speak—say to New York from London—simultaneously from the same
station without jamming each other?”

“Dat is vot I mean. You have it ver’ glearly said.”

“H’m! Like multiplex telegraphy. I don’t wonder thieves want to get hold
of your plans!”

“Bud I have dem not,” the monk lamented, “De Vater Abbot of Einsiedeln
has to send dem bromised, bud they have not yet gekommen. Unt I musd de
Margoni directors at de end of de mont’ meet.”

Gilmartin made no reply to this.

“Have you any idea, Father,” he asked, “Who might want to steal your
diagrams?”

“None. Absolute none!” Father Baumgartner replied dolorously.

“By the way,” the detective went on, “How did you lose your suitcase on
your way here?”

“I do not know,” the monk replied, “At Dover it vos dere ant at London
it vos not.”

Gilmartin rose.

“Well, Father Baumgartner,” he said, “I must go now. We will do what we
can to see that you get your plans all right.”

As he closed the cell door after him he noticed a curious clicking noise
and turned round to look. On the door about five feet from the bottom
was a little oval piece of wood which swung to and fro on a nail. The
detective, puzzled, moved it with his finger, and found that it covered
a little hole in the door, seemingly for the purpose of looking into the
room. He could not resist the temptation to peer in and almost burst out
laughing when he saw the Swiss monk still sitting in his arm-chair
staring disconsolately at the broken spectacles which he now held in
long, bony fingers. Gilmartin checked the laugh, however, before its
inception, and gently replacing the cover, moved away. As he walked down
the corridor towards the stairs he noted that similar holes were pierced
in all the cell doors.

“Humph!” he muttered, “No privacy!”

As he passed down to the cloister he heard the voice of the Abbot
addressing his community in the Chapter Room.

Gilmartin moved on towards the front door. The old laybrother porter was
there and let him out.

“Where is the local post-office?” the detective asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” the old man replied, “I haf neffer zeen it, bud
Brudder Krekoire at the lotch can tell you.”

“I see you are a fellow-countryman of Father Baumgartner,” Gilmartin
said in German.

“_Aber nein, mein Herr!_” the old porter replied in the same language,
“I am a German—a Bavarian. He is German-Swiss.”

“I see! Well, good morning, Brother. Would you tell the Father
Guestmaster when you see him that I shall probably not return for
lunch.”

The laybrother bowed.

Gilmartin smiled when he found that the post-office was not a hundred
yards from the Abbey gates. Evidently the old porter was not
observant—perhaps he was not even interested. The Irishman considered a
few minutes before composing his telegram. He decided that a seat of
learning like Einsiedeln would be sure to house a monk with a knowledge
of English, so he used that language. He had begun to write when an idea
suddenly struck him which made him add more than he had at first
intended to send. In a few minutes the postal clerk was counting the
number of words in the following:

    “Abbot Einsiedeln.

    “Inform if and when Baumgartner plans dispatched. If not sent
    address dummy package and send secretly monk carrying plans.
    Wire date arrival, Gilmartin, Scotland Yard, London. Making
    arrangements protect.

                                             “Abbot, Alderborough.”

This dispatched, he held a conversation with Assistant Commissioner
Roche by telephone to whom he announced his probable arrival in London
on the following day.

A policeman directed him to the police station, where he was lucky
enough to find a superintendent who had come on inspection duty. To him
Gilmartin made himself known, and confided part of what he knew of the
state of affairs at the Abbey.

“Now that is very funny,” the superintendent said, “For as I was coming
here this morning I met a civilian and two monks in brown in a Ford
van.”

“Monks in a Ford van!” Gilmartin exclaimed.

“Yes,” the local man confirmed, “When you say it like that it sounds
funny. I never gave it a second thought myself. Imagined they were going
somewhere for their provisions or something like that. A monastery must
get its food somewhere, and in any case, nobody round here gives them a
second look, though they do go out in their funny clothes.”

“Well, superintendent,” the Irishman said, “I’d be very much obliged if
you’d send out an ‘All Stations’ call to find those two birds. In my
opinion they are no more monks than you or I are, but damned daring
crooks.”

The superintendent waited for nothing more, but gave his orders to a
sergeant who saw to their execution at once.

“I’ve told them where I saw them,” he said, when he returned to
Gilmartin, “And the direction they were going, but Lord knows if they’ll
be found. I don’t suppose they’ll keep on the monkish clothes after they
get out of this neighbourhood, and they’re the only means of identifying
them that we’ve got. You see, I didn’t take any particular notice of
them.”

“There’s only one thing about them that I know,” Gilmartin replied, “And
that is that one of them is small and the other tall.”

The superintendent ran out and added this to the information his
sergeant was broadcasting. On his return Gilmartin told him what
measures he wanted adopted, and asked him to give the necessary orders.
The local officer promised to have a discreet watch kept on the Abbey,
and declared that he could manage to have the grounds thoroughly and
minutely searched within twenty-four hours.

“You never know,” he added, “It might be murder and freshly moved earth
might need investigating.”

“Unfortunately,” the detective informed him, “The wood is covered with
dead leaves which can easily be moved and replaced, especially as there
has been so much rain lately to beat them down flat.”

When he left the police station Gilmartin suddenly decided to visit the
Assistant Commissioner’s friend, the Rector of the parish.

“Yes, a bad business!” Mr. Brinsley-Seale, a stout, grey-headed man with
a humorous gleam in his eyes, said, “Poor Dom Chavasse is very worried,
though he tries not to show it. I can’t make the thing out.”

The rector listened carefully while Gilmartin told him of his theory.
The ancient inscriptions which he had been deciphering were forgotten.

“By Jupiter!” he exclaimed, “I believe you’re right, Chief Inspector!
That’s what it is! But why the poor laybrothers? There seems to be no
point in interfering with them.”

“I cannot make that part of it out myself,” Gilmartin admitted, “Unless
they were attacked when carrying letters. One of them almost certainly
was, but it seems far-fetched to conclude that all the others
disappeared in the same way. There’s something more than that in it.”

“H’m! Yes! What do you think of the crowd up there?”

“I haven’t had much time to judge,” Gilmartin replied with a smile,
“They seem to me to be very holy men, but then, you see, I’m possibly
prejudiced; I’m a Catholic.”

“That’s nothing to do with it,” the rector declared. “They _are_ holy
men! I say so in all sincerity, and I’m far from being a Romanist! They
_are_ holy men, but——”

“But what?” Gilmartin insisted as the rector hesitated, “Won’t you
finish, Mr. Brinsley-Seale?”

“Well, I don’t like that Irish guestmaster,” Mr. Brinsley-Seale said
emphatically, “Too much soft sawder for my taste, and he’s too
inquisitive altogether.”

“Yes. I didn’t altogether cotton to him either,” Gilmartin replied,
“Though he is my fellow-countryman. But I think he is really harmless.”

“He’s my fellow-countryman, too,” the rector went on, “For I’m a Galway
man, but I don’t like him, and—Oh!”

The exclamation was followed by a silence.

“What?” Gilmartin asked.

“He is a wireless fanatic too,” Mr. Brinsley-Seale explained, “He has an
experimenter’s licence. A job he had to get the Abbot to consent to let
him apply for it! I must not be uncharitable, but I cannot help
wondering if he doesn’t know more than a little about this business.”

“I wonder!” Gilmartin echoed, “Strange that nobody mentioned that
experimenter’s licence to me!”

“Oh! Massey wouldn’t of course!” the rector declared, “And it would
never enter the Abbot’s head.”

On leaving the rector, Gilmartin lunched at a local hostelry, and then
made a survey of the Abbey grounds. He found that Dom Chavasse had
correctly estimated the difficulty of watching the goings and comings
from them by any but a small army of police.

The bell was ringing for Evensong when he returned to the monastery. At
the front door the old porter gave him a sealed envelope with a message
that the Abbot wished to see him as soon as he came in. Gilmartin opened
the envelope and found that Dom Chavasse had enclosed a telegram which
was the Einsiedeln Abbot’s reply to his own of that morning.

“Phew!” the detective exclaimed as he read it. “This is a nice
business!”

The telegram was as follows:

    “Plans not yet sent. Torn during attempt robbery. New copies
    being made by Father Kleinmichel. Ready to-morrow. Will act as
    requested. Explain Father Baumgartner. Writing.

                                                Abbot, Einsiedeln.”


                     VII. The Struggle in the Wood

Knowing that the Abbot would have to pass through the cloister on his
way from chapel, Gilmartin decided to await him there. As he walked up
and down he could hear the faint strains of the psalmody in the
distance. The chapel being on a slightly higher level than the rest of
the monastery, it was connected with the cloister by means of an
underground corridor just wide enough to allow two people to walk
abreast, and lighted by a single gas jet. The detective from one end of
the cloister had a straight view to the crypt under the chapel, and he
so manœuvred that as soon as his eye caught the glitter of the Abbot’s
pectoral cross at the head of the procession of monks, that they should
meet at the entrance to the cloister.

Dom Chavasse joined him immediately and led him to the little library
where he had breakfasted that morning. There the guestmaster, who,
Gilmartin noticed, was dressed in ordinary clerical attire underneath
his habit, brought them tea, and excusing himself on the plea that he
had to go to a neighbouring school to hear confessions, withdrew.

“Take a heavy stick with you, Father Massey,” the Abbot directed as the
monk went out, “And when you come back stay at the lodge until somebody
is sent from here to accompany you up the drive.”

The Irish monk bowed.

“You may smoke in here,” the Abbot continued with a smile, noticing that
the detective drank tea without eating anything, “I have observed that
those who do not eat usually smoke at teatime.”

“I didn’t dare to suggest it,” Gilmartin replied, “Though I must confess
I wanted to do so. I was afraid it would smell in the cloister.”

“Oh!” the Abbot laughed, “If the brethren are tempted, they must move
farther away, though as a matter of fact by a curious oversight our
founder omitted to forbid smoking.”

“Indeed!” the detective smiled, “Considering that St. Benedict died
sometime round A.D. 543, the oversight was perhaps pardonable.”

“You are not to be caught, I see,” Dom Chavasse commented as he watched
Gilmartin fill his pipe, “You know your Church History too well.”

“I’m afraid I’m a bit of a fraud,” the detective confessed, “There is a
copy of the Rule of St. Benedict in my room, and I simply read Cardinal
Gasquet’s introduction to it. But you are a busy man, Father Abbot, and
I mustn’t keep you. You wished to see me, I presume, about the telegram
from Einsiedeln!”

“Yes. What do you think has happened?”

“I think that it is pretty clear,” Gilmartin replied, “It confirms my
theory at any rate. The gang which is after Father Baumgartner’s plans
is evidently well organised, and they wish to make sure of them either
here or at the other end. I wish I had some clue to the identity of the
people at the bottom of it. Father Baumgartner knows nothing.”

“Oh! He is perfectly hopeless,” Dom Chavasse exclaimed, “He is
interested only in the invention itself. A child could steal the plans
from him! But perhaps you have a theory as to the identity of the
would-be thieves.”

“N—no!”

“You do not think that they might be a rival organisation to Marconi’s?
I do not know if there is such a thing, but that is an idea which
entered my head.”

“There is absolutely nothing to give a clue,” Gilmartin answered
prudently.

“True!”

“Who is this Father Kleinmichel mentioned in the telegram?” the
detective asked.

“He is Father Baumgartner’s assistant—a very competent draughtsman, I
believe.”

“I don’t like to suggest it, Father Abbot,” the Irishman said after a
pause, “But what do you think of the possibility of an accomplice of
this gang being a member of the Einsiedeln community—or of yours?”

The Abbot hesitated.

“Of this community,” he said then, “I do not think it likely, nor
Einsiedeln either, but—there is another possibility.”

“What is that?”

“I don’t know if you are aware,” Dom Chavasse explained, “That
Einsiedeln is one of the most famous pilgrim resorts in the world. You
may have heard of the miraculous black wooden image of Our Lady there.
The guest-house of the Abbey is usually full, and it is quite possible
that amongst the guests is—or was—somebody who heard—from the idle
chatter of a laybrother perhaps—of Father Baumgartner’s journey to
London and its object. That would be quite enough, I think, considering
his reputation in the radio world.”

“I suppose the police of the Canton of Schwyz would hardly know if any
well-known criminals were among the guests?” Gilmartin asked.

“Hardly!” the Abbot thought, “But perhaps this attempted robbery will
make them look into things there.”

“I shall ’phone to the yard to-night,” the detective declared, “And ask
the Assistant Commissioner to wire them.”

“Yes. A good idea, but I hope he will give the affair as little
publicity as possible.”

“Don’t worry about that, Father Abbot!” Gilmartin reassured him, “He
knows how to keep things quiet when necessary. Though, mind you, Father
Abbot, I’m afraid publicity would be advisable—even necessary—if the
plans did disappear.”

“I would almost rather have them lost,” the Abbot declared, “Than have a
scandal. And yet, on the other hand, that is a matter for the Abbot of
Einsiedeln. What really worries me is the fate of my poor laybrothers.”

Prelate and layman were silent for some minutes.

“None of all this would have happened,” Gilmartin suddenly remarked, “If
Father Baumgartner had only protected his invention.”

“I know,” Dom Chavasse admitted, “There is a Patent Office in Berne, I
am sure, but Father Baumgartner for some reason wanted to secure a
British patent first—probably because he was offering his invention to
a British concern. Not that it would have mattered, I presume.”

“I suppose,” Gilmartin said, “That any monies accruing from the
invention would go—not to him but to his Abbey.”

“That is so. The vow of poverty forbids individual property.”

“To come nearer home, Father Abbot,” the detective changed the subject,
“May I ask you about a member of your own community?”

“Yes,” the Abbot replied, “You mean Father Massey—the Guestmaster?”

“Yes.”

“The idea occurred to me before Evensong,” Dom Chavasse went on, “And I
am afraid it was a source of considerable distraction to me at prayer.
But I think that with all his faults he is incapable of such terrible
perfidy.”

“I must confess,” Gilmartin declared, “That I was surprised to hear from
Mr. Brinsley-Seale that he was a wireless experimenter, and I wondered
why you had not mentioned the fact.”

“It simply never occurred to me,” the Abbot replied, “You must remember
that I have never connected the arrival of Father Baumgartner with the
disappearance of the laybrothers, that is, not until you propounded that
theory. And even then I did not think of suspecting Father Massey. In
fact, I blame myself for thinking of such a thing. What could be his
object? He is a monk under the same vows as Father Baumgartner. He could
reap no personal benefit from the invention, and we—his
community—could certainly not profit from it if it were stolen.”

Gilmartin thought he could suggest at least one object, but he refrained
from doing so rather than wound the susceptibilities of the Abbot who
loved and was loved by his community.

“Mr. Brinsley-Seale doesn’t like him,” he said instead.

“I know,” the Abbot smiled, “But isn’t that easily explained by the
temperamental clash between Irish protestant and catholic? They are both
your fellow-countrymen, Mr. Gilmartin.”

“It might be that,” the detective said cautiously, “But then I’m an
Irish catholic myself and I must confess I don’t like him.”

Dom Chavasse laughed.

“Ah!” he replied, “Another consideration enters there. You are a
Northern and Father Massey a Southern Irishman. As a matter of fact,
however, I will admit, between ourselves, that Father Massey is not
popular even in the community, but I think that it is merely because of
his unfortunate manner.”

“Oh!” Gilmartin dismissed the point, “This is not a question of likes
and dislikes. Such things are not evidence, and I should have more sense
than to discuss it with you, Father Abbot. I have seen too many good men
who looked like criminals and criminals who looked like plaster saints
to take much stock in that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” the Abbot laughed, “I have met monks who looked like gargoyles.
And as far as Father Massey is concerned, I have known him for some
years now, and with the exception that for a contemplative monk he is
somewhat inclined to be talkative, I have seen nothing but good in him.
No! I don’t think he is involved in this miserable business.”

“I hope, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin changed the subject, “That you approve
of my step in having a dummy package addressed here and having the real
plans sent over by hand.”

“Is that what you are doing? I wondered. Yes. I approve entirely; it is
a very good idea.”

“There is only one thing, Father Abbot,” the detective warned, “Let it
be a secret between you and me.”

“Certainly,” the Abbot replied, “As a matter of fact, I have told Father
Baumgartner that I deduced from his Abbot’s telegram that you were
having the plans addressed elsewhere. That is what I thought, for your
ruse would never have entered my head.”

“There is no harm in him thinking that,” Gilmartin answered, “So long as
he knows that we are going to see that the diagrams are not stolen.
Nothing would be gained by telling him any more. Besides, I have no
doubt that even in a monastery where you have silence for twenty-three
hours out of the twenty-four, things have a way of getting round.”

“Oh! We have our frailties like everybody else,” the Abbot smiled.

“I’m sorry, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin apologised, “If my precautions look
like a reflection on your monks, but in my job we learn to distrust
rather than the contrary—merely as a matter of precaution. Even among
ourselves we policemen are not communicative.”

“Oh! I pray you, Mr. Gilmartin, do not apologise,” Dom Chavasse said
heartily, “You are quite right. Do not think that I do not appreciate
your difficulties. I do, fully.”

Gilmartin finished his pipe, and the Abbot rose.

“I should like to have a further talk with Father Baumgartner if I may,”
the Irishman requested.

“Certainly,” the Abbot agreed, “I will have him sent down here at once.
And by the way, you spoke of telephoning. There is an instrument in the
porter’s room with extensions to Father Procurator and me. You had
better use that one for you can cut us both off while you are speaking.
I will tell the porter to leave the room when you wish to use the
telephone.”

“Thanks, Father Abbot.”

The detective strolled down the now empty cloister thinking over the
curious case which had brought him to these strange surroundings. He was
still there when the Abbot redescended the stairs.

“Father Baumgartner is not in his cell,” Dom Chavasse whispered, “He
was, of course, absent from the Chapter Room this morning when I ordered
the brethren not to go out of sight of the buildings alone. He is quite
capable of going out again into the wood in spite of his adventure of
this morning.”

“H’m! And it is growing dark!” Gilmartin reflected. “Is it not possible
that he is in some other monk’s cell?”

“No,” the Abbot replied, “In that case the monk’s door would be open. I
will send a laybrother round to look for him nevertheless. He is perhaps
in Chapel.”

“Meanwhile,” the Irishman declared, “I am going out into the wood. I
must get my torch.”

“Take a laybrother with you,” Dom Chavasse said to his disappearing
back, and without waiting for his consent went towards the laybrothers’
quarters. Thus when Gilmartin came down from his room with a torch and a
truncheon he found waiting for him at the foot of the stairs an enormous
figure in brown holding a stout stick—a laybrother at least six feet
six inches in height and built in proportion.

“Father Abbot says I’m to go wi’ ye, sir,” the brother told him, “I’m a
fair hand wi’ me fistses, and I’ve got this.”

He held up his cudgel.

“Good man!” Gilmartin laughed, “Come on! You’ll be able to show me the
most likely paths at any rate.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“What!” the detective exclaimed as they ran out through the quadrangle,
“An old blue-jacket?”

“That’s right, sir! Warrant Shipwright, last rating!” The laybrother
replied, loping along easily, “Now carpenter on board the Lord’s
Training Ship!”

“Seems to agree with you!”

“A good ship, sir!” the brother chuckled, “A seaworthy craft! This way,
sir!”

He led the way down a path off the main drive, and ran on in silence for
about twenty yards at a pace which Gilmartin, long out of training found
difficult to maintain. Suddenly the laybrother stopped.

“There’s two ways here, sir,” he whispered, “How about it if you went
one way an’ me t’other? We’re both hefty and we’ve got sticks. The paths
meet t’other end.”

“A good idea!” Gilmartin agreed, “How shall I call you if I want you?”

“Just you shout ‘Cubert,’ sir! That’s my name in religion.”

“Hubert?”

“No, sir! Cubert! Cornish name, I believe, sir! How’ll I call you?”

“No use calling my surname,” Gilmartin told him, “I don’t want it
shouted. Call me ‘Larry’!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

They separated. Gilmartin noticed that the big laybrother had left him
almost noiselessly and endeavoured to imitate the silence of his
movements. Darkness had now fallen, and in the wood it was even blacker
than on the drive. He stumbled once or twice and decided to flash his
torch. Every now and then he stood still to listen for footsteps.

“The old ass!” he exclaimed irritably once when he barked his shins
against a stump. “You’d think he’d have more sense.”

He continued on his way and then laughed to himself.

“Perhaps I’m the ass!” he reflected, “I should have waited. As likely as
not the good monk is putting in a few extra prayers in the chapel.”

Suddenly to his left a stentorian roar rent the air.

“Larry!” he heard, and dashed in the direction of the sound, his torch
gleaming.

“Larr-ee-ee-ee!” the roar came again, and there was an urgency as of
despair in its long-drawn-out final note.

“Coming!” Gilmartin shouted, and ran on.

In less than half a minute, above the noise he himself was making he
could hear the threshing of the bodies of several men through the
underbrush; the breaking of twigs sounded like revolver-shots. A few
more steps and the detective heard language more often associated with
the lower deck than with the monastery, and the panting of struggling
men. He tried to focus his light on the threshing mass, but it swayed
and swerved in an indistinguishable medley from side to side.

“Come on, sir!” the laybrother’s voice rang out, “Ah! Would you? Come
on! I—ve got the b——the hounds! Yah! A-h-h!”

Gilmartin dashed in, his truncheon raised. The laybrother now seemed to
be on the ground.

Crash!

A heavy stick, wielded with a sure hand, had thrown the electric torch
into the undergrowth, where it lay throwing up a useless ray into the
trees.

“Now!” the detective thought, wincing from the pain in his wrist, “I
won’t know whom I’m hitting!”

Nevertheless he charged forward.

“Where’s Father Baumgartner?” he shouted.

“Holding him, sir,” a muffled voice came, “They’re pullin’ him
awa-a-a-ay! Ah! My leg’s broke! Get up, ye devils! Get up!”

Gilmartin was now striking right and left, reckless whether he hit
friend or foe.

Crunch!

He saw a brilliant light before his eyes, blinding him—then all was
darkness.

He woke to see a ray of light shining up into the bare branches of the
tree above him. Somebody was slapping his hands.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed in bewilderment, and then groaned as he
moved his head.

“Exactly, sir!” came from the form beside him.

“What happened?” Gilmartin asked.

“They knocked you out, sir, and pulled the Father away. I got half his
scapular left in my hands, that’s all!”

“Are you all right, Brother Cubert?”

“In a manner o’ speaking, sir! My leg’s broke!”

“Good Lord!”

Gilmartin stumbled to his feet, but his head was spinning. He managed,
however, to reach his torch which was still burning, and directed the
ray on the laybrother. His habit was torn and muddy, and the poor
fellow’s leg lay limply bent over. He was perspiring with agony.

“Good Heavens, man!” the detective exclaimed, looking at a trail in the
muddy path, “You hauled yourself from over there! What for? Good God! To
help me?”

“’Sall right, sir! Thought they’d killed you!”

“What’s all this about?”

Gilmartin turned the torch in the direction of the voice. Its rays
crossed those of another, and the detective distinguished the helmeted
figures with the badge of the Hants County Police.

“Why, blast your eyes!” he shouted, still under the influence of the
laybrother’s act of abnegation which made him want to relieve his
feelings by some violence or other, “Why the hell didn’t you come
ten——”

“Whoa! Belay there, sir!” the man on the ground called feebly, “They
couldn’t help—o-o-h!”

“Come on!” Gilmartin said more calmly but peremptorily to the
constables, “I am a Chief Inspector of Metropolitan Police. Don’t stand
there like stuck pigs. We must see about getting the brother up to the
Abbey; his leg is broken.”

He turned the light on Brother Cubert. A constable swept the surrounding
path with another torch.

“Oh! Lord!” Brother Cubert exclaimed, “I was holding the wrong man!”

Then he fainted.

Gilmartin stooped and picked up the torn scapular. It was the brown
garment of a laybrother.


                     VIII. The Guestmaster Returns

Then Dom Bruno Chavasse stepped into the circle of light and knelt down
beside the unconscious laybrother.

“You were so long,” he said apologetically to Gilmartin as he ripped
away Brother Cubert’s underclothes, “That I was afraid something like
this had happened. I had to come! Ah! A compound fracture!”

The Abbot turned to one of the policemen.

“Run up to the Abbey,” he directed crisply—every inch “the colonel,”
“Ask for the Sub-prior and the Brother Infirmarian. Bring them here with
a stretcher.”

“At the double!” Gilmartin added.

Dom Chavasse rose to his feet and took the torn scapular from Gilmartin.
It was the back half of the garment, and the Abbot at once looked at the
inside under the hood. The constable busied himself with first-aid to
the prostrate Brother Cubert.

“Look!” said Dom Chavasse, pointing to a piece of tape sewn at the back
of the scapular neck, “It is Brother Adrian’s scapular!”

“Brother Adrian wasn’t wearin’ it, Father Abbot!”

They turned towards the laybrother who had regained consciousness.

“Who _was_, then?” Gilmartin asked.

“’E was a Boche! That’s why I thought it was Father Baumgartner! ’E
spoke Boche. But Lordy! their ’eads must be sore! You got one of ’em a
lovely clip, sir!”

The gallant fellow’s chuckle was of pure amusement.

“It would ’a’ been a lovely mill if they’d ’a’ fought fair!” he mumbled,
and again slid into unconsciousness.

The Abbot’s eyes met those of the detective in the feeble torchlight.
They smiled at each other through a mist. The constable blew his nose
violently and resumed his ministrations. Voices and the light of a
powerful lantern announced the stretcher-party.

It was much later in the evening when a visiting surgeon with the help
of the Sub-prior, a qualified medical man, had made Brother Cubert
sufficiently comfortable to allow of his answering the questions which
Gilmartin, himself still very shaky, wished to put to him. The detective
meanwhile had been very busy in the porter’s room spreading a net round
the district, though he had little hope of its efficacy.

Dom Chavasse, who had been more distressed than even the wounded man
himself, was present in the sickroom during the interrogatory. The
laybrother was pale under his healthy tan, but he was as cheerful as
ever. The Abbot, who always preferred even a cheerful sinner to a moping
saint, smiled affectionately at him as he sat down beside the bed where
a bulky cage protected the injured leg.

“I never thought to see you in a sick bed, Brother Cubert,” he said.

“Ah! Father Abbot,” the laybrother replied, “Life’s a funny thing! The
strongest man I ever knowed was killed by the littlest dart you ever see
blowed at him from a thing called a sumpitan. I’m a lucky man to be only
in the sick bay.”

“Do you think,” Gilmartin asked him, “You have the strength to tell us
exactly what happened after you and I separated in the wood?”

“Strength? O’ course I have!” Brother Cubert declared, “Only I’ll want a
sip o’ that water now an’ then. That chloryform leaves a funny taste.”

The Abbot handed him a glass which stood on the table, and when the
laybrother had sipped a few drops held it in readiness for use again.

“When I left you, sir,” the brother began, “I walked as quietly as I
knew how as far as that spot where you came up. There I thought I heard
a voice, and I stopped, but it had stopped too, and I thought I had made
a mistake. Then there was a rustlin’ in the bushes, and I called out
kind o’ softly-like: “Is that you, Father Baumgartner?” Somebody
answered ‘Yah!’ and then it seemed as if someone else had clapped a hand
over his mouth. There was someone breathin’ hard and a noise like as if
someone was tryin’ to get loose from someone else. I didn’t say a word,
but sort o’ closed in in the direction of the sounds. All of a sudden
someone shines a light in my face, and I couldn’t see a thing. ‘Is that
you, Father Baumgartner?’ I says again. The one as was shinin’ the light
says something in a foreign language—I’m nearly sure it was Boche
because I heard a word as sounded like ‘_ferfluckt_’—and you’ll know
better’n me, Father Abbot and you, sir, but I believe that word
means—axin’ your pardons—somethin’ like ‘Damn!’”

“Near enough,” Gilmartin smiled.

“I thought so,” Brother Cubert continued, “Then to one side I heerd what
I thought was Father Baumgartner’s voice—sort o’ muffled—and I lunges
out and grabs. I catches ’old of a scapular, but somebody else was doin’
some grabbin’ too. The light went out an’ afore I knew some’un caught my
scapular behind. That made me bite my tongue, I can tell you, sir, an’
it nearly choked me too. A scapular’s a tricky thing to play with. I
landed out backwards with the stick I had and some’un yowled an’ let go.
It was then I shouted out to you, sir, like you told me and wi’ that
they were all on top o’ me.”

“How many were there all told, do you think?” Gilmartin asked.

“I couldn’t rightly say, sir,” the laybrother replied, “It felt like
half a dozen, but thinkin’ it over I should think there was
four—countin’ the one I was holdin’. I think I called again, sir,
an’—an’—I’m afraid, Father Abbot, I called them rascals some names you
wouldn’t like to hear out o’ me mouth.”

“I shouldn’t like to think,” the Abbot replied with an indulgent smile,
“What names your Abbot might let out in the same circumstances.”

“Army an’ Navy!” the other chuckled with a wink at the detective,
“Anyhow, I stopped Mr. Gilmartin when _he_ started, an’ he was beginnin’
well. But I must get back to my tale. When I saw Mr. Gilmartin’s light I
didn’t know if it was him or another of the—the
what-you-may-call-’ems—an’ I fought harder, but one o’ them as I’d
knocked down caught hold o’ me leg an’ threw me. But I didn’t let go o’
that scapular, though it seemed as if some’un was pullin’ at the other
end of it. I wonder I didn’t choke him—whoever he was! I fell crooked
an’ just as you sailed in, Mr. Gilmartin, somebody came down on me an’
my leg snapped like a twig. Phew!”

He paused and the Abbot gave him another sip of the water.

“You hit somebody an awful clip with that truncheon o’ yours, sir,”
Brother Cubert went on, “For there was a groan. I couldn’t see very well
what happened then because the only light there was then was your torch
on the ground and besides I was feelin’ kind o’ faint. One of the blokes
kep’ sittin’ on me an’ you all moved away a bit. Next thing I knew they
was all runnin’ away, draggin’ somebody wi’ them sort o’ protesting. All
I know is that a scapular—or part o’ one—was left in my hands, and Mr.
Gilmartin was lyin’ moanin’ on the ground.”

“Yes,” the detective turned to the Abbot, “And in spite of his broken
leg he crawled over to help.”

“Just what I would expect from Brother Cubert,” Dom Chavasse replied,
“And of course that is the one part of the story he would not mention.
Charity is not puffed up.”

“Humph!” the big laybrother muttered whimsically, “Between you, beggin’
your pardons, you’re doin’ your bestses to puff _me_ up. Why, Father
Abbot, an old sailor who’s got anythin’ in him does his level best to
help the man as fights on his side as long as he’s got a breath in him.
An’ I’m afraid I wasn’t much use.”

“Look at the odds against you!” Gilmartin retorted.

“Ah! Time was, sir, when six to one was about my—but I mustn’t glory in
such things.”

The Abbot laughed.

“I suppose,” he remarked, “That there is no doubt that they have taken
Father Baumgartner away with them?”

“They hauled some’un away, Father Abbot,” Brother Cubert replied,
“Dragged ’im they did.”

“That might be a man that one of you had disabled,” Dom Chavasse
surmised.

“It might be,” the laybrother agreed doubtfully.

“In any case,” Gilmartin added, “Father Baumgartner has not turned up.”

“It’s funny!” Brother Cubert mused, “I could ’a’ sworn it was Father
Baumgartner’s scapular I had a holt of. The voice was like his.”

“To an Englishman,” Gilmartin replied to this, “All these deep Teutonic
voices are alike, and there is very little doubt that we have to do with
a gang of Germans or German-Swiss.”

“Teutonic? That’s Boche, isn’t it?” the laybrother asked.

The detective nodded.

“Then at least two of them was Boches,” the sick man declared, “They was
talkin’ Boche—or somethin’ like it—all the time o’ the rough an’
tumble, at least up to when you came along, sir.”

“Yes,” Gilmartin assented, “I have no doubt they were. It seems fairly
evident, Father Abbot, that whatever plot this may be, it was hatched at
Einsiedeln. They are all Teutons.”

“No, sir,” the man in bed contradicted respectfully, “I don’t know, o’
course, what’s at the back of all this, my business bein’ only to obey
Father Abbot’s orders as long as I’m aboard this cra—— I mean as long
as I’m here, but one o’ them thugs to-night was English. Anyway he was
talkin’ English, because when they was haulin’ the—whoever he was—away
I heerd ’im sort o’ whisperin’: ‘Take his feet! Take his feet!’”

There was a knock at the door and the old porter laybrother came in.

“A policeman wishes to see Mr. Gilmartin,” he announced with a bow in
the Abbot’s direction and went out.

Gilmartin rose.

“That must be one of those I ordered to search the wood and follow the
tracks with his torchlight,” he said, “I’d better see what he has to
say.”

“I shall await you here, Mr. Gilmartin,” the Abbot told him.

Gilmartin found a police sergeant in the reception room.

“We have done what we could, sir,” that worthy reported, “The monks lent
us a couple o’ them petrol lamps and we searched the wood. We found that
the tracks led out to the fence on the Pirley road, and we covered up
some clear ones with boards. There was a hole in the fence and tracks of
a car outside. On the inside of the fence we found these two articles.”

He handed the detective a piece of brown material which Gilmartin
recognised as the other half of the torn scapular, and a blood-stained
and soiled handkerchief. The Irishman looked closely at this latter.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “This may be useful! It has a laundry mark! Good
work!”

“The Inspector asked me to tell you, sir,” the sergeant went on
unemotionally, “That with the Abbot’s permission he will have a man
patrolling the grounds until further orders.”

“That’s all right as far as it goes,” Gilmartin said, “Tell him he may
take the Abbot’s permission for granted. But it looks like a case of the
stable door. By the way, how did those two fellows come to turn up as
they did?”

“One was going off duty, sir,” the sergeant replied, “The other was on
his beat on the Farnshot road. They had just met when they heard the
shouting.”

“I see!” Gilmartin nodded, “Pity they didn’t get there a couple of
minutes sooner. We might have bagged somebody then.”

“They report, sir, that they ran as fast they could,” the sergeant
averred in the tone of a man the honour of whose corps has been
impugned, “And the shouting having stopped when they were half-way there
it took them some time to locate you.”

“Oh! It can’t be helped now,” Gilmartin dismissed the subject, “But I
had arranged with your superintendent for a closer watch to be kept on
these grounds. However, I don’t suppose it’s your fault or theirs that
it wasn’t.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the policeman asked.

“No, except that you’d better get your fellows to go over the ground
carefully again as soon as it is daylight. Then somebody should make
casts of those tracks you covered. I will call at the station
to-morrow.”

“Very good, sir. Good night, sir.”

Gilmartin smiled as he heard the old German porter solemnly announce to
the sergeant on his way out that the Father Cellarer had given orders
that refreshments be given to him and his men in the kitchen. The
Irishman pretended not to have noticed the policeman’s gesture of
anticipatory pleasure, and went slowly up the stairs towards the
sickroom. He found the Abbot coming out of it, closing the door softly
behind him.

“He has fallen asleep,” Dom Chavasse whispered, “Will you come up to my
cell? I have something to tell you. But what is that?”

He pointed to the objects Gilmartin was carrying.

The detective told him, and explained on the way to the Abbot’s room the
significance of the laundry mark on the handkerchief.

“M’yes!” the monk replied shrewdly, “But if the laundry is German or
Swiss it won’t be very easy to get hold of it.”

“True!” Gilmartin admitted, “But I’m banking on its being English.
Remember Brother Cubert says that one of them is English.”

“Yes,” Dom Chavasse replied as he opened his door, “Come in. After you
left Brother Cubert added something to what he told you. It may mean
much or nothing.”

“Yes?”

“He told me that when he lay on the ground he was looking towards where
you were. You were then between him and the ray of light which your lamp
threw up. I understand that it was lying on the ground.”

“Yes, yes!”

“He says that he saw the silhouette of yourself and of the man who hit
you and he believes—in fact I gather that he is sure that that man was
clean-shaven and that he was in a monastic habit, but that the white of
a Roman—that is to say a clerical collar showed at the neck.”

“Hum!” Gilmartin reflected, “That’s not much to go on.”

The Abbot said nothing.

“You seem to think it important,” the detective went on, observing the
expression of the monk’s face, “Oh! I see!”

Dom Chavasse remained silent.

“Why didn’t Brother Cubert mention this to me?” Gilmartin asked, “And
then why did he tell it afterwards to you?”

“Because, Mr. Gilmartin, I am afraid he has the same suspicion which you
now have yourself.”

“Oh! But there’s nothing conclusive in what he saw,” the detective
demurred. “Any sort of collar—a civilian one—would give the appearance
of a Roman collar in that light and in those associations, so that——”

A knock at the door interrupted. Again the red-headed prior—judging by
his expression—was the bearer of bad news.

“Father Massey has come back, Father Abbot,” he reported, “He is cut and
bleeding about the head and says that he was knocked down by a motor-car
driving without lights on the Pirley road.”

The Abbot and the detective exchanged looks.


                           IX. A Reappearance

Gilmartin paid a visit to the guestmaster’s cell before Compline. He
found his fellow-countryman in bed with a bandage on his head and a
compress over one eye, but still fairly cheerful.

“You look as if you’d been having a night out, Father Massey,” the
detective laughed.

“Yes,” the other replied, “A stormy night too at that.”

“How on earth did it happen?” Gilmartin asked, his voice full of
solicitude.

“I was walking back from the college,” Father Massey told him, “About
two miles from here, when a car—or it might have been a small van—ran
me down.”

“It was without lights, I hear,” the detective said.

“Yes,” the monk replied, “That is to say, it had lights—bright ones
too—until it came within ten or fifteen yards from me. Then they went
out and the car seemed to skid right across towards me, and before I had
time to jump out of the way one of the mudguards hit me and I fell. I
don’t know how long I lay there.”

“Were you walking on the road, then? Not on the footpath?”

“There isn’t any footpath there,” the guestmaster replied, “It is just a
country road.”

“How on earth did you get your head bashed in?” Gilmartin asked.

“I think I was knocked against a wall. There is a little bit of wall at
that spot with a letter-box built into it. You know the sort of thing?”

The detective nodded.

“You weren’t in monastic habit, were you?”

“No. I was in ordinary clerical dress. Why?”

“Oh, nothing! Only I noticed that you had your habit on at teatime.”

“Yes, but I had on my other clothes underneath. You see, I always change
before Vespers on the afternoons I have to go out, but I must go to
choir in habit and cowl, so I put them on over the others.”

“I see.”

“Look at the state of my clothes,” Father Massey said, pointing to a
heap of garments on the floor, “And it’s the only suit I’ve got.”

Gilmartin lifted the trousers and saw that one leg was plastered with
what was undoubtedly road mud. A large rent at hip level might indeed
have been caused by the edge of a mudguard. The coat was equally soiled
on the left side—corresponding to the left side of the trousers, and
the left sleeve was also torn. The detective replaced the clothes over
the back of the chair.

“You had a nasty spill by the look of things,” he remarked, “Were you
picked up afterwards, or what?”

“No. I must have lain there for some time unconscious,” the priest told
him, “I awoke to find myself lying in the mud. Then I limped home—very
slowly because my left leg hurt abominably. It is all black and blue.”

“What time was it approximately when this happened?”

“You can see for yourself.” Father Massey replied and pointed to his
table. “There’s my watch! It must have stopped when I came down with
such a crash.”

The glass face of the watch was broken and the position of the hands
indicated twenty-five minutes past five.

“You can’t have been very long at the college,” Gilmartin commented.

“About half an hour or a little more.”

“Humph! Well, this place is more like a hospital than a monastery just
now!” Gilmartin exclaimed.

“With a bit of madhouse thrown in,” Father Massey added, “I hear you’ve
been having stirring times here too while I was away. You look a bit
washed out yourself.”

“Yes, I’ve had a knock on the head too.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Do you know what I’m wondering?” The Guestmaster said suddenly, “I
wonder if I wasn’t knocked down by the car—or van—that carried the
same people who attacked Brother Cubert and you!”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Gilmartin murmured, “It would be about that
time! Yes! Very likely!”

“Then perhaps they knocked me down of set purpose!”

“What on earth for?”

To this Father Massey made no reply and it seemed to Gilmartin as if the
question embarrassed him. The detective did not press it and after a
mumbled hope that the monk would soon recover he left the cell. He was
policeman enough to peer back into the room through the little hole in
the door when he reached the corridor. The guestmaster was smiling but
the smile was quickly followed by a frown, and Gilmartin, allowing the
cover to fall back over the spy-hole, went down into the cloister, his
own brow deeply furrowed.

The monks were walking up and down the corridor in two rows abreast—one
row walking backwards facing the other. The Abbot who was in the middle
of his community left them and joined the Irishman. Only his eyes asked
a question, but Gilmartin understood.

“The story is a probable one,” he said, “Possibly even a true one.”

“What do you advise, Mr. Gilmartin?” Dom Chavasse asked anxiously.

“Nothing, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin replied, “You will be happier, I’m
sure, if you believe Father Massey and if you act towards him as though
you never had any suspicions.”

“And you? Do you believe him?” the Abbot pressed.

The Irishman laughed.

“That’s a nasty question to ask a detective,” he said, “We are
suspicious by nature or by training and often don’t know ourselves
whether to believe a story or not. As a matter of fact, however, Father
Abbot, I think you will be quite safe in believing that Father Massey
was knocked down by a motor van.”

The Abbot looked relieved for a moment and then frowned.

“M’yes,” he murmured, “But that’s not the whole question.”

“Don’t probe any deeper, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin advised, “We used to
say as youngsters: ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies. It’s
very good advice to follow when you’ve got a detective round doing all
the questioning.”

“How am I to apply that?” the Abbot asked. “To you or to Father Massey?”

“Oh! Ask me what you like!” the detective laughed, “If I can’t tell you
the truth for any reason, at any rate I’ll tell no lies. I reserve the
right to be guilty of _suppressio veri_, when it seems necessary.”

“But not of _suggestio falsi_, I hope.” Dom Chavasse added.

“N-no! I don’t think that would be justifiable in the circumstances, but
I can imagine the possibility of my not correcting a false inference you
may make from the fact of my silence.”

“I see,” the Abbot replied, “But with regard to Father Massey? Don’t you
think I might be justified in questioning him?”

“From your point of view, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin conceded, “You would
be justified in doing exactly as you please, but I am looking at it from
another point of view, Father Massey’s as a matter of fact, as well as
from mine. He has undoubtedly something on his mind, and equally without
doubt—in my opinion, that is—he will eventually confide in you. I am
banking on that. Things look that way to me.”

“I wish I knew what you are driving at, Mr. Gilmartin.” Dom Chavasse
exclaimed in perplexity.

“I hardly know myself,” Gilmartin confessed whimsically, “But I think I
see a light as a result of this evening’s doings. As I say, I think
Father Massey will come to you soon. He probably does not feel able to
do so just yet. When he does, I will ask you to take no action until we
have talked things over. I request that in the interest of justice. You
naturally want to find your missing laybrothers, but if I am not
mistaken, I shall want to find a great deal more than that, and
precipitate action might hinder me and not help you.”

“I understand that, Mr. Gilmartin,” the Abbot, who seemed to the
detective already much older than on the previous day, answered, “I put
myself entirely in your hands, for I am afraid that the only help I can
give you is through prayer. You will have that, not only mine but those
of the community. To-morrow morning before Mass we will sing the _Veni
Creator_ to ask for light and guidance in this matter.”

The Irishman, himself a firm believer in the efficacy of prayer, was
strangely affected by this statement. He coughed before saying:

“I am sorry that I shall not be here for it. I have a very busy day
before me.”

“Oh! You are leaving us?”

“For the present, Father Abbot. I am going to make certain arrangements
with the local police, though I don’t think you will be worried any more
for the present at any rate. Then I must go and visit the scene of
Father Massey’s accident. After that I shall go up to Town. There is a
big machinery to be set in movement in order to find your missing
brethren.”

“You do not think that the people who were in the wood were my
laybrothers?” the Abbot asked anxiously.

“Certainly not,” Gilmartin affirmed, “They are criminals who are wearing
the brother’s habits in order to move about in the neighbourhood of the
Abbey without exciting suspicion locally.”

“Then what can they have done with my laybrothers?” the old man sighed.

“That is another matter,” the detective evaded, “I’m afraid it’s a
serious matter too. By the way, do you know if there are any photographs
of the laybrothers or of Father Baumgartner in existence?”

“Of Father Baumgartner, I do not know,” the Abbot replied, “As for the
laybrothers, I can have their effects searched. They may have photos of
their pre-monastery days. They certainly have had none taken since their
entry here.”

“Perhaps their people may have some if you don’t find any,” Gilmartin
suggested.

“That is an idea!” Dom Chavasse exclaimed, “I shall write and ask.”

“Perhaps you’d better leave that to me, Father Abbot,” the Irishman
advanced, “If you give me the addresses I can find a way of getting the
photos without arousing any suspicion. As to Father Baumgartner’s, if
you would kindly write to the Abbot of Einsiedeln about it I should be
obliged. A man of the Father’s eminence in the scientific world is sure
to have been photographed.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” the Abbot demurred, “He never wanted any
publicity. However, I shall write at once. The laybrothers’ home
addresses I shall have left in your room to-night.”

“Thanks,” the detective said, “And—oh! by the way, the registered
package which was delivered at the lodge and never reached you was sent
from Paris and was addressed to you personally. I saw the post-office
employee who dealt with it locally and she is under the impression that
it bore the label of a French publishing house.”

“Oh! Then that is all right!” the Abbot declared, “They were merely
proofs of my book on the Syro-Maronite liturgy. I can have duplicates
sent. I will leave you now, Mr. Gilmartin, and write to the Abbot of
Einsiedeln. My letter will catch the early collection to-morrow.”

“Whilst you are writing, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin asked, “Will you ask
him to wire the name of the monk who is bringing over the plans, and the
exact time of his arrival. We must make arrangements for his safety, you
see.”

“Certainly, Mr. Gilmartin.”

The Abbot had scarcely finished his letter when the bell for Compline
sounded. Gilmartin made his way ahead of the monks to the chapel. During
the service the detective listened with closed eyes to the singing of
the monks in whose voices was no indication that the habitual calm of
their lives had been in any way disturbed. The Abbot’s silvery tenor
could be heard as clear and steady as that of the youngest of his
novices. Suddenly the Irishman opened his eyes. Dom Chavasse had stopped
suddenly in the middle of the doxology at the end of the hundred and
thirty-third[1] psalm:

              “_Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sanc_——”

[1] Ps. 134, R.V. & A.V.

-----

Gilmartin peered through the semi-darkness and it seemed as if the Abbot
were stooping in conversation with somebody. The singing of the other
monks continued without a break. What was happening? Dom Chavasse was
leaving his place and hurrying out through the door at the rear of the
sanctuary. A figure was now approaching the detective himself. It was
the lodgekeeper, Brother Gregoire.

“Father Abbot asks you to come to the reception room,” the laybrother
whispered.

Gilmartin rose and without hesitation crossed between the choir stalls.
The monks were now singing:

                     “_Te lucis ante terminum,_
                       _Rerum Creator, poscimus,_
                     _Ut pro tua dementia_
                       _Sis praesul et custodia._”

He overtook the Abbot at the door of the reception room. Two policemen
were standing there, an inspector and a sergeant. Behind them in the
parlour itself Gilmartin could see another policeman.

“What is it?” the Irishman asked.

“Sorry to trouble you, Father Abbot,” the Inspector addressed the Abbot
and then turned to Gilmartin, “You are Chief Inspector Gilmartin of New
Scotland Yard, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” the detective replied impatiently, “What’s wrong?”

“I have to report,” the man in uniform said, “That at Frimberley, five
miles from here, Constable Bolton when cycling home came into collision
with the body of a man in the middle of the road outside the village. He
found that the man was dressed in monk’s clothes, but that he was alive
for he had groaned when the wheel hit him. The constable drew him to one
side of the road and ’phoned to the Station. Having had a memo this
morning from the superintendent about matters in the Abbey I motored out
to the spot myself.”

Gilmartin’s foot was drumming on the floor in impatience at the
prolixity of the country inspector, but he said nothing lest by speaking
he prolong the report still more.

“We placed the man in my car,” the inspector went on, “and drove back to
the station where we administered first-aid and sent for a doctor. I
also ’phoned to the superintendent who ordered me to bring the man here
if the doctor would allow, and report to Chief Inspector Gilmartin.”

“Right? Where is he? Alive?”

“Yes, sir, only he is still dazed. He is in here.”

He stood aside and allowed the Abbot and the detective to pass into the
reception room. A policeman who was on one knee before a couch rose to
his feet, a wet handkerchief in his hand, and they saw the figure whose
heavy breathing had reached them as soon as they had entered the room.

“_Mon Dieu!_” the Abbot exclaimed, “What have they done to you, my poor
Father Baumgartner?”


                       X. Corroborative Evidence

While Gilmartin conferred in whispered tones with the police inspector,
who seemed, now that he had reported, to stand in considerable awe of
him, the injured monk was carried up to bed. The Sub-prior in his
capacity of medical attendant took charge of him. The Irishman having
bidden the uniformed man “good night” went up to his room. He was still
sitting on his bed plunged in thought when the Abbot—a very much
troubled man—came in softly.

“This is awful!” he said sadly, “A monastery to be the scene of such
violence!”

“Were you able to get anything out of him?” Gilmartin asked.

“No, Father Sub-prior will allow no questioning,” Dom Chavasse replied,
“He says that Father Baumgartner has received a blow on the head from
some heavy object, but that he will probably suffer no evil effects if
he is allowed quiet now.”

“Which means that I shall not be able to see him before I leave
to-morrow!” Gilmartin reflected.

“Yes,” the Abbot confirmed, “But I don’t think he could tell you much. I
understood him to say before Father Sub-prior stopped all talk that he
remembers nothing from the moment he was attacked in the wood until he
found himself in the police station. He spoke very indistinctly, and
what with his injuries and his accent I could understand nothing more.
Then Father Sub-prior forbade any questioning.”

“Three injured men—four if you count me—in a monastery—in a
cloister!” Gilmartin mused aloud, “What a mess!”

“Terrible!” the Abbot echoed dolefully.

Gilmartin straightened up.

“Look here, Father Abbot,” he said, “I’ve got to go up to Town
to-morrow, but can I count on you to see that from now onwards Father
Baumgartner is so accompanied by at least two monks that no one from
outside can come near him. I should even like if possible to have a
guard on his door while he is in bed. And if it is not against rules or
anything like that, let them carry some arm. Here!”

He rose and put his hand into the pocket of a coat which hung on the
back of a chair.

“Here’s my truncheon,” he went on, “I’ll get the local police to lend
you another. And let there be no mistake about it! They must be used if
the necessity arises.”

“Yes, I think it would be justified,” the old man consented. “I will
take the precautions you suggest.”

“Justified!” Gilmartin exclaimed, “I should just think so. Christ said:
‘To him that striketh thee on one cheek, offer also the other,’ but,
Father Abbot, He never said what to do after that. And, by Jove, it’s a
long way past that stage.”

The Abbot smiled through his worried frown.

“The truncheons will be used, Mr. Gilmartin, if necessary,” he said,
“But I sincerely hope the necessity will not arise.”

“So do I,” the detective replied, “And now, another thing! I have told
that inspector to tell his people at Farnshot that when that registered
dummy package arrives it is to be re-registered and sent to me at
Scotland Yard—not given to you. Do you approve?”

“Anything you like, Mr. Gilmartin,” Dom Chavasse agreed, “What is your
object, though?”

“Simply,” Gilmartin explained, “That you may let it be known where the
package is.”

“Known to whom?”

“To anyone you like, the more widely the better,” the detective replied,
“So that your monks may no longer be molested in attempts to get
possession of the plans.”

“How am I to explain to Father Baumgartner?” the Abbot asked, “He has
been worried enough and——”

“He won’t bother about plans for a few days at any rate,” Gilmartin
interrupted, “If he does, tell him they are being kept in a safe place
until he gets better. That will be no lie, for as soon as the Einsiedeln
monk arrives they’ll be put into one of the safest safes in London. If
necessary the interview with Marconi’s people can be put off for a few
days. I can explain to them personally.”

“Very well, Mr. Gilmartin. Now I must say good night!”

“Good night, Father Abbot! And don’t worry any more! I have a feeling
that we are going to pull this thing off all right. I shall probably see
you again in a couple of days.”

In the morning Gilmartin was up betimes and after an early breakfast
which the deputy guestmaster—a little Frenchman whose English was very
broken—provided for him, he paid a visit to Father Massey who had been
dispensed from attendance at the early Offices.

“How are we this morning?” he asked.

“Not so bad,” the Irish monk replied, “A bit stiff. I slept soundly from
after you left until the bell for Matins. I woke automatically then,
from habit I suppose.”

“Then you haven’t heard what happened after Compline?” the detective
said, looking hard at him.

“No. What is it?”

“Father Baumgartner has turned up again.”

“What!”

In the exclamation, which came like a pistol-shot, was surprise,
incredulity and—Gilmartin thought—chagrined disappointment. It seemed
then that Father Massey himself suddenly realised the incongruity of the
outburst for he lay back again and asked calmly:

“What on earth happened? Did they let him go?”

“Did who let him go?” the detective shot back.

“Whoever hauled him away,” the monk replied, “The people you had the
fight with in the wood.”

Gilmartin then told without comment the story as the police inspector
had told it to him the night before.

“Strange!” the guestmaster said musingly.

“Why?”

“Why?” was the typical Irish answer, “Why did they take him and then
drop him?”

“Oh! They may have thought that he was dying and didn’t want to have a
corpse on their hands.”

“I wonder,” said Father Massey, “If he saw any of their faces.”

“I should hardly think so,” Gilmartin replied, “It was too dark.
However, I haven’t been able to question him. I’m leaving that to Father
Abbot when the Sub-Prior thinks it safe. I’m off to Town.”

Gilmartin smiled at his fellow-countryman’s reply.

“What? Giving it up? Beaten?”

“Oh! Hardly that! Though I’ve been beaten before now,” he said.

“I see,” his shrewd compatriot nodded, “That means you’ve still got your
nose to the trail. Well, I’m not very badly disabled and shall get up
to-day. And let me tell you, Gilmartin, I’m keeping my eyes open from
now on. Maybe I’ll solve the great mystery before you do.”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” Gilmartin replied, lapsing as he
nearly always did when speaking to another Irishman into the intonation
of his youth.

The monk looked sharply at him, a fact which did not escape Gilmartin’s
watchful eye.

“And if you do,” the detective added, “Just go hotfoot to your Abbot and
confess.”

“Confess?”

“Well, it’s as good a word as any. And now, good-bye, Father Massey. I
must get a move on. I hope to meet you again very soon.”

As he left the room the monk stared after him and then smiled to
himself. Gilmartin was grinning as he strode along the corridor. There
was nobody in the cloisters as he passed through them and the faint
drone of the recitative of the psalms came along the underground passage
from the chapel.

A garage near the outer gates of the Abbey supplied him with a car in
which to the bewilderment of the driver he drove out to a post box on
the Pirley road. He studied the ground at the place described by the
guestmaster and then began to examine the wall into which the red
letter-box had been built. The chauffeur who had left his seat and was
following his movements also stared at the wall.

“I dunno what you’re after, sir,” the man said suddenly, “But if it’s
where somebody fell against the wall, there you are!”

He pointed to a corner stone at his end of the masonry. Gilmartin
followed his finger.

“Good man!” he exclaimed, “That’s exactly what I was looking for. I was
wondering if I’d find it.”

He pulled from the stonework a tiny piece of hair and scalp. Drops of
congealed blood had made them adhere tightly.

“You’ve got sharp eyes,” Gilmartin said to the chauffeur.

“Seems to me,” the latter volunteered, “As if somebody ’ad been knocked
over there by a car. Look at them tracks!”

“By Jove! You’re right!” the detective nodded, as he saw a track which,
running along the grass edge as it did, had not been obliterated by
passing traffic, “Yes! Curiously enough, son, you’re right! Somebody
_was_ knocked over by a car.”

“Driver must ’a’ been drunk,” the man muttered, measuring with an expert
eye the sweep of the curved rut.

“Don’t you believe it, lad!” Gilmartin exclaimed, tapping the astonished
chauffeur on the middle button, “He was sober—cold sober!”

He got back into the car and directed the man to drive him to Farnshot
police station. There he was closeted with the inspector in charge for
several minutes. The arrangements they made between them for isolating
the monastery in general and Father Baumgartner in particular from
further contact with the mysterious gang were as complete as they could
be made and the local inspector whistled as he realised the inferences
to be drawn from them. He said nothing, however, of his thoughts,
contenting himself with a remark about the strain which their plans
would put on his resources.

“It won’t be for long,” Gilmartin reassured him. “And I’ll see you get
the credit for good work.”

“We’ll do our best,” the man in uniform promised.

“And about that registered package,” the Irishman continued, “When it
comes, re-address it to me and re-register it, and not a word about it
to anybody for——”

“What, not to the Abbot up there? Nor to the——”

“Wait a minute!” Gilmartin checked him, “Twenty-four hours after you
have sent it to me—not a minute sooner—go and tell the Abbot and
anybody else up there at the Abbey you like that you have just
dispatched it. Then for another twenty-four hours keep closer watch than
ever. You will hear from me in the meantime.”

“I see,” the inspector nodded sagely, “You think they may make another
attempt to get the monk—to get the idea from him personally before you
have time to do anything with the plans. Wouldn’t it have been better to
have given it out that he was so seriously injured that he could do
nothing?”

“I don’t know that that would stop them,” the detective reflected, “And
in any case I want this business put through with as little publicity as
possible. The Abbot—poor man—is worried enough without that.”

“He’s a nice old gentleman,” the inspector declared, “I’m not a Papist,
but I have a respect for those monks, though they do pray a lot, I will
say. I don’t know how they get any work done at all. And yet I’m told
they write books and all that sort of thing.”

“Oh!” Gilmartin smiled, “Their time is mapped out for them.”

“They’re quite popular round here,” the inspector continued, “During the
war they kept a hospital going in that big red brick house on the other
side of their grounds.”

“I didn’t know that house was their property,” the detective exclaimed,
“Who lives there now?”

“Nobody. General Urquhart used to rent it from the monks, but he’s gone
to Colchester and I hear that it’s been let to a foreign count or
somebody like that—a Hungarian I’ve been told.”

“H’m! That’s interesting!” Gilmartin mused.

“Do you think—” the inspector began excitedly, but the Irishman
interrupted.

“I don’t think anything—yet,” he said, “But as I haven’t time to go
into it, would you find out from the Abbot what he knows about his
tenant! Ask him to write to me about him.”

The inspector made a note and Gilmartin took his leave.


                        XI. The Vanished Lodger

On leaving the police station Gilmartin was just able to catch a train
to London. On arrival there he lunched hurriedly at Waterloo for he knew
that Assistant Commissioner Roche, warned of his coming, would await him
in his office at New Scotland Yard. He found his little Chief enjoying
an after-luncheon cigar in the arm-chair usually reserved for visitors,
and whilst he filled and lighted his own pipe the Irishman reported all
the facts and happenings of the preceding days and even communicated his
suspicions. Arrangements were rapidly made for photographing and
circulating copies of the laundry marks on the handkerchief found in the
Abbey wood. The Assistant Commissioner himself arranged by telephone
with the police forces concerned for the tactful extraction of
photographs from the relatives of the missing English laybrothers, while
Gilmartin as the better linguist spoke to his friends of the Paris
Sûreté asking for similar action with regard to the Frenchmen.

“What are you going to do with those plans when they are brought over?”
the Assistant Commissioner asked when this had been done.

“They are going to lie in the big safe upstairs until the whole business
is cleared up,” Gilmartin replied.

“H’m! That would of course be best, but I’m not sure that we have any
right to do that.”

“I shouldn’t worry about that,” the Irishman declared, “I am certain
that Abbot Chavasse will be only too pleased to let them lie.”

“Then that’s all right,” Roche approved, “And now, I’ve something to
tell you.”

Gilmartin sat back to listen.

“You remember that body on Waterloo Bridge?”

The Irishman nodded.

“Your friend Peters thinks he has a clue. He’s very cheerful about
putting one over on you—you of all men, his little tin god.”

Peters was a stolid detective inspector whom Gilmartin had recommended
for promotion despite his superior’s objections.

“There’s more in Peters than you think, sir,” Gilmartin laughed.

“He won’t say what his clue is,” the Assistant Commissioner went on,
“But he seems pretty confident.”

“I hope he makes good,” the Chief Inspector said heartily.

“M’yes! But that’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Roche resumed, “You
remember how you were ready to bet that that dead man was a monk? Well,
I circularised every monastery in the country except Alderborough and
sent copies of the photograph, but there isn’t a Benedictine in England
who can identify him. You say that your Abbot down at Alderborough
doesn’t know him. The Abbot of Erdington has volunteered to send copies
to the German monasteries. The French and Belgian police have been
supplied with some copies for the monasteries in their countries. There
has been no reply from them yet. Not time enough.”

“Don’t forget, sir,” Gilmartin replied, “That there are more sorts of
monks than ordinary Benedictines. There are Carthusians, Cistercians and
others, as well as Friars and other religious congregations. Then again,
there are similar communities in the Church of England, I believe,
though I doubt if they would wear such linen as that man had.”

“Heavens!” Roche exclaimed, “I didn’t know there were so many of them.
However, we’ll circularise them all. Nothing like being thorough. Why
couldn’t somebody have told me before, though?”

The Chief Inspector smiled.

“But that is all by the way,” the Assistant Commissioner resumed, “It’s
a matter of routine. I’m interested in it merely to test your idea. Oh!
Don’t laugh! I know you’re a clever lad and all that, Gilmartin,
but—however, perhaps this will interest you more. There has been a case
here in London of theft—not merely attempted theft—of plans of a
wireless invention, reported here this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and a funny thing about it, in view of what you’ve told me, is
that the thief—the alleged thief, I should say—is a German of sorts,
who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“What do you mean by that exactly, sir?” Gilmartin asked, “Disappeared
off the face of the earth? There’s only one way of doing that.”

The Assistant Commissioner fingered a small batch of papers on his
table, then took them up and looked at them.

“I’d better tell you all about it,” he replied, “And then you’ll see
what I mean. As it happens, owing to the fact that it was the theft of
wireless plans that was in question and that I was interested in this
monastery case, I saw this young man personally.”

Gilmartin laughed.

“I wish you were one of my men, sir,” he said, “You’d hear something
about the way to make a report.”

The Irishman was a privileged subordinate and Roche smiled at him.

“Shut up, you ruffian,” he said, “I’m not making a report to you. I’m
just having a talk.”

Gilmartin sat back with a gesture which seemed to indicate that he would
be indulgent—this time.

“You’re quite right, though,” Roche went on, “I’m wasting time. Here are
the facts: A young man, Gilbert Wylie by name—you’ll find his address
here in these papers, it’s over there near Victoria Station—came here
and asked to see ‘somebody in authority.’ Inspector Stanley saw him, and
heard his story, and then reported at once to me as Superintendent
Meldrum was not in the building. So I had the young man up here. It
appears that he is part owner of an electrical shop or workshop or
something like that in the West Central district which specialises in
radio. In his spare time he reads a lot about wireless and experiments
on his own. Lately—more by chance, he says, than anything else, he
happened on an idea which, he thinks, is worth money. Something to do
with radio-telephony. He explained it, but I don’t quite get the hang of
it. Something to improve and cheapen these transatlantic conversations
at five pounds a minute, I believe, by eliminating land wires. Anyhow,
it doesn’t matter.”

“Except to the young man, I suppose,” Gilmartin murmured into his
pipe-bowl.

“Humph!” the Assistant Commissioner grunted and went on, “This Wylie
lives in lodgings, and some time about the middle of October there
arrived a new resident in the boarding-house—a German with whom he got
very friendly owing to a common interest in radio-telephony. It would
seem that this German—his name, by the way, is Gottschalk—knew quite a
lot about the subject and young Wylie was fool enough to let him know
something about his idea. He didn’t actually shew him the drawings, but
told him that he had made them, and as Gottschalk had been in his room
he must have known what were the only likely places to keep them. The
last time Wylie saw Gottschalk was on November the fourth at dinner when
the man talked about having to go back to Germany soon. Then the young
fellow had to travel down to Nottingham on business for his firm—to
superintend their exhibit at a wireless exhibition or something like
that—and only came back three days ago. When he arrived at his lodgings
the landlady in answer to an idle question told him that nothing had
been seen of his friend Gottschalk since the morning after the evening
he had talked to him last. Curiously enough though, he states that she
is nearly sure that he came back late that night—some time after
midnight—for she sleeps in a room directly above the bed-sitting room
he occupied. She declares that he was moving about in the room for she
recognised his cough.”

“Yes, sir,” Gilmartin interposed, “But what about Wylie’s drawings?”

“I’m coming to that,” Roche went on, “Young Wylie didn’t pay much
attention to the landlady’s talk and went up to his room. Looking for
clean underclothing he noticed that his drawer was unlocked and the
shirts and things in it disarranged. The drawings, which had been hidden
between the folds of a shirt, were gone. Of course anybody might have
taken them for the lock was like most of the locks on cheap furniture,
you could force it with a safety pin, and Wylie didn’t for some time
connect the theft with Gottschalk’s disappearance. It was only the next
evening that his fiancée suggested the idea and acting on her advice he
came here.”

“H’m!” Gilmartin murmured as the Assistant Commissioner paused and
looked up at him, “There doesn’t seem to be much of absorbing interest
in that. It is a coincidence, of course, that wireless plans are in
question, but otherwise it is a very ordinary case of theft—I mean,
from our point of view—because whether it is wireless plans or brass
buttons doesn’t matter, and the obvious thing to do is to get a
description of the German and look for him in the ordinary way, and I
presume that all this is being done. It is only a matter of time before
he is caught.”

“If he hasn’t slipped off to the Continent,” Roche added.

“Then there’s sure to be a record of him at the passport barrier.”

“Quite! And if his name isn’t really Gottschalk?”

“What about the Aliens Restrictions Acts?” Gilmartin countered.

“What about your grandmother?” the Assistant Commissioner retorted with
more force than elegance, “You know as well as I do that anyone could
drive a ten ton lorry through every paragraph of them with the greatest
of ease.”

“M’m!”

“Take this Gottschalk!” Roche went on, “Suppose he came to this boarding
house where there was a card up in the window, took a bed-sitting room,
paid in advance, gave his name to the landlady, said that he had just
arrived from abroad. If the woman thought of it at all she thought that
she was bound to see that he was registered only at the end of two
months, and didn’t worry. Suppose Gottschalk took that name on her
doorstep, having come into the country under the name of Schmidt or
Schneider or anything you like. She is a respectable woman, no policeman
worries her, and there you are! Who’s going to trace the Herr Schmidt or
Schneider who passed the immigration officer weeks before?”

“True!” Gilmartin agreed, “But on leaving the country the immigration
officer would see from his papers whether he had complied with the
regulations or not.”

“He might,” Roche replied dryly, “But if the man had really been here
less than two months, what then? It’s not so easy as all that to trace
the stranger within our gates! It’s certainly a free country, this
England of ours! Why, we’ve even got policemen who are not English at
all.”

“Quite!” Gilmartin laughed, “Foreigners like you and me!”

“But,” he went on, “I presume, sir, that you haven’t told me all this
for nothing.”

“No, not quite,” the Assistant Commissioner replied, “I have an idea
somewhere at the back of my head that this theft might possibly be
connected with your monastery affair.”

“M’m!” Gilmartin nodded—not very enthusiastically. “It is of course a
possibility, but——”

“Wait a minute, though,” Roche interrupted, “I’ve got a description of
Gottschalk here, compiled from the statements of everybody in the
boarding house. Would you like to hear it?”

The Assistant Commissioner was grinning as he asked the question.

“What’s the joke?” Gilmartin asked, “I suppose it is the usual perfectly
useless description in such cases.”

“Wait and see!” Roche laughed, turning over a sheet of paper, “Here it
is! About five feet eleven inches in height—pretty tall that—about
forty years of age, grey eyes, high forehead, drooping grey moustache
and pointed beard slightly yellow round the mouth, long grey hair thin
on top but thick behind and all brushed back—just like an artist, the
servant said, but the landlady who is more interested in politics than
in art declares that it was just like Lord Oxford and Asquith—frail and
slightly built, fingers stained yellow as if with nicotine though he has
never been seen to smoke, wore high ‘choker’ collars, black made-up tie
and grey flannel shirt, was generally dressed in a frock coat rather
shabby and stained down the front, black double-breasted waistcoat and
dark grey baggy trousers. Speaks English with a slight foreign accent
but correctly. Very quiet in manner. Walks with a slight stoop but is
active on his feet.”

Roche stopped and looked up at Gilmartin.

“Good Lord!” the latter exclaimed, “I could find you a round dozen in
half an hour who would answer to that description. I know an old clothes
dealer in Chiswick, who tallies with every word of it, including the
foreign accent and the quiet manner. Absolutely useless as a
description.”

“As a description, yes,” the Assistant Commissioner replied.

“It’s worse than useless,” Gilmartin went on, “For just look at the most
noticeable points! Every one of them can be altered. The hair—cut
short! Moustache and beard—one or other or both altered or removed.
Clothes! Put him into a Savile Row suit and there’s nothing left of
Gottschalk except his yellow fingers, and they can be rubbed with pumice
stone. No good at all!”

The Assistant Commissioner was reading one of the sheets in front of him
and made no reply. Gilmartin had the impression that there was something
there which had not struck his chief before, but which now seemed to
have acquired some special significance, for Roche was rapidly scanning
the page from the beginning running his finger along the lines as he
read.

“Ah!” he exclaimed at last, “Here it is! What was the laundry mark on
that handkerchief? I noticed it had one.”

“I don’t remember,” the detective replied, interested, “But I can run
along to the Photographic Section and get it.”

“No, no!” Roche demurred and lifted the receiver of his telephone,
“Hello! Photographic Section. Right! That you, Robbins? Have you
photographed that handkerchief yet? Yes, Gilmartin’s case. What’s the
laundry mark?—Thanks! Blue thread, you said?”

He hung up the receiver and looked at Gilmartin.

“It’s a sporting chance!” he said and lifted the receiver again.

“Inspector Stanley!” he ordered, and after a few seconds, “Stanley? Find
out from that landlady where that German Gottschalk sent his linen to be
washed. She’s on the ’phone? Good! Report as soon as you know.”

The Assistant Commissioner looked at Gilmartin.

“Robbins thinks that the laundry mark on the handkerchief you found,” he
said, “Is X375X in blue thread.”

“Thinks?” Gilmartin interrogated.

“Yes, because he is not sure that the 3 isn’t an 8 and the 5 isn’t a 6.
That leaves how many combinations?”

“Four,” the Irishman at once replied, “But what is the point? Have you
found Gottschalk’s laundry marks?”

“Yes. His linen was marked X375X!”

“Phew! Wasn’t he a fool to leave a garment behind?”

“The foolishness, if any, consisted in taking that handkerchief with
him,” was Roche’s enigmatic reply.

The muted telephone bell buzzed.

“Yes?” he said lifting the receiver, “What? The Greenery Laundry, Acton!
Good. Now look here, Stanley. Will you get from the Photographic Section
a handkerchief which has been left there by Chief Inspector Gilmartin,
and find out at Acton if it is Gottschalk’s. Report as soon as you get
back. Your case may link up with another. See?”

“What exactly did you mean by your last remark to me, sir?” Gilmartin
asked.

“Oh! That?” the Assistant Commissioner smiled, “I was keeping that
little tit-bit for the last. When Stanley forced the door of
Gottschalk’s room he found that he had left there every stitch of
clothes he was known to possess.”

“I don’t see——”

“Of course you don’t,” Roche interrupted, “Because you don’t understand
me. I said ‘every stitch’!”

“You mean, including those he had been wearing?”

“Exactly.”

Gilmartin looked almost incredulous.

“Stanley—with young Wylie’s help, for he is accustomed to travel with
small luggage—tried to pack them into the man’s suitcases—he had come
with two of them tightly packed and had never bought another, the
servant says—and they fitted in with some difficulty, with the
exception of the man’s everyday wear. I tell you everything was left,
including the famous frock coat and ‘choker’ collars, clean linen, dirty
linen, even socks and boots. Every blessed thing!”

Gilmartin was thoughtful for a moment. Another buzz from the telephone
bell under the table prevented him from speaking.

“Right, sir!” Roche was saying, “Coming at once.”

“Hang these Communists!” he exclaimed, reaching for his hat, “And hang
the people that are afraid of them! Another conference with the Home
Secretary!”

“Oh! I say, sir!” Gilmartin called out, “Did you show that Waterloo
Bridge photo to the——”

But the Assistant Commissioner was already half-way down the stairs.


                           XII. A Resemblance

Gilmartin on his way out of the building encountered his friend and
former subordinate, Inspector Peters, a burly, red-faced man with the
appearance of a prosperous farmer.

“Hello, Peters!” the Irishman exclaimed, “I hear great things of you!”

“Humph!” the other replied morosely, “Seems to me I spoke too soon to
old Cocky.”

“Why? Things going wrong?”

“No! Not exactly wrong!” Peters declared, “But somebody made me a
present of a bright idea—a great idea, I think, but I’m having a
dickens of a job to prove that it’s correct.”

“How is that?” Gilmartin asked, “What sort of an idea was it?”

“I’m not going to say—yet, because you’d laugh at it,” the inspector
replied, “But it’s about that corpse that was found on Waterloo
Bridge—the case you were on. I’m trying to trace how it got there and
from that establish its identity. It’s no use trying to find out who
murdered him till we find out who he is.”

“Not much,” the Irishman admitted, “And to tell you the truth I’m rather
wondering about that case myself.”

“Why? Are you coming back to it? Have you finished the one you’re on?”

“No, Peters, I haven’t,” Gilmartin replied ruefully, “I’m only beginning
on it.”

“A teaser, eh?”

“No, I think I see my way about in it now. I’ve simply got to go
slow—just _got_ to go slow.”

“I see,” Peters divined, “You think you’ve got the man you’re after but
you can’t get the evidence.”

“Very nearly that,” the Irishman replied, “I can’t say exactly that I’ve
got the man—or rather men—that I’m after but I’m fairly sure of one of
them. And he’s a clever beggar.”

“He’d need to be,” the Inspector declared emphatically, for he was a
great admirer of Gilmartin’s detective prowess, “To beat you, Chief!”

“Soft sawder!” Gilmartin laughed and left him, “Best of luck to you!”

Under the archway of the Yard the Irishman paused and looked at his
watch. Then with sudden decision he turned back again to the Assistant
Commissioner’s room where he found the file relating to the Gottschalk
case still on his chief’s desk. He seated himself in Roche’s chair with
his notebook open in front of him and began to read rapidly through the
manuscript and typewritten pages. There were statements from all the
people connected with the boarding-house where Gottschalk had lived,
records of telephone conversations with immigration officers, and
reports in the typical clerkly hand of Inspector Stanley. Every now and
then the Irishman made a note. He was about to rise when the telephone
buzzer sounded. He decided to answer the call.

“Hello! No! This is his room but Chief Inspector Gilmartin is speaking.
Oh! Stanley? Yes?—H’m! No doubt of it, I suppose? Good! Listen then!
Give me the ’phone number of that boarding-house. It isn’t in the report
you put in. Thanks.”

The Assistant Commissioner’s conference had evidently not lasted long
for he entered the room as Gilmartin hung up the receiver.

“Hello? Anything for me?” he asked.

“Stanley reports, sir, that the laundry people identify the handkerchief
as Gottschalk’s. The number was sewn on by one of their marking
machines.”

“H’m! That establishes the connection which I thought existed between
the two cases. You’d better get on to it.”

“Yes,” Gilmartin agreed, “Old Gottschalk is evidently a member of that
gang that is stealing wireless plans.”

“It doesn’t follow,” the Assistant Commissioner demurred.

“Why not?”

“For a man who has been trained to detect the faults in a syllogism,
Gilmartin,” Roche laughed, “You perpetrate some funny ones. Mind you, I
don’t say that your conclusion isn’t the right one. It probably is, but
it isn’t the only one that might be drawn. There is also the possibility
that the man who dropped the handkerchief down in Hampshire may be the
man who did away with Gottschalk. Remember that all Gottschalk’s clothes
were left behind. It would be funny if he left all the rest and took a
handkerchief.”

“A more likely thing to happen than that his murderer should be using
it,” Gilmartin retorted, “Gottschalk may have bought a complete change
of clothing and changed into them when the landlady heard him at night.
Can’t you imagine him having forgotten to buy handkerchiefs and taking
one of his old ones?”

“Oh! I can imagine it all right!” the Assistant Commissioner replied,
“But to tell you the truth I can’t imagine why he should voluntarily
leave his clothes behind at all.”

“No. That is certainly strange,” the Irishman conceded, “Unless it means
that he had intended to come back, but then he wouldn’t have stolen that
young fellow’s drawings. By the way, sir, I asked you a question as you
were going out, but you didn’t hear me, I think.”

“Yes? What was it?”

“Did you show that photograph of the Waterloo Bridge body to young
Wylie?”

“Yes.”

“And——”

“He didn’t recognise it, though he went so far as to say that if the
hair and beard were there it might bear some resemblance to him.”

“Oh! He did, did he?” Gilmartin mused, “I wonder if young Knox is in the
building!”

“I daresay. Why?”

“He’s a bit of an artist, isn’t he?”

“I believe so, but— Oh! I see! You want him to doctor up that photo!”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Anything you like,” the Assistant Commissioner approved, “It seems to
be a case of doing anything that enters one’s head. There’s so little to
go on.”

Roche took the seat vacated by Gilmartin and the latter, taking the file
with him, went out to look for the Sergeant Knox who was “a bit of an
artist.” On being found that officer promised to do his best to do what
he called the “hair-restoring operation” according to the description
given in the statements which the Chief Inspector left with him. The
Irishman then busied himself with the telephone for some minutes and
departed.

Before going to his home he paid a visit to an acquaintance at
Southampton Buildings—one of the Comptrollers of the Patent Office. At
his flat in Ealing afterwards he seemed to forget everything pertaining
to crime and detection, for having talked for some minutes to his wife
he calmly took his ease in a deep arm-chair with a pipe and “The
Knights” of Aristophanes—for he had been one of the best classical
scholars who had ever entered Maynooth—whilst awaiting the dinner which
his North Country wife with the aid of their “daily help” was preparing
for him.

After the meal, on the other hand, he could scarcely take the time to
gulp down the strong black coffee which was almost his only stimulant,
and in less than an hour he was ringing the front-door bell of a
boarding-house near Victoria Station. He was shown at once into a room
of the typical “drawing-room” pattern where he found himself face to
face with a young fellow in the late twenties who was accompanied by a
remarkably pretty and self-possessed girl a few years younger than her
companion.

“Chief Inspector Gilmartin?” the young man queried.

“Yes. And you are Mr. Wylie, I presume,” Gilmartin replied.

“Yes. I got your telephone message and I have here a letter for you
which was left with me by a policeman with instructions to hand it to
you.”

Wylie handed a package to the detective.

“Thanks.”

“May I introduce Miss Cannan?” the young man then said, “She is very
interested in this business of mine.”

Gilmartin smiled and shook hands with the girl.

“Well, Mr. Gilmartin,” she said, laughing, “Considering that I am
preparing for the job of looking after him it is only natural that I
should be interested, don’t you think so?”

The Irishman noticed that her low, well-modulated voice had an
intonation which betrayed her transatlantic origin. He had the firm
conviction that—with an individual exception in favour of his own
wife—the voice of the cultured American woman was the most beautiful in
the world.

“Quite right, Miss Cannan,” he laughed in reply, and then added with the
Hibernian gallantry of the old school which was his, “And I am sure that
you will look after him very well, too. You wouldn’t be the good
American you are if you didn’t.”

“Why!” the girl exclaimed in astonishment, “That’s a compliment I never
expected to get over on this side.”

“Why?” Gilmartin asked with a smile, “Have people the bad taste over
here not to know a good thing when they see it?”

“Well!” the girl retorted merrily, “There seems to be one exception
anyway, two now. But everybody here seems to have such a bad opinion of
American women.”

“Y-yes,” the detective admitted, “That is so, but you must blame your
American novelists who have given you all the reputation of being very
exacting. However, I’m sure that if it is true it is good for the
American men. We have quite a few—er—dictatorial ladies over here too,
but I’m afraid the English men are not educated up to them yet.”

“You’re a philosopher, Mr. Gilmartin,” Miss Cannan laughed and then
became serious, “But we are wasting your time. You wanted to question
Gilbert about the theft of his drawings.”

“No,” Gilmartin replied, “I’m not going to put Mr. Wylie through any
more of that. If there is anything fresh of course I should like to hear
it.”

“No, I’m afraid I have nothing to add to what I have already told your
Assistant Commissioner and Inspector Stanley,” Wylie rejoined.

“Then,” the detective went on, “I’ve nothing more to ask you about the
case except this.”

He tore open the envelope which Wylie had given him and looked at the
enclosure. He handed this to the young man.

“Is that anything like Gottschalk?” he asked.

Wylie stared at the “doctored” photograph for fully a minute.

“N—no!” he replied, “And yet—there is something.”

“Let me see!” the girl asked and took the photograph.

“I only saw him two or three times,” she said, “But—do you know,
Gilbert! There is something of him in this. That is his forehead, and
that, as far as one can see, is very like his funny broad nostrils. The
eyes, though, are not——”

Gilmartin took the photograph from her and looked at it.

“Ah!” he said, “He hasn’t touched the eyes. These are the eyes of a dead
man, Miss Cannan.”

“Oh!”

“Pity, Jean,” Wylie interposed, “That you didn’t see him oftener. You
might have drawn him from memory.”

He turned to Gilmartin.

“Miss Cannan,” he explained, “Is an art student and she is wonderfully
good at catching resemblances.”

“I wonder if you could make a shot at it now, Miss Cannan!” Gilmartin
suggested eagerly.

“Well! I don’t know,” the girl hesitated, “Perhaps I could. Have you a
pencil and some paper, Gilbert?”

Wylie produced from his pocket a little leather case containing several
pencils and a pad of detachable writing sheets.

“I always carry these,” he said to Gilmartin. “One never knows when an
idea will strike one.”

Jean Cannan sat down under the light and closed her eyes as if to bring
the vanished man’s features before her. Then she began to draw with
rapid strokes. In a few minutes she handed the result to Wylie.

“Is that a good resemblance?” she asked.

“Why, it’s perfect!” the young man exclaimed, “It’s the old boy
absolutely true to life.”

He handed the sketch to Gilmartin who stared at it without saying a
word, and then began to cover up with his hand now this and now that
feature. Then he compared it with the photograph.

“Yes, Miss Cannan,” he said finally, “If one gave these eyes a living
expression and added that high collar you have drawn, there is certainly
a resemblance between these two.”

The girl herself compared the two pictures.

“Y-yes,” she murmured slowly, “There is something, but—well, I don’t
think it is the same man.”

“I am inclined to agree with you,” the detective declared, “For more
reasons than one.”

“Who is that?” Wylie asked, pointing to the altered photograph in his
fiancée’s hand.

“You have seen it before, I believe,” Gilmartin replied, “It’s the
photograph of a man who was found dead on Waterloo Bridge, with a few
additions.”

“What? The one they showed me at Scotland Yard?”

“Yes.”

“I hope they are not the same,” the young man muttered, “Because if they
are it’s a blue look-out for my drawings.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” the Irishman replied, “But in any case
you’d better make new drawings and get them protected by the Patent
Office at once—before anybody else does. Tell me when they are ready
and I will give you a letter for somebody there. Otherwise you might
find certain difficulties and delays.”


                             XIII. Shadowed

As Gilmartin left the boarding-house some sixth sense seemed to tell him
that he was the object of attention. He stopped and looked round, but in
the darkness—only partially penetrated by the few street lamps in this
by-way—he could distinguish nobody. No footsteps broke the silence of
the damp evening. The Irishman moved on.

“What next?” he muttered, “Imagining things?”

Again, however, the impression that he was being followed returned to
him. This time he did not look back but turned brusquely to the left
into a small side street, and concealed himself in the first doorway.
Nobody followed. He waited nearly five minutes—in vain.

“Humph!” he said to himself then. “Either I’m going dotty or there’s an
old hand on the job!”

He resumed his walk towards Victoria. When he came to the more
frequented Buckingham Palace Road he hastened on until he reached the
entrance to the main line station. There he slowed down and entered the
long refreshment bar where an empty table behind the door drew him like
a magnet. Without taking his eyes off the entrance doors at either end
he gave his order to a waiter whom he paid with no knowledge of the coin
he gave except that it had a milled edge. Men—and women—passed in and
out, mostly travellers to and from the South Coast, with a few
stragglers on their way home to the suburbs, but nobody who seemed a
probable shadower. At any rate none of them threw him more than a casual
glance.

Gilmartin at the moment had no desire to throw a follower off the
track—an easy task in his present surroundings. On the contrary, though
he had just had a long and tiring day he would have taken a delight in
leading such an one over half the Metropolis, provided that he could at
the end lay hold of him, or failing that get a glimpse of him for future
reference. He now came to the conclusion that either his suspicions had
been unfounded or the “shadow” was too wary to show himself in the glare
of the electric light of the refreshment room. The bar had only two
doors—one at each end—both of which could easily be kept in view by a
single observer posted in the station hall, who in his turn would be
inconspicuous among the many who strolled about waiting for their trains
or for fellow-travellers.

The detective reflected for a moment. The after-theatre rush had not yet
begun. What would be the least frequented line at that moment? His
decision was quickly made. A District train going eastward! Gulping down
his hitherto forgotten drink he headed straight for the stairs to the
Underground Railway a couple of hundred yards away. Walking slowly after
his descent to the subway, without a glance behind he chose a moment
when one of the booking offices was deserted and asked for a ticket to
Aldgate East. Then as if in a hurry to catch his train he ran to the
Eastbound platform. It was almost empty so Gilmartin sat down and began
to fill his pipe, studying meanwhile the movements of those who were
waiting. Nothing distinguished them from the ordinary run of evening
travellers. A couple of tired flower-sellers returning home after their
long day in the open, a man who looked like a docker, a few
Jewish-looking youths, and a police constable without his armlet puffing
away at a cigarette. A train rushed in. Gilmartin sat on, keeping his
eye on the entrance to the platform.

Just as the head conductor gave the signal for departure a man rushed on
to the platform and dashed for the door of one of the coaches. Too late!
They were the new type of automatic doors which closed as soon as the
train was ready to start.

“Damn!” the young man exclaimed as he saw the impossibility of boarding
the now moving train. Gilmartin, lighting his pipe, studied this
thwarted passenger. Not a man likely to be interested in the movements
of a Chief Inspector of New Scotland Yard. One never knew, however, and
this well-dressed young man with all the appearance of a Public School
and ’Varsity man, carrying an innocent-looking attaché-case, might well
be anything save what he seemed to be.

“Hang it!” the Irishman said to himself, “I’d probably be better
employed in travelling Westward towards bed.”

Nevertheless, he continued to watch the young man, who seemed to be in
doubt as to whether he should retrace his steps or await the next train.
Meanwhile other arrivals were trickling on to the platform, fully as
nondescript a lot as those who had boarded the preceding train, and
seemingly equally unconscious of Gilmartin’s existence. The Irishman
gave each a passing look but saw nothing to interest him. The young man,
now walking up and down the platform with quick, nervous steps, finally
arrived opposite the detective’s seat. Gilmartin rose. Another train
rumbled in. He was the first to board it. The young man followed on his
heels and occupied a seat beside him, but paid no attention to him.
Instead, he studied the names of the stations on the diagram on the
ceiling of the car, and then seemed lost in study. Gilmartin, now
doubtful, resolved on a test. Instead of getting out at Aldgate East on
arrival there he decided to remain on the train. At St. Mary’s, however,
he rose and made for the door muttering aloud: “Hang! Overrun it!” The
young man, after a look at the station list on the ceiling, at once
followed him.

Gilmartin, instead of leaving the station, went over to the Westbound
platform and was just in time to enter a moving train. The young
man—some paces behind—was just too late to enter behind him.

“Well, my son!” the Irishman muttered, “I’d much rather you’d caught it!
But I’ll know you again.”

At Aldgate East he left the train but remained on the platform. A few
minutes later another train rushed in. The young man was already by the
open door of the first car. Gilmartin then ran for the exit and before
the train had stopped he was half-way up the stairs. Somewhat out of
breath he reached the top and dashed out into Goulston Street where a
door sheltered him while he watched the station entrance. The young man
came out and looked round him, then turned out into Whitechapel High
Street. The detective followed him, smiling at the reversal of the
roles. Without looking to right or left his quarry turned eastward and
then to the left into Commercial Street. Cautiously Gilmartin also
turned the corner. The man had taken the right-hand pavement. The
Irishman decided to remain on the other. At last, before a Gothic
doorway the young man stopped and fumbled in his pocket. A moment later
a click told the detective that a door had been opened. A bang followed.
It had been shut again. Gilmartin crossed the street to look at the
number.

“Damn!” he exclaimed, “I’ve been an ass!”

The door was the entrance to the courtyard of the University Settlement
of Toynbee Hall.

Gilmartin slowly retraced his steps towards the Underground, half-angry,
half-amused that he should have been led on a wild-goose chase by a mere
impression. In the middle of the pavement he stopped dead.

“And yet!” he said to himself, “Why not? There’s no reason why an inmate
of Toynbee shouldn’t be a criminal. I must look into this to-morrow.”

He moved on. In the High Street he had to push a way through a knot of
men and women who, whilst arguing out some topic which had been
interrupted by the closing of the public-house opposite, were
obstructing the foot path. Suddenly the Irishman clapped his hand to his
breast pocket. His fingers closed on a wrist. As quick as thought,
without even looking at the owner, he pushed his index finger hard into
the wrist bones. A roar was the reply from a man as big as himself,
whose face seemed vaguely familiar.

“Come on, son!” Gilmartin said calmly in a tone which the other
evidently recognised, “I want you.”

“Gawd!” a woman screamed in half-drunken amusement, “Bill tried to swipe
a ‘busy’s’ leather! Bill ’Oskins turned dip! Ho! Ho! He! He!”

The little crowd scattered and Gilmartin saw a uniformed policeman
approach. He held on to the now cursing pickpocket, who, judging by his
shouts, was suffering acute pain.

“What’s all this about?” the man in blue asked.

“Oh! Nothing much!” Gilmartin answered, “I found Bill here—whoever he
is—with his hand in my pocket.”

“Do you wish to charge him, sir?” the policeman asked, catching hold of
the thief’s arm.

“Yes,” the detective replied laconically.

“’Course ’e does!” the man called Bill now exclaimed, “Isn’t ’e a
‘busy’?”

The constable looked inquiringly at Gilmartin who showed him the edge of
his warrant card. The policeman became all activity.

“Come along,” he addressed his prisoner and promptly handcuffed himself
to him.

“If I’d a’ knowed you was a ‘busy,’” the pickpocket whined, as they went
towards the police station, “I’d never ’a’ listened to——”

He stopped suddenly.

“What’s that?” Gilmartin asked sharply, “Go on! You’d never have
listened to——?”

But the pickpocket would say no more.

When they reached the police station a man who was talking to an
inspector in uniform at the door stared at Gilmartin.

“Hello, Chief!” he exclaimed, “We don’t often see you down here! And why
Bill Hoskins? I thought you went after bigger game!”

Gilmartin laughed.

“Oh! I’m here merely as a victim,” he replied, “Your friend Bill took me
for a greenhorn and tried to pick my pocket. Made a mess of it too!”

“What! Bill a ‘dip’! Never! Bill’s our star burglar in these parts!” the
inspector in uniform exclaimed, “Isn’t that so, Gibbs?”

Hoskins, still handcuffed to the constable, growled inarticulately. The
man addressed as Gibbs looked at him quizzically.

“Come on, Bill!” he said. “Out with it! There’s something funny at the
back of this.”

“Oh, there’s a good deal at the back of this—more than Bill himself
knows,” Gilmartin declared, and then turned to the constable, “Unlock
those handcuffs.”

The policeman obeyed and the Irishman addressed the inspector in
uniform.

“This young man of yours,” he said, indicating the constable, “Was very
prompt. Wasted no time asking unnecessary questions. I like that, and I
don’t forget it.”

Then to the constable himself.

“That’ll do for the present, son. I want to have a word with Bill here.”

The young stalwart, red with pleasure and embarrassment saluted and went
out.

“Can you give Inspector Gibbs and myself a corner where we can talk to
our friend quietly?” Gilmartin asked the station inspector.

“Certainly, sir,” the officer replied, “Use my office; I shall be
outside here.”

“Thanks. Yes, perhaps you’d better remain outside,” Gilmartin smiled,
“You mightn’t approve of my actions.”

In the inspector’s office the Irishman turned to the prisoner and
offered his cigarette case.

“Smoke while the smoking’s good, Bill,” he said.

“Don’t smoke them things!” the man growled.

Gilmartin promptly handed over his tobacco pouch.

“Fill up, in that case,” he said, “While I’m having a talk to Inspector
Gibbs.”

“Well, anyhow,” Bill Hoskins muttered in lieu of more formal thanks,
“That’s more’n Gibbs’d do.”

He accepted the pouch and pulled out a pipe. He was a big man, this Bill
Hoskins, dressed like any one of the thousands of dock workers in the
neighbourhood, but Gilmartin rightly judged him to be simply a lazy, not
very intelligent, nor very ill-natured criminal who would rather steal
than work. A cleverer man, in his opinion, would have refused the
proffered tobacco.

In the far corner of the room the Irishman was giving the divisional
detective an outline of the case which occupied him and told him his
suspicions with regard to the attempt at robbery.

“M’m! Very likely!” Gibbs murmured, “Bill has been keeping very good
lately. We’ve been wondering about him as a matter of fact.”

“Has he been flush of money?” Gilmartin asked.

“Yes, but we thought that he was living on the proceeds of a previous
burglary.”

“H’m! I doubt it. Does he usually work with a gang?”

“Well!” Inspector Gibbs replied, “He doesn’t work alone, I believe, as a
general rule. If so he has never been caught at it. But neither does he
always work with the same lot.”

“Likely to squeal?” Gilmartin asked.

“I doubt it.”

Gilmartin turned to Hoskins who now seemed more resigned and even happy,
surrounded by a nimbus of tobacco smoke. He appeared to be totally
unaware that he was the subject of the low-voiced conversation between
the detectives. He handed back the tobacco pouch.

“Thank’ee, sir,” he said, “Good baccy, that.”

“Not bad,” the Irishman admitted, “Always makes things look brighter,
doesn’t it?”

Bill merely growled in answer to this.

“But we’d better get to business.” Gilmartin went on, “I’m waiting for
you to finish what you were saying in the street, Bill.”

“Wasn’t sayin’ nothin’.”

“My mistake!” the Chief Inspector laughed, “I dreamt that I heard you
say that if you’d known I was a ‘busy’ you wouldn’t have listened to the
lad who put you on to pick my pocket.”

Gilmartin waited for a moment, but the man said nothing.

“Now listen here, Bill,” the Irishman continued, “You tell me the name
of the man who’s behind you and you can walk out of that door any time
you like. Refuse and up you go before the beak as an habitual criminal.”

“Yer carn’t do that, guv’ner,” the man replied, “I ain’t been convicted
three times.”

“Oh! So you know the law?” Gilmartin laughed, “That’s the stuff to give
the police, eh? All the same, I’m afraid you’re for it, Bill, if you
don’t talk.”

“I ain’t said as I won’t talk,” Bill muttered.

“Ah! That’s different!” Gilmartin seated himself to listen to what the
man had to say.

“But I carn’t tell yer ’is full nyme,” Hoskins went on, “’Cause I don’t
know it. ’Is first nyme is Otter.”

“Otter? H’m! Well, tell us what you do know,” the Irishman directed.

“But,” Bill objected, “Will yer let me go if I do?”

“If I’m convinced you’re telling all you know, yes!” Gilmartin agreed.

Hoskins seemed to consider this a minute.

“It isn’t like squealin’ on a pal,” he said finally as if to excuse
himself, “So I’ll tell yer, guv’ner, on the level.”

“Right you are, Bill,” the Irishman approved, “And you will find that I
am on the level, too. But before you start, just tell me why it isn’t
like squealing on a pal.”

“’Cause ’e isn’t a pal!” Bill replied forcibly, “’Cause ’e made me do
w’at I done! An’—an’—’e’s a bloomin’ toff! That’s why!”


                           XIV. Bill’s Story

“Oh! He’s a bloomin’ toff? That’s why?” Gilmartin echoed, “Well, I
admire your class consciousness, Bill. Now, begin!”

Bill Hoskins puffed at his pipe for a moment in silence.

“Will it be all right, guv’ner,” he asked then, “If I tell yer abaht a
job?”

Gilmartin looked blankly at him for a second.

“A job? Oh! I see! You mean, will I rope you in for something you did in
the way of business, if it comes out in the course of your story?”

“That’s it, guv’ner!”

The Irishman looked at Inspector Gibbs interrogatively. The latter
nodded.

“Very good, Bill,” Gilmartin then agreed, “Provided it’s nothing in the
way of personal violence. If it’s that, well—you’d better——”

“Oh! No!” Gibbs interrupted, “Bill doesn’t do that sort of thing. In
fact when he has been collared it’s because he knew a ‘fair cop’ when he
came up against it.”

“That’s right,” Bill nodded, “Mister Gibbs knows me. I never ’its out
for fear I’d kill a man, not since I was nineteen, when I nearly killed
Bob Cobbett wiv one left-hander. I’m terrible strong.”

The last words were said with an air of regret which was comic, but
Gilmartin did not laugh.

“You look it!” he remarked in a casual tone, “That’s why I wondered why
you were a ‘dip.’”

“I ain’t a ‘dip.’” Hoskins denied indignantly, “I ain’t! I never done it
afore an’ it’s the last time I’ll ever try. I was a blurry fool, that’s
what!”

“All right! All right!” Gilmartin soothed him, smiling to himself at the
result of his carefully calculated remark, “I believe you, and we’ll
wipe it out. Tell us about it.”

Bill put his pipe back into his pocket and coughed huskily.

“I wish all the ‘busies’ was like you,” he said, “P’raps there wouldn’t
be so many like me then.”

His look in the direction of Inspector Gibbs was eloquent, but neither
of the detectives made any comment.

“This was the way of it, guv’ner,” Hoskins began then, “I was runnin’
short of the ready an’ I looked round for a crib—you know what I
mean—an’ I spotted one wot looked easy out Golders Green way. Nobody
but a old ’ousekeeper wot went to bed early an’ a bloke wot used to come
’ome late. So I goes along abaht twelve, thinkin’ as the woman’d be
asleep an’ the gent not ’ome yet, an’ I jimmied a winder in the kitchen
and went in.”

“When was this?”

“It was the fourth of November, sir. I remember ’cos it was the day
afore Guy Fawkes Day.”

“Good! Can you give me the address of the house?”

“No, but I could take you to it,” Bill replied, and went on, “The ’ole
’ouse was dark an’ I lit a butt o’ candle an’ made for the dinin’-room
o’ the ’ouse. Then I ’ears somebody talkin’ an listens. ’E was in there
in the dark an’ it looked as if ’e was making’ a speech all to hisself
in some furrin langwidge—German, it sounded like to me, or Yiddish like
they talks dahn these parts. I thinks to meself I’ll do a bunk an’ I
turns rahnd to go back, an’ then on goes the ’lectric lights! A feller
as big as me—the toff wot alwis come ’ome late, it was—was standin’
there pointin’ one o’ them big Mawser pistols at me! I ups wi’ me ’ands!
A fair cop it was!”

The man seemed to be apologising to the detectives for his easy
surrender.

“’Ump!’ sez the feller to me,” Bill continued, “‘Just a common burglar!’
‘Yus, guv’ner!’ I sez, an’ then keeps mum. ‘We’ll see abaht that!’ ’e
sez, ‘Open that door an’ go in there.’ I opens the door accordin’ to
orders an’ goes in to the dinin’-room. The bloke wot was in there
stopped talkin’ w’en ’e ’eard us outside, an’ w’en I walked in, ’e turns
on the light. They’d ’eard me jimmyin’ the winder an’ ’e was talkin’
like that o’ purpose. An old buffer ’e was too.”

“Just a moment!” Gilmartin interrupted, “Surely that was bad
reconnaissance work on your part not to know there was somebody in
there.”

“I told yer, guv’ner. I was a blurry fool. If I’d ’a’ gone the day
before there’d ’a’ been nobody. It was from that night the bloomin’
’ouse filled up like a blinkin’ jail.”

“Could you describe these two men?” Gilmartin, asked, “Begin with the
one who collared you.”

“Oh! ’im!” Bill replied, “’E was just a toff, like them as you see up
West, but ’e isn’t a real toff—’e’s a crook, just’s much as me. ’E ’ad
on one o’ them evening suits—short ones, not the one like a waiter’s.
’E was big, an’ ’is ’air was all plastered dahn an’ shiny.”

“What colour?”

“Darkish it was—not as dark as yours, guv’ner.”

“I see—and the other man?”

“’E was old an’ ’ad a choker collar on ’im. Thin an’ stringy ’e was, an’
’is clo’es was sort o’ poor an’ badly fittin’. ’E was no toff, ’e
wasn’t—an’ yet, sir, if you know wot I mean, ’e was more of a toff than
the young ’un.”

Gilmartin took from his pocket the sketch he had brought away from Miss
Cannan.

“Is that the man?” he asked.

“Yus, guv’ner!” Bill replied without hesitation. “That’s ’im! Ow’d ye
know?”

“Oh! I’m not altogether asleep, Bill,” Gilmartin smiled, “But go on!
What happened next?”

“Next,” Bill went on, “Them two started jabberin’ away in some furrin
lingo an’ lookin’ at me. I wanted to make a dive for the winder but the
young feller kep’ that pistol pointed at me stummick an’ there was
nothin’ doin’. Then the young feller asks me what’s me monicker an’ me
trade. I sez: ‘Ted Stevens, an’ I’m a shuvver.’ ‘Ah!’ ’e sez, sort o’
considerin’ like, ‘A shuvver! ’Ave you ever bin in prison?’ ‘Yus!’ I
sez. ‘’Ow often an’ ’ow long?’ he arsts, ’an’ wot for?’ ‘Three times,’ I
sez, an’ tells ’im as twice was for pickin’ pockets an’ once—a five
stretch—for robbin’ a passenger w’en I was a taxi-driver. ’E b’lieved
me an’ arsts me if I want to go again. I sez ‘No.’ ‘Aw right’ sez ’e,
‘You do as I tell yer an’ I’ll let yer off.’ I didn’t like the look of
’im, guv’ner, an’ I sez: ‘Call the p’lice. I’m not goin’ to make any
bargains.’ Them two looks at each other an’ jabbers somethin’. ‘Lissen
’ere!’ sez the old ’un, talkin’ sort o’ furrin—not much, but a
little—‘We don’t want you to do anything you haven’t done already.’
‘Wot’s that?’ I arsts. ‘Robbery,’ sez ’e. ‘But,’ I sez, ‘I’m not goin’
to bash anyone for you or nobody else.’ ‘’Oo’s talkin’ abaht bashin’?’
sez the young ’un. ‘You are,’ I sez, rememberin’ wot I sed afore, ‘I
know the Lawr, an’ robbery is worse’n burglary. Its stealin’ _an’_
bashin’ rolled into one. I’ve ’ad enough o’ that! They can flog yer for
it.’”

Hoskins laughed.

“Yer see, guv’ner,” he went on, “I was stringin’ ’em, an’ edgin’ to the
door, but it was no go. ’E lifts that big pistol again. ’Ere!’ ’e sez,
‘you’re goin’ to do as I sez, or I’ll put a bullet in yer an’ tell the
p’lice yer went for me!’ ‘They wouldn’t b’lieve yer,’ I sez, ‘They knows
as I don’t do no sich thing now.’ Yer see, guv’ner, I sort o’ knowed
them blokes didn’t want no ‘busies’ nor ‘flatties’ neither round their
’ouse, an’ I was kind o’ brave. Then them two jabbers away again for a
few minutes an’——”

“You needn’t go into all the details,” Gilmartin interrupted, “What
happened finally?”

“W’en they finished jabberin’,” Hoskins replied, “The young ’un sez to
me, ‘Go out in front o’ me.’ I thought ’e was lettin’ me go, but ’e
wasn’t. ’E pushes me aht inter the kitchen an’ shoves me inter a sort o’
scullery-larder place wiv bars on the winder, an’ locks the door. Then
’e went back, leavin’ the kitchen door into the hall open, an’ I could
’ear ’em jabberin’ again. They never searched me an’ I ’ad me tools, so
I starts tryin’ to open that door, but ’e’d left the key in the lock,
an’ w’en I pushed it aht it made such a bang that the feller comes
again. ’E didn’t say nothin’—just bungs me one in the jawr an’ takes me
tools away. I gets lookin’ round me an’ I sees a gratin’ above the door
wi’ the light shinin’ in—it was dark in there—so I climbs up on a
chair an’ looks out inter the kitchen. I could just see the foot o’ the
stairs through the open door an’ that was all. They kep’ me there all
night, but I ’ad a good feed ’cause there was bread an’ ’am an’ beef an’
beer in there.”

“Yes, yes,” the Irishman interposed somewhat impatiently, “But what
happened?”

“Nothin’—that night anyway!”

“What? They kept you there all this time?”

“Yes, sir, but not in the scullery. Yer see it was this way. Nex’
mornin’ I was sleepin’ on the floor an’ I woke up wiv somebody kickin’
me in the slats. I sawr a big feller—bigger’n you, guv’ner—a ’airy
bloke, ’e was, wiv a beard an’ whiskers like a bolshie. ’E couldn’t
speak no lingo, that ’un couldn’t. ’E ’auls me up off the floor an’
gives me a punch in the stummick to wake me up, like. I makes a swipe at
’im, but lord love ye, ’e ’eld me off like a child. ’E takes me up to a
attic an’ puts me in anuvver room up there, wiv bolts an’ bars on the
winder like a bloomin’ clink. There was two beds there an’ this bolshie
makes signs at me to lie dahn on one, an’ blowed if ’e didn’t tie me on
it! Tied me tight too! Look, guv’ner!”

Hoskins bared one arm and showed what was obviously the mark of a rope.

“Then,” he went on, “The bloke lies dahn on th’ other bed an’ goes to
sleep. Looked as if ’e’d bin up all night. And snore! Gawd! It was like
a fog-’orn! Abaht twelve o’clock the young toff comes up an’ punches the
bolshie awake an’ sends ’im aht. ‘Well, Mister Stevens,’ ’e sez to me,
‘’Ave yer bin thinkin’ over?’ ‘Naw!’ I sez, ‘Nothin’ to think abaht!’
‘Isn’t there?’ ’e sez, ‘Well, p’raps you’ll change yer mind afore I’ve
finished wiv yer.’ ‘Wot d’yer want me to do?’ I arsts. ‘Anyfink an’
everyfink,’ ’e sez. I shakes me ’ead and sez: ‘No, guv’ner, I ain’t
a-goin’ to do any rough stuff for you or anybody else.’ ’E looked at me
like as if ’e was goin’ to murder me, an’ then ’e thinks a bit to
hisself. ‘Kin ye drive a Ford van?’ ’e arsts. ‘Yus,’ I tells ’im.
‘Right,’ ’e sez, an’ ’e laughed sort o’ nasty, ‘You’ll be my shuvver or
take the consequences of refusin’.’ ‘If that’s all, guv’ner,’ I sez,
‘I’m willin’, but I carn’t drive no van if yer keeps me tied up.’ So ’e
cuts me loose just like that. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ ’e sez, ‘Yakob’ll be
sleepin’ ’ere.’ Seein’ as things was like that I arsts sort of
impident-like, ‘Wot’s the screw?’ but ’e wasn’t ’avin’ no jokes. ’E ’its
me on the fyce wiv ’is gloves careless-like an’ sez nuthin’.”

“Humph!” Gilmartin interjected, “So it was you who drove that van down
into Hampshire?”

“Yus, guv’ner, twice!”

“Only twice?”

“That’s all, guv’ner. Once on the next evenin’.”

“What happened then?”

“I never could make aht, guv’ner,” Hoskins replied, “I druv this young
feller an’ Yakob an’ another bloke I didn’t see proper out to a place I
never sawr afore. Yakob stays wiz me in the van an’ the other two went
off inter the wood. In abaht ’arf-an-hour they comes back wiv a bloke
all dressed up in a sort of fancy dress wot was staggerin’ along atween
’em. They ’oists ’im up inter the van an’ we drives back to Golders
Green. They carried the bloke in robes inter the ’ouse and put ’im in a
room upstairs. I never see ’im again.”

Gilmartin consulted his notebook.

“And the next day?” he asked, “Didn’t you drive them out there again?”

“No, guv’ner,” Bill replied, “I didn’t like the look o’ things the first
time an’ nex’ mornin’ I falls dahn the attic stairs accidental-like
a-purpose an’ twists me leg—I don’t fink! Any’ow, I sez w’en they arsts
me to drive as I couldn’t, me foot bein’ so bad, an’ a Ford bein’ all
footwork. I looked aht o’ the winder an’ I sees as the young toff was
drivin’ hisself, but ’e was got up like a workin’ man. That night I hear
’em draggin’ some’un up the stairs an’ puttin’ ’im inter the room wiv
the one they brought the night afore. An’ in the night I ’ears groanin’
in there.”

“And the next time you drove? When was it?”

“Yest’day. Twice yest’day.”

“That makes three times in all, not twice. What happened then?”

“Funny that was!” Bill replied. “We druv aht in the mornin’ early, an’
then came back quick. In the evenin’ the van was brought rahnd again an’
I gets inter the seat. Yakob sits next ter me, an’ the toff an’ two
others wot alwis kep’ their fyces turned away from me gets in at the
back, and we drives aht to the syme plyce. They all ’ad bundles wiv ’em
an’ they takes the bundles inter the wood wiv ’em.”

“By the way,” Gibbs interrupted, “Why didn’t you simply drive or run
away when they were in the wood?”

“Wiv that there Yakob sittin’ next to me?” Bill exclaimed, “Gaw!
Y’oughter see ’im!”

“All right! Go on!” Gilmartin ordered.

“Well, we waits there,” Hoskins obeyed, “An’ arter abaht ’arf-an-hour we
’ears shoutin’. I was goin’ to drive off but Yakob wouldn’t let me. Then
out jumps a bloke in them robes. ’E shouted somefink to Yakob an’ I
reckernises the toff—the others called ’im Otter, did I tell yer?—then
I sees three more o’ them in robes too. One o’ them was bein’ dragged
along. They swings ’im be’ind, like they did the first time I druv ’em,
an’ then they all gets in an’ I drives off. They was jabberin’ away
be’ind an’ arter a few minutes Otter tells me to pull up. I stops an’ it
sounded like they was droppin’ somebody aht on the road. I tried to look
rahnd but Yakob pulled me back. Then we druv back to Golders Green, and
there I sawr as the fourth bloke wasn’t there an’ the others all ’ad tuk
off them robes. But you should ’a’ seen Otter’s fyce this mornin’. ’E
’ad a black eye an’ a cut lip. ’E ’as ’em still.”

“And what about the man you ran down with the van?” Gilmartin asked
calmly.

Hoskins looked at Inspector Gibbs.

“Gaw!” he exclaimed, “’E knows everyfink, ’e does. I’d forgot abaht
that, but it wasn’t me, it was Yakob.”

“How is that? You were driving, weren’t you?”

“Yus, but as we was tearin’ along I see a man walkin’ towards us. Otter
sez somefink to Yakob an’ Yakob turns off the lights an’ twists the
wheel nearly out o’ me ’and. I feels a bump an’ I gives Yakob a punch in
the ribs wiv me elbow an’ twists the wheel back. I thought we was goin’
to ’ave a spill. Then Yakob turns the light on again an’ I slowed dahn,
but Otter gives me a dig in the back an’ tells me to drive on. An’ d’ye
know, guv’ner, I’m nearly sure it was a parson we bumped inter. Was ’e
’urt?”

“And now about to-night!” the Irishman ordered, ignoring the question.

Bill coughed.

“I was a blurry fool,” he said, “Yer see, I was locked up in that there
attic room, an’ it seems the ’phone went downstairs. Any’ow, up comes
Yakob an’ brings me dahnstairs. The ’all was dark an’ some woman—I
dunno ’oo she was—tells me to go in a taxi wiv Yakob an’ meet Otter at
Victoria outside platform number two. Yakob catches ’old o’ me arm an’
we finds a taxi. Otter meets us at Victoria all right an’ ’e mykes me
stand at the foot o’ the Underground steps an’ keep my eye on ’im at the
top. I was ter foller the man ’e was to point aht an’ get some pypers
aht er ’is breast pocket. I didn’t dare say I couldn’t, ’cause I’d told
’im I was a ‘dip,’ so I done wot ’e said.”

“I didn’t see you, I think,” Gilmartin said, “Unless you were the fellow
who went in the train ahead of mine.”

“That’s right, sir. I was ahead o’ you. I ’eard you arsk fer a ticket to
Aldgate East, an’ me ’avin’ tuk a ticket wot would tyke me to either end
o’ the line I went on in front. Wen I see you stayin’ be’ind I thought
I’d lost yer an’ I got aht next station, but you come along on the next
train an’ Otter wiv yer in the next car. We follered yer but I got aht
at Aldgate East knowing as ye’d bort a ticket for there, and waited, and
then to the corner o’ Commercial Street. I see yer lookin’ at Toynbee.
Looked as if yer were a-follerin’ one o’ the gents out o’ there. Then
you turned back. I went ahead o’ you an’ w’en I sawr a bunch o’ my pals
comin’ aht o’ Evans’s pub I sort o’ gets ’em bunched up talkin’ so’s
you’d ’ave to edge through ’em. I tried to get at your pocket in the
crush but you was too quick for me.”

“But,” Gibbs again asked, “Why didn’t you run for it instead of doing as
they told you?”

“That’s all you know,” Hoskins replied contemptuously, “I might ’a’ gone
w’en I got inter that train, but ’ow did I know Otter an’ Yakob wasn’t
in the nex’ car? In the High Street they wasn’t ten yards off all the
time.”

“What!” Gilmartin exclaimed, “When I caught you!”

“They was standin’ there, guv’ner, lookin’ on w’en you an’ that slop
’auled me off—Otter wiv ’is black eye painted over too!”

“Well, Hoskins,” the Irishman said in disgust, “You are exactly what you
said you were—a ruddy fool! Why didn’t you shout? Why didn’t you tell
me?”

“Now, I arsks you, guv’ner!” Hoskins appealed to his reason, “’Ow was I
to know ye’d b’lieve me? What ‘busy’d’ b’lieve me?”

Gilmartin shrugged his shoulders.

“Well,” he said, “You’ve got to show us that house in Golders Green.”

“Not now, guv’ner!” Bill almost wailed, “They’d see me. They abaht ’ere
somewhere. They’d kill me. That Yakob’d think nothin’ o’ stickin’ that
big knife o’ his inter me. Keep me in a cell for the night, guv’ner.
I’ll show yer ter-morrer in daylight.”

“Yes, indeed!” Gilmartin grunted, “When they’ve all cleared off.”

“Oh! My Gawd!” the burglar groaned, “They’ll kill me! I’m certain as
they’re them Koo Cluckers I’ve ’eard of—wot they ’as in America. Them
an’ their robes!”

“The Ku Klux Klan is an infant school in comparison with them, I’m
thinking,” Gilmartin replied, “But either you show us that house
to-night or I’ll pin half a dozen crimes on you as well as
pocket-picking.”

Bill said no more.


                             XV. The Chase

The Scotland Yard man turned to his divisional colleague.

“The worst of it is,” he said, “That we don’t know where to send men
from the local station.”

“Wait a minute. I used to be stationed in that part of the world,” Gibbs
replied and turned to Hoskins, “Do you remember in what part of Golders
Green this house is.”

“’Course I do,” Bill asserted, “I cud tyke yer there, guv’ner, but I’d
rather——”

“I don’t care a damn what you’d rather,” Gibbs retorted, “Tell us more
or less where it is. Start from some place we all know—Golders Green
Underground station for instance.”

“It’s from there I know it,” Hoskins replied, “You goes aht o’ the
stytion an’ turns to the right, and up to the right again past that
plyce where they burns the corpses.”

“The crematorium?”

“Yus. That’s where I mean. Then it’s a street off that.”

“I see,” said Gibbs and went to the telephone. In a moment he was
speaking to a colleague in the North West of London asking for reserves
to be ready at a spot he mentioned.

“I think,” Gilmartin said when he had finished, “I’ll have a flying
squad car along as well.”

When he had telephoned in his turn he faced Hoskins.

“You damn fool!” he said, “The next time you burgh a house get the
address right.”

To Gibbs he added.

“If we had known the address we could have had the place surrounded long
before getting there. They’ll probably have cleared off by now.”

“No fear, guv’ner!” Hoskins declared, “Them two is aht there wytin’ to
see wot you’re goin’ to do wiv me.”

“A fat lot they care about you!” the Irishman retorted, “They’re
probably cursing their luck that they didn’t do you in! Come on! Get a
move on! Gibbs, send somebody for a taxi. That’ll be quickest.”

“Oi! Guv’ner!” Hoskins wailed in a new access of terror at the prospect
of immediate action, “They’ll get me! For the love o’——”

“Shut up!” Gibbs ordered and went out to obey Gilmartin’s instructions.

Bill resumed his plaints to Gilmartin.

“Oh! For Heaven’s sake, Hoskins!” the Irishman said impatiently, “Stop
that whining and consider yourself lucky to get off so easily.”

Hoskins muttered something profanely colloquial about being doubtful of
the advantage. Gilmartin turned on him sharply.

“Very good!” he barked, “I’m tired of you anyway. You needn’t come. I’ll
find the house without you. But mark my words, Hoskins, you’ll find
yourself in the dock on a more serious charge than just picking pockets
or even burglary, and that’s as an accessory to murder alongside those
Golders Green friends of yours.”

The burglar said no more, and when Gibbs re-entered the room the
Irishman made a step towards the telephone and addressed his colleague.

“The expedition’s off,” he said, “Hoskins prefers to be charged with
being an accessory to murder.”

“Here! I’ll go!” Hoskins hastily interposed, “I know you can——”

“All right, then!” Gibbs broke in, “Don’t talk about it so much! The
taxi’s here.”

They left the police station, Gibbs in front, Hoskins and Gilmartin
following. The inspector had already one foot on the running board of
the cab when Hoskins suddenly yelled out and fell back against the
Irishman.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Gilmartin shouted and gripped the man
by the arm.

“Oi! Leggo!” Hoskins roared, “They’ve got me, the——”

“There ’e is!” the taxi-driver exclaimed, pointing ahead.

Gibbs turned and without a word sprinted down the street. Gilmartin
pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew three shrill blasts into the
police station door. Several constables came tumbling out. The Irishman
pointed after the inspector.

“Quick!” he exclaimed, “After Inspector Gibbs!”

“’Ere! Jump in!” the taximan called out, already on the move.

Some of the constables obeyed and Gilmartin turned to Hoskins, who was
sitting on the step of the porch grunting and cursing with a vigour
which did not seem to indicate that anything serious was amiss.

“What is it?” the Irishman asked.

“I dunno, guv’ner!” the man answered, “Feels like a knife stickin’ in me
shoulder.”

“Can you get up? Come in to the light! We don’t want all Whitechapel
looking at us.”

Late as the hour was the usual crowd had indeed collected. Hoskins rose
stiffly, wincing as he moved.

“Oi!” he exclaimed again, “I’m bleedin’ all dahn me back!”

The white doorstep of the police station was now darkened with what was
undoubtedly blood.

“Can’t see anything,” Gilmartin uttered, “with only this blue light.
Here, sergeant, help this man in!”

A sergeant who had appeared behind the constables took hold of Bill’s
arm, only to bring forth another yell.

“Hello!” the sergeant exclaimed, “He’s got a knife sticking out of his
back!”

“I knowed it!” Hoskins wailed, “I knowed they’d get me!”

“’Phone up a doctor,” Gilmartin ordered, “Tell him what’s wrong!”

In the charge room he looked at the protruding knife handle.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed, “That was some throw!”

“That’s Yakob!” Hoskins replied, still full of vigour, “He was alwis
practisn’ wiv a knife! Is it a big ’orn-’andled thing, guv’ner?”

Gilmartin nodded.

“It’s all right, Bill!” he said, “I’m not a surgeon but I know it’s not
a dangerous wound. Lucky, though, that you weren’t facing him. Yes, it’s
a horn-handled one.”

“Pull it aht, guv’ner!” Hoskins pleaded, “It ’urts—not so much now
but—pull it aht!”

“No,” Gilmartin decided, “We’d better let the doctor do that, but
perhaps we’d better try and get your coat and shirt nearly off for him.”

With groans and grunts on Bill’s part the garments were unbuttoned and
partially removed as far as the Irishman thought prudent when a young
doctor came bustling in followed by a constable carrying a basin of
water. He nodded to Gilmartin who pointed to the knife.

“Hold him by the shoulders,” the doctor directed, “And don’t let him
move. Here, you, with the basin! Over here!”

Having disposed his assistants he began to prod Bill’s back. Hoskins
grunted and swore into Gilmartin’s waistcoat. Suddenly the doctor caught
hold of the knife and drew it sharply out. A rush of blood followed.

“Oi!” Bill shouted and tried to move, but the Irishman held him firmly.

“Oh! You’ll live to be hanged yet, old son,” the doctor told him as he
busied himself with the necessary washing and bandaging, “But it was a
close one.”

In a short time the flow of blood was stanched and the young surgeon was
washing his hands unconcernedly.

“Be as right as rain in a fortnight,” was his verdict, “As stiff as
blazes to-morrow. Better lie up!”

“Lie up be blowed!” Bill now heartened, exclaimed, “I’m goin’ to show
the guv’ner where them b—— wot-yer-my-call-ems lives!”

Gilmartin looked at the doctor.

“Can I take him as far as Golders Green in a taxi?” he asked, “I’ll get
him into hospital after that.”

“If he thinks he can stand it,” the doctor conceded, “It won’t do him
any good, though. Take some stimulant with you.”

“I could do with a drink now for the matter o’ that,” Bill said, “But
I’m goin’!”

Gilmartin signed to the constable to get the necessary stimulant.

“I wonder if they’ve got that blighter!” he reflected.

The doctor betrayed no curiosity, but began to study the knife.

“Curious instrument that!” he said, “Looks oriental to me!”

Gilmartin took it from him.

“I’d say at a guess that it is a Kuban Cossack knife,” he declared, “But
I’ve never known them to throw them.”

Gibbs entered, sweating profusely.

“Got away, so far,” he panted, “Down Limehouse way. I’ve put every man I
can get on to looking for him.”

“Did you get a sight of him?” Gilmartin asked.

“Just a glimpse!” Gibbs replied, “Fellow with a beard.”

“That’s Yakob!” Hoskins asserted, “Come on! Aren’t we goin’ to Golders
Green?”

“Has that taxi come back?” Gilmartin asked.

“Yes,” the Inspector replied, “Mean to say we’re still going?”

“Bill’s determined on it now,” the Irishman smiled, “I’m afraid it’s too
late, though. That fellow Otto has probably gone back and cleared that
house out, while Yakob waited here. However, we’d better go all the
same.”

The burglar having been reclothed in a policeman’s shirt and his own
blood-stained coat they went out again, leaving the doctor to fill in
some papers the station sergeant brought in. Instinctively, as they
reached the pavement they looked to right and left, but they got into
the taxi in safety. Hoskins, who had lost a considerable amount of blood
was not so vigorous as his attitude seemed to say, and he was eased
gently into the seat.

At Golders Green station they handed Bill the speaking tube, and it was
he who gave the directions to the driver. They were delayed at one
crossing to allow the passage of a fire engine which tore past with
deafening clangour.

“It’s the next street to the right,” Hoskins declared finally and
dropped the tube.

“The local men should be about here,” Gibbs muttered.

The effort had told on Hoskins and he was now panting. The two
detectives, watching him with some anxiety, were surprised by the sudden
jerk of the taxi being violently pulled up, and the sound of the
driver’s angry voice. Gilmartin leaned out and saw a policeman on the
running board. A crowd seemed to have collected in front. A curious
light shone on the brasswork of the taxi.

“What is it?” the Irishman asked.

“Traffic diverted, sir,” the driver complained, “’E’s takin’ my number
’cause I didn’t stop. I told ’im ’oo you were, sir, but——”

“Come here, you!” Gilmartin ordered the policeman, who was now
industriously writing in his notebook. The constable recognised the
authority in the tones and came forward.

“Put up that damned notebook!” Gilmartin barked angrily, “Why didn’t you
come to me if you didn’t believe the driver? That how you conceive a
policeman’s duty? Here!”

He thrust his warrant card under the man’s nose.

“S-sorry, sir, but—” the constable began.

“Why can’t we go on?” Gilmartin interrupted.

“A fire, sir. Traffic diverted.”

“Where’s the fire, dammit?”

“Next street, sir. First to the right.”

“Gawd!” came Bill’s voice from the interior of the taxi, “They’ve burnt
the bloomin’ ’ouse dahn!”

“Make a way for us to get through,” Gilmartin ordered, “We’ve business
in that street and we have a passenger who can’t walk.”

They reached the corner of the street where an excited police inspector
ran up to them waving his hands.

“Here! Goodman!” Gibbs shouted at him, “Keep your wool on!”

The inspector subsided and then recognised Gilmartin.

“Sorry,” he said.

The red glare was now illuminating everything, and by its light
Gilmartin helped Hoskins to the door of the taxi. One look was
sufficient.

“The blurry bolshies!” Bill exclaimed, “That’s the house, guv’ner!”


                           XVI. The Prisoner

It was not long before Gilmartin was in conversation with the
responsible Fire Brigade Chief on the spot.

“Not a doubt about it!” the latter declared in answer to Gilmartin’s
question, “A clear case of incendiarism! The place reeks like a Diesel
engine.”

“Find anybody or anything inside?” the Irishman asked.

“No time,” the other replied, “The place was already blazing like mad
when we arrived. We did run up a ladder but—however, I’ll see, if it is
important to you.”

“It is.”

“Right!”

The Fire Fighter called to a subordinate and asked a question. The other
nodded and went off, returning shortly with a fireman who was carrying a
bundle.

“I went to the attic floor,” this man reported, “And I saw these. They
were so curious that I took them away. There was also something——”

Gilmartin looked at the bundle and grunted. It was the brown habit of a
Benedictine laybrother.

“I noticed something curious,” the fireman went on, “There was two beds
in that there room and it looked as if somebody had been tied to one of
’em and then cut loose, because there were ends of rope hanging to one
of them.”

“H’m!” Gilmartin grunted again and turned to the Fire Brigade chief, “I
suppose there is no hope of saving the house.”

The officer, sweating underneath his brass helmet, pointed to the
blazing pile.

“Well!” he said, “Just look at it! Judge for yourself!”

Gilmartin looked.

“Seems to me,” he reflected, “That the neighbours are going to have a
close shave.”

“We’ve cleared ’em out,” the other replied, “In case! But I think—” he
added with an expert glance at the hissing jets of water as they played
on walls and roofs—“I think we’ll save them. As you say, though, it
will be a close shave.”

The Irishman prepared to leave him.

“Give me that bundle,” he said to the fireman, “I’ll take charge of it.”

At a nod from his own superior the man obeyed and Gilmartin pushed his
way back to the taxi.

“We’ll have to get Bill to a hospital,” the Whitechapel inspector
greeted him, “He’s all in!”

“Yes,” the Irishman agreed, “But first of all I want to see a local
C.I.D. man or somebody like that. And Lord! I forgot all about the
Flying Squad crowd.”

“That’s all right, Chief. I remembered ’em and got on a ’phone to the
local station. They’ve been recalled to the Yard. And there’s your local
man! Inspector Hughes, his name is.”

He pointed to a man across the way.

“Good!” Gilmartin exclaimed, “I know Hughes. Hi! Hughes!”

The divisional detective came over.

“Ah! Good evening, Chief—or is it good morning?” he greeted Gilmartin.

“Look here, Hughes!” the Irishman said without preamble, “Do me a
favour. Get one of your fellows to find out whose house that is that’s
burning down there, to whom it was let, what references—if any—the
tenant gave, and a description of every occupant of the house. When
they’ve got that, push the information on to me.”

“You’re not asking much, Chief,” the other laughed, making a note by the
light from the still blazing house.

“As a matter of fact,” Gilmartin replied, “I’m not, because you’ll have
to get all that in any case. It’s a case of arson.”

“Oh! That’s it, is it?” Inspector Hughes exclaimed.

“Yes, and probably much worse,” Gilmartin added.

“Right! Then I’ll get on to it at once.”

“Thanks! Good night!”

Gibbs and Gilmartin re-entered the waiting taxi where they found Bill
Hoskins asleep and breathing heavily. The driver who had been listening
to the conversation started his engine.

“’Ampstead General ’Orspital?” he inquired, “It’s the nearest an’ the
mos’ likely. ’Averstock ’Ill, sir!”

“Right!” Gilmartin approved, “We can try there.”

They were lucky in that a bed was available and Bill Hoskins, vainly
protesting, was helped into the establishment.

“I wonder if they got that knifethrower,” Gibbs said as they were
leaving the hospital.

“Why not find out?” Gilmartin replied, “They’ll let us ’phone from
here.”

The nurse on duty led them to the instrument and left them. Gibbs was
not long in getting the connection with his police station. Gilmartin
stood at his elbow.

“What?” the inspector asked on hearing the answer to his first question,
“You’re not sure? What d’ye mean? I see! Well, hold on to him till I get
back.”

He hung up the receiver and turned to the Scotland Yard man.

“They’ve pulled in a bearded foreigner who speaks no English,” he
announced, “They think it’s the man we want but they’re not sure. Are
you coming down to see him?”

“Yes,” Gilmartin replied, “Though I’d like to get some sleep.”

Neither officer spoke a word during the long run through the almost
deserted streets. Gilmartin was plunged in thought and Gibbs half
asleep, and both were surprised when their taxi drew up before the dingy
East End police station.

“Wait a minute!” Gilmartin said as Gibbs was about to dash in, “Have the
man they’ve collared brought into room, make him sit down in a chair and
watch his face when I come in behind him and speak.”

Gibbs nodded and disappeared while Gilmartin paid the taxi-driver and
ordered him to come the following day to sign the necessary vouchers.
When he in his turn entered the station a constable in the corridor
silently indicated the door. The Irishman opened the door. The setting
was as he had ordered it.

“_Ah! Zdravstvui, Yakov!_” he exclaimed heartily as he entered.

The man in the chair jumped up and turned round, standing stiffly to
attention.

“_Zdravie Zhelai_——” he began and then stopped, “_A Vyi kto?_”

Among Gilmartin’s many gifts was a knowledge of Russian. He made no
reply to the bearded man’s question, but addressed Gibbs.

“This is the man all right!” he said, “Shut him up! I’m too tired to
deal with him to-night, but I’ll see him to-morrow.”

At a nod from the inspector, two constables who had been standing in the
window embrasure led the obviously bewildered Russian away.

“What the dickens did you say to him,” Gibbs asked when they had gone,
“To make him jump up like that.”

“I only greeted him,” Gilmartin smiled, “With a very ordinary formula of
politeness.”

“And what did he say?” the curious inspector inquired eagerly.

“Oh! He answered as Russian soldiers in the old days used to reply to a
greeting from an officer,” the Irishman replied, “That is to say, he
began to do so, and then when he saw me he asked who I was.”

“But I don’t see——”

“It’s this way, Gibbs,” Gilmartin explained, “I thought that if he was
the man we want he was a Kuban cossack—I guessed that because of the
knife. If so he would have had a military training before the war and I
decided to take him by surprise. I _did_.”

“Gosh! Yes!” Gibbs agreed, “You did.”

“But it’s funny all the same,” Gilmartin went on, “If he were a
Bolshevik agent I wonder if he would answer like that. I don’t think so
somehow—even when surprised.”

“What makes you think of Bolshies?” the inspector asked, “Do you think
this is a Red business?”

“I’m blowed if I know what to think,” the Irishman replied, “What time
is it?”

Gibbs looked at his watch.

“Lord! It’s almost three o’clock.”

“Is it, by Jove? Then I’d better get some sleep. Where can I get a bed?
I’m not going to taxi from here out to Ealing. My wife won’t expect me
now.”

“I’ve got a spare room, Chief,” Gibbs offered, “The missus will be
waiting up for me in any case—she’s like that—and we can have a bottle
of beer and a sandwich and then turn in.”

“Thanks very much,” the Irishman accepted, “If it doesn’t put Mrs. Gibbs
out.”

“Not a bit! Not a bit!”

The detectives talked no more of their night’s adventures and in half an
hour were in bed.

It seemed like five minutes later when Gilmartin opened his eyes to hear
the running of taps and the rattle of cooking utensils in the small
house occupied by Inspector Gibbs. He lit a candle and looked at his
watch.

“Half past six,” he muttered, “Mrs. Gibbs is an early as well as a late
bird.”

Soon the smell of frying bacon drove him from the warm sheets. Gibbs had
obviously heard him move about, for he put his head into the room almost
at once.

“Sorry if we woke you up,” he apologised, “But the missus thought you’d
like a hot bath and got up to light the fire. She’s a bit on the noisy
side, I’m afraid. It’s her way of hustling.”

Gilmartin laughed, for he had seen on the previous night that Gibbs,
whatever might be his authority in his Division, was a very meek
subordinate at home, where his wife—a large young Cockney—ruled
supreme.

“Delighted to have a hot bath,” the Irishman replied, “But Mrs. Gibbs
shouldn’t have got up any earlier on my account.”

“Oh! She likes it,” the inspector declared, “Do you use a cut-throat or
a safety razor?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Right I You’ll find both in the bathroom. I’ll show you.”

At breakfast Gilmartin won the heart of the hospitable Mrs. Gibbs by his
praise of her grilled bacon and tomatoes, and soon afterwards they were
on their way to the police station.

There, it seemed as if everybody they saw had breakfasted badly or not
at all. From the inspector in uniform to the youngest constable they all
wore a glum expression.

“Humph! Here’s Gibbs!” the former growled, “Perhaps you’d like to see
your prisoner, Gibbs!”

“He’s my prisoner,” Gilmartin interposed before his companion could
reply, “And I’ll thank you to drop your facetiousness if that’s what
you’re trying your hand at. It doesn’t suit your peculiar style of
beauty so early in the morning. What’s wrong about Gibbs seeing the
prisoner? Where is he? Escaped? If he is I’ll have you sacked.”

The inspector, unaware of Gilmartin’s identity, not having been on duty
on the evening before, nevertheless recognised that he had now to deal
with a superior.

“N-No, sir!” he stammered, completely subdued, “He’s dead! Poisoned
himself somehow!”


                       XVII. Bill Causes Trouble

Beyond a muttered exclamation of disgust, directed mainly against his
own slackness in postponing the examination of the dead Russian,
Gilmartin wasted no time in anathematising the police in charge of the
cells.

“A nice mess!” he said to the inspector in uniform, “Let me see what was
found on the prisoner when he was searched.”

“He had nothing on him of any importance and——”

“Let me be judge of that!” Gilmartin snapped irritably, “Give me the
things.”

The inspector hurried away and came back at a run with the contents of
the dead man’s pockets, wrapped up in a newspaper. They consisted of a
reel of thread and some needles, a small metal box shaped somewhat like
a soap box containing a coarse kind of dry tobacco known to Russians as
_makhorka_, together with some cigarette papers. There was also an old
penknife of Solingen manufacture, a ten-shilling Treasury note and some
loose silver and copper coins.

“Humph!” Gilmartin grunted, “Had he a handkerchief?”

“No, sir.”

“How the devil did he hide the poison? What poison was it?”

“We don’t know yet. The doctor is in there now.”

“Where? When did it happen?”

“Half an hour ago, sir,” the inspector replied, “The constable on duty
heard him shriek, and then fall. When he went into the cell the man was
lying on the floor unconscious. His eyes were wide open, and he was
purple. He was frothing at the mouth and just breathing. By the time we
got the doctor he was dead.”

“Humph! Sounds mighty like prussic acid!” the Irishman remarked. “Let’s
go and have a look at him!”

The inspector led them to a cell. At the door they met the young doctor
who had treated Hoskins the night before.

“I never thought,” he said to Gilmartin, “That I’d have all this
business when I took on _locum_ for the divisional surgeon.”

“What’s the cause of death?” the Chief Inspector asked.

“Oh! Poison!”

“Prussic acid?”

“Well, more probably potassium cyanide. The postmortem will tell us, I
suppose.”

“How the dickens did he hide the stuff?” Gilmartin asked.

“Oh! Five grains of potassium cyanide don’t take up much room. A corner
of a waistcoat pocket would hold it and you’d never think of taking any
notice of it.”

Gilmartin entered the cell and unceremoniously lifted the sheet which
covered the body. Carefully he went over the clothes. Suddenly he
straightened up and turned to the others.

“Look!” he said.

The doctor and the inspectors came over and peered at the spot indicated
by Gilmartin.

“Was that place torn last night?” the latter asked the man in uniform.

He was pointing to a rent in the lining of the pocket flap.

“Nobody thought of noticing,” the inspector replied, “They are often
torn, these linings.”

“Not in a nearly new coat,” Gilmartin barked, “If you people had any
powers of observation at all you’d know that and _note_ it.”

He turned to the doctor.

“Look, doctor,” he said, “There’s a little piece of paper adhering to
the inside. Could the presence of cyanide on it be detected by
analysis?”

“I daresay it could.”

“Then this had better be taken. If you can find any on it, it’ll be a
help to the inspector here—or to whomever searched the man. If not I’m
afraid the Commissioners will talk of carelessness.”

It was comic—and perhaps a little pathetic—to see how the inspector
eagerly made preparations for the collection of all the matter contained
between the cloth and the lining of the pocket flap.

Gilmartin went back to the inspector’s room where a young constable was
idly fingering the objects found on the deceased Yakob. In his
perturbation at the entrance of Gibbs and Gilmartin the policeman
dropped the tobacco-box on the table with a clatter, spilling the dry
_makhorka_ broadcast.

“Clever lad!” the Irishman said and then stooped, “Hello! What’s that?
Did that fall from that box?”

“Y-yes, sir! I think so,” the constable replied, busily engaged in
collecting the tobacco.

“H’m! Funny searchers you all are!”

“It looks like a season ticket,” Gibbs said, looking at the piece of
cardboard the Irishman had picked up.

“N-no!” Gilmartin replied, “It isn’t a season ticket—at least not on
any authorised railway. It’s better than that, I think.”

“Funny looking thing!” the local detective inspector commented, “What
lingo is that? Russian?”

“M’yes!” Gilmartin was staring out into the street, “It’s an Underground
ticket all right.”

“Underground be blowed!” Gibbs exclaimed, “They don’t issue tickets like
that.”

“There are more Undergrounds than one, Gibbs,” the Irishman declared,
“This isn’t the sort you think.”

“I don’t get you,” Gibbs replied, “Let’s have another look at it!”

With a laugh Gilmartin handed the piece of cardboard to his divisional
colleague.

The latter stared for several seconds at the lettering which was as
follows:

                           Bce-Mip. Co. Cbo.
                              Pycck. Cek.
                               Kom. No. 8
                          Ct. Yht. O. No. 684.

“Lord!” the inspector exclaimed finally, “No wonder they say Russian’s a
difficult language. How could anybody get his tongue round these words?”

He began to spell out what was on the card. Gilmartin took it from him.

“In the first place these are abbreviations,” he said, “And in the next
you haven’t even got the letters right. That first letter’s not a ‘B,’
it’s a ‘V.’”

“Gosh!” Gibbs exclaimed, “That’s a funny way to make a ‘V.’ I suppose
you’ll tell me that the next letter is not a ‘c’?”

“As a matter of fact it’s an ‘s.’” Gilmartin laughed, “At a guess I’d
say it was some sort of identity card. Translated the words mean
something like: ‘Universal Union of Freedom. Russian Section. Committee
No. 8.’ The rest looks like ‘Senior Under Officer No. 684,’ but I
wouldn’t say definitely.”

“Well, you know best, Chief, I suppose,” the inspector conceded, “It
seems gibberish to me.”

Gibbs had all the Englishman’s contempt for foreigners and their crazy
“lingos.”

Gilmartin put the card in his pocket.

“I wish I knew how I could make use of this,” he said. “I must go off to
the Yard now. Good-bye.”

“Let me know what happens, Chief,” Gibbs called after him.

The Irishman nodded and hurried off to the Underground station. On his
way westwards he tried to disentangle the threads of all the ravelled
skein of events through which he had passed since the preceding evening,
but when he reached Westminster he summed up his mental state in one
short sentence:

“Hanged if I can make it out!”

He decided to talk the matter over with his friend Superintendent
Meldrum whose speciality was cosmopolitan crime and criminals. That
officer was, however, out and Gilmartin went to his own room, for he was
one of the few men in New Scotland Yard who had a room to himself. He
found on his table a telegram from the Alderborough police inspector
announcing the dispatch that morning of a registered package from
Switzerland. He was busy for the next hour writing up the events of the
past few days. He found when he had finished that he had covered several
sheets of foolscap, but he re-read every word that he had written, and
every now and then jotted down a few words on a separate slip of paper.

“H’m!” he said to himself finally, “I’m not much wiser than I was
before, but things look a little bit brighter all the same. Let’s see
what I’ve got!”

He took a fresh sheet of paper.

“Firstly,” he said, “It seems clear that there is a gang of which one
Otto is the most active spirit whose object in life is to obtain plans
and drawings of new wireless inventions. Bill’s identification of the
sketch provides a link between the attempt on Father Baumgartner’s plans
and the theft of young Wylie’s drawings, but that’s all. Is Gottschalk
the dead man of Waterloo Bridge or is he still alive and working with
the gang? Note! Ask Bill if he saw Gottschalk after his first interview
with him and Otto. I’m afraid Otto’s a bad lad!”

This reflection accompanied the note which he made.

“Now,” he continued, “What is this gang? They are evidently aliens, for
we have indications of Germans and Russians. Communists? Bolsheviks?
Universal League of Liberty—or words to that effect? H’m! I wonder. And
why do they want these inventions? What do they gain? They must know
that they cannot patent them now! And why kidnap a lot of ignorant
Benedictine laybrothers? Did they think each was Father Baumgartner?
Note! Hustle Hughes with those particulars of the Golders Green house!
Once we can put a name to them there’s more chance of getting ’em. I
wonder what old Peters is doing about that Waterloo Bridge business!
Jerusalem! This affair will take a small army to clear up. The next
thing is to see that that Einsiedeln monk—what’s his name?—Father
something or other—gets here safe with the copies. Another note!”

These remarks were uttered in an undertone as a running commentary on
his notes. He had just finished when the telephone buzzer sounded.

“Yes?” he inquired, “This is Chief Inspector Gilmartin speaking! Who’s
that?”

A female voice answered.

“Nurse Dawnay speaking, from Hampstead General Hospital. Mr. Hoskins has
asked me to——”

“Who?” Gilmartin interrupted, “Mr. Who? Oh! Yes! I know! Bill Hoskins!
Yes? Go on, nurse. What does he want now?”

“He wants to see you urgently,” the nurse replied, “A woman came to see
him to-day. As she said she was his wife she was allowed in. I showed
her into the ward, but Hoskins was asleep. She sat down beside the bed
and he woke up. He asked who she was and when I said: ‘Your wife, of
course!’ he said at once that he had no wife and seemed frightened. I’m
afraid he used some bad language to the woman, and she went away after
saying something to him that I didn’t catch. Hoskins is now giving us a
lot of trouble; he insists on seeing you and I suppose in order to make
us send for you he refuses to let the patient in the next bed have his
medicine. I thought, perhaps, you——”

“Right-oh! Nurse!” Gilmartin interrupted, “I’ll be there as fast as a
taxi will take me.”

He hung up and reached for his hat.

As he passed out under the arch he met Inspector Peters coming in
accompanied by a very frightened young ragamuffin.

“Hello, Peters!” the Irishman called out, “How are you getting on?”

“Fine!” Peters beamed, “Fine, Chief! I’ve found the lad who put that
body on the bridge.”

“What!” Gilmartin exclaimed, pointing at the boy. “Not that?”

“Yes, Chief!” the big inspector replied, “That’s the lad!”

“Gawd’s trewth, mister!” the street arab whined, “I didn’t——”

“I’ll see you later about it,” the Irishman interrupted, holding up his
hand for a taxi, “Tell me all about it when I come in.”

“Right-ho! Chief!” Peters promised, “I’ll have it all written out for
you.”

He took the boy by the arm.

“Come on, you young shaver!” he said, not unkindly, “Nobody’s going to
hang you—not yet, anyhow!”


                            XVIII. The Woman

Gilmartin found the burglar trembling with excitement. A nurse who stood
by his bed was making vain endeavours to calm him. As the detective
accompanied by a young doctor entered the ward he heard Hoskins exclaim:

“’Snot a bit o’ good, nuss! I won’t keep quiet nor I won’t let the bloke
over there take ’is med’cine till I see that there ‘busy.’ Nah!”

“He is coming, I tell you,” the nurse assured him, “I talked to him on
the ’phone myself.”

“Aw! You’re only sayin’ that to keep me quiet,” the injured man
retorted, “I’m—Blimey! ’Ere ’e is!”

“Yes, Hoskins!” the young doctor said, “Here he is! I think you owe the
nurse an apology.”

But the burglar was too excited to think of apologies.

“See you later, nuss,” he said, “I want to——”

“What’s it all about?” Gilmartin interrupted, “I’m a busy man, Hoskins,
and I hope it’s not some tommyrot or other.”

The other patients in the ward—none of them very ill—were straining to
hear. Hoskins drew from underneath the bedclothes a half-filled medicine
bottle which he was clutching desperately.

“Guv’ner!” he said hoarsely, “Tyke that! If there’s not pizen in that,
then I’ll—well, guv’ner, yer can lag me on any ole charge yer bloomin’
well like!”

Gilmartin took the bottle, uncorked it and put it to his nose.

“Seems harmless to me,” he said, handing it to the doctor, “I suppose
you have facilities for analysing it.”

“Yes,” the medical man replied, “I can make a qualitative analysis. But
perhaps Hoskins will tell us what happened and why he thinks there is
poison here.”

“Nuss told yer abaht that there b—— that woman as said she was my
wife?” Hoskins asked Gilmartin.

The detective nodded.

“She put sumpin in that bottle, guv’ner, s’welp me Bob!”

“But why should she put it in your neighbour’s medicine bottle?”
Gilmartin asked.

“’Cos I ain’t got one, see? She thort it was mine ’cos it was on that
there table. But she was on the wrong side o’ the bed.”

“M’yes!” the Irishman commented, looking along the ward, where bed
alternated with table on both sides of the room, “M’yes! It’s possible
if one doesn’t notice the bed at the end.”

“An’ I didn’t want another bloke to pizen himself ’count o’ me,” the
burglar went on, “But I wanted to do everything reg’lar an’ c’rect like,
see? ’Sides, guv’ner, you was square to me. That’s why I arsts for you,
guv’ner.”

“Quite right, Hoskins! Quite right!” Gilmartin stemmed the flow of
words, “Now tell us how it happened. How did she put it in?”

“It was this way, guv’ner. I was sorter ’alf-asleep like, an’ nuss
brings this ’ere woman. I ’arf opens my eyes w’en the woman sits dahn in
that there chair, an’ I see ’er stretchin’ aht ’er ’and an’ liftin’ the
cork aht o’ this bottle an’ plunk!—in goes a pill or some think! I see
nuss was lookin’ at me ’an’ I arsts ’er who the donah is. Yer see,
guv’ner, I thort she was a visitor for ’im!”

Hoskins gestured towards the next bed.

“Then, guv’ner, yer cud ’a’ stuck a knife in me wivout me knowin’ when
nuss says: ‘Why, it’s your wife, Hoskins!’ Then, guv’ner, I was foolish.
I shud ’a’ acted different—I don’t know how exactly, but I shouts out:
‘I ain’t got no bloomin’ wife, I ain’t!’ I says an’ the donah jumps up
an says ter me in a sorter whisper: ‘Keep yore mouth shut!’ she says and
scoots for the door. My wife! Gawd!”

“Can you or nurse describe this woman?” Gilmartin asked.

“I didn’t see ’er much, guv’ner,” Hoskins declared, “But I’ll tell yer
wot: She’s a forriner.”

“How do you know that?”

“The way she spoke. She says ‘Kip yore mouse shat!’ like that! French, I
says, or sumthink like that!”

“Did you notice anything of her personal appearance, nurse?” Gilmartin
asked the woman who was standing at the foot of the bed.

“Not particularly,” the nurse replied, “Except that her clothes though
rather shabby were of good cut. She seemed to me either a lady’s maid or
a—er—a fast woman. She certainly had rouge on her lips and her
eyebrows were darkened.”

“Oh! Lumme!” Hoskins spluttered, “My wife wiv ’er fyce p’inted! I’d just
like ter see ’er—that is if I ’ad one!”

“Perhaps,” the nurse went on, “Nurse Boyle who sent her up may have
noticed more. All I can think of is that she was about my height.”

“I see,” Gilmartin commented, “By the way, is this visiting day?”

“No, but we sometimes allow a visitor to come in when it is an accident
case on the day after admission.”

The Irishman turned to the man in the bed.

“Well, Hoskins,” he said, “You were quite right to ask for me. Another
time, however, ask for the doctor here. He will know what to do. Now
we’d better go and have this thing analysed and——”

He turned to the doctor and continued in a lower tone.

“Did you say he was a crook?” the latter said as they were going out,
“He looks a good sort to me. He ought to be going straight.”

His voice had been pitched low, but not low enough to escape Bill’s keen
hearing.

“Aw! guv’ner!” the burglar said, “I know I ort, but oo’d give me a
charnst? What ‘busy’ would believe I was goin’ str’ight? Tell me that?”

“Why not?” the doctor asked coming back to the bedside.

“It’s this w’y, guv’ner,” Bill told him, “Fust time I was lagged I was
’ungry. I’d bin lookin’ for a job for weeks. When I came aht o’ stir,
nobody’d gimme a job. What was a bloke ter do? A man’s got ter live,
’asn’t ’e?”

“When you get out of here, Bill,” Gilmartin put in, “You come and see
me. We’ll see what can be done.”

“Look here!” the young doctor joined in, “My guv’ner might find a job
for him if I asked him, but it would be in the country—not in London.”

“Well, Bill!” Gilmartin said, “Think it over!”

“There ain’t no thinkin’ over, guv’ner!” Hoskins replied in a voice
which was gruffer than usual, “On’y give a feller a charnst an’——thank
yer, guv’ner, you’re a straight ‘busy,’ you are—not like some of ’em!”

The man in the next bed who had been listening avidly to what they were
saying, raised his head.

“If I kin ’elp, mate,” he said, “You come an’ see me an’ the missus when
we get aht o’ ’ere. Looks like you saved my life, mate.”

“Aw! Garn!” Hoskins croaked and buried his face in his pillow.

Nobody misinterpreted the exclamation—the only way the ex-burglar knew
how to express his feelings.

As Gilmartin and the doctor were about to leave the ward, the former
stopped suddenly and turned back to Hoskins.

“Look here, Bill,” he said, “Do you know what I’m going to do as soon as
I leave here?”

The man looked up apprehensively.

“I’m going to put a policeman in here,” the Irishman went on.

“Wha’ for?”

“To prevent any more attacks on your valuable existence.”

Hoskins grinned widely.

“Aw right, guv’ner,” he said, “’S long as you send a slop wot plays a
good gyme o’ draughts, you can send a ’ole p’lice stytion. I ain’t
afeard of ’em now.”

“That’s the stuff,” Gilmartin approved and followed the doctor out of
the ward.

It was not long before the medical man gave confirmation of the
burglar’s statement.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I don’t know how much there is but judging by
the test paper there must be enough arsenic in that bottle to kill the
whole ward. This is Gutzeit’s test.”

Between them they sealed and packed the bottle and when Gilmartin left
the hospital he bore with him the poisoned medicine and the doctor’s
written statement of his findings. As he walked away he began to think
over what had happened. Suddenly he stopped short.

“How the dickens did they know Bill’s name?” he asked himself. “Ah! Yes,
Otto must have heard that woman shout it out in Whitechapel. This good
lady is undoubtedly one of his crowd and in close touch with him. Lord!
A woman in it now!”

He walked on.

“H’m!” he murmured, “They’ve certainly got a good Intelligence
Department, whoever they are. They must have been watching us last night
at that fire. Then again, how did they get on to me when I left Wylie’s?
Were they watching him or me? Better warn that youth to be careful!”

Plunged in thought he hardly noticed the direction in which his steps
were leading him. It was only when a passer-by stopped him to ask his
way that he realised that he was not far from the police station to
which Inspector Hughes was attached. He decided to go there to arrange
for the dispatch of a constable to the hospital, and to receive Hughes’
report by word of mouth.

He found that that officer had just come in.

“Well?” he asked when he had completed the first part of his errand.

“Nothing,” the inspector replied, “That is to say, nothing of any use.
The house was taken furnished from a Mrs. Warrender who is at present in
the South of France, by a Mrs. Hoffmeyer who gave no references, but
paid the agents—Webb and Ashe, a local firm—the entire rent in
advance.”

“Did you get a description of Mrs. Hoffmeyer?”

“Yes,” Hughes replied dryly, “And a nice one it is. Or rather nice ones
they are, for there are two. One of them was the usual sort of thing, a
description which would fit nine out of ten well-dressed women of
between twenty-five and thirty and——”

“Then she’s not an elderly woman?”

“Wait a minute, Chief! The second description is that of a woman over
fifty.”

“Not the housekeeper that Hoskins talked about?” Gilmartin asked.

“Looks like it, but the curious thing about it is that the person
referred to in the second description has not been seen since the 5th of
November.”

“Curious how that 5th of November always crops up!” Gilmartin reflected.

“Well, it’s Guy Fawkes Day.” Inspector Hughes laughed. “And people
remember it just as they remember Christmas Day or any public holiday.”

Gilmartin ignored this.

“I’m interested in these descriptions. Who gives them?” he asked.

“There is a funny thing about that,” Hughes told him, “The butcher, the
greengrocer and other tradespeople described her as an elderly woman,
while the florist, a garage proprietor and the house agents say she is
not over thirty.”

“H’m! That is indeed curious,” the Chief Inspector agreed, “Those who
might be called the purveyors of luxuries know her as a young woman.
What about her nationality?”

“There again,” the local inspector said, “There is a divergence of
opinion. Some say she was a foreigner and some say she wasn’t. The
greengrocer, for instance, says that she was Scotch—and as he is a
Scotsman he ought to know. On the other hand, the butcher, who served
out in Russia during the war, is as firmly convinced that she was
Russian.”

“And the house agents?”

“Say that she is probably French. Webb claims that she had a French
accent. The florist—another Scotsman—says she was Scotch.”

“Very illuminating!” was Gilmartin’s comment.

“Very,” Hughes agreed dryly, “The point is though, are there two women
or is it one woman made up to look different according to whether she
deals with one set of people or another?”

“Quite!” said the Irishman, “There is another point. You say that the
elderly woman has not been seen since the 5th of November. Has the
younger one been seen since then—or for that matter, before it?”

“Both. She was seen as late as yesterday morning. And of course, Webb
and Ashe, the house agents, did their business with her.”

“Well, Hughes,” Gilmartin said, “Take it from me that it’s one and the
same woman. She discarded the housekeeper disguise for some reason or
another—I have an idea that it became inconvenient at one moment.”

“I dare say you’re right, Chief,” Hughes concurred.

“Did you learn anything about the man who lived there?” the Scotland
Yard man asked.

“I came up against the same difficulty there,” Hughes explained, “The
tradespeople speak of an elderly rather shabby man, undoubtedly a
German, whom they knew as Mr. Hoffmeyer, but he was often absent. They
know nothing of the young man mentioned by a neighbour and by the same
florist, who used to go out every day about nine o’clock and come back
about midnight or later. The neighbour mentioned a lot of coming and
going of late on the part of a Ford van at most irregular hours day and
night.”

The Irishman made no comment on this and rose to his feet.

“Well,” he said, “I presume you’ll carry on with your inquiries. Let me
know if you get anything of interest.”

“Certainly, Chief.”

As the Irishman was leaving the police station he cannoned into a little
fat man who, hatless and out of breath, had evidently been running hard.

“Sorry!” the man panted, “Sorry—but I—I want Inspector
Hughes—phew!—Ah! There you are, Inspector.”

Hughes, who had followed Gilmartin to the door, advanced.

“Yes, Mr. Webb?” he asked, and then turning to Gilmartin said in a low
tone, “Come back, Chief. This looks as if it might interest you.”

“I’ve—I’ve got something important to tell you,” Mr. Webb announced
excitedly.

“Come in! Come in!” Hughes invited, “This is Mr. Webb, Chief, of Webb
and Ashe, Estate Agents.”

When they reached the Inspector’s room Mr. Webb, still panting, sat
down, and with hands planted firmly on his podgy knees declared
dramatically:

“I’m going to give you a shock, gentlemen.”

“I daresay we’ll stand it, Mr. Webb,” Hughes smiled, “What is it?”

“Just look at this!”

He placed a large envelope on the table and looked at each of the
inspectors in turn. Hughes picked up the packet, which had already been
torn open.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“A District Messenger brought it.”

The inspector pulled out the papers and uttered an exclamation, for what
he saw was a bundle of bank-notes.

“Five——thousand——pounds, gentlemen!” Mr. Webb announced emphasizing
every word, “But there’s a letter. Read it, inspector!”

A sheet of quarto paper accompanied the notes. Hughes read the
typewritten contents aloud.

“Mrs. Hoffmeyer presents her compliments to Messrs. Webb and Asche and
has the honour to enclose bank-notes to the value of £5,000 being
compensation for the house and effects contained therein, the property
of Mrs. A. Warrender, of which a regrettable necessity compelled the
destruction by fire.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

“And that’s that!” he concluded.


                      XIX. Inconvenient Witnesses

“Well, gentlemen!” Mr. Webb asked, “What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s very extraordinary,” said Inspector Hughes feebly.

Gilmartin said nothing. He had taken the typewritten sheet from the
inspector and was examining it closely.

“Extraordinary?” Webb exclaimed, “It’s mad! To burn a house down and
they pay more than it’s worth for it! Mad, I tell you.”

“Well, Mr. Webb,” the Irishman said to him, “Leave this paper and the
money with us. We’ll give you a receipt of course.”

“The money won’t be impounded or anything like that?” the estate agent
inquired doubtfully, “My clients, you know—well, I’ve got to consider
their interests.”

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Gilmartin replied uncompromisingly, “If
this money has been dishonestly come by and is traced to its source, I’m
afraid your clients will have to sing for it, but no doubt they are
insured.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Mr. Webb said, “I have wired to the
owner but haven’t had any reply yet. However, I suppose there’s nothing
for it but to do as you say.”

The estate agent got up and began looking about as if seeking something.
Suddenly he laughed.

“By Jove!” he said in the tone of a man imparting a highly interesting
piece of news, “Do you know what I did? I was in such a flutter about
this that I came out without a hat.”

Hughes, who had been counting the money and writing the receipt now
handed the letter to the little man, who read it through and then took
leave of them, still fussing at having forgotten his hat.

“I think, Hughes,” Gilmartin said, “It’s up to you to try and trace
these notes. Technically it enters into your arson case.”

“I suppose it does,” the inspector replied, “And what about trying to
trace the lady—through the District Messenger Service?”

“You can try!” the Irishman said dryly, “But unless I am much mistaken
you will find that she has left no tracks. No! The money is the best
bet!”

“What I can’t make out,” Hughes reflected, “Is why they thought it
necessary to burn the house at all.”

“It certainly does seem superfluous,” Gilmartin agreed, “But I have an
idea that there was more in the house than could be removed in the short
time those people thought they had at their disposal.”

“More what?”

“Well, papers. Compromising papers for example.”

“M’m! It might be that!” Hughes concurred, “But it beats me. What sort
of a gang do you think they are, Chief? Bolsheviks?”

Gilmartin pointed to the bank-notes.

“Does that look like Bolsheviks?” he asked.

“N—no!” the inspector replied, “Not if all that one hears about them is
true.”

“Well!” the Irishman said, more sententiously than was his wont,
“Whoever they are—Bolsheviks or not—they have broken the Laws of this
country and we’ve got to get them.”

He rose.

“And we’ll get them!” he added, “I think I am beginning to see my way
about.”

On leaving the police station, he decided after a moment’s hesitation to
go back to Scotland Yard. There the man on duty inside the front door
stopped him.

“There’s been a young man asking for you several times, sir,” he said,
“He ought to be back again in a few minutes.”

“Did he give his name?” Gilmartin asked.

“Yes, sir. Wylie was the name he gave.”

“Right! Send him up to me as soon as he comes. I wanted to see him in
any case.”

The Irishman wasted no time in idle speculation as to the reason of the
young man’s visit during working hours, but began at once to dispose of
the accumulation of papers on his desk, for whatever his other work a
Scotland Yard Chief Inspector finds that a great deal of correspondence
has to be dealt with. Not the least part of this is in the form of
anonymous letters and it was one of these which gave him pause now in
the middle of his hasty perusal of a varied collection. It was short,
and typed on a quarto sheet of paper.

“If Chief Inspector Gilmartin wishes to see the Benedictine monks alive,
he is advised to abandon his present activities!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

That was all! Gilmartin stared at it for some minutes.

“H’m!” he said to himself finally, “I wonder what is the object of that!
Is it to egg me on or is it the other thing?”

He held up the paper to the light, then put it back again into the
envelope.

“It’s the other thing!” he decided, “That’s a bad break. Only a woman
would think of doing that!”

He briefly examined the postmark on the envelope.

“London, N.W.” he read, “Naturally.”

He passed on to the remainder of his correspondence and was still busy
when a messenger announced the arrival of Wylie. Before the latter could
say a word, Gilmartin waved him to a seat and held out his hand.

“Let me see that letter!” he said with a smile.

“Good Lord!” Wylie exclaimed breathlessly, “How did you know? I haven’t
told a soul—not even Je—I mean Miss Cannan!”

“Oh!” Gilmartin laughed, “That was merely a bit of Sherlock
Holmsiness—to impress you. And now let’s hear!”

“A District Messenger came to the shop to-day,” Wylie explained briefly,
drawing a thick manila envelope from his pocket, “And delivered this. My
partner gave it to me when I came in.”

Gilmartin took the package and took out the contents.

“Humph!” he grunted, “Looks as if they’d robbed a bank to-day! Money is
certainly plentiful!”

“Well,” the young man replied, “There’s five hundred pounds of it there.
But read the letter, Chief Inspector, read the letter.”

The Irishman unfolded the quarto sheet and held it up to the light.

“Precisely,” he said, “Same paper, same typewriter!”

He read aloud the message.

    “Mr. Wylie is informed that his drawings have been examined by
    competent persons and have been pronounced to be highly
    practical and of commercial value after slight modification in
    minor details. Enclosed are bank-notes to the value of £500,
    being payment for an exclusive option on the drawings for three
    months. Should a longer option be required a similar payment
    will be paid at the termination of that period. Any delay in the
    receipt of the payment may be considered as an intimation that
    all rights in the drawings have reverted to Mr. Wylie.

    “Mr. Wylie is warned of the danger he will incur by treating
    this rather irregular transaction as non-binding or by inquiring
    as to the whereabouts of these drawings or the use to which they
    are being put, until such time as these facts are divulged to
    him. He will be well advised to accept the conditions
    above-mentioned, for though to his correspondents private
    property is considered sacred, human life in certain
    eventualities is not.”

“What do you think of that?” Wylie asked when Gilmartin had laid the
paper on his desk.

“It is certainly an extraordinary production,” the Irishman said, “And I
also think, young man, that having come to me with it, your life is
worth an extremely small sum of money at the present moment.”

“What do you mean? Do you really think that these people will try to
kill me?”

“Got it in one! I’m sure of it,” Gilmartin affirmed, “They are
absolutely serious when they say that in certain eventualities human
life is not in the least sacred to them. If you have any curiosity on
the matter you will find first-hand evidence of it in a ward of the
Hampstead General Hospital.”

“What do you advise me to do, then?” Wylie asked, “I’m not a coward, but
I don’t want to die just yet.”

“I don’t blame you,” the detective told him, “But what you are to do,
h’m—that’s a bit of a problem. M’yes! Now, I think that the first thing
to do is to arrange for your disappearance.”

“But what about my work?” Wylie objected, “There’s the shop and——”

“You’ll have to leave the shop to take care of itself,” Gilmartin
interrupted.

“Y-yes! I suppose I can get my partner to attend to that, but how am I
to disappear? What do you mean? And there’s Jean too!”

“You leave the disappearing part to me,” Gilmartin smiled, “Just you sit
down over here and write a letter to Miss Cannan explaining that you
must be invisible for a time, another to your partner announcing your
absence on urgent personal business for a week——”

“A week?” Wylie interrupted, “Is that all?”

“Yes, for the present,” the detective continued, “Then a word to your
landlady which one of my men can take to your rooms for your clothes,
and that will be all.”

“But where am I going?” the young electrical engineer asked, “Jean will
want to know.”

“I daresay she will,” Gilmartin replied dryly, “But what’s the use of
disappearing if you’re going to broadcast your destination all over the
place?”

“She would never tell anybody,” Wylie protested indignantly.

“I should be very loath to give her the chance,” Gilmartin said calmly,
“Of course I know that some people who are more ladies’ men than myself
would have no scruples in putting their womenfolk in a position where
they might possibly have to choose between their own safety and——”

“Sorry!” Wylie interrupted, “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“I thought not,” the Irishman replied, “Meanwhile just you stay here and
write those letters. I have a bit of telephoning to do. I’ll do it from
the house exchange.”

The Irishman often smiled afterwards to think that as a result of that
more or less surreptitious conversation on the ’phone a staunch young
Methodist became—somewhat unwillingly perhaps—a temporary member of a
Benedictine community in the Isle of Wight.

On his way back from the exchange Gilmartin found a perturbed Inspector
Peters pacing the corridor outside his room.

“Who’s the lad you’ve got in your room?” the burly inspector asked him,
“He seemed frightened out of his wits when I barged in.”

“He has good reason,” Gilmartin replied, “Come in, though. He’s all
right!”

When they entered the room Wylie smiled wryly.

“By Jove!” he said, “You’ve put the wind up me, Mr. Gilmartin. I jumped
like a rabbit when your friend came in a minute ago.”

“I don’t wonder,” Gilmartin smiled, “But you needn’t worry any more. To
all intents and purposes you’ve disappeared already. And now, Peters!
What’s your news? Don’t mind Wylie. He doesn’t exist now.”

“Well,” Peters growled, “My news isn’t much after all. I found out how
that body got on to Waterloo Bridge, but I’m no wiser for that.”

“How is that?” the Irishman asked, “I thought you told me that the
youngster you brought in had——”

“Oh! He put the body there all right,” Peters interrupted, “Or
almost—I’ll give you his statement later—but that doesn’t help. He
didn’t kill the man nor does he know who did. As a matter of fact I
thought I’d lost him too, and began to congratulate myself that I’d got
his statement when I did, but he’s all right—the shaver.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Oh! He nearly got killed on the Embankment just after he left me.”

Gilmartin’s eyes lighted up.

“Give us the story, old man,” he ordered.

“What about?”

“About his nearly being killed.”

“Oh! That? It was nothing after all. He cut across the road and a Ford
van on the wrong side of the road knocked him down, but he was only
bruised a bit—that’s all.”

“And then, I suppose,” Gilmartin added sarcastically, “A constable
rendered prompt aid, telephoned for an ambulance, etcetera, while the
Ford van cleared off before anybody could even get its number.”

“By Gosh, Chief, you’ve got it to a ‘T.’”

“Naturally. It would happen like that under the very windows of New
Scotland Yard! Where is that lad now?”

“In Charing Cross hospital, but they won’t detain him more than a few
hours I should think.”

Gilmartin turned to Wylie who was not concealing his interest in
this—to him—almost unintelligible conversation.

“There you are!” the Chief Inspector said to him, “Your friends the
plan-stealers again or I’m a Dutchman!”

“O—I don’t quite understand,” Wylie stammered taken unawares.

“Inspector Peters here,” Gilmartin explained, “Gets hold of an important
witness whose statements our friends the criminals consider damaging.
That witness has barely time to get out of this building when he is run
over by a Ford van which is on the wrong side of the road. A Ford van on
the wrong side of the Embankment! Bah!”

“But, Chief!” Peters objected, “That’s only guess-work, surely! How do
you know all this?”

“It may be guess-work, Peters,” Gilmartin retorted. “Or it may not. But
I’m telling you now that you’ll be held responsible for anything that
happens if you don’t immediately make arrangements for that youngster’s
safety. He’s got to be produced whole at the proper time!”

Peters rose hurriedly.

“By Gosh, Chief,” he muttered, “If you say so, it is so! I’ll see about
it at once.”


                           XX. Guy Fawkes Day

That evening a telegram arrived announcing the arrival on the morrow of
Father Kleinmichel from Einsiedeln _via_ Dieppe. Gilmartin admired the
discretion of the Swiss Abbot in avoiding in the message all mention of
plans. Within a few minutes of the receipt of the wire the Chief
Inspector was instructing a certain sub-inspector Williams, a thin, fair
spectacled man of thirty odd years who resembled more a studious
compiler of dry and uninteresting statistics than the very competent and
wide-awake officer of the Criminal Investigation Department that he was.

“You speak French, don’t you, Williams?” the Chief Inspector asked.

“Yes, sir. Passably,” Williams replied.

“Good! Then pack a toothbrush and get off to Dieppe as soon as you can.
Get in touch with the French passport people on the quay and get them to
tip you the wink when a Father Kleinmichel of, I think, Swiss
nationality, presents his passport. He is a Benedictine monk but I
conclude from the fact that he is travelling on the quiet that he will
not be dressed in monkish clothes. You will then introduce yourself to
him when you are absolutely sure that nobody is observing you or him,
and show him this telegram.”

Gilmartin handed over the Einsiedeln Abbot’s telegram to his
subordinate.

“You must persuade him,” the Irishman continued, “To let you have the
plans he is carrying and as soon as you get them you must get rid of
them at once. I would suggest that you address them to yourself here by
registered post as soon as you get to Newhaven. However, I leave that
detail to you. The point is that the plans must be safely landed in this
room by hook or by crook.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good! And keep your eyes open. Note anybody who appears to be following
this monk or trying to make his acquaintance on board the boat or the
train, Don’t ever go far away from him yourself, though it wouldn’t be
wise to stay with him too closely as that might draw attention to him if
by any chance he happens to be disguised. However, we mustn’t run the
chance of an attack on him either. Get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good then. Good-bye. It’s time you were off.”

This matter disposed of, Gilmartin rang a bell and asked that Inspector
Peters be requested to come to his room as soon as he came in. When the
big man arrived the Irishman passed him his tobacco pouch.

“Now Peters,” he said, “Stoke up and tell us the story of how that body
was got on to Waterloo Bridge during a busy time of the evening without
being noticed.”

“It was so simple, sir,” Peters replied, “That we’d never ’ave thought
of it in a ’undred years.”

“How did _you_ think of it, then?”

“I didn’t. This is how it was. As you know, the circumstances were
reported in the Press quite fully. And then, if you remember, some
bright lad of a reporter got hold of the fact that you’d handed the case
over to me.”

“I remember,” Gilmartin smiled, “It was probably some young fellow that
I’d snubbed. At any rate the sub-editor gave his news a fine headline:
‘Big chief Baffled! Hands Bridge case over! Meets his Waterloo—Bridge!’
or words to that effect.”

“That’s it, Chief,” Peters rumbled, “Well, anyhow, sir, a day or two
later I got a letter from a gentleman headed ‘The Athenæum,’ asking me
when he might come and see me about the case. Well, as you may imagine,
I made tracks for that posh club of his, for I thought to myself that a
member of The Athenæum wouldn’t write a letter like that just for fun.
They are almost all big bugs in their own line. I hung about till he
came in, expecting to find an old gentleman with grey hair, but it
wasn’t. It was a young gentleman, a lawyer too, and he took me in to a
smoking-room and gave me a drink. Then he told me his story. It seems he
takes an interest in a boy’s club down in the East End and one night
when he was down there some of the youngsters were talking about this
murder, and the question was discussed as to how the body got on the
bridge. So, more in fun than anything else this gentleman says to them:
‘Now, boys, just put on your considerin’ caps and try to work out from
the clues given by the papers a likely solution of the mystery. I’ll
give a prize for the most ingenious solution and if any boy gives a
plausible one I’ll forward it to the proper quarter, and if there’s a
reward that boy’ll get it if it proves to be the correct one’—or words
to that effect. So the lads got going and next evening one of them
handed in this.”

Peters drew from his pocket a rather soiled sheet of notepaper and gave
it to Gilmartin. The Irishman read it through and then laughed.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “You’re right, Peters! It’s so simple that our
great brains would never think of it. We should have done so, though, if
we’d been any good. The little beggar expresses himself well too!”

“Yes, he does, Chief,” Peters agreed, “A good deal better than I can
manage myself.”

Gilmartin read half-aloud the following:

    “In order to reach a solution as to how the body was brought to
    the bridge I must go back to the day before, November 5th. As
    everybody knows this day is commonly known as Guy Fawkes Day, a
    day on which dummies are made up to represent Guy Fawkes and
    paraded around the streets by children who collect money from
    passers-by in order to buy fireworks and materials for bonfires
    in which the “Guy” is burned. No doubt the man was the victim of
    a gang who, after murdering him, thought of how to dispose of
    the body. With this result: They trussed the body and made up
    its face in such a way that it looked like a dummy, and under
    cover of darkness they went along the bridge, and no doubt to
    avoid suspicion called out: ‘Please remember the guy.’ Like
    other people the policeman thought that it was a real ‘Guy’ and
    only gave it a passing look. Having seen that the policeman had
    no suspicion the gang placed the body in an alcove and made off.
    When the relieving policeman came on duty, he, not having seen
    the thing before went up and said: ‘Move on!’ as he would say to
    any other person, only to find on inspection that he was talking
    to a corpse. So that is how I think the body got there.”[2]

[2] The above is practically word for word the solution handed in to the
author by a boy member of The Old Northeyites’ Club in Limehouse, in
circumstances similar to those described by Inspector Peters,—C.B.

-----

“Well,” Peters went on, “I told the gentleman that I’d follow up the
idea, but it was a tough job. You know yourself how many of those ‘Guys’
are trundled about on the 5th of November.”

Gilmartin nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “How did you set about it?”

“Oh!” the inspector replied, “Naturally I got hold of the constable who
had been on duty up to midnight and asked him if he had seen any ‘Guys.’
Of course he had, scores of ’em, but one thing he was sure of: all those
he had seen had been wheeled round by boys—not grown-ups. I concluded
from that that they had got some boy to do it. In fact the idea was in
my mind that the man had been killed in a house not far from the bridge
and that the boy could tell me what house it was. It was a case of
scouring the whole of the districts on either side of the bridge and
asking every boy we came across what he was doing on Guy Fawkes night.
At last I got hold of this nipper you saw, through another youngster’s
story. He lives in one of those streets off the New Cut. I got hold of
him at last and he told me his story quite freely.”

“H’m! Yes! I see how it was done,” Gilmartin interrupted, “Somebody paid
him to wheel it to the bridge, but you don’t know who this somebody
was.”

“Ah! There’s just the snag, Chief!” Peters said regretfully, “But you’re
not quite right. It seems that this nipper was playing about the back
entrance to Waterloo station and he saw a man dressed, as he says, in
good clothes a bit dirty, but without a collar, standing by a margarine
box on wheels, in which was a ‘Guy.’ This man called the youngster and
told him that he was out of work. Would the boy wheel the ‘guy’ for him
and he would let him have half the money he collected from passers-by?
Naturally the lad jumped at the chance for he had wanted a ‘guy’
himself, and the man handed him the shafts of the home-made push-cart.
They wandered about for some time—the youngster doesn’t know exactly
how long—through the most crowded streets, the man walking behind the
boy. It seems that the man was not pleased with the amount of money they
were collecting—that was a clever move—and told the boy to leave the
South side of the river and cross over Waterloo Bridge. The lad says
that the man never interfered with him all the time except once when the
Army blanket nearly fell off. Then the man jumped forward and replaced
it.”

“Do you mean to say the boy didn’t notice anything peculiar about the
‘guy’?” Gilmartin asked.

“He says he didn’t,” Peters replied, “In fact he doesn’t seem to know
now why he has been called to account for his actions on that night. The
only thing he says about it was that it was the ugliest ‘guy’ he ever
saw, with streaks of red paint up and down its face.”

“H’m! And what happened then?”

“The lad says that when they got to the last alcove on the right the man
told him to wheel the push-cart into it. He obeyed and there they
divided the money between them. Then the boy was told that he was no
good as a money-maker and ordered off. The man would find a more
wide-awake youngster. The lad went of course, considering that he had
made a few coppers quite easily. Then, he says a curious thing. He
looked back when he had gone off about twenty yards and he alleges that
the man pushed the ‘guy’ into the river over the parapet. He admits that
it might have been only the push-cart, now that he considers it.”

“Undoubtedly,” Gilmartin agreed, “Has the boy any idea whatsoever of the
time when he left the man?”

“A very poor one. He thinks it was about eleven o’clock.”

“Humph! If so there has been slackness somewhere.”

“Oh! I don’t know,” Peters demurred, “A constable might think that two
people were seated talking in there especially if the fellow pretended
to address the body, and he wouldn’t disturb them, or again, if that
body were covered by the grey Army blanket, he mightn’t even notice it.”

“M-m! Perhaps so,” the Irishman admitted, “Have you tried to find that
push-cart?”

“Yes. I’ve had the river police at it, but they couldn’t find it. They
say that all the chances are that either it floated away or has been
broken up long ago by the tides.”

“Quite probable.”

“What I think is,” the inspector continued, “That the fellow wiped off
the paint from the corpse’s face, propped it up on the seat and covered
the underclothes with the Army blanket, while pretending to be talking
to it. Then he seized a moment when the bridge was nearly empty of
passers-by, covered the corpse’s head and just walked away.”

“I daresay,” Gilmartin agreed, “But what I’d like to have is a
description of the man.”

“I couldn’t get a serviceable one out of the boy,” Peters replied, “All
I could get was that he wasn’t old, that he was dressed in ordinary
clothes—I suppose that means a lounge suit—without collar or tie, and
that his hair was plastered down.”

“H’m! That’s not much good.”

“Not much.”

“I hope you will see that nobody gets at that boy,” Gilmartin resumed.

“Yes. Nobody but his mother has been near him.”

“Sure it was his mother?”

“Certain. I took the lad straight from the hospital to my missus, then I
sent a constable to bring his mother from her home. It would take a
clever man or woman to get past my old woman.”

Gilmartin laughed, for he knew Mrs. Peters who undoubtedly ruled her big
husband with a rod of iron.

“That’s all right then,” he said, “How’s the lad getting on?”

“Oh! He’s all right! These London lads are as tough as wire.”

“That’s good. And Peters, as you hope to draw your pension some day,
impress it on Mrs. Peters that no visitor gets to the boy except his
mother. This gang we’re up against are clever enough to invent all sorts
of tricks to get at him.”

“That will be all right, Chief,” Peters assured him, “but suppose I send
for the lad and _I’m_ not able to get there myself?”

“In that case, Mrs. Peters will have to bring him straight here first,
no matter where she is asked to bring him.”

“I have a feeling,” Gilmartin continued, “That we will need that
youngster soon.”

“But what about me?” Peters asked helplessly, “What am I to do now? I’ve
found out how the body got on the bridge, but I’m as far as ever from
finding the man who had it put there.”

“Oh! No!” Gilmartin disagreed, “You’re quite a few steps further on than
you were. As a matter of fact, Peters, you and I are after the same man,
so I’m going to report to the Assistant Commissioner and ask him to put
you on to doing some of my donkey work.”

“That’ll suit me down to the ground,” the big inspector affirmed
emphatically and with obvious relief.

“I’ve nothing for you to-day,” Gilmartin concluded, “So I think you’d be
wise to go home and get plenty of rest for I’m afraid you’re not going
to get much sleep for the next few days.”

“You can’t frighten me, Chief,” Peters laughed, and took his leave.

Within a few minutes, the Irishman, unable to find the Assistant
Commissioner, was also on his way to his Ealing home, where his wife,
taking his overnight absence as a matter of course, had so arranged
things that within less than an hour he was seated before his fire,
well-fed, deeply immersed in the pages of Frere’s translation of ‘The
Acharnians’—a new departure for Gilmartin, who as an old classical
scholar in his seminary days, loved the original Greek. Mrs. Gilmartin
smiled to herself as she heard him declaim with exaggerated emphasis:

          “How many things there are to cross and vex me!
          My comforts I compute at four precisely,
          My griefs and miseries at a hundred thousand.”

for she knew the signs which indicated that the comforts, few as they
were, now held sway, while the “hundred thousand griefs and miseries” of
a detective’s life were forgotten.


                        XXI. Father Kleinmichel

He felt inclined, however, to remember only the griefs and miseries on
the following day when in the midst of the “staff work” necessitated by
the thorough combing of suspected districts for the new headquarters of
the mysterious gang of “honest” criminals, he received a telegram from
the Abbot of Alderborough which had been delayed in transmission,
together with another from the local police inspector which though
dispatched more than an hour later arrived at the same time. It happened
that he opened the latter first and was puzzled. It ran:

    “Surrey police report van abandoned Tongham corner
    Guildford—Farnham road. Possible men arrive Waterloo. All
    stations notified—Inspector Farnshot.”

Gilmartin tore open the other envelope and read that which made the
Hampshire police officer’s more intelligible.

    “Two strangers discovered 10 A. M. attempting reach
    Baumgartner’s room Stop Massey pursued to road Stop Men entered
    brown Ford van number unknown drove direction Farnshot Stop
    Police notified—Chavasse.”

Having in view his plans for the remainder of the day Gilmartin
considered the advisability of journeying to the Abbey and concluded
that it would be possible and worth while only if he could have one of
Scotland Yard’s fastest cars placed at his disposal. A word on the
office telephone sufficed to ascertain that one was free and in a few
minutes, having left an explanatory note on his desk, he was seated
beside a constable who was threading his way expertly and swiftly
through London’s South-Western suburbs towards the Portsmouth road. At
Guildford a brief inquiry at the police station brought no information
other than that the abandoned Ford van bore the number plate
corresponding to that of a car long since departed to its final rest on
the scrap-heap.

At the Abbey he found Dom Chavasse—warned by telephone from the
porter’s lodge—awaiting him on the doorstep. The old Abbot had lost
some of his military erectness and seemed worried to distraction. A
faint trace of the old hasty temper of his youth flashed forth in the
tone of his first few opening sentences.

“I feel, Mr. Gilmartin,” he said, “Like wiring to the Abbot of
Einsiedeln to recall his monk and keep him there—securely locked away.”

“He is certainly a responsibility, Father Abbot,” the detective agreed,
“A serious responsibility, but I think I can promise you relief from it
very soon.”

“I sincerely hope so,” the Abbot sighed, “Have those miserable plans
arrived yet?”

“Father Kleinmichel arrives to-day,” Gilmartin replied, “I think that
you can consider them safe now.”

“God grant it, Mr. Gilmartin,” Dom Chavasse prayed, “For in that case we
may hope for the end of our troubles. No news of my poor laybrothers
yet, I suppose?”

“No! Nothing definite yet, I am sorry to say.”

“Well, let me tell you what happened this morning. I presume that is why
you have come.”

“Yes. Please tell me, Father Abbot,” the Irishman said, “I have to get
back to London at once and——”

“First of all,” the Abbot stopped him, “Have you had anything to eat?”

“Well, I must confess I came away without thinking of lunch,” Gilmartin
admitted.

“In that case you can eat while you listen. I will give orders for a
tray to be brought.”

“Thanks very much,” the detective accepted, “And if I may beg for
something for the constable outside—the chauffeur. He probably needs it
more than I do.”

“Certainly. And I think perhaps I should let Father Massey tell you his
own story. First hand evidence is best, isn’t it?”

Dom Chavasse was absent from the small library where they were sitting,
for only a few minutes and when he returned it was with the now
obviously entirely recovered Guestmaster who bore a well-filled tray.

“Now, Father Massey,” the Abbot ordered when Gilmartin had made a start
on the viands thereon, “Please tell Mr. Gilmartin what you told me this
morning.”

“This morning,” the Guestmaster began, “After Prime and Terce I had
necessity to leave the choir and got Father Abbot’s permission to do so.
I came along through the cloister and up the stairs to the bathroom. On
leaving again I thought I heard low voices in one of the corridors and I
went to see what it was, because I knew that there should be nobody
there, everybody except Father Baumgartner and Brother Cubert being in
Chapel. I turned the corner at the head of the stairs and saw two
men—laymen in ordinary lounge suits—standing at Father Baumgartner’s
door which one of them was either opening or shutting, at any rate it
was slightly open. When they saw me they both ran away towards the
stairs in the other wing, slamming Father Baumgartner’s door. I ran to
Father Baumgartner to see if he were all right. I found him sitting up
in bed looking rather frightened and asked him if he was hurt. He said:
‘No’ and I immediately set out after the two men. They went down and out
through the front door, across the drive into the wood and out to the
main road behind the porter’s lodge. There was a hole in the fence and
they squeezed through it. I got to the spot in time to see them get into
a brown Ford van which was waiting there quite openly. Then they drove
off in the direction of Farnshot and I returned to the lodge where I
telephoned immediately to the police station.”

“A nice lot of local police you’ve got!” Gilmartin grumbled.

“Oh! I don’t know,” the Abbot interposed, “They took measures at once
and in a very few minutes the inspector was up here getting
particulars.”

“Yes, when he should have been scouring the roads,” the Irishman
retorted, “But that’s not what’s worrying me. How were these fellows
allowed to get near the place? However, just now that’s neither here nor
there. Were you able to give the inspector a description of the men,
Father Massey?”

“A very bad one,” the monk replied, “Because I only got a back view of
them. The inspector took it down but he said it was practically
useless.”

“M’m! I see! I take it, then, that they got in while everybody was in
chapel?”

“Undoubtedly,” the Abbot answered, “They have probably made a study of
our routine and evidently thinking that the plans are in Father
Baumgartner’s cell tried to get them. They probably would have succeeded
but for Father Massey’s unexpected arrival on the scene.”

Gilmartin made no comment on this.

“By the way,” he asked, “How is Father Baumgartner now?”

“He is nearly all right again,” Dom Chavasse replied, “The blow on the
head was less severe than we at first thought, but Father Sub-prior
insists that he still keep his room. He is no longer a young man and has
been badly shaken.”

“And my friend, Brother Cubert?”

“He is progressing normally too, but of course he won’t be able to move
for weeks yet.”

“So that’s all you have to tell me, Father Massey?” the detective asked,
looking straight into the monk’s eyes.

The guestmaster returned the look squarely as he answered with a slight
smile:

“Yes. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Was Father Baumgartner questioned by the police inspector or by you,
Father Abbot?” Gilmartin asked.

“By both,” the Abbot replied, “I questioned him myself first of all. He
says that he was half-asleep and was only awakened by the slamming of
the door of his cell. He sat up alarmed and saw Father Massey who asked
him if he was all right. More than that he cannot say. He was not
disturbed by anything before that.”

“M’m! I see!” was the detective’s only comment on this as he pushed back
his tray.

“Is he uneasy about his plans? Does he know that they will arrive soon?”
he asked.

“Yes,” Dom Chavasse replied, “In order to relieve his mind I had to tell
him yesterday morning of their approaching arrival by hand.”

The guestmaster at a nod from his superior took the now empty tray and
left the room. When ten minutes later the Abbot and the detective came
out from the library, it was evident that the former seemed more worried
than before. As they drew level with Father Massey who was walking in
the cloister, Dom Chavasse gave an order.

“Ask Fathers Prior and Sub-prior to come up to our cell in five minutes,
and come with them yourself.”

On his way back to London the Irishman wore a preoccupied frown which
did not leave him even when he sat down to deal with his correspondence.

It was nine o’clock that evening when Sub-Inspector Williams ushered
triumphantly into his superior’s room a man in horn-rimmed glasses and a
black moustache which vied with Gilmartin’s own in luxuriancy, dressed
in a grey suit of obvious “reach-me-downs,” carrying a small valise in
one hand and a black velour hat in the other.

“Let me introduce Father Kleinmichel, Chief,” Williams announced with a
broad grin.

Gilmartin himself had to laugh as the new arrival tore off with an
involuntary wince of pain the black moustache which had been firmly
attached to his upper lip with spirit gum.

“Very pleased to meet you, sir,” the disguised visitor declared in good
English with a slight foreign-American accent, “That moustache was most
uncomfortable and paint is disagreeable.”

He then wiped his face, leaving it in worse state than before and
removed the tinted glasses, revealing alert blue eyes set below a high
forehead above which the close-cropped black hair seemed somehow
incongruous.

“I only hope I shall be able to remove the dye from my hair,” he
continued, “It is really fair.”

“Well,” Gilmartin said with a smile, “All these disguises seem to have
got you through all right—and the drawings too, I presume.”

“Yes,” Williams answered, “But Father Kleinmichel couldn’t hand them
over to me.”

“Oh? Why?”

“They are sewn in here,” Father Kleinmichel replied and caught hold of
his ready-made jacket.

A crackling sound was heard as he crumpled the material.

“Better take them out and have them put in our safe,” the Irishman
advised, “As you cannot go down to Alderborough to-night. I won’t risk
railway travel for you after dark, at least from Waterloo down there.”

The visitor considered this a moment and then reached out for the
scissors on Gilmartin’s table. In a few minutes the desk top was
littered with sheets of architect’s paper covered with beautifully
executed drawings. A number of typed sheets of foolscap from the
waistcoat lining completed the operation, and the drawings having been
checked by one of these, Gilmartin provided an envelope large enough to
contain them and immediately took the sealed package away to the safe in
another room. On his return he found the monk gravely engaged under the
admiring eye of Sub-Inspector Williams in re-sewing the ripped lining of
his coat with a professional air.

“You’re a useful sort of man, Father Kleinmichel,” Gilmartin commented.

“You bet he is,” the habitually calm Williams declared enthusiastically.
“Do you know, Chief, he actually had himself photographed in his make-up
for his passport.”

“A wise precaution,” the Irishman approved, “Otherwise you might have
had difficulties with the immigration officials, but there would have
been no harm in adopting a false name as well.”

“Yes, I had thought of that,” Father Kleinmichel replied, “But the Lord
Abbot thought that by disguising myself and slipping out of the
monastery through the guest-house as if I were a lay guest I would be
reasonably safe. By the way, how is Father Baumgartner? I have heard
that he was injured.”

“Oh! Not so bad,” Gilmartin informed him, “In spite of his various
accidents. But where did you learn to speak English so well, Father
Kleinmichel? In America?”

“Yes,” the other replied, “In one of our Abbeys there—in Belmont, South
Carolina.”

“Do you want me any more, sir?” Williams put in.

“Yes. You must go with Father Kleinmichel to this address,” Gilmartin
said, handing over to his subordinate the address of a religious
community in Highgate, “I have made arrangements for a room there. Be
careful not to say it too loudly to the taxi-driver.”

“I should like to go soon if it is convenient,” the monk announced, “For
as you may imagine I have not slept since leaving Einsiedeln.”

“Quite so,” Gilmartin agreed, “I am sorry to have kept you so long.
However, I will see you to-morrow. I want to ask you a lot of questions
about things at Einsiedeln, and also to arrange for your journey to
Alderborough. You may, I think, safely dare to sleep soundly to-night at
any rate.”

When Williams and his companion had left Gilmartin sat down again at his
desk. From his expression it seemed as if he were disappointed.

“No!” he said to himself, “They won’t give in like that. I’ll bet
they’ll be on to Father Kleinmichel in no time.”

He was only aroused from his reverie by the arrival of a messenger.

“Is Inspector Williams here, sir?” the man asked.

“No, he’s gone. What’s the matter?”

“A telegram for him, sir.”

“Give it to me,” Gilmartin ordered, “I’ll see that he gets it.”

“Very good, sir.”

When the messenger had gone the Irishman considered a moment.

“Perhaps I’d better open it,” he murmured to himself, “And ’phone it to
Highgate so that the Fathers there can give it to him when he gets
there.”

He tore open the envelope but what he read put all idea of telephoning
out of his head for the moment.

The telegram had been handed in at Dieppe and was as follows:

    “_Importants suites votre affair Gardez Kleinmichel
    rigoureusement Présence immédiat représentant Scotland Yard ici
    nécessaire—Commissaire Police, Dieppe._”


                           XXII. Consultation

Late though the hour was Gilmartin was able to bring together the
Assistant Commissioner and two of the four superintendents of the
Criminal Investigation Department known to the newspaper-reading public
as “The Big Four,” to hear his account of how the case which had begun
as a semi-official inquiry had developed into a distinctly grave affair
involving the most serious crimes punishable by English Law. Scotland
Yard does not insist on frequent reports from its officers on the
progress of a case, but leaves the responsible chiefs a great deal of
latitude in this as in other directions. It also places a corresponding
amount of responsibility on their shoulders. The Irishman, though not
afraid of responsibility, knew the danger of secretiveness, that pitfall
of many a promising detective, and was fully alive to the advantages of
getting the opinion of others whose minds came fresh to the problem in
hand. The police chiefs who assembled in the Assistant Commissioner’s
room to hear Gilmartin at such an untimely hour had come willingly for
they knew that their colleague was not the man to disturb them for
trifling reasons.

They sat silent while Gilmartin gave a rapid but almost detailed account
of his discoveries from the moment of undertaking the inquiry up to the
receipt of the telegram addressed to Sub-Inspector Williams by the
Police Commissaire of Dieppe. The silence was prolonged for some minutes
after he had finished. The Assistant Commissioner sat staring at his
ivory paper knife. Superintendent Meldrum was puffing forth smoke rings
at the ceiling, while Pennell rolled with meticulous care and absorption
a perfectly-filled and rounded cigarette.

“Let’s see that card you spoke about!” Roche said suddenly.

Gilmartin produced the piece of cardboard which had fallen from the dead
Yakob’s tobacco box.

“H’m!” the Assistant Commissioner grunted, “It’s a curious looking
thing. I suppose there is no doubt about it being Russian?”

“None whatever,” Gilmartin replied, “To my mind at any rate.”

“That’s good enough for me,” his chief rejoined, and turned to the
superintendent on his right.

“What do you think of it all, Meldrum?” he asked.

“Huh!” the superintendent replied, “It’s a nasty business. To my mind we
ought to consult the Foreign Office.”

“Why?”

“Because there can be no doubt about it being a case of espionage—not
perhaps military espionage in the strict sense of the word, but
espionage all the same—on the part of agents of some foreign Power.”

“I don’t agree,” Gilmartin said, “To me it is only a case of theft of
plans, of attempted murder, and a few other things like that. And in any
case what is there to show which foreign Power is in question?”

“I know that. There aren’t enough data to say definitely,” Meldrum
replied, “But don’t you think that everything points to our old friends
the Soviet?”

“No! I do not!” was the Irishman’s direct and uncompromising answer.

“Why?” the Assistant Commissioner exclaimed, “I must confess I was
thinking of the Soviet myself!”

“I could hardly tell you why, sir,” Gilmartin said, “I think they’re not
in it. It’s more a feeling than anything else. But in the first place,
that identity card—if that’s what it is—does not bear a single sign of
it. Then again, if it is a case of the Soviet why should there be
Germans involved in it?”

“As a matter of fact,” Meldrum countered, “You have no real evidence
that there are, but even if you had, why not? According to your
translation of that thing it’s an International business and——”

“No!” Gilmartin contradicted, “I didn’t translate that first word as
‘International.’ I said, ‘Universal.’ As a matter of fact literal
translation would be more like: ‘World-wide Union (or “League” if you
like) of Liberty.” Not that it makes an essential difference, I admit!”

“Not a bit!” the superintendent insisted doggedly, “It’s the same thing.
‘International’ or ‘Universal’—It’s all one, just as the Soviet
Government and the Third International are the same whatever they may
say to the contrary. The only difference is that non-Russians are
members of the latter—the damned fools! What’s to prevent some of their
tools being German or—or—or Patagonians for that matter? Oh! if you
like I’ll substitute for the Soviet the Third International. They’re the
lads at the bottom of this, you may bet your boots.”

“How do you explain the fact that they have paid for the property they
have taken or damaged?” the Assistant Commissioner asked, “That doesn’t
sound like Bolshevism I must admit.”

“Policy, sir! Policy!” Meldrum repeated, “To put themselves right with
the bourgeois whose property they needed. Possibly a bid for silence,
knowing that most people have their price.”

“I’m afraid that’s rather weak for you, Meldrum,” the Assistant
Commissioner commented with a smile, “I must say that on second thoughts
I am inclined to agree with Gilmartin. It doesn’t sound like Bolshevism,
but on the other hand what the devil is it? By the way, Gilmartin, have
those bank-notes been traced yet?”

“There hasn’t been much time, sir,” Gilmartin replied, “The last I heard
was that some of them were paid out to Lord Letchworth personally about
ten days ago. The others, the bank thinks, probably came over from one
of the French or Belgian Banks. They are making inquiries.”

“Lord Letchworth!” the Assistant Commissioner laughed, “Well, he is
certainly not a Bolshevik. If anything he is a dyed-in-the-wool
die-hard!”

“Yes,” Meldrum muttered, “The sort that makes more Bolsheviks than ever
Trotsky converted. I suppose you will inquire, Gilmartin, where they
went from him—the notes, I mean?”

“Yes. Inspector Hughes will do that.”

Assistant Commissioner Roche turned to the other superintendent who had
not said a word.

“What do you think, Pennell?” he asked, “What sort of a gang are they?”

Superintendent Pennell, a tall, grave man, looked up from the scrutiny
of his boots with a wintry smile.

“Does it matter what they are?” he asked, “I agree with Meldrum when he
says that it smells of a species of espionage, but I also agree with
Gilmartin when he says that what concerns us as ordinary policemen is
the kidnapping business, larceny, arson, attempted murder and possibly
murder. If I may say so I think that we are merely wasting time talking
like this.”

Gilmartin nodded emphatic agreement.

“I take it,” Pennell went on in his precise judicial manner, “That
Gilmartin’s reason for consulting us is that the case is getting
complicated enough and has sufficient importance, or perhaps I should
say sufficient sidelines of importance, to warrant more than one
responsible officer taking charge of a portion.”

“Precisely,” the Irishman confirmed, “And I feel that with the arrival
of the drawings things are coming to a head—or possibly to several
heads—and I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Then what do you advise, Pennell?” Roche asked.

“Let us get things clear first!” the superintendent replied, “Matters at
present stand thus! Pull me up anybody if you don’t agree. This is how I
see it: A series of attempts have been made here and abroad to lay hold
of valuable plans. Connected with these attempts it would appear that
several laybrothers of a monastery have disappeared—not of their own
free will; several other monks have been injured more or less seriously;
a murderous attack has been made on the life of a potential informer; a
presumed member of the gang committed suicide when captured; a house
which sheltered members of the gang—and possibly their prisoners—has
been burned to the ground. Simultaneously—or almost—other valuable
drawings have been stolen elsewhere—the subsequent sending of money
does not from our point of view alter the fact of their theft—and there
is a proven link between the two cases. These, I think, are the material
facts.”

Pennell had addressed himself to the blotter on the Assistant
Commissioner’s writing-table. He looked up now at each of his hearers in
turn, and finding no contradictory sign went on in the same monotonous,
unimpassioned manner:

“Now, what do we know of the persons suspected in connection with these
matters? Take them in turn. There is the man whom we know as Gottschalk.
We know definitely that he was connected with the theft of documents
from the young electrical engineer. We also know that he was connected
with the house at Golders Green and with the struggle in the grounds of
Alderborough Abbey. That is all. There is the man known only as Otto. We
know that he was connected with the house at Golders Green, that he was
concerned in the disappearance of at least some of the laybrothers, and
in the attack in the Abbey wood. Then there is a woman known as Mrs.
Hoffmeyer and at least two unknown men. That is really all we know.”

“It sounds very little,” Gilmartin commented ruefully, “When you take a
hand at boiling things down.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the superintendent replied with a wave of his hand,
“What we don’t know is equally important at this stage, for it tells us
how to direct our efforts. Let us go into that! The mere putting of our
difficulties into words will help us to get a clear idea of what we want
to find out. Firstly, we don’t really know the whereabouts of any of the
people I have mentioned. That is really our principal problem. Somebody
has said that if Scotland Yard knows a name under which anybody has
lived they will find him. However that may be, the knowledge of a name
certainly helps. To tackle our problem properly we must divide it up and
analyse what we’ve got. There are other things than names. Take
Gottschalk! Isn’t it rather a noteworthy fact that after the morning of
the 5th November nothing more has been seen or heard of him?
Queries:—Has he left the country? Is he still alive? As for Otto, we
are up against the fact that we know him by no other name, but on the
other hand——”

“By the way,” Meldrum interrupted the rather didactic monologue, “Have
you ever considered the possibility, Gilmartin, that Gottschalk is
simply Otto or one of the others disguised. Remember what Inspector
Hughes reported!”

“He is certainly not Otto,” Pennell answered before Gilmartin could say
anything, “Hoskins saw them together.”

“Still,” Meldrum insisted, “I don’t see why if Mrs. Hoffmeyer was a
young women and an elderly one at the same time, the same thing couldn’t
be true of Gottschalk. It’s my opinion he was Mr. Hoffmeyer in his two
capacities of elderly and young man.

“Oh,” he hurried on as Pennell was about to say something, “I don’t
insist that he was Otto. We have no proof that the man the neighbours
saw at Golders Green was Otto.”

“No,” Pennell replied, “but we do know that Otto actually was an inmate
of the house in Golders Green. He is, as I say, elusive, and so is Mrs.
Hoffmeyer, though we have the doubtful advantage of a typewritten note
from her. She is certainly a very shadowy sort of person altogether who
eludes us fairly successfully. Queries: Was she the housekeeper of the
house at Golders Green? Was she the woman who visited that burglar in
hospital? What is her nationality? In fact was she one woman or two? The
other observed or suspected members of the gang are like supers on the
stage. Their names are not on the programme.”

Pennell stopped and rolled carefully another cigarette. The others
watched him, fascinated.

“All these queries,” he went on then, “Seem to me to be essential points
if we want to find the people in question. There is of course the
general question of _what_ they all are. It would certainly help if we
knew the origin and aims of the organization to which they appear to
belong. Is it a formal organisation or is it merely a temporary banding
together of a number of criminals?”

“This identity card,” Gilmartin remarked, “Would seem to indicate quite
a high stage of organisation. Then there is the money, and the veiled
reference in the notes sent to the recipients of the money to at least
an association of people banded together with a common object.”

“The card may be misleading,” Pennell reminded him, “You must consider
the possibility that this Russian who killed himself may have belonged
to a Russian organisation—political or otherwise—in addition to being
in this business. The identity card may refer to that.”

Gilmartin shook his head doubtfully.

“Oh!” Pennell went on, “I don’t mind admitting that I think that it is a
highly organised gang. I am only pointing out weaknesses in our chain of
inferences. As a matter of fact it is my own private opinion—useless of
course as evidence, this—that it is not merely a criminal organisation.
It is criminal, of course, since they commit crimes, but there also
seems to be something—well—something, if you like, a cut above mere
crime in this. Perhaps it would not be a bad idea to let the Special
Branch have what information we can give. They might be able to dig up
something linking up with it in some way.”

“Yes,” the Assistant Commissioner agreed, “I’ll see about that.”

“I notice,” came Meldrum’s bass voice, “That from start to finish you
never mention the body found on Waterloo Bridge.”

“Deliberately so,” Pennell replied, “For I have heard nothing reliable
which connects it with the case before us.”

“You forget the underlinen,” Gilmartin put in quietly.

“No, I had not forgotten that,” the superintendent told him, “But if I
remember aright the linen marks were not identified by the monks of
Alderborough, so it was certainly not that of any of the missing
brothers.”

“As a matter of fact,” Gilmartin said, “I should have corrected or
rather amplified that. The body was certainly not that of one of the
missing laybrothers. The Abbot said so at once. As for the linen they
were not so sure. You see, in a monastery, all property is in common.
There is no individual property even in clothes. The procurator admitted
the possibility of, say, the linen of a visiting monk being washed at
the Abbey and put into general store and reissued without any
identifying mark. What I was thinking of was: if these people used the
habits—the outside clothes—of the laybrothers to disguise themselves
why should they not use their underlinen to cover that body in order to
lead us astray. I don’t put that forward with any degree of confidence.
In fact I intended keeping it to myself; I don’t forget that the
stockings on that body had to my mind never been worn inside boots,
which is a decided set-back to the theory.”

“Does not the fact that the body was placed there on the 5th of November
suggest anything to you?” the Assistant Commissioner asked.

“No. I can’t say that it does,” Pennell replied, “Except the fact that
the man was killed on a mighty convenient day for the disposal of his
body.”

“Well,” Roche declared, “I can’t help thinking that the body on the
bridge was that of Gottschalk.”

“Why?” Superintendent Fennel asked.

“Well,” the Assistant Commissioner answered, “In the first place
Gottschalk disappeared on the 5th of November, and the body was placed
there on the 5th of November.”

“You forget, sir,” the superintendent countered, “That the landlady
heard him in his rooms at an hour when that body was already in the
hands of the police.”

“She heard _somebody_,” the Assistant Commissioner retorted, “Who she
_thought_ was Gottschalk because of his cough.”

“A cough is a very individual thing,” Meldrum murmured.

The Assistant Commissioner ignored this and went on:

“Secondly we have the undoubted resemblance between the photograph of
the body and the sketch of Gottschalk. The differences would be
explained by the absence of beard on the body.”

“But why should Gottschalk be killed?” Pennell asked.

“That,” Roche replied, “Is another matter. There are two possible
theories. Don’t forget that the Russian, Yakob, poisoned himself when he
failed. Gottschalk did not poison himself but perhaps he allowed himself
willingly or unwillingly to be punished for failure. That is perhaps a
rule of the organization.”

“And what do you suggest was his failure?” Pennell asked with a smile.

“Your prodigious memory overlooks some things, Pennell,” the Assistant
Commissioner laughed, “You forget that on that day Father Baumgartner’s
luggage was stolen and that the plans were not in it.”

“H’m!” Pennell admitted, “Plausible! Very plausible, but somehow it
seems to be far-fetched and inconclusive.”

“I admit,” Roche declared, “That it is not my favourite theory. What I
think happened is that Gottschalk, having got young
what’s-his-name’s—Wylie’s—plans, engineered a double-cross on the
gang. He made his preparations for getting away, even to the point of
shaving off his facial adornments, but was found out. Don’t forget that
the organisation had a good intelligence service, as Gilmartin knows.
You know also from their own admission that human life had very little
value in their eyes. So they calmly outed Gottschalk, dressed him up and
the rest. Then they got into his lodgings with his own key and replaced
his own clothes there. Incidentally they recovered Wylie’s plans from
there as well.”

“Your imagination is certainly working overtime to-night, sir.”
Gilmartin laughed.

“Damned ingenious,” Meldrum growled, “But I still hold that this
Gottschalk business is merely a temporary identity under which Otto or
another of the gang—possibly even its big boss—was hiding. He’s
calling himself something else now.”

The Assistant Commissioner looked at his watch.

“It is getting late, gentlemen,” he reminded them. “We certainly are
working overtime.”

“What about this telegram from Dieppe?” Gilmartin asked, “It needs
looking into.”

“What do you suggest, Pennell?” Roche asked.

The superintendent looked at Gilmartin.

“It’s Gilmartin’s case,” he began doubtfully, “I don’t like to——”

“Go ahead,” the Irishman said at once, “I shall be glad of suggestions.”

“Thanks. Then, this is what I suggest: that I go over to Dieppe
to-morrow and go into the developments over there, whatever they are. As
I am not such a good linguist as Gilmartin I propose that I should take
Williams with me, who also has the advantage, obviously, of having met
the people there. Then, Gilmartin, as he is at home in the monastery,
should escort this Father Kleinmichel to Alderborough and remain there
to watch things from that end. I should advise that he take a couple of
our people on whom he can depend—Peters, for example, and a couple of
detective constables. He will have more faith in them than in the local
police.”

Gilmartin nodded approval.

“Then,” the superintendent continued, “Meldrum could get in touch with
the Special Branch and have a shot at finding the gang’s London
headquarters.”

“Humph!” Meldrum grunted, “The easiest job of the lot—I don’t think!”

“You know that you have the best nose in the place for that sort of
work,” the Assistant Commissioner laughed, “or the most uncanny luck.”

“Humph!”

“Anybody suggest anything else?” Roche asked. “Nobody? Good! Then that’s
settled! Make your own arrangements, gentlemen.”

The Assistant Commissioner rose and reached for his hat, but his hand
stopped over the telephone receiver as the buzzer whirred.

“Hello!” he called out, “Yes. Yes, he’s here!”

He landed the receiver to Gilmartin.

“For you, Gilmartin,” he said, “St. Joseph’s Retreat, Highgate,
speaking, whatever that is.”

Gilmartin listened to what was said at the other end. “Good!” he replied
then, “’Phone the local station. Get two men from there and send them
here with him—handcuffed, you understand, handcuffed! I shall be
waiting. And don’t leave your posts—any of you—whatever happens!”

“Can you beat it?” the Irishman then addressed his colleagues as he
replaced the receiver, “As a precaution I had the place watched and my
lads have arrested a man—a foreigner, they say—trying to enter the
house where I sent Father Kleinmichel. Yet nobody except the Father
Superior and I knew that he was going there. I didn’t even say it aloud
to Williams!”


                         XXIII. Another Attempt

Both Meldrum—as the one now interested in the gang’s headquarters—and
Gilmartin were still at New Scotland Yard when two constables brought in
the would-be burglar from Highgate. He was a sturdy blue-eyed man of
about twenty-five of erect bearing and imperturbable mien. His square
head covered with fair hair cut _en brosse_ did not move from its stiff
pose over the well-knit shoulders as he stood at attention with his
escort when Meldrum and Gilmartin in turn interrogated him. A stony
silence greeted every question, whether in English, German or Russian.

“By George!” Meldrum muttered, “I wish we could give him a good old
American third degree—and get away with it!”

Finally they gave it up, but before sending the man to the cells
Gilmartin took the precaution of searching personally every inch of his
clothes and person with the closest attention. No identity card rewarded
the effort, but tucked away under the waist lining of the trousers the
Irishman found three little pellets wrapped in tissue paper which he put
aside for analysis. This was the occasion for the only display of
emotion on the part of the prisoner, and the two constables had
difficulty in holding him when he tried to recover the pellets from
Gilmartin.

On arrival at Highgate the following morning the Irishman found that the
watchers had not been again disturbed, and that the Einsiedeln monk,
though complaining that he was unable to get the dye from his hair and
face, was ready for the journey to Alderborough. On the way to Waterloo,
Gilmartin told him of the attempted entrance and the subsequent arrest.
The half-triumphant air engendered by the successful issue of the
journey up to then was succeeded by an obvious uneasiness on receipt of
the news.

“How on earth did they find me?” Father Kleinmichel asked, after a
silence, “It seems almost miraculous how they get their information.”

“No, Father,” Gilmartin replied, “There is nothing miraculous about it.
I should think that you were simply followed all the way from
Einsiedeln. They were not sure of you until Williams met you, and
perhaps at Victoria neither of you was careful enough. However, the
arrest may have scotched their plans.”

“But,” his companion objected, “If so why didn’t they try to get my
baggage?”

Gilmartin smiled.

“Well,” he said, “Considering that your only baggage seems to be that
little valise which you kept by you, I presume, during the whole
journey, they must have thought the attempt too difficult. It is fairly
obvious that you are a more wide-awake man than Father Baumgartner.”

“Poor Father Baumgartner!” the other smiled, “His thoughts are always
elsewhere. He must be terribly upset by all this.”

“Very naturally,” Gilmartin replied, “I am sorry in a way that I sent
Inspector Williams to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Well,” the Irishman answered, “It certainly does look as if you were
not really recognised before Dieppe, and that his meeting you there drew
the attention of some member of the gang who knew you by sight.”

“Possibly,” Father Kleinmichel agreed, “And they could easily have
followed your inspector and me last night, especially as we once stopped
on the way. They could then see me without that false moustache. What a
pity I took it off!”

“What’s that?” Gilmartin shot out, “You stopped on the way? Where? What
for?”

“I remembered on the way from you,” the other replied, “That I had
promised to inform the Lord Abbot of Einsiedeln of my safe arrival in
London, so your inspector brought me to a telegraph office at a railway
station—I do not know its name.”

“H-m! Probably St. Pancras or King’s Cross. They would be open at that
time,” the detective said, partly to himself.

“So I sent him a telegram,” Father Kleinmichel continued, “Also one to
Father Baumgartner telling him I was coming to-day.”

“I am sorry you did that,” Gilmartin commented mildly.

“But why?” the other asked in surprise, “Naturally he would like to
know.”

“I daresay,” the Irishman replied dryly, “But there are others equally
anxious to know. We don’t know what sources of information these people
have. In any case, an observer down at Alderborough would draw his own
conclusions if he found that Father Baumgartner got a telegram.
However—what’s done is done! Here we are at Waterloo!”

On the platform Gilmartin noted with approval that Inspector Peters
ignored him completely and that three other young men of different types
known personally to him who were stationed at various points along the
train were equally unconscious of his existence. It did not escape his
attention that two of these happened to enter the compartment to the
right of his own, while Peters and the other found seats in the
compartment on the left. Evidently the emissary to Alderborough was to
be well guarded even though the end of the journey seemed near.

At the Abbey the visitors were met by the guestmaster, now completely
recovered from his bruises. On being introduced to the detective’s
nondescript companion in ready-made clothes he seemed taken aback for a
moment, but recovering quickly greeted him as a brother in religion in
spite of the novel attire. The new arrival after a hasty “Glad to know
you” which was with the rest of his English a reminder of his
transatlantic days asked at once if he could see Father Baumgartner.

“Father Abbot has given instructions that you are to be brought to
Father Baumgartner’s cell at once,” Father Massey replied, “Perhaps you
would like to see him also, Mr. Gilmartin. He is no longer confined to
bed now.”

“Yes. I should like to see him just for a moment,” the detective agreed,
and they followed the guestmaster through the cloister.

It was obvious from the meeting of the two confrères that they were glad
to see each other. The guestmaster and the Chief Inspector could only
look on while a stream of questions and answers in guttural German
passed to and fro between the two. Gilmartin noted that Father
Baumgartner already looked brighter than when he had last seen him.
Evidently his nerves had been badly shaken by the whole affair and this
flow of words betokened a relief from the tension which had never been
overtly admitted. He could now even joke about his assistant’s dyed hair
and sunburn-stained face.

The first outburst of greeting over, Father Baumgartner turned to
Gilmartin with outstretched hand.

“Mizder Kilmardin,” he said in his thick, throaty English, his
short-sighted eyes illumined with pleasure, “I musd tank you for the
golossal drouble you have taken. Midout your vonderful bregautions my
blans vould have into de wrong hands vallen and I of this life vould not
be.”

Gilmartin seemed embarrassed and at a loss to know how to answer this
speech in the terms it would appear to merit.

“I have done a policeman’s duty,” he said finally after a pause, “As
well as I knew how, but I have yet to do more. I shall not be easy in my
mind, for my own sake and for yours, until I have put those who are
after the plans under lock and key and found what has become of the
laybrothers of this monastery.”

“Ah! Dose poor laybrudders!” the wireless enthusiast sighed, “In my choy
at Vater Kleinmichel’s safe arrifal I was selfish and forgotten had.”

Shortly afterwards the detective left the two radio experts to
themselves and followed Father Massey downstairs.

“You’re looking very glum,” the guestmaster remarked when they reached
the cloister.

“Do you think so?” Gilmartin asked.

“Yes. You’ve a frown on you that contrasts strongly with Father
Baumgartner’s smile.”

“I haven’t the same reasons that Father Baumgartner has for smiling,”
the detective retorted with emphasis, “I came down here in the first
instance to investigate the disappearance of your laybrothers, not to
deliver plans safely. Well, whatever else I may have done, I haven’t yet
got to the bottom of this gang, nor have I discovered the whereabouts of
your laybrothers. Meanwhile, my job here is not finished.”

“Here? Why not?”

“Do you think for one moment,” Gilmartin asked, “That the gang will
abandon all their activities in this part of the world now? Believe me,
this is where these same activities are likely to be redoubled.”

“M’yes, I suppose you’re right!” the guestmaster agreed.

“Of course, I’m right!” the detective rejoined, “It’s obvious! But as a
matter of fact, talking of glumness, you’re none too bright yourself.”

“I’m not _feeling_ particularly bright, to tell you the truth,”
Gilmartin’s fellow-countryman admitted, “I’m worried.”

“About this business?”

“Y-yes. That is naturally worrying me like everybody else in the
community.”

“May I say,” Gilmartin said, turning to look at his companion, “That I
thought you didn’t seem too pleased at Father Kleinmichel’s arrival.”

“I wonder why you think that!” the guestmaster replied.

“Well, you seemed rather—er—surprised when I introduced him.”

“Did I? Well, who would think of meeting a brother Benedictine in a suit
of reach-me-downs and a made-up tie?”

“Oh! That was it, was it?” Gilmartin said dryly, and then laughed, “I
wish then that you’d seen him last night before he pulled off his false
moustache. It was the funniest sight imaginable.”

“Did he do that?” the monk laughed in his turn, “Now that was clever!
I’d never have thought of that if I’d been in his shoes.”

“It didn’t prevent a mysterious individual trying to enter the
Passionist monastery in Highgate where I got him a bed last night!” the
detective said seriously.

“Did you get the fellow?” Father Massey asked, with considerable
interest in his tones.

“Yes.”

“Did he talk?”

“No. I am sure, however, that he is a member of the gang.”

“Humph!” the guestmaster murmured, “That’s interesting.”

“I should like to see Father Abbot if he isn’t busy.” Gilmartin changed
the subject.

“On the contrary,” Father Massey told him, “He bade me bring you to him
as soon as you felt inclined to see him.”

As the detective entered the Abbot’s cell, and before the initial
greetings were finished, the old porter laybrother entered with a
telegram. Dom Chavasse took it from him and nodded.

“That will be all right, brother,” he said and waited till the door had
closed behind the laybrother.

“I have followed your advice,” he continued addressing the detective,
“About a strict censorship of correspondence, though I do not
particularly like it. As I expected, moreover, there has been nothing.”

He looked again at the orange envelope he held in his hand.

“This is for Father Baumgartner,” he went on, “As a matter of fact I
always open telegrams in any case, so I shall open this one before
delivering it.”

Dom Chavasse slit the envelope open and read the pink enclosure which he
then handed to Gilmartin.

“Curious that that should come just while you are here!” he commented.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Gilmartin read the message: “Can you come interview directors Tuesday
morning ten thirty if so car will meet ten fifteen train
Waterloo—Marconi.”

The Irishman read the telegram a second time and then looked at the
Abbot for a moment in silence.

“What is it, Mr. Gilmartin?” Dom Chavasse asked.

“This was handed in at the East Strand Post Office,” Gilmartin answered,
“And may be all right, but would you mind, Father Abbot, sending a
reply-paid telegram to Marconi’s asking if they sent this telegram?”

“Do you think—after all—Why not?” the Abbot began disjointedly,
“Everything must be suspect now. Yes, this may be a trick.”

“I don’t like that bit about the car.” Gilmartin declared, “A strange
car could take a man anywhere. It’s an old trick of kidnappers too.”

The Abbot said no more but sat down at his desk and wrote.

“I’ll have it sent,” the detective said rising, “Please don’t mention
this until we have received a reply. It may be all right after all.”

Gilmartin left the Abbey by the front door. Outside the entrance gates
he beckoned to a man on the other side of the road. It was one of the
men who had travelled in the same train as he from Waterloo.

“Send off this telegram—reply paid,” the Chief Inspector ordered, “The
post-office is a hundred yards away to the right of this road.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Then come back here. I’ll wait till you come.”

The Irishman waited until he saw that his messenger had returned from
his observation post and went in search of Inspector Peters at the spot
already agreed upon between them as being that from which that worthy
could best superintend his watchers. When he returned to the Abbey more
than an hour later the porter asked him to go up to the Abbot’s cell.
There Dom Chavasse handed him a pink form in silence. Gilmartin read:

    “Nothing known here of telegram mentioned but pleased see Father
    Baumgartner his convenience.—Simpson, Marconi.”


                          XXIV. Meldrum’s Luck

While Chief Inspector Gilmartin was holding a long consultation with the
Abbot of Alderborough and his two coadjutors in the government of the
Abbey, Superintendent Meldrum, that organising specialist of the
Criminal Investigation Department, who had spent his morning planning
what promised to be the most difficult search of his career, was
groaning at the meagre prospect of success to be foreseen. He rapped out
a forcible oath when a knock at the door interrupted his train of
thought.

“What is it?” he barked at the messenger who obeyed his profane
invitation to enter.

“Very sorry, sir,” the man announced, “I knew you didn’t want to be
disturbed but it’s a young lady who wouldn’t be put off.”

“A young lady?” Meldrum growled, “What young lady can want to see _me_?
What’s her name?”

“Miss Jean Cannan,” the messenger began, “She——”

“Never heard of her? What does she want?”

“I don’t know, sir, she——”

“Then why don’t you ask her? What are you there for?”

The messenger could have reminded his superior officer of the regulation
contained in the Police Code which expressly forbids inquiry by a
subordinate into the nature of a visitor’s business with his chiefs, but
knowing the superintendent in all his moods and tenses he saw that he
was now “in one of his paddies” and refrained.

“The young lady wanted to see Chief Inspector Gilmartin,” the man said
when he could succeed in getting in a word, “So I thought, sir—I mean I
said the Chief Inspector was absent and——”

“Why the devil didn’t you say so at first?” Meldrum interrupted, “Send
her up, and next time don’t talk so much!”

Far from showing resentment the man was actually grinning as he went off
down the stairs to the entrance door.

“Come this way, please,” he said to Jean, and then slowed down to allow
her to come up with him. When she had done so he added confidentially:
“The super’s in a terrible wax about something, miss. He’s worritin’
about a case, I think, an’ ’e don’t mean nothin’ by it, miss. ’E’ll be
all right when his worry’s over and he’ll apologise ’andsome, he will.
We knows ’im, but you’re different. Don’t you get frightened at his
little ways.”

“It would take a great deal more than one of your London police chiefs
to frighten me, young man,” Jean Cannan told her conductor, “I’m worried
too, and I guess he is going to know it.”

“Don’t say afterwards I didn’t tell you, miss,” the man whispered as he
opened the superintendent’s door for her.

He waited outside to hear the expected growl, but had to flee at the
first words of the visitor.

“I could ’a’ bust wi’ laughin’,” he told a colleague later, “She walked
in as cool an’ neat as a tuppeny ice-cream brick. ‘My!’ sez she in ’er
little American way, ‘It’s like gettin’ in to Buckingham Palace, just to
says a few words to a grumpy old man behind a desk.’ Then, mate, I ’ad
to run, for fear the ole man’d hear me laughin’.”

As a matter of fact the superintendent was so taken aback by the
unexpected greeting that he forgot to rise—a courtesy which even his
worst moods never allowed him to omit.

“Well, I’m——”

“I dare say,” Jean interrupted coolly, “But I’ve come here to ask a
question and get an answer—not to hear about your personal reactions.”

Meldrum had now recovered his poise, and was his own man again. He rose
and gestured to a chair.

“Sit down, please,” he said with a grim smile under his grey moustache,
“As you are so direct I will allow you two minutes for your question and
one for my answer.”

“Well, I guess that will be four times too much for me,” was Jean’s
self-possessed retort, “My question is: Where is Gilbert Wylie?”

“Eh? What? I don’t understand!” the superintendent blundered out.

“Oh! My goodness!” the girl exclaimed, “I do wish that nice man Mr.
Gilmartin were here. He would show infinitely more intelligence, I’m
sure.”

Meldrum’s patience broke and he thumped his desk.

“Miss Whatever-your-name-is!” he thundered, “I—I——”

“My name is Cannan—Jean Cannan,” came the interruption in dulcet tones.

“I—I—— Why I’ve got a daughter your age,” the superintendent resumed
feebly, “You mustn’t waste my time like this.”

“I don’t see the connection,” Jean replied with quiet impertinence, “But
I sincerely hope that your daughter is like her mother. And, pardon me,
I must remind you that it is you who are wasting my time. I have asked
my question in less time than you allowed me. You are very much——”

The superintendent had another of his brusque changes of mood. Jean
stopped in astonishment as the grey-haired detective burst out into a
series of loud guffaws. Had she known it, it was her remark about his
daughter—the apple of his eye—which had operated the miracle.

“She is—thank Goodness!” Meldrum spluttered between gusts of laughter,
“Haw! Haw! Haw! Like her mother! That’s a good one! I apologise, Miss
Cannan. You’ve perfectly right! I’m a foolish old man.”

He became serious.

“Would you mind,” he said, “Repeating your question and explaining a
little. You see, I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking
about.”

Jean smiled.

“Then I guess the time limit——”

“Goes by the board? Yes! I take it all back!” the superintendent
retracted handsomely.

Jean smiled her acknowledgement and conquered completely.

“Gilbert Wylie is my fiancé,” she explained, “I received a letter from
him saying that on Mr. Gilmartin’s advice he is disappearing for a time
and——”

“O-o-o-h! Now I remember!” Meldrum interrupted, “That’s the young chap
whose drawings were stolen! What an ass I am!”

“That is who I mean.”

“Now, I’m very sorry, Miss Cannan, but I cannot tell you where he is.”

“Does that mean,” Jean asked, “That you really cannot or that you just
won’t?”

“It means exactly what I say, Miss Cannan,” the superintendent replied,
“I cannot. I haven’t the faintest idea where he is. Chief Inspector
Gilmartin—probably deliberately—kept that to himself, but you can rest
assured that he did so for a good reason.”

“There can be no reason good enough,” the girl said emphatically, “For
hiding him from me.”

“All I know is,” Meldrum replied, “What Gilmartin told me, and that is
that the young man’s life was in danger if he didn’t get under cover.
And you can take my word for it that when Chief Inspector Gilmartin says
that a thing like that is so it _is_ so.”

“But,” Jean objected, “Why should his whereabouts be kept from _me_?”

“How would you like him to be traced,” Meldrum retorted, “And possibly
killed—through, say, a letter from you?”

The girl was silent for a moment.

“Then,” she decided, “I must see Mr. Gilmartin. Where is he?”

“He is out of Town,” Meldrum told her.

“Of course he is out of Town, but where?” Jean insisted, “He can’t be
far away. This country is not so very big.”

“No, I daresay you could steal it out of the United States without it
being missed—much,” the superintendent agreed.

“Come now, Mr. Meldrum!” the girl said firmly, “You are not going to put
me off with a lesson in geography. I want to know where Mr. Gilmartin is
and I am going to stay here till you tell me.”

“Now, look here, Miss Cannan,” Meldrum replied with equal firmness, “You
must appreciate my point of view. In the first place it would be most
irregular to tell anybody the whereabouts of an officer on duty, and
secondly, you may be Mr. Wylie’s fiancée as you say or—on the other
hand you may not.”

“Oh!” Jean exclaimed indignantly, “What do you mean?”

Meldrum was studying her closely. He was not entirely sincere in his
expression of doubt, but as an experienced detective he had considered
the possibility of this being a ruse on the part of the gang to discover
Wylies’s hiding-place. This girl certainly did not look the part he had
hypothetically created for her, but owing to Gilmartin’s economy of
words he had never heard of her, and even if he had nothing less than
very exceptional circumstances would be necessary to persuade him to
inform an outsider of the whereabouts of a colleague engaged on a case.

“Think it over, Miss Cannan,” he said gently.

Jean nodded helplessly and was silent for a moment.

“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, “They know me at Gilbert’s boarding-house
and could identify me there as his fiancée. Besides—oh!—I have thought
of something else! I made a sketch of the man who stole Gilbert’s plans.
You must have seen it. I can describe it, I can describe the paper,
indeed, I could make another sketch for you.”

Meldrum smiled.

“So you are the artist,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Meldrum, and I don’t think you really believe me to be
a—a—well, that I am just trying to vamp you for information.”

“W-well!” Meldrum hesitated, “I don’t know! It’s most irregular! I may
be an old fool—a grumpy old fool too, but——”

“Oh! Don’t make fun of me, please!” Jean pleaded.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to do that,” the superintendent apologised, “What
I was going to say was—well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you where
Gilmartin is, and you can deal with him.”

“Oh! You dear man!”

“Don’t talk too soon,” Meldrum warned, “I know Gilmartin well enough to
tell you that he is not always as nice as you think to ladies. If by any
chance you get in his way, you’ll be sorry for yourself, and wish you
were talking to a grumpy old man behind a desk.”

“_I’m_ not frightened,” Jean declared bravely.

After she had left him the gruff old superintendent sat still for some
moments.

“Gosh!” he muttered to himself, “They’re a fair caution, these American
girls! You never know what they’re going to do. Now, some of them in her
shoes would have howled the house down. You’d never think from her
manner that she was nearly off her head with anxiety!”

The messenger at the outer door certainly did not receive any such
impression, for seeing her tripping down the stairs towards him he
grinned as if at an old friend.

“Well, miss,” he said, “The super ’asn’t bit yore ’ead off?”

“Don’t you say a word against him!” Jean admonished him with mock
severity, “He’s a very nice man!”

“Well! I’m blowed!” the man declared, but recovered in time to accost an
ill-assorted couple who were entering.

“Is Chief Inspector Gilmartin in?” the foremost asked, “I’ve been trying
to get his room on the ’phone but there’s no reply.”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t reckernise you at first,” the man apologised, “No,
sir, he’s not in, nor likely to be for a couple of days, I hear. But
Superintendent Meldrum is seeing his visitors. Shall I announce you,
sir?”

“Yes.”

The man did not make a personal visit this time to Meldrum’s room but
lifted the receiver of the house telephone in his little box-office.

“Superintendent Meldrum?” he called, “Detective-Inspector Gibbs to see
you, sir.”

He nodded to Gibbs.

“Come on, John!” the East End detective said to his companion who bowed
silently and followed him up the stairs.

“Lumme!” the messenger said to himself, “A Chinaman! Them lads is mostly
in custody when they comes ’ere.”

“G’morning, Gibbs!” Meldrum greeted, “Hello? Who’s this?”

“This is Foo Wong Hui,” Gibbs introduced his companion, “He has a
statement to make and——”

“Sit down, Mr. Foo,” the superintendent invited courteously, “What’s the
statement about?”

“It’s about Chief Inspector Gilmartin’s case, I think, sir,” the
inspector replied, “I didn’t wish to take hasty action and brought
John—I mean Foo—here. I think you will find, sir, that his information
will clear up the question of the missing laybrothers.”


                       XXV. Foo Wong Hui “Tells”

“What do you know about missing laybrothers?” Meldrum asked, “I thought
nobody outside this building knew about that.”

“I only know what Chief Inspector Gilmartin told me, sir,” Gibbs
replied, “If you wouldn’t mind listening to John—I mean
Foo—perhaps——”

“Wait a minute!”

The superintendent pushed a bell button.

“Send Sergeant Wilson here,” he ordered the messenger who answered.

The Chinaman, who was a stout, glabrous man dressed in a padded alpaca
jacket and trousers and patent leather shoes, sat perfectly motionless
with his hands hidden in his wide sleeves awaiting patiently the signal
to speak. Sergeant Wilson came in, a reporter’s notebook in his hand, a
pencil behind each ear and another held ready.

“Sit down, Wilson, here,” Meldrum directed, vacating his own chair and
taking an arm-chair, “Take down every word.”

The superintendent turned to the Chinaman.

“Now, Mr. Foo, begin,” he ordered.

“I tell stoly my way, ol you ask questions?” Foo Wong Hui inquired, his
head to one side.

“Tell your story in your own way,” Meldrum directed, “If anything isn’t
clear I’ll ask.”

“Evlyting velly cleal,” the Chinaman said unemotionally, “You leddy,
Salgen Wilson?”

Sergeant Wilson smiled his readiness.

“He’s a bit of a character,” Gibbs whispered to his superior officer,
“But he’s a good scout—and reliable.”

“Inspectol Gibbs know me,” Foo Wong Hui began, “I Foo Wong Hui, tea and
spice melchant of Glenade Stleet.”

“Grenade Street,” the inspector interpreted.

“Yes, I say Glenade Stleet,” the Chinaman continued, “Last night I go
flom my shop along Thlee Colt Street.”

“Three Colt Street?” the sergeant stenographer inquired.

“Yes, not fal flom my shop. I walk down and then I stop. I heal flom the
glound at one place sing-song—so!”

Foo Wong Hui in a not unmusical tenor gave a perfect rendering of the
seventh tone of the Psalmody as sung by the monks of Solesmes.

“Yes, yes!” Meldrum said eagerly, “A psalm tune!”

“I say to myself,” Foo went on, “Hele no Chlistian chulch, only empty
house, and listen mole. The sing-song stop soon and I heal talk, but I
can’t undelstand.”

“Wait a minute!” the superintendent interrupted, “You say this singing
came from the ground. What do you mean exactly?”

“I tell!” the Chinaman went on imperturbably, “I stop and listen. Some
time the voice come cleal and some time velly not cleal—like man walk
up and down away flom me and back. I look at the wall—nothing! I look
low down and I see a glating—velly dilty glating, at the foot of the
wall. I listen again and I heal voice flom it. I call: ‘Who is that?’
but nobody answel; man talk like he say playels in Chlistian Chulch. I
wait fol he finish and I call again, but he not heal. I say not my
business and I go to go away but a motol cal stop at the colner and a
man and a lady come out. Man see me and say something to the lady. Lady,
she come to me and she ask: ‘Who al you?’ I say: Foo Wong Hui, melchant
of tea and spice of Glenade Stleet.’ ‘What you do hele?’ she say. I say:
‘I go flom my shop. Why not? This Thlee Colt Stleet, the way flom my
shop.’ The man then come and say: ‘I saw you look on the glound. What
fol?’ I answer: ‘I don’t think it youl business, sil, if pool Chinaman
lose sixpence on stleet and look fol it.’ The lady then talk to the man
and she say something in a not-English language—Lussian I t’ink. I
undelstand one word only.”

“What was that?” Meldrum asked.

“It sound like ‘Kitai’,” Foo replied, “That mean China in Lussian. I
know because I heal Lussian soldiers in Khalbin say one time long ago.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the sergeant stenographer put in, “But the word
‘Kitai’ means ‘China’ in more languages than in Russian. It is the word
in several Oriental languages.”

“Sounds to me,” Gibbs added, “As if that was the word the old word
‘Cathay’ comes from.”

“Shouldn’t be surprised,” Meldrum grunted, indifferent to the
philological side of the matter, “What happened next?”

“The lady say ‘good night,’ and I walk away. At the next colnel, the
colnel of Palk Stleet——”

“Park Street,” Gibbs supplied.

“At that colnel,” Foo Wong Hui went on, “I hide and look back. Lady and
man go into empty house and leave motol cal in the stleet. Inspectol
Gibbs know me. I not dope melchant. I stlaight tladesman, and I sell
only tea and spice. I go home and tell my wife. She good wife—English
wife. She say ‘Wong, I think that a dope business. You get youl blother
Feng quick-quick and watch what happen. If it dope you tell Inspectol
Gibbs.’ I lun get blother Foo Feng Hui. He watch at colnel of Limehouse
Causeway. I put on China boots—you know, soft boots—and I go unsclew
ail-hole in tile of cal.”

“He means the tire-valve,” Gibbs informed the sergeant, who was looking
puzzled.

“Tha’s light—tile-valve. Then when ail go out, I sclew again, and I lun
to colner of Challie Blown’s, whele I know taxi wait, and I get taxi. I
pay taximan wait fol me, and I get inside and wait. Long time pass, and
I see nothing, but then I look and see man and lady come out. They get
in cal, and then dlive off, but stop soon. The man get out and pump ail
in, and then dlive off again. I follow in taxi—not velly close, and it
goes velly fal—to Highgate, but lady she get out and go into Moolgate
Undelglound Station. I follow motol. Now I wish I follow lady. At
Highgate Hill he stop and leave motol in side stleet. Then I leave taxi.
I watch. Man look lound two-thlee time, and go over wall into chulch
glounds. I say: Chulch sing-song in Thlee Colt Stleet! Bulglal flom
Thlee Colt Stleet go in chulch in Highgate! Funny! I wait see. Not long.
P’laps half-houl. Then I see two p’lice come and pliest open flont gate
of Chulch galden. P’lice go in, and then come out with bulglal. A man
pass, and I ask what call that chulch. He say ‘Holy Joe,’ but p’laps he
joke.”

“That’s the name some of the people round there give to St. Joseph’s
Retreat, Highgate, the Passionist monastery,” the sergeant stenographer
interpreted.

“I know, I know,” Meldrum said excitedly, “This gets interesting. What
then?”

“I take bulglal’s motol cal,” Foo Wong Hui announced impassively, “I
know how to dlive, and I dlive home. Then I tell wife. She say: ‘You go
to-mollow molning, tell Inspectol Gibbs one time, p’laps swag in house
in Thlee Colt Stleet.’ I say yes. I sleep. In molning I go see Inspectol
Gibbs—not his distlict, but he know me. He listen. We come hele. That’s
all.”

“And very good, too, Mr. Foo Wong Hui!” Meldrum exulted, “Very good
indeed! Now Gibbs, you and I have work to do.”

Foo Wong Hui looked from one to the other.

“You pay for taxi?” he asked.

“Sure thing!” Meldrum informed him, “And probably a bit over
for—er—expenses.”

“Velly good! I not lich!” Foo Wong Hui bowed.

“Oh! By the way,” the superintendent asked, “Where’s that car?”

“I’ve got it,” Gibbs answered, “There was nothing in it except a woman’s
fur stole.”

“Now I go back,” the Chinaman announced, “My wife no like stay in shop
velly long time.”

“Right!” Meldrum smiled, “But not a word to anybody! I presume you’ve
told nobody except your wife and your brother about this?”

“Nobody.”

“They won’t talk, I hope.”

“Wife, she not talk. Blother—he do what I say do, he not do what I say
not do. Inspectol Gibbs know.”

“That’s quite right, sir,” Gibbs corroborated, “See you later, John!”

When the Chinaman had left them Meldrum ordered Wilson to have his notes
typed out at once, and turned to the East End Inspector.

“Gibbs,” he said, “If this job comes off, it’s not going to do you any
harm.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh! No thanks to me. Now let us see what’s to be done! I suppose you’ve
no doubt of the truth of the story? The Highgate end I myself know to be
true, but it seems funny that a Chinaman should go out of his way to do
this sort of thing.”

“Oh! Foo Wong Hui is as good as ten policemen down in Limehouse,” Gibbs
replied, “He makes war on all law-breaking of a serious kind. They call
him ‘Busy’ John down there. And then—well—I was once in a position to
do him a good turn, sir, and in his funny way he is always trying to
give me a leg-up.”

“I see. What about that English wife of his he talked about? Who is
she?”

“China Sally? As a matter of fact, she is only half English. The other
half is Chinese. She is as ugly as the seven deadly sins, but my wife,
sir, who doesn’t love many of her sex, says she’s the best woman she
ever met. She is a regular god-send to all the kiddies down there.”

“Well! Now what have you done in this matter yourself?” Meldrum asked.

“Before coming on here I posted half a dozen plain-clothes men within
sight of the house with orders not to disturb anybody going in, but to
arrest quietly everybody that goes away from it.”

“Very good!” the superintendent approved, “We must of course get those
monks out—if that’s who they are—but it is equally important, more so,
in fact, to get the gang. I think we ought to put off the raid we shall
have to make for as long as we can to-day, so as to get as many of them
as we can. Let’s go and see the Assistant Commissioner!”


                             XXVI. The Raid

Throughout the remainder of the day such was the discretion of Gibbs’s
sentinels that none of the denizens knew that anything untoward was in
preparation. Some, indeed, of the less reputable Chinese were inclined
to wonder at the absence of some of the local detectives from their
usual haunts. They may also have suspected that some of the strange
figures which kept appearing in the district were not the casual
loiterers they seemed, but if they did it served to make them remove
themselves to other parts of the dockside Orient, all of which was to
the good from the point of view of the police.

There was a steady, cold drizzle during the calm period of the evening
when the legitimate houses of refreshment were busy catering to their
clients’ wants when two stalwart individuals of the docker type accosted
an equally powerfully built navvy, who stopped at the corner of Three
Colt Street and Ropemaker Fields to light a stumpy clay pipe.

“Well?” asked one of the docker-like figures—a tall, grey-haired man,
“What’s doing?”

“Nobody’s come out, sir,” the navvy replied, handing over his box of
matches for the benefit of any passers-by, “There’s four people come in,
though—three men and a woman.”

“Right!” the other replied, “You know your post. Circle to be closed in
at eight-thirty sharp!”

“Yus, mate!” the disguised sergeant replied fairly loudly as two
Chinamen passed near, “It is a narsty night! Meet yer at the pub, time
you said.”

“Seems a good man, that, Gibbs!” the big man said to his companion as
they walked away.

“He is, sir. One of mine, Sergeant Haines.”

Meldrum and Gibbs made a complete tour of the district exchanging a word
here and there with various loiterers. They had completed the circle
when the former looked at his watch in the light of a bleary street
lamp.

“Time we were moving,” he said.

As they drew near to the apparently empty house in Three Colt Street
which was under observation, mysterious shadows, large and silent,
seemed to emerge from every side street and doorway to converge at the
same point as themselves. Meldrum said no word, but advanced to the door
of the house. Not a sign was there of light in its windows, nor any
other indication that it was occupied. A man came up alongside the
superintendent.

“Sure you can do it?” Meldrum asked.

“If the door’s not bolted or chained inside, guv’ner, yus!” the man
replied, “I put that lock on meself!”

“Right! Carry on! Be as silent as you can.”

A touch on his arm out of the darkness made him wheel round suddenly.

“Sh!” a shadow beside him whispered, “You come hele! You listen! You
heal!”

It was Foo Wong Hui! Meldrum wasted no time in cursing him for his
presence, though he wondered for a second how he had passed through the
cordon which was now tightly drawn round the entire block. He followed
the Chinaman a few paces to one side and stooped in obedience to the
pressure of his guide’s hand. A voice reached his ear—a decidedly
Cockney voice.

“. . . a bit o’ use moanin’, Bruvver Denis,” the superintendent heard
distinctly, “The devil tykes care of his own, we all know, but Lord love
yer, so does Gawd tyke care of us all! We’re goin’ to get aht, I tells
yer. I feel it, I knows it! See? ’Ere! Hadrian! Strike up that one abaht
the Israelites comin’ aht er Egypt from a barbarous people. Barbarous it
is, too, ’Eaven knows, and precious cold. Come on, Denis, an’ you too,
Renny, we’re goin’ to start. Same as usual! Wot one forgets anuvver’ll
remember. Go on, Hadrian!”

In a clear baritone rang forth immediately the opening words of the
psalm to the plaintive air of the Peregrinus tone:

                “_In exitu Israel de Ægypto_. . . .”[3]

[3] Ps. 114 (113 Latin vers.).

-----

whereupon the nasal drawl of the Cockney joined in:

                 “_domus Jacob de populo barbaro-o-o_.”

The blending of two weaker, more tremulous voices replied:

    “_Facta est Indæa sanctificatio eius, Israel potestas eius._”

Meldrum listened, fascinated, and—hardened old policeman though he was,
with very little of what is called religion in his composition—touched
by the simple faith of the poor fellows below. The psalm went on, the
two more powerful voices acting as one side of the choir replying to the
others with each alternate verse. Suddenly a distant voice broke in on
the psalmody:

“_Halt den mund!_ Shud ub dat noise!”

“Carry on!” came the voice of the Cockney laybrother, “_Non nobis
Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam._”[4]

[4] Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy name give glory.

-----

The superintendent turned towards the front door. A click just then
reached his ear.

“It’s open, guv’ner,” the locksmith whispered.

In a second Meldrum’s electric torch sent out one beam towards the wet
street. The shuffling of feet followed.

“Now remember!” the Scotland Yard man whispered to the leaders, “Each
party its own floor no matter what happens!”

Silently, so silently that only a listening ear could have detected it,
the party filed into the hall. Someone coughed!

“Damn!” the superintendent said under his breath.

Presently a voice which Meldrum recognised as that of the man he had
heard endeavouring to silence the prisoners shouted out something in a
foreign tongue. Concealment was now useless.

“Now! Quick!” the superintendent yelled and pushed forward.

At once the hall was filled with light as the rays from a score of
torches darted up the well of the rickety stairs! There was now no
attempt at silence. Rattle! Creak! Bang! The raiders tumbled up, two,
three steps at a time! Crash! A door on the ground floor fell from its
hinges! A woman’s scream! An oath in pure Anglo-Saxon! Another in some
guttural tongue! Then, Rattle! Creak! Bang! again.

The superintendent was at the head of a party which stopped at the
second floor. Three closed doors confronted him. Which? No matter! All
three! All together! Meldrum fell forward as the one he had chosen gave
way. He fell flat on his face and his torch flew from his hand. In the
light of those of his followers a woman crouched in the middle of a
comfortably furnished room, her hands busy fumbling with the hem of her
well-cut tailor-made coat.

“Get her!” the superintendent roared as the men seemed taken aback at
the sight, “Hold her arms! Don’t let her get her hands in her mouth!
Quick!”

In a moment it was over. When Meldrum rose to his feet the woman was
standing haughtily erect, her eyes flashing, her arms securely held by
two detectives, making no attempt to struggle. Meldrum recovered his
torch and went forward.

“Madam!” he began, “I—but Good Lord! You are P——”

The haughtiness disappeared.

“Please!” the woman appealed, “My name is Olga Skosyreff!”

“I see.” The superintendent obeyed the unspoken request.

“Thank you,” the prisoner murmured.

“What sort of a blasted mess is this?” Meldrum muttered as he moved
away, but all he said aloud was: “See that the prisoner’s hands don’t
get free, but don’t handcuff unless it’s necessary.”

Throughout the rest of the house the tumult had died down. Only the
unhurried step of a policeman here and there broke the silence. The
superintendent went out into the landing. Somebody had lighted the
gas-jets and a dim light was everywhere. Inspector Gibbs from the floor
above met him on the stairs.

“We’ve got two men,” the inspector reported, “The third——”

“What! Got away? Hell!” Meldrum began.

“He’ll never bother us, sir!” Gibbs went on, “Threw himself out of a top
window. The men at the back of the house picked up what remained.”

“Good God!”

Quickly recovering himself, however, the big man became matter-of-fact
again.

“Get the prisoners off!” he ordered, “No information to the Press! Watch
the woman, and if you recognise the face, say nothing for the present.
Pass the word.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Leave two men in the house,” Meldrum went on, “And give me two. I’m
going down to the cellar.”

He found a door leading down from the kitchen. As he turned the key
which had been left in the lock he heard the strains of the psalmody
again. One of the men behind him, a Catholic, made the sign of the
Cross.

“Would you believe it?” he whispered.

Meldrum went on down the mouldering steps and came to another door. As
he turned the rusty key which hung there, more powerfully than ever, for
all the prisoners were singing together, came the chanting of the verse:

    “_Sed nos qui vivimus benedicimus Domino, ex hoc nunc et usque
    in sæculum._”[5]

[5] “But we that live bless the Lord, from this time now and for
evermore.”

-----

Meldrum did not understand the words but it seemed almost as if their
meaning had reached him somehow. A lump came to his throat as he
refrained from pushing open the heavy door. The Doxology, which he
recognised, followed, and he waited for the final “Amen” before he
entered the underground prison and flashed his torch.

“Good God Almighty!” he exclaimed in horror, and turned to the man
behind him who was craning his neck. “Go up at once,” he barked
hoarsely, “And get four greatcoats or something—at the double!”

The sight which had met his eyes merited the horror he had expressed.
Huddled up closely in a corner of the coal-strewn cellar whose stench
was almost overpowering were four filthy unkempt and wild-eyed beings
whose dirty unshaven faces seemed hardly human. A solitary brown
cassock, ripped down on one side to make it larger, was stretched over
all four as far as it could reach. A pitcher was on the floor; beside it
lay a crust of white bread, evidently the uneaten part of their last
meal.

As the superintendent’s voice rang out, one of the figures—a
ridiculous, spindly little figure in undergarments of indescribable
filthiness—threw back the covering and staggered to his feet.

“It’s not one of ’em!” the little creature cried out, “It’s rescue
bruvvers! It’s a——”

With a crash he fell at Meldrum’s feet. Another of the figures got to
its feet—a long, lanky one this!—and stooped beside the
superintendent.

“Oi ’ope ’e’s all roight,” he said, “If it ’adn’t ’a’ bin for _he_ we’d
’a’ despaired.”

The other two men on the ground seemed too weak to move.

“Go and get an ambulance,” Meldrum directed the policeman with him.

The first man now came back with an armful of heavy coats. As the two
detectives helped the shivering laybrothers into them, the tall
one—Brother Adrian as he named himself—asked:

“They didn’t get Father Baumgartner? did they?”

“No,” Meldrum replied, “He’s all right, but he had a close shave, I
believe.”

“Thank God for that!” Brother Adrian muttered, “I thought they’d killed
’im!”


                           XXVII. The Chapter

Meanwhile, Gilmartin was reviewing in detail with Dom Bruno Chavasse the
arrangements he had made at the Abbey itself. He was chewing the ends of
his moustache in obvious agitation.

“I’m getting old for this game, Father Abbot,” he said at one moment,
“There was a time when I went boldly forward at all costs. Now I am
afraid to do so.”

“Isn’t that as it should be, Mr. Gilmartin?” the Abbot—no less troubled
than his visitor—asked, “As we grow older we grow more prudent.”

“Oh! It’s not only prudence,” the Irishman demurred, “It’s something
else. I hardly know how to call it, but I think that it is that I am
less sure of myself. Now, a few years ago I was more easily satisfied
with the evidence I collected, and I acted on it promptly. True, I was
lucky and I happened to hit the nail on the head most times, but I
realise now that I often went on something very like intuition instead
of real evidence. That was not seldom picked up afterwards.”

“But why distrust your powers of intuition now?” the Abbot exclaimed.
“For I gather that that is what is wrong.”

“M’yes,”—the answer was hesitating.

“Or is it not,” Dom Chavasse continued, “That you are unduly anxious
lest you accuse falsely a monk, and then prove mistaken? You are kind
enough, I know, to wish to avoid a scandal in the monastery.”

“Yes, there’s a little of that,” Gilmartin admitted.

“Let not that trouble you!” the old monk exhorted, “If he is not guilty
I assure you that it will be a matter of a few minutes to prove it to
me. The answers to a few questions wholly unconnected with this
miserable affair will be sufficient—without even leaving the Chapter
Room. If he is the man you think he is, then——”

The Abbot’s gesture expressed the meaning of the unspoken words.

“Then,” Gilmartin said after a moment, “It is all settled as we have
agreed.”

“Yes,” Dom Chavasse replied, “After collation—about fifteen minutes
before Compline, I will have the bell rung for Chapter. At the Chapter
the monks will be seated in the order I have given you, which is simply
that of seniority.

“By the way,” Gilmartin told the Abbot, “I have never been in the
Chapter House. I only know that it has a door at one end, off the little
library and another giving on the lobby at the end of the cloister.”

The Abbot smiled.

“Oh! You can go into it at any time,” he said, “As you can see, the
Abbey has never been completed—simply through lack of funds, and
consequently we have no Chapter House properly speaking. The room you
mention is nothing more than the large library converted into a Chapter
House by the simple means of placing chairs round the walls instead of
stalls.”

“I shall have a look at it.”

“Your people, I gather, will be in the small library?” the Abbot asked.

“Yes, except that two constables will post themselves at the door
leading to the cloister as soon as the entire community has gone in.”

“You will be rather crowded, I fear.”

“Oh! Not so very crowded,” the Irishman laughed, “And in any case not
for very long. There will be Inspector Peters, a constable and myself,
the man Hoskins will be in the arm-chair as he is not yet very strong.
The boy will not take up much room.”

“I must say,” Dom Chavasse declared, “That I am not enamoured of the
idea of dressing up that young man, Mr. Wylie, whom you brought here
from the Isle of Wight, as a laybrother. It seems—er—not quite——”

“I understand, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin interrupted, “But I’m afraid it
is necessary. I may be wrong but I believe that we have to deal with a
desperate man. Just imagine if he were to attack you or a member of your
community when he sees that the game is up. Better have somebody who is
prep——”

“Oh! It is settled,” Dom Chavasse dismissed the point, “Of the necessity
you have convinced me already.”

“I had more difficulty in convincing that young American lady who came
to-day,” the Irishman laughed, “She wanted me to dress up one of my men
instead. Just think of how conspicuous a six-foot London policeman would
have been.”

“Very natural,” the Abbot smiled, “That she should be afraid that her
fiancé will be hurt. By the way, where is she now?”

“She is now down at the Cambridge Arms with Wylie,” Gilmartin replied,
“She insists that she will be outside the Chapter Room window to-night.”

“I am afraid she will see very little,” the Abbot smiled, “Unless she
climbs up. The ground slopes down just outside the windows. However so
long as she doesn’t force her way into the monastery I don’t mind. We
only allow crowned heads of her sex into the cloister.”

“I don’t think she will do that,” the detective laughed, “Though she
certainly is persistent enough for anything. I simply was obliged to
tell her what was happening, otherwise she wanted to take Wylie away,
and I need him.”

“Well!” the Abbot drew a long breath, “I must confess I am feeling very
nervous as the hour approaches.”

“So am I,” Gilmartin admitted. “I wish I knew what is happening in
London and in Dieppe. They promised to wire if there was any news.”

Dom Chavasse rose.

“I will leave you now, Mr. Gilmartin,” he said, “Doubtless you have
arrangements to make.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the refectory at supper half an hour later Gilmartin was the only
guest at the centre table. Everything appeared normal. The whole
community, with the exception of the missing laybrothers and the injured
Brother Cubert, and including the visitors from other Abbeys and
Priories, was present. A monk read monotonously from a pulpit behind
Gilmartin; two others, long white aprons covering their black habits,
served the scanty meal. Father Massey attended to his compatriot’s
wants. The Abbot seemed to be the only one who found difficulty in
emptying the plate before him. To the guest the meal seemed long and he
breathed a sigh of relief when the monks began to clean their wooden
spoons and forks and place them in the receptacles under the table leaf.
Grace was sung and then, headed by Dom Chavasse, they filed out into the
cloister, the professed monks to go to one end, the novices to another,
and the laybrothers to their own common room. With a bow to the Abbot,
Gilmartin went up to the room allotted to him where with apparent calm
he read one of his bedside books till the boom of the great Abbey bell
brought him to his feet.

He opened the door and came face to face with a laybrother whose hand
was raised to knock. He recognised Brother Gregoire, the lodgekeeper,
who held an orange envelope in his hand.

“A telegram for you, sir,” he said, “A boy has come with it who says
that he has instructions to wait in case there is an answer.”

Gilmartin tore it open. As he read it his face brightened. The message
was long but he read it quickly. He pulled out a pencil and scribbled a
couple of words on the flimsy paper.

“No reply!” he said to the laybrother, “But give this at once to Father
Abbot, if possible before he goes into the Chapter Room.”

“Yes, sir,”—and Brother Gregoire waddled away.

When Gilmartin reached the foot of the stairs the last monk to enter the
large library was closing the door behind him. Quickly the detective,
with a nod to the two men who seemed to appear from nowhere disappeared
into the darkness of the room alongside. By the faint light from the
chink made by the imperfectly closed double doors he distinguished
Inspector Peters peering carefully into the Chapter Room. Beside him in
a chair, straining forward and endeavouring to restrain his wheeziness
was Bill Hoskins also trying to see. A typical London urchin was craning
his neck under the Inspector’s arm. Another man stood stolidly behind.
As Gilmartin reached them the Abbot’s voice rang out as he sang the
opening notes of the old Gregorian air:

                       “_Veni Creator Spiritus._”

The monks took up the strain:

                       “_Mentes Tuorum visita._”

“It’s ’im, guv’ner, it’s ’im!” Bill Hoskins’ excited whisper came,
“That’s ’im sure as——”

“Shut up!” Gilmartin whispered back, “I know it is.”

A noise at the window made him turn round. Perched on the narrow sill
was Jean Cannan, making frantic signs towards the large library.
Gilmartin muttered an expletive coupled to a few words uncomplimentary
to her sex, nodded understanding and waved her away.

In his turn he peered into the adjoining room. The Abbot’s back, as he
stood at the head of a long library table, was towards them. Round the
room stood the professed monks singing their hymn to the Holy Ghost.
Three deep at the further end of the room were the novices and
laybrothers in the front row among whom Gilmartin recognised the
embarrassed young electrical engineer.

When the hymn was finished the monks sat down. The Abbot occupied the
arm-chair at the head of the table. When the rustle and the scraping of
chairs had died down Gilmartin could hear the crackle of the paper he
held in his hands. Then there was complete silence as the head of every
monk was turned expectantly towards the Father of the monastery. Dom
Chavasse bent his head a moment and then began to speak.

“My dear brethren,” he began in French, the language of the majority of
his hearers, “As you know, our community has been passing through
troublous times. Four of our laybrothers have disappeared from our midst
under mysterious circumstances and more than one of us here has suffered
more or less serious injuries. All this is known to you. You have, as
becomes followers of the Holy Rule refrained from idle comment on these
matters. What you do not all know is that these happenings can be traced
back to the covetous desires of evilly disposed persons in regard to
certain inventions which have been perfected by our brother, Father
Baumgartner of the Abbey of Einsiedeln, whose researches in the radio
world are well-known to the outside world.”

Gilmartin saw the bony, spectacled monk seated beside the Father
Cellarer raise his bald head for a moment, then drop it again.

“He had,” the Abbot went on, “Perfected a certain invention whose great
importance became known to these evilly disposed persons, who followed
him to England, but failed to attain their object, which was to steal
the drawings of the new appliance. How the laybrothers of this monastery
became involved I am ignorant, and I shall therefore not speak of it.
Suffice it to say that through the good offices of a friend of this
house the help of the civil power was called in, and discreet
investigators have been endeavouring to discover their whereabouts. I
had a definite object in calling you together in Chapter at this unusual
hour. That object need no longer be pursued, for I hold here a telegram
which announces among other things that our brethren have been found,
not indeed in——”

There was a rustle of excited interest which told more than anything
else how moved the monks had been by the happenings in their midst. A
chair scraped, and Gilmartin craning forward, saw the back of a scapular
as its wearer went towards the other door. The Abbot stopped, turning
involuntarily towards the door behind which the detective and his
companions were standing. Another monk rose from the other side of the
room.

“Sit down, please, Father Massey!” the Abbot ordered.

After a wondering look in his superior’s direction the guestmaster
obeyed. A scuffling sound at the door through which the other man had
passed was too obvious to be ignored. Tapping Peters on the shoulder,
Gilmartin—a strange figure in such surroundings—strode into the
Chapter Room, and passing behind the Abbot went down between the table
and the brethren seated on the right. Peters and the other policeman
followed behind. Suddenly as the Irishman passed the Sub-prior a bony
figure in his black habit rose from his seat and faced him, at the same
time drawing his hand from underneath his scapular.

“Look out!” came a yell from the end of the room as Wylie, his brown
habit tucked up, threw himself under the upraised arm.

Crack!

The bullet intended for Gilmartin buried itself in a calf-bound volume
high up on the shelves, and a small revolver clattered to the floor. The
monks rose to their feet. Father Massey dived forward. The Abbot, still
seated, called out in calm tones:

“_Asseyez-vous, mes frères!_”

Obedience was immediate, and then a scene such as in all probability was
never seen in the most troublous times of monastic history was then
enacted. Two score of silent monks, their hands demurely folded under
their scapulars, seated round the room, followed with frankly curious
eyes the struggle on the floor between their rows. Between the table and
the occupied chairs five equally silent figures rocked and threshed from
side to side, now falling against the table, and now almost on the knees
of the nearest fathers. One of these—it was Father Massey—suddenly put
out his foot, and with a crash the hampered man in Benedictine habit
fell to the floor, dragging with him the constable and Inspector Peters.
Gilmartin staggered back and looked on for a second. Wylie also looked
on, breathing hard. On the floor, half under the massive library table,
the struggle continued. The Irishman drew a small truncheon from his
pocket. There was a slight lull in the fight.

“Julius Baumgartner!” Gilmartin called out, “Give in, or I will brain
you.”

The scuffle on the floor ceased at once.

“I komm!” came a smothered Teutonic voice.

Peters rose to his feet, holding firmly a twisted arm of his prisoner,
whom with no pretence at gentleness he hauled erect. The click of
handcuffs followed, and without a word the two detectives marched the
manacled man out of the room, followed by Wylie, already divesting
himself of the—to him—distasteful garments he was wearing.

Gilmartin, after a bow to the Abbot, also followed in silence.

In the cloister a curious group was gathered. Another handcuffed man in
monkish garb stood glumly erect between two plain-clothes men. Bill
Hoskins, wheezing and coughing, pointed a stubby finger at him.

“D’ye know ’oo that is, guv’ner?” he called excitedly, “That is
Otter—the same bloomin’ old Otter wot——”

“’E was the one wot got me to w’eel that ‘Guy’ for him!” the boy’s
shrill voice broke in.

“Let’s get out of this,” Gilmartin ordered.

The prisoners were handcuffed together and led out by the three
detective constables.

“Gosh!” Peters whispered, on their way out, to Gilmartin, “Who’d think
he was so strong? He’s got muscles like whipcord.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

As they trooped out to the drive where an excited girl—visible in the
headlights of two purring automobiles—awaited Wylie, Gilmartin,
bringing up the rear, heard in the distance the clear voice of the old
Abbot as he intoned:

                          “Te Deum Laudamus!”


                             XXVIII. Peace

Superintendent Meldrum was frankly curious to meet a Benedictine Abbot
in the flesh, and to see what the inside of a monastic establishment
looked like. That curiosity, and that alone, explained his journey in
company with Gilmartin two days later to Alderborough. The Irishman, who
was going down to get the signature of Dom Chavasse to certain documents
in connection with the case, was glad to have him with him, for he
anticipated a certain amount of amusement from the big man’s subsequent
comments. He was smiling now at Meldrum’s expression as the guestmaster
arrived in the little library with a tray, upon which stood a barrel of
biscuits, two glasses and a dust-covered bottle of age-old sherry.

“The last of the Mohicans!” Dom Massey announced whimsically, “Father
Cellarer found it by chance—all that remains of a few dozen presented
by a certain Grandee of Spain many years ago.”

“Oh! But——” Gilmartin protested, “It’s a pity to open it.”

“A greater pity to let it lie,” the guestmaster retorted, “And who more
worthy than you two to give it its quietus? I’m sorry the other officer
who went to Dieppe isn’t here.”

Meldrum laughed.

“I’m afraid he’d be a disappointment, sir,” he chuckled, “Pennell’s a
teetotaller.”

“Poor man!” Dom Massey exclaimed.

The big superintendent’s eyes at this now became like saucers.

Gilmartin laughed aloud.

“You’ve shocked Meldrum, Father Massey,” he said, “Look at his face! He
thinks you ought to preach prohibition.”

“Not I!” the guestmaster replied, dexterously removing the cork, “I
imitate our Founder, St. Benedict, who preached abstention, and failing
that, temperance—a very different thing!”

“By Jove, you’re right!” Meldrum ejaculated as he sipped appreciatively
the amber wine, adding contentedly, “A very different thing!”

The Abbot entered in the midst of the laughter that followed.

Dom Chavasse was smiling as he advanced and shook Gilmartin’s hand.

“And this is the rescuer of my laybrothers?” he said, when he heard the
superintendent’s name, “I have heard so much from them of your kindness
to them afterwards.”

Meldrum was embarrassed and tongue-tied in the face of praise.

“Oh!” he said, “That’s nothing. I—I——”

He wrung the Abbot’s hand with a force which might have injured that of
a weaker man.

“God bless you for it, anyhow,” Dom Chavasse replied, “You certainly
have their gratitude and prayers—and mine.”

“By Jove!” the superintendent lowered his tone, “I shall never forget
that scene—huddled up in a corner singing the psalms and——”

He could say no more.

The Abbot came to the rescue.

“Well!” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “You have some documents you
want me to sign, Mr. Gilmartin, I believe.”

“Yes, Father Abbot,” the Irishman replied, “I suppose we mustn’t waste
your time.”

“Father Guestmaster,” Dom Chavasse suggested, “Perhaps Superintendent
Meldrum would like to see over the Abbey while we are occupied.”

“I’d be delighted,” the big man assured them and jumped up.

“You must come back here when you’ve been round,” the Abbot added with a
twinkle, “and aid Mr. Gilmartin to be temperate.”

He then turned to the papers the Chief Inspector was arranging on the
table.

                 *        *        *        *        *

When Father Massey and the superintendent returned to the little
library, the business with the papers had been dispatched and they found
the others discussing the events of the preceding weeks.

“I think, Father Abbot,” Gilmartin was saying, “That in the course of my
whole career I have never muddled a case so badly.”

The Abbot waved the superintendent to a chair and made a sign to the
guestmaster to fill Meldrum’s glass and to seat himself also.

“Well,” he replied to the Irishman, “I don’t know anything of your
earlier cases, but I think you could hardly have done better than you
did in this one. I fail, personally, to see where the muddle was.”

“It started in the very beginning,” Gilmartin affirmed, “And continued
practically until the end.”

“Oh! At first things looked a bit muddled!” Dom Chavasse rejoined, “But
then you had nothing to go on in the beginning.”

“On the contrary,” the Irishman contradicted, “I had the body on
Waterloo Bridge. I should have jumped there and then to the correct
conclusion, for I identified the underlinen as monastic at once.”

“When did you first suspect the truth?” Father Massey asked.

“After you did, I think,” Gilmartin smiled, “It was on the night of the
fight Brother Cubert and I had with those people in the wood.”

“And I thought you suspected me then!” the Guestmaster exclaimed.

“No! I gave up my suspicion of you then,” his fellow-countryman
declared, “But I suspected that you knew—or rather guessed—a great
deal more than you told.”

“Which was not far wrong,” Father Massey added, “I guessed a good deal
but I wasn’t sure.”

“I was really groping in the dark until then,” the detective went on,
“But that evening after anathematising Baumgartner for being such a fool
as to go out again after the attack in the morning, I thought on turning
things over in my mind that it really was a bit ‘thick’ that an
intelligent man should do such a thing. He might be ever so
absent-minded, but—well, on thinking things over I realised that
everything that had happened here that day bore two interpretations. The
attack in the morning might really have been a bona fide attack, or it
might have been a talk with accomplices, interrupted by the arrival of
the novice. If the latter, it was cleverly covered. Then I saw the
significance of the fact that no serious injuries had been inflicted
other than those which might be caused by an ordinary fall well
calculated. The business in the evening made me doubtful for a moment, I
must say—I mean when Baumgartner was brought back indubitably suffering
from hurts. Afterwards I am afraid I was rather glad that though they
were not so bad as he pretended and really only a very good excuse for
not taking part in the daily routine of the community, I was the author
of the injuries. He was, of course, taken away in the first panic and
afterwards dropped at his own order in order not to lose the footing he
had gained here. The calculation was good for he gained in addition a
considerable amount of sympathy—which is a great antidote to suspicion.
In one quarter perhaps he didn’t quite——”

“I must admit I was somewhat cynical,” the guestmaster interjected.

“Quite so!” Gilmartin resumed, “I observed that. I might add that
Baumgartner’s exaggerated German accent repelled me so much that I could
not help thinking that it was overdone. An educated German is like an
educated man elsewhere; when he learns a foreign language he generally
carries into his manner of speaking it something of his intonation in
his own language, but a Londoner, say, wouldn’t speak French with the
accent of Manchester. That, in his way, was what Baumgartner did. Of
course I know now that he speaks English perfectly with practically no
accent beyond a slight foreign intonation. All that, therefore, was
merely surmise. What really gave the show away to me was the attempt to
pick my pocket in Whitechapel. Why should they think that I had brought
anything away from Wylie’s? What he had had was already stolen! Then, it
must have been that they thought that I had brought something away from
here—that I had intercepted the mails. Why should they think so?
Somebody down here had told them. Who? I thought of you, Father Massey,
for I had been told by Father Abbot that nobody here was aware of my
mission. You had recognised me! Then, on second thoughts, I recalled
that I had satisfied myself that you had really been run down by the
van, and that I had let the cat out of the bag to Baumgartner himself on
the occasion of the first supposed attack.”

“But,” Dom Chavasse asked, “What about Brother Cubert’s statement about
seeing a white collar under a monastic habit?”

“That,” the Irishman explained, “I thought rightly was simply an
ordinary layman’s collar. I said so at the time if you remember.”

“When were you really dead certain of your case?” Dom Massey asked.

“Not until the last moment, practically speaking,” Gilmartin replied,
“At least in all its aspects. That is why that unusual Chapter was held.
I was delaying until there should be news from London. You see, I had
counted very considerably on the arrival of the monk from Einsiedeln
with the plans to bring matters to a head. I was resolved to be present
when he arrived here, but the scene wasn’t played exactly as I had
planned it. The arrest of the man at Highgate did not arouse my
suspicions; it was only when I heard of the telegrams dispatched that
evening that I smelt a rat. The telegram from Dieppe had merely
intrigued me. If anything, I thought that the French police had caught
the would-be thief, but when I heard of the stop at King’s Cross to send
telegrams I realized that I had underrated these people. One telegram
was certainly to the man we arrested, so that he could come and get the
plans, but that was a wash-out——”

“Yes,” Meldrum interrupted, “You were clever enough there to omit
telling him that you were having the place watched.”

“I didn’t even tell Inspector Williams,” Gilmartin smiled, “But it
wasn’t cleverness; it was just that I was beginning by that time to
distrust my own shadow.”

“However,” he resumed, “I then revised my plans—or rather my
arguments—especially when I thought of the visit of the two unknowns to
Baumgartner’s cell on the preceding day, which Father Massey
interrupted. On the way here I examined my fellow-traveller closely and
then I observed that his haircut—for he sacrificed a sleek head of
hair—was so recent that small hairs were on the collar of the
ready-made coat, and under the artificial tan I noticed the
discoloration of the eye which, I knew from the man who had tried to
pick my pocket, was the peculiarity of a certain Otto at the moment, due
to contact with either Brother Cubert’s or my fist. Consequently when I
arrived here I looked out for a comedy scene instead of the melodrama I
had sketched out. I can assure you, Father Massey, that when we came
here my eyes and ears were open. I noticed, for instance, that you
greeted my companion with the usual monastic greeting in Latin; I also
noticed that it was not returned—as a monk would return it.”

Father Massey slapped his knee.

“Good man!” he exclaimed, “I wondered if you’d spotted that.”

“Then,” the detective continued, “Thanks to your very astute diplomacy,
I was present at the meeting with Baumgartner. Well! You remember that!
It was, even to me a layman, a most unmonastic procedure.”

“Very,” the guestmaster agreed, “It was a bad slip on their part. No
monastic greeting; too much exuberance——”

Father Massey stopped and reddened as he caught the Abbot’s smile.

“I know,” he said, “I am a bit of a trial to everybody myself because of
that same exuberance. In my case it is the nature of the ‘baste,’ but
these were supposed to be German—or at any rate German-Swiss monks.”

“I understand, Father Massey,” the Abbot said with his indulgent smile,
“I understand.”

“Why did you wait after that?” the guestmaster asked, “Personally I’d
have collared them then and there.”

“First of all,” Gilmartin replied, “I wanted to consult Father Abbot,
for after all, might I not have been wrong, and you, too, Father Massey,
from start to finish? As I have said, everything bore two
interpretations, and even then they might both have been perfectly all
right! And then, as I told you a moment ago, I wanted, if possible, to
see if any news would come from my colleagues Meldrum and Pennell. I had
great faith in Meldrum’s luck.”

“Humph!” the superintendent grunted, “It _was_ luck!”

“I am very sorry to interrupt this very interesting catechism,” the
Abbot said gently, “I must confess that I am still very much in the
dark. Perhaps if Mr. Gilmartin would tell us the truth of the whole
matter it would make clear a great many of the things that puzzle us.”

“Yes,” Gilmartin agreed, “But as I see Meldrum is drinking all the
sherry, may I suggest that as he has gone through the whole case in
detail with me, he be requested to tell the tale?”

The Irishman reached for the bottle and poured himself out a glass.

“Fair’s fair!” Meldrum said good-humouredly, “And this is certainly a
wonderful wine.”

He was silent for a moment.

“This is how I read it,” he began. “My information, by the way, comes
from one source and another, documentary and other, for we got quite a
number of papers in Three Colt Street. It seems, however, that many more
were burnt in the Golders Green house. The worst job the gang ever did
was to recruit that little Anglo-German we got down in Limehouse. It was
from him that we got the greater part of our information. Well, this is
what appears to have happened. At Einsiedeln Father Baumgartner’s
invention was talked of—by whom we don’t yet know, but I hope the Abbot
there will grill the man that did it. His journey to England became
known and word was given over here. He was met at Victoria by his own
cousin, Julius, who was no less than the leader of the crowd over here
under various aliases, such as Hoffmeyer, and Gottschalk. The poor man
was ignorant of his cousin’s character and went willingly with him to
Golders Green. It seems likely that conversation turned on the object of
the father’s visit to England and Julius asked to see the drawings.”

“Excuse the interruption,” Father Massey broke in, “But I thought from
something Mr. Gilmartin said that this Julius—or Gottschalk—lived in
the boarding-house near Victoria. I wonder why he didn’t take him
there.”

“I should think that very obvious,” the old Abbot said, “A
boarding-house is—well, it is a boarding-house with all that that
implies, but the other house was the headquarters of the band where they
could do as they liked, without much fear of disturbance.”

“That’s right!” Meldrum approved, “Gottschalk as a matter of fact always
had a lodging apart from the gang, though he sometimes slept at
headquarters as well. Well, to continue, Father Baumgartner told the
truth, that he hadn’t got the drawings. Julius disbelieved. Otto came in
and they tried to search him and his luggage. In the scuffle Father
Baumgartner was struck—whether accidentally or not is not clear, but I
suspect that Otto could explain that dislocated neck if he wished—and
they found themselves with a dead body on their hands. Their idea then
was to transport the corpse to a place in the neighbourhood of Waterloo
Station and place him where it might be thought that he had fallen down
steps and broken his neck, but Otto, who went out to look for such a
place saw a better way when he met so many boys trundling ‘Guys’ round
the streets. You know what a ‘Guy’ is, Father Abbot?”

“Oh! Yes!” Dom Chavasse smiled, “We catholics know all about that. There
is a grim irony about their disposal of the body which horrifies
rather.”

“By Jove, Father Abbot, it does,” Meldrum agreed, “Cold-blooded devils!
They considered then what to do. From the conversation with his cousin,
Julius had gathered that the invention was too good a thing to lose, and
he was ready to do anything to get the drawings. It was finally decided
that Julius Baumgartner _alias_ Gottschalk, etcetera, should impersonate
his cousin in order to get the plans when they came. He would then
disappear quietly abroad when supposed to be interviewing Marconi’s
people. Time was limited as there are not many late trains to
Alderborough. Gottschalk—as I prefer to call him, it is less
confusing—got into Father Baumgartner’s clothes—the habit, etcetera in
which he had travelled—and explained the absence of spare underclothes
by the story of the theft of his luggage, for, you see, they had cut
open Father Baumgartner’s valise. It was planned that Gottschalk should
go back first of all to his Victoria lodgings when he had got the plans,
so Otto went there that night and left his clothes there, as well as a
note to the landlady in Gottschalk’s handwriting informing her of his
temporary absence. That note was never seen by the landlady and was
probably swept up by the maid with other papers. Owing to greater delay
in receiving the drawings than they had anticipated, the project didn’t
come off, and the theft of Wylie’s plans was connected with Gottschalk’s
disappearance, thus giving us our first real clue to his identity. That
theft, by the way, was purely incidental—and accidental! The vague
resemblance between Father Baumgartner and his cousin was a misleading
item for a time.”

“Well, I’ll jump things a bit. When he came here Gottschalk had to play
the monk—if you’ll excuse the expression—but though very adaptable and
a good actor he wasn’t well enough up in his part and made some
bloomers; he fluffed badly and—well, Father Abbot, you know what I mean
better than I can tell it.”

“Yes,” Dom Chavasse nodded, “I know. He actually had the effrontery to
go through the ceremony of saying mass, and of course made glaring
mistakes. Brother Paul who is very sharp noticed them when serving this
parody of a mass and was imprudent enough to make a remark about it to
him afterwards, though he had merely attributed them to fatigue after
the supposed journey from Switzerland the day before. Such a thing as an
impersonation would never occur to him—or to any of us, especially as
his documents were quite in order.”

“Quite so!” Meldrum resumed, “And next day when Gottschalk’s pals came
down here to consult with him, he ordered the abduction of Brother Paul.
The same thing happened to the tall laybrother—Brother Adrian, isn’t
it?—though from what he told me, he had not attached any importance to
the few mistakes he had noticed. In fact he did not understand why he
had been kidnapped until Brother Paul told him. The other two
laybrothers—the Frenchmen—were attacked because they were thought to
be carrying letters from the lodge.

“Meanwhile an attempt was made to get the drawings at Einsiedeln,
resulting only in a further delay which got on Gottschalk’s and the
others’ nerves. Hence the frequent consultations in the wood. The use of
the imprisoned laybrothers’ habits was to avert suspicion at this end. I
will pass over the affair when your laybrother sustained a broken leg.
Gilmartin has explained that. Gottschalk seems to have had a feeling
that Father Massey suspected him, and in the van—not being nearly so
badly hurt as he afterwards made out—seeing him on the road tried to
have him knocked out.”

“What I am not clear about,” Father Massey said at this point, “Is where
the plans were—or are now, for that matter. I gather that the drawings
Otto gave Mr. Gilmartin were elaborate fakes.”

“They were certainly fakes,” Meldrum replied, “but not elaborate fakes.
They wouldn’t deceive a maiden lady with experience of a ten-shilling
crystal set, but then, you see, they knew very well that we would never
examine them. This is what happened: Father Kleinmichel left Einsiedeln
disguised, but he was recognised and followed while a wire was sent to
London. Otto departed post haste for Dieppe, where he joined the man who
was following Father Kleinmichel as the train came in. The fact that the
monk was travelling alone in his compartment was in their favour so they
jumped him from behind as he was reaching for his valise on the rack.
They rifled his pockets, took his papers and his luggage. Then Otto
hastily made himself up with the materials Father Kleinmichel had with
him for renewal purposes and got on the boat. He deceived Inspector
Williams completely and I assure you that that officer is feeling
vindictive towards him. Father Kleinmichel lay in that compartment until
the railway cleaners came and found him still unconscious. When he
explained to the police commissaire that officer believed him at once in
spite of the absence of documents, for Williams had given him an inkling
of things earlier in the day. He is a sharp man, that commissaire, for
when told of the absence of the cosmetics he immediately found out from
the passport office that somebody had impersonated the monk and then
wired to Williams to hold the pseudo-Kleinmichel. Even our linguist
Gilmartin fell down there for he translated ‘gardez’ as ‘guard’ not
‘hold.’ What Otto did not know was that Father Kleinmichel was as clever
a man as he, and having an uneasy feeling that he was followed had sent
the real plans by registered post to Gilmartin on his way across Paris
from the Gare de l’Est to the Gare St. Lazare, keeping in his valise
another set which were really _elaborate_ fakes. When I reached Scotland
Yard after my raid, I found the Assistant Commissioner there with
Pennell’s telegram, so we decided to send Gilmartin a wire here giving
him a summary of all that had happened.”

“It came in the nick of time,” Dom Chavasse remarked, “To avert a scene
even more painful than the one we witnessed. The Chapter was merely an
identification parade for Mr. Gilmartin’s friends, but I was about to
hold a sort of trial before allowing arrest. As it was, on the news of
the rescue of the laybrothers they gave themselves away.”

“Funny,” Father Massey murmured after a short silence, “How small things
often have big consequences! Why didn’t that gang notice the ventilator
shaft in that Whitechapel cellar?”

“Simply because the place was so filthy,” Meldrum explained, “And
because they had never had an efficient light down there. Even if they’d
had one I doubt if they’d have noticed it. The cellar end was merely a
couple of perforated bricks and the shaft widened as it rose to the
street. That is why outside sounds were barely audible in the cellar
whilst in the street the brothers’ singing was heard by the Chinaman.”

“And the drawings?” the Abbot asked.

“I have them,” Gilmartin replied, “I found the package lying openly on
my table when I got back from here. They are at your disposal when you
wish.”

There was a few minutes’ silence which Dom Chavasse finally broke.

“I don’t know,” he said, “Whether I am being unduly inquisitive but I
should really like to know a little more. What is this gang? What were
their objects?”

The Scotland Yard men exchanged glances. At a slight nod from Meldrum,
Gilmartin spoke.

“These people,” he replied, “Are probably going to be put on trial for
felonies and misdemeanours violating English Law. The objects of the
gang, I believe, will not be mentioned in Court unless it becomes
necessary in the interests of justice. You, however, Father Abbot, are
entitled to know something more than the general public. The gang in
question is a section of a certain organisation called ‘The Universal
League of Freedom.’ The name is perhaps misleading in these days of
Bolshevism and Fascism. There are various ideas and opinions as to what
constitutes freedom. Far from being an organisation to overthrow crowned
heads and dictators it is a decidely anti-republican, anti-socialist and
anti-bolshevik league. As you know a number of sovereigns lost their
crowns after the war and other forms of government have been substituted
for monarchies. This has naturally not pleased everybody and in every
country were formed cliques and societies whose avowed object was the
restoration of monarchies. These societies were scattered all over
Europe—and America, and were purely national in scope; Germans had
German organizations, Russians had their own, Austrians had theirs and
so on. None of them had any real hope of succeeding in their aims.

“Through the organizing genius of one man—no other than Julius
Baumgartner, a mild, apparently harmless creature, but an adventurer who
will adopt any cause provided there is likely to be money in it—the
majority of these societies were banded into one big league, with a
grandiose plan of organising a Putsch in one country after another by
pooling all their resources for each in turn. They collected money from
among themselves, and also from sympathizers—be it said discreetly,
even among our own Peerage—for they realized, or Julius realized for
them, that in order to have any chance of success they must control ways
and means as yet unknown to existing governments. So they set out to
buy—forcibly if no other means were possible—all sorts of inventions
likely to be useful. They had spies everywhere on the look-out for such,
even in the Patent offices of some countries as far as I can make out
from their papers. I suspect that an offer was made to Father
Baumgartner and refused by him. At any rate they were determined to get
his invention, the usefulness of which can be easily imagined.

“Unfortunately for the organization, Baumgartner—I mean
Julius—gathered round him here in England an extremist crowd which was
in too great a hurry and they were ready to do anything—even, as you
know, to take life—to attain their ends. They even swore an oath to
take their own lives in case of arrest as a guarantee against treachery.
I wonder if Julius would have taken his if allowed! This Otto whose name
you haven’t heard is a son of the famous General Von Martensen; most of
his henchmen were young junkers of good family; Mrs. Hoffmeyer _alias_
Olga Skosyreff is no other than Princess Kurusoff—you know what that
means! The poor _moozhik_ Yakob who poisoned himself was an old retainer
of her family in Tsarist days.”

“Poor—poor—mad creatures!” the old Abbot sighed, “May God in His mercy
forgive them!”

There was silence in the little library.

“I must thank you, gentlemen,” Dom Chavasse resumed after some minutes,
“For your great kindness to me and my brethren. You have made your duty
more onerous by the necessity which you imposed upon yourselves of
sparing us pain and scandal. I can, humanly speaking, never reciprocate
the kindness, but otherwise—I shall not forget it when offering up my
poor prayers.”

Neither Gilmartin nor Meldrum could reply to this. The superintendent
looked out through the window to where laybrothers were working in the
field beyond and cleared his throat.

A silent handclasp, then a hand upraised, and the old Abbot retired to
his cell.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Gosh!” said Meldrum an hour later apropos of nothing as the train
rushed Londonwards, “Wouldn’t that old Abbot make a fine Commissioner of
Police?”

He stared as Gilmartin burst into uncontrollable laughter.

His time for laughing came when they arrived at New Scotland Yard.
Gilbert Wylie and Jean Cannan awaited there the Irishman’s arrival.

“I’ve come to ask you about my plans,” the young man announced.

“They are safe,” Gilmartin told them, “And will be returned to you in a
day or so.”

“What I want to know is,” the practical Jean declared, “What is going to
happen to the £5000 which was sent to Gilbert for the plans?”

The Irishman smiled.

“That money,” he said, “Is under no interdict that I know. The
request—the very urgent request—of the lady who sent it is that Mr.
Wylie should have it.”

“Oh! Gilbert!”

“Oh! Jean!” Wylie exclaimed, “Come on! We’ll go straight away and get a
licence. I’ll just show you if an Englishman can’t hustle—when it comes
to marrying, anyhow!”

When the young couple had gone, the superintendent’s guffaw was loud and
long.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gilmartin asked, “Had a nervous breakdown?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw! Damn funny!” Meldrum roared.

“Oh! No!” he jeered, “There’s going to be no weddings in the monastery
case! Poor old Gilmartin! When you go out on pension open a matrimonial
bureau! You’ll make a fortune at it.”

                                The End.




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.

A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.

[The end of _The Corpse on the Bridge_, by Charles Barry (ps. of Charles
Bryson).]