Cleek of Scotland Yard: Detective Stories

“I don’t think there is any chance of my having made an error of that sort, Sir Charles,” replied Cleek, smiling. “Had I been likely to do so, our friend the telegraph operator would have prevented it. He recognized at once that the communication was coming over the wire from the dockyard, I am told; and I have observed that every one of the dockyard wires is intact. I fancy when we come down to the bottom of it we shall discover that it was not the dockyard wire which ‘tapped’ a message from some other, but that the dockyard wire was being ‘tapped’ itself, and that the storm, causing a momentary interruption in the carrying on of that ‘tapping’ process, allowed a portion of the message to slip past and continue to the wire’s end – the telegraph office.”

“Good lud! Then in that case – ”

“In that case, Mr. Narkom, there can be no shadow of a doubt that that message was sent by somebody in this house – and over the dockyard’s own private wire.”

“But how, Mr. Cleek – in the name of all that is wonderful, how?”

“Ah, that is the point, Sir Charles. I think we need not go into the matter of who is at the bottom of the whole affair, but confine ourselves to the business of discovering how the thing was done, and how much information has already gone out to the enemy. I fancy we may set our minds at rest upon one point, however, namely, the identity of the person whose hand supplied the drawing found upon the body of the drowned man. That hand was a woman’s; that woman, I feel safe in saying, was Sophie Borovonski, professionally known to the people of the underworld as ‘La Tarantula.’”

“I never heard of her, Mr. Cleek. Who is she?”

“Probably the most beautiful, unscrupulous, reckless, dare-devil spy in all Europe, Sir Charles. She is a Russian by birth, but owns allegiance to no country and to no crown. Together with her depraved brother Boris, and her equally desperate paramour, Nicolo Ferrand, she forms one of the trio of paid bravos who for years have been at the beck and call of any nation despicable enough to employ them; always ready for any piece of treachery or dirty work, so long as their price is paid – as cunning as serpents, as slippery as eels, as clever as the devil himself, and as patient. We shall not go far astray, gentlemen, if we assert that the lady’s latest disguise was that of Miss Greta Hilmann.”

“Good God! Young Beachman’s fiancée?”

“Exactly, Sir Charles. I should not be able to identify her from a photograph were one obtainable, which I doubt – she is far too clever for that sort of thing – but the evidence is conclusive enough to satisfy me, at least, of the lady’s identity.”

“But how – how?”

“Mr. Narkom will tell you, Sir Charles, that from our time of starting this morning to our arrival here we made but one stop. That stop was at the Portsmouth mortuary before we appeared at this house. I wished to see the body of the man who was drowned. I have no hesitation, Sir Charles, in declaring that that man’s name is not, and never was, Axel von Ziegelmundt. The body is that of Nicolo Ferrand, ‘La Tarantula’s’ clever lover. The inference is obvious. ‘Miss Greta Hilmann’s’ anguish and despair were real enough, believe me (that is why it deceived everybody so completely). It is not, however, over the frightful position of young Beachman that she sorrowed, but over the death of Ferrand. Had he lived, I believe she has daring enough to have remained here and played her part to the end, but she either lost her nerve and her mental balance – which, by the way, is not in the least like her under any circumstances whatsoever – or some other disaster of which we know nothing overtook her and interfered with her carrying on the work in conjunction with her brother.”

“Her brother?”

“Yes. He would be sure to be about. They all three worked in concert. Gad! if I’d only been here before the vixen slipped the leash – if I only had! Let us have the elder Mr. Beachman in, if you please, Sir Charles; there’s a word or so I want to have with him. You’ve had him summoned, of course!”

“Yes, he and the telegraph operator as well; I thought you might wish to question both,” replied he. “Grimsdick, go – or, no! I’ll go myself. Beachman ought to know of this appalling thing; and it is best that it should be broken by a friend.”

Speaking, he left the room, coming back a few minutes later in company with the telegraph operator and the now almost hysterical dock master. He waited not one second for introduction or permission or anything else, that excited father, but rushed at Cleek and caught him by the hand.

“It’s my boy and you’re clearing him – God bless you!” he exclaimed, catching Cleek’s hand and wringing it with all his strength. “It isn’t in him to sell his country; I’d have killed him with my own hand years ago, if I thought it was. But it wasn’t – it never was! My boy! my boy! my splendid, loyal boy!”

“That’s right, old chap, have it out. Here on my shoulder, if you want to, daddy, and don’t be ashamed of it!” said Cleek, and reached round his arm over the man’s shoulder and clapped him on the back. “Let her go, and don’t apologize because it’s womanish. A man without a strain of the woman in him somewhere isn’t worth the powder to blow him to perdition. We’ll have him cleared, daddy – gad, yes! And look here! When he is cleared you take him by the ear and tell him to do his sweethearting in England, the young jackass, and to let foreign beauties alone; they’re not picking up with young Englishmen of his position for nothing, especially if they are reputed to have money of their own and to be connected with titled families. If you can’t make him realize that by gentle means, take him into the garden and bang it into him – hard.”

“Thank you, sir; thank you! I can see it now, Mr. Cleek. Not much use in shouting ‘Rule Britannia’ if you’re going to ship on a foreign craft, is there, sir? But anybody would have been taken in with her – she seemed such a sweet, gentle little thing and had such winning ways. And when she lost her father, the wife and I simply couldn’t help taking her to our hearts.”

“Quite so. Ever see that ‘father,’ Mr. Beachman?”

“Yes, sir, once; the day before he sailed – or was supposed to have sailed – for the States.”

“Short, thick-set man was he? Carried one shoulder a little lower than the other, and had lost the top of a finger on the left hand?”

“Yes, sir; the little finger. That’s him to a T.”

“Boris Borovonski!” declared Cleek, glancing over at Sir Charles. “No going to the States for that gentleman with a ‘deal’ like this on hand. He’d be close by and in constant touch with her. Did she have any friends in the town, Mr. Beachman?”

“No, not one. She appeared to be of a very retiring disposition, and made no acquaintances whatsoever. The only outside person I ever knew her to take any interest in was a crippled girl who lived with her bedridden mother and took in needlework. Greta heard of the case, and went to visit them. Afterward she used to carry work to them frequently, and sometimes fruit and flowers.”

“Ever see that bedridden woman or that cripple girl?”

“No, sir, never. Harry and I would be busy here most of the days, so she always went alone.”

“Did she ever ask Mrs. Beachman to accompany her?”

“Not that I ever heard of, sir. But it would have been to no purpose if she had. The wife is a very delicate woman; she rarely ever goes anywhere.”

“Hum-m-m! I see! So, then, you really do not know if there actually was a woman or a girl at all? Any idea where the persons were supposed to live?”

“Yes. They hired a room on the top floor of a house adjoining the Ocean Billow Hotel, sir. At least, Reggie – that’s my youngest son, Mr. Cleek – saw Greta go in there and look down from one of the top floor windows one day when he was on his way home from school. He spoke to her about it at the dinner table that night, and she said that that was where her ‘pensioners lived.’”

“Pretty good neighbourhood that, by Jove! for people who were ‘pensioners’ to be living in,” commented Cleek. “The Ocean Billow Hotel is a modern establishment – lifts, electric lights, liveried attendants, and caters to people of substance and standing.”

“Yes,” admitted Beachman. “When I was suspended, sir, during the examination and this house taken over by Sir Charles, I took Mrs. Beachman and Reggie there, and we have remained at the place, nominally under guard, ever since. You see, being convenient and in a straight line, so to speak, it offered extra advantages in case of my being summoned here at a moment’s notice.”

“H’m! Yes! I see!” said Cleek, stroking his chin. “In a straight line from here, eh? House next door would, of course, offer the same advantages; and from a room on the top floor a wire-tapping device – Yes, just so! I think, Sophie, I think I smell a very large mouse, my dear, and I shan’t be surprised if we’ve hit upon the place of reception for your messages the very first shot.”

“Messages, Mr. Cleek? Messages?” interposed Sir Charles. “You surely do not mean to infer that the woman telegraphed messages from this house? Do you forget, then, that there is no instrument, no wire, attached to the place?”

Cleek puckered up his brows. For the moment he had forgotten that fact.

“Still, there are wires passing over it, Sir Charles,” he said presently; “and if a means of communication with those were established, the ‘tapper’ at the other end could receive messages easily. She is a devil of ingenuity is Sophie. I wouldn’t put it beyond her and her confederates to have rigged up a transmitting instrument of some sort which the woman could carry on her person and attach to the wire when needed.”

Here Sir Charles threw in something which he felt to be in the nature of a facer.

“Quite so,” he admitted. “But do not forget, Mr. Cleek, that the deflected message was sent last night, and that the woman was not then in this house.”

CHAPTER XVIII

The queer little one-sided smile cocked up the corner of Cleek’s mouth. “Sure of that, Sir Charles?” he inquired placidly. “Sure that she was not? I am told, it is true, that she left the note saying she was going to drown herself, and disappeared four nights ago; I am also told that since the date of Mr. Beachman’s suspension this place has been under constant guard night and day, but I have not been told, however, that any of the guards saw her leave the place. No, no, no! Don’t jump to conclusions so readily, gentlemen. She will be out of it now, – out and never likely to return; the news of that miscarried message would warn her that something was wrong, and she would be ‘up and out of it’ like a darting swallow. The question is, how and when did she get out? Let’s have in the guard and see.”

The sentries were brought in one after the other and questioned. At no time since they were first put on guard, they declared – at no time, either by day or by night – had any living creature entered or left the house up to now, except the Admiral Superintendent, his secretary, the auditor, and the nurse who had been summoned to look after the stricken girl. To that they one and all were willing to take solemn oath.

There is an old French proverb which says: “He that protests too much leads to the truth in spite of himself.” It was the last man to be called who did this.

“No, sir, nobody passed, either in or out, I’ll take my dying oath to that,” asserted he, his feelings riled up by the thought that this constant questioning of his statement was a slur upon his devotion to his duty. “There aren’t nobody going to hint as I’m a slacker as don’t know what he’s a-doing of, or a blessed mug that don’t obey orders; no, sir – no fear! Sir Charles’s orders was, ‘Nobody in or out’ and nobody in or out it was; my hat! yuss! Why, sir” – turning to the dock master – “you must ’a’ known; he must ’a’ told you. I wouldn’t allow even young Master Reggie in last night when he came a-pleading to be let in to get the school books he’d left behind.”

“When he what?” almost roared the dock master, fairly jumping. “Good lord, Marshall, have you gone off your head? Do you mean to claim that you saw my boy here – last night?”

“Certainly, sir. Just after that awful clap of thunder it was – say about eight or ten minutes after; and what with that and the darkness and the way the wind was howling, I never see nor heard nothing of him coming till I got to the door, and there he was – in them light-coloured knickers and the pulled-down wideawake hat I’d seen him wear dozens of times – with his coat collar turned up and a drippin’ umbrella over his head, making like he was going up the steps to try and get in. ‘Who’s there?’ as I sings to him, though I needn’t, for the little light was streaking out through the windows showed me what he was wearing and who it was well enough. ‘It’s me – Master Reggie, Marshall,’ he says. ‘I’ve come to get my school books. I left ’em behind in the hurry, and father says he’s sure you’ll let me go in and get ’em.’ ‘Oh, does he?’ says I. ‘Well, I’m surprised at him and at you, too, Master Reggie, a-thinking I’d go against orders. Word is that nobody gets in; and nobody does, even the king hisself, till them orders is changed. So you just come away from that door, and trot right away back to your pa,’ I says to him, ‘and ask him from me what kind of a sentry he thinks Bill Marshall is.’ Which sets him a-snivelling and a-pleading till I has to take him by the shoulder, and fair drag him away before I could get him to go as he’d been told.”

“Well done, Sophie!” exclaimed Cleek. “Gad! what a creature of resource the woman is, and what an actress she would make, the vixen! No need to ask you if your son really did come over here last night, Mr. Beachman; your surprise and indignation have answered for you.”

“I should think it would, by George!” rapped out the dock master. “What sort of an insane man must you have thought me, Marshall, to credit such a thing as that? As if I’d have been likely to let a delicate fifteen-year-old boy go out on an errand of any kind in a beast of a storm like last night’s, much less tell him that he was to ask a sentry, in my name, to disobey his orders. Good God! gentlemen, it’s simply monstrous! Why, look here, Sir Charles; look here, Mr. Cleek! Even if I’d been guilty of such a thing, and the boy was willing to go out, he couldn’t have done it to save his life. The poor little chap met with an accident last night and he’s been in bed ever since. He was going down the stairs on his way to dinner when that terrific clap of thunder came, and the blessed thing startled him so much that, in the pitch darkness, he missed his footing, fell clear to the bottom of the staircase, and broke his collar bone.”

“Poor little lad! Too bad, too bad!” sympathized Sir Charles, feelingly, and, possibly, would have said more but that Cleek’s voice broke in softly, but with a curiously sharp note underlying its sleekness.

“In the pitch darkness, Mr. Beachman?” it inquired. “The pitch darkness of a public hotel at dinner time? Isn’t that rather extraordinary?”

“It would be, under any other circumstances, sir, but that infernal clap of thunder interfered in some way with the electric current, and every blessed light in the hotel went smack out – whisk! like that! – and left the place as black as a pocket. Everybody thought for the moment that the wires must have fused, but it turned out that there was nothing the matter with them – only that the current had been interrupted for a bit – for the lights winked on again as suddenly as they had winked out.”

“By Jupiter!” Cleek cracked out the two words like the snapping of a whip lash, then quickly turned round on his heel and looked straight and intently at the telegraph operator.

“Speak up – quick!” he said in the sharp staccato of excitement. “I am told that when that crash came and the diverted message began there was a force that almost knocked you off your stool. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, “perfectly true. It was something terrific. The Lord only knows what it would have been if I’d been touching the instrument.”

“You’d have been as dead as Julius Cæsar!” flung back Cleek. “No wonder she cut away to see what was wrong, the vixen! No wonder the lights went out! Mr. Narkom, the limousine – quick! Come along, Sir Charles; come along, Mr. Beachman – come along at once!”

“Where, Mr. Cleek – where?”

“To the top floor of the house next door to the Ocean Billow Hotel, Sir Charles, to see ‘Miss Greta Hilmann’s’ precious pensioners,” he made answer, rather excitedly. “Unless I am wofully mistaken, gentlemen, one part of this little riddle is already solved, and the very elements have conspired to protect England to become her foeman’s executioner.”

He was not mistaken – not in any point with regard to that house and the part it had played in this peculiar case – for, when they visited it and demanded in the name of the law the right to enter and to interview “the bedridden woman and the crippled girl who occupied the top floor,” they were met with the announcement that no such persons dwelt there, nor had ever done so.

“It is let to an invalid, it is true,” the landlady, a motherly, unsuspecting old soul, told them when they made the demand. “But it is a gentleman, not a lady. A professional gentleman, I believe – artist or sculptor, something of that sort – and never until last night has anybody been with him but his niece, who makes occasional calls. Last night, however, a nephew came – just for a moment; indeed, it seemed to me that he had no more than gone upstairs before he came down again and went out. Pardon? No, nobody has called to-day, neither has the gentleman left his room. But he often sleeps until late.”

He was sleeping forever this time. For when they came to mount the stairs and force open the door of the room, there, under a half-opened skylight, a dead man lay, one screwed-up, contracted hand still clutching the end of a flex, which went up and out to the telegraph wires overhead. On a table beside the body a fused and utterly demolished telegraph instrument stood; and it was evident from the scrap of flex still clinging to this that it had once formed part of that which the dead hand held; that it had snapped somehow, and that the man was attempting to re-attach it to the instrument when death overtook him.

“Gentlemen, the wire tapper – Boris Borovonski!” said Cleek, as he bent over and looked at him. “Step here, Mr. Beachman, and tell me if this is not the man who played the part of ‘Miss Greta Hilmann’s’ interesting papa.”

“Yes, yes!” declared the dock master excitedly, after he, too, had bent over and looked into the dead face. “It is the very man, sir, the very one! But who – but why – but how?” He then looked upward in a puzzled way to where the flex went up and out through the skylight and, threading through a maze of wires, hooked itself fast to one.

“Electrocuted,” said Cleek, answering that inquiring glance. “A few thousand volts – a flash of flame through heart and head and limbs, and then this! See his little game, Mr. Narkom? See it, do you, Sir Charles? He was taking the message from the tapped wire with that flex, and the fragment that reached the telegraph office only got through when the flex snapped. The furious gale did that, no doubt, whipping it away from its moorings, so to speak, and letting the message flash on before he could prevent it.

“Can’t you read the rest when you look up and see that other wire – the thick one with the insulated coating torn and frayed by contact with the chimney’s rough edge? It is not hard to reconstruct the tragedy when one sees that. When the flex snapped he jumped up and grabbed it, and was in the very act of again attaching it to the instrument when he became his own executioner. Look for yourself. The wild wind must either have blown the flex against the bared wire of the electric light or the bared wire against the flex – that we shall never know – and in the winking of an eye he was annihilated.

“No wonder the lights in the hotel went out, Mr. Beachman. The whole strength of the current was short-circuited through this man’s body, and it crumpled him up as a glove crumples when it is cast in the fire. But the dead hand, which had recovered the broken flex, still held it, you see, and no more of the ‘tapped’ message went down the dockyard wire. So long as that message continued, so long as the instrument which sent it continued to send it, it was ‘received’ here – a mere silent, unrecorded, impotent thrill locked up in the grip of a dead man’s hand.

“And look there – the pile of burnt paper beside the fused instrument and the cinder of a matchbox against it. The force which obliterated life in him infused it into the ‘dipped’ heads of those little wooden sticks, and flashed them into flame. So long as there was anything for that flame to feed upon it continued its work, you see, and Sophie Borovonski found nothing to take away with her, after all. Gentlemen, the State secrets that were stolen will remain England’s own – the records were burnt, and the dead cannot betray.”

CHAPTER XIX

It had gone two o’clock. The morning’s work was done, a hasty luncheon disposed of, and the investigators were back in the dockmaster’s house discussing the curious features of the case again.

“And now, gentlemen,” said Cleek, “to the unsolved part of the riddle – the mysterious manner in which the messages were sent from this house. For sent from here they undoubtedly were, and by Sophie Borovonski; but the question of how still remains to be discovered.”

“I make it that it’s the devil’s own work, Mr. Cleek,” said MacInery, “and that there must have been some accident connected with it, the same as with the taking off of the wire-tapping chap.”

“Hardly that, I’m afraid,” replied Cleek. “I think it was accident which put a stop to the proceedings here, not one which created them. We now know perfectly well that the woman was in this house – undiscovered and unsuspected for days; and you may safely lay your life that she wasn’t idle, wasn’t stopping here for nothing. The pile of papers burnt shows very clearly that considerable intelligence had been forwarded to her brother, so it is safe to infer that she was wiring it to him constantly.”

“But how was it possible for her to obtain that information?” queried Sir Charles. “I again declare to you most solemnly, Mr. Cleek, that no one entered or left the room, that no word was spoken that could be said to have any bearing upon secret matters, so nothing could possibly be overheard; and how could the woman read documents which were never out of our sight for a minute? Granted that she had some means of wiring intelligence to her brother – indeed, we now know that to have been the case – how under God’s heaven did she obtain that intelligence?”

“Well, that’s a facer, certainly, Sir Charles; but with such a past-mistress of ingenuity as she – well, you never know. Sure she couldn’t possibly have managed to get into the room and hide herself somewhere, you think?”

“I am positive she couldn’t. The thing isn’t possible. There’s no place where she could have hidden. Come in and see.”

He unlocked the door and, followed by the rest, led the way into the room where the inquiry into the dockmaster’s affairs had been held. A glance about it was sufficient to corroborate Sir Charles’s statement.

On one side stood a large fireproof safe, closely locked; on the other were two windows – iron-grilled and with inside shutters of steel; at one end was a large flat-topped table, at which Sir Charles and MacInery had conducted their investigation of the books, et cetera, and at the other a smaller writing-table, upon which stood a typewriter set on a sound-deadening square of felt, and over which hung a white-disked electric bulb. There were five chairs, and not another mortal thing. No cupboard, no wardrobe, no chest – nothing under heaven in which a creature any bigger than a cat could have hidden.

“You see,” said Sir Charles, with a wave of the hand, “she couldn’t have hidden in here, neither could she have hidden outside and overheard, for nothing was said that could have been of any use to her.”

“Quite confident of that?”

“Oh, I can answer for that, Mr. Cleek,” put in young Grimsdick. “We were so careful upon that point that Sir Charles never dictated even the smallest thing that he wanted recorded; merely passed over the papers and said: ‘Copy that where I have marked it’; and to save my table from being overcrowded, I scratched down the marked paragraphs in shorthand, and prepared to transcribe them on the typewriter later. Why, sir, look here; the diabolical part of the mystery is that those two fragments of sentences flashed out at the telegraph office at the time of that frightful peal of thunder, and at that very instant I was in the act of transcribing them on the typewriter.”