The Yellow Dove

The man stood erect and saluted. “Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann,” he said.

Hammersley saw the door close and heard the key turn in the lock while Senf came forward into the room and stood by the foot of the bed. Hammersley studied him closely: a tall, loosely jointed man in his early thirties with the heavy brows and high cheekbones of the East Prussian, the face of a Slav, almost, with something of the thoughtful intensity of the South German mystic. His eyes were large, his nose thin and his face was bearded, but the lines of his mouth had a sensitive curve, belied by the big bony hands and broad shoulders. A sentimentalist, perhaps!

Hammersley determined to try him, for a plan had been forming in his mind. He had noticed with a glance which had included everything in the room when he entered, a Bible upon the mantelshelf, and in a tone which had in it a solemn sense of the doom which awaited him in the morning, he addressed his guardian quietly:

“Senf, you have a kind face. There is a small favor that you may do me.”

“If it does not conflict with my orders.”

“Not at all. Tomorrow morning I am to be shot. All I ask is that you will allow me to read for a while the Bible upon the chimneypiece.”

“Ach! I see no harm in that.”

He went over and got the book, opening the pages and looking through them.

“It is little enough for a dying man to ask,” he said.

“Danke,” said Hammersley quietly, his face solemn but his mind working rapidly. “It is but right to make one’s peace with the world at a time like this.”

“I am sorry, mein Herr,” said the man mournfully. “It is not good for a man to die in the first flush of youth.”

“If it could only have been in the open, Senf, a soldier’s death, but this—Ach, wohl—we can only go once. It doesn’t matter.” He gave a deep sigh and asked his guardian to light his pipe again and open the Book at the Psalms of David.

“I cannot turn the pages, my friend. It is a pity. But propped upon one elbow I can see quite well if you will but put the candle here upon the bed.”

The man did as requested and Hammersley thanked him.

“You are a kind fellow. It is bread upon the waters. You will find it after many days.”

“It is nothing. I would expect as much from another.”

“Now, if you will permit, I would prefer the solitude of my thoughts.”

The soldier turned slowly away and Hammersley bent his gaze upon the open page, but he did not read. He was thinking, planning, watching the movements of Max Senf. Eight o’clock was long past. It must be nearly nine. But two hours remained before the arrival of the messenger from Berlin. His guardian paced slowly up and down the room between the door and window, and Hammersley felt, if he did not see, his deep bovine gaze fixed upon him from time to time. Eight or ten times the man took the length of the room and then with a deep sigh he sank into the chair at the foot of the bed. Hammersley did not move his head, which remained bent forward over the book, but from the tail of his eye he noted that the tall footboard of the old-fashioned bed partially concealed him. Propped up as he was he could see the man’s head as far down as the tip of his nose, but all of his head was in shadow. Arguing from this, everything upon the bed below the line of the flame of the candle was invisible to him. But a quick glance showed Hammersley that the man was not looking at him. His dark eyes were peering straight before him at the opposite wall and his mind was wrapped in some gloomy vision.

The plan he had in mind required subtlety. He marked the shadows upon the ceiling and moved up in the bed so that his own shadow would be thrown behind the line of sight of his guardian. Then he paused again, his eyes fixed on the pages, waiting for Senf to look at him again. He heard the man move in his chair, which creaked as he settled more comfortably into it. And when Hammersley looked again, only his eyes were visible, their gaze fixed darkly ahead of him.

Hammersley now puffed a volume of smoke from his pipe and slowly wriggled his left arm forward under him, so that he could see the knot that tied his wrists. It was a large knot, but vulnerable. He puffed more smoke, meanwhile watching the top of the head of Senf. As it did not move, he lay over half upon his back, and, taking care not to disturb the book, slowly advanced his arms behind him toward the blaze of the candle. The knot of the rope caught and blazed, but the candle sputtered, and he quickly withdrew his hands, sending a volume of smoke from his pipe to neutralize the odor. Senf sniffed the air curiously.

“Something is burning,” Hammersley heard him mutter.

“My pipe,” he explained carefully. “It is a vile tobacco. But it will go out of the crack at the window.”

“Will you not try mine, Herr Hammersley? Perhaps it is better.”

“No, thanks. Nothing much matters to a dead man.”

His guardian settled back in his chair, and Hammersley repeated his maneuver more daringly, his own pipe seething like a furnace.

“You are a furious smoker, Herr Hammersley,” said Senf again.

“It is the way one smokes, mein Junger, when one smokes for the last time,” he replied.

But the fellow got up, sniffing and walking around the room.

“It is a most curious tobacco,” he muttered.

Hammersley’s wrists pained him where his bonds had cut, but he kept his gaze upon the page of the book, and Senf sat in his chair again. A strong pull of his arms and Hammersley felt the tension relax. His bonds came looser and after a few more efforts his wrists were free. His heart was jumping and he feared a stray glance of the watcher might see the throbbing of the blood at his temples, but he clasped his hands behind him and waited, slipping the sundered rope beneath a fold of the blanket.

Two—three minutes passed and Senf did not move. The untying of his feet might prove a difficult matter, but he made the venture, working slowly and patiently, his gaze on Senf’s head. Then, as the knot yielded a little to his prying fingers, his gaze quickly concentrated on it. In his efforts he must have made a sound or a suspicious movement of the shoulders, for when he looked up he saw the head of Max Senf projecting above the tailboard of the bed, his large eyes protruding with amazement. They gazed at each other for a tense fraction of a second and then sprang upright. Hammersley threw his feet out upon the floor and leaped for the man, catching him around the waist so that he could not draw a weapon. His legs were useless and the only chance he had, a desperate one at best, was to drag the man to the floor by sheer weight and there perhaps throttle him. Senf beat with his heavy fists on Hammersley’s head and shoulders, and finally forced him backwards upon the floor, falling with him, but Hammersley still clung with frantic grip which the man could not shake off. But at last he managed to get his fingers around Hammersley’s throat and tried to force his head back.

Hammersley gasped for breath, but still struggled gamely, though he realized that he had played his last card. Things got dark, and dimly he saw the door of the room open and someone enter. Wentz, of course. His game was up.

Senf was panting heavily. “He burnt the rope,” Hammersley heard him say. “Come and help me. He has a grip of iron.”

The figure from the door moved quickly around the squirming figures, and Hammersley saw the reflection of the candle on something bright. A knife. He heard a blow, and the mass of struggling flesh above him suddenly collapsed and smothered him with its weight. With an effort he struggled free and rolled aside, looking up into the grim face of Lindberg.

“Sh—” the man whispered. “I had to do it. There was no other way. I’ve been waiting outside.”

Hammersley tried to speak, but his throat closed, and while he struggled for his breath, he saw Lindberg go to the door and stand, his ear to the keyhole, listening. In a moment he came back.

“Ganz gut! They have heard nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Hammersley managed to gasp, as Lindberg cut the rope that bound his ankles.

“Yes. He was so sure of himself that he did not shout.”

He helped the prisoner to his feet and they clasped hands.

“Good Lindberg! My friend! I had given up.”

“I have waited until the beer was served. It is well. And now–” He looked around the room quickly. “You shall go.”

Hammersley had a sudden thought.

“Captain von Winden sent you?”

“No. He knows nothing. But he has not spoken. It is now after nine o’clock. By half past nine you must go.”

“Ja doch! But you–!”

“I shall remain.”

“No, no; I will not consent to that.”

“Yes, I have thought out a plan.”

“But they will suspect. They will shoot you.”

“No, they will not. Have I not told you that I have thought out a plan?”

“I will listen to it.”

Lindberg meanwhile had been unstrapping his pistol holster and put it on a chair.

Hammersley glanced over his shoulder at the door. “But they may come again,” he whispered.

“I think not. There is little time to lose. We will have to take the chance.”

“But if they return and find me free it will only cause your death and do me no good.”

“Herr Hammersley, you should know by this time that I do not waste words. Have I not told you that I have made a plan? Listen. This is my story for Herr Hauptmann Wentz. I happen to be in the hallway without, carrying a pitcher of water to the room of Miss Mather—the pitcher is outside on the table—when I hear the sounds of a commotion in this room. Fearing that the prisoner has by some miracle gotten free, I unlock the door with my pass-key and enter. You have burned your bonds and killed Senf. You spring on me and make me a prisoner–” He paused.

“And you–” Hammersley broke in. “You will be left here? No, I won’t leave you—not to that fate. I will not go unless you go with me. We will contrive a way to get out of the country.”

“Ach, nein! Will you not listen? Have I not told you that I have thought of everything? I have communicated with the lady. She is ready to go with you. Her room has a dormer window around the corner of the building, and there is a ledge along the roof. You will go to her. The distance to the roof of the kitchen is thirty feet. It will require four sheets, yours and hers. They are new ones and if well twisted will hold. If you get away safely you can reach the cave in the Thorwald. No one will ever find you there–”

“Yes, Lindberg—but you—what will you say to them?”

“It is no time to waste words. Even now the lady is waiting for you. Come, you must get ready at once.”

He walked to the bed and quickly stripped off the blankets, twisting the sheets and tying them together. Then he took his pistol belt and fastened it around Hammersley’s waist, slipping a handful of loose cartridges into the side pocket of his leather jacket.

Hammersley, bewildered by the devotion of his old friend and tossed between alternatives of duty, stood helplessly. At the moment when he needed resolution most he was supine. But the minutes were passing. The thought of his mission suddenly brought him to life, and his face grew hard, his eyes brilliant with purpose.

“Come, Lindberg. You must go with me.”

“No,” the man insisted. “My plan is the best.”

“No. You must come with me.”

“I have made other plans, Herr Hammersley,” he whispered gently. “You will go alone. I will give you a reason.” And before Hammersley could know what he meant to do, he drew his hunting-knife from its sheath in Hammersley’s belt and plunged it into his own shoulder.

Hammersley could scarcely restrain a cry, but Lindberg smiled at him and plucking the weapon out, put it in Hammersley’s outstretched hand.

“It is nothing,” he said. “It will bleed a little. The more it bleeds the better my case with Excellenz. They will be here in three hours, if not before. Now bind and gag me—quick. There is no time to lose.”

He lay flat upon the floor and as in a dream Hammersley obeyed him, tying his arms and legs. When he had finished, Hammersley bent over the man and touched his hand gently.

“Good-by, old friend. Whatever happens I will not forget. God bless you.”

There was a bright, keen look in the small gray eyes upturned to his.

That was all Hammersley could see of the swathed head, but it gave him a new idea of self-sacrifice.

CHAPTER XVIII

SUCCESS

Hammersley’s first act was to take off his shoes and slip one into each pocket of his jacket. They were soled with rubber, but even that he feared would make a sound. Then he put the box of matches in his pocket and blew out the candle, overturning it on the floor. The shutters of the window were closed, and if they were opened carefully the man in the garden below might not notice any change in the appearance of the window. Hammersley buttoned his jacket and, carefully pushing back the shutter, peered out. Fortunately the night had fallen darkly, and overhead black clouds were lowering, and while he hesitated, searching the paths below for the figure of the guard, there was a patter of rain upon the roof. The gods were propitious.

At last he made out a dark bulk moving to and fro along the garden path toward the toolhouse. Hammersley watched, waiting until the man’s back was turned, when he opened the shutter wider and threw the rope of sheets out upon the ledge. Closing the shutter again, he came toward the house. So far so good, for the whiteness of the sheets would have been plainly visible had the guard been looking. The next stage of his escape was more difficult, and he let the fellow go and come twice along his path as he timed his new move. He tried the shutter carefully to see that it did not creak and measured with his eye the distance to the living-room chimney, which he must reach, during the twenty paces the soldier would take toward the toolhouse. A wind was blowing in the treetops and somewhere below him a young oak was rustling its last year’s leaves. The shutter fortunately opened in the direction in which he must go, so he sat upon the window-sill, doubled up, and when the time came, without looking again at the guard, moved quickly, slipping out noiselessly, closing the shutter behind him and, gathering up the sheet as he went, crept like a cat on a wall along the narrow ledge. It creaked with his weight, and some small object that his foot had touched grated along the roof and fell to the ground below. A tiny sound at best, but magnified in Hammersley’s ears a hundred times. He had reached the wide chimney and waited above it, listening for the footsteps of the man below.

There was no sound. The man had stopped walking. Hammersley did not dare look out from his hiding-place, but he knew that in that moment his fate was hanging in a balance. Just then a heavier gust of wind than usual dislodged a broken branch from a tree nearby, which fell to the ground. Still the man below did not move and Hammersley blessed his wisdom in closing the shutter, for he knew that the guard must be peering upward, searching for a sign of anything unusual in its appearance.

Hammersley held his breath, straining his ears for the sound that would tell him that he had not failed. In a while, which seemed interminable, it began again, the slow crunch of gravel under a heavy foot—ceased, and began again, as though uncertainly, so he waited until the sounds were regular as before, then advancing his head cautiously, he waited for the proper time, and keeping the chimney between himself and the garden, ran straight up the roof to the gable and crouched quickly upon the other side. He was more fortunate this time for the roof gave forth no sound.

Once beyond the protection of the gables he could for the moment disregard the danger of the guard, for his orders had been to watch but one window, and Hammersley knew enough of the German character to be sure that the soldier below would not leave that side of the house. As he slid carefully down the roof upon the other side, he saw that there were two dormers, and for a moment could not think which of them let into the room in which Doris was imprisoned. He reached the ledge and paused. The shutters of both windows were closed. Lindberg had told him this, but he swore mildly to himself because he hadn’t paid closer attention to the Forester’s instructions, for while one of the rooms was Doris’s, the other he knew was to be occupied by John Rizzio. It was while he hesitated that he heard a whisper at his left, and crawling along the ledge, in a moment had reached the window.

“Is it you, Cyril?” he heard.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Let me in.”

Lindberg had opened the shutter in the afternoon, but it was still stubborn, and when Cyril put his strength to Doris’s, it creaked abominably. It was not really a loud noise, but to the sensitive ears of the fugitives it seemed as if discovery must be inevitable. At last they managed to open it wide enough to admit Cyril’s long legs and his body speedily followed. Inside the room they stood, their hands clasped, fearful of discovery, listening for sounds without or within which would tell them of the approach of the dreaded Wentz. Nothing but the sighing of the wind in the treetops and the patter of the rain. As hope returned, Hammersley questioned quickly:

“You are ready to go?”

“Yes,” she replied eagerly.

“The sheets?”

“Here. I have prepared.”

It was dark and he could not see, but he followed the sheet to its end with his hand and found that it was fastened to the bedpost. How she had managed to move the heavy bed across the room he did not know, and it was unnecessary to question, for there it was. He reassured himself as to the knot that she had made and then fastened his own sheets to the other end.

“Do you think you can manage it alone? It will not hold us both.”

“Try me,” she whispered bravely.

“The rope will reach almost to the kitchen roof.”

“Yes, it is just below. I could see the edge of it through the shutter this afternoon.”

He caught her in his arms and their lips met.

“I will go first. Then when the tension relaxes, you follow.”

She pressed his hand as he slid his feet out of the window and paused crouching on the ledge listening. Then he waved his hand and slowly went down. He knew that the angle of the building quite hid him from the garden path, and he slid down the improvised rope as quickly as he could until his feet dangled in space. He looked below him, but in the darkness the distance was uncertain. Had Lindberg miscalculated? Or had Doris used too much of the sheet at the upper end? He let himself down until his hands groped the end of the sheet while he felt for a landing with his toes. He touched nothing, and still swayed and spun in the air like an apple on a string at All Hallowe’en, a fine mark for an automatic from any of the windows that stared blankly at him from the second story. There was nothing for it but to drop, stretching his toes down to meet the impact. Fortunately it was not far, but he lost his balance and toppled sideways, catching himself upon an arm and knee. Here again the wind saved him from discovery, but he drew his weapon and kept a look on the corner of the garden, meanwhile watching for Doris.

She came at once, slowly but fearlessly, and in a moment he had her safely in his arms, drawing her back near the bulk of the building to crouch and wait and listen again. They did not dare to speak, but Hammersley’s blood was surging madly with hope. If they had not been discovered now, the chances were that some time would elapse, enough at least to enable the fugitives to get a good start of their pursuers. But the dangling sheet warned Hammersley that they must move quickly. He peered over the edge of the roof. A light was burning in the kitchen, but whether the room was occupied or not, he could not tell. He did not dare risk a sprained ankle by jumping, but found that by lowering himself he could easily reach the fuel box that stood near the kitchen door. In a moment they were on the ground and moving along in the shelter of the hedge toward the hangar.

Hammersley exulted. It was something to have brought Doris away, but it was something more to have circumvented von Stromberg. The bundled figure of Lindberg, lying up there bleeding in the dark, shot a pain through his heart, but in action, moving toward the goal of his hopes, even Lindberg was put behind him. He had no fear for the wound in Lindberg’s shoulder. The old man was as tough as a pine knot and would survive the loss of blood. It was Lindberg’s ordeal with von Stromberg that bothered him.

When they reached the shelter of the woods the tension relaxed.

“We’re going to get off, Doris,” he said joyously. “I know every stick of these woods, and they can never find us. But I’m afraid the strain has been too much for you. How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” she said bravely. “Which way now?”

Hammersley had paused a moment to slip on his shoes, and as he got to his feet,

“Follow me,” he said. “If I go too fast for you, let me know.”

He cut into the woods and presently struck a path which led to the left, and for a while they followed this rapidly. Thanks to a fine physique and a vigorous life out-of-doors, the girl was in good condition, and though breathing hard upon the slopes, made no murmur. Hammersley knew that he had little time to spare, and Doris followed blindly, asking no questions. She was aware from what Cyril had said in the afternoon that his objective in coming to Germany was now within reach, and she could only judge of its importance to England by the desperate chances he had taken. When it was time that she should know he would tell her. She judged that Cyril knew that she had been tricked into betraying him, and she made up her mind that, whatever happened now, she would stay with him until the end. She owed him that.

After a while, when they had been moving for perhaps twenty minutes, they reached an opening in the trees where she could see gray patches of sky through the branches overhead, and her feet emerging from the dry leaves and moss felt a firmer contact.

“The Schöndorf road,” he said. “We can follow it side by side. Are you tired?”

“No.”

They went on more rapidly, while Hammersley explained:

“The documents I came to Germany for are to be brought along this road tonight in an automobile. The hour they are due to reach Blaufelden is eleven, and if I know anything of the infallibility of the German secret messenger, they will be here on time. It is now after ten. I have an hour or less to make my preparations.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Get them. First, I’m going to take you to a spot where you will be as safe as if you were at home in Ashwater Park.”

“No,” she said firmly, “I’m going with you.”

“But that’s impossible. I don’t know what may happen. My plans are of the vaguest–”

“I will share them. No, you sha’n’t refuse me. I will follow you. I can help. I must. I would die in those roads alone. Don’t you understand?”

“But if I fail and they take you, you will be as guilty as I. It’s an act of war, Doris.”

“Then all the more reason why I should be committed to it. They made war on me.”

“But there will be danger. I can’t let you take the risk.”

“I don’t know how you are going to stop me,” she said defiantly.

He paused, then stopped and caught her by the elbows, peering down into her eyes. Then he laughed.

“Mated!” he cried. “This is the greatest moment of my life.”

“And mine,” her voice answered him.

Her lips met his in a quick caress, like those the wives of the Spartans gave when they sent their men to battle.

He caught her hand in his and they moved forward more quickly. Along this path Death was riding toward them, but they strode eagerly to meet it, to defy it, to defeat it. Cyril planned rapidly, casting anxious glances along the road behind them. Every foot they traveled took them further from pursuers, if pursuers there were. Every foot they traveled took them nearer the advancing messenger. So that the farther they went the longer would be the while before they were overtaken, but the shorter the time for preparation to stop the automobile. Murder was not in Hammersley’s line. They passed many places, difficult spots in the road where the machine must almost stop and go into low gear to climb declivities, places where projecting rocks jutted rough faces up to the very ruts of the road. It would not be difficult to kill with an automatic at a distance of two paces, but Hammersley could not play the game that way. He was a spy, if the laws of war called him so, but he would not, even in this extremity, use the spy’s weapons. If the other man fought, it would be different. The desperate nature of the undertaking was beginning to come to him. Two men, perhaps three or even four! And yet he must win. He must. Slowly but surely a plan was forming and he made up his mind to put it into practice.