Chapter Four.His Dying Words.When Jack recovered himself he scrambled to his feet and gazed around.The sight which met both their eyes caused them ejaculations of surprise, for, near the left-hand window, the heavy plush curtains of which were drawn, Dr Jerrold was lying, face downwards and motionless, his arms outstretched over his head.Quite near lay his pet briar pipe, which had fallen suddenly from his mouth, showing that he had been in the act of smoking as, in crossing the room, he had been suddenly stricken.Without a word, both Sainsbury and Thomasson fell upon their knees and lifted the prostrate form. The limbs were warm and limp, yet the white face, with the dropped jaw and the aimless, staring eyes, was horrible to behold.“Surely he’s not dead, sir!” gasped the manservant anxiously, in an awed voice.“I hope not,” was Sainsbury’s reply. “If so, there’s a mystery here that we must solve.” Then, bending to him, he shook him slightly and cried, “Jerome! Jerome! Speak to me. Jack Sainsbury!”“I’ll get some water,” suggested Thomasson, and, springing up, he crossed the room to where, upon a side-table, stood a great crystal bowl full of flowers. These he cast aside, and, carrying the bowl across, dashed water into his master’s face.Sainsbury, who had the doctor’s head raised upon his knee, shook him and repeated his appeal, yet the combined efforts of the pair failed to arouse the prostrate man.“What can have happened?” queried Jack, gazing into the wide-open, staring eyes of his friend, as he pulled his limp body towards him and examined his hands.“It’s a mystery, sir—ain’t it?” remarked Thomasson.“One thing is certain—that the attack was very sudden. Look at his pipe! It’s still warm. He was smoking when, of a sudden, he must have collapsed.”“I’ll ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. He’s the doctor’s greatest friend,” suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery.It was quite evident that something extraordinary had occurred there in the brief quarter of an hour which had elapsed between Mr Trustram’s departure and Jack’s arrival. But what had taken place was a great and inscrutable mystery.Sainsbury recollected that strange metallic click he had heard so distinctly. Was it the closing of the window? Had someone escaped from the room while he had been so eagerly trying to gain entrance there?He gazed down into his friend’s white, drawn face—a weird, haggard countenance, with black hair. The eyes stared at him so fixedly that he became horrified.He bent to his friend’s breast, but could detect no heart-beats. He snatched up a big silver photograph frame from a table near and held it close to the doctor’s lips, but upon the glass he could discover no trace of breath.Was he dead? Surely not.Yet the suggestion held him aghast. The hands were still limp and warm, the cheeks warm, the white brow slightly damp. And yet there was no sign of respiration, so inert and motionless was he.He was in well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond sparkling in his well-starched shirt-front. Jerome Jerrold had always been well-dressed, and even though he had risen to that high position in the medical profession, he had always dressed even foppishly, so his traducers had alleged.Jack Sainsbury unloosed the black satin cravat, tore off his collar, and opened his friend’s shirt at the throat. But it was all of no avail. There was no movement—no sign of life.A few moments later Thomasson came back in breathless haste.“I’ve spoken to Sir Houston, sir,” he said. “He’s on his way round in a taxi.”Then both men gazed on the prostrate form which Sainsbury supported, and as they did so there slowly came a faint flush into the doctor’s face. He drew a long breath, gasped for a second, and his eyes relaxed as he turned his gaze upon his friend. His right arm moved, and his hand gripped Sainsbury’s arm convulsively.For a few moments he looked straight into his friend’s face inquiringly, gazing intently, first as though he realised nothing, and then in slow recognition.“Why, it’s Jack!” he gasped, recognising his friend. “You—I—I felt a sudden pain—so strange, and in an instant I—ah! I—I wonder—save me—I—I—ah! how far off you are! No—no! don’t leave me—don’t. I—I’ve been shot—shot!—I know I have—ah! what pain—what agony! I—”And, drawing a long breath, he next second fell back into Sainsbury’s arms like a stone.Ten minutes later a spruce, young-looking, clean-shaven man entered briskly with Thomasson, who introduced him as Sir Houston Bird.In a moment he was full of concern regarding his friend Jerrold, and, kneeling beside the couch whereon Sainsbury and Thomasson had placed him, quickly made an examination.“Gone! I’m afraid,” he said at last, in a low voice full of emotion, as he critically examined the eyes.Jack Sainsbury then repeated his friend’s strange words, whereupon the great pathologist—the expert whose evidence was sought by the Home Office in all mysteries of crime—exclaimed—“The whole affair is certainly a mystery. Poor Jerrold is dead, without a doubt. But how did he die?”Thomasson explained in detail Mr Trustram’s departure, and how, a quarter of an hour later, Sainsbury had arrived.“The doctor had never before, to my knowledge, locked this door,” he went on. “I heard him cheerily wishing Mr Trustram good-night as he came down the stairs, and I heard him say that he was not to fail to call to-morrow night at nine, as they would then carry the inquiry further.”“What inquiry?” asked Sir Houston quickly.“Ah! sir—that, of course, I don’t know,” was the servant’s response. “My master seemed in the highest of spirits. I just caught sight of him at the head of the stairs, smoking his pipe as usual after his day’s work.”The great pathologist knit his brows and cast down his head thoughtfully. He was a man of great influence, the head of his profession—for, being the expert of the Home Office, his work, clever, ingenious, and yet cool and incisive, was to lay the accusing finger upon the criminal.Hardly a session passed at the Old Bailey but Sir Houston Bird appeared in the witness box, spruce in his morning-coat, and presenting somewhat the appearance of a bank-clerk; yet, in his cold unemotional words, he explained to the jury the truth as written plainly by scientific investigation. Many murderers had been hanged upon his words, always given with that strange, deliberate hesitation, and yet words—that could never, for a moment, be shaken by counsel for the defence.Indeed, long ago defending counsel had given up cross-examination on any evidence presented by Sir Houston Bird, who had at his service the most expert chemists and analysts which our time could produce.“This is a mystery,” exclaimed the great expert, gazing upon the body of his friend with his big grey eyes. “Do you tell me that he was actually locked in here?”“Yes, Sir Houston,” replied Thomasson. “Curious—most curious,” exclaimed the great pathologist, as though speaking to himself. Then, addressing Sainsbury, after the latter had been speaking, he said: “The poor fellow declared that he’d been shot. Is that so?”“Yes. He said that he felt a sudden and very sharp pain, and the words he used were, ‘I’ve been shot! I know I have!’”“And yet there appears no trace of any wound, or injury,” Sir Houston remarked, much puzzled.“Both windows and door were secured from the inside, therefore no assassin could possibly escape, sir,” declared Thomasson. “I suppose there’s no one concealed here in the room?” he added, glancing apprehensively around.In a few moments the three men had examined every nook and corner of the apartment—the two long cupboards, beneath the table, behind the heavy plush curtains and the chenille portière. But nobody was in concealment.The whole affair was a profound mystery.Sir Houston, dark-eyed and thoughtful, gazed down upon the body of his friend.Sainsbury and Thomasson had already removed Jerrold’s coat, and were searching for any bullet-wound. But there was none. Again Sir Houston inquired what the dying man had actually said, and again Sainsbury repeated the disjointed words which the prostrate man had gasped with his dying breath.To the pathologist it was quite clear first that Jerome Jerrold believed he had been shot; secondly that no second person could have entered the room, and thirdly that the theory of assassination might be at once dismissed.“I think that poor Jerrold has died a natural death—sudden and painful, for if he had been shot some wound would most certainly show,” Sir Houston remarked.“There will have to be an inquest, won’t there?” asked Sainsbury.“Of course. And, Thomasson, you had better ring up the police at once and inform them of the facts,” urged Sir Houston, who, turning again to Sainsbury, added: “At the post-mortem we shall, of course, quickly establish the cause of death.”Again he bent, and with his forefinger drew down the dead man’s nether lip.“Curious,” he remarked, as though speaking to himself, as he gazed into the white, distorted face. “By the symptoms I would certainly have suspected poisoning. Surely he can’t have committed suicide!”And he glanced eagerly around the room, seeking to discover any bottle, glass, or cup that could have held a fatal draught.“I don’t see anything which might lead us to such a conclusion, Sir Houston,” answered Sainsbury.“But he may have swallowed it in tablet form,” the other suggested.“Ah! yes. I never thought of that!”“His dying words were hardly the gasping remarks of a suicide.”“Unless he wished to conceal the fact that he had taken his own life?” remarked Sainsbury.“If he committed suicide, then he will probably have left some message behind him. They generally do,” Sir Houston said; whereupon both men crossed to the writing-table, which, neat and tidy, betrayed the well-ordered life its owner had led.An electric lamp with a shade of pale green silk was burning, and showed that the big padded writing-chair had recently been occupied. Though nothing lay upon the blotting pad, there were, in the rack, three letters the man now dead had written and stamped for post. Sainsbury took them and glanced at the addresses.“Had we not better examine them?” he suggested; and, Sir Houston consenting, he tore them open one after the other and quickly read their contents. All three, however, were professional letters to patients.Next they turned their attention to the waste-paper basket. In it were a number of letters which Jerrold had torn up and cast away. Thomasson having gone to the telephone to inform the police of the tragic affair, the pair busied themselves in piecing together the various missives and reading them.All were without interest—letters such as a busy doctor would receive every day. Suddenly, however, Sainsbury spread out before him some crumpled pieces of cartridge-paper which proved to be the fragments of a large strong envelope which had been torn up hurriedly and discarded.There were words on the envelope in Jerrold’s neat handwriting, and in ink which was still blue in its freshness. As Sainsbury put them together he read, to his astonishment:“Private.For my friend Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead. Not to be opened until one year after my death.”Sir Houston, attracted by the cry of surprise which escaped Sainsbury’s lips, looked over his shoulder and read the words.“Ah!” he sighed. “Suicide! I thought he would leave something!”
When Jack recovered himself he scrambled to his feet and gazed around.
The sight which met both their eyes caused them ejaculations of surprise, for, near the left-hand window, the heavy plush curtains of which were drawn, Dr Jerrold was lying, face downwards and motionless, his arms outstretched over his head.
Quite near lay his pet briar pipe, which had fallen suddenly from his mouth, showing that he had been in the act of smoking as, in crossing the room, he had been suddenly stricken.
Without a word, both Sainsbury and Thomasson fell upon their knees and lifted the prostrate form. The limbs were warm and limp, yet the white face, with the dropped jaw and the aimless, staring eyes, was horrible to behold.
“Surely he’s not dead, sir!” gasped the manservant anxiously, in an awed voice.
“I hope not,” was Sainsbury’s reply. “If so, there’s a mystery here that we must solve.” Then, bending to him, he shook him slightly and cried, “Jerome! Jerome! Speak to me. Jack Sainsbury!”
“I’ll get some water,” suggested Thomasson, and, springing up, he crossed the room to where, upon a side-table, stood a great crystal bowl full of flowers. These he cast aside, and, carrying the bowl across, dashed water into his master’s face.
Sainsbury, who had the doctor’s head raised upon his knee, shook him and repeated his appeal, yet the combined efforts of the pair failed to arouse the prostrate man.
“What can have happened?” queried Jack, gazing into the wide-open, staring eyes of his friend, as he pulled his limp body towards him and examined his hands.
“It’s a mystery, sir—ain’t it?” remarked Thomasson.
“One thing is certain—that the attack was very sudden. Look at his pipe! It’s still warm. He was smoking when, of a sudden, he must have collapsed.”
“I’ll ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. He’s the doctor’s greatest friend,” suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery.
It was quite evident that something extraordinary had occurred there in the brief quarter of an hour which had elapsed between Mr Trustram’s departure and Jack’s arrival. But what had taken place was a great and inscrutable mystery.
Sainsbury recollected that strange metallic click he had heard so distinctly. Was it the closing of the window? Had someone escaped from the room while he had been so eagerly trying to gain entrance there?
He gazed down into his friend’s white, drawn face—a weird, haggard countenance, with black hair. The eyes stared at him so fixedly that he became horrified.
He bent to his friend’s breast, but could detect no heart-beats. He snatched up a big silver photograph frame from a table near and held it close to the doctor’s lips, but upon the glass he could discover no trace of breath.
Was he dead? Surely not.
Yet the suggestion held him aghast. The hands were still limp and warm, the cheeks warm, the white brow slightly damp. And yet there was no sign of respiration, so inert and motionless was he.
He was in well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond sparkling in his well-starched shirt-front. Jerome Jerrold had always been well-dressed, and even though he had risen to that high position in the medical profession, he had always dressed even foppishly, so his traducers had alleged.
Jack Sainsbury unloosed the black satin cravat, tore off his collar, and opened his friend’s shirt at the throat. But it was all of no avail. There was no movement—no sign of life.
A few moments later Thomasson came back in breathless haste.
“I’ve spoken to Sir Houston, sir,” he said. “He’s on his way round in a taxi.”
Then both men gazed on the prostrate form which Sainsbury supported, and as they did so there slowly came a faint flush into the doctor’s face. He drew a long breath, gasped for a second, and his eyes relaxed as he turned his gaze upon his friend. His right arm moved, and his hand gripped Sainsbury’s arm convulsively.
For a few moments he looked straight into his friend’s face inquiringly, gazing intently, first as though he realised nothing, and then in slow recognition.
“Why, it’s Jack!” he gasped, recognising his friend. “You—I—I felt a sudden pain—so strange, and in an instant I—ah! I—I wonder—save me—I—I—ah! how far off you are! No—no! don’t leave me—don’t. I—I’ve been shot—shot!—I know I have—ah! what pain—what agony! I—”
And, drawing a long breath, he next second fell back into Sainsbury’s arms like a stone.
Ten minutes later a spruce, young-looking, clean-shaven man entered briskly with Thomasson, who introduced him as Sir Houston Bird.
In a moment he was full of concern regarding his friend Jerrold, and, kneeling beside the couch whereon Sainsbury and Thomasson had placed him, quickly made an examination.
“Gone! I’m afraid,” he said at last, in a low voice full of emotion, as he critically examined the eyes.
Jack Sainsbury then repeated his friend’s strange words, whereupon the great pathologist—the expert whose evidence was sought by the Home Office in all mysteries of crime—exclaimed—
“The whole affair is certainly a mystery. Poor Jerrold is dead, without a doubt. But how did he die?”
Thomasson explained in detail Mr Trustram’s departure, and how, a quarter of an hour later, Sainsbury had arrived.
“The doctor had never before, to my knowledge, locked this door,” he went on. “I heard him cheerily wishing Mr Trustram good-night as he came down the stairs, and I heard him say that he was not to fail to call to-morrow night at nine, as they would then carry the inquiry further.”
“What inquiry?” asked Sir Houston quickly.
“Ah! sir—that, of course, I don’t know,” was the servant’s response. “My master seemed in the highest of spirits. I just caught sight of him at the head of the stairs, smoking his pipe as usual after his day’s work.”
The great pathologist knit his brows and cast down his head thoughtfully. He was a man of great influence, the head of his profession—for, being the expert of the Home Office, his work, clever, ingenious, and yet cool and incisive, was to lay the accusing finger upon the criminal.
Hardly a session passed at the Old Bailey but Sir Houston Bird appeared in the witness box, spruce in his morning-coat, and presenting somewhat the appearance of a bank-clerk; yet, in his cold unemotional words, he explained to the jury the truth as written plainly by scientific investigation. Many murderers had been hanged upon his words, always given with that strange, deliberate hesitation, and yet words—that could never, for a moment, be shaken by counsel for the defence.
Indeed, long ago defending counsel had given up cross-examination on any evidence presented by Sir Houston Bird, who had at his service the most expert chemists and analysts which our time could produce.
“This is a mystery,” exclaimed the great expert, gazing upon the body of his friend with his big grey eyes. “Do you tell me that he was actually locked in here?”
“Yes, Sir Houston,” replied Thomasson. “Curious—most curious,” exclaimed the great pathologist, as though speaking to himself. Then, addressing Sainsbury, after the latter had been speaking, he said: “The poor fellow declared that he’d been shot. Is that so?”
“Yes. He said that he felt a sudden and very sharp pain, and the words he used were, ‘I’ve been shot! I know I have!’”
“And yet there appears no trace of any wound, or injury,” Sir Houston remarked, much puzzled.
“Both windows and door were secured from the inside, therefore no assassin could possibly escape, sir,” declared Thomasson. “I suppose there’s no one concealed here in the room?” he added, glancing apprehensively around.
In a few moments the three men had examined every nook and corner of the apartment—the two long cupboards, beneath the table, behind the heavy plush curtains and the chenille portière. But nobody was in concealment.
The whole affair was a profound mystery.
Sir Houston, dark-eyed and thoughtful, gazed down upon the body of his friend.
Sainsbury and Thomasson had already removed Jerrold’s coat, and were searching for any bullet-wound. But there was none. Again Sir Houston inquired what the dying man had actually said, and again Sainsbury repeated the disjointed words which the prostrate man had gasped with his dying breath.
To the pathologist it was quite clear first that Jerome Jerrold believed he had been shot; secondly that no second person could have entered the room, and thirdly that the theory of assassination might be at once dismissed.
“I think that poor Jerrold has died a natural death—sudden and painful, for if he had been shot some wound would most certainly show,” Sir Houston remarked.
“There will have to be an inquest, won’t there?” asked Sainsbury.
“Of course. And, Thomasson, you had better ring up the police at once and inform them of the facts,” urged Sir Houston, who, turning again to Sainsbury, added: “At the post-mortem we shall, of course, quickly establish the cause of death.”
Again he bent, and with his forefinger drew down the dead man’s nether lip.
“Curious,” he remarked, as though speaking to himself, as he gazed into the white, distorted face. “By the symptoms I would certainly have suspected poisoning. Surely he can’t have committed suicide!”
And he glanced eagerly around the room, seeking to discover any bottle, glass, or cup that could have held a fatal draught.
“I don’t see anything which might lead us to such a conclusion, Sir Houston,” answered Sainsbury.
“But he may have swallowed it in tablet form,” the other suggested.
“Ah! yes. I never thought of that!”
“His dying words were hardly the gasping remarks of a suicide.”
“Unless he wished to conceal the fact that he had taken his own life?” remarked Sainsbury.
“If he committed suicide, then he will probably have left some message behind him. They generally do,” Sir Houston said; whereupon both men crossed to the writing-table, which, neat and tidy, betrayed the well-ordered life its owner had led.
An electric lamp with a shade of pale green silk was burning, and showed that the big padded writing-chair had recently been occupied. Though nothing lay upon the blotting pad, there were, in the rack, three letters the man now dead had written and stamped for post. Sainsbury took them and glanced at the addresses.
“Had we not better examine them?” he suggested; and, Sir Houston consenting, he tore them open one after the other and quickly read their contents. All three, however, were professional letters to patients.
Next they turned their attention to the waste-paper basket. In it were a number of letters which Jerrold had torn up and cast away. Thomasson having gone to the telephone to inform the police of the tragic affair, the pair busied themselves in piecing together the various missives and reading them.
All were without interest—letters such as a busy doctor would receive every day. Suddenly, however, Sainsbury spread out before him some crumpled pieces of cartridge-paper which proved to be the fragments of a large strong envelope which had been torn up hurriedly and discarded.
There were words on the envelope in Jerrold’s neat handwriting, and in ink which was still blue in its freshness. As Sainsbury put them together he read, to his astonishment:
“Private.For my friend Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead. Not to be opened until one year after my death.”
Sir Houston, attracted by the cry of surprise which escaped Sainsbury’s lips, looked over his shoulder and read the words.
“Ah!” he sighed. “Suicide! I thought he would leave something!”
Chapter Five.Certain Curious Facts.Both men searched eagerly through the drawers of the writing-table to see if the dead man had left another envelope addressed to his friend. Two of the drawers were locked, but these they opened with the key which they found upon poor Jerrold’s watch-chain which he was wearing.Some private papers, accounts and ledgers, were in the drawers, but the envelope of which they were in search they failed to discover.It seemed evident that Jerome Jerrold had written the envelope in which he had enclosed a letter, but, on reflection, he had torn it up. Though the crumpled fragments of the envelope were there, yet the letter—whatever it might have been—was missing. And their careful examination of the waste-paper basket revealed nothing, whereupon Sir Houston Bird remarked—“He may, of course, have changed his mind, and burned it, after all!”“Perhaps he did,” Jack agreed. “But I wonder what could have been the message he wished to give me a year after his death? Why not now?”“People who take their own lives sometimes have curious hallucinations. I have known many. Suicide is a fascinating, if very grim study.”“Then you really think this is a case of suicide?”“I can, I fear, give no opinion until after the post-mortem, Mr Sainsbury,” was Sir Houston’s guarded reply, his face grave and thoughtful.“But it is all so strange, so remarkable,” exclaimed the younger man. “Why did he tell me that he’d been shot, if he hadn’t?”“Because to you, his most intimate friend, he perhaps, as you suggested, wished to conceal the fact that he had been guilty of the cowardly action of taking his own life,” was the reply.“It is a mystery—a profound mystery,” declared Jack Sainsbury. “Jerome dined with Mr Trustram, and the latter came back here with him. Meanwhile, Mr Lewin Rodwell was very anxious concerning him. Why? Was Rodwell a friend of Jerome’s? Do you happen to know that?”“I happen to know to the contrary,” declared the great pathologist. “Only a week ago we met at Charing Cross Hospital, and some chance remark brought up Rodwell’s name, when Jerrold burst forth angrily, and declared most emphatically that the man who posed as such a patriotic Englishman would, one day, be unmasked and exposed in his true colours. In confidence, he made an allegation that Lewin Rodwell’s real name was Ludwig Heitzman, and that he was born in Hanover. He had become a naturalised Englishman ten years ago in Glasgow, and had, by deed-poll, changed his name to Lewin Rodwell.”Jack Sainsbury stared the speaker full in the face.Lewin Rodwell, the great patriot who, since the outbreak of war, had been in the forefront of every charitable movement, who had been belauded by the Press, and to whom the Prime Minister had referred in the most eulogistic terms in the House of Commons, was a German!“That’s utterly impossible,” exclaimed Jack. “He is one of the directors of the Ochrida Copper Corporation, in whose office I am. I know Mr Rodwell well. There’s no trace whatever of German birth about him.”“Jerrold assured me that his real name was Heitzman, that he had been born of poor parents, and had been educated by an English shipping-agent in Hamburg, who had adopted him and sent him to England. On the Englishman’s death he inherited about two thousand pounds, which he made the nucleus of his present fortune.”“That’s all news to me,” said Jack reflectively; “and yet—”“What? Do you know something regarding Rodwell then?” inquired Sir Houston quickly.“No,” he replied. “Nothing very extraordinary. What you have just told me surprises me greatly.”“Just as it surprised me. Yet, surely, his case is only one of many similar. Thousands of Germans have come here, and become naturalised Englishmen.”“A German who becomes a naturalised Englishman is a traitor to his own country, while he poses as our friend. I contend that we have no use for traitors of any sort in England to-day,” declared Jack vehemently; both men being still engaged in searching the dead man’s room to discover the message which it appeared had been his intention to leave after his death. They had carefully examined the grate, but found no trace of any burnt paper. Yet, from the fact that a piece of red sealing-wax and a burnt taper lay upon the writing-table, it appeared that something had been recently sealed, though the torn envelope bore no seal.If an envelope had been sealed, then where was it?“We shall, no doubt, be able to establish the truth of Jerrold’s allegation by reference to the register of naturalised Germans kept at the Home Office,” Sir Houston said at last.Jack was silent for a few moments, and then answered:“That, I fear, may be a little difficult. Jerrold has often told me how it had been discovered that it was a favourite dodge of Germans, after becoming naturalised and changing their names by deed-poll, to adopt a second and rather similar name, in order to avoid any inquiry along the channel which you have just suggested. As an example, if Ludwig Heitzman became naturalised, then it is more than probable that when he changed his name by deed-poll he did not adopt the name of Lewin Rodwell, but something rather near it.”“Very likely,” was the great doctor’s remark.Suddenly Jack Sainsbury paused and, facing his companion, said:“Look here, Sir Houston. In this tragic affair I believe there’s something more than suicide. That’s my firm opinion. Reflect for one moment, and follow my suspicions. Poor Jerome, in addition to his profession, has for some years been unofficially assisting the Intelligence Department of the War Office. He was one of the keenest and cleverest investigators in England. He scented acts of espionage as a terrier does a rat, and by his efforts half a dozen, or so, dangerous spies have been arrested and punished. In a modest way I have been his assistant, and have helped to watch and follow suspected persons. Together, we have traced cases of petrol-running to the coast, investigated night-signalling in the southern counties, and other things, therefore I happen to know that he was keen on the work. Curious that he never told me of his grave suspicions regarding Mr Rodwell.”“Perhaps he had a reason for concealing them from you,” was the other’s reply.“But he was always so frank and open with me, because I believe that he trusted in my discretion to say nothing.”“Probably he had not verified his facts, and intended to do so before revealing the truth to you.”“Yes, he was most careful always to obtain corroboration of everything, before accepting it,” was Jack’s reply. “But certainly what you have just told me arouses a grave suspicion.”“Of what?”“Well—that our poor friend, having gained knowledge of Lewin Rodwell’s birth and antecedents, may, in all probability, have probed further into his past and—”“Into his present, I think more likely,” exclaimed the great doctor. “Ah! I quite see the line of your argument,” he added quickly. “You suggest that Rodwell may have discovered that Jerrold knew the truth, and that, in consequence, death came suddenly and unexpectedly—eh?”Jack Sainsbury nodded in the affirmative. “But surely Trustram, who was one of Jerrold’s most intimate friends, could not have had any hand in foul play! He was the last man who saw him alive. No,” he went on. “My own experience shows me that poor Jerrold has died of poisoning, and as nobody has been here, or could have escaped from the room, it must have been administered by his own hand.”“But do you not discern the motive?” cried Sainsbury. “Rodwell has risen to a position of great affluence and notoriety. He is a bosom friend of Cabinet Ministers, and to him many secrets of State are confided. He, and his friend Sir Boyle Huntley, play golf with Ministers, and the name of Lewin Rodwell is everywhere to-day one to conjure with. He has, since the war, risen to be one of the most patriotic Englishmen—a man whose unselfish efforts are praised and admired from one end of Great Britain to another. Surely he would have become desperate if he had the least suspicion that Jerome Jerrold had discovered the truth, and intended to unmask him—as he had openly declared to you.”“Yes, yes, I see,” Sir Houston replied dubiously. “If there were any traces of foul play I should at once be of the same opinion. But you see they do not exist.”“Whether there are traces, or whether there are none, nothing will shake my firm opinion, and that is that poor Jerome has been assassinated, and the motive of the crime is what I have already suggested.”“Very well; we shall clear it up at the post-mortem,” was the doctor’s reply, while at that moment Thomasson re-entered, followed by a police-officer in plain clothes and two constables in uniform.On their entry, Sainsbury introduced Sir Houston Bird, and told them his own name and that of his dead friend.Then the officer of the local branch of the Criminal Investigation Department sat down at the dead man’s writing-table and began to write in his note-book the story of the strange affair, as dictated by Jack.Sir Houston also made a statement, this being followed by the man Thomasson, who detailed his master’s movements prior to his death—as far as he knew them.His master, he declared, had seemed in excellent spirits all day. He had seen patients in the morning, had lunched frugally at home, and had gone down to Guy’s in the car to see the wounded, as was his daily round. At six he had returned, dressed, and gone forth in a taxi to meet his friend, Mr Trustram of the Admiralty. They having dined together returned, and afterwards Mr Trustram had left and the doctor, smoking his pipe, had retired to his room to write. Nothing further was heard, Thomasson said, till the arrival of Mr Sainsbury, when the door of the room was found locked.“You heard no one enter the house—no sounds whatever?” asked the detective inspector, Rees by name, a tall, clean-shaven, fresh-complexioned man, with rather curly hair.“I didn’t hear a sound,” was the servant’s reply. “The others were all out, and, as a matter of fact, I was in the waiting-room, just inside the door, looking at the newspapers on the table. So I should have heard anyone go up or down the stairs.”Inspector Rees submitted Thomasson to a very searching cross-examination, but it was quite evident to all in the room that he knew nothing more than what he had already told. He and his wife had been in Dr Jerrold’s service for eight years. His wife, until her death, a year ago, had acted as cook-housekeeper.“Did you ever know of Mr Lewin Rodwell visiting the doctor?” asked Sir Houston.“Never, as far as I know, sir. He, of course, might have come to consult him professionally when I’ve been out, and the maid has sometimes opened the door and admitted patients.”“Have you ever heard Mr Rodwell’s name?”“Only on the telephone to-night—and of course very often in the papers,” replied the man.“Your master was very intimate with Mr Trustram?” inquired the detective.“Oh yes. They first met about three months ago, and after that Mr Trustram came here several times weekly. The doctor went to stay at his country cottage near Dorking for the week-end, about a fortnight ago.”“Did you ever discover the reason of those conferences?” Jack Sainsbury asked. “I mean, did you ever overhear any of their conversations?”“Sometimes, sir. But not very often,” was Thomasson’s discreet reply. “They frequently discussed the war, and the spy-peril, in which—as you know—the doctor was actively interesting himself.”Upon Jack Sainsbury’s countenance a faint smile appeared. He now discerned the reason of the visits of that Admiralty official to the man who had been so suddenly and mysteriously stricken down.He exchanged glances with Sir Houston, who, a moment before, had been searching a cigar cabinet which had hitherto escaped their notice.At Rees’s suggestion, Jack Sainsbury went to the telephone and rang up Charles Trustram, to whom he briefly related the story of the tragic discovery.Within twenty minutes Trustram arrived, and, to the detective, told the story of the events of the evening: how they had met by appointment at Prince’s Restaurant at half-past seven, had dined together, and then he had accompanied the doctor back to Wimpole Street about half-past nine, where they had sat smoking and chatting.“Jerrold seemed in quite good spirits over the result of an inquiry he had been making regarding a secret store of petrol established by the enemy’s emissaries somewhere on the Sussex coast,” Mr Trustram explained. “He had, he told me, disclosed it to the Intelligence Department, and they were taking secret measures to watch a certain barn wherein the petrol was concealed, and to arrest those implicated in the affair. He also expressed some anxiety regarding Mr Sainsbury, saying that he wished he could see him to-night.” Then, turning to Jack, he added: “At his request I rang up your flat at Hampstead, but you were not in.”“Why did he wish to see me?”“Ah! that I don’t know. He told me nothing,” was the Admiralty official’s reply. “While I was sitting here with him I was rung up three times—twice from my office, and once by a well-known man I had met for the first time that afternoon—Mr Lewin Rodwell.”At mention of Rodwell all present became instantly interested.“How did Mr Rodwell know that you were here?” inquired the detective quickly. “That’s a mystery. I did not tell him.”“He might have rung up your house, and your servant may possibly have told him that you were dining with Jerrold,” Sir Houston suggested.“That may be so. I will ask my man.”“What did Mr Rodwell want?” Rees asked.“He told me that he had that evening been in consultation with his friend Sir Boyle Huntley, and that, between them they had resolved to commence a propaganda for the internment of all alien enemies—naturalised as well as unnaturalised—and he asked whether I would meet them at the club to-morrow afternoon to discuss the scheme. To this I readily consented. When I returned to this room I found the doctor in the act of sealing an envelope. After he had finished he gave the envelope to me, saying ‘This will be safer in your care than in mine, my dear Trustram. Will you please keep it in your safe?’ I consented, of course, and as I took it I saw that it was a private letter addressed to Mr Sainsbury, with instructions that it was not to be opened till a year after his death.”“Then you have the letter!” cried Jack excitedly.“Yes, I have it at home,” replied Mr Trustram; who, proceeding, said: “At first I was greatly surprised at being given such a letter, and chaffingly remarked that I hoped he wouldn’t die just yet; whereat he laughed, refilled his pipe and declared that life was, after all, very uncertain. ‘I want my friend Sainsbury to know something—but not before a year after I’m gone. You understand, Trustram. I give you this, and you, on your part, will give me your word of honour that, whatever occurs, you will safely guard it, and not allow it to be opened till a year has elapsed after my death.’ He seemed to have suddenly grown serious, and I confess I was not a little surprised at his curious change of manner.”“Did it strike you at all that he might be contemplating suicide?”“No, not in the least. Such an idea never entered my head. I regarded his action just as that of a man who makes his will—that’s all. I took the envelope and, about five minutes later, left him, as I had been called down to the Admiralty upon an urgent matter.”“A quarter of an hour afterwards Mr Sainsbury called and we could not get into the room,” Thomasson remarked. “That is all we know.”
Both men searched eagerly through the drawers of the writing-table to see if the dead man had left another envelope addressed to his friend. Two of the drawers were locked, but these they opened with the key which they found upon poor Jerrold’s watch-chain which he was wearing.
Some private papers, accounts and ledgers, were in the drawers, but the envelope of which they were in search they failed to discover.
It seemed evident that Jerome Jerrold had written the envelope in which he had enclosed a letter, but, on reflection, he had torn it up. Though the crumpled fragments of the envelope were there, yet the letter—whatever it might have been—was missing. And their careful examination of the waste-paper basket revealed nothing, whereupon Sir Houston Bird remarked—
“He may, of course, have changed his mind, and burned it, after all!”
“Perhaps he did,” Jack agreed. “But I wonder what could have been the message he wished to give me a year after his death? Why not now?”
“People who take their own lives sometimes have curious hallucinations. I have known many. Suicide is a fascinating, if very grim study.”
“Then you really think this is a case of suicide?”
“I can, I fear, give no opinion until after the post-mortem, Mr Sainsbury,” was Sir Houston’s guarded reply, his face grave and thoughtful.
“But it is all so strange, so remarkable,” exclaimed the younger man. “Why did he tell me that he’d been shot, if he hadn’t?”
“Because to you, his most intimate friend, he perhaps, as you suggested, wished to conceal the fact that he had been guilty of the cowardly action of taking his own life,” was the reply.
“It is a mystery—a profound mystery,” declared Jack Sainsbury. “Jerome dined with Mr Trustram, and the latter came back here with him. Meanwhile, Mr Lewin Rodwell was very anxious concerning him. Why? Was Rodwell a friend of Jerome’s? Do you happen to know that?”
“I happen to know to the contrary,” declared the great pathologist. “Only a week ago we met at Charing Cross Hospital, and some chance remark brought up Rodwell’s name, when Jerrold burst forth angrily, and declared most emphatically that the man who posed as such a patriotic Englishman would, one day, be unmasked and exposed in his true colours. In confidence, he made an allegation that Lewin Rodwell’s real name was Ludwig Heitzman, and that he was born in Hanover. He had become a naturalised Englishman ten years ago in Glasgow, and had, by deed-poll, changed his name to Lewin Rodwell.”
Jack Sainsbury stared the speaker full in the face.
Lewin Rodwell, the great patriot who, since the outbreak of war, had been in the forefront of every charitable movement, who had been belauded by the Press, and to whom the Prime Minister had referred in the most eulogistic terms in the House of Commons, was a German!
“That’s utterly impossible,” exclaimed Jack. “He is one of the directors of the Ochrida Copper Corporation, in whose office I am. I know Mr Rodwell well. There’s no trace whatever of German birth about him.”
“Jerrold assured me that his real name was Heitzman, that he had been born of poor parents, and had been educated by an English shipping-agent in Hamburg, who had adopted him and sent him to England. On the Englishman’s death he inherited about two thousand pounds, which he made the nucleus of his present fortune.”
“That’s all news to me,” said Jack reflectively; “and yet—”
“What? Do you know something regarding Rodwell then?” inquired Sir Houston quickly.
“No,” he replied. “Nothing very extraordinary. What you have just told me surprises me greatly.”
“Just as it surprised me. Yet, surely, his case is only one of many similar. Thousands of Germans have come here, and become naturalised Englishmen.”
“A German who becomes a naturalised Englishman is a traitor to his own country, while he poses as our friend. I contend that we have no use for traitors of any sort in England to-day,” declared Jack vehemently; both men being still engaged in searching the dead man’s room to discover the message which it appeared had been his intention to leave after his death. They had carefully examined the grate, but found no trace of any burnt paper. Yet, from the fact that a piece of red sealing-wax and a burnt taper lay upon the writing-table, it appeared that something had been recently sealed, though the torn envelope bore no seal.
If an envelope had been sealed, then where was it?
“We shall, no doubt, be able to establish the truth of Jerrold’s allegation by reference to the register of naturalised Germans kept at the Home Office,” Sir Houston said at last.
Jack was silent for a few moments, and then answered:
“That, I fear, may be a little difficult. Jerrold has often told me how it had been discovered that it was a favourite dodge of Germans, after becoming naturalised and changing their names by deed-poll, to adopt a second and rather similar name, in order to avoid any inquiry along the channel which you have just suggested. As an example, if Ludwig Heitzman became naturalised, then it is more than probable that when he changed his name by deed-poll he did not adopt the name of Lewin Rodwell, but something rather near it.”
“Very likely,” was the great doctor’s remark.
Suddenly Jack Sainsbury paused and, facing his companion, said:
“Look here, Sir Houston. In this tragic affair I believe there’s something more than suicide. That’s my firm opinion. Reflect for one moment, and follow my suspicions. Poor Jerome, in addition to his profession, has for some years been unofficially assisting the Intelligence Department of the War Office. He was one of the keenest and cleverest investigators in England. He scented acts of espionage as a terrier does a rat, and by his efforts half a dozen, or so, dangerous spies have been arrested and punished. In a modest way I have been his assistant, and have helped to watch and follow suspected persons. Together, we have traced cases of petrol-running to the coast, investigated night-signalling in the southern counties, and other things, therefore I happen to know that he was keen on the work. Curious that he never told me of his grave suspicions regarding Mr Rodwell.”
“Perhaps he had a reason for concealing them from you,” was the other’s reply.
“But he was always so frank and open with me, because I believe that he trusted in my discretion to say nothing.”
“Probably he had not verified his facts, and intended to do so before revealing the truth to you.”
“Yes, he was most careful always to obtain corroboration of everything, before accepting it,” was Jack’s reply. “But certainly what you have just told me arouses a grave suspicion.”
“Of what?”
“Well—that our poor friend, having gained knowledge of Lewin Rodwell’s birth and antecedents, may, in all probability, have probed further into his past and—”
“Into his present, I think more likely,” exclaimed the great doctor. “Ah! I quite see the line of your argument,” he added quickly. “You suggest that Rodwell may have discovered that Jerrold knew the truth, and that, in consequence, death came suddenly and unexpectedly—eh?”
Jack Sainsbury nodded in the affirmative. “But surely Trustram, who was one of Jerrold’s most intimate friends, could not have had any hand in foul play! He was the last man who saw him alive. No,” he went on. “My own experience shows me that poor Jerrold has died of poisoning, and as nobody has been here, or could have escaped from the room, it must have been administered by his own hand.”
“But do you not discern the motive?” cried Sainsbury. “Rodwell has risen to a position of great affluence and notoriety. He is a bosom friend of Cabinet Ministers, and to him many secrets of State are confided. He, and his friend Sir Boyle Huntley, play golf with Ministers, and the name of Lewin Rodwell is everywhere to-day one to conjure with. He has, since the war, risen to be one of the most patriotic Englishmen—a man whose unselfish efforts are praised and admired from one end of Great Britain to another. Surely he would have become desperate if he had the least suspicion that Jerome Jerrold had discovered the truth, and intended to unmask him—as he had openly declared to you.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” Sir Houston replied dubiously. “If there were any traces of foul play I should at once be of the same opinion. But you see they do not exist.”
“Whether there are traces, or whether there are none, nothing will shake my firm opinion, and that is that poor Jerome has been assassinated, and the motive of the crime is what I have already suggested.”
“Very well; we shall clear it up at the post-mortem,” was the doctor’s reply, while at that moment Thomasson re-entered, followed by a police-officer in plain clothes and two constables in uniform.
On their entry, Sainsbury introduced Sir Houston Bird, and told them his own name and that of his dead friend.
Then the officer of the local branch of the Criminal Investigation Department sat down at the dead man’s writing-table and began to write in his note-book the story of the strange affair, as dictated by Jack.
Sir Houston also made a statement, this being followed by the man Thomasson, who detailed his master’s movements prior to his death—as far as he knew them.
His master, he declared, had seemed in excellent spirits all day. He had seen patients in the morning, had lunched frugally at home, and had gone down to Guy’s in the car to see the wounded, as was his daily round. At six he had returned, dressed, and gone forth in a taxi to meet his friend, Mr Trustram of the Admiralty. They having dined together returned, and afterwards Mr Trustram had left and the doctor, smoking his pipe, had retired to his room to write. Nothing further was heard, Thomasson said, till the arrival of Mr Sainsbury, when the door of the room was found locked.
“You heard no one enter the house—no sounds whatever?” asked the detective inspector, Rees by name, a tall, clean-shaven, fresh-complexioned man, with rather curly hair.
“I didn’t hear a sound,” was the servant’s reply. “The others were all out, and, as a matter of fact, I was in the waiting-room, just inside the door, looking at the newspapers on the table. So I should have heard anyone go up or down the stairs.”
Inspector Rees submitted Thomasson to a very searching cross-examination, but it was quite evident to all in the room that he knew nothing more than what he had already told. He and his wife had been in Dr Jerrold’s service for eight years. His wife, until her death, a year ago, had acted as cook-housekeeper.
“Did you ever know of Mr Lewin Rodwell visiting the doctor?” asked Sir Houston.
“Never, as far as I know, sir. He, of course, might have come to consult him professionally when I’ve been out, and the maid has sometimes opened the door and admitted patients.”
“Have you ever heard Mr Rodwell’s name?”
“Only on the telephone to-night—and of course very often in the papers,” replied the man.
“Your master was very intimate with Mr Trustram?” inquired the detective.
“Oh yes. They first met about three months ago, and after that Mr Trustram came here several times weekly. The doctor went to stay at his country cottage near Dorking for the week-end, about a fortnight ago.”
“Did you ever discover the reason of those conferences?” Jack Sainsbury asked. “I mean, did you ever overhear any of their conversations?”
“Sometimes, sir. But not very often,” was Thomasson’s discreet reply. “They frequently discussed the war, and the spy-peril, in which—as you know—the doctor was actively interesting himself.”
Upon Jack Sainsbury’s countenance a faint smile appeared. He now discerned the reason of the visits of that Admiralty official to the man who had been so suddenly and mysteriously stricken down.
He exchanged glances with Sir Houston, who, a moment before, had been searching a cigar cabinet which had hitherto escaped their notice.
At Rees’s suggestion, Jack Sainsbury went to the telephone and rang up Charles Trustram, to whom he briefly related the story of the tragic discovery.
Within twenty minutes Trustram arrived, and, to the detective, told the story of the events of the evening: how they had met by appointment at Prince’s Restaurant at half-past seven, had dined together, and then he had accompanied the doctor back to Wimpole Street about half-past nine, where they had sat smoking and chatting.
“Jerrold seemed in quite good spirits over the result of an inquiry he had been making regarding a secret store of petrol established by the enemy’s emissaries somewhere on the Sussex coast,” Mr Trustram explained. “He had, he told me, disclosed it to the Intelligence Department, and they were taking secret measures to watch a certain barn wherein the petrol was concealed, and to arrest those implicated in the affair. He also expressed some anxiety regarding Mr Sainsbury, saying that he wished he could see him to-night.” Then, turning to Jack, he added: “At his request I rang up your flat at Hampstead, but you were not in.”
“Why did he wish to see me?”
“Ah! that I don’t know. He told me nothing,” was the Admiralty official’s reply. “While I was sitting here with him I was rung up three times—twice from my office, and once by a well-known man I had met for the first time that afternoon—Mr Lewin Rodwell.”
At mention of Rodwell all present became instantly interested.
“How did Mr Rodwell know that you were here?” inquired the detective quickly. “That’s a mystery. I did not tell him.”
“He might have rung up your house, and your servant may possibly have told him that you were dining with Jerrold,” Sir Houston suggested.
“That may be so. I will ask my man.”
“What did Mr Rodwell want?” Rees asked.
“He told me that he had that evening been in consultation with his friend Sir Boyle Huntley, and that, between them they had resolved to commence a propaganda for the internment of all alien enemies—naturalised as well as unnaturalised—and he asked whether I would meet them at the club to-morrow afternoon to discuss the scheme. To this I readily consented. When I returned to this room I found the doctor in the act of sealing an envelope. After he had finished he gave the envelope to me, saying ‘This will be safer in your care than in mine, my dear Trustram. Will you please keep it in your safe?’ I consented, of course, and as I took it I saw that it was a private letter addressed to Mr Sainsbury, with instructions that it was not to be opened till a year after his death.”
“Then you have the letter!” cried Jack excitedly.
“Yes, I have it at home,” replied Mr Trustram; who, proceeding, said: “At first I was greatly surprised at being given such a letter, and chaffingly remarked that I hoped he wouldn’t die just yet; whereat he laughed, refilled his pipe and declared that life was, after all, very uncertain. ‘I want my friend Sainsbury to know something—but not before a year after I’m gone. You understand, Trustram. I give you this, and you, on your part, will give me your word of honour that, whatever occurs, you will safely guard it, and not allow it to be opened till a year has elapsed after my death.’ He seemed to have suddenly grown serious, and I confess I was not a little surprised at his curious change of manner.”
“Did it strike you at all that he might be contemplating suicide?”
“No, not in the least. Such an idea never entered my head. I regarded his action just as that of a man who makes his will—that’s all. I took the envelope and, about five minutes later, left him, as I had been called down to the Admiralty upon an urgent matter.”
“A quarter of an hour afterwards Mr Sainsbury called and we could not get into the room,” Thomasson remarked. “That is all we know.”
Chapter Six.Reveals the Victim.Three days had passed.The coroner’s inquiry had been duly held into the death of Dr Jerome Jerrold, and medical evidence, including that of the deceased’s friend, Sir Houston Bird, had been called. This evidence showed conclusively that Sir Houston had been right in his conjecture, from the convulsed appearance of the body and other signs, that poor Jerrold had died of poisoning by strychnine. Therefore the proceedings were brief, and a verdict was returned of “Suicide while temporarily insane.”No mention was made of the sealed letter left with Mr Trustram, for in a case of that distressing nature the coroner is always ready to make the inquiry as short as possible.Jack Sainsbury, who had been granted leave by Mr Charlesworth, the managing-director, to attend the inquest upon his friend, returned to the City in a very perturbed state of mind.He sat at his desk on that grey December afternoon, unable to attend to the correspondence before him, unable to fix his mind upon business, unable to understand the subtle ramifications of the cleverly conceived and dastardly plot, the key of which he had discovered by those few words he had overheard between the Chairman of the Board and his close friend, the great Lewin Rodwell.He was wondering whether his dead friend’s allegation that Rodwell was none other than Ludwig Heitzman was really the truth. Sir Houston Bird had promised to institute inquiry at the Alien department of the Home Office, yet, only that day he had heard that the official of whom inquiry must be made actually bore a German name. The taint of the Teuton seemed, alas! over everything, notwithstanding the public resentment apparent up and down the whole country, and the formation of leagues and unions to combat the activity of the enemy in our midst.Jack Sainsbury disagreed with the verdict of suicide. Jerome Jerrold was surely not the man to take his own life by swallowing strychnine. Yet why had he left behind that puzzling and mysterious message which Charles Trustram, having given his word of honour to his friend, refused to be opened for another year?The will had been found deposited with his solicitor—a will which left the sum of eighteen-odd thousand pounds to “my friend and assistant in many confidential matters, Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead.”As far as it went that was gratifying to Jack. It rendered him independent of the Ochrida Copper Corporation, and the strenuous “driving-power,” as it is termed in the City, of Charlesworth, the sycophant of Sir Boyle Huntley and his fellow directors. The whole office knew that Huntley and Rodwell, brought in during days of peace “to reorganise the Company upon a sound financial basis,” were gradually getting all the power into their own hands, as they had done in other companies. The lives of that pair were one huge money-getting adventure.In the office strange things were whispered. But Jack alone knew the truth.The most irritating fact to him was that Jerome Jerrold, just as he had discovered Rodwell’s birth and masquerading, had died.Why?Why had Lewin Rodwell rung up his new friend, Trustram, just before poor Jerome’s death? Why had Jerome asked to see his friend Sainsbury so particularly on that night? Why had he locked his door and taken his life at the very moment when he should have lived to face and denounce the man who, while an alien enemy, was posing as a loyal subject of Great Britain?Of these and other things—things which he had discussed on the previous night with Elise—he was thinking deeply, when a lad entered saying:“Mr Charlesworth wants to see you, sir.” He rose from his chair and ascended in the lift to the next floor. On entering the manager’s room he found Mr Charlesworth, the catspaw of Sir Boyle, seated in his padded chair, smoking a good cigar.“Oh—er—Sainsbury. I’m rather sorry to call you in, but the directors have decided that as you are of military age they are compelled, from patriotic motives, to suggest to you that you should join the army, as so many of the staff here have done. Don’t you think it is your duty?”Jack Sainsbury looked the manager straight in the face.“Yes,” he said, with a curious smile. “I quite agree. It certainly is my duty to resign and take my part in the defence of the country. But,” he added, “I think it is somewhat curious that the directors have taken this step—to ask me to resign.” Charlesworth, an estimable man, and beloved by the whole of the staff of the company at home and abroad, hesitated a moment, and then replied:“Unfortunately I am only here to carry out the orders of the directors, Sainsbury. You have been a most reliable and trusted servant of the company, and I shall be only too pleased to write you a good testimonial. You will have half-pay during the time you are absent, of course, as the others have.”“Well, if I leave the Ochrida Copper Corporation, as the directors have practically dismissed me, I require no half-pay—nothing whatever,” he answered, with a grim smile. “I part from you and from the company, Mr Charlesworth, with the very kindest and most cordial recollections; but I wish you, please, to give my compliments to the directors and say that, as they wish me to leave and act in the interests of my country, I shall do so, refusing to accept the half of my salary which they, in their patriotism, have so generously offered me.”Charlesworth was a little puzzled by this speech. It was unexpected. The steady, hardworking clerk, who had been so reliable, and whom he had greatly esteemed, might easily have met his suggestion with resentment. Indeed, he had expected him to do so. But, on the contrary, Sainsbury seemed even eager to retire from the service of the company.Charlesworth was, of course, ignorant of the conditions of Dr Jerrold’s will, or of those words Jack Sainsbury had overheard as he had entered the boardroom. Vernon Charlesworth had been a servant of the Ochrida Copper Corporation ever since its formation eighteen years ago—long before the “new blood” represented by the Huntley-Rodwell combination had been “brought into” it. From the first inception of the company the public, who had put their modest savings into it, had lost their money. Yet recently, by the bombastic and optimistic speeches of Sir Boyle Huntley at the Cannon Street Hotel, and the self-complacent smiles of Lewin Rodwell at the meetings, confidence had been inspired, and it was still a going concern—one which, if the truth be told, Huntley and Rodwell were working to get into their own hands.“Of course I am really very sorry to part with you, Sainsbury,” the manager said, leaning back in his chair and looking at him. “You’ve been a most trustworthy servant, yet I, of course, have to abide by the decision of the board.”Jack Sainsbury smiled.“No, please don’t apologise, Mr Charlesworth,” he said, with a faint smile. “I daresay I shall soon find some other employment more congenial to me.”“I hope so,” replied the manager, peering at the young man through his horn-rimmed glasses—a style affected in official circles. “Nowadays, with so many men at the front, it is not really a difficult matter to find a post in the City. It seems to me that the slacker has the best of it.”“I’m not a slacker, though you may think I am, Mr Charlesworth,” cried Jack, reddening. “A month after war was declared I went to the recruiting office fully prepared to enlist. But, unfortunately, they rejected me as medically unfit.”“Did they?” exclaimed the other in surprise. “You never told us that!”“Was it necessary? I merely tried to do my duty. But—” and he paused, and then, in a meaning voice, he added: “If I can’t do my duty out in the trenches, I can at least do it here, at home.”“If it is true that you’ve been already rejected as unfit,” exclaimed Charlesworth, “I daresay I might induce the directors to reconsider their decision.”“No, sir,” was Sainsbury’s proud reply. “I will not trouble you to do that. It is quite apparent that, for some unknown reason, they wish to dismiss me. Therefore I consider myself dismissed—and, to tell you the truth, I don’t regret it. But, before I go, I would like to thank you and the staff for all the kindness and consideration shown to me during my illness a year ago.”“Then you refuse to stay?” asked Charlesworth, rather puzzled, for he held Sainsbury in high esteem.“Yes. Before dismissing me I consider that the directors should have inquired whether I had tried to enlist,” he answered resentfully.“Then I suppose there is no more to say. Shall you remain till the end of the week?”“No, sir. I intend to go now. It would not, I think, be a very happy seven days for me if I remained, would it?”Charlesworth sighed. He was sorry to lose the services of such a bright, shrewd and clever young man.“Very well,” he replied regretfully. “If that is really so, Sainsbury, I must wish you good-bye,” and with frankness he stretched forth his hand, which the young man took, and then turned on his heel and left the manager’s room.While Jack Sainsbury was on his way through the bustle of Gracechurch Street, Lewin Rodwell, who had been upstairs at a meeting of the board, descended and entered Charlesworth’s room, closing the door after him.“Well,” he asked carelessly, after chatting upon several important business matters, “have you spoken yet to young Sainsbury?”“Yes. And he’s gone.”Lewin Rodwell drew a sigh of relief.“He ought to enlist—a smart, athletic fellow like that! Such men are just what England wants to-day, Charlesworth. I hope you gave him a good hint—eh?”“I did. But it seems that he has already endeavoured to enlist, but was rejected—a defective arm.”Lewin Rodwell was silent—but only for a few seconds.“Well, never mind; he’s gone. We must reduce the staff—it is quite imperative in these days. What about those six others? Staff reduction will mean increased profits, you know.”“They all have notice. I’m sorry about Carew. He has an invalid wife and seven children. His salary is only two pounds fifteen.”“I’m afraid we can’t help that, Charlesworth,” replied the man who posed in the West End as the great self-denying patriot who hobnobbed with Cabinet Ministers. “We must reduce the staff, if we’re going to pay a dividend. He’ll get work—munition-making or something. Sentiment is out of place in these war-days.”And yet, only two days before, the speaker had made a brilliant speech at a Mansion House meeting in which he had beaten the patriotic drum loudly, and appealed to all employers of labour to increase wages because of the serious rise in food-prices. Charlesworth knew this, but made no remark. It was not to his interest to thwart the great Lewin Rodwell, or his place-seeking sycophant Sir Boyle Huntley, who had been put by his friend into the position he now held.Truly the City is a strange, complex world of unpatriotic, hard-hearted money-seeking—a world where the Anglo-German or the swindling financier waxes rich quickly, and where the God-fearing Englishman goes to a Rowton House ousted by the “peaceful penetration” of our “dear kind friends” the Germans.Those who have known the City for the past ten years or so know full well—ay, they know, alas! too well—the way in which Germany has prepared us for the financial aspect of the war. In the light of current events much has been made plain that was hitherto shrouded in mystery. We have seen plainly the subtle methods of the enemy.Lewin Rodwell and his catspaw, Sir Boyle, were only typical of dozens of others in that little area from Temple Bar to Aldgate, the men who were working for Germany both prior to the war and after.Charlesworth, to do him full credit, was an honest Englishman. Yet such a man was bound to be employed by our enemies as a safeguard against inquiry, and in order to avert suspicion. City men, like Charlesworth, might be patriotic to the backbone, yet when it became a matter of choosing between bread-and-cheese and starvation, as in his own case, the matter of living at Wimbledon on two thousand a year appealed to him, in preference to cold mutton and lodgings in Bloomsbury.Germans, with or without assumed English names, controlled our finances, our professions, our hotels, nay, our very lives, wherefore it was hardly surprising that we were unable, in the first few months of war, to rid ourselves of that disease known as “German measles.”“I must say I’m sorry about Carew,” remarked Charlesworth. “He’s been with us ever since the formation of the Company—and you recollect we sent him abroad two years ago upon the Elektra deal. He made a splendid bargain—one that has brought us over twenty thousand pounds.”“And he was paid a bonus of twenty-pounds, wasn’t he?” snapped Rodwell impatiently. “Surely that was enough?”“But really I think we should keep him; he is very valuable.”“No, Charlesworth. Let him go. Give him the best of references, if you like. But we must cut down expenses, if you and I are to live at all.”“We must live at the expense of these poor devils, I suppose,” remarked Charlesworth, with a slight sigh.Truth to tell, he could not express his repugnance.“Yes. Surely we are the masters. And capital must live!” was the other’s hard reply. “But where is Sainsbury going?” Rodwell inquired quickly. “What does he intend doing?”“I have no idea,” the manager said. “He behaved most mysteriously when I told him that his services were no longer required.”“Mysteriously!” exclaimed Rodwell, starting and looking straight across at his companion. “How?”“Well, he expressed undisguised pleasure at leaving us—that’s all.”“What did he say?” asked Lewin Rodwell, in an instant deeply interested. “Tell me exactly what transpired. I have a reason—a very strong reason—for ascertaining. Tell me,” he urged, with an eagerness which was quite unusual to him. “Tell me the whole facts.”
Three days had passed.
The coroner’s inquiry had been duly held into the death of Dr Jerome Jerrold, and medical evidence, including that of the deceased’s friend, Sir Houston Bird, had been called. This evidence showed conclusively that Sir Houston had been right in his conjecture, from the convulsed appearance of the body and other signs, that poor Jerrold had died of poisoning by strychnine. Therefore the proceedings were brief, and a verdict was returned of “Suicide while temporarily insane.”
No mention was made of the sealed letter left with Mr Trustram, for in a case of that distressing nature the coroner is always ready to make the inquiry as short as possible.
Jack Sainsbury, who had been granted leave by Mr Charlesworth, the managing-director, to attend the inquest upon his friend, returned to the City in a very perturbed state of mind.
He sat at his desk on that grey December afternoon, unable to attend to the correspondence before him, unable to fix his mind upon business, unable to understand the subtle ramifications of the cleverly conceived and dastardly plot, the key of which he had discovered by those few words he had overheard between the Chairman of the Board and his close friend, the great Lewin Rodwell.
He was wondering whether his dead friend’s allegation that Rodwell was none other than Ludwig Heitzman was really the truth. Sir Houston Bird had promised to institute inquiry at the Alien department of the Home Office, yet, only that day he had heard that the official of whom inquiry must be made actually bore a German name. The taint of the Teuton seemed, alas! over everything, notwithstanding the public resentment apparent up and down the whole country, and the formation of leagues and unions to combat the activity of the enemy in our midst.
Jack Sainsbury disagreed with the verdict of suicide. Jerome Jerrold was surely not the man to take his own life by swallowing strychnine. Yet why had he left behind that puzzling and mysterious message which Charles Trustram, having given his word of honour to his friend, refused to be opened for another year?
The will had been found deposited with his solicitor—a will which left the sum of eighteen-odd thousand pounds to “my friend and assistant in many confidential matters, Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead.”
As far as it went that was gratifying to Jack. It rendered him independent of the Ochrida Copper Corporation, and the strenuous “driving-power,” as it is termed in the City, of Charlesworth, the sycophant of Sir Boyle Huntley and his fellow directors. The whole office knew that Huntley and Rodwell, brought in during days of peace “to reorganise the Company upon a sound financial basis,” were gradually getting all the power into their own hands, as they had done in other companies. The lives of that pair were one huge money-getting adventure.
In the office strange things were whispered. But Jack alone knew the truth.
The most irritating fact to him was that Jerome Jerrold, just as he had discovered Rodwell’s birth and masquerading, had died.
Why?
Why had Lewin Rodwell rung up his new friend, Trustram, just before poor Jerome’s death? Why had Jerome asked to see his friend Sainsbury so particularly on that night? Why had he locked his door and taken his life at the very moment when he should have lived to face and denounce the man who, while an alien enemy, was posing as a loyal subject of Great Britain?
Of these and other things—things which he had discussed on the previous night with Elise—he was thinking deeply, when a lad entered saying:
“Mr Charlesworth wants to see you, sir.” He rose from his chair and ascended in the lift to the next floor. On entering the manager’s room he found Mr Charlesworth, the catspaw of Sir Boyle, seated in his padded chair, smoking a good cigar.
“Oh—er—Sainsbury. I’m rather sorry to call you in, but the directors have decided that as you are of military age they are compelled, from patriotic motives, to suggest to you that you should join the army, as so many of the staff here have done. Don’t you think it is your duty?”
Jack Sainsbury looked the manager straight in the face.
“Yes,” he said, with a curious smile. “I quite agree. It certainly is my duty to resign and take my part in the defence of the country. But,” he added, “I think it is somewhat curious that the directors have taken this step—to ask me to resign.” Charlesworth, an estimable man, and beloved by the whole of the staff of the company at home and abroad, hesitated a moment, and then replied:
“Unfortunately I am only here to carry out the orders of the directors, Sainsbury. You have been a most reliable and trusted servant of the company, and I shall be only too pleased to write you a good testimonial. You will have half-pay during the time you are absent, of course, as the others have.”
“Well, if I leave the Ochrida Copper Corporation, as the directors have practically dismissed me, I require no half-pay—nothing whatever,” he answered, with a grim smile. “I part from you and from the company, Mr Charlesworth, with the very kindest and most cordial recollections; but I wish you, please, to give my compliments to the directors and say that, as they wish me to leave and act in the interests of my country, I shall do so, refusing to accept the half of my salary which they, in their patriotism, have so generously offered me.”
Charlesworth was a little puzzled by this speech. It was unexpected. The steady, hardworking clerk, who had been so reliable, and whom he had greatly esteemed, might easily have met his suggestion with resentment. Indeed, he had expected him to do so. But, on the contrary, Sainsbury seemed even eager to retire from the service of the company.
Charlesworth was, of course, ignorant of the conditions of Dr Jerrold’s will, or of those words Jack Sainsbury had overheard as he had entered the boardroom. Vernon Charlesworth had been a servant of the Ochrida Copper Corporation ever since its formation eighteen years ago—long before the “new blood” represented by the Huntley-Rodwell combination had been “brought into” it. From the first inception of the company the public, who had put their modest savings into it, had lost their money. Yet recently, by the bombastic and optimistic speeches of Sir Boyle Huntley at the Cannon Street Hotel, and the self-complacent smiles of Lewin Rodwell at the meetings, confidence had been inspired, and it was still a going concern—one which, if the truth be told, Huntley and Rodwell were working to get into their own hands.
“Of course I am really very sorry to part with you, Sainsbury,” the manager said, leaning back in his chair and looking at him. “You’ve been a most trustworthy servant, yet I, of course, have to abide by the decision of the board.”
Jack Sainsbury smiled.
“No, please don’t apologise, Mr Charlesworth,” he said, with a faint smile. “I daresay I shall soon find some other employment more congenial to me.”
“I hope so,” replied the manager, peering at the young man through his horn-rimmed glasses—a style affected in official circles. “Nowadays, with so many men at the front, it is not really a difficult matter to find a post in the City. It seems to me that the slacker has the best of it.”
“I’m not a slacker, though you may think I am, Mr Charlesworth,” cried Jack, reddening. “A month after war was declared I went to the recruiting office fully prepared to enlist. But, unfortunately, they rejected me as medically unfit.”
“Did they?” exclaimed the other in surprise. “You never told us that!”
“Was it necessary? I merely tried to do my duty. But—” and he paused, and then, in a meaning voice, he added: “If I can’t do my duty out in the trenches, I can at least do it here, at home.”
“If it is true that you’ve been already rejected as unfit,” exclaimed Charlesworth, “I daresay I might induce the directors to reconsider their decision.”
“No, sir,” was Sainsbury’s proud reply. “I will not trouble you to do that. It is quite apparent that, for some unknown reason, they wish to dismiss me. Therefore I consider myself dismissed—and, to tell you the truth, I don’t regret it. But, before I go, I would like to thank you and the staff for all the kindness and consideration shown to me during my illness a year ago.”
“Then you refuse to stay?” asked Charlesworth, rather puzzled, for he held Sainsbury in high esteem.
“Yes. Before dismissing me I consider that the directors should have inquired whether I had tried to enlist,” he answered resentfully.
“Then I suppose there is no more to say. Shall you remain till the end of the week?”
“No, sir. I intend to go now. It would not, I think, be a very happy seven days for me if I remained, would it?”
Charlesworth sighed. He was sorry to lose the services of such a bright, shrewd and clever young man.
“Very well,” he replied regretfully. “If that is really so, Sainsbury, I must wish you good-bye,” and with frankness he stretched forth his hand, which the young man took, and then turned on his heel and left the manager’s room.
While Jack Sainsbury was on his way through the bustle of Gracechurch Street, Lewin Rodwell, who had been upstairs at a meeting of the board, descended and entered Charlesworth’s room, closing the door after him.
“Well,” he asked carelessly, after chatting upon several important business matters, “have you spoken yet to young Sainsbury?”
“Yes. And he’s gone.”
Lewin Rodwell drew a sigh of relief.
“He ought to enlist—a smart, athletic fellow like that! Such men are just what England wants to-day, Charlesworth. I hope you gave him a good hint—eh?”
“I did. But it seems that he has already endeavoured to enlist, but was rejected—a defective arm.”
Lewin Rodwell was silent—but only for a few seconds.
“Well, never mind; he’s gone. We must reduce the staff—it is quite imperative in these days. What about those six others? Staff reduction will mean increased profits, you know.”
“They all have notice. I’m sorry about Carew. He has an invalid wife and seven children. His salary is only two pounds fifteen.”
“I’m afraid we can’t help that, Charlesworth,” replied the man who posed in the West End as the great self-denying patriot who hobnobbed with Cabinet Ministers. “We must reduce the staff, if we’re going to pay a dividend. He’ll get work—munition-making or something. Sentiment is out of place in these war-days.”
And yet, only two days before, the speaker had made a brilliant speech at a Mansion House meeting in which he had beaten the patriotic drum loudly, and appealed to all employers of labour to increase wages because of the serious rise in food-prices. Charlesworth knew this, but made no remark. It was not to his interest to thwart the great Lewin Rodwell, or his place-seeking sycophant Sir Boyle Huntley, who had been put by his friend into the position he now held.
Truly the City is a strange, complex world of unpatriotic, hard-hearted money-seeking—a world where the Anglo-German or the swindling financier waxes rich quickly, and where the God-fearing Englishman goes to a Rowton House ousted by the “peaceful penetration” of our “dear kind friends” the Germans.
Those who have known the City for the past ten years or so know full well—ay, they know, alas! too well—the way in which Germany has prepared us for the financial aspect of the war. In the light of current events much has been made plain that was hitherto shrouded in mystery. We have seen plainly the subtle methods of the enemy.
Lewin Rodwell and his catspaw, Sir Boyle, were only typical of dozens of others in that little area from Temple Bar to Aldgate, the men who were working for Germany both prior to the war and after.
Charlesworth, to do him full credit, was an honest Englishman. Yet such a man was bound to be employed by our enemies as a safeguard against inquiry, and in order to avert suspicion. City men, like Charlesworth, might be patriotic to the backbone, yet when it became a matter of choosing between bread-and-cheese and starvation, as in his own case, the matter of living at Wimbledon on two thousand a year appealed to him, in preference to cold mutton and lodgings in Bloomsbury.
Germans, with or without assumed English names, controlled our finances, our professions, our hotels, nay, our very lives, wherefore it was hardly surprising that we were unable, in the first few months of war, to rid ourselves of that disease known as “German measles.”
“I must say I’m sorry about Carew,” remarked Charlesworth. “He’s been with us ever since the formation of the Company—and you recollect we sent him abroad two years ago upon the Elektra deal. He made a splendid bargain—one that has brought us over twenty thousand pounds.”
“And he was paid a bonus of twenty-pounds, wasn’t he?” snapped Rodwell impatiently. “Surely that was enough?”
“But really I think we should keep him; he is very valuable.”
“No, Charlesworth. Let him go. Give him the best of references, if you like. But we must cut down expenses, if you and I are to live at all.”
“We must live at the expense of these poor devils, I suppose,” remarked Charlesworth, with a slight sigh.
Truth to tell, he could not express his repugnance.
“Yes. Surely we are the masters. And capital must live!” was the other’s hard reply. “But where is Sainsbury going?” Rodwell inquired quickly. “What does he intend doing?”
“I have no idea,” the manager said. “He behaved most mysteriously when I told him that his services were no longer required.”
“Mysteriously!” exclaimed Rodwell, starting and looking straight across at his companion. “How?”
“Well, he expressed undisguised pleasure at leaving us—that’s all.”
“What did he say?” asked Lewin Rodwell, in an instant deeply interested. “Tell me exactly what transpired. I have a reason—a very strong reason—for ascertaining. Tell me,” he urged, with an eagerness which was quite unusual to him. “Tell me the whole facts.”
Chapter Seven.The Spider’s Web.Three weeks went past—dark, breathless weeks in England’s history.Jack Sainsbury, keeping the knowledge to himself, spent many deep and thoughtful hours over his friend’s tragic end. Several times he suggested to Mr Trustram that, in order to clear up the mystery, the sealed letter should be opened. But Trustram—having given his word of honour to the dead man—argued, and quite rightly, that there was no mystery regarding Jerrold’s death. He had simply committed suicide.Rodwell and Charles Trustram had, by this time, become very friendly. The latter had been introduced to Sir Boyle Huntley, and the pair had soon introduced the Admiralty official into a higher circle of society than he had ever before attained. Indeed, within a few weeks Rodwell, prime mover of several patriotic funds, had become Trustram’s bosom friend. So intimate did they become that they frequently played golf together at Sunningdale, Berkhampstead or Walton Heath, on such occasions when Trustram could snatch an hour or so of well-earned recreation from the Admiralty; and further, on two occasions Sir Boyle had given him very valuable financial tips—advice which had put into his pocket a very considerable sum in hard cash.Admiralty officials are not too well paid for their splendid and untiring work, therefore to Charles Trustram this unexpected addition to his income was truly welcome.The establishment of Lady Betty Kenworthy’s Anti-Teutonic Alliance had caused a wave of indignant hatred of the German across the country, and hence it was receiving universal support. It aimed at the internment of all Germans, both naturalised and unnaturalised, at the drastic rooting out of the German influence in our officialdom, and the ousting of all persons who, in any sphere of life, might possess German connections by blood or by marriage.While Trustram was, of course, debarred, on account of his official position, from open sympathy with the great movement, Lewin Rodwell and Sir Boyle went up and down the country addressing great and enthusiastic audiences and denouncing in violent terms the subtle influence of “the enemy in our midst.”Jack Sainsbury watched all this in grim silence. What he had overheard in the boardroom of the Ochrida Copper Corporation rang ever in his ears.More than once he had sat in Sir Houston Bird’s quiet, sombre consulting-room, and the pair had discussed the situation. Both agreed that the clever masquerade being played by Rodwell and his baroneted puppet was, though entertaining, yet a highly dangerous one. But without being in possession of hard, indisputable facts, how could they act? The British public had hailed Lewin Rodwell as a fine specimen of the truly patriotic Englishman, little dreaming him to be a wolf in sheep’s-clothing. To all and every charitable appeal he subscribed readily, and to his small, snug house in Bruton Street came many of the highest in the land. Alas! that we always judge a man by his coat, his cook, his smiles and his glib speeches. Put a dress-suit upon the biggest scoundrel who ever stood in the dock at the Old Bailey—from Smith who murdered his brides in baths downwards—and he would pass as what the world calls “a gentleman.”One evening in December—the ninth, to be exact—there had been a big dinner-party at Sir Boyle’s, in Berkeley Square, and afterwards Trustram had accompanied Rodwell home to Bruton Street in a taxi for a smoke.As the pair—the spider and the fly—sat together before the fire in the small, cosy room at the back of the house which the financier used as his own den, their conversation turned upon a forthcoming meeting at the Mansion House, which it was intended to hold in order to further arouse the Home Office to a true sense of the danger of allowing alien enemies to be at liberty.“I intend to speak quite openly and plainly upon the subject,” declared Rodwell, leaning back in his chair and blowing a cloud of cigar-smoke from his lips. “The time has now passed for polite speeches. If we are to win this war we must no longer coddle the enemy with Donnington Hall methods. The authorities know full well that there are hundreds of spies among us to-day, and yet they deliberately close their eyes to them. To me their motto seems, ‘Don’t aggravate the Germans. They are such dear good people.’ The whole comedy would be intensely humorous—a rollicking farce—if it were not so terribly pathetic. Therefore, at the meeting, I intend to warn the Government that if some strong measure is not adopted, and at once, the people themselves will rise and take matters into their own hands. There’ll be rioting soon, if something is not done—that’s my firm conviction,” and in his dark eyes was a keen, earnest look, as he waved his white hand emphatically. Truly, Lewin Rodwell was a clever actor, and the line he had taken was, surely, sufficiently bold to remove from him any suspicion of German birth, or of double-dealing.“Yes, I quite agree,” declared Trustram enthusiastically. “We know well enough at the Admiralty that the most confidential information leaks out to the enemy almost daily, and—”“And what can you expect, my dear fellow, when we have so many Germans and naturalised Germans here in our midst?” cried Rodwell, interrupting. “Intern the whole lot—that’s my idea.”“With that I entirely agree,” exclaimed Trustram, of course believing fully in his friend’s whole-hearted sincerity. “There are far too many Germans in high places, and while they occupy them we shall never be able to combat their craftiness—never!” Lewin Rodwell fixed his cold, keen eyes upon the speaker, and smiled inwardly with satisfaction.“My poor friend Dr Jerrold held exactly similar views,” Trustram went on. “Dear old Jerrold! He was ever active in hunting out spies. He assisted our Secret Service in a variety of ways and, by dint of diligent and patient inquiry, discovered many strange things.”“Did he ever really discover any spies?” asked Rodwell in a rather languid voice.“Yes, several. I happen to know one case—that of a man who collected certain information. The documents were found on him, together with a pocket-book which contained a number of names and addresses of German secret agents in England.” Rodwell instantly became interested.“Did he? What became of the book? That surely ought to be most valuable to the authorities—eh?”“It has been, I believe. But, of course, all inquiries of that nature are done by the War Office, so I only know the facts from Jerrold himself. He devoted all the time he could snatch from his profession to the study of spies, and to actual spy-hunting.”“And with good results—eh? Poor fellow! He was very alert. His was a sad end. Suicide. I wonder why?” asked Rodwell.“Who knows?” remarked the other, shrugging his shoulders. “We all of us have our skeletons in our cupboards. Possibly his might have been rather uglier than others?”Rodwell remained thoughtful. Mention of that pocket-book, of which Jerrold had obtained possession, caused him to ponder. That it was in the hands of the Intelligence Department was the reverse of comforting. He had known of the arrest of Otto Hartwig, alias Hart, who had, for many years before the war, carried on business in Kensington, but this was the first he had learnt that anything had been found upon the prisoner.He endeavoured to gain some further details from Trustram, but the latter had but little knowledge.“All I know,” he said, “is that the case occupied poor Jerrold fully a month of patient inquiry and watchful vigilance. At last his efforts were rewarded, for he was enabled to follow the man down to Portsmouth, and actually watch him making inquiries there—gathering facts which he intended to transmit to the enemy.”“How?” asked Rodwell quickly.“Ah! that’s exactly what we don’t know. That there exists a rapid mode of transmitting secret intelligence across the North Sea is certain,” replied the Admiralty official. “We’ve had illustrations of it, time after time. Between ourselves, facts which I thought were only known to myself—facts regarding the transport of troops across the Channel—have actually been known in Berlin in a few hours after I have made the necessary arrangements.”“Are you quite certain of that?” Rodwell asked, with sudden interest.“Absolutely. It has been reported back to us by our friends in Germany.”“Then we do have friends in Germany?” remarked Rodwell, with affected ignorance.“Oh, several,” was the other’s reply. Then, in confidence, he explained how certain officers had volunteered to enter Germany, posing as American citizens and travelling from America with American passports. He mentioned two by name—Beeton and Fordyce.The well-dressed man lolling in his chair, smoking as he listened, made a mental note of those names, and grinned with satisfaction at Trustram’s indiscretions.Yet, surely, the Admiralty official could not be blamed, for so completely had Lewin Rodwell practised the deception that he believed him to be a sterling Englishman, red-hot against the enemy and all his knavish devices.“I suppose you must be pretty busy at the Admiralty just now—eh? The official account of the Battle of the Falklands in to-night’s papers is splendid reading. Sturdee gave Admiral von Spee a very nasty shock. I suppose we shall hear of some other naval successes in the North Sea soon—eh?”Trustram hesitated for a few seconds. “Well, not just yet,” was his brief reply.“Why do you say ‘not yet’?” he asked with a laugh. “Has the Admiralty some thrilling surprise in store for us? Your people are always so confoundedly mysterious.”“We have to be discreet,” laughed Trustram. “In these days one never knows who is friend or foe.”“Well, you know me well enough, Trustram, to be quite certain of my discretion. I never tell a soul any official information which may come to me—and I hear quite a lot from my Cabinet friends—as you may well imagine.”“I do trust you, Mr Rodwell,” his friend replied. “If I did not, I should not have told you the many things I have regarding my own department.”Lewin Rodwell smoked on, his legs crossed, his right hand behind his head as he gazed at his friend.“Well, you arouse my curiosity when you say that the Admiralty have in store a surprise for us which we shall know later. Where is it to take place?”Again Charles Trustram hesitated. Then he answered, with some reluctance:“In the North Sea, I believe. A certain scheme has been arranged which will, we hope, prove effectual.”“A trap, I suppose?”Trustram laughed faintly.“I didn’t tell you so, remember,” he said quickly.“Ah, I see!—a trap to draw the German Fleet north—up towards Iceland. Is my surmise correct?”Trustram’s smile was a silent affirmative. “This is indeed interesting,” Rodwell exclaimed. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone. When is it to be?”“Within a week.”“You mean in a week. To-day is Wednesday—next Wednesday will be the sixteenth.”Again Trustram smiled, as Rodwell, with his shrewd intelligence, divined the truth.“It’s all arranged—eh? And orders have been sent out to the Fleet?” asked the financier.Again Trustram laughingly replied, “I didn’t say so,” but from his friend’s manner Lewin Rodwell knew that he had learnt the great and most valuable secret of the true intentions of the British Navy.It was not the first piece of valuable information which he had wormed out of his official friends. So clever was he that he now pretended to be highly eager and enthusiastic over the probable result of the strategy.“Let’s hope Von Tirpitz will fall into the trap,” he said. “Of course it will have to be very cunningly baited, if you are to successfully deceive him. He’s already shown himself to be an artful old bird.”“Well—without giving anything away—I happen to know, from certain information passing through my hands, that the bait will be sufficiently tempting.”“So we may expect to hear of a big naval battle about the sixteenth. I should say that it will, in all probability, be fought south of Iceland, somewhere off the Shetlands.”“Well, that certainly is within the range of probability,” was the other’s response. “All I can tell you—and in the very strictest confidence, remember—is that the scheme is such a cleverly conceived one that I do not believe it can possibly fail.”“And if it failed?”“Well—if it failed,” Trustram said, hesitating and speaking in a lower tone—“if it failed, then no real harm would occur—only one thing perhaps: that the East Coast of England might be left practically unguarded for perhaps twelve hours or so. That’s all.”“Well, that would not matter very much, so long as the enemy obtains no knowledge of the British Admiral’s intentions,” remarked Lewin Rodwell, contemplating the end of his cigar and reflecting for a few seconds.Then he blurted out:“Gad! that’s jolly interesting. I shall wait for next Wednesday with all eagerness.”“You won’t breathe a word, will you? Remember, it was you who obtained the information by suggestion,” Trustram said, with a good-humoured laugh.“Can’t you really rely on me, my dear fellow, when I give you my word of honour as an Englishman to say nothing?” he asked. “I expect I am often in the know in secrets of the Cabinet, and I am trusted.”“Very well,” replied his friend. “I accept your promise. Not a word must leak out. If it did, then all our plans would be upset, and possibly it would mean the loss of one, or more, of our ships. But you, of course, realise the full seriousness of it all.”“I do, my dear Trustram—I do,” was the reassuring answer. “No single whisper of it shall pass my lips. That, I most faithfully promise you.”
Three weeks went past—dark, breathless weeks in England’s history.
Jack Sainsbury, keeping the knowledge to himself, spent many deep and thoughtful hours over his friend’s tragic end. Several times he suggested to Mr Trustram that, in order to clear up the mystery, the sealed letter should be opened. But Trustram—having given his word of honour to the dead man—argued, and quite rightly, that there was no mystery regarding Jerrold’s death. He had simply committed suicide.
Rodwell and Charles Trustram had, by this time, become very friendly. The latter had been introduced to Sir Boyle Huntley, and the pair had soon introduced the Admiralty official into a higher circle of society than he had ever before attained. Indeed, within a few weeks Rodwell, prime mover of several patriotic funds, had become Trustram’s bosom friend. So intimate did they become that they frequently played golf together at Sunningdale, Berkhampstead or Walton Heath, on such occasions when Trustram could snatch an hour or so of well-earned recreation from the Admiralty; and further, on two occasions Sir Boyle had given him very valuable financial tips—advice which had put into his pocket a very considerable sum in hard cash.
Admiralty officials are not too well paid for their splendid and untiring work, therefore to Charles Trustram this unexpected addition to his income was truly welcome.
The establishment of Lady Betty Kenworthy’s Anti-Teutonic Alliance had caused a wave of indignant hatred of the German across the country, and hence it was receiving universal support. It aimed at the internment of all Germans, both naturalised and unnaturalised, at the drastic rooting out of the German influence in our officialdom, and the ousting of all persons who, in any sphere of life, might possess German connections by blood or by marriage.
While Trustram was, of course, debarred, on account of his official position, from open sympathy with the great movement, Lewin Rodwell and Sir Boyle went up and down the country addressing great and enthusiastic audiences and denouncing in violent terms the subtle influence of “the enemy in our midst.”
Jack Sainsbury watched all this in grim silence. What he had overheard in the boardroom of the Ochrida Copper Corporation rang ever in his ears.
More than once he had sat in Sir Houston Bird’s quiet, sombre consulting-room, and the pair had discussed the situation. Both agreed that the clever masquerade being played by Rodwell and his baroneted puppet was, though entertaining, yet a highly dangerous one. But without being in possession of hard, indisputable facts, how could they act? The British public had hailed Lewin Rodwell as a fine specimen of the truly patriotic Englishman, little dreaming him to be a wolf in sheep’s-clothing. To all and every charitable appeal he subscribed readily, and to his small, snug house in Bruton Street came many of the highest in the land. Alas! that we always judge a man by his coat, his cook, his smiles and his glib speeches. Put a dress-suit upon the biggest scoundrel who ever stood in the dock at the Old Bailey—from Smith who murdered his brides in baths downwards—and he would pass as what the world calls “a gentleman.”
One evening in December—the ninth, to be exact—there had been a big dinner-party at Sir Boyle’s, in Berkeley Square, and afterwards Trustram had accompanied Rodwell home to Bruton Street in a taxi for a smoke.
As the pair—the spider and the fly—sat together before the fire in the small, cosy room at the back of the house which the financier used as his own den, their conversation turned upon a forthcoming meeting at the Mansion House, which it was intended to hold in order to further arouse the Home Office to a true sense of the danger of allowing alien enemies to be at liberty.
“I intend to speak quite openly and plainly upon the subject,” declared Rodwell, leaning back in his chair and blowing a cloud of cigar-smoke from his lips. “The time has now passed for polite speeches. If we are to win this war we must no longer coddle the enemy with Donnington Hall methods. The authorities know full well that there are hundreds of spies among us to-day, and yet they deliberately close their eyes to them. To me their motto seems, ‘Don’t aggravate the Germans. They are such dear good people.’ The whole comedy would be intensely humorous—a rollicking farce—if it were not so terribly pathetic. Therefore, at the meeting, I intend to warn the Government that if some strong measure is not adopted, and at once, the people themselves will rise and take matters into their own hands. There’ll be rioting soon, if something is not done—that’s my firm conviction,” and in his dark eyes was a keen, earnest look, as he waved his white hand emphatically. Truly, Lewin Rodwell was a clever actor, and the line he had taken was, surely, sufficiently bold to remove from him any suspicion of German birth, or of double-dealing.
“Yes, I quite agree,” declared Trustram enthusiastically. “We know well enough at the Admiralty that the most confidential information leaks out to the enemy almost daily, and—”
“And what can you expect, my dear fellow, when we have so many Germans and naturalised Germans here in our midst?” cried Rodwell, interrupting. “Intern the whole lot—that’s my idea.”
“With that I entirely agree,” exclaimed Trustram, of course believing fully in his friend’s whole-hearted sincerity. “There are far too many Germans in high places, and while they occupy them we shall never be able to combat their craftiness—never!” Lewin Rodwell fixed his cold, keen eyes upon the speaker, and smiled inwardly with satisfaction.
“My poor friend Dr Jerrold held exactly similar views,” Trustram went on. “Dear old Jerrold! He was ever active in hunting out spies. He assisted our Secret Service in a variety of ways and, by dint of diligent and patient inquiry, discovered many strange things.”
“Did he ever really discover any spies?” asked Rodwell in a rather languid voice.
“Yes, several. I happen to know one case—that of a man who collected certain information. The documents were found on him, together with a pocket-book which contained a number of names and addresses of German secret agents in England.” Rodwell instantly became interested.
“Did he? What became of the book? That surely ought to be most valuable to the authorities—eh?”
“It has been, I believe. But, of course, all inquiries of that nature are done by the War Office, so I only know the facts from Jerrold himself. He devoted all the time he could snatch from his profession to the study of spies, and to actual spy-hunting.”
“And with good results—eh? Poor fellow! He was very alert. His was a sad end. Suicide. I wonder why?” asked Rodwell.
“Who knows?” remarked the other, shrugging his shoulders. “We all of us have our skeletons in our cupboards. Possibly his might have been rather uglier than others?”
Rodwell remained thoughtful. Mention of that pocket-book, of which Jerrold had obtained possession, caused him to ponder. That it was in the hands of the Intelligence Department was the reverse of comforting. He had known of the arrest of Otto Hartwig, alias Hart, who had, for many years before the war, carried on business in Kensington, but this was the first he had learnt that anything had been found upon the prisoner.
He endeavoured to gain some further details from Trustram, but the latter had but little knowledge.
“All I know,” he said, “is that the case occupied poor Jerrold fully a month of patient inquiry and watchful vigilance. At last his efforts were rewarded, for he was enabled to follow the man down to Portsmouth, and actually watch him making inquiries there—gathering facts which he intended to transmit to the enemy.”
“How?” asked Rodwell quickly.
“Ah! that’s exactly what we don’t know. That there exists a rapid mode of transmitting secret intelligence across the North Sea is certain,” replied the Admiralty official. “We’ve had illustrations of it, time after time. Between ourselves, facts which I thought were only known to myself—facts regarding the transport of troops across the Channel—have actually been known in Berlin in a few hours after I have made the necessary arrangements.”
“Are you quite certain of that?” Rodwell asked, with sudden interest.
“Absolutely. It has been reported back to us by our friends in Germany.”
“Then we do have friends in Germany?” remarked Rodwell, with affected ignorance.
“Oh, several,” was the other’s reply. Then, in confidence, he explained how certain officers had volunteered to enter Germany, posing as American citizens and travelling from America with American passports. He mentioned two by name—Beeton and Fordyce.
The well-dressed man lolling in his chair, smoking as he listened, made a mental note of those names, and grinned with satisfaction at Trustram’s indiscretions.
Yet, surely, the Admiralty official could not be blamed, for so completely had Lewin Rodwell practised the deception that he believed him to be a sterling Englishman, red-hot against the enemy and all his knavish devices.
“I suppose you must be pretty busy at the Admiralty just now—eh? The official account of the Battle of the Falklands in to-night’s papers is splendid reading. Sturdee gave Admiral von Spee a very nasty shock. I suppose we shall hear of some other naval successes in the North Sea soon—eh?”
Trustram hesitated for a few seconds. “Well, not just yet,” was his brief reply.
“Why do you say ‘not yet’?” he asked with a laugh. “Has the Admiralty some thrilling surprise in store for us? Your people are always so confoundedly mysterious.”
“We have to be discreet,” laughed Trustram. “In these days one never knows who is friend or foe.”
“Well, you know me well enough, Trustram, to be quite certain of my discretion. I never tell a soul any official information which may come to me—and I hear quite a lot from my Cabinet friends—as you may well imagine.”
“I do trust you, Mr Rodwell,” his friend replied. “If I did not, I should not have told you the many things I have regarding my own department.”
Lewin Rodwell smoked on, his legs crossed, his right hand behind his head as he gazed at his friend.
“Well, you arouse my curiosity when you say that the Admiralty have in store a surprise for us which we shall know later. Where is it to take place?”
Again Charles Trustram hesitated. Then he answered, with some reluctance:
“In the North Sea, I believe. A certain scheme has been arranged which will, we hope, prove effectual.”
“A trap, I suppose?”
Trustram laughed faintly.
“I didn’t tell you so, remember,” he said quickly.
“Ah, I see!—a trap to draw the German Fleet north—up towards Iceland. Is my surmise correct?”
Trustram’s smile was a silent affirmative. “This is indeed interesting,” Rodwell exclaimed. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone. When is it to be?”
“Within a week.”
“You mean in a week. To-day is Wednesday—next Wednesday will be the sixteenth.”
Again Trustram smiled, as Rodwell, with his shrewd intelligence, divined the truth.
“It’s all arranged—eh? And orders have been sent out to the Fleet?” asked the financier.
Again Trustram laughingly replied, “I didn’t say so,” but from his friend’s manner Lewin Rodwell knew that he had learnt the great and most valuable secret of the true intentions of the British Navy.
It was not the first piece of valuable information which he had wormed out of his official friends. So clever was he that he now pretended to be highly eager and enthusiastic over the probable result of the strategy.
“Let’s hope Von Tirpitz will fall into the trap,” he said. “Of course it will have to be very cunningly baited, if you are to successfully deceive him. He’s already shown himself to be an artful old bird.”
“Well—without giving anything away—I happen to know, from certain information passing through my hands, that the bait will be sufficiently tempting.”
“So we may expect to hear of a big naval battle about the sixteenth. I should say that it will, in all probability, be fought south of Iceland, somewhere off the Shetlands.”
“Well, that certainly is within the range of probability,” was the other’s response. “All I can tell you—and in the very strictest confidence, remember—is that the scheme is such a cleverly conceived one that I do not believe it can possibly fail.”
“And if it failed?”
“Well—if it failed,” Trustram said, hesitating and speaking in a lower tone—“if it failed, then no real harm would occur—only one thing perhaps: that the East Coast of England might be left practically unguarded for perhaps twelve hours or so. That’s all.”
“Well, that would not matter very much, so long as the enemy obtains no knowledge of the British Admiral’s intentions,” remarked Lewin Rodwell, contemplating the end of his cigar and reflecting for a few seconds.
Then he blurted out:
“Gad! that’s jolly interesting. I shall wait for next Wednesday with all eagerness.”
“You won’t breathe a word, will you? Remember, it was you who obtained the information by suggestion,” Trustram said, with a good-humoured laugh.
“Can’t you really rely on me, my dear fellow, when I give you my word of honour as an Englishman to say nothing?” he asked. “I expect I am often in the know in secrets of the Cabinet, and I am trusted.”
“Very well,” replied his friend. “I accept your promise. Not a word must leak out. If it did, then all our plans would be upset, and possibly it would mean the loss of one, or more, of our ships. But you, of course, realise the full seriousness of it all.”
“I do, my dear Trustram—I do,” was the reassuring answer. “No single whisper of it shall pass my lips. That, I most faithfully promise you.”