THE "IDEA" THE SOLUTION"Suppose we separated, "Some spot," meantwhere to meet? Must be some place on land.some spot; yet that wouldbe dangerous.""Otherwise, must be The latitude and longitudeeasily remembered. of sea rendezvousEspecially as it is difficult must be easy to remember.for non-technical (?) to fix inmind, and one ciphermakes all the difference.""Suggest we rendezvousat Lolo."
This last was the only part of the little clue that offered any difficulty to T. B. TheGazetteersupplied no explanation.
Nor could the Admiralty help. The naval authorities did their best to unravel the mystery of "Lolo."
A conference of the Ambassadors met in London, and it was jointly agreed that the nations should act in concert to bring theMaria Braganzaand her crew to justice as speedily as possible. The Brazilian Government agreed to indemnify the Powers in their action, and, in the event of the destruction of the ship being necessitated by resistance on the part of its rebel captain, to accept an agreed sum as compensation.
There are surprising periods of inaction in the record of all great accomplishments, which those who live, rather than those who read the stories of achievements, realise.
There were weeks of fretting and days of blank despair in one room at Scotland Yard. For the examination of all clues led to the one end. Somewhere in the world were the Nine Men of Cadiz—but where, none could say. Every port in every civilised land was alert. Captains of mail steamers, of grimy little tramps, of war vessels of every nation, watched for the battleship. Three British cruisers, detached unostentatiously from the Home Fleet, cruised unlikely seas, but with no good result.
Then began the new terror.
T. B. had always had one uncomfortable feeling, a feeling that the dissipation of the Nine had not dispelled, and that was the knowledge that somewhere in Europe the machinery set up with devilish ingenuity by Poltavo still existed. Who were the desperate and broken men who acted as agents to the Nine? Whoever they were, they had been well chosen.
The weeks passed without further news of the ship, and T. B. was beginning to worry, for good reasons. He had an elaborate chart supplied to him by the Admiralty, which showed him, from day to day, the amount of provisions and coal such a ship as theMaria Braganzawould require, and he knew that she must be running short. Then, one morning, he received a clue.
A telegram came to Scotland Yard, which began:
"Officer commanding Gibraltar reports that his wireless station had been intercepting messages in code which bear some resemblance to those of N.H.C. Full messages have been forwarded here for decoding. Some of them are unintelligible, but one portion of a message we have been able to make read: '... Accept your assurance and explanation; we have still splendid field for enterprise; I will join you at Lolo with shipload of provisions and collier on June 1st. In meantime, if you do as I suggest, we can make terms with Governments and, moreover, find employment for agents who are at present discontented...' Message beyond this undecipherable with exception of words 'destruction,' 'easily obtainable,' and 'insure.' This message obviously between Poltavo and Maria Braganza—'Commander Fleet, Gibraltar, has sent H.M.S.Duncan, Essex, Kent,with six destroyers, into Atlantic pick upMaria Braganza!"
T. B. read the message again, folded it carefully, and placed it in his breast pocket. There was one word in Poltavo's message that revealed, in a flash, the nature of the new terror with which the Nine Men of Cadiz threatened the world.
You pass up a broad stone staircase at one end of the Royal Exchange, and come to a landing where, confronting you, are two big swing-doors that are constantly opening and closing as bare-headed clerks and top-hatted brokers go swiftly in and out.
On the other side of the doors is a small counter where a man in uniform checks, with keen glance, each passer-by. Beyond the counter are two rooms, one leading to the other, shaped like the letter "L," and in the longer of the two sit, in innumerable pews, quiet men with fat notebooks. From desk to desk flutter the brokers bargaining their risks, and there is a quiet but eager buzz of voices through which, at intervals, boom the stentorian tones of the porter calling by name the members whose presence is required outside.
A stout man made a slow progress down one of the aisles, calling at the little pewsen route, making notes in a silver-mounted book he held in his hand.
He stopped before the pew of one of the biggest underwriters. "Taglan Castle?" he said laconically, and the underwriter looked up over his spectacles, then down at the slip of paper the man put before him.
"One per cent.?" he asked, in some surprise, and the other nodded.
"How much?" he asked.
The underwriter tapped the slip of paper before him.
"Ten thousand pounds at 5s.per centum," he said. "I can do that." He initialled the slip, and the man passed on.
He went the round of the room, stopped to exchange a joke with an acquaintance, then descended the stone stairs.
Back to his stuffy little office went the broker, with little thought that he had been engaged in any unusual variety of business. In his private room he found his client; a thick-set man with a straggling beard, who rose politely as the broker entered, and removed the cigar he had been smoking.
"You have finish'?" he said, with a slightly foreign accent, and the broker smiled.
"Oh, yes!"—a little pompously, after the manner of all Lloyd's brokers—"no difficulty about theTaglan, you know. Mail ship, new steamer, no risks practically on the Cape route; rather a bad business for you; you'll lose your premium."
He shook his head with a show of melancholy, and took a pinch of snuff.
"I have a dream," said the foreigner hastily, "ver' bad dream. I have belief in dreams."
"I daresay," said the broker indulgently. "A sister of mine used to have 'em, or said she had; dreamt a tiger bit her, and, sure enough, next day she lost her brooch."
He sat at his desk, signed a receipt, counted some notes, and locked them in his drawer.
"You won't get your policies for a day or so," he said; "you're staying——"
"At the Hotel Belgique," said the client, and, pocketing his receipts, he rose.
"Good-day," said the broker, and opened the door.
With a slight bow, his client departed, and reached the street.
There was a taxi-cab drawn up before the door, and two or three gentlemen standing on the pavement before the office.
"Cab, sir?" said the driver, but the foreigner shook his head.
"I think you had better," said a voice in French, and a strong hand grasped his arm.
Before he realised what had happened, the Frenchman was hustled into the cab, two men jumped in with him, the door banged, and the car whirled westward.
It was a car which had extraordinary privileges, for at a nod from the man who sat by the side of the driver the City police held up the traffic to allow it to pass. It flew down Queen Victoria Street at a much greater speed than is permissible within the City boundaries, and the gloved hands of the policemen on duty at the end of Blackfriars Bridge made a clear way for it.
It turned into Scotland Yard, remained a few minutes, then returned along the Embankment, up Northumberland Avenue, and through a side thoroughfare to Bow Street.
Thereafter, the Frenchman's experience was bewildering. He was searched, hurried through a passage to a small court, where a benevolent-looking gentleman sat behind a table, on a raised dais.
The prisoner was placed in a steel pen, and a quietly dressed man rose from the solicitors' table, and made a brief statement.
"We shall charge this man with being a suspected person, your Worship," he said, "and ask for a remand."
Then another man went into the witness-box.
"My name is Detective-Sergeant Kiegnell, of 'A' Division," he said; "and, from information received, I went to 976 Throgmorton Street, where I saw the prisoner. I told him I was a police officer, and should take him into custody."
That was all.
The magistrate scribbled something on a paper before him, and said briefly, "Remanded."
Before the prisoner could say a word, or utter anything more than a "Sacré!" he was beckoned from the dock and disappeared from court.
So unimportant was this case that none of the reporters in court troubled to record more than the fact that "a well-dressed man of foreign appearance was charged with loitering with intent."
Certainly nobody associated his arrest with the announcement that theTaglan Castlehad left Cape Town, homeward bound.
It was an interesting voyage for the passengers of theTaglan Castle, which, by the way, carried specie to the amount of £600,000. She left Cape Town soon after dusk. The next morning, to the surprise of her captain, she fell in with a little British fleet—theDoris, thePhilomel, and theSt. George, flying a Commodore's flag.
Greatest surprise of all came to the captain of theTaglan Castlewhen he received the following signal:
"Slow down to thirteen knots, and do not part company."
To the captain's "I am carrying the mails," came the laconic message, "I know."
For ten days the four ships kept together, then came the sensation of the voyage. At dawn of the tenth day, a big steamer came into view over the horizon. She was in the direct path of the flotilla, and to all appearance she was stationary. Those who were on deck at that early hour heard shrill bugle sounds from the escorting warships, then suddenly the engines of theTaglanstopped, and a crowd of curious passengers came running up from below. TheTaglan Castlehad obeyed a peremptory order given by theSt. George, and was hove-to.
TheSt. GeorgeandDoriswent on; then, from the funnels of the stationary steamer, came clouds of smoke, and, through their telescope, the passengers saw her turn slowly and move.
Slowly, slowly she got under way, then——
"Bang!"
The forward 9.2 gun of theSt. Georgeemitted a thin straight streak of flame, and there was a strange whining noise in the air.
"Bang! Bang!"
TheDoriscame into action at the same time as theSt. Georgefired her second gun. Both shots fell short, and the spray of thericochetsleapt up into the air.
The fugitive steamer was now moving at full speed; there was a great fan-shaped patch of white water at her stern.
"Bang!"
All this time the two British warships were going ahead, firing as they went. Then, from the stern of the strange steamer, floated a whiff of white smoke, and, in a second, the eerie whine of a shell came to the passengers who crowded the deck of theTaglan Castle. The shell missed the firing warships; indeed, it did not seem to be aimed in their direction, but it fell uncomfortably close to the mail boat. Another shell fell wide of the steamer, but in a line with her. The manoeuvre of the flying vessel was now apparent. She carried heavier metal than the second-class cruisers of the British fleet, but her object was to disable the mail boat.
The captain of theTaglandid not wait for orders; he rung his engines full speed ahead, and swung his helm hard aport. He was going to steam back out of range.
But no further shot came from theMaria Braganza.
Smaller and smaller she grew until only a pall of smoke on the horizon showed where she lay.
Obeying a signal from the distant warship, theTaglancame round again, and in half-an-hour had come abreast of the two warships, the faithfulPhilomelin attendance.
There was a swift exchange of signals between the warships, and their semaphore arms whirled furiously.
Then the Commodore's ship signalled:
"Hope you are not alarmed; you will not be troubled again; go ahead."
On the twelfth day there was another shock for the excited passengers of theTaglan Castle, for, nearing Cape Verde Islands, they came upon not one warship but six—six big black hulls lying at regular intervals along the horizon. But there was no cause for alarm. They were the six Dreadnought cruisers that had been sent down from Gibraltar to take up the burden of the Cape Fleet.
It was all a mystery to the bewildered passengers, whatever it might be to the officers of theTaglan, who had received a long "lamp" message in the middle of the night.
There was a two hours' delay whilst the captain of theSt. Georgewent on board theIndefatigableto report.
This was the end of the adventures that awaited theTaglan. She was escorted to the Needles by the six warships, and came into Southampton, her passengers a-flutter with that excitement peculiar to men who have come through a great danger and are exhilarated to find themselves alive.
The arrival of theTaglanwas opportune; it gave confirmation to the rumours which had been in circulation, and synchronised with the issue of the manifesto of the Nine Men—a manifesto unique in history.
The manifesto had arrived simultaneously at every newspaper office in London, Paris, and Berlin.
It was printed on paper of a texture and quality which is generally in use in small Continental newspaper offices. From certain peculiarities of the printed characters, it was seen that the type from which it was printed must have been cast in Spain.... The manifesto was neatly folded and enclosed in an envelope of octavo size, and the actual sheet-size was what is known in the printing trade as double-crown. The postage stamps were Spanish, the place of posting, as revealed by the office post-marks, were in some cases Malaga, and in some, Algeciras. The fact that, whether posted at one place or the other, the date of the posting was identical, supported the view that at least two persons had been concerned in the despatch.
The manifesto itself ran:
"To THE CIVILIZED NATION (sic).
"Whereas, we, the company known as the Nine Men of Cadiz, have been placed by universal decree outside the law, and whereas it is against our desires that such decrees of outlawry should exist against us, both from the point of view of our own personal comfort and safety, and from the point of view of the free exchange of commercial (sic) relationships.
"Now, therefore, we decree—
"That unless an immediate free pardon be granted to each and every man on board theMaria Braganzaand liberty be given to him to go his way peaceably without arrest or fear of molestations (sic), the owners and crew of theMaria Braganzawill declare war upon the commerce of the world. It will loot and destroy such shipping as may with advantage be so looted and destroyed, and in the end will fight to the last against its aggressor.
"(Signed) By order of the Nine.
"POLTAVO."
It is no exaggeration to say that the publication of this manifesto caused a panic, not only in shipping circles, but throughout the civilised world. The sea held a hidden danger, neither life nor property was secure.
That the fears of the community were justified was proved by the story of theTaglan Castle, and within a fortnight came the story of the North Atlantic outrage.
TheCaratana, the fastest mail-ship afloat, as well as being nearly the largest, was sixty hours out of New York with 350 passengers on board, when she came up with a strange warship flying a red flag. The warship hoisted an unintelligible signal, which the captain of theCaratanadid not understand. It was followed by one of which there could be no mistaking the meaning:
"Stop, or I will sink you."
The captain of the Atlantic liner knew all that was known about theMaria Braganza, and at once realised his danger. If he did not realise it, there came a shell from the warship which passed astern. Fortunately, there was a mist on the water, which grew heavier every minute—a dense bank of fog, not usually met with so far east.
The captain of theCaratanadecided upon the course of action he would take. Very quickly he signalled "I surrender," and rang his engines to "stop." The men on the warship seemed satisfied with his action, and no further demonstration was made against the liner. Such was the "way" on the big ship that, although her propellers had ceased to revolve, she continued her course—nearer and nearer she grew to a thick patch of the fog that lay ahead of her. TheMaria Braganzamay have suspected the manoeuvre, for she signalled "Go astern."
For answer, the captain of theCaratanaput port and starboard engines full ahead, and, whilst men were running to their stations on the warship, theCaratanaslipped into the fog-belt.
In an instant, theMaria Braganzawas blotted from view.
The liner captain put his helm over to starboard, and it was well that he did so, for, with a reverberating crash, the warship opened fire in the direction in which he had disappeared. Shell after shell came flying through the thick mist, and the thud of their impact as they struck the water came to the ears of the affrighted passengers.
The sound of spasmodic firing grew fainter and fainter every minute as the great steamer went threshing through the swirling fog, until it ceased altogether.
Although no harm had befallen the liner, the news of the attack produced a profound sensation. Its effect was to paralyse the business of ocean travel. The "Mad Warship" terrorised the seas.
It was on the day the report of this new outrage reached England that T. B. Smith located Poltavo.
* * * * * * *
There languished in a prosaic prison cell at Brixton Gaol a Monsieur Torquet, who was admittedly a victim of police persecution. That much T. B. himself was prepared to admit.
Monsieur Torquet was suspected not of a crime against any particular section of society, but indeed of being accessory to a crime against humanity; and T. B. was prepared to run a tilt at the very Habeas Corpus Act rather than release his grip upon the stranger with the straggling beard who had so heavily insured theTaglan Castlebefore she started out on her adventurous voyage.
This Monsieur Torquet, brooding in the loneliness of his cell at Brixton, had very nearly reached the limits of his patience; the silence and the indifference had crushed what little spirit there was in him.
For two months he had lain without trial, in a cell which had a table on which were pen, paper, and ink. He had not in all that time touched the one or the other, but on the day that the Atlantic liner came across theMaria Braganzahe sat at the table and wrote a brief note to the governor of the prison. Within an hour T. B. Smith was ushered into the cell, and remained with the man for some time. Then he came out, and sent for a shorthand clerk, and together they returned.
For four hours the three men worked, one questioning and translating, one answering at first sullenly and with periodic outbursts of temper, and later eagerly, volubly—and all this time the clerk wrote and wrote, until one note-book was exhausted and he sent out for another.
It was late in the evening when he said:
"And that, monsieur, is all."
"All?" T. B.'s eyebrows rose. "All? But you have not explained the whereabouts of Lolo?"
The prisoner was frankly puzzled.
"Lolo?" he repeated. "M'sieur, I do not understand."
It was T. B.'s turn to be astonished.
"But the rendezvous—there was to be some rendezvous where the ship would come to pick up any member of the Nine who might become detached."
The man shook his head, and at that moment an idea occurred to T. B. He drew from his pocket a copy of Baggin's little "cross with the nobs," as it had been named at Scotland Yard.
"Do you know this?" he asked.
The man looked at it, and smiled.
"Yes—Poltavo drew that for me on the last occasion I met him in Paris."
"What does it mean?"
Again the prisoner shook his head.
"I do not know," he said simply. "Poltavo was telling me something of his plans. He drew the cross and was beginning to explain its meaning, and then for some reason he stopped, crumpled up the paper, and threw it into the fireplace. At the time I attached some importance to it, and, after he had gone, I rescued it, but——"
"You don't understand it?"
"I don't," said the man, and T. B. knew that he spoke the truth.
It must have been whilst Poltavo was in Paris that the ruling spirit of theMaria Braganzadiscovered that Count Poltavo was indispensable, and that strange reconciliation occurred. Through what agency Baggin and he came into touch is not known. It is generally supposed that the warship ventured close to the French or Spanish coast and sent a message of good will flickering through space, and that some receiving station, undiscovered and undemolished—there must have been a score of such stations—received it, and transmitted it to Poltavo.
News of him came to Smith from Van Ingen, who, following a faint clue of the Spanish dancer, had gone to Tangier. Work at the Embassy had become unendurable to him, since the disappearance of the Nine Men had marked also the disappearance of Doris, and despite the expostulations of the ambassador, who was sorely distressed by certain international complications of the situation—for both Baggin and Grayson were Americans—despite also the detective's blunt advice to let the business alone and return to the Embassy, Van Ingen had set forth on his wild-goose chase.
The afternoon of his arrival, he climbed to the Marshan, the plateau that commands Tangier. Here are villas, in which Moorish, Spanish, and English styles of architecture, struggling for supremacy, have compromised in a conglomerate type. And here, idling along the promenade, scanning every figure as it passed, he had come face to face with Catherine Dominguez.
At his start of surprise, for he had not expected such good fortune, the lady paused, uncertainly.
The young man uncovered with a sweeping bow. "Pardon!" he exclaimed gallantly, in Spanish, "but so often have I seen the lovely face of the 'Belle Espagnole' in the newspapers that I recognised it before I was aware!"
Catherine nodded amiably, and, at a word of invitation, Van Ingen fell into step beside her.
* * * * * * *
That night he cabled to the detective:
"Poltavo in Tangier. C. Dominguez will sell his whereabouts for £5,000.
"VAN INGEN."
To this he received the laconic reply, "Coming."
The trap which the detective laid, as the Sud Express fled shrieking through the night, was simple. To capture Count Poltavo while the "Mad Terror" remained afloat would be imbecile. But to frighten him by a pseudo-attack out into the open, and then follow him to the Nine——Smith smiled over the common-sense of his little scheme, and fell asleep.
His interview, two mornings later, with Catherine Dominguez was most amiable—both ignored their last meeting—and satisfactory, save in one small particular. Upon reflection, the lady had raised her price. For £10,000 she would divulge her secret. And the detective, after a few protests, acceded to her demands. After all, she ran a certain risk in betraying a man like the count. He thought, grimly, of Hyatt and Moss.
At the conclusion of the conference, he wrote her a check.
She shook her head, smiling.
"I should prefer bank-notes," she said gently.
Smith appeared to hesitate. "Very well," he replied finally. "But, in that case, you must wait until to-morrow. If your information is good—the check will be also."
She took it from his hand, and he rose.
"Ver' good, Señor Smit'," she replied, looking up at him with an engaging smile. "I will trust you." She fingered the paper absently.
Smith looked down at her. Something, he knew, she had left untold, and he waited.
"One small thing I had almost forgot," she murmured pensively. "Count Poltavo leaves for—Lolo—to-night."
Catherine Dominguez had not lied. Perhaps she had some secret grudge against the Nine, whose faithful agent she had been, or perhaps she was tired of obscure flittings, and wished to buy indemnity by confession. The detective never knew.
Nevertheless, he felt grateful to her.
* * * * * * *
That night, a slender man, wearing a felt hat and acappa, descended the steps of one of the villas of the Marshan, and walked through the garden.
There was a man standing in the middle of the white road, his hands in his overcoat pocket, the red glow of his cigar a point of light in the gloom. Farther away, he saw the figures of three horsemen.
"Count Poltavo, I suppose," drawled a voice—the voice of T. B. Smith. "Put up your hands or you're a dead man."
In an instant the road was filled with men; they must have been crouching in the shadow of the grassy plateau, but in that same instant Poltavo had leapt back to the cover of the garden. A revolver banged behind him; and, as he ran, he snatched his own revolver from his pocket, and sent two quick shots into the thick of the surrounding circle. There was another gate at the farther end of the garden; there would be men there, but he must risk it. He was slight and had some speed as a runner; he must depend upon these gifts.
He opened the gate swiftly and sprang out. There were three or four men standing in his path. He shot at one point-blank, dodged the others, and ran. He judged that his pursuers would not know the road as well as he. Shot after shot rang out behind him. He was an easy mark on the white road, and he turned aside and took to the grass. He was clear of the houses now, and there was no danger ahead, but the men who followed him were untiring.
Presently he struck the footpath across the sloping plain that led to the shore, and the going was easier.
It was his luck that his pursuers should have missed the path. His every arrangement worked smoothly, for the boat was waiting, the men at their oars, and he sprang breathlessly into the stern.
It was a circumstance which might have struck him as strange, had he been in a condition for calm thought, that the horsemen who were of the party that surrounded him had not joined in pursuit.
But there was another mystery that the night revealed. He had been on board theDoro—as his little ship was called—for an hour before he went to the cabin that had been made ready for him.
His first act was to take his revolver from his pocket, preparatory to reloading it from the cartridges stored in one of his trunks.
Two chambers of the pistol were undischarged, and, as he jerked back the extractor, these two shells fell on the bed. He looked at them stupidly.
Both cartridges were blank!
* * * * * * *
Had he heard T. B. Smith speaking as he went flying down the road, Poltavo might have understood.
"Where's the dead man?" asked T. B.
"Here, sir," said Van Ingen cheerfully.
"Good." Then, in French, he addressed a figure that stood in the doorway.
"Were you hurt, mademoiselle?"
Catherine's little laugh came out to him. "I am quite safe," she said quietly.
He was going away, but she called him.
"I cannot understand why you allowed him to escape——" she began. "That you should desire blank cartridges to be placed in his revolver is not so difficult, but I do not see——"
"I suppose not," said T. B. politely, and left her abruptly.
He sprang onto a horse that was waiting, and went clattering down the hill, through the Sôk, down the narrow main street that passes the mosque; dismounting by the Custom House, he placed his horse in charge of a waiting soldier, and walked swiftly along the narrow wooden pier.
At the same time as the count was boarding theDoro, T. B. and Van Ingen were being rowed in a cockleshell of a pinnace to the long destroyer which lay, without lights, in the bay.
They swung themselves up a tiny ladder onto the steel deck that rang hollow under their feet.
"All right?" said a voice in the darkness.
"All right," said T. B.; a bell tinkled somewhere, the destroyer moved slowly ahead, and swung out to sea.
"Will you have any difficulty in picking her up?" He was standing in the cramped space of the little bridge, wedged between a quick-firing gun and the navigation desk.
"No—I think not," said the officer; "our difficulty will be to keep out of sight of her. It will be an easy matter to keep her in view, because she stands high out of the water, and she is pretty sure to burn her regulation lights. By day I shall let her get hull down and take her masts for guide."
It was the strangest procession that followed the southern bend of the African coast. First went theDoro, its passengers serenely unconscious of the fact that six miles away, below the rim of the horizon, followed a slim ugly destroyer that did not once lose sight of theDoro'smainmast; behind the destroyer, and three miles distant, came six destroyers steaming abreast. Behind them, four miles away, six swift cruisers.
That same night, there steamed from Funchal in the Island of Madeira, theVictor Hugo,Condé,Gloire, and theEdgard Quinetof the French Fleet; theRoon,Yorck,Prinz Adalbert, and the battleshipPommernof the German Navy, with sixteen destroyers, and followed a parallel ocean path.
After three days' steaming, theDoroturned sharply to starboard, and the unseen fleets that dogged her turned too. In that circle of death, for a whole week, the little Spanish steamer twisted and turned, and, obedient to the message that went from destroyer to cruiser, the fleets followed her every movement. For theDorowas unconsciously leading the nations to the "Mad Battleship." She had been slipped with that object. So far every part of the plan had worked well. To make doubly sure, the news of Zillier's escape from Devil's Island had been circulated in every country. It was essential that, if they missed theMaria Braganzathis time, they should catch her on the first of June at "Lolo."
"And where that is," said T. B., in despair, "Heaven only knows."
Wearing a heavy overcoat, he was standing on the narrow deck of the destroyer as she pounded through the seas. They had found the southeast trade winds at a surprisingly northerly latitude, and the sea was choppy and cold.
Young Marchcourt, the youthful skipper of theMartine, grinned.
"'Lolo' is 'nowhere,' isn't it?" he said. "You'll find it charted on all Admiralty maps; it's the place where the supply transport is always waiting on manoeuvres—I wish to Heaven these squalls would drop," he added irritably, as a sudden gust of wind and rain struck the tiny ship.
"Feel seasick?" suggested T. B. maliciously.
"Not much—but I'm horribly afraid of losing sight of this Looker-ahead."
He lifted the flexible end of a speaking-tube, and pressed a button.
"Give her a few more revolutions, Cole," he said. He hung up the tube. "We look like carrying this weather with us for a few days," he said, "and, as I don't feel competent to depend entirely upon my own eyesight, I shall bring up the Magneto and the Solus to help me watch this beggar."
Obedient to signal, two destroyers were detached from the following flotilla, and came abreast at dusk.
The weather grew rapidly worse, the squalls of greater frequence. The sea rose, so that life upon the destroyer was anything but pleasant. At midnight, T. B. Smith was awakened from a restless sleep by a figure in gleaming oilskins.
"I say," said a gloomy voice, "we've lost sight of that dashedDoro."
"Eh?"
T. B. jumped from his bunk, to be immediately precipitated against the other side of the cabin.
"Lost her light—it has either gone out or been put out. We're going ahead now full speed in the hope of overhauling her——"
Another oilskinned figure came to the door.
"Light ahead, sir."
"Thank Heaven!" said the other fervently, and bolted to the deck.
T. B. struggled into his clothing, and, with some difficulty, made his way to the bridge. Van Ingen was already before him. As he climbed the little steel ladder, he heard the engine-bell ring, and instantly the rattle and jar of the engines ceased.
T. B. SmithT. B. Smith
"She's stationary," explained the officer, "so we've stopped. She has probably upset herself in this sea."
"How do you know she is stationary?" asked T. B., for the two faint stars ahead told him nothing.
"Got her riding lights," said the other laconically.
Those two riding lights stopped the destroyer; it stopped six other destroyers, far out of sight, six obedient cruisers came to a halt, and, a hundred miles or so away, the combined French and German fleets became stationary.
All through the night the watchers lay, heaving, rolling, and pitching, like so many logs, on the troubled seas. Dawn broke mistily, but the lights still gleamed. Day came in dull greyness, and the young officer, with his eyes fastened to his binoculars, looked long and earnestly ahead.
"I can see a mast," he said doubtfully, "but there's something very curious about it."
Then he put down his glasses suddenly, put out his hand, and rang his engines full ahead.
He turned to the quartermaster at his side.
"Get the Commodore by wireless," he said rapidly; "theDorohas gone."
Gone, indeed, was theDoro—gone six hours since.
They found the lights. They were still burning when the destroyer came up with them.
A roughly built raft with a pole lashed upright, and from this was suspended two lanterns.
Whilst the fleet had watched this raft, theDorohad gone on. Nailed to the pole was a letter. It was sodden with spray, but T. B. had no difficulty in reading it.
"Cher ami," it ran, "much as I value the honour of a naval escort, its presence is embarrassing at the moment. I saw your destroyer this morning through my glasses, and guessed the rest. You are ingenious. Now I understand why you allowed me to escape.
"My respectful salutations to you, oh, most admirable of policemen!"
It was signed, "POLTAVO."
* * * * * * *
The court-martial held on Lieutenant-Commander George Septimus Marchcourt, on a charge of "neglect of duty, in that he failed to carry out the instructions of his superior officer," resulted in an honourable acquittal for that cheerful young officer. It was an acquittal which had a far-reaching effect, though at the time it did not promise well.
T. B. was a witness at the trial, which was a purely formal one, in spite of the attention it excited.
He remained at Gibraltar, pending further developments. For the affair of the Nine Men had got beyond Scotland Yard—they were an international problem.
T. B. was walking over from La Linea, across the strip of neutral ground which separated Gibraltar from Spain, with Van Ingen, when he confessed that he despaired of ever bringing the Nine to justice.
"The nations cannot stand the racket much longer," he said; "these Nine Men are costing civilisation a million a week! Think of it! A million pounds a week! We must either capture them soon or effect a compromise. I am afraid they will make peace on their own terms."
"But they must be caught soon," urged the other.
"Why?" demanded T. B. irritably. "How can we hope to capture one of the fastest war vessels afloat when the men who control her have all the seas to run in?"
They had reached the water-port, and T. B. stopped before his hotel.
"Come in," he said suddenly. The two men passed through the paved vestibule and mounted the stair to T. B.'s room. "I'm going to look again at our clue," he said grimly, and extracted from his portfolio the drawing of the little cross with the circular ends.
T. B. himself does not know to this day why he was moved to produce this disappointing little diagram at that moment. It may have been that, as a forlorn hope, he relied upon the application of a fresh young mind to the problem which was so stale in his, for Van Ingen had never seen the diagram.
He looked and frowned.
"Is that all?" he asked, without disguising his disappointment.
"That is all," responded T. B.
They sat looking at the diagram in silence. Van Ingen, as was his peculiarity, scribbled mechanically on the blotting pad before him.
He drew flowers, and men's heads, and impossible structures of all kinds; he made inaccurate tracings of maps, of columns, pediments, squares, and triangles. Then, in the same absent way, he made a rough copy of the diagram.
Then his pencil stopped and he sat bolt upright.
"Gee!" he whispered.
The detective looked up in astonishment.
"Whew!" whistled Van Ingen. "Have you got an atlas, Smith?"
The detective took one from his trunk.
Van Ingen turned the leaves, looked long and earnestly at something he saw, closed the book, and turned a little white, but his eyes were blazing.
"I have found 'Lolo,'" he said simply.
He took up his pencil and quickly sketched the diagram:
Van Ingen's first diagram
"Look," he said, and added a few letters:
Van Ingen's second diagram
"Longitude, nought; latitude nought—L. o, L. o!" whispered the detective. "You've hit it, Van Ingen! By Jove! Why, that is off the African coast." He looked again at the map.
"It is where the Greenwich meridian crosses the Equator," he said. "It's 'nowhere'! The only 'nowhere' in the world!"
Under an awning on the quarter-deck of theMaria Braganza, George T. Baggin was stretched out in the easiest of easy-chairs in an attitude of luxurious comfort.
Admiral Lombrosa, passing on his way to his cabin, smacked him familiarly upon the shoulder—an attitude which epitomised the changed relationships of the pair.
TheMaria Braganzawas steaming slowly eastward, and, since it was the hour of siesta, the deck was strewn with the recumbent forms of men.
Baggin looked up with a scowl.
"Where is Poltavo?" he asked, and the other laughed.
"He sleeps, Señor Presidente," said the "Admiral."—There had been some curious promotions on board theMaria Braganza.—"He is amusing, your count."
Baggin wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, but made no answer, and the other man eyed him keenly.
Baggin must have felt rather than observed the scrutiny, for suddenly he looked up and caught the sailor's eye.
"Eh?" he asked, as though to some unspoken question. Then, "Where is Grayson?"
Again the smile on the swart face of the Brazilian.
"He is here," he said, as a stout figure in white ducks shuffled awkwardly along the canting deck.
He came opposite to Baggin; and, drawing a chair towards him with a grunt, he dropped into it with a crash.
"You grow fatter, my friend," said Baggin.
"Fatter!" gasped the other. "Of course I'm fatter! No exercise—this cursed ship! Oh, what a fool, what a fool I've been!"
"Forget it," said Baggin. He took a long gold case from his inside pocket, opened it, and selected with care a black cheroot. "Forget it."
"I wish I could! I'd give half-a-million to be safe in the hands of the Official Receiver! I'd give half-a-million to be serving five years in Sing Sing! Baggin," he said, with comic earnestness, "we've got to compromise! It's got to be done. Where do we stand, eh?"
Baggin puffed leisurely at his cigar, but made no attempt to elucidate the position.
He was used to all this; but now, with his nerves on edge, this cowardice of Grayson's grated.
"Where are the Nine Men of Cadiz?" demanded Grayson, the sweat rolling down his cheeks. "Where is Bortuski? Where is Morson? Where is Couthwright? Zillier, we know where he is, or was, but where are the others? You and me and Count Poltavo and the rest—phutt!" He made a little noise with his mouth. "I know!" he said. He raised a trembling finger accusingly.
"My dear man," said Baggin lazily, though his face was white and his lips firm-pressed. "There was the storm——"
"That's a lie!" screamed Grayson, beating the air with his hands; "that's a lie! The storm didn't take Kohr from his bunk and leave blood on his pillow! It didn't make Morson's cabin smell of chloroform! I know, I know!"
"There is such a thing as knowing too much," said George T. Baggin, rising unsteadily. "Grayson," he said, "I've been a good friend of yours because I sort of like you in spite of your foolishness. Our friends perished in the storm; it wasn't a bad thing for us, taking matters all round. If this manifesto of ours doesn't secure us a pardon, we can risk making a run for safety. There are fewer of us to blab. See here"—he sat down on the side of the other's chair and dropped his voice—"suppose we can't shock this old world into giving us a free pardon, and the sun gets too warm for us, as it will sooner or later——"
"Suppose it!" Grayson burst in. "Do you think there's an hour of the day or night when I don't suppose it? Lord! I——"
"Listen, can't you?" said Baggin savagely. "When that happens, what are we to do? We've buried gold on the African coast; we've buried it on the South American coast——"
"All the crew know. We're at the mercy——"
"Wait, wait!" said the other wearily. "Suppose there comes a time when we must make a dash for safety—with the steam pinnace. Slipping away in the night when the men of the watch are doped. You and your daughter, and me, Poltavo, and the Admiral"—he bent his head lower—"leaving a time-fuse in the magazine," he whispered. "There's a way out for us, my friend! We are going to make one last effort," he went on. "Between here and 'Lolo' we fall in with the outward-bound, intermediate Cape mail. It shall be our last attack upon civilisation."
"Don't do it!" begged Grayson; "for the love of Heaven, don't do it, Baggin!"
He got upon his feet, pallid and staring. His hand was clapped over his heart, and his breath came in thick, stertorous gasps.
Doris appeared around the corner, walking with Count Poltavo. She came forward swiftly.
"Come, father!" she said, and led him, unresisting, away.
They ate a silent meal in the magnificently upbolstered ward-room, which had been converted into a saloon for the officers of the "Mad Battleship."
After dinner, Count Poltavo and Baggin promenaded the quarter-deck together.
"Grayson has gone below," reported the count, in answer to a question of his companion. "He got no sleep last night."
"He is a greater danger than any of the others," said Baggin.
They stood for awhile, watching the phosphorescence on the water, till Lombrosa's voice recalled them.
"Are you there?" he called quickly. They detected the agitation in his tone and turned together.
"It's Grayson," said the captain rapidly. "I found him in the wireless cabin, trying to send a message. He's half-mad."
"Where is he?" demanded the count; but, before his tongue had formed the words, the voice of the fat man came to him. He came along, the centre of a swaying body of sailors, who held him.
"For God's sake, silence him!" said the Brazilian hoarsely. "Don't you hear——?"
"Dead! you'll all be dead!" yelled Grayson. He was screaming at the top of his voice in English. "A time-fuse in your magazine! whilst they get away with the money!"
At any moment he might remember that the Brazilians who held him could not understand a word he said.
Poltavo gave an order, and the struggling man was flung to the deck.
"Murder!" he screamed. "Hyatt, and the other man! And poor Morson and Kohr. I see the blood on his pillow! and a time-fuse in the magazine——"
Baggin thrust a handkerchief in his mouth.
"Chloroform," he said in Spanish. "Our friend has been drinking."
In a few seconds, the captain was back with a bottle of colourless liquid, and a saturated handkerchief was pressed over the struggling man's mouth.
He was silent at last, and, at a word from their captain, the men who held him released their hold, and went forward to their quarters. The captain discreetly followed them.
The two men stood in silence, gazing down at the huddled figure. Then, "He must go," said Baggin.
Poltavo was silent a moment.
"No," he said finally, "I do not agree."
Baggin regarded him blackly.
"I see your point," he said, with biting emphasis. "With the others"—he wet his dry lips—"you cast the black vote fast enough——"
The count elevated his eyebrows. "Why refer to such things?" he objected mildly. "If they be necessary—do them, swiftly and well—but be silent, even as Nature is silent. For Mr. Grayson, he is—how you say—a very sick man. Perhaps——" He shrugged his shoulders and did not finish the sentence.
He bent down to the unconscious man.
"Lend a hand," he said quietly to Baggin.
The American obeyed, sullenly, and, between them, they half supported, half carried Grayson to his cabin.
To a calm sea, to a dawn all pearl and rose, the crew of theMaria Braganzawoke. In the night, the speed of the warship had been accelerated until she was moving at her top speed, and two columns of black smoke belched from her great funnels. The two men who came on deck at the same moment did not speak one to the other. Baggin was pale; there were dark circles about his eyes; he looked like a man who had not slept. But Count Poltavo was unperturbed.
Clear-eyed, shaven, not unusually pallid, he woke as from a pleasant dream, and appeared on deck immaculate from point of shoe to fingernail.
All the morning preparations were going on. Ammunition came up from the magazine, dilatory quartermasters swung out guns; on the masthead was an under-officer armed with a telescope.
He was the principal object of interest to the men on the quarter-deck. Every few minutes their eyes would go sweeping aloft.
Beyond the curtest salutations, neither the captain, Baggin, nor the calm Poltavo spoke. In Baggin's heart grew a new terror, and he avoided the count.
The sun beat down on the stretch of awning that protected the privileged three, but, for some reason, Baggin did not feel the heat.
He had a something on his mind; a question to ask; and at last he summoned his resolution to put it. He walked over to where the count sat reading.
"Ivan," he said—he had never so addressed him before—"is the end near?"
The count had raised his clear eyes when the other had come toward him; he smiled.
"Which variety of end?" he asked.
"There is only one variety," said Baggin steadily. "There is only one thing in the world that counts, and that is life."
"Not money?" asked the Russian, with a faint, ironical smile.
"Not money," repeated Baggin. "Least of all, money—but life!"
Poltavo arose. He had seen the flutter of a white skirt at the far end of the promenade-deck.
"Life," he said, with soft deliberateness, "is the least of all gifts, my friend. It is of no more consequence than the crystal of snow which is lost in the foul mud beneath our feet, or the drop of dew which is burned up by the ardent rays of the sun." He turned upon his heel.
The American plucked at his sleeve. "Then, what counts?" he demanded hoarsely.
"Nothing!" There was a certain mysticism in the count's gentle smile. "We are bewildered guests. Listen to the words of one of your own great countrymen." He quoted in a musical voice, looking out across the water:
"'I was not asked if I should like to come,I have not seen my host here since I came,Or had a word of welcome in his name.Some say that we shall never see him, and someThat we shall see him elsewhere, and then knowWhy we were bid.'
"For myself"—he shrugged his shoulders with an expressive gesture—"it does not matter. I have been well amuse'." He strolled forward.
Doris, dressed all in white, was leaning against the rail. She drank in the fresh morning air eagerly. The wind had brought a faint tinge of colour to her cheeks, and the blue ribbon which she had bound about her hair to protect it from the ravages of the wind lent her an air almost of gaiety, which the count was not slow to observe.
"It is a glorious day," he said cheerfully. "And your father is better. I can read the good news in your face."
He ranged himself beside her, his back against the rail, so that his eyes took in every aspect of her face and figure.
"He is asleep," she returned in a low voice, "and so I ventured out for a breath of fresh air. He was—delirious—through the night."
He looked at her reproachfully. "And you watched with him all night?"
She nodded.
"You might, at least, have permitted me to divide the time with you."
The girl was silent.
"Is he alone—now?" he asked abruptly.
A certain quality in his tones made her glance up swiftly.
"I—I think so," she faltered. "There is—danger?"
"It is just as well to have a guard," he said drily. "In case the—ah!—delirium should return." He beckoned to one of the sailors, and spoke to him in Spanish.
As the man retreated, she turned to him, her blue eyes swimming in a bright mist of tears.
"You are very good!" she murmured.
"It is nothing," he said simply. "Will you come up on the hurricane-deck? I have a desire for wide sweeps—great distances to-day."
She hesitated.
"Your father is safe," he urged. "I have set two men at his door. And I have something to say to you."
"I also have something to say to you," she answered, with a queer little laugh.
They did not speak again until he had placed her in a luxurious steamer-chair, protected from the rays of the sun by a gay striped awning, and seated himself beside her.
Doris folded her hands in her lap, and gazed across the shimmering water. Slowly her eyes came back, and rested upon the figure beside her. She drew from about her neck a slender gold chain, from which depended a locket, and a ring, set quaintly with a ruby.
"Count Poltavo," she said, in a low, clear tone, "do you remember giving me this ring?"
"Yes." His face had paled slightly, and a light came into his eyes.
"And—and the pledge which I made you then?"
"I recall no pledge, dear lady."
She gave him a wide, deep look.
"I bound myself to answer any question you should wish to ask—if you should save my father from Mr. Baggin. Yesterday, that came to pass. During a lucid interval in the night, my father"—her voice quivered on the word—"spoke of you, but brokenly, and I did not completely understand until you set the guard about his door."
The count made as if to speak, but she raised a protesting hand. "So now you have fulfilled your pledge to me, and I"—she lifted her head proudly—"stand ready to redeem mine."
He looked at her strangely. "You would marry me?"
"Yes."
Her lips articulated the word with difficulty. Her eyes were upon her hands, and her hands plaited nervously a fold of her white gown.
"Doris!" He laid a hand over the slim white fingers. She shrank back, and then suffered her hand to lie in his, passively.
"Look up, child," he urged gently. "Let me see your eyes."
She closed them tightly. A warm tear splashed upon his hand.
Count Poltavo was very white, but he smiled.
"Do you weep," he said softly, "because you have given yourself to me? Or because you do not love me?"
The tears fell faster.
He took both her hands. "Dear lady," he said, "let our hearts speak only true words to-day. You have already chosen a mate—is it not true?"
She sat mute, but a burning flush betrayed her.
The count rose suddenly to his feet, and made his way blindly to the rail. When he returned, a few moments later, his face was tranquil and serene. "I have put my question," he said lightly, "and you have answered it—with a blush! Let us drop the poor unfortunate subject into oblivion."
She took a long deep breath, as if throwing off the weight of a weary burden. "I am free?" she whispered.
He laughed somewhat harshly. "As free as a bird," he retorted, "to fly whither you will."
She did not answer, but unthreaded the ring, with trembling fingers, and handed it to him without a word.
He drew back, shaking his head. "Will you honour me by keeping it as a memento of your—ah!—freedom? To think upon, in happier days?"
"I will keep it," she said softly, "in memory of a man whom I could wish to love!"
A silence fell between them, which the girl presently broke.
"You also had something to tell me?" she said.
He roused himself. "It is true—I had almost forgot!" He stopped and looked about them, as if to reassure himself that they were quite alone. "Your father is very ill," he began, "too ill to receive proper attention aboard this ship. I have decided, therefore,"—he lowered his voice to a whisper,—"to transfer him, as soon as he is able, to the first steamer we meet. It can be arranged, quite simply, with assumed names. You will take him to some quiet place, and, when he is quite restored, return with him to America."
The light of a great hope shone in her eyes.
Impulsively, she bent down, and touched his hand with her lips. "I can never, never repay you!" she murmured.
He rose smiling. From where he stood, the man in the mainmast was visible. He was shouting to somebody on the bridge, and pointing northward.
The count deftly interposed himself between the girl and the sea.
"You can repay me," he said slowly, "by returning at once with me to your father's stateroom, and promising to remain there until I come or send some one for you."
She looked up at him, startled, and the blood ebbed from her cheeks, leaving them ashen, but she asked no question, and he escorted her gravely to her father's cabin.
When he came again on deck, Baggin pointed triumphantly toward the north. "We make our final appeal to the world!" he cried.
It came reluctantly into view, a big grey-painted steamer with red-and-black funnels, a great, lumbering ocean beast.
Through their glasses the three men watched her, a puzzled frown upon the captain's face.
"I do not recognise her," he said, "but she looks like a gigantic cargo steamer."
"Her decks are crowded with passengers," said Baggin. "I can see women's hats and men in white; what is that structure forward?" He indicated a long superstructure before the steamer's bridge.
"There goes her flag."
A little ball crept up to the mainmast.
"We will show her ours," said the captain pleasantly, and pushed a button.
Instantly, with a crash that shook the ship, the forward gun of theMaria Braganzasent a shell whizzing through the air.
It fell short and wide of the steamer.
The captain turned to Poltavo, as for instructions.
"Sink her," said the count briefly.
But the steamer was never sunk.
The little ball that hung at the main suddenly broke, and out to the breeze there floated not the red ensign of the merchant service, but the Stars and Stripes of America—more, on the little flagstaff at the bow of the ship fluttered a tiny blue flag spangled with stars.
Livid of face, Captain Lombrosa sprang to the wheel.
"It's a Yankee man-o'-war!" he cried, and his voice was cracked. "We've——"
As he spoke the superstructure on the "intermediate," which had excited the count's curiosity, fell apart like a house of canvas—as it was—and the long slim barrel of a nine-inch gun swung round.
"Bang!"
The shell carried away a boat and a part of the wireless cabin.
"Every gun!" yelled Lombrosa, frantically pressing the buttons on the bridge before him. "We must run for it!"
Instantly, with an ear-splitting succession of crashes, the guns of theMaria Braganzacame into action.
To the last, fortune was with the Nine, for the second or third shot sent the American over with a list to starboard.
Round swung theMaria Braganzalike a frightened hare; the water foamed under her bows as, running under every ounce of steam, she made her retreat.
"We must drop all idea of picking up Zillier," said Baggin, white to the lips; "this damned warship is probably in wireless communication with a fleet; can you tap her messages?"
Poltavo shook his head.
"The first shell smashed our apparatus," he said. "What is that ahead?"
Lombrosa, with his telescope glued to his eye, was scanning the horizon.
"It looks like a sea fog."
But the captain made no reply.
Over the edge of the ocean hung a thin red haze. He put the glass down, and turned a troubled face to the two men.
"In other latitudes I should say that it was a gathering typhoon," he said. He took another long look, put down the telescope, closed it mechanically, and hung it in the rack.
"Smoke," he said briefly. "We are running into a fleet."
He brought theMaria Braganza'sbows northward, but the smoke haze was there, too.
East, north, south, west, a great circle of smoke and theMaria Braganzatrapped in the very centre.
Out of the smoke haze grey shadowy shapes, dirty grey hulls, white hulls, hulls black as pitch, loomed into view.
The captain rang his engines to "stop."
"We are caught," he said.
He opened a locker on the bridge leisurely, and took out a revolver.
"I have no regrets," he said—it was a challenge to fate.
Then he shot himself and fell dead at the feet of the two. Baggin sprang forward, but too late.
"You coward!" he screamed. He shook his fist in the dead man's face, then he turned like a wild beast on Poltavo. "This is the end of it! This is the end of your scheme! Curse you! Curse you!"
He leapt at the Russian's throat.
For a moment they swayed and struggled, then suddenly Baggin released his hold, dropped his head like a tired man, and slid to the deck.
Count Poltavo flung the knife overboard, and lit a cigarette with a hand that did not tremble.
* * * * * * *
One last expiring effort theMaria Braganzamade; you could almost follow Poltavo, as he sped from one side of the ship to the other, by the spasmodic shots that came from the doomed ship.
Then four men-of-war detached themselves from the encircling fleets and steamed in toward the Brazilian. Shell after shell beat upon the steel hull of the "Mad Battleship," a great hole gaped in her side, her funnels were shot away, her foremast hung limply.
A white flag waved feebly from her bridge, and a British destroyer came with a swift run across the smoky seas.
Up the companion-ladder came a rush of marines; and, after them, a revolver in his hand, T. B. Smith, a prosaic Assistant-Commissioner from Scotland Yard, and Van Ingen.
T. B. came upon the count standing with his back to a bulkhead, grimy—bloodstained, but with the butt of a cigarette still glowing in the corner of his mouth.
"You are Count Ivan Poltavo," said T. B., and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. "I shall take you into custody on a charge of wilful murder, and I caution you that what you now say may be used in evidence against you at your trial."
The count laughed, though faintly.
"You come, as ever, a bit late, my friend."
He flung overboard a tiny phial, which he had held concealed in his hand. He turned to Van Ingen.
"You will find Miss Grayson in the cabin with her father, who is dying. For him, also, Mr. Smith comes a trifle too late."
He staggered backward.
Van Ingen and the detective sprang to his support.
The marines had gathered about in an awe-struck circle.
A slight foam gathered upon the count's lips. He opened his eyes.