CHAPTER VIIPASSENGERS FOR HOLLANDThe channel boatFlushingwas waiting the boat train that left London Bridge Station at eightP.M.The grizzled skipper leaned from the bridge and watched the queue of travelers wind slowly along the quay, disappear into a little house and emerge somewhat ruffled in feelings.A few of these travelers were turned back. One, at least, was bundled into a closed van, which climbed the hill and was swallowed by the night mist. This van bore the magic legend “H.M.S.â€� on its barred sides.Fay had some misgivings concerning the inspection he expected at the small house on the quay. He had not yet learned the value of the little silver greyhound which he wore in his left lapel. The protesting commercial traveler, who had shared the first-class compartment on the train coming down, had some difficulty in convincing three sage-faced men in the small house that he was merely bound to Holland in the interests of a Brixton firm that manufactured electrical goods.The traveler was passed finally. He went through the door and hurried up the gangplank to the waitingFlushing. The three serious men turned and glancedat Fay, who stood with the corner of his coat turned down and the silver greyhound showing slightly.Each inspector stared keenly, first at Fay and then at the black bag he carried. Each lifted a hand and covered a chin. Each bowed as the hands dropped and motioned toward the door through which the electrical salesman had fled precipitately.“A King’s courier!â€� Fay heard one say. “I wonder who’ll be next.â€�The next to enter the dingy house on the quay was the Scot who had sprung aboard the boat train after being signaled by MacKeenon. He was passed after he had opened his overcoat, his coat, and had thrust a wrinkled thumb under a suspender strap, pinned upon which was a gold insignia that was graven with two letters, “M.P.â€�“Gold follows silver, tonight,â€� said one of the inspectors. “There is something going to happen in Holland.â€�The boat cast off from the quay and, clearing the buoys, struck through the murk on the long leg to the Continent. A winding shroud came down the sea and blotted out every light. A moaning lifted from the waves. Above this moaning sounded the steady clanking of the Clyde-built engines which were of four-expansions and balanced.Knot by knot, league over league, the fast boat cut through the night. The grizzled skipper placed his trust in providence and held his North Sea course, edging as the hours went on toward the Lowland Country.Fay had secured a mid-ship cabin, locked the door behind the black bag, and emerged to the rail which was lined with passengers suffering from choppy seas and lunging gyrations calculated to upset the staunchest stomach.He fished in his vest pocket, drew forth a black cigar which the electrical salesman had given to him on the train, and lighted it by a scratch of a match on the sole of his shoe.It glowed, and cast his face in a ruddy prominence. A little old man, with a bundle, shrank against a ventilator and tried to merge with its shadow. Fay noticed this motion but saw no relation between it and his mission.A touch on his arm denoted the commercial traveler who had been searching the ship for a companion.“Muddy night,â€� he said, glancing at his own cigar. “Beastly wet for my samples, which I hope are below.â€�Fay nodded. He drew down his cap, removed the cigar from his mouth, flecked off the gray ash, and studied the glowing end.“Holland,â€� he asked, “is over there?â€� The cigar pointed like a pistol toward the starboard bow. It swung a point and steadied. It recoiled back into Fay’s mouth.“Over there, yes,â€� said the commercial traveler. “We’ll dock at sun-up, if there is going to be a sun on this murky morning.â€�Fay glanced at the man. A question revolved and took form as he waited for the boat to resume an even keel. “This new war?â€� he asked, “thiscommercial thing which has come up? They say it’s going to be a whale of a task, for England.â€�The salesman, whose samples consisted of a line of motors and rheostats, had been led straight upon his pet hobby. He was the forerunner of the horde who were to bring about the final triumph of the Allies over theMittelnations. His companions swarmed in Mesopotamia, in Palestine, in Siberia, in the Balkans, and in the old markets of Holland and the North Countries.He started upon a well-memorized line of sales talk, which, to Fay, was enlightening but hardly to the point he was after.“A moment,â€� Fay said. “It has just come to me, sir, that I heard a chap in the West End say something about the dye industry. Is it so fearfully important? Has Germany the monopoly? I rather thought they were making the stuff in England and the States.â€�“Cost too much!â€� declared the commercial traveler. “You see, an old dog still has his tricks. There’s danger that the old dog, and I mean Germany, will come into her own again in the dye industry. She had the monopoly once, and she is liable to get it again.â€�Fay studied the cold end of his cigar. He waited for the man to warm to the subject.The commercial traveler drew his cravenette coat-collar up to his eyes and pointed astern and over the rocking taffrail of the Channel boat.“The Island, there,â€� he said in the voice of pounds,shillings and pence, “is recovering from one struggle and plunging into another. The cheap labor of Germany and Russia must have an outlet. This outlet, in dye-stuffs particularly, is threatening to flood the market. You say that the tariff protects England and the States. I say that the tariff does not! There are the foreign markets, open to Germany, without which no industry can flourish. What of South America and Africa and the velvet of the trade? Open to the Germans as well as to us!â€�Fay watched the man’s face as he asked quickly:“This dye monopoly! Is it because of secret formulae which England has not been able to work out?â€�“The nail on the head! The Germans have had five thousand chemists working on coal tar products for twenty years. They redoubled their efforts over the years of the war. They are ready to flood the dye markets and put out of business every dye maker in the world, save German. You see what that means.â€�Fay turned and stared aft. “So the poor crawlers on that Island are face to face with the problem of finding the secrets of the dye industry?â€� he inquired.“Oh, if they had all the formulae they could bankrupt the German game! I heard that secrets were brought through Switzerland. I never learned of anything coming of them. Sort of stalemated there! I suppose the Foreign Office was hoaxed.â€�“Most likely,â€� said Fay, fearing to go further in the matter. “I did hear something to that effect. Too bad!â€�The traveler clutched the rail and waited for theboat to finish twisting on a downward lunge which followed the general outlines of a corkscrew. Fay glided off and forward. He stood in a shadow beneath the damp ladder that led upward to the wheel-house and chart-room. He grasped a stay and peered beyond the green glow which was thrown outward from a faint starboard light.The wall of yellowish fog toward which they were ever steaming rested upon long oily rollers which were crossed by smaller waves. The North Sea gave forth a hollow sound as from some vast space. The hiss of their swift passage was like yeast in process of fermenting.Clutched in the onward surge of the passage, he reviewed the words of the commercial traveler. There was food for thought in them. The great game to play concerned the destiny of a vast industry. Briefly, Germany was about ready to ruin the dye enterprises of the States and England. The matter hung on the thin thread of the cipher which Sir Richard had shown to him in that dingy house near the Embankment.That, solved, would place the entire world on an equality. The little dye works could compete with the larger. The formulae would be open to any man. The galling monopoly, to come, would be removed. It all lay in that safe in Holland toward which the “fastâ€� boat was steaming.Fay stared at the yellow curtain and dug deep within his brain. It was possible to double back on his trail, soon after landing, and make for Scotland. From there he could take steamer to the States. It wasalso possible to work by little-known lines through Stavanger and the northern cities. The Yard had no call upon him save a personal appeal.Freedom of action had broadened his thoughts. He no longer was the numbered thing in the stony coffin at Dartmoor. He breathed, and lived and had some right to the good things of this life.Unclasping his hand from the stay, he turned and glanced along the deck. It was lined with passengers who huddled against the rail—shapeless masses of brown and gray and glistening waterproof.The commercial traveler had met with a kindred soul in the person of the little Scot with a bundle. Their voices sounded above the roar of the swift passage. The Scot was, in his cunning way, pumping the traveler dry as to what he had said to Fay.Fay turned a shoulder to them and started forward beyond the break of the pilot and chart house. He heard voices raised in the smoking-room. Pressing his face to the forward midship port-hole, he wiped the mist from the glass and peered in.Three men sat about a table upon which was a scattering of silver and gold. At their elbows glasses perched. In their hands were cards. They swung with the ship, lunged toward each other, and straightened like dummies in a pantomime. They played their hands, and redealt. Fay realized that a game of American stud was going on. He wiped the port-glass and studied the three faces.One was cockney with a great arching nose and a loose catfish mouth. He wore a green cravat and ahorsey pin. The second player was stout and triple chinned. He might have been a Yorkshire horseman going across for Holland mares. The third player, whose face was almost hidden by the back of his head, interested Fay. There was that in the poise of the man which brought back deep-sea memories when certain cliques haunted the smoking-rooms of five-day boats.This man wore a pair of smoked glasses.Fay watched the tide of fortune through the port-hole. It was evident that between the striking of the ship’s bell for threeA.M.and three-thirtyA.M.—six strokes and seven—the man with the glasses had increased his pile of gold at the expense of the Yorkshire squire.Keen-brained and trained to note appearances, Fay realized that the man with the glasses had some percentage upon the game. He searched his memory for the man’s name. That head and the narrow sloping shoulders were more than familiar. He decided to enter the smoking-room.Rounding the bay of the break of the pilot-house and chart-room, and passing under the dripping staunchions of the bridge, he clasped the handle of a sliding door and pressed firmly.A gust of mist and briny air drove through the welcome opening. Fay entered and closed the door. He moved, not too swiftly, toward a lounge where he could overlook the players, pressed a button on the cabin furnishing, and threw open his coat with a relieved motion as he sat down.An under-steward came from aft and stared aboutthe room. Fay leaned over a little table, whispered “hot Scotchâ€� and rubbed his hands from which the oakum stains had almost been effaced.He turned then, and stared point-blankly at the players. The man with the glasses faced him. There was a scar on the chin. There was a firm set to the mouth. There was that which told of a young man who had the oldest face in the world. It was Broadway-trained and set to the wise leer of an international swindler.“Um,â€� thought Fay, crossing his leg and intensifying his stare. “Ump!â€� he added under his breath. “That’s an old friend—Ace-in-the-hole Harry. No wonder the poor squire is being trimmed.â€�Fay shot a final glance and turned toward the under-steward, who held the Scotch on a silver tray.Taking the drink, he passed over a shilling and a sixpence, set the glass down, and started making tiny circles on the table with his finger nail.“Last time I saw him,â€� he reflected, “was at ‘Jimmy’s.’ Time before that, was in Cairo—at Shepherd’s. And the time before Shepherd’s was on a Cape boat—theKenilworth Castle—where he was trimming gulls by the ancient and honorable game of dealing seconds.â€�Fay divined with professional intuition that the fish-mouthed cockney was Harry’s partner, although their voices were raised in angry recriminations.He sipped at the Scotch, then rose and watched the game from a leaning position at the end of the lounge. The sharper dealt without apparent manipulation. Hishands spread over the card, lifted a corner, then reached for the deck as the Yorkshire squire tossed a sovereign upon the table.Fay watched the deal. The light was glaring. The eyes behind the smoked glasses flashed, then centered on the gold piece. The game went on with more gold entering the pot. The show-down, where the sharper won, revealed the fact that the Yorkshire squire had a queen in the hole and the dealer had a king. It was that close!Fay felt inclined to whistle. He was interested enough to watch other deals which all seemed set and regular. Ace-in-the-hole Harry had solved mind-reading, concluded the cracksman, as he sat down on the lounge and revolved the problem in his mind.The game closed suddenly. The Yorkshire squire rose, glared at the two players, then stamped out through the door and went aft with a string of oaths falling behind him, like chips from a whittler.“May gol blyme!â€� said the cockney. “’E’s a rum cove. We cawn’t always win, y’know.â€�Harry with the long pseudonym removed his smoked glasses and stared at Fay.“A bit o’ deck would help us out,â€� he said coldly. “I’m wondering if we make the connecting boat at Stavanger?â€�Fay glanced at his hot Scotch and lifted it as the two men strode toward the door, through which they passed to the deck.He allowed the thin shadow of a smile to cross his lips. He turned and caught a reflection of himself ina long mirror. He studied this object with concern. The flight of time, since last he had seen the cardsharper, had wrought many changes in his appearance. He was keener-faced and firmer of mouth. The silver-gray hair at his temples was unnatural and gave him a youthful appearance due to contrast.“Stavanger,â€� he said upending the glass and feeling the warmth of the liquor. “I’ll remember that. Few Greeks go to that port. I wonder why he’s going there?â€�“Greeks,â€� in the argot of the underworld, were cardsharpers and sure-thing manipulators. Fay despised their profession. He had an abiding belief that a man had not lost all honor who would take a strong-box or a long chance. There had been no chance in the sharper’s game. The meanest thief in the world, to him, was the professional gambler.He rose and closed his tweed coat with a quick motion. The ship’s bell had struck two times, spaced close together. It was five o’clock. The Lowland Country must soon appear through the fog.It came to him, as he stepped to the dark deck, that the one change in the sharper’s make-up was the smoked glasses. They were incongruous and beetle-appearing. They struck a false note in a card game. Fay felt dimly that there was a good reason for wearing them. He sensed a mystery there. He revolved the matter in his mind and searched the deck for the two. They had disappeared into a cabin. Most probably they were dividing the wool shorn from the Yorkshire lamb.A bo’swain, in sou’wester and oilskins, was heaving the lead from the starboard chains of the foremast standing-rigging. He called the fathoms with monotonous regularity. “By the deep, four,â€� rolled along the ship. A bell clanged. A jingle sounded. The screw thrashed as the helm was ported. A stumpy man, in smug pea-jacket, came out of the pilot-house, and grasping a funnel stay, leaned far forward. He searched the yellow fog which drifted athwart the bow. He whipped out a pair of twelve-diameter glasses and focused them with his right thumb.He turned his head, lowered the glasses and pointed toward a green buoy which was passed close to starboard. This buoy bore the number “9â€� on its side. The wheelman put up the wheel three spokes, then steadied the ship. She groped on with careful searching until a mud spit ran beneath the fog curtain and headed their course.“Up more,â€� said the man in the pea-jacket. “Hard up!â€� he snapped with British vim. “All the way up, you!â€�The ship sheered like a frightened sow and lay broadside to the spit. The screw thrashed. They wore around the point and started clamping down a fog-shrouded channel which was lined with green buoys and gas flares.The scent of fish and lowland marshes came over the water. The clank of a hidden windmill sounded close to port. One gaunt arm pierced through the veil and then was gone. The way ahead opened and revealed a vista of smacks and crude wooden schooners. Theveil dropped upon a scene that Rembrandt would have fancied. Fay turned away and started toward his cabin. They were reaching port. The passage from Dover had been made without accident. It had been through a sea that had been stained red by the blood of British seamen.Sounds of commerce were on every hand as theFlushingbulled the air with her Mersey-built siren. She glided over oily backwater and came to a scant headway before the outlines of a high quay which was half-revealed in the yellow light of lowland dawn.Fay opened his door, stepped into the midship-cabin and sat down on his unused bunk. He closed his eyes and reviewed the events of the passage. He made note of a number of things which might have bearing on the cipher quest. The commercial traveler had rounded out the importance of the information Scotland Yard had sent him to obtain. This man from Brixton was a forerunner in the great commercial war which was girding the world. He was a scout and an outpost. After him would come a horde of others. Devastated Belgium, Northern France and depleted Holland and Germany were open markets. They had been glutted by the Great Struggle. They were like stores from the shelves of which all staple goods had been swept.The second event of the voyage, in meeting with the deep-sea Greek, had a different bearing on the quest. Fay realized, as he dropped his head in his hands, that a pull had come which was strong as desire, and sweet with freedom. Stavanger, where the sharper was goingwith his cockney foil, was a port out of which many ships sailed and steamed. From Stavanger it would be possible to shake the Yard and the runners of New Victoria Street. Liberty in every action was possible if he would hasten to the northern port before the Yard was aware of his dereliction. And liberty was a tempting morsel to hold before a prisoner on parole.Fay lifted his eyes and stared at the sheathing of his narrow cabin. The ship had reached the quay. The passengers were crowded forward where they expected the gangway to be thrust aboard. Their voices, cosmopolitan mingled, broke through the silence of the mid-ship stateroom.A grating sounded along the boat’s planks. A shudder passed from fore to aft. The siren blared three short signals. A call came across the water. Light, from a mist-hidden sun, illumined the port-hole over Fay’s bunk. He glanced at this evidence of day.Bending suddenly, he reached and lifted the little black bag. The tools clinked slightly. He inserted a key and glanced at them. They were such as any doctor of surgery might have carried. There was not a particle of incriminating evidence in the bag. Fay rose, lifted a towel from a rack, glanced at its corners to assure himself that there was no marking to show from whence it came, then swiftly bound and wrapped the instruments so that they gave forth no sound as he dropped the bag to the stateroom’s deck.He searched through his pockets. The money inhis right-hand pocket, the cigarette case, the automatic revolver on his hip, all were inspected. Replacing these, he drew out the two envelopes MacKeenon had passed to him at London Bridge Station.The first contained one hundred pounds in Bank of England notes. These were folded lengthwise. They were crinkling new and sweet to the touch. He pocketed them and tore the edge of the second envelope. Its contents caused him to furrow his brow.The note it contained was from Sir Richard. It read:“S. I. informs me, via phone, that D. G. tailed you from her house, going south. She saw him pass from upper window. Govern yourself accordingly. Get wise, F., and don’t overlook the trifles.Your Masked Friend.â€�Fay read the note twice before he laid it in the wash-bowl and touched a match to its edge. He breathed tensely as he waited for the smoke to clear from the stateroom. It was all too evident that Sir Richard and the girl were hand in glove in the cipher matter.There was that in the note which spoke for itself. Fay felt that it had been written more for the effect it would have on his loyalty than for the information it contained. Besides, after all, Dutch Gus had given up tailing him and had waited until Saidee left the house in her black motor.Fay lifted his cap, brushed back his hair, turned on the water and washed the ashes of the note down through the drain, then seized the black bag andhurried through the stateroom door. His trail was a clean one. There was no evidence of his intentions, one way or the other, upon the North Sea boat.He worked forward between protesting lines of waiting passengers. He reached the ladder which led up to the wheel-house and chart-room. There, grouped against the bay of the smoking-room, he saw the cardsharper—sans glasses and sans his wooden stare. Beyond the “Greek,â€� as a man apart, stood the racy-looking cockney in a great tan coat, trimmed with coster buttons. Their luggage was also separated. This final touch was for the benefit of the gulls and pigeons they had trimmed on the passage over.Fay swung and stared over the low housetops of the city. Smoke drifted across the quay and wreathed the deck-staunchions. Heavy guttural voices echoed from the pile-strewn shore. A curious crowd of Lowlanders stood on the edge of the dock and stared toward the ship. Among them were dogs and well-matured children.“All ashore!â€� called the skipper from a ledge before the wheel-house. “Line this way and pass the inspectors. All bags and luggage will be opened.â€�Fay pressed back the lapel of his tweed coat and exposed the little silver greyhound as he stepped upon the gangplank. He felt a pressure on his back as he worked slowly up the crowded incline. He reached the funnel of the outlet—a roped-in bay where stood two Dutch custom inspectors, their broad faces gleaming with good humor and badinage.Behind them leaned a man with an old pipe. This pipe turned and dropped its ashes as Fay pressed forward the insignia by holding out the lapel of his coat with a steady thumb.The custom inspectors turned to the man with the pipe. They asked a question in Dutch.The man tilted his pipe upward with a sudden twist of his wrist and said very distinctly:“By all means pass him! Never mind the bag!â€�Fay stepped ashore. He turned to see who had been pressing against his back. He overlooked the trifle! A little old Scot, with a bundle, had already scurried behind a shed from which he peered with ferret-like intentness.
The channel boatFlushingwas waiting the boat train that left London Bridge Station at eightP.M.The grizzled skipper leaned from the bridge and watched the queue of travelers wind slowly along the quay, disappear into a little house and emerge somewhat ruffled in feelings.
A few of these travelers were turned back. One, at least, was bundled into a closed van, which climbed the hill and was swallowed by the night mist. This van bore the magic legend “H.M.S.� on its barred sides.
Fay had some misgivings concerning the inspection he expected at the small house on the quay. He had not yet learned the value of the little silver greyhound which he wore in his left lapel. The protesting commercial traveler, who had shared the first-class compartment on the train coming down, had some difficulty in convincing three sage-faced men in the small house that he was merely bound to Holland in the interests of a Brixton firm that manufactured electrical goods.
The traveler was passed finally. He went through the door and hurried up the gangplank to the waitingFlushing. The three serious men turned and glancedat Fay, who stood with the corner of his coat turned down and the silver greyhound showing slightly.
Each inspector stared keenly, first at Fay and then at the black bag he carried. Each lifted a hand and covered a chin. Each bowed as the hands dropped and motioned toward the door through which the electrical salesman had fled precipitately.
“A King’s courier!� Fay heard one say. “I wonder who’ll be next.�
The next to enter the dingy house on the quay was the Scot who had sprung aboard the boat train after being signaled by MacKeenon. He was passed after he had opened his overcoat, his coat, and had thrust a wrinkled thumb under a suspender strap, pinned upon which was a gold insignia that was graven with two letters, “M.P.�
“Gold follows silver, tonight,� said one of the inspectors. “There is something going to happen in Holland.�
The boat cast off from the quay and, clearing the buoys, struck through the murk on the long leg to the Continent. A winding shroud came down the sea and blotted out every light. A moaning lifted from the waves. Above this moaning sounded the steady clanking of the Clyde-built engines which were of four-expansions and balanced.
Knot by knot, league over league, the fast boat cut through the night. The grizzled skipper placed his trust in providence and held his North Sea course, edging as the hours went on toward the Lowland Country.
Fay had secured a mid-ship cabin, locked the door behind the black bag, and emerged to the rail which was lined with passengers suffering from choppy seas and lunging gyrations calculated to upset the staunchest stomach.
He fished in his vest pocket, drew forth a black cigar which the electrical salesman had given to him on the train, and lighted it by a scratch of a match on the sole of his shoe.
It glowed, and cast his face in a ruddy prominence. A little old man, with a bundle, shrank against a ventilator and tried to merge with its shadow. Fay noticed this motion but saw no relation between it and his mission.
A touch on his arm denoted the commercial traveler who had been searching the ship for a companion.
“Muddy night,� he said, glancing at his own cigar. “Beastly wet for my samples, which I hope are below.�
Fay nodded. He drew down his cap, removed the cigar from his mouth, flecked off the gray ash, and studied the glowing end.
“Holland,� he asked, “is over there?� The cigar pointed like a pistol toward the starboard bow. It swung a point and steadied. It recoiled back into Fay’s mouth.
“Over there, yes,� said the commercial traveler. “We’ll dock at sun-up, if there is going to be a sun on this murky morning.�
Fay glanced at the man. A question revolved and took form as he waited for the boat to resume an even keel. “This new war?� he asked, “thiscommercial thing which has come up? They say it’s going to be a whale of a task, for England.�
The salesman, whose samples consisted of a line of motors and rheostats, had been led straight upon his pet hobby. He was the forerunner of the horde who were to bring about the final triumph of the Allies over theMittelnations. His companions swarmed in Mesopotamia, in Palestine, in Siberia, in the Balkans, and in the old markets of Holland and the North Countries.
He started upon a well-memorized line of sales talk, which, to Fay, was enlightening but hardly to the point he was after.
“A moment,� Fay said. “It has just come to me, sir, that I heard a chap in the West End say something about the dye industry. Is it so fearfully important? Has Germany the monopoly? I rather thought they were making the stuff in England and the States.�
“Cost too much!� declared the commercial traveler. “You see, an old dog still has his tricks. There’s danger that the old dog, and I mean Germany, will come into her own again in the dye industry. She had the monopoly once, and she is liable to get it again.�
Fay studied the cold end of his cigar. He waited for the man to warm to the subject.
The commercial traveler drew his cravenette coat-collar up to his eyes and pointed astern and over the rocking taffrail of the Channel boat.
“The Island, there,� he said in the voice of pounds,shillings and pence, “is recovering from one struggle and plunging into another. The cheap labor of Germany and Russia must have an outlet. This outlet, in dye-stuffs particularly, is threatening to flood the market. You say that the tariff protects England and the States. I say that the tariff does not! There are the foreign markets, open to Germany, without which no industry can flourish. What of South America and Africa and the velvet of the trade? Open to the Germans as well as to us!�
Fay watched the man’s face as he asked quickly:
“This dye monopoly! Is it because of secret formulae which England has not been able to work out?�
“The nail on the head! The Germans have had five thousand chemists working on coal tar products for twenty years. They redoubled their efforts over the years of the war. They are ready to flood the dye markets and put out of business every dye maker in the world, save German. You see what that means.�
Fay turned and stared aft. “So the poor crawlers on that Island are face to face with the problem of finding the secrets of the dye industry?� he inquired.
“Oh, if they had all the formulae they could bankrupt the German game! I heard that secrets were brought through Switzerland. I never learned of anything coming of them. Sort of stalemated there! I suppose the Foreign Office was hoaxed.�
“Most likely,� said Fay, fearing to go further in the matter. “I did hear something to that effect. Too bad!�
The traveler clutched the rail and waited for theboat to finish twisting on a downward lunge which followed the general outlines of a corkscrew. Fay glided off and forward. He stood in a shadow beneath the damp ladder that led upward to the wheel-house and chart-room. He grasped a stay and peered beyond the green glow which was thrown outward from a faint starboard light.
The wall of yellowish fog toward which they were ever steaming rested upon long oily rollers which were crossed by smaller waves. The North Sea gave forth a hollow sound as from some vast space. The hiss of their swift passage was like yeast in process of fermenting.
Clutched in the onward surge of the passage, he reviewed the words of the commercial traveler. There was food for thought in them. The great game to play concerned the destiny of a vast industry. Briefly, Germany was about ready to ruin the dye enterprises of the States and England. The matter hung on the thin thread of the cipher which Sir Richard had shown to him in that dingy house near the Embankment.
That, solved, would place the entire world on an equality. The little dye works could compete with the larger. The formulae would be open to any man. The galling monopoly, to come, would be removed. It all lay in that safe in Holland toward which the “fast� boat was steaming.
Fay stared at the yellow curtain and dug deep within his brain. It was possible to double back on his trail, soon after landing, and make for Scotland. From there he could take steamer to the States. It wasalso possible to work by little-known lines through Stavanger and the northern cities. The Yard had no call upon him save a personal appeal.
Freedom of action had broadened his thoughts. He no longer was the numbered thing in the stony coffin at Dartmoor. He breathed, and lived and had some right to the good things of this life.
Unclasping his hand from the stay, he turned and glanced along the deck. It was lined with passengers who huddled against the rail—shapeless masses of brown and gray and glistening waterproof.
The commercial traveler had met with a kindred soul in the person of the little Scot with a bundle. Their voices sounded above the roar of the swift passage. The Scot was, in his cunning way, pumping the traveler dry as to what he had said to Fay.
Fay turned a shoulder to them and started forward beyond the break of the pilot and chart house. He heard voices raised in the smoking-room. Pressing his face to the forward midship port-hole, he wiped the mist from the glass and peered in.
Three men sat about a table upon which was a scattering of silver and gold. At their elbows glasses perched. In their hands were cards. They swung with the ship, lunged toward each other, and straightened like dummies in a pantomime. They played their hands, and redealt. Fay realized that a game of American stud was going on. He wiped the port-glass and studied the three faces.
One was cockney with a great arching nose and a loose catfish mouth. He wore a green cravat and ahorsey pin. The second player was stout and triple chinned. He might have been a Yorkshire horseman going across for Holland mares. The third player, whose face was almost hidden by the back of his head, interested Fay. There was that in the poise of the man which brought back deep-sea memories when certain cliques haunted the smoking-rooms of five-day boats.
This man wore a pair of smoked glasses.
Fay watched the tide of fortune through the port-hole. It was evident that between the striking of the ship’s bell for threeA.M.and three-thirtyA.M.—six strokes and seven—the man with the glasses had increased his pile of gold at the expense of the Yorkshire squire.
Keen-brained and trained to note appearances, Fay realized that the man with the glasses had some percentage upon the game. He searched his memory for the man’s name. That head and the narrow sloping shoulders were more than familiar. He decided to enter the smoking-room.
Rounding the bay of the break of the pilot-house and chart-room, and passing under the dripping staunchions of the bridge, he clasped the handle of a sliding door and pressed firmly.
A gust of mist and briny air drove through the welcome opening. Fay entered and closed the door. He moved, not too swiftly, toward a lounge where he could overlook the players, pressed a button on the cabin furnishing, and threw open his coat with a relieved motion as he sat down.
An under-steward came from aft and stared aboutthe room. Fay leaned over a little table, whispered “hot Scotch� and rubbed his hands from which the oakum stains had almost been effaced.
He turned then, and stared point-blankly at the players. The man with the glasses faced him. There was a scar on the chin. There was a firm set to the mouth. There was that which told of a young man who had the oldest face in the world. It was Broadway-trained and set to the wise leer of an international swindler.
“Um,â€� thought Fay, crossing his leg and intensifying his stare. “Ump!â€� he added under his breath. “That’s an old friend—Ace-in-the-hole Harry. No wonder the poor squire is being trimmed.â€�
Fay shot a final glance and turned toward the under-steward, who held the Scotch on a silver tray.
Taking the drink, he passed over a shilling and a sixpence, set the glass down, and started making tiny circles on the table with his finger nail.
“Last time I saw him,â€� he reflected, “was at ‘Jimmy’s.’ Time before that, was in Cairo—at Shepherd’s. And the time before Shepherd’s was on a Cape boat—theKenilworth Castle—where he was trimming gulls by the ancient and honorable game of dealing seconds.â€�
Fay divined with professional intuition that the fish-mouthed cockney was Harry’s partner, although their voices were raised in angry recriminations.
He sipped at the Scotch, then rose and watched the game from a leaning position at the end of the lounge. The sharper dealt without apparent manipulation. Hishands spread over the card, lifted a corner, then reached for the deck as the Yorkshire squire tossed a sovereign upon the table.
Fay watched the deal. The light was glaring. The eyes behind the smoked glasses flashed, then centered on the gold piece. The game went on with more gold entering the pot. The show-down, where the sharper won, revealed the fact that the Yorkshire squire had a queen in the hole and the dealer had a king. It was that close!
Fay felt inclined to whistle. He was interested enough to watch other deals which all seemed set and regular. Ace-in-the-hole Harry had solved mind-reading, concluded the cracksman, as he sat down on the lounge and revolved the problem in his mind.
The game closed suddenly. The Yorkshire squire rose, glared at the two players, then stamped out through the door and went aft with a string of oaths falling behind him, like chips from a whittler.
“May gol blyme!� said the cockney. “’E’s a rum cove. We cawn’t always win, y’know.�
Harry with the long pseudonym removed his smoked glasses and stared at Fay.
“A bit o’ deck would help us out,� he said coldly. “I’m wondering if we make the connecting boat at Stavanger?�
Fay glanced at his hot Scotch and lifted it as the two men strode toward the door, through which they passed to the deck.
He allowed the thin shadow of a smile to cross his lips. He turned and caught a reflection of himself ina long mirror. He studied this object with concern. The flight of time, since last he had seen the cardsharper, had wrought many changes in his appearance. He was keener-faced and firmer of mouth. The silver-gray hair at his temples was unnatural and gave him a youthful appearance due to contrast.
“Stavanger,� he said upending the glass and feeling the warmth of the liquor. “I’ll remember that. Few Greeks go to that port. I wonder why he’s going there?�
“Greeks,� in the argot of the underworld, were cardsharpers and sure-thing manipulators. Fay despised their profession. He had an abiding belief that a man had not lost all honor who would take a strong-box or a long chance. There had been no chance in the sharper’s game. The meanest thief in the world, to him, was the professional gambler.
He rose and closed his tweed coat with a quick motion. The ship’s bell had struck two times, spaced close together. It was five o’clock. The Lowland Country must soon appear through the fog.
It came to him, as he stepped to the dark deck, that the one change in the sharper’s make-up was the smoked glasses. They were incongruous and beetle-appearing. They struck a false note in a card game. Fay felt dimly that there was a good reason for wearing them. He sensed a mystery there. He revolved the matter in his mind and searched the deck for the two. They had disappeared into a cabin. Most probably they were dividing the wool shorn from the Yorkshire lamb.
A bo’swain, in sou’wester and oilskins, was heaving the lead from the starboard chains of the foremast standing-rigging. He called the fathoms with monotonous regularity. “By the deep, four,� rolled along the ship. A bell clanged. A jingle sounded. The screw thrashed as the helm was ported. A stumpy man, in smug pea-jacket, came out of the pilot-house, and grasping a funnel stay, leaned far forward. He searched the yellow fog which drifted athwart the bow. He whipped out a pair of twelve-diameter glasses and focused them with his right thumb.
He turned his head, lowered the glasses and pointed toward a green buoy which was passed close to starboard. This buoy bore the number “9� on its side. The wheelman put up the wheel three spokes, then steadied the ship. She groped on with careful searching until a mud spit ran beneath the fog curtain and headed their course.
“Up more,� said the man in the pea-jacket. “Hard up!� he snapped with British vim. “All the way up, you!�
The ship sheered like a frightened sow and lay broadside to the spit. The screw thrashed. They wore around the point and started clamping down a fog-shrouded channel which was lined with green buoys and gas flares.
The scent of fish and lowland marshes came over the water. The clank of a hidden windmill sounded close to port. One gaunt arm pierced through the veil and then was gone. The way ahead opened and revealed a vista of smacks and crude wooden schooners. Theveil dropped upon a scene that Rembrandt would have fancied. Fay turned away and started toward his cabin. They were reaching port. The passage from Dover had been made without accident. It had been through a sea that had been stained red by the blood of British seamen.
Sounds of commerce were on every hand as theFlushingbulled the air with her Mersey-built siren. She glided over oily backwater and came to a scant headway before the outlines of a high quay which was half-revealed in the yellow light of lowland dawn.
Fay opened his door, stepped into the midship-cabin and sat down on his unused bunk. He closed his eyes and reviewed the events of the passage. He made note of a number of things which might have bearing on the cipher quest. The commercial traveler had rounded out the importance of the information Scotland Yard had sent him to obtain. This man from Brixton was a forerunner in the great commercial war which was girding the world. He was a scout and an outpost. After him would come a horde of others. Devastated Belgium, Northern France and depleted Holland and Germany were open markets. They had been glutted by the Great Struggle. They were like stores from the shelves of which all staple goods had been swept.
The second event of the voyage, in meeting with the deep-sea Greek, had a different bearing on the quest. Fay realized, as he dropped his head in his hands, that a pull had come which was strong as desire, and sweet with freedom. Stavanger, where the sharper was goingwith his cockney foil, was a port out of which many ships sailed and steamed. From Stavanger it would be possible to shake the Yard and the runners of New Victoria Street. Liberty in every action was possible if he would hasten to the northern port before the Yard was aware of his dereliction. And liberty was a tempting morsel to hold before a prisoner on parole.
Fay lifted his eyes and stared at the sheathing of his narrow cabin. The ship had reached the quay. The passengers were crowded forward where they expected the gangway to be thrust aboard. Their voices, cosmopolitan mingled, broke through the silence of the mid-ship stateroom.
A grating sounded along the boat’s planks. A shudder passed from fore to aft. The siren blared three short signals. A call came across the water. Light, from a mist-hidden sun, illumined the port-hole over Fay’s bunk. He glanced at this evidence of day.
Bending suddenly, he reached and lifted the little black bag. The tools clinked slightly. He inserted a key and glanced at them. They were such as any doctor of surgery might have carried. There was not a particle of incriminating evidence in the bag. Fay rose, lifted a towel from a rack, glanced at its corners to assure himself that there was no marking to show from whence it came, then swiftly bound and wrapped the instruments so that they gave forth no sound as he dropped the bag to the stateroom’s deck.
He searched through his pockets. The money inhis right-hand pocket, the cigarette case, the automatic revolver on his hip, all were inspected. Replacing these, he drew out the two envelopes MacKeenon had passed to him at London Bridge Station.
The first contained one hundred pounds in Bank of England notes. These were folded lengthwise. They were crinkling new and sweet to the touch. He pocketed them and tore the edge of the second envelope. Its contents caused him to furrow his brow.
The note it contained was from Sir Richard. It read:
“S. I. informs me, via phone, that D. G. tailed you from her house, going south. She saw him pass from upper window. Govern yourself accordingly. Get wise, F., and don’t overlook the trifles.Your Masked Friend.�
“S. I. informs me, via phone, that D. G. tailed you from her house, going south. She saw him pass from upper window. Govern yourself accordingly. Get wise, F., and don’t overlook the trifles.
Your Masked Friend.�
Fay read the note twice before he laid it in the wash-bowl and touched a match to its edge. He breathed tensely as he waited for the smoke to clear from the stateroom. It was all too evident that Sir Richard and the girl were hand in glove in the cipher matter.
There was that in the note which spoke for itself. Fay felt that it had been written more for the effect it would have on his loyalty than for the information it contained. Besides, after all, Dutch Gus had given up tailing him and had waited until Saidee left the house in her black motor.
Fay lifted his cap, brushed back his hair, turned on the water and washed the ashes of the note down through the drain, then seized the black bag andhurried through the stateroom door. His trail was a clean one. There was no evidence of his intentions, one way or the other, upon the North Sea boat.
He worked forward between protesting lines of waiting passengers. He reached the ladder which led up to the wheel-house and chart-room. There, grouped against the bay of the smoking-room, he saw the cardsharper—sans glasses and sans his wooden stare. Beyond the “Greek,â€� as a man apart, stood the racy-looking cockney in a great tan coat, trimmed with coster buttons. Their luggage was also separated. This final touch was for the benefit of the gulls and pigeons they had trimmed on the passage over.
Fay swung and stared over the low housetops of the city. Smoke drifted across the quay and wreathed the deck-staunchions. Heavy guttural voices echoed from the pile-strewn shore. A curious crowd of Lowlanders stood on the edge of the dock and stared toward the ship. Among them were dogs and well-matured children.
“All ashore!� called the skipper from a ledge before the wheel-house. “Line this way and pass the inspectors. All bags and luggage will be opened.�
Fay pressed back the lapel of his tweed coat and exposed the little silver greyhound as he stepped upon the gangplank. He felt a pressure on his back as he worked slowly up the crowded incline. He reached the funnel of the outlet—a roped-in bay where stood two Dutch custom inspectors, their broad faces gleaming with good humor and badinage.Behind them leaned a man with an old pipe. This pipe turned and dropped its ashes as Fay pressed forward the insignia by holding out the lapel of his coat with a steady thumb.
The custom inspectors turned to the man with the pipe. They asked a question in Dutch.
The man tilted his pipe upward with a sudden twist of his wrist and said very distinctly:
“By all means pass him! Never mind the bag!�
Fay stepped ashore. He turned to see who had been pressing against his back. He overlooked the trifle! A little old Scot, with a bundle, had already scurried behind a shed from which he peered with ferret-like intentness.