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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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The Two Men on the Pier—Tinker Follows—
The Hotel Kitchen—The Clean-shaved Man Traced.
"DON'T know when I've laughed so much. Performing monkeys always amuse me; they remind me so much of my friends. And now we'll just go and get a mouthful of fresh air at the end of the pier, and then we'll get home to dinner." The good-looking, clean-shaved man was one of the crowd who were just pouring out from the afternoon performance on the pier at Maretown, a fashionable and popular seaside resort. As he finished speaking, he linked his arm into that of a smart young fellow, and together they started off to walk to the end of the pier, the crowd little dreaming that the couple were Sexton Blake, the celebrated detective, and his assistant—Tinker.
"By Jove, this is good!" said Blake, opening his coat, and standing with his face to the breeze. "This is the sort of thing that takes one's brain away from the thought of crime and criminals. By the way, that's an unlucky remark, Tinker, for not twenty yards away I can see a nice little job waiting for you."
"Very good, sir!" replied Tinker smartly. "I'm always ready for work."
"Well," went on the detective, "you see those two men sitting over there, talking earnestly? There! The man with the pointed beard and the eyeglass, and the other one fat and clean-shaved. I hope to goodness they've not seen me. Anyway, perhaps it's not too late to take precautions now. Wait a moment, Tinker."
Blake produced a pair of blue spectacles from his pocket, slipped them on his nose, took two little globular things like a tennis-ball cut in half, and placed one in each cheek. This gave him the appearance of a fat-faced man: and, with the blue spectacles, he looked totally unlike the real Sexton Blake. He protruded his figure until he looked about four stone heavier than his real weight; and then, taking Tinker's arm, leant heavily on his stick, and whispered to his young assistant to walk quietly past the two men. He stumped along, leaning on his stick, and as he approached the couple, in a fat, wheezing voice, he asked if they could kindly tell him the time.
"Twenty-past five!" grunted the clean-shaved man, with a slight trace of a foreign accent. "And if you'd got eyes in your head you'd have been able to see the clock up there in the turret!"
"I think you might have seen that my friend wears blue glasses," said Tinker, in a reproachful voice. "And, for my own part, I never noticed the clock up there."
"Well, get away! I've answered your question, and perhaps you'll be good enough to leave us to our conversation."
"I'm quite sure, Tinker," said Blake, as they passed along, "the voice is the same, but the complexion is different."
"Well, let's walk round again, sir."
Round and round they walked, each time passing the two men, who were still chatting, till at last, on their fifth journey, they heard the clean-shaved man say to his companion:
"Well, that's settled now, then; and we meet no more till the twenty-fifth, when there's a blue moon."
"When there's a blue moon," repeated the man with the beard.
And Tinker felt his arm involuntarily pressed by Blake as the two men walked down the pier.
"Follow the clean-shaved man, Tinker," said Blake. "Find out where he goes, and what he does, and don't leave him till you've found out everything, even if you've got to stick to him for a month!"
Without a word, Tinker left Blake at the gate of the pier, and quite openly walked along behind the two men. Tinker followed the two men first of all up to the station, where the bearded man took a ticket for London. Tinker went to the bookstall, purchased a paper, saw the train steam off, and then quietly followed the clean-shaved man.
Nothing particular happened. Down the town again the man walked, along the front, now thick with visitors returning home to dinner at the various hotels and boarding-houses. Along the front walked the man, with Tinker close at his heels, and then went down a street, and stopped at a large and swagger residential hotel.
Contrary to Tinker's expectations, he did not enter by the main entrance, but hurried round to the back to a door marked " Staff," and, hastening through, disappeared.
Tinker was puzzled, for the man was most exquisitely dressed, and looked anything but an hotel servant. However, there it was, plain enough. The man had gone in by the staff entrance, and Tinker had been told by Blake to follow him and find out everything about him, and that must be done; but how?
Walking about at the top of the street, so that he could still keep an eye on the hotel, Tinker thought and thought till at last an idea struck him. Then he looked down at his beautifully-cut light flannel suit and his neat white boots, and smiled to himself. But something had to be done, and, with rather a wry face, he set about doing it.
There had been a slight summer shower, and little puddles had collected in the gutters; so, first of all, Tinker took out his knife, and, looking cautiously round to see that he was not overlooked or observed, he cut two or three slits in the uppers of each boot, and then soiled them with mud and water till they looked perfectly disreputable.
Next was the turn of his clothes. In an artistic manner he tore and cut rents in his coat and trousers; reaching his hand through some garden railings, and, with the aid of handfuls of mould, so dirtying himself that he looked as if he had been tramping for weeks.
His straw hat was soon made to look a wreck; and then, disreputable-looking as to his clothes, but clean in the face, he walked back once more to the staff entrance of the hotel.
Going down the steps which led to it, he knocked timidly at the door, and, hearing no response, he opened it, and saw that two more steps led downwards to a box with a glass front to it, in which sat one of the fattest men he had ever seen.
"Yes? What do you want?" roared the man, in a voice which seemed to shake the roof.
"If you please, sir," said Tinker timidly, fingering his straw hat, "I've come to see if I can get any work. I'll do anything—peel potatoes, scrub, wash, or do anything—to get my board and lodging. Look at the state I'm in!"
He turned himself round and round, so that the man could see how dirty and dilapidated he was, and then stood, the picture of a poor, dilapidated boy, humbly waiting to know if he could be employed.
"Well," shouted the man, "you'd better go and see the kitchen clerk downstairs—first room on the right. Say that Mellor sent you, though I don't think there's anything going.
Hie heart full of joy at getting in so far, Tinker went down still more stairs, till he came to a room on the right, and, timidly knocking, was told to come in. He saw there a thin, very bald, clean-shaved man sitting at a table, writing rapidly.
"Well—well—well—well, what is it?" snapped the man irritably. "What do you want, you dirty little brat? What do you want, you scarecrow, you fright, you object? Come on, speak now! Quick, quick, quick!"
The man jumped off his seat, and spoke so quickly and excitedly, and waved his arms about, that Tinker could not help smiling to himself at the curious exhibition; but he remembered his part, and spoke as a humble, suppliant boy.
"Work—-work—work! Good gracious me! Everybody in this town seems to think that I've got work to give away, judging from the applications I have! But it happens that I do believe we want a kitchen-boy. Yes, yes; I know we do. Have you got any references?"
"Oh, yes; I can refer you to a gentleman staying in the town now! He's been very good to me, sir—very kind indeed. His name's Bell, and he's staying at 14, Marine Terrace."
"Very good, very good, very good! Off you go, now! Come back at ten o'clock tomorrow, and I'll see if there's anything going."
"Couldn't you keep me on now, sir!" pleaded Tinker, feeling sick at heart at seeing no further, or being able to trace his man. "If I can only do a bit of work now, sir, for a bit of food and perhaps a copper, I should be so grateful! I don't mind what it is, sir, because I'm so fearfully hungry."
"All right; all right, all right! Go into the kitchen, then. I dare say they'll find you a job or two; and, if not, you'll get something to eat."
He opened the door and pointed to the end of the passage, where Tinker could dimly observe the kitchen, with many white-coated figures flitting to and fro.
Down the passage he went, and entered the kitchen—a huge, long apartment, with glowing fires and grills for cooking purposes, huge ovens, and every conceivable appliance which is necessary for the cooking in a big hotel.
There were at least thirty or forty men in the kitchen. Some in white coats and white caps—these were the chefs and their assistants; others were in evening-dress—these were the waiters; while seated in a corner near the lift was a man receiving slips of paper from the waiters, and ramming them on files, and checking the dishes in a book as they were carried past him to the lift.
This was the man who kept an account of all the meals which were sent up to the dining-room; and each waiter had afterwards to account for his pieces of paper, and to pay for them with the money he had received from the diners.
Though everything was done with lightning speed, Tinker's trained habit of observation told him that everything was done by wonderful system, without which it would be impossible to run a big hotel. Suddenly he was perceived by a man in a plain sort of livery, who was, apparently, doing nothing in particular. This was the kitchen steward—a person who is in every large hotel kitchen to keep order, prevent disputes (which always will happen where there are a number of men employed), and also to act as a sort of private detective for the staff.
"Well, who are you, and what do you want, boy?" he said.
"The gentleman told me to come in here, as perhaps I might find something to do, and then get a bit of food for it."
"Well, Mr. Jevons ought to know better than to send fresh hands in at this busy time. However, it happens we are a boy short, and you can help carry those plates to the washer. And mind you don't break any, or out you go, with a boot at your back."
Tinker set to work with a will, and helped to carry huge piles of plates to a department at the far end of the kitchen, where he was told he would find the washer.
The washer was a mechanical contrivance which saved hand labour, and washed the plates and dishes by machinery. As Tinker arrived with his first load of plates, piled up on a hand-truck, he wondered where he should put them, and looked round for someone to ask.
A figure in shirt-sleeves, evidently the engineer, was standing with his back towards Tinker, looking into the machinery. At the sound of Tinker's voice he turned round.
"Unload the truck, quick!" he said, "Put the plates along here, and in two minutes you can load up the machine."
Tinker started to unload the plates with a joyful feeling at his heart, for in the engineer at the washing machine he recognised the man whom he had been told to track.
For quite an hour and a half he helped to load and unload this ingenious machine which held the dirty plates on long racks, sending them whirling through and through a stream of hot water, cleaning them almost instantly. It was hard and arm-aching work, but Tinker stuck to it, and all the while he was observing the engineer.
At length the work began to slacken, and then he was called into the kitchen again, and made to sweep the floor of all the refuse which had gathered there during the evening.
It was ten o'clock before he had finished, and then he was handed a leg of fowl, a roll of bread, and some salad, all in a bowl together, told to hunt up a knife and fork for himself, and then get his sixpence and be off.
Tinker ate the meal slowly, and now had time to examine the staff, who, the rush of dinner being over, were now more at their ease.
There was an indefinable something about these men which Tinker did not quite like. They were all foreigners; he could see that, as some of them spoke with an English accent which, excepting to the very observant, was absolutely perfect. Carefully trained by Blake, he noted by their different accents their various nationalities. There were Swiss, Italians, Germans, French, two Swedes, a Corsican, and a full-blooded negro from the West Indies. These Tinker noted, and packed away, as it were, at the back of his brain, ready for reproduction to Blake.
He received his sixpence from the kitchen steward, and went out from the heated atmosphere on to the cool sea front, and in ten minutes was back at No. 14, Marine Terrace, where he and Blake—under the name of Bell —were living.
He found Blake curled up in his armchair, with his usual pipe, and Tinker saluted gaily. "Beg to report, sir," he said. "Traced the man. He's employed as engineer in the kitchen at the Hotel Esparta. And if you please, sir, I should like a wash and a change, as I'm very greasy and dirty, and about as limp as a pudding-cloth after all the heat."
"Take your time, my boy. Have your wash, and then tell me what you've found out," said Blake.
Tinker disappeared into the bed-room, changed, washed, put on a neat suit of blue, and came back into the sitting-room.
"Well, sir," he said, "I followed my man to —— "
A knock at the door interrupted him, and the landlady put in her head.
"A gentleman to see Mr. Bell," she said.
And as a man entered the room, Tinker's face suddenly underwent a complete change. It appeared as if he squinted, his mouth went to one side, and his chin seemed to sink right back into his throat; one shoulder went up, and instead of the good-looking, shapely Tinker, there stood a very ordinary and almost ugly boy.
Blake looked on at this change unmoved, and waited for the stranger to speak.
A Nice Set of Scoundrels—The Trouble with the Chef—
Signor Nicole Interferes—Tinker's Fright.
"MY name is Jevons," said the man. "I am kitchen clerk at the Hotel Esparta, and I've come to you about a reference for a boy who called this afternoon asking for work."
"Well, I think I'll say good-night, now, uncle," said Tinker, in a nasal, high-pitched voice, holding out his hand. "Good-night, Harry, my boy!" answered Blake, realising in a moment why Tinker had suddenly assumed this facial disguise. "Sleep well, my lad!"
Once in the bed-room, Tinker's face relapsed, his shoulder went back to its original position, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Only just in time!" he muttered, "Another second and he would Have recognised me, I know!"
Meanwhile, Mr Jevons was explaining to Blake that he had taken rather a fancy to the boy who had called, as he would not take no for an answer, and seemed anxious to work, so, as they really did want a lad, he had called round to get his reference.
Blake was most courteous, of course, and in his name of Bell he gave Tinker a most excellent character, and Mr. Jevons withdrew.
"Very good that change of yours, Tinker," said Blake, when he had called his young assistant from the bed-room. "And now tell me exactly what you saw."
Tinker related everything, and gave a vivid description of nearly everyone with whom he had been brought in contact.
"Thirty or forty, are there, Tinker?" mused Sexton Blake. "And all foreigners—eh? Well, I don't know, but I'd give something to be engaged inside that kitchen myself! As far as I can see, Tinker, you've tumbled on about as fine a den of thieves as could be found in the United Kingdom! For instance, there's the man you tracked, Now he, I could swear, is Fritz Herschell, a German, and the smartest hotel thief in Europe; but he used to have a beard, dark hair, and grey eyes, now he's clean-shaved, and has fair hair, and brown eyes! What the deuce Fritz can be doing as engineer to a washing machine in the Hotel Esparta licks me! Mr. Jevons, the gentleman who has just been in, is no more English than that Japanese print is an English black-and-white drawing. He speaks very good English; doesn't he, Tinker, for a man who was born in Naples? That gentleman is really Signor Carlo Martino, a member of one of the oldest Italian families, and one whose record of crime is so black that it almost makes me shudder to be in the same room with him."
Blake hesitated for a moment, and Tinker knew that it must indeed be a black catalogue which would make the iron-nerved man shudder as he did
"Carlo Martino has, to my certain knowledge, poisoned no fewer than five persons, and though I say 'to my certain knowledge,' no absolute legal proof could ever be brought home to him. But I'll live to hang him yet! The enormously fat man in the box is, I should gather, Bosso Cridera, a Spanish peasant famed as a wrestler, but owing to an unfortunate quarrel resulting in the death of his opponent, he had to flee the country. In the kitchen steward, from your description, I seem to recognise a French officer who was degraded for selling the secrets of his country. And you say you don't like the looks of the others, Tinker—eh? Well, it's a strange business, and I think I, too, shall have to see into the inside of that kitchen before I'm many hours older. But you pop into work tomorrow, Tinker, and in the meantime I'm going up to the War Office. Whenever I see Captain Daunt, he reminds me of that bird they call the stormy petrel. He's always about when there's any mischief brewing, so I think I'll just run up and see my friends of the Government."
"But who is Captain Daunt, sir?"
"Well, he's a notorious scoundrel, but a man I have a sneaking fondness for. He can fight like a lion. He's fought under about twenty different flags, and doesn't care who he fights for so long as he gets paid. He'll sell any Government secret to anyone who'll pay him enough for it, and I wouldn't trust him a yard off. He's always managed to steer clear of gaol, due rather to other people's fear of exposure than to anything else. I've had him in my hands two or three times, but he's always managed to slip through, and laughed at me at the finish. But, as I've always told him, his time will come some day. Yes, he's a beautiful scoundrel, is Daunt, and I should like to lay him by the heels for good. Now, off you go to bed, Tinker! And just one more thing! As soon as ever you can, try and get a look at the manager or proprietor of the Hotel Esparta."
Blake left for town early the next morning, and at ten o'clock Tinker, still in his dilapidated suit, presented himself at the staff entrance of the hotel, and was told by Mr. Jevons—whom we will still call by that name—that he could enter on his duties at once, that he would receive his board and could sleep in the basement, and would be paid six shillings a week. In return for this he would have to make himself generally useful, and be at everybody's beck and call.
And everybody did make him useful, too! The majority of these foreigners seemed to have no sympathy with the boy, ragged as he looked, and simply ran him off his legs, making him do work which otherwise would have been their portion. Realising that he was but doing his duty, Tinker put up with it, and welcomed the half-hour's release which he was allowed in the afternoon.
Refreshed by the sea breeze, he went back to the hot, stifling kitchen to prepare for the evening's work. Towards dinner-time, hotel kitchens always become a scene of bustle and excitement, and Tinker's active legs were more in demand than ever.
At last he began gradually to earn the goodwill of the foreigners by his willingness and agility, and when the rush was over the steward told him that, as he had worked well, he would give him a jolly good dinner. He heaped his plate with food, and Tinker sat down in a corner, almost famished, to enjoy his first meal of the day.
"Hier, you Engleesh boy—Engleesh leetle peeg, come and take mein boots away from me, and gif me a pair of slippers. Quick, Engleesh peeg—quick!"
Tinker looked up in amazement, feeling certain that he was addressed, and saw that the order proceeded from the principal chef, who was seated in a chair, stretching his legs out. Tinker locked at him, and then went on with his food.
"Quick, I say! Mein boots, and bring the slippers!" continued the chef, in a loud, angry voice.
Tinker looked up again, pointed to the list slippers which the staff all kept there, and which were lined up against the wall, then pointed again to the chef, implying by expressive pantomime that the gentleman could go and fetch his own slippers. All foreigners understand pantomime, or words expressed in dumb show, and a smile went round as Tinker thus expressively hinted that he would be hanged if he waited on the fat chef. One or two words passed in different languages, and it appeared that they were chafing the fat chef, who rose and walked over to Tinker.
"You fetch my slippers—eh, you Engleesh boy?" he said.
Tinker looked up, pointed, solemnly once more to the slippers, and shook his head, and went on with his food. He did this so quaintly and funnily that everybody except the chef laughed.
"I show you!" he said.
And he made a sweep with his arm at Tinker's head, intending to box his ears. But Tinker dodged, gripping plate at the same time, and popped up two yards further on, where, with his mouth full, and solemnly chewing, he looked back at the chef. It vas really so funny that everyone laughed once more, and the chef grew absolutely furious. He rushed forward and made several attempts to grip Tinker, who, of course, eluded him every time, finally walking round the kitchen, almost tempting the chef after him, and jumping nimbly out of his way every time the fat man made a rush at him.
At last the chef simply foamed at the mouth with rage at the laughter and cries of derision which were hurled at him. His hair literally seemed to bristle, and he shook with anger; and seizing a long, glittering knife in his right hand, he made a final dash at Tinker.
With one movement, almost contemptuous in its quickness, Tinker jumped back, lifted his foot, and with his toe caught the chef a kick under the chin which made his teeth rattle like castanets, and sent him staggering backwards, while the knife clattered to the ground.
"I use fists as a rule," said Tinker, quietly picking up the knife, "but when a man attacks me unfairly with a knife, I feel perfectly justified in using my feet."
"What's all this noise about?" said a quiet but penetrating voice.
A sort of hushed silence crept over the room, and Tinker looked up and saw perhaps the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life.
Quite six feet in height, magnificently proportioned, with a well-shaped head crowned with crisp, curling hair, just tinged with grey, a close-cropped greyish-black beard, almost perfect features, and clad in immaculate evening-dress, there stood a man, thought Tinker, who was a very picture.
"The maestro, the maestro!" whispered the man next him.
"A most disagreeable and unseemly noise," said the newcomer. "Who is responsible? Speak, please. You know I like to be obeyed quickly. Speak, please! Who is responsible?"
"Alphonse, Alphonse!" cried one or two voices.
"Ah?" said the man, fingering his beard. "Alphonse, was it? Step forward, Alphonse!"
The chef, shivering with fear, and quivering like one of his own blancmanges, stepped forward.
"I think I'm also to blame," said Tinker, speaking up boldly.
"Oh, you're to blame, are you? And who are you?"
Tinker looked up, and saw the eyeglass drop, and two piercing steel-blue eyes look at him as though they would eat into his very soul. Good-looking, indeed, the man was, but those eyes gave him an impression of fierceness and intensity the like of which Tinker had never seen before.
"Tell me everything," he said, in that still, quiet voice, which yet seemed to command so much respect and attention.
Tinker told his version plainly, and without exaggeration.
"Now then, Alphonse," came the quiet command, "is all this true?"
Alphonse, who seemed to be hypnotised by the steel-blue eyes dejectedly nodded his head, and replied that it was all true.
"Then you leave at once," was the quiet reply. "I don't care about my servants using knives to each other. You leave in ten minutes, Alphonse."
"But I starve if I go," pleaded Alphonse, with tears.
"Then starve!" was the answer, with a quiet smile. "And you, too,"—he pointed to Tinker—" see me at half-past nine tomorrow morning. Good-night, my friends! Alphonse, I expect you to be gone in ten minutes."
"Who's that?" asked Tinker of one his neighbours.
"Signor Nicole, the proprietor."
"I starve, I starve! I haf no monies!" said Alphonse, looking round in despair. "I haf not saved any, and I haf nowheres to go! The maestro he send me away to starve! Vill no one help me?"
But the others only laughed brutally; and Alphonse, Frenchman-like, dissolved into tears as he took off his white coat and cap, and prepared to go to his room and take out his luggage.
Tinker, however, caught him up at the door, and pressed a sovereign into his hand.
"It's partly my fault," he whispered; "take this, old man! And don't, for goodness' sake, cry; it's not manly!"
The agitated Frenchman took the sovereign, attempted to kiss Tinker on the cheek, and hurried upstairs, while Tinker felt that though he had given away his last coin, he had, at any rate, not let the poor chef go out to starvation, even though he had been the innocent means of his discharge.
There was no bed provided for Tinker, and that night his he slept on a couple of sacks thrown down on the kitchen floor; and to this day he shudders to think of how the rats ran round the room, and even over him during the night.
He consoled himself by thinking that he had been in worse places, and the next morning at half-past nine he stood in the manager's private room.
Looking handsomer than ever in his white flannel suit, Signor Nicole stood in front of the mantelpiece and looked at Tinker.
"It strikes me, young fellow," he said, in a quiet voice, "that you're not exactly what you make yourself out to be. I think it would be wiser, and perhaps safer, if you told me the truth, and owned up to everything."
Tinker's heart thumped. Had his secret been discovered?
Signor Nicole Cross-questions Tinker—New Arrivals—
Tinker Recognises an Old Friend—The Attempted Robbery.
"BY your speech and your manners," went on Signor Nicole, "it occurs to me that you're not the sort of boy who ought to be serving in a kitchen. That suit of yours, though it is ragged and disreputable, was never made by a cheap tailor. Now, what is it? Have you run away from home? Have you quarrelled with your friends, or what?"
Tinker thought for a moment, and he did not like lying, so he temporised.
"Well, you see, sir," he went on, with an air of frankness, "it's like this: I want work—and want it badly. An honest crust earned in a kitchen is no worse than bread earned anywhere else. You'll excuse me if I don't tell you everything, won't you? But I'm sure I'm an honest boy, and whatever I do, I shall do with all my heart and soul."
Signor Nicole smiled as he lit a cigarette.
"Well, at any rate,you certainly did Alphonse very nicely! I was just outside the door, and I saw that neat little kick of yours. Made his teeth rattle like dominoes, didn't you?"
And the handsome man permitted himself a chuckle.
"Well, you see, sir," said Tinker, "when a man starts playing about with a knife, you haven't got much time to think of anything else, have you?"
"No, I don't suppose you have. But look here, my boy; I think you're too good for the Kitchen, so suppose you come up here and be page in the entrance-hall? You'll get more money, have a chance at large tips, and it'll be pleasanter work than being downstairs."
"Anything you like, sir! And I think it's very kind of you to take such an interest in me."
"That's all right, then! You go up to the store-room, and get fitted with a page's uniform, and you can take up your duties this morning. All you've got to do is to be attentive, amiable, and obliging, and see that the clients want for nothing, and that every wish is attended to. You'll get twelve shillings a week, and if you don't pick up enough in tips to make the money up to two pounds a week at least, I shall be surprised. That'll do, now. You run away, and do what I've told you."
"Thank you very —— " began Tinker, but the manager quickly checked him, "All right. Cut along now."
Tinker went out, and asked the chief hall-porter, a gigantic Swiss, the way to the store-room.
There he found an elderly woman, who quickly fitted him with a page's uniform and cap, on which was embroidered in gold letters "Hotel Esparta," and in a few minutes he was downstairs waiting in the hall, ready for any message or work which he might have to do.
Many people were arriving for the week, tempted by the beautiful weather and the far-famed comfort of the Hotel Esparta. When they had been received by the porter and the hotel clerk, and had inscribed their names in the visitors' book, Tinker was always at their elbows ready to perform the slightest service. He directed elderly ladies to the lift, told them what the hours of the meals were, and asked them if he could do anything for them.
The morning passed quickly and pleasantly, and his pocket literally grew heavy with the coppers and occasional silver that found their way there. For Tinker was a smart, good-looking boy, and several of the old lady visitors quite fell in love with him, and entrusted him with all their commissions.
He went down to lunch in the servants' quarters, and found everything in confusion owing to the sudden dismissal of Alphonse. The luncheon was not half prepared, everyone was at their wits' end what to do, as there was no one on the premises so accomplished as the late chef. Suddenly, when everything seemed at its worst in the kitchen, Signor Nicole made his appearance.
"This will never do," he said quietly. "It occurs to me that I shall have to advertise for a fresh chef, and in the meantime it seems that I shall have to take things in hand myself."
With that, he took off his coat, put on a white apron and cap, and started to see to the meal himself.
Tinker was amazed at the talent he displayed. He gave his orders right and left, cooked various cunning dishes, and finally sent up a luncheon which would have been fit to set before the King.
"Helpless lot of idiots!" he said, in a quiet voice. "Must I always be doing everything for the sake of the hotel?"
"Not for ze sake of ze hotel, Anton," Tinker heard one of the men whisper, "but for your own sake, and our sake."
It made Tinker wonder to hear one of the subordinates addressing the maestro in such a familiar manner, but he decided that it was no business of his at present; and storing it up for future guidance for Sexton Blake, he went upstairs to attend to his duties in the hall.
Several more guests arrived during the afternoon, and about tea-time he saw a cab draw up to the door, and from it descend the man with the dark, pointed beard and the eyeglass. As he went forward to help in the reception of the new guest, Tinker's heart beat rapidly, for he saw that it was Captain Daunt, the man whom he had seen depart for London, and who had been pointed out to him by Sexton Blake as a notorious spy.
The captain was received by the proprietor—a special token of honour—and it was soon seen that he had been allotted the best suite of rooms in the hotel. Tinker helped to see him to his apartments, and was rewarded with a half-crown; after which he returned to his post in the hall.
Shortly afterwards another cab drove up from the station, and out stepped, somewhat stiffly, an elderly, military-looking man. He was the very type of the fussy, retired colonel, a man who had been used to having hundreds under his command, and thought he could get the same attention in civil life as he did when engaged in military affairs. He fumed and fretted while his baggage was being taken out, and Tinker, with inward amusement, carried his bag up to his room.
"That'll do, that'll do, confound you, that'll do!" he blustered, as his luggage was deposited in his bed-room. "Now, clear out, all of you fellows, and leave me to myself. Here, you, boy!" he went on, to Tinker. "You seem to have as much intelligence as any of them; you stop here and help me unpack."
The two porters, who had brought up the luggage, disappeared, and Tinker stood for a moment and looked at the old man.
"I'm quite at your service, sir," he said quietly, "and I've noted everything that's been going on in the hotel since you went away."
"Good boy, Tinker, good boy!" came the quiet voice of Sexton Blake, so different from the blustering manner of the retired colonel. "I suppose you saw the lift of the elbow and the crook of the little finger?"
"Yes, sir, certainly!" answered Tinker. "If I didn't keep my eyes open, I shouldn't be worth having, should I?"
"Quite right, quite right, my boy! Now tell me, what are you doing here in this page's uniform, instead of being down in the kitchen?"
And Sexton Blake—for it was he in the disguise of the retired colonel—sank into a chair, and waited, as usual, for Tinker's explanation.
Tinker told briefly what had happened, and Blake listened interestedly.
"So the chef has gone, has he? Tinker, I shall have to get down into that kitchen, somehow or other, and you'll have to come with me. I've been up to the War Office, and they tell me they're not at all pleased with the way things are going. You know, they've got a new airship—one of the best that has ever been built, or will ever be built—on the stocks, and it's being kept a sphinx-like secret. But just shut that door; I think I saw it open half an inch just now."
Tinker quietly went to the door, opened it quickly, and saw Signor Nicole move noiselessly away.
"Is Colonel Malcombe inside?" asked the proprietor—for that was the name under which Sexton Blake had registered. "I was just looking at his lock. I don't want any thefts in my hotel. Oh, he is, and you're helping him to unpack! Oh, that's all right! Tell him to be careful and be sure and lock up anything valuable, for you never know who's about in hotels in these days."
Tinker closed the door, locked it, and turned to Sexton Blake with a smile.
"Signor Nicole?" said Blake. "Outside, was he? Ah! Um! Well, that rather increases my suspicions. But about this Government airship, Tinker. It appears that they've been doing very well with it down at Aldershot, but, unfortunately, some of the plans have disappeared. Now, if these papers get into the hands of unscrupulous people, it'll mean that all our Government's work will be wasted. With the aid of the plans, anybody would be able to imitate certain parts of the mechanism, and all our patriotic trouble and time would go for nothing. They suspect Captain Daunt, as one of the Government spies says that he saw him in the neighbourhood only a few weeks ago. I have followed the gallant captain, and tracked him down here. That he should come to this hotel, where there are in the kitchen, according to your account, an extraordinary number of the biggest scoundrels unhung, is suspicious. Therefore, I am here as Colonel Malcombe until I discover the connection, if any. I'll just have a look round, and I'll send for you after dinner, Tinker."
Tinker then returned to take up his duties in the hall before the dinner-gong rang, and as, at seven o'clock, the guests all came trooping in to dine, he noticed, on looking through a half-opened door, that Blake had taken his seat at a table not far from Captain Daunt.
Signor Nicole, in immaculate evening-dress, with a beautiful diamond shining from his shirt-front, was assiduous in his attention to his guests, no one knowing that the handsome proprietor had been down in the kitchen seeing that the dinner was properly served, and practically taking the place of the discharged Alphonse.
About half-way through the meal, Tinker, who was in the hall practically by himself, saw Captain Daunt come out of the dining-room with his hand pressed to his chest.
"Can I do anything for you, sir? Aren't you well?" asked Tinker, springing forward.
"No; not at all well," was the answer. "I'm just going upstairs to lie down for a bit. Don't make any fuss; I can manage all right by myself."
He went upstairs with an unsteady step, and, as soon as he had rounded the corner and was out of sight, Tinker crept quietly after him, and saw him disappear down the long passage which led to Blake's room. From his pocket the captain produced a key, which he applied to Sexton Blake's door, and, unlocking it, he entered.
Quietly, and with the stealth and cunning of a scout, Tinker crept along the passage and peeped through the keyhole. His view was, of course, limited; but the captain happened to come into his field of vision, and Tinker saw him busily searching Sexton Blake's trunks.
A smile spread over the boy's face, and he crept quietly towards the electric alarm-bell outside each bed-room, which communicated with Signor Nicole's private room. He touched this, and then, quietly opening the door, he sprang like a tiger on to the back of the captain, just as he was endeavouring to force open Sexton Blake's travelling-case.
In this travelling-case the great detective kept private papers, and little tokens and insignia which would gain him admission to any Government official in the world. He was obliged to carry these with him for use in his business, and Tinker knew that if once these were found, Sexton Blake's identity would be disclosed.
He bore the captain to the ground, turned him over, knelt on his chest, with his hands at his throat, and kept him there until the door opened, and Signor Nicole appeared.
"And what is all this, pray?" said the soft, silky voice.
"I found this gentleman engaged in ransacking Colonel Malcombe's luggage," said Tinker.
"Very good, very good, my boy!" said the proprietor. "And now, perhaps, you'll let the gentleman get up and explain himself."
"I'm not well; I'm not at all well," faltered the captain, "and I must have got into the wrong room!"
"Well, we can't have mistakes like this happening at the Hotel Esparta, and I think, sir, that you'd better leave at once."
"Very well, I'll leave," answered the captain roughly. "It strikes me that something in the cooking has poisoned me, for I feel simply awful!"
"Outside, sir, please!" said Signor Nicole. "Leave at once!"
The captain drew himself up, looked the proprietor straight in the eyes, and walked out.
But it did not escape Tinker's keen observation that between them they exchanged a pronounced wink.
"And what's all this about, what's all this about?" asked a ruff voice, as Sexton Blake stumped into the room.
Captain Daunt Ejected—Sexton Blake Leaves the Hotel—
Surprising the Railway Guard—Tinker has an Accident.
"A MOST unpleasant mistake, Colonel Malcombe," said Signor Nicole, "This gentleman, who's just gone out, mistook your room for his; that's all, that's all."
"Mistook my room for his? Confound it all!" spluttered Blake. "Then how the deuce did he get in, because I locked my door, and left the key at the office, according to your rule."
Signor Nicole looked round cautiously, and then spoke very quietly:
"I'm afraid it was a case of attempted burglary, Colonel Malcombe, and I've ordered the man to leave at once. I am most particular that there should be no unpleasantness in my hotel, and I regret this more than words can say. I think you'll acknowledge that I'm well served, when I tell you that this boy discovered the intruder, rang the bell for me, and kept him down till I came. I think you'll find that nothing has been taken; but if any apology or recompense could be offered, I shall be only too pleased to offer it."
"Confound it all, sir!" roared Sexton Blake. "I'll not stop here another minute. Give me my bill, and let me go. Here, boy, strap up my trunks again! I'll not stop in this den of thieves any longer! I shall go on to Rovers Court."
"Give me my bill!" grunted the colonel. 'I'm off to your rival seaport, Rovers Court. I shall not say anything about this disgraceful episode—scandal is not in my line. Boy, come upstairs, and help me with my trunks!"
"See what becomes of Captain Daunt," said Blake, when he and Tinker reached the bed-room, "and, if possible, come up to the station with me."
Tinker finished strapping the trunks, and then went downstairs for the bill. As he went into the hall, he saw Captain Daunt walking out to a cab which was waiting for him. He was attended by the proprietor, who saw him to the vehicle, and, beckoning to Tinker, told him to carry out a bag.
"Now, understand me, sir," said Signor Nicole, at the cab-door, in a loud voice, "I pass this over this time as a mistake, but you never come to my hotel again." And then, in a lower voice, he added, in German: "Kommen Sie hier heute Abend um elf."
Now, Tinker knew German, and he caught the words distinctly, which meant that Captain Daunt was to return there at eleven that night; and when he went back to Blake with the bill, he told him what he had heard. Blake knitted his brows in thought, and then spoke:
"Very good! Then we'll be here at eleven o'clock to-night, Tinker, Come to the station with me, and I'll tell you what to do."
The proprietor was most effusive in his attentions and apologies to Blake, and even himself came up to his room with the bill.
"No excuse, no excuse at all!" blustered Blake. "Disgracefully-managed establishment; and if it hadn't been for this boy here, I should have been robbed. I shall go back to London to-night, and, believe me, sir, your hotel will get no good advertisement from me. Boy you'll come up to the station with me, and help to see after my luggage. You're the only man in this establishment."
Tinker looked up at the proprietor, who nodded.
"Go up with the old man," he whispered, while Blake was occupied with his trunks. "Try and make out the best case you can, for we don't want the hotel to get a bad name."
In a few minutes, Sexton Blake, as Colonel Malcombe, had left the hotel, swearing that he would never set foot inside its doors again, with Tinker seated on the box of the cab.
At the station they saw Captain Daunt. He looked at them for a moment, and then, doffing his cap, came up and spoke to Blake.
"I must offer my apologies, sir, for being found in your room. It's a very unpleasant business, but I assure you I was not to blame. I've not been well for some time, and I think something I ate must have disagreed with me. I'm convinced they gave me the wrong key, and, really, I was so bad that I did not know what I was doing. Are you going up to town, because if so, I should like to make further explanations to you on the journey."
"No, sir, confound it! I'm not going to town; I'm going' to Rovers Court—exactly the other way—and I don't wish for your company! Kindly do not speak to me again."
The captain strolled off, and Blake whispered to Tinker to see where he took a ticket for.
Tinker followed, ostensibly to take the colonel's own ticket, and it was not difficult to hear Captain Daunt ask for a first-class single to Charing Cross.
"That's all right!" said Blake, when Tinker told him, "Now, I'll tell you what to do."
He whispered in Tinker's ear. The boy looked surprised for a moment, and then nodded.
"Now, carry this bag to the Rovers Court train, boy!" shouted Blake, in a loud voice, as he saw the captain passing.
The Rovers Court and the London trains started from the same lines, but from different platforms, and Tinker followed Blake obediently with the bag.
"Here you are, guard," said Blake, catching the custodian of the Rovers Court train; "just a minute!"
"Yes, sir. Got two minutes only, sir. What can I do for you?"
"Well, you can do this, James Haddon," said Blake, in his own natural voice. "I want to get into your van, change my clothes and my face, and slip into the London train. I suppose it can be done?"
The guard, a fine, well-set-up man, with the real Army stamp about him, nearly fell back against his train in surprise as he looked at Sexton Blake.
"Come, come, James Haddon," said Blake, with a smile, "don't you remember when you were in the Army, and you were accused of stealing the regimental plate, and a certain person called Sexton Blake managed to get you out of the trouble?"
"Bless my soul, yes!" answered Haddon. And I would give my head to meet the gentleman again and thank him for what he did for me. But for his cleverness I should have been ruined for life, discharged the Army, and never have got my pension."
"Well, I'm Sexton Blake," answered Blake. "Don't you remember how you made me an honorary member of the sergeants' mess and taught me the grip? Why, I'm the only civilian who has ever known it!"
He put out his hand. Haddon grasped it, and then, with a puzzled air, spoke again.
"Yes, Mr. Sexton Blake was the only civilian who ever knew the grip of the ' Blazers' sergeants' mess. I suppose then, you must be Mr. Blake, so what can I do for you?"
"Lend me the use of your van for two minutes, and then sneak me into the London train."
Inside the van, Blake pulled off his moustache and wig, stripped off his clothes, and stood once more the slim Sexton Blake.
Rapidly, as Tinker unpacked the bag, the great detective selected articles here and there. He stuck his watch on a nail in the wall, and with the aid of the back—which was made of looking-glass—he quickly transformed himself into a lean and sallow-complexioned American. There was the chin-piece, the long face, the frock-coat, and the slouch hat complete.
"Now," he said, "I'm fixed, and I don't think Captain Daunt would ever know me again. Do what I told you, Tinker, and we, too, will keep the appointment that Captain Daunt has with Signor Nicole at eleven o'clock to-night."
"Where's Mr. Blake?" said the guard, entering the van. "You ought to know better, Mr. Tinker, than to allow strangers to come in here."
"Well, I guess he's here," said Blake, in a nasal twang. "Now, don't you worry, James Haddon, but just get me along on to the footboard of the London train into number three carriage from here."
"Well, you take it, Mr. Blake," said the guard. if I might ask, sir, why number three carriage?"
"Because in number four there's a gentleman I want to track. Good-bye, Tinker, and don't forget what I told you."
"This way, then, sir," said the guard, "and I only hope I sha'n't get the sack for doing what I am doing."
"I think I could put it all right with the company," said Blake. "Here goes!"
The guard cautiously half opened the opposite door, and Blake swung himself out on to the footboard, and Tinker, poking his head out of the window, saw Blake enter number three carriage on the opposite side of the platform.
Tinker nipped out of the van and went down the platForm, and purposely passed the London train, seeing at the window of number four carriage the lank face of Sexton Blake disguised as the American.
"Here, I say, you boy," said Captain Daunt, from the next carriage, putting his head out of the window, "has that old ass of a colonel gone to Rovers Court?"
"I saw him into the train, sir," answered 'Tinker promptly, knowing that he was not lying.
"Ah, that's all right! Disagreeable old brute, thinking I was trying to rob him! Here, boy, here's half-a-sovereign for you."
Tinker pocketed the coin, considering it the spoils of war, and slowly walked out of the station, wondering what Sexton Blake's move was, though in his heart he acknowledged that it was sure to be for the best.
He walked quietly down the station approach and out into the main road, now brilliantly lighted, and alive with the movements of the evening crowd. Motor-cars dashed to and fro, and heavily-laden trams flashed their ponderous way along. The street was crowded with traffic, and once or twice Tinker hesitated before he stepped off the curb to cross. At last he made a slight, hesitating movement, and walked into the road just as two trams were coming in opposite directions, got on to the tram-lines, looked up and made a dash for the opposite side. His foot caught, he fell full length. There was a shriek from a woman on the pavement, and it looked as though he would be run over by one or other of the trams.
"He's hurt!"
"Great heavens, he's killed!"
"He's run over!" came in shrieks from the crowd.
And when a policeman dashed forward, the trams having been stopped, Tinker was lying on his back with his eyes shut.
"Are you hurt, my boy?" said the policeman, bending over him.
He received no reply, and bent his ear to Tinker's chest.
"He's evidently hurt," said one of the crowd. "The tram must have struck him on the head, as it didn't run over him. Better send him to the hospital."
Still Tinker lay as quiet as if in death, and nervous women turned away, feeling sick at the sight of this good-looking boy lying still and inert.
The policeman blew his whistle. An ambulance hurried up; Tinker was put in if and taken off to the little cottage hospital just off the High Street. He was carried upstairs, placed in bed, and a middle-aged man, evidently a doctor, was soon in attendance.
Tenderly he felt Tinker all over, listened attentively to his breathing, examined his head for any scalp wounds, and then gradually his attentions grew rougher. He poked Tinker in the ribs, pulled at his arms and legs, tapped his head with his knuckles, and then finally, gripping him by the arms, drew him up to a sitting position.
"Now, then, you young scoundrel," he said, "what do you mean by this shamming? You're not hurt at all."
And, to his surprise, Tinker sat up, opened his eyes, and smiled gaily, as if at some enormous joke.
Tinker in Hospital—The Doctor's Threat—
Sexton Blake
Fails to Keep the Appointment—The Taxi-cab Driver.
"QUITE right, sir; I'm not in the least hurt," said Tinker. "The car never touched me, and I fell down on purpose."
"Then what the deuce do you mean by. it all?" asked the doctor, looking down with a puzzled manner at this bright-faced young fellow who was so frankly owning up that he was shamming. "If you've got any explanation, I should like to hear it before you're flung out of here. You come from the Hotel Esparta, I see, by the name on your cap. Now, what am I to do? Send for your master, and tell him what his page-boy has been doing? Or have you got any good reason for acting in the way you've done?"
"Reasons? Well, I've got one very good reason," said Tinker, "and that is that Sexton Blake asked me to get taken to the hospital somehow; and also to have word conveyed to my employer that I could not be moved, and that it seemed very unlikely that I should ever go back to his hotel to work again, and so he'd better get someone else."
"Yes," said the doctor, with an unmoved face. "You're sure you're not the Chief "Commissioner of Police, as well as the friend of Sexton Blake, are you? You see, young man, we of the medical profession have a great respect for Mr. Blake, for his services have always been on the side of humanity, and many a good turn has he done a doctor. So you'll understand that we don't think it funny when anyone takes liberties with his name. And what is your distinguished name, by the way? Are you the King of the Cannibal Islands, or what?"
"Oh, no! My name is simply Tinker."
The doctor sat down in a chair by the bedside, and looked at Tinker and felt his pulse.
"For astounding nerve," he said, "you take the cake! You sham severe injuries; you talk glibly about Sexton Blake, and then declare that you're his young assistant, Tinker. I'll have no more of this, my boy. As soon as I can manage it I'll go to the police-station myself."
"No, no! I beg of you, don't do that!" said Tinker quickly. "It would ruin everything. Now, I wonder how I can convince you that I am what I say I am, and the friend of Sexton Blake. I really am what I say. I know Sexton Blake, and I am his assistant, Tinker, and we have a most urgent and important affair on hand, which accounts for my being here. I know!" he went on eagerly. "You remember the case of 'The Crown versus Finn, M.D.'?"
"Yes, of course, I do," answered the doctor. "It was a case of the greatest interest and importance to the medical profession."
"Very well, then. You remember that Sexton Blake was called in by the friends of Dr. Finn, and that he completely proved his innocence. The doctor, you may remember, was accused of administering poison to a friend, and Sexton Blake proved conclusively by experiments, that the poison was administered in quite an innocent way. That is to say, he proved chemically that certain meats attract certain poisons if left exposed in the immediate neighbourhood, and this was one of the cases where it had happened; the patient having eaten of exposed meat. Of course, you remember it perfectly well. Dr. Finn was discharged, and Sexton Blake was presented with a testimonial from the medical profession."
"Look here, young fellow," said the doctor quietly, "you're only just saying what is common talk, and what was in every newspaper. If you can't give me any better excuse than that, in five minutes you'll be in the hands of the police."
"I'm getting at it in a minute," said Tinker. "I'm coming to the point. Sexton Blake, if you remember, in the course of his inquiries, discovered a fact in chemistry which had hitherto been unknown. He kept it secret, refusing even to divulge the methods at the trial. Afterwards on the occasion of the presentation of the testimonial to him, he divulged it to that great meeting of doctors, for the sake of humanity. He declared at the same time that it was to them alone he committed the secret, and that outside the medical profession, only himself and his young assistant, Tinker, knew the constituent parts. Is that right, or is it not?"
"By Jove, you're right!" said the doctor, in a surprised voice. "A most valuable secret it was, too. But, still, I don't see that that proves anything."
"No, perhaps it doesn't," said Tinker. "But give me a piece of paper and a pencil, will you?"
The doctor tore a leaf out of his notebook and handed pencil to Tinker, who, resting it on the top of his flat cap which was lying by his bedside, scrawled a few hieroglyphics on it, and then handed it over to the doctor.
"That's the formula, I think, which Sexton Blake discovered, and which, as you acknowledge, is known to no one except medical men. Am I right?"
The doctor looked at the paper for a few seconds, and then slowly and carefully tore it up into tiny bits, which he placed in his pocket. Then he rose from his chair, with a smile on his face, bowed low, and extended his hand.
"I must apologise," he said. "You evidently know Sexton Blake, and are his assistant, for nobody else could know that formula. I have torn it up, as it is too valuable and too dangerous a thing to be left about. Used properly, it is of incalculable benefit, but in the hands of the unprincipled it would work infinite harm. And now perhaps, Mr. Tinker, you will tell me what I can do for you?"
"A gentleman from the Hotel Esparta has come to see the page-boy," said a nurse, coming up to the doctor. "Is he to be allowed to come up?"
The doctor looked inquiringly at Tinker.
"Quick—quick, doctor!" he whispered. do something for me! Never mind, nurse; don't look startled. Let her stop and know the secret, if she likes, doctor, for everyone trusts a nurse. Now get some sticking-plaster, quick, and strap up my face as if I had received the most frightful injuries. Tell whoever it is from the hotel that I am not to be disturbed, and that I shall not be able to return to my duties—which is absolutely true, as I do not intend to return."
The doctor sent the nurse bustling off after scissors and sticking-plaster, and in a few seconds he had applied strips to Tinker's face and head, till he looked as if he had received most frightful damage.
"Now, you can let the fellow come up," said Tinker.
And in a few moments, lying with closed eyes, feigning insensibility, Tinker heard the soft, silky voice of Signor Nicole at his bedside.
"A great pity—a great pity!" he was saying. "A nice, smart boy, that! And you think he can't be moved, doctor?"
"I'm afraid he will not return to his duties," said the doctor evasively. "I would suggest your engaging someone else."
"Very well, then, I'll take your word for it; though, if he should like to come back when he's better, the place will be his again. He was a nice boy, too! I feel quite sorry about him. That's why I came-up personally. Poor lad —poor lad!"
His hand just touched the coverlet over Tinker's shoulder, and the boy felt a sort of pang to think that he was deceiving this man, who had always been so kind to him. But Tinker was under orders—orders from Sexton Blake, and sentiment could not be allowed to interfere with business.
When Signor Nicole had gone the doctor returned to the bedside, and asked Tinker what he could do next for him.
"Well," said Tinker, "if you should happen to have some clothes that would be anywhere near my fit, I should be extremely obliged. I can't go out, of course, in the page's uniform, and I've got to meet Mr. Blake at a quarter to eleven, as we have an appointment with someone else at eleven. At least," added Tinker, with a grin, "they don't know that we're going to be there."
"I'll see what I can do. Anything for Mr. Blake!"
In a few minutes he returned and told Tinker that he had got some clothes from one of the students which would just fit him. Then he stripped off the plaster, Tinker got up, and in a few minutes, dressed in a fairly well-fitting suit of grey, he was seated in the doctor's private room, doing justice to a good supper.
"I suppose I mustn't ask you what you're after," said the doctor, "you and the wonderful Blake?"
"Well, hardly!" answered Tinker. "It wouldn't do, especially as I don't quite know what we are after. All I know is that I left Mr. Blake this morning in the London train disguised as an American, when he had already taken a ticket for Rover's Court. He told me to go and get run over, or do something, so as to utterly efface myself from the Hotel Esparta, and then meet him at a certain spot at a quarter to eleven to-night. There were my orders, and if I had asked any questions, I should very likely have been told to go home and go to bed, or something humiliating like that. And now, doctor, I'm much obliged to you for what you've done, and I'm sure Mr. Blake will be grateful, too. As it is now half-past ten, I think I will now, as they say in glorious melodrama, 'rid you of my hated presence.'"
The doctor laughed, and told Tinker always to command his services; and, leaving the hospital by a back door, Tinker went off to keep his appointment with Sexton Blake.
The detective had told him to be at the top of the street near the hotel at a quarter to eleven. He was to be there sharp, keep well in the shadows, and wait until Blake came, even if it were two o'clock in the morning.
"You never know!" said Blake. "Things may happen; but, if possible, I mean to be present when Captain Daunt and Signor Nicole meet at eleven o'clock, But if I should not turn up, don't be alarmed, but keep on the spot, and see if anything extraordinary happens."
Tinker was there punctually as the clock chimed a quarter to eleven. Early hours are kept at the seaside, and gradually, window by window, the lights of the hotel went out, until, at five minutes to eleven, only the lower windows were illuminated. Just before eleven they nearly all went out, except in a room on the ground floor, which Tinker knew to be Signor Nicole's private office.
The church clock struck eleven. Signor Nicole came out and stood on the hotel steps, smoking a cigar. Ten minutes past eleven! No sign of Captain Daunt or Sexton Blake. Half-past eleven! A quarter to twelve! The solemn notes of the church clock boomed out the hour of midnight, and still Tinker, stiff, and with his eyes strained from watching, stood in the shadow, keeping his gaze fixed on the form of Signor Nicole, who strode up and down just outside the hotel, evidently impatient and anxious.
A quarter past twelve! Half-past! Signor Nicole lit his fifth cigarette, gave one last look along the sea front, and then turned slowly to go indoors. Suddenly he turned back and started, threw away his cigarette, and listened intently, as did Tinker.
There was a sound of wheels, a puffing, a whiz, and a whir, and a London taxi-cab drew up a few feet from the hotel, and Tinker, whose eyes by this time had become accustomed to the darkness, saw Captain Daunt step out.
"Here you are, then, at last!" said Signor Nicole, in a clear voice, which, through the still, quiet night, easily reached Tinker.
"Yes! Had the deuce of a job to get away. Missed the last train, and drove down from London in this taxi. How much is it, driver?"
"I don't know, sir, I'm sure!" said a cheerful Cockney voice, as the driver jumped down from his seat and looked at the indicating machine by the side of the cab. "Oh, here we are, sir! Three pounds five. And then I shall have to charge you for going back as well, though I don't drive you."
"Oh, that'll be all right! Call it seven pounds, and that'll be a bit for yourself. There you are?!"
"Thank you, sir! Good-night, sir! Hope to have the pleasure of driving you again!"
Captain Daunt and Signor Nicole turned into the hotel, and the taxi-cab driver lingered for a moment before jumping on to his box again, and Tinker's heart sank as he saw that Captain Daunt had arrived, and that there was ne Sexton Blake—as usual—on the spot. He stuck to his post, though he half felt inclined to envy the taxi-cab driver, who was going off, doubtless, to find a lodging for the night. With idle interest he watched the driver do something to his lamp, turn round, and lean against his cab, light a cigarette, and then climb to his box. He turned to see that everything was right behind, the glowing end of his cigarette showing up clearly, and slowly the cab drove away.
Out from his hiding-place in the shadows crept Tinker, crouching low, and dodging the lamps so that he should not be seen, and then, when he was round the corner, his stiffened limbs having recovered their use, he pulled himself together, sprinted off after the cab, and as soon as he was level with it, gave a bound, and seated himself by the driver's side. "Glad to see you back, sir!" he said quietly.
Blake and Tinker Back in London—The Sham
Newsagent's Assistant—Signor Nicole Calls on Blake.
"I SUPPOSE you recognised the cigarette signal, Tinker?" said Sexton Blake, for the driver was really the great detective.
"Yes; when I saw it waved twice up and once down, I knew that it must be you, sir."
Blake was silent for a few seconds, and then he turned to Tinker.
"Are you tired, Tinker? Are you hungry? Are you sleepy?"
"No, sir! And if I were I shouldn't say so!"
In the faint light Tinker could see Blake smile, as if pleased.
"Very well, then," said the detective, "we're going back to London, and the rooms at Baker Street."
He turned the taxi-cab into the London Road, and through the still, summer night they sped along the leafy lanes and high-roads, till, just as the first beautiful flush of dawn was creeping over the sky, they entered the outskirts of London.
Not a word had Blake spoken during the journey, and Tinker knew that he was occupied in thinking out a problem.
"You will perceive, Tinker," said Blake, with a smile, as they sped along through the slowly-increasing traffic—" you will perceive that this is London. I'm not sorry to be back in the City, for I can always think better. Now, I'll deliver up this taxi, and then we'll be off to Baker Street."
Blake drove the cab into a yard close to Piccadilly, put it into the coach-house, and from the corner produced a bag containing his own clothes. He quickly washed off all the appearance of the red-faced, side-whiskered, fair-haired taxi-cab driver, put on his own clothes, and was Sexton Blake in the flesh again.
"When we get home," he explained, "I'll tell you why I did it."
They walked slowly home to Baker Street, Blake maintaining an imperturbable silence, and as they reached the outer door which led up to his self-contained suite of rooms on the first floor, a young fellow, with a bundle of news papers under his arm, was coming down the stairs.
"Hallo! Who are you?" said Blake quickly.
"I'm leaving the newspapers, sir."
"Oh, new hand, are you?" said Blake. "Come upstairs, and let's have a look at you."
"Can't stop, if you don't mind, sir. I've got an awful long round to do."
"You come, my friend; I want to look at you."
And, with a finger and thumb which pinched like a grip Of steel, Blake took the young fellow back up the stairs, opened the door with his latchkey, and, followed by Tinker, took the young man inside.
"This won't do, you know—this won't do!" said Blake, with half a smile. "My old friend, Captain Daunt, should really tell his subordinates to dress with more care. Look here, my young friend, newsagents' assistants don't wear silk shirts that cost somewhere over a guinea each! You should have put on an ordinary cotton one. And these cuts and rents in the clothes are not at all artistically done. Poof! poof, get away! I don't want you! And tell your master, with my compliments, that I'll bet him a new silk-hat that I'll land him in gaol before six months are out! Tell him that, with my compliments, will you? And now trot away, and try and find some easier work,"
The young man looked up with a face on which struggled alarm, wonderment, and fear. Tinker held open the door, and, with a sort of half cry, he dropped his newspapers, and fled, as if for his life.
"Silly young ass!" said Blake. "A child could have seen through his disguise. And, look here, see these marks? You can see by the tear on the paint that they've only just been done. Evidently amateur work. I rather wish I'd taken the jemmy from him now."
Blake pointed to some scratches and indentations on the door, showing that, with an instrument, someone had been trying to force it open.
"Now, that's not the sort of thing I should have expected from Daunt," said Blake. "He's too clever, as a rule, for that sort of thing. Trying to track me like that!"
After a refreshing bath, and a change of clothes, the two were soon doing justice to the meal, which was, indeed, welcome after their strenuous night.
"I had a tough job, Tinker, when I left you," said Blake. "Daunt went straight on to London, and, when he got out at Charing Cross, he seemed to have some idea that he was being followed. He kept on looking round and round, and it took me all my time to keep him in sight, and I think I can track a person when I want to! My word, what a dance that fellow led me! But I managed to keep him in view, and when, at last, he went to get some food at a restaurant, I was able to sit down somewhere near him, and take a breather. I sent a note to our friend, Inspector Meredith, of Scotland Yard, asking him for a couple of plain clothes men to help me, and between us we kept the gallant captain in sight for the whole of the day. Tinker!" said Blake impressively, leaning over the table, and speaking in a low voice, "that man has evidently got on the biggest job of his lifetime! He called on the Silvanian ambassador, and also met two or three of the most murderous ruffians in London, spent half an hour with them in a beastly little café in Soho, and, finally, at Victoria Station, he met a gentleman with a fair beard, who was dressed in plain clothes, but in uniform would have looked exactly like that."
Blake pointed to a photograph of a good-looking, upstanding man in a gorgeous military uniform.
"The King of Silvania!" said Blake. "That was the gentleman Captain Daunt met. And now I'm asking myself, Tinker, what does it all mean?"
Silvania (the name is, for obvious reasons, changed) had, with its fiery, impetuous king, long been a thorn in the side of the reigning parties of Europe. The king was a fire-brand, and it was always feared that he would plunge peaceful countries into war, and generally disturb the peace of the Continent.
"Captain Daunt and King Frederick of Silvania make a very good pair," said Blake.
"And after that, sir?" inquired Tinker.
"They dined together at the Silvanian Embassy, and ones of Meredith's men brought me word that an order had been telephoned for a taxi-cab to be at the Embassy at a quarter to eleven, and it would possibly be wanted until the next morning. It was, of course, simple for me to be the taxi-cab driver, and I was not surprised when my fare turned out to be Captain Daunt, and that he wanted me to drive him to Maretown-on-Sea. He evidently wanted to see Nicole, according to the appointment that you heard, Tinker, and, as he wanted to be down there by eleven, it was necessary that he should be there as soon as possible, and the last train being gone, the only thing left was to take a taxi."
"Yes, it evidently was important, sir," said Tinker, "as Signor Nicole seemed exceedingly anxious when the time went by, and there were no signs of the captain."
"And, now, what we've got to find out, Tinker, is, why are Captain Daunt and Signor Nicole friends? Are they both spies, or what? What do you think, Tinker?"
"Well, sir," said Tinker slowly. "What I think is this. Signor Nicole and Captain Daunt have evidently something in common. You remember I saw them wink at each other when Daunt was discovered in your room. That, so far, I think, may be counted as settled. Then, downstairs in the kitchen department, there are all those rogues and scoundrels that you know so well. And, then, Signor Nicole, while evidently seeming to have an authority of his own, is known to them under the name of Anton, so that it seems to me there's something fishy there as well. Might it not be that the handsome Signor Nicole is the head, or managing director of a crime syndicate?"
Blake jumped from his chair, as if he had been shot.
"Tinker, you've got it!" he said. "By Jove, I believe you've got it! What an ass I was not to see it before! Those rascals in the kitchen, and Signor Nicole acting crooked with Daunt! Of course, it's as plain as a pikestaff! Reach me down Book A!"
From a shelf, which groaned under the weight of reference books and works relating to crime, Tinker handed down Volume A, which contained Sexton Blake's pet references.
"Here we are!" he said. "Here's my one failure! And, by Jove, Tinker, I really believe that, thanks to you, it will be turned into success. Look at the pages the record fills! 'The Unknown,' 'The Diamond King,' 'The Managing Director,' and so on, and so on. Such are a few of the names by which the veritable king of criminals has been known. Real name supposed to be Richard Ruthford, son of a clergyman, highly educated, speaks many languages, the most accomplished card-sharper and diamond thief that ever went into crime; is now supposed to have made his fortune, and be financing other criminals. He has never served imprisonment, owing to the cleverness with which he has concealed his connection with every crime in which he has been implicated. He is a past-master in the art of make-up and disguise, and no living detective has ever seen his real face. Has entirely vanished, as far as can be traced, from criminal work, and it is only conjecture that he is acting as criminal banker. And so on, and so on, goes the record. Richard Ruthford has never been caught. Now, those scoundrels in the kitchen, all of whom I have, more or less, at my fingers' ends, have been connected, in some way or another, with crimes in which Richard Ruthford, the king of them all, is supposed to have been interested. There they are in the service of Signor Nicole. Signor Nicole is, no doubt, a colleague of that spy, Captain Daunt. Therefore, by simple reasoning, Signor Nicole is a wrong one, and suspicion inevitably attaches to him. I believe we've got it, Tinker! I believe we've got Richard Ruthford in the hollow of our hands, and something seems to tell me that Signor Nicole is he!"
"A gentleman of the name of Signor Nicole to see you, sir," said the landlady, putting her head in at the door.
Blake looked across at Tinker, his eyes glittering with excitement; but he quickly controlled himself, as the proprietor of the Hotel Esparta was shown in, but not before Tinker, as quick as lightning, had disappeared into the communicating bed-room.
"Mr. Sexton Blake?" inquired Signor Nicole pleasantly.
"Yes. Signor Nicole, I presume?" replied Blake, with a smile.
The two men shook hands, and to Tinker, watching through a crack in the door, it seemed as if two great opposing generals, one of crime and the other of prevention, had met and that a contest of wit and brains was about to take place.
Signor Nicole Looks into the Bed-room—Tinker's Disguise—
At Paganino's Restaurant—The Grief-stricken Chef.
"YOU'LL excuse me, I'm sure, Mr. Blake," said Signor Nicole, in his soft, silky, penetrating voice, "for everybody knows of your marvellous skill, and I've come to consult you in a matter, which may appear trivial to you, but which is of some interest to me."
"Anything of interest to my clients cannot be trivial," replied Sexton Blake pleasantly. "In what way can I be of service to you?"
"Well, it's like this. I took a great interest in a boy I employed at my hotel. Yesterday, he was unfortunately knocked down by a tramcar, and severely injured. At least, that was what I thought. I went to the hospital and saw him, covered in bandages, and concluded that he would never be able to return to work again. Upon inquiry, however, late that night, I found that he had made a most miraculous recovery, and had been discharged as cured. He never returned to my hotel, and the doctor at the hospital tells me that he has no idea where he has gone to. Now, I'm interested in the boy. I think he was made for better things than to be a page boy in an hotel, and I've come to you to see if you can trace him for me. There seems something funny about the matter. Not that I am inquisitive, or anything of that sort, but he was a nice lad, and I should like to know what has become of him. Do you think you can help me?"
"Kindly describe him to me!" said Blake, taking a fountain pen and a writing pad.
And Signor Nicole gave a most vivid and intimate description of Tinker's personal appearance. He described most minutely, and with wonderful precision, Tinker's height, complexion, hair, colour of eyes, shape of features, and everything that would help to identify him by. It was a masterpiece of minute detail, and inwardly Sexton Blake congratulated this smooth-spoken man on his powers of observation.
"I'll do my best," he said. "But, of course, there are many hundreds, I may say thousands, of boys similar to him, that it may be a difficult matter to trace him."
"Nothing is difficult to Mr. Sexton Blake, from what we hear!" said Signor Nicole, with a slight bow. "Charming rooms you've got here, Mr. Blake! I've often wished to meet you, because I've heard so much of your wonderful doings. Excuse me, is this your bed-room? It is so interesting to a mere layman like myself to see the home of a great detective."
And before Sexton Blake could interfere, Signor Nicole had opened the bed-room door, and looked inside. Blake's heart gave a little thump, for he knew that Tinker was inside, and would be at once recognised by the hotel proprietor. He stepped forward quickly as Signor Nicole opened the door, and, to his intense relief, his keen eyes took in the fact that Tinker was not there.
"You've a clever little assistant, I believe?" said Nicole, closing the door gently. "Tinker, I think his name is? I should so much like to see him."
"Oh, yes, he's about somewhere," said Blake, hoping against hope that Tinker would be prepared. "I'll ring for him."
Blake rang a handbell, which stood on the table, and, before the echoes had died away, the door flew open, and a smart-looking boy in an Eton suit, with red hair and a wide mouth, entered the room.
"It's all right, Tinker," said Blake. "You were in the study, I suppose? I just wanted to know whether you had got any further information concerning the Government airship?"
As Blake spoke the words, he fixed his eyes on Signor Nicole's face.
"No, sir," answered Tinker quickly. "Nothing fresh in the matter, at all."
"That's all right! Then you can go back to work."
"Excuse me," said Signor Nicole politely; "but do you mind turning your head the other way, Mr. Blake? A little matter of business between Master Tinker and myself.'
Blake smiled, and looked out of the window, and Signor Nicole put his hand into his pocket, and went over to Tinker.
"I've often heard of you, young man," he said, "but I've never seen you before, and we of the outside public are so interested in detective work, that it is quite a pleasure and an honour to meet you. You don't mind, I'm sure! Now, Mr. Blake, you ought not to have looked round!"
And, with a smile, he handed Tinker a sovereign.
"Thank you, sir; much obliged," said Tinker, in a voice quite different to his own natural organ. "I'll get on with the work, now, sir," he added, looking at Blake.
"Well, you can rely on my doing my best, Signor Nicole, and my fee is one hundred pounds in advance."
Signor Nicole hesitated for a moment, and then produced his pocket book, and handed over two notes of fifty pounds each.
"Any news you can give me, Mr. Blake," he said, "will always find me at the Hotel Esparta, Maretown-on-Sea."
And with that he took his highly-polished silk hat from the table, bowed politely, and turned to the door. As he reached it, he turned back, and spoke to Blake in a hesitating manner.
"By the way, Mr. Blake," he said, "it's hardly in your line, I suppose, and I don't quite like asking you, but could you possibly recommend me a chef? My own has left me quite suddenly, and in a big hotel like mine, it is absolutely necessary that I should have somebody not simply competent, but also clever. Excuse my asking you, won't you; but I'm dreadfully worried about it."
"I'm afraid I don't know anybody at all. It's a bit off my beat, you see. But why not advertise? You'd get plenty of answers. Try the 'Morning Post.' That's a good medium."
"Thanks, very much, I will."
And with that Signor Nicole bowed once more and left.
As soon as he had left, and the echoes of his footsteps had died away down the stairs, Blake went to the door and called in Tinker.
"Laugh! Why, I thought I should have died!" said Blake, quoting the words of Mr. Chevalier's popular comic song. "Signor Nicole here to inquire after Tinker! I'll bet anything that Captain Daunt spotted us both on the pier, and gave him the tip, and that he's here to nose round and find out what he can. I'll bet my poor brainless head that that's Richard Ruthford, Tinker. The hotel proprietor at once comes smelling round and making it appear as if his object were to inquire about the boy. But how did you manage the disguise, Tinker? Pretty good; in fact, I might say, very good!"
Tinker flushed with delight, for real praise from Sexton Blake was rare indeed.
"I knew he would recognise me, sir, if he saw me, and so as to be on the safe side, I slipped on the wig and buttons as soon as I could, nipped out of the window down the water spout, and upstairs into the study, in case you should want me."
"You'll do, my boy, you'll do!"
And these simple words gave Tinker greater delight than almost a knighthood could have done, for Sexton Blake was not given to indiscriminate praise, and his " Well done!" was equal to a king's eulogy.
"And now, Tinker," he said, "I think we've earned a little recreation for the present, so get yourself clothed—I know you're in your right mind—and we'll go and have dinner at Paganino's, and do a theatre afterwards."
Paganino's was a restaurant much affected by literary and artistic circles, and here Blake and Tinker were both in their element. Good-looking and aristocratic in his evening-dress, Blake, accompanied by Tinker, also in dress-clothes, looking a trim, well-turned-out youngster, was received with almost enthusiasm by the proprietor, a genial, fat Italian, who had almost a worship for his clever clients.
They sat at a table in company with two or three well-known actors and authors, and Tinker, who was noted for his powers of story-telling, kept the company in a roar of laughter, and many were the regrets when the meal was over. One by one the actors drifted away to their professional engagements, the authors. disappeared, and finally Blake and Tinker were almost the only two left in the handsomely-furnished room.
"Have you still got your chef, Monsieur Beautemps, Signor Paganino?" asked Blake of the proprietor.
"But yes, certainly he is here!" was the answer, in a slight foreign accent. "Has not the food been good? Is it mot sufficiently talented for Signor Blake? If so, I prostrate myself at your feet—I apologise! I bring Monsieur Beautemps also to apologise!"
"No, no, signor—no, no!" said Blake. "Everything has been perfect—absolutely perfect. But if I could speak to Monsieur Beautemps for a second, you would make me your servant."
"My servant! Ha, ha! Signor Blake is pleased to be funny! My house and myself, are they not all at the disposal of Signor Blake, who saved me many years ago much trouble? I send for Monsieur Beautemps, who will come on the wings of friendship, for, he, too, is he not indebted to Signor Blake and Signor Tinker? Here, hie! Alphonse! Fritz! Anybody! Everybody! Hurry up, quick! Signor Blake wishes the presence of Monsieur Beautemps!"
At least five waiters made a dash for the kitchen, for Blake in private life was beloved wherever he went, and in the cosy little Restaurant Paganino, he and Tinker were familiar figures, and looked upon almost as part of the family.
In a few seconds Monsieur Beautemps, a fat, middle-aged Frenchman, the very type of the French chef, made his appearance. He was in a white coat and white apron, and wore a white square cap. His moustache and imperial were waxed to points, and his pale face was glistening with perspiration. He advanced with hands outstretched to Blake, and his pleasure at seeing the great detective was pathetically indicated.
"Monsieur Blake, Monsieur Blake!" he cried. "Ze great Monsieur Blake, and ze leetel Mistere Tinkere! Ha, ha! Zis is ze great day for Beautemps! I haf longed for you! I haf almost wept for you, mes amis! It is tree weeks since I haf seen you! And how are ve all? Everyzing of ze eating was goot? Zere are no complaints? No? Zen Adolphe Beautemps ees satisfied! And now, vot can ve do for Monsieur Blake and ze leetel Mistere Tinkere?"
The fat chef was evidently genuinely delighted to see the two, and his eyes almost swam with excited tears as he realised that he was talking to two of his most esteemed patrons.
"Well," said Blake quietly, "it's like this, Monsieur Beautemps. I'm afraid that Signor Paganino is going to give you the sack."
"Ma foi! Goot gracious heavens! You say not so! I am not guilty! I haf don nuzzings! It is impossible! Monsieur Blake, you joke! You haf ze leetel game wiz me!"
"Not at all!" said Blake quietly. "As a matter of fact, here, in your presence, I ask Signor Paganino to discharge you.
The poor chef looked as if he would like to sink through the earth, and Signor Paganino rubbed his hands nervously, looking from one to the other, and finally seeing Blake's impassive face, and noting that he was in earnest, he turned to Monsieur Beautemps.
"You take your discharge at once," he said, with a little quake in his voice. "What Signor Blake says is good. Now you go."
And the unfortunate and unhappy Monsieur Beautemps turned slowly on his heel towards his kitchen.
Paganino and Beautemps Promise to Help—Herr Nierstein, the Facial Expert—
The Midnight Visitor at Baker Street—The Electric Bell Rings.
AS the unhappy man moved away, Blake's face broke into a smile, and he turned to Signor Paganino. "No, no," he said quietly, "it's only my joke. But really, there is something in which dear old Beautemps might help me, with, of course, your kind permission, Signor Paganino."
"Of course, of course!" answered Paganino, evidently much relieved. "Always at your service, Signor Blake. Call Monsieur Beautemps back! I call him here again! Here, hie, Adolphe! It is a jokelet! It is a little play of Signor Blake! You return! You come back quickly!"
Monsieur Beautemps returned, his fat face creased with smiles.:
"Ha! But yes!" he said. "Sairtainly, I know that Monsieur Blake only has his leetel joke wiz ze poor Adolphe. Adolphe, ze innocent Adolphe, vot haf he done? Nuzzing! Nuzzing at all! Zen Monsieur Blake only play wiz me! Vot is it, Monsieur Blake?"
"Well, now," said Blake, "we're all friends together, and I know you'll do me a good turn if you can. Supposing—I say 'supposing '—that Mons'eur Beautemps in a day or two's time should see an advertisement for a chef for the Hotel Esparta at Maretown-on-Sea—I say, supposing he sees this advertisement, will he kindly answer it-and give his services? If he is engaged, I would also ask him to take Sexton Blake and Tinker with him as his assistants, Provided, of course," he added, with a little bow to the proprietor, "that Signor Paganino gives his permission. Believe me, my friends," he went on earnestly, "this is a matter of great importance—of importance to the country of your adoption, and of which you will allow me to say, you are now good and honest citizens."
Signor Paganino and Monsieur Beautemps bowed almost to the ground.
"England!" said Signor Paganino. "The country of my adoption! But yes, certainly, I will do anything for it! Adolphe, command yourself at the services of Signor Blake, and ask no questions. I will engage a substitute, and when Signor Blake has done with you, you come back! Is it not so?"
"Certainly. But yes!" said Monsieur Beautemps. "I understand nuzzing, I zink of nuzzing, except that Monsieur Blake want my services. He has zem, for has he not many years ago done me great kindness yen I vos poor and starving, and accused of robberies which I did not do? But yes, at Monsieur. Blake's service!"
"That's all right, than, my good friends," said Blake, rising. "I'll let you know when I want to call on your kindly help, Come along, Tinker; we'll be off to a music-hall."
Hailing a cab, they drove to the Regal music-hall in Piccadilly.
They sat through the ballet and the various other items, until they came to a turn which was announced on the programme as being presented by Herr Ludwig Nierstein, Facial Impersonator.
The performer was a stout, clean-shaved, middle-aged German. He announced in a pronounced foreign accent that, without the aid-of wigs, beards, or moustaches, he would impersonate various celebrities. This he: did with marvellous success, the twisting of his features being really wonderful, and Blake and Tinker were amongst the first to applaud.
"I think that man might be useful to us, Tinker," said Blake, as they mingled with the crowd that-were pouring out of the music-hall. "We'll go round and see him."
The magic name of Sexton Blake procured them instant admission behind the scenes. It was not the first time that Tinker had been in that wonderful world, and yet he still admired the magical way in which huge pieces of scenery were shifted out of sight, in which chaos was quickly reduced to order, and the methodical way in which the whole of the gigantic stage was managed.
They were soon in Herr Nierstein's dressing-room, and Blake quickly introduced himself.
"I think I may say without egotism as I'm here on business," he said, "that my name is fairly well known in Germany. Your Imperial Kaiser does me the honour to recognise me as a friend, and I should also like to claim Herr Nierstein as one."
The performer, who was obviously flattered, said that in Germany the name of Sexton Blake was a household word, and that he would gladly do whatever he could to assist the great detective.
"Thank you," said Blake. "Do you think you could imitate my face? That's all I want!"
The German looked at Blake fixedly for a few minutes, twisted his face, and then, just, as he said, to make sure, seized a stick of grease paint, and, after a few deft touches there and there, he was Sexton Blake to the life.
"Then all I want you to do," said Blake, "is to occupy my rooms while I'm away, and to go in and out as Sexton Blake, and allow yourself to be seen at the window late at night."
"Of course, with pleasure!" said the German. "Though I know not what you want me for, it must be for a good cause. At your service, Herr Blake!"
"That's all right, Tinker," said Blake, when they were outside. "Now, do you know what my game is? As soon as Signor Nicole's advertisement for a chef appears (which if undoubtedly will), Monsieur Beautemps shall apply, and he will certainly obtain the post, as he is so well-known in the hotel world. He shall take us with him in the kitchen, and we shall be in the middle of that den of thieves, and doubtless find out everything. While we are away, Herr Nierstein will occupy my rooms, and if any of Daunt's gang are about, they'll think that Sexton Blake is still in London, and there won't be the slightest ground for suspicion that he's left London. How do you like the idea?"
"Splendid!" answered Tinker. "I only wish I could be in both places at once and see the fun!"
"I'm glad you call it 'fun,' Tinker," answered Blake, with a grim smile; "it's one of the most serious cases that we've had for some time!"
"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Tinker quickly; "I don't mean to look at it from a laughable point of view, but I think it always is fun to outwit a scoundrel!"
"Quite right, my boy—quite right! And though I'm not so young as you, I can remember when I thought that everything in this game was 'fun.' Keep your youth, Tinker, as long as you can, and if you can look on the light side of things, always do. Now, here we are, at home, and we'll have a good night's rest!"
And after closing the outer door, they ascended the stairs to Blake's rooms.
"Hallo," said the detective quickly, "somebody's been here! See, the bristles of the mat have been rubbed the wrong way! Look, one man has wiped his feet; and not very small feet, either, as you can see by the impression!"
He struck a match, and made Tinker stoop to look.
"See this mud—that clot there? That's not London mud. It's evident, then, that we've got a country visitor. And it's also evident that he's inside waiting for us, for the gas in the hall, which was half on, is now full on. It's also plain that he's known to the landlady and that she's allowed him in, for the flap of the keyhole is to one side and not completely covering the hole, as it was when I left it. Do you follow me, Tinker?"
"Yes, sir," answered Tinker; while in his mind he was secretly admiring the quick way in which Sexton Blake had deduced things.
"Now," went on the detective, "there's only one person whom my landlady has had permission to admit in my absence. Who can it be?"
Tinker thought for a moment, and then answered quickly:
"The Honourable Mr. Malvane, Secretary for War, sir," he said.
"Quite right! We shall find him inside."
Blake very, very quietly opened the door with his own key, and inside the hall the gas, surely enough, was turned nearly full on, He opened the door of the dining-room quietly, and found the room in perfect darkness.
"Don't move, Mr. Malvane," he said quietly. "You're sitting in the armchair by the side of the fireplace. You came up from Drayton in a hurry to see me. Excuse me while I turn on the electric light."
Blake turned on the electric light, and there, surely enough, in a chair on the right of the fireplace was the Honourable Mr, Malvane, a middle-aged man with grey side-whiskers, the Secretary for War.
"Quite right—quite right, Mr. Blake!" he said, rising, "Your landlady let me in. But I'm puzzled to know how, you ascertained where I have come from, and where I wag sitting?"
"Simple, Mr. Malvane—very simple," said Blake. "The last time you were here you sat in a chair on the left of the fireplace, and, declaring you felt a draught, you changed to the right. Therefore it would be natural that, at your second visit, you should seat yourself on the right side again. I found a piece of Drayton mud on the mat, and, Drayton, mud, as you know, sir, is peculiar. There's only another specimen like it to be found in England with that same clayey look, and that's in North Cumberland, That you were here, I knew from the position of the keyhole flap, and because my landlady has orders to admit no one else under any pretext except you. Now, sir, what can I do for you?"
"Wonderful—wonderful, Mr. Blake!" said the man, 'Dear me, how simple it all seems when you explain it! I did not turn on the electric light, because I know how careful you are; but, believe me, Mr. Blake, I've been sitting here in an agony of fear and doubt, hoping and praying for your return! The plans of the airship that were missing have not been found, and our Secret service tells us that the Silvanian Government have got hold of them; that in a few months—two at the most—they will be in advance of any European country, and, with the new ships at their disposal, they will occupy a position which almost appalls me by the thought of its power.
"We must get these plans back. We must circumvent the Silvanian Government somehow or other, and it is to you, Mr. Blake, that I have come to appeal. They are not starting—they cannot start—building—for a fortnight, for the plans are so intricate, and the mechanical side so difficult, that it will take quite that time for their engineers' to study them. If we could only recover them—steal them; get them anyhow—before that time, we should be safe, and our secret would be intact. Now, what can you do in the matter, Mr. Blake?"
"You're certain that the Silvanian Government has the plans, Mr. Malvane?" asked Blake.
"No, no; I'm not certain that they have them yet. But our secret service tells us that they are making large and secret preparations for the building of new airships, and one of our most trusted men tells me that the king and the court are agog with excitement, eagerly awaiting the arrival of a messenger from England with the specifications."
"Oh," said Blake quietly, "they've not got them yet! Well, then, there's a chance! I think if I were you, Mr. Malvane, I'd go home and try to get some sleep. I'll do my best—not alone for you, who have been such a good friend to me, but for the sake of my dear old country. We shall have a lot to do before the twenty-fifth," he added, turning to Tinker, "because that's the time of the blue moon."
Tinker thought for a moment, and then he suddenly gasped:
"I remember now, sir!" he said. "That's what Captain Daunt and Fritz Herschell said on the pier! 'See you on the twenty-fifth then, the time of the blue moon'!"
"Yes, my boy," said Blake. "On the twenty-fifth the King of Silvania, I have ascertained, is due in England on a visit, incognito—that is to say, he is not coming in state —and the blue moon is the imperial sign of the House of Silvania. There's mischief brewing—grave mischief—I can prophesy, and we've got to stop it. Listen for a moment! What's that?"
They listened with strained ears, and in the hall outside the electric bell of the outer door rang clearly and distinctly.
The Messengers from the War Office—A Dastardly Plot —
The Secretary for War's Narrow Escape—Tinker Returns.
"JUST see who that is, Tinker!" said Blake.
Tinker went out of the room and returned a few moments later.
"Two strange men, sir," said Tinker. "I've never seen either of them before."
"Better ask them through the speaking-tube who they are," said Blake.
"Yes? Who is it?" asked Tinker.
"We are two messengers from the War Office," came the answer. "Important despatches have come through by special messenger for the Secretary of War, and we have brought them on, according to order."
"Good gracious! You never left word that you were coming to see me, Mr. Malvane, did you?" asked Blake excitedly.
"Why, yes, certainly; but I didn't know that there was any harm in that!"
"Harm? No knowing what harm has not been done!" said Blake. "Why, Daunt is sure to have his spies everywhere, and it'll be known before tomorrow morning that I've got the case in hand, and we shall have a tough job to prevent the papers going out of the country! Do you want to see these men? And did you really leave orders that all despatches were to be sent on here?" "Certainly not!" answered the Secretary for War. "I shouldn't do such a foolish thing! Despatches never leave the War Office!"
"Then," said Blake, looking straight at Tinker, "I think we'd better have the two men up."
"Will you please come up?" said Tinker, hastening to the door.
A moment or two later two messengers, in a quiet sort of semi-uniform, one of them carrying a tin despatch-box, stood at the door of Sexton Blake's room.
"Come right in," said Tinker; " Mr. Malvane is inside!"
The two men entered the room, saluted Mr. Malvane, and placed the despatch-box on the table. Mr. Malvane nodded as they saluted, and looked at the despatch-box.
re told you to bring that despatch-box here?" he asked.
"Mr. Carbury, the Clerk in Charge, sir. He asked me to tell you, sir, that he could not lock it, as you had the keys, but he has sealed it instead."
The man pointed to two broad bands of tape which ran lengthwise and crosswise over the box, sealed with a large fat blob of red sealing-wax.
"Very well; you can go now."
The two men saluted, and were let out by Tinker.
"Carbury has no business to send things on here!" said Mr. Malvane. "I wonder, though, whether they're despatches concerning Silvania? If so, I'd better open the box and see at once!"
He took his penknife, and was about to slit the tape and break the seal, when Blake, who was standing by the mantelpiece, gave a sudden exclamation, and, seizing the first thing that came handy, which happened to be a sofa-cushion, he flung it with all his force at Mr. Malvane. The cushion was heavy and fairly hard, and, catching Mr. Malvane full in the face, the astonished Secretary for War was flung back in his chair, and then rose, pale, and trembling with anger.
"I think you're forgetting yourself, Mr. Blake!"
"I'll beg your pardon in a minute if I'm wrong, Mr. Malvane," said Blake gravely. "Tinker, fetch me a jug and basin from the bed-room! Why, where is the boy? Tinker, where are you?"
There was no answer, and Blake himself, after urging Mr. Malvane not to touch the box, rushed quickly into the next room, brought back jug and basin, which he placed on the floor. Very delicately and gingerly he placed the box in the basin, and then, with a grim, pale, set face, emptied with a splash all the contents of the jug over it.
There was a little hiss, a little, tiny, white column of smoke came up, a sort of tremor shook the box, and Blake looked up, with a grim smile, at Mr. Malvane. "As I expected, sir! If you had opened that box, you and I, and everyone in this house, and perhaps in the next two houses as well, would have been blown into fragments! Now I'll open it."
Blake quickly prised open the lid of the box, and showed Mr. Malvane the inside. The water had penetrated throuch the cracks and made a sort of paste of what appeared to be a greyish powder. There were a few grains still dry, and Blake picked some of it up and put it on his tongue.
"Yes," he said, "the new fulminating powder. I thought so! And that little spring there would have touched on this piece of explosive paper, and as the box was opened the powder would have exploded, and there would have been nothing of us, Mr. Malvane, upon which to hold an inquest. When water is poured on the powder, it behaves somewhat like a seidlitz powder, as you saw just now. So now I think you'll understand why I threw the cushion at you."
Mr. Malvane, white and shaken and trembling at this merciful salvation from sudden death, extended his hand to Blake.
"But how—how did you know, Mr. Blake?" he said "How did you know this dastardly deed was intended?"
"I suspected the men, Mr. Malvane. The way that man carried the box showed that there was something inside which needed greater care in the handling than a few pieces of paper. He was afraid to let it go out of the perpendicular. By the way he placed it on the table, you might have thought that it contained eggshell china. And the hurry in which he and his comrade were to get off did not favourably impress me, either. It occurred to me that there might be something in the shape of a bomb inside that box—for such things have been known to happen, Mr. Malvane—" he added, with meaning, "and that was why I took the risk of throwing a cushion at you until I made certain."
"And to think that your observation has saved my life, and perhaps a dozen others, is wonderful! Well, I think I'll return home now, Mr. Blake. I feel somewhat more contented now I've seen you, though I confess to grave doubts as to whether we can prevent the papers leaving England."
"If they're in England, I'll find them," said Blake, with a quiet smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Blake—thank you!" said the Secretary for War, "And to start with, tomorrow morning I will have a thorough investigation made with regard to the two messengers, to see if we cannot in some way find out how the box was tampered with."
"I don't think you'll find that the two messengers will ever appear again, sir, at the War Office."
"But why not? They were Richards and Morris, our two most trusted messengers."
Blake shook his head almost sadly.
"No, air; they were evidently two of Captain Daunt's blackguards in disguise. Your messengers would never allow themselves to be taken in with that dummy despatch-box. No, sir. This was a scheme to blow you and me up, as being the only two persons who knew of the missing papers. Once we were out of the way, the rest would be easy. It must be a handsome reward to make Daunt go in for this sort of thing. Anyway, sir, I'm glad you're safe, and I'm not sorry that my head is still on my shoulders."
The Secretary for War shook hands with Blake, and was let out of the rooms in Baker Street, where so many mysteries had been solved, and from whence spread the long tentacles that had clutched in many an unsuspecting criminal.
A night hansom came crawling past, Blake saw Mr. Malvane safely into it, and then, standing on his own doorstep, he wondered what had become of Tinker. He stood there for a few minutes, meditatively smoking a cigarette, and then, after barring and locking the door, he went upstairs, undressed, threw himself into bed, and was quickly asleep.
Brutal though it may seem, he did not even give a further thought to Tinker as he turned on his pillow. He believed that, to keep one's brain fresh and keen, one should never worry over trifles, and the disappearance of Tinker was not a matter to get anxious about, for he knew that the boy never disappeared without good reason, and that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself.
Blake slept peacefully for a couple of hours, and then suddenly moved his head. He was awake at the slightest noise. Hoe listened. Faintly he heard the ticking of his own watch on the dressing table, and then he heard a sound like scratch, scratch, scratch.
Smiling to himself in the darkness, he stretched his hand under his pillow, drew out a revolver which always slept there with him, and, with a steady finger on the trigger, he waited.
Scratch, scratch, scratch came the noise again, as if somebody were fumbling at the window. Then there came knock, knock, knock very gently on the window-pane.
Again Blake smiled to himself, but this time he slipped the revolver back under the pillow, jumped out of bed, draw back the curtain, and unhooked the powerful latch of the window.
"Come in, my boy!" he said.
He put out a couple of muscular hands, they were grasped from below, and Tinker was swung into the room, only to fall in a heap on the floor.
In a twinkling Blake turned on the light, stooped over Tinker, and lifted him up and carried him to the bed.
The boy had fainted, and as Blake applied the accepted methods of reviving him, he noticed on his head a large, open gash. He bathed this tenderly, applied restoratives, and in a few minutes Tinker was able to sit up and look round.
"Now you sit quiet for a few minutes, my lad, while I just surgically treat this gash. I couldn't do it before, for I wanted to get you out of the faint first. There you are! That ought to fetch you up all right."
Blake, an adept at most things, quickly fixed up proper surgical bandages, and a quick-healing ointment of his own prescription, and then sat down in a chair, lit his beloved pipe, and looked at Tinker.
"The hot soup will be ready directly," he said, until you've swallowed that don't speak a word."
There was a little electric heater in the bed-room, and on this Blake had set to boil a cup full of concentrated soup. When Tinker had gratefully finished his cupful, Blake nodded at him.
"Now, then, if you like, my boy!"
"Well, sir," said Tinker, "I saw those two men were not the thing at all. Their boots were such as men-in well-to-do circumstances would wear; their trousers were not Government Service trousers at all, they were made of evening-dress material; and though their wigs, moustaches, and whiskers were splendidly made, the inside lining of their caps was quite new. Now, sir, it's an undoubted fact, though not known to many, that the lining of a Government messenger's hat is one of his most treasured possessions. The cap may wear out; he may be supplied by Government with a new one, but he always keeps the lining of the old one, however bad and worn it may be, for a Government messenger will never willingly part with the lining of his first cap. It's a little peculiarity I have known of, and it set me thinking that those two men were impostors."
"So you followed them, then?"
"Yes, sir. There really wasn't time or the opportunity to stop and explain, and I thought you would understand."
"I did, partly. Well, go on."
"Very well, sir. I had on one of my reversible coats, and there was a cap in the pocket, so the disguise was easy."
Blake nodded, for it was at his suggestion that many of Tinker's coats were, so to speak, made in duplicate. That is to say, by turning the coat inside out and reversing it, he had a coat of quite another cloth altogether. They were made by a clever tailor in the confidence of Blake, and it was really wonderful what a change they made in Tinker's appearance. Instead of lining, cloth was used, and though at times if was rather warm, it very often served a useful purpose. A slouching cap, pulled well over the eyes, also helped; and with Tinker's talent at change of feature, gait, and figure, with very little trouble, he was soon disguised.
"It was not a hard job to follow them, sir, though, of course, the difficulty was to keep close enough to them to hear what they said. You see, at this time of the night there aren't many people about, and you can't keep close to anybody as you can when there's a crowd. However, I followed them to a house just off the Huston Road. They went in with a latchkey, as if they lived there, up to a room on the first floor, where they turned on the gas, and shortly, afterwards they were joined by two other men, one of them went to the window quickly and pulled the curtains to. There was a balcony, and it was an easy job to climb up there, and the long French window being open, owing, I suppose, to the heat of the night, it was not difficult to listen, even though the curtains were drawn. Thanks to your training, sir, I never forget a voice, and the four men in that room were Captain Daunt, Signor Nicole, and two men from the kitchen staff of the Hotel Esparta."
Blake nodded his head as if in pleasure, and drew a long breath.
"Ha, ha! I think we've got him now," he said quietly. "Go on, Tinker."
"Well, sir, the two men were evidently cocksure that Mr. Malvane and you would be dead within twenty minutes, 'and that wretched little boy as well, I hope,' I heard Captain Daunt say. I suppose he meant me, sir? My heart went pit-a-pat, and I wondered whatever he meant by it all. Still, I knew you were there, so I didn't worry much. 'Once Blake and Malvane are out of the way,' said Captain Daunt, 'nobody else will know anything about those airship plans, and when King Frederick comes over on the twenty-fifth, I shall be able to hand him the plans without any interference.' "
"What else did you hear, Tinker?"
"That they were to meet the king at the Hotel Esparta on the twenty-fifth, and that he would have a hundred thousand pounds with him, half of which was to go to Signor Nicole for his assistance, and the other half to Daunt on the production of the plans."
"A hundred thousand pounds! My word!" whistled Blake. "No wonder that Daunt's on the job, then. But now, my poor boy, we're forgetting all about your head. How did you get that gash?"
"In a most unromantic manner, sir," said Tinker. "I was coming over the wall the back way to climb up the waterspout, as I didn't think it wise to go in the front way, when I missed my footing and fell on a heap of bricks. I came down rather hard and knocked my head, but my duty was to get in and report to you, and I had just strength enough left to climb up and scratch at the window and give three knocks as a signal."
"Tinker, said Blake solemnly, "shake, and then get you to bed."
Tinker shook the long, lean hand extended to him, and though his head ached and throbbed, he turned over with a peaceful satisfaction that he had done his duty.
"SEE this, Tinker?" said Blake, the next morning at breakfast, pointing to the "Morning Post." "'Wanted, a chef for the Hotel Esparta, Maretown-on-Sea.' I think that's where you and and I serve in that den of thieves, isn't it, along with our old friend Monsieur Beautemps?"
They passed the day quietly, stoping in their rooms, and at about four o'clock a telegram came from Monsieur Beautemps, from Maretown. It ran:
"Come down at once. Meet me end of pier, 9.15."
At nine-fifteen they were down at the end of the pier, and Monsieur Beautemps, fat, greasy, and perspiring, met them.
"I haf arrange wiz ze proprietor," he said. "It ees all right. I am engaged for chef, and I bring my own assistants, and I cannot vork wiz ze uzzers!"
He winked, and Blake smiled end patted him on his fat back.
"Good for you, Monsieur Beautemps!" he said. "You'll go back to the hotel, and say that you're writing to-night for two assistants to come down tomorrow."
The fat Frenchman, who, his admirable dinner being served at seven o'clock, had told the proprietor he must have some fresh air, smiled genially, and went back to the hotel. Blake and Tinker went back to town, and the next morning, after breakfast, Blake received a wire which ran:
"Come down at once. You are engaged as assistants.
"BEAUTEMPS."
"Now then, Tinker," said Blake, "we must begin to work! Fetch out the chemicals and the make-up box!"
First of all Blake applied to his own face and Tinker's a pungent, neutral-coloured liquid, which stung as it was applied to the flesh. On the top of this he put the paints, and made himself and Tinker up, and then they stood and looked at each other, and smiled.
Blake, in a black, close-cropped wig, with a pale face, slight black moustache and imperial, was the very ideal of a French chef.
Tinker also wore a black, short wig. His cheeks were lightly covered with little black, curling hairs, as if he were a young man of about eighteen or nineteen, with a beard just coming. In these two no one would have recognised the great detective and his young assistant.
"Now then, Tinker," said Blake, "don't forget that you can wash or do anything you like—jump into the sea, if you wish—and the paint and the other things will never come off!"
"Good gracious me!" said Tinker, in simulated alarm. "Never come off! How am I to get back to myself again, then?"
"Oh, I'll give you another astringent liquid that takes everything off! I always bless that day on which I met old Steinbaum, the German chemist, and he gave the recipe for this invention of his. First put on the liquid and let it dry on your face, and then apply the paints, and nothing in this world will take them off, except the antidote, which he also invented. Now then for Maretown-on-Sea!"
"But what about Herr Nierstein?" asked Tinker.
"Good boy—good boy, you never forget anything! But I've already arranged that. I've got a note here for Herr Nierstein advising him to come here every night after his show, let himself be seen at the window in the full glare of the electric light, and let me know by wire or letter whatever happens. Now then, train for Maretown!"
They reached Maretown a little after three, and went straight to the hotel.
"Monsieur Beautemps?" inquired Blake of the hall-porter, with a beautiful French accent.
"The Staff entrance! Don't you know?" growled the porter. "This is only the guests' entrance. Go on, hurry up! First to the right!"
"A nice gang of thieves!" said Blake to Tinker, as they walked round. "That gentleman in the elaborate uniform, and the polite courtesy to those beneath him, is Courvoisier, a Swiss valet, whom I strongly suspect of having murdered his master, the Duke of Grey Towers, last August. You will remember the old gentleman was found dead in bed, and was supposed to have taken an overdose of a sleeping-draught, but I think Mr. Courvoisier was guilty. However, I dare say he'll come into my net later on!"
Down the stairs so familiar to Tinker, they went, and were received by Monsieur Beautemps. He treated them in the way in which employers of that class treat their employees, and whistled up the tube to Signor Nicole's private office to know if he could speak to him.
"Zese are assistants who haf vork wiz me before. sir," he said. "Zis one"—he pointed to Blake—"make ze finest gravy you haf ever taste. And zis one "—he pointed at Tinker—"he can cook a potato wiz nobody. I vould not be wizout zem! You engage zem, I stop! Ozzervise I go!"
Nicole, with his penetrating blue eyes, looked hard at the couple, and then turned to Monsieur Beautemps.
"Anything for the good of the house. Have your way, Monsieur Beautemps."
With that he left, and Monsieur Beautemps began to show them round the kitchen, talking in an undertone as he did so.
He told them that Signor Nicole received him, so to speak, with open arms, knowing his reputation as a chef. Monsieur Beautemps told him that he could not work unless he had trained assistants with him who knew his methods and ways, so he therefore proposed to engage two young fellows who had: been under him before. It being the height of the season, and the hotel crammed with influential and well-to-do guests, Signer Nicole consented, and Monsieur Beautemps telegram was the result.
Monsieur Beautemps then took the two into his private room, for the chef of a big hotel is quite a personage in his way, drawing a salary sometimes of from five hundred to a thousand pounds, or even more, a year. There he explained to Blake and Tinker what they would have to do, particularly telling Blake that he would have to be at his right hand during every moment of the time he was preparing dinner.
"It ees all right," he said, "wiz ze gravy. I prepare him, and you stir him, that ees all! And you, lettel mistere," he went on to Tinker, "you look aftere ze potato cooking. It is easy! All you do is to see ven zey boil you take zem avay from ze fire. strain off ze vater, and let zem steam! Zen zey are pairfect! I will look aftere you, you need haf no fear! And now I tell you sumsings else."
And with that the chef explained that they ought to have white caps and coats and aprons, which, according to hotel rules, are not provided, but are bought by the cooks themselves.
"I haf some! I haf severals!" said the Frenchman. "Here zey are!"
He produced two chefs' outfits, one of which fitted Blake fairly well, white the other, with a little alteration, would do admirably for Tinker.
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and Jevons, otherwise known as Signor Carlo Marino, the kitchen clerk, offered to show the two newcomers where they were to sleep.
It was a horrible, dark, dingy room in the basement, containing two beds, a tiny wash hand-stand with jug and basin, and that was all.
"Well," said Blake, "I didn't expect to have the Royal suite, but I should have liked something a bit more wholesome! However, we're here on business, and this will have to do."
The were employed at various odd jobs until it came to the hour of five, when Monsieur Beautemps began to get feverish and excited in the preparation for the evening meal. He kept Blake and Tinker close by his side, and they, with their usual adaptability, made as much fuss and worry as if they were trained cooks. Blake stirred up the gravy with a professional air, and Tinker looked to the potatoes, and from five to half-past eight, when the dinner was over, they were in a constant state of bustle.
Kitchen life below stairs in an hotel is an eye-opener to the uninitiated, and though Blake and Tinker had seen many strange and varied sides of life, they were most interested in the way in which the dinner at this large hotel was served. Lightning speed and accuracy was the thing!
When the coffees had been sent up, and a lull occurred in the proceedings, Signor Nicole made his appearance in the kitchen.
"Allow me," he said, in his clear, silky voice, "to compliment you, Monsieur Beautemps—and perhaps I should include your two assistants—on the admirable dinner which you sent up. All my guests are loud in their praise of the excellent cooking. When you have changed and had your own dinner, perhaps you will all three come up to my private office and see me."
Monsieur Beautemps, in his own private room, changed his white linen coat and cap for the attire of an ordinary citizen, and was followed in this by Tinker and Blake, and together they all three of them mounted to Signor Nicole's private office.
"Welcome!" said Signor Nicole, in French. "And now I think we're all three going to have a nice little quiet talk together. But first of all I will give you some of my special liqueur brandy which I only keep for my guests."
Tinker and Blake both refused, for temperance methods were to them sacred, and Monsieur Beautemmps, also a most temperate man, most strenuously declined.
"Oh, I'm sorry for that," said Signor Nicole, carefully locking the door, "as I thought perhaps it might brace you up for a shock—you, I mean, Monsieur Beautemps. Excuse me if I seem in any way unpleasant, but have you ever paid back that ten thousand francs which you embezzled from your first employer?"
Monsieur Beautemps' face went to a dull, deadly white. Hie mouth opened and shut as if he were vainly trying to speak, and he fell back in his chair in a dead faint.
A Trap—The Late Motor Car.
TINKER clenched his fists, and nearly jumped out of his chair as this sudden accusation was hurled at the chef; but Blake restrained him by a slight touch of his foot on the ankle, and they waited developments.
"It's all right; he'll come to in a minute," said Signor Nicole. "Just open the window, and unloosen his collar, and he'll be all right."
In a few minutes Monsieur Beautemps came to, and looked up at Signor Nicole with tearful eyes.
"I could send you back to France to face the law if I wished," said Signor Nicole, in that peculiar voice of his; "but I don't think it will be necessary if you'll only do what I want."
"No," said Monsieur Beautemps, "I am not afraid, I did not embezzle ze money, zough it looked as if I did. I vill go back if you vish."
"Oh," said Signor Nicole, "and supposing I telephone now to the police and tell them that I believe there is an extradition warrant out still for your arrest—eh?"
He turned to the telephone, and Blake leant forward quickly and whispered in Monsieur Beautemps' ear:
"Pretend to be frightened! Do what he wants!"
The quick brain of the Frenchman took in the suggestion in a moment. "No, no! I beg of you! I implore you! Anysing I vill do—yes, anysing, but send me not back to France. I vas guilty—yes!"
"Ha!" said Signor Nicole, turning round. "I thought we should come to it. Then I'll speak openly. And your friends. Have they any means?"
"No, no! Zey are poor peoples."
"Then I suppose they would not be averse to earning few hundreds? Supposing—I say, 'supposing '—I wished a little "—he lowered his voice, and looked round carefully —"supposing I wished a little drug introduced into two certain portions, and for this introduction I was willing to pay five hundred pounds each—that is, fifteen hundred for the three of you—would it be possible to have it done? You are the only people who have the handling of the food, and it would be five hundred pounds easily earned."
Blake, unperceived, kicked Monsieur Beautemps.
"Yes, yes, I do it!" said the Frenchman. "You vill not send me back to France to prison?"
"No, of course not. It's a little private political affair of my own. And, believe me, Monsieur Beautemps, you'll be doing your country a service as well, for, strictly between ourselves, I am in the pay of your Government. Keep your own counsel, and my secret, and you'll be well paid. Otherwise, back you go to France. And, as for you"—he turned to Blake and Tinker—"five hundred pounds is worth having, isn't it? Or is starvation in the streets better?"
"Oh, I don't care!" answered Blake, with a French accent. "Speaking for myself and my young friend, here, we're open to do anything, so long as we get paid for it."
Signor Nicole advanced, and shook hands with them solemnly.
"Then you're the sort of men I want in my hotel," he said. "Now, don't say a word about what's passed, and, instead of five hundred, I'll make it a bit more. Come in!" he broke off suddenly.
He quietly unlocked the door, and there entered Captain Daunt.
"Yes, very good," went on Signor Nicole. "The dinner was very nice, You won't forget what I told you, will you? Those little things make such a difference to the meal."
When they got back to the chef's room, poor Monsieur Beautemps burst into excited French tears.
"I did not—I did not embezzle ze money!" he cried. "It vas my brozzer! He vas ze favourite son of my muzzer, and for her sake, I take ze blame! But vot a scoundrel! I vould like to steek my carving knife into his inside!"
"Well," said Blake quietly, "we'll do something nearly as bad as that, Beautemps. And don't forget to keep it up— keep it up, my boy! And I beg your pardon, sir," he went on, speaking rapidly in French. "May we go out, now, for an hour, now that everything is over?"
He winked at Beautemps, as the door opened, and Jevons poked his head in.
"Yes; you may go," said the chief. "And, remembere, I vant zose potatoes better cook tomorrow. Vot ees it, Mr. Jevons?"
"Oh, I only want to consult you about tomorrow's menu, Monsieur Beautemps," was the reply.
And Blake and Tinker, leaving Mr. Jevons closeted with Monsieur Beautemps, went out for a breath of fresh air.
The sea front was crowded. The band was in the middle of a favourite waltz, and up and down promenaded the throng of holiday makers, flirting, love-making, enjoying themselves, happy, gay, and careless, without a thought of trouble or sorrow. And amongst them walked two apparent foreigners, the elder one with, possibly, the fate of a nation in his hands, and the younger friend ready to do anything that his tutor and friend wished.
"It's Richard Ruthford, sure enough, Tinker! said Blake. "That was always his game to get men into his power who had once committed a crime, and then force them into his service. What his game is as regards the drugs and the food, I don't know, but I dare say we shall find out. And, now, let's listen to this beautiful tune."
And this wonderful man, who could cast off cares and troubles in a moment, sat down with Tinker, and listened to the strains of the Blue Hungarian Band, who were playing a melodious waltz.
"Ah!" said Blake. "That's done me good. Music always helps me when I'm thinking. Now, I suppose we'd better get back to our beds in the cellar, or we shall be locked out."
They left the gay throng, and went back to their bed-room in the basement.
"This is rather interesting, Tinker," said Blake, pointing to a plan of the hotel on the wall. "It's evidently for the use of the staff. You see, it points out each staircase and each room, so that the waiters and other employees can make no mistake when bells ring, and where they are wanted. I don't think we'll go to bed just yet."
Blake sat for quite twenty minutes in front of the plan, which, in accordance with hotel rules, is posted in every employee's bed-room, and studied it intently.
Gradually the hotel became quieter. All the staff had gone to bed, and the guests were evidently going up to their rooms as well, for seaside visitors are invariably early. By putting his head out of the basement window, Blake, with his keen ear, could hear the hall porter opening the door, and bidding good-night to the various people who came in.
"Eleven o'clock!" he said at length. "In another hour everyone will be in bed, and then I think we'll explore, Tinker."
When from the neighbouring church the hour of twelve chimed, loud and sonorous in the night air, Blake spoke again.
"Slip off your boots, Tinker, and follow me!"
And from his pocket he produced an electric torch, which showed a light when a button was pressed in the handle.
Out of their cellar-room they crept, and it seemed to Tinker as if Blake were gifted with second sight, and an Indian litheness of body. Through the kitchen they went and it was much as Tinker could do to restrain a cry of disgust, as he trod on what were evidently about half a dozen black beetles, gathering up the scraps and refuse.
Still, on crept Blake, feeling and finding his way through the passages and upstairs, occasionally flashing the electric torch at an awkward angle. He invariably kept the intricate hotel plan in his mind till they arrived at the ground floor.
"I want to find out what room Daunt is in. Stop there!" he whispered to Tinker.
Tinker stopped in a dark corner in the entrance hall, while Blake quietly slipped over to the visitors' book, which was kept on a desk outside the office. He flashed the electric torch so as to get a sight of the pages, and just at that moment, Tinker saw indistinctly a figure rise from the darkness of a corner near to him. Then it struck him that this must be the night porter, kept in every hotel. As this man quietly moved across the floor towards the unconscious Blake, whose back was turned, Tinker gave a spring like a tiger. He leapt full on the man's back, clapped his hand over his mouth to prevent him shouting, bore him to the ground, and then sat heavily on his chest, holding him down with a "ju-jitsu" grip which Blake had taught him. Blake heard the thump, turned like lightning, and, in a second, was by Tinker's side, leaning over the man.
"Gag and bind him, Tinker!" he said, in a low voice.
Old experience had taught both of them to be provided with, at least, two long, strong, silk handkerchiefs, when ever possible, and with these they first of all gagged the man, then bound him hand and foot, and, with some difficulty, lifted him back into a corner, for he was a heavy man. Blake flashed the electric torch into his face, and, in the dim light, Tinker saw his master's face, white as death, but with a smile of satisfaction.
"That's all right, Tinker," whispered Blake. "We'll leave him there till we come down. Room 25, third floor; that's where Daunt is."
Up the stairs they crept, till they came to the third floor, and Room 25.
"I think we'll go in," whispered Blake quietly. "I want to see if friend Daunt has got any incriminating documents on him. Just wait a minute! Hold the torch!"
Tinker held the torch, while Blake, from his pocket, produced a key. It was what is known as "a master key," which is always in the possession of the proprietor of an hotel, and by which he can enter any room that may be locked.
"I borrowed this out of Nicole's room," he whispered, "Now, very quietly!"
Carefully, and with a great delicacy of touch, Blake turned the key, opened the door, and slipped inside. He gripped Tinker by the arm, and they listened.
They distinctly heard the breathing of a man as in sleep.
"He's fast asleep," whispered Blake. "Search the pockets of his clothes, and any papers you may find, take them!"
Tinker could move as delicately as any cat, while Blake, on his feet, was as light as a ballet dancer. Cautiously on hands and knees they crept round the room, feeling here and there for Daunt's clothes, till, at last, they came to a couch at the foot of the bed. Blake nudged Tinker, and, first of all, a coat slid off the couch on to the floor, and then the trousers followed. In the hip pocket of the trousers Tinker felt a crackle of papers, and he was about to withdraw them, when suddenly he stopped. His hands fell nervelessly at his side, as he felt something cold and hard pressed at the nape of his neck. The same instant there. was, s sharp click, the room was flooded in light, and he heard a low laugh behind him.
'Don't move, my friend!" said the soft, silky voice of Signor Nicole, "for in each hand I hold a revolver. One is pressed at the back of this young gentleman's neck, and the other is ready for the elder man. Daunt, get out of bed, will you, and have a look at these two?"
"Sacre nom de bleu!" exclaimed Blake, in French. "We are discovered!"
"Mercy, mercy, monsieur!" pleaded Tinker, with tears in his voice, taking up Blake's cue.
"Get up you two ruffians," said Nicole, "and let's have a look at you!"
Blake and Tinker scrambled to their feet, and confronted Signor Nicole, who was standing with a cynical smile on his face, and, as he had said, a revolver in each hand; while from the bed tumbled Captain Daunt in pyjamas, evidently wide awake.
"I thought I heard something," smiled Signor Nicole, "and I just waited. And so I've taken a couple of common thieves or burglars into my employ, have I? Now, what will you do? Go to prison, or-Listen to me, though! I remember, this morning, that you said you didn't care what you did, so long as you were paid for it."
Blake and Tinker, white as death, and with their limbs trembling, were the very personifications of terror. They begged and implored not to be sent to prison, and promised to do anything that was asked them.
"Very well, then," said Signor Nicole quietly. "I don't are about having guests robbed in my hotel, It's after they leave here," he went on, with quiet emphasis, "that my friends can appropriate any little odds and ends they may fancy. We only find out what they possess whilst they are staying here. Only, please understand, that, of anything that is taken,Signor Nicole expects half. Now, I speak openly. You work for me, and it'll be worth your while. Refuse, and I'll send you to rot in gaol. Which will you do?"
Blake and Tinker both professed with tears that they would do anything.
"Very well, then," was the answer. "You'll go back to your kennel, and take your orders from me. I may send you to London, I may send you to Manchester, or I may send you to Liverpool; but, wherever I say you've got to go, you go! There are plenty of people here with jewels and money, and your business will be to rob them. Do you understand what I say? Rob them, and bring the proceeds back to me!. Take a night to think it over, and if you don't say yes, tomorrow morning I'll send for the police, and have you locked up. Isn't that so, Daunt?"
"I believe you, old chap," said Daunt, "And when you've quite done with these fellows, perhaps we can finish our little chat."
"Off you go, then, you dogs!" said Nicole. "And don't you forget what I've told you! You can think of it how you like, but your word would not have a chance against mine. Work with me, and I'll make you money. If you don't care to, you can try the gaol. Now, then, down the stairs you go, and back the way you came, as you seem to know it so well."
He drove them to the door, and dismissed them both with a kick, which made Tinker's blood boil; but, seeing that Blake restrained himself, so did he, and they crept down the front stairs, while Nicole returned to Captain Daunt's room.
"Very nice," whispered Blake; "but I wish Signor Nicole would not kick so hard. However, it'll all come back to him. And, now, I think we'll see to our own prisoner."
They found the night porter, of course, still in the corner, where they had left him gagged and bound. Blake jerked him to his feet, took the handkerchief from round his ankles, and, in a whisper, bade him open the front door.
"Now, look here, Billie Dewar," he said, "d'you know me?"
The man shook his head. "Well, my real name is Sexton Blake, and I know enough about you to get you ten years. I've been looking for you for a long time; you're wanted badly, and I've no doubt you've been having a very good time in this hotel since you've been night-porter here. I don't believe in compounding a felony, but for reasons which you would not understand, I will let you go. There's a market-train which leaves here at half-past one for London; you'll catch that, and lose yourself in the great city. And remember this —you and your friends know me—if I find that you've given it away that I'm down here, I'll haul you up, and I'll get you put away where you won't disturb anybody for a long time. Is that a bargain?"
The man nodded his head, and Blake snatched off the handkerchief.
"All right, then, off you go. And, mind you, I trust you, Billie Dewar, and I shall soon find out if you've played me false. Get that train. My agents at the station and at Charing Cross will let me know if you don't. And if you don't—my word, I wouldn't be in your boots for something!"
The man started at a run for the station, and Blake turned to Tinker with a grin.
"Frightened the life out of him, Tinker!" he said. "Of course, I've got no agents here or at Charing Cross: but, still, bluff goes a long way in this business, doesn't it? And now we'll go to bed."
And down they went to their little room in the basement, and when Tinker saw Blake fall into bed and go to sleep in about five minutes, he made up his mind that he must follow his example and quell his nerves, which were quivering with excitement.
But just as Tinker was dozing off, his quick ear caught the sound of wheels in the road outside. They came nearer and nearer, there was a puff, a snort, a sort of mild explosion, and a vehicle of some kind or another stopped almost immediately over their heads.
Tinker sat up in bed, every nerve alert and wide awake, and at the same moment he heard Blake's voice:
"Don't get excited, Tinker; it's only a motor-car stopping at the hotel. Perhaps we may as well see who is the late visitor. Let's try and have a look on the quiet."
Blake slipped out of bed and pulled up the window, which gave on to a paved passage running round the hotel. Overhead was a barred grating, protecting the passage from the street overhead.
"I think we ought to be able to see from here somehow," said Blake.
And Tinker wondered how they could see through iron bars which were firmly welded into the cement.
The King of Silvania—The Policeman's Surprise —
The Arrival of Inspector Meredith—In the Ice-Chamber of Death.
"THERE'S a loose bar third to the right there, Tinker," whispered Blake; "I found it the other day. I'll pull it out, and then you can swing yourself through the railings, and have a look and see who is in that motor. I think I know, but I should like to be certain."
As soon as the bar was displaced, Tinker swung himself up, and found that he was just small enough to wriggle through the opening thus made. Cautiously and carefully he wormed his way through, and crept quietly round to the front of the hotel. He saw the man get out and be received by Captain Daunt and Signor Nicole.
Tinker, in his mind's eye, photographed the man's face and figure, and crept back to drop himself down through the railings to the basement.
Just as he was about to stoop to lower himself, however, his quick ear caught the sound of feet on the pavement, even though the step was deadened by a rubber-soled boot. He had hardly time to raise himself before a hand fell on his shoulder, and the voice of a policeman asked him what he was doing there.
"I am engaged here," said Tinker, in broken English, "and I've just come out for some fresh air."
"A likely tale, isn't it?" answered the policeman. "Anyway, I'll take you round to the front, and hear what the night-porter knows about you."
Now, this would not suit Blake's books at all, Tinker knew, so there was only one thing for it, and that was, desperate measures.
Quick as lightning he put one foot behind the policeman, gave him a dexterous little push on the chest, and sent him reeling back against the wall. In another second Tinker was on him, had one hand over his mouth, and with the fingers of the right hand he pressed him gently in a particular spot in the side where the slightest pressure would-produce-the most exquisite pain.
"Now, I don't want to hurt you," said Tinker quietly, "but you've got to keep your mouth shut, and if you move I shall have to do this to you"—he touched the spot—" it's a little trick I learnt in Japan."
The young policeman writhed in a moment's pain, and stood perfectly still; while Tinker gave a little, low, peculiar whistle, which he knew would fetch Blake to him in a moment.
In a second Blake's head appeared through the opening.
"I can't leave this man," said Tinker; "it's a night policeman, and he's inclined to be inquisitive. Could you manage to come up, sir?"
Tinker spoke in English, regardless of what the policeman might think, and Blake, exerting all his sinewy, nervous strength, wrenched another bar from its place and swung himself up.
"A policeman, is it?" said Blake quietly. "The very man I want. Hold him, Tinker, while I talk to him."
Tinker took his hand away from the policeman's mouth, and Blake turned back the lapel of his coat and showed him a peculiar badge.
"Now," he said, "every man in the force is supposed to know that is a special Government badge. Well, I am Sexton Blake. Now, as soon as you're off duty, you go straight to your superintendent, and tell him that I and my assistant Tinker are stopping in this hotel, and that we've got our hands on as fine a gang of scoundrels as ever lived. Tell him not to keep too close an eye on the place so as to arouse suspicion, but from eleven o'clock the night after tomorrow, to have as many men as he can spare in hiding. Signals as to whether I shall want them or not shall be explained to him before that time. Now, if you're a wise man and want to rise to sergeant, you keep your own counsel, and only tell your superintendent. Don't gabble about it to your wife or anybody else. Twig?"
The county policeman, who, of course, had heard, like all his colleagues, of Sexton Blake, listened open-mouthed to his instructions, and then ambled away to his duties, thinking that, after all, there was romance in the police force.
"The day after tomorrow is the twenty-fifth, Tinker," said Blake, when they returned safely to their room, and Tinker had given a full and detailed description of tho man who had alighted from the motor-car. "That was the King of Silvania just arrived, as I expected. He would land by the afternoon boat at Harwich, and get down here by the last train. I expect he's got that hundred thousand pounds' worth of notes on him, and the day after tomorrow being 'the blue moon,' there will be a great share-out on account of the plans of the airship; at least, the principals think there will; but, somehow or other, thoughts don't always turn out correctly—do they, Tinker?"
Blake smiled grimly, and then went on.
"Now, we'll just have old Meredith in this, I think," he said. "He'll be able to get the warrants and everything, in a proper legal manner, and, besides, it'll be a feather in the good fellow's cap. I'll write him a line now, and you shall nip out in the morning with it, Tinker, and give it to the guard of the London train, with instructions to send it on by special messenger. There's a train leaves at six in the morning. Meredith would get the letter by nine; he could get down here by one, and be in time for all the fun."
Blake scribbled a note to Meredith, and in the early morning Tinker had no difficulty in getting out through the staff entrance, and openly walking down to the station he delivered the letter to the guard, to be forwarded in London by express messenger; as can be done, according to postal regulations.
THAT day in the kitchen there seemed an unusual air of bustle and activity. Signor Nicole himself came down and stood by Monsieur Beautemps for some time, watching him prepare the various special dishes which he had ordered.
Beautemps preserved an admirable calmness, telling his immediate assistants, Blake and Tinker, what to do, and taking particular care that they had not any too difficult tasks to perform. With their usual quick adaptability, the great detective and his young assistant accommodated themselves to the usages of the kitchen, and in their white caps and clothes, they looked the very beau-ideal of French cooks. As a matter of fact, Blake had some knowledge of cooking, and he had taught Tinker how to prepare a meal well and quickly, so that they were not quite so much out of their element as might have been supposed.
"Evidently," thought Tinker, "these unusual dishes and all this bustle are in honour of the King of Silvania."
Though, of course, he was at the hotel as a private guest, not as a royalty.
Shortly after the luncheon hour they heard a sort of scuffle outside, and Signor Nicole entered, holding by the arm a tall, good-looking, youngish man in a black frock-coat and silk-hat. He was wearing an eyeglass, and was evidently very ruffled.
"If you want help, my friend, you'll have to work for it. I dare say we can find you some potatoes to peel, or some greens to wash."
"No! But I say, dash it all," said the newcomer, trying to shake his arm free from Signor Nicole's grip, "if you're going to put me on to all this sort of beastly menial labour, I sha'n't stop!"
"Then you'd better go back, my friend. Go back to town, where the police are waiting for you. Friends," went on Nicole, raising his voice, "this young gentleman here, hearing of my—my kindness to those in trouble, came post-haste here to tell me that he'd managed to rob a bank of seven thousand pounds, but that he found he couldn't dispose of the notes; and he wanted to know if I could help him. I have very kindly taken the notes from him, and, with my experience, may be able in the course of a year, to get rid of them without being traced. In the meantime, our young friend is penniless, and, I believe, in what is vulgarly called 'a blue funk.' As I have promised to look after his bodily welfare, I suggest that he should come and work in the kitchen along with you all, and so earn the board and lodging with which I am benevolent enough to provide him."
The good-looking young fellow pushed his hat back on his head, his eyeglass dropped, and he looked the picture of despair.
"I wish I'd never touched the beastly things," he said. "And I wish I'd never heard your name, Mr. Richard Ruthford, if I've got to come down here and do scullery-work."
"Nicole—Anton Nicole," corrected the hotel proprietor. "And now I should advise you to get to work if you want to earn a meal."
Signor Nicole left the kitchen, and the young fellow looked round disgustedly,
"What on earth am I to do?" he said, in a peevish voice, "Sweep the floor, or what?"
There was a roar of laughter from everybody, and the newcomer turned to Monsieur Beautemps, in whom he recognised the principal chef.
"Can you tell me what I am to do?" he asked.
"My gootness, yes!" said Monsieur Beautemps. "Take off your 'at and coat and get an apron, and ve vill find you sumzings to do."
"I'll lend you an apron," said Tinker. "Come this way and take off your coat."
Tinker led the way to his bed-room, shut the door quietly, and then went up to the young man.
"How do you do, Mr. Meredith?" he said.
The young man looked down with a smile.
"My name is not Meredith," he drawled; "it's Sinclair Thompson. And dashed sorry I am for it, too, and so will my people be when they find out what I've done."
"Rats!" said Tinker. "What do you think of this?"
He made one or two rapid passes in the air, seized the young man's hand, and gave it a peculiar grip.
"So it's Tinker, then, is it?" said the other, in a quite different voice. "But I don't know you in this disguise; you look the regular Frenchman. How did you know me?"
"By your sleeve-links, and that little scar just behind your left ear, Mr. Meredith," said Tinker. "Your sleeve-links have your own initials, 'J.M.,' John Meredith, on them—a facet which you should never have overlooked."
"Very well observed," said Inspector Meredith—for it was he, "And what's the chief's little game this time?"
"Oh, I expect he'll tell you all about it in his own good time. But you'd better get to work. Here's an apron!"
"Yes, a humorous beggar, Signor Anton Nicole, isn't he?" said Meredith, tying on the apron. "When I got your chief's note this morning, telling me of his suspicions, I thought I would try it on and see if this man was, as Mr. Blake suspected, the real Richard Ruthford. I fancy he is, and, anyway, on chances, I've got a warrant for him ere in my pocket. Yes; a decidedly humorous person, is he not? I told him his name had been given to me by one of the boys as a straight 'un, and one that could be relied on to see a man through.
"He listened to my bunkum about the seven thousand pounds, taking the notes—which, I need hardly tell you, Mr. Tinker, are false ones, although splendid specimens —and then sent me down here to work for my board and lodging, as he called it. It was always the way with Richard Ruthford in the old days. Any crook who had stuff he couldn't dispose of, used to hand it to him in a roundabout way, and he could always get rid of it, somehow or other. But there, I never thought I should have to come down to peeling potatoes for a living! Well, here goes!"
During the afternoon, Blake had plenty of opportunities to speak to Meredith. It was a ludicrous sight to see the two well-known detectives in disguise as kitchen-servants, seated picking greens and preparing vegetables and other things, like an ordinary hotel-servant.
"All right, then," whispered Blake, as they concluded their talk, "come to me to-night in our room as you go to bed, and we'll just settle the final arrangements."
"Now then, Monsieur Beautemps," said Signor Nicole, entering the kitchen, "how are the preparations for the dinner going to-night? Are you going to give us anything special?"
"But, yes, I 'ope so! A very goot dinner, I zink!" answered Monsieur Beautemps cheerfully.
"All right! Have everything very nice. And, by the way, it's very hot, and everyone's calling for ice. I hope there's plenty in the ice-room?"
"Oh, yes, I 'ope so," replied Monsieur Beautemps. "But it ees not my beesiness, of course!"
"No, I don't suppose so," answered Nicole. "I think I'll go and have a look myself. Here, you come with me; you can help count the blocks."
He indicated Blake and Tinker: and the two followed him along the passage to the ice-room, where the ice was made by the hotel's own machinery. Signor Nicole unlocked the door with his own master-key, and just poked his head inside.
"There ought to be about three dozen blocks altogether," he said, "according to the power that was used this morning. Just go in and count them over while I check them."
He took out his book. Blake and Tinker stepped inside, and when they were well in, Signor Nicole slipped outside, and closed the door with a bang. A click of the latch was heard, and they knew that they were locked in. A second later, Signor Nicole's head appeared, looking through a little trapdoor in the ceiling.
"Nice and cool in there, Mr. Sexton Blake and Tinker, isn't it?" he said. "I think you'll be a little cooler before you're outside. I'm just going to turn on the full freezing-power. Nice change, won't it be? You were going to make it pretty hot for me, I suppose! Suppose I make it pretty cool for you? Good-bye! By the time you're discovered, I shall be many hundreds of miles away, and you'll be nicely preserved for your own funerals. Good afternoon!"
And with that he disappeared, the trapdoor closed, and under the pale glitter of the one electric-bulb in the ceiling Blake and Tinker looked at each other in grim silence.
"The fiend!" muttered Blake. "He's going to freeze us to death!"
And even as he spoke they distinctly heard the whirr of the electric freezing apparatus which produced the ice, and it seemed as if a wave of cold air crept up from the floor and enveloped them.
In the Freezing Room—
Nearly the End!—The Sleep which Means Death.
THE one electric-light in the roof lit up the ice-chamber, glistening on the blocks of ice and the icicle-hung walls. Faintly still came the whirr of the powerful electric machine. Colder and colder grew the air, till Tinker involuntarily shivered.
"Poor boy!" said Blake. "I've brought you to a pretty pass, haven't I?"
And even this iron-nerved man's teeth chattered as he spoke. If was incredible to think that within a few yards of them the sun was blazing at its hottest, the band was playing on the front, and well-dressed crowds were walking up and down, while here they were in this ice-cold, grizzly room, gradually, but surely, as they felt assured, being frozen to death. Accustomed as they both were to tight places, this seemed the worst they had ever encountered; and with this awful cold creeping round them, and wrapping itself all over them, it seemed for a few minutes as if they were half-paralysed.
"This won't do, Tinker," said Blake, slapping his arms together; "if we don't make a move, we shall be frozen on the spot! Keep moving, my lad—keep moving!"
Feeling as if steel knives were being driven into him, Tinker, moving with difficulty, began to pace round the room, followed by Blake. The movement seemed to do them good, but still there came that deadly, invisible cold, and still they heard the execrable whirr of the machinery.
Round and round the round they went, Blake occasionally tapping with his fingers on the walls. But they were made of steel, and the only outlet or hole of any kind was a very fine grating half-way.round the top of the walls, through which came the frozen air,
They were trapped—trapped by as ingenious a piece of wickedness as the heart of man could devise. In another hour, or even less, Blake realised that they would be frozen to death. Their bodies would be found there in the morning; a plausible explanation would be given that they had gone in to perform their duties, evidently the door must have slipped to behind them, and, no more ice being required, they had been left there to die, their terrible plight unknown to anyone.
Such was the explanation which Blake foresaw would be inevitably given by Signor Nicole; and he grit his teeth, and raged inwardly, to think that he had not immediately arrested this king of crime as soon as he suspected who he was. Instead of which, he said to himself, he had waited, purely to please himself—and he thought, with a sneer —to show how clever he was. But through all his mood of self-recrimination there came, at the finish, the thought that he was acting on behalf of his country, not, after all, for his own glorification, and his regret was deep and bitter that he would not be at hand to foil the plot in which Nicole and Daunt were the master movers.
Then he looked at Tinker, the brave boy pacing by his side, his face drawn and white with the terrible cold, and yet striving through it all to whistle and smile. Blake could face death with a smile, even though it came in this ghastly fashion, but to drag this youth down with him to an awful end, was bitter, indeed!
Blake looked at his watch, and he gave themselves another twenty minutes before they would be deprived of ell power of motion or speech, for already they moved with the greatest difficulty; their breath came hard when they drew it, and their skins felt as if they were cracking in hundreds of places, and Blake grimly thought of experiences which they had had in Russia; when frost-bitten limbs were not a rare occurrence.
"Well, well, Tinker," he croaked, in a hoarse, unnatural voice, "we've come to the end of our days at last, and it's my fault. I had mapped out a career for you, my boy, and thought that you would be my successor; but all that is over! The finish has come! I am beginning to feel as if I could hardly stand! But let us meet it like men and Britons! I'm beginning to feel sleepy—so sleepy; and thats always a sign of the end. I wish there were somewhere to sit down, Tinker. After all, the floor can't be any colder than standing up. Let's lie down and go to sleep, Tinker—go to sleep!"
Blake's voice died away in a sort of absent whisper; and Tinker, who perhaps after all, with his younger years, had keener vitality than Blake, turned in alarm to look at him.
"No, no, sir!" croaked the boy, catching at the detective's collar with his poor, numbed fingers. "No, no, sir; don't give in! There may be a chance yet—there may be a chance! Great Scott!" he cried, almost cracking his rasping throat with excitement. "Great Scott, there is a chance! Look up there, sir! Look up there!"
Blake threw off the lethargy which possessed him, and his eyes followed the direction of Tinker's outstretched hand, which pointed to the trapdoor in the roof.
"If it's not locked on the other side, we're saved—we're saved!" cried Tinker. "Quick! Let me try and get on your shoulders!"
With a chance of salvation in front of them, superhuman energy seemed to suddenly inspire them. Blake stooped, and Tinker, painfully and slowly, managed to climb on his shoulders, and tried to reach the trapdoor. But he was just about six inches too short, and with a groan he dropped back to the floor again.
"If only we had something to stand on," he said; " but there's nothing—nothing!"
He looked round the bare, glistening room with its terrible atmosphere of death; and there was nothing!
"Yes—yes, there is!" said Tinker suddenly: "Off with your boots, sir!"
Where before they were cold, the two now seemed to be possessed with fire. Quickly Tinker helped Blake to unlace his boots, and then made him, in his stockinged-feet, stand on a block of ice which he had pushed beneath the trapdoor. Fortunately the ice was rough on the top, and afforded a fair foothold.
"It's a tough job, sir," gasped Tinker; "but try and hold on for all you know, and we'll be saved yet!"
If Blake had not been a trained athlete, and brought up Tinker to follow his ways, escape would have been impossible, As it was, when Tinker clambered painfully on to Blake's back and shoulders. the sharp edges of the ice cut into the detective's feet, and he could feel that they were bleeding freely. But he gritted his teeth, and said not a word as Tinker slowly raised himself, butted with his head against the trapdoor, and then spoke down triumphantly:
"It's all right, sir, the door is open! I'll get through, sir! Try and keep yourself all right till I get the key; and get the key I will, if I have to kill Nicole for it!"
Slowly, and with infinite difficulty, through the trapdoor Tinker managed to climb. It would have been impossible for Blake, with his bigger frame, but the boy just managed it.
Once outside, he fell full length on the floor, where he found himself, and the trapdoor went back with a clang.
Tinker lay there, gasping and spent, for some minutes, and then slowly struggled to a sitting position, and looked round.
He was in a dark passage, appearing doubly dark after the brilliant electric light in the ice-chamber, and everything was strange to him. He sat for a moment, recovering his breath, and then the thought came to him that Blake was below, and must be saved at any cost, for the thrill of excitement would soon pass off, and he knew that with every throb of machinery the air in the ice-chamber was growing colder.
Down the passage he fled recklessly, little caring where he went. By sheer good luck, he found that the door at the end gave on to the passage which led to the kitchen. He cautiously crept along till he came to a spot where he could see Monsieur Beautemps, and not be seen by anyone else in the kitchen—for the chef's desk is a sort of throne, where none dare approach without permission. At length he caught the chef's eye, and beckoned to him.
"Not a word above a whisper," said Tinker, "or I'll kill you where you stand!"
The boy's nerves were overstrained, and he was hardly responsible for his threats.
"You, as chef," he went on to Beautemps, "have a key of the ice-cellar. Get Meredith, quickly—that new fellow with the eyeglass! Go on, go on! Do as I tell you!"
The bewildered Beautemps hurried away, and brought back Meredith from his potato-tub.
"Mr. Blake's in the ice-chamber!" said Tinker. "I managed to get out. Come quick! Don't let anyone see you!"
Away down the passage, sharply turning to the right, went the two men, following Tinker. Beautemps, as chef, of course had a key to the ice-cellar, and, with trembling fingers, Tinker fitted it into the lock and opened the door.
There, full length on the floor, lay Blake, in what appeared to be a heavy slumber.
"Quick! Out with him! If he sleeps, he's dead!" cried Tinker.
In dashed Meredith and Beautemps, and between them, with Tinker tenderly supporting the head, they carried out the senseless detective.
"Get him to our room," said Tinker. "We can go down this way without going near the kitchen. And if Signor Nicole comes along, choke him, Meredith, choke him; but don't let him see Mr. Blake!"
By the good fortune which sometimes favours the brave, they managed, with their senseless burden, to reach the room. They laid the detective on the bed, and Tinker leant over him eagerly and applied his ear to his heart, and then, taking out his watch, held the dial ever Blake's mouth and nostrils.
"It's all right!" he said, looking at the clouded glass. "He breathes! He'll live! Now help me to rub him!"
It did not take long to restore the circulation, and soon the detective was able to sit up, somewhat painfully, it is true, but still, he was able to move.
"I shall be all right directly," he said. "And if was my boy who saved me, was it?"
He held out his long, thin hand, which Tinker grasped, and, though they both of them considered it bad form to show emotion, their eyes filled with tears as they looked at each other. What a narrow escape they had had from an awful death.
"And now," said Blake, quickly recovering his faculties and becoming once more the keen, alert detective, "I think we've had enough of this place, Tinker. You and I will go back to Baker Street, and leave Meredith in charge."
Tinker opened his eyes, and could hardly believe his ears. Was it possible that Blake, after all, was going to give in when once he had taken a case in hand?
The Burglary at Blake's—Meredith Finds
Out Things—The King of Silvania Again.
"WE can easily pop off without being seen, Tinker," went on Blake. "Good-bye, Beautemps; you're a good pal, and I sha'n't forget you. Good-bye, Meredith, though I dare say it's only for the present. And you won't mind if I ask you not to do anything rash in the case of Anton Nicole, alias Richard Ruthford, till you hear from me again?"
"Not me!" answered Meredith. "This is your case, my boy. I'll stop here as long as you like, knowing that you don't let a thing go when once you've got your teeth in it."
Then Tinker nearly kicked himself for having dared, even for a moment, even in his own mind, to think that Blake would ever give up a case.
They slipped out quietly without being seen, and were soon on their way to London.
"I wonder if anything's happened to Nierstein since we've been away?" said Blake, as they neared the rooms in Baker Street. "Hallo!" he went on, as they mounted the steps. "Somebody's been here! See those scratches just there! I know what they mean. It's an old friend of mine, and he's been here trying to burgle. And, by Jove," he went on suddenly, "he got in, too! Look here, the door opens with a push! My word, I hope nothing's happened to Nierstein!"
As Blake had said, the door opened with just a push, for the lock had been cleverly picked from the outside, and then the door pulled to when the intruder had left, just kept shut, so as not to attract suspicion, with a piece of paper wedged in between the jamb and the lintel. Excited for once, Blake rushed into the rooms, followed by Tinker.
Everything was in disorder. Tables were overturned, drawers had been ransacked, and only the strong, iron safe in the corner had withstood the burglar's tools. On the mantelpiece was a letter, addressed to Blake, in a thin, angular hand, without a stamp on the envelope. It had been torn open and evidently read, for there were greasy thumb-marks upon it.
"Dear friend," it ran "I can stay here no longer. I have a telegram from Germany to say my mother is ill. I go, with tears in my eyes, I go. I sorrow also for you that I have no address so that I can send you a telegram wire.—Yours, in always friendship,
Nierstein (Facial Impersonator)."
Blake involuntarily smiled at the little touch of professional vanity which added 'facial impersonator,' and then turned to Tinker, and spoke hurriedly:
"That shows that we are none of us infallible, Tinker. I thought I had laid my plans so carefully, and here I forgot the simple thing of leaving my address and the name under which I was going. Never neglect trifles, Tinker. They're deadly, dangerous things to mess about with. However, I dare say we shall get through. Now then, get off that disguise, and we'll go down to Maretown as our own proper selves."
The removing liquid was applied, the paint which had been permanent came off; then they changed their clothes, and once again stood up in their proper persons as Sexton Blake and Tinker.
"But how do you think Signor Nicole, alias Richard Ruthford, found out who we were?" asked Tinker.
"Well, I have a strong suspicion that it was Mr. Billie Dewar, the night porter, who gave it away. If he did, Mr. Billie Dewar is in my black books, and I don't think that means a very pleasant time for him. Now then, Tinker, back to Maretown!"
They arrived at Maretown-on-Sea when it was dark. Blake led the way to the staff-entrance of the Hotel Esparta, and whispered to Tinker:
"Up with the iron bars, down through the iron grating, and into our old room. But see first that it's not occupied."
Tinker dropped through the iron grating, found the window half opened, pushed it up a little further, and gently insinuated himself into the room. He crawled along very quietly to the spot where he knew the electric light switch was, when suddenly he heard the sound as of deep breathing coming from the direction of the bed. Like lightning, he dropped to the ground and crawled to the chair at the head of the bed, where rested the sleeper's clothes.
A shirt-cuff was hanging down; Tinker's fingers felt it, and then, quietly and slowly, he crept to the bed and placed his hand over the sleeper's mouth. At the same instant, his wrist was seized in an iron grip which would have made any ordinary person shriek for mercy.
"It's all right, Meredith," whispered Tinker. "It's only me, and the chief's outside, as well."
"Great Scott! It's you turned up!" whispered back Meredith. "How did you know it was me in the dark?" "The sleeve-links in the cuffs," said Tinker. "Any fool can tell initials with his fingers if he's got any sense of touch at all. Any news?"
"News? Chock full of it! Get the chief down, and I'll tell you both."
In two minutes Tinker had fetched Blake, and they sat down in the dark, and listened to what Meredith had to say.
"The King of Silvania's here," he said; "so is Captain Daunt, and tomorrow, at twelve o'clock, there's going to be a great share-out. I was on the balcony outside their room a couple of hours ago, and heard a most interesting little plot."
"Well, let's have it, Meredith, old man," said Blake.
"Well, Daunt has the plans stolen from the Government."
"Oh!" said Blake, drawing in his breath.
"And the King of Silvania has agreed to give a hundred thousand pounds for them. Fifty thousand pounds goes to Daunt, and fifty thousand to Signor Nicole, alias Richard Ruthford, as I think we may take him to be. But he does not take the whole fifty thousand; he's got to whack it up with his staff, for some of them are getting sick of their bondage, and want to know why they can't be allowed to rob hotel guests, instead of allowing them to depart with all their jewels and money. They declare that Anton Nicole is feathering his own nest, and doing nothing while they are working, and, though he has threatened to give them up to Justice, they say they don't care a hang, and that before the police take them, they'll kill him, if he doesn't split up the money with them."
"Nice, pleasant sort of company, eh, Tinker?" said Blake. "I think we'd better rope in the whole lot of them, hadn't we? And when and where will the great share-out take place?"
"Well, it's like this!" explained Meredith. "Tomorrow's the twenty-fifth."
"The blue moon, you remember, Tinker," put in Blake. "Tomorrow, the twenty-fifth, Signor Nicole has invited the King of Silvania and Captain Daunt to supper with him in his private rooms at eleven o'clock. He's also told his luncheon staff that he'll meet them here at one o'clock, so I calculate that the king will pay over the money after supper."
"I expect he will," said Blake quietly, "for I've figured it all out. The king is due to open his own parliament in two days' time; he could only get there by catching the boat-train to Harwich, which leaves at half past twelve at night, therefore it is evident that the money will be paid out before then. That little part of the business I'll take care of. Anything else, Meredith?"
"Yes. The gentlemanly Nicole has been to see Monsieur Beautemps, and given him a little bottle, the contents of which he is to drop, half in the king's coffee, and half in Captain Daunt's; and for this service he is to receive five hundred pounds."
"Ha!" said Blake. "That was the little game we were to be in when he thought we were genuine assistant chefs! Nice gentleman, isn't he, this Signor Nicole? Evidently he's going to sell both his friends a pup. Well, that's enough, Meredith, to go on with. I think you've done rattling well. That disguise of yours is really excellent. You play the character of the impoverished young bank clerk to perfection, and if it's any satisfaction to you, please accept my compliments and the hopes that Scotland Yard will recognise you very speedily by promotion."
Meredith's cheeks flushed in the darkness beneath the praise, which he valued immensely, and which was well deserved, for Blake had never been known to give praise when it was not due.
"Well, now, Meredith," said Blake, "sorry to have interrupted your beauty sleep—I think we'll be off. But first of all I must tell you what I've done. I knew that the sale and the delivery of the airship plans would take place on the twenty-fifth, so I've made one or two little arrangements. I've sent word to the local superintendent to have as many men as he can spare within easy distance of the hotel, from eleven o'clock tomorrow night and onwards. I think they'd better be there, for we might just as well take in the kitchen staff while we're about it. Good-night, old man!"
Quietly, with a squeeze of the hand, Blake and Tinker left Meredith, and let themselves through the grating, and, going to a quiet hotel in a distant part of the town, they rang up the night porter, and, though they had no luggage except a small handbag, by payment in advance, they easily secured accommodation.
A false moustache from the handbag, a little grey powder applied to his temples, and a change of gait, quickly transformed Blake the next morning into an elderly visitor; while a red wig for Tinker, and a touch of grease-paint, was sufficient alteration to prevent his being recognised.
The night porter who had let them in and taken their money the night before, was, of course, not on duty, so, after breakfast, they strolled out of the hotel unsuspected.
They spent a sunny and idle morning on the pier, and Blake nudged Tinker, as, in the distance, they saw three men. They were Captain Daunt, Signor Nicole, and in the third—a, tall, fair-bearded man—Tinker recognised the King of Silvania. They were walking round, apparently, as ordinary visitors, chatting and laughing.
"Two nice scoundrels, and one self-willed, brave man, who honestly thinks he's doing the best for his country," said Blake. "Well, I think we must get him out of the hands of these rogues. Excuse me, sir, did you drop this?"
Blake stood as the three men were passing, and held up to the King of Silvania a little silver matchbox, at the same time, as Tinker's quick eyes noticed, giving an extraordinary flick of his fingers.
The king hesitated for a moment, and then said:
"No; I think—I think not. It is not mine," in a quaint, foreign accent, and distinctly Tinker saw his fingers flick in the same way that Blake's had done.
"It's all right, Tinker," said Blake. "I suppose you saw the sign that passed between us? His Majesty is puzzled. I gave him the first pass of the secret order of the Blue Moon, of which he is the reigning president. As you know, the present king came into the title on the death of his brother. Now, I was of some service to this brother when he was reigning five years ago, and as a little acknowledgment, he made me a member of this Royal secret order, which is really reserved for only the reigning house of Silvania. Now, you'll see, his Majesty will return to me directly!"
And, surely enough, the King of Silvania returned in a few minutes, without his two companions.
"Will monsieur and his friend lunch with me at my hotel?" he said, coming straight to the point without any ceremony.
"Monsieur will, but I think not his friend," replied Blake, with a little smile. "You won't see me again, Tinker," he said; " but be on the balcony outside Nicole's private apartments at eleven o'clock to-night."
Tinker nodded his head and moved away, while Blake walked on with the king, who slipped his arm through his in a most friendly manner.
"That's all right!" muttered Tinker to himself. "Now that the chief's got hold of him, I don't think there'll be a look-in for Messrs. Nicole & Company. But I wonder what I'm wanted for on the balcony at eleven o'clock? However, time will show!"
Tinker on the Balcony—A Wonderful Surprise.
A FEW minutes before eleven that night a lithe, slim figure swung itself, by the aid of the waterspout, on to the long balcony which extended outside Signor Nicole's private rooms.
There were two windows—one belonging to the sitting-room, and the other to the bed-room. The blinds were half drawn down, and there was a tall flower-box in front of each window. By stooping down on his hands and knees, Tinker could squat on the balcony without fear of detection.
He listened eagerly at the sitting-room window, and then passed on to the bed-room; and, with every nerve and faculty alert, he waited, and again listened.
Suddenly on the sash of the window, which was half opened, he heard tap, tap, click, click, as if someone inside were tapping with a pencil.
Tinker felt his mouth relax into a smile, for he knew that Blake was inside tapping to him in the Morse Telegraphic code. This was a favourite method of communication between the two, and Tinker easily and rapidly understood the message, which ran:
'Everything going well. Have arranged with Meredith to see to gang below. Wait here on balcony in case of necessity. Remove end flower-pot from sitting-room window, and you will see everything.
The tapping here broke off suddenly, and Tinker moved along to the sitting-room window. He tried to remove the flower-pot from one end of the window, but it was stuck fast, and then he tried the other end. This one was easily removed, as part of the flower-box on the inside had crumbled away. He could see well into the room, for the blind was not more than half down, and the window was open.
The table was delicately and daintily spread for a meal, and as Tinker looked, Signor Nicole entered the room, holding open the door, and bowing politely. In came the King of Silvania, followed by Captain Daunt. All three men were in evening-dress, and faintly Tinker could hear their conversation, which was on ordinary topics.
The supper was gone through quietly, there being no servants to wait on them. The table, sinking through a trapdoor in the floor, came back with all the plates and dishes removed, and a new course ready set. This was one of Signor Nicole's hobbies, the table descending to a room close to the kitchen, and there being replenished by the attendants with everything, without having to intrude on the privacy of Signor Nicole's many guests whom he might be entertaining.
Faintly through the window came the polished tones of Signor Nicole, the gentlemanly accents of Captain Daunt, and the hesitating English of the King of Silvania. Tinker grew cramped and stiff from his attitude underneath the window, and began to wonder when anything was going to happen.
Gradually the hour drew on towards twelve o'clock. Tinker had his watch—as was his custom when working in the dark—smothered with luminous paint, so that he could easily see the dial, and when he saw that the hands were pointing to twenty minutes before midnight, he began to experience a tingling sensation of excitement. Once he looked over the balcony into the road, and distinctly saw several figures slipping into the shadow and edging their way round the corner of the hotel. These were evidently the police, who would be called by Inspector Meredith if necessary.
Then again Tinker turned his attention to the inside of the room, wondering when the final act in the drama would be played. His ears were strained to the utmost, and still the conversation was of the most trivial and ordinary nature.
A quarter to twelve! Ten minutes to! Then suddenly Signor Nicole rose to his feet, stamped once more on the floor, and down went the table.
"We will now have the coffee, your Majesty; and with that comes the business talk for which we are assembled: I trust the supper has been to your satisfaction, for a good digestion should always wait on good business!"
The King of Silvania bowed politely, and muttered some commonplace compliment, and up came the table with the coffee and cigars. Signor Nicole poured out three cups of coffee from the handsomely-chased silver coffee-pot, opened the box of cigars; and then, passing the matches, leant over and spoke earnestly:
"Your Majesty, I know is, like myself, a man of few words, and you have the half-past twelve boat-train to catch!
"Ah, Mr. Blake was right!" breathed Tinker to himself.
"And, besides," went on Signor Nicole, "it would not be pleasant, perhaps, for your Majesty to run against Mr. Malvane on the stairs."
"Herr Malvane!" ejaculated the king. "The British Secretary for War in this hotel! Impossible!"
"It's not at all impossible, your Majesty, as he arrived here in time for dinner," said Signor Nicole. "A coincidence, isn't it, though?"
"Ah, well," went on the king, "I'm sorry for the poor man! He'll be disgraced—yes, disgraced! I know these British! They have no mercy for the man who allows his country to be betrayed. And now, sir, to business!"
"Very well, sir," said Signor Nicole. "Our friend, Captain Daunt, is here, with the plans of the British airship in his pocket. In exchange for one hundred thousand pounds, he is willing to hand them over to you!"
The king made a gesture of impatience, and then, putting his hand into his breast-pocket, he drew out a large packet, and from if counted out one hundred notes.
"They're for a thousand each!" he said. "Now for the plans!"
Daunt put out his hand and laid it gently on the notes.
"The plans, Captain Daunt—the plans!" said the king quietly, fingering, as Tinker noticed, an old-fashioned fruit-knife, which was made in the shape of a dagger.
Gradually Captain Daunt was edging the notes over nearer to himself, and making no attempt to produce the plans.
"The plans, Captain Daunt—the plans, I say!" repeated the king. "And kindly take your hands off those notes until you do as I bid. Give up the plans! Is this some of your doing, Signor Nicole?"
"I? Oh, no, your Majesty! Come now, Captain Daunt, humour is misplaced at the present!"
But still Captain Daunt was trying to edge the notes over to himself. Quickly the king lifted up the fruit-knife, and in a voice which was low, though penetrating, he hissed out at Daunt:
"Remove your hands from those notes, Captain Daunt, or -"
There was no sign of obedience from Captain Daunt, and, quick as lightning, the king lifted the knife on high, and drove it downwards.
With almost a yell, Captain Daunt removed his hand, and only just in time, as the knife, descending with tremendous force, buried itself through the pile of notes, deep in the table.
"Now," said the king quietly, "those will stop there, guarded by that knife, until I have those plans."
With a rather uncomfortable smile, Daunt unbuttoned his waistcoat, then his shirt, and from an inner pocket in his vest, produced the precious plans, carefully sealed in a long, thin envelope.
The king seized the envelope, tore it open, looked at the contents rapidly, and then put them in his pocket. Then he pulled the dagger out of the table, and flicked the notes over to Captain Daunt.
"And now, gentlemen," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, "I will wish you farewell. And, Captain Daunt, you would be well advised not to play any of your little jokes on people less amiable than myself.
"Come, come, now," said Signor Nicole, "your Majesty has got what you want, we have got what we want, and we must not part bad friends! Come, come, 'One more glass before we part,' as the song says! I have here a divine cognac from the cellar of the First Napoleon which your Majesty must taste. One more cup of coffee, and then the motor shall take your Majesty to the station. Why, Captain Daunt, where are your manners? You're not going to sleep before his Majesty, surely!"
Tinker could plainly see Daunt's head jerking backwards and forwards, till finally it settled on his chest, and he was evidently fast asleep. Then the king, too, gradually seemed to be getting sleepy, and in less than a minute he also was lying back in his chair with his eyes closed, while Signor Nicole remained wide awake.
Tinker bit his lips and clenched his hands, wondering if he dare move. This was the drug in the coffee at work! Surely Monsieur Beautemps could not have been so base as to follow Signor Nicole's instructions? And yet there were the two sleeping men in the chairs as evidence that the coffee had been doctored.
"Where was Blake—where was Blake?" groaned Tinker to himself, as he saw Signor Nicole, with a satisfied smile on his face, look cautiously round the room, and advance quietly towards Daunt. As the hotel-proprietor's hands went into the sleeping man's pockets, Tinker would have given anything to have been able to dash through the window and seize him. But he was under orders, and his orders were simply to be on the balcony. If he had been meant to act, Blake would have told him so, so he must stop wondering and waiting.
With fury in his heart, he watched Signor Nicole unbutton Daunt's pocket, take out the packet of banknotes, put them in his own pocket, and then advance cautiously towards the sleeping king. Distinctly in the electric light Tinker saw those long, white fingers unbutton the king's breast coat pocket, and delicately extract the airship plans. Then, just as he was withdrawing his hands, one of them holding the crackling papers, there was a slight movement on the part of the king, and a click which Tinker distinctly heard and recognised, and nearly brought to his lips a shout of triumph. A chair was overturned, the king rose to his full height, and there in the middle of the room, with his mouth open in a snarl, stood Signor Nicole, securely handcuffed!
"Not quite frozen to death, Signor Nicole!" said a quiet, familiar voice.
And, twitching off the fair wig and moustache, the King of Silvania stood disclosed as Sexton Blake.
The Villains Unmasked—The Fight in the Kitchen.
"SEXTON BLAKE!" gasped Signor Nicole, in a terrified voice.
And in a moment his strength seemed to have left him, and he collapsed like a bag of wind into the nearest chair.
And then another astonishing thing happened.
Captain Daunt, who, up to that moment, had been sleeping, jumped to his feet, and in evident possession of all his faculties, made a dash for the window. One short, sharp whistle from Blake told Tinker that he was to act, and as Captain Daunt jumped out through the window, scattering the flower-pots here and there, Tinker was on him like a Rugby footballer, and in a second had him safe in a ju-jitsu lock from which there was no escape.
"Pilot him in here, Tinker," said Blake.
Tinker kept hold of Daunt, threatening him with instant fracture in various places if he tried to escape. When once he had got him safely into the room, Blake dived into his back pocket, fished out a pair of handcuffs, and flung them over to Tinker.
"You know what to do with them, Tinker," he said.
And in a second, Daunt, foaming at the mouth, and furious, was handcuffed as securely as Nicole. Then Blake turned to the bed-room door, and with a bow, ushered in the real King of Silvania.
"Your Majesty has seen and heard what scoundrels you would have had to deal with! This gentleman here, Signor Nicole, would have drugged and robbed you, so that you would have been one hundred thousand pounds out of pocket, and not have got our airship plans, after all!"
"You dirty scoundrel, Nicole!" broke in Daunt.
"Half a minute, Daunt; you can have your say directly," said Blake. "Your Majesty, I presume," he went on to the king, "wishes to catch the boat-train to Harwich. If I may add one thing, it is this—believe me, in Britain you have a good friend. I have the authority of the Honourable Mr. Malvane for informing your Majesty that only two days ago Britain issued a warning to a certain power—you know whom I mean?"
The king nodded significantly.
"I say we issued a warning to this power that it should refrain from casting evil and covetous eyes on certain colonies belonging to your Majesty's kingdom. That warning has been respected, and your acquisitions in South Western Africa be left in your own undisputed possession."
The king's eyes filled with tears as he grasped Blake's hand.
"I was wrong! I was wrong!" he said, almost brokenly. "It is not a king's business to buy stolen documents. I go now, Signor Blake, I go, and believe me, I am grateful for what you have shown me, and for the narrow escape I have had. Good-bye, and when next I come to England it will be, I hope, as friend and guest."
The toot of a motor-car was heard beneath the window.
"Your Majesty's car, as ordered," said Blake. "Excuse me if I do not accompany you to the door."
Blake rang the bell; and went to the door, so that the servant should not come inside.
"Farewell, your Majesty," he said, holding the door open just enough for the king to pass out, "and not a long farewell, I trust."
Then, with a long-drawn breath of relief, he slammed the door to, locked it, and then, with his hands in his pockets, looked at Nicole and Daunt who were scowling at each other.
"Now, then," said Blake, "which of you scoundrels is going to own up?"
"Own up be hanged!" said Daunt. "I felt all along that this beggar was not to be trusted. I watched him very carefully, and more than once I felt inclined to back out of the whole thing, especially when I saw you on the pier, Mr. Blessed Sexton Blake, not so very long ago! I tell you, it gave me the shudders when I saw you there; and if I had known that that boy with you was Tinker as well, I should soon have been the other side of Europe."
"So you did see me, did you?" said Blake.
"Yes; and then you suddenly disappeared; but I kept my eye on the small boy, and saw him with an elderly, stout man, who walked as if he had got the gout. Then I told this beautiful person, Nicole, of my suspicions, and wanted to back out of it; but he said if I didn't go on with it, he would give the whole show away."
"Now I see," said Sexton Blake quietly. "That accounts for Signor Nicole's inquiry about the little page-boy! Evidently our friend, Captain Daunt, recognised him as the boy on the pier who had been seen with Sexton Blake, and began to be suspicious. Very good, Captain Daunt, very good! Nearly caught me napping, didn't you? Had me fired at from the billiard-room opposite my flat, got some merry burglar to have a look in at my rooms to see if I really was there, and perhaps knock me on the head as well, and, in addition, our delightful friend, Signor Nicole, alias Richard Ruthford, tried to freeze us to death in the ice-chamber! Didn't you, Signor Nicole?"
"I wish to goodness I had!" growled the defeated man. "You've made a pretty nice bungle of this, Daunt, you have!"
"Shut your row, Nicole, or whatever your rotten name is!" said Daunt. "I saw what you were up to! You wouldn't drink your own coffee, and were so insistent that the king and I should have plenty, that I didn't drink mine either; I simply poured it into the flower-pot behind me when you were not looking. You were going to bag the notes and the plans, and then bolt, I suppose, weren't you?"
"Exactly!" answered Nicole. "I was going to take the hundred thousand pounds and the plans, be off in the motor-car, catch the boat-train to Harwich, and then farewell, my friend, to you and your stupid blundering ways! However, it's all up now, and the one satisfaction I have is that when I am picking oakum, or hewing stone down at Portland, you will be doing the same!"
"Confound you! If I could only get at you," growled Daunt, "there wouldn't be a whole bone in your body!"
"Come, come, come, gentlemen," said Blake, "we can't have old friends quarrelling like this! I never did! As for the notes, see here!"
He took the notes out of his pocket, applied a match to them, and as they burnt and shrivelled away, the two criminals made an instinctive jump towards them.
"Money! Great heavens, don't burn money like that!"
"False, false, my dear friends. False notes," said Blake. "When I met the King of Silvania and persuaded him to allow me to disguise myself as him, while he hid in the most undignified hiding-place of a wardrobe in the next room, he offered to lend me his own notes, so as to keep up the impersonation. But was it likely that I was going to trust one hundred thousand pounds of real banknotes in the hands of my old friend Richard Ruthford here? No, no, gentlemen—no, no! And as for the plans, they will go back in my keeping—you understand, gentlemen, my keeping " —he tapped his chest—"to the War Office tomorrow morning. What is it, Tinker? You look as if you were bursting to get rid of some conversation."
"Well, sir, I was thinking about Mr. Meredith and the gentlemen downstairs. Hadn't we better just pop down and see what they're doing? Hark! What is that, sir? There seems to be a noise coming up through the trapdoor where the table goes down."
Tinker flung himself to the ground, and listened.
"There's a struggle of some sort going on down below," he said. "Shall I pop down, sir?"
Blake nodded, and Tinker jumped on to the top of the table.
"Press the knob that lets it down, sir," he said excitedly. "I can get down to the kitchen in a twinkling if I go down this way."
Blake pressed, and down sank the table, bearing Tinker, the strangest burden it had ever had. As the table descended to the depths of the hotel, the noise became plainer, and but for the concrete lining with which the shaft down which the table was descending, was lined, the noise would have penetrated all over the hotel and awakened every guest, for the sounds of struggles and blows and muffled shouts in various languages could be distinctly heard.
When the table reached the bottom of the shaft, Tinker jumped off, and, like lightning, flung himself into the kitchen.
There, half-borne to the ground, was Meredith, his wig torn off, and his clothes hanging in ribbons, fighting like a hero against half a dozen of the kitchen staff, while Monsieur Beautemps, the chef, was kicking, biting and struggling with another half-dozen assailants, and valiantly proving that Frenchmen, in their own peculiar way, know how to fight.
Tinker did not do anything rashly heroic, such as throwing himself single-handed on half a dozen men, but he promptly rushed to the staff entrance, threw open the door, and a low, shrill whistle brought half a dozen plain-clothes men tearing up. In a couple of minutes there was perfect peace. The sight of these six determined men, each gripping something shiny and steely in their right hands, made the kitchen staff realise they were prisoners, for these criminals knew by past experience that each of those blue, shiny articles held six men's lives, and the craven crew were not taking any risks.
"Thanks, Tinker!" said Meredith, getting back his breath. "One of the brutes spotted my wig gone awry, and gave the show away. But, my word, what a haul we've got! A dozen of the very best! Where's the governor? I should like him to see this little lot!"
"Oh, he's upstairs! I'll fetch him down."
Tinker whistled through the speaking-tube, and explained what had happened, and asked Blake if he should send the table up for him.
"It's rather a good way of coming down, sir," he said. "It's quite strong enough to bear you, all three."
Tinker sent up the table, and in,two minutes down came Blake, bringing with him the two handcuffed prisoners.
Blake and Tinker drove Nicole and Daunt in front of them into the kitchen, where of course they found Meredith, calmly surveying his charges.
"That's a very nice haul, Meredith," said Blake. "There's Signor Nicole, alias Richard Ruthford, who I think Scotland Yard have wanted for years; then there's Captain Daunt—I've wanted him for lots of little things —and who have we got here?"
Blake went and ticked the men off, one by one.
"There's Jevons, whose real name is Signor Carlo Martino, of Naples; two, if not three, murders are awaiting his explanation. There's Fritz Herschell, the smartest hotel thief in Europe. Then we have Bosso Cridera, alias Mellor; and in the kitchen steward, I think I see Captain Primere, lately degraded from the French Army—a sort of French Captain Daunt, I should take him to be. All the rest I think you can trace, can't you, Meredith?"
"Yes, bless you, Mr. Blake," answered Meredith, "I've got a warrant here for each of them! We'll take them up to the police-station now, and up to London tomorrow. And what are you going to do with your two men?"
"You can have them both, Meredith; I don't want them."
"Now, look here," broke in Nicole unexpectedly; " you let me go, and I'll give you the names of the perpetrators of all the big burglaries that have occurred within the last four months! They're all of them here in this room—every man-jack of them!"
There were groans and hisses from the handcuffed kitchen staff.
"You're a dirty-minded person, Nicole, alias Richard Ruthford," said Blake quietly. "You were going to sell your partner, Captain Daunt, and you were going to sell your fellow-criminals as well. If I hadn't stepped in, you would have collared the whole hundred thousand pounds. There would have been no share-out, and very probably you would have been living in luxury till the end of your days, while the rest of your gang were doing time. Take him away Meredith, will you—and get him twenty years if you can!"
"He'll get all of that," said Meredith, "when we prove he's Richard Ruthford! Now then, gentlemen, please! Great Heavens, look out, Blake!" he shouted.
Blake had stooped to tie his shoe, and at the same moment Signor Nicole, who was standing close to him, let drive with his right foot straight into his face.
Blake's Generosity—A Happy Ending.
THE kick would possibly have blinded, or seriously injured Blake in some way, but Tinker, who was standing by, put up his own foot and caught Signor Nicole on the ankle, and the discomfited criminal fell to the ground.
"Thanks, Tinker," said Blake simply. "What were you saying, Meredith?"
"Well, I was only saying 'March, gentlemen, please,' to my friends here," answered the inspector.
And the kitchen-staff of the Hotel Esparta, alias some of the most notorious criminals in Europe, were marched off to the police-station.
"You—I want you, Daunt," said Blake. "Now, honest Injun, as man and once a gentleman, will you go quietly? If so, I'll take them off!"
He tapped the handcuffs, and Daunt nodded.
"All right, I trust you," said Blake. "We'll drop into the telegraph-office as we pass, Tinker."
Blake sent off a long telegram to a big firm of London caterers, telling them to send down a full kitchen-staff in time for breakfast the next morning.
"We don't want anything to leak out," he said; "and I think, after what we've done, that the Government will run this hotel on its own for a little, so as to keep it all quiet. And our first call in the morning, Tinker, will be with this little packet for the Honourable Mr. Malvane."
The new kitchen-staff arrived, according to Blake's instructions, in time for breakfast; and so renowned were the firm for their quickness in filling orders, that, to keep up their reputation, they engaged a special train to take the staff down to Maretown-on-Sea.
Mr. Malvane was presented with the recovered plans, and, almost speechless with gratitude, he rushed back to town to deposit them this time in a safe and inaccessible place, leaving Blake to make what arrangements he thought fit about the hotel.
"And now, Daunt," said Blake, later on in the day, "how did you get these plans?"
"Stole them myself," said Daunt boldly. "I got into old Malvane's presence under a pretext; being an old military man, it wasn't very difficult. When I entered his room, he shuffled something away in a hurry under a heap of papers, and he happened to shuffle it to the side of his desk where I sat. I never lose a chance, and I thought it might be something worth knowing; so when he wasn't looking, I smuggled the paper, and one or two others, and hid them in my hat.
"Of course, he never suspected an ex-captain of doing such a thing, so I walked out with them quite easily. I didn't know there was any value in the few lines and scratches until I showed them to Nicole, whom I had known as Richard Ruthford for years. Then he told me what they were, and we approached the King of Silvania, and you know the rest. And that scoundrel would have drugged us both and then made a bolt of it with all the coin and the plans as well, would he?"
"Well, you see, Daunt," said Blake quietly, "the coffee wasn't drugged, after all, because the chef downstairs was in my confidence, and the little bottle which Signor Nicole gave him is still intact, and, if necessary, will be produced at Nicole's trial. Daunt, I rather like you! You've got pluck! After all, there'd be a dreadful scandal if all this business came out; so look here, do you want to go straight in life, for a change?"
Daunt made a wry face.
"I should like to," he said, "but it would be hard! Who would take me on?"
"I know a man who will," said Blake. "He's under an obligation to me. He owns a ranch over in Colorado. He'll take you on—a man of your qualifications, who can ride and shoot like the deuce—he'll take you on to help him as manager! Will you go next week?"
"Like a shot! And, Blake, you're a brick!"
THE trial of the kitchen-staff and of Signor Nicole created an enormous sensation, and they all, including Mr. Billie Dewar, whom Blake had hunted down, received exemplary sentences, which would keep them out of mischief for many years to come.
Meredith was especially commended, and Blake chuckled when he read the inspector's evidence that it was "from information received" that he had raided the establishment.
And when the King of Silvania came to England a couple of months later as an honoured guest, at the reception given to him at the Mansion House, people wondered who was the tall, clean-shaved, dark gentleman, and the bright-looking boy whom he greeted so cordially, and with whom he conversed so long. And to Blake's and Tinker's collection of orders and decorations there were added that day two in the shape of a blue moon, presented to them by the reigning King of Silvania.
"Do you think if his Majesty wanted a new chef we could get the job, Tinker?" asked Blake, with a smile, as he put his orders away.
"Very likely, sir! At any-rate, we could but try."
"'Try,' that's the word, my boy—' try'! There's nothing like trying; it will bring you most things in this life!"
"Monsieur Blake and zee littel Tinkaire!" exclaimed Monsieur Beautemps, when he was back at Paganino's two days later. "Ah, my word; zey are wondaireful—seemply wondaireful!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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