His Last Bow - Arthur Conan Doyle (classic books for 12 year olds txt) 📗

see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair

ramping. I’d rather watch him from over the water.”

 

“But you’re an American citizen?”

 

“Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he’s doing time

in Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper

to tell him you’re an American citizen. ‘It’s British law and

order over here,’ says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack

James, it seems to me you don’t do much to cover your men.”

 

“What do you mean?” Von Bork asked sharply.

 

“Well, you are their employer, ain’t you? It’s up to you to see

that they don’t fall down. But they do fall down, and when did

you ever pick them up? There’s James—”

 

“It was James’s own fault. You know that yourself. He was too

self-willed for the job.”

 

“James was a bonehead—I give you that. Then there was Hollis.”

 

“The man was mad.”

 

“Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It’s enough to make

a man bug-house when he has to play a part from morning to night

with a hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him.

But now there is Steiner—”

 

Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade

paler.

 

“What about Steiner?”

 

“Well, they’ve got him, that’s all. They raided his store last

night, and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You’ll

go off and he, poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and

lucky if he gets off with his life. That’s why I want to get

over the water as soon as you do.”

 

Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see

that the news had shaken him.

 

“How could they have got on to Steiner?” he muttered. “That’s

the worst blow yet.”

 

“Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far

off me.”

 

“You don’t mean that!”

 

“Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries,

and when I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle.

But what I want to know, mister, is how the coppers know these

things? Steiner is the fifth man you’ve lost since I signed on

with you, and I know the name of the sixth if I don’t get a move

on. How do you explain it, and ain’t you ashamed to see your men

go down like this?”

 

Von Bork flushed crimson.

 

“How dare you speak in such a way!”

 

“If I didn’t dare things, mister, I wouldn’t be in your service.

But I’ll tell you straight what is in my mind. I’ve heard that

with you German politicians when an agent has done his work you

are not sorry to see him put away.”

 

Von Bork sprang to his feet.

 

“Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!”

 

“I don’t stand for that, mister, but there’s a stool pigeon or a

cross somewhere, and it’s up to you to find out where it is.

Anyhow I am taking no more chances. It’s me for little Holland,

and the sooner the better.”

 

Von Bork had mastered his anger.

 

“We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of

victory,” he said. “You’ve done splendid work and taken risks,

and I can’t forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can

get a boat from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be

safe a week from now. I’ll take that book and pack it with the

rest.”

 

The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no

motion to give it up.

 

“What about the dough?” he asked.

 

“The what?”

 

“The boodle. The reward. The 500 pounds. The gunner turned

damned nasty at the last, and I had to square him with an extra

hundred dollars or it would have been nitsky for you and me.

‘Nothin’ doin’!’ says he, and he meant it, too, but the last

hundred did it. It’s cost me two hundred pound from first to

last, so it isn’t likely I’d give it up without gettin’ my wad.”

 

Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. “You don’t seem to have a

very high opinion of my honour,” said he, “you want the money

before you give up the book.”

 

“Well, mister, it is a business proposition.”

 

“All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the table and

scribbled a check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained

from handing it to his companion. “After all, since we are to be

on such terms, Mr. Altamont,” said he, “I don’t see why I should

trust you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?” he

added, looking back over his shoulder at the American. “There’s

the check upon the table. I claim the right to examine that

parcel before you pick the money up.”

 

The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a

winding of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat dazing

for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay

before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letters

Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the

master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant inscription. The

next he was gripped at the back of his neck by a grasp of iron,

and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his writhing face.

 

“Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended

the bottle of Imperial Tokay.

 

The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table,

pushed forward his glass with some eagerness.

 

“It is a good wine, Holmes.”

 

“A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured

me that it is from Franz Josef’s special cellar at the

Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble you to open the window, for

chloroform vapour does not help the palate.”

 

The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was

removing dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then

packing it neatly in Von Bork’s valise. The German lay upon the

sofa sleeping stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and

another round his legs.

 

“We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from

interruption. Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one

in the house except old Martha, who has played her part to

admiration. I got her the situation here when first I took the

matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be glad to hear that all is

well.”

 

The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed

with a smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at

the figure upon the sofa.

 

“It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all.”

 

“I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has

been a kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany

yesterday, but that would hardly have suited your plans, would

it, sir?”

 

“No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my

mind. We waited some time for your signal to-night.”

 

“It was the secretary, sir.”

 

“I know. His car passed ours.”

 

“I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your

plans, sir, to find him here.”

 

“No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or

so until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was

clear. You can report to me tomorrow in London, Martha, at

Claridge’s Hotel.”

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

“I suppose you have everything ready to leave.”

 

“Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to-day. I have the addresses

as usual.”

 

“Very good, Martha. I will look into them tomorrow. Good-night. These papers,” he continued as the old lady vanished,

“are not of very great importance, for, of course, the

information which they represent has been sent off long ago to

the German government. These are the originals which cold not

safely be got out of the country.”

 

“Then they are of no use.”

 

“I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at

least show our people what is known and what is not. I may say

that a good many of these papers have come through me, and I need

not add are thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten my

declining years to see a German cruiser navigating the Solent

according to the mine-field plans which I have furnished. But

you, Watson”—he stopped his work and took his old friend by the

shoulders—“I’ve hardly seen you in the light yet. How have the

years used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.”

 

“I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so

happy as when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich

with the car. But you, Holmes—you have changed very little—

save for that horrible goatee.”

 

“These are the sacrifices one makes for one’s country, Watson,”

said Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. “Tomorrow it will be

but a dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other

superficial changes I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge’s tomorrow as I was before this American stunt—I beg your pardon,

Watson, my well of English seems to be permanently defiled—

before this American job came my way.”

 

“But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the

life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm

upon the South Downs.”

 

“Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the

magnum opus of my latter years!” He picked up the volume from

the table and read out the whole title, Practical Handbook of Bee

Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the

Queen. “Alone I did it. Behold the fruit of pensive nights and

laborious days when I watched the little working gangs as once I

watched the criminal world of London.”

 

“But how did you get to work again?”

 

“Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The Foreign Minister

alone I could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned

to visit my humble roof—! The fact is, Watson, that this

gentleman upon the sofa was a bit too good for our people. He

was in a class by himself. Things were going wrong, and no one

could understand why they were going wrong. Agents were

suspected or even caught, but there was evidence of some strong

and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary to expose

it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into the matter.

It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not been devoid

of excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at

Chicago, graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave

serious trouble to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so

eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von Bork, who

recommended me as a likely man, you will realize that the matter

was complex. Since then I have been honoured by his confidence,

which has not prevented most of his plans going subtly wrong and

five of his best agents being in prison. I watched them, Watson,

and I picked them as they ripened. Well, sir, I hope that you

are none the worse!”

 

The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself, who after much

gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes’s

statement. He broke