The Romance of the Secret Service Fund - Fred M. White (speld decodable readers TXT) 📗

The Romance of the Secret Service Fund

 

Frederick Merrick White

THE MAZAROFF RIFLE

NEWTON MOORE came into the War Office in response to a code telegram and

a hint that speed was the essence of the contract. Sir George Morley

plunged immediately into his subject.

 

“I’ve got a pretty case for you,” he said. “I suppose you have never

heard of such a thing as the Mazaroff rifle?”

 

Moore admitted his ignorance. He opined that it was something new, and

that something had gone wrong with the lethal weapon in question.

 

“Quite right, and it will be your business to recover it,” Sir George

explained. “The gun is the invention of a clever young Russian, Nicholas

Mazaroff by name. We have tested the weapon, which, as a matter of fact,

we have purchased from Mazaroff. The rifle is destined to entirely

revolutionise infantry tactics, and, indeed, it is a most wonderful

affair. The projectile is fired by liquid air, there are no cartridges,

and, as there is practically no friction beyond the passage of the bullet

from the barrel, it is possible to fire the rifle some four hundred times

before recharging. In addition, there is absolutely no smoke and no

noise. You can imagine the value of the discovery.”

 

“I can indeed,” Moore observed. “I should very much like to see it.”

 

“And I should like you to see it of all things,” Sir George said drily;

“indeed, I hope you will be the very first to see it, considering that

the gun and its sectional plans have been stolen.”

 

Newton Moore smiled. He knew now why he had been sent for.

 

“Stolen from here, Sir George?” he asked.

 

“Stolen from here yesterday afternoon by means of a trick. Mazaroff

called to see me, but I was very busy. Then he asked to see my assistant,

Colonel Parkinson. He seemed to be in considerable trouble, so Parkinson

told me. He had discovered a flaw in his rifle, a tendency for the

projectile to jam, which constituted a danger to the marksman. Could he

have the rifle and the plans for a day or two, he asked? Naturally, there

was no objection to this, and the boon was granted. Mazaroff came here an

hour ago, and when I asked him if he had remedied the defect, he

paralysed me by declaring that he knew nothing whatever about the caller

yesterday; indeed, he is prepared to prove that he was in Liverpool till

a late hour last night. Some clever rascal impersonated him and got clear

away with the booty.”

 

“I presume Colonel Parkinson knew Mazaroff?”

 

“Not very well, but well enough to have no doubt as to his identity.

Naturally, Parkinson is fearfully upset over the business; indeed, he

seems to fancy that Mazaroff is lying to us. Mazaroff generally comes

here in a queer, old Inverness cloak, with ragged braid, and a shovel hat

with a brown stain on the left side. Parkinson swears that he noticed

both these things yesterday.”

 

“I should like to see Mazaroff,” Moore replied.

 

Sir George touched a bell, and from an inner room a young man, with a

high, broad forehead, and dark, restless eyes, emerged. He was badly

dressed, and, sooth to say, not over clean. Newton Moore’s half-shy

glance took him in from head to foot with the swiftness of a snapshot.

 

“This is the Russian gentleman I spoke of,” said Sir George. “Mr. Newton

Moore.”

 

“Russian only in name,” said Mazaroff swiftly. “I am English. If you help

me to get my gun back I shall never be sufficiently grateful.”

 

“I am going to have a good try,” Moore replied. “Meanwhile, I shall

require your undivided attention for some little time. I should like to

walk with you as far as your lodgings and have a chat with you there.”

 

Moore had made up his mind as to his man. He felt perfectly convinced

that he was speaking the truth. He piloted Mazaroff into the street, and

then took his arm.

 

“I am going to get you to conduct me to your rooms,” he said. “And I am

going to ask you a prodigious lot of questions. First, and most important

-does anyone, to your knowledge, know of the new rifle?”

 

“Not a soul; I had a friend, a partner two years ago, who saw the thing

nearly complete, but he is dead.”

 

“Your partner might have mentioned the matter to somebody else.”

 

“He might. Poor Franz was of a convivial nature. He did not possess the

real secret.”

 

“No, but he might have hinted to somebody that you were on the verge of a

gigantic discovery. That somebody might have kept his eye upon you; he

might have seen you coming from and going into the War Office.”

 

Mazaroff nodded gravely. All these things were on the knees of the gods.

 

“At any rate somebody must have known, and somebody must have

impersonated you,” Moore proceeded. “You haven’t a notion who it was, so

I will not bother you any further in that direction. I have to look for a

cool and clever scoundrel, and one, moreover, who is a consummate actor.”

 

“Cool enough,” Mazaroff said drily, “seeing that the fellow actually had

the impudence to pass himself off on my landlady as myself, and borrow my

hat and Inverness-the ones I am wearing now-and cool enough to

return them.”

 

All this Mazaroff’s landlady subsequently confirmed. She had known, of

course, that her lodger had gone to Liverpool on business, and she had

been surprised to see him return. The alter ego had muttered something

about being suddenly recalled; he had taken off a frock coat and tall hat

similar to those Mazaroff had used to travel in, and he had gone out

immediately with the older and more familar garments.

 

“You had no suspicions?” Moore. asked. The landlady was fat, but by no

means scant of breath. It was the misfortune of a lady who had fallen

from high social status that she was compelled to inhabit a house of

considerable gloom. Furthermore, her eyes were not the limpid orbs into

which many lovers had once looked languishingly. Was a body to blame when

slippery rascals were about?

 

“Nobody is blaming a body,” Newton Moore smiled. “I don�t think we need

trouble you any more, Mrs. Jarrett.”

 

Mrs. Jarrett departed with an avowed resolution to “have the law” of

somebody or other over this business, and a blissful silence followed.

Mazaroff had stripped off his hat and coat.

 

“You must have been carefully watched yesterday,” Moore observed. “I

suppose this is the hat and cloak your double borrowed?”

 

Mazaroff nodded, and Moore proceeded to examine the cloak. It was just

possible that the thief might have left some clue, however small. Moore

turned out the pockets.

 

“I am certain you will find nothing there,” said Mazaroff. “There is a

hole in both pockets, and I am careful to carry nothing in them.”

 

“Nothing small, I suppose you mean,” Moore replied as he brought to light

some dingy looking papers folded like a brief. He threw the bundle on the

table, and Mazaroff proceeded to examine it languidly. A puzzled look

came over his face,

 

“These are not mine,” he declared. “I never saw them before.”

 

There were some score or more sheets fastened together with a brass stud.

The sheets were typed, the letterpress was in the form of a dialogue. In

fact the whole formed a play-part from some comedy or drama.

 

“This is a most important. discovery,” Moore observed. “Our friend must

have been studying this on his way along and forgot it finally. We know

now what I have suspected all along-that the man who impersonated you

was by profession an actor. That is something gained.”

 

Mazaroff caught a little of his companion’s excitement.

 

“You can go farther,” he cried. “You can find who this belongs to.”

 

“Precisely what I am going to do,” said Moore. “It is a fair inference

that our man is playing in a new comedy or is taking the part of somebody

else at short notice, or he could not have been learning this up in the

cab. I have a friend who is an inveterate theatre-goer, a man who has a

pecuniary interest in a number of playhouses, and I am in hopes that he

may be able to locate this part for me. I’ll see him at once.”

 

Moore drove away without further delay to Ebury Street, where dwelt the

Honourable Jimmy Manningtree, an old young man with a strong taste for

the drama, and a good notion of getting value for the money he was fond

of investing therein. He was an apple-faced individual with a keen eye

and a marvellous memory for everything connected with the stage.

 

“Bet you I’ll fit that dialogue to the play like a shot,” he said when

Moore had explained his errand. “Have some breakfast?”

 

Moore declined. Until he had identified his man, food was a physical

impossibility. Hungry as he was he felt that the first mouthful would

choke him. He took up a cigarette and lay back in a chair whilst

Manningtree pondered over the type-written sheets before him.

 

“Told you I’d name the lady,” he cried presently. “I don’t propose to

identify and give the precise name of the character, because you’ll be

able to do that for yourself by following the play carefully.”

 

“But what is the name of the play?” Moore asked impatiently.

 

“It is called ‘Noughts and Crosses,’ one of the most popular comedies we

have ever run at the Thespian. If you weren’t so buried in your stories

and your medicine mysteries at the War Office, you might have seen all

about it in last Monday’s papers. Go and see the show-I’ll give you a

box.”

 

“Then the play was produced for the first time on Saturday night,” Moore

was panting and eager on the scent at last. “Also, from what you say, the

Thespian is one of the theatres you are interested in?”

 

Manningtree executed a wink of amazing slyness. The Honourable Jimmy was

no mean comedian himself.

 

“I believe you, my boy,” he said. “I’ve got ten thousand locked up there,

and I shall get it back three times over out of ‘Noughts and Crosses.’ If

you like to have a box tonight you can.”

 

“You’re very kind,” Moore replied. He laid his hands across his knees to

steady them. “And, as much always wants more, I shall be greatly obliged

if you will give me the run of the theatre. In other words, can I come

behind?”

 

“Well, I don’t encourage that kind of thing as a rule,” Manningtree

replied, “but as I know you have some strong reason for the request, I’ll

make an exception in your favour. I don’t run my show for marbles, dear

boy. I shall be at the Thespian at ten, and then, if you send round your

card, the thing is done. Only I should like to know what you are driving

at.”

 

Moore smiled quietly.

 

“I dare say you would,” he said. “Later on perhaps. For the present my

lips are sealed. No breakfast, thanks—I couldn’t swallow a