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

mouthful.

Only don’t fail me tonight as you love your country.”

 

A brilliant audience filled the Thespian. The stalls were one flash of

colour and glitter of gems. The comedy was lively and sparkling, there

was a strong story on which the jewels were threaded.

 

From the corner of his box Moore followed the progress of the play.

 

The first act was nearing its close. There were two characters in the

caste still unaccounted for, and one of these must of necessity be the

man Moore was after. The crux of the act was approaching. A thin, dark

man stood on the stage. In style and carriage he had a marked resemblance

to Mazaroff. He came to the centre of the stage and laid a hand on the

shoulder of the high comedy man there.

 

“And where do I come in?” he asked gently.

 

It was a quotation, the first line of the play-part spread out on the

ledge of the box before Moore. He gave a gasp. He saw a chance here that

he determined to take. As the curtain fell on the second act he sent

round his card. A little later and he was in Manningtree’s private room.

 

“Who is the man playing the part of Paul Gilroy?” he asked.

 

“Oh, come,” Manningtree protested. “You’re not going to deprive me of

Hermann. He has made the piece.”

 

“I am going to do nothing of the kind,” Moore replied. “We don’t make

public anything we can possibly keep to ourselves. Only Hermann has some

information I require, and there is only one way of getting it. Tell me

all you know about that man.”

 

“Well, in the first place, he is a German with an American mother. He

seems to have been everything, from a police spy up to a University

Fellow. He speaks four or five languages fluently. A shady sort of a

chap, but a brilliant actor, as you are bound to admit. Wait till you see

him in the last act.”

 

“He has all what you call the ‘fat,’ I presume?”

 

“He is on the stage the whole time. Five-and-twenty minutes the act

plays. Take my advice and don’t miss a word of it.”

 

“I am afraid I shall miss it all,” Moore replied in a dropping voice. “I

am afraid that I shall be compelled to wander into Mr. Hermann’s dressing

- room by mistake. In an absent-minded kind of way I may also go

through his pockets. Don’t protest, there’s a good fellow. You know me

sufficiently well to be certain that I am acting in high interests. Say

nothing, but merely let me know which is my man’s dressing-room.”

 

“You’re a rum chap,” Manningtree grumbled, “but you always manage to get

your own way. You are running a grave risk, but you will have to take the

consequences. If you are caught I cannot save you.”

 

“I won’t ask you to,” Moore replied.

 

Manningtree indicated the room and strolled away. The room was empty.

Hermann’s dresser had disappeared, knowing probably that his services

would not be required for the next half-hour. There was a quick tinkle

of the bell, and the curtain drew up on the last act. Moore from his dim

corner heard Hermann “called,” and the coast was clear at last.

 

Just for a moment Moore hesitated. He had literally to force himself

forward, but once the door had closed behind him his courage returned.

 

Hermann’s ordinary clothing first. It hung up on the door. For some time

Moore could find nothing of the least value, to him at any rate. He came

at length to a pocket-book, which he opened without ceremony. There

were papers and private letters, but nothing calculated to give a clue.

In one of the flaps of the pocket a card, an ordinary visiting-card,

had been stuck. It bore the name of Emile Nobel.

 

Moore fairly danced across the floor. He hustled the pocket-book back

in its place and flashed out of the room. Nobody was near, nobody heard

his chuckle. The whole atmosphere trembled with applause, applause that

Moore in his strange way took to himself. He had solved the problem.

 

The name on the card was one perfectly well known to him. Every tyro in

the employ of the Secret Service Fund had heard of Emile Nobel. For he

was perhaps the chief rascal in the Rogues’ Gallery of Europe. Newton

Moore knew him both by name and by sight.

 

Stolen dispatches, purloined plans, nothing came amiss to the great,

gross German, who seemed to have been at the bottom of half the mischief

which it was the business of the Secret Service to set right. Moore had

never come in actual contact with Nobel before, but he felt pretty sure

that he was going to do so on this occasion. He was dealing with a clever

coward, a man stone deaf, strange to say, but a man of infinite resources

and cunning. Added to all this, Nobel was a chemist of great repute. The

Secret Service heard vague legends of mysterious murders done by Nobel,

all strictly in the way of business. And Nobel had this gun-Moore felt

certain of that. Hermann had accomplished the theft, doubtless for a

substantial pecuniary consideration. Nobel must be found.

 

Moore saw his way clearly directly. It was a mere game of chance. If

Hermann really knew Nobel-and the possession of the latter’s visiting -

card seemed to prove it-the thing might be easily accomplished. If not,

then no harm would be done.

 

Moore made his way rapidly past the dark little box by the stage-door

into the street. Then he whistled softly. A figure emerged from the gloom

of the court.

 

“You called me, sir,” a voice whispered.

 

“I did, Joseph,” Moore replied. “One little thing and you can retire for

tonight. Take this card. In a few minutes you are to present it-as your

own, mind-to the keeper of the stage-door yonder. Take care that the

door-keeper does not see your face, and address him in fair English

with a strong German accent. You will ask to see Mr. Hermann, and the

stage-door keeper will inform you that you cannot see him for some

time. You are to say that you are stone deaf, and get him to write what

he says on paper. Then you leave your card for Mr. Hermann saying that

you must see him on most important business tonight. Will he be good

enough to come round and see you? That is all, Joseph.”

 

Then Moore slipped back into the theatre. He had the satisfaction of

hearing the message given, and his instructions carried out without a

hitch. And a little later on he had the further satisfaction of hearing

the stage-door keeper carry out Joseph’s instructions as far as Hermann

was concerned. Had Nobel’s address been on the card all this would have

been superfluous. As the address was missing, the little scheme was

absolutely necessary.

 

There was just a chance, of course, that Hermann might deny all knowledge

of Moore’s prospective quarry, not that Moore had much fear of this,

after the episode of the borrowed cloak and the play-part. Hermann

stood flushed and smiling as he received the compliments of fellow

comedians. Moore watched him keenly as the stage-door keeper delivered

the card and the message.

 

“Most extraordinary,” Hermann muttered. “You say that Mr. Nobel was here

himself. What was he like?”

 

“Big gentleman, sir, strong foreign accent and deaf as a post.”

 

Hermann looked relieved, but the puzzled expression was still on his

face.

 

“All right, Blotton,” he said. “Send somebody out to call a cab for me in

ten minutes. Sorry I can’t come and sup with you fellows as arranged. A

matter of business has suddenly cropped up.”

 

Moore left the theatre without further delay. His little scheme had

worked like a charm. All lay clear before him now. Hermann had important

business with Nobel, he knew where the latter was staying, he was going

unceremoniously to conduct Moore to his abode. And where Nobel was at

present there was the Mazaroff rifle. There could be no doubt about that

now. Naturally the upshot of all this would be that both the conspirators

would discover that someone was on the trail, but Moore could see no way

of getting the desired information without alarming the enemy. Once he

knew where to look for the thimble he felt that the search would be easy.

Also he was prepared for a bold and audacious stroke if necessary.

 

With his vivid and delicate fancy, it was only the terrors conjured up by

his own marvellous imagination that terrified him. He was one bundle of

quivering nerves, and the power of the cigarettes he practically lived on

jangled the machine more terribly out of tune.

 

But there was a sense of exultation now; the mad, feline courage Moore

always felt when his clear, shrewd brain was shaping to success. At

moments like these he was capable of the most amazing courage. He had a

presentiment that success lay broadly before him.

 

A cab crawled along the dingy street at the mouth of the court, leading

to the stage-door of the Thespian. Moore hailed it and got in.

 

“Don’t move till I give you the signal,” said he, “and keep the trap

open.”

 

The cabman grinned and chuckled. This was evidently going to be one of

the class of fares that London’s gondoliers dream of but so seldom see.

Presently the cab bearing Hermann away shot past.

 

“Follow that,” Moore cried, “and when the gentleman gets out slacken

speed, but on no account stop. I will drop out of the cab when it is

still moving. There is a sovereign for you in any case, and there is my

card in case I should have a very long journey. Now push her along.”

 

It was a long journey. Neither cab boasted horse-flesh of high calibre,

and after a time the pursuit dawdled down to a funeral procession.

 

Near the flagstaff at Hampstead Heath the first cab stopped and Hermann

descended. Moore’s cab trotted by, but Moore was no longer inside. If

Hermann had any suspicion of being followed, it was allayed by this neat

stroke of Moore’s.

 

Hermann hurried forward, walking for half an hour until he came to a long

new road at the foot of the hill between Cricklewood and Hampstead. Only

one of the fairly large houses there seemed to be inhabited, the rest

were in the last stages of completion. The opposite side of the road was

an open field.

 

The houses were double-fronted ones with a large porch and entrance

hall, and a long strip of lawn in front. Hermann paused before the house

which appeared to be inhabited, and passing up the path opened the front

door and entered, closing the big door behind him. In the room on the

left-hand side of the hall a brilliant light gleamed, but no glimmer

showed in the hall itself. Beyond a doubt Emile Nobel was here.

 

Moore followed cautiously along the drive. He softly tried the front

door, only to find the key had been turned in the lock.

 

“They are alarmed,” he muttered; “the covey has been disturbed. By this

time Nobel and Hermann know that they have been hoaxed. Also they will

have a pretty good idea why. If I am any judge of character, audacity

more than pluck is Hermann’s strong point. He will leave Nobel in the

lurch as soon as possible. If I could only hear what is going on! But

that is impossible.”

 

Moore could hear nothing beyond the murmur of Nobel’s heavy voice,

Hermann