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

of course responding with signals. For a long time this

continued.

 

Meanwhile Moore was not altogether idle. He had marked Hermann’s unsteady

eye and the weakness of his mouth. He sized him up as a man who would

have scant consideration for others where his own personal safety was

concerned.

 

“Anyway I’m going on that line,” Moore muttered. “If Hermann discovers

that he has been hoaxed without betraying his knowledge to Nobel, he will

be certain to say nothing to him, but will as certainly abandon him to

his fate. Nobel’s deafness will be an important factor in this direction.

Hermann’s walking into the house as he did seems to indicate the absence

of servants here. That will be in my favour later on. Doubtless Nobel has

taken this house as a blind-much safer than rooms in London, anyway.

There is probably little or no furniture here, so that Nobel can slip off

at any time. And now to see if I can find some way of getting into the

house.”

 

Whilst Moore was working away steadily with a stiff clasp-knife at a

loose catch in one of the panes of the hall window, a conversation much

on the lines Moore had indicated was taking place inside.

 

The hall was comfortably furnished, as was also the one sitting-room,

where the brilliant light was burning. Over a table littered with plans

and drawings a ponderous German was bending. He had a huge head,

practically bald, a great red face, and cold blue eyes, and his mouth was

the mouth of a shark. There was no air of courage or resolution about

him, but a suggestion of diabolical cunning. A more brilliant rascal

Europe could not boast.

 

Nobel looked up with a start as Hermann touched him.

 

“You frightened me,” he said. “My nerfs are not as gombletely under

gontrol as they might be. Is anything wrong, my tear friendt?”

 

“Wrong?” Hermann cried. “Why, you sent for me.”

 

Nobel shook his head, for he had not heard a word.

 

“I was goming to see you to-morrow,” he said. “I should have come to -

night, but you were engaged at the theatre. Eh, what?”

 

Hermann turned away to light a cigarette. His hands shook and his knees

trembled under him. He had been hoaxed; in a flash he saw his danger

before him. Perhaps he had been tracked and followed here. And Nobel knew

nothing of it. He was not going to know, either, if his accomplice could

help.it.

 

“I came to warn you,” he touched off on his fingers.

 

“Oh,” Nobel cried, “there is tanger, then? You have heard something?”

 

Hermann proceeded to telegraph a negative reply. He had seen nothing

whatever; only the last few hours he had a strong suspicion of being

followed. He discreetly omitted to remark the absolute conviction that he

had been shadowed this evening. He had deemed it his solemn duty to come

and warn Nobel, seeing what compromising matter the latter had in his

house.

 

“You are a goot boy,” Nobel said, patting Hermann ponderously on the

shoulder. “By the morning I shall have gomitted all the plans of that

weapon to my brain. Then I will destroy him and the plans. After, I go to

Paris, and you shall hear from me there. Meanwhile there is branty and

whiskey.”

 

Hermann signalled that he would take nothing. It was of first importance

that he should return to London without delay. He had come down there at

great inconvenience to himself. As a matter of fact every sound in the

empty house set his nerves going like a set of cracked bells. Moore had

only just time to plunge into the darkness as the front door opened and

Hermann came out. Moore smiled grimly as he heard the lock turned, and

saw Hermann hurrying away.

 

Things had fallen out exactly as he had anticipated. Hermann had told his

big confederate nothing. He meant to abandon him to his fate. Nobel was

in the house, where he meant to remain for the present. Hermann had given

him no cause for alarm.

 

It was going to be a case of man to man; brains and agility against

cunning. Doubtless Nobel was not unprepared for an attack. There would be

nothing so clumsy as mere fire-arms-there were other and more

terrible weapons known to the German, who was a chemist and a scientist

of a high order.

 

But the thing had to be done and Moore meant to do it. There was no need

for silence. He worked away at the window catch, which presently flew

back with a click and the sash was opened. A moment later and Moore was

in the hall. As he dropped lightly to his feet it seemed to his quick ear

that a deep suppressed growl followed. There was darkness in the hall

with just one shaft of light crossing it from the room beyond, where

Moore could distinctly see Nobel bending over a table. The low growl was

repeated. As Moore peered into the darkness he saw two round spots of

flaming angry orange, two balls of flame close together near the floor.

He gave a startled cry that rang in the house, then paused as if half

fearful of disturbing Nobel. But the latter never moved. He would never

hear again till the last trumpet sounded.

 

The flaming circles crept nearer to Moore. He did not dare to turn and

fly. He saw the gleaming eyes describe an arc, and then next moment he

was on his back on the floor, with the bulldog uppermost.

 

A fierce flash of two rows of gleaming teeth were followed by a stinging

blow on the temple, from which the blood flowed freely. Then the dog’s

grip met in the thick, fleshy part of the shoulder. As the cruel saws

gashed on Moore’s collarbone he felt faint and sick with the pain.

 

But he uttered no further cry; he knew how useless it was. There was

something peculiarly horrible in the idea of lying there in sight of help

and yet being totally unable to invoke it.

 

Moore’s hand went up to his tie slowly. From it he withdrew a diamond

pin, the shaft of which, as is not uncommon with valuable pins, being

made of steel. His hand thus armed, crept under the left forearm of the

bulldog, until it rested just over the strongly-beating heart. With a

steady pressure Moore drove the pin home to the head.

 

There was one convulsive snap on Moore’s collarbone, then the teeth

relaxed. A shudder, a long-drawn sigh, and all was still. Some minutes

passed before Moore had strength to recover his feet, A queer, hysterical

laugh escaped him as he raised the carcase of the dog in his arms. A

sudden strength possessed him, a sudden madness held him. With the dog in

his arms, he staggered into the room where Nobel was so deeply engrossed,

and flung the carcase with a crash upon the table.

 

A frightened cry came from Nobel as he staggered back. His great red face

grew white and flabby, his blue eyes were filled with tears. He looked

from the carcase on the table to the slight man with the blood on his

features. On the table lay the object of Moore’s search, the Mazaroff

rifle.

 

“A ghost!” Nobel cried. “A ghost! Ah! what does it mean?”

 

Moore pointed to the rifle and the drawings on the table.

 

“Those,” he signalled upon his fingers.

 

“I do not understand,” he muttered.

 

“Not now,” Moore replied. He was proficient with that code used by the

deaf. More than once he had proved its value. “But you hope to understand

that rifle before morning. I have come to take it away. You need not

trouble to go into explanations. I am perfectly aware how you and Hermann

managed the thing between you.”

 

“My servants,” Nobel muttered,” will—”

 

“You have no servants, you are quite alone in the house.”

 

Nobel smiled in a peculiar manner, and, as if to disprove the statement,

laid a finger on the electric bell. At the same time he seemed to be

caressing his nostrils with a handkerchief. Moore was conscious of a

faint, sweet smell in the air, and the next minute a giddy feeling came

over him. A terrible smile danced in Nobel’s eyes.

 

Some infernal juggling was at work here. Moore glanced towards the

electric bell. Then he saw that the white stud was no longer there �

there was nothing but a round hole, through which doubtless some deadly

gas was pouring. With a handkerchief held to his face, Moore snatched up

the plans from the table and crushed them into the heart of the fire. He

gripped the Mazaroff rifle by the barrel, and held it over Nobel’s huge

head. “You scoundrel,” he muttered, “you are trying to murder me. Open

the windows, open the windows at once, or I will beat your brains out.”

 

Nobel, understood enough of this from Moore’s threatening gesture to know

that he had been found out and what was required of him. With his huge,

flabby form trembling like a jelly, he pulled up the curtains and opened

one of the windows. It was close to the ground, the lawn coming up to the

house. In a sudden paroxysm of rage, Moore’s left hand shot out, catching

Nobel full on the side of his ponderous cheek.

 

There was an impact of flesh on flesh, and Nobel went down like a

magnificent ruin. As he staggered to his feet again he caught a glimpse

of a flying figure hurrying at top speed down the road.

 

“My kingdom for the Edgware Road and a cab,” Moore panted. “I’m going to

collapse, I’m played out for the present. Thank the gods there is a

policeman. Hi, Robert, Robert. Here’s a case of drunk and incapable for

you. And, whatever happens to me, don’t lose my rifle. Give me your arm,

don’t be too hard upon me, and we shall get to Cricklewood Police Station

all in good time.”