The Submarine Hunters - Percy F. Westerman (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📗

They had to wait until the man who had feigned drunkenness had disappeared. By this time the German had gained a considerable distance. To get the assistance of the detective was out of the question.

"Come on!" exclaimed Ross, breaking into a run.

Concealment was no longer necessary. Should occasion arise, there would be plenty of help forthcoming, for there were several dock policemen and soldiers on duty close at hand.

Von Ruhle had increased his pace into a brisk walk when he heard the noise of his pursuers. Then he, too, began to run.

"Stop him!" shouted Trefusis, calling to a group of uniformed men standing in front of an abattoir.

Turning, the German made towards the quay-side. He was no match in speed for his youthful pursuers; but he gained the water's edge before Ross headed him off.

"Give in, von Ruhle!" he challenged.

The spy recognized the voice of the British lad whom he imagined to be miles away, on board an unterseeboot.

With a quick movement, the spy plucked a leather case from his coat pocket and hurled it over the edge of the quay, then, throwing up his arms, he dropped lifeless upon the rain-sodden ground.

Rapidly a crowd collected. Amongst them was Detective-inspector Ferret, who, having finished his conversation with his luckless confrère, was leaving the post office when he heard the commotion.

"Well, what's all this?" he asked brusquely. He bent over the body of the spy and flashed a pocket-lamp upon his face. "It's our man," he continued, addressing the lads in an undertone. This remark was needless, since they were already certain upon that point. "He's done us out of a job. Heart disease? No fear: it's poison. Don't wait here. Your work in this direction is done. I have still a few unpleasant tasks to perform. Cut off to the hotel and await me there. I may be an hour."

"One moment," protested Vernon. "We saw von Ruhle heave something over the quay. It might float; if so, there might be a chance to pick it up by means of a boat. The tide is almost slack. If it has sunk it will be a diver's task to recover it."

"'Something' is always unsatisfactory," remarked Ferret reprovingly. "Was it large, small, heavy, or light?"

"He was so jolly quick that I could hardly see it," replied Haye. "I should think it was about the size of a cigar-case."

Directing two policemen to remove and take charge of the body, the Detective-inspector accompanied the lads to the edge of the quay. It was dead low water. There was hardly sufficient current coming down the Stour to swing the anchored craft against the wind. Then the investigators made a discovery. Although there was a good depth of water at the greater extent of the quay, at this spot the mud was uncovered at the base of the wall, while almost at their feet was a flight of stone steps.

Ferret descended cautiously and switched on the light of the torch. Almost within arm's length, and partly buried in the slime, was the object which the spy had thrown away.

As the detective hooked at it with his stick a hoarse voice shouted:

"Ahoy there! What are you doing with that light?"

Apparently from nowhere a boat ploughed through the mud until its bows were within a couple of feet of the steps. The next instant Ferret and his companions were covered by a revolver.

It was a naval guard-boat, the watchful eye of the officer in charge having discovered what he took to be surreptitious signalling. Explanations followed, and were accepted. Ferret, holding the recovered prize, ascended the steps, followed by Ross and Vernon, while the boat backed noiselessly away. It was but one more example of the ceaseless vigilance of the great, silent Navy.

Almost dead-beat, Trefusis and his chum made their way to the hotel, had supper, and went straight to bed. Ferret, they decided, could wait until morning.

At 6 a.m. Hawke, having secured his release, arrived at Parkeston, having engaged a motor-car to bring him from Manningtree. Already his vindictiveness towards the military had vanished. He had taken a sensible view of the situation. He had played and lost, and the staff officer was justified in the circumstances. As for the soldiers, they had to obey orders.

Nevertheless he was chagrined when he heard his confrère's report. It was galling to think that their spy had outwitted him by taking his own life. The whole energies of the two detectives must, for the present, be concentrated upon the capture of the master-spy, Von Hauptwald, otherwise Dr. Ramblethorne.

Ross and Vernon met Hawke again at breakfast. He was now quite cheerful.

"You managed to get hold of von Ruhle so well," he remarked, "that I think you really ought to bear a hand with friend Ramblethorne,—that is, unless you've had enough of man-hunting?"

"We'll do our best," said Ross. "It's our duty."

"When do you start?" asked Vernon.

"Almost at once," he declared. "Ramblethorne might be alarmed if no telegram arrives from his fellow-spy. Again, the man who communicated with von Ruhle on the quay last night might have given Ramblethorne warning. It's not at all surprising to me, since what you told us, Mr. Trefusis, that there has been an alarming outbreak of enteric at St. Bedal camp."

He turned over several pages of a complex timetable.

"Here we are," he announced. "We must get to Paddington in time to catch the 10.20 for Wellington. One thing, young gentlemen, you'll be nearly home. Ferret has arranged about the inquest on von Ruhle. Your evidence will be taken down in writing, and in that case you won't have to put in an appearance at that grim farce."

Hawke spoke feelingly and from experience. In his opinion, based upon circumstantial evidence, "crowner's quests" were a form of legal absurdity.

The train journey to Liverpool Street was undertaken almost in silence, as far as the four travellers were concerned. Hawke buried himself in his paper; Ferret was poring over some document found in von Ruhle's pocket-book, trying to unravel the complex code that, if deciphered, would be of the utmost importance to the country. Ross and Vernon, still feeling tired, tried to make up for arrears of sleep.

Taking a taxi across London, they were just in time to catch the Great Western express, which would take them to Taunton. Arriving at that place, they changed into a slow train that eventually landed them at the little Somersetshire town nestling under the Black Down Hills.

Without delay the party proceeded to the regimental depot. Enquiries for Captain Ramblethorne, R.A.M.C., only resulted in looks of perplexity. He was unknown to the authorities.

"But we heard from St. Bedal that Captain Ramblethorne was ordered to Wellington for recruiting duties," persisted Hawke.

The orderly-room clerk smiled sadly.

"Are you quite sure that it was this Wellington?" he asked. "We've had similar mistakes before."

Detective-inspector Hawke felt like kicking himself. He, too, was aware of the existence of the Shropshire Wellington, but, without giving the possibility any consideration, he had rashly jumped to the conclusion that the place to which Ramblethorne had been appointed was the one nearest to St. Bedal.

Sorrowfully the four marched out of the office. More delay ensued while a wire was dispatched to St. Bedal, asking for further details.

It took two hours before the reply came. "Regret not to have added Salop to Captain Ramblethorne's address.—C.O."

"It's a long lane that has no turning," observed Ferret as they made for the railway station.

Hawke bit his lip. He knew that had the spy been warned promptly he might be out of the country by this time.

It was dark when, after a tedious journey, the four travellers alighted at Wellington, Salop. Here, guarded enquiries elicited the information that Captain Ramblethorne had gone to Bridgnorth to examine men "roped in" at a recruiting meeting. He had left for Bridgnorth two hours previously.

"There are no trains to-night," announced Hawke. "We'll have to get a car."

Ten minutes later, Ross and his companions were speeding over the horribly rough and hilly road between Wellington and Bridgnorth. Past ironworks and coal-fields, over or under a network of railway lines, the car tore; then, leaving the mining district behind, it entered the picturesque valley of the Severn, where the road skirts a range of towering limestone crags.

In spite of their fatigue, the lads could not restrain an exclamation of surprise and delight as the town of Bridgnorth, bathed in moonlight, appeared in sight—a cluster of houses perched upon a bold rock, and dominated by the scanty ruins of the old castle. At the foot of the cliff the Severn meandered placidly. In the midst of the greatest war the world has ever known, Bridgnorth appeared to retain all the characteristics of complete peace.

The recruiting office was closed for the night. With unerring instinct the detective made for the principal hotel. Here they found that Captain Ramblethorne had engaged a room, but the manager showed them a telegram that had just reached him.

"Took wrong train cancel room arriving to-morrow morning Ramblethorne."

"A blind," mentally ejaculated Ferret. "He has been warned."

The telegram had been dispatched from Shrewsbury. Ferret was again at fault, for the mistake was a genuine one. It so happened that the two trains left Wellington at precisely the same time, the one for Bridgnorth starting from a side platform. Before he realized his mistake Ramblethorne found himself well on the way to Shrewsbury, for the train stopped at no intermediate station.

"Shrewsbury, as hard as you can go!" ordered Hawke, addressing the chauffeur.

At a pace averaging fifty miles an hour the powerful car bounded over the road. Without mishap it gained the outskirts of the county town of Shropshire, when an involuntary halt occurred.

It was on the English Bridge, a comparatively narrow structure crossing the Severn. A belated drover was driving a herd of refractory cattle into the town when a motor-bicycle whizzed down the hill.

The cattle stampeded. With a jerk that almost threw Ferret and Vernon from the seat, the car brought up. At the same time the motor-bicycle slowed down, and dexterously avoiding a huge bullock, glided past the stationary car.

The moonbeams shone directly upon the rider's face as Ross thrust his head out of the window. The motor-cyclist was Ramblethorne the spy.

The recognition was mutual. The spy, cool and collected, gave no sign of recognition. The next moment he was travelling "all out" along the Much Wenlock road.

"That's Ramblethorne!" exclaimed Ross excitedly.

"Botheration take him!" ejaculated Ferret. "Are we to get no rest to-night?"

He opened the window in front of him. Hawke was sitting with the chauffeur. Quickly the detectives arrived at their decision.

"After that chap!" exclaimed Hawke, addressing the chauffeur; "that motor-cyclist who has just passed. Ten pounds if you overhaul and stop him."

It was the bright moonlight that had tempted Ramblethorne to go for a midnight ride. He was a keen out-of-door man. He could handle almost any make of car or motor-cycle with the utmost skill. Finding himself at Shrewsbury, he hired a motor-cycle from an agent, intending to have a run along the road following the banks of the Severn as far as Ironbridge. It was his practice, whenever in a strange place, speedily to become conversant with the locality. It was, in fact, part of his training as a spy.

Ramblethorne was somewhat taken aback when he saw Ross's face in the moonlight, although he betrayed no sign of surprise. In an instant he realized that, by some means, young Trefusis had escaped from U75; more, he was with a party of men evidently hard on his track.

Quickly he made up his mind. His career as a medical officer to the British Service was ended. He could no longer hope to serve the German Government in that direction. Before morning a hue and cry would be raised.

As he swung along the broad, level road he thought out his plans. He would ride as hard as he could until his supply of petrol gave out—a matter of about seventy or eighty miles. Then he would abandon and hide the motor-cycle, and make his