by Mark Hodder
“What do you mean?” Sexton Blake held more brandy to the man’s lips and made him drink it.
By an effort the German controlled himself, and began to speak hurriedly.
“After the smash I guessed something was wrong,” he said, “for I knew who did it and I was driving. I have served his Majesty, and I did not hesitate. I slipped from the crowd, leaving the carriage to take its chance, and followed you to the station. I heard you take tickets for London, and I took one, too, but not before I had telegraphed a friend of mine to meet me and bring others, men to be relied upon, with him. I used a code that he and I had made for fun years before, and so I could tell him what he had to do—to rescue the Kaiser.”
The man groaned, and buried his face in his hands.
“Little did I think that he had turned Anarchist, that such a chance as this—”
“Ah!” the detective ejaculated. “Quick, go on; there is no time to be lost.”
“He met me,” the German continued, in a shaking voice; “and three friends were with him. I did not like the look of them, but he told me that they were to be trusted. There was no time to doubt him, for we had to follow you. When you went along the Embankment we made our plans, and one of them then hurried on and gave the cry that took you to the steps. You were flung over, and then—I saw something was wrong.
“My companions flung themselves at the Kaiser. I rushed to his rescue, but was thrown into the river.”
The man stopped, and hid his face in his hands again, but Sexton Blake gripped him by the shoulders and dragged him to his feet.
“Where did this friend of yours come from?” he demanded.
“Great Adam Street, Soho,” the man answered.
Sexton Blake’s brows contracted sharply, for the man had named one of the most notorious Anarchist roads in that district. What should he do? Little had he thought that his endeavours to help his country would end by placing the Kaiser’s life in imminent peril.
If he were killed by these men, what would follow? Sexton Blake dared not think. He must act at once, without a second’s delay.
There was a thundering knock on the door, and Spearing entered.
“Came at once!” he jerked. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” Sexton Blake answered huskily.
“Kaiser escaped!” Spearing grasped.
“Worse,” Sexton Blake replied, and his voice was shaking. “He has been rescued from me by Anarchists!”
Spearing’s red face went pale, for he needed no further explanation. He knew that the Kaiser was a doomed man unless he could be rescued at once.
“Any clue?” he jerked. “Make the raid at once—only chance! What mean if never goes back to Germany?”
“Don’t talk of it,” Sexton Blake said, in a low voice. “I dare not think.”
“Then what do?”
“You must get a dozen men at once,” Sexton Blake answered, “and we must raid the house in Great Adam Street. They may not have taken him there, but they probably have, believing this man”—he nodded to the German—“to be dead.”
Spearing hurried to the ‘phone, and for five minutes he spoke rapidly into it.
“Take cab,” he said. “They’ll be there soon as we shall.”
Tinker hurried off to fetch a taxi-cab, and while he was away Sexton Blake hurriedly changed his clothes.
“Help yourself to fresh things while we are gone,” he said to the German, who had quite recovered by now.
“I am coming with you,” the man said quietly. “My emperor is in danger. I can do no less.”
Sexton Blake paced up and down the room, his face deadly pale. When he had started for the Shetlands, at the request of the Government, he had little thought that his investigations would end like this. Now his brain was filled with one thought only; everything else was banished from it. The Kaiser was in danger, and must be rescued. Nothing else mattered.
“The cab, sir!” Tinker announced.
Out into the street went the three men and Tinker, and clambered into the cab.
“Great Adam Street, Soho!” Sexton Blake ordered huskily; “and drive—drive like blazes!”
“Can’t exceed the limit, sir,” the man said civilly. “If I get my licence endorsed there’ll be trouble.”
Sexton Blake drew a couple of sovereigns from his pocket, and thrust them into the man’s hand.
“Get on!” he said sternly.
With a bound the motor started forward, and whirled at top speed down the street, the driver getting every ounce out of her. But that was not fast enough for the men in her, for they knew that the life of a great emperor was at stake.
THE TWELFTH CHAPTER
Terrible News—The Burning House in Soho—A Daring Rescue.
THE DRIVE TO Soho was not a long one, but it was all too far for the men in the cab. Their faces were deadly white, and they did not speak a word. They were men facing a desperate hope—men who knew how desperate a chance it was—and they could not speak.
Only Sexton Blake broke the silence by thrusting his head out of the window, and shouting to the driver to go faster. Twice policemen had tried to stop them, but the man had contrived to escape by dodging down side turnings. All this meant a loss of time, and every second was precious.
Sexton Blake was sure that if the Kaiser really was in the hands of Anarchists that they would not hesitate for long. They would know the dangers they were running—that the whole country would be turned upside-down to find their prisoner—and so they would settle with him promptly, and clear out of the way. The detective could fancy them chuckling at the chance that had fairly been thrust upon them, and he ground his teeth.
Yet, if the worst happened, who could be blamed but the Kaiser himself? What other ruler would have risked what he had risked; have come across the sea in—
With a jerk the cab stopped in Shaftesbury Avenue, and the men in the cab saw that a cordon of police was stretched across the road. A fire engine—the horses at full stretch—swayed by, the police moving aside to admit it.
“Can’t get through here, sir,” a policeman said civilly to Sexton Blake.
The detective and the others clambered out.
“Where is this fire?” the young German cried hoarsely.
“Great Adam Street,” the constable answered. “Seems to have started all of a sudden, and was fairly roaring when the engines arrived.”
“Adam Street?” the German gasped. “Ach Himmell! If they have—”
Sexton Blake gripped the man by the shoulder.
“Be quiet!” he whispered fiercely. “There is no reason it should be the house.”
But in his heart he thought it likely. What easier and safer way could the Anarchists have found of disposing of their noble prisoner than to bind him and fire the house? From what the policeman had said, the fire had been well started.
Spearing touched the constable on the arm.
“Must get through with my friends,” he said sharply.
“Impossible,”—the constable answered, thrusting the worthy official back—“unless you are the owner of the house!”
“I’m Spearing—Scotland Yard!” the official jerked.
The constable hastily peered forward, recognised his chief, and drew aside.
“Very sorry, sir!” he said apologetically.
But Spearing heard nothing of it, for he had hurried on with the others towards the scene of the blaze.
Guided by the steady thud of the engines and the glare in the sky, the detectives went up a road on the left. Instantly the whole scene burst upon them.
The fourth house on the right was burning furiously, flames issuing from all the lower windows, despite the streams of water that a dozen engines were pouring onto them. Firemen were working strenuously to save the adjoining property, but it seemed more than probable that half the street would be involved.
“It is the house!” the German gasped.
The firemen were too busy to take any notice
of the newcomers, and they forced their way forward until a policeman barred their way.
“Not safe!” he said sternly.
“Are all the inmates saved?” Sexton Blake asked quickly.
The policeman nodded to a group of five men, obviously foreigners, who stood on the pavement a score of yards away.
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “There they are. Take it cool, don’t they?”
The men certainly did appear to do so. They stood there, their hands in the pockets of their ragged trousers, staring at the fire, as if it fascinated them. One had a cigarette between his teeth.
The young German coachman stared hard at the group for a second, then a fierce cry broke from him.
“It is the men—the murderers!” he whispered hoarsely.
Sexton Blake needed no further bidding, but crossed the road in the direction of the little group. They saw him coming, started back when they recognised him, and looked for a way of escape. There was none, for in one direction was the flames, in the other the detectives.
The young German coachman darted forward, and flung his arms round one of the men; and at the same instant Sexton Blake recognised him as the man with the red beard and the scarred lip who had thrown him into the river.
“Where is he?” the German demanded, in a hissing whisper.
The red-bearded man tried to shake himself free, but the other held on with grim strength.
“What is it that you mean?” the bearded man asked, with a great show of surprise.
His companions were stealthily edging away, and the detectives made no effort to stop them. Already the house was burning so furiously that it seemed impossible that anyone could be alive in it; and all that they wanted to know was whether the Kaiser really was there.
“You know!” the young German snarled, and bent his lips close to the man’s ear. “I mean the Kaiser!”
The bearded man flung himself free, and laughed harshly.
“Look!” he cried, a kind of madness taking possession of him. “Look how the flames lick up towards him!”
A gasp of anguish broke from the young German as he realised that the Kaiser was in the burning building, and he turned and ran towards the flames. But, quick though he was, Sexton Blake was quicker, and he had already rushed up to the men in charge of the escape.
“To the top window!” he ordered hoarsely.
The escape officer turned towards the flames, and shook his head at them.
“The house is empty!” he said gruffly. “Anyway, it is impossible to enter.”
“The house is not empty!” The words broke from Sexton Blake like shots. “On the top floor there is a man who cannot get away, because—”
The sentence broke off short in the detective’s mouth. He realised that, even now, he dared not give away the real state of affairs.
“Sure?” the officer asked shortly, his square jaw becoming more prominent.
“Yes.”
A quick order was given, and willing hands seized the escape, and ran it towards the flames. The crowd, which had been noisy hitherto, suddenly dropped into a strange silence. They knew, as they saw the escape moved, that the burning building was still occupied; and they fairly held their breath as they thought of the nerve that a man would have to attempt a rescue.
The flames were darting out from the lower windows in something like a sheet now, and the moment the escape was placed against the wall the fire was licking at the paint of it.
The heat was so great that the men who had placed it in position rushed back hurriedly.
“Impossible!” one of them gasped, putting out with his fingers his smouldering beard.
Sexton Blake looked at the darting flames, at the red-bearded Anarchist, whose scarred lips were distorted by a fiendish grin, and he did not hesitate. It was indirectly through him that the Kaiser was in danger, and it was, therefore, his duty to get him to a place of safety—if it was not already too late.
Too late! As that terrible thought flashed into the detective’s brain, he buttoned his coat tightly, and darted for the escape. A policeman threw out his arms to stop him, but he dodged him, and reached the foot of the ladder.
The heat and glare of the fire was so great that he was compelled to close his eyes, and so he felt blindly for the first rung of the ladder.
“Come back!” a hoarse voice yelled, in a frantic command.
But Sexton Blake took no heed of the order. He knew, as the others did not, that the man who lay in the doomed building was Wilhelm the Second, Emperor of Germany. The papers were full of rumours concerning him, his health, his doings, his interest in the manoeuvres; but none of them could say that he was in London, and just now in grave peril of his life.
Up the escape went Sexton Blake, and a jet of water, striking him in the back and playing over him, refreshed him, so that he mounted quickly. He managed to open his eyes, and so was able to fairly jump past the rungs of the ladder, round which the flames were licking. He reached the window-sill, and it was so hot that he could scarcely put his fingers on it.
From below came a hoarse cheer, and as Sexton Blake glanced down for the briefest second he saw the young German close behind him.
“Go on!” the man gasped, in a voice choking and cracked by the heat. “They need help—my duty!”
Already the smoke and heat were making Sexton Blake’s head swim, and he realised that he had got to be quick if he was to come out of the building alive. The hose was still playing on him, and he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, held it in the water, then tied it hastily round his mouth and nose.
The smoke was coming out of the window in volumes, but Sexton Blake plunged through it, the German close behind him, and they found themselves in a small room. Through the cracks of the boards smoke was rising steadily, evil, pungent smoke that meant death to those who breathed it. Round the room the two men went, dropping on their knees, searching the hot floor with their hands, but there was no one there. Then they sought for a fresh room, and it was the German who found the door.
A cry, like a gasp, broke from him, and he summoned up all his strength, and flung himself against the woodwork. It gave under the blow, and he was flung through into the room beyond, closely followed by Sexton Blake.
Here there was not so much smoke. The window of the room was open, and through it came the glare of the fire below. It revealed a body, still and inert, lying just beneath it.
Staggering, half-choked, Sexton Blake reached it, and his shaking fingers felt the rope that bound the man’s lips, and the scarf that gagged his mouth. From his pocket he dragged out a knife, and slashed through the cords.
“Quick!” he panted. “Help me with him! The window!”
But no answer came, and when Sexton Blake turned he saw that the young German lay insensible on the floor, overcome by the smoke and heat.
There was nothing for it but for Sexton Blake to make the rescue single-handed. He lifted the still body of the Kaiser in his arms, wondering as he did so whether there was life still in it, and half dragged, half carried it to the window in the next room.
A great cheer rose from below as Sexton Blake appeared at the window.
“Jump!” Came faintly from below, and the detective saw that the escape had been moved, and that down in the street stood men, apparently right in the flames, holding a tarpaulin.
He raised the still form of the Kaiser, balanced it, and let it drop. He saw it land fairly in the tarpaulin, then turned and staggered back into the room to fetch the young German. He could see nothing now, for the smoke had made him quite blind, and a great red pillow seemed to be forcing itself down on the top of his brain. But even then he remembered the man lying still on the floor, and groped his way to him. His knees gave way, and he continued on all-fours until he touched the body.
Now came the greatest struggle of all, and it was only the detective’s marvellous nerve that pulled him through. He gripped the man by the collar, and inch by inch dragged him to the window. T
here he tried to raise him, but four times his strength failed him. Again he made the effort, and this time got the body to the sill.
With his arms around the young German, seeing and knowing practically nothing, Sexton Blake toppled from the window, and went whirling down towards the street. In a state of semi-consciousness, he felt himself strike the tarpaulin; then a great explosion shook the air, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
The Anarchists had laid their plans well, and had made sure of the house and its contents being destroyed by placing bombs there. But Sexton Blake’s pluck had made their efforts futile.
SEXTON BLAKE OPENED his eyes, and dimly saw that he was in his own bed-room in Baker Street. His head still ached terribly, but even then he remembered all that had happened. The kidnapping of the Kaiser, the fire, the rescue.
“The Kaiser,” he asked, in a weak voice. “What of him? Is he alive?”
“Very much, thanks to you,” a quiet voice said; and the Kaiser himself moved from a chair by the window and bent over the detective.
“You owe me no thanks, sire,” Sexton Blake said, with a wry smile. “It was my fault that your life was put in danger.”
The Kaiser shrugged his shoulders, and a moody expression crossed his face. He could not help thinking of the defeat of all his plans for forming a naval base in the North Sea.
“No, the fault was mine,” he said slowly. “I have been too ambitious, and I have paid the price.”
Sexton Blake dimly wondered why the Kaiser had not escaped, and he glanced towards the door, instinctively looking to see if it were guarded. The Kaiser saw the look, and smiled.
“I have never taken advantage of a disabled enemy,” he said quietly. Then added, with a rueful smile: “Besides, I rather fancy that your large and muscular friend, Mr. Spearing, is in the passage.”
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
Downing Street—The Ministers have a Surprise—Terms Arranged.
