by Mark Hodder
He was breathing and still conscious, as Blake could see by the intelligent gleam in his eyes, though his face was drawn with pain.
Blake’s first action was to try and stop the bleeding, but the briefest inspection showed him that the wounds were fatal. A small carafe of cognac stood on a cupboard near by. He dashed some into a glass, added water, and held it to the man’s lips. The man—he was a grizzled little imp of a fellow, with a face normally shrewd and clever—drank greedily.
“So,” he said faintly, in fair English, “you haf come too late! The paper?”
Blake signed to Tinker, and the latter unfolded it, and held it up.
“I cannot see! I must trust!” gasped Schmidt. “In the inside pocket of the coat you will find receipt.”
Tinker fumbled in the coat, and drew out a small square of tracing-paper with one corner roughly torn off.
On this was scrawled:
“Goods arrived safely.—ADOLPH SCHMIDT.”
At a gesture from the injured man Tinker transferred it to his own pocket.
“You will go on!” he gasped. “The paper—it must be delivered! It must! You understand?”
Blake nodded.
“I understand. We will go on. I pledge you my word to that. If it is humanly possible, the paper shall be delivered. But who to, and where? I understand that you and the man you were to take this to know the port hinted at. Who is the man, and what is the port?”
Schmidt fought for breath and strength, and Blake gave him another sip of the brandy-and-water—for he was nearly gone, and it was essential that he should rally enough to speak again.
“Captain van Zyl,” he panted—“Captain van Zyl, at the Lion D’or Cabaret, on the ‘quai’ at Stiltz. He will give you receipt same as mine. Give him that, and it is finish. He know all the rest, and he arrange everythings. He is not suspect as I—not yet, anyways. But you must be hurried. No; do not wait for me. I am nearly finished, too.”
“I’m hanged if I’ll leave you like this!” said Blake.
“But yes. Go—go quick! I know—I know those German pigs. Soon they will be back; they do not leave any dead or dying in the houses—they fear it make too much talk. Soon they come to take me away. That man who killed me, he tell them. I am too old to serve my country in the field, yes; but I have done the best I can—the best I can! An’ it grow dark an’ cold! I—”
His head fell back suddenly, and became a dead weight on Blake’s arm.
Tinker looked askance, and Blake nodded.
“He was right,” he said, in a low voice. “It is finished.”
He slipped his hand inside the man’s shirt. There was no responsive beat of the heart, but his fingers encountered a small metal object, hung by a slender gold chain. It was a locket of plain gold, set with a single diamond of no great value.
There was an inscription on it, and Blake held it up to the light to read it. Translated, it ran:
“To my dear Armand—Le Duc de St. Pol et Anmere.”
Blake replaced it gently without opening it. Whatever it may have contained was the dead man’s business, and no one else’s. And the Duke of St. Pol and Anmere wore one of the highest titles in Belgium, and had owned some of the greatest estates, though he had died in a garret under an assassin’s knife, and made a pretence of eking out a precarious livelihood by scribbling paragraphs.
In his own words, he had served his country to the best of his ability, cheerfully running risks day by day, knowing full well that, sooner or later, the German spies were bound to find him out.
“There lies a very brave gentleman,” said Blake, taking off his cap, “and you and I, old man, must fulfil our promise to him if we can.”
Tinker had already restored the paper to its hiding-place under his shirt, when he suddenly darted to the door, and listened.
“There’s someone coming up the stairs,” he whispered. “Germans—half a dozen or more of them, by the sound! We must get out of this!”
Quick as thought Blake had extinguished the lamp.
“Upstairs with you!” he said, under his breath. “Don’t make a sound. We must chance the attics.”
Swiftly and noiselessly they made their way to the top floor. It was hard to find their way in the dark, but a faint moonlight was beginning to filter through the windows of the various rooms, and when Tinker stumbled once the noise was smothered by the tramp, tramp of the approaching Germans.
They made a dive into one of the attics at the back, and crouched there, listening intently.
The Germans poured into the room below, and at once it was obvious that their suspicions were aroused. Either one of them, sharper than the rest, had spotted a glimmer of light in the room when they first came opposite the house, or their agent, the murderer, had explained the position of the body, and that he had left the lamp burning when he left the house. Be that as it may, hoarse orders were at once given to search the house from top to bottom, cellar to attic, and electric-torches and lights began flashing in all directions.
Sexton Blake leaned out, and touched Tinker on the arm.
“We must take to the roof, old man!” he whispered. “They are after us, right enough. I caught a sentence just then. They have had word that two Englishmen who were on that tin-pot Dutch train, got away, after being searched at the frontier, and have been traced as far as Flushing, suspected of secreting a paper of vital importance. That paper, they know, was intended for St. Pol, here. They murdered him on the chance of getting it, having missed us. But, of course, they were premature. They may quite possibly have had the house watched by a man stationed in the cafe on the far side of the street in front. Anyway, it’s us for the roof, and Heaven send that the tiles aren’t loose—it’s an eighty-foot drop!”
They crawled through the little dormer-window onto a roof, the slope of which was considerably over one in three, with a rickety-looking gutter at the edge of it, which sagged badly, and promised little or no dependable handhold.
Tinker flung himself flat on the tiles, and clung to a piece of iron upright, whilst Blake, hanging on by one hand, managed to refasten the window from the outside more or less securely. He was barely in time, for once more they heard hoarse shouts and the trampling of heavy-booted feet, and lights began to flicker across the window-panes.
Blake swung himself onto the top of the gable of the dormer, and crouched astride. Without actually clambering through the window it was impossible for anyone to see, because he was directly over their heads. Tinker, for his part, clawed his way up to another iron stanchion, and lay flat alongside the gable. He was painfully conscious that his boots might be visible if anyone craned out very far, however tightly he tucked his legs up under him. The Germans, however, contented themselves with much more practical measures.
The officer in charge gave the order:
“Fire-pastilles in every room, and a dozen tins of kerosene and a bundle of straw on the ground floor, will burn the rats out if we can’t get them any other way! It’ll make a fine blaze, and if the next houses catch, so much the better. There’ll be another Belgian or two gone to glory. Half a dozen men posted in the street below, and if anyone comes out after we’ve started the fire, let him have it—ball-cartridge first, and then the bayonet!”
“Pleasant sort of brute, isn’t he?” said Blake, under his breath. “And we seem to be ‘it,’ as the Americans say. Hang on a bit whilst I go and explore. I’m not going to be roasted like a pheasant if there’s a way out anywhere. If the worst comes to the worst, we must destroy that infernal paper, and make a charge down the stairs. It’s a tight corner, old chap, and I’ve dragged you into it. But don’t you worry; we’ll pull through somehow.”
There came a scraping of tiles and a shuffling of feet, clawing, slipping, and sliding, as Blake made his way up to the ridge of the roof, and vanished on the far side.
It was three or four minutes before he returned, breathing quickly.
“I think we can manage,” he said. “It isn’t a ni
ce job, and I don’t pretend that it is. But there is a big beam running across an alley-way at the back which leads to the houses on the far side, where the roofs are guarded by a parapet, and are flatter than here. If we can cross that beam, we shall be all right. I’ll go first and test it. If I fall, you must do the best you can. Phew! There goes the smoke. They don’t seem to be losing much time.”
“Right-ho!” said Tinker. “I’d rather break my neck than be cooked alive, any old day! But I’m lighter—why not let me go first?”
“Because you’ve got the paper, old man. If the beam will bear me, it will bear you. If I come to grief, you and the paper must find another way. The longer we talk about it the less we shall like it. Come on, and let’s get it over. This place will be a sizzling furnace inside the next ten minutes. The tiles on this side are getting hot already, and there’s a crowd collecting in the street below.”
Blake led the way up the slippery, sloping tiles, and Tinker followed him. Once across the roof ridge, they dropped into shadow out of the fierce glare of the flames, which were spreading rapidly, for the fire-pastilles were getting in their fine work.
They lay on their backs, and slid slowly down, gripping at every roughness in the surface that they could.
The beam which Blake had spoken of was a solid affair a foot square, and had evidently been fixed there at some time to act as a support for the old bulging walls. It ran right across the alley from side to side, and was roughly fifteen feet long. On the nearside where they were it was fixed fully five feet below the level of the guttering; on the other, it was almost flush with the parapet.
“Well, here goes!” said Blake. “We shall do no good by waiting. Look! the flames are already coming through the windows on this side. Wait till I call, and then lower yourself down as I do. I shall be there to steady you, and mind, whatever you do, don’t look down; if you do, you’re bound to get giddy!”
Very cautiously Blake let himself down the slope of the roof, hung for a moment from the gutter, until he could feel the beam with his feet, and then gradually lowered himself till he sat astride. Luckily an old and solid lightning-conductor ran down the side of the house close to the beam, and he was able to steady himself by it in lowering himself down. This was the most ticklish part of the operation.
As soon as he was firmly astride the beam, he called out to Tinker:
“Ready! Take it easy. I’ll steady you!”
Tinker gave a gulp. He had a good head for heights in the ordinary mountain climbing, but this, with a sheer drop to the paving-stones below, was a different affair altogether. He set his teeth. He knew that he was shivering like a leaf, and when he reached the guttering he had a frightful sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach.
Then he heard Blake’s voice saying quietly:
“All right, I’ve got you!” And he felt Blake’s hands catch him round the waist, and his feet touched the beam. “There’s a lightning-conductor on your right!” Blake went on. “Steady yourself by that. Gently does it. Now lower away slowly!”
Almost before Tinker realised it, he was sitting beside Blake astride the beam, still feeling sick, but comparatively secure.
The worst part was to come, however. They were both facing the burning house, and it was imperative that they should turn round and face the other way before attempting the crossing. Blake had nerves of steel. He swung both legs over to the same side of the beam as nonchalantly as if he had been sitting on a country stile, and in a trice he was sitting facing in the direction they had to go.
“Your turn now, young ‘un!” he said cheerfully. “It’s as easy as pie. Take hold of my shoulders to steady yourself as you turn, and then keep your eyes glued on the small of my back, and don’t think of anything else.”
How Tinker did it he never knew; but he did do it, and then, with both hands free to grip the woodwork in front of him, it became easier.
He could hear the cries of the people far away below as they watched the fire; but he kept his eyes rigidly fixed on Blake’s back, and, using hands and knees to grip with, they made their way across bit by bit.
The distance was really quite short, and almost before Tinker was aware of it, they were on the other side.
“Here we are,” said Blake cheerily, and, swinging himself over the low parapet, he turned and gave Tinker a hand.
Once in comparative safety, Tinker had to lie still, panting for a minute or two, so great was the reaction, whilst Blake worked at a small window he had spotted from the far side. It was a rickety affair of leaded glass, and he had it open in no time.
In a couple of minutes they were both inside, standing in a sort of garrett.
There was no difficulty about light. The whole place was as light as day from the glare of the burning house they had just left, and even as they looked the flames began to curl round the beam by which they had crossed a few moments before.
“Sold again, Bosches!” chuckled Blake. “You didn’t get us that time, after all! Now let’s go and explore. I hope there are no beastly Germans billeted here. If there are, you must leave me to talk to them.”
They made their way down the rickety staircase, the upper part of the house, though furnished, seemed unused, and they descended to the lower floors.
They were going along a passage, treading gingerly, when suddenly a door on their left opened, and a man appeared, holding a lamp.
He gave a startled exclamation on catching sight of them. Then, seeing, as he thought, two Belgians of the working-class, he recovered himself.
“What are you doing here?” he called sharply. “If you have come to rob, you might have spared yourself the pain. I have nothing left. The Bosches have taken everything!”
“You have your life, monsieur,” said Blake. “The Bosches have done their best to deprive us of ours. Have no fear, we are British. We have just come from that house across the way, which is on fire. We escaped by means of the big beam which connects that house and yours. We are sorry to intrude, but there was no other way.”
The man stared, and beckoned them into the room he had just left.
“You came by that beam?” he said incredulously. “Truly you British are remarkable people! Never has that been done before, though once a man from a circus tried it for a wager. His nerve failed him half-way across, and—Pauf! It was all over!
“You say the Bosches are after you?[4] I will help you if I can. But why are they after you? There are many British in the town still.”
“Do you happen to know who lived in that burning house, monsieur?”
The man looked at them searchingly.
“A very great person,” he said, “whom I have the honour to serve.”
Blake nodded.
“The Duc de St. Pol lived there,” he said, “under a name not his own. We were the bearers of a message to him. The Germans had mortally wounded him before we got there. He died in my arms. Somehow they got news that we were in the house, so they came back and fired it.”
“Monsieur de St. Pol dead!” exclaimed the man.
Blake nodded.
“He shall be avenged!” said the man savagely. “I was in his counsel. Is it by any chance you were to bring a certain paper? A Britisher was to come, and—”
“It was we who brought the paper—too late! We were stopped on the frontier, and had to go back and get here by another way.”
“The paper—you have it safe?”
“Yes.”
“Heaven be praised for that! But you must not be found here. They will make a house to house search. I know them. They will ransack the whole quarter. Perhaps they have begun already. Wait; I will go and see!”
He set down the lamp on the table, and made his way cautiously to the street door, and peered out. In a minute he was back again, and had slammed the bolts behind him.
“Quick! You must be quick!” he said nervously. “Already they are searching the house only two doors away!”
Blake gave a whistle of surprise.
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“I should have thought they would have taken it for granted that we were roasted to cinders by now.”
“They take nothing for granted. Someone may have caught sight of you high up on the beam. They may have seen the open window above. A hundred things may have happened, but they will be here in a minute!”
“Phew! Is there no back way out?”
“Yes. Follow me. I will show you!” He seized and lighted a candle, blew out the light after a last look round, and led the way down a passage. The old quarters of Antwerp are veritable rabbit warrens. Many of the houses are connected by passages and secret doors which lead into other houses facing on a different street altogether, a street which to reach in the ordinary way might involve a walk of a quarter of a mile and more.
At the end of the passage they came to a small room plainly furnished as a bed-room, though it had no window.
“Help me move the bed,” he panted.
Blake pushed it aside. The man dragged away a mat from where the bedstead had stood, and laid it down in another part of the room.
There was a trapdoor on hinges, which he jerked open.
“Go down. There are steps,” he said. “You, monsieur,” he added to Blake, “are strong. You come last, and perhaps you can contrive to pull the bedstead back over the trap. It is not heavy.”
Blake nodded, and when his turn came, standing on one of the lower steps, and supporting the half-open trap on his shoulders, he seized the bedstead by the legs, and dragged it back into its original position. As he did so he distinctly heard hoarse voices challenging from the street beyond, and there came the crash of blows on the door.
“You see?” whispered their host significantly.
“I certainly hear,” said Blake drily, and let the trap back into place as he descended.
“We were only just in time,” said the man. “They will have the door down in a few minutes. It is old and rotten. Follow me. This way!”
By the guttering candle-light they found that they were in some spacious cellars which wound this way and that in a perfect maze of passages.
