Sexton Blake and the Great War

by Mark Hodder

  The lad broke off, loth to say more in the presence of the curious spectators. An automobile that was now passing misfired with a report like a gun and some waggish person cried that a Zeppelin had dropped a bomb, with the result that the crowd scattered in panic and confusion. And while they were straggling back Tinker briefly explained matters to the constable, who shook his head gravely.

  “A government despatch, eh?” he murmured. “That’s bad.”

  “Bad isn’t the word for it,” declared the lad. “There may be a lot of harm done.”

  “I dare say it was a German spy who robbed you, judging from what you told me.”

  “I’m sure it was. The scoundrel must have seen the naval officer arrive at Liverpool Street, and heard him talking to my guv’nor. There is no chance of the despatch being recovered, I suppose?”

  “Not the ghost of a one, I’m afraid, since there isn’t any clue,” the constable replied. “But it wasn’t your fault that you were robbed. Mr. Blake won’t blame you.”

  “Won’t he, though?” the lad said dismally. “You don’t know him.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for you. All I can do is to report the affair.”

  “But it must be kept quiet. Don’t let the news leak out to the public.”

  “That will be all right, my boy. Don’t you worry. I’ll make a private report to my inspector.”

  The ambulance had now appeared. With a nod the constable turned away to assist his mates with the chauffeur, who had meanwhile come to his senses, a broken leg being the extent of his injury. Tinker waited for a few seconds, and then he slouched across the road, and melted into the gloom of the falling night.

  “A nice scrape I’ve got myself into!” he muttered, as he walked along the pavement towards Waterloo Bridge. “What will the guv’nor have to say about it?”

  Notes

  8. Eugène François Vidocq, a former French criminal who became the founder of the Sûreté Nationale and the head of the first known private detective agency. He is generally regarded as the world’s first private detective.

  9. “Kilkenny cat” is a now little-used reference to anyone who fights with tenacious ferocity. The origins of the term are unclear.

  THE SECOND CHAPTER

  Tinker Meets an Old Friend—and Has a Wild Idea.

  WHAT WOULD SEXTON Blake say? Again and again, as the lad strolled aimlessly on, the question recurred to him. Now that he had recovered from the rough handling he had received, and his mind was quite clear, a full sense of his position dawned upon him. It was not his fault that he had been robbed, yet had it been he could hardly have felt the loss more keenly.

  Experience had taught him what to expect. Fair in his judgement though Blake was, he was at times inclined to be a little too exacting.

  “I’ll catch it hot!” Tinker reflected. “He will say that I ought to have looked behind me to see if I was being followed, and that I should have put the envelope in a safer pocket. I daren’t face him. What the deuce am I to do?”

  He was loth to go home. As for going to the Admiralty, to confess that he had lost the despatch that had been entrusted to him, not for a moment did he contemplate braving the wrath of the Sea Lords. He was in the mood to exaggerate the situation. The fault was not his, and a flash of temper from his master would probably have been followed by an apology. But he could not be sure of that. The shadow of disgrace hung heavy on him, and in all London that night there was no person more wretched than he.

  “What am I to do?” he repeated.

  There was good news from the front. The placards posted on the Embankment side of Charing Cross District Station, announcing the retreat of the enemy and the vigorous pursuit of the allies, caught Tinker’s eye in passing. He saw more of them at Westminster Bridge, and in Victoria Street, to which he made his way with no purpose whatever, later official news, referring to a list of British casualties, was bellowed in his ears by a ragged urchin.

  “What gallant fellows they are!” he said to himself, half aloud. “Dying in a foreign land by hundreds, for the sake of their country! I ought to be out there, too, sharing the risks. It is my duty to go. Every man who can bear arms is needed for—”

  The lad paused and stood still, gazing into vacancy. He was in the grip of the war-fever; a wild desire flamed in his heart.

  “I’ll enlist!” he reflected. “By Jove, I will! Why shouldn’t I? Yes, I will fight for my country, and perhaps come back covered with glory.”

  Tinker’s resolve was made. He walked briskly on for a few yards, his eyes sparkling, and stopped again as a chilling thought occurred to him. Sexton Blake would have to be reckoned with. It was certain that he would make inquiries at the recruiting-stations, and would visit the places where new recruits were temporarily kept, in the provinces as well as in London, in quest of his assistant, who could not expect to be sent to the front at once.

  “It’s no use,” the lad sighed. “The guv’nor would be sure to find me, and he might exert his influence to prevent me from being sent abroad. I know he wants me to help him in this new alien rounding-up scheme. He does not want me to enlist, and he’ll guess that’s what I’ve done.”

  His elation was gone. The shadow was heavy on his mind again. He would have to go home and face Blake’s anger and stick to the old treadmill. But as he was standing at the edge of the pavement, reluctant to bend his steps towards Baker Street, a hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to see a familiar face.

  “Hello, Tinker!”

  The speaker, who was of the same height and build as himself, was a young man of twenty-six, slim and fair and clean-shaved.

  “Hello, Rokeby!” Tinker replied. “How are things going with you?”

  “Not as well as they might be,” Jack Rokeby replied. “I hope they are better with you. What are you doing here?”

  “Just knocking about, that’s all. I shouldn’t have expected to see you. I thought you had gone to the front.”

  “I meant to go. There is no chance of it, though, worse luck. But I am afraid you are in trouble. You look as if you hadn’t a friend in the world.”

  “That’s the way I feel. I’m in a rotten mood.”

  “What’s wrong old chap?”

  “Everything is, Jack.”

  “Tell me about it, and I may be able to help you.”

  “No, not now. I am going home.”

  “Come with me. I want to have a chat with you. I live close by, near St. John’s Square.”

  Tinker demurred, but his friend grasped him firmly by the arm and drew him along. Having walked for a short distance, and turned into a quiet and gloomy street, they entered a large building, and ascended a stone staircase to the second-floor. A door was unlocked and opened, and the lad stumbled through into darkness. Jack Rokeby switched on the electric-light, revealing a narrow hall hung with pictures.

  “This is my flat,” he said. “It isn’t a bad sort of place. I would like you to meet my wife, but unfortunately she is not here. The fact is that—that—”

  His voice faltered. He led the way into an apartment off the hall and switched on another light, which illuminated a sitting-room that was comfortably furnished but in a state of neglect. A big gate-table, smeared with dust and littered with all sorts of odds and ends, showed the lack of a woman’s presence. Tinker dropped into a basket-chair and glanced around him. His friend passed him a box of cigarettes and began to fill a pipe, and when he had put a match to it, he sat down opposite to the lad and looked at him kindly through a cloud of smoke.

  “Now tell me your trouble,” he bade. “What is it?”

  Little urging was needed to open Tinker’s lips. He was in the mood now to confide in somebody who would sympathise with him, and in a gloomy voice he told of the theft of the precious despatch, and of his dread of Blake’s anger, and of his desire to enlist.

  “But it wouldn’t do any good,” he went on. “The guv’nor would soon be on my track.”

  “Yes, I dare say he woul
d,” Jack Rokeby assented. “I am sorry for you; but you had better give up the idea. Go home and make a clean breast of it. Mr. Blake won’t blame you.”

  “I am sure he will,” the lad replied. “And I am keen on going to the front.”

  “So am I; but it can’t be done. We all have our troubles, and I have a lot more to bear than you have.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought so, Jack.”

  “Ah, you don’t know. It is like this with me. As I had been in the Middlesex Regiment, and could count on being sent off to join the British force in the field, I put in an application to the War Office. I heard from them several days ago. I got a letter informing me that I had been attached to the Army Transport Service, and telling me that I was to report myself to-morrow to the commanding-officer at Avonmouth Docks. I drew the money to which I was entitled and bought my kit. And now I can’t go. I shall have to back out and refund the money.”

  “How is that? Why can’t you go?”

  “Because of my wife, Tinker.”

  “She don’t want you to leave her, I suppose,” said the lad.

  “It is worse than that,” Jack Rokeby answered, in a husky tone. “I’ll tell you all about it. We were married three months ago, and for a time we were the happiest couple in the world. Then Lilian was taken ill, and she didn’t get any better. She seemed to be fading away, and finally I sent her down to Penzance to her aunt, hoping that the Cornish air would do her good. That was two weeks ago, and yesterday I heard from the physician who had been attending her that she had an incurable complaint, and that she could not live for more than a month or so. That is why I am not going to the front. How could I, when Lilian is dying? If I were to leave her, it would be for ever. I—I should never again—”

  The young man’s voice choked. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.

  “I know how you must feel,” Tinker said softly. “I am awfully sorry for you.”

  “I am sure you are,” his friend replied. “Thanks, old chap.”

  “Doctors aren’t always right. Your wife may recover,” said Tinker hopefully.

  “No, there isn’t a chance of it. I am going to lose her, and I must be with her until the end. It is bitterly hard, for she is the dearest, sweetest girl. I can’t tell you how much I love her.”

  There was a hushed silence in the room, where still seemed to linger the fragrance of the young wife who was doomed to an early grave. A lump rose in the lad’s throat, for he was deeply, sincerely affected by what he had been told. Tears trickled from between Jack Rokeby’s fingers. He brushed them away and lifted his haggard features, twitching with emotion.

  “I am awfully sorry,” Tinker repeated. “It is a hard thing to bear, I know.”

  “It is breaking my heart,” the young man answered hoarsely. “You understand now, and I don’t want to talk about it any more. I am going down to Cornwall to-morrow, instead of to Avonmouth.”

  “You must stay with your wife, of course,” said the lad. “Your first duty is to her. I wish I could take your place in the Army,” he added, as a vague idea occurred to him.

  “I wish you could, old chap. It will be a fine berth.”

  “Have you written to the War Office to tell them that you must withdraw?”

  “Not yet. I shall write to-night.”

  “Would there be anybody at Avonmouth Docks with whom you are acquainted, Jack?”

  “No, I should think not.”

  “Suppose you were to go to the front. Would you be likely to meet with any of your old comrades of the Middlesex Regiment?”

  “I might, but there would be very little chance of it. What are you driving at, by the way?”

  “Can’t you guess?” exclaimed Tinker, his face flushing as he spoke. “I told you that I wished I could take your place, and I mean to do it, if you will let me.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Jack Rokeby. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Certainly I am. I was never more in earnest in my life. You will go to Cornwall to stay with your wife. And I will go to Avonmouth in your name. But I won’t be there long. I shall soon be at the front.”

  “My dear chap, the thing is utterly impossible.”

  “Nothing of the sort, Jack. It is perfectly simple. You have admitted that nobody at Avonmouth will know me from you, and that I am not likely to meet any Middlesex men abroad. And if I did they wouldn’t suspect me, not unless they were to hear me called by your name.”

  “It is madness, Tinker, for you to think of—”

  “Let me finish. As for the rest, I have served in the Terriers, and I should be able to do what was required of me. And your uniform will fit me, as I am of the same height and build as you. So there you are. Won’t it be easy?”

  The lad was full of his project, brimming over with enthusiasm. Jack Rokeby’s face was grave and troubled. He rose from his chair, and paced to and fro, biting on the stem of his pipe.

  “I wish you would give up this wild idea,” he said.

  “Don’t ask me to,” begged Tinker. “It is too good to be missed, such a splendid opportunity. You can’t deny, after what you have said, that it will be easy to carry it through.”

  “That is true enough. You might serve through the war, or be killed and buried, without the deception being discovered. On the other hand, you might get me into the worst kind of a scrape with the War Office.”

  “I won’t, old chap. I swear I won’t. You sit tight in Cornwall, and trust to me. I’ll see to it that there is no exposure.”

  “It is too much to expect of me, Tinker, even for a friend.”

  “Don’t refuse, Jack. Please don’t.”

  “I really must. That’s all there is about it.”

  “But think how much it will mean to me. I am ashamed to walk the streets in these days, when everybody is enlisting. I want to fight for Britain, and show the guv’nor what I can do. He will be angry with me about the stolen despatch, but when I come back with honours—”

  The lad paused, breathless with excitement. He jumped up, and put his hand on his friend’s arm. And so earnestly did he plead, persevering in spite of denials, that at length Jack Rokeby was reluctantly won over.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll have to agree, I suppose. You may be sorry, though, and so may I. But I’ll risk it.”

  “There won’t be any risk,” declared Tinker. “Thanks so much, old chap. You’re a brick.”

  “I am a fool for yielding. We won’t quarrel, however. My kit is in that cupboard yonder, and there are my papers on the table, in that large envelope. I have filled them in.”

  “Then there is nothing more to be settled between us, Jack?”

  “No, I believe not. You can spend the night with me. In the morning I will travel down to Penzance to stay with my wife, and you will go to Avonmouth Docks and report to the commanding officer.”

  “Right you are,” assented the lad.

  “But aren’t you behaving very cruelly towards Mr. Blake?” asked Jack Rokeby. “I know how much he cares for you. I am sure that your disappearance will be a terrible blow to him.”

  “He will miss me, of course.”

  “You had better change your mind before it is too late.”

  “No, old chap, I can’t. I’ve had enough of skulking at home while others are fighting. It is the front for me.”

  Tinker’s voice trembled slightly. There had risen before his eyes a vision of the lonely rooms in Baker Street, and Sexton Blake sitting there in grief and anxiety. His purpose wavered, but only for a moment. Stronger than the affection he had for his master was the desire to serve his country, to bear arms against the German foes who had boasted of a triumphal march into London.

  “The guv’nor will have to do without me for a time,” he said. “But I won’t keep him in suspense, Jack. I’ll drop him a few lines now.”

  And with that he sat down to the table, reached for a pen and paper, and began to write.

  THE THIRD CHAPTER

 
Sexton Blake Discovers Rokeby’s Secret.

  FOR SOME DAYS the shadow had been lurking in the house in Baker Street; a shadow that could not be driven away, or dimmed, by the brightest rays of sunshine. It could be felt, but not seen. Mrs. Bardell had gone about her duties listlessly, with an unwonted expression of melancholy on her florid face; and at every ring of the bell, Pedro, the big bloodhound, had pricked up his ears, and listened expectantly for a familiar step or a familiar voice. They missed their young master, and of Sexton Blake they had seen very little. His sorrow was deeper than theirs, but less obvious.

  He had been devoting his time to a single task. Having made close inquiries at the London recruiting offices, and visited the places where the new recruits were being trained, he had taking taken an admirable likeness of Tinker to a photographer, and had procured a large number of copies of it. These he had circulated amongst the officers in charge of the provincial recruiting stations, and of the depots that had been established for the young soldiers. But it had been labour wasted. Not the slightest success had rewarded his efforts. He had waited day by day, and in vain, for tidings of the missing lad. He would not have been angry with him in regards to the lost despatch. It had not been recovered, but no harm had been done by the theft, since the information which had been obtained by the spy could not have been of the slightest value to the Germans.

  Meanwhile, during the period of suspense, the strain had been telling on Blake. His step was less springy than it had been, and there were dark lines beneath his eyes when he emerged from his bedchamber one morning. Having caressed Pedro, he sat down to the breakfast-table, and with fresh hopes gave his attention to the mass of correspondence that was heaped by his plate. Rapidly and nervously, while the vague hope dwindled, he tore open envelope after envelope and glanced at the contents.

  He tossed the last one aside and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head sadly.