CHAPTER II
THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE
Red Tabs' sphinx-like declaration was no riddle to me. I knew at oncethat Francis must be on secret service in the enemy's country and thatcountry Germany. My brother's extraordinary knowledge of the Germans,their customs, life and dialects, rendered him ideally suitable for anysuch perilous mission. Francis always had an extraordinary talent forlanguages: he seemed to acquire them all without any mental effort, butin German he was supreme. During the year that he and I spent atConsistorial-Rat von Mayburg's house at Bonn, he rapidly outdistancedme, and though, at the end of our time, I could speak German like aGerman, Francis was able, in addition, to speak Bonn and Cologne_patois_ like a native of those ancient cities--ay and he could drill asquad of recruits in their own language like the smartest _Leutnant_ever fledged from Gross-Lichterfelde.
He never had any difficulty in passing himself off as a German. Well Iremember his delight when he was claimed as a fellow Rheinlaender by aGerman officer we met, one summer before the war, combining golf with alittle useful espionage at Cromer.
I don't think Francis had any ulterior motive in his study of German.He simply found he had this imitative faculty; philology had alwaysinterested him, so even after he had gone into the motor trade, he usedto amuse himself on business trips to Germany by acquiring new dialects.
His German imitations were extraordinarily funny. One of his "starturns", was a noisy sitting of the Reichstag with speeches by PrinceBuelow and August Bebel and "interruptions"; another, a patriotic orationby an old Prussian General at a Kaiser's birthday dinner. Francis had amarvellous faculty not only of _seeming_ German, but even of almostlooking like a German, so absolutely was he able to slip into the skinof the part.
Yet never in my wildest moments had I dreamt that he would try and getinto Germany in war-time, into that land where every citizen iscatalogued and pigeonholed from the cradle. But Red Tabs' oracularutterance had made everything clear to me. Why a mission to Germanywould be the very thing that Francis would give his eyes to be allowedto attempt! Francis with his utter disregard of danger, his love oftaking risks, his impish delight in taking a rise out of the stodgyHun--why, if there were Englishmen brave enough to take chances ofthat kind, Francis would be the first to volunteer.
Yes, if Francis were on a mission anywhere it would be to Germany. Butwhat prospect had he of ever returning--with the frontiers closed andingress and egress practically barred even to pro-German neutrals? Manya night in the trenches I had a mental vision of Francis, so debonairand so fearless, facing a firing squad of Prussian privates.
From the day of the luncheon at the Bath Club to this very afternoon Ihad had no further inkling of my brother's whereabouts or fate. Theauthorities at home professed ignorance, as I knew, in duty bound, theywould, and I had nothing to hang any theory on to until Dicky Allerton'sletter came. Ashcroft at the F.O. fixed up my passports for me and Ilost no time in exchanging the white gulls and red cliffs of Cornwallfor the windmills and trim canals of Holland.
And now in my breast pocket lay, written on a small piece of cheapforeign notepaper, the tidings I had come to Groningen to seek. Yet sotrivial, so nonsensical, so baffling was the message that I already feltmy trip to Holland to have been a fruitless errand.
I found Dicky fat and bursting with health in his quarters at theinternment camp. He only knew that Francis had disappeared. When I toldhim of my meeting with Red Tabs at the Bath Club, of the latter's wordsto me at parting and of my own conviction in the matter he whistled,then looked grave.
He went straight to the point in his bluff direct way.
"I am going to tell you a story first, Desmond," he said to me, "thenI'll show you a piece of paper. Whether the two together fit in withyour theory as to poor Francis' disappearance will be for you to judge.Until now I must confess--I had felt inclined to dismiss the onlyreference this document appears to make to your brother as a merecoincidence in names, but what you have told me makes thingsinteresting--by Jove, it does, though. Well, here's the yarn first ofall.
"Your brother and I have had dealings in the past with a Dutchman in themotor business at Nymwegen, name of Van Urutius. He has often been overto see us at Coventry in the old days and Francis has stayed with him atNymwegen once or twice on his way back from Germany--Nymwegen, you know,is close to the German frontier. Old Urutius has been very decent to mesince I have been in gaol here and has been over several times,generally with a box or two of those nice Dutch cigars."
"Dicky," I broke in on him, "get on with the story. What the devil's allthis got to do with Francis? The document--"
"Steady, my boy!" was the imperturbable reply, "let me spin my yarn myown way. I'm coming to the piece of paper....
"Well, then, old Urutius came to see me ten days ago. All I knew aboutFrancis I had told him, namely, that Francis had entered the army andwas missing. It was no business of the old Mynheer if Francis was in theIntelligence, so I didn't tell him that. Van U. is a staunch friend ofthe English, but you know the saying that if a man doesn't know he can'tsplit.
"My old Dutch pal, then, turned up here ten days ago. He was bubblingover with excitement. 'Mr. Allerton' he says, 'I haf a writing, a mostmysterious writing--a I think, from Francis Okewood.'
"I sat tight. If there were any revelations coming they were going to beDutch, not British. On that I was resolved.
"'I haf received;' the old Dutchman went on, from Gairemany a parcel ofmetal shields, plates--what you call 'em--of tin, _hein?_ What I haf toadvertise my business. They arrife las' week--I open the parcel myselfand on the top is the envelope with the invoice.'
"Mynheer paused; he has a good sense of the dramatic.
"'Well', I said, 'did it bite you or say "Gott strafe England?" Orwhat?'
"Van Urutius ignored my flippancy and resumed. 'I open the envelope andthere in the invoice I find this writing--here!'
"And here," said Dicky, diving into his pocket, "is the writing!"
And he thrust into my eagerly outstretched hand a very thin half-sheetof foreign notepaper, of that kind of cheap glazed notepaper you get incafes on the Continent when you ask for writing materials.
Three lines of German, written in fluent German characters in purple inkbeneath the name and address of Mynheer van Urutius ... that was all.
My heart sank with disappointment and wretchedness as I read theinscription.
Here is the document:
* * * * *
Herr Willem van Urutius,Automobilgeschaeft,Nymwegen._Alexandtr-Straat_ 81 bis.
Berlin, Iten Juli, 16.
O Eichenholz! O Eichenholz!Wie leer sind deine Blaetter.
Wie Achiles in dem Zelte.
Wo zweie sich zankenErfreut sich der Dritte.
* * * * *
(Translation.)
Mr. Willem van Urutius,Automobile Agent,Nymwegen.81 bis _Alexander-Straat._
Berlin, 1st July, 16.
O Oak-tree! O Oak-tree,How empty are thy leaves.
Like Achiles in the tent.
When two people fall outThe third party rejoices.
* * * * *
I stared at this nonsensical document in silence. My thoughts werealmost too bitter for words.
At last I spoke.
"What's all this rigmarole got to do with Francis, Dicky?" I asked,vainly trying to suppress the bitterness in my voice. "This looks like alist of copybook maxims for your Dutch friend's advertisement cards...."
But I returned to the study of the piece of paper.
"Not so fast, old bird," Dicky replied coolly, "let me finish my story.Old Stick-in-the-mud is a lot shrewder than we think.
"'When I read the writing,' he told me, 'I think he is all robbish, butthen I ask myself, Who shall put robbish in my invoices? And then Iread the writing again and once again, and then I see he is a message.'"
"Stop, Dicky!" I cried, "of course, what an ass I am! Why_
Eichenholz_...."
"Exactly," retorted Dicky, "as the old Mynheer was the first to see,_Eichenholz_ translated into English is 'Oak-tree' or 'Oak-wood'--inother words, Francis."
"Then, Dicky...." I interrupted.
"Just a minute," said Dicky, putting up his hand. "I confess I thought,on first seeing this message or whatever it is, that there must besimply a coincidence of name and that somebody's idle scribbling hadfound its way into old van U.'s invoice. But now that you have told methat Francis may have actually got into Germany, then, I must say, itlooks as if this might be an attempt of his to communicate with home."
"Where did the Dutchman's packet of stuff come from?" I asked.
"From the Berlin Metal Works in Steglitz, a suburb of Berlin: he hasdealt with them for years."
"But then what does all the rest of it mean ... all this about Achillesand the rest?"
"Ah, Desmond!" was Dicky's reply, "that's where you've got not only me,but also Mynheer van Urutius."
"'O oak-wood! O oak-wood, how empty are thy leaves!'.... That soundslike a taunt, don't you think, Dicky?" said I.
"_Or_ a confession of failure from Francis ... to let us know that hehas done nothing, adding that he is accordingly sulking 'like Achillesin his tent.'"
"But, see here, Richard Allerton," I said, "Francis would never spell'Achilles' with one 'l' ... now, would he?"
"By Jove!" said Dicky, looking at the paper again, "nobody would but avery uneducated person. I know nothing about German, but tell me, isthat the hand of an educated German? Is it Francis' handwriting?"
"Certainly, it is an educated hand," I replied, "but I'm dashed if I cansay whether it is Francis' German handwriting: it can scarcely bebecause, as I have already remarked, he spells 'Achilles' with one 'l.'"
Then the fog came down over us again. We sat helplessly and gazed at thefateful paper.
"There's only one thing for it, Dicky," I said finally, "I'll take theblooming thing back to London with me and hand it over to theIntelligence. After all, Francis may have a code with them. Possiblythey will see light where we grope in darkness."
"Desmond," said Dicky, giving me his hand, "that's the most sensiblesuggestion you've made yet. Go home and good luck to you. But promise meyou'll come back here and tell me if that piece of paper brings thenews that dear old Francis is alive."
So I left Dicky but I did not go home. I was not destined to see my homefor many a weary week.
The Man with the Clubfoot Page 2
