“You’ve got your four,” he pointed out. “You don’t need me, anyway. I must think of my country. All very well for you landlubbers, but I may be on the bridge of a battleship in a week’s time.”
“Swashbuckler!” Melville muttered.
Cheshire turned towards the door.
“It’s a nice club, this,” he remarked. “A warm, cosy little place for a dreary evening. All the same, it has its drawbacks. Less than a fiver that revoke cost you, Policeman, yet the memory still rankles. Good night, you others.”
Cheshire stood for a moment or two upon the steps of the club considering the weather. The commissionaire, with an open umbrella, glanced up at him from the pavement.
“Nasty night, sir,” he said. “Shall I call you a taxi or is your car here?”
“I think I’ll have a taxi.”
The man whistled. The taxi arrived. Cheshire was piloted across the rain-splashed pavement.
“Where to, sir?”
“The Admiralty. The Arch entrance.”
Before they had gone a hundred yards Cheshire stopped the taxi.
“Drive down Lambeth way,” he ordered.
“Which end of Lambeth do you want, sir?”
“The post office.”
The man drove on. Arrived at his destination, Cheshire alighted and, with his collar turned up and his Homburg hat pulled over his eyes, entered the place and made his way to one of the counters.
“Letters for Henry Copeland?” he enquired.
The clerk in attendance disappeared. When he returned he was holding a long typewritten envelope.
“Henry Copeland?”
Cheshire stretched out his hand.
“That’s right,” he said.
The young man went about his business. Cheshire, with the letter in his pocket, left the place and stepped back into the taxicab. For a moment he hesitated.
“The Admiralty,” he ordered.
They drove off. Twice Cheshire drew the letter from his pocket and each time he replaced it. Arrived at the Admiralty, he paid off the man, made his way along divers passages to a row of lifts, mounted to the top floor, traversed another long corridor, and paused before a door guarded by two commissionaires in uniform. They both saluted gravely as Cheshire entered the room. He passed a long line of clerks through a small chart room and finally opened with a key which he took from his chain a private office at the end. He closed the door behind him. A young man, who had sprung to his feet outside, followed him in.
“Do you require Captain Ryson, sir?” he asked. “He has just gone into the lower chart room.”
“Not at present.”
“Commander Hincks, sir?”
“No one for a few minutes.”
The young man disappeared. Cheshire opened a massive roll-top desk and pulled down the electric light. Slowly, and with a visible reluctance, he drew the letter from his pocket. He laid it on the blotting pad before him and fingered a paper cutter. For several moments he hesitated. A queer look of indecision seemed to have come into his face. He tapped the letter with the end of the cutter and then very slowly slit open the envelope and drew out half a sheet of foolscap and a folded slip of tracing paper. Word by word he read the contents of the note. He turned it over hastily and looked at some figures on the other side. Then he spread out before him what appeared to be a portion of a plan. He stared at it for several minutes. Afterwards he returned the letter and the tracing to the envelope and slipped the latter underneath the blotting pad. He leaned a little back in his chair. His fingers were interlaced. Something of the light-hearted humanity seemed to have gone from his expression, the lines to have sunk a little deeper, his eyes to be filled with something which seemed like a desire for escape from some hideous dilemma. So he sat for several moments without moving. Finally, he touched one of the buttons of a bell push on the top of the desk. A young officer in Naval uniform almost immediately hurried into the room.
“Commander Hincks, sir,” he announced. “We were not expecting you back to-night.”
“These are the times when unexpected things happen,” was the grim reply. “Is the door closed?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cheshire opened one of the drawers by his side, drew out a metal box which he unlocked with a key from his chain, and took from it a small oblong key which seemed to be its sole contents. He handed it to the newcomer.
“The code word is ‘Pernambuco’,” he confided. “Open my private safe.”
The young man took the key and approached the safe in a corner of the room. In a few minutes he turned round.
“Safe open, sir,” he reported.
“Give me the folder with the 7XTY designs.”
A folio in a green cardboard cover was produced and brought over to the desk.
“Now close the safe,” Cheshire directed, “and fetch Captain Ryson.”
“There’s nothing wrong, I hope, sir?”
“I hope not. Return yourself with Captain Ryson.”
“Very good, sir.”
The young man left the room. Cheshire lifted the blotting pad and withdrew the typewritten letter and slipped it into his pocket. Then he unfastened the folder and drew out the plans. There were twenty-one in all, fastened together in threes, each three apparently being plans of the same vessel—fore, aft and amidships. He spread them out before him and drew the light a little further down. Presently there came a knock at the door. Commander Hincks reappeared, ushering in an older man.
“Good evening, Admiral,” the latter said cheerfully.
Cheshire ignored the greeting and beckoned the two men to approach.
“You know what these are, I suppose?” he asked, touching with his forefinger the parchment.
“Rather,” was Ryson’s prompt reply. “They are the sectional plans of what is to be our 35-36 cruiser.”
“And you, Hincks?”
“Why yes, sir. You gave us a locked-door lecture on them only last week.”
The Admiral thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out the tissue slip.
“What do you make of this?” he asked.
The two men bent over it. There was a little exclamation from Hincks, something that sounded like a groan from the older man.
“It is a tracing of the hidden lower deck of the cruiser, sir. The secret deck that you were so keen about.”
Cheshire returned it to the envelope and his pocket. The two men were staring at him, white-faced and mute. It was Ryson who spoke first.
“Where did you get that from, sir?” he cried hoarsely.
The Admiral’s voice was hard and stern now as he answered.
“It is I,” he said, “who propose to ask questions, but in case you are really curious, I will tell you that someone calling himself Henry Copeland collected it from Lambeth post office less than an hour ago and brought it here. Fortunately, we have an Intelligence Department with eyes in the back of its head as well as the front. Now listen to me. You know where the keys are kept, you two. You know sometimes the code word. Hincks knows where to find the key of this desk when I am away. You, Ryson, know where to find the key of the inner drawer. You two between you form the only link between the contents of that safe and the outside world. You two together, I said. Now what about it?”
“Are we accused?” Ryson demanded, his deep voice vibrant with something which might have been passion or might have been fear.
“Where were you both last night? You were both invited to Regent’s Park. You neither of you came.”
“We were here, sir, according to arrangement,” Hincks replied. “I stayed till midnight and handed over to Captain Ryson at that hour.”
“I was here till six o’clock this morning,” Ryson corroborated.
“You were here,” Cheshire repeated. “Yes—the one night when you knew that I was away! What were you doing?”
“I was drafting, sir,” Hincks replied.
“I was in the model room working on my submarine,” Ryson affirmed.
“Perhaps. Go away now. Sleep on it. See me here, both of you, at nine o’clock to-morrow morning, then I will tell you whether you are accused or not. Lock up the safe, Hincks. That will be all for to-night, Captain Ryson.”
Both of them seemed about to burst into speech. Suddenly Cheshire raised his eyes. Something in his expression seemed to freeze the words upon their lips. Ryson swung round and left the room. Hincks busied himself with the safe and came back with the key.
“I shall be here for twenty minutes resetting the combination,” Cheshire told him. “Remember what I said. I do not wish to see either of you again to-night. You will preserve absolute silence as to what has happened.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Convey my wishes also to Ryson.”
“Yes, sir.”
Admiral Cheshire was alone. He moved over to the safe and for a quarter of an hour he was busy. Then he closed it again and came back to his seat. He seemed suddenly to have aged. The lines about his mouth had grown deeper and deeper. He took the letter and the sheet of tracing paper and placed them in a leather case in his inner pocket. When at last he rose to leave, he looked around him and threw up his arms to the ceiling as though in mute protest. That was the end of it. Once more wearing that expression of complete detachment which he carried with him always in the hours of crisis, he left the room.
CHAPTER III
Table of Contents
At nine o’clock precisely on the following morning, Cheshire stepped out of a taxicab and, entering the Admiralty by a private door, made his way to the suite of offices occupied by his department. He passed through the outer room taking no account of many curious and furtive glances. In the bureau immediately before his own, however, he paused for a moment to exchange a word with Commander Hincks. The latter, who was obviously waiting for him, retained his self-control with an effort.
“You have heard the news, sir?”
Cheshire nodded curtly.
“I will discuss the matter with you later,” he said.
“In the meantime, sir,” Hincks ventured, “there is a representative from the Universal Press waiting here—he says with your permission. They sent him along from the Censor’s Department.”
“In ten minutes I will see him,” Cheshire announced.
He passed on to his private office. His typist-secretary was sorting some letters at the table usually occupied by Commander Hincks. The Admiral nodded good morning and seated himself at his desk. One single letter already lay there. It bore no postmark and had evidently been sent in by hand. He slit open the envelope, read the few lines it contained, and laid it face downwards on the blotting pad. He turned to the young woman at the other end of the room.
“There is a messenger from the Universal Press in the waiting room,” he told her. “Fetch him, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
The young woman disappeared for a few moments and returned ushering in Stephen Adams, a well-known figure in the journalistic world. Cheshire welcomed him with a brief nod.
“Sad affair, sir,” the newcomer remarked. “The editor sent me round to see you. The early editions are waiting.”
“Quite so,” Cheshire replied, leaning back in his chair. “As it happens, Mr. Adams,” he went on, “this tragedy explains itself. I am about to hand you over this note which I have just received. It was written by Captain Ryson evidently a few minutes before he shot himself.”
The journalist’s fingers were twitching already. Cheshire, however, preferred to read the letter aloud, which he promptly did. It was dated from a neighbouring hotel.
“Sir,
I ask your pardon for taking the coward’s way out but I made a great mistake when I accepted your offer and devoted myself to indoor work for which I am entirely unsuited. I have made application as you know for a change and been refused. I was born a sailor and my father was born a sailor and every gift that we possess can be exercised only upon the sea. I am a stupid clerk and a blundering figure at the work upon which I am now engaged and which I detest. I can endure it no longer. Five minutes after I have signed my name to this letter I shall shoot myself.
I deeply regret that I have not been able to render better service to my country.
Godfrey Ryson. Capt., R.N.”
“A sad letter,” the journalist murmured.
“Very sad,” Cheshire agreed. “To tell you the truth, if the poor fellow had not been so impatient I should have tried to make arrangements for him shortly. The command of one of our new battleships would have been his if only he could have stuck it out for a time.”
“I may make use of what you are saying now, Admiral?” his visitor asked eagerly.
“Certainly. Ryson was temporarily off his head, no doubt. I have seen him looking worried to death over the simplest little affairs in connection with his present job and I felt at the time that I ought to have relieved him. He was doing no particular good here and he was a fine seaman.”
The journalist scribbled down the sympathetically spoken words. Then he held out his hand for the letter.
“The original of this communication had better remain here,” Cheshire decided. “You can copy it, though, and I give you leave to publish it. It is best that the whole world should know the truth. When a man who is in the Service, and actively engaged, chooses this way of chucking his job, there is always likely to be a little misunderstanding if anyone tries to cover things up. Let the public have what they want, Mr. Adams. They shall have the truth.”
The journalist copied the letter rapidly. There was a thin smile upon his lips even as he transcribed those tragic words. The truth! … It was not the first time in his life that he had had to deal with this sort of situation, and although he very much admired the way in which Cheshire was handling it, he took his leave without a word of comment. Before midday the whole world knew why Captain Ryson, at one time the commander of the battleship Devastation, now engaged in special research work at the Admiralty, had blown out his brains.
Cheshire glanced casually through the two piles of letters which his secretary had laid before him and waved her out of the room.
“Send Commander Hincks to me,” he directed.
The young man entered the room a few minutes later. Already a subtle deterioration seemed to have taken place in his appearance. He was correctly and carefully dressed but he was ghastly pale and there was a little twitch of the features apparent now and then when he spoke. He stood at attention before Cheshire’s desk. The latter passed him over Ryson’s letter.
“Read that,” he ordered.
Hincks read and returned it without comment. His fingers were shaking.
“That,” his Chief said deliberately, “is the letter of a brave man. The last words he wrote were lies but they were written to make what amends he could for the harm he had done. Perhaps you are wondering why you are not under arrest?”
“I have not attempted to escape,” was the quiet reply.
“You know quite well it would be useless. The reason why you are still at liberty is because the value of our work here would be destroyed and our prestige would suffer if the truth were known. It is important that there should be no whisper anywhere as to the fact that Ryson committed suicide because he was betraying his trust or that you are under arrest because you must to a certain extent be suspected of having aided him. He chose the man’s way out but of course he has made it a little more difficult for you.”
Hincks was obviously suffering tortures. His lips twitched but he remained silent.
“Now listen carefully,” Cheshire continued. “You carried out your system of dual control, even to your method of parting with the information which one of you stole. A tracing of half the plan of my cruiser was posted by one of you to a person by the name of Henry Copeland at Lambeth post office. That man did not receive the letter—I did. He presented himself and asked for it a little later, but although I had two of my best men on duty there, he gave them the slip. Who is Henr
y Copeland?”
The young man distinctly shivered. His questioner waited in severe silence. Hincks moistened his lips with his tongue.
“The Henry Copeland to whom the letter was addressed is a man whose real name is Florestan,” he confided. “He is in the employ of a large firm of merchants in the City.”
“Name and address?”
“Brown, Shipman & Co., 127, Holborn.”
Cheshire scribbled down the few notes, then he looked up again.
“The tracing of the other half of the plan was to be disposed of, I presume, in the usual fashion? Answer me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To whom were you delivering it?”
“If you will pass me your own revolver, sir, I will make use of it,” was the firmly spoken reply. “It is impossible for me to answer your question.”
“You are a fool,” Cheshire declared. “I have not fully made up my mind, but my present idea is that you should live to make, at any rate, such atonement as you can. To whom were you to deliver it?”
For a single moment Hincks seemed suddenly to have become himself again. His voice was steady, his manner controlled.
“I have already been false to the Service, sir,” he said, “and if I am to stoop to the degradation of answering that question, it would be impossible for me to continue alive for another five minutes.”
Cheshire stroked his chin and reflected.
“It is a reasonable point of view,” he remarked coldly. “I will help you.”
Commander Hincks stared. There was already a black line underneath those deep-set eyes of his. The Admiral scribbled carelessly upon a slip of paper and held it out in front of the young man. The latter read what was written there and a little moan escaped his lips.
“When was this pleasant ceremony to have taken place?” his torturer demanded, tearing up the fragment of paper and dropping the pieces into the wastepaper basket.
Hincks suddenly faltered in his attitude. He had been standing stiffly to attention the whole of the time. His knees seemed to give way. He caught at the side of the desk, then quite suddenly he drew himself up again.
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