by Robin Paige
The street was deserted and the shops and cottages dark. There was no sound but the whistle of the wind through the chimney pots, and nothing stirred save a black dog, nosing through a rubbish bin for his dinner. Charles reflected wryly that the villagers—those who were not at Saltdean, ready to unload the ship—must have gone early to bed, prudently extinguishing their lamps so that no light would be cast on the smugglers at work and turning their faces to the wall to avoid any glimpse of them.
He took the lead, and with Kipling in the rear and Tudwell between them, they slipped through the shadows down the High Street to the stone wall overlooking the beach. The four bathing machines had been pulled up almost under the cliff’s overhang, and a skiff was beached on the shingle not far away.
Tudwell set down the lantern. “There!” he exclaimed, pointing breathlessly to the empty skiff. “ ‘E’s still ’ere!”
“Shutter the lanterns,” Charles said. When they were dark, he waited a moment, his eyes becoming accustomed to the stormy night. Seaward, lightning danced and the angry peal of thunder echoed from the cliffs. To the right were the steps to the beach and the shadowy cat’s cradle of the pilings and trusses that supported the iron pier, the terminus of the Volk’s electric railway. Thirty yards out, perched on its spindly legs high above the waves, was the boxy shape of the Daddy Longlegs, moored for the night. The wind was freshening and the seas were coming short and hard, white-capped. If the man intended to row out in this weather, Charles thought, he would have his work cut out for him—particularly since the ship was lying off Saltdean, rather than straight out from the Gap. But perhaps the storm had decided him to abandon his plans and sent him inland, instead. If so, had he taken Patrick with him? Or had he already disposed of the only person who had seen him in three of his disguises?
Charles turned to Tudwell. “Do you have the key to the bathing machine?”
Tudwell hastily went through his pockets. “ ‘Ere ’tis,” he said, handing it over. “Th’ case is in th’ first machine. ’E gave me th’ padlock an’ kept th’ other key.” He frowned. “Ye’re not goin’ down there, are ye?”
Kipling spoke in a tense voice. “If the man is here, Sheridan, he’s armed. He could be anywhere along the cliff, or in the rocks—or out there in that infernal contraption. You’ll be a sitting duck on the open beach.”
“Nobody’s going to get a good shot in the dark. If anybody fires, you cut loose with that revolver of yours. That’ll give me time to find cover.”
Kipling shook his head stubbornly. “Whatever is in the traveling case, it can’t be worth the risk.”
“We have to know whether the case is there,” Charles said. “If it is, we’ll wait for him to pick it up. If not—”
If not, what then? What if the man had already retrieved his traveling case, taken the boy, and driven up to Falmer to catch the morning train? Or what if he’d picked up the case, but disposed of the boy? He could make better time and be less easily spotted if he were traveling alone. Master of disguise as he was, it wasn’t likely they would ever catch up to him. Charles pushed the thought away. There was no point speculating before he checked the bathing machine.
Kipling bent close to his ear. “This could be a beastly trap,” he said, low and urgent. He jerked his head at Tudwell. “How do we know we can trust this man?”
“We don’t,” Charles replied. “It might be a good idea to gag him so he can’t give an alarm.”
“Right,” Kipling said, and whipped out his pocket handkerchief. “I’d better retie his hands, too, or he’ll have the damn thing off.”
Tudwell groaned. “I’m with ye,” he protested.
“We’ll just make sure of that,” Kipling said roughly, and went to work.
Charles took out the Webley revolver the chief constable had lent him the day before and double-checked to be sure that all six chambers were loaded. “Cover me, Kipling.” He nodded at Tudwell. “And keep a sharp eye on him. You’re right—this could be a trap.”
It had been more than a dozen years since Charles had found himself under fire, yet in this moment of stress, the training and experience all came back to him. He took the steps quickly, then dashed to his left, aiming for the shadow of the undercliff. His back to the chalk face, he moved cautiously along it, boots crunching on the rocks, gun at the ready. He reached the bathing machine and glanced both ways, up and down the beach. Nothing moved except the rhythmic waves, cresting a few feet out and breaking heavily on the shingle. But the man he was watching for could be hiding among the jumble of rock slabs farther to the left, sighting down the barrel of a repeating rifle or ready to blaze away at him with that murderous handgun. Charles had been only partially truthful when he’d assured Kipling that the dark would protect him. An alert, attentive man whose eyes were accustomed to the dark could see the shadow of a movement, even on a pitch-black night. Armed with that Mauser, he had only to aim and squeeze the trigger.
But Charles had to take the chance. In a low, crouching run, making himself as small a target as possible, he moved swiftly out of the shadows to the bathing machine, slipped the key into the padlock and turned it, lifting the lock from the hasp and swinging the door open. On the floor just inside sat a medium-sized leather traveling case with a handle. Their man was still here.
Charles slid the case out onto the shingle. It was obviously full, but not overly heavy. The gold-colored metal clasps were closed and locked, and there was no identification anywhere—no name, no initials, no shipping labels. He closed the door, refastened the padlock in the hasp, and picked up the case. With a final, quick survey of all the landward approaches, he retraced his steps. A minute later, he was with Kipling and Tudwell.
“Good show, old chap!” Kipling exulted. “What do we do now?”
“We move to a spot on the cliff just over the bathing machines,” Charles said, “and wait for our man to pick up his case. I don’t think it will be long—not if he means to get out to the ship before the storm breaks.”
They repositioned themselves. “He surely wouldn’t be fool enough to row out in this storm,” Kipling said when they were settled behind the low stone wall. “It would be suicide!”
“Our man is daring,” Charles replied. “In pursuit of his dream, he’s used to taking risks that would turn an ordinary man’s hair white. And you know yourself, Kipling, the line between boldness and foolhardiness is hard to draw.”
“Ah, yes,” Kipling muttered. “Hard indeed. Hard, hard, indeed.”
36
There are some frauds so well conducted that it would be stupidity not to be deceived by them.
—CHARLES CALEB COLTON Lacon, 1825
They didn’t have long to wait. Off to the left, where the slabs of fallen chalk tumbled almost out to the tide line, Charles saw a low, bobbing light. A lantern! As the light grew closer, he glimpsed two shadowy figures, a tall, cloaked figure walking behind a smaller one. The smaller was carrying the lantern.
Charles let out an involuntary breath of relief. Tudwell grunted excitedly and swiveled his shoulders in a pantomime of speech. “It’s the boy!” Kipling whispered gleefully.
Charles tensed, waiting until the pair were almost directly beneath them. Then he stood, raising his pistol. “Halt!” he commanded loudly. “Bewegen Sie sich nicht!”
The cloaked man stopped in midstride, as if unbelieving. Then he put out his left hand, seized Patrick’s shoulder, and turned in their direction, keeping the boy between himself and them. “Lord Sheridan?” he inquired. “You are not going to make the effort to carry out this conversation in German, I hope. That would be too tedious. And silly, as well. We can transact our business quite adequately in English.”
A flicker of lightning lit the scene, and Charles saw that the man held a Mauser in his right hand. The barrel was pressed against the back of Patrick’s head.
“My God,” Kipling exclaimed incredulously. “Count Hauptmann! The Kaiser’s cultural representative. What the devil—”
>
“Herr Kipling, too,” the count said pleasantly. “So you have both come to see me off. I am sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen. I had to stop and fetch a little... insurance, shall we say.” He laughed in ironic amusement.
Kipling leaned over the wall. “Patrick? Are you all right?”
“All right, sir,” Patrick replied steadily. “But he’s planning to make off with that skiff and—”
“That’s enough, boy!” the count snapped. “Sheridan, you can see that I am armed. But perhaps you cannot see that this gun is—”
“I know about the gun,” Charles said brusquely.
“Ah. So you recognize Herr Mauser’s clever invention? Do you also know of the way I have put it to use?” Patrick squirmed, trying to pull free. The count collared the boy more firmly and brought the gun to his cheek. “Stand still, my young friend,” he said icily, “or I shall be forced to do something you would not like.” Patrick stopped struggling and stood still.
“Yes, we have seen how you used the Mauser,” Charles said. “We discovered the ejected shell casing on the floor of the mill and X-rayed Captain Smith’s body to locate the bullet. Given the opportunity to compare the grooves on the bullet with the rifling of that pistol of yours, we could likely prove that you used it to kill him.”
“Ah, this modern science,” the count said. “So up-to-date in its methods. X-rays, studies of bullets—soon there will be no escape for even the wiliest of criminals.” His tone grew harder. “I take it, then, that you have spoken to Mr. Tudwell since my conversation with him?”
“Mr. Tudwell has joined forces with us,” Charles said. “In fact, he is here now, although he is rather ... tied up at the moment.”
The count laughed dryly. “Then you know about the investors and the smuggling. What a pity that Mr. Tudwell could not be trusted to hold his tongue. He might have enjoyed a long and lucrative employment with us.”
Harry Tudwell made rude noises behind his gag.
“What we know,” Charles said in a deliberate tone, “is that there are no investors, and that whatever smuggling is going on here is a fraudulent cover for another activity altogether.”
There was a moment’s silence; then the count said, archly, “Very clever, Sheridan. And just what might that activity be?”
“Captain Smith was not as careful an agent as you could have wished, Hauptmann. In his cottage, we found map overlays which suggest that an amphibious operation is planned for this vicinity. We also discovered George Radford’s knife, which the captain used to kill Radford after he threatened to interfere with this plan. And in the tunnels, we found a supply of Mausers, explosives detonators, and telegraphy devices—equipment that could be used to expedite the infiltration of agents or saboteurs into this country. What we don’t know, however, is whether you are acting in an official capacity, on behalf of the Kaiser’s government and with his blessing, or whether this is a freelance project of your own devising.” He paused. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten us as to that detail. We are also curious to know why you killed Captain Smith.”
“Captain Smith?” Hauptmann replied scornfully. “He was killed because he was insubordinate, of course. He was ordered to leave the handling of George Radford to his superiors. Not only did he disobey that order, but after he had killed the man, he botched the disposal of the body. Given certain remarks that Radford was making, it was virtually certain that complaints would be heard by those in authority and that Smith would be accused. His rash act jeopardized the entire operation—hence, I took it upon myself to discipline him.” There was a loud peal of thunder. “Now, if you will excuse me, I shall fetch my traveling case and be on my way. My ship is expecting me.”
“Your case?” Charles asked. He lifted it up onto the wall. “I believe, sir, that we have anticipated you. We have it here.”
“Ah.” The count was silent for the space of several breaths. Then: “Have you opened it?”
“Not yet,” Charles said. “Whatever is in it is undisturbed. You may have it—in return for the boy.”
“Throw in an hour’s head start, and you have a bargain,” the count replied.
“Don’t trust him, Sheridan,” Kipling whispered urgently.
“On my word as a gentleman,” the count said. “And I have yours, I assume.”
“Of course,” Charles said. He picked up the case.
Kipling pulled at his arm. “We can’t give it to him, Charles. The case may be full of valuable strategic information. We still don’t know whether the man is working for the Kaiser or for himself, and we know nothing about the extent of his espionage activity. If he gets back to Germany with those documents, they could be used to—”
Charles shook his head. “The game is up, Rud. We understand enough about his operation to scuttle it entirely, and he knows it. Whatever is in that case is probably more of an embarrassment to the Kaiser and to Hauptmann than a threat to the Queen’s realm. And it certainly isn’t worth a gun battle that would cost Patrick’s life, and quite possibly ours.”
“My compliments, my lord,” the count said in an admiring tone. “You have stated my own conclusions quite competently. In any event, I have grown very fond of this young man in the hours we have spent together. He is a bright chap, very courageous. It would be sad indeed for him to die at so tender an age.”
“Then you should be glad to let him go,” Charles said. “I’m coming down with the case.”
“Excellent. You will leave your gun on the wall, however.”
Charles hesitated.
“Come, come, Sheridan,” the count snapped. “We are gentlemen, are we not? A bargain is a bargain.”
“Keep your gun on the man,” Charles said sotto voce to Kipling, and picked up the case. A moment later, he was on the beach.
“Very good,” the count said. “Put it in the skiff.”
Charles shook his head. “The boy first.”
“Lord Sheridan,” the count said, in a tone of rebuke, “I gave my word as a gentleman.”
Charles walked to the skiff, put the case in the bow, and turned. “Now the lad.”
“When I am ready,” the count said. “Step away from the boat.”
“You gave your word as a gentleman,” Charles said angrily.
“What makes you think I am a gentleman?” The count’s laugh grated harshly. “A man is a fool who trusts the word of a spy. I have a use for the boy. He is going with me.” Pushing the gun into Patrick’s neck and keeping the boy between himself and Kipling, he walked sideways toward the skiff.
Charles clenched his hands, angry and helpless. If he leapt for the boy, Hauptmann would kill him, he was certain of that. But Patrick was dead already, for he knew too much to be set free. The moment Hauptmann stepped into the boat, he would jump for it, throw the man off balance, give Patrick an instant to flee. He tensed. But before he could move, the entire beach was suddenly and eerily lit, as if by a lightning bolt or a blue-white flare of enormous power.
The count cried something in German as he instinctively threw up his hand to shield his eyes. Charles, in a darting run, snatched the boy and dove for the cover of the nearest bathing machine.
The impression of the flash lingered long after it went out. There was a silence, and then a clear, melodic voice spoke from the rock fall. “A picture, they say, is worth a thousand words.”
“Kate!” Charles exclaimed. “What the devil—”
“Lady Sheridan?” the count cried, in a strangled voice. “You have taken a photograph?”
On the headland above, Kipling unshuttered the lantern and held it up. Stunned, Charles saw Kate, dressed in trousers and a heavy sweater, her hair pinned up under his tweed golf cap, advancing onto the beach, a cricket bat in her hand. Lawrence, with a box camera in one hand and Charles’s magnesium lamp in the other, was a step behind her.
“Surely you know something of Lear, Your Excellency,” Kate said sweetly, and with as much self-assurance as if they were in a ballroom. “Pe
rhaps you remember Gloucester’s lines from the second act. ‘All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not ’scape ... besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom may have due note of him.’ ” She paused and added, regretfully: “Helpful to us, but not so to you, I fear, sir. A spy’s photograph in the hands of his enemy rather spoils his game, I should think.”
The count sputtered something in indistinguishable German.
Charles stepped out from the bathing machine. “I believe our bargain is concluded, Hauptmann. We have the boy. You have the case. Now, take the skiff and go, before the storm makes it impossible for you to reach the ship.”
There was a silence. “Very well, then,” the count said at last. “Perhaps we shall meet again, in happier circumstances.” He chuckled dryly. “Although next time, I should rather you left your wife at home.”
He turned his back on them, shoved the skiff into the waves, and leapt into it. He seized the oars, set them in the locks, and with powerful strokes began to pull out into the angry sea.
37
No man can calculate the effect on our delicate economic fabric of a well-timed, well-planned blow at the industrial heart of the kingdom, the great ... towns, with their teeming populations of peaceful wage-earners ... It is imperative that the invaders should seize and promptly intrench a prearranged line of country, to serve as an initial base. This once done, they can use other resources; they can bring up transports, land cavalry and heavy guns, pour in stores, and advance. But unless this is done, they are impotent....
—ERSKINE CHILDERS The Riddle of the Sands, 1903
“And this is the spot where they found it?” Kate asked curiously. stepping from the front seat of the tandem bicycle she and Charles had borrowed from the Kiplings. “Down there on the rocks?”
