by Q. Patrick
Sophonisba had a moment of doubt. Would she be betraying McFee’s confidence by thus telling the English master the various things that they had discovered together? Was it wise? Was it safe?
She looked into Harvey’s earnest blue eyes and before she knew what she was doing she had started to narrate all that she knew about Moss major’s death—the midnight peregrinations of Lucas, the history of the Hellers, Mr. Heath’s affiliations with the Fascist Society, and the mysterious comings and goings of Mlle. Santais.
Only twice was she interrupted. When she described Lucas’ experiences with the gray nurse, Harvey broke in with a surprised interjection.
“The kid’s sure he heard the rustle of a skirt that second time?”
“He seemed pretty positive. He’s no fool.”
After she had finished, the English master sat for a moment as though lost in thought.
“It all fits,” he muttered at last. “It all fits so damnably well. Except for just one thing. And then this Santais business!”
“Why, you don’t think that she—?”
“I don’t think anything; I can’t afford to think.” He thrust his jaw forward. “What we’ve got to do now is to act, and act pretty fast.”
“But what can I do?”
“Listen, Sophonisba. Part of the solution of this case obviously lies in America. I have just spoken to my father, and I’m expecting a very important cablegram from him today or tomorrow. I want you to keep an eye on the front door and get that cable before anyone else does. Call me up at the police station or wherever they take me. Unless my guess is hopelessly wrong, some other people will be getting cablegrams tomorrow, too. If you could intercept those as well, I think they might give us the full story.”
“But I can’t—”
“You can,” he urged. “This is a matter of life and death, and it’s my only chance to clear myself.”
The girl’s eyes were clouded.
“Then there’s another thing, Sophonisba. I told you that the solution probably lies in America. Those weekly papers of mine—except for my father, they’re our only link with the other side. Couldn’t you go through them and see whether you can find out something?”
“What sort of thing should I look for?”
“Oh, I don’t know—but Lucas found something about me. Perhaps you could find something about the Hellers.”
There was the sound of footsteps outside the door. Sophonisba hurried across the room and took a book from the shelf.
“I see, Mr. Nettleton,” she said loudly, in the tone of a professional schoolmistress. “Then you take subject, object, predicate and—”
But she did not finish her sentence, for Harvey had followed her to the bookshelf, and drawing her head gently backward, was kissing her on the mouth. By the time the door had opened to reveal the large form of Inspector Saunders, he was standing two or three feet away and saying calmly:
“If you get into any difficulties with the Fourth form, Miss Dodd, I am sure that Inspector Saunders will be kind enough to let you give me a ring on the ’phone tomorrow.”
As the footsteps of the men died away on the staircase, Sophonisba stood for a moment irresolute. Something seemed to have snapped inside her brain. It was only gradually that her thoughts took coherent shape. Then, as if under the spell of some hypnotic influence, she hurried to Mr. Harvey’s room, picked up the bundle of newspapers which lay under the wardrobe, and made her way back with them along the corridor.
XVIII
EVIL COMMUNICATIONS
The next day was a Saturday. At breakfast Mr. Dodd announced somewhat distractedly that the whole school would be sent on an afternoon picnic to Saltmarsh Combe. The boys, in their enthusiasm over this unexpected treat, partially forgot the more serious problems of the hour, and in consequence morning classes were more orderly than they had been the day before.
From her window Sophonisba could see the departing figure of McFee. She had pleaded a splitting headache that morning in order to give herself an opportunity to go through Harvey’s American newspapers, which she had been too tired to tackle the night before.
They were spread out now in front of her, and she was scanning them feverishly in an attempt to find—she knew not what. Riots, elections, lynchings, divorces, the jagged turmoil of American life sped by unheeded. Paper after paper was discarded without yielding anything that seemed significant. The pile was dwindling rapidly. It was almost lunch-time before she reached the last issue, which was dated some two weeks back. Then suddenly the word Heller caught her eye. In a grim little paragraph, tucked away at the bottom of the page, she read:
HELLER’S BROTHER MURDERED
The headless body found recently in the East River has been identified to-day by relatives as that of Franz Heller, brother of the noted agitator who was condemned to death in the Minnesota criminal court last winter. Identification was further established by clothing on the dead man’s body. Police believe that the man was dead before being immersed in the water, and that death took place approximately two months ago.
With trembling fingers Sophonisba ripped this gruesome item from the paper. She was still gazing at it in bewilderment, when from the corner of her eye she caught sight of a uniformed boy cycling leisurely up the school drive.
“The cablegram!”
Sophonisba stuffed the clipping into her pocket and hurried down to the front door. The boy handed her two orange envelopes.
“Any answer, miss?”
Sophonisba had caught the name Harvey on one of the cablegrams.
“Er—er—no, thank you. You needn’t wait.”
Eagerly she dashed upstairs to the first-floor telephone.
“Inspector Saunders. … Oh, is that you?” Her voice was shaky, but she controlled it admirably. “Might I please speak to Mr. Nettleton? I’m having such difficulties with the boys’ classes.”
“Didn’t know the school worked on Saturdays, miss. However, I’ll see what I can do.”
There followed a silence broken by various clicks and buzzes from the other end.
“No, no, I haven’t finished yet. Don’t cut me off.”
After what seemed like an eternity she heard Harvey’s voice.
“Good morning, Miss Dodd. Er—have those exercises come in yet?”
“Yes. The boys just brought two of them. Shall I read yours first, Mr. Nettleton?”
“Please do.” The English master’s voice was studiedly casual.
Without looking down, Sophonisba opened one of the envelopes in her lap and read:
“‘Sixty hyphen six, two, ten, twenty hyphen four—’” She broke off. “Oh, my Lord, that wasn’t the right one. It’s not for you at all. Wait a moment.”
“It’s all right, Sophonisba.” Harvey’s voice was natural again. “Saunders is a good sport. He’s just given me one of his famous winks and gone away. You can say anything you like now.”
Sophonisba ripped open the other cablegram and read Harvey the message. The reading was followed by so long a silence that she thought they must have been disconnected. At last she heard his voice:
“Good God! I believe I was right.”
Sophonisba’s eyes were glazed and lifeless. “But you can’t be right. Not possibly. It’s too awful…”
“And the other cablegram…?”
“Yes, yes. That’s who it’s for. It seems to be in code.”
“We must find out what it means. We must. Can’t you possibly decipher it?”
“No. It’s absolutely meaningless. Just a jumble of figures. There’s no time, anyhow. Mother’s just told me that McFee has called a meeting at two o’clock this afternoon. He seems to know about everything, too.”
“But he can’t know about this. We’ve got to find out what’s in that cablegram. Did anyone see you take it in?”
“No.”
“Well, copy it down quickly and give it to that kid Lucas. There’s a millionth chance that perhaps he can do something. I saw one of his n
otebooks once and he seemed keen on codes and cryptograms.”
“All right. I’ll do that.” Sophonisba’s voice was very faint.
“Is there anything else?”
“I went through the newspapers. …” She broke off as footsteps came toward her down the hall. “I find the exercise books quite confusing, Mr. Nettleton. If you would. … It’s all right now, Harvey, they’ve gone.”
“Yes, yes.” Harvey’s voice was excited. “Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Sophonisba pulled from her pocket the newspaper paragraph she had just found, and read it over the phone.
After it was finished she heard a low whistle from the other end of the wire.
“Good Lord! You’d better show it to McFee at once—before that meeting this afternoon. And, Sophonisba, you must get me out of here. I’m only in here for breaking his damn Aliens’ Act. It’s just a question of bail—have you any money?”
“About thirteen pounds in the post office.”
“I’m afraid that’s not half enough.” She could hear him laughing. “I’ve got to attend that little conference. Haven’t you any influential friends in Saltmarsh?”
She was about to reply when her ear was almost deafened by a noise in the receiver.
“Hello, hello, hello. … Are you there?”
They had been cut off.
For a moment Sophonisba sat staring at the two cablegrams in her lap. Then, hurrying into the music-room, she copied them carefully on two sheets of manuscript paper. Harvey’s telegram she thrust into her pocket, while the other one she replaced in the envelope and resealed as best she could. Then she rang the bell and a housemaid appeared. She told her to see that the other cablegram was delivered as soon as possible to the person for whom it was intended, then she asked:
“Have the boys gone off on their picnic yet?”
“No, miss.”
“Very well. Please send Master Lucas to me at once.”
Within a few minutes St. John Lucas presented himself in the music-room, his eyes alight with curiosity.
“Oh, Lucas.” Sophonisba spoke quickly and almost incoherently. “You wouldn’t mind—care—if you didn’t go to the picnic, would you?”
“Oh, no, Miss Dodd.”
“Well, someone told me that you’re good at codes and cryptograms. There’s a job here that’s too much for me, and I thought perhaps that you—”
Lucas gave a smirk of ill-concealed satisfaction.
“It’s awfully important, and it may mean the solution of the whole business. I suggest that you lock yourself up in Mr. Nettleton’s room and see if you can work it out.”
Eagerly Lucas took the copy of the cablegram and scanned it with professional eyes.
“‘Sixty hyphen six, two, ten, twenty hyphen four—’ If it’s any decent code, Miss Dodd,” he affirmed stalwartly, “I bet I can work it out.”
He was just leaving for Mr. Nettleton’s room when a sudden idea seemed to strike Sophonisba.
“Lucas,” she called, “what’s your father’s telephone number in Saltmarsh?”
“112, Miss Dodd. He’ll be at home all right. He always spends Saturday swotting up his sermon.
After the boy had gone, Sophonisba returned to the telephone.
“Saltmarsh 112. … The Lord Bishop, please. … Oh, is that you, Dr. Lucas?… I’m in such trouble.”
The Bishop’s beautifully modulated voice came over the ’phone, clear as his benediction in Saltmarsh Cathedral. “I’m sorry, indeed, my dear, that you have had more trouble up at the school.”
“It’s not only that, my lord. They’ve arrested Mr. Nettleton. I was wondering if you could help. …”
“Mr. Nettleton? But I always thought him a most estimable young man. He’s one of the few people young St. John really respects.”
Sophonisba explained the situation eagerly. At length the reply came back, warm and comforting.
“All right, my dear. I’ll go round after the noonday service and see what I can do.”
Sophonisba put down the receiver with a sigh, half of relief, half of exhaustion. Her mind was full of painful suspicions and doubts—doubts as to her own wisdom in having acted so impulsively. For the last two days, it seemed, she had been caught up in some strange spell. Harvey Nettleton … Dave Harvey. She kept repeating the two names dully to herself. He had told her such a convincing story. It all fitted in. He was so persuasive, so sincere. Why should she doubt him? Especially now that he had explained everything about himself—even his relationship with Myra Bernard-Moss.
XIX
ST. JOHN THE DIVINER
Meanwhile there was feverish activity in Mr. Nettleton’s room. Seated at the desk with the copy of the cablegram spread out in front of him, Lucas was scribbling with deadly earnest upon the back of a discarded sheet of the English master’s novel. Thirty precious minutes had gone by yet still no solution. The boy’s eyes were relentless as, for the hundredth time, he read through the mysterious document which he had now arranged as a series of figures.
66, 2, 10, 24, 31, 5 stop 39, 9, 6, 5 stop 11, 24, 4, 31, 2, 6, 5, 3, 5, 11 stop 9, 25, 11 stop 24, 11, 5, 25, 17, 24, 1, 24, 5, 11 stop 44, 2, 11, 13 stop 11, 9, 25, 26, 5, 3 stop 10, 5, 9, 6, 5 stop 9, 17 stop 2, 25, 31, 5 stop AHAB.
By now Lucas had exhausted all the secret formulae which he himself had created or which the heroes of his favorite fiction had employed in their daring exploits. Numbers had been ingeniously turned into letters. Cryptic squares had been created, and a mystic triangle—Lucas’s own specialty. The alphabet had been fruitlessly twisted into innumerable combinations and permutations of figures. Nothing—not the slightest clue had the exasperating Ahab inserted for the boy’s assistance.
Ahab! For a moment Lucas stopped being the great detective and reverted to his more usual role of bishop’s son. Ahab was a character in the Bible. Of course, how stupid of him! The key lay in the Old Testament itself. Wasn’t there a book of Ahab? Wasn’t he a minor prophet? Oh, no, that was Habbakuk. Lucas racked his brains. For the first time in his life he wished he had listened more carefully to the lessons which, every morning of the holidays, he was obliged to sit through before breakfast.
Ahab … Ahab. The name was familiar yet tantalizingly elusive. But why waste time thinking? Here in the school there must be a Bible—yes, dozens of them. He ran to the English master’s bookshelf.
Leaves of Grass, Moby Dick, Wuthering Heights, Sanctuary…
“Just like old Nettles not to have anything pi!”
Tiptoeing to the door with unnecessary furtiveness, Lucas unlocked it and scurried down the empty passage to the stairs. There was no one about. The other boys had long since departed for the picnic. He ran to the Big School and approached the master’s dais. There, propped against the wall, stood the lectern which, every Sunday morning, was brought forward for the prefects to read the lesson. Beneath it was a wooden book-rack. Lucas extracted from it a massive gold-leafed tome, and with his precious burden under his arm, hurried back to the English master’s room, carefully relocking the door behind him.
Tense with excitement, he turned to the concordance. Ahab—there he was with a score or so numbers after his name. Lucas flicked the leaves back to I Kings xxi. 16. …
And it came to pass that when Ahab heard that Naboth was dead, that Ahab rose up to go down to the vineyard of Naboth, the Jezreelite. …
Lucas read it through with growing elation. Here was plot, counterplot, sudden death. He hurried through the remaining references, but slowly his enthusiasm waned as the whole problem became too complicated. He stuck to it, however. For almost an hour he traced the movements of the nefarious ruler of Israel. At last he collected together all the sentences that mentioned his name and compared them with the cablegram.
“Sixty-six.”
He counted to the sixty-sixth word and jotted it down.
Sixty-six—Yea
Two—dog
Ten—without
Twenty-four
—vineyard.
Yea dog without vineyard. …
The result was more cryptic than the original puzzle. Lucas gave up in despair. And yet Ahab was Jezebel’s husband. Might not the solution lie with Jezebel? Yet who could Jezebel be? Mrs. Bernard-Moss? Mlle. Santais?… No, this was too much even for Lucas’s lurid imagination.
With a sigh, he slammed the Bible shut. He would have to go to Miss Soapy—have to admit defeat. This was one of the most miserable moments in his life. To him and to him alone had been allotted the task of solving the whole mystery. Fame, praise, success, all were so near, yet slipping away through his helpless fingers.
For the last time, Lucas glowered at the copy of the cablegram. His weary eyes fell upon the name Ahab, staring at him in what seemed like malevolent amusement. There was the key word. Ahab. If only … Lucas gave a sudden grunt.
If this message were the work of criminals, would they use the Bible as a channel for their guilty secrets? Ahab, the King of Israel. Was he the only Ahab? No, it was coming now. … There was another Ahab, one that he had heard about recently—one that, for some reason, he associated with the sandy hair on the back of Winch mi.’s neck.
Why did he connect these two irrelevant images in his mind? Why? Oh, got it! Winch sat in front of him in class. He must have heard of an Ahab in class. But what class? Geography? Maths? French? English?
English—Mr. Nettleton! Some book the English master had read the Fifth the day after Eric Moss’s body was found.
Lucas’s eyes blazed with sudden light. That book about whaling! Wasn’t it Captain Ahab who’d gone round hunting the white whale? He had noticed the book on old Nettles’s shelf a moment ago. He dashed to the little collection of volumes and pulled out Moby Dick.
Miss Soapy had not told him for whom the code message was intended, and up till that moment he had not stopped to think. Now a realization of the truth rose up, firm and rock-like, in his mind. Many a time in class Mr. Nettleton had told them how Moby Dick was his favorite book. Who more likely than he to chose it for the basis of his cryptograms?
