The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  Eagerly watching his friend’s face, he saw he had made his point.

  “Well,” said Burgoyne, “the risk is awful, but of course you are right to take it. And if I can read the symptoms it will be soon over. The fact is, I think the gathering is for to-night. You saw that people were flocking in; well, they are not all drawn by the faquir, for they could not have heard of his presence here so quickly. In any event, the meeting will be summoned in the usual fashion—by the beating of a drum. We have only to listen for that.”

  But the drum was not heard that night, and Purchas, a prey to uncertainty, and chafing at the inaction forced on him, passed a feverish, sleepless night. The next evening, however, he had scarcely changed into old Abdulla’s toggery to be ready for a possible summons from Burgoyne, who was out on the verandah listening, when he himself heard the faint, far-away throbbing of a drum.

  In a few minutes he had done up his face to his friend’s satisfaction, and very soon he was slipping along noiselessly in the direction of the temple. The old building stood well beyond the walls, a lonely place, encircled by peepuls and deodars. When he was close enough to discern in the darkness the glimmer of the white walls he diverged from the direct path, and hung about, watching many figures go stealing past him, like white moths among the dark tree trunks.

  When the flow of men had ceased he ran forward, and, passing under the side arches of the portico, slipped into a place just inside the doorway of the great inner shrine. He found the building to be full of squatting figures, dimly lit by a few lanterns.

  At the far end, high up the wall, he could just discern the niches occupied by the stone images of Gaupati, Lashni, and Nag. But in the centre of the floor, instead of the Pindi of orthodox Hinduism, there was that which showed John Purchas that something unusual was indeed afoot. Seeing the tall column with the square top which stood there, he wondered if he were about to witness an act of that serpent worship which was said to be the oldest worship in the world.

  For a long time nothing happened. An old fat pujari, standing under the column, went on mumbling some sort of long ritual in a tongue not Punjabi. While this interminable and monotonous chant proceeded Purchas cautiously surveyed the audience for any trace of the two masqueraders, thinking that if present they must now be in a fine state of funk. He found it eerie enough himself.

  But the low rumble of the old priest’s voice ended at last, and a faint, thin, refined sound, as from some stringed instrument at a vast distance, became audible. All those squatting figures at once bowed forward, thrice, with machine-like precision, and Purchas, on the alert to copy the actions of those around him, was in time to do the trick twice, catching sight, as he did so, of two figures away on the left, and close to the column, who remained without motion.

  Even in the obscurity he knew who they were. Then the lanterns were extinguished suddenly, and the darkness was complete. Prepared as Purchas was for any queer barbaric practice to follow, what actually did follow took him by surprise.

  Through the open doorway behind him, from the direction of the kneeling sacred bull of Shiva on the portico, there came a long spear of brilliant light, for all the world so like the shaft of light that goes over the spectators’ heads from an old type cinema lantern that Purchas smiled at the incongruity. Smiled, that is, till he saw what it illuminated. That narrow spear of light caught the top of the column only, and on the flat top of the column he saw the gleaming coils of a huge sleeping snake, green and yellow and black.

  The music grew louder, a drum began, gently beaten, a queer sobbing note; and, roused either by the light or the music, the reptile slowly lifted its head and looked down, swaying from side to side. The beady eyes caught and reflected the light. Purchas saw them glittering, like little green jewels. Every soul in the building was prostrate on the floor, their heads reverently covered with some portion of their garments. Lying prone like the others around him, Purchas yet watched from beneath the fold of Abdulla’s robe, which he had drawn over his head.

  Then above the viper’s head he saw such a dazzling point of light as a poet might have imagined for the Star of Bethlehem. In a moment he saw what it was. Around the serpent’s neck was a ring of yellow metal from which, at the back, rose a slender rod some five inches long, and from this, by a thin wire or a hair—something at least invisible—the flashing jewel was suspended. John Purchas thrilled as he looked, for he knew he was gazing at the lost Bumali diamond, the stone with the fabled origin, the gift of Nag, which had been the secret of the Sundra’s power over Northern India, and which had earned for that dynasty the title of Sons of the Serpent, a title which, even in their decline after its loss, the Sundra still lived up to.

  As Purchas lay watching while the little point of light twisted and turned at the end of the suspending hair, he wondered what all this portended. Was it a trick? Was this the real jewel, or one substituted for a purpose? If so, what? Was he about to witness some hocus pocus, perhaps some pretended return of the gift to the present foxy Rajah from Nag—to empower him, like his far-off ancestor, to drive out the Sahibs from Nag’s domains?

  But suddenly his speculations were scattered by a sharp angry hiss from the viper on the pillar. In the death-like silence it sounded so horribly full of all malice and evil that the watcher’s nerves jumped to the sound. His blood chilled and contracted, as if from a sudden injection of icy water.

  He saw that others beside himself must have been taking a fearful peep at the ancient serpent and the sacred stone, for heads suddenly went down here and there around him. But Purchas did not suppose that venomous hiss to be a reproof of impiety, and so he continued watching, to see what had aroused the brute’s anger.

  He was almost sorry he did, for what followed startled him horribly. Above the heads of the prostrate natives, as high as the tall pillar itself, he saw a hand. It came out of the darkness slowly, and passed into the spear of light. It was impossible to tell what the hand was like, or to whom it belonged, whether to native or to European, whether to the dead or to the living, for a very simple reason—it was covered with a white cotton glove.

  Indeed, all that Purchas actually saw of the hand was but the thumb and forefinger; yet these were so large and misshapen that they must have belonged to a giant or a beast.

  But no beast or giant was visible behind them. The finger and thumb though attached to a hand and arm were certainly detached from any body. They crept slowly nearer and nearer to the viper, keeping just above its swaying head. Then Purchas saw them close on the jewel—saw them give a swift tug and jerk—and the next instant both jewel and hand had vanished.

  But even before the diamond disappeared John Purchas thought he understood the kind of game he was witnessing. Though he couldn’t imagine how the trick with the hand had been done, he knew well enough the astonishing feats a Hindu juggler could do, and he was quite sure it was a trick. Presently, he thought, that hand will approach the Rajah, and bestow the diamond on him as a gift from Nag, and as a symbol of a new divine authority committed to the Sundra.

  But Purchas was very quickly undeceived.

  There must have been some other impious person present—a priest perhaps, or Duleep Sundra himself. Anyhow, someone saw the diamond go, for a sudden cry of horror rang through the building. Heads must have been lifted; like an echo the cry was taken up by numberless voices, and dark forms leaped to their feet.

  In a moment all was confusion, shouting and jostling. Purchas ran out by the door behind him, across the portico, leaped down the steps, and shot straight into the forest. Yet quick as he had been, he was not quite the first, for he saw at least two leaping figures in front. He heard many following, for the wrath of the Sundra was apt to be wholesale and undiscerning.

  An hour later, when he was again in Burgoyne’s study and had told his story, a little reflection threw some light on the mystery.

  “The two masqueraders did it,�
� said Burgoyne at length.

  “It is incredible,” Purchas affirmed. “Two private soldiers——”

  “A draper and a furniture remover. Furniture remover is good, eh? Smash and grab raider, I’d guess.”

  “There was a lot of talk about this diamond among them at Lahore, of course.”

  “Oh, it was an admirably planned coup,” said Burgoyne.

  “Still, it is incredible that those two planned it. Think of the preparations—the intimate knowledge of native life needed.”

  “Ah, my boy, your new criminal is very different, I’m told.”

  “I see what you mean. Even so, how was it done?” Purchas asked.

  “Ah, that I can’t tell you—wish I knew. Anyhow the Duleep Sundra plot is at an end, you can bank on that. The Rajah won’t have an ounce of credit in India once the story spreads. It will be said that Nag took back his gift.”

  On the following day Purchas returned to Lahore. Burgoyne, in seeing him off, begged that if ever he ran across his two friends in that city he should find out how the trick with the gloved hand was done and let him know. Purchas promised though with little hope that he would ever be able to keep that promise.

  On arrival he hurried out to headquarters, knowing how much his news would serve to dispel his Chief’s anxiety. Rather to his surprise, when he was ushered in, he found the old man in very cheerful spirits. He listened happily to Purchas’s tale until the splendour of the diamond was mentioned.

  “Poof,” said the Chief; “there are many better stones in the windows of Bond Street.”

  “I assure you——” Purchas protested.

  “A very ordinary stone,” the old man interrupted. “Look at it for yourself.”

  He put his hand into his pocket and clapped the diamond down on the desk.

  There was a long silence, during which a great respect for his Chief was born in John Purchas’s mind. He remembered his first impression, on setting out, of being himself but a pawn in the game, and now he wondered who were the big pieces this consummately skilful player had manoeuvred—Alf and Fred? But who, then, were Alf and Fred?

  He put the question. The Chief smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Didn’t they tell you? They might be men from your friend Blane’s regiment,” he said. “They are a very mixed lot, didn’t you say?”

  Purchas saw he had been indiscreet. Still, one other question he risked. He would risk it though he now knew he had been sent to Bumali to draw suspicion on himself while the real experts did the job.

  “I should like it, sir,” he said humbly, “if you could suggest how the trick was actually done.”

  The Chief’s eyes twinkled with approbation.

  “Mr. Purchas,” he said, “I’ll tell you all about it. I once was waiting for my wife—we were newly married then—outside a draper’s shop in Oxford Street. The window was full of trumpery knick-knacks, and some were hanging against the glass. While I stood there a lady and a little girl came up, and the little girl straightway fell in love with a string of coral beads which hung on a line in the very front of the window. They went inside and I waited, curious to see how on earth the coral beads could be reached, wondering how much stuff would have to be taken out to get even near those beads. Well, it was very simple. The shopman had a pair of pincers at the end of two long, thin bamboo poles.

  “Had that instrument been enclosed in a long sleeve, and if only the pincers had had a glove—say a soldier’s white cotton glove—on them, you might have thought it was two deft fingers at the end of a very long arm, so neatly were those coral beads removed. A very trivial thing to remember so long, you say to yourself, perhaps? Ah well, you never know, you never know.”

  THE CASE OF THE DIXON TORPEDO

  ARTHUR MORRISON

  ESPIONAGE AND COUNTERESPIONAGE stories were extremely uncommon in the Victorian era. Although spies existed from the beginning of nation-states and before, it was seldom openly acknowledged. It wasn’t until William Le Queux pressed the British government to create a secret service soon after the turn of the nineteenth century that it became officially acceptable for a nation to engage in spying. Famously, one British government official was reluctant to enter this arena, stating that a gentleman doesn’t read someone else’s mail.

  Most early spy stories were really detective stories in which governments’ secrets were pilfered, rather than money or jewels. After the staggering success enjoyed by Arthur Conan Doyle with his Sherlock Holmes series, other authors, undoubtedly pressed by publishers who hoped to cash in on the new phenomenon of detective adventures, produced a deluge of novels and short stories whose protagonists followed in the footsteps of Holmes. The most successful was Arthur Morrison’s (1863–1945) Martin Hewitt, who made his debut in Martin Hewitt: Investigator (1894), followed by two more short story collections and a novel, The Red Triangle (1903).

  Like Doyle, Morrison had little interest in, or affection for, his detective, convinced that his atmospheric tales of the London slums were far more significant. He may have been right, as they sold well in their time, show greater vitality, and are said to have been instrumental in initiating many important social reforms, particularly with regard to housing.

  In addition to his naturalistic novels of crime and poverty in London’s East End and the exploits of Hewitt, Morrison wrote other books connected to the mystery genre, including Cunning Murrell (1900), a fictionalized account of a witch doctor’s activities in early nineteenth-century rural Essex; The Hole in the Wall (1902), a story of murder in a London slum; and The Dorrington Deed-Box (1897), a collection of stories about the unscrupulous Horace Dorrington, a con man and thief who occasionally earns his money honestly—by working as a private detective!

  The present story features Martin Hewitt, Morrison’s most significant contribution to the mystery genre, in which the detective engages in counterespionage activity—functioning as a private detective, of course.

  “The Case of the Dixon Torpedo” was originally published in Martin Hewitt, Investigator (London, Ward, Lock & Bowden, 1894).

  THE CASE OF THE DIXON TORPEDO

  ARTHUR MORRISON

  HEWITT WAS VERY APT, in conversation, to dwell upon the many curious chances and coincidences that he had observed, not only in connection with his own cases, but also in matters dealt with by the official police, with whom he was on terms of pretty regular, and, indeed, friendly, acquaintanceship. He has told me many an anecdote of singular happenings to Scotland Yard officials with whom he has exchanged experiences. Of Inspector Nettings, for instance, who spent many weary months in a search for a man wanted by the American Government, and in the end found, by the merest accident (a misdirected call), that the man had been lodging next door to himself the whole of the time; just as ignorant, of course, as was the inspector himself as to the enemy at the other side of the party-wall. Also of another inspector, whose name I can not recall, who, having been given rather meager and insufficient details of a man whom he anticipated having great difficulty in finding, went straight down the stairs of the office where he had received instructions, and actually fell over the man near the door, where he had stooped down to tie his shoe-lace! There were cases, too, in which, when a great and notorious crime had been committed, and various persons had been arrested on suspicion, some were found among them who had long been badly wanted for some other crime altogether. Many criminals had met their deserts by venturing out of their own particular line of crime into another; often a man who got into trouble over something comparatively small found himself in for a startlingly larger trouble, the result of some previous misdeed that otherwise would have gone unpunished. The ruble note-forger Mirsky might never have been handed over to the Russian authorities had he confined his genius to forgery alone. It was generally supposed at the time of his extradition that he had communicated with the Russian Embassy, with a view to giving himsel
f up—a foolish proceeding on his part, it would seem, since his whereabouts, indeed even his identity as the forger, had not been suspected. He had communicated with the Russian Embassy, it is true, but for quite a different purpose, as Martin Hewitt well understood at the time. What that purpose was is now for the first time published.

  The time was half-past one in the afternoon, and Hewitt sat in his inner office examining and comparing the handwriting of two letters by the aid of a large lens. He put down the lens and glanced at the clock on the mantel-piece with a premonition of lunch; and as he did so his clerk quietly entered the room with one of those printed slips which were kept for the announcement of unknown visitors. It was filled up in a hasty and almost illegible hand, thus:

  Name of visitor: F. Graham Dixon.

  Address: Chancery Lane.

  Business: Private and urgent.

  “Show Mr. Dixon in,” said Martin Hewitt.

  Mr. Dixon was a gaunt, worn-looking man of fifty or so, well, although rather carelessly, dressed, and carrying in his strong, though drawn, face and dullish eyes the look that characterizes the life-long strenuous brain-worker. He leaned forward anxiously in the chair which Hewitt offered him, and told his story with a great deal of very natural agitation.

  “You may possibly have heard, Mr. Hewitt—I know there are rumors—of the new locomotive torpedo which the government is about adopting; it is, in fact, the Dixon torpedo, my own invention, and in every respect—not merely in my own opinion, but in that of the government experts—by far the most efficient and certain yet produced. It will travel at least four hundred yards farther than any torpedo now made, with perfect accuracy of aim (a very great desideratum, let me tell you), and will carry an unprecedentedly heavy charge. There are other advantages—speed, simple discharge, and so forth—that I needn’t bother you about. The machine is the result of many years of work and disappointment, and its design has only been arrived at by a careful balancing of principles and means, which are expressed on the only four existing sets of drawings. The whole thing, I need hardly tell you, is a profound secret, and you may judge of my present state of mind when I tell you that one set of drawings has been stolen.”