CHAPTER XVIII

THE CHAMOIS LEATHER PACKET

Three times in the course of the ensuing week the Chief’s life was attempted. There is reason to believe, Desmond Okewood says, that, previously to this, other attempts had been made; but he has certain knowledge only of these three plots. No word of the outrages passed the inmost circle of the Service represented by the Chief himself and Collins, his confidential clerk, and Desmond learned of them only when, visiting headquarters one day, he observed that liftman, doormen, messengers, and clerks had all been changed.

“Some one tampered with the lock of the gate of the lift which works automatically after hours,” the Chief explained reluctantly when Desmond tackled him, “and, but for a certain instinctive caution that has served me well before now, I should have taken a drop of six floors. Somebody inside did it, so I made a clean sweep of the office staff with the exception of Collins!”

But it was not until months afterwards that Desmond heard of the youth who, caught lurking in the area of the Chief’s London house, was found to be carrying a hypodermic needle filled with prussic acid, and of the endeavour to derail the train by which the Chief was travelling to a conference in the north.

But when, one spring morning, the Chief arrived by car at Desmond Okewood’s Surrey bungalow, Desmond saw at once by his face that the strain was beginning to tell. The steady grey eyes were as keen as ever and the mouth had lost nothing of its firmness; but there was a set air of restraint about the big man which did not deceive Desmond.

They breakfasted together and, the meal done, the Chief proposed a walk in the garden.

“We can talk better in the open air,” he remarked as he filled his pipe.

It was an old garden whose high red walls, now clothed with the blossom of peach and apple, were a guarantee against eavesdroppers. For a spell they strolled in silence along the paths bordering the beds bright with spring flowers, the busy clamour of thrush and blackbird the only sound.

“Two days will see us through now,” the Chief remarked suddenly. “Bliss has reached Berlin with the jewels, Okewood. He has had the most express injunctions to hand them over there to a trustworthy messenger of his choosing, for he himself, unless I am greatly mistaken, is by this time a marked man. The messenger will immediately convey the jewels to Brussels where you will take charge of them. A plane will be waiting for you at the Brussels aerodrome, you will fly straight back to Croydon where a car will be in readiness day or night to take you to the Bank of England. There you will hand the jewels over to the Governor against his receipt. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly!”

“To prevent leakage I forbade Bliss throughout his trip to communicate with me at all. I, however, have been able to send him instructions from time to time. His messenger was due to leave Berlin last night, and will report to you to-morrow evening at Box A at the Flora Theatre—it’s a music-hall—in Brussels!”

Desmond nodded. “Who is it?”

“Bliss had no means of telling me. But I have arranged a recognition signal. The messenger will ask you the question: ‘Do you know the Albany?’ to which you will reply: ‘From the Mansion to Vigo Street!’ On that answer, and on that answer only, the jewels will be handed over. Have you got that?”

Desmond repeated question and answer.

“It sounds idiotic,” said the Chief apologetically, “but I had to improvise something on the spot.”

“And when do I leave?” Desmond asked.

“By the morning train from Victoria to-morrow. You will be in Brussels by four in the afternoon. A red Minerva car will meet you at the station and will be at your disposal for the whole of your stay. Just say to the driver ‘Albany’ and he will obey your orders. He will take you to the theatre and afterwards drive you out to the aerodrome to the machine that we have ordered for you. I honestly believe that nothing can go wrong, for the details I have given to you were sent sealed by air to Bliss in Berlin, and I have word that Bliss has received them. Our plan is, therefore, known only to myself, Bliss, and you . . .”

“And the messenger . . .” Desmond put in.

“Quite so. But you can trust Bliss to have picked a reliable person. He is, without exception, the most suspicious-minded cove I’ve ever come across . . . Hallo, what’s this?”

A maid came hurrying up the garden path.

“The gentleman is wanted on the telephone, please, sir,” she said to Desmond.

They went into the house, where Desmond, discreetly, left the Chief at the telephone in the study. He returned to find the Chief staring moodily out of the window in an attitude of abstraction most unusual for him. On the sound of Desmond’s entrance he turned round.

“Bliss was found dead in his hotel in Berlin with his throat cut this morning,” he said. “A remarkable man, your friend Clubfoot!” he added.

Desmond whistled. Then, with a shade of anxiety in his voice, he added: “I hope you’ll be cautious for a bit, sir!”

The Chief laughed dryly. “The warning applies to you with stronger force, young fellow,” he retorted. “Bliss’s messenger left Berlin for Brussels last night _with the packet_, as the message puts it. If only he isn’t followed! . . .”

“If only he isn’t followed! . . .” The Chief’s phrase accompanied Desmond across the North Sea. The wheels of the Pullman hammered it out as the boat train bore him swiftly to the Channel shores, and it resounded in the rhythmic thudding of the waves against the sides of the Ostend packet. He had a mental picture of the unknown messenger being whirled across Germany, even as he was speeding over land and sea, towards that enigmatical point of contact, Box A, at the Flora Theatre in Brussels.

“If only he isn’t followed! . . .” The phrase recurred to Desmond as the Brussels train pulled out of Ostend’s shabby station. Had they really eluded the long grasp of the man of might and mystery? If not, at what stage would he intervene? Would he interpose his massy bulk between the two emissaries speeding towards one another to meet? Or would he let contact be established and, once made, break it? . . .

It was satisfactory to know, at any rate, Desmond reflected, that, so far as his experienced eye could detect, he had not been shadowed since leaving London. That he could set his mind similarly at rest about the man he was to meet! In the square outside the Brussels terminus the red Minerva car was waiting, and its driver, a button-nosed cockney with a surprising bilingual gift, showed his recognition of the password by the cheeriest of smiles.

Desmond drove to the Flora at once, though it was only four o’clock. To his great satisfaction, for he wished to make a reconnaissance, he found that a matinée was in progress. He was not in the theatre for more than twenty minutes, and he spent the remainder of the afternoon on the field of Waterloo. Visits to La Haye Sainte and Hougomont and the attempt to snatch from their rather mournful atmosphere something of that mighty clash of arms effectively took his thoughts off the work before him.

In reality, however, he was looking forward with the keenest relish to the surprises of the evening. He dined well but wisely at the “Filet de Bœuf,” and the half-pint of champagne, which was his modest allowance, seemed to quicken in him that lurking delight in adventure which had first drawn him towards the Secret Service.

The evening performance at the Flora was billed to begin at nine o’clock, but when towards that hour, the ouvreuse showed Desmond into Box A, the house was not half full. Comfortable-looking bourgeoisie with their wives and often their children, mugs of beer on the ledge before them, formed the bulk of the audience, and Desmond, whose thoughts were with the auditorium rather than the stage, found some amusement in observing them.

The performance had been proceeding for about half an hour and a troupe of comic acrobats were giving their turn when behind him he heard the door of the box open. He felt a thrill—the Unknown had arrived. He heard the wheezy voice of the ouvreuse: “Voici, Madame! Merci, Madame!” the door swung to with a click and, as he turned, Desmond found himself facing a girl.

She was in evening dress, which, after the fashion of women at theatres on the Continent, she was wearing with a large black hat. Petite and dainty, from the nape of her neck almost to her feet she was swathed in a long Spanish shawl, white, on which huge crimson flowers were embroidered, with a deep silken fringe.

“Madame, je regrette . . .”

Desmond stood up. The girl’s arrival was most untimely. At any moment now the messenger might appear. Seemingly, she had mistaken the box. Yet the grim old ouvreuse had let her in. She was a pretty girl, about twenty-five, he judged, and her dark eyes, with their curling lashes, the smooth curve of her cheek, were admirable.

The band was playing an interminable quick-step, to which the tumblers performed their tricks and contortions. The girl did not advance into the box, but remained in the half-light at the back.

“I demand a thousand pardons, Monsieur,” she murmured in French from the back of the box. “I was to have met some . . . friends who have not yet arrived. If I might remain a little at the back of the box. It is impossible to wait in the promenade!”

“Je vous en prie, Madame!” said Desmond politely, and advanced to the front of the box to fetch a chair. But the next moment he had stepped swiftly back from the red velvet ramp and remained rooted where he stood, staring, staring . . .

In the opposite box, with a party of men, Clubfoot was seated. He occupied the place of honour in the centre of the box, big, burly, and determined. With an opera-glass he was slowly sweeping the stalls.

“Damnation!” Desmond swore aloud. He had forgotten all about the girl behind him. Clubfoot had forestalled the messenger, then, and had come to see the transfer effected. It was ten o’clock already. What _had_ happened to Bliss’s man? . . .

“You are an Englishman, aren’t you?” The girl’s voice, the voice of an educated Englishwoman, broke in upon his meditation. He swung round. “I beg your pardon for swearing just now,” he answered in English. “I’m afraid I forgot about you!” He cast a swift glance at the box opposite.

The girl laughed. “You speak French so well that I should never have taken you for an Englishman,” she said.

“And, apart from your accent, I was convinced from your appearance that you were a Parisian,” retorted Desmond gallantly. He kept back in the shadow as much as possible.

Few women are proof against compliments on their good taste. The girl flushed with appreciation.

“Are you from London?” she asked.

Desmond looked at her quickly. An incredible suspicion had dawned upon him. What if Bliss’s messenger were a woman? There was no reason why it should not be. Nothing had been said about the messenger being a man.

“Yes,” he answered tensely.

The girl was at the mirror on the side of the box arranging her hat.

“_Do you know the Albany?_” she said.

The question was uttered casually. Like a flash the reply came back: “_From the Mansion to Vigo Street!_”

The girl whipped round, one hand beneath her enveloping shawl.

“Thank God!” she whispered. “Quick! Take them!”

“Be careful!”

Desmond gripped her hand and drew her back into the dim recesses of the box. He could see that Clubfoot, facing them across the auditorium, now had his glasses focussed in their direction.

“They’re watching us,” the young man whispered to the girl. “Pass them to me behind your back!”

A heavy packet, wrapped in soft chamois leather, about the size of a cigar-box, was thrust into his outstretched hand. It was too large for any pocket of his suit, so Desmond slipped it into the pocket of his grey tweed overcoat, which he carried on his arm.

“I was . . . _scared_!” the girl murmured. “Bliss told me that an Englishman would meet me, and I thought, when I saw you, that I had got into the wrong box. I didn’t dare go out into the promenade again on account of the man outside . . .”

“You were followed here?”

The girl nodded. “All the way from Berlin. I thought I had given him the slip at the station here, but, if I did, he evidently picked up my trail again.”

“What’s he like, this man who shadowed you?”

“A young man, slim and fair. He has a long white scar on his face and . . .”

“H-sst!”

Desmond pressed her arm. The handle of the box door was being slowly turned. They drew back behind the door as it opened. Then in the mirror hanging on the velvet tapestry of the opposite wall Desmond saw a face, bloodless and crafty, barred with a livid cicatrice, the face of Heinrich, Clubfoot’s aide. He, on his side, must have seen Desmond mirrored in the glass, for he gasped audibly. The face disappeared.

“He’s gone to warn the others!” Desmond whispered. He glanced across the house. “And Clubfoot’s left his box. If only this turn would finish! They wouldn’t dare to attack us when the lights are up . . .”

But the tumblers were the star turn, the top of the bill. With shrill cries, to the lilt of that never-ending quick-step, they bounced and whirled across the stage, working up to their grand climax.

Desmond turned to the girl. “Are you game for a dash?” he demanded.

He plucked the door wide. The corridor was deserted. Behind them, as they stepped quickly outside, the theatre now rang with the applause that marked the fall of the curtain. Desmond, the girl behind him, darted softly down a staircase marked “Sortie d’Incendie” in red lights, that stood almost opposite the box door. They descended unmolested and Desmond congratulated himself on his forethought in having made that preliminary reconnaissance as he pushed outwards the emergency door at the foot of the flight.

In the street without, by the side of the theatre, the red Minerva waited. Desmond thrust the girl inside, sprang in after her, the self-starter whirred, the engine throbbed, and they glided out into the broad and brightly lighted avenues of Brussels.