Such, alas! was the British Intelligence Department an organisation laughed at by the Secret Services of each of our Allies.
The folly of it all was really pathetic.
Jack Sainsbury knew much of this. He had, indeed, been, through Dr Jerome Jerrold, a friend of his, behind the scenes. Like all the world, he had read the optimistic, hide-the-truth newspapers. Often he had smiled in disbelief. Yet, on that afternoon, his worst fears had in a single instant been confirmed. He knew the volcano upon the edge of which Great Britain was seated.
What should he do? How should he act?
In the narrow booking-office of Swiss Cottage station he stood for a moment, hesitating to take his ticket.
Of a sudden an idea crossed his mind. He knew a certain man his intimate friend. Could he help him? Dare he reveal his suspicions without being laughed at for his pains?
Yes. He would risk being derided, because the safety of the Empire was now at stake.
After all, he Jack Sainsbury was a well-bred Briton, without a strain of the hated Teutonic blood in his veins.
He would speak the truth, and expose that man who was so cleverly luring the Empire to its doom.
He passed before the little pigeonhole of the booking-office and took his ticket an action which was destined to have a greater bearing upon our national defence than any person even with knowledge of the facts could ever dream.
Chapter Three.
The House in Wimpole Street
Just before eleven oclock that night Jack Sainsbury stopped at a large, rather severe house half-way up Wimpole Street a house the door of which could be seen in the daytime to be painted a royal blue, thus distinguishing it from its rather dingy green-painted neighbours.
In response to his ring at the visitors bell, a tall, middle-aged, round-faced manservant opened the door.
Is Dr Jerrold in? Jack inquired.
Yes, sir, was the mans quick reply; and then, as Sainsbury entered, he added politely: Nice evening, sir.
Very, responded the visitor, laying-down his hat and stick and taking off his overcoat in the wide, old-fashioned hall.
Dr Jerome Jerrold, though still a young man, was a consulting physician of considerable eminence, and, in addition, was Jacks most intimate friend. Their fathers had been friends, living in the same remote country village, and, in consequence, ever since his boyhood he had known the doctor.
Jack was a frequent visitor at the doctors house, Jerrold always being at home to him whenever he called. The place was big and solidly furnished, a gloomy abode for a bachelor without any thought of marrying. It had belonged to Jerrolds aunt, who had left it to him by her will, together with a comfortable income; hence her nephew had found it, situated as it was in the centre of the medical quarter of London, a most convenient, if dull, place of abode.
On the ground floor was the usual depressing waiting-room, with its big round table littered with illustrated papers and magazines; behind it the consulting-room, with its businesslike writing-table whereon many a good mans death-warrant had been written in that open case-book its heavy leather-covered furniture, and its thick Turkey carpet, upon which the patient trod noiselessly.
Above, in the big room on the first floor, Jerome Jerrold had his cosy library for he was essentially a studious man, his literary mind having a bent for history, his History of the Cinquecento being one of the standard works upon that period. Indeed, while on the ground floor all was heavy, dull and gloomy, well in keeping with the dismal atmosphere which all the most famous West-End doctors seem to cultivate, yet, on the floor above, one passed instantly into far brighter, more pleasant and more artistic surroundings.
Without waiting for the servant, Thomasson, to conduct him upstairs, Jack Sainsbury ran lightly up, as was his habit, and tried the door of the doctors den, when, to his surprise, he found it locked.
He twisted the handle again, but it was certainly firmly fastened.
Jerome! he cried, tapping at the door. Can I come in? Its Jack!
But there was no reply. Sainsbury strained his ears at the door, but could detect no movement within.
A taxicab rushed past; then a moment later, when the sound had died away, he cried again
Jerome! Im here! I want to see you, old fellow. Open the door.
Still there was no answer.
Thomasson, standing at the foot of the wide, old-fashioned stairs, heard his masters visitor, and asked
Is the door locked, sir?
Yes, Jack shouted back.
Thats very strange? remarked the man. Ive let nobody in since Mr Trustram, of the Admiralty, went away about a quarter of an hour ago.
Has he been here? Jack asked. I met him here the other day. He struck me as being a rather surly man, and I didnt like him at all, declared Sainsbury, with his usual frankness.
Neither do I, sir, strictly between ourselves, replied Thomasson quite frankly. Hes been here quite a lot lately. His wife consulted the master about three months ago, and thats how they first met, I believe. But cant you get in?
No. Curious, isnt it?
Very. The doctor never locks his door in the usual way, Thomasson said, ascending the stairs with Sainsbury, and himself trying the handle.
He knocked loudly, asking
Are you in there, sir? But still no response was given.
I cant make this out, Mr Sainsbury, exclaimed the man, turning to him with anxiety on his pale face. The keys in the lock on the inside too! He must be inside, and hes locked himself in. Why, I wonder?
Jack Sainsbury bent and put his eye to the keyhole. The room within was lit, for he could see the well-filled bookcase straight before him, and an empty chair was plainly visible.
Instantly he listened, for he thought in the silence at that moment there being an absence of traffic out in the street that he heard a slight sound, as though of a low, metallic click.
Again he listened, holding his breath. He was not mistaken. A slight but quite distinct sharp click could be heard, as though a piece of metal had struck the window-pane. Once twice it was repeated, afterwards a long-drawn sigh.
Then he heard no more.
Open the door, Jerrold! he cried impatiently. Dont play the fool. Whats the matter, old chap?
Funny very funny isnt it! Thomasson exclaimed, his brows knit in mystification.
Most curious, declared Sainsbury, now thoroughly anxious. How long was Mr Trustram here?
He dined out with the doctor at Princes, I think and they came back together about half-past nine. While Mr Trustram was here he was on the telephone twice or three times. Once he was rung up by Mr Lewin Rodwell.
Mr Lewin Rodwell! echoed Sainsbury. Did you happen to hear anything of their conversation?
Well, not much, sir, was the servants discreet reply. I answered the phone at first, and it was Mr Rodwell speaking. He told me who he was, and then asked if Mr Trustram was with the doctor. I said he was, and at once went and called him.
Did Mr Trustram appear to be on friendly terms with Mr Rodwell? asked the young man eagerly.
Oh! quite. I heard Mr Trustram laughing over the phone, and saying All right yes, I quite understand. Its awfully good of you to make the suggestion. I think it excellent. Ill propose it to-morrow yes, at the club to-morrow at four.
Did Mr Trustram appear to be on friendly terms with Mr Rodwell? asked the young man eagerly.
Oh! quite. I heard Mr Trustram laughing over the phone, and saying All right yes, I quite understand. Its awfully good of you to make the suggestion. I think it excellent. Ill propose it to-morrow yes, at the club to-morrow at four.
Suggestion? What suggestion had Lewin Rodwell made to that official of the Transport Department Lewin Rodwell, of all men!
Jack Sainsbury stood before that locked door, for the moment unable to think. He was utterly dumbfounded.
Those words he had heard in the boardroom in the City that afternoon had burned themselves deeply into his brain. Lewin Rodwell was, it seemed, a personal friend of Charles Trustram, the well-known and trusted official to whose push-and-go the nation had been so deeply indebted the man who had transported so many hundreds of thousands of our Expeditionary Force across the Channel, with all their guns, ammunition and equipment, without a single mishap. It was both curious and startling. What could it all mean?
Thomasson again hammered upon the stout old-fashioned door of polished mahogany.
Speak, sir! Do speak! he implored. Are you all right?
Still there was no reply.
He may have fainted! Jack suggested. Something may have happened to him!
I hope not, sir, replied the man very anxiously. Ill just run outside and see whether the window is open. If so, we might get a ladder.
The man dashed downstairs and out into the street, but a moment later he returned breathlessly, saying
No. Both windows are closed, just as I closed them at dusk. And the curtains are drawn; not a chink of light is showing through. All we can do, I fear, is to force the door.
You are quite sure hes in the room?
Positive, sir.
Did you see him after Mr Trustram left?
No, I didnt. I let Mr Trustram out, and as he wished me good-night he hailed a passing taxi, and then I went down and read the evening paper. I always have it after the doctors finished with it.
Well, Thomasson, what is to be done? asked Sainsbury, essentially a young man of action. We must get into this room and at once. I dont like the present aspect of things a bit.
Neither do I, sir. Below Ive got the jemmy we use for opening packing-cases. We may be able to force the door with that.
And once again the tall, thin, wiry man disappeared below. Jack Sainsbury did not see how the man, when he had disappeared into the basement, stood in the kitchen his face blanched to the lips and his thin hands trembling.
It was only at the moment when Thomasson was alone that his marvellous self-possession forsook him. On the floor above he remained cool, collected, anxious, and perfectly unruffled. Below, and alone, the cook and housemaid not having returned, they being out for a late evening at the theatre, a craven fear possessed him.
It would have been quite evident to the casual observer that the man, Thomasson, possessed some secret fear of what had occurred in the brief interval between Mr Trustrams departure and Sainsburys arrival. Tall and pale-faced, he stood in the big basement kitchen, with its rows of shining plated covers and plate-racks, motionless and statuesque: his head upon his breast, his teeth set, his cheeks as white as paper.
But only for a moment. A second later he drew a deep breath, nerved himself with a superhuman effort, and then, opening a cupboard, took out a steel tool with an axe-head at one end and a curved and pronged point at the other very much like a burglars jemmy. Such a tool was constructed for strong leverage, and, quite cool as before, he carried it up the two flights of stairs to where Jack stood before the locked door, eager and impatient.
Sainsbury, being the younger of the pair, took it, and inserting the flat chisel-like end into the slight crevice between the stout polished door and the lintel, worked it in with leverage, endeavouring to break the lock from its fastening.
This proved unsuccessful, for, after two or three attempts, the woodwork of the lintel suddenly splintered and gave way, leaving the door locked securely as before.
Time after time he tried, but with no other result than breaking away the lintel of the door.
What mystery might not be contained in that locked room?
His hands trembled with excitement and nervousness. Once he had thought of summoning the police by telephone, but such an action might, he thought, for certain reasons which he knew, annoy his friend the doctor, therefore he hesitated.
Probably Jerrold had fainted, and as soon as they could get at him he would recover and be quite right again. He knew how strenuously he had worked of late at Guys, in those wards filled with wounded soldiers. Only two days before, Jerrold had told him, in confidence, that he very much feared a nervous breakdown, and felt that he must get away and have a brief rest.
Because of that, Sainsbury believed that his friend had fainted after his hard day at the hospital, and that as soon as they could reach him all would be well.
But why had he locked the door of his den? For what reason had he desired privacy as soon as Trustram had left him?
Again and again both of them used the steel lever upon the door, until at last, taking it from Thomassons hands, Jack placed the bright curved prong half-way between the lock and the ground and, with a well-directed blow, he threw his whole weight upon it.
There was a sharp snap, a crackling of wood, the door suddenly flew back into the room, and the young man, carried by the impetus of his body, fell headlong forward upon the dark red carpet within.
Chapter Four.
His Dying Words
When Jack recovered himself he scrambled to his feet and gazed around.
The sight which met both their eyes caused them ejaculations of surprise, for, near the left-hand window, the heavy plush curtains of which were drawn, Dr Jerrold was lying, face downwards and motionless, his arms outstretched over his head.
Quite near lay his pet briar pipe, which had fallen suddenly from his mouth, showing that he had been in the act of smoking as, in crossing the room, he had been suddenly stricken.
Without a word, both Sainsbury and Thomasson fell upon their knees and lifted the prostrate form. The limbs were warm and limp, yet the white face, with the dropped jaw and the aimless, staring eyes, was horrible to behold.
Surely hes not dead, sir! gasped the manservant anxiously, in an awed voice.
I hope not, was Sainsburys reply. If so, theres a mystery here that we must solve. Then, bending to him, he shook him slightly and cried, Jerome! Jerome! Speak to me. Jack Sainsbury!
Ill get some water, suggested Thomasson, and, springing up, he crossed the room to where, upon a side-table, stood a great crystal bowl full of flowers. These he cast aside, and, carrying the bowl across, dashed water into his masters face.
Sainsbury, who had the doctors head raised upon his knee, shook him and repeated his appeal, yet the combined efforts of the pair failed to arouse the prostrate man.
What can have happened? queried Jack, gazing into the wide-open, staring eyes of his friend, as he pulled his limp body towards him and examined his hands.
Its a mystery, sir aint it? remarked Thomasson.
One thing is certain that the attack was very sudden. Look at his pipe! Its still warm. He was smoking when, of a sudden, he must have collapsed.
Ill ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. Hes the doctors greatest friend, suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery.