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Title: The Romance of the Secret Service Fund:
The Mazaroff Rifle
Author: Fred Merrick White
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0600481h.html
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Language: English
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Date first posted: April 2006
Date most recently updated: January 2012
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"These are not mine," he declared. "I never saw them before."
There were some score or more sheets fastened together with a brass stud.
The sheets were typed, the letter-press was in the form of a dialogue. In fact
the whole formed a play-part from some comedy or drama.
"This is a most important discovery," Moore observed. "Our friend must have
been studying this on his way along and forgot it finally. We know now what I
have suspected all along—that the man who impersonated you was by
profession an actor. That is something gained."
Mazaroff caught a little of his companion's excitement.
"You can go farther," he cried. "You can find who this belongs to."
"Precisely what I am going to do," said Moore. "It is a fair inference that
our man is playing in a new comedy or is taking the part of somebody else at
short notice, or he could not have been learning this up in the cab. I have a
friend who is an inveterate theatre-goer, a man who has a pecuniary interest in
a number of playhouses, and I am in hopes that he may be able to locate this
part for me. I'll see him at once."
Moore drove away without further delay to Ebury Street, where dwelt the
Honourable Jimmy Manningtree, an old young man with a strong taste for the
drama, and a good notion of getting value for the money he was fond of
investing therein. He was an apple-faced individual with a keen eye and a
marvellous memory for everything connected with the stage.
"Bet you I'll fit that dialogue to the play like a shot," he said when Moore
had explained his errand. "Have some breakfast?"
Moore declined. Until he had identified his man, food was a physical
impossibility. Hungry as he was he felt that the first mouthful would choke
him. He took up a cigarette and lay back in a chair whilst Manningtree pondered
over the type-written sheets before him.
"Told you I'd name the lady," he cried presently. "I don't propose to
identify and give the precise name of the character, because you'll be able to
do that for yourself by following the play carefully."
"But what is the name of the play? "Moore asked impatiently.
"It is called 'Noughts and Crosses,' one of the most popular comedies we
have ever run at the Thespian. If you weren't so buried in your stories and
your medicine mysteries at the War Office, you might have seen all about it in
last Monday's papers. Go and see the show—I'll give you a box."
"Then the play was produced for the first time on Saturday night," Moore was
panting and eager on the scent at last. "Also, from what you say, the Thespian
is one of the theatres you are interested in?"
Manningtree executed a wink of amazing slyness. The Honourable Jimmy was no
mean comedian himself.
"I believe you, my boy," he said. "I've got ten thousand locked up there,
and I shall get it back three times over out of 'Noughts and Crosses.' If you
like to have a box to-night you can.''
"You're very kind," Moore replied. He laid his hands across his knees to
steady them. "And, as much always wants more, I shall be greatly obliged if you
will give me the run of the theatre. In other words, can I come behind?"
"Well, I don't encourage that kind of thing as a rule," Manningtree replied,
"but as I know you have some strong reason for the request, I'll make an
exception in your favour. I don't run my show for marbles, dear boy. I shall be
at the Thespian at ten, and then, if you send round your card, the thing is
done. Only I should like to know what you are driving at."
Moore smiled quietly.
"I dare say you would," he said. "Later on perhaps. For the present my lips
are sealed. No breakfast, thanks—I couldn't swallow a mouthful. Only
don't fail me tonight as you love your country."
* * * * *
A BRILLIANT audience filled the Thespian. The stalls were one flash of
colour and glitter of gems. The comedy was lively and sparkling, there was a
strong story on which the jewels were threaded.
From the corner of his box Moore followed the progress of the play.
The first act was nearing its close. There were two characters in the caste
still unaccounted for, and one of these must of necessity be the man Moore was
after. The crux of the act was approaching. A thin, dark man stood on the
stage. In style and carriage he had a marked resemblance to Mazaroff. He came
to the centre of the stage and laid a hand on the shoulder of the high comedy
man there.
"And where do I come in?" he asked gently.
It was a quotation, the first line of the play-part spread out on the ledge
of the box before Moore. He gave a gasp. He saw a chance here that he
determined to take. As the curtain fell on the second act he sent round his
card. A little later and he was in Manningtree's private room.
"Who is the man playing the part of Paul Gilroy?" he asked.
"Oh, come," Manningtree protested. "You're not going to deprive me of
Hermann. He has made the piece."
"I am going to do nothing of the kind," Moore replied. "We don't make public
anything we can possibly keep to ourselves. Only Hermann has some information I
require, and there is only one way of getting it. Tell me all you know about
that man."
"Well, in the first place, he is a German with an American mother. He seems
to have been everything, from a police spy up to a University Fellow. He speaks
four or five languages fluently. A shady sort of a chap, but a brilliant actor,
as you are bound to admit. Wait till you see him in the last act."
"He has all what you call the 'fat,' I presume?"
"He is on the stage the whole time. Five-and-twenty minutes the act plays.
Take my advice and don't miss a word of it."
"I am afraid I shall miss it all," Moore replied in a dropping voice. "I am
afraid that I shall be compelled to wander into Mr. Hermann's dressing-room by
mistake. In an absent-minded kind of way I may also go through his pockets.
Don't protest, there's a good fellow. You know me sufficiently well to be
certain that I am acting in high interests. Say nothing, but merely let me know
which is my man's dressing-room."
"You're a rum chap," Manningtree grumbled, "but you always manage to get
your own way. You are running a grave risk, but you will have to take the
consequences. If you are caught I cannot save you."
"I won't ask you to," Moore replied.
Manningtree indicated the room and strolled away. The room was empty.
Hermann's dresser had disappeared, knowing probably that his services would not
be required for the next half-hour. There was a quick tinkle of the bell, and
the curtain drew up on the last act. Moore from his dim corner heard Hermann
"called," and the coast was clear at last.
Just for a moment Moore hesitated. He had literally to force himself
forward, but once the door had closed behind him his courage returned.
Hermann's ordinary clothing first. It hung up on the door. For some time
Moore could find nothing of the least value, to him at any rate. He came at
length to a pocket-book, which he opened without ceremony. There were papers
and private letters, but nothing calculated to give a clue. In one of the flaps
of the pocket a card, an ordinary visiting-card, had been stuck. It bore the
name of Emile Nobel.
Moore fairly danced across the floor. He hustled the pocket-book back in its
place and flashed out of the room. Nobody was near, nobody heard his chuckle.
The whole atmosphere trembled with applause, applause that Moore in his strange
way took to himself. He had solved the problem.
The name on the card was one perfectly well known to him. Every tyro in the
employ of the Secret Service Fund had heard of Emile Nobel. For he was perhaps
the chief rascal in the Rogues' Gallery of Europe. Newton Moore knew him both
by name and by sight.
Stolen dispatches, purloined plans, nothing came amiss to the great, gross
German, who seemed to have been at the bottom of half the mischief which it was
the business of the Secret Service to set right. Moore had never come in actual
contact with Nobel before, but he felt pretty sure that he was going to do so
on this occasion. He was dealing with a clever coward, a man stone deaf,
strange to say, but a man of infinite resources and cunning. Added to all this,
Nobel was a chemist of great repute. The Secret Service heard vague legends of
mysterious murders done by Nobel, all strictly in the way of business. And
Nobel had this gun—Moore felt certain of that. Hermann had accomplished
the theft, doubtless for a substantial pecuniary consideration. Nobel must be
found.
Moore saw his way clearly directly. It was a mere game of chance. If Hermann
really knew Nobel—and the possession of the latter's visiting-card seemed
to prove it—the thing might be easily accomplished. If not, then no harm
would be done.
Moore made his way rapidly past the dark little box by the stage-door into
the street. Then he whistled softly. A figure emerged from the gloom of the
court.
"You called me, sir," a voice whispered.
"I did, Joseph," Moore replied. "One little thing and you can retire for
to-night. Take this card. In a few minutes you are to present it—as your
own, mind— to the keeper of the stage-door yonder. Take care that the
door-keeper does not see your face, and address him in fair English with a
strong German accent. You will ask to see Mr. Hermann, and the stage-door
keeper will inform you that you cannot see him for some time. You are to say
that you are stone deaf, and get him to write what he says on paper. Then you
leave your card for Mr. Hermann saying that you must see him on most important
business to-night. Will he be good enough to come round and see you? That is
all, Joseph."
Then Moore slipped back into the theatre. He had the satisfaction of hearing
the message given, and his instructions carried out without a hitch. And a
little later on he had the further satisfaction of hearing the stage-door
keeper carry out Joseph's instructions as far as Hermann was concerned. Had
Nobel's address been on the card all this would have been superfluous. As the
address was missing, the little scheme was absolutely necessary.
There was just a chance, of course, that Hermann might deny all knowledge of
Moore's prospective quarry, not that Moore had much fear of this, after the
episode of the borrowed cloak and the play-part. Hermann stood flushed and
smiling as he received the compliments of fellow comedians. Moore watched him
keenly as the stage-door keeper delivered the card and the message.
"Most extraordinary," Hermann muttered. "You say that Mr. Nobel was here
himself. What was he like? "
"Big gentleman, sir, strong foreign accent and deaf as a post."
Hermann looked relieved, but the puzzled expression was still on his
face.
"All right, Blotton," he said. "Send somebody out to call a cab for me in
ten minutes. Sorry I can't come and sup with you fellows as arranged. A matter
of business has suddenly cropped up."
Moore left the theatre without further delay. His little scheme had worked
like a charm. All lay clear before him now. Hermann had important business with
Nobel, he knew where the latter was staying, he was going unceremoniously to
conduct Moore to his abode. And where Nobel was at present there was the
Mazaroff rifle. There could be no doubt about that now. Naturally the upshot of
all this would be that both the conspirators would discover that someone was on
the trail, but Moore could see no way of getting the desired information
without alarming the enemy. Once he knew where to look for the thimble he felt
that the search would be easy. Also he was prepared for a bold and audacious
stroke if necessary.
With his vivid and delicate fancy, it was only the terrors conjured up by
his own marvellous imagination that terrified him. He was one bundle of
quivering nerves, and the power of the cigarettes he practically lived on
jangled the machine more terribly out of tune.
But there was a sense of exultation now; the mad, feline courage Moore
always felt when his clear, shrewd brain was shaping to success. At moments
like these he was capable of the most amazing courage. He had a presentiment
that success lay broadly before him.
A cab crawled along the dingy street at the mouth of the court, leading to
the stage-door of the Thespian. Moore hailed it and got in.
"Don't move till I give you the signal," said he, "and keep the trap
open."
The cabman grinned and chuckled. This was evidently going to be one of the
class of fares that London's gondoliers dream of but so seldom see. Presently
the cab bearing Hermann away shot past.
"Follow that," Moore cried, "and when the gentleman gets out slacken speed,
but on no account stop. I will drop out of the cab when it is still moving.
There is a sovereign for you in any case, and there is my card in case I should
have a very long journey. Now push her along."
Itwas a long journey. Neither cab boasted horse-flesh of high
calibre, and after a time the pursuit dawdled down to a funeral procession.
Near the flagstaff at Hampstead Heath the first cab stopped and Hermann
descended. Moore's cab trotted by, but Moore was no longer inside. If Hermann
had any suspicion of being followed, it was allayed by this neat stroke of
Moore's.
Hermann hurried forward, walking for half an hour until he came to a long
new road at the foot of the hill between Cricklewood and Hampstead. Only one of
the fairly large houses there seemed to be inhabited, the rest were in the last
stages of completion. The opposite side of the road was an open field.
The houses were double-fronted ones with a large porch and entrance hall,
and a long strip of lawn in front. Hermann paused before the house which
appeared to be inhabited, and passing up the path opened the front door and
entered, closing the big door behind him. In the room on the left-hand side of
the hall a brilliant light gleamed, but no glimmer showed in the hall itself.
Beyond a doubt Emile Nobel was here.
Moore followed cautiously along the drive. He softly tried the front door,
only to find the key had been turned in the lock.
"They are alarmed," he muttered; "the covey has been disturbed. By this time
Nobel and Hermann know that they have been hoaxed. Also they will have a pretty
good idea why. If I am any judge of character, audacity more than pluck is
Hermann's strong point. He will leave Nobel in the lurch as soon as possible.
If I could only hear what is going on! But that is impossible."
Moore could hear nothing beyond the murmur of Nobel's heavy voice, Hermann
of course responding with signals. For a long time this continued.
Meanwhile Moore was not altogether idle. He had marked Hermann's unsteady
eye and the weakness of his mouth. He sized him up as a man who would have
scant consideration for others where his own personal safety was concerned.
"Anyway I'm going on that line," Moore muttered. "If Hermann discovers that
he has been hoaxed without betraying his knowledge to Nobel, he will be certain
to say nothing to him, but will as certainly abandon him to his fate. Nobel's
deafness will be an important factor in this direction. Hermann's walking into
the house as he did seems to indicate the absence of servants here. That will
be in my favour later on. Doubtless Nobel has taken this house as a
blind—much safer than rooms in London, anyway. There is probably little
or no furniture here, so that Nobel can slip off at any time. And now to see if
I can find some way of getting into the house."
Whilst Moore was working away steadily with a stiff clasp-knife at a loose
catch in one of the panes of the hall window, a conversation much on the lines
Moore had indicated was taking place inside.
The hall was comfortably furnished, as was also the one sitting-room, where
the brilliant light was burning. Over a table littered with plans and drawings
a ponderous German was bending. He had a huge head, practically bald, a great
red face, and cold blue eyes, and his mouth was the mouth of a shark. There was
no air of courage or resolution about him, but a suggestion of diabolical
cunning. A more brilliant rascal Europe could not boast.
Nobel looked up with a start as Hermann touched him.
"You frightened me," he said. "My nerfs are not as gombletely under gontrol
as they might be. Is anything wrong, my tear friendt?"
"Wrong? "Hermann cried. "Why, you sent for me."
Nobel shook his head, for he had not heard a word.
"I was goming to see you to-morrow," he said. "I should have come to-night,
but you were engaged at the theatre. Eh, what?"
Hermann turned away to light a cigarette. His hands shook and his knees
trembled under him. He had been hoaxed; in a flash he saw his danger before
him. Perhaps he had been tracked and followed here. And Nobel knew nothing of
it. He was not going to know, either, if his accomplice could help it.
"I came to warn you," he touched off on his fingers.
"Oh," Nobel cried, "there is tanger, then? You have heard something?"
Hermann proceeded to telegraph a negative reply. He had seen nothing
whatever; only the last few hours he had a strong suspicion of being followed.
He discreetly omitted to remark the absolute conviction that he had been
shadowed this evening. He had deemed it his solemn duty to come and warn Nobel,
seeing what compromising matter the latter had in his house.
"You are a goot boy," Nobel said, patting Hermann ponderously on the
shoulder. "By the morning I shall have gomitted all the plans of that weapon to
my brain. Then I will destroy him and the plans. After, I go to Paris, and you
shall hear from me there. Meanwhile there is branty and whiskey."
Hermann signalled that he would take nothing. It was of first importance
that he should return to London without delay. He had come down there at great
inconvenience to himself. As a matter of fact every sound in the empty house
set his nerves going like a set of cracked bells. Moore had only just time to
plunge into the darkness as the front door opened and Hermann came out. Moore
smiled grimly as he heard the lock turned, and saw Hermann hurrying away.
Things had fallen out exactly as he had anticipated. Hermann had told his
big confederate nothing. He meant to abandon him to his fate. Nobel was in the
house, where he meant to remain for the present. Hermann had given him no cause
for alarm.
It was going to be a case of man to man; brains and agility against cunning.
Doubtless Nobel was not unprepared for an attack. There would be nothing so
clumsy as mere fire-arms—there were other and more terrible weapons known
to the German, who was a chemist and a scientist of a high order.
But the thing had to be done and Moore meant to do it. There was no need for
silence. He worked away at the window catch, which presently flew back with a
click and the sash was opened. A moment later and Moore was in the hall. As he
dropped lightly to his feet it seemed to his quick ear that a deep suppressed
growl followed. There was darkness in the hall with just one shaft of light
crossing it from the room beyond, where Moore could distinctly see Nobel
bending over a table. The low growl was repeated. As Moore peered into the
darkness he saw two round spots of flaming angry orange, two balls of flame
close together near the floor. He gave a startled cry that rang in the house,
then paused as if half fearful of disturbing Nobel. But the latter never moved.
He would never hear again till the last trumpet sounded.
The flaming circles crept nearer to Moore. He did not dare to turn and fly.
He saw the gleaming eyes describe an arc, and then next moment he was on his
back on the floor, with the bulldog uppermost.
A fierce flash of two rows of gleaming teeth were followed by a stinging
blow on the temple, from which the blood flowed freely. Then the dog's grip met
in the thick, fleshy part of the shoulder. As the cruel saws gashed on Moore's
collar-bone he felt faint and sick with the pain.
But he uttered no further cry; he knew how useless it was. There was
something peculiarly horrible in the idea of lying there in sight of help and
yet being totally unable to invoke it.
Moore's hand went up to his tie slowly. From it he withdrew a diamond pin,
the shaft of which, as is not uncommon with valuable pins, being made of steel.
His hand thus armed, crept under the left forearm of the bulldog, until it
rested just over the strongly-beating heart. With a steady pressure Moore drove
the pin home to the head.
There was one convulsive snap on Moore's collarbone, then the teeth relaxed.
A shudder, a long-drawn sigh, and all was still. Some minutes passed before
Moore had strength to recover his feet, A queer, hysterical laugh escaped him
as he raised the carcase of the dog in his arms. A sudden strength possessed
him, a sudden madness held him. With the dog in his arms, he staggered into the
room where Nobel was so deeply engrossed, and flung the carcase with a crash
upon the table.
A frightened cry came from Nobel as he staggered back. His great red face
grew white and flabby, his blue eyes were filled with tears. He looked from the
carcase on the table to the slight man with the blood on his features. On the
table lay the object of Moore's search, the Mazaroff rifle.
"A ghost!" Nobel cried. "A ghost! Ah! what does it mean?"
Moore pointed to the rifle and the drawings on the table.
"Those," he signalled upon his fingers.
"I do not understand," he muttered.
"Not now," Moore replied. He was proficient with that code used by the deaf.
More than once he had proved its value. "But you hope to understand that rifle
before morning. I have come to take it away. You need not trouble to go into
explanations. I am perfectly aware how you and Hermann managed the thing
between you."
"My servants," Nobel muttered, "will—"
"You have no servants, you are quite alone in the house."
Nobel smiled in a peculiar manner, and, as if to disprove the statement,
laid a finger on the electric bell. At the same time he seemed to be caressing
his nostrils with a handkerchief. Moore was conscious of a faint, sweet smell
in the air, and the next minute a giddy feeling came over him. A terrible smile
danced in Nobel's eyes.
Some infernal juggling was at work here. Moore glanced towards the electric
bell. Then he saw that the white stud was no longer there— there was
nothing but a round hole, through which doubtless some deadly gas was pouring.
With a handkerchief held to his face, Moore snatched up the plans from the
table and crushed them into the heart of the fire. He gripped the Mazaroff
rifle by the barrel, and held it over Nobel's huge head. "You scoundrel," he
muttered, "you are trying to murder me. Open the windows, open the windows at
once, or I will beat your brains out."
Nobel, understood enough of this from Moore's threatening gesture to know
that he had been found out and what was required of him. With his huge, flabby
form trembling like a jelly, he pulled up the curtains and opened one of the
windows. It was close to the ground, the lawn coming up to the house. In a
sudden paroxysm of rage, Moore's left hand shot out, catching Nobel full on the
side of his ponderous cheek.
There was an impact of flesh on flesh, and Nobel went down like a
magnificent ruin. As he staggered to his feet again he caught a glimpse of a
flying figure hurrying at top speed down the road.
"My kingdom for the Edgware Road and a cab," Moore panted. "I'm going to
collapse, I'm played out for the present. Thank the gods there is a policeman.
Hi, Robert, Robert. Here's a case of drunk and incapable for you. And, whatever
happens to me, don't lose my rifle. Give me your arm, don't be too hard upon
me, and we shall get to Cricklewood Police Station all in good time."
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