His last bow Some later reminiscences of Sherlock Holmes
“They are not very hard to deceive,” he remarked. “A more docile,
simple folk could not be imagined.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the other thoughtfully. “They have
strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface
simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One’s first
impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon
something very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit and
must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insular
conventions which simply _must_ be observed.”
“Meaning ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?” Von Bork sighed as one
who had suffered much.
“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an
example I may quote one of my own worst blunders—I can afford to talk
of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of my
successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a week-end
gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The conversation
was amazingly indiscreet.”
Von Bork nodded. “I’ve been there,” said he dryly.
“Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a résumé of the information to Berlin.
Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these
matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was aware of
what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight up to me.
You’ve no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing soft about
our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I was two years
living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours—”
“No, no, don’t call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is
quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it.”
“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you
hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your
four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you go
the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result?
Nobody takes you seriously. You are a ‘good old sport’ ‘quite a decent
fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking, night-club, knock-about-town,
devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet country house
of yours is the centre of half the mischief in England, and the
sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius,
my dear Von Bork—genius!”
“You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim my four years in this
country have not been unproductive. I’ve never shown you my little
store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”
The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. Von Bork
pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the
electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which
followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticed
window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested did
he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest.
“Some of my papers have gone,” said he. “When my wife and the household
left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important with them. I
must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for the others.”
“Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There
will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just
possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to her
fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them.”
“And Belgium?”
“Yes, and Belgium, too.”
Von Bork shook his head. “I don’t see how that could be. There is a
definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a
humiliation.”
“She would at least have peace for the moment.”
“But her honour?”
“Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honour is a mediæval
conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing,
but even our special war tax of fifty million, which one would think
made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the front page
of the _Times_, has not roused these people from their slumbers. Here
and there one hears a question. It is my business to find an answer.
Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my business to soothe
it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go—the storage
of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements
for making high explosives—nothing is prepared. How, then, can England
come in, especially when we have stirred her up such a devil’s brew of
Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her
thoughts at home.”
“She must think of her future.”
“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our own
very definite plans about England, and that your information will be
very vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. If he
prefers to-day we are perfectly ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be
more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with
allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is
their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers.” He sat in
the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while he
puffed sedately at his cigar.
The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the
further corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound
safe. Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after
some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy
door.
“Look!” said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand.
The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of the
embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed
pigeon-holes with which it was furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its
label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such
titles as “Fords,” “Harbour-defences,” “Aeroplanes,” “Ireland,”
“Egypt,” “Portsmouth forts,” “The Channel,” “Rosythe,” and a score of
others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans.
“Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly
clapped his fat hands.
“And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the
hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection
is coming and there is the setting all ready for it.” He pointed to a
space over which “Naval Signals” was printed.
“But you have a good dossier there already.”
“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm
and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron—the worst setback
in my whole campaign. But thanks to my check-book and the good Altamont
all will be well to-night.”
The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of
disappointment.
“Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are
moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at our
posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did
Altamont name no hour?”
Von Bork pushed over a telegram.
Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.—ALTAMONT.
“Sparking plugs, eh?”
“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our
code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he
talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and
so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals.”
“From Portsmouth at midday,” said the secretary, examining the
superscription. “By the way, what do you give him?”
“Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a salary
as well.”
“The greedy rogue. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them
their blood money.”
“I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him
well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he
is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker is a
sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a real
bitter Irish-American.”
“Oh, an Irish-American?”
“If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I
can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the King’s
English as well as on the English king. Must you really go? He may be
here any moment.”
“No. I’m sorry, but I have already overstayed my time. We shall expect
you early to-morrow, and when you get that signal book through the
little door on the Duke of York’s steps you can put a triumphant Finis
to your record in England. What! Tokay!” He indicated a heavily sealed
dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a salver.
“May I offer you a glass before your journey?”
“No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.”
“Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay.
He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things. I have to
study him, I assure you.” They had strolled out on to the terrace
again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the
Baron’s chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. “Those are the
lights of Harwich, I suppose,” said the secretary, pulling on his dust
coat. “How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be other lights
within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place! The
heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zepplin
promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?”
Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp,
and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a
country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping
occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.
“That is Martha, the only servant I have left.”
The secretary chuckled.
“She might almost personify Britannia,” said he, “with her complete
self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au
revoir, Von Bork!” With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the
car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot
through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the
luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending
European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round
the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the
opposite direction.
Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the
motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed that
his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a new
experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread house,
for his family and household had been a large one. It was a relief to
him, however, to think that they were all in safety and that, but for
that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole
place to himself. There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his
study and he set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was
flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A leather valise stood
beside his table, and into this he began to pack very neatly and
systematically the precious contents of his safe. He had hardly got
started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught the sounds
of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction,
strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to
the terrace. He was just in time to see the lights of a small car come
to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang out of it and advanced
swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man
with a grey moustache, settled down like one who resigns himself to a
long vigil.
“Well?” asked Von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor.
For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above
his head.
“You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,” he cried. “I’m
bringing home the bacon at last.”
“The signals?”