The Riddle of the Sands
malignant perfidy and base passion, exaggerated to caricature, that I
received in those few instants. Another caprice of the light was to
identify the man with the portrait of him when younger and
clean-shaven, in the frontispiece of his own book; and another still,
the most repulsively whimsical of all, was to call forth a strong
resemblance to the sweet young girl who had been with us yesterday.
Enough! I shall never offend again in this way. In reality I am much
more inclined to laugh than shudder over this meeting; for meanwhile
the third of our self-invited guests had with stertorous puffing risen
to the stage, for all the world like a demon out of a trapdoor,
specially when he entered the zone of that unearthly light. And there
they stood in a row, like delinquents at judgement, while we, the true
culprits, had only passively to accept explanations. Of course these
were plausible enough. Dollmann having seen the yacht in port that
morning had called on his return from Memmert to ask us to supper.
Finding no one aboard, and concluding we were ashore, he had meant to
leave a note for Davies in the cabin. His friend, Herr Böhme, _“the
distinguished engineer,”_ was anxious to see over the little vessel
that had come so far, and he knew that Davies would not mind the
intrusion. Not at all, said Davies; would not they stop and have
drinks? No, but would we come to supper at Dollmann’s villa? With
pleasure, said Davies, but we had to change first. Up to this point we
had been masters of the situation; but here von Brüning, who alone of
the three appeared to be entirely at his ease, made the _retour
offensif_.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Oh, rowing about since the fog cleared,” said Davies.
I suppose he thought that evasion would pass muster, but as he spoke, I
noticed to my horror that a stray beam of light was playing on the
bunch of white cotton-waste that adorned one of the rowlocks: for we
had forgotten to remove these tell-tale appendages. So I added:
“After ducks again”; and, lifting one of the guns, let the light flash
on its barrel. To my own ears my voice sounded husky and distant.
“Always ducks,” laughed von Brüning. “No luck, I suppose?”
“No,” said Davies; “but it ought to be a good time after sunset——”
“What, with a rising tide and the banks covered?”
“We saw some,” said Davies, sullenly.
“I tell you what, my zealous young sportsmen, you’re rash to leave your
boat at anchor here after dark without a light. I came aboard to find
your lamp and set it.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Davies; “we took it with us.”
“To see to shoot by?”
We laughed uncomfortably, and Davies compassed a wonderful German
phrase to the effect that “it might come in useful”. Happily the matter
went no farther, for the position was a strained one at the best, and
would not bear lengthening. The launch went alongside, and the invaders
evacuated British soil, looking, for all von Brüning’s flippant
nonchalance, a rather crestfallen party. So much so, that, acute as was
my anxiety, I took courage to whisper to Davies, while the transhipment
of Herr Böhme was proceeding: “Ask Dollmann to stay while we dress.”
“Why?” he whispered.
“Go on.”
“I say, Herr Dollmann,” said Davies, “won’t you stay on board with us
while we dress? There’s a lot to tell you, and—and we can follow on
with you when we’re ready.”
Dollmann had not yet stepped into the launch. “With pleasure,” he said;
but there followed an ominous silence, broken by von Brüning.
“Oh, come along, Dollmann, and let them alone,” he said brusquely.
“You’ll be horribly in the way down there, and we shall never get any
supper if you keep them yarning.”
“And it’s now a quarter-past eight o’clock,” grumbled Herr Böhme from
his corner behind the hood. Dollmann submitted, and excused himself,
and the launch steamed away.
“I think I twig,” said Davies, as he helped, almost hoisted, me aboard.
“Rather risky though—eh?”
“I knew they’d object—only wanted to make sure.”
The cabin was just as we had left it, our shore clothes lying in
disorder on the bunks, a locker or two half open.
“Well, I wonder what they did down here,” said Davies.
For my part I went straight to the bookshelf.
“Does anything strike you about this?” I asked, kneeling on the sofa.
“Logbook’s shifted,” said Davies. “I’ll swear it was at the end
before.”
“That doesn’t matter. Anything else?”
“By Jove!—where’s Dollmann’s book?”
“It’s here all right, but not where it should be.” I had been reading
it, you remember, overnight, and in the morning had replaced it in full
view among the other books. I now found it behind them, in a wrenched
attitude, which showed that someone who had no time to spare had pushed
it roughly inwards.
“What do you make of that?” said Davies.
He produced long drinks, and we allowed ourselves ten minutes of
absolute rest, stretched at full length on the sofas.
“They don’t trust Dollmann,” I said. “I spotted that at Memmert even.”
“How?”
“First, when they were talking about you and me. He was on his defence,
and in a deuce of a funk, too. Böhme was pressing him hard. Again, at
the end, when he left the room followed by Grimm, who I’m certain was
sent to watch him. It was while he was away that the other two arranged
that rendezvous for the night of the 25th. And again just now, when you
asked him to stay. I believe it’s working out as I thought it would.
Von Brüning, and through him Böhme (who is the “engineer from Bremen”),
know the story of that short cut and suspect that it was an attempt on
your life. Dollmann daren’t confess to that, because, morality apart,
it could only have been prompted by extreme necessity—that is, by the
knowledge that you were really dangerous, and not merely an inquisitive
stranger. Now _we_ know his motive; but they don’t yet. The position of
that book proves it.”
“He shoved it in?”
“To prevent them seeing it. There’s no earthly reason why _they_ should
have hidden it.”
“Then we’re getting on,” said Davies. “That shows they know his real
name, or why should he shove the book in? But they don’t know he wrote
a book, and that I have a copy.”
“At any rate he _thinks_ they don’t; we can’t say more than that.”
“And what does he think about me—and you?”
“That’s the point. Ten to one he’s in tortures of doubt, and would give
a fortune to have five minutes’ talk alone with you to see how the land
lies and get your version of the short cut incident. But they won’t let
him. They want to watch him in our company and us in his; you see it’s
an interesting reunion for you and him.”
“Well, let’s get into these beastly clothes for it,” groaned Davis. “I
shall have a plunge overboard.”
Something drastic was required, and I followed his example, curious as
the hour was for bathing.
“I believe I know what happened just now,” said I, as we plied rough
towels in the warmth below. “They steamed up and found nobody on board.
‘I’ll leave a note,’ says Dollmann. ‘No independent communications,’
say they (or think they), ‘we’ll come too, and take the chance of
inspecting this hornets’ nest.’ Down they go, and Dollmann, who knows
what to look for first, sees that damning bit of evidence staring him
in the face. They look casually at the shelf among other things—examine
the logbook, say—and he manages to push his own book out of sight. But
he couldn’t replace it when the interruption came. The action would
have attracted attention _then,_ and Böhme made him leave the cabin in
advance, you know.”
“This is all very well,” said Davies, pausing in his toilet, “but do
they guess how we’ve spent the day? By Jove, Carruthers, that chart
with the square cut out; there it is on the rack!”
“We must chance it, and bluff for all we’re worth,” I said. The fact
was that Davies could not be brought to realise that he had done
anything very remarkable that day; yet those fourteen sinuous miles
traversed blindfold, to say nothing of the return journey and my own
exploits, made up an achievement audacious and improbable enough to
out-distance suspicion. Nevertheless, von Brüning’s banter had been
disquieting, and if an inkling of our expedition had crossed his mind
or theirs, there were ways of testing us which it would require all our
effrontery to defeat.
“What are you looking for?” said Davies. I was at the collar and stud
stage, but had broken off to study the time-table which we had bought
that morning.
“Somebody insists on coming by the night train to somewhere, on the
25th,” I reminded him. “Böhme, von Brüning, and Grimm are to meet the
Somebody.”
“Where?”
“At a railway station! I don’t know where. They seemed to take it for
granted. But it must be somewhere on the sea, because Böhme said, ‘the
tide serves.’”
“It may be anywhere from Emden to Hamburg.” _[See Map B]_
“No, there’s a limit; it’s probably somewhere near. Grimm was to come,
and he’s at Memmert.”
“Here’s the map.... Emden and Norddeich are the only coast stations
till you get to Wilhelmshaven—no, to Carolinensiel; but those are a
long way east.”
“And Emden’s a long way south. Say Norddeich then; but according to
this there’s no train there after 6.15 p.m.; that’s hardly ‘night’.
When’s high tide on the 25th?”
“Let’s see—8.30 here to-night—Norddeich’ll be the same. Somewhere
between 10.30 and 11 on the 25th.”
“There’s a train at Emden at 9.22 from Leer and the south, and one at
10.50 from the north.”
“Are you counting on another fog?” said Davies, mockingly.
“No; but I want to know what our plans are.”
“Can’t we wait till this cursed inspection’s over?”
“No, we can’t; we should come to grief.” This was no barren truism, for
I was ready with a plan of my own, though reluctant to broach it to
Davies.
Meanwhile, ready or not, we had to start. The cabin we left as it was,
changing nothing and hiding nothing; the safest course to take, we
thought, in spite of the risk of further search. But, as usual, I
transferred my diary to my breast-pocket, and made sure that the two
official letters from England were safe in a compartment of it.
“What do you propose?” I asked, when we were in the dinghy again.
“It’s a case of ‘as you were’,” said Davies. “To-day’s trip was a
chance we shall never get again. We must go back to last night’s
decision—tell them that we’re going to stay on here for a bit.
Shooting, I suppose we shall have to say.”
“And courting?” I suggested.
“Well, they know all about that. And then we must watch for a chance of
tackling Dollmann privately. Not to-night, because we want time to
consider those clues of yours.”
“‘Consider’?” I said: “that’s putting it mildly.”
We were at the ladder, and what a languid stiffness oppressed me I did
not know till I touched its freezing rungs, each one of which seared my
sore palms like red-hot iron.
The overdue steamer was just arriving as we set foot on the quay. “And
yet, by Jove! why not to-night?” pursued Davies, beginning to stride up
the pier at a pace I could not imitate.
“Steady on,” I protested; “and, look here, I disagree altogether. I
believe to-day has doubled our chances, but unless we alter our tactics
it has doubled our risks. We’ve involved ourselves in too tangled a
web. I don’t like this inspection, and I fear that foxy old Böhme who
prompted it. The mere fact of their inviting us shows that we stand
badly; for it runs in the teeth of Brüning’s warning at Bensersiel, and
smells uncommonly like arrest. There’s a rift between Dollmann and the
others, but it’s a ticklish matter to drive our wedge in; as to
_to-night,_ hopeless; they’re on the watch, and won’t give us a chance.
And after all, do we know enough? We don’t know why he fled from
England and turned German. It may have been an extraditable crime, but