CHAPTER VII
Official Hindrances
On the day following the preliminary examination of the two alleged spies the London evening papers published with double-leaded headlines:
"TWO ENGLISHMEN ARRESTED AS SPIES"
(Reuters Special.)
"Hamburg, Tuesday, 5 p.m. Telegraphic advice from Heligoland reports that two Englishmen, giving the names of John and William Smith, and aged about forty, were arrested on a charge of espionage early this morning. It is alleged that the prisoners, taking advantage of a dark and rainy night, eluded the cordon of patrol boats and succeeded in landing upon Sandinsel. When arrested they were in the act of photographing a highly important part of the defences. The open motor boat in which they visited the island has been seized, and drawings and photographs of various government establishments and ships were found concealed behind the petrol tanks. The accused, who admitted that they were in the employ of the British Intelligence Department, will be tried summarily by the Governor of Heligoland, General Heinrich von Wittelsbach, on Friday next. It is understood that the British Consul at Bremen has applied to have access to the prisoners."
This announcement naturally caused a great deal of comment amongst the British public. The general opinion was that the alleged spies knew the risk they were running and must take the consequences. Various attempts were made on the part of the press to discover the identity of John and William Smith. Enquiries at the Naval Intelligence Department gave no tangible result. The authorities there expressed their ignorance of the whole business.
The morning editions on the following day came out with highly coloured reports emanating from imaginative German journalists; but the only particle of truth was the information that the request of the British Consul at Bremen had been refused. In order to give the accused every possible advantage a military officer of high rank had been dispatched from Berlin to act as "prisoners' friend". Owing to the possibilities of important military and naval secrets being disclosed at the impending trial, the proceedings were to be conducted behind closed doors.
Even with this announcement the Great British Public maintained its customary apathy. Had some Polish revolutionary been tried under similar circumstances in far-off Russia a certain section of the British Press would have howled itself black in the face at the injustice and inhumanity of the proceedings. In this instance it was merely an attempt on the part of two venturesome Englishmen to gain notoriety at the expense of risking our amiable relations with a friendly State. John and William Smith must take the consequences.
In a paper of the same date appeared a short column headed:
"FEARED FATALITY TO TWO ENGLISH YACHTSMEN
"A ketch yacht, named Diomeda, has been brought into the port of Delfzyl by the Dutch steam trawler Hoorn. The master of the trawler reports having found the yacht derelict, with all sails set, nine miles N.N.W. of Norderney. There are three yachts named Diomeda in Lloyd's Register, but from the Dutch skipper's description the abandoned yacht is the property of Mr. Octavius Valerian Smith of Lowestoft."
At ten o'clock a telegram was handed in at the London offices of The Yachtsman's Journal. It was from that paper's Lowestoft correspondent:
"Smith, owner Diomeda, reports yacht chartered Sub-Lieutenant Hamerton, R. N. Owner starting Delfzyl immediately. Shall I accompany?—Stirling."
The editor thought over the message for some minutes. Here was a chance of obtaining copy direct from the scene of the disaster. He would dearly like to steal a march on his contemporaries. The mystery might prove far more exciting than it looked according to the morning dailies. But there was the expense; The Yachtman's Journal had not a large amount of capital behind it. Of course, Stirling would not want a large sum for the trip, but there were the travelling expenses.
A thought struck him: why not consult his friend Thompson, the news editor of the influential Westminster Daily Record?
"Is that you, Thompson?" he asked on the telephone after several vain attempts to get through.
"Yes, old man," replied the editor of The Westminster Daily Record, who recognized his friend's voice.
"Anything fresh about the yacht found adrift in the North Sea?"
"Nothing—why?"
"Just heard she was chartered by a naval officer. I fancy there's something behind this. Stirling, my Lowestoft correspondent—a smart, reliable fellow; I know him personally—has just wired to ask if he should go to Holland."
"Well?"
"He can speak German and Dutch remarkably well."
"Hanged if I can see what you are driving at, old man. Send the young chap by all means if you want to. By the by, what's the naval officer's name?"
The editor of The Yachtsman's Journal diplomatically ignored the latter question.
"I'd send him like a shot," he replied, "only it's a question of, £, s., d. What do you say? Will you guarantee half the expenses? It's a chance of a good scoop, the information to be solely for our joint use."
Thompson grunted.
"No," he said brusquely; "can't be done. It's not of sufficient interest to the general public."
"Not when a naval officer is involved?"
"H'm—well, I'll tell you. Send your man. If the stuff's of use to us we'll pay all expenses. Anything out of the ordinary he can wire us. If there's nothing meriting notice we'll only pay a quarter of the expenses. Game?"
Something seemed to whisper in the mind of the Yachtman's Journal editor: "Accept his terms. You'll be sorry if you don't."
"Agreed," he replied.
"Right! Ring off," was Thompson's laconic acceptance, and he resumed his chair in order to tackle the final proofs of the evening's issue.
Shortly after eleven Gordon Stirling, amateur yachtsman and yachting correspondent of The Yachtman's Journal, received a wire from town:
"Proceed to Delfzyl. Wire report if urgent. All expenses guaranteed.
"EDITOR."
Stirling gave a whoop of delight when he read his sailing orders, and considerably astonished his landlady by executing a dance round the room. Perhaps such an exhibition was pardonable in a high-spirited youth of nineteen, but Mrs. Grimmer surveyed her paying guest with evident concern and unrestrained curiosity.
"It's all right, Mrs. Grimmer," he explained. "I'm off to Holland for a few days."
"Not in that little boat of yours, sir?"
"No, by steamer. I'll have to leave here before twelve. Now I must pack my bag. You might ask Dick to take a note round to Mr. Smith for me."
The note was simply to the effect that the writer had made arrangements to accompany the owner of the Diomeda to Delfzyl, and would meet him at the station at 12.15.
This written and dispatched, Gordon Stirling proceeded to cram a variety of clothing into a serviceable leather bag, regardless of how they were stowed so long as the bag could be closed.
Stirling was very fortunately situated. He held an appointment at Lowestoft under the Inland Revenue; he had just started his annual leave and was meditating a trip on the Broads. To that end he had drawn a small sum from the savings bank, to which was added the greater part of his last month's salary, and thus he found himself with a little over twenty pounds in his pocket and fourteen days in which to spend it. Here was a chance of having a holiday on the Continent, with the prospects of getting hold of some exciting news and recouping all his expenses. Truly he was in luck's way.
"Glad you managed it," was Octavius Smith's greeting as the two met at the railway station. "Look alive and get your ticket. Single to Harwich only, mind."
Octavius Valerian Smith was a striking contrast to his companion, for Stirling was a short, thick-set fellow with a perpetual beam on his rounded features, whereas the owner of the Diomeda was over six feet in height and as slender as the proverbial barber's pole. It would be difficult to describe his complexion. Exposure to the salt-laden breezes of the North Sea had tanned his features to a brick-red colour. In spite of his approximation to Euclid's definition of a line he was muscular and sinewy, and as hard as nails. Possessed of small private means, he augmented his income by writing, and made a fairly good thing out of it. Few of the hundreds of love-sick maidens who read the romantic stories appearing in various women's journals under the name of "Reginald Beaucaire" would recognize their favourite author in the person of the taciturn-featured O. V. Smith.
Yet even in the flood tide of literary success there are irritating counter-eddies—periods of pecuniary embarrassment. The owner of the Diomeda, always careless with his money while he possessed any, had a few days before found himself in low water.
This inevitable condition compelled him, much against his will, to charter the yacht to Sub-Lieutenant Hamerton, and now he was on his way to recover his most precious possession from the hands of the Dutch salvors.
"You've got the yacht's papers, I hope?" asked Stirling as the train glided out of the station.
"No, I haven't. How could I? They went with the boat."
"Then how do you propose to establish your identity? The Dutchmen won't feel inclined to hand the Diomeda over until you prove you are the lawful owner."
"I've sufficient documentary evidence," replied Smith. "You leave that to me."
"If you're satisfied I am," remarked Stirling. "By the by, what were those fellows like who chartered her?"
The Diomeda's owner proceeded to give a detailed description of the unfortunate Hamerton and his chum Detroit. This done, he took up a newspaper and began to read, while Stirling wrote an account of the two supposed victims for the benefit of the patrons of The Yachtman's Journal.
"By the by," said Stirling, "is there any more news about that spy case? I suppose the two men are no relations of yours?"
"We all belong to the great and noble family of Smiths," replied the literary man oracularly. "It's a bit confusing at times, especially when one receives a blue envelope intended for a very distant relation. I've had some."
Octavius once more buried himself in his paper. Stirling resumed his scribbling, and thus the time passed until the train reached Harwich.
It was half-past eleven on the Thursday morning when Smith and his companion arrived at Delfzyl. Both were dead tired, for the tedious railway journey, especially between Zwolle and their destination, was the last straw.
The good folk of Delfzyl were evidently thought-readers, for directly the Englishmen left the station they were surrounded by a gesticulating mob, every man, woman, and child in the crowd pointing out the way to the quay where the Diomeda lay.
It was low tide, the Dollart and the estuary of the Ems River were one expanse of sand and mud. The yacht lay against a staging of massive piles. On the quay was a line of stolid Dutchmen, all peculiarly garbed in quaint cutaway coats, baggy trousers, klompen or wooden shoes, and dull-black high-crowned hats. There they stood, hands in pockets, long pipes in their mouths. Hardly a word was being spoken. They seemed perfectly content to stand on the quay-side and gaze meditatively at the mysterious craft that the steam-drifter Hoorn had brought in.
The arrival of the Englishmen with their attendant throng roused the lethargic Dutchmen. They too added their voices to those of their fellow townsfolk.
"Thank goodness the yacht seems all right," ejaculated Smith fervently. "Let's get on board. It's the only way to escape the babel."
The Diomeda looked exactly as if she had been lying on her own moorings in Lowestoft harbour. Her sails were neatly furled, her flemished ropes were exactly where they ought to be, her decks had been washed down, her brasswork glittered in the sunlight.
"How are we going to get on board?" asked Stirling, regarding the twelve-foot drop from the stage on to the deck with apprehension. "Besides, the cabin is locked, and you haven't the keys."
"I'll manage it," replied the owner confidently. "Stand by and throw me down the luggage when I reach the deck."
At this juncture a man interposed his bulky frame and held up his hands.
"Mynheer Englishman must see the harbourmaster," he announced.
"Where is the harbourmaster?" asked Smith.
A score of voices joined in giving him directions. Forty hands or more pointed in the direction of the red-tiled house, with green doors and window frames, where dwelt Cornelius van Wyk, the guardian of the maritime interests of Delfzyl.
"You do the tongue-wagging, old chap," said Smith to his companion as they were ushered into a spotlessly clean parlour. The mob of curious townsfolk, debarred from entering by the sturdy demonstrations of the harbourmaster's hus-vrow, lapsed into comparative silence. Pipes were filled, precious matches handed round, and the expectant throng waited for the Englishmen's reappearance.
The two travellers had to wait nearly an hour for the official's appearance. Van Wyk had gone down the estuary on duty. Meanwhile his wife brought refreshments, for which both men were truly thankful, as they had eaten nothing since leaving The Hook.
"You, Mynheer, are the owner of this yacht?" asked the harbourmaster on his return. He spoke excellent English, with an East Anglian accent, acquired by reason of his frequent intercourse with vessels hailing from the ports of Norfolk and Suffolk. "You, of course, have the papers?"
"No," replied Smith. "They are on board."
"I think not, Mynheer. I had to make examination, and there are no papers."
"They were in a cupboard on the port side of the for'ard bulkhead," asserted the owner.
Van Wyk shook his head.
"I remember that cupboard. It is empty."
"Is it likely that two men should disappear and take the yacht's papers with them?" asked Smith.
The harbourmaster shook his head.
"Curious things happen at sea," he said. "Dirk Apeldoorn, the mate of the Hoorn, told me the yacht had all her sails set. The tiller was not lashed; her dingy was towing astern. She was pointing towards the land, first on one tack and then on the other. It was this strange thing that attracted his attention. But, Mynheer, why should the papers disappear? Without them who can tell who is the owner?"
"I have these," replied Smith, pulling out several documents relating to the transaction between Hamerton and himself.
"Heaven forbid that I should doubt you," exclaimed Van Wyk, "but duty is duty. I have the keys; I am authorized to receive the money due for salvage; but before I can allow you on board I must have a declaration on oath that you are in truth the owner, and a copy of the yacht's papers."
"But," expostulated Smith, "I am the owner, you know."
"It is easy to say so, Mynheer. I might say I am the Prince Consort, but without proof——?"
"This looks like a week's business," said Smith savagely, as the twain regained the cobbled street. "I suppose the old chap is within his rights. We'll have to write off to the Board of Trade for duplicates of the Certificate of Registry and the Declaration of Ownership."
"And make a sworn declaration before a lawyer that you are indeed Octavius V. Smith," added Stirling.
Two days later the owner of the Diomeda skipped out of the post office at Delfzyl, holding in triumph a blue envelope with the inscription "On His Majesty's Service". Ten seconds later his exultation was changed into deep disgust, for the Board of Trade authorities had asked for additional information. They had already heard that the yacht had been picked up practically intact. Her papers were known to be on board when she left Lowestoft; what explanation, they asked, had Mr. Smith to offer for their disappearance? Pending satisfactory evidence the Board declined to issue duplicate certificates.
Time was pressing. In desperation Octavius Smith penned a lengthy epistle explaining that he was in utter ignorance of the fate of the documents, and that the harbourmaster of Delfzyl had flatly refused to give up possession of the Diomeda until such documentary evidence were forthcoming.
Two more days passed. Then, with a promptitude surprising for a British Government Department, the duplicates arrived.
"Ah! That is all in order," exclaimed Mynheer van Wyk. "All that is now required is to pay the salvage. Then you take possession."
"I see," agreed Octavius Smith, though not with any degree of enthusiasm. He had no doubt that the executors of the supposed deceased Jack Hamerton would ultimately pay all expenses in connection with the redemption of the Diomeda, but for the present he would have to be out of pocket. "What is the value of your yacht?" asked the harbourmaster, who also held the office corresponding to that of British Receiver of Wrecks.
"Two hundred pounds," replied the owner.
Van Wyk slowly turned over the documents before him.
"That may be so," he remarked; "but I see no copy of the bill of sale. How am I to know that this is the value of the yacht?"
"My word for it," replied Smith heatedly.
"Is not good enough," added the harbourmaster.
"Then why in the name of thunder didn't you ask me to get it with the other papers?"
Van Wyk shrugged his shoulders.
"I shall require it," he said simply.
"What's wrong now?" asked Stirling, as his chum rejoined him in the street.
"Every mortal thing. Wants a copy of the bill of sale to prove how much I gave for the yacht. Luckily I have that at home. I'll wire for it. This petty officialdom is enough to make a fellow wild."
"I thought petty officialdom existed only in England. Such used to be your opinion," said Stirling slyly. "Buck up, old man, we'll soon be afloat. By the by, here is a newspaper. They've given these sixty-ninth cousins of yours pretty stiff sentences, by Jove!"
Octavius Smith glanced at the printed matter, "'Pon my word, they have," he replied. "After all, they were asking for it."