Chapter Eighteen.
Tom Small Receives Visitors.
The super-spy, having concluded his work, sat with the old fisherman beside the wood-fire in the little low-pitched living-room that smelt so strongly of fish and tar.
Old Tom Small presented a picturesque figure in his long sea-boots, on which the salt stood in grey crystals, and his tanned blouse; for, only an hour ago, he had helped Ted to haul up the boat in which, on the previous night, they had been out baiting their crab-pots. Ruddy and cheery-looking, his grey hair was scanty on top, and his knotty hands, hardened by the sea, were brown and hairy. He was a fine specimen of the North Sea fishermen, and, being one of “nature’s gentlemen,” he was always polite to his visitor, though at heart he entertained the deepest and undying contempt for the man by whose craft and cunning the enemy were being kept informed of the movements of Britain’s defensive forces, both on land and at sea.
Now that it was too late, he had at last awakened to the subtle manner in which he had been inveigled into the net so cleverly-spread to catch both his son and himself. Ted, his son, had been sent to the cable-school at Glasgow and there instructed, while, at the same time, he and his father had fallen into the moneylender’s spider-web, stretched purposely to entrap him.
What could the old fellow do to extricate himself? He and Ted often, in the evening hours, before their fire, while the storm howled and tore about that lonely cottage on the beach, had discussed the situation. They had both, in their half-hearted way, sought to discover a means out of the impasse. Yet with the threat of Rodwell—that they would both be prosecuted and shot as traitors—hanging over them, the result of their deliberation was always the same. They were compelled to remain silent, and to suffer.
They cursed their visitor who came there so constantly and sent his mysterious messages under the sea. Yet they were compelled to accept the ten pounds a week which he paid them so regularly, with a frequent extra sovereign to the younger man. Both father and son hesitated about taking the tainted money. Yet they dared not raise a word of protest. Besides, in the event of an invasion by Germany, had not Rodwell promised that they should be protected, and receive ample reward for their services?
Old Small and Rodwell were talking, the latter stretching forth his white hands towards the welcome warmth of the flaming logs.
“You must continue to still keep your daughter Mary away from here, Tom,” the visitor was saying. “Send her anywhere you like. But I don’t want her prying about here just now. You understand! You’ve got a married daughter at Bristol, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, send her down there for a long stay. I’ll pay all expenses. So book the whole of it down to me. Here’s twenty pounds to go on with;” and, taking his banknote case from his pocket, he drew forth four five-pound notes.
“Yes, sir; but she may think it funny—and—”
“Funny!” cried his visitor. “Remember that you’re paid to see that she doesn’t think it funny. Have her back here, say next Tuesday, for a couple of days, and then send her off on a visit down to Bristol. You and Ted are able to rub along together very well without her.”
“Well—we feels the miss o’ the girl,” replied the old fellow, who, though honest and loyal, had fallen hopelessly into the trap which German double-dealing had prepared for him.
“Of course you do. I should—were I in your place,” was Rodwell’s response. “But the confidential business in which you and I are engaged just now is not one in which a woman has any concern. She’s out of place here; and, moreover, few women can keep a still tongue. Just reflect a moment. Suppose she told some friend of hers what was in progress under your roof? Well, the police would soon be out here to investigate, and you’d both find yourselves under arrest. No,” he added. “Keep your girl away from here—keep her away at all costs. That’s my advice.”
“Very well, sir, I will,” replied the wrinkled old fellow, rubbing the knees of his stained trousers with his hands, and drawing at his rather foul pipe. “I quite see your point. I’ll get the girl away to Bristol this week.”
“Oh! and there’s another thing. I’d better remain in here all day to-day, for I don’t want to be seen wandering about by anybody. They might suspect something. So if anyone happens to come in, mind they have no suspicion of my being here.”
“All right, sir. Leave that to me.”
“To-night, about ten or eleven, I’m expecting a lady down from London. She’s bringing me some important news. So you’d better get something or other for her to eat.”
“A bit o’ nice fish, perhaps?” the old fellow suggested as a luxury.
“Well—something that she can eat, you know.”
“I’ll boil two or three nice fresh crabs. The lady may like ’em, if I dress ’em nice.”
“Excellent!” laughed Rodwell. Truly his was a strange life. One day he ate a perfectly-cooked dinner in Bruton Street, and the next he enjoyed fat bacon cooked by a fisherman in his cottage.
Old Tom, glancing through the window out upon the grey, misty sea, remarked:
“Hulloa! There’s that patrol a-comin’ back. For two days they’ve been up and down from the Spurn to the Wash. Old Fred Turner, on the Seamew, what’s a minesweeper nowadays, hailed me last night when we were baitin’ our pots. He got three mines yesterday. Those devils have sown death haphazard!”
“Devils!” echoed Rodwell, in a reproachful tone. “The Germans are only devils because we are out to win.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” exclaimed the old fellow, biting his lip. “I didn’t think when I spoke.”
“But, Tom, you should never speak before you think. It lands you into trouble always,” his visitor said severely.
“Yes, I—But—I say—look!” cried the old man, starting forward, and craning his neck towards the window. “Why, if there ain’t that there Judd, the coastguard petty-officer from Chapel Point again! An’ he’s a-comin’ across ’ere too.”
“I’ll get into the bedroom,” whispered Rodwell, rising instantly, and bending as he passed the window, so as not to be seen. “Get rid of him—get rid of him as soon as ever you can.”
“’E’s got a gentleman with him,” old Tom added.
“Don’t breathe a word that I’m here,” urged the spy, and then, slipping into the stuffy little bedroom, he closed the door and turned the key. Afterwards he stood listening eagerly for the arrival of the visitors.
In a few moments there was a loud knocking on the tarred door, and, with a grunt, Tom rose to open it.
“Hulloa, Tom!” cried the petty-officer of the coastguard cheerily. “’Morning! How are you?”
“Oh! pretty nicely, Muster Judd—if it warn’t for my confounded rheumatics. An’ now, to cap it all, I’ve got my girl laid up ’ere very bad. She only got ’ome last night.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr Judd. “But I thought you had a gentleman visitor this morning?”
“Gentleman visitor? Yes. I’ve ’ad the doctor to my girl—a visitor I’ve got to pay—if that’s what you mean. She’s been awful bad all night, an’ Ted’s now gone into Skegness for some med’cine for ’er.”
The man who accompanied the coastguard-officer remarked:
“This is a lonely house of yours, Mr Small. A long way from the doctor—eh?”
“It is, sir, an’ no mistake. We don’t see many people out ’ere, except Mr Judd, or Mr Bennett—or one o’ the men on patrol.”
Then, being compelled to ask the pair inside, for it had started to rain heavily, Tom Small sat with them chatting, yet full of wonder why they had called at that early hour.
The man in the next room stood breathless behind the door, listening to all their conversation. It was quite plain that he had been seen to enter there, whereupon the coastguard’s suspicions had been aroused. He scented considerable danger. Yet his adventurous spirit was such that he smiled amusedly at old Small’s story of his sick daughter, and of the visit of the doctor.
Judd, seated in the chair which Rodwell had occupied until he had vacated it in alarm, suddenly turned to old Tom, and said:
“This gentleman here is my superior officer, Tom, and he wants to ask you something, I think.”
“Yes, sir, what is it?” asked the crafty old fisherman, turning to the man in plain clothes.
“You had a visitor here last Thursday—a gentleman. Who was he?” asked the stranger suddenly.
“Last Thursday,” repeated Small reflectively. “Now let me see. Who came ’ere last Thursday? Weren’t we both out fishin’? No,” he added: “I know! Yes, we did ’ave someone come—Mr Jennings, of course.”
“And who is Mr Jennings?”
“Why, ’e comes regularly from Lincoln for our insurances.”
The petty-officer exchanged meaning glances with his superior, who then asked—
“Aren’t you in the habit of receiving visits from a gentleman—somebody who’s been seen about here in a closed car, painted pale grey?”
“No car ’as ever come ’ere, sir,” declared the old man blankly. “Folk in cars don’t come to visit people like Tom Small.”
“And yet you are not quite so poorly off as you pretend to be, Mr Small,” remarked his questioner. “What about that nice little balance you have in the bank—eh?”
“Well, I’ve earned it, therefore I don’t see why it should concern you,” protested the old fellow angrily.
“Just now it does concern me,” was the other’s rather hard reply—words to which the man in the inner room listened with breathless concern.
Was it possible that the existence of the secret cable was suspected? Had Tom, or his son, been indiscreet? No; he felt sure they had not. They had everything to lose by disclosing anything. And yet those two visitors were bent upon extracting some information from him. Of what nature he was not quite clear.
An awful thought occurred to him that he had left his cap in the sitting-room, but, on glancing round, he was relieved to see that he had carried it into the bedroom when he had sat down at the instruments.
What would those two men say, if they only knew that, within a few yards of them, was the end of a cable which ran direct to Berlin?
While the rain continued pelting down for perhaps a quarter of an hour, the pair sat chatting with Small. It was evident that the naval officer was disappointed with the result of his visit, for the old fisherman answered quite frankly, and had given explanation of his two visitors which could not well be met with disbelief.
“Are you gentlemen a-lookin’ for German spies, then?” asked old Small at last, as though sorely puzzled at the questions that had been put to him.
“We’re always on the look out for those devil’s spawn,” answered Judd. “There was a Dutch trawler off here last night, and she wasn’t up to any good—I’m sure of that.”
“Perhaps it’s the same craft as wor ’ere about a fortnight back. She flew the Dutch flag, but I believe she wor a waitin’ for a German submarine, in order to give ’er petrol. They were a talkin’ about ’er in the Anchor on Saturday night. Bill Chesney was out fishin’ an’ got right near ’er. I think one o’ the patrol boats ought to ha’ boarded ’er.”
“She was seen off the Spurn, and was then flying the British flag,” remarked Judd’s superior officer.
“Ah! There you are!” cried Small. “I was certain she was up to no good! Those Germans are up to every bit o’ craft and cunnin’. Did you gentlemen think that Mr Jennings, from Lincoln, was a German spy?” he asked naïvely.
“No, not particularly,” replied his visitor. “Only when strangers come along here, in the prohibited area, we naturally like to know who and what they are.”
“Quite so, sir. An’ if I see any stranger a-prowlin’ about ’ere in future, I won’t fail to let Mr Judd know of ’im.”
“That’s right, Small,” was the officer’s response. “There are lots of rumours around the coast of our fishermen giving assistance to the enemy by supplying them with petrol and other things, but, as far as I can gather, such reports are disgraceful libels upon a very hardworking and deserving class. We know that some of them put down tackle in Torbay, and elsewhere, when they learn the fleet is coming in, so that they may obtain compensation for damage caused to their nets. But as to their loyalty, I don’t think anyone can challenge that.”
“I ’ope not, sir,” was Small’s fervent reply. “There ain’t a fisherman along the whole coast o’ Lincolnshire who wouldn’t bear his part against the enemy, if he could—an’ bear it well, too.”
The clean-shaven officer reflected for a few moments.
“You’ve never, to your recollection, seen a pale grey closed-up car anywhere about here, have you?” he asked at last.
“Never, sir.”
“Quite sure?”
“Positive, sir. The roads about ’ere are not made for cars,” was the old fellow’s reply. “I certainly did see a car one night, about six weeks ago. The man had lost his way an’ was driving straight down to the sea. He wanted to get to Cleethorpes. They were Navy men from the wireless station, I think.”
The old man’s manner and speech had entirely disarmed suspicion, and presently the pair rose, and bidding him good-bye, and urging him to keep a sharp look-out for strangers, they left.
The moment they were safely away, Rodwell emerged from the bedroom, and in a low, apprehensive voice, asked:
“What does all this mean, Tom—eh?”
“Don’t know, sir. That Judd’s been about here constantly of late. ’E’s up to no good, I’m sure. I’ve told you, weeks ago, that I didn’t like the look o’ things—an’ I don’t!”
Rodwell saw that the old fellow was pale and alarmed. He had preserved an impenetrable mask before his two visitors, but now they had gone he was full of fear.
Rodwell, as he stood in the low-pitched little room, recollected certain misgivings which Molly had uttered on the previous night, just before he had left Bruton Street. His first impulse now was to leave the house and slip away across the fen. Yet if he did somebody must certainly see him.
“Shall you get off now, sir?” asked the old man suddenly.
“Not till to-night,” was the other’s reply. “It would be a bit dangerous, so I must lay doggo here till dusk, and then escape.”
“Do you think they really suspect us, sir?” asked the old fellow, in a voice which betrayed his fear.
“No. So don’t alarm yourself in the least,” replied the gentleman from London. “I suppose I’ve been seen about, and my car has been noticed on the roads. There’s no danger, as long as I’m not seen again here for a bit. I’ll get through to Stendel, and let him know that I shan’t be back again for a fortnight or so.”
“Yes; you must certainly keep away from ’ere,” Tom urged. “They’ll be a-watchin’ of us, no doubt.”
“I’ve got a lady coming here, as I told you—Mrs Kirby, to whom you telegraph sometimes. She won’t get here till night, and I must wait for her. She’ll have some urgent information to send across to the other side. Penney will meet her in Lincoln, where she’ll arrive by train, and he’ll bring her on by car.”
“You’d better keep to the bedroom,” urged the old man. “They might come back later on.”
“Yes: I won’t be seen,” and returning to the stuffy little room, he reopened the cable instruments and soon got into communication with Stendel, in order to pass away the time which he knew must hang heavily upon his hands, for even then it was not yet nine o’clock in the morning.
He sat smoking and gossiping with the old fisherman nearly all the day, impatient for the coming of darkness, for his imprisonment there was already becoming irksome.
It grew dusk early when, about four o’clock, a footstep outside caused them both to start and listen. In answer to the summons at the door Tom went, and was handed a telegram by the boy messenger from Huttoft.
Opening it, he found it had been despatched from London, and read:
“Impossible to leave till to-morrow.—M.”
He gave it to Rodwell, who at once saw that the woman he expected had been delayed. Probably she had not yet been able to gather that important information which was wanted so urgently in Berlin.
The telegram puzzled him. Was it possible that the arrangements which he had made with such cunning and forethought, and had left to Molly to carry out, had broken down after all?
Lewin Rodwell bit his lip, and wondered. He seemed that day beset by misfortune, for when at five o’clock, Ted having returned, he tested the cable as usual, a call came through from Berlin.
Rodwell answered it, whereupon “Number 70” flashed the following message beneath the sea.
“Your information of this morning regarding troop-ships leaving Plymouth for Dardanelles is incorrect. Desborough was torpedoed off Canary Islands on January 18th, and Ellenborough is in dry dock in Belfast. Source of your report evidently unreliable.”
Rodwell read the words upon the long green tape as it slowly unwound, and sat staring at them like a man in a dream.