Читать книгу The Master Spy - Arthur Gask - Страница 5

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ABOUT eleven o'clock, upon the following Sunday morning Tom Skelton was sitting upon one of the seats on the Esplanade at Southend seemingly at peace with all the world and very pleased with himself.

He was munching assiduously at 'two pennoth' of shrimps, which he from time to time abstracted from a small brown-paper bag, and so tender, succulent and tasty were these little denizens of the vasty deep that he was devouring them, heads, tails, scales and all, with no qualms whatsoever that they would upset his digestion.

Some fifty yards away, upon the sands below, his wife and two little ones were building a huge sand-castle, and he was lazily regarding them with the proud feelings of the admiring husband and father. Every now and then, however, he shot a glance up at the big clock upon the pier to determine how much longer it would be before he could obtain a refresher from the nearest public house.

He was a contented, happy-looking man, rather short and stout, with a round, clean-shaven face, and big, innocent blue eyes. He had chubby cheeks and a small mouth, and he was wearing a suit of good, but obviously ready-made, clothes.

For a long time he had the seat all to himself, but then just when he had munched the last shrimp, and made a ball of the small brown-paper bag and thrown it at a sparrow, a very well-dressed man, with a monocle and smart bowler hat, strolled up, and seated himself at the other end.

Tom took a good squint at the newcomer. "A nob!" was his muttered comment, "a real toff! I must get a pair of spats like those myself. Why shouldn't I? I've got the cash."

The gentleman took out a cigar from an elaborate case, and, clipping the end with an expensive-looking cutter, moistened it delicately with his lips and then proceeded to abstract a little silver match-box from his waistcoat pocket.

"Whew!" whispered Tom, "wax vestas! I'll get a box of them, too. Yes, he's a real nob, he is!"

But the stranger had suddenly frowned, for the match-box was empty. For the moment he looked most annoyed, and then apparently noticing Tom for the first time, he turned with a courtly gesture, and smilingly suggested the gift of a match.

Tom complied with alacrity, and the stranger, having lighted his cigar, returned the matches with a bow and grateful thanks. Then suddenly, it seemed as if he were in the way of being very puzzled about something, and, taking the cigar from his mouth, he eyed Tom very curiously.

"Good gracious!" he exclaimed after a moment, "but it's Mr. Skelton, I am sure; Mr. Thomas Skelton, of Manor Park. Yes, yes, it must be, for I never forget a face." He chuckled in quiet amusement. "No, of course, you don't know me, but I remember seeing you"—he dropped his voice and looked round to make certain that no one was near—"on Foulness Island." His voice became now the very merest of whispers. "You are one of the glassblowers there."

Tom looked the very picture of embarrassment. He screwed up his eyes, he opened and shut his mouth, and he swallowed hard. Then he turned his face away and, without saying a word, gazed stolidly out to sea.

"Oh! it's quite all right," laughed the stranger. "I'm a Government official myself." He dropped his voice again. "My name is Worley and my work lies in Whitehall. As a matter of fact, it is I who sign the wages-sheet for you chaps on Foulness, every week." He spoke very confidingly. "It happens in this way that I come so particularly to remember you. I was on the island"—he hesitated—"let me see. Yes, it was just after you first went there, about last March, I think, and chancing to catch sight of you I was struck at once with your likeness to a cousin of mine, Commander Worley, in the navy. 'Who's that man?' I asked at once, and then they told me, and so ever since when I see your name upon the pay-sheet I think of you." He rattled off: "Mr. Thomas Skelton, 17 Raymond street, Manor Park. Age 34, has a wife and two children, and for seven years was head-blower at Wilkinson's in Spitalsfields." He took a long puff at his cigar. "My conscience, but what a coincidence meeting you here when you only came home for your leave on Friday!"

Tom still looked rather embarrassed. "But we're not allowed to talk about anything, sir," he said. "We are sworn to the utmost secrecy."

"And quite right, too," agreed Mr. Worley. He nodded. "As a matter of fact again, it was I who drew up that regulation." He smiled all over his face. "Well, did you bring back any of those cockles this time? They're devilish sandy little things, aren't they?"

Tom smiled back now. "Yes, they are, sir," he replied, "but the tip is to soak them in warm, salted water and then they throw out all the sand themselves."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Worley delightedly. "I must remember that. One of the heads there often brings me a little parcel of them and, although I have never dared to tell him so, we've never been able to eat them." He nodded. "But next time I'll do as you suggest."

And then, talking about the weather and shrimps and Southend, and what highly responsible work his was at Whitehall, and with what important Ministers of the Crown he was daily brought in contact, this courtly-mannered Mr. Worley quickly wormed himself into the complete confidence of Tom, and then gradually and very tactfully, he brought back the conversation again to Foulness Island.

"Of course," he said, shaking his head, "I know nothing as to how things are exactly done on the island, for as I've told you, I've only been once there and my duties, too, at Whitehall, lie all on the clerical side, still"—and he looked rather worried—"my chiefs often talk to me about what's going on and only this very week Lord Montgomery mentioned to me how afraid they are that one day some foreign power will get hold of a piece of this wonderful glass and then"—he turned out his hands—"the whole secret of its composition will become known."

"Oh, but I'm sure too many precautions are taken," said Tom, now quite at his ease. "They needn't worry there."

But Mr. Worley still looked worried. "Well, do you think now, Mr. Skelton," he asked earnestly, "that if one of the workmen on Foulness was offered a big bribe, say, of something like £10,000, that he would betray his country and smuggle out a sample?"

"He couldn't do it, sir," said Tom instantly. "He'd have no earthly chance." He laughed. "Why, we are all stripped mother-naked every evening before we leave the furnace chambers or any of the machine shops, and we couldn't get away with a piece as big as a pea if we wanted to!"

"But you might swallow a lump," urged Mr. Worley, "and make yourself sick afterwards and then hide the piece somewhere until you were coming home on leave."

Tom laughed again. "Nothing doing, sir," he said, shaking his head, "for the day before we are going on leave we are taken into the hospital and kept there 'under observation' as they call it, for thirty-six hours." He made a wry face, suggesting evil-tasting potions. "So there's no chance of carrying a piece off the island in that way."

Mr. Worley seemed impressed. "Then the precautions taken are most thorough," he remarked, raising his eyebrows.

"Couldn't have imagined there could be anything like them," nodded Tom. He looked aggrieved. "Why, your blooming soul's not your own when you're on that island, and they treat everyone of us as if we were spies." He went on, now throwing all his caution to the winds in the pleasure of enlightening the important gentleman from Whitehall. "You see, sir, the island itself is like a prison to anyone working on it, and that big compound that surrounds all the buildings where the glass is being made and used is like another prison, too—a prison within a prison—for we're never allowed to set foot outside it for twenty-eight days on end."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mr. Worley, "then don't you get any exercise or fresh air?"

"Oh, yes, the compound's a huge place and it must be more than a mile round, outside the fence. We get plenty of exercise and games, but we never see the sea, although it's not a quarter of a mile away, for the seawall hides it from us."

"And if any strangers managed to get on the island, say on a dark night," asked Mr. Worley, "could they get over into this compound, do you think?"

"They might," replied Tom, rather dubiously, "but the fence is high, and there are plenty of spikes at the top. Besides, there are lights every hundred yards and always armed sentries stationed about." He shook his head. "No, I don't think they could manage it, unless"—he hesitated a moment and considered—"unless they knew the place like one of us does and there was a good fog on." He nodded. "Yes, a fog would be their only chance. That'd help them certainly."

"And I should say you must get plenty of fog and mist there," suggested Mr. Worley, "with all those creeks and swamps on the land side of the island."

"Oh, we do," agreed Tom at once, "and they say it's awful in the winter, with the fogs hanging round for days and days at a time." He grinned. "But then if they did get into the compound they'd have a darned hard nut to crack to get into any of the shops. The only way to do it would be to get through the galvanized iron somewhere." He nodded confidently. "No, sir, I think we're pretty safe, for no stranger gets an opportunity to have a look over the place and make his preparations beforehand. The barbed-wire entanglements all round the island make it impossible for anyone to land. We've heard that if a bit of wire is cut anywhere there an alarm rings in the guard-room at once."

Mr. Worley looked very stern. "Well, there's one thing," he said sharply, "no one will ever get to know the special ingredients that we put in the mixture to give the glass its hardness and invisible properties."

"No, that they won't," agreed Tom emphatically, "for no one but the doctor and his assistant ever go into the mixing room, and three doors have to be unlocked every time for them to go there. Those two gentlemen are the only two on the island who know the secret."

Mr. Worley pursed up his lips. "Ah! but we have to be so careful, you see." He eyed Tom grimly. "But do you men never speculate as to exactly what is put in the sand?"

Tom laughed. "Of course we do," he replied. He spoke proudly. "We are all experts and picked men, the very best in England, and we used to think we knew everything about glass until we went on this job." He shrugged his shoulders. "Now we own up we're properly beat. It's a darned mystery to us."

A smile curved to Mr. Worley's lips and he took out his monocle and polished it vigorously with his handkerchief. "And they don't even let you know the name of the doctor, eh?" he asked looking rather amused. "You're not even allowed to learn who this doctor is?"

Tom shook his head. "No, he's just 'the Doctor' to everyone," he replied, "and his assistant they call 'the Chief.' But, as it happens, I know his Christian name," he added smilingly, "for one night when he was passing through the compound—they didn't know I was anywhere near—I heard the chief call him 'Ben.'"

"Of course, he's not a doctor who attends you in illness," informed Mr. Worley. "He's not that kind at all."

"Oh, I know that, sir, for if anyone gets hurt or burns himself they fetch one of the other doctors from the hospital. This one is a chemist-doctor, I've been told."

"And a most distinguished one," nodded Mr. Worley, "a great scientific man. I've lunched with him several times." He smiled. "But now would you say he looks what he is, Mr. Skelton? Would you call him a handsome and distinguished man?"

At once Tom's chubby face became all puckered up in fun. "With that carroty hair, sir," he chuckled, "tall and thin as a lamp-post, and long face with a hooked nose!" His eyes twinkled. "No, if I was a young lady I certainly shouldn't fall in love with him." He nodded. "But someone evidently did think him good-looking, because he's married, and they've just got a baby. He happened to be going home in the same plane that brought me on Friday night and I heard him talking about it to Colonel Maitland and say how curious he was to see the kid."

Mr. Worley laughed. "And where did they drop you this time, Mr. Skelton? Up Glasgow way?"

Tom laughed too. "No, not quite as bad as that, sir, but the car that brought us back to London was waiting for us in a whopping big aerodrome this time. They never tell us where they land us and we're not allowed to ask, but on Friday it was somewhere some miles beyond Newmarket, for I recognised that town as one we passed through. I think we went to that particular 'drome for the doctor's sake, because I heard him say as he stepped out of the plane that he would be home in less than half an hour. The car that took him was in front of us until we had passed Newmarket and then I lost sight of it."

For half an hour and longer the two talked on, and then at the end of that time there was very little that the engaging Mr. Worley did not know of the routine of the daily lives of those who worked on Foulness Island. But it did not seem to Tom that Mr. Worley was in any way prying, or had indeed, asked very many questions, the latter having from time to time just delicately diverted the conversation into those channels that were interesting him most, and had obtained all the information he wanted that way.

They parted at length the best of friends, with the whispered injunction however, from Mr. Worley that on no account must Tom mention to a soul that they had met.

"Of course, as you say, we really oughtn't to have talked as we have been doing," he smiled as they shook hands, "and if it got known we should both get a sharp rap on the knuckles. You understand?" And when Tom winked his eye, Mr. Worley smiled back with manifest amusement, as if they mutually were in possession of some very good joke.

THE following week, Scampy Rook, the proprietor of the small and wheezy motor launch, the 'Mary Belle,' that had just managed to pass the inspector, and was licensed to carry twelve passengers, was of opinion to the utmost of his convictions, that he had at last well and truly struck oil.

Scampy or Captain Rook as he preferred people to call him, was a big, burly man with a fierce, truculent-looking face and eyes set very close together. He sported a torpedo-shaped beard to suggest to his patrons that his appearance smacked of the Royal Navy, and for the same reason he wore a peaked cap with broad gold braid, and a closely buttoned reefer coat with big brass buttons.

Trade had been very bad, for the Southend summer season was waning fast and with all his hoarse importuning, "Here you are! One bob only! Cruise on the ocean deep!" passengers had been few, and he had often had to push off with only half of his full compliment.

But then all suddenly, from the big Palace Hotel had appeared this eccentric stranger, who wanted to be taken somewhere to fish in peace and quiet and was prepared to pay £4 a day for the exclusive use of the launch, with the services of Scampy included. Moreover, the hiring was not to be for one day only, but for several days, and indeed it might go on for a week if the weather continued fine. The hours of the fishing were to be from ten to five, the stranger agreeing to provide a daily luncheon hamper for them both.

Scampy had jumped at the offer and upon the morning following the afternoon when the bargain had been struck, exactly as the pier clock was striking the hour or ten, the stranger appeared on the pier steps, heavily laden with a large rug, a cushion, the usual fishing paraphanalia, and, to Scampy's joyful anticipation, quite a big luncheon basket from which protruded the necks of two bottles of beer.

"Now take me anywhere you like?" said the stranger affably, as he made himself comfortable and tucked the rug round his knees. "My name is Danker and I don't mind where we go as long as there's no crowd. Find a nice spot and anchor there, and if the fish are not biting, I'll read or go to sleep. My nerves are bad and it's sea air and quiet I want, much more than fish."

So Scampy, with an eye to the petrol consumption, just crossed over to the Nore Sand Buoy and, throwing out the anchor, prepared to earn the easiest money he had done for many a long day.

The fish were certainly not biting well, but Mr. Danker made no complaints, and, soon tiring, settled himself down in the stern and took a little nap. He was a stout man and was well insured against catching any chill by a big and heavy ulster that reached almost to his feet, and a big Trilby hat, pulled down low upon his forehead. His iron grey hair was very long at the back, and he was well bearded and moustached. His complexion was dark and he wore tinted glasses.

"A blooming foreigner," thought Scampy, eyeing him intently, "although you couldn't tell from the way he speaks. Looks like a musician to me. Now, I'd bet he plays the fiddle." He nodded curtly to himself. "But he'll have to cash up every night, whoever he is. There's going to be no tick or cheques over this job. It's going to be hard money, down."

Mr. Danker woke up presently and started to converse in a most friendly way about all sorts of things. He was very interested as to what channels the great liners took when they were steaming out to sea, of what significance were all the warning buoys and which sands were quite uncovered when the tide was low. He called Scampy 'Captain' many times, and foreigner or no foreigner, Scampy's estimation of him went soaring high, when the contents of the luncheon basket were revealed at one o'clock. Pork pies, beautifully cut sandwiches, bread and cheese, and not only the aforementioned bottles of beer, but two generous tots of good, strong rum to make everything sit easy on the stomach.

"Gosh! What a find!" ejaculated Scampy as exactly at two minutes past five he stowed away four one-pound notes in his back trouser pocket, after he had set his passenger upon the pier. "And his grub was real good, too." His big, cunning face took on an anxious expression. "I hope the blazes he turns up to-morrow!"

But Scampy need have had no fears, for Mr. Danker appeared again the next morning, with the same luggage and the same luncheon basket, heavily laden with good things.

"And where would you like to go this morning, sir?" asked Scampy, placing the basket in a secure place so that by no chance should any of its precious contents come to any harm.

"Anywhere you suggest, Captain," replied Mr. Danker cheerily, and then in an afterthought he added: "Oh, let's go round beyond Shoeburyness," and so by half-past eleven they dropped anchor just by the south-east Maplin buoy.

"And where are we now, Captain?" asked Mr Danker, who certainly seemed in a much less sleepy mood that morning.

"Just off the Maplin sands, sir," replied Scampy, "and if it were low water—except for the first couple of hundred yards—we'd be able to go dry shod, right up to dry land."

"Goodness gracious. All this long way!" exclaimed Mr. Danker. "Why, surely the shore's many miles from where we are now."

"Four and a bit," replied Scampy, "and then you'd be on Foulness Island."

"Oh, Foulness Island!" said Mr. Danker, his eyes now opening very wide. "Then this is the secret island where all sorts of mysterious things are going on?"

"That's it, sir," nodded Scampy. "They are making wonderful bombs there, and, up to a couple of weeks back, it was boom—boom—boom—all day long. But I suppose they've got the things perfect now," he grinned, "and are keeping them for old Hitler or Mussolini."

"Foulness island!" said Mr. Danker very thoughtfully, "and only last night we were all talking about it in the lounge of my hotel after dinner. A very cocksure bookmaker from Birmingham, in a big way and very wealthy, I am told, was declaiming to us that it was such forbidden ground and so well guarded that he was prepared to bet any money no one could land on it at any time, day or night, under any pretence."

"Take it on, sir," laughed Scampy, "and I'll have a shot at it, if you make it worth my while."

"But are there many people living there?" asked Mr. Danker curiously.

Scampy spat with great emphasis into the sea. "No one knows who's on it, sir," he replied. "There may be fifty; there may be a couple of thousand"—he nodded darkly—"and yet never a soul is seen to approach or leave it. No boat ever goes near it, no cart or motor car ever goes over the sands at low water and it might be quite uninhabited, if we didn't know different."

"And how do you know different?" asked Mr. Danker with a smile.

Scampy spat again into the sea. "At night it's a blaze of light," he replied. "Big arc lights every couple of hundred yards all round it and then in the dark we hear the hum of the aeroplanes coming and going at all hours of the night. All the fetching and carrying is done with planes."

"And where do these planes go?" asked Mr. Danker very surprised.

Scampy shrugged his shoulders. "No one knows and they take jolly good care no one shall know either. They're tremendously big and fast and they fly very high. They go away in all directions and sometimes they disappear right out to sea as if they were going to Belgium or France." He nodded. "But no one gets a good view of them, close up."

"Dear me! Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Danker, evidently interested. He pointed in the direction of the island. "But what is there now to prevent you and me going right up to it and landing."

Scampy looked scornful. "Barbed wire entanglements, sir, fifty yards deep. There's only one narrow gateway on to the island, and they say that's guarded with a regiment of soldiers with machine guns."

"You astonish me!" said Mr. Danker. "And just because they're making bombs!"

"Very special bombs, sir," nodded Scampy again, "and no one will know anything about them until the next war comes."

"And you mayn't go anywhere near?"

"No; and if by accident any fishing boats get too close," said Scampy, "they fire right at them as a warning to sheer off, and if it's dark a huge searchlight instantly picks them out. They've always got someone on the look-out."

"But surely," protested Mr. Danker, "they don't sink those innocent fishing boats!"

Scampy laughed. "Oh, no, sir, they don't shoot to sink them, but they just pop bullets all round. One of my friends, a Mr. Snookes, swears that they fired through his sail one night and he's got the holes to show for it." His laugh changed to a scowl. "They're a high and mighty lot, these military, and think they can do just as they like. I've no time for them."

"Then someone ought to write to the newspapers about it and complain," smiled Mr. Danker. "That'd make them sit up."

"I've got a better idea than that," winned Scampy, "and with all their barbed-wire entanglements, I've often thought of making them look fools." He laughed scoffingly. "I could do it, if I wanted to."

"How?" asked Mr. Danker, appearing very amused.

"I'd wait for a foggy night," replied Scampy, lowering his voice darkly, "and then I'd come here in a rowing boat, with muffled oars. I'd bring some strips of stair carpet with me and a long clothes prop. I'd push one strip over the barbed wire as far as it would go, and then I'd climb on it to the end and push another strip before me." He looked very cunning. "See the idea, sir? With four or five lengths of carpet it would be as simple as A.B.C." He chuckled hoarsely. "I'd get on to the island and then I'd stick up a red flag in the ground somewhere, and—my oath!—wouldn't they look fools when the fog cleared?"

"It'd have to be a pretty thick fog, wouldn't it?" queried Mr. Danker, looking rather doubtful.

"Gosh!" exclaimed Scampy, "there'd be no trouble then. We get days and days of fog in the winter and it's so thick you can't see your hand." He spoke with great conviction. "Yes, fog's their deadly enemy, sir, and they can't fight against it."

Mr. Danker was very quiet that afternoon, and addressed few words to Scampy. He let the latter do all the fishing and sat huddled up in the stern either dozing or else staring out from half-closed eyes at the mysterious island he had just been hearing so much about.

Upon their return to Southend and when they were within a few hundred yards of the landing steps, he handed Scampy four Treasury notes, with the intimation that he should want the launch again upon the morrow. Then he remarked abruptly, "I take you to be a man of courage, Captain Rook." He spoke very sharply. "Is that so?"

For a moment Scampy looked surprised at the question, and then he nodded with a grim smile. "Afraid of nothing, sir, and been like that all my life. I was in the police once, and got discharged for striking a superior officer. Then I was runner for a street bookie for several years, and risked getting pinched a thousand times. Then I've worked a bit on the racing cars at Brooklands, and was in danger of my blooming life every blessed day." His smile became more pleasant. "Yes, I've always been a bit of a tough."

"Good!" commented Mr. Danker. "Then I may have something to say to you to-morrow. Perhaps I'll put you to the test."