Читать книгу The Spymaster - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

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At nine o’clock precisely on the following morning, Cheshire stepped out of a taxicab and, entering the Admiralty by a private door, made his way to the suite of offices occupied by his department. He passed through the outer room taking no account of many curious and furtive glances. In the bureau immediately before his own, however, he paused for a moment to exchange a word with Commander Hincks. The latter, who was obviously waiting for him, retained his self-control with an effort.

“You have heard the news, sir?”

Cheshire nodded curtly.

“I will discuss the matter with you later,” he said.

“In the meantime, sir,” Hincks ventured, “there is a representative from the Universal Press waiting here—he says with your permission. They sent him along from the Censor’s Department.”

“In ten minutes I will see him,” Cheshire announced.

He passed on to his private office. His typist-secretary was sorting some letters at the table usually occupied by Commander Hincks. The Admiral nodded good morning and seated himself at his desk. One single letter already lay there. It bore no postmark and had evidently been sent in by hand. He slit open the envelope, read the few lines it contained, and laid it face downwards on the blotting pad. He turned to the young woman at the other end of the room.

“There is a messenger from the Universal Press in the waiting room,” he told her. “Fetch him, please.”

“Very good, sir.”

The young woman disappeared for a few moments and returned ushering in Stephen Adams, a well-known figure in the journalistic world. Cheshire welcomed him with a brief nod.

“Sad affair, sir,” the newcomer remarked. “The editor sent me round to see you. The early editions are waiting.”

“Quite so,” Cheshire replied, leaning back in his chair. “As it happens, Mr. Adams,” he went on, “this tragedy explains itself. I am about to hand you over this note which I have just received. It was written by Captain Ryson evidently a few minutes before he shot himself.”

The journalist’s fingers were twitching already. Cheshire, however, preferred to read the letter aloud, which he promptly did. It was dated from a neighbouring hotel.

“Sir,

I ask your pardon for taking the coward’s way out but I made a great mistake when I accepted your offer and devoted myself to indoor work for which I am entirely unsuited. I have made application as you know for a change and been refused. I was born a sailor and my father was born a sailor and every gift that we possess can be exercised only upon the sea. I am a stupid clerk and a blundering figure at the work upon which I am now engaged and which I detest. I can endure it no longer. Five minutes after I have signed my name to this letter I shall shoot myself.

I deeply regret that I have not been able to render better service to my country.

Godfrey Ryson. Capt., R.N.”

“A sad letter,” the journalist murmured.

“Very sad,” Cheshire agreed. “To tell you the truth, if the poor fellow had not been so impatient I should have tried to make arrangements for him shortly. The command of one of our new battleships would have been his if only he could have stuck it out for a time.”

“I may make use of what you are saying now, Admiral?” his visitor asked eagerly.

“Certainly. Ryson was temporarily off his head, no doubt. I have seen him looking worried to death over the simplest little affairs in connection with his present job and I felt at the time that I ought to have relieved him. He was doing no particular good here and he was a fine seaman.”

The journalist scribbled down the sympathetically spoken words. Then he held out his hand for the letter.

“The original of this communication had better remain here,” Cheshire decided. “You can copy it, though, and I give you leave to publish it. It is best that the whole world should know the truth. When a man who is in the Service, and actively engaged, chooses this way of chucking his job, there is always likely to be a little misunderstanding if anyone tries to cover things up. Let the public have what they want, Mr. Adams. They shall have the truth.”

The journalist copied the letter rapidly. There was a thin smile upon his lips even as he transcribed those tragic words. The truth! . . . It was not the first time in his life that he had had to deal with this sort of situation, and although he very much admired the way in which Cheshire was handling it, he took his leave without a word of comment. Before midday the whole world knew why Captain Ryson, at one time the commander of the battleship Devastation, now engaged in special research work at the Admiralty, had blown out his brains.

Cheshire glanced casually through the two piles of letters which his secretary had laid before him and waved her out of the room.

“Send Commander Hincks to me,” he directed.

The young man entered the room a few minutes later. Already a subtle deterioration seemed to have taken place in his appearance. He was correctly and carefully dressed but he was ghastly pale and there was a little twitch of the features apparent now and then when he spoke. He stood at attention before Cheshire’s desk. The latter passed him over Ryson’s letter.

“Read that,” he ordered.

Hincks read and returned it without comment. His fingers were shaking.

“That,” his Chief said deliberately, “is the letter of a brave man. The last words he wrote were lies but they were written to make what amends he could for the harm he had done. Perhaps you are wondering why you are not under arrest?”

“I have not attempted to escape,” was the quiet reply.

“You know quite well it would be useless. The reason why you are still at liberty is because the value of our work here would be destroyed and our prestige would suffer if the truth were known. It is important that there should be no whisper anywhere as to the fact that Ryson committed suicide because he was betraying his trust or that you are under arrest because you must to a certain extent be suspected of having aided him. He chose the man’s way out but of course he has made it a little more difficult for you.”

Hincks was obviously suffering tortures. His lips twitched but he remained silent.

“Now listen carefully,” Cheshire continued. “You carried out your system of dual control, even to your method of parting with the information which one of you stole. A tracing of half the plan of my cruiser was posted by one of you to a person by the name of Henry Copeland at Lambeth post office. That man did not receive the letter—I did. He presented himself and asked for it a little later, but although I had two of my best men on duty there, he gave them the slip. Who is Henry Copeland?”

The young man distinctly shivered. His questioner waited in severe silence. Hincks moistened his lips with his tongue.

“The Henry Copeland to whom the letter was addressed is a man whose real name is Florestan,” he confided. “He is in the employ of a large firm of merchants in the City.”

“Name and address?”

“Brown, Shipman & Co., 127, Holborn.”

Cheshire scribbled down the few notes, then he looked up again.

“The tracing of the other half of the plan was to be disposed of, I presume, in the usual fashion? Answer me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To whom were you delivering it?”

“If you will pass me your own revolver, sir, I will make use of it,” was the firmly spoken reply. “It is impossible for me to answer your question.”

“You are a fool,” Cheshire declared. “I have not fully made up my mind, but my present idea is that you should live to make, at any rate, such atonement as you can. To whom were you to deliver it?”

For a single moment Hincks seemed suddenly to have become himself again. His voice was steady, his manner controlled.

“I have already been false to the Service, sir,” he said, “and if I am to stoop to the degradation of answering that question, it would be impossible for me to continue alive for another five minutes.”

Cheshire stroked his chin and reflected.

“It is a reasonable point of view,” he remarked coldly. “I will help you.”

Commander Hincks stared. There was already a black line underneath those deep-set eyes of his. The Admiral scribbled carelessly upon a slip of paper and held it out in front of the young man. The latter read what was written there and a little moan escaped his lips.

“When was this pleasant ceremony to have taken place?” his torturer demanded, tearing up the fragment of paper and dropping the pieces into the wastepaper basket.

Hincks suddenly faltered in his attitude. He had been standing stiffly to attention the whole of the time. His knees seemed to give way. He caught at the side of the desk, then quite suddenly he drew himself up again.

“I cannot answer your question because I do not know, sir,” he said firmly. “I will confess that I have had my suspicions. I actually knew nothing.”

“And what about this Henry Copeland, whose real name is Florestan?”

“I knew nothing of him, sir, except that there have been large transactions with his firm and other departments of the Admiralty. I was puzzled. I was suspicious. I failed in my duty by not making an immediate report to you. That is all that I have to say, sir.”

“Hand me the other half of the tracing.”

Hincks drew out his pocket-book and passed a folded slip of paper across the desk. A single glance was enough.

“It is my desire,” Cheshire announced, “that for the moment you do not follow the illustrious example of Ryson. You will continue your activities here under my supervision and direct instructions. Any questions?”

“None, sir.”

“I need not tell you,” Cheshire went on, “that any attempt on your part to telephone or to communicate with any of Ryson’s friends will be looked upon as an aggravation of your offence. The Service will take the risk of publicity and you will promptly die in the dishonour you deserve, but from which I am endeavouring to save you. I am understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I may take it, then, that I have your parole?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can go, Hincks.”

The young man left the room. His passage through the outer offices was unremarkable. It was not until he reached his own quarters that the sob which he had smothered in his throat escaped him.