Читать книгу The Lady of Little Hell and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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THE Chief Intelligence Officer of the 16th British Army looked up as Captain Tom Broadwood entered his bureau.

"Sit down, Broadwood, for a moment," he said with a smile; "I won't keep you long."

He finished signing the papers before him, and as his clerk was going he said:

"Sergeant Lorring, I am not to be interrupted, and see that body comes near that door."

"Yes, sir," said the non-com and disappeared.

Colonel Waterson leant forward, his elbows on his desk, and dropped his voice:

"Broadwood, I shall want you to leave to-morrow night—are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," smiled Tom. "I have been ready for a fortnight, ever since I came back from leave."

"Oh, by the way," a thought struck the Intelligence Officer, "that man Stopl whose end you witnessed in London—he has been identified."

"Identified?"

"Well, he wasn't a count, you know, and his name wasn't Stopl. His real name was Brakzand, and he was known to the American police as a particularly dangerous German agent."

"But he moved in good society. Surely the Swedish Embassy would have exposed him?"

"It was difficult. You see, there was a Count Stopl who died in some outlandish place in South America. He had no relations who knew him or anything of him. When the spurious Stopl turned up in London, he was accepted. He had plenty of money and apparently knew all the best people in American society. But he was undoubtedly a bitter enemy of Britain. That is by the way. I thought you would be interested. They have not found the woman who killed him, but the general theory is that she also was a German spy who had quarrelled with him."

Tom's face was thoughtful. He had been trying to forget things in the past fortnight—trying to forget a pair of the loveliest eyes in the world, and a hand which had been blackened by the back-throw of an automatic pistol.

"You know quite a lot about the matter, colonel," was all he said.

The other nodded.

"I'm supposed to know something about spies," he said grimly, and went on with the business in hand. "You have had all the instructions you want about your present job? Good. I will repeat the important points. In the uniform of a private of the Royal Air Force you will take a machine—an obsolete one, which will give you about 180 miles' range—leaving late to-night. You will make your landing near the prison camp at Ingolsberg, burn your machine, and surrender to the prison camp authorities. Between now and next Monday we shall plant a machine for you in a barn which was erected by one of our agents for the purpose at the farm called Halle Stadt, which looks out on to a lonely bit of moorland. Whilst you are at the farm you are to discover the identity of the Baroness von Zimmermann, a friend of the commandant's and a frequent visitor."

"How long do I remain a prisoner?" asked Tom glumly.

The colonel smiled.

"You will escape when you receive orders from Parry to get away."

"Parry? Who is Parry?"

"That is the name of a mysterious somebody who needs your help. I confess I don't know Mr. Parry—whether be is young or old, tall or fat, bearded or clean-shaven."

"It's a mysterious stunt, sir," said Tom. "I can't say I like the prisoner of war idea."

"You don't want to go?" asked the colonel quickly.

"Go, sir! Why, of course I'll go—only—"

The colonel nodded.

"Unsatisfactory, eh? Well, that's just how it struck me."

Tom left the aerodrome early the next morning riding an old "pusher" bus, which had this advantage, that if it was slow it was sure. He carried no arms and no other bomb than the incendiary bomb which was to ignite the machine.

He passed over the line, heavily shelled, though he had avoided the more sensitive spots in the enemy's defensive systems and crossed the broad steel ribbon of the Rhine an hour before dawn.

He found Ingolsberg—sighted its forbidding laager in the grey hours of a raw morning, and came down calmly within a hundred yards of an old and astonished sentry, who blinked through full-moon spectacles, and did not realise that he was witnessing a manifestation of war until the aeroplane burst into red flame and a good-looking young man in the unfamiliar uniform walked across to him and said:

"I am British."

An hour later, with a palpitating sentry on either side of him, he met, for the first time, the Prussian officer of tradition. Hitherto the Germans he had met—mostly on the right side of the British line—had been courteous. Now he was to meet, not the fighting soldier, but the military politician, the martinet of the theoretic school, a soldier who had not as yet experienced the humanising effect of battle.

Colonel Heyderbrand was a man of fifty-six, lean, straight, and wasp- waisted. His hair and trim moustache were white, his face otherwise being clean shaven.

He sat at his table, a long cigar between teeth which were suspiciously white and regular for so old a man, and surveyed the prisoner.

"English?" he asked harshly.

"Yes."

"Say 'sir,' you swine!"

Tom did not answer.

"Where did you come from, and why did you land?"

"Went astray in the night and finished my petrol."

"Say 'sir,' damn you!"

No answer.

The colonel's face flushed red.

"I will teach you... yes, by God, I'll teach you! Take him away, Feldwebel."

So Tom Broadwood was bundled from the room and was turned loose in a great wired cage to wait his captor's pleasure.

And here it was that he met that remarkable man, Dusty Miller. He stood stiffly erect, his back to a pole, and his constancy in that position was due less to an ingrained respect for authority than three separate sets of straps which bound him there.

The brown face was small and rugged, the mouth big and whimsical, and his blue eyes ranged his restricted field of vision with hope and expectancy. He whistled a little tune in slow time—a melancholy tune, suggestive of partings and weeping mothers and flower-strewn graves, and ever and anon exchanged an unfriendly word with the sentry who marched within insulting distance.

Tom approached the scene in wonder and wrath. It hurt his manhood to see a fellow-man treated like cattle; it stung a certain pride in the common ancestry which he and the prisoner shared.

As for the bound man, he ceased whistling when the other approached and eyed him curiously.

"Ostraylian?" he asked.

Tom smiled and shook his head.

"Flying Corps," he said.

The man's blue eyes opened wide.

"A pilot—a fightin' pilot? How many of the perishers did you 'out' before they pinched you?"

"Three or four," and the soldier beamed.

"Say 'forty' an' cheer me up," he begged.

The sentry approached with a frown.

"You must not speak to the prisoner whilst he is undergoing 'strafe,'" he said in German.

"Take no notice of 'im," begged the man at the pole. "Hector, I'm surprised at you intrudin' yourself between friends. Here—What's—your—name?"

"Broadwood—Thomas Broadwood," laughed Tom.

"You're either Tommy or Broady—make up your mind."

"Any old thing."

"Well, Broady, I finish my 'strafe' today—come over to F.7 an' have a yarn," urged the man. "My name's Miller—commonly called 'Dusty.'"

"What did you get this for?" Tom indicated the pole.

"Escape," said the other laconically; "my ninth. I've had ten days of this an' twenty-one days 'strooben' arrest—that's German for 'dark hole an' little grub.' But the worst ain't much worse than the best in Little Hell."

"Little Hell?"

The man nodded and grinned.

"Little Hell," he said with relish; "the one camp in Germany that no nootral ambassador ever visited. Every man here's a dog—an' treated like it. Nine escapes I've made, but I've got a better idea for my tenth escape. Here comes the Feldwebel," he muttered, "hop it!"

And Tom "hopped it" in time to avoid meeting the martinet of the camp.

It was not until the next afternoon that he met the cheerful little man, and then learnt that he was getting acquainted with one of the most famous men of Germany. For Dusty was an escape expert. He had been a prisoner since the battle of Mons and, as he said, had made a get-away nine times. Thrice he had been captured on the Dutch frontier, within sight of liberty, once on the Swiss frontier. He had employed a score of tricks and subterfuges, he had smuggled compasses and maps, files and wire-cutters, he had indeed broken every law governing the prisoner of war, and had suffered imprisonment in Cologne, Munster, Dresden, and Ingolsberg, to say nothing of minor terms of solitary confinement in local camps.

The two men strolled across the recreation ground together and half a dozen watchful eyes followed them.

"I've never had a pal who spoke German," explained Dusty; "if I had I'd have made an escape years an' years ago. I've been in these dam' laagers for a hundred an' fifty years an' six months, as a prisoner counts time. Now the question is, are you game?"

Tom looked at the little man. The time might come when it would be necessary to get away and such a man as this might be useful.

"I'll help you escape if you want to get away," he said steadily, "but for the time being I don't want to go myself."

The little man stared at him.

"Been bit by a shell or something?" he asked anxiously "don't want to get away?"

"Not yet," smiled Tom.

"I've often thought I'd like to go to Monte Carlo," said Dusty loudly as a German non-commissioned officer in silent shoes overtook them; "I'm told it's rather a pretty little place, but a bit wild."

When the officer had passed out of hearing Dusty spoke again.

"You've got to be careful; some of these poor fellows talk English better than me an' you. Don't forget I'm watched—they search the room I sleep in three times a night. I'm so popular with the other fellows who have to turn out of bed in the cold an' be inspected that I expect to die young. But do you mean you'd help me hop it?"

Tom nodded.

"You said you had a plan," he said.

"So I have. Listen. The commandant of this place is sweet on a girl—a Baroness."

Tom started. He expected to have some trouble in learning things which were, apparently public property.

"She comes here once a week to tea," Dusty went on; "every Thursday. She's the widder of a German officer, husband killed in the war, I'm sorry to say—lend me your handkerchief, I'm crying I—an' Commandant Heyderbrand is fairly—"

"Crazy is the word you want."

"Potty was the word I wanted, but yours will serve, Broady. They have tea in the commandant's quarters an' she drives up in a motor-car, which comes inside the wire of the camp an' is run into a stable alongside the quarters. My plan is this: we get into that stable an' hide in the car. it always goes out before my lady an' drives about a mile up the forest road an' waits, an' the silly old—our respected commandant strolls up with the girl to the spot. I've seen him do it."

His chance had come within an hour of his arrival. Tom turned the proposition over in his mind.

"How do you get to the stable?" he asked.

"There's only one way," explained Dusty, lowering his voice, for they had turned and were walking back to the huts; "there's a door from the commandant's quarters and his house can be reached through a tunnel me an' a feller named Golder dug the last time we was here—I was transferred to another camp before it could be used for another grand plan I had in connection with the commandant."

"What was that?" asked Tom.

"To cut his dam' throat," said the little man with such concentrated malignity that Tom shivered.

The days dragged slowly, for life in Ingolsberg Laager was a dreary and wearisome thing. He was herded in a big hut with two hundred other men. The food was vile, the bread half sawdust and the mess which was called by courtesy "soup," wholly impossible.

Every evening he drew as near as possible to the big gate, hoping that the woman would put in an appearance. He spent his nights conning his chief's instructions. Who was the mysterious Parry, the secret agent at whose word he must attempt escape, and in what manner would he make known his order?

In a way the prison experience was interesting and helped pass the time of waiting. He was meeting, not for the first time—he had served as a private in the early days of the war—the working-class Englishman. At first he thought him a dull brute, whose language was deplorable; then he realised that the dullness was diffidence, the brutality a sort of rough philosophy. His language meant nothing, his threats of violence addressed to such of his comrades in misfortune as annoyed him less than nothing. Under the crudity of speech and manner Tommy was a sentimentalist, unswervingly loyal, and a great player of the game. It shocked him to hear them speak disrespectfully of the "Belgiums"—they never said "Belgians"—but he was to discover that the Flemish prisoners had the best time in camp and repaid the kindness showed them by their guards by a little unofficial espionage upon their fellows.

He learnt that the French and the English were polite friends, but did not "mix," and that Tommy's greatest friend in adversity was the Russian soldier, "loyal and lousy," as an English N.C.O. described him. And be discovered why. The Russian was a child and Tommy was a child; it was the affinity between unsophistications.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday passed and, to his relief, Dusty Miller made no attempt to approach him.

On the Thursday occurred the extraordinary happening. He had gone to the cookhouse to stand in a long queue, with a basin in his hand, to receive his midday "soup." The mixture was brown water, quite transparent, with a few scraps of vegetables floating on the surface.

As he carried his ration back to the dining-hall be looked into the concoction—and almost dropped it. For, at the bottom, was an oblong slip of ivory and it bore the one word, which could be plainly read:

"PARRY"

He looked round to see if he were observed and fished the slip from the basin. He turned it over and read in microscopic writing

"Be prepared to leave. Message will be delivered to you at Halle Stadt."

That was all. In what manner he should leave was not suggested.

That afternoon, when the bell had sounded for supper and the prisoners were moving from the recreation ground to their huts, Dusty strolled toward him.

"Look, but don't take too much notice," he said, and jerked his head to the north side of the camp where the commandant's wooden house stood. Tom turned his eyes in the direction the other had indicated. A big limousine was standing before the house, the straight-backed colonel was bowing his greetings to a graceful woman who was at that moment alighting.

"That's her," said Dusty, in a tone of proprietorship. "Would you like a bath?"

"Would I what?" asked the startled Tom.

"A bath?" said the other calmly; "we're allowed one between four an' six. There's the bath-room—that red hut. Stroll over an' turn on the tap; I'll be with you in a minute."

Tom obeyed instructions, tingling with excitement. Had "Parry" arranged this? Was the little man himself Parry? No one challenged him as he made his way leisurely to the frame hut that served the prisoners for their ablutions. It was a roomy place, with a broad trough of running water in the centre, and in two corners were small cubicles. Tom had tubbed once that day but he knew he was expected for once to carry out orders.

He turned the faucet, let the water splash into the big concrete basin that served as a bath, and it had run half full when he heard Dusty's quick step.

"That's the wrong one. Come over here," whispered Miller; "quick—here's a knife; prize up that floor-board whilst I watch."

The floor-board yielded easily, revealing a cavity of uncertain depth beneath.

"Squeeze down and drop—I'll put back the board," said Miller; "hurry!"

Tom struggled through the slit and, with some misgiving, let go. He fell only a few inches and presently his companion was at his side. The "champion escaper" deftly replaced the floor-board and presently Tom heard him strike a match.

The light of the candle he lit showed they were in a roughly excavated pit about eight feet deep and four feet square. Against one side of the pit hung a ragged piece of sacking.

"Just as we left it!" whispered Dusty in admiration.

He pulled the canvas down and revealed the entrance of the tunnel. It was the size of a large drain-pipe, but the brief examination which Tom made showed that it had been scientifically constructed. It was supported by wooden props—pieces of wood filched from time to time by the amateur engineers and applied to the purpose with infinite labour.

"It took eight of us three months to make it. I'll go first," said Dusty.

He crawled into the entrance and Tom followed. The going was slow and laborious. He found himself unbearably hot and gasping for breath, for of ventilation there was little.

After they had been crawling for twenty minutes—it seemed hours—the hollow voice of Dusty said:

"Come up farther and stand up."

To his surprise, Tom found he could stand erect and stretch his cramped and aching limbs.

Dusty relit the candle. They were standing in a pit very much the same size as that into which they had dropped half an hour before, with this exception, that one of the pit sides was faced with brick.

Dusty took a chisel from his pocket, searched for something in the wall, and then gently pressed the edge of the chisel into what appeared to be mortar.

"Soap an' sand," he whispered hoarsely, "me an' Nobby Clark opened this wall the day before they shifted us to another camp."

Working rapidly, he removed brick after brick, Tom crouching by his side holding the candle. Presently a hole was made big enough to pass through, and again Dusty led the way.

They were in a cellar, well stocked with wine and beer. A flight of steps led up to a trap-door and Dusty removed his boots.

"Get yours off, Broady," he said, "climb that ladder while I'm puttin' these bricks back an' push up the trap—there's nobody there or we should hear 'em. I tried but I ain't strong enough."

Tom mounted the steps and pushed gingerly upward. The trap yielded slightly. He pressed harder, putting forth all his strength, and he heard a soft rustle as something slid down the inclined surface of the trap. He listened but there was no sound from the room and he pushed open the trap without difficulty and climbed into a room which was evidently used as a forage store, for it had been a sack of oats lying on the trap which had made it so difficult to open.

Dusty was by his side in a minute, the trap replaced, and the sack of oats returned to its position.

Dusty tried the door and it opened. A brief reconnaissance and they emerged into a corridor, from which opened three doors, the one at the farther end of the passage which faced them being covered by a heavy velvet portière, and the others to the left and the right.

"That's the one," whispered Dusty, indicating the left; "it leads into the garage."

He moved forward and grasped the knob when a smothered exclamation from Tom stopped him.

"What's wrong?" snarled the Cockney, turning.

He saw Tom's eyes fixed upon the doorway at the end of the passage, and following the direction of their gaze he stood open-mouthed at what he saw, for a hand parted the curtains, a gloved hand, and it pointed urgently to the other door.

Only for a moment was Tom paralysed, then, with two swift strides, he reached the portière and pulled the curtain aside. There was nobody there. He was confronted by a heavy oaken door which did not yield to his pressure.

The little space between door and curtain held a delicate fragrance. It was a woman, then!

He came back, puzzled.

"Quick!" urged Dusty in a whisper.

"Not that door. The hand pointed the other way," said Tom.

They moved to the opposite door, turned the handle and pushed it open, and confronted Colonel Heyderbrand!

Resistance was useless. They stood still whilst the commandant shouted his orders.

They were still standing when the soldiers burst in and secured them.

"Pigs! dogs!" hissed the comrnandant. "Why did you not go into the garage, eh? You would have been finished with Little Hell then! To the larger Hell you would have gone! You know what would happen? I was waiting for you. You would have been shot down as you opened the door. You have had a lucky escape, for you have been watched ever since you went into the bathroom, and I was hoping to make an end of this swine," and he lashed Dusty across the face. "Take them away," he said—"but stay, our good friend shall see this scum."

He walked across the ornate room in which the arrests had been made and flung open a door.

"Gracious lady," he called, "Baroness von Zimmermann ! Let me show you some of my wild animals!"

He stood aside with a little bow as the woman entered.

"My God!" cried Tom, for it was Dawn Marsh who stood smiling in the doorway and viewing him superciliously through a pair of lorgnettes!