Читать книгу The Scarlet Squadron - George E. Rochester - Страница 3

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There was little of mystery or intrigue in the air that glorious August afternoon. The sun shone in cloudless blue. Tiny wavelets rippled and murmured against the beach. The turf of the fairways felt crisp and springy beneath the foot, and away across the links nestled the little grey village of Alnmouth, where I was spending the first few days of my leave.

It has been said that coming events cast their shadows before. I do not think, however, that it has been recorded just what proportions those shadows bear to the events. I mention that because it was a very small shadow indeed which first impinged upon my vision, yet it was the herald of my being drawn into events which threatened to plunge the world into war and to rend asunder this Empire of ours.

The shadow fell across my golf ball as I was on the point of driving from the sixteenth tee. At the same moment a somewhat husky voice addressed me from behind:

“Major Beverley! A telegram for yer, sir!”

Turning, I found myself gazing upon the uninspiring features of the boot-boy from the hotel at which I was staying. He clutched in one hand a pink telegraph envelope, and in the other the leash of an aged and sad-looking spaniel.

“Missus said,” he explained, thrusting the envelope towards me, “that I was ter give th’ dawg a walk along th’ links, and give yer this here telegram!”

Murmuring my acknowledgments of the forethought on the part of the manageress of the hotel, I ripped open the envelope. The message it contained was from my chief, Sir Malcolm Douglas, of the Intelligence Department of the Admiralty. I was instructed to report at headquarters without delay, the remainder of my leave—three weeks, or more—being cancelled.

That evening I left Alnmouth, and arrived at the desolate terminus of King’s Cross in the early hours of the following morning. After a bath and breakfast, I hired a taxi and drove to the Admiralty buildings in Whitehall.

Sir Malcolm was sitting writing at his desk when I was ushered into his office. He welcomed me with his firm, quick handshake, then motioned me to be seated.

“I am extremely sorry, Beverley,” he said, “that it has been necessary to curtail your leave, but I have work for you of a certain urgency. Davies is missing!”

“The Flying Beetle, sir?” I exclaimed.

I do not know whether my voice betokened the surprise I felt. Harry Davies, little more than a boy in years, was one of the cleverest agents the British Secret Service possessed. Under his self-chosen nomenclature of the Flying Beetle he had done good work, and somehow the name had stuck.

“Yes, the Flying Beetle,” replied Sir Malcolm, with a faint smile. Then the smile died as he proceeded. “Some time ago rumours reached us that a certain foreign power was casting envious eyes upon our possessions in the East. According to our information, agents of this power were operating in China with a view to stirring up in that country hostility against Britain. Davies was sent to investigate. From his reports we found that the rumours were well founded, and that Britain and the security of the Empire were being seriously menaced. I will go into details later. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, all communications from Davies ceased!”

Sir Malcolm paused and consulted a paper on his desk.

“The last message which we received from Davies was despatched from Suchow,” he went on. “Davies had moved from Hong Kong, almost due north-west across China. This last message was received by us more than six months ago. It contained one curious passage which, decoded, is as follows.”

He picked up a paper and read:

“To-morrow I push on from Suchow. Of late I have been intrigued to hear the hillmen and villagers of this desolate region speak of the ‘big red birds which nest in the hills’ beyond Suchow. It is impossible to obtain many details without displaying an ill-advised curiosity. Last night, when the sun had sunk behind the distant hills, I saw, silhouetted against the red afterglow, a steadily-moving speck. To me, it looked uncommonly like an aeroplane....”

Sir Malcolm laid down the paper.

“That passage was included in the last communication we received from Davies,” he said. “As you have heard, he intended pushing on from Suchow. Did he do so? Is he ill, and thus prevented from sending a message to the outer world? Is he being held prisoner by someone in that wild region or—is he dead? We are sending you to investigate. You will spare no effort to find Davies. If he is dead, then you will ascertain full details as to his death and the manner of it. If Davies has been discovered, by the agents of this power, to be a British Secret Service man, then he will have died—horribly! However, you will leave for China at once, and will not return until you either have found Davies, or have ascertained his fate!”

·····

It was an hour later when I quitted the office of Sir Malcolm Douglas and stepped out into the sunshine of Whitehall. I had been placed in possession of all the available data which might assist me in my search for Davies. His route from Hong Kong to Suchow was clearly defined by the despatches which he had sent through to headquarters. The disguises which he had adopted on the journey had been many and varied. At Suchow he had assumed the rôle of a buyer and seller of mules.

There is little need to go into the details of all that transpired between my leaving London that night and my subsequent arrival in Hong Kong. The voyage was uneventful, and I had plenty to occupy my mind in planning my course of action. Sir Malcolm had been the essence of discreetness in his references to the foreign power which was working to the hurt of England, but he had given me clearly to understand that, should the agents of that power associate me with the British Secret Service, I could expect from them extremely short shrift.

And ever in my mind was the thought of Davies, that slim, perpetually tired-looking youth. I had met him at headquarters on one or two occasions since his great triumph when, in the guise of the Flying Beetle, he had brought about the downfall of that arch plotter, Sir Jaspar Haines. Where was he now, that boy whose bored expression and almost weedy frame belied the alert and nimble brain and sterling courage which he possessed? It might well be that he was dead, for life is cheap and death comes easy in the back of beyond, whither he had penetrated.

Arriving at Hong Kong, I disembarked and lost no time in presenting my credentials at the British Consulate. There, in an ante-room, I renewed my acquaintance with an old friend—Parkin, the finest disguise expert in the world.

“What is it to be this time, sir?” he inquired, after we had exchanged greetings.

“A rather seedy, middle-class Chinaman who will pass muster as a painter of pictures!” I replied.

For such a disguise, I had decided, would stand me in good stead during my journey up country. My purse, even if I possessed one, would be but a measly thing, for which my throat would not be worth the cutting. Any eccentricities which I might develop—such as a desire to sojourn in remote districts—would be put down to artistic temperament; for artistic temperament is universal and knows no bar of colour or creed. And, without my sketching materials, I should be but one insignificant unit in the millions which people the vast tract of country that the world calls China.

Parkin laboured on me with wonderful dexterity. My nose was moulded into a squat caricature of itself by the injection of wax under the skin. Rubber pads were cunningly fitted inside my cheeks, giving the impression of the high cheek-bones of the Chinese. The outside corners of my eyes were drawn up obliquely towards my temples and fixed by a varnish impervious to water. My eyelashes were trimmed, then straightened by the application of a thin, colourless varnish. A further rubber pad was fixed beneath my upper lip and my face was coloured until it assumed a sallow, yellowish tint. My hair was shaved off and a close-fitting wig of short black hair fitted by means of a strong spirit gum. I then stripped and bathed in a tin bath full of a not ill-smelling mixture. My skin, when dried, had assumed a slightly lighter tint than my face. Parkin left nothing to chance. He himself selected the clothes I should wear and, when I was dressed, he made a few minor adjustments here and there. At length he expressed himself as satisfied, and led me to a large, full-length mirror. For a long minute I stood contemplating the seedy Celestial into which I had been transformed by the magic hands of Parkin. It was Parkin who brought me to myself.

“Your name, sir?” he inquired.

“Wu Chang!” I replied, and he jotted it down in a book.

“Well, good-bye, sir,” he said, holding out his hand, “and I wish you the very best of luck! Although it may be superfluous, I can only urge you to live the part. Sink your real identity, and never, not even for the fractional part of a second, be other than Wu Chang, needy painter of pictures!”

I nodded, for I knew the truth of what he said. We shook hands, and as I moved towards the door, he snapped, “Get out of this, you thieving rat!”

He was ever an artist, was Parkin. I checked in time my start of astonishment, for who was I, Wu Chang, to offer protest. For the time being, my old self was dead and, shufflingly, my new self passed out into the street, in search of a night’s lodging.

I slept that night in a foul dive down by the docks. For company I had a choice selection of the scourings of the seven seas. I had purposely sought out such a place, for I knew it would abound with eyes which were sharp and minds suspicious. My disguise passed muster, however, and none appeared to take me for other than I seemed to be.

Next morning I crossed the water to the mainland and set out on the last stage of my journey. My destination was Suchow, the spot from which the Flying Beetle had sent his last communication.