The Mystery Ship 19

The Mystery Ship 19

He had reason for his maledictory utterance. In the earlier days of

the war, when he was a lieutenant of Uhlans, he soon learnt to have a

wholesome respect for the stalwart, bare-kneed, kilted men from

"Caledonia stern and wild." He recalled an incident at a certain

village about twenty kilometres from Mons. His squadron had overtaken

twenty tired Highlanders tramping along the _pavé_. Observation by

means of binoculars showed that they were bordering on utter fatigue.

Most of them wore blood-stained bandages. They had no officer with

them. They looked to be an easy prey to the lances of his Uhlans. Von

Preussen never had a worse shock. Instead of the kilted men taking to

their heels at the sight of the charging cavalry and thus falling

easy victims to the steel-tipped lances, they coolly threw themselves

into a circle fringed by a ring of glittering bayonets. Three volleys

in quick succession were too much for the Uhlans to stomach. They

galloped off, amongst them von Preussen groaning and cursing with a

bullet wound through his left shoulder.

 

In the present instance he decided that he had nothing to fear from

these men. A little further on were three greatcoated officers. With

a grunt of satisfaction von Preussen noted that their cap-bands were

not black with the badge of the crown, eagle and wings. He had good

cause to avoid Air Force officers and men just at present.

 

Beyond stood a sturdily-built man with a long black coat and soft

hat--evidently a clergyman. He was trying to decipher a poster in the

feeble glimmer of the station lamps.

 

The changing of the signal from red to green warned the spy that it

was time to enter the station. Outside the entrance stood an old and

somewhat decrepit porter who, after inquiry as to whether the new

arrival had any luggage and receiving a negative reply, hobbled off

to ring the bell. At the doorway stood a girl ticket-collector.

 

"Warrant, miss!" exclaimed von Preussen, holding out a buff paper.

 

The girl examined it perfunctorily.

 

"Carlisle--change at Edinburgh!" she announced.

 

The spy thanked the girl for the gratuitous and unnecessary

information. To change at Edinburgh was his intention. By so doing he

could withhold and destroy the faked railway warrant, which, had it

been retained by the ticket collector, would eventually be presented

to the Air Ministry for payment. Already von Preussen had travelled

thousands of miles over British railways without payment, and never

once had he surrendered the buff slip that would otherwise have been

a clue to his movements.

 

With much hissing of steam the night mail train drew up at the

platform. The handful of travellers hurried along, peering into the

dimly-lit compartments in the hope of finding vacant seats. Von

Preussen happened to secure one in the company of five naval officers

who were already "bored stiff" with their tedious journey from a far

northern base. The spy soon discovered that there was precious little

information to be picked up from them.

 

At Perth the spy changed compartments. He now found himself in the

company of four rather lively subalterns and the clergyman he had

noticed on Nedderburn Junction platform. The latter, deep in the

pages of the _Church Times_, took no notice of the new arrival.

 

"Tickets, please!"

 

A gigantic inspector examined the tickets and vouchers of the

occupants of the compartment.

 

"Change at Edinburgh," he remarked, as he clipped von Preussen's

warrant. "Through train to Carlisle at 7.5."

 

With the resumption of the journey, the clerical passenger offered

von Preussen a copy of an evening paper as a prelude to opening

conversation. He was, he informed the spy, travelling from Nedderburn

to Hawick, where he was about to take up an Army chaplaincy at Stobs

Camp. In return von Preussen told a fairy tale to the effect that he

was joining an R.A.F. balloon station near Carlisle and gave some

vivid and totally imaginary stories of his adventures in the air. Yet

in spite of several attempts to draw the subalterns into the

conversation, the hilarious representatives of the "One Star Crush"

limited their discourse to anecdotes calculated to bring blushes to

the cheeks of the padre.

 

It was nearly six in the morning when the train reached Edinburgh.

Without difficulty von Preussen passed the barrier and emerged into

Princes Street. For the rest of the day he remained in seclusion at a

small private hotel just behind Edinburgh's main thoroughfare.

 

He had a nasty shock that evening. The evening papers came out with

an announcement that there was a reward of one hundred pounds for

information leading to the detection of a certain individual giving

the name of George Fennelburt, aged about thirty; height, five feet

seven or eight; broadly built, fair featured with blue eyes. Believed

to be wearing the uniform of a captain in the Royal Air Force, and

last seen in the neighbourhood of Auldhaig.

 

Von Preussen broke into a gentle perspiration. Furtively he glanced

at his companions in the commercial room. They were, fortunately for

him, deep in a game of chess.

 

The spy had registered in the name of Captain Broadstone. That was

now, of itself, a decidedly risky proceeding, since, the hue and cry

being raised, there would most certainly be a stringent examination

of registration forms at all the hotels.

 

Even in his panic von Preussen was curious. He could form no

satisfactory theory on the matter. How was his presence known, since

it was reasonable to conjecture that the authorities knew he had gone

on the fishing expedition that had been so unpropitious to his

temporary companions? Obviously the notice offering a reward for his

apprehension had not been issued before his visit to Auldhaig; and

since he, with others, was missing and presumed to be drowned, why go

to the length of advertising for his arrest? Perchance U 247 had been

captured and the British prisoners released. Even in that case none

of those knew the true facts. When they were sent below they were

under the impression that he, von Preussen, was also a prisoner of

war. In the absence of detail the newspaper notice was terrible in

its gaunt wording.

 

"I will have to find a different disguise," he decided. "But how? To

purchase civilian clothing would be courting instant suspicion. I

cannot get it myself, nor can I trust anyone to obtain it for me. Yet

to persist in appearing in this Air Force uniform would be simple

madness. It is equally futile to dye my hair and eyebrows. The people

here would notice the difference instantly. And if I changed my hotel

I would run fresh and possibly greater risks. _Himmel!_ What can I

do?"

 

He glanced suspiciously round the room. The players, deep in their

game, paid no attention to anyone or anything else.

 

"There's one blessing," he soliloquised. "I registered as Broadstone,

not Fennelburt. I think I'll go to bed. It's safer."

 

He went, placed his automatic pistol under his pillow, and found

himself looking at the empty portmanteau. Then, switching off the

light, he attempted to court slumber.

 

It was in vain. For hours he lay wide awake, racking his ready brain

for a solution to the apparently insurmountable difficulty. He heard

the occupant of the next room retiring, the click of the electric

light switch, and very soon after, the first of a series of loud

snores.

 

"At all events," thought the spy, "the fellow is luckier than I: he

can sleep soundly."

 

The sleeper and the empty portmanteau: subconsciously von Preussen

connected the two. Why, he knew not, but gradually and with

increasing lucidity a plan matured. Why not steal the sleeper's

clothes, pack them into his portmanteau, and change in a remote

country spot?

 

"It may throw suspicion on me," he thought, "but it's worth trying.

Given four or five hours' start, I'll throw them off the scent."

 

Cautiously von Preussen got out of bed and opened the door. A light

burned in the corridor. By its aid he could see pairs of boots

standing outside the various rooms: either the servant responsible

for the cleaning of them was late, or else the task of collection was

left till early in the morning.

 

Silently the spy picked up a boot belonging to the person he intended

to rob and examined it carefully. It was an "eight":--a similar size

to his. So far so good; he could only hope that the fellow resembled

him in build and height. He must at all events avoid the incongruity

of donning the clothes of a man five feet two or six feet one.

 

Very deftly von Preussen tried the door-handle. The sleeper had

omitted to bolt the door. The snores continued.

 

Creeping into the room the intruder closed the door. The lawful

occupant had evidently not intended to wake up and switch on the

light, otherwise he would not have thrown back the heavy curtains and

admitted the moonlight. Neatly folded on a chair were the man's

clothes. For once the methodical habits of their owner were to his

disadvantage.

 

Quickly von Preussen collected the articles, and, pausing only for a

few minutes to make sure that the corridor was deserted, regained his

own room.

 

Ten minutes later, having crammed his portmanteau with his

newly-gotten booty, he again turned in.

 

He had arranged to be called at eight-thirty. He saw no object in

anticipating the hour. Let the occupier of the adjoining room

discover his loss. The management would not dare to question the

officer guest or examine his portmanteau.

 

At seven he was awakened by a furious ringing and a bellowing voice.

He smiled grimly. The fun was about to commence. He could hear

various members of the hotel staff talking excitedly, while the

indignant tones of the robbed guest dominated all.

 

Pleading a headache caused by the noise and that he was suffering

from shell-shock, von Preussen had his breakfast brought to his

bedroom. Then, having shaved and paid his bill, he grasped his now

heavy portmanteau and left the hotel.

 

He made his way to Princes Street, feeling horribly self-conscious.

At every salute he received and returned, he felt that the man who

gave it had his suspicions. He made haste to board the first tramcar,

which, he noticed, was marked "Portobello and Joppa."

 

Before the car had passed Scott's Monument a couple of R.A.F.

officers boarded it and, to the spy's consternation, took seats

immediately behind him.

 

Presently one of them, a captain, tapped von Preussen on the shoulder: