The Mystery Ship 9

The Mystery Ship 9

"And when you spot a Hun 'plane?" inquired Wakefield.

 

"That's quite a different story. Just step aft a minute."

 

Morpeth led the way abaft the engine-room hatchway. On the centre

line of the narrow deck was a metal flap about eighteen inches

square.

 

"Our anti-aircraft gun is below there," observed the R.N.R. officer.

"No, we don't lug it on deck. It's fired from below. Now, when a Hun

spots us and we can't make ourselves scarce, we stop our engines and

display a signal as per Imperial German Navy Code Book, a copy of

which was issued to me by the British Admiralty."

 

"I know the thing," remarked Wakefield.

 

"Down swoops inquisitive Fritz," continued Morpeth, "and then we

have him cold."

 

Wakefield stifled another yawn.

 

"'Scuse me," he murmured apologetically, "but it's not because I'm

not interested. I am, really; but Nature is reminding me that I've

had no sleep for the last twenty-four hours."

 

"By Jove! Why didn't you tell me before?" demanded Morpeth, in

genuine concern. "Turn in, both of you, at once; and if you're out

before the sun's over the fore-yard there'll be trouble."

 

"Right-o, on one condition," rejoined Wakefield.

 

The R.N.R. lieutenant-commander smiled grimly.

 

"I don't have fellows making conditions with the skipper of this

hooker as a general rule," he remarked. "But what is it?"

 

"That we are called if there's any little stunt on," continued

Wakefield.

 

"That's a deal," agreed Morpeth. "Good-night."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII

 

VON PREUSSEN'S BLANK DAY

 

 

"WHAT a ghastly welcome!" soliloquised Leutnant Karl von Preussen, as

he approached the "prohibited area" of Auldhaig. For the present his

assumed name was Captain George Fennelburt, R.A.F., and in adopting

the name and character he had left very little to chance. His

pocket-book bulged with spurious official documents, printed in

Germany, and replicas of papers that had either been surreptitiously

obtained from British air stations, or had been found on captured

men.

 

It was not a pleasant sort of evening. The sea mist had turned to a

steady drizzle, accompanied by gusts of icy-cold wind. On the road,

cut up by exceptionally heavy motor traffic, the mud lay four inches

deep. Wearing a heavy trench coat, thick boots and leggings, and

encumbered by a bulky haversack, von Preussen found himself decidedly

hot and clammy before he had covered many miles of his long tramp.

 

He had studiously avoided the cliff road, preferring to make a detour

inland and to approach Auldhaig from the railway station.

 

At length he gained the summit of the hill overlooking the town. On

his left lay the important munition factory of Sauchieblair, shrouded

in utter darkness, although there were aural evidences in plenty of

the activity that was in progress day and night. A mile to the north

gleamed lights. Von Preussen smiled grimly as he saw them. He knew

precisely the meaning of the unscreened gleams. They were decoys,

shown for the purpose of putting a raider off the scent, and up to a

certain point had justified their existence.

 

Ahead lay Auldhaig, also shrouded in utter darkness. Neither in the

wide ramifications of the landlocked harbour, nor from the vast

expanse of wharves and docks, was there the faintest sign of a light;

but the clatter of pneumatic hammers and the rumbling of locomotives

indicated pretty plainly that the shipyards were running at high

pressure.

 

Without difficulty, von Preussen passed the guard at the block-house

on the bridge and entered the sombre town. It was now four o'clock in

the morning, and the spy wisely decided to make for an hotel and have

a much needed rest.

 

In response to a knock the door of the Antelope Hotel was opened by a

sleepy night porter, who evinced no surprise at the belated arrival

of a guest.

 

"You'll be registering in the morn, sir," he remarked.

 

"Thanks; I may as well register at once," replied the spy, not that

he wanted to take the trouble to do so, but because he had ulterior

motives.

 

In a bold hand he made the perfunctory declaration:--"George

Fennelburt, Captn. R.A.F.; business--on duty; where stationed

--Sheerness; name of Commanding Officer--Lieut.-Colonel H. B. L.

Greathooks, O.B.E."

 

"Silly lot of rot, sir," remarked the porter, "giving a gent no end

of trouble. If you was to put down 'Julius Caesar' or 'Christopher

Columbus' I don't see as how it 'ud matter."

 

"It's regulations, you know," said von Preussen, handing the fellow

half a crown. "Now get me a glass of something hot and a snack. I'm

hungry."

 

The porter hurried off to execute the commission, pondering in his

mind on the inconsistency of the officer, who almost in one breath

had upheld the regulations and had broken them in the matter of

obtaining liquor during prohibited hours.

 

Seizing his opportunity during the man's absence, von Preussen

scanned the pile of registration forms lying on the reception clerk's

desk. It behoved him to ascertain "who's who" with regard to the

naval, military and air officers staying at the hotel--particularly

the latter, as he had no desire to meet anyone hailing from Sheerness

or Isle of Grain air stations.

 

Satisfied on that point, the spy went to bed, apologising for the

muddy state of his boots by stating that he had missed the last train

from Nedderburn, and had been compelled to walk to Auldhaig.

 

He slept soundly till close on eleven in the morning. At noon, spick

and span, he made his way to Auldhaig Dockyard, with the plausible

intention of inspecting X-lighters, but with the real object of

keeping his ears and eyes open.

 

Noon was a well-chosen time. The dockyard "maties" had knocked off

work for dinner, while the officials, with the prospects of lunch in

the near distance, would almost certainly request the pseudo-Captain

Fennelburt to call again at three. That meant, once inside the

dockyard gates, the spy had three hours in which to make useful

observations.

 

The first official he called upon was the Senior Naval Officer, who,

forgetting that the X-barges had left early that morning in the

charge of Sub-lieutenant Jock McIntosh, R.N.V.R., referred Captain

Fennelburt to the Captain of the Dockyard. That individual, who had a

dim recollection that the craft in question were in his charge and

were about to be handed over to the Royal Air Force, requested the

_soi-disant_ representative of that branch of the Service to inquire

of the Chief Writer. The Chief Writer, about to go to lunch, summoned

the Head Messenger, who in turn told off a messenger to accompany

Captain Fennelburt on his search for the elusive X-lighters.

 

For the next three-quarters of an hour the spy was hurried to and fro

over the slippery cobble-stones of Auldhaig Dockyard. He saw very

little that would be of service to the Imperial German Government.

For one reason, the messenger stuck like a leech and lost no time,

since he too was wanting his dinner. For another, everything in the

way of new ship construction was being done under cover, while

zealous, lynx-eyed policemen--picked men from the Metropolitan Police

Force--were everywhere in evidence; and von Preussen had a wholesome

respect for men in blue.

 

"What's that vessel?" inquired von Preussen, indicating a tramp

steamer with her sides and deck covered with tarpaulins.

 

"Merchantman, sir," replied his escort.

 

"Why is she in a Government dock?" continued the spy. "I thought

tramp steamers would be repaired in the commercial dock."

 

"So would she," answered the man. "Only there wasn't room. Torpedoed,

she was, 'bout a month ago."

 

"Then why all that canvas over her?" asked von Preussen, beginning to

find himself on the track of something mysterious.

 

"'Tis like this, sir," explained his companion with the utmost

gravity. "Her captain is living on board, an' 'e's got a bald 'ead.

When it rains they rigs up an awning to keep the drops off 'is pate,

'cause 'e gets awfully up the pole an' leads the crew a regular dog's

life if he's upset by gettin' 'is 'ead wet."

 

"I perceive you are a humorist," remarked von Preussen drily.

 

"Didn't know it, sir," rejoined the man. "My mates usually call me

'Mouldy Bill.' But hangin' around 'ere won't find what you're lookin'

for, sir, so let's make a move."

 

It was an application of "official reticence and reserve" on the

part of this minor servant of the Admiralty. He knew perfectly well

that the tramp was in reality a Q-boat, and that under those canvas

awnings lay hidden a collection of mysterious "gadgets," for a

detailed description of which the authorities at Berlin would give a

high sum in gold.

 

To linger would arouse suspicion, so reluctantly the spy followed his

guide on what he knew to be a vain quest for craft that were no

longer at Auldhaig.

 

"Why not try the Kite and Balloon Section of the R.A.F.?" suggested

an official. "The depot is just across the harbour. I'll let you have

a boat."

 

Von Preussen debated before replying. The offer was a tempting one,

for not only would he get a chance of having a closer view of various

warships in the stream, but there was no telling what information he

might pick up at the depot. On the other hand, he didn't want to be

asked awkward questions by men wearing the same uniform as himself.

He knew, however, that it was no exception to detail perfectly

incompetent officers on inspection duties. He had heard of a case of

one who hardly knew one end of a boat from another who was sent on a

700-mile journey to report upon some rowing-boats about to be

purchased for a station in the south of England.

 

"Thanks," he replied. "I may even yet get on the track of those

elusive X-barges."

 

Twenty minutes later von Preussen was seated in the stern-sheets of a

harbour service duty boat. To his guarded inquiries of the coxwain as

to the names of the vessels lying at the buoys, he received an equally guarded answer: