The Man with the Clubfoot Page 6

  CHAPTER VI

  I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN AND LEAVE A LAME GENTLEMAN ON THE PLATFORM

  I was caught like a rat in a trap. I could not return by the way I hadcome and the only egress was closed to me. The area door and window werethe only means of escape from the little court. The one was locked, theother barred. I was fairly trapped. All I had to do now was to waituntil my absence was discovered and the broken rope found to show themwhere I was. Then they would come down to the area, I should beconfronted with the man, Stelze, and my goose would be fairly cooked.

  As quietly as I could I made a complete, thorough, rapid examination ofthe area. It was a dank, dark place, only lit where the yellow lightstreamed forth from the scullery. It had a couple of low bays hollowedout of the masonry under the little courtyard, the one filled with woodblocks, the other with broken packingcases, old bottles and likerubbish. I explored these until my hands came in contact with the dampbricks at the back, but in vain. Door and window remained the onlymeans of escape.

  Four tall tin refuse tins stood in line in front of these two bays, afifth was stowed away under the iron stair. They were all nearly full ofrefuse, so were useless as hiding places. In any case it accordedneither with the part I was playing nor with my sense of the ludicrousto be discovered by the hotel domestics hiding in a refuse bin.

  I was at my wits' end to know what to do. I had dared so much, all hadgone so surprisingly well, that it was heartbreaking to be foiled withliberty almost within my grasp. A great wave of disappointment sweptover me until I felt my very heart sicken. Then I heard footsteps andhope revived within me.

  I shrunk back into the darkness of the area behind the refuse binsstanding in front of the bay nearest the door.

  Within the house footsteps were approaching the scullery. I heard a dooropen, then a man's voice singing. He was warbling in a fine mellowbaritone that popular German ballad:

  "Das haben die Maedchen so gerneDie im Stuebchen und die im _Salong."_

  The voice hung lovingly and wavered and trilled on that word _"Salong"_:the effect was so much to the singer's liking that he sang the staveover again. A bumping and a rattle as of loose objects in an empty boxformed the accompaniment to his song.

  "A cheery fellow!" I said to myself. If only I could see who it was! ButI dare not move into that patch of yellow light from which the only viewinto the scullery was afforded.

  The singing stopped. Again I heard a door open. Was he going away?

  Then I saw a thin shaft of light under the area door.

  The next moment it was flung back and the waiter, Karl, appeared, stillin his blue apron, a bucket in either hand.

  He was coming to the refuse bins.

  Pudd'n Head Wilson's advice came into my mind; "When angry count up tofour; when very angry, swear." I was not angry but scared, terriblyscared, scared so that I could hear my heart pulsating in great thuds inmy ears. Nevertheless, I followed the advice of the sage of Dawson'sLanding and counted to myself: one, two, three, four, one, two, three,four; while my heart hammered out: Keep cool, keep cool, keep cool! Andall the time I remained crouching behind the first two refuse binsnearest the door.

  The waiter hummed to himself the melody of his little ditty in a deepbourdon as he paused a moment at the door. Then he advanced slowlyacross the area.

  Would he stop at the refuse bins behind which I cowered?

  No, he passed them.

  The third? The fourth?

  No!

  He walked straight across the area and went to the bin beneath thestairs.

  I muttered a blessing inwardly on the careful habits of the German whoorganizes even his refuse into separate tubs.

  The man had his back to the door.

  Now or never was my chance.

  I crawled round my friendly garbage tins, reached the area door ontip-toe and stepped softly into the house. As I did so I heard the clankof tin as Karl replaced the lid of the tub.

  A dark passage stretched out in front of me. Immediately to my right wasthe scullery door wide open. I must avoid the scullery at all costs. Theman might remain there and I could not risk him driving me before himback to the entrance hall of the hotel.

  I crept down the dark passage with hands outstretched. Presently theyfell upon the latch of a door. I pressed it, the door opened inwardsinto the darkness and I passed through. As I softly closed the doorbehind me I heard Karl's heavy step and the grinding of the key as helocked the area door.

  I stood in a kind of cupboard in pitch darkness, hardly daring tobreathe.

  Once more I heard the man singing his idiotic song. I did not dare lookout from my hiding-place, for his voice sounded so near that I feared hemight be still in the passage.

  So I stood and waited.

  * * * * *

  I must have stayed there for an hour in the dark. I heard the waitercoming and going in the scullery, listened to his heavy tramp, to hiseverlasting snatch of song, to the rattle of utensils, as he went abouthis work. Every minute of the time I was tortured by the apprehensionthat he would come to the cupboard in the passage.

  It was cold in that damp subterranean place. The cupboard was roomyenough, so I thought I would put on the overcoat I was carrying. As Istretched out my arm, my hand struck hard against some kind ofprojecting hook in the wall behind me.

  "Damn!" I swore savagely under my breath, but I put out my hand again tofind out what had hurt me. My fingers encountered the cold iron of alatch. I pressed it and it gave.

  A door swung open and I found myself in another little area with aflight of stone steps leading to the street.

  * * * * *

  I was in a narrow lane driven between the tall sides of the houses. Itwas a cul-de-sac. At the open end I could see the glimmer of streetlamps. It had stopped raining and the air was fresh and pleasant.Carrying my bag I walked briskly down the lane and presently emerged ina quiet thoroughfare traversed by a canal--probably the street, Ithought, that I had seen from the windows of my bedroom. The Hotel Sixtlay to the right of the lane: I struck out to the left and in a fewminutes found myself in an open square behind the Bourse.

  There I found a cab-rank with three or four cabs drawn up in line, thehorses somnolent, the drivers snoring inside their vehicles. I stirredup the first and bade the driver take me to the Cafe Tarnowski.

  Everyone who has been to Holland knows the Cafe Tarnowski at Rotterdam.It is an immense place with hundreds of marble-topped tables tucked awayamong palms under a vast glazed roof. Day or night it never closes: thewaiters succeed each other in shifts: day and night the great hallresounds to the cry of orders, the patter of the waiters' feet, theclick of dominoes on the marble tables.

  Delicious Dutch cafe au lait, a beefsteak and fried potatoes, mostsucculent of all Dutch dishes, crisp white bread, hot from the midnightbaking, and appetizing Dutch butter, largely compensated for the thrillsof the night. Then I sent for some more coffee, black this time, and arailway guide, and lighting a cigarette began to frame my plan ofcampaign.

  The train for Berlin left Rotterdam at seven in the morning. It was nowten minutes past two, so I had plenty of time. From that night onward, Itold myself, I was a German, and from that moment I set myselfassiduously to _feel_ myself a German as well as enact the part.

  "It's no use dressing a part," Francis used to say to me; "you must_feel_ it as well. If I were going to disguise myself as a Berliner, Ishould not be content to shave my head and wear a bowler hat with amorning coat and get my nails manicured pink. I should begin bypersuading myself that I was the Lord of creation, that bad manners is asign of manly strength and that dishonesty is the highest form ofdiplomacy. Then only should I set about getting the costume!"

  Poor old Francis! How shrewd he was and how well he knew his Berliners!

  There is nothing like newspapers for giving one an idea of nationalsentiment. I had not spoken to a German, save to a few terrified Germanrats, prisoners of war i
n France, since the beginning of the war and Iknew that my knowledge of German thought must be rusty. So I sent thewilling waiter for all the German papers and periodicals he could layhis hands on. He returned with stacks of them, _Berliner Tageblatt,Kelnische Zeitung, Vorwerts;_ the alleged comic papers, _Kladderadatsch,Lustige Bletter_ and _Simplicissimus;_ the illustrated press, _LeipzigerIllustrirte Zeitung, Der Weltkrieg im Bild,_ and the rest: thatremarkable cafe even took in such less popular publications as Harden's_Zukunft_ and semi-blackmailing rags like _Der Roland von Berlin._

  For two hours I saturated myself with German contemporary thought asexpressed in the German press. I deliberately laid my mind open toconviction; I repeated to myself over and over again: "We Germans arefighting a defensive war: the scoundrelly Grey made the world-war: Gottstrafe England!" Absurd as this proceeding seems to me when I look backupon it, I would not laugh at myself at the time. I must be German, Imust feel German, I must think German: on that would my safety in theimmediate future depend.

  I laid aside my reading in the end with a feeling of utter amazement. Inevery one of these publications, in peace-time so widely dissimilar inconviction and trend, I found the same mentality, the same outlook, thesame parrot-like cries. What the _Cologne Gazette_ shrieked from itseditorial columns, the comic (God save the mark) press echoed in fouland hideous caricature. Here was organization with a vengeance, themobilization of national thought, a series of gramophone records fedinto a thousand different machines so that each might play the selfsametune.

  "You needn't worry about your German mentality," I told myself, "you'vegot it all here! You've only got to be a parrot like the rest and you'llbe as good a Hun as Hindenburg!"

  A Continental waiter, they say, can get one anything one chooses to askfor at any hour of the day or night. I was about to put this theory tothe test.

  "Waiter," I said (of course, in German), "I want a bag, a handbag. Doyou think you could get me one?"

  "Does the gentleman want it now?" the man replied.

  "This very minute," I answered.

  "About that size?"--indicating Semlin's. "Yes, or smaller if you like: Iam not particular."

  "I will see what can be done."

  In ten minutes the man was back with a brown leather bag about a sizesmaller than Semlin's. It was not new and he charged me thirty gulden(which is about fifty shillings) for it. I paid with a willing heart andtipped him generously to boot, for I wanted a bag and could not waittill the shops opened without missing the train for Germany.

  I paid my bill and drove off to the Central Station through the darkstreets with my two bags. The clocks were striking six as I enteredunder the great glass dome of the station hall.

  I went straight to the booking-office, and bought a first-class ticket,single, to Berlin. One never knows what may happen and I had severalthings to do before the train went.

  The bookstall was just opening. I purchased a sovereign's worth of booksand magazines, English, French and German, and crammed them into the bagI had procured at the cafe. Thus laden I adjourned to the stationbuffet.

  There I set about executing a scheme I had evolved for leaving thedocument which Semlin had brought from England in a place of safety,whence it could be recovered without difficulty, should anything happento me. I knew no one in Holland save Dicky, and I could not send him thedocument, for I did not trust the post. For the same reason I would notpost the document home to my bank in England: besides, I knew one couldnot register letters until eight o'clock, by which hour I hoped to bewell on my way into Germany.

  No, my bag, conveniently weighted with books and deposited at thestation cloak-room, should be my safe. The comparative security ofstation cloak-rooms as safe deposits has long been recognized by jewelthieves and the like and this means of leaving my document behind insafety seemed to me to be better than any other I could think of.

  So I dived into my bag and from the piles of literature it containedpicked up a book at random. It was a German brochure: _Gott strafeEngland!_ by Prof. Dr. Hugo Bischoff, of the University of Goettingen.The irony of the thing appealed to my sense of humour. "So be it!" Isaid. "The worthy Professor's fulminations against my country shall havethe honour of harbouring the document which is, apparently, of suchvalue to _his_ country!" And I tucked the little canvas case away insidethe pages of the pamphlet, stuck the pamphlet deep down among the booksand shut the bag.

  Seeing its harmless appearance the cloak-room receipt--Icalculated--would, unlike Semlin's document, attract no attention if, byany mischance, it fell into wrong hands _en route._ I therefore did notscruple to commit it to the post. Before taking my bag of books to thecloak-room I wrote two letters. Both were to Ashcroft--Ashcroft of theForeign Office, who got me my passport and permit to come to Rotterdam.Herbert Ashcroft and I were old friends. I addressed the envelopes tohis private house in London. The Postal Censor, I knew, keen though healways is after letters from neutral countries, would leave oldHerbert's correspondence alone.

  The first letter was brief. "Dear Herbert," I wrote, "would you mindlooking after the enclosed until you hear from me again? Filthy weatherhere. Yours, D.O." This letter was destined to contain the cloak-roomreceipt. To conceal the importance of an enclosure, it is always a gooddodge to send the covering letter under separate cover.

  "Dear Herbert," I said in my second letter, "If you don't hear from mewithin two months of this date regarding the enclosure you will havealready received, please send someone, or, preferably, go yourself andcollect my luggage at the cloak-room of the Rotterdam Central Station. Iknow how busy you always are. Therefore you will understand my reasonsfor making this inordinate claim upon your time. Yours, D.O." And, byway of a clue, I added, inconsequently enough: _"Gott strafe England!"_

  I chuckled inwardly at the thought of Herbert's face on receiving thispreposterous demand that he should abandon his dusty desk in DowningStreet and betake himself across the North Sea to fetch my luggage. Buthe'd go all right. I knew my Herbert, dull and dry and conventional, buta most faithful friend.

  I called a porter at the entrance of the buffet and handing him Semlin'sbag and overcoat, bade him find me a first-class carriage in the Berlintrain when it arrived. I would meet him on the platform. Then, at thecloak-room opposite, I gave in my bag of books, put the receipt in thefirst letter and posted it in the letter-box within the station. I wentout into the streets with the second letter and posted it in aletter-box let into the wall of a tobacconist's shop in a quiet street afew turnings away. By this arrangement I reckoned Herbert would get theletter with the receipt before the covering letter arrived.

  Returning to the railway station I noticed a kind of slop shop whichdespite the early hour was already open. A fat Jew in his shirt-sleeves,his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, stood at the entrance framed inhanging overcoats and bats and boots. I had no umbrella and it struck methat a waterproof of some kind might not be a bad addition to myextremely scanty wardrobe. Moreover, I reflected that with the rubbershortage rain-coats must be at a premium in Germany.

  So I followed the bowing son of Shem into his dark and dirty shop andemerged presently wearing an appallingly ugly green mackintosh reekinghideously of rubber. It was a shocking garment but I reflected that Iwas a German and must choose my garb accordingly.

  Outside the shop I nearly ran into a little man who was loafing in thedoorway. He was a wizened, scrubby old fellow wearing a dirty peaked capwith a band of tarnished gold. I knew him at once for one of thoseguides, half tout, half bully, that infest the railway termini of allgreat Continental cities.

  "Want a guide, sir?" the man said in German.

  I shook my head and hurried on. The man trotted beside me. "Want a good,cheap hotel, sir? Good, respectable house.... Want a ..."

  "Ach! gehen sie zum Teufel!" I cried angrily. But the man persisted,running along beside me and reeling off his tout's patter in a wheezing,asthmatic voice. I struck off blindly down the first turning we came to,hoping to be rid of the fellow, but in va
in. Finally, I stopped and heldout a gulden.

  "Take this and go away!" I said.

  The old fellow waved the coin aside.

  "Danke, danke," he said nonchalantly, looking at the same time to rightand left.

  Then he said in a calm English voice, utterly different from his whiningaccents of a moment before:

  "You must be a dam' cool hand!"

  But he didn't bluff me, staggered though I was. I said quickly inGerman:

  "What do you want with me? I don't understand you. If you annoy me anymore I shall call the police!"

  Again he spoke in English and it was the voice of a well-bred Englishmanthat spoke:

  "You're either a past master at the game or raving mad. Why! the wholestation is humming after you! Yet you walked out of the buffet andthrough the whole lot of them without turning a hair. No wonder theynever spotted you!"

  Again I answered in German:

  "Ich verstehe nicht!"

  But he went on in English, without seeming to notice my observation:

  "Hang it all, man, you can't go into Germany wearing a regimental tie!"

  My hand flew to my collar and the blood to my head. What a cursedamateur I was, after all! I had entirely forgotten that I was wearing myregimental colours. I was crimson with vexation but also with a sense ofrelief. I felt I might trust this man. It would be a sharp German agentwho would notice a small detail like that.

  Still I resolved to stick to German: I would trust nobody.

  But the guide had started his patter again. I saw two workmenapproaching. When they had passed, he said, this time in English:

  "You're quite right to be cautious with a stranger like me, but I wantto warn you. Why, I've been following you round all the morning. Luckyfor you it was me and not one of the others...."

  Still I was silent. The little man went on:

  "For the past half-hour they have been combing that station for you. Howyou managed to escape them I don't know except that none of them seemsto have a very clear idea of your appearance. You don't look veryBritish, I grant you; but I spotted your tie and then I recognized theBritish officer all right.

  "No, don't worry to tell me anything about yourself--it is none of mybusiness to know, any more than you will find out anything about me. Iknow where you are going, for I heard you take your ticket; but you mayas well understand that you have as much chance of getting into yourtrain if you walk into the railway hall and up the stairs in theordinary way as you have of flying across the frontier."

  "But they can't stop me!" I said. "This isn't Germany...."

  "Bah!" said the guide. "You will be jostled, there will be analtercation, a false charge, and you will miss your train! _They_ willattend to the rest!

  "Damn it, man," he went on, "I know what I'm talking about. Here, comewith me and I'll show you. You have twenty minutes before the traingoes. Now start the German again!"

  We went down the street together for all the world like a "mug" in towof one of those black-guard guides. As we approached the station theguide said in his whining German:

  "Pay attention to me now. I shall leave you here. Go to the suburbanbooking-office--the entrance is in the street to the left of thestation hall. Go into the first-class waiting-room and look out ofthe window that gives on to the station hall. There you will see someof the forces mobilized against you. There is a regular cordon ofguides--like me--drawn across the entrances to the main-lineplatforms--unostentatiously, of course. If you look you will see plentyof plain-clothes Huns, too...."

  "Guides?" I said.

  He nodded cheerfully.

  "Looks bad for me, doesn't it? But one gets better results by being oneof them. Oh! it's all right. In any case you've got to trust me now.

  "See here! When you have satisfied yourself that I'm correct in what Isay, take a platform ticket and walk upstairs to platform No. 5. On thatplatform you will find a train. Go to the end where the metals run outof the station, where the engine would be coupled on, and get into thelast first-class carriage. On no account move from there until you seeme. Now then, I'll have that gulden!"

  I gave him the coin. The old fellow looked at it and wagged his head, soI gave him another, whereupon he took off his cap, bowed low and hurriedoff.

  In the suburban side waiting-room I peered out of the window on to thestation hall. True enough, I saw one, two, four, six guides loafingabout the barriers leading to the main-line platforms. There seemed tobe a lot of people in the hall and certainly a number of the menpossessed that singular taste in dress, those rotundities of contour,by which one may distinguish the German in a crowd.

  I now had no hesitation in following the guide's instructions to theletter. Platform No. 5 was completely deserted as I emerged breathlessfrom the long staircase and I had no difficulty in getting into the lastfirst-class carriage unobserved. I sat down by the window on the farside of the carriage.

  Alongside it ran the brown panels and gold lettering of a Germanrestaurant car.

  I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to seven. There was no sign ofmy mysterious friend. I wondered vaguely, too, what had become of myporter. True, there was nothing of importance in Semlin's bag, but atraveller with luggage always commands more confidence than one without.

  Five minutes to seven! Still no word from the guide. The minutes tickedaway. By Jove! I was going to miss the train. But I sat resolutely in mycorner. I had put my trust in this man. I would trust him to the last.

  Suddenly his face appeared in the window at my elbow. The door was flungopen.

  "Quick!" he whispered in my ear, "follow me."

  "My things ..." I gasped with one foot on the foot-board of the othertrain. At the same moment the train began to move.

  The guide pointed to the carriage into which I had clambered.

  "The porter ..." I cried from the open door, thinking he had notunderstood me.

  The guide pointed towards the carriage again, then tapped himself on thechest with a significant smile.

  The next moment he had disappeared and I had not even thanked him.

  The Berlin train bumped ponderously out of the station. Peeringcautiously out of the carriage, I caught a glimpse of the waiter, Karl,hurrying down the platform. With him was a swarthy, massively built manwho leaned heavily on a stick and limped painfully as he ran. One of hisfeet, I could see, was misshapen and the sweat was pouring down hisface.

  I would have liked to wave my hand to the pair, but I prudently drewback out of sight of the platform.

  Caution, caution, caution, must henceforward be my watchword.