Всего за 5.99 руб. Купить полную версию
Turning into a shop where there was a public telephone, I rang up Madame Gabrielle at the Continental, swiftly explained the circumstances to her, and implored her to hurry to meet me, so that she could take off my hands the task of watching the Italians.
Purposely I set my steps toward the Continental, making a sharp turn from my direct road to do so, and my suspicion that I was the object of the Italians attention was instantly confirmed. He turned at once to follow me, though apparently with so little of set intention that no one whose suspicions had not been aroused would have dreamed that he was being shadowed by a clever hand at the game.
Ten minutes later a grave-looking Spanish lady, wearing an ample mantilla, came slowly towards me. I was eagerly on the look-out for Madame Gabrielle, but I confess that for a moment I never suspected that she and the Spanish lady were identical. Indeed it was not until she had attracted my attention by a slight but peculiar flip of the hand, which was one of our recognised private signals, that I realised who she was, so perfect was the disguise.
However, my course was easy enough now; all I had to do was to indicate the Italian to her, and I knew I could safely leave in her hands the task of finding out all there was to know about him.
I had crossed the road and the Italian was some fifty yards behind us. As Madame Gabrielle approached I turned down a side street, and, when I judged the Italian must be near the entrance, walked smartly round the corner to meet him. I had judged the distance well; we came into violent collision, and with every indication of helplessness that I could assume I fell headlong into the roadway.
Instantly the Italian was all helpfulness and apologies. He assisted me to rise and helped me to brush away some of the dust with which I was covered. Of course I could not, for this occasion at least, speak Italian, but the language of signs was sufficient, and at length I left him apparently much distressed, and started for the Ezcurra, limping with an ostentatious painfulness which I hoped would effectually convince my antagonist, firstly, that I was really hurt, and, secondly, that I had not the smallest suspicion of his real identity and object. We signalled good-bye with every appearance of cordiality.
I took good care not even to look round on my walk back to the hotel. I knew the Italian would be safely under the observation of Madame Gabrielle, and that I should get the information I wanted in good time. My spirits rose. I felt sure that at length I was on the right track.
Returning to the hotel, I volubly explained my dirty and dishevelled appearance in full hearing of a small crowd of idlers in the lounge. I did not know whether among them there might not be another agent of our enemies, and, by way of concealing my suspicions, I spoke warmly of the essentially Italian courtesy of my late antagonist. It came out afterwards that I had done a good stroke of work. The lounge did contain an enemy agent who was watching me, but so naturally was I able to speak that he actually reported that I had obviously not the smallest suspicion of the real calling of the mysterious Italian.
Until I received some word from Madame Gabrielle there was absolutely nothing that I could do, and I passed hour after hour in an inward fever of impotence and anxiety, though outwardly, I dare say, I was cool and unconcerned; one does not wear his heart upon his sleeve in the Secret Service! Dinner came and I ate with an appetite, well knowing that at any moment a call might come which would tax my physical and mental powers to the uttermost.
Having finished my dinner, the big Swiss porter came into the room and handed me a note, remarking in French: This has just been brought by a boy, monsieur.
Inside it I found a plain visiting-card of the size used by gentlemen. There was nothing else.
Here, indeed, was the call to action. That plain visiting-card was a signal from Madame Gabrielle that she was hot on the scent, but that either because she feared she might be under suspicion, or would not run the risk of her message falling into the wrong hands, she could not write a letter.
In any case it was an urgent call for urgent help. The hunt was up! Towards us, urged by the full power of her twin screws, a British liner was being driven at top speed by her giant engines; awaiting her, securely hidden in some sheltered spot I had yet to find, was one of the undersea assassins of our enemy. And the lives of two thousand men, women, and children were at stake. At last the hour for swift, dramatic action had come.
Certainly matters had now assumed a very critical aspect. I hurried out along the broad, tree-lined Paseo, where the moon was now shining brightly over the Bay of San Sebastian, to the Hôtel Continental. Here the gold-laced concierge told me that Madame Tavernier had left about an hour before.
Did she say where she was going? I inquired.
Yes, to Santander, replied the concierge; the Hôtel Europa she gave as her address, so that we might forward her letters; she said she had not expected to leave so soon.
The meaning of the visiting-card was now plain. Evidently the resourceful Madame Gabrielle had made some important discovery. She dared not communicate with me, but, of course, she knew I would make inquiries, and for this reason she had left her address with the hotel porter. But why had she gone to Santander? Cost what it might, I must find the answer to that question.
What about the gentleman who was with her? I asked the porter, making a blind shot to try to find out something.
Gentleman? he queried. Madame was alone in the omnibus except for an Italian gentleman, who went to catch the same train to Bilbao.
An Italian gentleman! I echoed. Here might be the key to the mystery. He was about forty pale, with a dark-cropped moustache and rather bald eh?
Yes, replied the man, that is Signor Bruno.
What about his friend? I asked.
He left for Madrid by the early train this morning, was the reply.
Matters were now becoming clear. Evidently the second Italian had cleared off, leaving Signor Bruno in charge of the developments of the plot. I had now to find Bruno, and through him to get on the track of Fontan.
Pleased with my success, I slipped a few pesetas into the willing hand of the concierge and left the hotel, directing my steps back to the Ezcurra. Why had Madame Gabrielle left for Santander when obviously San Sebastian was the real centre of the plot? The cryptic telegram I had received told us that. It was, in fact, a spy message sent from Holland, which had been intercepted by the French Secret Service and duplicated to me; the real message, of course, had been duly handed to Fontan at the post office in San Sebastian.
How to get to Santander was now the problem. The last train had gone. But after half an hours deliberation I hit upon a plan which at least held out a good promise of success. I returned to my hotel and gave strict orders that, as I was not feeling well, I was on no account to be disturbed until noon the following day.
It was just two oclock in the morning when I rose and exchanged my Dutch-made clothes for another suit so glaringly redolent of the American tourist that no one, seeing me in them, would have associated me for a moment with the demure and retiring Dutch theological student, whose absorbed interest in old churches had been the source of many a friendly joke at the hotel. A false moustache helped further in the metamorphosis, and when I looked at myself in the glass I felt tolerably certain that I should pass even a close scrutiny without arousing suspicion. Still, I meant to take no chances.