The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
Читать онлайн книгу.
by aid of the little mirror, and then I regarded the hastily-daubed car. Very soon the dust would cling to the enamel, and thus effectually disguise the hurriedness of my handiwork. There was, of course, no doubt that Upton and Dyer would move heaven and earth to rediscover me, therefore in my journey forward I was compelled to exercise all caution.
On consulting my road-book I found that the spot where I had pulled up was about three miles from Wurzen, on the main Leipzig road, therefore I decided to give the latter city a wide berth, and took a number of intricate by-roads towards Magdeburg, hoping to be able to put the car in safe keeping somewhere, and get thence by rail across to Cologne and Rotterdam, in which city I might find a safe asylum.
Any attempt to reach Turin was now impossible, and when late that night I entered the little town of Dessau I sent a carefully worded telegram to Bindo at the little newspaper-shop in the Tottenham Court Road, explaining that, though free, I was still in peril of arrest.
Shortly after midnight, while passing through a little town called Zerbst, half-way between Dessau and Magdeburg, I heard a loud shouting behind me, and, turning, saw a policeman approaching hurriedly.
“Where are you from?” he inquired breathlessly.
“From Berlin,” was my prompt answer. “I left there at six o’clock this evening.” I know a little German, and made the best use I could of it.
By the light of his lantern he examined my identification-plates, and noted the colour of the car.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I must ask you to come with me to the police-office.”
“Why?” I inquired, with well-assumed indignation. “My lamps are all alight, and I have contravened no law, surely!”
“You are an Englishman. I hear that from your speech.”
“That is so. My name is Hartley—William Hartley, and I live in Liverpool.”
“We shall not detain you long,” was his reply. “I am only carrying out an order we have received.”
“An order—what order?”
“To arrest an Englishman who is escaping on a motor-car.”
“And am I the Englishman, pray?” I asked sarcastically. “Come, this is really too huge a joke! Haven’t you got the gentleman’s personal description? What has he done that you should be in search of him?”
“I don’t know. The chief has all particulars. Let us go together.”
“Oh, very well,” I laughed reluctantly. “Just get up here, and I’ll drive you to the office. Which way is it?”
“Straight along,” he said, climbing clumsily into the seat beside me.“Straight along almost to the end of the town, and then sharp to the left. I will show you.”
As soon as he had settled himself I put such a move on the car that his breath was almost taken away. Should I take him out into the darkness beyond the town and there drop him? If I did so, I should surely be arrested, sooner or later. No. The car was disguised by its dark-red enamel, and though I had no intention of going into a brilliantly-lighted office, I felt certain that, if I kept cool, I could allay the suspicion of the police-official on night-duty.
Ten minutes later I pulled up before the police-office and got down. In order not to enter into the light, I made an excuse that my engine was not running properly, unlocked the “bonnet” and tinkered with it until the official came out to inspect me.
He was a burly, fair-bearded man, with a harsh, gruff voice.
In his hand he carried a slip of paper, which he consulted by the light of my glaring head-lamps. I saw that it was a copy of a telegram he had received giving my description, for the previous identification-number of the car was written there.
For a few moments he stood in silence with the man who had arrested my progress, then, seeing from his face that he found both myself and the car the exact opposite of what was reported, I said, in an irritated tone of indignation—
“I must really object to being thus brought here against my will. As a foreigner, I cannot entertain a very high estimate of the intelligence of the police of Zerbst.”
“I trust you will pardon us,” was the gruff man’s reply, bowing. “It was the very fact that you were an Englishman that caused suspicion to rest upon you. It is an Englishman who is wanted for extensive jewel robberies. His name is Ewart.”
“A very common name in England,” was my reply. “But will it not appear a little too high-handed if you arrest every Englishman who rides in a motor-car in any part of Germany on suspicion that he is this thief Ewart? How do they describe the car?”
“Pale-blue,” he admitted.
“Well, mine is scarcely that—is it?” I asked, as he stood beside me.
The “bonnet” was open, and by the light of the policeman’s lantern he was admiring the six bright cylinders.
“No,” he responded. Even now, however, the bearded fellow seemed only half convinced. But German officials are a particularly hide-bound genus of mankind.
He saw, however, that I had now grown exasperated, and presently, after putting a few further questions to me, he expressed his regret that I should have suffered any delay or inconvenience, and politely wished me a pleasant journey to my destination.
A lucky escape, I thought, when once again I was out on the broad high road to Magdeburg, my head-lamps showing a stream of white light far along the dusty way.
Instead of getting into Magdeburg, as I believed, I found myself, an hour later, in a dark, ill-lit town upon a broad river, and discovered that I was in Schönebeck, on the main road to Hanover. The distance to the latter city was one hundred miles, and, as I could get away from there by half a dozen lines of railway, I decided to push forward, even though for the past eighteen hours I had only had a piece of bread and a mug of beer at Dessau.
About eleven o’clock on the following morning, after two tyre troubles, I was passing out of the quaint mediæval town of Hildesheim, intending to reach Hanover before noon. I had come around the Haupt Bahnhof and on to the highway beyond the railroad, when my heart gave a leap as a policeman dashed out into the road in front of me and held up his hand.
“Your name?” he demanded gruffly.
“William Hartley—an Englishman,” was my prompt response.
“I must, I regret, insist on your presence at the police-office,” he said authoritatively.
“Oh!” I cried, annoyed. “I suppose I must go through the same farce as at Zerbst last night.”
“You were at Zerbst—you admit that?” asked the man in uniform.
The instant those words left his lips I saw that I was trapped. It was, no doubt, as I had suspected. The superintendent of police at Zerbst had seen stamped upon the engines the maker’s name, “Napier,” and this he had reported by telegraph to Dyer in Dresden. Then a second telegraphic order had gone forth for my arrest.
“Well,” I laughed, “it is surely no crime to admit having been to Zerbst, is it? There seems an unusual hue-and-cry over this mysterious Englishman, isn’t there? But if you say I must go to the police-office, I suppose I must. Get up here beside me and show me the way.”
The man clambered up, when, in a moment, I put on all speed forward. The road was wide and open, without a house on it.
“No!” he cried; “back—into the town!”
I, however, made no response, but let the car rip along at a good fifty miles an hour. She hummed merrily.
“Stop! stop! I order you to stop!” he shouted, but I heeded him not. I saw that he had grown frightened at the fearful pace we were travelling.
Suddenly, when we had gone about seven miles, I pulled up at a lonely