The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace
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moved slowly ahead, and swung out to sea.
“Will you have any difficulty in picking her up?” He was standing in the cramped space of the little bridge, wedged between a quick-firing gun and the navigation desk.
“No — I think not,” said the officer; “ — our difficulty will be to keep out of sight of her. It will be an easy matter to keep her in view, because she stands high out of the water, and she is pretty sure to burn her regulation lights. By day I shall let her get hull down and take her masts for guide.”
It was the strangest procession that followed the southern bend of the African coast. First went the Doro, its passengers serenely unconscious of the fact that six miles away, below the rim of the horizon, followed a slim ugly destroyer that did not once lose sight of the Doro’s mainmast; behind the destroyer, and three miles distant, came six destroyers steaming abreast. Behind them, four miles away, six swift cruisers.
That same night, there steamed from Funchal in the Island of Madeira, the Victor Hugo, Condé, Gloire, and the Edgard Quinet of the French Fleet; the Roon, Yorck, Prinz Adalbert, and the battleship Pommern of the German Navy, with sixteen destroyers, and followed a parallel ocean path.
After three days’ steaming, the Doro turned sharply to starboard, and the unseen fleets that dogged her turned too. In that circle of death, for a whole week, the little Spanish steamer twisted and turned, and, obedient to the message that went from destroyer to cruiser, the fleets followed her every movement. For the Doro was unconsciously leading the nations to the “Mad Battleship.” She had been slipped with that object. So far every part of the plan had worked well. To make doubly sure, the news of Zillier’s escape from Devil’s Island had been circulated in every country. It was essential that, if they missed the Maria Braganza this time, they should catch her on the first of June at “Lolo.”
“And where that is,” said T.B., in despair, “Heaven only knows.”
Wearing a heavy overcoat, he was standing on the narrow deck of the destroyer as she pounded through the seas. They had found the southeast trade winds at a surprisingly northerly latitude, and the sea was choppy and cold.
Young Marchcourt, the youthful skipper of the Martine, grinned.
“‘Lolo’ is ‘nowhere,’ isn’t it?” he said.
“You’ll find it charted on all Admiralty maps; it’s the place where the supply transport is always waiting on manoeuvres — I wish to Heaven these squalls would drop,” he added irritably, as a sudden gust of wind and rain struck the tiny ship.
“Feel seasick?” suggested T.B. maliciously.
“Not much — but I’m horribly afraid of losing sight of this Looker-ahead.”
He lifted the flexible end of a speaking-tube, and pressed a button.
“Give her a few more revolutions, Cole,” he said. He hung up the tube. “We look like carrying this weather with us for a few days,” he said, “and, as I don’t feel competent to depend entirely upon my own eyesight, I shall bring up the Magneto and the Solus to help me watch this beggar.”
Obedient to signal, two destroyers were detached from the following flotilla, and came abreast at dusk.
The weather grew rapidly worse, the squalls of greater frequence. The sea rose, so that life upon the destroyer was anything but pleasant. At midnight, T.B. Smith was awakened from a restless sleep by a figure in gleaming oilskins.
“I say,” said a gloomy voice, “we’ve lost sight of that dashed Doro.”
“Eh?”
T.B. jumped from his bunk, to be immediately precipitated against the other side of the cabin.
“Lost her light — it has either gone out or been put out. We’re going ahead now full speed in the hope of overhauling her—”
Another oilskinned figure came to the door.
“Light ahead, sir.”
“Thank Heaven!” said the other fervently, and bolted to the deck.
T.B. struggled into his clothing, and, with some difficulty, made his way to the bridge. Van Ingen was already before him. As he climbed the little steel ladder, he heard the engine-bell ring, and instantly the rattle and jar of the engines ceased.
“She’s stationary,” explained the officer,” so we’ve stopped. She has probably upset herself in this sea.”
“How do you know she is stationary?” asked T.B., for the two faint stars ahead told him nothing.
“Got her riding lights,” said the other laconically.
Those two riding lights stopped the destroyer; it stopped six other destroyers, far out of sight, six obedient cruisers came to a halt, and, a hundred miles or so away, the combined French and German fleets became stationary.
All through the night the watchers lay, heaving, rolling, and pitching, like so many logs, on the troubled seas. Dawn broke mistily, but the lights still gleamed. Day came in dull greyness, and the young officer, with his eyes fastened to his binoculars, looked long and earnestly ahead.
“I can see a mast,” he said doubtfully, “but there’s something very curious about it.” Then he put down his glasses suddenly, put out his hand, and rang his engines full ahead.
He turned to the quartermaster at his side.
“Get the Commodore by wireless,” he said rapidly; “the Doro has gone.” Gone, indeed, was the Doro — gone six hours since.
They found the lights. They were still burning when the destroyer came up with them. A roughly built raft with a pole lashed upright, and from this was suspended two lanterns. Whilst the fleet had watched this raft, the Doro had gone on. Nailed to the pole was a letter. It was sodden with spray, but T.B. had no difficulty in reading it.
“Cher ami,” it ran, “much as I value the honour of a naval escort, its presence is embarrassing at the moment. I saw your destroyer this morning through my glasses, and guessed the rest. You are ingenious. Now I understand why you allowed me to escape.
“My respectful salutations to you, oh, most admirable of policemen!”
It was signed, “POLTAVO.”
*
The court-martial held on Lieutenant-Commander George Septimus Marchcourt, on a charge of “neglect of duty, in that he failed to carry out the instructions of his superior officer,” resulted in an honourable acquittal for that cheerful young officer. It was an acquittal which had a far-reaching effect, though’at the time it did not promise well.
T.B. was a witness at the trial, which was a purely formal one, in spite of the attention it excited.
He remained at Gibraltar, pending further developments. For the affair of the Nine Men had got beyond Scotland Yard — they were an international problem.
T.B. was walking over from La Linea, across the strip of neutral ground which separated Gibraltar from Spain, with Van Ingen, when he confessed that he despaired of ever bringing the Nine to justice.
“The nations cannot stand the racket much longer,” he said; “these Nine Men are costing civilisation a million a week! Think of it! A million pounds a week! We must either capture them soon or effect a compromise. I am afraid they will make peace on their own terms.”
“But they must be caught soon,” urged the other.
“Why?” demanded T.B. irritably. “How can we hope to capture one of the fastest war vessels afloat when the men who control her have all the seas to run in?”
They had reached the waterport, and T.B. stopped before his hotel.
“Come in,” he said suddenly. The two men passed through the paved vestibule and mounted the stair to T.B.’s room.