Valentine Williams

“ Silhouetted against the garish light of an acetylene hurricane lamp in the cheaply furnished living-room of a seaside bungalow, Clubfoot stood before him. A hideous tweed cap pulled down until it rested on the tips of his large projecting ears lent him a horribly grotesque appearance. He looked like a great ape dressed in man’s clothes. Mary Brewster, trussed up even as Desmond was, reclined in a chair. ”

“ I must apologize for the disturbance, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”
“Murchison!” said Desmond abstractedly.
He was wondering whether he had alarmed himself unnecessarily. It was not the first time he had been in a London gaming-hell, and the curious muted hush beneath the green-shaded lamps of the room off the lobby was as familiar to him as the dim figures he could descry about the table watching with painful intensity the measured movements of the banker as he drew the cards from the shoe. ”

“ Speech was impossible; the deafening roar of the propellers saw to that—but Desmond’s quick intuitiveness told him she was uneasy. Perhaps she was nervous, he told himself; night-flying is always something of an ordeal.
The channel was yet a silvery streak below them when the pilot, crouched over the wheel in front, turned and made a vague gesture with his gauntleted hand. With his huge goggles and furry helmet he looked like some gesticulating goblin. ”

“ From the barrier of the aerodrome, where the Minerva pulled up, Desmond could see the machine destined for their night journey. What a puny thing it looked, stranded there, forlorn and solitary, in the centre of the vast open space swept by the glare of the lights of the night landing-station and surrounded by the long, low sheds whose roofs were now silvered by the effulgence of the moon! ”

“ But when, one spring morning, the Chief arrived by car at Desmond Okewood’s Surrey bungalow, Desmond saw at once by his face that the strain was beginning to tell. The steady grey eyes were as keen as ever and the mouth had lost nothing of its firmness; but there was a set air of restraint about the big man which did not deceive Desmond. ”

“ There was a significant pause.
“And I do so hate painting my face!” remarked Desmond irrelevantly.
The Chief laughed. “I knew I could count on you, Okewood. Very little disguise will be necessary if you will consent to sacrifice your moustache. All I ask you to do is to dine at the Hexagon at eight o’clock to-morrow evening in the guise of Mr. Murchison of Munich. You can leave the rest to me. And if, in the course of the evening, you should recognize that brother of yours—well, don’t! Now as to this question of your make-up . . .” ”

“ From the cigar grasped in the great hairy fist clenched, as though in defiance, on the desk, a thin spiral of blue smoke rose aloft. The monstrous right boot was concealed from view.
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He had changed but little, Desmond reflected as he looked at him. The gross body was a little fuller, the iron-grey bristles were perhaps more thickly sprinkled with white; but there was nothing in the hostile, challenging attitude of the man that told of the misfortunes that had overcome his race. ”

“ That is the Okewood pair all over. Their team-work is wonderful. They always remind me of two acrobats on a trapeze: one is invariably there when he is required to catch or support the other. I can imagine no more devastating combination than these two quiet but supremely competent young men on any mission requiring a blend of excessive tact and sublime audacity.
“Are you down here for long?” Desmond asked me.
I told him I expected to stay for a month.
“Splendid!” he retorted. “That means there’ll always be a partner for Francis or me when we’re sick of playing against each other.” ”

“ Desmond Okewood struggled erect. Instantly a young man appeared from behind his chair. He was a typical fair young German, his right cheek scored with a long white duelling scar.
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“Let him be, Heinrich!” said Grundt.
“One of your hired assassins, eh, Herr Doktor?” observed Desmond. “I believe you will find it safer in this country to continue to commit murder by proxy . . . at any rate for a time!”
A little flush of anger crept into the cripple’s black-tufted cheeks. ”

“ Perhaps, now that memoirs are the fashion, from the seclusion of the little property he is known to possess in southern Germany, The Man with the Clubfoot may one day give the world some pages from his career. If he tell the truth—and Desmond Okewood says he is the kind of man who glories in the blackest crimes—his revelations should eclipse the memoirs of Sénart or Vidocq. ”

“ For the past four weeks, since your very ugly adventure with our old friend Clubfoot in the affair of the Constantinople courier, I have kept you and your brother deliberately away from the Service . . . against your own wish, I know . . . frankly because you are too valuable to be sacrificed to Dr. Grundt’s personal spite!”
At the mention of the name of his old enemy, Desmond Okewood sat up eagerly in his chair.
“Is Clubfoot up to his tricks again?” he asked quickly.
The Chief shrugged his shoulders. “I used to have the reputation of being a man who knew his own mind,” he replied. ”

“ Above the hubbub in the hall outside there fell upon their ears the distant throb of a car.
Then he raised his voice. “Grundt,” he cried out distinctly, “Grundt, you can go to hell!”
A bearded face with dangerous, bloodshot eyes appeared in the chink between door and jamb. Desmond shot so swiftly that the roar of the report, Tarock’s sharp exclamation, and the thud of the body sounded almost as one.
“Herr Gott!” bellowed Clubfoot. There was a loud explosion and a bullet “whooshed” above the heads of the man and girl. The door was forced wider and the barricade was split in twain. ”

“ From time to time Desmond had felt the tug at the heartstrings. Now and then in his room at the War Office, in the stay-at-home billet which the Chief had secured for him, an odd restlessness seized him when an Intelligence report came his way and he read that “X, a reliable agent, reports from Helsingfors,” or, “A trustworthy observer forwards a statement from Angora . . .”
But these were vague longings that a round of golf or a brisk game of tennis would dispel. The name of Clubfoot, however, was a definite challenge. ”

“ But the detective only looked at him in a puzzled way. Desmond pushed him forward to the open door of the car.
“Sniff, man!” he cried.
“Rum sort o’ smell!” said O’Malley, “but I don’t see . . .”
“Hair dye!” exclaimed Desmond.
In a flash the young detective whipped round.
“Then you mean . . .” he began.
“I mean that this dead man is not a tramp, but a person of some social standing; that in life he was not dark and clean-shaven, but fair with a blond moustache or, more probably, a blond beard, and that he did not crawl into this car to die, but was brought here dead in the Lancia. ”

“ The hall led into the small sitting-room, very gay with its primrose-yellow distempered walls and orange lamp-shades, with bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen beyond. Detective-Inspector Farandol, of Scotland Yard, who opened the door in answer to their ring, showed them the rooms. One of the most reliable and experienced officers of the older school of detectives, both Desmond and Francis had come across him more than once in the course of their work in the Secret Service. He was a self-opinionated person with a profound contempt for amateurs. ”

“ For many years I have lived my life intensely, working early and late, contriving, combining, braving danger and defeating intrigues, for the greater glory of my people. But the world is changing—was ich sage! has changed, Herr Kollege, and the hour has almost struck for old Clubfoot, as they call me, to take his retirement. ”

“ But Desmond was walking in the direction of the machine.
“I say!” the pilot called out. “They don’t like strangers monkeying about with . . .”
Desmond heard no more. He had reached the machine. Mary Brewster was just behind him. It was a tremendous machine and its immense spread of wing quite dwarfed them. A blast of warm air smote them on the cheeks.
“Why,” cried Desmond, “the engine’s warm. This machine has been out this very night . ”

“ Shaking in every limb, Herr Murchison opened his lips to speak. “My headquarters are . . . Munich!” he said in a strained voice.
“Turn your head to the right!” shouted Grundt suddenly. “Turn your head, I say! Meinhardt, Felix! Thrust him down under the lamp!”
Strong arms forced Herr Murchison brutally forward until his chest rested on the cloth. His spectacles fell off. The bright light streamed full in his face.
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“Desmond Okewood, bei Gott!” roared Grundt. “You poor fool, did you think you could hoodwink me? Don’t you know that a man can never disguise his ears? ”

“ If, as the textbooks tell us, a successful retirement be the greatest test of strategy, then, indeed, Clubfoot can lay claim to be one of the most skilful of generals in the never-ending guerilla warfare that is the daily life of the Secret Service. No man can ensure himself against the surprises of fate; but in one respect Dr. Grundt’s foresight was never found wanting, and that was in the provision of a safe and inconspicuous line of retreat. ”

“ Desmond pleaded, “but Clubfoot is beyond the pale. He has the profoundest contempt for our English notions of fair play and, though you may agree to this idea of his of an armistice meeting, on his side you can bet your bottom dollar it’s a plant! He’s a treacherous devil, and the only way to treat him is to fall on him the moment he appears, tie him up, and lodge him as quickly and as securely as possible in the nearest jail.” ”

“ How on earth did you come to think of it?”
“The man’s a mass of vanity like the rest of you,” little Miss Brewster ejaculated scornfully. “A little knowledge, a little intuition, a little bluff”—she smiled rather wanly. “You men take each other too seriously, anyway . . .”
“But what has become of the chamois leather packet with the jewels?” demanded Desmond.
“It is in a rabbit-hole by that German aeroplane,” said Miss Brewster. ”

“ But in all my career I’ve never yet refused to meet an enemy who wrote and asked, fair and square, for an interview. I shall see Grundt!”
“But, sir,” urged Desmond, “look at the list of his victims since he started his campaign of vengeance against the Service—Branxe, Wetherby Soukes, Fawcett Wilbur, Törnedahl, Miss Bardale, Bewlay, Finucane! The man’s a wolf, a mad dog! He ought to be shot at sight!” ”

“ Desmond gripped her hand and drew her back into the dim recesses of the box. He could see that Clubfoot, facing them across the auditorium, now had his glasses focussed in their direction.
“They’re watching us,” the young man whispered to the girl. “Pass them to me behind your back!”
A heavy packet, wrapped in soft chamois leather, about the size of a cigar-box, was thrust into his outstretched hand. It was too large for any pocket of his suit, so Desmond slipped it into the pocket of his grey tweed overcoat, which he carried on his arm. ”

“ A white flower means, ‘Drop the fellow; he does not interest us, but stand by’; a white and a blue say: ‘The fellow does not interest us; you can go home.’”
“By Jove!” commented Desmond, enthusiasm in his voice, “this is getting jolly interesting, sir!”
“Yes,” agreed the Chief. “But where does it take us? Up against a blank wall. And meanwhile Finucane’s disappearance remains a mystery, and the morale of my staff is being ruined! This negative result business leads nowhere. I want something positive to show whether Madeleine McKenzie is or is not at the bottom of this baffling affair.” ”

“ The place seemed full of men. Francis Okewood, in motor-cyclist overalls heavily splashed with mud, was at Desmond’s side, swiftly slashing at the ropes that bound him.
“Good old Francis!” murmured Desmond. “I knew you wouldn’t fail me. But, dash it all, you cut it rather fine!”
He looked rapidly round the room. His glance took in Vera, pale and affrighted, and her escort, surrounded by plain-clothes men. But of Clubfoot and of Heinrich there was no sign. Even as he looked, from the Jacobean cupboard, the doors of which stood open, a large, red-faced man hastily scrambled. ”

“ They all laughed.
“In the mean time Grundt is off again!” observed Francis ruefully.
“He’s a clever devil!” said Desmond with real admiration in his voice. “He simply bunged up the front door and walked out, knowing that one minute’s grace would be enough to allow him, lame as he is, to get away in the London crowd. Directly you opened the door I bolted down to the street. But I knew it was too late. We’ve just got to wait for him to come back . . .”
“He might have shot you!” remarked Francis.
“Not he! Clubfoot knows that you can commit almost any crime in London as long as you act normally. ”

“ Desmond broke in vehemently, “the man will be armed. He’s dangerous: he stops at nothing . . .”
The big man shrugged his broad shoulders.
“I always meet an adversary halfway,” he said. “And I would remind you that Grundt and I have never yet come face to face. I am inordinately interested, I must confess, in this cripple who, when he directed the ex-Kaiser’s personal secret service, exercised such power over his Imperial master that he was the most dreaded man in Germany. ”

“ The band was playing an interminable quick-step, to which the tumblers performed their tricks and contortions. The girl did not advance into the box, but remained in the half-light at the back.
“I demand a thousand pardons, Monsieur,” she murmured in French from the back of the box. “I was to have met some . . . friends who have not yet arrived. If I might remain a little at the back of the box. It is impossible to wait in the promenade!”
“Je vous en prie, Madame!” said Desmond politely, and advanced to the front of the box to fetch a chair. ”

“ Strain his ear as he would, Desmond could detect no sound, not even of the traffic of the London streets, other than the ticking of a cheap clock on the mantelpiece which showed the time to be five minutes to eleven.
Now Clubfoot noticed the listening look on the young man’s face.
“Don’t buoy yourself up with false hopes, Okewood!” said he. “My retreat is truly rural. One never hears a sound here after dark, nor, on the other hand, does any noise ever penetrate beyond these walls. ”