CHAPTER XIII
EL COJO
Well, I was up against it now. In vain my memory protested against the credibility of the evidence which my eyes could not repudiate. Grundt was dead these four years: had I not seen him, dimly through the blue haze of smoke from my brother's automatic, sink back lifeless on the carpet in the billiard-room of that frontier Schloss? Had I not even read his obituary in the German newspapers?
Yet here he stood before me again, the man as I had known him in the past, ruthless-looking, formidable, sinister, in his clumsy, ill-fitting suit of black. Again I noticed the immense bulk which, with the over-long sinewy arms, the bushy eyebrows, and the black-tufted cheek bones, irresistibly suggested some fierce and gigantic man-ape. Beneath the right eye a red and angry scar, a deep indentation in the cheek-bone, solved at a glance the mystery which had almost paralyzed my brain. My brother's aim had failed. That hideous cicatrice, accentuating the leer of the bold, menacing eyes and of the cruel mouth, told me, beyond all possibility of doubt, that, out of the dim, dark past, Clubfoot had arisen again to confront me.
A sort of cold despair settled down upon me. That Clubfoot would, in his good time, shoot and shoot to kill I made no doubt; for we had been mortal enemies, and quarter did not ever come into Grundt's reckoning. All kinds of odd scenes from my crowded life swarmed into my mind: dear old Francis serving in the tennis-court at Prince's: a juggler on the Maidan at Calcutta, when I was a subaltern in India: Doña Luisa standing in Bard's gardens, rolling her white eyeballs at me...
Then Clubfoot laughed—a dry, mirthless chuckle. The sound was forbidding enough, but it braced me like a tonic. I had beaten this man before: I would beat him again. I dropped my eyes, seeking to locate my pistol.
“Five paces back, if you please, Herr Major!” rang out a commanding voice from the rock. “And, to save misunderstanding, let me say that it would add to the decorum of the proceedings if you renounced any attempt to find your weapon...” He spoke in German in accents of deadly suavity. “On the occasion of our last meeting, you—or was it your brother?—showed that your hand is the prompt servant of your brain, an invaluable asset (let me add in parenthesis) to the big-game hunter, but disconcerting in civilized society....”
What a commanding presence this man had! Again I was conscious of it as, before his slow and searching gaze, I fell back as ordered. He seemed to fill that narrow glen. This effect was not produced by his bulk (which was considerable), but by his amazing animal vitality, the mental and physical vigour of some great beast of prey.
Keeping me covered with his pistol, he lowered himself to a sitting position on the rock and, with surprising agility in one crippled as he was, dropped heavily onto the slab. In a lightning motion he stooped and whipped up my automatic which, with a whirling motion of the left hand, he sent flying away into the bush.
“Now, Okewood,” he remarked, “you can sit down! But be good enough to keep your hands above your head!”
He gave me the lead by seating himself on the rocky slab. I followed his example and dropped on to the ground.
“Would you mind?” I asked, “if I clasped my hands behind my head? Otherwise the position is fatiguing...”
“Not in the least,” retorted Clubfoot, baring his teeth in a gleam of gold, “as long as you remember that I shoot quickly—and straight!”
He measured the distance between us with his eye, and then, as though in deliberate challenge, laid down his pistol on the rock beside him. He produced a cigar-case from his pocket.
“I seem to recollect that you are a cigar smoker!” he began.
“Thanks,” I retorted, remembering the holder I had picked up, “I don't smoke German cigars!”
Clubfoot chuckled amiably.
“Nor do I!” he rejoined. “I believe you will find these as good as any that ever came out of Havana. Not long ago I was a highly respected member of the Club there!”
And he tossed his case across at me, after selecting a cigar for himself. I let it lie. I was not taking favours from this man.
Grundt raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. But he made no comment on my ungraciousness.
“Herr Major!” he said as he bit off the end of his cigar, “I must once more congratulate you on the supreme excellence of your country's Secret Service! The Intelligence system which located this remote island as the hiding-place, real or imaginary, of treasure, is remarkable! The resource you displayed in acquiring the document which now rests in your letter-case in your pocket does credit both to the service and yourself. My congratulations!”
Here he paused to light his cigar from a pocket-lighter and, with lips pursed up, noisily exhaled a long puff of smoke, cocking his head to watch the smoke drift aloft. It was nonchalantly done. But I knew that in reality he was watching me.
I felt puzzled. Obviously, he was feeling his way; ergo, he was not sure of his ground. And he had no inkling, apparently, of the aimless way in which I had stumbled upon this amazing adventure. He seemed to believe that I was en service commandé. Well, I could put up a hit of bluff on that...
“You will at least do us the justice,” he resumed, “of not withholding our admiration of the way in which, as the result of careful planning, this pleasant reunion of to-day was achieved. The luck was on your side that night at Rodriguez, Herr Major; if my orders had been carried out, we should have spared ourselves—and you—this cruise in the Pacific...”
“You mean,” I retorted, “that, if your spy had done his work properly, he would have cut my throat as well as that other poor fellow's and the woman's!...”
“I can honestly say,” observed Clubfoot, blinking his eyes benignly at me, “that I should have sincerely deplored such an eventuality...”—he paused and smiled expansively—“at hands other than my own....”
My brain was working rapidly. Grundt was apparently alone. But, knowing the man, I guessed he had help in the vicinity to summon at need. Therefore, even if I could get past that gun of his, a frontal attack was out of the question. I wondered whether, if my return to camp were over-long delayed, Garth or Carstairs would come out in search of me. At best we were only three. Against how many? So far I only knew of two others, the stranger at the graveside and Black Pablo. But to have brought a ship here from Rodriguez argued a crew. In any case we were hopelessly outnumbered...
Curiously enough, Clubfoot himself answered my unspoken question.
“Now, Okewood,” he said, leaning forward and looking sharply at me, “I don't have to tell a man of your intuition and... and imagination that the game is up. I shall be quite frank with you, ja wohl. We are fourteen against you and your two companions. I am well acquainted with your movements, you see. And, to remove any misapprehension from your mind, let me say at once that I am not the only German in our company.
“You are not dealing exclusively with men of the calibre of Black Pablo, whose minds are a confusion of murder and the soft allurements of love. You will be wise to capitulate gracefully and hand over that message which, incidentally, was never meant for you. And, perhaps, since two heads are better than one—and I have, as you know, the highest opinion of your intelligence—I might consider allowing you to help in working out the clue...”
Again that note of doubt! Then I realized that I was, after all, the only man, barring Dutchy, who was dead, who had spoken to Adams. Apparently Clubfoot believed that I might have information as to the hiding-place of the treasure additional to the indications in the message. Now I began to understand the meaning of his honeyed words, his deadly suavity. And I guessed that he could not afford to kill me—at least not yet.
“Grundt,” said I, speaking with all the decision I could command, “if you think I'm going to work in with you, you're making a big mistake. On the contrary, I'm going to show you what it means for a German, after the armistice, to lay hands on an Allied subject. Your knowledge of our Intelligence service will tell you that it does not leave its agents unprotected...”
I broke off significantly and looked at him. Mine were brave words enough, though, the Lord knows, my heart was in my boots. But bluff, I have often noticed, has a heartening effect upon the bluffer; and I was summoning all my strength to face whatever dark fate was in store for me. For I realized that, whether Grundt and his merry men found the treasure or not, either way my chances at long last of leaving the island alive were of the smallest.
Very coolly Clubfoot flicked the ash from his cigar.
“Quite, quite!” he observed carelessly. “But, for the time being, my friend, let us not forget that you have to forego that protection. An Engländer in the hand is worth two light cruisers in the Pacific. You take me?”
With his cigar stuck out at a defiant angle from his mouth, he planked his hairy hands palm downwards on his knees.
“I'll put the situation quite plainly before you!” he said. “You're in grave danger, Okewood. I've a rough lot of shipmates and they've got the treasure fever in their blood. My German companions have no liking for their dear English cousins. We have some survivors of Von Spee's squadron: they are absurdly prejudiced against you and your race. The brother of the gentleman who wrote that message in your pocket is with me. He was an officer of the Gneisenau sunk by your Admiral Sturdee at the Falkland Islands...”
There came into my mind the picture of that blond youth as I had seen him in the storm, standing with bowed head at the grave.
“... We have the bo'sun of the Nürnberg, her sister vessel, and a couple of Blaujacken from the Dresden who swam ashore after your Navy destroyed their ship off Juan Fernandez, besides various army veterans from France. And, my dear Okewood, I need scarcely tell you that, after the Somme and the Hindenburg Line, our brave 'eighty-fivers' dislike you British even as much as our sailormen do....”
A little tremor ran through me. My hands were shaking with excitement behind my head.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“You must let me take my hands down, Herr Doktor,” I said.
He glanced sharply at me, then picked up his pistol.
“Why?” he demanded fiercely.
“To get out my letter-case!”
Clubfoot nodded sagely.
“So, so,” he murmured, and his fleshy lips bared his yellow teeth in a cunning smile. “You have taken my advice. Gut, gut!”
But then he flashed at me a look full of suspicion and menace.
“No tricks!” he warned in a harsh voice of command. “Himmelkreuzsakrament nochmal! If you play me false, you dog, I'll blow your brains all over the ravine! Now, bring your hands slowly down, and remember, one suspicious gesture will cost you your life!”
“Calm yourself, Herr Doktor!” I rejoined. “I know when I'm beaten!”
And I made to pitch the letter-case onto the slab at his side.
Ah! but he was the cautious one, was old Clubfoot ... cautious with that deadly thoroughness of the Germans that gave a fellow who fell into their hands in the war such a very slender chance. He was taking no risks. With an imperious gesture he stopped me and made me take out the message from the case myself.
“Now throw it on the ground in front of you and turn about!”
I dropped the little flannel-encased package at his feet and swung round. I heard the cripple grunt with excitement as he stooped; I could picture to myself the eagerness with which he snatched up the message. A moment's silence; then he bade me face him again.
“I think you acted wisely,” he said with his slow smile. “Bah! You hadn't a dog's chance. See!...”
He blew three short blasts on a silver whistle he drew from his waistcoat pocket. Immediately a little cloud of men broke out from the cover of the trees at his back.
There were, perhaps, half a dozen of them. They were a villainous-looking lot, with the exception of a fresh-faced, clean-cut young man whose pink-and-white complexion and fair hair were in striking contrast with the swarthy features and stubbly chins of his companions. I knew him again for the man at the graveside. Another I particularly noticed was a squat, obese fellow with a patch over one eye, the other dull and malevolent. On his yellow, jaundiced face a mass of blue-black stubble extended from the cheek-bones down to the loose folds of his double chin, while a twisted and flattened nose, which looked as though a heavy hand had tweaked it, lent a crowning touch to a face which was, I think, the vilest I have ever seen. From Adams's description, I recognized him as Black Pablo.
Grundt halted them with an imperious gesture.
“Herr Major,” he remarked sleekly, “I need not detain you further. A word of advice to you, however, the counsel of a friend. Now that you will have the leisure to devote yourself to that Government survey work on which, of course, you came to Cock Island, I would suggest that you confine your activities to the shores of ... let me see, what was the name?—ah, yes, of Horseshoe Bay. The interior of this delightful island, so they tell me, is most unhealthy, and I should be desolated were any accident to befall you.”
He paused and meditatively fingered his heavy chin.
“Noch eins! If you should be tempted by some slight feeling of irritation at anything I have said or done to contemplate reprisals or anything calculated to interfere with the—er—research work of myself and my companions, let me warn you that I have the means of very quickly bringing you...”—he stopped and added significantly—“and your friend to your senses! Kinder!”
His voice rang triumphantly as he turned to his companions.
“Ich hab's!”
With a whoop of excitement the ragged band gathered about him. They had forgotten all about me, seemingly. I had a last glimpse of Grundt, holding aloft in one great hairy paw the little square of oil-silk.
Dejectedly I slunk away.