The Man with the Clubfoot by Valentine Williams

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"And now, Des, old man," said my brother, "you know all that I know!"

"And Clubfoot?"

"Ah!" said Francis, shaking his head, "there I think I recognize the
hand that has been against us from the start, though who the man is, and
what his power, I, like you, only know from what he told you himself.
The Germans are clever enough, as we know from their communiques, to
tell the truth when it suits their book. I believe that Clubfoot was
telling you the truth in what he said about his mission that night at
the Esplanade.

"You and I know now that the Kaiser wrote that letter ... we also know
that it was addressed to an influential English friend of William II.
You have seen the date ... Berlin, July 31st, 1914 ... the eve of the
outbreak of the world war. Even from this half in my pocket ... and you
who have seen both halves of the letter will confirm what I say ... I
can imagine what an effect on the international situation this letter
would have had if it had reached the man for whom it was destined. But
it did not ... why, we don't know. We do know, however, that the Emperor
is keenly anxious to regain possession of his letter ... you yourself
were a witness of his anxiety and you know that he put the matter into
the hands of the man Clubfoot."

"Well," I observed thoughtfully, "Clubfoot, whoever he is, seems to have
made every effort to keep my escapades dark...."

"Precisely," said Francis, "and lucky for you too. Otherwise Clubfoot
would have had you stopped at the frontier. But obviously secrecy is an
essential part of his instructions, and he has shown himself willing to
risk almost anything rather than call in the aid of the regular police."

"But they can always hush these things up!" I objected.

"From the public, yes, but not from the Court. This letter looks
uncommonly like one of William's sudden impulses ... and I fancy
anything of the kind would get very little tolerance in Germany in
war-time."

"But who is Clubfoot?" I questioned.

My brother furrowed his brows anxiously.

"Des," he said, "I don't know. He is certainly not a regular official of
the German Intelligence like Steinhauer and the others. But I _have_
heard of a clubfooted German on two occasions ... both were dark and
mysterious affairs, in both he played a leading role and both ended in
the violent death of one of our men."

"Then Tracy and the others...?" I asked.

"Victims of this man, Des, without any doubt," my brother answered. He
paused a moment reflectively.

"There is a code of honour in our game, old man," he said, "and there
are lots of men in the German secret service who live up to it. We give
and take plenty of hard knocks in the rough-and-tumble of the chase, but
ambush and assassination are barred."

He took a deep breath and added:

"But the man Clubfoot doesn't play the game!"

"Francis," I said, "I wish I'd known something of this that night I had
him at my mercy at the Esplanade. He would not have got off with a
cracked skull ... with one blow. There would have been another blow for
Tracy, one for Arbuthnot, one for the other man ... until the account
was settled and I'd beaten his brains out on the carpet. But if we meet
him again, Francis, ... as, please God, we shall! ... there will be no
code of honour for _him_ ... we'll finish him in cold blood as we'd kill
a rat!"

My brother thrust out his hand at me and we clasped hands on it.

Evening was falling and lights were beginning to twinkle from the
further bank of the river.

We stood for a moment in silence with the river rushing at our feet.
Then we turned and started to tramp back towards the city. Francis
linked his arm in mine.

"And now, Des," he said in his old affectionate way, "tell me some more
about Monica!"

Out of that talk germinated in my head the only plan that seemed to
offer us a chance of escape. I was quite prepared to believe Francis
when he declared that the frontier was at present impassable: if the
vigilance had been increased before it would be redoubled now that I had
again eluded Clubfoot. We should, therefore, have to find some cover
where we could lie doggo until the excitement passed.

You remember that Monica told me, the last time I had seen her, that she
was shortly going to Schloss Bellevue, a shooting-box belonging to her
husband, to arrange some shoots in connection with the Governmental
scheme for putting game on the market. Monica, you will recollect, had
offered to take me with her, and I had fully meant to accompany her but
for Gerry's unfortunate persistence in the matter of my passport.

I now proposed to Francis that we should avail ourselves of Monica's
offer and make for Castle Bellevue. The place was well suited for our
purpose as it lies near Cleves, and in its immediate neighbourhood is
the Reichswald, that great forest which stretches from Germany clear
across into Holland. All through my wanderings, I had kept this forest
in the back of my head as a region which must offer facilities for
slipping unobserved across the frontier. Now I learnt from Francis that
he had spent months in the vicinity of Cleves, and I was not surprised
to find, when I outlined this plan to him, that he knew the Reichswald
pretty well.

"It'll be none too easy to get across through the forest," he said
doubtfully, "it's very closely patrolled, but I do know of one place
where we could lie pretty snug for a day or two waiting for a chance to
make a dash. But we have no earthly chance of getting through at
present: our clubfooted pal will see to that all right. And I don't much
like the idea of going to Bellevue either: it will be horribly dangerous
for Monica!"

"I don't think so," I said. "The whole place will be overrun with
people, guests, servants, beaters and the like, for these shoots. Both
you and I know German and we look rough enough: we ought to be able to
get an emergency job about the place without embarrassing Monica in the
least. I don't believe they will ever dream of looking for us so close
to this frontier. The only possible trail they can pick up after me in
Berlin leads to Munich. Clubfoot is bound to think I am making for the
Swiss frontier."

Well, the long and the short of it was that my suggestion was carried,
and we resolved to set out for Bellevue that very night. My brother
declared he would not return to the cafe: with the present shortage of
men, such desertions were by no means uncommon, and if he were to give
notice formally it might only lead to embarrassing explanations.

So we strolled back to the city in the gathering darkness, bought a map
of the Rhine and a couple of rucksacks and laid in a small stock of
provisions at a great department store, biscuits, chocolates, some hard
sausage and two small flasks of rum. Then Francis took me to a little
restaurant where he was known and introduced me to the friendly
proprietor, a very jolly old Rheinlander, as his brother just out of
hospital. I did my country good service, I think, by giving a most
harrowing account of the terrible efficiency of the British army on the
Somme!

Then we dined and over our meal consulted the map.

"By the map," I said, "Bellevue should be about fifty miles from here.
My idea is that we should walk only at night and lie up during the day,
as a room is out of the question for me without any papers. I think we
should keep away from the Rhine, don't you? As otherwise we shall pass
through Wesel, which is a fortress, and, consequently, devilish
unhealthy for both of us."

Francis nodded with his mouth full.

"At present we can count on about twelve hours of darkness," I
continued, "so, leaving a margin for the slight detour we shall make,
for rests and for losing the way, I think we ought to be able to reach
Castle Bellevue on the third night from this. If the weather holds up,
it won't be too bad, but if it rains, it will be hellish! Now, have you
any suggestions?"

My brother acquiesced, as, indeed, he had in everything I had proposed
since we met. Poor fellow, he had had a roughish time: he seemed glad to
have the direction of affairs taken out of his hands for a bit.

At half-past seven that evening, our packs on our backs, we stood on the
outskirts of the town where the road branches off to Crefeld. In the
pocket of the overcoat I had filched from Haase's I found an automatic
pistol, fully loaded (most of our customers at the beer-cellar went
armed).

"You've got the document, Francis," I said. "You'd better have this,
too!" and I passed him the gun.

Francis waved it aside.

"You keep it," he said grimly, "it may serve you instead of a passport."

So I slipped the weapon back into my pocket.

A cold drop of rain fell upon my face.

"Oh, hell!" I cried, "it's beginning to rain!"

And thus we set out upon our journey.

* * * * *

It was a nightmare tramp. The rain never ceased. By day we lay in icy
misery, chilled to the bone in our sopping clothes, in some dank ditch
or wet undergrowth, with aching bones and blistered feet, fearing
detection, but fearing, even more, the coming of night and the
resumption of our march. Yet we stuck to our programme like Spartans,
and about eight o'clock on the third evening, hobbling painfully along
the road that runs from Cleves to Calcar, we were rewarded by the sight
of a long massive building, with turrets at the corners, standing back
from the highway behind a tall brick wall.

"Bellevue!" I said to Francis, with pointing finger.

We left the road and climbing a wooden palisade, struck out across the
fields with the idea of getting into the park from the back. We passed
some black and silent farm buildings, went through a gate and into a
paddock, on the further side of which ran the wall surrounding the
place. Somewhere beyond the wall a fire was blazing. We could see the
leaping light of the flames and drifting smoke. At the same moment we
heard voices, loud voices disputing in German.

We crept across the paddock to the wall, I gave Francis a back and he
hoisted himself to the top and looked over. In a moment he sprang
lightly down, a finger to his lips.

"Soldiers round a fire," he whispered. "There must be troops billeted
here. Come on ... we'll go further round!"

We ran softly along the wall to where it turned to the right and
followed it round. Presently we came to a small iron gate in the wall.
It stood open.

We listened. The sound of voices was fainter here. We still saw the
reflection of the flames in the sky. Otherwise, there was no sign or
sound of human life.

The gate led into an ornamental garden with the Castle at the further
end. All the windows were in darkness. We threaded a garden path leading
to the house. It brought us in front of a glass door. I turned the
handle and it yielded to my grasp.

I whispered to Francis:

"Stay where you are! And if you hear me shout, fly for your life!"

For, I reflected, the place might be full of troops. If there were any
risk it would be better for me to take it since Francis, with his
identity papers, had a better chance than I of bringing the document
into safety.

I opened the glass door and found myself in a lobby with a door on the
right.

I listened again. All was still. I cautiously opened the door and
looked in. As I did so the place was suddenly flooded with light and a
voice--a voice I had often heard in my dreams--called out imperiously:

"Stay where you are and put your hands above your head!"

Clubfoot stood there, a pistol in his great hand pointed at me.

"Grundt!" I shouted but I did not move.

And Clubfoot laughed.

CHAPTER XVII

FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE

I saw the lights flash up in the room. I heard Desmond cry out:
"Grundt;" Instantly I flung myself flat on my face in the flower bed,
lest Desmond's shout might have alarmed the soldiers about the fire. But
no one came; the gardens remained dark and damp and silent, and I heard
no sound from the room in which I knew my brother to be in the clutches
of that man.

Desmond's cry pulled me together. It seemed to arouse me from the
lethargy into which I had sunk during all those months of danger and
disappointment. It shook me into life. If I was to save him, not a
moment was to be lost. Clubfoot would act swiftly, I knew. So must I.
But first I must find out what the situation was, the meaning of
Clubfoot's presence in Monica's house, of those soldiers in the park.
And, above all, was Monica herself at the Castle?

I had noticed a little estaminet place on the road, about a hundred
yards before we reached the Schloss. I might, at least, be able to pick
up something there. Accordingly, I stole across the garden, scaled the
wall again and reached the road in safety.

The estaminet was full of people, brutish-looking peasants swilling neat
spirits, cattle drovers and the like. I stood up at the bar and ordered
a double noggin of _Korn_--a raw spirit made in these parts from
potatoes, very potent but at least pure. A man in corduroys and leggings
was drinking at the bar, a bluff sort of chap, who readily entered into
conversation. A casual question of mine about the game conditions
elicited from him the information that he was an under-keeper at the
Castle. It was a busy time for them, he told me, as four big shoots had
been arranged. The first was to take place the next day. There were
plenty of birds, and he thought the Frau Graefin's guests ought to be
satisfied.

I asked him if there was a big party staying at the Castle. No, he told
me, only one gentleman besides the officer billeted there, but a lot of
people were coming over for the shoot the next day, the officers from
Cleves and Goch, the Chief Magistrate from Cleves, and a number of
farmers from round about.

"I expect you will find the soldiers billeted at the Castle useful as
beaters," I enquired with a purpose.

The man assented grudgingly. Gamekeepers are first-class grumblers. But
the soldiers were not many. For his part he could do without them
altogether. They were such terrible poachers to have about the place, he
declared. But what they would do for beaters without them, he didn't
know ... they were very short of beaters ... that was a fact.

"I am staying at Cleves," I said, "and I'm out of a job. I am not long
from hospital, and they've discharged me from the army. I wouldn't mind
earning a few marks as a beater, and I'd like to see the sport. I used
to do a bit of shooting myself down on the Rhine where I come from."

The man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "That's none of my
business, getting the beaters together," he replied. "Besides, I shall
have the head gamekeeper after me if I go bringing strangers in...."

I ordered another drink for both of us, and won the man round without
much difficulty. He pouched my five mark note and announced that he
would manage it ... the Frau Graefin was to see some men who had offered
their services as beaters after dinner at the Castle that evening. He
would take me along.

Half an hour later I stood, as one of a group of shaggy and bedraggled
rustics, in a big stone courtyard outside the main entrance to the
Castle. The head gamekeeper mustered us with his eye and, bidding us
follow him, led the way under a vaulted gateway through a massive door
into a small lobby which had apparently been built into the great hall
of the Castle, for it opened right into it.

We found ourselves in a splendid old feudal hall, oak-lined and
oak-raftered, with lines of dusty banners just visible in the twilight
reigning in the upper part of the vast place. The modern generation had
forborne to desecrate the fine old room with electric light, and massive
silver candlesticks shed a soft light on the table set at the far end of
the hall, where dinner, apparently, was just at an end.

Three people were sitting at the table, a woman at the head, who, even
before I had taken in the details I have just set down, I knew to be
Monica, though her back was towards me. On one side of the table was a
big, heavy man whom I recognized as Clubfoot, on the other side a pale
slip of a lad in officer's uniform with only one arm ... Schmalz, no
doubt.

A servant said something to Monica, who, asking permission of her
companions by a gesture, left the table and came across the hall. To my
surprise, she was dressed in deepest black with linen cuffs. Her face was
pale and set, and there was a look of fear and suffering in her eyes
that wrung my very heart.

I had shuffled into the last place of the row in which the head keeper
had ranged us. Monica spoke a word or two to each of the men, who
shambled off in turn with low obeisances. Directly she stopped in front
of me I knew she had recognized me--I felt it rather, for she made no
sign--though the time I had had in Germany had altered my appearance, I
dare say, and I must have looked pretty rough with my three days' beard
and muddy clothes.

"Ah!" she said with all her languor _de grande dame_, "you are the man
of whom Heinrich spoke. You have just come out of hospital, I think?"

"Beg the Frau Graefin's pardon," I mumbled out in the thick patois of the
Rhine which I had learnt at Bonn, "I served with the Herr Graf in
Galicia, and I thought maybe the Frau Graefin ..."

She stopped me with a gesture.

"Herr Doktor!" she called to the dinner-table.

By Jove! this girl had grit: her pluck was splendid.

Clubfoot came stumping over, all smiles after his food and smoking a
long cigar that smelt delicious.

"Frau Graefin?" he queried, glancing at me.

"This is a man who served under my husband in Galicia. He is ill and out
of work, and wishes me to help him. I should wish, therefore, to see him
in my sitting-room, if you will allow me...."

"But, Frau Graefin, most certainly. There surely was no need ..."

"Johann!" Monica called the servant I had seen before, "take this man
into the sitting-room!"

The servant led the way across the hall into a snugly furnished library
with a dainty writing-desk and pretty chintz curtains. Monica followed
and sat down at the desk.

"Now tell me what you wish to say ..." she began in German as the servant
left the room, but almost as soon as he had gone she was on her feet,
clasping my hands.

"Francis!" she whispered in English in a great sob, "oh, Francis! what
have they done to you to make you look like that?"

I gripped her wrist tightly.

"Frau Graefin," I said in German, still in that hideous patois, "you must
be calm." And I whispered in English in her ear:

"Monica, be brave! And talk German whatever you do."

She regained her self-possession at once.

"I understand," she answered, sitting down at her desk again; "it is
more prudent."

And for the rest of the time we spoke in German.

"Desmond?" I asked.

"Locked up in Grundt's bedroom," she replied. "I met them pushing him
along the corridor--it was horrible! Grundt won't let him out of his
sight. Oh, it was madness to have come. If only I could have warned
you!"

"What is Grundt doing here?" I asked. "And those soldiers and that
officer?"

"My dear," she answered, and her eyes flashed mischief in a sudden
change of mood, "I'm in preventive arrest!"

"But, Monica...."

"Listen! Gerry and that spying man-servant of his made trouble. When Des
went off that evening and didn't come back, Gerry insisted that we
should notify the police. He made an awful scene, then the valet chipped
in, and from what he said I knew he meant mischief. I didn't dare trust
Gerry with the truth, so I let him send a note to the police. They came
round and asked a lot of questions and went away again, so I thought
we'd heard the last of it and came up here. Gerry wouldn't come. He's
gone off to Baden-Baden on some new cure.

"About a week ago the Chief Magistrate at Cleves, who is an old friend
of ours, motored over, and after a lot of talk, blurted out that I was
to consider myself under arrest, and that an officer and a detachment of
men from Goch were coming over to guard the house. The magistrate man
would have told me anything I wanted to know, but he knew nothing: he
simply carried out his orders. Then the lieutenant and his men arrived,
and since that time I have been a prisoner in the house and grounds. I
was terribly scared about Des until Grundt arrived suddenly, two nights
ago, and I saw at once by his face that Des was still at large. But,
Francis, that Clubfoot man came here to catch Des ... and he has simply
walked into the trap."

"And Desmond?" I asked. "What is Clubfoot going to do about him?"

"He was with Des for about an hour in his room, and I heard him tell
Schmalz he would 'try again' after dinner. Oh, Francis, I am frightened
of that man ... not a word has he said to me about my knowing
Desmond--not a word about my harbouring Des in Berlin ... but he knows
everything, and he watches me the whole time."

I glanced through the open door into the hall. The candles still burnt
on the dinner-table, where Clubfoot and the officer sat conversing in
low tones.

"I have been here long enough," I said. "But before I go, I want you to
answer one or two questions, Monica. Will you?"

"Yes, Francis," she said, raising her eyes to mine.

"What time is the shoot to-morrow?"

"At ten o'clock."

"Are Grundt and Schmalz going?"

"Yes."

"You too?"

"Yes."

"Could you get away back to the house by 12.30?"

"Not alone. One of them is always with me out of doors."

"Could you meet me alone anywhere outside at that time?"

"There is a quarry outside a village called Quellenburg ... it is on the
edge of our preserves ... just off the road. We ought to be as far as
that by twelve. If it is necessary, I will try and give them the slip
and hide in one of the caves there. Then, when you came, if you whistled
I could come out."

"Good. That will do excellently. We will arrange it so. Now, another
question ... how many soldiers have you here?"

"Sixteen."

"Are they all going beating?"

"Oh, no! Only ten of them. The other six and the sergeant remain
behind."

"Have you a car here?"

"No, but Grundt has one."

"How many servants will there be in the house to-morrow?"

"Only Johann, the butler, and the maids ... a woman cook and two girls."

"Can you contrive to have Johann out of the house between 10 and 12:30
to-morrow morning?"

"Yes, I can send him to Cleves with a note."

"The maids too?"

"Yes, the maids too."

"Good. Now will you do one thing more--the hardest of all? I want you
to send a message to Desmond. Can you arrange it?"

"Tell me what your message is, and I may be able to answer you."

"I want you to tell him that he must at all costs contrive to keep
Grundt from going to that shoot to-morrow ... at any rate between ten
and twelve. He must manage to let Grundt believe that he is going to
tell him where Grundt may find what he is after ... but he must keep him
in suspense during those hours."

"And after?"

"There will be no after," I said.

"I will see that Des gets your message," Monica replied, "for I will
take it myself."

"No, Monica," I said, "I don't want..."

"Francis," ...she spoke almost in a whisper ... "my life in this country
is over," ... and she touched her widow's weeds.... "Karl was killed at
Predeal three weeks ago.... You know as well as I do that I am involved
in this affair as much as you and Des ... and I will share the risk if
only you will take me away with you ... that is if you ..." She
faltered.

I heard the chairs scrape in the corner of the hall where the
dinner-party was breaking up.

"The Frau Graefin has only to command," I said. "The Frau Graefin knows I
have been waiting for years...."

Clubfoot was crossing towards the open door.

"... I never expected to find the Frau Graefin so gracious.... I had
never hoped that the Frau Graefin would be willing to do so much for
me ... the Frau Graefin has made me very happy."

Clubfoot stood on the threshold and listened to my halting speech.

"You can bring your things in when you come to-morrow ..." Monica said.
"The keeper will tell you what time you must be here."

Then she dismissed me, but as I went I heard her say:

"Herr Doktor! Can I have a word with you?"

CHAPTER XVIII

I GO ON WITH THE STORY

I was in the billiard-room of the Castle, a dusty place, obviously
little used, for it smelt of damp. A fire was burning in the grate,
however, and on a table in the corner, which was littered with papers,
stood a dispatch box.

Clubfoot wore a dinner-coat and, as he laughed, his white expanse of
shirt-front heaved to the shaking of his deep chest. For a moment,
however, I had little thought of him or the ugly-looking Browning he
held in his fist. My ears were strained for any sound that might betray
Francis' presence in the garden. But all remained silent as the grave.

Clubfoot, still chuckling audibly, walked over to me. I thought he was
going to shoot me, he came so straight and so fast, but it was only to
get behind me and shut the door, driving me, as he did so, farther into
the room.

The door by which he had entered stood open. Without taking his eyes off
me or deflecting his weapon from its aim, he called out:

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