Maxwell Grant
Zemba
CHAPTER I
ON THE GOLDEN ARROW
ELEVEN o’clock in the morning. The Golden Arrow was ready for departure. Standing at the eastern side of Victoria Station, the famous train was waiting for the final moment to begin its swift run from London to the Channel port of Dover.
The main departure platform had cleared. Passengers had gone aboard, a cosmopolitan throng, all bound for destinations on the European continent. From its brilliantly painted locomotive, “Howard of Effingham,” back along the line of cars, the Golden Arrow seemed straining for the word to go.
Two men came dashing through a gateway. They hurried past the rear car, a baggage wagon loaded with large boxes, held in place by chains. They passed two other vans, hastened beyond the first-class coaches and scrambled aboard a Pullman car in the exact center of the train. A uniformed guard stepped on behind them.
Up ahead, the engine driver opened the regulator. With fierce, rapid chugs, the locomotive started its pull from Victoria. These last-moment passengers had held the Golden Arrow for a period of some thirty seconds.
Panting as they sank into the cushioned armchairs of the luxurious Pullman, the two men faced each other across the table that stood between them.
One, a gray-haired man with a high-bridged nose, stared anxiously as he peered through pince-nez spectacles. The other, youthful, but solemn-faced, was looking from the window as the train puffed out of the station. The gray-haired man spoke.
“I wish your opinion, Thomason. Tell me: did we delay the departure sufficiently to excite suspicion?”
“No, your lordship,” replied the solemn-faced man. “See? There is the Brighton Belle, drawing ahead of us. It leaves the other side of the terminus at almost the same moment as the Golden Arrow.”
The gray-haired man nodded.
“Excellent,” he decided. “Of course, the Brighton Belle should pass us, for it has the acceleration of electric power. It always gains during the brief race from the terminus.”
Some one had stopped beside the table. Both men turned about to see a sharp-faced arrival who had stepped up beside them. The newcomer bowed.
“Good morning, Lord Bixley,” he said, in a low tone. “I am Inspector Delka, C.I.D. I saw you come aboard.”
Lord Bixley thrust forward his hand. Then with a nod, he introduced his solemn-faced companion.
“My secretary, Thomason,” explained his lordship. “Suppose you seat yourself across the aisle, Thomason, while I converse with Inspector Delka.”
Thomason moved to the other side of the car. Delka took the armchair opposite Lord Bixley.
“I brought two men with me from Scotland Yard,” asserted Delka, quietly. “I held the train pending your arrival; but I was pleased that the delay was short. Otherwise Willoughby Blythe might have suspected something.”
“Blythe is aboard?” queried Lord Bixley, eagerly. “You have discovered him?”
“I believe so,” returned Delka. “There is a man who answers his description, traveling in the compartment of a forward car. A second-class carriage. My men are watching him.”
“The door of the compartment is open?”
“Yes. The man can be seen from the corridor. There is only one other passenger in the compartment. The door, however, may soon be closed. Therefore, I should like your secretary to walk by and glimpse Blythe long enough to identify him.”
LORD BIXLEY nodded. He beckoned to Thomason and Delka gave the secretary the proper directions. Thomason went forward. The train was crossing the Grosvenor Bridge, over the Thames River; it was slowing down for the release of a tank engine which had served as pusher. The quick-stepping Brighton Belle had passed from sight.
“I held the Brighton Belle also,” remarked Delka, with a smile. “I knew that you would arrive soon after eleven. So I thought it best that the passengers should see the other train and thus believe that both had left on schedule.”
Lord Bixley’s eyes showed approval through the spectacles.
“And now, your lordship,” added Delka, “since we are on our journey, I should be pleased to learn the reason why the admiralty seeks the arrest of another passenger, Willoughby Blythe.”
Lord Bixley chuckled.
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten that there had been no time for explanations when I made that hurried telephone call to Scotland Yard. Very well, inspector. I shall give you a summary of the circumstances.”
Lord Bixley produced some papers from his pocket. He laid them upon the table, then looked about carefully, to see that all other passengers were seated at a distance. He spoke in a tone that was little louder than a whisper.
“Willoughby Blythe had access to certain documents,” he stated. “Among them was a set of sealed specifications that included every detail of our new type of submarines. That sealed envelope was stolen ten days ago.”
“Yet you did not learn of the theft?”
“No. Because another envelope was substituted. One that bore counterfeit seals. Blythe was the thief; for he was the only man who could have effected the substitution.”
“I understand.”
The Golden Arrow was driving downward through Penge Tunnel, passing under the Crystal Palace. Electric lights had replaced the daylight. The car seemed gloomy because of the contrast. Lord Bixley and Delka looked up to see Thomason, back from his excursion to the second-class carriage.
“Was it Blythe?” queried Bixley.
“Yes, your lordship,” replied Thomason. “He closed the door of the compartment just after I glimpsed him.”
“Did he see you?”
“No, your lordship.”
Delka put a query.
“Are my men posted?”
“Yes,” replied Thomason. “One in each adjoining compartment. They are keeping watch upon the corridor.”
DELKA turned to Lord Bixley, who resumed.
“To-day,” he said, “we received this bold letter from Paris. It is signed by an audacious rogue who styles himself Gaspard Zemba. He declares that he holds the sealed documents and will return them to the British admiralty upon payment of one hundred thousand pounds.”
“Gaspard Zemba,” mused Delka. “The smoothest rogue in all France. The famous hidden criminal bobbed up again. Hm-m-m. He seems to have stolen a march on those international spies who made their headquarters in Helsingfors, Finland. Boris Danyar and his agents.”
“Danyar was balked long ago,” nodded Lord Bixley. “He and his agents were scattered, thanks to you and your colleagues at Scotland Yard.”
“We handled only the British angle,” said Delka, modestly. “The French surete and other continental authorities were quite as instrumental in breaking up Boris Danyar’s game. But let us return to the important subject of Gaspard Zemba. How does Willoughby Blythe enter the case?”
“As Zemba’s agent,” replied Lord Bixley. “I was away from London, not expecting to return until to-morrow. Hence Zemba’s letter, arriving this morning, would not ordinarily have been opened. Blythe saw the letter when it arrived.”
“I see!” exclaimed Delka. “It was the tip from Zemba. Time for Blythe to leave England.”
“Precisely. Blythe had an optional vacation that was his due. With the greatest of cheek, the fellow decided to leave for Paris on this very train. He was gone when I arrived at my office, at half past ten. The first letter that I chanced to open was the one from Zemba.”
“And, of course, you connected it with Blythe.”
“Immediately. That is why I called Scotland Yard. Since we have located Blythe, you can apprehend him whenever you wish.”
The train had swept out from the tunnel; it was approaching Beckenham while Delka stared from the Pullman window and pondered. At length, the Scotland Yard man voiced a plan.