The Man with the Clubfoot | Page 5

Valentine Williams
up his hand. "I confess I thought,
on first seeing this message or whatever it is, that there must be simply
a coincidence of name and that somebody's idle scribbling had found
its way into old van U.'s invoice. But now that you have told me that
Francis may have actually got into Germany, then, I must say, it looks

as if this might be an attempt of his to communicate with home."
"Where did the Dutchman's packet of stuff come from?" I asked.
"From the Berlin Metal Works in Steglitz, a suburb of Berlin: he has
dealt with them for years."
"But then what does all the rest of it mean ... all this about Achilles and
the rest?"
"Ah, Desmond!" was Dicky's reply, "that's where you've got not only
me, but also Mynheer van Urutius."
"'O oak-wood! O oak-wood, how empty are thy leaves!'.... That sounds
like a taunt, don't you think, Dicky?" said I.
"Or a confession of failure from Francis ... to let us know that he has
done nothing, adding that he is accordingly sulking 'like Achilles in his
tent.'"
"But, see here, Richard Allerton," I said, "Francis would never spell
'Achilles' with one 'l' ... now, would he?"
"By Jove!" said Dicky, looking at the paper again, "nobody would but a
very uneducated person. I know nothing about German, but tell me, is
that the hand of an educated German? Is it Francis' handwriting?"
"Certainly, it is an educated hand," I replied, "but I'm dashed if I can
say whether it is Francis' German handwriting: it can scarcely be
because, as I have already remarked, he spells 'Achilles' with one 'l.'"
Then the fog came down over us again. We sat helplessly and gazed at
the fateful paper.
"There's only one thing for it, Dicky," I said finally, "I'll take the
blooming thing back to London with me and hand it over to the
Intelligence. After all, Francis may have a code with them. Possibly
they will see light where we grope in darkness."

"Desmond," said Dicky, giving me his hand, "that's the most sensible
suggestion you've made yet. Go home and good luck to you. But
promise me you'll come back here and tell me if that piece of paper
brings the news that dear old Francis is alive."
So I left Dicky but I did not go home. I was not destined to see my
home for many a weary week.
CHAPTER III
A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT
A volley of invective from the box of the cab--bad language in Dutch is
fearfully effective--aroused me from my musings. The cab, a small,
uncomfortable box with a musty smell, stopped with a jerk that flung
me forward. From the outer darkness furious altercation resounded
above the plashing of the rain. I peered through the streaming glass of
the windows but could distinguish nothing save the yellow blur of a
lamp. Then a vehicle of some kind seemed to move away in front of us,
for I heard the grating of wheels against the kerb, and my cab drew up
to the pavement.
On alighting, I found myself in a narrow, dark street with high houses
on either side. A grimy lamp with the word "Hôtel" in half-obliterated
characters painted on it hung above my head, announcing that I had
arrived at my destination. As I paid off the cabman another cab passed.
It was apparently the one with which my Jehu had had words, for he
turned round and shouted abuse into the night.
My cabman departed, leaving me with my bag on the pavement at my
feet gazing at a narrow dirty door, the upper half of which was filled in
with frosted glass. I was at last awake to the fact that I, an Englishman,
was going to spend the night in a German hotel to which I had been
specially recommended by a German porter on the understanding that I
was a German. I knew that, according to the Dutch neutrality
regulations, my passport would have to be handed in for inspection by
the police and that therefore I could not pass myself off as a German.

"Bah!" I said to give myself courage, "this is a free country, a neutral
country. They may be offensive, they may overcharge you, in a Hun
hotel, but they can't eat you. Besides, any bed in a night like this!" and I
pushed open the door.
Within, the hotel proved to be rather better than its uninviting exterior
promised. There was a small vestibule with a little glass cage of an
office on one side and beyond it an old-fashioned flight of stairs, with a
glass knob on the post at the foot, winding to the upper stories.
At the sound of my footsteps on the
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