Chapter Eighteen. The Mysterious Cylinders.

After over two years of strenuous work without a holiday I found myself at length free, and I found myself one morning busy in my rooms in Curzon Street making final arrangements for a trip to Worcestershire to spend a fortnight with Doris and her mother in their lovely country home. I was jaded and fagged, for I do not mind confessing that my work recently had considerably affected me, and I was looking forward with eager anticipation to the delights of a stay in the country. I had not seen Doris for some months, though of course we were in constant communication, and I was naturally longing for a sight of her.

But I was destined to another disappointment. Just as I was finishing my packing the telephone rang. I found the call was from Morgan, one of the ablest of the Government Experts on Explosives, and he had a curious story to tell me. When I had listened to what he had to say I realised with a heavy heart that my long-promised holiday must be again postponed. I rang up Doris on the telephone and, having broken the news to her, hurried off to Morgan’s office.

I found the expert in a state of utter bewilderment. He was an acknowledged authority on explosives, but a problem had been set before him which had baffled him completely.

A few days previously a mysterious explosion had occurred in some public gardens at Mile End. While a keeper was clearing away a pile of rubbish he found a curious-looking metal cylinder lying in a flower-bed, and while he was examining it it exploded with a tremendous report, injuring the man so severely that he had to be taken, in a very critical condition, to the East End Hospital.

A search by the police had a curious result. In other flower-beds a number of similar cylinders were found. They were very tiny, being only about an inch and a half in length and about a quarter of an inch in diameter. They contained a substance which was evidently the explosive. At one end a piece of wire was attached, evidently as a means of exploding them, and at the other end was a strip of soft lead.

Morgan showed me some of the cylinders, and frankly confessed his ignorance of what they contained.

“I thought I knew every explosive in existence,” he told me, “but this is something entirely new. It must be tremendously powerful, judging by the size of the cylinders and the effect of the explosion on the unfortunate gardener who found the first one.” As I held one of the small cylinders, studying it with great care, an idea came to me.

“May I borrow this for a few days?” I asked. “I think I may be able to help you.”

“Certainly,” replied Morgan; “but be careful. We don’t even know how it is exploded.”

Next day I was in Paris, and took train to Vemeuil l’Étang, some thirty miles from the capital, where I called on the manager of a certain well-known factory.

When I showed him the little cylinder he examined it with minute attention and carefully withdrew some of the mysterious explosive. This he placed under a microscope and a moment later said:

“Monsieur is undoubtedly correct! It is some of our product, herbethite, the invention of our chief director, Mr Herbeth, and the most powerful explosive known to modern science. None has been used in actual work yet, and the only sample that has left our factory is that which was stolen. It is a great secret.”

“Has some been stolen, then?” I asked quickly.

“Yes. Fortunately we discovered the thief—a workman named Pasquet—and we thought we had recovered all that had been taken. Evidently we were wrong and some of the stuff has got into bad hands. Pasquet is awaiting trial by the Assize Court of the Seine.”

I returned to Paris and saw the Minister of Justice, to whom I made a certain proposal. Not without demur, he finally agreed, and I went to the prison armed with authority for a private interview with Pasquet.

I met the thief in a small room in the governor’s quarters of the prison. I found him to be a man of about thirty, quite obviously of the hooligan type, and I soon guessed from his conversation that he had been in the first place the tool of others, who, when they had made use of him, had abandoned him to his fate.

He was naturally resentful and vindictive. I told him I had authority to offer him a free pardon, and a reward which would give him a decent start in life if he would give us the fullest information in his power. He was suspicious, however, and it was not until my promise had been confirmed by the governor of the prison himself that he consented to speak.

His promise once given, he made a clean breast of everything, and his information was so startling that I could hardly credit it. Possibly he saw my incredulity, for he said quietly: “Monsieur will find that I am telling the truth. Why should I lie? My whole life and liberty are in pawn for my veracity.”

I admitted that this was reasonable, and promised to, push things forward as quickly as possible. Something about the man had appealed to me, and I wondered whether, after all, he might not contain the makings of a decent citizen.

My first concern was to send a wire to Madame Gabrielle, who was in Edinburgh, and the following evening she met me in my rooms in Curzon Street, where I unfolded the whole story to her.

“Of course, we are not yet on firm ground,” I pointed out to her. “Pasquet alleges that the real name of his friend Shackleton is Von Schack and that he is a Prussian engineer officer.

“Pasquet first met Shackleton in London, and later on Shackleton approached him at Verneuil with another man, whom he introduced as Norman, and they offered to buy some herbethite from him for three thousand francs. Pasquet told me that he was very hard up owing to his wife’s long illness—I have ascertained that this is quite true—and the temptation proved too much for him. It is only fair to him to remember that, though he looks an abandoned ruffian, he bears a good character as a husband and father, and it seems to be the fact that the only money he spent out of that which he received from Shackleton and Norman went to purchase necessities and delicacies for his wife. The money really seems to have saved her life.

“Anyhow, he stole a quantity of the herbethite, which Shackleton and Norman packed in golden syrup tins and took to England. When Pasquet stole a second lot he was discovered, and the dangerous stuff was found at his lodgings and recovered before he could hand it over to the two men, who pretended to be English.

“One fact of importance at least is established,” I added, “namely, that Schack formerly carried on business as a watchmaker at Newcastle, and sold his business to an Englishman a month before war broke out.”

For weeks we hunted in vain for Shackleton. I visited Newcastle, and found that the man to whom he sold the business had later joined the Army. This meant a journey to France for me, and I had an interview with the man at a certain brigade headquarters in the Somme battle area.

“Shackleton was undoubtedly a foreigner and I should say probably a German,” the watchmaker, now a corporal, told me. “When he left he asked me to forward any letters that might come for him, and gave me the address—‘Care of Soulsby, High Street, Bristol.’”

With that information I went straight from the British front to the great Severn port. Here I found that Soulsby kept a newsagent’s shop near Bristol Bridge, to which letters could be addressed. He did a big business in this way, for the address was very handy for sea-going men.

Soulsby at first refused to give me the smallest information about his clients, but a sight of my authority opened his mouth, and as soon as he realised that something serious was on foot he was only too willing to help me.

“Of course, Mr Sant,” he said, “you will understand I have no knowledge whatever of the man. But I know that the Bristol Channel ports are full of spies, and it is very generally believed that few vessels leave here unknown to the German submarines lurking about the mouth of the Channel. If I can help you at all, I shall be delighted.”

I then learned that Shackleton had called about a week before, taking away several letters addressed to him, and that he usually called at intervals of a week or ten days. Soulsby promised to let me know at once as soon as he came again, and I wired to the wily Aubert to come to Bristol and keep observation.

Within three days, as I walked with my assistant along Victoria Street towards Temple Meads, he pointed out a middle-aged, keen-eyed, dark-haired man, who had little of the appearance of a Teuton. He looked like a well-dressed, prosperous business man. Yet it was he who had induced the unfortunate Pasquet to steal the herbethite, and he was certainly engaged in some nefarious and deadly plot. For although the actual volume of the stolen explosive was not great, so tremendous was its power that the quantity in the hands of our foes was sufficient to wreak almost unimaginable havoc in half a dozen cities in England. Mr Herbeth had looked very grave when he learned from Pasquet through me that the amount stolen was enough to fill two of the small cans used to hold golden syrup—about a pint and a half altogether.

“I hope monsieur will trace it in time,” he said earnestly. “There is enough of it in their possession to destroy half London.”

We soon found out that Shackleton was living in furnished rooms at Clifton and had one close friend, who, after some difficulty, we proved to be his accomplice Norman.

One morning Aubert arrived at my hotel and reported that the pair had gone to the station and taken tickets for London. At once I advised Madame Gabrielle by telephone to be on the platform at Paddington and watch them wherever they went. I myself took the next train to London, and, driving to Curzon Street, awaited her report.

But although I sat up until after two o’clock the next morning, she did not arrive and I received no word from her! What contretemps had occurred? I was seriously uneasy, for I had impressed upon her the vitally important nature of our task, and if she failed or met with any mishap we should be in a serious predicament, for we had no trace whatever of any of Shackleton’s associations in London, and anything might happen before we could run him to earth again among the teeming millions of the metropolis, the safest hiding-place on earth.

It was not until six o’clock the next evening that I received, by express messenger, a hastily scrawled note in which Madame Gabrielle said:

“Be extremely careful! They have discovered me, and I am being watched, so cannot come near you. Great things are in progress. Get someone to watch Shackleton, who is at the address below. Some great plot is in progress—that is certain.—G.”

Without a moment’s delay, I slipped round to Whitehall, and very soon an expert watcher was at the address given by Madame.

Twelve hours later, I was filled with dismay by a telephone message which told me that neither Shackleton nor Norman had been to the address given. They had both disappeared!