The back door led straight into a kind of open shed which, from the stove and stacked-up wood pile, I judged to be Do?a Luisa's cooking-place. The shed gave on a dusty yard, small and narrow, smelling horribly of poultry4, with a high mud wall. In this wall I saw—for the moonlight made everything as bright as day—a wooden door. On reaching it I found that it was locked.
For a moment I had a mind to go back to the front and home by the way I had come. But I felt doubtful as to whether I should be able to follow in the opposite direction the intricate route by which Do?a Luisa had brought me, and I had no desire to be lost in the negro quarter at night. So without more ado I scaled the mud wall and, dropping to earth on the other side, found myself in the plantation6 of which the beach-comber had spoken.
Here I was alone with the noises of the tropical night. Of human being there was neither sound nor sign. However, I had Adams's directions firmly in my head; and by following them to the letter came back at last without incident, but very hot and sticky, to John Bard7's bungalow8.
The verandah was empty, the house very quiet. I looked at my watch. It was half past eleven. Bard had gone down to the club for his usual evening rubber of bridge but I had excused myself for I had meant to write letters. I knew it would be at least an hour before Bard returned; for he was a late bird. So I went through to my room, had a sponge down and changed into pyjamas9 and made my way to the living-room.
It was a delightfully10 airy apartment, one side, glazed11, opening on to the verandah, the other walls distempered a pale green. There were native mats on the floor and comfortable chairs stood about the room. I went over to the writing desk in the corner, switched on the reading-lamp and lit a cigar. Then I pulled out of my pocket the package which I had received from the beach-comber.
The outer covering was a piece of greasy13 flannel14 which looked as if it had been torn off an old shirt. With my knife I slit15 up the stitches—it had been lightly tacked3 across with thread—and pulled out a narrow pad of oilskin folded once across. Spread out it made a piece roughly about nine inches long by six wide. Across it stood written some lines hastily scribbled16 in indelible pencil. The hand was crabbed17 and irregular, the writing indistinct and, in some places, almost completely effaced18. But I could distinguish enough to recognise that both the hand and the words were German.
At this I felt my pulse quicken. A faint instinct of the chase began to stir in my blood. For three long months I had dawdled19 deliriously20; for, in turning my face towards the sunshine of the New World, I had deliberately21 turned my back on the thrills and disappointments, the dangers and the ennuis of the Secret Service. This almost undecipherable scrawl22, with here and there a German word clearly protruding23 itself (I could read "Kiel" and "siehst Du") and, above all, the indelible pencil, in whose pale mauve character gallant24 young men wrote the real history of the war, brought back to me with vivid clearness, memorable25 moments of those half-forgotten campaigning days. I fumbled26 in a drawer of the desk for Bard's big magnifying glass, drew up my chair and set myself stolidly—as I had so often done in the past!—to the deciphering of what is in all circumstances, easily the most illegible27 handwriting in the world.
In truth, no writing is harder to read than the German. In his intercourse28 with the foreigner, the brother Boche, it is true, not infrequently employs the Latin character. But, for communications among themselves, the Germans continue to use their own damnable hieroglyphics30. I have often wondered to see how the most unintelligent German will read off with ease a closely written scrawl of German handwriting looking as though a spider, after taking an ink-bath, had jazzed up and down the page.
This particular specimen31 of the Hun fist was a proper Chinese puzzle. Where in places it was beginning to be decipherable, the heavy indelible ink had run (under the influence of damp, I suppose) and where the writing was not a mass of smears32 it was illegible in a degree to make one despair.
Well, I got down to it properly. My knowledge of German (which I know about as well as English) was a great help. Finally, with the assistance of Bard's magnifying-glass, a deduction33 here and a guess there, after nearly an hour's hard work, I produced what was, as nearly as I could make it, an accurate version of the original. My greatest triumph lay, I think, in establishing the fact that an unusually baffling row of cryptic34 signs at the bottom of the thing was, in reality, four bars of music.
But when I had set it all down (on a sheet of John Bard's expensive glazed note-paper), I scratched my head and, despite my aching eyes, took another good look at the original. For I could make no sense of the writing at all.
The message (for such it seemed to be) was signed with the single letter "U." And this is what I got:—
Mittag. 18/11/18.
"Die Garnison von Kiel
"Mit Kompass dann am besten
"Am Zuckerhut vorbei
"Siehst Du die Lorelei
"Und magst Du Sch?tzchen gern.
music fragment
Blankly I stared at this doggerel36. Then I took down from the rack another sheet of paper and jotted37 down a rough English translation:—
Noon. 18/11/18.
"Flash, flash much
"Then with the compass is best
"Think of the Feast of Orders
"Past the Sugar-Loaf
"You'll see the Lorelei
"And if you desire the sweetheart.
U."
Leaning back in my chair, I cast my mind over the strange tale I had heard that night from Adams, the story, whispered in the fierce noonday heat of the calaboose of San Salvador, of the ship which had brought the solitary39 white man and his gold out of the Unknown to Cock Island, of the Unknown's death and of the message he had left so oddly behind him. And, lest anyone should think that I was paying too much heed40 to a rambling41 yarn42 told me at second-hand43 by a drunken outcast, a yarn, moreover, based on a statement by a Kanaka deck-hand, let me say that my whole training in the Intelligence had taught me never to reject any statement, however improbable it sounded, until it had failed to withstand an elaborate series of tests. Indeed, the major satisfaction of this poorly paid and sometimes dangerous profession of ours is the rare delight of seeing emerge out of some seemingly impossible tale a solid basis of fact.
And, behind the beach-comber's rambling story, there were certain solid facts which, from the moment of discovering that the message was in German, I could not afford to neglect. When William the Second launched the world war like a big stone dropped in a pond, the ripples44 reached to the uttermost ends of the earth. In many a lonely island of the Seven Seas there had been, I knew, mysterious comings and goings, connected with gun-running, submarine work and dark conspiracies45 of all kinds. Did this scrap46 of stained oilsilk, picked off a lonely grave in the Southern Seas, lead back to a secret adventure of this kind? I decided47 that it might.
I turned to the message again. It was obviously written by a German and for a German, it was fair to presume.... for some specific German, furthermore, who would hold the key to the conventional code in which this message was almost certainly written. Consequently, the solitary stranger of Cock Island had expected to meet a German on the island, ergo, the island was a meeting-place, some secret rendezvous48 of the busy German conspirators49 in the war. This was borne out by the remarkable50 evidence laid before Adams by Dutchey on their visit to Cock Island to prove that some gang of desperadoes from San Salvador had previously51 been there. The names mentioned by Dutchey were undoubtedly52 Spanish—Black Pablo and Neque, for instance—but there might have been Germans with them. El Cojo was also Spanish, to judge by the name; but apparently53 he had put in an appearance later and had not visited the island.
To what did the message refer? What would the solitary German, with the hand of Death at his throat, wish to tell the man whom he was to have met? Might it not be, as Adams had said, the whereabouts of the gold, brought to the island by the Unknown, which, from the observation of Adams' fellow prisoners at the calaboose, was apparently still on the island? Various geographical54 indications in the message—the Sugar-Loaf, the Lorelei (the latter the well-known crag on the Rhine) seemed to confirm this.
But the message had remained in its bottle on the grave until, months later, Adams and Dutchey had found it. It was, therefore, to be presumed that the unknown German's friend, probably someone in El Cojo's gang, had not kept the appointment. Why?
I stared in perplexity at the dead man's scrawl. Every one of my deductions55, I perceived all too clearly, led to a question to which I was unable to supply an answer. I began to regret that I had not read the message at Adams' hut and cross-examined him on it before I left. But I realised I should never have been able to decipher the scrawl by the flickering56 light of the oil-lamp in the shack. I resolved to go down to the negro quarter and see Adams again in the morning.
I suddenly began to feel restless and rather unhappy. I knew the symptoms. In me they always presage57 a burst of activity after a spell of idleness. This infernal riddle58 had altogether upset me. I had no desire to go to bed; the very idea of sleep was repugnant to me.
I measured myself out a "peg59" of whisky and splashed the soda60 into it. My eyes, roaming round the room, fell on the upright piano in the corner. I crossed to the instrument and opening the lid, put on the music rest the little square of oilskin. Then, summoning back to my mind with an effort the hazy61 musical knowledge of my early school days, with considerable deliberation I picked out on the piano the notes indicated in the four bars of music appended to the end of the message.
I got the melody at once, or rather one movement of a melody which was dimly familiar to me. It fitted itself to no words or voice in my mind; but as I hummed it over, a silly little jingle62, I suddenly had a mental picture of a cheap German dance-hall such as you find in the northern part of Berlin, with a blaring orchestra and jostling couples redolent of perspiration63 and beer. I knew the tune64; but it was, I thought, the words that were wanted to complete the dead man's message. And they came not.
I was laboriously65 pounding the piano with one finger when I heard Bard's heavy step on the verandah. The next moment he came into the room, a big figure of a man in a tussore silk suit with a panama hat. Somehow the sight of him made me feel easier in my mind. That sublime66 sense of superiority, which we British suck in with our mother milk, is a heartening thing when you find it in your fellow Britisher abroad, thousands of miles from home. And John Bard, though, with his small pointed67 beard and rather pallid68 face, he looked like a Spaniard, was through and through British. Trader, merchant, financier and, on occasion, statesman, his massive body bore scars which told of thrilling years spent among the cannibals and head-hunters of the Pacific islands.
But long years of exile had only served to make John Bard more resolutely69 British. An uncompromising bachelor, abstemious70 in his habits and puritanical71 in his outlook, his mental attitude towards his fellow-man in this tiny republic of the Spanish Main was exactly what it would have been had he been a London suburbanite72 suddenly translated from his native Brixton to these distant shores. He was an eminently73 common-sensible person who was generally reputed to run the miniature republic of Rodriguez in which he had elected to settle down after his adventurous74 life.
His unshakable phlegm lent him a reposeful75 air which I believe was the first thing that drew me to him when, a few months before, for the first time for many years, I had met him again in a New York hotel. Six months' leave, unexpectedly offered, found me at a loose end and I gladly accepted his invitation to travel down by one of his ships and visit him in his Central American home. His cheery self-possession, as he stepped through the open doors of the verandah, seemed to put to flight the unpleasant shape which my mind's eye had seen rising from the little piece of oilsilk.
Bard crossed the room without speaking and filled himself a glass of soda-water from a syphon on the side-table. He tossed his soft panama hat on a chair and brushed back his closely cut crop of iron-grey hair from his temples. With his glass in his hand he dropped into a seat at my side.
"There's a yacht in the harbour," he said. "That's what made me late. She's called for some stuff they've got waiting for her at the Consulate77. Fordwich—that's the Consul76, you know—is down with a go of fever so I went round with his clerk to see about this consignment78. Whew! But it's warm walking!"
"What's the yacht?" I asked.
"Name of Naomi. She's come through the Canal".... "the Canal" in these parts is, of course, the Panama Canal.... "and is going across to Hawaii, I believe!"
He yawned and stretched his big frame. He drained his glass and stood up.
"Heigho," he said, "it's after two. I'm for bed!"
Now between John Bard and me exists that sort of uncommunicative friendship which is often found between two men who have knocked about the world a good deal. Though I could tell by Bard's elaborate affection of nonchalance79 that he noticed I was preoccupied80, I knew he would never demand the cause of this. If I wanted his advice I should have to ask for it.
"John," said I, "just a minute. Who's El Cojo?"
I pronounced it in the English fashion but Bard gave the word its rasping Spanish aspirate as he repeated it.
"I gather," I remarked, "that he's a gentleman of fortune!"
Bard laughed.
"The production of that type is an old industry in these parts, my boy," he riposted. "And even I don't know 'em all. I never heard of your pal12. Is he a citizen of this illustrious republic?"
I shook my head.
"I haven't an idea," I answered. "I only know that a man called Black Pablo is mixed up with him...."
John Bard whistled softly.
"'Dime82 con29 quien andas, decirte de quien eres,'" he quoted. "That is to say, tell me whom you go with and I'll tell you who you are. If your pal is a friend of Black Pablo then he's 'no freend o' mine'!"
"Why?"
"Because," said John Bard slowly, and I noticed that his mocking air had altogether disappeared, "because Black Pablo is the greatest scoundrel on this coast.... and that's going some! During the war, when, after a good deal of pressure, our most illustrious President ultimately kicked out Schwanz, the German Consul, Black Pablo became Germany's unofficial agent. He was mixed up with running guns for the Mexicans to annoy the Yanks, and supplies for the Hun commerce raiders to worry the British and every other kind of dirty work. As long as he was merely a smuggler83, a cut-throat and a hired assassin, as he was before the war.... Bien! I had nothing to say to him. But when the fellow had the blasted impudence84 to come butting85 into our war on the wrong side, by George! one had to do something. The Americans were devilish decent about it, I must say, and, with their support, we ran the skunk86 out of here P.D.Q. That was around January, 1918, and I have never heard of our friend since. But I'll give you a word of advice, young fellow my lad. If you come across Black Pablo, give him a wide berth87. And mind his left! He keeps his knife in that sleeve!"
I pointed at the open cigar-box.
"Light up, John Bard," said I, "for I want to tell you a story and get your advice!"
So, while, in the garden, trees and bushes stirred lazily to a little breeze before dawn, I told him, as briefly88 as might be, the story I had heard from Adams. My host never once interrupted me but sat and smoked in silence till my tale was done. Even after I had finished he remained silent for a spell.
At length he said musingly:—
"Cock Island, eh? Yes, it surely would be a good spot for a quiet rendezvous."
"You know it then?" I asked eagerly.
"Aye," he averred89. "I know it by name. But I was never there. It lies off the beaten trade routes, you see. But I remember hearing once that it had been a port of call for some of the old buccaneers like Kidd and Roberts who plied90 their trade in these parts. And so you think there's German gold hidden there, eh?"
"This"—I held up the fragment of oilsilk—"looks as if it might answer that question. If only one could read it," I said. And I spread it out before him. We put our heads together, under the lamp, while I read out my rough translation. Then Bard, shrugging his shoulders, leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke.
"What are you going to do about it, Desmond?"
"Well," I said slowly, "if there were any sort of certainty about it not being absolutely a wild goose chase...."
"You'd go after it, eh?"
"It'd be a devilish amusing way of finishing up my leave."
John Bard smiled indulgently.
"It might be more exciting than amusing," he said, "if Black Pablo has anything to do with this affair."
"Do you think there is anything in it?" I asked.
"In the latter stages of the war," my host replied, "I heard vague rumours91 about some island off the coast where German commerce-raiders used to rendezvous for supplies. But I never heard this island named. It seems to me that the first thing to be done is to see your friend, Adams, again. After all, he's been to the island. He might be able to tell us more about it. Besides...."
"Besides what?" I demanded.
"If Black Pablo and his friends are after that plan or whatever it is, Adams is in pretty considerable danger."
"He knows it himself, I believe," I replied. "I didn't like leaving him to-night, and that's a fact. He seemed to be frightened about something. There was a man in the lane outside the hut who was singing and...."
"A man singing?" Bard queried sharply.
"Yes, to a guitar," I answered, surprised by his tone. "He sang very well, too!"
John Bard rose to his feet suddenly. He stepped to the verandah and held up his hand for silence.
"Were you followed when you came back from Adams's?" he asked me.
"No, not as far as I know."
Bard was listening intently. All was quiet in the gardens below, save for the murmurings of the sea breeze in the palms.
"Get into your clothes and come along, Okewood," he said, turning away from the window. "And leave that damned plan behind."
"Why, what...."
"Hurry, man, or we shall be too late."
"But, damn it, John, explain!" I cried in exasperation93.
"Black Pablo is renowned94 all along the coast for his exquisite95 singing to the guitar. Be quick, be quick, old man, and don't forget your
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1
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deliriously
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| adv.谵妄（性）；发狂；极度兴奋/亢奋；说胡话 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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protruding
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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hieroglyphics
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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smears
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| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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primmer
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| adj.循规蹈矩的( prim的比较级 )；整洁的；（人）一本正经 | |
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doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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suburbanite
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| n. 郊区居民 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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consignment
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| n.寄售；发货；委托；交运货物 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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butting
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| 用头撞人（犯规动作） | |
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86
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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