The Men Who Wrought Part 24

Vita's hand reached swiftly and caught Ruxton's arm.

"Quick," she whispered. "Quick--but cautiously. Don't let him see you.

There, leaning out of that cab. It is Von Salzinger."

Ruxton, his pulses quickened at the touch of Vita's hand upon his arm and the eager alarm of her whisper, leant forward and cautiously peered out of the window. Instantly the inevitable happened. The car moved forward and closed up on the cab. They had drawn abreast. The movement distracted the occupant of the cab. His head turned and Ruxton found himself gazing squarely into the fleshy features of the Commandant of Borga. He promptly drew back, but it was too late. Von Salzinger had no scruples. He had obviously recognized the Englishman, for now he leant farther out of the window and deliberately peered into the well-lit interior of the car for a second look at its occupants.

It was a desperate, trying movement. Ruxton was helpless. There was nothing to be done. The man's scrutiny of both himself and his companion remained until the traffic moved on. Then, and then only, did he withdraw his head.

"He has lost no time, and has had all the--luck," said Vita in a hard, bitter tone.

But Ruxton smiled and spoke down into the tube to the chauffeur.

"There is a taxi beside us. Avoid it." Then he put up the tube and turned to the girl at his side. "Your fears were well grounded. With Von Salzinger in London there can be only one possible interpretation of the fact. But I don't think he has had all the luck. You forget that I have completed my arrangements with the Admiralty."

CHAPTER XIV

"KAMERADS"

Two men walked briskly up Baker Street in the direction of the Underground Station. At least, one of them walked briskly. The gait of the other were better described as hurried. He was obviously making an effort to keep up with his powerful, square-cut, vigorous companion.

Many eyes were turned upon them as they pa.s.sed by. It was the provocative air of the larger man, whose gait was more than arrogant.

The lesser of the two was not oblivious to the attention.

"It is almost in the nature of a shock to find myself walking beside you in London, Ludwig. It is the old days again. But in the old days you were thankful to disguise the fact that you possessed military training. Now it is as if you were on parade. These people hate and distrust anything which suggests the--military."

Ludwig von Salzinger laughed gutturally. His fierce eyes glanced swiftly about him, ready to challenge any resentful glance in his direction.

"I care nothing for the pigs," he observed pleasantly.

"No. But you are here for--distraction. I have work which demands that I attract as little attention as possible."

"Distraction?" Von Salzinger laughed without any mirth. Then he became suddenly serious. "Distraction--yes, that is it."

The smaller man was quick of eye--almost furtive. His slight figure was well clad in an ordinary blue serge suit. His boots had once been of patent leather. His hat was of the Homburg pattern so beloved of the Londoner. He wore his brown hair fairly long to disguise the flat back of his head. His face was perfectly clean shaven, which left it typical of the ordinary man on the street. The other was so obviously of the Teuton military caste in spite of his elegant civilian dress, that his companion was seriously troubled. He protested again.

"If you cannot disguise yourself let us take a cab. Can you not drop your shoulders like the London 'knut'? Can you not slouch? Can you not refrain from lifting your feet as though you would crush a worm, or--an Englishman? Your moustache is bad enough."

"Ach! you are afraid, like some sick woman. What is it?" cried Salzinger half angrily, half contemptuously. "Has the work broken your spirit? It was not so in the old days. Johann Stryj, you need a holiday--distraction, like I am seeking." He laughed at his own clumsy humor.

Stryj took no umbrage. He never took umbrage till he had discovered all the possibilities of a man. Von Salzinger had arrived just as he had finished his English breakfast in his essentially English flat in Baker Street. Johann Stryj had spared no pains to mould his whole life and person upon London lines. Von Salzinger had explained nothing as yet of the meaning of his sudden descent upon London. He had merely demanded that his erstwhile comrade now accompany him to his hotel.

"And what--distraction do you seek?"

The man's quick eyes were sharply questioning in spite of the smile accompanying his words.

"That is what I conduct you to my hotel to tell you of."

Johann Stryj appeared to acquiesce, and they progressed in silence for a few paces. Then the quick eyes were again raised in the direction of Von Salzinger's square face.

"You have left us all very far behind in the service of the Fatherland.

We hear it all--here. And four years ago you were with us, waiting upon every message that came, wondering where the next few hours would find us."

Stryj's words were calculated to set the other talking. They succeeded.

Von Salzinger was obviously pleased.

"You, my Johann, were built for the--service. I was not. I have not that faculty for making my feelings subservient to the needs of the moment. I was glad when the call of the war took me out of it, and--gave me my chance."

Stryj nodded in an expressionless fas.h.i.+on.

"Yes. I am at home in the work. I love it." Then he laughed silently.

"I am the servant of every pompous official who visits London. I am the slave of my orders. I am a cypher on the official lists, I am nothing amongst the people of the nation which I serve. Yet I am the head of the underground system which works here in England, and, incidentally, my income is four times that of a Captain-General. Your honor is very great, Ludwig, but I wonder if you have advanced since--those days."

Von Salzinger made no reply. He was thinking of the recent scene in which he had partic.i.p.ated in the castle of Kuhlhafen. His face expressed something of his feelings of chagrin, and his companion was not slow to detect them.

"This is a thought of yours too, perhaps," he went on at once. "The moment a man enters the higher ranks of our army his troubles begin. He must fight for favor, and win it or decay in some obscure ditch in the military office. Nor can he rely for five minutes upon that favor.

Degradation awaits at the first blunder which it is not humanly possible to avoid. Is it not so?"

All the buoyancy of Von Salzinger seemed to have vanished from his hard eyes. His old friend was telling him all that he had only too much reason to be aware of. He had fought his way up that perilous ladder of Prussian militarism, and like so many others he had tripped and fallen, and now was faced with the task of making good the temporary set-back.

He had struggled hard at the first trip, and he told himself that fortune had favored him, and he had kept his hold, but well he knew that unless he recovered his foothold himself he must fall to the bottom and die in obscurity.

He turned on the Secret Service man.

"It is all as you say. But the very uncertainty of it makes it all the more worth winning. That is why I am in London now. When I have finished in London I shall have achieved the lasting honor, so rare in our Fatherland."

Stryj shook his head.

"There is none--no lasting honor in our Fatherland," he said.

Then with a quick turn he pointed at the window of a fas.h.i.+onable photographic studio. There was a life-size portrait standing in the very centre of it. It was a full-length portrait of a man of over six feet. He was in the uniform of a British field-marshal.

"There is lasting honor in this country," he said, as they paused and stood gazing at the wonderful face in the portrait, with its level, stern brows, its convincing, powerful eyes, and the heavy moustache that in no way detracted from the purposeful set of the jaws. "They are loyal to those they honor here. The man who has fought a great war for them, as that man has done, need do no more. His name and fame will go down to history with the vast material honor they have showered upon him. That is a name that will never die--in England."

But Von Salzinger had no comment to offer. They stood gazing for some moments at the stern-faced presentation of the marshal. Then quite suddenly an iron grip took hold of the spy's muscular upper arm.

Von Salzinger was pointing at a lesser portrait. It was one among several comprising the faces of well-known parliamentarians.

"That man! Quick!" There was excitement in his voice, and a mild pink had leapt up into his sallow cheeks.

Stryj was startled, but displayed no emotion.

"The name is underneath," he said, pointing. "He is a new member of the Cabinet. Ruxton Farlow."

"Donner! I've found him. Quick! We take a taxi." Then Von Salzinger laughed, all his earlier buoyancy returned. "You are right, my Johann.

I am too military to walk in London. But the walk has done me good--much good."