Book: The Vanished Messenger

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The Vanished Messenger

by E. Phillips Oppenheim




CHAPTER I


There were very few people upon Platform Number Twenty-one of
Liverpool Street Station at a quarter to nine on the evening
of April 2 - possibly because the platform in question is one of
the most remote and least used in the great terminus. The
station-master, however, was there himself, with an inspector in
attendance. A dark, thick-set man, wearing a long travelling
ulster and a Homburg hat, and carrying in his hand a brown leather
dressing-case, across which was painted in black letters the name
MR. JOHN P. DUNSTER, was standing a few yards away, smoking a
long cigar, and, to all appearance absorbed in studying the
advertisements which decorated the grimy wall on the other side of
the single track. A couple of porters were seated upon a barrow
which contained one solitary portmanteau. There were no signs of
other passengers, no other luggage. As a matter of fact, according
to the time-table, no train was due to leave the station or to
arrive at it, on this particular platform, for several hours.

Down at the other end of the platform the wooden barrier was thrust
back, and a porter with some luggage upon a barrow made his noisy
approach. He was followed by a tall young man in a grey tweed suit
and a straw hat on which were the colours of a famous cricket club.

The inspector watched them curiously. "Lost his way, I should
think," he observed.

The station-master nodded. "It looks like the young man who missed
the boat train," he remarked. "Perhaps he has come to beg a lift."

The young man in question made steady progress up the platform.
His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, and his
forehead was contracted in a frown. As he approached more closely,
he singled out Mr. John P. Dunster, and motioning his porter to wait,
crossed to the edge of the track and addressed him.

"Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?"

Mr. John P. Dunster turned at once and faced his questioner. He
did so without haste - with a certain deliberation, in fact - yet
his eyes were suddenly bright and keen. He was neatly dressed,
with the quiet precision which seems as a rule to characterise the
travelling American. He was apparently of a little less than
middle-age, clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, with every appearance
of physical strength. He seemed like a man on wires, a man on the
alert, likely to miss nothing.

"Are you Mr. John P. Dunster?" the youth asked.

"I carry my visiting-card in my hand, sir," the other replied,
swinging his dressing-case around. "My name is John P. Dunster."

The young man's expression was scarcely ingratiating. To a natural
sullenness was added now the nervous distaste of one who approaches
a disagreeable task.

"I want, if I may, to ask you a favour," he continued. "If you don't
feel like granting it, please say no and I'll be off at once. I am
on my way to The Hague. I was to have gone by the boat train which
left half an hour ago. I had taken a seat, and they assured me that
the train would not leave for at least ten minutes, as the mails
weren't in. I went down the platform to buy some papers and stood
talking for a moment or two with a man whom I know. I suppose I
must have been longer than I thought, or they must have been quicker
than they expected with the mailbags. Anyhow, when I came back the
train was moving. They would not let me jump in. I could have done
it easily, but that fool of an inspector over there held me."

"They are very strict in this country, I know."

Mr. Dunster agreed, without change of expression.
"Please go on."

"I saw you arrive - just too late for the train. While I was
swearing at the inspector, I heard you speak to the station-master.
Since then I have made inquiries. I understand that you have
ordered a special train to Harwich."

Mr. John P. Dunster said nothing, only his keen, clear eyes seemed
all the time to be questioning this gloomy-looking but apparently
harmless young man.

"I went to the station-master's office," the latter continued,
"and tried to persuade them to let me ride in the guard's van of
your special, but he made a stupid fuss about it, so I thought I'd
better come to you. Can I beg a seat in your compartment, or
anywhere in the train, as far as Harwich?"

Mr. Dunster avoided, for the moment, a direct reply. He had the
air of a man who, whether reasonably or unreasonably, disliked the
request which had been made to him.

"You are particularly anxious to cross to-night?" he asked.

"I am," the youth admitted emphatically. "I never ought to have
risked missing the train. I am due at The Hague to-morrow."

Mr. John P. Dunster moved his position a little. The light from a
rain-splashed gas lamp shone now full upon the face of his suppliant:
a boy's face, which would have been pleasant and even handsome but
for the discontented mouth, the lowering forehead, and a shadow in
the eyes, as though, boy though he certainly was in years, he had
already, at some time or another, looked upon the serious things of
life. His nervousness, too, was almost grotesque. He had the air
of disliking immensely this asking a favour from a stranger. Mr.
Dunster appreciated all these things, but there were reasons which
made him slow in granting the young man's request.

"What is the nature of your pressing business at The Hague?" he asked.

The youth hesitated.

"I am afraid," he said grimly, "that you will not think it of much
importance. I am on my way to play in a golf tournament there."

"A golf tournament at The Hague! " Mr. Dunster repeated, in a
slightly altered tone. "What is your name?"

"Gerald Fentolin."

Mr. Dunster stood quite still for a moment. He was possessed of a
wonderful memory, and he was conscious at that moment of a subtle
appeal to it. Fentolin! There was something in the name which
seemed to him somehow associated with the things against which he
was on guard. He stood with puzzled frown, reminiscent for several
minutes, unsuccessful. Then he suddenly smiled, and moving
underneath the gas lamp, shook open an evening paper which he had
been carrying. He turned over the pages until he arrived at the
sporting items. Here, in almost the first paragraph, he saw the
name which had happened to catch his eye a moment or two before:

GOLF AT THE HAGUE

Among the entrants for the tournament which commences
to-morrow, are several well-known English players,
including Mr. Barwin, Mr. Parrott, Mr. Hillard and
Mr. Gerald Fentolin.

Mr. Dunster folded up the newspaper and replaced it in his pocket.
He turned towards the young man.

"So you're a golfer, are you?"

"I play a bit," was the somewhat indifferent reply.

Mr. Dunster turned to another part of the paper and pointed to the
great black head-lines.

"Seems a queer thing for a young fellow like you to be worrying
about games," he remarked. "I haven't been in this country more
than a few hours, but I expected to find all the young men getting
ready."

"Getting ready for what?"

"Why, to fight, of course," Mr. Dunster replied. "Seems pretty
clear that there's an expeditionary force being fitted out,
according to this evening's paper, somewhere up in the North Sea.
The only Englishman I've spoken to on this side was willing to lay
me odds that war would be declared within a week."

The young man's lack of interest was curious.

"I am not in the army," he said. "It really doesn't affect me."

Mr. Dunster stared at him.

"You'll forgive my curiosity," he said, "but say, is there nothing
you could get into and fight if this thing came along?"

"Nothing at all, that I know of," the youth replied coolly. "War
is an affair which concerns only the military and naval part of two
countries. The civil population -"

"Plays golf, I suppose," Mr. Dunster interrupted. "Young man, I
haven't been in England for some years, and you rather take my
breath away. All the same, you can come along with me as far as
Harwich."

The young man showed signs of some satisfaction. "I am very much
obliged to you, sir," he dedared. "I promise you I won't be in
the way."

The station-master, who had been looking through a little pile of
telegrams brought to him by a clerk from his office, now turned
towards them. His expression was a little grave.

"Your special will be backing down directly, sir," he announced,
"but I am sorry to say that we hear very bad accounts of the line.
They say that this is only the fag-end of the storm that we are
getting here, and that it's been raging for nearly twenty-four
hours on the east coast. I doubt whether the Harwich boat will be
able to put off."

"We must take our chance about that," Dunster remarked. "If the
mail boat doesn't run, I presume there will be something else we
can charter."

The station-master looked the curiosity which he did not actually
express in words.

"Money will buy most things, nowadays, sir," he observed, "but if
it isn't fit for our mail boat, it certainly isn't fit for anything
else that can come into Harwich Harbour. However, you'll hear what
they say when you get there."

Mr. Dunster nodded and relapsed into a taciturnity which was
obviously one of his peculiarities. The young man strolled down
the platform, and catching up with the inspector, touched him on
the shoulder.

"Do you know who the fellow is he asked curiously. "It's awfully
decent of him to let me go with him, but he didn't seem very keen
about it."

The inspector shook his head.

"No idea, sir," he replied. "He drove up just two minutes after
the train had gone, came straight into the office and ordered a
special. Paid for it, too, in Bank of England notes before he
went out. I fancy he's an American, and he gave his name as John
P. Dunster."

The young man paused to light a cigarette.

"If he's an American, I suppose that accounts for it," he observed.
"He must be in a precious hurry to get somewhere, though."

"A night like this, too!" the inspector remarked, with a shiver.
"I wouldn't leave London myself unless I had to. They say there's
a tremendous storm blowing on the east coast. Here comes the train,
sir - just one saloon and the guard's van."

The little train backed slowly along the platform side. The
engine was splashed with mud and soaking wet. The faces of the
engine-driver and his companion shone from the dripping rain. The
station-master held open the door of the saloon.

"You've a rough journey before you, sir," he said. "You'll catch
the boat all right, though - if it goes. The mail train was very
heavy to-night. You should catch her up this side of Colehester."

Mr. Dunster nodded.

"I am taking this young gentleman with me," he announced shortly.
"It seems that he, too, missed the train. I am much obliged to you,
station-master, for your attention. Good night!"

They were about to start when Mr. Dunster once more let down the
window.

"By the way," he said, "as it is such a wild night, you will oblige
me very much if you will tell the engine-driver that there will be
a five pound note for himself and his companion if we catch the
mail. Inspector!"

The inspector touched his hat. The station-master had turned
discreetly away. He had been an inspector himself once, and
sovereigns had been useful to him, too. Then the train glided from
the platform side, plunged with a scream through a succession of
black tunnels, and with rapidly increasing speed faced the storm.




CHAPTER II

The young man sat on one side of the saloon and Mr. John P. Dunster
on the other. Although both of them were provided with a certain
amount of railway literature, neither of them made any pretence at
reading. The older man, with his feet upon the opposite seat and
his arms folded, was looking pensively through the rain-splashed
window-pane into the impenetrable darkness. The young man, although
he could not ignore his companion's unsociable instincts, was
fidgety.

"There will be some floods out to-morrow," he remarked.

Mr. Dunster turned his head and looked across the saloon. There
was something in the deliberate manner of his doing so, and his
hesitation before he spoke, which seemed intended to further impress
upon the young man the fact that he was not disposed for conversation.

"Very likely," was his sole reply.

Gerald Fentolin sighed as though he regretted his companion's
taciturnity and a few minutes later strolled to the farther end of
the saloon. He spent some time trying to peer through the streaming
window into the darkness. He chatted for a few minutes with the
guard, who was, however, in a bad temper at having had to turn out
and who found little to say. Then he took one of his golf clubs
from the bag and indulged in several half swings. Finally he
stretched himself out upon one of the seats and closed his eyes.

"May as well try to get a nap," he yawned. "There won't be much
chance on the steamer, if it blows like this."

Mr. Dunster said nothing. His face was set, his eyes were looking
somewhere beyond the confines of the saloon in which he was seated.
So they travelled for over an hour. The young man seemed to be
dozing in earnest when, with a succession of jerks, the train
rapidly slackened speed. Mr. Dunster let down the window. The
interior of the carriage was at once thrown into confusion. A
couple of newspapers were caught up and whirled around, a torrent
of rain beat in. Mr. Dunster rapidly closed the window and rang
the bell. The guard came in after a moment or two. His clothes
were shiny from the wet; raindrops hung from his beard.

"What is the matter?" Mr. Dunster demanded. "Why are we waiting
here?"

"There's a block on the line somewhere, the man replied. "Can't
tell where exactly. The signals are against us; that's all we
know at present."

They crawled on again in about ten minutes, stopped, and resumed
their progress at an even slower rate. Mr. Dunster once more
summoned the guard.

"Why are we travelling like this?" he asked impatiently. "We shall
never catch the boat."

"We shall catch the boat all right if it runs, sir," the man assured
him. "The mail is only a mile or two ahead of us; that's one reason
why we have to go so slowly. Then the water is right over the line
where we are now, and we can't get any news at all from the other
side of Ipswich. If it goes on like this, some of the bridges will
be down; that's what I'm afraid of."

Mr. Dunster frowned. For the first time he showed some signs of
uneasiness.

"Perhaps," he muttered, half to himself," a motorcar would have been
better."

"Not on your life," his young companion intervened. "All the roads
to the coast here cross no end of small bridges - much weaker
affairs than the railway bridges. I bet there are some of those
down already. Besides, you wouldn't be able to see where you were
going, on a night like this."

"There appears to be a chance," Mr. Dunster remarked drily, "that
you will have to scratch for your competition to-morrow."

"Also," the young man observed, "that you will have taken this
special train for nothing. I can't fancy the Harwich boat going
out a night like this."

Mr. Dunster relapsed into stony but anxious silence. The train
continued its erratic progress, sometimes stopping altogether for
a time, with whistle blowing repeatedly; sometimes creeping along
the metals as though feeling its way to safety. At last, after a
somewhat prolonged wait, the guard, whose hoarse voice they had
heard on the platform of the small station in which they were
standing, entered the carriage. With him came a gust of wind, once
more sending the papers flying around the compartment. The rain
dripped from his clothes on to the carpet. He had lost his hat,
his hair was tossed with the wind, his face was bleeding from a
slight wound on the temple.

"The boat train's just ahead of us, sir," he announced. "She can't
get on any better than we can. We've just heard that there's a
bridge down on the line between Ipswich and Harwich."

"What are we going to do, then?" Mr. Dunster demanded.

"That's just what I've come to ask you, sir," the guard replied.
"The mail's going slowly on as far as Ipswich. I fancy they'll
lie by there until the morning. The best thing that I can see is,
if you're agreeable, to take you back to London. We can very
likely do that all right, if we start at once."

Mr. Dunster, ignoring the man's suggestion, drew from one of the
voluminous pockets of his ulster a small map. He spread it open
upon the table before him and studied it attentively.

"If I cannot get to Harwich," he asked, "is there any possibility
of keeping straight on and reaching Yarmouth?"

The guard hesitated.

"We haven't heard anything about the line from Ipswich to Norwich,
sir," he replied, "but we can't very well change our course without
definite instructions."

"Your definite instructions," Mr. Dunster reminded him drily, "were
to take me to Harwich. You have been forced to depart from them.
I see no harm in your adopting any suggestions I may have to make
concerning our altered destination. I will pay the extra mileage,
naturally."

"How far did you wish to go, sir?" the guard enquired.

"To Yarmouth," Mr. Dunster replied firmly. "If there are bridges
down, and communication with Harwich is blocked, Yarmouth would
suit me better than anywhere."

The guard shook his head.

"I couldn't go on that way, sir, without instructions."

"Is there a telegraph office at this station?" Mr. Dunster inquired.

"We can speak anywhere on the line," the guard replied.

"Then wire to the station-master at Liverpool Street," Mr. Dunster
instructed. "You can get a reply from him in the course of a few
minutes. Explain the situation and tell him what my wishes are."

The guard hesitated.

"It's a goodish way from here to Norwich," he observed, "and for
all we know -"

"When we left Liverpool Street Station," Mr. Dunster interrupted,
"I promised five pounds each to you, the engine-driver, and his mate.
That five pounds shall be made twenty-five if you succeed in
getting me to the coast. Do your best for me."

The guard raised his hat and departed without another word.

"It will probably suit you better," Mr. Dunster continued, turning
to his companion, " to leave me at Ipswich and join the mail."

The latter shook his head.

"I don't see that there's any chance, anyway, of my getting over in
time now," he remarked. "If you'll take me on with you as far as
Norwich, I can go quietly home from there!"

"You live in this part of the world, then?" Mr. Dunster asked.

The young man assented. Again there was a certain amount of
hesitation in his manner.

"I live some distance the other side of Norwich," he said. "I don't
want to sponge on you too much," he went on, "but if you're really
going to stick it out and try and get there, I'd like to go on, too.
I am afraid I can't offer to share the expense, but I'd work my
passage if there was anything to be done."

Mr. Dunster drummed for a moment upon the table with his fingers.
All the time the young man had been speaking, his eyes had been
studying his face. He turned now once more to his map.

"It was my idea," he said, "to hire a steam trawler from Yarmouth.
If I do so, you can, if you wish, accompany me so far as the port
at which we may land in Holland. On the other hand, to be perfectly
frank with you, I should prefer to go alone. There will be, no
doubt, a certain amount of risk in crossing tonight. My own business
is of importance. A golf tournament, however, is scarcely worth
risking your life for, is it?"

"Oh, I don't know about that!" the young man replied grimly. "I
fancy I should rather like it. Let's see whether we can get on to
Norwich, anyhow, shall we? We may find that there are bridges down
on that line."

They relapsed once more into silence. Presently the guard
reappeared.

"Instructions to take you on to Yarmouth, if possible, sir," he
announced, "and to collect the mileage at our destination."

"That will be quite satisfactory," Mr. Dunster agreed. "Let us be
off, then, as soon as possible." Presently they crawled on. They
passed the boat train in Ipswich Station, where they stayed for a
few moments. Mr. Dunster bought wine and sandwiches, and his
companion followed his example. Then they continued their journey.
An hour or more passed; the storm showed no signs of abatement.
Their speed now rarely exceeded ten or fifteen miles an hour. Mr.
Dunster smoked all the time, occasionally rubbing the window-pane
and trying to look out. Gerald Fentolin slept fitfully.

"Have you any idea where we are?" Mr. Dunster asked once.

The boy cautiously let down the window a little way. With the noise
of the storm came another sound, to which he listened for a moment
with puzzled face: a dull, rumbling sound like the falling of water.
He closed the window, breathless.

"I don't think we are far from Norwich. We passed Forncett, anyhow,
some time ago."

"Still raining?"

"In torrents! I can't see a yard ahead of me. I bet we get some
floods after this. I expect they are out now, if one could only see."

They crept on. Suddenly, above the storm, they heard what sounded
at first like the booming of a gun, and then a shrill whistle from
some distance ahead. They felt the jerk as their brakes were hastily
applied, the swaying of the little train, and then the crunching of
earth beneath them, the roar of escaping steam as their engine
ploughed its way on into the road bed.

"Off the rails!" the boy cried, springing to his feet. "Hold on
tightly, sir. I'd keep away from the window."

The carriage swayed and rocked. Suddenly a telegraph post seemed
to come crashing through the window and the polished mahogany panels.
The young man escaped it by leaping to one side. It caught Mr.
Dunster, who had just risen to his feet, upon the forehead. There
was a crash all around of splitting glass, a further shock. They
were both thrown off their feet. The light was suddenly extinguished.
With the crashing of glass, the splitting of timber - a hideous,
tearing sound - the wrecked saloon, dragging the engine half-way
over with it, slipped down a low embankment and lay on its side,
what remained of it, in a field of turnips.




CHAPTER III

As the young man staggered to his feet, he had somehow a sense of
detachment, as though he were commencing a new life, or had suddenly
come into a new existence. Yet his immediate surroundings were
charged with ugly reminiscences. Through a great gap in the ruined
side of the saloon the rain was tearing in. As he stood up, his
head caught the fragments of the roof. He was able to push back
the wreckage with ease and step out. For a moment he reeled, as he
met the violence of the storm. Then, clutching hold of the side of
the wreck, he steadied himself. A light was moving back and forth,
close at hand. He cried out weakly: "Hullo!"

A man carrying a lantern, bent double as he made his way against the
wind, crawled up to them. He was a porter from the station close
at hand.

"My God! "he exclaimed. "Any one alive here?"

"I'm all right," Gerald muttered, "at least, I suppose I am. What's
it all - what's it all about? We've had an accident."

The porter caught hold of a piece of the wreckage with which to
steady himself.

"Your train ran right into three feet of water," he answered. "The
rails had gone - torn up. The telegraph line's down."

"Why didn't you stop the train?"

"We were doing all we could," the man retorted gloomily. "We weren't
expecting anything else through to-night. We'd a man along the line
with a lantern, but he's just been found blown over the embankment,
with his head in a pool of water. Any one else in your carriage?"

"One gentleman travelling with me," Gerald answered. "We'd better
try to get him out. What about the guard and engine-driver?"

"The engine-driver and stoker are both alive," the porter told him.
"I came across them before I saw you. They're both knocked sort
of sillylike, but they aren't much hurt. The guard's stone dead."

"Where are we?"

"A few hundred yards from Wymondham. Let's have a look for the
other gentleman."

Mr. John P. Dunster was lying quite still, his right leg doubled
up, and a huge block of telegraph post, which the saloon had carried
with it in its fall, still pressing against his forehead. He
groaned as they dragged him out and laid him down upon a cushion
in the shelter of the wreckage.

"He's alive all right," the porter remarked. "There's a doctor on
the way. Let's cover him up quick and wait."

"Can't we carry him to shelter of some sort Gerald proposed.

The man shook his head. Speech of any sort was difficult. Even
with his lips close to the other's ears, he had almost to shout.

"Couldn't be done," he replied. "It's all one can do to walk alone
when you get out in the middle of the field, away from the shelter
of the embankment here. There's bits of trees flying all down the
lane. Never was such a night! Folks is fair afraid of the morning
to see what's happened. There's a mill blown right over on its side
in the next field, and the man in charge of it lying dead. This
poor chap's bad enough."

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