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A Child Of The Rain
A Difficult Problem
A Grammatical Ghost
A Memorable Night
A Mysterious Case
A Mystery With A Moral
A Spectral Collie
A Terribly Strange Bed
American Horses
An Astral Onion
An Intangible Clue
As Told By Mr Gryce
Bourgonef
From The Loom Of The Dead
His Last Bow
Hunted Down
Introduction To A Mystery With A Moral
Introduction To Melmoth The Wanderer
Melmoth The Wanderer
Missing: Page Thirteen
My Fascinating Friend
No 1 Branch Line: The Signal-man
On Being Found Out
On The Northern Ice
Problem Ix Violet's Own
Satire Of The Sea
Shall He Wed Her?
Story Of An Obstinate Corpse
Story Of The Vanishing Patient
The Adventure Of Black Peter
The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton
The Adventure Of The Abbey Grange
The Adventure Of The Bruce-partington Plans
The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box
The Adventure Of The Dancing Men
The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot
The Adventure Of The Dying Detective
The Adventure Of The Empty House
The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-nez
The Adventure Of The Missing Three-quarter
The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder
The Adventure Of The Priory School
The Adventure Of The Red Circle
The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons
The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist
The Adventure Of The Three Students
The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge
The Affair Of The Tortoise
The Avenger
The Birth-mark
The Black Cross
The Box With The Iron Clamps
The Bronze Hand
The Cambered Foot
The Case Of He Golden Bullet
The Case Of Mr Foggatt
The Case Of The Dixon Torpedo
The Case Of The Pocket Diary Found In The Snow
The Case Of The Pool Of Blood In The Pastor's Study
The Case Of The Registered Letter
The Closed Cabinet
The Coin Of Dionysius
The Disappearance Of Lady Frances Carfax
The Doctor His Wife And The Clock
The Dreaming Lady
The End Of The Road
The Fortune Teller
The Golden Slipper
The Gray Madam
The Great Valdez Sapphire
The Grotto Spectre
The Haunted And The Haunters Or The House And The Brain
The Hermit Of Street
The Hole In The Mahogany Panel
The House By The Loch
The House Of Clocks
The House That Was Not
The Incantation
The Jew's Breastplate
The Knight's Cross Signal Problem
The Last Adventure
The Last Exploit Of Harry The Actor
The Lenton Croft Robberies
The Loss Of Sammy Crockett
The Lost Lady
The Lost Room
The Man In The Green Hat
The Mortals In The House
The Mysterious Card
The Notch On The Ax - A Story A La Mode
The Oblong Box
The Old Stone House
The Piano Next Door
The Pumpkin Coach
The Quinton Jewel Affair
The Reward
The Room Of The Evil Thought
The Second Bullet
The Shape Of Fear
The Spread Rails
The Stanway Cameo Mystery
The Thing On The Hearth
The Torture By Hope
The Tragedy At Brookbend Cottage
The Wrong Sign
The Yellow Flower
Their Dear Little Ghost

The Sleuth Of St. James's Square

American Horses
Satire Of The Sea
The Cambered Foot
The End Of The Road
The Fortune Teller
The Hole In The Mahogany Panel
The House By The Loch
The Last Adventure
The Lost Lady
The Man In The Green Hat
The Pumpkin Coach
The Reward
The Spread Rails
The Thing On The Hearth
The Wrong Sign
The Yellow Flower



Satire Of The Sea








"What was the mystery about St. Alban?" I asked.

The Baronet did not at once reply. He looked out over the
English country through the ancient oak-trees, above the sweep of
meadow across the dark, creeping river, to the white shaft rising
beyond the wooded hills into the sky.

The war was over. I was a guest of Sir Henry Marquis for a
week-end at his country-house. The man fascinated me. He seemed
a sort of bottomless Stygian vat of mysteries. He had been the
secret hand of England for many years in India. Then he was made
a Baronet and put at the head of England's Secret Service at
Scotland Yard.

A servant brought out the tea and we were alone on the grass
terrace before the great oak-trees. He remained for some moments
in reflection, then he replied:

"Do you mean the mystery of his death?"

"Was there any other mystery?" I said.

He looked at me narrowly across the table.

"There was hardly any mystery about his death," he said. "The
man shot himself with an old dueling pistol that hung above the
mantel in his library. The family, when they found him, put the
pistol back on the nail and fitted the affair with the stock
properties of a mysterious assassin.

"The explanation was at once accepted. The man's life, in the
public mind, called for an end like that. St. Alban after his
career, should by every canon of the tragic muse, go that way."

He made a careless gesture with his fingers.

"I saw the disturbed dust on the wall where the pistol had been
moved, the bits of split cap under the hammer, and the powder
marks on the muzzle.

"But I let the thing go. It seemed in keeping with the destiny
of the man. And it completed the sardonic picture. It was all
fated, as the Gaelic people say . . . . I saw no reason to
disturb it."

"Then there was some other mystery?" I ventured.

He nodded his big head slowly.

"There is an ancient belief," he said, "that the hunted thing
always turns on us. Well, if there was ever a man in this world
on whom the hunted thing awfully turned, it was St. Alban."

He put out his hand.

"Look at the shaft yonder," he said, "lifted to his memory,
towering over the whole of this English country, and cut on its
base with his services to England and the brave words he said on
that fatal morning on the Channel boat. Every schoolboy knows
the words:

"`Don't threaten, fire if you like!'

"First-class words for the English people to remember. No
bravado, just the thing any decent chap would say. But the words
are persistent. They remain in the memory. And it was a
thrilling scene they fitted into. One must never forge that: The
little hospital transport lying in the Channel in a choppy sea
that ran streaks of foam; the grim turret and the long whaleback
of a U-boat in the foam scruff; and the sun lying on the scrubbed
deck of the jumping transport.

"Everybody was crowded about. St. Alban was in the center of the
human pack, in a pace or two of clear deck, his injured arm in a
sling; his split sleeve open around it; his shoulders thrown
back; his head lifted; and before him, the Hun commander with his
big automatic pistol.

"It's a wonderful, spirited picture, and it thrilled England. It
was in accord with her legends. England has little favor of
either the gods of the hills or the gods of the valleys. But
always, in all her wars, the gods of the seas back her."

The big Baronet paused and poured out a cup of tea. He tasted it
and set it down on the table.

"That's a fine monument," he said, indicating the white shaft
that shot up into the cloudless evening sky. "The road makes a
sharp turn by it. You have got to slow up, no matter how you
travel. The road rises there. It's built that way; to make the
passer go slow enough to read the legends on the base of the
monument. It's a clever piece of business. Everybody is bound
to give his tribute of attention to the conspicuous memorial.

"There are two faces to the monument that you must look at if you
go that road. One recounts the man's services to England, and
the other face bears his memorable words:

"`Don't threaten, fire if you like!'"

The Baronet fingered the handle of his teacup.

"The words are precisely suited to the English people," he said.
"No heroics, no pretension, that's the whole spirit of England.
It's the English policy in a line: We don't threaten, and we
don't wish to be threatened by another. Let them fire if they
like, - that's all in the game. But don't swing a gun on us with
a threat. St. Alban was lucky to say it. He got the reserve,
the restraint, the commonplace understatement that England
affects, into the sentence. It was a piece of good fortune to
catch the thing like that.

"The monument is tremendous. One can't avoid it. It's always
before the eye here, like the White Horse of Alfred on the chalk
hill in Berkshire. All the roads pass it through this
countryside. But every mortal thing that travels, motor and
cart, must slow up around the monument."

He stopped for a moment and looked at the white needle shimmering
in the evening sun.

"But St. Alban's greatest monument," he said, "was the lucky
sentence. It stuck in the English memory and it will never go
out of it. One wouldn't give a half-penny for a monument if one
could get a phrase fastened in a people's memory like that."

Sir Henry moved in his chair.

"I often wonder," he said, "whether the thing was an inspiration
of St. Alban's that morning on the deck of the hospital
transport, or had he thought about it at some other time? Was
the sentence stored in the man's memory, or did it come with the
first gleam of returning consciousness from a soul laid open by
disaster? I think racial words, simple and unpretentious, may
lies in any man close to the bone like that to be rived out with
a mortal hurt. That's what keeps me wondering about the words he
used. And he did use them.

"I don't doubt that a lot of our hero stuff has been edited after
the fact. But this sentence wasn't edited. That's what he said,
precisely. A hundred wounded soldiers on the hospital transport
heard it. They were crowding round him. And they told the story
when they got ashore. The story varied in trifling details as
one would expect among so many witnesses to a tragic event like
that. But it didn't vary about what the man said when the Hun
commander was swinging his automatic pistol on him.

"There was no opportunity to edit a brave sentence to fit the
affair. St. Alban said it. And he didn't think it up as he
climbed out of the cabin of the transport. If he had been in a
condition to think, he had enough of the devil's business to
think about just then; a brave sentence would hardly have
concerned him, as I said awhile ago.

"Besides, we have his word that, after what happened in the
cabin, everything else that occurred that morning on the
transport was a blank to the man; was walled off from his
consciousness, and these words were the first impulse of one
returning to a realization of events."

Sir Henry Marquis reflected.

"I think they were," he continued. "They have the mark of
spontaneity; of the first disgust of one grasping the fact that
he was being threatened."

The Baronet paused.

"The event had a great effect on England," he said. "And it
helped to restore our shattered respect for a desperate enemy.
The Hun commander didn't sink the transport, and he didn't shoot
St. Alban. It's true there was a sort of gentleman's agreement
among the enemies that hospital transports should not be sunk.

"But anything was likely to happen just then. The Hun had failed
to subjugate the world, and he was a barbarous, mad creature.
England believed that something noble in St. Alban worked the
miracle.

"`You're a brave man!'

"Some persons on the transport testified to such a comment from
the submarine commander. At any rate, he went back to his U-boat
and the undersea.

"That's the last they saw of him. The transport came on into
Dover.

"England thought the affair was one of the adventures of the sea.
A chance thing, that happened by accident. But there was one man
in England who knew better."

"You?" I said.

The Baronet shrugged his shoulders.

"St. Alban," he answered.

He got up and began to walk about the terrace. I sat with the
cup of tea cooling before me. The big man walked slowly with his
fingers linked behind him. Finally he stopped. His voice was
deep and reflective.

"`Man is altogether the sport of fortune!' . . . I read that in
Herodotus, in a form at Rugby. I never thought about it again.
But it's God's truth. St. Alban was at Rugby. I often wonder if
he remembered it. My word, he lived to verify it! Herodotus
couldn't cite a case to equal him. And the old Greek wasn't
hemmed in by the truth. I maintain that the man's case has no
parallel.

"To have all the painstaking labor of years negatived by one
enveloping, vicious misfortune; to be beaten out of life by it,
and at the same time to gain that monument out yonder and one's
niche as hero by the grim device of an enemy's satire; by the
acting of a scene that one would never have taken part in if one
had realized it, is beyond any complication of tragedy known to
the Greek.

"Look at the three strange phases of it: To be a mediocre
Englishman with no special talent; to die in horrible despair;
and to leave behind a glorious legend. And for all these three
things to contradict one another in the same life is unequaled in
the legends of any people."

The Baronet went on in a deep level voice.

"There was a vicious vitality behind the whole desperate
business. Every visible impression of the thing was wrong.
Every conception of it held today by the English people is wrong!

"The German submarine didn't overhaul the hospital transport in
the Channel by accident. The Hun commander didn't fail to sink
the transport out of any humane motives. He didn't fail to shoot
St. Alban because he was moved by the heroism of the man. It was
all grim calculation!

"He thought it was safe to let St. Alban go ahead. And he would
have been right if St. Alban had been the great egotist that he
was.

"The commander of that submarine was Plutonburg of Prussia. He
was the right-hand man of old Von Tirpitz. He was the one man in
the German navy who never ceased to urge its Admiralty to sink
everything. He loathed every fiber of the English people. We
had all sorts of testimony to that. The trawlers and freightboat
captains brought it in. He staged his piracies to a theatrical
frightfulness. `Old England!' he would say, when he climbed up
out of the sea onto the deck of a British ship and looked about
him at the sailors, `Old, is right, old and rotten!' Then he
would smite his big chest and quote the diatribes of Treitschke.
`But in a world that the Prussian inhabits a nation, old and
rotten, may endure for a time, but it shall not endure forever!'

"Plutonburg didn't let St. Alban and the transport go ahead out
of the promptings of a noble nature. He did it because he hated
England, and he wanted St. Alban to live on in the hell he had
trapped him into. He counted on his keeping silent. But the Hun
made a mistake.

"St. Alban didn't measure up to the standard of Prussian egoism
by which Plutonburg estimated him."

Sir Henry continued in the same even voice. The levels of
emotion in his narrative did not move him.

"Did you ever see the picture of Plutonburg, in Munich? He had a
face like Chemosh. And he dressed the part. Other under-boat
commanders wore the conventional naval cap, but Plutonburg always
wore a steel helmet with a corrugated earpiece. Some artist
under the frightfulness dogma must have designed it for him. It
framed his face down to the jaw. The face looked like it was set
in iron, and it was a thick-lidded, heavy, menacing face; the
sort of face that a broad-line cartoonist gives to a threatening
war-joss. At any rate, that's how the picture presents him. One
thinks of Attila under his ox head. You can hardly imagine
anything human in it, except a cruel satanic humor.

"He must have looked like Beelzebub that morning, on the
transport, when he let St. Alban go on."

The Baronet looked down at me.

"Now, that's the truth about the fine conduct of Plutonburg that
England applauded as an act of chivalry. It was a piece of
sheer, hellish malignity, if there ever was an instance."

Sir Henry took a turn across the terrace, for a moment silent.
Then he went on:

"And in fact, everything in the heroic event on the deck of the
transport was a pretense. The Hun didn't intend to shoot St.
Alban. As I have said, Plutonburg had him in just the sort of
hell he wanted him in, and he didn't propose to let him out with
a bullet. And St. Alban ought to have known it, unless, as he
afterwards said, the whole thing from the first awful moment in
the cabin was simply walled out of his consciousness, until he
began dimly to realize up there in the sun, in the crowd, that he
was being threatened and blurted out his words from a sort of
awful disgust."

Again he paused.

"Plutonburg was right about having St. Alban in the crater of the
pit. But he was wrong to measure him by his Prussian standard.
St. Alban came on to London. He got the heads of the War Office
together and told them. I was there. It was the devil's own
muddle of a contrast. Outside, London was ringing with the man's
striking act of personal heroism. And inside of the Foreign
Office three or, four amazed persons were listening to the bitter
truth."

The Baronet spread out his hands with a sudden gesture.

"I shall always remember the man's strange, livid face; his
fingers that jumped about the cuff of his coat sleeve; and his
shaking jaw."

Sir Henry went over and sat down at the table. For a good while
he was silent. The sun filtering through the limbs of the great
oak-trees made mottled spots on his face. He seemed to turn away
from the thing he had been concerned with, and to see something
else, something wholly apart and at a distance from St. Alban's
affairs.

"You must have wondered like everybody else," he said, "why the
Allied drive on the Somme accomplished so little at first. Both
England and France had made elaborate preparations for it over a
long period of time. Every detail had been carefully, worked
out. Every move had been estimated with mathematical exactness.

"The French divisions had been equipped and strategically
grouped. England had put a million of fresh troops into France.
And the line of the drive had been mapped. The advance, when it
was opened on the first day of July, ought to have gone forward
irresistibly from cog to cog like a wheel of a machine on the
indentations of a track. But the thing didn't happen that way.
The drive sagged and stuck."

The big Englishman pressed the table with his clinched hand.

"My word!" he said, "is it any wonder that the devil, Plutonburg,
grinned when he put up his automatic pistol? Why shoot the
Englishman? He would do it himself soon enough. He was right
about that. If he had only been right about his measure of St.
Alban, the drive on the Somme would have been a ghastly
catastrophe for the Allied armies."

I hesitated to interrupt Sir Henry. But he had got my interest
desperately worked up about what seemed to me great unjointed
segments of this affair, that one couldn't understand till they
were put together. I ventured a query.

"How did St. Alban come to be on the hospital transport?" I said.
"Was he in the English army in France?"

"Oh, no," he said. "When the war opened St. Alban was in the
Home Office, and, he set out to make England spy-proof. He
organized the Confidential Department, and he went to work to
take every precaution. He wasn't a great man in any direction,
but he was a careful, thorough man. And with tireless,
never-ceasing, persistent effort, he very nearly swept England
clean of German espionage."

Sir Henry spoke with vigor and decision.

"Now, that's what St. Alban did in England - not because he was a
man of any marked ability, but because he was a persistent person
dominated by a single consuming idea. He started out to rid
England of every form of espionage. And when he had accomplished
that, as the cases of Ernest, Lody, and Schultz eloquently
attest, he determined to see that every move of the English
expeditionary force on the Continent should be guarded from
German espionage."

Sir Henry paused and poured out a cup of tea. He tasted it. It
was cold, and he put the cup down on the table.

"That's how St. Alban came to be in France," he said. "The great
drive on the Somme had been planned at a meeting of military
leaders in Paris. The French were confident that they could keep
their plans secret from German espionage. They admitted frankly
that signals were wirelessed out of France. But they had taken
such precautions that only the briefest signals could go out.

"The Government radio stations were always alert. And they at
once negatived any unauthorized wireless so that German spies
could only snap out a signal or two at any time. They could do
this, however.

"They had a wireless apparatus inside a factory chimney at
Auteuil. It wasn't located until the war was nearly over.

"The French didn't undertake to say that they could make their
country spy-proof. They knew that there were German agents in
France that nobody could tell from innocent French people. But
they did undertake to say that nothing could be carried over into
the German lines. And they justified that promise. They did see
that nothing was carried out of France." The Baronet looked at
me across the table.

"Now, that's what took St. Alban across the Channel," he said.
"The English authorities wanted to be certain that there was no
German espionage. And there was no man in England able to be
certain of that except St. Alban. He went over to make sure. If
the plans for the Somme drive should get out of France, they
should not get out through any English avenue."

The Baronet paused.

"St. Alban went about the thing in his thorough, persistent
manner. He didn't trust to subordinates. He went himself.
That's what took him out on the English line. And that's how he
came to be wounded in the elbow.

"It wasn't very much of a wound - a piece of shrapnel nearly
spent when it hit him. But the French hospital service was very
much concerned. It gave him every attention.

"The man came into Paris when he had finished. The French
authorities put him up at the Hotel Meurice. You know the Hotel
Meurice. It's on the Rue de la Rivoli. It looks out over the
garden of the Tuileries. St. Alban was satisfied with the
condition of affairs in France, and he was anxious to go back to
London. Arrangements had been made for him to go on the hospital
transport.

"He was in his room at the Meurice waiting for the train to
Calais. He was, in fact, fatigued with the attention the French
authorities had given him. Everything that one could think of
had been anticipated, he said. He thought there could be nothing
more. Then there was a timid knock, and a nurse came in to say
that she had been sent to see that the dressing on his arm was
all right. He said that he had found it easier to submit to the
French attentions than to undertake to explain that he didn't
need them.

"He was busy with some final orders, so he put out his arm and
allowed the nurse to take the pins out of the split sleeve and
adjust the dressing. She put on some bandages, made a little
timid curtsey and went out.

"St. Alban didn't think of it again until the German U-boat
stopped the transport the next morning in the Channel. He wasn't
disturbed when the submarine commander came into his cabin. He
knew enough not to carry any papers about with him. But
Plutonburg didn't bother himself about luggage. He'd had his
signal from the factory chimney at Auteuil. He stood there
grinning in the cabin before St. Alban; that Satanic, Chemosh
grin that the artist got in the Munich picture.

"`I used to be something of a surgeon,' he said, `Doctor Ulrich
von Plutonburg, if you will remember. I'll take a look at your
arm.'

"tit, Alban said he thought the man might be moved by some humane
consideration, so he put out his arm.

"Plutonburg took the pins out of the sleeve and removed the
bandage that the nurse had put on in the Hotel Meurice. Then he
held it up. The long, cotton bandage was lined with glazed
cambric, and on it, in minute detail, was the exact position of
all the Allied forces along the whole front in the region of the
Somme, precisely as they had been massed for the drive on July
first!"

I cried out in astonishment. "So that's what you meant," I said,
"by the trailed thing turning on him!"

"Precisely," replied the Baronet. "The very thing that St. Alban
labored to prevent another from doing, he did awfully himself!"

The big Englishman's fingers drummed on the table.

"It was a great moment for Plutonburg," he said. "No living man
but that Prussian could have put the Satanic humor into the rest
of the affair."

He paused as under the pressure of the memory.

"St. Alban always maintained that from the moment he saw the long
map on the bandage everything blurred around him, and began to
clear only when he spoke on the deck. He used to curse this
blur. It made him a national figure and immortal, but it
prevented him, he said, from striking the Prussian in the face."





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Previous: The Yellow Flower



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