|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 11
There were also half a dozen private cards:
Dr. Semlin, 333 E. 73rd St., New York.
Rivington Park House.
In the packet of cards was a solitary one, larger than the rest, an
expensive affair on thick, highly glazed millboard, bearing in gothic
characters the name:
Otto von Steinhardt.
On this card was written in pencil, above the name:
"Hotel Sixt, Vos in't Tuintje," and in brackets, thus: "(Mme. Anna
Schratt.)"
In another pocket of the portfolio was an American passport surmounted
by a flaming eagle and sealed with a vast red seal, sending greetings to
all and sundry on behalf of Henry Semlin, a United States citizen,
travelling to Europe. Details in the body of the document set forth that
Henry Semlin was born at Brooklyn on 31st March, 1886, that his hair was
Black, nose Aquiline, chin Firm, and that of special marks he had None.
The description was good enough to show me that it was undoubtedly the
body of Henry Semlin that lay at my feet.
The passport had been issued at Washington three months earlier. The
only _visa_ it bore was that of the American Embassy in London, dated
two days previously. With it was a British permit, issued to Henry
Semlin, Manufacturer, granting him authority to leave the United Kingdom
for the purpose of travelling to Rotterdam, further a bill for luncheon
served on board the Dutch Royal mail steamer _Koningin Regentes_ on
yesterday's date.
In the long and anguishing weeks that followed on that anxious night in
the Hotel of the Vos in't Tuintje, I have often wondered to what
malicious promptings, to what insane impulse, I owed the idea that
suddenly germinated in my brain as I sat fingering the dead man's
letter-case in that squalid room. The impulse sprang into my brain like
a flash and like a flash I acted on it, though I can hardly believe I
meant to pursue it to its logical conclusion until I stood once more
outside the door of my room.
The examination of the dead man's papers had shown me that he was an
American business man, who had just come from London, having but
recently proceeded to England from the United States.
What puzzled me was why an American manufacturer, seemingly of some
substance and decently dressed, should go to a German hotel on the
recommendation of a German, from his name, and the style of his visiting
card, a man of good family.
Semlin might, of course, have been, like myself, a traveller benighted
in Rotterdam, owing his recommendation to the hotel to a German
acquaintance in the city. Still, Americans are cautious folk and I found
it rather improbable that this American business man should adventure
himself into this evil-looking house with a large sum of money on his
person--he had several hundred pounds of money in Dutch currency notes
in a thick wad in his portfolio.
I knew that the British authorities discouraged, as far as they could,
neutrals travelling to and fro between England and Germany in war-time.
Possibly Semlin wanted to do business in Germany on his European trip as
well as in England. Knowing the attitude of the British authorities, he
may well have made his arrangements in Holland for getting into Germany
lest the British police should get wind of his purpose and stop him
crossing to Rotterdam.
But his German was so flawless, with no trace of Americanism in voice or
accent. And I knew what good use the German Intelligence had made of
neutral passports in the past. Therefore I determined to go next door
and have a look at Dr. Semlin's luggage. In the back of my mind was ever
that harebrain resolve, half-formed as yet but none the less firmly
rooted in my head.
Taking up my candle again, I stole out of the room. As I stood in the
corridor and turned to lock the bedroom door behind me, the mirror at
the end of the passage caught the reflection of my candle.
I looked and saw myself in the glass, a white, staring face.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|