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Page 4
And now in my breast pocket lay, written on a small piece of cheap
foreign notepaper, the tidings I had come to Groningen to seek. Yet so
trivial, so nonsensical, so baffling was the message that I already felt
my trip to Holland to have been a fruitless errand.
I found Dicky fat and bursting with health in his quarters at the
internment camp. He only knew that Francis had disappeared. When I told
him of my meeting with Red Tabs at the Bath Club, of the latter's words
to me at parting and of my own conviction in the matter he whistled,
then looked grave.
He went straight to the point in his bluff direct way.
"I am going to tell you a story first, Desmond," he said to me, "then
I'll show you a piece of paper. Whether the two together fit in with
your theory as to poor Francis' disappearance will be for you to judge.
Until now I must confess--I had felt inclined to dismiss the only
reference this document appears to make to your brother as a mere
coincidence in names, but what you have told me makes things
interesting--by Jove, it does, though. Well, here's the yarn first of
all.
"Your brother and I have had dealings in the past with a Dutchman in the
motor business at Nymwegen, name of Van Urutius. He has often been over
to see us at Coventry in the old days and Francis has stayed with him at
Nymwegen once or twice on his way back from Germany--Nymwegen, you know,
is close to the German frontier. Old Urutius has been very decent to me
since I have been in gaol here and has been over several times,
generally with a box or two of those nice Dutch cigars."
"Dicky," I broke in on him, "get on with the story. What the devil's all
this got to do with Francis? The document--"
"Steady, my boy!" was the imperturbable reply, "let me spin my yarn my
own way. I'm coming to the piece of paper....
"Well, then, old Urutius came to see me ten days ago. All I knew about
Francis I had told him, namely, that Francis had entered the army and
was missing. It was no business of the old Mynheer if Francis was in the
Intelligence, so I didn't tell him that. Van U. is a staunch friend of
the English, but you know the saying that if a man doesn't know he can't
split.
"My old Dutch pal, then, turned up here ten days ago. He was bubbling
over with excitement. 'Mr. Allerton' he says, 'I haf a writing, a most
mysterious writing--a I think, from Francis Okewood.'
"I sat tight. If there were any revelations coming they were going to be
Dutch, not British. On that I was resolved.
"'I haf received; the old Dutchman went on, from Gairemany a parcel of
metal shields, plates--what you call 'em--of tin, _hein?_ What I haf to
advertise my business. They arrife las' week--I open the parcel myself
and on the top is the envelope with the invoice.'
"Mynheer paused; he has a good sense of the dramatic.
"'Well', I said, 'did it bite you or say "Gott strafe England?" Or
what?'
"Van Urutius ignored my flippancy and resumed. 'I open the envelope and
there in the invoice I find this writing--here!'
"And here," said Dicky, diving into his pocket, "is the writing!"
And he thrust into my eagerly outstretched hand a very thin half-sheet
of foreign notepaper, of that kind of cheap glazed notepaper you get in
cafes on the Continent when you ask for writing materials.
Three lines of German, written in fluent German characters in purple ink
beneath the name and address of Mynheer van Urutius ... that was all.
My heart sank with disappointment and wretchedness as I read the
inscription.
Here is the document:
* * * * *
Herr Willem van Urutius,
Automobilgesch�ft,
Nymwegen.
_Alexandtr-Straat_ 81 bis.
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