# The Green Rust/Chapter 32

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CHAPTER XXXII
THE END OF VAN HEERDEN
DR. VAN HEERDEN expected many things and was prepared for contingencies beyond the imagination of the normally minded, but he was not prepared to find in Oliva Cresswell a pleasant travelling-companion. When a man takes a girl, against her will, from a pleasant suite at the best hotel in London, compels her at the peril of death to accompany him on a motor-car ride in the dead of the night, and when his offence is a duplication of one which had been committed less than a week before, he not unnaturally anticipates tears, supplications, or in the alternative a frigid and unapproachable silence.
To his amazement Oliva was extraordinarily cheerful and talkative and even amusing. He had kept Bridgers at the door of the car whilst he investigated the pawn-broking establishment of Messrs. Rosenblaum Bros., and had returned in triumph to discover that the girl who up to then had been taciturn and uncommunicative was in quite an amiable mood.
"I used to think," she said, "that motor-car abductions were the invention of sensational writers, but you seem to make a practice of it. You are not very original, Dr. van Heerden. I think I've told you that before."
He smiled in the darkness as the car sped smoothly through the deserted streets.
"I must plead guilty to being rather unoriginal," he said, "but I promise you that this little adventure shall not end as did the last."
​"It can hardly do that," she laughed, "I can only be married once whilst Mr. Beale is alive."
"I forgot you were married," he said suddenly, then after a pause, "I suppose you will divorce him?"
"Why?" she asked innocently.
"But you're not fond of that fellow, are you?"
"Passionately," she said calmly, "he is my ideal."
The reply took away his breath and certainly silenced him.
"How is this adventure to end?" she demanded. "Are you going to maroon me on a desert island, or are you taking me to Germany?"
"How did you know I am trying to get to Germany?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, Mr. Beale thought so," she replied, in a tone of indifference, "he reckoned that he would catch you somewhere near the coast."
"He did, did he?" said the other calmly. "I shall deny him that pleasure. I don't intend taking you to Germany. Indeed, it is not my intention to detain you any longer than is necessary."
"For which I am truly grateful," she smiled, "but why detain me at all?"
"That is a stupid question to ask when I am sure you have no doubt in your mind as to why it is necessary to keep you close to me until I have finished my work. I think I told you some time ago," he went on, "that I had a great scheme The other day you called me a Hun, by which I suppose you meant that I was a German. It is perfectly true that I am a German and I am a patriotic German. To me even in these days of his degradation the Kaiser is still little less than a god."
His voice quivered a little, and the girl was struck dumb with wonder that a man of such intelligence, of such a wide outlook, of such modernity, should hold to view so archaic.
"Your country ruined Germany. You have sucked us dry. To say that I hate England and hate America—for you Anglo-Saxons are one in your soulless covetousness—is to express my feelings mildly."
"But what is your scheme?" she asked.
​"Briefly I will tell you, Miss Cresswell, that you may understand that to-night you accompany history and are a participant in world politics. America and England are going to pay. They are going to buy corn from my country at the price that Germany can fix. It will be a price," he cried, and did not attempt to conceal his joy, "which will ruin the Anglo-Saxon people more effectively than they ruined Germany."
"But how?" she asked, bewildered.
"They are going to buy corn," he repeated, "at our price, corn which is stored in Germany."
"But what nonsense!" she said scornfully, "I don't know very much about harvests and things of that kind, but I know that most of the world's wheat comes from America and from Russia."
"The Russian wheat will be in German granaries," he said softly, "the American wheat—there will be no American wheat."
And then his calmness deserted him. The story of the Green Rust burst out in a wild flood of language which was half-German and half-English. The man was beside himself, almost mad, and before his gesticulating hands she shrank back into the corner of the car. She saw his silhouette against the window, heard the roar and scream of his voice as he babbled incoherently of his wonderful scheme and had to piece together as best she could his disconnected narrative. And then she remembered her work in Beale's office, the careful tabulation of American farms, the names of the sheriffs, the hotels where conveyances might be secured.
So that was it! Beale had discovered the plot, and had already moved to counter this devilish plan. And she remembered the man who had come to her room in mistake for van Heerden's and the phial of green sawdust he carried and Beale's look of horror when he examined it. And suddenly she cried with such vehemence that his flood of talk was stopped:
"Thank God! Oh, thank God!"
"What—what do you mean?" he demanded suspiciously. "What are you thanking God about?"
​"Oh, nothing, nothing." She was her eager, animated self. "Tell me some more. It is a wonderful story. It is true, is it not?"
"True?" he laughed harshly, "you shall see how true it is. You shall see the world lie at the feet of German science. To-morrow the word will go forth. Look ! "
He clicked on a little electric light and held out his hand. In his palm lay a silver watch.
"I told you there was a code" (she was dimly conscious that he had spoken of a code but she had been so occupied by her own thoughts that she had not caught all that he had said). "That code was in this watch. Look!"
He pressed a knob and the case flew open. Pasted to the inside of the case was a circular piece of paper covered with fine writing.
"When you found that ticket you had the code in your hands," he chuckled; "if you or your friends had the sense to redeem that watch I could not have sent to-morrow the message of German liberation! See, it is very simple!" He pointed with his finger and held the watch half-way to the roof that the light might better reveal the wording. "This word means 'Proceed.' It will go to all my chief agents. They will transmit it by telegram to hundreds of centres. By Thursday morning great stretches of territory where the golden corn was waving so proudly to-day will be blackened wastes. By Saturday the world will confront its sublime catastrophe."
"But why have you three words?" she asked huskily.
"We Germans provide against all contingencies," he said, "we leave nothing to chance. We are not gamblers. We work on lines of scientific accuracy. The second word is to tell my agents to suspend operations until they hear from me. The third word means 'Abandon the scheme for this year'! We must work with the markets. A more favourable opportunity might occur—with so grand a conception it is necessary that we should obtain the maximum results for our labours."
He snapped the case of the watch and put it back in his pocket, turned out the light and settled himself back with a sigh of content.
​"You see you are unimportant," he said, "you are a beautiful woman and to many men you would be most desirable. To me, you are just a woman, an ordinary fellow-creature, amusing, beautiful, possessed of an agile mind, though somewhat frivolous by our standards. Many of my fellow-countrymen who do not think like I do would take you. It is my intention to leave you just as soon as it is safe to do so unless——" A thought struck him, and he frowned.
"Unless——?" she repeated with a sinking heart in spite of her assurance.
"Bridgers was speaking to me of you. He who is driving." He nodded to the dimly outlined shoulders of the chauffeur. "He has been a faithful fellow——"
"You wouldn't?" she gasped.
"Why not?" he said coolly. "I don't want you. Bridgers thinks that you are beautiful."
"Is he a Hun, too?" she asked, and he jerked round toward her.
"If Bridgers wants you he shall have you," he said harshly.
She knew she had made a mistake. There was no sense in antagonizing him, the more especially so since she had not yet learnt all that she wanted to know.
"I think your scheme is horrible," she said after awhile, "the wheat destruction scheme, I mean, not Bridgers. But it is a very great one."
The man was susceptible to flattery, for he became genial again.
"It is the greatest scheme that has ever been known to science. It is the most colossal crime—I suppose they will call it a crime—that has ever been committed."
"But how are you going to get your code word away? The telegraphs are in the hands of the Government and I think you will find it difficult even if you have a secret wireless."
"Wireless, bah!" he said scornfully. "I never expected to send it by telegraph with or without wires. I have a much surer way, fräulein, as you will see."
"But how will you escape?" she asked.
​"I shall leave England to-morrow, soon after daybreak," he replied, with assurance, "by aeroplane, a long-distance flying-machine will land on my Sussex farm which will have British markings—indeed, it is already in England, and I and my good Bridgers will pass your coast without trouble."
He peered out of the window.
"This is Horsham, I think," he said, as they swept through what appeared to the girl to be a square. "That little building on the left is the railway station. You will see the signal lamps in a moment. My farm is about five miles down the Shoreham Road."
He was in an excellent temper as they passed through the old town and mounted the hill which leads to Shoreham, was politeness itself when the car had turned off the main road and had bumped over cart tracks to the door of a large building.
"This is your last escapade, Miss Cresswell, or Mrs. Beale I suppose I should call you," he said jovially, as he pushed her before him into a room where supper had been laid for two. "You see, you were not expected, but you shall have Bridgers'. It will be daylight in two hours," he said inconsequently, "you must have some wine."
She shook her head with a smile, and he laughed as if the implied suspicion of her refusal was the best joke in the world.
"Nein, nein, little friend," he said, "I shall not doctor you again. My days of doctoring have passed."
She had expected to find the farm in occupation, but apparently they were the only people there. The doctor had opened the door himself with a key, and no servant had appeared, nor apparently did he expect them to appear. She learnt afterwards that there were two farm servants, an old man and his wife, who lived in a cottage on the estate and came in the daytime to do the housework and prepare a cold supper against their master's coming.
Bridgers did not make his appearance. Apparently he was staying with his car. About three o'clock in the morning, when the first streaks of grey were showing in ​the sky, van Heerden rose to go in search of his assistant. Until then he had not ceased to talk of himself, of his scheme, of his great plan, of his early struggles, of his difficulties in persuading members of his Government to afford him the assistance he required. As he turned to the door she checked him with a word:
"I am immensely interested," she said, "but still, you have not told me how you intend to send your message."
"It is simple," he said, and beckoned to her.
They passed out of the house into the chill sweet dawn, made a half-circuit of the farm and came to a courtyard surrounded on three sides by low buildings. He opened a door to reveal another door covered with wire netting.
"Behold!" he laughed.
"Pigeons!" said the girl.
The dark interior of the shed was aflicker with white wings.
"Pigeons!" repeated van Heerden, closing the door, "and every one knows his way back to Germany. It has been a labour of love collecting them. And they are all British," he said with a laugh. "There I will give the British credit, they know more about pigeons than we Germans and have used them more in the war."
"But suppose your pigeon is shot down or falls by the way?" she asked, as they walked slowly back to the house.
"I shall send fifty," replied van Heerden calmly; "each will carry the same message and some at least will get home."
Back in the dining-room he cleared the remains of the supper from the table and went out of the room for a few minutes, returning with a small pad of paper, and she saw from the delicacy with which he handed each sheet that it was of the thinnest texture. Between each page he placed a carbon and began to write, printing the characters. There was only one word on each tiny sheet. When this was written he detached the leaves, putting them aside and using his watch as a paper-weight, and wrote another batch.
She watched him, fascinated, until he showed signs that ​he had completed his task. Then she lifted the little valise which she had at her side, put it on her knees, opened it and took out a book. It must have been instinct which made him raise his eyes to her.
"What have you got there?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, a book," she said, with an attempt at carelessness.
"But why have you got it out? You are not reading."
He leant over and snatched it from her and looked at the title.
"'A Friend in Need,'" he read. "By Stanford Beale—by Stanford Beale," he repeated, frowning. "I didn't know your husband wrote books?"
She made no reply. He turned back the cover and read the title page.
"But this is 'Smiles's Self Help,'" he said.
"It's the same thing," she replied.
He turned another page or two, then stopped, for he had come to a place where the centre of the book had been cut right out. The leaves had been glued together to disguise this fact, and what was apparently a book was in reality a small box.
"What was in there?" he asked, springing to his feet.
"This," she said, "don't move, Dr. van Heerden!"
The little hand which held the Browning was firm and did not quiver.
"I don't think you are going to send your pigeons off this morning, doctor," she said. "Stand back from the table." She leant over and seized the little heap of papers and the watch. "I am going to shoot you," she said steadily, "if you refuse to do as I tell you; because if I don't shoot you, you will kill me."
His face had grown old and grey in the space of a few seconds. The white hands he raised were shaking. He tried to speak but only a hoarse murmur came. Then his face went blank. He stared at the pistol, then stretched out his hands slowly toward it.
"Stand back!" she cried.
He jumped at her, and she pulled the trigger, but nothing happened, and the next minute she was struggling in his arms. The man was hysterical with fear and relief ​and was giggling and cursing in the same breath. He wrenched the pistol from her hand and threw it on the table.
"You fool! You fool!" he shouted, "the safety-catch! You didn't put it down!"
She could have wept with anger and mortification. Beale had put the catch of the weapon at safety, not realizing that she did not understand the mechanism of it, and van Heerden in one lightning glance had seen his advantage.
"Now you suffer!" he said, as he flung her in a chair. "You shall suffer, I tell you! I will make an example of you. I will leave your husband something which he will not touch!"
He was shaking in every limb. He dashed to the door and bellowed "Bridgers!"
Presently she heard a footstep in the hall.
"Come, my friend," van Heerden shouted, "you shall have your wish. It is——"
"How are you going, van Heerden? Quietly or rough?"
He spun round. There were two men in the doorway, and the first of these was Beale.
"It's no use your shouting for Bridgers because Bridgers is on the way to the jug," said McNorton. "I have a warrant for you, van Heerden."
The doctor turned with a howl of rage, snatched up the pistol which lay on the table, and thumbed down the safety-catch.
Beale and McNorton fired together, so that it seemed like a single shot that thundered through the room. Van Heerden slid forward, and fell sprawling across the table.
It was the Friday morning, and Beale stepped briskly through the vestibule of the Ritz-Carlton, and declining the elevator went up the stairs two at a time. He burst into the room where Kitson and the girl were standing by the window.
"Wheat prices are tumbling down," he said, "the message worked."
"Thank Heaven for that!" said Kitson. "Then van Heerden's code message telling his gang to stop operations reached its destination!"
​"Its destinations," corrected Beale cheerfully. "I released thirty pigeons with the magic word. The agents have been arrested," he said; "we notified the Government authorities, and there was a sheriff or a policeman in every post office when the code word came through—van Heerden's agents saw some curious telegraph messengers yesterday."
Kitson nodded and turned away.
"What are you going to do now?" asked the girl, with a light in her eyes. "You must feel quite lost without this great quest of yours."
"There are others," said Stanford Beale.
"When do you return to America?" she asked.
He fenced the question, but she brought him back to it.
"I have a great deal of business to do in London before I go," he said.
"Like what?" she asked.
"Well," he hesitated, "I have some legal business."
"Are you suing somebody?" she asked, wilfully dense.
He rubbed his head in perplexity.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I don't exactly know what I've got to do or what sort of figure I shall cut. I have never been in the Divorce Court before."
"Divorce Court?" she said, puzzled, "are you giving evidence? Of course I know detectives do that sort of thing. I have read about it in the newspapers. It must be rather horrid, but you are such a clever detective—oh, by the way you never told me how you found me."
"It was a very simple matter," he said, relieved to change the subject, "van Heerden, by one of those curious lapses which the best of criminals make, left a message at the pawnbroker's which was written on the back of an account for pigeon food, sent to him from a Horsham tradesman. I knew he would not try to dispatch his message by the ordinary courses and I suspected all along that he had established a pigeon-post. The bill gave me all the information I wanted. It took us a long time to find the tradesman, but once we had discovered him he directed us to the farm. We took along a couple of local policemen and arrested Bridgers in the garage."
​She shivered.
"It was horrible, wasn't it?" she said.
He nodded.
"It was rather dreadful, but it might have been very much worse," he added philosophically.
"But how wonderful of you to switch yourself from the crime of that enthralling character to a commonplace divorce suit."
"This isn't commonplace," he said, "it is rather a curious story."
"Do tell me." She made a place for him on the window-ledge and he sat down beside her.
"It is a story of a mistake and a blunder," he said. "The plaintiff, a very worthy young man, passably good looking, was a man of my profession, a detective engaged in protecting the interests of a young and beautiful girl."
"I suppose you have to say she's young and beautiful or the story wouldn't be interesting," she said.
"It is not necessary to lie in this case," he said, "she is certainly young and undoubtedly beautiful. She has the loveliest eyes——"
"Go on," she said hastily.
"The detective," he resumed, "hereinafter called the petitioner, desiring to protect the innocent maiden from the machinations of a fortune-hunting gentleman no longer with us, contracted as he thought a fraudulent marriage with this unfortunate girl, believing thereby he could choke off the villain who was pursuing her."
"But why did the unfortunate girl marry him, even fraudulently?"
"Because," said Beale, "the villain of the piece had drugged her and she didn't know what she was doing. After the marriage," he went on, "he discovered that so far from being illegal it was good in law and he had bound this wretched female."
"Please don't be rude," she said.
"He had bound this wretched female to him for life. Being a perfect gentleman, born of poor but American parents, he takes the first opportunity of freeing her."
"And himself," she murmured.
​"As to the poor misguided lad," he said firmly, "you need feel no sympathy. He had behaved disgracefully."
"How?" she asked.
"Well, you see, he had already fallen in love with her and that made his offence all the greater. If you go red I cannot tell you this story, because it embarrasses me."
"I haven't gone red," she denied indignantly. "So what are you—what is he going to do?"
Beale shrugged his shoulders.
"He is going to work for a divorce."
"But why?" she demanded. "What has she done?"
He looked at her in astonishment.
"What do you mean?" he stammered.
"Well"—she shrugged her shoulders slightly and smiled in his face—"it seems to me that it is nothing to do with him. It is the wretched female who should sue for a divorce, not the handsome detective—do you feel faint?"
"No," he said hoarsely.
"Don't you agree with me?"
"I agree with you," said the incoherent Beale. "But suppose her guardian takes the necessary steps?"
She shook her head.
"The guardian can do nothing unless the wretched female instructs him," she said. "Does it occur to you that even the best of drugs wear off in time and that there is a possibility that the lady was not as unconscious of the ceremony as she pretends? Of course," she said hurriedly, "she did not realize that it had actually happened, and until she was told by Apollo from the Central Office—that's what you call Scotland Yard in New York, isn't it?—that the ceremony had actually occurred she was under the impression that it was a beautiful dream—when I say beautiful," she amended, in some hurry, "I mean not unpleasant."
"Then what am I to do?" said the helpless Beale.
"Wait till I divorce you," said Oliva, and turned her head hurriedly, so that Beale only kissed the tip of her ear.
THE END