THE WHITE CIPHER

THE

WHITE CIPHER

BY

HENRY LEVERAGE

AUTHOR OF

WHISPERING WIRES, Etc.

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1919 BY

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY

First Edition—June 1st, 1919

Second Edition—July 28th, 1919

TO

“A WILD STAR�

CONTENTS

THE WHITE CIPHER
CHAPTER I
THE OPEN GATE

Swirled in the maze of a slow awakening, dropped through an abyss from zenith to nadir, the prisoner came out of his dreams and stared through the bars of his door to the pearl gray of the coming dawn.

C-45—better known in international underworld circles as Chester Fay, alias Edward Letchmere—was serving ten years at hard labor for the crime, committed against the peace and dignity of the country, of opening—by means unguessed by Scotland Yard—a jeweler’s strong-box in Hatton Gardens; which is, aside from “The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street,â€� the strictest patrolled district in the city of London.

Chester Fay, alias Edward Letchmere, studied the crack of dawn as it crept over the man-made barricade, through the slotted windows of the great gray cell block, and bathed the harsh walls of the prison with the rosy light of pearl changed into ruby and from ruby into gold.

And there was something prophetic in the mellow magic of the chromatic changes in the English sky!

A bell clanged at the front of the prison. A key grated in a lock. An iron door opened. Shuffling feet sounded, like an old woman’s in a lane. C-45 lowered the edge of his shoddy blanket—stamped here and there with the broad arrow—and watched where the grated bars of the door formed tiny crosses against the dull gray of the wall.

The shuffling came nearer the cell. It stopped. A key clicked against another. The footfalls were resumed. A surly beef-and-beer face blotted out the light from the corridor as Chester Fay raised himself upon his hinged shelf.

“C-45?� inquired the turnkey.

“Y—es,â€� breathed Fay.

The aged turnkey squinted at the paper he held in trembling fingers. He eyed the door number and blinked his matted lashes.

“C-45,� he said, “get your clothes on. Y’re going hout!�

Had the slaty roof of the stony coffin, which he had learned to call home, fallen down upon him, Fay would not have been more surprised. He twisted his lithe body, touched his bare toes to the cold stones of the flagging, and stood erect, the heart within his breast throbbing like an imprisoned bird.

The red, peering face beyond the bars, the tiny rimmed eyes with their matted lashes, the thick purple lips, the bulbous nose of the turnkey, represented British justice carried to the furthermost limit of caution and concern for His Majesty’s prisoners.

Fay had hated this guard over the five years at

Dartmoor as he had hated the gruel and molasses served in the morning, the stew at noon, or the gummy oakum piled in the cell to be picked strand by strand in an unending drudgery.

Now this “screw,� so called by the inmates of Dartmoor, had delivered the sweetest words ever dropped into human ears. Fay never knew how he dressed on that morning. It was done. He waited and pressed his slender body against the latticed bars, with his ears straining to catch the iron music of the thrown bolt.

The great key turned. The door swung open. Fay glided out from his cell and stood at attention with his fingers touching against the seams of his dirt-gray prison trousers.

The guard locked the door. He peered at the paper he held. He squinted at the number upon the stone over the doorway, then he motioned Fay to follow him up the long corridor of the white-flagged cell block.

The prisoner followed the burly form of his keeper. He threw back his keen-cut face while his eyes lighted with a sanguine fire that burned clear through the gloom to the iron door of liberty.

This door swung open after a signal was passed between guard and keeper. Prisoners pressed white faces to the many bars of the place. A whisper ran from cell to cell. The American was going free! They watched Fay as he passed through the arch and sank back into their narrow coffins as the great door clanged.

Fay waited, breathed silently, compressed his lips, then followed the guard along a narrow hallway and

into an open court, whose one high-barred gate was flanked by two castellated towers upon which sentries stood with rifles swung under their arms.

MacKeenon, of Scotland Yard, stood in the very center of the courtyard. At the inspector’s feet a yellow kit-bag rested. Over the Scot’s right arm a plaid overcoat hung. Within the detective’s light-blue eyes there sparkled the dry twinkle of recognition.

Chester Fay moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. He hesitated, then advanced step by step. He had last seen Inspector MacKeenon on the witness dais of the September Assizes. It was the Scot’s testimony concerning a certain finger-print which had carried the staid British jury. Such a trifle!

A sandy-colored hand crept up to MacKeenon’s chin and covered his mouth. The eyes closed to narrow slits. It was like a sly old dog warning another, not so sly, not near so old. Chester Fay understood. He turned toward the turnkey who had brought him out.

“Follow me, sir,� he heard him say.

The way led across the courtyard, through a low stone arch and into a Bertillon room, then to where a cold shower splashed upon well-scoured flags. The turnkey pointed to the descending water. Fay stripped, tossed the hated clothes away from him, lathed his lean, long-limbed body and mopped his silver-gray hair. It had been brown when he had entered the castellated gate, five long years before the unexpected coming of Inspector MacKeenon.

The clothes the turnkey brought had evidently come out of the yellow kit-bag. They fitted. They were of

price and rich texture. There were also the little things which a gentleman carries—a flat, gold watch, a set of studs and cuff-links, a pearl pin and a neat cigarette case which contained six cigarettes.

Fay accepted all these things with the abstract air of one born lucky. He did not understand the meaning of it all. Discharged prisoners, or those released by order of the Home Secretary, were fitted with H.M.P. garments made of shoddy by piece-work convicts whose hearts were elsewhere when they worked.

“Hall ready, sir?� asked the red-faced guard with strange civility.

Fay lifted his slender shoulders slightly, adjusted his cuffs, touched his cravat and faced the light which streamed in through the Bertillon room. He did not answer the turnkey. The sovereign contempt of a caged eagle was in his glance.

He drew down his plaid cap which matched so well the suit of tweeds, lowered his chin and followed the turnkey out into the glad light of dawning day and across the stone-flagged yard to MacKeenon’s side.

A prison clerk—one of those rat-eyed trusties whom nobody trusts—hurried out from the Principal Keeper’s office with an oblong of printed paper. He passed this release to MacKeenon.

The inspector signed it with the butt of a badly chewed indelible pencil, glanced at Fay, then said distinctly—too distinctly:

“A receipt for C-45. Yea, he may b’back. Ye canna tell!�

To the man who had prowled the world like a tiger

a jungle—to the third cracksman living who could open a modern cannon-ball safe or stop the four circular tumblers of a strong-box in their correct position—this sly aside of MacKeenon’s was enlightening. The old gray dog, whose scent was keener than a Louisiana bloodhound’s, was baying down the trail again for some wolf-pack of the underworld.

Chester Fay set his pale face and fingered his cravat. He dropped his hands to his side and followed the inspector out through a rising gate, where the two men stood facing the misted moorland and the spiring towers of Princetown beyond the causeway. As they stood there a clang sounded behind. It was the turnkey bringing down the shutter of iron.

A sleeve-valved motor, black, tired with steel-studded rubber, throbbing with life and a desire to roll up the road, stood close at hand. Into the tonneau of this car MacKeenon tossed the kit-bag and overcoat, then turned and assisted Fay to mount the running-board, where he had hesitated for the minutest fraction of a second.

Liberty was over that causeway. Freedom might be gained by a try at the marshes and moorland. The mist was almost thick enough to hide in. The world beyond was very wide indeed. The chance which offered might never come again. Fay had lost opportunity too often not to weigh well the one that came to him.

He felt the Inspector’s fingers on his sleeve. They seemed gentle. There was that, however, in the gripping mystery of his release that savored of things to come.

Perhaps, after all, the man from the Yard had other plans than the underworld. Perhaps the release had to do with the great war which had finally been brought to an end. It would be easy to escape, for Fay had the lithe, long limbs of the runner.

But he thought better of it and stepped through the tonneau door where MacKeenon had assisted him. The surge, as the car leaped forward and the driver glided through second, third and into fourth speed, was just sufficient to cause him to sit down upon the seat, where the inspector, with solicitude, offered one half of an auto robe whose woolen texture felt like silk to a man who had slept under shoddy for five years.

The mist-shrouded moors were crossed over rumbling bridges of planks or hollow arches of stone. The main highway, which swung from west to east upon the troubled isle, was reached. Into this broad road the driver turned the great car, stepped upon the governor-throttle and opened wide the triple-jetted carburetor.

A hissing of indrawn air sounded. The wind of their swift passage struck back and cut the cuticle of Fay’s white cheeks. They flushed and reddened with the rush of warm blood up through his sagged veins. He felt then the sweet wine of life and living—the clean vision and promise of the open places.

He sat in one position, turning over and over the riddle of his sudden freedom. It was like being reborn—rejuvenated.

MacKeenon had said no word. He crouched like a watchful hound, ready, alert for the first overt act.

Fay had weighed the chances when he had first entered the car. They still held good. The great motor often slowed for traffic—for the tide of war which flowed Londonward, even after the last treaty of peace had been signed.

Lorries, caissons, embarked troops in olive-drab, invalided officers and men strolling through the rare English meadows, all were a maelstrom where freedom from pursuit could be had.

Fay feared no living man or group of men. He had played the underworld game according to his code. It had been a losing one, perhaps; but he had held it down to the last grim brush with the hounds of the law in the Court of Assizes. He had not whimpered. He had not squealed. There was that rat, Dutch Gus, and that pigeon, Nelly Blake, who might have stuck by a pal. They were gone now with their telltale eyes and their overextended sympathies.

Also, for he had played many parts, there was Saidee Isaacs. Where was she now? She had been different. A hell-cat, perhaps, but then Saidee was a man’s girl and a lady. Had she gone up or down during the five years at Dartmoor? Fay rather thought, as he gripped the rare leather of the car’s upholstery, that Saidee would be found in West London. Could she have anything to do with his release?

MacKeenon, alone, could answer this riddle. He turned his chin slightly and studied the cold face of the Scotch inspector. There was no light in his eyes. He sat half on the edge of the seat. His toes touched the rug on the tonneau floor. He was prepared to

spring or clap on a pair of nippers. He was the personification of British watchfulness and sagacity.

The detective had played his hand, five years before, in taking advantage of information. He had told the truth on the witness dais, as he knew it. He had not enlarged on the damning evidence. It had been large enough. Down in his heart Fay did not blame MacKeenon for testifying as he did. It had sent him away, but then it was part of the game. It was an added corollary to the ancient axiom: “A sleuth can make a thousand mistakes and yet may get his quarry—the quarry dare not afford to overlook the smallest trifle.â€�

Noon passed. Night drew its shade across the eastern world. The long, black motor car hurtled on without being stopped, without question from the decorated officers who regulated the traffic.

There was a hidden magic in the H.M.S. plates which hung from the front axle and the rear trunk rack. There was a keen hand at the wheel who knew the turns and the signals. He drove as if the weight of an empire depended on getting to his destination.

Chester Fay, letting slip a hundred chances for escape, found himself in the gripping clutch of the unknown which lay before him. MacKeenon had a plan in the back of his long Scotch head. Its very uncertainty gripped the cracksman in a passive nip of steel.

The inspector would talk, yes. Fay believed that he would discuss the weather, the earth and the

heaven above, without betraying the one thing which was hurling them eastward at racing speed.

This thing was the reason for taking a prisoner out of the living hell of Dartmoor before the long years of penance had been up. It was unusual; it was extraordinary save in the case where a crook squealed and turned Crown’s evidence.

The Scotch inspector most certainly knew that he had no such man to deal with!

The reaching fringe of London was entered. The sky grew pale. Dusk fell with the great roaring car brightening the asphalt road ahead with flickering, dancing electrics of tremendous candle-power.

Hyde Park Corner was reached. Piccadilly lay ahead. Sombre mansions reared on either hand. A hospital, bright with the flags of the victorious Allies, was passed with closed muffler. The car swerved toward the Thames. The lamps were dimmed as the Embankment loomed with its monuments. The brakes went on.

Fay gripped his oakum-stained nails deep within the palms of his white hands. He had a premonition that his destination was to be New Scotland Yard. Prisoners were sometimes taken there for interrogation.

The house the car stopped at, with a final clamp of the brakes on the rear wheels, was inconspicuous among its neighbors. It was smug and staid and held the air of secret things. A faint light shone through the closed blinds on the ground floor. Two iron lions guarded the top of a small flight of well scoured steps. A constable of the Metropolitan Police Force stood

at attention as the driver shifted his lever to neutral and touched the black visor of his cap.

MacKeenon set his lips and opened the tonneau door on the right-hand side of the car. The inspector rolled up the lap-robe, handed Fay the overcoat and lifted the kit-bag. He paused for the cracksman to rise.

Chester Fay felt the creeping fingers of the detective. They strayed over his tweed sleeve and gripped his elbow with no mean strength. They were like hound’s teeth feeling for a grip.

“Ye coom with me,� said MacKeenon dryly.

Fay raised his shoulders and stepped to the running-board. His feet glided over the curb like a quick dancer’s. He followed the inspector, a quarter-step behind. They passed through an iron-grilled fence, took the salute of the constable, and reached the landing between the two lions.

A dark, stained door barred the way. Upon the right panel of this door MacKeenon knocked four times, then five; which Fay remembered, with a start, was his number at Dartmoor.

He glanced first at the kit-bag, and then turned his head slightly and finished his scrutiny of the yard and street. Freedom lay there in the gloom of London!

He tossed away what he believed was his last chance as the door opened to a crack and then wide. There was no alternative as MacKeenon’s fingers gripped for a second and stronger hold. Chester Fay, alias Edward Letchmere, entered the House of the Two Lions, blindly.

CHAPTER II
SCOTLAND YARD

There is that within the professional criminal’s nature which distrusts the men who carry out the laws. The laws, themselves, may be fair, but man, in the cracksman’s opinion, is a human element who is very liable to overplay his part.

Chester Fay had lain too long on the hard planks at Dartmoor to believe in MacKeenon’s good intentions. The Scot had a reputation for getting results. He was also the very keen tool of brainier men who managed the Criminal Intelligence Division of Scotland Yard.

The romance of all underworld activity on the Continent and in England was bound up in the Yard. Its long arm could reach down a blind alley in Paris and snatch a man to the light of justice. It could lift a fleeing suspect from the deck of a ship at sea. It stopped at nothing!

Fay suspected a well-baited trap of the superior order as he followed MacKeenon through a dim-lighted hallway. He gripped his palms as they waited in the gloom for a door to be unlocked by the servant who had answered the inspector’s knock of four taps and then five.

The room which was suddenly revealed, like the flash of a cinematograph, contained a long mahogany

table running from wall to wall, and a half-score of heavy teakwood chairs which blended into the rich dark finish of the wainscoting. There was little else in the way of furnishings. Fay counted three black tin boxes upon the table. Each box was marked with a code number and the initials C. I. D. His eyes lifted over these boxes and stared at a man who wore a mask which was far too small to hide a jaw so square and masterful. It brought a slight smile of recognition to the cracksman’s lips.

The man in the mask was Sir Richard Colstrom, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Division!

Fay divined, with the flash thoughts of a professional, that the matter of bringing him out of Dartmoor was an important one. It could be nothing puerile with Sir Richard mixed up in the case. The chief played a high hand and played it hard.

The farce of the mask was apparent when MacKeenon softly closed the door to the hallway, turned the key, then coughed as in a signal. Sir Richard half rose from the deep chair in which he had been reclining and leaned his elbows upon the table. His finger lowered and leveled straight for Fay’s steady glance.

“Remove your cap!�

Fay smiled thinly, reached upward and brought down the plaid cap which he bunched in his right hand. The silver of his hair caught the chief’s eyes. Sir Richard raised his brows and glanced at MacKeenon. He said cuttingly:

“A little older—a little wiser—a little grayer than before, eh Mac?â€�

“A’ hae noo doot ov it.�

Both men laughed at Fay’s expense. The cracksman failed to see the joke. He stiffened slightly and glanced about the room. The windows were shaded and undoubtedly locked. The lamps of the place were controlled by a switch near the door which led to the hallway. This seemed to be the only entrance or exit to the room.

Sir Richard noted the result of his thrust with a steady glint in his eyes. He leaned further over the table and said:

“I had you brought to London for a reason, Fay.�

The cracksman closed his fists and straightened his slender shoulders. He distrusted Sir Richard full-heartedly. There is that which exists between the police and the criminal tribes which calls for no truce. Fay was completely on his guard.

“I had you brought here,� continued the Chief of Staff, “after some study of the right and the wrong in the matter. We have your record!�

Sir Richard pointed toward the south and the direction of New Scotland Yard.

“Yes, we have it,� he continued slowly. “It’s a criminal shame, Fay, that a man of your ability ever entered the downward path of crime. It leads nowhere, and damn fast you go. You’re bucking the stream all of the time. You can’t beat the law!�

Fay glanced along his tweed suit and studied the points of his well-polished shoes. They fitted so well he wondered if they had been made from his Bertillon

measurements. He glanced up and into Sir Richard’s half-hidden eyes.

“You can’t beat it—clever as you are! And, however much we may enjoy enterprise and however many shilling-shockers and penny-dreadfuls we have devoured, the fact remains, Fay, that you have sadly misapplied your splendid talents.â€�

Fay took the flattery for what he thought it was worth. He waited with every sense keen and intent.

“But for you,â€� continued Sir Richard, shaking his index-finger, “but for you and your kind, literature would be poorer—we’ll grant that—â€�

Fay heard MacKeenon rounding the corner of the table and fingering the locked boxes.

“We’ll grant it!� snapped Sir Richard testily. “We’ll grant your talents. It is because of them that we have brought you here tonight! As man to man, Fay, we’re in a knot. I’m sure you are the one rogue in all the known world who can help us out. I’m going to be very candid!�

Fay said nothing.

“See these?� exclaimed Sir Richard, pointing at the boxes upon the mahogany table. “See them?�

MacKeenon stepped back into the gloom of the room. Fay followed the direction of Sir Richard’s polished fingernail. He raised his brows in polite query. He still remained mute.

“Damnit man!� said the chief of the Intelligence Division, “Wake up! Show interest! It’s easy enough for us to send you back.�

The cracksman acknowledged this threat by

leaning closer to the boxes. He studied the cryptic numbers on their sides. He turned his head slightly and laid the plaid cap on the edge of the table.

“They’d be easy opened,� he offered professionally.

“Bah! That isn’t what we want. What we want is this—without mincing words. We want your coöperation. Let’s be brief as time and get to the heart of the matter. These boxes, three in number, contain the secrets of the entire dye industry. They were obtained in Switzerland during the middle period of the war. They are in cipher!â€�

“German?� asked Fay with cold concern.

“Yes, damnit, German! No other nation could show such fiendish cunning in hiding so simple a thing. The cipher is one to which neither Scotland Yard, the Intelligence Bureau of the Army and Navy, French experts on such matters, nor the American Secret Service have been able to find the slightest clue.�

Fay had the good sense to hold his tongue. Sir Richard was warming up to the problem. He shifted in his chair, glanced at MacKeenon, then toward the three boxes.

“The cipher,� he said, tapping the table with his forefinger, “is either very simple or very intricate. It is no half-way affair. It has baffled all the experts!�

The cracksman eyed the locks of the boxes with professional concern. He shifted his weight from his right leg to his left foot. He yawned politely and passed his hand over his silver-gray hair. As yet no trust or warmth showed in his eyes. They were neutral.

Sir Richard adjusted his mask and leaned forward. His eyes bored through the holes in the black velvet. “Whatever the case may be, Fay,â€� he said, “the key for this code or cipher was in the hands of a Berlin chemist who met with a most violent death in—we will say a country north and east of here. You can guess which one it is!â€�

“Holland?�

“Perhaps. We’ll leave the matter rest with your surmise. In this—country—north and east of here, the German chemist did one thing before he was slain. He left a small packet with the neutral nation’s embassy. It was placed in their care. This packet is of vital importance to us! It is important to your own country, Fay. It is the key to the cipher locked in these three boxes.â€�

“Well?� asked Fay as Sir Richard paused and thrust out his hand. “Well, what have I got to do with all this?�

Sir Richard doubled up his fingers and tapped the polished surface of the table with his white knuckles. He turned, threw one leg over the other and stared at MacKeenon. The Scotch inspector nodded ever so slightly. It was like a sly dog signaling another.

The air of the long room was tense as the three men faced each other. The outer roar of London sounded far away. The steady clank of the constable’s feet on the hard curb was a reminder to Fay that the house was well guarded. He thawed a trifle and fastened upon Sir Richard an engaging smile which was coated with clean-cut intentiveness.

“What have I got to do with all this?â€� he repeated, holding forth his hands. “You’ve released me—on parole. You’ve brought me to London. You’ve mentioned boxes and ciphers and dye-stuff. You want something, and yet behind me stands an officer of the law, and outside, walks another. If you want something, from me, why don’t you let me go?â€�

The shot was delivered through clean, white teeth. The smile faded from the cracksman’s lips. He leaned slightly forward and locked Sir Richard’s eyes with a glance that caused the chief of the bureau to recoil slightly.

“Yes!â€� said Fay hotly. “Yes, Sir Richard—oh, I know you! You’ve gyved me! You hounded me! You threw me in that hell-hole called Dartmoor with the wooden-minded screws walking before my cell till I thought I would go mad. You saw to it that I was sent away for the limit! Now you want something, and you won’t trust me away from your coppers!â€�

“Coppers?� asked Sir Richard removing the mask and dropping it to the table. “What are coppers, Fay?�

“Police! Screws! Guards! Turnkeys! Hell-hounds!�

Sir Richard stared at MacKeenon and motioned toward the door.

“Go out, Mac,� he said, “and leave us to ourselves. I think that Fay and I can come to an understanding better that way.�

The inspector hesitated, walked to the door, turned the key and passed out into the hallway.

The door closed as Sir Richard rubbed his hands, eyed Fay with interest, and leaned back in the chair.

“Now,� he said, “we are alone. I’ve no doubt that you can get away. In fact I’d hate to match myself against you, Fay. We have your record, you know.�

“A lot of it isn’t true!� said Fay bitterly. “You people are always making up things. I didn’t turn that trick in Hatton Gardens. Why, do you think I’d work without gloves?�

“I didn’t think so, Chester,� said Sir Richard with a faint smile. “I really didn’t, but I guess you did!�

“Bah!�

“Oh, now, don’t take it that way. The strong-box was opened—without trace. Up over the transom was a trace—your right thumb print. It was a nice clean job, Fay. I always thought that Saidee Isaacs was with you that night.â€� The chief leaned slightly forward. He watched the cracksman’s eyes for a clue. There was none. Fay returned the stare without expression. He said staunchly:

“Miss Saidee Isaacs had no more to do with that job than you had or I had. I don’t even know where Hatton Gardens is.�

“That’s enough! You know and I know. You’ve got the cunning of your tribe—admit nothing and deny everything. But I’ve taken an interest in you—a personal one. Things have come up—â€�

Sir Richard glanced at the door and then at the three boxes. He crossed his legs and drummed the table. His brow furrowed as he reached forward and fingered the velvet mask.

“Come closer, Fay,� he said confidentially. “around here.�

Fay was frankly suspicious. He turned sharply and stared at the windows. He eyed the door behind which he sensed that MacKeenon would be crouching. He wheeled and rested his hands on the table. He leaned forward until his face was very close to Sir Richard’s.

“We can talk just as well in this position,� he said without moving his drawn lips. “Now, what are you getting at, chief?�

“I thought that Saidee Isaacs was in it,� said Sir Richard. “I’ll take my statement back. But you were, and I’m glad of it.�

Fay rubbed his wrists and stared at his oakum-stained nails. He dropped his cuffs and stood back. He waited with fast beating heart. The man before him was fencing like a clever fiend. He already had drawn speech where silence was golden. Fay remembered with a pang that the Hatton Gardens affair was not the only one he had been guilty of perpetrating in the Metropolitan District of London. There was a little matter of turning a museum off in Kensington Gardens. There was the Monica affair where a diamond salesman had lost a pint of uncut stones.

Sir Richard guessed what was passing in the cracksman’s mind. He smiled with sudden warmth. His head came forward as his right hand reached out. “You think this is a police trap, Fay,â€� he said sincerely. “It isn’t at all. It’s an attempt to call upon the highest talent in the world—in his own particular line. We all have specialties. Mine is trying to

raise better dahlias than my neighbor. Yours is opening strong-boxes which American safe-makers have branded as burglar-proof. That big crib in Hatton Gardens was an American box, wasn’t it?�

“How should I know?� asked Fay.

“Well, it was! It was made by the Seabold people of Hartford. Guaranteed fire-proof and burglar-proof and non-pickable. It didn’t burn up, but everything else happened to it.�

Fay smiled openly. He liked Sir Richard better for the remark. He grew more at ease as he waited. “Well,� he suggested, “I’m here with you, and you’ve got something for me to do. I can guess that much. Does it concern a Seabold safe?�

“It most certainly does!�

Fay stared at the three boxes. He furrowed his brow. They were not part of any American safe he had ever known. They were more like the tin-cases which middle-aged drabs carried about the Law Courts or the Brokerage Houses. Their locks could have been opened with a hair-pin.

“You’ll have to explain, chief.�

Sir Richard swung open his coat and drew from the inner pocket a small notebook. He thumbed the pages and paused at one. “Seabold Safe Corporation, Limited,� he said. “They placed a number of their strong-boxes in England and the Continent. Their salespeople were very enterprising. We have a record, from their own files, of seven. Four of the seven were smaller than the one in Hatton Gardens. The lock, or whatever it is called, was different.�

Sir Richard glanced up and then buried his nose between the pages of the notebook.

“Two of the larger,â€� he said musingly, “were installed in Paris. They’re there yet. The one that interests us is in the country—north and east of here. It is the same size and general dimensions as the unfortunate one you opened in Hatton Gardens. I understand the situation is similar—parallel. It would be ridiculously easy for a man of your talent to go to this country, north and east of here, and open that strong-box—without trace.â€�

Sir Richard snapped the book shut and glanced up at Fay.

The cracksman slightly moistened his lips. The cat was out of the bag! The reason for MacKeenon’s visit to Dartmoor—the release when five years were yet to be served—the sudden interest of Sir Richard Colstrom, were all explained. England, who had severely punished him, now wanted a favor done.

The two men exchanged a glance of mutual understanding. Fay’s mind worked swiftly. He went over the details of his arrest. He recalled the method he had used in opening the great safe in Hatton Gardens. No other man could have done it, save by bungling.

“Suppose,â€� he said, feeling surer of his ground. “Suppose, Sir Richard, we will say that I can go to Holland and open that box—without trace. What would there be in it for me?â€�

“Ah, we’re getting on!�

“I’m not so sure that we are getting anywhere, for what would happen to me if I were lagged in

Holland? Suppose somebody tipped me off? What then?�

“You and I alone know what you are going to do.�

“MacKeenon?�

“He obeys orders. I like you, Fay. Damnit, I admire enterprise—even if it is opening strong-boxes! What would Scotland Yard be if there weren’t men like you in the world? You’re a mark and all that, but you’ve done one or two big things in your line.â€�

Fay rubbed his wrists as if handcuffs were still binding him. He shifted his weight and eyed the three boxes with new concern. “My price,� he said, “may be more than you or England are willing to pay.�

“No price is too high to pay for the key to this cipher.â€� Sir Richard jerked a thumb toward the black boxes. “The secret for making these dyes will save the world from a galling monopoly. It will make the place we live in, Fay, just that much safer for Democracy. The war between nations is over. There will come another war—the commercial one between Germany and the world. We can best win that war by being prepared—by dye-works and potash deposits and freedom from secret formulae.â€�

Fay nodded at this statement. “My country—America—is interested in this?â€� he asked.

“Yes and no! Your country shares with England in every discovery. This set of boxes which contain the cipher were obtained in Switzerland at a high cost. Three of our men were waylaid and killed. Two more were trapped in a Berne hotel and had to

fight their way out. The German chemist who offered the dye secrets—at a price—is dead by poison. We got the boxes through. They contain the full details of manufacturing thirty-six of the principal dyes. They are in a baffling cipher which has held us up.â€�

“And the key to this cipher is in the Holland safe?�

“We believe so. A friend of the man who was poisoned brought the key out and across the German border. He was followed by German agents. He was in danger of his life. What was more natural than an appeal to the embassy? They took the key, placed it in their safe, and waited for instructions. In the meantime the man was stabbed to death in broad daylight, near the Schwartz Canal. His pockets were rifled! His clothes were torn from his body!�

“Sounds like a pleasant commission,� said Fay dryly.

“You’ll tackle it?�

Fay eyed Sir Richard, then reached for his cap.

“Does it mean my freedom?� he asked as he fingered the visor.

“It certainly does, Chester! That little bit you did in Dartmoor never happened. You were sent away, wrong. I’ll answer for the Home Secretary. We can arrange everything! Come now—can we call upon you to go to that country, north and east of here, and open the embassy’s vault without compromising us or without leaving a trace? All we want is the key to the cipher. If you’re not willing to make a try for it—then—â€�

Sir Richard hesitated and rose from his chair. He stood with his hands clasping the edge of the table. His jaw was thrust forward like a block. His eyes hardened to points of tempered steel. They bored toward the cracksman. “Take your pick, Fay!� he said in a last appeal.

“Pick of what?�

“Getting the key to the cipher or going back to Dartmoor!�

“There’s no alternative,� said Fay with a rare smile. “I’ll turn the trick for you and England! If I don’t turn the trick, without trace and without compromise, then I’ll knock on the big gate at the prison and ask to be taken in. Is that satisfactory, Sir Richard Colstrom?�

“I never had the slightest doubt of you,� said the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Division.

CHAPTER III
THE CIPHER

Chester Fay watched the stout form of the Chief of Division as he crossed the room, tapped lightly on the door which led to the hallway, then waited with his fingers toying with a heavy, gold chain which crossed a vest the color of old wine.

MacKeenon turned the knob and came into the room. He closed and locked the door at Sir Richard’s suggestion. He sniffed the air of the room, glanced keenly toward Fay, then said:

“Ye have come to an understanding?�

“We have!� declared Sir Richard. “Fay is with us. You know what that means? We are bound to get the key and trick the Germans.�

“A’ hae noo doot ov it,â€� said the Scotch detective, rubbing his hands and peering for a second time at the cracksman. “A verra gude mon—but a wee bit reckless.â€�

Sir Richard laughed pleasantly. “Oh, we’re all that way—more or less. I guess it was recklessness that broke the Hindenburg Line. It would never have been done if we had counted the cost.â€�

Fay moved around the end of the table and stood by the three black boxes. He studied the situation from every angle. It was possible to escape. It was

not too late to go back on his bargain with Sir Richard. A swift rush, the bowling over of the two detectives, and a plunge through the shrubbery of the house would carry him to westward, where quiet, shaded lamps and reaching aisles of mansions would offer freedom for all time.

He waited to hear more. The gripping mystery of the cipher clutched and stilled his desire for liberty. There would be other chances at a later hour.

There was something of the American in Sir Richard. Fay watched the two detectives come across the room, take seats at the table and then pull toward themselves the locked boxes.

“We’ll begin at the beginning,� said the chief, glancing up at the ceiling and then into Fay’s eyes. “Take a seat, Chester, right here! I want to explain to you about the cipher and the dye business.�

Fay turned and gripped the ornate arms of a teakwood chair which had certainly come from India in one of the old hulks. He turned this chair so that the light from the overhead cluster would shine in the faces of the two detectives and leave his in shadow. It was an old trick!

He sat down, pulled up the knees of his tweed trousers and leaned slightly forward in an attitude of attention. Sir Richard had already drawn a small key from his pocket. This key was evidently the one to the three locks of the boxes.

“What do you know about German dyes?� snapped the chief as he held out the key. “Know anything at all, Fay?�

“I’ve heard of fast-black.�

“Is that all?�

“About all, Chief. I suppose the Germans have gone deeper into the subject than most men. I thought the States had made some new discoveries. You see I didn’t get much chance to read in the last place I was in. The subject of reading for occasional offenders should be called to the attention of the Home Secretary.�

“I’ll mention it,� said Sir Richard dryly. “I might add that the Home Secretary and I have spent three months on this damn cipher.�

Fay leveled his shaded eyes toward the boxes. He glanced at Sir Richard. There was a frown on the chief’s face and an angry pucker about his strong mouth.

“Three months, on a cipher! Let me see it, Chief.�

Sir Richard turned toward MacKeenon. “Better get up and stand by the windows when I open these boxes,� he said. “We can’t be too careful. There is a billion pounds involved in this!�

Fay was impressed for the first time since leaving the sombre walls of Dartmoor. Sir Richard was no man to exaggerate. He might have had the treasure of the Diamond Clique as he reached, pulled a box close up to his side, inserted the key and slowly lifted the sheet-metal lid.

The cracksman leaned out of the shadow and into the light. Sir Richard laid the key upon the polished surface of the table, thrust his fingers inside the box and drew out a sheet of white paper. He held this

sheet so that Fay could read the top lines. They were:

“SCHUCKER—MAINTZ—WERKE—FRANKFORT ON MAIN—BERLINâ€�

Underneath this heading was an even row of ten-point letters, the first of which ran:

“aaahhhsssaaacccstopxxxgggssstttstopmmmwwwccc
pppfffbbbstopxxxzzzccceeesssuuukkkwwwssstttst
opyyynnnvvvfffssshhhstopmmmtttnnnpppwwwfffccc�

Fay counted thirty-two rows of similar letters, between the lines of which were double spaces of blank white. He turned to the box as Sir Richard replaced the sheet and snapped down the lid.

“They’re all like that,� said the chief bitterly. “It’s a clever, clever cipher. A cipher that runs through ten reams of paper. There’s all of six hundred thousand letters in the thing. There’s at least thirty or forty thousand words. The whole will give us the formulae to such dyes as Alizarine Sapphire and Carbanthrene Blue.�

“Might be the names of sleeping cars,� said Fay.

“They’re much-wanted dyes! The man who was slain in Switzerland said the formulae to these two colors would be found in the boxes. They may be there, but we haven’t found them!�

MacKeenon lowered a blind and turned. He sniffed with the scent of a baffled hound. The pouches at the side of his cheeks dropped, his teeth showed beneath curled gums. Fay wheeled upon him suddenly and was startled at the inspector’s appearance. It was as if the old dog had snarled in silence.

“We’ll continue,� broke in Sir Richard as he shoved the box upon the table. “The game isn’t lost! There’s a key to the cipher in the embassy.�

“Have you tried everything?� asked Fay. “How about these cipher experts? I’ve heard they can cipher anything. There’s a Russian in Dartmoor who used to talk to the whole gallery by tapping on his bars. All you had to know was the key-word and deduct the numbers it represented from the numbers he sent. The quotient would be the message.�

“We’ve tried that,â€� snapped Sir Richard. “Believe me, Fay, that was the first thing tried. It’s the Nihilist key-word cipher! Fifty of the keenest brains in Europe and America have worked on this thing. It does not follow Bacon’s biliteral cipher or Poe’s cryptogram. It has some of the marks of an old Italian cipher used in the time of Pope Alexander. It isn’t that! It has already driven one professor of mathematics mad. He cross-indexed it and tried it backward. He found a queer average in the repetition of certain letters. They followed no sane rule. For that reason he went insane. More may go mad if this thing isn’t solved. It represents the final triumph over Germany—the winning of the commercial war which is upon us!â€�

Fay drew his head back into the shadow. He still retained the ringing timbre of Sir Richard’s voice. The energetic chief of the Intelligence Division had once been on a mission to the States. He had learned much that was American on that visit.

“Damnit!� he heard Sir Richard blurt. “We’re

not children! We have defeated the Germans on the field of battle. Why can’t we solve a simple cipher?�

“What did you pay for it?� Fay shot the question out of the shadow and watched its effect on Sir Richard’s features.

“Pay for it? What do you mean, Fay?�

“What did you pay that man in Switzerland?�

“Ten thousand pounds.�

“And the fellow in Holland?�

“He died too soon to receive his share. The money went to the general funds.�

Fay crossed his legs and glanced at the slender shape of the boots he wore. “I think you have been gulled,â€� he said with the ghost of a smile. “I think that cipher in the boxes is a bum steer, if you know what that means. You tossed away ten thousand pounds—like that!â€� Fay threw out his hand expressively.

Sir Richard blinked both eyes. The frown died from his face, wrinkle by wrinkle. He leaned back in his chair, thrust his knees against the edge of the table and said, half to Fay, half to MacKeenon:

“Mac thought the same thing! You’re both wrong. The thing was tested before the money was paid. The agent who completed the transaction in Switzerland made no mistake. He went to extreme length in the matter.�

“How?� asked Fay.

“He named a dye—a fast blue—which the German chemist said was one of the thirty-six which were fully worked out in the formulae. The chemist took the boxes, went into a room, and came out with the

formula of the fast-blue, down to the last reaction. It couldn’t be done by any trick of memory!�

“That sounds plausible,� Fay said. “Then it is no hoax?�

“It’s straight goods, Fay! The five thousand sheets in these three boxes contain the chemical formulae for the thirty-six dyes. The devil of it is, we lost the key, in—the country north and east of here. You’re going to get that key for us!â€�

“Just a moment. Isn’t it possible that the whole thing is a blind?�

“Be clear!�

“I mean that the lines of letters, thirty-two or three on each page, are there for a gull?�

“Go on!�

“They might be a gull for fools to go mad about. The real cipher may be within the lines. That also is a common practice at Dartmoor. Men have received letters from the outside which are written with lemon juice between the lines. All they did was to heat the paper and the message came out in brown ink.�

Sir Richard smiled broadly. “That has been thought of,� he said, glancing at MacKeenon. “To be frank, as I said, everything has been tried. We’ve even split some of the paper. We’ve tried every reaction known to science. We’ve bathed the sheets in oxalic acid and iodine. There was only one clue in this direction.�

Fay lifted his hand and fingered the pearl-pin in his cravat.

“That one clue,� continued Sir Richard, “was the

report of an American chemist that he detected a salt in the composition of the paper. It was so faint, however, that nothing came of it. We’re squarely up against the last card—that big gopher in the embassy!â€�

Fay frowned slightly at the chief’s use of an American yegg’s pet name for a strong-box. It showed Sir Richard’s versatility, and also showed the cracksman what manner of man he was dealing with.

“Gopher has gone out,� said Fay in correction. “Only the low-brows of the Middle Western States use it. You should say: ‘can or jug or keister.’�

“We’ll compromise on ‘crib,’ a good old word used in the time of Jack Cade and other mid-Victorian gentlemen!�

“All right, Chief! You want me to take it—without trace. In it I’m to find the key to the cipher—if there is a key. What can you say concerning the key? Is it a book, paper or design of some kind?â€�

“Now we’re getting close!� Sir Richard exclaimed. “It is a small packet in the back of the embassy’s crib. It was seen only last week by a trusted agent who could go no further. This agent informs me that the neutral nation, north and east of here, is in a quandary concerning it. Germany has requested that the packet be returned over her border.�

“Any marks of identification?�

“Yes! You will always know it by a name written in ink across one corner, under a blue string. The name is Otto Mononsonburg—the man who was stabbed in the back, near the Schwartz Canal.â€�

“Ah,� said Fay, “the matter seems easy. I get my freedom?�

“If you get the packet and turn it over to me.�

“I’ll get it! Now a number of other things, Sir Richard—â€� Fay turned and stared at the lurking figure of the Scotch inspector. MacKeenon lifted his hand and stroked his jaw with a sly motion. His eyes swung from Fay’s to Sir Richard’s. They held the glint of the manhunter and the hound. A tawny fire was in them.

For the second time that evening there came an air of tenseness into the room. Fay felt it as he watched the Scotch inspector. Try, as he should, he could never get over the feeling that the detective was his born enemy.

MacKeenon was so like a waiting collie. The leathern pouches of the Scot—the curl to his lips—the fang-like teeth, all made this thing seem real.

With Sir Richard Colstrom there was this difference. The chief had traveled far. He had taken the pains to acquire some of the argot of the underworld. He was rated square—after he caught his quarry. Fay could never believe that a manhunter played a fair game in running down criminals. There was too much oral evidence to the contrary. There had been a number of stool-pigeons in his life. To him, the despicable thing about the game was the traitors.

Born a gentleman’s son and riding swiftly through a moderate fortune, Fay had taken the easier way. He had paid! There were other convictions beside the Hatton Gardens affair recorded at Scotland Yard.

Freedom was a precious thing. He gripped his lips with his teeth and counted ten before he said to Sir Richard:

“One of the conditions of this matter is that I have no hell-hounds of the law trailing me!�

Sir Richard glanced at MacKeenon. The two men understood each other down to the fraction of a glance.

“That’s all right,� said Sir Richard soothingly. “You can go scot-free. All we want is the key to the cipher. Then, afterwards, you can wear that perfectly good suit to the States instead of donning the broad arrow at Dartmoor.�

“Fine!â€� said Fay without warmth. “Now another matter—â€�

“What is it?�

“Money!�

“You can have it.�

“I’ll need a hundred pounds, now!�

Sir Richard drew from his inner vest-pocket a thin bill-fold, which he opened upon the table. From this he extracted ten ten-pound notes and tossed them to Fay.

“Count them,� he said as he replaced the bill-fold and made an entry in the little book which he had already consulted when giving the data concerning the strong-box in the embassy.

“One hundred, correct!� said the cracksman, crinkling the sheath of white papers. “Clean notes! I shall have to lose a shilling on the pound with these.�

“That’s the rate the fences get, eh?�

Fay smiled as he thrust the bills in his tweed trousers. “How should I know?� he inquired with good-nature.

Sir Richard stared at MacKeenon. Both detectives mirrored Fay’s engaging manner. The tensity of the air had vanished.

“You’ll get another hundred pounds when you start,� Sir Richard said, tapping the table. “When will you start?�

“There’s another matter, Chief.�

“And that is—?â€�

“Passports and clearance papers or whatever you call them. I understand there is still some difficulty on account of customs. I might as well travel to Holland, first-class. That means a damn fine alibi of the superior order. Have you any suggestions?�

Sir Richard fingered the lapel of his coat. He turned this down after thought. Fay leaned forward. He saw a little silver greyhound pinned there. It was a passport in a million!

“Do you know what this represents?� asked Sir Richard.

Fay nodded his head and stared at the insignia. “It’s the badge of the King’s Couriers.�

“Correct!�

“Do I get one?�

“I can tell you where there is one which can be—stolen.â€�