CHAPTER XXVI.

THE CRYPTOGRAM

Nanette was with a party at the Hippodrome that night, and I had promised to look in during the interval. The curtain had just fallen and the orchestra was playing as I entered with O’Shea. The manager met us at the top of the steps.

No doubt you remember him. He is unforgettable, being the best-dressed manager in Europe. He was delighted to meet O’Shea and much happier in greeting an officer of the Household troops who had come in for a drink than in endorsing a plebeian check for the use of the Royal box.

Nanette came running out ahead of her party and stopped dead on seeing O’Shea. He bowed in his grave, courtly fashion. She glanced at me swiftly, and then:

“Oh, Major O’Shea,” she said, “I want to ask you to forgive me!”

“And I want to thank you,” said he.

“To thank me?”

Nanette looked up at him and then down again very swiftly. She began tapping her foot upon the rubber-coated floor.

“To thank you,” he repeated, “once more. It seems to be my happy fate, Nanette, to be always thanking you.”

“But what have you to thank me for?” she asked, industriously studying the point of her shoe.

“For giving me an opportunity of redeeming my many failures.”

Nanette looked up--she was quite calm again--and met his eyes bravely.

“Some of them,” she said, “have been my fault.”

“You are wrong,” O’Shea assured her. “The fault has been mine from the very beginning.”

“What do you mean?” she asked; and I turned aside, joining some friends who had just come out from the stalls.

In spite of my determination about Nanette, it still hurt a little bit to see that light in her eyes.

“I mean,” I heard O’Shea reply, “that I have tried to do something that is impossible.”

I heard no more, nor did I want to.

That bell which indicates the rise of the curtain releases from the bars of a London theatre certain characteristic types. The wet man returning guiltily with guarded breath to his dry wife in the stalls, having stepped out to “smoke a cigarette.” The bored man, who is present under protest, and who goes to his seat like a martyr to the stake. The victim of jazzitis who dances with his girl friend in the lobby, and post-mortem examination of whose skull reveals the presence of several perfectly formed saxophones but nothing else.

The curtain was about to rise and practically everybody was seated when I learned that Nanette had straggled. She stood with O’Shea in the opening at the back of the stalls. And I thought that I had never before seen her so animated in his company.

Envied model of her girl friends, Nanette was a paragon of self-possession in the company of all men, or had been until she had met O’Shea. Never, hitherto, had I seen her at her ease with him. But to-night she was--realized that she was--and her happy excitement will be good to remember when I am ten years older.

One hand resting upon his arm, she looked up, talking gaily. He, too, had relaxed, as any man must have done finding himself in the company of an adorably pretty and spirited girl who loved him so much that she didn’t care who knew. He was laughing like a schoolboy.

The curtain was up before Nanette tore herself away. She was very flushed, and I know her heart was beating wildly. I pitied her escort, foreseeing that she would be abstracted throughout the remainder of the evening.

O’Shea turned to me, and his eyes were still glistening happily.

“Well, Decies,” said he, “what are you thinking?”

“I am thinking,” I replied honestly, “that we are about of an age. That if Nanette had looked at me as I saw her looking at you, I should have asked her to marry me before I let her go back to her seat.”

He stared very hard, his expression changing from second to second; then:

“Being Celtic,” he said, “I suppose I am superstitious. At every turn since I have met her Nanette has intruded in my life. I am beginning to wonder.”

“About what are you thinking in particular?” I asked.

“About the letter that Zara dropped in the cab and that Nanette gave to you.”

“Have you fathomed it?” I asked excitedly--“and the other?”

“Both are in the same code. But without the first I doubt that I should have been able to read the second.”

“Then you _have_ read them?”

“I have,” O’Shea replied; “and this time Nanette has dealt me a full hand.”

His suppressed excitement communicated itself to me.

“What have you learned?” I said eagerly. “Can I be of any assistance?”

“Your assistance is indispensable!” he returned. “Are you game?”

“Every time!”

“Good enough. Let us go along to your rooms, and I will explain what to-night has in store for us.”

As the taxi that we presently hailed threaded its way through the traffic of Cranbourne Street, and on through that of Piccadilly, I glanced aside several times at my silent companion. I wondered if his abstraction might be ascribed to the problem of the S Group, or to that of Nanette. Not being an O’Shea, I hesitated to judge. But my vote was for Nanette.

Arrived at my rooms and having sampled the whisky and soda:

“Now,” O’Shea began, “the mantle of Edgar Allan Poe not having fallen upon my shoulders, I doubt that I should have solved this cipher but for the happy coincidence of meeting our German friend in the very shadow of Peter Pan. You will recall, too, that at the moment of his departure, the clocks were chiming the hour of noon.”

“I remember,” said I.

“I turned it over in my mind, considering the thing from every conceivable angle. Before I tackled the cipher--for of course the messages were palpably written in some kind of cipher--one fact was plain enough to me.”

“What was that?”

“The fact that Zara, an important member of the S Group, was not known by sight to the member who spoke to us! He mistook _me_ for Zara, and he mistook _you_ for one Comrade Wilson, of whom I had never heard, and respecting whom I have no instructions.”

“So far I agree,” said I, “but what I simply cannot make out is why this deranged German should walk up to two perfect strangers seated in Kensington Gardens and take it for granted that they were the people he was looking for.”

“His opening remark was non-committal,” O’Shea reminded me, reflectively sipping his whisky and soda.

“Certainly it was; but am I to assume that the man was walking about London addressing the inquiry, ‘Have you seen Comrade Zara?’ to every male citizen he met on his travels?”

“The very point that led me to a solution of the problem,” O’Shea returned. “I realized, of course, that the routine which you indicate would have been insane, and I do not look for insanity of this kind from members of the S Group. I recalled that we had been sitting by the statue of Peter Pan, and that I had drawn your attention to the presence of ‘Two London Bridges’ in the message. I noted that the double bridges were preceded by a reference to Bond Street--or, rather, by two references to Bond Street--and followed by another. I remembered that the hour was noon.

“Treating the message as a cipher, I assumed, as a basis of investigation, that the various well-known spots mentioned represented letters and that all intervening words might be neglected. Now, I had two almost certain clues to work upon.

“First, that our German friend clearly expected to meet Zara and someone called Wilson by the statue of Peter Pan. Second, that he expected to meet them there at noon. Think for a moment, and you will realize that this must have been the case.”

“It is clear enough,” said I, “now that you point it out to me.”

“His handing me a second message in the same cipher,” O’Shea went on, “suggested that the first related to the appointment which we, by bounty of the gods, had accidentally kept. I therefore assumed that the first message conveyed something of this sort: ‘Be at the statue of Peter Pan at midday.’

“I began to examine it with this idea in mind. Particularly, I was looking for a sequence to fit the name, Peter Pan. As you can see--” he spread the original messages on my table before me--“it appears unmistakably at the very beginning. Charing Cross is the first point mentioned; four other London landmarks occur, and then Charing Cross again. I assumed as a working theory that Charing Cross stood for the letter P.

“This suggested that British Museum was E as it occurs next, is followed by Mansion House, and then occurs again.

“Assuming Mansion House to be T, we get P-e-t-e. Calling Hyde Park R, we get Peter. Charing Cross then crops up in its correct place. Reading Piccadilly as A and Bond Street as N gives Peter Pan.”

He laid his cigarette in an ash-tray and bent over the writing enthusiastically.

“This enabled me to cross-check, for Bond Street occurs again immediately, with the two London Bridges which first attracted my attention, followed by another Bond Street.

“Bond Street being N, it was reasonable to assume that London Bridge was O, making--Peter Pan, Noon.”

“By gad!” I exclaimed. “It’s wonderful!”

“On the contrary,” O’Shea assured me, “it is elementary. To continue: we now have Mansion House again, or T, followed by British Museum--E, and two Berkeley Squares, hitherto unmentioned. Old Bailey and Crystal Palace crop up next--very defeating--followed by a third Berkeley Square. Then Tower Bridge. This is followed by London Bridge, O, and Bond Street, N. Remembering the name of the Comrade for whom you were mistaken, Decies, I very quickly determined that Berkeley Square stood for L and the word following ‘Noon’ was ‘Tell.’ This gave me a pair of blanks, then L, another blank, and o-n. Wilson was clearly indicated, and I had my complete message. ‘Peter Pan noon, tell Wilson.’”

O’Shea replaced his cigarette between his lips and turned to me, smiling.

“You mean,” said I, “that you have read the second message?”

“Naturally,” he replied. “It is childishly easy, once having got the idea of the nature of the cipher. Without bothering you with details, such as the letters implied by Buckingham Palace, Shepherd’s Market, and Kingsway--places that don’t occur in the first message--I may say that it reads as follows: ‘Porchester Terrace 365A--which I assume to be the number of a house--midnight.’”

“Good heavens!” I glanced at the clock. “And he said the order was for to-night!”

“To-night,” O’Shea returned, glancing up. “We have two hours.”

“We have two hours?”

“Precisely,” said he, and his gray eyes surveyed me unblinkingly. “There are certain chances, but there is no game without chances, and we shall be covered by a raid squad from Scotland Yard. Whether Comrade Schmidt is more familiar with the appearance of Comrades Zara and Wilson than his emissary seems to be, I cannot say. But to-night at twelve o’clock I suggest that you and I present ourselves at number 365A Porchester Terrace, as Comrades Zara and Wilson! It is asking a lot, Decies, but are you game?”

“Good God!” I said, hesitated for one electric moment, and then held out my hand.

O’Shea grasped it.