"After they got me inside--for the other men sprang to my captor'sassistance--they closed and locked the door, also the transom, and beganto quiz me as to what I was doing out in the hall. I was too sore attheir treatment of me to give an explanation and demanded what theymeant by their actions. I saw that they were very uneasy aboutsomething and that made me bolder. It soon dawned upon me that they hadbeen doing something that they wanted to keep secret. That resolved meto get back at them with interest, and while they were busy with theirexcited demands, I got my wits together to devise some sort of trickthat would show them it wasn't quite so easy to browbeat me as theyseemed to imagine.
"All three of them huddled together right in front of me and rainedquestions at me excitedly. This suited me first rate as soon as I haddecided what to do. I wasn't afraid of any desperate violence on theirpart; the place was too public for that. I retreated slowly to thetable at which they had been working and leaned back resting my hands onit. They never caught on to what I was up to, but pressed close to mewith their excited questions. I met these with noncommittal replies,and at the same time got one hand closer and closer to the mysteriousslip of paper on the table. It was not more than six inches long andthree wide, and I figured that if I could get one hand on it I mightcrumple it in my fist without their observing what I was doing. After Ihad been dragged into the room, I saw the young fellow hurriedly drawdown the sleeve of his shirt over the tattooed portion of his forearm.He seemed so nervous while doing this that my suspicion of somethingwrong became very acute; and yet, the mystery could hardly have beenmore baffling.
"Well, I got my hand on the paper and crumpled it in my fist, and theynever got onto my trick, at least, not until I got out of that room andaway from them. I was now ready to answer their questions. I told themI was a patient in the hospital and was just trying to find my way tothe office and started down the wrong stairway--that was all there wasto it. I then demanded that they release me at once or I would makeserious trouble for them. They asked me my name, and I told them. Thenthe bearded man left the laboratory, and I presume he went to the officeto make inquiry about me, for he came back in a few minutes and reportedthat he guessed I was all right. But they held a whispered conversationin German--I caught enough of their words to be sure of that--and thentold me I might go. But before the door was unlocked, the bearded manapologized, as nearly as I can remember, in the following words:
"I hope you will forgive our rough conduct, but we are engaged in veryimportant government work, and when we saw you looking through the glassat us and apparently listening to our conversation, we presumed you werea German spy. You have satisfied us that you are all right, and werecommend that, as you love your country and wish to aid us to win thewar, you keep this affair strictly to yourself."
"I was astonished and more confused than ever. That statement convictedthem of something on the face of it, but of what I could not conjecture.The idea that a responsible secret agent of the government should makesuch a speech as that under any circumstances was simply ridiculous. Iwas mighty sure they were not doing work for the government. They weretrying to cover something up, but what I could make no rational guess.
"I decided not to remain in the hospital any longer than it would taketo get my few belongings together and pay my bill. I was afraid theywould discover the loss of the paper I had stolen. Well, I got out ofthat place so rapidly that I had everybody staring at me who beheld mymovements.
"I went to a hotel, but I am dead sure I was followed. In the morningwhen I went down to breakfast I was conscious of being watched. Itelephoned to my friend, but while in the booth I glanced about withapparent unconcern and caught one of my shadowers looking in mydirection over the top of a newspaper from a seat in the hotel lobby. Imet my friend, but said nothing to him about my adventure. I wanted toget back home as soon as possible. I wasn't in condition physically toundergo any great strain.
"At last I was on the train and speeding toward home, but hadn't coveredmore than half of the journey when I discovered that one of my shadowerswas making the journey with me. He got off when I got off and forseveral days had a room in one of our local hotels. I talked the matterover with father and we came to the conclusion that I had fallen into anest of the kaiser's spies. We examined the paper I had taken from thetable in the laboratory of the Toronto hospital and I made a copy of it.Then we went to the chief of police and I told nay story to him. Hesaid the matter ought to be taken up with government officials and askedme to let him show the mysterious paper in my possession to them. I hadexpected this, and gave him the paper.
"A few days later I read in a newspaper that the hospital had beenraided by government agents. Also, I saw nothing more of the fellow whohad followed me from Toronto after I made my report to the chief ofpolice.
"Now, what do you think of all this? Isn't it some adventure? I'msending to you, just for your amusement, a copy of the drawing on thepaper that I stole from the hospital laboratory. Can you make anythingout of it? It may afford you some diversion during long, dreary watchesin camp, trench or dugout."
*CHAPTER X*
*DOTS AND DASHES*
Not more than a minute after reading this letter and examining the slipof paper that accompanied it, Irving said to himself:
"This drawing is very similar to the cubist tattooing on the arm ofLieut. Tourtelle."
He studied over the matter a little more and then added:
"I believe that both were made from the same copy, or original."
A little more puzzling over the problem caused him to supplement thus:
"It looks very much as if Tourtelle and the soldier who bared his armover the table in the hospital laboratory are one and the same person."
The suggestion startled the boy as a realization of the logical sequenceflashed in his mind.
"Gee whillikens!" he exclaimed. "That means that his story about beingan art student and about the tattooing of that picture on his arm by oneof his fellow students is a fake. But why should he have faked it? Whywouldn't the truth have served his purpose just as well?"
Irving was at battalion headquarters, awaiting orders, which wereexpected to come after sundown, to move forward into the trenches. Whilereading the letter he was seated on the log of a tree that had beenliterally uprooted by a concentrated shell fire at this point a week ortwo before. Nobody else was interested in what he was doing and he wastoo much preoccupied to feel much interest in anybody right now exceptthe mysterious Lieut. Tourtelle and his equally mysterious "amputationsouvenir."
"Now," continued the boy, resuming his reasoning soliloquy, "if he toldme a fake story about being an art student and having one of his fellowstudents copy one of his pictures on his arm, what was the motive? Hewanted to deceive me, of course, but why? I'll have to leave thatquestion unanswered for the present, I'm afraid. If I could get at hisreal reason for wanting that picture tattooed on his arm, I might feelsome encouragement in trying to get at his motive in deceiving me.There's no doubt the picture on his arm is practically the same as thecopy on this paper. I shouldn't wonder if they were the same size,drawn with precisely the same dimensions. Supposed to represent abasket of eggs spilling down stairs. What a ridiculous title. I'm sureI'd have hard work picking out the basket and the smashed eggs. Itlooks to me almost as if someone had pinned this paper up on a wall andfired a lot of eggs at it--and hit it, too, every crack. After all,it's the best title to a cubist art picture I ever heard of. I rememberour teacher gave us a talk about that kind of art and showed us somecopies of cubist paintings in magazines at the time when everybody wasgossiping--yes, that's the word--about cubist art. And we surely had alot of fun over it.
"Tourtelle told me that another student tattooed that picture on hisarm. Bob's description of the scene in the hospital laboratory makesthat 'second looie' look very much like a liar. I take it from thisletter that both of those men were prett
y well advanced in years. Artstudents as a rule are younger people. Moreover, students wouldn't actso strangely just because they suspected somebody of secretly watchingthem at their work. Then, again, Bob says the government raided thathospital. What for? Enemy agents, of course; there could be no otherreason. And this raid followed Bob's report of his experience to thepolice. Plain as daylight. And yet, what possible connection can therebe between enemy spies and cubist art? I give it up."
Irving would have liked to make a report of some kind concerning the webof strange events that clung in confusing tangle to the mystery of theridiculous tattooing recently peeled from the amputated arm of Lieut.Tourtelle, but the more he studied over the matter, the more probable itappeared to him that such action on his part would be unwise. Hisconclusions must of necessity be exceedingly vague. He could not figureout a motive in any way explaining the apparently eccentric ideas andactions of the "hobby ridden second lieutenant." Yes, that phrasecharacterized Tourtelle exactly when the spy suspicion contained inBob's letter was dismissed, and undoubtedly the average officer, unlesshe be of a very suspicious nature, would take that view of it.
"I'd be laughed at if I made a report of this affair without being ableto place my finger on anything more definite than I seem to be able tosingle out now," he concluded. "So I guess I'll have to keep this thingto myself or else whittle my wits to a sharper point than I have beenable to whittle them thus far."
About an hour after nightfall Irving returned to the front line trenchestogether with seventy-five or a hundred other soldiers who constituted arelief shift, to take the place of a like number of tried andmuscle-cramped boys whose capacity for efficient service was in need ofrecuperation. The sector was quiet on this occasion and the reliefexchange was effected without notable incident. In fact, conditionswere such that it was considered safe to permit most of the soldiers tosleep under ground of sentries here and there along the trenches and inlistening posts out in No Man's Land.
But Irving did not "sleep a wink," although general conditions werefavorable for sleep in the dugout where he wrapped himself in a blanketand attempted to follow the reposeful example of half a dozen comradeswith little on their minds save the ordinary routine of bloody battle inthe past and prospect of much more fight and blood in the future. Nomystery racked their minds, and they rested peacefully enough. WithPrivate Ellis, however, it was different, and in a very few minutesafter he lay down a plausible solution of the puzzle that had beenteasing him for several hours popped into his brain with startlingsuddenness and rendered sleep about as impossible to him as peacefulsurrender was to outraged Belgium.
After the excitement of the first thrill was over, Irving was unable totrace the process by which he arrived at his conclusion. After all,"process" is too slow a word to use in this relation. "The first thinghe knew," his mind had jumped from the rough pen sketch of the cubistart drawing in his pocket to the tattooed copy as he had seen it onTourtelle's arm. A moment later he found himself almost weirdlyinterested in the recollection of a marked difference in these twocopies which had not impressed him before.
Then came a new thrill of eagerness, followed by incredulity, theneagerness and incredulity battling for supremacy, over a suspicion thatwould not be downed in spite of its almost laughable character. Couldit be possible? Yes, no, yes, no--back and forth the contradictionsswung. But one thing was certain; Irving recalled it distinctly: In themaze of configurations of "distorted cubes" were myriads of dots anddashes, dots and dashes. What could they mean? If the theory whichforced itself upon him was correct there was only one reasonablesolution of the whole mystery.
The boy in the dugout could scarcely contain his excitement as theseemingly logical explanation of the mystery "dotted and dashed" itselfinto a position of settled conviction in his mind.
*CHAPTER XI*
*IRVING TELLS THE SERGEANT*
"Dots and dashes, dots and dashes, dots and dashes," kept runningthrough Irving's mind.
He took Bob's letter from his pocket and drew from the envelope thepaper containing his cousin's copy of "The Basket of Eggs Spilling DownStairs."
"Bob drew this in a hurry, or at least he had no appreciation of thevalue of minute details which, I believe, are more important than athousand baskets of eggs," the young soldier mused as he gazed at thecleverly drawn, but rather inaccurate, copy in the light of the trenchlamp. "He disregarded most of those clots and dashes, except in a fewplaces, thinking, I suppose, that continuous lines would do just aswell. And he was right so far as the picture is concerned. In fact, Ibelieve those dots and dashes that were on Tourtelle's arm detractedfrom the art of the artist, if I may pose as an art critic; but for thepurpose intended they are absolutely essential.
"Now, I wish I could get hold of an officer who would listen to me andmaybe I could start an investigation that would result in somethingworth while. But Sergt. Wilson, who messes in here, is out with someother men in a listening post and I'm sure it would be better toapproach the lieutenant through him. That means I've got to wait hereprobably until morning before I can get this great weight ofresponsibility off my mind."
And that was exactly what he did. He lay there thinking over and overagain the events of his own and his cousin's adventures concerningLieut. Tourtelle. There was no use of his attempting to slumber, and itwas not long before he gave up the idea entirely. However, he was in nogreat need of sleep, inasmuch as he had almost reveled in the luxury ofrest ever since he was ordered to the field hospital for treatment ofhis shoulder.
Through all the rest of the night, Irving continued to review andanalyze the strange case of "freak art." And perhaps it was fortunatethat he had ample opportunity to do this, for it is quite possible thatotherwise he would not have had certain important points sufficiently inmind to make a strong and convincing case when at last he foundopportunity to make his report.
"It seems to me those dots and dashes explain Tourtelle's anxiety tokeep that tattooing on his arm," the boy mused. "Now, if he's a spy, hewas putting over just a clever 'con game' when he sent for me and beggedmy forgiveness and then asked me to do him a favor. After all, I've gotto admit that that fellow is pretty smooth. No, I don't think heoverdid it at all. I did think it a little strange when he followed hisplea for forgiveness with a request that I do him a favor. But thefavor was so simple, although unusual enough, goodness knows, and thereappeared to be so little opportunity for him to trick me into somethingI wouldn't like to do, that it seemed foolish for me to hesitate. Itlooks now as if he tricked not only me, but the surgeon and nurses, too.I wonder what that surgeon would say if he knew that a spy had madeclever use of him to prevent a very deep enemy plot from going to piecesat a time when the bottom was about to drop out of it. He'd be a lotsorer, I bet, than he was when I contradicted him after he saidTourtelle's mind was wandering under the anaesthetic.
"'A Basket of Eggs Spilling Down Stairs'--that's some name for apainting. I wonder what's behind it. Now, it's just possible that thatname's written somewhere in cipher in the picture, and maybe a key goeswith it and that key applied to the name will produce the message he'scarrying to the enemy. I suppose he'll watch his opportunity and--
"My goodness!"
Irving uttered this exclamation aloud and the sound of his voice awokeone of the sleepers in the dugout, who asked what was the matter. Thesoliloquist replied "nothing," that he had merely startled himself witha "bright idea," whereupon the awakened soldier grumbled, "You're anut," and rolled over and went to sleep again.
"I wonder if the sergeant will call me a nut, too, when I tell him mystory," Irving reflected a little apprehensively. "In spite of the wayeverything fits into everything else as logically as can be, the wholeaccount is bound to sound a good deal like a fairy story. Sometimes Ifeel like giving it up and casting the whole affair out of my mind,but--but--I can't. Now, that idea that made me burst out like a 'nut,'as that soldier called
me, fits in just as pat as can be with all herest. It looks, it looks, yes, sir, it looks just as if Tourtelle wastrying to surrender out in No Man's Land the other night when we werescouting there together. I don't know how I can prove it, but it'splain enough to me, unless my whole theory falls down, and I don't seehow it can."
At last, shortly before the break of day, reliefs were sent to thevarious sentry posts, and Sergt. Wilson returned to the dugout withseveral other men. Irving seized the first available opportunity totell the "non com" that he had some important information that he wishedto "get off his mind," and they withdrew to one side of the undergroundroom to talk the matter over.
In a few minutes Private Ellis had Sergt. Wilson interested by hissimple, direct method of presenting his subject. In fifteen minutes,the boy had finished his narrative and turned over his cousin's letterto the officer to read. The latter pored with intense interest over notonly the epistle but the accompanying copy of the mysterious "Basket ofEggs Spilling Down Stairs." Presently he said:
"You've got something very important here, Ellis. I'm going to seeLieut. Osborne right away. I think you had better come along. UnlessI'm badly mistaken this matter will get to the major in a very shorttime and something important will be doing."