How to get to Santander was now the problem. The last train had gone. But after half an hour’s deliberation I hit upon a plan which at least held out a good promise of success. I returned to my hotel and gave strict orders that, as I was not feeling well, I was on no account to be disturbed until noon the following day.
It was just two o’clock in the morning when I rose and exchanged my Dutch-made clothes for another suit so glaringly redolent of the American tourist that no one, seeing me in them, would have associated me for a moment with the demure and retiring Dutch theological student, whose absorbed interest in old churches had been the source of many a friendly joke at the hotel. A false moustache helped further in the metamorphosis, and when I looked at myself in the glass I felt tolerably certain that I should pass even a close scrutiny without arousing suspicion. Still, I meant to take no chances.
The hotel was now profoundly silent. Here and there a single electric light glowed, left for the convenience of visitors who might be moving about late; but there was no night-porter, a fact which I had previously ascertained.
Carrying my boots in my hand, I stole noiselessly to a little side door, and, dropping a few spots of oil on the lock and bolts to obviate any sound of creaking, I opened it noiselessly and stepped out into the old-world courtyard. The moon was high and it was almost as light as day. But I had little fear of being observed; the courtyard could not be seen from the street, and at that hour there was little likelihood of anyone being about.
The hotel garage was my objective. I had noticed a day or two before that among the visitors staying at the house was a young fellow who possessed a swift and powerful “Indian” motor-cycle. I decided that the urgency of my business amply justified what might have looked like theft had I been detected.
Drawing from my pocket the bunch of skeleton keys which I usually carry, I succeeded after a few minutes of perplexity in opening the sliding door of the garage. With the help of my pocket flash-lamp, I picked out without difficulty the machine I wanted and filled up the ample petrol tank with spirit from one of the many tins lying about the garage. I was ready at last for my race to Santander.
After a hasty glance up and down the road to make sure no one was in sight, I wheeled the machine through the courtyard, under the old archway and out on to the broad roadway, closing and locking the door of the garage behind me to avoid suspicions being aroused. I knew the removal of the machine would probably not be noticed for a day, or perhaps two, as the young owner had gone off with a companion on a fishing excursion.
When I had reached some distance from the hotel I lit the headlamp, started the machine, mounted and rode away.
From the map I had carefully committed my route to memory, and I let the powerful machine “all out.” Travelling at considerably over fifty miles an hour, with the engine pulling as smoothly as a watch, I first went along the winding sea road, then away into the fertile valley of the Oria and by the village of Aguinaga, down to Zarauz, which was on the Biscayan beach again.
The early morning came, balmy and beautiful, as, covered with dust, I shot down the steep winding road into the chief centre of the life of Santander, that spacious promenade known as “The Muelle,” with its luxuriant gardens, from which I could see the blue mountain ranges of Solares, Valnera, and Tornos beyond.
Once in the gardens, I dismounted, and, watching for an opportunity when I was unobserved, I wheeled the motor-cycle into some low bushes, where I abandoned it. Thence I strolled down to the dock, where in a narrow, unclean street I soon found a dealer in second-hand clothes, of whom I purchased a most unsavoury rig-out. It was evident that the man was well used to proceedings of this kind, and, as his business quite clearly depended upon his knowing how to hold his tongue if he were paid for it, I paid him generously, and was quite assured my secret would be safe with him. He took me into a dark little den at the rear of his stuffy shop, where he helped me into my disreputable disguise, adding here and there a skilful touch which showed me plainly that he was no novice at the business.
Arranging with him to keep my own clothes until I called again, I sallied forth, quite confident that I had effectually destroyed all traces of my identity, and evaded the men who had been watching me at San Sebastian. To further my plans I bought in the market a basket such as street hawkers carry and a quantity of oranges.
Having done this, I sought out a quiet corner, and, sitting down on the pavement, began eating some bread and olives I had bought, just as any other equally disreputable Spanish pedlar might have done. I could hardly help laughing at the incongruity of my surroundings—Gerald Sant, to whom pretty well every fashionable hotel in Europe was intimately familiar, taking his breakfast of bread and olives seated on the pavement in a Santander slum.
But my breakfast was only a part of the work I had to do. Taking a cigarette from my case, I carefully slit it open, threw away the tobacco, and wrote a message upon the paper. Then, rolling the thin scrap, I placed it within a quill toothpick, plugging the sharpened end with a scrap of orange peel. Afterwards I inserted the quill into the centre of one of the oranges, carefully covering up the puncture and drying it. Inside the quill was the translation, for Madame Gabrielle’s benefit, of the “Fontan” cable.
Then, in the guise of a poor fruit-seller, I sought out the hotel in the Calle Mendez where I knew that Madame Gabrielle had arrived. I knew, of course, that she would be eagerly on the look-out for me, and that, as she would guess I should be disguised, she would station herself in some prominent place, where I could see her at once.
Evidently, however, she did not expect me so soon. No doubt she had looked up the trains, and, knowing that I must have missed the last one the previous night, would naturally conclude that I would arrive about midday. The stratagem of the bicycle had evidently not occurred to her.
I drifted slowly backwards and forwards in front of the hotel, and after a time had the intense satisfaction of seeing the “Italian,” Signor Bruno, come lazily out and seat himself in a comfortable chair in the ample porch. It was obvious that he was expecting someone, for his eyes constantly searched the long, straight roadway.
A moment later Madame Gabrielle, daintily attired in the latest Parisian mode and carrying a sunshade, strolled leisurely into the porch. She was accompanied by a lady, obviously Spanish, with whom she had no doubt scraped a breakfast-table acquaintance.
Despite the need for hurry, I could not help being amused at her evident failure to recognise me. Twice or three times I slouched past the hotel. The next time I caught her eye, and, as I made the almost imperceptible signal, I saw the answering flash of intelligence in her eyes.
“What lovely oranges!” I heard her say to her companion. “I really must have some.”
And she rose indolently and came down the steps to me. As if I had heard and understood nothing, I placed myself directly in her path, saying in a loud, whining voice in Spanish: “Buy some Naranjàs, lady—do buy some. Very fine Naranjàs.”
Taking out her purse, Madame Gabrielle handed me a coin, and, as she did so, swung her sunshade round so as to interpose it directly between the “Italian” and myself. With the coin came a tiny folded note, which passed so swiftly into my hands that there was no prospect of the “Italian” observing it.
“What beautiful fruit!” she said aloud; adding in a faint whisper: “Be near the fountain in the gardens in half an hour.”
“Thank you, lady,” I whined in Spanish in true hawker fashion, handing her the oranges. As I did so, I tapped one of them three times, taking care that she observed the action. It was enough for her swift intelligence.
The next moment, touching my battered hat in respect, I slouched off, my basket on my arm, while she, apparently a summer visitor, carried the fresh-cut fruit, each with a leaf attached, just as dozens of others were doing when out for a walk before luncheon.
I watched her return to the hotel, of course, to examine her oranges. Lazily drifting along the road, I made my way to the gardens, and was soon stretched indolently in the sunshine