The Man Without a Memory by Arthur W. Marchmont (good summer reads txt) 📖

Frontispiece "I used the pike with its ironshod end without scruple
or mercy." (Chapter IX.)
The Man Without a Memory] [Frontispiece

THE MAN WITHOUT
A MEMORY

By

ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT

Author of "When I was Czar," "The Heir to the Throne," etc., etc.

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
1919

POPULAR NOVELS
BY
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT

Published by
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,

In various editions.

BY SNARE OF LOVE.
BY WIT OF WOMAN.
A COURIER OF FORTUNE.
THE HEIR TO THE THRONE.
AN IMPERIAL MARRIAGE.
IN THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM.
IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE.
THE LITTLE ANARCHIST.
THE QUEEN'S ADVOCATE.
UNDER THE BLACK EAGLE.
WHEN I WAS CZAR.

CONTENTS

CHAP.   I   How I Lost My Memory II   The First Crisis III   Rosa IV   Nessa V   About Spies VI   Rosa is Told VII   Baron von Gratzen VIII   Von Erstein IX   A Bread Riot X   Complications XI   The Problem of von Gratzen XII   "Like Old Times" XIII   In the Thiergarten XIV   Anna Hilden XV   A Night Attack XVI   A Poison Charge XVII   Anna Hilden Again XVIII   A Sinister Development XIX   Murder XX   Von Gratzen's Wiliness XXI   Off! XXII   Checkmate XXIII   Within a Hairsbreadth XXIV   Nessa's Downfall XXV   A Friend in Need XXVI   The Hue and Cry! XXVII   Farmer Glocken Again XXVIII   Recognized XXIX   Lieutenant Vibach XXX   The End

THE MAN WITHOUT A MEMORY

CHAPTER I HOW I LOST MY MEMORY

It was a glorious scrap, and Dick Gunter and I had the best of it right up to the last moment.

We were about 6,000 feet up and a mile or so inside the German lines when their two machines came out to drive us away.

"We'll take 'em on, Jack," shouted Dick, chortling like the rare old sport he was, and we began our usual manœuvre for position. Our dodge was to let them believe we were novices at the game, and I messed about with the old bus as if we were undecided and in a deuce of a funk.

They fell in, all right, and at the proper moment I swung round and gave Dick a chance which he promptly took, pouring in a broadside which sent one of the machines hurtling nose first to earth. This put the fear of God into the others, who tried to bolt; but we were too fast for them and, after a short running fight, Dick got them. The pilot crumpled up and down went the machine like a stone to prevent the other from feeling lonely.

We were jubilating righteously over this, when the luck turned. A third machine, which, in the excitement of the scrap, we hadn't seen, swooped out of the clouds and gave us a broadside at close range, which messed us up pretty badly. We were both hit, the petrol poured out of the riddled tank, the engine stopped, and I realized that we could put up the shutters, as we were absolutely at the beggar's mercy.

I was wrong, however. Dick had managed to let the other chap have a dose of lead, and either because we had had enough of it or his bus was damaged, he didn't stop to finish us off but scuttled off home to mother.

I was hit somewhere in the shoulder, but it wasn't bad enough to prevent my working the controls, and I pointed for home on a long glissade. There was a "certain liveliness," as the communiqués say, during that joy ride. The Archies barked continuously as we crossed the lines, the shrapnel was all over us, Dick was hit again, and the poor old bus fairly riddled; but we got through it somehow, although my pal was nearly done in by the time we reached the ground.

Some pretty things were said about it and we each got the M.C. I was very little hurt, and came out of the base hospital a week or two later feeling as fit as a fiddle again, but as the chief decided I had earned a good spell of leave, I went off to old Blighty to convalesce.

Then it was that for the first time I heard of the trouble about Nessa Caldicott. Both my parents had died when I was a kid, and Mrs. Caldicott, the dearest and sweetest woman in the world, had been like a mother to me, had taken me into her home, and thus I had grown up with Nessa and her sister. Nessa and I had been to school in Germany; had travelled out and home together; I had spent my holidays in their home; and I can't remember the time when I wasn't in love with her.

Mrs. Caldicott was keen that we should marry, and a year or two after I came back to England for good from Göttingen University we had been engaged. But there was a "nigger in the fence." I had plenty of money and preferred being a sort of "nut" to working; and Nessa didn't like it. She urged me to "do something and make a career for myself"; but I was a swollen-headed young ass, and shied at it; so at last the engagement was broken off until, as she put it, I "had given up the idea of lounging and loafing through life."

She was right, of course; but like a fool I wouldn't see it; so we quarrelled, and she went off to Germany to stay with an old school friend. She was still there when the war broke out, and thus did not know that I had found my chance and had joined up. There was nothing "nutty" about the army training and work, and when I went home, of course, my first thoughts were of her and what she would say when she knew I had taken her advice.

But I found poor Mrs. Caldicott in the very depth of anxiety and despair. Nessa had never returned from Germany, and there was nothing but the most disconcerting and perplexing news of her. During the first few months she had been able to write home that all was well with her, although she could not get out of the country.

Then came a gap in the correspondence, followed by a short letter that her school friend was dead, and that she feared she would not be allowed to remain in the house. A month or so later another letter came, saying she had left Hanover to go to another friend in Berlin, and that her mother was not to worry, as she expected soon to be home.

"And that's the last letter I've had from her, Jack, and that's three months ago," said Mrs. Caldicott, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "The only news I've had is these two odd communications."

They were odd, in all truth. The first was a sentence which had evidently been cut out of a longer letter in Nessa's handwriting and pasted on a sheet of paper. "I am quite well, but cannot get away yet." That was all, and a very ugly-looking all too. The second was a postcard in a strange handwriting, like a man's fist. "Your daughter is well and is going to be married. She will communicate with you after the war."

I did not let the dear old lady see what I thought of the matter, nor did I tell her how my months at the front and what I had seen there led me to put the most sinister interpretation on the affair.

"I've tried every means in my power, Jack, to find Nessa," she declared; "but with no result at all; and it's killing me."

I did what I could to reassure her, and then a somewhat harum-scarum idea occurred to me—that I should use my leave to go to Berlin and make inquiries. She wouldn't hear of it at first, because of the danger to me; but I showed her that there would really be very little risk, as I had often passed for a German, and that the only real difficulty was getting permission from the authorities.

I set about that at once and succeeded—the result of having a friend at court in the War Office; but before that was settled Nessa's brother-in-law, Jimmy Lamb, an American manufacturer, came over on munitions business and wouldn't hear of my going.

"See here, Jack, this is my show, not yours. For one thing I can do it better than you, as I'm a bit of a hustler and have a good friend, Greg Watson, in our Berlin Embassy. More than that, I can go safely, while if you were found out, you'd be shot as a spy;" and he wouldn't listen to my protests.

But the scheme fell through at the last moment. On the very day he was to have started, he had a cable that his father was dying; and he had to catch the first boat home.

"I'm real sick about it, Jack, but there's nothing else for it. I've booked a berth in the Slavonic to-day."

"Then I shall go, Jimmy. I can't bear the thought of Nessa being in those beggars' hands. I'm certain there's some devilment at the bottom of it;" and I told him a few of the items I had seen with my own eyes.

"Well, what price your going in my name? Much better than the German stunt; and you can actually see about the business that I meant to do. Here are all the papers needed, my passport and ticket, a bunch of German notes I've picked up at a good discount, and you can see Greg Watson—I'll give you a letter to him—and you'll find him a white man right through, ready to do his durndest to help you."

A few minutes clinched the job; an hour or two sufficed for all the preparations I needed to make for the trip; and that night I left Harwich for Rotterdam in a little steamer called the Burgen, as Jas. R. Lamb, an American merchant, equipped with all the credentials necessary to keep up my end.

It was all plain sailing enough, but it didn't turn out so simple as it looked. There was another American on board and I kept out of his way at first, but when he had heard me talking to a waiter in German, he came sidling up and scraped acquaintance. He soon let out that he was as genuine an American as I was, and the best of it was that he took me for what he was in reality—a German.

"You speak German well for—an American," he said suggestively. "You know Germany, perhaps?"

"I was at school there and afterwards at Göttingen."

He was cautious enough to test this, and