The adventures of Heine 3 – Wallace · Library Across
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The adventures of Heine 3The Lovely Miss Harrymore
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Literature · Short Stories
The adventures of Heine 3
The Lovely Miss Harrymore
WallaceEnglish
In America, where the German and Austro-Hungarian population is so much larger than in any other foreign country, the work of my department is split up into three sections. There is a naval, a military, and a commercial branch, each under an expert controlling and distinct organization which could, however, be co-ordinated in the event of war. In the United Kingdom there was no separation of interests, and the root organization, that which I controlled, covered, after the outbreak of the war, all three departments.
And let me say here for the information of my good friends who may perhaps imagine I am boasting, that when I describe myself as “controlling” the organization, I may inadvertently deceive. The exact position was that I had organized my department, dug the channels through which would flow the streams or rivulets of information; that I myself had been in the position of the central reservoir which collected and refined and transmitted the information so received. It does not necessarily mean that because I was the architect that I was necessarily the tenant of the fabric which I had created.
All the time in the first months of war there were great comings and goings. Men arrived from Germany, from America, from Switzerland, Sweden, and Holland, with forged passports, each charged with a distinct and separate mission. Lody, whose name you may have heard, came in the guise of a tourist agent, having certain definite discoveries to make and certain propaganda to forward. Other men came from America on similar missions. Some of these were gentlemen of the very highest character who were not associated with me in any way, but nevertheless sought me out in order to secure my assistance for the development of their plans. Of their adventures I know little. Whether they returned to Germany or not I am unable to say. Some got away and some were caught, but in what manner I never knew.
I was loath to believe, and, indeed, did not believe, that a Secret Service existed in Britain. There were, of course, detectives and plain clothes policemen, whose task it was to watch railway and steamship arrivals, but obviously it was impossible in the space of a few weeks to create such a bureau as exists in the Wilhelmstrasse, or that over which Captain von Treutchen presides with such distinguished success in the Admiralty Buildings.
In November, 1914, I received orders direct from Berlin--the first I had ever received--telling me that I must devote myself entirely to industrial propaganda. I was informed that the sum of £12,000 had been placed to my credit in the West London and Birmingham Bank, and I was told to make my headquarters at Manchester in the capacity of buyer for a well-known firm of Chilian importers with whom my chiefs had a working arrangement.
I arrived at Manchester late one misty afternoon and made my way to the best hotel, where rooms had been reserved for me.
I went to the desk and registered, and upon seeing my name the clerk informed me that two gentlemen were waiting for me in the palm court.
“I don’t know whether you want to see them, sir,” he said; “I think they are commercial travellers.”
“I will see them in my room, if you will be good enough to send them up,” said I, and five minutes later the “commercial travellers” were shown in to me and introduced themselves as representatives of the Incorporated Carolina Cottonfields Company.
“I am afraid I am rather tired to-night,” said I; “but as you seem in a hurry to do business I will compare your quotations.”
When the door had shut upon the waiter who had shown them in we got to business. One, of course, was my friend Posser, and the other was young Klein, one of those brilliant children of the Fatherland, who had been in the service of the department ever since he left Heidelberg.
“We are ordered to place ourselves at your disposal, Herr Heine,” said Klein, “and we have been here two days investigating the conditions.”
“Are they favourable?” I asked.
“Extremely so,” said Posser; “but you will have an opportunity of judging for yourself.”
We exchanged experiences, and half an hour later I rang the bell for the waiter and my visitors were shown out. After I had dined I left the hotel for the rendezvous I had made outside the post-office.
It was now raining heavily, and I would like to have taken a taxi, but Klein suggested that we should make our way on foot to our destination, which proved to be a very small hall in some unsavoury part of Manchester. It was a dilapidated building, the entrance door being flush with the street and had the appearance of being a mission hall dedicated to one of those dour and unhappy sects which find a virtue in the very dreariness of their environment.
Two nights a week it was used for religious services, but on the other nights it was let out to whosoever cared to hire the place. On this occasion some sort of Labour meeting seemed to be in progress and a small bill attached to an inner baize door leading to the hall itself announced an address by Mr. William Craigmair on “Labour and the War.”
The hall was sparsely filled and I do not suppose there were more than fifty people present when we walked in and took our seats. The man who was speaking was of the usual demagogic type, loud-mouthed, illogical, full of bitter jibes at Capitalism, which he said was the cause of the war and at the bottom of the whole European crisis.
Klein nudged me.
“Imagine this in Berlin!” he whispered.
I nodded. It was indeed pathetic, and only shows how wholly inefficient the English police service is that it allowed such men to be at large.
I sat through the tirade, a little bored if the truth be told, because this was to be the least interesting part of the evening.
After the meeting was over Klein told us to go out and wait for him, and presently he rejoined us accompanied by a man whom I recognized as the speaker, Mr. Craigmair. He introduced us as sympathizers with the cause of Labour, and I congratulated this gaunt Englishman upon his “wonderful rhetoric,” though worse balderdash I had never heard in my life.
The man’s harsh arrogance melted under this well-directed stream of Teutonic flattery and he became almost human in the glow of our admiration.
“I am much obliged to you, gents,” he said, grinning; “speakin’ impartially, I can say it wasn’t a bad speech for a self-taught man. Any Sunday afternoon you happen to be in Finsbury Park you will find me there addressing the proletariat.”
“Finsbury Park?” said I. “Do you come from London?”
“Yes,” said the man. “Our comrade here,” he nodded to Klein, “persuaded me to go round delivering a few addresses to the working classes. I’ve got a lot of friends in this part of the world,” he went on, “and you mustn’t judge me on the audience I got to-night. I am addressin’ the Junior Operatives’ League to-morrow and then you will see an audience if you like.”
I murmured my intention of being present, expressed my sympathy with the Labour movement, and invited him to meet me at lunch on the following day.
When we had parted Klein told me that he had first heard the man addressing meetings in London, either at Finsbury or in Hyde Park.
“He was such a fanatic, and he had, moreover, such a convincing way that I thought we might find him useful. I know you think what he says is nonsense,” Klein went on, addressing me; “but what is illogical to us is sound sense to the common workman. To-morrow’s meeting, for example, is of the greatest importance to us. The Junior Operatives have threatened to strike against the advice of their Trade Union, and as they have a working arrangement with the Carters’ Union, a strike would be of the utmost importance. Whilst I do not expect we can do very much in the early stage of the war to bring about a general stoppage of labour, we can embarrass the Government, and who knows how these little labour troubles may develop!”
I quite agreed with Klein, who is a psychologist of a very high order, in addition to being well born, his mother being a Frenheim-Hazebrucken, and her sister being married to Graf von Metzenheim, an illustrious gentleman with whom I once had the honour of taking wine.
Mr. Craigmair came to lunch the next day. In order not to excite attention I arranged with him to meet me at Lytham, and there we spoke frankly and freely. I told him how intensely interested we all were in the Labour movement, and I pointed out that this war might be brought to an end if some great leader arose from the people and seized his opportunity.
“For, Mr. Craigmair,” said I, “what is war but a negation of all law? Is it better that a few miserable capitalists and statesmen should be chagrined, or that thousands of human lives should be sacrificed in the red-hot pit of battle? Is it not better that these money-grabbers should be ruined than that innocent people who have no concern in the war and have no hatred towards any nation should be compelled to walk into the shambles like dumb beasts? If they tell you that it is not patriotic to attempt to stop a war, even though you may be acting contrary to the maddened sentiments of the majority of the people, you answer that there is no such thing as patriotism, that we owe our chief duty to humanity which knows no frontier and no language. For what is there more precious in the soil of England than in the soil of Germany or in France? Do they not equally produce wheat and sustain life? Has anyone a more precious value than another? Does one handful of red earth contain a magic quality which is not possessed equally by a handful of any other kind of earth? Patriotism is the shibboleth of the capitalist and the ambitious statesman, my friend, and he who opposes his will to that hateful creed is doing magnificent work for mankind.”
I spoke in this vein and I could see that Mr. Craigmair was impressed. He made little notes with the stub of a pencil upon what looked like a laundry-book, interrupting my remarks with uncouth sounds of admiration and approval.
I gave him £50, as a mark of my interest in his work.
“And on the day you bring the people out on strike I will give you another £50,” I said; “not because I am anxious to promote industrial discord, but because war is against my principles as a hateful and an unnecessary evil.”
I went back to my hotel feeling that I had done a good day’s work. I did not attend the meeting of the Junior Operatives, but I am told that it was very enthusiastic and that by an overwhelming majority the men and the women members had decided to strike, and had received a promise of support from the transport workers.
My interest in the Labour movement was momentarily diverted that same day by the receipt of a message from London--it was brought by courier on the afternoon train. The message was an important one, and had been received by radio direct from Potsdam, and had been decoded in London and transmitted to me for report.
News had reached Berlin that the firm of Pollygay & Moxon, a chemical firm on the outskirts of Manchester, were engaged in conducting secret experiments with a new bomb. The news had reached Berlin from a very reliable source. I believed that it had been mentioned after dinner at a well-known Bohemian club in London by an under-secretary in a certain Government department. He had spoken rather boastfully of “something” very deadly which the Government were experimenting with, and our agent, who was one of the party to whom this was told, discovered by a well-timed display of scepticism that the experiments were being conducted by Pollygay & Moxon, and had sent forward the information which, had I been in London, must have gone through me.
I put Klein on to the job immediately, and he called in the assistance of Craigmair, who apparently was in touch with workmen in most of the big factories, and fortunately numbered among his acquaintances a wretched German named Bluer, who was employed in the laboratories of the firm. As a matter of fact, we did not know of the existence of Bluer, a dour, taciturn man of the hateful socialistic type who had no patriotism, no love for his Fatherland, and was tainted with poisonous internationalism.
This renegade, living in England, with excellent opportunity for serving the Fatherland, had never put himself into touch with the superior authorities, nor had he offered the slightest assistance to the officers of State, and it was only by accident that we discovered his existence. However, his internationalism served one good purpose. Though he might earn his livelihood by preparing deadly weapons for the destruction of his fellow-countrymen, he was in theory an opponent of war, and Mr. Craigmair, after a while, enlisted his sympathies and introduced him to Klein, who said he was an author engaged in writing a book painting war in its most horrible aspects. He also told him that he was compiling as long and as formidable a list of deadly weapons as he could secure.
“And when I have finished, my friend,” said Klein, “we shall have the most damning indictment of warfare that the world has ever seen.”
This interested Bluer and it was not long before he told of the secret experiments which had been conducted on the firm’s private range with the new hand grenade.
“I don’t know how it is made,” said Bluer, “because that is not in my department, and all the chemical experiments have been in the hands of the head chemist, but my brother-in-law is a night watchman and has the entry to the records office and I daresay I could give you a rough idea of what it is like.”
I was overjoyed to hear this news, the more so since I had received another, and even more urgent, message from Headquarters, telling me to spare no expense or pains to secure a specification.
I now come to the remarkable part of this narrative, one which I cannot tell without a little shudder. Bluer and his relative certainly made an attempt to locate the specifications and drawings. I will do this un-German Teuton (to whom Klein was eventually compelled to reveal something of his designs) the credit of saying that he tried his best--but for a week he and his relative were unsuccessful.
The manager was a gentleman named Tyson, or Tynson, a good-looking man of about twenty-eight. Naturally, I had set my people to work to find out all particulars about every member of the firm, and it was reported to me that Tyson had been frequently seen in the company of a very beautiful lady, named Miss Harrymore.
I put my own men on to discover something about Miss Harrymore, and found that she was a stranger to Manchester; that she had only arrived a month previous to my appearance on the scene; and that she occupied a small house which she had taken furnished in the most fashionable suburb of the Lancashire city.
She had come from London and almost immediately had made friends with the manager. This in itself was to me a most remarkable circumstance, because Manchester people are very suspicious, almost as distrustful as the Scotch, and I wondered what inducement there was to cause this young man to contract so sudden a friendship. They used to dine occasionally and they went to the theatre together once a week, but there was no evidence that the friendship was a very warm one. Miss Harrymore had been a dancer; but apparently had retired from the stage--at least that was the story which her maid told Posser, who investigated the matter.
I smoked many cigars over this friendship and formed certain conclusions, especially after I had learnt that on the nights Mr. Tyson was working late the lady had driven down to the factory in her car, had spent some little time in the manager’s office, and had driven that gentleman to supper.
I have already told you of my disbelief in the existence of a secret service in England, but I had modified that view after the experience of my poor friend Koos, who was brought to an untimely end through the artfulness of a chit of a girl.
Naturally I was suspicious of beautiful ladies who were on terms of furtive friendship with Government officials--and to all intents and purposes Tyson was a Government official--and I kept my eyes “skinned,” as they say in England.
The business of the bomb was worrying me more than I cared to confess to my assistants. A third message had come through from Berlin, even more urgent than the last, and one paragraph of that message considerably disturbed me.
It ran:
“Whilst we expect you to secure these plans we are leaving nothing to chance. We hope, however, that the credit for securing them will fall to you.”
I understood this significant passage. It meant that Berlin was sending independent agents to England to try their luck, and I was determined to justify myself in the eyes of the Fatherland.
I sent for Posser and Klein to come to my room and I outlined my views and gave my final instructions. Posser gave me encouraging news. He told me that Bluer had secured some information of the greatest importance. It appears that the Government had sent for a rough drawing of the bomb, and that one of the engineers was coming next night to make the drawing and a copy of the secret specification, and that the original was kept in a safe in the records office. The combination safe opened to the word “Track” and the specification would be found in No. 3 drawer, the lock of which could be picked.
So far, so good, but the situation was still desperate. It was as clear as daylight that my chief difficulty was going to be, not to circumvent the manager, but to get past the guard which the secret service had set up. It was then a struggle between Miss Harrymore and Heine. Very well! Heine picks up the gauntlet with a clear mind and a high confidence in his German genius.
Klein saw Bluer on the following afternoon and an unexpected difficulty arose. Bluer, if you please, had discovered a conscience! This renegade, this traitor to the Fatherland, this dirty Swabian refused to go any farther in the matter!
“The English have always treated me well,” he told Klein; “my children have been born in the country and I have friends here. I cannot help you any more, Herr Klein. I should not only be a traitor to the English, but a traitor to the Internationale, if I betrayed my employers. You have the combination word--I can do no more.”
“Are you a German?” asked Klein sternly.
“Ja!” replied Bluer, “but I’m not a fool.”
“If you refuse your help,” said Klein, who was by now filled with holy annoyance, “you are a traitor to your Kaiser and to your Fatherland. The curses of unborn generations of Germans will be upon you. Every German will shun you and spit upon your name, which shall be ‘accursed.’”
“Herr Klein,” said Bluer with emotion, “I think that anyway all the world will spit upon the name of a German after this war is over.”
Klein threatened and argued, pleaded and raved, but all to no purpose.
“I have told you where you will find the specifications,” said Bluer doggedly; “you have a plan of the factory--which is not guarded--and you know the way to the records room. In telling you this I have done more than I ought to have done. If you threaten me any more I will go for the police and tell them all I know.”
Ingrate! Rascal! Black swine of Würtemberg!
I paced my room cursing the villain, and Klein stood by in respectful silence as I “let off steam,” as the British say.
However, I soon mastered my rage and sat down to evolve a plan. We Germans can meet all contingencies and adapt our minds to any difficulty which may arise. I drew out the plan of the factory and soon Klein and I were deep in the discussion of the alternative scheme.
The factory was a straggling collection of buildings, enclosed on three sides by high walls and on the fourth by a canal, alongside of which ran a double-track railway siding. There were three gates and two small wickets, none of which were practical for our purpose, since there would be a night watchman at each, and, moreover, the records office was a fairly long distance from all. This squat building adjoined the main warehouse near the canal-siding and obviously it was from the canal that we must make our entrance. We had learnt that the wharf was patrolled by a watchman who had a little hut at the northern end of the quay, to which it was his habit to retire between eleven and twelve at night to make his coffee or tea, or whatever refreshment he favoured, and we decided that this should be the hour for our attempt.
Our plan was to paddle down the canal in a small collapsible canoe (an advertisement of which Klein had seen), wait our opportunity and land. With Klein’s equipment of keys and instruments we should have no difficulty in forcing an entrance, and the rest would be easy.
When we had agreed upon our scheme, Klein went off to Chester to purchase the boat, whilst I elaborated my plan for conveying the specifications to Germany.
I was working away at this all the afternoon, telephoning to certain garages, arranging routes and rendezvous, and reporting points, newspaper advertisement codes, etc., and had almost finished my organization work when the waiter brought me a card.
I took the paste-board from the salver and as I read the name I felt myself grow pale. It was--
Miss Angela Harrymore.
Yes, my friends, I confess it, in that second of time I experienced the gripping fear-panic which comes to such men as myself perhaps twice in a lifetime.
Prince Bismarck said: “We Germans fear God and nothing else,” but the Illustrious Highness was either a very religious man or he had never engaged himself in espionage work in an enemy country in the days of war; he had never looked into the cold and merciless eyes of a woman enemy; he had never confronted the possibilities of a grey dawn and a firing party…
“Show the lady up,” I said.
As soon as the waiter was gone, I took my Browning from my pocket, examined it and slipped its blank barrel under my left armpit, the butt concealed by the fold of my coat. Only thus can a danger-waiting man be sure that he has his pistol ready for use.
The door opened and I rose to meet the lady. She was, as far as I could judge, about twenty-six years of age. She was tall and willowy, and perfectly gowned in some blue stuff which admirably suited her fair complexion.
About her neck and shoulders was a Chinchilla wrap, which I valued at £250, and beneath the white kid gloves of one hand I saw the bulge of many rings. Her features were regular and aristocratic, her eyes blue and steadfast, her hair of pale gold. She was a type one meets as frequently in England as in Northern Germany or Denmark. In fine, the first impression I had was that she was of my own race, an impression helped very cleverly by her greeting.
“Good day, Herr Cannelli,” she said (Cannelli being the name I traded under), and she spoke in faultless German.
But, O gracious lady, Heine was on guard!
At all times, I think, I am clever and alert; at some times I may be a little too clever, but never am I caught napping.
I frowned, smiled, and shook my head.
“You are speaking German, are you not?” I asked in English. “I am afraid I do not speak that language.”
It was her turn to smile.
“Come, come!” she rallied me, “you are not going to pretend with me,” and she laid two slim fingers on her chin, the old sign--the pre-war sign--by which one recognized a member of the Admiralty Secret Service.
Aha! Gracious lady, thought I, would you try an old trick upon an old wolf! Do you not know that all the spy-revealing signs and make-knowing phrases had been changed on the outbreak of war? On me--on Heine--will you try these subterfuges!
“I do not speak your language, madam,” I said, shaking my head; “harla usted Espanol.”
I saw a shade of disappointment dim for a moment the brightness of her eyes, then she laughed.
“I don’t know why I thought you spoke German,” she said coolly and speaking in perfect English; “but somehow you reminded me of a man I once knew in New York--a gentleman called by his friends, ‘Heine.’”
She was watching me closely, but I never so much as blinked.
“I am indeed fortunate, madame, even to resemble one whom you have remembered,” I said; “but I have never been to New York except on one occasion, and then only for a few hours.”
“Then I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she smiled, and her smile was a radiance. “I saw you at dinner the other night and I was almost sure that you were the friend of other days who had sung ‘Es stehen unbeweglich.’”
I could have laughed! Again the old song and the old “code of recognition”--a code which had been changed for six months.
“My dear lady,” I said gently, “I have never sung in my life.”
She was baffled and showed signs of distress. She stood biting her lips and frowning into the fire until, recovering her self-possession, she smiled, shrugged her shoulders and offered me her hand.
“I am afraid you must think I am very stupid,” she said frankly, “but I could have sworn I knew you.”
I took her hand and conducted her to the corridor and to the lift, and summoned Posser.
Briefly I retailed all that had happened.
“There is no doubt about it at all,” said Posser; “she came to trap you. We must get out of Manchester to-night, and we must take with us the specifications.”
At eleven o’clock that night we slipped down the canal, Klein at the bow and myself at the stern.
Fortunately it was a dark night, with a thin fog, and we moved silently and unchallenged to our destination. Klein had made a very careful survey of the wharf and he guided the canoe to one of the big supporting piles up which ran a steel-runged ladder.
Klein made a reconnaissance. Looking along the wharf, we could see the little glass-windowed hut and the night-watchman standing before a small fire, evidently boiling his kettle. We tied the canoe to the ladder and moved noiselessly across the wharf.
The factory was in darkness, but we had no difficulty in discovering the records office, a small, dark building thrown out as an annex to the main machinery warehouse. To open the outer door was the work of a few seconds. We entered and closed the door behind us and found ourselves in a little wooden vestibule from which opened yet another door. To my surprise the inner door was not locked but still ajar.
Down the centre of the building ran a corridor and from this various doors led to offices. Our objective was the last on the left and quietly we crept forward and reached the door. I gently turned the handle in order to secure a grip and was inserting my skeleton key when I felt the door give. All my nerves were on edge. Things were going much too easy and I pulled my gun and slipped down the safety catch.
Now, as I pushed the door gently open I could have sworn I saw the faint reflection of a light, such a reflection as you would expect from the varnished matchboard-lining to the office, if some person had incautiously shown a light for a second. I hesitated on the threshold. The office was in darkness. There was no sound, no sign, and I thought that the light I saw must have been a reflection from one of the street lamps on the other side of the canal, until I remembered that the fog was quite thick enough to veil any of the outside lights. I stepped forward cautiously toward the safe, felt for and found the handle, and had replaced my pistol in my jacket pocket and was feeling for my electric lamp, when Klein whispered fiercely in my ear:
“There’s someone in the room!”
Almost as he spoke we heard a quick rustle and swish, and a figure dimly seen flashed across the room and through the door. At that moment I felt the safe-door swing back in my grasp, and I realized that we had come too late.
I was out of the office in a trice, flashed my lamp along the corridor, and caught just a glimpse of a woman’s figure as it disappeared through the door at the other end. She fled across the yard, we behind her, and disappeared in the gloom. There was no time to search for her. We had to consider ourselves. We scurried down the ladder and heard the hoarse challenge of the watchman. By this time we were in mid-stream and paddling furiously. It was too dangerous to keep to the canal, and at the first opportunity we found a landing place and reached a street, an ill-favoured, dingy slum, which suited our purpose very well.
Ten minutes rapid walking brought us to one of the main thoroughfares where we found a taxi-cab, and in the brief space of time between this discovery and our arrival at the hotel, I gave my instructions to Klein.
“She is evidently a member of the secret police,” I said, “and she got to know that we were after the specifications to-night and forestalled us. I think Manchester is a little too hot for you and me, Klein, and we will fade away.”
We dismissed the cab at the hotel and walked into the brightly-lighted vestibule, and came face to face with Miss Harrymore!
There was no doubt in my mind. There she stood, her face flushed with triumph. I could see the mud on her shoes, I recognized the fur-edged coat, and I realized my danger. She probably had a motor-boat waiting for her and had taken the short-cut back to the hotel in time to confront and denounce us.
In that moment all the latent genius of our race came to the surface. We Germans make our decisions quickly, boldly. With such rapidity did I act that I even surprised myself. Extending my forefinger I pointed at Miss Harrymore.
“This woman,” I said, “is a German spy. She has in her possession certain specifications and plans of a new and secret weapon.”
I said this in a loud voice and a quiet-looking man who had been sitting reading dropped his paper and springing up edged his way through the little crowd which had collected about us. I saw the girl go pale. I knew that she could not betray herself as a secret agent and that, found in possession of the plans, she would not be able to explain how she came by them.
The quiet-looking man moved to her side and caught her arm. “I am Inspector Lovell, of the Manchester Detective Department,” he said, “and on this gentleman’s accusation I shall take you to the Central Police Station.”
He told us to follow, and led Miss Harrymore out of the hotel. I gave a sign to Klein, and we followed, but not to the station.
Our big Mercédès was waiting round the corner and dawn found me in London, so changed in appearance that I doubt if the admirable Inspector Lovell would have recognized the man who had trapped Miss Harrymore.
So far this comedy goes and now comes the tragedy. I found in London, waiting for me, a code message from Berlin.
“Reference Polygay bomb. Fraulein von Liebmann of the Secret Service is in Manchester under the name of Miss Harrymore. She has love affair with manager and reports she can secure specifications. Assist her all you can. Instruct her in new code.”
It was signed by the High Chief of the Admiralty Intelligence. For an hour I was prostrate and then I coded my reply to Admiralty, Potsdam.
“In spite my efforts, Fraulein von Liebmann arrested in possession of specifications, which she carried against my wishes.”
I think it was an admirable explanation. As for the fraulein, it will be many years before she will be able to supply her personal narrative!
