The adventures of Heine
Thou sweet and slender flower of Erin, with thy shamrock eyes and thy
rosebud mouth, the unhappy writer of these lines will never again
tread a giddy measure at the Plumbers’ Ball where first I met thee.
Thy friend, whom thou hast admitted was more than friend, may yet fill
an unknown grave! Then, hadst thou been true, my voice would have
spoken to thee even though I floated in the Germanic Heaven amidst the
well-born saints of the Fatherland. As it is--I cry _pfui!_ to the
very thought of thee!
Reading this narrative over I think perhaps it would be more
consistent if I omitted these preliminary paragraphs in view of the
events which are recorded below. Should this story by chance obtain a
wider circulation than that which was intended, it would be perhaps
necessary to explain my honourable relationships with this sometime
belle of Irish freedom.
Miss O’Mara and I met in the halcyon days at a ball. What there was in
me that attracted her it is not for me to say. We Germans shrink from
the revelation of our secret souls. Our thoughts are too sacred for
vulgar expression, but this I may say, that it is a curious fact that
women find some subtle attraction in me which they cannot define.
There must be other men in the world of my height and build--even
stouter men. There must be eyes as blue as mine and hair as like
velvet pile of a deep sun-kissed auburn. There must be men with the
same deep, tender voice, and that there are men with the same taste
who dress as well, I can testify, for in one day in Chicago I have
seen a dozen gentlemen with the same patterned waistcoat, the same
pink tie, the same gold chain and wearing just as many rings as I
carry on my hands.
I think we must look for this fascination (if I may be allowed to use
the word, and I can think of no better) in a subtle mind, something
which cannot be reduced to words, an aura of understanding, a moral
up-lifting force which radiates from a vigorous and virile soul.
We Germans are rare sentimentalists, I admit. Materialism finds no
place in the true German heart. Enemies have made statements about me,
particularly in relation to a certain Flossie van Heever, a clerk at a
Detroit drug store, which I repudiate with scorn and indignation. The
girl utterly misinterpreted certain well-meaning words such as a
German gentleman would speak, certain innocent attention such as a
German gentleman can give, and I emphatically deny all the sordid
charges which this girl in a moment of delirium made against me.
Oh, Plato, Plato, what sins are committed in thy name! To what depth
will a woman sink in order to secure the man for whom her heart
craves!
But enough of these sordid affairs. It is sufficient that Miss
Kathleen O’Mara believed in me. I wrote to her every week from the day
I landed in England. I wrote about my life and about her work and that
peculiar hobby of hers that I had many times thought of utilizing for
the benefit of the Fatherland. Sometimes she would reply tenderly or
in holy rage when she thought of the wrongs of her down-trodden
countrymen (_i.e._, Irishmen) and sometimes she did not answer at all.
For three months before this story opened I had not heard from her.
I had posted my letter on the Friday afternoon and sauntered back to
my office to see if any news had come in. The boy I employed told me
there had been a caller, a gentleman who refused to give his name, but
said he would come back later. I do not like callers who refuse to
give their names, for though I do not believe there is a British
Secret Service, there is always a possibility that the regular police
may be going outside their province by prying into the lives and
habits of “respectable aliens,” as they call them.
“Did he leave no message?” I asked.
“No, sir,” said the boy, “he merely said that he would call again.”
It was not until the following day that my visitor made his
reappearance. It was Saturday and I was preparing to go home in the
English fashion at one o’clock, when the gentleman was announced.
He was a tall, pale man with a dark and heavy moustache, bristling
black eyebrows and that look of concentrated fierceness which so often
distinguishes the insurance agent.
“Come in,” I said, inviting him into my private office and closing the
door. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a message from Kathleen,” he said.
I seized him warmly by the hand and shook it.
“Any friend of Kathleen’s is a friend of mine,” I said: “sit down.”
I looked around uncomfortably and went again to the door and dismissed
the boy for the day, paying him his wages.
“You may speak in perfect security,” I said.
“Kathleen is coming home,” he whispered.
“Coming home?” I could not restrain the joy in my voice. “Do you mean
coming to----”
“To Ireland,” he said. “Things are going well over there.”
He need not have told me that. Indeed, I could have told him much more
than he could possibly have known. I could have explained why things
were going well. I could have made his hair stand on end if I had told
him the amount of money that had passed through my hands for
distribution to Dublin. I could have told him of stacks of arms landed
on the deserted coast by our submarines and of visits which were made
by the same vehicle of a certain distinguished Irishman, now unhappily
no longer with us.
I could have told him of the organization for which I, Heine, had been
responsible, which had provided the patriots of Ireland with
ammunition. But why continue the list? I did not tell him anything,
and I have reason to believe that he was disappointed.
A thought suddenly sobered me.
“Is it safe for Kathleen to come over at this juncture?” I asked. “By
the by, I don’t know your name.”
“I am Theopholos Hagan,” he said, and I seemed to remember the name.
“You have met me?” he went on.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said I, and curiously enough I had a dim
recollection of having met him somewhere, but for the life of me I
couldn’t remember the circumstances.
“Oh, yes, I remember you,” I said, for we Germans never admit
ignorance on any subject.
“There is something else I want to tell you about myself,” he said;
“but perhaps this is not the moment to give away secrets.”
“Tell me,” said I earnestly, “anything you know. It shall not leave
these four walls.”
I was curious to hear what his secret was, because our people in
Berlin were very anxious for news of what was going on in Ireland and
they had complained before that they were imperfectly informed.
“No,” said the man, “I will tell you later. I am going over to Ireland
to-morrow. If we have any luck we shall have a rising on Easter
Sunday. Kathleen wants you to be in Dublin when the trouble starts.”
I shook my head.
“That would be very unwise, very unwise indeed,” I said; “the more I
am kept out of it the better for the cause. When does she arrive?”
“She will be in Dublin a fortnight before the rising starts,” said he.
“I will endeavour to be there to see her,” I replied. “I shall not be
able to stay long because naturally I am very busy.”
I shook hands with him and saw him as far as the office door. After my
experience with Mister, or Major, Haynes, I did not deem it advisable
to be seen in public with gentlemen who might conceivably fall under
the displeasure of the British authorities, and I explained this to
him as a reason for my not coming to Euston Station to see him off.
I had spoken nothing but truth when I had said that I was very busy.
Extraordinary changes were going on in England and particularly in
London, where the constant alterations in the anti-aircraft gun
positions, the erratic systems of lighting their streets which the
British were adopting were turning my hair grey. It is said that I
sent a new map of London’s defences every week to Germany and that
every one was different, and this was true, but map-making was not my
only source of employment.
By this time there were quite a respectable number of German prisoners
in England, all of whom were anxious for help to make their escape,
and whilst, officially, I was not in touch with them, unofficially I
had a lot to do with such successes as they achieved. It was I who
provided the motor-car for the four officers who escaped from
Dabbington Hall. It was I who provided the tools for digging the
underground passage by which three officers escaped from the Marlow
camp. It was I who provided the clothing and disguises which enabled
four naval officers and a Zeppelin officer to cross England after they
had escaped from the Welsh camp. It is true they were all caught
again, but that was nothing to do with me. When I had freed them from
camp and set them on the road my work was finished and the rest was up
to their good German ingenuity and resourcefulness.
On the Sunday following the Saturday I had seen Mr. Theopholos Hagan I
was rung up on the telephone.
“Can you supply three dozen dress-collars for a gentleman from
Slough?” said a voice.
“Where does the gentleman live?” I asked calmly.
“Outside the White City. The collars are to be delivered at nine
o’clock,” was the reply.
“Thank you, I will attend to it,” I said, and hung up the receiver.
A curious place to live, you think, outside the principal entrance to
an exhibition ground? And is it not strange that a gentleman from
Slough required his collars delivered in London? I will make no
mystery of the matter. “Three dozen dress-collars” meant “I have
escaped and I want your help.” Slough was the place from which he had
escaped. The White City was the point at which I must meet him and the
hour was nine.
At nine o’clock to the moment my taxi-cab drew up in front of the
ornate entrance of the exhibition grounds. The place was of course in
darkness, and a man who was walking slowly along the curb turned to
the cab as it stopped and asked:
“Have you brought my collars?”
“Step in,” I said.
The cabman had his instructions and turned toward the City.
To meet these escaping-prisoner cases I had taken a furnished flat in
the Edgware Road. It was on the ground floor and had the advantage of
having no porter, so that one could go in and out without being spied
upon.
I opened the door of my flat and ushered my visitor in.
“Your name?” I demanded.
“Prinz,” he began.
“Highness,” said I quickly, “forgive my peremptory tone and please
command me. I am entirely at your disposition. If I have been a little
taciturn and quiet on the journey, and if I spoke to you a little
sharply, pray pardon an over-tired servant of the Empire.”
“With pleasure,” he said.
He was a little, short man, who wore glasses.
“My name,” he said, “is Prinz, Karl Frederick Prinz. I am a Lieutenant
of the 34th Selician Regiment.”
“Indeed,” I said a little coldly, “you led me to believe you were
highly-born. Now what the devil do you mean by doing that?”
“It is not my fault, Mr. Heine, that you were deceived,” he said
humbly.
“What do you expect me to do?” I asked angrily, for one cannot waste
time on a reserve lieutenant and such-like cattle. “You ought not to
have called me up at all,” I said, raising my voice; “it is
abominable. Have I nothing better to do.”
He stopped me with a gesture.
“Pray do not excite yourself unduly, Mr. Heine,” he said; “for any
trouble you may take, my father, the Colonial Secretary, will repay
you.”
“The illustrious Doctor Prinz?” I said. “Are you his son?”
I stretched out my hand and gripped his.
“Welcome, a thousand welcomes! I know your Councillor of State father
and his Excellency has frequently spoken to me of his son. Come,
come,” I said jovially, “help yourself to the good Rhine wine, for it
is not often that we are honoured by a visitor of your calibre, Herr
Lieutenant.”