The adventures of Heine
As he passed my table he dropped a slip of paper which I covered with
my table-napkin. When I was sure I was not observed, I read the note.
“Making excellent progress. Meet me at a quarter to eleven outside
Piccadilly Tube.”
I met him at the appointed time and we strolled into Jermyn Street.
“What do you think of her?” was Koos’ first question.
“Very pretty, my friend,” said I. “You have excellent taste.”
He chuckled.
“I have also excellent luck, my dear Heine.” Even well-born people
call me by my Christian name, as I have before remarked, though I do
not boast of this because my father’s mother was a von Kuhl-Hozeldorf
and I am in a sense related to the best Würtemberg nobility. “That
lady,” went on Koos, “is the daughter of one of the chief
gun-constructors at Woolwich.”
He looked at me to note the effect of his words, and I must confess I
was startled.
“Splendid, my dear fellow!” said I, warmly. “How did you come to meet
her?”
“A little act of gallantry,” he said airily; “a lady walking on
Blackheath twists her ankle, what more natural than that I should
offer her assistance to the nearest seat? Quite a babbling little
person--typically English,” he added dryly.
I laughed again.
“I could have done very well without her assistance, of course,” he
went on; “as a matter of fact, I had met one or two very excellent
Englishmen who, with their usual penchant for boastfulness, were able
to supply me with particulars of a new gun-lathe of which they are
very proud. In fact, I have got the rough drawings, but the little
lady----”
He raised his eyes to the heavens and chuckled joyfully.
“My dear friend,” he said impressively, “she is a mine of information.
An only daughter and a little spoilt, I am afraid, she knows no doubt
secrets of construction of which the technical experts of the
Government are ignorant. Can you imagine a German talking over
military affairs with his daughter?”
“The English are a little mad, as I have remarked before,” said I. I
then closely questioned Koos as to the activity of the police. It was
naturally to be expected that Woolwich would be well guarded and that
strangers would arouse suspicion.
“There is no English secret police,” said my friend cheerfully; “there
is a special department at Scotland Yard whose footsteps you can hear
a mile away, but a secret service, as it is understood in Germany, or
even in America, does not exist, except in the fervid imagination of
romantic novelists.”
“I only asked you,” I said hastily, “for fear that this girl should be
watched.”
“You can dismiss that possibility from your mind,” smiled Koos.
By this time we had reached the end of Jermyn Street and had turned
down St. James’s Street toward the Palace, and our conversation was
naturally interrupted, for we had to speak in English and there was
rather a crowd of people. It was not until we had reached the Mall,
comparatively deserted, that Koos continued this story.
“You need not worry. The girl is romantic--an idealist.”
“And you are the ideal, you dog!” said I.
He twisted his moustache, by no means ill-pleased at the accusation.
“Some men have that power of attraction,” he said modestly. “I am
rather sorry for the little thing.”
“What have you learnt from her?” I asked.
Koos did not reply for a moment, then he said:
“So far, very little. I am naturally anxious not to alarm her or
arouse her suspicions. She is willing to talk and she has access to
her father’s study and, from what I gather, she practically keeps all
the keys of the house. At present I am educating her to the necessity
for preserving secrecy about our friendship and to do her justice, she
is just as anxious that our clandestine meetings should not come to
the ears of her father as I am.”
We walked along in silence.
“This may be a very big thing,” I said.
“Bigger than you imagine,” replied Alexander; “there is certain to be
an exchange of confidential views about artillery between the Allies,
and though we have nothing to learn from the English, it is possible
that the French may send orders to Woolwich for armament. In that case
our little friend may be a mine of information. I am working with my
eyes a few months ahead,” he said, “and for that reason I am allowing
our friendship to develop slowly.”
I did not see Koos again for a week, except that I caught a glimpse of
him in the Café Riche with his fair companion. He did not see me,
however, and as it was desirable that I should not intrude, I made no
attempt to make my presence apparent.
At the end of the week we met by appointment, which we arranged
through the agony column of a certain London newspaper.
I was feeling very cheerful, for Stein, Besser, and Kahn had sent in
most excellent reports, and it only needed Alexander’s encouraging
news to complete my sum of happiness.
“You remember the gun-lathe I spoke to you about,” he said. “My
friend--you may regard the blue prints as in your hands.”
“How has this come about?”
“I just casually mentioned to my little girl that I was interested in
inventions and that I had just put a new lathe upon the market in
America and she was quite excited about it. She asked me if I had
heard about the lathe at Woolwich, and I said that I had heard rumours
that there was such a lathe. She was quite overjoyed at the
opportunity of giving me information and asked me whether in the event
of her showing me the prints I would keep the fact a great secret,
because,” he laughed softly, “she did not think her father would like
the print to leave his office!”
“You must be careful of this girl,” I said, “she may be detected.”
“There is no danger, my dear fellow,” said Alexander. “She is the
shrewdest little woman in the world. I am getting quite to like her if
one can like these abominable people--she is such a child!”
I told him to keep in communication with me and sent him off feeling
what the English call in “good form.” I dispatched a courier by the
morning train to the Continent, giving details of the British
Expeditionary Force. Only two brigades were in France--and that after
three weeks of preparation! In Germany every man was mobilized and at
his corps or army headquarters weeks ago--every regiment had moved up
to its order of battle position. Two brigades! It would be amusing if
it were not pathetic!
Besser came to me soon after lunch in a very excited state.
“The whole of the English Expeditionary Force of three divisions is in
France,” he said, “and, what is more, is in line.”
I smiled at him.
“My poor dear fellow, who has been pulling your foot?” I asked.
“It is confidentially communicated to the Press, and will be public
to-morrow,” he said.
“Lies,” said I calmly, “you are too credulous. The English are the
most stupid liars in the world.”
I was not so calm that night when I ran down in my car to Gorselton,
where our very good friend, the Baron von Hertz-Missenger, had a nice
little estate.
“Heine,” he said, after he had taken me to his study and shut the
door. “I have received a radio through my wireless from the
_Kriegsministerium_[1] to the effect that the whole of the British
Expeditionary Force has landed and is in line.”
“Impossible, Herr Baron,” I said, but he shook his head.
“It is true--our Intelligence in Belgium is infallible. Now, I do not
want to interfere with you, for I am but a humble volunteer in this
great work, but I advise you to give a little more attention to the
army. We may have underrated the military assistance which Britain can
offer.”
“The English army, Herr Baron,” said I firmly, “is almost as
insignificant a factor as--as well--the American army, which only
exists on paper! Nevertheless, I will take your advice.”
It was necessary to humour the good baron who, although a naturalised
British “subject” (which, of course, means absolutely nothing), is
nobly born and is indeed a member of the Hesse-Hohenlohe
princely-descended family.
We talked a little while about the British. I told the Herr Baron what
I had said about the British Secret Service, and he quite agreed.
“I have been in this country for twelve years and I have met everybody
of importance,” he said, “and I can assure you there is no Secret
Intelligence Department such as we Germans have brought to such
perfect efficiency. As you know, I am a racing man, and I meet with
all sorts of people, good and bad, and I can endorse all that you
say.”
I went back to town and dispatched another courier, for as yet the
Torpington Varnish Factory (about which I will tell you later) had not
been equipped with Radio.
That night I again saw Alexander. It was at supper at the Fritz, and
he looked a fine figure of a man. I felt proud of the country which
could produce such a type. Where, I ask you, amongst the paunchy
English and the scraggy Scotch, with their hairy knees and their
sheep-shank legs, could you find a counterpart of that _beau sabreur_?
Cower, treacherous Albion, shiver in your kilt, hateful Scotch (it is
not generally known that the Royal and High-Born Prince Rupprecht of
Bavaria is rightful King of Scotland), tremble, wild Wales and
unreliable Ireland, when you come in arms against a land which can
produce such men as Alexander Koos!
I never saw a girl look more radiantly happy than did the young woman
who was sitting _vis-à-vis_ my friend. There was a light in her eye
and a colour in her cheeks which were eloquent of her joy.
I saw Alexander afterwards. He came secretly to my rooms.
“Have you brought the blue print?” I asked.
He shook his head smilingly.
“To-morrow, my friend, not only the blue print of the lathe, not only
the new gun-mounting model, but the lady herself will come to me. I
want your permission to leave the day after to-morrow for home. I
cannot afford to wait for what the future may bring.”
“Can you smuggle the plans past the English police?” I asked, a little
relieved that he had volunteered to act as courier on so dangerous a
mission.
“Nothing easier.”
“And the girl--have you her passport?”
He nodded.
“How far shall you take her?”
“To Rotterdam,” he said promptly.
In a way I was sorry. Yes, I am sentimental, I fear, and “sentiment
does not live in an agent’s pocket,” as the saying goes. I wish it
could have been done without. I shrugged my shoulders and steeled my
soul with the thought that she was English and that it was all for the
Fatherland.
“You must come to the Café Riche to-night and witness our going,”
said Alexander; “you will observe that she will carry a leather case
such as schoolgirls use for their books and exercises. In that case,
my friend, will be enough material to keep our friends in Berlin busy
for a month.”
I took leave of him, giving him certain instructions as to the course
he was to take after reporting at Headquarters, and spent the rest of
the night coding a message for our Alexander to carry with him.
I snatched a few hours’ sleep between telephone calls, and rising at
noon I read the morning papers (full of lies, as are all British
papers, though the Americans are worse) and went through the picture
postcards which my kind friends von Kahn and von Wetzl had sent to me.
If you had seen those postcards with their long “holiday messages,” I
wonder if you would have taken a magnifying glass to search for minute
pinpricks under certain letters and words? I did, because I was a
chief of a bureau unequalled in the world for ingenuity and
prescience.
The hour at which Alexander was to meet the girl was eight o’clock in
the evening. His table (already booked) was No. 47, which is near the
window facing Piccadilly. I telephoned through to the café and booked
No. 46, for I was anxious to witness the comedy.