The adventures of Heine
and what’s more, I waited till it was dark. I suppose you know that
the old man’s pinched?”
“The old man pinched?” I said in astonishment-simulation. “What old
man--and what pinch?”
“Oh, come off it,” he said coarsely, “you know what I’m talking
about--my father, Mr. Jabowski.”
“For Mr. Jabowski I have the highest respect,” I said, “and I have had
many dealings with him, strictly in the way of business. Do I
understand he has been arrested? Dear, dear--I trust he has not been
doing anything very naughty?”
The young man scowled at me.
“Look here!” he said with violence, “you know why he was pinched--for
giving Zepp signals at your instructions.”
I sprang up.
“Shameless, lying Jew!” I cried in a great voice, “traducer of
innocent truly-neutrals! How dare you--how dare you make so infamous
an accusation? By heavens! I’ve a mind to grip you by the neck and
your coat-tails, and hurl you from the window!”
I saw a look of fear creep into his eyes, but he did not budge from
his contention.
“Have sense, Heine,” he pleaded, “can I allow my old man to be shot?
It’s a terrible position for me, and I was getting married to a
widow-lady with money too. The disgrace will kill me!”
“Your father can prove nothing against me,” I said, and the miserable
fellow smiled.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, “the old man was too wide for
you. ‘Jacob,’ says he to me, ‘this Prussian is so careful that he
won’t put anything in writing. If I get into trouble, he’ll pretend he
doesn’t know me, so when he comes this afternoon to talk things over
in the stable yard, get your camera and take a snap of us together,’
and,” said the despicable young man in unmistakable tones of pleasure,
“I’ve got that photograph to show the police unless you do something
to get my father out of trouble.”
“Have you the photograph with you, my dear young man?” I asked with
mildness.
“Am I nutty?” replied Jabowski, junior.
I promised to give him an answer that night. What could I do? To whom
could I turn to secure the release of this misguided and fearfully
threatening Pole? That he would betray me, I did not doubt, and the
horror of the thought stunned me. But I had escaped graver perils. I
had incurred the suspicions of the highest authorities and had yet won
through. It was because I had tricked them with the bluff of the
experienced player that I had escaped detection. Even Major Haynes
believed that I was no more than a dupish fool--but would he believe
as much on such an accusation supported by visible evidence of
hob-nobbing with the dubious alien of Polish origin?
So they would trap me--me, Heine, who would not tread on a turning
worm, unless it turned against the Fatherland. My gentle nature is
notorious amongst my friends. The song of the skylark rising to the
dawn, the mist of bluebells in the shadowy aisles of woods have made
me cry like a child, and this dirty dog of a Jabowski would send such
a man as Heine to the execution chair.
I sent a telegram to friends Kister and Kattz, at Wednesbury, telling
them to report to me in my apartments, by the first train. If there
were any burnt offerings required, it were better for the Fatherland
that the sacrifices should be Polish.
Let me describe Kattz and Kister as I saw them when they came walking
into my sitting-room.
Kattz was a thin man of about thirty-five. He was slightly bald, and
he wore a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez. His face was thin and
studious, with deep furrows and wrinkles. He reminded me of a bust I
once saw of Dante.
He was quietly and respectably dressed, and his attitude and manner
were subdued and respectful. His companion, Kister, was of stouter
build, and he bore a facial resemblance to the English King Henry
VIII. He was broad-featured, had a small moustache and trim beard, and
a rosy complexion. Like his companion, he was quiet in speech and
deportment.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” said I, greatly relieved by the uncriminal
appearance of my agents. “I will open a bottle of good wine--in the
meantime, help yourselves to the cigars.”
They seated themselves, and when they had been made comfortable, I
briefly outlined the nature of my difficulty.
“So you see, gentlemen, my position,” I concluded, “these two men have
the fate of our service in their hands.”
“They must be put out of the way,” said the jovial-faced Kister, “you
agree, my dear Kattz?”
Mr. Kattz nodded.
“We can settle the younger man very easily,” he said, “you have his
address, of course?” I inclined my head.
“You will probably find that he has the photograph in his pocket, in
spite of his protest,” he went on. “I can get on to him to-night.”
He felt in his pocket and drew out a short length of cord, to the ends
of which were fastened two small wooden handles. He unrolled the cord
which was wound about the sticks and re-rolling it, returned the
instrument to his pocket.
The jovial Mr. Kister frowned and shook his head.
“You know, my dear Kattz, I would not hurt your feelings, but I feel
compelled to demur at that method of yours. I believe in this.”
With a dexterity which hardly seemed possible, he slipped a
long-bladed knife from the inside of his waistcoat. I pushed my chair
back a little.
“The knife or nothing, I say,” said he, “it is noiseless, it is
instantly effective, it can be used in a crowd, and the victim will
not utter a sound. Why?” he said, looking at me, “I once killed a
friend of mine in the Wintergarten, in Berlin, surrounded by
policemen, and they thought he had fainted!”
“A friend?” I said.
“When I say a friend,” said Mr. Kister apologetically, “I mean one who
had been a friend. We fell out over a lady--you remember, Kattz.”
“A tight-rope walker,” said Kattz.
“Exactly. She was not worthy of the quarrel. I have often regretted my
haste in the matter, for poor Joseph was a good fellow, and played
_skat_ like a master.”
“I don’t think you should speak against the cord, Rudolph,” said
Kattz, “you have probably only seen it used by a bungler. There are
three men--there are two now, for Frederich Mullenheim laid down his
life for the Fatherland at the Battle of Roye--who can use it. It is
as silent as the knife, and I remember----”
My blood went cold as I listened to the exchanges of experience which
went on between the two, and when Kister was using my waistcoat to
illustrate what he called “the complete-silence stroke,” and Kattz was
showing on my neck the exact spot where the carotid artery nearest
approaches the cervical vertebræ, I thought matters had gone far
enough.
“Make your own arrangements about young Jabowski,” I said hastily,
“but how are you going to deal with the old man--he is safely in
prison?”
“That I think is simple,” said Kattz, “we have been studying the
prison system of England--naturally that interests us more than
anything else, and we know the procedure. A prisoner on remand is
allowed to have his meals sent in. I think there will be no difficulty
in sending our friend something more than he will digest.”
“I will leave the matter entirely in your hands,” I said.
I gave them £10 and bade them report to me by telephone when their
dread task was accomplished. I confess I spent a wretched night. How
frail a thing is life! The snap of a thread and the veil is rent--a
puff of wind and the serene flame goes out--a crack of a rifle and the
accumulated genius and experience of forty years, a million memories
and a million hopes, are dissipated to nothingness. How dreadful is
that Visitation, I shuddered. I did not want to die. As for these two
traitors, death would rid the world of much corporate infamy. The day
came slowly, and I was up long before my servant.
There was nothing in the morning newspaper to tell of any happening
such as I expected, but I could hardly expect to have news so soon.
I resolved to stay in my apartment till the afternoon, and it was ten
o’clock that I heard a ring at the bell, and went hot and cold. I
heard my servant go along the passage and open the door and presently
came a knock.
“Come in,” I said, and to my surprise in walked young Jabowski.
His face was pale, his eyes were wild, and as for myself, I could
frame no question.
“Oh, Mr. Heine, Mr. Heine,” he said imploringly, and I thought he was
going to kneel at my feet, “give me another chance, give me another
chance! Here is the photograph.”
His trembling hands searched for a pocket-book, which presently he
produced. The book shook in his palsied fingers, but presently he
mastered himself sufficiently to extract a small photograph which he
handed to me. It was the photograph of myself and the ill-fated
Jabowski.
“There, there is the evidence,” he gasped, “now do be a good friend
and save me!”
“I hardly know what you mean,” I said coldly, “all that I know is that
you came here yesterday and accused me of a crime from which my very
soul revolts, disloyalty to the British Government, for the members of
which I have the highest respect.”
“The old man will take his punishment without bleating,” he said,
eagerly ignoring my reference to his wild conduct. “The lawyers say he
will only get about twelve months’ imprisonment, and if he opens his
mouth about you, he will probably get more. But if they convicted
me--why, I’d get five years.”
I was silent. This talk still held a mystery for me, and I waited for
him to reveal that which, even in my curiosity, I did not dare to ask.
“I ought to have known, Mr. Heine,” he said, mopping his forehead with
an ungentlemanly handkerchief of many colours, “I ought to have known
that with all the spies you’ve got, you would be wise about me.”
“I am indeed wise about you,” I said very severely.
“Don’t think,” he said eagerly, “that I am a regular burglar, because
I’m not. The old man never allowed me more than eighteen shillings a
week, and a man can’t live in a gentlemanly way on that, can he? I got
in bad with a crooked lot of people, and one job led to another, and
that is how it happened.”
“I know exactly how it happened,” I said coldly.
“When I got home last night,” the young man went on, “it struck me
that you might know that I was in the Regent Street burglary, and it
gave me the shivers, but I wasn’t sure until I found myself being
shadowed by the two detectives you put on to follow me.”
I could have laughed out loud. Kattz and Kister--detectives!
“How did you know I had put them on to you?”
“I gave them the slip,” said young Jabowski, “and presently I spotted
them getting into a cab. It was about one o’clock in the morning, and
I got another cab and followed them and they came back here.”
“Came back here?”
This was indeed news for me.
“Well, they didn’t come up,” said Jabowski, “they stood outside the
flat talking, and one of them pointed up to your window, and then I
knew that you had put them on to me.”
I readily supplied an explanation. My friends Kister and Kattz had
come back to tell me of some difficulty they had met with, and I am
rather glad they took this step. What Jabowski told me greatly
relieved me. If the old man would remain silent and take his
punishment, with the photograph in my possession, and burnt, and
Jabowski in terror of my betraying him, a load was removed from my
mind. There was no need for any drastic measures, and I could only
hope that my two friends, with characteristic thoroughness, had not
already despatched a deadly draught to the man in the cells.
I was anxious to get rid of Jabowski before they turned up or
telephoned, as I had asked them to, and after lecturing him on his
evil life and on the necessity for dealing honestly by his fellow
creatures and abandoning his course of wickedness, I allowed him to
depart with the promise that I should take no further action against
him.