The adventures of Heine
little crowd gathered about something which lay on the sidewalk. We
would have passed on, but Mr. Clarkson, overhearing something that was
said by a member of the group, pushed his way through the little knot
of people and I followed.
A man lay prone on the sidewalk.
“What is it?” I asked curiously.
Mr. Clarkson made no reply till we were clear of the crowd.
“One of our people,” he said bitterly, “fallen to the enemy.”
“Fallen?” I said.
Mr. Clarkson nodded.
“It happens now and again,” he said, “we are fighting a cunning and
ruthless foe, my friend.”
“But are you leaving him there?”
“For the moment,” said Mr. Clarkson. “I will ask one of the brethren
to make inquiries as to how it happened, and if it is possible to give
any assistance to our unfortunate comrade, it will be given.”
This was news indeed. So this mighty British government was not above
striking an assassin blow to rid itself of its enemies.
From Baynam Street leads a smaller thoroughfare, near the Camden Road
end of which is a small hall. The night was dark, the painted
street-lamps cast tiny pools of dim light upon the pavement as we
stole furtively through the door of the hall, and passed through a
small anteroom to a smaller room beyond.
In this room there was another door, and toward this Mr. Clarkson
walked.
“You will wait here,” he said in a whisper.
He knocked in a peculiar manner on the door, and a sliding panel
opened. He whispered something, the door was unlocked, and after he
had slipped into the room, closed again.
I waited about three minutes before the door opened, and Mr. Clarkson
came out accompanied by Mr. Moore, both of whom wore on their breasts
sashes of red.
Mr. Moore, scarcely raising his voice above a whisper, asked me a
number of questions. They were couched in a curious semi-legal,
semi-philosophical vein, and I confess I did not understand very much,
nor did I trouble to pay a great deal of attention to what was being
said. I knew by their intonation when I had to say “Yes,” and when I
had to say “No.” When I had finished Mr. Clarkson looked anxiously at
his friend.
“I think that is satisfactory, Brother Moore?”
“Eminently satisfactory, Brother Clarkson,” said the other.
He rapped soberly at the door and again the panel slid back and a
voice challenged him.
“Who knocks?”
“Two brethren with a candidate for initiation,” said Mr. Moore.
The panel closed and presently it opened again.
“Who vouches for this candidate?” said the voice.
“I,” said Mr. Clarkson.
“I,” said Mr. Moore.
The door was opened and we passed through, not without a fluttering of
heart on my part.
Between my two sponsors I advanced into the hall. At one end of the
room on a raised dais sat three men bearing the strange regalia of
their order. To left and right at single tables were two other
officers, also wearing decorations. I passed from one to the other.
Each addressed me in solemn language on the duty of man to man, and
presently I came to the raised dais and had to endure yet a further
long rigmarole, at the end of which the president confided the
password, which was “Fight the Fight,” the grip, and the signal knock.
I was led to a seat in the body of the hall, congratulated heartily by
Mr. Moore and Mr. Clarkson, and settled myself down to listen to the
deliberations of this strange body. They were men of all ages, of all
conditions of life, stern, determined-looking men I thought, capable
of committing any desperate deed, the kind of men who might be most
useful. There were young and old amongst them, but all bore the same
sour disappointed expression, which I had noticed both in Mr. Moore
and Mr. Clarkson.
A brother rose and had begun to address the chair when the door was
flung open excitedly and a tall, pale-faced man rushed in. As he did
so, I heard the shrill sound of police whistles.
“A raid, a raid!” he cried.
Instantly the hall was in commotion. I felt myself grow pale and
grasped Mr. Moore, who was next to me, by the arm.
“Is there any way out of this?” I asked.
“You had better stay here,” he said.
“Stay here and be caught!”
That was not Heine’s way. I dashed through the door into the street.
There was no sign of policemen, but I heard shrill whistles blowing. I
ran up into Baynam Street straight into the arms of a policeman!
“Hello,” he said, “you had better take cover. There’s an air raid on.”
“An air raid!” I gasped. “An air raid!”
“Well, perhaps it isn’t one. A mate of mine just told me it’s a false
alarm, and very likely he’s right. There’s rather too much wind for a
raid to-night.”
I could have leant against him. I was so confounded and confused I
could collect my thoughts only in fragments, and the first memory of
that evening which strangely enough came to me was the memory of that
stricken form on the pavement.
“Tell me, sir,” I said, “did you see a man lying on the ground round
the corner?”
It was, I admit, a foolish question to ask, but the memory of that
rigid victim had obsessed me.
“Oh, him,” said the constable, “yes! He was drunk.”
“Drunk?” I said in amazement.
“Yes,” said the policeman, “a man named Geary. He used to be a member
of that lodge down the road there.” He pointed to the building from
whence I had come.
“What lodge is that?” I asked.
“The Sons of Temperance,” he said, “I thought I saw you come out of
there. Ain’t you a member? Rum blokes, they are,” he went on with a
little chuckle, “always talking about drink as the Enemy and the
Terror and the Oppressor of the World. I wish somebody would oppress
me with a pint.”
I pressed a shilling into his hard, corrupt fist, and walked back to
Bayswater.
CHAPTER XV.
THE WORLD DICTATOR
It has frequently been observed by impartial and neutral observers,
as, for example, the learned Professor Heinrich von Stosselkopf, of
Zurich, the Italian Professor Emil Zonnernheimer, of Verona, and
Captain Albert von Zohm, the brilliant writer of Sweden (you will
observe that I have an excellent memory for names, as indeed all true
Germans have) that Germany holds all the qualities of world-sufficient
kultur save one, namely the inability to tolerate frivolity.
This does not mean that we Germans have no sense of humour. How we
laugh at the English and their stupid jokes! How puerile is the
American so-called fun spirit! Give a German a true joke, however, and
he will “ha, ha!” with the best of them. The story of the little boy
who climbed up the church steeple and fell upon some iron railings and
was prosecuted by the unimaginative policeman for damaging church
property, is one which roused a tempest of laughter from one end of
the Fatherland to the other.
Who in the world has not roared with delight at that true German story
of the lady who went to a doctor of music and showed him the corn of
her knee?
The German spirit is the true spirit of humour. Therefore, I reject
with scorn the suggestion which has been made by some who have seen
these notes, that I am trying to be funny or comical. The errors into
which a man may fall are many, but as I have said before, it is the
spirit in which one makes the attempt to serve one’s country which
counts, and it is not the performance, whether it be successful or
otherwise, which should count to a man’s credit.
I have never asked of my beloved Fatherland for any honour. I have
been content to serve humbly and obscurely. I know that the records of
my work have been wilfully suppressed by jealous superiors, otherwise
to-day there would be blazing on my bosom the Order of the Red Eagle.
Yes, I repeat, the Order of the Red Eagle has been stolen by the lies
and the misrepresentations of those who have belittled the monumental
nature of my labours in England, Scotland, Wales and the Isle of
Wight.
There are moments when I grow cold with rage at the thought of this
base treason--but enough of this!
I pass to the strangest adventure of my experience, and I tell this
story because not only does it reveal the amazing unscrupulousness of
the British government, but I think it will also show the marvellous
adaptability of a German agent. I do not suggest that all agents would
have acted as I did, but then I do not think there are a great number
of German agents who are possessed of my extraordinary capacities.
It will be remembered that after my deportation from England, by a
certain Major Haynes, of whom more anon, I was submarined and landed
again on these inhospitable shores, and by reason of the sentence of
deportation, which had been illegally passed upon me without a trial,
I was compelled to lie, as they say in England, doggo.
With most of my friends I dare not communicate, and though I had
written to Major Haynes announcing that I was in England, and asking
him to give me an opportunity of calling upon him, giving, of course,
no address, I did not hear from him immediately. I had, however,
inserted an advertisement in the _Daily Megaphone_, stating that I was
a clerk with experience in the Argentine, Cuba, Batavia and Holland,
saying that I was willing to work for £200 a year, the combination of
those words meaning that I was an agent in distress and that I was
requiring £200. I had no doubt in my mind that the call would be
responded to. I was officially penniless. I had some money of my own,
but why should I spend that when there was so much money to be had for
the asking?
I called at the office of the newspaper and received a big batch of
letters in response to my advertisement. I took them back to my new
lodgings, for I had left the old apartments, owing to the fact that
the proprietor was a fanatical teetotaler, and in the privacy of my
own room I took the letters from my pocket and turned them over
rapidly, looking for one which would have an inky finger-mark on the
back flap.
I found and opened the envelope, and discovered, as I had expected,
four bank-notes for £50 without any reference to the sender. I would
have thrown the remaining letters upon the fire, had there been one,
but fortunately time was hanging on my hands, I had arranged to meet
Kriessler, the only man in London with whom I could safely
communicate, and I had two or three hours to fill in before that
appointment. So what was more natural than that I should open these
offers of a situation and read them through? Thoroughness is the
characteristic of our race. We despise no material, however
unpromising. Germany was built up upon by-products, and her wealth
extracted from the dust-bins of Europe.
They were letters of a conventional type asking me for recommendations
or inviting me to make calls upon the writers. It was the fourth
letter which interested me most of all. I read it through carefully,
put it aside, skimmed through the remainder of the letters and then
returned to this extraordinary missive.
The paper was heavy and rich. There was on the top left-hand corner a
coat of arms embossed in gold and blue. The address was 182, Berkeley
Square, which is one of the most fashionable residential squares in
London. This address, however, had been scratched out and there had
been substituted “Stoney Cottage, Hebleigh-on-Avon.” The letter was
marked “Private and very Confidential,” and ran:
“If the advertiser is a person of discretion, and is willing to act as
confidential secretary to a high government personage, and has a
knowledge of world politics, a permanent position with a salary of
£500 per annum can be offered to him for the duration of the war.”
I pondered this letter for some considerable time and before I went
out to my appointment with Kriessler, my mind was made up and I had
written offering my services, informing the writer that I had acted in