The adventures of Heine
interrupt me! You know me?”
I looked at him closely.
“I only know,” I said after a pause, and speaking with a hauteur which
was quite unmistakable to any sensitive German, “that you are
impertinently discussing a matter of which I am perfectly ignorant. I
can only say----”
“Now shut up,” said Mr. Brantl. “Swine! Pig! Miserable thief! Have you
never heard of the Captain Baron von Hazfeld?”
I stared at him closely and gasped.
Instantly I was on my feet, clicking my heels, my hand raised to my
forehead, for this gentleman was none other than that illustrious
Chief of the Intelligence Bureau, whom I had had the honour and
privilege to see on one occasion through the window.
“Sit down,” he growled. “I have had to come to England to clear up the
damned mess you’ve made and I can tell you I am not feeling cheerful
about it. Now tell me what happened.”
Briefly I explained to him how Major Haynes had detected me and had
sent me out of the country. I also described my voyage back in the
submarine and he listened attentively.
“Part of what you tell me is lies,” he said, “part of it is true.
British Intelligence Department--bah! If you hadn’t been a sucking
dove, or should I say, a sucking pig----?”
“Whichever pleases you, Herr Baron,” I said, with a little smile.
“Don’t grin, you baboon. If you had exercised the slightest amount of
caution you would never have been caught. You have simply given
yourself into the hands of the Englishman.”
“Scotsman,” I murmured.
“Don’t interrupt,” he roared, “you needn’t be afraid of Hayes or
Haynes, or whatever the man’s name is. You have now a chance to
rehabilitate yourself in the esteem of the Department. I never agreed
to your coming to England. It was against my wishes, thank God! I told
von Papen that I wanted a man of intelligence who at any rate looked
like an English gentleman.”
“I flatter myself----” I began.
“You do,” said the Herr Baron, “that’s the trouble with you, your
infernal conceit. Now listen and don’t interrupt. In three days’ time
there will arrive in this country a very large number of forged bank
and treasury notes. Every agent in England and Scotland will put those
notes into circulation. They are so well done that you can’t tell the
difference between them and the real thing. They are, in fact,” he
said, “made----”
“----in Germany,” I smiled.
He cursed me for interrupting him.
“You will be in Merson Street, Soho, on Thursday night, standing
outside the Petite Dejeuner restaurant. A man will come and give you a
large travelling case. It will contain the forged money, and you will
spend the rest of your time wandering about England getting rid of it.
It will not be an unpleasant experience,” he said. “The forgeries will
never be detected until the money comes into the Bank of England.
Therefore, your job is to get as far away from London as you possibly
can.”
“But I shall never be able to spend it.”
“Give it away then,” said the Herr Baron. “You understand your
orders?”
“Perfectly,” I replied.
“You won’t want any real money. You will buy everything except war
bonds.”
“I would not think of doing anything so unpatriotic,” I cried
indignantly.
“It isn’t a question of patriotism, you fool. War bond money comes
back to the Bank.”
He was silent so long that at last I plucked up my courage to say:
“Is that all, Herr Baron?”
“No, that is not all,” he said slowly, “only I don’t know whether I
can trust you with the other matter.”
I drew myself up.
“I have been trusted with many delicate duties,” I said, not without a
certain quiet dignity.
“And you made a mess of ’em. I know all about it,” said the Baron,
“still I can tell you this because it may not come your way. Have you
heard of Loski?”
To another man I should have said “Yes,” but to this discerning,
thought-reading, truth-compelling German, who was, moreover, of the
highest nobility, I replied simply and modestly: “No.”
“Loski is the chief of the Lithuanian Soviet. He is a member of the
Supreme Council at Petrograd, and is a Bolshevik--hang all Bolsheviks!
but they are very useful to us. The mad English Government has given
him permission to visit this country on behalf of some industrial
corporation at Moscow. I have had a telegram from Stockholm to say
that he will be here this week. Now, don’t forget, this man is working
for us, and if he swims into your orbit you are to do everything you
can for him. Render him any assistance that lies in your power. Find
out where he is lodging and make his acquaintance. That is all.”
I bowed and withdrew. I must confess that on my journey back to my
lodgings I was troubled. I did not share this bullying, brow-beating,
stupid man’s views of Major Haynes. We Germans never despise an enemy
who is worthy of our steel, and I felt that Major Haynes was not only
worthy of my steel, but my carving knife as well. It is hard to jest
with a sad heart! So I was not surprised the following morning when my
landlady came to me to tell me that a soldier had called to see me
with a message.
He was quite a common soldier, evidently an orderly, and when he was
shown into my room I immediately put him into his place by telling him
to take his cap off. The fact that he took not the slightest notice of
what I said, shows that the English Army is the worst disciplined and
the least respectful of all armies in the world.
I read the note. It was from Major Haynes, telling me to come to his
office with the least possible delay.
“Tell your master I will be there,” I said haughtily.
“Tell who?” said the common soldier.
“Your master, my man.”
“Pull yourself together,” said the common soldier, “do you mean Major
Haynes?” Of course the low fellow called him ’Aynes.
I resolved to report him for his insolence, but somehow the idea
slipped from my mind on the journey, because I was in some
apprehension (why should I conceal the fact?) as to why this officer
wanted me.
He was busily writing as I entered and jerked his head to a chair and,
since I am a perfect gentleman, I did not interrupt him until he had
finished. He blotted his letter and folded it up into an envelope
before he turned his attention to me.
“I’ve got a little honest work for you.”
I shivered at the words. I remembered the last time I had assisted
him, and he evidently read my thoughts.
“Oh, this is all right,” he said with a smile, “no danger, Heine. You
are a good German, I believe?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“What is the use of arguing with you, Major Haynes,” I said with a
smile, “if I were a German I should certainly be a good German.”
“And every good German is afraid of the Russian.”
“We Germans fear nobody,” I said hotly, and then, realizing that I had
betrayed myself, I went on with scarcely a break, “as a German would
say.”
“Neatly put,” said the Major, “at any rate, a well conducted German
does not love the Bolshevik, and especially a Bolshevik who is not
even--there, I nearly said too much,” he smiled, “and that is not like
me, is it?”
I could have told him that anything he said to me was too much, but I
refrained.
“Foreign as I know it to be to your honest nature,” the Major went on,
“I am, nevertheless, asking you to do a little professional espionage
work for me--oh, yes, I am serious,” he said, “you owe me a great
deal, Heine. You owe me your life amongst other things, and I am going
to give you a chance of paying me back, or rather paying the
Government back, without necessarily betraying any of your own fellow
countrymen. From such a prospect as that,” he said with pious
hypocrisy, “my very soul revolts.”
And this man who had the brazen effrontery to make a so-canting
statement had deliberately forced me to assist him in capturing two of
my lamentable fellow-countrymen only a few weeks before? Such is the
boasted honour of the British race!
“In reality,” said the Major, “the work I want you to do is very
simple, very harmless and yet very necessary, and I believe that you,
of all the people I know, can best perform the service I require.”
I nodded.
“There is a man arriving in this country in the course of this week,
named Loski,” said the Major. “He may be a Russian patriot. He may be
an anarchist. He may be only a simple-minded burglar. On the other
hand, he may be engaged by your clever Intelligence Department to
carry on propaganda work. There is a man in London named Missovitch
who I know is in correspondence with the Loski crowd and is their
agent in London. Missovitch lives at 364, Dean Street, Soho. I will
write the address for you,” he said, suiting the action to the words.
“And what do you expect me to do, Major Haynes?” I asked.
“I want you to see Missovitch. He is one of those peculiar Russians
who speak German, the type with which you are well acquainted.”
“Probably from the Baltic Provinces?” I said boldly.
“Very likely,” said Major Haynes, with a smile. “Pump him. He will
confide in you. Nobody would mistake you for an English gentleman.
Find out what the game is. No harm can come to our friend Loski. The
worst that can happen is that he will be handed his passports and
returned to the place from whence he came.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and was inwardly chuckling. Somehow I felt
in the swing again, an entire master of my confidence.
I found Missovitch without any trouble. He kept a little tobacconist’s
shop at the address Major Haynes had given me, a pale, unhealthy young
man with a slight moustache and a fringe of beard. He was not very
communicative. I might say that from the very moment I entered the
shop till I left he regarded me with suspicion which he did not
attempt to disguise.
I was in a quandary because I could not betray my knowledge of Loski,
nor could I tell this unauthorized person that I was an agent of the
great German Government that wished him no harm. He grew more and more
uneasy at my careless questions, and to my amazement he also grew
paler, and beads of perspiration grew upon his brow as I asked one
question after another.
“I don’t know who you are, sir,” he said at last, “but I assure you I
have not any knowledge of the Bolsheviks, and I am not interested in
anything which is occurring in Russia.”
“Come, come,” I said jokingly, “that is fine talk from a man with your
name. Tell me, who is this Loski I hear so much about?”
He looked at me through his half-closed lids.
“Sir,” he said, “if you are the police I can give you no information.
You may arrest me,” he said excitedly, though I tried to calm him,
“you may put me in jail, but I can tell you nothing, and Ivanoff’s
trouble will be in vain. I am a poor shopkeeper trying to earn my
living. I don’t know anything about the Bolsheviks, anything about M.
Loski. I know nothing, nothing.”
This was a bad beginning, I thought, as I left the shop, wondering who
was Ivanoff, and certainly not a satisfactory one for Major Haynes.
And yet in many ways it could not have been better.
I had but to tell the truth to Major Haynes and be relieved of a
rather embarrassing mission. Strangely enough, when I reported to the
Intelligence Officer, he accepted my word without any query, though he
was, as I could see, rather troubled.
“The man suspected you, that’s bad,” he said, frowning. “Still, I’m
sure, Heine, you did your best. By the way, he didn’t mention any
other Russian person?”
I suddenly remembered.
“Yes,” I said, “he mentioned a man named----”
“Ivanoff?” said the Major quickly.
“That’s the name,” I said, stupefied by his intelligence.
“H’m,” said Major Haynes, “thank you, Heine. I will let you know if I
want you again.”
I did not hear from the Major, but on the Thursday morning a note was
delivered to my lodgings, this time in the well-known writing of