The adventures of Heine
Captain Baron von Hazfeld. It ran simply:
“Cancel my previous instructions. Meet messenger to-night at 8.30,
under the clock at King’s Cross Station.”
At eight o’clock I was at King’s Cross. I gathered that I was to meet
the boat train which was coming in from the north. The train itself
was about five minutes late, and I composed myself to read the evening
newspaper to pass the time. I stood in a little recess and away from
observation, and I was immersed in my newspaper when suddenly I heard
a smothered cry, and, looking up, I found myself face to face with
Missovitch.
He was staring at me with horror. His face was no longer white but
green, and as I took a step toward him he put up his hands with a
strangled cry, and turning, ran like the wind, dodging between
passengers and porters and disappearing through the archway which
leads into the station. I was amazed. What was there in my appearance
which frightened him. Was he following me with the intention of doing
me bodily harm? The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine.
But I had little time to speculate upon this mystery, for a few
minutes afterwards the boat train drew into the station, and I took up
my position under the clock and waited. The passengers streamed
through the narrow barriers, some hailing taxi-cabs, some stopping to
pick up other friends who were on the train, some greeting those who
were waiting for them.
I had no means of recognizing the man who was to bring me the forged
money, but I supposed that he had been well instructed. Do not let it
be thought that I was quite free from care, that in a few moments I
should be in possession of a vast number of forgeries gave me no
pleasure. Suppose anything went wrong! Suppose I was captured! A fine
end for a great agent. I don’t think, as they say in England.
Presently a man emerged from the crush about the barrier and walked
straight across to me, looking at me thoughtfully. He was a tall man
with a thin black moustache, and he stopped near me.
“May I take your bag?” I asked softly in German.
He smiled, passed the bag to me, and we walked out of the station
together.
“Which way do you go?” I asked still in the same language.
“We shall meet at your place to-night,” he said in a low voice.
He turned to the left and I turned to the right. My taxi-cab was
waiting, and I put the bag in. I turned back and saw two men leap from
the shadow upon my late companion. There was a struggle, I heard a
shot, and my blood turned to water.
Summoning all my reserves, I said to the taxi-cab driver, in as calm a
voice as I could manage:
“Bayswater Square,” and in a few seconds I was being whirled away, as
I believed, from the greatest possible danger, my mind filled with the
most distressing and painful thoughts.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE GOING OF HEINE
Picture my feelings as I drove away from King’s Cross in a cab, with
a fat suit-case at my feet. M. Missovitch had most mysteriously been
struck by terror at the sight of me and had bolted. The messenger with
the bag had arrived, and in answer to my inquiry, in German, whether I
should carry his bag, had handed it to me and we had separated.
Scarcely had we parted than two mysterious men had leapt upon him.
There had been a struggle in the street, a shot had been fired, and
here was I driving off in a high condition of perspiration, wondering
how much the Government knew, whether they were aware that I, Heine,
was burdened with a big bag full of forged notes.
I summoned up courage to look back out of the window. I could only see
a crowd gathering in the half-darkness, and withdrew my head. Should I
throw the bag out of the window? If I did somebody might see me and
that would be fatal. Besides, I owed duty to the Fatherland. My chest
swelled at the thought.
I did not drive to my lodgings--believe me, I do not live in Bayswater
Square--but dismissed the man and pretended I was going into one of
the houses. I waited till he had driven away and descended the steps
and walked rapidly to my own humble dwelling which was about two
streets away. Here I admitted myself with a key and entered and went
straight to my room, locking the door behind me.
I realized that for the safety of the Fatherland and for the honour of
the great service, of which I was no unworthy member, that my first
step must be to prove an alibi. With that forethought which is so
characteristically German, I had made myself acquainted with Major
Haynes’s habits. I knew he spent his evenings at Brown’s, a well-known
club in the West End, and I immediately called him up. To my surprise
and delight I found he was there.
“I wish to see you, Major Haynes,” I said. “When will it be
convenient?”
“Come round to the club if it is important,” replied his voice, and
having packed away the suit-case under my bed, I drove to Brown’s, and
was met by the Major in the vestibule.
“Let us pretend you are not an alien enemy,” he said, as he signed my
name in the book, “if it ever leaked out that I had entertained a
German spy I should be hauled before the committee and asked to
resign.”
“You will have your joke, Major Haynes,” I smiled.
“Won’t I?” he asked. “Now tell me what is the trouble?”
I had made up my excuse in the cab.
“When I reported to you that I had interviewed Missovitch,” I said,
“you asked me if he had named anybody and I had replied that he had
mentioned a person named Ivanoff.”
“Quite right,” said the Major, “Alexis Ivanoff.”
“It has occurred to me,” I went on boldly, for I can be a bluffer too
and had played many games at poker, “that I know this Ivanoff. Is he
not an officer of the Preobojensky Regiment?”
“To be exact,” said the Major, “he is not.”
“Oh!” said I, with a well-simulated disappointment, “then my journey
has been in vain.”
“As a matter of fact, you have never heard of Alexis Ivanoff. You
don’t believe he is a member of that regiment, and you have merely
come round to pump me or,” he looked at me with cold-devil
scrutinizing eyes, “or as an excuse to show yourself at”--he looked up
at the clock--“ten-thirty.”
“Not at all,” I said eagerly, though my marrow shook within me.
He did not take his eyes off me.
“There is some reason,” he said slowly, “now own up, Heine?”
We Germans are quick thinkers and the idea came to me as an
inspiration.
“I will be frank with you,” I said, “I have been summoning up my
courage to ask you a favour, but my heart descended to my shoes when I
saw your official face.”
“Go ahead.”
“I need permission to leave London,” said I. “You were kind enough to
tell me that you would facilitate my journey to America, and I have
many real genuine bonâ-fide businesses to do in England before I
depart.”
He thought a moment.
“I have no objection,” he said. “When do you expect to leave?”
“To-morrow,” I replied.
“Now look here, Heine,” he said. “I don’t dislike you. You are quite a
decent fellow, but you have to promise me that you will engage
yourself in no espionage work, that you will not go into any of the
prohibited areas, and that you will report yourself to me on your
return to London.”
“I promise,” I said.
We shook hands and parted. Somehow I knew that this time, at any rate,
he was taking me at my word and I was not being followed.
Nevertheless, I altered my appearance as best I could, but not until
within two hours of my departure did I unlock that suit-case which lay
beneath my bed.
You will understand that I had a natural feeling of delicacy about
playing the common part of a forgery-distributor. You must remember
that I was a student of Heidelberg, that my parents were people of
honour, my father being a State district councillor with a
fourth-class order of the Red Eagle. Was it honourable, thought I, to
distribute forged money? More than that, was it safe?
An examination of the contents of the case satisfied me and filled me
with a certain pride in the skill and genius of our German workmen.
There the money lay in great thick packets of £5, £10, £50 and
£100 notes with innumerable thicker packages of £1 treasury bills.
And the cleverness of the forgeries! Not only were they
indistinguishable from real money, both in the texture of the paper
and in the colour of the printing, but every bank-note bore a
different number and the greater proportion of them had the appearance
of having been used very frequently.
You would never have suspected that these soiled notes, with the fold
marks upon them, were not what they pretended to be. I must confess it
gave me greater courage, and filled me with a certain boyish
satisfaction to know how many people would be deceived.
I left that night for the North. My destination was Scotland, and I
reached Glasgow the following morning. I did not of course put any
money into circulation on the train. Heine is not exactly a fool. He
had to come back by that railway and a fine flibberty-gibbet he would
look if the so-handsomely-tipped guard or the in-excess-paid
sleeping-car attendant were to recognize the man who had given him
forged notes.
I will not attempt to describe the adventures of that week. I will not
tell you how I passed my first £5 note and how I stood in fear and
trembling with my heart thumping so that even the shopkeeper thought
that an aeroplane was passing overhead; of how I lived in terror for
twenty-four hours lest my act be brought home to me.
I was soon to discover that I was chewing more than I could bite. My
friends, it requires an expert to put forged money into circulation.
It must be done note by note, and whenever I offered large sums, like
£50, people looked at me askance.
In Scotland I found it was almost impossible, because the Scottish
people have bank-notes of their own, queer pieces of paper that look
as if they have fallen into the soup and have been dried in a
dust-bin. I came south of the line to Newcastle, staying at an hotel
not far from the station. My progress was painfully slow. In one week
I had only managed to get rid of £100 and most of that was in £1
treasury notes, which were accepted without question.
It was in Newcastle that I got my big fright. I had purchased an £80
motor-bicycle and paid for it in notes, and after ordering the machine
to be sent to the hotel, I was leaving the shop when the manager
called me back.
“I don’t think this £50 note of yours is in order, sir,” he said.
I felt my knees tremble.
“Not in order?” I blustered. “My good man, are you mad?”
“I’ve got the number of a note here which is circulated by the police
as having been stolen. Will you accompany me to the bank? They have
the right numbers there and I may have made a mistake.”
To refuse would have been to invite suspicion. I put a bold look upon
my pale face and swaggered off in company with the manager with true
German insouciance. At the bank my trials and tribulations (internal)
can only be imagined by those who have enjoyed a similar experience.
It was not the fear that this note would prove to be one which had
been stolen that filled my heart with wild fluttering (as a young
girl’s when she is first told by a handsome Prussian lover that he
adores her), it was the tremblement of apprehension that the bank
manager would detect this so perfectly imitated note as a forgery.
We were ushered into the bank manager’s room, an evil,
sinister-looking man with a close-cut moustache. The shopkeeper
explained. For my part I stood a little behind him, having with my
usual thoroughness marked the way of retreat and made my plans for a
grand bolt.
The bank manager took the note in his hand and I set my teeth. He
looked at it, turned it over, rustled it, laid it on the desk,
examined the number, then, pulling out a drawer, he took a thin black