The adventures of Heine
“Well, so long as it’s there, leave it there,” said Mike. “It’s the
last place anybody would think of looking.”
He accompanied me to the door of my lodgings, and I was turning in
when Mike said to his friend:
“Look here, Alf, why don’t you take this gentleman and show him round
the town. It’s worth seeing. There are some regular old antiquities
here.”
“With pleasure,” I said, “if your friend does not object. And you will
accompany us?”
“I’ve got to see a man in here,” he said, pointing to my inn; “but
I’ll see you later.”
For the next hour, under the guidance of the unhappy Alf, I walked
about Newmarket, listening to my guide. Several times I pretended that
I wanted to go back to the hotel, but each time he prevented me on
some excuse or other. And all the time I was chuckling. I knew the
friend that Mike wanted to see, a certain battered portmanteau under
my bed filled with wonderful treasure.
By this time he would have caught the train and would be on his way to
London where his companion would join him later.
When at last I reached the inn, I paused out of curiosity to ask the
landlord if anybody had been for me. As I expected, a gentleman had
called and had gone upstairs, saying that he had come by invitation.
I walked up to my room, smiling broadly. I pulled the bag from under
the bed, that bag which had been a source of such bother and worry,
and back-quivering. I pulled it out. As I expected, it was empty, save
for one thick packet of notes which, as they were wrapped in paper,
had evidently been left behind by the thief under the impression that
it was some of my personal belongings.
I cursed him for his carelessness, slipped the packet into my pocket,
and taking my few belongings, I went downstairs gaily, paid the bill,
this time with genuine money from my own pocket-book, and drove to the
station.
I could have sworn I saw Alf in one of the carriages as I passed, but
he turned his face away quickly. Be not afraid, my poor fellow! Didst
thou but know, thou and thy sneak-thief companion are unconscious
instruments of vengeance working the will of the Fatherland upon this
perfidious and mercenary England.
Fortunately I had the carriage to myself and was able to get rid of
the bag through the window, choosing the moment when we were crossing
a small river for hiding the evidence.
I reached Liverpool Street Station at 9.20, feeling very hungry. There
were no taxi-cabs procurable, and I went to the station buffet to get
a sandwich and a glass of beer. I saw no sign of Alf, or of his
thievish companion, and as a matter of fact, I did not have the
curiosity to look for them. It was sufficient that I, Heine, had, by
my tactics, distributed £60,000 worth of counterfeit coin for the
glory of the Fatherland.
What was the object, you may ask? Why all this trouble? Cannot you see
that whether it were true or merely a rumour, that there was a great
amount of forged notes in circulation, that the credit of England at
home and abroad would suffer, that people would be loath to accept
paper money, and that confidence, which is the basis of exchange,
would be destroyed?
Truly we Germans are great psychologists and understand the devious
arts of making war ruthlessly. I resolved to call upon the illustrious
Captain Baron von Hazfeld on the following morning, and explain to him
that my mission had been accomplished. After that I might turn my
attention to the Bolsheviks, and try to discover what their little
game was. I had had no time to think about them or to puzzle my brains
about the mysterious Ivanoff, but now that my mission was
accomplished, I could devote more time and attention to that matter.
I stood outside the station waiting for an omnibus, or perchance, I
thought, I might have the luck to find a taxi, when a poorly dressed
man who seemed to know what I was thinking about, came to me and said:
“Are you looking for a taxi, sir?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“You will find one round the corner,” he said. “I’ll show you the
way.”
He led me along the ill-lighted street into a deserted thoroughfare,
which led, I believe, into Finsbury Square. There were no lights and
there was no sign of a taxi-cab.
“It’s round the corner, sir,” said the man again.
I had opened my mouth to speak when suddenly a sack was thrown over my
head. I struggled, but I knew I was in the grip of two or three men.
Then I had been detected. Oh! the wild thoughts that coursed through
my brain! I heard a voice say something, and to my amazement it was in
German.
I was lifted bodily from my feet and pushed into what I knew was the
interior of a motor-car. I heard the door slammed, and presently the
car moved. We had been travelling for twenty minutes when it stopped,
the door was again opened and I was bundled out through a doorway,
down some stone stairs, led and pushed along a passage and through
another doorway. I heard the doors closed and locked, and then the
sack was removed from my head.
I was in a room about twenty feet square, and there were about ten
people present. They were foreign-looking men and I knew instinctively
that the majority of them were Russians. As the sack was whisked from
my head a man, whom I recognized as Missovitch, said:
“That is the man.”
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” I demanded.
“Sit down, Heine,” said an imperious voice.
Such an evening of surprises, for the man who spoke was none other
than the illustrious Captain Baron von Hazfeld!
“Herr Baron,” I stammered.
“Are you sure this is the man?” asked the Baron, turning to
Missovitch.
“Absolutely certain. I saw him take the bag.”
“Then,” said the Baron, “there will be no difficulty in recovering the
money. There was probably some mistake. Now, Heine,” he said, more
kindly than usual, “this gentleman,” pointing to a tall man with a red
beard, who was scowling at me, “is Herr Loski.”
I bowed.
“I am delighted to meet you,” I said.
“You were instructed by me last Thursday week to wait at a station,”
said the Baron, “you were told to meet a messenger who was bringing a
bag of forged notes--I can speak freely before you, gentlemen. That
man arrived,” he went on, turning to me, “but you were not there to
meet him.”
“Pardon me, Herr Baron,” I said with a smile, “I not only met him
but----”
“Wait,” said the Baron, “the man you met was one of M. Loski’s
companions, who brought £65,000 to this country which had been stolen
from the Bank of Petrograd. When I say stolen I should say,” he said,
with a bow to Herr Loski, “expropriated. Knowing that the English
agent of the bank, M. Alexis Ivanoff, had procured a police warrant to
arrest M. Loski, should the money be found in his possession, Herr
Loski employed another gentleman to take the bag direct to M.
Missovitch. Unfortunately he mistook you for M. Missovitch, and the
bag containing £65,000 (English) passed into your possession. Where
is the money?”
The room was swimming around me. It seemed like a horrible dream. For
two weeks I had been engaged in getting rid of that money. I had
bought impossible things which I had never handled. I had gambled
thousands on horses which could never win, and finally I had
deliberately tempted a thief to steal it.
“Where is that money?” said the Baron again.
I drew myself erect.
“It is spent,” I said.
When silence fell again, when everybody had stopped talking and crying
and waving their hands, the Baron spoke.
“You know Major Haynes?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You went to his club the night before you left London?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“You are accused of having betrayed the secrets of our Department.”
“Whoever accuses me of that,” I cried indignantly, “is a liar.”
“I accuse you,” thundered the Baron.
“Then you are a liar,” I said.
God knows how I mustered up the courage to speak so to one so
illustrious, but I did this in my virtuous innocence. The Baron turned
to the man called Loski.
“My Government will see that you are repaid,” he said; “as to this
traitor, I think, gentlemen, for your own protection there is only one
thing to be done. This man was an agent of ours, but is no longer in
our service. He is in communication with the English Intelligence
Department, and what that means to us all you know.”
The man called Missovitch bent forward eagerly and spoke in a low tone
and the Baron von Hazfeld nodded. Missovitch said something in Russian
and I was instantly seized and thrown into a chair, my hands pulled
behind and handcuffed. Missovitch took off his coat and took from his
pocket a red cord which I watched with a fascinated stare.
I remember it looked like one of those bell-pulls you see in old
English houses without the tassel. He stepped behind me and I knew,
rather than saw, that he was making a slip-knot.
In those few ghastly moments I could not think clearly. I could not
pray, I could not scream. I could only sit open-mouthed staring at the
sneering face of one who called himself a German and yet could watch a
fellow-countryman die at the hands of the barbarian.
“If you have anything to say, Heine, now is your time,” said the
Baron.
I drew a long breath.
“I hope that Germany is beaten,” I said, “and that swine like you will
black the boots of the Englishmen.”
I had hardly finished speaking before the cord was pulled round my
neck. I felt the foot of Missovitch on the back of the chair behind me
as he prepared to take his grip. From where I sat I could see the
door, the key within it, and I could have sworn that I saw the key
turning as though some invisible hand on the outside was gripping its
end.
The cord tightened with a jerk, strangling the cry in my throat. I
felt a tremendous pressure of blood, a horrible, unbearable sense of
suffocation, and then:
“Hands up, everybody!”
The cord relaxed. I stared at the doorway and there stood Major
Haynes, revolver in hand, and behind him I saw the red caps of the
military police.
For a fortnight I lay prostrate in bed and saw nobody but Major
Haynes, who visited me occasionally.
He told me he had secured me a passport and a berth to America, and
also informed me that the ship was one of a convoy. When I was up and
well, and two days before I left, he came to see me.
“You’re going back to America, Heine, and the American police have
been informed of your little weakness. But you are going to have a
square deal and, unless you misbehave yourself, you will not be
interfered with.”
“I have had enough, Major Haynes,” I said, “I’m through.”
He nodded.
“I don’t think you know the thing you have been risking, Heine.” For
the first time he spoke very seriously, without any of that
facetiousness which was his peculiar _métier_. “You think it is an
exciting game and a clever game, but I am going to guarantee that you
will never engage in espionage work again. I am going to send you back
to the United States cured. I want you to stay the night at an hotel.
I am going to get you up very early to-morrow morning. Don’t be
afraid, I am not going to ask you to do anything for me,” he smiled.
“You are ready for the voyage?”
“Yes, Major Haynes,” I said.
“The boat train leaves at ten o’clock to-morrow morning,” he said,
“but I shall want to see you before that; in fact, I shall call at
your hotel at five o’clock.”
I did not know what he was driving at, but I made no objection. As how
could I? With my passport and steamboat ticket in my pocket, and my
trunk packed, I arrived at the little city hotel which he had chosen,
and at five o’clock on the following morning I was awakened and found
him standing beside my bed.
I got up and dressed, had a cup of coffee and some biscuits, and
leaving my bag behind, I went out with him into the deserted streets.