The adventures of Heine
because Manchester people are very suspicious, almost as distrustful
as the Scotch, and I wondered what inducement there was to cause this
young man to contract so sudden a friendship. They used to dine
occasionally and they went to the theatre together once a week, but
there was no evidence that the friendship was a very warm one. Miss
Harrymore had been a dancer; but apparently had retired from the
stage--at least that was the story which her maid told Posser, who
investigated the matter.
I smoked many cigars over this friendship and formed certain
conclusions, especially after I had learnt that on the nights Mr.
Tyson was working late the lady had driven down to the factory in her
car, had spent some little time in the manager’s office, and had
driven that gentleman to supper.
I have already told you of my disbelief in the existence of a secret
service in England, but I had modified that view after the experience
of my poor friend Koos, who was brought to an untimely end through the
artfulness of a chit of a girl.
Naturally I was suspicious of beautiful ladies who were on terms of
furtive friendship with Government officials--and to all intents and
purposes Tyson was a Government official--and I kept my eyes
“skinned,” as they say in England.
The business of the bomb was worrying me more than I cared to confess
to my assistants. A third message had come through from Berlin, even
more urgent than the last, and one paragraph of that message
considerably disturbed me.
It ran:
“Whilst we expect you to secure these plans we are leaving nothing to
chance. We hope, however, that the credit for securing them will fall
to you.”
I understood this significant passage. It meant that Berlin was
sending independent agents to England to try their luck, and I was
determined to justify myself in the eyes of the Fatherland.
I sent for Posser and Klein to come to my room and I outlined my views
and gave my final instructions. Posser gave me encouraging news. He
told me that Bluer had secured some information of the greatest
importance. It appears that the Government had sent for a rough
drawing of the bomb, and that one of the engineers was coming next
night to make the drawing and a copy of the secret specification, and
that the original was kept in a safe in the records office. The
combination safe opened to the word “Track” and the specification
would be found in No. 3 drawer, the lock of which could be picked.
So far, so good, but the situation was still desperate. It was as
clear as daylight that my chief difficulty was going to be, not to
circumvent the manager, but to get past the guard which the secret
service had set up. It was then a struggle between Miss Harrymore and
Heine. Very well! Heine picks up the gauntlet with a clear mind and a
high confidence in his German genius.
Klein saw Bluer on the following afternoon and an unexpected
difficulty arose. Bluer, if you please, had discovered a conscience!
This renegade, this traitor to the Fatherland, this dirty Swabian
refused to go any farther in the matter!
“The English have always treated me well,” he told Klein; “my children
have been born in the country and I have friends here. I cannot help
you any more, Herr Klein. I should not only be a traitor to the
English, but a traitor to the Internationale, if I betrayed my
employers. You have the combination word--I can do no more.”
“Are you a German?” asked Klein sternly.
“Ja!” replied Bluer, “but I’m not a fool.”
“If you refuse your help,” said Klein, who was by now filled with holy
annoyance, “you are a traitor to your Kaiser and to your Fatherland.
The curses of unborn generations of Germans will be upon you. Every
German will shun you and spit upon your name, which shall be
‘accursed.’”
“Herr Klein,” said Bluer with emotion, “I think that anyway all the
world will spit upon the name of a German after this war is over.”
Klein threatened and argued, pleaded and raved, but all to no purpose.
“I have told you where you will find the specifications,” said Bluer
doggedly; “you have a plan of the factory--which is not guarded--and
you know the way to the records room. In telling you this I have done
more than I ought to have done. If you threaten me any more I will go
for the police and tell them all I know.”
Ingrate! Rascal! Black swine of Würtemberg!
I paced my room cursing the villain, and Klein stood by in respectful
silence as I “let off steam,” as the British say.
However, I soon mastered my rage and sat down to evolve a plan. We
Germans can meet all contingencies and adapt our minds to any
difficulty which may arise. I drew out the plan of the factory and
soon Klein and I were deep in the discussion of the alternative
scheme.
The factory was a straggling collection of buildings, enclosed on
three sides by high walls and on the fourth by a canal, alongside of
which ran a double-track railway siding. There were three gates and
two small wickets, none of which were practical for our purpose, since
there would be a night watchman at each, and, moreover, the records
office was a fairly long distance from all. This squat building
adjoined the main warehouse near the canal-siding and obviously it was
from the canal that we must make our entrance. We had learnt that the
wharf was patrolled by a watchman who had a little hut at the northern
end of the quay, to which it was his habit to retire between eleven
and twelve at night to make his coffee or tea, or whatever refreshment
he favoured, and we decided that this should be the hour for our
attempt.
Our plan was to paddle down the canal in a small collapsible canoe (an
advertisement of which Klein had seen), wait our opportunity and land.
With Klein’s equipment of keys and instruments we should have no
difficulty in forcing an entrance, and the rest would be easy.
When we had agreed upon our scheme, Klein went off to Chester to
purchase the boat, whilst I elaborated my plan for conveying the
specifications to Germany.
I was working away at this all the afternoon, telephoning to certain
garages, arranging routes and rendezvous, and reporting points,
newspaper advertisement codes, etc., and had almost finished my
organization work when the waiter brought me a card.
I took the paste-board from the salver and as I read the name I felt
myself grow pale. It was--
Miss Angela Harrymore.
Yes, my friends, I confess it, in that second of time I experienced
the gripping fear-panic which comes to such men as myself perhaps
twice in a lifetime.
Prince Bismarck said: “We Germans fear God and nothing else,” but the
Illustrious Highness was either a very religious man or he had never
engaged himself in espionage work in an enemy country in the days of
war; he had never looked into the cold and merciless eyes of a woman
enemy; he had never confronted the possibilities of a grey dawn and a
firing party…
“Show the lady up,” I said.
As soon as the waiter was gone, I took my Browning from my pocket,
examined it and slipped its blank barrel under my left armpit, the
butt concealed by the fold of my coat. Only thus can a danger-waiting
man be sure that he has his pistol ready for use.
The door opened and I rose to meet the lady. She was, as far as I
could judge, about twenty-six years of age. She was tall and willowy,
and perfectly gowned in some blue stuff which admirably suited her
fair complexion.
About her neck and shoulders was a Chinchilla wrap, which I valued at
£250, and beneath the white kid gloves of one hand I saw the bulge of
many rings. Her features were regular and aristocratic, her eyes blue
and steadfast, her hair of pale gold. She was a type one meets as
frequently in England as in Northern Germany or Denmark. In fine, the
first impression I had was that she was of my own race, an impression
helped very cleverly by her greeting.
“Good day, Herr Cannelli,” she said (Cannelli being the name I traded
under), and she spoke in faultless German.
But, O gracious lady, Heine was on guard!
At all times, I think, I am clever and alert; at some times I may be a
little too clever, but never am I caught napping.
I frowned, smiled, and shook my head.
“You are speaking German, are you not?” I asked in English. “I am
afraid I do not speak that language.”
It was her turn to smile.
“Come, come!” she rallied me, “you are not going to pretend with me,”
and she laid two slim fingers on her chin, the old sign--the pre-war
sign--by which one recognized a member of the Admiralty Secret
Service.
Aha! Gracious lady, thought I, would you try an old trick upon an old
wolf! Do you not know that all the spy-revealing signs and
make-knowing phrases had been changed on the outbreak of war? On
me--on Heine--will you try these subterfuges!
“I do not speak your language, madam,” I said, shaking my head;
“_harla usted Espanol_.”
I saw a shade of disappointment dim for a moment the brightness of her
eyes, then she laughed.
“I don’t know why I thought you spoke German,” she said coolly and
speaking in perfect English; “but somehow you reminded me of a man I
once knew in New York--a gentleman called by his friends, ‘Heine.’”
She was watching me closely, but I never so much as blinked.
“I am indeed fortunate, madame, even to resemble one whom you have
remembered,” I said; “but I have never been to New York except on one
occasion, and then only for a few hours.”
“Then I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she smiled, and her smile was a
radiance. “I saw you at dinner the other night and I was almost sure
that you were the friend of other days who had sung ‘Es stehen
unbeweglich.’”
I could have laughed! Again the old song and the old “code of
recognition”--a code which had been changed for six months.
“My dear lady,” I said gently, “I have never sung in my life.”
She was baffled and showed signs of distress. She stood biting her
lips and frowning into the fire until, recovering her self-possession,
she smiled, shrugged her shoulders and offered me her hand.
“I am afraid you must think I am very stupid,” she said frankly, “but
I could have sworn I knew you.”
I took her hand and conducted her to the corridor and to the lift, and
summoned Posser.
Briefly I retailed all that had happened.
“There is no doubt about it at all,” said Posser; “she came to trap
you. We must get out of Manchester to-night, and we must take with us
the specifications.”
At eleven o’clock that night we slipped down the canal, Klein at the
bow and myself at the stern.
Fortunately it was a dark night, with a thin fog, and we moved
silently and unchallenged to our destination. Klein had made a very
careful survey of the wharf and he guided the canoe to one of the big
supporting piles up which ran a steel-runged ladder.
Klein made a reconnaissance. Looking along the wharf, we could see the
little glass-windowed hut and the night-watchman standing before a
small fire, evidently boiling his kettle. We tied the canoe to the
ladder and moved noiselessly across the wharf.
The factory was in darkness, but we had no difficulty in discovering
the records office, a small, dark building thrown out as an annex to
the main machinery warehouse. To open the outer door was the work of a
few seconds. We entered and closed the door behind us and found
ourselves in a little wooden vestibule from which opened yet another
door. To my surprise the inner door was not locked but still ajar.
Down the centre of the building ran a corridor and from this various
doors led to offices. Our objective was the last on the left and
quietly we crept forward and reached the door. I gently turned the
handle in order to secure a grip and was inserting my skeleton key