The adventures of Heine
when I felt the door give. All my nerves were on edge. Things were
going much too easy and I pulled my gun and slipped down the safety
catch.
Now, as I pushed the door gently open I could have sworn I saw the
faint reflection of a light, such a reflection as you would expect
from the varnished matchboard-lining to the office, if some person had
incautiously shown a light for a second. I hesitated on the threshold.
The office was in darkness. There was no sound, no sign, and I thought
that the light I saw must have been a reflection from one of the
street lamps on the other side of the canal, until I remembered that
the fog was quite thick enough to veil any of the outside lights. I
stepped forward cautiously toward the safe, felt for and found the
handle, and had replaced my pistol in my jacket pocket and was feeling
for my electric lamp, when Klein whispered fiercely in my ear:
“_There’s someone in the room!_”
Almost as he spoke we heard a quick rustle and swish, and a figure
dimly seen flashed across the room and through the door. At that
moment I felt the safe-door swing back in my grasp, and I realized
that we had come too late.
I was out of the office in a trice, flashed my lamp along the
corridor, and caught just a glimpse of a woman’s figure as it
disappeared through the door at the other end. She fled across the
yard, we behind her, and disappeared in the gloom. There was no time
to search for her. We had to consider ourselves. We scurried down the
ladder and heard the hoarse challenge of the watchman. By this time we
were in mid-stream and paddling furiously. It was too dangerous to
keep to the canal, and at the first opportunity we found a landing
place and reached a street, an ill-favoured, dingy slum, which suited
our purpose very well.
Ten minutes rapid walking brought us to one of the main thoroughfares
where we found a taxi-cab, and in the brief space of time between this
discovery and our arrival at the hotel, I gave my instructions to
Klein.
“She is evidently a member of the secret police,” I said, “and she got
to know that we were after the specifications to-night and forestalled
us. I think Manchester is a little too hot for you and me, Klein, and
we will fade away.”
We dismissed the cab at the hotel and walked into the brightly-lighted
vestibule, and came face to face with Miss Harrymore!
There was no doubt in my mind. There she stood, her face flushed with
triumph. I could see the mud on her shoes, I recognized the fur-edged
coat, and I realized my danger. She probably had a motor-boat waiting
for her and had taken the short-cut back to the hotel in time to
confront and denounce us.
In that moment all the latent genius of our race came to the surface.
We Germans make our decisions quickly, boldly. With such rapidity did
I act that I even surprised myself. Extending my forefinger I pointed
at Miss Harrymore.
“This woman,” I said, “is a German spy. She has in her possession
certain specifications and plans of a new and secret weapon.”
I said this in a loud voice and a quiet-looking man who had been
sitting reading dropped his paper and springing up edged his way
through the little crowd which had collected about us. I saw the girl
go pale. I knew that she could not betray herself as a secret agent
and that, found in possession of the plans, she would not be able to
explain how she came by them.
The quiet-looking man moved to her side and caught her arm. “I am
Inspector Lovell, of the Manchester Detective Department,” he said,
“and on this gentleman’s accusation I shall take you to the Central
Police Station.”
He told us to follow, and led Miss Harrymore out of the hotel. I gave
a sign to Klein, and we followed, but not to the station.
Our big Mercédès was waiting round the corner and dawn found me in
London, so changed in appearance that I doubt if the admirable
Inspector Lovell would have recognized the man who had trapped Miss
Harrymore.
So far this comedy goes and now comes the tragedy. I found in London,
waiting for me, a code message from Berlin.
“Reference Polygay bomb. Fraulein von Liebmann of the Secret Service
is in Manchester under the name of Miss Harrymore. She has love affair
with manager and reports she can secure specifications. Assist her all
you can. Instruct her in new code.”
It was signed by the High Chief of the Admiralty Intelligence. For an
hour I was prostrate and then I coded my reply to Admiralty, Potsdam.
“In spite my efforts, Fraulein von Liebmann arrested in possession of
specifications, which she carried against my wishes.”
I think it was an admirable explanation. As for the fraulein, it will
be many years before she will be able to supply her personal
narrative!
CHAPTER IV.
THE AFFAIR OF MISTER HAYNES
In February, 1915, there occurred an event which I cannot pretend
did not give me a certain amount of satisfaction, tragic and
ever-to-be regretted as that event proved. I had constantly urged both
upon the naval and military Intelligence Departments in Berlin that
the work in England should be left entirely in my hands, and that I
should not be badgered or embarrassed by amateurs being sent to
operate in my territory, independent of my control and very often
without my being acquainted with their presence or purpose.
I have already shown how lamentable can be the results if the
illustrious Excellencies who direct our operations (in a manner, I
hasten to add, which reflects the greatest credit to themselves, and
brings the greatest profit to the Fatherland) take the work out of the
hands of the skilled and intimately-understanding officials who have
made Great Britain a life-long study, who appreciate the psychology,
and have an insight into the habits and customs of the people whom
Paoli (and not Napoleon) described as “Sono Mercanti,” or “a nation of
shopkeepers.”
For I pride myself that I understand not only British character but
British institutions. I am deeply intimate with the political sects
and with the system of British journalism, and although the affair of
Mister Haynes may seem to dispose of this latter claim, yet I think my
friends, for whom this memoir is designed, will agree that the
circumstances in the case of Mister Haynes were unusual. The event I
refer to was the arrest of Herr Blaumberg, who was sent from America
without my knowledge to secure an accurate list--“accurate” mark
you!--of the warships which the British were laying down, especially
in reference to the super-X battleships which were destined to prove
Mr. Churchill’s happiest experiment.
Herr Blaumberg had no sooner landed than he was arrested. I received
an inquiry from Wilhelmstrasse which was the first information I had
of Herr Blaumberg’s foolish attempt to meddle in matters which he
obviously did not understand. The second intimation was the official
notice in the English papers:
“This morning a man, tried and convicted of espionage at the Central
Criminal Court, was executed in the Tower of London.”
This, I believe, was Herr Blaumberg, and in my note to my superiors I
could not refrain from urging the unwisdom of entrusting delicate and
important work to any but those tried and trusted officials, who were
acquainted with every move of the game and able not only to
circumvent, but to anticipate the action of the official police.
Of course, the people in Berlin very emphatically restated their old
parrot cry that there was a formidable secret service in existence and
they sent me a cock-and-bull story (as the British say), that Herr
Blaumberg had been shadowed from the moment he left America to the
moment he arrived in the Mersey; that all his documents had been
scientifically burgled and the fullest particulars of his mission had
been transmitted by wireless long before he had reached England.
Thus do incompetent bureaucrats excuse their own lack of foresight!
I was in London when the news came, firmly established in my rôle of
Chilian importer, and so well did I play my part, that I had secured
certain little Government orders and was even assisted by Government
officials, all unknowing, you may be sure, to the pursuit of my
investigations.
It was on the very day that I read this doleful news of Herr
Blaumberg’s sad end, that I made the acquaintance of Mister Haynes. I
saw him standing on the corner of Bouverie and Fleet Streets--a tall,
young, unshaven man, wearing pince-nez, and a very shabby suit. With
one quick, comprehensive glance I sized him up. The bundle of various
coloured pencils and the fountain-pen in his left-hand waistcoat
pocket, the absence of watch and chain, the hat carelessly balanced on
the back of his head, the hands thrust into his trousers pockets, the
drooping cigarette and the listless eyes, which watched the traffic
passing up and down, told me as plainly as though his biography had
been handed to me, all the history I wished to know.
His linen was not clean, his collar was two or three days old, his
boots were down at heel.
With that decision which has always marked my actions I walked up to
him with a smile.
“I think I have met you before, have I not?” I said.
He turned his head and looked at me from the crown of my hat to the
soles of my boots.
“I daresay,” he said.
“Come and have a drink,” said I briskly, and he obeyed with alacrity.
We turned into the private bar of a public house, ordered our drinks
and withdrew to a little round table and a couple of chairs in a
corner of the saloon bar.
“I don’t remember your name,” said I, “but I know you are a newspaper
man and if I remember rightly you have not had a great deal of luck
lately?”
“You have a good memory,” he said, “and if mine was as good I could
tell you your name, your age, the place of your birth and the state of
your banking account, but, unfortunately, my memory is a little
groggy.”
He lifted his drink with a shaking hand. I saw the whole story.
Here was what is commonly called in England, a “liner,” or a
free-lance, a man not attached to any newspaper but contributing
whatever stories, interviews or articles that come his way. They are
not so common in Fleet Street as they used to be when I first came to
London. The great news agencies have killed them. The new system of
journalism has passed them by. But occasionally you meet a man with
that hungry, hard-up look, with a grievance against the world, and a
pretty taste in whisky-and-soda, and this was such a one.
Under the genial influence of a second drink he confirmed my
diagnosis. He had a grievance against all the papers and admitted that
he was on the black-list of three or four for sending in contributions
which were not exactly true.
I asked him why he had not enlisted and his lips curved in a sneer. He
said he was an Irishman, and that he hated England anyway, and that he
hated the army more poisonously than he hated anything else. He hated
the war, he hated the Northworths and a long string of other newspaper
proprietors, but most of all he hated Fleet Street, its editors,
sub-editors, reporters, advertisement managers; in fact, his hatred
extended to the very newsboys on the streets.
This was the man for my money. I explained to him that in addition to
being a Chilian importer I was running a Chinese news agency to
collect and distribute news pertaining or of interest to Europeans in
China, and when I told him that I was short of a reporter for news
collection and offered him £6 a week, he nearly jumped into the air
with delight.
In engaging him I was putting into practice a plan which I had long
formed. Here was an opportunity for collecting news without arousing
suspicion. A newspaper reporter can ask questions which none of my