“Have you brought my collars?”
“Step in,” I said.
The cabman had his instructions and turned toward the City.
To meet these escaping-prisoner cases I had taken a furnished flat in the Edgware Road. It was on the ground floor and had the advantage of having no porter, so that one could go in and out without being spied upon.
I opened the door of my flat and ushered my visitor in.
“Your name?” I demanded.
“Prinz,” he began.
“Highness,” said I quickly, “forgive my peremptory tone and please command me. I am entirely at your disposition. If I have been a little taciturn and quiet on the journey, and if I spoke to you a little sharply, pray pardon an over-tired servant of the Empire.”
“With pleasure,” he said.
He was a little, short man, who wore glasses.
“My name,” he said, “is Prinz, Karl Frederick Prinz. I am a Lieutenant of the 34th Selician Regiment.”
“Indeed,” I said a little coldly, “you led me to believe you were highly-born. Now what the devil do you mean by doing that?”
“It is not my fault, Mr. Heine, that you were deceived,” he said humbly.
“What do you expect me to do?” I asked angrily, for one cannot waste time on a reserve lieutenant and such-like cattle. “You ought not to have called me up at all,” I said, raising my voice; “it is abominable. Have I nothing better to do.”
He stopped me with a gesture.
“Pray do not excite yourself unduly, Mr. Heine,” he said; “for any trouble you may take, my father, the Colonial Secretary, will repay you.”
“The illustrious Doctor Prinz?” I said. “Are you his son?”
I stretched out my hand and gripped his.
“Welcome, a thousand welcomes! I know your Councillor of State father and his Excellency has frequently spoken to me of his son. Come, come,” I said jovially, “help yourself to the good Rhine wine, for it is not often that we are honoured by a visitor of your calibre, Herr Lieutenant.”
We drank a bottle together, and then he told me his plans. The difficulty of getting out of England is briefly to get out of England, to secure a place on board a ship is well-nigh impossible, unless you are vouched for by Foreign Office officials, whilst the punishment for stowing away is so heavy that few of the neutral captains care to take the risk of allowing their ships to go out of port, without conducting an independent search.
Herr Prinz, however, had received a message from his father by some secret cipher to the effect that four times each month a submarine would come in-shore off the Scottish coast. He was to reach a deserted part of the foreshore, flash a signal from an electric lamp and a boat would be put off to pick him up. This system would be put into operation the moment the Herr Doctor Councillor of State, Prinz, learnt from me that he was free.
“Content yourself, my dear lieutenant,” I said, “you are as good as in the Fatherland. I will notify your august parent, to whom I trust you will remember me forthwith.”
“I have already notified him and I desire that you should not communicate,” he said, so I took no further steps.
There was no difficulty in getting the young man to Scotland, and I ventured to take a little holiday and accompany him. After all, one should show a little attention to men who have fought and bled for one’s country, especially when they are nearly related to councillors of State who, if not noble, are exalted personages on the way to nobility.
I supplied the young man with passports and various documents to identify him, and left him (with £50 which I advanced out of my private purse) at an hotel in a small town not many miles from the west coast of Scotland, under the care of a good German head-waiter who promised to look after the lad. And there I thought I had heard the last of him, and he had gone out of my mind, until I received an urgent message from Scotland saying that the submarine had not come, and asking me for another £50.
I went straight up to Scotland and found the Herr Lieutenant living at the hotel and very weary.
“It is very strange, Heine, I have been at the appointed place every night, on the 7th, 14th, 21st and 28th, I have flashed my lamp and nothing has happened.”
He told me he had waited on one occasion for four hours on the beach; on another he waited till daybreak.
“It is very extraordinary,” I said. “When you fixed this scheme with His Excellency the Councillor of State, Doctor Prinz, was it by writing?”
“By secret cipher, and what is more, the message was written in secret ink.”
“Did it reach you without having been opened?”
“Yes,” replied the Herr Lieutenant; “I have one of the letters in my pocket now.”
He took the letter and opened it. Apparently it was an innocent letter such as an affectionate father might write to his prisoner son.
“Now wait,” said the young officer. He sent for a glass of milk and immersed the letter, then held it before the fire to dry.
There instantly appeared string after string of words which were meaningless to me, apparently written in brown ink.
“I carry the code in my head,” he said.
I looked at the envelope, carrying it to the light. I noticed that the stamp and the postmark had been torn off and inwardly I praised the young man for his discretion. The flap was stuck down, though it had of course been cut at the top where the letter was taken out, and to all intents it had not been tampered with. I examined it with a magnifying glass, however, and saw that suspicious gum line which can always be seen in a letter that has been opened and surreptitiously closed.
“This envelope has been steamed,” I said, “the letter has been read, replaced, fastened down by a kind of spirit gum which the censors use, and smoothed with a hot iron.”
“How do you know?” he asked in alarm.
“I have opened too many myself,” said I, with a smile, “not to recognize the signs.”
“But supposing they had brought up the secret writing,” he said, “they could not understand the code.”
I thought for a moment and presently I said:
“There is only one person in the world who can read that code and that person is a woman. More than that, Herr Lieutenant,” I added proudly, “that woman is the dearest friend I have in the world, Miss Kathleen O’Mara of Chicago, U.S.A.”
And I told him something of this delightful girl’s history, of how her father had been a Fenian and how she was bitterly anti-English. She had taken up codes and ciphers as a hobby, and she had come to be so expert that you were always reading in the Chicago papers articles either written by her or about her. There was not a cryptograph that ever appeared in the agony column of a London newspaper that she couldn’t discover.
“You said her name was O’Mara,” said the Herr Lieutenant thoughtfully; “is she a tall, slim girl, with dark hair and blue eyes?”
It was my turn to be amazed.
“Herr Lieutenant,” I said, “even your illustrious father could not have described her more accurately.”
“And is her husband a tallish man with bristling black eyebrows and fierce black moustache?”
I drew myself up stiffly.
“The lady’s husband, Herr Lieutenant, you see before you in prospect. She is unmarried.”
He looked at me and shook his head.
“Well, then, it is not the same lady. This was a Mrs. Hagan, the wife of Captain Hagan of the United States Secret Service.”
I stepped back and clasped my brows. Now I remembered the man! Hagan from Washington! And she had married him. By heavens! When I think of the depth of woman’s duplicity I could despise the race. She, the Irish patriot, the strafer of England, to send that man to me in the hope that I should commit myself! Thou perfidious betrayer of one who entertained for thee naught but the tenderest, holiest feelings! Oh, what a low woman!
“I see it all now, Herr Lieutenant,” I said, “this woman was brought down to your camp to unravel your cipher. When did you receive it?”
He thought a moment.
“The night she left.”
“Now you understand,” I cried passionately, “no wonder you have waited in vain upon the beach! No wonder the four submarines disappeared! No wonder you were allowed to remain at liberty! These cursed, treacherous British! Was there ever a nation that more deserved to be obliterated?”
I made my plans quickly, as is my wont. Before leaving that night I gave the Herr Lieutenant another £50, making £100 he had received since his escape.
I myself was in considerable danger and if Hagan suspected me, the traitorous Kathleen knew me. I sent a man especially to Dublin and discovered that they were staying at an hotel in Sackville Street and that so far from Hagan having arrived recently, both he and his wife had been in Dublin for six months and they were undoubtedly in the pay of the British Government.
Of the events which occurred on Easter Monday in Dublin, I do not propose to speak. I sent very full reports to the Government, which may be read with profit by any who have the entrée to the archives in Wilhelmstrasse.
Two days after the rebellion started I saw Hagan and his wife in Regent Street, they were looking in the window of a jeweller’s shop. With me to think is to act. I stepped up to her and offered her my hand.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Hagan,” I said.
“Sure, ’tis the little Dutchman, Mr. Heine,” she smiled. “You know my husband?”
“I have that pleasure.” I bowed stiffly and hid my emotions behind an inscrutable face.
“And what are you doing in an enemy’s country?” asked Kathleen innocently.
“Enemy!” I laughed bitterly. “There was a time, madam, when there was only one enemy for the honorary secretary of a German-Gaelic club and that was—England!”
“There is only one enemy for me now,” she said, gripping her husband’s arm foolishly, “and that is Theo’s enemy. Sure, a wild young girl never knows her own mind, Mr. Heine, and she runs this way and that way with divil an idea what she is seeking. I guess I was seeking Theo, and now I’ve found him I have stopped hustling.”
We exchanged a few words. I strolled with them to Piccadilly Circus and they accepted my invitation to lunch at Prince’s.
“By the way,” I said in the midst of the meal, “do you still keep up your cryptograph investigations?”
I thought I saw a little look pass between her and her husband and then she smiled.
“Oh, yes,” she said, she may have said “sure” (I will not swear as to the exact words of any dialogue which I report), “oh, yes, faith it’s highly amusing.”
“And profitable, too, I suppose,” I said carelessly, helping myself to some celery.
“Faith, it is that,” she said; “many is the laugh I have had going through silly ciphers that come from Germany—bad cess to the place, and from Scotland too,” she said.
You observe she was shameless! There was no flush of guilt, no faltering, no lowering of eyes. She stood detected, blatantly confessed, an agent of the English!
“When Theo came over to look after the American crooks in London I came with him,” she said, “that is how I got to know those boys at Scotland Yard, and I sort of drifted into the work and took to it like a duck to water.”
My hand was trembling, I could not help it. Righteous indignation shook me from head to foot. I could have boxed her ears, but for my German chivalry and the presence of her husband, who might have been distressed at such a display of emotion, though I am sure he would have agreed with me had he only known the amount of money I had spent on that frail creature in flowers and theatre tickets and candy, to say nothing of postage stamps.
“They would amuse you, Heine,” she went on, “especially the queer things they say about you. There was a fellow the other day got a letter, phwat was the boy’s name, Theo?”
“Prinz,” said her husband, who hitherto had not spoken a word.
“Sure that was his name,” said the girl, “ ’twas from his old dub of a father and written in a very simple cipher.”
“A child could have read it,” agreed her husband, “and it was all about you,” he nodded to me.
“It said go and see Heine,” said the girl. “Tell him your father’s a prince, and if you haven’t got the pluck to do that, say you are the son of Colonial Officer Prinz, and he will do anything for you. There was a long bit about the lie he had to tell you. About submarines going up to Scotland to fetch him. When we told the commandant he let the boy go, he was safe. He was arrested yesterday and his father has been interned.”
“His father interned?” I gasped; “who was his father?”
Kathleen looked at her husband and Hagan spoke.
“He was the head-waiter at the hotel where the boy was staying,” he said, “ ’twas his way of getting the lad a vacation.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE JERMYN CREDIT BANK
Theories and lofty idealism have ever been qualities identified with Germanism. We Germans despise duplicity and double dealing. In our bluff, hearty way, we are impatient with the jiggling nonsense of diplomacy and the shining sword of Michael cuts through the cringing wall of our enemies, opening the way to the rich streams of kultur which are dammed in ever-increasing volume by the banks which the envy, barbarism, and frivolity of our enemies erect.
There is a saying in my country: “Trust an Englishman, admire a Frenchman, learn from a Russian, but never argue with an American.” I think it is the deceit of the English race, the mean treachery amounting to sneakiness which so appals we Germans.
I have previously related a certain adventure with a person called Haynes who insinuated himself into my office disguised as a journalist. I learnt that he was a member of the ridiculous secret service which the English had improvised during the war and with which it hoped to counteract the well-organized and foreseeing sagacity of our bureau. I can prove that this same Haynes, an English gentleman forsooth, was no better than an associate of common blackguards, ruffians, and cutpurses of the worst description.
Such is English gentlemanliness!
What a scandal there would be revealed if on a certain day in 1916, I could have walked into this man’s club where he sat with the pampered aristocracy of England and have denounced him!
“Behold!” I would say, “a man who is little better than a common cad of the golf links, and I can prove every word, gentlemen of the British aristocracy!”
How sensational! But, alas! I had higher game than Mr. Haynes. I had the interest and the future of the Fatherland to consider and these matters were of infinitely greater importance than a thousand Haynes.
You must know that when I speak of the “well-organized and far-seeing sagacity” of the German Intelligence Service, I am not in any way exaggerating. For how many years had we been preparing for this most gigantic and world-shocking conflict? How minutely were laid the plans of the Intelligence Department! With what care and thoroughness and brainy preparation did we patiently fashion the pieces of the game!
When I came to England I took charge, as I think I have explained before, of the hundred and one departments which were in some way or other associated with Intelligence. My task was to co-ordinate the whole of the common service of Deutschstrum, to gather up all the strings in my own fingers and to pull them each to serve the higher purpose. One of the most important branches of our work had been inaugurated ten years before I came to England, and I think if you spent the whole of those ten years guessing you would not divine how the business which had been established was to serve Germany in her hour of need.
Perhaps you have noticed, you who have been to London, a modest, yet substantial, building in Jermyn Street, which is known as the Jermyn Credit Bank. It is, or was, a very unpretentious and serious building with a modest facia and a small but imposing interior. If you had not seen the place you would not fail to have seen the advertisements of the bank which ran consistently in most of the English papers.
The advertisement was as follows:
Gentlemen of position, officers of both services and officials of the British or Indian Civil Service may arrange loans on note of hand with the Jermyn Credit Bank. No security required. Interest 7 per cent. per annum. Apply by letter, which will be treated in the strictest confidence, to the Secretary, Jermyn Credit Bank, 642, Jermyn Street, St. James.
There was nothing flamboyant about the advertisement any more than there was about the building. The advertisement occupied a space of two inches in most of the newspapers, but generally in the more respectable and conservative of newspapers. Those who called by appointment were treated with the greatest courtesy. They were ushered into the luxurious room of the manager, the needs of the client were discussed, the question of security delicately touched upon—there is always some security to be had even though the advertisement made a point that none was required—and loans were arranged, very often for considerable amounts.
The bank was very popular with officers of the army and navy. Men who found themselves in a tight corner blessed the name of the Jermyn Credit Bank. If, when their bills became due, there was any difficulty about payment there was certainly no difficulty about renewing the document on a very reasonable basis.
Sometimes, of course, it happened that the bank manager, a polite and charming gentleman who was, alas! killed on the western front by the treacherous English, could not, with all the best will in the world, oblige the client. Needy professional men, doctors, lawyers and unimportant journalists would learn that even with their security the golden coffers of the Credit Bank remained tightly closed. But to any officer, especially to an officer who had the magic letters P.S.C. after his name, or any head of a civil department or any naval gentleman, who had won the slightest distinction and promotion in his profession, might be assured that if not the whole, at least part of his necessities were met.
The business grew to an extraordinary extent. One officer would introduce another. Mr. Rostenberg, the manager, would occasionally give little dinner parties, to which he would invite one of his more exalted clients, on the understanding that he would bring two or three friends.
I cannot say that the business was particularly prosperous from our point of view, but there were singularly few bad debts, and I do not suppose it cost the Fatherland more than £10,000 a year to secure an intimate financial history of every officer serving in the army, plus a pull over such of the bank’s clients as were in its debt. For men who borrow money are very grateful and a grateful man is talkative, especially if conversation is assisted by a little Veuve Clicquot and a chic dinner, and what is more natural than a man should talk about his brother officers and their financial positions?
The bank had the reputation—so valuable—that it never dunned its clients or brought an action against even the most backward and unfaithful amongst them, and such a reputation helped considerably when war broke out and Mr. Rostenberg was called upon by his directors to resign immediately owing to his German origin and his place was taken by Mr. Mathew Ritten, a neutral gentleman of great integrity.
As the English army increased so increased the business of the bank, for young officers are impecunious all the world over. I am not going to say what steps were taken to secure information. This, however, I am willing to confess, that much news came to me which, otherwise, I should not have heard, for Mr. Ritten gave little dinners and went to clubs and met many men who were glad to talk to one who was so enthusiastically an anti-German, and I, Heine, sitting in my little Fleet Street office would receive short notes in the code and would learn that the 10th Blankshires and the division to which the 10th Blankshires were attached were being withdrawn to General Reserve, and the 19th Wessex were training for attack behind the lines and being taught by means of models the topography of the country to the east of Lens.
For myself, I never went to the bank. If you had told me of its existence I should have expressed surprise and wonder. I saw the advertisements as everybody else saw them, but to me, Mr. Ritten was a name and nothing more. We Germans have the reputation of devoting too much attention to insignificant details, but let me tell you, my friends, that the might of Germany was built upon details, expanded on details, and came to its highest and most world-defying decision in August, 1914, upon the faith which we had in the detailed plan.
Though I despised the English Secret Service, though I could shrug my shoulders and snap my fingers at these amateurs, I was too much of a German to rush bull-headed into danger. Realizing that Mister, or Major, Haynes, was a man of duplicity and low cunning, I purposely avoided associating myself in the slightest degree with the Jermyn Credit Bank, though it was originally the idea of those who sent me to England, that I should appear in London in the capacity of manager of that bank.
Happily, I was too shrewd a fellow to agree to such stupidity. There is a certain bat-eyed ignorance about the officials who direct the Intelligence in Berlin, which is deplorable and incomprehensible. That they need new blood at Headquarters, is acknowledged all over the world. If they had had a man there with a knowledge of England and America, a man who himself had carried out difficult and dangerous tasks, and who, by reason of his long service in the department, was well entitled to greater promotion than that which was grudgingly given to him: if, in fact, they had such a man as I, many of the mistakes which disfigured the administration during the years of war would have been avoided.
They chose for me the most incompetent of helpers. They sent me all sorts of impossible assistants, with whom I would not associate my name and my proud record. They foisted upon me unskilful enthusiasts who were often sent to England without any notification coming to me, and these, in most cases, were detected and suffered at the hands of the law. Do not think that I have any axe to grind. I am only concerned with the welfare of the Fatherland, but there were moments when even I, faithful servant and obedient subordinate of higher authorities, “kicked myself against the pricks,” as the English say, at the absurd lack of comprehension and seriousness which was shown.
One afternoon I had returned from the country, where I had been superintending the erection of a temporary wireless plan, when my office-boy informed me that a man was waiting to see me. I found him sitting on the edge of the table, smoking the stump of a cigar. He was a tall man, rather broad, and by the fact that he was wearing his hat in my office, and that the room was filled with the rank smell of tobacco, I gathered that he was an American of the lowest class. He was dressed expensively but loudly. He wore a great bunch of seals which dangled from a broad silk ribbon, and had two diamond rings upon the little finger of his right hand. He nodded as I came in, but did not attempt either to take off his hat or to stand on his feet. For the moment I did not recognize him.
“May I ask to what I owe the honour of this visit?” I demanded politely.
“Cut all that out, Heine,” he said coarsely. “Why, don’t you recognize your old friend, Big Jim?”
“Don’t call me Heine,” I said hastily.
I recognized the man at once as one of the private detective staff of the Hamburg-American line. It had been my duty to keep an eye upon undesirable characters, and Big Jim Riley was as well known to New York as he was to London as a “con.” man. He used to work the boats of the Hamburg-American line in the days before the war, and for some time was one of a gang of crooks that spent their lives crossing and re-crossing the Atlantic.
Though we had many complaints about the man, he had too big a pull in New York for us to interfere with him. I had lived with Big Jim and his gang in that spirit of camaraderie and tolerance which typifies the attitude of a shrewd German detective to the criminal classes.
“Why, so it is,” I said heartily, “but you must not call me Heine, Jim.”
“Ain’t you a Dutchman?” he said.
“I never was a German!” I doubt whether he saw the subtle correction. “I am a Chilian and I am happy to say that I hate the Germans and all their work.”
Big Jim’s eyes opened wide.
“Well, now, if that don’t beat the band,” he said, “so that’s your name, is it?”
He pointed to the name that was painted on the glass panel of the door, and I nodded.
“Well,” he said, “I guess those people in New York have made some mistake. Pretzl told me I was to come along and report to you and that you might put some good work in my way. I don’t care what it is,” he said, swinging his legs and puffing away at his cigar, “anything short of a business that will send me to the Chair is good enough for me.”
“My dear Jim,” I said mildly. “I am afraid Herr Pretzl is under altogether a wrong impression.” How I cursed that interfering swine von Pretzl who had placed my life and freedom in the hands of a common confidence man! I have frequently warned von Papen that Pretzl was an old woman and a fool. How much was I justified!
“See here, Heine,” said Jim, speaking with great earnestness, “I want some kinder job. There ain’t any suckers left in the world—I guess they’re all gone to war. There’s nothing crossing the Atlantic now but Dago acrobats on their way to join up with the Alpinis, and they’re wrapped up so in life-savin’ suits that they couldn’t get at their wad even if they wanted to give it to you. Them and feeble-minded old men and women are all the passengers there are—and women as you know are meaner than hell when it comes to a show-down of real money. I’ve been across three times dodging submarines and mines and all I could raise was a game of auction bridge at ten cents a hundred. Now you know the ropes here. Put me wise to a few.”
I thought rapidly. He might be a useful man. Then again he might be a source of grave danger. A man of that character would not come to England without the British police force being informed and probably he was shadowed. In the circumstances I rejected any offer of personal help, but I gave him the address of two or three gambling clubs and promised to call on the ’phone a good friend of mine who was the proprietor of the largest. He cheered up when I told him this.
“If there is money to be made,” he said, “I am after it. Some of these young officers have got plenty of money, you say.”
“Some of them are worth millions,” I said solemnly.
He shook hands heartily and I was glad to see the back of him. I watched through the window his departure. There was a man standing on the other side of the road, apparently watching the traffic, but as soon as Jim made his appearance and turned westward the idler turned too. Of course he was watched. The imbecility of sending such a man to me with all the interests I represented!
I was in despair, but pulling myself together I put on my hat and going out into the street hailed a cab and was driven off to my club, where I told an amusing story to a few of the members who were loafing in the smoke-room about this confidence man who had come to me with a letter of introduction. I felt sure that somebody would repeat the story, and in this I was not mistaken.
I heard no more of Big Jim, though I saw him one night at dinner at the Ritz-Carlton, and from his prosperous appearance I gathered that he was not in any immediate want. My friend, to whom I had given him an introduction, told me that Jim had cleaned up a lot of money one night at the gaming club, that he was friendly with a number of officers, and that he had become persona grata at a certain Bohemian club, the members of which are mostly of the theatrical profession. I remembered, when this was told me, that Big Jim, before he began his nefarious career, had been an actor, if you can dignify with such a name one who travelled one-night stands with a third-rate burlesque company, and he was alternately comedian and baggage man.
What I expected, and what did not occur, was a visit from the police in regard to Big Jim. For this I was prepared, but apparently the story I told at the club must have been repeated in the proper quarters, as I intended it should be, and nobody questioned me as to my acquaintance with this undesirable American.
Whatever place Big Jim may have occupied in my mind was dispelled by a piece of news which came to me one morning whilst I was in my bath—it was Friday, that being the day I invariably bathe—which was of so remarkable a character, and its possibilities so far-reaching, that nothing else occupied my thoughts.
My servant knocked at the door and told me that there was an urgent message awaiting me from “Mr. Thompson.” Now “Mr. Thompson” was the telephone name for Mr. Ritten, and dressing myself hastily in my bath-wrap I hurried to the room I used as a study, knowing that Ritten would not call me at that unearthly hour unless something important was afoot or unless he had secured some information of an unusual character.
“It is I, Thompson,” said the voice, “can I see you? It is most important.”
“My dear Thompson,” I said testily, “you know very well that it is impossible that we should meet.”
“But I must see you,” he said, “it is a matter of the first importance. I cannot communicate over the telephone.”
“Come then at once,” I said, “bringing some documents which would excuse your presence.”
In ten minutes the bell of my flat rang, and Mr. Ritten was ushered in. He was a suave, gentlemanly man, who was, I believe, well born in his own country. With a preliminary apology for troubling me, which I coldly dismissed, he laid before me the object of his visit.
“I have had a request for a loan of £20,000 for seven days,” he said.
“Twenty thousand pounds!” I was surprised at the largeness of the sum. “That is an enormous amount. Who asks for it?”
“General Sir Stanley Magward!”
I whistled.
“Sir Stanley Magward!”
This was indeed a remarkable request. This general, as everybody knows, commands one of the English armies. He is a famous strategist, and marked for further promotion.
“Here is the letter. It arrived this morning,” said Ritten, and passed me across a sheet of note-paper, which bore at the top the inscription:
“Headquarters of the 9th Army.”
The letter was brief and peremptory:
“Dear Sirs,
“I am in need of £20,000 to pay off a mortgage which falls due on my Somerset property this week. My brother-in-law, Mr. Hiram S. Carter, the well-known railroad magnate of America, is on the ocean homeward-bound, and I cannot, therefore, get in touch with him. Upon his arrival the debt will be liquidated. I agree to pay a sum equivalent to 10 per cent. per annum for the accommodation. I apply to you because I have no desire to let my banker into the secret of my embarrassment. I shall be in London the day after to-morrow, on short leave. A note delivered to the Senior Army Club will find me.”
“Well?” said Ritten, when I pushed the letter back to him.
“By all means let him have the money,” I said.
“You authorize it?”
“Certainly,” I replied.
“I have made inquiries,” said Ritten, “his brother-in-law is on the homeward trip, but the date of his arrival is rather uncertain. The mortgaged property is Penton Close, and the mortgagees are the London and Manchester Bank.”
I nodded.
“That explains why he does not wish to bother his bankers,” I said. “Send a note to the Senior Army Club and have the money ready for the General—this may mean a lot to us. It is the kind of connection that would be very useful.”
Well might I feel elated. That an army commander should place himself in the hands of money-lenders, and such money-lenders, was distinctly a feather in my cap. It would not be well for my Lord Magward that the mighty War Office should know one of their trusted generals was borrowing money. On the other hand, it might be well for the Jermyn Credit Bank, if any question rose as to its bonâ-fides, that it had amongst its clients so august a personage. Whichever way I looked it was all to the good.
The letter was despatched, and on the Monday Mr. Ritten called me up on the ’phone to say that the general was in his private office, and had signed the necessary documents and was waiting whilst the cheque was being cashed.
“Come round and meet him,” suggested Ritten.
“Am I a fool?” I replied sarcastically.
“He is very interesting,” said Ritten. “I have much to tell you when I have the time. He has invited me to go to France to his headquarters, and to bring any friends I wish.”
I could have hugged myself with delight.
“Accept the invitation,” I said quickly, “also discover where the headquarters of the 9th Army are. Find out why he is on leave for such a short time, and whether his army had many casualties in the last offensive.”
Ritten acknowledged my instructions and hung up the receiver, and I sat down at my desk to formulate a plan for the forthcoming visit which I intended to pay to an important headquarters of the British army in the field.
I suppose I must have been working away for two hours when I heard a commotion in the outer office, the door was flung violently open and a tall, broad officer dashed in, slamming the door behind him. He was breathless and could not speak. He was perhaps no more breathless than I, for he wore the cross-batons and stars of a superior general, and across his broad chest were three rows of medals, ribbons and decorations.
He tore off his gold-laced hat and wiped his brow.
“Pardon me, general,” I began.
“Shut up, Heine,” he gasped. “Forget that general stuff, and help me out of this.”
It was my turn to gasp.
“Jim,” I said, “what is the meaning of it?”
He sank down into a chair.
“I have got away with £20,000 from a bank,” he said rapidly. “Gee, it was easy money, Heine. A bit of note-paper that I borrowed from a kid on leave from one of these army headquarters, a suit of clothes, and it was like taking money from a child. But they’re after me; one of those damned English officers spotted me and asked me in the street who I was. I just had time to jump into a cab and bolt.”
The dreadful truth was slowly dawning upon me.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” I said, “you have got £20,000 from a bank—from the Jermyn Credit Bank, Jim?”
“Sure thing,” he said, “do you know them?”
I passed my trembling hand across my brow.
“Leave the money here in my desk, Jim,” I said. “I will take care of it, then, when the coast is clear, you can come back for it.”
“Give nothing,” he said brutally.
He walked across the room and took a cautious glance from the window.
“I am going,” he said, “they didn’t pick me up.”
“Don’t go with that money,” I cried in alarm, “it will be bad if they catch you with the goods. Be a good boy and leave it here,” but before I could finish he had thrown open the door.
“Hell!” said Jim, as Major Haynes walked in.
“Friend of yours, Heine?” said Major Haynes; “dear me, what excellent company you are keeping. I hardly know who to expect next. I shan’t be surprised to find the Minister of War here one of these fine days. How do you do, general?”
“Quit kidding!” growled Jim.
“What horrible language for the commander of the 9th Army,” said Major Haynes, and then—“I suppose you know it is an offence to wear a uniform to which you are not entitled?”
It was now my turn to speak.
“This man,” I broke in, “is a thief. He has robbed a certain bank of a large sum of money.”
“As to that I know nothing,” said Major Haynes, “all that I am concerned with is the fact that your friend is wearing a uniform to which he is not entitled.”
“He is a robber,” I cried excitedly, “he has obtained by trickery and fraud a great amount of money.”
“From the Jermyn Credit Bank?” asked Major Haynes in a tone of interest, “the officers’ friend, the help-one-another association? How perfectly shocking!”
He beckoned with his finger and Jim and he left the room. I saw them drive away in a cab together, and sat in an agony of apprehension, not only that day but for the rest of the week.
Then, one afternoon, Major Haynes strolled into my office.
“Your friend, the general, has sailed,” he said, “and you will be pleased to learn that I took from him everything to which he was not entitled.”
“The money?” I said eagerly.
“The uniform,” said Major Haynes; “I think he was entitled to the money, don’t you? As a matter of fact,” he went on, “I will ease your mind about the money. That also was taken from him, and is now with the rest of the bank’s credits—in the hands of a British official.”
I turned sick and faint.
“You are thinking of your friend von Ritten,” smiled Haynes. “He also is in the hands of a British official!”
CHAPTER IX.
MR. COLLINGREY, M.P.—PACIFIST!
I have often said that there is something grossly immoral about the profession of journalism. These men who live on the woes of others, who batten on the miseries of the world, must of necessity be dead to all kindly impulse and to the gentler emotions. They must be sceptical of all that is good, and have immeasurable faith in the wickedness of human nature. They must have neither reverence for the great ones of the earth nor charity for the sins of the weak.
My experience of journalists and of English journalists particularly, had been with a Mister Haynes, who behaved with the greatest treachery toward me, insinuated himself into my office under false colours, for was he not an officer of the English Intelligence Department, and has he not, as I have reason to believe, the blood of two high-spirited German youths upon his gory hands?
In the autumn of 1916, I learnt that Berlin was sending to me a Swedish gentleman named Heigl, and I was ordered to follow his instructions and to give him all the assistance which lay in my power. I have a constitutional objection to the intrusion of outsiders and more especially to amateur intelligence officers who, in my experience, have never failed to bungle any task to which they set their hands, so I cannot say that I viewed with any enthusiasm the coming of Mr. Heigl, fraught as it would be, and as I knew, with additional risks for myself and possibly the disorganization of the perfect system which I had with such labour established.
Mr. Heigl proved to be a very pleasant gentleman, a merchant of Stockholm, a short man with an untidy grey beard, well dressed and having the appearance of prosperity. In fact, as I learnt, he was a gentleman of considerable wealth, and though not well born, even in a Swedish sense, he was a persona grata with the leaders of the Conservative Party in Sweden and was frequently consulted by his Government on all matters affecting trade.
Amongst other things he was the proprietor of a weekly newspaper published in Stockholm. All this he told me within the first hour of our meeting; in fact, on the way up from an East Coast port to whither I had gone to meet him.
“You must understand, sir,” he said with great affability, which I need hardly tell you I returned, since he was the trusted agent of my beloved country and was, moreover, a man who might be able to put a few things in my way. One never knows when one requires the help of a man of this description or, as we say in Germany, “Don’t refuse the carter the tyre, one day the wheel may be yours.”
To resume the record of our conversation.
“You understand, sir,” he said, “that I am a citizen of a neutral state and, therefore, I can take no active part in any propaganda designed to assist Germany.”
“That is understood, excellent sir,” I replied, “and, believe me, I will not embarrass you to the smallest extent by requesting your assistance.”
He inclined his head graciously.
“There are certain people in Berlin whom I have recently had the pleasure of meeting. They are anxious that in this great world war the German view shall not be entirely lost sight of.”
It was my turn to nod.
“The English press is not exactly friendly or inclined even to print the German point of view, save to ridicule it.”
“The English, or British press, my dear sir,” I said warmly, “is a Government press. Every evening, as is well known, the Government send every newspaper the outlines of the leading article which they will write. So cunningly contrived are those leaders, that in some of them they criticize the Government, and nobody outside the office would realize that all those articles are written by a special band of writers who work day and night in Downing Street.”
He seemed interested at this news which was well known to me and to many of my friends.
“But I interrupted you,” I said, “pray forgive me.”
“In Berlin,” Mr. Heigl went on, “it is thought that an excellent opportunity exists either for founding or for purchasing a newspaper. It is understood that the Post-Herald is for sale.”
“That is so,” I said nodding. I did not know it before, but I took his word for it. We Germans can never be caught napping.
“The price that is asked,” Mr. Heigl went on, consulting a little note-book which he drew from his waistcoat pocket, “is £100,000, that is to say, two million marks. It is a paper which has had a great deal of influence in the past but seems to have fallen away gradually until it has got into very low water indeed. We believe that if we found the right man and spent a little money the paper could be revived to its former prestige.”
“Of that I am convinced,” I said, “and it is a view which I have often thought of advancing to Berlin. Believe me, Mr. Heigl, I have not neglected the press. There is scarcely a newspaper man in Fleet Street whom I do not know. I can tell you their circulations, the family history of their editors, the names and records of their principal correspondents.”
He interrupted me with a little gesture.
“I am delighted to hear this,” he said, “I had no idea that you had taken the matter up. In fact, they thought that you were unacquainted with the personnel of the newspapers.”
I smiled a little bitterly.
“Wilhelmstrasse is sometimes a little unjust,” I said, quietly and sadly.
“Now, what would you say the circulation of the Post-Herald was?” asked Mr. Heigl.
It was an unfortunate and tactless question to ask at the moment, but I replied with readiness.
“I cannot tell you until I have consulted my books. There are so many newspapers in London and one cannot possibly keep their circulations in one’s head.”
I could see he was a little impressed, and later he asked:
“Can you suggest a man to act as go-between? Neither you nor I can buy the paper, but if we could only get hold of a good substantial fellow, a bit of a crank preferably, we could easily hide ourselves behind a bank and a lawyer and complete the sale.”
I knitted my brows and compressed my lips. “For the moment I cannot,” I said. “This is much too important a matter to be settled off-hand.”
To tell the truth, gentle reader, since my making the acquaintance of Mister Haynes, I had steered clear of journalists, and the only one I knew well enough to speak to was an old gentleman in a top hat who used to stand at the corner of Salisbury Square, and borrow half-crowns from me. Even his name I did not know, but I felt with my usual good fortune and perseverance, I should not be long in finding the right kind of man.
It would not be true to say that I did not understand the British press, or that I had not given it a great deal of thought. In my humble way I have been a contributor to English journalism, and my letters, signed “True Patriot,” “Mother of Six,” and other noms de guerre, have appeared in newspapers of almost every colour.
The British newspaper is remarkable for its stupidity and ignorance. I do not think that even the best friends of English journalism will dispute this fact.
It is a fact which I cannot too clearly emphasize, that there is not a single London newspaper edited by a professor. Only two of the London editors have an educational degree, and none has been in the army or the navy.
I then proceeded like a good general, to examine the ground. The Post-Herald is an old-fashioned Whig newspaper which had fallen on evil times, due to the fact that it was owned by a family all of whom took something out of its coffers, and none of whom put any brains into its management. With true German thoroughness, I discovered that it was deeply in debt to paper manufacturers, and to a syndicate of printing-machine makers.
This poverty-stricken rag, without two penny pieces to rub against one another, had the temerity, the audacity, to attack “unscrupulous Germany.” I confess when I opened the sheet and read the scathing and vulgar abuse of our truly great kulturland, I was filled with righteous anger. But business is business. The Fatherland has need of thee, Post-Herald. Thy columns shall yet scintillate with sarcasm, not directed toward the genius of Germany, but toward the vile and frivolous men who have dared the wrath of Michael! Thy readers from these dull pages shall imbibe the principles which have made Prussia feared, aye, and hated the world over. Deutschland shall be vindicated in triumphant and very clever articles written by professors of learning and translated by English hack writers.
My spirits rose and my heart glowed within me at the thought that I, Heine, should pull the strings and direct in the heart of this great and sinister city a policy which should still further enhance my beloved land.
Deutschland über alles. Also, I thought there might be some commission on the purchase, for these things can be arranged. The first thing to do was to find a go-between, a man who could be implicitly trusted, and I began to ransack my mind for a likely person. To put one of the known English pacifists in control would be to give the show away, and to upset the apple-cart, to employ two English idioms.
Collingrey was the man! It came to me in a flash of inspiration. He was a member of Parliament and hard up, having an extravagant wife and other obligations which my good German modesty prevents my describing. He had been a failure as a barrister, and a failure as a member of Parliament. He might have held a position in the Government but for certain disclosures which came to light in the matrimonial suit in which he became involved.
During the war most of his questions and speeches in Parliament had been directed against Italy—our perfidious ally! There never was a man who so hated the Italian Government as he, and with good reason, for Mr. Collingrey, a year before the war started, had invested all his fortune in the purchase of two pictures by that master, Leonardo di Vinci. The Italian Government had prohibited the export of the pictures and when on top of this a lawsuit was started, which involved the ownership of these works of art, Collingrey got neither the pictures he had bought nor the money he had spent.
He had stood to make a fortune, having resold these gems to the American millionaire, Tilzer. The lawsuit dragged on, and Collingrey had declared that the Italian Government was putting every obstacle in the way of a settlement, and as the English Government refused to give him any assistance, he was doubly incensed.
He was, therefore, a bitter man, and never lost an opportunity of embarrassing the Government. His articles appeared regularly in those journals which we had subsidized—very few, alas!—in this country. He had a reputation for honesty, was a brilliant writer and a clever debater.
The thing was to secure his co-operation, and to convey to him, with as much delicacy as possible, the policy which he would be called upon to support.
I have before me the draft of instructions which I received from Berlin at a subsequent date, and I cannot do better than print these:
1. The editor will adopt a conciliatory attitude toward Germany and German War Aims. It is not necessary that the German point of view should be urged, since this would defeat the object aimed at. The Germans may even be attacked, though no uncomplimentary reference to the Great General Staff, to the Kaiser, or to any member of the German royal family must be permitted.
2. It is permissible to condemn air-raids or U-boat sinkings in a decorous and serious manner, but at the same time a note should be appended to the effect that whilst these things are unfortunate, the English have largely themselves to blame for failing at the beginning of the war to observe the distinction between open and defended towns, and also for not observing the Treaty of London.
3. At all times the editor must urge the necessity for arriving at an understanding with Germany. The cost of the war, the loss of life, must be deplored, and the possibility of avoiding further losses by meeting the Germans at a peace council must be insisted upon.
4. References to the taxation which will follow the war, and how hardly it will fall upon the working classes as well as upon the moneyed classes must be made frequently.
5. Whenever possible it should be hinted that the British have no reason for continuing the war, and that they are being bled white to support the insensate ambitions of France. French military actions should, in consequence, be criticized as far as possible.
6. Stories dealing with the humanity of the German soldier, which will be supplied from time to time, should be given prominence, and references to German strikes may be made the most of, especially at moments of industrial unrest in England.
These were only a few of the instructions. I cannot help thinking that Wilhelmstrasse made a great mistake in its moderation. If it had been left to me I would have instructed the editor to lose no opportunity of attacking every other newspaper which spoke slightingly of our great country—but then I am a patriot!
I had no difficulty in getting an introduction to Collingrey, and he invited me to dine at the British House of Commons. In a few words over a post-prandial cigar I explained the object of my visit. The good friend whose letter of introduction had procured the interview had smoothed my path by representing me to be an agent of a South American rancher (name unknown) who desired to break into London society, and in tones of gentle but amused tolerance I hinted at my client’s vanity.
It was a difficult interview, because Mr. Collingrey paid very little attention to what I said, but launched forth into a diatribe against the Italian Government. He was a monomaniac on the subject. He thumped the table so that all the other members in the dining-room looked round. He pounded his hand with his fist. He waved his finger in my face. He sat back, he sat forward, and all the time he spoke of the Italian Government and its iniquities. So much the better, my friend, thought I. I give you my word you shall have your fling at false Italia.
It gave me an opening to the exposition of the policy which the newspaper would support, particulars of which reached me providentially on the morning of my meeting the gentleman. Very gently and delicately I laid down the lines on which the paper would be conducted, and he agreed. Of course I did not give him all the details, for I did not desire to scare him.
“If you asked me to run a pro-Government paper I should have refused it,” he said violently, “this is a Government of nincompoops, a Government of charlatans, a Government of Enemies of the People. I regard the war as a crowning iniquity and its continuance inexcusable but for the fact that our Ministers have sold themselves body and soul to Italy. Take my own case, for instance.…”
And so I had it all over again, the story of his purchase of the di Vinci pictures from the Montimi collection, the story of the embargo, the story of the lawsuit. What bores these English members of Parliament are, how childish; what a contrast to the staid members of our own Reichstag with their serious politics and their love of the Fatherland!
Mr. Collingrey readily undertook to act as go-between. He entered into the spirit of the matter with great enthusiasm, and when I met him two or three days later he produced two manuscripts dealing with the Italian Government, which he read to me in the lobby of the House of Commons.
When the purchase was completed and the Post-Herald had passed into the possession of a certain syndicate, which it is not advisable to name, he had a manuscript on Italy in every pocket. Having done my part of the work and taken the small commission which was my right, and having seen Mr. Heigl safely on his journey back to Stockholm, I had little time to bother about the newspaper, the more so since Berlin in its folly had decided that I was not to interfere in its management.
I bowed respectfully to the high authorities and to the well-born gentlemen who directed Germania’s policy, but I submit in all humility that had Heine been at the helm much that subsequently happened might have been avoided.
Mr. Collingrey carried out his instructions faithfully, and when they were explained with more elaborate detail he accepted his orders (to my surprise) without demur or question. His vivid leading articles on the Italian Government attracted a great deal of attention and led to a strict application of the censorship, but this only gave him a new interest in life, namely, in so couching his words that he could do the maximum amount of damage to his enemies without incurring censure. He was gentle with Germany, restrained in his reference to the U-boats, never spoke of the Kaiser except as the Emperor William, and his references to labour were invariably quoted in the extreme organs of the masses. He was indeed a most satisfactory person, and I have in my possession a letter addressed to me by the noble-born Count von Mazberg, the head of our propaganda department, congratulating me upon my most excellent choice. This I can show to any interested person who doubts my word, and especially to those evil-minded un-German journalists who have so often attacked me and my work.
I was out of London a great deal, being concerned in consultation with certain labouring men who desired to bring the war to an end by an understanding with Germany. These English patriots were organizing a strike, and, naturally, I rendered them all the assistance that lay in my power. This meant that I had to travel with a great deal of money and could not afford to allow my attention to be distracted from the business at hand.
I arrived in London one evening and on reaching my flat discovered an urgent telegram from Mr. Collingrey asking me to dine with him at the Carltonia Hotel, as he had news of the greatest importance. I immediately changed into my evening dress and drove down to the hotel where the editor was waiting impatiently. He was happier than I have ever seen him. His thin, cadaverous face was wreathed in smiles, as he heartily shook my hand, brushing aside the compliments on his conduct of the paper which I had prepared.
“Come and have dinner, my boy,” he said. “I have got great news.”
“I am delighted to learn this,” I replied. “Have you got one in the eye for Italy, if you will pardon the expression?”
“Oh, much better.”
Grasping my arm he led me into the dining-room.
“After all,” he said as we sat down at the table, “perhaps I have been rather unkind about Italy—my articles have borne fruit.”
“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.
He chuckled as he unfolded his serviette.
“They have released my pictures, my dear fellow,” he said, “you have no idea of the weight there is off my mind. It means a tremendous lot to me—my fortune and my wife’s was invested in those infernal daubs. Look here,” he took a piece of paper from his pocket and passed it across to me.
It was a cablegram which had been handed in at New York that morning:
“Agree to your price, hundred and fifty thousand dollars for di Vinci pictures. Ship them by first mail-boat in charge of reliable man.—Tilzer.”
“We will have a bottle of champagne on this.”
“But what induced the Government to take this step?”
“The lawsuit is ended,” said Mr. Collingrey, “and ended in my favour. I tell you it has taken ten years off my age.”
He babbled on like a boy, but presently he grew calmer and we discussed the policy of the paper, and I was glad to see that he still retained those honest convictions about Germania which had ever distinguished his writings.
It was just about this time that America was trembling on the verge of war, when the unscrupulous Wilson was making his preparations to commit the great crime against civilization of plunging his country into the horrors of strife. For me it was a time of the greatest stress and anxiety. Cablegrams from certain neutral countries reached me every hour. Secret and confidential wireless messages from the supreme political chiefs reached me through the usual channels.
The excuse the Americans made was the initiation by our Admiralty of an unrestricted U-boat campaign against the munition ships of the Allies and it was still hoped by the superlatively clever men who guide the helm of the German state that war might be avoided.
On a night I shall never forget I received a message from Amsterdam which I decoded. It ran:
“VERY URGENT.—To Chief S.S. Agents, London, Madrid, Paris, New York, Stockholm, Amsterdam.
“Editors and directors of friendly and subsidized papers must be instructed to deal sympathetically with U-boat campaign. Point out iniquity blockade which is starving German women and children, and suggest a compromise between Germany and her enemies. Endeavour counteract enemy propaganda which will be unusually virulent. Prepare articles and comments in this vein. Acknowledge to chief of staff.”
I wrote a brief note embodying these instructions to Mr. Collingrey, telling him that the South American, the mythical proprietor of the Post-Herald was a big shipowner, and desired to save the shipping of the Allies. This I despatched by special messenger and immediately dismissed the matter from my thoughts for, as I say, I had not only the organization of a great strike but also I had to condense the very heavy reports which were coming through from our agents in the various shipping centres.
I worked till three o’clock in the morning and then snatched a few hours’ sleep. At seven I was at my task again with all the newspapers ready for perusal. Naturally I turned to the Post-Herald first. Here I knew I had material for a good report and with my code book open in front of me, I was preparing to translate the leading article into language which would pass the censor for transmission to Holland.
I opened the paper. There was the leading article, but to my amazement it was headed:
German Murderers at their Foul Work.
I gasped. From the very first word to the very last the article was the bitterest, the most vehement, the most unscrupulous attack upon Germany that had ever appeared. I grew red and white as I read it. It called the Germans assassins of the sea, barbarians, Huns, Boches, pirates, blackguards, thieves—I shudder as I recall the language which was used by Mr. Collingrey.
I was in a maze, bewildered. I read on like a man in a bad dream, conscious of the awful avalanche of fury which would sweep down upon me when Berlin read this dreadful and disloyal article.
It was not till nearly the end of the leader that I began to understand Mr. Collingrey’s attitude. The final paragraph ran:
“If any doubt existed that this nation of Hun marauders is lacking in the elements of kultur, that doubt is removed by the wanton sinking of the Italian steamship San Salvadoro. It was an open secret that that ill-fated vessel was carrying to England two great masterpieces of Italian art, two priceless examples of Leonardo’s genius. Did that fact stay the barbarian’s hand? Nay! Rather it lent zest to the lustful and bestial representative of a savage and unkultured people.
“Those two masterpieces, unfortunately uninsured by their owner, lie at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay.
“Let the British Government make instant reprisals. Intern the aliens in our midst! Imprison and shoot secret agents whose evil activity is seducing the allegiance of our people, whose hands are discernible even in the press itself.”
I laid down the paper and wiped the perspiration from my brow. I took up a pen to indite the traitor’s dismissal, but on second thoughts I put it down again.
After all, it was not my idea. Let Berlin do its own dirty work.
CHAPTER X.
THE GREY ENVELOPE
It has often been remarked by impartially-minded thinkers that the German race produces more psychologists and more introspective logicians than any other race in the world. It may be thought that I make extravagant claims for Germans because I am of that chosen race. It may be sneered that we only see one side of any question and that is our own side, but as against that we Germans contend that there can be only one side to any question and that is the side we are on.
For, as a race, and as individuals, we have that innate sense of justice, that discrimination, that almost godlike balance of judgment which enables us to see every fault that our blind and conceited neighbours possess. When we Germans talk of “kultural extension,” we mean that it is our object to extend our practice of reasoning for the benefit of humanity. The English newspapers are notoriously stupid, ignorant, and unreasonable. Very often they print in the short extract from some exalted personage’s address to his troops a great and a vital fact without realizing that the sentiment they so ignobly deride is the basic truth on which civilization was founded, and from which all nations but Germans are cast aside.
Forgive me, dear friend, if I depart from the plain narrative of the curious happening which is chronicled below to wander at large in the realms of metaphysics, but since this chapter deals largely with psychology, it is meet that I should preface the story with a short introduction worthy, I trust, of Mother Heidelberg which sent me to the world, so well equipped with a knowledge of the sciences.
There is in Berlin, as you know, attached to the Intelligence Department of the Kriegsministerium, the Psychological Branch, which deals entirely with movements of national thought, especially enemy thought, in its relation to Germany. I claim, and I would like to know who would dare refute my claim, that I have rendered invaluable service to the Herr Professor von Zollernborn, the head of that department.
It was I who started the story of the Massacre of the 194th Highlanders. It was I, who, through my trusty friends, put into circulation that hint that France was conducting secret peace negotiations which created so immense a sensation in knowledgeable London circles. It was I, who, having received news that the British had sustained a severe defeat at Ctesiphon, spread news within six hours of my information coming to hand that the British had marched into Baghdad, thereby preparing for a more profound feeling of depression than had the news come without my preliminary planning.
We Germans neglect no opportunities. In a war between nations you must strike at the civilian as well as at the soldier, and since we are more qualified by reason of our mental equipment to exploit the sciences of which we are so perfect masters, we enjoy advantages which are denied to non-kultural races.
It was in 1917, in the early part of the year, that, as a result of communications which had passed between myself and our agent in Amsterdam, we decided upon opening the most elaborate, and though I myself say it, one of the best planned campaigns against the morale of the British that had ever been undertaken. The occasion was the arrival amongst the enemies of the Fatherland of the United States of America. The U.S.A., as everybody knows, came into the war owing to the fact that the munition makers of America, who had spent millions of pounds in plant, had found themselves faced with ruin. For this they had to thank the perfidious behaviour of the British, who cancelled their orders, well knowing that to keep all the American munition factories running the American government would be compelled to declare war.
I had this information from a dear friend of mine who is in the secrets of Washington and was on terms of personal friendship with many Senators and Congressmen, one at least of whom had openly exposed the perfidious Wilson—such balderdash as his speeches has never been uttered by serious statesmen!—and his nefarious plan.
I had not lived in America for nothing. I knew how deep-rooted was the detestation felt in America against the English. I remember before leaving New York I dined with two true-born patriotic Americans, the Mr. Shauns O’Gorman and Mr. Adolph Dinklewurtt, who assured me solemnly, that any movement of the President toward assisting the English would result in revolution from one end of the country to the other.
I felt therefore, that although the die had been cast, and Wilson had committed the unforgivable and diabolical crime of plunging America into war for chauvinistic aims—a responsibility from which the unfrivolous mind reels in gasping horror—there was still an opportunity for a man who could think quickly and act instantly, providing always he had that genius for organization which so few of my rivals possess.
It made it easier for me that America was intensely unpopular with the English people. How they sneered at that expression of his “Too haughty for war!” How they gibed at his notes and derided his chauvinistic speeches! They refused to accept this impertinent man, this ex-colonel of cowboy rough-riders, at his own valuation, or to take his “big stick” speech in any but a frivolous spirit.
Knowing this uncompromising hatred of the American, it did not take me very long to set my agents working. Within a week the country was ringing with stories of the behaviour of American soldiers in Lancashire. You, yourself, must have heard of the quarrel between the English and American, which resulted in the American being thrown into a river and drowned? It also probably reached your ears, that certain American soldiers, refused liquor at a saloon, set fire to the house and decamped, carrying with them the hotel keeper’s young daughter.