THE ADVENTURES
OF HEINE

Secret Service work is a joke in peace time and it is paid on joke rates. People talk of the fabulous sums of money which our Government spend on this kind of work, and I have no doubt a very large sum was spent every year, but it had to go a long way. Even Herr Kressler, of the Bremen-America Line, who gave me my monthly cheque, used to nod and wink when he handed over my two hundred marks.

“Ah, my good Heine,” he would say, stroking his stubbly beard, “they make a fool of me, the Government, but I suppose I mustn’t ask who is your other paymaster?”

“Herr Kressler,” said I earnestly, “I assure you that this is the whole sum I receive from the Government.”

“So!” he would say and shake his head: “Ah, you are close fellows and I mustn’t ask questions!”

There was little to do save now and again to keep track of some of the bad men, the extreme Socialists, and the fellows who ran away from Germany to avoid military service. I often wished there were more, because it would have been possible to have made a little on one’s expenses. Fortunately, two or three of the very big men in New York and Chicago knew the work I was doing, and credited me with a much larger income than I possessed. The reputation of being well off is a very useful one, and in my case, it brought me all sorts of commissions and little tips which I could profitably exploit on Wall Street, and in one way or another I lived comfortably, had a nice apartment on Riverside Drive, backed horses, and enjoyed an occasional trip to Washington, at my Government’s expense.

I first knew that war was likely to break out in July. I think we Germans understood the European situation much better than the English, and certainly much better than the Americans, and we knew that the event at Serajevo—by the way, poor Klein of our service and an old colleague of mine, was killed by the bomb which was intended for the Archduke, though nobody seems to have noticed the fact—would produce the war which Austria had been expecting or seeking an excuse to wage for two years.

If I remember aright the assassination was committed on the Sunday morning. The New York papers published the story on that day and on the Monday afternoon I was summoned to Washington, and saw the Secretary, who was in charge of our Department, on the Tuesday evening after dinner.

All the big people, even his Excellency, called me by my Christian name, for I was at college with many of the officials who are prominent in the world to-day, and I served as volunteer in the engineers of the guard and afterwards served a probation on the Great General Staff, Survey Department.

The Secretary was very grave and told me that war was almost certain, and that Austria was determined to settle with Serbia for good, but that it was feared that Russia would come in and that the war could not be localised because, if Russia made war, Germany and France would also be involved.

Personally, I have never liked the French, and my French is not particularly good. I was hoping that he was going to tell us that England was concerned, and I asked him if this was not the case. To my disappointment, he told me that England would certainly not fight; that she would remain neutral, and that strict orders had been issued that nothing was to be done which would in any way annoy the English.

“Their army,” he said, “is beneath contempt, but their navy is the most powerful in the world and its employment might have very serious consequences.”

It seemed very early to talk about war, with the newspapers still full of long descriptions of the Serajevo murder and the removal of the Archduke’s body, and I remembered after with what astounding assurance our Secretary had spoken.

I must confess I was disappointed, because I had spent a very long time in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, establishing touch with good friends who, I felt, would work with advantage for me in the event of war. I had prepared my way by founding the Chinese News Bureau, a little concern that had an office in Fleet Street and was ostensibly engaged in collecting items of news concerning China and distributing them to the London and provincial press, and in forwarding a London letter to certain journals in Pekin, Tientsien and Shanghai.

Of course, the money was found by the Department, and it was not a financial success, but it was a good start in case one ever had to operate in London, since I was registered as a naturalised Chilian and it was extremely unlikely that Chili would be at war with any European Power.

I could not see what there was to do in New York, where the ground was so effectively covered. We had a police force of our own associated with the Bremen-America line. We had reservist organisations in every big town, and both the military, naval and commercial investigation—I will not use the hateful word “espionage”—was in good hands, and I looked like being at a loose end and subordinate to people who were my inferiors, if I remained in America.

On the 3rd August, 1914, I received a message from Washington in the Departmental code, telling me that war with England was inevitable and that I was to sail on the first boat and take up my duties in London in full control of the British Department.

I was overjoyed with the news and I know that men like Stohwasser, Wesser, and other men of my Department, looked at me with envy. They did not think they had an easy task because the American Secret Service is a very competent one; but they thought I was a lucky pig—as indeed I was—to be operating in a country containing a population of forty millions, most of whom, as one of their writers said, were fools.

The English are, of course, a very thick-headed people, as I have reason to know. They are childish and unsuspecting, and you have only to ask for valuable information to get it. The Scotch, or Scots, are shrewder in business, but very simple people, practically ignorant, as are the English, of European politics, and very naïve in all matters affecting the State.

Moreover, as I have discovered on several of my visits, the Scots are not particularly well disposed to their southern neighbours, and I have heard many insulting references made by one against the other. It is quite a common thing to hear the expressions of scorn as a “close-fisted Scot” or “a pudding-headed Englishman,” whilst in Wales neither the Scots nor the English are popular.

Ireland, of course, was in a constant condition of rebellion, and I looked forward with great pleasure to witnessing and inflaming the little domestic quarrels which I knew would arise as soon as war broke out.

I landed at Liverpool on August 11th. My passport was in order and I immediately went forward to London. There was no trace of any excitement. I saw a lot of soldiers on their way to their depôts; and arriving in London, I immediately received the reports of our innumerable agents.

With what pride did I contemplate the splendid smoothness of our system!

When the Emperor pressed the button marked “Mobilise,” he called, in addition to his soldiers, a thousand gallant hearts and brilliant minds in a score of countries all eager and happy to work for the aggrandisement of our beloved Fatherland.

Six of us met at a fashionable restaurant near Trafalgar Square. There were Emil Stein, who called himself Robinson, Karl Besser—I need not give all their aliases—Heine von Wetzl, Fritz von Kahn and Alexander Koos.

Stein had arrived from Holland the night before and Fritz von Kahn had come down from Glasgow where he had been acting as a hotel porter. These men were, as I say, known to me, and to one another, but there were thousands of unknowns who had their secret instructions, which were only to be opened in case of war, and with whom we had to get in touch.

I briefly explained the procedure and the method by which our agents would be identified. Every German agent would prove his bonâ fides by producing three used postage stamps of Nicaragua. It is a simple method of identification, for there is nothing treasonable or suspicious in a man carrying about in his pocket-book a ten, twenty or a fifty centime stamp of a neutral country.

I sent Emil Stein away to Portsmouth and instructed him to make contact with sailors of the Fleet, especially with officers. Besser was dispatched to a West Coast shipping centre to report on all the boats which left and entered. I sent Kahn and his family on a motor-car tour to the East Coast with instructions to find out what new coast defences were being instituted.

“You must exercise the greatest care,” I said; “even though these English are very stupid, they may easily blunder into a discovery. Make the briefest notes of all you see and hear and only use the Number 3 code in case of urgent necessity.”

We finished our dinner and we drank to “The Day” and sang under our breath “Deutschland über alles” and separated, Koos coming with me.

Koos was a staff officer of the Imperial Service, and though he was not noble, he was held in the greatest respect. He was a fine, handsome fellow, very popular with the girls, and typically British in appearance. His English was as good as mine, and that is saying a great deal. I sent him to Woolwich because in his character as an American inventor—he had spent four years in the States—he was admirably fitted to pick up such facts as were of the greatest interest to the Government.

I did not see Koos for a few days and in the meantime I was very busy arranging with my couriers who were to carry the result of our discoveries through a neutral country to Germany. The system I adopted was a very simple one. My notes, written in Indian ink, were separately photographed by means of a camera. When I had finished the twelve exposures, I opened the camera in a dark room, carefully re-rolled the spool and sealed it so that it had the appearance of being an unexposed pellicle. I argued that whilst the English military authorities would confiscate photographs which had obviously been taken, they might pass films which were apparently unused.

I had arranged to meet Koos on the night of August 17th, and made my way to the rendezvous, engaging a table for two. I had hardly seated myself when, to my surprise, Koos came in accompanied by a very pretty English girl. He walked past me, merely giving me the slightest side-glance, and seated himself at the next table. I was amused. I knew the weakness of our good Koos for the ladies, but I knew also that he was an excellent investigator and that he was probably combining business with pleasure. In this I was right. The meal finished—and the innocent laughter of the girl made me smile again—and Koos walked out with the girl on his arm.

As he passed my table he dropped a slip of paper which I covered with my table-napkin. When I was sure I was not observed, I read the note.

“Making excellent progress. Meet me at a quarter to eleven outside Piccadilly Tube.”

I met him at the appointed time and we strolled into Jermyn Street.

“What do you think of her?” was Koos’ first question.

“Very pretty, my friend,” said I. “You have excellent taste.”

He chuckled.

“I have also excellent luck, my dear Heine.” Even well-born people call me by my Christian name, as I have before remarked, though I do not boast of this because my father’s mother was a von Kuhl-Hozeldorf and I am in a sense related to the best Würtemberg nobility. “That lady,” went on Koos, “is the daughter of one of the chief gun-constructors at Woolwich.”

He looked at me to note the effect of his words, and I must confess I was startled.

“Splendid, my dear fellow!” said I, warmly. “How did you come to meet her?”

“A little act of gallantry,” he said airily; “a lady walking on Blackheath twists her ankle, what more natural than that I should offer her assistance to the nearest seat? Quite a babbling little person—typically English,” he added dryly.

I laughed again.

“I could have done very well without her assistance, of course,” he went on; “as a matter of fact, I had met one or two very excellent Englishmen who, with their usual penchant for boastfulness, were able to supply me with particulars of a new gun-lathe of which they are very proud. In fact, I have got the rough drawings, but the little lady——”

He raised his eyes to the heavens and chuckled joyfully.

“My dear friend,” he said impressively, “she is a mine of information. An only daughter and a little spoilt, I am afraid, she knows no doubt secrets of construction of which the technical experts of the Government are ignorant. Can you imagine a German talking over military affairs with his daughter?”

“The English are a little mad, as I have remarked before,” said I. I then closely questioned Koos as to the activity of the police. It was naturally to be expected that Woolwich would be well guarded and that strangers would arouse suspicion.

“There is no English secret police,” said my friend cheerfully; “there is a special department at Scotland Yard whose footsteps you can hear a mile away, but a secret service, as it is understood in Germany, or even in America, does not exist, except in the fervid imagination of romantic novelists.”

“I only asked you,” I said hastily, “for fear that this girl should be watched.”

“You can dismiss that possibility from your mind,” smiled Koos.

By this time we had reached the end of Jermyn Street and had turned down St. James’s Street toward the Palace, and our conversation was naturally interrupted, for we had to speak in English and there was rather a crowd of people. It was not until we had reached the Mall, comparatively deserted, that Koos continued this story.

“You need not worry. The girl is romantic—an idealist.”

“And you are the ideal, you dog!” said I.

He twisted his moustache, by no means ill-pleased at the accusation.

“Some men have that power of attraction,” he said modestly. “I am rather sorry for the little thing.”

“What have you learnt from her?” I asked.

Koos did not reply for a moment, then he said:

“So far, very little. I am naturally anxious not to alarm her or arouse her suspicions. She is willing to talk and she has access to her father’s study and, from what I gather, she practically keeps all the keys of the house. At present I am educating her to the necessity for preserving secrecy about our friendship and to do her justice, she is just as anxious that our clandestine meetings should not come to the ears of her father as I am.”

We walked along in silence.

“This may be a very big thing,” I said.

“Bigger than you imagine,” replied Alexander; “there is certain to be an exchange of confidential views about artillery between the Allies, and though we have nothing to learn from the English, it is possible that the French may send orders to Woolwich for armament. In that case our little friend may be a mine of information. I am working with my eyes a few months ahead,” he said, “and for that reason I am allowing our friendship to develop slowly.”

I did not see Koos again for a week, except that I caught a glimpse of him in the Café Riche with his fair companion. He did not see me, however, and as it was desirable that I should not intrude, I made no attempt to make my presence apparent.

At the end of the week we met by appointment, which we arranged through the agony column of a certain London newspaper.

I was feeling very cheerful, for Stein, Besser, and Kahn had sent in most excellent reports, and it only needed Alexander’s encouraging news to complete my sum of happiness.

“You remember the gun-lathe I spoke to you about,” he said. “My friend—you may regard the blue prints as in your hands.”

“How has this come about?”

“I just casually mentioned to my little girl that I was interested in inventions and that I had just put a new lathe upon the market in America and she was quite excited about it. She asked me if I had heard about the lathe at Woolwich, and I said that I had heard rumours that there was such a lathe. She was quite overjoyed at the opportunity of giving me information and asked me whether in the event of her showing me the prints I would keep the fact a great secret, because,” he laughed softly, “she did not think her father would like the print to leave his office!”

“You must be careful of this girl,” I said, “she may be detected.”

“There is no danger, my dear fellow,” said Alexander. “She is the shrewdest little woman in the world. I am getting quite to like her if one can like these abominable people—she is such a child!”

I told him to keep in communication with me and sent him off feeling what the English call in “good form.” I dispatched a courier by the morning train to the Continent, giving details of the British Expeditionary Force. Only two brigades were in France—and that after three weeks of preparation! In Germany every man was mobilized and at his corps or army headquarters weeks ago—every regiment had moved up to its order of battle position. Two brigades! It would be amusing if it were not pathetic!

Besser came to me soon after lunch in a very excited state.

“The whole of the English Expeditionary Force of three divisions is in France,” he said, “and, what is more, is in line.”

I smiled at him.

“My poor dear fellow, who has been pulling your foot?” I asked.

“It is confidentially communicated to the Press, and will be public to-morrow,” he said.

“Lies,” said I calmly, “you are too credulous. The English are the most stupid liars in the world.”

I was not so calm that night when I ran down in my car to Gorselton, where our very good friend, the Baron von Hertz-Missenger, had a nice little estate.

“Heine,” he said, after he had taken me to his study and shut the door. “I have received a radio through my wireless from the Kriegsministerium^[1] to the effect that the whole of the British Expeditionary Force has landed and is in line.”

“Impossible, Herr Baron,” I said, but he shook his head.

“It is true—our Intelligence in Belgium is infallible. Now, I do not want to interfere with you, for I am but a humble volunteer in this great work, but I advise you to give a little more attention to the army. We may have underrated the military assistance which Britain can offer.”

“The English army, Herr Baron,” said I firmly, “is almost as insignificant a factor as—as well—the American army, which only exists on paper! Nevertheless, I will take your advice.”

It was necessary to humour the good baron who, although a naturalised British “subject” (which, of course, means absolutely nothing), is nobly born and is indeed a member of the Hesse-Hohenlohe princely-descended family.

We talked a little while about the British. I told the Herr Baron what I had said about the British Secret Service, and he quite agreed.

“I have been in this country for twelve years and I have met everybody of importance,” he said, “and I can assure you there is no Secret Intelligence Department such as we Germans have brought to such perfect efficiency. As you know, I am a racing man, and I meet with all sorts of people, good and bad, and I can endorse all that you say.”

I went back to town and dispatched another courier, for as yet the Torpington Varnish Factory (about which I will tell you later) had not been equipped with Radio.

That night I again saw Alexander. It was at supper at the Fritz, and he looked a fine figure of a man. I felt proud of the country which could produce such a type. Where, I ask you, amongst the paunchy English and the scraggy Scotch, with their hairy knees and their sheep-shank legs, could you find a counterpart of that beau sabreur? Cower, treacherous Albion, shiver in your kilt, hateful Scotch (it is not generally known that the Royal and High-Born Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria is rightful King of Scotland), tremble, wild Wales and unreliable Ireland, when you come in arms against a land which can produce such men as Alexander Koos!

I never saw a girl look more radiantly happy than did the young woman who was sitting vis-à-vis my friend. There was a light in her eye and a colour in her cheeks which were eloquent of her joy.

I saw Alexander afterwards. He came secretly to my rooms.

“Have you brought the blue print?” I asked.

He shook his head smilingly.

“To-morrow, my friend, not only the blue print of the lathe, not only the new gun-mounting model, but the lady herself will come to me. I want your permission to leave the day after to-morrow for home. I cannot afford to wait for what the future may bring.”

“Can you smuggle the plans past the English police?” I asked, a little relieved that he had volunteered to act as courier on so dangerous a mission.

“Nothing easier.”

“And the girl—have you her passport?”

He nodded.

“How far shall you take her?”

“To Rotterdam,” he said promptly.

In a way I was sorry. Yes, I am sentimental, I fear, and “sentiment does not live in an agent’s pocket,” as the saying goes. I wish it could have been done without. I shrugged my shoulders and steeled my soul with the thought that she was English and that it was all for the Fatherland.

“You must come to the Café Riche to-night and witness our going,” said Alexander; “you will observe that she will carry a leather case such as schoolgirls use for their books and exercises. In that case, my friend, will be enough material to keep our friends in Berlin busy for a month.”

I took leave of him, giving him certain instructions as to the course he was to take after reporting at Headquarters, and spent the rest of the night coding a message for our Alexander to carry with him.

I snatched a few hours’ sleep between telephone calls, and rising at noon I read the morning papers (full of lies, as are all British papers, though the Americans are worse) and went through the picture postcards which my kind friends von Kahn and von Wetzl had sent to me. If you had seen those postcards with their long “holiday messages,” I wonder if you would have taken a magnifying glass to search for minute pinpricks under certain letters and words? I did, because I was a chief of a bureau unequalled in the world for ingenuity and prescience.

The hour at which Alexander was to meet the girl was eight o’clock in the evening. His table (already booked) was No. 47, which is near the window facing Piccadilly. I telephoned through to the café and booked No. 46, for I was anxious to witness the comedy.

All was now moving like clockwork—and let me say that the smoothness of the arrangements was due largely to the very thorough and painstaking organisation-work which I had carried out in the piping days of peace. We Germans have a passion for detail and for thoroughness and for this reason (apart from the inherent qualities of simplicity and honesty, apart from the superiority of our kultur and our lofty idealism) we have been unconquerable throughout the ages.

For example, we had foreseen the necessity in organizing our Intelligence Department, to employ, not Germans, but subjects of neutral states wherever possible. People who talk of “German spies” or “the uninterned German peril” cannot realise that from the moment war broke out, all Germans, known as such, were under the observation of the police, and not only the police but their own neighbours. It would be impossible, as I had foreseen, for such men to offer assistance to our great and splendid cause, because the least suspicious movement on their parts would result in their arrest. I have a considerable respect for the Scotland Yard routine investigation. No, my sirs, you do us no justice when you talk of “German spies.” Search not for the “Hun,” as in the bitterness of your impotent rage you call us, but for the——

I think that I have said that much of my time was taken up by answering telephone calls.

You must remember that I was in London as the representative of a Chinese News Bureau. I was also an agent for a firm of importers in Shanghai. It was therefore only natural that I should be called up all hours of the day and night with offers of goods.

“I can let you have a hundred and twenty bales of Manchester goods at 125.”

Now 120 and 125 added together make 245, and turning to my “simple code” to paragraph 245, I find the following:

“2nd Battalion of the Graniteshire Regiment entrained to-day for embarkation.”

The minor agents carried this code (containing 1,400 simple sentences to cover all naval or military movements) in a small volume. The code is printed on one side of very thin paper leaves, and the leaves are as porous and absorbent as blotting paper.

One blot of ink dropped upon a sheet will obliterate a dozen—a fact which our careless agents have discovered.

Clipped in the centre of the book (as a pencil is clipped in an ordinary book) is a tiny tube of the thinnest glass containing a quantity of black dye-stuff. The agent fearing detection has only to press the cover of the book sharply and the contents of the book are reduced to black sodden pulp.

Need I say that this ingenious invention was German in its origin.^[2]

My days were therefore very full. There came reports from all quarters and some the most unlikely. How, you may ask, did our agents make these discoveries?

There are many ways by which information is conveyed. The relations of soldiers are always willing to talk about their men and will tell you, if they know, when they are leaving, the ships they are leaving by, and will sometimes give you other important facts, but particularly about ports and dates of embarkations are they useful.

Also officers will occasionally talk at lunch and dinner and will tell their women folk military secrets which a waiter can mentally note and convey to the proper quarters. Our best agents, however, were barbers, tailors, chiropodists, and dentists. English people will always discuss matters with a barber or with the man who is fitting them with their clothes, and as almost every tailor was making military uniforms and a very large number of the tailors in London were either German or Austrian, I had quite a wealth of news.

Tailors are useful because they work to time. Clothes have to be delivered by a certain date and generally the man who has the suit made will tell the fitter the date he expects to leave England. Other useful investigators are Turkish-bath attendants and dentists. A man in a dentist’s chair is always nervous and will try to make friends with the surgeon who is operating on him. Of all agents the waiter is in reality the least useful, because writers have been pointing out for so many years the fact that most waiters were German. But the truth is that most restaurant waiters are Italian, and it is amongst the bedroom waiters that you find a preponderance of my fellow countrymen.

Another department of my work which kept me busy was the money-lending department. I had initiated a system of inquiry into the financial affairs of officers and I was able to keep track of all officers who were in financial difficulties. This department had been a very great disappointment to us, for in spite of the fact that we had the power to ruin hundreds of careers, we have never been able to employ that power profitably. The British officer is absolutely unscrupulous and has no sense of honour. Often our agents have offered to release them from their liabilities in return for some trifling service and these people have preferred to live under the odium of owing people money, to securing an honourable release from their debts; by some simple little obliging act, such as giving us particulars of their brother officers’ losses at cards, and the like. And that is what is called English honour!

Is it not more dishonourable to owe money you cannot pay than to whisper a few little secrets about men who probably are as dishonourable as yourself? However, to return to Alexander and his inamorata.

Prompt at eight o’clock, I took my place at the table and ordered an excellent dinner (my waiter was naturally a good German) and a bottle of Rhenish wine. A few minutes after I had given my order Alexander and the girl arrived. She was dressed in a long travelling coat of tussore silk, and carried—as I was careful to note—a shiny brown leather portfolio. This she placed carefully on her lap when she sat down and raised her veil.

She looked a little pale, but smiled readily enough at Alexander’s jests.

I watched her as she slowly peeled off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat. Her eyes were fixed on vacancy. Doubtless her conscience was pricking her.

Is it the thought of thy home, little maid, from whence thou hast fled never to return? Is it the anguished picture of thy broken-hearted and ruined father bemoaning his daughter and his honour? Have no fear, little one, thy treason shall enrich the chosen of the German God, the World Encirclers, Foreordained and Destined to Imperial Grandeur!

So I thought, watching her and listening.

“Are you sure that everything will be all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Please trust me,” smiled Alexander. (Oh, the deceiving rogue—how I admired his sang-froid!)

“You are ready to go—you have packed!” she asked.

“As ready as you, my dear Elsie. Come—let me question you,” he bantered; “have you all those wonderful plans which are going to make our fortunes after we are married?”

So he had promised that—what would the gracious Frau Koos-Mettleheim have said to this perfidy on the part of her husband?

“I have all the plans,” she began, but he hushed her with a warning glance.

I watched the dinner proceed but heard very little more. All the time she seemed to be plying him with anxious questions to which he returned reassuring answers.

They had reached the sweets when she began to fumble at her pocket. I guessed (rightly) that she was seeking a handkerchief and (wrongly) that she was crying.

Her search was fruitless and she beckoned the waiter.

“I left a little bag in the ladies’ room—it has my handkerchief; will you ask the attendant to send the bag?”

The waiter departed and presently returned with two men in the livery of the hotel.

I was sitting side by side and could see the faces both of the girl and Alexander, and I noticed the amusement in his face that two attendants must come to carry one small bag.

Then I heard the girl speak.

“Put your hands, palms upward, on the table,” she said.

I was still looking at Alexander’s face.

First amazement and then anger showed—then I saw his face go grey and into his eyes crept the fear of death.

The girl was holding an automatic pistol and the barrel was pointing at Alexander’s breast. She half turned her head to the attendants.

“Here is your man, sergeant,” she said briskly. “Alexander Koos, alias Ralph Burton-Smith. I charge him with espionage.”

They snapped the steel handcuffs upon Alexander’s wrists and led him out, the girl following.

I rose unsteadily and followed.

In the vestibule was quite a small crowd which had gathered at the first rumour of so remarkable a sensation. Here, for the first time, Alexander spoke, and it was curious how in his agitation his perfect English became broken and hoarse.

“Who you are? You have a mistake maken, my frient.”

“I am an officer of the British Intelligence Department,” said the girl.

“Himmel! Secret Service!” gasped Alexander, “I thought it was not!”

I saw them take him away and stole home.

They had trapped him. The girl with the sprained ankle had been waiting for him that day on Blackheath. She had led him on by talking of the plans she could get until he had told her of the rough plans he already had. Whilst (as he thought) he was tightening the net about her, she was drawing the meshes tighter about him.… Phew! It makes me hot to think of it!

Was there a secret service in England after all?

For myself, my tracks were too well covered; for Alexander I could do nothing. He would not betray me. I was sure of that. Yet to be perfectly certain I left the next night for Dundee, and I was in Dundee when the news came that Alexander had been shot in the Tower of London.

CHAPTER II.
THE MAN WHO DWELT ON A HILL

When I left London hurriedly, after the arrest of Alexander Koos, I must confess that my mind was greatly disturbed. I sat half the night in my sleeper, turning over all the circumstances leading up to the arrest of my good friend. We Germans are the most logical people in the world. We argue with precision from known facts, and we deduce from those facts such subtle conclusions as naturally flow.

We do not indulge in frivolous speculations—we Germans are a serious people with a passion for accurate data.

Thus I argued: (1) If a secret police force had been established it is a post-war creation. Otherwise our general staff would have known of its existence and have advised us. (2) Supposing a secret service had been initiated where would its agents be found? Naturally in the vicinity of the great arsenals and military camps. Under these circumstances it was not surprising that Koos, confining his investigations to Woolwich, had been brought into contact with a member of this new organisation. (3) It was humanly impossible that the operations of an improvised secret service could be extended in a few days to areas other than military and arsenal areas. Therefore, it behoved the investigator to avoid as far as possible arousing suspicion by pursuing his inquiries in the neighbourhood of arsenals and camps.

When I had reached this conclusion I was much comforted. I had no desire to take unnecessary risks. It seemed certain to me at that time, that the war would not last longer than three months. Koos had thought it would be over in two months, but I felt that he erred on the side of optimism. So that the period of risk was not a very prolonged one, and if I were wise and discreet and succeeded in impressing my subordinates with the necessity for similar discretion, there was no reason why we should not return to the Fatherland with a flawless record to receive those honours which the Supreme War Lord bestowed upon the faithful servants of our beloved Deutschland.

At eight o’clock in the morning I was taking my breakfast in the station-buffet at Edinburgh. Von Kahn was awaiting me, and over the meal, served by a sleepy waitress, I had an opportunity of retailing the events which had led to my hasty departure from London. Von Kahn stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

“Koos was an impetuous man,” he said, “I am not surprised that he has been detected. You must not forget, my dear Heine, that we Germans have only one thought, only one goal, the welfare of the Fatherland. Koos allowed his penchant for feminine society to overcome his judgment. That is a mistake which I should never make.”

I looked at our good von Kahn, with his big red face and his short, well-fed body, and I could not help thinking that it would be indeed a remarkable circumstance if he allowed himself to be lured to destruction in such a manner.

He joined the train and went on with me to Dundee. We had not gone far from the station before the train stopped and an attendant came in and pulled down all the blinds, removing, in spite of our protest, all our baggage, which he locked in an empty compartment.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.

“I am very sorry, sir,” said the man, “but those are my orders.”

For a moment I had a cold feeling inside me that I was suspected, but his next words reassured me.

“We do it to everybody, sir, before we cross the —— Bridge.”

When he had gone I turned to von Kahn.

“This is an extraordinary thing,” I said. “I never suspected the English of taking such intelligent precautions.”

Von Kahn laughed.

“The English here are Scots,” he said, “and they are very cautious.”

I should have dearly liked to peep out when the rumble of the wheels told me we were passing the famous bridge, but in the corridor outside the carriage I discovered, to my amazement, a Scottish soldier with fixed bayonet, and for some reason or other his eyes never left us.

It was not until we were a very long way past the bridge that the attendant returned my bag and suit-case and pulled up the blind, and not until we reached Dundee that I discussed the matter at all with von Kahn.

“I have reason to believe,” he said, “that we have passed a portion of the British Fleet, and it will be my endeavour during the next few days to discover what units are at present in the region of Rosyth.”

He told me this in the cab on the way to our hotel and he also gave me a great deal of information about the East Coast defences which it had been his business to investigate.

“It is practically impossible to get near the important parts of the coast,” he said, “and I think you must give up all idea of establishing light-signal stations at X and Q.”

This was a sad disappointment to me, which I did not attempt to hide.

“My dear von Kahn,” I said testily, “you are getting hypnotised by the English. You are giving them credit for gifts which are not theirs. You are imagining that these people, these Scotch for example, have the same keen national sense of suspicion as we Germans possess.”

We drove the rest of the journey to an hotel in silence. I registered here in the name by which I was known to the Chilian Legation.

I had never been in Dundee before and I hope I may never see the town again, for reasons which will be sufficiently obvious to all the good friends who read my narrative.

Dundee is a sad, grey town, so grim on the rainy morning I arrived, that I was filled with a strange sense of foreboding. It is a city of high chimney-stacks that stream smoke, and of clanging tramway cars.

I don’t know whether it was my imagination, or due to the shock of poor Koos’ arrest, but it also seemed that it was a town of graveyards, for whichever way I went I seemed always to return to one drear space of tombstones and sad trees.

My local agent here was a barber named Shmidt, and the first thing I did on my arrival at the hotel was to send for a barber! What was more natural than that a weary traveller should require shaving! Ah! do not smile, my friends! By such acts of forethought and detail was our great service built up and wonderfully established. Our good friend came with his little black-leather bag and was admitted to my room. The honest fellow was almost overcome by the sight of one whom he regarded as being a veritable link between himself and his Supreme War Lord.

“It is beautiful to be able to speak our noble German tongue again,” he said; “think of it, Herr Heine! Here I am week in and week out talking Scotch—not even English.”

He had much to tell me that I committed to memory. He even had had the good fortune to be called in professionally to an admiral who was passing through Dundee on the way to a certain town in the north.

“Naturally,” said Shmidt, “I was extremely tactful and suspicion-avoiding. But, Herr Heine, not even the high officers of State know discretion. Reticence is not!

“ ‘I wish you’d take me with you, Sir Jones,’ I said; he was well-born and had been created a Sir for war knowledge.

“ ‘Come along,’ said Sir Jones, ‘but I’m afraid you will not be comfortable when our fleet goes into action next week against Heligoland.’

“ ‘That is a strong fortress, Admiral,’ I said.

“ ‘We have been undermining it for a month,’ said Sir Jones.

“Herr Heine, I nearly fainted with excitement. Consider the position. Here was I, a faithful servant of the Fatherland, listening to one of the most important military secrets from an Excellency of the English Navy. I kept my blood cool and went on lathering without a tremble of hand.’

“ ‘That must have been terribly difficult, Sir Jones,’ I said.

“ ‘Not at all,’ said Sir Jones; ‘we have a new submarine on wheels that creeps along the bed of the ocean and fortunately there are beneath Heligoland several very large caves in which our divers can store explosives. I trust you will regard all I have told you as confidential!’ ”

By the time Shmidt had finished I was on my feet. I knew that there had been a secret vote or appropriation for the British Navy a year before. So this was the reason.

“Send Herr von Kahn to me, you will find him in Room 84,” I said; and long before my companion had arrived I was working at my codes.

“We must find a way to get this information to Germany,” I said.

“The way is simple,” said he; “the Sven Gustavus is in harbour, waiting to clear for Bergen. She has wireless, and outside of the territorial waters she can get into touch with the Bremen wireless station.”

The message I sent was a long one, and I have since learnt that it created something like a sensation at the Admiralty. All the warships in the vicinity of Heligoland were ordered away, the Corps of Divers came from Cuxhaven and the foundations of the island were thoroughly explored, although the Admiralty Marine Survey Department was emphatic on the point that no caverns existed under the island.

As a matter of fact none were discovered, though a certain suspicious-looking hole was found in one of the rocks.^[3]

I cannot believe that a High Officer of State who was also a Sir would condescend to a lie or be so frivolous as to invent such a story, and to this day I believe that my promptitude in notifying Berlin in all probability saved the Fatherland from an incalculable disaster. It was after I had sent this message away, together with certain data which I received from London, that I set about the business which had induced me to choose Dundee as the scene of my sojourn.

Scotland had an importance in our scheme which many people have made the mistake of under-estimating. To appreciate that importance, let us examine the nature of the German Plan in the event of war. Britain’s strength and weakness lay in her great extent and in the homogeneous nature of her people. In this respect she resembled the Royal and Imperial Empire of Austria-Hungary, with its German, Magyar, Czec, Slav and Jugo-Slav, Italian, Serbian, and Roumanian subjects. Austria-Hungary, however, had this advantage, that whatever views might be held, whatever dissatisfaction and dissensions might exist amongst the peoples, the Empire was organised for control by a certain authority. Britain was not so organised. The English hated the Irish, the Welsh hated the English, the Scotch despised both, and the Irish hated everybody, including themselves. At the outbreak of war the north and south of Ireland were on the brink of civil war, a great strike was pending in Wales (of this more anon), and the Scottish industrial classes, particularly on the Clyde, were in a state of unrest.

Outside of the island kingdoms we had an Egypt ripe for rebellion, with the Khedive on our side, we had India seething with sedition, and South Africa organised for revolt under two of the most popular of the Boer Generals in De la Rey and De Wet. Our task was, of course, to drive the wedges of dissension still deeper, and largely my work was specialised in this direction, for now the routine of gathering naval and military information was so smoothly-running that there was nothing for me to do but to sort out the news which came to me and pass it along to the proper quarters.

And here I might explain that there were in reality two branches of Investigation. There was my own, which comprehended all the hackwork of espionage and propaganda, and there was the Higher Service with which I was seldom brought into contact. The Higher Service was unpaid but skilfully organised. Its members were practically unknown to one another, though most of them were known to me and watched by my agents. We Germans leave nothing to chance. In Scotland, living not a very long way from Dundee, was one whom for certain reasons I regarded as a good friend of ours and who was known locally as “Mr. Brown from Australia.”

He had a cottage in the loveliest part of the Highlands,^[4] where he lived for three months in the year, spending his time in fishing one of the little rivers in the neighbourhood. Beyond that he was eccentric and had had a big flag-staff erected before his cottage on which he used to fly the Australian flag, little was known of him.

He had few visitors. His cottage was on an inhospitable spur of the hills, which was more often than not wreathed in the low-lying clouds or mists which seem to be a permanent feature of this country.

Now and again a member of the Mounted Constabulary would ride up and exchange a few words or even go inside for a glass of refreshment when he saw the flag flying, which was always a sign that Mr. Brown was in residence.

He had one servant, a Swiss youth, who was valet, groom and cook.

I have said about the Higher Service that I knew most of the members. Some of the names had been officially supplied to me, before my return to England to take up my work, by von Igel, who was practically in charge of all the commercial work in New York. Some of them I had already located on my previous visits to England; while some were so important, so well-born and so well-connected with Illustrious Excellencies, that not only were their names withheld from me but I was discouraged whenever I applied to Headquarters for information.

My local agents in Scotland had already marked down Mr. Brown, of Australia, and I had put through an inquiry about this gentleman, informing the Kriegsministerium that he was evidently well educated, that he was a fluent German scholar, and that he belonged to a superior London club, much frequented by ministers and attachés. Obviously his name was not “Brown,” and the two surreptitious views I secured of him, one close at hand and one through powerful field-glasses, left no doubt in my mind that he was a son of the Fatherland. We Germans have an instinct one for the other, a sort of sixth sense due to our common kultur and to our higher human development.

Headquarters could tell us nothing, and I thought I detected a certain discouragement in the wording of the brief message which came through to me, and drew my own conclusions. There were certain peculiarities about Mr. Brown which strengthened my resolve, and von Kahn, who had paid two visits to Glen Macintyre, was even more emphatic.

“It is not my desire, as you well know, von Kahn,” said I, “to intrude myself into illustrious circles, but there is every reason, in view of the fate of poor Koos, why we should get in touch with every friend we can muster.”

There is only one other incident of my stay in Dundee to record, and that is a curious one. In my rôle as a Chilian importer, I carried a fairly large sum of money, and to emphasize my association with the South American Republic, and the international character of my business, it was my custom in every new town I visited to call either on a money-changer or the principal bank, and request an exchange of British money for my foreign notes.

Accordingly I went into the Dundee branch of the Bank of Tayside and producing a small bundle of notes asked for their British equivalent. There were, I remember, twelve hundred peses notes of Chili, a ten-condor note of Ecuador, a hundred-franc note of France and a hundred-franc note of the Bank of Switzerland.

The teller took the money, counted it and jotted the totals down until he came to the Swiss note. He looked at the note and then looked at me. Then he pushed the note back.

“We cannot change Swiss money,” he said.

I scented a mystery—possibly some hidden diplomatic trouble with our good Swiss neighbour.

“Why?” I asked. “The Swiss exchange is above parity.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the clerk decisively, “but we are not changing Swiss notes.”

He added some lame story about a large number of Swiss forgeries being in circulation, but I sought a deeper reason. There had been a frontier incident. Two or three English newspaper correspondents had been arrested at Bale and there had been certain hints in the Paris newspapers that a member of the Swiss General Staff had been conveying information to our own staff. Here was a matter on which I could very well consult “Mr. Brown,” if von Kahn’s inquiries satisfied me as to his bonâ fides.

I started off next morning, accompanied by von Kahn, who had left his family at an East Coast watering place, fully determined to over-ride the objections which Berlin had shown and to establish communication with “the hermit of the Glen,” as I had, with a little touch of true German sentimentality, described him.

We went across Scotland, changing at Stirling, and in the evening I came to the little town which was the nearest point on the railway to Mr. Brown’s residence.

Stirling was interesting. It was full of soldiers in their picturesque kilts.

“Ah, my fine fellows,” thought I pityingly, “how little you know of the humiliation in store for you!”

In six months’ time these proud regiments who were marching to the station with bands and banners would come creeping back, possibly under a German guard! Little did they think, these officers who sat chattering so frivolously on the station, that the unobtrusive man in knickerbockers and rough stockings, watching them so innocently, was a member of the dominant race and an officer of that great secret service which has no parallel in the world.

But to resume my narrative. The next morning, at six o’clock, I rose and knocked on the door of von Kahn’s room. He was up and dressed, and after a hasty breakfast we were soon flying through the morning sunlight to our destination.

Four miles out of the town we left the main road and pursued a narrow cart-track which led gradually up to the hills. The road crosses a saddle of one of these ridges, then drops steeply into a broad green valley, through which runs two rivers.

We stopped at the top of the hill and von Kahn pointed out the shooting-box which stood on the crest of the farther rise—a little white building.

“Our Mr. Brown is at home,” he said and pointed to the flag, a yellow flag with a red lion in the centre, the same being the secret standard of Scotland, which is always flown in defiance of the English, whose banner is the Union Jack.

We had discussed our plans thoroughly the night before because, obviously, nothing could be left to the last, and it would have been extremely dangerous to have talked in the presence of the chauffeur of our hired car.

I have always made it a point to have no dealings with anybody outside our own service, and I had arranged with von Kahn to undertake all negotiations with this stranger. I said good-bye to my friend and wished him good luck, and I watched him as he descended a steep footpath and walked along the little road that led to the farther hill.

I sent the chauffeur back to the main road, telling him to rejoin me at noon, and profitably spent the time of waiting by exploring ground and coding a message on the Swiss incident, for transmission to Germany. Through my glasses I could watch from time to time the progress of my comrade. I saw him climb the hill and stand before the door of the cottage, and presently a man came out. They talked together for about ten minutes and then they both disappeared into the interior.

It was not until half-past ten that von Kahn made his appearance again. I saw him shake hands with his host and wave his hand cheerily, and three-quarters of an hour later he rejoined me on the crest of the hill.

“Well?” I asked.

There was no need to ask von Kahn. His eyes were gleaming with triumph.

“I can only say,” said he, “that our Mr. Brown is a remarkable man.”

“In what way?”

“He speaks German, he reads German, and he is German,” said von Kahn emphatically, “he has a library of all the German classics. I discovered that when he was out of the room. His flag-post obviously supports a wireless aerial in the night-time, and although he is bland and uncommunicative, I have no doubt whatever about his character. He is one of the Higher Service.”

I nodded.

“Did he give you any hint——?” I began.

“Not a word,” said von Kahn emphatically; “he speaks splendid English, is well acquainted with Australia, and pretends that he is a wealthy pleasure-seeker with no other interest than fishing and shooting.”

“I hope you were tactful,” I said suddenly.

Von Kahn smiled.

“My dear Heine,” he said, “you need have no apprehension. I whistled a certain little tune you know, and he finished it without hesitation. He is not only in the Higher Service, but he stands very high in the Higher Service.”

To make absolutely sure, we returned that night, and in company with von Kahn I crossed the valley and climbed the hill.

I was half-way up the hill when I heard a familiar sound. If you can imagine the rattling of dried peas in a tin canister shaken at irregular intervals, you know the sound that wireless makes, and that a wireless message was being tapped from the cottage on the hill there was no doubt. More than this, the unknown Mr. Brown had taken elaborate precautions to avoid detection. We climbed the hill a little higher and suddenly my foot caught an obstruction. I flashed my electric lamp down and saw that I had snapped a tiny wire.

Instantly the “clickety-click” of the wireless ceased. There was a stealthy footstep at the top of the hill and I guessed that the aerial was being taken down and that it would be stowed and hidden, together with the instruments, long before any intruder could reach the cottage.

“Go up now,” I whispered to Kahn; “go quickly and reveal yourself.”

I handed him the message I had coded and which I had brought with me.

“Give him your official number, show him your credentials, and ask the illustrious gentleman to send this message through.”

Kahn took the message without a word and began the ascent. I watched him, not moving from my position and presently I heard him challenged sharply.

“It is I,” said von Kahn’s voice and, like the bold fellow that he was, he spoke in German.

Some one replied in the same language. There was a brief exchange of question and answer, and the three—the Swiss valet was evidently present—disappeared into the cottage, and a few minutes later I saw the red glow of a light from the windows.

I was sorely tempted to creep up and listen. After all, there was no reason why von Kahn alone should have an opportunity of meeting this well-born gentleman who might be in a position to speak a favourable word in the highest quarters regarding myself. Then, again, I was not sure that von Kahn would fulfil his mission to my satisfaction.

We Germans trust nobody. Probably that is one of the reasons of our phenomenal success in dealing with people of less kultural eminence than ourselves.

I determined to risk it, and keeping as much in the shadow as possible, and feeling gingerly for other wire signals, I made my way to the little platform upon which the cottage stood. We had specially put on rubber-soled shoes for the night’s work, and I moved noiselessly. The door was closed, but there was no difficulty in discovering the room to which von Kahn had been taken. I crept nearer to the window.

The two men were talking and laughing and, thank heaven! their speech was German.

“But how do I know,” I heard Mr. Brown say, “that you are not a member of the British Secret Service?”

“For the matter of that,” said von Kahn jovially, “how am I to know that your Excellency is not also of that phantom body?”

And they both laughed together.

I heard the clink of a bottle on a glass and two hearty “Prosits,” and then Mr. Brown spoke again.

“Now what can I do for you? I suppose you know that you ought not to have come anywhere near me? How did you find me out? Was it the ever-to-be-condemned tune I whistled?”

Von Kahn chuckled.

“I have known about you for a long time,” he said, “and as I am in need of help I thought I would take the bull by the horns and seek this interview.”

“Are you alone?” asked Mr. Brown.

“Quite alone,” said von Kahn promptly.

“I mean, were you alone in making the discovery?”

“Quite alone,” said von Kahn again.

“Then you are a remarkably shrewd fellow,” laughed Brown.

I can tell you it made my blood boil to hear this swine-hound taking all the credit for this discovery. Little he knew that I was standing outside the window listening to his immodest perfidy! Could he not have said, “No, Excellency; the credit is due entirely to my respected chief, whose name I am forbidden to mention. I am merely an instrument in a superior hand?” Oh, no! In his vanity and deceit he must take full kudos to himself. Would he go any farther? Almost as I framed this question he spoke.

“I would ask your Excellency,” he said, “if you ever refer to this meeting to the illustrious Chief of Naval Intelligence that you will give him a testimonial.”

I could hardly restrain myself. For one second it was in my mind to rap sharply at the window and denounce this underling. But, fortunately, I restrained myself, though I was boiling with rage. We Germans have a keen sense of justice and are inherently, almost transparently, honest, and nothing so distresses us, so angers us, as duplicity and ingratitude.

“But surely,” said Mr. Brown’s voice, “you did not come alone to-night.”

I waited.

Just as I had been anxious for von Kahn to give me full credit, so was I now as anxious to hear him deny my presence. I do not know what it was that brought this revulsion of feeling, whether it was something in the tone of Mr. Brown or some instinctive flash of knowledge that all was not well, but I sweated as I stood waiting for the answer which seemed an eternity in coming, though in reality it was only a second or so.

“No, I assure you, Herr Brown,” said von Kahn, “I came alone.”

“That makes matters simple,” said Brown’s voice, and as he spoke the light went out. I heard von Kahn shout, but his voice was instantly muffled.

There was a struggle, a thud that seemed to shake the little building, a groan, and then silence.

I had my automatic pistol in my hand in a second.

Should I go to his rescue and take the risk of capture or should I leave him to his fate? It was a terrible decision I was called upon to make. We Germans do not shrink from our responsibilities, nor are we governed by the foolish sentimentality which dictates the actions of the commoner tribes. I made my way down the hill with great rapidity. You may say that I was leaving a comrade to his fate, but I answer that when one cog of a wheel breaks off do the other cogs disintegrate themselves in sympathy. We were part of a great machine, von Kahn and I, and my action, if it needed such justification, was justified by the events which followed.

I was within fifty yards of the narrow road which winds along the base of the hill when I thought I heard a sound before me and I stopped, flattened myself on the ground between two bushes, and listened. There was no doubt that I had reason for my suspicions. I heard, not one stealthy footfall, but a dozen, and, peering up, I saw against the artificial sky-line which I had created by lowering myself to the earth, half a dozen shadowy figures. The nearest was ten yards away and my heart came to my throat when I saw a gleam of light upon the tunic of a policeman.

They were police, undoubtedly, and they were making their way up the hill in such a manner as led me to believe that the hill itself was practically surrounded. I watched, holding my breath. The first of the figures passed not two yards away, the second on my right less than a yard. I waited until they were well up the hill before I moved, and then I wriggled forward with the utmost caution, for I thought it was possible that they had left a guard on the road. This view proved to be correct as I had not got far before I saw a man pacing the roadway.

Fortunately his beat was long and I was able to gain the road and cross it.

I found myself in a field of cabbages. Here again luck was with me, for running along two sides of the field was a deep ditch. Into this I sank and with great labour reached the opposite hill, on the top of which, hidden in a small copse, were the two motor bicycles which had brought us on our night adventure.

Here again German forethought saved me from what might have been destruction. Von Kahn had suggested we should have the chauffeur and the car we had in the morning, but as I pointed out, this would have aroused suspicion, and so instead we had hired two motor bicycles, not from the town in which we were staying, but one five miles farther along the line from whence we had set forth upon our quest.

Near by the copse, as I had seen earlier in the day, was a disused quarry overgrown with vegetation. Swiftly I wheeled Kahn’s bicycle to the edge and flung it over. It would remain undiscovered for at least a few days, and possibly for ever, unless a search was made.

To leap upon the other motor cycle and to go flying down the road was the work of a few minutes. I confess I was agitated and nervous. Who was this mysterious man who lived at the top of the hill? How did he know we were coming that night and was so sure of the hour that he could surround his house with policemen to trap us? Why had he assaulted my friend when he and his servant could have overcome him or have held him at the point of a revolver until the police arrived?

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The adventures of Heine

THE ADVENTURES
OF HEINE

CONTENTS