The adventures of Heine 18 – Wallace · Verses Across
Literature · Short Stories
The adventures of Heine 18The Going of Heine
18
Literature · Short Stories
The adventures of Heine 18
The Going of Heine
WallaceEnglish
Picture my feelings as I drove away from King’s Cross in a cab, with a fat suit-case at my feet. M. Missovitch had most mysteriously been struck by terror at the sight of me and had bolted. The messenger with the bag had arrived, and in answer to my inquiry, in German, whether I should carry his bag, had handed it to me and we had separated.
Scarcely had we parted than two mysterious men had leapt upon him. There had been a struggle in the street, a shot had been fired, and here was I driving off in a high condition of perspiration, wondering how much the Government knew, whether they were aware that I, Heine, was burdened with a big bag full of forged notes.
I summoned up courage to look back out of the window. I could only see a crowd gathering in the half-darkness, and withdrew my head. Should I throw the bag out of the window? If I did somebody might see me and that would be fatal. Besides, I owed duty to the Fatherland. My chest swelled at the thought.
I did not drive to my lodgings--believe me, I do not live in Bayswater Square--but dismissed the man and pretended I was going into one of the houses. I waited till he had driven away and descended the steps and walked rapidly to my own humble dwelling which was about two streets away. Here I admitted myself with a key and entered and went straight to my room, locking the door behind me.
I realized that for the safety of the Fatherland and for the honour of the great service, of which I was no unworthy member, that my first step must be to prove an alibi. With that forethought which is so characteristically German, I had made myself acquainted with Major Haynes’s habits. I knew he spent his evenings at Brown’s, a well-known club in the West End, and I immediately called him up. To my surprise and delight I found he was there.
“I wish to see you, Major Haynes,” I said. “When will it be convenient?”
“Come round to the club if it is important,” replied his voice, and having packed away the suit-case under my bed, I drove to Brown’s, and was met by the Major in the vestibule.
“Let us pretend you are not an alien enemy,” he said, as he signed my name in the book, “if it ever leaked out that I had entertained a German spy I should be hauled before the committee and asked to resign.”
“You will have your joke, Major Haynes,” I smiled.
“Won’t I?” he asked. “Now tell me what is the trouble?”
I had made up my excuse in the cab.
“When I reported to you that I had interviewed Missovitch,” I said, “you asked me if he had named anybody and I had replied that he had mentioned a person named Ivanoff.”
“Quite right,” said the Major, “Alexis Ivanoff.”
“It has occurred to me,” I went on boldly, for I can be a bluffer too and had played many games at poker, “that I know this Ivanoff. Is he not an officer of the Preobojensky Regiment?”
“To be exact,” said the Major, “he is not.”
“Oh!” said I, with a well-simulated disappointment, “then my journey has been in vain.”
“As a matter of fact, you have never heard of Alexis Ivanoff. You don’t believe he is a member of that regiment, and you have merely come round to pump me or,” he looked at me with cold-devil scrutinizing eyes, “or as an excuse to show yourself at”--he looked up at the clock--“ten-thirty.”
“Not at all,” I said eagerly, though my marrow shook within me.
He did not take his eyes off me.
“There is some reason,” he said slowly, “now own up, Heine?”
We Germans are quick thinkers and the idea came to me as an inspiration.
“I will be frank with you,” I said, “I have been summoning up my courage to ask you a favour, but my heart descended to my shoes when I saw your official face.”
“Go ahead.”
“I need permission to leave London,” said I. “You were kind enough to tell me that you would facilitate my journey to America, and I have many real genuine bonâ-fide businesses to do in England before I depart.”
He thought a moment.
“I have no objection,” he said. “When do you expect to leave?”
“To-morrow,” I replied.
“Now look here, Heine,” he said. “I don’t dislike you. You are quite a decent fellow, but you have to promise me that you will engage yourself in no espionage work, that you will not go into any of the prohibited areas, and that you will report yourself to me on your return to London.”
“I promise,” I said.
We shook hands and parted. Somehow I knew that this time, at any rate, he was taking me at my word and I was not being followed. Nevertheless, I altered my appearance as best I could, but not until within two hours of my departure did I unlock that suit-case which lay beneath my bed.
You will understand that I had a natural feeling of delicacy about playing the common part of a forgery-distributor. You must remember that I was a student of Heidelberg, that my parents were people of honour, my father being a State district councillor with a fourth-class order of the Red Eagle. Was it honourable, thought I, to distribute forged money? More than that, was it safe?
An examination of the contents of the case satisfied me and filled me with a certain pride in the skill and genius of our German workmen. There the money lay in great thick packets of £5, £10, £50 and £100 notes with innumerable thicker packages of £1 treasury bills. And the cleverness of the forgeries! Not only were they indistinguishable from real money, both in the texture of the paper and in the colour of the printing, but every bank-note bore a different number and the greater proportion of them had the appearance of having been used very frequently.
You would never have suspected that these soiled notes, with the fold marks upon them, were not what they pretended to be. I must confess it gave me greater courage, and filled me with a certain boyish satisfaction to know how many people would be deceived.
I left that night for the North. My destination was Scotland, and I reached Glasgow the following morning. I did not of course put any money into circulation on the train. Heine is not exactly a fool. He had to come back by that railway and a fine flibberty-gibbet he would look if the so-handsomely-tipped guard or the in-excess-paid sleeping-car attendant were to recognize the man who had given him forged notes.
I will not attempt to describe the adventures of that week. I will not tell you how I passed my first £5 note and how I stood in fear and trembling with my heart thumping so that even the shopkeeper thought that an aeroplane was passing overhead; of how I lived in terror for twenty-four hours lest my act be brought home to me.
I was soon to discover that I was chewing more than I could bite. My friends, it requires an expert to put forged money into circulation. It must be done note by note, and whenever I offered large sums, like £50, people looked at me askance.
In Scotland I found it was almost impossible, because the Scottish people have bank-notes of their own, queer pieces of paper that look as if they have fallen into the soup and have been dried in a dust-bin. I came south of the line to Newcastle, staying at an hotel not far from the station. My progress was painfully slow. In one week I had only managed to get rid of £100 and most of that was in £1 treasury notes, which were accepted without question.
It was in Newcastle that I got my big fright. I had purchased an £80 motor-bicycle and paid for it in notes, and after ordering the machine to be sent to the hotel, I was leaving the shop when the manager called me back.
“I don’t think this £50 note of yours is in order, sir,” he said.
I felt my knees tremble.
“Not in order?” I blustered. “My good man, are you mad?”
“I’ve got the number of a note here which is circulated by the police as having been stolen. Will you accompany me to the bank? They have the right numbers there and I may have made a mistake.”
To refuse would have been to invite suspicion. I put a bold look upon my pale face and swaggered off in company with the manager with true German insouciance. At the bank my trials and tribulations (internal) can only be imagined by those who have enjoyed a similar experience.
It was not the fear that this note would prove to be one which had been stolen that filled my heart with wild fluttering (as a young girl’s when she is first told by a handsome Prussian lover that he adores her), it was the tremblement of apprehension that the bank manager would detect this so perfectly imitated note as a forgery.
We were ushered into the bank manager’s room, an evil, sinister-looking man with a close-cut moustache. The shopkeeper explained. For my part I stood a little behind him, having with my usual thoroughness marked the way of retreat and made my plans for a grand bolt.
The bank manager took the note in his hand and I set my teeth. He looked at it, turned it over, rustled it, laid it on the desk, examined the number, then, pulling out a drawer, he took a thin black book and opened it. He ran his finger down page after page and at last he stopped.
“This must be the one, Mr. Speddings,” he said. “I am afraid, sir,” he said, addressing me, “this gentleman has made a mistake. Curiously enough, the number of this note is missing but it is not in this series. Bank-notes, as you know,” he explained, “have a number and a series letter, and the stolen note fortunately is not yours.”
I bowed my head. Had I spoken my shaking voice would have betrayed me. I shook hands with this benevolent-looking Englishman, left the note in the shopkeeper’s hands and, hailing a cab, I drove back to my hotel.
The shock quite upset me, and I lay on the bed all that afternoon thinking of some way whereby not only I could get a quicker departure of the money but a method which enabled me to do so in safety. They brought me up the afternoon newspapers and I turned the pages idly. I have explained before, though the fact needs no explanation, that we Germans leap to an idea as air to a vacuum. It was something in the little smudged space reserved for the latest news which attracted my attention. I rang the bell and the porter came to me.
I pretty shrewdly guessed that this man was interested in the subject which I broached. All these porters and common people of England are sport-hunters and race-horse punting men, as they call them. I assumed the air of a bookmaker as he came in, and said with a good imitation of a bettor:
“What’s the odds for the three o’clock race!”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“What’s the odds for the three o’clock race, my boy?” I said jovially. “Six to four the field or ten to one bar one?” You see I had got the jargon of the race-course by heart, though I loathed and detested the races.
A light dawned in his eyes.
“Oh, you want to know the prices of the three o’clock winner. It’s four to one, sir.”
“Good,” I replied jovially, and putting my hand in my pocket I gave him a £5 note to his great astonishment.
“Where is the horse-racing to-morrow?” I asked.
“Same place, sir,” said the man when he had recovered from his dumbfoundedness.
“Where?” I asked.
“Why, at Newmarket, sir.”
“And is there racing on the following day?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, “it is a three-day meeting. This is the first day.”
“Find me the best train for Newmarket, my good fellow,” I said; “for I am going down to back the field.”
He was mystified by my knowledge of sporting terms. That was easy to see. He went away and came back in about an hour, and told me that the best thing I could do was to go to London on the night train, and take another train from there to Newmarket, and though I did not wish to appear in London, those were the steps I took, arriving at London at seven o’clock in the morning and leaving Liverpool Street Station at half-past eight.
I found on my arrival at that historic centre of gambling and vice, that I was three hours too soon. My pockets were filled with money, and I carried the remainder in my portmanteau. I had some difficulty in finding a room at the hotel, but eventually I was given a small apartment on the second floor of a gloomy inn.
I left my bag under the bed and strode out into the town, congratulating myself upon the genius which had inspired me to discover the most rapid way of putting money into circulation.
It was a bright spring morning and the streets were crowded with men who were strolling up and down, and who had evidently spent the night in the town.
I took a brisk walk to what is known as the “Severalls,” and then, coming back, turned into the most respectable bar I could find and ordered myself a whisky and soda. I made a great display of my money--(Do you see Heine’s plan?)--and several sharp-looking men, who were watching me closely, exchanged glances which I did not fail to see, though I proceeded innocently to swallow my drink as though I were oblivious of their presence. By-and-by one of them came over to me and asked me if I had seen the morning paper.
“I think I have met you before,” he said, “at Ascot.”
“It is very likely,” I replied politely. “I usually go to Ascot three or four times a year.”
“Not for the racing?” he said, taken aback.
“Yes,” I smiled.
“But,” he said, “there’s only one meeting at Ascot. A four-day meeting in the summer.”
“Exactly,” I said, never at a loss for a reply. “I go every day.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Do you think Barleycorn will do it to-day?”
“Do what?” I asked, a little puzzled.
“Do you think Barleycorn will win?”
“Oh, of course,” I said hastily. “Is it running?”
He looked at me queerly.
“Running? Is Barleycorn running for the Babraham handicap? Why, of course it’s running. It will start a hot favourite, too.”
“In that case,” said I with a simulation of racing intelligence, “in that case it will win. I must have a thousand or so on,” I said with careless indifference.
He swallowed hard.
“I know a very good thing for the first race,” he said. “It’s a pinch.”
“What a curious name for a horse,” I said, with a gay laugh.
“You’re a comical chap,” said the man. “What I mean is, this horse is a certainty.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” said I. “Forgive me if I am not used to the patois, but you see I am a Chilian planter and I do not speak very well.”
He nodded, and the puzzled look on his face disappeared, and instead there settled that beautiful look of peace and contentment which a man assumes when he has found an unsuspected gold mine.
“I used to live in Chile myself,” he said, “at least my brother did. He is always talking about the Chilians--that’s where the chillies come from, isn’t it?”
I nodded. I do not know where they come from, and I have only been in Chili once in my life.
“Well, anything I can do for a stranger I am always willing to do,” he said.
He was a stoutish man with a large gold watch-chain. His face was clean-shaven and very red, and he wore a grey Derby hat on the back of his head and three diamond rings on his right hand. He asked me if I admired the rings and I told him I did. He said they were diamonds and I did not tell him he was a liar, for I know plate-glass when I see it.
The end of it was that we all went out to the course together. On the way up he told me he knew a bookmaker who gave much better odds than anybody else, and that if I cared to let him do my commissions for me he would be happy to put me in the way of making money.
It transpired that the pinch was a horse called Implex, and I handed over £150 with a coolness which took his breath away. Implex did not win, and if he had won I should not have got the money, because my new friend, whose name was Mike, did not, so far as I could see, go near a bookmaker. He came back full of apologies, expecting to find me wrathful, but I was smiling and urbane. He told me he had another pinch and that he could get ten to one to a lot of money.
I handed him ten notes of £50, the most difficult notes of all to put into circulation, and he went into the ring and came back and said that I stood to win £5,000. The horse was called Molum. I saw that horse going down. I don’t know much about race-horses, but I know a horse when I see one. I watched the race from the stand, but I did not see Molum till after the race was over.
For some time Mike did not come near me, but just before the third race he put in an appearance, full of sorrow and unhappiness and expressed the wish that he would be deprived of his sight if he was not the most disappointed man on the course.
“But you can get all your money back on Barleycorn,” he said. “It’s a pinch.”
I gave the poor fellow £500 and then strolled into the ring. I thought I might as well get rid of the money myself. It was a very simple process. I had merely to go to a bookmaker and say “Barleycorn,” and he shouted a lot of figures in my face, whereupon I would hand him money, his assistant writing something in a book and giving me a ticket.
In this way I distributed over £2,000 and Barleycorn was fourth, or he may have been tenth. When you realize that the value of the money I had to distribute was nearly £50,000--I did not count it, but made a rough calculation--you can appreciate the fact that it went all too slowly. I could not give the bookmakers too much money for fear I excited comment. There was only about a quarter of an hour during which they would accept money. Some of them refused to take it.
On the fifth race Mike told me that a horse named Hippo was a stone certainty, and when I went to a bookmaker and said “Hippo” and handed him a lot of money he shook his head and said:
“My book’s full.”
“Get another book,” I said pleasantly.
“I can’t take your money. I don’t want to lay Hippo.”
“What will you lay?” I said.
“I’ll lay you six to one Jiggling Boy,” he said.
“Then make it Jiggling Boy by all means.”
I handed him my money and took his ticket. I know that in story-books it would happen that I could not get rid of my money and that the money I put on the horses would be returned to me as winnings, but I found no difficulty in discovering horses that could not win.
To my annoyance, however, I found that I had achieved the result which I was most anxious to avoid. I had attracted attention, and when the last race was over I found myself the cynosure of all eyes. Men nudged one another as I passed through the wicket-gate to the long road which leads to the town and I heard them say:
“That’s ’im. That’s the mug!” and use other admiring phrases.
I, Heine, who hated and despised the so-called sport, was already famous as a gambling plunger in this home of rascality. Now, my plan was a two-fold one and all was going well. Why should I travel the country distributing forged money when I could find somebody who would do it for me? I did not know the rascals of England who received and distributed stolen notes, but I knew that they existed, as they do in all countries.
I knew that once a bank is robbed, that, with almost lightning speed, the bank-notes stolen are circulated and all traces of the thief are hidden. Here, then, was the machinery for a rapid distribution before the notes began to drivel back from the Bank of England stamped “forgery” upon their faces.
I was joined on the way back to the town by Mike and one of his friends.
“You had bad luck, Mister,” said Mike. “But, never mind, I can make your fortune to-morrow.”
I smiled, inwardly.
I could make his fortune that night.
“I don’t intend staying for to-morrow’s horse-racing,” I answered him. “I ought to go back to town. I don’t think it is safe for me to carry so much money about with me.”
He looked at me.
“It’s very dangerous to carry a lot of money about,” he said. “But, bless you, this is a very law-abiding country, ain’t it, Alf?” addressing his companion.
“Too law-abiding,” said the other, a tall, dismal man, with a drooping moustache.
“I can speak to you as a friend,” I said to Mike, “of course I wouldn’t tell anybody else.”
“You can trust me,” said Mike, “with your life.”
“Well, I want to ask your advice,” I said. “There is a notice in my bedroom saying that the landlord of the inn will not be responsible for any money stolen unless it is deposited with him. Now, do you think that I am safe in trusting the proprietor of the Beacon Inn with £30,000?”
There was a long silence. Mike tried to speak once or twice, and when he did, his voice was husky.
“Thirty thousand pounds,” he said in a far-away voice; “no, I don’t think I would trust the landlord with that. It isn’t fair to him. So far as you’ve got it in a safe place, under your bed or somewhere----”
“Exactly,” I said, “it is under my bed, speaking as a friend.”
“Well, so long as it’s there, leave it there,” said Mike. “It’s the last place anybody would think of looking.”
He accompanied me to the door of my lodgings, and I was turning in when Mike said to his friend:
“Look here, Alf, why don’t you take this gentleman and show him round the town. It’s worth seeing. There are some regular old antiquities here.”
“With pleasure,” I said, “if your friend does not object. And you will accompany us?”
“I’ve got to see a man in here,” he said, pointing to my inn; “but I’ll see you later.”
For the next hour, under the guidance of the unhappy Alf, I walked about Newmarket, listening to my guide. Several times I pretended that I wanted to go back to the hotel, but each time he prevented me on some excuse or other. And all the time I was chuckling. I knew the friend that Mike wanted to see, a certain battered portmanteau under my bed filled with wonderful treasure.
By this time he would have caught the train and would be on his way to London where his companion would join him later.
When at last I reached the inn, I paused out of curiosity to ask the landlord if anybody had been for me. As I expected, a gentleman had called and had gone upstairs, saying that he had come by invitation.
I walked up to my room, smiling broadly. I pulled the bag from under the bed, that bag which had been a source of such bother and worry, and back-quivering. I pulled it out. As I expected, it was empty, save for one thick packet of notes which, as they were wrapped in paper, had evidently been left behind by the thief under the impression that it was some of my personal belongings.
I cursed him for his carelessness, slipped the packet into my pocket, and taking my few belongings, I went downstairs gaily, paid the bill, this time with genuine money from my own pocket-book, and drove to the station.
I could have sworn I saw Alf in one of the carriages as I passed, but he turned his face away quickly. Be not afraid, my poor fellow! Didst thou but know, thou and thy sneak-thief companion are unconscious instruments of vengeance working the will of the Fatherland upon this perfidious and mercenary England.
Fortunately I had the carriage to myself and was able to get rid of the bag through the window, choosing the moment when we were crossing a small river for hiding the evidence.
I reached Liverpool Street Station at 9.20, feeling very hungry. There were no taxi-cabs procurable, and I went to the station buffet to get a sandwich and a glass of beer. I saw no sign of Alf, or of his thievish companion, and as a matter of fact, I did not have the curiosity to look for them. It was sufficient that I, Heine, had, by my tactics, distributed £60,000 worth of counterfeit coin for the glory of the Fatherland.
What was the object, you may ask? Why all this trouble? Cannot you see that whether it were true or merely a rumour, that there was a great amount of forged notes in circulation, that the credit of England at home and abroad would suffer, that people would be loath to accept paper money, and that confidence, which is the basis of exchange, would be destroyed?
Truly we Germans are great psychologists and understand the devious arts of making war ruthlessly. I resolved to call upon the illustrious Captain Baron von Hazfeld on the following morning, and explain to him that my mission had been accomplished. After that I might turn my attention to the Bolsheviks, and try to discover what their little game was. I had had no time to think about them or to puzzle my brains about the mysterious Ivanoff, but now that my mission was accomplished, I could devote more time and attention to that matter.
I stood outside the station waiting for an omnibus, or perchance, I thought, I might have the luck to find a taxi, when a poorly dressed man who seemed to know what I was thinking about, came to me and said:
“Are you looking for a taxi, sir?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“You will find one round the corner,” he said. “I’ll show you the way.”
He led me along the ill-lighted street into a deserted thoroughfare, which led, I believe, into Finsbury Square. There were no lights and there was no sign of a taxi-cab.
“It’s round the corner, sir,” said the man again.
I had opened my mouth to speak when suddenly a sack was thrown over my head. I struggled, but I knew I was in the grip of two or three men. Then I had been detected. Oh! the wild thoughts that coursed through my brain! I heard a voice say something, and to my amazement it was in German.
I was lifted bodily from my feet and pushed into what I knew was the interior of a motor-car. I heard the door slammed, and presently the car moved. We had been travelling for twenty minutes when it stopped, the door was again opened and I was bundled out through a doorway, down some stone stairs, led and pushed along a passage and through another doorway. I heard the doors closed and locked, and then the sack was removed from my head.
I was in a room about twenty feet square, and there were about ten people present. They were foreign-looking men and I knew instinctively that the majority of them were Russians. As the sack was whisked from my head a man, whom I recognized as Missovitch, said:
“That is the man.”
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” I demanded.
“Sit down, Heine,” said an imperious voice.
Such an evening of surprises, for the man who spoke was none other than the illustrious Captain Baron von Hazfeld!
“Herr Baron,” I stammered.
“Are you sure this is the man?” asked the Baron, turning to Missovitch.
“Absolutely certain. I saw him take the bag.”
“Then,” said the Baron, “there will be no difficulty in recovering the money. There was probably some mistake. Now, Heine,” he said, more kindly than usual, “this gentleman,” pointing to a tall man with a red beard, who was scowling at me, “is Herr Loski.”
I bowed.
“I am delighted to meet you,” I said.
“You were instructed by me last Thursday week to wait at a station,” said the Baron, “you were told to meet a messenger who was bringing a bag of forged notes--I can speak freely before you, gentlemen. That man arrived,” he went on, turning to me, “but you were not there to meet him.”
“Pardon me, Herr Baron,” I said with a smile, “I not only met him but----”
“Wait,” said the Baron, “the man you met was one of M. Loski’s companions, who brought £65,000 to this country which had been stolen from the Bank of Petrograd. When I say stolen I should say,” he said, with a bow to Herr Loski, “expropriated. Knowing that the English agent of the bank, M. Alexis Ivanoff, had procured a police warrant to arrest M. Loski, should the money be found in his possession, Herr Loski employed another gentleman to take the bag direct to M. Missovitch. Unfortunately he mistook you for M. Missovitch, and the bag containing £65,000 (English) passed into your possession. Where is the money?”
The room was swimming around me. It seemed like a horrible dream. For two weeks I had been engaged in getting rid of that money. I had bought impossible things which I had never handled. I had gambled thousands on horses which could never win, and finally I had deliberately tempted a thief to steal it.
“Where is that money?” said the Baron again.
I drew myself erect.
“It is spent,” I said.
When silence fell again, when everybody had stopped talking and crying and waving their hands, the Baron spoke.
“You know Major Haynes?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You went to his club the night before you left London?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“You are accused of having betrayed the secrets of our Department.”
“Whoever accuses me of that,” I cried indignantly, “is a liar.”
“I accuse you,” thundered the Baron.
“Then you are a liar,” I said.
God knows how I mustered up the courage to speak so to one so illustrious, but I did this in my virtuous innocence. The Baron turned to the man called Loski.
“My Government will see that you are repaid,” he said; “as to this traitor, I think, gentlemen, for your own protection there is only one thing to be done. This man was an agent of ours, but is no longer in our service. He is in communication with the English Intelligence Department, and what that means to us all you know.”
The man called Missovitch bent forward eagerly and spoke in a low tone and the Baron von Hazfeld nodded. Missovitch said something in Russian and I was instantly seized and thrown into a chair, my hands pulled behind and handcuffed. Missovitch took off his coat and took from his pocket a red cord which I watched with a fascinated stare.
I remember it looked like one of those bell-pulls you see in old English houses without the tassel. He stepped behind me and I knew, rather than saw, that he was making a slip-knot.
In those few ghastly moments I could not think clearly. I could not pray, I could not scream. I could only sit open-mouthed staring at the sneering face of one who called himself a German and yet could watch a fellow-countryman die at the hands of the barbarian.
“If you have anything to say, Heine, now is your time,” said the Baron.
I drew a long breath.
“I hope that Germany is beaten,” I said, “and that swine like you will black the boots of the Englishmen.”
I had hardly finished speaking before the cord was pulled round my neck. I felt the foot of Missovitch on the back of the chair behind me as he prepared to take his grip. From where I sat I could see the door, the key within it, and I could have sworn that I saw the key turning as though some invisible hand on the outside was gripping its end.
The cord tightened with a jerk, strangling the cry in my throat. I felt a tremendous pressure of blood, a horrible, unbearable sense of suffocation, and then:
“Hands up, everybody!”
The cord relaxed. I stared at the doorway and there stood Major Haynes, revolver in hand, and behind him I saw the red caps of the military police.
For a fortnight I lay prostrate in bed and saw nobody but Major Haynes, who visited me occasionally.
He told me he had secured me a passport and a berth to America, and also informed me that the ship was one of a convoy. When I was up and well, and two days before I left, he came to see me.
“You’re going back to America, Heine, and the American police have been informed of your little weakness. But you are going to have a square deal and, unless you misbehave yourself, you will not be interfered with.”
“I have had enough, Major Haynes,” I said, “I’m through.”
He nodded.
“I don’t think you know the thing you have been risking, Heine.” For the first time he spoke very seriously, without any of that facetiousness which was his peculiar métier. “You think it is an exciting game and a clever game, but I am going to guarantee that you will never engage in espionage work again. I am going to send you back to the United States cured. I want you to stay the night at an hotel. I am going to get you up very early to-morrow morning. Don’t be afraid, I am not going to ask you to do anything for me,” he smiled. “You are ready for the voyage?”
“Yes, Major Haynes,” I said.
“The boat train leaves at ten o’clock to-morrow morning,” he said, “but I shall want to see you before that; in fact, I shall call at your hotel at five o’clock.”
I did not know what he was driving at, but I made no objection. As how could I? With my passport and steamboat ticket in my pocket, and my trunk packed, I arrived at the little city hotel which he had chosen, and at five o’clock on the following morning I was awakened and found him standing beside my bed.
I got up and dressed, had a cup of coffee and some biscuits, and leaving my bag behind, I went out with him into the deserted streets. His car was waiting, and we drove through the city to a large building, which I recognized, passed under a vaulted archway, and the car stopped in a courtyard.
There was a solemn hush on the world. We heard nothing but the sound of birds singing. The old trees were dressed in the vivid green of spring and in my heart was a greater solemnity than I had ever felt.
Major Haynes looked at his watch and led me to a large bare room.
There were eight soldiers there, standing in a line, their rifles at the rest. At the other end of the room was a chair. We took our place behind the soldiers, and a little to the side, and presently we heard steps, and two soldiers entered and between them, dressed in his shirt and trousers, was Captain Baron von Hazfeld, his face grey, his eyes downcast.
They sat him on the chair and strapped his hands, and the eight rifles came up together as if by machinery. I shut my eyes and closed my ears.
Five seconds later I was in the open air again. I had seen the figure in the chair limp and bloody and I wanted to see no more.
The Major drove me back to the hotel and, standing on the pavement, he shook hands with me.
“War,” said he sadly, “is a pitiful business, Heine. Do you think you will catch your train?”
“Major Haynes,” I said, “if you will be kind enough to drive me to the station now I shall be glad to wait on the platform until it comes in.”
