‘Yes, Mr Holmes, I do. Can you guess what it is?’
‘I think I can.’
I expounded my plan to him and he made one or two suggestions which I took on board. He indicated that he would communicate with Mycroft, who would pass it on to the War Office.
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I need time and freedom to do my magician’s act. Our subject must be out ofthe way. Could you ask Mycroft to arrange that the Effendi Osman E. Baristan be picked by the police on the morning of Friday next, when he is due to meet the man from Wilhelmstrasse, and detained until eleven? Perhaps the police might want to check whether his papers as an alien in the country are up to date?’
‘Consider it done.’
There was nothing more to do in Baker Street. I went to Water Lane in great haste and sent word to everybody in the Club, to come help defeat the plans of the Kaiser. Within one hour everybody was seated round the big table in Armande’s front room.
The two of us had gathered everything that we might need to launch our plan. Paper of all size and quality, including artificially aged sheets. Inks of all colours, pencils and pens. We also had a brand new Underwood Number 5 typewriter as well as an 1892 Remington. Clarihoe and the Bishop moved to a corner near a window to work out credible scenarios. They pored over the documents one at a time. Their brief was to subvert the information Wilhelmstrasse was waiting for. I will illustrate this by an example or two. There was Memo 174B/13:
We have expressed our concern about the state of the sea ports on the south east coast. The defence arrangements at Dover seem to be the only ones that could conceivably offer some token resistance to a sea-borne invasion of France. The state of ports like Folkestone and Ramsgate is sadly inadequate. Whereas the provisions at Portsmouth do seem acceptable, it must be pointed out that our committee unanimously advised that owing to its distance from where the Germans would be expected to enter the channel, it will serve next to no purpose. We advise that the facilities be relocated to Hastings or Ramsgate.
We produce a document in which we poke fun at our Teutonic enemy for their seeming blindness to our practices of feeding them misinformation. We note in particular that over the last year we had been able to hide from them the fact that nowhere in the world is there such a concentration of weapons and highly trained men ready to give the invading Germans a bloody nose. If they are planning another Armada, the same fate awaits them as did Philip of Aragon’s fleet. There was not a single member of the cabinet (or the Opposition) who does not subscribe to the non-negotiability of the defence of Belgium. We take the Entente Cordiale seriously and consider any attack against our neighbours on the other side of the channel as an act of war against us.
In a similar vein we changed numbers. Three hundred and forty eight boats fitted with artillery became one thousand three hundred and forty eight boats armed with Hotchkiss Mk I & II as well as Vickers Mk II. The Mk II in both cases were described as being ten years ahead of their nearest German rivals. They would make mincemeat of enemy crafts instantly.
A special warning was sent to his German patrons by their “man at the War Office”:
For years the English have been secretly preparing for this confrontation with the forces of the Kaiser. With typical English perfidy, they have used their propaganda to feed the Kaiser with misinformations likely to urge him to attack now. And walk into a trap. Like the inadequate French army did in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. The British have twice the number of men under arms as they have consistently led the Kaiser to believe. Men have been secretly pouring back into the country as the trouble-making colonials have been neutralised, and India was going through a peaceful period. More alarmingly, a sizeable army of war-like Pathans have been training in secrecy in the Sind desert, in expectation of being despatched to support their English masters in case of hostilities. Likewise the Zulu nation having been pacified, and now reconciled to their rulers, were now willing to send their tried and tested impis to support their erstwhile English conquerors.
The documents were written out in the appropriate jargon, and when we had finished after ten hours’ work non-stop, we read them out. We agreed that we could not have done better. We hoped that it would pass muster.
The fake documents were then put in a similar envelope which I had had the foresight of filching. On the fateful morning I set out to reach the house of Osman E. Baristan in good time. I positioned myself in the Mulberry Tea House and gulped down its stodge with the help of a merciful cuppa. And I waited. I had specifically asked Holmes to arrange for Moran to be picked up early enough so he could be released in time to keep his appointment with the Kaiser’s envoy. At five to nine I saw a Police Growler charging in on the Balham High Street from Clapham.
It slowed down but not enough, for as it turned into the Close, its hind wheel scraped the pavement rather dangerously. Mrs Keane, with whom I had developed a certain rapport, and I, watched this in some alarm, but there was no apparent damage to either wheel or pavement. She suspected that I had something to do with this, but said nowt. Eight minutes later, the Growler reappeared, with, Moran in the passenger seat. I paid Mrs Keane and left immediately, much to her surprise.
I made for the house with the green door, opened it, and in a matter of minutes I had put my envelope in the safe where I had found the real one yesterday, locked it and saw no reason for lingering there. I committed the decoy envelope that I had left there yesterday in my bag. It had done its job for King and Country. My work for the day was only beginning. Although this was only a by-product, identifying the man who had come over from Germany was another prize waiting forus. Unfortunately, as I was the only one who knew what Osman E. Baristan looked like, there was nobody else to take over from me. I went back to Mrs Keane’s teashop.
The good lady came to serve me another cuppa, and as I was her only client, she lingered and began commenting on the weather. She had a bizarre expression on her face. At first I thought nothing of it, imagining that she might be suffering from an indigestion. It was an overcast morning with the threat of imminent rain. She made some pointed remarks about my frequent visits to Balham, and I just nodded. She seemed to want to know what I was doing in her neck of the woods, and I thought that since she had struck me as a personable woman, I’d tell her some plausible lie. As she lived in the same area as Moran, she might even be useful to us.
Suddenly the idea of enlisting her help occurred to me. On the spot I concocted a story for her. I was an investigating agent from the Board of Customs and Excise. Oh yes, I assured her, treat this as a secret, but they employ a number of women for this sort of activity. We had reasons to believe that Mr Baristan was involved in smuggling activities.
‘It’s funny you should say that, for I’ve always had my suspicions about the man.’ She sounded like an actress reading her text at the first reading of a play.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, he often pops in here for a slice of my apple tart. Sometimes he meets a friend here. He says that no one makes ’em better, ha, ha!’
‘He isn’t lying, you know.’ I felt obliged to say. I noticed the strange expression on her face once more. I looked at her eyes. She moved her head away. She smiled, but it was only a twitch of her lips. Suddenly it hit me. I had made a big blunder. Armande had often spoken with admiration of my antennes. That woman was no inn-keeper. And I was not judging by the quality of her apple-tart alone. With the plans we had made, she was going to be a big spanner in the works. She may have been friendly and gossipy, but she did not fool me. She was a German spy. An ally of Moran, (for all her, “I’ve always had my suspicions about him,”) installed in a strategic location, handy for their treasonable activities. She would indubitably warn Moran. She might already have sent word to him. She had to be neutralised. I engaged her in some light-hearted conversation, noticing all the time how uneasy she was, although she was quite clever about hiding it. Or attempting
to. I had been weighing one or two plans in my head. It was now raining heavily, and as a result of the downpour there were next to no passers-by outside. Besides the mist on the windows was going to facilitate what I had in mind. Mrs Keane was a big strong woman. Her German handlers might have issued her with a weapon. It would not be easy to overpower her. She began telling me about her daughter, but I knew that she was on her guard, and was trying to confuse me. She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was planning something. Fortunately she had no idea to what length I would go to stop her warning Moran, if that’s what she meant to do. I was convinced that she would try.
‘Shall I show you something I have here,’ I said to her with a smile. Reciprocating my twitch, she moved towards my handbag and made a slight movement to see more clearly what I was going to show her. With my left hand I seized her head and pushed it down towards the Derringer in my right hand.
‘Mrs Keane...if that’s your real name, Moran is a dangerous enemy-’
‘Who is Moran? Are you mad? What are you talking about?’
‘I cannot let you ruin our action,’ I snapped. ‘I am prepared to shoot you unless you do as I say.’ She kept protesting. Why was I making slanderous accusations against an Englishwoman? I was not listening.
‘I don’t know what gave you the idea. I am an honest Yorkshire woman.’ She was surprisingly calm as she looked at me in the eye and said this.
‘You should have learnt to make tarts properly if you wanted to pass for an English tea house owner.’
‘What’s wrong with my tarts?’ Indignation dripped from that statement like slime from a snail. That slur on her baking propensity had hurt her much more than the inherent accusation of treachery to the crown. I kept my cocked pistol pointed to her head, grabbed a table cloth from the next table, and firmly tied it round her mouth. She protested and struggled all the time, but I was on top. I used more table cloths to tie her hands and legs tightly. She dropped on the floor, and I left her there. I used the telephone machine on the bar to call Mr Holmes. I explained to him briefly about the situation and he promised that he’d be over within the hour. I thought that I might have to leave the tea house before Holmes arrived if I saw Moran emerge, on the way to his dastardly act. I swapped the OPEN sign at the door for the CLOSED.
Fortunately Holmes arrived with some policemen in a Growler in much less than an hour. We had no time for a lengthy conversation, but enough for him to assure me that Mrs Keane would be neutralised. Mycroft would see to it that she be kept in a safe house for as long as was necessary, pending a possible treason trial. The teahouse afforded the best vantage point. Within half an hour I saw a hansom turn into the Close, with Moran in it. The police had done its job of detaining him to enable me to carry out the substitution.
All I had to do was to wait for Moran to come out. We knew that he was due to meet the man from Wilhelmstrasse at four, but at a quarter to four he had still not appeared. Had he already been warned? Was there another outlet at the back of the Close that I had failed to investigate? Did that mean that our plan had failed? The rain had stopped, and the clouds had disappeared. Apart from the road surfaces glistening in the lusty sunshine, one wouldn’t have known how much water had fallen from the skies only half an hour before. I kept looking at my watch, willing it to slow down.
Five minutes later, Moran had still not appeared. Was M’s information wrong? Then suddenly, and to my amazement, I caught sight of him turning into Balham High Street and making straight for the tea house. I exposed the OPEN notice hastily. The renegade walked in and looked round, manifestly for Mrs Keane.
‘If you’re looking for Mrs Keane,’ I said, ‘she got a message last night that her brother who lives in Kent had a heart attack. I am her cousin Libby, and I am holding the fort here in her absence.’ Moran mumbled something which sounded like, ‘Why would I be looking for Mrs Keane.
Who is Mrs Keane? Is that her name?’ and shrugged. I reflected on the ease and speed with which these villains deal with the unexpected. “Who is Mrs Keane?” he had said without batting an eyelid. I was glad that he did not look closely at me, but I was dishevelled and there was dirt on my face which might have helped disguise me.
‘What shall I serve you sir?’ He gave no sign that he had recognised me.
‘I am waiting for a friend.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He’ll be here in two minutes.’ On cue a smallish immaculately dressed (Savile Row?) man, looking as if he was on his way to the Opera, walked in. It was the German High Button shoes on his feet which confirmed to me who he was. Further confirmation arrived in the strong accent he used to order tea and apple tart. Pretending to be cleaning the counter, I was trying to follow their conversation. The reader will recall that we had developed a proficiency for eavesdropping from a distance by studying the lip movements of our targets. The two men were almost whispering, but obviously did not know that the geometry of their mouths was not affected by the volume of their speech.
‘This,’ Moran seemed to be saying, ‘will put the nail on the coffin on the British Empire, Herr Scherzinger.’ Scherzinger? I laughed inwardly. Even I, with my imperfect German, knew the name meant Jokester.
‘Ze Kaiser vill pee telighted,’ Herr Scherzinger responded.
In less than twenty minutes, the envelope changed hands and they were ready to leave. They did not linger once they were outside. Moran went in the direction of Tooting and the Jokester, Clapham. However, Moran came back suddenly.
‘I wonder if you could take a message for Mrs Keane, since it seems she was expecting me.’
I was delighted. This might be useful to us.
‘Tell her she makes a lovely tart. Oh, I’ll tell her myself when she comes back.’
Our mission was carried out successfully, and I was able to describe the Jokester to M. We had managed to deliver our documents. The ball was now in the court of the Kaiser. Was Wilhelmstrasse going to take the bait? Will the German attack be across the Rhine or across the Channel? The whole world now knows that he chose not to take the Channel route. Was it our doing?
Moran was left in peace to continue working for the Boches in blissful ignorance of the fact that henceforth his every single movement was being monitored, and that the secrets he was passing on to them had been carefully doctored by the War Office. The Jokester was closely monitored every time he landed in the country. Mrs Keane was the only person who could have warned the enemy about us, but happily she had been neutralised. Or so we thought.
There was a sad if comical epilogue to the story, which somewhat mars our triumph. Mrs Keane was thoroughly grilled by M’s men. I have no evidence to support the accusation made in some quarters to the effect that she had undergone physical torture. She herself refused to say anything about this. Our Secret Service would never indulge in such practices, would it? They were satisfied that she was who she claimed to be. An honest Yorkshire woman, but with no talent for baking. This, though serious, was not an offence under English law. She never had any truck with the enemy. In my zeal, I had misread the signs, and had caused pain to the innocent old dear. She was given a compensation of one hundred and eighty pounds for her loss of earnings, and an MBE to keep her sweet.
Perhaps I should add what Armande said: ‘I am reelived, my dear Ee-reine. This prooves that you are one of us after orl. Errare humanum est.’
ENCORE
(A Death in Nigeria)
One Friday morning, I needed to consult with Mr Holmes urgently. When I got to his lodgings at 221B Baker Street, Mrs Obassanju greeted me with her usual, ‘How is your body today, Miss Adler?’ She welcomed my assurance that my body was in fine shape, that I had slept well and that my appetite was hearty, with an explosion of laughter, and informed me that Mr Sherlock had gone to Norfolk with Dr Watson. He had said not to expect them back until Monday evening at the earliest. I was going to take my leave when she said that with her employer away, she had just coo
ked a Yoruba meal, and wondered whether I might be interested in joining her for lunch. My first instinct was to refuse. I knew about the predilection of Africans and Asians for hot peppery fares.
‘Mrs Obassanju, you are so kind. I’d truly love to have a taste, but I am afraid I am not used to hot spicy stuff.’ Another hearty guffaw erupted from the Yoruba woman, and I found myself joining in for no other reason than laughter being infectious. Someone eavesdropping upon us from outside would have been bewildered to see the pair of us cackling like a pair of demented lunatics who had escaped from Bedlam. When she was able to control herself, she shook her head merrily, and explained.
‘You see, Miss Adler, I suffer from hat (sic) burns, and I use only one small pepper when I would have preferred four big ones. You must taste my egusi soup. I bought goat meat from a Somali butcher in Soho.’ I love new experiences, and was indeed very keen to sample her cuisine, once she had reassured me that my palate would not ignite spontaneously.
Whilst the egusi soup was simmering, my hostess offered me a glass of ale, and we sat at the table drinking this to the accompaniment of groundnuts that she had roasted herself. In hot sand, she told me.
‘Tell me one thing Mrs Obasssanju-’
‘Call me Mercy, Miss Adler.’
‘Then you must call me Irene.’ She shook her head but said nothing.
‘Tell me the secret of happiness,’ I asked. She frowned.
‘Why you ask? I have no secret for happiness. Happiness is as hard to grasp in your hands as smoke.’
‘I mean you are always laughing. You must be the happiest person that I have ever met.’ This was followed by another outburst of hilarity, after controlling which, she demurred.
‘No, Miss Adler-’
‘Irene please.’ She shook her head again.
‘You got it wrong, begging your pardon. I am no happier than you or Mr Sherlock. So you axe why am I laughing? My answer is simple. You won’t be offended if I tell you.’ I shook my head to indicate that it takes a lot to offend me.
The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 19
