I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  The Herr Chief of the Great General Staff was emphasizing his remarks with vigor unusual even for him, when the telephone, no respecter of persons, sent out its tinkling call. Hitching his chair closer to the table, the Herr Chief of the Aviation Corps removed the receiver from the instrument. A courteous silence prevailed as he took the message. Replacing the receiver, he turned and confronted his confreres.

  “An outpost reports,” he began formally, “that Captain von Eltz in his Aviatik biplane was pursued and wrecked by a French airman who was obliged to make a forced landing inside our lines. The French airmen were shot in their attempt to escape. Owing to the Aviatik biplane catching in the branches of a tree and thereby breaking his fall Captain von Eltz was rescued alive, although desperately wounded. The observer who accompanied him is dead. On regaining consciousness Captain von Eltz reported that his mission was successful, the new ammunition depot having been completely destroyed by his bomb.”

  A low hum of approval greeted his words. “Well done, gallant von Eltz!” exclaimed one of the hearers. “He deserves the Iron Cross.”

  “He will receive it,” declared another officer enthusiastically.

  “The information as to the location of this new ammunition depot, which von Eltz has just destroyed, came from the man of whom I have been telling you tonight,” broke in the Herr Chief of the Secret Service. “He has been our eyes and ears in England. Gentlemen, is it your wish that he be intrusted with the delicate mission of which we have just been speaking?”

  The eyes of the Herr Chief of the Great General Staff swept his companions. “Is it that I speak for all?” A quick affirmative answered him. “Then, we leave the matter entirely in your hands.” The Herr Chief of the Secret Service bowed. “You know your agents; the selection is left to you, but see there is no unnecessary delay.”

  “There will be no delay,” responded the Herr Chief of the Secret Service. “My agent is not far from here. With your permission, I take my leave,” and saluting he hastened from the room.

  The sun was halfway in the heavens when a limousine drew up before a wayside inn near a semi-demolished city. Before the orderly sitting by the chauffeur could swing himself to the ground, a tall man had stepped to the side of the car and opened the door. For a second the Herr Chief of the Secret Service and the stranger contemplated each other without speaking, then the former motioned to the vacant seat by his side.

  “We can talk as we ride,” he announced brusquely. “Your luggage—”

  “Is here,” thrusting a much labeled suitcase inside the limousine and jumping in after it.

  At a low-toned word from the Herr Chief of the Secret Service the orderly saluted and quickly resumed his seat by the chauffeur. There was a short silence inside the limousine as the powerful car continued up the road. They were stopped at the first railroad crossing by a trainload of wounded soldiers.

  “Your pardon,” and before the Herr Chief of the Secret Service could stop him, the stranger pulled down the sash curtains of all the windows. “You are well known; being recognized is the penalty of greatness. It is to my interest to escape such a distinction.”

  “I approve your caution, Herr Captain,” observed the older man. “Will you smoke?” producing his cigarette case, and as the other smilingly helped himself and accepted a lighted match, he surveyed him critically. Paying no attention to his chiefs scrutiny, the Secret Service agent contemplated the luxurious appointments of the limousine with satisfaction and puffed contentedly at his cigarette. His air of breeding was unmistakable, but the devil-may-care sparkle in his gray-blue eyes redeemed an otherwise expressionless face from being considered heavy. The spirits of the Herr Chief of the Secret Service rose. His recollection and judgment was still good; his agent, by men and women, would be deemed extremely handsome.

  “The new ammunition depot was destroyed last night by our airmen,” he said, with some abruptness. “Your information was reliable.”

  “Pardon, is not my information always reliable?” interpolated the Secret Service agent.

  “So it has proved,” acknowledged his chief cordially, but a mark was mentally registered against the Herr Captain. German bureaucracy does not tolerate presumption from a subordinate. “And owing to your excellent record, you have been selected for a most delicate mission.”

  “Under the same conditions?”

  “The Imperial Government cannot be questioned,” retorted his chief, his anger rising.

  “I am different from other operatives.” A puff of cigarette smoke wreathed upward from the speaker’s lips. “A free-lance.”

  “And you have been given a free hand. We have not inquired into your methods of procuring information, being content with the result.”

  “And does not the result justify not only your confidence but promotion?”

  The Herr Chief of the Secret Service considered before replying; then he answered with a question.

  “Have you been to Ireland?”

  The Secret Service agent smiled grimly as he took from his pocket a book of cigarette papers. Counting them over, he selected the seventeenth paper, and passed it to his companion, who examined the small blank sheet with interest. “Just a moment,” and the young man again slipped his hand into a vest pocket, this time bringing out a nickel flashlight. Pressing his thumb on the switch he held the glass bulb against the rice paper. In a few minutes a faint tracing appeared on the blank page, which grew brighter as the rays of light generated more heat.

  “Hold it a moment,” said the Herr Chief of the Secret Service. “Keep it over the bulb,” and taking out his notebook he made several entries, then closed it with a snap.

  “Finished?” As he asked the question, the Secret Service agent replaced his pocket flashlight, drew out his tobacco pouch, poured a little in the rice paper, and proceeded to roll the cigarette with practiced fingers.

  “About Sheerness?” questioned the Herr Chief of the Secret Service.

  “All is arranged.”

  “Good.” The Herr Chief of the Secret Service permitted himself to settle back more comfortably on the roomy seat so that he faced his companion. In the closed and semi-darkened limousine there was no danger of their conversation being overheard.

  “I reserved for myself, Herr Captain,” said the Herr Chief slowly, “the pleasure of informing you that your valuable services to the Kaiser and the Fatherland”—the Secret Service agent raised his hat—“are recognized. The Cross may yet be yours.”

  “How can I express my gratitude?” stammered the Secret Service agent.

  “By not jumping to hasty conclusions,” smiled his chief. “Never again question your orders.”

  “Be just,” protested the Secret Service agent warmly. “I have risked my life daily for the Kaiser and the Fatherland in a hostile country. There have been hours which I do not care to remember.” The speaker’s tone grew husky. “Some day—a short shift; and I must make provision for another.”

  “I understood you were not married?”

  There was a barely perceptible pause. “Spies do not marry, sir.”

  “And if a Secret Service agent has a healthy regard for his own safety, he is careful of serious entanglements,” cautioned his chief. “However, judging by your past work, I believe you are quite able to take care of yourself. Thanks to the warnings and information of your organization we have been able to meet some of the Allies’ contemplated concerted attacks, and your information as to the sailing of transports and the movements of ammunition trains has been of inestimable service.”

  “Do you still wish me to keep up this particular work?”

  “No.” The Herr Chief of the Secret Service leaned forward in his earnestness. “This war has demonstrated again and again that victory goes with the heaviest artillery.”

  “True! Antwerp, one of the strongest fortified cities on the Continent, crumpled up before our siege guns,” broke in his companion.

  The older man paid no attention to the interrupt
ion, but continued gravely: “Hand to hand conflict and cavalry charges are a thing of the past. We shell out the enemies’ trenches from batteries six to twelve miles away. All this you already know; I repeat it now to explain what I am about to say. We are in possession of the mining district of France, they are getting hard pushed for ammunition; England’s supply is not inexhaustible; Russia cannot half arm her fighting forces. They one and all are appealing to the manufacturing capitalists of the United States to furnish them with arms and ammunition.”

  “And with success,” dryly.

  The Herr Chief of the Secret Police frowned. “It must be stopped. You are to go to America—”

  “I?”

  “Yes, at once. You have a genius for organization; your work in England proved that. Let us know what merchant vessels and passenger steamers are carrying munitions of war. Be sure, doubly sure, that your information is correct, for we shall act upon it. Our Government stands ready to take most drastic measures to stop such traffic.”

  “I see.” The Secret Service agent stroked his clean-shaven chin in meditative silence. “In England I went hand in hand with death; in the United States I am likely to outlive my usefulness.”

  “Perhaps,” with dry significance. “But recollect our Government is ready to adopt any expedient to stop the exporting of arms and ammunition to our enemies.”

  “As for instance—?”

  “Leave our methods to us; you have your work. You will make your headquarters at Washington City. There you will be able to place your hand on the pulse of the nation, and there you will find—idle women.”

  “Have we not already representatives at the United States capital?”

  The Herr Chief of the Secret Service eyed him keenly. “Our embassy is concerned only with the diplomatic world. You are to send us word whether the United States Government arsenals are working under a full complement of men; of the orders placed by the Navy Department for submarines, and the activities obtaining in private munition plants. Be certain and study the undercurrent of sentiment for or against us. Report as you have heretofore.”

  “How am I to get in touch with the private shipyards and munition plants?”

  “I will give you letters to residents loyal to their Fatherland. A number of the owners of powder companies and munition plants usually winter in Washington. I am also told that Mexican juntas still make Washington their headquarters.” The eyes of the Secret Service agent were boring into him, but the older man’s countenance remained a mask. “You must bear in mind that if the American capitalists persist in selling assistance to our enemies the attention of the United States must be diverted to other issues.…”

  “Such a plan could only be carried out by creating a necessity of home consumption for war munitions,” supplemented the Secret Service agent softly.

  Without replying the Herr Chief of the Secret Service pulled forward a small despatch-box from a cleverly concealed pocket in the upholstery of the limousine.

  “We are motoring to your nearest destination,” he said soberly, opening the box. “Here are your letters of credit, your passport, and introductions to our friends across the water,” handing him a leather wallet. “They will see that you are properly introduced to Washington hostesses. Go out in society; I am told it is most delightful at the Capital. Make friends with influential public men and prominent Washingtonians. Above all,” with emphasis, “cultivate the gentler sex; remember, idle women make excellent pawns, my dear Herr Captain von Mueller.”

  Chapter IV.

  “Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot?”

  Mrs. Winslow Whitney, gathering her wraps together, stepped from the limousine.

  “I shall not need you again tonight, Henry,” she said, as the chauffeur sprang to the sidewalk to assist her.

  “Very good, ma’am,” and touching his cap respectfully, he took from the limousine the heavy fur laprobe and hastened to ring the doorbell for his mistress.

  Halfway to her front door Mrs. Whitney paused to scan the outward appearance of her home. The large, Colonial, brick double house, with lights partly showing behind handsomely curtained windows, looked the embodiment of comfort, but Mrs. Whitney heaved a sharp sigh of discontent. The surroundings were not pleasing to her. Again and again she had pleaded with her husband to give up the old house and move into a more fashionable neighborhood. But with the tenacity which easy-going men sometimes exhibit, Winslow Whitney clung to the home of his ancestors. It had descended from father to son for generations, and finally to him, the last of the direct male line. Although business had encroached and noisy electric cars passed his door, and even government buildings dwarfed the impressive size of the old mansion, he declined to give up his home, stating that he had been born there and there he would die.

  “Very well, you and Providence can settle the point between you, Dad,” answered Kathleen, his only child, who had been brought in to use her persuasive powers upon her irate parent. “But as long as mother and I have to inhabit this old shell you must, simply must, put new works inside her.”

  And Whitney, with the generosity which marked his every action to those he loved, rehabilitated and remodeled the mansion until it finally rivaled in up-to-date completeness the more ornate homes of the newly rich in the fashionable Northwest.

  “Has Miss Kathleen returned?” asked Mrs. Whitney, handing her wraps to the breathless Vincent, who had hurried to answer the chauffeur’s imperious ring.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “When she does return, tell her that I wish to see her.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is Mr. Whitney in his studio?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Shall I send Julie to you?”

  “Tell her to go to my room and wait for me.” As she spoke Mrs. Whitney crossed the broad hall and, passing the Colonial staircase, entered the elevator. The automatic car carried her to the first bedroom floor but, changing her mind, she did not open the door; instead she pressed the electric button marked “Attic.” Her slight feeling of irritation aroused by not being met downstairs by any member of her family was increased by stepping from the elevator into a dark hall.

  “Winslow!” she called. Meeting with no response she walked over to the opposite wall and by the aid of the light in the elevator found the electric switch and turned it on. Not pausing to look about her, she went to the back of the large high-roofed attic and tried the handle of a closed door. Finding that it would not open to her touch, she rapped sharply on the panel. She waited several seconds before she heard a chair pushed back and the sound of advancing footsteps. The inside bolt was shot back with distinct force.

  “Well, what is it?” demanded Whitney, jerking open the door. “Oh, my dear,” his tone changing at sight of his wife, “I had no idea you were returning so soon.”

  “Do you call half-past six o’clock soon?” asked Mrs. Whitney following him into the room. “Winslow, Winslow, I warn you not to become too absorbed in your work.”

  Whitney laughed somewhat ruefully. “Does the kettle call the pot black? What do you do but give up your time to the Sisters in Unity? I’m a secondary consideration. There, there,” noting his wife’s expression. “Don’t let us dispute over trifles. I’m making headway, Minna—headway.”

  “I congratulate you, dear.” Mrs. Whitney laid a caressing hand on his touseled gray hair. “I never doubted that you would. But, Winslow, such complete absorption in your work is not healthy. The doctor has warned you not to shut yourself up in this room for hours, and particularly that you are not to lock your door on the inside. Remember your recent attacks of vertigo.”

  “McLane’s an ass. The vertigo sprang from indigestion; hereafter, I’ll be more careful what I eat,” he protested. “There’s nothing the matter with this room; it’s well ventilated and heated. And I will lock my door—I won’t be interrupted by any jackass servant wanting to feed me pap”—pointing scornfully toward the hall where a tray laden with a teapot and tempting dishes stood on a
table near the door. “Do you not yet realize, Minna, that this is my life work?” With a sweeping gesture he indicated the models, brass, wood, and wax, which filled every cranny of the sparsely furnished room.

  Mrs. Whitney sighed. The room was her bugbear. She had dignified it with the name of “studio,” but it looked what it was—a workshop. Winslow Whitney, considered in clubdom as a dilettante and known to scientists as an inventor of ability, frowned impatiently as he observed his wife’s air of disapprobation.

  “My dear, we must agree to disagree,” he said, lowering his voice. “My brain is carrying too much just now; I cannot be confused by side issues. Everything must wait until my invention is completed.”

  “Is your daughter’s welfare of secondary importance?”

  “What?” Whitney surveyed his wife in startled surprise, and her handsome face flushed under his scrutiny. “What is the matter with Kathleen’s welfare? Do I illtreat her? Is she refused money? Do I make her spend hours here helping me in this”—sarcastically—“sweatshop? Four years ago she took up this fad of painting; you encouraged her at it—you know you did,” shaking an accusing finger at his wife. “You persuaded me to let her study in Germany, and she hasn’t been worth a button since—as far as home comfort goes.”

  “Winslow!”

  “It’s true,” doggedly. “Formerly she was willing and glad to help me with my modeling, help me in making calculations, tracings—now she spends her time philandering.”

  “All young girls flirt, Winslow.”

  “But Kathleen was always so shy,” Whitney shook his head. “Now I’m asked at the club if she isn’t engaged to this man and that.”

  “Will you never realize that Kathleen is exceptionally pretty, with the gift of fascination?”

  “A dangerous power,” said Whitney gravely. “I do not entirely approve of the men whose attentions Kathleen encourages.”