Secret Operative K-13

by Joel Townsley Rogers

  “Very handsome, my boy. Very handsome,” he said. “I feel sorry for the ladies who love you. Yet, who can blame them?”

  Again the monocle popped out.

  But this is not to narrate the efforts of a young Prussian Guardsman to wear a monocle after the much envied fashion of the English. At the same moment, ten thousand other junior officers of the All Highest’s mighty armies were doubtless practicing the same art before their mirrors along a thousand miles of battle front, from Gallipoli to the Vosges and the marches of the Tannenberg, wherever the conquering gray-green armies lay. A lady of the chorus would sooner omit her lipstick than a German junior officer his monocle.

  The thoughts of von Reuter were not very much concerned with the fool’s play he was acting. In the mirror, all the time, he was watching the door behind him. He was watching his windows, too.

  The fool’s play was giving him time to think. A little nerve twitched warningly in the ramrod of his spine. There was a very audible silence beyond the closed door, beyond the iron-barred windows. The silence that is the loudest noise in all this terrible world. The silence of unseen watching men creeping about cautiously.

  A blade of grass rustled on the turf beyond the windows. A floorboard whispered in the corridor beyond the door.

  That fellow Wolf he is like a disease, thought von Reuter.

  His heart was beating with a quicker, more powerful urge. Life is never so sweet as when it is very perilous, and only a little of it remains. He yawned as he played with his monocle. Old Captain Death stood ready to tap him on the shoulder.

  He heeled about smartly. He did not glance at door or window. He did not touch hand to his Luger, for death would not come that way. Straight as a post, he marched to his desk. He sorted over the official communications lying neatly piled on it, whistling meditatively. After a moment, he leaned back and rolled a cigarette. He smoked it down to the husk, staring at a flag-draped picture of the Kaiser that faced him on the wall.

  When that cigarette was finished, or soon after, Old Captain Death would tap him and demand the last salute.

  He pulled forth another cigarette paper, but did not fill it. Bending to his desk, he wrote a brief memorandum on the paper in a fine, almost microscopic hand. He inserted this carefully into the stack of military correspondence lying on his blotter.

  He arose and crossed over to his fireplace, staring down at certain charred ashes that lay in it. He had burned all scraps of any value. He observed a small knot of yellow hair that had not been quite consumed. It was a fragment of a woman’s wig. There was also a bit of a light petticoat such as the peasant women wore. He thrust these with his toe into the flame that still flickered. He heard the clock strike the quarter hour, and all was now burned up.

  He squared his shoulders. Clicking his heels, he saluted the flag-draped picture on the wall.

  “All Highest!” he said, with one eye closed.

  He strode to the door. His face had paled a trifle, but his hand did not tremble. Coolly, he unlocked the door and flung it open.

  The corridor was dimly lit. Sergeant Ordonnanz Wolf stood there in a black officer’s cape. His deep-set eyes were like the eyes of a skull.

  Farther down the corridor, two white-faced junior officers were pacing ceaselessly. Herrschel and Abendstern, of the Nachrichtenamt. Von Reuter knew them by sight and reputation. Other figures, non-commissioned officers and privates, lounged apparently innocuously in window recesses and beside the outer door. But each man of them was armed with pistol and bayonet-sword.

  Oh, had it come now?

  Von Reuter nodded curtly at Wolf’s salute. He stood drawing on white cotton gloves, setting them carefully finger by finger.

  “On duty again, Wolf?” he said. “I missed you there for a while.”

  “Yes, Herr Leutnant, I lost track of you.”

  “Still, on the whole, you have been faithful, Wolf,” said von Reuter. “I have known always where to find you. Now I have business with His Excellency, Wolf. If there is any inquiry made for me, I shall return presently.”

  “Zu Befehl!” said Wolf.

  Von Reuter strode one pace away. There was a stirring in the corridor, like the stirring in the body of a great snake. How far would they let him go? Why had Wolf not said the word, and ended it? He heeled about and faced Wolf again, setting his cap more jauntily.

  “By the way, Wolf,” he said, “you have been the best man that ever served me. Perhaps when the day is over you will desire a recommendation. What was your trade or business before entering the Army?”

  “Ich war Scharfrichter,” said Wolf.

  “Ah, a sharp judge—an executioner,” said von Reuter, playing with his monocle. “It is an honest trade. Hangman or headsman, Wolf?”

  “Both,” said Wolf stolidly. “But I was better with the ax.”

  “And you enjoyed your work?” said von Reuter

  “I loved it!” said Sergeant Wolf.

  “That is good,” said von Reuter, nodding. “It is good to enjoy one’s work.”

  The lounging men sprang up as silent as shadows when he went out the door into the night. The two quick-eyed young lieutenants of the Nachrichtenamt, Herrschel and Abendstern, fell into step on either side of him and a half pace behind him.

  “On your way to headquarters, did I hear you say, sir?” asked Herrschel smoothly. “I was just on my way there, myself. Mind if we stroll along with you?”

  “Not at all,” said von Reuter pleasantly. “Glad of your company.”

  There were other men creeping around him as he went through the darkness. He did not see them, but he knew that they were there. Did the fools think he was blind?

  Old Captain Death had not tapped him yet. But the hand was poised above his shoulder. There was something more the hounds of the Nachrichtenamt wanted out of him. They wanted him to try to communicate with whatever accomplices he might have. They were giving him a bit of rope.

  He walked away, and the grim men walked with him. The hand of the Captain of the Last Command hung for the moment poised above his shoulder.

  Sentries sprang forth with poised bayonets at frequent intervals, barking their challenges. A feeling of terror was in the air of Oldemonde. The sentries were as nervous as mice. Yet they did not know of what they were afraid. Already, earlier in the night, von Reuter knew, a tragedy had occurred. Failing to answer a challenge quickly enough, fat and genial Major-General Ferdinand Schmid of the 38th Poseners had been shot through the neck by an excited guard.

  “Who goes? Who goes! Stand, or we’ll shoot!”

  “Lieutenant von Reuter of Communications, Lieutenants Herrchel and Abendstern of Intelligence,” von Reuter answered these challenges calmly. “The countersign—Cothaven! Keep your heads, men. The English haven’t gobbled you up yet.”

  The windows of von Schmee’s great corps headquarters were ablaze with light from cellar to roof. They would be burning all this night. All this terrible night. Officers were rushing up and down the worn stone entrance steps. Automobiles and motorcycles roared rapidly away, carrying tense-faced officers with pistols in their fists. Radio aerials on Oldemonde’s roof hummed in the wind, as if overburdened with profound and disastrous secrets.

  On the steps of Oldemonde, von Reuter paused and rolled a cigarette. The two hounds of the Nachrichtenamt halted stiffly behind him. He blew a smoke wreath to the sky.

  “Forgotten what I wanted to tell His Excellency,” he said. “Doubtless of no consequence. The night, however, is pleasant. Shall we stroll on for a while gentlemen, or will you leave me here?”

  “It is a beautiful night for a walk,” said Abendstern.

  “I was just thinking, myself, it would be fine to get a breath of fresh air,” said Herrschel hastily.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught the significant nod they exchanged. Giving him a bit more rope, eh? Thinking he might make some inadvertent sign that would betray the loyal peasants who had aided him?

  Shrewd and patient k
naves they were, Herrschel and Abendstern. True hounds of the Nachrichtenamt. He knew their reputation. Why play the game longer? Let it be done with, and the suspense ended. Let the expected hand tap him on the shoulder.

  “You like to walk?” he said.

  “It is my greatest pleasure, Herr Oberleutnant.”

  He strode off at a lithe and easy pace, taking any way that opened before him. They walked under elms and beeches where drowsy birds stirred. They walked through the cedar wood and over the hayfields. They kicked up dust along the highroads where the rolling camions had gone. Making for himself cigarette after cigarette, he halted at times and commented on the beauties of the night with his grim companions.

  “What magnificent stars!” he said. “Have you ever seen them looking brighter and nearer to us than they do tonight?”

  “Very lovely stars,” grunted Herrschel, as if he had nothing more to do than admire the constellations ten billion miles away that burned in the sky of the Lion.

  The face of Abendstern was whiter than the starlight.

  “It is said it is a sign of death when they look so bright that way,” he said.

  “Notice the contour of that tree, gentlemen,” von Reuter said later. “That willow over there, standing by the water all alone. What does it remind you of?”

  “Why, it reminds me of a willow,” said Herrschel.

  “An elephant?” hazarded Abendstern.

  “It reminds me of a kneeling woman, crying with her hands pressed to her face,” von Reuter said.

  “Now that you mention it, I see the resemblance,” agreed Herrschel.

  “You men, like myself, are lovers of nature, I can see,” von Reuter said. “I have often made the remark that a man who can enjoy the beauties of nature is not altogether vile. You have a dirty business. Yet I can see that you are men of sensibilities.”

  They walked miles, he aimlessly, they keen and watchful at his side. Wherever he paused, whenever his casual glances turned toward some object in the darkness, he knew that many unseen men all about him had begun immediately to search the locality. Hunting for his accomplices. Hunting for whomever he might be trying to communicate with, if anyone.

  He was surrounded in the night with those grim, invisible shapes. No chance of breaking away from them. Though no word had yet been spoken, though no hand had been laid on him, nevertheless he knew that Old Captain Death had summoned him. He must go now and face the last roll call.

  “Down by the marches of the Meser, where I am fond of going fishing,” he said, “there is a pigeon-cote. The last pigeon flew away today, a slate-blue bird with a milk-white breast. Doubtless that is unfortunate, since otherwise you gentlemen might find it pleasant sport to go down there and do a little shooting. Now I shall probably never go fishing there again, nor feed the pigeons, nor take any more of these midnight walks.”

  He turned around and led them back on their return along the shore of the shallow fish pond. Frogs croaked. The wind rippled. Coarse grasses shivered and shook in the edges of the water.

  The deserted Sopwith of Big Dick Fahnestock stood near the water. Von Reuter paid no attention to it. He walked on past. It was Herrschel who paused a moment, making an apology. He had been limping along for some time with a fallen arch. He steadied himself with a hand on the ship’s propeller, massaging his foot.

  “Queer there’s no guard,” he said.

  “Don’t fool yourself,” said Abendstern.

  He nodded significantly to where, a hundred yards away, a tall figure in officer’s uniform was pacing up and down, with head bent thoughtfully and hands clasped behind him. For a moment, von Reuter himself was almost deceived. In pickelhaube, boots and greatcoat, Dick Fahnestock had captured the meditative air of Colonel von Kleinhals to the life.

  “The old fox himself,” whispered Abendstern.

  “He doesn’t let many tricks escape him,” said Herrschel.

  They straightened up and clicked to the salute. The pacing man gave them no heed. They walked on past him.

  The half hour struck. Deep in the ground there seemed to be stirring a faint inaudible trembling, like the movement of volcanoes a thousand miles below the earth’s crust. And a low vibration strummed on the hot and heavy wind, the south wind, the wind that blew up from Laraine Wood forty-odd miles away.

  “Cannonading?” said Herrschel.

  “No, the wind,” said Abendstern.

  “It couldn’t be cannonading,” agreed Herrschel. “Von Schmee has sent them through without bombardment.”

  “It couldn’t possibly be cannonading,” repeated Abendstern.

  That deep and inaudible vibration did not die away, but grew heavier.

  “What do you make it out to be, Herr Oberleutnant?” said Herrschel, staring at Ritter von Reuter uneasily.

  “Ask von Schmee.”

  The quarter of midnight struck. A pallid light grew on the eastern horizon. Von Reuter nodded when he saw the silver glow. The moon was coming up.

  “We’re in for a bright night—which is all the better,” said Abendstern.

  Von Reuter smiled faintly. He polished his monocle. He walked toward the hunting lodge. The watchful officers pressed nearer to him now. He caught glimpses of their tense countenances when he half turned his head. They had their hands on their pistols. From the darkness all about him, the vague shapes of men were closing in.

  “A beautiful night, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “It is a pleasure to be alive on such a night. We have had an agreeable stroll together. I thank you for your company. But we must leave the night now, gentlemen.”

  They did not answer him. They realized that he knew.

  * * * * *

  It was nearly midnight when he came back to his quarters in the hunting lodge. He squared his shoulders and flung open the door.

  “Before I take my final departure, Wolf,” he said, “I am reminded that I should bid you adieu, and thank you for your many past attentions.”

  The bony-faced executioner looked at him somberly. He stood like a scarecrow in his black cape. There were other men in the room, four or five of them. The place had been upturned in a thorough and patient searching. The very goosefeathers of the bed were spilled out on the floor.

  “The mask is off?” said Wolf, and his teeth gleamed.

  “I am doubtful,” said von Reuter shrugging, “that it was ever on for you.”

  “I have been watching, I have been watching,” said Wolf.

  He chuckled to himself. He rubbed his bony hands together. He threw back his cape, exposing a breast loaded with medals and the collar markings of a major of the Germany Army.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, “to you who have known me only in an inferior capacity. I am Herr Major Carl Wolf, of the Nachrichtenamt.”

  “I have long been acquainted,” said von Reuter, making a bow, “with your identity, Wolf. Allow me to introduce myself—John Doe, of some place in the United States of America, civil engineer by training, soldier of fortune by inclination, captain of the British Intelligence by profession, a lover of free men and free nations, a hater to the death of autocracy and militarists, of butchers and executioners and all such swine.”

  He made an elegant bow again. He sloughed off his white cotton gloves. He laid them on the table, and his Guards cap on top of them. He unpinned the insignia of his rank and set them on the pile. He stood playing with his monocle, smiling easily.

  There were men on both sides of him, gripping his shoulders securely.

  “You have been a faithful follower Wolf, as well as you were able,” he said with that quiet smile. “If, at times, I have avoided your attentions, the fault was not yours. You have become as familiar to me as my own shadow. Doubtless I shall miss you when I have gone.”

  “Where you are going, K-13,” said Wolf, “neither I nor your own shadow will follow you.”

  His head jerked back, and he barked out a laugh.

  “Remove this Englishman’s sidearms and search
him thoroughly for any other weapon!” he said. “There is no need of keeping up the game any longer. He understands. I assume that he exposed none of his accomplices?”

  Herrschel spread his palms.

  “He led us on a wild-goose chase,” he said.

  Wolf gave von Reuter an ugly look.

  “There are ways to make you talk,” he said. “It won’t be any pleasanter for you because you require us to use them.”

  Von Reuter bowed his sleek dark head. If there had been any chance for him to use his Luger, he would have done so long ago. Now it was taken from him. He was stripped to the waist.

  “My congratulations to you and to Madame Alys Dervanter, Wolf,” he said. “The Nathrichtenamt has no keener hounds. Von Kleinhals himself never doubted me. But you and Madame Alys—I have watched your work with some admiration. Not that it was brilliant, but it was very patient.”

  He went to a wardrobe and took from the top shelf a square black bottle, on which wisps of cobwebs still were clinging. It had come from Oldemonde’s cellars, a brandy distilled forty years ago. He set down two glasses and poured two thimblefuls. The liquor was thick as syrup, sweet and aromatic and stronger than any whisky.

  “It is good brandy, Wolf,” he said. “It is not a way out. You have my word on it. I am not a man to choose so cheap an ending, as you may know. Here’s to your widow, Wolf. May she come to dance often on your grave.”

  Slowly, he rolled the liquor over his tongue. He walked to a window and stared toward the south. A lopsided moon had come up in the purple sky. The quiet grounds of Oldemonde were washed with silver. He cocked his head, and listened.

  “Inform His Excellency’s aide,” Wolf said to Herrschel, “that K-13 is arrested. Get in touch also with Colonel von Kleinhals. We are ready to proceed.”

  Over the beechwoods from von Schmee’s headquarters, the iron bell clanged the midnight. Bing-bong! Bing-bong! Bing-bong! Bing-bong! Bing-bong! Bing-bong! . . . The heavy echoes died away. Faint, sharp cries came through the darkness, the challenges of the sentries to their reliefs.

  Wolf slipped up behind von Reuter and pulled him back. He peered forth warily, with unwinking eyes. There was nothing outside except two sentries pacing slowly across the moonlight on the grass.