The German Agent

by J Sydney Jones

  ‘So you were going to steal from him, were you?’ Max hissed in his ear. ‘You swine.’ He twisted the arm further back, bringing another cry of pain from Red who clawed at him with his left hand. Another twist and Red stopped struggling.

  ‘Stop, please! Stop. I wasn’t going to hurt him, I swear.’

  ‘He’s defenseless and you were beating him. I should break your arm off.’

  ‘No, please God! Stop. You’re breaking it. I promise.’

  ‘Promise what?’ Max said, not letting up on the pressure despite the pain he was causing to his own wounded left hand.

  ‘I’ll never do it again. Honest.’

  Max’s mind raced. I should kill him, he thought. I know I can’t trust him. He’s suspicious of my wounded hand. What if he goes to the police and reports me once I’m gone? I have to kill him.

  Only then did he notice Karl who had crawled off to a corner of the shelter and was hugging his knees to his chest, shaking with fear, his eyes bulging with terror as he watched the scene of violence unfolding before him.

  And Max knew he could not kill Red: not here, not now, not with Karl looking on.

  ‘Red, I’m going to let you go in a moment, but I want you to listen carefully to what I’m going to say first.’ Max put his mouth right next to Red’s ear, whispering low and fierce. He could smell the sweat of fear on him, feel his body quiver in pain and fright. ‘If I ever discover you’ve hurt Karl, or that you tried to play me false, I’ll kill you. You understand?’

  Red’s entire body shook as he vigorously nodded at this.

  ‘You tell anybody about my presence here and you’re a dead man. I’ll break your body in half, just like I could your arm now. You’ll die slow, I’ll see to that. You’ve never seen me, never even heard my name.’

  ‘Yes, yes! Now please, you’re tearing my arm out of the socket.’

  ‘Please, Max,’ Karl said, still huddled in the corner.

  Max slowly released pressure on the arm, and Red, finally freed, rolled away rubbing his arm and shoulder and emitting small groans.

  Max watched him for several minutes in the dimness of the shelter until he finally got to his knees, holding his limp right arm in his left hand. Max was looking for signs in Red’s face, signs that would tell him that the man would have to die: the evil vindictive slitting of the eyes; the drawn mouth; the veil drawn across his face.

  But he saw none of these.

  ‘You’re a fucking wild man,’ Red said. ‘You could’ve just told me to lay off Karl. I can hear, you know.’ He rubbed the socket gingerly.

  Max said nothing, continuing to peer into Red’s face for signs of duplicity.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Red said finally, unnerved by the stare. ‘I heard you. I never seen you, never heard of you. But you –’ he poked his left forefinger at Max – ‘don’t go bringing the police down on us, hear? I don’t care what you’re up to, just leave us in peace.’

  Max nodded slowly at the big man. This statement saved his life, convincing Max that the man would not go to the police on his own. After Red left, Max turned to Karl.

  ‘You all right?’ he said in German, and the man’s face lit up.

  ‘You saved me,’ Karl said.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You saved me. Nobody’s ever saved me before. You really are my friend, aren’t you?’

  Max felt a knot in his stomach at the question. He didn’t know if he could be anybody’s friend ever again.

  ‘Sure,’ he said finally. ‘I’m your friend.’

  Karl scooted over to him suddenly on the earth floor and clasped Max to his breast, sobbing in his ear. ‘My friend. My friend. You must stay in here tonight. Where it is warm and safe.’

  Karl and he talked a while before going to sleep, and Max learned the bare outlines of Karl’s life: his miserable childhood in Kiel, beaten by an autocratic father, once until he had become unconscious. His mother had tried to protect him, but had died when Karl was only nine. There had been sixteen more years of abuse after that – which could explain Karl’s simple-mindedness, Max thought – before the young man had jumped ship bound for America. A stowaway, he had been discovered mid-voyage, whipped and then made to work like a slave to earn his passage to America. He had arrived in New York five years ago, penniless. And penniless he had remained for many months until one day in New York he had been recruited into the army, quite without his consent. He thought he had been signing a voucher for a free lunch. But his stint with the army had not worked out, either.

  ‘They wanted me to always sleep inside,’ he had told Max, as if this were the silliest request imaginable.

  Finally, Max gathered, Karl had been given a medical discharge: the army had no more use for him than did the rest of society. However, he had kept the uniform that the army had issued him; his one treasure from that time. He showed it to Max, taking it out of the bindle he kept under his blanket with something like reverence, unfolding it as one would a nation’s flag.

  Once out of the army, Karl had fallen in with the homeless vagrants of the country who formed a large sub-culture and an ever-ready job pool for manufacturers too greedy to pay an honest wage. He had wandered up and down the east coast, from one hobo jungle to another, a pitiful, simple, but loveable human.

  Max shared little information with Karl, only that he was a ship’s representative of a German line, down on his luck: he had lost his job and his woman. Just enough to satisfy Karl’s curiosity. It was not a very deep curiosity.

  They continued talking until the light began breaking in the east, showing pearly gray through the chinks in the shelter. Again Max was struck by a resemblance between them despite their age difference: they both wore their brown hair close-cropped; their faces both had a sort of high-boned sharpness. Max felt a momentary kinship with Karl, as if he were the younger brother Max had never had.

  ‘Sleep now,’ Max finally said, and Karl obeyed like a dog, curling up against Max’s flank and quite quickly fell into a deep sleep. Max felt his warmth against his leg and almost smiled at the man’s simple trust.

  THIRTEEN

  President Wilson watched the antics of a hummingbird almost lost inside the massive hibiscus blossom. The bird’s needle beak was at work gathering nectar as the bird hovered, its wings a blur of motion. Wilson loved the little birds, the seemingly defenseless ones. So inventive they had to be, so plucky.

  He was seated in the veranda of the presidential suite at the elegant old Miramar in St Petersburg, Florida. The air was thick with the fragrance of jasmine, a lattice full of which covered one of the high walls of the veranda. He had just finished a solitary and meager breakfast of chamomile tea and Melba toast. His digestion had been off for the past few days despite the fresh air, sunshine and exercise out on the links. It was often like that for him: ideal conditions could unnerve him, making him wonder when things were going to go wrong again.

  Man is a funny creature, he thought, pushing the hotel plate away from him and leaning back in his chair to enjoy the morning sunshine. The sun shone directly into the veranda at this time of the morning and he closed his eyes, feeling it warm his face. Gentle sun; healing sun. Motes of light danced in front of his closed eyelids.

  Of course he knew his indigestion was more than a simple result of his normal fatalistic approach to life. It had more to do with the situation in Washington. He felt guilty about having run away as he had. There had been the appointment on Wednesday with Sir Adrian Appleby, a man whom he personally knew and respected. But his instincts had told him not to meet with the man; not at this juncture at any rate. He feared the news the British envoy might be carrying. Wilson still felt badly about it, however; he was not a rude man. Authoritative and overbearing, perhaps, but not intentionally rude as a rule.

  The hummingbird swooped low over his head with a flurry of wings, and he opened his eyes again.

  In front of him, next to his cup and saucer on the table, were the newspapers. He knew he would have to
tackle these. He had not seen a paper in three days.

  I should be feeling lighter than air; I should be feeling relieved and contented. Truth is, a rotten shank has plagued my golf game the whole time I have been here; dear Edith has been out of sorts with some female problem; and I have been as skittish as a cat on heat, desperate to know what has been going on in the capital.

  So much for rest and relaxation; for the therapy of vacations.

  It was with mixed relief and anxiety then, that President Wilson opened the newspapers this sunny Saturday morning. He examined the day old copy of the Post first. Within two minutes he had discovered the article about the attack on Sir Adrian Appleby at the New Willard Hotel. He felt the blood rising in him; felt that somehow he must be responsible for this outrage. It was unclear from the article if the attack had anything to do with the message he was carrying; after all, diplomats incur the hatred of all sorts of people all over the world. All the same, he felt somehow responsible, as if his absence from town had allowed such an outrage to occur.

  Colonel House should have told me last night on the phone, he thought. He and Edith are being too protective of me. A glance at the second paper, today’s edition of the St Petersburg Times, completed the job which the Post had begun.

  Its front page screamed out at Wilson in two-inch headlines:

  Horror at Sea

  Yesterday, Wilson discovered by a quick perusal of the numerous subheads and the article itself, German U-boats had sunk two merchant ships: the Essex out of Falmouth bound for New York, and the Aguire, from New York and bound for Liverpool. Both ships had been carrying Americans on board, and there was a heavy loss of life. The newspaper, within the confines of the news story itself, was crying out for reprisals and wondered out loud what the president of the United States could be doing vacationing in their fair city at such a time of crisis.

  Who has leaked my presence? Wilson wondered with real venom. But he knew that it was impossible to keep such a thing quiet for very long. The security set up at the Glen Haven Country Club alone was enough to make people curious.

  Well, it is patently clear what I must do, he told himself. I must get back to Washington. The afternoon train will see me there by tomorrow morning. I know Edith intended for us to stay until tomorrow, but this is clearly an emergency. The reporter for this town’s small newspaper has asked the apposite question: what am I doing here at a time like this?

  That’s settled then, he said to himself. I’ll return to Washington by tomorrow, see Appleby and find out just what he so urgently wants to tell me, and then I shall deal with these Germans. They leave me no recourse but to ask Congress for a bill authorizing the arming of our merchant ships. Damn the Germans, anyway. It’s as if they actually want to draw us into war with them. Well, it shall be kicking and screaming for me all the way. A reasoned response is what is needed.

  He began writing out on a pad of legal paper his plan for arming the merchant fleet, still hopeful that he could continue walking the tightrope of neutrality.

  Yet for the first time since the hostilities had begun in 1914, Wilson began to despair of the future. For the first time he began to feel he was losing his balance on the tightrope.

  Edward came out of the half-bath attached to their bedroom wearing a light woolen under vest and his comical shorts that hung to his knees. He thought Catherine was still asleep, but she could see him through tiny slits in her eyes as he danced from foot to foot climbing into his tweed trousers. He then put on a freshly starched white shirt and collar, fidgeted with his tie in front of the mirror on the dresser, and brushed his hair with two silver boar’s hairbrushes. The final items of apparel were boots, vest and jacket, and he tugged on the lapels of the latter for just the right fit.

  He suddenly came to the bed and pecked her cheek innocently and softly so as not to wake her. For an instant she wanted to reach out to him. But instead she kept her eyes closed and smiled languorously at the kiss, as if still in half sleep. Then she rolled onto her side and he tiptoed out of the room.

  Later, she got up, brushed her hair and dressed in a long green skirt and a charcoal roll top sweater and lace-up boots. She was planning to work in the dark room this morning, and it was chilly back there. It was Mrs Greer’s day out of the house, and Catherine would have all to herself the back pantry where her dark room was located; she would not have to creep to and fro through the kitchen.

  She hurried downstairs in time, like a dutiful wife, to see Edward off to Brantley. He was just coming out of the dining room as she came down the stairs, and he looked happier than she had seen him in days.

  ‘Morning, dear. You didn’t have to get up for me.’

  ‘I’ve got developing to do this morning,’ she explained.

  ‘We’ve had great news,’ he blurted out, cheering up again. ‘Colonel House was just on the phone. Wilson is coming back to Washington earlier than scheduled. We’re to meet with him tomorrow afternoon. Isn’t that splendid?’

  ‘Marvelous,’ she said. ‘Uncle Adrian will be so relieved.’

  ‘I’ve got to be going.’ He crossed to the hall closet, fetching an overcoat and hat. ‘They’re expecting me this morning. You’re sure you’ll be all right here without me?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I’ve got loads of work to do, and Thomas is here to keep me company if I get lonely.’

  Fitzgerald was distracted, only half-listening as he slipped on his hat and coat.

  ‘Only one more day,’ he said. ‘By God! I think we’ve done it. There’s no way the German can get to Adrian at Brantley in so short a time. It’s an armed camp out there.’

  ‘I am happy,’ Catherine said limply. She was happy that her uncle would be safe, but still there was a nagging hollowness in her over his mission to send her country to war.

  Just as his car was pulling out of the driveway, there came a ringing from the telephone in the hallway. Catherine went to it, picking up the receiver and telephone stand.

  ‘The Fitzgerald residence,’ she said.

  ‘Is Mr Fitzgerald there?’ It was a young man’s voice with a heavy languid British accent.

  ‘Sorry. He’s just gone.’ She almost said to Brantley, forgetting Edward’s admonitions to give his whereabouts out to no one she did not know.

  ‘That is a shame,’ the man said. ‘This is Gaston from the British Embassy. We have a message for Mr Fitzgerald to convey to Sir Adrian.’

  She knew Gaston, had met him at an embassy party just the month before. She thought the voice had sounded familiar; it fit the horsy face she put it together with in her memory.

  ‘This is Mrs Fitzgerald,’ she said. ‘Could I be of any assistance? You know that Brantley is on the telephone, don’t you?’ She figured it was safe enough to tell Gaston the whereabouts.

  ‘No, we did not,’ he said, and his voice sounded relieved. ‘It is rather urgent that we get this message to him. Do you have the number handy?’

  She thought for a moment: it was as if everything that had to do with Brantley was held at arm’s length by her. Too many associations with her father. Edward loved the place, but she could not be bothered with it. That she did not offhand know the number of her own country house was embarrassing to her and she tried to cover it over as she pulled out their black leather address and phonebook, flipping through the pages hurriedly to B.

  ‘It’s been so long since I’ve phoned myself,’ she laughed. ‘Just a moment.’ It was the only number on the page, next to the name of the house. ‘It’s Capitol 2345,’ she said. ‘The Cabin John exchange.’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line as Gaston obviously copied down the information, then: ‘That’s lovely, Mrs Fitzgerald. Good of you to help.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said, hanging up the earpiece and looking down at the open address book once again. I should be there with them, she thought, and to hell with what the police suggest. I feel guilty not being there to share any danger that Uncle Adrian may be facing.
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  Max had borrowed the army uniform and gloves from Karl and bought the cane off of Red this morning before leaving the hobo camp. He hoped his military disguise would make him anonymous, faceless to the police. He had also stolen a Chevrolet Model 490, the competitor to Ford’s Model T, picking it out of a parking lot near the railway. It was hardly the car of his dreams, better a roadster, but the Chevrolet was unassuming enough, and also quite simple to steal by manipulating a few wires by the ignition.

  He drove to Massachusetts Avenue and had parked the car a safe distance away from the Poplars and took up watch early this morning. When he saw Fitzgerald leave in his Cadillac in the escort of two police cars, he knew this was his chance. He would follow Fitzgerald, assuming he would take him to where Sir Adrian Appleby was now ensconced. The fact that only one policeman was left to guard the Poplars confirmed his belief that Appleby was not staying there anymore.

  He watched as the big car chuffed out onto the road and the police cars hugged closely behind him. Max gave them thirty seconds, and then he pushed the ignition button on the Chevrolet.

  The car refused to start. He pushed and pushed but the beastly machine only spluttered and gasped. Fitzgerald’s car was now out of sight. Max slammed the steering wheel.

  What now? How to find his way to Appleby? Ahhh, perhaps the wife?

  First he had to get past the one remaining policeman. Max knew that the wound to his left hand and his limp would now be focal pieces of any description circulating on him. From training at Marburg he’d learned there were two ways to beat a description: disguise and accentuation. He had disguised the wound to his hand by wearing Karl’s gloves which went along with the uniform; with the aid of the cane, he had accentuated the limp, making an elaborately pained procession straight up the drive to where the policeman stood watch, tipping his hat at the man. When asked his business, Max had said in a muffled unaccented voice that he was collecting for the military preparedness committees, one of the pet projects of America’s rich.