The German Agent

by J Sydney Jones

  The policeman had looked him up and down quickly and waved him on, wishing him good luck. At the door he repeated the story to an old colored servant, explaining how important it was that he see Mrs Fitzgerald personally, and the servant had looked over his shoulder warily to the policeman to make sure all was in order.

  The servant let him in, leaving him in the hallway near the phone for a time while he went into a sitting room. The servant came back out of the room.

  ‘Sorry, sir. The mistress must be in her dark room. Isn’t there some way I can be of service?’

  ‘I was told by my superior to speak with Mrs Fitzgerald herself. Tell her it’s also to do with the Belgian relief fund.’

  The servant nodded his head slowly, looking Max up and down. ‘Just wait a bit, sir.’

  Again he left Max standing in the hall. Now he looked down at an address book open on the table by the phone. Only one number on the entire page, Brantley Hall.

  Max quickly memorized the name and number. It could be a lead.

  Suddenly he realized how stupid this was, coming to Catherine Fitzgerald in this military outfit. Whereas it was meant to disguise him from the police, to put them at ease, it would only serve to make Catherine Fitzgerald suspicious. As far as she knew he was a representative to the World Peace League, a pacifist and not a soldier. How would she react when she saw him?

  It might be another thing to pay a visit dressed in civvies, maybe even return her journal – though that was long gone now. But he could chat her up, perhaps she might let something out. A slip of the tongue, for he could tell the other day that she had enjoyed his company.

  But this? It was all wrong. One look at the uniform and no telling what she would do. She might even scream for the policeman.

  And now another thought. Max did not know how much Fitzgerald told his wife. But if he told her about the raid last night at Annie McBride’s, perhaps she already had made the connection between her ‘South African’ savior and the man trying to kill her uncle.

  Altogether this was too risky. He moved quickly to the front door and then went down the steps, glancing at the policeman still patrolling the drive. Max nodded at the man, and then took out a scrap of paper from his tunic pocket and hurriedly scribbled the word and number which he’d discovered inside, then stuffed the paper back into the pocket and went down the steps slowly to the gravel drive, the cane in obvious use.

  He pulled his hat down low and put his right hand in the cargo pocket of the tunic.

  ‘Any luck?’ the big policeman man said cheerily.

  Max shot him what he hoped was a broad grin. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Good.’

  Max continued on a few paces.

  ‘Hey, buddy.’

  Max froze at the sound of his voice. His right hand tensed in the cargo pocket, ready to grab for the pistol in his shoulder holster. He turned slowly, looking for cover nearby, a place to dive and roll while he pulled his gun out.

  The cop sauntered up to him, reaching into his pocket, and Max drew his right hand out of his own pocket slowly, deliberately. Then he let it inch up to the top button on his tunic as if absent-mindedly scratching his sternum.

  ‘Didn’t you forget something?’ the policeman said.

  Max attempted a smile, but all he could feel was the sweat breaking out again on his forehead.

  The cop pulled his hand out of his trouser pocket and held a palmful of change.

  ‘You didn’t even bother with me. What kind of salesman would you make?’ He grinned and Max was momentarily confused. The policeman shoved the fistful of coins at him. ‘Here. I want to help out, too. Anything to kick the Kaiser’s ass.’

  Max felt the wind rush out of him in relief. ‘Great,’ he said with real meaning, taking the money and putting it into his cargo pocket.

  He turned and headed back down the drive, looking back once to wave at the policeman, and reaching Massachusetts Avenue, he turned west to head downtown. He would leave his stolen car behind.

  So preoccupied was he with his thoughts that he did not even notice the watcher on the other side of the street.

  Agent Niel had arrived at Poplars a few minutes before and was still seated in his car. There was something about the Fitzgerald woman that did not ring true to him. And he had waited for her husband to leave before visiting with her. There were questions he had: specifically why her journal should be in the possession of a German agent. Correction: why it should be in a room recently frequented by a German agent. For Niel had found the journal at the scene last evening, before Lewis’s men had a chance to search the room. There could be an innocent enough explanation, or maybe not. But it was not something he wanted to discuss with Edward Fitzgerald present.

  But I must watch what I say, he told himself as he sat hunkered behind the wheel in his Ford. For she is a powerful woman, or at least a woman with a powerful husband, which amounted to the same thing. Niel knew about power in Washington: it was reserved for the right crowd from the right part of society with the right sort of friends. Niel had none of these. He was just a spunky little Irishman in the eyes of people like Catherine and Edward Fitzgerald. An oddity, an annoyance perhaps. Born in Washington, Niel had none of the advantages of people like the Fitzgeralds or Applebys of the world: he’d put himself through school, going nights mostly, working days as a newspaper compositor. His parents had no fancy Rhode Island homes; his accountant father had died when he was seven and his mother taught school to support the four children. They had grown up in far from genteel poverty in southeast Washington, on the borders of the Negro ghetto.

  Oh, yes, he said to himself again. I know about power and people with power.

  His sophomore year in college he had dropped the ‘O’ from the front of his name so that he would be more like those who ran things. And after graduating second in his 1908 class at American University – he had been one of the university’s few token scholarship boys – he had quite literally stumbled into the Bureau of Investigation. Answering an ad he saw one day at his work at the newspaper, he soon discovered that the ‘bright young men’ the ad was looking for were being given the chance of a lifetime in Washington: to come in at the birth of a federal agency, to shape it, to grow with it.

  Niel definitely meant to get ahead, and to that end the Bureau needed to get ahead, as well. No more southeast Washington for me, he thought. Niel’s entire life was a battle for and against power. The Fitzgerald case could prove a turning point in that struggle, but only if he played it correctly.

  So he continued to sit in the seat of the Ford and try to figure out how to handle the difficult and imperious woman named Catherine Devereaux Fitzgerald.

  He was still thinking of this when a soldier came limping down the drive from Poplars, turned west and began walking toward downtown.

  Niel had no chance to get a look at the man’s face, for his hat was pulled down low over his forehead and they were at an awkward angle from each other.

  He didn’t give it much thought at first, for the policeman on duty at the house would have checked the man out, Niel figured. For a few moments he continued to think of the right approach with Mrs Fitzgerald, then a sudden flash of insight made him shoot bolt upright in the car seat.

  The soldier had a limp. Which leg had it been, left or right? But even as he was mentally answering this question, he was getting out of his car. Our man’s a clever one. He’ll know that we’re looking for a man with a limp. Why not play up the limp rather than hide it? he thought. A soldier with a distinct limp, just like the assassin.

  Niel waited long enough to ensure that the man remained on foot and was not heading for a car, then he quickly left his own car and followed.

  I’ve got you now, M, he thought. You’re mine. All mine.

  FOURTEEN

  Fitzgerald arrived at Brantley around ten-thirty Saturday morning and was truly amazed at what he saw there. Chief Inspector Lewis had promised an armed camp, and an armed camp the estate had become.
At the tall wrought iron gates to the long drive there were four policemen, heavily armed with shotguns and carbines, who stopped his car and gave him a thorough questioning before Lewis himself appeared and waved the officers off. Lewis got in the Cadillac and they drove up the drive, between rows of bare sycamores, spotting men at intervals of twenty yards or so on the drive and spread throughout the grounds. In fact, as far as Fitzgerald could see in all directions around the house, were blue uniformed and khaki uniformed men against the white of the snow-covered park.

  ‘We’ve brought out the local home guard, as well,’ Chief Inspector Lewis said, with real pride in his voice. ‘Our man would have to be a regular Houdini to get past all these boys. And there are a dozen more in the house.’

  ‘So we just convince Adrian to lay low until tomorrow,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘What about getting him back to Washington to see the president?’ He shifted down for a second barricade checkpoint halfway up the drive, but the police there recognized Lewis and waved them through.

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ Inspector Lewis said, nodding at the police as they passed the roadblock. ‘We’ll have a regular motorcade for that; shield Sir Adrian in and out of the cars. That’s the danger point with assassins. Getting in and out of cars and buildings. But there will be men all around him during both operations. Thank God he’s a short man. We’ll keep him below the window level on the drive in and have three identical cars to confuse anyone lying in wait. But there won’t be anyone on the route into Washington, I guarantee. My men are busy now securing it, checking every derelict building along the way. I tell you Fitzgerald, there is no way this M can get to Appleby now.’

  Fitzgerald could see the two dogs out in front of Brantley, and though he could not yet hear their voices, he knew they were barking by the way they lurched forward with each yap, bouncing stiffly on strong front legs. Soon they pulled up in front of the house and three more policemen on duty at the front door, new since yesterday, had their weapons at the ready, relaxing only when they saw Lewis unfold out of the car.

  ‘It’s all right, boys. This is Mr Fitzgerald, owner of the house. I want you to take a good look at his face and remember it. Besides me and the servants, Mr Fitzgerald here is the only other man you let in. Understood?’

  The men were eager, Fitzgerald saw. They eyeballed him with great intensity, almost scowling as they did so. Big men; big and brutal, he thought. I would not want to go up against these.

  Monroe, the caretaker and part-time servant, opened the door as he and Lewis mounted the broad front steps, the dogs swarming around them.

  ‘It’s very good to see you, Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said. His thin pinched face was white and his hand trembled on the door.

  ‘What is it, Monroe?’ Fitzgerald said, entering the main hall and leaving the dogs outside to plague the policemen on duty. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘It’s all these men about, sir,’ Monroe said, helping Fitzgerald off with his coat in the hallway. ‘They’ve got me and the missus spooked, they have. They all talk about a crazy assassin who’s coming to blow the house up. We didn’t bargain on this when we signed on, sir.’

  Fitzgerald smiled at him consolingly. ‘I know you didn’t, Monroe.’

  ‘Is it true, sir?’

  ‘That an assassin is after Sir Adrian?’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. But look at the protection around here, Monroe. No one is going to come near here, I assure you. It will all be over by tomorrow, and there shall be a special bonus in store for you and your wife for your loyal service through such a difficult time.’

  Monroe’s glum expression brightened perceptibly at the mention of a bonus. He half-bowed as if to accept, then showed the two into the main sitting room with its ten-foot-high fireplace, a roaring blaze filling the entire room with its warmth. Appleby sat in a chintz-covered armchair sucking on his extin-guished pipe. Looking up at their entrance, his face bore a concerned expression. His brows were as furrowed as a bulldog’s jowls.

  ‘How goes it, Adrian?’ Fitzgerald said as he went to his friend, clapping him on the shoulder good-naturedly. ‘It’s almost over now.’

  Appleby remained seated, nodding at this comment. ‘Let us hope so, Edward.’

  Fitzgerald quickly informed him of President Wilson’s early return to Washington.

  But Adrian was unimpressed. ‘Yes, I already know. Chap from the embassy called this morning.’

  ‘Have you planned what you’ll say to Wilson?’ Fitzgerald said.

  As Appleby pursed his lips, considering this, the phone began ringing in the hall.

  Max listened as the phone rang once, twice, three times. On the fourth ring, someone picked it up. Max looked around the busy phone room of the city post office in Washington: let’s hope this leads to something, he thought. In his bones he felt that it would; he was sure that the number he had copied from the open phone book at Catherine’s would take him directly to Appleby.

  ‘Capitol 2345,’ a man’s voice on the other end said.

  Damn, Max thought. He’d hoped there would be some named identification from the person answering, a way to trace the phone number.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, thinking quickly. ‘Is John McGuire at home?’

  As he spoke he could hear snippets of the conversations from other people in the large marble-paneled room who were using the public phones: plans for trips; emergency calls announcing a death; a young woman whose face had gone red all over as she talked in hushed tones to her lover.

  There was a pause on the other end. Finally: ‘There is no John McGuire at this number, I’m afraid.’

  Quick before he hangs up, Max told himself. ‘I’m sure that this is the correct number. And you say it’s not the McGuire residence?’

  ‘No, sir. This is Brantley Hall, the Fitzgerald residence.’

  Max wanted to shout for joy. Instead he said, ‘I am sorry. Please pardon the intrusion.’

  ‘Not at all,’ the man said on the other end and then hung up his receiver. Max stayed on the line for several instants more, listening to the crackle and pop of the open line.

  You can’t outmaneuver me, Appleby, he thought. Now to trace the Capitol prefix; to find out just where this Brantley Hall is located. He finally hung up the receiver and turned to walk back to the directory assistant.

  Niel had tracked the soldier all the way downtown, hopping a streetcar when he had, and then descending just near Union Station. He had tailed the man into the City post office and watched him as he had gone into the phone room off the monumental main hall. While the man had been arranging to make a call and waiting his turn for one of the phones, Niel had made his own call from the porters’ office near the front door, calling Bureau headquarters and requesting backup.

  Now, even as Niel, stationed by one of the marble pillars in the main lobby of the post office, watched the soldier place the call and speak to somebody on the other end, he tried to plan a course of action. He was not so sure the soldier was M anymore: after all the man had continued to use the cane all the way downtown. If he is in disguise, then it is a very convincing one.

  But he actually has a limp, he had to remind himself. He actually could use such an aid. And his disguise is needed anywhere in Washington, Niel suddenly realized. As far as he would be concerned, his description has been circulated all over the city. Every cop on the beat will be looking for him.

  As the suspect hung up the phone, Niel saw from his vantage point two Bureau cars pull up in front and six men pile out of them. He hurried to the front entrance to meet them. Randall, one of their best field men, was among the six, Niel was happy to see. You could count on Randall, he thought.

  Niel reached the door just as the men had climbed the steps to the building.

  ‘You got here fast,’ Niel said.

  Randall nodded only, awaiting instructions.

  ‘We take him outside,’ Niel said. ‘If it’s the German, we don’t want to try to rush him in there.�
�� He nodded to the cavernous interior of the City post office, just across 1st Street from Union Station. ‘He’s a plucky customer. Who knows what he’d do. It could turn into a real bloodbath with all those people in there. So we cover the exits. I take up watch again inside and follow him out, you men cover each side of the main entrance. We squeeze him between us like an insect.’

  The six men, young and fresh from training school, listened to him with rapt reverence.

  ‘You’re all armed?’

  Six nods.

  ‘Stay out of sight if possible. We don’t want to alarm him or give him any advance notice we’re here.’

  ‘You’re sure that it’s the German?’ Agent Randall finally asked.

  ‘I haven’t gotten close enough yet for a hundred percent read on him, but we work on the assumption that it is him. That he is armed and extremely dangerous.’

  The youngest of the agents, Miller he thought the fellow was called, went absolutely white at this suggestion.

  ‘This could be the biggest coup for the Bureau to date, men. Something to tell your children. Just remember your training.’

  But Niel was not sure that basic training covered anything remotely like this operation.

  ‘Randall, you keep two men with you here at the front entrance and three more of you go round to the back entrance and set up watch there. I’ve got to go inside and shepherd him. Good luck, men.’

  Niel went quickly back in before they could ask any more questions; before their fear had an opportunity to make further inroads on their courage. He could see the soldier at the phone directory desk now, talking to the middle-aged woman there. What’s he up to? Niel wondered.

  ‘It must be a fascinating job,’ Max said to the directory assistant, a woman with dark circles under her eyes that she tried to hide with pancake make-up. She succeeded only in making her face look like a mask, brittle and coarse. Her bright red hair was colored, Max noticed, and everything about her spoke of a quiet desperation to look younger than she was. She sagged in the breasts and middle, and had the beginnings of jowls.