L'Agent Double

by Kit Sergeant

  The train was crowded with families leaving the fairground, but she didn’t mind. All she could focus on was the words she would write to Ladoux, boasting of her success tonight in infiltrating a German spy ring.

  A soothing evening breeze blew in from the sea as she left the funicular station and strolled back to her hotel.

  Walter had been keeping sentinel outside. Upon seeing her, he moved forward. “Fräulein, will you—”

  “I’m sorry, but something quite unexpected has come up.”

  Walter flushed. “Does this have anything to do with Herr Kraut?”

  “Perhaps,” Alouette called over her shoulder as she went into the lobby.

  Chapter 23

  Marthe

  February 1915

  The Englishman with the ready cigarettes and the nearly-unintelligible Highlander were installed in a small room at the hospital and assigned to Marthe’s care. The Englishman, whose name was Jimmy, had two broken legs. He had been standing behind an ammunition wagon when a shell burst a few meters away and the horses in front of the wagon began galloping away. He’d caught hold of them, determined as he was to get away from the shells, but in the process both of his legs were shattered.

  The Oberarzt set his legs a few days after he’d arrived, and Marthe was in the room when he awoke from the chloroform.

  “I didn’t cry like a baby, did I?” he asked her, genuine worry on his face.

  She shook her head.

  “Good.”

  He sat up suddenly, grabbed the chamber pot at the foot of his bed, and dry-heaved into it. “Oh, I’m sorry, miss.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking decidedly green. “I should be out there, at the front, working beside my boys, but ‘ere I am, with these useless old things.” He gestured toward his bandage-covered legs.

  “What was it like being in the trenches?” Marthe asked as she dipped a cloth into a bowl and handed it to him.

  Jimmy wiped his mouth as he thought. “Beastly, miss. Just plain beastly. Sometimes there are men whom you’ve gotten to know very well, and they are wounded, and you can’t get to them for fear the Germans will send another shell over. And those boys whom you know—the ones you were not able to save—die of starvation right before your very eyes.”

  She hadn’t expected such an honest answer. She glanced around to be sure there was no one else around before leaning forward. “And the war? Do you think the Allies are going to win?”

  “‘E’re an obstinate lot—the British never know when they’ve been defeated.”

  “But…”

  “Just you wait, miss. I’ll bring you the Kaiser’s head on a silver platter yet.”

  Both Jimmy and the Scotsman, whose name was Arthur, healed without much trouble, and the time came and went when they should have been evacuated. But still they lingered, and though both remained as cheerful as ever, Marthe could tell by their attitudes that they were growing troubled.

  “Good morn, Miss Cnockaert,” Jimmy greeted her one morning. “What have you brought me today for breakfast? Sausages, eggs, kippers, coffee?”

  She set the tray down next to him and he eyed the goods: minced beef from a tin can and hardtack. “Only bully and a biscuit, eh? Well, never mind, never mind.”

  Arthur had been humming a tune under his breath, but paused to ask, “We’re to be prisoners of war, aren’t we, miss?”

  Marthe, who was now able to understand most of what Arthur said, frowned. Nicholas Hoot had once been in that same bed, and then disappeared one evening. He was probably still a German hostage, if he hadn’t been shot. “I don’t know.”

  As she was leaving that evening, she caught sight of old Pierre shoveling snow in the courtyard. Before the war, Pierre had been a thief and a scoundrel, but now he was one of several civilian workers employed by the hospital. He paused in his shoveling to tip his cap at her. “Evening.”

  Marthe nodded at him, watching as he reached under his jacket. For a moment, she thought he might show her safety pins, but he pulled out a cigarette case instead, and she hurried home, away from the cold.

  She had been living on edge ever since the murder of the false safety-pin man the night the ambulance had tipped over. She had a feeling that Herr Jacobs had something to do with the murder, but of course he never discussed it. It should have reassured her that people in the espionage network were looking out for traitors, but to her it was just a reminder of how easily such work could go foul.

  She was therefore startled to hear knocking on the kitchen window after she’d heated a pot of soup on the stove. The man standing outside had a hat pulled down low over his gaunt face, but there was no disguising his identity.

  “Father!” she exclaimed before hugging him tightly. When they broke their embrace, she ushered him inside. “Mother, come see!” she called upstairs. “Father’s back!”

  Marthe’s mother rushed down the stairs. “Is it true?” She let out an excited cry as she caught sight of her husband sitting at the table. “Felix! Oh thank God you’re alive.”

  Mother clutched him to her as if she never wanted to let him go, and Marthe encircled her arms around both of them, all three weeping with joy. When they’d finally had their fill, Mother sat down next to Father, grasping his hand while Marthe prepared tea and Father told them what happened to him. “I was taken in by a kind farmer in his house on the road to Ypres. He has a brother who lives in Roulers and was finally able to answer my inquiry as to your fates. I came as soon as I heard.”

  “And you weren’t hurt?” Mother asked.

  Father shook his head. “Germans are the same everywhere, but I kept my nose down and cooperated with them as best I could. They took all of the harvest for their army, leaving many of the townspeople starving.”

  “Not much different from here, then,” Mother remarked.

  “No.” He took a sip of tea. “The brother of the farmer owns the Café Carillon in Roulers.”

  “I know it,” Marthe said. “It’s the little yellow brick building in front of the church by the Grand Place.”

  “Yes. It was recently struck by a bomb,” Father replied. “Though it did minimal damage, the brother is taking his family further away from the front. He offered the café title to me.” He bestowed a weary grin on his wife and daughter. “Don’t you see, my lovelies? We can be together again under one roof, and this will provide us with a modest income.”

  “And Max? Have you heard anything?” Mother asked.

  Father frowned before he shook his head.

  After thanking the grocer and his wife profusely for their kindness in providing them shelter all those months, Marthe’s family moved into the space above the café.

  As their new business was adjacent to the Grand Place, it was usually not in want of customers, including German soldiers. Marthe had heard stories of the capture of “café girls,” tortured by the Huns for trying to make men talk. But it seemed all too easy to overhear the soldiers’ gossip, Marthe realized as she waited tables after a long day of nursing. She didn’t want to appear overly friendly to the soldiers so as not to alienate the Belgian patrons. Not to mention it might attract the soldiers’ suspicions.

  She convinced Father to open the upstairs room, usually reserved for private parties, to double as a soldiers’ lounge. One evening, when Marthe came home from the hospital, the smell of cigarette smoke and the chatter greeting her even before she walked into the café, Mother approached her, an anxious look on her face.

  “There are some German officers in the lounge who have announced their intention to billet with us.”

  Marthe sighed. They’d just been reunited with Father, and now this? She walked upstairs with a heavy heart. Three officers were seated at the center table, their duffel bags scattered on the floor between them. A man in a disheveled tunic, his hauptmann’s jacket draped over the chair, sat smoking a cigar. He had bright red hair, and, as he caught sight of Marthe, raised his glass. “Fräulein, will you do us the honor of toastin
g to our upcoming trip to Paris?”

  Marthe paused, not wanting to offend the Germans but she would never deign to toast to the enemy. The other hauptmann, his uniform still intact, tightened his lips as he glanced at the third man, a younger man with golden hair. A dimple played in and out of his cheek as he winked at the red-haired hauptmann.

  “I’m sorry, Herr Hauptmann,” Marthe replied finally. “I have just come from duty at the hospital and am quite tired.”

  “The hospital on Menin Road?” the red-haired hauptmann demanded.

  “Yes, Herr Hauptmann.”

  “Really, Red Carl,” the blond man said in a gay voice. “You are not here to court-martial the young lady.”

  The other hauptmann, a cadaverous man with close-cropped hair, gazed at her through his thick glasses. “Perhaps the fräulein will show us to our sleeping quarters.” There was nothing sinister in his words, but Marthe felt uneasy all the same. She guessed he was the senior of the three, and showed him to the single room, but he turned to her, his eyes glinting behind those large glasses. “Herr Hauptmann Carl and I have some work to do together. The Herr Lieutenant can take the single room instead.”

  “Excellent,” the golden-haired lieutenant replied, clapping the other man on his shoulder. “Red Carl, if you snore tonight the way you did on the train in, you will not be long for this world if Hauptmann Reichman has anything to do with it!”

  Red Carl waved his hand. “He would never kill me. I’m too valuable for that.”

  Marthe went to fetch some more linens. When she returned to the lounge, the blonde lieutenant was sitting at the table alone.

  “I’m sorry if you found my companions rude, fräulein. They don’t mean to be that way, they’re just always wrapped up in their own ideas.”

  “What sort of officers are they? They weren’t wearing the uniform of the Army of Würtemburg.”

  “No,” the lieutenant agreed, finishing off his wine. “They are from a special unit, sent ahead to arrange our trip to Paris.” He said the last phrase mockingly before letting out another laugh.

  Marthe knew it would not be wise to make further inquiries of the lieutenant, but vowed to herself that she would send Agent 63 a message about the Paris warning later.

  He took out a cigarette from an expensive-looking case and offered one to Marthe. She declined.

  “Otto Von Prompft,” he said, sticking out the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette.

  “Marthe Cnockaert.” As he grinned, she noticed his smile was not quite even, the one facial imperfection he exhibited. “You have a dueling scar.”

  He touched his left cheek. “I was a student at Stuttgart up until a few months before the war started.”

  “My brother Max was also at University.”

  “Did he duel?”

  “No.” It had been said that a man’s courage could be judged by the number of scars on his cheek. But her brother looked down on the practice of dueling, cursing anything that society considered elite. “Max always said he preferred to have his courage judged in other ways.”

  “Très intéressant,” Otto replied.

  “You speak French?”

  “Oui. I lived in Paris for a few years.” There was something frank yet friendly in his voice and Marthe couldn’t help but develop a fondness toward the young lieutenant as he continued, “I’ve recently come from Berlin, and I know that you Belgians bemoan the oppression you claim you are forced to live under, but the regulations in the German capital are quite similar.” He flashed her that slightly uneven smile again. “It is war-time, you know.”

  Marthe wanted to protest against the deplorable pillaging his countrymen had done, but tightened her lips as he told her, “We Germans know how to endure, so it is no matter. We are bound to win in a few months’ time.”

  She couldn’t help her reaction. “Win the war? You might have been able to accomplish a few victories thus far, but you will not emerge from this war a victor.”

  “Marthe, as yet Germany has not even been tested. A crushing victory is forthcoming, and it is coming soon.” His once friendly voice had taken on an ominous challenge.

  A bell rang from downstairs and she rose.

  “Thank you for the conversation, Marthe.” His tone had once again become amiable and the twinkle in his eye reappeared, as if he had never made any threat.

  Marthe went downstairs to find the café nearly empty, save for two men in plain clothes seated at a table.

  “Alphonse?” Marthe asked, recognizing the ambulance driver who had been wounded with her. “Am I wanted at the hospital?”

  “No, fräulein,” Alphonse stated. “My friend Stephan here and I just wanted a drink.”

  The man named Stephan nodded. He was a stocky man with an incongruously thin, well-trimmed mustache.

  Marthe’s hands grew sweaty at the way they were eyeing her—so queerly, as if they knew something she didn’t.

  “Brandy?” she asked.

  “Tea,” Stephan replied.

  She went into the kitchen, her heart pounding. How long had they been sitting there? Did they hear her conversing with Otto and suspect that she was working with the Germans?

  Stephan was still seated at the table when she returned, but Alphonse had risen and was looking at the pictures on the walls.

  “Your family?” he asked.

  “No, the former owner’s. My father has only recently taken over the lease.”

  “I see,” Alphonse replied with a casual tone as he sat back down.

  She began pouring the tea.

  “How do you like your double-job, sister?” Stephan asked quietly.

  Marthe, feeling the blood drain from her face, kept her head turned slightly away. She willed her sweaty hands not to drop the teapot.

  “Alphonse,” Stephan said, louder this time. “I see your button is coming loose. Perhaps you are in need of a safety-pin. I have two.”

  Marthe breathed an inward sigh of relief as she set the pot down. “I might need one as well. You say you have pins handy?”

  Stephan lifted the lapel of his jacket to reveal them. They were pinned diagonally and Marthe could feel her heartbeat resuming a normal pace.

  Alphonse copied Stephan. “So you see, sister, we both have pins.”

  Marthe nodded and glanced around the empty room. “How did you know about me?”

  “The sergeant-major at the hospital told us.”

  “What? That German traitor—”

  “He is not German. He grew up in France, and until yesterday, was our channel of communication. But alas, he was transferred.” Alphonse replied. “Stephan here works at Brigade Headquarters, and, as you know, my frequent ambulance trips to the front put us in a position of being able,” he too glanced about the room, “to provide certain information.”

  “We were told to pass this on to a girl named Laura,” Stephan said.

  “You can well imagine my surprise when I figured out who this Laura was,” Alphonse filled in.

  “Do you have information for me now?” Marthe asked.

  “No.” Stephan touched his mustache. “We come on another matter, concerning a man named Otto von Prompft.”

  “He is billeted here. I’ve only just met him,” she stated. “He seemed nice enough, for a German officer.”

  “No.” Stephan leaned in and Marthe did the same. “He is a spy-hunter.”

  “How do you know that?” Her voice had become a whisper. “Do the Germans suspect me?”

  Alphonse’s voice, though hushed, seemed to reverberate throughout the empty café. “They are no more distrustful of you than they are of all Belgians, unless they are imbeciles or on their deathbeds.”

  “And even then, they are still mildly suspicious,” she murmured.

  “Quite right.” Alphonse looked over at Stephan expectantly.

  “I sometimes open mail for the censor at HQ,” Stephan began. “I recently came across a letter from this Otto to his mother stating that the ‘special w
ork’ they had sent him to do in Roulers would be both ‘easy’ and ‘interesting.’ He is not employed by the army or the military police.”

  “I see.” Marthe stood up straight, mentally stabbing Otto a hundred times for letting her like him. “I have another matter I’d like to discuss, though. There are two men in the hospital—”

  “Is one of them the Scottish man from the night of the bombing?” Alphonse asked.

  “Yes. Are they to become permanent prisoners of the Germans?”

  Stephan and Alphonse exchanged uneasy glances before Stephan answered, “Most likely, yes.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do for them?” Marthe begged.

  Alphonse gave a resolute nod. “I will look into it.”

  Chapter 24

  M’Greet

  February 1915

  Soon after M’greet returned to the Netherlands, she had an interview with the Dutch magazine, Nouvelle Mode, and they decided to feature her on the cover. Van der Capellen attended the photo shoot, and, on a break, asked her if she thought her outfit immodest.

  M’greet glanced down at her low-cut bodice, a pearl necklace dangling in the space between her breasts. “Of course not.”

  He nodded, appearing for a moment uncertain, but then his face cleared as he replied, “Well, if you don’t have a problem with it, then I don’t either.”

  He took her out to dinner that night. The weather was unseasonably warm and they sat near an open window. The trickling of a water fountain outside could be heard whenever the string quartet performing that night was between songs.

  “How’s your house coming along?” Van der Capellen asked.

  “Not well,” M’greet replied. “I don’t think it’s any closer to getting done than when I left for Paris.” She reached across the table to put her hand on top of his. “Perhaps you could speak to my decorator and urge him to hurry.”