The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  “Ready!” bellowed the non-commissioned officer. “Present!——”

  There came the pattering of hurrying feet, a shrill scream, and Clotilde appeared running swiftly towards them.

  “At ease!” snapped the lieutenant. “Catch her, one of you, and take her away.”

  Although he was utterly indifferent to the fate of an enemy spy he drew the line at a woman witnessing the execution.

  “Stop!” shrieked Clotilde. “Wait! He’s not what you think!”

  Evading the clutch of the soldier who tried to detain her she reached the lieutenant’s side and held a paper in front of his eyes.

  “You see?” she cried excitedly. “Am I not right?”

  Martin saw the young officer’s eyes open wide with astonishment. He seized the paper from the girl’s hand and read it eagerly.

  “Himmelkreuzsakrament!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”

  She indicated the bewildered Martin.

  “He gave it me last night. He is Jacques Poulière.”

  “So he is. Verdammt!” he declared fervently. “If we had shot him the Herr Kommandant would have skinned us alive.”

  He gave an order and the non-commissioned officer ran forward and released Martin’s bonds. Then the party fell in once again and marched back into the château grounds. Clotilde walked beside Martin, gripping his arm with every appearance of a loverlike embrace.

  “Courage,” she managed to whisper. “Follow my lead and be careful what you say.”

  As the troops halted for the second time in front of the house a casement was thrown open and General von Makenhofen’s head appeared. He was livid with rage.

  “Verdammt nochmal!” he cried, his voice high-pitched and querulous. “What is the meaning of this, Leutnant? When I give you an order I expect it to be obeyed. Why in God’s name have you brought that loathsome creature back here?”

  The lieutenant advanced hurriedly to the window and held up the paper for his superior officer’s inspection.

  “The girl brought it,” he explained. “She is his lover.”

  Von Makenhofen whistled softly under his breath as he read.

  “So!” he exclaimed at length, and Martin noticed that his tone was vibrant with relief. “If we had shot this Jacques Poulière, Leutnant, I should have made the biggest blunder of my career. You did well to bring him back, my friend, very well.”

  His voice changed, became charged with feverish excitement.

  “Do you realize what this means?” he cried. “The English have lengthened their line by fifteen miles without sufficient men to man the trenches, and we attack to-morrow at dawn. Gott in Himmel! We shall be in Amiens in two days.”

  He shouted to someone behind him in the room.

  “Get on to Operations and have von Kampendorf come over here at once. This is stupendous.”

  He turned to Martin and beckoned him to approach.

  “I ask your pardon for this terrible mistake, Monsieur Poulière. My subordinates failed to inform me of your correct identity, but be sure they will be punished for their carelessness. Have you breakfasted? You have not?”

  He was on the point of inviting “Monsieur Poulière” to join him, but the grime on the spy’s tattered garments decided him against such magnanimity.

  “Well, Monsieur,” he substituted. “Suppose you go into the village, have your meal and return here in an hour’s time. Yes? I have no doubt you have many things to discuss with this charming mademoiselle.

  “See to it, Leutnant, that Monsieur Poulière has everything he needs.”

  He nodded dismissal and Martin suffered Clotilde to lead him towards the road. He could not yet understand the miracle that she had worked, changing him from a condemned prisoner to a free man, nor was he concerned to hear about it.

  That could wait. For the moment his mind was concentrated on the Fokkers displayed so temptingly with engines running on the flying-field.

  “Tell him to go ahead and we’ll meet him in the town,” he said to Clotilde in response to a question from the lieutenant.

  Dawdling behind as his late escort marched steadily towards Veldeghem, he left the road and strayed on to the aerodrome.

  “Where are you going?” asked Clotilde interestedly.

  “Back to France,” declared Martin grimly. “Will you come?”

  She nodded resolutely.

  “Si, si, Monsieur Anglais, if I stay behind they will certainly kill me.”

  No-one took any notice of them as they strolled across the grass. Martin halted alongside the outermost machine. Swinging the girl into the rear cockpit he swarmed on to the wing and settled himself at the controls.

  There was a sudden shout of alarm, grey figures came running, but they were too late. Martin opened the throttle to its fullest extent. The Fokker began to move, gathered speed. He eased back the control column and lifted her cleanly in a climbing turn. Headed east.

  Looking back at the feverish activity that followed his departure he laughed triumphantly. They would never catch him now. He was safe, thanks to the wit of a girl.

  Clotilde told him all about it when they landed in the British lines. The papers he had given her to destroy revealed that Jacques Poulière had been acting for the Germans as well as the British.

  “To think that I had ever loved a man like that,” declared Clotilde disgustedly. “He was one grand cochon, that one. And I was so very very cross because you took his clothes.”

  “I’ve taken his place, too,” announced Martin significantly.

  Mischievously she pretended not to understand.

  “Of course, you can tell your Colonel that the Germans attack at dawn. You have it on the authority of General von Makenhofen.”

  Martin shook his head.

  “I’ll leave you to tell him that. What I propose to tell him is that I want special leave to marry the bravest girl in Belgium.”

  THE ALDERSHOT AFFAIR

  CLARENCE HERBERT NEW

  DESCRIBED BY ITS PUBLISHER as “the longest unbroken series of stories ever published,” Free Lances of Diplomacy by Clarence Herbert New (1862–1933) ran in Blue Book Magazine continually from 1909 to 1934. Based to some degree on his youthful travels and adventures, this long series of stories focused on international intrigue and diplomatic activities. In their magazine appearances, the stories were often accompanied by photographs, maps, and other illustrative material. His extensive devotion to the genre has been credited with popularizing espionage fiction in the United States.

  After graduating from the Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute, New served as the editor of Truth, The New York and London Literary Press, and Reel Life. In addition to his series for Blue Book Magazine, he wrote for Adventure Magazine, The Premier, and other pulp magazines, both under his own name and using the pseudonyms Culpeper Zandtt, Stephen Hopkins Orcutt, Devon Ames, and Norman Blake.

  Three of his stories were made into short silent films, all in 1914: A Mohammedan Conspiracy, The Cat’s Paw, and A Leak in the Foreign Office.

  Upon the publication of The Unseen Hand during World War I, New revealed that the United States had been duping Germany for the past nine years with “a band of diplomatic free-lances” who worked to foil many of the Kaiser’s intrigues. The leader of this covert coterie was termed “the Unseen Hand” by Germany, and New claimed that the stories in his book were based on confidential information received from him.

  New’s life as a photographer and adventurer was hampered in 1916 when his right arm was amputated following a bear attack in New York.

  “The Aldershot Affair” was originally published in the May 1916 issue of Blue Book Magazine; it was first collected in The Unseen Hand by Clarence Herbert New (Garden City, NY, Doubleday, 1918).

  THE ALDERSHOT AFFAIR

  CLARENCE HERBERT NEW

 
AT THREE in the afternoon, a smart landaulet upholstered in Venetian-red suède rolled noiselessly up to the ladies’ entrance of the Carlton Hotel. From his glass-enclosed sentry-box the doorman telephoned the reception office that the Condesa de la Monteneta’s car was at the door, and one of the clerks repeated the information over the wire to Madame’s suite on the third floor, where her two Moorish maids were assisting her into a hat and wrap just over from Paris—the envy of every woman who saw them. When she had descended in the lift, her footman—who, with the chauffeur, had also the appearance of being a Moor—assisted her into the landaulet.

  As the Condesa’s goings and comings were of interest to every one in the hotel on account of her undeniable beauty, taste in clothes, wealth, and social prominence, it was quite in the natural order of things for the page and chambermaids in charge of the third floor to be standing at the end of the corridor watching her as she came along to the lift. It was also a matter of daily occurrence for one of the maids to enter the room presently with an armful of clean towels and—attaching the hose to a baseboard-plug—groom the carpets and furniture with a vacuum-cleaner during Madame’s absence. The two Moorish girls occupied a small room at the end of the suite and were usually more or less in evidence when any of the hotel employees came in—not that they appeared suspicious, but they were seldom out of sight long enough for outsiders to do any prying whatever. This time, however, the chambermaid heard them talking in one of the farther rooms as if they hadn’t noticed her coming in—and she made the most of a long-awaited opportunity.

  Leaning the nozzle of her cleaner against the door-casing, she went noiselessly over to the davenport where the Condesa’s correspondence by the morning’s post lay neatly piled. It seemed to be, however, the pigeonholes which particularly interested the girl. With practised rapidity, she ran through a number of papers and letters—opened the secret drawer which every one knows how to open in the usual desk of this sort—and then began going systematically through the pile of correspondence. After fifteen minutes or so, she became conscious of a pricking sensation through the left side of her corset. Turning, with a chill of apprehension, she saw a pair of gleaming black eyes over her left shoulder. The point of a slender Moorish knife, with a razor-like edge, was pressing gently yet painfully into her flesh—and she realized that one quick shove from the sinewy arm would send it through her heart.

  “Thou hast the desire to read what is written to the great and beautiful one? Aie! Thou shalt tell her of thy desire when she returns. Until then shalt thou sit in that corner with folded arms—and one will sit by thee with this knife against thy side.”

  Perforce, the girl made the best of it. To her amazement, Madame la Condesa paid no attention to the tableau in the corner when she finally returned. The other maid removed her hat and wrap, followed her into the dressing-room, where she took off Madame’s afternoon costume, and replaced it with a négligée. Then the Condesa walked leisurely out and sat down before the davenport. She spoke beautiful English, with here and there a pretty Spanish accent.

  “Ah! You found her going through my papers, Ayesha? I see! I wonder what you discovered of interest among them, Meess? Let me see. You are the maid on thees floor, I believe? An’ your name is Betty—the short for Elizabeth, of course—or—should I say Bettina—eh?”

  To her utter amazement, the girl noticed a peculiar position of Madame’s hand as she lightly touched a wisp of hair just above her ear. Half incredulously, the chambermaid closed her eyes for a second and let her teeth rest upon her lower lip. It was a natural facial expression of weariness or pain, and would have attracted no attention from anyone not particularly observant—but it was promptly answered by another imperceptible signal from Madame, who began to smile at the maid’s confusion and amazement.

  “If you could have assisted me, I should have made use of you before this, Betty. The Herr Chudleigh Sammis, who is Member of Parliament, told me there were two of you, and a man, in this hotel—but it is dangerous that more than a few of us should know one another. There are too many of the Downing Street people to watch each one and note with whom they appear to have a secret understanding. As to my papers here, I am quite sure you found nothing to interest you. We of Wilhelmstrasse are not careless—as you know. But you will forget everything you have seen in this room—everything which concerns me in any way! You recognize this ring, do you not?” [She held out her left hand, upon one finger of which was a beautiful table-cut emerald which the maid knew at a glance was worn only by those high in authority among the Wilhelmstrasse secret agents.] “Very good! You will make no mistake in regard to me! If I find myself in danger and can make use of you, I will give the emergency signal. If I need your assistance with a secret communication, I will ring the bell of my suite three times—so! Meanwhile, you will hint to your two companions in the hotel that I am not to be interfered with or spied upon in any way. A hint should be enough—without giving them further information concerning me. If they do not take that hint, they are likely to hear from Berlin—unpleasantly. Now—you may go.”

  The girl knew that several women of the nobility were among the higher, inner circle of the German Secret Service, and had no doubts whatever that the Condesa was one of them. Dropping upon one knee, she kissed the hand extended to her—murmuring profuse apologies for her mistake, and then hurriedly left the suite.

  A few moments later, Madame was about to dress for dinner when there was a knock at the outer door of the suite, and Ayesha admitted Lady Blanche Parker, who—with Colonel Sir Thomas Parker, K.C.B.—was occupying a suite upon the same floor of the hotel while her town house was being redecorated. She had been among the first to whom the Condesa had taken a personal fancy after her arrival in London, and a somewhat intimate friendship had sprung up between them. Just now she appeared nervous—ill at ease.

  “You were about to dress for dinner, Condesa? Don’t let me delay you! May I come in and chat while you change?”

  “I’ve really nothing on hand for the evening before eleven, my dear—and one should not talk confidentially before one’s maids, don’t you know. (You see? I have adopt’ the English idiom. Si!) Let us remain here where there is nobody to overhear. I theenk you are not quite yourself. No. Tell me!”

  “Oh—it’s quite stupid of me to care! Men do such things—I suppose they don’t really mean anything by it, half the time! Before this horrible war started, I thought I was the happiest woman in England! I loved my husband so much that I was foolish over him—I really did! And I hadn’t the least doubt in the world that he returned it. We’d lived within a few miles of each other, in Hants, ever since we were born—I used to be crazy over the way he sat a horse when he rode to hounds—practised, day after day, so I could keep up with him and take the same jumps that he did. Then we settled down in Feathercote together, living a perfectly ideal life. Finally the war came—and I’d the awful dread that Tom would be among the first killed. I knew, of course, that his regiment would be sent at once, because they were veteran troops. He was slightly wounded near Lille and sent home. After he recovered, his capacity for organization got him a billet at one of the training camps; then he was transferred to Aldershot because it was his home neighborhood and he knew practically everybody within a radius of twenty miles. He’s been most successful in the recruiting, you know. Well, of course his duties gave him little time for me—but his business with the War Office made it advisable to spend at least half his nights in town, and I thought I should see a lot more of him, up here.”

  “And—don’t you? I see you with el Señor Coronel in the beeg dining room almos’ every evening.”

  “Yes—but his manner has been very much changed during the last few weeks. He is more preoccupied—gives me less of the old perfect companionship. To-day I found out why! I came into our suite rather quietly, and walked through to the room where he does his writing. He was sitting at his desk, as I expected. But—one of
the hotel maids was standing by his side, leaning on his shoulder. His arm was around her, and he was—well—hugging her! She—she seemed to be enjoying it—the hussy!”

  “Oh—as you say, my dear, men do those things without theenking twice about them. They consider it mere passing amusement. You may be sure you ’ave nothing serious to fear from a hotel servant—it would be quite too ridiculous! In the lifetime of my ’usband, El Conde de la Montaneta, he had that weakness—like other men. But I was la Doña Condesa—I never did notice such little occurrences when he was indiscreet. There was one—a mantilla-maker of Seville—who dance’ mos’ divinely. El Conde would take her for a ride in the country in hees grand motor-car—the poor theeng needed fresh air. But I could discover no difference in hees respec’ an’ affection for me—no—nevaire. Which of the maids did el Señor Coronel honor with hees embrace?”

  “The—the—well, I suppose some people might call her quite good-looking, in a bold, provocative way! It was that—that Betty woman!”

  “So? El Coronel showed mos’ perfec’ taste when he married you, my dear—an’ he compliments you by selecting a different but mos’ handsome type for hees passing amour. The little Betty, she ees really beautiful, I theenk if one dressed her au grande dame. She ees plump—full of fire. What man with blood in hees veins could help the little embrace—perhaps a kiss or two—from a ripe little baggage like that, if there was opportunity and she was not unwilling! Eh, my dear? Pouf! Eet is nothing. A moment’s relaxation—to lighten the anxieties of hees professional work. Come! I will propose you a diversion. You trust me, do you not? You do not theenk I would deliberately rob you of your ’usband’s love?”

  “You—rob me—Condesa? I—I don’t understand!”

  “I will be more plain. I weesh to show the young wife that passing flirtation ees merely a game weeth mos’ men—that it has nothing to do with the love they have for their wives. It ees merely the excitement of the chase—the capture—the collecting tribute. Look you, my dear! You shall throw me in the society of el Señor Coronel—arrange that we shall be tête-à-tête, with no one to observe an’ listen. Me—I am handsome woman, no? I shall make your ’usband to flirt weeth me—and forget the little Betty entirely. When I get him ver’ much work’ up, I shall make him to laugh with me at the game we both play. I shall keess him good-bye and say the joke mus’ not go further any more because you are my dear friend and would be annoy’ if you should discover us when we were careless. Then will he be punish’ for the little Betty, with her neat ankles an’ pretty figure. He will remember that yours are much prettier—and—and belong to him. You see?”