The Big Book of Espionage

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

  I went back into the town and wandered about the busy streets. The fine shops fascinated me; it was many months since I had seen anything bigger than a village store, and I lingered in front of the plate-glass windows like an urchin on Christmas Eve.

  I was standing on the busy pavement of the Hohestrasse outside a cigar shop wondering if it would be foolish to risk asking for a packet of cigarettes, when without apparent reason I became acutely aware of two men standing near me. One tall and the other short, both dressed in civilian clothes, they had stopped for a moment to look at the shop window. Something vaguely familiar in the bearing of one of them fixed my attention. The shorter of the two had already turned away, and as the other followed him, he looked in my direction and our eyes met.

  Recognition is as swift as the fastest camera shutter and may be equally revealing. It was Cunningham. I was taken completely by surprise, but I flatter myself that I gave no more than a slight start. As for Cunningham, not an eyelid flickered, not a muscle of his face moved, nor did he arrest the turning of his head for the fraction of a second; only the momentary spark in his eye betrayed his recognition. He went off beside his companion, chatting in German as though he had seen nothing.

  That sight of Cunningham heartened me. It was comforting to know that there was even one fellow-countryman of mine in this great city. If he could play so gallantly his dangerous game, of which the penalty of failure was death, it would be shameful for me to falter in a game for lower stakes. I congratulated myself that I had made no sudden exclamation, and I was glad that his companion’s back had been turned at the moment of recognition, for even my slight start might have given us away. I realized then the self-control and courage needed by the successful spy. My own wandering as a fugitive had given me some inkling of the utter loneliness of the work and of the self-reliance needed for the part.

  I wandered down to the river-side again, and as I stood in the dusk gazing out across the water, a man came and leant on the rail beside me. It was the one thing I had been afraid of—that some loiterer would try to get into conversation with me; but as I turned hastily to move away I caught a glimpse of his profile. It was Cunningham’s.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I said with relief.

  He nodded.

  “Is this safe?” I asked. “I don’t want to get you in a mess.”

  He looked at me curiously. “How do you mean?” he asked.

  “Well—I’m only an escaped prisoner,” I said, “and if I’m caught it’s the prisoners-of-war camp again; but for you….” I laughed shortly. “I suppose it would be the traditional firing-squad at dawn.”

  He gave me an odd look that made me feel like an ingénue at a party who has said the wrong thing. I suppose Intelligence men have their own etiquette of what is good luck and what is bad luck, like airmen, and after all it was only natural that a reference to a firing-squad at dawn should be one of the things that was not “done.” Anyway, I felt a fool.

  “So you have escaped from a prison camp, have you! Stout fellow!” he said in the old friendly manner. “Tell me about it.” I told him. “You’ve had a rough time,” he commented at the end. “It must have taken a bit of guts.”

  “Guts!” I echoed. “You to talk of guts! Why, half an hour of your job would reduce me to a nervous wreck.”

  He let that pass without comment, nor did he volunteer any information about his job or his life since he left his comfortable Intelligence post behind the lines for the hazardous one there in Germany. And I did not question him. I had heard enough about Intelligence to know that agents worked so secretly that often they did not know one another even.

  He asked me about my future plans. I told him of my original intention and of my change of plan. He thought I was wise to have abandoned the idea of footing it to Holland. The frontier was closely watched and guarded by live wire in places; without special knowledge of the district I would have hardly stood a chance. But he shook his head over the other plan also. Of course there were Dutch bargees who would be willing to smuggle an escaped prisoner across the frontier, but there must be many more who would not take the risk. My difficulty would be to find the right man; if I approached the wrong one first I should be in the cart.

  I asked what he advised. He was silent for a few moments. “I think I can help you,” he said at last. “You had better come to my rooms for the night while I arrange it. You will be all right there.”

  I said I had no intention of adding to the obvious risks he ran, but he laughed and assured me it would be all right. “I owe you something, anyway,” he said. “If you wander about Cologne all night, someone will talk to you, and then the game will be up. And besides you are in no fit condition to do that; what you need is a square meal and a bed. But I must see that the coast is clear first. Meanwhile, I advise you to keep on the move; I’ll be back in half an hour.” And with that he turned and left me.

  I kept on the move as he had advised, and returned to the spot on the river bank as soon as the half-hour was up. But there was no sign of Cunningham. He was, I knew, a man of his word, and as the minutes went by without his putting in an appearance, my anxiety can be imagined.

  Exhaustion can play strange tricks with the most equable temperament. After my meeting with Cunningham and his offer of help I had soared from a state not far removed from despair to one of rosy optimism; now I was sliding rapidly back again. Something had gone amiss; not only did I see that promised square meal recede into the distance and the prison camp loom near, but I heard in imagination the very volley that would end Cunningham’s career. All this because he had delayed ten minutes beyond the appointed time. It will be seen that I was pretty near the end of my tether.

  He came at last, and gave some explanation of his delay which I failed to hear in my joy at seeing him. He told me the coast was clear; he would go ahead and I was to follow a few paces behind. In this way we went back into the town, up one of the main streets, down a side turning and in through an open door. He led me up a short flight of stairs and through a small hall to a comfortably furnished room. After locking the door he put food and wine before me and sat smoking his pipe while I ate. And how I ate.

  Afterwards we talked of old times, of the old battalion and of days in France. Then I had a glorious hot bath and he put me into a little bedroom opening off the hall. It was a spare room, he said, and was never used. He would be out all night, but he would lock the door and I would be quite safe. A woman would come in to tidy up in the morning, but she would not trouble me. My room had always been kept locked, and if I kept quiet she would not know I was there. He could not say exactly when he could give me breakfast—as though that mattered—but he gave me a loaf and some meat in case I was hungry. Then with a cheery good night he closed and locked the door. I heard him go out some minutes later.

  Contrary to expectations I did not sleep well; the bed was too soft and comfortable after my spell of hard lying but I dropped off before dawn and awoke to hear the woman bustling about the flat. After she had gone, I dressed and ate some of the meat and bread.

  I found it dull sitting there in that little room and I wished that Cunningham had thought of locking the door on the inside instead of on the outside, so that I could have gone into the other room and amused myself with the German illustrated papers I had seen there the night before. Except for a floor rug, a chair, a cupboard, and a bed, the room was bare. It amused me, however, to think that an English Intelligence man should have his own flat in Cologne and even a spare room in which to entertain his fellow-countrymen. In the cupboard I found a bag with an old label for Berlin and the name H. von Goburg written on it in Cunningham’s handwriting. That too was amusing—but a grim jest for him if it were seen through.

  It was nearly midday when he returned. He apologized for keeping me shut up so long, but said he had not been idle. And indeed he had not.

  It was, as he had said, almost i
mpossible to get across the Dutch frontier if one did not know the ropes, but on the other hand it was a fairly simple matter for those who did. Actually the frontier was crossed pretty frequently by smugglers and others, and to cut a long story short, he had arranged for one who was an expert at the game to take me over that night. I was to catch the evening train to Aachen where he would hand me over to the frontier expert. Before dawn I would be on Dutch soil.

  He brushed aside my objections to his coming with me; the risk to himself, he said, was negligible, and with my limited knowledge of German I could not possibly risk the journey alone. And besides it was all arranged.

  So I thanked him gratefully and sat down to the excellent cold meal he had prepared.

  He had to be busy all that afternoon again, but before he went he handed me a suit from his wardrobe and put me back into my little room. “We can’t have you looking too much like a tramp,” he laughed. I suggested he might let me have the run of the flat, but he said that was too risky as the woman had a key. So back I went to the little room and was locked in.

  It was good to feel well dressed again. Cunningham and I were much the same size and the suit was a tolerably good fit. His nom de guerre, H. von Goburg, was written on the tab of the jacket below the name of a Berlin tailor. Now at least the cut of my clothes could not give me away.

  Somehow I whiled away that interminable time of waiting. I had brought with me the German illustrated papers and they helped. The captions were not easy to follow, but the rather low humour of the pictures was obvious enough.

  It was nearly eight o’clock when he returned. I laughed aloud when he opened the door, for he was dressed in the uniform of a German officer and looked a typical Prussian. He said it would save us from being bothered by petty officials. I laughed again and reminded him that I had adopted the same plan at the prison camp and with satisfactory results.

  He had a taxi waiting outside, so that we drove to the station in style, and all the way I was grinning to myself at the thought of what the people on the crowded pavements would have said if they had known who we really were. He carried the whole thing off magnificently: he paid the taximan with a lordly air and marched up the platform to a first-class carriage with just the right swagger. Two other people were in the compartment, but they did not worry us. I sat undisturbed in my corner and pretended to read the magazine he had bought me.

  The journey to Aachen was short and passed off without incident. Cunningham’s uniform brought him salutes and respect, and carried us through the barrier without question. We walked from the station through the lighted streets of the town and out along a country road. Away to the left a lighted tramcar moved slowly on its way; ahead the red and green signal lights of a railway glowed through the darkness.

  I remember feeling strangely unreal; it seemed absurd that this commonplace road could lead to freedom.

  A man lounging by a gateway gave us a good night as we passed. Cunningham halted suddenly and gripped my hand. “Follow him,” he whispered with a nod towards the dark figure. “He will see you through. Good-bye.” And before I had recovered from my surprise he was several yards away striding back down the road.

  That was the last I ever saw of Cunningham. I dared not call out or run after him. I could only turn sadly towards the dark figure by the gate. All my elation at the nearness of success had left me; it seemed a shameful thing that I should go on towards safety and freedom while he who had arranged it all was striding through the darkness back to his lonely, dangerous work.

  The man by the gate turned without a word as I approached. He led me by a large dark house and through a hedge at the end of a long garden. After that we went very cautiously, sometimes we crawled, and once we lay still while two men passed close to us. Then we halted beyond a ditch on the edge of a small field. I could distinguish a narrow footpath winding towards a low building with one dimly lighted window.

  I was just wondering when we should reach the wire and how we would cross it, when my guide put his lips to my ear and spoke for the first time. “You are now in Holland,” he said. “Go straight ahead to the house.” And before I could ask a question or even thank him he had turned and disappeared back the way we had come.

  I shall not try to describe my feeling at that moment or the many little kindnesses of the friendly Dutch guards at the little house when they had satisfied themselves that I was really an escaped prisoner of war. I had a great reception from many British residents in Holland and from the British authorities to whom I reported. Everyone treated me as though I were a hero, and I felt very mean in taking all the credit to myself, for I thought it would be most unwise to mention Cunningham to anyone except an accredited Intelligence Officer. Madison, the one man I gathered I could have spoken freely to, was on leave in London and I did not see any of the higher Embassy officials.

  One of the juniors came to the station to see me off for England, and as we stood chatting by the carriage door he said: “Madison will want to see you when you get to Town. He will be interested to hear you have been in Cologne.” Then with a quick glance round and lowered voice he went on: “His department have had a spot of bother in that region lately. Two of our people have gone silent—and have disappeared.”

  A sudden chill came over me as I realized the meaning of his words; I thought of Cunningham back there in the centre of the danger. “You mean…?” I began.

  He nodded. “I’m afraid so. You see, the Huns have got a new man on counter-espionage in that area. A pretty live wire from all accounts. They say he’s played the game himself behind our lines and knows every move….” Then he added brightly as the train began to move: “A dangerous bloke—von Goburg is his name, Captain von Goburg, blast him! Well, good-bye, and good luck.”

  LIVE BAIT

  J. M. WALSH

  THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE prolific James Morgan Walsh (1897–1952) is impressive, with fifty-seven novels of crime, espionage, and detective fiction published between 1921 (Tap-Tap Island) and 1952 (King of Tiger Bay). Then there is a realization that he also wrote twenty-five similar novels as Stephen Maddock, plus additional books in the thriller category, as well as fantasy and science fiction, as George M. White, H. Haverstock Hill, and Jack Carew. And, of course, he also was a prolific short story writer, his first being published when he was only sixteen while he worked in his father’s stationery store. He asserted that in 1929 alone he had thirty stories accepted by magazines.

  Born in Australia, he became a full-time writer in 1923 and moved to London in 1925, shortly after his marriage. While his early books were set in Australia, the Far East, and the Pacific Islands, the demand of his English publishers (mostly Collins and Hamish Hamilton) was that they be set in England. Walsh complied, even rewriting three novels with Australian backgrounds to have them set in England: The White Mask (1925), The League of Missing Men (1927), and The Man Behind the Curtain (1927). His popularity was so great that he was often called the Australian Edgar Wallace and the Australian E. Phillips Oppenheim, the two most popular English thriller writers of the time.

  One of Walsh’s most successful series characters was the British Secret Service agent Oliver Keene, who appeared in at least twelve books. In Spies’ Vendetta (1936), he imagines an invention that would allow airplanes to be powered by radio waves, and in Secret Weapons (1940), he anticipates guided missiles being used as weapons.

  I have been unable to trace the original publication of this story. It was collected in My Best Spy Story, edited anonymously (London, Faber & Faber, 1938).

  LIVE BAIT

  J. M. WALSH

  THERE ONCE WAS a man called Luss, who, on occasion, described himself as a collector. What he collected was not specified. It was a convenient, if designedly misleading label, one open to many misconstructions and interpretations, but its main virtue in his own eyes was that it was strictly accurate. For Mr. Luss preferred whenever possible to
tell the truth about himself. It left nothing to deny later. That it was by no means the whole truth, or even a considerable portion of it, did not to his way of thinking affect the issue in the least.

  For he was a collector—of a kind. Mostly it was information of naval or military value that he sought. A pedant would have called him a spy. Mr. Luss could have countered that by pointing out that he seldom, if ever, engaged in espionage himself. It was his business to co-ordinate the results, and in due course pass them on to the right people.

  Most often plans were brought to him by those he believed he could trust. That their loss did no great harm is neither here nor there. The fact that Mr. Luss was able to acquire them at all meant that there had been carelessness or worse somewhere, and as a consequence—I have in mind one or two particular instances—there was a shuffling of personnel in one department, and a tightening up of procedure in another.

  Luss was not the man’s real name. Probably by this time even he himself could not have said offhand what that was. He changed his identity almost as often as he changed his clothes. Only in certain files of the Power that employed him was there any immutable record. There he was known by a letter, a number, and a code word that had been added to the end of his dossier. But all this was years ago. A red line has since been drawn beneath the entry, and in a foreign hand and a foreign tongue a sentence has been appended intimating that he has fallen by the wayside.

  In other words Mr. Luss tried once too often, over-reached himself, and despite all his precautions was caught. That his own Power promptly disowned him goes without saying. Anyway, Luss would not have claimed its protection even had there been any hope of obtaining it. He had blundered with full knowledge of what would happen if he did, and had been left to pay the price of failure.