The Big Book of Espionage

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

  “Look!” he exclaimed, “these few pieces of paper carry with them the power to give us wealth and happiness for the rest of our lives. Promise me that you will say nothing of what you have seen. In a few days all will be well, and then we may go away and be happy with each other. You want to be happy, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said softly, “I want to be happy.”

  “Ah,” he shouted gayly, “I was sure that you were a sensible woman; I realized that from the start!”

  She looked very tired standing there. There were dark circles under her lustrous eyes, and her chin seemed to quiver from weariness and excitement. She looked at him appealingly.

  “Now,” she said in a half whisper, “if you will unlock the door, I will go to my own room. I need rest.”

  He moved as if to comply with her request, but at that instant there came a sharp, peremptory knock on the panel of the door. He opened it quickly, and a smallish man, with coal black hair and brown skin, confronted him. The visitor was agitated and he spoke hurriedly:

  “We have been discovered. They know about the wireless. The police are likely to be here at any moment. Get away!”

  As he uttered the last word, the black-haired, brown-skinned man turned and ran down the stairway. Marie had heard all, and she looked the picture of fright and terror. Roberts’s eyes had narrowed as he received the message, but when he noted the fear in her eyes he put his arms around her in a comforting way.

  “It’s all right, little girl. We have reached the end of the chapter, but we won’t go away empty handed.”

  He hastened to the desk and picked up a small packet of papers. He fondled them as one might a favorite child. He looked up with cupidity and triumph in his face.

  “They’ve discovered the wireless, but it’s too late to prevent the damage. I’ve got enough here to shake the whole Department of State, not to speak of the Navy. And there’s a fortune in it for us. And don’t be frightened. I’ll take care of you.”

  He moved toward her, and with a smothered cry she clung to his shoulders. He saw that she was white about the lips, and he could feel that she was trembling. As they stood thus a gust of wind swept beneath the closed door and rustled a bit of paper on the floor. She gave a cry of terror and he let out an oath.

  “I’m like a skittish horse,” he said, half apologetically, “but it will be all right. We’ll have to make a quick get-away. I’ll call a taxicab and we’ll shoot off to the Union Station.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve just got time to catch the southern train. Before they know it, we’ll be at El Paso, and then, once across the border and on Mexican soil, I’ll defy the whole bunch to get me.”

  He was tossing articles of clothing into a grip by this time, and then he paused for a moment to say to Marie:

  “You’d better go to your room and get a few things together. We’ll only have a few minutes. Hurry. I’ll have the cab by the time you’re ready.”

  The girl seemed to be more composed by this time. She looked at him with a glance of endearment.

  “Percival,” she said softly—and the first mention of his given name from her lips thrilled him—“I’ll try to be useful. I’ll call the cab.”

  He was delighted beyond measure by her acceptance of the situation. He stooped down and kissed her on the lips. That one act seemed to change the whole character of the enterprise. Instead of a fugitive from justice, he felt like a man about to enter on his honeymoon.

  “Do so,” he murmured in return, “and by the time it is here I will be all ready for you.”

  During the next few minutes there were scenes of feverish activity in that apartment house on Farragut Circle. Percival Roberts lived in a Heaven of his own creating. He pictured himself and his beloved in a far-away land enjoying the fruits of his “hard work.” But in the midst of his day dreaming he roused himself to the actualities. If the police were on the way he did not have much time to spare. He finished his preparations in record time, and started down stairs to meet Marie. To his satisfaction, the door of her room was open and he saw her standing there, attired for a journey, and looking as neat and as pretty as anything he had seen in a long while. He gave a sigh of joy. His cup of happiness was full indeed.

  She was fastening her gloves as he entered the room, and she gave him a smile that thrilled him. Quite evidently her scruples had vanished and she was going to imitate him by making the most of her life. He felt flattered, and as he tried to put his thought into words she interrupted him to say prettily, and with just a shade of deference:

  “Percival, the cab is at the door now—and we’d better not lose any time.”

  “Very well, my dear,” he replied, “we’ll make tracks.” But in spite of his hurry he paused to admire her costume. She was dressed like a bride—that is to say, in the traveling costume usually affected by the newly wedded. And added to this was a stylish coat that came almost to her shoe tops. As he gazed at this garment it seemed to give him an inspiration.

  “Marie,” he said, “have you a pocket on the inside of that coat?”

  She had and she displayed it with the pride with which members of the gentler sex usually exhibit their articles of clothing. Percival looked the satisfaction he felt. He drew the package of papers from his own pocket and handed them to her.

  “I want you to put them in your inside pocket,” he suggested, “and then I’ll know they are in no danger of being lost.”

  She complied with this request, smilingly, and as she buttoned her coat carefully he surveyed her for the fifth time with intense pride and an undisguised sense of ownership.

  “Before you took those papers,” he cried, banteringly, “I thought you were the loveliest girl in the world. Now, you’re that and more. You are the most valuable. You’re worth your weight in gold. Those papers are worth millions to the enemy and they mean wealth and comfort for us. I’m sure you’ll guard them—especially if anything should happen to me.”

  She gently boxed his ears.

  “Don’t talk like a pessimist,” she cried; “it’s not a bit like you—and, besides, there’s a machine out there tooting away for dear life.”

  Two minutes later they were seated in the taxicab to the relief of the driver who grumbled something about having to wait all day for people that didn’t know the value of time. That seemed to amuse Percival, who grimaced at the fellow behind his back and whispered to Marie that time at that moment was the most important thing in his life. He looked at his watch and said to the girl:

  “We’ve got twenty minutes, and I think it would be wise to make a circuit instead of going directly to the station. Then, if by chance we should be followed, we can throw them off the scent.”

  She laughed gayly.

  “You’re the most cautious man I ever met. They’ll never catch you napping. But do just as you please, my dear.”

  Accordingly he gave direction to the green-goggled chauffeur, who resolutely kept his back to his passengers as if still resenting the indignity of having to wait. But he nodded that he understood his orders, especially the one which directed him to let his two passengers off about a square from the Union Station.

  “That may keep them from knowing that we actually went to the station,” he whispered with a sagacious look at the girl.

  The drive took them beyond the White House, and then past the Army and Navy Building and the Treasury Department. The driver kept mumbling to himself as though he were questioning the sanity of any one driving about the city at random while the automatic clock was registering a fare that might appal any one except a bride and groom. As they passed the Navy Building a little man was seen entering a conveyance.

  “That’s Admiral Hawksby,” explained Roberts to his companion; “he’s going home now after what he calls a ‘hard day’s work.’ He’ll be the sorest man in Washington when he hears of my escape. But it serves him right, th
e arrogant old ass. He thinks he knows it all, and he doesn’t know anything.”

  For five minutes after that the man and the girl simply sat and admired each other. It was a real mutual admiration society, with only two members. Marie Johnson certainly looked attractive. Her coal black hair, parted in the middle, contrasted with the coquettishness of her face, and her dark gray eyes sparkled in the half gloom of the cab. Percival complacently stroked his mustache and leaning toward her, said tenderly:

  “I’ll mark this day down as the luckiest day of my life—the day you insured my happiness. And if I only thought you fully reciprocated my feelings—”

  “I do,” she interrupted, “I do—and as soon as I can get one I’m going to put a red mark around the date on the calendar.”

  They both laughed at this conceit, and after that there was a blissful silence. It was broken by the voice of the girl, speaking seriously and with a certain pathos:

  “You’ve been very frank with me, Percival. There is something I should tell you.”

  He interrupted her with a loyalty that astonished even himself. He had not thought he was capable of such high flights.

  “Never mind about your past, Marie—I don’t want to hear a word.”

  “Oh, it isn’t anything terrible,” she retorted with feminine inconsistency; “I simply wanted you to know that before I came to this city I was an actress. Do you mind?”

  Roberts laughed heartily.

  “Mind? Well, I should say not. I should say it was a sort of distinction. And I’ll bet my bottom dollar you were a mighty clever actress.”

  “Well,” she said reflectively, “I know I wasn’t dismissed for incompetence.”

  By this time the outlines of the Union Station began to loom in sight. Percival looked ahead and prepared to alight as soon as the cab drove up to the curb. On and on they went until they were within a block of their destination. The spy uttered an exclamation of impatience and called to the driver:

  “Hey, out there—didn’t I tell you to stop before we got to the station?”

  But the taxi went right ahead as though nothing had been said. The young man half arose in his seat. Marie turned to him with a look of alarm.

  “What’s the trouble? You mustn’t do that while the machine is in motion.”

  Roberts fell back into his seat with a muttered oath.

  “It’s that infernal driver. He’s so stupid that he doesn’t know enough to do as I tell him. Well, I guess we’ll have to go into the station after all.”

  But, strangely enough, the taxicab did not go into the regular driveway of the station. Instead, it circled around the building and paused in front of the entrance to a small room. The driver jumped from his seat and opened the door. Percival Roberts alighted first, and then assisted Marie to the ground. He turned to give the driver a piece of his mind for his stupidity, but that personage, with unlooked for insolence, gave him a push and sent him into the little room. Percival was furious and he doubled up his fist menacingly. As he did so he noticed a figure in the half-darkened room. It gave him a start—and no wonder, for it was Admiral Hawksby, stroking his mustache and imperial, and with deep satisfaction depicted on his grizzled face.

  Roberts was scared, but he kept his self-possession. The presence of the old sea fighter might be merely a coincidence. He turned around to the driver of the taxicab, and as he did so the stupid one tossed away his glazed cap and took off his green goggles. The spy looked at the other man with half-dazed fury.

  He was staring into the face of Bromley Barnes—special investigator of the United States Government.

  Bewilderment filled his mind. Then gradually he rallied. He looked around the room. The Admiral and the detective were looking at him curiously. Presently his eyes fell upon Marie Johnson. She stood by a table in the center of the room, and she seemed to be trembling like a leaf. Her head was buried in the folds of her coat and her breast heaved convulsively. He remembered that the incriminating papers were in the inside pocket of her coat. In that instant his resolution was formed.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said, fingering the pink carnation in his coat, and with that nonchalant smile which he could assume so quickly, “what is the meaning of this?”

  Barnes grinned at him amiably.

  “We wanted to be sociable—we couldn’t bear to see you go off without saying good-by. We’ve already got Lee Hallman and the code man.”

  Roberts smiled in return, but his brain was working furiously. He looked again in the direction of Marie. She seemed to be trying to control her emotions. At any moment she might break down. He must anticipate anything she might say. In those seconds of thought any affection he might have felt for her vanished into thin air. He felt a new emotion—and yet it was not new. It was as old as the everlasting hills. It was the impulse of self-preservation. He was willing to sacrifice anything and any one to save himself. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, and steadying himself, said slowly:

  “Well, gentlemen, you’ve anticipated me a little bit, but still I think I can claim credit for helping my country.”

  The detective looked at him in a puzzled way. When he spoke it was brusquely:

  “What in thunder are you talking about?”

  In reply to this question, Percival pointed an accusing finger in the direction of Marie.

  “Simply this. I have arrested that woman as a spy and I now desire to transfer her to your custody. I still have some evidence to get, but I will appear against her in the morning.”

  The woman, who had been standing, sank into a chair, as if in total collapse. She buried her face in her hands and refused to look up.

  Bromley Barnes gazed at the man with a curious smile hovering about his lips. He spoke in a voice of authority:

  “Young man, it is one thing to accuse and another to prove. Where is the proof of what you say?”

  Percival Roberts took a turn up and down the room before replying. He was considering the dramatic effect of what he was about to say. Then he pointed his hand at the girl for the second time and exclaimed loudly:

  “Search her and you will find a number of messages that have been intercepted from the Navy Department. They are in the inside pocket of her coat. I saw her put them there, and I am willing to so testify in a court of law!”

  Something like a sob was heard to come from the woman with the bowed head and then the murmur in a muffled voice:

  “Oh, Percival, how could you?”

  Several speechless seconds passed. A dramatic tableau was being enacted in the little room. Admiral Hawksby broke the silence with one brusque sentence:

  “Well, Barnes, why don’t you search the woman?”

  The cold gray eyes of the investigator softened just a little bit, and the quizzical smile became more pronounced, but he went over to Marie and commanded her to arise. She did so and he unbuttoned her coat, and took out the packet of letters from the inside pocket. As he read them his eyes widened and he emitted a low, significant whistle.

  “Are these all of the papers?” he asked the girl.

  “Yes,” was the reply with downcast eyes, “all that I know anything about.”

  Percival Roberts had been watching her intently, and her manner seemed to reassure him, for turning to Barnes, he exclaimed:

  “You see, I’ve told the truth, and now if you’ll excuse me for the present, I’ll appear at your office the first thing in the morning.”

  Barnes looked at him with a sort of contempt, and then producing a whistle, blew it softly. Two officers rushed into the room, and the next thing Roberts knew he was on the floor of the patrol wagon. He managed to regain his feet just as the Admiral, the Detective, and the Girl came out of the railroad station. He turned to one of the officers and pointed in the direction of the trio.

  “Who—” he spluttered, “who is that woman go
ing down the street?”

  The policeman shaded his eyes with one hand in order to get a better view of the girl, and then replied, in the most matter-of-fact way:

  “That? That’s Miss Johnson—the smartest little woman in the United States Secret Service.”

  THE NAVAL TREATY

  ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  SHERLOCK HOLMES did not become the most famous fictional character in the world because the stories by Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930) were classroom assignments, as is the case with so many other distinguished authors of the Victorian and Edwardian eras in which he worked. It is astonishing to realize that, although mostly written more than a century ago, they remain as readable and fresh as anything produced in recent times, lacking the overwrought verbosity so prevalent in the prose of that more leisurely time.

  Equally astonishing is that Doyle believed that his most important works were such historical novels and short story collections as Micah Clarke (1889), The White Company (1891), The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard (1896), and Sir Nigel (1906). He believed his most significant nonfiction work was in the spiritualism field, to which he devoted the last twenty years of his life, a considerable portion of his fortune, and prodigious energy, producing many major and not-so-major works on the subject.

  He was deluded, of course, as Holmes was his supreme achievement. The great detective’s first appearance was in the novel A Study in Scarlet (1887), followed by The Sign of Four (1890), neither of which immediately changed the course of the detective story. This occurred when the first short story, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” was published in The Strand Magazine (July 1891), bringing the world’s first private detective to a huge readership. Monthly publication of new Holmes stories became so widely anticipated that eager readers queued up at news stalls awaiting each new issue. Remarkably, the Holmes opera lasted a half century (1887–1927).