NUR-EL-DIN
The love of romance is merely the nobler form of curiosity. And there
was something in Desmond Okewood’s Anglo-Irish parentage that made him
fiercely inquisitive after adventure. In him two men were constantly
warring, the Irishman, eager for romance yet too indolent to go out in
search of it, and the Englishman, cautious yet intensely vital withal,
courting danger for danger’s sake.
All his ill-humor of the morning at being snatched away from his work
in France had evaporated. In the Chief he now saw only the magician who
was about to unlock to him the realms of Adventure. Desmond’s eyes
shone with excitement as the other, obviously simmering with
satisfaction, lit another cigarette and began to speak.
“The British public, Okewood,” he said, hitching his chair closer,
“would like to see espionage in this country rendered impossible. Such
an ideal state of things is, unfortunately out of the question. Quite
on the contrary, this country of ours is honeycombed with spies. So it
will ever be, as long as we have to work with natural means: at present
we have no caps of invisibility or magician’s carpets available.
“As we cannot hope to kill the danger, we do our best to scotch it.
Personally, my modest ambition is to make espionage as difficult as
possible for the enemy by knowing as many as possible of his agents and
their channels of communication, and by keeping him happy with small
results, to prevent him from finding out the really important things,
the disclosure of which would inevitably compromise our national
safety.”
He paused and Desmond nodded.
“The extent of our business,” the Chief resumed, “is so large, the
issues at stake so vital, that we at the top have to ignore the
non-essentials and stick to the essentials. By the nonessentials I mean
the little potty spies, actuated by sheer hunger or mere officiousness,
the neutral busybody who makes a tip-and-run dash into England, the
starving waiter, miserably underpaid by some thieving rogue in a
neutral country—or the frank swindler who sends back to the Fatherland
and is duly paid for long reports about British naval movements which
he has concocted without setting foot outside his Bloomsbury lodgings.
“These folk are dealt with somehow and every now and then one of ’em
gets shot, just to show that we aren’t asleep, don’t you know? But
spasmodic reports we can afford to ignore. What we are death on is
anything like a regular news service from this country to Germany; and
to keep up this steady flow of reliable information is the perpetual
striving of the men who run the German Secret Service.
“These fellows, my dear Okewood, move in darkness. Very often we have
to grope after ’em in darkness, too. _They_ don’t get shot, or hardly
ever; they are far too clever for that. Between us and them it is a
never-ending series of move and countermove, check and counter-check.
Very often we only know of their activities by enemy action based on
their reports. Then there is another leak to be caulked, another
rat-hole to be nailed up, and so the game goes on. Hitherto I think I
may say we have managed to hold our own!”
The Chief stopped to light another cigarette. Then he resumed but in a
lower voice.
“During the past month, Okewood,” he said, “a new organization has
cropped up. The objective of every spy operating in this country is, as
you may have surmised, naval matters, the movements of the Fleet, the
military transports, and the food convoys. This new organization has
proved itself more efficient than any of its predecessors. It
specializes in the movement of troops to France, and in the journeys of
the hospital ships across the Channel. Its information is very prompt
and extremely accurate, as we know too well. There have been some very
disquieting incidents in which, for once in a way, luck has been on our
side, but as long as this gang can work in the dark there is the danger
of a grave catastrophe. With its thousands of miles of sea to patrol,
the Navy has to take a chance sometimes, you know! Well, on two
occasions lately, when chances were taken, _the Hun knew we were taking
a chance_, and what is more, _when and where we were taking it!_”
The Chief broke off, then looking Desmond squarely in the eyes, said:
“This is the organization that you’re going to beak up!”
Desmond raised his eyebrows.
“Who is at the head of it?” he asked quietly.
The Chief, smiled a little bitterly.
“By George!” he cried, slapping his thigh, “you’ve rung the bell in
one. Okewood, I’m not a rich man, but I would gladly give a year’s pay
to be able to answer that question. To be perfectly frank with you, I
don’t know who is at the back of this crowd, but...” his mouth set in a
grim line, “I’m going to know!”
He added whimsically:
“What’s more, you’re going to find out for me!”
Desmond smiled at the note of assurance in his voice.
“I suppose you’ve got something to go on?” he asked. “There’s
Nur-el-Din, for instance. What about her?”
“That young person,” replied the Chief, “is to be your particular
study. If she is not the center of the whole conspiracy, she is, at any
rate, in the thick of it. It will be part of your job to ascertain the
exact rôle she is playing.”
“But what is there against her?” queried Desmond.
“What is there against her? The bad company she keeps is against her.
‘Tell me who your friends are and I’ll tell you who you are’ is a maxim
that we have to go on in our profession, Okewood. You have met the
lady. Did you see any of her entourage? Her business manager, a fat
Italian who calls himself Lazarro, did you notice him? Would you be
surprised to hear that Lazarro alias Sacchetti alias Le Tardenois is a
very notorious international spy who after working in the Italian
Secret Service in the pay of the Germans was unmasked and kicked out of
Italy... that was before the war? This pleasant gentleman subsequently
did five years in the French penal settlements in New Caledonia for
robbery with violence at Aix-les-Bains... oh, we know a whole lot about
him! And this woman’s other friends! Do you know, for instance, where
she often spends the week-end? At the country-place of one Bryan
Mowbury, whose name used to be Bernhard Marburg, a very old hand indeed
in the German Secret Service. She has identified herself right and left
with the German espionage service in this country. One day she lunches
with a woman spy, whose lover was caught and shot by the French. Then
she goes out motoring with...”
“But why in Heaven’s name are all these people allowed to run loose?”
broke in Desmond. “Do you mean to say you can’t arrest them?”
“Arrest ’em? Arrest ’em? Of course, we can arrest ’em. But what’s the
use? They’re all small fry, and we have to keep out a few lines baited
with minnows to catch the Tritons. None of ’em can do any harm: we
watch ’em much too closely for that. Once you’ve located your spy, the
battle’s won. It’s when he—or it may be a she—is running loose, that I
get peeved!”
The Chief sprang impatiently to his feet and strode across the
smoking-room, which was all but empty by this time, to get a match from
a table. He resumed his seat with a grunt of exasperation.
“I can’t see light, Okewood!” he sighed, shaking his head.
“But is this all you’ve got against Nur-el-Din?” asked Desmond.
“No,” answered the other slowly, “it isn’t. If it were, I need not have
called you in. We would have interned or deported her. No, we’ve traced
back to her a line leading straight from the only member of the new
organization we have been able to lay by the heels.”
“Then you’ve made an arrest?”
The Chief nodded.
“A fortnight ago... a respectable, retired English business man, by
name of Basil Bellward... taken with the goods on him, as the saying
is...”
“An Englishman, by Jove!”
“It’s hardly correct to call him an Englishman, though he’s posed as an
English business man for so long that one is almost justified in doing
so. As a matter of fact, the fellow is a German named Wolfgang Bruhl
and it is my belief that he was planted in this country at least a
dozen years ago solely for the purpose of furnishing him with good,
respectable credentials for an emergency like this.”
“But surely if you found evidence of his connection with this gang of
spies, it should be easy to get a clue to the rest of the crowd?”
“Not so easy as you think,” the Chief replied. “The man who organized
this system of espionage is a master at his craft. He has been careful
to seal both ends of every connection, that is to say, though we found
evidence of Master Bellward-Bruhl being in possession of highly
confidential information relating to the movements of troops, we
discovered nothing to show whence he received it or how or where he was
going to forward it. But we did find a direct thread leading straight
back to Nur-el-Din.”
“Really,” said Desmond, “that rather complicates things for her,
doesn’t it?”
“It was in the shape of a letter of introduction, in French, without
date or address, warmly recommending the dancer to our friend,
Bellward.”
“Who is this letter from?”
“It is simply signed ‘P.’, but you shall see it for yourself when you
get the other documents in the case.”
“But surely, sir, such a letter might be presented in perfectly good
faith...”
“It might, but not this one. This letter, as an expert has ascertained
beyond all doubt, is written on German manufactured note-paper of a
very superior quality;, the writing is stiff and angular and not
French: and lastly, the French in which it is phrased, while correct,
is unusually pompous and elaborate.”
“Then...”
“The letter was, in all probability, written by a German!”
There was a moment’s silence. Desmond was thinking despairingly of the
seeming hopelessness of untangling this intricate webwork of tangled
threads.
“And this murder, sir,” he began.
The Chief shrugged his shoulders.
“The motive, Okewood, I am searching for the motive. I can see none
except the highly improbable one of Miss Mackwayte being my
confidential secretary. In that case why murder the father, a harmless
old man who didn’t even know that his daughter is in my service, why
kill him, I ask you, and spare the girl? On the other hand, I believe
the man Barney’s story, and can see that Marigold does, too. When I
first heard the news of the murder over the telephone this morning, I
had a kind of intuition that we should discover in it a thread leading
back to this mesh of espionage. Is it merely a coincidence that a hair,
resembling Nur-el-Din’s, is found adhering to the straps with which
Barbara Mackwayte was bound? I can’t think so... and yet...”
“But do you believe then, that Nur-el-Din murdered-old Mackwayte? My
dear Chief, the idea is preposterous...”
The Chief rose from his chair with a sigh.
“Nothing is preposterous in our work, Okewood,” he replied. “But it’s
3.25, and my French colleague hates to be kept waiting.”
“I thought you were seeing Strangwise, at two?” asked Desmond.
“I put him off until six o’clock,” replied the Chief, “he knows
Nur-el-Din, and he may be able to give Marigold some pointers about
this affair. You’re off to see Miss Mackwayte now, I suppose. You know
where she’s staying? Good. Well, I’ll say good-bye, Okewood. I shan’t
see you again...”
“You won’t see me again? How do you mean, sir?”
“Because you’re going back to France!”
“Going back to France? When?”
“By the leave-boat to-night!”
Desmond smiled resignedly.
“My dear Chief,” he said, “you must be more explicit. What am I going
back to France for?”
“Why, now I come to think of it,” replied the Chief, “I never told you.
You’re going back to France to be killed, of course!”
“To be killed!”
Desmond looked blankly at the other’s blandly smiling face.
“Two or three days from now,” said the Chief, “you will be killed in
action in France. I thought of making it a shell. But we’ll have it a
machine gun bullet if you like. Whichever you prefer; it’s all the same
to me!”
He laughed at the dawn of enlightenment in Desmond’s eyes.
“I see,” said Desmond.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the Chief went on more seriously, “but I know
you have no people to consider except your brother and his wife. She’s
in America, and Francis can’t possibly hear about it. So you needn’t
worry on that score. Or do you?”
Desmond laughed.
“No-o-o!” he said slowly, “but I’m rather young to die. Is it
absolutely necessary for me to disappear?”
“Absolutely!” responded the Chief firmly.
“But how will we manage it?” asked Desmond.
“Catch the leave-boat to-night and don’t worry. You will receive your
instructions in due course.”
“But when shall I see you again?”
The Chief chuckled.
“Depends entirely on yourself, Okewood,” he retorted. “When you’re
through with your job, I expect. In the meantime, Miss Mackwayte will
act between us. On that point also you will be fully instructed. And
now I must fly!”
“But I say, sir,” Desmond interposed hastily. “You haven’t told me what
I am to do. What part am I to play in this business anyway?”
“To-morrow,” said the Chief, buttoning up his coat, “you become Mr.
Basil Bellward!”