“Ha!” I said, “that is my secret, my friend. _Verbum sapientius! Che
sara sara! Yodel doodle doo!_”
My acquaintance fell in a dead faint upon the street. I watched them
take him away in an ambulance. Will the reader be surprised to learn
that among the white-coated attendants who removed him I recognized no
less a person than the famous Russian Spy, Poulispantzoff. What he was
doing there I could not tell. No doubt his orders came from so high up
that he himself did not know. I had seen him only twice before--once
when we were both disguised as Zulus at Buluwayo, and once in the
interior of China, at the time when Poulispantzoff made his secret entry
into Thibet concealed in a tea-case. He was inside the tea-case when I
saw him; so at least I was informed by the coolies who carried it. Yet
I recognized him instantly. Neither he nor I, however, gave any sign of
recognition other than an imperceptible movement of the outer eyelid.
(We Spies learn to move the outer lid of the eye so imperceptibly that
it cannot be seen.) Yet after meeting Poulispantzoff in this way I was
not surprised to read in the evening papers a few hours afterward
that the uncle of the young King of Siam had been assassinated. The
connection between these two events I am unfortunately not at liberty to
explain; the consequences to the Vatican would be too serious. I doubt
if it could remain top-side up.
These, however, are but passing incidents in a life filled with danger
and excitement. They would have remained unrecorded and unrevealed, like
the rest of my revelations, were it not that certain recent events have
to some extent removed the seal of secrecy from my lips. The death of
a certain royal sovereign makes it possible for me to divulge things
hitherto undivulgeable. Even now I can only tell a part, a small part,
of the terrific things that I know. When more sovereigns die I can
divulge more. I hope to keep on divulging at intervals for years. But I
am compelled to be cautious. My relations with the Wilhelmstrasse, with
Downing Street and the Quai d’Orsay, are so intimate, and my footing
with the Yildiz Kiosk and the Waldorf-Astoria and Childs’ Restaurants
are so delicate, that a single _faux pas_ might prove to be a false
step.
It is now seventeen years since I entered the Secret Service of the G.
empire. During this time my activities have taken me into every quarter
of the globe, at times even into every eighth or sixteenth of it.
It was I who first brought back word to the Imperial Chancellor of
the existence of an Entente between England and France. “Is there an
Entente?” he asked me, trembling with excitement, on my arrival at the
Wilhelmstrasse. “Your Excellency,” I said, “there is.” He groaned. “Can
you stop it?” he asked. “Don’t ask me,” I said sadly. “Where must we
strike?” demanded the Chancellor. “Fetch me a map,” I said. They did
so. I placed my finger on the map. “Quick, quick,” said the Chancellor,
“look where his finger is.” They lifted it up. “Morocco!” they cried. I
had meant it for Abyssinia but it was too late to change. That night the
warship Panther sailed under sealed orders. The rest is history, or at
least history and geography.
In the same way it was I who brought word to the Wilhelmstrasse of the
_rapprochement_ between England and Russia in Persia. “What did you
find?” asked the Chancellor as I laid aside the Russian disguise in
which I had travelled. “A _Rapprochement!_” I said. He groaned. “They
seem to get all the best words,” he said.
I shall always feel, to my regret; that I am personally responsible for
the outbreak of the present war. It may have had ulterior causes. But
there is no doubt that it was precipitated by the fact that, for the
first time in seventeen years, I took a six weeks’ vacation in June and
July of 1914. The consequences of this careless step I ought to have
foreseen. Yet I took such precautions as I could. “Do you think,” I
asked, “that you can preserve the _status quo_ for six weeks, merely six
weeks, if I stop spying and take a rest?” “We’ll try,” they answered.
“Remember,” I said, as I packed my things, “keep the Dardanelles closed;
have the Sandjak of Novi Bazaar properly patrolled, and let the Dobrudja
remain under a _modus vivendi_ till I come back.”
Two months later, while sitting sipping my coffee at a Kurhof in the
Schwarzwald, I read in the newspapers that a German army had invaded
France and was fighting the French, and that the English expeditionary
force had crossed the Channel. “This,” I said to myself, “means war.” As
usual, I was right.
It is needless for me to recount here the life of busy activity that
falls to a Spy in wartime. It was necessary for me to be here, there
and everywhere, visiting all the best hotels, watering-places, summer
resorts, theatres, and places of amusement. It was necessary, moreover,
to act with the utmost caution and to assume an air of careless
indolence in order to lull suspicion asleep. With this end in view I
made a practice of never rising till ten in the morning. I breakfasted
with great leisure, and contented myself with passing the morning in a
quiet stroll, taking care, however, to keep my ears open. After lunch I
generally feigned a light sleep, keeping my ears shut. A _table d’hote_
dinner, followed by a visit to the theatre, brought the strenuous day to
a close. Few Spies, I venture to say, worked harder than I did.
It was during the third year of the war that I received a peremptory
summons from the head of the Imperial Secret Service at Berlin, Baron
Fisch von Gestern. “I want to see you,” it read. Nothing more. In the
life of a Spy one learns to think quickly, and to think is to act. I
gathered as soon as I received the despatch that for some reason or
other Fisch von Gestern was anxious to see me, having, as I instantly
inferred, something to say to me. This conjecture proved correct.
The Baron rose at my entrance with military correctness and shook hands.
“Are you willing,” he inquired, “to undertake a mission to America?”
“I am,” I answered.
“Very good. How soon can you start?”
“As soon as I have paid the few bills that I owe in Berlin,” I replied.
“We can hardly wait for that,” said my chief, “and in case it might
excite comment. You must start to-night!”
“Very good,” I said.
“Such,” said the Baron, “are the Kaiser’s orders. Here is an American
passport and a photograph that will answer the purpose. The likeness is
not great, but it is sufficient.”
“But,” I objected, abashed for a moment, “this photograph is of a man
with whiskers and I am, unfortunately, clean-shaven.”
“The orders are imperative,” said Gestern, with official hauteur. “You
must start to-night. You can grow whiskers this afternoon.”
“Very good,” I replied.
“And now to the business of your mission,” continued the Baron.
“The United States, as you have perhaps heard, is making war against
Germany.”
“I have heard so,” I replied.
“Yes,” continued Gestern. “The fact has leaked out--how, we do not
know--and is being widely reported. His Imperial Majesty has decided to
stop the war with the United States.”