‘Does it not occur to you, Monsieur V----, that there is in my Empire
a powerful family, the heads of which seem at one time to have
cherished the notion that the Hohenzollerns could not reign without
them, a family which aspired to play the same part in modern Germany
which was played by the Mayors of the Palace in the Empire of the
Merovingians?’
‘You allude, sire, without doubt, to the Bismarcks?’
‘My grandfather was forced into war with the French by a forged
telegram. There would be nothing surprising in an attempt from the
same quarter to force me into a war with England.’
I had no answer to make to such reasoning. Daring as such a manœuvre
might appear, it was absurd, in the face of historical facts, to
pronounce it improbable.
After a minute spent in considering the situation, I turned to the
question of how the fraud might have been carried out.
It was quite clear to me that such a message could not have gone
over the ordinary wires. The despatches of Emperors are not, as a
rule, handed in over the counter of a post-office, like a telegram
from a husband announcing that he is prevented from dining at home. I
asked the Kaiser to explain to me the system pursued with regard to
Imperial messages.
‘That is a matter about which you will be able to learn more from
the Chancellor than from me,’ was the answer. ‘Foreign despatches go
through the Chancellery, and there is a staff of telegraphists there
to deal with them. The wire goes direct to the Central Telegraph
Office, I believe, from which it would, of course, find its way to
the Cable Company.’
‘Then this fabrication must have been sent from the Chancellery in
the first instance?’ I inquired. ‘It could not have been received at
the Central Office from an outside source?’
‘Impossible. They would not dare to transmit a message in my name
which had not reached them through one of the authorised channels.’
This was the reply I had expected. But I did not fail to mark the
admission that there was more than one channel through which the
forgery might have come. I was quick to ask--
‘Is there not some other source from which this telegram may have
reached them besides the Chancellery? Your Majesty, no doubt, has a
private wire from the Palace.’
The Kaiser looked a little put out.
‘That is so, of course,’ he conceded. ‘But that wire is used only for
my personal messages, and those of the Imperial family.’
‘Still, a message received over this wire, and couched in your name,
would be accepted at the Central Office, would it not?’ I persisted.
‘Undoubtedly. But the Palace operator, a man who works under the
eye of my secretary, would not dare to play me such a trick, which,
he would be aware, must be detected immediately. Take my advice,
Monsieur V----, waste no time over side paths, but go direct to the
Chancellor, and commence your perquisitions among his staff.’
I bowed respectfully, as though accepting this plan of campaign. But,
as I withdrew from the Emperor’s cabinet, the doubt pressed more
strongly than ever upon my mind whether I was not being asked to play
a part. I half expected to find everything prepared for me at the
Chancellery, prearranged clues leading to the detection of a culprit
who would recite a confession which had been put into his mouth
beforehand.
I was perfectly willing to perform my part in the comedy in a manner
satisfactory to my employer, but all the same I meant to keep my eyes
open, and not to let myself be the victim of a deception intended for
English consumption.
In this mood I presented myself before the Chancellor. As soon as the
Imperial autograph introducing me had met his eye, his Excellency
threw aside, or pretended to throw aside, all reserve.
‘I am delighted to find the Emperor has placed this business in your
hands, Monsieur V----,’ he said obligingly. ‘Your reputation is well
known to me, and I am convinced that you will be perfectly discreet.
The Emperor is, of course, thoroughly taken aback by the results
of his unfortunate impulse, and wishes to relieve himself of the
responsibility he has incurred. In that I am quite willing to help
him, but not at my own expense, you understand.’
I murmured something about the Bismarcks. His Excellency gave a smile
of contempt.
‘All that is absurd,’ he rapped out. ‘The Emperor is quite foolish
about that family, which possesses no more influence to-day than any
Pomeranian squire. No, if his Majesty wants a victim he ought to be
content with one of his own staff. I refuse to allow the Imperial
Chancellery to be discredited in the eyes of Europe.’
This reception, so unlike what I had anticipated, made me begin
to think that my inquiry would have to be serious. After a little
further conversation with the Chancellor I decided to go to work
regularly, beginning by tracing the Imperial telegram back from the
Central Office.
The Chancellor readily furnished me with the necessary authority
to produce to the Director of the Telegraph Service, to whom I had
merely to explain that I had been instructed to verify the exact
wording of the now famous despatch.
It is unnecessary for me to detail my interview with this
functionary, whose share in the business was purely formal. Suffice
it that within a quarter of an hour after entering his office, I came
out with the all-important information that the congratulation to Mr.
Kruger had come direct from the Imperial Palace, over the Kaiser’s
private wire.
By this time it was clear to me that either Wilhelm II. was playing
a very complicated game indeed with me, or he really was the victim
of one of the most audacious coups in history. My interest in the
investigation was strongly roused, as I made my way to the Palace for
the second time that day, bent upon a meeting with the telegraphist
by whose agency, it now appeared, the war-making despatch had come
over the wires.
My recent audience in the Imperial cabinet had invested me with
authority in the eyes of the household, and I had no difficulty in
getting a footman to conduct me to the operator’s room, which was
situated at the far end of the corridor which I had previously
passed through on my way to the Kaiser.
The room being empty on my arrival, I dismissed the footman in search
of the operator, who, he informed me, would most probably be found
with the private secretary to the Emperor.
The moment I found myself alone I stepped up to the apparatus. I am
an expert telegraphist, and the machine speedily clicked off the
following despatch--
‘_To the German Ambassador, London.--See Lord Salisbury privately, at
once, and inform him British Government entirely deceived as to my
sentiments. Proofs will be sent to you shortly._--WILHELM, Kaiser.’
I had hardly taken my fingers off the instrument when the door opened
and the operator walked in.
Herr Zeiss--I heard this name at the Central Office--appeared to
me to be a simple-minded man, more likely to be the victim of a
conspiracy than himself a conspirator. I thought it my best plan to
assume an air of omniscience at the outset.
‘How is this, sir!’ I demanded with some sternness. ‘Do your
instructions permit you to leave this instrument unguarded for any
person who pleases to send his own messages over the Emperor’s
private wire?’
The telegraphist stared at me with a mixture of surprise and alarm.
‘I don’t know who has authorised you, Herr Inspector----’ he began,
when I cut him short.
‘Am I to go to his Majesty, and ask him if you have permission to
leave this room when you please, without taking any precautions
against the unauthorised use of the wire?’
Herr Zeiss quickly changed his tone.
‘That is not a thing of which I am ever guilty,’ he protested.
‘You have been guilty of it just now,’ I retorted.
‘I have not been away two minutes. No one could have taken advantage
of my absence.’
‘Nevertheless, advantage has been taken of your absence.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Ask the Central Office to repeat the message you have just sent
them, then.’
Casting a frightened look at me, the man complied. I have seldom seen
an expression of deeper astonishment and terror on a man’s face than
that which marked the unfortunate operator’s as my despatch came back
to him, word after word, ending with the Imperial signature.
‘My God!’ he cried out. ‘Who has done this? I shall be ruined!’
‘Whether you are ruined or not depends entirely on yourself,’ I
said sharply. ‘It is in my power to save you, but only upon one
condition.’
[Illustration: “‘My God!’ he cried out. ‘Who has done this? I shall
be ruined.’”]
Herr Zeiss turned on me a gaze of mute appeal.
‘You must tell me the exact truth,’ I proceeded, ‘and you must tell
me everything. How often have you left this room without taking
precautions against the misuse of the wire in your absence during the
last two days?’
Zeiss considered for a moment. Then his face brightened up.
‘Not once, I can assure you positively of that, Herr Inspector.’
This answer, given so confidently, came as a severe check to me. I
looked at the man sternly, as I responded, with assumed confidence--
‘And I am positive that you are mistaken. An unauthorised use _has_
been made of this wire, and I am determined to know by whom.’
The operator’s face fell once more. He appeared to me to be honestly
at a loss.
‘Come,’ I put in, ‘think again. Begin by recalling any occasions on
which you have been called away hurriedly, and have perhaps omitted
to lock the door.’
‘But there has been no such occasion. I swear to you that I have not
once left this room without taking ample precautions.’
I fancied I discerned a touch of hesitation, rather in the operator’s
tone than in his actual words.
‘Speak more plainly,’ I said. ‘What do you mean by precautions?’
‘Either the door was locked, or else----’ This time the hesitation
was palpable.
‘Or else what?’
‘It was left in the charge of a trustworthy person.’
‘And that trustworthy person, who was he?’ I found it hard to
suppress all signs of excitement as I put this question.
‘The gentleman who will shortly be my brother-in-law.’
‘Ah! Perhaps this gentleman is an employee in the same department as
yourself?’
‘Not at all,’ Zeiss protested earnestly. ‘He is a teacher in the
Military College. He knows nothing of telegraphy; in fact, he has
sometimes asked me questions on the subject which have convinced me
that he is quite a fool where electricity is concerned.’
‘Indeed! And the name of this foolish person, if you please?’
‘Herr Severinski.’
‘A Pole!’ I exclaimed.
‘No, a Russian. He was exiled to Siberia on account of his political
opinions, but escaped. He teaches Russian in the college.’
‘How did he come to be left in charge of this room?’
‘He called here the day before yesterday, in the evening, to speak
to me about his marriage with my sister. They have been engaged for
some time, you must know. While he was here I received a note from
my sister herself, pressing me to come and speak to her at once
outside the Palace. I went, leaving my brother-in-law to wait here
during my absence. My sister, I found, merely wished to urge me not
to object to any proposal made by her betrothed. On my return I found
Severinski yawning and apparently bored to death in my absence. I
asked him, and he assured me no one had come near the room while I
was away.’
I could scarcely resist smiling as the whole intrigue, so simple, and
yet so consummately successful, lay bared to my perception. My whole
anxiety now was to keep the worthy but stupid Zeiss ignorant of the
transaction in which he had been an unwitting accomplice.
I brought him away from the Palace with me, so as to leave him no
opportunity of warning Severinski, and we proceeded together to
the Russian’s quarters. I flatter myself that the professor of the
Military College was not a little disconcerted when he saw his dupe
followed into the room by an Inspector of the Berlin Police.
I explained my position in such a manner as to let Severinski see
that I knew everything, without enlightening the other man.
‘The day before yesterday Herr Zeiss left you alone in his room in
the Palace. You took the opportunity to send a telegram, the terms
of which are known to me, over the Emperor’s private wire. For this
offence you and he are liable to severe punishment. What I now have
to propose to you is to make a confession which will have the effect
of exonerating every one except yourself. If you do this, I think I
can promise you that you shall suffer no penalty beyond, of course,
the loss of your post in the Military College.’
Severinski gave me a glance of intelligence.
‘You do not require me to denounce anybody else?’ he inquired
significantly.
‘I do not require you to confess what is obvious to every one,’ I
returned with equal significance.
Poor Zeiss followed this exchange with an air of bewilderment. It
was evident that the discovery of the other’s guilt had caused a
shock to his confiding nature, and he was still trying to reconcile
the Russian’s prompt surrender to me with his previous stupidity on
questions of electrical science, when I summarily dismissed him from
further share in the interview.
As soon as we were by ourselves Severinski spoke out boldly enough.
‘I am quite willing to give you a statement that I sent the telegram.
But I am not going to tell you anything more. You must know that I
am an Anarchist.’