The place: The kerb in front of the Criterion at Piccadilly Circus. The
time: Five minutes past three on a broiling afternoon in July. As an
idle lounger, apparently absorbed in contemplation of the ceaseless tide
of human traffic that ebbed and flowed, I stood gazing along the famous
London thoroughfare. In truth, I was keenly alert to every movement
about me, for I had extremely important Secret Service work in hand.
I took out a cigarette, tapped it mechanically, and slowly lit it
preparatory to crossing the road to Shaftesbury Avenue, when suddenly,
from the procession of hurrying vehicles, a taxi detached itself and
drew up to where I stood. I caught a momentary glimpse of a woman's
eager face half shaded by a fashionable hat. The next moment I was
seated beside her, and we were bowling smoothly along Piccadilly.
"_Ah, mon cher Monsieur Gerry_!" exclaimed my pretty companion. "Well,
has anything serious occurred?" she asked breathlessly, with her
fascinating French accent.
"Listen, my dear madame, and I will explain," I replied. "Hecq has sent
me over from Paris in order to see you. I arrived only this morning,
and am returning this evening. Something very serious is on foot, and
Hecq wants you to get leave of your chief, and come over to help us."
And here perhaps I may introduce my companion a little more fully.
Gabrielle Soyez was a female agent of the British Secret Service, who
had distinguished herself in her profession times out of number, both
before and since the outbreak of war. Dark-haired and handsome, she
inherited from her French father that seemingly irresponsible and
irrepressible gaiety which so many of her countrywomen exhibit. From
her English mother, no doubt, she had acquired the sterner, almost
masculine, qualities which her femininity concealed but did not
suppress. A splendid linguist, speaking several European tongues to
perfection, she could, on occasion, pass as a native of some other
countries. And one of her most amazing feats had been a journey right
across Germany from Holland in wartime, in the character of a young
German fraulein travelling to take up a position as governess in East
Prussia. Added to her linguistic abilities, she possessed nerves of
steel and a quick, subtle brain, which saw the real significance of many
an almost unnoticeable incident. Nothing was too big or too small for
her attention.
I knew her well. I had worked with her in more than one affair of
international importance, and it was at my suggestion that Armand Hecq,
the astute chief of the French International Secret Service Bureau, had
applied for her to assist in the difficult task that lay before us.
"Something fresh this time?" queried the _chic_ little lady, as we drove
along. "And, pray, who has applied for me?"
"I have," was my reply. "A very difficult task is before me, involving
the risk of many lives, and you are the only woman I know in whom I can
place absolute trust."
"Except Doris, eh?" she flashed out, turning to me with a quizzical
smile. She was referring to Doris Rae, my well-beloved, who lived with
her mother in a quaint old timbered house buried deep in Worcestershire.
In the stress of my war-work I had seen her but seldom for the past two
years, for I was constantly on the move, but the bond between us was
none the less true and perfect. And I nodded to my companion, with a
laugh.
The time slipped by as I gave Madame Gabrielle her instructions.
"To-day is Tuesday," I said as we parted. "I shall expect you on Friday
in Paris at the Orleans station. The express for Bordeaux leaves at
eight twenty-seven. Watch for me, and enter another compartment of the
train without speaking. Somewhere on the journey I will contrive to
hand you your passport."
"But what is the nature of this inquiry, Monsieur Sant?" Madame
Gabrielle broke out.
"Well, to be frank," I replied, "the French Admiralty report that the
enemy has established a new secret submarine base off the Spanish coast.
We are out to find it, and, what is more, to carry out reprisals on the
pirates."
Madame, seeing a good chance of a desperate adventure, grinned with
satisfaction. "_Tres bien_," was her only comment.
So we parted, she to her hotel, I to wile away the few hours that
remained to me before the departure of my train from Victoria. I went
along to "White's," in St James's Street, for a cup of tea, and, after
buying some packets of Dutch cigarettes--which I purchased with a
purpose--looked in at my own flat in Curzon Street. The place seemed
close and musty nowadays. After a brief conversation with Doris over
the telephone, I started out to walk to the station. But I was not to
get away from London without a startling surprise.
I have never been able satisfactorily to account for the adventure which
befell me as I strolled through St James's Park on my way to Victoria.
Whether I was the subject of an attack by a mere footpad, or by some
tool of our enemies who knew of my work and mission, I cannot say. But
one of those strange premonitions, which come so frequently to men who,
like myself, carry their lives in their hands, as all spies do,
undoubtedly saved my life.
Since I left Madame Gabrielle the weather had changed. Heavy clouds had
rolled up, as if a storm were threatening, and it had grown very dark.
Having time to spare, I had intentionally made a detour from my direct
road, and I was in a lonely pathway when something, I know not what,
made me suddenly face round, with every nerve and muscle braced for
instant action.
I was only just in time. From the grass at the side of the pathway a
man leaped at me. In the gloom I caught sight of his upraised arm and
the flash of a knife.
It is hard to catch the practised student of jiu-jitsu unawares, and
that fascinating form of self-defence has been one of my special
hobbies. Like a flash I jumped in to meet the charge of my assailant.
Before his knife could descend my right arm was crooked into his and I
had his wrist in the grip of my left hand. Flinging my whole weight
forward, I wrenched his right arm savagely backward and downward. With
a half-stifled scream of pain the man toppled over backward, his head
striking the ground with a crash that left him senseless.
Here was a pretty coil! I dared not wait to give the man into custody,
for that would have meant police inquiries and endless publicity, to say
nothing of missing my train and a fatal delay to my important mission.
And just now I could not afford publicity. So I decided to leave him
alone, to take his chance and make his own explanation, if necessary.
Picking up his knife, I thrust it deeply into a flower-bed, and,
stamping it well down with my heel, hurried on to the station, and was
soon on my way to France. Who and what my assailant was I never heard.
But I pondered over the incident a good deal on my journey, for it may
have meant that my mission was already known. Still, this was unlikely,
so I merely decided to keep an extra sharp look-out.
On Friday, at the hour I had appointed with Madame Gabrielle, I passed
the barrier and walked along the platform of the Orleans station in
Paris, where in the summer twilight the express, with its powerful,
constantly exploding locomotive, stood ready for the long run across
France to the Spanish frontier. I bought a copy of _Le Soir_ at the
bookstall, and while doing so my eye fell on a rather shabbily-dressed,
insignificant-looking little man who apparently was lounging absently
about.
Every "natural" spy, if I may use the term--and I think I am one of
them--possesses a large measure of that intuition which is somewhat akin
to a woman's power of frequently jumping to a perfectly correct
conclusion without the trouble of logically working a problem out. The
things which matter in our calling are often seemingly the most trivial.
There was nothing about this shabby little stranger to call particular
attention to him, yet from the moment I saw him I felt instinctively
that in some way my lot and his were bound up together. And, try as I
would, I was unable to shake off that feeling.
How far I was correct the sequel will show.
As I entered the train I saw Madame Gabrielle, carrying her dressing-bag
and followed by a porter with her hand luggage, pass the window of my
compartment and enter a first-class carriage nearer the front of the
train. Her eyes met mine as she passed, but she gave no sign of
recognition. Of the little shabby man I saw nothing, though I kept a
sharp look-out, and I concluded at last that he had left the platform.
All through that night the train roared onward by way of Orleans and
Tours down to Bordeaux. I slept, as I usually do, but dreamed in a
manner quite unusual with me. Throughout the night my sleeping thoughts
were harassed by that shabby little man who had, I seemed to feel no
doubt, witnessed my departure with a perfectly definite object.
Perhaps I may be permitted to say here a few words about myself.
I am a cosmopolitan, the subject of no country, though through my
parents my sympathies are more English than anything else. British when
in England, I am a Frenchman in France, an Italian in Italy; I can be a
German in Germany, or a Spaniard in Spain. The explanation is, of
course, that I have led a wandering life, being of almost every
nationality by turn and nothing for long. My adventures have been
facilitated by the fact that I happen to have known several languages
from my earliest childhood. Whoever is born in Smyrna, as I was, has
truly a ready-made profession in the matter of languages. At ten years
old most lads in Smyrna can speak four or five tongues, and, in
addition, I developed early a peculiar gift for languages, and an
insatiable desire to speak as many as possible. Thus, all the principal
European languages became equally familiar to me, and I speak them all
almost as well as if each were my mother tongue.
It was to this gift of languages that I owed my entrance to the ranks of
the French Secret Service. When still quite a boy I found myself,
through a peculiar chain of circumstances, a homeless outcast in Paris.
I had been tramping the boulevards, and, tired and hungry, had sat down
with my back resting against a big tree. I was half asleep when I was
roused by two men talking in a queer Dutch patois which I happened to
understand. I suppose they thought they were alone, or, at any rate,
that no one who might overhear them would be likely to understand their
lingo. They were laying their plans for a daring raid on the house of a
famous Paris banker. Boy as I was, the situation fascinated me, and as
night drew on I shadowed the men and was the means of bringing about
their capture under dramatic circumstances. They proved to be a
much-wanted pair of international crooks. The affair brought me some
credit with the French police, and in the end, finding out the value of
my linguistic achievements, they began to employ me on small
undertakings. I did well, was gradually entrusted with more important
work, and was finally given regular employment. Such was my
introduction to the world of espionage.
But to return to my story. At six o'clock on Saturday morning we drew
into the great Bastide station at Bordeaux, where the train had half an
hour's wait. I alighted with all the other dishevelled passengers, to
scramble to the buffet for our _cafe an lait_ and _brioche_. In the
scramble I pushed past Madame Gabrielle, who looked somewhat untidy
after an obviously sleepless night, and as I did so I slid into her hand
a little parcel screwed up in brown paper. In it was a note containing
certain instructions, together with her passport, bearing her photograph
in the name of Gabrielle Tavernier, described as "variety artiste." So
perfectly self-possessed was she that, although she had not seen me--I
had pushed up behind her--she never even turned her head as the note
slipped into her hand. It was this self-control which made her an
invaluable helper; nothing ever seemed to take her by surprise, or to
betray her into a hasty word or action.
I had just taken my first sip of coffee, when, glancing across the big
restaurant, I caught sight, among the crowd of third-class passengers
who were thirstily quaffing their bowls, of that same shabby little man
whose presence on the platform in Paris had given me such an unpleasant
shock. Evidently he had managed to elude my observation, and had joined
the train without my seeing him.
I had been beaten at my own game! I had thought I had shaken him off,
and his presence was an intensely disagreeable surprise.
There was, of course, no very obvious reason why he should not be a
perfectly harmless fellow-traveller, but I was absolutely convinced in
my own mind that his presence here in Bordeaux was in some way connected
with my mission, and that it boded me no good.
Slipping from the station, I hurried across to the Place du Pont, where
I knew there was a public telephone. I knew, of course, the password
which "cleared the lines" for official messages, and in less than ten
minutes I was in communication with Armand Hecq, at his house at St
Germain, outside Paris. To him I briefly explained how matters stood.
"I quite understand, Sant," he said. "Leave matters to me and continue
your journey. _Bon voyage_! I shall read the _Matin_ every day."
Then I rang off and hurried back to the station, just in time to catch
the train as it drew out for the "Cote d'Argent," "the Silver Coast," as
the French call that beautiful Biscayan seashore between the estuary of
the Gironde and the golden sands of Spain.
Through the miles of flat pine woods of that lovely marsh country called
the Landes, where the shepherds stride on their high stilts and watch
the trains go by, we sped ever south, by way of the ancient town of Dax
and on to sun-blanched Bayonne.
Now we were rapidly approaching the Spanish frontier, and I wondered
what was transpiring between Hecq, in Paris, and the officials at
Hendaye, the last French station, where the agents of police were
stationed to prevent German spies from entering France by that
particular back door.
I was soon to learn that Hecq had not been idle. Late in the afternoon
the train pulled up at Hendaye, and, as it seemed to me, had hardly
halted at the platform when I caught sight of my shabby little man being
escorted from the station in the relentless grip of a couple of stalwart
French gendarmes. Evidently Hecq was taking no chances, and I breathed
a sigh of relief at the removal of my incubus. It turned out later that
the shabby little man was a clever German spy, and, of course, he paid
the invariable penalty.
Very soon the train moved across the long bridge over the river to Irun,
and beyond. Thus we arrived at length at San Sebastian, the Brighton of
Spain, at that moment in the full height of the sea-bathing season, and
crowded with a motley assembly of Europeans of all nationalities, with,
of course, a liberal sprinkling of desperate adventurers ever on the
look-out for any crooked undertaking that promised plunder and profit.
Our plan, of course, was to avoid the slightest appearance of hurry.
Anything in the shape of undue eagerness and haste might well mean
arousing the suspicions of the Spanish authorities, who, being neutral,
might very easily arrest us both (especially if I were recognised, as
was always possible) as secret agents of the Allies. I entered an open
cab and drove to the old Hotel Ezcurra, where in past days I had eaten
many a meal and drunk many a bottle of choice wine. Madame Gabrielle,
in accordance with our arrangements, had gone to the Hotel Continental
in the Paseo de la Concha, the establishment most patronised by the gay
society of Madrid, who loved to show off their Paris gowns and to
exhibit, too often in the most plebeian fashion, the wealth which had
come to them as a result of the war.
For three days I remained at the Ezcurra, so pleasantly situated behind
the lovely lime-trees in the Paseo de la Zurriola, and to which the
smart, chattering officers of the unwarlike garrison, in their grey
uniforms and peaked caps, resorted every evening. I had previously
decided upon the character I would assume; it was that of a Dutch
theological student. I gave out that I spoke no Spanish--of course I
spoke Dutch--and pretended a vast interest in visiting the ancient
churches--San Vincente in the old town, Santa Maria at the ascent of the
Mont Urgull, and the beautiful old churches of Hernani and Azpeitia, as
well as the prehistoric rock caves of Landarbaso. All the time, of
course, I was keenly on the alert, my ears ready for any scrap of
information that might chance to come my way.
One day I had been visiting the little village of Azcoitia, the
birthplace of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits. At a pleasant old
_fonda_ close by I had dropped in for a dish of _olla_, that kind of
stew so dear to the Spanish palate, when, at a table near by, I noticed
two middle-aged men who quite obviously were not Spaniards. Apparently
they were Italian, for they spoke that language, and their clothes had
obviously been made by an Italian tailor. But I noticed instantly a
fact which at once aroused my suspicion--the boots they wore were of
German manufacture!
Men's nationality and habits are often betrayed by their footwear, and
my observations on the boots and shoes of people of both sexes have
seldom led me wrong. Indeed, I always pay the closest attention to
clothes, for nothing will so completely "give away" an assumption of a
pretended nationality so promptly as an error in dress. Every scrap of
clothing I was wearing had been bought in Holland, and I was sure of my
disguise. My suit I had purchased of Buijze, in the Kalverstraat in
Amsterdam. The pseudo-Italians, carefully got up as they were for the
part they were playing, had forgotten one important item, and I had
little difficulty in coming to the conclusion that they were really
Germans. I decided to keep a sharp watch on them. The question was:
were they watching me?
I dawdled over coffee and cigarettes till they rose to leave, when I
paid my bill with the intention of tracking them back to San Sebastian.
Unfortunately I was baulked immediately. Fond of exercise, I had walked
out to Azcoitia; the two strangers had driven, and I had the
mortification of seeing their carriage start for the city. It was
useless to attempt to follow; they were out of sight long before I could
have hoped to get the slow-moving Spaniards to provide me with a
carriage. There was nothing for it but to return as I had come, and
keep a sharp eye open for the mysterious strangers. It was evident
that, if they really knew me, they must have satisfied themselves that
for the present, at any rate, I was actually idling, and that there was
"nothing doing."
Returning to the Ezcurra, I wrote out an advertisement which I sent to a
certain address in Paris. I knew that it would appear immediately in
the "personal" column of the _Matin_. It was in French, but the English
translation read: "Isis.--Mother has fortunately passed crisis, and
going on well.--Felox."
This advertisement, I knew, would appear both in London and Rome, as
well as in Paris. To the uninformed it would appear innocent enough,
but certain persons in the Allied capitals knew that "Felox" was myself,
and, reading the announcement, would be reassured as to the progress of
my secret mission.
Next day I spent idling about the beautiful blue bay of La Concha,
taking my evening _aperitif_ at the Casino, and after dinner I spoke to
Madame Gabrielle over the telephone. I told her, of course, about the
two mysterious strangers, giving her as full a description as possible
of their appearance, and urging her to keep the keenest watch for them.
When I returned to the palm-lounge, a page-boy brought me a telegram
addressed to van Hekker, the name by which I was known at the hotel.
Opening it, I found that it had been sent from London. It was a cryptic
message which read:
"_Fontan remains here. Goods marked C.X.B. arrived fourteenth,
twenty-three cases. Awaiting samples second quality_."
Without giving the least sign that the telegram was of any special
interest, I read it through and carelessly slipped it into my pocket.
But the news it contained was startling. It put an entirely fresh
complexion on affairs, and it meant that I must act without delay.
Unless within twenty-four hours or so I secured a triumph, my mission
would be unsuccessful, and in all probability some two thousand human
lives would pay the price of my failure.
It was absolutely essential that I should discover without delay the
identity of "Fontan," for there lay the crux of my difficulty. With
that knowledge in my possession I should have more than a chance of
success; without it I was merely a blind man groping in the dark.