"A SECOND KOPENICK HOAX"
SNOW was descending in large flakes upon the southern slopes of the
rugged Riesen Gebirge, the lofty range of mountains forming part of
the national and political boundary between the German Empire and
its vassal state--the dual monarchy of Austro-Hungary. At three
kilometres beyond the diagonally striped post marking the limits of
Saxony a thin-faced, emaciated man, clad in garments little better
than a collection of rags, was sheltering on the lee-side of a gaunt
pine tree. From his features one would guess his age at anything
between thirty to thirty-five, although his actual years were short
of twenty. Privation, lack of sufficient nourishment, and hardships
untold had prematurely aged him, yet there was a certain
self-confidence in his bearing that refused to be smothered by
adversity.
After stepping from under the trailing branches and glancing
dubiously at the dark, snow-laden clouds, the wayfarer returned to
his place of shelter, drew a small piece of black bread from his
pocket and began to munch it ravenously.
"The Lord only knows where the next meal is coming from," he
soliloquised--not flippantly, but with a sense of deep and reverent
feeling. Although he had spoken nothing but German for the last
sixteen days--and he spoke it with an accent that defied
criticism--he thought in his mother-tongue, which was English.
For longer than he cared to think he had been a prisoner of war, one
of those luckless civilians who on the outbreak of the Great War
found themselves trapped within the limits of the German Empire; and
up to a little more than a fortnight ago he had eked out a dismal
and precarious existence in the vast detention camp at Ruhleben.
And now he was tasting of the sweets of freedom. He could walk, eat,
and sleep without being under the constant surveillance of German
guards. He had to walk stealthily; eating was reduced to a fine
art--that of making a little of doubtful nutritious powers go a long
way; sleeping consisted of dozing fitfully--often in the open and
occasionally in the welcome shelter of a more than half-empty barn.
But these discomforts were as naught compared with the drab monotony
and depressing surroundings of Ruhleben. He bore them with an
equanimity bordering upon exuberance, counting present vicissitudes
as stepping stones towards his ultimate goal--his homeland.
The fugitive was a man of considerable reasoning powers. Arguing
that his late captors would naturally conclude that he was making
westward towards far-distant neutral Holland, he had decided to go
south, risking the lesser danger of a journey through Austria, and
seize a favourable opportunity of passing through the comparatively
weak cordon between the Tyrol and the north of Italian Lombardy. The
possibilities of escaping into Switzerland had entered into his
calculations, only to be set aside. Bavaria offered too formidable a
stumbling-block. There were ways and means on the Italian frontier,
and he meant to try them.
The wayfarer's thoughts were rudely interrupted by the pulsations of
a motor that was rapidly approaching from the direction he had just
come.
"A Mercèdes, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "What brings a car along this
unfrequented pass, when there are two at least, infinitely better
engineered, within an hour's run? Hope to goodness I haven't been
tracked."
Thankfully he noticed that his footprints had already been
obliterated by the fast-falling snow. Then, throwing himself at full
length behind a dead thorn bush, every branch of which was outlined
with dazzling white powdery snow, he awaited the appearance of the
approaching car.
He was not long kept in suspense. Swaying and lurching the huge
Mercèdes swung into sight round a projecting spur of rock. With the
bonnet, wind-screen, and dash-boards hidden by the accumulation of
snow, and throwing showers of glistening flakes from the wheels, the
car presented a picturesque spectacle one moment. At another it was
a tangle of wreckage.
The catastrophe happened when the vehicle was abreast the solitary
pine tree where the fugitive had been sheltering. There was a loud
report as one of the tyres burst. The wheels skidding the car slewed
sideways and toppled over the edge of the road upon a partly
snow-covered rock fifty feet below.
Unhesitatingly the Englishman left his place of concealment and made
his way over the slippery track formed by the skidding wheels, until
he was able to look over the unguarded side of the road upon the
wrecked car.
It was lying on its side, the fore part shattered almost beyond
recognition, but the relatively frail coupé had come off
comparatively lightly. The top was torn away and the glass windows
smashed to fragments, but through the open roof the fugitive could
see that the interior was almost intact, and that huddled on the
floor was the figure of a man wearing a German officer's field
overcoat.
Very deliberately and cautiously the Englishman descended the
sloping cliff. It would have been an easy task but for the snow that
lay thickly on the numerous ledges and had drifted into a deep bed,
in which the car was partly buried.
Forgetting everything else in his eagerness to render aid, the
fugitive plunged knee-deep through the drift and gained the
overturned car. The door had jammed. With all the strength at his
command he was unable to wrench it open. Clambering up the side of
the coupé he dropped through the huge gap in the roof.
A brief examination of the body of the occupant was enough. The man
was dead, although there were no signs of external injury.
"I can't help him," soliloquised the Englishman. "But he might be
able to help me. I'll consider that part later. Meanwhile, what has
happened to the chauffeur?"
Standing on the heavily cushioned seat he drew himself through the
hole in the roof, and sliding down to the snowdrift proceeded to
scramble over the thinly covered ledge of rock that alone had
prevented the overturned car from crashing full four hundred feet
into the valley beneath.
There were ghastly evidences of the fate that had overtaken the
driver of the wrecked car. The force of the impact had hurled him
bodily through the wind-screen and over the bonnet. Striking
the projecting rocks he had glissaded into the abyss. A grey patch,
already nearly obliterated by the falling flakes, was all that was
visible of the soldier-driver of the demolished Mercèdes.
Returning to the car the Englishman thoughtfully contemplated the
body of the dead officer. Then he scanned the edge of the road
above, to make as certain as possible that no one was in sight.
Satisfied on that point he contrived by dint of great exertion to
drag the defunct German from the car and place him on the snowdrift.
"Very much my build. A bit fatter, though," he soliloquised grimly.
"I'll risk it, though it would have been better if I could have
appropriated the chauffeur fellow's uniform."
Rapidly he proceeded with his uncongenial task. Time was when he
would have recoiled in horror at the mere suggestion, but the prize
at stake was more than sufficient to overcome his natural qualms.
Ten minutes later the fugitive was dressed in the uniform of a
German Staff officer, while the body was laid in a shallow trench in
the snowdrift.
"If this fall continues," said the Englishman to himself, "the
wreckage will be completely covered in a couple of hours. Even now I
doubt whether it would be noticed by any one proceeding along the
pass. It will be weeks, perhaps months, before the snow disappears."
Returning to the interior of the damaged coupé the rehabitated
fugitive found that the bulk of the dead officer's baggage had been
flung from the roof and was for the present irrecoverably lost.
Inside, however, was a portmanteau, while on the seat was a luncheon
basket well stocked with choice eatables of a nature that had long
been denied to all but the higher military caste of the German
Empire.
In the fairly warm temperature of the coupé the Englishman rested
comfortably, making a hearty meal, and washing it down with a glass
of Rhenish wine. Then, lighting a cigar, he leisurely scanned the
papers from the breast pocket of the officer's coat.
"By smoke!" he ejaculated, slapping his knee. "This is
great--absolutely. I find that I am now Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld,
Major of the 19th Reserve Hanoverian Regiment, engaged on special
service in the Austrian Empire. Ah, here we are: private and
confidential memorandum outlining my important duties--signed by the
Kaiser's Head of the General Staff, too."
The instructions were to the effect that Baron von Stopelfeld was to
make a tour of inspection of various military prison camps in the
Austrian Empire, with a view of arranging for the transfer of a
certain number of Serbian and Italian prisoners of war to Germany,
to take the places of those Russian captives who, in view of the
Muscovite surrender, were to be repatriated.
At the foot of the typewritten text was a paragraph in ordinary
writing, reminding the delegate that he must also pay particular
attention to the important matter mentioned in his recent interview
with the Chief of General Staff; and, unless any news of vital
interest rendered it expedient, the Baron was not to communicate
either by letter or wire before the 19th.
"And to-day's the 12th," soliloquised the pseudo von Stopelfeld.
"That gives me six clear days. Hullo, what's this?"
He stopped and picked up a telegraph form--crumpled, and with one
corner burnt. It looked as if the Baron were in the act of
destroying it when he was hurled to his death.
"Cipher, worse luck," muttered the Englishman. "Received at 9 a.m.
on the 12th. Handed in at Berlin, delivered at Hirschberg; that's
almost the nearest town across the frontier."
Further search revealed a complete set of maps, a road guide, and
book containing the code. Upon the sudden crash the latter had
fallen from the German major's hands and had slipped between the
cushions.
Decoded the message ran:
"Above all things observe carefully any indications of disaffection
in the ranks of our Allies, especially the Hungarian regiments. Do
not commit your discoveries to writing. In particular make the
acquaintance of Major Karl Hoffer, the commandant of the Ostrovornik
mines disciplinary camp. On production of your credentials he will
give you the latest formula for the manufacture of----"
The instructions ended in a word that did not appear in the code
book, which was the only fly in the ointment that the Englishman had
found.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Why not? I'll risk it. After all's said
and done a thundering lot of downright cool cheek often pays when
you're in a tight corner. It would be a rattling good joke to be
taken in an Austrian train to a convenient station near the
frontier. Yes, dash it all! I'll try a second Kopenick hoax."