THE PERIL OF LONDON
Certain information obtained by Ray led us to adopt a novel method of
trapping one of the Kaiser's secret agents.
About six months after my curious motoring adventure in Essex I sent to
the _Berliner Tageblatt_, in Berlin, an advertisement, offering myself
as English valet to any German gentleman coming to England, declaring
that I had excellent references, and that I, Henry Dickson, had been in
service with several English noblemen.
The replies forwarded to me caused us considerable excitement. Vera was
with us at New Stone Buildings when the postman brought the bulky
packet, and we at once proceeded to read them one by one.
"Holloa!" she cried, holding up one of the letters. "Here you are, Mr.
Jacox! The Baron Heinrich von Ehrenburg has replied!"
Eagerly we read the formal letter from the German aristocrat, dated from
the Leipziger Strasse, Berlin, stating that, being about to take up his
residence in London, he was in want of a good and reliable English
servant. He would be at the Ritz Hotel in four days' time, and he made
an appointment for me to call.
"Good!" cried Ray. "You must ask very little wages. Germans are a stingy
lot. The Baron has been acting as a secret agent of the Kaiser in Paris,
but had to fly on account of the recent Ullmo affair at Toulon. He's a
very clever spy--about as clever, indeed, as Hartmann himself. Why he is
coming to England is not quite clear. But we must find out."
For the next four days I waited in great anxiety, and when, at the
appointed hour, I presented myself at the "Ritz" and was shown into the
private salon, the middle-aged, fair-haired, rather elegant man eyed me
up and down swiftly as I stood before him with great deference.
I was about to play a dangerous game.
After a number of questions, and an examination of my credentials, all
of which, I may as well admit, had been prepared by Ray and Vera, he
engaged me, and that same evening I entered upon my duties, greatly to
the satisfaction of Vera and her lover.
Fortunately I was not known at the "Ritz," and was therefore able for
the first week or so to do my valeting, brushing my master's clothes,
polishing his boots, getting out his dress-suit, and other such duties,
undisturbed, my eyes, however, always open to get a glimpse of any
papers that might be left in the pockets or elsewhere.
Twice he drove to Pont Street and dined with Hartmann. The pair were in
frequent consultation, it seemed, for one afternoon the chief of the
German spies in England called, and was closeted closely with my master
for fully two hours.
I stood outside the door, but unfortunately the doors of the "Ritz" are
so constructed that nothing can be heard in the corridors. All I knew
was that, on being called in to give a message over the telephone, I saw
lying on the table between them several English six-inch ordnance maps.
No master could have been more generous than the Baron. He was tall,
rather dandified, and seemed a great favourite with the ladies. Hartmann
had introduced him to certain well-known members of the German colony in
London, and he passed as the possessor of a big estate near Cochem, on
the Moselle. He told me one day while I was brushing his coat that he
preferred life in England to Germany. He, however, made no mention of
his residence in France and how he had ingeniously induced a French
naval officer to become a traitor.
From the "Ritz" we, later on, removed into expensive quarters at
"Claridge's," and here my master received frequent visits from a shabby,
thin-faced, shrivelled-up old foreigner, whom I took to be a Dutchman,
his name being Mr. Van Nierop.
Whenever he called the Baron and he held close consultation, sometimes
for hours. We travelled to Eastbourne, Bournemouth, Birmingham,
Edinburgh, Glasgow, and other cities, yet ever and anon the shabby old
Dutchman seemed to turn up at odd times and places, as though springing
from nowhere.
When absent from London, the Baron frequently sent telegraphic messages
in cipher to a registered address in London. Were these, I wondered,
intended for Hartmann or for the mysterious Van Nierop?
The old fellow seemed to haunt us everywhere, dogging our footsteps
continually, and appearing in all sorts of out-of-the-way places with
his long, greasy overcoat, shabby hat, and shuffling gait, by which many
mistook him for a Hebrew.
And the more closely I watched my aristocratic master, the more
convinced I became that Van Nierop and he were acting in collusion. But
of what was in progress I could obtain no inkling.
Frequently we moved quickly from one place to another, as though my
master feared pursuit, then we went suddenly to Aix, Vichy, and
Carlsbad, and remained away for some weeks. Early in the autumn we were
back again at a suite of well-furnished chambers in Clarges Street, off
Piccadilly.
"I expect, Dickson, that we shall be in London some months," the Baron
had said to me on the second morning after we had installed ourselves
with our luggage. The place belonged to a wealthy young peer of racing
proclivities, and was replete with every comfort. All had been left just
as it was, even to an open box of cigars. His lordship had gone on a
trip round the world.
On the third day--a very wet and dismal one, I recollect--the old
Dutchman arrived. The Baron was out, therefore he waited--waited in
patience for six long hours for his return. When my master re-entered,
the pair sat together for half an hour. Then suddenly the Baron shouted
to me, "Dickson! Pack my suit-case and biggest kit-bag at once. Put in
both dress-coat and dinner-jacket. And I shan't want you. You'll stay
here and mind the place."
"Yes, sir," I replied, and began briskly to execute his orders.
When the shabby old fellow had gone, the Baron called me into the
sitting-room and gave me two cipher telegrams, one written on the yellow
form used for foreign messages. The first, which he had numbered "1" in
blue pencil, was addressed "Zaza, Berlin," and the second was to
"Tejada, Post Office, Manchester."
"These, Dickson, I shall leave with you, for I may want them despatched.
Send them the instant you receive word from me. I will tell you which to
send. It's half-past eight. I leave Charing Cross at nine, but cannot
give you any fixed address. Here's money to get along with. Wait here
until my return."
I was sorely disappointed. I knew that he was a spy and was in England
for some fixed purpose. But what it was I could not discover.
"And," he added, as though it were an afterthought, "if any one should
by chance inquire about Mr. Van Nierop--whether you know him, or if he
has been here--remember that you know nothing--nothing. You understand?"
"Very well, sir," was my response.
Five minutes later, refusing to allow me to accompany him to the
station, he drove away into Piccadilly with his luggage upon a hansom,
and thus was I left alone for an indefinite period.
That evening I went round to Bruton Street, where I saw Ray, and
described what had occurred.
He sat staring into the fire in silence for some time.
"Well," he answered at last, "if what I surmise be true, Jack, the Baron
ought to be back here in about a week. Continue to keep both eyes and
ears open. There's a deep game being played, I am certain. He's with
Hartmann very often. Recollect what I told you about the clever manner
in which the Baron conducted the affair at Toulon. He would have been
entirely successful hadn't a woman given Ullmo away. See me as little as
you can. You never know who may be watching you during the Baron's
absence."
On the next evening I went out for a stroll towards Piccadilly Circus
and accidentally met a man I knew, a German named Karl Stieber, a man of
about thirty, who was valet to a young gentleman who lived in the flat
beneath us.
Together we descended to that noisy cafe beneath the Hotel de l'Europe
in Leicester Square, where we met four other friends of Karl's, servants
like himself.
As we sat together, he told me that his brother was head-waiter at a
little French restaurant in Dean Street, Soho, called "La Belle
Nicoise," a place where one could obtain real Provencal dishes. Then, I
on my part, told him of my own position and my travels with the Baron.
When we ascended into Leicester Square again we found the pavements
congested, for Daly's, the Empire, and the Alhambra had just disgorged
their throngs.
As he walked with me he turned, and suddenly asked:
"Since you've been in London has old Van Nierop visited the Baron?"
I started in quick surprise, but in an instant recollected my master's
injunctions.
"Van Nierop!" I echoed. "Whom do you mean?"
But he only laughed knowingly, exclaiming:
"All right. You'll deny all knowledge of him, of course. But, my dear
Dickson, take the advice of one who knows, and be ever watchful. Take
care of your own self. Good night!"
And my friend, who seemed to possess some secret knowledge, vanished in
the crowd.
Once or twice he ascended and called upon me, and we sometimes used to
spend our evenings together in that illicit little gaming-room behind a
shop in Old Compton Street, a place much frequented by foreign servants.
I noticed, however, though he was very inquisitive regarding the Baron
and his movements, he would never give me any reason. He sometimes
warned me mysteriously that I was in danger. But to me his words
appeared absurd.
One evening, in the third week of December, he and I were in the Baron's
room chatting, when a ring came at the door, and I found the Baron
himself, looking very tired and fagged. He almost staggered into his
sitting-room, brushing past Karl on his way. He was dressed in different
clothes, and I scarcely recognised him at first.
"Who's that, Dickson?" he demanded sharply. "I thought I told you I
forbade visitors here! Send him away. I want to talk to you."
I obeyed, and when he heard the door close the Baron, who I noticed was
travel-worn and dirty, with a soiled collar and many days' growth of
beard, said:
"Don't have anybody here--not even your best friend, Dickson. You'd
admit no stranger here if you knew the truth," he added, with a meaning
look. "Fortunately, perhaps you don't."
Then, after he had gulped down the cognac I had brought at his order, he
went on:
"Now, listen. In a little more than a week it will be New Year's day. On
that day there will arrive for me a card of greeting. You will open all
my letters on that morning, and find it. Either it will be perfectly
plain and bear the words 'A Happy New Year' in frosted letters, or else
it will be a water-colour snow scene--a house, bare trees, moonlight,
you know the kind of thing--with the words 'The Compliments of the
Season.' Upon either will be written in violet ink, in a woman's hand,
the words in English, 'To dear Heinrich.' You understand, eh?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Good," he said. "Now, I gave you two telegrams before I left. If the
card is a plain one, burn it and despatch the first telegram; if
coloured, then send the second message. Do you follow?"
I replied in the affirmative, when, to my surprise he rose, and instead
of entering his bedroom to wash, he simply swallowed a second glass of
brandy, sighed, and departed, saying:
"Remember, you know nothing--nothing whatever. If there should be any
inquiries about me, keep your mouth closed."
Twice my friend Stieber called in the days that followed, but I
flattered myself that from me he learnt nothing.
On the morning of New Year's day five letters were pushed through the
box. Eagerly I tore them open. The last, bearing a Dutch stamp, with the
postmark of Utrecht, contained the expected card, with the inscription
"To dear Heinrich," a small hand-painted scene upon celluloid, with
forget-me-nots woven round the words "With the Compliments of the
Season."
Half an hour later, having burned the card according to my instructions,
I despatched the mysterious message to Manchester.
That evening, about ten o'clock, Stieber called for me to go for a
stroll and drink a New Year health. But as we turned from Clarges Street
into Piccadilly I could have sworn that a man we passed in the darkness
was old Van Nierop. I made no remark, however, because I did not wish to
draw my companion's attention to the shuffling old fellow.
Had the telegram, I wondered, brought him to London?
Ten minutes later, in the Cafe Monico, my friend Karl lifted his glass
to me, saying:
"Well, a Happy New Year, my dear friend. Take my advice, and don't trust
your Baron too implicitly."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "You always speak in enigmas!"
But he laughed, and would say no more.
Next day dawned. Grey and muddy, it was rendered more dismal by my
loneliness. I idled away the morning, anxious to be travelling again,
but at noon there was a caller, a thin, pale-faced girl of fifteen or
so, poorly dressed and evidently of the working-class.
When, in response to her question, I had told her my name, she said:
"I've been sent by the Baron to tell you he wishes to see you very
particularly to-night at nine o'clock, at this address."
She handed me an envelope with an address upon it, and then went down
the stairs.
The address I read was: "4A Bishop's Lane, Chiswick."
The mysterious appointment puzzled me, but after spending a very
cheerless day, I hailed a taxi-cab at eight o'clock and set forth for
Chiswick, a district to which I had never before been.
At length we found ourselves outside an old-fashioned church, and on
inquiry I was told by a boy that Bishop's Lane was at the end of a
footpath which led through the churchyard.
I therefore dismissed the taxi, and after some search, at length found
No. 4A, an old-fashioned house standing alone in the darkness amid a
large garden surrounded by high, bare trees--a house built in the long
ago days before Chiswick became a London suburb.
As I walked up the path the door was opened, and I found the old man Van
Nierop standing behind it.
Without a word he ushered me into a back room, which, to my surprise,
was carpetless and barely furnished. Then he said, in that strange
croaking voice of his:
"Your master will be here in about a quarter of an hour. He's delayed.
Have a cigarette."
I took one from the packet he offered, and still puzzled, lit it and sat
down to await the Baron.
The old man had shuffled out, and I was left alone, when of a sudden a
curious drowsiness overcame me. I fancy there must have been a narcotic
in the tobacco, for I undoubtedly slept.
When I awoke I found, to my amazement, that I could not use my arms. I
was still seated in the wooden arm-chair, but my arms and legs were
bound with ropes, while the chair itself had been secured to four iron
rings screwed into the floor.
Over my mouth was bound a cloth so that I could not speak.
Before me, his thin face distorted by a hideous, almost demoniacal laugh
of triumph, stood old Van Nierop, watching me as I recovered
consciousness. At his side, grinning in triumph, was my master, the
Baron.
I tried to ask the meaning of it all, but was unable.
"See, see!" cried the old Dutchman, pointing with his bony finger to the
dirty table near me, whereon a candle-end was burning straight before my
eyes beside a good-sized book--a leather-bound ledger it appeared to be.
"Do you know what I intend doing? Well, I'm going to treat you as all
English spies should be treated. That candle will burn low in five
minutes and sever the string you see which joins the wick. Look what
that innocent-looking book contains!" and with a peal of discordant
laughter he lifted the cover, showing, to my horror, that it was a box,
wherein reposed a small glass tube filled with some yellow liquid, a
trigger held back by the string, and some square packets wrapped in
oiled paper.
"You see what this is!" he said slowly and distinctly. "The moment the
string is burned through, the hammer will fall, and this house will be
blown to atoms. That book contains the most powerful explosive known to
science."
I could not demand an explanation, for though I struggled, I could not
speak.
I watched the old man fingering with fiendish delight the terrible
machine he had devised for my destruction.
"You and your friend Raymond thought to trap us!" said the Baron. "But,
you see, he who laughs last laughs best. Adieu, and I wish you a
pleasant trip, my young friend, into the next world," and both went out,
closing the door after them.
All was silence. I sat there helpless, pinioned, staring at the burning
candle and awaiting the most awful death that can await a man.
Ah, those moments! How can I ever adequately describe them? Suffice it
to say that my hair was dark on that morning, but in those terrible
moments of mental agony, of fear and horror, it became streaked with
grey.
Lower and still lower burned the flame, steadily, imperceptibly, yet,
alas! too sure. Each second brought me nearer the grave.
I was face to face with death.
Frantically and fiercely I fought to wrench myself free--fought until a
great exhaustion fell upon me.
Then, as the candle had burned until the flame was actually touching
that thin string which held me between life and death, I fainted.
A blinding flash, a terrific explosion that deafened me, and a feeling
of sudden numbness.
I found myself lying on the path outside with two men at my side.
One was a dark-bearded, thick-set, but gentlemanly-looking man--the
other was Ray Raymond.
Of the house where I had been, scarcely anything remained save its
foundations. The big trees in the garden had been shattered and torn
down, and every window in the neighbourhood had been blown in, to the
intense alarm of hundreds of people who were now rushing along the dark,
unfrequented thoroughfare.
"My God!" cried Ray. "What a narrow escape you've had! Why didn't you
take my advice? It was fortunate that, suspecting something, we followed
you here. This gentleman," he said, introducing his friend, "is Bellamy,
of the Special Department at Scotland Yard. We just discovered you in
time. Old Van Nierop ran inside again when he met us in the path. He
thought he had time to escape through the back, but he hadn't. He's been
blown to atoms himself, as well as the Baron, and thus saved us the
trouble of extradition."
I was too exhausted and confused to reply. Besides, a huge crowd was
already gathering, the fire-brigade had come up, and the police seemed
to be examining the debris strewn everywhere.
"You watched the Baron well, but not quite well enough, my dear Jacox,"
Ray said. "They evidently suspected you of prying into their business,
and plotted to put you quietly out of the way. You have evidently
somehow betrayed yourself."
"But what was their business?" I asked. "I searched every scrap of paper
in the Baron's rooms, but was never able to discover anything."
"Well, the truth is that the reason the Baron came to England was in
order to take a house in this secluded spot. Aided by Van Nierop they
have established a depot close by in readiness for the coming of the
Kaiser's army. Come with me and let us investigate."
And leading me to a stable at the rear of another house about fifty
yards distant, he, aided by Bellamy, broke open the padlocked door.
Within we found great piles of small, strongly bound boxes containing
rifle ammunition, together with about sixty cases of old Martini-Henry
rifles, weapons still very serviceable at close quarters, a quantity of
revolvers, and ten cases of gun-cotton--quite a formidable store of arms
and ammunition, similar to that we found in Essex, and intended, no
doubt, for the arming of the horde of Germans already in London on the
day when the Kaiser gives the signal for the dash upon our shores.
"This is only one of the depots established in the neighbourhood of the
metropolis," Raymond said. "There are others, and we must set to work to
discover them. Germany leaves nothing to chance, and there are already
in London fifty thousand well-trained men of the Fatherland, most of
whom belong to secret clubs, and who will on 'the Day' rise _en masse_
at the signal of invasion."
"But the Baron!" I exclaimed, half dazed. "Where is he?"
"They've just recovered portions of him," replied Ray, with a grin.
"But that New Year's card!" I exclaimed, and then amid the excitement
proceeded to tell Bellamy and my companion what had happened.
"The message you sent to Manchester was to acquaint Hartmann, who is
staying at this moment at the Midland Grand Hotel, with their intended
vengeance upon you, my dear old chap. Nierop was a Dutch merchant in the
City, and his habit was to import arms and ammunition in small
quantities, and distribute them to the different secret depots, one of
which we know is somewhere near the 'Adelaide,' in Chalk Farm Road,
another is at a house in Malmesbury Road, Canning Town, a third in
Shepperton Street, Hoxton, and a fourth is said to be close by the
chapel in Cowley Road, Leytonstone."
"And there are others besides," remarked Bellamy.
"Yes," remarked Raymond, "one is certainly somewhere in Crowland Road,
South Tottenham, another near the Gas Works at Hornsey, and others
somewhere between Highgate Hill and the New River reservoir. Besides,
there are no doubt several in such towns as Ipswich, Chelmsford,
Yarmouth, and Norwich."
The police had by this time taken possession of the stable, but no
information was given to the public, fearing that a panic might be
caused if the truth leaked out.
So the newspapers and the public believed the death of the German and
the Dutchman to be due to a gas explosion--at least that was what the
police reported at the inquest. Next day the arms and ammunition were
quietly removed in closed vans from the house and stable which the spies
had rented, and conveyed to safe keeping at Woolwich--where, I believe,
they still remain as evidence of the German intentions.
Londoners, indeed, sadly disregard the peril in which they are placed
with a hostile force already in their midst--an advance guard of the
enemy already on the alert, and but awaiting the landing of their
compatriots from the Fatherland.
No sane man can to-day declare that, with our maladministered Navy, the
invasion of England is impossible. Invasion is not a "scare." It is a
hard fact which must be faced, if we are not to fall beneath the "mailed
fist."
The peril is great, and it is increasing daily. The Germans are
strenuous in their endeavours to make every preparation for the
successful raid upon our shores.
As an instance, in February, 1909, what may well be described as a
careful, complete, and systematic photographic survey of the coast
between the Tyne and the Tees was conducted, it is stated, by a party of
foreigners, three of whom were Germans.
Every indentation of the coast, and especially those in the
neighbourhood of the dunes about Heselden and Castle Eden, was
faithfully recorded by means of the camera, photographs being taken both
at low tide and at high tide at various points.
Considerable attention was given to the entrances to the Tyne, Tees and
Wear, and also to the Harbour entrances at Seaham Harbour and
Hartlepool; whilst the positions of the various coast batteries and
coast-guard stations were also photographed.
Nor did the party, whose operations extended over a period of several
weeks, confine their attention solely to the coast line. Railway
junctions and bridges near the coast, collieries, and even farm-houses
were photographed; in fact, the salient features of the countryside
bordering the sea were all included in what was altogether a most
exhaustive series of pictures.
A certain number of films were developed from day to day at West
Hartlepool, something like two hundred pictures in all being dealt with,
but these formed only a tithe of the photographs taken, and the
undeveloped films, together with the prints from those that had been
developed, were despatched direct to Hamburg and Berlin, while some were
sent to the head-quarters of the German espionage in Pont Street,
London.