THE LOVELY MISS HARRYMORE
In America, where the German and Austro-Hungarian population is so
much larger than in any other foreign country, the work of my
department is split up into three sections. There is a naval, a
military, and a commercial branch, each under an expert controlling
and distinct organization which could, however, be co-ordinated in the
event of war. In the United Kingdom there was no separation of
interests, and the root organization, that which I controlled,
covered, after the outbreak of the war, all three departments.
And let me say here for the information of my good friends who may
perhaps imagine I am boasting, that when I describe myself as
“controlling” the organization, I may inadvertently deceive. The exact
position was that I had organized my department, dug the channels
through which would flow the streams or rivulets of information; that
I myself had been in the position of the central reservoir which
collected and refined and transmitted the information so received. It
does not necessarily mean that because I was the architect that I was
necessarily the tenant of the fabric which I had created.
All the time in the first months of war there were great comings and
goings. Men arrived from Germany, from America, from Switzerland,
Sweden, and Holland, with forged passports, each charged with a
distinct and separate mission. Lody, whose name you may have heard,
came in the guise of a tourist agent, having certain definite
discoveries to make and certain propaganda to forward. Other men came
from America on similar missions. Some of these were gentlemen of the
very highest character who were not associated with me in any way, but
nevertheless sought me out in order to secure my assistance for the
development of their plans. Of their adventures I know little. Whether
they returned to Germany or not I am unable to say. Some got away and
some were caught, but in what manner I never knew.
I was loath to believe, and, indeed, did not believe, that a Secret
Service existed in Britain. There were, of course, detectives and
plain clothes policemen, whose task it was to watch railway and
steamship arrivals, but obviously it was impossible in the space of a
few weeks to create such a bureau as exists in the Wilhelmstrasse, or
that over which Captain von Treutchen presides with such distinguished
success in the Admiralty Buildings.
In November, 1914, I received orders direct from Berlin--the first I
had ever received--telling me that I must devote myself entirely to
industrial propaganda. I was informed that the sum of £12,000 had
been placed to my credit in the West London and Birmingham Bank, and I
was told to make my headquarters at Manchester in the capacity of
buyer for a well-known firm of Chilian importers with whom my chiefs
had a working arrangement.
I arrived at Manchester late one misty afternoon and made my way to
the best hotel, where rooms had been reserved for me.
I went to the desk and registered, and upon seeing my name the clerk
informed me that two gentlemen were waiting for me in the palm court.
“I don’t know whether you want to see them, sir,” he said; “I think
they are commercial travellers.”
“I will see them in my room, if you will be good enough to send them
up,” said I, and five minutes later the “commercial travellers” were
shown in to me and introduced themselves as representatives of the
Incorporated Carolina Cottonfields Company.
“I am afraid I am rather tired to-night,” said I; “but as you seem in
a hurry to do business I will compare your quotations.”
When the door had shut upon the waiter who had shown them in we got to
business. One, of course, was my friend Posser, and the other was
young Klein, one of those brilliant children of the Fatherland, who
had been in the service of the department ever since he left
Heidelberg.
“We are ordered to place ourselves at your disposal, Herr Heine,” said
Klein, “and we have been here two days investigating the conditions.”
“Are they favourable?” I asked.
“Extremely so,” said Posser; “but you will have an opportunity of
judging for yourself.”
We exchanged experiences, and half an hour later I rang the bell for
the waiter and my visitors were shown out. After I had dined I left
the hotel for the rendezvous I had made outside the post-office.
It was now raining heavily, and I would like to have taken a taxi, but
Klein suggested that we should make our way on foot to our
destination, which proved to be a very small hall in some unsavoury
part of Manchester. It was a dilapidated building, the entrance door
being flush with the street and had the appearance of being a mission
hall dedicated to one of those dour and unhappy sects which find a
virtue in the very dreariness of their environment.
Two nights a week it was used for religious services, but on the other
nights it was let out to whosoever cared to hire the place. On this
occasion some sort of Labour meeting seemed to be in progress and a
small bill attached to an inner baize door leading to the hall itself
announced an address by Mr. William Craigmair on “Labour and the War.”
The hall was sparsely filled and I do not suppose there were more than
fifty people present when we walked in and took our seats. The man who
was speaking was of the usual demagogic type, loud-mouthed, illogical,
full of bitter jibes at Capitalism, which he said was the cause of the
war and at the bottom of the whole European crisis.
Klein nudged me.
“Imagine this in Berlin!” he whispered.
I nodded. It was indeed pathetic, and only shows how wholly
inefficient the English police service is that it allowed such men to
be at large.
I sat through the tirade, a little bored if the truth be told, because
this was to be the least interesting part of the evening.
After the meeting was over Klein told us to go out and wait for him,
and presently he rejoined us accompanied by a man whom I recognized as
the speaker, Mr. Craigmair. He introduced us as sympathizers with the
cause of Labour, and I congratulated this gaunt Englishman upon his
“wonderful rhetoric,” though worse balderdash I had never heard in my
life.
The man’s harsh arrogance melted under this well-directed stream of
Teutonic flattery and he became almost human in the glow of our
admiration.
“I am much obliged to you, gents,” he said, grinning; “speakin’
impartially, I can say it wasn’t a bad speech for a self-taught man.
Any Sunday afternoon you happen to be in Finsbury Park you will find
me there addressing the proletariat.”
“Finsbury Park?” said I. “Do you come from London?”
“Yes,” said the man. “Our comrade here,” he nodded to Klein,
“persuaded me to go round delivering a few addresses to the working
classes. I’ve got a lot of friends in this part of the world,” he went
on, “and you mustn’t judge me on the audience I got to-night. I am
addressin’ the Junior Operatives’ League to-morrow and then you _will_
see an audience if you like.”
I murmured my intention of being present, expressed my sympathy with
the Labour movement, and invited him to meet me at lunch on the
following day.
When we had parted Klein told me that he had first heard the man
addressing meetings in London, either at Finsbury or in Hyde Park.
“He was such a fanatic, and he had, moreover, such a convincing way
that I thought we might find him useful. I know you think what he says
is nonsense,” Klein went on, addressing me; “but what is illogical to
us is sound sense to the common workman. To-morrow’s meeting, for
example, is of the greatest importance to us. The Junior Operatives
have threatened to strike against the advice of their Trade Union, and
as they have a working arrangement with the Carters’ Union, a strike
would be of the utmost importance. Whilst I do not expect we can do
very much in the early stage of the war to bring about a general
stoppage of labour, we can embarrass the Government, and who knows how
these little labour troubles may develop!”
I quite agreed with Klein, who is a psychologist of a very high order,
in addition to being well born, his mother being a
Frenheim-Hazebrucken, and her sister being married to Graf von
Metzenheim, an illustrious gentleman with whom I once had the honour
of taking wine.
Mr. Craigmair came to lunch the next day. In order not to excite
attention I arranged with him to meet me at Lytham, and there we spoke
frankly and freely. I told him how intensely interested we all were in
the Labour movement, and I pointed out that this war might be brought
to an end if some great leader arose from the people and seized his
opportunity.
“For, Mr. Craigmair,” said I, “what is war but a negation of all law?
Is it better that a few miserable capitalists and statesmen should be
chagrined, or that thousands of human lives should be sacrificed in
the red-hot pit of battle? Is it not better that these money-grabbers
should be ruined than that innocent people who have no concern in the
war and have no hatred towards any nation should be compelled to walk
into the shambles like dumb beasts? If they tell you that it is not
patriotic to attempt to stop a war, even though you may be acting
contrary to the maddened sentiments of the majority of the people, you
answer that there is no such thing as patriotism, that we owe our
chief duty to humanity which knows no frontier and no language. For
what is there more precious in the soil of England than in the soil of
Germany or in France? Do they not equally produce wheat and sustain
life? Has anyone a more precious value than another? Does one handful
of red earth contain a magic quality which is not possessed equally by
a handful of any other kind of earth? Patriotism is the shibboleth of
the capitalist and the ambitious statesman, my friend, and he who
opposes his will to that hateful creed is doing magnificent work for
mankind.”
I spoke in this vein and I could see that Mr. Craigmair was impressed.
He made little notes with the stub of a pencil upon what looked like a
laundry-book, interrupting my remarks with uncouth sounds of
admiration and approval.
I gave him £50, as a mark of my interest in his work.
“And on the day you bring the people out on strike I will give you
another £50,” I said; “not because I am anxious to promote industrial
discord, but because war is against my principles as a hateful and an
unnecessary evil.”
I went back to my hotel feeling that I had done a good day’s work. I
did not attend the meeting of the Junior Operatives, but I am told
that it was very enthusiastic and that by an overwhelming majority the
men and the women members had decided to strike, and had received a
promise of support from the transport workers.
My interest in the Labour movement was momentarily diverted that same
day by the receipt of a message from London--it was brought by courier
on the afternoon train. The message was an important one, and had been
received by radio direct from Potsdam, and had been decoded in London
and transmitted to me for report.
News had reached Berlin that the firm of Pollygay & Moxon, a chemical
firm on the outskirts of Manchester, were engaged in conducting secret
experiments with a new bomb. The news had reached Berlin from a very
reliable source. I believed that it had been mentioned after dinner at
a well-known Bohemian club in London by an under-secretary in a
certain Government department. He had spoken rather boastfully of
“something” very deadly which the Government were experimenting with,
and our agent, who was one of the party to whom this was told,
discovered by a well-timed display of scepticism that the experiments
were being conducted by Pollygay & Moxon, and had sent forward the
information which, had I been in London, must have gone through me.
I put Klein on to the job immediately, and he called in the assistance
of Craigmair, who apparently was in touch with workmen in most of the
big factories, and fortunately numbered among his acquaintances a
wretched German named Bluer, who was employed in the laboratories of
the firm. As a matter of fact, we did not know of the existence of
Bluer, a dour, taciturn man of the hateful socialistic type who had no
patriotism, no love for his Fatherland, and was tainted with poisonous
internationalism.[5]
This renegade, living in England, with excellent opportunity for
serving the Fatherland, had never put himself into touch with the
superior authorities, nor had he offered the slightest assistance to
the officers of State, and it was only by accident that we discovered
his existence. However, his internationalism served one good purpose.
Though he might earn his livelihood by preparing deadly weapons for
the destruction of his fellow-countrymen, he was in theory an opponent
of war, and Mr. Craigmair, after a while, enlisted his sympathies and
introduced him to Klein, who said he was an author engaged in writing
a book painting war in its most horrible aspects. He also told him
that he was compiling as long and as formidable a list of deadly
weapons as he could secure.
“And when I have finished, my friend,” said Klein, “we shall have the
most damning indictment of warfare that the world has ever seen.”
This interested Bluer and it was not long before he told of the secret
experiments which had been conducted on the firm’s private range with
the new hand grenade.
“I don’t know how it is made,” said Bluer, “because that is not in my
department, and all the chemical experiments have been in the hands of
the head chemist, but my brother-in-law is a night watchman and has
the entry to the records office and I daresay I could give you a rough
idea of what it is like.”
I was overjoyed to hear this news, the more so since I had received
another, and even more urgent, message from Headquarters, telling me
to spare no expense or pains to secure a specification.
I now come to the remarkable part of this narrative, one which I
cannot tell without a little shudder. Bluer and his relative certainly
made an attempt to locate the specifications and drawings. I will do
this un-German Teuton (to whom Klein was eventually compelled to
reveal something of his designs) the credit of saying that he tried
his best--but for a week he and his relative were unsuccessful.
The manager was a gentleman named Tyson, or Tynson, a good-looking man
of about twenty-eight. Naturally, I had set my people to work to find
out all particulars about every member of the firm, and it was
reported to me that Tyson had been frequently seen in the company of a
very beautiful lady, named Miss Harrymore.
I put my own men on to discover something about Miss Harrymore, and
found that she was a stranger to Manchester; that she had only arrived
a month previous to my appearance on the scene; and that she occupied
a small house which she had taken furnished in the most fashionable
suburb of the Lancashire city.
She had come from London and almost immediately had made friends with
the manager. This in itself was to me a most remarkable circumstance,
because Manchester people are very suspicious, almost as distrustful
as the Scotch, and I wondered what inducement there was to cause this
young man to contract so sudden a friendship. They used to dine
occasionally and they went to the theatre together once a week, but
there was no evidence that the friendship was a very warm one. Miss
Harrymore had been a dancer; but apparently had retired from the
stage--at least that was the story which her maid told Posser, who
investigated the matter.
I smoked many cigars over this friendship and formed certain
conclusions, especially after I had learnt that on the nights Mr.
Tyson was working late the lady had driven down to the factory in her
car, had spent some little time in the manager’s office, and had
driven that gentleman to supper.
I have already told you of my disbelief in the existence of a secret
service in England, but I had modified that view after the experience
of my poor friend Koos, who was brought to an untimely end through the
artfulness of a chit of a girl.
Naturally I was suspicious of beautiful ladies who were on terms of
furtive friendship with Government officials--and to all intents and
purposes Tyson was a Government official--and I kept my eyes
“skinned,” as they say in England.
The business of the bomb was worrying me more than I cared to confess
to my assistants. A third message had come through from Berlin, even
more urgent than the last, and one paragraph of that message
considerably disturbed me.
It ran:
“Whilst we expect you to secure these plans we are leaving nothing to
chance. We hope, however, that the credit for securing them will fall
to you.”
I understood this significant passage. It meant that Berlin was
sending independent agents to England to try their luck, and I was
determined to justify myself in the eyes of the Fatherland.
I sent for Posser and Klein to come to my room and I outlined my views
and gave my final instructions. Posser gave me encouraging news. He
told me that Bluer had secured some information of the greatest
importance. It appears that the Government had sent for a rough
drawing of the bomb, and that one of the engineers was coming next
night to make the drawing and a copy of the secret specification, and
that the original was kept in a safe in the records office. The
combination safe opened to the word “Track” and the specification
would be found in No. 3 drawer, the lock of which could be picked.
So far, so good, but the situation was still desperate. It was as
clear as daylight that my chief difficulty was going to be, not to
circumvent the manager, but to get past the guard which the secret
service had set up. It was then a struggle between Miss Harrymore and
Heine. Very well! Heine picks up the gauntlet with a clear mind and a
high confidence in his German genius.
Klein saw Bluer on the following afternoon and an unexpected
difficulty arose. Bluer, if you please, had discovered a conscience!
This renegade, this traitor to the Fatherland, this dirty Swabian
refused to go any farther in the matter!
“The English have always treated me well,” he told Klein; “my children
have been born in the country and I have friends here. I cannot help
you any more, Herr Klein. I should not only be a traitor to the
English, but a traitor to the Internationale, if I betrayed my
employers. You have the combination word--I can do no more.”
“Are you a German?” asked Klein sternly.
“Ja!” replied Bluer, “but I’m not a fool.”
“If you refuse your help,” said Klein, who was by now filled with holy
annoyance, “you are a traitor to your Kaiser and to your Fatherland.
The curses of unborn generations of Germans will be upon you. Every
German will shun you and spit upon your name, which shall be
‘accursed.’”
“Herr Klein,” said Bluer with emotion, “I think that anyway all the
world will spit upon the name of a German after this war is over.”
Klein threatened and argued, pleaded and raved, but all to no purpose.
“I have told you where you will find the specifications,” said Bluer
doggedly; “you have a plan of the factory--which is not guarded--and
you know the way to the records room. In telling you this I have done
more than I ought to have done. If you threaten me any more I will go
for the police and tell them all I know.”
Ingrate! Rascal! Black swine of Würtemberg!
I paced my room cursing the villain, and Klein stood by in respectful
silence as I “let off steam,” as the British say.
However, I soon mastered my rage and sat down to evolve a plan. We
Germans can meet all contingencies and adapt our minds to any
difficulty which may arise. I drew out the plan of the factory and
soon Klein and I were deep in the discussion of the alternative
scheme.
The factory was a straggling collection of buildings, enclosed on
three sides by high walls and on the fourth by a canal, alongside of
which ran a double-track railway siding. There were three gates and
two small wickets, none of which were practical for our purpose, since
there would be a night watchman at each, and, moreover, the records
office was a fairly long distance from all. This squat building
adjoined the main warehouse near the canal-siding and obviously it was
from the canal that we must make our entrance. We had learnt that the
wharf was patrolled by a watchman who had a little hut at the northern
end of the quay, to which it was his habit to retire between eleven
and twelve at night to make his coffee or tea, or whatever refreshment
he favoured, and we decided that this should be the hour for our
attempt.
Our plan was to paddle down the canal in a small collapsible canoe (an
advertisement of which Klein had seen), wait our opportunity and land.
With Klein’s equipment of keys and instruments we should have no
difficulty in forcing an entrance, and the rest would be easy.
When we had agreed upon our scheme, Klein went off to Chester to
purchase the boat, whilst I elaborated my plan for conveying the
specifications to Germany.
I was working away at this all the afternoon, telephoning to certain
garages, arranging routes and rendezvous, and reporting points,
newspaper advertisement codes, etc., and had almost finished my
organization work when the waiter brought me a card.
I took the paste-board from the salver and as I read the name I felt
myself grow pale. It was--
Miss Angela Harrymore.
Yes, my friends, I confess it, in that second of time I experienced
the gripping fear-panic which comes to such men as myself perhaps
twice in a lifetime.
Prince Bismarck said: “We Germans fear God and nothing else,” but the
Illustrious Highness was either a very religious man or he had never
engaged himself in espionage work in an enemy country in the days of
war; he had never looked into the cold and merciless eyes of a woman
enemy; he had never confronted the possibilities of a grey dawn and a
firing party…
“Show the lady up,” I said.
As soon as the waiter was gone, I took my Browning from my pocket,
examined it and slipped its blank barrel under my left armpit, the
butt concealed by the fold of my coat. Only thus can a danger-waiting
man be sure that he has his pistol ready for use.
The door opened and I rose to meet the lady. She was, as far as I
could judge, about twenty-six years of age. She was tall and willowy,
and perfectly gowned in some blue stuff which admirably suited her
fair complexion.
About her neck and shoulders was a Chinchilla wrap, which I valued at
£250, and beneath the white kid gloves of one hand I saw the bulge of
many rings. Her features were regular and aristocratic, her eyes blue
and steadfast, her hair of pale gold. She was a type one meets as
frequently in England as in Northern Germany or Denmark. In fine, the
first impression I had was that she was of my own race, an impression
helped very cleverly by her greeting.
“Good day, Herr Cannelli,” she said (Cannelli being the name I traded
under), and she spoke in faultless German.
But, O gracious lady, Heine was on guard!
At all times, I think, I am clever and alert; at some times I may be a
little too clever, but never am I caught napping.
I frowned, smiled, and shook my head.
“You are speaking German, are you not?” I asked in English. “I am
afraid I do not speak that language.”
It was her turn to smile.
“Come, come!” she rallied me, “you are not going to pretend with me,”
and she laid two slim fingers on her chin, the old sign--the pre-war
sign--by which one recognized a member of the Admiralty Secret
Service.
Aha! Gracious lady, thought I, would you try an old trick upon an old
wolf! Do you not know that all the spy-revealing signs and
make-knowing phrases had been changed on the outbreak of war? On
me--on Heine--will you try these subterfuges!
“I do not speak your language, madam,” I said, shaking my head;
“_harla usted Espanol_.”
I saw a shade of disappointment dim for a moment the brightness of her
eyes, then she laughed.
“I don’t know why I thought you spoke German,” she said coolly and
speaking in perfect English; “but somehow you reminded me of a man I
once knew in New York--a gentleman called by his friends, ‘Heine.’”
She was watching me closely, but I never so much as blinked.
“I am indeed fortunate, madame, even to resemble one whom you have
remembered,” I said; “but I have never been to New York except on one
occasion, and then only for a few hours.”
“Then I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she smiled, and her smile was a
radiance. “I saw you at dinner the other night and I was almost sure
that you were the friend of other days who had sung ‘Es stehen
unbeweglich.’”
I could have laughed! Again the old song and the old “code of
recognition”--a code which had been changed for six months.
“My dear lady,” I said gently, “I have never sung in my life.”
She was baffled and showed signs of distress. She stood biting her
lips and frowning into the fire until, recovering her self-possession,
she smiled, shrugged her shoulders and offered me her hand.
“I am afraid you must think I am very stupid,” she said frankly, “but
I could have sworn I knew you.”
I took her hand and conducted her to the corridor and to the lift, and
summoned Posser.
Briefly I retailed all that had happened.
“There is no doubt about it at all,” said Posser; “she came to trap
you. We must get out of Manchester to-night, and we must take with us
the specifications.”
At eleven o’clock that night we slipped down the canal, Klein at the
bow and myself at the stern.
Fortunately it was a dark night, with a thin fog, and we moved
silently and unchallenged to our destination. Klein had made a very
careful survey of the wharf and he guided the canoe to one of the big
supporting piles up which ran a steel-runged ladder.
Klein made a reconnaissance. Looking along the wharf, we could see the
little glass-windowed hut and the night-watchman standing before a
small fire, evidently boiling his kettle. We tied the canoe to the
ladder and moved noiselessly across the wharf.
The factory was in darkness, but we had no difficulty in discovering
the records office, a small, dark building thrown out as an annex to
the main machinery warehouse. To open the outer door was the work of a
few seconds. We entered and closed the door behind us and found
ourselves in a little wooden vestibule from which opened yet another
door. To my surprise the inner door was not locked but still ajar.
Down the centre of the building ran a corridor and from this various
doors led to offices. Our objective was the last on the left and
quietly we crept forward and reached the door. I gently turned the
handle in order to secure a grip and was inserting my skeleton key
when I felt the door give. All my nerves were on edge. Things were
going much too easy and I pulled my gun and slipped down the safety
catch.
Now, as I pushed the door gently open I could have sworn I saw the
faint reflection of a light, such a reflection as you would expect
from the varnished matchboard-lining to the office, if some person had
incautiously shown a light for a second. I hesitated on the threshold.
The office was in darkness. There was no sound, no sign, and I thought
that the light I saw must have been a reflection from one of the
street lamps on the other side of the canal, until I remembered that
the fog was quite thick enough to veil any of the outside lights. I
stepped forward cautiously toward the safe, felt for and found the
handle, and had replaced my pistol in my jacket pocket and was feeling
for my electric lamp, when Klein whispered fiercely in my ear:
“_There’s someone in the room!_”
Almost as he spoke we heard a quick rustle and swish, and a figure
dimly seen flashed across the room and through the door. At that
moment I felt the safe-door swing back in my grasp, and I realized
that we had come too late.
I was out of the office in a trice, flashed my lamp along the
corridor, and caught just a glimpse of a woman’s figure as it
disappeared through the door at the other end. She fled across the
yard, we behind her, and disappeared in the gloom. There was no time
to search for her. We had to consider ourselves. We scurried down the
ladder and heard the hoarse challenge of the watchman. By this time we
were in mid-stream and paddling furiously. It was too dangerous to
keep to the canal, and at the first opportunity we found a landing
place and reached a street, an ill-favoured, dingy slum, which suited
our purpose very well.
Ten minutes rapid walking brought us to one of the main thoroughfares
where we found a taxi-cab, and in the brief space of time between this
discovery and our arrival at the hotel, I gave my instructions to
Klein.
“She is evidently a member of the secret police,” I said, “and she got
to know that we were after the specifications to-night and forestalled
us. I think Manchester is a little too hot for you and me, Klein, and
we will fade away.”
We dismissed the cab at the hotel and walked into the brightly-lighted
vestibule, and came face to face with Miss Harrymore!
There was no doubt in my mind. There she stood, her face flushed with
triumph. I could see the mud on her shoes, I recognized the fur-edged
coat, and I realized my danger. She probably had a motor-boat waiting
for her and had taken the short-cut back to the hotel in time to
confront and denounce us.
In that moment all the latent genius of our race came to the surface.
We Germans make our decisions quickly, boldly. With such rapidity did
I act that I even surprised myself. Extending my forefinger I pointed
at Miss Harrymore.
“This woman,” I said, “is a German spy. She has in her possession
certain specifications and plans of a new and secret weapon.”
I said this in a loud voice and a quiet-looking man who had been
sitting reading dropped his paper and springing up edged his way
through the little crowd which had collected about us. I saw the girl
go pale. I knew that she could not betray herself as a secret agent
and that, found in possession of the plans, she would not be able to
explain how she came by them.
The quiet-looking man moved to her side and caught her arm. “I am
Inspector Lovell, of the Manchester Detective Department,” he said,
“and on this gentleman’s accusation I shall take you to the Central
Police Station.”
He told us to follow, and led Miss Harrymore out of the hotel. I gave
a sign to Klein, and we followed, but not to the station.
Our big Mercédès was waiting round the corner and dawn found me in
London, so changed in appearance that I doubt if the admirable
Inspector Lovell would have recognized the man who had trapped Miss
Harrymore.
So far this comedy goes and now comes the tragedy. I found in London,
waiting for me, a code message from Berlin.
“Reference Polygay bomb. Fraulein von Liebmann of the Secret Service
is in Manchester under the name of Miss Harrymore. She has love affair
with manager and reports she can secure specifications. Assist her all
you can. Instruct her in new code.”
It was signed by the High Chief of the Admiralty Intelligence. For an
hour I was prostrate and then I coded my reply to Admiralty, Potsdam.
“In spite my efforts, Fraulein von Liebmann arrested in possession of
specifications, which she carried against my wishes.”
I think it was an admirable explanation. As for the fraulein, it will
be many years before she will be able to supply her personal
narrative!