Polish widow among those whom she met. She had a certain blond beauty to
make her attractive to the eye, and this, together with an alluring
personality, soon gained her many friends in the theatrical profession
among whom she worked. Marussia did not take her stage career
over-seriously, nor did she devote all her time to it. In addition to
French she spoke English, Russian, Polish, German, and Italian. Her
Polish origin was probably genuine, for she spoke French with the accent
peculiar to that people, but there was little to be learned of her
antecedents, and, unlike Mata Hari, she did not invent a fanciful
origin, but spoke only vaguely of her family.
It is a singular thing that one may speak Persian, Pushtu, Chinese, or
any other difficult language without incurring the reputation of being
anything worse than a genial idiot, but to confess to a knowledge of
Russian is almost equivalent to admitting employment in the secret
services. Everyone suspects you. It was so with Marussia. Her gift of
tongues seems to have predestined her for a spy’s life, and before the
war she was known to have established relations with a spy, the manager
of a theatrical troupe with whom she occasionally played. This man
claimed to be a Rumanian. At the outbreak of war only his precipitate
flight to Switzerland saved him from arrest as a dangerous person, for
both he and his brother were known agents of Germany. The brother
continued his espionage work in Switzerland, with such open contempt for
Swiss hospitality that the federal authorities were insulted by his
effrontery and had him arrested and sentenced to some months in prison.
While her friend was in Switzerland, Marussia had to carry on their work
in Paris, making one visit to Geneva to deliver her reports and to
receive instructions. The experience at the frontier convinced her that
it was inexpedient to leave France again unless she had an excellent
excuse for return. Before long, however, it was necessary to make
another journey to “see her lover,” who was now in Lausanne, waiting for
the reports she was to deliver him, and to receive fresh instructions
for the agents who worked for him. She sought a suitable excuse to
facilitate her return from Swiss territory, for, being Polish, she had
to suffer the close examination of her motives in coming into France.
One morning she called up an acquaintance on the telephone.
“This is Marussia speaking,” she said.
“Marussia?” came the dubious reply.
“Yes. Do you not remember me?”
“Oh yes, perfectly,” answered the man, who was still very vague about
her identity, for they had met only recently and were on such slight
terms of acquaintance that the use of her first name puzzled him.
“I am sorry to disturb you, my friend, but I am in need of some small
service which I believe you will be ready and willing to perform for me.
It is a matter I do not care to speak of on the telephone, but if you
will call here, Boulevard Saint-Germain, I will explain it to you.”
The gentleman thus summoned chanced to be a journalist who contributed
those entertaining paragraphs of gossip from the boulevards, the cafés,
and the clubs which make the Paris weekly journals such spicy and
maliciously funny reading, and, scenting a possible paragraph of
scandalous gossip, he promptly relinquished his intention of passing a
morning of tranquil ease in order to wait upon the lady’s pleasure. On
the way to the Boulevard Saint-Germain he speculated upon his selection
for the confidence of Marussia, finally deciding that it could hardly
entail any sacrifice unless the lady was presuming upon their slight
acquaintance, in which case he could extricate himself from the
situation by some journalistic excuse.
Arrived at the house, he went up to the fourth floor, where he was
graciously received and generally treated as a tried and trusted
confidant. Marussia did not waste time in approaching the object of the
visit. She candidly explained that, having on a previous occasion
experienced difficulty in returning to France after an absence, she
wished to simplify her return from a projected visit to Switzerland. All
would be well if monsieur would be good enough to send her a telegram on
a certain day saying that his play was about to be produced, but that
its presentation was being delayed until she, who was cast in the
principal part, could be present in Paris.
Monsieur, without stopping to think, said that he would be enchanted to
be of service to madame and then went into the gardens of the Tuileries
to meditate upon his rash promise. It required several cigarettes to
assist him in exhausting all the possible reasons why he, who had never
written a play, should have to pretend to have need of the
_comédienne’s_ services. He admitted that he would not have been so
suspicious of an evil intent had it not been that Marussia spoke Russian
and because of a curious incident which had befallen him just as he was
leaving her apartment. When Marussia’s manservant was ushering the
visitor out of the apartment at the conclusion of his call the man had
whispered confidentially into his ear:
“If you meet, on the stairs, a coalman or a grocer’s messenger who
stares hard at you, don’t mind. He will be one of our men.”
These two pieces of knowledge seemed to fit mysteriously together in his
suspicious mind. He decided to seek the counsel of the local police. At
the nearest police office he found an official who listened
sympathetically to the story, but who recommended him to visit district
headquarters, where he was solemnly told to present his story to the
central bureau, where he was finally advised to go to the devil. Finding
that the civil police did not appear to be unduly alarmed, but himself
convinced that a woman who spoke Russian and fathered him with unwritten
plays could intend no good, he confided the strange occurrence to
friends. By good fortune one of his hearers had just had an unpleasant
adventure with the Second Bureau which had turned out satisfactorily in
the end. He, too, was a journalist, who had fallen under suspicion of
implication in the German newspaper conspiracy, and in order to test his
loyalty Mlle. Mistinguette had been instructed to approach him with a
suggestion which would put his loyalty to severe test. The clever
_comédienne_ whispered to him that she was receiving handsome
remuneration for her work on behalf of the enemy and that if he wished
to add to his income, an introduction to the German secret service could
be arranged for his benefit. This good Frenchman was horrified both at
his suspected loyalty and at the supposed perfidy of his charming
friend. Not only did he scornfully reject her offer, but he set himself
to persuade Mistinguette to abandon the dangerous and treacherous work
she professed to be performing. Through his obvious sincerity the man
had obtained the friendship of some of the very officials who had
doubted him before.
He, therefore, strongly recommended Marussia’s friend to accompany him
to the offices of the Second Bureau, where he was assured of a
sympathetic hearing and the certainty of action if the suspicions had
any foundation. The writer of the imaginary play was not surprised to
find that his equally imaginary principal player was quite well known to
the Second Bureau, but not so well known as they wished. Their knowledge
was that she was in many ways an undesirable alien and one to be
encouraged if she expressed any desire to leave the country. Her friend
was, therefore, instructed not to retract his promise to telegraph for
her, but not on any account to send the telegram at the appointed date,
lest it deceive some unsuspecting police agent charged with the control
of incoming aliens. The French representatives in Switzerland were then
warned not to allow a _laissez-passer_ to be issued to Marussia should
she request one.
From the time of her arrival in Lausanne the French authorities kept her
under strict supervision, a proceeding which induced Marussia to believe
that she had made a conquest of the local consul, who was enjoying his
duties immensely. During her stay in this Swiss town the suspected spy
mixed much with the kind of society which soon converted suspicion into
moral conviction of her guilt, more especially as she was almost
invariably accompanied by her Rumanian friend, who was known to be a
German agent. Then came the time when her return to Paris was due. No
telegram had been received recalling her to imaginary stage duties, so
an appeal had to be made to the local consul. It was refused. But the
amiable consul gave her some good advice which, if followed, gave her
the hope that the refusal might be revoked. One of the conditions he
sought to impose upon Marussia’s conduct was the immediate breach with
her associates of the German service and the serving of a probationary
period of good behaviour. Marussia indignantly rejected the proposal.
But, since she had been entrusted with a confidential mission in France,
the requisite papers granting her authority to enter the country had to
be obtained somehow. She went to Geneva to try her fortune with an
official who was not accustomed to seeing her in the company of her
objectionable Rumanian friend and his associates. Marussia was again
informed that she would not be permitted to return to France so long as
she chose as companions men who were notoriously enemies of the French
people.
After this second rebuff it was obvious to Marussia that while in
Switzerland she enjoyed the security afforded by a neutral country, in
France she was exposed to the danger of immediate arrest, trial as an
enemy agent, and possible execution. Still, it was her duty as a spy to
return, even if papers were refused. The German service had a most
accomplished forger operating at Berne, who could produce excellent
papers of all sorts and descriptions that defied examination by the
authorities, but it would be folly for Marussia to attempt to enter
Paris with forged papers, since she was too well known. Besides, it was
not only the consuls to whom she had applied for assistance who knew of
her occupation, a full description of her appearance and the object of
her mission would have been broadcast to all the police officials along
the frontier, so that an attempt to penetrate the country would be
attended with considerable danger. Therefore, Marussia carried her
complaint of the risk she ran to Gruber, the head of German espionage in
Switzerland, pointing out that an attempt to cross the frontier must be
accompanied with the certain prospect of disaster.
That is not the language of spies. No secret-service agent can afford to
cherish the luxury of flight from possible capture when his duty
requires that he remain at his post. Men who carry their freedom, and
often their lives, in their hands every hour of the day would not be
able to appreciate Marussia’s motives. Crossing the frontier is a
business which invariably exposes the spy to considerable danger, even
when his papers are in order, why, then, should she begin to have qualms
at this stage? Recognition? Good Lord! was there ever a spy who did not
risk recognition? It was part of spies’ routine to avoid it, they were
specially trained to dodge it, and if recognized by accident then it was
their business to throw the pursuers off the scent. But to decline to
execute orders because it was known that she was a spy—that was
incredible.
Still Marussia refused to budge. She protested so volubly that the
French got to hear of her predicament and, scenting the possibility of a
confession and much useful information, they began to sympathize with
Marussia. A reliable agent was detailed to offer protection against this
new form of persecution by her employers. The French agent tried in
every way to gain her confidence and, if possible, to induce her to
betray her former associates. Unfortunately, the agent chosen for this
work was known to the enemy agents. As soon as they found that Marussia
was spending her time in the company of this man they became alarmed and
appointed their own watchers to discover whether the woman was
contemplating treachery, which was suspected from her protest against
further employment in France.
One night Marussia and her new French friend dined together at the
former’s hotel. Shortly after the man had left, Marussia was invited to
join a party of German agents who were making merry, in a neighbouring
room, over a victory. They joyfully insisted that she share in the
entertainment. What happened at that party has never been divulged,
probably never will. All that is known is the tragic sequel, when on the
next morning Marussia Destrelles was found, dressed in a pretty ball
dress, lying dead among a pile of flowers heaped on her bed. Early that
morning, before the official news of her death had been made public, the
German agents were assiduously spreading the news that she had committed
suicide because of a love-affair. This was contrary to the known facts.
There was great commotion in Geneva when it was known that a well-known
foreign actress had died suddenly, and the police were instructed to
institute a close investigation into the circumstances of her death.
Medical examination showed that death was due to poisoning, but since
the murderers had entirely omitted to leave behind any accessories for
suicide, the malicious reports of her companions were exploded. Search
in the room where the entertainment had been given proved that one cup
of coffee had been poisoned and that was the cup from which Marussia had
drunk. The costume she wore on her bier was not that which she had worn
on the previous night, and the doctors declared that Marussia could not
have lived long enough to drink the coffee in another room, remain until
the end of the entertainment where she was supposed to have quarrelled
with a friend, and then proceed to change her costume and arrange for
the display of flowers which adorned her bier. Convinced that they had
to deal with an audacious band of murderers, the Swiss police began an
active search for the slayers, when a mysterious message from Berne put
an end to further enquiry. The whole matter was allowed to drop, as was
so often the case when German agents were criminally involved. But among
the German secret service in Switzerland the death of Marussia was long
used to inspire terror in the hearts of agents who showed any
inclination to independence. It became the classic example of the
ruthless vengeance with which the service punished its servants when
they required to be disciplined. It was also one of the favourite bogies
used to frighten nervous agents into a spirit of reckless courage.
In Mata Hari’s case the tragedy had a bitter significance, because the
women had maintained a close friendship over a period of many years.
Although it is not known whether they worked together in German
interests, their lives followed a parallel course, with Mata Hari
holding the superior position, both on and off the stage. There can be
little doubt that when the Red Dancer received her instructions ordering
her back to France the tragic end of her Polish companion was a grisly
reminder of the fate which would inevitably pursue her if she persisted
in refusal to obey. As a spy she was responsible for her own protection
by whatever resources were at her command, but it was obvious that her
superiors would tolerate no disobedience. Had she decided to remain in
Spain contrary to orders, she had no friends who could be effective in
protecting her against the murderous vengeance she was courting, whereas
in Paris she had powerful friends whose self-interest might alone induce
them to preserve her from the relentless fate which pursued her. The
Second Bureau did not possess the atrocious reputation of its German
equivalent service, and it was possible that she might invent a
plausible story about the Belgian affair.
“Perhaps, after all,” she may have thought, “I may be exaggerating my
danger. Even if the French do suspect me, they can have no proof,
because they cannot make use of my correspondence without risking a
rupture of diplomatic relations with the neutral country whose
confidential mail I have used. If by any chance they have discovered my
secret channel of information, which is unlikely, the other diplomats
will protect me personally by protesting against the pilfering of their
mail. As for the absence of the papers I had to carry to Belgium, I will
say that I destroyed them for safety.”
If Mata Hari ever reviewed the case in this light she was not without
justification for her reasoning. Actual betrayal could only come through
some other channel. But even if the spy herself had willingly consented
to undertake this mission the German authorities exhibited a painfully
callous disregard for the safety of an agent who had served them with
marked success.
On the other hand, there is much to support the contention that Mata
Hari was deliberately sent to her doom. The German authorities must have
known perfectly well that Mata Hari had committed an indiscretion in
sending the originals of her papers to Holland instead of sending
duplicates or copies and retaining the originals in case she was asked
to produce them at the last minute for alteration. There was bound to be
the gravest doubt about her loyalty if these documents could not be
produced. But this was not their greatest difficulty.
After the time of the Chemin des Dames offensive every piece of
information she sent them was either inaccurate or deceiving. The list
of routes used by air pilots which she had sent was without result,
since the French authorities had promptly changed the routes as soon as
they learned that Mata Hari had revealed them; some information she had
gathered from British officers relating to tanks was also found to be
valueless because untrue, and the German service must have suspected the
truth, that her informants were enemy agents aware of her purpose and
willing to further it by supplying false information; there was the list
of spies in Belgium, of whom only one could be identified—another trick.
Finally, the British had shipped her to Spain instead of allowing her to
proceed to Holland.
What were the Germans to think?
They had the choice of only two things. Either Mata Hari was
deliberately deceiving them, or her employment was known to the enemy
agents, who were using her for the bewilderment of her employers, in
which case her value had passed and she had become a menace. But whether
they forced Mata Hari to Paris against her will for the purpose of
surrendering her to their enemies, or whether they had some other
motive, the fact remains that they did not betray her. Which may or may
not be further evidence of their stupidity. Nevertheless, the woman
might be forgiven, but there is little excuse for officials who kept on
sending the pitcher to the well after so many warnings that it had
become too fragile for the work.
_Chapter Fourteen_
There was no attempt at secrecy when Mata Hari left Spain, nor again
when she entered France. At the time of her departure from Madrid she
was attended at the railroad station by the customary court of
enthusiastic admirers, many of whom had a sincere admiration for her art
as a dancer, although there was a vociferous group of Spanish friends
and a sprinkling of German officers to kiss her hand whose admiration
was based upon other personal qualities. In spite of the atmosphere of
suspicion in which she moved no protest was raised against the Red
Dancer when she crossed the Pyrenees, because the path had been smoothed
by a complacent French consul to whom she applied for visas for her
passport. To anyone less superbly self-confident the ease with which her
papers were put in order must have raised visions of future trouble,
because travel in those days was notoriously difficult on account of the
rigid regulations in force.
Since the Red Dancer’s public appearance at the vaudeville theatres in
Paris had not been advertised, her arrival in the French capital was
unheralded except for one friend. The demonstrative welcome she had
grown to love and expect was absent. Apart from the watchful police
agents warned of her coming, the only other person present to greet her
was the one loyal attendant who had taken a short leave from the Foreign
Office to renew their acquaintance. His love, which had already passed
through many vicissitudes at the caprice of the _bayadère_, seems always
to have been rekindled by her presence. At the station the police
noticed that Mata Hari’s baggage was sent to the Hotel Plaza-Athénée,
while the owner, taking only light luggage, took her place in the
official’s private car, which sped away to his own residence.
With that evidence it was felt that they could pick up the trail without
difficulty, so the newly joined friends were not shadowed as the London
police certainly would have shadowed them until Mata Hari would never
have been allowed out of their sight. This neglect gave the Paris
authorities a fright from which they might have saved themselves with a
little more foresight. But when the officers of the Second Bureau
thought that they would like to talk with her, the police were unable to
find any trace of Mata Hari. For three days they scoured the city for
some signs or news of the dancer and her companion. At the Hotel
Plaza-Athénée nothing could be learned but that they were expecting the
arrival of Mata Hari at any time; her luggage had arrived and doubtless
the lady was closely following it. At the Foreign Office it was learned
that the director was having a few days’ leave, the time was
indeterminate, after so many months of arduous labour. But it was known
he had not left the city, because he had been in telephonic
communication with the Office.
But not a trace of Mata Hari could be found, and as her absence grew
hourly longer the anxiety increased. This sudden disappearance
bewildered everyone. The officers of the Second Bureau were beginning to
suspect that she had embarked upon some other mission, such as that at
Vittel, which required her presence in an obscure town, and that she
might be stirring another witches’ brew for their consumption. Their
dilemma was the greater because it was known that money for her work was
awaiting her at the neutral Legation, and it was not like her to neglect
collecting it. When at last they did find her, driving unconcernedly to
the hotel, the mystery had grown so profound that it was judged
advisable to delay action for a few more days in order to ascertain what
new mischief was brewing. The Second Bureau were not omniscient, they
did not know what was the nature of her immediate work in Paris,
because, like everyone else, they wondered at her temerity in venturing
to reappear in the scenes of her most daring exploits in face of added
danger. It was decided, therefore, to take a leaf from the book of their
English colleagues and give the spy a little extra freedom before
expressing their curiosity in the discharge of her Belgian mission.
There was the grave fear that during her absence from observation in
company of a man who was in the confidence of the Cabinet, she might
have used their intimacy to learn matters of national policy which, if
communicated to the German authorities, would cause irreparable injury
to the French nation. It was impossible to conceive the extent of the
damage that might be done to the Allied cause through the indiscretions
of a highly placed official during a few moments of unguarded
confidence. It was already believed that through information acquired in
this way, Mata Hari had been able to warn the Germans of the British
determination to resume the offensive in the spring of 1917 and the
French reluctance to undertake any active measures at that time,
information which resulted in the withdrawal on the Somme to more easily
defended positions opposite the British, but the retention of every inch
of ground in face of the French.