THE CLUE IN THE BOOK
Subway passengers sitting opposite Jane Strong as she rode up-town from
Mr. Fleck’s office, if they observed her at all—and most of them
did—saw only a slim, good-looking young girl, dressed in a chic
tailormade suit, crowned with a dashing Paris hat tilted at the proper
angle to display best the sheen of her black, black hair, which after
the prevailing fashion was pulled forward becomingly over her ears.
Outwardly Jane was unchanged, but within her nerves were all atingle at
the thought of the tremendous and fascinating responsibility so
unexpectedly thrust upon her. Her mind, too, was aflame with patriotic
ardor, but coupled with these new sensations was a persisting sense of
dread, an intangible, unforgettable feeling of horror that kept
cropping up every time her fingers touched the little metal disk in her
purse.
The man who had carried it yesterday, the other “K-19” who had
undertaken to shadow those people next door, now lay dead with a bullet
through his heart. Was there, she wondered, a similar peril confronting
her? Would her life be in danger, too? Was that the reason Mr. Fleck
had told her of her predecessor’s fate—to warn her how desperate were
the men against whom she was to match her wits? Yet no sense of fear
that projected itself into her busy brain as she cogitated over the
task before her held her back. If anything she was rather thrilled at
the prospect of meeting actual danger. What bothered her most was how
she could best go about aiding Mr. Fleck and his men in their work.
Her opportunity came far more quickly than she had anticipated. She had
gotten off the train at the 96th Street station, purposing to walk the
twenty odd blocks to her home as she pondered over the work that lay
ahead of her. Busy with a horde of struggling new thoughts she
proceeded along Broadway, for once in her life unheeding the rich gowns
and feminine dainties so alluringly displayed in the shop windows.
Suddenly she pulled herself together with a start. Directly ahead of
her, plodding along in the same direction, was a figure that from
behind seemed strangely familiar. She quickened her step until she
caught up sufficiently with the man ahead to get a good glimpse of his
side face. Nervously she caught her breath. Without any doubt it was
the gray Van Dyke beard of old Otto Hoff.
Where was he going? What was he doing? She paused and looked behind
her, scanning the pavement on both sides of the street. She was
half-hoping that she would discover Carter or some of his men shadowing
their quarry, but her hope was vain. There was no one in the block at
the moment but herself and Mr. Hoff. If Fleck’s men had been watching
his movements, the old man certainly seemed to have eluded them.
What should she do? Vividly there flashed into her mind her chief’s
parting words.
“Watch everything,” he had charged her. “Remember everything, report
everything. No detail is too unimportant. If you see one of the Hoffs
leave the house, don’t merely report to me that the old man or the
young man left the house about three o’clock. That won’t do at all. I
want to know the exact time. Was it six minutes after three or eleven
minutes after three? I must know what direction he went, if he was
alone, how long he was absent, where he went, what he did, to whom he
talked. Here in my office I take your reports, Carter’s reports, a
dozen other reports, and study them together. Things that in themselves
seem trifling, unimportant, of no value, coupled with other seemingly
unimportant trifles sometimes develop most important evidence.”
To prove his point he had told her of the seemingly innocent wireless
message that an operator, listening in, had picked up, at a time when
Germans were still permitted to use the wireless station on Long Island
for commercial messages to the Fatherland. On the face of it, it was
the mere announcement of the death of a relative with a few details.
But a little later the same operator caught the same message coming
from another part of the country, with the details slightly different,
and still later another message of the same purport. Evidently, by
comparing the messages, the United States authorities had been able to
work out a code.
Remembering this, Jane decided that it was her particular duty just now
to follow the old German and note everything he did. For several blocks
she trailed along behind him, without arousing any suspicion on his
part that he was being followed. He stopped once to light a cigarette,
the girl behind him diverting suspicion by hastily turning to a shop
window. Again he stopped, this time before the display of viands in the
window of a delicatessen store. Thoughtfully Jane noted the number,
observing, too, that the name of the proprietor above the door was
obviously Teutonic. She was half-expecting to see her quarry turn in
here, but he walked on to the middle of the next block, where he
entered a stationery store.
Hesitating but a second, to decide on a course of action, she followed
him boldly into the store. She felt that she must ascertain just what
he was doing in there. As she entered she saw that in the back part of
the store was a lending library. Mr. Hoff had gone back to it and was
inspecting the books displayed there. Unhesitatingly she, too,
approached the book counter.
“Have you ‘Limehouse Nights’?” she asked the attendant, naming the
first book that came into her head. She had a copy of the book at home,
but that seemed to be the only title she could think of.
“We have several copies,” the girl in charge answered, “but I think
they are all out. I’ll look.”
As the clerk examined the shelves, Jane kept up a desultory talk with
her, questioning her about various books on the shelves, all the while
watching the old German out of the corner of her eye. His back was
toward her, and he seemed to be examining various books on the shelves,
turning over the pages as if unable to decide what he wanted. Curious
as to what his taste in reading was, Jane endeavored to locate each
book that he removed from its place, her idea being that she would
later try to discover their titles. To her amazement she found that it
was invariably the third book in each shelf that he removed and
examined—the third from the end. It did not appear to her that he was
examining the contents of the pages so much as searching them as if he
expected to find something there.
All at once, as she furtively watched from behind him, she heard him
give a little pleased grunt and she saw him picking out from between
the leaves of the book a fragment of paper, which he held concealed in
his hand. Watching closely, Jane saw him thrust this same hand into his
trousers pocket, and when he brought it out she was certain that the
hand was empty. What did this curious performance mean? What was the
little slip of paper he had found in the book? Why had he concealed it
in his pocket?
Still keeping her attention riveted on him, she picked up a book to
mask her occupation and pretended to be turning its pages. She was glad
she had done so, for a minute later old Hoff wheeled suddenly and
looked sharply about him. Apparently having his suspicions disarmed by
seeing only herself and the clerk there, he turned again to the
bookshelves. Jane this time saw him thrust his fingers into his
waistcoat pocket and withdraw therefrom,—she was almost certain of
it,—a little slip of paper. She saw him remove from the second row of
books the fifth from the end, open it quickly and close it again and
then restore it to its place. As he did so he turned to leave the
store.
“Didn’t you find anything to read to-day, Mr. Hoff?” the clerk asked.
“Nodding,” he answered. “You keep novels, trash, nodding worth while.”
Her nerves aquiver, Jane waited until he was out of the store and then
stepped briskly to the place where he had stood. Hastily she pulled
forth the fifth book from the end in the second row. Turning its pages
she came upon what she had anticipated,—a strip of yellow manila
paper,—the paper she was sure she had seen him take from his pocket.
Hastily she examined it, expecting to find some message written there.
To her chagrin it was just a meaningless jumble of figures in three
columns.
534 5 2 331 54 6 544 76 3
49 12 9 540 30 12 390 3 2 519 3 6
327 20 2
97
Her first thought was to thrust the little scrap of paper in her purse
and start again in pursuit of old Hoff, but a sudden light began to
dawn on her. This was a cipher message, of course. The old man had left
it here for some one to come and get. If she followed Hoff, how was she
to discover who the message was for? Puzzled as to what she should do,
she borrowed a pencil from the clerk on the pretense of writing a
postal and hastily copied the figures, after which she restored the
slip to the book in which she had found it.
Glancing about undecidedly, wondering if it would do to take the clerk
into her confidence, wishing she had some means of reaching Mr. Fleck
and asking his advice, she spied in a drug-store just across the street
a telephone booth. She could telephone from there and at the same time
keep her eye on the store. Quickly she did so, twisting her head around
all the time she was ’phoning to make sure that no one entered
opposite.
“Is this Mr. Fleck?” she asked. “This is Miss Jones.”
“So soon?” came back his voice. “What has happened? What is the matter?
Have you changed your mind?”
“Not at all,” she answered indignantly. “I’ve discovered something
already—a cipher message.”
“What’s that?”
Even over the wire she could sense the eagerness in Mr. Fleck’s tone,
and a sense of achievement brought a radiant glow to her cheek.
“I ran into that man—you know whom—”
“The young one?” he interrupted.
“No, the uncle.”
“Yes, yes, go on,” cried Mr. Fleck impatiently.
“I followed him along Broadway after I got off at 96th Street and into
a library and stationery store. I watched him fuss over the books
there, and I think he got a slip of paper with a message out of one of
them.”
“Good,” cried Mr. Fleck, “that is something new. Go on.”
“And then he slipped a paper into a book—”
“Did you notice what book?”
“I don’t know the title. It was the fifth book from the end on the
second shelf, and I got the paper and copied it.”
“Splendid. What did the message say?”
“It’s just a lot of figures. I put it back after copying it, and I am
in a drug-store across the street where I can watch to see if any one
comes to get the message. What shall I do now?”
“Can you remain there fifteen minutes without arousing suspicion?”
“Certainly. I’ll say I am waiting for some one.”
“Good. I’ll get in touch with Carter at once. He’ll tell you what to do
when he arrives.”
Impatiently Jane sat there, keeping vigilant watch on the entrance
across the street, determined to be able to describe minutely each
person that entered. From time to time she surreptitiously studied the
postcard on which she had jotted down the mysterious numbers. How
utterly meaningless they looked. Surely it would be impossible for any
one, even Mr. Fleck, to decipher any message that these figures might
convey. It would be impossible unless one had the key. Figures could be
made to mean anything at all. She doubted if her discovery could be of
much importance after all, yet certainly Mr. Fleck had seemed quite
excited about it.
She spied Carter passing in a taxi. Two other men were with him. Her
first impulse was to run out in the street and signal to him, but she
waited, wondering what she should do. She was glad she had not acted
impulsively, for a moment later Carter entered alone, evidently having
left the car somewhere around the corner. She expected that he would
address her at once, but that was not Carter’s way. He went to the soda
counter and ordered something to drink, his eyes all the while studying
his surroundings. Presently he pretended to discover her sitting there.
To all appearances it might have been an entirely casual meeting of
acquaintances.
“Good-morning, Miss Jones,” he said quite cordially, extending his
hand. “I’m lucky to have met you, for my daughter gave me a message for
you.”
He put just a little stress on the words “my daughter” and Jane
understood that he was referring to “Mr. Fleck.”
“Indeed,” she replied, “what is it?”
“She wants you to go down-town at once and meet her at Room 708—you
know the building.”
“Aren’t you coming, too?”
“Not right away. I have some errands to do in the neighborhood. I’ve
got to buy a book for a birthday present. There’s a library around here
somewhere, isn’t there?”
“Just across the street,” said Jane, entering into the spirit of the
masked conversation with interest. “I was looking at a fine book over
there a few minutes ago. You’ll find it on the second shelf—the fifth
book from the end, on the north side of the store.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Carter, repeating, “the fifth book on the
second shelf.”
“That’s right,” said Jane, as they left the drug-store together.
“Which way did the old man go?” asked Carter.
“Down Broadway—toward home,” she replied. “I wanted to follow him, but
it seemed more important to stay here and watch to see if any one came
for the message he left there in the book.”
“You did just right, and the Chief is tickled to death. He wants to see
you right away. You have a copy of the message, haven’t you?”
“Yes, do you wish to see it?”
“No, but he does. Has anybody entered the store since you were there?”
“Nobody, that is no one but a couple of girls.”
“What did they look like? Describe them.”
“Why,” Jane faltered, “I did not really notice. I was not looking for
girls. I was watching to see that no other men entered the store.”
Carter shook his head.
“You ought to have spotted them, too. You never can tell who the
Germans will employ. They have women spies, too,—clever ones.”
“I never thought of their using girls,” protested Jane.
“Humph,” snapped Carter, “ain’t we using you? Ain’t one of our best
little operatives right this minute working in a nursegirl’s garb
pulling a baby carriage with a baby in it up and down Riverside Drive?
Well, it can’t be helped. You’d better beat it down-town to the Chief
right away.”
“I’ll take a subway express,” said Jane, feeling somewhat crestfallen
at his implied suggestion of failure.
Twenty-five minutes later found her once more in Mr. Fleck’s office.
Thrilling with the excitement of it all she told him in detail how she
had followed old Hoff and of his peculiar actions in the bookstore.
“And here,” she said, presenting the postcard, “is an exact copy of the
cipher message he left there. I copied every figure, in the columns,
just as they were set down. I don’t suppose though you’ll be able to
make head or tail out of it. I know I can’t.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” smiled Chief Fleck, as he took the card.
“When you get used to codes, most of them identify themselves at the
first glance—at least they tell what kind of a code it is. That’s one
thing about the Germans that makes their spy work clumsy at times. They
are so methodical that they commit everything to writing. Now the most
important things I know are right in here”—he tapped his head. “Every
once in a while they ransack my rooms, but they never find anything
worth while. Now this code”—he was studying the card intently—“seems to
be one of a sort that our friends from Wilhelmstrasse are ridiculously
fond of using. It is manifestly a book code.”
“A book code,” Jane repeated perplexedly. “I don’t understand.”
“It is very simple when two persons who wish to communicate with each
other secretly both have a copy of some book they have agreed to use.
They write their message out and then go through the book locating the
words of the message by page, line and word. That’s what the three
columns mean. Our only problem is to discover which is the book they
both have. They often employ the Bible or a dictionary or—”
He stopped abruptly and studied the columns of figures.
“This code,” he went on, “on its face is from a book that has at least
544 pages. One of the pages has at least 76 lines—that’s the middle
column—so the book must be set in small type.”
“What book do you suppose it is?” asked Jane interestedly. She was glad
now that she had listened to Carter. She was sure she was going to like
being in the service. It was all so interesting, and she was learning
so many fascinating things.
“If my theory is right those letters indicate that the book used was an
almanac. That’s the book that Wilhelmstrasse made use of when a
wireless message was sent in cipher to the German ambassador directing
him to warn Americans not to sail on the Lusitania. They betrayed
themselves at the Embassy by sending out to buy a copy of this almanac.
Let’s see how our theory works out.”
Taking up an almanac that lay on his desk he began turning to the pages
indicated in the first column of figures, checking off the lines
indicated in the second column and putting a ring around the words
marked by the third column of figures.
“Let’s see—page 534—fifth line—second word—that’s (eight). Now
then—page 331—that’s the chronology of the war in the almanac, so I
guess we are on the right track—fifty-fourth line—sixth
word—(transport).”
“Isn’t it wonderful!” cried Jane.
“Damn them,” he exploded. “I know we are on the right track. Some
transports with our troops sailed this morning, and already the German
spies are spreading the news, hoping to get it to one of their
unspeakable U-boats.”
Quickly he ran through the rest of the cipher, writing it out as he
went along:
EIGHT—TRANSPORT—SAILED—THURSDAY—15,000—INFANTRY—FIVE DESTROYERS.
As Fleck finished the message his face became almost black with rage.
“Damn them,” he cried again, “in spite of everything we do they get
track of all our troop movements. Their information, whenever we
succeed in intercepting it, is always accurate. If I had my way I’d
lock up every German in the country until the war was over, and I’d
shoot a lot of those I locked up. Until the whole country realizes that
we are living in a nest of spies—that there are German spies all around
us, in every city, in every factory, in every regiment, on every ship,
everywhere right next door to us—this country never can win the war.”
“What does the ‘97’ at the end mean?” questioned Jane timidly, a little
bit frightened at his outburst, yet more than ever realizing the vast
importance of his work—and hers.
“Oh, that’s nothing. Probably old Hoff’s number. Most spies are known
just by numbers.”
“Yes, of course,” said Jane, flushing as she recalled that she herself
was now “K-19.” Was she a spy? Was Mr. Fleck a chief of spies? She
always had looked on a spy as a despicable sort of person, yet surely
the work in which they both were engaged was vital to American success
at arms—a patriotic and important service for one’s country.
“I suppose,” she said thoughtfully, unwilling to pursue the chain of
her own thought any further, “that there is evidence enough now to
arrest old Mr. Hoff right away.”
“You bet there is,” said Mr. Fleck emphatically, “but that is the last
thing I am thinking of doing yet. He is only one link in a great chain
that extends from our battleships and transports there in the North
River clear into the heart of Berlin. We’ve got to locate both ends of
the chain before we start smashing the links. We’ve got to find who it
is in this country that is supplying the money for all their nefarious
work, from whom they get their orders, how they smuggle their news out.
Most of all we have got to find where the end of the chain is fastened
in our own navy. The traitors there are the black-hearted rascals I
would most like to get. They are the ones we’ve got to get.”
“Yes, indeed,” assented Jane, suddenly recalling the navy lieutenant
she had seen in the Ritz chatting so confidentially with old Otto
Hoff’s nephew. Was he, she wondered, one of the links in the terrible
chain? Was he the end—the American end of the chain?
“We’re certain about the old man now,” said Fleck, rising as if to
indicate that the interview was at an end. “We’ve got to get the young
fellow next. There is nothing in this to implicate him. That’s your
job. Find out all you can about him. Get acquainted with him, if
possible. That’s one of the weakest spots about all German spies. They
can’t help boasting to women. Try to get to know this Fred Hoff. It’s
most important.”
“I’ll do more than try,” said Jane spiritedly. “I’ll get acquainted
right away. I’ll make him talk to me.”