THE MISSING MESSAGE
After Jane left Carter at the drug-store, he did not cross immediately
to the bookshop opposite. His detective work was not of that sort. He
strolled leisurely around the corner long enough to give some
directions to his two aides waiting there and then, moving across the
street, paused in front of the window of books as if something there
had attracted his attention. All the while he was keeping a sharp eye
for any person who looked as if they might be connected in any way with
old Hoff. Satisfied that his entrance was unobserved he strolled
casually in and began looking over the volumes in the lending library.
The lone clerk in the store—a young woman—at first volunteered some
suggestions, but as they went unheeded she returned to her work of
posting up the accounts.
As soon as her attention was occupied Carter moved at once to the end
of the shelf that Miss Strong had indicated and removed the fifth book.
To his amazement he found nothing whatever concealed between the
leaves. The books on either side on the same shelf failed to yield up
anything. He tried the shelf above and the shelf below. Perhaps Miss
Strong had been mistaken in the directions. He examined the books at
the other end. There was nothing there. He recalled that the girl had
said that no one except two girls had entered the store between the
time she had discovered and copied the cipher and the time of his
arrival. If these girls had not taken the message away there could be
only one other explanation—the clerk in the bookstore must have removed
it and concealed it somewhere.
“Which of the war books do you think the best?” he asked for the
purpose of starting a conversation.
“There’s that many it is hard to say, sir,” the young woman answered.
Something in her inflection made him look sharply at her. Her accent
surely was English, or possibly Canadian. A few judicious questions
quickly brought out the information that she came from Liverpool and
that she had three brothers in the British army. Carter decided that it
was preposterous to suspect her of being in league with German agents.
There was only one other thing that could have happened. Some one
else—some one who had eluded Miss Strong’s notice—had removed the
cipher message.
Promptly he had telephoned to her to meet him. He was glad that he had
done so, for her evident perturbation as she answered the ’phone both
interested and puzzled him. Pausing just long enough to report to Chief
Fleck, he hastened to the rendezvous, arriving there first. He selected
a bench apart from the others, where the wall jutted out from the walk,
and seating himself, idled there as if merely watching the river. In
obedience with his instructions Jane, when she arrived, planted herself
nonchalantly on the same bench, and paying no attention to him,
pretended to be reading a letter.
Presently Carter rose and stretching himself lazily, as if about to
leave, turned to face the Drive, his keen eyes taking in all the
passers-by. Apparently satisfied, he sat down abruptly and turned to
speak to the girl beside him.
“All right, K-19,” he said, “it’s safe. Now we can talk.”
“I’ve got such a lot to tell,” cried Jane.
“First,” said Carter, “just where did you put that cipher message when
you put it back?”
“What!” cried the girl, her face blanching, “wasn’t it there? Didn’t
you find it?”
Carter shook his head.
“It must be there,” she insisted. “Are you sure you looked in the right
book—the fifth book from the end on the second shelf on the up-town
side of the store.”
“It’s not there. I examined every book there, on the shelves above and
below and at the other end, too.”
“The clerk in the store, that girl—must have hidden it,” cried Jane
with conviction.
“That’s not likely. She’s an English girl—from Liverpool. She has three
brothers fighting on the Allies’ side. We can leave her out of it.”
“Who else could have taken it?”
“There’s only one answer,” said Carter slowly and impressively. “Some
one went into that store between the time you copied the message and
the time I met you at the drug-store. You told me no one but a couple
of girls had entered. Was there any one else? Think—think!”
“There was no one,” said Jane thoughtfully, “no one except the two
girls together. I never thought of suspecting them.”
“What did they look like? Could you identify them?”
“I did not notice them particularly,” Jane confessed. “I was expecting
Mr. Hoff’s confederate to be a man.”
“They’re using a lot of women spies,” asserted Carter. “Don’t you
remember what the girls looked like?”
“One of them,” said Jane thoughtfully, “wore an odd-shaped hat, a sort
of a tam with a red feather.”
“Would you know the hat again if you saw it?”
“I think—I’m sure I would.”
“Well, that’s something. Watch for that hat, and if you ever see it
again trail the girl till you find out where she lives. If you locate
her telephone Mr. Fleck at once. And now, what has happened to you?”
“I’ve so much to tell, important, very important, I think.”
She hesitated, wondering how much Carter was in the chief’s confidence.
Did he know the import of the cipher message she had discovered? Ought
she to talk freely to him?
“Do you know what those numbers meant?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “about the eight transports sailing. The Chief told
me about it.”
“Well,” she said, with a sigh of relief, “I have become acquainted with
young Mr. Hoff already. I’ve just had luncheon with him.”
“That’s fine,” he cried enthusiastically. “A lucky day it was I ran
across you.”
“When you ’phoned me he was there in our apartment, he and a navy
lieutenant, Mr. Kramer.”
Attentively he listened as she told of the ruse by which she had
inveigled them into coming to luncheon, reminding him that it was the
same naval officer that he himself had seen in close conversation with
Hoff at the Ritz the day before. He nodded his head in a satisfied way.
“They are together too much to be up to any good,” he commented. “Tell
me the rest. What made you so rattled when I ’phoned you?”
He listened intently as she told of finding young Hoff standing right
behind her as she had inadvertently mentioned aloud “the fifth book.”
“Do you suppose,” she questioned anxiously, “that he overheard me and
understood what we were talking about? He left right away after that. I
do hope I didn’t betray the fact that they are being watched.”
“We can’t tell yet,” said Carter. “The precautions they take and the
roundabout methods they have of communicating with each other show that
all Germany’s spies constantly act as if they knew they were under
surveillance. In fact, I suppose every German in this country, whether
he is a spy or not, can’t help but notice that his neighbors are
watching him—and well they might.”
“I don’t see why,” cried Jane, “Mr. Fleck did not have old Mr. Hoff
locked up right away. He could not do any more damage then, or be
sending any more messages about our transports.”
“That wouldn’t have done the least bit of good,” said Carter
decisively. “Watching our transports sail and spreading the news is
only one of many of their activities. Somewhere in this country there
is a master-council of German plotters, directing the secret movements
of many hundreds, perhaps many thousands of spies and secret agents.
They have their work well mapped out. They have men fomenting strikes
in the government shipyards and stirring up all kinds of labor
troubles. Others are busy making bombs and contriving diabolical
methods of crippling the machinery in munition plants. A flourishing
trade in false passports is being carried on, enabling their spies to
travel back and forth across the Atlantic in the guise of American
business men, ambulance drivers, Red Cross workers and what not. Still
others of their agents are detailed to arrange for the shipping of the
supplies Germany needs to neutral countries. By watching shipping
closely they gather information, too, that is of value to the U-boat
commanders. Every time there is any sort of activity against the draft,
or peace meetings, or Irish agitation, we find traces of German
handiwork. We have dismantled and sealed up every wireless plant we
could find in America except those under direct government control, yet
we are positive that every day wireless messages go from this country
somewhere—perhaps to Mexico or South America, and from there are
relayed to Germany, probably by way of Spain. Think of the enormous
amount of money required to finance these operations and keep all these
spies under pay. While we try to thwart their plans as we find them,
all our efforts are constantly directed toward discovering who controls
and finances their damnable system. We seldom if ever arrest any of the
spies we track down, but keep watching, watching, watching, hoping that
sooner or later the master-spy will be betrayed into our hands.”
“You don’t think then,” said Jane disappointedly, “that old Mr. Hoff is
one of the important spies.”
“We can’t tell yet. He may be just one of the cogs—perhaps what they
call a control-agent. We don’t know yet. Germany has been building up
her spy system forty years, and it is ingenious beyond imagination. Her
codes are the most difficult in the world. It took the French three
years and a half to decipher a code despatch from Von Bethmann Hollweg
to Baron von Schoen. By the time they had it deciphered in Paris the
Germans had discovered what they were doing and had changed the code.
It is seldom any one of the German spies knows much about the work that
other spies are doing. The rank and file merely get orders to go and do
such a thing, or find out about such a thing. Often they are not told
what they are doing it for. They obey their orders implicitly in detail
and make their reports, get new orders and go on to do something else.
Only their master spy-council here knows what the summary of their
efforts amounts to. Arresting old Hoff, or a dozen more like him, would
not cripple them much. Other men would be assigned in their places, and
the nefarious work would go on.”
“I don’t know,” insisted Jane thoughtfully. “I believe that old Mr.
Hoff is a far bigger spoke in the wheel than you think. I watched his
face as I followed him this morning. He is a man of great intelligence,
and I should judge a man of education.”
“They’d hardly be using a man of that sort to carry messages,” objected
Carter. “Maybe you’re right. We have not watched him long enough to
find out. We’ve got nothing yet on the young fellow. Maybe he’s the
real boss of the outfit. At any rate he is the one the Chief is anxious
to have you keep tabs on. Are you to see him again?”
“Oh, yes,” the girl answered quickly, a touch of color coming to her
face, “I think so. I asked him to come to see me. I think—in fact I’m
sure—he will. Do you want me to watch the bookshop to see if they leave
any more messages there?”
“No,” said Carter. “I’ve got one of my men assigned to that. You keep
after the young fellow. Say, does your father keep an automobile?”
“Yes, but it’s been put up for the winter. We’re going to bring it out
as soon as Dad can find a chauffeur. Our man—the one we had last
year—has been drafted, and good chauffeurs are scarce now. Why did you
ask?”
“I’ll find you a chauffeur,” said Carter decisively.
“You mean”—Jane hesitated—“a detective?”
Carter grinned.
“An agent like you and me. K-27 is an expert chauffeur and mechanic
with fine references. His last job was with the British High
Commission, and they gave him good testimonials.”
“What do you want him to do?”
“Driving the Strong car makes a good excuse for him to be around
without exciting suspicion. He might even come up-stairs once in a
while to get orders or do little repair jobs around the apartment. Some
day, supposing the people next door were all out, he might even succeed
in planting a dictograph so that you could sit there in your room and
hear all that was going on and what the Hoffs talked about. That would
help a lot. If ever he was caught prowling about the hall, the fact
that he was your chauffeur would provide him with an alibi. Do you
think you can fix it up with your father?”
“I’m sure of it. When can he come?”
“The sooner the better—to-night—to-morrow.”
“I’ll tell Dad at dinner to-night that I’ve learned of a good chauffeur
and have asked him to come in at eight this evening.”
“Fine,” said Carter. “He’ll be there. And don’t forget to report once a
day to the Chief.”
“I won’t.”
“And if anything unexpected turns up,” said Carter, “and you need help,
take a good look at that nurse that is passing.”
Jane turned curiously to inspect a buxom girl in a drab nurse’s costume
who was wheeling a baby carriage along the sidewalk near-by. Seeing
herself observed the girl stopped, and at a sign from Carter wheeled
her charge up to where they were standing.
“K-22,” said Carter, “I want to introduce you to K-19.”
Gravely the two girls, nodding, inspected each other.
“She always wears a blue bow at her neck,” Carter added, “so you can
recognize her by that.”
The girl smilingly nodded again and wheeled the carriage on up the
Drive.
“Who is she?” Jane asked eagerly, turning to Carter.
“Just K-22,” said the agent, “and all she knows about you is that you
are K-19. That’s the way we work in the service mostly. The less one
operative knows about another the better, for what you don’t know you
can’t talk about.”
“Doesn’t she even know my name?” persisted Jane.
“She may have found it out for herself while she has been watching the
Hoffs, but we didn’t tell her. Nobody in the service knows who you are
except the Chief and myself—and of course K-27 will have to know if he
takes the chauffeur’s job.”
“What is his name?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Carter gravely. “I haven’t seen his
references, so I don’t know what name they are made out in. You can
find out what to call him when he reports to-night. You’ll see that he
gets the job?”
“Indeed I will,” answered Jane, experiencing a sense of relief at the
prospect of having some one at hand in the household with whom she
could discuss her activities.
And as she had anticipated she had little difficulty in interesting her
father in the subject of a new chauffeur. Mr. Strong for several days
had been trying to find one without success.
“You say this man’s last place was with the British High Commission.”
“Some one of the girls was telling me,” she prevaricated. “I asked her
to tell him to come here to-night at eight. He ought to be here any
minute.”
Presently the candidate for the place was announced.
“Mr. Thomas Dean to see about a chauffeur’s position,” the maid said as
she brought him in, and while her father questioned him, Jane studied
him carefully.
He could not be more than thirty, she decided, and the voice in which
he answered her father’s questions was surely a cultivated one. It
would not have surprised her in the least to have learned that he was a
college man. Even in his neat chauffeur’s uniform he seemed every inch
a gentleman. He had been driving a car for twelve years, he explained.
No, he did not drink and had never been arrested for speeding.
“Are you a married man?”
Jane listened curiously for his answer to this question of her
father’s. Surely it would be far more interesting if he wasn’t. Of
course, he was a chauffeur and a detective, but somehow she could not
help feeling, perhaps because of his easy manner, that more than likely
most of the cars he had driven were cars that he himself had owned.
K-27 she decided was going to be quite a satisfactory partner to work
with.
“There’s just one thing,” said her father. “You say you are not
married. I can’t understand why it is that you are not in the army.”
“I am not eligible,” said Thomas Dean calmly, though Jane thought she
could detect a twinkle in his eye. “One of my legs has been broken in
three places.”
“But there are things a young fellow can do for his country besides
marching,” insisted Mr. Strong. “The government needs mechanics, too.”
“I know,” said Thomas Dean, almost humbly, “but I have a mother, and my
father is dead.”
Jane smiled a little to herself at his answer. She noted how carefully
he had avoided saying anything about having a mother to support. It
would not have surprised her in the least to have learned that he was a
millionaire, yet her father, ordinarily shrewd in judging men,
apparently was satisfied.
“Supporting a mother, I suppose, comes first,” he said. “Well, Dean,
when can you come?”
“To-morrow morning if you like,” the new chauffeur answered, nodding
gravely to Jane as he withdrew.
Mr. Strong, as soon as they were alone, spoke enthusiastically about
the young man, complimenting Jane on having discovered him, and as he
did so a revulsion of feeling swept over her. For the first time she
realized into what duplicity her work for the government was leading
her. She had pledged her word to Chief Fleck that she would keep her
activities an absolute secret even from her parents. Already she was
deceiving them, bringing into the household an employee who really was
a detective, a spy. She was tempted to tell her father, at least, what
she was doing. He, she knew, was filled with a high spirit of
patriotism. While he might not wholly approve of what she herself was
doing she might be able to convince him of the necessity of it. If she
could only tell him, her conscience would not trouble her, but there
was her promise—her sacred promise; she couldn’t break that.
While with troubled mind she debated with herself between her duty to
her parents and her duty to her country, one of the maids came in with
a box of flowers for her.
Eagerly she cut the string and opened the box. Chief Fleck especially
wanted her to cultivate young Hoff’s acquaintance. If her suspicion as
to the sender were correct, she could feel that she had made an
auspicious beginning.
In a tremor of excitement she snatched off the lid of the box and tore
out the accompanying card from its envelope.
“Mr. Frederic Johann Hoff,” it read, “in appreciation of a most
profitable afternoon.”
Wondering at the peculiar sentiment of the card she tore off the
enclosing tissue paper from the flowers. Orchids, wonderful, delicately
tinted orchids, nestled in a sheaf of feathery green fern—five of them.
“Five orchids—the fifth book—a profitable afternoon.”
Jane felt sure now she had betrayed the government’s watchers to at
least one of the watched.