THE LISTENING EAR
“I don’t know what is the matter with Jane,” sighed Mrs. Strong a few
days after the employment of the new chauffeur.
“She’s not ill, is she?” responded her husband. “I never saw her
looking more fit.”
“She looks all right,” said her mother. “It is the peculiar way she is
acting that bothers me. She spends hours and hours moping in her room,
and then there are times when she takes notions of going out and is
positively insistent that she must have the car.”
“Maybe she’s in love,” suggested Mr. Strong, resorting to the common
masculine suspicion.
“With whom?” retorted his wife indignantly. “I don’t believe there is
an eligible man under forty in all New York. None of the men are
thinking about marriage these days. They all want to go to France, even
the married ones. I believe you’d go yourself if you were a few years
younger.”
“I certainly would,” announced her husband enthusiastically.
“Jane tells me she is writing a novel,” Mrs. Strong continued, “and
that’s why she stays in her room so much. I hope she won’t turn out to
be literary.”
“Don’t worry,” advised Mr. Strong. “With all the men off to war you’ll
find young women doing all kinds of funny things to work off their
energy. If a girl can’t be husband-hunting, she’s got to be doing
something to keep busy. There are worse things than trying to write
novels. Jane is all right. Let her alone.”
So, even though her mother’s suspicions had been aroused, the girl in
the next few days managed to spend many hours with her ears glued to
the receiver of the dictograph without being discovered. In the Hoffs’
apartment Dean had succeeded in locating it over the dining-room table,
concealed in the chandelier, and in Jane’s room the other end rested in
the back of a dresser drawer that she always carefully locked when
absent.
The novelty of listening for bits of her neighbors’ conversation
quickly wore off. To sit almost motionless for hours listening,
listening intently for every sound, hearing occasional words spoken
either in too low tones or too far distant to make them understandable,
to record bits of conversation that sounded harmless, yet might have
some sinister meaning, became a most laborious task. Yet persistently
Jane stuck at it. The greater knowledge she gained of the plottings of
the German agents, the more important and vital she realized it was for
every clue to be diligently followed in the hope that the trail might
at last reach the master-spy, whose manifold activities were menacing
America.
In general she was disappointed with the results of her listening. To
be sure they had furnished indisputable evidence of something they
already had ascertained—that old Hoff, despite being a naturalized
American, still was a devoted adherent of the ruler of Germany. Nightly
as he and his nephew sat down to dinner she could hear his gruff,
unpleasant voice ceremoniously proposing always the same toast:
“Der Kaiser!”
Even when the younger Hoff was dining out, as he sometimes did, Jane
could hear the old man giving the toast, presumably with only the old
servant for an auditor. That the woman, too, was a spy, as well as
servant, Jane had known since the day on the roof, but so far neither
she nor Dean had been able to make anything out of her handkerchief
code, though both were sure the messages related to the sailings of
transports.
Only once had she heard anything that she deemed really important. One
evening, as uncle and nephew dined, there had been an acrimonious
dispute.
“Have you it yet?” the uncle had asked in German.
“Not yet,” Frederic had answered.
His seemingly simple reply for some reason appeared to have stirred the
elder man’s wrath. He broke into a volley of curses and epithets,
reproaching his nephew for his delay. In the rapid medley of oaths and
expostulations Jane could distinguish only occasional
words—“afraid”—“haste”—”all-highest importance”—“American swine.” The
younger Hoff had appeared to exercise marvelous self-control.
“There is yet time,” he answered calmly.
“Donnerwetter,” the old man had exclaimed. “There is yet time, you
say—and Emil the wonder-worker almost ready has. It must be done at
once.”
The outburst over, old Hoff had subsided into inarticulate mutterings,
evidently busy with his food, leaving Jane to wonder futilely who Emil
might be, what he meant by the “wonder-worker,” and what particular
task had been assigned to the nephew that must be performed
immediately. She had hastened to report this conversation in detail to
Chief Fleck, but if he understood what it was about he had taken
neither Jane nor Thomas Dean into his confidence.
Other things, too, Jane had learned and reported, which she knew the
chief appreciated even though he was sparing in his thanks and
compliments. She had learned through her almost constant listening that
Lieutenant Kramer was a regular visitor, coming to the Hoff apartment
or seeing Frederic Hoff somewhere every other day. Unfortunately he was
always conducted into one of the inner rooms, so that no more of the
conversation than the ordinary greetings and farewells ever reached
Jane’s ears. The mere fact of his coming so regularly to the Hoffs
convicted him of treachery, in Jane’s mind. What proper business could
an American naval officer have in the home of two German agents? The
excuse that Frederic Hoff was a delightful and entertaining friend was
entirely too flimsy and unsatisfactory.
Nothing that she had overheard—and within her heart she felt glad that
it was so—in any way as yet incriminated young Hoff. When she dared to
think about it, she found herself almost believing, certainly at least
wishing, that the nephew was not involved in his uncle’s activities.
Most of his time, in fact, was spent out of the apartment. He
frequently went out early in the morning, not returning until the early
hours of the next morning. The old man, on the contrary, always stayed
at home until eleven o’clock. At that hour his telephone would ring.
The telephone was located near the dining room, so Jane could easily
hear his conversations. Invariably some brief message was given to him,
a name, which he repeated aloud as if for verification.
As Jane overheard them she had set them down:
Thursday—“Jones.”
Friday—“Simpson.”
Saturday—“Marks.”
Sunday—“Heilwitz.”
Monday—“Lilienthal.”
Tuesday—“Wheeler.”
As she sat by the hour listening Jane kept pondering over these names.
What could they mean? Were they, too, a code of some sort? Always, as
soon as this word had come to him, old Hoff went out. Could they be,
she wondered, passwords by which he gained access somewhere to
government buildings or places where munitions were being made or
shipped?
Meanwhile her acquaintance with Frederic Hoff had been progressing
rapidly. As she had suggested he had called on her and had been
presented to her father, and on the next Saturday they had gone to a
matinée together. She had been eager to see what her father thought of
him, for Mr. Strong, she knew, was regarded as a shrewd judge of men.
“What does that young Hoff do who was here last night?” her father had
asked at the breakfast table.
“He’s in the importing business with his uncle, I think,” she had
answered.
“Where’d you meet him?”
“He lives in the apartment next door. Lieutenant Kramer introduced
him.”
“He’s German, isn’t he?”
“Oh, no,” said Jane, almost unconsciously rallying to defend him, “he
was born in this country.”
“Well, it’s a German name.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“He talks well,” her father said, “and seems to be well-bred.”
It was with reluctance, too, that Jane admitted to herself that the
better acquainted she became with Frederic Hoff the more fascinating
she found his society. She was always expecting that by some word or
action he would reveal to her his true character. At the matinée she
had waited anxiously to see what he would do when the orchestra played
the national anthem. To her amazement he was on his feet almost among
the first and remained standing in an attitude of the utmost respect
until the last bar was completed. If he were only pretending the rôle
of a good American, he certainly was a wonderful actor. As her
admiration for him increased and her interest in him grew she found
that almost her only antidote was to try to keep thinking of his face
as she had seen it the night that K-19—the other K-19—had been so
mysteriously murdered. She kept wondering if Chief Fleck had made any
further discoveries about the murder and resolved to ask him about it
at the first opportunity. She therefore was delighted when on Tuesday,
as she made her regular report by telephone, he asked if she could come
to his office that afternoon with Dean to discuss some matters of
importance. They found Carter already with the chief when they arrived.
“Thanks to your work, Miss Strong, and to Dean’s dictograph,” said the
chief, “we have made considerable progress. We have learned a lot more
about the cipher messages.”
“You have learned it through me,” cried Jane in amazement.
“Yes,” said the chief, smiling, “from that list of names you reported.”
“What were they, a cipher, a code?” questioned the girl breathlessly.
“No, nothing like that. They are merely the names of various innocent
and unsuspecting booksellers in various parts of the city.”
“How did you discover that?”
“In the simplest and easiest way possible. I listed all the names you
reported and studied them carefully, trying to find their common
denominator. They were not in the same neighborhood, so it was not
locality. They were not all German, so it was not racial. I looked them
up in the telephone directory, checking up the numbers of the
telephones of the Jones, the Simpsons, but that gave no clue. Then, as
I looked through the telephone lists, I discovered that there was a
bookstore kept by a man of each name. Then I understood. It is a simple
plan for throwing off shadowers.”
“You mean that Mr. Hoff goes to a different bookstore each day to leave
a code message?”
“That’s it. The spy who gets the messages each morning calls him up by
’phone, mentioning just the one word. From that Mr. Hoff knows just
where to go, concealing the message in a book before agreed upon.”
“The fifth book,” interrupted Dean.
“Not always,” explained Fleck. “It depends on whether there are five
letters in the name telephoned. I have located and copied several more
of the messages.”
“But who gets the messages he leaves? Who takes them away from the
bookshops?” asked Jane, mindful of her own failure in that respect.
“It’s a girl, or rather two girls together, though possibly only one of
them is in the plot. Very likely the other may not know what her
companion is doing.”
“To whom does this girl take them?”
“That is still a mystery,” said the chief. “We have ascertained who the
girl is, where she lives. Her actions have been watched and recorded
for every hour in the twenty-four for the last three days, and yet we
don’t know what she does with these messages. Carter has a theory—tell
us about it, Carter.”
“In accordance with instructions,” began Carter, as if he was making
out a report, “I had operatives K-24 and K-11 shadow the party
suspected. On two different occasions they followed her to a bookstore
and back home again. She was accompanied on one occasion by her younger
sister. Each time she went directly home and stopped there, neither she
nor her sister coming out again, and no person visiting the apartment,
but—”
“Here’s the interesting part,” interrupted Fleck.
“On both occasions within a couple of blocks of the bookstore she
passed a man with a dachshund. She did not speak to the man, but each
time she stopped to pet the dog.”
“Was it the same man both times?” asked Dean.
“Apparently not,” replied Carter, “but it may have been the same dog.
Dachshunds all look alike.”
“Go on,” said the chief.
“Now my theory is that that girl was instructed to walk north until she
met the man with the dog. I’ll bet anything that code message went
under the dog’s collar. The next time she gets a message I’m going to
get that dog.”
“It seems preposterous,” scoffed Dean.
“Rather it shows,” said Fleck, “that these spies all suspect they are
being watched, and that they resort to the most extraordinary methods
of communication to throw off shadowers. They have used dachshunds
before. There’s a New England munition plant to which they used to send
a messenger each week to learn how their plans for strikes and
destruction were progressing. They put a different man on the job each
time to avoid stirring up suspicion. At the station there would always
be two children playing with a dachshund. The spy would simply follow
them as if casually, and they would lead him to a rendezvous with the
local plotters. Now, Miss Strong,” he said, turning to Jane, “I brought
you down here for two reasons. First, to give you an inkling of how
important your task is, and second, to ask you to undertake still
another task for us. Are you still willing to help?”
“More than ever,” said the girl firmly.
“The one disappointment is that we are getting no evidence whatever to
involve or incriminate young Hoff. To-morrow, while he and his uncle
are away on their usual auto trip, I am going to have the apartment
thoroughly searched.”
Jane’s face blanched. She recalled what a strain it had been on her
nerves the day she watched on the roof while Dean installed the
dictograph. She felt hardly equal to the task of ransacking desks and
drawers.
“There will be no one at home but the old servant. She can be easily
disposed of. It is imperative that the search be made at once. There is
evidence that what they are planning—evidently some big coup—is nearing
the time for its execution. We must find it out in order to thwart
them. I have got to know what old Hoff meant by the ‘wonder-worker!’ He
said that it was nearly ready. I suspect that it is some new engine of
destruction. We must prevent any disaster to transports or munition
factories, if that’s what they have in mind.”
“You think it’s a bomb plot?” asked Jane.
“I don’t know what it is. These empire-mad fools stop at nothing.
Nothing is sacred to them, women, children, property. With fanatical
energy and ability they commit murders, resort to arson, use poisons,
foment strikes, wreck buildings, blow up ships, do anything, attempt
anything to serve the Kaiser. Karl Boy-ed spent three millions here in
America in two months, and Von Papen a million more. What for? Ten
thousand dollars to one man to start a bomb factory, twenty-five
thousand dollars to another to blow up a tunnel. Millions on millions
for German propaganda was raised right here, and it is far from all
spent yet. We’ve got to find out what the wonder-worker is and destroy
it before it destroys—God knows what.”
“Very well,” said Jane with quiet determination, “I’ll search their
apartment.”
“No, not that,” said the chief, “I’ll send some fake inspectors to test
the electric wiring, and they’ll do the searching. I do not know for
sure that the Hoffs suspect you of watching them, but I’m taking no
chances. It will be just as well for you and Dean to be out of the way
to-morrow all day, so that you will have an alibi. Germany’s secret
agents are suspicious of everybody. They do not even trust their own
people. What I want you and Dean to do is to try to follow the Hoffs
and see where they go. I don’t want to use the same persons twice to
trail them as they may get suspicious.”
“I can easily do that,” said Jane, feeling relieved. “I’ll tell Mother
I want our car for all day.”
“No, don’t use your own car. They might recognize it. I’ll provide
another one. They gave two of my men the slip last week somewhere the
other side of Tarrytown. Let’s hope they are not so successful this
time.”
“But won’t they recognize me?”
“Not if you disguise yourself with goggles and a dust coat. Dean can
make up, too. He had practice enough at college, eh, Dean?”
Jane turned to look interestedly at Dean, who had the grace to color
up. She was right then. He was a college man, working in the secret
service not for the sake of the job but for the sake of his country.
“Of course I can disguise myself too,” she said enthusiastically, a new
zest in her work asserting itself, now that she knew her principal
co-operator was probably in the same social stratum as herself.
“You can rely on us, Chief,” said Dean, as they left the office
together. “We’ll run them down.”
As they emerged into Broadway and turned north to reach the subway at
Fulton Street, Dean, with a warning “sst,” suddenly caught Jane’s arm
and drew her to a shop window, where he appeared to be pointing out
some goods displayed there. As he did so he whispered:
“Don’t say a word and don’t turn around, but watch the people passing,
in this mirror here—quick, now, look.”
Jane, as she was bidden, glanced, at first curiously and then in
recognition and amazement, at a tall figure reflected in the mirror, as
he passed close behind her. It was a man in uniform. Regardless of
Dean’s warning she turned abruptly to stare uncertainly at the military
back now a few paces away.
“Did you recognize him?” cried Dean.
“It—it looked like Frederic Hoff,” faltered the girl.
“It was Frederic Hoff,” corrected her companion, “Frederic Hoff in the
uniform of a British officer, a British cavalry captain!”