THE IMPERIAL SECRET SERVICE
After New Year he had organized a little informal dancing club among
the Americans. He called it the Cinderella Cotillion Coterie, in
alliterative compliment to the daintiness of the ladies. He was the
self-constituted secretary and sole official.
For the birthday of the Father of our country he sent out to the
members a rollicking printed invitation reading:
In honor of our George's birthday, which comes as usual this
year on February the twenty-second, the inimitable CCCs will
hold one of their regular reunions in pumps, beginning
punctually at nine. Full beer orchestra as usual. No flowers or
singing of hymns.
By order
JAMES ALEXANDER DEMING, Sec., CCC.
R. S. V. P.--the Senate and the Roman People.
The notice at least gave evidence that Jim had been in Italy.
Several weeks after the pleasant event, when he had forgotten all
about it, he was loafing in his room one morning after breakfast,
smoking an eccentric pipe from his collection, and comforting
himself over his decision once more that German teachers and
grammars are a failure.
A thump was heard at his door. He called out _Herein!_ whereat a
person in uniform strode in and stuck into Deming's hands a majestic
communication from which he made out with some difficulty that he
was peremptorily ordered to appear at Police Headquarters at eleven
that forenoon. Fully conscious of the political innocence of his
conduct, he welcomed this new diversion and, humming the latest
opera bouffe air, he dressed in his best with a posy in his lapel.
His gay feelings were a little dampened at the Platz where he
encountered a massive solemnity and sullen looks as if he were an
arch criminal of State. A ponderous minor individual, not unarmed,
commanded him to be seated in front of his desk and, eying him
sternly, handed over one of Jim's invitations to the George
Washington party.
"Do you know of this?"
"Yes, sir," replied Jim, surprised that this harmless missive had
turned up among the Police, and wondering what it could all be
about.
"Have you authorization?"
"Authorization, sir?"
"What _is_ this?" roared the petty functionary.
"Why, nothing at all. It means dance--ball--a little dance we had."
"Dance--ball." The other repeated the words with a severity that
champed upon its bits. "Are you this party?" He tried to pronounce
Jim's formidable name on the card.
"Yes, sir."
"What does this mean--Sec., CCC?" he roared again.
Deming was getting upset, confused besides by his inadequate
vocabulary.
"I don't know in German, but in English we say Secretary of the
Cinderella Cotillion Coterie."
"Ah, you say _Secretary_. It is English." And an enlightened
satisfaction furrowed the hardened face of the interlocutor. Then,
abruptly to Deming's relief:
"You may go."
As Jim rose to leave he found a court flunkey at either elbow. They
escorted him out with a military precision and flourish. He
congratulated himself on the easy way he had got through with it. He
must have somehow managed it pretty well.
Two days later, in the evening, an attendant from the Intelligence
Office ushered himself into Deming's room without announcement. He
bore a summons for the next day.
"Well, of all the damned fools!" Jim exclaimed to himself. "They
don't seem to know I'm a free American citizen. I'll tell them this
time. They are getting too familiar--walking into a chap's room
without waiting to be invited."
This time he was brought before a higher official with a more
exalted mien, and manners of inextinguishable anger. He held the
tell-tale notice of February twenty-second in his horny paw. Deming
was this time not asked to sit down.
"Who's this George?" was demanded.
"Why, that's our great George," confirmed Jim, sharing with jaunty
confidence this bit of universal knowledge.
"George--George--the king of England," was the gratifying
conclusion.
"And what does this mean?"
"That's Senate and the Roman People. That's just a joke."
"Senate--Senate! Official."
Several of the glowering army folk stood about. They took on
menacing airs of importance, following the lead of their chief. An
international intrigue, involving a foreign king and senate, was
being rapidly unraveled. Deming was so suddenly and summarily
dismissed again that he forgot to tell them proudly he was a free
American citizen--with a hundred million people behind them.
He was becoming worried and consulted the experience of Miles
Anderson whom he had, of course, met through Kirtley.
"In the toils of the German high police!" chuckled Anderson. "That
is certainly funny."
"But what am I to do to get rid of them?" inquired Jim anxiously.
"It seems I have no privacy. And I don't want to be going to the
Platz all the time. Hadn't I better turn it over to our Consulate?"
"Heavens, no. American consuls won't do anything for you. They are
considerably Germanic anyhow--work in with the local authorities.
It's our easy-going American way. If you want anything done, go to
the British or Japanese. Then you will get action. Our official
attitude seems to be that an American ought not to be away from
America. If he is away, he must look out for himself--has few rights
abroad. The Germans respect the English and Japs for they mean
business and their consular service is not to be trifled with."
"I don't want to go to foreigners--get this thing all advertised
about--go to all that trouble."
"Then tell the Germans to go to hell. That's the only way to get on
with Germans. They are used to being sworn at. They will quit you
then. If you don't, they will keep you trotting to Headquarters for
six months. If you try to be nice, try to placate them, you'll
simply get into hotter water. They don't understand such things.
They think they are uncovering a vast conspiracy. Cinderella
Cotillion Coterie! Gad, of all the farcical happenings I have come
across even in Germany!"
Deming was braced up by this advice, and if anything more came of
the incident he determined to see it through with some of Anderson's
good American bluff and independence.
The following morning he was plashing about in his bath tub when the
door was bluntly opened and then partly closed. He faced around in
amazement at the audacity of anyone boldly intruding into a bath
room--the only place left in Germany for the self-respecting Naked
Cult. His eyes fell upon another uniformed emissary from the Police.
This one was very obsequious and bowed and scraped his excuses for
the unseemly interruption.
"Excuse me, mein Herr, but I heard water splashing and I thought you
were at breakfast."
Jim had adopted the fashion of talking derogatorily in English to
Germans who, not understanding, usually agreed with his sentiments.
This always amused him and satisfied his injured feelings.
"That's the way with you Germans. When you hear a noise, you think
someone is eating."
"Ja wohl, ja wohl, mein Herr," assented the incomer with crude
agreeableness, all the while grinning in shamefacedness. And
floating in the water Jim received another order, from the
retreating and apologizing minion of the law, to stand at attention
at Headquarters. He was unfamiliar with courts of any sort and did
not know he should ask for an interpreter. That the officials had
not as yet used one showed apparently an attempt to let the accused,
thus handicapped, stumble into an incriminating confession.