Finally the detective showed his police card, and I then extended to
them my Eagle-stamped courier passport, following it with my Embassy
credential and my certificate of identity or personal passport. These
three made a complete case and I refused to show anything more,
insisting that my status had been adequately established. The officials
continued to jabber and argue, having been continuously impolite during
the entire episode, a mode of behavior which was a notable divergence
from my previous experiences with agents of the Imperial Secret
Service. The chief detective, whose name was Werther, continued to hang
around, trying to talk with me, evidently determined to get further
information about my plans.
I do not pretend to judge whether all this was mere accidental
clumsiness and rudeness on the part of stupid detectives or if it was
something very much deeper, prompted by someone higher up. One is,
however, inclined to doubt inefficiency in the Prussian Secret Service
and there may have been reasons why German authorities would count it
of great importance to know the contents of my pouch....
I was followed constantly thereafter, as previously, the men being
cleverly changed at every opportunity. My every step was dogged. At
Wesel a detective sat at the same table in the station restaurant
while I ate dinner. Such being the case I was, to say the least, a bit
annoyed.
At Essen during a fifteen-minute wait for a change of trains, I
withdrew to one end of the platform after having rechecked the two big
mail-sacks. I was standing alone, with a detective, as usual, off in
the background, when a man who looked a typical raw-boned Englishman
drew near and hung around, staring at me. I looked him up and down and
then turned my back thinking, "Another detective!" It was impossible
to believe that an Englishman could be, of all places, in Essen.
He finally approached me, saying in English of a most perfect and
pronounced British accent, "Are you an American?" I replied, "Yes, are
you a police officer? If so, please show me your card." He replied,
"No, I am in a delicate position. I am trying to go to England this
evening. I have American papers. You must see me through. I am ----."
I cut him short by saying that I regretted, etc., and deliberately
walked away. From that time on this man dogged me everywhere, trying
to pass through gates with me and to get into the same compartments,
even following me to the same hotels and restaurants, and trying to
make anything he could out of my presence. I never lost sight of him
for long until we finally set foot in England, where he did finally
arrive, in spite of some very close shaves. I last saw him giving me a
very ugly look as I landed at Folkestone. Whatever his nationality, he
certainly was a spy in the German service.