SPY AND SUPER-SPY
"SHE'S torpedoed, sir!" exclaimed the coxswain as the "Pompey," after
slowly recovering herself again, listed until her main for'ard-deck
scuttles were awash.
"Hard-a-starboard!" ordered Tressidar. Then under his breath he
added, "And those poor little kids on board."
Slowly the pall of smoke dispersed. Outwardly the cruiser showed no
signs of her injuries. Swarms of seamen were strenuously engaged in
lowering a collision-mat over the hole well beneath the water-line.
Others were swinging out the boats.
The "Pompey" was doomed: not by the result of a hostile torpedo, but
by an internal explosion. Stoker Jorkler's plot had succeeded,
although not to the full extent that he had expected. The detonator
had blown a large hole in the wing-plates, but fortunately the
explosion had not communicated itself to the forward magazine. Had it
done so, the end of the cruiser would have been sudden and complete:
not one soul on board would have escaped.
Aft, although the shock of the explosion was distinctly felt, the
effect was at first hardly noticeable. Amongst the visitors there was
not the slightest trace of panic; in fact, it was with great
difficulty that the gunroom officers' could prevail upon their
youthful guests to abandon their play and go on deck. Promptly orders
had been given to flood the magazines, thus preventing further danger
in that direction.
Skilfully the duty boat was brought alongside the stricken cruiser,
while almost at the same moment the pulling-boat containing Eric
Greenwood and the money-bags rounded the ship's stern.
Assisted by brawny arms, the ladies and children were taken down the
accommodation-ladder, the lower platform of which was now three feet
under water, and placed in the boats. With full complements the
steamboat and the one in which the A.P. was on duty pushed off,
slowing down when at a safe distance to await developments.
Other assistance was speedily at hand. Since the cruiser's heavy
boats could not be hoisted out in time and those in davits were
insufficient for the officers and crew, it was as well that the
"Pompey" was within easy reach of other vessels.
A dozen or more badly injured men were the next to be taken off;
then, with the utmost precision and discipline, the rest of the crew
gained the boats, but not before the collision-mat party for'ard were
up to their knees in water.
Clouds of steam issued from the boiler- and engine-rooms, while at
intervals muffled explosions of compressed air showed that the
water-tight doors, already strained by the explosion, were unable to
withstand the terrific pressure of the inflowing sea.
Captain Raxworthy, true to the time-honoured traditions of the
service, was the last to quit the doomed ship. Barely had the boat
into which he had jumped pushed off a dozen lengths when the huge
vessel, shivering like a living creature, turned completely on her
beam ends.
For some moments she remained thus, then, heeling still more until
her topmasts touched the bed of the harbour, she disappeared from
sight, with the exception of one end of her navigation-bridge that
still projected a couple of feet above the surface.
As soon as the men landed they were formed up and mustered by
divisions. The result of the roll-call showed that nineteen men were
missing, and in addition to the dozen seriously injured, thirty men
required surgical treatment. Amongst those missing was Stoker James
Jorkler.
And when the liberty men returned it was informed that one man had
"run." The absentee was reported under the name of Stoker Flanaghan.
In a clump of gaunt pine-trees, halfway up the summit of Ben
Craich--the loftiest of the hills in the vicinity of Auldhaig
Firth--stood the man hitherto known as Rhino Jorkler.
It is hardly necessary to remark that he was not a Canadian-born
British subject. He was a German-American, his real name being Otto
Oberfurst. By profession, previous to the outbreak of war, he was a
mining-engineer, since then he had been a Secret Service agent in the
employ of the German Government.
At first he was engaged in minor activities, under the direction of
the notorious Boy Ed, but his zeal so impressed his employer that
before long he was entrusted with a desperate mission in the Province
of Quebec. Succeeding, he was handsomely rewarded out of the huge
sums lavished by the German Government upon the questionable Secret
Service and given an opportunity of transferring his activities to
Great Britain.
Much as he preferred to work single-handed, he was ordered to report
himself to a certain von Schenck, a director of the Teutonic
espionage system that prevails in the United Kingdom.
Von Schenck had been, with the exception of periodical visits to
Germany, resident in Great Britain for nearly thirty years. At sixty
his powers of intellect were undimmed, and since success in espionage
depends more upon wits than upon bodily strength and activity, his
physical infirmities aided rather than embarrassed his sinister work.
He was of small stature, waxen-featured and grey-haired. He could
speak English with a fluency that was faultless enough to take him
anywhere without arousing suspicion. From other spies' experiences he
knew that a precise regard for the intricate rules of English grammar
was frequently a trap. Living unostentatiously in a small house on
the outskirts of Edinburgh, he posed as a retired merchant under the
assumed name of Andrew McJeames.
With few exceptions von Schenck knew none of his vast army of spies
by name, nor did they know of his identity. They were merely
numbers--pawns in the great game of espionage played according to the
rules and regulations of the degenerate Hun. In a few cases, however,
the master spy was personally acquainted with his immediate
subordinates, and amongst these was Otto Oberfurst.
It was at von Schenck's instigation that Oberfurst joined the British
Navy at Portsmouth. He reckoned on the enormous odds of the newly
enlisted stoker being promptly drafted to a vessel in the North Sea.
By joining at the Hampshire naval port, less suspicion would be
likely to be aroused than if he had entered the service at Rosyth or
Cromarty.
Von Schenck was a keen motorist. For miles around the Scottish
capital his powerful Mercédès car was known. His kindness in
placing himself and his motor at the disposal of a certain military
hospital was merely a cloak for a twofold purpose. It gave him an
excuse to use the car, in spite of the half-hearted requests from the
Government backed by a firm appeal from the Royal Automobile Club; it
also enabled him to pick up valuable information from the wounded
Tommies, whose pardonable desire to relate their adventures often led
them to overrun their discretion. He made a point of never asking a
question on service matters of his guests. He relied upon his skill
in leading up to any particular subject of which he required
information, and sooner or later his wishes were gratified. Within
forty-eight hours the information was in the hands of the German
Admiralty.
From his place of concealment Otto Oberfurst sat and waited while the
lengthening shadows betokened the approach of another night. At
frequent intervals he consulted his watch. It was almost identical
with the one he had left in the double bottom of the "Pompey."
Occasionally he directed his attention to the dark brown ribbon that
marked the position of the main road leading to Auldhaig, but his
gaze was chiefly concentrated upon the land-locked harbour. The
"Pompey," lying on the extreme west of the line of moorings, was
plainly visible. To all outward appearances she looked to be the
embodiment of armed security, protected as she was by triple lines of
anti-submarine devices that barred the entrance to the firth. In
addition to the numerous warships, ranging from large armoured
cruisers down to the swift, well-armed craft of the destroyer
flotilla, the harbour was protected by four distinct anti-aircraft
batteries armed with the very latest type of guns. The positions of
these concealed batteries the spy knew with startling accuracy. He
also knew that a short distance inland from Auldhaig, and situated in
a remote and naturally sheltered valley, was the important munition
factory of Sauchieblair. Three times had German aircraft sought to
discover the exact position of these immense works. On the last
occasion bombs had missed the main cordite factory by two hundred
yards; but that was more by good luck than good judgment, for never
in the course of their flight over the Scottish coast had they been
absolutely certain of their bearings.
Four o'clock. Otto Oberfurst, his hands shaking in spite of his
strong nerve, awaited the result of his treacherous handiwork.
Ten--twenty--thirty seconds passed, but still no terrific explosion
that would rend the cruiser from stem to stern. A wave of horrible
uncertainty swept over him. Perhaps suspicion had been aroused and
the double bottom had been searched; or a flaw in the intricate
mechanism of the timing-gear had prevented the deliberate
catastrophe. In either case the failure would be of grave
consequences to the German Secret Service plans. The actual proof
that an attempt had been made to destroy a warship by internal
explosion would make it advisable to discontinue activities in that
direction. So long as the British attributed similar disasters to
accident, well and good. They could set forth as many theories as
they liked, provided that the real reason was known only to von
Schenck and his associates.
Suddenly Oberfurst's cogitations were interrupted by the sight of a
cloud of smoke leaping skywards from the cruiser. Four seconds later
the muffled boom of the explosion was borne to his ears. He could see
the vessel listing, but to his intense disappointment she showed no
signs of being blown to pieces.
"Himmel!" he muttered. "It is not the magazine this time. I must have
miscalculated its position. No matter, another English ship is out of
action. Better luck next time!"
He waited until the "Pompey" had disappeared from view beneath the
waters of Auldhaig Harbour, then, walking rapidly, he followed a
mountain path leading away from the town.
Darkness had fallen when he arrived at a small stone cottage situated
in a remote glen. With the ease of a man who was familiar with his
surroundings, Oberfurst climbed the stile in the wall enclosing the
garden, threaded his way along the winding path, and, avoiding an
invisible obstruction in the form of an iron pig-trough, tapped
softly upon the window-pane.
"Who's there?" inquired a high-pitched voice.
"All right, mother," replied the spy reassuringly.
Without further delay the door was unbarred and Oberfurst entered the
cottage.
"I've run," he declared. "Couldn't stick it any longer."
"Eh?" The old woman eyed him sharply. "What's wrong now?"
"Mother" Taggach, the occupier of the cottage, was a shrivelled-up
woman of seventy. She was an illicit distiller of whisky and a
receiver of stolen property. The former occupation she plied in this
remote cottage; the latter was carried on in a small shop in the
outskirts of Edinburgh, where her son kept a marine store. Her minor
activities consisted in assisting naval and military deserters,
although since the war there was little call for her assistance in
that direction. The few "bad hats" of the fleet at Auldhaig soon
found out that at Mother Taggach's there were facilities for spending
leave with the possibilities of obtaining spirits which, owing to the
stringent regulations, were denied them in the town.
Stoker Jorkler was one of her patrons, but Mother Taggach, in spite
of her failings, was a strong anti-German. Not for one moment did she
suspect the true character of the spy.
"Yes," he continued in answer to her questions. "I've run--deserted.
Nerves all gone."
"A pretty sailor you make," remarked the old woman witheringly. "So
you want me to fix you up? It's very risky, you know."
"Very," agreed Oberfurst. "But if I'm nabbed I won't peach. Let's
have a suit of civilian togs and before morning I'll be miles away."
"Five pounds, then," demanded Mother Taggach.
The spy produced the money. The old woman carefully counted and
examined the notes, then from a wooden box she drew a bundle of
clothes.
"There you are," she said. "Get along upstairs. You'd best be clear
of my house in less than ten minutes."
Quickly Oberfurst effected the change. Beyond wearing civilian garb
he made no attempt to disguise himself.
"Here's my old gear," he said, handing the woman a bundle containing
his uniform.
"All right, I'll burn them," she remarked. "Though 'tis a waste of
good stuff. Where might you be making for, might I ask?"
"Wick," he replied. "I've got a pal there."
He went out into the night and walked quickly until he approached the
spot where the mountain path struck the highway running parallel with
the east coast. Here he sat down, and from his pocket produced a
razor and a piece of soap. In very short time he had shaved the top
of his head and his eyebrows, while in place of his smooth chin he
sported a greyish beard that would escape detection except under
critical inspection. Then, instead of turning northward--for he had
deliberately misinformed Mother Taggach--he set his face to the south
and tramped briskly in the direction of far-distant Edinburgh.