COVERING HIS TRACKS
FOR the second time within forty-eight hours Karl von Preussen
tramped the deserted road leading to Nedderburn Junction railway
station. On the previous occasion he called himself Captain George
Fennelburt; on the second he had assumed the name of Ronald
Broadstone.
He travelled light, but in place of his khaki, leather-reinforced
haversack he carried a small portmanteau, which, owing to unforeseen
circumstances, was practically empty. He decided that at the first
favourable opportunity he would replenish a portion of his kit and
replace that lying at the Auldhaig Hotel. But in the portmanteau was
an automatic pistol of British manufacture. Its possession showed
economy and discrimination in small details. Since it had been
acquired from a battlefield, it had cost von Preussen nothing; and
being of British make it was in keeping with the spy's rôle as an
officer of the Royal Air Force.
He walked quickly and unhesitatingly along the bleak, unfrequented
road. Delay meant the great possibility of missing the night train
and a consequent detention at Nedderburn, which was too close to
Auldhaig to be pleasant. He had good reasons for steering clear of
Auldhaig "for the rest of the duration." The place had been a
"wash-out," and since von Preussen was of a superstitious nature he
always avoided scenes of previous failures.
Beyond meeting a belated shepherd, who greeted the spy in an unknown
Highland dialect, von Preussen arrived at Nedderburn without
encountering anyone. The station had just been lit up, two feeble
paraffin lamps providing the necessary illumination for the safety of
passengers. Peeping through the high wooden palisade, von Preussen
took stock of the people on the up-platform.
There were half a dozen "Jocks" with full equipment, including "tin
hats" and rifles with the breech-mechanism bound in strips of oiled
cloth.
"Highlanders returning from leave to the Front, curse them!" muttered
von Preussen.
He had reason for his maledictory utterance. In the earlier days of
the war, when he was a lieutenant of Uhlans, he soon learnt to have a
wholesome respect for the stalwart, bare-kneed, kilted men from
"Caledonia stern and wild." He recalled an incident at a certain
village about twenty kilometres from Mons. His squadron had overtaken
twenty tired Highlanders tramping along the _pavé_. Observation by
means of binoculars showed that they were bordering on utter fatigue.
Most of them wore blood-stained bandages. They had no officer with
them. They looked to be an easy prey to the lances of his Uhlans. Von
Preussen never had a worse shock. Instead of the kilted men taking to
their heels at the sight of the charging cavalry and thus falling
easy victims to the steel-tipped lances, they coolly threw themselves
into a circle fringed by a ring of glittering bayonets. Three volleys
in quick succession were too much for the Uhlans to stomach. They
galloped off, amongst them von Preussen groaning and cursing with a
bullet wound through his left shoulder.
In the present instance he decided that he had nothing to fear from
these men. A little further on were three greatcoated officers. With
a grunt of satisfaction von Preussen noted that their cap-bands were
not black with the badge of the crown, eagle and wings. He had good
cause to avoid Air Force officers and men just at present.
Beyond stood a sturdily-built man with a long black coat and soft
hat--evidently a clergyman. He was trying to decipher a poster in the
feeble glimmer of the station lamps.
The changing of the signal from red to green warned the spy that it
was time to enter the station. Outside the entrance stood an old and
somewhat decrepit porter who, after inquiry as to whether the new
arrival had any luggage and receiving a negative reply, hobbled off
to ring the bell. At the doorway stood a girl ticket-collector.
"Warrant, miss!" exclaimed von Preussen, holding out a buff paper.
The girl examined it perfunctorily.
"Carlisle--change at Edinburgh!" she announced.
The spy thanked the girl for the gratuitous and unnecessary
information. To change at Edinburgh was his intention. By so doing he
could withhold and destroy the faked railway warrant, which, had it
been retained by the ticket collector, would eventually be presented
to the Air Ministry for payment. Already von Preussen had travelled
thousands of miles over British railways without payment, and never
once had he surrendered the buff slip that would otherwise have been
a clue to his movements.
With much hissing of steam the night mail train drew up at the
platform. The handful of travellers hurried along, peering into the
dimly-lit compartments in the hope of finding vacant seats. Von
Preussen happened to secure one in the company of five naval officers
who were already "bored stiff" with their tedious journey from a far
northern base. The spy soon discovered that there was precious little
information to be picked up from them.
At Perth the spy changed compartments. He now found himself in the
company of four rather lively subalterns and the clergyman he had
noticed on Nedderburn Junction platform. The latter, deep in the
pages of the _Church Times_, took no notice of the new arrival.
"Tickets, please!"
A gigantic inspector examined the tickets and vouchers of the
occupants of the compartment.
"Change at Edinburgh," he remarked, as he clipped von Preussen's
warrant. "Through train to Carlisle at 7.5."
With the resumption of the journey, the clerical passenger offered
von Preussen a copy of an evening paper as a prelude to opening
conversation. He was, he informed the spy, travelling from Nedderburn
to Hawick, where he was about to take up an Army chaplaincy at Stobs
Camp. In return von Preussen told a fairy tale to the effect that he
was joining an R.A.F. balloon station near Carlisle and gave some
vivid and totally imaginary stories of his adventures in the air. Yet
in spite of several attempts to draw the subalterns into the
conversation, the hilarious representatives of the "One Star Crush"
limited their discourse to anecdotes calculated to bring blushes to
the cheeks of the padre.
It was nearly six in the morning when the train reached Edinburgh.
Without difficulty von Preussen passed the barrier and emerged into
Princes Street. For the rest of the day he remained in seclusion at a
small private hotel just behind Edinburgh's main thoroughfare.
He had a nasty shock that evening. The evening papers came out with
an announcement that there was a reward of one hundred pounds for
information leading to the detection of a certain individual giving
the name of George Fennelburt, aged about thirty; height, five feet
seven or eight; broadly built, fair featured with blue eyes. Believed
to be wearing the uniform of a captain in the Royal Air Force, and
last seen in the neighbourhood of Auldhaig.
Von Preussen broke into a gentle perspiration. Furtively he glanced
at his companions in the commercial room. They were, fortunately for
him, deep in a game of chess.
The spy had registered in the name of Captain Broadstone. That was
now, of itself, a decidedly risky proceeding, since, the hue and cry
being raised, there would most certainly be a stringent examination
of registration forms at all the hotels.
Even in his panic von Preussen was curious. He could form no
satisfactory theory on the matter. How was his presence known, since
it was reasonable to conjecture that the authorities knew he had gone
on the fishing expedition that had been so unpropitious to his
temporary companions? Obviously the notice offering a reward for his
apprehension had not been issued before his visit to Auldhaig; and
since he, with others, was missing and presumed to be drowned, why go
to the length of advertising for his arrest? Perchance U 247 had been
captured and the British prisoners released. Even in that case none
of those knew the true facts. When they were sent below they were
under the impression that he, von Preussen, was also a prisoner of
war. In the absence of detail the newspaper notice was terrible in
its gaunt wording.
"I will have to find a different disguise," he decided. "But how? To
purchase civilian clothing would be courting instant suspicion. I
cannot get it myself, nor can I trust anyone to obtain it for me. Yet
to persist in appearing in this Air Force uniform would be simple
madness. It is equally futile to dye my hair and eyebrows. The people
here would notice the difference instantly. And if I changed my hotel
I would run fresh and possibly greater risks. _Himmel!_ What can I
do?"
He glanced suspiciously round the room. The players, deep in their
game, paid no attention to anyone or anything else.
"There's one blessing," he soliloquised. "I registered as Broadstone,
not Fennelburt. I think I'll go to bed. It's safer."
He went, placed his automatic pistol under his pillow, and found
himself looking at the empty portmanteau. Then, switching off the
light, he attempted to court slumber.
It was in vain. For hours he lay wide awake, racking his ready brain
for a solution to the apparently insurmountable difficulty. He heard
the occupant of the next room retiring, the click of the electric
light switch, and very soon after, the first of a series of loud
snores.
"At all events," thought the spy, "the fellow is luckier than I: he
can sleep soundly."
The sleeper and the empty portmanteau: subconsciously von Preussen
connected the two. Why, he knew not, but gradually and with
increasing lucidity a plan matured. Why not steal the sleeper's
clothes, pack them into his portmanteau, and change in a remote
country spot?
"It may throw suspicion on me," he thought, "but it's worth trying.
Given four or five hours' start, I'll throw them off the scent."
Cautiously von Preussen got out of bed and opened the door. A light
burned in the corridor. By its aid he could see pairs of boots
standing outside the various rooms: either the servant responsible
for the cleaning of them was late, or else the task of collection was
left till early in the morning.
Silently the spy picked up a boot belonging to the person he intended
to rob and examined it carefully. It was an "eight":--a similar size
to his. So far so good; he could only hope that the fellow resembled
him in build and height. He must at all events avoid the incongruity
of donning the clothes of a man five feet two or six feet one.
Very deftly von Preussen tried the door-handle. The sleeper had
omitted to bolt the door. The snores continued.
Creeping into the room the intruder closed the door. The lawful
occupant had evidently not intended to wake up and switch on the
light, otherwise he would not have thrown back the heavy curtains and
admitted the moonlight. Neatly folded on a chair were the man's
clothes. For once the methodical habits of their owner were to his
disadvantage.
Quickly von Preussen collected the articles, and, pausing only for a
few minutes to make sure that the corridor was deserted, regained his
own room.
Ten minutes later, having crammed his portmanteau with his
newly-gotten booty, he again turned in.
He had arranged to be called at eight-thirty. He saw no object in
anticipating the hour. Let the occupier of the adjoining room
discover his loss. The management would not dare to question the
officer guest or examine his portmanteau.
At seven he was awakened by a furious ringing and a bellowing voice.
He smiled grimly. The fun was about to commence. He could hear
various members of the hotel staff talking excitedly, while the
indignant tones of the robbed guest dominated all.
Pleading a headache caused by the noise and that he was suffering
from shell-shock, von Preussen had his breakfast brought to his
bedroom. Then, having shaved and paid his bill, he grasped his now
heavy portmanteau and left the hotel.
He made his way to Princes Street, feeling horribly self-conscious.
At every salute he received and returned, he felt that the man who
gave it had his suspicions. He made haste to board the first tramcar,
which, he noticed, was marked "Portobello and Joppa."
Before the car had passed Scott's Monument a couple of R.A.F.
officers boarded it and, to the spy's consternation, took seats
immediately behind him.
Presently one of them, a captain, tapped von Preussen on the
shoulder:
"Can you oblige me with a match, old bean?"
The old bean complied without a word.
The next question came with startling suddenness:
"'Spose you haven't come across Captain Fennelburt?"
The spy, controlling himself with an effort, turned his head and
laughed.
"Hope you don't think I'm the fellow?" he inquired. "If, so, you
won't get that hundred pounds, old son. I heard this morning that he
had been collared at Perth."
"Is that so?" asked the other, a subaltern. "What was all the racket
about?"
"Misappropriation of mess funds, I believe," replied von Preussen. He
now felt more at ease and master of the situation. He forced the
conversation on trivial topics until his undesirable acquaintances
reached their destination.
The spy remained until the car stopped at the terminus; then he
started to walk briskly inland, reproving himself for his bad
manoeuvre in taking a car bound for a coast town.
A four hours' stiff walk brought him to a desolate moor, standing
well on eight hundred feet above the sea. Sheltering from possible
observation behind an overhanging rock, he made the necessary change
from Captain Broadstone, R.A.F., to plain Thomas Smith, commercial
traveller, representing Collar & Grab, wholesale provision merchants
(and incidentally profiteers), of Liverpool.
For the next four days he remained at Galashiels, lying low and
explaining his presence by the plausible statement that the samples
his firm had dispatched had gone astray. On the fifth he decided to
go to York, where he knew of a Polish Jew, Polinski by name, who was
in reality a German Secret Service agent.
At Newcastle he caught a fast train bound for London. He now
travelled third class, finding himself in the company of four
bluejackets proceeding "on leaf."
Within a few minutes of the train leaving the station the commercial
traveller was apparently fast asleep. He was keenly on the alert to
gather information, and his wishes were realised.
"S'elp me," exclaimed one of the men. "We'd got a blanked U-boat
blazing away at us like mad. 'Course we didn't reply, an' they didn't
'arf give us a dustin'. Then up comes another of the swine an' starts
firin', only 'er shells goes wide. Still our owner sticks it without
so much as winkin'. Hopin', you see, to bag 'em both."
"And did 'e?" inquired another.
"Not 'e, worse luck," replied the other. "Just as we was about ter
drop our false bulwarks an' give 'em perishin' socks, one of the
U-boats slipped in a couple o' tawpedas into t'other an' blew 'er to
blazes."
"Wot for?" asked a bearded petty officer.
"Wot for?" snorted the other. "To do us out of our bloomin' prize
money, of course. There was we, with our decks littered with sheep
and cattle, stickin' it for four mortal hours in the hope we'd put it
abaft the swine, an' all for nothin'. The U-boat was one of our own
mystery ships, rigged up to bamboozle Fritz. She was orf right into
Heligoland Bight to do 'er dirty work, if I remember right."
Von Preussen chuckled inwardly. Here indeed was a "scoop." Before
eight that evening the information, transmitted in the form of an
apparently genuine business telegram to a firm in Amsterdam, was in
the hands of the German Admiralty.