1,82 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Charles River Editors
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 408
Ähnliche
SPIES OF THE KAISER: PLOTTING THE DOWNFALL OF ENGLAND
William Le Queux
KYPROS PRESS
Thank you for reading. If you enjoy this book, please leave a review or connect with the author.
All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.
Copyright © 2016 by William Le Queux
Interior design by Pronoun
Distribution by Pronoun
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Spies of the Kaiser: Plotting the Downfall of England
IF ENGLAND KNEW
THE PERIL OF ENGLAND
CHAPTER I. HOW THE PLANS OF ROSYTH WERE STOLEN
CHAPTER II. THE SECRET OF THE SILENT SUBMARINE
CHAPTER III. THE BACK-DOOR OF ENGLAND
CHAPTER IV. HOW THE GERMANS ARE PREPARING FOR INVASION
CHAPTER V. THE SECRET OF THE NEW BRITISH AEROPLANE
CHAPTER VI. THE SECRET OF THE NEW ARMOUR-PLATES
CHAPTER VII. THE SECRET OF THE IMPROVED “DREADNOUGHT”
CHAPTER VIII. THE GERMAN PLOT AGAINST ENGLAND
CHAPTER IX. THE SECRET OF OUR NEW GUN
CHAPTER X. THE SECRET OF THE CLYDE DEFENCES
CHAPTER XI. THE PERIL OF LONDON
CHAPTER XII. HOW GERMANY FOMENTS STRIFE
CHAPTER XIII. OUR WIRELESS SECRETS
CHAPTER XIV. PLAYING A DESPERATE GAME
SPIES OF THE KAISER: PLOTTING THE DOWNFALL OF ENGLAND
IF ENGLAND KNEW
No sane person can deny that England is in grave danger of invasion by Germany at a date not far distant.
This very serious fact I endeavoured to place vividly before the public in my recent forecast, The Invasion of 1910, the publication of which, in Germany and in England, aroused a storm of indignation against me.
The Government, it will be remembered, endeavoured to suppress its publication, because it contained many serious truths, which it was deemed best should be withheld from the public, and on its publication—in defiance of the statements in the House of Commons, and the pressure brought upon me by the Prime Minister—I was denounced as a panicmonger.
But have not certain of my warnings already been fulfilled?
I have no desire to create undue alarm. I am an Englishman, and, I hope, a patriot. What I have written in this present volume in the form of fiction is based upon serious facts within my own personal knowledge.
That German spies are actively at work in Great Britain is well known to the authorities. The number of agents of the German Secret Police at this moment working in our midst on behalf of the Intelligence Department in Berlin are believed to be over five thousand. To each agent—known as a “fixed-post"—is allotted the task of discovering some secret, or of noting in a certain district every detail which may be of advantage to the invader when he lands. This “fixed-agent” is, in turn, controlled by a travelling agent, who visits him regularly, allots the work, collects his reports, and makes monthly payments, the usual stipend varying from £10 to £30 per month, according to the social position of the spy and the work in which he or she may be engaged.
The spies themselves are not always German. They are often Belgians, Swiss, or Frenchmen employed in various trades and professions, and each being known in the Bureau of Secret Police by a number only, their monthly information being docketed under that particular number. Every six months an “inspection” is held, and monetary rewards made to those whose success has been most noteworthy.
The whole brigade of spies in England is controlled by a well-known member of the German Secret Police in London, from whom the travelling agents take their orders, and in turn transmit them to the “fixed-posts,” who are scattered up and down the country.
As I write, I have before me a file of amazing documents, which plainly show the feverish activity with which this advance guard of our enemy is working to secure for their employers the most detailed information. These documents have already been placed before the Minister for War, who returned them without comment!
He is aware of the truth, and cannot deny it in face of these incriminating statements.
It is often said that the Germans do not require to pursue any system of espionage in England when they can purchase our Ordnance maps at a shilling each. But do these Ordnance maps show the number of horses and carts in a district, the stores of food and forage, the best way in which to destroy bridges, the lines of telegraph and telephone, and the places with which they communicate, and such-like matters of vital importance to the invader? Facts such as these, and many others, are being daily conveyed by spies in their carefully prepared reports to Berlin, as well as the secrets of every detail of our armament, our defences, and our newest inventions.
During the last twelve months, aided by a well-known detective officer, I have made personal inquiry into the presence and work of these spies, an inquiry which has entailed a great amount of travelling, much watchfulness, and often considerable discomfort, for I have felt that, in the circumstances, some system of contra-espionage should be established, as has been done in France.
I have refrained from giving actual names and dates, for obvious reasons, and have therefore been compelled, even at risk of being again denounced as a scaremonger, to present the facts in the form of fiction—fiction which, I trust, will point its own patriotic moral.
Colonel Mark Lockwood, Member for Epping, sounded a very serious warning note in the middle of 1908 when he asked questions of the Minister for War, and afterwards of the Prime Minister, respecting the presence of German spies in Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, and elsewhere. He pointed out that for the past two years these individuals, working upon a carefully prepared plan, had been sketching, photographing, and carefully making notes throughout the whole of East Anglia.
With truth, he declared that this organised system of espionage was for one reason alone, namely in preparation for a sudden raid upon our shores, for “the Day"—as it is known in Germany—the Day of the Invasion of England.
The replies given by His Majesty’s Ministers were colourless, though they both actually confessed themselves unable to deal with the situation! Under our existing law it seems that a foreign spy is free to go hither and thither, and plot the downfall of England, while we, ostrich-like, bury our head in the sand at the sign of approaching danger.
The day has passed when one Englishman was worth ten foreigners. Modern science in warfare has altered all that. All the rifle-clubs in England could not stop one German battalion, because the German battalion is trained and disciplined in the art of war, while our rifle-clubs are neither disciplined nor trained. Were every able-bodied man in the kingdom to join a rifle-club we should be no nearer the problem of beating the German invaders if once they landed, than if the spectators in all the football matches held in Britain mobilised against a foreign foe. The Territorial idea is a delusion. Seaside camps for a fortnight a year are picnics, not soldiering. The art of navigation, the science of engineering, or the trade of carpentering cannot be learned in fourteen days annually—neither can the art of war.
In response, we have held up to us the strength of our Navy. But is it really what it is represented by our rulers to an already deluded public?
Only as recently as March 29, 1909, Sir Edward Grey, replying to Mr. Balfour’s vote of censure in the House of Commons, was compelled to admit that—
“A new situation is created by the German programme. When it is completed, Germany, a great country close to our own shores, will have a fleet of thirty-three Dreadnoughts, and that fleet will be the most powerful which the world has ever yet seen. It imposes upon us the necessity of rebuilding the whole of our fleet. That is the situation.”
Germany is our friend—for the moment. But Prince Buelow now admits that the Kaiser’s telegram to President Kruger was no personal whim, but the outcome of national policy!
What may happen to-morrow?
WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
THE PERIL OF ENGLAND
WHO IS RIGHT?
SIR EDWARD GREY
In the House of Commons, March 29, 1909.
We have been informed verbally, but quite definitely, that Germany will not accelerate her naval programme of construction, and will not have thirteen ships of the Dreadnought type, including cruisers, till the end of 1912.
PRINCE BUELOW
In the Reichstag, March 29, 1909.
Great Britain has never made any proposals which the German Government regarded as a suitable basis for negotiations. Germany regards the question of limitation of armaments as outside the range of practical politics.
WHAT THE KAISER SAYS:
His Imperial Majesty the German Emperor declared:—
The prevailing sentiment among large sections of the middle and lower class of my own people is not friendly to England.—Daily Telegraph, October 28, 1908.
CHAPTER I. HOW THE PLANS OF ROSYTH WERE STOLEN
“But if the new plans for our naval base at Rosyth have already been secured by Germany, I don’t see what we can do,” I remarked. “What’s the use of closing the stable-door after the horse has been stolen?”
“That’s just what we generally do in England, my dear old Jack,” replied my friend. “We still think, as in the days of Wellington, that one Englishman is worth ten foreigners. But remember the Boer War, and what our shameful ignorance cost us in men and money. Now, as I explained last night in London, the original plans of Rosyth leaked out some time ago, and were actually published in certain Continental papers. In consequence of this, fresh plans have been prepared and adopted by the Lords of the Admiralty. It is one of these which Reitmeyer informs my father is already in German hands.”
“But is not Reitmeyer a German himself?” I asked.
“He’s a naturalised Englishman,” replied my friend Ray Raymond, drawing hard at his pipe as he stretched himself lazily before the fire of the inn-parlour. “It was he who gave the guv’nor a good deal of the information upon which he based those questions he asked in the House.”
“The Government refused to admit that German spies are at work in England,” I said.
“Yes, Jack. That’s just why I’m down here on the Firth of Forth—in order to accomplish the task I’ve set myself, namely, to prove that German secret agents are at this moment actively at work amongst us. I intend to furnish proof of the guv’nor’s statements, and by exposing the methods of these inquisitive gentry, compel the Government to introduce fresh legislation in order that the authorities may be able to deal with them. At present spies may work their will in England, and the law is powerless to prevent them.”
I was standing with my back to the fire facing my friend, who, a barrister like myself, shared with me a set of rather dismal chambers in New Stone Buildings, Lincoln’s Inn, though he had never had occasion to practise, as I unfortunately had.
As he sat, his long, thin legs outstretched towards the fire, he presented the appearance of the typical athletic young Englishman, aged about thirty, clean-shaven, clean-limbed, with an intelligent and slightly aquiline face, a pair of merry grey eyes, and light brown hair closely cropped. He was an all-round good fellow, even though his life had been cast in pleasant places. Eldest son of Sir Archibald Raymond, Bart., the well-known Cardiff coal-owner who sat for East Carmarthen, he had been with me at Balliol, we had read together, and though he now shared those dingy London chambers, he resided in a prettily furnished flat in Bruton Street, while I lived in rooms round in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, in my lonely bachelordom.
He had been adopted as candidate for West Rutland at the next election, and his party predicted of him great things. But the long-wished-for General Election was still afar off, therefore, with commendable patriotism, he had taken up the burning question of German spies in England, which had been so lightly pooh-poohed by both the Prime Minister and the Minister for War. His intention was, if possible, to checkmate their activity, and at the same time reveal to the public the fool’s paradise in which we are living now that “the Day"—as they call it in Germany—is fast approaching—the day of the invasion of Great Britain.
— Miles N.E. of Dockyard. Half-closed redoubt for infantry—Platforms for machine-guns at angles—Wrought-iron palisading at bottom of ditch.
G (in plan.) “Ferry Hills” Fort—Earth and concrete—Very deep ditches, flanked by counterscarp galleries and a stone caponier—Casemated—Probable armament—Two 9.2-inch guns, six 7.5-inch guns—Wrought-iron fraise below counterscarp.
H (in plan). Evidently intended for use against torpedo-boats and destroyers—To mount ten 4-inch quick-firing guns—Wrought-iron palisading in ditch well covered from seaward—Gorge closed by stone wall (two tiers of loopholes for musketry), flanked by caponiers with machine-guns.
I. A large and formidable work armed with—
Portion of translation of the German spy’s report upon the new naval base at Rosyth.
After Sir Archibald had put the questions in the House, the purport of which most readers will remember, he had been the recipient of many letters pointing out the presence of spies—letters which, if published, would have no doubt created a great sensation. Many of these statements Ray and I had, during the past two months, closely investigated on the spot, and what we had discovered held us both amazed and alarmed. Indeed, we had secured evidence that although spies were openly at work in certain of our eastern counties collecting all sorts of information which would be of incalculable importance to an invader, yet the chief constables of those counties had actually been instructed from head-quarters to close their eyes to the movements of inquisitive foreigners!
In the investigations upon which Ray Raymond had embarked with such enthusiasm, and which I am now permitted to chronicle in these pages, he had taken only two persons into his confidence—myself and Vera, the pretty, fair-haired daughter of Vice-Admiral Sir Charles Vallance, the Admiral-Superintendent of Portsmouth Dockyard, to whom he was engaged.
Indeed, from the first I suspected that it had been her influence that had roused him to action; she who had promised him her assistance, and who had pointed out how, by watching and unmasking the spies, he might render his King and country signal service.
At dusk that day we had, on arrival from King’s Cross, left our baggage with the hall porter of the North British Hotel in Edinburgh, had travelled from the Waverley Station to Dalmeny, and descending the hundred or so steps to the comfortable Hawes Inn, at the water’s edge, had dined there. Thence we had taken the old ferry-boat over to North Queensferry, on the opposite shore, where, in the rather bare parlour of the little Albert Hotel, directly beneath the giant arms of the Forth Bridge, we were resting and smoking.
Outside the November night was dark and squally with drizzling rain; within the warmth was cheerful, the fire throwing a red glow upon the old-fashioned mahogany sideboard with its profuse display of china and the two long tables covered with red cloths.
From my boyhood days, I, John James Jacox, barrister-at-law, had always been fond of detective work; therefore I realised that in the present inquiry before us there was wide scope for one’s reasoning powers, as well as a great probability of excitement.
I was thoroughly wiping my gold pince-nez, utterly failing to discover Ray’s reason in travelling to that spot now that it was admitted that the Germans had already outwitted us and secured a copy of at least one of the plans. Suddenly, glancing up at the cheap American clock on the mantelshelf, my friend declared that we ought to be moving and at once struggled into his coat and crushed on his soft felt hat. It then wanted a quarter to ten o’clock.
In ascending the short, steep hill in the semi-darkness, we passed the North Queensferry post office, beside which he stopped short to peer down the dark alley which separated it from the Roxburgh Hotel. I noticed that in this alley stood a short, stout telegraph-pole, carrying about sixty or so lines of wire which, coming overhead from the north, converged at that point into a cable, and crossed to the south beneath the mile-broad waters of the Forth.
Ray was apparently interested in them, for glancing overhead he saw another set of wires which, carried higher, crossed the street and ran away to the left. This road he followed, I walking at his side.
The way we took proved to be a winding one, which, instead of ascending the steep hill with its many quarries, from the summit of which the wonderful bridge runs forth, skirted the estuary westward past a number of small grey cottages, the gardens of some of which appeared to run down to the broad waters whence shone the flashing light of the Beamer and those of Dalmeny, the Bridge, and of South Queensferry.
The rain had ceased, and the moon, slowly struggling from behind a big bank of cloud, now produced a most picturesque effect of light and shadow.
The actions of Ray Raymond were, however, somewhat mysterious, for on passing each telegraph-pole he, by the aid of a small electric torch he carried in his pocket, examined it carefully at a distance of about six feet from the ground.
He must have thus minutely examined at least fifteen or sixteen when, at the sharp bend of the road, he apparently discovered something of which he was in search. The pole stood close beside the narrow pathway, and as he examined it with his magnifying-glass I also became curious. But all I distinguished were three small gimlet holes set in a triangle in the black tarred wood about four inches apart.
“Count the wires, Jack,” he said. “I make them twenty-six. Am I correct?”
I counted, and found the number to be right.
Then for some moments he stood in thoughtful silence, gazing away over the wide view of St. Margaret’s Hope spread before him.
Afterwards we moved forward. Passing along, he examined each of the other poles, until we descended the hill to the Ferry Toll, where the high road and wires branched off to the right to Dunfermline. Then, taking the left-hand road along the shore, where ran a line of telephone, we passed some wharves, gained the Limpet Ness, and for a further couple of miles skirted the moonlit waters, until, of a sudden, there came into view a long corrugated-iron building lying back from the road facing the Forth and fenced off by a high spiked-iron railing. The entrance was in the centre, with nine long windows on either side, while at a little distance further back lay a small bungalow, evidently the residence of the caretaker.
“This,” exclaimed my friend without halting, “is the much-discussed Rosyth. These are the Admiralty offices, and from here the tracing of that plan was obtained.”
“A rather lonely spot,” I remarked.
“Over yonder, beyond that ruined castle out on the rocks, where Oliver Cromwell’s mother was born, is the site of the new naval base. You’ll get a better view from the other side of the hill,” he said in a low voice.
“Who lives in the bungalow?” I inquired.
“Only the caretaker. The nearest house is on top of the hill, and is occupied by the second officer in charge of the works.”
Continuing our way and passing over the hill, we skirted a wood, which I afterwards found to be Orchardhead Wood, passed a pair of lonely cottages on the right, until we reached a lane running down to the water’s edge. Turning into this lane, we walked as far as a gate which commanded the great stretch of broad, level meadows and the wide bay beyond. Leaning over it, he said:
“This is where the new naval base is to be. Yonder, where you see the lights, is Bruce Haven.”
“Tell me the facts regarding the stolen plan as far as is known,” I said, leaning on the gate also and gazing away across the wide stretch of moonlit waters.
“The facts are curious,” replied my friend. “As you know, I’ve been away from London a fortnight, and in those fourteen days I’ve not been idle. It seems that when the first plan leaked out and was published abroad, the Admiralty had two others prepared, and into both these a commission which came down here has, for several months, been busily at work investigating their feasibility. At last one of the schemes has been adopted. Tracings of it are kept in strictest secrecy in a safe in the offices down yonder, together with larger-scale tracings of the various docks, the submarine station, repairing docks, patent slips, and defensive forts—some twenty-two documents in all. The details of the defensive forts are, of course, kept a profound secret. The safe has two keys, one kept by the superintendent of the works, Mr. Wilkinson, who lives over at Dunfermline, and the other by the first officer, Mr. Farrar, who resides in a house half a mile from the offices. The safe cannot be opened except by the two gentlemen being present together. The leakage could not come from within. None of the plans have ever been found to be missing and no suspicion attaches to anybody, yet there are two most curious facts. The first is that in July last a young clerk named Edwin Jephson, living with his mother in Netley Road, Shepherd’s Bush, and employed by a firm of auctioneers in the City, was picked up in the Thames off Thorneycroft’s at Chiswick. At the inquest, the girl to whom the young man was engaged testified to his strangeness of manner a few days previously; while his mother stated how, prior to his disappearance, he had been absent from home for four days, and on his return had seemed greatly perturbed, and had remarked: ‘There’ll be something in the papers about me before long.’ On the body were found fourteen shillings in silver, some coppers, a few letters, and a folio of blue foolscap containing some writing in German which, on translation, proved to be certain details regarding a fortress. A verdict of suicide was returned; but the statement in German, placed by the police before the Admiralty, proved to be an exact copy of one of the documents preserved in the safe here, at Rosyth.”
“Then the Admiralty cannot deny the leakage of the secret?” I remarked.
“No; but the mystery remains how it came into the young fellow’s possession, and what he was about to do with it. As far as can be ascertained, he was a most exemplary young man, and had no connection whatever with any one in Admiralty employ,” replied Ray; adding, “the second fact is the one alleged by Reitmeyer, who was, in confidence, shown a photograph of one of the larger plans.”
“Then spies are, no doubt, at work here,” I said.
“That cannot be denied,” was his reply. “This neighbourhood opens up a wide field of investigation to the inquisitive gentry from the Fatherland. Knowledge of the secrets of the defences of the Firth of Forth would be of the utmost advantage to Germany in the event of an invasion. The local submarine defences and corps of submarine miners have been done away with, yet the entrance of the estuary is commanded by strong batteries upon the island of Inchkeith, opposite Leith; the Forth Bridge is defended by masked batteries at Dalmeny at the one end and at Carlingnose at the other, while upon Inchgarvie, the rock beneath the centre of the bridge, is a powerful battery of six-inch guns. The true strength of these defences, and the existence of others, are, of course, kept an absolute secret, but Germany is equally anxious to learn them, as she is to know exactly what our plans are regarding this new naval base and its fortifications.”
“But if the new base were established, might not the Forth Bridge be blown into the water by the enemy, and our fleet bottled up by the wreckage?” I ventured to remark.
“That’s just the point, Jack,” my friend said; “whether the Rosyth works are carried out or not, the Germans would, without doubt, use their best endeavours to blow up the bridge; first in order to cut direct communication between north and south, and secondly, to prevent British ships using St. Margaret’s Hope as a haven of refuge.”
“And even in face of the document discovered upon the auctioneer’s clerk, the Government deny the activity of spies!”
“Yes,” said Ray in a hard voice. “A week ago I was up here, and examined the safe in the offices we’ve passed. I was only laughed at for my pains. I must admit, of course, that no document has ever been missing, and that the safe has not been tampered with in any way.”
“A complete mystery.”
“One which, my dear Jack, we must solve,” he said, as we retraced our steps back to North Queensferry station, where we luckily caught a train back to Edinburgh.
Next morning we travelled again to Dalmeny, and in the grey mist hired a boat at the slippery landing-stage opposite the Hawes Inn. Refusing the assistance of the boatman, Ray took off his coat and commenced to row to the opposite shore. His action surprised me, as we could easily have gone over by the steam ferry. It was high tide, and by degrees as we got into mid-stream he allowed the boat to drift towards one of the sets of four circular caissons in which the foundations of the gigantic bridge, with its bewildering masses of ironwork, were set.
Against one of them the boat drifted, and he placed his hand upon the masonry to prevent a collision. As he did so, his keen eyes discerned something which caused him to pull back and examine it more closely.
As he did so, a train rumbled high above us.
With curiosity I followed the direction of his gaze, but what I saw conveyed to me nothing. About two feet above high-water mark a stout iron staple had been fixed into the concrete. To it was attached a piece of thin wire rope descending into the water, apparently used by the bridge workmen to moor their boats.
Having carefully examined the staple, Ray rowed round to the other three caissons, a few feet distant, but there discovered nothing. Afterwards, with my assistance, he pulled back to the Dalmeny side, where, at the base of one of the high square brick piers of the shore end of the bridge, the third from the land, he found a similar staple driven. Then we returned to the pier and crossed to North Queensferry.
My friend’s next move was to enter the post office and there write upon a yellow form a telegram in German addressed to a person in Berlin. This he handed to the pleasant-faced Scotch postmistress, who, on seeing it in a strange language, regarded him quickly.
Ray remarked that he supposed she did not often transmit messages in German, whereupon she said:
“Oh, yes. The German waiter up at the Golf Club sends them sometimes.”
“Is he the only German you have in North Queensferry?” he inquired casually.
“I’ve never heard of any other, sir,” replied the good woman, and then we both wished her good-day and left.
Our next action was to climb the Ferry Hill at the back of the post office, passing the station and Carlingnose Fort, until we reached the club-house of the Dunfermline Golf Club, which commands a fine prospect over the wide estuary eastward.
No one appeared to be playing that morning, but on entering the club we were approached by a fair-headed, rather smart-looking German waiter. His age was about thirty, his fair moustache well trained, and his hair closely cropped.
I made inquiry for an imaginary person, and by that means was enabled to engage the man in conversation. Ray, on his part, remarked that he would be staying in the neighbourhood for some time, and requested a list of members and terms of membership. In response, the waiter fetched him a book of rules, which he placed in his pocket.
“Well?” I asked, as we descended the hill.
“To me,” my friend remarked, “there is only one suspicious fact about that man—his nationality.”
The afternoon we spent out at the naval offices, where I was introduced to the Superintendent and the second officer, and where I stood by while my friend again examined the big green-painted safe, closely investigating its lock with the aid of his magnifying glass. It was apparent that those in charge regarded him as a harmless crank, for so confident were they that no spy had been able to get at the plans that no night watch had ever been kept upon the place.
Through five consecutive nights, unknown to the caretaker, who slept so peacefully in his bungalow, we, however, kept a vigilant watch upon the place. But in vain. Whatever information our friends the Germans wanted they seemed to have already obtained.
Ray Raymond, however, continued to display that quiet, methodical patience born of enthusiasm.
“I’m confident that something is afoot, and that there are spies in the neighbourhood,” he would say.
Nearly a fortnight we spent, sometimes in Edinburgh, and at others idling about North Queensferry in the guise of English tourists, for the Forth Bridge is still an attraction to the sightseer.
Upon the German waiter at the Golf Club Ray was keeping a watchful eye. He had discovered his name to be Heinrich Klauber, and that before his engagement there he had been a waiter in the basement café of the Hôtel de l’Europe, in Leicester Square, London.
His movements were in no way suspicious. He lived at a small cottage nearly opposite the post office at North Queensferry with a widow named Macdonald, and he had fallen in love with a rather pretty dark-eyed girl named Elsie Robinson, who lived with her father in the grey High Street of Inverkeithing. As far as my observations went—and it often fell to my lot to watch his movements while Ray was absent—the German was hardworking, thrifty, and a pattern of all the virtues.
One evening, however, a curious incident occurred.
Ray had run up to London, leaving me to watch the German’s movements. Klauber had returned to Mrs. Macdonald’s about eight, but not until nearly eleven did he come forth again, and then instead of taking his usual road to Inverkeithing to meet the girl Robinson, he ascended the hill and struck across the golf-course until he had gained its highest point, which overlooked the waters of the Forth towards the sea.
So suddenly did he halt that I was compelled to throw myself into a bunker some distance away to escape detection. Then, as I watched, I saw him take from his pocket and light a small acetylene lamp, apparently a bicycle-lamp, with a green glass. He then placed it in such a position on the grass that it could be seen from far across the waters, and lighting a cigarette, he waited.
The light on the Oxcars was flashing white and red, while from distant Inchkeith streamed a white brilliance at regular intervals. But the light of Heinrich Klauber was certainly a signal. To whom?
He remained there about half an hour, but whether he received any answering signal I know not.
Next night and the next I went to the same spot, but he failed to put in an appearance. Then, in order to report to Ray, I joined the morning train from Perth to London.
On arrival at New Stone Buildings I telephoned to Bruton Street, but Chapman, his valet, told me that his master had slept there only one night, had received a visit from a respectably dressed middle-aged woman, and had gone away—to an unknown destination. Therefore I waited for a whole week in anxiety and suspense, until one morning I received a wire from him, despatched from Kirkcaldy, urging me to join him at once at the Station Hotel in Perth.
Next morning at nine o’clock I was seated on the side of his bed, telling him of the incident of the lamp.
“Ah!” he exclaimed after a pause. “My surmises are slowly proving correct, Jack. You must buy a bicycle-lamp down in the town and a piece of green glass. To-night you must go there at the same hour and show a similar light. The matter seems far more serious than I first expected. The enemy is no doubt here, in our midst. Take this. It may be handy before long,” and he took from his kit-bag a new .32 Colt revolver.
By this, I saw that he had resolved upon some bold stroke.
That evening, after an early dinner at the hotel, we took train to North Queensferry, and on alighting at the station he sent me up to the golf-links to show a light for half an hour; promising to meet me later at a certain point on the road to Rosyth.
I gained the lonely spot on the golf-course and duly showed the light. Then I hastened to rejoin my friend at the point he indicated, and found him awaiting me behind some bushes.
Almost at the moment we met, a female figure came along beneath the shadow of a high wall. She was a poorly dressed girl, but the instant she addressed my friend I recognised by her refined voice that it was Vera, the dainty daughter of the Admiral Superintendent.
“Elsie is waiting down by the Ferry Barns,” she said quickly, in a low whisper, after greeting me. “Heinrich has not kept his appointment with her.”
“You have the note?” he asked. “Recollect what I told you concerning the man Hartmann.”
“Yes,” she replied. Then, addressing me, she said, “Take care of these people Mr. Jacox. They are utterly unscrupulous”; and she again disappeared into the darkness.
Ray and I turned and again walked back in the direction of Rosyth. But when we had gone a little distance he told me to approach the naval offices carefully, conceal myself in the bushes, and watch until he joined me. On no account was I to make any sign, whatever I might witness.
Though intensely cold the night was not very dark, therefore I was not long in establishing my position at a spot where I had a good view of the offices. Then I leaned upon a tree-trunk and waited in breathless expectation. I touched my father’s old repeater which I carried and found it to be a quarter past midnight.
For over an hour I remained there, scarce daring to move a muscle.
Suddenly, however, upon the mud at the side of the road I heard soft footsteps, and a few moments later two figures loomed up from the shadow. But when about forty yards from the offices they halted, one of the men alone proceeding.
With great caution he climbed the spiked railing, and crossing rapidly to the main door of the offices he unlocked it with a key and entered, closing the door after him. As far as I could distinguish, the man wore a short beard, and was dressed in tweeds and a golf cap. Holding my breath, I saw the flashing of an electric torch within the building.
Fully twenty minutes elapsed before he reappeared, relocked the outside door, and clambering back over the railings, rejoined his waiting companion, both being lost next second in the darkness.
I longed to follow them, but Ray’s instructions had been explicit—I was to wait until he arrived.
Half an hour later, hearing his low whistle, I emerged from my hiding-place to meet him and tell him what I had seen.
“Yes,” he said, “I know. We have now no time to lose.”
And together we hurried back over the road towards North Queensferry.
At the same spot where Vera had met us, we found her still in hiding. My friend whispered some words, whereupon she hurried on before us to the sharp bend in the road where stood the telegraph-pole which had attracted Ray on the night of our first arrival.
We drew back in the shadow, and as we did so I saw her halt and pull the bell beside a small gate in a high wall. Behind stood a white-washed cottage, with a good-sized garden at the rear. One end of the house abutted upon the pathway, and in it was one small window commanding a view of the road.
Vera, we saw, had some conversation with the old woman who answered her ring, and then went in, the gate being closed after her.
Together we waited for a considerable time, our impatience and apprehension increasing. All was silent, except for a dog-cart, in which we recognised Mr. Wilkinson driving home from the station.
“Curious that Vera doesn’t return,” Ray remarked at last, when we had waited nearly three-quarters of an hour. “We must investigate for ourselves. I hope nothing has happened to her.”
And motioning me to follow, he very cautiously crept along the muddy path and tried the gate. It had been relocked.
We therefore scaled the wall without further ado, and, standing in the little front garden, we listened breathlessly at the door of the house.
“Get back there in the shadow, Jack,” urged my friend; and, as soon as I was concealed, he passed his hand along the lintel of the door, where he found the bell-wire from the gate. This he pulled.
A few moments later the old woman reappeared at the door, passing out towards the gate, when, in an instant, Ray and I were within, and flinging open a door on the left of the narrow passage we found ourselves confronted by the exemplary waiter Klauber and a companion, whose short beard and snub nose I recognised as those of the man who so calmly entered the naval offices a couple of hours before.
For them our sudden appearance was, no doubt, a dramatic surprise.
The elder man gave vent to a quick imprecation in German, while Klauber, of course, recognised us both.
In the room was a large camera with a flashlight apparatus, while pinned upon a screen before the camera was a big tracing of a plan of one of the chief defensive forts which the spies had that night secured from Rosyth, and which they were now in the act of photographing.
“A lady called upon you here an hour ago,” exclaimed Ray. “Where is she?”
“No lady has called here,” replied the bearded German in very good English, adding with marvellous coolness, “To what, pray, do we owe this unwarrantable intrusion?”
“To the fact that I recognise you as Josef Scholtz, secret agent of the German Naval Intelligence Department,” answered my friend resolutely, closing the door and standing with his back to it. “We have met before. You were coming down the steps of a house in Pont Street, London, where lives a great friend of yours, Hermann Hartmann.”
“Well?” asked the German, with feigned unconcern, and before we could prevent him he had torn the tracing from the screen, roughly folded it, and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Hand that to me,” commanded my friend quickly.
But the spy only laughed in open defiance.
“You intended, no doubt, to replace that as you have done the others after photographing them. Only we’ve just spoilt your game,” Raymond said. “Both Mr. Wilkinson and Mr. Farrar are, I see from the list, members of the Golf Club where you"—and he looked across to the waiter—"are employed. On one occasion, while Mr. Wilkinson was taking a bath after a game, and on another while Mr. Farrar was changing his coat and vest, you contrived to take wax impressions of both the safe keys and also that of the door of the offices. The keys were made in Glasgow, and by their means the plans of our new naval base and its proposed defences have been at your disposal.”
“Well—there’s no law against it!” cried Scholtz. “Let me pass.”
“First give me that tracing,” demanded my friend resolutely.
“Never. Do your worst!” the German replied, speaking with a more pronounced accent in his excitement, while at the same moment I saw that he held a revolver in his hand.
In an instant Ray drew his own weapon, but, instead of covering the spy, he pointed it at a small, strong wooden box upon the floor in the opposite corner of the room.
“Gott—no!” gasped the man, his face blanching as he realised Ray’s intention. “For Heaven’s sake don’t. I—I——”
“Ah!” laughed my friend. “So it is as I thought. You two blackguards, with some of your friends, I expect, have been secretly preparing for the destruction of the Forth Bridge on ‘the Day’—as you are so fond of calling it. The staples are already driven in, and the unsuspicious-looking wire ropes, attached to which the boxes of gun-cotton and other explosives are to be sunk between the four caissons, are all in readiness. The boat from a German merchant vessel off Leith, signalled at intervals by your assistant Klauber, has been bringing up box after box of that dangerous stuff and landing it at the bottom of this garden; so that within an hour of receiving the code-word from your chief, you would be able to wreck the whole bridge and blow it into the water!”
The spy endeavoured to pass, but seeing Ray’s determined attitude, held back, and my friend compelled him to lay down his weapon.
“Jack,” said my friend, “just see what’s in that box.”
I at once investigated it, and discovered within only innocent-looking tin boxes of English biscuits. The three tins at the top I lifted out and placed on the floor, but those below I found were filled with circular cakes of what looked like felt, about an inch in thickness, each with a hole through it, and with a small cavity for the reception of the detonator. I showed it to Ray, pointing out that, packed with it, were several smaller tins, like boxes of cigarettes.
“Yes. I see!” he exclaimed as I opened one. “Those are the detonators, filled with fulminate of mercury.”
“Let us pass!” cried both the spies.
“Not before you are searched shall you leave this house!” was the quick reply. “If you resist, I shall fire into one of those boxes of detonators, and blow you to atoms.”
“And yourselves also!” remarked Klauber, his face pale as death.
“It will at least prevent our secrets falling into your hands, and at the same time bring the truth home to the British Government!” was my friend’s unwavering answer.
Next moment both men made a dash towards the door, but I had drawn my weapon and was upon my guard. There was a flash, followed by a deafening report, as Ray fired at the box, aiming wide on purpose.
Then the two spies, seeing that they had to deal with a man who was a patriot to his heart’s core, realised that their game was up.
Sullenly Scholtz put down his weapon, and I searched both men.
From the pocket of the exemplary waiter I drew forth a rough plan, together with some scribbled notes in German, which afterwards proved to be a description of the forts on Inchkeith, while from the pocket of Scholtz I secured the tracing he had stolen from Rosyth.
Then we allowed both the secret agents of the Kaiser to pass out, much to the consternation and alarm of the deaf old Scotchwoman, who had, at their request, posed as the occupier of the cottage, but who, in perfect ignorance of what was in progress, had acted as their housekeeper.
A swift examination of the premises revealed no trace of Vera. But we found in the cellar below the room where we had found the spies a great store of gun-cotton and other high explosives of German manufacture, intended for the wrecking of the bridge; while in an old battered portmanteau in one of the upstairs rooms we also found, all ready for conveyance to Germany, a quantity of prints from the photographic negatives in the room below—photographs of nearly the whole of the plans of Rosyth, and more especially of its proposed forts—which the men had been in the habit of abstracting at night and replacing in the safe before dawn.
Ray Raymond was in active search of something else besides, and at length discovered what he sought—two German military telegraph instruments, together with a complete and very ingenious arrangement for the tapping of wire.
“By Jove!” exclaimed my friend, who took a keen interest in all things electrical. “This will now come in very handy!”
And on going outside to the telegraph pole against the wall, he clambered up it and attached wires to two of the insulators. Then descending, he screwed a little brass box upon it into those same three holes in the black wood which had attracted him on the night of our arrival, and a moment later began manipulating the key.
“Good!” he exclaimed at last. “I’ve picked up Inverkeithing, and asked them to send the police over at once. We mustn’t leave the place and risk the spies returning for any of their paraphernalia. The disappearance of Vera, however, worries me. I sent her here with a note purporting to come from the chief of the German Secret Service in England, Hermann Hartmann; but she has vanished, and we must, as soon as the police arrive, go in search of her.”
So completely had we unmasked the spies that I stood puzzled and amazed.
Ray, noticing my attitude, made explanation.
“Several of my surmises in this case proved entirely correct,” he said. “My first suspicion was aroused that if spies were about, they would probably prepare for tapping the telegraph lines, and, as you know, I soon discovered evidence of it. Then those staples in the foundations of the bridge gave me a further clue to the work in progress, a suspicion greatly strengthened by the signal light shown by the man Klauber. The two men who held the safe keys being members of the Golf Club aroused a theory which proved the correct one, and on tracing back the career of the waiter I made a remarkable discovery which left no doubt as to his real profession. It seems that while employed at the Café de l’Europe in London, he lodged at the house of Mrs. Jephson, in Shepherd’s Bush, and became extremely friendly with the widow’s son. Now you’ll remember that a few days before the poor fellow’s death he was absent mysteriously, and on his return he told his mother in confidence that there would shortly be something in the papers about himself. Well, the truth is now quite plain. During his absence he evidently came up here. Young Jephson, who knew German, had found out that his German friend was a spy, and had no doubt secured the document afterwards found upon him as evidence. Klauber was ignorant of this, though he suspected that his secret was out. In deadly fear of exposure, he then plotted to silence the young Englishman, inducing him to walk along the towing-path between Hammersmith and Barnes, where he no doubt pushed him into the river. Indeed, I have found a witness who saw the two men together in King Street, Hammersmith, on the evening of the poor fellow’s disappearance. The plan which Reitmeyer saw is, I find, fortunately one of the discarded ones.”
“Extraordinary!” I declared, absorbed by what he had related. “But while you’ve wrested from Germany the secrets of some of our most important defences, you have, my dear Ray, temporarily lost the woman you love!”
“My first duty, Jack, is to my King and my country,” he declared, sitting on the edge of the table in the spies’ photographic studio. “I have tried to perform it to-night, and have, fortunately, exposed the German activity in our midst. When the police arrive to view this spies’ nest, we must at once search for her who is always my confidante, and to whose woman’s wits and foresight this success is in no small measure due.”
