Number 70, Berlin: A Story of Britain's Peril

“My poor friend Dr Jerrold held exactly similar views,” Trustram went on. “Dear old Jerrold! He was ever active in hunting out spies. He assisted our Secret Service in a variety of ways and, by dint of diligent and patient inquiry, discovered many strange things.”

“Did he ever really discover any spies?” asked Rodwell in a rather languid voice.

“Yes, several. I happen to know one case – that of a man who collected certain information. The documents were found on him, together with a pocket-book which contained a number of names and addresses of German secret agents in England.” Rodwell instantly became interested.

“Did he? What became of the book? That surely ought to be most valuable to the authorities – eh?”

“It has been, I believe. But, of course, all inquiries of that nature are done by the War Office, so I only know the facts from Jerrold himself. He devoted all the time he could snatch from his profession to the study of spies, and to actual spy-hunting.”

“And with good results – eh? Poor fellow! He was very alert. His was a sad end. Suicide. I wonder why?” asked Rodwell.

“Who knows?” remarked the other, shrugging his shoulders. “We all of us have our skeletons in our cupboards. Possibly his might have been rather uglier than others?”

Rodwell remained thoughtful. Mention of that pocket-book, of which Jerrold had obtained possession, caused him to ponder. That it was in the hands of the Intelligence Department was the reverse of comforting. He had known of the arrest of Otto Hartwig, alias Hart, who had, for many years before the war, carried on business in Kensington, but this was the first he had learnt that anything had been found upon the prisoner.

He endeavoured to gain some further details from Trustram, but the latter had but little knowledge.

“All I know,” he said, “is that the case occupied poor Jerrold fully a month of patient inquiry and watchful vigilance. At last his efforts were rewarded, for he was enabled to follow the man down to Portsmouth, and actually watch him making inquiries there – gathering facts which he intended to transmit to the enemy.”

“How?” asked Rodwell quickly.

“Ah! that’s exactly what we don’t know. That there exists a rapid mode of transmitting secret intelligence across the North Sea is certain,” replied the Admiralty official. “We’ve had illustrations of it, time after time. Between ourselves, facts which I thought were only known to myself – facts regarding the transport of troops across the Channel – have actually been known in Berlin in a few hours after I have made the necessary arrangements.”

“Are you quite certain of that?” Rodwell asked, with sudden interest.

“Absolutely. It has been reported back to us by our friends in Germany.”

“Then we do have friends in Germany?” remarked Rodwell, with affected ignorance.

“Oh, several,” was the other’s reply. Then, in confidence, he explained how certain officers had volunteered to enter Germany, posing as American citizens and travelling from America with American passports. He mentioned two by name – Beeton and Fordyce.

The well-dressed man lolling in his chair, smoking as he listened, made a mental note of those names, and grinned with satisfaction at Trustram’s indiscretions.

Yet, surely, the Admiralty official could not be blamed, for so completely had Lewin Rodwell practised the deception that he believed him to be a sterling Englishman, red-hot against the enemy and all his knavish devices.

“I suppose you must be pretty busy at the Admiralty just now – eh? The official account of the Battle of the Falklands in to-night’s papers is splendid reading. Sturdee gave Admiral von Spee a very nasty shock. I suppose we shall hear of some other naval successes in the North Sea soon – eh?”

Trustram hesitated for a few seconds. “Well, not just yet,” was his brief reply.

“Why do you say ‘not yet’?” he asked with a laugh. “Has the Admiralty some thrilling surprise in store for us? Your people are always so confoundedly mysterious.”

“We have to be discreet,” laughed Trustram. “In these days one never knows who is friend or foe.”

“Well, you know me well enough, Trustram, to be quite certain of my discretion. I never tell a soul any official information which may come to me – and I hear quite a lot from my Cabinet friends – as you may well imagine.”

“I do trust you, Mr Rodwell,” his friend replied. “If I did not, I should not have told you the many things I have regarding my own department.”

Lewin Rodwell smoked on, his legs crossed, his right hand behind his head as he gazed at his friend.

“Well, you arouse my curiosity when you say that the Admiralty have in store a surprise for us which we shall know later. Where is it to take place?”

Again Charles Trustram hesitated. Then he answered, with some reluctance:

“In the North Sea, I believe. A certain scheme has been arranged which will, we hope, prove effectual.”

“A trap, I suppose?”

Trustram laughed faintly.

“I didn’t tell you so, remember,” he said quickly.

“Ah, I see! – a trap to draw the German Fleet north – up towards Iceland. Is my surmise correct?”

Trustram’s smile was a silent affirmative. “This is indeed interesting,” Rodwell exclaimed. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone. When is it to be?”

“Within a week.”

“You mean in a week. To-day is Wednesday – next Wednesday will be the sixteenth.”

Again Trustram smiled, as Rodwell, with his shrewd intelligence, divined the truth.

“It’s all arranged – eh? And orders have been sent out to the Fleet?” asked the financier.

Again Trustram laughingly replied, “I didn’t say so,” but from his friend’s manner Lewin Rodwell knew that he had learnt the great and most valuable secret of the true intentions of the British Navy.

It was not the first piece of valuable information which he had wormed out of his official friends. So clever was he that he now pretended to be highly eager and enthusiastic over the probable result of the strategy.

“Let’s hope Von Tirpitz will fall into the trap,” he said. “Of course it will have to be very cunningly baited, if you are to successfully deceive him. He’s already shown himself to be an artful old bird.”

“Well – without giving anything away – I happen to know, from certain information passing through my hands, that the bait will be sufficiently tempting.”

“So we may expect to hear of a big naval battle about the sixteenth. I should say that it will, in all probability, be fought south of Iceland, somewhere off the Shetlands.”

“Well, that certainly is within the range of probability,” was the other’s response. “All I can tell you – and in the very strictest confidence, remember – is that the scheme is such a cleverly conceived one that I do not believe it can possibly fail.”

“And if it failed?”

“Well – if it failed,” Trustram said, hesitating and speaking in a lower tone – “if it failed, then no real harm would occur – only one thing perhaps: that the East Coast of England might be left practically unguarded for perhaps twelve hours or so. That’s all.”

“Well, that would not matter very much, so long as the enemy obtains no knowledge of the British Admiral’s intentions,” remarked Lewin Rodwell, contemplating the end of his cigar and reflecting for a few seconds.

Then he blurted out:

“Gad! that’s jolly interesting. I shall wait for next Wednesday with all eagerness.”

“You won’t breathe a word, will you? Remember, it was you who obtained the information by suggestion,” Trustram said, with a good-humoured laugh.

“Can’t you really rely on me, my dear fellow, when I give you my word of honour as an Englishman to say nothing?” he asked. “I expect I am often in the know in secrets of the Cabinet, and I am trusted.”