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

“How can I tell, sir? I got signals – good strong signals.”

“Very well. I’ll try again. But remember that you and your father are bound up to us. And if you’ve played us false I shall see that you’re both shot as spies. Remember you won’t be the first. There’s Shrimpton, up at Gateshead, Paulett at Glasgow, and half a dozen more in prison paying the penalty of all traitors to their country. The British public haven’t yet heard of them. But they will before long – depend upon it. The thing was so simple. Germany, before the war, held out the bait for your good King-and-country English to swallow. That you English – or rather a section of you – will always swallow the money-bait we have known ever so long ago.”

“Mr Rodwell, you needn’t tell us more than we know,” protested the old fisherman. “You and your people ’ave got the better of us. We know that, to our cost, so don’t rub it in.”

“Ah! as long as you know it, that’s all right,” laughed Rodwell. “When the invasion comes, as it undoubtedly will, very soon, then you will be looked after all right. Don’t you or your son worry at all. Just sit tight, as this house is marked as the house of friends. Germany never betrays a friend – never!”

“Then they do intend to come over here?” exclaimed the old fisherman eagerly, his eyes wide-open in wonderment.

“Why, of course. All has been arranged long ago,” declared the man whom the British public knew as a great patriot. “The big expeditionary force, fully fit and equipped, has been waiting in Hamburg, at Cuxhaven and Bremerhaven, ever since the war began – waiting for the signal to start when the way is left open across the North Sea.”

“That will never be,” declared the younger man decisively.

“Perhaps not, if you have dared to tamper with the cable,” was Rodwell’s hard reply.

“I haven’t, I assure you,” the young man declared. “I haven’t touched it.”

“Well, I don’t trust either of you,” was Rodwell’s reply. “You’ve had lots of money from us, yet your confounded patriotism towards your effete old country has, I believe, caused you to try and defeat us. You’ve broken down the cable – perhaps cut the insulation under the water. How do I know?”

“I protest, Mr Rodwell, that you should insinuate this!” cried old Tom. “Through all this time we’ve worked for you, and – ”

“Because you’ve been jolly well paid for it,” interrupted the other. “What would you have earned by your paltry bit of fish sent into Skegness for cheap holiday-makers to eat? – why, nothing! You’ve been paid handsomely, so you needn’t grumble. If you do, then I have means of at once cutting your supplies off and informing the Intelligence Department at Whitehall. Where would you both be then, I wonder?”

“We could give you away also!” growled Ted Small.

“You might make charges. But who would believe you if you – a fisherman – declared that Lewin Rodwell was a spy – eh? Try the game if you like – and see!”

For a few moments silence fell.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed Ted’s father. “Why not call up again? Perhaps Mr Stendel may be there now.”

Again Rodwell placed his expert hand upon the tapping-key, and once more tapped out the call in the dot-and-dash of the Morse Code.

For a full minute all three men waited, holding their breath and watching the receiver.

Suddenly there was a sharp click on the recorder. “Click – click, click, click!”

The answering signals were coming up from beneath the sea.

“B.S.Q.” was heard on the “sounder,” while the pale green tape slowly unwound, recording the acknowledgment.

Stendel was there, in the cable-station far away on the long, low-lying island of Wangeroog – alert at last, and ready to receive any message from the secret agents of the All Highest of Germany.

“B.S.Q. – B.S.Q.” – came up rapidly from beneath the sea. “I am here. Who are you?” answered the wire rapidly, in German.

Lewin Rodwell’s heart beat quickly when he heard the belated reply to his impatient summons. He had fully believed that a breakdown had occurred. And if so, it certainly could never be repaired.

But a thrill of pleasure stirred him anew when he saw that his harsh and premature denunciation of the Smalls had been unwarranted, and the cable connection – so cunningly contrived five years before, was working as usual from shore to shore.

Cable-telegraphy differs, in many respects, from ordinary land-telegraphy, especially in the instruments used. Those spread out before Rodwell were, indeed, a strange and complicated collection, with their tangled and twisted wires, each of which Rodwell traced without hesitation.

In a few seconds his white, well-manicured and expert hand was upon the key again, as the Smalls returned to their living-room, and he swiftly tapped out the message in German:

“I am Rodwell. Are you Stendel? Put me through Cuxhaven direct to Berlin: Number Seventy: very urgent.”

“Yes,” came the reply. “I am Stendel. Your signals are good. Wait, and I will put you through direct to Berlin.”

The “sounder” clicked loudly, and the clockwork of the tape released, causing the narrow paper ribbon to unwind.

“S.S.” answered Rodwell, the German war-code letters for “All right. Received your message and understand it.”

Then he took from his pocket his gold cigarette-case, which bore his initials in diamonds on the side, and selecting a cigarette, lit it and smoked while waiting for the necessary connections and relays to be made which would enable him to transmit his message direct to the general headquarters of the German Secret Service in the Koeniger-gratzerstrasse, in Berlin.

In patience he waited for a full ten minutes in that close little room, watching the receiving instrument before him. The angry roar of the wintry sea could be heard without, the great breakers rolling in upon the beach, while every now and then the salt spindrift would cut sharply across the little window, which rattled in the gusty wind.

Click – click – click! The long letter T repeated three times. Then a pause, and the call “M.X.Q.Q. – J.A.J.70.”

By the prefix, Rodwell knew that he was “through,” and actually in communication with the headquarters of the German espionage throughout the world; that marvellously alert department from which no secret of state, or of hostile army or navy was safe; the department formed and controlled by the great Steinhauer, who had so many times boasted to him, and perhaps with truth, that at the Koeniger-gratzerstrasse they knew more of England than even the English themselves knew.

True, the British public will never be able to realise one hundredth part of what Germany has done by her spy-system, or of the great diplomatic and military successes which she has achieved by it. Yet we know enough to realise that for years no country and no walk of life – from the highest to the lowest – has been free from the ubiquitous, unscrupulous and unsuspected secret agents of whom Lewin Rodwell was a type.

In Germany’s long and patient preparation for the world-war, nothing in the way of espionage was too large, or too small for attention. The activity of her secret agents in Berlin had surely been an object-lesson to the world. Her spies swarmed in all cities, and in every village; her agents ranked among the leaders of social and commercial life, and among the sweepings and outcasts of great communities. The wealthiest of commercial men did not shrink from acting as her secret agents. She was not above employing beside them the very dregs of the community. No such system had ever been seen in the world. Yet the benefits which our enemies were deriving from it, now that we were at war, were incalculable.

By every subtle and underhand means in her power, Germany had prepared for her supreme effort to conquer us, and, as a result of this it was that Lewin Rodwell that night sat at the telegraph-key of the Berlin spy-bureau actually established on British soil.

He waited until the call had been repeated three times with the secret code-number of the Koeniger-gratzerstrasse, namely: “Number 70 Berlin.”

Then, putting out his cigarette, he drew his chair forward until his elbows rested upon the table, and spreading out the closely-written document before him, tapped out a signal in code.

The letters were “F.B.S.M.”

To this kind of pass-word, which was frequently altered from time to time, he received a reply: “G.L.G.S.” and then he added his own number, “0740.”

The signals exchanged were quite strong, and he drew a long breath of relief and satisfaction.

Then, settling down to his dastardly work, he began to tap out rapidly the following in German:

“On Imperial War Service. Most Urgent. From 0740 to Berlin 70. Transmitted Personally.

“Source of information G.27, British Admiralty. Lieutenant Ralph Beeton, Grenadier Guards, British secret agent, is at present staying at Kaiserhof Hotel, Berlin, as James B. James, an American citizen, of Fernville, Kansas, and is transmitting reports. Captain Henry Fordyce, British Navy, is at Park Hotel, Düsseldorf, as Francis Dexter, iron merchant of New Orleans, and has sent reports regarding Erhardt’s ordnance factory. Both should be arrested at once. Lieutenant George Evans, reported at Amsterdam on the 5th, has gone to Emden, and will probably be found at the Krone Hotel.”

Then he paused. That message had, he knew, sealed the fate of three brave Englishmen who had dared to enter the camp of our enemies. They would be arrested within an hour or so, and most certainly shot as spies. His face broadened into an evil grin of satisfaction as the truth crossed his mind.

He waited for an acknowledgment that his report had been received. Then, having listened to the answering click – clickety – click, he sent a second message as follows: —

“British Naval Dispositions: Urgent to Q.S.R.

“Source of information H.238. To-night, off the Outer Skerries, Shetlands, are battleships King Charles (flag), Mole, Wey, Welland, Teign, Yare, Queen Boadicea, Emperor of India, King Henry VIII; with first-class cruisers Hogue, Stamford, Petworth, Lichfield, Dorchester; second-class cruisers Rockingham, Guildford, Driffield, Verulam, Donnington, Pirbright, Tremayne and Blackpool; destroyers Viking, Serpent, Chameleon, Adder, Batswing, Sturdy and Havoc, with eight submarines, the aircraft-ship Flyer, and repair-ship Vulcan. Another strong division left Girdle Ness at 4 p.m. coming south. The division in Moray Firth remains the same. Trusty, Dragon, Norfolk and Shadower left Portsmouth this evening going east. British Naval war-code to be altered at midnight to 106-13.”