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

The girl, pale and agitated, sat in silence, her gloved hands lying idly on her lap before her. Those awful weeks of anxiety had left traces upon her face, now thin and worn. And she felt that her lover’s fate was sealed unless he could clear himself. In desperation she had sought the great doctor, and he had been most thoughtful and sympathetic.

“I think,” he went on in a kindly voice, “I think it would be best, Miss Shearman, if you went home, and remained there in patience. You know that Mr Pelham is a sharp lawyer, and, being quite alive to the seriousness of the situation, he will do his very utmost for his client. Go quietly home, and await the result of our combined efforts,” he urged sympathetically. “I am meeting Mr Trustram again at five o’clock. Believe me, Mr Trustram is not inactive, while I, too, am doing my level best in your lover’s interests.”

“Oh! thank you,” cried the girl, tears standing in her fine blue eyes. “You are both so good! I – I don’t know how to thank you both,” and, unable to further restrain her emotion, she suddenly burst into tears.

Quickly he rose and, placing his hand tenderly upon her shoulder, he uttered kind and sympathetic words, by which she was at length calmed; and presently she rose and left the room, Sir Houston promising to report to her on the morrow.

“Now, don’t alarm yourself unduly,” was his parting injunction. “Just remain quite calm and patient, for I assure you that all that can be done will be done, and is, indeed, being done.”

And then, when the door had closed, the great pathologist drew his hand wearily across his white brow, sighed, buttoned his perfectly-fitting morning-coat, glanced at himself in the glass to see that his hair was unruffled – for he was a bit of a dandy – and then pressed the bell for his next patient.

Meanwhile, Charles Trustram was working in his big airy private room at the Admiralty. Many men in naval uniform were ever coming and going, for his room was always the scene of great, but quiet, orderly activity.

At his big table he was examining documents, signing some, dictating letters to his secretary, and discussing matters put forward by the officials who brought him papers to read and initial.

Presently there entered a lieutenant with a pale yellow naval signal-form, upon which was written a long message from the wireless department.

Those long, spidery aerial wires suspended between the domes at the Admiralty, had caught and intercepted a German message sent out from Norddeich, the big German station at the mouth of the Elbe, to Pola, on the Adriatic. It had been in code, of course, but in the department it had been de-coded; and the enemy’s message, as the officer placed it before him, was a truly illuminating one.

“I think this is what you wanted,” said the lieutenant, as he placed the paper before him. “It came in an hour ago, but they’ve found great difficulty in decoding it. That is what you meant – is it not?”

“Good Heavens! Yes!” cried Trustram, starting to his feet. “Why, here the information has been sent to Austria for re-transmission to the German submarines – the exact information I gave of transports leaving for the Dardanelles! The Ellenborough and Desborough are not mentioned. That shows the extent of their intimate knowledge of the movements of our ships. But you see,” he went on, pointing to the message, “the Cardigan, Leatherhead and Turleigh are all mentioned as having left Southampton escorted to Gibraltar, and not beyond, and further, that in future all drafts will embark at Plymouth – just the very information that I gave!”

“Yes; I quite see. There must be somewhere a very rapid and secret channel for the transit of information to Germany.”

“Yes, and we have to find that out, without further delay,” Trustram replied. “But,” he added, “this has fixed the responsibility undoubtedly. Is Captain Weardale in his room?”

“He was, when I came along to you.”

Trustram thanked him, and, a few moments later, was walking down one of the long corridors in the new building of the Admiralty overlooking St. James’s Park, bearing the deciphered dispatch from the enemy in his hand.

“The artful skunk!” he muttered to himself. “Who would have credited such a thing! But it’s that confounded woman, I suppose – the woman of whom poor Jerrold entertained such grave suspicions. What is the secret of it all, I wonder? I’ll find out – if it costs me my life! How fortunate that I should have suspected, and been able to test the leakage of information, as I have done!”

Just before midnight a rather hollow-eyed, well-dressed young man was seated in Mrs Kirby’s pretty little drawing-room in Cadogan Gardens. The dark plush curtains were drawn, and against them the big bowl of daffodils stood out in all their artistic beauty beneath the electric-light. His hostess was elaborately dressed, as was her wont, yet with a quiet, subdued taste which gave her an almost aristocratic air. She posed as a giddy bridge-player, a theatre and night-club goer; a woman who smoked, who was careless of what people thought, and who took drugs secretly. That, however, was only her mask. Really she was a most careful, abstemious, level-headed woman, whose eye was always directed towards the main chance of obtaining information which might be of use to her friend Lewin Rodwell, and his masters abroad.

Both were German-born. The trail of the Hun was over them – that Teuton taint of a hopeful world-power which, being inborn, could never be eradicated.

“Well?” she was asking, as she lolled artistically in the silk-covered easy chair in her pretty room, upholstered in carnation pink. “So you can’t see him till to-morrow? That’s horribly unfortunate. I’m very disappointed,” she added pettishly.

“No,” replied the young man, who, fair-haired and square-jawed, was of distinctly German type. “I’m sorry. I tried my best, but I failed.”

“H’m. I thought you were clever enough, Carl. But it seems that you failed,” and she sighed wearily.

“You know, Molly, I’d do anything for you,” replied the young fellow, who was evidently of quite superior class, for he wore his well-cut evening coat and soft-fronted dress-shirt with the ease of one accustomed to such things. And, if the truth were told, he would have been recognised by any of the clerks in the bureau of the Savoy Hotel as one of their most regular customers at dinner or supper.

“I know that, Carl,” replied the handsome woman impatiently. “But, you see, I had made all my arrangements. The information is wanted hourly in Berlin. It is most urgent.”

“Well, they’ll have to wait, my dear Molly. If I can’t get it till to-morrow – I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, what’s the good of explaining? Heinrich has gone off down to Brighton with a little friend of his – that’s all. He’s motored her down to the Metropole, and won’t be back till to-morrow. How, in Heaven’s name, can I help it?”

“I don’t suppose you can, my dear boy,” laughed the big, overbearing woman, who held the son of the “naturalised” German financier in the grip of her white, bejewelled fingers. “But, all the same, we have both to remember our duty to the Fatherland. We are at war.”

“True! And haven’t I helped the Fatherland? Was it not from information given by me that you knew the truth of the blowing up of the battleship Bulwark off Sheerness, and of the loss of the Formidable on New Year’s day? Have I and my friends in Jermyn Street been inactive?”

“No, you haven’t. Our dear Fatherland owes you and your friends a deep debt of gratitude. But – Well, I tell you, I’m annoyed because my plans have been upset by your failure to-day.”

“Rodwell’s plans, you mean! Not yours!” cried the young fellow, his jealousy apparent.

“No, not at all. I don’t see why you should so constantly refer to Mr Rodwell. He is our superior, as you know, and in its wisdom Number Seventy has placed him in supreme command.”

“Then why do you complain of my failure?” protested the young man viciously, placing his cigarette-end in the silver ash-tray.

“I don’t. I only tell you that it has upset my personal plans. I had hoped to get away down to Torquay to-morrow. I must have a change. I’m run down.”

“One day does not matter, surely, when our national interests are at stake!”

“Of course not, silly boy,” laughed the woman. She saw that she was not treating him with tact, and knew his exact value. “Don’t let us discuss it any further. See what you can do to-morrow.”

“I’ll compel Heinrich to get at what we want,” cried Carl Berenstein – whose father had, since the war, changed his name, with the consent of the Home Office, of course, to Burton. “I’m as savage as you are that he should prefer to motor a girl to Brighton. But what can I do?”

“Nothing, my dear boy. The girl will always win. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you will understand.”

“Then you don’t blame me – do you?” asked the young man, eagerly.

“Why, of course, not at all, my dear Carl. Heinrich’s a fool to be attracted by any petticoat. There are always so many better.”

“As long as you don’t blame me, Molly, I don’t care. The guv’nor is as wild as I am about it.”

“Oh, never mind. Get hold of him when he comes back, and come here as soon as possible and tell me. Remember that Number Seventy is thirsting for information.”

“Yes, I will. Rely on me. We are good Germans, all of us. These silly swelled-headed fools of English are only playing into our hands. They have no idea of what they will have to face later on. Ach! I only wish I were back again in the dear Rhineland with my friends, who are now officers serving at the front. But this British bubble cannot last. It must soon be pricked. And its result must be disastrous.”

“We hope so. We can’t tell. But, there, don’t let us discuss it. We are out to win the war. This matter I leave to you, good Germans that you and Heinrich are, to make your report.”

“Good. I will be here to-morrow evening, when I hope I shall have everything quite clear and precise. There is to be a big movement of troops to France the day after to-morrow, and I hope to give you a list of the names of all the regiments, with their destinations. You know, I suppose, that three parts of the cartridges they are making at the G – factory will, in a month’s time, when they get to the front, be useless?”

“So Mr Rodwell told me, a couple of days ago. Herzfelder is evidently doing good work there; but it is not a matter even to whisper about. It might leak out, and tests might be made.”

Then, having drained off the whisky-and-soda which his hostess had poured out for him, he rose, shook her hand warmly, saying, “I’ll be here as early as possible to-morrow night. Good-bye, Molly,” and strode out.

And the maid showed the young man to the door of the flat, while Mrs Kirby cast herself into a low lounge-chair before the fire, lit a cigarette, and, with her eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the flames, smoked furiously.

Chapter Twenty.

Told at Dawn