The Revellers

Luckily, as matters turned out, he elected to call on Mrs. Saumarez first. For one thing, her house in the Rue Henri was not far from a hotel on the Champs Elysées where he was known to the management; for another, he wished to run no risk of being outwitted by Angèle. If she and her mother were guilty of the ineffable infamy of betraying both the country of their nationality and that which sheltered them they must be trapped so effectually as to leave no room for doubt.

He was also fortunate in the fact that his soldier chauffeur, when given the choice, decided to wait and drive him to the Rue Henri. The man was candid as to his own plans for the evening.

“When I put the car up I’ll have a hot bath and go to bed, sir,” he said. “I’ve not had five hours’ sleep straight on end during the past three weeks, an’ I know wot’ll happen if I start hittin’ it up around these bullyvards. Me for the feathers at nine o’clock! So, if you don’t mind, sir – ”

Martin knew what the man meant. He wanted to be kept busy. One hour of enforced liberty implied the risk of meeting some hilarious comrades. Even in Paris, strict as the police regulations may be, Britons from the front are able to sit up late, and the parties are seldom “dry.”

So officer and man removed some of the marks of a long journey, ate a good meal, and about eight o’clock arrived at Mrs. Saumarez’s house. Life might be convivial enough inside, but the place looked deserted, almost forbidding, externally.

Indeed, Martin hesitated before pressing an electric bell and consulted a notebook to verify the street and number given him by the subaltern on the night von Struben was captured. But he had not erred. His memory never failed. There could be no doubt but that his special gift in this direction had been responsible for a rapid promotion, since military training, on the mental side, depends largely on a letter-perfect accuracy of recollection.

When he rang, however, the door opened at once. A bareheaded man in civilian attire, but looking most unlike a domestic, held aside a pair of heavy curtains which shut out the least ray of light from the hall.

“Entrez, monsieur,” he said in reply to Martin, after a sharp glance at the car and its driver.

Martin heard a latch click behind him. He passed on, to find himself before a sergeant of police seated at a table. Three policemen stood near.

“Your name and rank, monsieur?” said this official.

Martin, though surprised, almost startled, by these preliminaries, answered promptly. The sergeant nodded to one of his aides.

“Take this gentleman upstairs,” he said.

“Is there any mistake?” inquired Martin. “I have come here to visit Mrs. Saumarez.”

“No mistake,” said the sergeant. “Follow that man, monsieur.”

Assured now that some dramatic and wholly unexpected development had taken place, Martin tried to gather his wits as he mounted to the first floor. There, in a shuttered drawing-room, he confronted a shrewd-looking man in mufti, to whom his guide handed a written slip sent by the sergeant. Evidently, this was an official of some importance.

“Shall I speak English, Captain Grant?” he said, thrusting aside a pile of documents and clearing a space on the table at which he was busy.

“Well,” said Martin, smiling, “I imagine that your English is better than my French.”

He sat on a chair indicated by the Frenchman. He put no questions. He guessed he was in the presence of a tragedy.

“Is Mrs. Saumarez a friend of yours?” began the stranger.

“Yes, in a sense.”

“Have you seen her recently?”

“Not for ten years.”

Obviously, this answer was disconcerting. It was evident, too, that Martin’s name was not on a typed list which the other man had scanned with a quick eye. Martin determined to clear up an involved situation.

“I take it that you are connected with the police department?” he said. “Well, I have come from the British front at Armentières to inquire into the uses to which this house has been put. A number of British officers have been entertained here. Our people want to know why.”

He left it at that for the time being, but the Frenchman’s manner became perceptibly more friendly.

“May I examine your papers?” he said.

Martin handed over the bundle of “permis de voyage,” which everyone without exception must possess in order to move about the roads of western France in wartime.

“Ah!” said the official, his air changing now to one of marked relief, “this helps matters greatly. My name is Duchesne, Captain Grant – Gustave Duchesne. I belong to the Bureau de l’Intérieur. So you people also have had your suspicions? There can be no doubt about it – the Baroness von Edelstein was a spy of the worst kind. The mischief that woman did was incalculable. Of course, it was hopeless to look for any real preventive work in England before the war; but we were caught napping here. You see, the widow of a British officer, a lady who had the best of credentials, and whose means were ample, hardly came under review. She kept open house, and had lived in Paris so long that her German origin was completely forgotten. In fact, the merest accident brought about her downfall.”

One of the policemen came in with a written memorandum, which M. Duchesne read.

“Your chauffeur does not give information willingly,” smiled the latter. “The sergeant had to threaten him with arrest before he would describe your journey to-day.”

It was clear that the authorities were taking nothing for granted where Mrs. Saumarez and her visitors were concerned. Martin felt that he had stumbled to the lip of an abyss. At any rate, events were out of his hands now, and for that dispensation he was profoundly thankful.

“I think I ought to tell you what I know of Mrs. Saumarez,” he said. “I don’t wish to do the unfortunate woman an injustice, and my facts are so nebulous – ”

“One moment, Captain Grant,” interposed the Frenchman. “You may feel less constraint if you hear that the Baroness died this morning.”

“Good Heavens!” was Martin’s involuntary cry. “Was she executed?”

“No,” said the other. “She forestalled justice by a couple of hours. The cause of death was heart failure. She was – intemperate. Her daughter was with her at the end.”

“Madame Barthélemi de Saint-Ivoy!”

“You know her, then?”

“I met her in a Yorkshire village at the same time as her mother. The other day, by chance, I ascertained her name and address from one of our village lads who recognized her in Amiens about a month ago.”

“Well, you were about to say – ”

Martin had to put forth a physical effort to regain self-control. He plunged at once into the story of those early years. There was little to tell with regard to Mrs. Saumarez and Angèle. “Fritz Bauer” was the chief personage, and he was now well on his way to a prison camp in England.

Monsieur Duchesne was amused by the map episode in its latest phase.

“And you were so blind that you took no action?” he commented dryly.

“No. We saw, but were invincibly confident. My father sent the map to the Intelligence Department, with which he was connected until 1912, when he was given a command in the North. He and I believe now that someone in Whitehall overlooked the connection between Mrs. Saumarez and an admitted spy. She had left England, and there was so much to do when war broke out.”

“Ah! If only those people in London had written us!”

“Is the affair really so bad?”

“Bad! This wretched creature showed an ingenuity that was devilish. She deceived her own daughter. That is perfectly clear. The girl married a French officer after the Battle of the Marne, and, as we have every reason to believe, thought she had persuaded her mother to break off relations with her German friends. We know now that the baroness, left to her own devices, adopted a method of conveying information to the Boches which almost defied detection. Owing to her knowledge of the British army she was able to chat with your men on a plane of intimacy which no ordinary woman could command. She found out where certain brigades were stationed and what regiments composed them. She heard to what extent battalions were decimated. She knew what types of guns were in use and what improvements were coming along in caliber and range. She was told when men were suddenly recalled from leave, and where they were going. Need I say what deductions the German Staff could make from such facts?”

“But how on earth could she convey the information in time to be of value?”

“Quite easily. There is one weak spot on our frontier – south of the German line. She wrote to an agent in Pontarlier, and this man transmitted her notes across the Swiss frontier. The rest was simple. She was caught by fate, not by us. Years ago she employed a woman from Tinchebrai as a nurse – ”

“Françoise!” broke in Martin.

“Exactly – Françoise Dupont. Well, Madame Dupont died in 1913. But she had spoken of her former mistress to a nephew, and this man, a cripple, is now a Paris postman. He is a sharp-witted peasant, and, as he grew in experience, was promoted gradually to more important districts. Just a week ago he took on this very street, and when he saw the name recalled her aunt’s statements about Mrs. Saumarez. He informed the Sûreté at once. Even then she gave us some trouble. Her letters were printed, not written, and she could post them in out-of-the-way places. However, we trapped her within forty-eight hours. Have you a battery of four 9.2’s hidden in a wood three hundred meters north-west of Pont Ballot?”