Читать книгу The Web - Frederic Arnold Kummer - Страница 6

Table of Contents

BOB HOFFMAN found no difficulty in effecting his passage to Rotterdam. His passports, his credentials, his luggage were examined with the usual care, but the journey, via Harwich and the Hook of Holland, was made pleasantly, and without interruption or incident of any sort. The boat was not very well filled; the passengers for the most part apparently Dutch merchants, Americans of various sorts, and a number of indescribable persons about whom Hoffman speculated vaguely, wondering just what their mission on the Continent might be. Spies, like himself perhaps, he thought, then dismissed the idea from his mind. He was travelling as a magazine writer, a war correspondent, and refused to think of himself in any other light. Certainly, he argued, he was not a spy, since he came to give information, not to obtain it.

In Rotterdam he proceeded at once to the Victoria Hotel, and having secured a room, and disposed of his luggage, set out for his interview with the German consul.

His thoughts were of Patricia, more than they were of the work before him. The girl had been so constantly in his life, during the past few Weeks. He had seen her almost daily. Now that he could see her no longer, he realized, with a sinking heart, how much she meant to him, how barren the world would seem to him, without her.

It was in this frame of mind that he reached the entrance to the building that had been pointed out to him as the one he sought. He was by no means sure that he would find the consul in his office; the hour was late, the street lamps already glowed softly through the gathering darkness. He ascended the steps, and entered the door which led to the offices of the consulate.

A room of fair size was before him, about which, in chairs, sat a number of men and women, all apparently waiting to see the official he sought. Behind a high counter, on a stool, sat a young man, with bristling blond hair, and a pink and white complexion.

Hoffman advanced, and addressed him in German.

“I want to see the consul,” he said.

The young man mechanically pushed a pad and pencil toward him.

“Your name and business, please,” he replied.

Hoffman wrote his name upon the pad. His business he could not describe, so he wrote the word .“Personal.” The blond young man tore the slip from the pad, and retired to an inner room, motioning to Hoffman to take a seat. Presently he came back again, but said nothing. Hoffman resigned himself to a long wait.

One by one the occupants of the outer room passed the barrier of the high desk, to return no more. After almost an hour, Hoffman's turn arrived. He followed the clerk into an inner office, plainly furnished, in which sat an elderly man, heavily bearded, ruddy, stout.

The latter glanced up, on Hoffman's entrance and spoke in English.

“Mr. Hoffman?” he interrogated. “What can I do for you?” His manner was neither cordial nor abrupt. He spoke almost mechanically, as though repeating a formula.

Hoffman took a chair without being asked, and fixed his gaze upon the face Qf the man before him.

“I am an American, a magazine writer,” he said.

The consul nodded Wearily.

“Yes?” he Said, With a rising inflexion.

“I have come to make you a proposition.”

If the consul’s interest was aroused, he did not betray the fact. He merely nodded.

“My sympathies,” Hoffman went on, hurriedly, “are all with the Central Powers. I am of German descent. I think I am in a position to give you—your government—some valuable information.”

“So?” The German's eyes betrayed a trifle more interest. “What sort of information?”

“My sister, in London, is married to Lord Brooke, who is connected with the Admiralty. From time to time I learn, through him, valuable secrets connected with the movements of the British fleet. These secrets I am ready to furnish to your government.”

“Why?” The word came, dry and quick, like the snapping of a whip. Hoffman realized that his sincerity was in question.

“Because I need the money,” he flashed back. “If I furnish information of value, I expect to be paid for it.”

“Ah!” The consul breathed the word significantly. ‘ ‘What is the information you wish to sell?”

The trap was too palpable. Hoffman refused to be caught in it.

“When I have arranged, with the proper officials, for my price, I will disclose the information I have. Not otherwise.”

The consul gave him a quick glance, then drew a sheet of paper toward him, and wrote a few lines upon it. Then he folded the sheet, placed it in an envelope, and_ sealed it. Upon the envelope he wrote an address.

“Take this to the Military Governor of the city of Antwerp,” he said. “Here.” He drew a printed form from a drawer and began to fill it out. “You cannot go without a passport. Give me your full name, please.”

As a result of this interview, the following morning found Hoffman en route to the great Belgian city, the capture of which by the Germans had created such a profound impression in England but a short time before.

He had no difficulty in locating the office of the Governor in the Hotel de Ville. The anterooms were filled with waiting persons, but the letter of introduction furnished by the consul in Rotterdam proved an open sesame. In less than half an hour, Hoffman was ushered into the Governor’s presence.

He was a short, thickset man, his iron-grey hair closely cropped, his heavy moustaches stained with tobacco, from the large black cigar, unlit, which he chewed in the corner of his mouth. He was in full military uniform, and sat behind a desk so piled with papers and printed documents that they seemed to form a veritable barricade. The conversation was in German.

“What do you want!” the Governor asked, brusquely, as Hoffman appeared before him.

The young man repeated the information he had given to the consul in Rotterdam. This time, however, his questioner set it all down very carefully on a sheet of paper, inquiring particularly as to Hoffman’s age, place of birth, the name of his father, his residence in New York, whether he was married or single, and a variety of other things that, so far as Hoffman could see, were quite unimportant. When these preliminaries had been completed, the official turned to Hoffman with a glare of suspicion.

“How do I know you are not an English spy?” he rasped.

“You will know it,” Hoffman remarked, steadily, “when you hear the information I am prepared to give.”

“What information! I advise you to speak frankly.”

“Since my object in bringing this information to you is to obtain a good price for it, I naturally cannot divulge what I know, without first having some understanding as to what I am to receive in return.” He spoke the words coldly, deliberately, his face impassive. A look of scorn crossed the Governor’s iron visage.

“So. You wish to make a bargain, eh? And how do you expect me to say what your information is worth, until I know what it is?”

Hoffman was for the moment non-plussed. The Governor’s words certainly contained much logic.

“It is not so much the particular piece of information I am able to give you now, your excellency,” he observed, “but that which I may convey to you in the future, that I have in mind. My position, as the brother-in-law of Lord Brooke, will enable me, from time to time, to furnish your government with naval secrets of great value. In undertaking this Work, I must necessarily incur certain risks, for which I expect to be adequately paid.”

“Precisely. You would, in other words, become a member of our secret service, and be paid a regular salary. That is all very well, young man, but first you must demonstrate to us both your devotion to our cause, and your ability to furnish us with information of value. Until you are ready to convince us on these two points, I have nothing further to say.” He began to examine some reports upon his desk, and Hoffman realized that the time had come to speak.

“If I put you in possession of an important military secret now, your excellency, will you be convinced?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” said the Governor. “Provided, of course, that your information proves to be correct. What have you to tell me?”

“This.” Hoffman glanced nervously about the small room, and lowered his voice. “A British squadron, composed in part of battle cruisers, and commanded by Admiral Sturdee, will set sail on the 22nd, to destroy the squadron under Admiral von Spec. His flagship will be the Inflexible.”

The Governor’s eyes gleamed with interest. He half turned in his chair.

“You are certain of this?” he asked quickly.

“Positive.”

“The other vessels?”

“Battle cruisers of the same type, I do not know their names.”

“Ah!” His excellency made some rapid notes. “What you tell me is important—highly important, if it is true. If it is not, so much the worse for you.” He struck sharply upon a bell that stood on the desk before him. Almost immediately a secretary appeared. Through the Open door Hoffman glimpsed the helmet of a guard.

“Becker,” said the Governor, in a crisp voice, “send Lieutenant von Wagner here at once.” The secretary saluted, and withdrew. Hoffman began to feel somewhat uneasy. Suppose, by any chance, the squadron did not sail on the 22nd, The Governor’s words, “so much the worse for you,” worried him. He waited in silence for his companion’s next move.

A moment later a middle-aged officer, in the uniform of the Landsturm, entered the room with a military salute. The Governor turned to him, indicating Hoffman with a gesture.

“This person is Robert Hoffman, who claims to be an American war correspondent. You will place him in confinement, under guard, until further notice.”

The lieutenant again saluted, and came toward Hoffman, who had by now risen. The young man turned to the Governor.

“Your excellency,” he protested. “Why should I be placed under arrest? I am 'trying to serve your interests—”

“Possibly. Possibly not,” the Governor broke in. “That remains to be seen. On the 22nd I shall know better than I do now, why you have come to me. Should your information prove to be correct, we will pursue further the matter of which we have spoken today. Should it prove false, I shall assume that your purpose was to mislead us, in order to inflict disaster in some way upon our forces. In the latter event, it will be my painful duty to order you to be shot.” He turned to his papers with an air of dismissal.

The officer motioned sternly toward the door, and Hoffman went out into the corridor. His heart beat rather more rapidly than usual. The 22nd was just six days off.