Читать книгу The Web - Frederic Arnold Kummer - Страница 7

Table of Contents

THE six days that Bob Hoffman spent in prison in Antwerp were, to a man of his temperament, almost unbearable.

He was well enough treated. The room in which he was confined was fairly commodious, and reasonably well furnished, with no suggestion of the dungeon cell about it. There was an unbarred window from which he might have attempted to escape, but for the fact that it was, in the first place, forty feet from the ground, that in the second, it opened on a courtyard in which paced an armed guard, and in the third, that he had no reason whatever for attempting to escape in any event.

Meals, not elaborate, but well cooked, were brought in by an orderly, who glared at him without speaking. No newspapers were allowed him. His belongings, of every sort, down to his fountain pen, his finger ring, his scarf pin, even, had been taken from him. He could not have communicated with anyone outside, had he so desired, which, as matters stood, he did not. A few books in German, product of that period in Teutonic literature in which materialism had not crowded out the idealism of the race, provided the only means by which he might while away the tedious hours. For the better part of six nights and days he alternately read “The Sorrows of Werther,” and thought of Patricia. As the days passed, he grew tired of Werther’s sorrows, and spent more time over his own. It was quite clear, now, that the work he had undertaken was certain to damn him forever, in Patricia’s eyes. And so far as seeing anything of the war was concerned, he might just as well be in London as locked in a room in Antwerp, in spite of all the things of interest he knew were to be found so short a distance away.

He had not written to Patricia from Rotterdam. Something told him it would be better not to do so. He would doubtless be able to explain matters satisfactorily, on his return. A sudden opportunity to visit the war zone, of course. Certainly, before his return, he would be able to see something, if only the shell-torn defenses of Antwerp. All this, of course, provided he did return. It was a singular thought, that unless the British fleet set sail as he had reported it would, he would never return at all.

He began to experience a feeling of uneasiness. Why had not his instructions permitted him to make himself known, in some way other than by name, to the German authorities? Of course, they would naturally be suspicious of him. That was to be expected in any event. The information he had brought must serve as his credentials. He could not believe that it would fail to turn out as he had said.

And if the British fleet did sail, what then? Would it be attacked, perhaps destroyed? Would a thousand, five thousand lives, be sacrificed, that his own might be saved? He began to share Patricia's feelings concerning the work of a spy.

In these moments, a recollection of his oath consoled him. He would be true to that, in any event, no matter what happened. At least Patricia should never be able to reproach him with cowardice.

On the morning of the sixth day—the day set for the departure of the British squadron, Hoffman finished an early breakfast, and sat down to await, with the utmost impatience, some message from the Governor. He thought that it might arrive by noon, in case the squadron sailed in the early morning, but noon came, and his mid-day meal, with no summons for him to leave his prison.

As the afternoon waned, and the early darkness settled over the city, Hoffman’s uneasiness increased. When his upper arrived, and still no word from the Governor accompanied it, he attempted to question the man who brought it, but the latter shook his head in silence, switched on the electric light that hung over the little table, and departed.

Hour after hour passed in grim silence. Hoffman began to feel distinctly alarmed. He consoled himself, however, with the thought that the English warships had probably left port under cover of darkness, in order to be secure against attack, and that news of their departure would of necessity require several hours to reach the German officials. He had just reached this conclusion, when he heard a distant bell chime the hour of midnight. At almost the same moment, there came the sound of footsteps from the hall, and the door was flung open.

In the entrance stood the Landsturm officer, Lieutenant von Wagner, flanked by two soldiers with rifles. The Landsturmer gazed impassively at him. “You will please follow me at once!” he commanded, in crisp tones.

Hoffman rose, put on his hat and overcoat, and went out into the hall. The Lieutenant walked at his side. The two soldiers brought up the rear. The little procession moved onward in silence, and presently emerged into the dark courtyard. Hoffman glanced quickly about, wondering if his last hour had come. Instead of the file of soldiers that his imagination had pictured, an automobile drew up before the door. The officer motioned to him to enter, and at once took a place beside him. One of the soldiers seated himself alongside the chauffeur. The other saluted as the vehicle drove off, and re-entered the building.

The whole affair seemed very mysterious, but Hoffman determined to ask no further questions. Possibly he was being taken to the Governor’s office, in the Hotel de Ville, although it seemed improbable that the latter would prolong his office duties until after midnight. On the other hand, he might be going to his execution, but even that, without some formality in the way of a trial, seemed unlikely. There was nothing to do but await in silence the outcome of events.

After a short drive, the car drew up before the door of a small house, in a rather dark street, and the lieutenant motioned to Hoffman to get out. He did so, and found himself beside the soldier who had occupied the place on the box.

The officer followed a moment later, and going to the door of the house, threw it open.

“Go inside!” he commanded, in guttural tones.

Hoffman did as he was told, and found himself in a small, square, dimly-lighted hall. A young man in civilian’s clothes stood before him. The officer had retired.

“This way, please,” the young man said, and conducting Hoffman to a door on the opposite side of the hall, knocked upon it.

“Come in,” answered a loud voice in German. The young man opened the door, and nodded to his companion, indicating that he should enter. A moment later the door behind him closed with a click.

Hoffman looked curiously about. The room, in Flemish style, was apparently a library, for its walls were lined with books, and at its far side blazed a wood fire, in a great stone chimney-place.

Between him and the fire was a desk, behind which sat a small man, in citizen’s clothes, whose black hair and sombre eyes gave him an expression sinister and forbidding in the extreme.

He held an open letter in his hand, and was reading it as Hoffman came in. For a moment he looked up, then nodding toward a chair, resumed his inspection of the letter, as well as of some documents that lay upon the table before him, Hoffman sat down, and waited in silence, listening to the crackling of the fire, and wondering, meanwhile, whether he faced judge or executioner. The sombre aspect of his companion suggested the latter in no small degree.

His doubts were soon dispelled. The dark figure suddenly straightened, facing him with an enigmatic smile.

“You are Robert Hoffman!” he questioned.

“I am.”

“On the sixteenth of the month you gave to His Excellency, the Military Governor, certain information regarding the movements of a British cruiser squadron.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I have already explained to the consul at Rotterdam, to the Military Governor here, that I desired to sell the information at a good price.”

“Yes—yes! I understand that. You wished, no doubt, to conceal the fact that others are behind you, and thus make it appear that you are operating entirely upon your own responsibility? I quite approve of that course. You may, however, speak quite frankly to me.”

“Who are you?” Hoffman asked.

The dark man fixed upon him a pair of unusually keen eyes.

“I represent the German secret service,” he said. “Have the goodness to place upon this sheet the impressions of your two thumbs.” He pushed across the table a square of paper, and a small pad.

Hoffman did as he was requested. He felt that he was working in the dark. His questioner still appeared to regard him with suspicion.

Taking the sheet of paper containing the thumb-prints, the man at the desk placed it before him, and proceeded to inspect it with the utmost care, at the same time referring occasionally to the documents that he had been reading when Hoffman came in. Presently he looked up. The sombreness of his expression had in no degree relaxed. The American was quite unable to tell, from where he sat, whether his companion had referred to a second thumbprint, or not. He felt uneasy, surprised. A determination to find out whether the news he had brought had proven authentic, filled him.

“I trust that you were satisfied with the information I furnished,” he said.

“It was correct, but of little value,” the dark man observed dryly. “You failed to designate the names of the vessels composing the fleet, the port from which they were to sail, or their destination.” He regarded Hoffman narrowly. “Information to be of use to us, must be first, accurate; second, complete; third, in advance. Failure in any one of these particulars renders it valueless.”

Hoffman felt that some explanation of his failure was necessary.

“I gave what information I had,” he observed. “I was not in a position to ask questions.”

“Why not?”

“Because, to have done so might have aroused suspicion.”

“On the part of those so closely related to you as your sister’s family? Do you mean to imply, for a moment, that they could suppose you a German spy? Absurd.”

Hoffman felt that he must recover from the false position in which his words had suddenly placed him. He desired above all things to retain the confidence of this man, who seemed to be so completely informed concerning his affairs, his connections in London.

“No,” he said. “They would under no circumstances think me a spy. In that respect I am perfectly safe. But they know very Well that I am a Writer, and might readily fear that I would make use, in that way, of such information as I might obtain.”

“Ah! I see.” The dark man seemed satisfied. He glanced at the document he still held in his hands, then raised his head. “What do you wish to do now?” he asked. “The information you brought us, as I have told you, was valueless. Have you anything else to propose?”

“Only to say that I am ready to offer you my services. If you do not wish them, I have nothing further to say.” He rose, with a frown of anger.

His words, his manner, produced an immediate effect. The man behind the desk waved him to his seat with a flickering, unhumorous smile.

“Come,” he said, “do not be hasty. Although you have failed, this time, it is very possible that the next you may do much better. If so, you shall be well paid for it. Of course, it is impossible to Ex such matters definitely in advance, but you may depend upon our generosity. In the meantime, an allowance will be made you, to cover your expenses. What do you say to Eve hundred marks a month, to be paid in advance, in any event, for three months? If, during that time, you have proven your worth, I will propose to you that you regularly enter our service. That, I understand, is your wish.” He glanced significantly at the letter he held in his hands.

Hoffman remained silent for several moments. He had a feeling that his companion was testing him. He shrugged his shoulders, with a grim smile.

“Five hundred marks a month would not interest me in the least,” he said. “I have some money of my own. I am not penniless.”

“What, then, do you desire?”

“I need a large sum. Fifty thousand marks, at the least.” He eyed the man across the desk coldly. It annoyed him that anyone would suppose that he, Bob Hoffman, would offer to play the spy for so trivial a sum as five hundred marks a month.

The dark little man rubbed his hands. He seemed rather pleased, than otherwise, at Hoffman’s reply.

“I would rather pay you fifty thousand marks, than five hundred, my friend,” he whispered. “But you must earn them. Send me information Worth fifty thousand marks, and you shall have that sum.”

“Would the names of the vessels in Admiral Sturdee’s fleet, or the name of the port from which they sailed, be worth that much?” Hoffman asked.

“No, for we already know both—too late. Information, to be of value, must, as I have said, be advance information. If we knew, for instance, the route the English vessels are to take, the ports at which they will coal; if you could tell us, in fine, their destination, their orders, you would render us a service worth fifty thousand marks, or even double that sum. Take my advice, young man. Accept the five hundred marks a month, for your expenses, and depend on our generosity to pay you adequately for whatever information you may furnish us.”

Hoffman seemed to be weighing the matter carefully in his mind.

“Very well,” he said, at length. “I will try it. I will send you such information as I may secure, from time to time, for three months. If, at the end of that period, you do not treat me handsomely, the deal is off. Is that agreed?”

“Yes. Here is your first month’s advance.” The man handed him a rouleau of English gold, and some silver. “Now as to the method of procedure.”

“You mean, of course, the methods I am to pursue in order to get the information to you?” Hoffman asked.

“Precisely.”

“I had supposed I would bring it, and deliver it to you in person.”

“You could do that, of course,” replied the other, “but it would be far better for you to be able to communicate with me more promptly. Movements of the enemy, important secrets, of great value today, might be of no value whatever bythe time you could reach Antwerp. You must be in direct communication with me at all times.”

“How is that to be effected?” Hoffman asked.

The dark man fixed him with his sombre eyes.

“You live at the Grand Hotel, I understand,” he remarked, referring to the notes before him.

“Yes. That is, I did. I have given up my room.”

“You will not return there. Instead, you will take rooms at an address which I will give you. It is an excellent lodging-house, kept by a worthy woman named Shuttleworth. The rooms will already have been engaged, in your name, when you reach London.”

“By whom?”

“That is of no importance to you.”

“And after I get there, what? How am I to communicate with you?”

“In this way. When you have important news, go at once to your rooms, which are on the third floor. The sitting room, you will find, is in the rear, and has a bow window, overlooking a small garden, beyond which are the rears of a number of houses. The three windows in the bow have green holland shades. They are usually drawn half-way down, during the day, and all the way down, at night. When you wish to communicate with us, during the daytime, raise the central shade to its full height, and draw down the two side shades. At night, reverse the process, being sure that the light in your sitting-room is burning.”

“And then what?”

“Wait. Someone will come to you, or send you word what to do.”

“It all seems very complicated,” Hoffman observed.

“And also very safe,” his companion said. “Here is the address, on Exmouth Street, and here are your passports, and other papers and belongings. You will leave Antwerp at six in the morning, and return to London at once. Tonight, you will sleep here. I will have someone show you to your room.” He rose, and Hoffman did likewise.

“What is your name?” Hoffman asked, suddenly.

“Does it matter?”

“But how am I to find you, when I wish to see you again?”

“Very simply. Come to Antwerp. Call on the Military Governor. Tell him you wish to communicate with Herr Schwartz. He will understand.”

“And how shall I reach Antwerp? I might not be allowed to cross the frontier.”

“Do as you did before. Our consul at Rotterdam will provide you with a passport at any time. He is so instructed.”

Hoffman rose. Another thought occurred to him.

“Suppose it should become necessary,” he said, “while in England, to suddenly make myself known to your agents?”

“Do not be afraid,” Herr Schwartz replied, in purring tones. “You will be known to them.” There was a suggestion, a menace, almost, in his words, his manner, that was not lost on the young American. It was evident that his every move, while in England, would be closely watched. Clearly, this man did not yet fully trust him. No doubt this was quite natural. He had no means of knowing what information, if any, had been forwarded concerning him from London. Herr Schwartz was fully informed about his affairs, he knew, but after all, he had given this information to the Military Governor, on his arrival in Antwerp, and the Governor had carefully written it all down. No doubt the secret agent had received a copy of the report. He determined to proceed in accordance with his instructions, leaving it to the future to show whether or not he had put his head into a noose.

A moment later, in response to the pushing of a button on Herr SohWartz’s desk, the young man whom Hoffman had seen in the hall entered the room.

“Carl,” his superior said, “show Mr. Hoffman to the room you have had prepared for him. He will leave for London, by way of Rotterdam, early in the morning.”

Herr Schwartz, left alone, resumed his seat. Some time later, the young man he had addressed as “Carl” re-entered the room. The secret agent looked up.

“Send Number 16 here,” he said, shortly, then drew a sheet of paper toward him and began to Write.