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

The man who accompanied the coastguard-officer remarked:

“This is a lonely house of yours, Mr Small. A long way from the doctor – eh?”

“It is, sir, an’ no mistake. We don’t see many people out ’ere, except Mr Judd, or Mr Bennett – or one o’ the men on patrol.”

Then, being compelled to ask the pair inside, for it had started to rain heavily, Tom Small sat with them chatting, yet full of wonder why they had called at that early hour.

The man in the next room stood breathless behind the door, listening to all their conversation. It was quite plain that he had been seen to enter there, whereupon the coastguard’s suspicions had been aroused. He scented considerable danger. Yet his adventurous spirit was such that he smiled amusedly at old Small’s story of his sick daughter, and of the visit of the doctor.

Judd, seated in the chair which Rodwell had occupied until he had vacated it in alarm, suddenly turned to old Tom, and said:

“This gentleman here is my superior officer, Tom, and he wants to ask you something, I think.”

“Yes, sir, what is it?” asked the crafty old fisherman, turning to the man in plain clothes.

“You had a visitor here last Thursday – a gentleman. Who was he?” asked the stranger suddenly.

“Last Thursday,” repeated Small reflectively. “Now let me see. Who came ’ere last Thursday? Weren’t we both out fishin’? No,” he added: “I know! Yes, we did ’ave someone come – Mr Jennings, of course.”

“And who is Mr Jennings?”

“Why, ’e comes regularly from Lincoln for our insurances.”

The petty-officer exchanged meaning glances with his superior, who then asked —

“Aren’t you in the habit of receiving visits from a gentleman – somebody who’s been seen about here in a closed car, painted pale grey?”

“No car ’as ever come ’ere, sir,” declared the old man blankly. “Folk in cars don’t come to visit people like Tom Small.”

“And yet you are not quite so poorly off as you pretend to be, Mr Small,” remarked his questioner. “What about that nice little balance you have in the bank – eh?”

“Well, I’ve earned it, therefore I don’t see why it should concern you,” protested the old fellow angrily.

“Just now it does concern me,” was the other’s rather hard reply – words to which the man in the inner room listened with breathless concern.

Was it possible that the existence of the secret cable was suspected? Had Tom, or his son, been indiscreet? No; he felt sure they had not. They had everything to lose by disclosing anything. And yet those two visitors were bent upon extracting some information from him. Of what nature he was not quite clear.

An awful thought occurred to him that he had left his cap in the sitting-room, but, on glancing round, he was relieved to see that he had carried it into the bedroom when he had sat down at the instruments.

What would those two men say, if they only knew that, within a few yards of them, was the end of a cable which ran direct to Berlin?

While the rain continued pelting down for perhaps a quarter of an hour, the pair sat chatting with Small. It was evident that the naval officer was disappointed with the result of his visit, for the old fisherman answered quite frankly, and had given explanation of his two visitors which could not well be met with disbelief.

“Are you gentlemen a-lookin’ for German spies, then?” asked old Small at last, as though sorely puzzled at the questions that had been put to him.

“We’re always on the look out for those devil’s spawn,” answered Judd. “There was a Dutch trawler off here last night, and she wasn’t up to any good – I’m sure of that.”

“Perhaps it’s the same craft as wor ’ere about a fortnight back. She flew the Dutch flag, but I believe she wor a waitin’ for a German submarine, in order to give ’er petrol. They were a talkin’ about ’er in the Anchor on Saturday night. Bill Chesney was out fishin’ an’ got right near ’er. I think one o’ the patrol boats ought to ha’ boarded ’er.”

“She was seen off the Spurn, and was then flying the British flag,” remarked Judd’s superior officer.

“Ah! There you are!” cried Small. “I was certain she was up to no good! Those Germans are up to every bit o’ craft and cunnin’. Did you gentlemen think that Mr Jennings, from Lincoln, was a German spy?” he asked naïvely.

“No, not particularly,” replied his visitor. “Only when strangers come along here, in the prohibited area, we naturally like to know who and what they are.”

“Quite so, sir. An’ if I see any stranger a-prowlin’ about ’ere in future, I won’t fail to let Mr Judd know of ’im.”

“That’s right, Small,” was the officer’s response. “There are lots of rumours around the coast of our fishermen giving assistance to the enemy by supplying them with petrol and other things, but, as far as I can gather, such reports are disgraceful libels upon a very hardworking and deserving class. We know that some of them put down tackle in Torbay, and elsewhere, when they learn the fleet is coming in, so that they may obtain compensation for damage caused to their nets. But as to their loyalty, I don’t think anyone can challenge that.”

“I ’ope not, sir,” was Small’s fervent reply. “There ain’t a fisherman along the whole coast o’ Lincolnshire who wouldn’t bear his part against the enemy, if he could – an’ bear it well, too.”

The clean-shaven officer reflected for a few moments.

“You’ve never, to your recollection, seen a pale grey closed-up car anywhere about here, have you?” he asked at last.

“Never, sir.”

“Quite sure?”

“Positive, sir. The roads about ’ere are not made for cars,” was the old fellow’s reply. “I certainly did see a car one night, about six weeks ago. The man had lost his way an’ was driving straight down to the sea. He wanted to get to Cleethorpes. They were Navy men from the wireless station, I think.”

The old man’s manner and speech had entirely disarmed suspicion, and presently the pair rose, and bidding him good-bye, and urging him to keep a sharp look-out for strangers, they left.

The moment they were safely away, Rodwell emerged from the bedroom, and in a low, apprehensive voice, asked:

“What does all this mean, Tom – eh?”

“Don’t know, sir. That Judd’s been about here constantly of late. ’E’s up to no good, I’m sure. I’ve told you, weeks ago, that I didn’t like the look o’ things – an’ I don’t!”

Rodwell saw that the old fellow was pale and alarmed. He had preserved an impenetrable mask before his two visitors, but now they had gone he was full of fear.

Rodwell, as he stood in the low-pitched little room, recollected certain misgivings which Molly had uttered on the previous night, just before he had left Bruton Street. His first impulse now was to leave the house and slip away across the fen. Yet if he did somebody must certainly see him.

“Shall you get off now, sir?” asked the old man suddenly.

“Not till to-night,” was the other’s reply. “It would be a bit dangerous, so I must lay doggo here till dusk, and then escape.”

“Do you think they really suspect us, sir?” asked the old fellow, in a voice which betrayed his fear.

“No. So don’t alarm yourself in the least,” replied the gentleman from London. “I suppose I’ve been seen about, and my car has been noticed on the roads. There’s no danger, as long as I’m not seen again here for a bit. I’ll get through to Stendel, and let him know that I shan’t be back again for a fortnight or so.”

“Yes; you must certainly keep away from ’ere,” Tom urged. “They’ll be a-watchin’ of us, no doubt.”

“I’ve got a lady coming here, as I told you – Mrs Kirby, to whom you telegraph sometimes. She won’t get here till night, and I must wait for her. She’ll have some urgent information to send across to the other side. Penney will meet her in Lincoln, where she’ll arrive by train, and he’ll bring her on by car.”

“You’d better keep to the bedroom,” urged the old man. “They might come back later on.”

“Yes: I won’t be seen,” and returning to the stuffy little room, he reopened the cable instruments and soon got into communication with Stendel, in order to pass away the time which he knew must hang heavily upon his hands, for even then it was not yet nine o’clock in the morning.

He sat smoking and gossiping with the old fisherman nearly all the day, impatient for the coming of darkness, for his imprisonment there was already becoming irksome.

It grew dusk early when, about four o’clock, a footstep outside caused them both to start and listen. In answer to the summons at the door Tom went, and was handed a telegram by the boy messenger from Huttoft.

Opening it, he found it had been despatched from London, and read:

“Impossible to leave till to-morrow. – M.”

He gave it to Rodwell, who at once saw that the woman he expected had been delayed. Probably she had not yet been able to gather that important information which was wanted so urgently in Berlin.

The telegram puzzled him. Was it possible that the arrangements which he had made with such cunning and forethought, and had left to Molly to carry out, had broken down after all?

Lewin Rodwell bit his lip, and wondered. He seemed that day beset by misfortune, for when at five o’clock, Ted having returned, he tested the cable as usual, a call came through from Berlin.

Rodwell answered it, whereupon “Number 70” flashed the following message beneath the sea.

“Your information of this morning regarding troop-ships leaving Plymouth for Dardanelles is incorrect. Desborough was torpedoed off Canary Islands on January 18th, and Ellenborough is in dry dock in Belfast. Source of your report evidently unreliable.”

Rodwell read the words upon the long green tape as it slowly unwound, and sat staring at them like a man in a dream.

Chapter Nineteen.

Days of Darkness

On the same afternoon that Lewin Rodwell was stretching himself, impatient and somewhat nervous, in the lonely little house on the beach, Elise Shearman, pale and apprehensive, was seated in Sir Houston Bird’s consulting-room in Cavendish Square.

The spruce, young-looking pathologist, clean-shaven and grave, with hair streaked with grey, was listening intently to the girl’s words. It was her second visit to him that day. In his waiting-room were half a dozen persons who had come to consult him, but the blue-eyed young lady had been ushered straight into the sanctum of the great Home Office expert.

“Curious! Very curious!” he remarked as he listened to her. “That anonymous letter you brought this morning I have already taken to Whitehall. The whole affair seems a complete mystery, Miss Shearman. No doubt the charge against young Sainsbury is a very serious one, but that you should have been given warning is most strange. Since I saw you this morning I’ve had a visit from Mr Trustram, whom I called up on the ’phone, and we have had a long consultation.”

“What is your opinion?” she asked breathlessly.

“Will you forgive me, Miss Shearman if, for the present, I refrain from answering that question?” asked the great doctor, with a smile. He was sitting at his table with one elbow resting upon it and half turned towards her, as was his habit when diagnosing a case. The room was small, old-fashioned, and depressingly sombre in the gloom of the wintry afternoon.

“But do you think Jack will ever clear himself of these horrible charges?” she asked, pale and anxious.

“I hope so. But at present I can give no definite opinion.”

“But if he can’t, he’ll go to penal servitude!” cried the girl. “Ah! how I have suffered since his arrest! Father will hear no word in his favour. He daily tells me that Jack is a spy of Germany, and as such deserves full punishment.”

“Mr Trustram has found out from the War Office that his trial by court-martial begins at the Old Bailey to-morrow.”

“Yes, I know. Mr Pelham, his counsel, called on me just after lunch, and told me so,” said the girl tearfully. “But oh! he seemed so hopeless of the result. The prosecution, he said, would bring forward the most damning evidence against him. Can it be true, Sir Houston? Do you really think it is true?”

“No, I don’t,” was the prompt, straightforward answer. “Nothing will ever cause me to suspect Sainsbury to be guilty of espionage. He’s far too good an Englishman to accept German gold.”

“Then you believe him to be innocent!” cried the girl, her fair countenance brightening with a ray of hope.

“Yes, I do. He’s the victim of some dastardly plot. That’s my firm belief. And yet it is so strange that his friend Jerrold committed suicide.”

“But was Dr Jerrold a spy? That is the question!”

“It seems quite true that a warrant had been issued for his arrest upon a charge of war-treason,” Sir Houston replied. “Why didn’t he try and face it?”

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

Again the grey dawn was breaking over the chill North Sea – a wild, tempestuous morning.

On the far horizon northward, a steamer had just appeared, leaving behind a long trail of black smoke, but over the great expanse of storm-tossed waters which broke heavily upon the beach there was no sign of any other craft.

Thirty-six hours had passed since the young German who called himself Burton, but whose real name was Berenstein, had sat in Mrs Kirby’s drawing-room discussing the faulty ammunition being made at the works at G – . Twelve hours before, namely, at six o’clock on the previous evening, the court-martial sitting at the Old Bailey had concluded the hearing of the grave case of espionage brought against young Sainsbury. The evidence – some of the most damning evidence ever brought before a court-martial – had been given, and Mr Pelham his counsel had made his speech for the defence. Sentence had been postponed, in order that the whole of the facts should be considered by the military authorities. The trial having taken place in camera, not a word had leaked out to the newspapers, therefore the public were in ignorance of the young man’s arrest, still more so of the grave offence with which he had been charged.