CHAPTER X.

THE GREY ENVELOPE

It has often been remarked by impartially-minded thinkers that the German race produces more psychologists and more introspective logicians than any other race in the world. It may be thought that I make extravagant claims for Germans because I am of that chosen race. It may be sneered that we only see one side of any question and that is our own side, but as against that we Germans contend that there can be only one side to any question and that is the side we are on.

For, as a race, and as individuals, we have that innate sense of justice, that discrimination, that almost godlike balance of judgment which enables us to see every fault that our blind and conceited neighbours possess. When we Germans talk of “kultural extension,” we mean that it is our object to extend our practice of reasoning for the benefit of humanity. The English newspapers are notoriously stupid, ignorant, and unreasonable. Very often they print in the short extract from some exalted personage’s address to his troops a great and a vital fact without realizing that the sentiment they so ignobly deride is the basic truth on which civilization was founded, and from which all nations but Germans are cast aside.

Forgive me, dear friend, if I depart from the plain narrative of the curious happening which is chronicled below to wander at large in the realms of metaphysics, but since this chapter deals largely with psychology, it is meet that I should preface the story with a short introduction worthy, I trust, of Mother Heidelberg which sent me to the world, so well equipped with a knowledge of the sciences.

There is in Berlin, as you know, attached to the Intelligence Department of the _Kriegsministerium_, the Psychological Branch, which deals entirely with movements of national thought, especially enemy thought, in its relation to Germany. I claim, and I would like to know who would dare refute my claim, that I have rendered invaluable service to the Herr Professor von Zollernborn, the head of that department.

It was I who started the story of the Massacre of the 194th Highlanders. It was I, who, through my trusty friends, put into circulation that hint that France was conducting secret peace negotiations which created so immense a sensation in knowledgeable London circles. It was I, who, having received news that the British had sustained a severe defeat at Ctesiphon, spread news within six hours of my information coming to hand that the British had marched into Baghdad, thereby preparing for a more profound feeling of depression than had the news come without my preliminary planning.

We Germans neglect no opportunities. In a war between nations you must strike at the civilian as well as at the soldier, and since we are more qualified by reason of our mental equipment to exploit the sciences of which we are so perfect masters, we enjoy advantages which are denied to non-kultural races.

It was in 1917, in the early part of the year, that, as a result of communications which had passed between myself and our agent in Amsterdam, we decided upon opening the most elaborate, and though I myself say it, one of the best planned campaigns against the morale of the British that had ever been undertaken. The occasion was the arrival amongst the enemies of the Fatherland of the United States of America. The U.S.A., as everybody knows, came into the war owing to the fact that the munition makers of America, who had spent millions of pounds in plant, had found themselves faced with ruin. For this they had to thank the perfidious behaviour of the British, who cancelled their orders, well knowing that to keep all the American munition factories running the American government would be compelled to declare war.

I had this information from a dear friend of mine who is in the secrets of Washington and was on terms of personal friendship with many Senators and Congressmen, one at least of whom had openly exposed the perfidious Wilson--such balderdash as his speeches has never been uttered by serious statesmen!--and his nefarious plan.

I had not lived in America for nothing. I knew how deep-rooted was the detestation felt in America against the English. I remember before leaving New York I dined with two true-born patriotic Americans, the Mr. Shauns O’Gorman and Mr. Adolph Dinklewurtt, who assured me solemnly, that any movement of the President toward assisting the English would result in revolution from one end of the country to the other.

I felt therefore, that although the die had been cast, and Wilson had committed the unforgivable and diabolical crime of plunging America into war for chauvinistic aims--a responsibility from which the unfrivolous mind reels in gasping horror--there was still an opportunity for a man who could think quickly and act instantly, providing always he had that genius for organization which so few of my rivals possess.

It made it easier for me that America was intensely unpopular with the English people. How they sneered at that expression of his “Too haughty for war!” How they gibed at his notes and derided his chauvinistic speeches! They refused to accept this impertinent man, this ex-colonel of cowboy rough-riders, at his own valuation, or to take his “big stick” speech in any but a frivolous spirit.

Knowing this uncompromising hatred of the American, it did not take me very long to set my agents working. Within a week the country was ringing with stories of the behaviour of American soldiers in Lancashire. You, yourself, must have heard of the quarrel between the English and American, which resulted in the American being thrown into a river and drowned? It also probably reached your ears, that certain American soldiers, refused liquor at a saloon, set fire to the house and decamped, carrying with them the hotel keeper’s young daughter.

You may also have heard how all American soldiers speak despisingly of England and boast that they have come in to finish the war. Some of these stories were more widely spread than others, but all of them fulfilled one excellent purpose--they brought annoyance to that ridiculous person, Major Haynes--the so-called Intelligence Officer, under whose nose the despised Heine worked so brazenly!

I do not pretend to know intimately the mentality of such men as Major Haynes. I confess it is difficult for a plain-thinking German, blunt and honest, to understand deceit for deceit sake (I justly absolve myself of all acts of deception performed on behalf of the Fatherland), or to lower his moral vision to the gutter wherein much slimy kultur flows.

To me, it is abhorrent that men should be so frivolous that they should engage themselves in despicable undertakings for wholly despicable reasons.

That such a stigma applies to Major, or Mister, Haynes, I can prove by his own words.

Some time after my last encounter with him, we met in a café in Fleet Street. I had gone in to drink a cup of coffee and smoke a cigar when the swing doors opened and I saw the somewhat drab and insignificant figure of Haynes enter. He walked in furtively, almost apologetically. How different, thought I, would have been the bearing of one of our German officers! _He_ would have flung the door open with a crash and have stood erect with flashing eyes and haughty mien surveying the room ere he strode forward, his sword clanking with every movement of his big earth-trembling German feet.

Major Haynes came in timorously and seeing me came toward me. My throat went dry with hate, my hands shook with righteous anger and I felt myself go pale at the thought of his perfidy.

But there was nothing to be afraid of as his first words assured me.

“Good evening, Heine,” he said, “may I sit down with you?”

Here again, what a contrast to a major of the Highest German Staff! He would have ordered me to rise and go to the devil, and probably honoured me with a good German cuff of the ear!

“Certainly, Major Haynes,” I said, “this is indeed a pleasure I did not anticipate. May I order you some coffee?”

He nodded and I summoned the waiter.

“It is such a long time since we met,” I went on, “that I have almost despaired of seeing you again. I began to fear that you had been sent to the front.”

“I am afraid that must have given you some sleepless nights,” he said foolishly.

Why should this conceited hound imagine that his departure for the front would disturb my rest? Such arrogance!

“You may think I exaggerate,” I said earnestly, “but believe me, I have been much impressed by your personality----”

“It is curious you should have said that,” said Major Haynes, “for I was just on the point of remarking how much I had been impressed by your personality. You see, Heine,” he went on, noting, I trust, my modest surprise, “I have been watching you pretty closely (my blood ran cold) and I realize how utterly trustworthy you are and how different from other of the South American neutrals one meets. I always had an admiration for the Latin races and it is such a joy to meet a thorough-going South American with a German name, and especially one so whole-heartedly in favour of the Allies as yourself.”

“Major Haynes,” I said solemnly, “I have no interests but the interests of the Allies. If I could shoulder a musket to-morrow----”

“You would look very silly,” said Major Haynes crudely, ignorant of the fact that I was speaking in a figurative sense, because muskets are no longer carried even by the German-trained native troops of West Africa.

“Yes, I am sure you would fight, Heine, and I am certain it is only the fact that you have a wife and family, that you are the sole support of your ancient mother, and that you suffer from a weak heart, which prevent your flinging yourself joyously into the battle.”

I inclined my head with a certain quiet dignity.

“You are pleased to jest, Major Haynes, for being an Englishman you will have your joke, but I assure you in all seriousness that if ever I could render a service to the Allies you have but to command me.”

Major Haynes looked at me for a long time. It would be true to say that he stared very rudely before he spoke, but when he did speak his words shocked me.

“That is exactly what I want you to do,” he said slowly.

I was all attention, curious, and at the same time apprehensive. If he dared ask me to commit any action which would have injured my beloved land I should have first smacked his face and then shot myself, if I still lived.

“Command me,” I said coldly.

Major Haynes looked round, then he lowered his voice.

“The matter I am going to discuss,” he said, “is a delicate one. I want you to upset one of the cleverest gangs of spies we have had in this country, headed by a man who is without doubt the biggest genius in the German Intelligence Department.”

If I blush with gratification, even though those words of praise were from an enemy, can you blame me? If my pleasure overcame my fears, can you wonder?

“There is a man in England,” Major Haynes went on, “who is directing the real work of espionage. I am not referring to the hacks that Germany employs to send her weather news and reports on the effect of air-raids and movements of troops, but to the big gang, the men who work in the dark, who go after the big coups.”

I nodded again, not I trust with any evidence of self-complacence, but certainly in a spirit of pride, for I seemed to realize more of my importance to the state when I heard my work recounted in the cold and passionless language of a man whom I regarded at that moment as one of the most intelligent Englishmen I had ever met.

“They are the people we are anxious to get,” said Major Haynes, “and, I might add,” he said, “to shoot.”

I shivered, but hid my shiver in a laugh.

“Go on, dear Major Haynes,” I said, “you interest me.”

“I know the man I am after,” said Haynes. (I clutched at the table-cloth.) “But I have not been able to catch him. He has a dozen aliases, but his real name is Professor Zollernborn.”

“Zollernborn?” I said in astonishment.

I think it was at that moment that my quick German brain grasped the situation. Professor Zollernborn was in Berlin. The clever Major Haynes did not know that only that morning I had received instructions from the Herr Professor. I saw the trap plainly, but from my impassive face Major Haynes would never have known the rapid, lightning-like thoughts which were flashing and crackling in my brain.

It was a trap for Heine! Beware and walk warily, thou faithful servant of government! Match thy wits against this dull Englishman and put him in the soup!

“Indeed,” I said.

“I have reason to believe,” this so-called Intelligence Officer went on, “that a document of a very important character, which in some mysterious way recently disappeared for twenty-four hours from the papers of the Director-General of Recruiting, will be transmitted to Berlin--or rather a copy of that document which is in such a code that it cannot be forwarded by wireless.”

“In what way can I help you?” I asked, playing my part in the farce with admirable _sang-froid_.

Major Haynes leant back and thrust his hands in an ungentlemanly manner in his trousers’ pockets.

“I am going to put all my cards on the table, Heine, all except the ace,” he said. “It cannot have escaped your notice that you have been associated with people who have been very naturally the objects of suspicion. Two or three gentlemen with whom you have had dealings--in a perfectly innocent manner, I am sure--have paid the penalty for espionage. I know what you are going to say,” he said, checking my indignant protest with a shake of his head, “that you know nothing about their nefarious work? Quite right, I can believe it. But for some reason or other, Heine, they think, these enemies of the government, that you are favourably disposed to help them.”

“Then they make a very great mistake,” I said firmly, “and if they ask me to assist them I shall be extremely annoyed.”

He nodded.

“So I think. And yet they will ask you to assist them. The document in question will pass from hand to hand. Sooner or later it will fall into your possession and on the envelope will be the address of another agent to whom you will deliver it. It will probably be thrust into your pocket while you are walking along the street and somebody will whisper in your ear ‘Frieburg,’ which means, ‘you have something which must be passed on without delay.’”

As he proceeded the perspiration was pouring from me--indeed that night when I came to change my undervest (it being Friday) I found it quite damp. “Frieburg” was the password which we used in the sense that Major Haynes had stated. What traitor betrayed his Fatherland and placed this stupid officer in possession of our code will perhaps one day be known and his name will be execrated from one end of Germany to the other.

“But,” I said, calming myself, “how should I know what ‘Frieburg’ meant if you had not told me?”

“You would probably be notified by letter,” said the Major suavely, “at any rate, you will know.”

“What am I to do?” I asked.

The scheme was now to me as plain as daylight. I was suspect, and this was a trap for me. How was the trap to be sprung?

“The moment you find yourself in possession of that letter you will bring it to me,” said Major Haynes. “Of course, I could have you watched all the time but I could not be searching you every five minutes, and I could never know, unless you assisted me, when you were in possession of this interesting document. I could even have you arrested now,” he shrugged his shoulders cold-bloodedly, “but that would not help, because another agent would be found.”

“You want me to bring you the letter as soon as I receive it?” I said.

“That is all I ask,” said Major Haynes.

I offered him my hand and smiled.

“On the word of a sportsman and a gentleman,” I said, “I will bring it to you.”

I walked down Fleet Street whistling a tune. Even in that moment of danger Heine’s well-balanced mind was not seriously perturbed.

“I shall know no danger until I am blind,” said Schiller, and so might I say, for with my eyes open to the plot which was being laid against me half the danger vanished.

The cleverness of it, the cunning underhandedness of it! I was suspect. They had no evidence against me and they wanted to secure proof that I was a dirty-devil of a German. A police agent would hand me the envelope. I should probably find the name of a comrade inscribed. I would be watched all the time and if I attempted to escape with the spurious document I should be arrested.

I have a much better plan, dear Mister, or Major, Haynes! Into thy blood-guilty hands will I deliver this fake, or dud, document, and shall stand with quiet, smiling contempt, watching thy confusion, when thou discoverest that Heine, with bland innocence, has carried out thy wishes!

Two days later I was called up on the telephone and a strange voice speaking with a German accent said:

“Be prepared for ‘Frieburg’ to-day,” and immediately rang off.

I chuckled my amusement. So this was the day for the plot to materialize. I went about my work in the usual manner. I lunched at a fashionable restaurant in the Strand, returned to my office, finished up my work at 5.30, and strolled, as was my wont, westward.

It was whilst making the purchase of a paper at the bookstall at Piccadilly Tube Station, that the thing happened. Somebody pressed close to me. I heard the word “Frieburg” whispered in my ear, and when I had disengaged myself from the crowd and carelessly put my hand in my pocket, I found a somewhat bulky envelope, which as I felt with my fingers was heavily sealed.

I walked down Piccadilly and turned into the park, and presently found my way to a quiet spot. Making sure that I was free from observation, I pulled the envelope from my pocket, pretending to take out a handkerchief which I had previously pocketed, and examined the letter.

It was enclosed in a big grey envelope and was addressed in English:

“Deliver without delay to our agent at Southampton.”

I put the envelope and handkerchief back. The solution of Major Haynes’s plot became ridiculously simplified. It was not only a test for me, but it was an attempt to discover who was the agent of the government at Southampton. Could you not imagine me driving off to Waterloo followed by Secret Service men, and shadowed until I met and betrayed the brave fellow who overlooked the interests of Deutschland in Southampton?

Five minutes later I was out of the park, hailing a taxicab.

“Drive me to the War Office,” I said in a loud voice, for the benefit of a skulking loafer who was near by, and who was probably a detective in disguise.

Immediately on my arrival, I sent up my card and was ushered in to Major Haynes’s office. He jumped up as I entered.

“Have you got it?” he said eagerly.

For answer I handed him the grey envelope, and he seized it.

“Sit down, Heine. Excuse my agitation,” he said, “but I had a feeling that they would try you.”

I looked at him in wonder for, for the first time in his life, the major was agitated. He pressed a bell and a soldier came in.

“Will you ask General Brackenhurst if he can come,” he said.

If Major Haynes’s excitement was astonishing, what shall I say of a staid and veteran staff-general, who tore the wrappings from the envelope, eagerly scanned the unfolded pages and gave a loud and vulgar cry of joy.

“It is the original, Haynes!” he said. “Thank God we’ve got it!”

“They haven’t taken a copy, you think?”

“It was the copy they sent back,” said the general, wiping his forehead, “it is impossible to make a copy of this. That is how we detected the theft. This is the original. In this code a pin-point’s difference in the position of the letters would have made all the difference. That is why they are trying to send it to Germany, because they couldn’t translate it here.”

He turned and looked at me.

“Is this the gentleman who assisted us?” he asked, and shook me warmly by the hand. “We owe you a great debt of gratitude, sir,” he said. “As Major Haynes has told you, this document, if it fell into the hands of the enemy, would have been of inestimable value to the Germans.”

If it was acting it was good acting. My German instinct told me that it was not acting at all. I knew by the trembling of my knees that I had misjudged the position, and I left the War Office like a man in a dream.

Only one thing remained to be done. I left that evening for Southampton, and was fortunate enough to see our agent in the vestibule of a theatre.

I whispered “Frieburg” in his ear, and put my hand in his pocket, but I did not leave any letter.

Let him explain it if he can!