by David Marcum
They had only begun to establish procedures and recruit staff before the Great War began. Some of the greatest advances were made in a field where there was virtually no capability before 1914, such as Signals Intelligence (SIGINT). “Room 40” of the Admiralty (one of whose notable contributions was the decoding of the Zimmerman Telegram,) and Section MI1b of the War Office together changed the British Intelligence landscape and laid the foundations for much of today’s communications technology. (This information is from Secret Intelligence and British policy, 1909–45 by Gill Bennett. Foreign and Commonwealth Office, London.)
As the Great War progressed, the race between codemaker and codebreaker accelerated, with combatants devising new and ever more devious ciphers, and their adversaries finding ways to crack them. His Majesty’s Government really did ban the posting of knitting abroad, including knitting patterns, in case they contained coded messages. Codebreaking ended up having a strong influence on the course of the war. Code-making and code-breaking proved so important that by 1918, cryptologic organisations were no longer small groups of back-room “boffins”, but considerable bureaucracies increasingly integrated into normal military practice and operations.
The Germans too were not lagging. One curious incident is mentioned in Alan Judd’s The Quest For C, wherein a well-dressed Belgian woman of good family, looks, and education who had good cause “to hate the Boche” was recruited by British Intelligence (possibly MI1c) to become a double-agent. She bamboozled the Germans completely. She was sent by Berlin to Paris with “several articles of underclothing impregnated with secret ink for delivery to a certain address”. Her work helped destroy the German spy network in neutral Switzerland. Unfortunately, the Germans didn’t initiate her into how the ink was developed.
Only much later did it dawn on Watson that Britain’s Intelligence staff (probably “Room 40”) must have approached Holmes at the start of the War, if not before, when it became clear Kaiser Wilhelm would not be denied a fight. It would, Watson realised, explain how Holmes was able to put a repentant White Lady and the Intelligence Agency together so quickly and with such great effect.
The real Ulrich Hoffmeyer was a friend of mine. RIP.
RECOMMENDED READING:
The Quest For C, by Alan Judd. Harper Collins.
Secret Service - The Making of The British Intelligence Community, by Christopher Andrew. Sceptre.
A Case of Mistaken Identity
by Daniel D. Victor
No amount of fire or freshness can challenge
what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
I
With a furled black brolly hooked over my arm, I stood at my door in Queen Anne Street, peering up and down the road. It was the beginning of a cool, wet June in the year 1924, and like many another evenings that summer, the air felt thick and heavy beneath grey and threatening skies. To be sure, my sitting room offered more comfort, but I was awaiting the arrival of a taxi and wanted to be as punctual as possible.
Fortunately, I did not have long to tarry. In a matter of minutes, a dark-blue cab rolled to a stop. A wave from its window assured me that my old friend was sitting inside, and employing the umbrella as a walking-stick, I carefully made my way along the slippery flags to the kerb.
“Ah, my dear Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes as I planted myself beside him upon the shiny black-leather cushion, “so good to see you.”
Except for the silvering of his hair and brows, Sherlock Holmes looked as he always had - the same square jaw, the same aquiline nose, the same steely glance from those sharp, grey eyes.
“Holmes,” said I, “you haven’t aged a bit.”
“As much as one may hope for the contrary, old fellow,” said he indicating his hair, “one cannot cheat the calendar - let alone the occasional touch of rheumatism.”
Holmes and I had not visited with each other for quite some time. To be sure, it was always a pleasure to see my former colleague and companion; and yet, I confess to feeling mystified at his quick acceptance of my dinner-invitation. Only the day before had I asked him to dine with another guest and me at the Langham, and I really did not expect him to come up to London from his cottage upon the South Downs on such short notice. Yet here he was.
Holmes must have realized what I was thinking. Perhaps he even sensed that I remained a trifle miffed at his failure to keep me abreast of his recent adventures. For though it was the briefest of drives to nearby Portland Place, no sooner did the taxi lurch forward than he removed a small white envelope from an inner-coat pocket and slid it across the leather seat in my direction. Clearly, Holmes had concluded that there was sufficient time during our short ride for me to discern the significance of whatever the envelope contained.
To that end, I noted his Sussex address scrawled across the front and three American stamps affixed to the upper-right-hand corner. The postmark was New Brunswick, New Jersey. But what most intrigued me was the small crimping at the centre of the envelope formed by the small objects inside. Somehow, it all seemed distantly familiar.
Sherlock Holmes nodded at the thing. “Open it,” said he.
I picked up the envelope and, fingering the small pieces still within, immediately guessed the contents. Indeed, once I had lifted the flap, I was not surprised to discover the five small pips. By touch, I had expected whitish, dried orange seeds. These brown ones, however, I judged to have come from an apple. Printed in red ink on the inside of the envelope’s flap were the words, “Drop the case”. Beneath them, the letters K.K.K.
“A copycat?” I chuckled, employing the American term. I vaguely remembered a similar message we had received in the late 1880’s. It was my initial introduction to the Ku Klux Klan. Readers may remember my account of the affair, which I titled “The Five Orange Pips”.
Holmes, however, reacted to my light-hearted response with a tightening of his jaw and a narrowing of his eyes. “I received this packet by post a few days ago,” said he. “How they got my address I have no idea, but it is the reason that I agreed so quickly to join you and your friend for dinner this evening.”
“He’s not exactly my friend, Holmes,” I protested as the taxi rolled to a stop beneath the sand-coloured facings of the many-faceted Langham. “He’s a writer - an American actually. As I explained in my wire, I met him just yesterday. That’s when he told me he hoped to speak with you as soon as possible about a murder in New Jersey - ”
A doorman in grey livery cut me off in mid-sentence.
“Welcome to the Langham,” said he, opening the door of the taxi and gesturing to the front arch of the building’s three-sided stone portico.
Before I could get up, Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me towards him. “Two murders, actually,” he whispered and snatched the envelope from my hand.
It was a struggle to restrain my questions. Yet, with the aid of the doorman’s hand and my stick-like umbrella, I managed to exit the cab without saying a word. Holmes paid the driver, and together the two of us walked slowly through the familiar entrance hall and into the vestibule that leads to the Salle á Manger.
During our short trek, we passed various small tables where patrons were taking coffee, their hushed voices accompanied by the lyrical melodies of classical players stationed in a corner of the broad hallway.
“Mozart’s G Major String Quartet,” observed Holmes with a brief but self-satisfied smile. “Though the second violin is a bit off.”
Under the circumstances, I admired his calm. Here he was thinking about a fiddle whilst I was still worrying about those pips he had showed me. At the same moment, Holmes was turning his head towards the musicians, I was considering a look over my shoulder for secret assassins. I had no knowledge regarding the murders to which Holmes had referred, yet I sensed that our evening was rapidly taking on a most ominous tone.
Upon entering the dining room itself, a large darkened hall bordered by stately marble columns on facing walls, I offered our names to the maître d’, and we were quickly ushered to a well-appointed table set for three. It was there that the American I had mentioned to Holmes sat awaiting our arrival. In the tall glass he was clutching, a green half-rind of lime lay submerged in a pool of melted ice - the apparent remains of a gin rickey. When he cast his eyes upon Holmes, a look of relief seemed to bathe his face.
Apparently, it was left to me alone to appreciate the irony. Though the entire business had begun in my own house the day before, Sherlock Holmes seemed to know more about what was going on than I did. Apple pips? The Klan? Murders in New Jersey? Of all this, I knew nothing more than I had the previous morning when I had been working innocently at my desk and the bell at the front door had clanged for attention at precisely ten o’clock.
“An American gentleman to see you, Dr. Watson,” said my young housekeeper, Miss Ross.
I smiled at her from behind a stack of papers. The older I grew, the more I appreciated how casting one’s eye on an attractive young woman each day served as a better tonic than any diurnal medicine I could name.
“Quite a good-looking fellow, sir,” she added, “if you don’t mind my saying. He says he’s a writer.”
“A writer?” I repeated, cupping my hand behind my ear to amplify the sound. I was always surprised when my accounts of Holmes’s cases attracted the literary world. But I suppose it was why - now in my early seventies - I was still hard at work compiling portfolios of those sketches of mine that had most recently been published in The Strand. My agent, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, had already bestowed a title upon the volume I was currently completing: The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes. If authors like this fellow at the door were coming to see me from as far away as the United States, there seemed little doubt that my new collection would generate strong interest.
In all honesty, however, I should inform my readers that I really do expect The Case-Book to be my last. My hearing problem is but one of the physical ailments with which I must contend. Alas, I no longer move as dextrously as I once did and, as a result, spend most of my days on the ground floor of my house. Due to this lack of mobility, my sitting room looks more like a library, my grand mahogany desk at its centre, surrounded by walls of bookshelves.
I employ a stick when I go out, and Miss Ross aids me in climbing the stairs. In fact, I confess rather sheepishly that it is her physical support pressing against my body that encourages me to ascend the staircase more often than might seem necessary. In any event, since the death of my wife, I have appreciated having Miss Ross about the place. She leaves me dinner before going home.
“Sir?” said she, her voice a degree louder as she awaited my instructions regarding the visitor at the door.
“Show the man in,” said I, rising from my chair.
In spite of my other infirmities, my eyesight remains sharp, and I could see that Miss Ross was quite correct about the visitor’s good looks. Advancing towards me was a dapper young man, probably not yet thirty. At first, I took him to be clean-shaven, but the nearer he came, the easier it was to detect the hint of a feeble blond moustache paralleling the line of his upper lip. I placed him at about five-foot-eight, his short legs limiting his height. Undeterred by the grey skies of summer, he wore a stylish suit of white linen set off by a light-blue tie. The tan he bore indicated that at the very least he had not been spending his summer in dreary London.
The gentleman caller fairly bounded into the room, yet I immediately sensed the contradictions. He greeted me with a friendly smile, but his sad, green eyes betokened a vulnerable nature. His brushed-back blond hair, sharply chiselled nose, and thin lips presented quite a handsome portrait. Yet one could detect an aura of insecurity.
Holding a straw boater in his left hand, he extended his right in my direction. “Scott Fitzgerald,” said he in his flat American accent. “My friends call me Fitz.”
“John Watson,” said I, shaking his hand, “but then you know who I am since you’ve come here to see me.”
“Spot on,” said my guest.
Whilst Miss Ross took the man’s hat, I gazed at my striking visitor. I knew the name, of course: F. Scott Fitzgerald - the author of countless short stories; inventor of the phrase “The Jazz Age”; composer of two successful novels, This Side of Paradise and The Beautiful and Damned. More to the point, even I, cooped up as I was here in Queen Anne Street, had heard some of the more egregious tales from New York about the man and his wife - riding atop the bonnets of taxis, bathing in pubic fountains, disrobing at parties - and always, in spite of the prohibition against alcohol in the States, the constant drinking. To be sure, much of his written work had received positive reviews, yet I personally had no intention of exposing myself to his sordid descriptions of colonial sensationalism.
In spite of my protests, let it not be thought that I am in the habit of shunning all American authors. Faithful readers will recall that I have worked well with such writers in the past - people like Clemens and Crane and London, for instance. Yet those encounters had taken place many years before, and all had something to do with presenting crimes for Sherlock Holmes to solve. With my friend now comfortably retired, I had no idea - other than the desire to meet the biographer of Sherlock Holmes, of course - what might have pushed so infamous a figure as F. Scott Fitzgerald in my direction.
“Might I offer you some refreshments?” said I, waving in the general direction of the silver tea and coffee pots.
“Normally,” said Fitzgerald with what sounded like a bit too much piety, “I don’t drink in the morning. But,” he added with what I regarded as equally too much enthusiasm, “I wouldn’t say no to a gin rickey.”
“It’s all right, Miss Ross,” I said as my housekeeper moved to serve him, “we’ll manage on our own.”
“Very good, sir,” said she, casting one final look at the handsome visitor as she gently closed the door behind her on her way out.
To fulfil his early-morning craving for spirits, I pointed Fitzgerald in the direction of the cherry-wood sideboard. Upon it stood my silver tantalus and its three bottles, one of which contained a smooth gin. For the carbonated water, he would have to rely on my ancient gasogene.
“There’s ice in the bucket,” I told him, “but I’m rather afraid you’ll need to substitute lime juice for an actual lime. Could you pour me a glass of water while you’re at it?”
I moved to the wing chair opposite the sofa whilst Fitzgerald filled our glasses. Placing the drinks on the table between us, he seated himself across from me and sampled his rickey with a satisfied smile.
“Now, Mr. Fitzgerald, what brings you to London?” I asked, fully expecting some sort of homage to my literary accomplishments.
“It’s simple really,” said he. “I need to meet with Sherlock Holmes.”
“Holmes!” I cried, my eyebrows shooting up in astonishment. Although I had been compiling a number of our adventures together, I had not given serious thought to meeting with my old friend in quite a while.
Fitzgerald ran a hand through his luxuriant hair. “You see, Doctor, I’m in the middle of writing my third novel. Actually, I’ve been working on it for some time. I call it Among Ash Heaps and Millionaires.”
I must have pulled a face at the cumbersome title, for Fitzgerald recognized my unspoken criticism.
“You know,” he said with a quick laugh, “I’m not too keen on the title either. That’s why I have alternatives. In fact, as of this moment, I’m going to start calling it Trimalchio in West Egg.”
I stared at him blankly. “Trimalchio? West Egg?” The terms meant nothing to me.
“West Egg is my fictional name for Great Neck, New York. We rented a house there, and I studied the inhabitants. As for Trimalchio, according to the Satyricon of Petroni
us, he was a Roman slave who got rich through unsavoury means.”
Fitzgerald completed this announcement with a broad grin. Though he was obviously proud to show off his classical knowledge, I am afraid that I greeted his explanation with vacant eyes once again.
“It doesn’t really matter,” said he. “The point is that the fellow’s a model for the main character in my novel. It’s about a rich American crook and the married woman he falls in love with.” He paused to sample his drink. “But to be honest, even though I completed a first draft, my life in New York - it’s not called the den of iniquity for nothing, you know - the place had gotten the best of me. I figured that if I was ever to complete my novel, I’d have to go someplace where there was peace and quiet.
“Thanks to the money from my magazine stories, Zelda and I - Zelda’s my wife - packed up our belongings - including our little girl Scottie (she’s two) - and in early May sailed to France. It took us ten days to get from New York to Paris! Ten days on a ‘dry steamer’, the Minnewaska. Ten days! Can you imagine? In fairness, I guess I’ve been making up for it ever since.” Here he held up his glass to illustrate the point - as if I needed such a gesture to recognise an inebriant.
“But Paris?” I said in disbelief.
“We didn’t remain there,” he smiled, “not in Paris. You don’t stay in Paris if you’re trying to economise. For that matter, you don’t come to London either - believe me. But we bought an inexpensive car and drove south to the Riviera. It’s pretty empty in the summer. The French consider the Riviera a place to spend the winter. As a result, we were able to rent a small house a few miles north of St. Raphaël.”
“Quite beautiful, I should imagine.”
Fitzgerald fairly beamed. “Our house - it’s called Villa Marie - stands on a pine-shaded hill overlooking the town of Valescure and the glorious too-blue Mediterranean. It’s hot in the daytime under that flaming sun, but at night, when the liquid dark comes down, it’s perfect. Mainly though, it’s cheap - $79 a month - and silent - if you discount the rush of the sea. It’s a place where I can work on the book and not be disturbed. Zelda spends her time on the sand with a couple of French aviators she’s met.”