“Thunder weather!” gasped von Reuter, running up. “What kind of a game is this?”
“We found him this way, Herr Leutnant,” babbled one of the guardsmen.
Von Reuter knelt beside his injured chief. Von Kleinhals tried to speak, but could not make it. His hand kept picking at his breast. Von Reuter saw that his coat had been slit open. The packet brought by the flying spy was missing.
One look at von Kleinhals’ staring eyes, and von Reuter sprang up.
“Deploy around this wood! Let no man get away!” he hurled commands in sharp, guttural phrases. “Shoot anyone who tries to run! Locate Sergeant Wolf, who was walking with the colonel! There is an enemy among us!”
A crowd of officers was gathering thickly about the stricken man.
“Who did this, Leutnant?” roared a field officer.
“Someone who will be shot for it—if we ever find him,” said von Reuter quietly.
* * * * *
There was a stain of crimson tricking down above Colonel von Kleinhals’ ear that was redder than his beard. In ten minutes, he stood, swaying slightly, making his report to General von Schmee.
“Beg to inform you, Excellency,” he gasped, “that, returning through the cedar wood, I was struck down from behind by an unseen assailant. Apparently likewise, Sergeant Wolf, who was just behind me. The information brought by our intelligence has vanished without trace—spurlos verschwunden.”
General von Schmee sank heavily into a chair. He beat his fist on his forehead. His eyeballs seemed to sweat.
“It is a black loss,” he muttered.
Lieutenant von Reuter marched in stiff-kneed, and stood at the salute.
“I have searched thoroughly, sir,” he said. “No man in the wood. Only Sergeant Wolf. He was sitting, hugging his knees, sir, somewhat out of his head and suffering from a blow on the skull. He can give no information.”
General von Schmee sat staring at the floor like a dying man. For the moment, he was conscious of nothing that was said.
“A black loss, a black, black loss!” he moaned. “It has cost us a great smashing victory, and maybe Paris.”
He climbed to his feet heavily after a moment. His eyes were blazing—red and furious, like the eyes of a mad elephant. He pounded his great black-haired fist on the table, till a wine bottle jigged around in a crazy dance and crashed over the edge to the floor.
“A spy!” he mouthed. “A damned unscrupulous English spy! Here at headquarters! Sucking our heart’s blood! If I had my hands on him, I’d nail him to the cross!”
Von Reuter glanced quickly out of the corners of his eyes at Colonel von Kleinhals.
“Lost, all lost!” the general raved. “Blundering stupidity! It has cost us Paris, and maybe the war! The English always beat us! They are too smart for us! Kleinhals, you will pay for this! You will be broken!”
The colonel wiped his mouth with a trembling hand.
“If the general will pardon me,” he said, “our intelligence has heretofore always been able to master the enemy’s plans. We have spread our nets completely around him. We have been years ahead of him. Now his espionage is beginning to counter-attack. Regrettable, Excellency. But to be expected.”
“Ja, ja!” muttered von Schmee, waggling his head. “We have fooled them long. But when they begin, they are smart. They are a very deep race, these English. Not thorough. Not scientific. But they have something, Kleinhals, that they call brains—das Geheim. A counter-attack! Ach, if I had in my hands the spy that did this thing, I would nail him to the living cross, in defiance of the so-called laws of warfare!”
Ritter von Reuter coughed. He felt a strange desire to laugh. And that would have been awkward. The eyes of von Schmee were drilling through him.
“No trace of the spy, Herr Leutnant?” said von Schmee, staring at the young lieutenant of Guards as if he were some species of louse whose presence for the moment had been forgotten.
“No, Excellency.”
“I cannot believe it! He is not smoke! Who was within the neighborhood of Colonel von Kleinhals?”
“Sergeant-Ordonnanz Wolf, Excellency.”
“Ja, ja!” cried von Schmee. “But civilians, strangers? Were there any peasants? Any of whom we might make a salutary example?”
“None, sir,” replied von Reuter promptly. “Three women mowing hay nearly a mile off.”
“No one else?”
“A private of the Guards chopping firewood at the far end of the copse, Excellency. His name is Sieger. He comes from Posen. He affirms he saw nothing. But I am having him investigated, sir.”
“Orders to the officer-of-the-day!” von Schmee snarled. “Have Private Sieger put under arrest. We will sweat him! Now, no one else?”
Von Reuter’s right eyebrow, curved and black, moved upward. There was no other expression on his face.
“Madame Alys,” he said, “was sunning herself down on a stone wall at the edge of the cedar wood when I searched. Just lying on the wall, Excellency, like a very pleasant cat. As she speaks only English, which I do not understand, I did not question her.”
General von Schmee took a step forward. He thrust his bulging face close up to the young lieutenant. His teeth clicked beneath his beard.
“It is not for you,” he said, “to comment on the way Madame Alys suns herself! Nor anything about her! I will have that pretty look wiped from your face, Herr Leutnant! Go, go! Get out of my sight! I charge you with the duty of finding K-13, or I will break you to the ranks! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Find the spy, or I will send you to the trenches!” repeated von Schmee with rage. “You would not like that, no? No pretty ladies around you. No nice bathtubs, no clean white beds, no good wine. But only mud and lice and dead men. Ach, no, you would not like it! I see it in your face. As God is my witness, I think you are a coward, Herr von Reuter!”
The smooth rosy face of the young lieutenant had, it was true, paled a little. He bowed from the hips. Von Schmee laughed brutally, rubbing his hands.
“But if I find the spy, Excellency?” said von Reuter.
“Ach!” said von Schmee, throwing out his arms. “Find K-13 for me, and I will give you Oldemonde with all that’s in it!”
Oberleutnant von Reuter screwed his monocle into place. He flashed a quick glance at Colonel von Kleinhals.
“I will find K-13 for you, Excellency,” he said.
* * * * *
General-Leutnant Paul Friedrich Hermann von Schmee watched the door closing behind the Chief of Communications and his lithe young aide with blazing eyes. He burst into a torrent of guttural blasphemy. Up and down he paced, shaking his fists and raving.
“K-13 has struck again!” he swore. “The smartest, coolest, bravest of all the English! I have been warned. God in Heaven! Must I suffer myself to be plucked alive, like a fat goose?”
He pulled and twisted his black beard in strands, till it stuck out like the iron spikes on a mine all about his face. He clenched his fists and beat his forehead.
“This day’s work of K-13 will go hard against me,” he groaned. “The High Command will hold me to account.”
K-13—such was the designation of the English for their ace of secret operatives. That much had been learned by the Nachrichtenamt, the great and well-drilled Department of Military Intelligence of the German Armies. But no more than the spy’s designation was known, and the fact that he existed.
General-Leutnant von Schmee sat down at his desk. He rubbed his huge hands together—the hands of the Butcher, hairy and strong.
“K-13 is working alone,” he thought. “Alone against our whole thoroughly organized, beautifully trained, highly paid Nachrichtenamt. He will not hold out long.”
Yet the coolness of him, the daring of him!
On this day, General von Schmee had been awaiting a full report from the German Intelligence back of the English lines concerning the strength and dispositions of the enemy. It was a work that h
ad taken weeks in preparation. Against the weakest point of the English front the whole 7th Corps—of six divisions, eighty thousand men—was massed to strike in a spearhead that would cut straight through the Somme to Paris.
Yet now, without accurate knowledge of the English reserve strength in men and artillery, it would be suicide to strike. The counter-attack of K-13 had cost a smashing victory, as von Schmee knew—and perhaps had cost the war.
Von Schmee rubbed his hands together. His large, sagacious brain was working actively.
“When I get this spy they call K-13,” he mouthed, “I will nail him to that door, as God is my witness! He is smart, but he cannot last long alone. It is not humanly possible. He will betray himself. It will not be good for him when he is found.”
He unlocked his office safe. Hidden away in between the leaves of his great code book was a secret report from the Nachrichtenamt on K-13. The report, von Schmee remembered, had suggested that K-13 might be a woman. It was only a wild theory, among others that the Nachrichtenamt had formulated concerning the unknown spy. Von Schmee thought he had better refresh his mind concerning it.
“Verdammnis!” he shrieked.
The secret report was missing from the code book. Von Schmee went through the book, page by page. He lifted it and shook it violently. A gray sweat had come on his forehead.
“Gott im Himmel!”
The door from his anteroom opened. Vrow Alys Dervanter peered in with her little elfin face. Her light green eyes were alive with merriment.
“Are you bissy, Paul?” she said.
“Come in, sweedhard,” said von Schmee, smoothing his ragged beard.
He reached out and patted her wrist with a fond look. He dragged her to his knee.
“My ’ittle bittle Paulie hass some troubles?” she asked coaxingly.
“It iss nuttings,” said von Schmee.
He closed his little gleaming eyes as she kissed his shaven head. He summoned a sentry and ordered wine from the musty cellars of Oldemonde. With a bottle of it and Vrow Alys—for a little while, he could forget K-13.
Chapter II
The Man From Missouri
Flight Captain Tillinghast Wainwright Oakley Face, commander of the Eighth Combat Detachment of the Thirty-Ninth Wing, Royal Flying Corps, B.E.F., in Northern France, slumped back in his chair and stretched forth his feet. He was a small man, not half so big as his title. A pale-eyed, pale-faced, pale-haired man, with a cold, polished look about him, like an icicle.
“Pull off my boots, Swipes,” he said.
He lifted one polished cordovan toe slyly. With a sudden vicious gesture, he jabbed it into the midriff of the batman who had brought him his afternoon tea.
“I mean you!” he said. “Jump when I speak to you!”
He stretched his arms high above his head and yawned clear back to his tonsils.
“Ho-hum! Ho-hum! I’m bally fed up with dodging the Archies,” he said. “Bingo, down comes the flying flag. This outfit will hop no more today. We’ll give Fritz his turn in the air for a change. Poor devil, he needs it. Eh, what, Swipes?”
The stalwart batman’s face was round and red as an Edam cheese, and growing purple. He was an honest Yorkshire yeoman, of the pure Saxon breed—a breed that for several thousand years had not accepted a kick in the midriff without a fight, not even from the robber barons of William the Bastard. A Yorkshireman’s home is his castle. And his midriff is his own private property, a thing not to be touched, nor looked at, nor even mentioned without his express permission.
He knelt and pulled off the captain’s boots so viciously that he almost pulled that elegant officer out of his chair.
“Gad, you’re a rough beggar, Swipes!” said the captain.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the batman muttered, “my name is William Sevenoaks.”
“Eh, what? How’s that?” said the captain, with a look of wrinkled surprise on his cold pale brow. “What’s that, Swipes? Oh, Sevenoaks. What a name! Well, Swipes is quite all right, thank you, Swipes.”
He rested his stockinged heels on his desk while he stirred six lumps of sugar in his tea. Carefully he lifted back his drooping blond mustaches and drank the national beverage of Old England with a soft, seeping noise. He was a little chilly. His hand with the teacup was shivering a little. But the drink warmed him. He picked up a crumpet and bit into it meditatively.
His eyes were pale as water. They were blank as fog. Captain Tillinghast Wainwright Oakley Face was thinking deeply.
“Swipes,” he said, setting down his teacup after the third refilling and drying the ends of his mustaches with a handkerchief, “tell the adjutant to send me in that blasted American pilot what-do-you-call-him—the bird with the Hun name.”
“Sub-Leftenant Big Dick Fahnestock, sir?” said Swipes.
“Don’t refer to officers by their nicknames, Swipes,” said the captain coldly. “Fahnestock, that’s the beggar I mean. Wait a minute, my man, before you go. And not such a sullen face about you, either. What I want to know is this—have you ever heard anything queer about Leftenant Fahnestock?”
“Why, no, sir. What do you mean?”
“Oh, you ’listed men spend all your time in gossip, I know. I understand rumors are going around that a Hun spy is working in the air force somewhere on this front. Anybody ever mention Fahnestock in that connection? Eh, what?”
The batman’s honest face was growing more purple, till it seemed he was about ready to choke to death.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of, if you’ll pardon me, sir!” he exploded. “Big Dick—excuse me, sir—Leftenant Fahnestock, why, he’s—he’s a fighter! He’s not a bleeding spy.”
“Don’t use vile language in my presence!” said the captain viciously. “By God, I’ll cane your buttocks for you!”
“Excuse me, sir. But Leftenant Fahnestock—”
“Never been mentioned suspiciously, eh?” said the captain, pulling at his mustaches. “Never mind, Swipes. You may go. Send the adjutant in.”
He sat musing after the batman had departed. His stockinged feet squirmed slowly. They were slender, delicate feet, as small as a woman’s, and he was very proud of them. Thoughtfully he ran his forefinger around his emptied teacup and licked up the melted sugar.
“In dear old Lunnon right this minute,” he reflected with a cold smile, “the way the subs are strafing the daylights out of everything that floats, you can’t buy this stuff for love or gold. Even in America they’re beginning to ration. But this little boy gets plenty of sugar. Rather sweet for you, old Face, my lad. Eh, what?”
Beneath his colorless mustaches, his thin lips were twisted in that smile. Hard and cold, like a bent icicle.
The world outside his windows was filled with the roaring of airplane motors. He peered forth with a quiet, intent look, watching the recalled Fighters sweeping down out of a smooth and cloudless sky—Sopwith two-seaters, swift, sweet ships that were piloted by men with notches on their guns. At the present time, along the Somme, they were hounding the Fokkers hell-for-leather out of the sky.
The little pale-eyed captain stroked the ends of his mustaches. He was still smiling when the adjutant came in.
“Harvey,” he said, “about this fellow, Fahnestock?”
Adjutant Harvey was a burly, middle-aged officer, very neat and spruce, with a well washed, shining face. He had been broken from a majority for cowardice in the face of the enemy, and had fought his way back up to a lieutenancy in the air force from the ranks. Life had given a bitter look to his mouth. He was a man who seldom ever flew. It was no secret that he was afraid of the air.
“Fahnestock is in the air now,” he said. “Flying alone, as he always does. Somewhere over Hunland.”
“Over Hunland, eh?” mused the captain.
His head began to nod slowly. His eyes had slanted down.
“Here’s the report from Intelligence on Fahnestock,” said Adjutant Harvey “Born an American citizen, in some place cal
led Missouri. Parents both German. Recommended by H.M. consul at St. Louis, however. Intelligence has checked him up very thoroughly, of course. Do you want to read it?”
“Never mind,” said the captain, with a flicker of his hand. “Anybody knows our own Intelligence is asinine. What do you think of Fahnestock personally?”
“He’s sloppy in his dress, and insubordinate,” said Harvey. “He’s profane, loud voiced, democratic and uncouth. I’m always having trouble with him. Sometimes I despair of ever making a gentleman of him. However, I have not the least doubt that he is honest and loyal, and, of course, completely without fear. He’s just another one of these half-civilized Americans, with their extraordinary fighting instinct. He has an unofficial tally of nine Boche ships and four sausages.”
“Unofficial, eh, what?” said the captain with an icicle smile.
“It’s hard to get an official tally any more, as you know,” explained Harvey patiently. “The Boches never come over our own lines. And Fahnestock has the habit of going gunning for them particularly far into Hunland, where there aren’t any official observers and nothing counts on the records.”
Captain Face poured out a cup of tea, now almost cold. He sipped it slowly. No shadow of his swift and multitudinous thoughts passed over his pale eyes.
“You’re well acquainted with the whispers being spread around, I take it,” he said, “that a secret operative of the Huns is working from the air force somewhere between St. Quentin and Cambrai?”
“Yes, sir. It’s general gossip,” admitted Adjutant Harvey. “And it’s bad for morale.”
“Do you think it’s true, eh, what?”
“I’m convinced of it.”
“Looks queer for Fahnestock,” said the captain.
“Absurd!” snorted Harvey. “The boy hasn’t the slightest ability to dissemble. He isn’t intelligent enough. You can read his face like a page of print. In his own expressive American phrase, he is just a fighting fool.”
Secret Operative K-13 Page 2