Wallace Intervenes

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Does she possess any secrets of importance?’ he asked. ‘I can’t help feeling mystified, don’t you know. We’re all friends here, and all that, so I suppose you won’t mind my asking you a question.’

  ‘Not at all,’ murmured Schönewald. ‘Go ahead!’

  Foster noticed a swift look pass between him and the black-haired girl.

  ‘What is it all about?’ he asked. ‘You came to me this morning and warned me to cease showing any interest in the baroness. You also asked me whether she had divulged any matters of importance to me, and hinted at state secrets and what not. I find it all jolly mysterious and can’t make head nor tail of it. Can’t you give me some sort of idea about what you’re all driving at?’

  Schönewald smiled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied regretfully, ‘but I can’t. If I could, I assure, I would.’

  Foster sighed.

  ‘I tried to get the baroness to tell me what the trouble is,’ he observed, ‘and why I was forbidden to see her, but she would only say that her holiday was over, and that, as she is a busy woman, she could not spare any more time to me. Of course she said she was sorry about it, and all that sort of thing, but it’s beastly hard on a fellow, don’t you know. At least I think someone might tell me why I’m regarded as a jolly old plague spot.’

  ‘You take it too seriously, my dear chap,’ laughed Schönewald. ‘Forget all about the baroness, if you can. It will be better for both of you.’

  ‘Forget her!’ repeated Foster. ‘Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? I’d like to see you try it, if you felt as I do about her.’

  ‘You see,’ observed the Nazi in rapid German to Marlene Heckler, ‘he is just in love with her – nothing else. A young fool with more money than brains, but a nice fellow all the same. There is no guile in him.’

  ‘I think you are right,’ she answered, ‘but I will see what I can do.’ She turned to Foster with a smile. ‘The Herr Colonel has told me that you are very much fond of dancing,’ she remarked in English. ‘I also like it. One can forget much when waltzing or foxtrotting. Would you like to dance with me, and afterwards with Hilda?’

  ‘Rather,’ he assented eagerly. ‘I was about to ask you myself.’

  They rose, Schönewald, at the same time, inviting Hilda Zeiss. It was at that moment that Cousins, in the person of the little fat German at the next table, rose and somehow or other tripped. He plunged headlong into Foster, sending him staggering back. If the latter had not grabbed him, he would have fallen to the floor. In the short time that it took to steady him, however, Cousins whispered urgently:

  ‘Be careful of Marlene Heckler – one of Germany’s most dangerous spies.’

  Foster’s face retained its ingenuous expression. The accident seemed only to have amused him. He patted the little man on the shoulders.

  ‘You’re not built for violent gymnastics, don’t you know,’ he remarked.

  Schönewald laughed.

  ‘Clumsy little beast,’ he commented. ‘More than half drunk I expect.’ He added a reprimand in German to which the disguised German responded by apologising profoundly. ‘Now,’ continued the Nazi officer, ‘let us on with the dance.’

  Foster found that Marlene Heckler was an excellent exponent. She was as light as a feather and very adaptable, but her dancing only made his heart ache the more for Sophie. He almost felt that he was acting the traitor to her in dancing with another woman. But Fraulein Heckler gave him little leisure to allow his thoughts to dwell on Sophie. All the time they were dancing, she was questioning him with devilish, insidious cleverness. If he had not been on his guard, it is almost certain that he would have, more than once, fallen into the cunningly prepared traps set for him. It is a tribute to his astuteness that on returning to their table she told Schönewald that it was obvious that he was no more than he seemed; a perfectly harmless, wealthy Englishman whose brains were certainly not his strong point. Having made that statement, she turned to Foster, and thanked him for the dance.

  ‘I was telling the Herr Colonel,’ she added, ‘that you are one of the best dancers I have ever been with.’

  Foster bowed as though delighted at the compliment. He said nothing, but thought a great deal.

  He stayed with them until very late, alternatively dancing with Marlene and Hilda. The latter made no attempt to cross-examine him or, in fact, to question him at all. She spoke mostly about the life of Berlin, anxious apparently to supply him with information which would enable him to enjoy himself during his stay in the capital. On the other hand Fraulein Heckler continued her task of delving deep into his history. She was amazingly skilful in her questioning, which had air of the utmost innocence. To all intents and purposes she was merely a woman interested in a man who rather attracted her. Being a foreigner she was curious about his mode of life. Yet every question had its point, most of them being concerned with the period subsequent to his leaving the army. Foster found the inquisition nerve-racking; he felt mentally tired when, at last, the party broke up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Certified Insane

  That night in the seclusion of his comfortable room he wrote out a detailed account in code of his interview with the baroness, taking special care to emphasise the pleasure she had shown at the knowledge, that she could rely upon the British Secret Service to support her if necessary. He repeated her undertaking that she would confide everything she knew to a document, which she would hide inside a pedestal containing the naiad on the fountain; described the exact position. He stressed the fact that he had given his word that search would not be made for the papers unless any calamity befell her. He wrote of his meeting with von Strom, repeating almost word for word that which had been said. He then went on to tell of the events of the evening. Cousins, he knew, would already have reported that he had been invited by Colonel Schönewald to join his party at the Gourmania. He confined himself, therefore, to describing the manner in which Marlene Heckler, had cross-examined him and had attempted to trap him into a disclosure which might have ended in his real purpose in Berlin becoming known. The completed report was folded into as small a compass as possible, and sealed in an envelope. He placed it on the writing table, while he proceeded to collect and destroy the scraps of paper, he had used to enable him to transcribe his statement into code. He was meticulous in the care he took. Each was torn into minute fragments, after which he carried the heap to the fireplace, and set it alight.

  While it was burning, he stood wondering where the best place would be to keep his report safe while he slept; came to the conclusion that the pocket of his pyjama jacket could hardly be bettered. His eyes strayed to the writing table and, at once, he stiffened apprehensively. As it was placed close to one of the windows, it was natural that the curtains should come within his range of vision. They were moving gently, to and fro as though swayed by a breeze. He had taken care to close both windows before commencing to write, this was therefore, to say the least of it, surprising and distinctly disturbing. It was impossible for the wind to flutter the curtains unless the window had opened. He remembered clearly fastening the catch. It could not have been blown open, therefore. But it would not be a very difficult matter for someone, provided with the necessary implements, to open it from the outside. There had been no sound, but an expert would be able to work quietly. Foster was convinced that a man had climbed up to the balcony, had possibly watched him while he wrote through a gap between the curtains, then, as soon as he had moved, had set to work on the window. But what was his object? The answer came to him immediately. The intruder was bent on stealing the letter. It still lay on the table, and quickly but noiselessly he walked across to pick it up.

  As he was about to take possession of it, the curtains moved inwards and, from behind it, came a hand, broad and sinewy. The fingers were in the act of clutching the envelope, when Foster gripped the wrist with all his strength; at the same time he picked up the document with his other hand, pushing it into his pocket. A low but star
tled cry reached his ears. The intruder tried desperately to draw his hand away, but the Secret Service man held on. He endeavoured to sweep the curtain aside. The other, however, probably with the desire to escape recognition, kept it before his face. Foster immediately grappled with him, curtain and all, with the result that before long, it was torn from its fastenings. Then ensued a fierce struggle rendered more bizarre perhaps by the utter lack of sound from the Englishman’s opponent. To and fro they swayed, but his very anxiety to avoid showing his face proved the downfall of the fellow. The curtain had fallen more on him than on Foster, and he was rapidly becoming enveloped in its folds. They collided with a large pedestal, sending the ornaments it contained crashing to the floor. A moment later they themselves went over, making noise enough to rouse the whole hotel. Slowly but surely now Foster began to get the upper hand, wrapping his antagonist more and more in the curtain until, at last, he was rendered helpless and, indeed, must have been half suffocated by the thick heavy material enfolding his head. He was a burly fellow. The Secret Service man reflected that, if he had not had the curtain to assist him, the chances are that he would have had the worst of the struggle. Now that the other was unable to make further resistance the Secret Service man enveloped him more tightly, and sat on him to await events. He took from his pocket a letter he had that evening written to his sister, and threw it on the writing table. It was not long before there came a loud knocking, accompanied by the sound of excited voices. Foster left his human seat, strolled across the room, and opened the door. Outside was a dozen or more people all but two who were porters clad in night attire, the majority of them looking thoroughly startled. Eyes stared at the Englishman with the crumpled shirtfront, disordered hair, and general appearance of dishevelment; a babel of excited questions burst on his ears. He smiled at them, shook his head to indicate that he did not understand and stuck the monocle in his eye. The night porters pushed their way to the foreground. One had a little English.

  ‘Sare,’ he demanded with painful care, ‘vot is it dot are the – the pig noise make?’

  For answer Foster pointed to the struggling bundle lying over by the window. Immediately there was a rush in the direction.

  ‘Take care!’ warned the Englishman. ‘He is a burglar. He might be armed.’

  Apparently some of the invaders of his privacy understood English. They stopped, and began to draw back, passing on the information to the others as they did so. The result was that the man in the curtain was left severely alone, while a debate took place concerning him. The position had its amusing side. Foster was beginning to enjoy himself. After all, no harm had been done. Of course the fellow was a spy not a burglar. He had been instructed, no doubt, to watch the room. Possibly he had become curious, when he noticed that the light had been kept burning – Foster had not bothered to draw the curtains very closely before the other window – and had climbed up to see what the Englishman was doing. The letter must have interested him vastly. It suggested so many possibilities. The man, therefore, had resolved to obtain possession of it. All this was conjecture, of course. There were flaws in it. For instance it was curious that the intruder had possessed the means at hand of opening a locked window. The thought occurred to the Secret Service man that it might have been his intention to burgle his way into the room while the occupant slept, and search his clothing. It seemed very likely. Foster sighed. These Germans took an awful lot of convincing of the bona fides of a man once they had become suspicious of him. The debate went on with increasing vehemence. One of the porters went off to rouse the manager. For a moment the Englishman was forgotten. It was then that he received a surprise.

  ‘What was he after?’ breathed a voice in his ear.

  Foster had some difficulty in preventing himself from starting. He looked hastily at the man standing close by his side. It was Sir Leonard Wallace – or rather the bronzed, jolly-looking naval officer with the round face whose person cloaked that of the Chief of the British Secret Service. Sir Leonard was clad in pyjamas of a loud pattern. Like others he had not bothered to don a dressing gown. There were women among the throng – they also wore nightdresses or pyjamas without any other covering, but nobody bothers about trifles like that in Berlin.

  ‘He climbed up,’ whispered Foster, bending down in order that his lips could not be seen moving, ‘opened the window, and was after the report I had written for you.’

  ‘You’d better give it to me now – safer for you. My room’s next door on the right, if you want me, knock three times on the wall.’

  Foster withdrew the document from his pocket cautiously. It was transferred cleverly to Sir Leonard, who seemed to perform a conjuring trick. At all events it vanished right under Foster’s eyes. The chief moved away and joined in the discussion with gesturing of his right hand. The left as usual, was hidden in the pocket of his jacket.

  The manager, the assistant manager, the porter who had gone to rouse them, and other members of the hotel staff hurried into the room. The burglar had not, up to that time, succeeded in freeing himself from the folds of the curtain. He was lying perfectly still now. Foster became rather alarmed lest he had suffocated. The manager, who spoke very good English, asked courteously to be told what had occurred. The Secret Service man decided that it was safer to tell the truth or, at least, give the semblance of truth to his story.

  ‘I had been writing a letter,’ he declared, and nodded at the envelope lying on the writing table. ‘I walked away, and was about to prepare myself for bed, when I noticed the curtain by that window blowing to and fro. As I had shut the window, that struck me as curious. I went to investigate and had almost reached the spot when a hand appeared. I caught hold of it. There was a bit of a fight, during which the curtain was pulled down, so I wrapped him in it. There he is.’

  The story was translated to the others. Great indignation at the attempted burglary was expressed as well as admiration for the conduct of the Englishman. At the manager’s orders the curtain was unwound and the burglar released. He was blue in the face and semiconscious, but Foster recognised him at once. He could not forbear a little chuckle.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ he exclaimed. ‘If it isn’t my guide, philosopher and friend, Johann Schmidt. Protector of the lonely stranger by day, burglar by night.’ He picked up a carafe of water, and emptied the contents on the face of the half-suffocated man. ‘That should bring him properly round,’ he observed.

  It did. Schmidt gasped and struggled to his feet, assisted by the porters, who kept a tight grip on his arms. Foster noticed, with a feeling of amusement, that the manager and assistant manager were regarding each with eyes, in which perplexity, embarrassment and annoyance struggled for mastery. Johann looked at the young man sheepishly, commenced to speak, but the manager immediately cut him short. He ordered him to be taken below, after which he turned to the Englishman, and apologised profusely for the burglary.

  ‘It is most terrible that such a thing in my hotel should happen. It is more terrible because he is a man that we have much trusted. Measures will be taken to see that he is punished. I will the police send for.’

  ‘Yes, do,’ murmured Foster.

  ‘In the morning you will a statement make to them – no?’

  ‘Yes. I shall be very glad to make a statement.’

  The manager bowed. He requested the guests to return to their rooms, begging them not to be alarmed. They had a good deal to say about burglars in general and precautions that hotels should take against outrages of that kind, but eventually they all dispersed. The manager and his assistants bade Foster good night and followed them.

  ‘Don’t let him escape!’ the Englishman called out as they left the room.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and chuckled softly to himself. He felt he would be greatly surprised if he saw or heard any more of Johann Schmidt. It had been a narrow escape, though. The thought of the consequences, if his report had fallen into the hands of the German secret police, caused him to grow serious. He
smiled again, however, at recollection of the surprising appearance of Sir Leonard. It was comforting to know the chief was close by; it was more comforting to know that he had the document. Foster walked across to the fireplace and stamped the ashes of the papers he had burnt into dust. When that was done to his satisfaction, he undressed, and went to bed.

  Anticipating that the early morning visitation of Johann Schmidt to his room would be conveniently forgotten by the hotel authorities who, he believed, were under the thumb of the police, he was surprised at breakfast to be told that certain officials were waiting outside his room to interview him. He at once gave orders for them to be shown in. When three solemn-looking gentlemen in frock coats entered, followed by two burly fellows, who were probably policemen in plain clothes, he became greatly interested. The frock-coated men looked more like doctors or lawyers than officials of the police. Apart from that, he was amazed that so many apparently important individuals should take the trouble to visit his room to interview him about a clumsy attempt at burglary.

  ‘Will you be seated, gentlemen?’ he invited. ‘I have just finished breakfast, and am quite at your disposal. Oh! I forgot. I hope you understand me. I’m afraid I cannot speak German.’

  ‘So!’ nodded the man who appeared the senior, a short, stout individual with grey hair, a mouth like a rat trap, and a pince nez. ‘It is well. We all the English speak.’

  The three solemnly took chairs facing Foster, the other two men remaining by the door. The Secret Service agent grew puzzled. He was perplexed by the way in which they were staring at him. He looked from one to another wondering what was the reason for their intense scrutiny.

  ‘Your name,’ remarked the spokesman presently, ‘is Bernard Foster. That is so?’ Foster nodded. ‘You are an Englishman, residing in London, who on a holiday to Berlin have come. Correct?’