CHAPTER XXVIII
"A SECOND KOPENICK HOAX"
SNOW was descending in large flakes upon the southern slopes of the rugged Riesen Gebirge, the lofty range of mountains forming part of the national and political boundary between the German Empire and its vassal state—the dual monarchy of Austro-Hungary. At three kilometres beyond the diagonally striped post marking the limits of Saxony a thin-faced, emaciated man, clad in garments little better than a collection of rags, was sheltering on the lee-side of a gaunt pine tree. From his features one would guess his age at anything between thirty to thirty-five, although his actual years were short of twenty. Privation, lack of sufficient nourishment, and hardships untold had prematurely aged him, yet there was a certain self-confidence in his bearing that refused to be smothered by adversity.
After stepping from under the trailing branches and glancing dubiously at the dark, snow-laden clouds, the wayfarer returned to his place of shelter, drew a small piece of black bread from his pocket and began to munch it ravenously.
"The Lord only knows where the next meal is coming from," he soliloquised—not flippantly, but with a sense of deep and reverent feeling. Although he had spoken nothing but German for the last sixteen days—and he spoke it with an accent that defied criticism—he thought in his mother-tongue, which was English.
For longer than he cared to think he had been a prisoner of war, one of those luckless civilians who on the outbreak of the Great War found themselves trapped within the limits of the German Empire; and up to a little more than a fortnight ago he had eked out a dismal and precarious existence in the vast detention camp at Ruhleben.
And now he was tasting of the sweets of freedom. He could walk, eat, and sleep without being under the constant surveillance of German guards. He had to walk stealthily; eating was reduced to a fine art—that of making a little of doubtful nutritious powers go a long way; sleeping consisted of dozing fitfully—often in the open and occasionally in the welcome shelter of a more than half-empty barn. But these discomforts were as naught compared with the drab monotony and depressing surroundings of Ruhleben. He bore them with an equanimity bordering upon exuberance, counting present vicissitudes as stepping stones towards his ultimate goal—his homeland.
The fugitive was a man of considerable reasoning powers. Arguing that his late captors would naturally conclude that he was making westward towards far-distant neutral Holland, he had decided to go south, risking the lesser danger of a journey through Austria, and seize a favourable opportunity of passing through the comparatively weak cordon between the Tyrol and the north of Italian Lombardy. The possibilities of escaping into Switzerland had entered into his calculations, only to be set aside. Bavaria offered too formidable a stumbling-block. There were ways and means on the Italian frontier, and he meant to try them.
The wayfarer's thoughts were rudely interrupted by the pulsations of a motor that was rapidly approaching from the direction he had just come.
"A Mercèdes, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "What brings a car along this unfrequented pass, when there are two at least, infinitely better engineered, within an hour's run? Hope to goodness I haven't been tracked."
Thankfully he noticed that his footprints had already been obliterated by the fast-falling snow. Then, throwing himself at full length behind a dead thorn bush, every branch of which was outlined with dazzling white powdery snow, he awaited the appearance of the approaching car.
He was not long kept in suspense. Swaying and lurching the huge Mercèdes swung into sight round a projecting spur of rock. With the bonnet, wind-screen, and dash-boards hidden by the accumulation of snow, and throwing showers of glistening flakes from the wheels, the car presented a picturesque spectacle one moment. At another it was a tangle of wreckage.
The catastrophe happened when the vehicle was abreast the solitary pine tree where the fugitive had been sheltering. There was a loud report as one of the tyres burst. The wheels skidding the car slewed sideways and toppled over the edge of the road upon a partly snow-covered rock fifty feet below.
Unhesitatingly the Englishman left his place of concealment and made his way over the slippery track formed by the skidding wheels, until he was able to look over the unguarded side of the road upon the wrecked car.
It was lying on its side, the fore part shattered almost beyond recognition, but the relatively frail coupé had come off comparatively lightly. The top was torn away and the glass windows smashed to fragments, but through the open roof the fugitive could see that the interior was almost intact, and that huddled on the floor was the figure of a man wearing a German officer's field overcoat.
Very deliberately and cautiously the Englishman descended the sloping cliff. It would have been an easy task but for the snow that lay thickly on the numerous ledges and had drifted into a deep bed, in which the car was partly buried.
Forgetting everything else in his eagerness to render aid, the fugitive plunged knee-deep through the drift and gained the overturned car. The door had jammed. With all the strength at his command he was unable to wrench it open. Clambering up the side of the coupé he dropped through the huge gap in the roof.
A brief examination of the body of the occupant was enough. The man was dead, although there were no signs of external injury.
"I can't help him," soliloquised the Englishman. "But he might be able to help me. I'll consider that part later. Meanwhile, what has happened to the chauffeur?"
Standing on the heavily cushioned seat he drew himself through the hole in the roof, and sliding down to the snowdrift proceeded to scramble over the thinly covered ledge of rock that alone had prevented the overturned car from crashing full four hundred feet into the valley beneath.
There were ghastly evidences of the fate that had overtaken the driver of the wrecked car. The force of the impact had hurled him bodily through the wind-screen and over the bonnet. Striking the projecting rocks he had glissaded into the abyss. A grey patch, already nearly obliterated by the falling flakes, was all that was visible of the soldier-driver of the demolished Mercèdes.
Returning to the car the Englishman thoughtfully contemplated the body of the dead officer. Then he scanned the edge of the road above, to make as certain as possible that no one was in sight. Satisfied on that point he contrived by dint of great exertion to drag the defunct German from the car and place him on the snowdrift.
"Very much my build. A bit fatter, though," he soliloquised grimly. "I'll risk it, though it would have been better if I could have appropriated the chauffeur fellow's uniform."
Rapidly he proceeded with his uncongenial task. Time was when he would have recoiled in horror at the mere suggestion, but the prize at stake was more than sufficient to overcome his natural qualms. Ten minutes later the fugitive was dressed in the uniform of a German Staff officer, while the body was laid in a shallow trench in the snowdrift.
"If this fall continues," said the Englishman to himself, "the wreckage will be completely covered in a couple of hours. Even now I doubt whether it would be noticed by any one proceeding along the pass. It will be weeks, perhaps months, before the snow disappears."
Returning to the interior of the damaged coupé the rehabitated fugitive found that the bulk of the dead officer's baggage had been flung from the roof and was for the present irrecoverably lost. Inside, however, was a portmanteau, while on the seat was a luncheon basket well stocked with choice eatables of a nature that had long been denied to all but the higher military caste of the German Empire.
In the fairly warm temperature of the coupé the Englishman rested comfortably, making a hearty meal, and washing it down with a glass of Rhenish wine. Then, lighting a cigar, he leisurely scanned the papers from the breast pocket of the officer's coat.
"By smoke!" he ejaculated, slapping his knee. "This is great—absolutely. I find that I am now Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, Major of the 19th Reserve Hanoverian Regiment, engaged on special service in the Austrian Empire. Ah, here we are: private and confidential memorandum outlining my important duties—signed by the Kaiser's Head of the General Staff, too."
The instructions were to the effect that Baron von Stopelfeld was to make a tour of inspection of various military prison camps in the Austrian Empire, with a view of arranging for the transfer of a certain number of Serbian and Italian prisoners of war to Germany, to take the places of those Russian captives who, in view of the Muscovite surrender, were to be repatriated.
At the foot of the typewritten text was a paragraph in ordinary writing, reminding the delegate that he must also pay particular attention to the important matter mentioned in his recent interview with the Chief of General Staff; and, unless any news of vital interest rendered it expedient, the Baron was not to communicate either by letter or wire before the 19th.
"And to-day's the 12th," soliloquised the pseudo von Stopelfeld. "That gives me six clear days. Hullo, what's this?"
He stopped and picked up a telegraph form—crumpled, and with one corner burnt. It looked as if the Baron were in the act of destroying it when he was hurled to his death.
"Cipher, worse luck," muttered the Englishman. "Received at 9 a.m. on the 12th. Handed in at Berlin, delivered at Hirschberg; that's almost the nearest town across the frontier."
Further search revealed a complete set of maps, a road guide, and book containing the code. Upon the sudden crash the latter had fallen from the German major's hands and had slipped between the cushions.
Decoded the message ran:
"Above all things observe carefully any indications of disaffection in the ranks of our Allies, especially the Hungarian regiments. Do not commit your discoveries to writing. In particular make the acquaintance of Major Karl Hoffer, the commandant of the Ostrovornik mines disciplinary camp. On production of your credentials he will give you the latest formula for the manufacture of——"
The instructions ended in a word that did not appear in the code book, which was the only fly in the ointment that the Englishman had found.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Why not? I'll risk it. After all's said and done a thundering lot of downright cool cheek often pays when you're in a tight corner. It would be a rattling good joke to be taken in an Austrian train to a convenient station near the frontier. Yes, dash it all! I'll try a second Kopenick hoax."