CHAPTER XVI
COVERING HIS TRACKS
For the second time within forty-eight hours Karl von Preussen tramped the deserted road leading to Nedderburn Junction railway station. On the previous occasion he called himself Captain George Fennelburt; on the second he had assumed the name of Ronald Broadstone.
He travelled light, but in place of his khaki, leather-reinforced haversack he carried a small portmanteau, which, owing to unforeseen circumstances, was practically empty. He decided that at the first favourable opportunity he would replenish a portion of his kit and replace that lying at the Auldhaig Hotel. But in the portmanteau was an automatic pistol of British manufacture. Its possession showed economy and discrimination in small details. Since it had been acquired from a battlefield, it had cost von Preussen nothing; and being of British make it was in keeping with the spy's rôle as an officer of the Royal Air Force.
He walked quickly and unhesitatingly along the bleak, unfrequented road. Delay meant the great possibility of missing the night train and a consequent detention at Nedderburn, which was too close to Auldhaig to be pleasant. He had good reasons for steering clear of Auldhaig "for the rest of the duration." The place had been a "wash-out," and since von Preussen was of a superstitious nature he always avoided scenes of previous failures.
Beyond meeting a belated shepherd, who greeted the spy in an unknown Highland dialect, von Preussen arrived at Nedderburn without encountering anyone. The station had just been lit up, two feeble paraffin lamps providing the necessary illumination for the safety of passengers. Peeping through the high wooden palisade, von Preussen took stock of the people on the up-platform.
There were half a dozen "Jocks" with full equipment, including "tin hats" and rifles with the breech-mechanism bound in strips of oiled cloth.
"Highlanders returning from leave to the Front, curse them!" muttered von Preussen.
He had reason for his maledictory utterance. In the earlier days of the war, when he was a lieutenant of Uhlans, he soon learnt to have a wholesome respect for the stalwart, bare-kneed, kilted men from "Caledonia stern and wild." He recalled an incident at a certain village about twenty kilometres from Mons. His squadron had overtaken twenty tired Highlanders tramping along the pavé. Observation by means of binoculars showed that they were bordering on utter fatigue. Most of them wore blood-stained bandages. They had no officer with them. They looked to be an easy prey to the lances of his Uhlans. Von Preussen never had a worse shock. Instead of the kilted men taking to their heels at the sight of the charging cavalry and thus falling easy victims to the steel-tipped lances, they coolly threw themselves into a circle fringed by a ring of glittering bayonets. Three volleys in quick succession were too much for the Uhlans to stomach. They galloped off, amongst them von Preussen groaning and cursing with a bullet wound through his left shoulder.
In the present instance he decided that he had nothing to fear from these men. A little further on were three greatcoated officers. With a grunt of satisfaction von Preussen noted that their cap-bands were not black with the badge of the crown, eagle and wings. He had good cause to avoid Air Force officers and men just at present.
Beyond stood a sturdily-built man with a long black coat and soft hat—evidently a clergyman. He was trying to decipher a poster in the feeble glimmer of the station lamps.
The changing of the signal from red to green warned the spy that it was time to enter the station. Outside the entrance stood an old and somewhat decrepit porter who, after inquiry as to whether the new arrival had any luggage and receiving a negative reply, hobbled off to ring the bell. At the doorway stood a girl ticket-collector.
"Warrant, miss!" exclaimed von Preussen, holding out a buff paper.
The girl examined it perfunctorily.
"Carlisle—change at Edinburgh!" she announced.
The spy thanked the girl for the gratuitous and unnecessary information. To change at Edinburgh was his intention. By so doing he could withhold and destroy the faked railway warrant, which, had it been retained by the ticket collector, would eventually be presented to the Air Ministry for payment. Already von Preussen had travelled thousands of miles over British railways without payment, and never once had he surrendered the buff slip that would otherwise have been a clue to his movements.
With much hissing of steam the night mail train drew up at the platform. The handful of travellers hurried along, peering into the dimly-lit compartments in the hope of finding vacant seats. Von Preussen happened to secure one in the company of five naval officers who were already "bored stiff" with their tedious journey from a far northern base. The spy soon discovered that there was precious little information to be picked up from them.
At Perth the spy changed compartments. He now found himself in the company of four rather lively subalterns and the clergyman he had noticed on Nedderburn Junction platform. The latter, deep in the pages of the Church Times, took no notice of the new arrival.
"Tickets, please!"
A gigantic inspector examined the tickets and vouchers of the occupants of the compartment.
"Change at Edinburgh," he remarked, as he clipped von Preussen's warrant. "Through train to Carlisle at 7.5."
With the resumption of the journey, the clerical passenger offered von Preussen a copy of an evening paper as a prelude to opening conversation. He was, he informed the spy, travelling from Nedderburn to Hawick, where he was about to take up an Army chaplaincy at Stobs Camp. In return von Preussen told a fairy tale to the effect that he was joining an R.A.F. balloon station near Carlisle and gave some vivid and totally imaginary stories of his adventures in the air. Yet in spite of several attempts to draw the subalterns into the conversation, the hilarious representatives of the "One Star Crush" limited their discourse to anecdotes calculated to bring blushes to the cheeks of the padre.
It was nearly six in the morning when the train reached Edinburgh. Without difficulty von Preussen passed the barrier and emerged into Princes Street. For the rest of the day he remained in seclusion at a small private hotel just behind Edinburgh's main thoroughfare.
He had a nasty shock that evening. The evening papers came out with an announcement that there was a reward of one hundred pounds for information leading to the detection of a certain individual giving the name of George Fennelburt, aged about thirty; height, five feet seven or eight; broadly built, fair featured with blue eyes. Believed to be wearing the uniform of a captain in the Royal Air Force, and last seen in the neighbourhood of Auldhaig.
Von Preussen broke into a gentle perspiration. Furtively he glanced at his companions in the commercial room. They were, fortunately for him, deep in a game of chess.
The spy had registered in the name of Captain Broadstone. That was now, of itself, a decidedly risky proceeding, since, the hue and cry being raised, there would most certainly be a stringent examination of registration forms at all the hotels.
Even in his panic von Preussen was curious. He could form no satisfactory theory on the matter. How was his presence known, since it was reasonable to conjecture that the authorities knew he had gone on the fishing expedition that had been so unpropitious to his temporary companions? Obviously the notice offering a reward for his apprehension had not been issued before his visit to Auldhaig; and since he, with others, was missing and presumed to be drowned, why go to the length of advertising for his arrest? Perchance U 247 had been captured and the British prisoners released. Even in that case none of those knew the true facts. When they were sent below they were under the impression that he, von Preussen, was also a prisoner of war. In the absence of detail the newspaper notice was terrible in its gaunt wording.
"I will have to find a different disguise," he decided. "But how? To purchase civilian clothing would be courting instant suspicion. I cannot get it myself, nor can I trust anyone to obtain it for me. Yet to persist in appearing in this Air Force uniform would be simple madness. It is equally futile to dye my hair and eyebrows. The people here would notice the difference instantly. And if I changed my hotel I would run fresh and possibly greater risks. Himmel! What can I do?"
He glanced suspiciously round the room. The players, deep in their game, paid no attention to anyone or anything else.
"There's one blessing," he soliloquised. "I registered as Broadstone, not Fennelburt. I think I'll go to bed. It's safer."
He went, placed his automatic pistol under his pillow, and found himself looking at the empty portmanteau. Then, switching off the light, he attempted to court slumber.
It was in vain. For hours he lay wide awake, racking his ready brain for a solution to the apparently insurmountable difficulty. He heard the occupant of the next room retiring, the click of the electric light switch, and very soon after, the first of a series of loud snores.
"At all events," thought the spy, "the fellow is luckier than I: he can sleep soundly."
The sleeper and the empty portmanteau: subconsciously von Preussen connected the two. Why, he knew not, but gradually and with increasing lucidity a plan matured. Why not steal the sleeper's clothes, pack them into his portmanteau, and change in a remote country spot?
"It may throw suspicion on me," he thought, "but it's worth trying. Given four or five hours' start, I'll throw them off the scent."
Cautiously von Preussen got out of bed and opened the door. A light burned in the corridor. By its aid he could see pairs of boots standing outside the various rooms: either the servant responsible for the cleaning of them was late, or else the task of collection was left till early in the morning.
Silently the spy picked up a boot belonging to the person he intended to rob and examined it carefully. It was an "eight":—a similar size to his. So far so good; he could only hope that the fellow resembled him in build and height. He must at all events avoid the incongruity of donning the clothes of a man five feet two or six feet one.
Very deftly von Preussen tried the door-handle. The sleeper had omitted to bolt the door. The snores continued.
Creeping into the room the intruder closed the door. The lawful occupant had evidently not intended to wake up and switch on the light, otherwise he would not have thrown back the heavy curtains and admitted the moonlight. Neatly folded on a chair were the man's clothes. For once the methodical habits of their owner were to his disadvantage.
Quickly von Preussen collected the articles, and, pausing only for a few minutes to make sure that the corridor was deserted, regained his own room.
Ten minutes later, having crammed his portmanteau with his newly-gotten booty, he again turned in.
He had arranged to be called at eight-thirty. He saw no object in anticipating the hour. Let the occupier of the adjoining room discover his loss. The management would not dare to question the officer guest or examine his portmanteau.
At seven he was awakened by a furious ringing and a bellowing voice. He smiled grimly. The fun was about to commence. He could hear various members of the hotel staff talking excitedly, while the indignant tones of the robbed guest dominated all.
Pleading a headache caused by the noise and that he was suffering from shell-shock, von Preussen had his breakfast brought to his bedroom. Then, having shaved and paid his bill, he grasped his now heavy portmanteau and left the hotel.
He made his way to Princes Street, feeling horribly self-conscious. At every salute he received and returned, he felt that the man who gave it had his suspicions. He made haste to board the first tramcar, which, he noticed, was marked "Portobello and Joppa."
Before the car had passed Scott's Monument a couple of R.A.F. officers boarded it and, to the spy's consternation, took seats immediately behind him.
Presently one of them, a captain, tapped von Preussen on the shoulder:
"Can you oblige me with a match, old bean?"
The old bean complied without a word.
The next question came with startling suddenness:
"'Spose you haven't come across Captain Fennelburt?"
The spy, controlling himself with an effort, turned his head and laughed.
"Hope you don't think I'm the fellow?" he inquired. "If, so, you won't get that hundred pounds, old son. I heard this morning that he had been collared at Perth."
"Is that so?" asked the other, a subaltern. "What was all the racket about?"
"Misappropriation of mess funds, I believe," replied von Preussen. He now felt more at ease and master of the situation. He forced the conversation on trivial topics until his undesirable acquaintances reached their destination.
The spy remained until the car stopped at the terminus; then he started to walk briskly inland, reproving himself for his bad manoeuvre in taking a car bound for a coast town.
A four hours' stiff walk brought him to a desolate moor, standing well on eight hundred feet above the sea. Sheltering from possible observation behind an overhanging rock, he made the necessary change from Captain Broadstone, R.A.F., to plain Thomas Smith, commercial traveller, representing Collar & Grab, wholesale provision merchants (and incidentally profiteers), of Liverpool.
For the next four days he remained at Galashiels, lying low and explaining his presence by the plausible statement that the samples his firm had dispatched had gone astray. On the fifth he decided to go to York, where he knew of a Polish Jew, Polinski by name, who was in reality a German Secret Service agent.
At Newcastle he caught a fast train bound for London. He now travelled third class, finding himself in the company of four bluejackets proceeding "on leaf."
Within a few minutes of the train leaving the station the commercial traveller was apparently fast asleep. He was keenly on the alert to gather information, and his wishes were realised.
"S'elp me," exclaimed one of the men. "We'd got a blanked U-boat blazing away at us like mad. 'Course we didn't reply, an' they didn't 'arf give us a dustin'. Then up comes another of the swine an' starts firin', only 'er shells goes wide. Still our owner sticks it without so much as winkin'. Hopin', you see, to bag 'em both."
"And did 'e?" inquired another.
"Not 'e, worse luck," replied the other. "Just as we was about ter drop our false bulwarks an' give 'em perishin' socks, one of the U-boats slipped in a couple o' tawpedas into t'other an' blew 'er to blazes."
"Wot for?" asked a bearded petty officer.
"Wot for?" snorted the other. "To do us out of our bloomin' prize money, of course. There was we, with our decks littered with sheep and cattle, stickin' it for four mortal hours in the hope we'd put it abaft the swine, an' all for nothin'. The U-boat was one of our own mystery ships, rigged up to bamboozle Fritz. She was orf right into Heligoland Bight to do 'er dirty work, if I remember right."
Von Preussen chuckled inwardly. Here indeed was a "scoop." Before eight that evening the information, transmitted in the form of an apparently genuine business telegram to a firm in Amsterdam, was in the hands of the German Admiralty.