The Men Who Wrought

by Ridgwell Cullum

"KAMERADS"

Two men walked briskly up Baker Street in the direction of the Underground Station. At least, one of them walked briskly. The gait of the other were better described as hurried. He was obviously making an effort to keep up with his powerful, square-cut, vigorous companion. Many eyes were turned upon them as they passed by. It was the provocative air of the larger man, whose gait was more than arrogant.

The lesser of the two was not oblivious to the attention.

"It is almost in the nature of a shock to find myself walking beside you in London, Ludwig. It is the old days again. But in the old days you were thankful to disguise the fact that you possessed military training. Now it is as if you were on parade. These people hate and distrust anything which suggests the—military."

Ludwig von Salzinger laughed gutturally. His fierce eyes glanced swiftly about him, ready to challenge any resentful glance in his direction.

"I care nothing for the pigs," he observed pleasantly.

"No. But you are here for—distraction. I have work which demands that I attract as little attention as possible."

"Distraction?" Von Salzinger laughed without any mirth. Then he became suddenly serious. "Distraction—yes, that is it."

The smaller man was quick of eye—almost furtive. His slight figure was well clad in an ordinary blue serge suit. His boots had once been of patent leather. His hat was of the Homburg pattern so beloved of the Londoner. He wore his brown hair fairly long to disguise the flat back of his head. His face was perfectly clean shaven, which left it typical of the ordinary man on the street. The other was so obviously of the Teuton military caste in spite of his elegant civilian dress, that his companion was seriously troubled. He protested again.

"If you cannot disguise yourself let us take a cab. Can you not drop your shoulders like the London 'knut'? Can you not slouch? Can you not refrain from lifting your feet as though you would crush a worm, or—an Englishman? Your moustache is bad enough."

"Ach! you are afraid, like some sick woman. What is it?" cried Salzinger half angrily, half contemptuously. "Has the work broken your spirit? It was not so in the old days. Johann Stryj, you need a holiday—distraction, like I am seeking." He laughed at his own clumsy humor.

Stryj took no umbrage. He never took umbrage till he had discovered all the possibilities of a man. Von Salzinger had arrived just as he had finished his English breakfast in his essentially English flat in Baker Street. Johann Stryj had spared no pains to mould his whole life and person upon London lines. Von Salzinger had explained nothing as yet of the meaning of his sudden descent upon London. He had merely demanded that his erstwhile comrade now accompany him to his hotel.

"And what—distraction do you seek?"

The man's quick eyes were sharply questioning in spite of the smile accompanying his words.

"That is what I conduct you to my hotel to tell you of."

Johann Stryj appeared to acquiesce, and they progressed in silence for a few paces. Then the quick eyes were again raised in the direction of Von Salzinger's square face.

"You have left us all very far behind in the service of the Fatherland. We hear it all—here. And four years ago you were with us, waiting upon every message that came, wondering where the next few hours would find us."

Stryj's words were calculated to set the other talking. They succeeded. Von Salzinger was obviously pleased.

"You, my Johann, were built for the—service. I was not. I have not that faculty for making my feelings subservient to the needs of the moment. I was glad when the call of the war took me out of it, and—gave me my chance."

Stryj nodded in an expressionless fashion.

"Yes. I am at home in the work. I love it." Then he laughed silently. "I am the servant of every pompous official who visits London. I am the slave of my orders. I am a cypher on the official lists, I am nothing amongst the people of the nation which I serve. Yet I am the head of the underground system which works here in England, and, incidentally, my income is four times that of a Captain-General. Your honor is very great, Ludwig, but I wonder if you have advanced since—those days."

Von Salzinger made no reply. He was thinking of the recent scene in which he had participated in the castle of Kuhlhafen. His face expressed something of his feelings of chagrin, and his companion was not slow to detect them.

"This is a thought of yours too, perhaps," he went on at once. "The moment a man enters the higher ranks of our army his troubles begin. He must fight for favor, and win it or decay in some obscure ditch in the military office. Nor can he rely for five minutes upon that favor. Degradation awaits at the first blunder which it is not humanly possible to avoid. Is it not so?"

All the buoyancy of Von Salzinger seemed to have vanished from his hard eyes. His old friend was telling him all that he had only too much reason to be aware of. He had fought his way up that perilous ladder of Prussian militarism, and like so many others he had tripped and fallen, and now was faced with the task of making good the temporary set-back. He had struggled hard at the first trip, and he told himself that fortune had favored him, and he had kept his hold, but well he knew that unless he recovered his foothold himself he must fall to the bottom and die in obscurity.

He turned on the Secret Service man.

"It is all as you say. But the very uncertainty of it makes it all the more worth winning. That is why I am in London now. When I have finished in London I shall have achieved the lasting honor, so rare in our Fatherland."

Stryj shook his head.

"There is none—no lasting honor in our Fatherland," he said.

Then with a quick turn he pointed at the window of a fashionable photographic studio. There was a life-size portrait standing in the very centre of it. It was a full-length portrait of a man of over six feet. He was in the uniform of a British field-marshal.

"There is lasting honor in this country," he said, as they paused and stood gazing at the wonderful face in the portrait, with its level, stern brows, its convincing, powerful eyes, and the heavy moustache that in no way detracted from the purposeful set of the jaws. "They are loyal to those they honor here. The man who has fought a great war for them, as that man has done, need do no more. His name and fame will go down to history with the vast material honor they have showered upon him. That is a name that will never die—in England."

But Von Salzinger had no comment to offer. They stood gazing for some moments at the stern-faced presentation of the marshal. Then quite suddenly an iron grip took hold of the spy's muscular upper arm.

Von Salzinger was pointing at a lesser portrait. It was one among several comprising the faces of well-known parliamentarians.

"That man! Quick!" There was excitement in his voice, and a mild pink had leapt up into his sallow cheeks.

Stryj was startled, but displayed no emotion.

"The name is underneath," he said, pointing. "He is a new member of the Cabinet. Ruxton Farlow."

"Donner! I've found him. Quick! We take a taxi." Then Von Salzinger laughed, all his earlier buoyancy returned. "You are right, my Johann. I am too military to walk in London. But the walk has done me good—much good."

A moment later they were in a taxi speeding on their way towards Von Salzinger's hotel.

"What is the—distraction?" enquired Stryj, as the cab swung sharply out of Baker Street. His calmness of manner was in marked contrast to that of his companion, who was still breathing heavily under his emotion. He understood now that a matter, an important mission, was on hand, and every faculty was alert to miss nothing of any detail of it, even the mood of his old friend.

"Distraction?" Von Salzinger laughed. "Yes, it is distraction. But distraction can mean another emotion than pleasure. Hey?"

"Yes." Stryj nodded.

Then Von Salzinger leant over and whispered elaborately into the other's ear, as the cabby changed his gears with a clatter and the cab began the ascent of the approach to the hotel.

"That man Farlow, as you call him, stole into Borga when I was in command. I am not in command of Borga—now."

Johann Stryj faced his companion with eyes that never seemed to express more than a mild interest. Von Salzinger was lounging in a large armchair smoking a long cigar. They were in the latter's private sitting-room in the hotel. In spite of his leisured attitude, deep emotion lit the eyes of the late Commandant of Borga, and an undercurrent of excitement kept his cigar glowing in a reckless manner. Stryj smoked a Turkish cigarette with a composure that was in sharp contrast with his companion's attitude.

"So you see it was not only friendship that fetched me to your apartment this morning, my good Johann," Von Salzinger finished up, at the conclusion of his story of the visit of Ruxton Farlow to the secret heart of the great Borga arsenal. "I am here for distraction. Hey? Distraction, and the unravelling of the plot against the most treasured secret of the Fatherland. I am here for more. I am here to break it up, and, incidentally, if possible, to break up those concerned in it."

The man illustrated his purpose viciously, with two clenched fists breaking an imaginary object.

Stryj inhaled deeply of his cigarette.

"And if you fail?"

He was reading deeply into the less astute mind of the other. He had grasped fully his position. He knew, although he asked, what awaited failure for his old comrade, Von Salzinger.

"There will be no failure, I promise you. I have unlimited powers, and I shall use them. Oh, yes, I shall use them."

"What powers?"

The keen eyes of the spy were watchful.

Von Salzinger produced a document from his breast pocket. He opened it. He glanced over it, and passed it across to the other.

"My credentials," he said, with triumph in his accompanying glance.

Johann Stryj took the document and perused it carefully. He closely examined the signatures. When he looked up it was obvious that he was almost startled.

"It has never been done before," he said, almost incredulously. "By this the entire Secret Service is placed at your disposal—absolutely."

Von Salzinger nodded.

"Now do you understand? Now?" he cried violently. "We believe this Englishman has burrowed out the most stupendous secret of our Government. We believe he has tricked us through this traitor, Hertzwohl. Gott! He has caused me to be—degraded."

Stryj passed the violence of his companion by. His mind was searching, searching where the less acute soldier could not follow.

"And what of this Hertzwohl? Has he been shot?"

"Not yet. We have to prove this thing—first. That is our work."

"Ah."

Stryj had learned all he wanted to know.

At that moment a waiter entered the room bearing a copy of Who's Who for the current year. Von Salzinger seized upon it, and, by the time the man had withdrawn and shut the door, he had found the page he sought.

"Ach!" cried Von Salzinger. "Here he is. The luck has served me well. It is as though the plums were ripe, and ready to drop into my mouth."

Stryj rose and crossed over to his side. He looked down where the stubby finger of the soldier pointed.

"Farlow, Ruxton. Only son of Sir Andrew Farlow, Bart. Member of Parliament for ——. Under Secretary for Foreign Office in 19—. Yes. Partner in firm of Farlow, Son and Farlow, ship-builders and ship-owners. Dorby. Hall Dorby, Yorkshire. Residence, Dorby Towers, Yorkshire. So." Salzinger looked up as he concluded reading out disjointed fragments of the information he sought. "They are ripe—ripe, these plums," he cried exultingly. "Johann, my friend," he went on, glancing up into the spy's clever face, "it is good to see the plums hanging—ripe. We have got to hear all they talk of and contemplate, we have to watch and discover all that is known by Farlow, Son and Farlow. That is your work. You, and those under your control. You will leave for Dorby at once. While I——"

"Watch that the birds do not eat the ripe plums you would pick. Dorby. I saw the name in the papers yesterday. Those are the yards some portion of which have been taken over by the British Admiralty. These papers tell me something worth while sometimes."

"The British Navy?" The fierce eyes of the soldier were startled. He ran his fingers through his stubbly hair. "Curse the British Navy."

"Yes."

The mild rejoinder seemed to irritate Von Salzinger.

"Talk! Talk! Ach! Those are your orders, Johann. See to them, and communicate with me here. I must write."

He moved over to a desk while Stryj deliberately adjusted his hat and lit another cigarette. Then he moved towards the door.

"Is there anything else?" he enquired, with his hand upon the handle.

Von Salzinger glanced round.

"Yes, use every means at your command to get the information we need. Remember, Stryj, if the secrets of Borga have been discovered, if our country has been betrayed, then a harvest of vengeance is going to be reaped."

He turned back to his desk and began a long communication addressed to Prince von Berger, while Johann Stryj passed silently out of the room.