Chapter Fifteen.
The Working of “Number 70.”
Just as it was growing dusk on the following evening, a handsome middle-aged woman, exquisitely dressed in the latest mode, and carrying a big gold chain-purse, attached to which was a quantity of jangling paraphernalia in the shape of cigarette-case, puff-box, and other articles, was lolling in, a big armchair in Lewin Rodwell’s little study in Bruton Street.
From her easy attitude, and the fact that she had taken off her fur coat and was in the full enjoyment of a cigarette with her well-shod feet upon the fender, it was quite apparent that she was no stranger there.
“It certainly was the only thing to be done in the circumstances, I quite agree,” she was saying to Rodwell, who was seated opposite her, on the other side of the fire.
“How did he look at Bow Street this, morning? Tell me!” Rodwell asked her eagerly.
“Pale and worried,” was the woman’s reply. “The case was heard in the extradition court, and there were very few people there. The girl was there, of course. A young barrister named Charles Pelham appeared for him, and reserved his defence. The whole proceedings did not occupy five minutes—just the evidence of arrest, and then the magistrate remanded him for a week.”
“So I heard over the ’phone.”
“I thought perhaps you would be called,” the woman remarked.
“My dear Molly,” laughed the man grimly, “I’m not going to be called as witness. I’ve taken very good care of that! I haven’t any desire to go into the box, I can assure you.”
“I suppose not,” laughed the woman. “The prisoner must never know that you’ve had a hand in the affair.”
She was a well-built, striking-looking woman, with a pair of fine dark eyes sparkling from beneath a black hat, the daring shape of which was most becoming to her. Upon her white hand jewels gleamed in the fitful firelight, for the lights were not switched on, and in her low-cut blouse of cream crêpe-de-chine she wore a small circle of diamonds as a brooch.
“It’s a good job for us all that you’ve closed the young man’s mouth just in time,” she declared. “He knew something, that is evident.”
“And he kept it to himself, intending one day to launch it as a thunderbolt,” Rodwell remarked. “But you’ve been infernally clever over the affair, Molly. Without you, I don’t know what I should have done in this case. There was a distinct danger.”
“It wasn’t very difficult, after all,” his companion replied. “Money does wonders—especially the good money of Germany. Here in England ‘Number Seventy’ happily has much good money, and has a ‘good press.’”
“Yes,” laughed Rodwell. “And yet the fools here think they will win!”
“My dear Lewin, they would win if they were not so hopelessly egotistical, and if we had not long foreseen the coming conflict and Germanised the British political and official life as our first precaution. In consequence, our victory is assured. Already this country is in the grip of our German financiers, our pro-German politicians, labour-leaders, and officials of every class. Our good German money has not been ill-spent, I can assure you!” she laughed.
“I quite agree. But tell me how you really managed to engineer that evidence,” he asked, much interested.
“Well, after you had given me the correspondence four days ago, I took a taxi and went down to the City to see my old friend George Charlesworth,” was her reply. “He and I used to be quite old chums a year ago, when, as you know, he fell into the trap over that other little matter, and became so useful, though he still remains in entire ignorance.”
“Ah! of course, you know the arrangements of the office. I quite forgot that.”
“Yes. I arrived about five o’clock, just as the old boy was leaving, and sat in his room while he finished signing his letters. Already most of the clerks had gone. When he had finished, and all the staff had left, I lit up a cigarette and begged to be allowed to finish it before we went out, I having suggested that he should take me to dinner that night at the Carlton. Suddenly I pretended to grow faint, and asked him to get me some brandy. In alarm the dear old fellow jumped up quickly, and ran out to an hotel for some, leaving me in the office alone. Then, when he’d gone, it didn’t take me long to hurry out into the clerks’ office and put the papers in between the leaves of that big green ledger which I found in the desk at which young Sainsbury had worked—just as you had described where it would be found.”
“Excellent! You are always very ’cute, Molly,” he laughed. “I suppose you quickly recovered when Charlesworth got back with the brandy—eh?”
“Well, I didn’t recover too quickly, or the old bird might have grown suspicious,” was her reply.
Mariechen Pagenkoff, known as Mrs Molly Kirby, was a native of Coblenz, but had been educated in England, and had lived here the greater part of her life until she had lost all trace of her foreign birth. Her husband had been a German shipping-agent in Glasgow, and at the same time a secret agent of the Koeniger-gratzerstrasse. But he had died two years before, leaving her a widow. Her profession of spy had brought her into contact with Lewin Rodwell, and ever since the outbreak of war the pair had acted in conjunction with each other in collecting and transmitting information through the various secret channels open between London and Berlin, and in carrying out many coups of espionage. Mrs Kirby lived very comfortably—as the widow of a rather wealthy shipping-agent might live—in a pretty flat in Cadogan Gardens, and to those around her she was believed to be, like Lewin Rodwell, most patriotic and charitable. Indeed, she had done much voluntary work for the charitable funds, and had interested herself in the relief of Belgian refugees, and in the work of the Red Cross.
“The day after you had been to the office,” Rodwell explained, “I went down there upon one or two matters which required attention, and, after a couple of hours, I told Charlesworth that I wanted to glance at a certain ledger to verify a query. The book was brought, and as I carelessly searched through it in Charlesworth’s presence, I discovered some documents. We opened them, when, to our great surprise, we found letters in German, there being enclosed in one a ten-pound note.”
“What did old Charlesworth say?” asked Mrs Kirby, with a smile upon her red lips.
“Well, as he can read German, I allowed him to digest the letters. The old man was dumbfounded, and exclaimed: ‘Why, young Sainsbury kept this book! Look at this letter! It’s addressed to “Dear Jack”! Is it possible, do you think, that Sainsbury was a German spy?’”
“What did you say?”
“I expressed the gravest surprise and concern, of course, and suggested that he, as manager, should take the documents to Scotland Yard and make a statement as to how they had been discovered. He wanted me to go with him, but I declined, saying that in my position I had no desire to be mixed up with any such unpleasant affair, and that he, as managing-director of the Ochrida Corporation, was the proper person to lodge information. The old fellow grew quite excited over it. He had several of the clerks up, and from them ascertained that the ledger in question had not been used since Sainsbury left. This, in conjunction with the fact that one of the letters was addressed to ‘Jack,’ and in it a mention of meeting at Heath Street, proved most conclusively that the incriminating documents belonged to Sainsbury. Therefore, an hour later, after I had instructed Charlesworth what to tell them at Scotland Yard, I had the satisfaction of seeing him enter a taxi with the documents in his pocket. I continued to do some work in the office when, later on, as I expected, he returned with a detective who inspected the book, the desk in which it was kept, and who listened to the story of young Sainsbury’s career.”
“And I suppose you gave the young man a very good character—eh?” asked the woman who had led such an adventurous life.
“Oh, excellent!” was Rodwell’s grim reply. “The officer went away quite convinced that Sainsbury was a spy.”
“Though you gave me the letters, I quite forgot to read them,” said the woman. “Of what character were they? Pretty damning, I suppose?”
“Damning—I should rather think they were!” answered the man who posed as the great British patriot, and hid his real profession beneath the cloak of finance and platform-speaking. “Two of them were letters which our friend Wentzel, at Aldershot, had received from the Insurance Company at Amsterdam—you know the little institution I mean, in the Kalverstraat. Wentzel is known as ‘Jack,’ and in one of these he is addressed as such. So it came in very useful. The letter enclosed a Bank of England note for ten pounds.”
“The monthly payment of his little annuity—eh?” laughed the woman. “I understand. I had a letter only this morning from the same Insurance Company.”
“Well,” laughed the man, “we all have dealings with the same office. I have had many. The organisation there is perfect—not a soul in the Censor’s department suspects. Truly, one must admire such perfect organisation as that established by ‘Number Seventy.’”
“I do. My husband always declared the arrangements in Holland to be perfect—and they are perfect, even to-day, while we are at war in England—the great Ruler of the Seas, as she calls herself, has already fallen from her height. Britannia’s trident is broken; her rulers know, and quite appreciate the fact. That is why they establish a censorship in order to keep the truth regarding our submarines from what they term the man-in-the-street. As soon as he knows the truth—if he ever will—then Heaven help Great Britain!”
“Meanwhile we are all working towards one end, my dear Molly—victory for our Fatherland!”
“Certainly. We shall conquer. The great Russian steam-roller—as the English journalists once called it—is already rusty at its joints. The rust has eaten into it, and soon its engineers will fail to make it move—except in its reverse-gear,” and the woman laughed. “But tell me,” she added: “of what does the evidence against Sainsbury exactly consist?”
Lewin Rodwell reflected seriously for a few moments. Then he slowly replied:
“Well, there are several things—things which he will have great difficulty in explaining away. I’ve taken good care of that. First, there is the letter from the Dutch Insurance Company sending him a ten-pound note. Secondly, there is a letter from a certain Carl Stefansen, living at Waxholm, on the Baltic, not far from Stockholm, asking for details regarding the movements of certain regiments of Kitchener’s Army, and thanking him for previous reports regarding the camps at Watford, Bramshott and elsewhere. Thirdly, there is an acknowledgment of a report sent to a lock-box address in Sayville, in the United States, on the second of last month, and promising to send, by next post, a remittance of five pounds in payment for it. A letter from Halifax, Nova Scotia, also requests certain information as to whether the line of forts from Guildford to Redhill—part of the ring-defences of London—are yet occupied.”
“Forts? What do you mean?”
“Those forts established years ago along the Surrey hills as part of the scheme for the defence of the Metropolis, but never manned or equipped with guns. They cost very many thousands to construct—but were never fully equipped.”
“And they are still in existence?”
“Certainly. And they could be occupied, and turned to valuable account, at any moment.”
“A fact which I can see they fully appreciated at Whitehall, and which will lend much colour to the charge against this inquisitive young fellow—who—well—who knows just a little too much. Ah! my dear Lewin, I never met a man quite like you. You can see through a brick wall.”
“No further than you can see, my dear Molly,” laughed the crafty man. “We were both of us trained in the same excellent school—that school which is the eyes and ears of the great and invincible Imperial Army of the Fatherland. Where would be that army, with our Kaiser at its head, if it had no eyes and no ears? Every report we send to Berlin is noted; every report, however small and vague, is one step towards our great goal and final victory. The Allies may beat themselves against our steel and concrete ring, but they will never win. We sit tight. Our men sit in their comfortable dug-outs to wait—and to wait on until the Allies beat themselves out in sheer exhaustion. Our great invincible nation must win in this island, for one reason—because the German eagle has already gripped in her talons the very official heart of Great Britain herself. Our Kaiser Wilhelm is only William of Normandy over again. In Berlin we hold no apprehensions. We know we must win. If not to-day—well, we sit safe in our trenches in Flanders, or give the gallant Russians a run just to exercise them—knowing well that victory must be ours when we will it!”
“Then, the correspondence found in Sainsbury’s ledger is entirely conclusive, you think?” asked his companion after a pause.
“Absolutely. There is no question. The letter shows him guilty of espionage.”
“They were actual letters, then?”
“Certainly. One of them was in an envelope addressed to him at the office, and posted at Norwich. I managed to find that envelope in his desk on the day before he was discharged. It came in extremely useful, as I expected it might.”
“So the charge against him cannot fail?” asked the handsome woman, puffing slowly at her cigarette. “Remember, he may suspect you—knowing all that he does!”
“Bah! The charge cannot fail. Of course I’ve had nothing to do with the matter as far as the authorities are concerned. I have simply slipped the noose over his head, and shall let the Intelligence Department do the rest. They will do their work well—never fear.”
“But you told the Intelligence Department about that Dr Jerrold?”
“Boyle did. I was most careful to keep out of it,” replied Rodwell, with a cunning look. “Boyle happens to be a friend of Heaton-Smith, who is in the Intelligence Department, and to him he gave information which cast a very deep suspicion that while Jerrold was pretending to hunt out spies, he was also engaged in collecting information. Indeed, we sent our friend Klost to consult him as a patient in order to further colour the idea that, in the doctor’s consulting-room, he was receiving German spies. Heaton-Smith, who has a perfect mania regarding espionage, took it up at once, and had Jerome watched, while we on our part, manufactured just a little thread of evidence, as we have done in the present case. By it we succeeded in a warrant being issued for his arrest. It would have been executed that night if—well, if he had not committed suicide.”
“Perhaps he knew a warrant was out against him?”
“I think he did,” said Rodwell, with an evil smile.
“What causes you to think so?”
“Well, by the fact that Boyle, to whom he was unknown, rang him up that evening at half-past seven and, posing as an anonymous friend, warned him that there was a warrant out for him and that, as a friend, he gave him an opportunity to escape.”
“What did he reply to Sir Boyle?”
“He hardly replied anything, except to thank the speaker for his timely information, and to ask who it was who spoke. Boyle pretended to be a certain Mr Long, speaking from the National Liberal Club, and added, ‘If you wish to write to me, my name is J.S. Long.’ The doctor said he would write, but could not understand the charge against him. Boyle replied that it was one of war-treason, and added that the authorities had got hold of some documents or other which incriminated him on a charge of spying.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, he declared that it was an infernal lie, of course,” laughed Rodwell.
The woman was again silent for a few moments.
“Its truth was plainly shown by his suicide,” she remarked at last. “By Jove, my dear Lewin, his death was most fortunate for you—wasn’t it?”
“Yes. We had to play a trump card then—just as we now have to play another against young Sainsbury,” replied the man, his eyes narrowing.
“I must congratulate you both,” said Mrs Kirby. “You’ve played your cards well—if you’re certain that he’ll be convicted.”
“My dear Molly, they can’t help convicting him. The acknowledgment and payment for reports, the request for more information, and the vague references to certain matters in which our friends in Holland are so keenly interested, all are there—addressed to him. Besides, he is known to have been an intimate friend and assistant of the man Jerrold—the man who committed suicide rather than face arrest and trial for treason. No,” Rodwell added confidently; “the whole affair is quite plain, and conviction must most certainly follow.”
“And serve him well right!” added the handsome woman. “Serve him right for being too inquisitive. But,” she added in a rather apprehensive voice, “I suppose there’s no chance of him making any allegations against you—is there?”
“What do I care if he did!” asked the man, with a laugh of defiance. Then, lowering his voice, he added: “First, there is no evidence whatsoever to connect me with any matters of espionage, and secondly, nobody would believe a word he said. The world would never credit that Lewin Rodwell was a spy!”
“No,” she laughed; “you are far too clever and cunning for them all. Really your sang-froid is truly marvellous.”