"His clumsiness has loosened one of the wires," he announced, then to Von Papen and Boy-Ed, "Franz, Karl, catch hold, we will take it down and have it fixed in a minute."
Struggling under the weight of the heavy frame they heard a choked exclamation from Koenig in his native tongue:
"Donnenrwetter, eine dictograph!"
The trio all but dropped the picture of the Kaiser in their haste to turn and gaze at the little object at which Koenig was pointing—a little instrument fastened to the blank wall which had been covered by the picture which they all knew had made audible, to anyone listening at the other end of wires, any conversation which had been held in the room.
Koenig was the first to recover from the dumbfoundment which the discovery occasioned. Despite the clumsiness he had shown but a few minutes before he sprung up the ladder with agility and busily traced the course of the wire, which had been concealed so cunningly behind the molding by operatives of the Secret Service. Then he quickly descended and carrying the ladder with him ran to the adjoining wall of the room where his keen eyes had shown him the wires ran into the plaster. Again he mounted the ladder and ripped angrily at the wire, pulling plaster away recklessly, finally tearing a hole large enough to expose the wires running upwards by means of a water pipe.
"The plumbers—when they were here for the leak in that wall—must have been Secret Service," jerked out Von Papen between savage fervid oaths, as the explanation of how the dictograph had been installed came to him.
"Quick. Upstairs and if you find anyone at the other end kill him before he has a chance to utter a word of what he has heard tonight," he ordered and then led the way to the stairs leading to the upper floors, a drawn automatic revolver in hand.
Koenig quickly traced the wires to the office room of an untenanted loft in a building adjoining the Hohenzollern Club. The door of the room was locked but gave way easily to the burly shoulders of Koenig. Matches quickly showed conditions which caused a general sigh of relief. Three chairs in the room, the table, the floor and every piece of furniture was covered with undisturbed dust, thick enough to be the accumulation of weeks.
"No one has been in here in months," said Boy-Ed, running his hand over the table and holding it up besmirched.
"Here are newspapers five months old," announced Von Lertz, picking up several from a corner and shaking the dust from them that he might read the date lines.