Fighting Germany's Spies

by French Strother

Who was this Dr. Scheele? He was a quiet German chemist who sometimes aided the police in detecting traces of crime. Didn’t his neighbours know him? Of course; he was that genial and entertaining German-American who owned a drug store in Brooklyn, one of the desirable kind of citizens, the law-abiding kind of foreigner whom we welcomed in our midst. Did the business world know him? Yes; he was president of the New Jersey Agricultural Chemical Company, a concern which kept its contracts and paid its debts. America was satisfied with this president, the adopted son, who had married an American wife and resided peacefully among us for twenty-four years. Why not?

When the French liner La Lorraine caught fire at sea with hospital nurses and supplies of mercy on board, what could this have to do with an inconspicuous druggist in Brooklyn?—or when numerous ships sailed loaded with sugar or supplies for the needy neutrals abroad, and never after were heard of?

Finally a British cruiser with an inquisitive captain overhauled the steamship Rize which was carrying a cargo of fertilizer badly needed for the fields in Denmark. There was nothing particularly suspicious about a cargo packed in sacks, just ordinary brown powdered fertilizer of the most common variety and shipped by the New Jersey Agricultural Chemical Co. But for some reason the papers didn’t entirely satisfy. The cargo was confiscated, analyzed, and an astonished chemist reported that the “fertilizer” was composed of highest grade lubricating oil, mixed with a certain chemical which had reduced the oil to a solid but when the mixture was treated with a little acid the sacks yielded oil fit for the Kaiser’s best Unterseeboten.

The Department of Justice paid an official call on the New Jersey company—the “President” was away; he remained away during two years of very painstaking search by the officials of the Department’s secret service, which had an ever-increasing desire to make the acquaintance of the inconspicuous chemist who seemed to possess some of the mythical powers of the ancient alchemists.

There seemed also to be an unusual bank account connected with this gentleman, engaged in such magnificent business enterprises, that yielded such meagre profits, as were evidenced by the President’s home life and general circumstances. Who is he, and where is he? were questions that vexed the bureau in Washington. Two years rolled by; numbers of Germans connected with “the Doctor” were sent to jail, but only rumours were got of trails of the chemist.

Fate, however, transferred our story to the shadowy neighbourhood of Morro Castle; there, an excited and still unidentified German who was trying to board a vessel at Matanzas, Cuba, for a port in Mexico, was brought into Havana in front of the bayonets of a not-too-careful Rural Guard. Then a newly arrived representative of the Department of Justice undertook some negotiations with the Cuban Government for a safe passage back for a certain Dr. Walter T. Scheele and his paymaster.

An ancient fort, which is the military prison in Havana and a part of the old fortified wall which follows the water front of the picturesque harbour, was shrouded in darkness when the hour of departure arrived. Between the old fort and the grim outline of “the Morro” lay a Cuban gunboat with black smoke pouring out of her funnels; a tropical storm blowing in over the Gulf Stream alternately darkened the sky a deeper tone and lit it up with vivid lightning flashes. Presently a little group appeared on the sea walls and a flash of lightning showed an American in plain clothes, the regalia of the agents of Justice and a colonel of the regular army who were signing a receipt for two quiet figures in alpine hats. A courteous Cuban officer saluted and shook hands with the departing guests, handcuffs were silently slipped on to thick German wrists, and the little steam pinnace of the warship sped off through the darkness alongside its gangway.

An interview none the less sombre and creepy occurred on the other side of the Gulf Stream within the walls of Fort Taylor. Two automobiles had driven up in the darkness to an emplacement beneath the shadow of a heavy gun. The party which had left Havana descended in a dimly lighted courtyard where a squad of non-commissioned officers was waiting. One figure in an alpine hat had to be lifted from the automobile while the other stood erect.

Here is the story of Dr. Scheele, the more important of these two agents of the Kaiser:

Twenty-five years ago a German youth (one of the favourite pupils of the great chemist, Professor Keukle) graduated at Bonn. He came of an illustrious family; his grandfather, the Swedish professor, Scheele, discovered chlorine gas. His father, born in Germany, died in the discovery of “prussic acid,” the most quickly fatal drug known. The youth, with sixteen deep scars on his head and face from duelling under the vicious German code, was a man of proved valour. Who was better to send to the great developing home of liberty and freedom and study its industry, and prepare for a day which was already dazzling the newly enthroned Kaiser?