Number 70, Berlin: A Story of Britain's Peril

As far as it went that was gratifying to Jack. It rendered him independent of the Ochrida Copper Corporation, and the strenuous “driving-power,” as it is termed in the City, of Charlesworth, the sycophant of Sir Boyle Huntley and his fellow directors. The whole office knew that Huntley and Rodwell, brought in during days of peace “to reorganise the Company upon a sound financial basis,” were gradually getting all the power into their own hands, as they had done in other companies. The lives of that pair were one huge money-getting adventure.

In the office strange things were whispered. But Jack alone knew the truth.

The most irritating fact to him was that Jerome Jerrold, just as he had discovered Rodwell’s birth and masquerading, had died.

Why?

Why had Lewin Rodwell rung up his new friend, Trustram, just before poor Jerome’s death? Why had Jerome asked to see his friend Sainsbury so particularly on that night? Why had he locked his door and taken his life at the very moment when he should have lived to face and denounce the man who, while an alien enemy, was posing as a loyal subject of Great Britain?

Of these and other things – things which he had discussed on the previous night with Elise – he was thinking deeply, when a lad entered saying:

“Mr Charles worth wants to see you, sir.” He rose from his chair and ascended in the lift to the next floor. On entering the manager’s room he found Mr Charlesworth, the catspaw of Sir Boyle, seated in his padded chair, smoking a good cigar.

“Oh – er – Sainsbury. I’m rather sorry to call you in, but the directors have decided that as you are of military age they are compelled, from patriotic motives, to suggest to you that you should join the army, as so many of the staff here have done. Don’t you think it is your duty?”

Jack Sainsbury looked the manager straight in the face.

“Yes,” he said, with a curious smile. “I quite agree. It certainly is my duty to resign and take my part in the defence of the country. But,” he added, “I think it is somewhat curious that the directors have taken this step – to ask me to resign.” Charlesworth, an estimable man, and beloved by the whole of the staff of the company at home and abroad, hesitated a moment, and then replied:

“Unfortunately I am only here to carry out the orders of the directors, Sainsbury. You have been a most reliable and trusted servant of the company, and I shall be only too pleased to write you a good testimonial. You will have half-pay during the time you are absent, of course, as the others have.”

“Well, if I leave the Ochrida Copper Corporation, as the directors have practically dismissed me, I require no half-pay – nothing whatever,” he answered, with a grim smile. “I part from you and from the company, Mr Charlesworth, with the very kindest and most cordial recollections; but I wish you, please, to give my compliments to the directors and say that, as they wish me to leave and act in the interests of my country, I shall do so, refusing to accept the half of my salary which they, in their patriotism, have so generously offered me.”

Charlesworth was a little puzzled by this speech. It was unexpected. The steady, hardworking clerk, who had been so reliable, and whom he had greatly esteemed, might easily have met his suggestion with resentment. Indeed, he had expected him to do so. But, on the contrary, Sainsbury seemed even eager to retire from the service of the company.

Charlesworth was, of course, ignorant of the conditions of Dr Jerrold’s will, or of those words Jack Sainsbury had overheard as he had entered the boardroom. Vernon Charlesworth had been a servant of the Ochrida Copper Corporation ever since its formation eighteen years ago – long before the “new blood” represented by the Huntley-Rodwell combination had been “brought into” it. From the first inception of the company the public, who had put their modest savings into it, had lost their money. Yet recently, by the bombastic and optimistic speeches of Sir Boyle Huntley at the Cannon Street Hotel, and the self-complacent smiles of Lewin Rodwell at the meetings, confidence had been inspired, and it was still a going concern – one which, if the truth be told, Huntley and Rodwell were working to get into their own hands.

“Of course I am really very sorry to part with you, Sainsbury,” the manager said, leaning back in his chair and looking at him. “You’ve been a most trustworthy servant, yet I, of course, have to abide by the decision of the board.”

Jack Sainsbury smiled.

“No, please don’t apologise, Mr Charlesworth,” he said, with a faint smile. “I daresay I shall soon find some other employment more congenial to me.”

“I hope so,” replied the manager, peering at the young man through his horn-rimmed glasses – a style affected in official circles. “Nowadays, with so many men at the front, it is not really a difficult matter to find a post in the City. It seems to me that the slacker has the best of it.”

“I’m not a slacker, though you may think I am, Mr Charlesworth,” cried Jack, reddening. “A month after war was declared I went to the recruiting office fully prepared to enlist. But, unfortunately, they rejected me as medically unfit.”

“Did they?” exclaimed the other in surprise. “You never told us that!”

“Was it necessary? I merely tried to do my duty. But – ” and he paused, and then, in a meaning voice, he added: “If I can’t do my duty out in the trenches, I can at least do it here, at home.”

“If it is true that you’ve been already rejected as unfit,” exclaimed Charlesworth, “I daresay I might induce the directors to reconsider their decision.”

“No, sir,” was Sainsbury’s proud reply. “I will not trouble you to do that. It is quite apparent that, for some unknown reason, they wish to dismiss me. Therefore I consider myself dismissed – and, to tell you the truth, I don’t regret it. But, before I go, I would like to thank you and the staff for all the kindness and consideration shown to me during my illness a year ago.”

“Then you refuse to stay?” asked Charlesworth, rather puzzled, for he held Sainsbury in high esteem.

“Yes. Before dismissing me I consider that the directors should have inquired whether I had tried to enlist,” he answered resentfully.

“Then I suppose there is no more to say. Shall you remain till the end of the week?”

“No, sir. I intend to go now. It would not, I think, be a very happy seven days for me if I remained, would it?”

Charlesworth sighed. He was sorry to lose the services of such a bright, shrewd and clever young man.

“Very well,” he replied regretfully. “If that is really so, Sainsbury, I must wish you good-bye,” and with frankness he stretched forth his hand, which the young man took, and then turned on his heel and left the manager’s room.

While Jack Sainsbury was on his way through the bustle of Gracechurch Street, Lewin Rodwell, who had been upstairs at a meeting of the board, descended and entered Charlesworth’s room, closing the door after him.

“Well,” he asked carelessly, after chatting upon several important business matters, “have you spoken yet to young Sainsbury?”

“Yes. And he’s gone.”

Lewin Rodwell drew a sigh of relief.

“He ought to enlist – a smart, athletic fellow like that! Such men are just what England wants to-day, Charlesworth. I hope you gave him a good hint – eh?”

“I did. But it seems that he has already endeavoured to enlist, but was rejected – a defective arm.”

Lewin Rodwell was silent – but only for a few seconds.

“Well, never mind; he’s gone. We must reduce the staff – it is quite imperative in these days. What about those six others? Staff reduction will mean increased profits, you know.”

“They all have notice. I’m sorry about Carew. He has an invalid wife and seven children. His salary is only two pounds fifteen.”

“I’m afraid we can’t help that, Charlesworth,” replied the man who posed in the West End as the great self-denying patriot who hobnobbed with, Cabinet Ministers. “We must reduce the staff, if we’re going to pay a dividend. He’ll get work – munition-making or something. Sentiment is out of place in these war-days.”

And yet, only two days before, the speaker had made a brilliant speech at a Mansion House meeting in which he had beaten the patriotic drum loudly, and appealed to all employers of labour to increase wages because of the serious rise in food-prices. Charlesworth knew this, but made no remark. It was not to his interest to thwart the great Lewin Rodwell, or his place-seeking sycophant Sir Boyle Huntley, who had been put by his friend into the position he now held.

Truly the City is a strange, complex world of unpatriotic, hard-hearted money-seeking – a world where the Anglo-German or the swindling financier waxes rich quickly, and where the God-fearing Englishman goes to a Rowton House ousted by the “peaceful penetration” of our “dear kind friends” the Germans.

Those who have known the City for the past ten years or so know full well – ay, they know, alas! too well – the way in which Germany has prepared us for the financial aspect of the war. In the light of current events much has been made plain that was hitherto shrouded in mystery. We have seen plainly the subtle methods of the enemy.

Lewin Rodwell and his catspaw, Sir Boyle, were only typical of dozens of others in that little area from Temple Bar to Aldgate, the men who were working for Germany both prior to the war and after.

Charlesworth, to do him full credit, was an honest Englishman. Yet such a man was bound to be employed by our enemies as a safeguard against inquiry, and in order to avert suspicion. City men, like Charlesworth, might be patriotic to the backbone, yet when it became a matter of choosing between bread-and-cheese and starvation, as in his own case, the matter of living at Wimbledon on two thousand a year appealed to him, in preference to cold mutton and lodgings in Bloomsbury.

Germans, with or without assumed English names, controlled our finances, our professions, our hotels, nay, our very lives, wherefore it was hardly surprising that we were unable, in the first few months of war, to rid ourselves of that disease known as “German measles.”

“I must say I’m sorry about Carew,” remarked Charlesworth. “He’s been with us ever since the formation of the Company – and you recollect we sent him abroad two years ago upon the Elektra deal. He made a splendid bargain – one that has brought us over twenty thousand pounds.”

“And he was paid a bonus of twenty-pounds, wasn’t he?” snapped Rodwell impatiently. “Surely that was enough?”

“But really I think we should keep him; he is very valuable.”

“No, Charlesworth. Let him go. Give him the best of references, if you like. But we must cut down expenses, if you and I are to live at all.”

“We must live at the expense of these poor devils, I suppose,” remarked Charlesworth, with a slight sigh.

Truth to tell, he could not express his repugnance.

“Yes. Surely we are the masters. And capital must live!” was the other’s hard reply. “But where is Sainsbury going?” Rodwell inquired quickly. “What does he intend doing?”

“I have no idea,” the manager said. “He behaved most mysteriously when I told him that his services were no longer required.”

“Mysteriously!” exclaimed Rodwell, starting and looking straight across at his companion. “How?”

“Well, he expressed undisguised pleasure at leaving us – that’s all.”

“What did he say?” asked Lewin Rodwell, in an instant deeply interested. “Tell me exactly what transpired. I have a reason – a very strong reason – for ascertaining. Tell me,” he urged, with an eagerness which was quite unusual to him. “Tell me the whole facts.”

Chapter Seven.

The Spider’s Web

Three weeks went past – dark, breathless weeks in England’s history.

Jack Sainsbury, keeping the knowledge to himself, spent many deep and thoughtful hours over his friend’s tragic end. Several times he suggested to Mr Trustram that, in order to clear up the mystery, the sealed letter should be opened. But Trustram – having given his word of honour to the dead man – argued, and quite rightly, that there was no mystery regarding Jerrold’s death. He had simply committed suicide.

Rodwell and Charles Trustram had, by this time, become very friendly. The latter had been introduced to Sir Boyle Huntley, and the pair had soon introduced the Admiralty official into a higher circle of society than he had ever before attained. Indeed, within a few weeks Rodwell, prime mover of several patriotic funds, had become Trustram’s bosom friend. So intimate did they become that they frequently played golf together at Sunningdale, Berkhampstead or Walton Heath, on such occasions when Trustram could snatch an hour or so of well-earned recreation from the Admiralty; and further, on two occasions Sir Boyle had given him very valuable financial tips – advice which had put into his pocket a very considerable sum in hard cash.

Admiralty officials are not too well paid for their splendid and untiring work, therefore to Charles Trustram this unexpected addition to his income was truly welcome.

The establishment of Lady Betty Kenworthy’s Anti-Teutonic Alliance had caused a wave of indignant hatred of the German across the country, and hence it was receiving universal support. It aimed at the internment of all Germans, both naturalised and unnaturalised, at the drastic rooting out of the German influence in our officialdom, and the ousting of all persons who, in any sphere of life, might possess German connections by blood or by marriage.

While Trustram was, of course, debarred, on account of his official position, from open sympathy with the great movement, Lewin Rodwell and Sir Boyle went up and down the country addressing great and enthusiastic audiences and denouncing in violent terms the subtle influence of “the enemy in our midst.”

Jack Sainsbury watched all this in grim silence. What he had overheard in the boardroom of the Ochrida Copper Corporation rang ever in his ears.

More than once he had sat in Sir Houston Bird’s quiet, sombre consulting-room, and the pair had discussed the situation. Both agreed that the clever masquerade being played by Rodwell and his baroneted puppet was, though entertaining, yet a highly dangerous one. But without being in possession of hard, indisputable facts, how could they act? The British public had hailed Lewin Rodwell as a fine specimen of the truly patriotic Englishman, little dreaming him to be a wolf in sheep’s-clothing. To all and every charitable appeal he subscribed readily, and to his small, snug house in Bruton Street came many of the highest in the land. Alas! that we always judge a man by his coat, his cook, his smiles and his glib speeches. Put a dress-suit upon the biggest scoundrel who ever stood in the dock at the Old Bailey – from Smith who murdered his brides in baths downwards – and he would pass as what the world calls “a gentleman.”

One evening in December – the ninth, to be exact – there had been a big dinner-party at Sir Boyle’s, in Berkeley Square, and afterwards Trustram had accompanied Rodwell home to Bruton Street in a taxi for a smoke.

As the pair – the spider and the fly – sat together before the fire in the small, cosy room at the back of the house which the financier used as his own den, their conversation turned upon a forthcoming meeting at the Mansion House, which it was intended to hold in order to further arouse the Home Office to a true sense of the danger of allowing alien enemies to be at liberty.

“I intend to speak quite openly and plainly upon the subject,” declared Rodwell, leaning back in his chair and blowing a cloud of cigar-smoke from his lips. “The time has now passed for polite speeches. If we are to win this war we must no longer coddle the enemy with Donnington Hall methods. The authorities know full well that there are hundreds of spies among us to-day, and yet they deliberately close their eyes to them. To me their motto seems, ‘Don’t aggravate the Germans. They are such dear good people.’ The whole comedy would be intensely humorous – a rollicking farce – if it were not so terribly pathetic. Therefore, at the meeting, I intend to warn the Government that if some strong measure is not adopted, and at once, the people themselves will rise and take matters into their own hands. There’ll be rioting soon, if something is not done – that’s my firm conviction,” and in his dark eyes was a keen, earnest look, as he waved his white hand emphatically. Truly, Lewin Rodwell was a clever actor, and the line he had taken was, surely, sufficiently bold to remove from him any suspicion of German birth, or of double-dealing.

“Yes, I quite agree,” declared Trustram enthusiastically. “We know well enough at the Admiralty that the most confidential information leaks out to the enemy almost daily, and – ”

“And what can you expect, my dear fellow, when we have so many Germans and naturalised Germans here in our midst?” cried Rodwell, interrupting. “Intern the whole lot – that’s my idea.”

“With that I entirely agree,” exclaimed Trustram, of course believing fully in his friend’s whole-hearted sincerity. “There are far too many Germans in high places, and while they occupy them we shall never be able to combat their craftiness – never!” Lewin Rodwell fixed his cold, keen eyes upon the speaker, and smiled inwardly with satisfaction.

“My poor friend Dr Jerrold held exactly similar views,” Trustram went on. “Dear old Jerrold! He was ever active in hunting out spies. He assisted our Secret Service in a variety of ways and, by dint of diligent and patient inquiry, discovered many strange things.”

“Did he ever really discover any spies?” asked Rodwell in a rather languid voice.

“Yes, several. I happen to know one case – that of a man who collected certain information. The documents were found on him, together with a pocket-book which contained a number of names and addresses of German secret agents in England.” Rodwell instantly became interested.

“Did he? What became of the book? That surely ought to be most valuable to the authorities – eh?”

“It has been, I believe. But, of course, all inquiries of that nature are done by the War Office, so I only know the facts from Jerrold himself. He devoted all the time he could snatch from his profession to the study of spies, and to actual spy-hunting.”

“And with good results – eh? Poor fellow! He was very alert. His was a sad end. Suicide. I wonder why?” asked Rodwell.

“Who knows?” remarked the other, shrugging his shoulders. “We all of us have our skeletons in our cupboards. Possibly his might have been rather uglier than others?”

Rodwell remained thoughtful. Mention of that pocket-book, of which Jerrold had obtained possession, caused him to ponder. That it was in the hands of the Intelligence Department was the reverse of comforting. He had known of the arrest of Otto Hartwig, alias Hart, who had, for many years before the war, carried on business in Kensington, but this was the first he had learnt that anything had been found upon the prisoner.

He endeavoured to gain some further details from Trustram, but the latter had but little knowledge.

“All I know,” he said, “is that the case occupied poor Jerrold fully a month of patient inquiry and watchful vigilance. At last his efforts were rewarded, for he was enabled to follow the man down to Portsmouth, and actually watch him making inquiries there – gathering facts which he intended to transmit to the enemy.”

“How?” asked Rodwell quickly.

“Ah! that’s exactly what we don’t know. That there exists a rapid mode of transmitting secret intelligence across the North Sea is certain,” replied the Admiralty official. “We’ve had illustrations of it, time after time. Between ourselves, facts which I thought were only known to myself – facts regarding the transport of troops across the Channel – have actually been known in Berlin in a few hours after I have made the necessary arrangements.”

“Are you quite certain of that?” Rodwell asked, with sudden interest.

“Absolutely. It has been reported back to us by our friends in Germany.”

“Then we do have friends in Germany?” remarked Rodwell, with affected ignorance.

“Oh, several,” was the other’s reply. Then, in confidence, he explained how certain officers had volunteered to enter Germany, posing as American citizens and travelling from America with American passports. He mentioned two by name – Beeton and Fordyce.

The well-dressed man lolling in his chair, smoking as he listened, made a mental note of those names, and grinned with satisfaction at Trustram’s indiscretions.

Yet, surely, the Admiralty official could not be blamed, for so completely had Lewin Rodwell practised the deception that he believed him to be a sterling Englishman, red-hot against the enemy and all his knavish devices.

“I suppose you must be pretty busy at the Admiralty just now – eh? The official account of the Battle of the Falklands in to-night’s papers is splendid reading. Sturdee gave Admiral von Spee a very nasty shock. I suppose we shall hear of some other naval successes in the North Sea soon – eh?”

Trustram hesitated for a few seconds. “Well, not just yet,” was his brief reply.

“Why do you say ‘not yet’?” he asked with a laugh. “Has the Admiralty some thrilling surprise in store for us? Your people are always so confoundedly mysterious.”

“We have to be discreet,” laughed Trustram. “In these days one never knows who is friend or foe.”

“Well, you know me well enough, Trustram, to be quite certain of my discretion. I never tell a soul any official information which may come to me – and I hear quite a lot from my Cabinet friends – as you may well imagine.”

“I do trust you, Mr Rodwell,” his friend replied. “If I did not, I should not have told you the many things I have regarding my own department.”

Lewin Rodwell smoked on, his legs crossed, his right hand behind his head as he gazed at his friend.

“Well, you arouse my curiosity when you say that the Admiralty have in store a surprise for us which we shall know later. Where is it to take place?”

Again Charles Trustram hesitated. Then he answered, with some reluctance:

“In the North Sea, I believe. A certain scheme has been arranged which will, we hope, prove effectual.”

“A trap, I suppose?”

Trustram laughed faintly.

“I didn’t tell you so, remember,” he said quickly.

“Ah, I see! – a trap to draw the German Fleet north – up towards Iceland. Is my surmise correct?”

Trustram’s smile was a silent affirmative. “This is indeed interesting,” Rodwell exclaimed. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone. When is it to be?”

“Within a week.”

“You mean in a week. To-day is Wednesday – next Wednesday will be the sixteenth.”

Again Trustram smiled, as Rodwell, with his shrewd intelligence, divined the truth.

“It’s all arranged – eh? And orders have been sent out to the Fleet?” asked the financier.

Again Trustram laughingly replied, “I didn’t say so,” but from his friend’s manner Lewin Rodwell knew that he had learnt the great and most valuable secret of the true intentions of the British Navy.

It was not the first piece of valuable information which he had wormed out of his official friends. So clever was he that he now pretended to be highly eager and enthusiastic over the probable result of the strategy.

“Let’s hope Von Tirpitz will fall into the trap,” he said. “Of course it will have to be very cunningly baited, if you are to successfully deceive him. He’s already shown himself to be an artful old bird.”

“Well – without giving anything away – I happen to know, from certain information passing through my hands, that the bait will be sufficiently tempting.”

“So we may expect to hear of a big naval battle about the sixteenth. I should say that it will, in all probability, be fought south of Iceland, somewhere off the Shetlands.”

“Well, that certainly is within the range of probability,” was the other’s response. “All I can tell you – and in the very strictest confidence, remember – is that the scheme is such a cleverly conceived one that I do not believe it can possibly fail.”

“And if it failed?”

“Well – if it failed,” Trustram said, hesitating and speaking in a lower tone – “if it failed, then no real harm would occur – only one thing perhaps: that the East Coast of England might be left practically unguarded for perhaps twelve hours or so. That’s all.”