Sant of the Secret Service: Some Revelations of Spies and Spying. Le Queux William
All the time, of course, I was keenly on the alert, my ears ready for any scrap of information that might chance to come my way.
One day I had been visiting the little village of Azcoitia, the birthplace of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits. At a pleasant old fonda close by I had dropped in for a dish of olla, that kind of stew so dear to the Spanish palate, when, at a table near by, I noticed two middle-aged men who quite obviously were not Spaniards. Apparently they were Italian, for they spoke that language, and their clothes had obviously been made by an Italian tailor. But I noticed instantly a fact which at once aroused my suspicion – the boots they wore were of German manufacture!
Men’s nationality and habits are often betrayed by their footwear, and my observations on the boots and shoes of people of both sexes have seldom led me wrong. Indeed, I always pay the closest attention to clothes, for nothing will so completely “give away” an assumption of a pretended nationality so promptly as an error in dress. Every scrap of clothing I was wearing had been bought in Holland, and I was sure of my disguise. My suit I had purchased of Buijze, in the Kalverstraat in Amsterdam. The pseudo-Italians, carefully got up as they were for the part they were playing, had forgotten one important item, and I had little difficulty in coming to the conclusion that they were really Germans. I decided to keep a sharp watch on them. The question was: were they watching me?
I dawdled over coffee and cigarettes till they rose to leave, when I paid my bill with the intention of tracking them back to San Sebastian. Unfortunately I was baulked immediately. Fond of exercise, I had walked out to Azcoitia; the two strangers had driven, and I had the mortification of seeing their carriage start for the city. It was useless to attempt to follow; they were out of sight long before I could have hoped to get the slow-moving Spaniards to provide me with a carriage. There was nothing for it but to return as I had come, and keep a sharp eye open for the mysterious strangers. It was evident that, if they really knew me, they must have satisfied themselves that for the present, at any rate, I was actually idling, and that there was “nothing doing.”
Returning to the Ezcurra, I wrote out an advertisement which I sent to a certain address in Paris. I knew that it would appear immediately in the “personal” column of the Matin. It was in French, but the English translation read: “Isis. – Mother has fortunately passed crisis, and going on well. – Felox.”
This advertisement, I knew, would appear both in London and Rome, as well as in Paris. To the uninformed it would appear innocent enough, but certain persons in the Allied capitals knew that “Felox” was myself, and, reading the announcement, would be reassured as to the progress of my secret mission.
Next day I spent idling about the beautiful blue bay of La Concha, taking my evening apéritif at the Casino, and after dinner I spoke to Madame Gabrielle over the telephone. I told her, of course, about the two mysterious strangers, giving her as full a description as possible of their appearance, and urging her to keep the keenest watch for them.
When I returned to the palm-lounge, a page-boy brought me a telegram addressed to van Hekker, the name by which I was known at the hotel.
Opening it, I found that it had been sent from London. It was a cryptic message which read:
“Fontan remains here. Goods marked C.X.B. arrived fourteenth, twenty-three cases. Awaiting samples second quality.”
Without giving the least sign that the telegram was of any special interest, I read it through and carelessly slipped it into my pocket. But the news it contained was startling. It put an entirely fresh complexion on affairs, and it meant that I must act without delay. Unless within twenty-four hours or so I secured a triumph, my mission would be unsuccessful, and in all probability some two thousand human lives would pay the price of my failure.
It was absolutely essential that I should discover without delay the identity of “Fontan,” for there lay the crux of my difficulty. With that knowledge in my possession I should have more than a chance of success; without it I was merely a blind man groping in the dark.
Chapter Two
Spying on Spies
The bold course was the only one possible. I walked straight to the Correo Central, and, entering the poste restante, inquired casually for a telegram addressed to the name of Fontan.
“It was called for half an hour ago,” was the gruff reply of the little old Spaniard at the counter, who shot a quick look of suspicion at me, wondering, no doubt, how it came about that a second inquiry should be made for the same telegram. I bit my lip, but tried to appear unconcerned, and, after dispatching another message, went out filled with chagrin at having missed my objective by so narrow a margin. The time left me for action was growing desperately short, yet, rack my brains as I would, I could think of no way out of my difficulty.
But my suspense was not to last long. As I walked slowly back to the Ezcurra, my heart gave a sudden leap as I recognised, walking parallel with me on the opposite side of the road, one of the two mysterious “Italians” whom I had encountered a few days previously in the little fonda at Azcoitia. He was walking at about the same pace as myself, and I very quickly realised that he was carefully “shadowing” me. But that was a game at which two could play!
Turning into a shop where there was a public telephone, I rang up Madame Gabrielle at the Continental, swiftly explained the circumstances to her, and implored her to hurry to meet me, so that she could take off my hands the task of watching the “Italians.”
Purposely I set my steps toward the Continental, making a sharp turn from my direct road to do so, and my suspicion that I was the object of the “Italian’s” attention was instantly confirmed. He turned at once to follow me, though apparently with so little of set intention that no one whose suspicions had not been aroused would have dreamed that he was being shadowed by a clever hand at the game.
Ten minutes later a grave-looking Spanish lady, wearing an ample mantilla, came slowly towards me. I was eagerly on the look-out for Madame Gabrielle, but I confess that for a moment I never suspected that she and the Spanish lady were identical. Indeed it was not until she had attracted my attention by a slight but peculiar flip of the hand, which was one of our recognised private signals, that I realised who she was, so perfect was the disguise.
However, my course was easy enough now; all I had to do was to indicate the “Italian” to her, and I knew I could safely leave in her hands the task of finding out all there was to know about him.
I had crossed the road and the “Italian” was some fifty yards behind us. As Madame Gabrielle approached I turned down a side street, and, when I judged the “Italian” must be near the entrance, walked smartly round the corner to meet him. I had judged the distance well; we came into violent collision, and with every indication of helplessness that I could assume I fell headlong into the roadway.
Instantly the “Italian” was all helpfulness and apologies. He assisted me to rise and helped me to brush away some of the dust with which I was covered. Of course I could not, for this occasion at least, speak Italian, but the language of signs was sufficient, and at length I left him apparently much distressed, and started for the Ezcurra, limping with an ostentatious painfulness which I hoped would effectually convince my antagonist, firstly, that I was really hurt, and, secondly, that I had not the smallest suspicion of his real identity and object. We signalled good-bye with every appearance of cordiality.
I took good care not even to look round on my walk back to the hotel. I knew the “Italian” would be safely under the observation of Madame Gabrielle, and that I should get the information I wanted in good time. My spirits rose. I felt sure that at length I was on the right track.
Returning to the hotel, I volubly explained my dirty and dishevelled appearance in full hearing of a small crowd of idlers in the lounge. I did not know whether among them there might not be another agent of our enemies, and, by way of concealing my suspicions, I spoke warmly of the essentially Italian courtesy of my late antagonist. It came out afterwards that I had done a good stroke of work. The lounge did contain an enemy agent who was watching me, but so naturally was I able to speak that he actually reported that I had obviously not the smallest suspicion of the real calling of the mysterious “Italian.”
Until