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correct, our agents are assisted in inconspicuous ways and their agents here are identified. One of

his best efforts, conveyed in the passport of a commercial traveller in artificial silk stockings,

informed us last July that Germany would resign from the League of Nations in October, which,

of course, they did. We know where and when to find messages because we are informed by

radio in the code Reck used. We are inconceivably grateful, but we do feel we should like to

know our benefactor.”

“Does he sign his communications? Or just put ‘A Well-Wisher’ at the end?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Is he English, do you think?”

“The form of his sentences is sometimes rather German, verbs at the end and capitals to

all his nouns and so on. But once he said, ‘If I ask for news, will you put a paragraph in the

papers for me sometimes?’ and at the end of yesterday’s was ‘How stands the old Lord Warden?

Are Dover’s cliffs still white?’”

“You’ll answer that in to-morrow’s
Continental Daily Mail
, of course, ‘Dear old boy, it

depends on the weather!’ Has he asked any others?”

“Not yet.”

“I take it you want me to find out who he is. Has it occurred to you that in some way he

must be fairly well in with the Nazis, and that consequently it would be very dangerous for him

indeed if anyone knew who he was, even you, sir?”

“Yes. In fact, your errand is not so much to find out who he is as to put yourself in a

position to be useful to him if he desires help. If you fail, it will be because he does not desire it,

that’s all.”

“Then you really have not the faintest idea who he is?”

“Absolutely none. We assume, from his knowledge of procedure, that he has served at

some time in British Intelligence, so we looked up everyone on our lists who is still alive. It is

none of them, so it must be someone who is officially dead. I have here the photographs of every

British agent who was missing or killed during and after the war, perhaps you would like to look

at them. It is only a guess that he is in touch with Reck because he uses that code, but the code

may have been written down and Reck may be dead, as you say. I have no guidance to offer,

though you will be put in touch with the usual contacts. I only suggest that he must be in Berlin.”

“I see,” said Denton, “figuratively speaking. In point of fact I don’t see an inch ahead in

this affair and I doubt if I ever do. May I brood over those photos for a secluded half-hour or

so?”

“You can brood in here,” said his Chief. “I am going out for an hour and the whisky is in

the cupboard.”

Accordingly, Herr Sigmund Dedler of Zurich arrived in Berlin towards the end of June

1934 armed with magnificent photographs of beauty spots in the cantons of Zurich, Luzern,

Unterwalden, Schwyz and Zug, in search of printers who would reproduce them as postcards in

six colours for sale to tourists. He stayed in an inexpensive hotel of the commercial type and

prosecuted his inquiries diligently but without haste, he was difficult to please as regards price

and quality, and it looked as though his mission would take him some time. Among the people

he interviewed was a very German-looking individual who kept a tobacconist’s shop in Spandau

Strasse near the Neue Markt. The tobacconist was a friendly soul, and invited Herr Dedler to sit

with him sometimes in his stuffy little room behind the shop, a room even more stuffy than it

need have been, since they talked with the window and doors shut though the summer days were

hot. The tobacconist’s daughter, in reply to a thirsty howl from her parent, used to come in with

wine, and glasses on a tray, and look at Herr Dedler with frank interest. Since she was

undoubtedly a comely wench, Herr Dedler also displayed appreciation, but as her father

invariably turned her out again at once and locked the door after her, the acquaintance did not

progress.

“I have no suggestions to offer,” said the tobacconist. “The Department asked me more

than a year ago to look into this, but I am no further forward than I was then. I know some of the

Nazi leaders personally, being a good Nazi myself,” he smiled gently, “though my unfortunate

health prevents me from taking an active part in their affairs—thank goodness. But several of

them are kind to me and buy their tobacco here since I take the trouble to stock the blends they

prefer. None of them look to me at all likely to be honorary members of British Intelligence. I

hope you will have more luck.”

“I don’t suppose so for a moment,” said Denton gloomily. “I have merely been sent over

because I used to know Reck. So I am walking about looking for him regardless of the strong

probability that he’s been in his humble grave at Mainz these twelve years. Reck. Have you ever

heard the name?”

“Never.”

“I don’t suppose you would. If he’s still alive he probably calls himself Eustachius

Guggleheimer now. Does anyone in Berlin keep silkworms?”

“Silkworms?” said the startled tobacconist. “Shall I open the window a moment? It is true

that the weather is hot, but—”

“No matter. I have walked about this blasted city in this infernal heat till my legs ache in

every pore and my feet feel the size of Grock’s, and I’m not a bit the wiser, at least, not about

that. There’s something up though, Keppel, there’s an uneasy excitement about which I don’t

like. Something’s going to happen, what is it?”

“You are perfectly right. There is a lot of jealousy between the old Brown Guards and

Hitler’s new S.S. men, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was trouble.”

“So. Well, it’s no business of mine, at least I hope not. At the first sound of alarm I shall

go to bed and stay there, I shall at least rest my feet. I’ll come and see you again shortly. You

wouldn’t like a nice picture of the Lake of Lucerne in six colours, would you?”

“I’d rather have a water-colour of the Pass of Brander as the sun goes down,” said Keppel

wistfully.

Denton lit his pipe and strolled towards his inconspicuous hotel as the evening was

drawing on, and noticed at once that the streets were curiously empty of people. He displayed no

interest at all in what he saw, but merely slouched along with his eyes down and his hands in his

pockets as one wrapped deeply in thought. He came at last within sight of the turning to his hotel

and saw, with an odd pricking sensation in the tips of his fingers, that there was a line of S.S.

men across the end of the street who were stopping cars and pedestrians and asking them

questions.

Denton quickened his pace slightly and walked on past the picketed turning only to find

another line of guards across the road fifty yards ahead. He glanced over his shoulder and saw

that a third detachment had formed up behind him. He was trapped.

He decided that nobody could possibly be expected not to notice all this display of armed

force, however tactful they might be, so he abandoned his nonchalant manner and scurried along

like all the rest of the scattered handful of people whom ill fortune had sent abroad on the night

of the Nazi purge.

He saw that the front door of a house opposite to him was ajar, so he ran across the road,

dived in, and shut the door after him. In the passage he encountered a gentleman who was

presumably the master of the house, for he blocked the way and said “
Wer da
?” in an

authoritative tone.

“Sigmund Dedler from Zurich,” answered Denton, introducing himself. “I beg ten

thousand pardons for inflicting my uninvited presence upon you in this abrupt and ill-bred

manner, but if you would permit me to occupy some inconspicuous corner in your house till the

streets are a little less unhealthily exciting, my immeasurable gratitude will outlast several

reincarnations. I suggest the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Impossible,” said his host firmly, “my wife is there already. Nevertheless, no one shall

say that Hugo von Einem turned out a stranger into a storm more pitiless than the wrath of God,

come in.”

“Thank you, I have,” said Denton.

“Yes,” said von Einem absent-mindedly. “Yes, I suppose you have. Listen!”

Running footsteps approached the door, but passed by without pausing.

“Did you shut the door?” asked von Einem in a low voice.

“Yes,” answered Denton in the same tone. “I thought it made the house seem more home-

like, don’t you know? Did you want it left open?”

“I left it open for a friend, but I doubt if he will come now. He said he would try and

come to me if this happened.”

“What, exactly, is happening?”

“There is trouble in Berlin to-night.”

“I thought they were playing ‘Nuts in May,’” said Denton sarcastically. “Perhaps they

are, only it’s June and the wrong sort of nuts.”

Von Einem stared. “ ‘Nuts in May’? What’s that?”

“A childish game little girls play in my native canton of Zug.”

There was the sound of rifle fire from farther down the street. “There is nothing childish

about this game, Herr Dedler. Where are you staying?”

Denton told him and von Einem said, “But that is quite near.”

“It is in theory, but there are two cordons of S.S. guards between, which in practice

makes it rather far off.”

“How true. You might, however, reach it across the gardens at the back if you would not

mind climbing a few walls.”

“Not at all, a pleasure, believe me. May I look?”

Denton walked through to a room at the back of the house, threw the window up, and

looked out. There was a drop of about five feet to a dull little town garden, bounded by the walls

of which von Einem spoke, beyond them were more gardens and more walls; one of that row of

houses half-right must be his hotel.

He went back to the hall where von Einem was still listening for a footstep he knew, and

said, “I think your idea is excellent—I propose to act on it at once. I am very grateful—”

“Listen,” said von Einem. The steps of several men were heard outside in the street, they

stopped, and there came a quiet knock at the door.

“At last,” said von Einem, and opened it as Denton retired modestly to the back of the

hall. Three men with automatics in their hands entered hastily, pushed von Einem back against

the wall without saying a word, and one of them shot him dead.

Denton was through the back room and out of the window before his host’s body had

slumped to the floor. “Just a garden wall or two,” he thought, “and I’ll be—”

As his feet touched the ground something hit him on the back of the head and he fell

through millions of roaring stars into unconsciousness.

He awoke again with a splitting headache to find himself lying on a mattress on the floor,

he felt the rough cement, in some place which was nearly dark except for a faint light which

trickled in through a barred horizontal slit high above his head. He puzzled over this for some

time before he realized that he was in a cellar and that the light came through a pavement

grating, probably from a street lamp. His head cleared gradually and he realized that he was

desperately thirsty. He sat up, setting his teeth as the darkness whirled round him.

“In all the best dungeons,” he said unsteadily, “the prisoner is provided with a jug of

water and a mouldy crust of bread.”

He felt cautiously about, found a jug of generous size and took a long pull at the water;

he soaked his handkerchief and dabbed his head with it, a refreshing moment, though it revealed

that the back of his skull was horribly tender.

“I’ve been sandbagged,” he said, and lay back to think things over as clearly as his aching

head would permit.

“I remember,” he said at last. “They shot von Einem. Wonder what they’re going to do

with me?”

He felt in his pockets. His automatic had gone and so had his electric torch, but so far as

he could tell everything else was there, even his money and his watch.

“Of course, they can always collect the cash from my unresisting corpse afterwards,” he

said aloud. “Delicate-minded people, these, evidently.”

There came a pleasant voice in the darkness from somewhere high up in the wall opposite

his feet. “I do hope you are feeling better,” it said, in English.

“Thank you,” said Denton with a slight gasp. “I survive—so far.”

“I hope you will many years survive—survive many years. You must excuse my

awkward English, it is so many years since I spoke it.”

“Please don’t apologize—”

“I do not want to tease you,” said the voice, jerkily and with pauses, as of a man recalling

a language long disused. “I hope to get you out of this mess, unless they liquidate me next, which

seems quite likely.”

“Heaven preserve you,” said Denton with feeling.

“
Danke schön
. I am sorry we had to hit you quite so hard, but we should not have got you

away had they not you dead—thought you dead. Only dead men pass unquestioned to-night.”

“But how did you know I was there?”

“I did not, till you looked out of the window. I came to—to succour von Einem.”

“Then you were the friend for whom he was waiting?” asked Denton, unconsciously

reverting to German.