Chapter XVIII A Secret Service Episode
No. 103 Arrives—The Spy’s Report—The Archduke and the Cardinal—The Ruling of the Church
Count von Wedell’s office on Königgratzerstrasse.
Royal coupé driving up and down the opposite side of the street. No groom—dismounted chasseur with feather hat stands guard at the big oaken door entrance.
Long-legged brown horses, evident habitat: England. As a rule, the War Lord drives with blacks or greys; likewise the wheel-spokes of the vehicles used by him are gilded. Those of the carriage we observe are chocolate colour, with just a thin silver line. Wilhelm sometimes travels incog. in his own capital. By the way, why always chocolate-coloured carriages when royalty does not wish to radiate official lustre? In the reminiscences of the third Napoleon “the little brown coupé” figured largely when the Emperor of the French went poaching on strange preserves, and other monarchs had the same preference.
Inside the Imperial office building: sentinels with fixed bayonets at each corridor entrance; over the coco-nut mat, covering the right-hand passage, a thick red Turkey runner; Secret Service men in top-hats and Prince Albert coats every ten paces. At the extreme end a big steel double door.
“No. 103,” whispered the speaking-tube into Count Wedell’s ear.
“Three minutes late,” snarled that official; “but I will pay him back.”
“No. 103,” in faultless evening dress (though it is nine in the morning), is conducted through the right-hand passage. He is at home here, but no one recognises him. Secret Service rule: No comradeship with other agents of the Government. You are a number, no more.
As he is ushered through the lines of sentinels, the royal chasseur, drawn broadsword in his right, opens the door with his left hand. Count Wedell meets him on the threshold.
“Kept Majesty waiting,” grumbled the Privy Councillor sotto voce.
“Cab broke down, Excellency,” No. 103 excused himself.
“Don’t let it happen again. You will stand under the chandelier facing the inner room. Attention!” commanded the chief.
And at attention, every nerve vibrating with excitement and expectancy, No. 103 stood like a statue in the Avenue of Victory, but with rather more grace, for no man living could imitate the War Lord’s marble dolls without provoking murder. Wedell had gone into the inner room, the entrance of which was framed by heavy damask portières with gold lace set a jour.
“Portholes,” thought No. 103, sizing up the decorations; and, keyhole artist that he is, he soon met a pair of eyes gazing at him through the apertures.
“Majesty taking a peep,” he reflected. “I wonder what he thinks of the man who went back on his native Nero for filthy lucre.”
Whether he thought well of him or not, the War Lord kept No. 103 standing full twenty-five minutes. If in his youth he had not had a particularly cruel drill-ground sergeant, he could not have endured the pain and fatigue.
Suddenly the portières parted: the War Lord, seated at a “diplomat’s” writing-desk; Count Wedell, toying with a self-cocking six-shooter, stood at his left.
“If that thing goes off and accidentally hits me,” thought No. 103, “there is a trap-door under this rug, and a winding staircase leading to a sewer, I suppose, as in the Doge’s Palace.” Comforting thought, but who cares for a spy?
“Approach,” ordered the War Lord in a high-pitched voice. When No. 103 was within three paces of the Majesty, Wedell held up his hand.
“His Majesty wants to know all about last night,” said the Privy Councillor.
“Did Herr von Este really look under the bed?” queried the War Lord, tempering the essential by the ridiculous.
“He did indeed,” replied No. 103; “and I nearly betrayed my presence between the sheets watching him.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty; just a thought passing through my mind.”
“Out with it,” cried the War Lord, when No. 103 stopped short.
The agent provocateur looked appealingly at Count Wedell. “I humbly beg to be excused.”
“I command you!”
“Well then, Your Majesty, it occurred to me that I ought to have planted a mark’s worth of asafoetida under that bed.”
Did the stern Majesty laugh? He guffawed and roared enough to split his sides—the lines between the sublime and the low are not tightly drawn in Berlin.
“This fellow has wit,” said the War Lord to Udo. “When you come to think of it, asafoetida is mighty appropriate ammunition to use against the Jesuit disciple.” Then, with a look to No. 103: “Proceed.”
“Details and all,” commanded von Wedell.
“The minutest,” emphasised the War Lord.
“May it please Your Majesty, I was in that bed three hours before the parties came into the room. The Cardinal had hired Suite 18 expressly for the meeting, his lodgings being elsewhere in the hotel. He was first to arrive, and swore lustily because there was no crucifix or prie-Dieu, as ordered.
“Cursed like a trooper, eh?” cried the War Lord. “Make a note of that, Udo. When I am Lutheran pope I will visit the grand bane upon any cardinal guilty of saying naughty words.”
“Your Majesty will have the All Highest hands full,” remarked von Wedell. “What about Prince Max?”
“I shall take devilish good care that the Saxon idiot never achieves the red hat. Making eyes at Warsaw and a friend at the Curia! What next?” To No. 103: “Proceed.”
“An impromptu altar was quickly set up, and when Herr von Este was announced——”
“What name?” interrupted the War Lord.
“Ritter von Wognin, Your Majesty.”
Count von Wedell promptly explained: “One of the minor Chotek titles.”
“I always said he was his wife’s husband,” affirmed the War Lord, with an oath. Then, to No. 103: “Well?”
“The Cardinal had taken his stand at the side of the crucifix, and when the Ritter walked in elevated his hand pronouncing the benediction, whereupon the Austrian heir dropped on his knees. The Cardinal seemed in no hurry to see him rise, but finally held out his hand, saying: ‘In the name of the Holy Church I welcome thee, my son.’
“And Este kissed his hand, didn’t he?” cried the War Lord.
“He certainly bent over the Cardinal’s hand, and I heard a smack,” replied No. 103.
“That settles it,” said the War Lord; “the foot-kiss for me when I am pope of the Lutheran Church.”
“May it please Your Majesty,” continued No. 103, “the two gentlemen then settled down in easy chairs and engaged in a long, whispered conversation in which alleged sayings of Your Majesty were freely quoted by Herr von Este.”
“Enough,” interrupted the War Lord; and at a sign from Wedell No. 103 backed towards the door, which opened from outside. “You will await a possible further summons in here,” said Count Wedell’s secretary, ushering No. 103 into a waiting-room.
“How much has that fellow got on credit?” demanded the War Lord.
Wedell pulled out a card index drawer. “Upwards of thirteen thousand marks.”
“He knows that he’ll lose it to the last pfennig if he squeals?”
“The case of our man who exchanged Barlinnie Jail for the service of Sir Edward Grey brought that home with peculiar force to everybody in the Wilhelmstrasse and Königgrätzerstrasse,” replied Udo.
It should be interpolated here that German spies receive only two-thirds of the bonuses accruing to them. One-third of all “extras” remain in the hands of the Government at interest, to be refunded when his spyship is honourably discharged. If he is caught and does not betray his trust, then these savings par order de mufti are paid over to his family or other heirs; if he betrays his Government, then the Government gets even with him by confiscating the spy’s accumulated savings, which arrangement gives the Secret Service office a powerful hold on its employees.
“Very well, recall the millionaire-on-good-behaviour,” quoth the Majesty.
No. 103 proved the possession of a marvellously retentive memory. Quoting His Highness’s confidences to the Cardinal, he repeated almost word for word the War Lord’s conversation with Franz, both at the Schloss and at the General Staff office.
“Any memoranda used?” demanded Wilhelm abruptly.
“None, Your Majesty.”
“Did the Cardinal take notes?”
“No, Your Majesty. When Herr von Este urged him to do so, he said it was unnecessary, since he never forgot matters of importance; in fact, could recite a text verbatim after tens of years.”
“Curse their stenographic memories,” said the War Lord. “I hope you were careful to note what Schlauch said,” he added in a stern, almost threatening voice.
“I memorised his talk to the dotlets on the i’s,” replied the Secret Service man, bowing low. “Quite an easy matter, for His Eminence used words sparingly—
“To conceal his thoughts, of course.” This from the War Lord.
Then No. 103 read the “notes” from his mental memorandum pad. The Cardinal, it appears, laid down three rules “for the guidance of his ’dear son’ and all other Catholic princes:
“I. Agreements with heretic sovereigns do not count unless they serve the interests of the Church.
“II. If the proposed Slav Empire would bring about the submission of the orthodox heretics to the Church of Rome, no amount of blood and treasure spent in so laudable a cause may be called extravagant, the sacrifice being for God Almighty.
“III. But if there should be a by-product” (our own term, the Cardinal’s being too circumstantial) “a by-product in the shape of a heretic pope—pardon the blasphemous word—then Franz’s ambition would be a stench in the nostrils of the Almighty, excommunication would be his fate in this world, the deepest abyss of hell in the other.”
Count von Wedell, misinterpreting his master, thought “it was to laugh,” but a look upon the War Lord’s face caused him to change his attitude.
“Pay No. 103 five thousand marks, half in cash, half in reserve,” said Wilhelm, disregarding the one-third clause for a purpose, no doubt. “I have no further commands for him at present.”
Count Wedell stepped forward from the inner room, and the portières automatically closed before No. 103 had finished his obeisance.