The Red Book Magazine/Volume 36/Number 5/The Rift

R. CRAY, of the United States of America, newly arrived in London from Paris, sat in the lounge of the Hotel Milan, talking to his daughter Lady Sittingbourne. The latter was a little distressed.

“I am worried about George, Dad,” she confided. “When did you say the Mauretania arrived?”

“Docked in Liverpool at noon yesterday,” Mr. Cray replied. “The special arrived in London last night.”

“George cabled me from New York that he was sailing on her,” Sara continued, “and I have heard nothing since. I sat at home all last night, and all today up till four o'clock. Then I telephoned the Cunard office and they told me that he was on board. They knew nothing else, of course.”

Mr. Cray admitted to being a little perplexed himself.

“I suppose he'd have to go to the Foreign Office first,” he observed.

“I thought I'd allowed plenty of time for that. Why, Dad—”

Mr. Cray was leaning forward in his chair. He too was staring in some bewilderment at the tall, good-looking man who had just descended the steps, and with a companion by his side was making his way toward the restaurant. There was not the slightest doubt that the man was Sir George Sittingbourne, or that his companion was an extremely good-looking woman of a somewhat flamboyant type.

“George!” Sara exclaimed breathlessly. “What on earth does this mean?”

She rose impulsively to her feet. Her husband turned and glanced in their direction. He took not the slightest notice either of his wife or his father-in-law. The woman by his side plucked at his arm to ask him a question, and he smiled into her face as he leaned down.

“Gee!” Mr. Cray murmured. “This is bad!”

It's disgraceful—horrible!” Sara cried. “So this is why George hasn't been home!”

Mr. Cray pulled himself together.

“George isn't that sort, my dear,” he declared. “There's something queer about it. Let's sit and think for a moment.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.” Sara declared. “I shall go straight in and confront him. I will let him know that I saw him with my own eyes.”

“If your Ladyship will excuse me!”

Both Mr. Cray and his daughter turned round. Standing behind their settee was a small, dark man of unobtrusive manners dressed in an unobtrusive dinner-suit, and with a faintly deprecating smile upon his lips.

“I regret so much,” he went on, “being compelled to make my little explanation here. I called in Curzon Street but found that your Ladyship had just left. I wish to have a word with you in reference to your husband.”

“My husband?” Sara repeated blankly. “Who are you?”

“My name is King,” the young man replied. “I am connected with the Intelligence Department.”

Neither Sara nor her father felt capable of any comment. The situation so suddenly disclosed had taken their breath away.

“Your husband,” Mr. King continued smoothly, “after a very successful visit to the States, has met with one of those misadventures on his homeward journey to which we are all of us sometimes subject. An autograph letter which he was conveying from a certain person in Washington to the Prime Minister, and to obtain which was the object of his mission, was stolen from his person during the last day of his voyage home.”

“What has that to do with my husband's presence here with that—that woman?” Sara demanded.

“Sir George sought the aid of my department by wireless,” Mr. King replied. “I boarded the steamer in the Mersey and at once realized the probable thief. The woman whom he is dining with tonight sat at his table and occupied the next stateroom to his. She is an Austrian. It will be sufficient if I tell you that if she had been found in any of the allied countries during the war, she would have been shot at once as a spy.”

“What is her name?” Sara demanded a little irrelevantly.

“She has many,” Mr. King answered. “She calls herself at present Mrs. Jacob Wieller of Cincinnati.”

“And why is she dining alone with my husband?”

Mr. King smiled inscrutably.

“Even the most successful secret-service agents in the world,” he said, “have their weak point. Mrs. Wieller, although she must be forty years old, preserves a romantic disposition. From my inquiries on the ship, I learned that she has pursued your husband with attentions from the day the steamer left Sandy Hook, attentions which I might add were obviously undesired. It was my advice at once that your husband should not lose sight of the lady. I may tell you that while he engages her attention at dinner, her rooms are being thoroughly searched by our agents.”

“Say, this affair becomes interesting!” Mr. Cray declared, his natural instincts asserting themselves. “I guess you are satisfied now, Sara?”

“I suppose so,” his daughter admitted, with a shade of doubt.

ET'S just have a word or two more about this matter,” Mr. Cray went on. “Searching the lady's rooms is all very well; but couldn't she have sent the letter away somewhere?”

“It is impossible that she should have parted with it,” Mr. King pronounced. “I myself left the steamer by her side; I traveled in the same compartment from Liverpool; I did not move a yard away from her on Euston platform; Sir George escorted her here in a taxicab, from which I watched her myself alight in the entrance hall of the Milan, and went up in the lift with her to her room. Since then she has been surrounded by a cordon of our best agents. She has posted three absolutely harmless letters to personal friends, each of which has been read.”

“What about her person?” Mr. Cray demanded. “Surely she would carry about with her a letter as important as that?”

“An agent of ours,” Mr. King explained, “at once took the place of the chambermaid on her floor, and has rendered her, since her arrival, the most intimate personal services. The letter is not concealed upon her person.”

“How large a thing is it?” Mr. Cray inquired.

“It is a bulky document,” Mr. King replied. “There are eighteen pages of ordinary letter paper inclosed in a long envelope. It is altogether a packet of some size.”

“The stewardess on the ship—” Mr. Cray began.

Mr. King smiled.

“We make our mistakes,” he interrupted, “but in our way we are thorough. Every person with whom she came into contact during the last day of her voyage has been dealt with. Excuse me for a moment.”

Mr. King sauntered across the foyer to where a recently arrived prototype of himself had lighted a cigarette. There was a few minutes' casual conversation between the two men, after which Mr. King returned.

“The search of Blanche Wieller's room,” he announced, “has revealed nothing. I think under the circumstances, Lady Sittingbourne, disappointing though it may be to you, the best thing you can do is to return home. We will send your husband after you as soon as we can spare him.”

Sara made a little grimace.

“I don't see what good he can do if your agents have failed to discover the document,” she observed, rising reluctantly to her feet; “and in any case I haven't had any dinner yet.”

Mr. Cray took his daughter by the arm.

“We'll go straight into the grill-room and have a bite, Sara. Afterward, if I could have a word with you, Mr. King, I'd be glad,” he went on. “I am naturally interested in this affair, and it is just possible that I might be of some slight assistance.”

King looked a little doubtful. Mr. Cray pushed back his coat, revealing a small medal attached to his waistcoat. The other's manner altered at once.

“For services rendered the American Intelligence Department,” Mr. Cray explained. “I'll look for you about here, eh, in three quarters of an hour?”

“I shall be very glad of your help, sir,” was the quiet reply.

HE dinner in the grill-room was rather a dull meal. Sara was several times on the verge of tears, and her father, although fully sympathetic, was inclined at times to let his attention wander a little.

“It seems positively hateful,” the former declared, “to think that I should be up here dining alone with you, and George, who has been away from me for months, is dining with another woman! Of course, I am sorry that the letter was stolen from him, but I'm sure he took every care of it. I don't see what he can possibly do now toward getting it back.”

“It's hard luck,” Mr. Cray murmured soothingly, “but I guess you've got to remember this, Sara: in diplomacy and all intelligence business, judgment goes only by results. George was intrusted with that letter, and it was stolen from him. The fault might not have been his. On the other hand, if he don't get it back again, the black mark's there.”

“I call it unfair,” Sara protested. “He was so successful with all the rest of his business. They ought to take that into count.”

“We'll soon fix it up all right,” Mr. Cray promised.

Sara sighed.

“I know how clever you are, Dad,” she said, “but I really don't see what you can do here.”

“What I should like to do,” Mr. Cray remarked thoughtfully, “is to turn a slight disaster into an absolute triumph. Blanche Wieller, eh? Well, well! The wife of Jacob N. Wieller of Cincinnati, eh?”

“Do you know something about her, Dad? Have you ever seen her before?” Sara inquired.

Mr. Cray smiled mysteriously.

“I think I know as much about the lady as our friend King,” he said. “I was at Amiens when she was in charge of a French field-hospital. She was asked to leave, the day after she arrived—no excuse, not a word of explanation, just her rail pass to Paris, and a hint. She simply faded away. I knew her before that, though. I remember when she had what they call a salon in Washington, some eight years ago.”

“You really are rather a wonderful person,” Sara observed,

“Nothing wonderful about it,” Mr. Cray replied modestly, “I have a good memory, and I never forget a face.”

Sara sighed as her father paid the bill

“Well, I suppose I'd better go home,” she said. “Will you put me in a taxi, Dad, and let me know as soon as there's any news?”

“Sure!” Mr. Cray promised. “I'll telephone.”

R CRAY found his new friend studying the tape of the news-ticker in the upper hall.

“Say, I'd like to be presented to this Mrs. Wieller,” the former said, after they had stood side by side for several moments, both apparently deeply interested by the news.

Mr. King shook his head. “I am keeping under cover,” he replied.

“Sha'n't be butting in,” Mr. Cray asked, “if I find my own way there?”

Mr. King considered the point for a moment.

“Not at all,” he decided. “You're Sir George's father-in-law. Quite natural for you to speak to him.”

Whereupon Mr. Cray descended into the foyer, after glancing around for a moment as though in search of some one, approached Sir George. His right hand was held out in cordial recognition to Mrs. Wieller. She looked up at him pleasantly but evidently puzzled.

“George, my boy, glad to see you safely back again,” Mr Cray said. “And—surely I'm not mistaken—aren't you Mrs Jacob N. Wieller, of Cincinnati?”

“That is my name,” the lady admitted, “but—”

“Why, my dear lady,” Mr. Cray interrupted, “your husband and I were at school together, same class at Princeton, and before his marriage we roomed together for a while in New York. I only met you once, though—out at the Country Club, the Shore Country Club, you know. Luke Hamer was there, and all the crowd.”

“Of course, I remember,” the lady acknowledged with a smile,

“Is Jacob along?” Mr. Cray asked eagerly.

“Not this time.”

Mr. Cray remained for a few more minutes, chatting on general subjects. Then he took a somewhat hurried departure, recognizing an acquaintance in a distant part of the foyer.

“A dear, friendly person,” Mrs. Wieller murmured, toying with one of the stones of her long amber necklace. “To tell you the truth, though, I don't remember him in the least.”

Mr. Cray touched King on the arm as he passed him in the upper hall, and led him into the bar. There he shook his head gravely at his companion.

“Mr. King,” he began, “I don't want to seem to be rubbing it in, but you fellows aint altogether smart. You can reckon on handling that letter any time you choose.”

Mr. King started a little. His eyes narrowed. He looked at his companion appraisingly. He could not make up his mind whether this was a bluff or whether there was something underneath.

“Where is the letter, then?” he asked.

Mr. Cray smiled.

“I've had a few words with the lady,” he went on thoughtfully. “I talked to her of a husband who never existed, and of a meeting which never took place. She fell for it admirably, and while we talked, I looked for that letter. It wasn't so difficult to locate either.”

“Look here,” Mr. King said, “that letter consists of eighteen sheets of rather thick note-paper, secured in a long, legal envelope. It must weigh at least six ounces. One of our own women attended Mrs. Wieller from the moment she stepped out of the bath, helped her on with her garments, and never left her for a single second. From the moment she left the room, she was shadowed by one of our men, and I took the business up at the bottom of the lift. Now, how can you make out that she has a packet of that description concealed upon her person?”

“Dead easy,” Mr. Cray replied. “The only question is do you want to help yourself to the letter at once, or—”

“Or what?”

“Do you want to find out whose game she's playing? In other words, do you want to find out who's paying her to get that letter?”

Mr. King drew a little breath. He was beginning to be impressed. “There isn't much doubt about that. I fancy, Mr. Cray,” he said.

“Think not?”

“Why, the woman's an Austrian by birth.” Mr. King pointed out. “She was under suspicion many times during the war. We had evidence only the other day.” he continued, dropping his voice a little. “of the renewed activities of the German secret service. This woman is directly connected with one of the new chiefs.”

“Ah!” Mr. Cray murmured.

“I am treating you with every confidence, you see,” his companion proceeded. “It would naturally be of the utmost importance to Germany to know exactly how America stands today in the matter of the Treaty. It is urgent, too. I have been expecting her to make some attempt to dispose of her information this evening. That is why we are here in such force. That is why we want to keep Sir George by her side as long as we can.”

“The game seems clear enough, certainly,” Mr. Cray observed.

“Now tell me where that letter is?” Mr. King asked eagerly.

Mr. Cray knocked the ash from his cigar.

“That wouldn't do any good,” he declared. “When I say that I know where the letter is, you can figure it out that I'm making a pretty strong guess. If I tell you and I'm wrong, you may go cold on the job and let the blamed thing fall through. You keep her in the net until she attempts to leave the hotel or send a parcel away. We'll have her both ways then. We'll find the letter and we'll find out the agent with whom she is dealing.”

“I think I can lay my hands on him,” Mr. King observed calmly. “We're watching him, too, just as closely as we are the woman. If anything passes between those two without being detected—well, I'd resign my post tomorrow.”

“Capital!” Mr. Cray murmured approvingly. “Well I'll turn in. I like my eight hours when I can get 'em.”

“You're not going to tell me where the letter is, then?” King asked.

“Do you believe I know where it is?” Mr. Cray answered.

His companion smiled.

“To tell you the truth,” he admitted, “I don't.”

“Then I sha'n't disappoint you if we let things stay are until tomorrow,” Mr. Cray decided.

R. CRAY found his son-in-law waiting for rooms. Sir George was standing on the with his hands in his pockets, whistling moodily

“Where's Sara?” he asked eagerly.

“Gone home an hour ago. We had a bite together in the grill.”

“She understood, I hope?”

“More or less,” Mr. Cray assured him. “You know what these women are. She may make a bit of a fuss for the sake of making it up afterward. Are you off duty now?”

Sir George nodded.

“I've done the best I can,” he confessed. “The woman's too clever for me. If she's really got the letter, she must have swallowed it.”

“Did you suspect her at all during the voyage?” Mr. Cray asked.

“I suspected everybody,” his son-in-law replied. “I made no friends. I didn't speak a dozen words to anybody—until that last day. I had some coffee in the smoking-room which made me feel drowsy, and afterward I dozed in my steamer-chair. When I woke up, she was in the next chair to mine and the packet had gone from the inner pocket of my coat, where it was sewn in. All the stitches had been cut.”

“You didn't feel like having her arrested and searched?” Mr. Cray asked thoughtfully.

“That was my first thought,” Sir George confessed. “Then I looked at my watch, and saw that I'd been asleep for an hour, so she'd had plenty of time to hide it. I sent the wireless to King, but otherwise I pretended not to have discovered the theft.”

“And you can't make anything of her?” Mr. Cray queried.

“Nothing at all,” Sir George replied. “I've given the job up, and I'm going home. The rest of my mission,” he went on, “was completely successful; and I am not the first man in the Intelligence Department who has been robbed. I saw you talking to King,” he continued. “Have you any theories?”

“Sure!” Mr. Cray assented cheerfully. “We'll get that letter back, all right, and before any mischief's been done. Not only that, but we'll carry the war into the enemy's camp. We'll find out for whom she is working.”

Sir George looked at his father-in-law with something of that wondering admiration which he had more than once in his lifetime felt for him.

“Are you in earnest?” he asked breathlessly.

“Sure thing,” Mr. Cray replied. “I'll lay ten to one I could put my hand on the letter tonight. You get home to Sara now. By the by, are you seeing Mrs. Wieller again?”

“I promised to lunch tomorrow,” Sir George replied moodily; “I don't see that there's any use in it, and I'm a rather clumsy hand at this sort of flirtation.”

“Good boy,” Mr. Cray murmured approvingly. “Get along with you now, then. I'll telephone Sara that you're coming.” Whereupon Sir George departed, and his father-in-law went to bed.

T eleven o'clock the next morning there was a slight stir among the silent army of watchers gathered around the purlieus of Hotel Milan. Messages came from up-stairs, and somewhat to Mr. Cray's surprise, Mrs. Wieller descended from the elevator, talked for a moment with one of the reception clerks, and passing through the swing-doors, asked for a taxi. She was on the point of driving off, when King sauntered across to where Mr. Cray had risen from his seat in some perturbation.

“It's all right,” the former announced smoothly. “She was dressed again by our woman, who also packed that wooden box she is carrying with her.”

“What's in the wooden box?” Mr. Cray asked.

“Only the amber necklace she was wearing last night. Something with the clasp. She is taking it to the goldsmith's and silversmith's.”

“Anyone following her?” Mr. Cray, who was halfway toward the door, demanded.

King shook his head.

“She hasn't got the letter with her,” he replied. “We don't want to make her suspicious if we can help it. here, where are you off to?”

Mr. Cray had already stopped a taxi passing in the courtyard. He whispered a word or two to the driver and jumped in. “Come along if you want to be in at the death,” he invited King.

The latter obeyed with a little protest. “I don't see what's the use of following her,” he declared. “We know where she's gone.”

“Gee, but you're way off it this time!” Mr. Cray remarked pityingly. “Bet you a dime she doesn't go near the goldsmith's and silversmith's, and I bet you another dime she's got the letter with her.”

King was dubious, but his companion's confidence somewhat perturbed him.

“Mr. Cray,” he said, “couldn't you be a little more explicit?”

“Well, I'll show you one thing, at any rate,” was the calm reply. “There's Mrs. Wieller's taxi ahead of us, and as you observe, we're in Piccadilly, not Regent Street.”

“That's so,” King observed uneasily.

“Don't bother me for explanations for a moment,” Mr. Cray advised. “I want to keep my eye on that taxi. Yes, I thought so!”

They turned into a thoroughfare, and stopped at a comparatively small jeweler's about halfway down.

The traffic was somewhat blocked, and she had entered the shop while they were some distance behind. Mr. Cray half rose in his seat. He was a little uneasy.

“Say, has she spotted you yet?” he asked his companion.

King shook his head.

“No, I've been in the background all the time.”

“Follow me into the shop, then,” Cray directed. “You can ask for something or other. We can't afford to hang about.”

Mr. Cray stepped to the pavement, crossed it with incredible swiftness, and entered the shop. Mrs. Wieller was the only customer present. Before her on the counter was stretched her amber necklace, just drawn from the box.

The shopman appeared to be examining the catch.

Mr. Cray passed on to the farther end of the shop, but suddenly seemed to recognize Mrs. Wieller and came toward her cheerfully.

“You've soon begun to set the Cincinnati dollars spinning, Mrs. Wieller!” he said with a broad smile. “How are you feeling after the trip, eh?”

Mrs. Wieller was not enthusiastic in her response.

“I am very well indeed, thank you, Mr. Cray,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I am not here to buy anything at all. I was just having the catch of my necklace examined. I have rather a quaint fancy for this sort of thing,” she added, touching the beads carelessly.

The jeweler, who had been examining the catch through a magnifying glass, made his report just as Cray inquired of his assistant for some plain gold safety-pins. King, too, entered at that moment and waited at the farther end of the place.

“The catch, madam,” the jeweler announced, “is in perfect order, and will stand any reasonable strain. If, as you suggest, it slipped, it must have been imperfectly fastened. If you take care to drive it home—so,” he added, “you will never have any difficulty.”

RS. WIELLER smiled and picked up her gold bag. She bought some trifle of jewelry while Cray was selecting his safety-pins.

“Can I send the necklace anywhere for you, madam?” the man asked.

“If you wouldn't mind, a gentleman will call for it in about half an hour,” she answered. “I am going shopping, and it is really quite bulky to carry about.”

“Certainly, madam,” the man assented. “What name will it be?”

“Mr. Gerald Thornassen.”

Mrs. Wieller received the change from her purchase, looked around as though to nod to Mr. Cray, but found him absorbed in the examination of some waistcoat buttons. She left the shop and passed out into the street. King for the first time spoke.

“You are letting her go?”

Mr. Cray smiled. “The letter is here,” he said.

A little exclamation broke from King's lips. Mr. Cray moved down to where the jeweler was packing up the necklace.

“May I be allowed to have a look at that?” he asked. “Very fine amber, isn't it?”

“The necklace does not belong to us,” the jeweler replied, proceeding with his task. “We cannot allow clients' property to be examined.”

Mr. Cray turned toward his companion, and King leaned against the counter. He whispered a word or two to the jeweler, who was suddenly pale.

“I—I really don't understand,” he stammered.

“Don't try,” was the brusque reply. “I have told you who I am. If you doubt my word, you can ring up the Department or call in the two plain-clothes officers who are outside by this time. Here are my credentials.”

Mr. King drew a small gold medal from his pocket. The jeweler bowed.

“I am quite satisfied, sir,” he said. “Pray proceed as you think fit.”

Mr. Cray took up the necklace in his hands and felt each of the stones. A beatific smile parted his lips.

“It is as I supposed,” he murmured. “See here.”

He pressed a hidden catch amongst the links, and one of the stones flew open upon a concealed hinge. There was a small hollow space, about an inch long and half an inch deep. In it was folded a wad of paper.

“The letter,” Mr. Cray observed, “has been cut into symmetrical pieces, each one numbered, and can, of course, be easily put together.”

King nodded apprehendingly.

“We will examine it more carefully in a few minutes,” he said. “In the meantime,” he added, “wrap the nearest necklace you have to it into this box, tie it up, and address it to Gerald Thornassen, Esq. The other necklace I will take care of.”

“You are aware that this is a great responsibility, sir?” the jeweler observed nervously.

“My department will secure you from any loss,” King assured him with a slight smile. “Better hurry. This man may be here at any moment.”

The jeweler obeyed orders. Cray and his companion postponed the examination of Mrs. Wieller's necklace and entered into an exhaustive scrutiny of the whole stock of waistcoat buttons. In about twenty-five minutes the shop door was pushed open, and a tall, dark man wearing a single eyeglass, and fashionably attired, entered the place. King, with the celerity of a cat, disappeared behind a screen.

“I have called for a parcel for Mrs. Jacob Wieller,” the man announced.

A package was handed to him and nonchalantly received.

“Anything to pay?”

“Nothing at all,” the jeweler replied. “No repair was necessary.”

The man left the shop. King glided out of his concealment. His eyes were bright with excitement.

“This is more interesting than I thought,” he muttered. “Come along, Cray.”

The jeweler leaned forward.

“If this is a criminal affair,” he said tremblingly, “I trust that you will see we are innocent of complicity of any sort.”

King scarcely glanced toward him.

“I shall make up my mind about that,” he replied, “when I see whether Mr. Thornassen, as he calls himself, has been warned.”

IR GEORGE SITTINGBOURNE and his wife arrived at Mr. Cray's sitting-room at a few minutes before one. They found their prospective host with a paste-brush in his hand and a number of sheets of paper before him. He welcomed them triumphantly.

“George,” he announced, “your letter, a little damaged. I am afraid, but there it is—quite readable, signature and all. It's taken me over an hour to piece it together.”

“My dear man!” Sir George exclaimed thankfully. “Where in God's name did you get it?”

Mr. Cray smiled, opened a drawer and threw a necklace upon the table.

“From Mrs. Wieller's amber necklace, of course.”

“Dad,” Sara murmured, throwing her arms round his neck, “you're wonderful!”

“Sir,” Sir George exclaimed in a voice choked with emotion, “you're a brick.”

They were still lingering over their cocktails before descending to luncheon, when King was ushered in. He closed the door behind him. For such an unruffled person his appearance was almost remarkable. His eyes were bright; there was a look of concern in his face.

“You've pieced it together? Has it come out?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Mr. Cray replied. “You can read it for yourself—that is, if Sir George gives permission. What about Thornassen?”

King drew in a little breath. For a moment he made no reply.

“A German emissary, eh?” Mr. Cray asked.

King shook his head gravely. Already, in his agile brain, the great problems of the future were shaping themselves. He saw the new danger.

“Thornassen,” he said gravely, “deposited the sham necklace—at an embassy—which I must not name.”

“An embassy!” Sir George exclaimed.

“The embassy of one of our allies,” King groaned. “May I assume that that last cocktail is for me, Mr. Cray? Your very good health! Will you allow me to express my acknowledgments, and to say that I am only sorry that that little symbol which you carry was not struck at our mint instead of at Washington.”

Mr. Cray smiled benevolently.

“That needn't trouble you any, King,” he said. “I guess we're both pulling in the same boat.”