The Apartment Next Door Part 6

Great drops of perspiration still stood on his forehead and he was breathing rapidly.

"Why, what's the matter?" he cried, noticing for the first time Jane's perturbation. "Was it too much for you? What happened?"

"Put this down quick, quick," gasped Jane, "Red--two large--one small--one large--one small--and then--red--two small--one large--three small--two large."

Wonderingly he complied, jotting down what she told him in his notebook, and turning to ask her what it meant, discovered that she had fainted.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE LISTENING EAR.

"I don't know what is the matter with Jane," sighed Mrs. Strong a few days after the employment of the new chauffeur.

"She's not ill, is she?" responded her husband. "I never saw her looking more fit."

"She looks all right," said her mother. "It is the peculiar way she is acting that bothers me. She spends hours and hours moping in her room, and then there are times when she takes notions of going out and is positively insistent that she must have the car."

"Maybe she's in love," suggested Mr. Strong, resorting to the common masculine suspicion.

"With whom?" retorted his wife indignantly. "I don't believe there is an eligible man under forty in all New York. None of the men are thinking about marriage these days. They all want to go to France, even the married ones. I believe you'd go yourself if you were a few years younger."

"I certainly would," announced her husband enthusiastically.

"Jane tells me she is writing a novel," Mrs. Strong continued, "and that's why she stays in her room so much. I hope she won't turn out to be literary."

"Don't worry," advised Mr. Strong. "With all the men off to war you'll find young women doing all kinds of funny things to work off their energy. If a girl can't be husband-hunting, she's got to be doing something to keep busy. There are worse things than trying to write novels. Jane is all right. Let her alone."

So, even though her mother's suspicions had been aroused, the girl in the next few days managed to spend many hours with her ears glued to the receiver of the dictograph without being discovered. In the Hoffs' apartment Dean had succeeded in locating it over the dining-room table, concealed in the chandelier, and in Jane's room the other end rested in the back of a dresser drawer that she always carefully locked when absent.

The novelty of listening for bits of her neighbors' conversation quickly wore off. To sit almost motionless for hours listening, listening intently for every sound, hearing occasional words spoken either in too low tones or too far distant to make them understandable, to record bits of conversation that sounded harmless, yet might have some sinister meaning, became a most laborious task. Yet persistently Jane stuck at it. The greater knowledge she gained of the plottings of the German agents, the more important and vital she realized it was for every clue to be diligently followed in the hope that the trail might at last reach the master-spy, whose manifold activities were menacing America.

In general she was disappointed with the results of her listening. To be sure they had furnished indisputable evidence of something they already had ascertained--that old Hoff, despite being a naturalized American, still was a devoted adherent of the ruler of Germany. Nightly as he and his nephew sat down to dinner she could hear his gruff, unpleasant voice ceremoniously proposing always the same toast: "Der Kaiser!"

Even when the younger Hoff was dining out, as he sometimes did, Jane could hear the old man giving the toast, presumably with only the old servant for an auditor. That the woman, too, was a spy, as well as servant, Jane had known since the day on the roof, but so far neither she nor Dean had been able to make anything out of her handkerchief code, though both were sure the messages related to the sailings of transports.

Only once had she heard anything that she deemed really important. One evening, as uncle and nephew dined, there had been an acrimonious dispute.

"Have you it yet?" the uncle had asked in German.

"Not yet," Frederic had answered.

His seemingly simple reply for some reason appeared to have stirred the elder man's wrath. He broke into a volley of curses and epithets, reproaching his nephew for his delay. In the rapid medley of oaths and expostulations Jane could distinguish only occasional words--"afraid"--"haste"--"all-highest importance"--"American swine." The younger Hoff had appeared to exercise marvelous self-control.

"There is yet time," he answered calmly.

"Donnerwetter," the old man had exclaimed. "There is yet time, you say--and Emil the wonder-worker almost ready has. It must be done at once."

The outburst over, old Hoff had subsided into inarticulate mutterings, evidently busy with his food, leaving Jane to wonder futilely who Emil might be, what he meant by the "wonder-worker," and what particular task had been a.s.signed to the nephew that must be performed immediately. She had hastened to report this conversation in detail to Chief Fleck, but if he understood what it was about he had taken neither Jane nor Thomas Dean into his confidence.

Other things, too, Jane had learned and reported, which she knew the chief appreciated even though he was sparing in his thanks and compliments. She had learned through her almost constant listening that Lieutenant Kramer was a regular visitor, coming to the Hoff apartment or seeing Frederic Hoff somewhere every other day. Unfortunately he was always conducted into one of the inner rooms, so that no more of the conversation than the ordinary greetings and farewells ever reached Jane's ears. The mere fact of his coming so regularly to the Hoffs convicted him of treachery, in Jane's mind. What proper business could an American naval officer have in the home of two German agents? The excuse that Frederic Hoff was a delightful and entertaining friend was entirely too flimsy and unsatisfactory.

Nothing that she had overheard--and within her heart she felt glad that it was so--in any way as yet incriminated young Hoff. When she dared to think about it, she found herself almost believing, certainly at least wishing, that the nephew was not involved in his uncle's activities. Most of his time, in fact, was spent out of the apartment. He frequently went out early in the morning, not returning until the early hours of the next morning. The old man, on the contrary, always stayed at home until eleven o'clock. At that hour his telephone would ring. The telephone was located near the dining room, so Jane could easily hear his conversations. Invariably some brief message was given to him, a name, which he repeated aloud as if for verification.

As Jane overheard them she had set them down: Thursday--"Jones." Friday--"Simpson." Sat.u.r.day--"Marks." Sunday--"Heilwitz." Monday--"Lilienthal." Tuesday--"Wheeler."

As she sat by the hour listening Jane kept pondering over these names. What could they mean? Were they, too, a code of some sort? Always, as soon as this word had come to him, old Hoff went out. Could they be, she wondered, pa.s.swords by which he gained access somewhere to government buildings or places where munitions were being made or shipped?

Meanwhile her acquaintance with Frederic Hoff had been progressing rapidly. As she had suggested he had called on her and had been presented to her father, and on the next Sat.u.r.day they had gone to a matinee together. She had been eager to see what her father thought of him, for Mr. Strong, she knew, was regarded as a shrewd judge of men.

"What does that young Hoff do who was here last night?" her father had asked at the breakfast table.

"He's in the importing business with his uncle, I think," she had answered.

"Where'd you meet him?"

"He lives in the apartment next door. Lieutenant Kramer introduced him."

"He's German, isn't he?"

"Oh, no," said Jane, almost unconsciously rallying to defend him, "he was born in this country."

"Well, it's a German name."

"Don't you like him?"

"He talks well," her father said, "and seems to be well-bred."

It was with reluctance, too, that Jane admitted to herself that the better acquainted she became with Frederic Hoff the more fascinating she found his society. She was always expecting that by some word or action he would reveal to her his true character. At the matinee she had waited anxiously to see what he would do when the orchestra played the national anthem. To her amazement he was on his feet almost among the first and remained standing in an att.i.tude of the utmost respect until the last bar was completed. If he were only pretending the role of a good American, he certainly was a wonderful actor. As her admiration for him increased and her interest in him grew she found that almost her only antidote was to try to keep thinking of his face as she had seen it the night that K-19--the other K-19--had been so mysteriously murdered. She kept wondering if Chief Fleck had made any further discoveries about the murder and resolved to ask him about it at the first opportunity. She therefore was delighted when on Tuesday, as she made her regular report by telephone, he asked if she could come to his office that afternoon with Dean to discuss some matters of importance. They found Carter already with the chief when they arrived.

"Thanks to your work, Miss Strong, and to Dean's dictograph," said the chief, "we have made considerable progress. We have learned a lot more about the cipher messages."

"You have learned it through me," cried Jane in amazement.

"Yes," said the chief, smiling, "from that list of names you reported."

"What were they, a cipher, a code?" questioned the girl breathlessly.

"No, nothing like that. They are merely the names of various innocent and unsuspecting booksellers in various parts of the city."

"How did you discover that?"

"In the simplest and easiest way possible. I listed all the names you reported and studied them carefully, trying to find their common denominator. They were not in the same neighborhood, so it was not locality. They were not all German, so it was not racial. I looked them up in the telephone directory, checking up the numbers of the telephones of the Jones, the Simpsons, but that gave no clue. Then, as I looked through the telephone lists, I discovered that there was a bookstore kept by a man of each name. Then I understood. It is a simple plan for throwing off shadowers."

"You mean that Mr. Hoff goes to a different bookstore each day to leave a code message?"

"That's it. The spy who gets the messages each morning calls him up by 'phone, mentioning just the one word. From that Mr. Hoff knows just where to go, concealing the message in a book before agreed upon."

"The fifth book," interrupted Dean.

"Not always," explained Fleck. "It depends on whether there are five letters in the name telephoned. I have located and copied several more of the messages."

"But who gets the messages he leaves? Who takes them away from the bookshops?" asked Jane, mindful of her own failure in that respect.

"It's a girl, or rather two girls together, though possibly only one of them is in the plot. Very likely the other may not know what her companion is doing."

"To whom does this girl take them?"

"That is still a mystery," said the chief. "We have ascertained who the girl is, where she lives. Her actions have been watched and recorded for every hour in the twenty-four for the last three days, and yet we don't know what she does with these messages. Carter has a theory--tell us about it, Carter."

"In accordance with instructions," began Carter, as if he was making out a report, "I had operatives K-24 and K-11 shadow the party suspected. On two different occasions they followed her to a bookstore and back home again. She was accompanied on one occasion by her younger sister. Each time she went directly home and stopped there, neither she nor her sister coming out again, and no person visiting the apartment, but--"

"Here's the interesting part," interrupted Fleck.

"On both occasions within a couple of blocks of the bookstore she pa.s.sed a man with a dachshund. She did not speak to the man, but each time she stopped to pet the dog."

"Was it the same man both times?" asked Dean.

"Apparently not," replied Carter, "but it may have been the same dog. Dachshunds all look alike."

"Go on," said the chief.

"Now my theory is that that girl was instructed to walk north until she met the man with the dog. I'll bet anything that code message went under the dog's collar. The next time she gets a message I'm going to get that dog."

"It seems preposterous," scoffed Dean.

"Rather it shows," said Fleck, "that these spies all suspect they are being watched, and that they resort to the most extraordinary methods of communication to throw off shadowers. They have used dachshunds before. There's a New England munition plant to which they used to send a messenger each week to learn how their plans for strikes and destruction were progressing. They put a different man on the job each time to avoid stirring up suspicion. At the station there would always be two children playing with a dachshund. The spy would simply follow them as if casually, and they would lead him to a rendezvous with the local plotters. Now, Miss Strong," he said, turning to Jane, "I brought you down here for two reasons. First, to give you an inkling of how important your task is, and second, to ask you to undertake still another task for us. Are you still willing to help?"

"More than ever," said the girl firmly.

"The one disappointment is that we are getting no evidence whatever to involve or incriminate young Hoff. To-morrow, while he and his uncle are away on their usual auto trip, I am going to have the apartment thoroughly searched."

Jane's face blanched. She recalled what a strain it had been on her nerves the day she watched on the roof while Dean installed the dictograph. She felt hardly equal to the task of ransacking desks and drawers.

"There will be no one at home but the old servant. She can be easily disposed of. It is imperative that the search be made at once. There is evidence that what they are planning--evidently some big coup--is nearing the time for its execution. We must find it out in order to thwart them. I have got to know what old Hoff meant by the 'wonder-worker!' He said that it was nearly ready. I suspect that it is some new engine of destruction. We must prevent any disaster to transports or munition factories, if that's what they have in mind."

"You think it's a bomb plot?" asked Jane.

"I don't know what it is. These empire-mad fools stop at nothing. Nothing is sacred to them, women, children, property. With fanatical energy and ability they commit murders, resort to arson, use poisons, foment strikes, wreck buildings, blow up ships, do anything, attempt anything to serve the Kaiser. Karl Boy-ed spent three millions here in America in two months, and Von Papen a million more. What for? Ten thousand dollars to one man to start a bomb factory, twenty-five thousand dollars to another to blow up a tunnel. Millions on millions for German propaganda was raised right here, and it is far from all spent yet. We've got to find out what the wonder-worker is and destroy it before it destroys--G.o.d knows what."

"Very well," said Jane with quiet determination, "I'll search their apartment."

"No, not that," said the chief, "I'll send some fake inspectors to test the electric wiring, and they'll do the searching. I do not know for sure that the Hoffs suspect you of watching them, but I'm taking no chances. It will be just as well for you and Dean to be out of the way to-morrow all day, so that you will have an alibi. Germany's secret agents are suspicious of everybody. They do not even trust their own people. What I want you and Dean to do is to try to follow the Hoffs and see where they go. I don't want to use the same persons twice to trail them as they may get suspicious."

"I can easily do that," said Jane, feeling relieved. "I'll tell Mother I want our car for all day."

"No, don't use your own car. They might recognize it. I'll provide another one. They gave two of my men the slip last week somewhere the other side of Tarrytown. Let's hope they are not so successful this time."

"But won't they recognize me?"

"Not if you disguise yourself with goggles and a dust coat. Dean can make up, too. He had practice enough at college, eh, Dean?"

Jane turned to look interestedly at Dean, who had the grace to color up. She was right then. He was a college man, working in the secret service not for the sake of the job but for the sake of his country.

"Of course I can disguise myself too," she said enthusiastically, a new zest in her work a.s.serting itself, now that she knew her princ.i.p.al co-operator was probably in the same social stratum as herself.

"You can rely on us, Chief," said Dean, as they left the office together. "We'll run them down."

As they emerged into Broadway and turned north to reach the subway at Fulton Street, Dean, with a warning "sst," suddenly caught Jane's arm and drew her to a shop window, where he appeared to be pointing out some goods displayed there. As he did so he whispered: "Don't say a word and don't turn around, but watch the people pa.s.sing, in this mirror here--quick, now, look."

Jane, as she was bidden, glanced, at first curiously and then in recognition and amazement, at a tall figure reflected in the mirror, as he pa.s.sed close behind her. It was a man in uniform. Regardless of Dean's warning she turned abruptly to stare uncertainly at the military back now a few paces away.

"Did you recognize him?" cried Dean.

"It--it looked like Frederic Hoff," faltered the girl.

"It was Frederic Hoff," corrected her companion, "Frederic Hoff in the uniform of a British officer, a British cavalry captain!"

CHAPTER IX.

THE PURSUIT.

Masked by an enormous pair of motor goggles and further shielded from recognition by a cap drawn down almost over his nose, Thomas Dean in a basket-rigged motorcycle impatiently sat awaiting the arrival of Jane Strong at a corner they had agreed upon the evening before. He had been particularly insistent that Jane should be on hand at a quarter before eight. He had learned by judicious inquiries that always on Wednesdays--at least on the Wednesdays previous--the Hoffs had started off on their mysterious trips at eight sharp. His intention was to get away ahead of them and pick them up somewhere outside the city limits.

Jane had promised that she would be on hand promptly. Once more he looked impatiently at his watch. It lacked just half a minute of the quarter, but there was no sign of his fellow operative. The only person visible in the block was a boy strolling carelessly in his direction. With a muttered exclamation of annoyance Dean restored his watch to his pocket, debating with himself how long he ought to wait and whether or not he had better wait if she did not appear soon. Very possibly, he realized, something entirely unforeseen might have detained her or have prevented her coming. Perhaps her family had doubted her story that she was going off on an all-day motor trip with a friend? Maybe their suspicions had been aroused by his having reported sick? He had almost decided to go on alone when he observed that the boy he had seen approaching was standing beside the motorcycle.

"Good morning, Thomas," said the boy, a little doubtfully, as if not quite sure that it was he.

Dean gasped in astonishment. The boy's voice was the voice of Jane. Laughing merrily at his amazement and discomfiture, she climbed into the seat beside him, asking: "How do you like my disguise?"

"It's great," he cried. "You fooled me completely, and I was expecting you."

"When Chief Fleck said I ought to disguise myself for fear that the Hoffs already suspected me, I happened to remember these clothes. I had them once for a play we gave in school."