They travelled together to Berlin, passing through miles upon miles of wheat fields in Czechoslovakia. On this occasion Foster did not have Sophie to himself, the courier insisting on carrying out his duties to the letter. He regarded the Englishman with an air of disapproval throughout the journey, but made no further reference to the inadvisability of his accompanying the baroness to the German capital. At the border Foster’s belongings were subjected to such a keen examination by the Customs, and his passport scrutinised with such elaborate care, that he was forced to the conclusion that an excuse was being sought to detain him. That was significant. Everything was in perfect order, however – he had previously made certain of that – and the officials were left with no alternative but to permit him to proceed. Sophie made no comment concerning their officiousness, but inwardly she was intensely indignant.
It was very late when the train ran into the Anhalt Station. Having received her permission to call on the following morning, Foster watched her drive away to her house in the Grunewald quarters still escorted by the German officer. He then took a taxi to the Esplanade Hotel, where he had reserved a room by telegram at the suggestion of Sophie. She had declared that though by no means the most up-to-date, the Esplanade was the most charming in Berlin. His apartment had nothing of the magnificence of the one he had vacated at the Hungaria Hotel in Budapest, but it was well-furnished, large and comfortable. He found the bed admirable, and was quickly asleep. On waking the following morning to find the sun streaming into the room, he sprang out of bed, and walked on to the balcony. Then he knew why the baroness had described the hotel as charming. Enclosed by old grey walls, the Esplanade was apparently placed in the centre of a beautiful garden. Trim lawns, intersected by graceful shady paths, looked most enticing. There were ornamental pavilions nestling amid petunias, a circular fountain, from which the soothing music of the water reached his ears, backed by a riot of geraniums. Everything looked deliciously pleasant. The solicitude with which the spotless maids presently waited on him, the polite and quick-witted manservant, who prepared his bath and later brought his breakfast, helped to add to the effect of peaceful serenity which the place had produced on his mind. He discovered that the hotel had once been a palace. It was modern, yet in line with the old glory of Berlin. Situated in the Hohenzollern quarter it spoke of a spirit that had passed, but which still retained its influence. Descending to the reception hall, immaculately dressed as usual, his fair hair gleaming under the effect of the careful brushing it had undergone, his monocle stuck in his eye, his was a figure that attracted attention. Indolent in manner, guileless in expression, there was yet something about him that promptly claimed the notice of people, particularly of members of the opposite sex. A little stout man, magnificent in his morning attire, hurried up to him, and bowed low. Introducing himself as the assistant manager, he enquired solicitously after Foster’s comfort, begged to be informed whether he had slept well and if the servants had attended to his requirements adequately. The Englishman was amused at this concern for his welfare; reflected that there were many hotels, with which he was acquainted, that would be the better for following the example set by the Esplanade. He assured the assistant manager that he had had an excellent night’s rest, and was entirely satisfied with everything. The little man, who was gratified, expressed himself as delighted. Foster expected him to withdraw then, instead of which an expression of apologetic concern appeared on his face.
‘I regret mooch to inconvenience you, sare,’ he remarked regretfully in his laboured English, ‘but I must ask you into mine office to step. A gentleman is there who mit you would speak. It is only the formality, you understand.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Foster curiously.
‘That he himself will tell you. Will you mit me come, please.’
Foster followed him into a luxuriously furnished office. There he found awaiting him a young man of about his own height and colouring, attired in the uniform of a Nazi officer of high rank. The latter greeted him with a pleasant smile, and held out his hand, which Foster grasped readily enough, though he felt somewhat puzzled.
‘My name is Schönewald,’ announced the officer in perfect English. ‘Yours, I believe, is Foster.’ The Englishman nodded. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’
He turned to the assistant manager and dismissed him as Foster sank into a chair. When the door had closed behind the little man, Schönewald held out his cigarette case to his companion. ‘I haven’t any particular liking for my job,’ he remarked apologetically, ‘but I have been told to do it, and there it is. I would have come up to your room, but didn’t want to bother you until you were dressed. I have been here for nearly an hour as a matter of fact.’
‘Sorry,’ murmured Foster, ‘but I had no idea—’
‘Of course you hadn’t. It was my own choice to wait rather than hurry you.’
There was an awkward pause, during which the two smoked, Foster placidly, the other puffing furiously, occasionally regarding each other with speculative eyes.
‘You speak topping English,’ observed Bernard at length, ‘I would have thought you were English if I had met you elsewhere.’
‘And not in this garb, I suppose,’ laughed the German. ‘I was at Haileybury and Oriel, so I’d be a queer bloke if I didn’t speak the language as well as my own. It’s because of my knowledge of English that I have been selected to interview you.’
‘I see.’ There was another pause. ‘I don’t want to hurry you, you know,’ went on Foster presently, ‘but don’t you think it would be rather a good idea if you told me what the trouble is.’
‘Yes, I suppose I’d better get on with it,’ agreed Schönewald reluctantly. ‘Don’t run away with the idea that there is any trouble, though. I have been commissioned to extend to you a little friendly advice.’
He blew a perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling.
‘How nice,’ murmured Foster.
The other suddenly became businesslike.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘you met the Baroness von Reudath in England, became very friendly with her, and accompanied her to Budapest. You came to Berlin simply and solely because she was summoned there. That is correct, isn’t it?’
‘Quite,’ nodded Foster. ‘If it hadn’t been for her, I don’t suppose I should have left England – not just yet, anyway. I did intend wandering round the continent a bit later on.’
‘Why did you accompany her?’
‘Oh, I say, that’s rather an intimate question, isn’t it?’
Schönewald smiled.
‘I’ll answer it myself, shall I? You followed her – I mean to say accompanied her, because you are infatuated with her. Is that correct?’
‘Not infatuated,’ objected Foster. ‘I admit that I am very much in love with her. But dash it all, man! I don’t see that that is anybody’s business but my own.’
‘Personally, I agree with you – officially I can’t. Although I sympathise with you, it is my duty to inform you that any idea you may have in your mind of marrying the baroness must, at least for some time, be removed. I have been instructed to inform you that your association with her is not regarded with favour.’
‘And who gave you those instructions?’ asked Foster quietly.
‘Does that matter?’
‘It matters very much. I cannot see that anyone has the right to interfere with a friendship which is very precious to me and is perfectly innocent. The baroness, as far as I am aware, don’t you know, is her own mistress. If she indicated to me that my companionship was distasteful to her, I would clear out at once, of course. As she has done nothing of the kind, I—well, dash it! I resent interference by anyone else.’
He screwed his monocle more firmly into his eye, and glared at the Nazi officer. The latter smiled grimly, and leant forward.
‘My instructions,’ he declared with deliberate emphasis, ‘come from the Supreme Marshal himself.’
Foster looked amiably surprised.
‘Is that so,’ he commented. ‘Well, I have a great admiration for His Excellency; he’s a great man without a doubt. All the same, I don’t see where he comes in in this affair.’
‘Perhaps you don’t; nevertheless, he has chosen to make it his affair, and it would be as well to remind you that he is all powerful in Germany. You may not know that the baroness is concerned with him in very important matters, and, until he decides to dispense with her services, she is pledged to him.’
‘But I am not interfering in those matters.’
‘We know that. Care has been taken to ascertain that you have not.’
‘Oh! Indeed!’ muttered Foster, looking interested. ‘How?’
‘That I am not at liberty to tell you. There was no objection to your becoming friendly with the baroness in London – she was on holiday. The same thing applied to Budapest. But here it is different. She will have no time for friendships – His Excellency will demand all her time. You will be wise, therefore, if you realise that you can only see her on rare occasions; you will be wiser still if you do not attempt to see her at all.’
‘But hang it all!’ cried Foster in real dismay. ‘How can I agree to that when I – when I—’
‘When you love her! Exactly! It is beastly hard for you, I know. As I have told you, I personally sympathise with you. I should hate to receive the – er – advice I am giving you, if I were in your position, but there it is.’
‘I have an appointment with her this morning.’
‘Well, keep it, but I earnestly urge you to make it the last. She will probably tell you herself what I have told you. Her life is bound up in affairs of great importance; there can be no room in it for the kind of thing your presence is possibly bringing into it. It is likely to unsettle her, and cause grave complications. You must forgive me for asking a question which concerns her. Has she ever given you to understand that she was the possessor of confidential information?’
Foster laughed.
‘Never,’ he declared, with such apparent frankness that Schönewald could hardly help but be convinced. ‘There was a vague sort of rumour in London that she was on air with Germany’s political intentions, but I was not interested. I know jolly well she would never speak of German affairs to anyone. She discussed His Excellency of course, with me and with others. She has such a warm admiration for him that it would be strange if she didn’t, don’t you know.’
Schönewald nodded.
‘That goes without saying,’ he agreed. ‘Her husband was one of his staunchest supporters when he was climbing, and the baroness entered wholeheartedly into assisting. She did a lot for him. But she is a woman, and when a woman has an affection for a man she is liable to become injudicious.’
‘Affection!’ echoed Foster ruefully. ‘I wish she did feel an affection for me. She’s friendly enough, but I don’t think there is anything else. She has always treated me as though I amuse her.’
‘I do not wonder at that,’ murmured the Nazi in German.
‘What did you say?’ asked Foster.
‘Nothing,’ was the hasty reply. ‘I might tell you this, my friend: our information regarding you and her was that you were both in love.’
‘Well, you can take it from me, old boy,’ retorted Foster, ‘that as far as she is concerned, that’s all bosh. I only wish it were correct.’
‘You forget that love is generally presumed to be blind,’ smiled the German. ‘Others may have noticed what you were blind to. But that is not exactly my business.’ He rose. ‘I am to assure you that there is no objection to you being in Berlin, and hopes are expressed that you enjoy your stay immensely. I earnestly advise you not to endeavour to continue on the same footing with the baroness, however, and urge that, after your visit to her this morning, you discontinue seeing her.’
‘And what will happen if I insist on continuing my association with her?’ asked Foster.
Schönewald shrugged his shoulders.
‘No restraint will be imposed upon you,’ he declared, ‘but the consequences might be unpleasant to you – and to her.’
‘To her!’ echoed the startled Englishman.
‘Exactly. If you do not consider yourself, at least I think you will consider her.’
‘But why should anything unpleasant happen to her?’
‘I am not at liberty to go further into the matter. I must apologise for detaining you so long, Mr Foster.’
He held out his hand, which the Englishman took readily enough. Whatever instructions Schönewald may have received, there was no doubt that he was a good fellow himself. Absurd to bear resentment against him.
‘Aren’t you going to question me about myself?’ asked Foster sarcastically. ‘I may be a villain in disguise with a dark and murky past, don’t you know.’
The Nazi officer laughed.
‘We all know about you,’ he declared, ‘including the fact that you became so bored with that English army that you resigned your Commission. We even know of your athletic records. I must admit that your history has been well read. There is nothing about you we don’t know.’
He nodded and went out. Foster smiled at the closed door.
‘Oh, yes there is, my well-informed Nazi,’ he murmured. ‘Quite a lot in fact.’
He resumed his chair, then mindful of the fact that he was in the assistant manager’s office and not his own room he rose again and walked out. His mind was in a state of trouble. The warning conveyed to him by Schönewald was definitely disturbing. It was all very well to protest that his friendship with the baroness was nobody’s business but his own. The Marshal of State had chosen to make it his business, to object to its continuation. He could not defy one of the most powerful men in a foreign country of which he was a guest. Yet, if he discontinued his friendship with Sophie, apart from all personal considerations, how could he possibly obtain the information he was expected to acquire? If he were unable to speak to her, he could not expect to learn anything from her, if he could not enter her house, gone was all the hope of being able to search any documents that might be hidden there. In addition there was the fact to be faced that insistence on his part might mean that the consequences, as the Nazi officer had put it, would be unpleasant to her. He did not bother about the fact that the implied threat referred equally to himself. It was part of his job to face risks and, if he alone were concerned, would not have hesitated a minute. It was a different matter, though, to endanger her. He was perfectly convinced that Sir Leonard Wallace would forbid him to take any steps that would react injuriously on the baroness. It began to look as though the brunt of the investigations would have to fall on the shoulders of Rosemary Meredith. Such a thought was extremely distasteful to him, not because of any dislike of the girl – on the contrary he liked her immensely – but because it would mean that he had failed in his part. He decided that the sooner he got in touch with Gottfried the better. The Berlin representative of Lalére et Cie perhaps already had orders for him.
In the reception hall he came upon the assistant manager, who smiled at him cheerfully.
‘So!’ he exclaimed. ‘The so-liddle formality of which I speak is finished – it is all over.’
‘Yes; it is all over,’ nodded Foster. ‘I found Mr Schönewald a very nice fellow.’
‘Oh, the Herr Colonel indeed a very nice man is. I am glad you like him.’
‘He’s a colonel, is he?’ commented the Englishman. ‘Surely he is young for such a rank.’
‘A most brilliant man he is. In Berlin many like him we have. Now, sare, at your disposal a guide I will place. He will you everything show.’
He beckoned to a stalwart man whose face reminded Foster of Carl the spy.
‘I don’t require a guide, thanks,’ he intimated courteously. ‘I prefer to wander about on my own.’
‘Most tiring that would be,’ protested the manager. ‘Nothing you can know, but everything he knows.’
He persisted so eagerly that it was not long before Foster was convinced that the man was a member of the secret police who had instructions to keep him under observation. Momentarily he was filled with a sense of helplessness. What could he possibly accomplish when so many restrictions had been placed upon his movements?
‘Always at your disposal, Herr Foster, he will be,’ he heard the manager saying. ‘If it is that sometimes him you do not want, then it does not matter. He will go mit you behind, then you will only have to call when it is that you his services require. So!’
Foster accepted the inevitable. He succeeded in forcing a smile.
‘I did not know,’ he observed. ‘That German hotels were so thoughtful of the needs of their foreign guests.’
‘At the Esplanade it our custom is,’ the little man assured him.
‘Liar!’ thought Foster. Aloud he asked: ‘Can he speak English?’
‘Very goot English I spik,’ announced the man himself in deep guttural tones.
‘Excellent,’ drawled Bernard. ‘I’m sure you and I will get on very well together. What is your name?’
‘Johann Schmidt it is.’
‘Dear old John Smith – how I love it! Well, Johann, you can help me right away. I want to buy some scent for a lady. Where do you suggest I should go?’
‘In the Friedrich-Strasse there many shops for scent are, also in Unter den Linden and the Leipziger-Strasse. Gome mit me, mit pleasure I will them show you.’
‘But I want something special. In Paris there is Doty and Du Barry and Lalére and others. Have none of those branches here, where I can speak to the manager, and receive his personal attention?’
The man smiled happily, and said the very thing Foster hoped he would say.
‘Lalére haf here mooch goot place. Gome! We to it will go.’
‘Good. I’ll get my hat.’
He was conducted along the Unter den Linden, and expressed great delight in the broad thoroughfare with its lime and chestnut trees although he already knew it very well. Johann Schmidt stopped at length outside the premises of the famous Parisian perfume firm Messieurs Lalére et Cie, and pointed at it with a stubby forefinger. The more Foster looked at him the more he appeared like Carl, though a taller and altogether bigger edition. He wondered if they were related by blood as well as by profession. Leaving the supposed guide outside, the Secret Service man went in. To the assistant who immediately attended to him he announced that he wanted something special in the way of scent, and would like to consult with the manager about it.
‘He is engaged at present, sir,’ was the reply. ‘Will you wait or call again?’
‘Perhaps you will ask him when it will be convenient to see him. My name is Foster.’
The assistant went away; returned a minute or two later to announce that Herr Gottfried would come and speak to him. The burly form of the man he knew well presently appeared. Gottfried with his round, closely-cropped head and bristling moustache, looked a typical Prussian. Yet he was as British as Foster, though he had spent most of his life in Berlin where no one had the slightest idea that he was anything but a pure German. One of the most reliable men in the Secret Service, his presence as an accepted German in the capital of the country had, for many years, been of the utmost value to Sir Leonard Wallace. He was on various municipal and other committees, mixed in the highest circles, and generally was recognised as a man of shrewd common sense whose love for the country amounted to a passion. It was little wonder, therefore, that he was on numerous occasions consulted upon highly confidential matters. No sign of recognition passed between the two as he and Foster faced each other.
‘I understand,’ commenced Gottfried in English which had the slightest trace of accent, ‘that you are in search of a perfume of a special nature. If you will accompany me to my office, which is also something of a laboratory, I will be able, I think, to place before you that which will meet your requirements.’
‘But I understand you are engaged,’ objected Foster. ‘I will call again.’
‘By no means. The two gentlemen with me are very much interested in scent. They will not mind.’ Foster went with him, feeling rather puzzled that he had not been given an appointment for another time. They could certainly not discuss anything of importance before strangers. He was more perplexed and definitely perturbed when he was inside the office facing the two men – Germans of the most obvious type – Gottfried, having made certain that the door was fast closed, announced that he had expected him.
‘Don’t bother about whispering, when you speak,’ he went on. ‘This room is absolutely soundproof.’
Foster stared at him with incredulous eyes. Was the man crazy? His gaze encountered that of one of the Germans, a bronzed, hearty-looking man in the uniform of a naval officer. He had a round, jolly face and fair hair parted very much on one side. The other was small and extremely fat with hair standing up like bristles and a moustache of fierce proportions. Foster was not prepossessed in his favour. His face was wreathed in a smile that was apparently intended to be friendly, but rather failed in its object. The naval officer was smiling also; much more attractively, thought the young Secret Service man, though there was a suggestion of mockery in it. He turned back rather helplessly to Gottfried, who was regarding him with amused eyes.
‘What about that perfume?’ he asked. ‘I want something special that—’
‘Will be a worthy present for the most wonderful girl in the world,’ the sailor went on for him, and he spoke in the voice of Sir Leonard Wallace. Foster swung round with a cry of sheer amazement and stared incredulously at him. ‘Well, our disguises seem to be pretty good,’ laughed Wallace, ‘since they have taken in both you and Gottfried.’
‘Good heavens!’ ejaculated the astonished Foster. ‘Is – is this one of us also, sir?’ he asked, weakly indicating the small, fat man.
‘It is most reprehensible,’ came the voice of Cousins, ‘for a junior to speak of a senior as this? To quote Mallory—’
‘Cousins!’ yelled Foster. ‘Good old Jerry!’
‘How dare you interrupt a quotation! You youngsters have no manners.’
‘It’s a lucky thing this room is soundproof,’ commented Gottfried drily. ‘Foster’s yell might otherwise have reached to Potsdam.’
That young man did not heed his remark. He seemed unable to tear his eyes from the two men smiling at him. Although he knew Sir Leonard and Cousins were past masters of the art of disguise, he had never seen a more complete transformation than this. Foster sighed. He already knew there was a great gulf between himself and the ‘experts’ in many phases of Secret Service work. He felt he never could hope to aspire to such complete success in this very necessary branch.
‘Well, if you have finished studying us,’ laughed Sir Leonard, ‘we will proceed with more important matters. I am extremely anxious to know if you have discovered anything of importance yet.’
Foster sank into the chair pushed up for him by Gottfried.
‘I’m rather afraid I’ve failed pretty hopelessly, sir,’ he confessed, ‘and there doesn’t seem much chance now that I will have any more opportunities of getting the information.’
‘What do you mean?’
The young man told his story, carefully taking his listeners over every incident that had happened since he and the Baroness von Reudath had left London, except of course those of a nature intimate to himself and her. He repeated everything she had said to him that was in any way relevant to his object in being with her. He then went on to describe the arrival of Major Ernst Wilhelm in Budapest with a summons to Sophie to return to Berlin, and the courier’s attempt to dissuade him from accompanying her. Finally he told of Colonel Schönewald’s visit to the Esplanade Hotel, repeated word for word what had been said, and informed his hearers that he had been saddled with a guide who, he was sure, was a member of the secret police who had orders to keep observation on him.
‘He is outside now,’ he concluded, adding with a grim smile: ‘He guided me here, after I had asked him where I could purchase some extra special perfume.’
Sir Leonard appeared very thoughtful when Foster had ceased speaking. For some moments there was a profound silence in the room; then he smiled at the anxious-eyed young man.
‘I do not consider that you have failed hopelessly at all,’ he declared. ‘It is true you have not yet obtained the information I want, but I did not expect you to do that at once. I think I told you your job would require patience, tact, and ingenuity. You have certainly succeeded in becoming persona grata with the baroness.’ He smiled. ‘Much more so than I anticipated, in fact. She has even told you that only a vow she has taken prevents her from confiding certain facts in you. What those facts are we can guess. Altogether, young man, you have done very well. I am certainly pleased with you.’
Foster flushed with deep pleasure. Praise of that nature was extremely gratifying. He had not expected it.
‘I seem to be up against a blank wall now, sir,’ he reminded his chief. ‘If by continuing my association with the baroness, I am likely to bring harm upon her, it seems to me that I shall have to try some other way of obtaining the information.’
‘It is obvious,’ commented Sir Leonard, ‘that von Strom is very worried about something. Either he regrets now that he has confided in her to the extent he has – we actually have no proof that she is his confidante—’
‘No positive proof, sir,’ interposed Gottfried, ‘but there is little doubt about it.’
‘Well, as I was saying, he either regrets that he has given her his confidence or else he is jealous of you, Foster. Probably it is both. Cousins and I noted the arrival of Major Wilhelm in Budapest and drew our own conclusions from your sudden change of plans—’
‘Were you in Budapest, sir?’ asked the astonished Foster.
‘We were. We have been with you all the time like a couple of guardian angels. Surprised?’
‘Very much so, sir, I had no idea.’
‘Naturally. Nevertheless, we travelled on the train with you to Budapest; we were on the same train to Berlin. We crossed the Channel on the boat on which you and the baroness crossed.’
Cousins chuckled.
‘Do you remember seeing your friend Carl sitting on a seat at the stern, Foster?’ he asked. ‘I noticed you glanced that way.’ The young man nodded. ‘Did you happen to observe that he was sitting between two old ladies?’
‘Yes, I did, now you remind me of it.’
Cousins chuckled again.
‘We were the two ladies,’ he declared.