Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII
In the Trap
As Stewart set down his bags, still swearing softly to himself, he heard behind him the sound of a stifled sob.
“There, there!” he said. “We shall soon be all right!”
As he stretched out his arms to grope for her it seemed to him that she walked straight into them.
“Oh, oh!” she moaned, and pressed close against him. “What will they do to us? Why have they put us here?” And then he felt her lips close against his ear. “Be careful!” she whispered in the merest breath. “Speak low! There is an open window!”
Stewart's heart was thrilling. What a woman! What an actress! Well, he would prove that he, too, could play a part.
“They will do nothing to us, dear,” he answered, patting her shoulder. “They will not dare to harm us. Remember, we are Americans!”
“But—but why should they put us here?”
“I don't know—I suppose they have to be careful. I'll appeal to our ambassador in the morning. He'll soon bring them to their senses, so don't worry!”
“But it's so dark,” she complained; “and I'm so tired. Can't we sit down somewhere?”
“We can sit down on our bags,” said Stewart. “Wait!” In a moment he had found them and placed them one upon the other. “There you are. Now let's see what sort of a place we've come to.”
He got out his match-box and struck a light. The first flare almost blinded him; then, holding the match above his head, he saw that they were in a brick cubicle about twenty feet square. In one wall there was a single small window, without glass, but heavily barred. The place was empty, save for a pile of barrels against one end.
“It's a storehouse of some kind,” he said, and then he sniffed sharply. “Gasoline! I'd better not strike any more matches.”
He sat down beside her, and for some moments they were silent. Almost unconsciously his arm found its way about her waist. She did not draw away.
“Do you suppose they will keep us here all night?” she asked at last.
“Heaven knows!”
And then again he felt her lips against his ear.
“We must destroy your ticket,” she breathed. “Can you find it in the dark?”
“I think so.” He fumbled in an inside pocket and drew it out. “Here it is.”
Her groping hand found his and took the ticket.
“Now talk to me,” she said.
Stewart talked at random, wondering how she intended to destroy the ticket. Once he fancied he heard the sound of soft tearing; and once, when she spoke in answer to a question, her voice was strange and muffled.
“All right!” she whispered at last, and again they sat silent.
How strange a thing was chance, Stewart pondered. Here was he, who, until to-day, had seen a humdrum and prosaic life stretching before him, cast suddenly into the midst of strange adventures. Here was this girl, whom he had known for only a few hours and yet seemed to have known for years—whom he certainly knew better than he had ever known any other woman!
There was Bloem—he, too, had been cast into the maelstrom of events. Was he outside somewhere, among all those thousands, gazing up at the stars and wondering at fate?
A quick step came along the platform and stopped at the door; there was the snap of a lock and the door swung open.
“You will come out,” said a voice in English.
Against the lights of the station Stewart saw outlined the figure of a man in uniform. He rose wearily.
“Come, dear,” he said, and helped her to her feet. “It seems we are to go somewhere else.” He looked down at the heavy bags. “I can't carry those things all ever creation,” he said.
“I will attend to that,” said the man, and put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Two men came running up. “You will take those bags,” he ordered. “Follow me,” he added, to Stewart.
They followed him along the platform, crossed the track to another, and came at last to a great empty shed with a low table running along one side. The men placed the bags upon this table and withdrew.
“I shall have to search them,” said the officer. “Are they locked?”
He stood in the glare of a lamp hanging from the rafters, and for the first time Stewart saw his face. The man smiled at his start of surprise.
“I see you recognize me,” he said. “Yes—I was in your compartment coming from Cologne. We will speak of that later. Are your bags locked?”
“No,” said Stewart.
As the officer undid the straps and raised the lids, Stewart looked on listlessly; but his interest was awakened by the extreme care with which the man examined the contents of the bags. He shook out each garment, put his hand in every pocket, examined the linings with his finger-tips, and ripped open one where he detected some unusual thickness—only to discover a piece of reenforcement. He opened and read carefully every letter and paper, and turned the Baedeker page by page to be sure that nothing lay between the leaves. He paused over the satin shoes and stockings, but put them down finally without comment.
At last the bags were empty, and, taking up his knife, the inquisitor proceeded to rip open the linen linings and look under them. Then, with equal care, he returned each article to its place, examining it a second time with the same intent scrutiny.
All this took time, and long before it was over Stewart and his companion had dropped upon a bench which ran along the opposite wall. Stewart was so weary that he began to feel that nothing mattered very much, and he could see that the girl was also very tired.
At last the search was finished, and the bags closed and strapped.
“I should like to see the small bag which madame carries on her arm,” said the officer.
Without protest the girl held it out to him. He examined its contents with a minuteness almost microscopic. Nothing was too small, too unimportant, to escape the closest attention.
Marveling at this exhibition of German thoroughness, Stewart watched through half-closed eyes, his heart beating a little faster. Would the officer find some clue, some evidence of treachery?
There were some handkerchiefs in the bag, and some small toilet articles; a cake of soap in a case, a box of powder, a small purse containing some gold and silver, a post-card, two or three letters, and some trivial odds and ends such as every woman carries about with her.
The searcher unfolded each of the handkerchiefs and held it against the light. He cut the cake of soap into minute fragments. He emptied the box of powder, and ran an inquiring finger through its contents. He emptied the purse, and looked at every coin it contained.
Then he sat down and slowly and gravely read the post-card and each of the letters. He examined their postmarks. Finally he took one of the closely written sheets, mounted on his chair, and held the sheet close against the chimney of the lamp until it was smoking with the heat, examining it with minute attention, as if he rather expected to make some interesting discovery.
As a finish to his researches he ripped open the lining of the bag and turned it inside out.
“Where did you buy this bag, madame?” he asked.
“In Paris, a month ago.”
“These handkerchiefs are also French.”
“Certainly! French handkerchiefs are the best in the world.”
He compressed his lips and looked at her.
“And that is a French hat,” he went on.
“Good Heavens!” cried the girl. “One would think I was passing the customs at New York! Certainly it is French. So is my gown—so are my stockings—so is my underwear. For what else does an American woman come abroad?”
He looked at her shoes. She saw his glance and understood it.
“No; my shoes are American. The French do not know how to make shoes.”
“But the slippers are French.”
“Which slippers?”
“The ones in your husband's bag.
She turned to Stewart with a laugh.
“Have you been carrying a pair of my slippers all around Europe, Tommy?” she asked. “How did that happen?”
“I don't know. I packed in rather a hurry,” answered Stewart sheepishly.
“Where is the remainder of your baggage, madame?” asked the officer.
“At Brussels—at least, I hope so. I sent it there direct from Spa, in order to avoid the examination at the frontier.”
“Why did not you yourself go direct to Brussels?”
“I wished to see my husband. I had not seen him for more than a fortnight”; and she cast Stewart a fond smile.
The bearded man looked at her keenly for a moment, then took a rapid turn up and down the shed, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I shall have to ask you to disrobe,” he said at last. As Stewart started to his feet in hot protest, he added quickly: “I have a woman who will disrobe madame.”
“But this is an outrage!” protested Stewart, his face crimson. “This lady is my wife—I won't stand by and see her insulted. I warn you that you are making a serious mistake!”
“She shall not be insulted. Besides, it is necessary.”
“I don't see it.”
“That is for me to decide,” said the other bluntly, and he put a whistle to his lips and blew two blasts.
A door at the farther end of the shed opened, and a woman entered. She was a matronly creature with a kind face, and she smiled encouragingly at the shrinking girl.
“Frãulein,” said the officer in German. “you will take this lady into the office and disrobe her. Bring her clothing to me here—all of it.”
Again Stewart started to protest, but the officer silenced him with a gesture.
“It is useless to attempt resistance,” he said sharply. “I must do my duty—by force, if necessary.”
The girl rose to her feet, evidently reassured by the benevolent appearance of the woman.
“Don't worry, Tommy,” she said. “It will be all right. It is no use to argue with these people. There is nothing to do but submit.”
“So it seems!” Stewart muttered, and watched her until she disappeared through the door.
“Now, sir,” said the officer sharply, “your clothes!”
Crimson with anger, Stewart handed them over piece by piece, saw pockets turned out, linings loosened here and there, the heels of his shoes examined, his fountain pen unscrewed and emptied of its ink. At last he stood naked under the flaring light.
“Well, I hope you are satisfied,” he said vindictively.
With a nod the officer handed him back his underwear.
“I will keep these for the moment,” he said, indicating the little pile of things taken from the pockets. “You may dress. Your clothes, at least, are American.”
As he spoke the woman entered from the farther door with a bundle of clothing in her arms. Stewart turned hastily away, struggling into his trousers as rapidly as he could. Sullenly he laced his shoes and put on his collar, noting wrathfully that it was soiled. He kept his back to the man at the table—he felt that it would be indecent to watch him turning over those intimate articles of apparel.
“You have examined her hair?” he heard the man ask.
“Yes, excellency.”
“Very well; you may take these back.”
Not until he heard the door close behind her did Stewart turn around. The officer was lighting a cigarette. The carelessness of the act added new fuel to the American's wrath.
“Perhaps you will tell me the meaning of all this?” he demanded. “Why should my wife and I be compelled to submit to these indignities?”
“We are looking for a spy,” replied the other imperturbably, turning over the little pile of Stewart's belongings, and at last pushing them toward their owner and opening his passport.
“That passport will tell you that I am not a spy,” said Stewart, putting his things angrily back into his pockets. “That, it seems to me, should be sufficient.”
“As far as you are concerned, it is entirely sufficient,” said the other. “One can see at a glance that you are an American; but the appearance of madame is distinctly French.”
“Americans are of every race. I have seen some who look more German than you do.”
“That is true; but it so happens that the spy we are looking for is a woman. I cannot tell you more, except that it is imperative that she should not escape.”
“And you suspect my wife?” Stewart demanded. “But that is absurd!”
Nevertheless, a little chill ran down his spine as he realized the danger of the situation.
“The fact that she joined you at Aachen was most suspicious,” the other pointed out; “especially since she answers in a general way to the woman for whom we are searching. It was also most suspicious that you should have met at the Kölner Hof. That hotel has not a good reputation—it is frequented by too many French. How did you happen to go there?”
“Why,” retorted Stewart hotly, “one of your own men recommended it!”
“One of my own men? I do not understand”; and the officer looked at him curiously.
“At least, one of the police. He came to me at the Hotel Continental in Cologne to examine my passport. He asked me where I was going from Cologne, and I told him to Aix-la-Chapelle. He asked at which hotel I was going to stay, and I said I did not know. He thereupon told me that the Kölner Hof was near the station and very clean and comfortable. I certainly found it so.”
The officer was listening with peculiar intentness.
“Why were you not at the station to meet your wife?” he asked.
“I did not know when she would arrive; the trains were all running irregularly,” answered Stewart, prouder of his ability to lie well and quickly than he had ever been of anything else in his life.
“But how did she know at which hotel to find you?” inquired the officer, and negligently flipped the ash from his cigarette.
Stewart distinctly felt his heart turn over as he saw the abyss at his feet. How would she have known? How could she have known? What would he have done if he had really had a wife waiting at Spa? These questions flashed through his head like lightning.
“Why, I telegraphed her, of course,” he said; “and to make assurance doubly sure, I sent her a post-card.”
His heart fell again, for he realized that the police had only to wire to Cologne to prove that no such message had been filed there. But the officer tossed away his cigarette with a little gesture of satisfaction.
“It was well you took the latter precaution, Mr. Stewart,” he said, and Stewart noticed that there was a subtle change in his tone—it was less cold, more friendly. “The wires were closed last night to any but official business, and your message could not possibly have got through. I am surprised that the operators at Cologne accepted it.”
“I gave it to the porter at the hotel,” Stewart explained. “Perhaps they didn't accept it, and he kept the money.”
“That may be. But your post-card got through, as you no doubt know.”
“Really,” stammered Stewart, wondering desperately if this was another trap, “I didn't know—I didn't think to ask—”
“Luckily for you, madame brought it with her in her little hand-bag,” explained the other. “I must admit that it offers a convincing confirmation of your story— the more convincing, perhaps, since you seem surprised that she brought it along. Ah, here she is now”; and he rose as the door opened and the girl came in. “Will you not sit down, madame?” he went on courteously. “I pray that both of you will accept my sincere apologies for the inconvenience I have caused you. Believe me, it was one of war's necessities.”
The girl glanced at the speaker curiously, his tone was so warm, so full of friendship; then she glanced at Stewart.
Catching that glance, Stewart was suddenly conscious that his mouth was open, his eyes staring, and his whole attitude that of a man struck dumb by astonishment. Hastily he bent over to tie a shoe-string.
Really, he told himself, he could not be blamed for being disconcerted. Anybody would be disconcerted to be told suddenly that his most desperate lie was true! But how could it be true? How could there be any such post-card as the German had described? Was it just another trap?
“We understand, of course, that you were merely doing your duty,” the girl's voice was saying. “What seemed unfair was that we should be the victims. Do I understand that—that you no longer suspect us?”
“Absolutely not; and I apologize for my suspicions.”
“Then we are at liberty to proceed?”
“You cannot, in any event, proceed to-night. I will pass you in the morning. I hope you will not think that any discourtesy was intended to you as Americans. Germany is most anxious to retain the good-will of America. It will mean much to us in this struggle.”
“Most Americans are rather sentimental over Alsace-Lorraine,” said Stewart, who had recovered his composure.
He fished for a cigar, and offered one to the officer, who accepted it with a bow of thanks.
“That is because they do not understand,” said the other quickly. “Alsace-Lorraine belongs of right to Germany.”
“But haven't you been rather harsh with it?”
“No harsher than was necessary. Parts of it have seethed with treason. The spy for whom we are searching comes from Strassburg.”
Stewart started at the words; but the girl threw back her head and laughed.
“So you took us for spies!” she cried. “What a tale to tell, Tommy, when we get home!”
“There is but one spy, madame,” said the officer; “a woman. She has lived in Strassburg for many years, and has never been suspected. She was on intimate terms with many of our officers; they felt themselves safe in talking freely to her. More than that, at the last moment she succeeded in getting certain documents. Then she was suspected—she fled—and thus far she has not been captured. But it will be impossible for her to pass the frontier. A resident of Strassburg who knows her is to be stationed at every post, and no woman will be permitted to pass until he has seen her. The man to be posted here will arrive in an hour. As a final precaution, madame,” he added, smiling, “and because my orders are most precise and stringent, I shall ask you and your husband to remain here at Herbesthal until morning. As I have said, you could not in any event go on to-night, for the frontier is closed. In the morning, as a matter of formality, I must ask my man from Strassburg to look at you. I will then provide you with a safe-conduct, and see that every possible facility is given you to get safely across the frontier.”
“Thank you,” she said; “you are very kind. That is why you are keeping all those people cooped up in the station?”
“Yes, madame. They cannot pass until my man has seen them.”
“But you are not searching them?”
“No; with most of them the detention is a mere matter of obeying orders—one can tell their nationality at a glance. But to look at you, madame, I should never have supposed you to be an American—I should have supposed you to be French.”
“My grandmother was French,” explained the girl composedly, “and I am said to resemble her very closely. I may also warn you that my sympathies are French.”
The officer shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
“That is a great misfortune. Perhaps when you see how our army fights we may claim some of your sympathy—or, at least, your admiration.”
“It will fight well, then?”
“Most assuredly. The entire schedule has been made out by our General Staff. This is the 1st of August. On the 5th we shall capture Lille, and on the 11th we shall enter Paris. On the evening of the 12th the Kaiser will dine the General Staff at the Ritz.”
Stewart stared in astonishment.
“But you are not in earnest!” he protested.
“Thoroughly in earnest. We know where we shall be at every hour.”
“But to reach Lille,” said the girl, “it will be necessary to cross Belgium!”
“Undoubtedly.”
“It seems to me that I read somewhere—perhaps in Baedeker—that the neutrality of Belgium had been guaranteed by all the great powers.”
“So it has—but all that is merely a scrap of paper. The first blast of war blows it away. It is necessary for us to invade France from the north. Therefore, regretfully, but none the less firmly, we warn Belgium to stand aside.”
“Will she stand aside?”
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
“She must, or risk annihilation. She will not dare oppose us.”
Stewart felt a little shiver of disgust sweep over him. So this was the German soldier's attitude! Treaties, solemn agreements, all these were “merely scraps of paper,” not worth considering! He felt that he could bear to talk no longer, and rose suddenly to his feet.
“What are we going to do to-night?” he asked. “We shall not have to sit here in this shed, surely?”
“Certainly not”; and the officer rose, too. “I have secured a lodging for you with the woman who searched madame. You will find it clean and comfortable, though by no means luxurious.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Stewart, with a memory of the rabble he had seen crowded into the waiting-room. He looked at his luggage. “I hope it isn't far,” he added. “I've carried those bags about a thousand miles to-day.”
“It is only a step—but I will have a man carry your bags. Here is your passport, sir, and again let me assure you of my regret. You also, madame!”
Three minutes later they were walking down the platform before the pleasant-faced woman, who babbled away amiably in German, while a porter followed with the bags. As they passed the station they could see that it was still jammed with a motley crowd, while a guard of soldiers thrown around it prevented any one leaving or entering.
“How fortunate that we have escaped that!” said Stewart. “Even at the price of being searched!”
“This way, sir,” said the woman, in German, and motioned off into the darkness to the right.
They made their way across a network of tracks, which seemed to Stewart strangely complicated and extensive for a small frontier station, and then emerged into a narrow, crooked street, bordered by mean little houses. In front of one of these the woman stopped, and unlocked the door with an enormous key.
The porter set the bags inside, received his tip, and withdrew, while their hostess struck a match and lighted a candle, disclosing a narrow hall running from the front door back through the house.
“You will sleep here, sir,” she said, and opened a door to the left.
They stepped through, in obedience to her gesture, and found themselves in a fair-sized room, sparsely furnished, and a little musty from disuse, but evidently clean. Their hostess hastened to open the window and to light another candle. Then she brought in Stewart's bags.
“You will find water there,” and she pointed to the pitcher on the wash-stand. “I cannot give you hot water to-night—there is no fire. Will these towels be sufficient? Yes? Is there anything else? No? Then good night, sir, and you, madame.”
“Good night,” they answered.
For a moment after the door closed they stood staring at it as if hypnotized. Then the girl stepped to the window and drew the blind. As she turned back into the room Stewart saw that her face was livid. His eyes asked the question which he did not dare speak aloud.
She drew him back into the corner and put her lips close against his ear.
“There is a guard outside,” she whispered. “We must be very careful. We are prisoners still!”
As Stewart stood staring she took off her hat and tossed it on a chair.
“How tired I am!” she said, yawning heavily.
Turning back to the window, she began to take down her hair.