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with whom they associated in the future. Two were plainly guilty and were permitted no futures

in which to be careful, and three were doubtful, these were put back for further investigation.

One of them was an ex-Army officer named Kaspar Bluehm.

This name sent Hambledon’s mind back to Köln and Bill Saunders; there was a girl in

Köln called Marie Bluehm who had a brother named Kaspar if he remembered aright, though

they had never met. It would be an odd coincidence if this were the same man. If this were the

same man it would be pleasant to get him in and make him talk of Köln and the good days when

a man had a friend at his back and was not always alone, when there was someone to talk to

frankly, someone with whom it was not necessary to act a part, someone with whom one could

relax and be puzzled or anxious or afraid, someone who would relieve the strain of this unending

tension. “God! How I miss Bill,” said Tommy Hambledon. Perhaps this fellow Bluehm would

talk about him, that would be something, if, of course, it were the same man.

Hambledon shook himself impatiently, touched the bell on his desk and told the trooper

who answered it to bring in Kaspar Bluehm. While he was waiting he thought that if it were

possible he would get the poor chap out of this mess, merely because once he had a sister for

whom Bill had cared greatly. “Getting sentimental in my old age,” said Hambledon, but he

looked up eagerly when the door opened. “You may go,” he said to the trooper. Bluehm came up

to his table and saluted.

Hambledon looked at him attentively and was reminded of Marie at once, though the blue

eyes which in her case had been so clear and true were blurred and faded here, Marie’s mouth

had shown sweetness and strength while Kaspar’s displayed weakness and obstinacy, but the

likeness was unmistakable and Hambledon’s face softened.

“Sit down,” he said kindly. “You are Oberleutnant Kaspar Bluehm?”

“Obersatz Bluehm when the war was over,” said the man, and sat down.

“I beg your pardon. I find it difficult to believe that a man with your war record could be

guilty of espionage against Germany. I want you to talk to me frankly and we will clear this

matter up.”

“I am certainly not guilty,” said Bluehm, but he did not respond to Hambledon’s

kindness. “Trying to entrap me into making admissions,” he thought, “suspected traitors are not

handled so gently as all that, does he take me for a fool?”

Hambledon saw growing suspicion in Bluehm’s face and felt like shaking him. “Tell

me,” he said, “you knew this Otto Hauser, didn’t you? Where did you meet him?”

“In Buenos Aires originally. I was there for a time after the war, working as an engineer,

he was in the same works. We were both Germans, he came from Mainz and I knew the place

well, my mother lived there. We used to talk about Mainz and—and things like that. That’s all.”

“Very natural. What happened then?”

“He went home, oh, about four years ago. I came home last year.”

Bluehm was fidgeting all the time with the hat he held on his knee, pulling out the lining

and pushing it back with nervous fingers, never looking steadily at Hambledon but only glancing

at him from time to time. “You may not be guilty of espionage, my lad, but you’ve something on

your mind or I’m the Queen of Sheba,” he said to himself. “Please go on,” he added aloud.

“When you came home you met him again, did you?”

“I found my mother and my aunt desperately poor, I had to get something to do. I

remembered Hauser, found out where he lived, and went to see him, he got me a job in the

Elektrische Gesellschaft. I was grateful, I used to see something of him sometimes, not much, a

man like that—but he had helped me.”

“What do you mean, a man like that? Did you know that he was—”

“
Gott im Himmel
, no! I only meant he was merely a workman—”

“Not your social equal, of course not. Did you ever meet people at his house?”

“I never went to his house. We used to go to a café, sometimes to a theatre or the

cinema.”

“I quite understand,” said Hambledon, leaning back in his chair. “Apart from having met

him abroad and from his having been of use to you, you were the merest acquaintances?”

Bluehm also relaxed, feeling that Hambledon was convinced and that the worst of the

interview was over. “Exactly that. Besides, he was an intelligent fellow, I learned a lot from him

about the work.”

“On your honour as an officer,” said Hambledon formally, “you had no suspicion

whatever that he was engaged in espionage?”

“On my honour, none. He would not have been likely to tell me if he were.”

“No,” said Hambledon, noticing the indecisive mouth and unintelligent eyes, “no, I don’t

think he would. I believe you. Unless anything else crops up to incriminate you, you are

cleared.”

“Then I may go?” said Bluehm, springing to his feet.

“Sit down again and talk to me a little longer. Tell me, you lived in Köln at one time,

didn’t you?”

Bluehm collapsed into the chair rather than sat in it. “I—my family did,” he said. “I was

in the Army.”

“Yes, of course. But you spent your leaves there, didn’t you? You knew many people

there?”

“I knew a good many, naturally. Why?”

“I knew some Köln people at one time, we might have some mutual acquaintances, that’s

all. My dear Bluehm, you’ll destroy that perfectly good hat if you tear at the lining like that, what

is the matter with you?”

“Nothing, nothing. My nerves are not what they were, that’s all.”

“Am I so very terrifying? I only thought it would be pleasant to talk over old times.”

“What did you want to know?”

“Oh, nothing of any importance,” said Hambledon, who was getting tired of all this

beating about the bush. “Did you know a man I used to meet occasionally, a Dutch importer,

Dirk Brandt?”

Bluehm sprang to his feet, his face working. “You’re playing with me,” he cried, “I knew

you were. You think I was in touch with British Intelligence then—”

“Great heavens,” said the startled Hambledon, who had no idea anyone knew about

Brandt, but Bluehm swept on.

“I didn’t know he was a spy, I thought he was a friend of mine and asked him to look

after my sister Marie. But he killed von Bodenheim and Elsa shot herself so Hedwige went to the

dogs, and he took Marie and disgraced her, she died too, so when I found out who and what he

was—”

He stopped and stared at Hambledon, whose face had grown terrible. “Yes,” said

Hambledon in a cold voice. “When you found out what he was, what did you do?”

“I traced him to England and shot him,” said Bluehm defiantly. “He deserved it anyway

for the harm he did, and there was my sister—”

“Damn your sister. Who told you about Brandt?”

“What is the matter?” asked the puzzled Bluehm. “I deserve well of Germany, I

destroyed one of her most dangerous enemies—”

“Don’t bleat. Who told you about Brandt?”

“I can’t understand you. I tell you, I had nothing to do with British Intelligence; when I

found out that that was what Brandt had been doing I hunted him down and killed him. It took

me nearly a year—”

“Damn your autobiography. Answer me at once. Who told you about Brandt?”

“Reck,” said Bluehm, startled into a direct answer. “You wouldn’t know him, a person of

no importance, a teacher in some school or other. He went mad, he drank, I believe—”

“Reck,” said Hambledon quietly, “a person of no importance,” and stared straight in front

of him, unheeding Bluehm, who went on talking of how he had forced the secret out of Reck in

the mad-house, tracked down Brandt in spite of his having changed his name twice and moved

from place to place.

Hambledon returned from his abstraction to hear Bluehm saying, “So you see, I have

deserved well of the Reich. What is more, I have further information to give. There is no doubt

that the other partner, Wolff, was a British spy too, the older man certainly was, Brandt admitted

it. He was drowned years ago, though, so we can’t catch him now, I mean the one who passed as

Brandt’s uncle, I never met him as it happened. His real name was Hambledon—”

Hambledon broke in with a laugh so bitter that Bluehm stopped talking and stared at him

again.

“You fool,” said Hambledon, “you fool. You boast of having shot him and come to me

for reward—to me, of all people. Why, I’ve been looking for you for years. Oh, I’ll reward you

all right, if I were you I’d say my prayers, fool.”

“What d’you mean?” stammered Bluehm, but Hambledon touched his bell twice and two

guards came in.

“Take him away,” said Hambledon harshly, “and send Hagen to me.” He did not look up

as Bluehm was led out of the room.

“I told Denton I’d clear this up and I have,” he muttered. “Bill, what were you doing to

let that stupid lump get the better of you?”

Hagen entered. “The prisoner who has just left me,” said Hambledon, “Kaspar Bluehm, is

a danger to the Reich. He must not be allowed to speak to anyone. You know what to do.”

Hagen saluted and went out. Hambledon spent ten minutes or so carefully tidying his

desk, lit a cigar and walked up and down the room till Hagen returned.

“I have to report, sir, that the prisoner eluded his guards and had to be shot to prevent his

escape.”

“Do not let it grieve you, Hagen,” said the Chief of Police blandly. “He would have been

shot anyway.”

Hambledon walked slowly home thinking over Bluehm’s disclosures. So Reck had done

it, Reck the wireless operator of Mülheim, the transmitter of other men’s words, the person of no

importance, the drunken little beast, he had babbled and Bill Saunders had died. Men who knew

the Chief of Police met him in the street that night, took one look at that grim face and abstracted

gaze and did not venture to greet him. “Did you see his face?” they said. “Someone is going to

catch it for something, heaven forbid he should ever look like that at me.”

He went up the stairs to his flat, entered his study and wrote a few lines on a sheet of

paper, after which he walked heavily down the passage to Reck’s room and handed the paper to

him. “What’s the matter?” asked Reck, staring. “Code and transmit that message to-night.”

“Has anything happened? What’s the matter with you?”

“Read the message, damn you.”

Reck dropped his eyes to the paper and read aloud: “T-L-T. Hambledon to F.O. London.

Murderers of Saunders discovered and dealt with stop Kaspar Bluehm of Köln and Reck of

Mülheim.”

“My God,” said Reck, dropping the paper, “you must be mad. I never even knew that he

was dead.”

“Nevertheless, you helped to kill him. So you will code and transmit that message and

then you will die.”

“I swear to you I am completely innocent. I’m a drunken old waster, but I’d shoot myself

before I’d—why, he was one of our men. I don’t know anything—when did he die?”

“About thirteen years ago,” said Hambledon. “He was shot by that fool Kaspar Bluehm—

remember him?”

“Yes—no, I don’t think I ever met him. Wasn’t he Marie Bluehm’s brother?”

“Yes. You met him once anyway, he came to see you in your retreat at Mainz you’re

always wanting to go back to, the mad-house, you know.”

“Did he?” said Reck, rubbing his head. “I don’t know—I can’t remember. Why did he

come?”

“He came,” said Hambledon very deliberately, “to ask you for information about Bill

Saunders because he had a private grudge against him. He asked for Dirk Brandt, of course, you

told him he was Bill Saunders, a British agent—”

“No!” shrieked Reck. “I didn’t do that, don’t say it, I—”

“You told him Saunders had gone back to England—”

“Stop, for God’s sake, you’re torturing me. On my honour—”

“Your honour!” said Hambledon unpleasantly. “I expect you told him he was Michael

Kingston of the Hampshires, too. Anyway, you told him enough to enable him to walk in on Bill

one quiet night and shoot him. So Bluehm died an hour ago, and I don’t think you’re fit to live,

do you?”

“No,” said Reck with dignity. “If this thing is true, I am not.”

“Of course it’s true, who else could have told him? He traced up Bill’s contacts till he

came to you, quite simple. He thought he’d been awfully clever. He told me I was a British spy,

too, that’s what he called me, apparently Bill told him that, since I was dead it didn’t matter. He

informed me about Denton, too.”

“What year was it, d’you know, when he came to see me?”

“Bill died in ’24. ’23, I suppose.”

“I was very ill then,” said Reck. “I nearly died, I wish I had. They wouldn’t give me a

drop of real drink of any kind, you know, you don’t know what it’s like when your brain is full

of liquid fire and you can smell, drink and taste it, but they won’t give you any. But I can’t

remember anyone coming to see me, why should they? I do remember once dreaming that Marie

Bluehm came to see me to ask about Dirk, I knew she wasn’t real because she was dead, I might

have talked to her. She gave me some schnapps, or I thought she did. It was a nice dream, most

of them—” Reck shuddered.

“Listen,” said Hambledon, who had been watching him closely. “Can you remember how