He speaks German without accent; French with an English accent.
Until incarcerated (in Holzminden camp) he had never been intemperate. There, however, through orders from Berlin, he was tempted and encouraged in the use of intoxicantsother drink, indeed, being excluded from his allowanceso that after the second year he had become more or less addicted (to the use of alcohol).
Unhappily, however, this policy, which had been so diligently and so thoroughly pursued in order to make him talkative and to surprise secrets from him when intoxicated (failed to produce the so properly expected results and) only succeeded in making of the young man a hopeless drunkard.
Sterner measures had been decided on, and, in fact, had already been applied, when the prisoner escaped by tunnelling.
Now, it is most necessary to discover this McKay (man's whereabouts and to have him destroyed by our agents in New York). Only his death can restore to the (Imperial German) Government its perfect sense of security and its certainty of (ultimate) victory.
The necessity (for his destruction) lies in the unfortunate and terrifying fact that he is cognisant of the Great Secret! He should have been executed at Holzminden within an hour (of his incarceration).
This was the urgent advice of Von Tirpitz. But unfortunately High Command intervened with the expectation (of securing from the prisoner) further information (concerning others who, like himself, might possibly have become possessed in some measure of a clue to the Great Secret)? E. E.
The result is bad. (That the prisoner has escaped without betraying a single word of information useful to us.) E. E.
Therefore, find him and have him silenced without delay. The security of the Fatherland depends on this (man's immediate death).
M 17. (Evidently the writer of the letter) E. E.
For a long time Vaux sat studying cipher and translation. And at last he murmured:
"Surely, surely. Finevery fine. Excellent work. ButWHAT is the Great Secret?"
There was only one man in America who knew.
And he had landed that morning from the Scandinavian steamer, Peer Gynt, and, at that very moment, was standing by the bar of the Hotel Astor, just sober enough to keep from telling everything he knew to the bartenders, and just drunk enough to talk too much in a place where the enemy always listens.
He said to the indifferent bartender who had just served him:
"'F you knew what I know 'bout Germany, you'd be won'ful man! I'M won'ful man. I know something! Going tell, too. Going see 'thorities this afternoon. Going tell 'em great secret! Grea' milt'ry secret! Tell 'em all 'bout it! Grea' secresh! Nobody knows grea'-sekresh 'cep m'self! Whaddya thinka that? Gimme l'il Hollanschnapps n'water onna side!"
Hours later he was, apparently, no drunkeras though he could not manage to get beyond a certain stage of intoxication, no matter how recklessly he drank.
"'Nother Hollenschnapps," he said hazily. "Goin' see 'thorities 'bout grea' sekresh! Tell 'em all 'bout it. Anybody try stop me, knockem down. Thassa way. N-n-nockem out!stan' no nonsense! Ge' me?"
Later he sauntered off on slightly unsteady legs to promenade himself in the lobby and Peacock Alley.
Three men left the barroom when he left. They continued to keep him in view.
Although he became no drunker, he grew politer after every drinkalso whiter in the faceand the bluish, bruised look deepened under his eyes.
But he was a Chesterfield in manners; he did not stare at any of the lively young persons in Peacock Alley, who seemed inclined to look pleasantly at him; he made room for them to pass, hat in hand.
Several times he went to the telephone desk and courteously requested various numbers; and always one of the three men who had been keeping him in view stepped into the adjoining booth, but did not use the instrument.
Several times he strolled through the crowded lobby to the desk and inquired whether there were any messages or visitors for Mr. Kay McKay; and the quiet, penetrating glances of the clerks on duty immediately discovered his state of intoxication but nothing else, except his extreme politeness and the tense whiteness of his face.
Two of the three men who were keeping him in view tried, at various moments, to scrape acquaintance with him in the lobby, and at the bar; and without any success.
The last man, who had again stepped into an adjoining booth while McKay was telephoning, succeeded, by inquiring for McKay at the desk and waiting there while he was being paged.
The card on which this third man of the trio had written bore the name Stanley Brown; and when McKay hailed the page and perused the written name of his visitor he walked carefully back to the lobbynot too fast, because he seemed to realise that his legs, at that time, would not take kindly to speed.
In the lobby the third man approached him:
"Mr. McKay?"
"Mr. Brown?"
"A. I. O. agent," said Brown in a low voice. "You telephoned to Major Biddle, I believe."
McKay inspected him with profound gravity:
"How do," he said. "Ve' gla', m'sure. Ve' kind 'f'you come way up here see me. But I gotta see Major Biddle."
"I understand. Major Biddle has asked me to meet you and bring you to him."
"Oh. Ve' kind, 'm'sure. Gotta see Major. Confidential. Can' tell anybody 'cep Major."
"The Major will meet us at the Pizza, this evening," explained Brown. "Meanwhile, if you will do me the honour of dining with me"
"Ve' kind. Pleasure, 'm'sure. Have li'l drink, Mr. Brown?"
"Not here," murmured Brown. "I'm not in uniform, but I'm known."
"Quite so. Unnerstan' perfec'ly. Won'do. No."
"Had you thought of dressing for dinner?" inquired Mr. Brown carelessly.
McKay nodded, went over to the desk and got his key. But when he returned to Brown he only laughed and shoved the key into his pocket.
"Forgot," he explained. "Just came over. Haven't any clothes. Got these in Christiania. Ellis Island style. 'S'all I've got. Good overcoat though." He fumbled at his fur coat as he stood there, slightly swaying.
"We'll get a drink where I'm not known," said Brown. "I'll find a taxi."
"Ve' kind," murmured McKay, following him unsteadily to the swinging doors that opened on Long Acre, now so dimly lighted that it was scarcely recognisable.
An icy blast greeted them from the darkness, refreshing McKay for a moment; but in the freezing taxi he sank back as though weary, pulling his beaver coat around him and closing his battered eyes.
"Had a hard time," he muttered. "Feel done in. Prisoner. .. . Gottaway. . . . Three months making Dutch border. Hell. Tell Major all 'bout it. Great secret."
"What secret is that?" asked Brown, peering at him intently through the dim light, where he swayed in the corner with every jolt of the taxi.
"Sorry, m'dear fellow. Mussn' ask me that. Gotta tell Major n'no one else."
"But I am the Major's confidential"
"Sorry. You'll 'scuse me, 'm'sure. Can't talk Misser Brow!'gret 'ceedingly 'cessity reticence. Unnerstan'?"
The taxi stopped before a vaguely lighted saloon on Fifty-ninth Street east of Fifth Avenue. McKay opened his eyes, looked around him in the bitter darkness, stumbled out into the snow on Brown's arm.
"A quiet, cosy little cafe," said Brown, "where I don't mind joining you in something hot before dinner."
"Thasso? Fine! Hot Scotch we' good 'n'cold day. We'll havva l'il drink keep us warm 'n'snug."
A few respectable-looking men were drinking beer in the cafe as they entered a little room beyond, where a waiter came to them and took Brown's orders.
Hours later McKay seemed to be no more intoxicated than he had been; no more loquacious or indiscreet. He had added nothing to what he had already disclosed, boasted no more volubly about the "great secret," as he called it.