The Apartment Next Door, William Andrew Johnston [red novels .txt] 📗

to dodge past and escape.

To prolong the questioning, Jane felt, would be only to arouse suspicion, and reluctantly she allowed old Lena to precede her to the elevator, anticipating her, however, in ringing the bell, pressing the button four times as Dean had directed. As they descended together she was almost in a panic. How long had she kept the laundress on the roof? She really had no idea. She had been so absorbed in her new discovery she had given no thought to the time. For all she knew she might have been there only five minutes. Had Dean had time to finish his work?

Almost frenzied with anxiety, wondering if it were too soon, she moved forward in the car so as to obstruct old Lena's view through the door as it opened. One glance showed her the Hoff door now tightly closed, and she thought she heard the door of her own apartment just closing. Suddenly she remembered that she had gone up on the roof without a key. It would be a pretty pass if Dean were still in the Hoff apartment and she couldn't get into her own.

All in a tremble she pressed the button of her own door, waiting, however, to see that the laundress was out of the hall. It was Dean who opened the door, and she all but fainted in his arms as she saw that he was back in safety.

"It's done," he cried gleefully, as he caught her and drew her within, closing the door carefully behind her. "I just finished my work as you came down."

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 assigned 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."
Saturday--"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, passwords 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 Saturday they had gone to a matinée 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 matinée 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 attitude of the utmost respect until the last bar was completed. If he were only pretending the rôle 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.