# The Hidden Army

Extracted from Windsor magazine, Vol 23, 1905-06 pp. 684-692. Accompanying illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo omitted.
THE HIDDEN ARMY.
By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.
A DOZEN men were seated around a table in the stuffy, stale-odoured room—and a spokesman on whom all their eyes were bent.
"It is for that, my brothers, that you are summoned here to-night," he was saying in a low yet distinct tone. "It is to bid you prepare. We have sure advices. The wrath of the Fatherland is kindled. Even now, our great and invincible army is being mobilised. Soon you shall rule in the country where you have served!"
There was a little murmur of guttural approval. The faces of the men turned towards the speaker were of various types enough, but their dress was uniform—the grease-stained, shapeless livery of the waiter fresh from his night's toil.
The man at the head of the table twirled his fair moustache fiercely.
"Ah!" he cried, "my children, think what it means! They force a landing, our brave German soldiers, and what do they find? An opposing army of the cowards who ran from the Boers! Perhaps—but what else! An army of brave men, many thousands strong, trained, armed, sprung from who knows where?—as eager to strike for the Fatherland, and crush these fat, stiff-necked English, as their brothers who come fresh from the barracks. Think what a joyful surprise—what a certainty of victory, what glory for all of us who have secretly planned and organised the army of hidden men! Brothers! The Fatherland!—and victory!"
They grunted and drank and grunted again. The chairman took up his hat.
"I ask you," he said, "to drink one more toast—success to my mission! I cannot tell you what it is. One man only, save myself, knows it. But I can tell you this: If I am successful, your rifles will be on your shoulders before many days are past, and you will see these English, as you march through the streets, scurry to their holes like rabbits. I go to make the war!"
They drank, and set down their empty tankards. Their voices were scarcely raised above a whisper, for this was a business meeting of the Waiters' Trades Union Association.
"Success to Max! To the war!"
A neatly dressed young man, fair, with waxed moustache, and a bearing which seemed to indicate some sort of military training, stepped out from a small pony-cart in front of the Grand Hotel, Settlingham-by-the-Sea, and promptly commenced a spirited argument with the driver as to the fare. Having ascertained the exact legal amount, he paid it in a shilling and some carefully counted coppers. Then, carrying his own bag, he marched into the hotel.
"Is the manager, Mr. Rice, in, miss?" he asked the young lady at the office.
She glanced behind her. The manager stepped forward. The young man took off his hat.
"My name," he said, "is Spielman. I received your wire, and I have come by the earliest possible train."
The manager was disposed to be affable and held out his hand.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Spielman," he said. "The hall-boy here will show you your room, and you had better change as soon as possible. Will you step inside and have something first?"
"I should enjoy," the young man answered, "a glass of beer. It is a warm afternoon!"
He entered the little bar behind the office and bowed to the young ladies, who received his greeting with a mixture of condescension and reserve. A head-waiter was a person who had been known to presume upon his position.
"I trust," Mr. Spielman said, "that business is fairly good, sir?"
"We are very nearly full up," the manager answered. "You will find plenty to do."
"I like work," the young man said simply. "Is there anyone to whom you wish me to show special attention?"
"Certainly," the manager answered—"I am glad you mentioned it. I will give you the names of the others to-morrow, but our most important visitor just now is Lord Brentmore."
The head-waiter bowed. It was one of his professional habits always to bow at the mention of a lord's name.
"A very rich gentleman?" he inquired deferentially.
"Not only rich," the manager answered, "but he is a Cabinet minister—Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. He has come down here, with all his family, for a rest and a month's golf. Not that he gets much rest, poor fellow, with all these Continental troubles getting worse everyday. By the by, Mr. Spielman, are you a German?"
"I am a Swiss," lied Mr. Spielman.
"Can't say I'm sorry," the manager admitted. "Mr. Spielman, I don't want to hurry you, but—"
Mr. Spielman finished his beer at once.
"In one quarter of an hour," he announced, "I shall be in the dining-room."
The new arrival was shown to his room on the fifth floor, and with expressionless face made a rapid toilet. On his way to the dining-room he met, in the hall, a young man who was lounging against a table, with a paper in his hand, and who surveyed him curiously through an eyeglass. Mr. Spielman bowed and passed on to his duties, but a slight frown had gathered upon his forehead.
"I was an ass!" he murmured softly.
The young man, who was called the Honourable Philip Usher, and was Lord Brentmore's private secretary, strolled towards the door and met his Lordship, who was just coming in from golf.
"Good match, sir?" he asked.
Lord Brentmore's face was beaming.
"Excellent," he answered. "We played a four-ball—the Colonel and I against Holland and Dick. The Colonel was off his game, only came in once, but we won two up. I did five threes."
Usher nodded sympathetically. "There is one despatch, sir," he said. "I have decoded it. Shall I come upstairs with you now?"
Lord Brentmore led the way to a private sitting-room on the first floor and listened to the message. His face clouded over a little.
"A bit stiff, eh?" he remarked.
Usher nodded.
"It may be my fancy, sir," he said, "but it really seems to me that they want to force a quarrel."
"We won't have it," Brentmore answered. "We can't afford it. If war must come, it must, but not now. Another couple of years, and we can snap our fingers at them."
"I am afraid," Usher remarked, "that our friends realise that."
"I wouldn't mind so much," Lord Brentmore continued, "if I could get the chief and Morland to realise the position. Practically, you know, Usher," he added, glancing round the room and lowering his voice a little, "I am the only man in the Cabinet who is hot for peace."
"I know it, sir," Usher answered, "and I know that you are right. That is why I am glad that you are so much better just now. If you were laid up, I believe that we should be at war in a week."
Lord Brentmore nodded.
"Fortunately," he said, "I never felt better in my life. This place suits me exactly. I shall build a house here some day."
"I wish that you had one now, sir," Usher answered. "When so much depends upon you, I am not sure that it is wise to stay in a hotel."
Lord Brentmore shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing could happen to me here," he remarked, "to which I should not be liable in my own house. Besides, as you know, we could not get a house. Now, then, Usher, if you are ready, I'll give you down a reply. I'm going to try the gentle answer."
The new head-waiter was apparently a great success. He was prompt, courteous, and possessed of obvious administrative gifts. No one in the room could complain of being neglected, but his chief attention was not unnaturally bestowed upon Lord Brentmore's party, which consisted of his Lordship himself, his wife, one daughter. Lady Eva, and Usher. He frequently brought them dishes with his own hands, and they found every want anticipated. Usher eyed him more than once curiously.
"I'm inclined to be a democrat," he remarked, when their new attendant was out of the room for a moment, "but I can't help thinking that fellow had rather a cheek to come down from town first class."
Lord Brentmore looked up amused. "Are you sure that he did?" he asked.
"Absolutely," Usher answered; "we were in the same carriage for some distance, until I changed into an empty one at Ipswich. Saw you coming down, didn't I?" he remarked, as Spielman reappeared.
"I believe so, sir," the head-waiter answered quietly. "A friend of mine gave me a pass."
"That's a lie," Usher muttered, as Spielman hurried off to another table. "I saw him give up his ticket."
Lord Brentmore smiled.
"After all, why not?" he remarked. "We all have one pet extravagance. His may be travelling first class. Mine, if I could afford to indulge in it, would be to put down a new ball on every tee."
"I don't see why he wanted to lie about it, anyhow," Usher remarked.
They left the room soon afterwards. Usher sought out the manager in his room.
"Mr. Rice," he said, "I hope you won't think me a nuisance, But can you tell me anything about your new head-waiter?"
"Certainly, sir," the manager answered. "I trust that he has given satisfaction?"
"Absolutely," Usher answered. "It isn't that. There are just a few things I should like to know. Is he a German?"
"No, sir, a Swiss."
"H'm!" Usher remarked. "He doesn't look like one? Now, can you tell me this? Lord Brentmore first wrote you about coming here in July, didn't he?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you engage this fellow before or after then?"
"Afterwards, sir. In fact, I did not engage him at all. Hausman was coming, the dark German from the Imperial, who was here last year—you may remember him, sir; but it seems he was taken ill, and Spielman has come on to take his place for a month."
"At Hausman's recommendation?"
"Yes, sir. I had other references, though."
"Does it pay these fellows to come down here?" Usher asked.
The manager smiled.
"Wonderfully well, sir," he answered. "I know for a fact that Hausman made more in his three months here last year than he could make in a twelvemonth at the Imperial. I shouldn't have engaged him again on the same terms, but he begged so hard, and the visitors here liked him so much."
Usher nodded.
"He wouldn't be likely to give up the job of his own accord, then?" he remarked.
"Sham being ill, or anything of that sort?"
"Is it likely, sir?" the manager asked. "Besides, I saw him in London only last week, and he was most eager about it."
Usher nodded and turned away.
"I trust that there isn't anything about the new man that you disapprove of, sir?" Mr. Rice asked with concern.
"Nothing at all," Usher answered. "He seems a most capable fellow. Please don't let him think that I've been complaining. He seems to know his business thoroughly."
"But," Usher added to himself as he went upstairs, "I am not quite sure what his business is."
Lady Eva waited below for her escort in their usual after-dinner stroll for a long time. Usher, having first locked the door, spent nearly an hour in the sitting-room where Lord Brentmore and he usually worked. He first of all re-set all the combination locks of the despatch-boxes, and sealed them up with a signet-ring, which he carefully replaced upon his finger. Then he took out the code-book and disposed of it in a secret place about his own person. Finally, he destroyed the blotting-paper and burnt all the fragments of destroyed letters which he could find in the waste-paper basket. Lord Brentmore came in just as he had finished.
"What on earth are you up to, Usher?" he asked.
"Taking precautions, sir," the young man answered.
"Against what?"
"I'm not sure. Espionage, I suppose."
Lord Brentmore's eyes twinkled. For a statesman, he was distinctly an unimaginative person.
"Do you suspect anyone in particular?" he asked.
Usher nodded. "The new head-waiter," he answered briefly.
"Because he came first class?"
"That and many other reasons," Usher answered.
Lord Brentmore lit a cigar.
"Go ahead!" he said.
"Right!" Usher answered. "To begin with, he came first class because he wished to escape observation, and he was busy all the time sorting papers. I took him for someone's private secretary. Then, he came as substitute for another man, who is supposed to be ill, but who served me with my luncheon yesterday morning at the Imperial. The change was made since it was announced that you were coming here. Further, he calls himself a Swiss, when I'm perfectly certain he's a full-fledged German."
Lord Brentmore was unconvinced.
"Supposing he is a spy," he said, "what good can he do himself here? We are not likely to talk secrets before him, or to leave despatches about."
Usher shrugged his shoulders.
"I am sure of one thing only," he said, "he wants watching."
II.
The next morning Lord Brentmore was late for breakfast. When, at last, he appeared, Usher regarded him anxiously. The healthy colour of the night before had gone. He was pale, almost sallow, his eyes were clouded, and the flesh under them was baggy. He had all the appearance of a man suffering from a bad bilious attack.
"Good morning," he said curtly, sinking into his chair. "Tea and dry toast only for me, waiter."
"Seedy?" Usher inquired laconically.
"Liver!" Lord Brentmore answered irritably. "That brutal sweet champagne, I suppose."
"Hard luck," Usher answered. "You'll have to take it easy to-day."
"I'm down here to play golf, and I shall play golf," Lord Brentmore growled. "The Colonel will knock my head off, I suppose, though. What's this?"
"Some fresh tea, sir," the head-waiter answered. "The other has been standing some little time."
Lord Brentmore drank two cups, and ate a little toast. Then he went out on the links, and returned to the hotel at lunch-time a little better. He ate a sole specially prepared, drank one whisky-and-soda, and went back to golf. About four o'clock, however, he returned, looking worse than ever.
"I shall have to lie down," he announced shortly. "Any despatches?"
"Two," Usher announced. "They are important. I will read them to you upstairs."
Lord Brentmore listened to the messages with darkening face.
"Upon my word," he said fiercely, "it makes one feel that the Chief and Morland are right. It's no use humbugging about with these fellows. I've a good mind to give them what they're asking for!"
Usher looked at his chief anxiously.
"Isn't that just what they are aiming at, sir?" he remarked. "They have been trying all the time to goad us into a belligerent frame of mind."
"And, egad, they'll succeed soon!" Lord Brentmore answered. "Here, take down."
It took Usher nearly an hour's persuasion before he got the message into reasonable terms. When he returned from sending it off, he brought back with him the Settlingham doctor. Lord Brentmore was obviously annoyed, but submitted himself to the usual examination. The doctor was thoughtful for a moment or two afterwards. He sat with his note-book in his hand, as though about to write a prescription, but instead he asked a few more and apparently irrelevant questions.
"Liver, I suppose?" Lord Brentmore asked, when at last the physician's pencil began to move.
"Yes," the doctor answered. "You should be quite yourself in a couple of days."
He gave some instructions as to diet and handed over his prescription. Usher left the room with him.
"Rather sudden attack, isn't it?" he remarked.
"Very, I should say," was the answer, "The symptoms are a little puzzling, but they do not point to anything serious."
Usher drew a little closer to the doctor's side and took his arm as they descended the staircase.
"No trace at all of—poison, I suppose?" he inquired.
The doctor started. The suggestion was somewhat startling.
"No," he answered. "I can't say that. His Lordship must have taken something to disagree with him rather violently. Beyond that, there is nothing to be said. I think he will be better to-morrow."
Usher went back to his chief.
"If I were you, sir," he said, "I should leave this place."
"What do you mean?" Lord Brentmore asked testily.
"Frankly," Usher answered, "I believe that head-waiter has been interfering with your food."
"Then you're an ass!" Lord Brentmore declared. "I haven't patience to listen to such rubbish!"
Usher went out and sent a telegram to Scotland Yard. He went also to the manager, and the next day there was a new assistant in the kitchen. Luncheon-time passed without incident. Lord Brentmore was very irritable, ate nothing, and looked worse than ever. He had abandoned any attempt to play golf, and sat studying some recent despatches with an ominous frown. He came in late to dinner, and gave an order to the head-waiter, who attended him obsequiously to his chair. Five minutes afterwards the trouble came.
Usher heard the clatter of falling dishes and the sound of raised voices, and springing from his chair hastened to the screened-off passage from the kitchen. The head-waiter, immaculate no longer, but with stained shirt-front and eyes almost starting from his head, was held by the throat by the new cook's assistant, and on the floor, by the side of a broken dish, was what seemed to be a small silver phial, with holes perforated at the top. The detective touched it with his foot.
"Pick up that, sir," he said, recognising Usher. "I caught him shaking it over the sole he was taking to Lord Brentmore."
Usher stooped down and put it in his pocket. The waiters were beginning to gather round.
"Bring him this way," Usher directed. A minute later they were in an unoccupied room at the rear of the building. The detective let go his prisoner, who stood for a few moments breathing heavily.
"Are you both mad?" he asked, with a show at least of indignation. "What have I done to be treated like this?"
"I fancy," Usher answered coolly, "that we can answer your question better when we have had the contents of this little phial analysed. In the meantime the police had better take care of you!"
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"As you will," he answered contemptuously. "I am curious to know, however, what I shall be charged with."
The detective smiled.
"Perhaps I shall be able to tell you better, Mr. Max Meyell," he said, "when we have searched the premises of the Waiters' Trades Union. I've had a hint about you before."
There was a blinding flash—a loud report, and the detective staggered backwards. The room was full of smoke—Usher sprang to the door, but he was too late. He wrenched it open. At the end of the passage the head-waiter was coming calmly towards him.
"I am ready for your arrest, sir," he said, bowing and holding out his hands, as though for the handcuffs. "I trust that the gentleman inside is not hurt, but I was forced to send a message before I could comfortably make the acquaintance of your English prison. For Milord Brentmore you need have no anxiety; he will very soon be well."
The detective came out with his left arm hanging helpless.
"He's done us, sir," he said gloomily. "There are forty-six German waiters here, and Heaven knows which one—— Ah!"
He rushed for the telephone. The wire was cut and the instrument smashed. Outside, a little German waiter, with his coat-tails flying behind him, was bending over a bicycle on his way to the post-office.
"Quite a genius," Usher remarked. "Take his revolver away."
The head-waiter stepped back and bowed professionally. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he pressed the muzzle to his forehead and blew out his brains.
"The Fatherland!" he muttered, as he fell in a crumpled heap across the threshold.
"Quite au Japonais,' Lord Brentmore remarked when they told him about it.
Lord Brentmore was playing golf again in two days, and once more the war clouds lightened. The premises of the Waiters' Union were duly raided, and it was a very harmless lot of documents which fell into the hands of the police, and a much injured society who shouted of their wrongs. But another reigns in Max Meyell, alias Spielman's place, and many a garret bedroom in Soho or thereabouts is still adorned with the waiting rifle.
Copyright, 1906, by E. Phillips Oppenheim, in the United States of America.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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