The Spy Paramount

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Not in the least,” he assured her. “In a few minutes, though, we shall have our friend Behrling here and it will all begin again. I would so much sooner take you somewhere else where Behrling is not likely to appear and ask you a few questions which you would find quite easy to answer.”

  A brilliant smile parted her lips.

  “Now you talk more as I had hoped,” she confided. “Indeed, if you would let me I would wish to be your companion all the time that you are here. All the devotion I can offer is at your command, but I will be honest with you—there are still a few things I want to know.”

  “Elida,” he said, “I do not believe that there is a single thing in the world I could tell you that you do not know already. For instance, heaps of people must have told you that you have the most beautiful hazel-brown eyes in the world.”

  She patted his hand.

  “If I were Nina or Greta,” she observed, “I should throw my arms around your neck. You would wish it—yes?”

  It was a very beautiful arm, but he shook his head.

  “It is absurd of me,” he confessed, “but I should be afraid that you were not sincere.”

  “How very Anglo-Saxon!” she meditated. “What on earth has sincerity to do with it?”

  “To the sentimentalist—” he began.

  “My dear new friend Martin,” she interrupted, “do not let us spoil everything before we begin. We are neither of us sentimentalists. We are both just playing a game: fortunately it is a pleasant game. I am afraid that you mean to win. Never mind, there are pleasures—But do not speak about sentiment. That belongs to the world we leave behind us when we take our country into our hearts.”

  “The wrong word, I suppose,” he admitted. “On the other hand, I do confess to being a trifle maudlin. If I had any secrets to give away, you would succeed where Behrling would fail.”

  “But you have none?”

  “Not a ghost of one,” he assured her.

  Her face suddenly lost its softened charm. She was looking past him towards the door. He leaned forward and followed her gaze; then, though nothing audible escaped his lips, he whistled softly to himself. It was Krust who had entered with Fräulein Nina, Krust in bulging white shirt-front and waistcoat, his dinner-coat tightly stretched across the shoulders, his beautifully shaven face pink and white, his hair brushed smoothly back. He recognised Fawley instantly. He deposited his companion at their table and made his way up the room. For the first part of his progress the most beatifically welcoming smile parted his lips. Then he saw Elida and the good humour faded from his face. His lips took an unpleasant curve, his eyes seemed to recede into his head. Again the mask fell. He came towards them with outstretched hands. The smile re-established itself.

  “My friend Fawley,” he exclaimed. “I have an opportunity, then, of making my apologies for leaving your salon so abruptly. An engagement of the utmost importance came into my mind as I heard your friends at the door.”

  He shook hands with Fawley and looked questioningly at Elida.

  “I believe, Princess,” he ventured, with a stiff bow, “that I have had the pleasure.”

  She shook her head.

  “I am afraid that you are mistaken,” she said coldly.

  Krust was not in the least discomposed. He pointed down the room to where Nina waved her hand gaily at Fawley.

  “My work here is finished,” he confided. “Others more capable are taking it over. I return to-morrow to Monte Carlo. The thought of it has made the little one very happy. And you, my friend?”

  “I am never sure of my movements,” was the vague reply.

  “If I had not found you so charmingly occupied,” Krust continued, “I would ask you to join us.”

  “As you see, it is impossible,” Fawley pointed out, a trifle curtly.

  Krust, his good humour apparently completely restored, took his leave. He had only proceeded a few steps, however, when he came to a pause on the edge of the dancing-floor. There was the sound of commotion from the entrance hall of the place, a tangle of angry voices, a peremptory command given in an official tone, a glimpse of grey uniforms and the flash of arms. The music stopped, the dancers at that end of the room hurried towards the doorway. Krust followed their example, but he was too late. A heavy black curtain which hung over the entrance was drawn by some unseen hand, the sound behind was partially deadened. Suddenly the manager pushed the curtains back and appeared upon the floor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, honourable clients of mine,” he announced, “the slight disturbance outside is over. Kindly resume your seats. Some young men, members of a recently inaugurated society, endeavoured to enter in uniform—which is strictly against the rules. The police interfered and they have been sent to their homes.”

  There was a brief silence. Few people understood the exact nature of the disturbance. Here and there, however, was an angry snarl of voices. The veins were standing out on Krust’s forehead. He strode up to the manager in a fury.

  “Who sent for the police?” he demanded.

  “There was no need to send for them,” was the prompt reply. “The young gentlemen were followed here from the gardens.”

  “Did you refuse them entrance to your restaurant?” Krust persisted.

  Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths. There was a queer strained silence in the luxurious little place.

  “It is against the law for anyone to enter wearing an unrecognised uniform,” the manager declared. “I told them so. Whilst we were discussing the matter the police appeared.”

  “You will bow down to that uniform before many days have passed,” Krust prophesied furiously.

  “Ach, that or another!” was the equally angry reply.

  Krust stepped forward as though to deal a blow. Nina, who had left her place, silently threw her arms around his neck. She whispered something in his ear. He suffered himself to be led away. The orchestra struck up again. The dancing recommenced….

  “Behold,” Elida exclaimed, as she watched the waiter filling her glass with champagne, “a tableau! A situation which might have become more than dramatic. Krust—the monarchist spy—with one of his little butterflies. Major Fawley, the Italian mercenary, the trusted agent of Berati. I, Elida di Rezco di Vasena, who have gone over at the peril of my life to the new order. We line the walls of this restaurant. What are we playing at? I scarcely know. We are all just a little hysterical these days. The restaurant is likely to be raided by the Communists if Behrling comes, by the monarchists if the refusal to admit those officers is reported at their headquarters, or by Behrling’s own men. What will our friend Berati say when he hears that you have been seen in such an environment?”

  “He will probably realise,” Fawley replied, “that I am going about my business and his in my own way. Mercenaries, as I dare say you know, are never over-officered. They are left with a certain measure of initiative. If one were to indulge in speculations,” he went on, after a momentary pause, “one might wonder what Krust does here. From the fact that Behrling suggested it as a rendezvous one might gather that this place is frequented by his followers. Is it not a little dangerous in these days when party spirit is running high to risk an encounter?”

  Elida shrugged her pearly white shoulders.

  “Krust can take care of himself,” she said. “He is, as I dare say you have heard, the richest man in Germany, and he is reputed to have a secret body of armed guards, some of whom are never far distant. In any case the present situation has all developed in a week. This was Von Salzenburg’s headquarters before Behrling decided to establish himself here. A month ago Gustaf there was bowing to other lords.”

  For the second time that evening some measure of commotion was manifest at the entrance. This time, however, there was no intimation of any dispute. A great man was being welcomed. Heinrich Behrling, in plain evening clothes, handed his overcoat an
d soft black hat to an attendant and followed Gustaf’s outstretched hand towards the table where Fawley and his companion were seated.

  Chapter XVI

  Fawley watched his approaching host with calm and critical interest. His travels in the country during the last few days had already convinced him that great events were looming. A tortured nation was on the point of breaking its bonds. An atmosphere of impending cataclysm was brooding over the place. The worn faces of the people, the continuous stream of processions, the crowded cafés, all gave evidence of it. It was as though there were dynamite upon the pavements and liquid dynamite in the air, dynamite which needed only a spark to light the storm. Even in this luxurious and secluded restaurant Fawley thought that the first mutterings of the thunder might begin…. Looking across the room he saw the good-natured expression fade from the face of Adolf Krust, the great industrialist, and saw his eyes receding into his head, alight as they were with hatred, saw the menacing curve of his lips as he stared at the approaching figure. Elida touched her companion on the arm.

  “You see what is happening,” she whispered. “Every other table in the restaurant has an engaged card upon it. Now watch.”

  Without any confusion or haste a well-behaved, good-looking crowd of young men, with here and there a woman companion, had followed Behrling into the place. Every one knew his table and occupied it swiftly. They wore no sort of uniform, these new-comers. They were dressed with singular precision in the fashion of the day, but there was a small brown ribbon upon the lapel of their dinner-coats. Furthermore, although they were of varying types, there was a curious similitude in their bearing and expression.

  “Interesting,” Fawley murmured. “I gather that these young men have all been subjected to some sort of military training?”

  “They are Behrling’s bodyguard,” she confided. “It is not his own idea, it is the idea of those who would protect him. Krust to-night, for instance, might easily have made mischief. What chance has he now? He has not been allowed a table within fifty feet of us, and his slightest movement will be watched.”

  She rose to her feet to welcome the new-comer. Fawley followed her example. Behrling, still without a smile upon his strong, colourless face, bowed formally to them both and sank into the vacant chair.

  “You have been entertained, I hope, Major Fawley?” he asked.

  “Admirably,” the other assured him.

  “You will remember that you are my guests,” he went on. “Supper, I think, has been already ordered. You will forgive me if I drink nothing but coffee and eat some plain food. I see,” he added, glancing across the room, “that our friends the enemy are represented here to-night.”

  Elida nodded.

  “Adolf Krust has been over to speak to us,” she remarked. “He looks upon Major Fawley as a lamb in danger of straying from the fold.”

  “I hear that he was at the Italian Embassy this evening,” Behrling confided. “Does that disconcert you, Major Fawley?”

  “Not in the least,” was the composed reply. “The work of investigation which I have to do I shall do in my own way and in my own fashion. Krust will not interfere with or influence me.”

  “You are in a difficult position,” Behrling continued, as he watched the glasses being refilled with champagne and sipped his own coffee. “Italy is employing you upon a very delicate mission because a great scheme has been thought out to the last details and an unexpected crisis has imperilled its fruition. There have arisen the questions—Who is Germany? What is Germany? Who shall speak for her? Who is there alive to-day who can sign a treaty in her name?”

  “These are all matters for statesmen,” Fawley observed. “Very difficult matters for an outsider to deal with.”

  Behrling’s tightened lips concealed his irritation. This impenetrable American was getting upon his nerves.

  “You are here, I presume, to report upon the situation,” he said. “All that I desire is that you will report upon it fairly. You saw, perhaps, the goose-step march of the weary veterans on their celebration day. What you saw was a true and just allegory. The weariness of those who fainted by the wayside—and there were many—is typical of the weariness of all the things they represent. How much you have seen of my people I do not know, but I make you this offer. I will make over to you one of my most trusted lieutenants and, with the Princess here as your guide, you shall visit the chosen spots of my country. You shall judge for yourself of the new spirit. You will be in a position then to tell those who employ you with whom it would be politic to deal.”

  “If you only see half as much as I have seen within the last few weeks,” Elida intervened, “it will be enough.”

  “You must please understand this,” Fawley said firmly, “I honestly do not believe that any word I could say would influence Berati or those who stand behind him in the least. He trusts none of his army of spies. He listens to every scrap of information we bring him and he decides for himself.”

  “Yes, but the great thing is to see that the spirit of the country is represented to him fairly,” Behrling declared passionately. “Can you not see that? Krust, they tell me, although he is not in favour just now, has been twice received in Rome—once at the Vatican. I know that for a fact.”

  “Krust must be received wherever he claims the entrée,” Fawley pointed out. “I suppose he still remains the greatest industrialist in Central Europe.”

  “He is also unfortunately the intimate friend of Von Salzenburg and his Royal patron,” was Behrling’s grim comment. “I am not pleading for myself. I am pleading only for the thousands of Germans who must go once more to their doom if a false note is struck now. They think in Rome that Germany is leaning towards the idea of a monarchy. She is doing nothing of the sort. When these clouds are cleared away, and believe me it will not be long, her programme will be before the world for everyone to see. Heart and soul she is nationalist. She is for a re-established and almighty Germany. She is for the peace that brains and industry can ensure.”

  A note was handed to Behrling. He read it and glanced meaningly at Elida.

  “I think that our host would like to speak with some of his friends,” she said. “Will you dance for a few minutes, Major Fawley?”

  Fawley looked enquiringly at his host. The latter’s acquiescence was swift.

  “I see there two of my party with whom I have affairs,” he said. “Do not leave me without a farewell, Major, or without giving me your decision. Remember, I shall expect nothing but a favourable one.”

  Fawley felt his feet upon the earth again. Elida, notwithstanding the smooth grace of her movements, clung to him every now and then as though he represented destiny, as though he were the only pillar of security remaining in a world threatening flood. Fawley, whose complete humanity was one of the possible elements of his success in his profession, felt her allure without the slightest idea of yielding to it.

  “You must accept Heinrich Behrling’s offer,” she whispered eagerly. “You would not be doing your duty to the country which employs you if you did not. We can go to all the important places the very names of which are seldom mentioned in the papers nowadays. We can go by aeroplane. One of Behrling’s warmest supporters is the largest maker of aeroplanes in Europe.”

  “What do you expect to gain from me at the end of it?” he asked, genuinely a little puzzled.

  “Cannot you see,” she murmured passionately, “that this German-Italian scheme would mean the reconstruction of Europe? It would bring power and supremacy to both nations and would place them where they have a right to belong. Behrling is terribly afraid that Berati’s leanings are towards the other party and that he will not conclude a treaty with anyone else.”

  “I can understand that part of it,” Fawley assented, “but I am certain that my own importance in the matter is overrated. I am here on a special errand concerning which I have to make a detailed report. Berati does n
ot ask me for my views upon the situation. The Italian Government are satisfied with their own correspondents here. I should simply be butting in if I went home with a lot of information which they have probably already acquired.”

  “But they have not,” she insisted, with a fierce little clutch at his arm. “There was never a man in this world—a clever man, I mean—so befooled by another as Berati’s master has been by Krust. If Berati only knew the truth, there would be no further hesitation. Now listen. I must tell you more about Heinrich Behrling. I must tell you more about the monarchists here. Do you suppose that I, who am connected with three of the Royal families of Europe, who have nothing but monarchists’ blood in my veins, could turn aside if I were not utterly and completely convinced? Come this way.”

  She led him into a little recess, pushed back the curtain and showed the way into a small but wonderfully decorated and luxurious bar. A fat and genial-looking dispenser of drinks stood behind the counter. Elida ordered champagne frappé and drew Fawley down on to a divan. He indulged in a dubious grimace.

  “I was rather enjoying that dance with you,” he complained.

  “Have not I offered you,” she reminded him, in a voice which shook with earnestness, “all the dancing with me you might care for all the days of your life? I am sincere, too. I want many things from you, but first of all I want you to take that journey with me.”

  “If I took it,” he told her, “if you convinced me, as you very likely might, if I flew straight back to Rome and showed Berati the whole truth, I am not sure that it would make one particle of difference. You probably know the man—he takes advice from no one and he is very seldom wrong.”

  “Take me to him, then,” she begged. “I am forbidden the country, but I will risk that. I tried to take his life, but I will risk his retaliation.”

  Fawley tried to impart a lighter note to a conversation which was becoming too highly charged with emotion.