21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “What about the Anschluss?”’

  “No politics, there’s a dear fellow,” Lascelles begged. “I don’t know where the Germans got the idea from,” he added, looking round, “but they always think that Englishmen—especially if they are connected with diplomacy in any way—are nothing but ‘gasbags/ This place is a favourite rendezvous of the Royalists—the few of them that are left. I should think we are certain to have a visit from the Gestapo, unless Victor succeeds in keeping them away. Wish I were going back with you, Charles. Central Europe is getting on my nerves.”

  The caviar arrived and with its many et ceteras absorbed the attention of the two men for a time.

  “There is no vodka like this in the world,” Lascelles remarked as he sipped it slowly. “Soft as velvet, isn’t it?”

  “It’s marvellous,” his friend agreed. “Perfect food, perfect wine and glorious women. Think what would happen to us if anything went wrong with Vienna!”

  Lascelles’ face seemed suddenly to have lost all expression. His fingers were toying with the flask of vodka.

  “Gestapo!” he murmured under his breath. “The one thing I regret in Vienna just now is the passing of the polo. Since the Hungarian team broke up there hasn’t been a decent game.”

  “It’s the County cricket I miss through travelling so much,” Mildenhall observed with equal seriousness. “I saw Yorkshire play twice last year but I missed the West Indian Test Match. Free hitting and lots of it—that’s the type of cricket I like to see.”

  Four members of the Gestapo—brawny, muscular young men with evil faces—stood in the middle of the restaurant talking to a very solemn-faced Victor. One of them detached himself and strolled in leisurely fashion about the place gazing insolently at the diners. Before one of the least conspicuous tables, where a man was dining alone, he stopped. The man continued to eat, taking apparently no notice of what was going on around him. The intruder knocked on the table with his knuckles. The diner looked up and asked what seemed to be a simple question. The S.S. man shouted at him angrily. His voice was heard all over the room.

  “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  “Behrling—Antoine Behrling,” was the distinctly spoken reply.

  “Your papers!”

  The man looked up.

  “It is not necessary for me to carry papers,” he said. “I am Viennese.”

  “You are a Jew,” the other declared angrily.

  The diner shrugged his shoulders.

  “I am nothing of the sort,” he answered. “I am a Catholic.”

  “We’ll see about that!”

  Victor came hurrying across the room. It evidently cost him an effort to speak politely.

  “This gentleman,” he said, “is a well-known lawyer. His name is Behrling and he is not the kind of person you are looking for at all.”

  “How do you know?”

  Victor turned away. The man looked after him scowling.

  “If you’re a lawyer, why didn’t you say so?” he asked, turning back to the table.

  “You did not ask me my profession.”

  “Do not leave your place until I give you permission!”

  The Nazi swaggered across the room towards where his companions were standing. They had a final look round, discussed Behrling for a moment but the apparent leader of the little band shook his head.

  “A lucky night for you, Victor,” one of the younger men remarked.

  “Not particularly,” was the quiet reply. “It is not a matter of chance at all. I have no patrons who would be likely to interest you.”

  “No impudence!” the sergeant snapped, pointing to a table. “Send us four glasses of beer over there.”

  “I regret,” Victor said, “that we do not serve beer in this restaurant.”

  “You’ll serve what I order!” was the angry retort.

  It was several moments before Victor spoke again. When he did so his voice seemed to have faded away. It was raised scarcely above a whisper. It was none the less impressive.

  “We natives and citizens of Vienna,” he said, “are well aware of the danger in which we stand. In a very short time you may be within your rights in forcing your way into a hundred-year-old restaurant and demanding that its rules shall be broken and that you shall occupy a table unbecomingly clothed. But tonight I am still master here. The Chief of the Police of the city has booked a table here to-night and is already due, so you will be able to state your grievances in a few minutes. Until that time comes you will kindly take your leave.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. The situation was beginning to present difficulties.

  “What if we order champagne?” one of the men blustered.

  “I should still refuse to serve you here as guests,” Victor announced. “I should also warn you that my champagne is very expensive.”

  Herr Antoine Behrling seemed to have been entirely forgotten. The four men swaggered out of the place. Victor watched them leave, waiting until he heard the door close behind them. Then he returned, making his way towards his office. Lascelles leaned forward towards him as he passed their bôite. The words of congratulation, however, died away upon his lips. He could see that the restaurateur was still shivering.

  “Bravely done, Victor,” he said pleasantly. “We shall enjoy all the more your most wonderful dinner.”

  “I have never tasted anything to compare with your young deer,” Mildenhall declared. “As for your Chateau Mouton-Rothschild—it has a fault.”

  Nothing could have galvanized Victor more suddenly into his ordinary self.

  “It was perhaps a little overwarm?” he suggested anxiously.

  “Not in the least, my friend,” his patron assured him. “But for wine drinkers—”

  “Yes?”

  “One bottle!”

  A smile broke across Victor’s lips. He was himself again. He drew a little silver thermometer from his pocket.

  “Five minutes, gentlemen. It shall be no longer,” he assured them. “I will guarantee you exactly the same temperature.”

  On their way out the Archduke summoned them. He shook hands with both.

  “My friend Lascelles I often see,” he remarked. “We play bridge sometimes at the club. You, Mr. Mildenhall, are more of a stranger. I believe, though, that we have met.”

  “I have had the honour of dining with you, sir, two years ago, after a shooting party near your Schloss>,” Mildenhall reminded him.

  “Of course I remember,” the Archduke said graciously. “You were staying with the Von Liebenstrahls. I remember remarking how well you young Englishmen shot considering the different conditions over here…Baroness, you must permit me to present my two friends—Mr. Lascelles from the British Embassy and Mr. Mildenhall, whom I heard someone once call a ‘diplomatic vagrant.’”

  The Baroness held out her fingers to Lascelles and afterwards received Mildenhall’s bow. Upon Lascelles she bestowed a smile of courtesy. She looked into Charles Mildenhall’s eyes with a different expression. It seemed to him, and he was by no means conceited, that she withdrew her fingers almost with reluctance.

  “Mr. Mildenhall does not come often enough to Vienna,” she remarked.

  “To-night’s experience tells me that you speak the truth, Baroness,” he replied.

  “What does His Highness mean when he calls you a ‘diplomatic vagrant’?” she asked.

  “I started life in the Diplomatic Service,” he told her, “but for some years I have been only partially attached.”

  “You lack fidelity?”

  “Scarcely that, Baroness. I happen to possess a gift which we English, I fear, acquire with too much difficulty. I have the knack of speaking most European languages. Therefore, if there is any small trouble in any one of these countries whose language seems to be brimming over with consonants, I act for our government as messenger boy or peacemaker. The occupation has its advantages, but I can conceive nothing more wonderful than being in my friend Lascelles’ position.”


  “And why?” she asked softly.

  He leaned a little farther across the table. Certainly hers were the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

  “Because I find Vienna the centre of civilization,” he told her. “It possesses the best food, the most wonderful wines and the most beautiful women in the world.”

  “And since when,” she persisted, “have you arrived at that conclusion?”

  He glanced at his platinum wrist watch.

  “Two hours and five minutes ago, Baroness.”

  “You are evidently a gourmet,” she smiled. “I noticed that you were taking great interest in those wonderful dishes which were being served at your table.”

  “A gesture, Baroness,” he assured her. “When one is so utterly content with one’s surroundings it is necessary, sometimes, to dissemble.”

  She leaned back in her place and laughed frankly.

  “From now on,” she declared, “I change my opinion of all Englishmen.”

  The Archduke grunted.

  “Mr. Lascelles,” he said, “you must remove your young friend. I am becoming jealous. Nevertheless, I hope that we shall all meet again before long.”

  He waved them graciously away.

  “Your opinion is unchanged?” Lascelles asked as he took his friend’s arm outside.

  “I still think,” Mildenhall replied, “that she is the most perfectly beautiful creature I have ever seen.”

  CHAPTER IV

  Table of Contents

  The mansion of Leopold Benjamin, more than once the habitation of royalty, was encircled by a railing of iron bars as thick as a man’s wrist, with spiked tops, reaching at least eight feet high. The lodge keeper, who somewhat reluctantly had answered Charles Mildenhall’s summons, took down his name in a book, after which he swung open the great gates and motioned him forward. As far as he could see, when at last he reached the imposing entrance, the whole house on the other side of the huge front door was in complete darkness. He raised the knocker—a massive, wrought-iron affair—after a few moments’ hesitation, and although he could hear the bell, with which it seemed to be connected, ringing somewhere in the realms of darkness beyond, he felt almost inclined to beat a retreat. It was a night of terror in the city. In the far distance he could hear the rat-tat-tat of machine guns and overhead the droning of planes. The streets were rapidly becoming deserted. To present oneself for an informal dinner party when all Vienna was shaken with tremors of fear, seemed a little ridiculous. He was, as a matter of fact, on the point of turning away when he became aware of a sudden blaze of light shining through the windows on either side of him. There were footsteps from within. The door was suddenly opened. A bowing manservant welcomed him and closed the door immediately upon his entrance.

  “Mr. Benjamin is, I think, expecting me for dinner,” Mildenhall announced, “or perhaps—” he hesitated. “The city is in such a disturbed state—”

  “Der gnãdiger Herr is expected,” the man assured him, collecting his coat and hat with another low bow. “Be so good as to follow me.”

  Mildenhall looked around him in astonishment. The great hall, which was more like the nave of a cathedral, was beautifully but softly illuminated by hundreds of shaded lamps. There were pictures hanging everywhere—Old Masters, many of them. The world-famous portrait of Frederick the Great dominated the wall on his right. Back in the shadows was the no-less-famous marble statue of Shunach’s Venus. There were treasures on either side of him on which he had no time to bestow more than a casual glance as he followed his guide into the great reception room.

  “Herr Mildenhall,” the man announced.

  At first Mildenhall thought that the huge apartment was empty. Then a girl, who had been curled up in an easy chair, threw down her book, shook out her skirts and rose to her feet. She came forward to meet him with a delightful smile of welcome.

  “I’m so sorry that Mr. Benjamin is a few minutes late,” she apologized as she held out her hand. “You will please excuse him, Mr. Mildenhall, and talk to me for a moment. My name is Patricia Grey. I am one of Mr. Benjamin’s secretaries.”

  “I am delighted to meet you. Miss Grey,” Mildenhall said. “To tell you the truth, after that bewildering walk from the front entrance it is rather a relief to find something of normal size.”

  She laughed gaily.

  “Do you know,” she told him, “half the people who come here as strangers and face the splendours of the hall for the first time arrive in this room in rather a dazed condition. It is more like a museum than a private house, I admit. Do sit down, please. There will be a cocktail directly. Tell me—is it quiet outside?”

  “Not very,” he admitted. “And by-the-by, half of Vienna believes that Mr. Benjamin left the city this morning. I’m afraid things don’t look very good.”

  “I think they look horrible,” she agreed. “You know, of course, from my accent that I am an American. We are used to noise in the streets in New York, but this is all different. It’s terribly upsetting. We’ve been trying hard to get Mr. Benjamin to leave, but he’s very obstinate sometimes. He always feels that he might be of help to some of his own people here.”

  “But what could he do?” Mildenhall asked. “The place seems to be in an uproar already. I really wondered whether I ought to come to-night. I would not have ventured but I went into the bank this afternoon and they told me there that Mr. Benjamin was not thinking of leaving.”

  “Mr. Benjamin,” she said, “is a wonderful man. He was born in Vienna in this very house and time after time he has announced his intention of dying here. The fact that he is a Jew never disturbs him. He calls himself Viennese. I should think no one has a better right.”

  The door was opened. Marius Blute was announced. The girl welcomed him as an old friend. He shook hands with Mildenhall and drew up a chair.

  “Things are a little quieter, I believe,” the newcomer reported. “They talk about parleys and all that sort of thing. I don’t believe in them. What has to come has to come. Much better to get it over.”

  “You don’t mean that you want the Germans to take over Austria?” the girl asked.

  “I do not mean it,” he replied, “but however much we may dislike it, they are going to do it. How is our beloved Chief?”

  “Just escaped from my hands,” she confided. “I let him off as easily as possible but there were hundreds of papers to be signed. He’ll be down in a few minutes. I never know exactly how many people are dining but I am sure it’s a small party to-night so I think that we might have cocktails served.”

  “A heavenly thought,” Blute declared, springing to his feet. “You see,” he added, turning to Mildenhall, “I know the ways of the house so I am allowed to ring the bell.”

  Dr. and Mrs. Schwarz, evidently habitués, were announced.

  “Dr. Schwarz,” Patricia Grey told Mildenhall, “is the President of the famous Benjamin Hospital. I’ll show you a photograph of it,” she added, rising to her feet. “Please come with me.”

  She led him to the farther end of the room and unfastened a portfolio.

  “You needn’t look at these,” she said. “You may-take my word for it that it is the most up-to-date hospital in Vienna and the entire cost is borne by Mr. Benjamin.”

  “Your Chief is a Prince of Philanthropists,” Mildenhall declared. “I agree with you, though, I don’t want to see any photographs of hospitals. I want you to tell me about yourself.”

  “I’m really a bank secretary,” she confided. “I happen to be pretty good at languages so they sent me over here to train the girls. Our banks are just a little more modern, you know, in New York. I worked at that for a year and then Mr. Benjamin made me his private secretary. I have a small suite of rooms in the house and when none of his married daughters or Mrs. Benjamin are here—he has crowds of relations, you know—I help him with his dinners. I wanted to say something to you, Mr. Mildenhall.”

  “There are a great many things I should like to say to you,”
the young man assured her.

  She laughed up at him.

  “That can come afterwards. Listen! Mr. Benjamin seems to have taken rather a fancy to you. He tells me that you travel all over Europe and that you know as much of what is going on as anyone. Tell me, do you think the Nazis who are coming into Vienna are going to be as wicked with the Jews as they were in Germany?”

  Mildenhall looked at her thoughtfully. There was no doubt at all but that Patricia Grey was a very attractive young woman. She had a piquant face, soft grey-green eyes, red hair, a slender charming figure and a pleasant voice. Just now she was very serious.

  “Shall I tell you just what I believe?” he asked.

  “That’s what I want you to do,” she begged him earnestly.

  “I think they’re going to be very bad,” he said. “No one knows how many millions the government of Germany has taken from the Jews. The Austrian Nazis have begun, as you know, to do the same thing here. When this country is taken into the Reich, as it certainly will be, I think that they will treat the Austrian Jews even worse than they have the German.”

  “Why should they?” she asked. “The Jews are good citizens.”

  “Yes, but the German Jews,” he told her, “were the great industrialists of the country. They were behind half the great commercial institutions. They were leading lights in nearly all the professions. Here the same condition of things exists, of course, but the very richest Jews of all are aristocrats. There are many old families in Vienna who have intermarried with Jews, and the Germany of to-day—I mean the government—hates the aristocrats. If I were you. Miss Patricia Grey, I should do all that I could to get Mr. Benjamin out of the country before it is too late.”

  “And he loves his home here so much!” she lamented. “His pictures, his tapestry and his china—all those things are his happiness in life. He is one of the world’s greatest collectors, you know.”