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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  He turned around. Patricia was coming towards him across the hall.

  “Could you please come with me for a moment or two? I have a message for you.”

  “Of course.”

  He glanced towards the Baroness with a gesture of helplessness. The latter looked across at Patricia.

  “The little lady can give you her message quickly,” she suggested. “I will wait.”

  Patricia turned to her courteously.

  “I cannot ask you to share in the message,” she explained, “because it is rather important and very private, but if Mr. Mildenhall is driving you home, would you mind waiting in the dining-room? Heinrich will look after you.”

  “Thank you,” the Baroness said. “Heinrich can show me into the car. I shall sit there and await Herr Mildenhall. Do not keep him too long. He has to change into uniform and make himself very beautiful for the ball.”

  She wrapped herself a little more closely in her ermine cloak. In the soft gleam from the shaded electric light near which she stood her anxious expression of a few minutes ago seemed entirely to have passed. There was something Grecian about her beauty, her superbly graceful pose as she stood there smiling with her eyes fixed upon Mildenhall’s.

  “You will not be long?” she asked.

  “A minute or two only,” he promised.

  CHAPTER VI

  Table of Contents

  Patricia led her companion almost in silence across the hall into the library. Neither of them found speech an easy matter. Mildenhall, curiously enough, was a little ashamed at the tumult of sensations which had suddenly disturbed the even progress of his life. Patricia, because of this moment of deep anxiety for all that she held dear in life, felt an irritated sense of disquietude of which she also was ashamed. She turned on two of the lights in the library, motioned him to close the door and listened for a moment. There were footsteps in the street outside, but not the sort of footsteps for which she was listening—wild, undisciplined footsteps these, mostly, of men and women running, or the shuffling footsteps of the Viennese beggars seeking always for shelter. What she was dreading was the iron tramp of soldiers, the voice of discipline, the harsh, raucous commands from an officer of the invaders.

  “I must not keep you long, Mr. Mildenhall,” she said. “Please listen. Air. Benjamin is a strange man. He is the kindest and best person in the world, but he has queer ideas. He is mortified to-night because you asked to see his pictures and he could not show them to you.”

  “But that is ridiculous,” Mildenhall told her. “I was sorry afterwards that I had asked. I do hope he realized that it wasn’t idle curiosity.”

  “He never thought that,” she assured him. “It is odd how understanding he is. He seemed to divine that you were a lover of beautiful things, that you shared his own taste to some extent.”

  “It is remarkable that he should have known that,” the young man agreed, “but it is quite true. Most of my leisure time, when I am wandering about Europe on political affairs, is spent in the picture galleries. I am only an amateur, of course. My grandfather had a fine collection of Italian Masters.”

  “Mr. Benjamin was just saying that he had only been to three private collections in Europe and it was your uncle’s—I think he said in Norfolk—which pleased him best.”

  “Why are you speaking in the past tense?” he asked her suddenly. “Mr. Benjamin hasn’t gone away, has he?”

  “Please don’t ask me that,” she begged.

  “But surely they wouldn’t have touched him?”

  “What did they do to the Rothschilds?”

  “The Rothschilds were more or less politicians,” he reminded her. “Our own Ambassador here has told me that Mr. Benjamin has never taken any part in the life of the city except to interest himself in every work of philanthropy and charity of every sort.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t seem to go for much with Germans. Anyhow, I will tell you what has happened. That message Mr. Blute brought to-night was peremptory.”

  “Who the mischief is Mr. Blute?” he asked.

  “Another time,” she answered restlessly. “The Baroness is waiting for you outside. I want to show you something. Come this way, please.”

  He followed her obediently. She led him into the farthest corner of the room and through a heavy door into a smaller apartment, also lined to the ceiling with books but with a desk in a corner and more signs of habitation. In a few seconds she paused.

  “Would you please close your eyes tightly,” she begged.

  He obeyed at once, raising his hands and pressing them against his eyeballs. A moment later she passed him. He felt the swish of her gown and caught a whiff of the perfume of roses. Then she called to him from a few yards away. She was standing with the handle of a door between her fingers, a door which comprised a portion of the bookcases themselves. Beyond was what seemed to be a vast apartment as black as night.

  “Come here quickly,” she enjoined.

  He hurried to her side. She leaned forward and touched an electric switch in the wall. A few lights shone out in the room, which must have been at least a hundred and fifty feet long. He stared into its shadows in amazement. Then the walls themselves disclosed their secret.

  “This is the main picture gallery,” she whispered. “You see?”

  There were plenty of spaces on the walls where pictures had hung, but of pictures there was not a trace. She looked up into his face.

  “You understand now?” she asked.

  “I understand,” he replied.

  She led him back again into the smaller room and passed out of it into the main library. She was a little breathless and she listened intently before she spoke.

  “Quite half of the most valuable pictures have gone,” she said.

  “Safely out of Austria?”

  There was distress in her eyes as she answered him.

  “Not yet. We have sworn that they shall be got out, or Mr. Benjamin would never have left. He ought to have gone weeks ago. His wife is in Paris. I can’t tell you how wonderful Mr. Blute has been, and how clever, but nothing would make Mr. Benjamin leave this place until the very last moment. He knows now that his name is first on the list of the Jews who are to be thrown into prison. The Nazis may come to-night. Certainly they will be here tomorrow. All we have to pray for is that he will get away safely.”

  “Wonderful!” he murmured.

  “Mr. Benjamin is a miracle man,” Patricia went on. “You will think so if ever the truth comes out. His enemies will think so when they seize his bank and go through his books. Now, one thing more and you must go. He left you a present.”

  “A present?”

  She unlocked a drawer, pushed back a sheet of tissue paper and showed him a flat volume with gilt edges exquisitely bound in white vellum.

  “There were only six of these made,” she confided. “It is the catalogue—the complete catalogue—of the pictures, the statuary and the tapestries. You will realize its importance later on. Mr. Benjamin himself said it would be one of the world’s treasures. It is his recompense to you because he could not show you his pictures. Take great care of it, Mr. Mildenhall. It is the last one in this country. Here is a case for it.”

  She slipped it into a plain brown leather wrapper.

  “Now you must go,” she insisted. “I have been as quick as I could, but the Baroness must have been hating me for the last ten minutes!”

  “But can’t we—shan’t we meet again?” he begged.

  “I haven’t time to think of anything of that sort just now.”

  She pushed him very gently towards the door.

  “You must go,” she went on. “We may meet again somewhere—sometime. Who knows—and does it matter?”

  Suddenly he felt that it did matter. That delightful little tremulous mouth and the sad eyes which looked as though they were really made for laughter and happiness suddenly seemed to make a new appeal to him.

  “Of course it matters,” he declared. “T
o-morrow—next day—anywhere—at any place.”

  “I have work to do,” she sighed. “It isn’t ordinary work. It is sacred. Until it is finished I have no time for any other thought. Please go.”

  They had reached the hall. Heinrich came respectfully forward.

  “The Baroness is getting very impatient, mein Herr.” he said.

  Charles Mildenhall held out his hand. Patricia’s fingers were like ice.

  “Take care of yourself during the next few days,” she advised. “Even for foreigners Vienna will not be a happy place.”

  “You must tell me—” he began.

  She had suddenly turned away. Her hand was almost snatched from his. He caught a glimpse of the gathering tears in her eyes. She flew up the great staircase, slim and wonderfully graceful in those rapid movements.

  “You will pardon me, mein Herr,” a voice sounded in his ears. “The Baroness is leaving.”

  Patricia had disappeared. Mildenhall followed Heinrich to the door.

  “I am an angry woman,” the Baroness declared, throwing him a portion of the rug which covered her knees but retiring a little farther into her corner.

  “I beg you to excuse me,” he said. “Really, the message was quite important.”

  “And you have a present,” she observed.

  “Yes.”

  “Really, of all the men I know you are the most ungallant,” she pronounced. “You go away to flirt with that little girl and leave me here shivering. What am I to expect from you in the future if you treat me like this so early in our acquaintance?”

  “It is a relief to me to know that there is to be a future,” he replied.

  “You do not deserve one—with me.”

  The rug slipped. He stooped to replace it. Somehow or other their hands came into collision. He retained his hold upon her fingers.

  “How amiable I am!” she sighed. “Why should I allow you to hold my hand when you have been so rude to me?”

  “The greatest privilege a woman possesses is the privilege of forgiving/’ he reminded her.

  “That was never written by a writer of romance,” she told him. “Forgiveness should be earned.”

  “Teach me how to earn it, please.”

  She sighed again.

  “Well,” she said, “you must answer every question I ask you.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “What are you doing in Vienna just now?”

  “I am on my way back to England.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Budapest.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “Wrote and sketched.”

  “What did you write about?”

  “The country.”

  “What did you sketch—fortifications?”

  “Why fortifications?”

  “You are interested in such things,” she observed. “You were military attaché here once.”

  “Was I?” he answered. “That must have been the year I suffered from loss of memory.”

  “What is in that parcel you have under your arm? If you are going to be rude I shall not let you hold my hand.”

  “I like holding your hand and I am certainly not being rude,” he told her. “As regards the parcel, however, it was a present from a lady and the only condition she made was that I should tell no one I possessed it.”

  “You will take me to the Von Liebenstrahl ball to-night?”

  “But how is that possible?” he asked. “I have only an Embassy card.”

  “Are you ever going to say ‘yes’ to anything I ask you?” she demanded.

  “Ask me the thing I should like you to and I shall not hesitate.”

  “You are too glib,” she laughed. “You are like all the others. I am tired of you.”

  “Infidèle.” he murmured reproachfully.

  “But what a man! He charges me with faithlessness!”

  “Supposing I ask you a few questions.”

  “I shall answer you—truthfully if it pleases me, untruthfully if it suits me better.”

  “We make no progress,” he complained.

  “Along which road do you desire to travel?” she asked.

  “The nearest road which leads to your heart, Madame.”

  “I shall begin to feel aggrieved,” she declared. “Your first glance at me was the sort of glance a woman loves to receive. There was a little admiration in those rather expressive eyes of yours, there was a little curiosity, there was a certain amount of—desire.”

  “Then they appear to have told you everything,” he said, “which my lips are not yet brave enough to utter.”

  She moved her head slightly and looked at him.

  “Your mouth looks brave enough,” she meditated.

  “A challenge?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not a challenge. An affair of lipstick.”

  “You have none on your eyes,” he said, gazing at them intently.

  “There is poison on my eyelashes,” she warned him.

  He drew a little nearer.

  “You are well protected,” he complained.

  “Something must have told me,” she sighed, “that I was going to be driven home alone by a young man whose tongue, at any rate, was intrepid.”

  “That certainly is a challenge,” he replied, and held her for a moment in his arms.

  “Be sweet to me now,” she begged, as she delicately removed herself. “Tell me what is in that parcel.”

  “I will tell you what is in my heart. Baroness,” he promised, “but I cannot reveal the contents of this parcel.”

  “To think,” she murmured, “that your lips should dare to misbehave as they have done and then refuse my simple request! Besides, your offer means nothing. I know what is in your heart.”

  “That should be of some assistance to me,” he declared hopefully.

  “On the contrary, it is fast making of me an icicle. In your heart is the image of that little red-haired girl who called you away from me and who has given you a present.”

  He glanced out of the window and sighed.

  “I seem to make but little progress,” he grumbled. “Are you really not going to the Von Liebenstrahl ball?”

  She shook her head.

  “Alas,” she sighed, “I am not invited. It is well known that I adore Karl, and the Princess, like your Lady Tremearne at the Embassy, loves the Archduchess.”

  He drew a deep sigh of content.

  “I suspected it,” he said, “but I was not sure. I am feeling happy.”

  “But why?”

  “You adore Karl. My name is Charles.”

  “You are quite and entirely incorrigible!” she exclaimed. “How could you possibly imagine that you could take any place in my affections?”

  “I am an incurable optimist,” he told her. “I expect always to receive everything that I desire.”

  “But what vast, what egregious conceit! After going off with that red-headed girl, too!”

  They turned in underneath the broad porte-cochère of Sacher’s Hotel.

  “But I told you that I must go to the Embassy first to change,” he reminded her.

  “Did you? I forgot. You have talked so much nonsense. I remember now, though, that you said you must call here for your card.”

  “Quite true,” he agreed. “But there is no reason why I should keep you waiting while I get that—or, if you like, I can take a taxi to the Embassy.”

  “You might find it difficult to find one,” she replied. “You have an apartment here?”

  “A small one.”

  “I will come up and wait in your salon while you get the card,” she proposed. “Ten minutes, Friedrich,” she told the chauffeur, as the doorkeeper stood on one side and Charles handed her out of the limousine.

  They found the lounge crowded with eager little groups of men and women. Everyone was talking excitedly and the air was full of rumours. They reached the lift with difficulty. Arrived on the fourth floor Charles
Mildenhall led the way to his apartment. The Baroness took possession of an easy chair drawn up towards the balcony. At her request he opened the high windows.

  “You can leave me your present to look at,” she proposed, stretching out her hand, “while you find your card.”

  “Alas,” he told her, “it is impossible. My present is connected with a secret, and the secret is not mine.”

  She rose to her feet, flung off her cloak and stood facing him, her hands resting upon his shoulders.

  “My friend,” she began, and her eyes were liquid and very, very blue, “how are we to continue friends if you refuse everything I ask? Come, I will do away with all the secrecy of your present. I know what it is. That little red-haired minx with the serpent’s eyes has given you the last catalogue that exists of old Benjamin’s great collection. I want to see it. I prayed him for one months ago. He has never promised, but he very nearly promised. There is no harm in my looking one through. Remember, I am Beatrice whom for a few minutes you once admired. Beatrice will be kind to you if you do what she asks.”

  The beautiful arms hung an inch or two farther over his shoulders. They were very nearly around his neck. His fingers caressed her hair for a moment. Then he held her wrists, raised her fingers to his lips and stepped back.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know that my mysterious package contains only the catalogue of Mr. Benjamin’s pictures, but for some reason I know nothing of I was asked for a promise, and I gave it. You would not have me commence our friendship by breaking a promise, even if it were to another woman.”

  There was a cloud over the Baroness’ face. One might imagine that she could be very angry.

  “She is not a woman, that secretary,” she scoffed. “She is just a little chit, a working girl. She does not count.”

  He moved a little farther away. The parcel was under his arm.

  “Please be kind,” he begged. “I shall be back in five minutes. We might have, perhaps, some coffee before I go to change.”

  Her arms dropped to her sides. She stood there quite speechless. Her eyes followed him to the door. He looked back for a moment. She was still standing there, her eyes still seeking for his. She said nothing. He hurried into his room, found the card and locked his parcel securely away in the safe by his bedside. When he returned the Baroness had gone, the room was empty. The hall porter sought him out as he was calling for a carriage.