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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Madame la Baronne has left, sir,” he announced. “She begged me to tell you that she would send her car back in five minutes. It will be at your disposition for an hour. Ah, he returns already,” the man pointed out.

  Charles Mildenhall waited for a moment and slipped a pourboire into the hand of the chauffeur as he brought the automobile under the porte-cochère.

  “Tell your mistress that I send her my grateful thanks but I have no further use for the car.”

  CHAPTER VII

  Table of Contents

  Charles Mildenhall was honoured that night by a long conversation with the Princess von Liebenstrahl. She stopped him when he would have passed on in the wake of the Embassy party and, taking advantage of a little lull in the stream of arriving guests, accepted a chair from him and some coffee from one of the small army of servants who had been brought down from the Schloss>.

  “I remember you so well, Mr. Mildenhall,” she said. “Ah, if only there were more with your uniform here to-night! If we had still the joy of feeling that England was our friend! Alas, there seems to be nothing but darkness wherever we look. My husband is angry with me because he says we betray our cause when we lose heart, but I feel that Austria is doomed.”

  “They are bad days indeed. Princess,” Mildenhall admitted, “but Austria has confronted them before and emerged victorious.”

  “It is the strength of Germany which we fear,” the Princess lamented. “It is coming. I feel it in the air. We shall become a vassal state to our omnipotent neighbour. It has not happened since the days of Napoleon that the eyes of all Europe are fixed upon one man.”

  “Madame,” Charles said, “even in these sacred precincts one hesitates to talk openly. The Nazi spies are everywhere. For that reason we, who follow diplomacy as a profession, and you, who represent the great ones of your country have to speak with reserve. Still, I think there is some comfort to be drawn from the fact that England and France are arming rapidly. For neither of them could there be any other enemy except one…Monsieur le Prince is here, I see.”

  Mildenhall rose to his feet and stood respectfully at attention. The Prince, a tall, broad-shouldered man with fine features and presence, greeted him with a smile.

  “Only once have we met, my young friend,” he reminded Charles, “since you taught us that the drives in our woods were too few and that my pheasants must have room to rise before they are worthy of the sportsman’s gun. What days those were!”

  “I remember the village folk,” the Princess remarked, “gathering on the hills and the boundaries of the wood to see the Englishmen shoot the pheasants from the skies.”

  “The thing which I remember with almost the greatest pleasure,” Charles said, “was the luncheon served in the market-place of the old village. We were waited upon by the gamekeepers and their wives in that wonderful costume. The peasants danced for us. We drank wine from huge casks. And then the nights that followed—the dinner in your great hall, the dancing, that glorious mountain air!”

  “We shall make ourselves sad if we remember too much,” the Prince remarked. “My dear,” he added, offering his arm to his wife, “Her Royal Highness arrives. We are keeping our young friend from the dance. Later on, Mr. Mildenhall, we will drink a cup of wine to happier days.”

  Charles passed on into the ballroom, sought out his party and danced for an hour or more. The Archduke Karl Sebastian, with whose daughter he had been dancing, led him to one side. The two stood before one of the great windows which looked over the city. There were one or two fires to be seen, but the sound of artillery had decreased.

  “Is there any news to-night,” the Archduke enquired.

  “Nothing special,” Mildenhall replied. “I am not formally attached to the Embassy now so I have not seen any of the code messages, but I believe most of the telegraph wires are cut between here and the northern frontier and there are rumours that the internal railways have been commandeered.”

  “Any news of my friend Benjamin? That is a person for whom I am most anxious.”

  Charles looked around cautiously. Notwithstanding the great crowd, their corner was almost empty.

  “I dined with him at his wonderful house tonight,” he confided. “It was not a party. I met him in his bank and he asked me to come several days ago. He looked well but I fancy he was continually receiving disturbing messages.”

  “The times have changed,” the Archduke murmured. “In the old days, when there was an uprising like this amongst the nations, it was the aristocrats who went shivering for their lives. Now it is the Jews. A senseless, ignorant, cruel persecution, it seems to me. Leopold Benjamin is a great man and a great gentleman. He has done more for Vienna than any-other citizen, yet they tell me if the Nazis get hold of him it will probably mean assassination and the confiscation of all his treasures. My heart has been in my own country home, in my own mountains and forests since 1918, but Vienna still means much to me. I know that Benjamin has parted with more than a million pounds to charities during the last twenty years. I would sit at his table with pleasure if he invited me.”

  “I am afraid it will be a long time before he entertains again in Vienna,” Charles sighed. “It was almost a home party to-night and there wasn’t anyone there who wasn’t anxious to have him cross the frontier. Mr. Benjamin was called away towards the end of the meal. He did not reappear.”

  The Archduke nodded understandingly.

  “My wife and I are leaving in a few days,” he said. “We have relatives in Italy, but I ask myself how we should be received in France.”

  “France is always a gracious country,” Charles reflected. “There is Egypt, too…Here is my friend Lascelles. He looks as though he might have news.”

  “A message from His Excellency,” the latter announced as he joined them. “You excuse me, sir?” he added, turning to the Archduke.

  “Certainly.”

  “It is no longer a secret,” Lascelles continued. “The Germans have crossed the frontier and are marching upon Vienna. There is no resistance, but in face of the disturbed condition everywhere we are ordered to quit. We have a special train at eight o’clock this morning, Charles. His Excellency wants to know if you will join us. He thinks that there may be considerable delay if you stay on here.”

  “Join you? Why, rather!” Mildenhall agreed. “I’ll get round to the hotel and pack.”

  “Eight o’clock at the Western Station.”

  For the first half hour after his arrival at the hotel Mildenhall set the valet to work packing and occupied himself in sorting and destroying the few papers he possessed of any importance. As soon as he had finished his task he rose and went to the safe which was set into the wall by the side of his bed. He unlocked it and swung back the door. For a moment or two he stood motionless. Then he called the valet.

  “Fritz,” he said, “there was a parcel in this safe when I left for the ball this evening.”

  “A parcel, sir?”

  “A leather case. Inside there was a book.”

  The man shook his head.

  “I’ve never seen such a thing, sir,” he replied. “You probably remember, sir, that you gave me the evening off.”

  “Quite right. When you came back were there any signs of anyone having been here?”

  “None, sir.”

  Charles made no further remark. Fie took the packets of money which were the sole contents of the safe and relocked it.

  “I’m going out for an hour, Fritz,” he said. “Get on with the packing. Leave me out a lounge suit and an overcoat. You can send my uniform round to the Embassy later on. I shall be back in plenty of time to change.”

  “Very good, sir. I’m sorry about the parcel.”

  “My mistake, perhaps, Fritz. I’m not blaming you in any way.”

  On his way out he stopped at the bureau. The reception clerk hurried up to him.

  “Tell me,” Charles asked, “has anyone called to see me to-night whilst I was out?”

  Th
e man smiled. He leaned a little farther across the counter.

  “Only the lady who was with you when you went upstairs this evening, sir,” he confided. “She came back about an hour after you had left for the Embassy.”

  “She came back?” Charles repeated thoughtfully.

  “She asked for the keys of your room, sir. I hope I was right in giving them to her?”

  “Of course. Did she return them to you?”

  “Yes, sir. She was only upstairs for about a quarter of an hour. She said she hoped to see you later.”

  Mildenhall nodded and turned away. He spent a few minutes in the telephone box, stepped outside, ordered a taxi and drove to a small block of apartment flats on the other side of the Ringstrasse. He leaned across the counter to the sleepy concierge.

  “The Baroness von Ballinstrode,” he whispered confidentially. “She is expecting me.”

  The man rubbed his eyes, gazed in awe at Mildenhall’s uniform and handed him the keys. The yawning lift boy took him up to the third floor. He opened the door of the number on the keys softly and found himself in a small hall. He passed through another door and entered a delightful little sitting-room half filled with roses. The door of the bedroom leading from it was wide open. Before an elegantly shaped oval mirror the Baroness was seated in the most negligible of negliges. Her golden hair in a long stream hung over the back of her chair. A dark complexioned Viennese maid was brushing it with intense care. It was not until Mildenhall had advanced half-a-dozen paces that they were aware of his presence. The maid screamed and dropped the brush. The Baroness sat for a moment as though turned to stone. Then she sprang to her feet, wrapped her diaphanous dressing-gown a little more closely around her and came forward with outstretched hands.

  “But, my friend!” she cried. “This is marvellous!”

  He stood motionless. She came fearlessly up to him. Her expression was a curious mixture of fear and joy. Her eyes questioned him feverishly.

  “Where have you come from?” she demanded.

  “From the ball.”

  She suddenly realized that he was unresponsive. The eyes that met hers were hard.

  “You have come direct here?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered. “I called at the hotel.”

  She turned round and closed the door behind her.

  Then she flung herself on to a small divan and lay back amongst the cushions, her fingers clasped behind her head.

  “You are angry with me, Charles,” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I am angry with you. There is little time to spare. Give me that book.”

  “Why do you say there is little time to spare?” she demanded. “The morning is young. We have many hours. There is wine on the sideboard there. Give me some and serve yourself. We must not quarrel, Charles.”

  Her voice was a caress but its sweetness was wasted upon him.

  “Baroness—” he began.

  “Beatrice,” she interrupted.

  “Beatrice, then,” he continued. “I want my book.”

  “Why do you think that I have your book?” she asked.

  “Because they told me at the hotel that you had been there and asked for my keys, which they were foolish enough to give you. Afterwards you apparently helped yourself to the book which was in my safe and returned with it here. You have exactly five minutes to hand it over.”

  “Why only five minutes?” she asked. “You are very handsome in that uniform, Charles, but you are very stiff and unbending. Loosen that high collar and sit down by my side. I will explain to you—”

  “I desire no explanation,” he broke in. “I must have the book.”

  “You are very foolish, Charles,” she whispered. “The book is beautiful—but so am I.”

  “You are far more beautiful than any book could be,” he assented, “but nevertheless, the book is mine and I demand it. You have now a matter of three minutes left in which to restore it.”

  She laughed gaily. Then for a moment she was silent. Her eyes were fixed upon his. She held out her arms. Her voice was lower still.

  “If I am more beautiful than the book,” she murmured, “take me instead.”

  “Beatrice,” he answered, “you are as beautiful as an angel and the book is a dull thing of parchment and vellum, but we are not engaged in a battle of flowery words just now. I am in deadly earnest. That book I demand and must have. You have two minutes left.”

  She raised herself a little upon the divan.

  “Why do you harp so upon the time, darling? We have many hours together—if you will. I am alone. If your thoughts are with your namesake—”

  “Baroness, my thoughts are upon myself and my own safety,” he interrupted. “Is it still the custom in Vienna to fight duels in a lady’s salon?”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded. “Ah, I can guess! Stupid! Monsieur—you think of him. It is arranged so that he does not come. You heard me say it. The hours are free and your book—if you must have it—may come into your possession a little later on.”

  “You have exactly one minute left. Baroness,” he told her. “As to the movements of my distinguished namesake, you are wrong. Events have changed all that. The Archduchess has received an invitation to leave on the special train with Lady Tremearne for London. Her husband remains here.”

  She was on her feet now.

  “What you tell me is the truth?”

  “On my honour it is the truth.”

  “Then you must fly,” she cried. “Do not hesitate for a moment. Karl has a terrible temper. You have heard stories of what has already happened. Please—please—my friend, I implore you—go!” For the first time the glimmering of a smile parted his lips.

  “No,” he said, “I am in no hurry. If a duel must be fought, if there is to be a violent scene, I will take my share in it. You spoke of a glass of wine. It is an idea.”

  He took one step towards the sideboard.

  “Don’t touch anything!” she cried. “Wait!”

  She disappeared—a flash of fluttering ribbons and whirling draperies—through the door of her bedchamber. In a few seconds she was back. The parcel was there. She thrust it into his hands.

  “Charles,” she begged, “forgive me. For your life—hurry! For your life and mine! He will kill us both.”

  Charles tucked the book securely under his arm. He kissed her fingers—suddenly cold—then he moved towards the door. From the threshold he looked back. She was standing there shivering, still beautiful, waving him passionately away.

  “Calm yourself, dear Beatrice,” he cried. “The Archduchess refused Her Ladyship’s invitation. Take my advice—a glass of wine quickly to restore you. Au revoir!”

  He closed the door. Down the stairs, it is true, he moved swiftly. He stepped into his taxi.

  “The Sacher Hotel!” he ordered.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Table of Contents

  Seventeen months and twenty-four days later Charles Mildenhall, weary to death of trans-European railways, of shouting and gesticulating crowds, unwashed for two days, with parched throat and the smell of all evil things in his nostrils, sat upon the porter’s luggage barrow in the great railway station of Vienna and succeeded in achieving a state of utter disgust and weariness of life. He had been four days on a twenty-four hour journey, leaving behind him a commandeered car. He had stood in queues—a thing he loathed—he had had to make fairy-tale explanations of his business and his passport to a dozen unsympathetic officials rather than tell them the truth. He had reached Vienna in the gloom of a stormy evening to find not a taxicab at the station, not a single bowing commissionaire from any of the hotels, not a friendly face or a smile to be seen amongst the great cosmopolitan crowd who were pushing, apparently aimlessly, in every direction. Then, just as he sat up in despair to look out once more up and down the broad empty thoroughfare leading from the station, he beheld a wonderful sight and heard a wonderful sound. He saw a rather antiquated but a solid and veritable taxic
ab drawing up a few yards from the kerb-stone of the pavement and he heard what was far more wonderful still—a familiar voice. With his hand holding his cap raised high above his head, his countenance wreathed in one huge grin of welcome, was his ex-valet from the Embassy!

  “Fritz!” he gasped.

  “Mein Herr!” the little man exclaimed, only to wander off a minute later into a stream of mispronounced English. “What a joy! I am very happy. It is Herr Mildenhall.”

  “The remains of him,” Charles uttered mournfully, rising to his feet. “Fritz, the sight of you has saved my life. I am worn out. I am hungry. I am thirsty. I am penniless. Take my dressing case, take my small bag, help me into your heaven-directed vehicle.”

  Fritz leaped lightly off the box and did everything he was told.

  “Ach, it is many, many months since I saw you last,” he cried. “Vienna is a rubbish heap. We are all starving. Where does Monsieur wish to drive?”

  “What a joyous sound is your voice, Fritz!” Charles exclaimed. “Is there by any chance a hostelry open in this melancholy city?”

  “The Sacher,” Fritz replied. “One wing is closed, the rest remains.”

  “The Sacher!” Charles repeated as though in a dream of frenzied joy. “The Sacher by all means. But do not leave me when we get there, Fritz. I shall need you for a dozen things. I must have news of the place. I buy you—you and your vehicle—from this moment for the duration of my visit.”

  “Thank God for that, sir!” Fritz said gratefully. “It is to be hoped mein Herr has enough money for his fare. If not, it is equal to me but there will be a tax owing to the hall porter—”

  “Have no fear,” was the joyous interruption. “I’ll arrange all that. Let’s get along.”

  They drove off. Charles lolled back against the cushions with a little groan of content. For two nights his head had rested on a wooden pillow. With every turn of the wheels the little vehicle seemed to be passing into the richer quarters of the city. There were more lights already. The fronts of many of the shops were barricaded with sandbags but here and there an open one invited customers. The line of cafés commenced, the lights of the Ringstrasse glowed feebly in their magic circle. There were men and women in the streets, crawling about, it is true, but civilized people. Marvellous! They drove up to the hotel and a porter stepped out for the luggage. Charles stumbled from the cab.