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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “I am crushed,” Charles acknowledged. “I will swagger about the place presently and leave you two to go your own way for a time. If you want me, telephone to Herodin. I’ll leave word where I am. Don’t stint the ‘quiet money,’ Blute. Remember that an odd fifty pounds here and there may make all the difference.”

  “You’ve been setting us a pretty good example of spending money,” Patricia observed, leaning forward to sniff at the bowl of roses upon the table.

  “Roses in Vienna are like cabbages in White-chapel,” he answered. “You find them wherever you go.”

  Once more a knock at the door. Joseph made his reappearance, calm but triumphant.

  “Mein Herr,” he said, addressing Charles, “I have succeeded, but I have bought the railway! At least, so it seems to me—a poor man. I have arranged for the van, I have arranged that it shall be attached to the eight o’clock train to-morrow morning on one condition—that whatever you are sending in it shall be in the yard before midnight. It is yard number seven, to be reached from the Weltenstrasse.”

  Patricia leaned back and clapped her hands.

  “That is precisely what we were hoping for!” she exclaimed. “Not ten minutes ago. Monsieur Joseph, we were saying that it would be a great deal off our minds if we could get the van linked up tonight.”

  “It is arranged,” Joseph announced. “To tell you the truth, Fräulein, the guard is waiting outside. With him, too, the preliminaries have been broached. He has consented to help in your scheme. I must warn you, Herr Mildenhall, that you will now have to face a shock.”

  He handed over a slip of paper.

  “For that I have bought the railway,” he murmured.

  Charles glanced at the amount and smiled.

  “It is an amazing feat, Joseph,” he declared. “On the other hand it is an absurdity. You have bought the railway, perhaps, for our interests, but for yourself, your wife, your children, your son’s wife—what remains? Nothing. Patricia, you must see to this. Joseph is robbing himself. You will provide him at once with another thousand reichsmarks.”

  Joseph’s bow was equal to the bow of any courtier who had ever entered the royal palace.

  “Monsieur is a Prince!”

  “Bring in your guard,” Charles begged. “I am being dismissed from this assembly, Joseph, just when I am getting a little fun out of it. Bring in your guard that I may deal with him. And wait,” he went on, laying his hand upon the man’s shoulder, “when you come to fetch him away see that you are accompanied by Frederick, the second barman in the American Bar. See that he brings with him four carefully mixed dry Martinis still in the shaker with the ice just dropped in, also four glasses. And Joseph, see that the glasses are not too small. Frederick himself calls them doubles, I believe.”

  “Der gnãdiger Herr shall be obeyed,” Joseph murmured. “I fetch now the guard. Afterwards I shall send word to Frederick.”

  He disappeared for a moment and returned ushering in a stalwart-looking elderly official in the uniform of the Austrian Railway Company. The newcomer carried himself in soldierly fashion. His grey hair was neatly parted, he wore a closely clipped grey beard and he had more the appearance of a gentleman farmer than a railway official. He carried his cap in his hand. He bowed to Patricia, he smiled in more familiar fashion to Mr. Blute and he bowed respectfully to Charles. He nodded a temporary farewell to Joseph, who disappeared.

  “I understand, Mr. Guard, that you are willing to help my two friends and myself in a rather sad little enterprise to which we are committed,” Charles began.

  “It will give me much satisfaction to be of service,” the official replied. “Often it has been my pleasure, Herr Mildenhall, to number you amongst my patrons, more especially when I conducted the Orient Express. You had diplomatic privileges and to serve you was an honour. The present occasion, I gather, is purely a private one.”

  “Entirely so,” Charles admitted. “I am here to do all that I can to help my friend Mr. Marius Blute, who is a connection of the four young people who met with their deaths in a motor accident three or four days ago.”

  “A sad affair,” the man sighed.

  “Mr. Blute has brought their bodies down here and the relatives are almost passionately anxious that they should be taken to Switzerland. As you perhaps realize, Europe to-morrow will probably again be in a state of war. We ourselves, therefore, must pass into a neutral country.”

  “The situation presents many complications,” the guard remarked dubiously.

  “Not so many as you would think,” Charles insisted. “I am sure you will agree with me presently that they are all capable of solution. The eight o’clock train, which you will take charge of from here to Innsbruck and afterwards into Switzerland, is the last train to run before the closing of the frontiers. We have bespoken through Joseph a van for the four coffins, accommodations for the four guards who will travel with them and a place for three plain cases which contain the effects of the victims. These will not require to pass through the Customs in the usual way. Nothing, therefore, need be disturbed in the van at the frontier.”

  “If you entrust me with the carrying out of this programme,” the official promised, “you may consider the matter arranged. The only condition is that the coffins and boxes are brought to where the van will be waiting for them on siding number seven Weltenstrasse this evening between ten and twelve o’clock. I have postponed a dinner of celebration which some friends were giving me to be there in person.”

  “This gentleman here, Mr. Blute, will look after everything,” Charles said. “He will come down with the caskets himself. He will be at the place you say at the time you name. The station van, as you know, is already arranged for.”

  “I have been warned of that by the authorities, sir,” the man replied. “They have admitted that the circumstance is entirely unusual, but it is undertaken at the desire of a very distinguished Englishman to whom they wish to render service.”

  The official bowed to Charles. Charles returned the courtesy.

  “That’s all clear, then,” the latter said. “Now comes this important question, my friend. We are causing you grave discomfort. We are inviting your leniency with regard to several restrictions, as a rule imposed by your company. We are, in short, asking you to do us a great favour. I am to ask you, on behalf of the relatives of these unfortunate people, whether you would consider the sum of two thousand reichsmarks adequate return for your personal consideration, all other expenses having been arranged with the company.”

  The official once more bowed low. He also extended his hand.

  “Herr Mildenhall,” he promised, “the commission which you have placed in my keeping shall be truly and faithfully carried out.”

  “Capital,” Charles declared. “And here, in what we call in English the nick of time, comes our friend Frederick with the slight apéritif which we English and Americans usually permit ourselves at this hour of the day. I hope that you will join us.”

  Frederick poured out the cocktails.

  “A toast,” Charles proposed, bowing towards Patricia and Blute. “To our safe journey in the last train!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Table of Contents

  Charles, in accordance with the very sage advice of Marius Blute and his temporary lady secretary, Patricia Grey, descended a short time later by the crowded lift to take luncheon in the restaurant of the great, luxurious hotel. He stopped short, however, on the threshold of the American Bar. If the presence of the lady who was its sole occupant had anything to do with his hesitation, he was too late. Already the Baroness was waving her hand. He continued his progress into the room and raised her fingers to his lips.

  “A divine chance!” he murmured.

  “And you,” she exclaimed, and those beautiful eyes were full of reproach, “you are here in Vienna and we meet by accident!”

  His moment of irresolution passed. There was not the slightest suggestion of self-consciousness about her manner. It was plain
that the result of their little duel had ceased to rankle.

  “Baroness,” he replied, “an accident indeed, but I am running for my life. Something tells me that it would not be healthy for an Englishman to be found in Vienna to-morrow night.”

  “But you were here the night before last,” she complained. “You took your coffee with the Princess Sophie.”

  “It is true,” he acknowledged. “She was gracious enough to send over a message asking me to join her for a few minutes.”

  “So you remember the last time you met her?”

  “I shall never forget it. You sat on my right hand. The Princess Sophie was opposite. We were the guests of that delightful man—Leopold Benjamin. You drove me home and, alas, you developed a very unfortunate curiosity about that catalogue I was carrying away.”

  “You were very obstinate and very unkind,” she said. “No wonder I had completely forgotten you.”

  “We are quits, then,” he remarked, “because that would have been an act of even greater unkindness.”

  “There is no doubt whatever,” she acknowledged, “that for an Englishman you have a very glib tongue.”

  “I have also a very susceptible heart.”

  “Call it fancy.”

  “Fancy is a delightful word,” he reflected, “and perhaps we do overtax that other organ a little. Am I permitted to offer you a cocktail?”

  “Why not?”

  Charles shivered as she selected a cherry brandy. He himself asked for a small Martini.

  “You do not approve of my taste in apéritifs?” she queried.

  “Nor in my sex,” he replied. “That is to say if your luncheon companion is to be the gentleman who looked in here and disappeared a moment ago.”

  “You mean Lieutenant von Hessen? He may not be a very agreeable person but he is interesting.”

  “Really?”

  “I mean it,” she continued. “You probably do not know that he is in the German Intelligence Department.”

  “I should never have believed that he was qualified for the post if you had not told me so.”

  “Stupid!” she answered, smiling. “He only asked to be presented to me because he had heard that I was an acquaintance of Leopold Benjamin’s.”

  “Why on earth is everyone so interested in poor Benjamin?”

  The Baroness yawned.

  “Why do we talk of these foolish things after our long separation?” she murmured.

  “I am not so sure that they are foolish. My time in Vienna is short. I arrived here late at night. In the morning the impulses of my civilized life assailed me. I remembered that dinner and I started out to leave my card of ceremony at the Palais Franz Josef.”

  “You found no one upon whom to leave it!”

  “Neither man nor house,” he replied. “I cannot say that I was surprised. If the Germans really expected that Mr. Benjamin would sit there and wait to be arrested they were very foolish. He must have known what would have been in store for him. He probably had plenty of cars and planes and he took his leave. Why are your German friends angry at that? Probably, if I were caught wandering about the streets here in a couple of days, I should be placed in a concentration camp. I should very much dislike to be placed in a concentration camp. That’s why I am hurrying home. Worse things, far worse things, might have happened to Mr. Benjamin. He might have been dropped into a fortress and it is just possible that he might never have been seen again. No, I don’t think Mr. Benjamin ought to be blamed for having hurried away.”

  She leaned nearer towards him, although the room was still empty except for the barman.

  “I think,” she confided, “that it was not his flight so much that they disapproved of. They rather expected that. It was what he took with him.”

  “Of course, I have heard no particulars about his leaving,” Charles said slowly. “It still seems to me a little crude to destroy a magnificent specimen of historical architecture like the Palais Franz Josef. They would have done better to confiscate it.”

  “I should think that they did it,” she continued, still in the same undertone, “in case by any chance there had been some secret spot in the mansion where some of his treasures might have been hidden.”

  Charles did not attempt to conceal his expression of incredulity.

  “Secret hiding-places of that sort do not exist nowadays,” he said. “Benjamin’s house had been completely modernized and all traces of the old portion had vanished. In their place it possessed shower baths, racket courts, music rooms and all manner of luxuries. Baroness, alas, I fear I must take my leave. For the second time your prospective host has looked in here. A Nazi lieutenant in the German Army, even if he should only be in the Intelligence Department, must not be kept waiting by a British civilian.”

  The Baroness played a false card.

  “But you are not a British civilian,” she rejoined. “You are a major in the Dragoon Guards—one of the British crack regiments.”

  “And how did you know that?” he asked swiftly.

  She looked up at him with a little pout. Underneath the caress of her eyes he knew very well that she was annoyed with herself.

  “I heard it somewhere. It must have been at the old Embassy. Perhaps you are right about the Lieutenant, though. I have kept him waiting already a quarter-of-an-hour. Shall I see you again?”

  He shook his head dolefully.

  “Alas, Baroness,” he said as he held her fingers for a moment to his lips, “I am compelled to say—I hope not. I am moving heaven and earth to get away by the eight o’clock train to-morrow. If not I shall be in trouble.”

  “I will hide you,” she whispered.

  “You have heard before now what happens to the men of my country in the world,” he said sorrowfully, “when they hide under the skirts of the ladies of their hearts after their country has declared war. But Baroness,” he added, after he had risen to his feet, “before we part there is one question I would like to ask.”

  “I have no secrets from you.”

  “Why were you so anxious to secure possession of my present from Mr. Benjamin, so anxious that you came back to my hotel and stole it?”

  “I was piqued. Mr. Benjamin had promised me a copy of his marvellous catalogue. He had one copy left and he chose to present it to a stranger. It was not like Mr. Benjamin. It was an ungallant action.”

  He seemed dissatisfied.

  “It seems an insufficient reason,” he persisted. “What is the use of the catalogue without the pictures?”

  “The catalogue in itself is a work of art,” she explained.

  He remained apparently puzzled.

  “To a person who was intending to dispose of the pictures,” he reflected, “I can quite understand that the catalogue might have been a priceless possession, otherwise—”

  She rose to her feet.

  “I am spoiling you,” she interrupted. “I stay here answering your questions and my host again seeks me. I will confess, if it makes you happier, that mine was a freakish and ill-conceived enterprise. I regret it. Banish your evil thoughts of me, Charles. I must fly.”

  Charles crossed the hall, seated himself at a retired corner table in the restaurant, ordered a bottle of Gumpoldskirchner and sent for the waiter. With the help of a fragment of his roll he essayed and approved of the wine.

  “Ober Kellner,” he said to the man who came hurrying up, anxious to serve personally a client who he knew held such a high place in the esteem of the management, “it is necessary that I eat something.”

  “At this hour of the day, mein Herr,” the man replied, “it is a habit with many people to do so.”

  “You see this simple wine which I have chosen and which I like—what shall I eat with it? I am reversing the usual custom of letting the wine blend with the food. I am seeking for food which will bring out the flavour of this unusual and very pleasant beverage.”

  The ober Kellner smiled. For a Britisher he found Charles talkative.

  “It sh
ould be something quite plain and of the English type, sir,” he suggested. “A grilled entrecôte with my own sauce, potatoes soufflé and beans of the country.”

  “It will be a hearty meal,” Charles said a little doubtfully.

  “It is as well sometimes to prepare for the day when meals will be less easy to obtain,” the maître d’hôtel pointed out. “To-morrow, for instance, both restaurant cars have been removed from the Vienna-Innsbruck Express. The train, already, one hears, is above the regulation length and there are still hundreds of people clamouring for tickets.”

  “With the possibility of a day’s starvation in front of me,” Charles remarked with a twinkle in his eyes, “I will accept the luncheon you have offered. Afterwards I shall take a little mountain cheese and some fresh fruit.”

  The ober Kellner disappeared with his order. Charles looked round without seeing a single familiar face except that of the Princess Sophie, who sat at her accustomed table. She caught his eye and beckoned him. He rose at once and paid his devoirs.

  “It will be also farewell, Princess. I leave tomorrow.”

  “You are one of those fortunate people who have obtained a seat on the last train?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You travel alone?”

  “As there are over a thousand disappointed passengers I can scarcely hope for that good fortune.”

  “I do not mean the companions of necessity,” the Princess said. “I saw you just now in the small cocktail bar with the Baroness von Ballinstrode. I have not seen her since our dinner party at Leopold Benjamin’s.”

  “She said nothing of leaving Vienna in her conversation with me this morning.”

  The Princess looked thoughtful.

  “It is not my affair,” she continued, “but the Baroness was joined a few moments after you left by one of those German Nazi officers who have been thrust upon our city. Beatrice is always indiscreet. I have often reproved her for it.”