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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Charles handled the despatch box.

  “Well,” he remarked, “he was a very poor sort of burglar.”

  “Nothing has been stolen?” Patricia gasped.

  “Not a thing,” Charles assured her. “A key to the door I dare say the man might find easily, but the key to open this despatch box is a different matter.”

  “No papers gone—nothing?” Herr Hauser asked.

  “Nothing.”

  The proprietor expressed his satisfaction.

  “It is useless to give an alarm,” he said. “The police are all called up.”

  “How did the fellow open the door?” Blute asked.

  “Alas,” the manager confessed, “the keys are all the same. Still, nothing has been stolen,” he continued, looking round. “That is good. I am sorry that Mademoiselle was frightened. It is a difficult time.”

  Patricia sat down. She was still trembling.

  “You can have your room, please, Mr. Mildenhall,” she said. “The keys are useless. How could I sleep dreading every minute that that man would come back again? Perhaps both of them.”

  The manager expressed his sympathy once more.

  “The gentlemen have only a seat in the garden,” he told her. “If Mademoiselle does not object, they should lie down here. There is the couch for one gentleman, a rug and a cushion for the other. Remember, gentlemen, if you please, that this is only one night in a lifetime. I do my best, Herr Blute.”

  “Quite right, Hauser,” Blute agreed. “If you do not object, Miss Grey,” he added, “we will be your protectors.”

  She smiled on them both.

  “I think it is a very good arrangement. Now I shall sleep in peace. As the manager has just told us, it is but one night in a lifetime.”

  Charles threw himself down on the hearth-rug with a pillow under his head. Blute leaned a little anxiously over him and whispered in his ear.

  “Sure they didn’t get at your papers?”

  “There are no papers,” Charles whispered back. “The box is full of my soiled linen!”

  Blute retired to his couch smiling. This was his own way of doing things. Charles was more than ever a young man after his own heart.

  CHAPTER XXV

  Table of Contents

  For some reason or other there was an air of greater calm about the place the next morning when Charles, after his morning coffee with Patricia in the garden, strolled down the road in front of the hotel smoking a cigarette. Some people were already taking their places in the train which, however, was not to start for another half-hour. Blute was engaged in conversation with the four guardians of his treasure who, having had their morning coffee and rolls brought to them, were sitting about on the steps of the van smoking. Herr Hauser, who seemed for some reason or other, Charles thought, to be avoiding him, was back in his place in his bureau collecting money from every one of the hotel visitors of the night before. Blute stepped over the paling which led on to the railway line and joined Charles.

  “Get any sleep?” he asked.

  “Not much,” Charles answered truthfully. “Cut myself shaving, too. I love cold water for everything in the world except to shave with.”

  “You should have waited till we arrived in Zürich,” Blute told him. “All the luxuries in the world there, including a wonderful hairdressing establishment.”

  Charles glanced around and dropped his voice a little.

  “I have decided not to go on to Zürich,” he confided. “Once across the Swiss frontier you won’t need me any more. I have a small chateau, as you know, that I’ve used for a sort of headquarters when I’ve been doing my tramps round Europe. It’s a little place called Felsen, not many kilometres across the frontier. I have telephoned this morning for my plane to be put in order and got ready for me and I shall fly direct to England. That way I shall avoid all risk of getting into trouble.”

  “What does Miss Grey say to that?”

  “I haven’t told her yet. I think she’ll be glad. I shall ask her to come with me but I think she’ll decide that she must stay with you.”

  “Well, that’s her affair,” Blute observed. “I can’t trust these country telephones. I shan’t attempt to speak to Paris until we get to Zürich, then I know I can find out Mr. Benjamin’s whereabouts. There is to be a passport examination here in the train before we start. They’ve just stuck up a notice.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “A very good one, I should think. It will save at least an hour to an hour-and-a-half at the frontier town and here nobody’s doing anything until the line is clear for us to go on. The two passport men have just arrived in a car. I’ve taken a place for you in the dining saloon. There’s no service there, of course, but you won’t want that and I’d rather we both kept away from you as much as possible. Once across the frontier we can all join up. Miss Grey is still very nervous that if ever this expedition of ours is talked about you will get into trouble. I think I’ll go into the hotel and tell her to come and take her place. I’ll send your bags here, if you like.”

  “Send out that lusty porter. I owe him a pourboire.”

  The two passport men came and took their seats at the farther end of the dining car just as Charles settled down in his corner. The superior of the two recognized him and bowed. He came over and shook hands.

  “Saving you a little trouble, Herr Mildenhall,” he said.

  “A very good idea,” Charles replied. “You may as well start with me. How are your wife and family?”

  “Excellently, I thank you, mein Herr.”

  He took Charles’s passport to the desk, wrote the usual inscription, stamped and returned it with a little bow. He had always a great respect for diplomatic passports. Charles thrust it in his pocket and established himself comfortably with his luggage in the rack above him. He was just settling down when he noticed a car approaching at great speed along the level stretch of road by the side of the railway. He recognized it at once. Beatrice, who was alone, descended and disappeared in the station. A moment or two later she entered the dining car from the other end and presented herself to the passport examiners. She talked with them for some few minutes and it was obvious from her expression that there was some trouble. She looked around and recognized Charles. With a word to the passport chef she left his extempore desk and came to Charles’s corner.

  “Mr. Mildenhall,” she said, “I think you must be more tired of seeing me than any woman on earth. I need your help. Again I am a suppliant.”

  “What is there that I can do for you?” he asked a little dubiously.

  “My passport,” she told him, “has been stolen.”

  He raised his eyebrows slowly.

  “That is rather a serious matter, isn’t it?”

  She leaned towards him. He was looking at her curiously. The early morning sunlight treated her kindly but it was the face of a very serious woman which was inclined towards his. Her eyes, which had danced so often with joy, were full of trouble. She seemed somehow or other to belong to a different world.

  “I slept last night,” she went on, “at the chateau of some friends—indeed, I might say a relative. Early this morning I was awakened by someone in my room. I gave the alarm. A man was seen to disappear down the drive on a motor bicycle. I searched my belongings. Only one thing was stolen—my passport.”

  The chef at the other end of the dining car left his seat and came towards them.

  “With every desire to help Madame,” he said, bowing to Charles, “it is, of course, impossible for us to issue a passport here on the train.”

  “But listen,” she persisted, drawing a leather-bound object from her bag. “I have an old passport here. It is out of date but it could be extended.”

  “There are difficulties about that,” the man objected.

  She turned to Charles.

  “Mr. Mildenhall,” she begged, “send him away for one moment.”

  “The lady has something to confide to me,” Charles told the officia
l.

  The latter smiled and drew back. The Baroness looked into her companion’s eyes.

  “Charles,” she said, “I am not a bad woman. I have never deceived anyone whom I have loved. I pray you—it is for your sake as well as mine—get me that passport.”

  “For my sake?”

  “I will take that back, but you will do a great, a wonderful kindness to a woman who is suffering if you will get me that passport, and you will do no harm nor bring any harm upon any human being in the world.”

  She returned his steadfast gaze without flinching. Then he rose to his feet and drew the passport inspector outside the car.

  “The lady is honest, I believe,” he said. “And her need for the passport is very real. You may lose promotion by doing a generous action. Let this recompense you.”

  The notes passed into the man’s hand. He thrust them into his pocket.

  “Come with me to the table, sir,” he said.

  Charles obeyed. The man took up the old passport and placed a pen between Charles’s fingers.

  “Sign your name, please, as sponsor there,” he begged, pointing to a certain place.

  Charles did as he was told.

  “Now write on this sheet of paper to me, sir:

  “The Baroness von Ballinstrode has urgent need of a passport to replace the one stolen from her this morning. I guarantee her probity and that her name and the other particulars upon the passport which is out of date are true.”

  Charles did as he was asked. The man blotted the piece of paper, placed it inside the document and presented it to the Baroness with a bow.

  “That, Madame,” he said, “will pass you over the frontier to-day. I should advise you, though, as soon as you have an opportunity to take out a fresh passport.”

  Beatrice smiled her thanks. She held Charles’s hand for a moment in hers. Then she swung around and without a backward glance stepped off the car. Charles returned to his place.

  “God knows what old Blute would say to me,” he muttered to himself.

  Ten o’clock came at last. Punctually they jogged slowly out of the station. Charles tried to settle down to read. It was impossible. The dining car was now full of passengers, some having their passports examined, others engaging in eager conversation. The short journey to the frontier seemed to Charles absolutely intolerable. He smoked several cigarettes, finally gave it up, put away his book and sat with folded arms and eyes resolutely turned away from the windows. They gained a little speed, slackened again and then came to a sudden stop. They were under the roof of a station. The platforms were crowded with shouting porters and streams of people passed the windows on their way to the Customs shed. Charles yielded over his belongings to a couple of blue-smocked men and told them to follow him to the office. Here he enquired for one of the chefs by name, exhibited his passport and pointed to his bags. The man scrawled across them.

  “Diplomatic,” he grunted to the porters. “Passed.”

  The fortunate passenger made his way back to the train. With a great effort he obeyed Blute’s request and made no attempt to discover either of his travelling companions. He entered the buffet, drank half a bottle of Swiss wine, paced up and down the platform for half-an-hour and then regained his seat. From a post of vantage he looked out on a very quaint spectacle. Two station officials were standing at the entrance to the private luggage van with their hats in their hands. Mr. Blute, one of the little group, was signing papers with a fountain pen. Charles heard some people on their way past the car speak of the terrible accident in the north and tell others that the bodies of the victims were on their way back to Grenoble for burial. Finally it was all over. Mr. Blute shook hands warmly with the officials and disappeared into the train. Very slowly it jolted out of the station.

  In less than quarter-of-an-hour there was another halt. This time there was only a platform with no station, but the former was crowded with another company of officials. The examination, however, was only of passports and railway tickets. The period of tension, brief though it was, seemed to pass very slowly. At last they were moving again. They slipped farther and farther away from the entanglement of sidings and signal boxes. They began to gather speed. They were in the open country. The door of the dining car was suddenly swung open. Marius Blute and Patricia made their appearance. The former was carrying a bottle of champagne under his arm, the strain had gone from his face, a thin but genuine smile was parting his lips.

  “Our effort is accomplished,” he announced. “We are safely in Switzerland. There is nothing more to be feared. I bought a bottle of Swiss champagne at the buffet. The attendant has given me three glasses. We will drink to our success, we will drink to one another, we will drink to this happy event which seems to be pending between you. Miss Grey, and Mr. Mildenhall!”

  “Dear me,” she laughed, “I’m getting so used to the idea of being married to you, Charles!”

  “You will never get used to it,” he declared as he drew the cork from the bottle and filled the glasses. “You will find being married to me fills life with continual novelty, you will find no time even to pity the many millions who cannot have that happiness.”

  “I shall devote the earlier part of our life together,” she said severely, “towards filing down the sharp edges of your conceit.”

  “So easily done,” he murmured. “The great success of my life—the winning of Patricia—has turned my head a little.”

  “You two seem booked for a happy time, if you go on like this,” Blute declared. “Where’s the wedding going to be?”

  And then, before either of them could deal with this rapturous subject, there came a sudden shock. The handsome guard of the train who had had nothing but smiles for them since the commencement of the journey came hurrying to where they were seated. He had lost alike his dignity, his composure and his slight swagger. He looked over his shoulder. There was no one within hearing. He leaned towards Blute. His voice shook.

  “Did you ever hear of the Three G’s, sir?”

  Blute started as though he had been struck.

  “What—the Gervaise Gunther Gang?”

  “They’re here—in the train—spread about! I’ve counted ten. One of them has tried twice to get into the van.”

  “Is Gervaise himself here?” Blute groaned.

  “I shouldn’t think so, sir. I have not seen him. He never travels with the others.”

  For the first time in her life Patricia saw Blute temporarily overcome. His hand trembled. He spilt some of the wine as he set down his glass.

  “Who on earth is Gervaise Gunther?” Charles demanded. “Docs he bite?”

  Neither of the two men answered him. Both seemed overpowered.

  This was no moment for frivolity. Patricia looked at them and her own heart sank.

  “Is this what you were afraid of?” she asked Blute.

  He shook his head.

  “No, I was afraid of a Nazi coup. I thought that they might have sent a special enquiry guard to the frontier. Gervaise—I never thought of him. I have had not a single word of warning from anyone. I thought he was in New York.”

  “The same fellow is on the train,” the guard went on, his voice half-choked with fright, “as the last time I saw any of them. It was when they stopped and robbed the Orient Express and got away with a hundred-thousand pounds worth of jewels. I saw this man put on his mask three minutes before the hold-up. There he sits to-day, the same man. He knew that I recognized him and he just winked. They say that Gervaise himself was at a café in Budapest two days after the robbery with his mistress, who was wearing some of the jewellery! No one dared lay a finger upon him. It will be the same again.”

  Charles suddenly began to realize the situation.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “Are these men after our stuff?”

  “They are indeed,” Blute groaned. “He is the only man in the underworld I have ever feared. When I first planned this coup, Mildenhall, long before I spoke to you about it, I sent wires t
o New York, Chicago, Paris, London, Marseilles and I had combed Vienna, as I thought, to the bone for news of this man. Not a single police headquarters, not a single private agent, no one in Vienna had heard of him for years. They all declared that he was not working. I dropped him out of my calculation. Are you sure that he’s not on the train himself, guard?”

  “I am sure,” the latter replied. “I am the only man who could recognize him. Last time we met I passed him as a stranger. If I had given him away by so much as a blink I should not have lived another ten seconds.”

  “How did you find this out?” Blute asked.

  “The little lieutenant, the man I told you I recognized from last time, called me in to him just now. He was rolling a thousand schilling note in his hand. He had the same thin, squeaky voice. It gave me a shiver all through my body when I recognized it. ‘Guard,’ he said, looking me straight in the face, ‘I would like you to stop this train for a few minutes at Alteren.’ He opened his hand and I saw the note. I had to be careful. There was something else bulging in his pocket and his fingers were creeping around the bulge. I’m talking to you now at the risk of my life.”

  “Where is Alteren?” Charles asked.

  “It is just a signal box. We should be there in half-an-hour’s time. It’s rather a lonely spot with trees on either side of the track.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I promised I would speak to the engine driver.”

  “How many of these fellows do you think there are?” Blute demanded.

  “I’ve recognized ten, sir. That’s the number he generally works with.”

  “You don’t think Gervaise himself is on the train, then?” Blute persisted.

  “I am sure he is not. He has a swagger with him that no one can mistake. He has the voice and manner, too, of a well-bred man.”

  “The way he’s worked it out,” Blute speculated, “is probably like this. When we reach Alteren he will probably pick up the gang and the loot in a powerful motor lorry. If he sees it’s all right when the train stops, he’ll just slip into the affair as naturally as possible. If none of his men are in sight he’ll know there’s a hitch and he’ll be off like a flash. He won’t be seen again for a year or two. There’s only one thing for us to do,” he added grimly. “We must get into the van and shoot it out with them.”