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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Norgate shook his head.

  “Nor any part of it, sir,” he answered.

  “I presume,” Mr. Bullen remarked, as he rose, “that I shall never have the pleasure of meeting Mr. X——?”

  “I most sincerely hope,” Norgate declared fervently, “that you never will. Good-day, Mr. Bullen!”

  He held out his hand. Mr. Bullen hesitated.

  “Sir,” he said, “I am glad to shake hands with an Irishman. I am willing to shake hands with an honest Englishman. Just where you come in, I don’t know, so good evening. You will find my secretary outside. He will show you how to get away.”

  For a moment Norgate faltered. A hot rejoinder trembled upon his lips. Then he remembered himself and turned on his heel. It was his first lesson in discipline. He left the room without protest.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Table of Contents

  Mr. Hebblethwaite turned into Pall Mall, his hands behind his back, his expression a little less indicative of bland good humour than usual. He had forgotten to light his customary cigarette after the exigencies of a Cabinet Council. He had even forgotten to linger for a few minutes upon the doorstep in case any photographer should be hanging around to take a snapshot of a famous visitor leaving an historic scene, and quite unconsciously he ignored the salutation of several friends. It was only by the merest chance that he happened to glance up at the corner of the street and recognised Norgate across the way. He paused at once and beckoned to him.

  “Well, young fellow,” he exclaimed, as they shook hands, “how’s the German spy business going?”

  “Pretty well, thanks,” Norgate answered coolly. “I am in it twice over now. I’m marrying an Austrian lady shortly, very high up indeed in the Diplomatic Secret Service of her country. Between us you may take it that we could read, if we chose, the secrets of the Cabinet Council from which you have just come.”

  “Any fresh warnings, eh?”

  Norgate turned and walked by his friend’s side.

  “It is no use warning you,” he declared. “You’ve a hide as thick as a rhinoceros. Your complacency is bomb-proof. You won’t believe anything until it’s too late.”

  “Confoundedly disagreeable companion you make, Norgate,” the Cabinet Minister remarked irritably. “You know quite as well as I do that the German scare is all bunkum, and you only hammer it in either to amuse yourself or because you are of a sensational turn of mind. All the same—”

  “All the same, what?” Norgate interrupted.

  Hebblethwaite took his young friend’s arm and led him into his club.

  “We will take an aperitif in the smoking-room,” he said. “After that I will look in my book and see where I am lunching. It is perhaps not the wisest thing for a Cabinet Minister to talk in the street. Since the Suffragette scares, I have quite an eye for a detective, and there has been a fellow within a few yards of your elbow ever since you spoke to me.”

  “That’s all right,” Norgate reassured him. “Let’s see, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it? I call him Boko. He never leaves me. My week-end shadowers are a trifle less assiduous, but Boko is suspicious. He has deucedly long ears, too.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Hebblethwaite demanded, as they sat down.

  “The fact of it is,” Norgate explained, “they don’t altogether trust me in my new profession. They give me some important jobs to look after, but they watch me night and day. What they’d do if I turned ‘em up, I can’t imagine. By-the-by, if you do hear of my being found mysteriously shot or poisoned or something of that sort, don’t you take on any theory as to suicide. It will be murder, right enough. However,” he added, raising his glass to his lips and nodding, “they haven’t found me out yet.”

  “I hear,” Hebblethwaite muttered, “that the bookstalls are loaded with this sort of rubbish. You do it very well, though.”

  “Oh! I am the real thing all right,” Norgate declared. “By-the-by, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” Hebblethwaite replied. “When you come to think of it, sitting here and feeling the reviving influence of this remarkably well-concocted beverage, I can confidently answer ‘Nothing.’ And yet, a few minutes ago, I must admit that I was conscious of a sensation of gloom. You know, Norgate, you’re not the only idiot in the world who goes about seeing shadows. For the first time in my life I begin to wonder whether we haven’t got a couple of them among us. Of course, I don’t take any notice of Spencer Wyatt. It’s his job. He plays the part of popular hero—National Anthem, God Save the Empire, and all that sort of thing. He must keep in with his admirals and the people, so of course he’s always barking for ships. But White, now. I have always looked upon White as being absolutely the most level-headed, sensible, and peace-adoring Minister this country ever had.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Norgate asked.

  “I cannot,” Hebblethwaite regretted, “talk confidentially to a German spy.”

  “Getting cautious as the years roll on, aren’t you?” Norgate sighed. “I hoped I was going to get something interesting out of you to cable to Berlin.”

  “You try cabling to Berlin, young fellow,” Hebblethwaite replied grimly, “and I’ll have you up at Bow Street pretty soon! There’s no doubt about it, though, old White has got the shivers for some reason or other. To any sane person things were never calmer and more peaceful than at the present moment, and White isn’t a believer in the German peril, either. He is half inclined to agree with old Busby. He got us out of that Balkan trouble in great style, and all I can say is that if any nation in Europe wanted war then, she could have had it for the asking.”

  “Well, exactly what is the matter with White at the present moment?” Norgate demanded.

  “Got the shakes,” Hebblethwaite confided. “Of course, we don’t employ well-born young Germans who are undergoing a period of rustication, as English spies, but we do get to know a bit what goes on there, and the reports that are coming in are just a little curious. Rolling stock is being called into the termini of all the railways. Staff officers in mufti have been round all the frontiers. There’s an enormous amount of drilling going on, and the ordnance factories are working at full pressure, day and night.”

  “The manoeuvres are due very soon,” Norgate reminded his friend.

  “So I told White,” Hebblethwaite continued, “but manoeuvres, as he remarked, don’t lead to quite so much feverish activity as there is about Germany just now. Personally, I haven’t a single second’s anxiety. I only regret the effect that this sort of feeling has upon the others. Thank heavens we are a Government of sane, peace-believing people!”

  “A Government of fat-headed asses who go about with your ears stuffed full of wool,” Norgate declared, with a sudden bitterness. “What you’ve been telling me is the truth. Germany’s getting ready for war, and you’ll have it in the neck pretty soon.”

  Hebblethwaite set down his empty glass. He had recovered his composure.

  “Well, I am glad I met you, any way, young fellow,” he remarked. “You’re always such an optimist. You cheer one up. Sorry I can’t ask you to lunch,” he went on, consulting his book, “but I find I am motoring down for a round of golf this afternoon.”

  “Yes, you would play golf!” Norgate grunted, as they strolled towards the door. “You’re the modern Nero, playing golf while the earthquake yawns under London.”

  “Play you some day, if you like,” Hebblethwaite suggested, as he called for a taxi. “They took my handicap down two last week at Walton Heath—not before it was time, either. By-the-by, when can I meet the young lady? My people may be out of town next week, but I’ll give you both a lunch or a dinner, if you’ll say the word. Thursday night, eh?”

  “At present,” Norgate replied, “the Baroness is in Italy, arranging for the mobilisation of the Italian armies, but if she’s back for Thursday, we shall be delighted. She’ll be quite interested to meet you. A keen, bright, alert politician of your type will simply fascinate
her.”

  “We’ll make it Thursday night, then, at the Carlton,” Hebblethwaite called out from his taxi. “Take care of Boko. So long!”

  At the top of St. James’s Street, Norgate received the bow of a very elegantly-dressed young woman who was accompanied by a well-known soldier. A few steps further on he came face to face with Selingman.

  “A small city, London,” the latter declared. “I am on my way to the Berkeley to lunch. Will you come with me? I am alone to-day, and I hate to eat alone. Miss Morgen has deserted me shamefully.”

  “I met her a moment or two ago,” Norgate remarked. “She was with Colonel Bowden.”

  Selingman nodded. “Rosa has been taking a great interest in flying lately. Colonel Bowden is head of the Flying Section. Well, well, one must expect to be deserted sometimes, we older men.”

  “Especially in so great a cause,” Norgate observed drily.

  Selingman smiled enigmatically.

  “And you, my young friend,” he enquired, “what have you been doing this morning?”

  “I have just left Hebblethwaite,” Norgate answered.

  “There was a Cabinet Council this morning, wasn’t there?”

  Norgate nodded.

  “An unimportant one, I should imagine. Hebblethwaite seemed thoroughly satisfied with himself and with life generally. He has gone down to Walton Heath to play golf.”

  Selingman led the way into the restaurant.

  “Very good exercise for an English Cabinet Minister,” he remarked, “capital for the muscles!”

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Table of Contents

  “I had no objection,” Norgate remarked, a few hours later, “to lunching with you at the Berkeley—very good lunch it was, too—but to dine with you in Soho certainly seems to require some explanation. Why do we do it? Is it my punishment for a day’s inactivity, because if so, I beg to protest. I did my best with Hebblethwaite this morning, and it was only because there was nothing for him to tell me that I heard nothing.”

  Selingman spread himself out at the little table and talked in voluble German to the portly head-waiter in greasy clothes. Then he turned to his guest.

  “My young friend,” he enjoined, “you should cultivate a spirit of optimism. I grant you that the place is small and close, that the odour of other people’s dinners is repellent, that this cloth, perhaps, is not so clean as it once was, or the linen so fine as we are accustomed to. But what would you have? All sides of life come into the great scheme. It is here that we shall meet a person whom I need to meet, a person whom I do not choose to have visit me at my home, whom I do not choose to be seen with in any public place of great repute.”

  “I should say we were safe here from knocking against any of our friends!” Norgate observed. “Anyhow, the beer’s all right.”

  They were served with light-coloured beer in tall, chased tumblers. Selingman eyed his with approval.

  “A nation,” he declared, “which brews beer like this, deserves well of the world. You did wisely, Norgate, to become ever so slightly associated with us. Now examine carefully these hors d’oeuvres. I have talked with Karl, the head-waiter. Instead of eighteen pence, we shall pay three shillings each for our dinner. The whole resources of the establishment are at our disposal. Fresh tins of delicatessen, you perceive. Do not be afraid that you will go-away hungry.”

  “I am more afraid,” Norgate grumbled, “that I shall go away sick. However!”

  “You may be interested to hear,” announced Selingman, glancing up, “that our visit is not in vain. You perceive the two men entering? The nearest one is a Bulgarian. He is a creature of mine. The other is brought here by him to meet us. It is good.”

  The newcomers made their way along the room. One, the Bulgarian, was short and dark. He wore a well-brushed blue serge suit with a red tie, and a small bowler hat. He was smoking a long, brown cigarette and he carried a bundle of newspapers. Behind him came a youth with a pale, sensitive face and dark eyes, ill-dressed, with the grip of poverty upon him, from his patched shoes to his frayed collar and well-worn cap. Nevertheless, he carried himself as though indifferent to these things. His companion stopped short as he neared the table at which the two men were sitting, and took off his hat, greeting Selingman with respect.

  “My friend Stralhaus!” Selingman exclaimed. “It goes well, I trust? You are a stranger. Let me introduce to you my secretary, Mr. Francis Norgate.”

  Stralhaus bowed and turned to his young companion.

  “This,” he said, “is the young man with whom you desired to speak. We will sit down if we may. Sigismund, this is the great Herr Selingman, philanthropist and millionaire, with his secretary, Mr. Norgate. We take dinner with him to-night.”

  The youth shook hands without enthusiasm. His manner towards Selingman was cold. At Norgate he glanced once or twice with something approaching curiosity. Stralhaus proceeded to make conversation.

  “Our young friend,” he explained, addressing Norgate, “is an exile in London. He belongs to an unfortunate country. He is a native of Bosnia.”

  The boy’s lip curled.

  “It is possible,” he remarked, “that Mr. Norgate has never even heard of my country. He is very little likely to know its history.”

  “On the contrary,” Norgate replied, “I know it very well. You have had the misfortune, during the last few years, to come under Austrian rule.”

  “Since you put it like that,” the boy declared, “we are friends. I am one of those who cry out to Heaven in horror at the injustice which has been done. We love liberty, we Bosnians. We love our own people and our own institutions, and we hate Austria. May you never know, sir, what it is to be ruled by an alien race!”

  “You have at least the sympathy of many nations who are powerless to interfere,” Selingman said quietly. “I read your pamphlet, Mr. Henriote, with very great interest. Before we leave to-night, I shall make a proposal to you.”

  The boy seemed puzzled for a moment, but Stralhaus intervened with some commonplace remark.

  “After dinner,” he suggested, “we will talk.”

  Certainly during the progress of the meal Henriote said little. He ate, although obviously half famished, with restraint, but although Norgate did his best to engage him in conversation, he seemed taciturn, almost sullen. Towards the end of dinner, when every one was smoking and coffee had been served, Selingman glanced at his watch.

  “Now,” he said, “I will tell you, my young Bosnian patriot, why I sent for you. Would you like to go back to your country, in the first place?”

  “It is impossible!” Henriote declared bitterly, “I am exile. I am forbidden to return under pain of death.”

  Selingman opened his pocket-book, and, searching among his papers, produced a thin blue one which he opened and passed across the table.

  “Read that,” he ordered shortly.

  The young man obeyed. A sudden exclamation broke from his lips. A pink flush, which neither the wine nor the food had produced, burned in his cheeks. He sat hunched up, leaning forward, his eyes devouring the paper. When he had finished, he still gripped it.

  “It is my pardon!” he cried. “I may go back home—back to Bosnia!”

  “It is your free pardon,” Selingman replied, “but it is granted to you upon conditions. Those conditions, I may say, are entirely for your country’s sake and are framed by those who feel exactly as you feel—that Austrian rule for Bosnia is an injustice.”

  “Go on,” the young man muttered. “What am I to do?”

  “You are a member,” Selingman went on, “of the extreme revolutionary party, a party pledged to stop at nothing, to drive your country’s enemies across her borders. Very well, listen to me. The pardon which you have there is granted to you without any promise having been asked for or given in return. It is I alone who dictate terms to you. Your country’s position, her wrongs, and the abuses of the present form of government, can only be brought before the notice of Europe in one way.
You are pledged to do that. All that I require of you is that you keep your pledge.”

  The young man half rose to his feet with excitement.

  “Keep it! Who is more anxious to keep it than I? If Europe wants to know how we feel, she shall know! We will proclaim the wrongs of our country so that England and Russia, France and Italy, shall hear and judge for themselves. If you need deeds to rivet the attention of the world upon our sufferings, then there shall be deeds. There shall—”

  He stopped short. A look of despair crossed his face.

  “But we have no money!” he exclaimed. “We patriots are starving. Our lands have been confiscated. We have nothing. I live over here Heaven knows how—I, Sigismund Henriote, have toiled for my living with Polish Jews and the outcasts of Europe.”

  Selingman dived once more into his pocket-book. He passed a packet across the table.

  “Young man,” he said, “that sum has been collected for your funds by the friends of your country abroad. Take it and use it as you think best. All that I ask from you is that what you do, you do quickly. Let me suggest an occasion for you. The Archduke of Austria will be in your capital almost as soon as you can reach home.”