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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “I heard something of the sort,” she admitted. “To be quite candid with you, I think it was reported that the Chancellor was making a change on his own account.”

  “So that is what they say, is it? What do they know about it—these gossipers?”

  “You were not allowed at the conference yesterday,” she remarked.

  “No one was allowed there, so that goes for nothing.”

  “Ah! well,” she said, looking meditatively out upon the landscape, “a year ago the thought of that conference would have driven me wild. I should not have been content until I had learned somehow or other what had transpired. Lately, I am afraid, my interest in my country seems to have grown a trifle cold. Perhaps because I have lived in Vienna I have learned to look at things from your point of view. Then, too, the world is a selfish place, and our own little careers are, after all, the most important part of it.”

  Von Behrling eyed her Curiously.

  “It seems strange to hear you talk like this,” he remarked.

  She looked out of the window for a moment.

  “Oh! I still love my country, in a way,” she answered, “and I still hate all Austrians, in a way, but it is not as it used to be with me, I must admit. If we had two lives, I would give one to my country and keep one for myself. Since we have only one, I am afraid, after all, that I am human, and I want to taste some of its pleasures.”

  “Some of its pleasures,” Von Behrling repeated, a little gloomily. “Ah, that is easy enough for you, Mademoiselle!”

  “Not so easy as it may appear,” she answered. “One needs many things to get the best out of life. One needs wealth and one needs love, and one needs them while one is young, while one can enjoy.”

  “It is true,” Von Behrling admitted,—“quite true.”

  “If one is not careful,” she continued, “one lets the years slip by. They can never come again. If one does not live while one is young, there is no other chance.”

  Von Behrling assented with renewed gloom. He was twenty-five years old, and his income barely paid for his uniforms. Of late, this fact had materially interfered with his enjoyments.

  “It is strange,” he said, “that you should talk like this. You have the world at your feet, Mademoiselle. You have only to throw the handkerchief.”

  Her lips parted in a dazzling smile. The bluest eyes in the world grew softer as they looked into his. Von Behrling felt his cheeks burn.

  “My friend, it is not so easy,” she murmured. “Tell me,” she continued, “why it is that you have so little self-confidence. Is it because you are poor?”

  “I am a beggar,”—bitterly.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Well,” she said, glancing down the menu which the waiter had brought, “if you are poor and content to remain so, one must presume that you have compensations.”

  “But I have none!” he declared. “You should know that—you, Mademoiselle. Life for me means one thing and one thing only!”

  She looked at him, for a moment, and down upon the tablecloth. Von Behrling shook like a man in the throes of some great passion.

  “We talk too intimately,” she whispered, as the people began to file in to take their places. “After luncheon we will take our coffee in my coupe. Then, if you like, we will speak of these matters. I have a headache. Will you order me some champagne? It is a terrible thing, I know, to drink wine in the morning, but when one travels, what can one do? Here come your bodyguard. They look at me as though I had stolen you away. Remember we take our coffee together afterwards. I am bored with so much traveling, and I look to you to amuse me.”

  Von Behrling’s journey was, after all, marked with sharp contrasts. The kindness of the woman whom he adored was sufficient in itself to have transported him into a seventh heaven. On the other hand, he had trouble with his friends. Streuss drew him on one side at Ostend, and talked to him plainly.

  “Von Behrling,” he said, “I speak to you on behalf of Kahn and myself. Wine and women and pleasure are good things. We two, we love them, perhaps, as you do, but there is a place and a time for them, and it is not now. Our mission is too serious.”

  “Well, well!” Von Behrling exclaimed impatiently, “what is all this? What do I do wrong? What have you to say against me? If I talk with Mademoiselle Idiale, it is because it is the natural thing for me to do. Would you have us three—you and Kahn and myself—travel arm in arm and speak never a word to our fellow passengers? Would you have us proclaim to all the world that we are on a secret mission, carrying a secret document, to obtain which we have already committed a crime? These are old-fashioned methods, Streuss. It is better that we behave like ordinary mortals. You talk foolishly, Streuss!”

  “It is you,” the older man declared, “who play the fool, and we will not have it! Mademoiselle Idiale is a Servian and a patriot. She is the friend, too, of Bellamy, the Englishman. She and he were together last night.”

  “Bellamy is not even on the train,” Von Behrling protested. “He went north to Berlin. That itself is the proof that they know nothing. If he had had the merest suspicion, do you not think that he would have stayed with us?”

  “Bellamy is very clever,” Streuss answered. “There are too many of us to deal with,—he knew that. Mademoiselle Idiale is clever, too. Remember that half the trouble in life has come about through false women.

  “What is it that you want?” Von Behrling demanded.

  “That you travel the rest of the way with us, and speak no more with Mademoiselle.”

  Von Behrling drew himself up. After all, it was he who was noble; Streuss was little more than a policeman.

  “I refuse!” he exclaimed. “Let me remind you, Streuss, that I am in charge of this expedition. It was I who planned it. It was I”—he dropped his voice and touched his chest—“who struck the first blow for its success. I think that we need talk no more,” he went on. “I welcome your companionship. It makes for strength that we travel together. But for the rest, the enterprise has been mine, the success so far has been mine, and the termination of it shall be mine. Watch me, if you like. Stay with me and see that I am not robbed, if you fear that I am not able to take care of myself, but do not ask me to behave like an idiot.”

  Von Behrling stepped away quickly. The siren was already blowing from the steamer.

  VI. VON BEHRLING IS TEMPTED

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  The night was dark but fine, and the crossing smooth. Louise, wrapped in furs, abandoned her private cabin directly they had left the harbor, and had a chair placed on the upper deck. Von Behrling found her there, but not before they were nearly half-way across. She beckoned him to her side. Her eyes glowed at him through the darkness.

  “You are not looking after me, my friend,” she declared. “By myself I had to find this place.”

  Von Behrling was ruffled. He was also humbly apologetic.

  “It is those idiots who are with me,” he said. “All the time they worry.”

  She laughed and drew him down so that she could whisper in his ear.

  “I know what it is,” she said. “You have secrets which you are taking to London, and they are afraid of me because I am a Servian. Tell me, is it not so? Perhaps, even, they think that I am a spy.”

  Von Behrling hesitated. She drew him closer towards her.

  “Sit down on the deck,” she continued, “and lean against the rail. You are too big to talk to up there. So! Now you can come underneath my rug. Tell me, are they afraid of me, your friends?”

  “Is it without reason?” he asked. “Would not any one be afraid of you—if, indeed, they believed that you wished to know our secrets? I wonder if there is a man alive whom you could not turn round your little finger.”

  She laughed at him softly.

  “Ah, no!” she said. “Men are not like that, nowadays. They talk and they talk, but it is not much they would do for a woman’s sake.”

  “You believe that?” he asked, in a low tone.


  “I do, indeed. One reads love-stories—no, I do not mean romances, but memoirs—memoirs of the French and Austrian Courts—memoirs, even, written by Englishmen. Men were different a generation ago. Honor was dear to them then, honor and position and wealth, and yet there were many, very many then who were willing to give all these things for the love of a woman.

  “And do you think there are none now?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “My friend,” she answered, looking down at him, “I think that there are very few.”

  She heard his breath come fast between his teeth, and she realized his state of excitement.

  “Mademoiselle Louise,” he said, “my love for you has made me a laughing-stock in the clubs of Vienna. I—the poverty-stricken, who have nothing but a noble name, nothing to offer you—have dared to show others what I think, have dared to place you in my heart above all the women on earth.”

  “It is very nice of you,” she murmured. “Why do you tell me this now?”

  “Why, indeed?” he answered. “What have I to hope for?”

  She looked along the deck. Not a dozen yards away, two cigar ends burned red through the gloom. She knew very well that those cigar ends belonged to Streuss and his friend. She laughed softly and once more she bent her head.

  “How they watch you, those men!” she said. “Listen, my friend Rudolph. Supposing their fears were true, supposing I were really a spy, supposing I offered you wealth and with it whatever else you might claim from me, for the secret which you carry to England!”

  “How do you know that I am carrying a secret?” he asked hoarsely.

  She laughed.

  “My friend,” she said, “with your two absurd companions shadowing you all the time and glowering at me, how could one possibly doubt it? The Baron Streuss is, I believe, the Chief of your Secret Service Department, is he not? To me he seems the most obvious policeman I ever saw dressed as a gentleman.”

  “You don’t mean it!” he muttered. “You can’t mean what you said just now!”

  She was silent for a few moments. Some one passing struck a match, and she caught a glimpse of the white face of the man who sat by her side—strained now and curiously intense.

  “Supposing I did!”

  “You must be mad!” he declared. “You must not talk to me like this, Mademoiselle. I have no secret. It is your humor, I know, but it is dangerous.”

  “There is no danger,” she murmured, “for we are alone. I say again, Rudolph, supposing this were true?”

  His hand passed across his forehead. She fancied that he made a motion as though to rise to his feet, but she laid her hand upon his.

  “Stay here,” she whispered. “No, I do not wish to drive you away. Now you are here you shall listen to me.”

  “But you are not in earnest!” he faltered. “Don’t tell me that you are in earnest. It is treason. I am Rudolph Von Behrling, Secretary to the Chancellor.”

  Again she leaned towards him so that he could see into her eyes.

  “Rudolph,” she said, “you are indeed Rudolph Von Behrling, you are indeed the Chancellor’s secretary. What do you gain from it? A pittance! Many hours work a day and a pittance. What have you to look forward to? A little official life, a stupid official position. Rudolph, here am I, and there is the world. Do I not represent other things?”

  “God knows you do!” he muttered.

  “I, too, am weary of singing. I want a long rest—a long rest and a better name than my own. Don’t shrink away from me. It isn’t so wonderful, after all. Bellamy, the Englishman, came to me a few hours ago. He was Dorward’s friend. He knew well what Dorward carried. It was not his affair, he told me, and interposition from him was hopeless, but he knew that you and I were friends.”

  “You must stop!” Von Behrling declared. “You must stop! I must not listen to this!”

  “He offered me twenty thousand pounds,” she went on, “for the packet in your pocket. Think of that, my friend. It would be a start in life, would it not? I am an extravagant woman. Even if I would, I dared not think of a poor man. But twenty thousand pounds is sufficient. When I reach London, I am going to a flat which has been waiting for me for weeks—15, Dover Street. If you bring that packet to me instead of taking it to the Austrian Embassy, there will be twenty thousand pounds and—”

  Her fingers suddenly held his. She could almost hear his heart beating. Her eyes, by now accustomed to the gloom, could see the tumult which was passing within the man, reflected in his face. She whispered a warning under her breath. The two cigar ends had moved nearer. The forms of the two men were now distinct. One was leaning over the side of the ship by Von Behrling’s side. The other stood a few feet away, gazing at the lights of Dover. Von Behrling staggered to his feet. He said something in an angry undertone to Streuss. Louise rose and shook out her furs.

  “My friend,” she said, turning to Von Behrling, “if your friends can spare you so long, will you fetch one of my maids? You will find them both in my cabin, number three. I wish to walk for a few moments before we arrive.”

  Von Behrling turned away like a man in a dream. Mademoiselle Idiale followed him slowly, and behind her came Von Behrling’s companions.

  The details of the great singer’s journey had been most carefully planned by an excited manager who had received the telegram announcing her journey to London. There was an engaged carriage at Dover, into which she was duly escorted by a representative of the Opera Syndicate, who had been sent down from London to receive her. Von Behrling seemed to be missing. She had seen nothing of him since he had descended to summon her maids. But just as the train was starting, she heard the sound of angry voices, and a moment later his white face was pressed through the open window of the carriage.

  “Louise,” he muttered, “I am on fire! I cannot talk to you! I fear that they suspect something. They have told me that if I travel with you they will force their way in. Even now, Streuss comes. Listen for your telephone to-night or whenever I can. I must think—I must think!”

  He passed on, and Louise, leaning back in her seat, closed her eyes.

  VII. “WE PLAY FOR GREAT STAKES”

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  Bellamy, travel-stained and weary, arrived at his rooms at two o’clock on the following afternoon to find amongst a pile of correspondence a penciled message awaiting him in a handwriting he knew well. He tore open the envelope.

  DAVID DEAR,—I have just arrived and I am sending you these few lines at once. As to what progress I have made, I cannot say for certain, but there is a chance. You had better get the money ready and come to me here. If R. could only escape from Streuss and those who watch him all the time, I should be quite sure, but they are suspicious. What may happen I cannot tell. I do my best and I have hated it. Get the money ready and come to me.

  LOUISE.

  Bellamy drew a little breath and tore the note into pieces. Then he rang for his servant. “A bath and some clean clothes quickly,” he ordered. “While I am changing, ring up Downing Street and see if Sir James is there. If not, find out exactly where he is. I must see him within half an hour. Afterwards, get me a taxicab.”

  The man obeyed with the swift efficiency of the thoroughly trained servant. In rather less than the time which he had stated, Bellamy had left his rooms. Before four o’clock he had arrived at the address which Louise had given him. A commissionaire telephoned his name to the first floor, and in a very few moments a pale-faced French man-servant, in sombre black livery, descended and bowed to Bellamy.

  “Monsieur will be so good as to come this way,” he directed.

  Bellamy followed him into the lift, which stopped at the first floor. He was ushered into a small boudoir, already smothered with roses.

  “Mademoiselle will be here immediately,” the man announced. “She is engaged with a gentleman from the Opera, but she will leave him to receive Monsieur.”

  Bellamy nodded.

  “Pray let Mademoiselle understand,” he said, “
that I am entirely at her service. My time is of no consequence.”

  The man bowed and withdrew. Louise came to him almost directly from an inner chamber. She was wearing a loose gown, but the fatigue of her journey seemed already to have passed away. Her eyes were bright, and a faint color glowed in her cheeks.

  “David,” she exclaimed, “thank Heaven that you are here!”

  She took both his hands and held them for a moment. Then she walked to the door, made sure that it was securely fastened, and stood there listening for a moment.

  “I suppose I am foolish,” she said, coming back to him, “and yet I cannot help fancying that I am being watched on every side since we landed in England. I detest my new manager, and I don’t trust any of the servants he has engaged for me. You got my note?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “I had your note—and I am here.”

  The restraint of his manner was obvious. He was standing a little away from her. She came suddenly up to him, her hands fell upon his shoulders, her face was upturned to his. Even then he made no motion to embrace her.

  “David,” she whispered softly, “what I am doing—what I have done—was at your suggestion. I do it for you, I do it for my country, I do it against every natural feeling I possess. I hate and loathe the lies I tell. Are you remembering that? Is it in your heart at this moment?”

  He stooped and kissed her.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “it is I who am to blame, but I am only human. We play for great stakes, Louise, but sometimes one forgets.”

  “As I live,” she murmured, “the kiss you gave me last is still upon my lips. What I have promised goes for nothing. What he has promised is this—the papers to-night.”

  “Unopened?”

  “Unopened,” she repeated, softly.

  “But how is it to be done?” Bellamy asked. “He must have arrived in London when you did last night. How is it they are not already at the Embassy?”

  “The Ambassador was commanded to Cowes,” she explained. “He cannot be back until late to-night. No one else has a key to the treaty safe, and Von Behrling declined to give up the document to any one save the Ambassador himself.”