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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Bellamy nodded.

  “What about Streuss?”

  “Streuss and the others are all furious,” Louise said. “Yet, after all, Behrling has a certain measure of right on his side. His orders were to see with his own eyes this envelope deposited in the safe by the Ambassador himself.”

  “He returns to-night!” Bellamy exclaimed quickly.

  She nodded.

  “Before he comes,” she declared, “I think that the document will be in your hands.”

  “How is it to be done?”

  “The report is written,” she explained, “on five pages of foolscap. They are contained in a long envelope, scaled with the Chancellor’s crest. Von Behrling, being one of the family, has the same crest. He has prepared another envelope, the same size and weight, and signed it with his seal. It is this which he will hand over to the Ambassador if he should return unexpectedly. The real one he has concealed.”

  “Is he here?” Bellamy inquired.

  “Thank Heavens, no!” she answered. “My dear David, what are you thinking of? He is not here and he dare not come here. You are to go to your rooms,” she added, glancing at the clock, “and between five and six o’clock this evening you will be rung up on the telephone. A rendezvous will be given you for later on to-night. You must take the money there and receive the packet. Von Behrling will be disguised and prepared for flight.”

  Bellamy’s eyes glowed.

  “You believe this?” he exclaimed.

  “I believe it,” she replied. “He is going to do it. After he has seen you, he will make his way to Plymouth. I have promised—don’t look at me, David—I have promised to join him there.”

  Bellamy was grave.

  “There will be trouble,” he said. “He will come back. He will want to shoot you. He may be slow-witted in some things, but he is passionate.”

  “Am I a coward?” she asked, with a scornful laugh. “Have I ever shown fear of my life? No, David! It is not that of which I am afraid. It is the memory of the man’s touch, it is the look which was in your face when you came into the room. These are the things I fear—not death.”

  Bellamy drew her into his arms and kissed her.

  “Forgive me,” he begged. “At such times a man is a weak thing—a weak and selfish thing. I am ashamed of myself. I should have known better than to have doubted you for a moment. I know you so well, Louise. I know what you are.”

  She smiled.

  “Dear,” she said, “you have made me happy. And now you must go away. Remember that these few minutes are only an interlude. Over here I am Mademoiselle Idiale who sings to-night at Covent Garden. See my roses. There are two rooms full of reporters and photographers in the place now. The leader of the orchestra is in my bedroom, and two of the directors are drinking whiskies and sodas with this new manager of mine in the dining-room. Between five and six o’clock this afternoon you will get the message. It is somewhere, I think, in the city that you will have to go. There will be no trouble about the money? Nothing but notes or gold will be of any use.”

  “I have it in my pocket,” he answered. “I have it in notes, but he need never fear that they will be traced. The numbers of notes given for Secret Service purposes are expunged from every one’s memory.”

  She drew a little sigh.

  “It is a great sum,” she said. “After all, he should be grateful to me. If only he would be sensible and get away to the United States or to South America! He could live there like a prince, poor fellow. He would be far happier.”

  “I only hope that he will go,” Bellamy agreed. “There is one thing to be remembered. If he does not go, if he stays for twenty-four hours in this country, I do not believe that he will live to do you harm. The men who are with him are not the sort to stop short at trifles. Besides Streuss and Kahn, they have a regular army of spies at their bidding here. If they find out that he has tricked them, they will hunt him down, and before long.”

  Louise shivered.

  “Oh, I hope,” she exclaimed, “that he gets away! He is a traitor, of course, but he is a traitor to a hateful cause, and, after all, I think it is less for the money than for my sake that he does it. That sounds very conceited, I suppose,” she added, with a faint smile. “Ah! well, you see, for five years so many have been trying to turn my head. No wonder if I begin to believe some of their stories. David, I must go. I must not keep Dr. Henschell waiting any longer.”

  “To-morrow,” he said, “to-morrow early I shall come. I am afraid I shall miss your first appearance in England, Louise.”

  The sound of a violin came floating out from the inner room.

  “That is my signal,” she declared smiling. “De. Henschell was almost beside himself that I came away. I come, Doctor,” she called out. “David, good fortune!” she added, giving him her hands. “Now go, dear.”

  VIII. THE HAND OF MISFORTUNE

  Table of Contents

  Between the two men, seated opposite each other in the large but somewhat barely furnished office, the radical differences, both in appearance and mannerisms, perhaps, also, in disposition, had never been more strongly evident. They were partners in business and face to face with ruin. Stephen Laverick, senior member of the firm, although an air of steadfast gloom had settled upon his clean-cut, powerful countenance, retained even in despair something of that dogged composure, temperamental and wholly British, which had served him well along the road to fortune. Arthur Morrison, the man who sat on the other side of the table, a Jew to his finger-tips notwithstanding his altered name, sat like a broken thing, with tears in his terrified eyes, disordered hair, and parchment-pale face. Words had flown from his lips in a continual stream. He floundered in his misery, sobbed about it like a child. The hand of misfortune had stripped him naked, and one man, at least, saw him as he really was.

  “I can’t stand it, Laverick,—I couldn’t face them all. It’s too cruel—too horrible! Eighteen thousand pounds gone in one week, forty thousand in a month! Forty thousand pounds! Oh, my God!”

  He writhed in agony. The man on the other side of the table said nothing.

  “If we could only have held on a little longer! ‘Unions’ must turn! They will turn! Laverick, have you tried all your friends? Think! Have you tried them all? Twenty thousand pounds would see us through it. We should get our own money back—I am sure of it. There’s Rendell, Laverick. He’d do anything for you. You’re always shooting or playing cricket with him. Have you asked him, Laverick? He’d never miss the money.”

  “You and I see things differently, Morrison,” Laverick answered. “Nothing would induce me to borrow money from a friend.”

  “But at a time like this,” Morrison pleaded passionately. “Every one does it sometimes. He’d be glad to help you. I know he would. Have you ever thought what it will be like, Laverick, to be hammered?”

  “I have,” Laverick admitted wearily. “God knows it seems as terrible a thing to me as it can to you! But if we go down, we must go down with clean hands. I’ve no faith in your infernal market, and not one penny will I borrow from a friend.”

  The Jew’s face was almost piteous. He stretched himself across the table. There were genuine tears in his eyes.

  “Laverick,” he said, “old man, you’re wrong. I know you think I’ve been led away. I’ve taken you out of our depth, but the only trouble has been that we haven’t had enough capital, and no backing. Those who stand up will win. They will make money.”

  “Unfortunately,” Laverick remarked, “we cannot stand up. Please understand that I will not discuss this matter with you in any way. I will not borrow money from Rendell or any friend. I have asked the bank and I have asked Pages, who will be our largest creditors. To help us would simply be a business proposition, so far as they are concerned. As you know, they have refused. If you see any hope in that direction, why don’t you try some of your own friends? For every one man I know in the House, you have seemed to be bosom friends with at least twenty.”

&nbs
p; Morrison groaned.

  “Those I know are not that sort of friend,” he answered. “They will drink with you and spend a night out or a week-end at Brighton, but they do not lend money. If they would, do you think I would mind asking? Why, I would go on my knees to any man who would lend us the money. I would even kiss his feet. I cannot bear it, Laverick! I cannot! I cannot!”

  Laverick said nothing. Words were useless things, wasted upon such a creature. He eyed his partner with a contempt which he took no pains to conceal. This, then, was the smart young fellow recommended to him on all sides, a few years ago, as one of the shrewdest young men in his own particular department, a person bound to succeed, a money-maker if ever there was one! Laverick thought of him as he appeared at the office day by day, glossy and immaculately dressed, with a flower in his buttonhole, boots that were a trifle too shiny, hat and coat, gloves and manner, all imitation but all very near the real thing. What a collapse!

  “You’re going to stay and see it through?” he whined across the table.

  “Certainly,” Laverick answered.

  The young man buried his face in his hands.

  “I can’t! I can’t!” he moaned. “I couldn’t bear seeing all the fellows, hearing them whisper things—oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!… Laverick, we’ve a few hundreds left. Give me something and let me out of it. You’re a stronger sort of man than I am. You can face it,—I can’t! Give me enough to get abroad with, and if ever I do any good I’ll remember it, I will indeed.”

  Laverick was silent for a moment. His companion watched his face eagerly. After all, why not let him go? He was no help, no comfort. The very sight of him was contemptible.

  “I have paid no money into the bank for several days,” Laverick said slowly. “When they refused to help us, it was, of course, obvious that they guessed how things were.”

  “Quite right, quite right!” the young man interrupted feverishly. “They would have stuck to it against the overdraft. How much have we got in the safe?”

  “This afternoon,” Laverick continued, “I changed all our cheques. You can count the proceeds for yourself. There are, I think, eleven hundred pounds. You can take two hundred and fifty, and you can take them with you—to any place you like.”

  The young man was already at the safe. The notes were between them, on the table. He counted quickly with the fingers of a born manipulator of money. When he had gathered up two hundred and fifty pounds, Laverick’s hand fell upon his.

  “No more,” he ordered sternly.

  “But, my dear fellow,” Morrison protested, “half of eleven hundred is five hundred and fifty. Why should we not go halves? That is only fair, Laverick. It is little enough. We ought to have had a great deal more.”

  Laverick pushed him contemptuously away and locked up the remainder of the notes.

  “I am letting you take two hundred and fifty pounds of this money,” he said, “for various reasons. For one, I can bear this thing better alone. As for the rest of the money, it remains there for the accountant who liquidates our affairs. I do not propose to touch a penny of it.”

  The young man buttoned up his coat with an hysterical little laugh. Such ways were not his ways. They were not, indeed, within the limit of his understanding. But of his partner he had learned one thing, at least. The word of Stephen Laverick was the word of truth. He shambled toward the door. On the whole, he was lucky to have got the two hundred and fifty pounds.

  “So long, Laverick,” he said from the door. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

  It was characteristic of him that he did not venture to offer his hand. Laverick nodded, not unkindly. After all, this young man was as he had been made.

  “I wish you good luck, Morrison,” he said. “Try South Africa.”

  IX. ROBBING THE DEAD

  Table of Contents

  The roar of the day was long since over. The rattle of vehicles, the tinkling of hansom bells, the tooting of horns from motor-cars and cabs, the ceaseless tramp of footsteps, all had died away. Outside, the streets were almost deserted. An occasional wayfarer passed along the flagged pavement with speedy footsteps. Here and there a few lights glimmered at the windows of some of the larger blocks of offices. The bustle of the day was finished. There is no place in London so strangely quiet as the narrow thoroughfares of the city proper when the hour approaches midnight.

  Laverick, who since his partner’s departure had been studying with infinite care his private ledger, closed it at last with a little snap and leaned back in his chair. After all, save that he had got rid of Morrison, it had been a wasted evening. Not even he, whose financial astuteness no man had ever questioned, could raise from those piles of figures any other answer save the one inevitable one, the knowledge of which had been like a black nightmare stalking by his side for the last thirty-six hours. One by one during the evening his clerks had left him, and it was a proof not only of his wonderful self-control but also of the confidence which he invariably inspired, that not a single one of them had the slightest idea how things were. Not a soul knew that the firm of Laverick & Morrison was already practically derelict, that they had on the morrow twenty-five thousand pounds to find, neither credit nor balance at their bankers, and eight hundred and fifty pounds in the safe.

  Laverick, haggard from his long vigil, locked up his books at last, turned out the lights, and locking the doors behind him walked into the silent street. Instinctively he turned his steps westwards. This might well be the last night on which he would care to show himself in his accustomed haunts, the last night on which he could mix with his fellows freely, and without that terrible sense of consciousness which follows upon disaster. Already there was little enough left of it. It was too late to change and go to his club. The places of amusement were already closed. To-morrow night, both club and theatres would lie outside his world. He walked slowly, yet he had scarcely taken, in fact, a dozen steps when, with a purely mechanical impulse, he paused by a stone-flagged entry to light a cigarette. It was a passage, almost a tunnel for a few yards, leading to an open space, on one side of which was an old churchyard—strange survival in such a part—and on the other the offices of several firms of stockbrokers, a Russian banker, an actuary. It was the barest of impulses which led him to glance up the entry before he blew out the match. Then he gave a quick start and became for a moment paralyzed. Within a few feet of him something was lying on the ground—a dark mass, black and soft—the body of a man, perhaps. Just above it, a pair of eyes gleamed at him through the semi-darkness.

  Laverick at first had no thought of tragedy. It might be a tramp or a drunkard, perhaps,—a fight, or a man taken ill. Then something sinister about the light of those burning eyes set his heart beating faster. He struck another match with firm fingers, and bent forward. What he saw upon the ground made him feel a little sick. What he saw racing away down the passage prompted him to swift pursuit. Down the arched court into the open space he ran, himself an athlete, but mocked by the swiftness of the shadowlike form which he pursued. At the end was another street—empty. He looked up and down, seeking in vain for any signs of life. There was nothing to tell him which way to turn. Opposite was a very labyrinth of courts and turnings. There was not even the sound of a footfall to guide him. Slowly he retraced his steps, lit another match, and leaned over the prostrate figure. Then he knew that it was a tragedy indeed upon which he had stumbled.

  The man was dead, and he had met with his death by unusual means. These were the first two things of which Laverick assured himself. Without any doubt, a savage and a terrible crime had been committed. A hornhandled knife of unusual length had been driven up to the hilt through the heart of the murdered man. There had been other blows, notably about the head. There was not much blood, but the position of the knife alone told its ugly story. Laverick, though his nerves were of the strongest, felt his head swim as he looked. He rose to his feet and walked to the opening of the passage, gasping. The street was no longer empty.

  About thirty yards
away, looking westwards, a man was standing in the middle of the road. The light from the lamp-post escaped his face. Laverick could only see that he was slim, of medium height, dressed in dark clothes, with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. To all appearance, he was watching the entry. Laverick took a step towards him—the man as deliberately took a step further away. Laverick held up his hand.

  “Hullo!” he called out, and beckoned.

  The person addressed took no notice. Laverick advanced another two or three steps—the man retreated a similar distance. Laverick changed his tactics and made a sudden spring forward. The man hesitated no longer—he turned and ran as though for his life. In a few minutes he was round the corner of the street and out of sight. Laverick returned slowly to the entry.

  A distant clock struck midnight. A couple of clerks came along the pavement on the other side, their hands and arms full of letters. Laverick hesitated. He was never afterwards able to account for the impulse which prevented his calling out to them. Instead he lurked in the shadows and watched them go by. When he was sure that they had disappeared, he bent once more over the body of the murdered man. Already that huddled-up heap was beginning to exercise a nameless and terrible fascination for him. His first feelings of horror were mingled now with an insatiable curiosity. What manner of man was he? He was tall and strongly built; fair—of almost florid complexion. His clothes were very shabby and apparently ready-made. His moustache was upturned, and his hair was trimmed closer than is the custom amongst Englishmen. Laverick stooped lower and lower until he found himself almost on his knees. There was something projecting from the man’s pocket as though it had been half snatched out—a large portfolio of brown leather, almost the size of a satchel. Laverick drew it out, holding it in one hand whilst with firm fingers he struck another match. Then, for the first time, a little cry broke from his lips. Both sides of the pocket-book were filled with bank-notes. As his match flickered out, he caught a glimpse of the figures in the left-hand corner—500 pounds!—great rolls of them! Laverick rose gasping to his feet. It was a new Arabian Nights, this!—a dream!—a continuation of the nightmare which had threatened him all day! Or was it, perhaps, the madness coming—the madness which he had begun only an hour or so ago to fear!