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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  He walked into the gaslit streets and looked up and down. The mysterious stranger had vanished. There was not a soul in sight. He clutched the rough stone wall with his hands, he kicked the pavement with his heels. There was no doubt about it—everything around him was real. Most real of all was the fact that within a few feet of him lay a murdered man, and that in his hands was that brown leather pocket-book with its miraculous contents. For the last time Laverick retraced his steps and bent over that huddled-up shape. One by one he went through the other pockets. There was a packet of Russian cigarettes; an empty card-case of chased silver, and obviously of foreign workmanship; a cigarette holder stained with much use, but of the finest amber, with rich gold mountings. There was nothing else upon the dead man, no means of identification of any sort. Laverick stood up, giddy, half terrified with the thoughts that went tearing through his brain. The pocket-book began to burn his hand; he felt the perspiration breaking out anew upon his forehead. Yet he never hesitated. He walked like a man in a dream, but his footsteps were steady and short. Deliberately, and without any sign of hurry, he made his way towards his offices. If a policeman had come in sight up or down the street, he had decided to call him and to acquaint him with what had happened. It was the one chance he held against himself,—the gambler’s method of decision, perhaps, unconsciously arrived at. As it turned out, there was still not a soul in sight. Laverick opened the outer door with his latchkey, let himself in and closed it. Then he groped his way through the clerk’s office into his own room, switched on the electric light and once more sat down before his desk.

  He drew his shaded writing lamp towards him and looked around with a nervousness wholly unfamiliar. Then he opened the pocket-book, drew out the roll of bank-notes and counted them. It was curious that he felt no surprise at their value. Bank-notes for five hundred pounds are not exactly common, and yet he proceeded with his task without the slightest instinct of surprise. Then he leaned back in his chair. Twenty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes! There they lay on the table before him. A man had died for their sake,—another must go through all the days with the price of blood upon his head—a murderer—a haunted creature for the rest of his life. And there on the table were the spoils. Laverick tried to think the matter out dispassionately. He was a man of average moral fibre—that is to say, he was honest in his dealings with other men because his father and his grandfather before him had been honest, and because the penalty for dishonesty was shameful. Here, however, he was face to face with an altogether unusual problem. These notes belonged, without a doubt, to the dead man. Save for his own interference, they would have been in the hands of his murderer. The use of them for a few days could do no one any harm. Such risk as there was he took himself. That it was a risk he knew and fully realized. Laverick had sat in his place unmoved when his partner had poured out his wail of fear and misery. Yet of the two men it was probable that Laverick himself had felt their position the more keenly. He was a man of some social standing, with a large circle of friends; a sportsman, and with many interests outside the daily routine of his city life. To him failure meant more than the loss of money; it would rob him of everything in life worth having. The days to come had been emptied of all promise. He had held himself stubbornly because he was a man, because he had strength enough to refuse to let his mind dwell upon the indignities and humiliation to come. And here before him was possible salvation. There was a price to be paid, of course, a risk to be run in making use even for an hour of this money. Yet from the first he had known that he meant to do it.

  Quite cool now, he opened his private safe, thrust the pocket-book into one of the drawers, and locked it up. Then he lit a cigarette, finally shut up the office and walked down the street. As he passed the entry he turned his head slowly. Apparently no one had been there, nothing had been disturbed. Straining his eyes through the darkness, he could even see that dark shape still lying huddled up on the ground. Then he walked on. He had burned his boats now and was prepared for all emergencies. At the corner he met a policeman, to whom he wished a cheery good-night. He told himself that the thing which he had done was for the best. He owed it to himself. He owed it to those who had trusted him. After all, it was the chief part of his life—his city career. It was here that his friends lived. It was here that his ambitions flourished. Disgrace here was eternal disgrace. His father and his grandfather before him had been men honored and respected in this same circle. Disgrace to him, such disgrace as that with which he had stood face to face a few hours ago, would have been, in a certain sense, a reflection upon their memories. The names upon the brass plates to right and to left of him were the names of men he knew, men with whom he desired to stand well, whose friendship or contempt made life worth living or the reverse. It was worth a great risk—this effort of his to keep his place. His one mistake—this association with Morrison—had been such an unparalleled stroke of bad luck. He was rid of the fellow now. For the future there should be no more partners. He had his life to live. It was not reasonable that he should allow himself to be dragged down into the mire by such a creature. He found an empty taxicab at the corner of Queen Victoria Street, and hailed it.

  “Whitehall Court,” he told the driver.

  X. BELLAMY IS OUTWITTED

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  Bellamy was a man used to all hazards, whose supreme effort of life it was to meet success and disaster with unvarying mien. But this was disaster too appalling even for his self-control. He felt his knees shake so that he caught at the edge of the table before which he was standing. There was no possible doubt about it, he had been tricked. Von Behrling, after all,—Von Behrling, whom he had looked upon merely as a stupid, infatuated Austrian, ready to sell his country for the sake of a woman, had fooled him utterly!

  The man who sat at the head of the table—the only other occupant of the room—was in Court dress, with many orders upon his coat. He had just been attending a Court function, from which Bellamy’s message had summoned him. Before him on the table was an envelope, hastily torn open, and several sheets of blank paper. It was upon these that Bellamy’s eyes were fixed with an expression of mingled horror and amazement. The Cabinet Minister had already pushed them away with a little gesture of contempt.

  “Bellamy,” he said gravely, “it is not like you to make so serious an error.

  “I hope not, sir,” Bellamy answered. “I—yes, I have been deceived.”

  The Minister glanced at the clock.

  “What is to be done?” he asked.

  Bellamy, with an effort, pulled himself together. He caught up the envelope, looked once more inside, held up the blank sheets of paper to the lamp and laid them down. Then with clenched fists he walked to the other side of the room and returned. He was himself again.

  “Sir James, I will not waste your time by saying that I am sorry. Only an hour ago I met Von Behrling in a little restaurant in the city, and gave him twenty thousand pounds for that envelope.”

  “You paid him the money,” the Minister remarked slowly, “without opening the envelope.”

  Bellamy admitted it.

  “In such transactions as these,” he declared, “great risks are almost inevitable. I took what must seem to you now to be an absurd risk. To tell you the honest truth, sir, and I have had experience in these things, I thought it no risk at all when I handed over the money. Von Behrling was there in disguise. The men with whom he came to this country are furious with him. To all appearance, he seemed to have broken with them absolutely. Even now—

  “Well?”

  “Even now,” Bellamy said slowly, with his eyes fixed upon the wall of the room, and a dawning light growing stronger every moment in his face, “even now I believe that Von Behrling made a mistake. An envelope such as this had been arranged for him to show the others or leave at the Austrian Embassy in case of emergency. He had it with him in his pocket-book. He even told me so. God in Heaven, he gave me the wrong one!”

  The Minister g
lanced once more at the clock.

  “In that case,” he said, “perhaps he would not go to the Embassy to-night, especially if he was in disguise. You may still be able to find him and repair the error.

  “I will try,” answered Bellamy. “Thank Heaven!” he added, with a sudden gleam of satisfaction, “my watchers are still dogging his footsteps. I can find out before morning where he went when he left our rendezvous. There is another way, too. Mademoiselle—this man Von Behrling believed that she was leaving the country with him. She was to have had a message within the next few hours.”

  The Minister nodded thoughtfully.

  “Bellamy, I have been your friend and you have done us good service often. The Secret Service estimates, as you know, are above supervision, but twenty thousand pounds is a great deal of money to have paid for this.”

  He touched the sheets of blank paper with his forefinger. Bellamy’s teeth were clenched.

  “The money shall be returned, sir.

  “Do not misunderstand me,” Sir James went on, speaking a little more kindly. “The money, after all, in comparison with what it was destined to purchase, is nothing. We might even count it a fair risk if it was lost.”

  “It shall not be lost,” Bellamy promised. “If Von Behrling has played the traitor to us, then he will go back to his country. In that case, I will have the money from him without a doubt. If, on the other hand, he was honest to us and a traitor to his country, as I firmly believe, it may not yet be too late.”

  “Let us hope not,” Sir James declared. “Bellamy,” he continued, a note of agitation trembling in his tone, “I need not tell you, I am sure, how important this matter is. You work like a mole in the dark, yet you have brains,—you understand. Let me tell you how things are with us. A certain amount of confidence is due to you, if to any one. I may tell you that at the Cabinet Council to-day a very serious tone prevailed. We do not understand in the least the attitude of several of the European Powers. It can be understood only under certain assumptions. A note of ours sent through the Ambassador to Vienna has remained unanswered for two days. The German Ambassador has left unexpectedly for Berlin on urgent business. We have just heard, too, that a secret mission from Russia left St. Petersburg last night for Paris. Side by side with all this,” Sir James continued, “the Czar is trying to evade his promised visit here. The note we have received speaks of his health. Well, we know all about that. We know, I may tell you, that his health has never been better than at the present moment.”

  “It all means one thing and one thing only,” Bellamy affirmed. “In Vienna and Berlin to-day they look at an Englishman and smile. Even the man in the street seems to know what is coming.”

  Sir James leaned a little back in his seat. His hands were tightly clenched, and there was a fierce light in his hollow eyes. Those who were intimate with him knew that he had aged many years during the last few weeks.

  “The cruel part is,” he said softly, “that it should have come in my administration, when for ten years I have prayed from the Opposition benches for the one thing which would have made us safe to-day.”

  “An army,” murmured Bellamy.

  “The days are coming,” Sir James continued, “when those who prated of militarism and the security of our island walls will see with their own eyes the ruin they have brought upon us. Secretly we are mobilizing all that we have to mobilize,” he added, with a little sigh. “At the very best, however, our position is pitiful. Even if we are prepared to defend, I am afraid that we shall see things on the Continent in which we shall be driven to interfere, or else suffer the greatest blow which our prestige has ever known. If we could only tell what was coming!” he wound up, looking once more at those empty sheets of paper. “It is this darkness which is so alarming!”

  Bellamy turned toward the door.

  “You have the telephone in your bedroom, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, ring me up at any time in the night or morning, if you have news.”

  Bellamy drove at once to Dover Street. It was half-past one, but he had no fear of not being admitted. Louise’s French maid answered the bell.

  “Madame has not retired?” Bellamy inquired.

  “But no, sir,” the woman assured him, with a welcoming smile. “It is only a few minutes ago that she has returned.”

  Bellamy was ushered at once into her room. She was gorgeous in blue satin and pearls. Her other maid was taking off her jewels. She dismissed both the women abruptly.

  “I absolutely couldn’t avoid a supper-party,” she said, holding out her hands. “You expected that, of course. You were not at the Opera House?”

  He shook his head, and walking to the door tried the handle. It was securely closed. He came back slowly to her side. Her eyes were questioning him fiercely.

  “Well?” she exclaimed. “Well?”

  “Have you heard from Von Behrling?”

  “No,” she answered. “He knew that I must sing to-night. I have been expecting him to telephone every moment since I got home. You have seen him?”

  “I have seen him,” Bellamy admitted. “Either he has deceived us both, or the most unfortunate mistake in the world has happened. Listen. I met him where he appointed. He was there, disguised, almost unrecognizable. He was nervous and desperate; he had the air of a man who has cut himself adrift from the world. I gave him the money,—twenty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, Louise,—and he gave me the papers, or what we thought were the papers. He told me that he was keeping a false duplicate upon him for a little time, in case he was seized, but that he was going to Liverpool Street station to wait, and would telephone you from the hotel there later on. You have not heard yet, then?”

  She shook her head.

  “There has been no message, but go on.”

  “He gave me the wrong document—the wrong envelope,” continued Bellamy. “When I took it to—to Downing Street, it was full of blank paper.”

  The color slowly left her cheeks. She looked at him with horror in her face.

  “Do you think that he meant to do it?” she exclaimed.

  “We cannot tell,” Bellamy answered. “My own impression is that he did not. We must find out at once what has become of him. He might even, if he fancies himself safe, destroy the envelope he has, believing it to be the duplicate. He is sure to telephone you. The moment you hear you must let me know.”

  “You had better stay here,” she declared. “There are plenty of rooms. You will be on the spot then.”

  Bellamy shook his head.

  “The joke of it is that I, too, am being watched whereever I go. That fellow Streuss has spies everywhere. That is one reason why I believe that Von Behrling was serious.

  “Oh, he was serious!” Louise repeated.

  “You are sure?” Bellamy asked. “You have never had even any doubt about him?”

  “Never,” she answered firmly. “David, I had not meant to tell you this. You know that I saw him for a moment this morning. He was in deadly earnest. He gave me a ring—a trifle—but it had belonged to his mother. He would not have done this if he had been playing us false.”

  Bellamy sprang to his feet.

  “You are right, Louise!” he exclaimed. “I shall go back to my rooms at once. Fortunately, I had a man shadowing Von Behrling, and there may be a report for me. If anything comes here, you will telephone at once?”

  “Of course,” she assented.

  “You do not think it possible,” he asked slowly, “that he would attempt to see you here?”

  Louise shuddered for a moment.

  “I absolutely forbade it, so I am sure there is no chance of that.”

  “Very well, then,” he decided, “we will wait. Dear,” he added, in an altered tone, “how splendid you look!”

  Her face suddenly softened.

  “Ah, David!” she murmured, “to hear you speak naturally even for a moment—it makes everything seem so different!”

  He held out his arms and she came to
him with a little sigh of satisfaction.

  “Louise,” he said, “some day the time may come when we shall be able to give up this life of anxiety and terrors. But it cannot be yet—not for your country’s sake or mine.”

  She kissed him fondly.

  “So long as there is hope!” she whispered.

  XI. VON BEHRLING’S FATE

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  It seemed to Louise that she had scarcely been in bed an hour when the more confidential of her maids—Annette, the Frenchwoman—woke her with a light touch of the arm. She sat up in bed sleepily.

  “What is it, Annette?” she asked. “Surely it is not mid-day yet? Why do you disturb me?”

  “It is barely nine o’clock, Mademoiselle, but Monsieur Bellamy—Mademoiselle told me that she wished to receive him whenever he came. He is in the boudoir now, and very impatient.”

  “Did he send any message?”

  “Only that his business was of the most urgent,” the maid replied.

  Louise sighed,—she was really very sleepy. Then, as the thoughts began to crowd into her brain, she began also to remember. Some part of the excitement of a few hours ago returned.

  “My bath, Annette, and a dressing-gown,” she ordered. “Tell Monsieur Bellamy that I hurry. I will be with him in twenty minutes.”

  To Bellamy, the twenty minutes were minutes of purgatory. She came at last, however, fresh and eager; her hair tied up with ribbon, she herself clad in a pink dressing-gown and pink slippers.