The General nodded emphatically.
“For our own sakes, as well as yours, Henry,” Cheshire declared, “that is understood.”
“We are international bankers, of course,” Prestley continued, “and we can command capital in practically every city of the world, but I told Patani what I told the representative of a smaller power less than a year ago—my firm, so long as I am at its head, will never help in the raising of large sums of money for purposes of offensive warfare.”
“And what did Count Patani say to that?” Cheshire asked quietly.
“He fenced with the question. He hinted at the enormous armament preparations in this country. It was necessary, he declared, for his own country to protect itself. There was the whole of Abyssinia untouched dripping millions into the hands of industry, sufficient security for any loan in the world. He was very eloquent. I listened to a great deal he had to say which is not your concern or mine.”
“And the result?” the General enquired.
“He leaves to-night at eight o’clock by the private plane which brought him,” Prestley confided. “I have refused even to consider the question of a loan until certain political matters are settled and peace assured.”
“You are a great man,” Mallinson pronounced.
“I am nothing of the sort,” was the firm disclaimer. “I was brought up with these ideas and believe me, nine tenths of my countrypeople share them. We hate war like nothing on earth, and there is not a member of my own firm who would not be behind me in every word I said to Patani. The banking industry as a whole, let me tell you, has given the wider aspects of this matter the most strenuous consideration. Twelve of us held a conference in Paris a few weeks ago. We decided that the most effectual methods of checking warfare are to discredit it and to support its operations in no way whatsoever.”
“So Patani goes home,” Cheshire murmured, emptying his glass. “You have made history, Prestley. They talk about our work for the Empire. You have done something for all civilisation.”
“I agree most fervently,” Mallinson concurred.
The little meeting was at an end. The General was disposed to linger but something in his friend’s attitude conveyed a suggestion to him. He took his leave. Cheshire and Prestley were alone. The moment had arrived which the former had been dreading.
“Prestley,” he began, “I am going to ask you a question which you may answer or not as you will.”
“Sounds mysterious. Go ahead.”
“Did Sabine know of Patani’s mission to you?”
Prestley gazed fixedly at his questioner. He seemed to lose much of the warm humanity which had transfigured his somewhat stiff being. He drew himself up slightly. His expression was more set.
“I do not think,” he said, “that it is within your province to ask me that question.”
Cheshire flushed slightly but he showed no signs of resentment.
“Probably not, Henry,” he admitted, “yet it is a question which you must pardon, even if you don’t choose to reply. Sabine is known to be an intense and enthusiastic daughter of her country. The Patanis are a younger branch of her own illustrious family. There were reasons why the question suggested itself to me.”
“Perhaps you could explain them.”
“I would rather not,” was the gentle yet firm reply.
“Very well, then. There is a counter-question on this same subject which I must put to you.”
“Let it alone altogether,” Cheshire begged.
“I should be glad if that were possible,” Prestley replied with a slight softening in his tone and expression. “Listen to me, Guy. You are, I suppose, my wife’s oldest friend in this country.”
“It is my privilege.”
“You have known her sister since she was a baby.”
“That is quite true.”
“You are also, if I may be permitted to say so, a close and intimate friend of my own.”
“It is an honour to consider myself so. There is no man living whom I respect more.”
“Then we can surely talk now not only as men of kindred blood but as friends and allies. Tell me, have you any reason to believe that my wife’s devotion to the country of her birth—”
“Do not ask me any such question,” Cheshire interrupted with sudden vigour. “Don’t do it, Prestley. Don’t you see the position in which you are placing me? You have a claim upon me, so has Sabine, because of our previous friendship, but my country stands first with me as yours would with you. You are driving me into a corner. I will not answer your question, but you shall get this much out of it. Take my advice—send your wife and her sister back to New York for a few months.”
“That is your advice?”
“Yes.”
“Any explanations?”
“No.”
“You are keeping the real truth hidden from me. What about that fellow Ryson? He was a great friend of Sabine’s. He was in and out of the house all the time.”
Cheshire raised his eyebrows.
“How is Ryson concerned?” he asked coolly. “He committed suicide because he had hold of the wrong job.”
“No more than that to tell me?”
“No more.”
“Yet you want me to send Sabine and Elida out of the country?”
“I have offered you some advice.”
Cheshire was immovable. Prestley, a strong man himself, knew it. He turned on his heel. His companion moved swiftly between him and the drawn curtain. He gripped Prestley’s arm as he was passing.
“All that I have said, Henry,” he told him fervently, “I have said in friendship.”
Prestley turned back and his voice was raised scarcely above a whisper.
“I am not leaving you in anger, Guy,” he said. “I am leaving you because I need to be alone for a time.”
“I feel like that myself,” the other admitted.
Prestley descended the stairs and disappeared. The General frowned as his co-worker joined him a few minutes later in the coffee-room.
“I’m only guessing, of course,” he said gravely, “but isn’t your friendship for the family leading you into rather deep water, Cheshire? The whole world knows that the Princess and the Contessa Elida are devoutly patriotic.”
Cheshire had apparently recovered his spirits.
“What are sailors for if not to deal with the deep waters?” he laughed light-heartedly.
CHAPTER VIII
Table of Contents
The telephone bell, faintly audible from the cloak closet, rang just as Horace Florestan, seated at the head of the table in the dining room of his semi-detached West Kensington residence, was preparing to carve the sirloin of beef—the usual Sunday-night supper. The girl who was waiting at the sideboard turned towards the door. Her master stopped her.
“I will answer it,” he announced, laying down the knife and fork. “You will excuse me for a few minutes, Deborah?” he added, glancing down the table towards his wife.
Mrs. Florestan, an untidily dressed woman with large, indifferently concealed limbs built on flowing lines, with beautiful, strangely-coloured eyes and full, voluptuous lips, shrugged her shoulders.
“Be as quick as you can, please,” she begged. “We are late as it is and the children are hungry.”
The head of the household nodded and left the room, walking with light footsteps, which seemed somehow in keeping with his lean, tightly-knit body. They heard him cross the hall and disappear into the cloak closet where the telephone instrument was placed. Afterwards, there was silence. Mrs. Florestan rose slowly from her chair and sank into that of her husband. The two children—Mary aged fourteen, and Tom aged twelve—looked at her hopefully.
“Go on, Mother,” the boy said encouragingly. “You can carve just as well as Dad. I’m hungry.”
Mrs. Florestan carved, completing her task with a sort of languid precision which seemed one of her characteristics. She resumed her place, carrying her own plate. The maid served salad.
“Silly hour to ring up, anyway,” her brother declared.
Mrs. Florestan appeared to consider the matter for a moment.
“It cannot be the City, unless it was one of the Continental branches wanting him,” she observed. “It may be one of those tiresome people at the club. I wish he had never gone on the committee.”
The maid removed the cork from half a bottle of claret which had been opened for the midday meal. She served Mrs. Florestan, and the two children with water from a glass jug. No one spoke for a few minutes. They were healthy children and they were hungry. It was the boy who broke the silence.
“Whoever it is,” he grumbled, “they must have had something to say. Funny, keeping Dad all this time. Shall I go and hurry him up?”
“Stay where you are,” his mother advised. “You know that your father does not like to be disturbed when he is at the telephone.”
The meal proceeded in silence. Then the boy, who had finished his first helping and had his eye on the joint, rose to his feet.
“Can I call Father, Mum?” he begged.
Mrs. Florestan shook her head. She turned to the maid.
“Rosa,” she said, “would you mind just reminding your master that we are waiting for him?”
The girl hurried to the door. She tried the handle, stooped down for a moment, tried it again and looked back at her mistress.
“The door is locked, Madam,” she announced.
A queer light shone for a moment in Mrs. Florestan’s eyes, the light of fear or premonition.
“Impossible,” she declared. “Why, the key was on this side when we came in.”
Rosa shook her head.
“Someone must have moved it, Madam,” she said. “The door is locked on the other side.”
Mrs. Florestan rose to her feet and with considerable speed for a heavy woman she made her way to the door. She turned the handle in vain. The boy joined her and began shaking the door. It was without a doubt fastened.
“What on earth is the meaning of this?” Mrs. Florestan asked a little helplessly.
“Dad locked us in while he had his talk,” Mary observed. “Perhaps he’s talking to a lady friend.”
“Your father does not do that sort of thing,” her mother said.
She moved to the window.
“Tom,” she enjoined, “will you climb out this way—here is the latchkey of the front door. Find out what your father is doing.”
The spirit of adventure entered into the boy’s veins. He pushed up the window, stepped out, opened the front door without any trouble and made his way down the narrow darkened passage. He flung open the door of the cloak closet. The place was empty. He stood away and called up the stairs.
“Dad!”
No answer. He turned the key and threw open the door of the dining room.
“I can’t find him!” he exclaimed. “There’s no one at the telephone, and the key was on this side of the door all the time.”
“What about his hat and coat?” Mrs. Florestan asked quickly.
“They’re both here.”
Mary ran lightly upstairs. She called down in a moment.
“Dad isn’t up here.”
Their mother lifted the telephone receiver from its place.
“Exchange,” she said, “my husband was called to the telephone a few minutes ago. Can you tell me where the call came from?”
There was a brief silence, then the answer came through.
“A call box at Charing Cross.”
“You do not know who it was?”
“Of course not,” the operator replied. “Anyone might ring up from a call box.”
Mrs. Florestan hung up the receiver. The boy, who had been to the front door again, came tearing back.
“I say,” he cried, “the garage doors are open, the gates, too, and the car is gone!”
Mrs. Florestan shrugged her shoulders. Her attitude was simply one of mild surprise mingled with boredom.
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “we had better finish supper.”
The two children chattered wildly through the remainder of the meal—even the maid now and then put in a word. Mrs. Florestan remained silent. She made no comment upon any of the suggestions. When the meal was finished she went to the telephone, closed the door and asked for the Police Station. She stated her case to the Sergeant who answered. There was a brief silence whilst he made a report. Then he came back.
“The Inspector thinks that your husband is probably having a joke with you,” he said.
“My husband is not that sort of man,” Mrs. Florestan replied.
“If you wish it, he will come round.”
“I do wish it.”
In a quarter of an hour’s time there was a double knock at the front door and Inspector Douglas made his appearance. The children had been sent back to their school in a taxicab. The maid remained in the room. The Inspector was told exactly what had happened. Even he was a trifle puzzled.
“Your husband hasn’t any relatives who are likely to have been taken ill?” he enquired.
“To the best of my knowledge,” Mrs. Florestan answered, “my husband hasn’t a relative or an intimate friend in the world.”
“Will you give me the number of the car, please?”
Mrs. Florestan and the maid between them were able to furnish the information.
“You have no knowledge of your husband being in any difficulties or trouble?” the Inspector asked a little diffidently.
Mrs. Florestan shook her head.
“My husband is employed by a firm of shipping merchants in the City,” she said. “He earns a good salary. We have never been in debt. He has neither friends nor enemies. He is on the committee of the Golf Club and usually plays on Saturday afternoon and Sunday.”
“He didn’t say anything about expecting a call, I suppose?”
“Certainly not. Why do you ask that?”
The Inspector stroked his chin.
“I was just wondering why he locked the door on his way to the telephone,” he remarked.
Mrs. Florestan might possibly have hazarded a reply to that question. She made no effort to do so, however. The Inspector, with cheerful promises of speedy news, took his leave.
Admiral Cheshire was fortunately an early riser and he was already breakfasting when an important visitor arrived.
“Sir Herbert Melville, sir,” Greyes, his very excellent and devoted servant, announced.
“Show him in, of course.”
The valet opened the door a little wider. The Deputy Commissioner entered. Greyes departed, closing the door behind him.
“Something up?” Cheshire asked, rising to his feet.
The Deputy Commissioner nodded. He drew off his overcoat and threw it over a chair.
“I don’t know whether you will want to come into this, Cheshire,” he said. “It isn’t strictly in your department but it might lead anywhere. I have come straight to you because I know you are interested in the man. You asked me if I had his dossier.”
“Right. Go ahead,” Cheshire invited.
“The man’s name is Florestan.”
Cheshire whistled softly.
“I should say I am interested in him,” he muttered. “Have a cup of coffee while you talk?”
Melville shook his head.
“Not for the moment. I was up at six o’clock and had some breakfast of a sort. I may take a cup of coffee later. I want to get this off my chest. Early this morning they rang me up from the Yard. It seems that at about midnight a car was discovered with the engine still running drawn up close to the kerb opposite the entrance to St. George’s Hospital. A solitary passenger was in the seat next the driver’s but there was no sign of the driver. The passenger was apparently a dying man. He had been shot through the side. He was carried into the hospital. Everything was done for him that was possible. He is lying now between life and death. They didn’t ring me up at the momen
t. Suddenly one of the doctors recognised him. Do you know who he is? Meldicott.”
“Not Meldicott the motor man?” Cheshire exclaimed. “Not Sir Theodore Meldicott?”
“It is he all right.”
“I hope to God they keep him alive,” Cheshire said. “He is doing more than any man breathing to put us in good shape. He has the contract for the whole of our tanks and all the bombers he can turn out. Been living at the works—his own foreman. If this is true, it is bad news!”
“I was afraid you would find it so,” the Deputy Commissioner said gravely.
“And Florestan—where does Florestan come in?”
“I was coming to that,” Melville went on. “The police examined the car and found false number plates. There was one underneath, beaten nearly out of shape, but they traced it. There is a false name on the registration card but the original number was the registration number of Horace Florestan.”
“Thank God you let me into this,” Cheshire declared. “I want that man, Melville.”
“Well, you have a chance of getting him.”
“Anything been done?”
“Nothing outside the ordinary curriculum,” the Deputy Commissioner replied. “It’s rather puzzling. Mrs. Florestan rang up herself about her husband’s disappearance and the car having been stolen from the garage. Of course he took it himself. It seems that he lives in a small house in Colville Terrace, West Kensington. He was rung up while the family were at supper, left the room to answer the summons and never returned. When they went to look for him he had gone, the car had gone, and the telephone call was from a call box at Charing Cross. Florestan, it seems, is employed by a large shipping firm with offices in Holborn. There is no doubt whatever that it is his car. We shall arrest him at once as soon as we can find him. We have two men now down in Holborn waiting until the offices open.”
21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) Page 122