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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Shall we drink to his safe return?” she asked.

  “Naturally.”

  She looked at him and there was a gleam of enquiry in those strange eyes of hers. Her look meant something but Cheshire found it unanalysable. She drained her glass and set it down.

  “Here he is,” she remarked, turning away. “I really do not know what he will say when he finds me drinking with a gentleman of the police. Good thing you were behaving so nicely!”

  Cheshire was listening. There was the distinct click of a latchkey in the door, the sound of feet upon the mat. He realised then that the last thing he had been prepared for was Florestan’s return, yet a moment later the door slammed, footsteps came down the hall and a man of well over medium height, slim, fair, almost flaxen-haired, with pale complexion and skin which seemed somehow or other drawn too tightly over his bony face with its high cheekbones, entered the room. His eyes, grey-blue, and as bright as steel, were a trifle protuberant and his indrawn lips completed the sense of hardness which seemed to radiate from his whole physiognomy.

  “Mr. Florestan?” Cheshire enquired.

  “My husband,” Deborah Florestan observed from the divan. “This gentleman, Horace, is either from the police or from some sort of Secret Service or other. He has a horrible story to tell about you and the car.”

  Florestan bowed without speaking, closed the door behind him, crossed the room and embraced his wife.

  “Been worried, dear?” he asked.

  “I never worry,” she answered. “I told this gentleman you would be home to dinner to-night. He did not believe me but he is here to see.”

  Florestan and Cheshire exchanged curious glances. Cheshire saw before him just the unusual type of man he had expected, and from the first he was conscious of a subtle sense of danger in the atmosphere. Florestan himself showed no sign of emotion but he seemed puzzled at Cheshire’s visit and very much on his guard.

  “You are not a regular policeman, are you?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Cheshire admitted. “I am interested in the matter of your car, though. I came down early this morning with the local Inspector and saw your wife.”

  “What is worrying you about my car?” Florestan enquired. “I am glad to hear it is found, anyway. Where was it?”

  “Outside St. George’s Hospital at midnight,” Cheshire confided. “There was no driver, the engine was still running and there was a passenger in the front seat who was as near death as a man can be and still breathing.”

  “Fallen into bad hands,” Florestan sighed. “Just my luck, that. Pinched by one of these gang outfits, I should think. Wonder what made them drive it to St. George’s Hospital?”

  “The same question,” Cheshire observed with an undernote of sarcasm in his tone, “has intrigued Scotland Yard. I should have mentioned that false registration numbers had been affixed and the identity card was missing.”

  Florestan groaned.

  “My new Daimler,” he muttered. “Well, what about it, sir? Have you brought it back?”

  “The police have not finished their enquiry yet,” was the curt reply. “I have been sent to examine you as to your movements last night. You must understand, Mr. Florestan, that this is a somewhat serious matter. The man who lies in the hospital now, and who was found in your car, is scarcely likely to recover and I may tell you, without disclosing his name, that he is a very well-known personage.”

  Mr. Florestan poured himself out a glass of sherry, pulled down his waistcoat and seated himself in an easy chair. He pointed out another to Cheshire, who, however, shook his head and remained standing.

  “More unpleasantness, I suppose,” Florestan said gloomily. “Deborah, you had better leave us.”

  Mrs. Florestan rose from her place with some slight evidence of unwillingness.

  “You are satisfied, now, that I was telling you the truth, Mr. Cheshire?” she asked, lingering for a moment as she passed him.

  “So far as you knew it, Madam, certainly.”

  He was nearest to the door and he held it open for her. As she went through she half hesitated. Their eyes met and he caught a gleam of disquietude in hers. It was obvious that she left them unwillingly. Cheshire knew quite well that there was something she wished to say. She glanced, however, towards her husband, who was watching them both, and with a little shrug of the shoulders passed on. The memory of that look troubled Cheshire as he closed the door after her and returned to his seat.

  “We will now proceed with our conversation,” Florestan said. “What did you say your name was, sir?”

  “Cheshire.”

  “Mr. Cheshire, then, there is very little I can tell you about the car. I received a telephone message of an urgent nature just as I was commencing supper. I left the house within thirty seconds, I should think—I didn’t even come and say good-bye to my wife or offer her a word of explanation. I got out the car and I drove off. I went to the address where I hoped to find the man who telephoned to me and he wasn’t there. I waited for an hour. He didn’t come. It was Sunday night and it was difficult for me to decide what to do. When I came out the car had disappeared.”

  “At what address were you?”

  “We will let that be for the present,” Florestan answered after a moment’s hesitation. “I went in a taxi to two other places where I thought I might find the person who had telephoned me. I failed. I then took the night train to Newcastle. I transacted some business there and caught the three o’clock back this afternoon.”

  “Not having even rung up the police about your missing car,” Cheshire said thoughtfully.

  “I had other matters on my mind.”

  “How much did you give for the car?” Cheshire asked.

  “Just under two thousand pounds.”

  “The business must have been very important, Mr. Florestan, that you went away to Newcastle without even reporting your loss to the police.”

  “The business was very important,” the other assented.

  “Might one enquire as to its nature?”

  “It referred to a very large contract.”

  “With what firm in Newcastle? With whom were your negotiations conducted?”

  Mr. Florestan shook his head.

  “Those things are not talked about,” he said.

  “You are aware that I represent the police?”

  “The police can return my car to me. That’s all I want from them,” he declared.

  “You will find, though,” Cheshire told him, “that the police will require a great deal more from you. I am afraid that you will have to make up your mind to answer my questions.”

  “Shall I?” asked Florestan quietly.

  “I must ask you once more—where did you leave your car last night and what was the nature of the business which took you away from home and induced you to lock the door so that your family should not overhear any of your conversation at the telephone?”

  “Got it well up against me, haven’t you?” Florestan sneered. “I guessed I should find a bit of trouble of this sort waiting for me. Never mind. Why should I answer your questions at all? You are wearing no uniform, Mr. Cheshire, if that’s your name, and I have nothing but your word for it that you have anything to do with the police.”

  Cheshire opened his coat and disclosed the inside of his waistcoat, to which was fastened a silver disc. He tapped it with his forefinger.

  “Pshaw! What’s that worth?” Florestan scoffed. “You can buy those in the Caledonian Market for a penny each. My business is my own and I don’t give it away to anyone who finds his way into my house in my absence. I left my car in a well-known street, in a reputable part of London. I have never seen it since that moment and as to this talk about its having been found outside the hospital with a dying man in the front seat, why should I believe any story of that sort? I have had that kind of bluff tried on me before. My business is important and I keep it to myself.”

  “Very reasonably spoken,” Cheshire answered. “It is t
he decision of an obstinate man, or of a man, Mr. Florestan, who knows that he is in danger.”

  “Danger—what of?”

  “Arrest for murder if that man dies; of shooting with intent to kill if he lives. Pretty well the same thing.”

  “Nice lot of evidence you have against me, haven’t you?” Florestan jeered. “I’m going to call your bluff, Cheshire, or whatever your name may be. I don’t believe you’ve anything to do with the police. I think you know more about the inside of the Admiralty than Scotland Yard and that you want to get at my business for your own reasons. Hands up!”

  Cheshire was quick but Florestan was a thought quicker. There was a suggestion of long experience in the way that gun was held steadily towards the third button of Cheshire’s waistcoat. The latter raised his hands. Florestan came slowly towards him.

  “You’re playing the fool,” Cheshire warned him. “Your wife can tell you that I came here with the Inspector.”

  Florestan made no reply. He was now only a couple of yards away and Cheshire, who was not wholly ignorant of such matters, knew that he was face to face with a desperate and clever man. Both of them were absolutely cool. Florestan had apparently thought out his plan before he had risen to his feet. From behind Cheshire came the sound of the quiet opening and closing of the door. A strange male voice broke the hideously tense silence.

  “I wouldn’t shoot, Florestan. There are people in the street, the window is open, and the walls of this house are thin. We don’t need a gun for this job.”

  Cheshire found the temptation to take his eyes off Florestan, who was creeping nearer and nearer, inch by inch, was almost irresistible. He watched his approach, absolutely unhurried, as calm and deliberate as his voice had been throughout their brief conversation. Cheshire never turned his head but he felt, somehow or other, that the two men had come to an understanding. The newcomer was so near now that he could hear his breathing. He flinched for a single second, the muscles of his neck twitching as he made an involuntary turn. Almost simultaneously, before he could lower his arm, Florestan’s fingers, like steel bands, were upon his throat… . He felt himself crashing backwards… . Semi-unconsciousness came almost at once… . His heels were on the carpet… . He caught a glimpse of a figure stooping over him, a square-shouldered, ugly man with pallid complexion… . He was being dragged along… . He was in another room… . There were cords around him, cutting into his legs, cutting into his arms, a sickly smell coming from somewhere… . Then it all began to fade away and the remnants of consciousness left him. The hour of Cheshire’s greatest humiliation had arrived.

  CHAPTER XII

  Table of Contents

  It was a couple of hours later when, against all the laws of probability, Cheshire opened his eyes. The rush of returning life into his veins was so overwhelming that he very nearly collapsed again. He was a strong man, however, and his subconscious struggle for existence conquered. He knew now what had happened—what was happening all around him. The floor was covered with fragments of smashed glass from the window behind his head and fresh air was flowing around him—marvellous elixir to a man already three parts comatose from suffocation. He tried to rise and felt the agony of the cords against every limb. He abandoned the struggle and stared in front of him. Slowly descending some rickety steps was Rosa, the maid-of-all-work. She held in her hand a hammer, her tousled fair hair and huge bangs were blown this way and that by the current of wind blowing through the place. She came slowly across to him, still swinging the hammer. He shivered with every step she took. She looked down at him with a grin.

  “Still alive, eh, Mr. Policeman?” she asked.

  He opened his lips to speak but his tongue was too dry and the roof of his mouth seemed on fire. He tried to nod but his head was rigid. He could only stare. After all, she had not the face of a woman about to commit a murder. Her features were coarsely fashioned but the large mouth was good-humoured enough and there was no cruelty in her eyes.

  “Looks as though you were about done for,” she remarked. “Hold on,” she added quite unnecessarily. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  She opened a door. Soon he heard another glorious sound—the sound of running water. She reappeared with a jug and dropped on one knee by his side.

  “Open your mouth,” she ordered.

  He obeyed. She tilted the jug. Soon he was spluttering and choking, almost drowned in the wonder of this new and marvellous sensation. A few drops were trickling down his throat. Soon it went more easily. She drew back.

  “That will do for the moment,” she decided. “My, but you must be tough! Even now, this place kind of chokes me.”

  His eyes were fixed thirstily upon the jug. She leaned over and repeated her heavenly task, leisurely tilting a few spoonfuls at a time down his throat. When she set down the jug it was empty but Cheshire felt that he was reborn into a glorious world. He found his voice.

  “Cut—” he begged, “cut this cord.”

  “I should say so,” she replied. “I’ve begun—I may as well go through with it.”

  She disappeared and returned in a moment with a huge carving knife in her hand. He made a little grimace as she bent over him.

  “Don’t you be afraid,” she continued soothingly. “I’ll be careful. I’ll begin down by your ankles. Close your eyes, if you don’t like the sight of the knife. Look at my hands. I am as strong as an ox. The knife won’t slip.”

  There was just a moment when life seemed to be ebbing away again, the shock, perhaps, of that first realisation of freedom. Then the blood began to flow once more in his veins. Soon he was sitting up, supported by her arm. He tried to scramble to his feet but she only saved him from falling, with an effort. She dragged him a little way and propped him against the wall.

  “I’ll see if that old devil has left the brandy,” she said.

  She was gone a couple of minutes. When she returned she was carrying a tumbler and a bottle. She went back to the tap and poured in some water, then she added the brandy.

  “Drink it slowly,” she warned him.

  He drank it—slowly at first, then there was a long and beautiful gulp.

  “Look here,” he muttered, “I don’t know much about you, Rosa, but you have saved my life.”

  “You were pretty well gone,” she admitted.

  “Where’s Florestan?”

  She grinned.

  “Hiding somewhere, I reckon. He won’t come back here.”

  “And the other man?”

  “He’s gone, too.”

  “What made you come?” he asked.

  “You chuck asking questions,” she enjoined. “I may be a bad lot like those two but I’m no killer. I left them—never mind where—and I took a bus at the corner. They think I’ve gone home for the night. Another thing they thought is that no one could get into this house. They forgot the coal cellar!”

  “I thought you looked a bit grimy,” he remarked.

  She nodded.

  “That’s the way I came in,” she explained. “When I put my head in here I pretty well pegged out. There was a little draught from the door there so I fetched a hammer and broke a window. Then I turned the light on and I saw you. I reckon you didn’t know what you were up against when you came here to tackle the old man.”

  “Who is he? What’s he up to?”

  “Not my business. I’ll tell you this, though. He’s a killer. I don’t know why he didn’t finish you outright, same as the bloke in the car. Now try standing.”

  He stood with perfect ease. His eyes were fixed longingly on the bottle. She poured him out some more brandy.

  “Sip it,” she ordered. “Be careful, now, or I shall take it away.”

  He obeyed. When he returned the glass she poured a little out for herself and drank it neat.

  “Good,” she muttered. “Now come on. If you can climb the stairs I will let you out. Here’s a whistle. That will bring a taxi.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “Florestan might come b
ack.”

  “I don’t think so,” she reflected. “He has left everything too neat and clean. What I don’t understand, though, is why he didn’t leave someone to watch the place until you had conked out.”

  They stumbled up the stairs, Cheshire leaning upon his companion’s shoulder. She left him on a chair in the hall and wandered round the place. Presently she reappeared with a large sheet of paper, from which she read:

  “Mr. and Mrs. Florestan are called away owing to the sudden illness of their daughter. Nothing is to be touched. They will be back to-morrow.”

  “All me eye!” she pronounced. “Everything as tricky as possible. Chairs pushed away from the table—telephone receiver off—disturbed at their meal, eh? Illness of the daughter. You come right along, old dear,” she went on, with a change of voice. “This place scares me. They’re a bad lot, those two. I’m getting the dithers myself!”

  Rosa listened for a moment. Then she drew the bolts of the door and peered out. She closed the door again softly.

  “I want to get away,” she told Cheshire. “There’s something I don’t like about this place. You can lean on me all you will. Let’s get out in the road, then we’ll blow the whistle for a taxi.”

  “I’m agreeable,” he replied. “I’m all right now. You come along with me and I will take you where you will be safe.”

  “If he gets to know,” she muttered as she reopened the front door, “I don’t know as I will ever be safe again in this world. That don’t matter, though. Living ain’t such a catch as all that.”

  They passed out onto the steps. Rosa closed the door behind them. They traversed the few yards of tiled way to the gate, pushed it open and they were in the street. The rain was coming down now steadily.

  “Blow this,” she enjoined, handing him the whistle.

  He raised it to his lips and blew feebly. She snatched it from him and its shrill summons rang down the deserted road. Only a few hundred yards away were the rumble, hootings, and flaring lights of a great thoroughfare. She looked towards it longingly. They seemed somehow or other cut off from that whirlpool of life and action. There were no signs of any response to her summons.