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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  A muffled-up figure, completely disguised in flying apparel, suddenly appeared from the shadows. Almost at the same moment a car turned out from the by-road. Its siren was shrieking as it approached the flying ground at full speed. The foot of the passenger was already upon the bottom step when he recognised Hincks. He laughed, a queer, unpleasant sound.

  “Come to wish me bon voyage, my friend?” he asked.

  “I have come to stop your leaving,” was the harsh reply.

  “Stand back there!” one of the mechanics shouted angrily.

  “Better do as he tells you,” Florestan enjoined savagely. “My men here are rather an ugly lot. I don’t like the look of this car coming down, Commander Hincks. Has it anything to do with you?”

  “It is a police car from Scotland Yard. The Inspector who is in charge will want a few words with you before you start on this journey,” Hincks warned him. “You had better chuck it.”

  “You will have to think of a better reason than that why I should delay my departure,” Florestan scoffed.

  He sprang into the passenger’s place with a single bound. The pilot slipped into his.

  “Wish me bon voyage, Commander Hincks!” Florestan jeered.

  Hincks had already reached the second step when a gentle touch on the arm and an almost whispered voice caused him to hesitate.

  “Just a little further to the right, sir. Thank you. Horace Florestan—with my compliments!”

  The bullet whizzed within a foot of Hincks’s head, straight into Florestan’s chest—another—two more, a fifth followed. Florestan, a huddled mass, fell over on his side. Greyes threw the revolver lightly away into the darkness as the dark forms which had tumbled out of the police car came running towards the plane.

  “I must apologise, sir,” he said in his smooth, patient voice. “I was perhaps a little hasty but I was afraid that if he had once got off into a foreign country there might have been diplomatic difficulties about getting him back again. I had to make sure of him, sir. It is through him that my master is lying in the hospital. I couldn’t risk his getting away. I couldn’t risk one bullet not killing him, either. Five in his chest, sir, all within an inch or two of one another. He couldn’t get over that.”

  Hincks turned his head for a moment from the men who were swarming round the aeroplane. He glanced at the huddled-up figure sprawling from the seat. Greyes looked over his shoulder with a quiet smile of triumph on his lips.

  “You don’t need to worry,” Hincks declared. “Florestan is indeed dead.”

  CHAPTER XXX

  Table of Contents

  The four habitués met in the bridge room of the St. George’s Club a few days later as though no crisis were holding the country breathless. Prestley remained entirely his pleasant imperturbable self. Fakenham showed signs of anxiety, in the lines under his eyes and his somewhat ruffled demeanour. Melville was, as usual, prim and self-contained. General Mallinson was grave and thoughtful. He had been the last to arrive and he at once addressed Fakenham.

  “Have you the latest news from the hospital?” he asked.

  The latter nodded.

  “Cheshire is holding his own,” he announced. “There was a consultation this morning. The general opinion was that if he got through the day and to-night, he would live.”

  “Thank God!”

  Mallinson was visibly affected. Melville glanced at him curiously.

  “I have never seen as much of Cheshire as I would have liked,” Mallinson explained, “considering we had twin posts. That would have come later, of course—will come, I should say, if there is war. Up to the present, the Navy and the Air have taken everything in hand—whether in defence or offence they are first in the fray.”

  “Still no Continental news?” Prestley enquired.

  Fakenham shook his head.

  “Orson-Meade and Dunkerley,” he confided, “seem completely bottled up. There has been no word from either of them for twenty-four hours.”

  There was silence in the room of which they were the only occupants. Fakenham glanced around at the closed door.

  “The Government,” he continued, “have never taken the Press so much into their confidence with, I think I may say, such excellent results. To you three I see no harm in disclosing the fact that I have read the Government remonstrance addressed to a certain prominent person. It is, to my mind, perfect. It is dignified, it contrives to remain friendly in tone, but it intimates the Government’s intention to break off the discussions and recall our Ambassador if the present impasse continues. Unless Dunkerley, particularly, and also Orson-Meade, receive an entirely satisfactory reply, I am afraid we shall have to make up our minds to war.”

  Prestley let the cards which he had been shuffling slip through his fingers.

  “If war comes,” he lamented, “it will mean the end of civilisation. For generations the world will be an impossible place.”

  “Europe has gone crazy,” Fakenham declared. “The nations have lost their heads and from the cataclysm of dissensions and misrule have belched out these dictators who aspire to govern the world. It seems strange that they cannot produce one man strong enough to be its saviour.”

  A pleasant smile lightened once more Prestley’s face.

  “Generalisations,” he murmured, “are so helpless. Supposing we play a rubber of bridge.”

  They drew their chairs closer to the table and cut. The game proceeded.

  Over a thousand miles away, in a southern country, things were happening. In a fit of restlessness the great man had returned from the retreat of his country villa to the imposing palace where his headquarters was established. He hated conferences, he loved to come to his decisions alone, yet this time he had unwillingly discarded his predilections. In the smaller Council Chamber opening out from his private rooms he and five other men sat around a beautiful Florentine table. The room was stripped of ornaments, it lacked flowers or any form of decoration. It was as still and grey as the face of the man who sat with folded arms confronting his advisors. There was his Ambassador for many years to the Court of St. James’s, who sat upon his left. There was his son, who, with a roll of plans spread out before him, sat facing his illustrious parent. There was Mazarin, Minister for War, who sat there disturbed and anxious. On his right, Count Patani, who held the unsubstantial post of Minister of Finance. Finally, there was Karl Hershfeld, arrived that morning from the northern capital of their allies, to await whose coming this vital meeting had been twice postponed. There had been much talk that afternoon. Now there had come a pause. Opinions were divided. For once there was opposition. The man whose will had before been unquestioned was disturbed. His underlip had crept outwards. The muffled note of insubordination had sounded like a death knell, and its first mutterings had come from his own family.

  “It appears to be the wish of some of you,” he said coldly, “that we should abandon both the proud position we have taken up with regard to our interest in the Mediterranean and our aspirations for world power. Our Empire, at the apex of her ascent, stands now at the crossroads. Once before, Europe and part of Africa lay shivering at her feet. The same position has arisen to-day. Let me hear, from anyone who has the courage, why we should shrink from our destiny.”

  Then the man whom he had loved spoke, a man not unlike himself but dressed with more fastidious nicety, a man, too, with the air of towns and civilised places in his bearing. His name was Corti, and if his words just now were mild, one was forced to remember that he had done devilish things in two campaigns.

  “Lack of money for one thing,” he said bluntly. “It is a detestable truth, but even a nation so gloriously placed as ours has to consider ugly facts. It has to feed its armies and pay for its munitions. The American banker, even though he was married to a woman of our race, dealt us the bitterest blow when he refused to treat with Patani. His interest in financial circles throughout the world has put him in a position which no Rothschild nor any other emperor of finance has ever occupied bef
ore. Directly he said ‘No’ the whole situation changed. It is not only the money he commands, but with his influence against us there is not a country in the world who could help. In the old days it was possible to make war and to pay for it by despoiling the beaten enemy. Nothing of the sort is possible to-day. We cannot keep an army in the field, our planes in the air, our cannons roaring, with empty coffers.”

  “The reply to that,” the man at the head of the table answered grimly, “is a swift war, a war that is over in a few months.”

  “No Power in the world,” the other said, “could enter upon a war with the British Empire and believe that it would be over in a few months. Then there is the bald, hard fact that the only thing we could gain by victory, empty glory, would not compensate for what we risk losing.”

  “Cross out that word from your mind,” the Dictator cried harshly. “My people do not know how to lose. Under my control they will never learn.”

  “Nevertheless,” Corti persisted, “leaving out, for the moment, this mighty question of finance, Hershfeld here, the representative of our great ally, has brought sage counsels to this discussion. Together, he and I have studied what between ourselves we have called the ‘Whitehall Offensive,’ a plan of which has come into our hands owing to our perfect espionage system. It displays a genius equal to our own. It is an epic of strategy which I, who have seen war and planned it, declare might cost us our present glorious position. I do not speak these words in fear, I do not speak them out of friendship to England, although it is true that I have many friends there and a great respect for an ill-led but still invincible country. I maintain that we have placed ourselves in a false position. Britain has called our bluff. In a few hours we shall have to speak the words which will certainly mean war and may possibly bring upon us humiliation, or we can adopt the rôle to which we are entitled of being the champions of civilisation, declaring before the world that notwithstanding our strength we carry a mandate for peace.”

  There was silence for a moment. Hershfeld nodded in grave approval.

  “The leader of my country,” he said, “whom I am sent here to represent, would be in accord with those words. I have studied these secret plans of the enemy, which your superb espionage system has brought into our hands. I find them faultless. I say that we should be unwise to choose this moment to precipitate an unripe war. War there must be,” he went on, “if Germany is denied the return of her Colonies. That is a certainty. France has made sacrifice to us. England has given nothing. The time is surely coming when she must give or fight for what she holds, but I agree with Signor Corti that that time is not now. With all respect for your genius, Signor, I speak these words for your ally and for the country which is your greatest admirer. The time is not yet.”

  “What does my own Minister for War say?” the Dictator asked bluntly.

  Mazarin met his master’s furious gaze, for the support of the last speaker had emboldened him.

  “Signor,” he replied, “like all great countries, we have our weak points. Whatever genius produced this plan has made himself acquainted with them. It is my regretful judgment that we have under-estimated the British resources. If they can put that Fleet into the North Sea without disturbing their power in the Mediterranean, if this great scheme of mining has really been carried out, Germany is bottled-up like a dog in its kennel. England has no more to fear the hostility of the Japanese. America will take care of the East. The Suez Canal is open. Italy, cut off from German help, would have to face a naval force far more than equal to her own. The attitude of France may be for a moment hesitant. If this attack were once launched she would hesitate no longer. Many weary years might pass during which my country would once more stand still. All that you, Signor, have done, would remain stagnant. Even a possible measure of success would be won at too great cost.”

  “You have spoken, Mazarin,” his master said coldly. “I have still another word to add. The man Florestan has done more good work for our country in London than anyone connected with our Secret Service, except the person through whose means the ‘Whitehall Offensive’ plan has reached us. For the moment we have lost touch with him. He has his instructions to return and it is my desire to confront him with this document which you all seem to find so terrifying. I admit that the source from which it came is unquestionable. There have been patriots through every generation in the great House of Pelucchi, and no one would dream of treachery on the part of anyone bearing that name, but I suggest this. Let us wait for Florestan’s return and put these plans into his hands.”

  “With what object?” his son enquired.

  “To be absolutely certain that they are real and honest and that they can be carried out. That is to say, that England really has forces sufficient to carry out the plans involved. We should remember this—Florestan has done a great work. He has sold through his firm there vast quantities of material to the British Admiralty, metals of every description, miles of this supposedly non-inflammable covering for their new type of aeroplanes. Everything has been accepted without a single hitch. The only man, the great builder of aeroplanes, who seemed to have any suspicions of certain of the material, met with his death before he could interfere. To me it seems impossible that a nation who could be so completely deceived could have produced the ‘Whitehall Offensive’ scheme. It is my suggestion that we await the return of Florestan, show him the document and convince ourselves as to its integrity.”

  There was a dubious silence amongst the little company. The Ambassador to England was the brave man.

  “Signor,” he pointed out, “Florestan is not here. There is no present certainty of his whereabouts. We have put ourselves in the wrong with these continual postponements. I can tell you this myself—it is the reason I have flown over here with your permission to give my advice. If we do not reopen the conversations courteously, as we still can do without loss of dignity, this evening or to-morrow, England will declare war. We shall have been manoeuvred into a cul-de-sac. When these postponements were commenced it was obvious that they were leading us into a false position. I am no blind lover of British arrogance but I say that in this case there was behind the suggestions made to us a real and earnest desire for peace, a reasonableness as to the bases of discussion which will place us in the wrong before the world if we break off negotiations now without some far more reasonable excuse than we possess. The splendid espionage system of our country has saved us. We realise that the present is not the moment for our great coup. Do not let us throw away our advantage. It is not too late to adopt a dignified and tolerant attitude. Let us agree in both capitals upon the same technique. Let us congratulate ourselves and everyone on the passing of your indisposition, Signor, upon your return to your capital and the reopening of conversations. They will continue at the same time in Berlin. They must be on the bases introduced by Great Britain. We must come to an agreement. It is easily done. Listen. There will be nothing binding upon us. Our agreement, let us say, shall come into force when certain concessions have been granted on both sides. The time limit imposed upon the granting of these concessions must have an elastic quality. We can play with the final settlement. We need sign nothing, for the moment, enter into no real and binding alliance. We can choose an occasion more opportune than this one. If it should seem to us in two years’ time that a successful campaign against the British Empire is possible, we can strike then. To-day,” the Ambassador concluded, after a brief hesitation, “I will not say that it is impossible, but I will say that it carries too many risks.”

  “Risks!” the man in the chair ejaculated scornfully.

  “Signor,” the Ambassador ventured, “I repeat the word. It is one which the diplomatist has learnt to respect.”

  The Dictator rose to his feet.

  “The meeting is dissolved,” he pronounced harshly. “The cowards win.”

  Bridge was over for the evening at the St. George’s Club. The hour for apéritifs had arrived. The four players were still lounging in their pla
ces round the table when the tray was brought in. Simultaneously, the steward made an announcement.

  “A special messenger from the Foreign Office to speak to Your Lordship,” he said in a low tone to Fakenham.

  The latter rose briskly to his feet and left the room.

  “News at last!” Mallinson muttered.

  They all showed their anxiety in different ways. Melville took his glass from the man, drained its contents almost at a single gulp, sprang to his feet and paced the room with his hands behind his back. Mallinson set down his glass before him and seemed to forget it. His eyes were fixed fiercely upon the door. Prestley sipped his sherry, set down the glass still half-full and tapped with his forefinger gently upon the table.

  “It will be good news,” he prophesied.

  Fakenham was gone less than two minutes. The smile upon his face when he reappeared sent a thrill of joyous anticipation through the nerves of the three men. His voice was hoarse as he spoke.

  “Good news!” he exclaimed. “The Foreign Office have just received a cable from Dunkerley. It consists of one word: JUBILATION. Anyone know the A6 Continental Code? No? Well, it means simply this: THINGS HERE HAVE CHANGED DEFINITELY FOR THE BETTER.”

  Melville wiped his forehead and sank into his place.

  “Thank God!” he murmured.

  Mallinson took up the glass with which he had been toying and rose to his feet. Melville glanced at his empty tumbler in disgust and pressed the bell. Prestley regarded them all with a kindly smile.

  “In times of crisis,” he cried, “you Britishers think of only one thing! Order me another drink, Melville, while you’re about it.”

  “Well, there’s another thing I haven’t forgotten, anyway,” the General declared. “Order me what you like. I shan’t be ten minutes.”

  He made for the door.

  “Where are you off to?” Melville asked. “We can’t break this up for a few minutes.”