He drew it from his pocket and glanced at it. Even with his slight knowledge of chemistry he was compelled to admit that her words were truth.
“Keep it or give it me back, as you like,” she continued. “It has no value. The fact remains that in his brief journey from the service room at the Milan grillroom to his rooms in the Milan Mansions, Jules managed to conceal somewhere or other the paper which he had taken from Hurn. If he passed it on to some one else, it is by this time in Germany; but we have reason to know that he did not. The paper is still in concealment. It is still to be found.”
“And the means?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders lightly.
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “how can I tell you now? How can I even engage your help? You have disclosed your hand.”
He sat gazing gloomily out at the river.
“Very well,” he decided at last, “let me help, and I will be content with a copy of the formula.”
She smiled.
“That is rather sensible of you,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I require your help. For reasons which I need not explain, we do not wish this matter to be dealt with in any way officially. I am in perfect accord with the English Secret Service, but we do not wish to have their men seen about the Milan Mansions. Tonight, Jules re-enters into possession of his rooms. I offer you an adventure. It is what you wish?”
“But I thought Jules was interned?”
“He was and is,” she told him, “but the greater powers are working. This afternoon he will be permitted to escape—he thinks through the agency of friends. He will come to London in a motor-car, he will come at once to his rooms, and, although every inch of them has been searched, I am perfectly convinced that somewhere in them, or between them and the Milan, he will lay his hands upon the formula. You care about this adventure?”
His eyes flashed.
“Care about it!” he repeated enthusiastically.
She smiled and rose to her feet.
“Leave me now,” she begged. “I want to speak to one of those men for a minute. You can dine with me in the grill-room at the Milan at seven o’clock, in morning clothes. Till then, au revoir!”
* * * * *
The spirit of adventure warmed Lavendale’s blood that night. He ordered his dinner with unusual care, and he was delighted to find his guest sufficiently human to appreciate the delicacies he had chosen and the vintage of the champagne which he had selected. Their conversation was entirely general, almost formal. They had both lived for some time in Paris and found mutual acquaintances there. As they neared the conclusion of the meal she was summoned to the telephone. She was absent only for a short time, but when she returned she began to collect her few trifles.
“The car passed through Slough,” she said, “a quarter of an hour ago. I think perhaps we had better be moving.”
Lavendale signed his bill and they left the hotel together.
“Nothing else you think you ought to tell me, I suppose?” he remarked, as they crossed the narrow street, “I am rather in the dark, you know. The idea is, isn’t it, that Jules is coming up to get the formula from some hiding-place in his room? Where shall we be?”
“Wait,” she begged.
They climbed the stairs in silence—the girl had purposely avoided the lift. Arrived on the third floor, she passed the door of number thirty-two and knocked softly at the adjoining one. There was, for a moment, no answer. At the second summons, however, the door was cautiously opened. The untidy secretary admitted them. In her soiled black dress, shapeless and crumpled, with her fat, peevish face and dishevelled peroxidised hair, she was by no means an attractive object. She pointed half indignantly to where Mr. Somers-Keyne was lying upon the couch, gazing towards them in incapable silence with a fatuous smile upon his lips.
“If it’s from you he gets the money for this sort of thing,” she said sharply, “why, I wish you’d keep it, and that’s straight. How are we to get on with our work or anything, with him in that condition?”.
“Scondition’sh all right,” Mr. Somers-Keyne insisted, making a weak effort to rise.
Miss de Freyne frowned for a moment as she appreciated the situation. Then she waved him back.
“Don’t try to get up, Mr. Somers-Keyne,” she begged. “We can manage without you. Lie down and rest for a little time.”
Mr. Somers-Keyne sank back with a sigh of content.
“Very shorry,” he murmured. “Tree’sh awfully annoyed with me. Promished go down and shee him sh’evening.”
“Is this fellow one of your helpers?” Lavendale asked.
She nodded.
“In a small way. Never mind, we don’t need him to-night. Come here.”
She led him to the side of the wall nearest to the adjoining apartment. Her fingers felt about the pattern of the paper. Presently she found a crack, pushed for a moment, and a sliding door rolled back. She stretched out her hand through the darkness and turned a small knob. A wardrobe door swung outwards. They looked into the shadowy obscurity of the adjoining room. Lavendale whistled softly.
“This is all very well,” he said, “but how can we watch Jules whilst the door is closed?”
She pointed to two or three little ventilation holes near the top of the wardrobe. Lavendale applied his eye to one of them and nodded.
‘“That’s all right,” he admitted. “There’s just enough light. Listen!”
They could both of them hear the quick, eager footsteps of a man lightly shod, stealthy, ascending the last flight of stairs. Her fingers gripped his arm for a moment. An excitement more poignant than any begotten by their hazardous adventure suddenly thrilled him. The greatest adventure of all was at hand.
The footsteps paused, the door slowly opened. It was Jules who entered. He stood looking around for a moment, then unexpectedly fingered the switch which stood upon the wall. The apartment was flooded with light. Jules stood in the centre of it, distinctly visible. He was paler even than usual, and his eyes were a little sunken, but he had lost, somehow or other, that bearing of graceful servility which had distinguished him in his former avocation. An expression of subdued cunning had taken its place. He looked around the apartment searchingly. His eyes rested for a moment upon a small print at the further end of the room, which was hanging upon the wall in a crooked position. As his eyes fell upon it, he frowned. He seemed suddenly to stiffen into a new attention. He glanced once more around him as though in fear and picked up his overcoat from the bed. Before they could realise what his intentions were, he had left the room, closing the door behind him.
“What does that mean?” Lavendale whispered.
She pushed open the wardrobe door. A little breath of fresher air was grateful to both of them. Then she turned and pointed towards the opposite wall.
“It was that print,” she murmured. “It must have been a signal to him that he was being watched. You see, it is on one side. I am perfectly certain that when I was here this morning it was straight.”
“A signal from whom?”
She had no time to answer him. They could hear the door of the next room open. Their eyes met.
“Mr. Somers-Keyne!” he exclaimed.
They stepped back into the wardrobe. Her fingers felt for the spring. Suddenly they both heard, within a few inches of them, on the other side of the wall, the sound of a click. She pressed the spring in vain. Then she stepped back and turned on the electric light in the room.
“Try the door,” she whispered.
Lavendale tried it. As they both expected, it was locked. She drew a master-key from her pocket and opened it swiftly. They were now out in the corridor, empty and silent. They could not even hear the sound of any one moving about in Mr. Somers-Keyne’s room. Lavendale stood before the latter’s door and listened. There was a mumbling as though of smothered voices, then suddenly an angry exclamation.
“Sick of the lot of you, that’s what I am! Here the old man dictates his rubbish for about an hour a day
and talks drivelling, drunken piffle for the rest of it! Where’s my salary coming from, that’s what I want to know?”
They heard Jules apparently trying to soothe her.
“My dear Miss Brown, in a few days, if you will only be patient—”
“Patient! Who’s going to be patient with that old drunkard blithering around all the time? I’ve had enough!”
They heard the sound of stamping footsteps and Mr. Somers-Keyne’s sonorous voice.
“Flora, my dear, mosht unreashonable, I’m sure. Shimply asked you go out for a few minutes while Mr. Jules and I dish-cuss important matter.”
“And I’m going out for a minute,” Miss Brown shouted, suddenly opening the door, “and you may thank your stars when you see me again!”
She appeared upon the threshold, holding a slatternly hat upon her head with one hand and sticking hat-pins in with the other. She stared insolently at Lavendale and his companion, and brushed her way past them.
“Here’s visitors for you,” she called out over her shoulder. “You’ll have to get rid of them now before you start on your precious business.”
She flopped down the stairs. The newcomers stepped across the threshold. Jules stared at them in surprise. Mr. Somers-Keyne nodded his head ponderously. His mind seemed to be still running upon Miss Brown’s departure.
“A mosht ungrateful young woman,” he declared. “Mish-er-de Freyne, your shervant. Thish gentleman is the tenant of the roomsh you looked over other day. Mr. Lavendale, don’t like you. Don’t want you here. Ashked me questions about you, Mish de Freyne. Not a nice young man at all. You lishen to me a moment.”
He staggered to his feet. Jules stood in the background. There was something of the old obsequiousness about his manner. Mr. Somers-Keyne swayed for a moment upon his feet. Then Lavendale felt a sudden inspiration. He turned on his heel.
“Excuse me for one moment,” he whispered to the girl by his side.
He turned away with no show of haste, though the eyes of both men seemed to follow him. Then he ran down the stairs on tiptoe, taking them three at a time as he neared the ground floor. The motorcar was drawn up outside, there was no sign of any one else in the street. He sprang to the other side of the way and saw at once the object of his pursuit, hurrying down towards the Embankment. He followed her as stealthily as possible. Without looking around she increased her own pace, crossed the Embankment, and leaned for a moment over the wall. A few yards further on were the steps and a little pier, and close by a small tug was waiting. Lavendale, who was within reach of her now, stretched out his hand and seized her shoulder,
“I want you, Miss Brown!” he exclaimed.
She turned and confronted him, her face mottled and flushed with the unusual exercise, a strand of her unwholesome-looking hair hanging down to her shoulder.
“Now what’s wrong with you?” she shouted. “Can’t you leave me alone? I’m not coming back.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“That’s none of your business,” she snapped. “Let me pass.”
He glanced at the tug and his hand closed upon her wrist. He was a strong man, but she almost succeeded in wrenching herself free.
“Look here, Miss Brown,” he said, “the game’s up. I want that paper you’re keeping for Jules.”
She suddenly showed her teeth. Her face was like the face of a wild animal. She struggled so violently that they swayed towards the parapet. Her left hand slipped into the bosom of her gown. Before he could stop her, her fingers were making pulp of the paper which she had drawn up in crushed fragments. She threw it over the parapet into the black water. Then she ceased to struggle. She laughed hysterically and leaned back against the wall. The water near where the fragments of paper had fallen was all churned up—the little tug had hurried off.
“Clever, ain’t you?” she mocked. “Any need to hold on to me anymore?”
He released her wrist. The car had come thundering down the little street. It suddenly pulled up with a grinding of brakes. Suzanne sprang lightly out.
“The formula?” she cried.
He pointed downwards to the water.
“Destroyed!”
Her sigh was almost one of relief. “Was there a tug here?” she asked eagerly. He nodded.
“It made off when they saw us struggling.”
“He told the truth, then!” she exclaimed. “Jules shot himself as soon as he realised that the game was up—there in the room before me, a few minutes ago. He told me with his last breath that the formula was on its way down the river to Germany.”
Lavendale smiled grimly.
“It’s on its way down the river, right enough,” he assented, “but I don’t think it will reach Germany.”
3. A DEAL WITH NIKO
Table of Contents
LAVENDALE paused in the act of struggling with his tie, and looked steadfastly into the mirror in front of him. He had heard no definite sound, yet some queer intuition seemed to have suddenly awakened within his subconscious mind a sense of the mysterious, something close at hand, unaccountable, minatory. His flat was empty and the catch of the front door secure, yet he knew very well that he was being watched. He turned slowly around.
“What the mischief—”
He broke off in his sentence. A small man, dressed in black clothes, imperturbable, yellow-skinned, and with Oriental type of features, was standing to attention, a clothes-brush in his hand. His dark, oval eyes rested for a moment upon the crumpled failure of Lavendale’s tie. Without a word he took another from an open drawer, came softly across the room and reached upwards. Before Lavendale knew what was happening, the bow which had been worrying him for the last five minutes was faultlessly tied. He glanced into the mirror and was compelled to give vent to a little exclamation of satisfaction.
“That’s all very well, you know,” he said, turning once more around. “The tie’s all right, but who the devil are you, and what are you doing in my rooms?”
The man bowed. Again the Oriental seemed to assert itself in the subtle ease with which he almost prostrated himself.
“Sir,” he explained, “I am the friend of your servant Perkins.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me where on earth Perkins is?” Lavendale demanded.
“He is in the hospital, sir,” the man answered. “He met with a slight accident while he and I were together. I am his messenger. I undertook to bring you news of him and to do what I could, in my poor way, to fill his place for this evening. He lent me his key. It was in that manner I was able to gain entrance here.”
“An accident?” Lavendale repeated. “What sort of an accident?”
“I chose an idle word, perhaps,” the other confessed. “It was indeed more a matter of sudden illness. Perkins and I lunched together at the Chinese Restaurant in Piccadilly Circus. As we left the place, he faltered; he fainted in the passage. I called a taxicab and took him to the hospital. It was not a great affair, they said, but it was better that he should rest there. So I came to you.”
“And who the dickens may you be?”
“My name is Niko. I came from Japan with General Kinish, military attache to the Japanese Embassy. He has gone to the Italian Front and left me without a situation.”
“You’re all right at ties, anyway,” Lavendale admitted, glancing once more into the mirror. “All the same, I think I can get along without a man until Perkins comes back.”
His hands sought his trousers pockets, but Niko shook his head gravely. “It is impossible,” he protested. “Perkins may be away for a week. I shall wait upon you until he returns. It is best.”
“Well, have it your own way,” Lavendale remarked. “Better answer that bell, then. If it is a lady, show her into the sitting-room.”
“The lady,” he announced, “is in the sitting-room.”
He held up Lavendale’s coat and the latter hastened from the room. Suzanne de Freyne was standing facing the door as he entered, her theatre cloak thrown back. He t
ook her hands. “You are adorably punctual!” he exclaimed.
“Tell me,” she asked, a little abruptly, “how long have you had your valet?”
“About five minutes, I believe,” he answered. “He is a substitute. My own man was taken ill at luncheon-time. Why do you ask?”
“Because he is the first person,” she explained, “who has succeeded in puzzling me in one particular way since I can remember.”
He looked at her as though for an explanation, and in a moment she continued.
“I flatter myself that I never forget a face. Your valet is perfectly well known to me, and yet I cannot tell you who he is.”
Lavendale glanced uneasily towards the door. “I shan’t keep him,” he said. “I hate prejudices, but I am full of them. The fellow’s a Jap, of course.”
Suzanne did not reply for a moment. Her attention seemed to have suddenly wandered. Then she turned around with a little laugh.
“I am hungry, my friend!” she exclaimed. “Let us go. And yet, remember this. Temporary servants are bad things for people who follow our profession.”
They left the room. Niko was standing with the front door wide open, his master’s hat and gloves in his hand.
“I will be here at seven o’clock in the morning, sir,” he promised, “and bring news of Perkins.”
Lavendale nodded. The door was closed softly behind them. At the bottom of the stairs he glanced up. “Wish I could get rid of the ridiculous idea I have about that fellow,” he remarked.
“Is there anything in your rooms of particular—I will not say value, I will say interest?” she inquired.
“I suppose I have the usual amount of valuables,” he admitted, “but Perkins is a very careful servant, and I am sure he would never have sent anyone who wasn’t reliable. As regards my papers and that sort of thing, they are all locked up in a safe with a combination lock.”
She did not pursue the subject, and it faded quickly from Lavendale’s mind. They dined in a quiet corner at the Milan, and they talked of many things, chiefly the war.
21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) Page 145