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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  She nodded.

  ‘The one country left which may provide us with a sensation,’ she remarked. ‘I suppose that is why you went.’

  ‘I made a few inquiries,’ he replied. ‘My own impression of the people was that they wanted peace very badly and Schnapps more than anything else in the world.’

  She laughed softly. It was significant of his attitude towards her that he asked no questions of her own doings.

  ‘I had a curious adventure on my way back from Paris yesterday,’ she told him. ‘I travelled up from Boulogne in a special with General Matravers.’

  ‘Matravers?’ he repeated. ‘Isn’t he one of the British Generals who have been sent home?’

  ‘I believe so,’ she assented, ‘in fact I am sure of it. He told me the whole story on the way up. Afterwards he brought out a revolver and swore that he was going to shoot himself.’

  ‘What on earth did you do?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I took it away from him,’ she replied. ‘He wasn’t in the least dangerous, really.’

  ‘Look here,’ Lavendale declared earnestly, ‘I think it’s quite time you left off this travelling about alone.’

  She laughed gaily.

  ‘But, my friend,’ she protested, ‘what would you have? Can a trusted agent’—she glanced around for a moment and lowered her voice—‘of the French and English Secret Service engage a chaperon?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he answered, a little doggedly. ‘It’s all very well for us men to take a risk or two, but it’s no sort of life for a girl—’

  She checked him at once.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she interrupted. ‘I am a daughter of France. Every drop of blood in my body, every’ part of myself, my soul, even, belongs to my country. The work I am doing I shall go on with, whatever it might cost me.’

  He did not attempt to argue with her, the finality of her tone was too absolute.

  ‘I suppose it is because of this spirit,’ he said, ‘that France is invincible. Tell me—’

  He broke off in his sentence. Her fingers had suddenly gripped his arm, she had leaned forward in her place. Coming down the steps on to the terrace was a little group of soldiers in staff uniform. One of them, in the centre of the group, was obviously a foreigner, and, from the respect with which they all treated him, a person of distinction.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked.

  ‘I expect they are members of the military mission from France,’ he explained. ‘They are being entertained down here to dinner tonight by some officials from the War Office. The head-waiter told me about it. I tackled him about a table in case you cared to stay down.’

  ‘But only one of them is a foreigner,’ she observed.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I really don’t know anything more about it,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose any one does. Why are you so interested?’

  She said nothing for a moment. The Frenchman was standing chatting amiably in the centre of the terrace, and Suzanne watched him with curious intensity. He was tall, he had a slight black moustache, his eyes were long and narrow, there was a scar on his right cheek. He was the very prototype of the man who had arisen in her mind a few hours ago, called into being by those hoarse, broken-hearted words of the ruined General.

  ‘I must know his name,’ she insisted.

  He looked at her wonderingly.

  ‘But, my dear—’

  ‘I must know his name,’ she repeated. ‘Please help me. Don’t ask me why.’ He rose at once.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he promised her.

  He disappeared into the house. The little party of men strolled backwards and forwards along the terrace. In about five minutes Lavendale reappeared. He smiled as he approached.

  ‘I got hold of the dinner cards,’ he announced in triumph. ‘His name is Lieutenant-Colonel Leychelles.’

  The little company of soldiers at that moment began to descend the steps. Suzanne rose to her feet and, standing under the shadow of the trees, she leaned forward. The man whom she had been watching with so much interest, was distinctly swinging his left arm. She gripped Lavendale by the elbow.

  ‘Come with me,’ she insisted. ‘Come with me at once. Take me up to town.’

  He obeyed promptly. They passed through the house and Lavendale ordered up his car.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked, as he took his place at the driving wheel.

  ‘I must find General Matravers,’ she declared. ‘Drive up towards London. I must think as we go.’

  They glided down the drive, over Hammersmith Bridge and up to the Park.

  ‘Don’t you belong to a club somewhere?’ she asked. ‘We must get a Who’s Who,’

  ‘Why, of course,’ he answered. ‘We can manage that easily enough.’

  He pulled up presently outside the door of the Bath Club in Dover Street.

  ‘If you’ll wait here for half a moment,’ he suggested.

  She nodded and he sprang down and ran lightly up the steps. He was back again almost at once.

  ‘The first name I came across,’ he announced, ‘—17 Belgrave Square is the town address. Shall I drive there? It’s quite close.’

  She assented. In a few moments they arrived at their destination. Suzanne stood under the stone portico and rang the bell. In due course a butler appeared.

  ‘General Matravers is not seeing anybody, madam, was his prompt reply to Suzanne’s inquiry. ‘The doctor has ordered him complete rest.’

  ‘My business,-‘ Suzanne explained, ‘is very urgent.’

  ‘So every reporter who has been here to-day has told me,’ the man replied a little wearily. ‘No one has been allowed to see him.’

  ‘Is Lady Matravers in?’ Suzanne persisted.

  ‘Lady Matravers is not receiving. Perhaps you would like to leave your name and a message, madam?’ the man suggested.

  A tall, dark-haired woman, who had been crossing the hall, paused. She came a few steps towards Suzanne.

  ‘I am Lady Matravers,’ she announced. ‘Can I do anything for you?’

  Suzanne pressed forward and the butler stood on one side.

  ‘Lady Matravers,’ the former said earnestly, ‘I have the most important business with your husband. I know he is ill—-I came up from Folkestone with him yesterday—and yet I must see him.’

  ‘You were his companion in the special train?’ Lady Matravers asked. ‘He spoke of a young lady who travelled up with him.’

  ‘I am the young lady,’ Suzanne assented. ‘I am in the Secret Service of France,’ she went on, dropping her voice a little. ‘Your husband told me some curious things last night. It is in connection with one of them that I wish to see him. It isn’t for my own sake, Lady Matravers. It is for the sake of the country.’

  The door was thrown open. General Matravers, leaning upon his stick, came into the hall. He was looking very white and shaken, but he seemed to recognize Suzanne. He looked at her doubtfully.

  ‘It is the young lady whom I found last night in the carriage attached to my saloon,’ he remarked, ‘the young lady, my dear,’ he added, turning to his wife, ‘who threw my revolver out of the window.’

  Lady Matravers glanced towards the servant who was lingering in the background and led Suzanne back into the room from which she herself had issued. The General followed her. A quiet-faced woman in nurse’s uniform rose from a chair as they entered.

  ‘If you are really the young lady who travelled with my husband from Folkestone last night,’ Lady Matravers said kindly, ‘I am very glad indeed to meet you. He has told me such very nice things about you. The doctor’s orders are that he is not to be disturbed on any account, but if you wish to speak to him for a few minutes, here he is. I was just trying to persuade him to go to bed when you came.’

  ‘Perhaps what I have come to say may do your husband more good than harm,’ Suzanne assured her. ‘General,’ she added, turning towards him, ‘do you mind describing to me once more the man who came to your hea
dquarters masquerading as a French officer, an envoy from the French Brigadier-General?’

  The General’s face darkened.

  ‘Describe him!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, I can’t get him out of my thoughts for a minute! He was tall, soldierly, dark, sallow, black moustache, narrow eyes, black hair cut short, a scar on his right cheek, and he had a habit of swinging his left arm when he walked.’

  ‘I need not ask you whether you would know him again,’ Suzanne said, ‘because I am sure you would. I may be very foolish and I may be making a very silly mistake, but there is a man over here now attached to the French Military Mission. He is being entertained tonight at Ranelagh by officials from the War Office. He leaves to-morrow, ostensibly for French headquarters, and he answers your description exactly.’

  All the nervousness had left the General’s manner. He was perfectly calm, a little eager. He picked up his cap and cane from a table.

  ‘Where is he to be found?’ he asked.

  ‘If you will come with me,’ Suzanne promised, ‘I will take you to him.’

  The nurse hastened towards them. The General pushed her aside. His tone had acquired a new firmness.

  ‘Please understand, both of you,’ he said, ‘that no nurse or doctor’s injunctions will keep me from doing my duty. My dear,’ he added, turning to his wife and kissing her upon the forehead, ‘this is not a matter in which you must interfere. If the young lady is mistaken, I shall come back at once. If by any chance she is right, it is imperative that I should go. I am at your service, madam.’

  ‘I will take care of him,’ Suzanne whispered to Lady Matravers.

  They let him go, doubtfully but of compulsion. He took his place in the car and acknowledged his introduction to Lavendale with a stiff salute. They started off at once. For the first time Suzanne began to be a little nervous about the outcome of their journey.

  ‘This man,’ she explained, ‘is being entertained at dinner at Ranelagh at the present moment. We can go down there and you can see from the open doorway of the dining-room whether there is any truth in my suspicions. If we are wrong—’

  ‘You need have no fear, young lady,’ the General assured her calmly. ‘I am a member of Ranelagh and well-known there. It will be quite in order that I stroll round the place and glance in at the dining-room. If your suspicions are, as you suggest, ill-founded, no harm will be done. If they are true,’ he added, his voice shaking for a moment, ‘if really it is vouchsafed to me in this life to find myself face to face once more with that man… .’

  He broke off abruptly and muttered something under his breath. Not another word was spoken until they had turned in at the avenue and pulled up in front of the clubhouse. The General had become preternaturally calm. He waited, however, for Suzanne to precede him.

  ‘If you will lead the way, young lady,’ he suggested.

  They crossed through the two rooms, out on to the terrace the other side, and turned towards the dining-room. The gardens were bright with flowers, and the glow of the sunset seemed still to linger about the place. One or two visitors who had dined early were already having their coffee under the trees. From a hidden spot the musicians were tuning their instruments. Suzanne felt her heart beat rapidly as they drew near the dining-room; the General, apparently unmoved, walked with measured tread, a commanding and dignified figure. A couple of young soldiers stood up as he passed, and he accepted their salute genially. Then he passed into the dining-room. Almost immediately in front of him, at the table usually reserved for the golfers’ luncheon, the dinner-party was proceeding, and on the right-hand side of the host sat the distinguished Frenchman. He was facing the door and he glanced up at the entrance of the little party. Suzanne asked no questions. She felt her breath almost stop, a little sob choked her. The faces of almost every one in the room, the laughter, the murmur of conversation, seemed suddenly in her mind to have become arrested. More than anything else in the world she was conscious of this one thing—the man who sat there knew that his hour had come, knew that Fate was marching towards him in the shape of that grim, military figure.

  The General walked towards the party very much with the air of one who had come to make some casual inquiry. It was only when he was recognized that a little interested murmur stole around the room. He walked to within a few feet of the Frenchman and his right hand seemed to have disappeared for a moment.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, without unduly raising his voice but with curious distinctness, ‘the man whom you are entertaining here as an emissary from our French allies, is an impostor, a German and a spy. He cost me, a few weeks ago, the lives of two thousand of my men. A far smaller thing, he is responsible for the ruin of my reputation. This is less than he deserves.’

  With hand as steady as a rock, the General held his revolver out before him and deliberately fired three times at the man whom he had accused, and who had fallen forward now, his outstretched hands sweeping the wineglasses from in front of him—stone dead. The General watched his victim without emotion. He even leaned forward to make sure that the wounds were mortal. Then he walked deliberately out into the garden, heedless of the shrieking of the women, the crowd of diners who had sprung to their feet, the passing of the paralysis which had seemed to keep every one in the room seated and silent.

  * * * * *

  They found the proofs upon his body that night—horrifying, stupefying proofs—and the censor’s hand came down. No word of that tragedy ever appeared under any sensational headline in any newspaper. In the face of that grim silence, even many of those who had been present found themselves wondering whether that lightning tragedy had not been a nightmare of the brain. To Suzanne de Freyne, however, it remained always one of the tense moments of her life. The General, with the revolver still in his hand, turned towards her with a polite gesture and a happy smile as he led the way into the garden. He tossed the weapon into a bed of geraniums and seemed utterly indifferent to the turmoil around.

  ‘You were right, young lady,’ he said. ‘That was the man.’

  5. SUSCEPTIBLE MR. KESSNER

  Table of Contents

  THERE was vigour in her walk, a determination in her face, which made Ambrose Lavendale, the American diplomatic agent, pause for an instant before he crossed the street to accost Suzanne de Freyne. It was perfectly clear to him that she was bound upon a serious errand. She was dressed with her usual simplicity. In her black tailor-made costume, her small hat and neat patent shoes, she looked like the Rue de la Paix at four o’clock in the afternoon during its halcyon days. He was forced to quicken his pace to intercept her.

  “Good-morning, Miss de Freyne!”

  She turned quickly around and held out her left hand. Her greeting was cordial enough, but her air of abstraction did not altogether disappear.

  “Where have you been hiding for the last few days?” she asked.

  “I came back from Holland last night. I have been in Germany again.”

  “Any news?” she asked quickly.

  “Nothing very wonderful. I needn’t ask how things are with you. I can tell that you have something on hand. Can I help?”

  She laughed.

  “You are right in a way, but I don’t think you can help,” she told him. “This is quite an important morning—it is Celia’s sale.”

  He was a little staggered. Her manner was convincing.

  “You mean that you are going to a millinery sale?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she answered. “The first morning of Celia’s sale is the most important event of the season. We have printed cards of invitation, and policemen outside the door to keep away intruders. This isn’t any ordinary bargain-hunting, you know. This is our one chance to provide ourselves with the elegances of life at a reasonable cost.”

  “For the moment, I gather,” he went on, falling into step with her, “the affairs of the nation are in the background.”

  “Naturally,” she assented.

  “At what hour,” he inquired, “will this fu
nction be over?”

  She glanced at him suspiciously.

  “If I thought you were making fun—”

  “Never entered into my head,” he assured her.

  “Then you can give me some lunch at one o’clock,” she promised.

  “That’s exactly what I was hoping for. And, Miss de Freyne?”

  “Well?”

  “Would you mind very much if I brought an acquaintance?”

  She glanced at him in some surprise.

  “Of course not,” she answered, “only it must be a grill-room luncheon, please. I am dressed for a scrimmage.”

  “At one o’clock at the Milan Grill,” he told her, raising his hat.

  He strolled slowly away southwards, crossed Pall Mall, and let himself in by a side entrance to the American Embassy. Here he spent a few minutes in the outer offices and passed on, a little later, into a more private apartment. An elderly man with a clean-shaven face, grey hair brushed back from his forehead, and tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, looked up from his roll-topped desk and waved his visitor to a seat.

  “Hullo, Ambrose! Anything fresh?”

  Lavendale drew up a chair, and grasped the hand which the other offered him.

  “There is plenty going on if one could get to understand it, Mr. Washburn,” he said. “Berlin had me puzzled.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “Last night.”

  “See anything of our friend?”

  “He crossed with me.”

  “Get acquainted with him?”

  “Oh! I knew him before in Washington and in New York,” Lavendale replied. “I took care to remind him of it, too. Yes, he was quite friendly. All the same, he was secretive. He didn’t tell me the one thing I discovered of the greatest interest in connection with his trip, and that was that the Kaiser sent his private car three hundred miles and met him at the Western Headquarters. They spent the best part of the day together. Has he been in here?”

  Mr. Washburn shook his head. “He neither reported before he left, nor has he been in since he got back. Kind of giving us the cold shoulder, isn’t it?”