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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Is it? And why?”

  “I have only known you for three days.”

  “We can make up for that.”

  “But I don’t—care about you. I have never thought of any one in that way. It is absurd,” she went on.

  “You’ll have to, sometime or other,” he declared. “I’ll take you travelling with me, show you the world, new worlds, unnamed rivers, untrodden mountains. Or do you want to go and see where the little brown people live among the mimosa and the cherry blossoms? I’ll take you so far away that this place and this life will seem like a dream.”

  Her breath caught a little.

  “Don’t, please,” she begged. “You know very well—or rather you don’t know, perhaps, but I must tell you—that I couldn’t. I am here, tied and bound, and I can’t escape.”

  “Ah! dear, don’t believe it,” he went on earnestly. “There isn’t any bond so strong that I won’t break it for you, no knot I won’t untie, if you give me the right.”

  They were climbing slowly on to the tee. He stepped forward and pulled her up. Her hand was cold. Her eyes were raised to his, very softly yet almost pleadingly.

  “Please don’t say anything more,” she begged. “I can’t—quite bear it just now. You know, you must remember—there is my mother. Do you think that I could leave her to struggle alone?”

  His caddy, who had teed the ball, and who had regarded the proceedings with a moderately tolerant air, felt called upon at last to interfere.

  “We’d best get on,” he remarked, pointing to two figures in the distance, “or they’ll say we’ve cut in.”

  Hamel smote his ball far and true. On a more moderate scale she followed his example. They descended the steps together.

  “Love-making isn’t going to spoil our golf,” he whispered, smiling, as he touched her fingers once more.

  She looked at him almost shyly.

  “Is this love-making?” she asked.

  They walked together from the eighteenth green towards the club-house. A curious silence seemed suddenly to have enveloped them. Hamel was conscious of a strange exhilaration, a queer upheaval of ideas, an excitement which nothing in his previous life had yet been able to yield him. The wonder of it amazed him, kept him silent. It was not until they reached the steps, indeed, that he spoke.

  “On our way home—” he began.

  She seemed suddenly to have stiffened. He looked at her, surprised. She was standing quite still, her hand gripping the post, her eyes fixed upon the waiting motor-car. The delicate softness had gone from her face. Once more that look of partly veiled suffering was there, suffering mingled with fear.

  “Look!” she whispered, under her breath. “Look! It is Mr. Fentolin! He has come for us himself; he is there in the car.”

  Mr. Fentolin, a strange little figure lying back among the cushions of the great Daimler, raised his hat and waved it to them.

  “Come along, children,” he cried. “You see, I am here to fetch you myself. The sunshine has tempted me. What a heavenly morning! Come and sit by my side, Esther, and fight your battle all over again. That is one of the joys of golf, isn’t it?” he asked, turning to Hamel. “You need not be afraid of boring me. To-day is one of my bright days. I suppose that it is the sunshine and the warm wind. On the way here we passed some fields. I could swear that I smelt violets. Where are you going, Esther?”

  “To take my clubs to my locker and pay my caddy,” she replied.

  “Mr. Hamel will do that for you,” Mr. Fentolin declared. “Come and take your seat by my side, and let us wait for him. I am tired of being alone.”

  She gave up her clubs reluctantly. All the life seemed to have gone from her face.

  “Why didn’t mother come with you?” she asked simply.

  “To tell you the truth, dear Esther,” he answered, “when I started, I had a fancy to be alone. I think—in fact I am sure—that your mother wanted to come. The sunshine, too, was tempting her. Perhaps it was selfish of me not to bring her, but then, there is a great deal to be forgiven me, isn’t there, Esther?”

  “A great deal,” she echoed, looking steadily ahead of her.

  “I came,” he went on, “because it occurred to me that, after all, I had my duties as your guardian, dear Esther. I am not sure that we can permit flirtations, you know. Let me see, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-one,” she replied.

  “In a magazine I was reading the other day,” he continued, “I was interested to observe that the modern idea as regards marriage is a changed one. A woman, they say, should not marry until she is twenty-seven or twenty-eight—a very excellent idea. I think we agree, do we not, on that, Esther?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I have never thought about the matter.”

  “Then,” he went on, “we will make up our minds to agree. Twenty-seven or twenty-eight, let us say. A very excellent age! A girl should know her own mind by then. And meanwhile, dear Esther, would it be wise, I wonder, to see a little less of our friend Mr. Hamel? He leaves us to-day, I think. He is very obstinate about that. If he were staying still in the house, well, it might be different. But if he persists in leaving us, you will not forget, dear, that association with a guest is one thing; association with a young man living out of the house is another. A great deal less of Mr. Hamel I think that we must see.”

  She made no reply whatever. Hamel was coming now towards them.

  “Really a very personable young man,” Mr. Fentolin remarked, studying him through his eyeglass. “Is it my fancy, I wonder, as an observant person, or is he just a little—just a little taken with you, Esther? A pity if it is so—a great pity.”

  She said nothing, but her hand which rested upon the rug was trembling a little.

  “If you have an opportunity,” Mr. Fentolin suggested, dropping his voice, “you might very delicately, you know—girls are so clever at that sort of thing-convey my views to Mr. Hamel as regards his leaving us and its effect upon your companionship. You understand me, I am sure?”

  For the first time she turned her head towards him.

  “I understand,” she said, “that you have some particular reason for not wishing Mr. Hamel to leave St. David’s Hall.”

  He smiled benignly.

  “You do my hospitable impulses full justice, dear Esther,” he declared. “Sometimes I think that you understand me almost as well as your dear mother. If, by any chance, Mr. Hamel should change his mind as to taking up his residence at the Tower, I think you would not find me in any sense of the word an obdurate or exacting guardian. Come along, Mr. Hamel. That seat opposite to us is quite comfortable. You see, I resign myself to the inevitable. I have come to fetch golfers home to luncheon, and I compose myself to listen. Which of you will begin the epic of missed putts and brassey shots which failed by a foot to carry?”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Table of Contents

  Hamel sat alone upon the terrace, his afternoon coffee on a small table in front of him. His eyes were fixed upon a black speck at the end of the level roadway which led to the Tower. Only a few minutes before, Mr. Fentolin, in his little carriage, had shot out from the passage beneath the terrace, on his way to the Tower. Behind him came Meekins, bending over his bicycle. Hamel watched them both with thoughtful eyes. There were several little incidents in connection with their expedition which he scarcely understood.

  Then there came at last the sound for which he had been listening, the rustle of a skirt along the terraced way. Hamel turned quickly around, half rising to his feet, and concealing his disappointment with difficulty. It was Mrs. Seymour Fentolin who stood there, a little dog under each arm; a large hat, gay with flowers, upon her head. She wore patent shoes with high heels, and white silk stockings. She had, indeed, the air of being dressed for luncheon at a fashionable restaurant. As she stooped to set the dogs down, a strong waft of perfume was shaken from her clothes.

  “Are you entirely deserted, Mr. Hamel?” she asked.

  �
��I am,” he replied. “Miss Esther went, I think, to look for you. My host,” he added, pointing to the black speck in the distance, “begged me to defer my occupation of the Tower for an hour or so, and has gone down there to collect some of his trifles.”

  Her eyes followed his outstretched hand. She seemed to him to shiver for a moment.

  “You really mean, then, that you are going to leave us?” she asked, accepting the chair which he had drawn up close to his.

  He smiled.

  “Well, I scarcely came on a visit to St. David’s Hall, did I?” he reminded her. “It has been delightfully hospitable of Mr. Fentolin to have insisted upon my staying on here for these few days, but I could not possibly inflict myself upon you all for an unlimited period.”

  Mrs. Fentolin sat quite still for a time. In absolute repose, if one could forget her mass of unnaturally golden hair, the forced and constant smile, the too liberal use of rouge and powder, the nervous motions of her head, it was easily to be realised that there were still neglected attractions about her face and figure. Only, in these moments of repose, an intense and ageing weariness seemed to have crept into her eyes and face. It was as though she had dropped the mask of incessant gaiety and permitted a glimpse of her real self to steal to the surface.

  “Mr. Hamel,” she said quietly, “I dare say that even during these few days you have realised that Mr. Fentolin is a very peculiar man.”

  “I have certainly observed—eccentricities,” Hamel assented.

  “My life, and the lives of my two children,” she went on, “is devoted to the task of ministering to his happiness.”

  “Isn’t that rather a heavy sacrifice?” he asked. Mrs. Seymour Fentolin looked down the long, narrow way along which Mr. Fentolin had passed. He was out of sight now, inside the Tower. Somehow or other, the thought seemed to give her courage and dignity. She spoke differently, without nervousness or hurry.

  “To you, Mr. Hamel,” she said, “it may seem so. We who make it know of its necessity.”

  He bowed his head. It was not a subject for him to discuss with her.

  “Mr. Fentolin has whims,” she went on, “violent whims. We all try to humour him. He has his own ideas about Gerald’s bringing up. I do not agree with them, but we submit. Esther, too, suffers, perhaps to a less extent. As for me,”—her voice broke a little—“Mr. Fentolin likes people around him who are always cheerful. He prefers even a certain style—of dress. I, too, have to do my little share.”

  Hamel’s face grew darker.

  “Has it ever occurred to you,” he demanded, “that Mr. Fentolin is a tyrant?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment.

  “There are reasons,” she declared, “why I cannot discuss that with you. He has these strong fancies, and it is our task in life to humour them. He has one now with regard to the Tower, with regard to you. You are, of course, your own master. You can do as you choose, and you will do as you choose. Neither I nor my children have any claim upon your consideration. But, Mr. Hamel, you have been so kind that I feel moved to tell you this. It would make it very much easier for all of us if you would give up this scheme of yours, if you would stay on here instead of going to reside at the Tower.”

  Hamel threw away his cigarette. He was deeply interested.

  “Mrs. Fentolin,” he said, “I am glad to have you speak so plainly. Let me answer you in the same spirit. I am leaving this house mainly because I have conceived certain suspicions with regard to Mr. Fentolin. I do not like him, I do not trust him, I do not believe in him. Therefore, I mean to remove myself from the burden of his hospitality. There are reasons,” he went on, “why I do not wish to leave the neighbourhood altogether. There are certain investigations which I wish to make. That is why I have decided to go to the Tower.”

  “Miles was right, then!” she cried suddenly. “You are here to spy upon him!”

  He turned towards her swiftly.

  “To spy upon him, Mrs. Fentolin? For what reason? Why? Is he a criminal, then?”

  She opened her lips and closed them again. There was a slight frown upon her forehead. It was obvious that the word had unintentionally escaped her.

  “I only know what it is that he called you, what he suspects you of being,” she explained. “Mr. Fentolin is very clever, and he is generally at work upon something. We do not enquire into the purpose of his labours. The only thing I know is that he suspects you of wanting to steal one of his secrets.”

  “Secrets? But what secrets has he?” Hamel demanded. “Is he an inventor?”

  “You ask me idle questions,” she sighed. “We have gone, perhaps, a little further than I intended. I came to plead with you for all our sakes, if I could, to make things more comfortable by remaining here instead of insisting upon your claim to the Tower.”

  “Mrs. Fentolin,” Hamel said firmly. “I like to do what I can to please and benefit my friends, especially those who have been kind to me. I will be quite frank with you. There is nothing you could ask me which I would not do for your daughter’s sake—if I were convinced that it was for her good.”

  Mrs. Seymour Fentolin seemed to be trembling a little. Her hands were crossed upon her bosom.

  “You have known her for so short a time,” she murmured.

  Hamel smiled confidently.

  “I will not weary you,” he said, “with the usual trite remarks. I will simply tell you that the time has been long enough. I love your daughter.”

  Mrs. Fentolin sat quite still. Only in her eyes, fixed steadily seawards, there was the light of something new, as though some new thought was stirring in her brain. Her lips moved, although the sound which came was almost inaudible.

  “Why not?” she murmured, as though arguing with some unseen critic of her thoughts. “Why not?”

  “I am not a rich man,” Hamel went on, “but I am fairly well off. I could afford to be married at once, and I should like—”

  She turned suddenly upon him and gripped his wrist.

  “Listen,” she interrupted, “you are a traveller, are you not? You have been to distant countries, where white people go seldom; inaccessible countries, where even the arm of the law seldom reaches. Couldn’t you take her away there, take her right away, travel so fast that nothing could catch you, and hide—hide for a little time?”

  Hamel stared at his companion, for a moment, blankly. Her attitude was so unexpected, her questioning so fierce.

  “My dear Mrs. Fentolin,” he began—.

  She suddenly relaxed her grip of his arm. Something of the old hopelessness was settling down upon her face. Her hands fell into her lap.

  “No,” she interrupted, “I forgot! I mustn’t talk like that. She, too, is part of the sacrifice.”

  “Part of the sacrifice,” Hamel repeated, frowning. “Is she, indeed! I don’t know what sacrifice you mean, but Esther is the girl whom sooner or later, somehow or other, I am going to make my wife, and when she is my wife, I shall see to it that she isn’t afraid of Miles Fentolin or of any other man breathing.”

  A gleam of hopefulness shone through the stony misery of the woman’s face.

  “Does Esther care?” she asked softly.

  “How can I tell? I can only hope so. If she doesn’t yet, she shall some day. I suppose,” he added, with a sigh, “it is rather too soon yet to expect that she should. If it is necessary, I can wait.”

  Mrs. Fentolin’s eyes were once more fixed upon the Tower. The sun had caught the top of the telephone wire and played around it till it seemed like a long, thin shaft of silver.

  “If you go down there,” she said, “Esther will not be allowed to see you at all. Mr. Fentolin has decided to take it as a personal affront. You will be ostracised from here.”

  “Shall I?” he answered. “Well, it won’t be for long, at any rate. And as to not seeing Esther, you must remember that I come from outside this little domain, and I see nothing more in Mr. Fentolin than a bad-tempered, mischievous, tyrannical old invalid, who is fortu
nately prevented by his infirmities from doing as much mischief as he might. I am not afraid of your brother-in-law, or of the bully he takes about with him, and I am going to see your daughter somehow or other, and I am going to marry her before very long.”

  She thrust out her hand suddenly and grasped his. The fingers were very thin, almost bony, and covered with rings. Their grip was feverish and he felt them tremble.

  “You are a brave man, Mr. Hamel,” she declared speaking in a low, quick undertone. “Perhaps you are right. The shadow isn’t over your head. You haven’t lived in the terror of it. You may find a way. God grant it!”

  She wrung his fingers and rose to her feet. Her voice suddenly changed into another key. Hamel knew instinctively that she wished him to understand that their conversation was over.

  “Chow-Chow,” she cried, “come along, dear, we must have our walk. Come along, Koto; come along, little dogs.”

  Hamel strolled down the terrace steps and wandered for a time in the gardens behind the house. Here, in the shelter of the great building, he found himself suddenly in an atmosphere of springtime. There were beds of crocuses and hyacinths, fragrant clumps of violets, borders of snowdrops, masses of primroses and early anemones. He slowly climbed one or two steep paths until he reached a sort of plateau, level with the top of the house. The flowers here grew more sparsely, the track of the salt wind lay like a withering band across the flower-beds. The garden below was like a little oasis of colour and perfume. Arrived at the bordering red brick wall, he turned around and looked along the narrow road which led to the sea. There was no sign of Mr. Fentolin’s return. Then to his left he saw a gate open and heard the clamour of dogs. Esther appeared, walking swiftly towards the little stretch of road which led to the village. He hurried after her.

  “Unsociable person!” he exclaimed, as he caught her up. “Didn’t you know that I was longing for a walk?”

  “How should I read your thoughts?” she answered. “Besides, a few minutes ago I saw you on the terrace, talking to mother. I am only going as far as the village.”