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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “You are in a strangely disturbing frame of mind, Catherine Oronoff,” he reflected. “Still, I must remember your very apt simile. Your feet are on the earth in France. You read every newspaper that is published day by day, you know what the world is saying. Sometimes it may be that I pay too little attention to that. I have talked with statesmen in England and in France within the last few days. They do not talk like men who are awaiting their doom.”

  She smiled.

  “France thinks of nothing but Germany,” she pointed out. “She is obsessed, her very system is rotten, with craven fear at the thought of Germany. If another nation were knocking at her gates she would take no notice. All the time her eyes would be fixed across the Rhine. England—well, you know my opinion of England and English politics. England is even now a great home nation—a fireside nation, I call them. Across the world they have no men with vision who can see far enough and deeply enough to know what is happening. I am still bold, Prince. I have never been in your secret chamber, I have never looked upon the great map which hangs upon the wall, I do not know how near you are to the carrying-out of your great scheme. But I do know this. If you delay it any longer you are toying with fate, you are beckoning to failure.”

  A telephone bell rang. She picked up the receiver and listened for several moments.

  “The messenger whom we sent out,” she reported, “has driven to the racecourse and back. There are few people walking this morning and he has seen nothing of Jonson.”

  “Tell him to start from the Jetée Casino and do the whole course again,” Cheng directed. “If Jonson said that he would not leave the Promenade des Anglais I do not believe that he did leave it, willingly. Let Jean go with him. François can walk back if they find our man. Tell François to watch those few queer-looking houses on the right before the racecourse—dens of iniquity, every one of them.”

  Catherine gave the orders.

  “I know the houses you mean,” she said, as she rang off. “Dens of iniquity they may be, but I do not think Jonson is the man to be tempted by them.”

  “Glad to hear you have a good word to say for the fellow,” he remarked.

  “I wish we had more like him. He looks simple and he is not. He looks ordinary and I do not think he is. He pretends to be timid and I do not think he knows what fear is. It may be that he will serve you well and honestly to the end. If he does, it is because your end and his are the same.”

  “Ring through to Chamber Fourteen,” Mark directed. “Say that I am on my way up. See that the seal is off the door and the guard prepared.”

  Catherine unlocked the cabinet that contained the most private telephone of all. She spoke into it for a moment or two, replaced the transmitter and locked the cabinet. They all three seemed uneasily conscious that great things were happening.

  With a master key in his hand Mark opened the fifth door, which led into the great observatory. He closed it carefully behind him. A sallow-complexioned young man, dressed in dark clothes and swift in his movements, hurried down the room. He bowed low to the visitors and remained awaiting orders.

  “There is fresh news?” Mr. Cheng enquired.

  “A thirty-seven-mile move in Manchuria, my lord,” was the quiet reply. “Southwards, too, there is progress. Our night messages have been interfered with by thunderstorms in Persia. There may be more to come.”

  “And Fan Sik Tsun?” Cheng asked.

  “His Honour, the General, was wakened from his sleep at the news of your coming,” the man reported. “He will be here directly.”

  Mark and Catherine stood side by side at the head of the huge room. She drew a little breath of amazement as she looked around her. The walls were covered with a glittering and confusing array of bells and signal boards, and in the distance two huge receivers were turned seawards. A score of men were seated before small iron tables, on every one of which stood strangely shaped machines and instruments. A tired-looking youth wearing thick glasses removed an apparatus from his head and came across from his place to where the visitors were standing.

  “General Percheron left word that he would like to speak to you if you came up, sir,” he announced.

  “Tell the General that we are in the chart room,” Mark replied. “Can you leave your instrument for a few minutes?”

  “I have just disconnected it, Mr. Humberstone. I have to fetch a fresh platinum sheet from the stores. I will send the General along.”

  The operator hurried away. Mark, laying his fingers upon Catherine’s arm, drew aside a heavy curtain and led her into a sort of annex to the main apartment. The whole of one wall was taken up by a gigantic map about which there were dotted a number of black, green and red pegs. The map itself was guarded by metal railings, in front of which was a small swinging gate. Outside the railings, but close to them, was a long wooden seat with a high back, rather resembling a choir stall in a cathedral. In the middle of it Mr. Cheng was seated very erect and with folded arms. By his side, with a long ivory cane in his hand, was a man of medium height, solidly built and with complexion almost copper coloured, as though from lifelong exposure to sun and icy winds. He wore a black silk dressing gown tightly drawn around him. His grey hair was shaven close to his head. He bowed as Mark and his companion approached.

  “Any report, Fan Sik Tsun?” the former asked.

  “There is further news,” the Chinese General announced. “It concerns the movement northwards of Ling Ho.”

  “Ling Ho,” Mr. Cheng repeated. “What progress have they made with him, I wonder?”

  “Two years ago his forces were nothing but brigands,” Fan Sik Tsun confided. “To-day they have fallen into excellent discipline, chiefly, I fear I must admit, under American direction. Ling Ho himself has taken the oath.”

  “Put him in his place,” Cheng directed.

  Fan Sik Tsun opened the little iron gate, peered at the chart for a moment and then thrust in a green peg with firm fingers side by side with a red one.

  “His men are across the river,” he continued. “They have built their own rafts and have been of some assistance.”

  Fan Sik Tsun returned to his master’s side and eyed the chart with his hands clasped together.

  “All this in eight months,” he meditated. “Progress seems slow when one watches it from afar but my lord must realise it is a great advance that has been made. From Manchuria the news may come at any time. Nearly half our pegs are practically in touch with the railway.”

  “Very soon then,” Cheng said softly, “the skies will flame.”

  “Very soon,” Fan Sik Tsun echoed.

  A tall thin man of soldierly presence, although in déshabillé, stepped through the curtains and made his way towards Mark. They exchanged brief but friendly greetings. Mark introduced him to Catherine.

  “This is General Percheron from Washington,” he said. “Catherine Oronoff is one of our staff.”

  “Hope you will excuse my costume, Miss Oronoff,” the General apologised. “We live a sort of isolated life up here and we are not looking for visitors.”

  “Everything O.K., General?” Mark enquired.

  “There has been some slight trouble,” the other confided. “Levissier, the head of the Police Intelligence Department in Paris, paid us a visit last evening.”

  “He was not admitted here?”

  “Certainly not. I interviewed him below. He insisted upon seeing our licences.”

  “You showed them to him, of course?”

  “It was necessary. When he saw the signature of the Minister of the Interior he seemed thunderstruck.” Mark flicked the ash from his cigarette.

  “We paid ten millions for those licences.”

  “I reminded him of the fact. He surely was in a state of distress. He pointed out that neither of the news services can get their material through distinctly and the cable service from the East is continually being disturbed. They have become convinced that the interference is caused by some new element which we have put into acti
on. One of the deputies is to ask a question in the Chamber next week. He came down purposely to warn and to consult with you.”

  “He wastes his time,” Mark declared. “Our licences cannot be revoked. We are using the most powerful instruments in the world because their patents and all the secret methods connected with their use belong to us. It is absolutely necessary that we dominate the news eastward for a short time longer. Afterwards it will be of no account.”

  General Percheron nodded gravely.

  “I understand the position, Mark,” he said, “but I can understand this fellow’s point of view, too. The whole thing is a question of time. Of course I do not know much about the political side of it but I should say, looking at the chart, that I ought to have been in the air on the way to join up with Mayne forty-eight hours ago. Of course, there is this Odessa business.”

  Mark shook his head.

  “That does not exist any longer. We have a complete chart of the mine fields in the Dardanelles and the last lot of mines will never be laid. One of our best flying men started an hour ago for Alexandria with the chart. Those Greek steamers can be beating it up at any moment.”

  “That’s fine,” the General declared. “Of course I know,” he went on, “you and Mr. Cheng have got the political side of the whole affair at your fingers’ ends. I won’t even presume to offer any advice, but we have got to the end of our bluff. The storm is about due at any moment now.”

  “We wait only for one thing,” Mark replied, “but that one thing is important. In a sense it is the base of the whole campaign. It might come, though, at any moment.”

  The General pointed towards the chart.

  “Mayne is looking for me over there,” he confided wistfully.

  Mark reflected for a moment. He waved his hand in acquiescence to Catherine who was signalling her departure to him.

  “You can order your plane for midnight, General,” he decided.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Table of Contents

  Catherine, who had preceded the two men by several minutes, looked up eagerly from behind her desk as Mark, followed by Cheng, entered the room.

  “I am afraid that something has happened to Jonson,” she announced.

  “Proceed,” Mr. Cheng begged.

  “You know we sent out two of the men from the squad to find him.”

  “Well?”

  “At the far end of the Promenade des Anglais, which was almost deserted, they came across Jonson with two strange men. He was sitting between them on a bench and they were all three talking earnestly. François is a very intelligent person. Will you hear the story from him?”

  “By all means,” Cheng consented.

  François, who was waiting outside, answered Catherine’s summons without delay. He was rather an undersized young man, typically French, with wild curly black hair and a scarf around his throat instead of a collar and tie.

  “Tell me about the man you went out to search for,” Cheng ordered.

  The young man broke into ready speech.

  “We were driving slowly. The light was not very good and we were approaching the racecourse. Just opposite one of those three dancing cabarets on the right there is a seat. Upon that seat we noticed three men. The one in the middle was Jonson.”

  “Do you know who the other two were?”

  “They were strangers, monsieur. Jean would have pulled up but it seemed to me that there was something the matter with Jonson. He was sitting uneasily and though he turned his head he made no movement to attract our attention. We passed quite slowly. He recognised us, without a doubt, but he turned away. We decided, therefore, not to stop. We went on as far as the racecourse gates.”

  “Any other reason for not stopping?”

  “Yes, sir,” François continued. “I was perfectly certain something was wrong. I stood up as the car passed and I saw over the top of the seat the man on the left had a gun pushed into Jonson’s side.”

  Mark frowned.

  “You left him there?”

  “We went on to the racecourse entrance. Jean remained in the car. I climbed over the gate and came down on the other side of the hedge. I was able to get within thirty or forty paces of Jonson and the two men. They were standing up when I got there but I could not hear what they were saying. They crossed the road. They each had an arm through Jonson’s and one of the men still had the gun up his sleeve. They entered that little hotel which advertises a cabaret and dancing and has all those rows of shaded lamps. One knows the place. It has a bad reputation.”

  “Well, what did you do—leave him there?” Mark repeated.

  “But no, monsieur,” François remonstrated. “It is not our business to leave a comrade in trouble. I waved my hand to Jean. We drove the car down the road and we entered the place together. Everyone was talking at the same time and it was very noisy. It was full of people and much wine was being drunk. Two little ladies of the town—très chic, très jolie—were seated on stools at the bar and there was another who was singing a little chanson and dancing by herself. The two men were trying to persuade Jonson to go round to the back with them. Jonson was making a great fuss with one of the girls, though, and swore he would not go until he had had a drink. They looked at us with suspicion but we both made the pretence that Jonson was a stranger to us and we shouted for drinks. I heard Jonson call out, and although he did not look our way I felt that he meant us to hear. He said something like this:

  “‘I will come. We will spend the evening together, but I have a fancy for the little one here. She must drink a glass of wine with me first, and then I will come. When we have talked I shall return to her. She pleases me!’”

  “And the girl?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, she took it all right. She was hanging around Jonson all the time just as though she were waiting for a message. She knew what she was up to, that girl. Soon I saw what his game was. His hand was in his coat pocket and was moving about all the time. When it came out there was a five hundred franc note in it but there was something in the five hundred franc note which was all twisted up. One of the two men whispered something but Jonson pretended to be angry.

  “‘Why should I not offer a cadeau?‘ he demanded. ‘Mademoiselle will give me her lips presently and if she is as sweet as she looks I shall give her another note. Life is dull enough here. You must be more cheerful if I am to spend the evening with you. I would have you remember that I am an artist. At nine o’clock I appear at the Jetée!’

  “They all laughed at him but the barman backed him up.

  “‘He is telling the truth,’ he declared. ‘He is Professor Ventura. He stops the earth.’

  “Everyone in the room laughed again except the two men, who looked sullen and restless. The barman leaned across his counter.

  “‘You try and pass his line on the stage to-night,’ he warned them. ‘You will have the pins and needles in your legs. There was a man the other night—they say that he will be lame for life?’

  “One of the two men took Jonson by the arm.

  “‘Come on,’ he insisted. ‘We cannot wait here for you all the time. We wish for that little conversation. Mount with us now, if you please.’

  “‘I shall give the young lady the note first, whatever you say,’ Jonson said doggedly.

  “They only laughed at that. He slipped it into her hand. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. They dragged Jonson off then towards the stairs, but Jean and I were one each side of the young woman in half a minute. She spread out the five hundred franc note. There was a piece of paper inside with something scrawled on it. In smoothing out the note for her I got hold of it. She saw me but I showed her that it was only a piece of soiled paper. We all had a drink, then Jean and I got out. I read what Johnson had scrawled by the light of the car. I thought I had better bring it to you. Here it is.”

  Cheng took the scrap of paper into his hands. Considering the manner in which it had been written the pencilled words were fairly legible.


  “The Trio. Warn C.”

  “My London friends!” Cheng exclaimed.

  “And after that we came back to report.”

  Mr. Cheng waved his hand in dismissal. François understood and left the room.

  “Looks as though the little man were for it if we don’t get busy,” Mark observed.

  Mr. Cheng was lolling in the depths of an easy chair. His forehead was wrinkled.

  “I am, in western phraseology,” he confessed, “upon the horns of a dilemma.”

  “The question being?”

  “Shall I leave Jonson with these men, trusting to him to restrain their blood-thirsty impulses, or shall I plan a really bold coup?”

  “I shouldn’t leave Jonson with them,” Mark advised. “They will probably have no more faith in him. They may even look upon him as a traitor and treat him accordingly.”

  “Assassination has no horrors for me,” Mr. Cheng continued thoughtfully, “because I know that it will never succeed, but Jonson without a doubt prevented an attempt upon my life in London. As you say, they are not likely to trust him to resume his place. Put me through on the private wire to the Chef de la Sûreté‘s Bureau and request that I speak immediately with Monsieur Déchanel.”

  The affair was a matter of moments only. Cheng recognised the voice of his friend.

  “Déchanel,” he enquired, “tell me, if you please, the reputation of the very pleasant-looking little hotel-café-restaurant where there is dancing and pretty ladies and a cabaret at times. The place I speak of is on the Promenade des Anglais just before you arrive at the racecourse.”

  “The reputation of the place is as bad as it can be,” Déchanel replied. “Three murders have taken place in the hotel itself and in the grounds within the last eight months. The present proprietor is a Russian and the place is under surveillance.”

  “Listen, my friend,” Cheng begged. “Pay us a little visit, I pray you.”