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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “You must forgive my prejudices, Mr. Fenn,” she said—“my foreign bringing up, perhaps—but I hate being touched.”

  “Oh, come!” he remonstrated. “No need to be so stand-offish.”

  He tried to hold her hand, an attempt which she skilfully frustrated.

  “Really,” she insisted earnestly, “this sort of thing does not amuse me. I avoid it even amongst my own friends.”

  “Am I not a friend?” he demanded.

  “So far as regards our work, you certainly are,” she admitted. “Outside it, I do not think that we could ever have much to say to one another.”

  “Why not?” he objected, a little sharply. “We’re as close together in our work and aims as any two people could be. Perhaps,” he went on, after a moment’s hesitation and a careful glance around, “I ought to take you into my confidence as regards my personal position.”

  “I am not inviting anything of the sort,” she observed, with faint but wasted sarcasm.

  “You know me, of course,” he went on, “only as the late manager of a firm of timber merchants and the present elected representative of the allied Timber and Shipbuilding Trades Unions. What you do not know”—a queer note of triumph stealing into his tone “is that I am a wealthy man.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “I imagined,” she remarked, “that all Labour leaders were like the Apostles—took no thought for such things.”

  “One must always keep one’s eye on the main chance; Miss Abbeway,” he protested, “or how would things be when one came to think of marriage, for instance?”

  “Where did your money come from?” she asked bluntly.

  Her question was framed simply to direct him from a repulsive subject. His embarrassment, however, afforded her food for future thought.

  “I have saved money all my life,” he confided eagerly. “An uncle left me a little. Lately I have speculated—successfully. I don’t want to dwell on this. I only wanted you to understand that if I chose I could cut a very different figure—that my wife wouldn’t have to live in a suburb.”

  “I really do not see,” was the cold response, “how this concerns me in the least.”

  “You, call yourself a Socialist, don’t you, Miss Abbeway?” he demanded. “You’re not allowing the fact that you’re an aristocrat and that I am a self-made man to weigh with you?”

  “The accident of birth counts for nothing,” she replied, “you must know that those are my principles—but it sometimes happens that birth and environment give one tastes which it is impossible to ignore. Please do not let us pursue this conversation any further, Mr. Fenn. We have had a very pleasant dinner, for which I thank you—and here we are at Mr. Orden’s flat.”

  Her companion handed her out a little sulkily, and they ascended in the lift to the fifth floor. The door was opened to them by Julian’s servant. He recognised Catherine and greeted her respectfully. Fenn produced his authority, which the man accepted without comment.

  “No news of your master yet?” Catherine asked him.

  “None at all, madam,” was the somewhat depressed admission. “I am afraid that something must have happened to him. He was not the kind of gentleman to go away like this and leave no word behind him.”

  “Still,” she advised cheerfully, “I shouldn’t despair. More wonderful things have happened than that your master should return home to-morrow or the next day with a perfectly simple explanation of his absence.”

  “I should be very glad to see him, madam,” the man replied, as he backed towards the door. “If I can be of any assistance, perhaps you will ring.”

  The valet departed, closing the door behind him. Catherine looked around the room into which they had been ushered, with a little frown. It was essentially a man’s sitting room, but it was well and tastefully furnished, and she was astonished at the immense number of books, pamphlets and Reviews which crowded the walls and every available space. The Derby desk still stood open, there was a typewriter on a special stand, and a pile of manuscript paper.

  “What on earth,” she murmured, “could Mr. Orden have wanted with a typewriter! I thought journalism was generally done in the offices of a newspaper—the sort of journalism that he used to undertake.”

  “Nice little crib, isn’t it?” Fenn remarked, glancing around. “Cosy little place, I call it.”

  Something in the man’s expression as he advanced towards her brought all the iciness back to her tone and manner.

  “It is a pleasant apartment,” she said, “but I am not at all sure that I like being here, and I certainly dislike our errand. It does not seem credible that, if the police have already searched, we should find the packet here.”

  “The police don’t know what to look for,” he reminded her. “We do.”

  There was apparently very little delicacy about Mr. Fenn. He drew a chair to the desk and began to look through a pile of papers, making running comments as he did so.

  “Hm! Our friend seems to have been quite a collector of old books. I expect second-hand booksellers found him rather a mark. Some fellow here thanking him for a loan. And here’s a tailor’s bill. By Jove, Miss Abbeway, just listen to this! `One dress suit-fourteen guineas!’ That’s the way these fellows who don’t know any better chuck their money about,” he added, swinging around in his chair towards her. “The clothes I have on cost me exactly four pounds fifteen cash, and I guarantee his were no better.”

  Catherine frowned impatiently.

  “We did not come here, did we, Mr. Fenn, to discuss Mr. Orden’s tailor’s bill? I can see no object at all in going through his correspondence in this way. What you have to search for is a packet wrapped up in thin yellow oilskin, with `Number 17’ on the outside in black ink.”

  “Oh, he might have slipped it in anywhere,” Fenn pointed out. “Besides, there’s always a chance that one of his letters may give us a clue as to where he has hidden the document. Come and sit down by the side of me, won’t you, Miss Abbeway? Do!”

  “I would rather stand, thank you,” she replied. “You seem to find your present occupation to your taste. I should loathe it!”

  “Never think of my own feelings,” Fenn said briskly, “when there’s a job to be done. I wish you’d be a bit more friendly, though, Miss Abbeway. Let me pull that chair up by the side of mine. I like to have you near. You know, I’ve been a bachelor for a good many years,” he went on impressively, “but a little homey place like this always makes me think of things. I’ve nothing against marriage if only a man can be lucky enough to get the right sort of girl, and although advanced thinkers like you and me and some of the others are looking at things differently, nowadays, I wouldn’t mind much which way it was,” he confided, dropping his voice a little and laying his hand upon her arm, “if you could make up your mind—”

  She snatched her arm away, and this time even he could not mistake the anger which blazed in her eyes.

  “Mr. Fenn,” she exclaimed, “why is it so difficult to make you understand? I detest such liberties as you are permitting yourself. And for the rest, my affections are already engaged.”

  “Sounds a bit old-fashioned, that,” he remarked, scowling a little. “Of course, I don’t expect—”

  “Never mind what you expect,” she interrupted, “Please go on with this search, if you are going to make one at all. The vulgarity of the whole thing annoys me, and I do not for a moment suppose that the packet is here.”

  “It wasn’t on Orden,” he reminded her sullenly.

  “Then he must have sent it somewhere for safe keeping,” she replied. “I had already given him cause to do so.”

  “If he has, then amongst his correspondence there may be some indication as to where he sent it,” Fenn pointed out, with unabated ill-temper. “If you don’t like the job, and you won’t be friendly, you’d better take the easy-chair and wait till I’m through.”

  She sat down, watching him with angry eyes, uncomfortable, unhappy, humiliated. She seemed
to have dropped in a few hours from the realms of rarefied and splendid thought to a world of petty deeds. Not one of her companion’s actions was lost upon her. She watched him study with ill-concealed reverence a ducal invitation, saw him read through without hesitation a letter which she felt sure was from Julian’s mother. And then:

  The change in the man was so startling, his muttered exclamation—so natural that its profanity never even grated. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his head, his lips were drawn back from his teeth. Blank, unutterable surprise held him, dumb and spellbound, as he stared at a half-sheet of type written notepaper. She herself, amazed at his transformed appearance, found words for the moment impossible. Then a queer change came into his expression. His eyebrows drew closer together, his lips turned malevolently. He pushed the paper underneath a pile of others and turned his head towards her. Their eyes met. There was something like fear in his.

  “What is it that you have found?” she cried breathlessly.

  “Nothing,” he answered, “nothing of any importance.”

  She rose slowly to her feet and came towards him.

  “I am your partner in this hateful enterprise,” she reminded him. “Show me that paper which you have just concealed.”

  He laid his hand on the lid of the desk, but she caught it and held it open.

  “I insist upon seeing it,” she said firmly.

  He turned and faced her. There was a most unpleasant light in his eyes.

  “And I say that you shall not,” he declared.

  There was a brief, intense silence. Each seemed to be measuring the other’s strength. Of the two, Catherine was the more composed. Fenn’s face was still white and strained. His lips were twitching, his manner nervous and jerky. He made a desperate effort to reestablish ordinary relations.

  “Look here, Miss Abbeway,” he said, “we don’t need to quarrel about this. That paper I came across has a special interest for me personally. I want to think about it before I say anything to a soul in the world.”

  “You can consult with me,” she persisted. “Our aims are the same. We are here for the same purpose.”

  “Not altogether,” he objected. “I brought you here as my assistant.”

  “Did you?”

  “Well, have the truth, then!” he exclaimed. “I brought you here to be alone with you, because I hoped that I might find you a little kinder.”

  “I am afraid you have been disappointed, haven’t you?” she asked sweetly.

  “I have,” he answered, with unpleasant meaning in his tone, “but we are not out of here yet.”

  “You cannot frighten me,” she assured him. “Of course, you are a man—of a sort—and I am a woman, but I do not fancy that you would find, if it came to force, that you would have much of an advantage. However, we are wandering from the point. I claim an equal right with you to see anything which you may discover in Mr. Orden’s papers. I might, indeed, if I chose, claim a prior right.”

  “Indeed?” he answered, with an ugly scowl on his face. “Mr. Julian Orden is by way of being a particular friend, eh?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Catherine told him, “we are engaged to be married. It isn’t a serious engagement. It was entered into by him in a most chivalrous manner, to save me from the consequences of a very clumsy attempt on my part to get back that packet. But there it is. Every one down at his home believes at the present moment that we are engaged and that I have come up to London to see our Ambassador.”

  “If you are engaged,” Fenn sneered, “why hasn’t he told you more of his secrets?”

  “Secrets!” she repeated, a little scornfully. “I shouldn’t think he has any. I should imagine his daily life could be investigated without the least fear.”

  “You’d imagine wrong, then.”

  “But how interesting! You excite my curiosity. And must you continue to hold my wrist?”

  “Let me pull down the top of this desk, then.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “I intend to examine those papers.”

  With a quick movement he gained a momentary advantage and shut the desk down. The key, however, disturbed by the jerk, fell on to the carpet, and Catherine possessed herself of it. She sprang lightly back from him and pressed the bell.

  “D——n you, what are you going to do now?” he demanded.

  “You will see,” she replied. “Don’t come any nearer, or you may find that I can be unpleasant.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and waited. She turned towards the servant who presently appeared.

  “Robert,” she said, “will you telephone for me?”

  “Certainly, madam,” the man answered.

  “Telephone to 1884 Westminster. Say that you are speaking for Miss Abbeway, and ask Mr. Furley, Mr. Cross, or whoever is there, to come at once to this address.”

  “Look here, there’s no sense in that,” Fenn interrupted.

  “Will you do as I ask, please, Robert?” she persisted.

  The man bowed and left the room. Fenn strode sulkily back to the desk.

  “Very well, then,” he conceded, “I give in. Give me the key, and I’ll show you the letter.”

  “You intend to keep your word?”

  “I do,” he assured her.

  She held out the key. He took it, opened the desk, searched amongst the little pile of papers, drew out the half-sheet of notepaper, and handed it to her.

  “There you are,” he said, “although if you are really engaged to marry Mr. Julian Orden,” he added, with disagreeable emphasis, “I am surprised that he should have kept such a secret from you.”

  She ignored him and started to read the letter, glancing first at the address at the top. It was from the British Review, and was dated a few days back:

  My dear Orden,

  I think it best to let you know, in case you haven’t seen it yourself, that there is a reward of 100 pounds offered by some busybody for the name of the author of the `Paul Fiske’ articles. Your anonymity has been splendidly preserved up till now, but I feel compelled to warn you that a disclosure is imminent. Take my advice and accept it with a good grace. You have established yourself so irrevocably now that the value of your work will not be lessened by the discovery of the fact that you yourself do not belong to the class of whom you have written so brilliantly.

  I hope to see you in a few days.

  Sincerely,

  M. HALKIN.

  Even after she had concluded the letter, she still stared at it. She read again the one conclusive sentence—“Your anonymity has been splendidly preserved up till now.” Then she suddenly broke into a laugh which was almost hysterical.

  “So this is his hack journalism!” she exclaimed. “Julian Orden—Paul Fiske!”

  “I don’t wonder you’re surprised,” Fenn observed. “Fourteen guineas for a dress suit, and he thinks he understands the working man!”

  She turned her head slowly and looked at him. There was a strange, repressed fire in her eyes. “You are a very foolish person,” she said. “Your parents, I suppose, were small shopkeepers, or something of the sort, and you were brought up at a board-school and Julian Orden at Eton and Oxford, and yet he understands, and you do not. You see, heart counts, and sympathy, and the flair for understanding. I doubt whether these things are really found where you come from.”

  He caught up his hat. His face was very white. His tone shook with anger.

  “This is our own fault,” he exclaimed angrily, “for having ever permitted an aristocrat to hold any place in our counsels! Before we move a step further, we’ll purge them of such helpers as you and such false friends as Julian Orden.”

  “You very foolish person,” she repeated. “Stop, though. Why all this mystery? Why did you try to keep that letter from me?”

  “I conceived it to be for the benefit of our cause,” he said didactically, “that the anonymity—of `Paul Fiske’ should be preserved.”

  “Rubbish!” she scoffed. �
�You were afraid of him. Why, what fools we are! We will tell him the whole truth. We will tell him of our great scheme. We will tell him what we have been working for, these many months. The Bishop shall tell him, and you and I, and Miles Furley, and Cross. He shall hear all about it. He is with us! He must be with us! You shall put him on the Council. Why, there is your great difficulty solved,” she went on, in growing excitement. “There is not a working man in the country who would not rally under `Paul Fiske’s’ banner. There you have your leader. It is he who shall deliver your ultimatum.”

  “I’m damned if it is!” Fenn declared, suddenly throwing his hat down and coming towards her furiously. “I’m—”

  The door opened. Robert stood there.

  “The message, madam,” he began—and then stopped short. She crossed the room towards him.

  “Robert,” she said, “I think I have found the way to bring your master back to you. Will you take me downstairs, please, and fetch me a taxi?”

  “Certainly, madam!”

  She looked back from the threshold.

  “I shall telephone to Westminster in a few minutes, Mr. Fenn,” she said. “I hope I shall be in time to stop the others from coming. Perhaps you had better wait here, in case they have already started.”

  He made no reply. To Catherine the world had become so wonderful that his existence scarcely counted.

  CHAPTER XII

  Table of Contents

  Catherine, notwithstanding her own excitement, found genuine pleasure in the bewildered enthusiasm with which the Bishop received her astounding news. She found him alone in the great, gloomy house which he usually inhabited when in London, at work in a dreary library to which she was admitted after a few minutes’ delay. Naturally, he received her tidings at first almost with incredulity. A heartfelt joy, however, followed upon conviction.

  “I always liked Julian,” he declared. “I always believed that he had capacity. Dear me, though,” he went on, with a whimsical little smile, “what a blow for the Earl!”

  Catherine laughed.