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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “You have no idea where he is at the present moment, then?” Catherine asked.

  “Not the slightest,” Bright assured her. “I only know that he left the place without hat, gloves, or walking stick. Otherwise, he was fully dressed, and no doubt had plenty of money in his pocket.”

  “Is he likely to have any return of the indisposition from which, owing to your efforts, he has been suffering?” the Bishop enquired.

  “I should say not,” was the curt answer. “He may find his memory somewhat affected temporarily. He ought to be able to find his way home, though. If not, I suppose you’ll hear of him through the police courts or a hospital. Nothing that we have done,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “is likely to affect his health permanently in the slightest degree.”

  “You now know all that there is to be known, Miss Abbeway,” Fenn said. “I agree with you that it is highly desirable that Mr. Orden should be found at once, and if you can suggest any way in which I might be of assistance in discovering his present whereabouts, I shall be only too glad to help. For instance, would you like me to telephone to his rooms?”

  Catherine rose to her feet.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fenn,” she said, “I don’t think that we will trouble you. Mr. Furley is making enquiries both at Mr. Orden’s rooms and at his clubs.”

  “You are perfectly satisfied, so far as I am concerned, I trust?” he persisted, as he opened the door for them.

  “Perfectly satisfied,” Catherine replied, looking him in the face, “that you have told us as much as you choose to for the present.”

  Fenn closed the door behind Catherine and the Bishop and turned back into the room. Bright laughed at him unpleasantly.

  “Love affair not going so strong, eh?”

  Fenn threw himself into his chair, took a cigarette from a paper packet, and lit it.

  “Blast Julian Orden!” he muttered.

  “No objection,” his friend yawned. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Haven’t you heard the news? It seems he’s the fellow who has been writing those articles on Socialism and Labour, signing them `Paul Fiske.’ Idealistic rubbish, but of course the Bishop and his lot are raving about him.”

  “I’ve read some of his stuff,” Bright admitted, himself lighting a cigarette; “good in its way, but old-fashioned. I’m out for something a little more than that.”

  “Stick to the point,” Fenn enjoined morosely. “Now they’ve found out who Julian Orden is, they want him produced. They want to elect him on the Council, make him chairman over all our heads, let him reap the reward of the scheme which our brains have conceived.”

  “They want him, eh? That’s awkward.”

  “Awkward for us,” Fenn muttered.

  “They’d better have him, I suppose,” Bright said, with slow and evil emphasis. “Yes, they’d better have him. We’ll take off our hats, and assure him that it was a mistake.”

  “Too late. I’ve told Miss Abbeway and the Bishop that he is at large. You backed me up.”

  Bright thrust his long, unpleasant, knobby fingers into his pocket, and produced a crumpled cigarette, which he lit from the end of his companion’s.

  “Well,” he demanded, “what do you want?”

  “I have come to the conclusion,” Fenn decided, “that it is not in the interests of our cause that Orden should become associated with it in any way.”

  “We’ve a good deal of power,” Bright ruminated, “but it seems to me you’re inclined to stretch it. I gather that the others want him delivered up. We can’t act against them.”

  “Not if they know,” Fenn answered significantly.

  Bright came over to the mantelpiece, leaned his elbow upon it, and hung his extraordinarily unattractive face down towards his companion’s.

  “Nicholas,” he said, “I don’t blame you for fencing, but I like plain words. You’ve done well out of this new Party. I haven’t. You’ve no hobby except saving your money. I have. My last two experiments, notwithstanding the Government allowance, have left me drained. I need money as you others need bread. I can live without food or drink, but I can’t be without the means to keep my laboratories going. Do you understand me?”

  “I do,” Fenn assented, taking up his hat. “Come, I’ll drive towards Bermondsey with you. We’ll talk on the way.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Table of Contents

  Julian raised himself slightly from his recumbent position at the sound of the opening of the door. He watched Fenn with dull, incurious eyes as the latter crossed the uncarpeted floor of the bare wooden shed, threw off his overcoat, and advanced towards the side of the couch.

  “Sit up a little,” the newcomer directed.

  Julian shook his head.

  “No strength,” he muttered. “If I had, I should wring your damned neck!”

  Fenn looked down at him for a moment in silence.

  “You take this thing very hardly, Mr. Orden,” he said. “I think that you had better give up this obstinacy. Your friends are getting anxious about you. For many reasons it would be better for you to reappear.”

  “There will be a little anxiety on the part of your friends about you,” Julian retorted grimly, “if ever I do get out of this accursed place.”

  “You bear malice, I fear, Mr. Orden.”

  Julian made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the door. He turned away with a shudder. Bright had entered. In his hand he was carrying two gas masks. He came over to the side of the couch, and, looking down at Julian, lifted his hand, and felt his pulse. Then, with an abrupt movement, he handed one of the masks to Fenn.

  “Look out for yourself,” he advised. “I am going to give him an antidote.”

  Bright stepped back and adjusted his own gas mask, while Fenn followed suit. Then the former drew from his pocket what seemed to be a small tube with perforated holes at the top. He leaned over Julian and pressed it. A little cloud of faint mist rushed through the holes; a queer, aromatic perfume, growing stronger every moment, seemed to creep into the farthest corners of the room. In less than ten seconds Julian opened his eyes. In half a minute he was sitting up. His eyes were bright once more, there was colour in his cheeks. Bright spoke to him warningly.

  “Mr. Orden,” he enjoined, “sit where you are. Remember I have the other tube in my left hand.”

  “You infernal scoundrel!” Julian exclaimed.

  “Mr. Bright,” Fenn asserted, “is nothing of the sort. Neither am I. We are both honest men faced with a colossal situation. There is nothing personal in our treatment of you. We have no enmity towards you. You are simply a person who has committed a theft.”

  “What puzzles me,” Julian muttered, “is what you expect I am going to do about you, if ever I do escape from your clutches.”

  “If you do escape,” Fenn said quietly, “you will view the matter differently. You will find, as a matter of fact, that you are powerless to do anything. You will find a new law and a new order prevailing.”

  “German law!” Julian sneered.

  “You misjudge us,” Fenn continued. “Both Bright and I are patriotic Englishmen. We are engaged at the present moment in a desperate effort to save our country. You are the man who stands in the way.”

  “I never thought,” said Julian, “that I should smile in this place, but you are beginning to amuse me. Why not be more explicit? Why not prove what you say? I might become amenable. I suppose your way of saving the country is to hand it over to the Germans, eh?”

  “Our way of saving the country,” Fenn declared, “is to establish peace.”

  Julian laughed scornfully.

  “I know a little about you, Mr. Fenn,” he said. “I know the sort of peace you would establish, the sort of peace any man would propose who conducts a secret correspondence with Germany.”

  Fenn, who had lifted his mask for a moment, slowly rearranged it.

  “Mr. Orden,” he said, “we are not going to waste words upon you. You are hopelessly and intolerabl
y prejudiced. Will you tell us where you have concealed the packet you intercepted?”

  “Aren’t you almost tired of asking me that question? I’m tired of hearing it,” Julian replied. “I will not.”

  “Will you let me try to prove to you,” Fenn begged, “that by the retention of that packet you are doing your country an evil service?”

  “If you talked till doomsday,” Julian assured him, “I should not believe a word you said.”

  “In that case,” Fenn began slowly, with an evil glitter in his eyes!!!!!

  “Well, for heaven’s sake finish the thing this time!” Julian interrupted. “I’m sick of playing the laboratory rabbit for you. If you are out for murder, finish the job and have done with it.”

  Bright was playing with another tube which he had withdrawn from his pocket.

  “It is my duty to warn you, Mr. Orden,” he said, “that the contents of this little tube of gas, which will reach you with a touch of my fingers, may possibly be fatal and will certainly incapacitate you for life.”

  “Why warn me?” Julian scoffed. “You know very well that I haven’t the strength of a cat, or I should wring your neck.”

  “We feel ourselves,” Bright continued unctuously, “justified in using this tube, because its first results will be to throw you into a delirium, in the course of which we trust that you will divulge the hiding place of the stolen packet. We use this means in the interests of the country, and such risk as there may be lies on your own head.”

  “You’re a canting hypocrite!” Julian declared. “Try your delirium. That packet happens to be in the one place where neither you nor one of your tribe could get at it.”

  “It is a serious moment, this, Mr. Orden,” Fenn reminded him. “You are in the prime of life, and there is a scandal connected with your present position which your permanent disappearance would certainly not dissipate. Remember—”

  He stopped short. A whistle in the corner of the room was blowing. Bright moved towards it, but at that moment there was the sound of flying footsteps on the wooden stairs outside, and the door was flung open. Catherine, breathless with haste, paused for a moment on the threshold, then came forward with a little cry.

  “Julian!” she exclaimed.

  He gazed at her, speechless, but with a sudden light in his eyes. She came across the room and dropped on her knees by his couch. The two men fell back. Fenn slipped back between her and the door. They both removed their masks, but they held them ready.

  “Oh, how dared they!” she went on. “The beasts! Tell me, are you ill?”

  “Weak as a kitten,” he faltered. “They’ve poisoned me with their beastly gases.”

  Catherine rose to her feet. She faced the two men, her eyes flashing with anger.

  “The Council will require an explanation of this, Mr. Fenn!” she declared passionately. “Barely an hour ago you told us that Mr. Orden had escaped from Hampstead.”

  “Julian Orden,” Fenn replied, “has been handed over to our secret service by the unanimous vote of the Council. We have absolute liberty to deal with him as we think fit.”

  “Have you liberty to tell lies as to his whereabouts?” Catherine demanded. “You deliberately told the Council he had escaped, yet, entirely owing to Mr. Furley, I find you down here at Bermondsey with him. What were you going to do with him when I came in?”

  “Persuade him to restore the packet, if we could,” Fenn answered sullenly.

  “Rubbish!” Catherine retorted. “You know very well that he is our friend. You have only to tell him the truth, and your task with him is at an end.”

  “Steady!” Julian muttered. “Don’t imagine that I have any sympathy with your little nest of conspirators.”

  “That is only because you do not understand,” Catherine assured him. “Listen, and you shall hear the whole truth. I will tell you what is inside that packet and whose signatures you will find there.”

  Julian gripped her wrist suddenly. His eyes were filled with a new fear. He was watching the two men, who were whispering together.

  “Catherine,” he exclaimed warningly, “look out! These men mean mischief. That devil Bright invents a new poisonous gas every day. Look at Fenn buckling on his mask. Quick! Get out if you can!”

  Catherine’s hand touched her bosom. Bright sprang towards her, but he was too late. She raised a little gold whistle to her lips, and its pealing summons rang through the room. Fenn dropped his mask and glanced towards Bright. His face was livid.

  “Who’s outside?” he demanded.

  “The Bishop and Mr. Furley. Great though my confidence is in you both, I scarcely ventured to come here alone.”

  The approaching footsteps were plainly audible. Fenn shrugged his shoulders with a desperate attempt at carelessness.

  “I don’t know what is in your mind, Miss Abbeway,” he said. “You can scarcely believe that you, at any rate, were in danger at our hands.”

  “I would not trust you a yard,” she replied fiercely. “In any case, it is better that the others should come. Mr. Orden might not believe me. He will at least believe the Bishop.”

  “Believe whom?” Julian demanded.

  The door was opened. The Bishop and Miles Furley came hastily in. Catherine stepped forward to meet them.

  “I was obliged to whistle,” she explained, a little hysterically. “I do not trust either of these men. That fiend Bright has a poisonous gas with him in a pocket cylinder. I am convinced that they meant to murder Julian.”

  The two newcomers turned towards the couch and exchanged amazed greetings with Julian. Fenn threw his mask on to the table with an uneasy laugh.

  “Miss Abbeway,” he protested, “is inclined to be melodramatic. The gas which Bright has in that cylinder is simply one which would produce a little temporary unconsciousness. We might have used it—we may still use it—but if you others are able to persuade Mr. Orden to restore the packet, our task with him is at an end. We are not his gaolers—or perhaps he would say his torturers—for pleasure. The Council has ordered that we should extort from him the papers you know of and has given us carte blanche as to the means. If you others can persuade him to restore them peaceably, why, do it. We are prepared to wait.”

  Julian was still staring from one to the other of his visitors. His expression of blank astonishment had scarcely decreased.

  “Bishop,” he said at last, “unless you want to see me go insane before your eyes, please explain. It can’t be possible that you have anything in common with this nest of conspirators.”

  The Bishop smiled a little wanly. He laid his hand upon his godson’s shoulder.

  “Believe me, I have been no party to your incarceration, Julian,”, he declared, “but if you will listen to me, I will tell you why I think it would be better for you to restore that packet to Miss Abbeway:”

  “Tell that blackguard to give me another sniff of his restorative gas,” Julian begged. “These shocks are almost too much for me.”

  The Bishop turned interrogatively towards Bright, who once more leaned over Julian with the tube in his hand. Again the little mist, the pungent odour. Julian rose to his feet and sat down again.

  “I am listening,” he said.

  “First of all,” began the Bishop earnestly, as he seated himself at the end of the couch on which Julian had been lying, “let me try to remove some of your misconceptions. Miss Abbeway is in no sense of the word a German spy. She and I, Mr. Furley here, Mr. Fenn and Mr. Bright, all belong to an organisation leagued together for one purpose—we are determined to end the war.”

  “Pacifists!” Julian muttered.

  “An idle word,” the Bishop protested, “because at heart we are all pacifists. There is not one of us who would wilfully choose war instead of peace. The only question is the price we are prepared to pay.”

  “Why not leave that to the Government?”

  “The Government,” the Bishop replied, “are the agents of the people. The people in this case wish to de
al direct.”

  “Again why?” Julian demanded.

  “Because the Government is composed wholly of politicians, politicians who, in far too many speeches, have pledged themselves to too many definite things. Still, the Government will have its chance.”

  “Explain to me,” Julian asked, “why, if you are a patriotic society, you are in secret and illegal communication with Germany?”

  “The Germany with whom we are in communication,” the Bishop assured his questioner, “is the Germany who thinks as we do.”

  “Then you are on a wild-goose chase,” Julian declared, “because the Germans who think as you do are in a hopeless minority.”

  The Bishop’s forefinger was thrust out.

  “I have you, Julian,” he said. “That very belief which you have just expressed is our justification, because it is the common belief throughout the country. I can prove to you that you are mistaken—can prove it, with the help of that very packet which is responsible for your incarceration here.”

  “Explain,” Julian begged.

  “That packet,” the Bishop declared, “contains the peace terms formulated by the Socialist and Labour parties of Germany.”

  “Worth precisely the paper it is written on?” Julian scoffed.

  “And ratified,” the Bishop continued emphatically, “by the three great men of Germany, whose signatures are attached to that document—the Kaiser, the Chancellor and Hindenburg.”

  Julian was electrified.

  “Do you seriously mean,” he asked, “that those signatures are attached to proposals of peace formulated by the Socialist and Labour parties of Germany?”

  “I do indeed,” was the confident reply. “If the terms are not what we have been led to expect, or if the signatures are not there, the whole affair is at an end.”

  “You are telling me wonderful things, sir,” Julian confessed, after a brief pause.

  “I am telling what you will discover yourself to be the truth,” the Bishop insisted. “And, Julian, I am appealing to you not only for the return of that packet, but for your sympathy, your help, your partisanship. You can guess now what has happened. Your anonymity has come to an end. The newly formed Council of Labour, to which we all belong, is eager and anxious to welcome you.”