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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Marvellous,” Mermillon acknowledged with a congratulatory smile. “You have earned your money at any rate, Chicotin. It is for us to take advantage of your success.”

  “You will be almost as clever as I have been if you do,” the Russian replied gloomily. “Shall I tell you what that gunboat is here for?”

  “We understand,” Mermillon confided, “that she is here to take soundings. She already has a boat at work.”

  “Quelle blague!” Chicotin exclaimed scornfully. “I am a man with curiosity and I make inquiries. I know that soundings in this bay are worth nothing to the French navy. I take a walk. I see and I observe. On one side of that boat there are guns-small guns, but loaded. On the other there is a range of powerful searchlights. They have a new double reflector on an apparatus ready to set to work at a moment’s notice. How am I to cross the bay, get the two minutes which is all I need on board the Bird of Paradise, whilst by day there are four look-out men to observe me, and at night one of the most powerful searchlights in the world? Taking soundings, indeed! What folly! They have heard that Chicotin is at work. Believe me, those guns and those searchlights are there for that reason!”

  “Getting you on board and away again must be our responsibility,” Mermillon assured him. “You have completed your share of the bargain. We accept your word that the instrument is all that you say. The amount promised—fifty thousand francs—will creep into your banking account at the Credit Lyonnais in Marseilles in the same way as payments have been made before.”

  “C’est quelque chose,” Chicotin admitted.

  “It is a great deal, my friend,” Mermillon insisted. “It frees you from all anxiety. Not a single soul—neither the messenger nor the manager of the bank—knows how that money comes there. But it arrives. You will be in a position to begin spending it in four days’ time. If, having finished your work, you feel the need of a little relaxation before then, here is something that may help.”

  He flicked a small packet of mille notes across the table. Chicotin snatched them up with talon-like fingers.

  “It is a gracious gesture this which I accept,” he declared.

  “In the meantime,” his employer continued, “I understand that you have left the absolute completion of your work of art until immediately before its use is required.”

  “You are perfectly correct,” Chicotin assented. “There is no clumsiness in my work. The instrument as it is at present—it looks too beautiful for destruction—is perfectly harmless. You could smash it to pieces with a hammer and nothing would happen, but one hour’s work, the contents of a small phial in a certain cell and you have the most complete weapon of destruction which the fingers of an artist have ever completed.”

  The little man was bursting with vanity. He wiped the perspiration from his damp, unwholesome forehead. Without asking permission, he rolled some shreds of villainous-looking tobacco into a soiled paper and commenced to smoke furiously.

  “Very well, then,” Mermillon decided. “Leave everything as it is, Chicotin. Remain patient while we consider what is to be done. Accept our congratulations, my brave man, upon an excellent piece of work.”

  Chicotin shook hands with his two patrons and swaggered out. Mermillon watched him until he disappeared with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Then he turned to his companion.

  “And now, my dear Baron,” he suggested, “search in the recesses of that marvellous brain of yours. What can now be effected.”

  “I propose,” the Baron said, “to pay a visit to my dear friend, the Marquise de Montelimar. What may come of it we will discuss later in the day.”

  “It is probably an inspired idea,” Mermillon assented graciously. “If you do not return for lunch, my friend, I shall understand.”

  The Baron retired to his suite with the object of making some change in his toilet. An hour later his car turned into the spacious grounds of the château de la Garoupe.

  CHAPTER IX

  Table of Contents

  The Baron de Brett was ushered at once on to the fine broad terrace of the château, where he was received in friendly and flattering fashion. It seemed in every way to be a fortuitous visit. The Marquise was enchanted to meet again her old admirer, and the young people, who had just trooped in from bathing, were duly impressed by the presence in their midst of one of the prominent figures in world finance. The Marquis, a tall and dignified personage, who had at one time been a senator, greeted his visitor with especial cordiality.

  “I could scarcely believe it when I heard that you were in these parts,” he said. “If I had not known that you were in the company of a very distinguished man who prefers always to spend his vacation in solitude I should have ventured to pay my respects.”

  “You would have been very welcome,” the Baron assured his friend. “Edouard Mermillon is, however, I must admit, a queer fellow. We have separate suites, of course, and I see very little of him. He is fonder of solitude than any man I ever knew.”

  “Not so his camarade, mon ami,” the Marquise intervened. “I heard of your running an enormous bank at Monte Carlo last night surrounded by half the beautiful women in Europe.”

  “An exaggeration,” the Baron declared. “Exaggeration, I can assure you. The eyes of all the ladies whom I chanced to notice were fixed upon the cards. They were searching for eights and nines rather than for compliments.”

  “Nevertheless,” the Marquise sighed, “Monte Carlo must have been quite like the old days. I hear you had good fortune, too. How thrilling! Of course, they don’t permit women to run a bank, and I should never have the courage anyway, but I think that it must be fascinating.”

  “I was a humble loiterer in the background,” a young man of the party remarked. “I saw the Baron pay out on one hand nearly seven hundred thousand francs.”

  “Ah, well, baccarat and the sunshine don’t go together,” the Baron observed, accepting a cocktail and lighting a cigarette. “Pray do not imagine for one moment that I am imposing upon your hospitality by calling before luncheon. The fact is that I live almost at the end of the wire. I have just finished to-day’s business, but I am never certain that I may not be called away. Edouard has one of his clerks in the bureau with him, and is busy with despatches. I thought it opportune to come and greet my friends.”

  “Your place is already laid,” the Marquise pointed out, “At this time of the year we keep open house. We shall be broken-hearted if you fail us.”

  There was a little chorus of confirmation. Lucienne herself come over to his side and patted his hand.

  “Baron,” she begged, “do not disappoint us all. I have so many friends in Paris and Brussels whose news I desire.”

  The Baron beamed on everyone.

  “Never was a more willing surrender,” he declared. “It is a great joy to be amongst so many young people, all so thoroughly happy. Such a season for sport, too! Aquaplaning is, alas, an enterprise for the young, but the fast motor boat driving I enjoy, and I can still swim enough to find pleasure in it. By-the-by, what’s the meaning of a gunboat in this peaceful district? It gives one quite a sinister feeling to see those unmasked guns.”

  “The presence of a gunboat is easily explained,” the Marquis confided. “The Fidélité has been told off from Toulon to take soundings here, technical business, I suppose, but necessary. I called on the commander this morning—a pleasant fellow and a good officer, I should think. He lunches here to-morrow.”

  “Well, I’m glad that there’s such a reasonable explanation for its presence,” the Baron observed, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “Our friend Edouard is a trifle nervous these days, and I think he was inclined to wonder whether any hints had been received at headquarters as to the necessity for keeping him guarded.”

  “I should think that was highly improbable,” the Marquis pronounced. “I am glad to notice signs of a wave of sanity both in the Press and in public speeches which have been made lately. Besides, how could Edouard Mermillon have excited ill-fee
ling amongst any class of people? He is one of the few men towards whom France looks for her salvation.”

  “I am entirely in accord with you,” the Baron agreed. “I think the man who raised a hand against Mermillon would be torn to pieces if the mob could get at him. By the by, who is the young man who owns the very attractive small yacht lying nearest to you?”

  “Better ask Lucienne,” was her father’s unenthusiastic reply. “She appears to know more about him than any of us.”

  “Absurd,” the girl laughed, peering down through the trees to where the Bird of Paradise was lying in the distance. “His name is Hamer Wildburn, and he is a young American journalist, who is very agreeable, but a trifle cranky as most of his race are.”

  “He arrived during my absence in Paris,” the Marquis observed, “and I have not yet had the opportunity of meeting him.”

  “He behaves well and carries himself as a man of breeding,” the Marquise said indulgently. “I was pleased with his manners when he lunched here. He appears to prefer solitude on the boat, though, or to swim with Lucienne, to any attractions we can offer him.”

  “That sounds incomprehensible, indeed,” the Baron declared.

  “His boat is very attractive,” Lucienne remarked, “and he came down here to study and lead a very simple life.”

  “The Bird of Paradise is a Jewel,” de Brett agreed. “Edouard took a great fancy to it and tried to buy it from him. He offered him, I think, a great deal more than it was worth, but the young man refused to part before the end of the season. To a person of such consequence as Edouard Mermillon his refusal seemed just a trifle ungracious.”

  “I don’t see why he should part with his boat to anyone if he wishes to keep her,” Lucienne objected. “He is, I think, well off. He has settled down thoroughly to enjoy his summer after his own fashion. You millionaires,” she concluded, patting the Baron once more on the hand, “must be taught that you can’t buy everything in the world.”

  “Alas,” de Brett sighed, “It is our hard fate to realise that every day. Money helps us nowhere nowadays. It is why I remain a bachelor.”

  There was an undercurrent of mirth. They most of them knew, none better than the Marquise, the stories of the Baron’s various escapades. Lucienne indulged in a little grimace.

  “I adore money,” she confided. “You might not find me, for instance, so implacable as that young man.”

  “‘A peasant does not try to drag down a star,’” the Baron quoted. “The discouragement of failure has shattered my later days. I may even find myself in a monastery—”

  “For heaven’s sake let the Baron have anything he likes rather than drive him into a monastery!” the Marquis interrupted. “I have been through two financial crises. I should never have the courage to face a third.”

  Lunch was announced and they all trooped to the farther end of the terrace. De Brett, seated on the Marquise’s right, talked amiably to his hostess of their mutual friends in Paris, the beauty of their present surroundings, and the charm of possessing a great estate literally by the side of the sea.

  “Always,” he remarked, “I admire, my dear friend, your husband’s tenacity of purpose. He has had the courage to cut himself off from the stir of life. The world of politics and finance know him no more. In Paris he remains an outstanding figure in the social life of the old regime. Here he becomes the indolent sun worshipper drinking in renewed life every one of these wonderful days.”

  The Marquise shrugged her shoulders.

  “Henri, for all his great gifts,” she confided, “was always afflicted with a gift of indolence.”

  “He thrives upon it,” her neighbour observed. “I, who seldom find myself with an hour that is not occupied, envy him.”

  “I do not think that you need.” she replied, a little pettishly. “Men need something vital in their lives. Life without risk,” she went on, lowering her voice, “would be a tasteless affair.”

  The Baron smiled cryptically. He, too, had memories.”

  “Again it is a matter of temperament,” he said. “Temperament and the nature of the risk. The time has arrived in my life when the risks are all financial. There is a flavour of dead ashes in their stimulation.”

  She laughed softly, and patted the back of his hand.

  “You say those sort of things hoping for contradiction,” she challenged him. “I shall disappoint you. I shall not contradict, but I do not believe you. Where was she found at last, that wonderful Argentine dancer, who disappeared from the Ambassadeurs without giving notice to her director? Ah, well,” she went on, “do not be alarmed. Fragments of that sort of gossip which come my way sometimes I keep to myself. At any rate your method of living must have its good points. With your pink and white complexion and ingenuous manner I should say that things just now were going well with you.”

  “One has fewer anxieties,” he admitted.

  “For the sake of the country I am glad to hear you say that. These terrible crises, then, have really passed? Since Henri adjured politics we are so completely removed from the world that nowadays I hear nothing.”

  “Politics and finance are not so closely allied as they used to be,” he explained. “Perhaps that is so much to the good. Still, with Edouard Mermillon remaining my greatest friend, of course I hear things. On the surface France is a saved country.”

  “Saved from what?” she asked curiously.

  “Communism, anarchy, a cataclysmic upheaval worse than anything that ever happened in Russia,” he told her. “Believe me, France was nearer to it than the looker-on would ever believe. One hopes now, though, that the storm has died away. So long as no other great scandal arrives I think that the spirit of the people will remain quiet.”

  Luncheon came to its appointed end. There was a general move into more comfortable chairs. The Baron found an empty one next to his hostess. They were a little removed from the others, and a sudden movement to watch a passing liner clearly visible at the end of the long avenue left them almost alone.

  “Lily,” he whispered, and it was strange how low his voice could become upon occasion, “I am a suppliant for your help.”

  “You intrigue me.”

  “Lucienne and that young American are great friends, are they not?”

  The gesture of the Marquise was eloquent. “Young people take so much liberty nowadays,” she complained, “one does not know how to control them. It is true what you say, however. Lucienne and the young man are on very friendly terms.”

  “I want his yacht.”

  “Quelle idée! For yourself?”

  “No, for Edouard Mermillon. He wants it for a birthday present to his nephew.”

  She leaned even further back in her chair. She was looking over the tops of the pine trees at the sky.

  “You must not count on me,” she told him. “I have no more interests outside my daily life. Besides, I have very little influence over Lucienne, and I am inclined to like the young man.”

  “Then, you would be doing him the best turn in the world,” de Brett assured her, “If you persuaded him that a wish of Edouard Mermillon’s was better granted.”

  She shook her head.

  “The young man is not the sort that is easily frightened,” she said. “No arguments of that kind would have the slightest weight with him. You know the Anglo-Saxon temperament as well as I do. They are not to be reasoned with. He would simply become more obstinate.”

  “Consult with Lucienne,” he begged. “She might be able to suggest something.”

  “Why should I?” she protested. “I have told you the truth. I have gratified all the taste I ever had for intrigue. I want to be left alone. Besides, you can’t ask favours in that manner without any explanation. You should take me into your confidence. What possible reason can Edouard Mermillon have for wanting that boat and no other?”

  De Brett watched his fellow guests strolling back to their places, and his tone became more urgent.

  “The secret is too compromi
sing a one to inflict upon you.”

  “Mysterious but unsatisfying. Frankly, Albert, I am not very much interested in your request, and as for Lucienne—to tell you the truth I believe there is only one thing she desires in life.”

  “What is that?” he demanded. “To marry Hamer Wildburn.”

  “I should think one of the most beautiful young women in France—her mother’s daughter, too, for charm us well as looks,” he added with a little bow, “should find that easy enough, provided her parents made no obstacle.”

  “Are you suggesting that we should do so?” she asked. “Threats, instead of promises now. My dear Albert, be sensible. We are old friends, it is true, and any ordinary favour I should probably grant you, but when you ask me to interfere with my daughter’s happiness, to threaten to withhold our consent to her marriage with this young man if she does not humour you in this way—why, the thing becomes ridiculous. I certainly decline to interfere.”

  “Please don’t take that attitude,” he begged.

  “It is for the good of himself and everyone else that that young man parts with his boat to Edouard Mermillon. He loses nothing. There are a dozen others like it, and with the money Mermillon offers him he could buy one double the size. If he refuses to sell, I will be quite frank with you, he will be threatened with a certain amount of risk—not from Mermillon himself, naturally, but from entirely outside agencies.”

  The Marquise was annoyed.

  “It is a stupid business this,” she declared angrily. “I myself have been on the boat. I have been in the cabin and the little saloon. I have even been in the galley. There is no one concealed there. There is no place for any form of concealment. Not all the innuendoes in the world could make a mystery ship of the Bird of Paradise. You would do much better to persuade Edouard Mermillon to abandon his whim. No more, if you please. The subject wearies me.”