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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Do you know,” he inquired, “whose house that is?”

  The man flipped his horse’s ears with the whip.

  “I guess so,” he answered. “That is the old Peterson House. Mrs. James B. Peterson lives there now.”

  Mr. Sabin felt in his breast pocket, and extracted therefrom a letter. It was a coincidence undoubtedly, but the fact was indisputable. The address scrawled thereon in Felix’s sprawling hand was:—

  “Mrs. James. B. Peterson,

  “Lenox,

  “By favour of Mr. Sabin.”

  “I will make a call there,” Mr. Sabin said to the man. “Drive me up to the house.”

  The man pulled up his horse.

  “What, do you know her?” he asked.

  Mr. Sabin affected to be deeply interested in a distant point of the landscape. The man muttered something to himself and turned up the drive.

  “You have met her abroad, maybe?” he suggested.

  Mr. Sabin took absolutely no notice of the question. The man’s impertinence was too small a thing to annoy him, but it prevented his asking several questions which he would like to have had answered. The man muttered something about a civil answer to a civil question not being much to expect, and pulled up his horse in front of the great entrance porch.

  Mr. Sabin, calmly ignoring him, descended and stepped through the wide open door into a beautiful square hall in the centre of which was a billiard table. A servant attired in unmistakably English livery, stepped forward to meet him.

  “Is Mrs. Peterson at home?” Mr. Sabin inquired.

  “We expect her in a very few minutes,” the man answered. “She is out riding at present. May I inquire if you are Mr. Sabin, sir?”

  Mr. Sabin admitted the fact with some surprise.

  The man received the intimation with respect.

  “Will you kindly walk this way, your Grace,” he said.

  Mr. Sabin followed him into a large and delightfully furnished library. Then he looked keenly at the servant.

  “You know me,” he remarked.

  “Monsieur Le Duc Souspennier,” the man answered with a bow. “I am an Englishman, but I was in the service of the Marquis de la Merle in Paris for ten years.”

  “Your face,” Mr. Sabin said, “was familiar to me. You look like a man to be trusted. Will you be so good as to remember that the Duc is unfortunately dead, and I am Mr. Sabin.”

  “Most certainly, sir,” the man answered. “Is there anything which I can bring you?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Mr. Sabin answered.

  The man withdrew with a low bow, and Mr. Sabin stood for a few minutes turning over magazines and journals which covered a large round table, and represented the ephemeral literature of nearly every country in Europe.

  “Mrs. Peterson,” he remarked to himself, “must be a woman of Catholic tastes. Here is the Le Petit Journal inside the pages of the English Contemporary Review.”

  He was turning the magazines over with interest, when he chanced to glance through the great south window a few feet away from him. Something he saw barely a hundred yards from the little iron fence which bordered the lawns, attracted his attention. He rubbed his eyes and looked at it again. He was puzzled, and was on the point of ringing the bell when the man who had admitted him entered, bearing a tray with liqueurs and cigarettes. Mr. Sabin beckoned him over to the window.

  “What is that little flag?” he asked.

  “It is connected, I believe, in some way,” the man answered, “with a game of which Mrs. Peterson is very fond. I believe that it indicates the locality of a small hole.”

  “Golf?” Mr. Sabin exclaimed.

  “That is the name of the game, sir,” the man answered. “I had forgotten it for the moment.”

  Mr. Sabin tried the window.

  “I want to get out,” he said.

  The man opened it.

  “If you are going down there, sir,” he said, “I will send James Green to meet you. Mrs. Peterson is so fond of the game that she keeps a Scotchman here to look after the links and instruct her.”

  “This,” Mr. Sabin murmured, “is the most extraordinary thing in the world.”

  “If you would like to see your room, sir, before you go out,” the man suggested, “it is quite ready. If you will give me your keys I will have your clothes laid out.”

  Mr. Sabin turned about in amazement.

  “What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “I have not come here to stay.”

  “I understood so, sir,” the man answered. “Your room has been ready for three weeks.”

  Mr. Sabin was bewildered. Then he remembered the stories which he had heard of American hospitality, and concluded that this must be an instance of it.

  “I had not the slightest intention of stopping here,” he said to the man.

  “Mrs. Peterson expected you to do so, sir, and we have sent your conveyance away. If it is inconvenient for you to remain now, it will be easy to send you anywhere you desire later.”

  “For the immediate present,” Mr. Sabin said, “Mrs. Peterson not having arrived, I want to see that golf course.”

  “If you will permit me, sir,” the man said, “I will show you the way.”

  They followed a winding footpath which brought them suddenly out on the border of a magnificent stretch of park-like country. Mr. Sabin, whose enthusiasms were rare, failed wholly to restrain a little exclamation of admiration. A few yards away was one of the largest and most magnificently kept putting-greens that he had ever seen in his life. By his side was a raised teeing-ground, well and solidly built. Far away down in the valley he could see the flag of the first hole just on the other side of a broad stream.

  “The gentleman’s a golf-player, maybe?” remarked a voice by his side, in familiar dialect. Mr. Sabin turned around to find himself confronted by a long, thin Scotchman, who had strolled out of a little shed close at hand.

  “I am very fond of the game,” Mr. Sabin admitted. “You appear to me to have a magnificent course here.”

  “It’s none so bad,” Mr. James Green admitted. “Maybe the gentleman would like a round.”

  “There is nothing in this wide world,” Mr. Sabin answered truthfully, “that I should like so well. But I have no clubs or any shoes.”

  “Come this way, sir, come this way,” was the prompt reply. “There’s clubs here of all sorts such as none but Jimmy Green can make, ay, and shoes too. Mr. Wilson, will you be sending me two boys down from the house?”

  In less than ten minutes Mr. Sabin was standing upon the first tee, a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth, and a new gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes. He modestly declined the honour, and Mr. Green forthwith drove a ball which he watched approvingly.

  “That’s no such a bad ball,” he remarked.

  Mr. Sabin watched the construction of his tee, and swung his club lightly. “Just a little sliced, wasn’t it?” he said. “That will do, thanks.” He addressed his ball with a confidence which savoured almost of carelessness, swung easily back and drove a clean, hard hit ball full seventy yards further than the professional. The man for a moment was speechless with surprise, and he gave a little gasp.

  “Aye, mon,” he exclaimed. “That was a fine drive. Might you be having a handicap, sir?”

  “I am scratch at three clubs,” Mr. Sabin answered quietly, “and plus four at one.”

  A gleam of delight mingled with respect at his opponent, shone in the Scotchman’s face.

  “Aye, but we will be having a fine game,” he exclaimed. “Though I’m thinking you will down me. But it is grand good playing with a mon again.”

  The match was now at the fifteenth hole. Mr. Sabin, with a long and deadly putt—became four up and three to play. As the ball trickled into the hole the Scotchman drew a long breath.

  “It’s a fine match,” he said, “and I’m properly downed. What’s more, you’re holding the record of the links up to this present. Fifteen holes for sixty-four is verra good—verra good i
ndeed. There’s no man in America to-day to beat it.”

  And then Mr. Sabin, who was on the point of making a genial reply, felt a sudden and very rare emotion stir his heart and blood, for almost in his ears there had sounded a very sweet and familiar voice, perhaps the voice above all others which he had least expected to hear again in this world.

  “You have not then forgotten your golf, Mr. Sabin? What do you think of my little course?”

  He turned slowly round and faced her. She was standing on the rising ground just above the putting-green, the skirt of her riding habit gathered up in her hand, her lithe, supple figure unchanged by time, the old bewitching smile still playing about her lips. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Mr. Sabin, with his cap in his hand, moved slowly to her side, and bowed low over the hand which she extended to him.

  “This is a happiness,” he murmured, “for which I had never dared to hope. Are you, too, an alien?”

  She shook her head.

  “This,” she said, “is the land of my adoption. Perhaps you did not know that I am Mrs. Peterson?”

  “I did not know it,” he answered, gravely, “for I never heard of your marriage.”

  They turned together toward the house. Mr. Sabin was amazed to find that the possibilities of emotion were still so great with him.

  “I married,” she said softly, “an American, six years ago. He was the son of the minister at Vienna. I have lived here mostly ever since.”

  “Do you know who it was that sent me to you?”

  She assented quietly.

  “It was Felix.”

  They drew nearer the house. Mr. Sabin looked around him. “It is very beautiful here,” he said.

  “It is very beautiful indeed,” she said, “but it is very lonely.”

  “Your husband?” he inquired.

  “He has been dead four years.”

  Mr. Sabin felt a ridiculous return of that emotion which had agitated him so much on her first appearance. He only steadied his voice with an effort.

  “We are both aliens,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you have heard that all things have gone ill with me. I am an exile and a failure. I have come here to end my days.”

  She flashed a sudden brilliant smile upon him. How little she had changed.

  “Did you say here?” she murmured softly.

  He looked at her incredulously. Her eyes were bent upon the ground. There was something in her face which made Mr. Sabin forget the great failure of his life, his broken dreams, his everlasting exile. He whispered her name, and his voice trembled with a passion which for once was his master.

  “Lucile,” he cried. “It is true that you—forgive me?”

  And she gave him her hand. “It is true,” she whispered.

  THE END

  THE COLOSSUS OF ARCADIA

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  CHAPTER I

  Table of Contents

  THERE was nothing graceful or sinuous-like in the ponderous wheezing approach of the long train with its enormous engine into Monte Carlo station. It may have been, indeed it was, the famous Blue Train; but it came to its final standstill with a clanking of couplings and a succession of convulsive jerks which threw off their balance most of the passengers, who were standing in the corridors hanging out of the windows eager to attract the notice of porters. Whilst the majority of them were fumbling for their tickets and registered luggage slips, a quiet-looking man of indeterminate age, neatly dressed and showing no signs of the night journey, passed out of the barriers, gave up his ticket, and, followed by a porter carrying two suitcases, stepped into the nearest fiacre.

  “Place one of the bags here beneath my feet,” he told the porter. “Give the other to the driver. Tell him to go to the Hôtel de Paris.”

  The pourboire was adequate, his client’s accent proved him to be no stranger to the country, the sun was shining and there was plenty of time to get another job from the same train. The porter removed his hat with a broad smile and with a sweeping bow he stepped aside. The little carriage, with much cracking of the whip by the cocher, mounted the first steep grade, proceeded at a more moderate speed up the second, and entered the Place, with its gardens a blaze of flowers, and the white front of the Casino in the background dominating the busy scene. Again the pourboire offered by the new arrival was satisfactory; and the cocher, removing his hat, seasoned his word of thanks with a smile which was an obvious welcome to the Principality. The late occupant of his vehicle, followed at a respectful distance by the hotel bagagist, who had taken his suitcases, presented himself at the reception desk.

  “My name,” he announced, producing a card, “is Stephen Ardrossen. I wrote you from the Travellers’ Club in Paris.”

  “Quite so, sir,” the clerk replied, with a third smile which exceeded in graciousness and apparent sincerity any welcome which the newcomer had yet received. “We have reserved for you a small suite upon the third floor. If you will be so kind as to come this way . . .”

  The newcomer hesitated.

  “It occurred to me,” he said, “that since the removal of the Sporting Club, you might perhaps have some difficulty with regard to the rooms in the Nouvel Hôtel.”

  The young man shrugged his shoulders.

  “Later on,” he confided, “every room in the hotel will be taken. At present they are considered a little out of the way.”

  “I am acquainted with the geography of the establishment,” the new arrival said. “I like the quiet, and I imagine they would be less expensive.”

  The clerk, after a whispered consultation with a confrère, took down a couple of keys and led the way around the corner along a passage to the row of apartments on the ground floor opening out on the gardens, in the direction of the Nouvel Hôtel. He threw open a door which led into a small semicircular sitting room. The newcomer glanced casually at the bedroom and bathroom beyond, unfastened the French windows, and stepped out on the gravel walk.

  “The price for this suite,” the clerk told him, “will be a hundred francs less than the one in the hotel.”

  “I shall take it,” Mr. Ardrossen decided. “Will you kindly have my bags sent round?”

  “Immediately, sir.”

  The young man bowed and withdrew. The newly arrived traveller seated himself upon a bench a few feet away from the window and gazed lazily at the sun-bathed view. In the far distance he could see the train which had brought him from Calais winding its way around the bay towards Menton, below him the picturesque little harbour gay with shipping; and, on the other side, the rock of old Monaco, the Palace, the Cathedral, and the State buildings, strange and yet somehow impressive in their architecture. He looked upward to the hills dotted with red-roofed villas and beyond to the less clearly visible line of the snow-capped Alps. Below there were strains of music from the orchestra playing on the Terrace. Promenaders were crowding the streets, and back and forth an ever-flowing stream of cheerful, lighthearted holidaymakers entered or issued from the Casino.<
br />
  It was, without a doubt, a place in which one might find amusement.

  The suitcases were presently brought in by one of the porters. The traveller rose from his place, dispensed a satisfactory recompense, unlocked his bags and rang for the valet. He ordered a bath and handed the man a large sponge-bag and a peignoir. Then he pushed back the lid of the other suitcase, and lifted from it a heavy metal coffer which he placed upon the writing table.

  The valet reappeared. Behind him was the pleasing sound of running water.

  “Your bath is ready, sir,” he announced.

  Ardrossen pointed to the first valise.

  “You will find a suit of flannels there,” he said, “with linen and a change of underclothes. Put them out in the bedroom.”

  The man disappeared with the case. As soon as he had left the room, but without undue haste, Ardrossen took off his coat, turned back the cuff and, rolling up the left sleeve of his shirt, disclosed a small band of gold fashioned like the modern bracelets in vogue amongst a certain type of young Frenchman. Touching apparently a spring from underneath, he drew from the interior a small key of curious design with which he unlocked the coffer. The latter contained several bundles of documents, all neatly secured by rubber bands. There were also two small books bound in Morocco leather, each having a lock after the style of a private ledger. Ardrossen, having checked its contents with great care, closed the coffer, relocked it, replaced the key in the aperture of the bracelet; and, sniffing up the warm steam with an air of content, he made his way into the bathroom.

  The second person to pass the barrier leading from the station platform to the paradise beyond was of a very different type from her predecessor. She was a girl—slim, with a healthy, intelligent face, brown eyes dancing with happiness, soignée in her neat travelling suit, and with the air of one already feverishly anxious to drink in the unusualness of her surroundings. She, too, scorned the bus but handed to the porter a crumpled-up registration ticket.

  “For myself,” she declared, speaking French fluently and with a tolerable accent, “I take a little carriage. I drive to the Hôtel de Paris. You will get my luggage and bring it right along—yes?”