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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Mon cœur s’ouvre á ta voix!”

  Domiloff groaned as he leaned towards Joan.

  “Samson once more betrayed,” he whispered cynically. “I am afraid that the Hesperides will blow its siren in vain. Sagastrada is booked for the Enchanted Galley!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Table of Contents

  IN the furore which followed Céline’s wonderful triumph, and the state of exuberant emotion for which it was responsible, there were many slight incidents which passed unnoticed. At the very moment when the great singer slipped out from behind the stage, was met by Sagastrada and took her place by his side at the table, Monsieur Mollinet, making one of his unusual appearances in the restaurant, paused by Ardrossen’s table and handed him a note.

  “This was brought by special messenger, sir,” he confided, “accompanied by an urgent request that it be delivered at once into your hand.”

  Ardrossen showed few signs of interest but his fingers closed upon the grey envelope which was conveyed at once to the breast pocket of his dinner jacket.

  “A great night here,” he remarked politely. “You are much to be congratulated, Monsieur, upon the brilliancy of your season.”

  The hotel manager, with a graceful little murmur of thanks, withdrew. Ardrossen sipped his wine for a moment or two in thoughtful silence, then he drew out the note from his pocket, slit open the envelope with a table knife and glanced at its brief contents. A moment or two later a hundred small pieces of scented notepaper dripped through his fingers into the bowl by his side. He glanced at his watch and summoned a passing waiter.

  “I will sign my bill,” he announced. “At once, if you please.”

  Ardrossen spoke, as usual, very quietly, but there was something in his tone and the little gesture with which it was accompanied which sent the waiter flying to the distant cashier’s desk. In a very short time he was back again. Ardrossen took the slip of paper, signed it, placed a very generous pourboire upon the table and rose to his feet.

  “Monsieur returns, perhaps?” the man asked.

  “Not this evening.”

  Ardrossen, choosing his moment, threaded his way, an unnoticeable figure, amongst the swaying crowd indulging at that moment in the abandon of a fashionable rumba. He passed without a glance in that direction the brilliant company of guests at Sagastrada’s table, the host himself talking with a sort of inspired fluency to the woman by his side, many of the others watching what seemed to be a new development in the tragedy which overhung the young man. None of these things appeared to mean anything at all to the passer-by. He looked neither to the right nor to the left until he reached the broad stairs leading from the restaurant. These he mounted, and he pursued his way along the corridors to his own small suite of apartments. Here in his bedchamber everything was prepared for his retirement. His bed was turned down, his pyjamas neatly arranged. The chimes of the clock which rang out as he stood looking around the room told him that it was one o’clock. Mr. Ardrossen, however, made no preparations for repose. He took a dark, thin overcoat and a soft black felt hat from his wardrobe and one other object,—small, hard, sinister,—which he subjected to a minute’s critical observation before he dropped it into his pocket. Then he sallied out once more, leaving the Nouvel Hôtel this time by its semi-private entrance. He walked quietly through the gardens out into the side street, crossed the road, and without remark stepped into a small saloon motor car which was waiting there. He glanced casually around him, then turned on the lights, pressed the starting button, glided down the hill and up into the old town. He drew up under the trees where he had halted his little carriage the last time he had visited the place, stopped the engine, switched out the lights, and stepped down from the car, closing the door noiselessly. Then he crossed the road, skirted the side of the Place, and stopped in front of the great door of the gloomy house on the far side. The handle yielded to his touch. He stepped inside, shot the latch into its place, and touched the switch in the wall. The darkened hall was suddenly flooded with light. He caught a glimpse of the descending figure, before, on the second touch of his finger, it was plunged once more into gloom. He listened to her flying footsteps descending the stairs, crossing the hall. A moment later he was submitting unresponsively to her voluptuous embrace.

  “You have succeeded, Hortense?” he asked, as at last he drew away.

  “But indeed yes!” she cried breathlessly. “Come—come,” she added, throwing open the door of the salon and drawing him towards the large divan which occupied one corner of the apartment. “Sit by my side—so. Now listen.”

  He yielded with restraint to her turbulent advances, seating himself, indeed, by her side, but with a firm grip upon her arm—which was not at all the kind of embrace she seemed to covet.

  “Listen, I will make you astonished! Pierre has permitted me to read parts of the charter. They are to be copied and issued as a proclamation almost at once.”

  “Who is to do the copy?” he asked.

  “I am,” she replied.

  “Then, who has the charter now?”

  Her face, radiant with happiness, answered him. He stretched out his hand. She placed a roll of parchment between his fingers.

  “Read it—read it all,” she invited. “Afterwards I can give you a copy of what is to go into the proclamation.”

  Already he was holding the sheets closely between his fingers. He asked her, however, one more question.

  “Where is Pierre?”

  “Gone to see the Baron. He dared not take the charter with him. He said that the Principality was full of spies. He takes with him in his brain, though, all that it contains.”

  “Why has he gone to see Domiloff?”

  “There is trouble afoot,” she answered. “A foreign country is demanding from France the extradition of some man who is hiding in Monte Carlo and who has sought Domiloff’s protection. If Domiloff does not give him up there will be murder done.”

  Ardrossen asked no more questions. He edged away towards the lamp and, gripping the papers closer than ever, he read voraciously, greedily. His eyes darted from line to line. When he had finished he drew a long breath. It was the first sign of emotion he had displayed.

  “You are content?” she asked.

  “I am content,” he told her.

  His fingers sought for his pocketbook. He drew it out—a bulky affair, the stitches strained. Packet by packet he passed its contents over to her.

  “One hundred thousand francs,” he said. “They are yours, Hortense. You have earned them—and this.”

  He gave her what she craved all the time: a caress, grudgingly inhuman in its stern rigidity. Her tears damped his cheeks as her lips demanded their offering. There came a time when he pushed her gently away. He rose to his feet.

  “There is no need for you to go yet,” she cried.

  “There is every need,” he answered. “You must set to work and copy the charter. Work all night. You can bring the copy to Nice to-morrow at the usual place and the usual time.”

  They were in the hall now. He freed himself from her, stood listening for a moment, and opened the huge door. Almost as cautiously and noiselessly as he had opened it, he closed it again. He caught a glimpse of her white, enquiring face through the darkness. She was leaning towards the electric light switch.

  “Don’t touch that!” he snapped out. “There are footsteps outside.”

  “At this hour?” she gasped. “Impossible!”

  “Someone is approaching,” he said.

  “It is Guido, the night watchman,” she declared. “It could be no one else.”

  They were still in almost complete darkness save for a glimmer of lamplight from the salon. He could just trace the outline of her figure as she stood shivering barely a couple of yards away, and catch little waves of that exotic perfume which seemed to creep out from her clothes every time she moved. He could see the gleam of her brown eyes shining out of a dead pale face, absolutely colourless save for the scarle
t lips. The footsteps were more audible now—curious, indefinable footsteps which might have belonged to a woman or a man, which might have meant a stranger approaching cautiously or a casual passer-by of slovenly walk. She was shaking with terror.

  “It is not Guido,” she faltered.

  “Whoever it may be, if he enters here,” Mr. Ardrossen said calmly, “he must take his chance.”

  She moved towards the key—a large, old-fashioned affair curiously at variance with the modern aperture for a latchkey just above. He stopped her at once.

  “If anyone wishes to enter,” he enjoined, “let him come.”

  The footsteps were outside now. They paused. Ardrossen pushed his companion slowly back towards the wall. That small, deadly-looking weapon was in evidence beneath his cuff.

  “If it should be Pierre,” she implored, “you must not kill him! In his own house they would call it murder.”

  “It is not Pierre,” he whispered back. “Tell me this—is there anyone else who knows that the charter might be here?”

  “One man,” she faltered. “He was to have come to-night. Pierre stopped him. He is one of the Nice party with whom Pierre would have no more to do. It is finished, that, but the man is obstinate. He belongs to the time when Pierre was struggling to free the Principality—”

  “I think I can guess,” Ardrossen muttered.

  Her eyes clung to his. What was there that he did not know, this man? She had been afraid of him since the first day of their meeting. She had been afraid of him ever since that moment. It was not the unseen person outside in the night whom she dreaded. It was the man for whom she had conceived this intolerable passion, the still cold figure by her side. . . .

  Silence. The clock a few yards away went on beating out the seconds. Still silence outside. Someone must be standing there motionless—waiting. For what? The woman was crouching back against the wall, half-stupefied with fright, her terrified eyes fixed all the time upon her companion. Suddenly she saw him bend forward towards the door—watching. She followed the direction of his gaze. Very slowly she saw the large handle being turned from the outside. Nothing but Ardrossen’s left hand suddenly pressed to her lips stopped the cry that would have escaped her. The handle was turned as far as it would go, the door shaken slightly. Then, just as slowly and carefully, it went back to its former place. The would-be intruder seemed to have realized that the door was locked. More silence. Then the slow movement of footsteps passing up towards the promontory. The woman drew a little sobbing breath.

  “It may have been Guido,” she whispered. “He is going.”

  Ardrossen, who was listening intently, shook his head.

  “He is waiting,” he said. “Stay where you are.”

  She would have stopped him but her limbs were numbed. Slowly he turned the key. He looked all round behind to be sure that there was no light which would be visible from the street. Then, inch by inch, he opened the great door and leaned forward over the threshold. About twenty yards away the figure of a man looming huge amongst the shadows was dimly visible. A moment later there was a level flash of fire, a whizz and a crash as a bullet embedded itself in the doorpost a foot or so from Ardrossen. Ardrossen’s right hand was thrust out. There was another softer but wicked hissing report followed quickly by a cry from the half-seen, skulking figure. A moment later there was the sound of a fall.

  “Lock yourself in the house until I knock,” Ardrossen ordered.

  The woman was too near fainting to disobey. Ardrossen walked cautiously up towards the writhing figure on the sidewalk. Arrived within a few feet of him he stumbled against an old-fashioned revolver. He picked it up, held it by the barrel and dropped it into his pocket. Then he flashed his torch into the face of the prostrate man. So he remained for several moments—motionless, voiceless. Then, for almost the first time in his life, he permitted himself a half-stifled interjection.

  “For Christ’s sake—the madman!”

  Ardrossen glanced back over his shoulder. The great front door through which he had issued remained closed. There was no light to be seen from any of the windows. He stripped off his coat quickly and flung it over the still form lying at his feet. Then he retraced his steps to the house. He thrust a key into the latch and pushed open the door. The woman was there cowering at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Hortense,” he said, and his voice was perfectly calm and unimpassioned. “It was one of those clumsy spies who are always at my heels. I shall remove him. You need have no fear.”

  “You are sure,” she demanded, moving towards him, “that it is not Guido? It is not either of those others?”

  “It is the man from Nice,” he told her. “He is better out of the way. I know exactly what to do with him. I beg of you to go back to your room, to remember that you know nothing—you have heard nothing. Is that clear?”

  “It is clear.”

  “You have confidence in me?”

  “You have all my confidence—you have all my love,” she cried.

  “You are a wise woman,” he said. “Remember that and trust me.”

  He was gone. Her fingers, seeking to detain him, clutched at the empty air. It was a long time before she moved. Then slowly she obeyed his bidding and made her way to her room. With trembling fingers she drew aside the blind and looked down into the road. The place where the man had been was vacant. There was no one within sight. A few late lights from the villas on the Corniche were dimly visible. The lights from the harbour were all burning. The Condamine was still faintly astir. Nearer at hand there was only the dribble of the rain and the slowly fluttering leaves of the elm trees. She closed the window, then crept into bed.

  Up at that famous bend in the Middle Corniche which had been called with reason “Suicide Corner” Ardrossen brought his car to a standstill. He looked behind. He looked in front. The road was empty. Very slowly, inch by inch, with unswerving hands, he steered to within a foot or so of the precipice. Then, like a cat, he crept from the driving seat, opened the door of the coupé and dragged out something long and dark which was lying there huddled up. He was a strong man but he set his teeth hard, for the task was no easy one and he himself was on the extreme edge of the precipice. Nevertheless, he made no slip, no fault. In less than a minute the body of the dead man was on its way crashing through the undergrowth, gaining momentum with every movement till it reached the long strip of hard rock, slippery with age, down which it sped to obscurity. Ardrossen watched with changeless expression. Satisfied at last, he withdrew from his pocket the revolver he had picked up in the road and jerked it downwards. A moment later he was back in the car. Slowly he crawled into the middle of the road, then he swung round and headed back to Monaco.

  CHAPTER XX

  Table of Contents

  TO his departing guests, as the night wore on, Sagastrada had but one thing to say.

  “The party has only just begun. We are moving upstairs. Everything is arranged. Please do not fail me.”

  A queer unanalyzable curiosity kept even the hardened gamblers from doing more than glancing at the rooms. By three o’clock nearly the whole of the dinner party were reassembling in the Night Club. Lord Henry, who seemed none the gayer for all the champagne he had drunk, had manœuvred himself into a place next to Joan.

  “The thought of eating or drinking is abhorrent to me,” he declared. “Come and dance.”

  “Well, I am rather like you, so far as food is concerned,” she admitted; “but do you think we ought to? There is something terribly elaborate coming round in the shape of caviar, and some vodka which I am afraid is going to be very bad for all you men.”

  “Why not you, too?” he demanded.

  “I never drink it. If you think we can dance without offending our host—”

  “Our host is engrossed. Thank God,” Lord Henry added, “he is only a passing comet. Why is it that all you women find him so terribly attractive, I wonder?”

  “Do we?”

  “Well, I ask you? Y
ou know, of course, what the Baron wants him to do?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Why in heaven’s name he doesn’t do it I can’t imagine. He will be a marked man in Europe for years to come and if his own country gets hold of him, as I should think highly probable, he will be either stood up against a wall or spend the rest of his days in a fortress. To my mind he seems to be behaving like a peevish child. All the fault of you women, too.”

  “All of us?” Joan asked quietly.

  “Well, there is the Princess. She is a gay little lady always, of course, but she keeps herself well within bounds. To-night she’s got that tragic expression on and she’s been making googly eyes at the young man most of the evening. If Léon were not on the spot and such a sensible chap, heaven knows what trouble she might not get into. And look at Céline. I always thought Céline was full of common sense for a French woman. She seems to have lost her head completely. They’re cuddled up there together like two love birds eating out of the same plate. Then there’s you. I have always thought of you as a really sensible girl and I cannot believe that you would do a fool thing like that—go off on a tourist boat simply because flight has got to be made attractive to a refugee.”

  “What about the Baroness?” Joan asked. “She doesn’t say much but it is just the sort of gesture I should think she might be more capable of than I.”

  He shook his head.

  “You don’t know Lydia as well as I do,” he said. “She is an exceedingly proud woman. She would never lose her head in the manner that some of you others have done.”

  Joan laughed at him quietly.

  “Jealous, I believe!” she exclaimed. “It cannot be of me. I am sure it is not of the Baroness. It must be of Céline.”

  “Disgusting greed I call this,” Lord Henry remarked, abruptly changing the subject as he helped himself to caviar. “Never could refuse it, though, out of these little barrels, and I am not like you—I love vodka. As you were saying—it is probably Céline. I should be just the sort of figure of romance, shouldn’t I, to appeal to a woman like that? Forty-two years old, inclined towards embonpoint, I eat too much, drink too much, and I know no more about music than the man in the moon. She would not stir a foot to save my life if I were in trouble—nor would any of you. It’s a selfish world.”