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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Sorry,” Lord Henry grunted. “I am afraid I don’t feel like obliging, just now. I think things look damn’ bad.”

  Lucille changed her place and passed her arm through Domiloff’s. They were a little apart from the others and with her divine shape, her pleading eyes and her perfect face, she seemed a miniature Circe who had found a Rue de la Paix couturière.

  “You are going to keep Rudolph Sagastrada here, are you not?” she asked eagerly. “You will not give him up?”

  “No,” Domiloff replied gravely. “I have given my word and I shall keep it. But I think, my dear Lucille, you might remember, when you indulge in these fantastic dreams of your Fairy Prince, that my keeping my word may mean the destruction of this Principality for which I have toiled unceasingly during the last twelve years. Alternately, it might mean what is far worse, the greatest calamity that could fall upon the world—another European war.”

  He rose to his feet abruptly. Lucille’s melting eyes and pleading voice, the chatter of everyone around, had suddenly become obnoxious. He muttered an apology.

  “You will excuse me,” he begged with a glance at the clock. “A State meeting is imminent.”

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  Table of Contents

  SOMEHOW or other, for two young people so ready with their tongues, conversation during that brief expedition seemed a little difficult. Joan was tongue-tied simply because from the moment her companion had jumped lightly from the car and stood in the middle of the road, unarmed and obviously in danger of his life on the Corniche, she had become a changed woman. Life itself was a different experience. Every fibre in her body was responding to a new and marvellous sensation. From a healthy, intelligent, agreeable and pleasantly disposed young woman with no marked romantic tendencies, she had become a woman in love. There was more pain than joy about it. The old pleasant relationship had gone and there was nothing to take its place. Rudolph himself did nothing to inspire her. His manner was grave and he seemed to have drawn aloof. They drove along the main road to Nice, passed the race course, then turned to the right when they reached the old-fashioned town of Cagnes. They mounted a little way into the hills and Joan felt a real and natural impulse of enthusiasm as they entered St. Paul.

  “This is where we lunch,” he told her. “Out there on the terrace. I hope you will love the place as I do. I hope you will find the trout and the chickens and the omelette and the white wine as excellent as I have always done, because it is the only lunch they offer. And I hope, too,” he added, as the waiter in a picturesque costume with red trousers and a blue shirt came hurrying out to them with two glasses upon a salver, “that you will be able to drink these rather indifferent cocktails, because, to let you into a secret, I hope that you and I may lunch here many times in the future.”

  A rush of feeling swept through her. It seemed to be the first natural word he had spoken. She looked at him with almost fiercely eager eyes.

  “Do you mean it?” she demanded.

  “Indeed I do, my dear,” he assured her, taking her gently by the arm and leading her to a little table sheltered from onlookers by an orange tree which seemed to grow out of the very courtyard. “I mean it, Joan dear.”

  He kissed her for the first time, lingeringly, lovingly, but with just a touch of restraint which seemed to have its own peculiar quality. Then they suddenly seemed to be back again on the terms of a few days ago, eating hungrily, praising the wine, Joan leaning often over the terrace to gaze at the peaceful vineyards and pasture-lands below.

  “It is a wonderful country, this,” she murmured, “and this is a wonderful day.”

  “It is an eventful one,” he agreed. “Will you drink with me, Joan, to our next lunch?”

  She raised her glass.

  “Of course I will,” she answered. “Will it be so far in the future?”

  He had turned round to order more wine. Her question remained unanswered. They drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. Then he glanced at his watch.

  “There are a million things I should like to say to you,” he confided, “but to-day is a day of events. The car is outside. We have one more call to make.”

  He paid his bill and was followed to the gate by the stupefied and joyous waiter, who dreamed that night of a café of his own and a fortune like the fortune of the patron. They threaded their way further into the hills and drew up outside one of those perfectly converted Provençal farmhouses set in the midst of wonderful gardens. She gave a little cry of delight as they drove up to the front door. Jasmine was hanging from the porch and great clumps of climbing roses filled the air with fragrance.

  “But what a marvellous place, Rudolph!” she exclaimed. “Why are we stopping here? Do you know the people?”

  He seemed to have developed the gift of silence. The door was open. A man and woman, very obviously the French butler and Madame his wife, stood on the threshold.

  “I want you to please me, Joan,” he begged, “by just looking over the house quickly. Do not forget the patio the other side and you may look at the Italian garden, but you must not stay to explore it. Carry my watch in your hand,” he added, passing it over to her. “Ten minutes is all I can allow you.”

  “But—but why?”

  “Ten minutes,” he repeated.

  She shook her head at herself as she followed the gesticulating, garrulous people. They passed from room to room. They explored the spacious upstairs chambers. She followed them along the cool passages out into the stone courtyard and caught a glimpse of the Italian garden and the glittering waters of the swimming pool.

  “C’est dommage que Madame est si pressée,” the old lady regretted as they followed her out to the front door. “Les jardins sont magnifiques.”

  Rudolph was standing outside by the car. He pressed something into the hands of the man and woman which still further unlocked their tongues. He shook hands with both of them, jumped into the car, called out a direction to the chauffeur and they were off again on their pilgrimage.

  “But Rudolph,” Joan exclaimed, “why this strange expedition? Why did you make me rush through that little paradise of a house? I never saw anything more beautiful.”

  “You are pleased with it?”

  “I have never seen any place in the world so beautiful. But tell me why—what it means?” she begged falteringly.

  “It means,” he told her, “that at the present moment the Clos Fleuri is mine. But wait!”

  They drove into Cannes, Joan simply sitting with her hand drawn through her companion’s arm, serene and happy. This time he accompanied her into what was obviously the office of a notary. The man seated at his desk rose with profuse greetings and shook hands with both of them. Rudolph drew a deed from his pocket and laid it on the table. The notary produced another.

  “Our friend here,” Rudolph explained to Joan, “understands the reason for my haste. Will you sign your name at the place he points out?”

  “But why?” she asked.

  “I exercise my authority,” he told her with a smile. “Please sign.”

  She obeyed without further argument. The notary, in response to a rapidly spoken request from Rudolph, thrust both documents into an envelope. Further amenities were exchanged. In a moment or two they were out of the place. Again Rudolph called out an address to the chauffeur.

  “A quarter of an hour ago, Joan,” he confided, as they started off again, “the Clos Fleuri—the little house we have just seen together—was mine. It is now yours.”

  “Mine?” she gasped.

  “Certainly. I am in the happy position of being entitled to make you presents and that is my first. It has everything that seems necessary in the way of furnishings—but that will be for later on. I thought that if you were agreeable we might spend our honeymoon there.”

  “But Rudolph,” she exclaimed, “dear Rudolph—you have not even asked me to marry you!”

  He smiled. They had arrived at a straight piece of narrow road bordered with high hedges and he too
k her into his arms and kissed her once more.

  “My dear,” he reminded her, “that first kiss was quite enough, was it not? Now, hold my fingers tightly and listen.”

  “I am listening,” she whispered.

  “Joan dear—I love you. You are the first woman I have ever wanted to marry and we are going to be married, but there is something I must go through first. You must be brave, dear, and think of it as I do. This morning,” he confided, “I received a summons from Julian Townleyes.”

  “Julian Townleyes—back in Monaco?” she cried.

  He nodded.

  “The message simply said to come in haste to the Port. I kept my promise to Domiloff. I summoned my bodyguard and down we went.”

  “This morning?”

  “This morning at eight o’clock. You will hear the whole story from him some day, I expect. He explained to me rapidly what happened the other night, when you were left alone on the boat.”

  “But what has this to do with us?” she asked wonderingly.

  “Let me go on,” he begged. “When he left you to cut some sandwiches he heard a noise below. He made his way to the captain’s quarters, which were in the remotest corner of the ship. The captain was there surrounded by papers, engaged in decoding some messages. Directly he saw Townleyes, who was supposed to be in England, he jumped at his throat like a wildcat. Townleyes was taken by surprise. He received a stab in the arm before he could pull himself together. They then had what he described as a life-and-death struggle. I spare you the details. Just as he was exhausted and nearly unconscious, Denkin—that was the name of the captain—slipped, and Townleyes was able to reach his revolver. He shot Denkin through the heart—stone dead.”

  “What an amazing story!” Joan cried breathlessly. “But tell me—”

  “Wait please. Townleyes glanced at some of the papers as soon as he was a little recovered. He was horrified. The man whose life he had saved, whom he had taken on to the boat, clothed and looked after, was not only a dangerous anarchist but, in common with many other members of the most dangerous club in France, the Cercle Rouge, he was engaged in a dastardly conspiracy.”

  “But—”

  “Joan—forgive me—we have only a few minutes. As it is, I must leave out much that would make it more intelligible to you. Townleyes dragged Denkin into the dinghy, rowed him out to the deepest spot in the harbour and pushed him overboard. Then he rowed back to the yacht. He suddenly remembered you but you had gone. He went through more of Denkin’s papers and letters, sealed everything up, started the engine and took the boat by himself over to Cannes, where for several months he has had a marvellous aeroplane lying hidden. He went straight to London and came back last night. This morning he sent for me.”

  It was dawning upon her even at that moment. She felt a sudden sinking of her heart.

  “They say,” he went on, “that when you love anyone you forget what it is to be selfish. Well, I have been abominably selfish the last few weeks. That is past. It is impossible for me to remain in Monaco. Domiloff, who is one of the finest fellows I ever met, gave me his word that I should be safe and that he would fight to the end to see that I was—but it is not fair that I should take advantage of such a promise. He could only secure my safety by accepting the aid of France, and unfortunately there has been a secret agent—that little man Ardrossen whom we all wondered about so often—here in the place whose mission it was to bring about an immediate war between France and my country. You see, France, whether rightly or wrongly, has made up her mind that war is inevitable and she asks herself why should she wait and let my country choose the moment to strike. She has completed the most wonderful system of fortifications which has ever been planned or constructed and the military commission which has been sitting day and night for three weeks have pronounced them absolutely and entirely invulnerable. Very well. The trouble about my flight into Monaco came just at that time and an official demand was made that I should be handed over. France seized upon this as a casus belli and in order to absolve herself as far as possible and to bring in England, she instructed Domiloff, through her agent Ardrossen, to refuse to give me up, and the new charter granted to Monaco pledged France to come to her military assistance if ever she was threatened by any outside power.”

  “Very well, then,” Joan cried, “it is France’s own decision. She thinks it is best for her that the war should come now, she has sent her agent here to make it a certainty—why not let it come?”

  He took her hands in his.

  “Joan dear, France is being deceived by her own people. She is being betrayed by the Reds, by Denkin and his crowd. Eleven divisions which guard one section of those wonderful fortifications on which they are relying have pledged their word to let the enemy through! Not only is that European war an absolute certainty if Domiloff refuses to give me up but it is going to culminate in the worst series of disasters civilization has ever known. France would be compelled to sue for peace and the country would pass into the hands of anarchists.”

  “You are going back of your own accord?” she gasped.

  For the last few moments they had been driving slowly along the road. In front of them a uniformed man was throwing open some gates. From behind them came the sinister throb of a powerful engine. A huge plane was drawn up inside, half-emerged already from the hangar. The pilot and two mechanics were standing by the side of it waiting. They saluted as the car drove up.

  “You are going back of your own accord?” she repeated with sinking heart.

  “I must,” he acknowledged, “simply because Townleyes’ discovery comes too late to hold up war in any other way. The ultimatum has been given and accepted. Even Ardrossen, who, to give him credit, has been watching those Reds night and day, had no idea of Denkin’s scheme. But listen, Joan, on the day of my freedom, and that day will come, I am returning here. Wait for me, Joan, happily and cheerfully, and remember, as you must, that I have the virtual right to provide for you. You will find that the little man at the top of the hill in that funny building entitled Barclays Bank is now your guardian, and has the power to order the practical side of existence for you until I return. Do not break the bank at the Casino but there will be enough for you to gamble with until I get back!”

  There were no signs of tears in her eyes but there was a glow there which seemed to Rudolph the most marvellous thing he had ever seen, and a passionate music in her voice—music which never passed from his memory.

  “Rudolph,” she cried, “I love you—I am proud of you! I part with you—see—without a tear and I shall long only for one thing—for your return. God bless you, Rudolph.”

  She kissed him happily, tenderly, joyfully. She waved her hand as he ran lightly up the ladder. She even waved a courteous acknowledgement to the pilot’s salute. She stood there—tall, splendid in her new happiness, thrilled with the glamorous realization of the supreme moment of her life, past or future. She stood there until the roar of the plane was faint in her ears and the plane itself a speck in the skies.

  There was nothing in Ardrossen’s attitude, when he seated himself for the last time in that high-backed chair and faced the man whom he had come to visit, to denote the fact that still, cold and emotionless as he seemed, he was suffering from the bitterest humiliation of his life. Domiloff was restless and haggard. He glanced up from the half-sheet of notepaper which lay before him.

  “What does this mean?” Domiloff asked. “Townleyes begs me to give you an immediate interview. He is lying ill upon his yacht, too ill, he says, to leave.”

  Ardrossen raised his head. His voice sounded very much as usual.

  “Owing to a change of conditions of which you were formally apprised,” he said, “I am instructed by those for whom I am working to withdraw my request to you with regard to the young man Sagastrada. No reply will be necessary to the ultimatum which you have received. Sagastrada is on his way back to his country.”

  Domiloff had passed through a great deal during the last few d
ays but there had come a time when he was no longer wholly master of himself.

  “Will you repeat that, please?” he asked.

  “Rudolph Sagastrada is returning to his country of his own accord,” he said. “It has been revealed to him by Townleyes that a war between France and his country at the present moment could only have a disastrous termination. In the strictest confidence, you will receive full particulars of the decision come to by the French military authorities within the next few days. I am only to acquaint you with the fact that you need not reply to the ultimatum and that Rudolph Sagastrada is no longer in the Principality.”

  Ardrossen picked up his hat and turned towards the door. Domiloff would have detained him but his visitor stretched out his hand.

  “Baron Domiloff,” he said, “I am brought face to face with the first great failure I have ever encountered in a life of many adventures and many exploits. I have said enough to make matters clear to you. What I have left unsaid will reach you in the form of a communication from official quarters. I beg that you will not detain me.”

  There was a curious mist before Domiloff’s eyes. A dream, of course, he fancied. If so, it was a dream that passed but when he could see clearly he was alone in the room.

  They drank the health of Rudolph Sagastrada at the window table in the bar that night, after Joan, standing in their midst with something in her face and tone reminiscent of her world-famous predecessor, told them in a few simple words what had happened. There had been a thrilled, almost an awed silence. Everyone was thinking of the same thing. Domiloff lifted his glass. There was an emotion in his tone for which few people would have given him credit.

  “To the greatest gentleman I have ever met!”

  Everyone drank and then Joan summoned them back from the queer hysterical depression into which they had seemed to be drifting.

  “He will come back,” she declared joyfully. “Because I am certain that he will come back I will tell you something, I hope, which will sound more cheerful. He will come back because—” she stretched out her hands. “Well, how does one say it?”