The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  The man who opened to her was Mynheer Leipschitz to the very life; so wonderful, indeed, was the make-up that Clothilde was almost tempted to rub her eyes. No-one, however, knew better than she what a marvellous alteration can be made in the appearance of a person by the use of rubber pads held in the cheeks, plasticine to alter the shape of the nose, and padding to increase the girth of an otherwise good figure.

  “Ah, my dear Clothilde, I am glad to see you,” she was welcomed, and the voice had the slight thick oleaginousness that one associates with the voices of fat men who will never again see fifty. “I have come to meet you, of course, but the long tramp across those infernally heavy fields between here and Selzaete has made me more lame than ever.”

  Clothilde was watching him closely, trying to detect in the Mynheer Leipschitz who stood before her some trace of that Jim Lockton whom she had known long years ago in London and whose face she had seen again for one fleeting instant reflected in a mirror that very night. But neither in features, form, nor voice could she detect one single resemblance to the man she had known—and loved—in the long ago. For one wild moment she almost believed that both Leipschitz and Lockton had been in the cottage together and that Jim had departed by the back door while the other had remained. She had almost believed, that is, until she remembered that the small dwelling was entirely surrounded by soldiers of those troops from the Russian front, the orders for whose operations the British Agent had crossed the frontier to secure.

  “Well,” queried Leipschitz, “why do you look at me so strangely, Clothilde?”

  “Oh,” she murmured brokenly, “why did you come?” and before he could answer her she pushed him into the room and, turning, locked the door. Not satisfied with that she shot home the bolts at top and bottom, and would have closed the shutters also, but dared not remove the flower-pot from the window-ledge.

  “There, there, my dear,” he soothed and placed his hand affectionately upon her shoulder. At his touch she trembled like a frightened filly and, again, a low, distressful moan broke from her lips. “Why, Clothilde,” he continued, “this is not like you. We’re perfectly safe, my dear; of what are you afraid? I’ve brought food with me. Let us eat it while we wait for the storm to blow itself out and then we’ll slip back home to Holland. I’m beginning to think that you’ve just about played your part in this game of ours.”

  “Too well,” she answered bitterly. “I’ve played my part too well.”

  His eyes clouded suddenly, for he remembered that sinister stain upon the floor and wondered if she had betrayed M.29. But the question he put concerned the plans he had been led to believe that she would bring to their rendezvous.

  “The Operation Orders for the divisions from the Russian front are safe,” she answered. “It is you who are in danger. Before we talk of that, however, tell me one thing truly, Paul. Are you the international spy you have tried to make me believe you to be, or do you honestly serve England.”

  “Why, whatever difference does it make?” he smiled.

  “Just all the difference in the world, Paul,” she answered. “For a time I mistook you for a double agent, fancied that you were pretending to serve the Allies, but in reality were working for Germany. The fact that the information you sent to Berlin was accurate, but as a rule useless, first made me suspicious of you. The affair of Marie opened my eyes a good deal wider.”

  “And so——?” questioned Jim Lockton.

  “And so I went to Berlin and told my story to the Chief of the Intelligence Department.”

  Jim Lockton’s glittering eyes looked hard as agate and his hand closed upon the butt of the revolver in his pocket.

  “Then you have been working for Germany all the time,” he asserted.

  “As you have been working for England,” she countered. “But I have this justification, that my mother was a German by birth.”

  Slowly the hand that held the revolver emerged from Jim Lockton’s pocket, but the sight of the weapon, which would make no sound that might be heard above the raging of the storm, did not alarm Clothilde.

  “There’s no need for that, Paul,” she said wearily. “The house is surrounded and there can be no escape, unless——”

  The girl faltered and the man cut in harshly.

  “Unless what? You know the penalty for betrayal in the game we play.”

  “That doesn’t matter either. But I’ve been thinking, remembering things perhaps, and so I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Too late perhaps.” The words were charged with sarcasm, but there was infinite sweetness in the woman’s answering smile.

  “Listen, Paul,” she said, “for I want you to understand my motives. I have hated England because my father was cashiered—unjustly, as I think—and shot himself. The shock killed my mother and, as I was left almost destitute I went to London. I could get no work, for I had no qualifications and so the easy road for a penniless girl lay open. I used to frequent a place in Glasshouse Street, but before the fatal first step was taken a strange thing happened. One night I went to the ‘Folkestone’ with three or four foreigners who had pestered me before and were very set upon making me drunk so that my downfall could be accomplished. It would not have been difficult, anyway, for the last of my small store of money was finished.”

  She paused for a moment, brooding eyes looking back into the past. The man stirred restlessly, for now he was able to interpret that vague feeling of familiarity he had always experienced in her presence.

  “I was saved,” she went on, “by a certain Jim Lockton whom I knew very slightly. He was in the ‘Folkestone’ that night and called me over to him. When he would have left the place the foreigners interfered and there was a fight. Oh, but he was splendid!” she cried, clasping her hands.

  “Well, what happened afterwards? Did he keep you?” queried the man.

  “Ah, no,” she answered, “he wasn’t that sort. He would have helped me with money perhaps, but the very next day I obtained a post as nursery governess in the family of a German officer who was returning to Berlin. From that I drifted easily into the German Secret Service—you see I am such a good linguist and something of an actress. Now I’ve made up my mind to repay the debt I owe to the memory of Jim Lockton.”

  “How?” The question came harshly, but there was a certain tenderness lurking somewhere at the back of the man’s eyes.

  “Listen, Paul,” she answered eagerly, “the plan was to trap you here, with the Operation Orders for the divisions from the Russian front in your possession——”

  “The real orders?” he demanded urgently.

  “Yes, yes, you shall have them, Paul, but don’t interrupt. I—I was to drug you, and the soldiers, who are waiting, were to enter when I removed the flower-pot from the window-ledge. They cannot know who is here, although they have your description, for they were not posted when I arrived. You must change your appearance as much as possible, Paul, and leave quite openly. If you are questioned you can tell them that I have sent you away because I am waiting for someone else, but you must conceal your lameness.”

  “That can be managed,” Jim Lockton answered thoughtfully, and added: “But what will happen to you?”

  For a barely perceptible fraction of a second she hesitated.

  “Why, how dull you are, Paul,” she laughed. “I shall tell them, of course, that you never came, and presently I shall join you in Rotterdam.”

  “Good,” said he, “and perhaps there will be a surprise prepared against your arrival. I think that you and this Jim Lockton ought to meet again.”

  At last Clothilde saw the light in his eyes and knew that happiness, such as she had never experienced, was very near, but the rest of the road was yet to tread. Well she knew that her every movement had been watched that night, that the arrival of the man believed to be Leipschitz had, in all human probability, been observed. On the other hand
, she argued, the troops would be likely to let any other person pass, who might leave the cottage, since they had been given definite orders neither to act, nor to interfere, until the flower-pot was removed from the window. Wherefore she lied bravely, looking him straight in the eyes and so, presently, persuaded him to go into the scullery and make ready for his return journey.

  The slim young peasant who emerged in due course was like neither Leipschitz nor Jim Lockton and he did not limp. The complete metamorphosis was incredible and Clothilde eyed the stranger with almost professional approval. Jim’s eyes, however, were fixed eagerly upon the thin sheets of typewritten orders she had laid on the table.

  The girl would have hastened him away at once, but he would not take the orders with him, so sat down to commit them to memory before burning the document. This was fortunate, for subsequently, he was most thoroughly searched before being allowed to pass through the cordon of troops that encircled the cottage.

  At last, when he bade good-bye to Clothilde, it seemed for a moment that he would take her into his arms, but that moment passed unused. Perhaps there lingered in his mind some doubt of her sincerity; perhaps he imagined fondly, not knowing what she knew, that any present revelation of his true personality would make parting too hard. In any case, he went his way, leaving unspoken the words which had trembled on his tongue.

  Through the rest of that night Clothilde sat staring into the glowing embers of a dying fire, nothing heeding and nothing needing, living only in her memories.

  At dawn the officer commanding the troops knocked heavily upon the door. Clothilde made one brave attempt to bluff her way out of the desperate situation, but the Count von Reichofen, never quite trusting her, had told the officer a great deal more than she suspected. The arrival overnight of the man who called himself Leipschitz had been observed and that circumstance, combined with her inability to produce the all-important Operation Orders, sealed her fate.

  In Rotterdam Jim Lockton waited with what patience he could summon, but hope waned as the weeks went by. M.29 was dead, the frontier passage at Selzaete closed and so the war was ended before he learnt, for certain, of the execution of the woman who had taken the name of Clothilde Bruun.

  THE ARMY OF THE SHADOWS

  ERIC AMBLER

  ALONG WITH W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM, Eric Ambler (1909–1998) is one of the two most significant creators of the modern spy story. Unlike the earlier patriotic heroes of espionage fiction (as well as Ian Fleming’s later James Bond thrillers and their imitators) who fearlessly battle enemy agents, Ambler’s major characters are generally victims of circumstance who perform no willing acts of bravery but extricate themselves as best they can in order to survive. His goal, admirably achieved, was to add realism to the cloak-and-dagger stereotypes.

  Born in London, Ambler studied engineering but soon quit to write songs and sketches for vaudeville acts, followed by writing advertising copy. His first book, The Dark Frontier (1936), anticipated something similar to the atom bomb but had little success. His next five, however, are generally regarded as among the greatest classics in the genre: Uncommon Danger (1937; US title, Background to Danger), Epitaph for a Spy (1938); Cause for Alarm (1938), The Mask of Dimitrios (1939; US title, A Coffin for Dimitrios), and Journey into Fear (1940).

  Joining the army as a private in 1940, he was quickly commissioned and served with a combat film unit in Italy and then was named assistant director of army cinemaphotography in the War Office, in charge of all training, educational, and morale films for the British Army; he was discharged in 1946 as a lieutenant colonel.

  After the war, Ambler wrote and produced several films for the J. Arthur Rank Organization, being nominated for an Academy Award for his screenplay of the 1953 film The Cruel Sea, based on a novel by Nicholas Monsarrat.

  Perhaps Ambler’s most famous novel is The Mask of Dimitrios, which was selected for the Haycraft-Queen Definitive Library of Detective-Crime-Mystery Fiction. It was released on film with the same title in 1944, starring Zachary Scott, Sydney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, and Faye Emerson.

  Numerous other films were based on Ambler’s novels, the most successful being Topkapi (1964), based on his Edgar-winning novel The Light of Day (1962), an exciting caper-comedy starring Melina Mercouri, Peter Ustinov, Maximilian Schell, and Robert Morley.

  “The Army of the Shadows” was originally published in The Queen’s Book of the Red Cross (London, Hodder & Stoughton, 1939); it was first collected in Waiting for Orders (New York, The Mysterious Press, 1991).

  THE ARMY OF THE SHADOWS

  ERIC AMBLER

  IT IS THREE YEARS since Llewellyn removed my appendix; but we still meet occasionally. I am dimly related to his wife: that, at least, is the pretext for the acquaintanceship. The truth is that, during my convalescence, we happened to discover that we both like the same musicians. Before the war we usually met when there was some Sibelius being played and went to hear it together. I was a little puzzled when, about three weeks ago, he telephoned with the suggestion that I should dine at his house that night. There was not, I knew, a concert of any sort in London. I agreed, however, to grope my way round to Upper Wimpole Street shortly before eight o’clock.

  It was not until he had presented me with a brandy that I found out why I had been invited to dinner.

  “Do you remember,” he said suddenly, “that I spent a week or so in Belgrade last year? I missed Beecham doing the Second through it. There was one of those international medical bun fights being held there, and I went to represent the Association. My German is fairly good, you know. I motored. Can’t stick trains. Anyway, on the way back a very funny thing happened to me. Did I ever tell you about it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I thought not. Well”—he laughed self-consciously—“it was so funny now there’s a war on that I’ve been amusing myself by writing the whole thing down. I wondered whether you’d be good enough to cast a professional eye over it for me. I’ve tried”—he laughed again—“to make a really literary job of it. Like a story, you know.”

  His hand had been out of sight behind the arm of his chair, but now it emerged from hiding holding a wad of typewritten sheets.

  “It’s typed,” he said, planking it down on my knees. And then, with a theatrical glance at his watch, “Good Lord, it’s ten. There’s a telephone call I must make. Excuse me for a minute or two, will you?”

  He was out of the room before I could open my mouth to reply. I was left alone with the manuscript.

  I picked it up. It was entitled “A Strange Encounter.” With a sigh, I turned over the title-page and began, rather irritably, to read:

  * * *

  —

  The Stelvio Pass is snowed up in winter, and towards the end of November most sensible men driving to Paris from Belgrade or beyond take the long way round via Milan rather than risk being stopped by an early fall of snow. But I was in a hurry and took a chance. By the time I reached Bolzano I was sorry I had done so. It was bitterly cold, and the sky ahead was leaden. At Merano I seriously considered turning back. Instead, I pushed on as hard as I could go. If I had had any sense I should have stopped for petrol before I started the really serious part of the climb. I had six gallons by the gauge then. I knew that it wasn’t accurate, but I had filled up early that morning and calculated that I had enough to get me to Sargans. In my anxiety to beat the snow I overlooked the fact that I had miles of low-gear driving to do. On the Swiss side and on the Sargans road where it runs within a mile or two of the Rhätikon part of the German frontier, the car spluttered to a standstill.

  For a minute or two I sat there swearing at and to myself and wondering what on earth I was going to do. I was, I knew, the only thing on the road that night for miles.

  It was about eight o’clock, very dark and very cold. Except for the faint creaking of the cooling engine and the rustle of the breeze in some nearby t
rees, there wasn’t a sound to be heard. Ahead, the road in the headlights curved away to the right. I got out the map and tried to find out where I was.

  I had passed through one village since I left Klosters, and I knew that it was about ten kilometres back. I must, therefore, either walk back ten kilometres to that village, or forward to the next village, whichever was the nearer. I looked at the map. It was of that useless kind that they sell to motorists. There was nothing marked between Klosters and Sargans. For all I knew, the next village might be fifteen or twenty kilometres away.

  An Alpine road on a late November night is not the place to choose if you want to sleep in your car. I decided to walk back the way I had come.

  I had a box of those small Italian waxed matches with me when I started out. There were, I thought, about a hundred in the box, and I calculated that, if I struck one every hundred metres, they would last until I reached the village.

  That was when I was near the lights of the car. When I got out of sight of them, things were different. The darkness seemed to press against the backs of my eyes. It was almost painful. I could not even see the shape of the road along which I was walking. It was only by the rustling and the smell of resin that I knew that I was walking between fir trees. By the time I had covered a mile I had six matches left. Then it began to snow.

  I say “snow.” It had been snow; but the Sargans road was still below the snow-line, and the stuff came down as a sort of half-dozen mush that slid down my face into the gap between my coat collar and my neck.