But all that had passed magically. The skies had cleared. The sweeping seas had smoothed in the sunny calm that followed. And now the big dining saloon was crowded. Val Easton ate with only half an ear on the table conversation.
His mind was on other things. The mission that had taken him to London and Rome, by way of Paris, and then back to London again. The weeks of piecing together tiny bits of information to make the pattern which took shape in his final report. It had been good work too. The cable from his chief, calling him back to Washington, had said so.
A fragment of the conversation jerked his attention back to the table, without sign of it showing on his lean features.
The full-bosomed woman at the head of the table—a Mrs. Beamish—had said aggressively: “The whole thing was bosh! In wartime, perhaps. But not now. Spies are as old-fashioned as the dodo bird.” And Mrs. Beamish glared around the table as if daring anyone to take issue with her over the matter.
They were, Val realized, talking about the picture that had been shown the evening before. One of the latest thrillers built around the adventures of a famous woman spy during the War.
Most of them had seen it. The discussion at once became heated. The most outspoken was the blond young Mr. Miller at Mrs. Beamish’s left, who looked like a poet just out of college, and who stood by his convictions heatedly.
“Of course there are spies,” he protested. “They’re always working. You read about them all the time.”
“And see silly pictures about them,” Mrs. Beamish declared sarcastically.
“That picture was based on historical facts,” he said with the positive assurance of youth. “Whether you liked it or not, it happened. Why—why, any of us here at the table might be a spy! I might be one working for a foreign government.” And visibly set up by the thought, he looked gallantly across the table at the pretty girl on Val’s right.
* * *
—
Val smiled inwardly. It seemed funny, this talk about spies. Almost like a fiction story. Something sinister and diabolical about it. He wondered if he looked the part. Wondered too, what would happen if this tableful of peaceful travelers were apprized of his identity, and could look for a moment into the roiling currents of international intrigue.
But Mrs. Beamish leaned forward with a glitter in her eye. “Young man,” she asked sharply, “did you ever see a spy?”
“Er—well, no.”
“Ahhh!” said Mrs. Beamish with a cutting smile, and leaned back in her chair as if that settled everything. And young Miller’s weak retort of “How would I know one if I saw him? They don’t go labeled,” made no impression in her self-satisfied armor.
There was a chuckle from the slender, middle-aged Englishman who had sat at the end of the table every meal, beaming through rimless eyeglasses and talking books and authors to whomsoever would listen. Carmody was his name, a book salesman on a business trip to the States. Now he smiled and bobbed his head as he leaned forward and spoke.
“I fancy Mrs. Beamish is more than a little bit right. This is not wartime, nor is there the wide interest in such things that we had in the days of the old worldwide Imperial German spy service. My firm, by the way, has published two books on such things and I can—er—modestly claim to know something about it. Spies are practically as dead as the dodo. We have about as much chance of finding one here at the table as we have of missing our dinner in New York tomorrow evening.” And Carmody beamed at them all.
The young man retorted sulkily: “Just the same, I’m still betting on spies. You might be one yourself.”
“Ha ha, so I might,” Carmody chortled. “And if you’ll drop around to the nearest bookstore as soon as you land, at least I’ll guarantee you a corking good book on the subject. Make your hair stand up on end if you believe everything that’s in it.”
“I don’t have to read a book to have my mind made up,” young Miller said darkly, and applied himself to his dessert with irritated jabs of his spoon.
Val said to Carmody good naturedly as he left the table: “I may get that book myself. I’ve always been curious about such things.”
“Do,” Carmody beamed. “At least it’s jolly good reading. Almost made me wish I had been one myself back in the days when they were taken seriously.”
A trim, blue-uniformed young man from the Marconi room came in, paging, “Mr. Easton. Mr. Easton.”
Val lifted a finger; the blue uniform met him and an envelope was placed in his hands. “Radiogram, sir.”
Val tore it open and deciphered the coded message with the ease of long practice.
V EASTON
ON BOARD SS LAURENTIC
CONTACT S13 BEAMISH ASSIST
IF NEEDED
SIGNED GREGG
Sheer amazement almost made Val wheel around and glance back at the table. The signature “Gregg” was the code word for the chief, housed at the right elbow of the State Department in Washington. Its sense was plain. Its information stunning. And for the thousandth time Val was swept with admiration for the perfection of the intricate and farflung web of which he was only one strand.
S13—Beamish.
Only one meaning to that. That full-bosomed, majestic woman, who had sat at the head of the table day after day on this crossing, was a part of the same web. That woman who looked like the stodgy, opinionated wife of some equally stodgy business man; that severe matron whose tall, slender daughter had appeared once briefly on deck with her, was—must be—a clever Intelligence operative.
Val smiled wryly at the thought of how he himself had swallowed her aggressive declaration that no longer did such people exist.
Why had she done it?
And Val paid her the compliment of believing that there had been a purpose behind it. He tucked the radiogram in his inside coat pocket and strolled out on deck.
* * *
—
Half an hour later Val found Mrs. Beamish standing by the rail, peering pensively down at the endless ribbon of foam-flecked water that rushed astern. A blue coat was wrapped around her ample figure, a chiffon veil held her hair in place against the rush of the night breeze. Even now his critical scrutiny found it hard to believe she was the one Gregg referred to. He leaned against the rail beside her, said casually: “S13.”
“What?” Mrs. Beamish demanded in a startled voice.
Val repeated it. She frowned at him. “Young man,” she asked tartly, “is this a new way of flirting with an old woman like me?”
“Gregg suggested it,” Val said idly.
“Hmmmmp!” said Mrs. Beamish shortly. She drew her coat closely around her shoulders, adjusted her veil slowly, turned and eyed him deliberately. A smile slowly broke over her angular face.
“So you’re the one?” she said. “My, my—and to think we’ve been eating at the same table. Gregg radioed that one of his men would see us this evening. Come down and meet Nancy. She’s been feeling bad the whole trip.”
“Your daughter?”
Mrs. Beamish sniffed. “Bosh! It makes good atmosphere. Whoever would suspect an old fogy like me? I wish Nancy Fraser was my daughter. She’s a girl in a million.”
“Nancy Fraser? I’ve heard of her.”
Val had indeed. Nancy Fraser, tales of whose daring ingenuity were already becoming classics of the Intelligence Service. An adept at disguise, a quick thinker, a beautiful girl, fearless, resourceful, and blessed with uncanny luck was this Nancy Fraser.
* * *
—
Mrs. Beamish, preceding him into the cabin on B Deck, said: “This is our man, Nance. Mr. Easton, Miss Fraser.”
The girl who slid effortlessly to her feet from the bed almost took Val’s breath away. She was softly feminine at first glance, a beauty with fine cleancut features, slightly sun-tanned. Her chin
was firm and her mouth fairly wide, with a humorous quirk at the corners. She was a platinum blonde, and her silky hair, cut short, was waved close to her head in a style almost mannish.
He was to learn later that there was a reason for that. But at the moment he was conscious only of the calm, boring gaze of a pair of the bluest and deepest eyes he had ever seen. They took him apart in one swift look, examined the pieces—and approved. For she smiled and gave him a firm hand.
“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Easton. Sit down. This has been a rocky passage for me. I’m still a little wobbly.”
“I was surprised to get Gregg’s radiogram,” Val told her as he seated himself. “I suppose something is up?”
Nancy Fraser’s smile faded as she sank on the edge of the bed. She nodded. “Something is up. I coded Gregg a resumé of it, and he radioed back that he would have one of his men who was on the ship get in touch with me. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I would have guessed every other man on the ship,” said Mrs. Beamish with a critical look at Val. “You’re such a nice, harmless-looking young man. I thought you might be a college professor or a bond salesman.”
The front of Nancy Fraser’s silk negligée trembled as she laughed softly at Val’s wry smile. “Don’t mind Norah, Mr. Easton. She’s apt to break out with some startling remarks.”
“Hmmmp!” said Mrs. Beamish. “I say what I think, when it suits me.”
Nancy Fraser became serious once more.
“Here’s what we’re up against, Mr. Easton. I’m working on a delicate matter. As near as I understand it, the stage is all set for some world-shaking moves that haven’t even been hinted at in the newspapers. Anything may come out of it. The Shanghai business was only a move in a bigger game. Japan, Russia, England, France, and Italy are all holding different hands in the Far East. Our government is vitally concerned. Treaties, agreements, protestations by statesmen are all for public consumption. Behind that the real moves are being made. The different foreign offices are the only ones who really know.”
“And some of them don’t know as much as they’d like to,” Val commented.
“Exactly. None of them do. Each one is afraid of what the others may be doing. I doubt if the Intelligence Services have been half as busy since the War as they are now. Wires, cables, and radio services are being tapped. Confidential codes being broken down and deciphered. Mails are being watched. Intelligence operators planted where they can get at the contents of diplomatic pouches, and scores of men in high position are being watched day and night for some clue as to what their governments are driving at. It’s a mess. World peace, or another war that will make the last look like a kindergarten exercise, are in the balance.”
Val knew all that. But he liked the crisp way this Nancy Fraser went to the heart of the matter. He was seeing another side of the beautiful girl who had cordially greeted him. A woman, this, who was steely hard beneath her femininity; who thought straight and to the point.
“Where do you come in?” he questioned bluntly.
“At the moment I’m following a man who stands high in the British diplomatic service. A man who is coming to the States on a secret mission. He is traveling incognito as a Mr. Galbraith. I am confident he is carrying secret papers or instructions that can’t be entrusted to the mails or cables.”
“Who is he?”
“Sir Edward Lyne. A tall, thin man with a close-clipped black mustache.”
“Haven’t noticed him.”
“Probably not. He has kept to his cabin most of the trip.”
“That seems simple enough,” Val said, offering his cigarettes to the two women, and holding a light for them.
Nancy Fraser leaned back on one arm and nodded. “It is simple enough. Only—we’re being followed too.”
Those last sharp, vibrant words brought a sudden tang of danger into the atmosphere of the cabin. Val snapped alert, eyed her keenly.
“Who is following you?”
Nancy Fraser shook her head. “That’s the trouble,” she confessed. “Neither Norah nor I have been able to find out. But someone knows who we are, or suspects us. Our cabin was entered one of the few times we both were out of it. Entered, searched cleverly, and left exactly as it had been.”
“How did you discover it?”
Norah Beamish smiled proudly. “That girl is a wonder, Mr. Easton. She never leaves her room without fixing it so she knows at once whether it has been disturbed.”
“A few little ends of silk thread that are never noticed when they are displaced,” Nancy Fraser explained. “To make certain this time, I questioned the stewardess closely. She had not been in here.”
She didn’t have to say anything more. Too well Val understood why she was disturbed. It was bad enough to match wits with dangers one was aware of. But there was nothing more unnerving than to find that one’s disguise had been penetrated, that unknown danger lurked close, and to be unable to discover it and take precautions. Until Nancy Fraser found out who had searched her cabin, she must suspect every one on the boat, must look for anything to happen at any hour of the day or night.
“Suspect anyone?” he prompted.
“No. We’re up in the air.”
The room had a narrow window opening on the promenade deck. A window halfway up, with the drawn curtains inside swaying slightly in the wind. And just as Nancy Fraser answered him, a harder gust than usual blew the right curtain aside. Val’s eye caught a fleeting glimpse of a shoulder shifting hastily back to one side.
Someone was out there listening!
CHAPTER TWO
DEATH ON B DECK
Val made a catlike lunge to his feet, reached the window in a silent stride, and grabbed through it. As he expected, the shoulder was just outside. His fingers dug hard into the rough woolen cloth, and he jerked hard to bring the lurking figure over where he could see the face.
The other made no sound. But the hard edge of a taut palm struck the bone just above his wrist a terrific blow. It was jiu-jitsu skilfully, savagely, and instantly applied. His hand went numb and useless, and the blinding pain shot above his elbow.
With a twist the shoulder tore away and was gone.
Val jerked his arm in, biting his lower lip against the gasp of agony that rushed to his teeth. Nancy Fraser had come to her feet alertly and was staring wide-eyed as Val whirled toward the door.
“Someone listening out there!” he threw at her, and jerked the door open with his good hand and rushed out on deck.
The promenade was brightly lighted. At least a score of people were visible from the back of the long sweep of deck. But most of them were leaning over the rail; the others were strolling astern. No one at the moment had his eyes fixed on the spot. And the deck was empty!
A deck bay was a few yards away. His man must have gone there. But when Val reached it he found the bay empty and none of the chairs occupied. The companion door at the back was closed. He opened it, looked into the passage beyond, and swore under his breath. His man had moved fast and surely. Had gotten away. Val was forced to admit that fact after a few moments’ search.
He met a steward in the passage, asked the man sharply: “Did you see a man come through here a few moments ago?”
His tense manner drew a curious look from the white-jacketed little Cockney.
“Ayn’t seen a soul, sir.”
“Sure?”
“H’I don’t myke mistakes, sir. A man carn’t afford to w’en ’e’s holdin’ down a nick on a top’oler like the Laurentic, sir. Is there something wrong?”
“Nothing,” said Val, turning back. “Thank you.”
* * *
—
Nancy Fraser had put on pumps and a coat that covered her negligée. She was standing near her door when Val returned. She met him with a questioning loo
k.
“He got away,” Val admitted unwillingly. “I was a fool to grab at him through the window like that. But I wanted a quick look at his face. He gave my wrist a crack that paralyzed it, and was gone.”
“You didn’t see him at all!”
“No.”
“Let’s take a turn around the deck,” she said abruptly. “We’ve made a mess of things. Whoever it is knows you’re with us now. I wish we had thought of that.”
“I shouldn’t have gone to your cabin,” Val admitted. “Wouldn’t have if I’d known what was up. But I didn’t suspect it was this bad.”
“Norah knew. She should have stopped you. And I should have closed that window. But we all make mistakes. I wonder how much he overheard.”
“We weren’t talking loud.”
“Loud enough, I’m afraid,” she said gloomily. “Darn it, the cat’s out of the bag now. I’m much worse off than I was when I radioed Gregg. It’s terrible! We’ve got to find out who it was.”
“Line up a few hundred first-class passengers and look them in the eye, I suppose?” Val suggested.
“Your ideas are about as good as mine.”
“This is the last night. On shore we may be able to do something about it.”
“And maybe not. Don’t you see we’re both practically useless now until we get at the truth of this?”
They made the circuit of the deck twice, and finally Val suggested: “You might as well turn in. I’ll stay up later and keep my eyes open. I’ll let you know if I see anything.”
Her handclasp was cool and firm, her “good night” brief, but her smile warm. Val walked away thinking about her.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 91