The Big Book of Espionage

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

  “Barnes is going to meet the American ambassador and obtain the signed draft of the tentative Abyssinian treaty.”

  “Abyssinian treaty!” echoed Truxon. “Are you insane? The States make a treaty with Abyssinia? That’s nonsense.”

  * * *

  —

  Rothstern’s jovial laugh boomed out. “Ah, you know so much, you care so little for information! Well, never mind. There is much more to the business than appears on the surface. The main thing is that this man Barnes must be killed.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Truxon.

  “I can’t leave it entirely to you. I must obtain the treaty draft from him.”

  “Sounds like nonsense,” growled the renegade. “Why doesn’t the American ambassador put it on the cables?”

  “He has done so. We do not desire to keep it from Washington; merely to know its terms; so we prefer to intercept the original draft which Barnes is to take to London for inclusion in the diplomatic pouch to Washington. You see, these people have learned that we have a friend planted in the Paris embassy. They have become cautious.”

  “Looks to me, Rothstern,” Truxon stated coolly, “as though you’re lying about the whole thing; or you’re covering up the real truth. Well, no matter. It’s none of our concern.”

  “You are right, it is not,” said Rothstern with a touch of asperity. “Barnes is the most dangerous of these American fools. He must be removed for good and all—ah! Someone at the door.”

  Silence; incoherent sounds, a mutter of voices. The crouched girl strained against the dresser in the darkness, shivering, but not with cold. Fear was in her heart, and not for herself alone! Then the voice of Rothstern exploded violently.

  “A message for me! Give it here. Ah, a telegram, eh! It is—it is—ten thousand devils!” His voice broke in a passionate oath. “Greetings to our pleasant conference; signed merely ‘The Sphinx, U.S.A.’ Is this a joke? Damn you, answer me!”

  The Sphinx! A thrill ran through the crouching girl. Then she started violently and turned. Outside her door was a step. It paused there.

  She moved like a flash. Snatching off the head-phones, she silently slapped them and the cord into their false Bible, and next instant was beside the bed. She poised there, holding her breath.

  A low, soft rustle came from the door, then ceased. The step sounded again, moving away.

  * * *

  —

  After a moment she threw the pencil-beam of her tiny flashlight on the door, then to the floor below it. A folded paper lay there; apparently a bluish French telegraph form. She went to it, picked it up, and opened it. It was no telegram, but on the form was typed in English:

  THE FRENCH POLICE ARE ARRESTING YOU TOMORROW. CATCH THE PARIS EXPRESS AT 5 A.M. LEAVE TRAIN AT LYON, HIRE A BLUE RENAULT WHICH WILL BE WAITING ON EAST SIDE OF PLATFORM WITH A “FOR HIRE” SIGN ON THE RADIATOR. IT WILL TAKE YOU TO BRUSSELS.

  The only signature at the bottom of this message was the red figure of a Sphinx, stamped there with a rubber stamp. Beneath the figure were the letters, “U.S.A.”

  The Sphinx! She, and she alone, knew whom that could be—whom it must be!

  Suddenly she turned, darted to the dresser, seized her head-phones again, and listened. She caught Rothstern’s voice. “I tell you, the French police are working with me! In this affair, France is with us—but not openly. Yes, come along to my room. I’ll get the things you need, and there’ll be no trouble at the frontier.”

  A door slammed. Silence. The girl swiftly put away her phones again. She flashed the tiny light on her wristwatch. Four A.M. It would still be dark at five. If she were to catch that express for Paris—

  The French police working with Rothstern? What was it all about? She had no idea. But she had been ordered to wait here for some message from Barnes. On her own responsibility she had arranged this dictaphone, this communication with Truxon’s room. This hotel was well known to her. For the past two years she had been on the go all over Europe. And now something had happened, something big was coming up. War? No telling. All Europe was a hotbed of intrigue, of rivalry; France and Italy stood out against each other.

  The Sphinx! Her brain rocked with indecision. She remembered that day when she had called Barnes a Sphinx, and how his face had lighted up. Now he had sent an ironic message to Rothstern, another message to her. Barnes! Yes, it must be Barnes, it could be no one else. Why was he adopting this nom-de-guerre? Why were the police about to arrest her? They had nothing against her. Yet she could not doubt. Rothstern knew everything about this little band of gallant Americans who were pitting themselves against the secret agents of Europe. They would have no recourse if they failed. They had no connection with Washington.

  A thousand questions rioted in her brain; she sat with eyes closed, trying to evoke some order out of the mental chaos. Gradually it came. She must reach Barnes with what she had heard, yes! She had something definite now. Rothstern knew everything. Not one of the unofficial American agents, these free-lances who risked everything for their country, was safe. Rothstern knew of them all. He boasted that he had her in his hand. Yes, it was he who intended to have her arrested. How did Barnes know of it? Again the questions rioted. Again she beat them down, crushed them back. Nothing mattered now except to follow the orders of the Sphinx. Barnes? Ah—

  She broke off abruptly, rose, switched on the lights in her room, after closing the window and drawing the blinds. She looked around. If there were danger from the police, she could not take away her belongings. She must abandon everything, her luggage, her clothes, and take only what she could carry in her handbag. No one must see her leave; well, that could be managed!

  The holes in the wall paper she carefully patched; this room might again come in handy. The head-phones she must throw away in the street. Clothes, personal effects—she swiftly made her choice among them. Queer, that Barnes should know what the French police intended! It was two months since she had seen him; in this interval he had completely dropped from sight.

  Now she was clear-headed, cool, alert. She left money for her hotel bill, with a note asking to have her effects held; she had gone to Menton for a few days. This might throw the police off the track. If only she did not have to buy a ticket and a place in the train! There was the danger-point, if the police were on the lookout. Room lights off, she slipped out into the deserted corridor.

  * * *

  —

  In the street, the chill wind of coming dawn, the sparse lights, the emptiness and absence of life, appalled her. She came into the Boulevard Gambetta; a long way still to the station. A glance at her wrist-watch and she stepped out more briskly. Only twenty minutes left now.

  With a hoot-hoot and a flicker of yellow lights, a taxicab rattled along behind, overtook her, and passed on. She paused, shivering. From the open cab window, floated a laughing voice; the hearty, jovial tones of Fat Rothstern, accompanied by the harsh, inhuman laugh of Truxon. She faltered. On their way to that same train? No help for it. She feared Rothstern more than the renegade Englishman, because his merry deviltry was abnormal. The same train? Well, she must go on. She had her orders.

  Resolute, she hastened on with something very like a suppressed oath at her own heart-hurried fears. After all, she could take care of herself. She was the equal of any man of them, as she had proved ere this. What folly, to let the chill morning darkness oppress her! A laugh, and she flung off the weight. The thrill of it all seized upon her. Her pulses leaped to the fervor, the quick chances of the game.

  She took the short-cut out of the Place Franklin. Two bicycle police rolled along, eyed her sharply, went their way. Ahead opened the width of the Avenue Thiers and the railroad, the glittering lights of the station beyond. The train was there; the engine was huff-huffing like all French engines. No time to lose if she were to make the express!

&nbs
p; Suddenly a man appeared ahead, a dark, thin man, a stranger. He was aiming to intercept her. Hand flew to bag; her little pistol was jerked out. She went straight at him. Then, to her astonishment, she heard her own name.

  “Mademoiselle Nicolas, is it not? Correct. Your billet—everything. Hurry!”

  She took the envelope thrust at her. The man turned away and was gone, slouching off into the shadows. Hurriedly, she examined the envelope. Yes; a seat to Paris, a ticket to Paris. Also a ticket to Lyon. She understood in a flash. She must show the Paris ticket in case she were traced. At Lyon, where she would leave, she must give up her ticket before getting out of the station. No Frenchwoman would give up a Paris ticket before getting halfway there; hence, the Lyon ticket to avoid comment.

  Who had done this? She caught her breath, as she turned over the envelope in her hand. Upon it was the rubberstamp of the Sphinx. Barnes? No, no, that was impossible. Barnes knew his way around Europe, but he was an innocent, a new hand at this game. She must be on some false scent after all.

  The whistles of the guards were shrilling when she came on to the platform. She had one glimpse of Truxon standing there, tall, lean, savage, waving his hand. Rothstern was on this same train, then!

  CHAPTER II

  DISGUISE

  Daylight crept down from the Alps, with Toulon still well ahead. It would be afternoon before they reached Lyon. Sunlight filled the morning. Marie Nicolas wakened from her nap, stretched, found her handbag and little toilet case at her side, and her brain leaped alert instantly. She forced herself to forget all the mystery of the night, even the dark stranger who had supplied her with tickets. She now had to face the danger of the day, with Rothstern on the same train.

  Fortunately, she was no longer an apprentice at this business. She had brought with her all she needed.

  She went into the dressing room between the compartments, glanced into the next compartment and found it empty, and went to work rapidly. She grimaced into the mirror at her neat, trim face and figure, her warm cape and the Rue Vignon dress. She was indeed very lovely, the essence of good taste; well, this must be altered!

  Her masses of dark hair were rearranged in careless, sloppy fashion. Cheap, musky perfume was liberally splashed about her dress. She deliberately ripped her chic little hat and sewed it together again, a flimsy ruin; the lines of her dress, her figure, could not be spoiled, but the set of the dress could be spoiled with a reckless tug here, a pull there. When she looked in the mirror again, it was with a sigh.

  Now for her face. Gaudy, splashy earrings were nipped in place, dangling almost to her shoulders. Deft touches darkened her brows, changed their contours. Darker skin about her eyes, the lids darkened; a hideous, flashy lipstick completely out of harmony with her complexion changed and spoiled her mouth. Last of all, glasses; pince-nez that really pinched. Another grimace when she inspected the result.

  “A woman in the worst possible taste—can it be you?” she observed cheerfully. “Yes, it really is little Marie; but who would know it? Especially a man. And the hair, the hair! That’s the best of all. Marie Nicolas, you’re a perfectly horrid person—and hungry!”

  All this had taken time. The dining-car messenger appeared, reserved her a place, and went on. She left her cape behind, bunched her dress still more shapelessly, and ventured forth.

  She was early; she wanted to be early. The train was wakening as it thundered along. Tourists of all kinds, many French, but few Americans; the rate of exchange kept Americans out of France, these days. Fortunately, the restaurant car was close at hand, and with relief she entered and found herself placed at table. The waiter addressed her significantly in English; she, who was invariably taken for Russian or French, was now an obvious tripper! She smiled brightly.

  Then, for an instant, she shrank, and her pulse stopped. A presence behind her, a jovial, hearty voice—Rothstern. Coming in with another man.

  “Yes, garçon, yes, a good breakfast,” she exclaimed in an abominably harsh voice. Her English accent made the waiter wince. “Muffins and everything. And don’t forget the marmalade, my man. Right!”

  To her horror, Rothstern paused at the next table. Then he turned his back; he sat down with his back to her. She could see the shiny bald spot, the clipped hair, the roll of fat above his collar—but thank heavens, he could not look at her! For an instant she closed her eyes, then opened them.

  They dilated. Incredulity came into her face and passed. For there, sitting opposite Rothstern and chatting gaily with him, was Franklin. Young Franklin, the laughing Baltimore boy who was the latest recruit to the free-lances; he was supposed to be in Rome, getting on to the ropes. And Rothstern had him in tow!

  She watched them. Once or twice Franklin’s gaze rested upon her and flicked away again. He looked tired, a bit drawn, but evidently he was charmed with Rothstern. Most men were, who did not know him well. Marie could hear Franklin’s voice at times.

  “Yes, a bit of business in Paris. Importing is pretty well wrecked these days…sight-seeing in Italy. Wonderful place under the Facist régime! No, I didn’t hear any talk of war…in the wine business, eh? You speak perfect English, really!”

  From what snatches of talk she caught, the girl gathered that they occupied the same compartment. Was this by chance? She doubted it. Was it by chance that she was on this train with Franklin? The question startled her with its implications. How far ahead did this unknown Sphinx see and plan? Questions be hanged! She dared not let them engulf her, and resolutely put them aside.

  Somehow she must warn the young fellow. That he did not recognize her was quite evident. It was unfair to pit him against the veteran Rothstern, who had already enmeshed the boy. As she lingered over her breakfast, more questions rushed upon her; what was going on, what game was being played out with its final scene reaching up to Ostend in Belgium? She could not guess. She struggled to keep her mind on the business in hand, on her own perilous strait.

  Toulon was behind them; the train was creeping on westward to Marseilles, before it turned north to Avignon and Lyon. Suddenly the bulk of Rothstern heaved up. His voice came to her clearly.

  “You will pardon me? I must prepare telegrams to go from Marseilles. We may meet again on the platform, eh?”

  Telegrams, eh? The fat fox was up to something; yes, the boy must be warned. Rothstern brushed past the table of Marie Nicolas without a glance and went his way. Quickly, the girl seized pencil and a scrap of paper.

  I am Marie Nicolas. Destroy this. The man with you is Rothstern. He knows every one of us. If you bear any messages look out. Keep away from me.

  Presently Franklin rose, paid his bill, and started past Marie’s table. Her handbag was knocked from the edge as he passed, though not by his doing. He halted, and with a word of apology stooped for it. As he rose and handed it to her, she slipped the note in his hand. He gave no sign of astonishment, but went on and was gone.

  She breathed more easily. After a moment she, also, paid for her breakfast and departed. On the way back to her compartment she kept a sharp eye out, but saw nothing of either man; therefore, they must be beyond her car, toward the rear of the train.

  * * *

  —

  They were flashing into Marseilles now. As by magic, the station appeared and the express slid to a smooth halt. Ten minutes here. Marie opened the door and stepped out to the platform. The news-wagon was almost opposite. She bought Paris editions of English papers, a couple of English magazines, and ducked back into her own compartment again. She had not seen a paper, except the French journals, for two weeks.

  Minutes passed. Suddenly Franklin appeared, opening the compartment door that led into the passage. He came suddenly, his voice leaped at her.

  “They’ve got me. Do your best—”

  Something flashed in the air and fell at her feet. An envelope. She kicked i
t under the seat. Franklin was gone; at the same instant, the outer door was wrenched open and two Frenchmen entered, typical business men. Politely, with many apologies, they asked if they might share the apartment. She affected ignorance of French. One explained himself in halting English. Marie Nicolas shrugged, nodded, and opened up her newspapers. The two Frenchmen settled down, deep in talk.

  Men moved rapidly past the passage door. After a moment, glancing out at the platform, she saw Franklin there with several suave gentlemen; he was being arrested, then. The engine whistled, the guards slammed the doors, the train moved out of the station. Arrested! Then Rothstern had done it. And her warning had come barely in time. That fat devil was checkmated for once, thank heaven!

  The guard appeared, verified the first-class tickets of the two Frenchmen, and went on. Suddenly their words reached into her consciousness.

  “Did you see the statement of Count de Prorok, the explorer? He has just left Abyssinia. He says the Italians have massed troops in their colony of Eritrea and are preparing to seize Abyssinia, that France and England have consented, that Italy has caused the frontier fighting. It means war!”

  “Bah!” was the response. “No one knows or cares anything about Abyssinia. It is the Balkans that should worry us!”

  “No worry,” said the first. Marie abruptly realized that she was listening to a keen analyst who knew whereof he spoke. England, France, Germany, want no war. Russia allied with the French, wants no war. Mussolini will keep the peace, depend on it! He’ll permit no Balkan conflict. All this is a mask; he intends to seize Abyssinia. Forty years ago, an entire Italian army was destroyed there, at Adowa, and Il Duce means to avenge the loss and seize the whole country. Just as Prorok says. Another Manchuria, my friend!”