“Well, you should know.” And the other laughed. “You have a nose in the Quai d’Orsay. But what is it to us, to France? Let Italy rule the black savages. Her rule will be good for them.”
“Shall we step out into the passage and smoke?” was the reply. “This Englishwoman will be sure to object if we smoke here—”
The two left the compartment. Marie Nicolas leaned over, picked up the fallen envelope, and glanced at it. Sealed, and addressed only to John Barnes. She thrust it away beneath her dress and pinned it there securely.
She returned to her papers. There, she found the key to the conversation she had just heard; conflict on the borders of Abyssinia and Eritrea, an appeal to the League of Nations by the former, a refusal of any arbitration by Mussolini. So Il Duce would keep the peace in Europe in order to have a free hand in Abyssinia? Very likely. She shrugged and dismissed the matter as of no interest.
* * *
—
Suddenly, with a leap of the pulse, she remembered what Rothstern had told his two mercenaries. A commercial treaty with Abyssinia? It was nonsense, on the face of it. The United States had no commerce, no interests, there. Then why was Rothstern so desperately set on learning the terms of this alleged treaty?
“More questions,” she muttered angrily. “Plague take them all!”
Back to the newspapers. A short, sharp exclamation broke from her; she stared at the news items with distended eyes. Morlake in Berlin, Hutton in Vienna, had been arrested the previous evening. American business men, charged with espionage. And both were members of the free-lances! Rothstern again, striking savagely. Why?
The two Frenchmen came back into the compartment, apologized politely, and went back to their rapid French conversation in supreme confidence that their fellow-traveler could not follow. The one who had his “nose in the Quai d’Orsay” explained a detail to his companion.
“I tell you, a month ago ships went out of Marseilles loaded with munitions for Abyssinia! There is only one railroad into that country; we control it. Are we letting arms reach the Ethiopian emperor? Then why this disregard of treaties? It looks singular. Watch. You will see things happen in that country.”
A fat shape bulked against the glass of the passage door, looking in. Rothstern. Then he went on. A sense of suffocation oppressed Marie Nicolas. The Frenchmen had switched to a discussion of business conditions. She listened no longer.
The express rolled on to the north. The Sphinx, the Sphinx! Incredible as it seemed, this might be Barnes. At least, he had given Rothstern and the two renegades a startling surprise with his telegram. He seemed to be aware of their secrets; no, he could not be Barnes, after all. A glow crept into the girl’s eyes as she thought of him. A splendid fellow, Barnes, but new at this business. No, he could not be this mysterious Sphinx.
Avignon fell behind; a brief stop only. Crossing the river, she had a glimpse of the storied castle of the Popes, with its towering height and the broken bridge below. No stop now until Lyon.
The chief of the train, the “conductor” in America, made his appearance, heavy with gold braid and authority, as befitted a trusted employee of the government. He beckoned the two Frenchmen outside and there, in the passage, conferred with them; many shrugs, gestures, explosive sounds. Finally they appeared to agree. A guard arrived and came in, taking their luggage out. They all vanished up the corridor.
Another guard came in sight, carrying two suitcases, an umbrella, a portable typewriter. He lugged them in, disposed of them in the racks. The girl spoke quickly.
“Is someone else coming in here?”
“But yes, ma’mselle,” he responded, touching his cap. “A rearrangement, you comprehend; many passengers came on at Avignon. A gentleman from the second class is moving in here. It will not inconvenience you.”
She could not reply. The words died in her throat. For there at the door was the gentleman from the second class. It was Rothstern.
He entered, tipped the guard, and lowered himself upon the opposite seat. He did not glance at the girl. His heavy, jovial features were intent upon a number of telegrams which he must have received at Avignon. At length he stuffed them into his pocket, picked up a newspaper, and began to peruse it.
Marie Nicolas sat reading. She felt stifled; her thoughts were inchoate; terror was upon her. She, who was supposed to be so fearless, so well able to take care of herself, stood in absolute fear of this man. She could face the brutality of Truxon, but the gold-toothed smile of Rothstern unnerved her.
She became aware of furtive glances stealing at her. What to do? She could not leave without making a scene, if he were really suspicious of her. If not, her best bet was to keep quiet. Suddenly he chuckled slightly and laid aside his paper.
“Madame is, no doubt, a tourist?” he said in English. The girl gave him a cold look through her glasses, and returned to her magazine.
“The eye is a wonderful organ,” he went on, with another chuckle. “When it follows lines of type, it moves back and forth, one sees it at work. But the eyes of madame are fastened upon one point, they do not move—”
“Sir, are you determined to be insulting?” demanded the girl icily.
“A thousand pardons!” said Rothstern humbly, and spread out his hands. “I merely pass the time with observations. I am a philosopher.”
He paused to light a cigarette. Marie Nicolas felt a cold, chill thrill pass up her spine. She knew what was coming; and she was right.
“Elimination,” murmured Rothstern, as though to himself, “can solve many things. A young lady disappeared from her hotel at Nice. I learn of it later on. I determine that she must be on a certain train. I search, I see nothing of her. I speak with my friend the conductor. Yes, a young lady bound for Paris did come aboard. She is not the one I seek, obviously; yet I think she must be the same. One thing she cannot change, and that is the little foot. The shoe made in America is so obvious in France! So is the shoe made in England—but she does not wear the English shoe.”
* * *
—
Marie Nicolas shrank for a moment, conscious that the blood had drained from her face. Then she quietly laid down her magazine and looked at Rothstern. He met her gaze, a twinkle in his eye, his jovial laugh showing his gold teeth.
“So?” he asked. “You would not tell a lie to old Papa Rothstern, hein?”
She knew the grim, ruthless cruelty behind that laugh. “Not much use trying to fool you, is it?” she said quietly.
“Not a bit. Ah, now you are sensible!” Rothstern beamed upon her. “Why did you run away from the hotel at Nice, my dear?”
“To see where you went, if you must know.”
Rothstern chuckled. “Good. We are in company; we go to Paris together. Now, my dear Marie, shall we be frank and abandon all fencing? Good. Perhaps you caught this train to meet Mr. Franklin, hein? And somehow, somewhere, he gave you what I want very much to have. Perhaps you warned him, even, about poor old Papa Rothstern.”
The girl shrugged. “Yes, I did. But I didn’t know he was on the train until I saw both of you together. After that, I had no chance to speak with him again.”
“Evasion, eh?” Rothstern rubbed his pudgy hands—big hands, massive hands they were. The gesture chilled her. “Very good. No doubt you have read the paper there. No doubt you saw what happened to poor Franklin; an estimable young man whom I had no chance to warn. Very well. Now, suppose we are friends, eh? Suppose you tell me something I want to know. We lunch together, we reach Paris friends, and part. I will protect you against anything unpleasant, such as happened to poor Franklin. You will not do badly to have Papa Rothstern for a friend, Miss Nicolas. Yes or no?”
“What do you want to know?” she demanded. The threat was clear enough. She would be arrested if she refused. Probably she would be arrested anyway, later.
“Just who is the gentleman who calls himself The Sphinx, U.S.A.?”
She started, her eyes widened. “But I can’t tell you that! I must not tell—at any price!”
Rothstern beamed. “The price? It is simple. You remain free, my dear, as you should remain. Come; I see you know. Tell Papa Rothstern.”
Beneath his joviality the threat began to appear more pronounced.
“If I tell you—but no, no, I cannot!” she exclaimed in agitation. “No one—”
Rothstern’s ponderous features came closer, as she shrank. He seemed fully aware of the terrifying effect he exerted upon her.
“The French police can be most unkind to a poor prisoner,” he suggested. “It would pay you, really, to make a friend of me. And nobody would know, upon my honor!”
“I—could—I trust you?” she breathed, staring wide-eyed. “But wait! I must send a telegram from Lyon.
“We shall lunch together, then. If when we leave Lyon I feel that you won’t betray me—I’ll tell you.”
Rothstern beamed, and nodded. “Good! We shall have a nice luncheon with champagne, my dear. Ah, if I were twenty years younger! But we shall see. Yes, you’ll find that it pays to trust Papa Rothstern.”
She shivered a little, thinking of the envelope pinned within her dress.
CHAPTER III
PURSUIT AND SUBTERFUGE
John Barnes stood on the station platform at Lyon and waited for the P.L.M. north-bound express.
Over one ear was cocked a disreputable chauffeur’s cap. Over the other ear, in the approved chauffeur’s custom, was tucked a spare cigarette. A dirty white chauffeur’s dust-coat, the French survival of a prehistoric motoring age, cloaked most of his body. He had a sandwich in one hand, a bottle of vin blanc in the other, and excitement blazing in both eyes.
A thin, dark man drifted up to the lunch-counter, bought a sandwich, and began to eat it. He drifted away, paused for an instant beside Barnes to inspect his sandwich suspiciously, and spoke under his breath.
“M. Franklin was taken off the train at Avignon by agents of the Sûreté. I just got the wire.”
“Cover the exit gate,” muttered Barnes, and the dark man drifted on.
You must see Barnes as he stood there, munching ravenously, drinking from the bottle, dirty hands, face ingrained with dirt and beard-rubble. An impudent chauffeur type, a humorous glitter in his excited eyes, a strong, hard jaw, lean in the sunlight as he tipped his head back to drink. And those stabbing, dancing gray eyes of his covered everything in sight. A man playing the greatest game in the world, and playing it for life or death. His own included.
Let us suppose, to get the picture, that a Frenchman stands before the lunch-counter of the Pennsylvania station in Philadelphia. The Federal secret service is after him. The local police are watching for him. The railroad detectives have his description. And he stands there, eating, drinking, laughing, ready to pull off the biggest coup of his career! That was the situation of John Barnes as he waited.
The sandwich gone, he finished the bottle, handed it back over the counter, took the cigarette from behind his ear, and struck a match. At the other side of the platform a south-bound train had pulled up, and people were drifting everywhere. A French station platform is like a jail. To get in and out, one buys a ticket; to leave it from a train, one gives up the railroad ticket. Barnes took the ticket he had bought and held it ready in his hand. The north-bound express was coming in. He made his way toward the nearest exit, glanced at the guard there, then turned to watch.
There was the express now. Newswagons trundled out, wine and sandwich wagons; police strutted about importantly; porters rushed about, their straps aswing. Barnes puffed at his cigarette, motionless. The express came to its swift and silent stop. Bells clanged, whistles blew. Passengers began their frantic concourse, shrieking at porters. The carriages were emptied, everyone strolling up and down.
A girl appeared. Barnes threw away his cigarette, pulled down his cap over one eye, stood tensed. Marie Nicolas, holding a telegraph blank in her hand, hurrying. Behind her loomed up the fat figure of Rothstern, overtaking her with a jovial laugh. She swung around. Rothstern took her by the arm.
Like a flash, she slapped him across the face, hard. Her voice shrilled up in a torrent of rapid French: “Dirty pig! You would insult a woman of France—oh, to me, to me, messieurs! This sale cochon of a German would insult me—”
Instantly, the platform was in an uproar. From all sides, Frenchmen came on the jump. Rothstern, incapable of a word, was surrounded and drowned in a rushing hostile mass of figures.
Barnes turned to the exit, gave up his ticket, and strode swiftly out to the street. There, where a blue Renault stood with a “For Rent” sign on the radiator, was a dark, sad man. Barnes made him one quick gesture, and got into the car. The other turned and departed at a run and was gone around the next corner.
Out from the exit slipped the figure of Marie Nicolas. One swift look, and she came toward the car. Barnes swung open the door. Without hesitation, she ducked in and slammed the door behind her as she half fell on the rear cushions, the car already in motion.
With a swoop and a roar, the Renault went leaping away.
“M’sieu,” came the girl’s voice from behind, breathless, excited. “Are you sure that it is all right? You expected me?”
“Hold your breath, baby,” said Barnes in English, and chuckled. “Change cars at the next transfer stop. This is fast work; no time to talk.”
A startled gasp from behind, and he chuckled again. Then he settled down to business.
He drove fast and hard for five minutes, dodging traffic and rounding corners like a madman. Then he slowed. A garage appeared ahead, before it a large gray roadster, and beside the roadster, the same thin, sad, man who had departed so hurriedly from the station. Barnes came to a halt behind the roadster, which bore an English license.
“All out, Marie!” he exclaimed, and ducked from the front seat. With a swift movement he was out of his cap and white robe. “Ready, Eremian?”
“Quite, monsieur.” The thin, sad man handed him a little packet. “Passports, touring permit, everything. Here is the driver’s license in your new name.”
“Good. In with you, Marie.”
* * *
—
He settled under the wheel of the roadster, Marie Nicolas beside him. The car leaped away. Ten minutes later, they had passed the city tax-barrier without question. Then Barnes drew a long breath, and glanced at Marie, his gray eyes dancing merrily.
“Made it! By glory, that was a tight squeeze, young lady. Did you see Franklin?”
“Yes. He gave me a letter for you.”
“Thank heaven! Keep it for the present. How are you?”
She gestured helplessly. “Bewildered. Utterly bewildered. John Barnes, you’re not the same man I knew!”
A joyous, eager laugh escaped Barnes. “You bet I’m not! But I’ve got you safe away out of the smash.”
“It looks crazy to me,” she said. “I could have got across the border from Nice without heading north over the whole of France.”
“Not a chance,” Barnes said decisively. “Every road, every border station, on the south and east, was stopped this morning. This trip, we’ve got the whole of France against us. Germany as well. What I predicted to our ambassador in London, months ago, has happened. Every one of our men has either been clapped into jail or is under the closest sort of scrutiny; they’ve smashed our organization, Marie.”
“And Rothstern did it. He said so,” she cut in swiftly. Then she caught the arm of Barnes. “Tell me! Are you the Sphinx? Are you?”
Barnes gave her a quick, hard glance, then watched the road again.
“Yes. I thought you’d guess it. I heard of Rothstern’s coup just one jump too late. He’s
tried to clear the slate at one crack, and he’s darned near done it, too. Half Europe is behind him—just for this one occasion. Two weeks from now, the storm will be over; but right now we’re sure in the soup all around.”
“But why?” she demanded. “What is it about? Is there really an Abyssinia treaty?”
“Good Lord!” Barnes flung her a look of startled wonder. “How the devil did you catch on to that? You certainly are a marvel! Go on, talk. That was a lovely getaway you made on the platform. Tell me about it. About everything.”
“For one thing, they plan to get you when you go to that musical thing at Ostend, to meet the ambassador from Paris. Truxon has that job.”
Barnes started, then whistled softly. “Damn it! They have a spy in the Paris embassy; we can’t locate him. All right, tell me how you know so much.”
Laughing, she complied, delighted at having puzzled him, and still lost in wonder at finding him to be the Sphinx in sober earnest. And as she talked, Barnes kept the roadster roaring to the northward at high speed.
What a girl she was! Her vibrant personality, her keen ability fascinated him. She was the one person he had determined to save at all costs, from this sudden debacle which had burst upon the little company of free-lances. She was worth all the rest; not because she was a woman, or from any personal interest, but because her wits, her brain, was worth the others combined.
“There you have everything,” she concluded. “Is it really something about Abyssinia? What we could have to do with that country, I’ve no idea.”
Barnes nodded frowningly. “We have. Their envoy in Paris has arranged terms with our ambassador there; tentative terms, to be confirmed in Washington. The mutually signed draft is the crux of this situation. It must go by special messenger, and getting it out of Europe is the very devil. Why, I’m not sure. Why Rothstern must have the terms, I don’t know. Abyssinia no doubt hopes that a special treaty throwing her borders open to our commerce will forestall Italy, for Mussolini is intent upon grabbing the country. Reilly is to meet us at Dijon, if he gets out of Paris safely.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 100