The Big Book of Espionage

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

  Barnes voiced his thoughts, as Marie sent the roadster roaring on. She had the whole story in her mind, now.

  “If I’m stopped, you must carry on,” he said. “The photostat is in my inside right coat pocket. You must put through the deal if I fail. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. The one word held volumes.

  “Get the thing straight. Rothstern probably knows what I don’t know—that I’m picked to meet the American ambassador in Ostend and carry that treaty over to London, where it can be sent in the diplomatic pouch without danger. That arrangement is of course a mask. I’m to meet Grimaldi, or someone is, with this photostat and make the deal. And Rothstern surely knows of the photostat.”

  “But you’re to meet the American ambassador too?”

  “Naturally. That can be done openly enough, without danger. There is probably going to be a whole diplomatic gathering at this musical affair next Friday. Which reminds me—I must arrange about tickets. It’ll be held at the Kursaal, of course; that’s the big concert place in Ostend. My man at Troyes will attend to it.”

  “Are you going to explain that code to me?”

  “Yes. The minute we have an hour to ourselves. Over the border.”

  “Shall we get over?”

  “We must.”

  Troyes was at last on the horizon, and the ghastly ride was presently at an end, and poor Reilly at peace. This was in a furtive little street behind the Hotel Terminus, where a plump, gray-bearded man and his two sons saw to everything. He put into the roadster a hamper of food and wine, and when Barnes introduced the girl to his unpronouncable name, he bowed to her like a courtier.

  “Mademoiselle, I am honored. You behold but a damned dirty dog of an Armenian, as they called me at Eton in my youth; yet we Armenians may have our uses, eh? Here, Mr. Barnes, are telegrams. One, I fear, will cause you sadness.”

  They drove on, Marie taking the wheel while Barnes looked at the telegrams.

  “I suppose,” she asked, “that man was a prince or something?”

  “Eh? Oh, not at all,” said Barnes. “He was a multi-millionaire before the war. Look here! McGibbons was killed today, in Warsaw. An automobile accident.”

  “McGibbons?” she echoed in dismay. “Sandy McGibbons? Oh—”

  “Exactly; one of our best men. Accident? Not a bit of it.” The voice of Barnes was grim. “Now we’ve come down to murder. Poland, remember, is a close ally of Germany in the new alignment. Our other news isn’t so good, either. Truxon left Nice today and landed in Paris this afternoon, by air; Stacey was with him. Rothstern went on by the same train from Lyon to Paris. Gave you up as a bad job, evidently. Once we get out of town, I’ll drive. Tired?”

  “Not a bit,” she lied bravely.

  Troyes fell behind.

  A meal as they drove, with hot coffee and a dash of cognac from the hamper, made the cold night look different. Spare gasoline was in the luggage compartment; later, they filled the tank. It was a mad, wild flight through the morning hours; dawn found them speeding forward, with Marie huddled up asleep. Sunrise at last, and in the golden morning they rolled up to the frontier station of the Douane, and Barnes adroitly conveyed a thousand-franc note to the customs inspector in a packet of cigarettes.

  Ten minutes later they were in Belgium, unhindered; even the broken windshield had drawn no suspicion.

  “Now what?” asked the girl.

  “On to the city of Mons. Then hotel; sleep; rest; buy whatever we need. No hurry,” and Barnes uttered a gay, joyous laugh. “To-day is Wednesday. We’ll stop here till morning, get the windshield replaced, and drive on to Ostend tomorrow. Comrade, we’ve done it!”

  “At a price,” she murmured. Barnes lost his cheery air; his face darkened.

  “Right. Let me tell you something; when I fight fire with fire, I don’t use water. Rothstern murdered Reilly and McGibbons, and that signed his death-warrant. You can pull out of my game if you don’t like it. Fair warning!”

  She eyed his harsh, strong features with their hint of savage determination, and nodded. She made answer with quiet restraint.

  “You’re not the man you were; not the same. You’re getting bigger, if not better. You’re going far. And I’m trailing along, thanks.”

  * * *

  —

  “Good girl. You know. I’ve got something to fight for; we both have,” broke out Barnes with sudden deep feeling. “Back home, these callow university pinks, these agitators, these damned communists who never heard of patriotism, say that Americans have no cause, nothing to fight for, no reason for loving country. Wait and see. By God, I’m going to carry things home to these murdering rats over here! This organization is now mine. I’m going to use it in my own way. And everyone else be hanged!”

  “Good for you!” came her voice, low, vibrant, rich. “You’re not afraid to do things; right or wrong, you do things. Most men don’t, any more. They’re afraid to make mistakes, afraid somebody will call them down. Ugh!”

  “And let me tell you one thing,” Barnes said, tapping her on the knee. “Your report on that conversation in the hotel in Nice—girl, that’s big! It’s going to change everything, all my plans. It shows me a lot. We’ll not go into it now, for my brain’s dead. By the way, take this photostat, won’t you? Pin it under your dress and carry it; I’ll feel safer.”

  “All right, Mr. Sphinx,” she said, smiling, and the precious thing passed into her keeping.

  Mons grew ahead of them at last, in mid-morning. Ten minutes after they arrived, Barnes was asleep. For the present, worries and cares were left behind.

  That same evening, after Barnes had dispatched a sheaf of telegrams, they visited a movie together in delicious relaxation and safety. A good night’s sleep followed. With morning, they were off, driving unhurried through the rich Belgian fields. The wild and frenzied flight north was like an evil dream over and done with.

  Before reaching Ostend they halted for dinner, in order to delay their arrival until after dark. Marie Nicolas, getting a postcard, demanded a fountain pen.

  “Haven’t one,” said Barnes. She stared at him blankly.

  “But you have! What’s that clipped to your waistcoat pocket?”

  Barnes grunted, drew out the pen to which she referred, and replaced it.

  “That,” he said, “is a little improvement of my own on a parlor toy. Waiter! De quoi écrire. Well, Marie, this time tomorrow night either you or I should be hearing the Beethoven Mass and talking business with Grimaldi. I’ve instructed all my agents, by the way, that you’re second in command.”

  “Oh! But—do you know you haven’t explained that cipher?”

  Barnes whistled. “Right! Later on, then. It’ll take time. Get your postcard off and we’ll be on our way.”

  * * *

  —

  Ostend, the glittering Atlantic City of the Belgian coast, opened before them. Ostend, the cheap and flashy, shop-worn with years and British trippers. Barnes, as usual, avoided the big hotels and drew to a halt before a small and unostentatious hostelry half a block from the “board walk,” as it would be termed in America.

  “Behold the Belgian Lion!” he exclaimed gaily. “Warranted a cheap, inconspicuous, and small inn. As soon as we get rooms, will you chase out and find me a stenographer?”

  “I’m one,” she said.

  “I must have one who can put English or French into Italian, which I don’t know.”

  “I speak Italian perfectly.”

  Barnes broke into a laugh. “Good! We’ll dispense with the stenographer.”

  They secured rooms on the same floor. Half an hour later, Barnes finished his dictation. He took the photostat, which he had requested from Marie.

  “Doesn’t it seem rather silly to have only one of those?” she asked.
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  “Precisely,” and the gray eyes twinkled at her. “I’m going out now to find one of my men and have another made. Then we’ll each have one. I’ve decided to let you conduct all negotiations with Grimaldi.”

  “What?” Her gaze widened on him. “But you—”

  “Will be throwing Truxon off the trail. The performance begins at eight tomorrow evening. At seven, two tickets will be delivered here; the two seats next to Grimaldi, his wife, and secretary. You’ll take them and go, presuming nothing happens to prevent you. If I don’t show up, you’ll have an empty seat beside you.

  “Make an extra copy of that dictation and leave it for me, if you don’t see me in the morning, at the hotel desk. Take your own copy with you. First, is the contents of the photostat; give that to Grimaldi and get his instant attention. Then give him the terms on which he may have the photostat—the second dictation. If he signs these, give him the photostat and the game’s finished.”

  “But you—”

  “What? Are you going around all your life repeating those two words?” demanded Barnes. “Me, I’ve got to see the American ambassador in the afternoon, let Truxon and possibly Rothstern follow me around, and maybe buy me off.

  “Who knows? I’ll shove the photostat under your door if you’re asleep when I get back.”

  “I was trying to tell you,” she retorted, “that you can’t have a copy made at night.”

  Barnes regarded her with lifted brows.

  “You might tell me, also,” he rejoined, “that it is impossible to get, from the eye of a dead man, the picture of his murderer. In both cases, you would be wrong—quite contrary to general belief. I’ll go into the matter scientifically with you the next time we find a murdered man and no clue to his killer. Meanwhile, my dear, enjoy yourself, keep off the streets, and don’t talk with strange men. Au revoir!”

  He departed, with a grin, leaving her half angry, half perplexed.

  An hour later, after a long conversation with a lean, dark man whose curio shop-window bore the startling name of Djismardahossian, Barnes went to one of the largest hotels in Ostend. No other, in fact, than the singularly named Hotel Delicious. Here he displayed himself prominently about the lobby, registered, secured a room, went to his room and turned in for the night.

  “She can handle Grimaldi better than I can anyhow,” he reflected cheerfully, as he switched off his light. “And I’m the bird they’re all out to catch. So, with luck and one stone, I’m liable to kill two birds and prove that the hand is quicker than the eye. Good hunting tomorrow, Rothstern—damn your black heart!”

  When Marie Nicolas wakened next morning, she found an envelope shoved under her door. In the envelope was the photostat. On the envelope was the rubber stamp of The Sphinx, U.S.A. But she saw nothing of Barnes that day.

  CHAPTER V

  A STRANGE SUDDEN END

  At three o’clock on Friday afternoon, Barnes was ushered into the presence of the American ambassador to France, who by some curious chance was also stopping at the Hotel Delicious. The diplomat looked worried, and he was worried.

  “Barnes, this damned nonsense must stop,” he exclaimed, in the undiplomatic language of big business. “Your wild-cat organization is busted. These European crooks have got the whole crowd by the tail. Reilly’s dead. McGibbons is dead. Others are in jail. You must give up the whole show; it’s come to an end.”

  “On the contrary,” said Barnes coolly, “it’s just begun. If you think two boys like Reilly and McGibbons are going to be bumped off, and nothing done about it, guess again. The crowd’s busted, sure, just as I predicted it would be. I’m running the show with a crowd of my own, now.”

  The other gave him a keen, angry glance.

  “You’re in earnest?”

  “Absolutely and entirely, sir.” The level glance of Barnes was like gray steel.

  “You’re a fool. These secret agents are dirty, double-crossing, treacherous rats. Men like you can’t hope to fight ’em.”

  “Terriers wipe out rats,” said Barnes. “Me, I’m the damndest terrier you ever saw, right now. This time tomorrow I can walk down the boulevards in Paris and the police will tip their hats to me instead of trying to grab me. Wait and see.”

  “You’re a blasted ass. Europe is in a ticklish condition. None of us in the service can be responsible for you. If you get in a jam, you’re without appeal. You’ve no connection with Washington. Damn it, I admire you with all my heart, but—”

  “You stick in the embassy and I’ll play the small-time circuit,” and Barnes grinned. “What you don’t know, won’t hurt you. With Marie Nicolas and a few of the old gang, I’m going ahead; you might tip off the other appointees from Washington to this effect. Now, I’m in a bit of a rush. Do you want me to take that treaty draft over to the London embassy?”

  “Yes. It’s blasted important too.” The ambassador extended a sealed envelope.

  “Wrong; it’ll die a-borning,” said Barnes. “I’ve learned something about it. This treaty is a blind to get Europe all het up over America’s butting into the African game. Abyssinia would repudiate the treaty even if we bothered about it, which we won’t.”

  And he departed, leaving the ambassador frowning after him, more worried than ever.

  * * *

  —

  Barnes left the hotel. He strolled over toward the plage, the wide expanse of sands, villas, bathing huts, stretching up to the massive concrete harbor works. He paused at a café, seated himself with a sigh, and ordered a Rossi. It was just four o’clock. He squirted the glass full of seltzer water, pinched the slice of lemon peel into the blood-red mixture, then sipped at it contentedly and watched the passing throng.

  Ten minutes later a large, beaming, jovial figure came swinging along, stopped short at sight of Barnes in well-simulated astonishment, then came to his table.

  “My friend, Mr. Barnes, of all people!” exclaimed Rothstern, cordially. “May I sit down.”

  “Why not?” Barnes said. “Trailed me, have you? No use lying about it?”

  Rothstern chuckled, as he seated himself and ordered a beer. “I suppose not. We need not lie to each other, hein?” He wiped his bald spot and beamed. “Well, like you Americans, I shall get down to business. Come, Mr. Barnes, we need not be unfriendly. You are going to England; would not a little English money come in useful over there?”

  “A little? No,” said Barnes curtly. “A whole lot might, though.”

  Rothstern heaved with laughter. “Ah, you Americans! Come, my friend. I will make you an offer,” and his voice dropped until it was barely audible. “Two thousand English pounds if you will let me copy the document you received from the American ambassador. No one will ever know. It will take ten minutes.”

  “You think I’d sell out? To you?”

  “Yes,” said Rothstern blandly. “Remember we have met before; you were ready enough to take my money then. Why not now? The cash is ready. We need only step over to my hotel. Why should we not remain friends, to the advantage of both?”

  The gaze of Barnes lowered. “Hm! Maybe you’re right, Rothstern. If what I hear is true, the game is up for most of us Americans, anyhow.”

  “Ah, my boy! With Papa Rothstern your friend, who knows? Come. Finish your drink, step to the Grand Hotel with me, and in fifteen minutes—pouf! It is over.”

  Barnes kept his eyes veiled, to hide their hot agitation. So plausible was the man that he might have been fooled, had not Marie Nicolas overheard the actual intention of Rothstern, had he not known who was responsible for the deaths of Reilly and McGibbons. Abruptly, he tossed down his drink.

  “All right,” he said with decision. “But I’ll not walk over with you, naturally.”

  “Oh, as you like!” Rothstern rose. “Come in five minutes. Take the elevator to the fourth floor; I’ll be
awaiting you in the corridor. So long!”

  He swung away with a wave of his malacca stick. Barnes looked after him, eyes narrowed, cold, implacable.

  Five minutes later, Barnes rose, paid for the drinks, and walked toward the Grand Hotel. The die was cast now; he was gambling everything on one turn of the cards, almost literally. As he had told the ambassador, it was make or break this same night.

  He had no illusions whatever about Rothstern’s intentions, or the trap laid for him.

  The Grand Hotel, with its gardens and spacious lobby, opened before him.

  He walked steadily to the elevators, took a car up, and left it at the floor designated. Rothstern was waiting.

  “Ah! You are wise, my friend, very wise; I welcome you,” said the fat man with hearty cordiality. “Come along. I have everything ready. Here is the room—” and he flung open the door of a corner room, with a laughing bow.

  Barnes, with a slight shrug, walked in. The door closed behind him. At one side stood Truxon, at the other the rat-like Stacey, each with a pistol in hand.

  “Hello,” exclaimed Barnes. “Why not a machine gun? I thought this was a private affair, Rothstern.”

  “An excess of zeal, perhaps—merely to make sure you are not armed, my friend,” purred Rothstern. “You do not object?”

  “Not in the least.” Barnes held up his arms. Truxon, he of the lean and savage features, stepped forward and frisked him—efficiently.

  “So that is finished!” exclaimed Rothstern. “Now we shall all be friends, Stacey! Go and get the motor-car ready for us. Mr. Truxon, you will remain, if Mr. Barnes has no objection?”

  “I have,” said Barnes coolly. “Our talk is to be private.”

  “Very well.” Rothstern turned, and winked significantly at Truxon. “Go into the adjoining room, and wait. But leave the door open, mind! Come, Mr. Barnes, we can settle matters comfortably at the table.”