The Spy Paramount

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

“Not at present. The call to Washington is through, I suppose?”

  “You should be connected in half an hour, sir.”

  “Very well. Send in General Burns the moment he arrives.”

  Henry Malcolm, the doyen of private secretaries, took his leave. For another twenty minutes the Prime Minister studied the atlas with its pencilled annotations and the pile of memoranda which had been left upon his desk. A queer, startling situation! No one could make out quite what it meant. Willoughby Johns, as he pored over the mass of miscellaneous detail which had been streaming in for the last forty-eight hours, was inclined to wonder whether after all there was anything in it. Another war at a moment’s notice! The idea seemed idiotic. He took a turn or two up and down the room with its worn but comfortable furniture, its spacious, well-filled book-shelves. His familiar environment seemed in some way a tonic against these sinister portents…. There was a tap at the door. Malcolm presented himself once more.

  “General Burns was at the Foreign Office, sir,” he announced. “He will be round in five minutes.”

  The Prime Minister nodded. He glanced at his watch. Still only seven o’clock. A telephone message from Washington to wait for, and he had been up at six. He listened to the subdued roar of traffic in the Buckingham Palace Road and the honking of taxis in the Park. Men going home after their day’s work, without a doubt, home to their wives and children. Or calling perhaps at the club for a cheerful rubber of bridge and a whisky and soda. What a life! What peace and rest for harassed nerves! Dash it all, he would have a whisky and soda himself! He rang the bell twice. A solemn but sympathetic-looking butler presented himself.

  “Philpott,” his master ordered, “whisky and soda—some of the best whisky you have—and Schweppe’s soda-water—no siphons.”

  “Very good, sir,” the man replied, rather startled. “Would you care for a biscuit as well, sir?”

  “Certainly. Two or three biscuits.”

  “Mr. Malcolm was saying that you had cancelled the dinner with the Cordonas Company to-night, sir.”

  “Quite right,” Willoughby Johns assented. “No time for public dinners just now. I will have something here later on after the call from Washington has been through.”

  The man took his departure only to make very prompt reappearance. The whisky and soda was excellent. The Prime Minister drank it slowly and appreciatively. He made up his mind that he would have one every night at this hour. He hated tea. It was many hours since lunch, at which he had drunk one glass of light hock. Of course he needed sustenance. All the doctors, too, just now were preaching alcohol, including his own. Nevertheless, he felt a little guilty when General Burns was ushered in.

  “Come in, General,” he welcomed him. “Glad I caught you. Take a chair.”

  Burns, the almost typical soldier, a man of quick movements and brusque speech, took the chair to which he was motioned.

  “My time is always at your disposal, sir,” he said. “I very seldom leave before nine anyway.”

  The Prime Minister crumpled up his last piece of biscuit and swallowed it, finished his whisky and soda and stretched himself out with the air of a man refreshed.

  “What is all this trouble down south, Burns?” he asked.

  The General smiled sardonically.

  “We leave it to you others to discover that, sir,” he replied. “We only pass on the externals to you. I don’t like the look of things myself, but there may be nothing in it.”

  “You started the scare,” the Prime Minister reminded him reproachfully.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, I would not call it that,” the other protested. “What I did was to send in a report to the Foreign Office, as it was my duty to do, that there were at the present moment in Monte Carlo and Nice a larger number of Secret Service men of various nationalities than I have ever known drawn towards one spot since 1914.”

  “Who are they? Is there any report of their activities further than these formal chits and despatches?” Willoughby Johns asked.

  “They scarcely exist by name, sir. There have been seven men from the eastern section of the newly established Italian Secret Service staying in Monte Carlo at once. They mingled freely with everyone and gambled at the tables, but recently five of them are said to have disappeared completely. There have been various reports about them, but nothing authentic.”

  “What do you imagine yourself has happened to them?” the Prime Minister enquired.

  The General shrugged his shoulders.

  “My opinion, sir, is,” he said, “that they got lost in the mountains and fell into the hands of people who have an ugly way with strangers. They take their risks, of course, but no one has complained. Then there is a Frenchman there, Marquet. One of the cleverest agents who ever breathed. He sits in an easy-chair in the Hôtel de France lounge practically the whole of the day, but somehow or other he gets to know things. Then there were two Germans—Krust, the great industrialist, who is supposed to be a supporter of the Crown Prince, and another one whom I do not know. We have our own two men; one of them has a villa and never leaves Monte Carlo, and the other resides in Nice. Finally, if I may mention his name, there is the American, Major Fawley, who is reported to have been drowned at the entrance to the harbour, but whom we have heard of since in Germany. He would be a useful man to talk to if we could get hold of him.”

  “Ah, yes, Major Fawley,” the Prime Minister reflected.

  “Fawley’s report about affairs in Berlin, if he ever got there, would be extraordinarily interesting,” the General remarked.

  The Prime Minister looked vague.

  “I thought it was one of the peculiarities of the man,” he observed, “that he never made reports.”

  “He is a remarkable traveller. One meets him in the most unexpected places. He believes in viva-voce reports.”

  The Prime Minister stroked his chin.

  “I suppose you know that he is in London, Burns?” he asked.

  “Only half an hour ago. We were not, as a matter of fact, looking out for him. We were interested in the wanderings of the Princess di Vasena, and we tracked her down to Major Fawley’s rooms at the Albany.”

  “Your men are good workers,” the Prime Minister approved.

  “Espionage in London is easy enough. You must appreciate the fact, though, sir, that to have a man like Fawley working outside the department, who insists upon maintaining this isolation, makes it rather difficult for us.”

  “That is all very well, General,” the Prime Minister declared impatiently. “Personally I hate Secret Service work, but we have to make use of it. We are up against the gravest of problems. No one can make out what is going on in Rome or in Berlin. We are compelled to employ every source of information. Fawley is invaluable to us, but you know the situation. We are under great obligations to him and he has done as much, without the slightest reward or encouragement, to bring about a mutual understanding between Washington and Downing Street as was possible for any human being. He works for the love of the work. He will accept no form of reward. All that he asks is freedom from surveillance so that he can work in his own fashion. I admit that the position must seem strange to you others, but I am afraid that we cannot alter it.”

  The General rose thoughtfully to his feet. The Prime Minister, whose nerves were a little on edge, waved him back again.

  “It is no good taking this matter the wrong way, Burns,” he said. “We are having far more trouble with M.2.XX. at Scotland Yard than with you. There was a fight of some sort in Major Fawley’s rooms at the Albany last night. His young brother got rather badly wounded. Fawley simply insists upon it that the whole affair is hushed up, yet we know that in that room were the Princess Elida di Vasena, Prince Patoni, her cousin—the private secretary of Berati, mark you—and Fawley. To add to the complication the young man, who was Third Secretary at Rome, has resigned from the service and
is going back to New York to-morrow if he is well enough to travel. The Sub-Commissioner is furious with the Home Secretary, and the Home Secretary complains to us. Nothing matters. We have given our word to Fawley and we have to keep it.”

  “Why?” the General asked calmly.

  The Prime Minister smiled.

  “I don’t blame you for asking that question, General,” he went on, “and I will give you an honest reply. Because I myself and the two others who have to bear the brunt of affairs during these days of fierce anxiety have come to one definite conclusion. Fawley is the only man in Europe to-day who can save us from war.”

  Malcolm made hurried entrance.

  “The call to Washington is through, sir, in your private cabinet,” he announced.

  General Burns saluted and took his leave. The Prime Minister hurried to the telephone.

  ***

  It was ten minutes later when a furious ringing of the bell in the small room sent Malcolm hurrying in to his chief. The Prime Minister was restlessly pacing up and down the room. There seemed to be new lines in his face. He was haggard as though with a sense of fresh responsibilities. Yet with it all there was a glow of exaltation. He was like a man in the grip of mighty thoughts. He looked at Malcolm for a moment, as the latter entered the room and closed the door behind him, almost vaguely.

  “You have spoken to Washington, sir?”

  The Prime Minister nodded.

  “Malcolm,” he instructed his secretary, “I want Fawley here within half an hour.”

  “Fawley, sir?” the young man repeated anxiously. “But you know our agreement? As a matter of fact the house is being watched at this minute. London seems to have become as full of spies as any place on the Continent could be. Would it not be best, sir—”

  “I must see Fawley myself and at once,” the Prime Minister said firmly. “If an armed escort is necessary, provide it. Do you think that you can find him?”

  “There will be no difficulty about that, sir,” the young man replied doubtfully. “He keeps us informed of his movements from hour to hour. If this Prince Patoni, the envoy from Italy, discovers that Fawley is in direct communication with you, though, sir, it might lead to any sort of trouble,” Malcolm said gravely.

  “It is worth the risk,” was the dogged reply. “Have a squad of police if you want them and clear the street. Anderson will see to that for you. Fawley can arrive as an ordinary dinner guest in a taxicab, but whatever happens, Fawley must come.”

  “It shall be arranged, sir,” Malcolm promised.

  Chapter XXIV

  After all, it seemed as though a great deal of fuss had been made about nothing. There were certainly half a dozen curious strollers in Downing Street, but the small cordon of policemen around the entrance to Number Ten awakened no more than ordinary comment. People of international importance were passing through those portals by day and by night, and in these disturbed times an escort was not unusual. Fawley himself, dressed in the Clubman’s easy garb of short jacket and black tie, with a black slouch hat pulled over his eyes and a scarf around his throat, was quite unrecognisable as he jumped lightly from the taxi, passed the fare up to the driver, and stepped swiftly across the pavement and through the already opened door. He was ushered at once into Malcolm’s room. The two men, who were old friends, shook hands.

  “Any idea what’s wrong?” Fawley asked.

  “Very likely nothing at all,” Malcolm replied. “I have spoken to Washington twice to-day and I gathered there was something stirring in our Department. They wanted the Prime Minister himself at seven o’clock. The Chief spoke and came out from the box looking rather like a man who had had a shock, and yet who had found something exciting at the back of it all. He insisted upon breaking all rules and seeing you here himself at once. I hope you did not mind the cavalcade. It was my job to get you here safely at all costs.”

  “I generally find I am safer alone,” Fawley confided, “but I didn’t mind at all. The others dropped out at the corner of the street and made a sort of semi-circular drive down. Queer days we are living in, Malcolm.”

  There was a knock at the door. The butler entered.

  “The Prime Minister asks if you have dined, sir,” he said, addressing Fawley. “If not, will you join him in a simple dinner in ten minutes?”

  “Delighted,” Fawley assented.

  “I was to ask you to entertain Major Fawley for that time, sir,” the man went on, turning to Malcolm.

  “You and I will do the entertaining together, Philpott,” the secretary replied with a smile.

  “Dry Martinis, sir?” the man asked.

  “A couple each and strong,” Malcolm specified. “This has been a wearing day. And bring some more cigarettes, Philpott.”

  “This sounds like good news,” Fawley remarked, installing himself in an armchair. “The cocktails, I mean. Any late news from Berlin?”

  “We had a message through half an hour ago,” Malcolm confided. “The city is still in a turmoil, but Behrling seems to have got them going. I think the Chief hit it on the nail at the luncheon to-day when he remarked that he could not make up his mind whether a weak and disrupted Germany for a time or a strong and united country gave us the best hope of peace.”

  Fawley sipped his cocktail appreciatively. He made no comment on the other’s remarks. Just at the moment he had nothing to say about Germany even to the secretary of the British Prime Minister.

  “Good show at the American Embassy last night,” he observed.

  “I didn’t go,” Malcolm regretted. “The Chief just now is too restless for me to get away anywhere and feel comfortable. I cannot help feeling that there is something of terrific importance in the air, of which even I know nothing.”

  The two men smoked on for a minute or two in silence. Then Fawley asked his host a question.

  “Are those fellows outside waiting to ride home with me?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Malcolm assented. “You see, the Chief gave special orders to M.I.2, and they brought Scotland Yard into it. We know how you hate it, but the Chief is just as obstinate, and it seems you must be kept alive at all hazards for the next week or so.”

  “They didn’t stop a mad Italian having a go at me last night,” Fawley grumbled. “Got my brother instead. Not much harm done, I’m glad to say. What sort of an Italian colony is yours here?”

  “No idea,” Malcolm confessed. “This sort of work that you go in for is right outside my line. From what I have heard, though, I believe they are a pretty tough lot. Not as bad as in your country, though.”

  “They don’t need to be,” Fawley smiled. “As a rule I find it pretty easy to slip about, but it seems I am not popular in Rome just now.”

  “These fellows to-night didn’t annoy you in any way, I hope?” Malcolm asked.

  “Not in the least. I dare say, as a matter of fact, they were very useful. I don’t take much notice of threats as a rule, but I had word on the telephone that they were laying for me.”

  “Official?”

  “I think not. I think it was a private warning.”

  The butler re-opened the door.

  “The Prime Minister is down, sir,” he announced. “If you will allow me, I will show you the way to the small dining room.”

  “See you later,” Malcolm observed.

  “I hope so,” Fawley answered. “By the by, I shan’t be sorry to have you keep those fellows to-night, Malcolm. First time in my life I’ve felt resigned to having nursemaids in attendance, but there is a spot of trouble about.”

  Malcolm’s forehead wrinkled in surprise. He had known Fawley several years, but this was the first time he had ever heard him utter any apprehension of the sort.

  “I’ll pass word along to the sergeant,” he promised. “They would not have been going in any case, though, until they had seen you safely home….” />
  Fawley had the rare honour of dining alone with the Prime Minister. As between two men of the world their conversation could scarcely be called brilliant, but, when dinner was over and at the host’s orders coffee and port simultaneously placed upon the table, the Prime Minister unburdened himself.

  “You are a man of experience, Fawley,” he began. “You would call things on the Continent pretty critical, wouldn’t you?”

  “Never more so,” Fawley assented. “If any one of five men whom Italy sent out to the frontier had got back to Rome alive there would have been war at the present moment.”

  The Prime Minister was allowing himself a glass of port and he sipped it thoughtfully.

  “It’s a funny thing,” he went on. “We have ambassadors in every country of Europe and they keep making reports to us which are of great interest. When anything goes wrong, however, they are always the most surprised men in the world.”

  “You must remember,” Fawley pointed out, “they are not allowed a Secret Service Department. The last person to hear of trouble as a rule is, as you say, the ambassador to the country concerned. What can you do about it, though?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” the other sighed. “Take our friend at Rome. It was only last night we had a long rigmarole from the Embassy there. The ambassador said he had never been more deeply impressed with the earnest desire of a certain great man for European peace. All the time we know that Berati has the draft of a treaty ready for the signature of whichever party in Germany comes out on top.”

  “Berati very nearly made a mistake there,” Fawley remarked. “Still, I don’t know that he was to be blamed. There were a few hours when I was in Berlin when the chances were all in favour of a monarchy. Von Salzenburg and his puppet played the game badly, or they would have won all right.”

  “Shall I tell you why I sent for you to-night?” the Prime Minister asked abruptly.

  “I wish you would,” was the very truthful and earnest response.

  “You have your finger upon the situation in Germany and in Rome. You are not so well informed about the Quai d’Orsay, perhaps, but you know something about that. You know that war is simmering. Can you think of any means by which trouble can be postponed for, say, one week?”