“Always around like a stormy petrel when there’s a bit of trouble going, aren’t you, Charles?” he observed grimly. “What are you doing this way? And where did you come from?”
“Oh, just knocking about,” Mildenhall replied, helping himself to one of his friend’s cigarettes. “I was in Budapest last.”
“Got the jitters over there, haven’t they?”
“Jitters everywhere! Europe’s like one of those unlit bonfires already smouldering underneath.”
“Is it true that Poland is completely mobilized?” Lascelles asked.
His visitor’s face was absolutely blank.
“Some report of that sort going round,” he observed. “Look here, when is our next bag going?”
“To-night.”
“Plane or rail?”
“Don’t know,” Lascelles replied, leaning back for a telephone. “Wait a minute, there’s a good fellow.”
He held a brief conversation in fluent German with some unseen person.
“Plane,” he announced as he rang off.
“What time?”
“Latish. The Chief is dining at the Chancellery and he’ll have a brief report to put in when he comes back. How much room do you want?”
“Only enough for my weekly chatter…I’ll do it here, if you don’t mind. Shall I be in the way for a couple of hours or so?”
“Lock you up here with pleasure. Do you want a code book?”
“I may as well have one. I ought not to need it, though.”
There was a gleam of admiration in Lascelles’ eyes as he made a few preparations for his friend’s comfort.
“What wouldn’t I give for a memory like yours!” he observed. “Ten or fifteen pages of foolscap, your last report, I remember, straight into code.”
“Rather more this time, I’m afraid,” Mildenhall sighed. “As to the memory—that’s only a trick.”
“Wish I had it! Do you mean to say you have no notes even?”
“Not one,” Mildenhall replied.
“And when did you send your last report home?”
“Warsaw, last Thursday.”
“And you are going to sit down now and turn into code, probably without a code book at all, a report of how many visits and conversations?”
Mildenhall smiled.
“You run off and play, my friend,” he advised. “Plenty of sealing wax there?”
“A drawerful. Are you going to pay your respects to Her Ladyship this evening?”
“I’ll see what the time is when I’ve finished.”
“Two bells on your desk,” Lascelles pointed out. “One for secretarial help, the other domestic. I’m living in just now. Telephone up to me and we’ll have a cocktail if you’ve finished in time.”
He disappeared with a farewell nod. An English servant appeared a few minutes later with a small despatch case and a sealed envelope. Mildenhall greeted him with a friendly word or two.
“Mr. Lascelles says, sir, don’t forget to speak to him before you go. He’s free for dinner if you would care to join him.”
“I’ll see what time I finish, Butler. Thank him very much all the same. Things pretty gay here still?”
The man shook his head sadly.
“Not the same, sir. Nothing’s quite the same. The sparkle’s gone out of the place, if you know what I mean, sir.”
“People gone ‘nervy,’ eh?”
“They’re afraid of what might be coming, sir. That’s what’s wrong with them. It’s the gentleman on the other side that they’re afraid of.”
Mildenhall’s expression was once again utterly blank. He nodded slightly and waved his hand towards the door.
“Tell Mr. Lascelles that I’ll look him up as soon as I can,” he enjoined.
The servant took his leave. For a few minutes Mildenhall sat like a man deep in thought. His eyes wandered round the room. Everything was quite familiar. For the last seven or eight years he had finished those secret European tours of his, which had brought him so much distinction at the Foreign Office, in Vienna and written home from this same room his final report. The apartment was unchanged, the two doors were closed, the curtains were drawn, his solitude was assured. He broke the seal of the envelope and withdrew a small key, its sole contents. With the key he unlocked the despatch box and withdrew the code book. He pushed the case away and propped up the code book in a conspicuous place just in front of him. Then he drew out from the rack a pile of the heavy embossed, blue foolscap paper, examined his fountain pen and started to write.
In two hours time his task was finished. The eight sheets of foolscap covered with clear, bold handwriting contained, in carefully chosen code, the result of one secret visit to Moscow and three briefer sojourns at Warsaw, Bucharest and Budapest. Mildenhall lit a cigarette and read through all that he had written. There was a faint flicker of self-satisfaction in his smile as he finished. He made no corrections, not a single alteration, but he added just two words in a code so utterly secret between himself and the person who would read his report that the code itself existed only in the memories of the two men. He folded up the eight sheets, found the proper linen envelope, used liberally the brown sealing wax and his own seal. Then he replaced the code book in the despatch box, locked it up and enclosed the key itself in another envelope, which he scaled and stamped. Finally he rang the bell. A young man wearing heavy glasses, pale and eminently secretarial, made his appearance. He greeted the solitary occupant of the room without a smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Mildenhall.”
“Good evening, Paul. There you are.”
He handed over the packet. The young man took it into his charge.
“I will place it in the safe deposit, sir, until we open it at midnight for the bag. His Excellency will have returned by then.”
“Who takes the plane over to-night?” Mildenhall asked.
“Major Grimmet, sir.”
“Nice safe fellow,” Mildenhall approved. “I wouldn’t mind a ride over with him myself.”
“You’re not leaving us just yet, sir?” the secretary asked.
“Not just yet,” was the somewhat vague reply. “Do you know if Mr. Lascelles is still in his room?”
“He is there and hoping to see you.”
“And Her Ladyship?”
“Her Ladyship is dining in. She told me that if you rang before nine o’clock you could go in and have a cocktail with her.”
Mildenhall glanced at his watch.
“Just five minutes,” he remarked. “A cocktail sounds extraordinarily good to me, Paul.”
“You will find Her Ladyship in the small drawing-room. Mr. Lascelles said that he would probably join you there.”
Lady Maxwell-Tremearne was the typical ambassador’s wife. She was born in Washington of American parents, had met her future husband on a winter-sports visit to the Austrian Tyrol and was married to him within a month or so of his appointment as First Secretary to the British Embassy in Washington. She was still under forty and exceedingly popular in Viennese society. She welcomed Charles Mildenhall warmly when he was announced by the seneschal of the household. She was lying on a sofa drawn up before a log fire and was surrounded with newspapers.
“My dear Charles!” she exclaimed. “How nice to see you.”
He kissed her fingers and drew a chair to her side.
“I’m sorry to see you reading all these semi-official newspapers,” he declared, after a few amenities had passed between them. “You’ll get in such a state of hopeless confusion if you try to read them all. There’s the official organ of the Heimwehr, the Nazi rag, the Government organ and the Schutzbund!”
“I know,” she sighed. “It’s terribly difficult. I used to think our American politics were involved enough, but it’s much worse over here. Tell me what’s going to happen, Charles.”
He laughed—almost light-heartedly.
“My dear Sarah,” he exclaimed, “why ask me? I thought you knew that politics weren’t in my line. I�
�ve come over here to escape from them. I’m always nervous that some day or other my family will insist upon my going into Parliament.”
“Politics in England are different,” she declared a little pettishly. “They don’t mean bloodshed as they do here. Do you know, there has been quite a lot of fighting in the streets and the way they are treating these poor Jews is something awful. You remember Otto von Lenberg?”
“Why, of course,” he answered.
“The Von Lenbergs aren’t really Jews at all,” she told him, “but just because he defended the Herzfelds when their properties were confiscated he has been turned out of the Courts and fined millions. He is in prison at the present moment and Olga is nearly out of her mind. Heaps and heaps of our friends have been branded suspects. The Austrian Nazis are getting stronger here every day. It really is alarming, Charles. We are expecting the Germans to cross the frontier at any moment and I can’t imagine what will happen then. I don’t particularly care for Jews, Charles, but some of them are quite delightful people and they are being treated brutally.”
“What does Sir John think about it?” Mildenhall asked.
“He doesn’t think anything, of course,” she answered. “He can’t. He’s the ambassador of a foreign country and he can’t open his mouth. It’s different with you. You’ve practically left the Service, John says. You must admit that this Jew baiting, for a civilized nation, is a filthy affair.”
“I’m dining with a Jew on Thursday,” Mildenhall remarked. “A Jew banker, too. I hope he’s not going to get into trouble.”
“Not one of the Rothschilds?”
He shook his head.
“No. Leopold Benjamin.”
She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows and an almost-frightened light in her eyes.
“Why, he’s just the one man I’m most alarmed about,” she confided. “I think he’s the most lovable creature, but they say he’s already had to pay two enormous fines and I heard only the other night that he is a marked man. I’ve never heard you speak of him before, have I?”
“I never met him until this afternoon,” Mildenhall replied. “I met him in his own bank and he asked me to dine. I want awfully to see his pictures.”
“He has the most gorgeous collection of everything artistic that you can imagine,” Lady Tremearne said impressively. “My dear, he has a Murillo I would give my soul for, and a Fra Filippo Lippi more beautiful than the one in the Pitti Palace. John says his collection must be worth many millions of dollars.”
“Must cost him some sleepless nights just now, I should think.”
“We’re getting used to them here,” she sighed. “There is fighting of a sort in the streets most nights. If you’ve come here for some fun, Charles, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. The café life still goes on, I believe, but there are no parties, not even amongst our own people. Everyone here seems to be sitting with bated breath waiting for something or other. Fancy what I’m reduced to in the way of dissipation nowadays! The Archduchess Katherine—you remember, you met them in the Tyrol somewhere—the Princess Madziwill and Molly Morton—the wife of our Embassy Counsellor here—dine with me and play bridge twice a week! They’re coming to-night. What do you think of that for gay Vienna?”
“Very pleasant, I should call it.” he remarked. “I haven’t played bridge for I don’t know how long. Your one great party of the year is coming off, I hear, as usual.”
“The Von Liebenstrahls? What courage! They’re safely away in their Schloss, which they say is a complete fortress and as big as a small town, and they’re opening up the Palace here in Vienna just for that one party. Every spring for years theirs has been the great social event of Vienna and the Field Marshal will insist upon having it as usual. There are a hundred servants down here making the Palace ready now.”
“The true Viennese spirit,” he approved. “They say Prince von Liebenstrahl is the bravest man in Austria and his wife is still the most beautiful woman. It’s years since I saw them.”
“Have you ever been to one of their balls?” she asked.
“Never.”
“You’d better come with us. You’ll still see the most beautiful women in Europe and the most marvellous collection of uniforms.”
“Very kind of you,” Mildenhall said a little dubiously.
“We have forty people dining, as it is,” Lady Tremearne confided, “but we’ll squeeze you in somewhere. The English and American Embassies have always given dinner parties. I believe the Countess Otobini, the wife of the Hungarian Minister, is having one this year.”
“I’m afraid dinner is off for me,” he regretted. “It’s the night I am dining with Benjamin.”
“Then I shan’t say another word about my little feast,” she laughed. “Mr. Benjamin himself eats scarcely anything, but he is a great epicure and he pays his chef an immense salary. Then his wines, too, are the most famous in Vienna. What you probably won’t get, and although I know it’s a brutal taste I still like them, is a cocktail. I told Mr. Benjamin so once myself and there was that pained look in his eyes as though someone had played a wrong note on a violin or dropped an ‘h’ in the middle of a beautiful speech. He never said a word but I could see him suffering.”
“He’s perfectly right, of course. Spirits are crude things, however cunningly they are mixed, compared to wines.”
Lascelles made rather a hurried entrance and took Mildenhall by the arm.
“We must fly,” he declared. “Your guests are coming up the grand staircase. Lady Tremearne. I shall take Mildenhall down the back way.”
Lady Tremearne smiled.
“Tweeds are quite all right until ten o’clock in this country,” she said, “and I’m sure he’d like to see the Archduchess again.”
“Later on in the week, perhaps,” Mildenhall said as he felt his friend’s compelling touch. “You will excuse us, Lady Tremearne? I shall pay my formal call to-morrow.”
She dismissed them with a little wave of the hand.
“Wish me luck,” she called out. “Fifty cents a hundred and we play the forcing two!”
CHAPTER III
Table of Contents
Victor’s smooth face was wreathed in smiles as he led Lascelles and Mildenhall, his two distinguished guests, to their places an hour later in the most famous of Vienna’s smaller restaurants. He was reputed to speak the language of every recognized nation in Europe and his English was smooth and faultless.
“It is a great pleasure for me,” he said, “to welcome Mr. Mildenhall back to Vienna. Mr. Lascelles has always his table here, although he dines at his beautiful Embassy more often than I could wish. To-night many of my valued patrons are honouring me. Sometimes I see them—sometimes I do not. The Archduke to-night, par exemple, I do not see, but Mr. Mildenhall will agree with me, I am sure, that his companion is very, very beautiful.”
He ushered the two men into their bôite. A bowl of dark red roses stood in the centre of the small round table prepared for two, and the array of glass would have looked equally at home in a museum. They took their places. Victor spread out his hands.
“For the guests whom I would like to honour,” he confided, “I carry no menu. I think that I know well the tastes of Monsieur Lascelles, I believe that I can divine those of Monsieur Mildenhall. I shall not shock you if I offer you the new season’s caviar with the ninety-year-old vodka, the first of the young salmon from our own noble river, a baby deer with some garnishings of young hog’s flesh, a salad which I prepare here and a souffle incomparable, something invented only last week by the nephew of my chef, the Cordon Bleu Maurice, who serves his apprenticeship here. With the salmon a Berncasteler Doktor of ‘84 will serve to help you forget the crudeness of the vodka. With the deer I would offer a Chateau Mouton-Rothschild of 1870. Of the brandy we speak later.”
“Victor has ideas!” Mildenhall murmured.
“Such a meal should be set to poetry,” Lascelles suggested.
“But for poetry or for m
usic where else would you go?” Victor demanded. “They all tell me that my restaurant is the meeting-place of lovely women, and you are precisely the right distance away to appreciate the most wonderful music Strauss ever wrote, played by the maestro.”
“We submit, Victor,” Mildenhall remarked with a twinkle in his eyes. “You are the Emperor of Gastronomy!”
Victor bowed low and left them.
Mildenhall’s whole attention during the next few minutes was concentrated, as far as discretion permitted, upon the table exactly opposite.
“I think,” he pronounced, “the woman with Karl Sebastian is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen in my life.”
Lascelles permitted himself a glance across the room.
“Most of Vienna thinks as you do, my friend,” he admitted. “An introduction would be quite in order, but—not to-night.”
“Tell me her name,” Mildenhall asked. “I can’t remember having seen her here before.”
“The name by which she is generally known, and to which I believe she is absolutely entitled, is the Baroness von Ballinstrode. I have heard there was a previous marriage, to a man whose name I have forgotten, which was annulled, but I don’t think the divorce was properly legalized. Very complicated, some of these religious quibbles.”
“Overwhelmingly Teutonic,” Mildenhall murmured, “but nevertheless exquisite. I have never seen such a complexion—bluer eyes—a more fascinating smile. She has almost too much animation for her type.”
“If you stay long enough I must certainly see about that introduction,” Lascelles observed. “The Archduke is here for the Von Liebenstrahls’ dance on Thursday. A day or two afterwards he and the Archduchess will return to their castle in the mountains, unless he can get off on his own for a few weeks to Monte Carlo. A week is about as long as he dare spend in Vienna, nowadays. Lucky for him if another putsch doesn’t come while he’s in the city. He’s not much of a politician but he’s quite a figurehead.”
21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) Page 45
