21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Life flowed back into the man’s veins. He had dined enormously the night before, he had drunk many beers, he had found a great patron. He was Viennese to the backbone. Joy took the place of sorrow. He threw his cap into the air and caught it.

  “All day and all night I shall search!” he exclaimed. “They cannot escape me, those two!”

  “Stop a moment,” Charles said. “There must be some method about our search. I am going to take it for granted that they will follow the example of nearly everyone in a city. They will sleep in their lodging, wherever it may be, and eat at a restaurant. Very well. Put me down far away from the fashionable places, in the district where clerks and middle-class people might go for their mittagessen. I will have an apéritif at one place, I will eat at another, I will drink coffee at another. You must commence with the places for the poorer people. You must do the same thing. Every three hours you must report to me—that is to say, we meet at Sachet’s Hotel at three o’clock, at six o’clock, at nine o’clock and at twelve. Is that understood?”

  “Alas, mein Herr, it is by now midday,” Fritz declared, pointing to a church clock.

  “Drive me then,” Charles ordered, “to the neighbourhood I spoke of and leave me. I will be back at Sacher’s Hotel at three o’clock. It may be that I shall give myself a rest then from this seeming to eat and drink continually. I shall leave you to carry on until six. Afterwards we will comb the city. That is understood?”

  “It is understood, mein Herr,” Fritz agreed enthusiastically.

  He mounted to the driver’s seat.

  “In a quarter-of-an-hour, mein Herr, you will have commenced your part of the search.”

  At ten minutes to nine that evening Charles, with a crick in his neck, the sense of a new sort of fatigue in his eyes, limped into the American Bar at Sacher’s. A familiar figure was there talking eagerly to the barman. It was Fritz in his brand new suit and holding his chauffeur’s cap in his hand. Charles strode up to him.

  “Well, Fritz?”

  There was the light of triumph in Fritz’s bright eyes as he turned round.

  “Mein Herr“ he confided proudly, “the search is over. I triumph! It is an affair of ten minutes before I bring you to them.”

  Charles swallowed a cocktail at a gulp. He had learnt during the afternoon and early evening every subterfuge possible of make-believe for getting rid of unwanted beverages. The cocktail tasted like nectar. He followed Fritz out of the place.

  “Which of them is it?” he asked.

  “Both,” Fritz replied. “Without a doubt, I should say both. The young lady I could swear to. The man—he was as you described him. Listen, mein Herr. I did not know,” he went on, tapping his forehead, “what was to be the end of this enterprise. I decided that I must have caution. I found, but I did not address them. I saw them take their places in an eating house. Oh, mein Herr, it is a poor place! I did not permit myself to be seen.”

  Charles frowned.

  “They may escape.”

  “I have provided against that. There is a man at the door giving away copies of the menu. It is a very ordinary place, mein Herr. I pointed them out to him. I gave him a florin. He will give away no more menus. His eyes are fixed upon them. They will not leave the place.”

  Charles took his seat in the taxi. It was a time when speed counted for nothing. In six or seven minutes they had passed into the outlying regions of the city. They pulled up with a jerk in front of a restaurant whose good days, if it had ever had any, had long since passed. There were two plate-glass windows, of which one was cracked and the other contained the remains of letters advertising a certain brand of beer. Inside there was an incredibly large number of marble-topped tables crowded with men and women mostly of the working-class type. The upper end of the establishment, obscured by a cloud of cigar smoke, was occupied by larger tables covered with soiled, coloured tablecloths. These were set against a semi-circle of divan seats with one or two cane-backed chairs, mostly in need of repair, facing them. There was half worn out cocoanut matting on the floor and a number of spittoons. The waiters, for the most part, wore a mixed garb consisting chiefly of black jerseys and dark-coloured trousers and aprons. Halfway up, the room branched to the right, and from the unseen portion came the strains of a violin. It was here that Charles came to a sudden standstill. Walking slowly down the passageway between the tables came a man with his eyes partially closed, playing, not altogether without skill, upon a wretched instrument, a version of the old Viennese waltz. He was a man of slightly below middle height who looked as though he had once been corpulent but had shrunken away through illness or starvation. He was dressed in a very shabby blue suit and there were deep lines in his face. It was only when he paused in front of a table, at which a girl was sitting alone clutching a saucer in her hand on which were a few copper coins, that Charles realized this was the end of his search. There was something unfamiliar in his throat. He was afraid to go on. A curious sense of shame almost kept him speechless. Then the music came to an end in the middle of a bar. Very slowly the musician’s arms descended until they hung straight down, the instrument in one hand, the bow in the other. He stared at Charles—quite speechless. The girl looked up. Charles had a horrible feeling that she was shaking the saucer at him. Then their eyes met and she gave a little cry. Every time he thought of that awful moment later in life he was thankful that her first expression was one of wonderful joy and it was only afterwards that the realization of their plight swept over her. It was Charles himself who made a gallant effort. He choked back down his throat that passionate outburst of dismayed sympathy. He even kept it from his tone. It was a heaven-directed impulse.

  “Well, all I can say is,” he declared, taking both the girl’s hands in his, “thank God I have found you! Put that damn’ thing down and come and sit down here, Blute. Miss Grey—Patricia!”

  She was sobbing quietly into her handkerchief. No one took any notice. They were accustomed to tears nowadays. Blute stumbled over the broken cane chair on the outside and sank on to the divan. Charles took them both by the arm and some kindly fate seemed to have sent a waiter within calling distance.

  “Waiter,” Charles ordered. “Listen! I shall give you for your service—listen!—the biggest trinkgeld you ever had in your life. I have money—see,” he added, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing it out. “I want two bottles of the best wine you have in the place—Hungarian Carlowitz, if you have it. Something good, mind. Bring brandy, too—a bottle of brandy. Rolls and butter…Something to get us out of this place,” he explained to the other two in English, “until I can take you somewhere where we can eat.”

  The waiter set down a tray he had been carrying and departed at a gentle run, pushing his way wherever he met with an obstacle, his senses dazed by the memory of that handful of money. Charles drew his protégés closer to him. Patricia had tried twice to speak but found it impossible.

  “I know all about it without a word,” Charles said firmly. “There are hundreds just in the same plight—can’t get a schilling of cash in this damned country. I was very nearly in the same box myself. Luckily I have friends always in the hotels. I left some money with Herodin when I was here last and as I heard someone say the other day,” he went on, dropping his voice although indeed there was no one within hearing, “the Germans would elbow a Bishop on one side, but a famous hotel proprietor was always sacred.”

  “It’s Mr. Charles!” Patricia gasped. “It’s Charles Mildenhall!”

  “I know,” Blute said feebly. “I recognized him but I couldn’t speak. Day by day for months I have walked these streets looking for a friendly face and been scowled at by strangers. I’ve hung about the banks, I’ve argued at the tourist places. Charles Mildenhall, are you not afraid we shall murder you where you sit for that pocketful of money?”

  “Write me your I.O.U.‘s, if you like,” Charles invited, drawing out notes from his pocket. “Oh, we can do all that later on. Here’s the wine. My God, t
hat fellow’s a hustler! Thank heaven this is Vienna and not an English city. It’s good wine.”

  The waiter’s hand was shaking so that he could scarcely draw the cork. Charles leaned over and took the bottle from him, reached to another table for a third glass and poured out three brimming tumblersful.

  “The rolls,” he said. “You’re a bright fellow, I can see,” he went on, as the man began to beam upon them. “Never mind about the butter. Rolls.”

  They came. Cheese came. Delicatessen followed. Butter that was eatable made its appearance. Neither of the two made the slightest hesitation about proving to their host the horrible truth—they were starving. He ate bread himself—coarse bread—and found it delicious. He had no need to be polite about the wine. It was good. Patricia set down her tumbler half empty. Already a little colour was flushing her cheeks.

  “Go steady with the rolls,” Charles advised them both. “I shall carry you away from this place for dinner.”

  “Dinner,” the girl faltered. “Just say that over again, Mr. Mildenhall. Dinner—something that smells good, perhaps!”

  “Schnitzel à la Viennoise“ he said light-heartedly, “in my private sitting-room at Sacher’s. How will that go with you, Blute?”

  Blute had a roll in either hand. He put one down and took a long draught of wine. For the first time he spoke coherently. He jerked out the words. They spelled their own tragedy.

  “I have been in prison for six months,” he groaned. “Towards the end of it we ate the filth the warders refused.”

  Charles would have nothing to do with sympathy. He nodded as though Blute’s was quite an ordinary confidence.

  “Hard luck! I just escaped prison myself this time. The world’s gone mad,” he added, patting Blute’s back and taking a fervent grip of Patricia’s hand. “Never mind. Thank heaven Fritz and I found the right place!”

  “You were looking for us?” she asked eagerly.

  “I should jolly well think I was,” he answered. “You don’t suppose I dropped in here to have a light meal, I hope? I knew things must have gone terribly for you when I discovered all about the currency restrictions, that Mr. Benjamin had completely disappeared and Dr. Schwarz was in prison. You see, I did my best to trace you. Don’t bother to tell me all about it yet. We must start another chapter of living again. Just get the ugly things out of your minds. A cigarette each? There we are! Now I’m the only conversationalist. I’m running this show. I’ve a taxi-cab outside. I take you under my charge. I’m taking you to the back entrance of my hotel—the manager loves me so much that he would give it to me if I asked him! By a route which I know quite well you will come with me to my sitting-room. I guarantee that within a few minutes of arriving there we shall be safely enclosed from any intruder.”

  “There will be police—and soldiers—” Patricia faltered.

  “Not within my four walls,” he declared, and his voice was full of confidence. “Now then, waiter—supposing I settle with you. How much for the wine and rolls and all the rest of it?”

  The man handed him a strip of paper. Charles put down the amount.

  “And now tell me,” he went on. “What is the largest tip you have ever received?”

  “A piece of gold,” the man faltered in a voice that was scarcely audible. “The patron who gave it to me was drunk.”

  “Well, I am sober,” Charles told him, “and I am very happy. There is the equivalent of five pieces of gold. Keep some for your wife and children.”

  They left the man supporting himself against the marble-topped table and stammering out his thanks. Charles held Patricia and Blute firmly by the arm, led them out into the street and tucked them into the taxi. He gave Fritz his orders and in seven minutes they were in the back regions of the hotel. They entered by the staff door and mounted quickly to the first floor. One turn to the left along the corridor and they were in Suite Seventeen. Charles threw his hat into the air.

  “Arrived!” he cried. “Joyfully and safely! Sit down. Wait for my orders. I am in command of this expedition.”

  His protégés were utterly numb. Speech would have meant a breakdown. Charles stood pressing the bell and beaming upon them. Servants came hurrying in. There was a valet, a waiter and a chambermaid. Never did Charles feel more thankful for his glib use of the Viennese patois.

  “Greta,” he directed, pointing to a door, “that is my bathroom. Take this young lady in there. My friends have been in distress like many others in this city. They have lost their baggage—everything. Prepare a bath for Fräulein, fetch anything she asks for and wrap her in a dressing-gown. Do not leave the suite until after you have seen her into her bath and then come to me for orders. Come here, Franz,” he went on, turning to the valet. “Take this gentleman into my bedroom and turn on a bath for him. Take linen, underclothes and socks from my suitcase and put them out for him. See that he has everything he needs—you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” the valet replied. “If the gentleman will come this way.”

  Blute followed the man out with shaking footsteps. Charles drew a long breath and lit a cigarette.

  “Kellner,“ he asked, turning to the waiter, “what is best for us to eat? My friends, you understand, have been starving.”

  The waiter smiled sympathetically. He had seen others on the verge of starvation during the last few months.

  “Plain dishes, gnädiger Herr,” he advised.

  “Good,” Charles agreed. “Bring them some hot consomme, perfectly plain grilled cutlets of lamb or veal—heaps of them—figure to yourself that there are six or twelve of us!—and serve plenty of vegetables. Afterwards fruit. Now for wine. There we must be careful. We have drunk—not much but a little—heavy red wine. There is no German red wine like Carlowitz but my friends have now revived a little. We will give them a good Moselle, a Piesporter or a Braunberger, and I think with the help of their baths and getting accustomed to their new surroundings we could venture on a cocktail each. Let this all be ready in half-an-hour.”

  “It shall be done, mein Herr.”

  “No one but Fritz, my chauffeur, is to come near this room except by my orders. Now please send me the housekeeper.”

  The man hurried off. Charles threw open a window and looked out upon the well-lit but still somewhat turbulent city. He drew a long breath. He was alone. He was free to relax. His heart was beating like a boy’s. There were tears in his eyes which he forced back with difficulty. Two starved human beings! What was there about that suddenly to change the world around him, to excite him more than any success he had ever had? He sat down. He was growing calmer every moment. He lit a cigarette. His brain was functioning now more normally. He knew what had happened to him. He saw her first startled look, he watched the joy which transformed her pinched, weary expression. He remembered her slow coming to life, the light that flowed from her eyes as she had turned round from the bathroom door before disappearing, the faint little wave of her thin fingers. He knew quite well what had happened. He crossed the room and rang the bell. He returned to the window. Every second the thing was becoming clearer. He remembered how often she had occupied his thoughts. This wave of tenderness was amazing. All the same, he knew that never again in his lifetime would he feel the same thrill of exquisite joy which had come to him when he had turned the corner of that shabby restaurant, recognized Blute, seen Patricia lift her head, watched that dazed look in her hollow eyes suddenly disappear, watched the transformation which that flood of light brought into them…

  There was a knock at the door. A stately, elderly woman dressed in black silk was ushered in by the waiter.

  “I was told, sir, that you wished to speak to the housekeeper,” she announced.

  Charles was himself again. He motioned the lady to a chair.

  “Waiter,” he said, “I will have my cocktail at once. Let it be one of Frederick’s special White Ladies.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Table of Contents

  The dinner commenced almost nor
mally except for the slight badinage occasioned by Blute’s appearance in trousers turned up four times.

  “I had no idea that I was such a fine fellow,” Charles remarked as he took his place.

  “I remember thinking the first time we met,” Patricia confessed demurely, “that you had rather nice legs.”

  Charles looked at her with a smile. Already the joys of anticipation were making a lover of him. The deathly pallor had gone from her face, although her eyes were still sunken. She had entered from the bathroom with a faint glow upon her cheeks and a silk dressing-gown of Charles’s effectively shortened with the aid of safety pins, displaying something of her beautifully silk-stockinged legs. She glanced at her host a little suspiciously.

  “Do you travel round the world,” she asked, “with a choice selection of lady’s underwear of all sizes as part of your wardrobe, and do you really use for yourself all those powders and delicate perfumes the maid was trying to press upon me?”

  “Not guilty,” he assured her. “I travel always alone, as my own servant would tell you if he were here. Fortunately, though, I choose the right hotel. All these lighter feminine belongings came from the ladies’ hairdressing department, which that delightful old housekeeper opened up for the occasion.”

  “And the—other things I am wearing?” she asked with a touch of her old self in her mischievous glance.

  “If you came here in the daytime,” he pointed out, “you would notice that there are several establishments from Paris and two from Vienna itself which have showcases in the hall. The housekeeper procured the keys. We looted them.”