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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “I’ll nip down to High Street,” she proposed. “I’ll find a taxi quick enough once I get there.”

  He opened his lips and closed them again. Shame was overpowering him. He was afraid to be left. She patted him on the shoulder with one hand, as though he were a child, and picked up her skirts with the other.

  “I’m going to run,” she confided. “I’ll be back in no time. I’ll find a taxi and we’ll get away from this place.”

  “All right,” he assented.

  “You hold on to the railings there. Keep under that little tree as much as you can. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  Off she went—a strange, wild enough figure, hatless, her hair in disorder, a cheap scarf already half wet through drifting backwards from her neck. Cheshire watched her in amazement as she covered the ground with long, uneven strides; he even smiled faintly as he imagined the shock she would give a harmless pedestrian encountering her suddenly. She crossed the road and disappeared. She was in the shadow of some gardens, still some distance from the thoroughfare. A taxi turned a corner. Cheshire staggered out, waving his hand. The driver looked straight ahead. His flag was down, and with a sinking heart Cheshire realised that there were passengers inside. Even then he did his best to check the vehicle. It passed him without a sign. Long before it had disappeared he heard the soft padding of footsteps along the damp pavement. In the light of the standard he saw the figure of a man coming towards him, a nondescript-looking person in a dark overcoat and bowler hat, holding up an umbrella which concealed his face. Cheshire watched and listened. The man was drawing nearer all the time. A score of yards away he paused, raised the umbrella slightly and looked around him. There was no one else in sight. Cheshire squeezed himself back against the railings. The pedestrian came slowly on. As he reached the gate of Number 137, through which Cheshire and his companion had issued, he paused. Suddenly he lowered his umbrella. His hand was upon the gate and Cheshire realised with a little shiver that they had left it open. He looked up at the house—unlit, drab, ugly. There was not a light from the basement to the top floor, no light even through the chink of the curtains. The man stood there with his fingers upon the handle of the gate. He seemed on the point of entering when, at the last moment, he caught sight of the outline of Cheshire’s strained figure. He came slowly towards him. He thrust his hand into his pocket. When it came out the flash of a torch dazzled Cheshire. An exclamation broke from his lips. The torch was almost immediately extinguished, but the man still advanced.

  “What are you doing there—waiting for anybody? Where did you come from?” he asked fiercely.

  “Is that any business of yours?” Cheshire retorted.

  There was an instant’s pause. Cheshire, still a little blinded from the effects of the torchlight, could see nothing of the other’s face. His voice was not unpleasant, except that it was a trifle rasping and portentously, hideously, familiar.

  “Never mind what it has to do with me,” he said. “I have friends that live here—that’s all. I was thinking of paying them a call.”

  “You have business at this house?” Cheshire asked.

  “A friend of mine lives here,” was the guarded reply. “Keep your mouth shut for a moment. I am going to have another look at you.”

  The voice was suddenly more threatening. The man had edged into full view. Cheshire, no longer dazzled, saw him clearly. There was a threat already in his suspicious eyes. Once more the light flashed out and Cheshire knew that he was recognised.

  “How the hell did you get out of that cellar?” the man demanded.

  “Mind your own business.”

  The other looked around. The driving rain was like a barrier from the outside world. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice.

  “We are going back again together, you and I. To tell you the truth, I was going there to have a look round, even though I forced my way in. Just as well, I should think. Come on!”

  Cheshire struck out at the arm which gripped his shoulder, but the other laughed as he evaded the feeble blow.

  “I’m damned if I can understand how you escaped from that house,” he declared with a most unpleasant grin. “I think that you want another whiff of the old lady, eh? We will go back together and have a little talk.”

  Cheshire put out all his small store of strength and struggled for every foot along the pavement. He shouted for help but a rough hand closed over his lips. They had reached the gate. The man with whom he was wrestling paused for an instant for his final effort. Suddenly, the most amazing, the most wonderful recollection crept into Cheshire’s brain. He gave a very excellent representation of a man about to collapse.

  “Let me lean here for a moment,” he faltered. “I feel ill.”

  He caught hold of a post. His captor looked at him suspiciously. Cheshire had all the appearance of having spoken the truth. He was ghastly pale and the words came feebly from his lips.

  “I will be all right if you let me breathe for a few seconds,” he gasped.

  The man’s rough hand was grudgingly withdrawn from the collar he was grasping. Cheshire threw back his head and drew a long breath. His fingers were travelling slowly downwards. The man was watching the windows of the house intently. Cheshire had found the button and unfastened it. He leaned suddenly away and sprang clear. There was bite enough about his voice now as he stretched out his hand.

  “If you move an inch towards me I’ll shoot you dead,” he threatened. “I am not strong enough to struggle but I am strong enough to tell you that, and I am strong enough to pull the trigger. You will die like a dog if you even twitch.”

  The man stood still. The thing was impossible and yet Cheshire, although rocking on his feet, was holding out a small revolver of very familiar shape, and whatever might have happened to the rest of him, his right hand was firm enough.

  “What the hell—” his aggressor began.

  Cheshire edged a foot farther away.

  “I hadn’t time to use this an hour or so ago,” he said. “Your friend was too quick for me. I’m not taking any chances this time. I’m not waiting while your hand goes down. Would you like one barrel to be sure it’s loaded? You can have it.”

  “Put it away,” the man grunted. “I’m not doing you any harm.”

  Cheshire took another step backwards. He was safe now from anything in the shape of a sudden spring. Not only that, but there was a pleasant sound in his ears—the hooting of a taxicab close at hand. He could almost catch the reflection of its lights.

  “There’s a taxi here,” he announced, his voice becoming every moment firmer. “Get ready. You’re coming along with me.”

  “Not I,” was the prompt reply. “Put that gun down.”

  “You’re coming along with me,” Cheshire repeated.

  The cab stopped. Cheshire heard the woman’s cry but his eye never left the figure a few yards from him. Rosa ran across the pavement and stood by his side.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Florestan’s friend who helped tie me up,” he answered. “I’m taking him to the Police Station. What sort of a driver have you got?”

  “Usual sort.”

  “Tell him to step down. I want to speak to him.”

  The man lumbered from his seat.

  “Listen,” Cheshire said. “I’m connected with Scotland Yard. I’ve caught a burglar here. I want to take him to the police station.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” the driver answered. “It’s in Crockham Street, just round the corner. Bring him along.”

  “Not so easy,” Cheshire replied. “He’s planning a getaway already. I’m going to put him on the front with you. Let your glass down so that I can shoot him from inside if he moves.”

  The driver seemed to consider the question.

  “All very well, guv’nor,” he said doubtfully, “but what if he goes for me?”

  “I’ll shoot him before he can hurt you,” Cheshire promised.

  “I’ve done no harm!” their captive shoute
d fiercely. “If you take me to the Police Station I’ll make you all pay for it.”

  “We will pay with pleasure,” was the prompt reply. “Keep your hands up now, whoever you are. Walk out of that gate. I shall be two yards behind you all the time. Take the place beside the driver.”

  “Against orders, that, you know, sir,” the driver observed.

  “I can break orders when I choose,” Cheshire snapped. “Don’t worry. You’re on a good thing. Step out.”

  “I shan’t move,” their prisoner muttered.

  “All right. Stand out on the pavement, Rosa, and blow your whistle. Tell the driver to sound his horn at the same time. We will have a policeman in two minutes.”

  The man gave in.

  “I don’t mind going to the police station with you,” he conceded. “I’ve done nothing. I just stopped to ask you for a light. I don’t believe you’re from the police. If you are I’ve done nothing—there’s no charge against me.”

  “Then if you don’t mind coming—come,” Cheshire insisted, stepping on one side to let him pass, his right hand all the time steadily stretched out.

  As soon as the man was settled in his place and the window had been lowered, Cheshire crept cautiously into the back of the cab. The girl took her place by his side. They drove off. In five minutes they had arrived at their destination. The taxicab driver blew his horn. A police constable came out.

  “Inspector Douglas there?” Cheshire asked.

  “He’s inside, sir,” the man replied.

  “Say that Cheshire of XYZ is here with a prisoner. Fellow’s dangerous. Will you ask him to step out? I’ve got him covered here.”

  “There’s no need for your Inspector,” the man in front shouted scornfully. “I’ll come.”

  He swung onto the pavement. The constable took his wrist. They filed into the Station. Inspector Douglas, who was seated at a desk, rose to his feet and saluted. Cheshire drew him on one side.

  “Inspector,” he confided. “I was wrong to go to that filthy house without you. Ring up the Yard at once. The Deputy Commissioner won’t be there but Greville will be on duty. Tell him that it’s Cheshire and that I am all right. I have a man here who is to be locked up for the night. We will deal with him in the morning. I want you to put him in a cell straight away. Don’t give him a chance.”

  “Anything you say goes, of course, Admiral,” the Inspector replied, gazing at the latter in astonishment. “You’ve had a rough time, I’m afraid, sir. Take the man down to No. 3 cell, constable.”

  “You will get into a lot of trouble for this,” the prisoner blustered. “Look here, you have no charge against me. You can have my name and address if you want it. I was doing no harm. I was just walking down the road.”

  “He’s lying,” Cheshire said calmly. “He was in league with Florestan and the two of them tied me up and gave me chloroform.”

  “Take him down,” the Inspector ordered firmly.

  The constable and his charge disappeared. Cheshire’s right arm collapsed and he sank into a chair.

  “I’ve been had for a mug,” he told the Inspector. “Tied up and chloroformed by that man and Florestan!”

  Inspector Douglas shook his head.

  “Are you going to make a charge, sir?” he asked, drawing the sheet towards him.

  “Not at the moment. I don’t want to come into this if I can help it, Inspector. He can be held under the new regulations but loitering with the intention to commit a felony will do, if you have to frame him. You’ll hear from us all right in the morning.”

  The Inspector, bare-headed, conducted his distinguished visitor back to the taxi. Cheshire gazed into its empty interior blankly.

  “What’s become of the girl?” he asked the driver.

  “Slipped out, I reckon, when we was inside,” the man replied. “There was no sign of her when I came back.”

  Cheshire looked up and down the street helplessly. There was no doubt about it that Rosa had disappeared. He gave his address to the driver.

  “Go slowly,” he enjoined, “and keep your eyes open. If you see anything of the young woman pull up and tell me.”

  “Right, sir.”

  But although they drove slowly, and stopped twice on false alarms, they saw no more of Rosa.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Table of Contents

  It was characteristic of Cheshire’s unique position, that he entered his private room at the Admiralty on the following morning without comment or remark from anyone. He glanced through several communications of varying interest, dictated a few letters to his typist-secretary, put one or two other matters on one side for further consideration, and sent for Hincks. The young man presented himself almost at once with a roll of plans under his arm. Cheshire leaned back in his chair and studied his appearance for a few moments.

  “You are working too hard, young fellow,” he observed.

  “It’s the only way I can make up, sir.”

  The Admiral continued to regard him thoughtfully. There was something pathetic about the haggard face, the unnatural lines about his mouth, which went so ill with his youthful mien and complexion.

  “You must not take things too hardly, Hincks,” his Chief said kindly. “Working late last night, eh?”

  “I was here until four o’clock this morning, sir. I am making headway. Would you like to see how far I have gone?”

  Cheshire shook his head.

  “I won’t interfere with you at present,” he decided. “The situation is unchanged—the idea remains. You are still in touch, I suppose, with Regent’s Park?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you arrange an appointment for seven-thirty this evening?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cheshire nodded.

  “No good eating your heart out, you know, Hincks,” he said. “You are on the right road to recovery but don’t overdo it. A mental cripple is no use here these days. Remember, we are out of the wood in a fortnight, or never. That work you are engaged upon may lead to great things. Don’t brood.”

  “I try not to, sir.”

  “You’ve got it both ways, I know,” Cheshire said kindly. “Stick it out.”

  The young man’s faint smile was more eloquent than his words.

  “Your encouragement is a great help, sir,” he acknowledged. “You wouldn’t care to have a look and see how I’m getting on?”

  “I would rather wait. I have a busy day before me and I don’t want to be distracted. I must see Melville and the General. Melville first, if possible.”

  “The General has been on the private wire twice this morning, sir.”

  Cheshire glanced at his watch.

  “You had better ask him to come round, then. I don’t want Melville here. I saw a half dozen of those journalists hanging around as I came in. You gave my message to Lord Fakenham?”

  “I saw him myself, sir,” Hincks replied. “He assured me that none of his people are concerned. It is the irregulars, the men who hang round on the chance of getting a paragraph or two out of something they see, or fancy they see, who are the trouble here.”

  “Daresay he’s right,” Cheshire assented. “I was lazy myself this morning and I used the private entrance, but we ought all of us to come in through the main building. Takes a quarter of an hour, I know, but it’s necessary. What is the morning report from the hospital?”

  “The operation will be this afternoon, sir.”

  “I would like to see Admiral Maddox during the day sometime when he is disengaged.”

  “I will send him word, sir.”

  “Nothing more. Just see to those matters I have spoken of. The Regent’s Park one is quite important.”

  “Everything shall be attended to, sir,” Hincks promised as he took his leave.

  Cheshire, once more alone, touched the ivory knob of one of the bells upon his desk. His typist-secretary, a young woman of early middle age and very capable appearance, re-entered the room almost immediately. She was carrying
her notebook and pencil in her hand and she seated herself upon a stool near the desk.

  “Deputy Commissioner Sir Herbert Melville to lunch with me at the St. George’s Club at one o’clock. Ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Express note to the Sergeant-in-Charge, West Kensington Police Station.

  The prisoner brought in last night by a representative of XYZ is to be charged with loitering and remanded. Remain in cell. No communication, on any pretext, with anyone outside.

  Representative of XYZ will be down presently and is to be permitted access.

  A formal communication, also Express, on Admiralty notepaper to Messrs. Brown, Shipman & Co., Holborn.

  The undersigned requests that Mr. Horace Florestan be instructed to call here on receipt of this note. He is to ask for XYZ room. If Mr. Florestan is unavailable it is desired that a director of the firm should present himself. Go yourself to General Mallinson as soon as you have attended to these matters. See him personally. Ask him to come direct to me. The letters can be signed by whoever is in charge of the general office and any replies brought to me.”

  “Commander Filbrick is in charge this morning, sir.”

  “Excellent.”

  He waved her away. With a dozen books of reference around him, Cheshire worked for an hour upon what seemed to be an incomplete chart. By the end of that time Mallinson had arrived. Cheshire abandoned his work and swung round in his chair to face the newcomer.

  “You’re looking peaky,” the latter remarked curiously.

  “So would you, if you had been through what I have.”

  “Smell of disinfectant, too,” the General continued, sniffing.

  “Chloroform. I was had for a mug last night, Mallinson.”

  The General frowned.

  “Why the devil you take these jobs on alone I cannot imagine, Cheshire,” he remonstrated. “You know quite well if anything happened to you the whole of your department would go phut. With Ryson gone there would be no one else to look to.”