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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Well?”

  “If there is to be any change for the better in the valuations of Russian stocks,” Lavendale continued slowly, “that is to say any immediate change, it can only mean one thing.”

  Merrill struggled hard to preserve his expression of polite vacuity.

  “There are very few people,” he murmured, “who really understand Russia.”

  Lavendale shrugged his shoulders. “It isn’t exactly my show, you know!”

  “It ought to be,” Merrill retorted curtly.

  “Why?”

  “Just common-sense. If we don’t win in this war, it will be your turn next. Japan and Germany you’ll have to face—you can take my word for that—and I hope you’ll like it. If we lose our fleet, it’s good-by to American independence.”

  “Plain and simple words, young fellow!”

  “Not so plain or so simple as they are true,”

  Lavendale threw away his cigarette and stretched out his hand for his hat.

  “Well,” he said, “I used to flatter myself that I was an out-and-out neutral, but I’m beginning to fancy that my sympathies are leaning a little toward your side of the show. Anyhow, I’ve no reason to keep secret the little I know about this affair—in fact, I came down here to tell you. New York was talking openly last night of peace being proclaimed between Germany and Russia within a week.”

  “We’ve tried her sorely,” Merrill confessed doggedly, “but I don’t believe it.”

  Lavendale rose to his feet.

  “I tell you, Merrill,” he said, “if you’d been about town as much as I have for the last twenty-four hours you’d begin to wonder yourself whether something wasn’t amiss. These rumours and feelings of depression are one of the strangest features of the war, but there it is at the present moment, in the streets and the clubs and the restaurants—wherever you turn. I’ve noticed nothing like it since the beginning of the war. The optimists are still cackling away, but it’s there all the same—a grim, disheartening fear. One man told me last night that he knew for a fact that Russia was on the point of suing for peace.”

  Merrill shook his head as he resumed his place at his desk.

  “It’s just a phase,” he declared. “Look in and see me again, Ambrose, when you’re feeling a little more cheerful.”

  Suzanne’s Dramatic Discovery

  LAVENDALE made a call in the Strand and passed along that crowded illuminative thoroughfare toward the Milan. Everywhere the faces of the passers-by seemed indicative of some new apprehension. He bought an early paper, but there was no word in it of any change in the situation. On any printed presentation of the rumours which were on every one’s tongue the censor had set his foot. .

  Lavendale called in at the bar at the Milan for a few minutes. The same feeling was there even more in evidence.

  “What’s it all mean?” he asked an American pressman whom he knew slightly. The newspaper man nodded sagely.

  “Guess the cat’s out of the bag now,” he opined. “Russia has asked for peace and she is going to have it on generous terms. They say that negotiations are going on right here, under the Britishers’ very noses. Things’ll be pretty lively here soon.”

  Lavendale took his place in the luncheon room a few minutes later. As usual he glanced expectantly toward the corner which Suzanne de Freyne frequently occupied. There were no signs of her to-day, however. He gave his order and leaned back in his place. Then some fancy impelled him to glance toward the glass entrance-doors on his left. He sprang at once to his feet. Suzanne, her face whiter than ever, a queer, furtive gleam in her dark eyes, was looking eagerly into the room. She saw him almost at the same moment and hurried in.

  “Suzanne!” he exclaimed. “What luck! You are going to lunch with me, of course?”

  A maître d’hôtel was holding the vacant chair at his table. With a little sigh she relapsed into it. She was plainly dressed and had the appearance of having newly arrived from a journey.

  “I suppose I had better have something to eat,” she sighed. “Order something—anything,” she added, brushing the carte away. “It was you I came to see really.”

  He recognised at once the fact that she was in no humour for trivialities. He gave a brief order to the waiters, waved them away and leaned toward her.

  “You can command me,” he assured her. “My time is yours.”

  She drew a little sigh of relief. For a moment her little white fingers rested upon his strong brown hand, the tenseness passed from her manner, it was as though she found something composing in his strength.

  “I have been travelling for forty-eight hours,” she said, speaking under her breath, “and I had an escape, a very narrow escape, in Belgium. You do not want to understand everything, do you?”

  “Nothing more than you choose,” he replied. “I am your trusty Man Friday.”

  “Listen, then. Your car—it is in order?”

  “Perfect. I came up from Bath the day before yesterday—sixty miles on the level and never changed speeds.”

  “How long would it take you to get me down to the east coast?” she asked eagerly.

  “What part?” She hesitated. “A small place called Blakeney, between Sheringham and Wells.” He figured it out.

  “Let me see,” he said,”—two hours to Newmarket, two more to Fakenham, saving a little on both runs if we escape a puncture—say four hours and a half, Suzanne.”

  “And your car?”

  “In the garage, five minutes away in a taxi cab.”

  She breathed another sigh of relief.

  “Now I shall eat some luncheon,” she declared. “You will not mind if we commit ourselves to rather a wild-goose adventure?”

  “I shall enjoy it immensely,” he assured her, “if one can use such a word at all these days.”

  He poured some wine and watched the colour come back to her cheeks. Toward the end of the meal, however, she glanced often at the clock. He read her thoughts, signed his bill and stood up.

  “I am going upstairs to my room for a moment,” she said briskly. “Will you have a taxi-cab waiting?”

  “Of course!”

  She was gone barely ten minutes. When she came down she carried a small travelling case and wore a thick veil. He hurried her into the taxi, drove to the garage, and in less than half an hour London lay behind them and the car was gathering speed at every moment. They passed through Finchley and Potter’s Bar, slowed up through St. Albans, and settled down at racing speed, northward. Suzanne opened her eyes.

  “I am having a delicious rest,” she murmured.

  “Where would you like some tea?” he inquired.

  “Not yet. Push on as far as you can,” she begged. “What time shall we reach Fakenham?”

  He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

  “If you really like to run right through,” he said, “you shall be there by six o’clock.”

  She patted the hand which gripped the steering wheel.

  “You dear person!” she exclaimed softly. “Now I close my eyes again. I think I will sleep a little. Until I reached my rooms at twelve o’clock to-day I had not had my clothes off for two days. This air and the rest are wonderful.”

  She settled back in her place and he touched the accelerator with his foot. Through Stevenage and Baldock, across the great open spaces to Royston, at sixty miles an hour to Newmarket, up the hill, along the Norwich road, then round to the left to Brandon, across the miles of heath with the stunted pine-trees and clumps of heather, into the more luxurious pastoral country of eastern Norfolk. It was half-past five when they crossed Fakenham Common and crept through the narrow streets of the old-fashioned town. He turned to look at her. She was still sleeping. She woke, however, as the car slackened speed.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Fakenham,” he told her, “with half an hour to spare. It’s just half-past five.”

  “You wonderful person,” she sighed, shaking herself free from the rugs.

&n
bsp; They drew up in the archway of the hotel and made their way up the outside stairs into the old-fashioned coffee-room. She drank tea and toyed with her bread and butter absently. She looked continually out of the window, seaward.

  “It is a wonderful day,” she said thoughtfully. “There is no wind at all. They might come even before the time.”

  He made her light a cigarette, followed her example, and in a few minutes they were again in the car. Half an hour later they looked down upon the quaint, old-world village of Blakeney, set amid the marshlands, and beyond, the open sea. Suzanne was all alertness now and sat up by his side, gazing, eagerly toward the line of white breakers. Suddenly, with a warning hoot, a long, grey car, which had come up noiselessly behind them, swept past at a great speed. Suzanne gave a little exclamation.

  “It is the car, I am sure!” she declared. “It has come to meet him. All that I was told is true.”

  “It’s some car, all right,” Lavendale remarked, “but I wouldn’t have taken his dust as quietly as this if I’d heard him coming.”

  She laughed at him.

  “That car,” she said, “is bound on the same errand that we are. It is on its way to Blakeney to meet the same passenger.”

  “Well, we’re in time, any way,” was his only comment.

  They slackened speed as they turned into the long, narrow street. About halfway down, the car in front of them was stopped by a soldier with fixed bayonet. A non-commissioned officer by the side was talking to the driver. Close at hand, a man in civilian clothes was lounging in front of what seemed to be the guardroom. Suzanne clutched her companion’s arm in excitement.

  “Ambrose!” she exclaimed. “That’s Major Elwell—the man in mufti, I mean! He is one of the chiefs of the British Secret Service.”

  “I shall have to know a little more about this before I can catch on,” Lavendale confessed.

  The Muffled Stranger

  HE brought his car slowly up behind the other one. The driver had raised his goggles and was seated in an impassive attitude while his license was being examined. Presently the little green book was returned to him and he moved slowly down the village street. Lavendale’s license was inspected in the same fashion after which they, too, followed down the village street, which terminated abruptly in a small dock, reached by an arm of the sea. Lavendale turned his car into the gateway of the inn and together, a few moments later, they strolled down to the harbour. Only a thin stream of water covered the bottom of the estuary, scarcely enough to float a rowing boat, and one or two sailing vessels were lying high and dry upon the mud. The stranger, who had drawn up his car by the side of the wall, was standing looking out seaward through a pair of field-glasses. Lavendale gazed across the marshes in the same direction.

  “Say, you don’t expect any ship that could cross the North Sea to come into dock here, do you?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Quite a large ship could come up at high tide,” she explained, “but to-night they will not wait for the deep water. They will anchor outside and sail up in a smaller boat. Come for a walk a little way. That man is watching us.”

  They strolled along a sandy lane, through a gate on the left opening on to the marshes.

  It was a grey and sombre evening, strangely still, colourless alike on sea and land and sky. A thin handful of cattle was stretched across the dike-riven plain, a crowd of sea-gulls flapped their wings wearily overhead. Everywhere else an intense and almost mournful silence prevailed. Suzanne climbed to the top of one of the dikes and looked intently seaward.

  “You see!” she exclaimed, pointing. A small boat was anchored at the opening of the estuary. Beyond, almost on the horizon, was a thin line of smoke.

  “They will not wait for the tide,” she told him, “not the full tide, that is. They will come up as soon as that sailboat can make the passage.”

  “And who,” Lavendale inquired, “will be the passenger?”

  Her eyes flashed for a moment.

  “He will be the man,” she said solemnly, “who seeks to destroy France.”

  They wandered a little way further out into the marshland. The air seemed to possess a peculiar saltiness—even in that slightly moving breeze they could feel the brackish taste upon their lips. They watched the tidal way grow deeper every minute. On either side of them the narrow dikes and curving waterways grew fuller and fuller with the tendrils of the sea. About a mile from the distant coastline the steamer seemed to have come to an anchor, and the white-sailed boat was fluttering about her. Suzanne took Lavendale’s arm. He could feel that she was trembling.

  “Look here,” he begged, “tell me a little more of what is going to happen?”

  “Somebody will be landed from that steamer,” she said. “They will come up here, get into the motor-car and start for London. That some one will be empowered to put certain propositions before the Russian Ambassador here, which he in his turn can convey to the Tsar in code. Those propositions will be for a peace which will exclude my country and yours, which will give Russia, temporarily defeated, the terms of a conquering nation.”

  He laughed a little more contemptuously.

  “You don’t need to worry, child,” he assured her. “Russia isn’t going to cave in yet awhile.”

  “Not in any ordinary fashion,”-she replied, “but one lives in dread of some terrible disaster, and then—These terms, they say, are to be left over for a month. Think of the temptation—all the fruits of victory offered in the very blackest moment of despair. Look!”

  She pointed to the mouth of the river. The white-sailed boat was already commencing the passage of the estuary.

  “Come,” she exclaimed, “we must get back.”

  They hurried across the marsh, finding their way with more difficulty now owing to the inward sweep of the tide, filling the narrow places with the soft swirl of salt water. When they reached the raised path by the side of the estuary, the sailing boat was almost by their side. A man was seated in the stern, muffled up in an overcoat and wearing a tweed cap. “There he is,” she murmured. Lavendale glanced at the man in a puzzled fashion. Just at that moment the latter turned his head. He was dark, clean-shaven, and slightly built.

  “Something rather familiar about him,” Lavendale muttered. “You don’t know his name?”

  She shook her head.

  “Wait,” she begged.

  They reached the dock just as the boat was drawing up to quay side.

  “Get out the car, please,” Suzanne directed, “and drive slowly up the street, just past the guardroom. Wait there as though we had been stopped again.”

  Lavendale obeyed. This time, as they drew up, Major Elwell leaned over the front of the car.

  “He is here, I understand, Miss de Freyne,” he said softly. “Are you going to stay? There may be a little trouble.”

  She laughed derisively.

  “This is Mr. Lavendale,” she whispered. “He will take care of me. Major Elwell.”

  The latter looked keenly at Lavendale and nodded.

  “It’s a queer piece of business, this,” he observed. “Maybe our information is all wrong, after all.”

  The other car came gliding up the village street and was brought to a standstill only a foot behind them. The driver addressed the sergeant almost angrily.

  “I showed you my license a few minutes ago,” ha protested. “What’s that other car doing ahead, blocking up the way?”

  Lavendale drew slightly on one side. A soldier, with fixed bayonet, slipped into the little space between the two cars. Major Elwell turned toward the passenger.

  “Sorry to trouble you, sir,” he said, “but I must ask you to step inside the guardroom for a moment.”

  “What do you want with me?” was the quick reply.

  “You’ve landed from a steamer here, rather an exceptional thing to do anyway,” Major Elwell explained. “There are just a few questions we should like to ask.”

  “I’m an American citizen,” the oth
er declared. “I have my passport here. I can land where I choose.”

  “In ordinary times, without a doubt,” the Major replied smoothly. “Just now, I am sorry to be troublesome, but there are some new enactments which have to be considered. We shall have to ask you to give up anything you may have in the way of correspondence, for instance, to be censored.”

  There was a moment’s silence. The face of the man in the car had suddenly become tense. Lavendale, who had been looking around, gave a little start.

  “Why, it’s Johnson!” he exclaimed “—Leonard Johnson! You remember me, don’t you—Lavendale?”

  The man in the car nodded eagerly.

  “Of course!” he, assented. “Look here, if you’ve any pull in these parts I wish you’d persuade this officious gentleman to let me go on quickly. I’m in a hurry to reach London.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Lavendale regretted. “I’m hung up myself for some piffling reason. Where have you come from?”

  “Holland,” was the brief reply.

  “If you are really in a hurry, sir,” Major Elwell intervened politely, “you are only wasting time by this discussion with your friend. Before you proceed, you will have to come into the guardroom with me.”

  “I’m hanged if I do!” Mr. Johnson replied. “If you lay hands on me, I’ll report the whole affair at the Embassy directly I arrive in London. I’m well enough known there and they’ll tell you that I am in the American Embassy at Berlin.”

  Lavendale shook his head gently.

  “Not at the present moment, I think, Johnson,” he remarked. “I’ll answer for it, though, that you are a reputable American citizen.”

  “My instructions are entirely independent of your nationality,” Major Elwell said firmly. “I must trouble you to descend at once.”

  There was scarcely a whisper, scarcely even a glance between the two men in the hindmost car. Action seemed to be entirely spontaneous. Their car, which had moved perhaps a foot or so back while they were talking, as though the brakes had failed to hold, was suddenly swung to the right. The front wing caught the soldier who was standing on guard, and the car, plunging forward with one wheel upon the pavement, threw him off his balance. He reeled back against the wall, and almost before they could realise what had happened, the car was tearing up the hill. The sergeant snatched a rifle from one of the men, but Major Elwell stretched out his hand.