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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  It was not until he actually reached the very side of the Tower that he came back to earth. As he opened the door, he found a surprise in store for him. A fire was burning in the sitting-room, smoke was ascending from the kitchen chimney. The little round table was laid with a white cloth. There was a faint odour of cooking from the back premises. His lamp was lit, there were logs hissing and crackling upon the fire. As he stood there looking wonderingly about him, the door from the back was opened. Hannah Cox came quietly into the room.

  “What time would you like your dinner, sir?” she enquired.

  Hamel stared at her.

  “Why, are you going to keep house for me, Mrs. Cox?” he asked.

  “If you please, sir. I heard that you had been in the village, looking for some one. I am sorry that I was away. There is no one else who would come to you.”

  “So I discovered,” he remarked, a little grimly.

  “No one else,” she went on, “would come to you because of Mr. Fentolin. He does not wish to have you here. They love him so much in the village that he had only to breathe the word. It was enough.”

  “Yet you are here,” he reminded her.

  “I do not count,” she answered. “I am outside all these things.”

  Hamel gave a little sigh of satisfaction.

  “Well, I am glad you could come, anyhow. If you have something for dinner, I should like it in about half an hour.”

  He climbed the narrow stairs which led to his bedroom. To his surprise, there were many things there for his comfort which he had forgotten to order—clean bed-linen, towels, even a curtain upon the window.

  “Where did you get all the linen up-stairs from, Mrs. Cox?” he asked her, when he descended. “The room was almost empty yesterday, and I forgot nearly all the things I meant to bring home from Norwich.”

  “Mrs. Seymore Fentolin sent down a hamper for you,” the woman replied, “with a message from Mr. Fentolin. He said that nothing among the oddments left by your father had been preserved, but that you were welcome to anything you desired, if you would let them know at the Hall.”

  “It is very kind of both of them,” Hamel said thoughtfully.

  The woman stood still for a moment, looking at him. Then she drew a step nearer.

  “Has Mr. Fentolin given you the key of the shed?” she asked, very quietly.

  Hamel shook his head.

  “We don’t need the place, do we?”

  “He did not give you the key?” she persisted.

  “Mr. Fentolin said that he had some things in there which he wished to keep locked up,” he explained.

  She remained thoughtful for several moments. Then she turned away.

  “No,” she said, “it was not likely he would not give you that key!”

  Hamel dined simply but comfortably. Mrs. Cox cleared away the things, brought him his coffee, and appeared a few minutes later, her shawl wrapped around her, ready for departure.

  “I shall be here at seven o’clock in the morning, sir,” she announced.

  Hamel was a little startled. He withdrew the pip from his mouth and looked at her.

  “Why, of course,” he remarked. “I’d forgotten. There is no place for you to stay here.”

  “I shall go back to my brother’s.” she said.

  Hamel put some money upon the table.

  “Please get anything that is necessary,” he directed. “I shall leave you to do the housekeeping for a few days.”

  “Shall you be staying here long, sir?” she asked.

  “I am not sure,” he replied.

  “I do not suppose,” she said, “that you will stay for very long. I shall get only the things that you require from day to day. Good night, sir.”

  She left the room. Hamel looked after her for a moment with a frown. In some indescribable way, the woman half impressed, half irritated him. She had always the air of keeping something in the background. He followed her out on to the little ridge of beach, a few minutes after she had left. The mist was still drifting about. Only a few yards away the sea rolled in, filling the air with dull thunder. The marshland was half obscured. St. David’s Hall was invisible, but like strangely-hung lanterns in an empty space he saw the line of lights from the great house gleam through the obscurity. There was no sound save the sound of the sea. He shivered slightly. It was like an empty land, this.

  Then, moved by some instinct of curiosity, he made his way round to the closed door of the boat-house, only to find it, as he had expected, locked. He shook it slightly, without result. Then he strolled round to the back, entered his own little abode by the kitchen, and tried the other door which led into the boat-house. It was not only locked, but a staple had been put in, and it was fastened with a padlock of curious design which he did not remember to have seen there before. Again, half unconsciously, he listened, and again he found the silence oppressive. He went back to his room, brought out some of the books which it had been his intention to study, and sat and read over the fire.

  At ten o’clock he went to bed. As he threw open his window before undressing, it seemed to him that he could catch the sound of voices from the sea. He listened intently. A grey pall hung everywhere. To the left, with strange indistinctness, almost like something human struggling to assert itself, came the fitful flash from the light at the entrance to the tidal way. Once more he strained his ears. This time there was no doubt about it. He heard the sound of fishermen’s voices. He heard one of them say distinctly:

  “Hard aport, Dave lad! That’s Fentolin’s light. Keep her out a bit. Steady, lad!”

  Through a rift in the mist, he caught a glimpse of the brown sail of a fishing-boat, dangerously near the land. He watched it alter its course slightly and pass on. Then again there was silence. He undressed slowly and went to bed.

  Later on he woke with a start and sat up in bed, listening intently, listening for he knew not what. Except for the backward scream of the pebbles, dragged down every few seconds by the receding waves, an unbroken silence seemed to prevail. He struck a match and looked at his watch. It was exactly three o’clock. He got out of bed. He was a man in perfect health, ignorant of the meaning of nerves, a man of proved courage. Yet he was conscious that his pulses were beating with absurd rapidity. A new feeling seemed to possess him. He could almost have declared that he was afraid. What sound had awakened him? He had no idea, yet he seemed to have a distinct and absolute conviction that it had been a real sound and no dream. He drew aside the curtains and looked out of the window. The mist now seemed to have become almost a fog, to have closed in upon sea and land. There was nothing whatever to be seen. As he stood there for a moment, listening, his face became moist with the drifting vapour. Suddenly upon the beach he saw what at first he imagined must be an optical illusion—a long shaft of light, invisible in itself except that it seemed to slightly change the density of the mist. He threw on an overcoat over his pyjamas, thrust on his slippers, and taking up his own electric torch, hastily descended the stairs. He opened the front door and stepped out on to the beach. He stood in the very place where the light had seemed to be, and looked inland. There was no sign of any human person, not a sound except the falling of the sea upon the pebbly beach. He raised his voice and called out. Somehow or other, speech seemed to be a relief.

  “Hullo!”

  There was no response. He tried again.

  “Is any one there?”

  Still no answer. He watched the veiled light from the harbour appear and disappear. It threw no shadow of illumination upon the spot to which he had gazed from his window. One window at St. David’s Hall was illuminated. The rest of the place was wrapped now in darkness. He walked up to the boat-house. The door was still locked. There was no sign that any one had been there. Reluctantly at last he re-entered the Tower and made his way up-stairs.

  “Confound that fellow Kinsley!” he muttered, as he threw off his overcoat. “All his silly suggestions and melodramatic ideas have given me a fit of nerves. I am
going to bed, and I am going to sleep. That couldn’t have been a light I saw at all. I couldn’t have heard anything. I am going to sleep.”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Table of Contents

  Hamel awoke to find his room filled with sunshine and a soft wind blowing in through the open window. There was a pleasant odour of coffee floating up from the kitchen. He looked at his watch—it was past eight o’clock. The sea was glittering and bespangled with sunlight. He found among his scanty belongings a bathing suit, and, wrapped in his overcoat, hurried down-stairs.

  “Breakfast in half an hour, Mrs. Cox,” he called out.

  She stood at the door, watching him as he stepped across the pebbles and plunged in. For a few moments he swam. Then he turned over on his back. The sunlight was gleaming from every window of St. David’s Hall. He even fancied that upon the terrace he could see a white-clad figure looking towards him. He turned over and swam once more. From her place in the doorway Mrs. Cox called out to him.

  “Mind the Dagger Rocks, sir!”

  He waved his hand. The splendid exhilaration of the salt water seemed to give him unlimited courage. He dived, but the woman’s cry of fear soon recalled him. Presently he swam to shore and hurried up the beach. Mrs. Cox, with a sigh of relief, disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Those rocks on your nerves again, Mrs. Cox?” he asked, good-humouredly, as he took his place at the breakfast table a quarter of an hour later.

  “It’s only us who live here, sir,” she answered, “who know how terrible they are. There’s one—it comes up like my hand—a long spike. A boat once struck upon that, and it’s as though it’d been sawn through the middle.”

  “I must have a look at them some day,” he declared. “I am going to work this morning, Mrs. Cox. Lunch at one o’clock.”

  He took rugs and established himself with a pile of books at the back of a grassy knoll, sheltered from the wind, with the sea almost at his feet. He sharpened his pencil and numbered the page of his notebook. Then he looked up towards the Hall garden and found himself dreaming. The sunshine was delicious, and a gentle optimism seemed to steal over him.

  “I am a fool!” he murmured to himself. “I am catching some part of these people’s folly. Mr. Fentolin is only an ordinary, crotchety invalid with queer tastes. On the big things he is probably like other men. I shall go to him this morning.”

  A sea-gull screamed over his head. Little, brown sailed fishing-boats came gliding down the harbourway. A pleasant, sensuous joyfulness seemed part of the spirit of the day. Hamel stretched himself out upon the dry sand.

  “Work be hanged!” he exclaimed.

  A soft voice answered him almost in his ear, a voice which was becoming very familiar.

  “A most admirable sentiment, my young friend, which you seem to be doing your best to live up to. Not a line written, I see.”

  He sat up upon his rug. Mr. Fentolin, in his little carriage, was there by his side. Behind was the faithful Meekins, with an easel under his arm.

  “I trust that your first night in your new abode has been a pleasant one?” Mr. Fentolin asked.

  “I slept quite well, thanks,” Hamel replied. “Glad to see you’re going to paint.”

  Mr. Fentolin shook his head gloomily.

  “It is, alas!” he declared, “one of my weaknesses. I can work only in solitude. I came down on the chance that the fine weather might have tempted you over to the Golf Club. As it is, I shall return.”

  “I am awfully sorry,” Hamel said. “Can’t I go out of sight somewhere?”

  Mr. Fentolin sighed.

  “I will not ask your pardon for my absurd humours,” he continued, a little sadly. “Their existence, however, I cannot deny. I will wait.”

  “It seems a pity for you to do that,” Hamel remarked. “You see, I might stay here for some time.”

  Mr. Fentolin’s face darkened. He looked at the young man with a sort of pensive wrath.

  “If,” the latter went on, “you say ‘yes’ to something I am going to ask you, I might even stay—in the neighbourhood—for longer still.”

  Mr. Fentolin sat quite motionless in his chair; his eyes were fixed upon Hamel.

  “What is it that you are going to ask me?” he demanded.

  “I want to marry your niece.”

  Mr. Fentolin looked at the young man in mild surprise.

  “A sudden decision on your part, Mr. Hamel?” he murmured.

  “Not at all,” Hamel assured him. “I have been ten years looking for her.”

  “And the young lady?” Mr. Fentolin enquired. “What does she say?”

  “I believe, sir,” Hamel replied, “that she would be willing.”

  Mr. Fentolin sighed.

  “One is forced sometimes,” he remarked regretfully, “to realise the selfishness of our young people. For many years one devotes oneself to providing them with all the comforts and luxuries of life. Then, in a single day, they turn around and give everything they have to give to a stranger. So you want to marry Esther?”

  “If you please.”

  “She has a very moderate fortune.”

  “She need have none at all,” Hamel replied; “I have enough.”

  Mr. Fentolin glanced towards the house.

  “Then,” he said, “I think you had better go and tell her so; in which case, I shall be able to paint.”

  “I have your permission, then?” Hamel asked, rising to his feet eagerly.

  “Negatively,” Mr. Fentolin agreed, “you have. I cannot refuse. Esther is of age; the thing is reasonable. I do not know whether she will be happy with you or not. A young man of your disposition who declines to study the whims of an unfortunate creature like myself is scarcely likely to be possessed of much sensibility. However, perhaps your views as to a solitary residence here will change with your engagement to my niece.”

  Hamel did not reply for a moment. He was trying to ask himself why, even in the midst of this rush of anticipatory happiness, he should be conscious of a certain reluctance to leave the Tower—and Mr. Fentolin. He was looking longingly towards the Hall. Mr. Fentolin waved him away.

  “Go and make love,” he ordered, “and leave me alone. We are both in pursuit of beauty—only our methods differ.”

  Hamel hesitated no longer but walked up the narrow path with swift, buoyant footsteps. Everywhere he seemed to be surrounded by the glorious spring sunshine. It glittered in the little pools and creeks by his side. It drew a new colour from the dun-coloured marshes, the masses of emerald seaweed, the shimmering sands. It flashed in the long row of windows of the Hall. As he drew nearer, he could see the banks of yellow crocuses in the sloping gardens behind. There were odours of spring in the air. He ran lightly up the terrace steps. There was an easy-chair drawn into her favourite corner, and a book upon the table, but no sign of Esther. He hesitated for a moment, and then, retracing his steps along the terrace, entered the house by the front door, which stood wide open. There was no one in the hall, scarcely a sound about the place. A great clock ticked solemnly from the foot of the stairs. There was not even a servant in sight. Hamel wandered around, a a loss what to do. He opened the door of the drawing-room and looked in. It was empty. He turned away, meaning to ring a bell. On his way across the hall he paused. A curiously suggestive sound reached him faintly from the end of one of the passages. It was the click of a typewriter.

  Hamel stood for a moment perfectly still. He had hurried up to the Hall, filled with the one selfish joy common to all mankind. He had had no thought save the thought of seeing Esther. The click of that machine brought him hack to the stern realities of life. He remembered his talk to Kinsley, his promise. On the hall table he could see from where he was standing the great headlines which announced the nation’s anxiety. He was in the house of a suspected spy. The click of the typewriter was an accompaniment to his thought. He looked around once more and listened. Then he made his way quietly across the hail and down the long passage, at the end of which the
room which Mr. Fentolin called his workroom was situated. He turned the handle of the door and entered, closing it immediately behind him. The woman who was typing paused with her fingers upon the keys. Her eyes met his coldly, without curiosity. She had paused in her work, but she took no other notice of his coming.

  “Has Mr. Fentolin sent you here?” she asked at last.

  He came over to the typewriter.

  “Mr. Fentolin has not sent me,” he said slowly. “I am here on my own account. I dare say you will think that I am a lunatic to come to you like this. Nevertheless, please listen to me.”

  Her fingers left the keys. She laid her hands upon the table in front of her. He drew a little nearer. She covered over the sheets of paper with which she was surrounded with a pad of blotting-paper. He pointed suddenly to them.

  “Why do you do that?” he demanded. “What is there in your work that you are afraid I might see?”

  She answered him without hesitation.

  “These are private papers of Mr. Fentolin’s. No one has any business to see them. No one has any business to enter this room. Why are you here?”

  “I came to the Hall to find Miss Fentolin,” he replied. “I heard the click of your typewriter. I came to you, I suppose I should say, on impulse.”

  Her eyes rested upon his, filled with a cold and questioning light.

  “There’s an impression up in London,” Hamel went on, “that Mr. Fentolin has been interfering by means of his wireless in affairs which don’t concern him, and giving away valuable information. This man Dunster’s disappearance is as yet unexplained. I feel myself justified in making certain investigations, and among the first of them I should like you to tell me exactly the nature of the work for which Mr. Fentolin finds a secretary necessary?”