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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Great Heavens!” Nigel muttered under his breath. “You heard about Atcheson?”

  She nodded.

  “Poor fellow, they got him all right. You talk about thrills, Nigel,” she went on. “Do you know that the last night before I left for my vacation, I actually heard that fat old Essendorf chuckling with his wife about how his clever police had laid an English spy by the heels, and telling her, also, of the papers which they had discovered and handed over. All the time the real dispatch, written by Atcheson when he was dying, was sewn into my corsets. How’s that for an exciting situation?”

  “It’s a man’s job, anyhow,” Nigel declared.

  She shrugged her shoulders and abandoned the personal side of the subject.

  “Have you been in Germany lately, Nigel?” she enquired.

  “Not for many years,” he answered.

  She stretched herself out upon the couch and lit a cigarette.

  “The Germany of before the war of course I can’t remember,” she said pensively. “I imagine, however, that there was a sort of instinctive jealous dislike towards England and everything English, simply because England had had a long start in colonisation, commerce and all the rest of it. But the feeling in Germany now, although it is marvellously hidden, is something perfectly amazing. It absolutely vibrates wherever you go. The silence makes it all the more menacing. Soon after I got to Berlin, I bought a copy of the Treaty of Peace and read it. Nigel, was it necessary to have been so bitterly cruel to a beaten enemy?”

  “Logically it would seem not,” Nigel admitted. “Actually, we cannot put ourselves back into the spirit of those days. You must remember that it was an unprovoked war, a war engineered by Germany for the sheer purposes of aggression. That is why a punitive spirit entered into our subsequent negotiations.”

  She nodded.

  “I expect history will tell us some day,” she continued, “that we needed a great statesman of the Beaconsfield type at the Peace table. However, that is all ended. They sowed the seed at Versailles, and I think we are going to reap the harvest.”

  “After all,” Nigel observed thoughtfully, “it is very difficult to see what practical interference there could be with the peace of the world. I can very well believe that the spirit is there, but when it comes to hard facts—well, what can they do? England can never be invaded. The war of 1914 proved that. Besides, Germany now has a representative on the League of Nations. She is bound to toe the line with the rest.”

  “It is not in Germany alone that we are disliked,” Maggie reminded him. “We seem somehow or other to have found our way into the bad books of every country in Europe. Clumsy statesmanship is it, or what?”

  “I should attribute it,” Nigel replied, “to the passing of our old school of ambassadors. After all, ambassadors are born, not made, and they should be—they very often were—men of rare tact and perceptions. We have no one now to inform us of the prejudices and humours of the nations. We often offend quite unwittingly, and we miss many opportunities of a rapprochement. It is trade, trade, trade and nothing else, the whole of the time, and the men whom we sent to the different Courts to further our commercial interests are not the type to keep us informed of the more subtle and intricate matters which sometimes need adjustment between two countries.”

  “That may be the explanation of all the bad feeling,” Maggie admitted, “and you may be right when you say that any practical move against us is almost impossible. Dad doesn’t think so, you know. He is terribly exercised about the coming of Prince Shan.”

  “I must get him to talk to me,” Nigel said. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think that we need fear Asiatic intervention over here. Prince Shan is too great a diplomatist to risk his country’s new prosperity.”

  “Prince Shan,” Maggie declared, “is the one man in the world I am longing to meet. He was at Oxford with you, wasn’t he, Nigel?”

  “For one year only. He went from there to Harvard.”

  “Tell me what he was like,” she begged.

  “I have only a hazy recollection of him,” Nigel confessed. “He was a most brilliant scholar and a fine horseman. I can’t remember whether he did anything at games.”

  “Good-looking?”

  “Extraordinarily so. He was very reserved, though, and even in those days he was far more exclusive than our own royal princes. We all thought him clever, but no one dreamed that he would become Asia’s great man. I’ll tell you all that I can remember about him another time, Maggie. I’m rather curious about that report of Atcheson’s. Have you any idea what it is about?”

  She shook her head.

  “None at all. It is in the old Foreign Office cipher and it looks like gibberish. I only know that the first few lines he transcribed gave dad the jumps.”

  “I wonder if he has finished it by now.”

  “He’ll send for you when he has. How do you think I am looking, Nigel?”

  “Wonderful,” he answered, rising to his feet and standing with his elbow upon the mantelpiece, gazing down at her. “But then you are wonderful, aren’t you, Maggie? You know I always thought so.”

  She picked up a mirror from the little bag by her side and scrutinized her features.

  “It can’t be my face,” she decided, turning towards him with a smile. “I must have charm.”

  “Your face is adorable,” he declared.

  “Are you going to flirt with me?” she asked, with a faint smile at the corners of her lips. “You always do it so well and so convincingly. And I hate foreigners. They are terribly in earnest but there is no finesse about them. You may kiss me just once, please, Nigel, the way I like.”

  He held her for a moment in his arms, tenderly, but with a reserve to which she was accustomed from him. Presently she thrust him away. Her own colour had risen a little.

  “Delightful,” she murmured. “Think of the wasted months! No one has kissed me, Nigel, since we said good-bye.”

  “Have you made up your mind to marry me yet?” he asked.

  “My dear,” she answered, patting his hand, “do restrain your ardour. Do you really want to marry me?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “You don’t love me.”

  “I am awfully fond of you,” he assured her, “and I don’t love any one else.”

  She shook her head.

  “It isn’t enough, Nigel,” she declared, “and, strange to say, it’s exactly how I feel about you.”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be enough,” he argued. “Perhaps we have too much common sense for these violent feelings.”

  “It may be that,” she admitted doubtfully. “On the other hand, don’t let’s run any risk. I should hate to find an affinity, and all that sort of thing, after marriage—divorce in these days is such shocking bad form. Besides, honestly, Nigel, I don’t feel frivolous enough to think about marriage just now. I have the feeling that even while the clock is ticking we are moving on to terrible things. I can’t tell you quite what it is. I carried my life in my hands during those last few days abroad. I dare say this is the reaction.”

  He smiled reassuringly.

  “After all, you are safe at home now, dear,” he reminded her, “and I really am very fond of you, Maggie.”

  “And I’m quite absurdly fond of you, Nigel,” she acknowledged. “It makes me feel quite uncomfortable when I reflect that I shall probably have to order you to make love to some one else before the week is out.”

  “I shall do nothing of the sort,” he declared firmly. “I am not good at that sort of thing. And who is she, anyhow?”

  They were interrupted by a sudden knock at the door—not the discreet tap of a well-bred domestic, but a flurried, almost an imperative summons. Before either of them could reply, the door was opened and Brookes, the elderly butler, presented himself upon the threshold. Even before he spoke, it was clear that he brought alarming news.

  “Will you step down to the library at once, sir?” he begged, addressing Nigel.
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  “What is the matter, Brookes?” Maggie demanded anxiously.

  “I fear that his lordship is not well,” the man replied.

  They all hurried out together. Brookes was evidently terribly perturbed and went on talking half to himself without heeding their questions.

  “I thought at first that his lordship must have fainted,” he said. “I heard a queer noise, and when I went in, he had fallen forward across the table. Parkins has rung for Doctor Wilcox.”

  “What sort of a noise?” Nigel asked.

  “It sounded like a shot,” the man faltered.

  They entered the library, Nigel leading the way. Lord Dorminster was lying very much as Brookes had described him, but there was something altogether unnatural in the collapse of his head and shoulders and his motionless body. Nigel spoke to him, touched him gently, raised him at last into a sitting position. Something on which his right hand seemed to have been resting clattered on to the carpet. Nigel turned around and waved Maggie back.

  “Don’t come,” he begged.

  “Is it a stroke?” she faltered.

  “I am afraid that he is dead,” Nigel answered simply.

  They went out into the hall and waited there in shocked silence until the doctor arrived. The latter’s examination lasted only a few seconds. Then he pointed to the telephone.

  “This is very terrible,” he said. “I am afraid you had better ring up Scotland Yard, Mr. Kingley. Lord Dorminster appears either to have shot himself, as seems most probable,” he added, glancing at the revolver upon the carpet, “or to have been murdered.”

  “It is incredible!” Nigel exclaimed. “He was the sanest possible man, and the happiest, and he hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

  The physician pointed downwards to the revolver. Then he unfastened once more the dead man’s waistcoat, opened his shirt and indicated a small blue mark just over his heart.

  “That is how he died,” he said. “It must have been instantaneous.”

  Time seemed to beat out its course in leaden seconds whilst they waited for the superintendent from Scotland Yard. Nigel at first stood still for some moments. From outside came the cheerful but muffled roar of the London streets, the hooting of motor horns, the rumbling of wheels, the measured footfall of the passing multitude. A boy went by, whistling; another passed, calling hoarsely the news from the afternoon papers. A muffin man rang his bell, a small boy clattered his stick against the area bailing. The whole world marched on, unmoved and unnoticing. In this sombre apartment alone tragedy reigned in sinister silence. On the sofa, Lord Dorminster, who only half an hour ago had seemed to be in the prime of life and health, lay dead.

  Nigel moved towards the writing-table and stood looking at it in wonder. The code book still remained, but there was not the slightest sign of any manuscript or paper of any sort. He even searched the drawers of the desk without result. Every trace of Atcheson’s dispatch and Lord Dorminster’s transcription of it had disappeared!

  CHAPTER III

  Table of Contents

  On a certain day some weeks after the adjourned inquest and funeral of Lord Dorminster, Nigel obtained a long-sought-for interview with the Right Honourable Mervin Brown, who had started life as a factory inspector and was now Prime Minister of England. The great man received his visitor with an air of good-natured tolerance.

  “Heard of you from Scotland Yard, haven’t I, Lord Dorminster?” he said, as he waved him to a seat. “I gather that you disagreed very strongly with the open verdict which was returned at the inquest upon your uncle?”

  “The verdict was absolutely at variance with the facts,” Nigel declared. “My uncle was murdered, and a secret report of certain doings on the continent, which he was decoding at the time, was stolen.”

  “The medical evidence scarcely bears out your statement,” Mr. Mervin Brown pointed out dryly, “nor have the police been able to discover how any one could have obtained access to the room, or left it, without leaving some trace of their visit behind. Further, there are no indications of a robbery having been attempted.”

  “I happen to know more than any one else about this matter,” Nigel urged,—“more, even, than I thought it advisable to mention at the inquest—and I beg you to listen to me, Mr. Mervin Brown. I know that you considered my uncle to be in some respects a crank, because he was far-seeing enough to understand that under the seeming tranquillity abroad there is a universal and deep-seated hatred of this country.”

  “I look upon that statement as misleading and untrue,” the Minister declared. “Your late uncle belonged to that mischievous section of foreign politicians who believed in secret treaties and secret service, and who fostered a state of nervous unrest between countries otherwise disposed to be friendly. We have turned over a new leaf, Lord Dorminster. Our efforts are all directed towards developing an international spirit of friendliness and trust.”

  “Utopian but very short-sighted,” Nigel commented. “If my uncle had lived to finish decoding the report upon which he was engaged, I could have offered you proof not only of the existence of the spirit I speak of, but of certain practical schemes inimical to this country.”

  “The papers you speak of have disappeared,” Mr. Mervin Brown observed, with a smile.

  “They were taken away by the person who murdered my uncle,” Nigel insisted.

  The Right Honourable gentleman nodded.

  “Well, you know my views about the affair,” he said. “I may add that they are confirmed by the police. I am in no way prejudiced, however, and am willing to listen to anything you may have to say which will not take you more than a quarter of an hour,” he added, glancing at the clock upon his table.

  “Here goes, then,” Nigel began. “My uncle was a statesman of the old school who had no faith in the Utopian programme of the present Government of this country. When you abandoned any pretence of a continental secret service, he at his own expense instituted a small one of his own. He sent two men out to Germany and one to Russia. The one sent to Russia was the man Sidwell, whose murder in a Petrograd café you may have read of. Of the two sent to Germany, one has disappeared, and the other died in hospital, without a doubt poisoned, a few days after he had sent the report to England which was stolen from my uncle’s desk. That report was brought over by Lady Maggie Trent, Lord Dorminster’s stepdaughter, who was really the brains of the enterprise and under another name was acting as governess to the children of Herr Essendorf, President of the German Republic. Half an hour before his death, my uncle was decoding this dispatch in his library. I saw him doing it, and I saw the dispatch itself. He told me that so far as he had gone already, it was full of information of the gravest import; that a definite scheme was already being formulated against this country by an absolutely unique and dangerous combination of enemies.”

  “Those enemies being?”

  Nigel shook his head.

  “That I can only surmise,” he replied. “My uncle had only commenced to decode the dispatch when I last saw him.”

  “Then I gather, Lord Dorminster,” the Minister said, “that you connect your uncle’s death directly with the supposed theft of this document?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “And the conclusion you arrive at, then?”

  “Is an absolutely logical one,” Nigel declared firmly. “I assert that other countries are not falling into line with our lamentable abnegation of all secret service defence, and that, in plain words, my uncle was murdered by an agent of one of these countries, in order that the dispatch which had come into his hands should not be decoded and passed on to your Government.”

  The Right Honourable gentleman smiled slightly. He was a man of some natural politeness, but he found it hard to altogether conceal his incredulity.

  “Well, Lord Dorminster,” he promised, “I will consider all that you have said. Is there anything more I can do for you?”

  “Yes!” Nigel replied boldly. “Induce the Cabinet to reëstablish our Intelligence
Department and secret service, even on a lesser scale, and don’t rest until you have discovered exactly what it is they are plotting against us somewhere on the continent.”

  “To carry out your suggestions, Lord Dorminster,” the Minister pointed out, “would be to be guilty of an infringement of the spirit of the League of Nations, the existence of which body is, we believe, a practical assurance of our safety.”

  Nigel rose to his feet.

  “As man to man, sir,” he said, “I see you don’t believe a word of what I have been telling you.”

  “As man to man,” the other admitted pleasantly, as he touched the bell, “I think you have been deceived.”

  * * * * *

  Nigel, even as a prophet of woe, was a very human person and withal a philosopher. He strolled along Piccadilly and turned into Bond Street, thoroughly enjoying one of the first spring days of the season. Flower sellers were busy at every corner; the sky was blue, with tiny flecks of white clouds, there was even some dust stirred by the little puffs of west wind. He exchanged greetings with a few acquaintances, lingered here and there before the shop windows, and presently developed a fit of contemplation engendered by the thoughts which were all the time at the back of his mind. Bond Street was crowded with vehicles of all sorts, from wonderfully upholstered automobiles to the resuscitated victoria. The shop windows were laden with the treasures of the world, buyers were plentiful, promenaders multitudinous. Every one seemed to be cheerful but a little engrossed in the concrete act of living. Nigel almost ran into Prince Karschoff, at the corner of Grafton Street.

  “Dreaming, my friend?” the latter asked quietly, as he laid his hand upon Nigel’s shoulder.

  “Guilty,” Nigel confessed. “You are an observant man, Prince. Tell me whether anything strikes you about the Bond Street of to-day, compared with the Bond Street of, say, ten years ago?”

  The Russian glanced around him curiously. He himself was a somewhat unusual figure in his distinctively cut morning coat, his carefully tied cravat, his silk hat, black and white check trousers and faultless white spats.