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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  Perissol seemed to gain strength from the other’s weakness. He lit a cigarette and looked with calm contempt at the broken down man upon the bench.

  “You are overtired, my friend,” he said. “Your effort has been too much. Eat and drink and then smoke. You will then see things in a less gloomy light.”

  The two men talked until the moon paled in the sky and a cool breeze stole from eastwards with the incoming tide. Curiously enough, for the first part of the time, they spoke very little of the grim tragedy by which they were confronted. Something even stronger than themselves seemed to drive them into a strangely inspired dissertation on life and death. Afterwards, however, for hours on end they faced the truth with grim directness. The sun had already risen when Lavandou held out his hands.

  “My friend,” he said, “my friend of twenty years, you have at all times supported me. You will not misjudge me. You will understand if the world reviles that I take the only course a man can take. If I disclose my discoveries to the Press or outside the bureau it will be a nail in the coffin of France. I cannot report to my chief, and I have a terrible feeling in my heart that we shall never see him again. If discovery comes I shall know what to do, I am fortunately a man without family, or I might hesitate. France demands her sacrifice, and she shall have it.”

  The General wrung his friend’s hand. The automobile was waiting and he had no words.

  “Under certain circumstances you have found the only solution,” he reflected sadly. “But courage, mon ami. Chauvanne may return. There is something in the breath of this air that gives me hope. A morning even as beautiful may dawn for France.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Table of Contents

  Two of the greatest men in France opened their morning papers three days later at the same moment. Edouard Mermillon, in a sheltered corner of the Aigle Noir sat before his petit déjeuner of fragrant coffee, fresh rolls with Normandy butter, and wonderful peaches—General Perissol, seated in a corner of his terrace before a far more Spartan meal. Mermillon read one column, swung round in his place, and sent for his secretary. Afterwards he poured out his coffee and prepared a peach in leisurely fashion.

  “Jules,” he directed, “telephone at once to the air depot at Cannes. Ask at what time the morning ‘plane for Paris goes, and whether it is necessary to stop at Lyons. If so, demand further if a private ‘plane can be commandeered for Government service.. One moment, Baron,” he cried to his friend, who, in bathing attire, had just stepped up the gangway.

  The latter wrapped himself in the dressing gown which his valet was holding out for him.

  “I drip,” he cried, “and the water was cold. Is it news of importance?”

  “It might almost be called that,” Mermillon assured him.

  The Baron came unwillingly to the table and clutched the paper which his host extended to him. The healthy glow of a few seconds ago passed from his features. The flesh seemed to sag in his cheeks. His eyes, normal enough in a general sort of way, seemed to become like beads.

  “Gaston Lavandou Suicide:

  “Le Sous-Secretaire du Bureau de Finance est trouve mort dans l’appartement de Madame Jacqueline, l’actrice bien connue de la Comedie Francaise.”

  “Ciel!” de Brett exclaimed. “What does this mean?”

  Mermillon shrugged his shoulders.

  “It appears quite clear,” he said, “that there exists, or rather did exist until early this morning, one more prodigious fool in the world. If you read further you will see that Gaston Lavandou called earlier in the evening upon his mistress and found her and his rival. She appears to have been a little brutal to Lavandou and to have left for the theatre with this man who is at present unknown. Lavandou, instead of behaving like a man of fashion and a philosopher, blows out his brains in her apartment and leaves behind a letter which reads like the sentimental caterwauling of a disappointed tom-cat!”

  “Qu’est-ce qu’on peut faire?” the Baron exclaimed, his voice hoarse with fear. “Another man will have to be appointed and Chauvanne is away. Who will be able to fix the limit to his possible investigations?”

  “What must be done is clear,” Mermillon declared. “I must get to Paris in time to appoint a successor to Lavandou who is one of our own party and a man we can trust. I have sufficient authority for that. They say that Chauvanne has no wireless on his yacht. I begin to ask myself, perhaps, whether his destination was not Brazil. Anyway someone in authority must be at the Bureau of Finance within a few hours. Drink some coffee. You ave shivering.”

  “I should spit it out,” the Baron answered. He glanced at the headlines, read the paragraph again, then he laid the paper upon the table.

  “Only one thing can happen,” he groaned. “If Chauvanne does not return the President will order an outside investigation at the bureau.”

  “Nothing of that sort is likely to happen,” Mermillon said calmly. “I shall reach Paris in time to appoint a successor and when you read the paper carefully you will see that this fellow Lavandou has made it as clear as day that his suicide had nothing whatever to do with finance.”

  “I don’t think,” the Boron said, with chattering teeth, “that I shall go to Paris.”

  “In any case you had better go and change,” Mermillon advised him, with a slight but distinct note of scorn in his tone. “You could scarcely go to Brussels like that.”

  General Perissol was perhaps calmer, but when he laid down the newspaper there were tears in his eyes. He was still seated in his place gazing out seawards when Louise, who had hurried past the servant who would have announced her, swept through the French windows and with extended arms came breathlessly towards him.

  “My dear friend,” she cried. “My poor dear Armand! I heard the news an hour ago. I rushed here.”

  He held her hands for a moment in silence. Then he fetched a garden chair and placed it by his side.

  “But Lavandou of all men!” she exclaimed. “One saw nothing of him in society. Once you gave a reception and I talked to him for a few minutes. I thought him a shy man. He was difficult to talk to, and seemed only anxious to get away. He is the last person in the world I should have suspected of an intrigue like that. Lavandou, a lover of women, to that extent! It seems incredible.”

  “He was no lover of women,” the General answered sadly.

  “Then what was he?” she demanded. “A hero,” was the brief response.

  Louise held her forehead for a minute.

  “I am bewildered,” she confessed. “Give me some of your coffee if you have any left.”

  A butler, who had been hovering in the background, brought a fresh supply. Louise sipped a little and leaned back in her chair.

  “You suspected this?” she asked.

  “I feared it,” Perissol admitted. “Lavandou was here three days ago.”

  “But you take it so calmly,” she exclaimed. “You show no anger. Surely this thing which he has done—for a deputy, for a man on his way to high office—is ignominious. It is dastardly. His letter is the letter of a mad but peevish schoolboy. He seems to wish the world to know that he has abandoned his career and killed himself because a woman has been faithless to him. He seems to glory in his disgrace.”

  “You do not understand yet,” Perissol said gravely.

  She looked back at the paragraph.

  “But what more is there to understand?” she demanded. “I have never known you before to be mistaken in a man. You must have understood his disposition.”

  “I knew it better than any other man,” Perissol told her. “I knew his habits well. I know that women for him were only a slight but pleasant pastime. What he loved more than anything else in the world was France. He died for France. He gave more than his life for France; he gave his honour.”

  “You are trying to bewilder me,” she complained.

  “You and I will share this secret,” he said, “or the secret of what I believe.”

  She smiled.

  “Have I ever
broken faith with you, Armand?”

  “Never, dearest. I trust you now, although this matter goes beyond the life or death of one man.”

  “You terrify me.”

  “Lavandou came to me a man distraught, as you know. He was a skilful mathematician as well as a great financier. He understood the art of juggling with figures possibly better than any man in France. He was set an important task—to tabulate the amounts received from different departments of France and neighbouring countries to this last great national loan launched by Chauvanne. In the course of his work he came to a cul de sac. If Chauvanne had been in the country he would have asked one simple question, easily answered, and all would have been well. Chauvanne being away, he applied a method of his own to test certain results. The outcome was alarming. He discovered, beyond a doubt, that some four hundred millions of the loan had never been tabulated at all.”

  “Then what had become of them?” she asked breathlessly.

  He shook his head.

  “We must pause there,” he told her.

  “But it is impossible,” she protested. “You have begun: you must finish. Armand—what does this mean?”

  He reflected for some moments, then he continued.

  “You know what I have long suspected,” he said. “You know that while I rest here, apparently taking my usual vacation in the usual fashion, such brains as I have are at work in Paris, in Brussels, in Lyons, in London, in other centres. I may find myself before long in the same terrible position as Lavandou. He knew very well this smouldering feeling of discontent all through France, this horrible, only half-stifled suspicion that the Tositi investigation has failed, that the discoveries which have been made are only external discolorations of a foul disease. Lavandou knew very well that the publication of this discovery—another four millions gone into the pockets of robbers of the State—would have been as good as a battle cry to the Communists, the anarchists, and the riff-raff who would wreck France. Nevertheless, their outcry would have raised a fire of passionate discontent. The President would have had to call the Chamber together and without a doubt the Government would have fallen. Who is left to take our place? Not one single soul. With no Government what would happen to France?”

  “Is there no honest political party, then,” she cried, “no one who can be trusted?”

  “The men are there,” he answered. “Plenty of them. But they have never been brought together. They are kept apart by trifles—personal predilections, prejudices—all things not worth a moment’s consideration. They want the right leader, the strong ringing voice telling the truth, and France could once more have the most powerful and patriotic Government in the world. But the electioneering has been all wrong. The people have been deceived. She will right herself, but Lavandou saw the truth. She must right herself slowly without any of these violent discoveries or shocks. She must right herself at a time when the men who can deal with a crisis are at hand and ready to act.”

  “Give up your police work, Armand,” she begged him. “The stamping out of crime is a slight thing compared to the future of France. Take a bold plunge.”

  He drew her even closer to him. His strong features were moved with agitation.

  “Don’t you see, Louise, the people whom I most mistrust have shown their genius by placing me in the Cabinet? You forgot that I am no longer Chef de la Surete of Paris. I have powers over the whole of France. I am a Minister, too, with a portfolio. If I have to change my portfolio I shall do it, but the last year in my present position has enabled me to find out more about the Communists and the secret plotters against the Government than I could have found out in any other way. I have no ambitions, dearest, for myself, but I have a desire which is a real passion to see France again in safe waters.”

  Her arm stole round his neck. They were completely alone. She stroked his face gently. Her fingers seemed to travel down those lines which had grown deeper during the last few minutes.

  “Meanwhile,” she whispered, “you starve yourself. You work night and day, your thoughts concentrated upon others. You give your life, your passion, your heart to one task. Great though it may be, Armand, it is also selfish. You keep others who love you suffering.”

  His eyes softened. He held her hands and drew her from her chair to the place on the bench by his side. Her head fell on his shoulder. She raised her lips.

  “For the rest, sweetheart,” he said, “help me if you will. Go on helping me. If I have seemed distant at times, it is because I fear to draw anyone so famous and beautiful a you, one whom I love so well, into the whirlpool. This morning I am either weaker or stronger—Heaven knows which—but remember this, those who fight in this secret battle, which at any moment may blaze up into furious pandemonium, live under a death sentence. Realise that, Louise, and choose.”

  Her lips, on fire with passion, met his once more.

  “You know how I shall choose,” she sobbed. “I, too, want to serve—not, alas, for the sake of France only, but because I love you.”

  There were sounds within the house. She resumed her seat with gay, stealthy movements. Her face had become like the face of a young girl. She leaned towards him with shining eyes.

  “My trunks are already at the station,” she whispered. “We dine here—yes?”

  “At your own hour,” he said. “Bring your own maid. It was a foolish thought of mine to go to Paris. I have others who can serve me there. I shall do better to stay away until the moment of crisis.”

  “If only we can have even twenty-four hours,” she prayed.

  “Lavandou has given us that—and longer,” he assured her. “You had better bring your maid. Remember that my household here is rough enough. You will have to reconstruct it. You muse make me live once more like a civilised man. Perhaps I shall be able to cope better with these elegants of the coast—Edouard Mermillon, de Brett, the Marquis de Montelimar, and St. Pierre, who called the other day and looked with horror at my shabby grey trousers!”

  “We will live for one another and France,” she declared fervently, “and, if necessary, I will do the cocking.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Table of Contents

  The walls of the Casino at Juan-les-Pins were plastered with announcements of a great attraction.

  “TANYA VIZILLE des Folies Bergeres de Paris, Trois representations seulement: Toutes les nuits sont des nuits de gala. Prix du diner frs. 100. Il est prudent de retenir ses places.”

  An hour before the second night of her appearance, Mademoiselle Tanya sat in the retiring room allotted to her in the Casino suffering the ministrations of her coiffeur and manicurist. There was a pile of evening papers by her side to which she was also giving some attention.

  “Mademoiselle’s triumph last night was unparalleled,” the coiffeur confided in almost an awed tone. “Seldom have we seen such a fury amongst an audience. To-night there is not a table to be had.”

  “Zut,” Tanya scoffed. “They are easy to please—this little world. In Paris it is the same. It is here I live. The great critics come to my room.”

  “So one has heard, Mademoiselle,” the coiffeur ventured. “And in the midst of her triumph Mademoiselle disappeared. One heard she was dancing up at a small café in this neighbourhood. It was perhaps a canard, cela.”

  “I do as I please,” Tanya said curtly. “Sometimes I am bored with life, then I look for a quiet spot and to amuse myself I dance for a few francs. I send the people crazy just the same. They ask me: ‘Why am I not in Paris? Do I wish for introductions?’—and I laugh. That pleases me and I go back again. But there are other things I care about as much as the stage.”

  “As par exemple?”

  “You are my coiffeur,” Tanya reminded him curtly. “Arrange my hair and ask no more questions.”

  The man was coldly angry, for he saw the smile on the lips of the manicurist. He obeyed, however.

  “There is a young man who has a boat near here—an American, I believe. They tell me that he seldom comes t
o the Casino. A Mr. Hamer Wildburn,” Tanya said. “He is a client of yours perhaps? You may answer when I speak to you,” she added a little sharply, as the man hesitated.

  “I do not know the gentleman, Mademoiselle,” he regretted.

  “Nor, it seems, does anyone else,” she complained. “He keeps his yacht in Garoupe Bay. It is called the Bird of Paradise. Does that assist?”

  “I do not know him,” the coiffeur repeated The manicurist paused for a moment at her task.

  “Mademoiselle,” she confided eagerly, “I do not know the gentleman of whom you speak, but I have seen him several times with a very good client of mine, Mademoiselle de Montelimar, the daughter of the Marquise de Montelimar. One has heard a rumour that they are fiances.”

  “What sort of a young man is he?” The manicurist shook her head.

  “He is of fine appearance—tall and strong,” she said. “He speaks with an American accent. He appears gentil. Mademoiselle kept him waiting once for a quarter of an hour, and he was not like these short tempered English. He only laughed.”

  “You have not seen him to-day?”

  “Not to-day, Mademoiselle.”

  “Ecoute, ma chere,” Tanya said, leaning towards the girl, “If you see him while you are here—wherever I am—come and tell me. It shall mean a cadeau for you. You understand?”

  “Mais parfaitement, Mademoiselle,” the girl assented. “If one might choose one’s cadeau I would value a signed photograph—just Tanya—more than anything else in the world.”

  “Even that shall be arranged,” the danseuse promised graciously. “I am only here for a day or two. I stay at the Provençal, as my flat was blown up with all my clothes. It was very inconvenient.”

  There was a tap at the door. A chasseur entered. He was wearing a sky blue uniform and a peaked cap, and he evidently meant to make the best of this visit. He approached Tanya’s chair before he made the announcement, and he regarded her with veneration.