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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “We’ve done our best, sir,” the station-master remarked with a note of self-congratulation in his tone. “It’s exactly twenty-two minutes since you came into the office, and there she is. Finest engine we’ve got on the line, and the best driver. You’ve a clear road ahead too. Wish you a pleasant journey, sir.”

  “You are very good, sir,” Mr. Hamilton Fynes declared. “I am sure that my friends on the other side will appreciate your attention. By what time do you suppose that we shall reach London?”

  The station-master glanced at the clock.

  “It is now eight o’clock, sir,” he announced. “If my orders down the line are properly attended to, you should be there by twenty minutes to twelve.”

  Mr. Hamilton Fynes nodded gravely and took his seat in the car. He had previously walked its entire length and back again.

  “The train consists only of this carriage?” he asked. “There is no other passenger, for instance, travelling in the guard’s brake?”

  “Certainly not, sir,” the station-master declared. “Such a thing would be entirely against the regulations. There are five of you, all told, on board,—driver, stoker, guard, saloon attendant, and yourself.”

  Mr. Hamilton Fynes nodded, and appeared satisfied.

  “No more luggage, sir?” the guard asked.

  “I was obliged to leave what I had, excepting this suitcase, upon the steamer,” Mr. Hamilton Fynes explained. “I could not very well expect them to get my trunk up from the hold. It will follow me to the hotel tomorrow.”

  “You will find that the attendant has light refreshments on board, sir, if you should be wanting anything,” the station-master announced. “We’ll start you off now, then. Good-night, sir!”

  Mr. Fynes nodded genially.

  “Good-night, Station-master!” he said. “Many thanks to you.”

  II. THE END OF THE JOURNEY

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  Southward, with low funnel belching forth fire and smoke into the blackness of the night, the huge engine, with its solitary saloon carriage and guard’s brake, thundered its way through the night towards the great metropolis. Across the desolate plain, stripped bare of all vegetation, and made hideous forever by the growth of a mighty industry, where the furnace fires reddened the sky, and only the unbroken line of ceaseless lights showed where town dwindled into village and suburbs led back again into town. An ugly, thickly populated neighborhood, whose area of twinkling lights seemed to reach almost to the murky skies; hideous, indeed by day, not altogether devoid now of a certain weird attractiveness by reason of low-hung stars. On, through many tunnels into the black country itself, where the furnace fires burned oftener, but the signs of habitation were fewer. Down the great iron way the huge locomotive rushed onward, leaping and bounding across the maze of metals, tearing past the dazzling signal lights, through crowded stations where its passing was like the roar of some earth-shaking monster. The station-master at Crewe unhooked his telephone receiver and rang up Liverpool.

  “What about this special?” he demanded.

  “Passenger brought off from the Lusitania in a private tug. Orders are to let her through all the way to London.”

  “I know all about that,” the station-master grumbled. “I have three locals on my hands already,—been held up for half an hour. Old Glynn, the director’s, in one of them too. Might be General Manager to hear him swear.”

  “Is she signalled yet?” Liverpool asked.

  “Just gone through at sixty miles an hour,” was the reply. “She made our old wooden sheds shake, I can tell you. Who’s driving her?”

  “Jim Poynton,” Liverpool answered. “The guvnor took him off the mail specially.”

  “What’s the fellow’s name on board, anyhow?” Crewe asked. “Is it a millionaire from the other side, trying to make records, or a member of our bloated aristocracy?”

  “The name’s Fynes, or something like it,” was the reply. “He didn’t look much like a millionaire. Came into the office carrying a small handbag and asked for a special to London. Guvnor told him it would take two hours and cost a hundred and eighty pounds. Told him he’d better wait for the mail. He produced a note from some one or other, and you should have seen the old man bustle round. We started him off in twenty minutes.”

  The station-master at Crewe was interested. He knew very well that it is not the easiest thing in the world to bring influence to bear upon a great railway company.

  “Seems as though he was some one out of the common, anyway,” he remarked. “The guvnor didn’t let on who the note was from, I suppose?”

  “Not he,” Liverpool answered. “The first thing he did when he came back into the office was to tear it into small pieces and throw them on the fire. Young Jenkins did ask him a question, and he shut him up pretty quick.”

  “Well, I suppose we shall read all about it in the papers tomorrow,” Crewe remarked. “There isn’t much that these reporters don’t get hold of. He must be some one out of the common—some one with a pull, I mean,—or the captain of the Lusitania would never have let him off before the other passengers. When are the rest of them coming through?”

  “Three specials leave here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” was the reply. “Good night.”

  The station-master at Crewe hung up his receiver and went about his duties. Twenty miles southward by now, the special was still tearing its way into the darkness. Its solitary passenger had suddenly developed a fit of restlessness. He left his seat and walked once or twice up and down the saloon. Then he opened the rear door, crossed the little open space between, and looked into the guard’s brake. The guard was sitting upon a stool, reading a newspaper. He was quite alone, and so absorbed that he did not notice the intruder. Mr. Hamilton Fynes quietly retreated, closing the door behind him. He made his way once more through the saloon, passed the attendant, who was fast asleep in his pantry, and was met by a locked door. He let down the window and looked out. He was within a few feet of the engine, which was obviously attached direct to the saloon. Mr. Hamilton Fynes resumed his seat, having disturbed nobody. He produced some papers from his breast pocket, and spread them out on the table before him. One, a sealed envelope, he immediately returned, slipping it down into a carefully prepared place between the lining and the material of his coat. Of the others he commenced to make a close and minute investigation. It was a curious fact, however, that notwithstanding his recent searching examination, he looked once more nervously around the saloon before he settled down to his task. For some reason or other, there was not the slightest doubt that for the present, at any rate, Mr. Hamilton Fynes was exceedingly anxious to keep his own company. As he drew nearer to his journey’s end, indeed, his manner seemed to lose something of that composure of which, during the earlier part of the evening, he had certainly been possessed. Scarcely a minute passed that he did not lean sideways from his seat and look up and down the saloon. He sat like a man who is perpetually on the qui vive. A furtive light shone in his eyes, he was manifestly uncomfortable. Yet how could a man be safer from espionage than he!

  Rugby telephoned to Liverpool, and received very much the same answer as Crewe. Euston followed suit.

  “Who’s this you’re sending up tonight?” the station-master asked. “Special’s at Willington now, come through without a stop. Is some one trying to make a record round the world?”

  Liverpool was a little tired of answering questions, and more than a little tired of this mysterious client. The station-master at Euston, however, was a person to be treated with respect.

  “His name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, sir,” was the reply. “That is all we know about him. They have been ringing us up all down the line, ever since the special left.”

  “Hamilton Fynes,” Euston repeated. “Don’t know the name. Where did he come from?”

  “Off the Lusitania, sir.”

  “But we had a message three hours ago that the Lusitania was not landing her passengers until tomorrow morning,” Eu
ston protested.

  “They let our man off in a tug, sir,” was the reply.

  “It went down the river to fetch him. The guvnor didn’t want to give him a special at this time of night, but he just handed him a note, and we made things hum up here. He was on his way in half an hour. We have had to upset the whole of the night traffic to let him through without a stop.”

  Such a client was, at any rate, worth meeting. The station-master brushed his coat, put on his silk hat, and stepped out on to the platform.

  III. AN INCIDENT AND AN ACCIDENT

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  Smoothly the huge engine came gliding into the station—a dumb, silent creature now, drawing slowly to a standstill as though exhausted after its great effort. Through the windows of the saloon the station-master could see the train attendant bending over this mysterious passenger, who did not seem, as yet, to have made any preparations for leaving his place. Mr. Hamilton Fynes was seated at a table covered with papers, but he was leaning back as though he had been or was still asleep. The station-master stepped forward, and as he did so the attendant came hurrying out to the platform, and, pushing back the porters, called to him by name.

  “Mr. Rice,” he said, “If you please, sir, will you come this way?”

  The station-master acceded at once to the man’s request and entered the saloon. The attendant clutched at his arm nervously. He was a pale, anaemic-looking little person at any time, but his face just now was positively ghastly.

  “What on earth is the matter with you?” the station-master asked brusquely.

  “There’s something wrong with my passenger, sir,” the man declared in a shaking voice. “I can’t make him answer me. He won’t look up, and I don’t—I don’t think he’s asleep. An hour ago I took him some whiskey. He told me not to disturb him again—he had some papers to go through.”

  The station-master leaned over the table. The eyes of the man who sat there were perfectly wide-open, but there was something unnatural in their fixed stare,—something unnatural, too, in the drawn grayness of his face.

  “This is Euston, sir,” the station-master began,—“the terminus—”

  Then he broke off in the middle of his sentence. A cold shiver was creeping through his veins. He, too, began to stare; he felt the color leaving his own cheeks. With an effort he turned to the attendant.

  “Pull down the blinds,” he ordered, in a voice which he should never have recognized as his own. “Quick! Now turn out those porters, and tell the inspector to stop anyone from coming into the car.”

  The attendant, who was shaking like a leaf, obeyed. The station-master turned away and drew a long breath. He himself was conscious of a sense of nausea, a giddiness which was almost overmastering. This was a terrible thing to face without a second’s warning. He had not the slightest doubt but that the man who was seated at the table was dead!

  At such an hour there were only a few people upon the platform, and two stalwart station policemen easily kept back the loiterers whose curiosity had been excited by the arrival of the special. A third took up his position with his back to the entrance of the saloon, and allowed no one to enter it till the return of the station-master, who had gone for a doctor. The little crowd was completely mystified. No one had the slightest idea of what had happened. The attendant was besieged by questions, but he was sitting on the step of the car, in the shadow of a policeman, with his head buried in his hands, and he did not once look up. Some of the more adventurous tried to peer through the windows at the lower end of the saloon. Others rushed off to interview the guard. In a very few minutes, however, the station-master reappeared upon the scene, accompanied by the doctor. The little crowd stood on one side and the two men stepped into the car.

  The doctor proceeded at once with his examination. Mr. Hamilton Fynes, this mysterious person who had succeeded, indeed, in making a record journey, was leaning back in the corner of his seat, his arms folded, his head drooping a little, but his eyes still fixed in that unseeing stare. His body yielded itself unnaturally to the touch. For the main truth the doctor needed scarcely a glance at him.

  “Is he dead?” the station-master asked.

  “Stone-dead!” was the brief answer.

  “Good God!” the station-master muttered. “Good God!”

  The doctor had thrown his handkerchief over the dead man’s face. He was standing now looking at him thoughtfully.

  “Did he die in his sleep, I wonder?” the station-master asked. “It must have been horribly sudden! Was it heart disease?”

  The doctor did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be thinking out some problem.

  “The body had better be removed to the station mortuary,” he said at last. “Then, if I were you, I should have the saloon shunted on to a siding and left absolutely untouched. You had better place two of your station police in charge while you telephone to Scotland Yard.”

  “To Scotland Yard?” the station-master exclaimed.

  The doctor nodded. He looked around as though to be sure that none of that anxious crowd outside could overhear.

  “There’s no question of heart disease here,” he explained. “The man has been murdered!”

  The station-master was horrified,—horrified and blankly incredulous.

  “Murdered!” he repeated. “Why, it’s impossible! There was no one else on the train except the attendant—not a single other person. All my advices said one passenger only.”

  The doctor touched the man’s coat with his finger, and the station-master saw what he had not seen before,—saw what made him turn away, a little sick. He was a strong man, but he was not used to this sort of thing, and he had barely recovered yet from the first shock of finding himself face to face with a dead man. Outside, the crowd upon the platform was growing larger. White faces were being pressed against the windows at the lower end of the saloon.

  “There is no question about the man having been murdered,” the doctor said, and even his voice shook a little. “His own hand could never have driven that knife home. I can tell you, even, how it was done. The man who stabbed him was in the compartment behind there, leaned over, and drove this thing down, just missing the shoulder. There was no struggle or fight of any sort. It was a diabolical deed!”

  “Diabolical indeed!” the station-master echoed hoarsely.

  “You had better give orders for us to be shunted down on to a siding just as we are,” the doctor continued, “and send one of your men to telephone to Scotland Yard. Perhaps it would be as well, too, not to touch those papers until some one comes. See that the attendant does not go home, or the guard. They will probably be wanted to answer questions.”

  The station-master stepped out to the platform, summoned an inspector, and gave a few brief orders. Slowly the saloon was backed out of the station again on to a neglected siding, a sort of backwater for spare carriages and empty trucks,—an ignominious resting place, indeed, after its splendid journey through the night. The doors at both ends were closed and two policemen placed on duty to guard them. The doctor and the station-master seated themselves out of sight of their gruesome companion, and the station-master told all that he knew about the despatch of the special and the man who had ordered it. The attendant, who still moved about like a man in a dream, brought them some brandy and soda and served them with shaking hand. They all three talked together in whispers, the attendant telling them the few incidents of the journey down, which, except for the dead man’s nervous desire for solitude, seemed to possess very little significance. Then at last there was a sharp tap at the window. A tall, quietly dressed man, with reddish skin and clear gray eyes, was helped up into the car. He saluted the doctor mechanically. His eyes were already travelling around the saloon.

  “Inspector Jacks from Scotland Yard, sir,” he announced. “I have another man outside. If you don’t mind, we’ll have him in.”

  “By all means,” the station-master answered. “I am afraid that you will find this rather a serious
affair. We have left everything untouched so far as we could.”

  The second detective was assisted to clamber up into the car. It seemed, however, as though the whole force of Scotland Yard could scarcely do much towards elucidating an affair which, with every question which was asked and answered, grew more mysterious. The papers upon the table before the dead man were simply circulars and prospectuses of no possible importance. His suitcase contained merely a few toilet necessaries and some clean linen. There was not a scrap of paper or even an envelope of any sort in his pockets. In a small leather case they found a thousand dollars in American notes, five ten-pound Bank of England notes, and a single visiting card on which was engraved the name of Mr. Hamilton Fynes. In his trousers pocket was a handful of gold. He had no other personal belongings of any sort. The space between the lining of his coat and the material itself was duly noticed, but it was empty. His watch was a cheap one, his linen unmarked, and his clothes bore only the name of a great New York retail establishment. He had certainly entered the train alone, and both the guard and attendant were ready to declare positively that no person could have been concealed in it. The engine-driver, on his part, was equally ready to swear that not once from the moment when they had steamed out of Liverpool Station until they had arrived within twenty miles of London, had they travelled at less than forty miles an hour. At Willington he had found a signal against him which had brought him nearly to a standstill, and under the regulations he had passed through the station at ten miles an hour. These were the only occasions, however, on which he had slackened speed at all. The train attendant, who was a nervous man, began to shiver again and imagine unmentionable things. The guard, who had never left his own brake, went home and dreamed that his effigy had been added to the collection of Madame Tussaud. The reporters were the only people who were really happy, with the exception, perhaps of Inspector Jacks, who had a weakness for a difficult case.