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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  There was a moment’s pause. Then she spoke again, and her voice had in it a note of sharp inquiry.

  “Louis, whose stick is that?” she demanded.

  I raised myself a little higher. Upon the table, close to where Louis was standing, was a thick Malacca cane which I recognized at once.

  “Mine!” Louis answered shortly.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Whose did you suppose that it was?” he demanded.

  “Capitaine Rotherby was carrying one just like it,” she declared. “I noticed it in the railway carriage.”

  “They are common enough,” Louis answered. “This one, at any rate, is mine. Hush!”

  They both, for a moment, seemed to be listening intently. Then Louis pointed to the door.

  “Go back to your room,” he said, in a low whisper. “Go back at once, and turn your key.”

  She stole away. When she was no longer in the room I could see more clearly,—I could take account of other things! Distinctly I could hear now the soft knocking upon the outer door!

  XX. A TERRIBLE NIGHT

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  Louis disappeared from the room for the moment. I heard the outer door softly opened and closed. Then he came back into the sitting-room, followed by the man who had stood by our side at Charing Cross Station. The latter looked around the room quickly, and seemed disappointed to find it empty.

  “I understood that Mr. Delora was here,” he said.

  “Mr. Delora is in his bedroom,” Louis answered. “He is here, and perfectly willing to see you. But it is against the doctor’s orders, and my instructions were that I was to warn you not to excite him. You must speak slowly, and you may have to repeat anything which you wish him to understand.”

  “Who are you?” the newcomer asked.

  “I am Mr. Delora’s servant,” Louis answered.

  The newcomer looked a little puzzled.

  “Surely I have seen you before somewhere!” he exclaimed.

  “It is very possible,” Louis answered. “I am also a waiter in the café below, but I come from South America, and Mr. Delora, when he is over, is always kind to me. I spend most of my time, now that he is ill, up here looking after him.”

  The newcomer shook his head thoughtfully.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Louis,” was the quiet answer.

  “Then, my friend Louis,” the newcomer said, “understand me plainly. I am not here to be bamboozled, or to give you an opportunity for exercising any ability you may possess in the art of lying. I am here to see Delora, and if he is here, see him I will and must! If he is not here, well, it will come later. There is no roof nor any walls in London which will enclose that man and keep him from me!”

  “Mr. Delora has no desire to hide himself from any one,” Louis answered calmly.

  “That is a statement which I may be permitted to doubt!” the visitor answered. “Is that the door of his sleeping chamber? If so, I am going in!”

  He pointed to the door, through the transept of which I was looking into the sitting-room. Louis moved on one side.

  “That is Mr. Delora’s room,” he said softly. “Perhaps you had better let me be sure that he is awake.”

  “You need not trouble,” the other answered. “If he is asleep I shall wake him. If he is awake he will know very well that there is no escaping me.”

  He turned away from Louis. His hand was already outstretched toward the handle of my door. Then I saw Louis snatch the Malacca cane from its place and swing it behind his body. He was already poised for the blow—a blow which would have killed any man breathing—when I sprang to the ground and flung open the door.

  “Look out!” I cried.

  The newcomer sprang on one side. Louis, disturbed by my cry, lost his nerve, and the blow fell upon a small side table, smashing it through, and sending splinters flying into the air. Both men looked at me in the blankest of amazement. I came out into the sitting-room.

  “You coward!” I said to Louis.

  He shrank back against the wall. He still held the stick in his hand, but he showed not a sign of fight. The other man stood with clenched fists, as though about to spring upon him, but I stepped between them.

  “In the first place,” I said to the newcomer, “you had better look into that room. You will see that Mr. Delora is not there. I can assure you, from my own knowledge, that he has never been there. When you have finished, come back and tell me what you want with him.”

  Louis was still staring at me in amazement. The idea that I had discovered his attempt to make a cat’s-paw of me was dawning upon him slowly, but knowing nothing of the transept, he could not account for my unexpected appearance. For once, at any rate, he had lost his nerve. I could see that he was shaking with fear.

  “Come, Louis,” I said, “put my stick down and talk like a man, if you can.”

  The stick fell from his fingers. He had scarcely strength enough left to hold it. Then the man who had been examining Delora’s room came back and stepped past Louis up to me.

  “I do not know why you are here, sir,” he said. “You may be mixed up in this affair or you may not be. But if you are, let me warn you that you are on the wrong side. You saw his attempt?” he added, pointing to Louis. “I am going to wring the life out of him. He deserves it.”

  “No!” I answered, holding him back. “We will have no violence here. Louis has a little account to settle with me yet.”

  “He has a more serious one with me,” the other muttered.

  “Settle it when and where you will,” I said, “but not here. As for me, I have no longer any interest in or concern with any of you. I came into this thing by accident, and to-night I go out of it. You, sir, must leave the hotel at once. I do not know your name or anything about you. It is not my concern. If you have anything to say to Louis, choose another time.”

  He looked at me curiously. I could see that with every nerve in his body he was longing to spring upon Louis.

  “You seem to be a masterful person, sir,” he said. “Why should I obey you?”

  “Because I saved your life, for one thing,” I answered, “and because I will allow no violence in this room, for another. And if you need a third reason,” I added, “because I have the advantage of you in strength. You need not be afraid of my further interference,” I continued. “I shall leave London to-morrow, and I hope that I may never see one of you again. Now will you go?”

  “Yes, I will go!” he said. “Let me tell you this, sir,” he added, as he neared the door. “Your decision is a wise one. If you knew whose cause you had been aiding, whose tool you had very nearly become, I think that your manner would be a little more apologetic.”

  “I have your word, sir, that you will leave the hotel?” I asked.

  “At once,” the other answered.

  We heard him close the outer door and depart. Then I turned to Louis.

  “Louis,” I said, “so this is your adventure! This is the way you proposed to make use of me! You got me into that room and drugged me. I was to lie there while you murdered that man with my weapon. Then you would creep away, and in the morning there was I and the dead man! I was to be the tool,—the girl there the lure. It was well worked out, Louis, but it was a coward’s plan and a coward’s trick!”

  I reached out my hand and took him by the collar. I felt as though I were grasping some unclean insect, from whom the sting might shoot out at any moment.

  “Have you anything to say?” I asked.

  “You do not understand,” he said, in a low tone. “I did not mean to put this thing upon you. I meant, perhaps, to disable that man who has just left. If you knew his history and mine, you would not wonder at it. But I meant to see that he was safely removed.”

  “Then why did you bring me down into that room,” I asked, “under a false pretence? Why did you use that murderous cane of mine for your crime? Why did you insist upon it that I should be seen dining with the gi
rl—God knows who she is!—who is in that room?”

  “I can explain everything,” Louis said. “I am confused! I cannot help it—you came so unexpectedly!”

  “Unexpectedly indeed,” I answered, “because I poured your whiskey and soda out of the window, and because I took an antidote to your coffee!”

  “You speak of things which I do not understand,” Louis declared.

  “Oh! tell me no more lies!” I exclaimed. “Listen! You see I have you by the collar, and I have my cane. Now I am going to beat you till every bone in your body aches, till you will not be able to crawl about, until you tell me the real history of these things. For every lie—if I know it to be a lie—I shall strike you. Tell me who that man Delora is? Tell me who the girl is, posing as his niece, who meets you here after midnight? Tell me the name of that man who has just left us? Tell me how you are all bound together, and what your quarrel is? And tell me where Delora is now?”

  “I have no strength,” he gasped. “You are too rough. Let me sit down quietly. I must think.”

  “No!” I answered. “Speak! Speak now!”

  I raised the stick as though to strike him. Then I saw a sudden change in his face. I looked toward the door. Almost as I did so I heard the faint flutter of moving draperies. Felicia stood there looking in upon us, her hands uplifted, her face full of terror.

  “It is Capitaine Rotherby!” she cried. “Tell me, then, what has happened? Capitaine Rotherby!”

  She came a little toward us, but I think that she read in my face something of what I was feeling, for she stopped suddenly and her lips quivered.

  “What has happened?” she demanded. “Will neither of you tell me? Is my uncle worse? Has any one—any one tried to do him an injury?”

  “Nothing is the matter,” I answered, “except that we have come to an end of this tissue of lies and plots and counterplots. There is no uncle of yours in that room, nor ever has been. The man who was to have been murdered here has gone. And for the rest, I saw you here with Louis and I heard your conversation less than an hour ago.”

  “You saw us?” she gasped.

  “From the transept there,” I answered, pointing towards it. “I was brought into that room to personate your uncle, to receive an attack which was meant for him—a very clever scheme! I was drugged, and was to have lain there to cover this fellow’s crime. But there, I don’t suppose that I need tell you any of these things!” I added brutally.

  She looked at me with horror.

  “You do not believe—” she gasped.

  “Oh! I believe nothing,” I answered,—“nothing at all! Every word I have been told by both of you is a lie! Your lives are lies! God knows why I should ever have believed otherwise!” I said, looking at her.

  “Let me go,” Louis pleaded, “and you shall hear the truth.”

  “I shall be more likely to feel the knife you have in your pocket,” I answered contemptuously, for I had seen his left hand struggling downward for the last few moments. “Oh! I’ll let you go! I have no interest in any of you,—no interest in your cursed conspiracy, whatever it may be! Keep your story. I don’t care to hear it. Lie there and talk to your accomplice!”

  I sent him reeling across the room till he fell in the corner. Then I walked out, closing the sitting-room door behind me,—out into the corridor and up the stairs into my own room. Then I locked and bolted my own door and looked at my watch. It was a quarter to three. I took a Bradshaw from my bookcase, packed a few clothes myself, set an alarm clock for seven o’clock in the morning, and turned into bed. I told myself that I would not think. I told myself that there was no such person in the world as Felicia, that she had never lived, that she was only part of this nightmare from which I was freeing myself! I told myself that I would go to sleep, and I stayed awake until daylight. All the time there was only one thought in my brain!

  XXI. A CHANGE OF PLANS

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  At a few minutes past nine on the following morning, I was standing outside the front door of the Court watching the piling of my luggage on to a four-wheel cab. The hall-porter stood by my side, superintending the efforts of his myrmidons.

  “You had better send my letters on,” I told him. “I am going down into Norfolk for several weeks,—perhaps longer.”

  “Very good, sir,” he answered. “By the bye,” he added, turning away, “this morning’s letters have just arrived. There was one for you, I think.”

  He handed it to me, and I tore it open as I stepped on to the pavement. It was written from Feltham Court, Norfolk, and dated the previous day.

  My Dear Austen,

  I send you a hurried line in case you should be thinking of coming down here. I have decided to come up to London for a few weeks, and have lent the Court to Lady Mary, with the exception of the shooting, which is reserved for you. If you are in town, do look me up at Claridge’s.

  Ever yours,

  Ralph.

  I was on the point of having the cab unloaded and reconsidering my plans. Suddenly, however, like an inspiration there flashed into my mind the thought that it would not, perhaps, be such a very bad thing if, under the circumstances, I kept my altered plans to myself. So I stuffed the letter into my pocket and stepped into the four-wheeler.

  “You understand, Ashley?” I said. “Send everything on to Feltham Court,—cards, letters, or anything.”

  “Perfectly, sir,” the man answered. “I hope you will have a pleasant time, sir.”

  “Tell the cabman Liverpool Street,” I ordered, and got in.

  We rolled out of the courtyard, and I drove all the way to Liverpool Street as though to catch my train. Arrived there, however, I deposited my luggage in the cloak-room and drove back to Claridge’s in a hansom. I found that my brother was installed in a suite of rooms there, and his servant, who came into the sitting-room to me at once, told me that he believed they were up for at least a month.

  “His Lordship has nearly finished dressing, sir,” he added. “He will be in, in a few minutes.”

  I took up the morning paper, but found nothing of interest there. Then my brother came in, leaning heavily on two sticks, and moving slowly. He was not more than ten years older than I was, but the shock of his accident and subsequent sufferings had aged him terribly. His hair had gone prematurely gray, and his face was deeply lined. I stepped forward and took him by the hand.

  “My dear Ralph,” I said, “this is really first-class. The last time I saw you, you scarcely expected to be out of your bath-chair in six months.”

  “I am getting on, Austen,” he answered, “thanks! I am getting on. I will sit in that easy-chair for a few minutes. Thanks! Then we will have some breakfast.”

  “I was starting for Feltham this morning,” I told him, “when I got your letter.”

  “When did you get back from Paris?” he asked.

  “Three or four days ago,” I answered.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I know that I ought to have come at once,” I said, “but there were several things in London. I found it hard to get away.”

  “Well?” he said.

  “I met Tapilow face to face at a little French café,” I told him. “They tell me that he will recover, but he is maimed and scarred for life.”

  My brother showed no excitement—scarcely, even, any interest in my information. His face, however, had darkened.

  “I am glad that you did not kill him outright,” he said. “Tell me, are you likely to get into any trouble for this?”

  “No!” I assured him. “The affair happened in a very dubious sort of place. I don’t think I shall hear anything more about it unless from Tapilow himself.”

  Ralph nodded.

  “We will close the chapter,” he said.

  “You have no news—”

  “None!” he interrupted me, shortly. “We will close the chapter.”

  So I spoke to him no more on his own affairs. His servant brought in the letters and papers, po
ked the fire, and announced that breakfast was ready.

  “You will have something, Austen?” he asked.

  “I have only had a continental breakfast,” I answered. “I dare say I can manage to eat something.”

  “I have a letter from Dicky,” he remarked, later on. “Asks me to be civil, if I can, to some people who have been remarkably kind to him out in Brazil. They have an estate there.”

  I nodded.

  “Dicky doing all right?” I asked.

  “Seems to be,” Ralph answered.

  Dicky was our younger brother, and rather a wanderer.

  “What is the name of the people who are coming over?” I asked.

  “Some odd name,” Ralph answered,—“Delora, I think.”

  Ralph had drawn the Times towards him, and he did not notice my start. I sat looking at him in blank amazement.

  “Ralph!” I said presently.

  My brother looked up.

  “Have you got Dicky’s letter on you?” I asked.

  He passed it over to me. I skimmed through the first part until I came to the sentence which interested me.

  I have been out staying at an awfully fine estate here, right on the Pampas. It belongs to some people called Delora. One of the brothers is just off to Europe, on some Government business, and will be in London for a few days with his niece, I expect. He is going to stay at the Milan Hotel, and it would be awfully good of you if you would look him up, or drop him a line. They really have been very kind to me out here.

  I pushed the letter back to Ralph.

  “Have you done anything yet,” I asked, “about this?”

  Ralph shook his head.

  “I thought you would not mind calling for me,” he remarked. “I would like to be civil to any one who has done anything for Dicky. If he shoots, you might take him down to the Court. Mary’s there, of course, but that would not matter. There is the whole of the bachelor wing at your disposal.”

  I nodded.

  “I will look after it for you,” I said. “You can leave it in my hands. It is rather an odd thing, but I believe that I have met this man in Paris.”