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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

“Three years.”

  “He left you ten thousand pounds. What have you done with it?”

  “Mr. Heathcote, of Heathcote, Sons, and Vyse, was my solicitor.”

  “Well?”

  I remembered that he had been away from England for several years.

  “The firm failed,” I told him, “for a quarter of a million. Mr. Heathcote shot himself. I am told that there is a probable dividend of sixpence-half-penny in the pound to come some day.”

  Colonel Ray smoked on in silence. This was evidently news to him.

  “Awkward for you,” he remarked at last.

  I laughed a little bitterly. I knew quite well that he was expecting me to continue, and I did so.

  “I sold my things at Magdalen, and paid my debts. I was promised two pupils if I would take a house somewhere on this coast. I took one and got ready for them with my last few pounds. Their father died suddenly—and they did not come. I got rid of the house, at a sacrifice, and came to this cottage.”

  “You took your degree?”

  “With honours.”

  He blew out more smoke.

  “You are young,” he said, “a gentleman by birth, and I should imagine a moderate athlete. You have an exceptional degree, and I presume a fair knowledge of the world. Yet you appear to be deliberately settling down here to starve.”

  “I can assure you,” I answered, “that the deliberation is lacking. I have no fear of anything of the sort. I expect to get some pupils in the neighbourhood, and also some literary work. For the moment I am a little hard up, and I thought perhaps that I might make a few shillings by a lecture.”

  “Of the proceeds of which,” he remarked, with a dry little smile, “I appear to have robbed you.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “I hoped for little but a meal or two from it,” I answered. “The only loss is to my self-respect. I owe to charity what I might have earned.”

  He took his pipe from his mouth and looked at me with a thin derisive smile.

  “You talk,” he said, “like a very young man. If you had knocked about in all corners of the world as I have you would have learnt a greater lesson from a greater book. When a man meets brother man in the wilds, who talks of charity? They divide goods and pass on. Even the savages do this.”

  “These,” I ventured to remark, “are not the wilds.”

  He sighed and replaced his pipe in his mouth.

  “You are young, very young,” he remarked, thoughtfully. “You have that beastly hothouse education, big ideas on thin stalks, orchids instead of roses, the stove instead of the sun. The wilds are everywhere—on the Thames Embankment, even in this God-forsaken corner of the world. The wilds are wherever men meet men.”

  I was silent. Who was I to argue with Ray, whose fame was in every one’s mouth—soldier, traveller, and diplomatist? For many years he had been living hand and glove with life and death. There were many who spoke well of him, and many ill—many to whom he was a hero, many to whom his very name was like poison. But he was emphatically not a man to contradict. In my little cottage he seemed like a giant, six-foot-two, broad, and swart with the burning fire of tropical suns. He seemed to fill the place, to dominate me and my paltry surroundings, even as in later years I saw him, the master spirit in a great assembly, eagle-eyed, strenuous, omnipotent. There was something about him which made other men seem like pygmies. There was force in the stern self-repression of his speech, in the curve of his lips, the clear lightning of his eyes.

  My silence did not seem altogether to satisfy him. I felt his eyes challenge mine, and I was forced to meet his darkly questioning gaze.

  “Come,” he said, “I trust that I have said enough. You have buried the thought of that hateful word.”

  “You have stricken it mortally,” I answered, “but I can scarcely promise so speedy a funeral. However, what more I feel,” I added, “I will keep to myself.”

  “It would be better,” he answered curtly.

  “You have asked me,” I said, “many questions. I am emboldened to ask you one. You have spoken of my father.”

  The look he threw upon me was little short of terrible.

  “Ay,” he answered, “I have spoken of him. Let me tell you this, young man. If I believed that you were a creature of his breed, if I believed that a drop of his black blood ran in your veins, I would take you by the neck now and throw you into the nearest creek where the water was deep enough to drown.”

  I rose to my feet, trembling.

  “If those are your feelings, sir,” I declared, “I have no wish to claim your kindness.”

  “Sit down, boy,” he answered coldly. “I have no fear of you. Nature does not pay us so evil a trick as to send us two such as he in successive generations.”

  He rose and looked out of the window. The storm had abated but little. The roar of the sea and wind was still like thunder in the air. Black clouds were driven furiously across the sky, torrents of rain and spray beat every now and then upon the window. He turned back and examined the carriage lamp.

  “It is an awful night,” I said. “I cannot offer you a bed unless you will take mine, but I can bring rugs and a pillow to the fire if you will lie there.”

  Then for the only time in my life I saw him hesitate. He looked out of my uncurtained window into the night. Very often have I wondered what thought it was that passed then through his brain.

  “I thank you,” he said; “the walk is nothing, and they will expect me at Rowchester. You have pencil and paper. Write down what I tell you.—Colonel Mostyn Ray, No. 17, Sussex Square. You have that? Good! It is my address. Presently I think you will get tired of your life here. Come then to me. I may be able to show you the way—”

  “Out of the conservatory,” I interrupted, smiling.

  He nodded, and took up the lantern. To my surprise, he did not offer to shake hands. Without another word he passed out into the darkness.

  In my dreams that night I fancied that a strange cry came ringing to my ears from the marshes—a long-drawn-out cry of terror, ending in a sob. I was weary, and I turned on my side again and slept.

  III. THE CRY IN THE NIGHT

  Table of Contents

  “You’d be having company last night, sir?” Mrs. Hollings remarked inquisitively. Mrs. Hollings was an elderly widow, who devoted two hours of her morning to cleaning my rooms and preparing my breakfast.

  “Some friends did call,” I answered, pouring out the coffee.

  “Friends! Good Samaritans I should call ‘em,” Mrs. Hollings declared, “if so be as they left all the things I found here this morning. Why, there’s a whole chicken, to say nothing of tongue and biscuits, and butter, and relishes, and savouries, the names of which isn’t often heard in this part of the world. There’s wine, too, with gold paper round the top, champagne wine, I do believe.”

  “Is the tide up this morning?” I asked.

  “None to speak of,” Mrs. Hollings answered, “though the road’s been washed dry, and the creeks are brimming. I’ve scarcely set foot in the village this morning, but they’re all a-talking about the soldier gentleman the Duke brought down to the village hall last night. Might you have seen him, sir?”

  “Yes, I saw him,” I answered.

  “A sad shame as it was the night of your lecture, sir,” the woman babbled on, “for they were all crazy to hear him. My! the hall was packed.”

  “Would you mind seeing to my room now, Mrs. Hollings?” I asked. “I am going out early this morning.”

  Mrs. Hollings ascended my frail little staircase. I finished my breakfast in haste, and catching up my hat escaped out of doors.

  I shall never forget the glory of that morning. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun was as hot as though this were indeed a midsummer morning. The whole land, saturated still with the fast receding sea, seemed to gleam and glitter with a strange iridescence. Great pools in unaccustomed places shone like burnished silver, the wet sands were sparkling and brilliant, the cree
ks had become swollen rivers full of huge masses of emerald seaweed, running far up into the marshland and spreading themselves out over the meadows beyond. There was salt in the very atmosphere. I felt it on my tongue, and my cheeks were rough with it. Overhead the seagulls in great flocks were returning from shelter, screaming as though with joy as they dived down to the sea. It was a wonderful morning.

  About two hundred yards past my cottage the road, which from the village ran perfectly straight, took a sharp turn inland, leaving the coast abruptly on account of the greater stretch of marshland beyond. It was towards this bend that I walked, and curiously enough, with every step I took some inexplicable sense of nervous excitement grew stronger and stronger within me. The fresh morning air and the sunlight seemed powerless to dissipate for a moment the haunting terror of last night. It was a real face which I had seen pressed against the window, and where had Ray been when he returned with sand-clogged boots and the telltale seaweed upon his trousers? And later on, had I dreamed it, or had there really been a cry? It came back to me with horrible distinctness. It was a real cry, the cry of a man in terror for his life. I stopped short in the road and wiped my damp forehead. What a fool I was! The night was over. Here in the garish day there was surely nothing to fear? Nevertheless, I, who had started out thirsting only to breathe the fresh salt air, now walked along with stealthy nervous footsteps, looking all the time from left to right, starting at the sight of a dark log on the sands, terrified at a broken buoy which had floated up one of the creeks. Some fear had come over me which I could not shake off. I was afraid of what I might see.

  So I walked to the bend of the road. Here, in case the turn might be too sharp for some to see at night, a dozen yards or so of white posts and railings bordered the marshes. I leaned over them for a moment, telling myself that I paused only to admire the strange colours drawn by the sunlight from the sea-soaked wilderness, the deep brown, the strange purple, the faint pink of the distant sands. But it was none of these which my eyes sought with such fierce eagerness. It was none of the artist’s fervour which turned my limbs into dead weights, which drew the colour even from my lips, and set my heart beating with fierce quick throbs. Half in the creek and half out, not a dozen yards from the road, was the figure of a man. His head and shoulders were beneath the water, his body and legs and outstretched arms were upon the marsh. And although never before had I looked upon death, I knew very well that I was face to face with it now.

  How long it was before I moved I cannot tell. At last, however, I climbed the palings, jumped at its narrowest point a smaller creek, and with slow footsteps approached the dead man. Even when I stood by his side I dared not touch him, I dared not turn him round to see his face. I saw that he was of middle size, fairly well dressed, and as some blown sand had drifted over his boots and ankles I knew that he had been there for some hours. There was blood upon his collar, and the fingers of his right hand were tightly clenched. I told myself that I was a coward, and I set my teeth. I must lift his head from the water, and cover him up with my own coat while I fetched help. But when I stooped down a deadly faintness came over me. My fingers were palsied with horror. I had a sudden irresistible conviction I could not touch him. It was a sheer impossibility. There was something between us more potent than the dread of a dead man—something inimical between us two, the dead and the living. I staggered away and ran reeling to the road, plunging blindly through the creek.

  “About two hundred yards further down the road was a small lodge at one of the entrances of Rowchester. It was towards this I turned and ran. The door was closed, and I beat upon it fiercely with clenched fists. The woman who answered it stared at me strangely. I suppose that I was a wild-looking object.

  “It’s Mr. Ducaine, isn’t it?” she exclaimed. “Why, sakes alive! what’s wrong, sir?”

  “A dead man in the marshes,” I faltered.

  She was interested enough, but her comely weather-hardened face reflected none of the horror which she must have seen on mine.

  “Lordy me! whereabouts, sir?” she inquired.

  I pointed with a trembling forefinger. She stood by my side on the threshold of the cottage and shaded her eyes with her hand, for the glare of the sun was dazzling.

  “Well, I never did!” she remarked. “But I said to John last night that I pitied them at sea. He’s been washed up by the tide, I suppose, and I count there’ll be more before the day’s out. A year come next September there was six of ‘em, gentlefolk, too, who’d been yachting. Eh, but it’s a cruel thing is the sea.”

  “Where is your husband?” I asked.

  “Up chopping wood in Fernham Spinney,” she answered. “I’d best send one of the children for him. He’ll have a cart with him. Will you step inside, sir?”

  I shook my head and answered her vaguely. She sent a boy with a message, and brought me out a chair, dusting it carefully with her apron.

  “You’d best sit down, sir. You look all struck of a heap, so to speak. Maybe you came upon it sudden.”

  I was glad enough to sit down, but I answered her at random. She re-entered the cottage and continued some household duties. I sat quite still, with my eyes steadily fixed upon a dark object a little to the left of those white palings. Above my head a starling in a wicker cage was making an insane cackling, on the green patch in front a couple of tame rabbits sat and watched me, pink-eyed, imperturbable. Inside I could hear the slow ticking of an eight-day clock. The woman was humming to herself as she worked. All these things, which my senses took quick note of and retained, seemed to me to belong to another world. I myself was under some sort of spell. My brain was numb with terror, the fire of life had left my veins, so that I sat there in the warm sunshine and shivered until my teeth chattered. Inside, the woman was singing over her work.

  And then the spell developed. A nameless but loathsome fascination drew me from my seat, drew me with uneven and reluctant footsteps out of the gate and down the narrow straight road. There was still not a soul in sight. I drew nearer and nearer to the spot. Once more I essayed to move him. It was utterly in vain. Such nerve as I possessed had left me wholly and altogether. A sense of repulsion, nauseating, invincible, made a child of me. I stood up and looked around wildly. It was then for the first time I saw what my right foot had trodden into the sand.

  I picked it up, and a little cry, unheard save by the sea-birds which circled about my head, broke from my lips. It was a man’s signet ring, thin and worn smooth with age. It was quaintly shaped, and in the centre was set a small jet-black stone. The device was a bird, and underneath the motto—“Vinco!”

  My hand closed suddenly upon it, and again I looked searchingly around. There was not a soul in sight. I slipped the ring into my waistcoat pocket and moved back to the white railings. I leaned against them, and, taking a pipe and tobacco from my pocket, began to smoke.

  Strangely enough, I had now recovered my nerve. I was able to think and reason calmly. The woman at the lodge had taken it for granted that this man’s body had been thrown up by the sea. Was that a possible conclusion? There was a line all down the sands where the tide had reached, a straggling uneven line marked with huge masses of wet seaweeds, fragments of timber, the flotsam and jetsam of the sea. The creek where the man’s body was lying was forty yards above this. Yet on such a night who could say where those great breakers, driven in by the wind as well as by their own mighty force, might not have cast their prey? Within a few yards of him was a jagged mass of timber. The cause of those wounds would be obvious enough. I felt the ring in my waistcoat pocket—it was there, safely enough hidden, and I looked toward the lodge. As yet there were no signs of John or the cart.

  But behind me, coming from the village, I heard the sound of light and rapid footsteps. I turned my head. It was Blanche Moyat, short-skirted, a stick in her hand, a feather stuck through her Tam-o’-Shanter.

  “Good-morning,” she cried out heartily; “I’ve been to call at your cottage.”

  “Very
kind of you,” I answered, hesitatingly. Miss Moyat was good-hearted, but a little overpowering—and in certain moods she reminded me of her father.

  “Oh, I had an errand,” she explained, laughing. “Father said if I saw you I was to say that he has to call on the Duke this afternoon, and, if you liked, he would explain about your lecture last night, and try and get the village hall for you for nothing. The Duke is very good-natured, and if he knows that he spoilt your evening, father thinks he might let you have it for nothing.”

  “It is very kind of your father,” I answered. “I do not think that I shall ever give that lecture again.”

  “Why not?” she protested. “I am sure I thought it a beautiful lecture, and I’m not keen on churches and ruins myself,” she added, with a laugh which somehow grated upon me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Watching the dead,” I answered grimly.

  She looked at me for an explanation. I pointed to the dark object by the side of the creek. She gave a violent start. Then she screamed and caught hold of my arm.

  “Mr. Ducaine!” she cried. “What is it?”

  “A dead man!” I answered.

  Her face was a strange study. There was fear mingled with unwholesome curiosity, the heritage of her natural lack of refinement. She leaned over the palings.

  “Oh, how horrible!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know whether I want to look or not. I’ve never seen any one dead.”

  “I should advise you,” I said, “to go away.”

  It was apparently the last thing she desired to do. Of the various emotions which had possessed her, curiosity was the one which survived.

  “You are sure he is dead?” she asked.

  “Quite,” I answered.

  “Was he drowned, then?”

  “I think,” I replied, “that he has been washed up by the tide. There has probably been a shipwreck.”

  “Gracious!” she exclaimed. “It is just a sailor, then?”

  “I have not looked at his face,” I answered, “and I should not advise you to. He has been tossed about and injured. His clothes, though, are not a seaman’s.”