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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “Did either of you go to the reception?” Wolfenden asked.

  “We both did,” Harcutt answered.

  Wolfenden raised his eyebrows.

  “You were there! Then why didn’t you make their acquaintance?”

  Densham laughed shortly.

  “I asked for an introduction to the girl,” he said, “and was politely declined. She was under the special charge of the Princess, and was presented to no one.”

  “And Mr. Sabin?” Wolfenden asked.

  “He was talking all the time to Baron von Knigenstein, the German Ambassador. They did not stay long.”

  Wolfenden smiled.

  “It seems to me,” he said, “that you had an excellent opportunity and let it go.”

  Harcutt threw his cigarette into the fire with an impatient gesture.

  “You may think so,” he said. “All I can say is, that if you had been there yourself, you could have done no more. At any rate, we have no particular difficulty now in finding out who this mysterious Mr. Sabin and the girl are. We may assume that there is a relationship,” he added, “or they would scarcely have been at the Embassy, where, as a rule, the guests make up in respectability what they lack in brilliancy.”

  “As to the relationship,” Wolfenden said, “I am quite prepared to take that for granted. I, for one, never doubted it.”

  “That,” Harcutt remarked, “is because you are young, and a little quixotic. When you have lived as long as I have you will doubt everything. You will take nothing for granted unless you desire to live for ever amongst the ruins of your shattered enthusiasms. If you are wise, you will always assume that your swans are geese until you have proved them to be swans.”

  “That is very cheap cynicism,” Wolfenden remarked equably. “I am surprised at you, Harcutt. I thought that you were more in touch with the times. Don’t you know that to-day nobody is cynical except schoolboys and dyspeptics? Pessimism went out with sack overcoats. Your remarks remind me of the morning odour of patchouli and stale smoke in a cheap Quartier Latin dancing-room. To be in the fashion of to-day, you must cultivate a gentle, almost arcadian enthusiasm, you must wear rose-coloured spectacles and pretend that you like them. Didn’t you hear what Flaskett said last week? There is an epidemic of morality in the air. We are all going to be very good.”

  “Some of us,” Densham remarked, “are going to be very uncomfortable, then.”

  “Great changes always bring small discomforts,” Wolfenden rejoined. “But after all I didn’t come here to talk nonsense. I came to ask you both something. I want to know whether you fellows are bent upon seeing this thing through?”

  Densham and Harcutt exchanged glances. There was a moment’s silence. Densham became spokesman.

  “So far as finding out who they are and all about them,” he said, “I shall not rest until I have done it.”

  “And you, Harcutt?”

  Harcutt nodded gravely.

  “I am with Densham,” he said. “At the same time I may as well tell you that I am quite as much, if not more, interested in the man than in the girl. The girl is beautiful, and of course I admire her, as every one must. But that is all. The man appeals to my journalistic instincts. There is copy in him. I am convinced that he is a personage. You may, in fact, regard me, both of you, as an ally rather than as a rival.”

  “If you had your choice, then, of an hour’s conversation with either of them——” Wolfenden began.

  “I should choose the man without a second’s hesitation,” Harcutt declared. “The girl is lovely enough, I admit. I do not wonder at you fellows—Densham, who is a worshipper of beauty; you, Wolfenden, who are an idler—being struck with her! But as regards myself it is different. The man appeals to my professional instincts in very much the same way as the girl appeals to the artistic sense in Densham. He is a conundrum which I have set myself to solve.”

  Wolfenden rose to his feet.

  “Look here, you fellows,” he said, “I have a proposition to make. We are all three in the same boat. Shall we pull together or separately?”

  Harcutt dropped his eyeglass and smiled quietly.

  “Quixotic as usual, Wolf, old chap,” he said. “We can’t, our interests are opposed; at least yours and Densham’s are. You will scarcely want to help one another under the circumstances.”

  Wolfenden drew on his gloves.

  “I have not explained myself yet,” he said. “The thing must have its limitations, of course, but for a step or two even Densham and I can walk together. Let us form an alliance so far as direct information is concerned. Afterwards it must be every man for himself, of course. I suppose we each have some idea as to how and where to set about making inquiries concerning these people. Very well. Let us each go our own way and share up the information to-night.”

  “I am quite willing,” Densham said, “only let this be distinctly understood—we are allies only so far as the collection and sharing of information is concerned. Afterwards, and in other ways, it is each man for himself. If one of us succeeds in establishing a definite acquaintance with them, the thing ends. There is no need for either of us to do anything with regard to the others, which might militate against his own chances.”

  “I am agreeable to that,” Harcutt said. “From Densham’s very elaborate provisoes I think we may gather that he has a plan.”

  “I agree too,” Wolfenden said, “and I specially endorse Densham’s limit. It is an alliance so far as regards information only. Suppose we go and have some lunch together now.”

  “I never lunch out, and I have a better idea,” said Harcutt. “Let us meet at the ‘Milan’ to-night for supper at the same time. We can then exchange information, supposing either of us has been fortunate enough to acquire any. What do you say, Wolfenden?”

  “I am quite willing,” Wolfenden said.

  “And I,” echoed Densham. “At half-past eleven, then,” Harcutt concluded.

  CHAPTER VII

  WHO IS MR. SABIN?

  Table of Contents

  Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell was not at home to ordinary callers. Nevertheless when a discreet servant brought her Mr. Francis Densham’s card she gave orders for his admittance without hesitation.

  That he was a privileged person it was easy to see. Mrs. Satchell received him with the most charming of smiles.

  “My dear Francis,” she exclaimed, “I do hope that you have lost that wretched headache! You looked perfectly miserable last night. I was so sorry for you.”

  Densham drew an easy chair to her side and accepted a cup of tea.

  “I am quite well again,” he said. “It was very bad indeed for a little time, but it did not last long. Still I felt that it made me so utterly stupid that I was half afraid you would have written me off your visitors’ list altogether as a dull person. I was immensely relieved to be told that you were at home.”

  Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughed gaily. She was a bright, blonde little woman with an exquisite figure and piquante face. She had a husband whom no one knew, and gave excellent parties to which every one went. In her way she was something of a celebrity. She and Densham had known each other for many years.

  “I am not sure,” she said, “that you did not deserve it; but then, you see, you are too old a friend to be so summarily dealt with.”

  She raised her blue eyes to his and dropped them, smiling softly.

  Densham looked steadily away into the fire, wondering how to broach the subject which had so suddenly taken the foremost place in his thoughts. He had not come to make even the idlest of love this afternoon. The time when he had been content to do so seemed very far away just now. Somehow this dainty little woman with her Watteau-like grace and delicate mannerisms had, for the present, at any rate, lost all her attractiveness for him, and he was able to meet the flash of her bright eyes and feel the touch of her soft fingers without any corresponding thrill.

  “You are very good to me,” he said, thoughtfully. “May I have some more tea?”

&
nbsp; Now Densham was no strategist. He had come to ask a question, and he was dying to ask it. He knew very well that it would not do to hurry matters—that he must put it as casually as possible towards the close of his visit. But at the same time, the period of probation, during which he should have been more than usually entertaining, was scarcely a success, and his manner was restless and constrained. Every now and then there were long and unusual pauses, and he continuously and with obvious effort kept bringing back the conversation to the reception last night, in the hope that some remark from her might make the way easier for him. But nothing of the sort happened. The reception had not interested her in the slightest, and she had nothing to say about it, and his pre-occupation at last became manifest. She looked at him curiously after one of those awkward pauses to which she was quite unaccustomed, and his thoughts were evidently far away. As a matter of fact, he was at that moment actually framing the question which he had come to ask.

  “My dear Francis,” she said, quietly, “why don’t you tell me what is the matter with you? You are not amusing. You have something on your mind. Is it anything you wish to ask of me?”

  “Yes,” he said, boldly, “I have come to ask you a favour.”

  She smiled at him encouragingly.

  “Well, do ask it,” she said, “and get rid of your woebegone face. You ought to know that if it is anything within my power I shall not hesitate.”

  “I want,” he said, “to paint your portrait for next year’s Academy.”

  This was a master stroke. To have Densham paint her picture was just at that moment the height of Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell’s ambition. A flush of pleasure came into her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.

  “Do you really mean it?” she exclaimed, leaning over towards him. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I mean it,” he answered. “If only I can do you justice, I think it ought to be the portrait of the year. I have been studying you for a long time in an indefinite sort of way, and I think that I have some good ideas.”

  Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell laughed softly. Densham, although not a great artist, was the most fashionable portrait painter of the minute, and he had the knack of giving a chic touch to his women—of investing them with a certain style without the sacrifice of similitude. He refused quite as many commissions as he accepted, and he could scarcely have flattered Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell more than by his request. She was delightfully amiable.

  “You are a dear old thing,” she said, beaming upon him. “What shall I wear? That yellow satin gown that you like, or say you like, so much?”

  He discussed the question with her gravely. It was not until he rose to go that he actually broached the question which had been engrossing all his thoughts.

  “By the bye,” he said, “I wanted to ask you something. You know Harcutt?”

  She nodded. Of course she knew Harcutt. Were her first suspicions correct! Had he some other reason for this visit of his?

  “Well,” Densham went on, “he is immensely interested in some people who were at that stupid reception last night. He tried to get an introduction but he couldn’t find any one who knew them, and he doesn’t know the Princess well enough to ask her. He thought that he saw you speaking to the man, so I promised that when I saw you I would ask about them.”

  “I spoke to a good many men,” she said. “What is his name?”

  “Sabin—Mr. Sabin; and there is a girl, his daughter, or niece, I suppose.”

  Was it Densham’s fancy or had she indeed turned a shade paler. The little be-jewelled hand, which had been resting close to his, suddenly buried itself in the cushions. Densham, who was watching her closely, was conscious of a hardness about her mouth which he had never noticed before. She was silent some time before she answered him.

  “I am sorry,” she said, slowly, “but I can tell you scarcely anything about them. I only met him once in India many years ago, and I have not the slightest idea as to who he is or where he came from. I am quite sure that I should not have recollected him last night but for his deformity.”

  Densham tried very hard to hide his disappointment.

  “So you met him in India,” he remarked. “Do you know what he was doing there? He was not in the service at all, I suppose.”

  “I really do not know,” she answered, “but I think not. I believe that he is, or was, very wealthy. I remember hearing a few things about him—nothing of much importance. But if Mr. Harcutt is your friend,” she added, looking at him fixedly, “you can give him some excellent advice.”

  “Harcutt is a very decent fellow,” Densham said, “and I know that he will be glad of it.”

  “Tell him to have nothing whatever to do with Mr. Sabin.”

  Densham looked at her keenly.

  “Then you do know something about him,” he exclaimed.

  She moved her chair back a little to where the light no longer played upon her face, and she answered him without looking up.

  “Very little. It was so long ago and my memory is not what it used to be. Never mind that. The advice is good anyhow. If,” she continued, looking steadily up at Densham, “if it were not Mr. Harcutt who was interested in these people, if it were any one, Francis, for whose welfare I had a greater care, who was really my friend, I would make that advice, if I could, a thousand times stronger. I would implore him to have nothing whatever to do with this man or any of his creatures.”

  Densham laughed—not very easily. His disappointment was great, but his interest was stimulated.

  “At any rate,” he said, “the girl is harmless. She cannot have left school a year.”

  “A year with that man,” she answered, bitterly, “is a liberal education in corruption. Don’t misunderstand me. I have no personal grievance against him. We have never come together, thank God! But there were stories—I cannot remember them now—I do not wish to remember them, but the impression they made still remains. If a little of what people said about him is true he is a prince of wickedness.”

  “The girl herself——?”

  “I know nothing of,” she admitted.

  Densham determined upon a bold stroke.

  “Look here,” he said, “do me this favour—you shall never regret it. You and the Princess are intimate, I know: order your carriage and go and see her this afternoon. Ask her what she knows about that girl. Get her to tell you everything. Then let me know. Don’t ask me to explain just now—simply remember that we are old friends and that I ask you to do this thing for me.”

  She rang the bell.

  “My victoria at once,” she told the servant. Then she turned to Densham. “I will do exactly what you ask,” she said. “You can come with me and wait while I see the Princess—if she is at home. You see I am doing for you what I would do for no one else in the world. Don’t trouble about thanking me now. Do you mind waiting while I get my things on? I shall only be a minute or two.”

  Her minute or two was half an hour. Densham waited impatiently. He scarcely knew whether to be satisfied with the result of his mission or not. He had learnt a very little—he was probably going to learn a little more, but he was quite aware that he had not conducted the negotiations with any particular skill, and the bribe which he had offered was a heavy one. He was still uncertain about it when Mrs. Thorpe-Satchell reappeared. She had changed her indoor gown for a soft petunia-coloured costume trimmed with sable, and she held out her hands towards him with a delightful smile.

  “Céleste is wretchedly awkward with gloves,” she said, “so I have left them for you. Do you like my gown?”

  “You look charming,” he said, bending over his task, “and you know it.”

  “I always wear my smartest clothes when I am going to see my particular friends,” she declared. “They quiz one so! Besides, I do not always have an escort! Come!”

  She talked to him gaily on the stairs, as he handed her into the carriage, and all the way to their destination, yet he was conscious all the time of a subtle change in her demeanour
towards him. She was a proud little woman, and she had received a shock. Densham was making use of her—Densham, of all men, was making use of her, of all women. He had been perfectly correct in those vague fears of his. She did not believe that he had come to her for his friend’s sake. She never doubted but that it was he himself who was interested in this girl, and she looked upon his visit and his request to her as something very nearly approaching brutality. He must be interested in the girl, very deeply interested, or he would never have resorted to such means of gaining information about her. She was suddenly silent and turned a little pale as the carriage turned into the square. Her errand was not a pleasant one to her.

  Densham was left alone in the carriage for nearly an hour. He was impatient, and yet her prolonged absence pleased him. She had found the Princess in, she would bring him the information he desired. He sat gazing idly into the faces of the passers-by with his thoughts very far away. How that girl’s face had taken hold of his fancy; had excited in some strange way his whole artistic temperament! She was the exquisite embodiment of a new type of girlhood, from which was excluded all that was crude and unpleasing and unfinished. She seemed to him to combine in some mysterious manner all the dainty freshness of youth with the delicate grace and savoir faire of a Frenchwoman of the best period. He scarcely fancied himself in love with her; at any rate if it had been suggested to him he would have denied it. Her beauty had certainly taken a singular hold of him. His imagination was touched. He was immensely attracted, but as to anything serious—well, he would not have admitted it even to himself. Liberty meant so much to him, he had told himself over and over again that, for many years at least, his art must be his sole mistress. Besides, he was no boy to lose his heart, as certainly Wolfenden had done, to a girl with whom he had never even spoken. It was ridiculous, and yet——