The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  He stopped the driver at the Court entrance, fulfilled the latter’s wildest dreams with regard to emolument, and presented himself eagerly before the little counter.

  “Key of 89, Johnson,” he demanded. “Get a slither on.”

  “Why, it’s Mr. Cray!” the hall-porter exclaimed, after a single startled gaze at the newcomer’s uniform. “Glad to see you back again, sir. Here’s your key, sent over half-an-hour ago.”

  Mr. Cray snatched at it.

  “Any packages?” he demanded over his shoulder, as he made for the lift.

  “A whole heap of them, sir,” was the reassuring reply. “All in your room.”

  Mr. Cray slipped half-a-crown into the lift-man’s hand, made pantomimic signs with his palm, and they shot upwards without reference to the slow approach of a little party of intended passengers. Out stepped Mr. Cray on the fourth floor, and his face beamed as he recognised the valet standing before number eighty-nine.

  “Hot bath, James,” he shouted. “Set her going.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Cray, sir,” the man replied, disappearing. “Glad to see you back again.”

  “Gee, it’s good!” the new-comer exclaimed, dashing into the bedroom. “Off with the ornaments.”

  No convict ever doffed his prison garb with more haste and greater joy than did Mr. Joseph P. Cray divest himself of the honourable though somewhat unsuitable garments for a man of his build which he had worn for the last two years. The absurd little tunic looked shorter still as it lay upon the bed, his cow-puncher hat more shapeless than ever, his ample breeches—they needed to be ample, for Mr. Cray’s figure was rotund—collapsed in strange fashion as they sank shamelessly upon the floor. Naked as the day on which he was born, Mr. Cray strode unabashed into the bathroom.

  “Get me some clothes ready out of those packages, James,” he directed. “Bring a dressing-gown and underclothes in here. Get busy.”

  Then for a quarter of an hour Mr. Cray steamed and gurgled, splashed and grunted. His ablutions completed, he dried himself, thrust his legs into some white silk pants, drew a vest to match over his chest, and trotted into the next room. He was still in a hurry.

  “Dinner clothes, James,” he ordered. “Slip over a white shirt. Speed’s the one and only.”

  “You’re in a hurry, Mr. Cray,” the man observed, smiling, as he handed him his garments.

  “I’ve been in a hurry for twelve months,” was the feeling reply.

  Ten minutes later, Mr. Cray left the room. The strained expression was still in his face. He rang for the lift, descended like a man absorbed with great thoughts, walked through the grill-room, climbed the stairs, passed through the smoke-room, and stood before the bar before he slackened speed.

  “Why, it’s Mr. Cray!” one of the young ladies declared.

  “Two dry Martinis in one glass,” Mr. Cray directed reverently. “Just a squeeze of lemon in, no absinthe, shake it till it froths.”

  The young lady chatted as she obeyed instructions. Mr. Cray, though a polite man, appeared suddenly deaf. Presently the foaming glass was held out to him. He raised it to his lips, closed his eyes and swallowed. When he set it down, that look had passed from his face. In its place shone the light of an ineffable and beatific contentment.

  “First drink in twelve months,” he explained. “Just mix up another kind of quietly, will you? I’ll sit around for a bit.”

  * * *

  —

  “Mr. Cray!…Mr. Cray!…Mr. Joseph P. Cray!”

  Mr. Cray, who was engaged in a lively conversation with a little group of old and new acquaintances, broke off suddenly in the midst of an animated chapter of reminiscences.

  “Say, boy,” he called out, “who’s wanting me?”

  The boy advanced.

  “Lady to see you, sir, in the hall,” he announced.

  “Have you got that right, my child?” Mr. Cray asked incredulously.

  “Mr. Joseph P. Cray, to arrive from France this evening,” was the confident reply.

  “That’s me, sure,” the person designated, admitted, rising to his feet and brushing the ash from his waistcoat. “See you later, boys. The next round is on me.”

  Mr. Cray made his contented but wondering way into the lounge. A tall and very elegant-looking young woman rose to her feet and came to meet him. Mr. Cray’s eyes shone and his smile was wonderful.

  “Sara!” he gasped. “Gee, this is great!”

  “Dad!” she replied, saluting him on both cheeks. “You old dear!”

  They went off arm in arm to a corner.

  “To think of your being here to welcome me!” Mr. Cray murmured ecstatically.

  “And why not?” the young lady replied. “If ever any one deserved a welcome home, it’s you. Twelve months’ work in a Y.M.C.A. hut in France is scarcely a holiday.”

  “And never a single drink,” Mr. Cray interrupted solemnly.

  “Marvellous!” she exclaimed. “But was that necessary, dad?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess they don’t all know how to use liquor as I do. Some of the lads out there get gay on nothing at all. So the day I put the uniform on, I went on the water waggon. I took it off,” he murmured, with a reminiscent smile of joy, “an hour and a half ago….Where’s George?”

  “Sailed for the States yesterday.”

  “You don’t say!”

  Sara nodded.

  “He’s gone out to Washington on a Government commission. He’d have been here—sent all sorts of messages to you.”

  “Not ashamed of his disreputable old father-in-law, eh?”

  “Don’t be silly, dad. We’re all proud of you. George has said often that he thinks it fine of a man of your age and tastes to go and work like that. What are you going to do, dad, now?”

  “Order dinner for us two, I hope, dear.”

  “Just what I hoped for,” she declared. “I think it’s wonderful to have your first evening together. What are your plans, dad—stay over here for a time?”

  “Why, I should say so,” was the prompt reply. “You’ve heard what’s got the old country?”

  “You mean about Wilson?”

  “Gone dry!” Mr. Cray exclaimed, in a tone of horror. “All the bars selling soft drinks. Tea-fights at the saloons, and bad spirits at the chemist’s. That’s what the old women we left at home did while we were out fighting.”

  “I’m afraid mother was one of them,” Sara observed.

  “Your mother’s crazy about it,” Mr. Cray acknowledged. “She’s president of half-a-dozen prohibition societies. She’s now working the anti-tobacco stunt.”

  “She doesn’t say anything about coming over, I suppose?” the young woman asked, a little timidly.

  “I should say not,” Mr. Cray replied, with little shiver. “She’s too busy over there.”

  Sara slipped her hand through her father’s arm.

  “We’ll have a lovely time for a month or two,” she said. “You know how happy I am with George, but this English life is just a little cramped. I suppose I must have some of your wandering spirit in me, dad. Anyhow, for just these few months let’s see a lot of one another. You’re just as fond of adventures as ever, aren’t you?”

  A slow smile parted Mr. Cray’s lips, a fervid light shone in his eyes.

  “Sara,” he whispered, “after the last twelve months I’m spoiling for some fun. But you, my dear—you’re Lady Sittingbourne, you know. Got your husband’s position to consider and all that.”

  She laughed in his face.

  “You can cut that out, dad, for a time,” she said. “Come along, now. We’ll talk over dinner. I’m nearly starving, and I want to know if you’ve forgotten how to order.”

  As they took their places at a table in the co
rner of the restaurant, Sara exchanged friendly greetings with a girl a short distance away, who was dining alone with a man.

  “Lydia Donvers,” she whispered to her father. “Lydia’s rather a dear. She was at that wonderful school you sent me to at Paris. She’s only been married a year.”

  “They don’t seem to be living on a bed of roses exactly,” Mr. Cray commented, glancing at the young man. “Seems all on wires, doesn’t he? Has he had shell-shock?”

  Sara shook her head.

  “I don’t think he did any soldiering at all,” she replied. “He volunteered once or twice, I know, but he couldn’t pass the medical examination. He was in one of the Ministries at home.”

  Cray’s interest in the couple evaporated. Without being a gourmand, he loved good cooking, civilisation, the thousand luxuries of a restaurant de luxe. He ordered his dinner as he ate it, slowly and with obvious enjoyment. Nevertheless, he happened to be looking across the room when a small page-boy in black livery approached the adjoining table and presented a note to Donvers. He saw the look in the young man’s face as he received the envelope, tore it open and glanced at the card inside. Mr. Cray forgot his dinner just then. It was as though tragedy had been brought into their midst. The young man spoke to the girl, hesitatingly, almost apologetically. She answered with pleading, at last almost with anger. Their dinner remained untasted. In the end, the man rose to his feet and followed the boy from the room. The girl stayed behind.

  “Queer little scene, that,” Mr. Cray whispered.

  Sara nodded.

  “I can’t think what’s the matter with Lydia,” she said.

  “Kind of annoyed at having their little feast broken into, I guess,” her father murmured soothingly.

  Sara said nothing and for some moments her father sought and found oblivion in the slow consumption of a perfectly cooked sole colbert.

  “Gee, this fellow is the goods!” he murmured appreciatively. “If you’d seen what they’ve been giving us over there, good solid tack enough, but after the first month everything tasted alike. Thought I’d got paralysis of the palate!”

  “And nothing to drink, dad?”

  “Not a spot,” declared Mr. Cray, with frenzied exaltation.

  “I’m worried about Lydia,” Sara confided.

  “She does look struck all of a heap,” Mr. Cray assented.

  “I’m going across to speak to her, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure!” Mr. Cray assented, with his eye fixed almost reverently upon the grouse which the maître d’hôtel was tendering for his inspection.

  “Don’t wait for me, dad,” she begged.

  “I won’t,” Mr. Cray promised….

  Mr. Cray ate his grouse with the deliberate and fervid appreciation of the epicure, an appreciation unaffected by the fact that within a few yards his quick sensibility told him that words of tragedy were being spoken. It was obvious that Sara’s friend was confiding in her, and it was obvious that the confidence was of tragical interest. In the midst of it all, the young man who had been called away returned. He had the look of a man making a strong effort to control his feelings. Mr. Cray, who had seen much of life during the last two years, recognised the signs. Not a word was audible, but when Sara, after her friend’s husband had been presented to her, engaged him in earnest conversation, Mr. Cray began to understand.

  “A little job for me,” he murmured to himself, as he sipped his champagne. “Pity about Sara’s grouse, though.”

  She returned presently, and it was obvious that she had much to say. Mr. Cray was firm.

  “Not a word, Sara,” he insisted, “until you have eaten your portion of grouse. Charles here has kept it hot for you. Not a word! I’m the stern father about that bird. What you’ve got to say will keep ten minutes.”

  Sara obeyed. She generally obeyed when her father was in earnest. It was not until she found herself trifling with a soufflé, a dish for which her companion had no respect whatever, that she was permitted to unburden herself.

  “Lydia is in great trouble, dad,” she confided. “There is something wrong with her husband. She doesn’t know what it is, but he came home, a fortnight ago, looking as though he had received a shock, and has never been the same man since. This is the third time he has been fetched away from a restaurant by a page in that same livery.”

  “I saw you talking to him when he came back.”

  She nodded.

  “I asked him right out what was the matter with him, and I told him about you, dad, told him how clever you were at getting people out of difficulties, and how you didn’t mind a little risk if there was an adventure at the back of it. I think I impressed him. He says he can promise you all the adventure you want, and they are coming here to take their coffee.”

  “If this isn’t some little burg!” Mr. Cray murmured ecstatically. “Just two hours under the fogs and the wheel begins to turn!”

  * * *

  —

  The arrival of Gerald Donvers and his wife, just as coffee was being served, did not seem likely to contribute in any way towards the gaiety of Mr. Cray’s evening. The young man at close quarters seemed more distraught than ever. He ignored his coffee, but drank two glasses of liqueur brandy quickly. His wife scarcely took her eyes off him, and Sara’s attempts to inaugurate a little general conversation were pitifully unsuccessful. Mr. Cray took the bull by the horns.

  “Say, Mr. Donvers,” he began, “Sara here tells me that you’re up against a snag somewhere. If there’s any way I can be of service, just open out. You and I are strangers, but anything my daughter says goes, so you can count on me as though I were an old friend.”

  “You are very good,” the young man replied without enthusiasm. “I am in a very terrible position—through my own fault, too. I am to attend a sort of investigation to-night, and I am invited to bring any friend I like who isn’t connected with any of the Services. If you’ll come along, I’ll be glad, but I tell you frankly that I don’t think the shrewdest man in the kingdom would be of any service to me.”

  “That sounds hard,” Mr. Cray observed, “but if I’m not butting in I’ll come along, with pleasure. What time is this show down?”

  “We shall have to leave in five minutes,” the young man answered, with a little shiver.

  Mr. Cray withdrew the bottle from his companion’s reach.

  “Take my advice and leave the strong stuff alone,” he said. “If it’s as bad as it sounds, you’ll want your head clear.”

  Donvers became no more communicative in the taxicab which drove them presently to a gloomy house in one of the southern squares. They were admitted by a soldier manservant, who ushered them into a sombrely-furnished library on the ground floor. A man who was seated at a desk—a grim, soldierly-looking person in the uniform of a Colonel—glanced up at their entrance and nodded curtly. Seated in an arm-chair was a pale-faced young woman in widow’s weeds, who turned her head away at their entrance.

  “You have brought a friend?” the Colonel inquired.

  Donvers nodded in spiritless fashion.

  “Mr. Joseph Cray—Colonel Haughton. Mr. Cray is an American and has not been in England for two years.”

  Colonel Haughton touched a bell by his side.

  “Show the young lady in,” he directed the soldier servant who answered it. “How much of this affair do you know, Mr. Cray?” he inquired coldly.

  “Not a diddle,” was the emphatic reply. “I wanted Mr. Donvers to put me wise on the way down, but he said he’d rather leave it to you.”

  Colonel Haughton made no reply. There was a knock at the door and a young woman was ushered in. She was fashionably dressed, and her face was familiar enough to any one studying the weekly papers. Mr. Cray recognised a compatriot at once. The woman in the chair glanced up at the girl and then away. Every
now and then her shoulders shook. The Colonel pointed to a chair.

  “Will you be seated, Miss Clare?” he said. “You gentlemen, please yourselves. I propose to recapitulate this unfortunate case for your benefit, Mr. Cray. I have my own ideas as to the course which Donvers should adopt.”

  “Go right ahead,” Mr. Cray invited genially. “I’m kind of cramped in the legs with travelling to-day, so I’ll take an easy-chair if there’s no objection.”

  “A year ago,” Colonel Haughton said, speaking in sentences of sharp, military brevity, “Donvers here held an appointment in a certain British Ministry. It was his duty frequently to bring dispatches of great importance to a certain branch of the War Office over which I presided. On one occasion, Donvers appears most improperly to have broken his journey at Miss Clare’s flat in Clarges Street.”

  “There was no breaking the journey,” Donvers interrupted. “My instructions were to deliver the dispatches into your own hands, and when I got to the War Office you were out for an hour. I came up to have tea with Miss Clare instead of waiting in the Office.”

  “Mr. Donvers left his wallet of dispatches hanging in Miss Clare’s hall,” Colonel Haughton continued, “a disgracefully careless proceeding. When he found me at the War Office that evening, he handed me two envelopes instead of three. He said nothing to me about the third, but, realising the loss, returned to Miss Clare’s and searched his own rooms. Miss Clare knew nothing about the possibly missing dispatch, Donvers could discover nothing in his rooms. In the meantime, a prisoner in the Tower was shot at midnight that night. The contents of the letter, which never reached me, would have saved him.”

  The woman in mourning began to sob. Donvers wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

  “Say, that’s bad,” Mr. Cray admitted.

  “Owing to information patriotically tendered by Miss Clare,” Colonel Haughton continued, “a constant visitor to her flat was arrested soon afterwards and dealt with in the usual way. He admitted having opened the dispatches which he found in Donvers’ wallet, and made use of their contents. The one which he could not open he took away, and finding it of no interest to his cause, destroyed it. The situation, therefore, amounts to this. Owing to the criminal carelessness of Donvers, a young American whose innocence was beyond doubt was shot for a spy.”