“He’ll know the answer, and why France is so suddenly backing Rothstern’s hand.”
“But, tell me about yourself, about the Sphinx!” exclaimed the girl eagerly. “How did you send those messages to Nice? How did you have those tickets awaiting me as by magic? Who was the dark, sad man in Lyon?”
* * *
—
“I almost hate to tell you,” said Barnes slowly. “And yet, Marie, you’re the one person whom I can trust, and who must know the truth. For weeks, I’ve been sitting in front of a café doing nothing, while Rothstern’s agents watched me. In that time, I’ve built up an organization to take the place of our own. I saw the smash coming. Good as we are, we’re nothing against these double-crossing rats who call themselves secret agents.”
“Apparently you’ve done the impossible,” she said dryly.
“I have. Everybody has overlooked a great bet. For fifteen years, France has been the haven of Armenians—not the low-class peddlers we know at home, but people of the highest class. That man in Lyon is a graduate of the Sorbonne, Oxford, and Geneva. His father was an intimate friend of the sultan before the war. The man who gave you the tickets in Nice was once a prince. These refugees have no country, no cause, no hope. I have given them all these things.
“One of them alone might betray me; banded together, they would never betray one another. They have a cohesion of blood, of race; America helped the Armenians, and they remember this. I am cashing in on by-products of past history.”
She drew a quick breath; her eyes dilated as she watched his keen, alert profile.
“You? Who else?”
“No one else—except you. I figure on keeping the wrecks of our organization and using them, chiefly as a mask. Rothstern and the like will never look beyond to seek a second-degree organization.”
“Then you—single-handed—you are doing this—”
Barnes smiled thinly. “The Sphinx, my dear; the Sphinx, U.S.A.!”
“Who supplies the money?”
“I furnish some of it. Other Americans have contributed. I have friends who trust me, remember, and who ask no questions.”
“Either you are an absolute madman—or a genius!”
The gray eyes twinkled at her. “Which do you say?”
“Both. Oh, it’s wonderful, it’s splendid!” she broke out passionately. “If only you can depend on these people—”
“I can. They have relatives, friends, all over France. They are like the Jews, a race absolutely banded together in ruin; they have an infinite genius for detail. I give one of my key men certain instructions; he arranges everything. I can hand one a message today in Paris, and it will be delivered in the most spy-proof manner that same night in Vienna, Naples, Marseilles, Petrograd—and at the same identical moment. You see, the possibilities are vast, almost unlimited.”
A sobering thought. “And you see why I’ve picked on you?” Barnes glanced at her, laughing. “Any other woman would have been mourning her clothes, her personal possessions, everything she’d lost. You don’t. You’re always a good campaigner.”
“Oh, we can always buy more!” she exclaimed brightly. “But don’t you want that letter?”
Barnes shook his head. “Wait until we reach Dijon. It’ll be in code; it was given Franklin for delivery to me, by an Armenian in Rome.”
“So you’re using codes, which can always be broken down?”
Barnes chuckled. “I’m using the German code system, which has never been broken down, and never will be. With an Armenian complex, it’s invulnerable. You’ll see.” She shrugged and relaxed on the cushions.
It was nearly dark when they came into Dijon; Barnes did not want to arrive in full daylight. They avoided the grand Hotel de la Cloche and in a side-street off the main Rue de la Liberté, halted before a small hostelry, the Hotel Burgundy.
“We become brother and sister; the name is Smith; passports are ready in that name,” said Barnes. “I’ll take that letter, if I may. Meet you downstairs in half an hour.”
She produced the letter Franklin had turned over, and they entered the little hotel, which had for lobby only the usual small office.
Once in his own room, Barnes tore open the letter, which contained a single sheet of paper. On this were three lines of unbroken typing in capital letters.
In ten minutes he had reduced this to the “cable-ese” of newspaper correspondents, which he then amplified into familiar English. The result was very definite:
BALKAN TENSION HOLDING UP ABYSSINIAN CAMPAIGN BUT PREPARATIONS GOING STEADILY FORWARD. LEAGUE OF NATIONS WILL CONTROL JUGO-SLAVIA. AIRPLANE FLEET PREPARING HERE FOR LONG FLIGHT.
Mussolini had once sent a squadron of twenty-odd ships across the Atlantic to America. He would be able to send a fleet of fifty bombers to Eritrea to act against the Ethiopians. No particular news here; Franklin might have lost this message without any dire consequences, thought Barnes angrily. Then he started, at a sudden thought. He held the paper against the electric bulb in his room. Between the lines of typing, appeared writing as the paper grew warm. He copied it swiftly, decoded this second and more secret message, then whistled softly.
MY BROTHER AT MARSEILLES INFORMS ME THAT TWO BELGIAN SHIPS CLEARED FROM THERE FOR BOMBAY. REALLY FOR DJIBOUTI WITH IMMENSE QUANTITIES WAR SUPPLIES CONSIGNED ADIS ABEBA.
There, by glory, was something!
* * *
—
Djibouti was the French port of Somaliland, whence the railroad ran to Adis Abeba, capital of Abyssinia. The French, then, were permitting war supplies to go through, in defiance of all conventions. Why? Stumbling block. And Marie Nicolas had heard talk of those two ships. Belgian ships; and the Belgians had furnished drill-masters for the Abyssinian army. Something here, something big, if only the key could be obtained.
Hastily washing up, Barnes went downstairs and found Marie awaiting him in the lobby. They left the hotel; they were going to dine, he told her, at the Grande Taverne in the Rue de la Gare, near the railroad station. Reilly, if he got through alive from Paris, was to meet them there about eight.
“It is a risk meeting him, of course, but it must be done,” said Barnes. “He has the key to all this business. Now, listen to what was in the letter,” and he swiftly sketched the contents of the missive she had brought.
“What does it mean, then?” she asked.
“I don’t know. That’s what Reilly can tell us. Washington is involved somewhere; so is half Europe. Abyssinia is helpless, but has money to burn—an important point. Well, here we are.”
They entered the café, took a corner table within view of the door, and settled down to satisfy hunger.
“Where did you leave the car?” asked the girl.
“In the street, handy for a quick getaway. Whether we’ll stay the night, I can’t say. Depends on Reilly and Rothstern. Our fat friend isn’t so slow, you know,” Barnes added thoughtfully. “We’re taking chances stopping at hotels. By this time, our registration slip is at the police prefecture. Rothstern might figure you for Dijon, of course. We’re bound to take chances any way you look at it,” and he shrugged.
“Have you anyone here? Any of your friends?”
“No.”
Dinner arrived. As the meal drew to its close and eight o’clock came and passed, Barnes grew more and more uneasy. Then the door opened; a gangling man with flaming red hair and clipped mustache entered and glanced around. He sighted Barnes, who rose.
“Hello, old chap,” said Reilly. “Ah! And Marie as well, eh? Glad to see you enjoying life. You won’t very long.”
He dropped into a chair and fired a rapid order at the waiter, who vanished.
“Trouble getting here?” asked Barnes.
“Nothing else but. I’ve been driving that old Ford of mine over h
alf the back roads in France. You know what’s happened to the gang?” Barnes nodded. He liked this brisk, energetic Chicagoan.
“Sure. But we’re not washed up yet. What have you for me? Spit it out.”
“You’re welcome to it,” said Reilly, and grinned. From inside his hat he brought a small envelope. “And, by the way, you’d better be prepared to hustle. Ten miles out of town they caught me. I rammed their car into the ditch, but it’ll mean that the net is spread here.”
Barnes took the envelope and looked at Marie. “Sorry, comrade; you’ll have to wait to get the news. Will you slip back to the hotel, get my suitcase put into the car, and drive the car here?
“Tell the hotel people we’re going to join friends at the Hotel de la Cloche. The rooms are paid for.”
With a quick nod, the girl rose and swung away. Reilly looked after her; his face was suddenly drawn and tired.
“A swell girl, there,” he said. “I’m done for. I’ll stop here and let ’em grab me.”
“You will not,” said Barnes quickly. “You’ll go with us. What’s this thing?”
He tapped the envelope as he put it out of sight.
* * *
—
“Photostat of an agreement between Rothstern and that chap Forville, in the French Foreign Office,” Reilly said crisply. “Cost me a thousand bucks cash, but I got it a week ago. Forville will be made the goat if it should become public, of course; the French government is really back of it. Ever hear of Abyssinia?”
“Once or twice,” Barnes replied. “Anything to do with war munitions?” Reilly chuckled. “You’re not so slow, huh? Right. Here’s the layout—hold on.”
The waiter came with the ordered dishes. Reilly, saying he had not eaten since morning, pitched in ravenously. When the waiter was gone, he spoke between bites.
“For three months, Rothstern, on the basis of this secret agreement, has shipped munitions into Abyssinia. Made money hand over fist at it. That Italy’s going to grab the country is no secret. France is bitterly jealous of her already; so is Germany. Mussolini is all burned up over the disaster of Adowa, forty years ago, and means to avenge it. Well, he’s going to run into another Adowa, that’s all. The Italian army will be smashed; his prestige will never recover. Rothstern is behind the whole thing. A gigantic trap in the mountains.
“Get the picture? France then becomes the dominant power in Europe, and so forth.”
“Holy smoke!” exclaimed Barnes, as he comprehended the reality. “What’s it got to do with Washington? We don’t give a hang about Abyssinia?”
“Sure,” grunted Reilly, “they’ve hung it on the Paris ambassador; he thinks it’s swell. The Abyssinian envoy has let it be understood that America will guarantee the integrity of Abyssinia; which is all rot. But they’ve got Rothstern scared stiff about it. So the fat boy wants to find out about that treaty. He thinks we might stop Italy from grabbing; more rot. He wants Italy to grab, burn her fingers, and take a tumble.”
“I get you. What good is this photostat to us?”
“Proof. Our diplomatic corps doesn’t dare touch it; the thing was swiped out of the French archives, you know. But any of us can handle it, with the fervent blessing of Washington. If Mussolini gets it, he has proof that France is double-crossing him. You knew I was bringing you orders to meet Grimaldi in Ostend, on neutral ground?”
“No! I was told to meet our ambassador there and take the treaty to London.”
“All hooey, brother. You’re to do it, sure, but the important thing is to meet Grimaldi. He’s Mussolini’s best friend. We didn’t dare reach him in Paris; you can do it in Ostend. Give him the photostat—on condition Italy won’t grab Abyssinia. If Grimaldi assents, Il Duce will probably stick to it.”
Barnes saw the whole thing now. If Italy held off, that commercial treaty might or might not go through. All this was a job that no accredited diplomat could handle for a moment. Grimaldi, not the American ambassador, was the real work ahead of him.
“I get you. Grimaldi might not agree, though.”
“He will if you tell him that Italy gets a fifty-fifty split in the treaty, and a concession to build a railroad into Adis Abeba. The black boys will probably repudiate the whole thing, even if Washington makes the treaty, but we should worry. Our game is to smash Rothstern—wheels within wheels, savvy?”
Barnes nodded. “What a whale of a scheme! It saves Abyssinia’s independence and yet profits all concerned. Who thought it all up?”
“Those blacks aren’t so dumb,” and Reilly grinned. “Look here, you’d better skip out! Leave me here to act as decoy.”
“Nothing doing. Come along. Marie must be outside by this time,” and Barnes beckoned the waiter.
He paid his bill, and a moment later the two men left the restaurant together.
As they went out the door, a man rose from a table on the other side of the room, and made an abrupt signal. Two other men joined him, and all three hurriedly departed.
CHAPTER IV
PLAYING THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME
Reilly, crowded into the roadster seat with Barnes and Marie, continued his sketch of the situation as Barnes headed out of the city.
“You see, once the proof is in Grimaldi’s hands, he’s got Rothstern by the neck. And believe me, Mussolini would like to see that bird done for! France will have to sacrifice Rothstern, and so will Germany. They won’t dare let him squawk. That’s added incentive for us. We owe him something. Where you heading for now?”
“Troyes,” said Barnes. “I’ll have a man waiting there for me with news, food and anything else needed—including gas. We’ll get there long before midnight. Then on to the Belgian border.”
“I can’t cross it,” said Reilly. “You had better let me go.”
“Be hanged to you!” Barnes snapped. “I’ll manage it somehow.”
They got out of town without incident and the powerful roadster began to eat up the miles of the highway, as the rolling hills of Burgundy fled past.
“Light’s behind!” said Marie Nicolas, presently.
Although Barnes knew the road, it was strange to him at night; a hilly road with sharp curves and blind turns. Speed was impossible. Gradually the following car lights crept closer.
“Looks like a pinch,” commented Reilly. “And those birds will shoot. They shot at me; that’s why I rammed them off the road.”
Barnes reached down with one hand, drew a pistol from the car pocket, and laid it in his lap. “This stuff has to get through,” he said grimly. “If we’re nabbed, you two step out and give up. You’ll only get a week in jail at worst. Orders, understand?”
The minutes passed. That the other car was the faster now became all too apparent. Barnes reflected swiftly, and came to a decision. Alone, he might outrun or outfight the enemy, no matter which; they were not French police, who would use pistols only as a last resource. But with Marie in the car, he could not risk her life so freely.
“Be ready to pile out,” he said curtly. The other car was close now, its lights holding them in full glare.
Barnes slowed gradually. He ran along the edge of the road, giving plain evidence of his intention to stop. There was still a chance, of course, that the other car held nothing but tourists or fast travelers who wanted to pass. A “honk-honk” from behind as the pursuing car closed in and began to pass. It came alongside, roaring along without slowing. Then—
The jets of fire, the crashing of the windshield, the barking explosions of pistols. A wild cry from Marie.
Sheer blind fury seized Barnes. The whole windshield in front of him was shattered out. Glass flinders stung his face.
Like a flash, he stepped full on the gas, snatched up his own pistol, and as the roadster spurted into a roar after the other car, he began to fire. Shot after shot, steadily, alwa
ys in the one place. Suddenly a scream drifted back to him. Then a chorus of voices. The car ahead veered, skidded off the road, went slap-bang into a tree with a terrific crash. One of his bullets had found the driver.
The roadster shot past. Barnes looked back once, saw no flames, and grimly held his course. To hell with them! They could take the consequences, so long as their car had not caught afire.
“Marie! Hurt?”
“No, no,” came her gasp. “But Reilly—you’ll have to stop—”
Barnes slowed, and presently ran to a stop. Like all European cars, this one had a right-hand drive. Thus, the other two had acted as shields for him against those bullets. And one had found Reilly. The red-headed Chicagoan was dead—had died at once, for a bullet had gone through his head.
“What’ll we do?” exclaimed Marie, careless of the gashes in her arms from the shattered glass. “We can’t leave him here.”
“No. You drive. I’ll hold him. We’re well on our way to Troyes. I’ll leave him with my man there, who will take care of it. The body can’t be shipped home in any case; anyone who dies from violence must remain buried in France. That can all be taken care of later. The main thing now is to get on.” They went on.
* * *
—
It was a grim ride. Barnes sent his thoughts flitting ahead, groping with what might lie across the border. No such danger from the police as here. The whole French bureaucracy was riddled with graft and corruption and scandal; Belgium was another thing. He could understand why Reilly had held this photostat for days, no doubt in the hope of getting it to the Italian embassy, but in vain. Rothstern had paralyzed the little band of American volunteers.
For Rothstern knew of this photostat. What an incredible devil of mental agility, of information, of secret sources, that fat man must be! He had learned of this. He knew his own peril. He even knew—or guessed—that it was to reach Grimaldi on the Ostend musical expedition.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 101
