Читать книгу Tales of Mystery & Espionage: 21 Spy Thrillers in One Edition - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 20

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Fawley watched his approaching host with calm and critical interest. His travels in the country during the last few days had already convinced him that great events were looming. A tortured nation was on the point of breaking its bonds. An atmosphere of impending cataclysm was brooding over the place. The worn faces of the people, the continuous stream of processions, the crowded cafés all gave evidence of it. It was as though there were dynamite upon the pavements and liquid dynamite in the air, dynamite which needed only a spark to light the storm. Even in this luxurious and secluded restaurant, Fawley thought that the first mutterings of the thunder might begin…Looking across the room, he saw the good-natured expression fade from the face of Adolf Krust, the great industrialist, saw his eyes receding into his head, alight as they were with hatred, saw the menacing curve of his lips as he stared at the approaching figure. Elida touched her companion on the arm.

“You see what is happening,” she whispered. “Every other table in the restaurant has an engaged card upon it. Now watch.”

Without any confusion or haste, a well-behaved, good-looking crowd of young men, with here and there a woman companion, had followed Behrling into the place. Every one knew his table and occupied it swiftly. They wore no sort of uniform, these newcomers. They were dressed with singular precision in the fashion of the day, but there was a small brown ribbon upon the lapel of their dinner coats. Furthermore, although they were of varying types, there was a curious similitude in their bearing and expression.

“Interesting,” Fawley murmured. “I gather that these young men have all been subjected to some sort of military training?”

“They are Behrling’s bodyguard,” she confided. “It is not his own idea; it is the idea of those who would protect him. Krust to-night, for instance, might easily have made mischief. What chance has he now? He has not been allowed a table within fifty feet of us and his slightest movement will be watched.”

She rose to her feet to welcome the newcomer. Fawley followed her example. Behrling, still without a smile upon his strong colourless face, bowed formally to them both and sank into the vacant chair.

“You have been entertained, I hope, Major Fawley?” he asked.

“Admirably,” the other assured him.

“You will remember that you are my guests,” he went on. “Supper, I think, has already been ordered. You will forgive me if I drink nothing but coffee and eat some plain food. I see,” he added, glancing across the room, “that our friends the enemy are represented here to-night.”

Elida nodded.

“Adolf Krust has been over to speak to us,” she remarked. “He looks upon Major Fawley as a lamb in danger of straying from the fold.”

“I hear that he was at the Italian Embassy this evening,” Behrling confided. “Does that disconcert you, Major Fawley?”

“Not in the least,” was the composed reply. “The work of investigation which I have to do I shall do in my own way and in my own fashion. Krust will not interfere with or influence me.”

“You are in a difficult position,” Behrling continued, as he watched the glasses being refilled with champagne and sipped his own coffee. “Italy is employing you upon a very delicate mission, because a great scheme has been thought out to the last details and an unexpected crisis has imperilled its fruition. There have arisen the questions—Who is Germany? What is Germany? Who shall speak for her? Who is there alive to-day who can sign a treaty in her name?”

“These are all matters for statesmen,” Fawley observed. “Very difficult matters for an outsider to deal with.”

Behrling’s tightened lips concealed his irritation. This impenetrable American was getting upon his nerves.

“You are here, I presume, to report upon the situation,” he said. “All that I desire is that you will report upon it fairly. You saw, perhaps, the goose-step march of the weary veterans on their celebration day. What you saw was a true and just allegory. The weariness of those who fainted by the wayside—and there were many—is typical of the weariness of all the things they represent. How much you have seen of my people I do not know, but I make you this offer. I will make over to you one of my most trusted lieutenants and, with the Princess here as your guide, you shall visit the chosen spots of my country. You shall judge for yourself of the new spirit. You will be in a position then to tell those who employ you with whom it would be politic to deal.”

“If you only see half as much as I have seen within the last few weeks,” Elida intervened, “it will be enough.”

“You must please understand this,” Fawley said firmly. “I honestly do not believe that any word I could say would influence Berati or those who stand behind him in the least. He trusts none of his army of spies. He listens to every scrap of information we bring him and he decides for himself.”

“Yes, but the great thing is to see that the spirit of the country is represented to him fairly,” Behrling declared passionately. “Can you not see that? Krust, they tell me, although he is not in favour just now, has been twice received in Rome—once at the Vatican. I know that for a fact.”

“Krust must be received wherever he claims the entrée,” Fawley pointed out. “I suppose he still remains the greatest industrialist in Central Europe.”

“He is also unfortunately the intimate friend of Von Salzenburg and the Crown Prince,” was Behrling’s grim comment. “I am not pleading for myself. I am pleading only for the thousands of Germans who must go once more to their doom if a false note is struck now. They think in Rome that Germany is leaning towards the idea of a monarchy. She is doing nothing of the sort. When these clouds are cleared away, and believe me it will not be long, her programme will be before the world for every one to see. Heart and soul she is nationalist. She is for a reëstablished and almighty Germany. She is for the peace that brains and industry can ensure.”

A note was handed to Behrling. He read it and glanced meaningly at Elida.

“I think that our host would like to speak with some of his friends,” she said. “Will you dance for a few minutes, Major Fawley?”

Fawley looked enquiringly at his host. The latter’s acquiescence was swift.

“I see there two of my party with whom I have affairs,” he said. “Do not leave me without a farewell, Major, or without giving me your decision. Remember, I shall expect nothing but a favourable one.”

* * * * *

Fawley felt his feet upon the earth again. Elida, notwithstanding the smooth grace of her movements, clung to him every now and then as though he represented destiny, as though he were the only pillar of security remaining in a world-threatening flood. Fawley, whose complete humanity was one of the possible elements of his success in his profession, felt her allure without the slightest idea of yielding to it.

“You must accept Heinrich Behrling’s offer,” she whispered eagerly. “You would not be doing your duty to the country which employs you if you did not. We can go to all the important places, the very names of which are seldom mentioned in the papers nowadays. We can go by aeroplane. One of Behrling’s warmest supporters is the largest maker of aeroplanes in Europe.”

“What do you expect to gain from me at the end of it?” he asked, genuinely a little puzzled.

“Cannot you see,” she murmured passionately, “that this German-Italian scheme would mean the reconstruction of Europe? It would bring power and supremacy to both nations and would place them where they have a right to belong. Behrling is terribly afraid that Berati’s leanings are towards the other party and that he will not conclude a treaty with any one else.”

“I can understand that part of it,” Fawley assented, “but I am certain that my own importance in the matter is overrated. I am here on a special errand, concerning which I have to make a detailed report. Berati does not ask me for my views upon the situation. The Italian Government are satisfied with their own correspondents here. I should simply be butting in if I went home with a lot of information which they have probably already acquired.”

“But they have not,” she insisted, with a fierce little clutch at his arm. “There was never a man in this world—a clever man, I mean—so befooled by another as Berati’s master has been by Krust. If Berati only knew the truth, there would be no further hesitation. Now listen. I must tell you more about Heinrich Behrling. I must tell you more about the monarchists here. Do you suppose that I, who am connected with three of the royal families of Europe, who have nothing but monarchist blood in my veins, could turn aside if I were not utterly and completely convinced? Come this way.”

She led him into a little recess, pushed back the curtain and showed the way into a small but wonderfully decorated and luxurious bar. A fat and genial-looking dispenser of drinks stood behind the counter. Elida ordered champagne frappé and drew Fawley down on to a divan. He indulged in a dubious grimace.

“I was rather enjoying that dance with you,” he complained.

“Have I not offered you,” she reminded him, in a voice which shook with earnestness, “all the dancing with me you might care for, all the days of your life? I am sincere too. I want many things from you, but first of all I want you to take that journey with me.”

“If I took it,” he told her, “if you convinced me, as you very likely might, if I flew straight back to Rome and showed Berati the whole truth, I am not sure that it would make one particle of difference. You probably know the man—he takes advice from no one and he is very seldom wrong.”

“Take me to him, then,” she begged. “I am forbidden the country but I will risk that. I tried to take his life but I will risk his retaliation.”

Fawley tried to impart a lighter note to a conversation which was becoming too highly charged with emotion.

“I would not dream of doing such a thing,” he said. “I have heard something of Berati’s methods with Italian ladies!”

She sipped her wine with a little gesture of despair. Fawley’s feet beat time to the music. She ignored the hint. Suddenly, as though by an impatient hand, the curtain shielding the other entrance to the bar was drawn back. A tall middle-aged man of dissipated appearance, but still slim and alert in his manner, hastened across the room towards Elida, bowed in perfunctory fashion and broke into a stream of rapid German. Two or three younger men also pushed their way into the bar and ranged themselves by his side. Elida rose slowly to her feet, curtsied and resumed her place.

“You are a disgrace to your name and your family,” the angry newcomer wound up. “Of your relationship I am ashamed.”

“The shame is on my side,” Elida answered indignantly. “I should feel it in the case of even an acquaintance who would attempt to brawl with a woman in a public place. If you have anything to say to me which you have not already said through Von Salzenburg and Maurice von Thal, please find another opportunity.”

“What are you doing with this American?” the other demanded.

“That is entirely my affair.”

“I am inclined to make it mine,” was the sullen reply. “Americans are not welcome in Germany just now. We wish to be left alone to settle our own affairs.”

“You do not like Americans?” Fawley asked softly.

“I hate them.”

“Perhaps that is to be understood,” Fawley observed. “Unfortunately, I am in the same position with regard to Germans—of your type. I don’t exactly see what we can do about it.”

There was a tense silence for a moment. Outside in the restaurant the music, too, had paused. It was as though every one had recognised the fact that there was trouble afoot. One of the younger men in the group stepped forward and tendered his card to Fawley. The latter made no movement towards taking it.

“Sir,” the intervener declared, “you have insulted one who does me the honour to regard me as a friend. You insult me also if you refuse my card.”

“What am I to do with your card?” Fawley asked.

“You give me yours,” the other replied, with a flash in his eyes. “By to-morrow morning you will know.”

Fawley accepted the card, tore it in two and flung the pieces from him.

“It is time the world had finished with such theatrical trash,” he observed calmly. “I happen to have earned the right to refuse to fight with any one, as you can see for yourself, if you consult an American army list. In the meantime, I suggest that you allow me to take the Princess to her table and I will return to discuss the matter with you.”

Elida passed her hand through his arm. She knew most of these men who had entered and she was very determined that Fawley should leave with her.

“Since you have reminded me of our relationship,” she said, turning towards the man who had first addressed her, “let me beg you, for the sake of your name, to avoid anything like a brawl. Major Fawley is a distinguished guest and I believe a well-wisher of your country.”

The music outside was still silent but there was a curious shuffling of feet upon the dancing floor. The main curtain was abruptly thrown back, a party of the young men who had followed Behrling into the restaurant made their appearance. They entered quietly, without any sign or word of menace, but they were a formidable-looking body as they ranged themselves around the bar. By some manoeuvre, or it may have been by chance, they spread themselves out between Elida and her angry relative. In dead silence, although to the accompaniment of a cloud of evil looks, Fawley and his companion passed out of the room.