Читать книгу Tales of Mystery & Espionage: 21 Spy Thrillers in One Edition - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 78

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Soon after ten o’clock that night Charles Mildenhall suddenly realized that he was half dead with sleepiness and fatigue. He mounted to his rooms, rang for the valet and in a quarter-of-an-hour was in bed. Twelve hours later he awoke to find Herodin, frock-coated, smiling, the perfect hôtelier, standing by his side. He bowed apologetically.

“Mr. Mildenhall,” he said, “the floor waiter reported that you gave no orders for calling.”

“Quite right,” Charles replied, sitting up in bed. “I was dead tired. This morning I am rested. If you will be so good as to send the valet to turn on my bath, and the waiter?”

“With pleasure, Mr. Mildenhall. I ventured to come up myself this morning because I thought that you would like to know that the news looks slightly better. The Führer has consented to receive an emissary from Poland. It will at least mean a few more days’ delay.”

“Excellent!” Charles exclaimed, rubbing his eyes.

“There is also,” Herodin continued, “the very shabby taxicab in which you arrived last night.”

“The chauffeur is to wait,” Charles replied. “It would be a kindness, Mr. Herodin, if you could send him round to the back and supply him with coffee and anything else he wants. He is an old friend, once valet at the Embassy. I picked him up at the station on my arrival and have engaged him for my few days here.”

“It is a very gracious action,” Herodin murmured.

Charles Mildenhall was of an age when nature speedily reasserts itself. He drank his coffee, then he sent down for Fritz, who presently arrived already a different person and dressed in an entirely new suit of clothes.

“Feeling better, Fritz?” his patron enquired.

The chauffeur grinned.

“And the wife, sir,” he replied. “Food and wine, they do make a difference. We drank your health, sir—yes, I can promise you that—more than once, too.”

“Now listen,” Charles said, tapping a cigarette and lighting it. “I have two to three days to spare in this city and I am very anxious to discover the whereabouts of a young lady and a man called Blute who was an agent of Mr. Leopold Benjamin, the banker.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is going to be our work,” Charles went on, “for every minute of the time until I have to leave for England. I know they will be difficult to find, because they were in a way members of Mr. Benjamin’s household and that has been broken up, but we must set our minds to it.”

“We will find them, sir,” Fritz declared confidently. “The young lady, now,” he went on, “would she be a young lady with red hair?”

“Good God, how did you know that? Of course she has red hair—very beautiful and plenty of it.”

Fritz smiled.

“Rather small in figure—very pleasant voice and a real smile?”

“What do you know about her?” Charles demanded eagerly. “Have you seen her lately?”

Fritz shook his head.

“Well over a year ago, sir,” he admitted, “and it’s a queer thing how I come to remember it, except that she was almost the first fare I had. The young lady you are looking for, she came out of the porter’s lodge of the Palais Franz Josef where she had been talking to the woman there. Why, it could not have been more than a day or a couple of days after you left. I was to drive her to the Benjamin Bank, but when we got within a street of it she stopped me. We could see that there were soldiers guarding the place. She jumped out, paid me and slipped away.”

“Patricia Grey her name was.”

“I never heard any name,” Fritz admitted, “but that young lady came out of the lodge and I drove her to Benjamin’s Bank or should have done, if the soldiers had not been there—and she had marvellous red hair. It’s an easy guess, sir, that she was the young lady you are looking for.”

“The man’s name was Marius Blute.”

“Never heard of him, sir. But the young lady, I should know her again if I ever saw her, and don’t you forget, sir, she came out of the porter’s lodge at the Benjamin palace. She would not have been there if she had not had something to do with the place. She asked to be driven to Benjamin’s Bank. That is proof that she belonged to the staff, and there isn’t another young woman in Vienna with hair like that—a sort of golden red it is, sir. Shines like—”

“That,” Charles interrupted, “is the young lady I want to find.”

“We’ll do it, sir,” Fritz assured his patron confidently. “Where shall we start?”

“We will go to the Benjamin Hospital. We may hear something about the whereabouts of Mr. Benjamin there and that will be a start.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I bring the taxi round to the front?”

“In ten minutes.”

At the Krankenhaus Benjamin, Charles received his first knock-down blow. He was received by a German doctor and surrounded on all sides by Nazi Germans. The doctor was brusque in manner and downright in speech.

“The Austrian, Schwarz,” he announced, in reply to Charles’s enquiry, “is in prison. His wife has been banished.”

Charles was staggered.

“What have they done?” he asked. “What was the charge?”

“They are Jews,” the doctor replied, “and they dared to have a notice that Jews and Jewesses could claim priority here for treatment.”

“But the hospital,” Charles reminded the speaker gently, “was built and endowed by a Jew.”

“What does that matter?” the doctor retorted.

“It is Nazi Germany now which owns Austria. We have control of the hospital and we have not a Jewish patient left. That I can tell you. The beds are filled with Germans who suffered during the fighting outside the city. What do you want with Dr. Schwarz?”

“I wanted news of Mr. Leopold Benjamin, if there was any. If not, of his secretary. There was a man, too, named Marius Blute, who managed some of his affairs.”

“You will get no news of any of those people here,” he was told promptly. “The man Blute has been here and was sent away again pretty quickly. He had the impudence to ask for money. It is true this hospital is endowed with Jewish money, but the money would have been taken away from the Jew Benjamin if the authorities had been able to find him. This hospital and the endowment money and everything else belongs now to the German Government.”

“Do you think I would be allowed to see Dr. Schwarz at the prison?” Charles asked.

“I should think they would be more likely to send you in to keep him company,” was the insolent reply. “Go away, please. I have no more time to waste—especially on an Englishman.”

Charles was thoughtful when he regained the street.

“Fritz,” he confided, “things are looking bad here. This is no longer the Benjamin Hospital. The two people I am anxious to find out about have been here—at least, Blute has—and been turned away. The whole of the funds and the endowment have been taken over by the Germans.”

“Swine!” Fritz murmured equably.

“Yes, but what about it? I have only a day or two here. I want to find Miss Grey or Blute—Miss Grey particularly—and I don’t know where to look.”

Fritz’s queer, puckered-up little face was full of concern. He looked doubtfully at his patron.

“You will excuse me, sir?” he begged. “But were they living together, these two—any relation or anything of that sort?”

Charles brushed the idea away without hesitation.

“That was quite impossible,” he answered. “Mr. Blute has brains, of course, and I should think he’s a very decent fellow, but I am sure they weren’t related and I don’t think anything else would be possible. Mr. Benjamin thought highly of Miss Grey. She came to him from the New York branch of his bank and she soon became his personal secretary.”

“I should suggest we drive up to the old porter’s lodge, sir, and make enquiry there. We might even get into what remains of the house. If we can find out nothing there we shall have to try the restaurants. Everyone’s obliged to eat, anyway, and there are more than ever that are doing it in restaurants.”

“As you say, Fritz,” Charles assented.

They drove immediately to the fine porter’s lodge which guarded the approach to the Benjamin mansion. The entrance gates they found were locked. Fritz descended and rang the bell. The door of the lodge was opened in due course by a weary-faced woman. Fritz talked to her for a few moments, after which he returned to his employer.

“Nothing to be learned, sir,” he reported. “This woman is the widow of the old doorkeeper. He was killed in the fighting when the Nazis first marched in. She says the place was overrun afterwards for weeks, first by disciplined soldiers and searchers, and then by a rabble. No one can get into the house now. The doors are locked and the windows barred. Forty vanloads of furniture have been taken away.”

“Did you ask her what was in the vans?” Charles asked.

“No, but I will.”

Fritz called back the woman and Charles descended from the taxi. She answered his questions through the railings.

“The vans were mostly locked up, sir,” she told him, “but one thing is very certain. The first Germans who came were very disappointed. There were many officers amongst them and one or two civilians. They walked up and down the quadrangle and argued. Sometimes they went back into the house as though for another search. Then a fresh lot came. It was always the same—they went away angry.”

Charles searched his pocket and dropped a few reichsmarks into the woman’s eagerly outstretched hand.

“I want you to try and remember something for me.”

There were tears in her eyes. Her clenched fingers were gripping the silver coins. She was shaking from head to foot.

“Tell me what it is, mein gnädiger Herr,” she half sobbed.

“There is one person whom you must remember coming here often—Miss Patricia Grey, Mr. Benjamin’s secretary.”

“The little one?” she asked. “Always with a smile—with the hair—ach, so lovely?”

“That is she,” Charles acknowledged. “Tell me, have you seen anything of her lately? Can you tell me where to find her?”

The woman’s face fell. She shook her head drearily.

“The last time I saw her, mein Herr,” she confided, “she was between two great Nazi soldiers or policemen—I do not know which—who were bringing her away from the house. She had passed through the gates only an hour before, waved her hand and thrown me a kiss. She was always so gay. When she went out her face was white and set, her hair was disarranged, it looked as though she had been struggling.”

“What do you suppose they were doing with her?”

“They were taking her to prison, mein Herr. That I know.”

“And you have never seen or heard of her since?”

“Not once.”

“She was a very important person in the household,” he persisted. “You have not heard anything from the other servants or seen anything in the papers about her?”

She shook her head.

“Mein Herr will understand,” she recounted sorrowfully, “that I have lost my husband and two sons. My daughter has disappeared. There is no one left. The young lady, she passed out of my mind.”

“I am afraid that is quite natural,” he murmured sympathetically. “Well, the other person was a man—a rather thickset, short man. His name was Blute. He talked a great deal. He was very clever and he worked for Mr. Benjamin.”

“Mein Herr, you have not the chance this morning,” she said. “Two days after the Nazis’ first visit here he was carried out on a stretcher. He had been in the house working in the library. The soldiers had been asking him many questions. There was a quarrel and a fight. They said that he was keeping something back and they took him away to be examined in the prison. Never once has he been back, neither have I heard of him. There were others who were servants of Mr. Benjamin and Dr. Schwarz, the President of his hospital. They have all disappeared.”

Charles wrote down his name and his address at the hotel.

“If you hear anything,” he begged, “will you let me know—especially about the Fräulein.”

The woman nodded.

“I will let you know,” she promised, “but all the people of that world have gone—gone—gone.”

She waved her hands downwards in despair. Charles stepped back into the taxicab.

“Fritz,” he said firmly, “I want to find that young lady.”

“One young lady,” Fritz sighed, “in all this city! It is so many months ago—”

“Look here,” Charles interrupted, “you are a sensible person. I shall try the police only as a last resource because, to tell you the truth, I do not think the police would help me. But think now—in what quarter of the city would they seek to live when they were set free from prison, if ever they were taken there? Remember, it must not be too far away. Herr Blute would stay in a hotel, I should think. The girl would try to find cheap lodgings. Drive me to the quarter where people in that condition of life would live. I will sit at the cafés, the cheap cafés. We will take it by turns, Fritz. You must eat six meals a day. We must go to all the restaurants. You must drink beer or coffee at all the cafés. A spirit of restlessness must drive you from place to place. We must find them, Fritz. Succeed, and I will take you to England into my own household, or, if you prefer it, I will establish you here.”

Life flowed back into the man’s veins. He had dined enormously the night before, he had drunk many beers, he had found a great patron. He was Viennese to the backbone. Joy took the place of sorrow. He threw his cap into the air and caught it.

“All day and all night I shall search!” he exclaimed. “They cannot escape me, those two!”

“Stop a moment,” Charles said. “There must be some method about our search. I am going to take it for granted that they will follow the example of nearly everyone in a city. They will sleep in their lodging, wherever it may be, and eat at a restaurant. Very well. Put me down far away from the fashionable places, in the district where clerks and middle-class people might go for their mittagessen. I will have an apéritif at one place, I will eat at another, I will drink coffee at another. You must commence with the places for the poorer people. You must do the same thing. Every three hours you must report to me—that is to say, we meet at Sachet’s Hotel at three o’clock, at six o’clock, at nine o’clock and at twelve. Is that understood?”

“Alas, mein Herr, it is by now midday,” Fritz declared, pointing to a church clock.

“Drive me then,” Charles ordered, “to the neighbourhood I spoke of and leave me. I will be back at Sacher’s Hotel at three o’clock. It may be that I shall give myself a rest then from this seeming to eat and drink continually. I shall leave you to carry on until six. Afterwards we will comb the city. That is understood?”

“It is understood, mein Herr,” Fritz agreed enthusiastically.

He mounted to the driver’s seat.

“In a quarter-of-an-hour, mein Herr, you will have commenced your part of the search.”

At ten minutes to nine that evening Charles, with a crick in his neck, the sense of a new sort of fatigue in his eyes, limped into the American Bar at Sacher’s. A familiar figure was there talking eagerly to the barman. It was Fritz in his brand new suit and holding his chauffeur’s cap in his hand. Charles strode up to him.

“Well, Fritz?”

There was the light of triumph in Fritz’s bright eyes as he turned round.

“Mein Herr“ he confided proudly, “the search is over. I triumph! It is an affair of ten minutes before I bring you to them.”

Charles swallowed a cocktail at a gulp. He had learnt during the afternoon and early evening every subterfuge possible of make-believe for getting rid of unwanted beverages. The cocktail tasted like nectar. He followed Fritz out of the place.

“Which of them is it?” he asked.

“Both,” Fritz replied. “Without a doubt, I should say both. The young lady I could swear to. The man—he was as you described him. Listen, mein Herr. I did not know,” he went on, tapping his forehead, “what was to be the end of this enterprise. I decided that I must have caution. I found, but I did not address them. I saw them take their places in an eating house. Oh, mein Herr, it is a poor place! I did not permit myself to be seen.”

Charles frowned.

“They may escape.”

“I have provided against that. There is a man at the door giving away copies of the menu. It is a very ordinary place, mein Herr. I pointed them out to him. I gave him a florin. He will give away no more menus. His eyes are fixed upon them. They will not leave the place.”

Charles took his seat in the taxi. It was a time when speed counted for nothing. In six or seven minutes they had passed into the outlying regions of the city. They pulled up with a jerk in front of a restaurant whose good days, if it had ever had any, had long since passed. There were two plate-glass windows, of which one was cracked and the other contained the remains of letters advertising a certain brand of beer. Inside there was an incredibly large number of marble-topped tables crowded with men and women mostly of the working-class type. The upper end of the establishment, obscured by a cloud of cigar smoke, was occupied by larger tables covered with soiled, coloured tablecloths. These were set against a semi-circle of divan seats with one or two cane-backed chairs, mostly in need of repair, facing them. There was half worn out cocoanut matting on the floor and a number of spittoons. The waiters, for the most part, wore a mixed garb consisting chiefly of black jerseys and dark-coloured trousers and aprons. Halfway up, the room branched to the right, and from the unseen portion came the strains of a violin. It was here that Charles came to a sudden standstill. Walking slowly down the passageway between the tables came a man with his eyes partially closed, playing, not altogether without skill, upon a wretched instrument, a version of the old Viennese waltz. He was a man of slightly below middle height who looked as though he had once been corpulent but had shrunken away through illness or starvation. He was dressed in a very shabby blue suit and there were deep lines in his face. It was only when he paused in front of a table, at which a girl was sitting alone clutching a saucer in her hand on which were a few copper coins, that Charles realized this was the end of his search. There was something unfamiliar in his throat. He was afraid to go on. A curious sense of shame almost kept him speechless. Then the music came to an end in the middle of a bar. Very slowly the musician’s arms descended until they hung straight down, the instrument in one hand, the bow in the other. He stared at Charles—quite speechless. The girl looked up. Charles had a horrible feeling that she was shaking the saucer at him. Then their eyes met and she gave a little cry. Every time he thought of that awful moment later in life he was thankful that her first expression was one of wonderful joy and it was only afterwards that the realization of their plight swept over her. It was Charles himself who made a gallant effort. He choked back down his throat that passionate outburst of dismayed sympathy. He even kept it from his tone. It was a heaven-directed impulse.

“Well, all I can say is,” he declared, taking both the girl’s hands in his, “thank God I have found you! Put that damn’ thing down and come and sit down here, Blute. Miss Grey—Patricia!”

She was sobbing quietly into her handkerchief. No one took any notice. They were accustomed to tears nowadays. Blute stumbled over the broken cane chair on the outside and sank on to the divan. Charles took them both by the arm and some kindly fate seemed to have sent a waiter within calling distance.

“Waiter,” Charles ordered. “Listen! I shall give you for your service—listen!—the biggest trinkgeld you ever had in your life. I have money—see,” he added, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing it out. “I want two bottles of the best wine you have in the place—Hungarian Carlowitz, if you have it. Something good, mind. Bring brandy, too—a bottle of brandy. Rolls and butter…Something to get us out of this place,” he explained to the other two in English, “until I can take you somewhere where we can eat.”

The waiter set down a tray he had been carrying and departed at a gentle run, pushing his way wherever he met with an obstacle, his senses dazed by the memory of that handful of money. Charles drew his protégés closer to him. Patricia had tried twice to speak but found it impossible.

“I know all about it without a word,” Charles said firmly. “There are hundreds just in the same plight—can’t get a schilling of cash in this damned country. I was very nearly in the same box myself. Luckily I have friends always in the hotels. I left some money with Herodin when I was here last and as I heard someone say the other day,” he went on, dropping his voice although indeed there was no one within hearing, “the Germans would elbow a Bishop on one side, but a famous hotel proprietor was always sacred.”

“It’s Mr. Charles!” Patricia gasped. “It’s Charles Mildenhall!”

“I know,” Blute said feebly. “I recognized him but I couldn’t speak. Day by day for months I have walked these streets looking for a friendly face and been scowled at by strangers. I’ve hung about the banks, I’ve argued at the tourist places. Charles Mildenhall, are you not afraid we shall murder you where you sit for that pocketful of money?”

“Write me your I.O.U.‘s, if you like,” Charles invited, drawing out notes from his pocket. “Oh, we can do all that later on. Here’s the wine. My God, that fellow’s a hustler! Thank heaven this is Vienna and not an English city. It’s good wine.”

The waiter’s hand was shaking so that he could scarcely draw the cork. Charles leaned over and took the bottle from him, reached to another table for a third glass and poured out three brimming tumblersful.

“The rolls,” he said. “You’re a bright fellow, I can see,” he went on, as the man began to beam upon them. “Never mind about the butter. Rolls.”

They came. Cheese came. Delicatessen followed. Butter that was eatable made its appearance. Neither of the two made the slightest hesitation about proving to their host the horrible truth—they were starving. He ate bread himself—coarse bread—and found it delicious. He had no need to be polite about the wine. It was good. Patricia set down her tumbler half empty. Already a little colour was flushing her cheeks.

“Go steady with the rolls,” Charles advised them both. “I shall carry you away from this place for dinner.”

“Dinner,” the girl faltered. “Just say that over again, Mr. Mildenhall. Dinner—something that smells good, perhaps!”

“Schnitzel à la Viennoise“ he said light-heartedly, “in my private sitting-room at Sacher’s. How will that go with you, Blute?”

Blute had a roll in either hand. He put one down and took a long draught of wine. For the first time he spoke coherently. He jerked out the words. They spelled their own tragedy.

“I have been in prison for six months,” he groaned. “Towards the end of it we ate the filth the warders refused.”

Charles would have nothing to do with sympathy. He nodded as though Blute’s was quite an ordinary confidence.

“Hard luck! I just escaped prison myself this time. The world’s gone mad,” he added, patting Blute’s back and taking a fervent grip of Patricia’s hand. “Never mind. Thank heaven Fritz and I found the right place!”

“You were looking for us?” she asked eagerly.

“I should jolly well think I was,” he answered. “You don’t suppose I dropped in here to have a light meal, I hope? I knew things must have gone terribly for you when I discovered all about the currency restrictions, that Mr. Benjamin had completely disappeared and Dr. Schwarz was in prison. You see, I did my best to trace you. Don’t bother to tell me all about it yet. We must start another chapter of living again. Just get the ugly things out of your minds. A cigarette each? There we are! Now I’m the only conversationalist. I’m running this show. I’ve a taxi-cab outside. I take you under my charge. I’m taking you to the back entrance of my hotel—the manager loves me so much that he would give it to me if I asked him! By a route which I know quite well you will come with me to my sitting-room. I guarantee that within a few minutes of arriving there we shall be safely enclosed from any intruder.”

“There will be police—and soldiers—” Patricia faltered.

“Not within my four walls,” he declared, and his voice was full of confidence. “Now then, waiter—supposing I settle with you. How much for the wine and rolls and all the rest of it?”

The man handed him a strip of paper. Charles put down the amount.

“And now tell me,” he went on. “What is the largest tip you have ever received?”

“A piece of gold,” the man faltered in a voice that was scarcely audible. “The patron who gave it to me was drunk.”

“Well, I am sober,” Charles told him, “and I am very happy. There is the equivalent of five pieces of gold. Keep some for your wife and children.”

They left the man supporting himself against the marble-topped table and stammering out his thanks. Charles held Patricia and Blute firmly by the arm, led them out into the street and tucked them into the taxi. He gave Fritz his orders and in seven minutes they were in the back regions of the hotel. They entered by the staff door and mounted quickly to the first floor. One turn to the left along the corridor and they were in Suite Seventeen. Charles threw his hat into the air.

“Arrived!” he cried. “Joyfully and safely! Sit down. Wait for my orders. I am in command of this expedition.”

His protégés were utterly numb. Speech would have meant a breakdown. Charles stood pressing the bell and beaming upon them. Servants came hurrying in. There was a valet, a waiter and a chambermaid. Never did Charles feel more thankful for his glib use of the Viennese patois.

“Greta,” he directed, pointing to a door, “that is my bathroom. Take this young lady in there. My friends have been in distress like many others in this city. They have lost their baggage—everything. Prepare a bath for Fräulein, fetch anything she asks for and wrap her in a dressing-gown. Do not leave the suite until after you have seen her into her bath and then come to me for orders. Come here, Franz,” he went on, turning to the valet. “Take this gentleman into my bedroom and turn on a bath for him. Take linen, underclothes and socks from my suitcase and put them out for him. See that he has everything he needs—you understand?”

“Perfectly,” the valet replied. “If the gentleman will come this way.”

Blute followed the man out with shaking footsteps. Charles drew a long breath and lit a cigarette.

“Kellner,“ he asked, turning to the waiter, “what is best for us to eat? My friends, you understand, have been starving.”

The waiter smiled sympathetically. He had seen others on the verge of starvation during the last few months.

“Plain dishes, gnädiger Herr,” he advised.

“Good,” Charles agreed. “Bring them some hot consomme, perfectly plain grilled cutlets of lamb or veal—heaps of them—figure to yourself that there are six or twelve of us!—and serve plenty of vegetables. Afterwards fruit. Now for wine. There we must be careful. We have drunk—not much but a little—heavy red wine. There is no German red wine like Carlowitz but my friends have now revived a little. We will give them a good Moselle, a Piesporter or a Braunberger, and I think with the help of their baths and getting accustomed to their new surroundings we could venture on a cocktail each. Let this all be ready in half-an-hour.”

“It shall be done, mein Herr.”

“No one but Fritz, my chauffeur, is to come near this room except by my orders. Now please send me the housekeeper.”

The man hurried off. Charles threw open a window and looked out upon the well-lit but still somewhat turbulent city. He drew a long breath. He was alone. He was free to relax. His heart was beating like a boy’s. There were tears in his eyes which he forced back with difficulty. Two starved human beings! What was there about that suddenly to change the world around him, to excite him more than any success he had ever had? He sat down. He was growing calmer every moment. He lit a cigarette. His brain was functioning now more normally. He knew what had happened to him. He saw her first startled look, he watched the joy which transformed her pinched, weary expression. He remembered her slow coming to life, the light that flowed from her eyes as she had turned round from the bathroom door before disappearing, the faint little wave of her thin fingers. He knew quite well what had happened. He crossed the room and rang the bell. He returned to the window. Every second the thing was becoming clearer. He remembered how often she had occupied his thoughts. This wave of tenderness was amazing. All the same, he knew that never again in his lifetime would he feel the same thrill of exquisite joy which had come to him when he had turned the corner of that shabby restaurant, recognized Blute, seen Patricia lift her head, watched that dazed look in her hollow eyes suddenly disappear, watched the transformation which that flood of light brought into them…

There was a knock at the door. A stately, elderly woman dressed in black silk was ushered in by the waiter.

“I was told, sir, that you wished to speak to the housekeeper,” she announced.

Charles was himself again. He motioned the lady to a chair.

“Waiter,” he said, “I will have my cocktail at once. Let it be one of Frederick’s special White Ladies.”