Читать книгу Tales of Mystery & Espionage: 21 Spy Thrillers in One Edition - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 86

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Charles, in accordance with the very sage advice of Marius Blute and his temporary lady secretary, Patricia Grey, descended a short time later by the crowded lift to take luncheon in the restaurant of the great, luxurious hotel. He stopped short, however, on the threshold of the American Bar. If the presence of the lady who was its sole occupant had anything to do with his hesitation, he was too late. Already the Baroness was waving her hand. He continued his progress into the room and raised her fingers to his lips.

“A divine chance!” he murmured.

“And you,” she exclaimed, and those beautiful eyes were full of reproach, “you are here in Vienna and we meet by accident!”

His moment of irresolution passed. There was not the slightest suggestion of self-consciousness about her manner. It was plain that the result of their little duel had ceased to rankle.

“Baroness,” he replied, “an accident indeed, but I am running for my life. Something tells me that it would not be healthy for an Englishman to be found in Vienna to-morrow night.”

“But you were here the night before last,” she complained. “You took your coffee with the Princess Sophie.”

“It is true,” he acknowledged. “She was gracious enough to send over a message asking me to join her for a few minutes.”

“So you remember the last time you met her?”

“I shall never forget it. You sat on my right hand. The Princess Sophie was opposite. We were the guests of that delightful man—Leopold Benjamin. You drove me home and, alas, you developed a very unfortunate curiosity about that catalogue I was carrying away.”

“You were very obstinate and very unkind,” she said. “No wonder I had completely forgotten you.”

“We are quits, then,” he remarked, “because that would have been an act of even greater unkindness.”

“There is no doubt whatever,” she acknowledged, “that for an Englishman you have a very glib tongue.”

“I have also a very susceptible heart.”

“Call it fancy.”

“Fancy is a delightful word,” he reflected, “and perhaps we do overtax that other organ a little. Am I permitted to offer you a cocktail?”

“Why not?”

Charles shivered as she selected a cherry brandy. He himself asked for a small Martini.

“You do not approve of my taste in apéritifs?” she queried.

“Nor in my sex,” he replied. “That is to say if your luncheon companion is to be the gentleman who looked in here and disappeared a moment ago.”

“You mean Lieutenant von Hessen? He may not be a very agreeable person but he is interesting.”

“Really?”

“I mean it,” she continued. “You probably do not know that he is in the German Intelligence Department.”

“I should never have believed that he was qualified for the post if you had not told me so.”

“Stupid!” she answered, smiling. “He only asked to be presented to me because he had heard that I was an acquaintance of Leopold Benjamin’s.”

“Why on earth is everyone so interested in poor Benjamin?”

The Baroness yawned.

“Why do we talk of these foolish things after our long separation?” she murmured.

“I am not so sure that they are foolish. My time in Vienna is short. I arrived here late at night. In the morning the impulses of my civilized life assailed me. I remembered that dinner and I started out to leave my card of ceremony at the Palais Franz Josef.”

“You found no one upon whom to leave it!”

“Neither man nor house,” he replied. “I cannot say that I was surprised. If the Germans really expected that Mr. Benjamin would sit there and wait to be arrested they were very foolish. He must have known what would have been in store for him. He probably had plenty of cars and planes and he took his leave. Why are your German friends angry at that? Probably, if I were caught wandering about the streets here in a couple of days, I should be placed in a concentration camp. I should very much dislike to be placed in a concentration camp. That’s why I am hurrying home. Worse things, far worse things, might have happened to Mr. Benjamin. He might have been dropped into a fortress and it is just possible that he might never have been seen again. No, I don’t think Mr. Benjamin ought to be blamed for having hurried away.”

She leaned nearer towards him, although the room was still empty except for the barman.

“I think,” she confided, “that it was not his flight so much that they disapproved of. They rather expected that. It was what he took with him.”

“Of course, I have heard no particulars about his leaving,” Charles said slowly. “It still seems to me a little crude to destroy a magnificent specimen of historical architecture like the Palais Franz Josef. They would have done better to confiscate it.”

“I should think that they did it,” she continued, still in the same undertone, “in case by any chance there had been some secret spot in the mansion where some of his treasures might have been hidden.”

Charles did not attempt to conceal his expression of incredulity.

“Secret hiding-places of that sort do not exist nowadays,” he said. “Benjamin’s house had been completely modernized and all traces of the old portion had vanished. In their place it possessed shower baths, racket courts, music rooms and all manner of luxuries. Baroness, alas, I fear I must take my leave. For the second time your prospective host has looked in here. A Nazi lieutenant in the German Army, even if he should only be in the Intelligence Department, must not be kept waiting by a British civilian.”

The Baroness played a false card.

“But you are not a British civilian,” she rejoined. “You are a major in the Dragoon Guards—one of the British crack regiments.”

“And how did you know that?” he asked swiftly.

She looked up at him with a little pout. Underneath the caress of her eyes he knew very well that she was annoyed with herself.

“I heard it somewhere. It must have been at the old Embassy. Perhaps you are right about the Lieutenant, though. I have kept him waiting already a quarter-of-an-hour. Shall I see you again?”

He shook his head dolefully.

“Alas, Baroness,” he said as he held her fingers for a moment to his lips, “I am compelled to say—I hope not. I am moving heaven and earth to get away by the eight o’clock train to-morrow. If not I shall be in trouble.”

“I will hide you,” she whispered.

“You have heard before now what happens to the men of my country in the world,” he said sorrowfully, “when they hide under the skirts of the ladies of their hearts after their country has declared war. But Baroness,” he added, after he had risen to his feet, “before we part there is one question I would like to ask.”

“I have no secrets from you.”

“Why were you so anxious to secure possession of my present from Mr. Benjamin, so anxious that you came back to my hotel and stole it?”

“I was piqued. Mr. Benjamin had promised me a copy of his marvellous catalogue. He had one copy left and he chose to present it to a stranger. It was not like Mr. Benjamin. It was an ungallant action.”

He seemed dissatisfied.

“It seems an insufficient reason,” he persisted. “What is the use of the catalogue without the pictures?”

“The catalogue in itself is a work of art,” she explained.

He remained apparently puzzled.

“To a person who was intending to dispose of the pictures,” he reflected, “I can quite understand that the catalogue might have been a priceless possession, otherwise—”

She rose to her feet.

“I am spoiling you,” she interrupted. “I stay here answering your questions and my host again seeks me. I will confess, if it makes you happier, that mine was a freakish and ill-conceived enterprise. I regret it. Banish your evil thoughts of me, Charles. I must fly.”

Charles crossed the hall, seated himself at a retired corner table in the restaurant, ordered a bottle of Gumpoldskirchner and sent for the waiter. With the help of a fragment of his roll he essayed and approved of the wine.

“Ober Kellner,” he said to the man who came hurrying up, anxious to serve personally a client who he knew held such a high place in the esteem of the management, “it is necessary that I eat something.”

“At this hour of the day, mein Herr,” the man replied, “it is a habit with many people to do so.”

“You see this simple wine which I have chosen and which I like—what shall I eat with it? I am reversing the usual custom of letting the wine blend with the food. I am seeking for food which will bring out the flavour of this unusual and very pleasant beverage.”

The ober Kellner smiled. For a Britisher he found Charles talkative.

“It should be something quite plain and of the English type, sir,” he suggested. “A grilled entrecôte with my own sauce, potatoes soufflé and beans of the country.”

“It will be a hearty meal,” Charles said a little doubtfully.

“It is as well sometimes to prepare for the day when meals will be less easy to obtain,” the maître d’hôtel pointed out. “To-morrow, for instance, both restaurant cars have been removed from the Vienna-Innsbruck Express. The train, already, one hears, is above the regulation length and there are still hundreds of people clamouring for tickets.”

“With the possibility of a day’s starvation in front of me,” Charles remarked with a twinkle in his eyes, “I will accept the luncheon you have offered. Afterwards I shall take a little mountain cheese and some fresh fruit.”

The ober Kellner disappeared with his order. Charles looked round without seeing a single familiar face except that of the Princess Sophie, who sat at her accustomed table. She caught his eye and beckoned him. He rose at once and paid his devoirs.

“It will be also farewell, Princess. I leave tomorrow.”

“You are one of those fortunate people who have obtained a seat on the last train?”

“I believe so.”

“You travel alone?”

“As there are over a thousand disappointed passengers I can scarcely hope for that good fortune.”

“I do not mean the companions of necessity,” the Princess said. “I saw you just now in the small cocktail bar with the Baroness von Ballinstrode. I have not seen her since our dinner party at Leopold Benjamin’s.”

“She said nothing of leaving Vienna in her conversation with me this morning.”

The Princess looked thoughtful.

“It is not my affair,” she continued, “but the Baroness was joined a few moments after you left by one of those German Nazi officers who have been thrust upon our city. Beatrice is always indiscreet. I have often reproved her for it.”

“She is a friend of yours, the Baroness?”

“My dear young man, she was a Von Bless, so how in Austria could one help it? Her father was a friend of mine, her grandfather was a great gentleman and our families have been connected for generations. Of Beatrice, who made an indiscreet marriage from which I am told she has never wholly escaped, I am bound to say that I have not a high opinion. I would not advise any young man for whom I had any regard to accept her close friendship.”

Charles was thoughtful for a moment.

“Tell me, Princess, why do you warn me about her?”

“Because, from a word she let fall as she passed me in the hall,” she confided, “I thought it possible that she might be on your train, and although it is pure assumption on my part she left me with the idea that she had been discussing your probable presence upon it with her companion.”

He looked round the room.

“They don’t seem to be lunching here,” he observed.

“She and her friend, I am told, are more often to be met with at Driegel’s, which is a more intimate place than this. However, do not take what I have told you too seriously,” she added. “It was perhaps scarcely worth mentioning. It did occur to me, though, that if you knew Beatrice as the daughter of a distinguished family here, which she undoubtedly is, you might be inclined to place more trust in her than she deserves. One might tolerate—in fact many of us do—her great friendship with one of our own people, but I am afraid that she has been indiscreet in other directions. I am a garrulous old lady, am I not, Mr. Charles Mildenhall? Forget all that I have said. Remember only the warning that lies underneath.”

She gave him a little nod which he accepted as one of dismissal and returned to his place. His light-heartedness of the morning had to some extent disappeared. The more serious side of the adventure to which he was committed was assuming a more definite place in his thoughts. He had just finished his luncheon and ordered his coffee when a familiar figure entered the room, looked round for a moment or two and then made his way to Charles’s table. He was a middle-aged man, grey-bearded and bespectacled, carefully dressed and of not unpleasing presence. Charles had met him several times before, but their acquaintance was only a slight one.

“Mr. Porter, isn’t it?” Charles asked as they shook hands. “Sit down for a moment. Perhaps you will join me in some coffee?”

The visitor handed his hat and cane to the page who had followed him in but retained the despatch case which he was carrying.

“You are very kind. I will take some coffee certainly. Very trying times, these, Mr. Mildenhall.”

“They are indeed,” Charles agreed, summoning his waiter. “What about a cigar?”

“If I could have one of the light ones, native growth,” he begged. “To tell you the truth I haven’t smoked for two days. His Excellency gave me so many small things to finish up for him at the Embassy—semi-personal, of course, some of them—that with those to look after and our own curious position to consider I’ve been a trifle overtaxed lately.”

“You still have a staff of some sort, I suppose?”

“Yes, but half of them are Austrians,” Mr. Porter explained, “and a great many of them have been called up. However, I don’t want to bother you with outside affairs too much. I’ve just had a long despatch from Lascelles, brought by plane from Munich. I have found all the papers he refers to and I have brought them for your attention. I suggest that you read the note from Mr. Lascelles, then you can give me a receipt for the papers and I can get back to work. If it’s true, as they tell me, that you are leaving to-morrow for Switzerland, you will have all you can do to get through them.”

The Consul leaned back in the chair, lit his cigar and sipped his coffee and the glass of light but very pleasant liqueur brandy which Charles had ordered. Every now and then he looked out into the street. He was a native of Hull, the son of a well-to-do merchant captain, he had served in Rotterdam, Marseilles and Vienna and he had made up his mind as he sat there that he had had enough of it. Consular life in these days had become too strenuous. His pension was due in a few months. A farmhouse in Northumberland, two hundred acres of shooting and a seat on the Parish Council, perhaps, would be like a dream of Paradise after this restless continental existence. He watched Charles Mildenhall, a young man for whom he had a great respect, decode and read his letter at the same time, with a pencil in his hand. Here was a young man who was supposed to have a brilliant diplomatic future before him. Let him have it, Mr. Porter decided. Not in his line at all…Charles paused to light another cigarette and pushed the coffee towards his guest. Then he read through once more the brief note from Lascelles.

My dear Charles,

I was on the way back to confer with you in Vienna and hand you some further instructions to take up to Warsaw after you had visited our friend. They cabled the news to me and ordered me home. There is not the slightest doubt that we are in for it and the whole affair at first will be a horrible muddle, for there Is nothing on God’s earth we can do for the wretched Poles, and if our friend’s troops are anything Uke what I’ve seen entraining to-day for the Polish frontier they will walk through any half-armed rabble, however brave they may be.

I expect poor old P. will be in an awful fuss. Don’t let him worry you but the contents of 17 A, B and C black despatch boxes in the main safe must be gone through and destroyed. Please see to this yourself. Then, if you take my advice, you will leg it for home as quickly as you can.

F. L.

P.S. If you have time, and for the love of her sweet little figure find time, Charles, drop in at the hair-dressing rooms at the Bristol Hotel. Give Mademoiselle Rosette a kiss and a thousand schilling note from me.

“Well, I’m damned!” Charles exclaimed with a sudden twinkle in his eyes.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It was the postscript to my friend Lascelles’ note. I suppose one must expect one’s friends to take a little advantage these times.”

“We must certainly make allowances,” the Consul admitted. “I always found Mr. Lascelles exceedingly considerate the few times I came across him.”

“I’m not complaining,” Charles murmured.

“I am instructed,” Mr. Porter said, finishing his coffee, “to hand you over the keys of the black boxes. Here they are, Mr. Mildenhall. You will see the numbers upon the labels.”

“And the boxes?”

“They are in the charge of the great Joseph here,” Mr. Porter declared. “With your permission I will now take my departure.”

Charles walked with his visitor out into the hall. Joseph came from his bureau to meet them.

“If you are going up to your room, Mr. Mildenhall,” he said, “I will send up those three cases which the gentleman has left for you.”

“Send them up as quickly as you can,” Charles replied. “I am in the humour for a little frivolous work. Don’t send any strangers up, though. If the spies of Vienna—they tell me that every other man is a spy here, Joseph—knew what was in those black tin boxes they would blow me sky high.”

Mr. Porter, for the first time for many days, smiled slightly as he held out his hand to Charles.

“Our young friend,” he remarked to the concierge, “if I may venture to call you so, Mr. Mildenhall, treats our sacred profession a little lightly.”

“Before I leave this city,” Charles promised, “I will tell you what I think of our profession!”

He bade his visitor farewell and walked with Joseph to the lift.

“You will find them very anxious to see you upstairs, sir,” Joseph told him. “We have had to make a few changes in the arrangements. All is well, though. Everything has been carried out according to Mr. Blute’s latest instructions. The despatch cases are coming up in the lift with you, sir. I have kept them within sight ever since they were handed over into my keeping.”

Charles watched the cases placed inside, then he Spoke through the grille of the lift gate to the concierge.

“Joseph, at what time will the manicure department for gentlemen close at the Bristol Hotel this evening?”

“At about eight o’clock, sir,” was the prompt reply.

“Telephone across, if you please, and speak to Mademoiselle Rosette. Tell her not to leave the premises until an ambassador from Mr. Lascelles has visited her this evening.”

The man bowed without even the flicker of a smile.

“Your message will be delivered, sir,” he promised.