Читать книгу Tales of Mystery & Espionage: 21 Spy Thrillers in One Edition - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 89

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The Baroness was there all right. She was seated on a divan in Frederick’s small private bar and by her side was the young German officer. She waved her hand to Charles and patted the place by her side.

“Come, Mr. Mildenhall,” she invited. “This is somewhat piquant. Come and amuse a tired woman. Come and have a glass of wine with us. To-morrow it will not be possible.”

Charles bowed to both of them and accepted the invitation.

“To-morrow,” she went on, “if that brave little island of yours makes up its mind to stand up and fight the mighty German Empire, if you two should meet one of you will be interned. Is that not so, Count?”

“I have no idea,” the young man replied formally, “as to what Herr Mildenhall’s exact diplomatic position is. If he claims no privileges he will certainly have to be dealt with as an enemy.”

“I have at present no diplomatic position,” Charles admitted, “which is the reason why I am running away. I am taking the last train to the frontier. If you will excuse me,” he added, waving on one side the bottle of champagne, “I will ask Frederick to mix me one of his White Lady cocktails.”

“You will not, I fear,” the young officer observed, “have a comfortable journey.”

“I am a seasoned traveller,” was the careless reply. “I am used to hardships.”

The Baroness shivered.

“Hardships,” she echoed. “I hate even the sound of the word. I like comfort.”

There was a single moment in their lives when Lieutenant Count von Hessen and Charles Mildenhall were en rapport. They both glanced involuntarily at the Baroness, who gave one the impression of a gorgeous butterfly stretched out on the divan in the gentle and voluptuous abandon of her soulless, insect life. The beauty of her limbs if anything was a little too much displayed under the light chiffon of her gown. Her neck and shoulders were exquisite. As a matter of fact she was looking her best that night. There was a twin gleam of humour in the eyes of the two men as they met for a moment.

“The Baroness glorifies that simple word,” Charles murmured.

“My friend speaks truthfully,” the German assented.

“A girl friend of mine once declared,” the Baroness said with a faintly humorous smile upon her lips, “that I was not nearly so beautiful as I believed but that I had the gift, when I desired to use it, of appearing beautiful. It has not brought me much reward in this world. If it gives anyone pleasure to look at me I am glad. But how do I benefit by it? Not at all. I am an unhappy woman.”

“Unhappiness could never remain in so lovely a setting,” the Count pronounced with stilted emphasis.

“Nevertheless, it is true,” she assured them. “I am unhappily married. My husband does not come near me. I have a dear friend who is always in political troubles and who flies from country to country. I have a few acquaintances who please me—like you two. But you amuse yourselves and you hurry away. That, Mr. Mildenhall—and you. Count, is not the way to treat a woman whom you profess to find attractive.”

“I am the slave of duty,” the Count volunteered.

“I am a wanderer who has lingered too long in Paradise,” Charles sighed. “Now I have to fly or the stern hand of the law will set me down in a draughty tent somewhere behind barbed wire!”

“I am obviously unlucky in my admirers!” she lamented.

Charles sipped his cocktail. Somehow it seemed to lack the flavour of its predecessor.

“I have not received even an invitation to dine,” the Baroness went on.

The Lieutenant Count von Hessen rose smartly to his feet. He stood to attention.

“Baroness,” he said, “you are aware of the necessity of my presence at the Barracks at half-past nine to-night. If you will share a humble meal with me now it will give me great pleasure and will render less sad my departure.”

The Baroness showed signs of being disposed to linger.

“Will you order the dinner, dear friend?” she suggested, smiling up at him. “When it is ready I will come. There is wine to finish and the days of economy must begin once more.”

“The dinner is already ordered,” he said firmly. “I ventured to anticipate a favourable reply to my invitation. It is the duty of a soldier always to be economical. Frederick, will you send the bottle of wine to my table?”

“Certainly, Herr Lieutenant,” the man replied. “It shall be done.”

The Baroness, a little wearily, held out her hand to Charles, who had also risen, and rose gracefully but languidly to her feet.

“It is to be farewell, then, Mr. Charles Mildenhall?”

“Baroness,” he said as he bent over her fingers, “after all, there is a chance the war may not come. In that case we shall meet before long in one of the three capital cities of pleasure.”

“And they are?”

“Vienna, Paris or London—perhaps even in New York.”

The Count and Charles exchanged formal bows. The Baroness threw Charles a kiss from the tips of her fingers. She was a woman who knew how to express a great deal in a pout. She exercised her art as she left the room with that frankly voluptuous swing of the hips which had cost many a man his night of dreamless repose.

The very luxurious little saloon which the gilded youth of Vienna were accustomed to frequent for the purpose of having their nails manicured was almost empty when Charles presented himself. A lady in a gorgeous coiffure, who was seated at a table near the entrance, flashed a dazzling smile at him and indicated the line of shrouded chairs beyond. A young woman, becomingly attired in a black silk frock of Viennese design, motioned him into a small apartment which she had just left. She spoke in French.

“You are a little late. Monsieur Mildenhall.”

“It is unfortunately true,” he apologized. “Everyone, I think, is half-an-hour late in Vienna to-day. They are all getting ready to leave to-morrow. Nevertheless, I apologize.”

“I have waited for you,” she said simply. “You are a friend of Monsieur Lascelles?”

“Quite true. I have to bring you two farewell offerings. This one,” he added, handing her the thousand schilling note in an envelope, “and this,” raising her fingers to his lips.

“Monsieur Lascelles was more generous with his money than with his little caress,” she remarked.

“It is the only fault the genuine Englishman possesses,” he assured her. “We are a jealous race. My friend, I can tell you, left the city with much reluctance.”

“They told me before I came that everyone was always happy in Vienna,” she sighed. “I did not find it so in London, nor even in Paris. Here I do not think it will remain so. One feels the change coming.”

“Mademoiselle,” he agreed, “you are entirely right. If I were you I would at once return to Paris. The joys of Vienna are passing. Soon they will become history.”

She looked at him disconsolately.

“But you are depressing! Monsieur Lascelles, he told me that however seriously you really felt you had the gift of appearing light-hearted, that you made the world always seem a carefree place. He said that part of your success in your profession was that you seemed always to be a trifler, even when you were dealing with serious things.”

“Well, do you disapprove?” he asked. “One should not ask the world to share one’s sorrows.”

She glanced through the curtains to where her employer had been seated. Her chair was vacant. The lights of the place were burning dimly. She drew back the curtain and returned to the side of the client’s chair where Charles was seated. She slipped a little bowl of hot water into the ring for its reception.

“You are already tired, Mademoiselle,” he remarked.

“I am not proposing,” she said, “to attend to your nails. This is what they call in English a bluff. It is in case a chance client should present himself, although it is after hours. Did you know, Mr. Mildenhall, that your friend left a message with me for you?

“Not an idea,” he answered. “He said nothing about it.”

“That is rather like him. You were not formally attached to the Embassy, were you?”

“Not now,” he told her. “I am a free lance. I call in there whenever I am in Austria for old association’s sake.”

“Just so. Monsieur Lascelles had a fixed post there, had he not?”

“Certainly. He was First Secretary. Do you know, Mademoiselle,” Charles went on, “I dare say Monsieur Lascelles told you that I had queer habits and ideas. One of my ideas is that I do not like very much to talk about politics or what goes on at the Embassy, even though I have now no responsibilities.”

“I expected that speech,” she said smiling. “I am very much to be trusted, though, Monsieur Mildenhall. I might tell you something which would surprise you quite a great deal, but it is not necessary. You received from your friend. Monsieur Lascelles, to-day three black boxes with a request that you go through them and destroy everything that was worthless and preserve for your own transportation to London what you thought should be kept.”

Mildenhall’s stern grey eyes were fixed upon the girl. The smile had gone from his lips. She felt the difference at once. It was like a little draught of icy wind passing through the overperfumed atmosphere. He made no answer to her statement nor did he comment upon it. He simply waited.

“I tell myself,” she went on softly, “that tomorrow morning Monsieur Mildenhall will be leaving Vienna. It must be that he will come and see me to-night. I get your message. I wait.”

There was another pause. Charles knocked the ash from the cigarette that he had been smoking. It was his only movement. His face remained expressionless.

“In one of the three boxes,” she continued, “you found a sealed letter which you have without doubt preserved. The letter was contained in a long brown envelope sealed with green wax and addressed to Monsieur Lascelles at the Embassy.”

She paused.

“You will forgive me if I light another cigarette,” Charles observed. “The atmosphere of this place is a little overpowering.”

She accepted one from his case, struck a match and offered it to him.

“Well,” he said, “Mademoiselle Rosette, your little story about the three boxes is absolutely correct. Now what about this message?”

“The envelope addressed to Monsieur Lascelles,” she demanded breathlessly, “the brown envelope with the green seals—you have preserved that?”

There was again that uncompromising and brutal silence. She failed to penetrate it by gesture, the eloquence of her pleading eyes, the touch of her fingers. He remained stony and immutable.

“The message is simply this,” she went on. “I was to say that he had changed his mind with regard to the contents of that letter and that you were to hand it over to me just as it was. Monsieur Lascelles told me to say that the proof of my good faith would be the fact that I knew of its existence.”

For several moments Charles seemed absorbed in thought. Nevertheless, the girl, who was watching him closely, was conscious of a change. The quality of his silence was altered. Her fear of him was slowly passing. After all, he was human. He leaned over and felt her hand. She returned the pressure of his fingers eagerly. He felt her cheek. She crept nearer to him.

“Your fingers are icy cold!” he exclaimed. “So is your cheek! Yet the temperature of this place is almost overpowering. Mademoiselle Rosette, you are not well, I fear.”

“I am perfectly well,” she assured him. “For a moment or two you frightened me. Indeed—indeed, Mr. Mildenhall, it was that which did upset me very much. I had the idea that I was talking to a lay figure, to someone who listened only with his ears but not with his brain.”

“Very clever,” he smiled. “Well, I don’t seem to remember coming across a brown envelope with green seals. I must go through the boxes again.”

“But you have been through them once and you cannot have missed a letter like that!”

He shook his head.

“You have no idea how careless I am,” he confided. “Lascelles did not seem to attribute very much importance to the affair. I think I shall go through them after dinner.”

She gazed at him as though doubting the sound of his words.

“But you have been through the boxes!” she gasped.

“How do you know that?” he asked quickly.

She was breathing fast now. All her fears seemed to be returning. That delicately shaped bosom was rising and falling quickly. She pressed closer to him. He held out his hand.

“I shall go through them more carefully after dinner,” he told her, patting her gently but at the same time rising to his feet.

“Ah, but you must not go away like this,” she begged. “Let me go with you to your room. If I feel cold, if I seem ill, it is because I am hungry. I am worried, too. I do not understand—”

“What is it that you do not understand?” he asked calmly.

“You are strange with me, you act as though you did not believe.”

He was infinitely remote again. He had picked up his hat. He was leaving—leaving her in this terrible state of uncertainty. She clung to his arm as he moved towards the door.

“Mademoiselle Rosette,” he said, smiling down at her, “you are certainly very attractive. Let me give you a word of advice. One profession should be enough for you. Stick to the manicuring.”

Charles, still dinnerless, returned nevertheless to his rooms. He found the valet in his bedchamber talking eagerly to Patricia. The latter welcomed him with immense relief.

“Charles,” she cried, “Franz has just been across to fetch me. He declares that someone has been in your room.”

“How do you know that, Franz?” Charles asked.

“These three tin boxes, sir,” the man replied, pointing to them. “I brought them out, as you instructed me, empty from the salon. I put them together in that corner of the room. I came in here after you had descended and I found that the boxes had been moved.”

“They were empty,” Charles pointed out.

“Empty or not,” the valet continued, still shaking, “someone has been in the room with a master key. A bureau drawer was open.”

“Well, well,” Charles said smiling, “it might have been worse. There is not a thing of value or importance in this room. Calm yourself, my dear fellow. If you will feel easier for knowing it there was a letter once in number two of these tin boxes. The letter itself is in ashes, its contents are here,” he concluded, tapping his forehead.

The valet breathed a sigh of relief. Charles and Patricia walked arm in arm through into the salon.

“There is just one point about this,” Charles observed. “I have now more confidence than ever in Mr. Blute. This affair is not of vast importance but it supplies a test. Blute is quite right. We have spies all round us. Run along and finish your dinner. I shall be up in half-an-hour, unless someone drops some strychnine into my coffee.”

“Don’t run the risk,” she begged. “I’ll make the coffee myself up here—and tell the waiter—coffee for one but bring enough for two.”

“It’s an idea,” he assented.