Читать книгу Last Train Out - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 4

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Mildenhall entered the British Embassy with the air of an habitué. He had a few words with the Ambassador, Sir John Maxwell-Tremearne, whom he found distrait and worried, and went on to see Freddie Lascelles, First Secretary and a man of some importance in the social and sporting side of Viennese life. Lascelles, too, wore a somewhat worried look and after the first few words led his visitor into a private room.

“Always around like a stormy petrel when there’s a bit of trouble going, aren’t you, Charles?” he observed grimly. “What are you doing this way? And where did you come from?”

“Oh, just knocking about,” Mildenhall replied, helping himself to one of his friend’s cigarettes. “I was in Budapest last.”

“Got the jitters over there, haven’t they?”

“Jitters everywhere! Europe’s like one of those unlit bonfires already smouldering underneath.”

“Is it true that Poland is completely mobilized?” Lascelles asked.

His visitor’s face was absolutely blank.

“Some report of that sort going round,” he observed. “Look here, when is our next bag going?”

“To-night.”

“Plane or rail?”

“Don’t know,” Lascelles replied, leaning back for a telephone. “Wait a minute, there’s a good fellow.”

He held a brief conversation in fluent German with some unseen person.

“Plane,” he announced as he rang off.

“What time?”

“Latish. The Chief is dining at the Chancellery and he’ll have a brief report to put in when he comes back. How much room do you want?”

“Only enough for my weekly chatter.... I’ll do it here, if you don’t mind. Shall I be in the way for a couple of hours or so?”

“Lock you up here with pleasure. Do you want a code book?”

“I may as well have one. I ought not to need it, though.”

There was a gleam of admiration in Lascelles’ eyes as he made a few preparations for his friend’s comfort.

“What wouldn’t I give for a memory like yours!” he observed. “Ten or fifteen pages of foolscap, your last report, I remember, straight into code.”

“Rather more this time, I’m afraid,” Mildenhall sighed. “As to the memory—that’s only a trick.”

“Wish I had it! Do you mean to say you have no notes even?”

“Not one,” Mildenhall replied.

“And when did you send your last report home?”

“Warsaw, last Thursday.”

“And you are going to sit down now and turn into code, probably without a code book at all, a report of how many visits and conversations?”

Mildenhall smiled.

“You run off and play, my friend,” he advised. “Plenty of sealing wax there?”

“A drawerful. Are you going to pay your respects to Her Ladyship this evening?”

“I’ll see what the time is when I’ve finished.”

“Two bells on your desk,” Lascelles pointed out. “One for secretarial help, the other domestic. I’m living in just now. Telephone up to me and we’ll have a cocktail if you’ve finished in time.”

He disappeared with a farewell nod. An English servant appeared a few minutes later with a small despatch case and a sealed envelope. Mildenhall greeted him with a friendly word or two.

“Mr. Lascelles says, sir, don’t forget to speak to him before you go. He’s free for dinner if you would care to join him.”

“I’ll see what time I finish, Butler. Thank him very much all the same. Things pretty gay here still?”

The man shook his head sadly.

“Not the same, sir. Nothing’s quite the same. The sparkle’s gone out of the place, if you know what I mean, sir.”

“People gone ‘nervy,’ eh?”

“They’re afraid of what might be coming, sir. That’s what’s wrong with them. It’s the gentleman on the other side that they’re afraid of.”

Mildenhall’s expression was once again utterly blank. He nodded slightly and waved his hand towards the door.

“Tell Mr. Lascelles that I’ll look him up as soon as I can,” he enjoined.

The servant took his leave. For a few minutes Mildenhall sat like a man deep in thought. His eyes wandered round the room. Everything was quite familiar. For the last seven or eight years he had finished those secret European tours of his, which had brought him so much distinction at the Foreign Office, in Vienna and written home from this same room his final report. The apartment was unchanged, the two doors were closed, the curtains were drawn, his solitude was assured. He broke the seal of the envelope and withdrew a small key, its sole contents. With the key he unlocked the despatch box and withdrew the code book. He pushed the case away and propped up the code book in a conspicuous place just in front of him. Then he drew out from the rack a pile of the heavy embossed, blue foolscap paper, examined his fountain pen and started to write.

In two hours time his task was finished. The eight sheets of foolscap covered with clear, bold handwriting contained, in carefully chosen code, the result of one secret visit to Moscow and three briefer sojourns at Warsaw, Bucharest and Budapest. Mildenhall lit a cigarette and read through all that he had written. There was a faint flicker of self-satisfaction in his smile as he finished. He made no corrections, not a single alteration, but he added just two words in a code so utterly secret between himself and the person who would read his report that the code itself existed only in the memories of the two men. He folded up the eight sheets, found the proper linen envelope, used liberally the brown sealing wax and his own seal. Then he replaced the code book in the despatch box, locked it up and enclosed the key itself in another envelope, which he sealed and stamped. Finally he rang the bell. A young man wearing heavy glasses, pale and eminently secretarial, made his appearance. He greeted the solitary occupant of the room without a smile.

“Good evening, Mr. Mildenhall.”

“Good evening, Paul. There you are.”

He handed over the packet. The young man took it into his charge.

“I will place it in the safe deposit, sir, until we open it at midnight for the bag. His Excellency will have returned by then.”

“Who takes the plane over to-night?” Mildenhall asked.

“Major Grimmet, sir.”

“Nice safe fellow,” Mildenhall approved. “I wouldn’t mind a ride over with him myself.”

“You’re not leaving us just yet, sir?” the secretary asked.

“Not just yet,” was the somewhat vague reply. “Do you know if Mr. Lascelles is still in his room?”

“He is there and hoping to see you.”

“And Her Ladyship?”

“Her Ladyship is dining in. She told me that if you rang before nine o’clock you could go in and have a cocktail with her.”

Mildenhall glanced at his watch.

“Just five minutes,” he remarked. “A cocktail sounds extraordinarily good to me, Paul.”

“You will find Her Ladyship in the small drawing-room. Mr. Lascelles said that he would probably join you there.”

Lady Maxwell-Tremearne was the typical ambassador’s wife. She was born in Washington of American parents, had met her future husband on a winter-sports visit to the Austrian Tyrol and was married to him within a month or so of his appointment as First Secretary to the British Embassy in Washington. She was still under forty and exceedingly popular in Viennese society. She welcomed Charles Mildenhall warmly when he was announced by the seneschal of the household. She was lying on a sofa drawn up before a log fire and was surrounded with newspapers.

“My dear Charles!” she exclaimed. “How nice to see you.”

He kissed her fingers and drew a chair to her side.

“I’m sorry to see you reading all these semi-official newspapers,” he declared, after a few amenities had passed between them. “You’ll get in such a state of hopeless confusion if you try to read them all. There’s the official organ of the Heimwehr, the Nazi rag, the Government organ and the Schutzbund!”

“I know,” she sighed. “It’s terribly difficult. I used to think our American politics were involved enough, but it’s much worse over here. Tell me what’s going to happen, Charles.”

He laughed—almost light-heartedly.

“My dear Sarah,” he exclaimed, “why ask me? I thought you knew that politics weren’t in my line. I’ve come over here to escape from them. I’m always nervous that some day or other my family will insist upon my going into Parliament.”

“Politics in England are different,” she declared a little pettishly. “They don’t mean bloodshed as they do here. Do you know, there has been quite a lot of fighting in the streets and the way they are treating these poor Jews is something awful. You remember Otto von Lenberg?”

“Why, of course,” he answered.

“The Von Lenbergs aren’t really Jews at all,” she told him, “but just because he defended the Herzfelds when their properties were confiscated he has been turned out of the Courts and fined millions. He is in prison at the present moment and Olga is nearly out of her mind. Heaps and heaps of our friends have been branded suspects. The Austrian Nazis are getting stronger here every day. It really is alarming, Charles. We are expecting the Germans to cross the frontier at any moment and I can’t imagine what will happen then. I don’t particularly care for Jews, Charles, but some of them are quite delightful people and they are being treated brutally.”

“What does Sir John think about it?” Mildenhall asked.

“He doesn’t think anything, of course,” she answered. “He can’t. He’s the ambassador of a foreign country and he can’t open his mouth. It’s different with you. You’ve practically left the Service, John says. You must admit that this Jew baiting, for a civilized nation, is a filthy affair.”

“I’m dining with a Jew on Thursday,” Mildenhall remarked. “A Jew banker, too. I hope he’s not going to get into trouble.”

“Not one of the Rothschilds?”

He shook his head.

“No. Leopold Benjamin.”

She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows and an almost-frightened light in her eyes.

“Why, he’s just the one man I’m most alarmed about,” she confided. “I think he’s the most lovable creature, but they say he’s already had to pay two enormous fines and I heard only the other night that he is a marked man. I’ve never heard you speak of him before, have I?”

“I never met him until this afternoon,” Mildenhall replied. “I met him in his own bank and he asked me to dine. I want awfully to see his pictures.”

“He has the most gorgeous collection of everything artistic that you can imagine,” Lady Tremearne said impressively. “My dear, he has a Murillo I would give my soul for, and a Fra Filippo Lippi more beautiful than the one in the Pitti Palace. John says his collection must be worth many millions of dollars.”

“Must cost him some sleepless nights just now, I should think.”

“We’re getting used to them here,” she sighed. “There is fighting of a sort in the streets most nights. If you’ve come here for some fun, Charles, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. The café life still goes on, I believe, but there are no parties, not even amongst our own people. Everyone here seems to be sitting with bated breath waiting for something or other. Fancy what I’m reduced to in the way of dissipation nowadays! The Archduchess Katherine—you remember, you met them in the Tyrol somewhere—the Princess Madziwill and Molly Morton—the wife of our Embassy Counsellor here—dine with me and play bridge twice a week! They’re coming to-night. What do you think of that for gay Vienna?”

“Very pleasant, I should call it,” he remarked. “I haven’t played bridge for I don’t know how long. Your one great party of the year is coming off, I hear, as usual.”

“The Von Liebenstrahls’? What courage! They’re safely away in their Schloss, which they say is a complete fortress and as big as a small town, and they’re opening up the Palace here in Vienna just for that one party. Every spring for years theirs has been the great social event of Vienna and the Field Marshal will insist upon having it as usual. There are a hundred servants down here making the Palace ready now.”

“The true Viennese spirit,” he approved. “They say Prince von Liebenstrahl is the bravest man in Austria and his wife is still the most beautiful woman. It’s years since I saw them.”

“Have you ever been to one of their balls?” she asked.

“Never.”

“You’d better come with us. You’ll still see the most beautiful women in Europe and the most marvellous collection of uniforms.”

“Very kind of you,” Mildenhall said a little dubiously.

“We have forty people dining, as it is,” Lady Tremearne confided, “but we’ll squeeze you in somewhere. The English and American Embassies have always given dinner parties. I believe the Countess Otobini, the wife of the Hungarian Minister, is having one this year.”

“I’m afraid dinner is off for me,” he regretted. “It’s the night I am dining with Benjamin.”

“Then I shan’t say another word about my little feast,” she laughed. “Mr. Benjamin himself eats scarcely anything, but he is a great epicure and he pays his chef an immense salary. Then his wines, too, are the most famous in Vienna. What you probably won’t get, and although I know it’s a brutal taste I still like them, is a cocktail. I told Mr. Benjamin so once myself and there was that pained look in his eyes as though someone had played a wrong note on a violin or dropped an ‘h’ in the middle of a beautiful speech. He never said a word but I could see him suffering.”

“He’s perfectly right, of course. Spirits are crude things, however cunningly they are mixed, compared to wines.”

Lascelles made rather a hurried entrance and took Mildenhall by the arm.

“We must fly,” he declared. “Your guests are coming up the grand staircase, Lady Tremearne. I shall take Mildenhall down the back way.”

Lady Tremearne smiled.

“Tweeds are quite all right until ten o’clock in this country,” she said, “and I’m sure he’d like to see the Archduchess again.”

“Later on in the week, perhaps,” Mildenhall said, as he felt his friend’s compelling touch. “You will excuse us, Lady Tremearne? I shall pay my formal call to-morrow.”

She dismissed them with a little wave of the hand.

“Wish me luck,” she called out. “Fifty cents a hundred and we play the forcing two!”