Читать книгу Gabriel Samara, Peacemaker - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

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Samara was distinctly taken aback. His expression was one of incredulous surprise, mingled with some irritation.

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"My reply to your question," she explained, "was truthful, though of course relative. I should not, as a matter of fact, care to be trusted with any of your important political correspondence."

"And why not?"

"I prefer not to discuss the matter further."

He smiled with gentle sarcasm.

"May I ask if this self-advertised untrustworthiness is universal amongst the young ladies of the Bureau from which you come?"

She considered for a moment.

"Of course you can send for some one else if you like," she said. "I would not trust any one of them with confidential documents, though. Your private secretary is the person to deal with them."

"But my private secretary," he confided, "is ill. They are talking of taking him to hospital."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"That is unfortunate," she admitted. "Still, you have an Embassy in Washington and a Russian Consul here. Surely they should be able to help you."

"You are without doubt a young lady of resource," he declared with an indulgent smile. "Nevertheless, there are reasons why I do not wish to avail myself of the services of any one having an official connection with my country."

"Then," she advised, "I should write my letters myself."

He stood looking down at her, his hands in his pockets, his thick eyebrows almost meeting in a heavy frown. She felt her heart beating a little more quickly. Notwithstanding her even manner and her very equable poise towards life, she was conscious of something in this man's presence which was akin to fear.

"Your candour," he said, "inspires me with a certain amount of confidence. I hate writing letters. My brain moves so much more quickly than my clumsy fingers, that anything which I put on paper is generally illegible. There is a boat leaving to-night for Cherbourg where I have a special agent waiting. It is necessary that I send an account of my negotiations here. What is to be done?"

"I can only repeat that, if your report has to do with your negotiations with the President, I should write it by hand and hope for the best," she rejoined coolly.

His eyes flashed. For a moment he seemed almost to lose control of himself.

"What in the name of all the Holy Saints of Russia do you know about my negotiations with the President?" he demanded.

"Nothing more than a few other million people of the city," she replied. "I am an intelligent student of the daily Press, like most American girls."

He looked at her suspiciously.

"I am not at all sure that you are an American girl," he growled.

"I have lived in New York for twenty-three years," she said meekly. "You may not think it, but I can assure you that has not left me much time to imbibe the instincts of other nationalities."

He sat at the opposite end of the table, staring at her, his hands in his pockets, his expression curiously dominated by the uncertain curve of his lips. For a brief moment she wondered whether he were not laughing at her.

"Are all the young ladies of the Weltmore Typewriting Bureau gifted with such glib tongues?" he enquired.

"By no means," she assured him. "Believe me, I am quite an exception. I think I was sent because I was considered the most serious minded."

"Heaven help the others!" he muttered. "Now listen. I am going to trust you to a certain extent against your own advice. I shall dictate to you all except the vital part of my communication. A great deal of what you are going to take down I should prefer you to forget. The most private part of all I shall write in my own hand, and God grant that some one at the other end will be able to read it."

Catherine Borans thrust a new sheet of paper into the typewriter and bent over her task. For half an hour or more the man opposite to her dictated. Then he took the sheets which she had typed over to his desk and drew pen and ink towards him.

"You can go on with the other work," he enjoined, commencing to write.

The scratching of his pen ceased almost as she addressed the last of her envelopes. He turned in his chair just as she had risen to her feet.

"Don't go yet," he begged, throwing another pile of letters upon the table. "There are all these to be attended to and it is necessary for some one to be here to answer the telephone. Besides, I have a question to ask you."

"A question?" she repeated doubtfully.

"Yes. I am a stranger in your country and I hope that you will gratify my curiosity. If I had dictated the vital part of this letter to you, wherein lay the fear of your probity? Do you mean that you would have sold its contents to the Press?"

"That would have been a temptation," she confessed, carelessly tapping the keys of her typewriter. "I am a working girl, you know, and am supposed to be well paid at thirty dollars a week. I think that any newspaper in New York would probably give ten thousand dollars for a true account of your conversation with the President and the arrangement at which you arrived. Fancy the clothes I could have bought and the countries I could have visited with ten thousand dollars!"

"Yes," he admitted thoughtfully, "I suppose I was running a certain amount of risk. By the bye, I presume it would have been the Press with whom you would have dealt?"

"With whom else?" she asked.

"There are others," he observed, watching her keenly; "politicians, shall we call them?—who would be curious to know the precise conclusions at which we arrived in Washington yesterday."

"Naturally," she assented.

"Even in Europe," he went on, "this business of secret societies and international espionage is a little on the wane. One nation only continues to use it as her great weapon. In America I never dreamed of coming across anything of the sort. Have I by some chance stumbled upon the unexpected, Miss—I beg your pardon, I have forgotten what you told me your name was."

"I have not told you my name."

"Please repair the omission."

"I do not see the necessity," she objected. "I am the young lady typist from the Hotel Bureau. You have been unfortunate inasmuch as I am the only one in the office likely to be interested in your mission and its results. To-morrow you had better ask for some one else. There are two or three there, perhaps not more trustworthy than I, but who will take down anything you dictate without a glimmer of comprehension. I should recommend Miss Bella Fox."

He shook his head.

"The name is sufficient," he declared. "I should dislike Miss Bella Fox and I could not dictate to her. I shall ask for you. Tell me how to do so."

"My name is Catherine Borans."

"And if I had dictated to you what I have written with my own hand, what would have been the nature of the risk I should have run?"

"I decline," she said, "to answer your question."

The telephone at her elbow rang whilst Samara stood scowling down at her. She turned and took the call. As she listened she frowned slightly.

"Tell me your name again, please?" she asked.

The name was apparently repeated. The girl spoke into the receiver.

"Please wait," she begged. "I will tell Mr. Samara that you are here."

She laid down the receiver and pushed the instrument a little away. Then she turned towards her companion.

"There is a gentleman downstairs who says that his name is 'Bromley Pride' and that he has called from the New York Comet to see you."

Samara nodded.

"That is quite in order," he assented. "He can come up. Please tell him so."

She did not at once obey. She was evidently perplexed.

"Since you are so much interested in my affairs," her companion continued, "I will tell you that the President himself, looking upon the paper which I understand Mr. Bromley Pride represents, as his official mouthpiece, has suggested that I confide to him a certain portion of the result of our negotiations."

"Indeed," she murmured.

"Recognising to the full," he went on, with a faint note of sarcasm in his tone, "and thoroughly appreciating that kindly interest, I would yet point out that this is a matter which is already decided. Will you kindly therefore ask Mr. Pride to step up?"

"I would do so," she replied, dropping her voice a little and holding the telephone receiver still further away, "but, as a matter of fact, he is not there."

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"I happen to know Mr. Bromley Pride quite well," she explained. "I am also very well acquainted with his voice. The man who is impersonating him downstairs is a stranger!"