Читать книгу A Secret Service - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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Coffee, liqueurs, and cigarettes had been handed round, and Sir Walter Devant's guests were lounging carelessly at the perfectly appointed dinner-table. It was not a formal party, and the meal had been laid out in one of the morning-rooms of the British Embassy in Berlin. From the point of view of popular fiction, Sir Walter was not a great Ambassador. He had few of those subtle qualities which people like to read about: it had never been his mission to make history, and he had few dramatic triumphs to his credit. There was nothing mysterious or sinister about him; he was a plain, hearty, commonsense Englishman, who played his cards openly and straightforwardly—but he knew every move of the game, nevertheless. The underground wire-pulling and the network of intrigue, without which successful diplomacy is impossible, he was content to leave to his subordinate. In his day he had been a noted sportsman; he was still a fine fisherman and shot, and if his appointment had been, as critics said at the time, a "job," few of them now declined to believe that Walter Devant was a success. To begin with, he entertained royalty, for he was a man of means, and Lady Devant was one of the most popular figures in European society.

However, there was a suspicion of anxiety on the Ambassador's face as he sat chatting with his friends, and Arnold Gray did not fail to notice it. As a matter of fact, it was his business to study the moods and changes of his chief. That was why he was there. For three years he had been Sir Walter's private secretary and enjoyed his confidence to the full.

Devant had no secrets from him, and left everything largely in Gray's hands. They had come to understand one another so completely that they could hold a conversation over the heads of other people without so much as a word being spoken. Scientists may be able to explain this phenomenon, for between kindred souls this mental telepathy certainly exists.

To all appearance Gray was interested only in his cigarette and the glass of Chateau Lafitte he was listlessly fingering. A thin-waisted Austrian attache, was eagerly discussing some proposed sporting expedition with him when the latter suddenly turned his head. For some time he had been wearing and watching for he knew not what, for the ambassador's preoccupation had not been lost upon him. He heard his own name mentioned, and, strained his ears to listen, though apparently absolutely fascinated by his companion's conversation.

"I tell you we shall all come to it in time, prince," Sir Walter was saying to the dark, black-bearded Russian by his side. "I recognised years ago that our only chance of salvation was to inoculate Europe with the virus of sport. If we can do that we shall be far safer so far as Germany is concerned, than if we built a hundred Dreadnoughts. They used to laugh at me in the Foreign Office in the old days—they regarded me as a humorist. But we've done it, or, at any rate, it's done itself. The Russians and the Germans and French are quite as absurd as we are on the subject of sport."

"Vive le sport," the prince said with has glass to his eye, "and above, all, Vive la golfe. But for that I should not be here now enjoying the exquisite bouquet of this marvellous claret. Ah, golf, what should we be without thee."

"Oh, it cuts two ways," the ambassador laughed. He glanced out of the tail of his eye, and saw that Gray was listening. "Yes, it certainly cuts both ways. Take my secretary, Gray, for instance. Would you believe that he had the audacity to ask for a week's leave for a pilgrimage to St. Andrew's to defend some challenge cup at present in his possession. And, mind you he prefers the request quite as a matter of course. What would Palmerston have said to that?"

Gray laughed as in duty bound. He conveyed admirably the suggestion of an upper schoolboy asking a favor from his headmaster. As a matter of fact he had made no such request, and, indeed, this was the first he had beard of it. All he knew was that pressing need had arisen for his presence in England, and that his chief was talking to him over the heads of the other guests. One or two letters had reached Sir Walter with the coffee, and these he had opened and glanced over carefully. They lay on the table as if of no importance whatever.

"And when do you go, Gray?" The prince asked. "I know his excellency will not refuse."

"Oh, he'll want to be off to-night," Devant said. "We are all schoolboys when sport is in question. Come, Gray, am I not right? Do you travel this evening?"'

"I should like to, sir."

"Well, well, we won't pursue the painful subject. Take these letters, and have them answered before you leave. I have jotted down one or two instructions on the back of one of them. And, by the way, if you go into the library you might bring me the box of cigars on the table. They are something very special from Havana."

Gray vanished without a further word.

He knew he must undertake a journey to England immediately, and he needed no one to tell him that the occasion had arisen in connection with one of the letters he held in his hand. When in the library he skimmed the letters rapidly, but there was nothing in them to enlighten him. Then, very carefully, he deciphered a few lines of shorthand which Sir Waiter had scribbled while talking to his guests.

The message was quite plain:—

"I wish you to go to London at once. I learnt something to-night, which I had no time to discuss with you. Take the packet of pink papers from the left-hand drawer of the safe and convey them to London as soon as possible. If I were you I wouldn't go by the direct route, as I have a strong conviction you will be followed. I shrewdly suspect that our friend the King of—you now—is exceedingly anxious to see these dispatches. Therefore you had better break your journey at Paris to throw any shadowers off the scent. Cross to Dover by day and take the evening train to Charing Cross. I think we shall manage to fool his Highness; at any rate for the moment. On your way to the station call at the Reuterstrasse and see X. I believe he wants you to take a package to London for a certain Princess. I don't know, but I imagine the package may contain something rather valuable in the way of jewellery."

Gray dropped the message into the heart of the fire and returned gravely to the dining-room with the cigars. Within an hour he was speeding towards the station with the two precious packages safely stowed away in a pair of inner pockets. He chose his route carefully— a weary, roundabout route, which landed him in Paris two days later, utterly tired and worn out. There was time for a comfortable sleep, a bath and a luxurious meal, and dusk next evening found him walking off the pier at Dover in the direction of the train. So far the journey had been uneventful and dreary to the verge of monotony. He chose a corner seat in a first-class corridor, and lighted a cigar. It looked as if he would have all the compartment to himself, for the train was far from crowded, when another man, clean-shaven and alert, peeped into the carriage. As Gray caught sight of him, he nodded and smiled.

"Are you coming in here, Evans?"

"I don't think it would do, sir," the other man said. "If there are any hawks about it might make them suspicious. I picked you up in Paris and have been following you—a precautionary measure, for I'm acting under instructions from the chief. And I'm not quite sure that there are not one or two hands on board the train now. Thought I'd let you know, sir."

The man passed on as if looking for a seat, and presently the train glided off into the night. It was by no means a fast train, albeit by courtesy an express, but in the ordinary course it would not stop short of Charing Cross, and Gray settled down in the corner with a "Sportsman." For a time his senses were keen enough, then gradually he grew drowsy and his eyes closed. A sleepy unconsciousness held him before he came to himself with a start. "This will never do," he said. He had slept well the night before, and there was no reason why he should be tired. There was nothing to suspect, for was he not alone in the carriage and the trusty Evans only a few yards away? Once more his eyes closed, and this time he slept in earnest. The train fought its way through the night against the bitter east wind, till the speed began to slacken and just outside a tunnel pulled up altogether. Out of the darkness shone tiny points of flames where lanterns were waving to and fro on the down line. One or two curious passengers shook themselves free of their wraps and looked out, eager to know what had happened.

"Nothing to worry about, gentlemen," the guard explained. "One of the platelayers found an obstruction on the line. Looks as if a block of stone had fallen off a passing goods train. Might have been serious if it hadn't been seen in time. All clear in front these, George?"

A hoarse voice out of the darkness shouting an assent, the guard climbed into his van and waved his lamp. The train, gathering speed, thundered through the tunnel, the passenger settled down once more, and by and by the twinkling vanguard of London's lights began to appear. A few coaches behind the carriage in which Gray had made himself comfortable, Evans had been seated over a book. As far as he was able to see, nobody had approached the rear end of the train. Still it would be as well to know that Gray was safe. Evans lurched along the corridor and looked into the first-class carriage.

The compartment was empty!

Not a sound escaped the sleuth-hound of the service. He crossed to the opposite door and tried the latch. The handle was turned and the door absolutely secure. Gray had not gone that way. And there was no sign of him, nothing but a torn envelope, the address gone, and only the monogram on the back remaining.