21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
Читать онлайн книгу.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Where were you educated?”
“In London, Paris, Dresden, a short time for my voice in Milan. I may be anything you like to fancy, but I have never known poverty.”
“And Krust—he is really your uncle?”
She hesitated.
“We are on rather delicate ground,” she remarked, “because Nina is in this, of course. No, he is not our uncle. Nina and I have both developed a passion for politics. Nina worked for some time in a public office without salary. It was through her that I became interested. Now I honestly believe politics—we use the word in Germany in a broader sense than you do—has become the great interest of my life. I want Krust to be Chancellor and, more still, I want him, when the proper time comes, to decide how Germany shall be governed.”
“What about the President?”
“A stupid office. One man is enough to rule any country. If he fails, he should be either shot or deposed. Adolf Krust is the only man whom the great mass of Germans would trust. What we need in Central Europe is a shock. People would make up their minds then quickly. At present we are drifting. That is why Krust, who hates to leave his work for a moment, who hates games and the sunshine of foreign places and gambling and all recreations, has come down here to be nearer to the one man who seems to hold the fate of Europe in his hand just now. He will be disappointed. I feel that. His rival has powerful agents at work in Italy.”
“I am a little confused about German affairs,” Fawley confessed. “Who is his rival?”
She glanced at him for permission and lit a cigarette. Their dinner had been well chosen and excellently served but she had eaten sparingly. She took a long draught of champagne, however.
“Heinrich Behrling.”
“The communist?” Fawley exclaimed.
She shook her head.
“Behrling is no communist. He is not even a socialist. He is the apostle of the new Fascism.”
“Krust then?”
“If I am telling you secrets,” she said, “I shall be very ashamed of myself. I do not think, though, that Adolf Krust would mind. He has tried to make a confidant of you. Krust is for the reëstablishment of the monarchy.”
“Heavens!” Fawley murmured. “I thought that General von Salzenburg was the head of the aristocratic party.”
“So does he,” she replied simply. “This is our trouble, you see. We are not united. Come to Berlin and you may find out. Why do you not get Berati to give you a freer hand? Then I think that we could convince you.”
“But, my dear child,” Fawley protested, “I am nothing to General Berati. I am just an agent who was out of work, whom he has trusted to make a few observations. I have never even met his chief. I am a subordinate without any particular influence.”
She shook her head.
“You may deceive yourself or you may think it well to deceive me,” she said. “Adolf Krust would never believe it.”
“By the by,” Fawley asked, “where has your reputed uncle hurried off to?”
“You tell me so little and you expect me to tell you everything,” she complained. “He has gone to San Remo to telephone to Berati. If Berati permits it, he will go on to Rome—that is what he is so anxious to do. To go there and not be received, however, would ruin his cause. The other side would proclaim it as a great triumph. Von Salzenburg, too, would be pleased.”
“You seem to have a very fair grasp of events,” Fawley remarked, as they entered upon the last course of their dinner. “Tell me, do you believe in this impending war?”
Again she showed signs of impatience. She frowned and there was a distinct pout upon her full but beautifully shaped lips.
“Always the same,” she exclaimed. “You ask questions, you tell nothing and yet you know. You take advantage of the poor little German girl because she is sentimental and because she likes you. Ask me how much I care and I will tell you. What should I know about wars? Ask a soldier. Ask them at the Quai d’Orsay. Ask them at Whitehall in London. Or ask Berati.”
“Those people would probably tell me to mind my own business,” Fawley declared.
Her eyes twinkled.
“It is a very good answer.”
They had coffee in Fawley’s salon—an idea of Greta’s. She wanted to be near, if Adolf Krust should return in despair. But time passed on and there was no sign of Krust. They sat in easy-chairs, watching the lights in the gardens and listening to the music from across the way. They sat in the twilight that they might see Krust’s car more easily, should it put in an appearance. Conversation grew more spasmodic. Fawley, he scarcely knew why, was suddenly tired of speculations. The great world over the mountains was moving on to a crisis—that he knew well enough—but his brain was weary. He wondered dimly whether for the last few years he had not taken life too seriously. Would any other man have felt the fatigue he was feeling? He half turned his head. The outline of the girl in her blue satin frock was only just visible. The vague light from outside was shimmering in her hair. Her eyes were seeking for his, a little distended, as though behind their sweetness there lay something of anxious doubt. The swift rise and fall of her slim breasts, the icy coldness of her hand resting lightly in his, seemed to indicate something of the same emotion. Her fingers suddenly gripped his passionately.
“Why are you so difficult?” she asked. “You do not like me, perhaps?”
“On the contrary,” he assured her, “I like you very much. I find you very attractive but far too distracting.”
“How distracting?” she demanded.
“Because, as we all know—you and I and the others—” he went on, “love-making is not part of our present scheme of life. It might complicate it. It would not help.”
“All the time you reason,” she complained. “It is not much that I ask. I make no vows. I ask for none. I should like very much, as we say in Germany, to walk hand in hand with you a little way in life.”
“To share my life,” he reflected, “my thoughts, and my work—yes?”
There was a tinge of colour in her cheeks.
“Leave off thinking,” she cried almost passionately. “Many men have lost the sweetest things in life through being choked with suspicions. Cannot you—”
There was commotion outside. The opening of a door, heavy footsteps, a thundering knocking at the inner door flung open almost immediately. Krust entered, out of breath, his clothes disarranged with travel, yet with something of triumph dancing in his blue eyes. He was carrying his heavy spectacles, he flung his hat upon the table and struggled with his coat.
“My friend,” he exclaimed, “and little Greta! Good. I wanted to speak to you both. Listen. I have talked with Berati.”
“You are to go to Rome?” Fawley demanded.
“I have abandoned the idea,” Krust declared. “For the moment, it is not necessary. There is another thing more important. I say to Berati—‘Give me a trusted agent, let him visit the places I shall mark down, let him leave with me for three days in Berlin and then let him report to you. No rubbish from inspired newspapers with Jew millionaires behind them. The truth! It is there to be seen. Give me the chance of showing it.’ I spoke of you, Fawley, indefinitely, but Berati understood. Oh, he is swift to understand, that man. To-morrow you will have your word. To-morrow night you will leave for Germany. I ask pardon—for half an hour I spoke on the private wire at the Royal Hôtel in San Remo. From there I jump into the car and we have driven, I can tell you that we have driven! You excuse?”
A