21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
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was there that he was found murdered.”
“But, David, I don’t understand! Why did they wait until after he had seen you? How did they know that he had not parted with the paper in the restaurant? To all intents and purposes he ought to have done so.”
“I cannot understand that myself,” Bellamy admitted. “In fact, it is inexplicable.”
She took up the newspaper and glanced at the report. Then, “You are sure, I suppose, that this does refer to Von Behrling? He is quite unidentified, you see.”
“There is no doubt about it,” Bellamy declared. “I have been to the Mortuary. It is certainly he. All our work has been in vain—just as I thought, too, that we had made a splendid success of it.”
She looked at him compassionately.
“It is hard lines, dear,” she admitted. “You are tired, too. You look as though you had been up all night.”
“Yes, I am tired,” he answered, sinking into a chair. “I am worse than tired. This has been the grossest failure of my career, and I am afraid that it is the end of everything. I have lost twenty thousand pounds of Secret Service money; I have lost the one chance which might have saved England. They will never trust me again.”
“You did your best,” she said, coming over and sitting on the arm of his chair. “You did your best, David.”
She laid her hands upon his forehead, her cheek against his—smooth and cold—exquisitely refreshing it seemed to his jaded nerves.
“Ah, Louise!” he murmured, “life is getting a little too strenuous. Perhaps we have given too much of it up to others. What do you think?”
She shook her head.
“Dear, I have felt like that sometimes, yet what can we do? Could we be happy, you and I, in exile, if the things which we dread were coming to pass? Could I go away and hide while my countrymen were being butchered out of existence?— And you—you are not the sort of man to be content with an ignoble peace. No, it isn’t possible. Our work may not be over yet—”
There was a knock at the door, and Annette entered with many apologies.
“Mademoiselle,” she explained, “a thousand pardons, and to Monsieur also, but there is a gentleman here who says that his business is of the most urgent importance, and that he must see you at once. I have done all that I can, but he will not go away. He knows that Monsieur Bellamy is here, too,” she added, turning to him, “and he says his business has to do with Monsieur as well as Mademoiselle.”
Bellamy almost snatched the card from the girl’s fingers. He read out the name in blank amazement.
“Baron de Streuss!”
There was a moment’s silence. Louise and he exchanged wondering glances.
“What can this mean?” she asked hoarsely.
“Heaven knows!” he answered. “Let us see him together. After all—after all—”
“You can show the gentleman in, Annette,” her mistress ordered.
“If he has the papers,” Bellamy continued slowly, “why does he come to us? It is not like these men to be vindictive. Diplomacy to them is nothing—a game of chess. I do not understand.”
The door opened. Annette announced their visitor. Streuss bowed low to Louise—he bowed, also, to Bellamy.
“I need not introduce myself,” he said. “With Mr. Bellamy I have the honor to be well acquainted. Madame is known to all the world.”
Louise nodded, somewhat coldly.
“We can dispense with an introduction, I think, Monsieur le Baron,” she said. “At the same time, you will perhaps explain to what I owe this somewhat unexpected pleasure?”
“Mademoiselle, an explanation there must certainly be. I know that it is an impossible hour. I know, too, that to have forced my presence upon you in this manner may seem discourteous. Yet the urgency of the matter, I am convinced, justifies me.”
Louise motioned him to a chair, but he declined with a little bow of thanks.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “and you, Mr. Bellamy, we need not waste words. We have played a game of chess together. You, Mademoiselle, and Mr. Bellamy on the one side—I and my friends upon the other. The honor of Rudolph Von Behrling was the pawn for which we fought. The victory remains with you.”
Bellamy never moved a muscle. Louise, on the contrary, could not help a slight start.
“Under the circumstances,” the Baron continued smoothly, “the struggle was uneven. I do myself the justice to remember that from the first I realized that we played a losing game. Mademoiselle,” he added, “from the days of Cleopatra—ay, and throughout those shadowy days which lie beyond—the diplomats of the world have been powerless when matched against your sex. Rudolph Von Behrling was an honest fellow enough until he looked into your eyes. Mademoiselle, you have gifts which might, perhaps, have driven from his senses a stronger man.”
Louise smiled, but there was no suggestion of mirth in the curl of her lips. Her eyes all the time sought his questioningly. She did not understand.
“You flatter me, Baron,” she murmured.
“No, I do not flatter you, I speak the truth. This plain talking is pleasant enough when the time comes that one may indulge in it. That time, I think, is now. Rudolph Von Behrling, against my advice, but because he was the Chancellor’s nephew, was associated with me in a certain enterprise, the nature of which is no secret to you, Mademoiselle, or to Mr. Bellamy here. We followed a man who, by some strange chance, was in possession of a few sheets of foolscap, the contents of which were alike priceless to my country and priceless to yours. The subsequent history of those papers should have been automatic. The first step was fulfilled readily enough. The man disappeared—the papers were ours. Von Behrling was the man who secured them, and Von Behrling it was who retained them. If my advice had been followed, I admit frankly that we should have ignored all possible comment and returned with them at once to Vienna. The others thought differently. They ruled that we should come on to London and deposit the packet with our Ambassador here. In a weak moment I consented. It was your opportunity, Mademoiselle, an opportunity of which you have splendidly availed yourself.”
This time Louise held herself with composure. Bellamy’s brain was in a whirl but he remained silent.
“I come to you both,” the Baron continued, “with my hands open. I come—I make no secret of it—I come to make terms. But first of all I must know whether I am in time. There is one question which I must ask. I address it, sir, to you,” he added, turning to Bellamy. “Have you yet placed in the hands of your Government the papers which you obtained from Von Behrling?”
Bellamy shook his head.
The Baron drew a long breath of relief. Though he had maintained his savoir faire perfectly, the fingers which for a moment played with his tie, as though to rearrange it, were trembling.
“Well, then, I am in time. Will you see my hand?”
“Mademoiselle and I,” answered Bellamy, “are at least ready to listen to anything you may have to say.”
“You know quite well,” the Baron continued, “what it is that I have come to say, yet I want you to remember this. I do not come to bribe you in any ordinary manner. The things which are to come will happen; they must happen, if not this year, next,—if not next year, within half a decade of years. History is an absolute science. The future as well as the past can be read by those who know the signs. The thing which has been resolved upon is certain. The knowledge of the contents of those papers by your Government might delay the final catastrophe for a short while; it could do no more. In the long run, it would be better for your country, Mr. Bellamy, in every way, that the end come soon. Therefore, I ask you to perform no traitorous deed. I ask you to do that which is simply reasonable for all of us, which