21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
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his beautifully shaven face pink and white, his hair brushed smoothly back. He recognised Fawley instantly. He deposited his companion at their table and made his way up the room. For the first part of his progress the most beatifically welcoming smile parted his lips. Then he saw Elida and the good humour faded from his face. His lips took an unpleasant curve, his eyes seemed to recede into his head. Again the mask fell. He came towards them with outstretched hands. The smile reëstablished itself.
“My friend Fawley,” he exclaimed. “I have an opportunity, then, of making my apologies for leaving your salon so abruptly. An engagement of the utmost importance came into my mind as I heard your friends at the door.”
He shook hands with Fawley and looked questioningly at Elida.
“I believe, Princess,” he ventured, with a stiff bow, “that I have had the pleasure.”
She shook her head.
“I am afraid that you are mistaken,” she said coldly.
Krust was not in the least discomposed. He pointed down the room to where Nina waved her hand gaily at Fawley.
“My work here is finished,” he confided. “Others more capable are taking it over. I return to-morrow to Monte Carlo. The thought of it has made the little one very happy. And you, my friend?”
“I am never sure of my movements,” was the vague reply.
“If I had not found you so charmingly occupied,” Krust continued, “I would ask you to join us.”
“As you see, it is impossible,” Fawley pointed out, a trifle curtly.
Krust, his good humour apparently completely restored, took his leave. He had only proceeded a few steps, however, when he came to a pause on the edge of the dancing floor. There was the sound of commotion from the entrance hall of the place, a tangle of angry voices, a peremptory command given in an official tone, a glimpse of grey uniforms and the flash of arms. The music stopped, the dancers at that end of the room hurried towards the doorway. Krust followed their example, but he was too late. A heavy black curtain which hung over the entrance was drawn by some unseen hand, the sound behind was partially deadened. Suddenly the manager pushed the curtains back and appeared upon the floor.
“Ladies and gentlemen—honourable clients of mine,” he announced, “the slight disturbance outside is over. Kindly resume your seats. Some young men, members of a recently inaugurated society, endeavoured to enter in uniform—which is strictly against the rules. The police interfered and they have been sent to their homes.”
There was a brief silence. Few people understood the exact nature of the disturbance. Here and there, however, was an angry snarl of voices. The veins were standing out on Krust’s forehead. He strode up to the manager in a fury.
“Who sent for the police?” he demanded.
“There was no need to send for them,” was the prompt reply. “The young gentlemen were followed here from the Garden.”
“Did you refuse them entrance to your restaurant?” Krust persisted.
Every one seemed to be holding their breaths. There was a queer strained silence in the luxurious little place.
“It is against the law for any one to enter, wearing an unrecognised uniform,” the manager declared. “I told them so. Whilst we were discussing the matter, the police appeared.”
“You will bow down to that uniform before many days have passed,” Krust prophesied furiously.
“Ach, that or another!” was the equally angry reply.
Krust stepped forward as though to deal a blow. Nina, who had left her place, silently threw her arms around his neck. She whispered something in his ear. He suffered himself to be led away. The orchestra struck up again. The dancing recommenced…
“Behold,” Elida exclaimed, as she watched the waiter filling her glass with champagne, “a tableau! A situation which might have become more than dramatic. Krust—the monarchist spy—with one of his little butterflies. Major Fawley, the Italian mercenary, the trusted agent of Berati. I, Elida di Rezco di Vasena, who have gone over at the peril of my life to the new order. We line the walls of this restaurant. What are we playing at? I scarcely know. We are all just a little hysterical these days. The restaurant is likely to be raided by the communists if Behrling comes, by the monarchists if the refusal to admit those officers is reported at their headquarters, or by Behrling’s own men. What will our friend Berati say when he hears that you have been seen in such an environment?”
“He will probably realise,” Fawley replied, “that I am going about my business and his in my own way. Mercenaries, as I dare say you know, are never over-officered. They are left with a certain measure of initiative. If one were to indulge in speculations,” he went on, after a momentary pause, “one might wonder what Krust does here. From the fact that Behrling suggested it as a rendezvous, one might gather that this place is frequented by his followers. Is it not a little dangerous in these days, when party spirit is running high, to risk an encounter?”
Elida shrugged her pearly white shoulders.
“Krust can take care of himself,” she said. “He is, as I dare say you have heard, the richest man in Germany, and he is reputed to have a secret body of armed guards, some of whom are never far distant. In any case, the present situation has all developed in a week. This was Von Salzenburg’s headquarters before Behrling decided to establish himself here. A month ago Gustaf there was bowing to other lords.”
For the second time that evening some measure of commotion was manifest at the entrance. This time, however, there was no intimation of any dispute. A great man was being welcomed. Heinrich Behrling, in plain evening clothes, handed his overcoat and soft black hat to an attendant and followed Gustaf’s outstretched hand towards the table where Fawley and his companion were seated.
CHAPTER XVI
Fawley watched his approaching host with calm and critical interest. His travels in the country during the last few days had already convinced him that great events were looming. A tortured nation was on the point of breaking its bonds. An atmosphere of impending cataclysm was brooding over the place. The worn faces of the people, the continuous stream of processions, the crowded cafés all gave evidence of it. It was as though there were dynamite upon the pavements and liquid dynamite in the air, dynamite which needed only a spark to light the storm. Even in this luxurious and secluded restaurant, Fawley thought that the first mutterings of the thunder might begin…Looking across the room, he saw the good-natured expression fade from the face of Adolf Krust, the great industrialist, saw his eyes receding into his head, alight as they were with hatred, saw the menacing curve of his lips as he stared at the approaching figure. Elida touched her companion on the arm.
“You see what is happening,” she whispered. “Every other table in the restaurant has an engaged card upon it. Now watch.”
Without any confusion or haste, a well-behaved, good-looking crowd of young men, with here and there a woman companion, had followed Behrling into the place. Every one knew his table and occupied it swiftly. They wore no sort of uniform, these newcomers. They were dressed with singular precision in the fashion of the day, but there was a small brown ribbon upon the lapel of their dinner coats. Furthermore, although they were of varying types, there was a curious similitude in their bearing and expression.
“Interesting,” Fawley murmured. “I gather that these young men have all been subjected to some sort of military training?”
“They are Behrling’s bodyguard,” she confided. “It is not his own idea; it is the idea of those who would protect him. Krust to-night, for instance, might easily have made mischief. What chance has he now? He has not been allowed a table within fifty feet of us and his slightest movement will be watched.”
She