21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
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I did not,” Laverick replied. “I had better try and find him, perhaps.”
“It is not necessary,” she announced. “No wonder that you feel yourself to have wandered into the Arabian Nights, Mr. Laverick. There are two sets of spies who follow you everywhere—two sets that I know of. There may be another.”
“You think that Bellamy will find me?” he asked.
“I am sure of it.”
“Then I’ll go back to the hotel and wait.”
She hurried him away, but at the door she detained him for a moment.
“Mr. Laverick,” she said, looking at him earnestly, “somehow or other I cannot help believing that you are an honest man.”
Laverick sighed. He opened his lips but closed them again.
“You are very kind, Mademoiselle,” he declared simply.
Laverick, as he entered the reception hall at the Milan Hotel, noticed a man leaning over the cashier’s desk talking confidentially to the clerk in charge. The latter recognized Laverick with obvious relief, and at once directed his questioner’s attention to him. Kahn turned swiftly around and without a moment’s hesitation came smiling towards Laverick with the apparent intention of accosting him. He was correctly garbed, tall and fair, with every appearance of being a man of breeding. He glanced at Laverick carelessly as he passed, but, as though changing his original purpose, made no attempt to address him. The cashier, who had been watching, gave vent to a little exclamation of surprise and sprang over the counter. He approached Laverick hastily.
“Do you know that gentleman just going out, sir?” he asked.
“I never saw him before in my life,” Laverick answered. “Why?”
“Is this your handwriting, sir?” the man inquired, touching with his forefinger the half sheet of note-paper which he had been carrying.
Laverick read quickly,—
To the Cashier at the Milan Hotel,—Deliver to bearer document deposited with you.
STEPHEN LAVERICK.
“It is not,” he declared promptly. “It is an impudent forgery. Good God! You don’t mean to say that you parted with my property to—”
The cashier stopped his breathless question.
“I haven’t parted with anything, sir,” he said. “I was just wondering what to do when you came in. I’d no reason to believe that the signature was a forgery, but I didn’t like the look of it, somehow. We’d better be after him. Come along, sir.”
They hurried outside. The man was nowhere in sight. The cashier summoned the head porter.
“A gentleman has just come out,” he exclaimed,—“tall and fair, very carefully dressed, with a single eyeglass! Which way did he go?”
“He’s just driven off in a big Daimler car, sir,” the porter answered. “I noticed him particularly. He spoke to the chauffeur in Austrian.”
Laverick looked out into the Strand.
“Can’t we stop him?” he asked rapidly.
The porter smiled as he shook his head.
“Not the ghost of a chance, sir. He shot round the corner there as though he were in a desperate hurry, and went the wrong side of the island. I heard the police calling to him. I hope there’s nothing wrong, Mr. Dean?”
The cashier hesitated and glanced at Laverick.
“Nothing much,” Laverick answered. “We should have liked to have asked him a question—that is all.”
Bellamy came out from the hotel and paused to light a cigarette.
“How are you, Laverick?” he said quietly. “Nothing the matter, I hope?”
“Nothing worth mentioning,” Laverick replied.
The cashier returned to his duties. The two men were alone. Bellamy, most carefully dressed, with his silver-headed cane under his arm, and his silk hat at precisely the correct angle, seemed very far removed from the work of intrigue into which Laverick felt himself to have blundered. He looked down for a moment at the tips of his patent shoes and up again at the sky, as though anxious about the weather.
“What about a drink, Laverick?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Delighted!” Laverick assented.
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