21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
Читать онлайн книгу.
enquired.
The General shrugged his shoulders.
“My opinion, sir, is,” he said, “that they got lost in the mountains and fell into the hands of people who have an ugly way with strangers. They take their risks, of course, but no one has complained. Then there is a Frenchman there, Marquet. One of the cleverest agents who ever breathed. He sits in an easy-chair in the Hôtel de France lounge practically the whole of the day, but somehow or other he gets to know things. Then there were two Germans—Krust, the great industrialist, who is supposed to be a supporter of the Crown Prince, and another one whom I do not know. We have our own two men; one of them has a villa and never leaves Monte Carlo and the other resides in Nice. Finally, if I may mention his name, there is the American, Major Fawley, who is reported to have been drowned at the entrance to the harbour but whom we have heard of since in Germany. He would be a useful man to talk to if we could get hold of him.”
“Ah, yes, Major Fawley,” the Prime Minister reflected.
“Fawley’s report about affairs in Berlin, if he ever got there, would be extraordinarily interesting,” the General remarked.
The Prime Minister looked vague.
“I thought it was one of the peculiarities of the man,” he observed, “that he never made reports.”
“He is a remarkable traveller. One meets him in the most unexpected places. He believes in viva voce reports.”
The Prime Minister stroked his chin.
“I suppose you know that he is in London, Burns?” he asked.
“Only half an hour ago. We were not, as a matter of fact, looking out for him. We were interested in the wanderings of the Princess di Vasena and we tracked her down to Major Fawley’s rooms at the Albany.”
“Your men are good workers,” the Prime Minister approved.
“Espionage in London is easy enough. You must appreciate the fact, though, sir, that to have a man like Fawley working outside the department, who insists upon maintaining this isolation, makes it rather difficult for us.”
“That is all very well, General,” the Prime Minister declared impatiently. “Personally, I hate Secret Service work, but we have to make use of it. We are up against the gravest of problems. No one can make out what is going on in Rome or in Berlin. We are compelled to employ every source of information. Fawley is invaluable to us but you know the situation. We are under great obligations to him and he has done as much, without the slightest reward or encouragement, to bring about a mutual understanding between Washington and Downing Street as was possible for any human being. He works for the love of the work. He will accept no form of reward. All that he asks is freedom from surveillance so that he can work in his own fashion. I admit that the position must seem strange to you others but I am afraid that we cannot alter it.”
The General rose thoughtfully to his feet. The Prime Minister, whose nerves were a little on edge, waved him back again.
“It is no good taking this matter the wrong way, Burns,” he said. “We are having far more trouble with M.2.XX. at Scotland Yard than with you. There was a fight of some sort in Major Fawley’s rooms at the Albany last night. His young brother got rather badly wounded. Fawley simply insists upon it that the whole affair be hushed up, yet we know that in that room were the Princess Elida di Vasena, Prince Patoni, her cousin—the private secretary of Berati, mark you—and Fawley. To add to the complication, the young man, who was third secretary at Rome, has resigned from the Service and is going back to New York to-morrow, if he is well enough to travel. The Sub-commissioner is furious with the Home Secretary and the Home Secretary complains to us. Nothing matters. We have given our word to Fawley and we have to keep it.”
“Why?” the General asked calmly.
The Prime Minister smiled.
“I don’t blame you for asking that question, General,” he went on, “and I will give you an honest reply. Because I myself, and the two others who have to bear the brunt of affairs during these days of fierce anxiety, have come to one definite conclusion. Fawley is the only man in Europe to-day who can save us from war.”
Malcolm made a hurried entrance.
“The call to Washington is through, sir, in your private cabinet,” he announced.
General Burns saluted and took his leave. The Prime Minister hurried to the telephone.
* * * * *
It was ten minutes later when a furious ringing of the bell in the small room sent Malcolm hurrying in to his chief. The Prime Minister was restlessly pacing up and down the room. There seemed to be new lines in his face. He was haggard as though with a sense of fresh responsibilities. Yet with it all there was a glow of exaltation. He was like a man in the grip of mighty thoughts. He looked at Malcolm for a moment, as the latter entered the room and closed the door behind him, almost vaguely.
“You have spoken to Washington, sir?”
The Prime Minister nodded.
“Malcolm,” he instructed his secretary, “I want Fawley here within half an hour.”
“Fawley, sir?” the young man repeated anxiously. “But you know our agreement? As a matter of fact, the house is being watched at this minute. London seems to have become as full of spies as any place on the Continent could be. Would it not be best, sir—”
“I must see Fawley myself and at once,” the Prime Minister said firmly. “If an armed escort is necessary, provide it. Do you think that you can find him?”
“There will be no difficulty about that, sir,” the young man replied doubtfully. “He keeps us informed of his movements from hour to hour. If this Prince Patoni, the envoy from Italy, discovers that Fawley is in direct communication with you, though, sir, it might lead to any sort of trouble,” Malcolm said gravely.
“It is worth the risk,” was the dogged reply. “Have a squad of police, if you want them, and clear the street. Anderson will see to that for you. Fawley can arrive as an ordinary dinner guest in a taxicab, but whatever happens, Fawley must come.”
“It shall be arranged, sir,” Malcolm promised.
CHAPTER XXIV
After all, it seemed as though a great deal of fuss had been made about nothing. There were certainly half a dozen curious strollers in Downing Street but the small cordon of policemen around the entrance to Number Ten awakened no more than ordinary comment. People of international importance were passing through those portals by day and by night and in these disturbed times an escort was not unusual. Fawley himself, dressed in the clubman’s easy garb of short jacket and black tie, with a black slouch hat pulled over his eyes and a scarf around his throat, was quite unrecognisable as he jumped lightly from the taxi, passed the fare up to the driver and stepped swiftly across the pavement and through the already opened door. He was ushered at once into Malcolm’s room. The two men, who were old friends, shook hands.
“Any idea what’s wrong?” Fawley asked.
“Very likely nothing at all,” Malcolm replied. “I have spoken to Washington twice to-day and I gathered there was something stirring in our department. They wanted the Prime Minister himself at seven o’clock. The Chief spoke and came out from the box looking rather like a man who had had a shock and yet who had found something exciting at the back of it all. He insisted upon breaking all rules and seeing you here himself at once. I hope you did not mind the cavalcade. It was my job to get you here safely, at all costs.”
“I generally find I am safer alone,” Fawley confided, “but I didn’t mind at all. The others dropped out at the corner of the street and made a sort of semicircular drive down. Queer days we are living in, Malcolm.”
There