21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
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which he had visited once before. The same Commandant was seated at his table with a similar pile of despatches before him and an orderly on either side. This time, however, Fawley’s reception was different. The Colonel stared at him first in blank astonishment, then a curious glitter of almost malicious gratification flashed in his eyes.
“Le bon Dieu!” he exclaimed. “It is the same man!”
Fawley saluted with a smile.
“It is quite true. I was here a month or so ago, Colonel,” he reminded him. “Major Fawley, late of the American Army.”
The Colonel’s fingers caressed his moustache.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I remember you. Major Fawley of the American Army. Excellent! You came, I think, to buy the Sospel Golf Links.”
“Exactly,” Fawley admitted. “I have almost made up my mind to sacrifice my deposit, however. Your work up here is too threatening. I can see that Sospel might become a strategic point if a rapid advance were contemplated.”
The Colonel murmured softly to himself. His eyes travelled past Fawley to the door.
“Close the door,” he ordered. “See that it is securely fastened. Search the prisoner for arms.”
“Arms,” Fawley protested. “Why should I carry arms?”
“The man is a blagueur,” the Colonel said harshly. “Search him for arms and papers.”
Fawley felt himself pinioned from behind. He yielded without any attempt at resistance. A cigarette case, a small revolver and a long official-looking envelope were produced and laid upon the table.
“A revolver,” Fawley argued, “is almost a necessity in this country. I motor a great deal at night. I have never used it, but one must threaten if a bandit accosts one.”
The Colonel pushed the weapon impatiently on one side, took up the envelope, and if his astonishment at seeing Fawley was great, his astonishment as he studied the envelope was certainly greater. He turned it over in his hand time after time. It bore the well known official seal of the Quai d’Orsay and it was addressed to himself!
Colonel Dumesnil By favour of Major Martin Fawley
“A communication for you,” Fawley explained courteously. “I was on my way to deliver it.”
“Perhaps!” the Colonel exclaimed contemptuously. “It is a likely story, that! This is one more of your artifices, I make no doubt. Lieutenant Vigny, detail a squad of men in the courtyard with loaded rifles. We do not let a spy slip through our hands twice, Major Fawley.”
“I think,” the latter suggested, “you had better open that envelope.”
“I shall do so,” the Colonel assured him, “but this time you have been too clever. I shall take nothing for granted. Before I read, I shall be convinced that what I read is forgery.”
“Forgeries in a code so secret as the French ‘B’ military code do not exist,” Fawley declared. “I received that envelope from Marshal Hugot himself three days ago.”
“How do you know that it is in the French military code?” the Colonel demanded.
“The Minister for War, Field Marshal Hugot, himself told me so,” Fawley explained. “There was no need for me to open the letter. I know exactly what it contains.”
“You have dared to present yourself at the Quai d’Orsay?” the Colonel gasped.
“I had a very pleasant hour there on Monday,” was the prompt reply.
“If I have my will,” the Colonel said, as he broke the seal, “you will have a far less pleasant few minutes shortly, looking down the barrels of my men’s rifles! You may fool a French soldier once, Major Fawley. It is not an easy thing to do the second time.”
The Colonel slit open the long envelope and drew out a closely written sheet of paper. He frowned as he stared at it. Without a doubt it was a communication addressed in the most secret of all codes, a code known only to the inner circle of the French military council.
“Fetch me Manual Number 17 from the safe,” he directed one of the orderlies.
The man obeyed. The Colonel opened the volume and, producing a fresh sheet of paper, carefully commenced his task of transcribing. His occupation lasted for something like twenty minutes. When he had finished, he read through the decoded letter word for word, tapping each with his pencil. He had the appearance of a man suffering from shock.
“It is impossible,” he muttered to himself. The palm of one hand rested on the decoded message, the palm of the other on the message itself. He leaned forward in his chair. His eyes seemed to be boring into Fawley’s.
“When did you receive this communication?” he demanded.
“Monday at eight o’clock from the hands of Field Marshal Hugot himself.”
“It is impossible,” the Colonel declared. “Marshal Hugot is at Geneva.”
“He may be now,” Fawley answered indifferently. “He flew back from Geneva to Paris on Sunday. I had an interview with him at midnight. He placed this communication in my hands to be brought to you.”
“You know what is written here?”
“Absolutely,” Fawley assured him. “The suggestion itself came from me. I will admit,” he went on thoughtfully, “that my reception at the Quai d’Orsay, in the first instance, was not everything I could have wished. That perhaps is natural. There were certain things against me, including your own very bitter report of my innocent activities, Colonel. But, you see, I had credentials. I was able to impress them upon the Staff.”
The Colonel breathed heavily several times. Then he looked up again.
“I decline,” he decided, “even in the face of such evidence, to accept this as genuine.”
“Then you are a very obstinate person,” Fawley replied. “You have plenty of ways of securing verification, but I suggest that you use the speediest. The matter referred to in that communication is one that brooks of no delay.”
The Colonel turned towards his senior orderly.
“Pierre,” he directed, “call up the department on our private long-distance wire. Say that I must speak to General du Vivier himself.”
The man saluted and hurried out. The Colonel leaned back in his chair.
“Your story will be put to the proof,” he said coldly.
“A reasonable precaution,” Fawley murmured. “May I, however, be allowed to sit down and more especially to smoke?”
The Colonel bit his lips.
“You may sit down in that chair facing the barred window,” he enjoined, “and you may watch those twelve men standing at attention. You know what their orders will be in the event of there being the slightest hitch in these communications. Orderly, take these cigarettes to the prisoner.”
“Prisoner,” Fawley repeated reproachfully, as he accepted the case and lit a cigarette. “Well, prisoner if you like,” he added. “Liberty will be all the more desirable.”
“It is my personal wish,” the Colonel acknowledged, “that that liberty never comes. I am not a cruel man but I should stand at the window there and watch your execution with the utmost satisfaction. If this letter is genuine, it will simply prove to me that you are something of a necromancer in your line. I shall still believe that you have deceived my chiefs as you have deceived us.”
“You may believe that, Colonel,” Fawley said quietly, “but you will be wrong.”
There was a long silence. The Colonel continued his task of signing papers and the sound of the scratching of his pen was almost the only sound in the room. The window itself commanded a view of the