The Spy Paramount Read online

  “Yet they tell me,” she confided, “I heard it even in Monte Carlo, that just now England or Washington—no one is certain which—perhaps both, is busy forging thunderbolts.”

  “No news of it has come my way,” the Ambassador declared with a benevolent smile. “If one were ever inclined to give credence to absurd rumours one would rather look nearer home for trouble.”

  She leaned over and patted his cheek.

  “Dear doyen of all the diplomats, it is not you who would tell your secrets to a little chatterbox of a niece! It seems a pity; for I love being interested.”

  “Carissima,” he murmured, “to-night at Dorrington House you will find ten or a dozen terribly impressionable young Americans, two or three of them quite fresh from Washington. You will find English statesmen even who have the reputation of being sensitive to feminine charms such as yours and who have not the accursed handicap of being your uncle. You will find my own youthful staff of budding diplomats who all imagine that they have secrets locked away in their bosoms far more wonderful than any which have been confided to me. You will be in your glory, dear Elida, and if you find out anything really worth knowing about these thunderbolts, do not forget your poor relations!”

  She made a little grimace at him.

  “You have always been inclined to make fun of me, have you not, since I became a serious woman?”

  The Marchese assumed an austere air and tone.

  “I do not make fun of you,” he assured her. “If I am not too happy to see you wrapped up in things which should be left to your elders, it is because there is no excitement without danger, and it was not intended that a young woman so highly placed, so beautiful as you, should court danger.”

  “Me—court danger?” she exclaimed with wide-open eyes.

  The Ambassador’s gesture dismissed her protest with a shade of impatience.

  “You have the misfortune, my dear niece,” he continued, “to be by birth and education an amazing example of modern cosmopolitanism. Your sister is married to a German Princeling whose father is aiming at being Chancellor of Germany and who is himself a prominent figure in this latest upheaval. Your aunt is almost the only remaining French aristocrat who is permitted to interest herself—behind the scenes, naturally—in French politics. Both your brothers, my nephews, have made their mark in our own country and are reported to be ambitious.”

  “Is all this the prelude to a eulogy or a lecture?” Elida asked.

  “Neither,” her uncle answered. “It is just that I am going to take the privilege of a near relative and an elderly man, who has at any rate won his spurs in diplomacy, to give you a word of advice. There is no place to-day, no seemly and dignified place, for women in the underground galleries of diplomacy. Spies there must always be and always have been. Cocottes have generally been the most successful, but I need not remind you of their inevitable fate. The profession is not elastic enough to include members of the great families of Europe.”

  There was a brief silence. A puff of wind stole into the room through the open windows, bent the lilac blossoms in their vases and wafted their perfume into the further recesses of the stately apartment. A Louis XVI clock of blue and gold inlay chimed the hour merrily. Elida moved uneasily in her chair. No one in the world had ever spoken to her like this.

  “What have you been hearing about me?” she asked.

  The Marchese shrugged his shoulders.

  “One hears,” he murmured. “One does not necessarily listen. Now, if you take my advice you will present yourself to your aunt. She is resting for a time in her rooms and taking a new face treatment from some New York wizard. She will like to know that you are here. By the by, we dine at home—only one or two very dull people—and we leave for Dorrington House at ten-thirty.”

  She gave his arm a gentle squeeze and kissed his forehead.

  “I have sent my maid to see which are my rooms,” she said. “As soon as I have had a bath I will present myself. Perhaps Aunt Thérèse will hand over the new treatment to me. A dignified and unadorned middle-age is all the mode nowadays.”

  “You go and tell her so,” her uncle remarked with a smile.

  ***

  The Marchese suffered from a fit of unusual restlessness after the departure of his favourite niece. He left his chair and paced the room, his hands behind his back, an anxious frown upon his forehead. He was an exceedingly handsome man of the best Italian type, but he seemed during the last few months to have grown older. The lines in his face were deeper, his forehead was furrowed, he had even acquired a slight stoop. He was a conscientious politician and withal an astute one. There were certain features of the present situation which filled him with uneasiness. He took up the house telephone and spoke rapidly in Italian. In a few minutes a quietly dressed young man presented himself. He carried a locked volume under his arm. The Ambassador summoned the servant who brought him in.

  “Close all the windows,” he ordered. “See that I am not disturbed until I ring the bell.”

  The man obeyed with the swiftness of the well-trained Italian. The Ambassador reseated himself at his desk. He took a key from his chain and unlocked the volume.

  “The Princess Elida has arrived, Ottavio,” he confided.

  The young man assented.

  “So I understood, Your Excellency.”

  The Ambassador turned over the pages of the volume which he had opened and paused at a closely written sheet.

  “A fortnight ago,” he continued quietly, “my niece was in Berlin. I see your reports are all unanimous. She appears to have deserted Von Salzenburg and to have left the Prince behind her in Monaco.”

  “That is true, Your Excellency.”

  “She spent much of her time with Behrling and with an American who is reported to be in the service of Berati.”

  “I can vouch for the truth of that, Your Excellency.”

  “The American arrived unexpectedly in London a few days ago,” the Ambassador went on. “You brought me word of his coming, although he has not presented himself here. Perhaps that is policy. Do you know what he has been doing in the capital?”

  “It is possible to ascertain, Your Excellency. His movements did not come within the scope of my observations.”

  The Ambassador nodded. He read through another page, then he carefully locked up the volume and returned it.

  “It would appear,” he remarked, “that my niece’s sympathies, at any rate, have been transferred to Behrling. One might consider her almost an opportunist.”

  “Behrling to-day,” the young man said firmly, “is the master of Germany.”

  The Ambassador handed him back the volume and sighed.

  “That will do, Ottavio,” he said. “I should like, during the next few days, to have an interview arranged with the American Ambassador.”

  “The matter shall be attended to, Excellency. In the meantime, I am charged with a somewhat serious communication from the Captain Vardini, Commander Borzacchi and Air Pilot Gardone. They desire to know whether they may pay their respects or whether it would be better for them to take leave of absence without announcement.”

  Again there was silence. The Marchese looked up wearily. He seemed suddenly conscious of the gloom of the apartment with its drawn curtains and closed windows.

  “It was a message by wireless a few hours ago, Excellency. They would wish, subject to your permission, to attend the ball at Dorrington House to-night and to leave separately before morning.”

  “I have no jurisdiction,” the Marchese pronounced. “They must obey such orders as they have received. Have you any further information?”

  “None, Your Excellency, except a hint that the urgency is not so great as might seem. About the middle of next week, perhaps, we may expect official news. Is it permitted to ask Your Excellency a question?”

  “With the proviso that he
answers it only if he feels inclined to,” was the weary reply.

  “The Department has received a very cautiously worded enquiry as to this American, Major Martin Fawley,” the young man confided. “It seems that he has been in Rome and on the French Riviera, from which one understands that he had to make a precipitate departure. Then he turned up in Berlin, and if our information is correct, Excellency, he was seen once or twice with Her Highness the Princess Elida. We have been asked quite unofficially whether we can give any information as to the nature of his activities.”

  “Well, you know the answer well enough,” the Marchese replied irritably. “I have no knowledge of Major Fawley. Of my niece’s acquaintances or companions I naturally can keep no count. If he is a suspected person, I regret her association with him, otherwise there is nothing to be said.”

  The young man took silent and respectful leave of his chief. The Ambassador, who was a very much worried man, lit a cigarette and studied the neatly typed list of his engagements for the next few days with a groan.

  Chapter XIX

  It was the moment for the sake of which Elida had made many sacrifices. She had, for the first time in her life, disobeyed certain instructions issued from a beautiful white stone and marble building in the Plaza Corregio at Rome, instructions signed by the hand of a very great man indeed. Not only that, but, in quartering herself upon a relative whom she loved better than any other amongst her somewhat extensive family, she had involved him in many possible embarrassments. As she sat there she felt that she had offended against the code of her life, and, listening to the music in the far-away rooms, the hum of joyous voices, the passing backwards and forwards of men in brilliant uniforms and beautifully gowned women, she felt conscious of a sense of shame. Yet it all seemed worth while when young Hartley Stammers, second secretary at the American Embassy, the acquaintance of a few hours, from whom she had begged this favour, and Fawley, a quietly distinguished-looking figure in his plain evening clothes amongst this colourful gathering, suddenly appeared upon the threshold. The light which flashed for a single moment in his eyes filled her with a sort of painful joy. For the first time she felt weak of purpose. She was filled with a longing to abandon at that moment and for ever this stealthy groping through the tortuous ways of life, to respond instead to that momentary challenge with everything she had to give. Perhaps if the mask had not fallen quite so quickly she might have yielded.

  “This is indeed a great pleasure, Princess,” Fawley said courteously, as he raised her fingers to his lips. “I had no idea that you thought of coming to London.”

  “Nor I until—well, it seems only a few hours ago,” she said. “My aunt has not been well and my uncle—you know him, I dare say—he is our Ambassador here—begged me to pay him a flying visit. So here I am! Arrived this evening. Will you not sit down, Major Fawley? I should like so much that we talk for a little time.”

  The younger man took regretful leave. Elida smiled at him delightfully. He had fulfilled a difficult mission and she was grateful.

  “You will not forget, Mr. Stammers, that we dance later in the evening,” she reminded him. “You must show me some of your new steps. None of our Italian men can dance like you Americans.”

  “I will be glad to,” the boy promised a little ruefully. “I have a list of duty hops down here which makes me feel tired. I’ll surely cut some of them if I can. Being sort of office boy of the place, they seem to leave me to do the cleaning up.”

  He took his leave, followed by Elida’s benediction. The quiet place for which she had asked fulfilled all its purposes. It was an alcove, as yet undiscovered by the majority of the guests, leading from one of the smaller refreshment-rooms. Fawley sank into the divan by her side.

  “Why have you come to London?” he asked quietly.

  “Is this bluntness part of the new diplomacy they talk about?” she retorted.

  “It is the oldest weapon man has,” he declared. “It is rather effective, you see, because it really demands a reply.”

  “What you really want to know,” she reflected, “is whether I followed you.”

  “Something of the sort. Perhaps you may have had quite different ideas. I can assure you that so far as I am concerned—” He left the sentence unfinished. A very rare thing with him.

  “I came here expressly to see you,” she suddenly confessed. “It is quite important.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “You know all your people in Rome, of course?”

  “Naturally. We Americans always know one another. We do not keep ourselves in water-tight compartments.”

  “Mr. Marston is a great friend of mine,” she said. “Poor man, just now he seems so worried!”

  “What? Jimmie Marston?” Fawley exclaimed. “That sounds quaint to me. I don’t think I ever saw him when he did not look happy.”

  “He is what you call in your very expressive language a bluffer,” she answered. “I know what the matter is with him now. He is terrified lest at any moment he may find himself in the imbroglio of a European war.”

  Like a flash the relaxation passed from Fawley’s expression. His tone was unchanged, but he had relapsed into the stony-faced, polite, but casual guest performing his social duties.

  “Our dear old friend,” he observed, “is probably having an unfortunate love affair. He is the only one of our diplomats who has achieved the blue ribbon of the profession and remained a lover of women. They really ought not to have given him Rome. It was trying him too high.”

  “Yet not long ago,” she reminded him, “you were pursuing your vocation there.”

  “Ah, but then I am not a lover of women,” he declared.

  “I wonder whether it matters,” she went on. “I mean, I wonder whether outside the pages of the novelist Ambassadors ever do give away startling secrets to the Delilahs of my sex and whether they,” she added, with a flash of her beautiful eyes, “ever win successes with a whisper which should cost them a lifetime’s devotion.”

  With a murmured request for permission, he followed her example and lit a cigarette.

  “One would like to believe in that sort of thing,” he reflected, “but I do not think there is much of it nowadays. Whispers are too easily traced back, and if you once drop out of a profession it is terribly difficult to re-establish yourself. We Americans—you must have found that out for yourself—are an intensely practical people. We would not consider any woman in the world worth the loss of our career.”

  She leaned back in her corner of the divan and laughed melodiously.

  “What gallantry!”

  There was a certain return of good humour in his kindly smile.

  “Let us be thankful, at any rate,” he said, “that our relations are such that we do not need to borrow the one from the other.”

  Her fingers played nervously with her vanity-case.

  “That may not last,” she murmured, almost under her breath. “I did not follow you here for nothing.”

  He listened to the music.

  “Rather a good tune?” he suggested.

  She shook her head.

  “Neither did I follow you here to dance with you.”

  He sighed regretfully.

  “The worst of even the by-ways of my profession,” he lamented, “is that duty so often interferes with pleasure. The Chief’s wife, who, as I dare say you know, is my cousin, has given me a special list here, and I have to take the wife of the French Naval Attaché in to supper.”

  “I shall not keep you,” she promised. “I should probably have sent you away before now if I had not felt reluctant to say what I came to say. Sit down for one moment and leave me when you please. It is necessary.”

  “Necessary?” he repeated.

  She nodded. She was less at her ease than he had ever seen her. Her exquisite fingers were playing nervously with a jewel which hung fro
m her neck.

  “I think I told you once that I saw quite a good deal of your young brother in Rome during the hunting season.”

  “Micky?”

  “Yes. The one in the Embassy. Third secretary, is he not?”

  Fawley nodded.

  “Well, what about him?”

  “He is not quite so discreet as you are.”

  A queer silence. The sound of the music seemed to have faded away. When he spoke his voice was lower than ever, but there was an almost active belligerency in his tone.

  “Just what do you mean?” he demanded.

  “You are going to hate me, so get ready for it.”

  “For the first time in my life,” he muttered, “I am inclined to wish that you were a man.”

  She was hardening a little. The first step was taken at any rate.

  “Well, I am not, you see, and you can do nothing about it. Here is a scrappy note from your brother which I received a short time ago. It is written, as you see, on the Embassy notepaper.”

  She handed him an envelope. He drew out its contents deliberately and read the half-sheet of paper.

  Dear Princess,

  I rather fancy that I am crazy but here you are. I send you copies of the last three code cables from Washington to the Chief. I have no access to the code and I cannot see what use they can be to you without it but I have kept my word.

  Don’t forget our dance to-morrow night.

  Micky

  Fawley folded up the note and returned it.

  “The copies of the various cables,” she remarked, “were enclosed. Rather ingenuous of the boy, was it not, to imagine that anyone who interested themselves at all in the undercurrents of diplomacy had not the means of decoding despatches? They were all three very unimportant, though. They did not tell me what I wished to know.”

  There was a tired look in his eyes, but otherwise he remained impassive.