The Spy Paramount Read online

  “Why are you so difficult?” she asked. “You do not like me, perhaps?”

  “On the contrary,” he assured her, “I like you very much. I find you very attractive but far too distracting.”

  “How distracting?” she demanded.

  “Because, as we all know—you and I and the others,” he went on—“love-making is not part of our present scheme of life. It might complicate it. It would not help.”

  “All the time you reason,” she complained. “It is not much that I ask. I make no vows. I ask for none. I should like very much, as we say in Germany, to walk hand in hand with you a little way in life.”

  “To share my life,” he reflected, “my thoughts, and my work—yes?”

  There was a tinge of colour in her cheeks.

  “Leave off thinking,” she cried almost passionately. “Many men have lost the sweetest things in life through being choked with suspicions. Cannot you—”

  There was commotion outside. The opening of a door, heavy footsteps, a thundering knocking at the inner door flung open almost immediately. Krust entered out of breath, his clothes disarranged with travel, yet with something of triumph dancing in his blue eyes. He was carrying his heavy spectacles, he flung his hat upon the table and struggled with his coat.

  “My friend,” he exclaimed, “and little Greta! Good. I wanted to speak to you both. Listen. I have talked with Berati.”

  “You are to go to Rome?” Fawley demanded.

  “I have abandoned the idea,” Krust declared. “For the moment it is not necessary. There is another thing more important. I say to Berati—‘Give me a trusted agent, let him visit the places I shall mark down, let him leave with me for three days in Berlin, and then let him report to you. No rubbish from inspired newspapers with Jew millionaires behind them. The truth! It is there to be seen. Give me the chance of showing it.’ I spoke of you, Fawley, indefinitely, but Berati understood. Oh, he is swift to understand, that man. To-morrow you will have your word. To-morrow night you will leave for Germany. I ask pardon—for half an hour I spoke on the private wire at the Royal Hotel in San Remo. From there I jumped into the car and we have driven—I can tell you that we have driven! You excuse?”

  A waiter had entered the room with two bottles of beer in ice-pails and a large tumbler. Krust filled it to the brim, threw back his head and drank. He set down the glass empty.

  “It is good news which I bring?” he asked Fawley anxiously. “You are satisfied to come?”

  Fawley’s eyes travelled for a moment to the dark line of mountains beyond Roquefort. There had been rumours that the French were combing the whole Principality watching for a spy. Monsieur Carlotti had spoken of it lightly enough, but with some uneasiness. Fawley tapped a cigarette upon the table and lit it.

  “A visit to Germany just now,” he admitted, “should be interesting.”

  ***

  Krust in his own salon an hour later looked curiously across the room to where Greta was standing, an immovable figure, at the open window. He had rested and eaten since his journey, but there were unusual lines in his smooth face and his expression of universal benevolence had disappeared. Greta half turned her head. Her tone was almost sullen.

  “You had success with our impenetrable friend?” Krust asked.

  “I did my best,” she replied. “You came back too soon.”

  Chapter XII

  On his way down to the quay the next morning Fawley read again the note which had been brought to him with his morning coffee. It was written on the Hôtel de France notepaper, but there was no formal commencement or ending.

  I am very anxious to talk to you privately, but not in the hotel, where you seem to have become surrounded by an entourage which I mistrust. One of my friends has a small yacht here—the ‘Sea Hawk’—lying on the western side of the harbour. Will you come down and see me there at half-past eleven this morning? It is very, very important, so do not fail me.

  E.

  The horse’s hoofs clattered noisily on the cobbled road fringing the dock. Fawley slowly returned the letter to his pocket. It seemed reasonable enough. The Sea Hawk was there all right—a fine-looking schooner yacht flying the pennant of an international club and the German national flag. Fawley paid the cocher and dismissed him, walked down the handsome gangway and received the salute of a heavily built but smartly turned-out officer.

  “It is the gentleman whom Madame la Princesse is expecting?” the man enquired, with a strong German accent. “If the gnädiger Herr will come this way.”

  Fawley followed the man along the deck to the companion-way, descended a short flight of stairs and was ushered into a large and comfortable cabin fitted up as a sitting-room.

  “I will fetch the Princess,” his guide announced. “The gentleman will be so kind as to repose himself and wait.”

  Fawley subsided into an easy-chair and took up a magazine. In the act of turning over the pages, however, he paused suddenly. For a moment he listened. Then he rose to his feet and, crossing the room swiftly, tried the handle of the door. His hearing, which was always remarkably good, had not deceived him. The door was locked! Fawley stood back and whistled softly under his breath. The affair presented itself to him as a magnificent joke. It was rather like Elida, he decided, with her queer, dramatic gestures. He pressed the bell. There was no response. Suddenly a familiar sound startled him—the anchors being drawn up. The diesel engines were already beating rhythmically. A moment or two later they were moving. The grimmer lines in his face relaxed. A smile flickered at the corners of his lips.

  “Abducted,” he murmured.

  He looked out of the porthole and gazed at the idlers on the quay from which they were gliding away. There was a pause, a churning of the sea and a swing round. The Sea Hawk was evidently for a cruise. She passed out of the harbour and her course was set seawards. Fawley lit a cigarette and took up a magazine. It appeared to him that this was a time for inaction. He decided to let events develop. In due course what he had expected happened—there was a knock at the door of the very luxurious and beautifully decorated green and gold cabin in which he was confined. Fawley laid down his magazine and listened. The knock was repeated—a pompous, peremptory sound, the summons of the conqueror in some mimic battle determined to abide by the grim courtesies of warfare.

  “Come in!” Fawley invited.

  There was the sound of a key being turned. The door was opened. A tall, broad-shouldered man with sunburnt cheeks and a small closely cropped yellow moustache presented himself. He was apparently of youthful middle age, he wore the inevitable mufti of the sea—blue serge, double-breasted jacket, grey flannel trousers and white shoes. He had the bearing of an aristocrat discounted by a certain military arrogance.

  “Major Fawley, I believe?” he enquired.

  “You have the advantage of me, sir,” was the cool reply.

  “My name is Prince Maurice von Thal,” the new-comer announced. “I have come for a friendly talk.”

  “Up till now,” Fawley observed, “the element of friendliness seems to have been lacking in your reception of me. Nevertheless,” he added, “I should be glad to hear what you have to say.”

  “Monte Carlo just now is a little overcrowded. You understand me, I dare say.”

  “I can guess,” Fawley replied. “But who are you? I came to visit the Princess Elida di Vasena.”

  “The Princess is on board. She is associated with me in our present enterprise.”

  Fawley nodded.

  “Of course,” he murmured. “I knew that I had seen you somewhere before. You were in the party who were entertaining the local Royalties last night at the Hôtel de France.”

  “That is so.”

  Fawley glanced out of the porthole. They were heading for the open seas now and travelling at a great speed. On the right was the Rock with its strangely designed medley of bui
ldings. The flag was flying from the Palace and the Cathedral bell was ringing.

  “Many things have happened to me in life,” he reflected with a smile, “but I have never before been kidnapped.”

  “It sounds a little like musical comedy, doesn’t it?” the Prince remarked. “The fact is—it was my cousin’s idea. She was anxious to talk to you, but the hotel is full of spies and she could think of no safe place in the neighbourhood.”

  “I thought there was something fishy about that note,” Fawley sighed. “Is Princess Elida really on board?”

  “She certainly is,” was the prompt reply. “Wait one moment. I will summon her. I can assure you that she is impatient to meet you again.”

  He stepped back to the doorway and called out her name. There came the sound of light footsteps descending from the deck. Elida, in severe but very delightful yachting attire, entered the room. She nodded pleasantly to Fawley.

  “I hope Maurice has apologised and all that sort of thing,” she said. “We had no intention of really keeping you here by force, of course, but it did occur to us that you might not want to be seen in discussion with us by your other friends here.”

  “It might have been awkward,” Fawley admitted pleasantly. “It is humiliating, though, to be whisked off like this. Your designs might have been far more sinister and then I should have felt very much like the booby who walked into the trap. There is nothing I enjoy so much as a cruise. Wouldn’t it be pleasanter on deck, though?”

  “As you please,” the Prince assented. “There is a little movement, but that is not likely to hurt any of us. As a matter of form, Major, may I beg for your word of honour that you will not seek to call the attention of any passing craft to your presence here?”

  “I give it with pleasure,” was the prompt acquiescence.

  They found a sheltered divan on the port side of the boat. A white-coated steward arranged a small table and appeared presently with a cocktail shaker and champagne in an ice-pail. The Prince drank the latter out of a tumbler. Elida and Fawley preferred cocktails. Caviare sandwiches were served and cigarettes.

  “This is very agreeable,” Fawley declared. “May I ask how far we are going?”

  The Prince sighed.

  “Alas, it can be only a short cruise,” he regretted. “The Princess is unfortunately commanded to lunch.”

  “Then I suggest,” Fawley said, “that we commence our conversation.”

  Elida leaned forward. She looked earnestly at her opposite neighbour.

  “We want to know, Major Fawley, whether it is true that you are going to Germany with Adolf Krust and his two decoys?”

  “We should also,” the Prince added, “like to know with what object you are visiting that country and whether you are going as the accredited agent of Berati?”

  “Would it not be simpler for you to ask General Berati?” Fawley suggested.

  “You know quite well,” Elida reminded him, “that for the present I am not allowed in Italy. Believe me, if I were there I should find out; but I may not go, and I know well that my letters here are tampered with. Prince Patoni promised me news, but nothing has come.”

  Fawley reflected for a moment.

  “How did you know,” he asked, “that I was going to Germany?”

  She smiled.

  “My dear man,” she protested, “I am, after all, in a small way doing your sort of work. I must have a few—what is it you say in English?—irons in the fire. Adolf Krust, I hear, is hoping for great things from the little girl. Are you susceptible, I wonder?”

  Fawley looked steadily across at the Princess.

  “I never thought so until about a month ago,” he answered. “Since then I have wondered.”

  She sighed.

  “Perhaps if my hair were that wonderful colour and my morals as elastic, do you think I could throw a yoke of roses around your neck and lead you into Germany myself?”

  “A pathetic figure,” Fawley observed. “I will go with you to Germany at any time you invite me, Princess. But I should carry out my work when I got there in exactly the way I intend to now.”

  “I want you to meet General von Salzenburg,” she murmured.

  “The world’s fire-eater,” Fawley remarked.

  “These damned newspapers!” Von Thal exclaimed angrily in his deep bass voice. “What is it to be a fire-eater? Fire purges the earth. God knows Europe needs it!”

  “I am not a pacifist by any means,” Fawley protested, accepting a cigarette from Elida. “In the old days war was the logical method of settling disputes. There was no question of reparation. The victorious nation cut off a chunk of the other’s country and everything went on merrily afterwards. Those days have gone. War does not fit in with a civilisation the basis of which is economic.”

  Von Thal stiffened visibly. One could almost feel the muscles swelling underneath his coat.

  “It seems strange to hear an ex-army man, as I presume you are, Major Fawley, talking in such a fashion,” he declared. “To us war is a holy thing. It is a means of redemption. It is a great purifier. We shall not agree very well, Major Fawley, if you are going to tell us that you are a convert of Krust’s.”

  “I am not going to tell you anything of the sort,” Fawley replied, helping himself to another sandwich. “As a matter of fact, I have had very little conversation with Herr Krust. Between our three selves, as the Princess here has had proof of it, I am working on behalf of Italy. All I have to do is to make a report of the political situation in Germany as I conceive it. The rest remains with General Berati and his master. Besides,” he went on, “it would be very foolish to imagine that my reports would be more than a drop in the bucket of information which Berati is accumulating. He is a very sage and far-seeing man and he is collecting the points of view of as many people as he can.”

  Von Thal grunted.

  “I am afraid,” he pronounced, “that our conversation is not approaching a satisfactory termination.”

  “You see,” Elida murmured softly, “our information does not exactly coincide with what you tell us. We believe that Berati is prepared to shape his policy according to your report. The great national patriotic party of Germany, to which my cousin here and I belong, and of which General von Salzenburg is the titular chief, is the only party which we believe in, and for our success we must have the sympathy of and the alliance with Italy.”

  “And war?” Fawley queried gravely.

  “Why should I deny it?” she answered. “And war. You do not know perhaps how well prepared Germany is for war. I doubt whether even Adolf Krust knows, but we know. War alone will free Germany from her fetters. This time it will not be a war of doubtful results. Everything is pre-arranged. Success is certain. Italy will have what she covets—Africa. Germany will be once more mistress of Europe.”

  “Very interesting,” Fawley conceded. “You may possibly be right. When I get back from Germany I shall very likely be in a position to tell you so. At present I have an open mind.”

  Von Thal poured himself out a glass of wine and drank it. He turned to Elida. His expression was unpleasant.

  “This conversation,” he said, “has reached an unsatisfactory point. The Princess and I must confer. Will you come below with me, Elida?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “For what purpose, dear cousin? We cannot stretch this obstinate gentleman upon the rack until he changes his mind.”

  “Neither,” Von Thal said savagely, “can we turn him loose to hob-nob with Krust to destroy the golden chance of this century. It must be Von Salzenburg who signs the treaty with Italy—never Adolf Krust or any other man.”

  “That,” Fawley observed quietly, “is not for us to decide.”

  Von Thal, a mighty figure of a man, took a quick step forward. Elida’s arm shot out, her fingers pressed against the lapels of his coat.


  “There is nothing to be done in this fashion, Maurice,” she insisted. “Major Fawley is our guest.”

  “It is not true,” Von Thal declared. “He is our prisoner. I, for one, do not believe in his neutrality. I believe that he is committed to Krust. He is for the bourgeoisie. This is not a private quarrel, Elida. It is not a private affair of honour. We must do our duty to the party for whom we work, for the cause which we have made ours.”

  “It seems to me a most unpleasant way of ending a mild argument, this,” Fawley ventured. “I told you that I have given no pledges. My mind is not made up. It will not be made up until I have visited Germany. I have accepted your invitation to discuss the matter. You are displeased with me. What is there to be done about it? You are not, I presume, thinking of murder.”

  “To kill a man who is an enemy to one’s country is not murder,” Von Thal shouted.

  “To kill a guest,” Fawley retorted, “is against the conventions even amongst savages!”

  “You are not a guest,” Von Thal denied. “You are the prisoner who walked into a trap. That is a part of warfare. It seems to me you are to be treated as a man enemy.”

  “Have it your own way,” Fawley yielded. “Anyway, those are the best caviare sandwiches I ever ate in my life.”

  Elida laughed softly. She laid her hand upon Von Thal’s arm.

  “Maurice,” she pleaded, “yours is a hopeless attitude. Major Fawley is too distinguished a personage to be treated without due consideration, and I, for one, have no wish to see the inside of a French prison.”

  “What am I here for then?” Von Thal demanded angrily. “I prefer deeds to words.”

  “So do the most foolish of us,” Elida murmured. “But the way must be prepared. We cannot frighten Major Fawley as we might a weaker man.”

  “Our country is worth lying for,” Von Thal declared. “Why should we not report that Fawley, taking a short cruise with us, slipped and fell overboard? No one can say otherwise.”

  “Major Fawley,” Elida objected disdainfully, “is not one of those men who slip on decks, especially with rails like we have and in a calm sea. Be reasonable, Maurice.”