E. Phillips Oppenheim - 21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

“Why only five minutes?” she asked. “You are very handsome in that uniform, Charles, but you are very stiff and unbending. Loosen that high collar and sit down by my side. I will explain to you—”

“I desire no explanation,” he broke in. “I must have the book.”

“You are very foolish, Charles,” she whispered. “The book is beautiful—but so am I.”

“You are far more beautiful than any book could be,” he assented, “but nevertheless, the book is mine and I demand it. You have now a matter of three minutes left in which to restore it.”

She laughed gaily. Then for a moment she was silent. Her eyes were fixed upon his. She held out her arms. Her voice was lower still.

“If I am more beautiful than the book,” she murmured, “take me instead.”

“Beatrice,” he answered, “you are as beautiful as an angel and the book is a dull thing of parchment and vellum, but we are not engaged in a battle of flowery words just now. I am in deadly earnest. That book I demand and must have. You have two minutes left.”

She raised herself a little upon the divan.

“Why do you harp so upon the time, darling? We have many hours together—if you will. I am alone. If your thoughts are with your namesake—”

“Baroness, my thoughts are upon myself and my own safety,” he interrupted. “Is it still the custom in Vienna to fight duels in a lady’s salon?”

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Ah, I can guess! Stupid! Monsieur—you think of him. It is arranged so that he does not come. You heard me say it. The hours are free and your book—if you must have it—may come into your possession a little later on.”

“You have exactly one minute left. Baroness,” he told her. “As to the movements of my distinguished namesake, you are wrong. Events have changed all that. The Archduchess has received an invitation to leave on the special train with Lady Tremearne for London. Her husband remains here.”

She was on her feet now.

“What you tell me is the truth?”

“On my honour it is the truth.”

“Then you must fly,” she cried. “Do not hesitate for a moment. Karl has a terrible temper. You have heard stories of what has already happened. Please—please—my friend, I implore you—go!” For the first time the glimmering of a smile parted his lips.

“No,” he said, “I am in no hurry. If a duel must be fought, if there is to be a violent scene, I will take my share in it. You spoke of a glass of wine. It is an idea.”

He took one step towards the sideboard.

“Don’t touch anything!” she cried. “Wait!”

She disappeared—a flash of fluttering ribbons and whirling draperies—through the door of her bedchamber. In a few seconds she was back. The parcel was there. She thrust it into his hands.

“Charles,” she begged, “forgive me. For your life—hurry! For your life and mine! He will kill us both.”

Charles tucked the book securely under his arm. He kissed her fingers—suddenly cold—then he moved towards the door. From the threshold he looked back. She was standing there shivering, still beautiful, waving him passionately away.

“Calm yourself, dear Beatrice,” he cried. “The Archduchess refused Her Ladyship’s invitation. Take my advice—a glass of wine quickly to restore you. Au revoir !”

He closed the door. Down the stairs, it is true, he moved swiftly. He stepped into his taxi.

“The Sacher Hotel!” he ordered.

Table of Contents

Seventeen months and twenty-four days later Charles Mildenhall, weary to death of trans-European railways, of shouting and gesticulating crowds, unwashed for two days, with parched throat and the smell of all evil things in his nostrils, sat upon the porter’s luggage barrow in the great railway station of Vienna and succeeded in achieving a state of utter disgust and weariness of life. He had been four days on a twenty-four hour journey, leaving behind him a commandeered car. He had stood in queues—a thing he loathed—he had had to make fairy-tale explanations of his business and his passport to a dozen unsympathetic officials rather than tell them the truth. He had reached Vienna in the gloom of a stormy evening to find not a taxicab at the station, not a single bowing commissionaire from any of the hotels, not a friendly face or a smile to be seen amongst the great cosmopolitan crowd who were pushing, apparently aimlessly, in every direction. Then, just as he sat up in despair to look out once more up and down the broad empty thoroughfare leading from the station, he beheld a wonderful sight and heard a wonderful sound. He saw a rather antiquated but a solid and veritable taxicab drawing up a few yards from the kerb-stone of the pavement and he heard what was far more wonderful still—a familiar voice. With his hand holding his cap raised high above his head, his countenance wreathed in one huge grin of welcome, was his ex-valet from the Embassy!

“Fritz!” he gasped.

“ Mein Herr !” the little man exclaimed, only to wander off a minute later into a stream of mispronounced English. “What a joy! I am very happy. It is Herr Mildenhall.”

“The remains of him,” Charles uttered mournfully, rising to his feet. “Fritz, the sight of you has saved my life. I am worn out. I am hungry. I am thirsty. I am penniless. Take my dressing case, take my small bag, help me into your heaven-directed vehicle.”

Fritz leaped lightly off the box and did everything he was told.

“ Ach , it is many, many months since I saw you last,” he cried. “Vienna is a rubbish heap. We are all starving. Where does Monsieur wish to drive?”

“What a joyous sound is your voice, Fritz!” Charles exclaimed. “Is there by any chance a hostelry open in this melancholy city?”

“The Sacher,” Fritz replied. “One wing is closed, the rest remains.”

“The Sacher!” Charles repeated as though in a dream of frenzied joy. “The Sacher by all means. But do not leave me when we get there, Fritz. I shall need you for a dozen things. I must have news of the place. I buy you—you and your vehicle—from this moment for the duration of my visit.”

“Thank God for that, sir!” Fritz said gratefully. “It is to be hoped mein Herr has enough money for his fare. If not, it is equal to me but there will be a tax owing to the hall porter—”

“Have no fear,” was the joyous interruption. “I’ll arrange all that. Let’s get along.”

They drove off. Charles lolled back against the cushions with a little groan of content. For two nights his head had rested on a wooden pillow. With every turn of the wheels the little vehicle seemed to be passing into the richer quarters of the city. There were more lights already. The fronts of many of the shops were barricaded with sandbags but here and there an open one invited customers. The line of cafés commenced, the lights of the Ringstrasse glowed feebly in their magic circle. There were men and women in the streets, crawling about, it is true, but civilized people. Marvellous! They drove up to the hotel and a porter stepped out for the luggage. Charles stumbled from the cab.

“Draw up and wait a minute, Fritz,” he ordered. “I will be with you directly.”

He walked to the cashier’s office. What joy! A familiar face was there, a familiar smile, the same deeply respectful bow.

“It is Herr Mildenhall!” the man exclaimed. “Welcome, mein Herr . We have money for you.”

“Thank God!” was all that Charles could say at that moment.

“What will you have, mein Herr ?” the cashier asked. “There is money from England, money from Budapest and money from the Société Générale .”