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

He closed up the cupboard.

“Now for some more magic!”

He moved across to the middle of the floor and stooped down, pressed a certain spot in the corner of a square slab of ancient paving-stone, and a trap-door fell slowly back. Charles followed his guide down a ladder with iron rungs into another large but perfectly dry apartment. Blute held up his torch.

“Take a pull on yourself here,” he advised. “For the first moment you may not like it.”

Charles followed him confidently. Blute raised his arm and the light from his torch partially illuminated the place. Against the wall, side by side, were four deep coffins. The black cloths which had covered them were neatly piled by their sides. Charles stared at them wonderingly.

“Defunct Gestapos?” he enquired. “Or have we here other enemies? Are these the results of a battle in the Catacombs?”

Blute smiled.

“You are a bad guesser, Mr. Mildenhall,” he said. “Within these coffins are some of the Old Masters which were the joy of Mr. Benjamin’s life.”

“Awaiting exportation,” Charles murmured.

“Precisely.”

“Won’t that be just a little difficult?”

“Not if our plans work smoothly. Consider what might happen. A shocking skiing or automobile disaster—a car rushing down, say, to catch the last train to the frontier. Four over a precipice. Fine description written the same afternoon in a well-known Viennese sporting paper. At the end of the column there is a notice that the bodies of the four victims are being conveyed to France for burial.”

“I am confused,” Charles admitted.

“It’s clear enough,” Blute pointed out patiently. “These are supposed to contain the bodies of the four young men. We have the tickets for the transport of the coffins. Remember that no notice has yet appeared in the papers concerning the accident. The day before we are ready to ship the coffins the account of the supposed accident will be published in the Viennese paper. As I said before, the accident never did happen and will be contradicted a week later. A stiff sum that little fairy story will cost but it will be worth it.”

“Are those part of the game?” Charles asked, pointing to three large cases. “They seem to have the Customs chalk mark on them already.”

“Another little idea,” Blute explained. “Those cases contain tapestry and some of the small objets d’art , including some miniatures that Mr. Benjamin is very anxious to have. I will tell you how they happen to be in their present condition. The Austrian Railway has a terribly bad name for the low wages it pays to its employees. At the Swiss frontier there are two Customs officials whose addresses I carry with me and whom I have only to advise of my coming. I have to arrange to travel by a train on which the Chef de Bagages is a certain Jean Pfeiffer, with whom I am acquainted. It was he who put me up to this in the first place. When we arrive at the frontier he will put these out of the train as usual but they will not be carried to the Customs shed where the luggage is opened. They will be glanced at and when no official is in sight they will be put back again upon the train in their old place—the first packages passed by the Customs.”

“Ingenious.” Charles observed.

“You see, the point is,” Blute went on, “Mr. Benjamin wants the contents of those cases. If by any chance the fraud were detected, they would be at the frontier, it would be the Swiss side which would take care of them and the consignee would be able to get possession of them by paying a heavy fine. If they remained in Austria the Nazis would confiscate them and Mr. Benjamin would never see them again.”

“It all seems to me like a very cleverly thought-out scheme,” Charles admitted. “The only thing is—why have you left it so long? If there is a declaration of war within the next few days—and there will be—there will be a tremendous rush of people across the frontier and you will find it difficult to get away.”

Blute, for once in his life, spoke as a man might speak who was accustomed to lose control of his temper. He even raised his voice. His soft, low intonation was gone. He almost shouted.

“Jesus Christ!” he cried. “Can’t you realize, sir, can’t you realize, Mr. Mildenhall, the agony through which that little girl and I have awakened in the morning and crawled to meet one another? No news—no fresh face—nothing at the post—nothing at the Censor’s office—and every day that passed brought us nearer disaster. We have everything planned and, simple though it may now seem, it has taken some planning and some scheming. And then we come face to face with this horrible position. For the final expenses we have not one penny between us! We have no money with which to bribe the undertaker and his men who are to take the coffins to the station, we have no money for our own tickets, we still have the guard and the Customs men to arrange with. We are helpless!”

“You were helpless,” Charles said, patting him on the shoulder. “Why, it must have been maddening, Blute. Thank heavens I came along.”

Blute sat down on one of the cases. For the first time he seemed in some small degree to lose control of himself. His face twitched. Charles looked away quickly but he could almost have sworn that there were tears in the man’s eyes.

“Maddening it has been these last few weeks,” he went on. “Listen, Mr. Mildenhall, I must tell you that it was I who transferred Leopold Benjamin’s whole fortune from Germany and Austria to America and London. It was I who thought out the schemes for transference, who guarded against the currency troubles, who completed the whole business. I can assure you it was child’s play compared to these schemes which Miss Grey and I between us have perfected to bring Mr. Benjamin back his treasures. We are on the point of success. Everything is arranged and the money does not come. We have been robbed of what we had and now all the banks have closed their doors firmly against anyone who needs money in this country. I am not a beggar, Mr. Mildenhall, no more is that child a beggar, but last night I was playing a tin-pot little violin in a lowdown café to earn a wretched dinner which I shared with the child; and as for finishing our work here—it is ruined, all brought to nothing for the need of a few thousand pounds.”

“Steady on,” Charles begged. “My dear fellow,” he went on kindly, “wipe your face—do. I know it sounds terrible, but listen—that all belongs to the past. I’m coming in with you. I’ll risk all the money I can raise for you and I’m perfectly certain that even now I can get all you want. I’ll travel with you. I’ll take the whole adventure on. You and I and Patricia—we’ll fool these fellows, we’ll cheat the Customs and we’ll make that old man happy.”

“You mean that, Mr. Mildenhall?” Blute asked hoarsely. “For God’s sake don’t fool about with me.”

“I do mean it,” Charles assured him. “I can be useful to you in many ways. I have a pull with the railway and the Customs. I have a diplomatic passport as well as my own. We will devote to-morrow—or rather to-day—to deciding the train we travel on. You can get the story of the terrible accident into the paper at once. Here—wipe your face—there’s a good fellow. I have never known you to raise your voice before. Use my handkerchief. I have a spare one. You will need all your nerve for the next few days.”

The smile came back to Blute’s lips. He led the way up the ladder to the main room, bent down, closed the trap-door and standing up again moved slowly towards the exit.

“My friend, I am ashamed,” he said humbly. “For the moment I forgot. Do you really mean it? You will come to our aid, you will be once more our deliverer?”