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

“Perhaps,” she murmured, as she took her very reluctant leave, “we might find something even more interesting to talk about than German politics.”

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Fawley felt that fate treated him scurvily that evening. Some great European notable staying in the Hôtel de France had taken it into his head to entertain the local royalty, who seldom if ever was seen in public, and Greta and he had scarcely established themselves at their corner table before, amidst a buzz of interest, a very distinguished company of guests made their way towards the magnificently beflowered and ornamented table which had been reserved for them. There were princes and princesses in the gathering, dukes and duchesses, men and women of note in every walk of life and—Elida. She came towards the end of the procession, walking side by side with a famous English diplomat, and she passed within a yard or two of Fawley’s table. For the moment he was taken unawares. He half rose to his feet, his eyes even sought hers, but in vain. If she was surprised at seeing him there and under such circumstances, she gave no sign. She passed on without a break in her conversation, easily the most distinguished-looking figure of the party, in her plain black frock and her famous pearls.

“What a beautiful woman,” Greta sighed, “and I believe that you know her.”

Fawley, who had recovered from his momentary aberration, smiled.

“Yes,” he admitted, “once upon a time I knew her—slightly.”

“What will she think of you?” Greta reflected. “I wonder how long it is since you have met. Will she think that you have married, or that, like every one else who comes to this quaint corner of the world, you have brought with you your favourite companion?”

“She probably won’t think of me at all,” Fawley replied. “We only met for one day and ours was rather a stormy acquaintance, as a matter of fact.”

“She is more beautiful than I am,” Greta confessed naïvely. “She looks very cold, though. I am not cold. I have too much heart. I think that is the pity about Germans. We are abused all over the world, I know, but we are too sentimental.”

“Sentimentality is supposed to be one of your national characteristics,” Fawley observed, “but I do not think your menkind, at any rate, allow it to stand in the way of business—of their progress in life, perhaps I should say.”

“Adolf Krust is sentimental,” she continued, “but with him all his feelings seem to be centred on his country. He loves women, but they mean little to him. He is what I call a passionate patriot. At any cost, anyhow, he wants to see Germany stand where she did amongst the nations.”

“Almost the same with you, isn’t it?”

She shook her head.

“Not quite. Very few women in the world have ever put love of country before love of their lover. I suppose we are too selfish. I am fond of Germany, although I see her faults, but she could not possibly occupy all my affections.”

“You are rather intriguing, aren’t you?” he remarked. “I should like to know you better.”

“Ask me questions, then,” she suggested.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Where were you educated?”

“In London, Paris, Dresden, a short time for my voice in Milan. I may be anything you like to fancy, but I have never known poverty.”

“And Krust—he is really your uncle?”

She hesitated.

“We are on rather delicate ground,” she remarked, “because Nina is in this, of course. No, he is not our uncle. Nina and I have both developed a passion for politics. Nina worked for some time in a public office without salary. It was through her that I became interested. Now I honestly believe politics—we use the word in Germany in a broader sense than you do—has become the great interest of my life. I want Krust to be Chancellor and, more still, I want him, when the proper time comes, to decide how Germany shall be governed.”

“What about the President?”

“A stupid office. One man is enough to rule any country. If he fails, he should be either shot or deposed. Adolf Krust is the only man whom the great mass of Germans would trust. What we need in Central Europe is a shock. People would make up their minds then quickly. At present we are drifting. That is why Krust, who hates to leave his work for a moment, who hates games and the sunshine of foreign places and gambling and all recreations, has come down here to be nearer to the one man who seems to hold the fate of Europe in his hand just now. He will be disappointed. I feel that. His rival has powerful agents at work in Italy.”

“I am a little confused about German affairs,” Fawley confessed. “Who is his rival?”

She glanced at him for permission and lit a cigarette. Their dinner had been well chosen and excellently served but she had eaten sparingly. She took a long draught of champagne, however.

“Heinrich Behrling.”

“The communist?” Fawley exclaimed.

She shook her head.

“Behrling is no communist. He is not even a socialist. He is the apostle of the new Fascism.”

“Krust then?”

“If I am telling you secrets,” she said, “I shall be very ashamed of myself. I do not think, though, that Adolf Krust would mind. He has tried to make a confidant of you. Krust is for the reëstablishment of the monarchy.”

“Heavens!” Fawley murmured. “I thought that General von Salzenburg was the head of the aristocratic party.”

“So does he,” she replied simply. “This is our trouble, you see. We are not united. Come to Berlin and you may find out. Why do you not get Berati to give you a freer hand? Then I think that we could convince you.”

“But, my dear child,” Fawley protested, “I am nothing to General Berati. I am just an agent who was out of work, whom he has trusted to make a few observations. I have never even met his chief. I am a subordinate without any particular influence.”

She shook her head.

“You may deceive yourself or you may think it well to deceive me,” she said. “Adolf Krust would never believe it.”

“By the by,” Fawley asked, “where has your reputed uncle hurried off to?”

“You tell me so little and you expect me to tell you everything,” she complained. “He has gone to San Remo to telephone to Berati. If Berati permits it, he will go on to Rome—that is what he is so anxious to do. To go there and not be received, however, would ruin his cause. The other side would proclaim it as a great triumph. Von Salzenburg, too, would be pleased.”

“You seem to have a very fair grasp of events,” Fawley remarked, as they entered upon the last course of their dinner. “Tell me, do you believe in this impending war?”

Again she showed signs of impatience. She frowned and there was a distinct pout upon her full but beautifully shaped lips.

“Always the same,” she exclaimed. “You ask questions, you tell nothing and yet you know. You take advantage of the poor little German girl because she is sentimental and because she likes you. Ask me how much I care and I will tell you. What should I know about wars? Ask a soldier. Ask them at the Quai d’Orsay. Ask them at Whitehall in London. Or ask Berati.”

“Those people would probably tell me to mind my own business,” Fawley declared.

Her eyes twinkled.

“It is a very good answer.”

They had coffee in Fawley’s salon—an idea of Greta’s. She wanted to be near, if Adolf Krust should return in despair. But time passed on and there was no sign of Krust. They sat in easy-chairs, watching the lights in the gardens and listening to the music from across the way. They sat in the twilight that they might see Krust’s car more easily, should it put in an appearance. Conversation grew more spasmodic. Fawley, he scarcely knew why, was suddenly tired of speculations. The great world over the mountains was moving on to a crisis—that he knew well enough—but his brain was weary. He wondered dimly whether for the last few years he had not taken life too seriously. Would any other man have felt the fatigue he was feeling? He half turned his head. The outline of the girl in her blue satin frock was only just visible. The vague light from outside was shimmering in her hair. Her eyes were seeking for his, a little distended, as though behind their sweetness there lay something of anxious doubt. The swift rise and fall of her slim breasts, the icy coldness of her hand resting lightly in his, seemed to indicate something of the same emotion. Her fingers suddenly gripped his passionately.