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

“Smoke one, by all means,” Fawley invited. “Thank goodness, it is warm weather and the windows are open!”

“You joke at my taste in tobacco,” Krust grumbled, “but you do not joke at my taste in nieces, nicht ? What about the little Greta?”

“Charming,” Fawley admitted with a smile. “Every one in Monte Carlo wondered at your luck.”

“It is all done by kindness and a little generosity,” the other remarked, with an air of self-satisfaction. “I have not the looks. I certainly have not the figure; but there are other gifts! One has to study the sex to know how to please.”

“How did you find me out here?” Fawley asked abruptly.

“I have intelligent friends in Berlin who watch,” was the cautious reply. “You were seen down south at the march of the Iron Army. You were seen at the new Russian Night Club in Düsseldorf the other night, where there are not many Russians but a good deal of conversation. People are curious just now about travellers. I have been asked what you do here.”

Fawley yawned.

“Bore myself chiefly,” he admitted. “I find Germany a far better governed country than I had anticipated. I have few criticisms. A great brain must be at work somewhere.”

Krust rolled a cigar between his fingers. It was a light-coloured production, long, with faint yellow spots. Every few seconds he knocked away the ash.

“A great brain,” he repeated, as if following out a train of thought of his own. “I will tell you something, friend Fawley. What you think is produced by a great brain is nothing but the God-given sense of discipline which every true German possesses. There is no one to thank for the smoothness with which the great wheel revolves. It is the German people themselves who are responsible.”

“Prosperity seems to be returning to the country,” Fawley reflected. “I find it hard to believe that these people will suffer themselves to be led into such an adventure as a new war.”

Krust pinched his cigar thoughtfully.

“The German has pride,” he said. “He would wish to reëstablish himself. In the meantime, he does not hang about at street corners. He works. You want to see underneath the crust. Why not accept my help? Unless some doors are unlocked, even you, the most brilliant Secret Service agent of these days, will fail. You will make a false report. You will leave this country and you will not understand.”

“Berati has his methods and I have mine,” Fawley observed. “I admit that I am puzzled but I do not believe that either you or Von Salzenburg could enlighten me…Still, there would be no harm in our dining and spending the evening together. My ears are always open, even if I do not promise to be convinced.”

Krust sighed.

“To go about openly with you,” he regretted, “would do neither of us any good. It would give me all the joy in the world to offer you the hospitality of the city. I dare not.”

Fawley smiled as he pressed the bell for the waiter.

“Then I must show you some.”

Adolf Krust chuckled.

“I am a man,” he confessed, “who, when he talks, likes to drink. Most good Germans are like that.”

“Cocktails?”

Krust waved aside the idea.

“I drink cocktails only at the bar. Wine or beer here. It is equal to me.”

Fawley gave the waiter an order. The finest Rhine wine was served to them in deliciously frosted glasses. They drank solemnly an unspoken toast. Fawley refilled the glasses. Again they were raised.

“To our better understanding,” the German said.

He muttered a few words in his own language. The toast, however, whatever it may have been, was never drunk. There was a loud knocking at the outside door. What followed on Fawley’s invitation to enter seemed to his astonished eyes more like the advance guard of a circus than anything. The door was thrown open with a flourish. The manager of the hotel, in a tightly fitting frock coat and grey trousers of formal design, entered hurriedly. He took not the slightest notice of Fawley but swung around and ranged himself by the side of the threshold. He was joined a few seconds later by the assistant manager, dressed in precisely the same fashion, who also made precipitate entrance and stood on the other side, facing his chief. There followed an officer dressed in some sort of uniform and after him a younger man, who appeared to hold the post of aide-de-camp, in more sombre but still semi-military accoutrements. Last of all came a man in civilian clothes—stern, with a shock of brown hair streaked with grey, hard features, granite-like mouth, keen steely eyes. He held up his hand as he entered in a gesture which might have been intended for the Fascist salute or might have been an invocation to silence. He spoke German correctly, but with a strong Prussian accent.

“My name is Behrling—Heinrich Behrling,” he announced. “It is my wish to speak a few words with the agent of my friend, General Berati of Rome. I have the pleasure—yes?”

Fawley bowed but shook his head.

“I cannot claim the distinction of being the recognised agent of that great man,” he declared. “I am an American visiting Germany as a tourist.”

The newcomer advanced farther into the room and shook hands with some solemnity. Fawley turned towards where his previous visitor had been seated, then gave a little start. The hideous and unsavoury cigar propped up against an ash-tray was still alight. The armchair, however, had been pushed back and the black Homburg hat which had rested upon the floor had gone. There was in the place where Adolf Krust had sat the most atrocious odour of foul tobacco, but nowhere in the room was there any sign of him or any indication of his sudden departure, except the wide-open door leading into the bathroom!

“You search for something?” the visitor asked.

“Before you came, sir,” Fawley confided, “I had a caller. He must have taken his leave in a hurry.”

Heinrich Behrling laughed.

“There are many,” he declared, “who leave in a hurry when I arrive!”

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Heinrich Behrling, the man whom the most widely read paper in Berlin had called only that morning “the underground ruler of Germany,” showed no hesitation in taking the vacated easy-chair and he watched the disappearance of the still burning cigar out of the window with an air of satisfaction. In response to a wave of the hand, his escort retired. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“It gives me no pleasure to be so attended,” he declared, “but what would you have? The communists have sworn that before the end of the week I shall be a dead man. I prefer to live.”

“It is the natural choice,” Fawley murmured with a smile.

“You are Major Fawley, the American who has entered the service of Italy?” Behrling demanded. “You speak German—yes?”

“Yes to both questions,” was the prompt reply. “My name is Fawley, I have accepted a temporary post under the Italian Government and I speak German.”

“What brought you to Berlin?”

“Every one comes to Berlin nowadays.”

“You came on Berati’s orders, of course.”

Fawley’s fingers tapped lightly upon his desk and he remained for a moment silent.

“I look upon your visit as a great honour, sir,” he said. “I only regret that when I became a servant I became dumb.”

“I wish there were more like you on my staff,” Behrling muttered, with a throaty exclamation. “Can I deal with you? That is the question.”

“On behalf of whom?”

“On behalf of my country. You have seen my army in the making. You have visited Cologne and Frankfurt, amongst other towns. You know what is coming to Germany as well as I can tell you. I ask whether I can deal with you on behalf of my country.”