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

“Is this not a little premature, Herr Behrling?” Fawley asked quietly. “The elections are yet to come.”

“So you have been listening to the fat man,” was the scornful reply. “The man who smokes that filthy stuff and left the room like a streak of lightning at my coming! He would have you think that the dummy who has taken my place in the Reichstag is to be dealt with. He is a fool. If I raised my hand in opposition—crash to-morrow would come the whole of your brilliant scheme, and where would you be then? Where would Italy be? I ask you that.”

Fawley was silent. This man was not as he had expected. He was at the same time more verbose yet more impressive.

“If I chose to listen to my councillors,” Behrling went on, “I will tell you what would happen. Italy would be stripped, disgraced, convicted of a great crime and—worse still—guilty of being found out. That is what will happen to any nation who dares to ignore the only party which is strong enough to rule Germany, the only party which can put into the field an army of patriots.”

Fawley shook his head regretfully.

“Alas,” he explained, “I am only a messenger. I have no weight in the councils of Italy.”

“You can repeat my words.”

“I will do so.”

“When?”

“When I return to Italy.”

Behrling’s expression was fervent and blasphemous.

“Why do you wait till then?” he demanded. “You are here to see how the land lies. You have to make your report. Von Salzenburg’s men are veterans of the war. They would carry arms in no man’s cause. Soon they will be carrying them to the grave. The spirit of young Germany is with me. Italy will miss her great chance. She will pass down into the rank of second-class nations if she does not recognise this.”

“Every word of what you have said I promise shall be repeated.”

“But why not in your despatches?” Behrling argued, striking the table with his fist. “Why not to-night? Why not let a special messenger fly to Rome? An aeroplane is at your disposal.”

“I never send despatches,” Fawley confided, tapping a cigarette upon the table and lighting it.

His visitor stared at him in blank surprise.

“What do you mean? Of course you must send despatches.”

“I have never sent one in my life,” Fawley assured him. “I have very seldom committed a line of anything relating to my profession to paper. When a thing is important enough for me to pass it on to my chiefs, I take the knowledge of it in my brain and I go to them. Otherwise a message in Berati’s private code on his private telephone is always possible.”

Behrling rose to his feet and walked restlessly up and down the room. His strong features were working nervously. He threw away his cigarette. It was obvious that he had been living for months under a great strain. He beat the air with his fists—a gesture which seemed to Fawley curiously familiar. Suddenly he swung around.

“The fat man—Adolf Krust—he has been here this afternoon?”

Fawley nodded.

“Yes, he has been here. He was in Monte Carlo when I was there. He went on to see Berati. It is scarcely my business to tell you so,” Fawley observed, “still I see no reason why I should keep another man’s secret. He only got as far as San Remo. Berati refused to see him.”

“When do you return to Rome?”

“In ten days.”

“The world itself may be changed in that time,” Behrling declared impatiently. “If you were to study the welfare of your adopted country, I tell you this—you would return to Rome to-morrow. You would use every argument to convince Berati that Italy stands upon the threshold of a colossal mistake.”

“Mistake?” Fawley repeated.

“Give me a few hours of your time,” Behrling demanded, with flashing eyes, “and I will show you how great a mistake. If ever a thing was dead at heart, snapped at the roots, it is the monarchical spirit of Germany. Youth alone can rebuild and inspire Germany. These men who do the goose step through the streets of Berlin, who have adopted the mouldy, ignoble relic of the most self-intoxicated monarchical régime which ever plunged its country into ruin, they lack everything. They lack inspiration, they lack courage; more than anything they lack youth. You have seen my men march, Major Fawley. You know that their average age is under twenty-four. There is the youth and fire of the country. There is the living force. They have no soul fatigue.”

“There are rumours,” Fawley ventured to remind him, “of negotiations between the monarchists and your young men. I have heard it said that if this great cataclysm should take place, there would be a coming together of every military party in Germany.”

“You may have heard this,” Behrling admitted, with a queer smile, “but you would not be sitting where you are now if you had not the wit to know that it is a falsehood. My men will fight for their country and their principals and me, but not a shot would they fire to drag back from happy obscurity one half an hour of the accursed Hohenzollern rule.”

“Then what do you predict will be the government in this country?” Fawley asked.

“No sane man doubts that,” Behrling answered. “The people have spoken. I am on my way there already. I shall be dictator within two months. In twelve months, Germany will be once more a great power, the greatest power amongst the European nations.”

Fawley lit another cigarette and pushed the box towards his visitor who, however, shook his head.

“In these days,” the latter confided, “I may not smoke and I may not drink. It is the Lenten fast of my life. Every nerve of my body is strained. The time for relaxation will come afterwards. Major Fawley, I invite you to attend a meeting of my council to-night.”

Fawley declined respectfully.

“If I accepted your offer,” he acknowledged, “I should be doing so under false pretences. I was fortunate enough to intercept a private despatch addressed to Berati’s chief, the last time I was in Rome. From it I am convinced that however long she may hesitate, Italy has made up her mind to support the Monarchist Party. The treaty is already drawn up.”

Behrling’s arms went out with a gesture towards the sky. One forgot the banality of the gilt-and-white ceiling above his head.

“What are treaties,” he cried, “when the stars are falling and new worlds are being born? I take my risk of all. You and I both know why Berati’s master leans towards the monarchical party. It is because he has sworn that there shall be only one dictator in Europe. That is sheer vanity. In time, his patriotism will conquer and he will see the truth…I meet you at midnight at an address which will be given you this afternoon with no explanation. You will be there?”

“If you invite me with the full knowledge of the situation,” Fawley replied.

“That is understood.”

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The maître d’hôtel at the newest Berlin restaurant, which had the reputation of almost fantastic exclusiveness, was typically Teutonic. His fair hair had been shaved close to his skull, his fierce little yellow moustache was upturned in military fashion, his protuberant stomach interfered in no manner with his consequential, almost dignified, bearing. He scarcely troubled to reply to Fawley’s enquiry for a table.

“Every table is taken,” he announced, “for to-night and every night this week.”

“For the other evenings during the week,” Fawley replied, “I have no interest. Please to give the matter your attention. You had better glance at this card.”

The maître d’hôtel turned ponderously around. Fawley’s rather lazy voice, easily recognisable as American, notwithstanding his excellent accent, was in a way impressive. A great deal more so, however, was the card which he had presented. The man’s manner underwent a complete change. He indulged in a swift ceremonious bow.