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

“How much of this can be told to—say—three men in Europe?” Fawley asked.

“I have thought of that,” the Prime Minister replied. “You know that I am not an optimist—I have been coupled with the Gloomy Dean before now—yet I tell you that from a single word the President let fall this evening, they have made up their minds. America is going to make a great sacrifice. She is going to depart from her principles. She is going to join hands with us. It will be the launching of your scheme, Fawley…Don’t think that your labours are over, though. It is up to you to stop trouble until Rawson arrives. On that day we shall communicate simultaneously with France, Italy and Germany. Until that day what has to be done must be done unofficially.”

“It shall be done,” Fawley swore. “A week ago I heard from the White House. They were still hesitating.”

“They only came to an agreement this morning,” the Prime Minister announced. “It was the recent happenings in Germany which decided them. Another Hohenzollern régime—even the dimmest prospect of it—was enough to set the greatest democratic country in the world shivering.”

“It shall be done,” Fawley repeated stubbornly, and the light was flaming once more in his eyes. “For one week I shall be free from all the bullets in the world.”

“I shall ask you nothing of your plans,” the Prime Minister continued. “In years to come—on my deathbed, I think—these few minutes we are spending together will be one of the great memories of my life…I have been reading my history lately. It is not the first time that the future of the world has been changed by subterranean workings.”

“You can call me a spy if you like,” Fawley observed, with a smile. “I don’t mind.”

“You shouldn’t mind,” the Prime Minister replied. “They tell me that you are a millionaire and I know myself that you accept no decoration or honours except from your own country. What a reward, though, your own conscience will bring you, if we succeed. Think of the millions of lives that will be saved and lived out to their natural end. Think of the great sum of unhappiness which will be avoided—the broken hearts of the women, the ugliness of a ruined and blasted world. Fawley, sometimes the thought of another war and one’s responsibilities concerning it comes to me like a hideous nightmare. Twice I have suffered from what they called a nervous breakdown. It was from the fear that war might come again in my days. Think of being in your place!”

Fawley rose to his feet.

“I shall be no more than a cog in the wheels, sir,” he sighed. “I just had the idea. Directly it has been put on paper, the sheer simplicity of it will amaze every one. I am going to gamble on Rawson.”

“I will back you,” the Prime Minister declared. “I tell you I know for a certainty that he brings the President’s signature.”

Fawley glanced at the clock.

“Very good, sir,” he said. “Will you allow me to arrange with Malcolm for the most powerful government plane that can be spared? I shall want it ready at Heston to-morrow morning at six o’clock.”

“Where are you off to first?”

“I am afraid I shall have to go to Paris, where I am not very popular, and on to Rome, where they have sworn to have my blood. Something I saw in Germany, though, will help me there. If my scheme comes off, there will be no war.”

The Prime Minister held out both his hands. Afterwards he took his guest by the arm.

“We will go in to Malcolm together, Fawley,” he proposed. “Paris and Rome, eh? And Germany afterwards. Well, you are a brave man.”

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Fawley, with his hands thrust into his overcoat pockets and a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth, walked briskly to the corner of Downing Street and paused, looking around for a taxicab, apparently unconscious that he was the cynosure of a dozen pairs of eyes. A private car was waiting by the side of the curbstone, to all appearance unoccupied. Suddenly he felt a grip upon his arm—not the sinister grip of an assailant but the friendly grasp of slender fingers.

“Do not hesitate for one moment, please,” the slim figure by his side insisted. “Step into that car.”

He looked down at her with a smile. He knew very well that he had nothing to fear, for there were shadowy figures hovering around close at hand.

“Am I to be abducted again, Princess?” he asked. “This time I warn you that I have protectors at my elbow.”

“It is nevertheless I,” she declared a little petulantly, “who have to be your protector-in-chief. You do such foolish things—you who are on the black list of two countries, both of whom are well known for the efficiency of their Secret Service, and you walk about these streets as though you were invisible!”

He smiled but he followed her obediently into the car. One of those shadowy figures stepped into the roadway and whispered a word to the driver. Elida gave the man the address of the Italian Embassy.

“Alas, I must get back to my rooms,” he told her. “Sorry, but it is really important.”

“You will come out from them on a stretcher, if you do,” she answered. “Honestly, I sometimes cannot decide whether you are wilfully stupid or whether you have that sort of courage which marches with luck.”

“What have I to fear at my rooms?” he asked. “I can assure you that there will be no strangers allowed in the building for a long time to come.”

“The man whom you have to fear is Pietro Patoni,” she replied firmly. “I tell you this seriously, not as a fashion of speech. He has gone mad! I am sure of it. He believes—oh, I cannot tell you all that he believes about us. He also looks upon you as a traitor to his country.”

Fawley was silent for a moment. He appeared to be watching the street through the window. In reality, he was thinking deeply enough. Elida was probably right. It was foolish in these days not to take every precaution with the end of his efforts so closely in sight.

“Whose car is this?” he asked abruptly.

“It belongs to my uncle, the Marchese di Vasena.”

“And your destination?”

“The Italian Embassy.”

“Sanctuary or prison?” he enquired, with a grim little quiver at the corners of his lips.

“I have thrown in my hand,” she told him. “I am no longer to be considered. It is sanctuary only which I offer you.”

“But the trouble is,” he explained, “that I must go to my rooms. I am leaving England early to-morrow morning and to say nothing of my kit, there are one or two necessary papers—my passport, for instance—which I must take with me.”

“I will fetch them for you,” she announced. “You yourself—you shall not go. Please be reasonable.”

She leaned towards him. Some little quiver in her tone, perhaps the eager flash of her eyes, the closeness of her obscure presence, reminded Fawley that after all he was quite a human person. He took her hand and held it in his.

“My dear Elida,” he said, “we have been on opposite sides all this time. How can I let you play around with my papers and learn my secrets?”

“There are no secrets to be learnt from any papers you leave around,” she declared. “Besides, you need not mind my seeing anything. I told you just now I have finished with the game. I have an idea in my mind that you are playing for greater stakes than any of us, that we must all seem like little pawns on the chessboard to you. I am content. I will help you if I can and, to begin with, let me convince you of this—Pietro is absolutely and seriously insane.”