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

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chamber. There he sits. He is content so long as he is undisturbed. He gave his life to beauty and he fears to lose his treasures. He fears so much that he has concentrated them, weeded them out, kept everything that was a little more beautiful than anything else of its sort. ‘It is too small a room,’ he says sometimes, ‘to rob.’ But there is fear in his heart at the thought. Some day he will lose everything. I passed his house not three days ago. I saw one of those loathed spies watching it. They begin to know where to find what their masters are craving for—anything, anything they can turn into gold. One more was added to the list that afternoon.”

      Blute’s story had been so simply told, was so obviously the result of the man’s own observation, that his companion felt a sudden surge of interest in the princely hermit guarding his treasures.

      “Can’t you warn him?” he asked. “Can’t he be told that they have marked him down?”

      The other shook his head slowly.

      “What would be the good? He is too old to escape, he is too old and tired to leave his treasures. He will sit there with them all around him until the day comes that the Gestapo cross his threshold and he hears their fateful summons. When that time comes it is my belief that he will kill himself.”

      Mildenhall sighed. The orchestra was playing gay music, the place was filled with chattering and laughing groups of people who had been able for an hour or two to put all cares behind them.

      “What about our friend Benjamin?” he asked. “Is he in any danger, do you think?”

      “Leopold Benjamin,” Blute said solemnly, “has the spotlight of fate playing on him at the present moment. Sometimes I wonder that he has escaped so long. He is the most prominent Jew in the city, he has been fined huge sums, he gives large amounts to charity, the old aristocracy of the country who refuse to open their doors even to their highly-born neighbours have welcomed him into their midst. He holds a great place in the hearts of the people here but, to tell you the truth, he is the anxiety of my life. Even I dare not tell him that if he remains in the city he is doomed. He is too rich, too powerful to escape. He will be one of the first victims of the disaster which threatens Austria. I have been here for two years doing nothing else but looking after him. I shall do all I can, although it will very likely cost me my life. I shall give it without hesitation. Nevertheless, Leopold Benjamin is doomed. I sat with him in that beautiful office of his this afternoon. I showed him a way to escape. ‘And my pictures?’ he asked. ‘My treasures?’ ‘We could smuggle some things away,’ I told him. He shook his head. ‘I am a greedy man,’ he said. ‘I can part with nothing.’ What are you to do with anyone like that? I keep the way open, but I fear that he will be obstinate to the end.”

      Mildenhall glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.

      “Perhaps I shall be able to tell you better in a few days,” he said. “I dine there then and I hope to see a few of the Old Masters, anyhow.”

      Marius Blute sighed.

      “A few days,” he murmured. “Yes, I should think a few days is about the limit of time. You may still eat your dinner at the Palais Franz Josef, Mr. Mildenhall. You will drink the choicest wines in Austria and eat the food prepared by our one great chef, but it will be rather like the feast before the descent of the Philistines.”

      Charles Mildenhall, with a farewell nod, left the place with his companion’s words ringing in his ears, but more poignantly even than those words he remembered the shadow which seemed to be lurking in the sad eyes of the man with whom he had spoken only for a few minutes in the bank. Leopold Benjamin had indeed the air of a man on his way towards death.

      CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

      Mildenhall entered the British Embassy with the air of an habitué. He had a few words with the Ambassador, Sir John Maxwell-Tremearne, whom he found distrait and worried, and went on to see Freddie Lascelles, First Secretary and a man of some importance in the social and sporting side of Viennese life. Lascelles, too, wore a somewhat worried look and after the first few words led his visitor into a private room.

      “Always around like a stormy petrel when there’s a bit of trouble going, aren’t you, Charles?” he observed grimly. “What are you doing this way? And where did you come from?”

      “Oh, just knocking about,” Mildenhall replied, helping himself to one of his friend’s cigarettes. “I was in Budapest last.”

      “Got the jitters over there, haven’t they?”

      “Jitters everywhere! Europe’s like one of those unlit bonfires already smouldering underneath.”

      “Is it true that Poland is completely mobilized?” Lascelles asked.

      His visitor’s face was absolutely blank.

      “Some report of that sort going round,” he observed. “Look here, when is our next bag going?”

      “To-night.”

      “Plane or rail?”

      “Don’t know,” Lascelles replied, leaning back for a telephone. “Wait a minute, there’s a good fellow.”

      He held a brief conversation in fluent German with some unseen person.

      “Plane,” he announced as he rang off.

      “What time?”

      “Latish. The Chief is dining at the Chancellery and he’ll have a brief report to put in when he comes back. How much room do you want?”

      “Only enough for my weekly chatter…I’ll do it here, if you don’t mind. Shall I be in the way for a couple of hours or so?”

      “Lock you up here with pleasure. Do you want a code book?”

      “I may as well have one. I ought not to need it, though.”

      There was a gleam of admiration in Lascelles’ eyes as he made a few preparations for his friend’s comfort.

      “What wouldn’t I give for a memory like yours!” he observed. “Ten or fifteen pages of foolscap, your last report, I remember, straight into code.”

      “Rather more this time, I’m afraid,” Mildenhall sighed. “As to the memory—that’s only a trick.”

      “Wish I had it! Do you mean to say you have no notes even?”

      “Not one,” Mildenhall replied.

      “And when did you send your last report home?”

      “Warsaw, last Thursday.”

      “And you are going to sit down now and turn into code, probably without a code book at all, a report of how many visits and conversations?”

      Mildenhall smiled.

      “You run off and play, my friend,” he advised. “Plenty of sealing wax there?”

      “A drawerful. Are you going to pay your respects to Her Ladyship this evening?”

      “I’ll see what the time is when I’ve finished.”

      “Two bells on your desk,” Lascelles pointed out. “One for secretarial help, the other domestic. I’m living in just now. Telephone up to me and we’ll have a cocktail if you’ve finished in time.”

      He disappeared with a farewell nod. An English servant appeared a few minutes later with a small despatch case and a sealed envelope. Mildenhall greeted him with a friendly word or two.

      “Mr. Lascelles says, sir, don’t forget to speak to him before you go. He’s free for dinner if you would care to join him.”

      “I’ll see what time I finish, Butler. Thank him very much all the same. Things pretty gay here still?”

      The

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