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21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
Читать онлайн.Название 21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)
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isbn 9788026849964
Автор произведения E. Phillips Oppenheim
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
“Very clever,” he smiled. “Well, I don’t seem to remember coming across a brown envelope with green seals. I must go through the boxes again.”
“But you have been through them once and you cannot have missed a letter like that!”
He shook his head.
“You have no idea how careless I am,” he confided. “Lascelles did not seem to attribute very much importance to the affair. I think I shall go through them after dinner.”
She gazed at him as though doubting the sound of his words.
“But you have been through the boxes!” she gasped.
“How do you know that?” he asked quickly.
She was breathing fast now. All her fears seemed to be returning. That delicately shaped bosom was rising and falling quickly. She pressed closer to him. He held out his hand.
“I shall go through them more carefully after dinner,” he told her, patting her gently but at the same time rising to his feet.
“Ah, but you must not go away like this,” she begged. “Let me go with you to your room. If I feel cold, if I seem ill, it is because I am hungry. I am worried, too. I do not understand—”
“What is it that you do not understand?” he asked calmly.
“You are strange with me, you act as though you did not believe.”
He was infinitely remote again. He had picked up his hat. He was leaving—leaving her in this terrible state of uncertainty. She clung to his arm as he moved towards the door.
“Mademoiselle Rosette,” he said, smiling down at her, “you are certainly very attractive. Let me give you a word of advice. One profession should be enough for you. Stick to the manicuring.”
Charles, still dinnerless, returned nevertheless to his rooms. He found the valet in his bedchamber talking eagerly to Patricia. The latter welcomed him with immense relief.
“Charles,” she cried, “Franz has just been across to fetch me. He declares that someone has been in your room.”
“How do you know that, Franz?” Charles asked.
“These three tin boxes, sir,” the man replied, pointing to them. “I brought them out, as you instructed me, empty from the salon. I put them together in that corner of the room. I came in here after you had descended and I found that the boxes had been moved.”
“They were empty,” Charles pointed out.
“Empty or not,” the valet continued, still shaking, “someone has been in the room with a master key. A bureau drawer was open.”
“Well, well,” Charles said smiling, “it might have been worse. There is not a thing of value or importance in this room. Calm yourself, my dear fellow. If you will feel easier for knowing it there was a letter once in number two of these tin boxes. The letter itself is in ashes, its contents are here,” he concluded, tapping his forehead.
The valet breathed a sigh of relief. Charles and Patricia walked arm in arm through into the salon.
“There is just one point about this,” Charles observed. “I have now more confidence than ever in Mr. Blute. This affair is not of vast importance but it supplies a test. Blute is quite right. We have spies all round us. Run along and finish your dinner. I shall be up in half-an-hour, unless someone drops some strychnine into my coffee.”
“Don’t run the risk,” she begged. “I’ll make the coffee myself up here—and tell the waiter—coffee for one but bring enough for two.”
“It’s an idea,” he assented.
CHAPTER XXII
“Baroness!” Charles exclaimed, waking apparently from a profound slumber, sleepily stifling a yawn, sitting up in his corner seat and staring in well-simulated amazement at his neighbour. “What the mischief are you doing in this train and how on earth did you find your way into my coupé?”
The Baroness’ exclamation was without a doubt sincere. A few seconds before, Charles had appeared to be in the deepest of slumbers. She withdrew her eyes from the tin despatch box in the rack opposite and stared at him.
“How long have you been awake?” she asked.
“That is no answer to my question,” he reminded her. “What are you doing in this train and how does it happen that we have become neighbours?”
“You are not pleased to find me here?”
His eyes still seemed full of sleep. He yawned once more. He tapped the label gummed on the window of the compartment.
“How did you find your way in here. Baroness?”
“Baroness!” she complained. “I like better Beatrice.”
“I wish that you would answer my question.”
“My dear, what would you have?” she protested. “Last night I got into serious trouble. It was because my thoughts were with you. I could not help it. He wearied me—that young German Nazi. He wanted me to stay with him until the hour of his departure. I refused. He left me white with fury.”
“It sounds as though you had been very unkind to the young man, but I scarcely see how that explains your presence here,” he said patiently.
“Am I doing any harm?” she asked. “The Herr Lieutenant lodged a complaint about me with the police. The under-chief of the police is a friend of mine. He sent me a word of warning. He advised me to get away from Vienna without delay. I pack a few things and I come. I arrive at the station. It is a seething mass of human beings. The station master, the officials, they were all in despair—but what could they do? ‘Only let me get on the train,’ I begged. That is what happened. They put me in the corridor and they lifted my dressing-case and bag after me. I sit on my bag very unhappy. Then I walk a little way and what do I see? It is the one man of whom I have been thinking, the one man for whose sake I am in trouble. I was brave. An inspector passed. I pointed to the empty seats in your coupé. I said, ‘Monsieur has locked the door by accident. I wish to enter.’ He read the label and hesitated. I empty my purse into his hand and he opens the door. That is how I come here.”
“Do not think,” Charles begged, sitting still a little more upright, “that I complain of my good fortune, but you will admit that when I woke up it was a shock to see you there.”
“I have explained,” she pointed out. “You have a good word for it in English. It is a coincidence. Believe me, I did not intrude upon you willingly. I do not look my best at this hour of the morning. I need a great deal of sleep always and I have had very little.”
“But where are you going to?” he asked.
“I have yet to make my plans. Paris, I think. Believe me, though, I shall be no encumbrance to you. I have money, I have a passport, I have a ticket as far as Zürich. I think I shall go to Paris. Why do you ask? You are not really interested.”
“I can assure you that I am.”
“It is not interest of the sort I desire. It is curiosity. It is perhaps suspicion. Why should you feel like that towards me, Charles?”
“There was that little affair of Mr. Benjamin’s catalogue, you know,” he reflected. “Then the number and variety of your admirers keeps me disquieted. By the by, where is His Highness?”