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

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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!”

      CHAPTER XIV

       Table of Contents

      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.”

      “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

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