Kitabı oku: «Her Majesty's Minister», sayfa 15
Chapter Twenty Nine
Kaye is Puzzled
Having seen Edith as far as the Grand Hotel, I re-entered the fiacre and at once drove back to my own rooms, where I found the chief of the secret service awaiting me.
“What do you mean by saying that you know that lady?” I inquired breathlessly.
“Simply that we know her, that’s all,” he replied, with an air of mystery.
“Look here, Kaye,” I said, “just tell me plainly and straightforwardly what you know regarding her?”
“She’s a person to be avoided, that’s all.”
“To be avoided!” I echoed. “Why, surely she has no connection with the persons you are watching? She lives in Norfolk, in a little country village, and scarcely ever comes abroad.”
“I know it,” he answered with his sphinx-like smile. “She lives at Great Ryburgh, near Fakenham, is in possession of a fair income, and has a maiden aunt as companion.”
“How did you know that?” I demanded in surprise.
“It is our duty to know all who are the enemies of England.”
“And is she an enemy?”
“Most certainly,” he replied.
“I can’t believe it, Kaye!” I cried, aghast. “I won’t believe it! First you tell me that Yolande de Foville is a spy, and now you denounce Edith Austin.”
“I only tell you the truth,” he answered, leaning against the table and folding his arms.
“Then as you know so much about her, you probably know our relationship,” I said, rather annoyed that this ubiquitous man, whose proclivities for fathoming a secret were prodigious, should have watched her.
“I am quite well aware of it, Mr Ingram,” he responded; “and if I might be allowed to advise you, I should end it at once. It is dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because she is playing you false.”
“How do you know that?”
“By the same means that I know she is working against us – and against you. If you knew the facts they would astound you. Even I, with all my experience of the ways of felons and spies, was dumbfounded when I learnt the truth.”
“But can’t you see that it’s ridiculous to ask me to cast her aside without giving me any plain and ample reason?”
“The reason is certainly sufficient,” he replied.
“What is it?”
“You visited her at Ryburgh some months ago, and suspected her of having a secret lover. Is not that so?”
“Extraordinary!” I gasped. “How did you know that? You set your spies upon me!” I added angrily.
“No, not upon you,” he said. “She was already under observation.”
“Why?”
“Because of some suspicion that had been aroused regarding the Ceuta incident.”
“Nonsense!” I cried, unable to believe his allegation. “What possible connection could she have with that?”
“A rather intimate one, judging from the result of our inquiries.”
“In what manner?”
“Well, as a secret agent.”
“In the employ of whom?”
“Of France.”
“Of France?” I echoed. “Impossible!”
“My dear Mr Ingram,” he protested, “I’m not in the habit of misleading you or of making statements which I can’t substantiate. I repeat that Miss Edith Austin, the lady who has been here with you this afternoon, is a French agent.”
“I can’t believe it!” I gasped, utterly staggered. “Why, she’s a simple, charming English girl, leading a quiet life in that sleepy little village, and scarcely seeing anybody for weeks together.”
“Exactly. I don’t deny that. But as her affection for you is prompted by ulterior motives – pray pardon me for saying so – you should be forewarned; and this is the more desirable in view of the fact which you yourself discovered.”
“What fact?”
“That she has a secret lover.”
“Ah!” I cried eagerly. “Tell me, who is he?”
“An Italian named Bertini – Paolo Bertini.”
“Bertini,” I repeated, the name sounding somewhat familiar. “Surely I’ve heard that name before!”
“Of course. You remember, when you were in Brussels, the bold attempt he made one afternoon in your room at the Embassy?”
“Ah! I remember. Why, of course! And is he actually the same man?”
In an instant I recalled the face of Edith’s midnight visitor, and recollected where I had seen it on a previous occasion.
Kaye’s words brought back to me in that moment an incident which showed plainly the dastardly tricks of the foreign spies who constantly hover about every legation or embassy on the Continent. One afternoon, years ago, in Brussels, a well-dressed, gentlemanly man called to see His Excellency, and was shown into my room. Half an hour before, a Foreign Office messenger had arrived from London with despatches, and I was busily engaged in deciphering them when the servant showed in the stranger. The latter, who introduced himself as a shipowner of Antwerp, was seated near my table, and was talking to me about a complaint he had recently lodged against one of our consuls, when suddenly he stopped, turned pale, and fell back in a faint. I sprang up, and, rushing out of the room, went to get a glass of water. Fortunately I had on thin shoes, and the carpet in the corridor was so thick that my feet fell noiselessly. Judge of my surprise when, on my return, I saw my visitor standing in a perfect state of health with one of the deciphered despatches pinned against the wall and a camera in his hand! He had actually photographed it during my absence.
Without an instant’s hesitation I sprang upon him from behind, wrenched the camera from his hand, shouted for help, and held him until some of the servants came, when he was taken in charge by the police. After a short trial, during which it was proved that he was one of the cleverest spies employed by France, he was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for attempted theft, while the camera, together with the photographic films, was returned to us. The latter, on being developed, proved extremely interesting and very valuable, for not only did we find the photograph of our own despatch, but those of three other secret documents taken in the Italian Embassy in Brussels.
And it was this artful adventurer who had become Edith’s lover. She, young and inexperienced, had no doubt fallen his victim. She had become enmeshed in the net he had spread for her, and was the subordinate by means of whom he intended to operate further against us.
“What you tell me, Kaye, really staggers belief,” I said after a pause. “That man is absolutely unscrupulous.”
“He’s one of the most ingenious of all the army of secret agents. Indeed, I have a suspicion that he is the chief of the French spies operating in England. His intimate acquaintance with your friend Miss Austin shows conclusively that he is contemplating a big coup.”
Had this matter, I wondered, any connection with the gigantic conspiracy of which the Princess had told me? My promise of secrecy given to her prevented me from mentioning it to Kaye. Only a few weeks ago the Figaro had announced that Her Highness the Princess Léonie von Leutenberg had left the Château de Chantoiseau, and had returned to her mansion in the Frieung, in Vienna. She had left France without sending me a word.
“What connection had this man Bertini with the exposure of the Ceuta negotiations?” I inquired.
“He got to know of them by some means – how, I can’t tell. It is an absolute enigma.”
“And that despatch I brought from London, the exact contents of which were known a few hours after my return here, what of that?”
“Through him, I feel assured,” answered the clever man before me. “I only returned from London three days ago. I went myself to make inquiries.”
“And what did you find?”
“He carries on the business of a jeweller, and has a small shop half-way up the Edgware Road, one of those cheap Brummagem places that sell earrings and brooches for servant-girls. He poses as quite a respectable shopkeeper, and employs an Englishman as manager. The signor, it appears, has many friends in London, and when they call to see him they are always shown to his private room over the shop. I also learnt that your visitor of to-day has called upon him there.”
“Are you sure?” I cried quickly. “Are you absolutely certain of that?”
“I gave her description and name to the manager, who said he recollected her calling there twice about three weeks ago. Once his master was not in, but on the second occasion she had an interview with him. It has more than once struck me as curious that this fellow Bertini should have been near you on the day of the mysterious theft of the contents of that despatch. You don’t think that he followed you from Ryburgh to London?”
“I can’t tell. If he did, I had no suspicion of it. And besides, not a soul except the Chief could have possibly obtained sight of that despatch. I saw it written, saw it sealed, and it never left my possession for a single instant.”
“She did not accompany you to London?” he asked half-suspiciously.
“Certainly not,” I said.
Then I told him all that occurred on that well-remembered night, and how I had wandered in the early morning over the country-side to the village inn where for a moment I saw the Italian.
“Then he evidently saw and recognised you there!” Kaye exclaimed quickly. “In all probability he followed you to London. That the copy of the despatch was transmitted to Paris by him is certain.”
“And with regard to the Ceuta incident?”
“In that, I believe, he made Yolande de Foville his agent. Undoubtedly it was through her ingenuity that Lord Barmouth’s instructions leaked out.”
“But how could she possibly have known them?” I demanded. “Remember, you have denounced her as a spy, but as yet have given me no proof whatever.”
“You have sufficient proof in the fact that she fled in alarm from Paris, I should think.”
“But I understood from you that she was in the German service. If so, she would certainly never ally herself with Bertini!”
“He might, on the other hand, ally himself with her,” remarked the secret agent shrewdly. “It would be distinctly to his advantage if he could obtain her aid, for by means of her he could ascertain various facts which might be considered extremely valuable at the Quai d’Orsay.”
“It is all astounding!” I declared, puzzled. “Half the women one knows here seem to be secret agents. Paris is just now a veritable hotbed of diplomatic intrigue.”
“I quite agree; and it all tends to show that never, in the history of Europe, has there been a blacker outlook than to-day.”
I was silent. What he said was only too true; and, further, the mysterious exposure of the secret instructions contained in the despatch I had brought from London had thwarted English diplomacy throughout Europe, and tied the hands of all our ambassadors at the various Courts. Signs everywhere convinced me that the statement of the Princess was actually true, and that we were on the brink of a war in which the whole of Europe would be involved.
Russia alone remained inactive. It is the fashion of journalists who know nothing of the inner life of the diplomatic circle, and of alarmist writers who build up political theories for themselves, to abuse Russia and Russian methods. We have been told for the past half-century that Russia means to seize India, merely because she has taken steps to colonise her enormous Asiatic possessions. Why, a Russian ambassador in any one of the capitals may hardly pare his nails without a sensational article in the Press appearing next day. All this is very amusing; for the truth is, Russia does not intend to be aggressive, nor does she want war. Peaceful expansion of her commerce and the development of Siberia are her aims; and if certain journalists insist on exhibiting to us the war bogey, it is because they have never been in Russia, and know absolutely nothing of the conduct of Muscovite diplomacy. This, it must be confessed, is, next to that of the Vatican, the second best in the world; but it is never aggressive; as every genuine diplomatist will hasten to admit. Indeed, if the truth were told, there have been times in recent years when only the firmness of Russia and the peaceful policy of the Czar have averted war!
It is the journalist, nearly always the journalist, who creates the European scares! Because of this state of affairs, we at the embassies are compelled to be always on our guard against those ubiquitous writers who vie with one another in obtaining interviews.
The present situation was, however, no journalistic canard, but a stern and perilous reality. The tension of the acute crisis, which had been increasing ever since the Ceuta incident, was terrible. Everywhere in diplomacy there was a spirit of reserve, which showed that the amity of nations was strained to its utmost limit. War might be declared upon England at any moment.
Chapter Thirty
Knights of Industry
After Kaye had left, I sat for a long time pondering over his words. The assertion that Edith was a spy helping Paolo Bertini staggered me. At first I could not believe it, but what he had told me left no room for doubt. I recalled the man’s face as he had passed down the inn passage and out into the village street, and with the clue that Kaye had furnished recognised him. Without doubt all that the chief of the secret service had told me was true, for had not Edith herself refused to disclose the man’s name or the character of their friendship? Had she not at the same time acknowledged that he held power over her, invisible but complete, and that the betrayal of her secret would mean her ruin – perhaps even her death?
I saw it all now, as I sat deep in doubt and perplexity. Edith was staying at the Grand. Should I call upon her aunt, and dine with them? My first impulse was to do this, for I felt anxious to obtain from her some further proof of her actual association with this adventurer; but, on reflection, I saw that such a course was not commendable, inasmuch as by calling I should perhaps arouse Aunt Hetty’s suspicion that her niece had visited me. Therefore, I resolved to send a petit bleu to Miss Foskett, stating that I had seen her name in the visitors’ list and hoped to do myself the pleasure of calling on the following day after déjeuner. This formality, which I at once proceeded to put in operation, would, I knew, greatly please the punctilious old spinster.
That evening I dined at the Brasserie Nationale, in the Avenue de l’Opéra, an establishment German in style, but one widely patronised of late. Among other things, it is famous for its wonderful hors d’oeuvres; the wines, too, are always excellent and the cuisine not expensive. Below is a beer-hall, always crowded during afternoon and evening; but above, in a salon decorated in the ancient German style, one finds a crowd of gaily dressed diners, Parisian in all respects. The foreign tourist happily never goes there, for he patronises the Gazal, a little farther along the avenue, where the dinner is prix-fixe, “two francs fifty, vin compris.”
At the tables sat several persons whom I knew, for it chanced to be a première at the Opéra, and all Paris was dining in the vicinity.
Mariani, a well-known journalist on the staff of the Figaro, lounged in and took a seat with me. He was a thin-faced, middle-aged man of typical Parisian appearance. He had only that afternoon returned from Brussels, and presently, when we began to speak of the political situation, he paused with his wine-glass in his hand, saying, in that precise manner which was his chief characteristic:
“The Patrie, the Libre Parole, the Gaulois, the Petit Journal, and the Autorité repeat that war with England is inevitable; that it is always there, ready to break out at any hour of any day. Their object is clear: it is revenge for the High Court trials. They have realised that, despite all its efforts, they cannot overthrow the Republic in times of peace. They must, then, have war. And these misérables are preparing it in order to overthrow the Republic! They prepare war with England not only because they hate England, as a free country, but because they know that war with England would be a naval Sedan. Unless the Republicans abandon their blindness and their torpor, they will let the Republic and France be lost by means of these misérables.”
I agreed with him, but breathed a trifle more freely, for the Figaro was the organ of the French Government, and he was always well-informed. Nevertheless, it appeared that he had no idea of the exact direction of the political wind.
Near midnight, having attended a reception given by a smart Englishwoman, the wife of a peer resident in Paris, I was strolling along the Avenue de Neuilly on my way home. The night was cold but bright, and there were many people still about. A garde-de-ville, in his short cape, stood like a statue on the kerb at the Porte Maillott; the electric globes illuminated the Rond Point brightly, and a couple of harmless roysterers of the lower class lurched past me, singing the latest patriotic jingle of the cafés, a song inspired by the prevalent Anglophobia in Paris. They were singing the last verse:
Sous les éclats de la foudre
On vit tomber, noir de poudre,
Le dernier de ces vaillants,
Il cria: Vive la France!
Et l’écho répondit: France!..
En avant!.. Serrez vos rangs!..
I paused for a moment to glance at them. Truly the public spirit in Paris was everywhere anti-English. Fashoda had never been forgotten, and out of our difficulties with the Transvaal much capital was being made by the rabid organs of the Press.
Then I walked on until, at the corner of the Avenue de la Grande Armée and the Rue des Acacias, I suddenly became aware of two men walking slowly in front of me in earnest conversation. They were speaking in Italian, a language which I knew well, and it was a sentence I overheard which attracted my attention and caused me to glance at them.
Both were shabbily attired, and presented the signs of those hungry night-birds who creep forth at set of sun and slink about the boulevards. One wore a grey, soft felt hat stuck a trifle askew, as if its owner aimed at a rakish appearance, while the other wore a crumpled silk hat with a flat brim, the headgear typically Parisian.
Together, walking arm-in-arm, absorbed in their conversation, they passed beneath the big electric lamp which lit the street-refuge, and as the light fell upon them I drew back quickly in order to escape observation.
Those words in Italian had attracted me, and I now saw in front of me the two men whom I most desired to meet. The man who wore the high silk hat was none other than Rodolphe Wolf, while the other was that ingenious adventurer whom I had discovered at Ryburgh, Paolo Bertini.
They strolled along in a casual manner, as though well aware that out of doors they could talk freely. The fact that they spoke in Italian proved their desire to escape eavesdroppers. At the moment of recognition I had drawn back and allowed them to advance some distance in front; then, lounging along slowly, I followed them across the Avenue des Termes, up the narrow Rue Poncelet, and, traversing the Avenue Wagram, passed through a number of small streets until they suddenly halted before a small and uninviting-looking little café in the Rue Legendre, a few doors from the Mairie of Batignolles.
I was surprised to discover that Wolf was actually in Paris, while the presence of Bertini seemed to bear out all that Kaye had told me earlier in the evening. During the walk the Italian had pulled from his pocket a paper, which he handed to his companion, who stood for a moment beneath a street lamp reading it. Then he laughed lightly, folded it, and handed it back with an air of satisfaction. As neither of the interesting pair had once turned back, I had followed them entirely unnoticed.
Fortunately for me I was wearing a new overcoat, the astrakhan collar of which was turned up, the wind being chilly, so that my features were half-concealed. But the shabby appearance of the pair was in itself suspicious. Wolf had always been something of a fop, and it was scarcely possible that if he were a secret agent he could have fallen upon evil days.
I glanced at their boots. Those worn by Bertini were good ones of russet leather, while those of his companion were a smart pair of “patents.” This fact told me that for some unknown reason they had assumed the garb of loungers rapidly, and had not had time to change their boots. They had been, or were going, to some place where to be dressed well would arouse undue attention. That seemed certain.
I was standing back in the shadow of a doorway watching them, when suddenly, after some consultation, as it seemed, they entered the little café.
It was a frowsy, dirty place, at the window of which hung faded red blinds, much stained and fly-blown. From where I stood I could see that the ceiling, once white, was brown and discoloured by the gas, and the gilt decorations blackened and smoke-begrimed. It was called the Café de l’Étoile.
Dare I enter and risk detection?
Now that I had discovered them I intended to watch and find out where they were staying, so that Kaye and his staff might keep them under observation. The reason for their presence in Paris was without doubt a sinister one. Of all the men in the whole world who were my enemies the man Wolf was the bitterest; and next to him was this dark-faced Italian, with whom he had been walking so confidentially arm-in-arm.
As I stood in hesitation, an ill-dressed, unkempt fellow reeled out of the café, singing in a husky voice a vagabond song. His hat was askew, and he beat time with his finger:
Qu’ ça peut vous faire où qu’ nous allons?
Ça vous r’garde pas, que j’ suppose.
D’abord, j’allons où qu’ nous voulons…
… Où qu’ vous voulez… c’est la mêm’ chose.
Vous êtes d’ ceux qu’ont des états?
Ben! qué qu’ vous voulez qu’ ça nous foute?
Des états!.. j’en connaissons pas…
Nous, not’ métier, c’ést d’marcher su’ la route.
I strolled past the place and peered inside. A quick scrutiny sufficed to show that the two men were not visible; therefore, I concluded that they were at a table close behind the door. Thrice I passed and repassed, until I became convinced of the fact. The red blinds were drawn, and, although the door was half open, I could not, from the pavement, see who was sitting at the table behind it. In Paris, however, it is often a trick of those who lounge in cafés and desire to pass unnoticed to sit close behind the door with their backs to it, thus occupying a position which does not in the least expose them to passers-by.
Presently, emboldened by the fact that the little place seemed sleepy and half-deserted, I lit a cigarette, and, slipping into the doorway, stood with my ears open to catch every sound. Yes, they were there, as I had supposed. I heard words in Italian spoken rather low and confidentially. I distinctly heard my own name mentioned, together with that of the Princess von Leutenberg. Wolf it was who spoke of her sneeringly.
“I’ve seen her of late in Vienna,” he laughed. “Retirement at Rudolstadt did not suit her.”
“Is there any truth in what is said regarding the reason of her stay at Chantoiseau?”
“Certainly,” replied Wolf.
“Serious for her – eh?” remarked his companion.
“Very. She will be taught a lesson,” was the response.
“And at the British Embassy, what do they know?” asked Bertini.
“They are, as usual, utterly unsuspecting, and will remain so until the mine explodes. We have laid it cleverly this time, and it cannot fail.”
“I wonder whether the Princess told Ingram anything while he was a guest at Chantoiseau?” asked Bertini.
“She dare not. But what of the English girl? It is said she loves him.”
“No,” replied the Italian quickly, “I have her completely in my power. She cannot utter a word.”
“She’s a useful agent, I suppose?”
“Yes, at times. A girl of her character and appearance is never suspected.”
“And of Yolande? She was in London a month ago assisting me. Where is she now?”
“In Rome, I think; but I am not certain,” was the response. “Some little time ago I met Lord Barmouth’s daughter, with a view to bringing them together as friends, for by so doing I saw that we might gain some valuable information,” Wolf said. “The project, however, unfortunately failed, because of Ingram.”
“May an accident occur to him!” exclaimed Bertini, using an Italian oath. “He stands in our way at all times. I have not forgotten how cleverly he tricked me in Brussels and obtained the negatives of half a dozen documents from other embassies.”
“He is more dangerous to our plans than Kaye and the whole British secret service put together,” Wolf remarked. I could hear that, by way of emphasis, he struck the table heavily as he spoke these words. “If we could only contrive to suppress him!”
“Ah, but how?”
A silence fell between the pair.
“In some countries,” remarked Wolf in a low voice, “he would die suddenly. Here, in Paris, it would be dangerous.”
These men were actually plotting to take my life; I stood there motionless, my ears strained to catch every word, my feet rooted to the spot. “Why so dangerous?” asked the Italian.
“Because the English girl might betray us, or, failing her, there is the Princess.”
“The Princess! Bah!” ejaculated Bertini.
“She would never utter a syllable. She has too much to gain by silence.”
“But the girl Austin? What of her?”
“I admit that she might instantly give us away if one of these days her lover was found mysteriously dead. Nevertheless, if the situation becomes acute, well, we must resort to a desperate remedy, that’s all.”
I smiled within myself. Happily I had overheard this extremely interesting conversation, and should now be on my guard against both spies and assassins. It was lucky for me that they feared Edith; otherwise murder would have been a mere nothing to them. That they were not discussing an impossibility I well knew, for during my career as a diplomatist I had known of at least half a dozen cases where persons had been found dead under mysterious circumstances; and also that the crime of murder had actually been brought home to the members of the secret service of the various Powers. They are unscrupulous gentlemen, these spies, and hesitate at nothing in their feverish desire to do the bidding of their masters and obtain the rewards so temptingly offered to them.
The men dropped their voices so low that for a few minutes I could distinguish nothing, while another vulgar-looking, ruffianly fellow opened the door suddenly and emerged. As long as I heard their voices in consultation I felt secure from discovery. I determined to remain there in the doorway calmly smoking, as though awaiting the arrival of a friend.
“And how is everything at Feltham?” I heard Wolf inquire presently.
“All works splendidly. Everything is complete.” To what did they refer? I wondered. Where was Feltham? and what were the arrangements which worked so satisfactorily?
Again the Italian spoke, laughing low and contentedly, but I could not catch what he said, for my attention at that moment was distracted by the approach of a fiacre, which pulled up before the door of the café. The hood was up, and within the vehicle I saw the figure of a woman, who at once descended, and, as I moved into the shadow, walked straight into the place with the air of one who had entered there before. She was well-dressed in a dark tailor-made gown, and wore a close-fitting hat with a veil. She passed me by within a few feet, but, standing as I was in the deep shadow beyond the lamps of the cab, which, no doubt, dazzled her, she did not recognise me. But no second glance was necessary to tell me that the woman who had come there at midnight to meet the two spies was their associate and assistant, Edith Austin.
