THE SPY PARAMOUNT. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
a young pine sapling saved him. Once he hung over an absolutely sheer precipice, his legs dangling in the air, the trunk of the tree he clasped cracking and splintering in his hands. He pulled himself up again, made a little détour and felt the ground rise beneath his feet. As he descended lower and lower, the wind and rain grew less, the cold decreased. The time came when he found himself standing upright on the solid earth. Below him long stretches of wood still lay like black smudges of fallen clouds, but for a time, at any rate, he had reached a rough path down which he was able to scramble without difficulty. He took one pull at his flask and, in a dark spot with trees all around, one quick glance at his compass with the help of his torch. A sparsely planted wood was a godsend to him. He swung himself from trunk to trunk of the trees, his feet secure in the thick accumulation of pine needles below. When he emerged, it was to face a flickering light from a small hamlet already astir. Before daybreak, he was in his car, clad in a rough knickerbocker suit, smoking a pipe, leaning nonchalantly back in his seat and already well on his way down the great descent to the sea.
* * * * *
Monsieur Carlotti, the very popular manager of the Hôtel de France, was taking his usual morning promenade in the lounge of the hotel when Fawley drove up and entered. He welcomed his returning guest with a beaming smile.
“Monsieur has found the weather inclement, I fear,” he remarked.
“Fiendish,” was the emphatic reply. “No more of your mountains for me, Monsieur Carlotti. I have finished with them. Cagnes may be dull golf but it will be good enough for me.”
Carlotti’s eyes twinkled with comprehension.
“The telephones have been busy this morning,” he observed. “There has been a great deal of disturbance and still is at the frontiers. The weather again, without a doubt.”
Fawley nodded.
“I shall not trouble the frontiers,” he confided. “A few quiet days in this warmth will suit me better.”
Carlotti bowed.
“It is good news for us,” he declared. “If by chance,” he added, as the two men neared the lift, “Monsieur should be in need of a golfing companion, there is a Mr. Krust here who would like a game.”
“Fix it up for me,” Fawley replied. “To-morrow or the next day—as soon as the weather gets decent.”
The little man remained below, smiling and bowing. Fawley mounted to his apartments upon the second floor. The valet, whom he met in the corridor, threw open the doors and shutters.
“There have been telephone enquiries for Monsieur,” he announced, pointing to some slips upon the table. “No letters.”
“A hot bath—quickly,” Fawley ordered. “As soon as you have turned the water on, find the waiter and order coffee—a large pot—café complet.”
The valet bustled off. Fawley strolled into the room twenty minutes later in his dressing gown, a different man. The coffee was steaming upon the table, a delicious fragrance was in the air. He ordered more rolls and butter. In the act of serving himself, he stopped abruptly. Upon his writing table, in a prominent position, was a blue envelope. He called to the valet.
“Henri,” he pointed out, “that letter was not on my table when I went to my bath a few minutes ago.”
“Certainly it was not, sir.”
“Who has been in the room?”
“No one, sir, except the waiter who brought the coffee.”
Fawley turned to the latter who had just reappeared.
“Did you bring that note?” he asked.
The man shook his head.
“Non, Monsieur,” he replied. “I have not seen it before. Ten minutes ago when I first came it was not there.”
Fawley made no further remark. He possessed himself of the note and turned to the valet.
“Send me the coiffeur,” he ordered, “in twenty minutes. Afterwards you might put me out a grey tweed suit and flannel shirt.”
“No golf or tennis to-day, sir?”
Fawley shook his head. The man disappeared. Fawley poured out the coffee with his right hand. His left palm lay over the letter in the blue envelope. Just at that moment, without any previous warning, there came an almost peremptory knocking at the inside door of the salon.
CHAPTER IX
Fawley’s left hand conveyed the letter in the blue envelope to the safe recesses of his pocket. His right hand continued its task of pouring out the coffee.
“Come in,” he invited.
The door was promptly opened. The person who stood upon the threshold was one of the most harmless-looking elderly gentlemen possible to conceive. He was inclined to be stout but his broad shoulders and erect carriage somewhat discounted the fact. He was possessed of a pink and white complexion, eyes of almost a China blue and shortly cropped grey hair. He wore a grey knickerbocker suit and carried in his hand a hat of the same colour of quaint design.
“I have the pleasure to address Major Fawley, is it not so?” he began in a clear pleasant voice with a slight foreign accent. “I was hoping to present a letter of introduction but it arrives late. My name is Krust.”
“Adolf Krust?” Fawley asked, rising to his feet.
“The same,” was the cheerful rejoinder. “You have heard of me, yes?”
“Naturally,” Fawley replied. “Any one who takes an interest in European politics must have heard of Adolf Krust. Come in and sit down, sir.”
The visitor shook hands but hesitated.
“This is not a formal visit,” he said. “I ventured to look in to ask if you would care to play golf with me to-day. I have heard of you from a mutual friend, besides this letter of introduction of which I spoke.”
“That is quite all right,” Fawley assured him. “You have had your coffee, I suppose?”
“At seven o’clock,” the other answered. “What I wished to explain was that I am not alone. My two nieces are with me. It is permitted to ask them to enter?”
“By all means,” Fawley assented. “I hope they will excuse my rather unconventional attire.”
“They are unconventional themselves,” Krust declared. “Nina!”
Two young women entered at once. They wore the correct tweed clothes of the feminine golfer but they gave one rather the impression of being dressed for a scene in a musical comedy. Their bérets were almost too perfect and the delicacy of their complexions could scarcely have survived a strenuous outdoor life. They were, as a matter of fact, exceedingly pretty girls.
“Let me present Major Fawley,” Krust said, waving his hand. “Miss Nina Heldersturm—Miss Greta Müller.”
Fawley bowed, shook hands with the young women, apologised for his costume and disposed of them upon a divan.
“We owe you apologies,” Krust went on, “for descending upon you like this, but the fact of it is our rooms are all upon this floor. I ventured—”
“Not another word, please,” Fawley begged. “I am very glad indeed to meet you, Mr. Krust, and your charming nieces.”
“We go to golf,” Krust declared. “These young ladies are too frivolous for the pursuit. I myself am a serious golfer. It has been said of me that I take my nieces with me to distract my opponents!”