Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
want to ask you this: have you heard anything from Freistner during the last day or two?”
Fenn’s face was immovable. He still showed no signs of discomposure—his voice only was not altogether natural.
“Last day or two?” he repeated reflectively. “No, I can’t say that I have, Miss Abbeway. I needn’t remind you that we don’t risk communications except when they are necessary.”
“Will you try and get into touch with him at once?” she begged.
“Why?” Fenn asked, glancing at her searchingly.
“One of our Russian writers,” she said, “once wrote that there are a thousand eddies in the winds of chance. One of those has blown my way to-day—or rather yesterday. Freistner is above all suspicion, is he not?”
“Far above,” was the confident reply. “I am not the only one who knows him. Ask the others.”
“Do you think it possible that he himself can have been deceived?” she persisted.
“In what manner?”
“In his own strength—the strength of his own Party,” she proceeded eagerly. “Do you think it possible that the Imperialists have pretended to recognise in him a far greater factor in the situation than he really is? Have pretended to acquiesce in these terms of peace with the intention of repudiating them when we have once gone too far?”
Fenn seemed for a moment to have shrunk in his chair. His eyes had fallen before her passionate gaze. The penholder which he was grasping snapped in his fingers. Nevertheless, his voice still performed its office.
“My dear Miss Abbeway,” he protested, “who or what has been putting these ideas into your head?”
“A veritable chance,” she replied, “brought me yesterday afternoon into contact with a man—a neutral—who is supposed to be very intimately acquainted with what goes on in Germany.”
“What did he tell you?” Fenn demanded feverishly.
“He told me nothing,” she admitted. “I have no more to go on than an uplifted eyebrow. All the same, I came away feeling uneasy. I have felt wretched ever since. I am wretched now. I beg you to get at once into touch with Freistner. You can do that now without any risk. Simply ask him for a confirmation of the existing situation.”
“That is quite easy,” Fenn promised. “I will do it without delay. But in the meantime,” he added, moistening his dry lips, “can’t you possibly get to know what this man—this neutral—is driving at?”
“I fear not,” she replied, “but I shall try. I have invited him to dine to-night.”
“If you discover anything, when shall you let us know?”
“Immediately,” she promised. “I shall telephone for Mr. Orden.”
For a moment he lost control of himself.
“Why Mr. Orden?” he demanded passionately. “He is the youngest member of the Council. He knows nothing of our negotiations with Freistner. Surely I am the person with whom you should communicate?”
“It will be very late to-night,” she reminded him, “and Mr. Orden is my personal friend—outside the Council.”
“And am I not?” he asked fiercely. “I want to be. I have tried to be.”
She appeared to find his agitation disconcerting, and she withdrew a little from the yellow-stained fingers which had crept out towards hers.
“We are all friends,” she said evasively. “Perhaps—if there is anything important, then—I will come, or send for you.”
He rose to his feet, less, it seemed, as an act of courtesy in view of her departure, than with the intention of some further movement. He suddenly reseated himself, however, his fingers grasped at the air, he became ghastly pale.
“Are you ill, Mr. Fenn?” she exclaimed.
He poured himself out a glass of water with trembling fingers and drank it unsteadily.
“Nerves, I suppose,” he said. “I’ve had to carry the whole burden of these negotiations upon my shoulders, with very little help from any one, with none of the sympathy that counts.”
A momentary impulse of kindness did battle with her invincible dislike of the man.
“You must remember,” she urged, “that yours is a glorious work; that our thoughts and gratitude are with you.”
“But are they?” he demanded, with another little burst of passion. “Gratitude, indeed! If the Council feel that, why was I not selected to approach the Prime Minister instead of Julian Orden? Sympathy! If you, the one person from whom I desire it, have any to offer, why can you not be kinder? Why can you not respond, ever so little, to what I feel for you?”
She hesitated for a moment, seeking for the words which would hurt him least. Tactless as ever, he misunderstood her.
“I may have had one small check in my career,” he continued eagerly, “but the game is not finished. Believe me, I have still great cards up my sleeve. I know that you have been used to wealth and luxury. Miss Abbeway,” he went on, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, “I was not boasting the other night. I have saved money, I have speculated fortunately—I—”
The look in her eyes stifled his eloquence. He broke off in his speech—became dumb and voiceless.
“Mr. Fenn,” she said, “once and for all this sort of conversation is distasteful to me. A great deal of what you say I do not understand. What I do understand, I dislike.”
She left him, with an inscrutable look. He made no effort to open the door for her. He simply stood listening to her departing footsteps, listened to the shrill summons of the lift-bell, listened to the lift itself go clanging downwards. Then he resumed his seat at his desk. With his hands clasped nervously together, an ink smear upon his cheek, his mouth slightly open, disclosing his irregular and discoloured teeth, he was not by any means a pleasant looking object.
He blew down a tube by his side and gave a muttered order. In a few minutes Bright presented himself.
“I am busy,” the latter observed curtly, as he closed the door behind him.
“You’ve got to be busier in a few minutes,” was the harsh reply. “There’s a screw loose somewhere.”
Bright stood motionless.
“Any one been disagreeable?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.
“Get down to your office at once,” Fenn directed briefly. “Have Miss Abbeway followed. I want reports of her movements every hour. I shall be here all night.”
Bright grinned unpleasantly.
“Another Samson, eh?”
“Go to Hell, and do as you’re told!” was the fierce reply. “Put your best men on the job. I must know, for all our sakes, the name of the neutral whom Miss Abbeway sees to-night and with whom she is exchanging confidences.”
Bright left the room with a shrug of the shoulders. Nicholas Fenn turned up the electric light, pulled out a bank book from the drawer of his desk, and, throwing it on to the fire, watched it until it was consumed.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Baron Hellman, comfortably seated at the brilliantly decorated round dining table, between Catherine, on one side, and a lady to whom he had not been introduced, contemplated the menu through his immovable eyeglass with satisfaction, unfolded his napkin, and continued the conversation with his hostess, a few places away, which the announcement of dinner