Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips Oppenheim
shone out of his blue eyes.
“Johann Wolff,” he repeated. “That is not my name. I am Ludwig Miller, and I know nothing of this matter beyond what I have told you. I am just a messenger.”
“Once in Vienna and twice in Cracow, my friend, we have met,” Seaman reminded him softly but very insistently.
The other shook his head gently. “A mistake. I have been in Vienna once many years ago, but Cracow never.”
“You have no idea with whom you are talking?”
“Herr Seaman was the name, I understood.”
“It is a very good name,” Seaman scoffed. “Look here and think.”
He undid his coat and waistcoat and displayed a plain vest of chamois leather. Attached to the left-hand side of it was a bronze decoration, with lettering and a number. Miller stared at it blankly and shook his head.
“Information Department, Bureau Twelve, password—‘The Day is coming,’” Seaman continued, dropping his voice.
His listener shook his head and smiled with the puzzled ignorance of a child.
“The gentleman mistakes me for some one else,” he replied. “I know nothing of these things.”
Seaman sat and studied this obstinate visitor for several minutes without speaking, his finger tips pressed together, his eyebrows gently contracted. His vis-a-vis endured this scrutiny without flinching, calm, phlegmatic, the very prototype of the bourgeois German of the tradesman class.
“Do you propose,” Dominey enquired, “to stay in these parts long?”
“One or two days—a week, perhaps,” was the indifferent answer. “I have a cousin in Norwich who makes toys. I love the English country. I spend my holiday here, perhaps.”
“Just so,” Seaman muttered grimly. “The English country under a foot of snow! So you have nothing more to say to me, Johann Wolff?”
“I have executed my mission to his Excellency,” was the apologetic reply. “I am sorry to have caused displeasure to you, Herr Seaman.”
The latter rose to his feet. Dominey had already turned towards the door.
“You will spend the night here, of course, Mr. Miller?” he invited. “I dare say Mr. Seaman would like to have another talk with you in the morning.”
“I shall gladly spend the night here, your Excellency,” was the polite reply. “I do not think that I have anything to say, however, which would interest your friend.”
“You are making a great mistake, Wolff,” Seaman declared angrily. “I am your superior in the Service, and your attitude towards me is indefensible.”
“If the gentleman would only believe,” the culprit begged, “that he is mistaking me for some one else!”
There was trouble in Seaman’s face as the two men made their way to the front of the house and trouble in his tone as he answered his companion’s query.
“What do you think of that fellow and his visit?”
“I do not know what to think, but there is a great deal that I know,” Seaman replied gravely. “The man is a spy, a favourite in the Wilhelmstrasse and only made use of on important occasions. His name is Wolff—Johann Wolff.”
“And this story of his?”
“You ought to be the best judge of that.”
“I am,” Dominey assented confidently. “Without the shadow of a doubt I threw the body of the man I killed into the Blue River and watched it sink.”
“Then the story is a fake,” Seaman decided. “For some reason or other we have come under the suspicion of our own secret service.”
Seaman, as they emerged into the hall, was summoned imperiously to her side by the Princess Eiderstrom. Dominey disappeared for a moment and returned presently, having discarded some of his soaked shooting garments. He was followed by his valet, bearing a note upon a silver tray.
“From the person in Mr. Parkins’ room—to Mr. Seaman, sir,” the man announced, in a low tone.
Dominey took it from the salver with a little nod. Then he turned to where the youngest and most frivolous of his guests were in the act of rising from the tea table.
“A game of pills, Eddy,” he proposed. “They tell me that pool is one of your greatest accomplishments.”
“I’m pretty useful,” the young man confessed, with a satisfied chuckle. “Give you a black at snooker, what?”
Dominey took his arm and led him into the billiard-room.
“You will give me nothing, young fellow,” he replied. “Set them up, and I will show you how I made a living for two months at Johannesberg!”
CHAPTER XXII
The evening at Dominey hall was practically a repetition of the previous one, with a different set of guests from the outer world. After dinner, Dominey was absent for a few minutes and returned with Rosamund upon his arm. She received the congratulations of her neighbours charmingly, and a little court soon gathered around her. Doctor Harrison, who had been dining, remained upon the outskirts, listening to her light-hearted and at times almost brilliant chatter with grave and watchful interest. Dominey, satisfied that she was being entertained, obeyed Terniloff’s gestured behest and strolled with him to a distant corner of the hall.
“Let me now, my dear host,” the Prince began, with some eagerness in his tone, “continue and, I trust, conclude the conversation to which all that I said this morning was merely the prelude.”
“I am entirely at your service,” murmured his host.
“I have tried to make you understand that from my own point of view—and I am in a position to know something—the fear of war between this country and our own has passed. England is willing to make all reasonable sacrifices to ensure peace. She wants peace, she intends peace, therefore there will be peace. Therefore, I maintain, my young friend, it is far better for you to disappear at once from this false position.”
“I am scarcely my own master,” Dominey replied. “You yourself must know that. I am here as a servant under orders.”
“Join your protests with mine,” the Prince suggested. “I will make a report directly I get back to London. To my mind, the matter is urgent. If anything should lead to the discovery of your false position in this country, the friendship between us which has become a real pleasure to me must seriously undermine my own position.”
Dominey had risen to his feet and was standing on the hearthrug, in front of a fire of blazing logs. The Ambassador was sitting with crossed legs in a comfortable easy-chair, smoking one of the long, thin cigars which were his particular fancy.
“Your Excellency,” Dominey said, “there is just one fallacy in all that you have said.”
“A fallacy?”
“You have come to the absolute conclusion,” Dominey continued, “that because England wants peace there will be peace. I am of Seaman’s mind. I believe in the ultimate power of the military party of Germany. I believe that in time they will thrust their will upon the Kaiser, if he is not at the present moment secretly in league with them. Therefore, I believe that there will be war.”
“If I shared that belief with you, my friend,” the Ambassador said quietly, “I should consider my position here one of dishonour. My mandate is for peace, and my charge is from the Kaiser’s lips.”
Stephanie, with the air of one a little weary of the conversation, broke