Wallace Intervenes (5 page)

‘And you,' he retorted, ‘are far less of the cold, experienced woman of the world.'

‘I am glad you have found that out about me. And now,
Bernard, much as it distresses me, I must send you away. I have many engagements. Perhaps tomorrow—'

‘Tomorrow,' he declared, as he rose, ‘whether you have engagements or not, I will call at eleven in the morning, and kidnap you. I will drive you out of London, and we shall spend a day in the country.'

‘Oh,' she sighed, ‘how delightful that will be!'

‘You won't mind being kidnapped?'

‘I shall love it.'

He departed, without seeing anything of her maid or of the two companions. He wondered if the former had been listening to the conversation. If so, she had heard nothing of any particular significance, unless she considered that the decidedly sentimental turn that the conversation had taken, and Foster's avowed determination to accompany Sophie to Berlin and act as her friend and protector, would interest her employer. The young man smiled grimly as he reflected that it would probably interest him very much indeed. Well, let it. He felt he knew how to look after Sophie and himself as well. He would have been convinced that there was nothing at all of the cold, experienced woman of the world about the baroness had he seen her just after he left. She stood for some moments gently stroking the hand on which he had imprinted a kiss, her eyes, in which was the softest light imaginable, gazing into vacancy. At length she stirred, went into her bedroom, threw herself on the bed. ‘Sophie,' she murmured, to herself, ‘what a little fool you are!' Her maid entered quietly to find her lying there weeping gently, and stole out again, her woman's heart torn between affection and duty. Duty, that cold, unfeeling monster, won. Thus the conversation between Foster and the baroness was reported to the fellow called Carl, who relayed it to
Berlin. The recipient of it, a man who had an iron grip on all Germany, promptly went into a towering rage, and began to hatch in his mind a scheme which eventually had dire consequences to more than one person.

Foster duly called for the baroness next morning, and found her awaiting him. He drove her into the beautiful byways of Surrey and Sussex, and she was enchanted. They had a simple but marvellously cooked luncheon at an old inn, tea at a charming farmhouse. When eventually they returned to the Carlton, to find to their amusement that a stream of callers had been enquiring for the baroness, she declared that she had never been happier or had had a more delightful time in her life.

Thereafter Foster took her somewhere almost every day during the remainder of her stay in London. In consequence, he became decidedly unpopular with the people who felt they had a right to a certain amount of her society. However, they were forced to be content with meeting her at the receptions, balls, and at homes which she could not avoid. Foster seldom attended these. He disliked formalities of that kind; besides which, he knew he could not expect to have Sophie to himself at them, and matters had now reached such a pass that he hated being one of a crowd round her. He and she spoke no more of the danger which she had hinted was threatening her. She volunteered no information concerning it, while he made no effort to question her. Her remark that there were some things of which she could not yet speak, but perhaps someday would tell him, had caused him to hope that voluntarily she might give him the information which it was his business to obtain. He was a trifle puzzled by her. During their trips together she spoke often of Austria, and it was not difficult to gather that she possessed a deep, abiding love for the country of her birth. This
caused him all the more to wonder why she continued to reside in Berlin, since her husband was dead, and, above all, associate with von Strom and the German Chancellor, who, although of Austrian descent himself, was believed to have no particular affection for that country. It was quite well known that his ambition was to unite Austria and Germany, and make of them one large nation. Baron von Reudath had, shortly before his death, been very friendly with the Supreme Marshal. It was because of that that Sophie had been whirled into international politics, her shrewd common sense and keen judgement having, thereafter, proved of great value to von Strom; so much so that he had come to place immense reliance in her and discuss his problems with her.

The knowledge of this caused Foster to feel thoroughly amazed as he observed her keen enjoyment of their trips together. It was not a pose. She took an almost childlike pleasure in the outings. They certainly did her an immense amount of good. Two years previously, he learnt, she had had a bad accident, which had caused her heart to be severely strained. For a time her life had been despaired of, but a great physician in Vienna had pulled her through. He announced, however, that she would have to be careful, and would be more or less an invalid for the rest of her life. His prognostications had happily not been fulfilled. Gradually she had become stronger, though subject, from time to time, to fainting fits, especially when in a crowd. It was for that reason that she invariably took her maid, who was a trained nurse among other things – one of which Foster knew, and she did not, was membership of the German Espionage Department – to receptions, balls and theatres with her. She had come to London partially to consult a famous specialist in order to obtain a final opinion on the condition of her heart. Her doctor in Vienna had told her that
she was now quite cured, a specialist in Paris had agreed with him. She pinned all her hopes on the diagnosis of the famous man in Wimpole Street. Foster and her maid Hanni accompanied her on the eventful visit, waiting anxiously in an anteroom. She came to them at last, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks glowing.

‘It is true – there is no doubt!' she cried joyfully. ‘He was very careful, very thorough, and he says I am in perfect health – my heart is now as sound as a bell. How I love your English idioms, Bernard.' She threw her arms round the maid's neck. ‘How relieved you will be, my Hanni,' she laughed. ‘No more need you accompany me to the receptions and fetes which must have bored you so much. I will not faint again – that is certain.'

‘It a long time is since you did zat,' remarked Hanni in laboured English.

‘I know, but there was always the doubt. You will be glad to be relieved of that irksome duty – yes?'

‘Never am I tired of mine duty doing.'

‘Noble Hanni,' applauded Sophie.

Foster felt he could apply another and far more deserved, as well as descriptive, adjective to the woman's name, but for obvious reasons refrained. He told Sophie with simple sincerity of his great delight at the doctor's verdict. She took his arm happily.

‘Come!' she bade him. ‘We will go and celebrate.'

Foster met the two companions, of course, and liked them both. It was not long before he found that they were entirely devoted to the baroness. Once, when he looked up from some snapshots the latter was showing him, he found Rosemary's gaze fixed on him. In her eyes he read sorrow and compunction; guessed that she found the task set her by the department she served as distasteful as he was doing. He wished he could have talked the matter over with her,
but that was forbidden. He had been instructed to hold nothing but the most casual intercourse with her. She and Dora Reinwald presented a great contrast. Rosemary had beautifully waved brown hair, grey eyes, a slightly
retroussé
nose, and naturally scarlet lips that were most attractive in their shapeliness. She was, as a rule, vivacious, merry, and bright. Dora was of the pure Hebrew type. She had black hair parted in the middle and drawn back from her tiny ears. Her face was pale and serene, oval in shape, and perfect in every feature. Her eyes were large and dark containing in their depths that suggestion of remoteness which is so typical of her race. In her figure and all her movements she was amazingly graceful. Knowing of the unpopularity of Jews in Germany, Foster wondered how it was that Sophie retained in her service, apparently without question, a girl who was so obviously Hebrew. The three women were great friends – not once did her attitude towards the other two suggest that the baroness was mistress, they her paid companions, and Foster liked her all the better for it.

Without going near headquarters the Secret Service man daily reported to either Sir Leonard or Major Brien. There was never anything of much importance to tell them, but the chief insisted on his carrying out the routine. He was certainly interested in the baroness' announcement to Foster that she was in danger, though she apparently did not know exactly what it was she feared. Her statement that perhaps she would one day tell the young man of certain things she could not at present divulge also interested Sir Leonard, and set that astute mind of his very busily to work. Taking care, as he had been warned, to neglect nothing, however trivial it may have appeared to him, Foster did not forget to mention the look of hatred that had momentarily flashed across the face of the baroness, when he had reminded her of her admission
that Germany's Marshal of State was her friend. This item of information caused a smile to spread over the chief's face.

‘I think you can go ahead with your job, Foster,' he had declared, ‘without your conscience worrying you any longer.'

Foster pondered over the remark without being able to understand the significance of it. He would have liked to have asked what Sir Leonard had meant, but could not bring himself to put the question. For one thing, it is not quite usual for junior agents to question the Chief of the Secret Service, for another, he rather feared that the answer might give him an unpleasant jolt, might in fact hurt. He could no longer disguise from himself the fact that he was deeply, irrevocably in love with Sophie. Here was no case of infatuation; it was undoubtedly, irresistibly, painfully the real thing. He was afraid that Sir Leonard's remark might mean that she was not worth consideration, for some reason or other and, though he would never believe it, even from the chief, he felt he could not bear to hear it. He had done exactly what he had been warned not to do – fallen in love with her. Whatever suffering would accrue from that fact was his own responsibility entirely. But how could a fellow help falling in love, especially with a wonderful, altogether charming woman like Sophie von Reudath?

Sir Leonard meditated on the inevitable with mixed feelings. Although Foster did not know it, his association with the baroness was carefully watched, and it was not long before Wallace was quite certain that his junior was actually and hopelessly in love. He was not surprised, or annoyed, neither was he gratified. The situation bade fair to present too many complications for him to feel much pleasure in it. A man pretending to be in love is quite a different proposition from a man really in love.

‘It has its compensations,' he remarked to Major Brien,
philosophically. ‘We certainly have one thing for which to be greatly thankful.'

‘What is that?'

‘The fact that she is also in love with him.'

‘Do you really think she is?'

‘Absolutely. She has surprisingly fallen a victim to his sex appeal, or whatever it is one falls a victim to, considering that she is generally considered to be an experienced worldly-wise woman.' He sent for Cousins. When that little man appeared: ‘You and I will be taking a trip to the continent soon, Cousins,' he announced, ‘and, for obvious reasons, will have to be disguised.'

‘What as, sir?' queried the grotesquely wrinkled Secret Service man.

‘That I have not quite decided. We shall probably change a good deal. It is always safest to appear as a native of the country one is in on occasions like this. As we shall be going to Germany, and it is almost certain that her very efficient secret police will be looking for us, or for someone from this department, we cannot afford to take risks.'

During the last two or three days of the Baroness von Reudath’s visit to London, she made several attempts to dissuade Foster from accompanying her to Budapest, thence to Berlin.

‘Why,’ she would ask, ‘should the danger which is threatening me also be allowed to fall on you?’

‘For a very obvious reason,’ was his answer, but he would not declare that reason, though all the time he longed to tell her it was because he loved her.

It is certain, however, that Sophie knew very well what he meant. Her remark, on one occasion, that that obvious reason was the very one which most caused her to wish he would stay in London was significant. At all events, she, of course, failed entirely to persuade him to let her go alone. His refusal, it must be confessed, gave her a great deal of frank pleasure even though she was honestly worried at the thought of leading him into peril. She declined to give him
any indication of the direction in which danger lay and of what it consisted, despite several attempts on his part to find out.

‘It is best that you should know nothing at all,’ she told him; ‘at least not until I am certain the danger really exists and is imminently menacing us. It will be time enough to tell you everything then.’

‘It may be too late,’ he warned her.

How prophetic words can sometimes be! He remembered his remark afterwards. So did she, at probably the most terrible moment of her life.

It was a glorious morning when they left London. Quite a large crowd collected to bid the baroness farewell at Victoria, and there were many significant smiles and whispers when it was seen that Foster was accompanying her.

Two attachés at the German embassy regarded the young Englishman with haughty, disapproving stares – much to his secret amusement.

Crossing over on the boat Foster caught sight of the man Carl sitting on a seat near the stern between two elderly ladies. He saw him again on the train. For a member of the German Espionage Department he did not seem particularly astute, but Foster reflected that the man had no reason to fear that he was known or suspected. The Englishman also remembered with a grin the opinion of him expressed by the maid, Hanni, which shows that one can never judge by appearances. In any case he considered Carl a fool. A man like that would not last in the British Secret Service a day. Sir Leonard Wallace would not tolerate carelessness. One of his invariable rules was that no matter whether an agent was certain or not that his identity was unknown to a party he was watching he must not expose himself under any consideration whatever, unless, of course, he was in disguise.

The journey to Budapest was almost a dream of delight to Foster. There is nothing, as a rule, either dreamlike or particularly delightful about train travelling even in the luxury expresses of the Continent, but he felt thoroughly happy. Except at night he spent practically the whole of the time with Sophie and perhaps during the trip they learnt to know each other completely. It is certain that, on several occasions, he was on the point of revealing to her the secret of his heart which really was no secret at all, at least to others, but then there is a trite, though very true, saying that lookers-on see most of the game. Rosemary Meredith and Dora Reinwald certainly did. With infinite tact they effaced themselves, and little was seen of them. The woman, Hanni, also took care to appear only on rare occasions to discover if her mistress had need of her.

A suite of rooms had been engaged for the baroness and her companions at the Hungaria Hotel in Budapest. Foster obtained a bedroom on the floor above which faced upon the Danube and the hills of Buda immediately beyond. It was an amazing apartment, very large and furnished luxuriously in the finest Empire style. Napoleon, it was apparent, had left his influence on the Hungarian mind. The high double doors ornamented with gilt relief, the walls covered with silken panels, the enormous chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, the mahogany furniture upholstered in green brocade, the heavily draped windows, magnificent mirror, and deeply panelled, floriated ceiling gave the young Englishman the feeling that he was lodged in a palace. He had never been in Budapest before, and he decided he was going to enjoy the experience immensely.

Before dressing for dinner he and Sophie walked for a while on the Corso. There is something of the colour of the East about
Hungary, even the language was totally different from any of the European tongues Foster knew. The people interested him. There was something strong, vigorous and animated about them. They showed nothing of the bitterness of a race that had been tyrannised and oppressed for centuries; were eloquent in their cheerful vitality of the power of humanity to survive terrible disasters. Sophie knew Budapest, in fact the whole of Hungary, well, loved the people and the country almost as much as she loved her own. After dinner she suggested a visit to the Dunapalata roof restaurant. There they were escorted to a table in an advantageous position, from where they had a perfect view of the Danube, looking dark and fascinating far below. The declining moon threw into vivid relief the hills and castle of Buda, tinging them with an air of mysterious beauty wholly enchanting. The orchestra played a fast Viennese waltz and Foster became absorbed in watching the rapid whirling of the dancing couples. All the men and women were exceptionally well-groomed. Several officers, most of them in sky blue uniforms, danced with girls who could only be described as beautiful. The Englishman felt he had never seen so many pretty faces in one place at the same time before. Sophie loved dancing, but had perforce been compelled to give it up on account of her heart trouble. Now that she had been declared by three specialists perfectly fit, she was eager to commence again. Foster was no less keen to dance with her, though he had been rather diffident at suggesting it. He found that she danced divinely, became anxious lest she should think him an indifferent exponent of the art of Terpsichore. Such is the timidity and humbleness of love. As a matter of fact he was an excellent performer, and Sophie was quick to tell him so, a compliment which pleased him immensely. Thereafter they danced until well in the early hours of the morning. It is a tribute to his self-control
that he did not tell her of his love for her as they danced that night. Her head reached just above his shoulder, and her lovely fair hair, shining dazzlingly under the brilliant light, fascinated him, the faint, attractive scene of it threatened to intoxicate his senses. The feel of her lithe body sent thrill upon thrill through him, causing him to long to clasp her tight to him. Although dancing with her was a sheer delight, it yet had its tortures, albeit even they were very sweet. On the way back to the hotel she was silent for so long that he questioned her about it.

‘I think happiness makes me quiet,’ she murmured in reply. ‘Perhaps I am afraid that if I talk I will break the spell. Intrigues and politics seem very, very far away tonight, Bernard.’

‘Why do you concern yourself with matters like that?’ he asked impulsively. ‘You were made for happiness and – and—’ he paused in confusion.

‘Were you going to say love?’ she questioned softly.

‘Yes,’ he replied huskily. ‘You were made to love and be loved. There is nothing of love in international politics, Sophie.’

‘You are right,’ she agreed in a low, bitter voice. ‘Nothing but heartache and humiliation. For me there can be no thought of love until my task is finished.’

It was the first time she had gone so far as to tell him that she was engaged in an actual occupation. He started slightly. What task could it be to which she referred? Was she actively employed with the Supreme Marshal on a scheme possibly calculated to put Germany in an unassailable position of power? Gently he asked her to tell him what she meant.

‘Not now,’ she whispered. ‘I think, though, that before very long I shall tell you all. There is just one link to a chain that I wish to find, afterwards you will help me to connect the whole chain together.’

‘You are talking in riddles,’ he complained, feeling indeed extremely puzzled.

‘I am sorry, Bernard, but I do not wish to involve you. If you insist on coming to Berlin with me, it is best for you to know nothing at all. It will be easier then for you to avoid danger, or for me to keep danger from you.’

‘But Sophie, I—’ he began vehemently.

She gently placed her hand on his lips.

‘S’sh I …’ she murmured. ‘I know the necessity of this. You do not. When the time comes I will tell you everything, never fear, and you shall help me. Afterwards, perhaps together, we will come back here to enjoy ourselves without any shadows to spoil our happiness, or go to my own beautiful Vienna. What do you think, my dear friend?’

‘I shall be happy with you wherever it may he,’ he whispered, ‘but as your love for Vienna is so great, Sophie, let us go there by all means.’

After five glorious days in Budapest they drove over the Margaret Bridge to the isle of St Margaret’s in the Danube. There they sat in the rose garden at Floris’s, consuming tea and iced cakes, and taking delight in the laughter and light chatter round them. The garden was crowded with people, most of the women being dressed in chiffons and large hats, which gave them an appearance of gaiety eminently suitable to their prevailing characteristics. Foster felt thoroughly content. It was an idyllic spot in which to lounge with the woman who had taken such complete possession of him. But his contentment and hers were doomed to be rudely shattered. They both caught sight at the same time of Dora Reinwald approaching them. In her pale, usually serene face was an expression that told them she was the bearer of unpleasant news.

‘Dora!’ exclaimed the baroness, suddenly turning pale. ‘What can she want with me? What is it?’ she demanded in German as the girl reached their table. ‘Why have you come here?’

‘I thought it would be better,’ replied Dora. She possessed a deep contralto voice, which contrasted attractively with the delightful silvery tones of the baroness. ‘A courier has arrived from Berlin. I decided that you would rather be prepared to meet him than confront him without warning.’

Sophie’s blue eyes opened wide. She was obviously very much startled. Watching her, Foster decided she was also momentarily stricken with fear, and again wondered of what she was frightened. He took good care to appear as though he did not understand.

‘God in Heaven!’ muttered the baroness in a voice that could hardly be heard. ‘What can this mean?’

‘He has a letter for you from His Excellency,’ the girl told her. ‘He says it is urgent. I pretended I did not know where you were, but told him you would be back for lunch. He has reserved a room at the Waitzner-Gasse, but announced that he would wait at the Hungaria for your return, as his orders were to place the document in your hands at the earliest possible moment.’

Sophie had fully recovered herself by the time Dora had finished speaking. She even smiled.

‘It was sweet of you to come and warn me, dear,’ she remarked gratefully. ‘Where is Rosemary?’

‘On this island, I think, at the Strand Bath with some English people.’

‘Try and find her, will you? Warn her not to tell this courier where I am in case she goes soon back to the hotel and meets him. I want to have time to think. Perhaps Herr Foster and I will not return until this evening. If we do not, Dora, and the courier grows
alarmed, inform him that I must have gone for some excursion, but must certainly return in order to dress for dinner.’

‘Very well, Baroness.’

The girl hurried away, and Foster resumed the seat from which he had risen at her approach.

‘Is there anything wrong?’ he enquired innocently.

Sophie’s face seemed suddenly to have become haggard. The beauty remained there, but she looked older.

‘Forgive me for talking in German, my friend,’ she begged. ‘But it is my own language and it was natural to use it since Dora addressed me in it. I forgot you did not understand. A courier has arrived from Berlin with a letter for me.’

‘Is there anything unpleasant in that? If it is none of my business, please say so, but you looked startled, and I—’

‘I was startled. I think it means that I must leave for Berlin almost at once.’

‘You mean, cut short your stay here?’

She nodded slowly.

‘Yes. The happiness your companionship has given me has, I believe, abruptly been ended.’

‘But surely,’ he cried in dismay, ‘our companionship can continue in Berlin?’

‘In Berlin, my Bernard,’ she murmured sadly, ‘I will not be any longer my own mistress. All the time I will be at the – what is it you say in English? Ah! I know – at the beck and call of others.’

‘But—’

‘You are full of “buts”,’ she interrupted with an attempt at gaiety. ‘Is it not your great Shakespeare who says, “But me no buts!”? I may be wrong. Perhaps His Excellency does not bid me
return. I think, however, that it is so. What a pity that a time so delightful is to be so soon cut short!’

‘Must you go?’ demanded Foster. ‘What right has he to order your return?’

‘It will not be exactly an order, Bernard, but it will amount to the same thing. If I dared, I would not go.’

He regarded her with troubled eyes.

‘I don’t understand. Why is it you dare not refuse?’

‘Because there is something I must know. If I knew that thing now, Berlin would never see me again.’