The Spy Paramount by E Phillips Oppenheim

Author:E Phillips Oppenheim
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press, Inc.
Published: 2016-07-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XVII

Almost before they had stepped on to the dancing-floor the shock came. There was the sound of a shrill, penetrating whistle from a distant corner, two sharp revolver shots, and within another second the whole room was enveloped in darkness. For a moment or two the music continued, the dancers swayed into one another, a moving phalanx of half-laughing, half-terrified humanity, groping their way through the perfumed obscurity. Then a woman’s hysterical cry following those two reports struck a note of fear. Somewhere in the middle of the floor a woman had fainted, calling out wildly as she collapsed…. A powerful hand gripped Fawley’s arm, a man’s voice whispered in his ear:

“I lead you. Hold my wrist and the Princess.”

Fawley for a moment hesitated. It was obvious that there was some sort of trouble on hand. Elida whispered in his ear.

“It is Gustaf who speaks. Do anything he says.”

Behind them in the darkness was the sound of something which was like a concerted movement—the steady shuffling of purposeful feet. From the corner near where they had been seated and in the vicinity of which the two shots had been fired they could hear the low moaning of a wounded man. Someone on the dancing-floor lit a briquet and thrust the tiny flame almost into the faces of the man and woman by his side, only to blow it out quickly as though he realised that the two were not the people whom he sought. Fawley hesitated no longer. With his arm still around Elida he suffered himself to be led between the tables towards the side exit and down a passage leading into the street. Underneath the flare of an electric standard a line of cars was ranged along the kerb. Gustaf opened the door of one and literally pushed them inside. The car moved off at once. A familiar voice greeted them from the corner.

“My dear Princess and Major Fawley, I owe you the most profound apologies. Gustaf is in despair. His restaurant has practically been seized by the members of a political party who would be delighted to involve me in a scandal—or worse.”

“We heard shots,” Fawley remarked.

“They were meant for me,” Behrling said grimly. “Gustaf had a secret message and he hurried me off. It is not for myself I fear. It is for the cause.”

“Who was responsible for putting out the light?” Elida asked.

“An asinine crowd of young bloods,” Behrling replied contemptuously, “all blindly following that middle-aged roué. As a matter of fact, it was the best thing that could happen for us. Gustaf was able the easier to manoeuvre our departure. By the by, Fawley, if this is going to be the bad night that they threatened us with, what about putting you down at your Embassy?”

Fawley shook his head.

“Sorry,” he regretted. “For the moment I am not engaged in my country’s interests. I can claim no privileges.”

“You are not by any chance in disgrace with your own people?” Behrling asked curiously.

“Not in the least,” Fawley assured him.

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