The Penguin Book of Gaslight Crime - Michael Sims [64]
In pretended fury I dashed across to the pair with my fists clenched in jealous anger. What I said I scarcely remember. All I know is that I let forth a torrent of reproaches and condemnations, and ended by practically kicking the fellow out of the room, while my “wife” sank upon her knees and implored my forgiveness which I flatly refused.
The Captain took his kicking in silence, but in his glance was murder, as he turned once and faced me ere he left the room.
“Well, Valentine,” I asked, when he was safely out of hearing, and when she raised herself from her knees laughing. “And what now?”
“The whole affair is now plain sailing. To-morrow you will take the car to Liège, and there await me outside the cathedral at midnight on the following night. You will easily find the place. Wait until two o’clock, and if I am not there go on to Cologne, and put up at the Hotel du Nord.”
“Without baggage?”
“Without baggage. Don’t trouble about anything. Simply go there and wait.”
At midday on the following day the pretty Valentine dressed herself carefully, and went out. Then, an hour later, pretending that I was only going for a short run, I mounted into the car and set out for Liège, wondering what was now to happen.
Next day I idled away, and at a quarter to twelve that night, after a run around town, I pulled up in the shadow before the cathedral and stopped the engines. The old square was quite quiet, for the good Liègois retire early, and the only sound was the musical carillon of the bells.
In impatience I waited. The silent night was clear, bright, and frosty, with a myriad shining stars above. Time after time the great clock above me chimed the quarters, until just before two o’clock, there came a dark female figure round the corner, walking quickly. In an instant I recognised Valentine, who was dressed in a long travelling coat with fur collar, and a sealskin toque. She was carrying something beneath her coat.
“Quick!” she said breathlessly. “Let us get away. Get ready. Count Bindo is following me!” And ere I could start the engines, my employer, in a long dark overcoat and felt hat, hurriedly approached us, saying:
“Come, let’s be off, Ewart. We’ve a long journey to-night to Cassel. We must go through Aix, and pick up Blythe, and then on by way of Cologne, Arnsburg, and the Hoppeke-Tal.”
Quickly they both put on the extra wraps from the car, entered, and wrapped the rugs about them, while two minutes later, with our big head-lamps shedding a broad white light before us, we turned out upon the wide high road to Verviers.
“It’s all right!” cried Bindo, leaning over to me when we had covered about five miles or so. “Everything went off perfectly.”
“And M’sieur made a most model ‘husband,’ I assure you,” declared the pretty Valentine, with a musical laugh.
“But what have you done?” I inquired half turning, but afraid to take my eyes from the road.
“Be patient. We’ll explain everything when we get to Cassel,” responded Valentine. And with that I had to be content.
At the station at Aix we found Blythe awaiting us, and when he had taken the seat beside me we set out by way of Duren to Cologne, and on to Cassel, a long and bitterly cold journey.
It was not until we were dining together late the following night in the comfortable old König von Preussen, at Cassel, that Valentine revealed the truth to me.
“When I met the German at Vichy I was passing as Countess de Bourbriac, and pretending that my husband was in Scotland. At first I avoided him,” she said. “But later on I was told, in confidence, that he was a spy in the service of the War Office in Berlin. Then I wrote to Count Bindo, and he advised me to pretend to reciprocate the fellow’s affections, and to keep a watchful eye for the main chance. I have done so—that’s all.”
“But what was this ‘main chance’?” I asked.
“Why, don’t you see, Ewart,” exclaimed the Count, who was standing by, smoking a cigarette. “The fact that he was in the Intelligence Department