The Secret War Page 2

  “She’s fine, thanks.”

  “That’s good. Now what’s the worry?”

  “It’s yours, not mine, I think.” The grave dark eyes of the younger man’s pale face held the other. “I suppose you’re doing pretty well out of this Abyssinian trouble?”

  “Sure thing! Long may the battle rage, my boy—not that I wish the poor devils any harm, of course, but we’ll pay a dividend this year it’ll be grand to handle. You’d better get your broker to nail you a wad of our shares before the mob get in. They’ll go a lot higher yet.”

  “Thanks. You’d really like to see this war go on, then, and maybe spread to other countries?”

  “Well, war certainly is a terrible thing, but it happens to suit my business. It’s not our affair if they want to go cutting each others’ throats on the other side. We’re neutral and we’ll keep neutral, so no harm’s coming to us. Think what it means to our people! Employment for thousands of extra hands! Big bonuses for all the regular workers! Why, it’s the best break my company’s had in years. But—what are you driving at?”

  “I was wondering if you really felt that way: so, well—so completely detached. Able to enjoy your profits without a thought that they’re the product of human suffering.”

  A frown creased the big man’s jolly face. “What the hell’s bitten you, Penn?” he asked in a puzzled voice. “I’m just an ordinary business man, aren’t I? Where d’you get these fool ideas, anyway?”

  “From something that happened to-day.” Penn spoke very quietly. “Have you ever heard of the Millers of God?”

  “What!” Benyon clutched at the arms of his chair and half rose out of it. His face showed sudden intense anger and, Lovelace thought, just a trace of fear. He hunched himself forward and glared into Penn’s pale face. “What the devil do you know of this bunch of thugs who call themselves the Millers of God?”

  “Nothing, but it seems that you have heard of them before.”

  “By God I have! Rumours, that’s all, but nasty rumours. One or two friends of mine have been—well, never mind.” Benyon suddenly banged his fist upon the table. “Look here, Penn, you’ve got to tell me what you know of this devilish organisation.”

  “I know nothing,” Christopher Penn repeated evenly.

  “Then why the hell should you mention it after leaving word that you wanted to have a talk with me?”

  “Because I was stopped by a stranger in the street to-day. He just said: ‘You know Sergius Benyon. For his own sake give him this message: “The Millers of God are watching his activities. If, during the next month, the export figures of his companies exceed last year’s for the same period by more than 10 per cent, it will be taken as proof that he is amassing riches by supplying material used for the furtherance of mass-murder. As an accessory to murder, before the fact, Sergius Benyon will then be formally condemned to death by the Millers of God.”’”

  “Hell!” Benyon slumped back in his chair. A faint perspiration had broken out on his forehead. He fumbled for a silk handkerchief and began to mop at his face, then he muttered: “So they threaten me with death now, do they? What else did he say, Penn, what else did he say?”

  “That’s all. Word for word as near as I can remember. And before I had a chance to open my mouth, he’d disappeared in the crowd.”

  “But I can’t go and cancel all my contracts and—” Benyon suddenly seemed to recover his nerve. “I’m damned if I would if I could, either. I’m not going to be scared into ruining myself to please a bunch of half-baked pacifists. If it comes to a showdown I’ll bet they haven’t got the guts to try and do me in.”

  Lovelace’s eyes were on Penn’s face. It was grave and impassive as he answered. “The chap who sent you this message looked as though he meant it.”

  “Did he? You could describe him, of course?”

  “Yes. The whole episode was so astounding that I should recognise him again anywhere.”

  “Good!” The big man jumped to his feet. “I’m going down to Police Headquarters right away. ‘Fraid they’ll want to bother you for your story later, but I’m not taking any chances, and the sooner these Millers of God people are chased out of town the better. It may be some bughouse religious organisation, still—you never know. I’ve heard some queer things lately. So long.”

  As Benyon swung easily away Lovelace raised his eyebrows. “This sounds like a secret society which is out to kill off war profiteers. Seems a bit drastic, doesn’t it? Although, of course, they’re a rotten lot of blighters.”

  “They are,” agreed Penn, “as a whole. Benyon’s a decent enough fellow really, and I’d be sorry if anything happened to him. However, I’ve passed on this mysterious warning, so let’s hope he’ll take notice of it. You were saying just now, by the way, that you could make a case for Italy, if you wanted to. I’d be interested to hear it.”

  Lovelace looked up in surprise. He would have liked to speculate further on the possible activities of the Millers of God, but Penn was obviously determined to change the conversation. “All right,” he said, “but you mustn’t take this as my own view. I’m neutral. Most English people are at heart, I think. We hate to see the poor little Emperor done down because, believe it or not, we’re a sentimental lot, and our sympathies usually go to the weaker party. On the other hand, we do know that the Emperor isn’t strong enough to cope with the terrible abuses which still go on in his country. Of course what it needs is a real good spring-cleaning. On the other hand, we admire Mussolini for pulling Italy together after the war, and we’ve always had a genuine liking for the Italians.”

  While Penn listened attentively, the Englishman then outlined the amazing changes which had taken place in Italy since the Great War. He laid particular stress upon the fact that she had not sufficient arable land to support her population. “And, after all,” he finished, “Mussolini is only proposing to do what Britain and France have done on innumerable occasions in the past. What’s more, he gave many months’ notice of his intention.”

  Penn nodded. “That’s a very able argument, but, d’you realise you are admitting that Britain is as much to blame as anyone else for this wretched muddle? You say Mussolini gave many months’ notice of his intention. If Britain had made it clear then that she meant to support the League, the presumption is that there wouldn’t have been any war.”

  “Perhaps, but I’d rather you didn’t father it entirely on us. Britain has voiced the feeling of the smaller nations, but she couldn’t do that before she knew it. This is the League’s business, and we had to wait for the League’s decision.”

  “You mean you never fancied the idea of having the italians in Abyssinia, because you feared they might prove awkward neighbours for you in Egypt. But you preferred to wait before making your protest until you could appear as the champion of the League.”

  Lovelace grinned. “You’re a pretty shrewd young man, aren’t you?”

  “Not particularly. I’ve studied these questions rather carefully, that’s all. Another thing: that argument about surplus population is a complete fallacy. Did you know that although the Germans had a very considerable colonial Empire before the war, there were actually a greater number of their nationals in Paris, the enemy capital, on the outbreak of hostilities, than in the whole of their overseas territory? It’s been proved time and again that colonies are not essential to the expansion of a people. Look at the number of Italians and Germans we have here in the States!”

  “There’s a certain amount of truth in that.”

  “There is, and ingenious as your case for Italy appears on the surface, if I were Cassel, I should tell you it’s just the sort of argument that Britain can be guaranteed to put up when she wishes to justify her own annexations. A delightful essay in hypocrisy!”

  Lovelace laughed. “Oh, everyone accuses the British of being hypocrites. It isn’t true, though. It’s just that our statesmen are so slow in the uptake that quick-witted foreigners always suspect their noncommittal attitude to conceal some deep-laid plan. Generally, before our people have even had time to formulate a policy.”

  “Nonsense,” smiled Penn; “they’re the astutest bunch of diplomats in the world. Still, even granting that all you have said is honestly believed by the great majority of Italians, you don’t believe it yourself, do you?”

  “Not altogether.” Lovelace was frank. “I was only arguing for fun just now. Actually, I’m sailing for Abyssinia on Saturday—as a non-combatant, of course—but I shall be helping Abyssinia as far as a neutral can.”

  “Really?” Penn looked up with quickened interest. “But it’s a bit late in the day, isn’t it?”

  “Why? Of course, if the League can make some face-saving arrangement by which Mussolini comes off with flying colours a peace may be agreed to-morrow. Again, if the Italians start using poison gas the Abyssinian armies are so ill-organised that they might break up and the Emperor find himself compelled to throw his hand in. But that’s unlikely. In six months the Italians have penetrated the country to the depth of about a hundred-and-fifty miles. They still have two-hundred-and-fifty to go before they reach Addis, and the rains are due in about a month. The probabilities are that the Italians will have to dig in then and wait till the next dry season before they can advance further. Even if they succeed in taking Addis Ababa they will not have conquered the country. The tribes will still put up a stiff resistance in the western mountains. I should have been out there months ago if I hadn’t been held up by other, rather important, personal affairs.”

  “I see,” Penn hesitated; “but what is it you are going to do out there?”

  “I don’t quite know yet,” Lovelace said quietly. “I have a little money of my own. Not much, but enough to make me independent, so I’ve knocked about the world
a good deal, and I’ve rather a gift for languages. I’ve been mixed up in the tail ends of half a dozen wars too, and know how to handle native labour, so there are plenty of jobs the relief organisations would be glad to give a fellow like myself.”

  “I see. You make a habit of being on the spot in any war that’s going. But why? Is it because you like the excitement?”

  “No.” Lovelace fiddled with his pipe, and seemed a little shy as he gave his reason. “You’ll probably think me a queer bird, but if you’ve never seen it you can have no idea of the incredible misery and suffering which afflicts the population behind a war zone. And since we can’t stop the war, I feel it’s up to those of us who can afford to chuck up the easy life to go and do the little that’s possible to make things just a shade less terrible, particularly for the women and children.”

  “That’s fine,” said Penn softly. “You’re really a war hater, just as much as I am, then. I’m afraid I’ve done you rather an injustice.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. It just amuses me to pull the leg of theoretical pacifists like Cassel now and again, that’s all.”

  Penn passed a hand over his jet-black hair. For a moment he was silent. “You know,” he said at last, “there’s lots of things I’d like to talk to you about. D’you happen to be fixed up for this evening?”

  “No. I was going to a show but the man I was going with has gone sick.”

  “Well, I can’t ask you to dine in New York because it’s essential I should go out to my Long Island home to-night. But, if you don’t mind the drive, we could dine there and the car could run you back, or I could put you up for the night, just as you prefer.”

  “Thanks. I’ll come with pleasure.”

  As they stood up to leave, Lovelace glanced at the pale ascetic face of the young American again. “I wonder,” he said suddenly, “if there is really anything except pacifist bluff behind this Millers of God business. D’you think the police will stand any chance of tracing the man who gave you that message?”

  Christopher Penn’s beautifully chiselled mouth curved into a faint smile. “Not the least,” he said firmly. “I don’t mind telling you now that whatever description I give will be completely mythical, and that the Millers of God are in deadly earnest. I am one of them myself, you see.”

  “I had an idea that might be the case,” murmured Sir Anthony Lovelace.

  CHAPTER II

  MURDER?

  As Penn and Lovelace left the warmth and security of the Union Club, the outer world seemed doubly grim by contrast.

  Manhattan Island was still in the grip of winter. Spring might be on the way, but the towering blocks of steel and concrete flung their pinnacles towards a grey and lowering sky. An icy wind bent the tree-tops in Central Park and howled down the man-made canyons, causing the down-town crowd to draw their wraps more closely round them as they hurried homewards from their offices.

  During the forty-mile drive the two men hardly spoke. Penn, at the wheel of his long low car, was intent on the swift-moving traffic as it hurtled towards them, while Lovelace, naturally a rather silent man, was busy with his own thoughts.

  The car swung right after passing through Baysbore and turned in through a pair of tall gates with a lodge on one side. The drive wound through ancient trees, and ended in a wide sweep before a long, low, rambling house. Lovelace saw just enough of its front, as the headlights swept the porch and balconies, to realise that it was old, creeper-covered and mellowed by time. Actually it was the original home of Christopher’s branch of the Penn family, and except that its big stables were now garages and the house had all the additional comforts that modern science could supply, it was little altered from what it had been when Abraham Lincoln was a boy.

  As a servant came out to take over the car, the deafening roar of an aeroplane engine sounded overhead.

  “That chap’s flying pretty low,” remarked Lovelace.

  “It’s not a chap; it’s Valerie, I expect. Her people are our nearest neighbours. Have been for generations. She’s my fiancée, you know.”

  Lovelace looked at the young American with some surprise as they passed into the house. He could well understand any girl falling for such a handsome fellow. Women would be certain to find his black eyes beneath their curling lashes “romantic,” and his unusual pallor “interesting.” Yet he did not strike the Englishman as a woman’s man at all. It was difficult to imagine him making love. He seemed such a spiritual type—almost as though he lived in a world apart.

  “Hardly flying weather, particularly for a girl,” Lovelace added after a moment.

  “Oh, Valerie’s all right.” The reply was casual. “She can fly as well as most men, or better, and anyhow, she’ll have landed and be safe at home by now. Come along in.”

  He led the way into a square, book-lined room and pushed a couple of arm-chairs up to an old-fashioned open hearth, upon which a bright fire was burning. “You’ll excuse me for a moment while I give some orders, won’t you? There are the drinks and cigarettes. Help yourself. I shan’t be long.”

  “Thanks.” Lovelace poured himself a drink and sat down, thrusting his feet forward to the blaze, but a moment later he drew them sharply up again and leaned forward to peer at a solitary photograph which occupied a prominent position on the mantelpiece.

  It was that of a girl, and he judged her to be about twenty-five. The style of hairdressing showed that it was quite a recent portrait, but it was difficult to guess if her hair were golden or brown. The eyes were large, but rather pale in the photograph, which gave them an almost magnetic look and made Lovelace suspect that they were grey. They were set under dead-straight brows, giving the young face a look of tremendous personality and determination. It would have been almost forbidding had it not been for the mobile mouth and for an enormous, but somehow quite incongruous dimple under the curve of the left cheek.

  Certain in his own mind that he knew the original of the portrait, he stood up to examine it more closely, but he searched his memory in vain for a clue. He was still gazing at it when his host returned.

  “Sorry,” Lovelace apologised. “You must think me an ill-mannered fellow staring at your friend.”

  “Oh, no. That’s Valerie, the girl we were talking about just now.”

  “Yes, I think I guessed that; but the strange thing is I’m sure I’ve met her, and for the life of me I can’t think where.”

  Penn laughed. “That’s easily explained: she’s Valerie Lorne, the flying ace, and she holds all sorts of records. You must have seen photographs of her in the Press a hundred times.”

  “Of course, how stupid of me!” Lovelace shrugged. Yet although he had never seen the famous air-woman in the flesh he was certain now that her hair was not fair, but chestnut, and that those compelling eyes were grey. He could not account for the queer impression that he had been face to face with her on some occasion.

  Half an hour later the two men sat down to dinner. The mahogany was of an earlier period than the house, and the chairs were of the broad-seated comfortable variety: a memory of more spacious days when people liked ample elbow-room and men sat long over their wine. The Georgian silver was no purchase from an auction-room, but had come to the family straight from its maker in the hold of a sailing ship, when steam transport was still undreamt of.

  An elderly butler and one footman waited on them; they served a meal that was good but unpretentious. Christopher Penn drank only water, but Lovelace found the Burgundy, which was served with the duck, excellent and chambré to a nicety. The port, too, was a pre-prohibition vintage, which had lain undisturbed, steadily approaching maturity, during the years that the Volstead Act had been in force. Yet there was not the least suggestion of glitter and display in the quiet room, and Lovelace felt that he might have been enjoying a pleasant dinner with one of his less well-off friends at home, rather than with a young man who controlled enormous vested interests and was several times a millionaire.

  During the latter part of the meal the two discovered a mutual interest in fishing, and talked of flies, tackle, and of the red-letter days on which they had made their best catches.

  The heat, the dust, the rains of Abyssinia all had faded from the Englishman’s mind, and he was thinking of the brown trout which frequented a pool he knew on the Findhorn, when he realised with a little shock that, unobserved by him, the servants had left the room, and that his host was speaking.