The Secret War Read online

  “I want to talk to you seriously, Lovelace, about the real possibilities of stopping war.”

  “Yes; this society, the Millers of God, eh? I’d be most interested to hear more of that, if you care to tell me. It was taking a bit of a risk though, wasn’t it? To admit you’re a member, seeing that I’m, well—a comparative stranger.”

  Penn shook his dark head. “I don’t think so. You see, I’ve rather a gift for sizing people up, and I felt I could trust you all along. When you said that about chucking the easy life to go out and make things just a shade less terrible for the innocent who suffer in every war, I was certain that, even if you didn’t approve our methods, you wouldn’t give me away in a thousand years.”

  “That’s so, of course. Has your society been operating for long?”

  “It started at Oxford just after the Great War. Quite a lot of men went up there to take their degrees who should have gone up years before. Many of them were broken and bitter. You know how it was, they’d been through it all and come out three parts wrecked in mind and body. There were others, too, who hadn’t seen the fighting but spent the war years at their public schools. Half starved, poor devils, and deprived of all the natural fun which goes with boyhood. They had listened on Sundays, week after week, to all those long lists read out in chapel; fathers, jolly uncles, chaps who had been in the eleven or fifteen a few terms before, cousins and friends; one by one posted as dead, casualties, or missing.”

  Lovelace sighed. “Yes, it was pretty grim.”

  “Well, some of ’em got together. They watched the Versailles Treaty in the making. Like a few of the more intelligent diplomats of the old school, who weren’t allowed to have a say, they felt that it was an instrument of vengeance which must lead to further war—instead of a step towards a permanent peace. They had no faith in Governments, either Democratic or run by some big political Boss. They’d been let down too badly, and they saw that the best of Governments were only puppets pushed and tricked into acting on the will of ignorant multitudes. The people; who are swayed first one way and then another. A dozen of those embittered men met constantly. In private they surveyed the whole situation with the logical cynicism engendered by their wrecked lives and cheated youth. They came to the conclusion that there was only one way to stop future wars: to declare war themselves on the men who stir the multitudes to demand that their Government shall take action: the men who sit behind it all and reap the benefits of war.”

  “But surely you’re too young to’ve been at Oxford just after the war?” Lovelace cut in with a puzzled frown.

  “Oh yes. I was only speaking of the origin of the society. There are branches of it in a dozen Universities now. It’s become international, and I became a recruit, through my tutor, at Yale.”

  “I see, and what have the Millers of God done so far?”

  ‘Well, the Mills of God grind slowly, you know, even if they grind exceeding small. Still, we’ve a certain amount to show. Each of us is prepared to use every penny we possess, if necessary, and all the influence we’ve got, to preserve peace. The Neutrality Bill has been put through in this country largely through our efforts. There’s not a great deal in that. It’s only an example which we hope other nations will follow. Then, much more important, there is the new law that all armament factories are to become the property of the State. That is a great step forward because it cuts the throat of the munition racket—at all events here.”

  “Yes, and there is a real hope that other countries may follow your lead there, even if their obligations prevent them going permanently neutral. There’s nothing to stop them controlling armaments, except the armament people.”

  “Ah, there you have it. That brings me to the grimmer side of our organisation. If, after due investigation has been made, it’s proved beyond doubt that a certain individual is actively working against the maintenance of peace, sentence is passed on him, and one of us undertakes the execution of that sentence.”

  “Have there—” Lovelace hesitated a second—“have there been many cases like that?”

  “Quite a number. The first was Eberheim, the nickel man. He played a big part behind the scenes in inciting the Greeks to try and mop up all that was left of Turkey after the Armistice. One day he disappeared from his headquarters in Smyrna and he’s never been heard of since. Then there was a fellow called Pirradow. He was in oil, and he died suddenly on the way out to make new contracts with the Bolivians during their scrap with Paraguay—after he’d been warned to stay at home.” Christopher Penn fiddled nervously with the stem of his glass as he spoke. It held only water yet, judging from his flushed face, he might well have been drinking heavily of the potent wine. His dark eyes glittered like those of a fanatic as he went on. “Rechmanitz was another. One of his own hand grenades went off unexpectedly, just as he was getting in his car one day to go off and do a demonstration for the benefit of a Japanese buyer whose employers were anxious to blow the guts out of a few more poor devils in China. Verdino is supposed to have broken his neck in a fall. Dowling was found dead in his bath. Olagnoff was drowned at sea.”

  “I must confess,” Lovelace interrupted, “that I’ve never heard of any of these people.”

  The younger man shrugged. “That’s hardly surprising. The enemy work together you know. In a loose sort of way theirs is an organisation as well, and their power over the world Press is enormous. They suppress all but the barest mention of these ‘accidents’, as far as they can. They’re getting a bit rattled now, though, and we’re picking off the worst of them one by one.”

  Lovelace thoughtfully fingered his little moustache. “Then what it comes to is this. Your organisation is actually perpetrating a series of murders. It is murder. You can’t get away from that.”

  “Well, what if it is?” Christopher Penn suddenly stood up. “That’s the fault of our law which executes a poor devil who’s too drunk to know what he’s doing when he kills another in a brawl, and yet gives these arch-murderers, who deliberately ferment mass-slaughter, its protection. Call it murder if you like, but no executions according to the law of any state have ever been ordered for the protection of human life with more justice.”

  “My dear fellow, I agree with you in theory. It’s the practical part which revolts me personally. That’s against all reason, perhaps, but it’s a fact, and as a decent man I believe at heart you must feel the same. I understand your using all your influence to support your organisation’s political moves, and even issuing warnings or threats on their behalf, as you did a few hours ago to that man Benyon, but if they actually picked on you to hunt a man down and kill him, I don’t believe your conscience would allow you to go through with it.”

  “It would. If I failed to carry out my pledge, and all the others failed too, new wars would break out that would take either us or our children. We’ve got to stop it somehow! Isolation’s no good. The League’s no good. Ours is the only way, and we must not falter.” Penn’s mouth tightened for a moment and then he suddenly cried: “I had my notification yesterday. It’s horrible, isn’t it? Horrible, but—I’ve got to commit murder!”

  The door had opened. The girl of the photograph stood on its threshold. Her eyes were wide and staring. “You—commit murder?” she stammered. “Oh, Christopher, what do you mean?”

  CHAPTER III

  VALERIE LORNE TAKES HAND

  Sir Anthony Lovelace stared at the girl.

  He had been right, her hair was chestnut, and her eyes were grey.

  After her first exclamation she recovered almost instantly, and stepped firmly into the room. “What did you mean, Christopher, when you said you had got to commit a murder?”

  “Darling, I’m sorry—sorry if I scared you; but you took us rather by surprise.” He waved a hand towards his guest. “This is Sir Anthony Lovelace. Lovelace, my fiancée, Valerie Lorne.”

  As she acknowledged the introduction Lovelace thought her eyes showed a sudden flicker of interest, but she turned abruptly to her
fiancé. “I let myself in and I quite thought you were alone.”

  “That’s all right, sweet,” said Christopher swiftly. “Until I heard your plane come over I didn’t think you’d be back before to-morrow, but I meant to call you later. Let’s go into the other room.”

  They followed her out across the hall to the book-lined sitting-room. Christopher shut the door behind him. “It’s come,” he said facing her. “Somehow I never thought they’d select me; but they have. It came yesterday morning.”

  “You mean—the thing you told me of when we became engaged?” She lit a cigarette and Lovelace gave her full marks for the hold she was keeping on herself.

  Christopher nodded.

  “Well,” she appeared to consider for a moment. “That’s pretty hard on both of us: but, if you’ve got to, it will not be murder.”

  “Lovelace here seems to think it is.”

  “Please forget I said that.” Lovelace was feeling the awkwardness of his position. “Look here, Penn, you’ll naturally want to talk this thing over with Miss Lorne. Don’t let’s stand on ceremony. Ring for your car to be sent round and it can take me back to New York at once.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather you didn’t go yet. I’ve still got something I want to say to you.”

  The girl picked up a log and threw it on the fire. As she dusted her hands, she said thoughtfully: “It is obvious Christopher has told you about the Millers of God. Don’t you think that the end really justifies the means in the work they’re doing?”

  “To a certain extent,” Lovelace agreed uneasily, “but I find it hard to stomach the actual fact of killing some fellow who, however blood-guilty he may be in theory, considers himself a perfectly innocent business man going about his normal job.”

  Valerie Lorne spoke with sudden fervour. “I expected the infidels considered themselves innocent when they turned Our Lord’s sepulchre into a Mohammedan mosque, yet thousands of Christians gave their lives to recapture the Holy Land. This, too, is a Crusade!”

  “Perhaps, but surely that was different. It was a war like any other. There was no question of stealthy assassination. Still, this really isn’t my business. Your fiancé seems determined to carry theory into practice and you, apparently, agree that he’s right to do so.”

  “I’ve very little option,” she said slowly. “I don’t know how long you have known him, but Christopher Penn is Christopher Penn. He told me this might occur when we became engaged, although neither of us thought it likely then. Now it’s happened I mustn’t allow my personal feelings to interfere with—well—what he considers to be his duty.”

  Lovelace was several years older than either of the others. He sensed the young man’s feeling that he had pledged himself to a horrid business and the girl’s loyal acceptance of the fact; yet her abhorrence of it. He felt that he must make some effort to straighten out this tangle, so he said: “Is there some very unpleasant penalty to be faced if you decided to back out, Penn?”

  “No, none. The society is very elastic and there’s very little mystery about it. No passwords or secret signs, or that sort of bunkum. Most of us are even rather ashamed of the name under which it’s run, but it had to be called something. There are no oaths of secrecy, so we can speak of it quite freely to anyone we like, although of course we never do, except to people we feel we can absolutely trust. Even if our judgment were at fault, and somebody broke a confidence one of us made to him, it couldn’t do much damage. You see, we have no offices or fixed meeting places: nearly all our communications are carried by word of mouth and as most of us are wealthy people we travel frequently so there’s no difficulty in passing on suggestions or decisions from one part of the world to another. There are no penalties for anyone who ceases to be an active member, either. If I refused to do this job it’d just be put up to someone else. But conviction and—well, honour if you like—are tighter bonds than any oath, and I could never respect myself again if I ratted on the others now.”

  “You see, Sir Anthony, that’s Christopher.” Valerie smiled for the first time, giving a queer little twist to her mouth. “Difficult chap for a girl to love, isn’t he? The most pig-headed, quixotic fool between Panama and Alaska I should say—but I happen to like him. Anyhow, I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done except for his friends to help him as far as they can.”

  Lovelace cast an eye on the decanter. “D’you mind if I mix myself a drink?” He wanted time to think up another argument.

  “Please do. I’m so sorry I forgot to ask you. I so rarely drink anything myself, you see,” Christopher said apologetically.

  While he measured out the whisky with careful deliberation Lovelace’s brain was working overtime. The boy was a fanatic and the girl was in love with him. Pretty hard on her but, by Jove, she was behaving magnificently. Where the devil had he met her? Somewhere in the past—but that didn’t matter now. She had hypnotised herself into an active sympathy with this society of madmen; but were they mad or terribly, logically sane? Anyhow, she didn’t want him to become a murderer for all her talk about Crusades. He wasn’t liking the idea either now it had taken concrete form. Probably doubted his ability to carry the job through. Case of the spirit being willing but the flesh being weak. Perhaps he could be scared into chucking it. That seemed the only line to try. Tumbler in hand, Lovelace turned back towards his host.

  “Ever seen an execution?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I have, several. Saw a Chinese coolie’s head chopped off once. He took it pretty stolidly, but an Armenian spy in the pay of the Greeks who had to face a Turkish firing-party didn’t take it half so well. Neither did a young Spaniard who was hanged during the South American trouble. I can hear his screaming now as they fixed the noose round his neck. To look at he was rather like you.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Only because it may happen to you one cold grey morning. On an empty tummy perhaps, when dreams are unsatisfactory fare. The police must know something of your organisation by this time, and if they get you after you’ve done this job you’ll see the inside of the death cell for certain.”

  Christopher shrugged a little contemptuously. “The police! Their job is to keep ordinary crime in check but they’re up against an utterly different proposition in the Millers of God. No one of us ever commits a second crime. Each of us is a completely reputable person, who has other activities to cover his operations, and other equally unsuspected people to assist in his get-away. None of the deaths we are responsible for has any apparent motive, so there is never any case for the police to formulate against us. We’re completely outside their natural orbit so we haven’t a thing to fear from their attentions.”

  “I see. Well, would you care to give us some particulars as to how you propose to set about this er—killing?”

  “With an ether pistol discharging a deadly gas from some special shells. It’s silent, painless, and practically instantaneous. All our executions are carried out that way, although whenever possible we arrange things afterwards to look as though death had been caused by an accident. I received the pistol and shells yesterday with my instructions.”

  Lovelace’s tanned face looked very grave. He was still seeking a way to divert the younger man from his terrible purpose as he inquired: “Where will you try and get Benyon—in his home?”

  “Benyon!” Christopher exclaimed. “But it’s not him. I should never be called on to execute a man I know—that would be too awful. It was only just because I did know him I was asked to give him his warning before I left the States.”

  “This—this job means your going abroad then?” said Valerie.

  “Yes. To Paris first where I shall receive my final instructions from one of our people. After that I don’t know. I was told to get my passport visaed for all countries bordering on the Mediterranean, or the Red Sea, and Abyssinia, though; so it looks as if they may be sending me to the seat of war.”

  “But, darling!” Valerie protested, �
�you would be absolutely lost in a place like Abyssinia. You know how impractical you are and you don’t speak a single foreign language except French.”

  He nodded gloomily. “I know, sweet. I’ve never been farther east than Rome, even as a tourist, and I’ll be horribly handicapped if I have to go on to Asia Minor or Eritrea or Abyssinia itself. That’s just what’s worrying me at the moment.”

  A hint of amusement showed in Lovelace’s brown eyes. “So that’s it, eh? That’s why you got me out here. When you heard that I was a pretty useful linguist, and had been in Abyssinia before, you hoped to rope me in as your assistant in the chase.”

  “Yes,” Christopher confessed quite frankly, “that was my idea. When I heard you talking in the Club this evening it almost seemed as though God had sent you there specially to help me.”

  Lovelace shook his head. “Nothing doing I’m afraid. Because I hate war and all the senseless misery that it causes, it doesn’t mean for one moment that I’m prepared to lend a hand in an assassination.”

  “I don’t ask you to. I only want you as a friend who knows the ropes if I have to go to Africa. Please come with me. You’re going out there anyway. It won’t delay you much if we have to put in a day in Paris on the way. Forget what I’m going out there to do if you like. We’ll never speak of it again, but I do wish you’d travel with me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lovelace shook his head again. “What you propose to do is murder: the killing of some unsuspecting man. I can’t be a party to that.”

  Valerie Lorne had been silent for a time. Now she spoke again. “Won’t you? I wish you would. Christopher will be like a child in those tropical countries. He needs a friend like you so badly. Even if you can’t forget his mission you need take no part in it. Surely you won’t refuse to let him travel with you to the Near East if he has to go there.”