The Fox Prowls

ENTER THE BARON DE BAHL

ENTER THE BARON DE BAHLThe streets of Bucharest were hot and dusty in the sunny October afternoon. The Baron de Bahl had doffed his wideawake hat disclosing a shock of snow-white hair and was sponging his face and neck with his handerchief as he turned in out of the glare and clatter of the Calei Victorei under the cool porch of the Hotel Metropolis. It was the hour between tea and dinner and the big hall was rather full. The sensuous strains of a Viennese valse softly played came through the palms where a gypsy orchestra in national dress made a patch of white. Faint perfumes and the languid murmur of voices overlaid the air. People came and went. Rumanian officers in gay uniforms, with lack-lustre eyes and powdered cheeks, established at small tables, ogled the women over their grenadine.

The newcomer bowed amiably to an elegant brunette nursing a griffon who smiled at him and saluted with a condescending wave of the hand a grizzled Rumanian colonel who read the evening paper at one of the tables. He did not stop but, with the relentlessness of a tank, made straight for the telephone desk. He was a big man in a loose, rather over-plump way, but it was less his bulk than the air of authority he dispensed that made people get out of his path. A young fellow well-tailored in a dark suit had risen in the rear of the hall on de Bahl's appearance and now with cat-like gait came towards him. His skin was olive and he had dank, black hair.

At the telephone desk the Baron coughed diffidently. "Anything for me, Fräulein Ileana?" he asked in German.

The pretty Austrian telephone attendant was most deferential. "Your friend, Monsieur Volkoff, called from Monte Carlo, Herr Baron—the Herr Baron's secretary took the communication. Trieste rang. The gentleman left no name. He wished to speak to you personally—he'll call you back. And, warten Sie ein Bissl, Paris was on the line..."

"Monsieur Jaffé, was it?"

"That's right. Your secretary spoke to him. Prague announces a personal call for the Herr Baron at 7 p.m."

The big man nodded composedly. "Get me Monte Carlo at once, a personal call for Monsieur Volkoff. You have the hotel number? I'll take Prague at 7—I'll be up in my suite. Here!" He fished out a large leather purse, extracted a note, and put it in the telephonist's hand with a friendly pat on the cheek. The girl reddened with pleasure when she saw the note. "Oh, danke, Herr Baron!"

De Bahl turned to find the olive-skinned young man at his side. "Ah, there you are, Amanescu!" he said in French. "What did Monte Carlo want? Wait!" He drew him into the gangway between the telephone booths out of earshot of people passing in the hall.

"It was Volkoff. He seemed most anxious to speak to you—I'd quite a job to persuade him that I'm your secretary."

The Baron had a dry cough that seemed to be chronic with him. He gave it now and asked: "Did he leave any message?"

"Yes. He said 'Tell him to sell.'"

"To sell, eh? Jaffé called, too, didn't he? Did you give him my order about those shares?"

"Yes."

"How was the Bourse?"

"Weak towards the close." De Bahl seemed pleased. "A man named Rapp was asking for you at lunch-time," Amanescu went on.

"Ah!" The Baron's tone was eager. "What brought him round?"

"He says they've heard from Selmar."

"The American, yes?"

"He's in London. He's flying over to-day—he should be here to-night."

De Bahl's nostrils twitched. His nose was clear-cut and aquiline: with his white hair and regular features it gave him a distinguished air. "Where's he going to stay—did Rapp tell you?" he questioned sharply.

Amanescu's finger pointed downward. "Here." Mechanically the other repeated the gesture. Then he clapped the young man on the back. "Thanks, my boy. I shan't need you any more to-night. Run away and amuse yourself with the pretty Rumanian ladies. Wait!" Once more the leather purse appeared. The secretary's rather sullen eyes came to life as he perceived the extended note. "Thanks, Baron!" Then de Bahl sought the lifts.

As he entered the sitting-room of his suite, the telephone was pealing. He went to the desk. "Monte Carlo, Herr Baron," the operator announced. "Monsieur Volkoff is on the wire."

"Vladimir?" spoke the Baron softly into the instrument.

"Is it you, Alexis?" a cautious voice came back in French.

"Speaking."

"You had my message?"

"Yes. Your Vienna man examined him, then?"

"Yes. He gives him a month."

De Bahl's dark eyes glistened. "Good. But it means we shall have to work fast. Are you sure you can keep it dark?"

"Cannot an old gentleman of 75 keep his room while the mistral lasts? Listen, Grenander's up to something. He and Wahlczek have been visiting works all over the place for the past fortnight."

"I know all about Grenander. They won't touch him with a barge pole."

"Don't be too sure. I hear they're due at Trieste at the end of the month for a conference with certain parties. Apostolou is there already. I think they're cooking something up."

"You're right, they are. But don't worry, their broth won't be ready by dinner-time."

"Meaning that yours will?"

"I shouldn't be surprised. Meanwhile, if Grenander turns up at Monte Carlo, as he surely will, keep him at arm's length until I arrive, you understand?"

"You may rely on me."

With an enigmatic air de Bahl hung up. A furrow between his dark, hot eyes, he stared down at his hands, planted palms down on the blotter. His hands were large and white, but beautifully formed with long, delicate-looking fingers.

He had reached for the telephone again when a sound behind him brought him quickly about. It was the scratch of a match that had caught his ear. A jaunty individual with a restless eye, his hat on his head, stood with his back to the fireplace, nonchalantly lighting a cigarette. "How many times have I told you, Miklas, that I won't have you sneaking in here without knocking?" said de Bahl.

He spoke in French. His voice was soft and husky, the furred voice of the chain cigarette smoker—one had the impression that he rarely raised it. He did not raise it now: his tone was one of mild reproach. The other blew out his match and dropped it in the fireplace behind him. "Was I to know you were talking secrets? Besides, the door was ajar."

The Baron puckered his brow. "I feel sure I closed it behind me."

"It was ajar, I tell you."

De Bahl had helped himself to a cigarette from a tin box on the desk. They were enormous cigarettes, almost as long as a fountain pen. He lit one now, coughed a spiral of smoke and said throatily, "Rapp was round from Grigorescu's. Selmar will be here to-night."

Surprise appeared in his companion's face. He was a smartly groomed fellow in his black jacket and striped trousers and wore a large pearl in his tie. His eyes, jet-black and liquid, were round as a cat's, and the teeth below his small, dark moustache were magnificent. Against this he was almost bald and bags under his eyes gave him a worn and dissipated air. "So he bit, eh?" he remarked admiringly.

"As I told you he would."

"But what does an American millionaire want with an old ruin like this? And in Bessarabia, of all god-forsaken places!"

"Castle Orghina is not a ruin. With a little intelligent restoration..."

Miklas guffawed. "And you really think you can persuade him to let us restore it for him?"

"He knows me for a reputable antique dealer and interior decorator. When he was at my place at Geneva this summer——"

"Bah, a millionaire and his dollars aren't so soon parted. If he has any sense, he'll hand Orghina over to the State."

The Baron laughed contemptuously. "For a Greek, my dear Guido, you're a singularly poor psychologist."

"My mother was Spanish," was the sulky retort.

"Your mother was out of a Tangier dance hall, and you can put 'dance hall' in quotation marks, as well you know, and the less said about her the better. In certain enterprises in which we have been associated together in the past you've proved your worth as architect and draughtsman and as an exponent of direct action—a quick knife thrust, a shot in the nape of the neck or a bomb in the self-starter—I gladly concede that you have few equals." As he spoke the blood ebbed out of Miklas's face and his eyes glittered venomously. But the Baron proceeded serenely. "Psychology, however, is not your forte, so kindly leave the psychology to me. Stephen Selmar has all the money he wants, but like most self-made men, he lacks background. If I know anything of the American mentality the Countess Boreanu's bequest has made the strongest appeal to his imagination. Castle Orghina establishes his pedigree, so to speak. It's also a gift, and I've yet to learn that the possession of wealth ever predisposed anybody against getting something for nothing. The fact that Selmar's on his way here proves I'm right."

"It doesn't prove that he's willing to saddle himself with the place."

De Bahl veiled his eyes. "I propose to organise his trip to the Castle and I think I can promise you that he'll accept the legacy." He blew a cloud of smoke. "Grenander and Co. are having a meeting at Trieste at the end of the month——"

"With the Ukrainians, is it?"

He nodded. "Apostolou will keep me posted. But I don't trust him, so I'm sending you down there. But, if all goes as I plan, I shall want you to come down to Castle Orghina with Selmar and me first."

Miklas laughed. "You seem very sure of him?"

"I am very sure of him. I saw a lot of him at Geneva this summer. I believe I may say without boasting that he eats out of my hand."

"He must have a better digestion than most American millionaires," said the other sneeringly. A shadow fell across his face. "I wanted a word with you about that secretary of yours."

"What about him?"

"Have you run into an Englishman called Armitage, Geoffrey Armitage, out here, an engineer from London?"

"No. Who is he?"

"He's supposed to be connected with the oil industry. He and Amanescu are as thick as thieves. They meet almost every day."

"Well, and supposing they do? What about it?"

"Only that Armitage is a British secret service man."

The Baron's fat cigarette, half way to his lips, stopped. His eyes glinted between half-closed lids. "You're sure of this?"

"I know him as well as I know you. He was at Addis Ababa during the Abyssinian business and at Beirut the other day. I ran into him only this morning, coming out of a café with this secretary of yours. I thought I'd make some inquiries. They play billiards every evening at this place."

De Bahl nodded. "Did Armitage spot you?"

Miklas laughed, "He wouldn't know me if he did, I'm too old a hand for that. The British Intelligence, smart as they are, have never been wise to me. I know Armitage, but he doesn't know me."

He broke off sharply, for the Baron, with a finger to his lips, was pointing with his other hand at the door communicating with the bedroom. In two noiseless bounds Miklas reached the door and softly opened it. From somewhere out of sight came the sound of a door gently closing. Miklas disappeared and re-entered from the corridor. "There was someone in the bedroom," he announced, "but he's gone. Now we know how that door came to be ajar."

The Baron nodded placidly. "You'd better keep an eye on our British friend, Guido."

"And what about Amanescu?"

The other smiled. "When they're going to hang a man in England, Guido, the hangman visits the jail the day before the execution and peeps at his victim through a spy-hole in the door to calculate the length of drop he'll give him. Not a word to our smart young friend for the moment. I'll watch him and see how much rope he'll take." He chuckled. "They don't call me 'The Fox' for nothing. You leave the young man to me."

He laughed with great good humour. "Go now—I have some more telephoning to do," he said. Miklas went out, leaving him at the desk, his loose frame shaking with laughter interspersed with coughing.

CHAPTER IV