The last rays of the westering sun caught the white cliffs of the French coast as Valerie stared out towards them. In a few hours now she knew that the ship would berth at Rotterdam.
On previous voyages she had always felt a little thrill of joy on catching her first glimpse of Europe. It meant that she would soon be seeing old friends again; a prospect of change, new scenes, and jolly parties. Now, in the fading light, with the dark shadows of night gathering about them as the ship headed up the Straits of Dover, her heart was heavy with foreboding.
5
The intricate Web
The Hotel de Bayonne et Biarritz is situated in a quiet side street behind the Gare St. Lazare. It is small, old fashioned, and unpretentious.
Christopher Penn had always occupied a suite at the Crilleon on his previous visits to Paris but, in their peculiar circumstances, Sir Anthony Lovelace had considered it imperative that they should avoid all their usual haunts. He had selected this modest hotel as their headquarters. Valerie Lorne had flown them from Rotterdam that morning and was still with them. They had only arrived half an hour before and were still busy with a breakfast of hot coffee and crisp rolls.
All three of them were waiting now, while they ate their hurried breakfast, in the stuffy little private sitting room of the hotel, with its old fashioned gilt framed mirrors and worn red plush furniture, for the man who was to give Christopher further instructions which might carry him to Italy, Malta, Egypt, Eritrea, or even, perhaps, Abyssinia.
'When this chap turns up how shall we know that he is one of us?' asked Lovelace suddenly.
`Naturally he will be,' Christopher replied a little irritably. 'I was given his name before I left the States and I wired him from Rotterdam soon after we landed last night, directly we'd settled where to go to earth when we reached Paris, in fact. I showed you his reply, which was waiting for us here when we arrived. Saying he'd been expecting me for nearly a week and would call this morning.'
'Yes, but as the Millers of God have no secret sign or password, what guarantee will you have that he's actually the man you believe him to be? We'll be in a fine mess if the enemies have intercepted your wire and send one of their own people to lead us into a trap.'
Christopher shrugged. `That's most unlikely. Anyhow its better we should have to take such an outside chance than that the society should have permanent centre’s and an organised membership. With only our leaders meeting to formulate decisions, which are passed on by word of mouth, it makes it far harder for the police, or anyone else, to fix anything on an individual member. When I've done my job I shall just fade out, as others have, and there won't be a single document or tie in existence to prove I did it.'
At that moment the shabby waiter ushered in a short plumpish, smartly dressed man of about thirty, and waved him towards the little party at the table.
Christopher got up to meet the visitor who, as the door closed again, said quickly; `Mr. Penn yes? I am Paul Barrotet. I had expected to find you alone for discussion of our business.'
`My fiancé, Miss Valerie Lorne, and Sir Anthony Lovelace.' Christopher introduced the others. `They both came over with me and know all about this thing.'
`All?' The Frenchman asked sharply, raising a pair of bushy black eyebrows.
`Yes. I exercised my discretion, as members are entitled to when they need help. Won't you sit down?'
Barrotet bowed to Valerie and then his black boot button eyes rested for a second on the tall, brown faced Englishman. He bowed again before pulling up a chair and said gravely, `One sees in Sir Anthony the type which has made the justice of his nation respected all over the world, and it is a war of justice which we wage. Only through the work of the Millers of God can there be any true hope of a permanent world peace.'
`Miss Lorne has only come as far as Paris with us,' said Lovelace slowly, `and I only volunteered to join Penn because I know the countries to which you may be sending him, whereas he's never been east of Rome.
He's told me quite a lot about the Millers of God in the last fortnight, and I understand that your aim is to stop future wars by killing off the war makers. Any number of people must profit out of war though, and what I don't quite get is where certain of them reach the point when the Millers decide that they should be er ... executed?'
The short, dark Frenchman leant back and spread out his hands. `It is simple no? Is it agreeable to you that we should speak in French which is easier for me?'
A succession of nods greeting his suggestion, he went on quickly `Many who contribute in a small way to the making of wars are unconscious agents, guilty of no more than lack of thought for the general good in the means they employ to earn their daily bread. With them we do not interfere. It is those few, wealthy, intelligent, unscrupulous, who deliberately aggravate national grievances in the hope that wars may result from which they will profit, upon whom we pass sentence.
`I give you an example, bein? Certain of our members keep constant watch upon the International Press. Day after day they find paragraphs in the Italian papers which say
“Britain is secretly backing Abyssinia.”
“'British rifles have been found in the hands of captured Abyssinians.”
“Britain has put an embargo on the sale of camels in her African territories; in consequence Italian soldiers are suffering the torture of thirst, because not enough camels can now be purchased to ensure regular water transport.”
“Britain is turning innocent Italian business men out of Malta and Egypt on false charges of espionage, so that British merchants can secure their trade.”
`And so on, and so an. Meanwhile, British papers it appears
' “Italy's real objective in this war is not the barren, mountains of Abyssinia, but to turn the British out of fruitful Egypt. Abyssinia is only the first step.”
“ An Italian was arrested in the dockyard at Malta with a bomb in his pocket when attempting to get an board a British warship.”
“An automobile bearing a G.B. touring plate was overturned in Milan and its English occupants chased by an angry mob,”
` The Italians are a lot of cowards; remember how they ran away at Caparetto ! "
`And so on, and so on.'
Lovelace nodded. `Yes, I thought digging up that last business was absolutely uncalled for; a gratuitous insult to a friendly power. But I suppose their Press said the same about our troops having been nearly chivvied out of South Africa by a lot of farmers in the first year of the Boer War.'
'Exactly.' Barrotet leant forward earnestly. `.Now these things are pinpricks only, but constantly irritating pinpricks, goading each of these naturally friendly people to distrust, fear, and hate each other. No ordinary journalist in either country is so stupid, or wantonly
malicious, as to wish to influence his people to a degree of bitterness where they might force their leaders into war. Ninety percent. of these paragraphs were inspired.'
Christopher's black, unruly hair was damp about the temples, and he listened with eager, fascinated attention as the Frenchman went on softly
'The Millers of God traced those paragraphs to their source. In the Bureau, from which they emanated, a certain man was receiving secret payment on a very high scale to distort facts and utilize every possible episode to aggravate bad feeling between Italy and Britain, The Millers of God decided to “eliminate” that man. He is now dead.'
A little shudder shook Valerie's shoulders. On her record making flights she had had to face the fact that, if anything went wrong, she might be forced down over land or ocean and, when her frozen fingers could no longer cling to the slowly sinking plane, drown; or crash to earth where she would be consumed in a blinding sheet of flame. Yet there was something infinitely more horrible in the Frenchman's quiet statement that this man had been `eliminated'. It conjured up thoughts of darkness and stealth; the unsuspecting victim taken unawares; his stark terror when he found himself cornered and cowed before the pistol barrel, knowing ' there was no escape.