Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
In 'The Complete Gay Triangle Collection' by William Le Queux, readers are immersed in a series of thrilling spy novels that explore the complex relationships between three main characters. Le Queux's literary style is characterized by fast-paced narratives filled with suspense, espionage, and unexpected twists. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Europe, the book provides a detailed portrayal of a time marked by political upheaval and clandestine operations. The collection offers a rare glimpse into the world of espionage and intrigue that captivates readers from start to finish. William Le Queux, a prolific writer known for his espionage novels, drew inspiration from his own experiences as a foreign correspondent and intelligence operative. His firsthand knowledge of espionage activities lends authenticity to the narratives, enriching the reader's experience. Le Queux's deep understanding of politics and intrigue shines through in 'The Complete Gay Triangle Collection,' making it a must-read for fans of spy fiction and historical thrillers. For readers seeking an exhilarating journey through the shadowy world of espionage, 'The Complete Gay Triangle Collection' offers a compelling blend of suspense, danger, and international intrigue. William Le Queux's masterful storytelling and intricate plot twists will keep readers on the edge of their seats until the very last page.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 245
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
The Complete Gay Triangle Collection
Published by
Books
The Mystery of Rasputin’s Jewels
From a derelict shed adjoining a lonely road which stretched for miles across the Norfolk fens, a strange shape slid silently into the night mist. It was a motor-car of an unfamiliar design. The body, of gleaming aluminium, was of unusual width, and was lifted high above the delicate chassis and spidery bicycle wheels that seemed almost too fragile to bear the weight of an engine.
Noiselessly the strange car backed out of the shed. There was no familiar teuf-teuf of the motor-engine; so silent was the car that it might have been driven by electricity, save that the air was filled with the reek of petrol.
Swinging round on the grass of the meadow, the car headed for the gateway, turned into the road, and sped along silently for a few miles.
It halted at length at a point where the narrow roadway widened somewhat and ran along an elevated embankment evidently constructed to raise the road above flood-level.
As the car came to rest, two leather-helmeted figures descended from the tiny cockpit in the body of it. One was a slim young fellow of twenty-five or twenty-six; the other, despite the clinging motor costume, showed feminine grace in every movement. It was a young girl, evidently in the early twenties.
The two set busily to work, and in a few minutes their strange car had undergone a wonderful transformation.
From each side shot out long twin telescopic rods. These, swiftly joined together by rapidly unrolled strips of fabric, soon resolved themselves into the wings of a tiny monoplane. From a cleverly hidden trap-door in the front of the car, appeared an extending shaft bearing a small propeller, whose twin blades, hinged so as to fold alongside the shaft when not in use, were quickly spread out and locked into position. A network of wire stays running from the wings to the fuselage of the car were speedily hooked up and drawn taut.
Then the two mysterious figures climbed again into the transformed car. There was a low, deep hum as the propellers began to revolve, the monoplane shot forward a few yards along the road, then lifted noiselessly, and, graceful and silent as a night-bird, vanished into the shrouding mist.
The adventures of the Gay Triangle had begun!
Dick Manton, lounging idly in the Assembly Hall of the little town of Fenways, in the centre of the Norfolk Broads, watched with eyes half critical and half amused the throng of dancers circling gaily to the strains of three violins and a tinkling piano which did duty for an orchestra when the youth of Fenways amused itself with a dance.
Dick was wholly and entirely a product of the war. The lithe, slim body, hatchet face, and keen, resolute eyes stamped him from head to foot with the unmistakable cachet of the airman. He smiled, as he watched the dancers, in acknowledgment of the gay greeting flung to him by a score of laughing girls who, with the joy of youth, were giving themselves unreservedly to the pleasures of the fox-trot.
Dick was a general favourite, and more than one pretty girl in the room would have been only too glad to arouse something more than a passing interest in the young airman, whose dare-devil exploits above the German lines in France had brought him the Flying Cross, whose brilliant career had been cut short by a bullet wound, received in a “dog-fight” above Bethune, which had rendered him unfit for the continual hardships of active service. He had been offered a “cushy” job in acknowledgment of his services. But Dick could not bear the idea of being “in the show” and yet not of it, and had accepted his discharge with what philosophy he could muster.
His chief asset was his amazing knowledge of motor-engines. They had been his one absorbing craze. While in the Army he had studied intently every type of engine to which he could gain access; he had read every book on the subject upon which he could lay his hands, and even among the expert pilots of the Air Force he was acknowledged as a master of engine craft.
It was this knowledge of engines which had sent Dick into the motor business. He knew, of course, that he could have obtained a good post with one of the big companies had he chosen to stay in London. But his nerves were still tingling from the stress of war, and he was still weak from the after effects of his wounds. So, for the sake of peace and fresh air, he had invested a part of his capital in a small motor business at Fenways. If he was not making a fortune he was at least living, and the keen Norfolk air was rapidly bringing him back to health.
At times the longing for the old life, the rash and whirl of the city, came upon him with almost overwhelming force.
Suddenly a cameo of his days in France leapt into his mental vision. He found himself once again staring, as in a mirror, at the slim figure of a half-fainting French girl stealing through the dusk towards the British lines. A crackling volley of shots from the Boche lines followed her, but by some miracle she came on unhurt. Dick had been sent up to the front to supervise the removal of a German plane of a new pattern which had crashed just behind the trenches and had wandered into the front line (where, of course, he had no business!), and it was he who caught the exhausted girl in his arms as she dropped into the British trench.
He had often wondered since what had become of Yvette Pasquet. She had stayed on in the little town where Dick’s squadron was stationed, and they had become good friends. Dick had thus learnt something of her tragic history.
An Alsatian, French to the finger-tips, Yvette had lived in London for some years and spoke English well. But she had seen her father and mother shot down by the Germans on the threshold of their home, and she herself had only been preserved from a worse fate by a young German officer, who had risked his life to save her from his drink-maddened soldiers. Sweet and gentle in all other respects, Yvette Pasquet was a merciless fiend where Germans were concerned; her hatred of them reached a passion of intensity which dominated every other emotion.
How she had managed to get through the German lines she never quite remembered. Her father had been well-to-do, and before her escape after the final tragedy, Yvette had managed to secure the scrip and shares which represented the bulk of his fortune, and had brought them across with her safely concealed under her clothing.
From that time forward she had been the brain of a remarkable organisation which had devoted itself to smuggling from the occupied regions into France gold, jewellery, and securities, which had been hidden from the prying eyes of the Hun.
After his wound Dick had lost sight of her. For many months he had lain dangerously ill, and when he had recovered sufficiently to write, Yvette had disappeared.
Dick’s reverie was broken at length by a light touch on his arm. “A penny for your thoughts!” said a soft voice at his elbow.
Dick came to earth with a jerk. The voice was that of Yvette herself! And when he turned he found her standing beside him, smiling into his face with the light of sheer mischief dancing in her brilliant eyes. With her was a tall young Frenchman, obviously her brother.
“Yvette!” Dick gasped in sheer amazement. “What on earth brings you here?”
“I came to look for you, my friend,” was the quaint but sufficiently startling reply in excellent English. “But let me present my brother. Jules — this is Mr Manton.”
Dick, his head in a whirl, mechanically acknowledged the introduction. Yvette had come to look for him! What could it mean?
“We came down from London this evening,” Yvette explained, “and are staying at the ‘George.’ We soon found your rooms, and hearing you were here decided to give you a surprise.”
“You have certainly succeeded,” Dick rejoined. “But how on earth did you learn I was in Fenways?”
“Well,” said Yvette, “it’s no mystery. I happened to meet Vincent quite by accident in Paris, and he told me where you were.” Vincent was an old flying colleague, and one of the very few people with whom Dick had cared to keep in touch.
“I have tried several times to find you,” went on the girl, “but even your own War Office didn’t seem to know what had become of you after you left the Army, and my letters were returned to me.”
Then her manner changed.
“Dick,” she said seriously, “I came down to see you on business — important business. I can’t explain here. I want you to come back to Town with us in the morning. My brother and I have a proposition to put before you. We want your help. Will you come?”
Wonderingly, Dick consented.
“Yes,” he said, “I shall be glad. My assistant can quite well look after things here while I am away.”
“Very well,” said Yvette, with a look of relief which did not escape Dick, “that’s settled. Now let us enjoy ourselves.”
Dick spent a sleepless night, crowded with old memories which kept him wide awake. Next morning he found himself with his two companions in the train for London. Arriving at Liverpool Street, they took a taxi and were soon comfortably ensconced in a private room at a small but exclusive West End hotel.
It was not until after lunch that Yvette opened a conversation that was destined to exercise a powerful influence on Dick Manton’s career.
“Now, Dick,” — she called him “Deek” — “before I say anything I must make it a condition that under no circumstances will you ever mention what passes between us. I know I can trust you implicitly. I am going to make you an offer which you are absolutely free either to accept or refuse. It will surprise you, and you are entitled to a full explanation. But in case you refuse, not a word of our conversation must ever pass your lips under any circumstances whatever. Do you agree?”
“Of course I do,” replied Dick, wondering what was coming.
“Very well,” laughed Yvette, “now I can tell you everything.”
“You will remember,” she went on, “what I was doing in France — smuggling money and valuables out of the reach of the Germans. Well, I am doing the same thing still, but on a different scale and by different methods. I dare say you know that there is an enormous amount of smuggling into England; the heavy import duties have made it a very profitable game. What you probably don’t know is that it is mostly carried on by Germans. There is a regular organisation at work, clever, secret, and highly efficient. But the chain, like every chain, has a weak link, and I happen to have found it. The head of the whole undertaking is Otto Kranzler, of Frankfort. You will remember him. He was the commandant responsible for the murder of my father and mother.”
“I remember!” Dick exclaimed.
“At the very moment Kranzler is in Paris, looking for an opportunity to get into England with a wonderful collection of jewels, which formed a part of those given to the mock-monk Rasputin by the late Czarina of Russia and some of his wealthy female admirers. Now, Dick, I want those jewels, and I am going to have them?”
“But how?” queried Dick.
“Kranzler is in a serious difficulty. So far as I can make out the jewels were brought into Germany by a Bolshevik agent for disposal, of course, against the German law. Rasputin’s jewels were liable to confiscation, and by some means the German Secret Police got wind of the affair. Kranzler, however, was too quick for them, and slipped over the frontier into France in the nick of time. Now he is in a quandary.
“Under French law he has so far committed no offence, and cannot be arrested. But if he attempts either to deal in the jewels or to export them he will find himself in trouble. The French police are wide-awake — of course, they got a tip from the Germans — and are watching him as a cat watches a mouse.
“So there he is,” she went on, “planted in an hotel with jewels worth at least fifty thousand pounds, and unable to move! His one chance is to get the jewels away by a messenger. He is clever and may succeed, but I don’t think he will. He has already tried but without success.
“I have a plan. I think I can get the jewels out of the hotel. But they must be brought to England, and there is the difficulty. When Kranzler loses them he can’t make any formal complaint, but he will certainly get out of France as speedily as possible; that will give the game away, and the watch on the boats will be keener than ever. I dare not risk sending them by a messenger. An aeroplane is the only chance. And I want you to fly that aeroplane!”
Dick coloured painfully.
“But, my dear Yvette,” he stammered, “you don’t mean to say you intend — ?”
“To steal the jewels?” Yvette completed the sentence.
“Yes,” Dick admitted, horribly embarrassed. He found it impossible to associate Yvette with what appeared to him a piece of cold-blooded larceny.
“I quite expected you to say that, Dick,” Yvette replied. “And perhaps I should have thought less of you if you had said anything else. But surely you don’t take me for a common thief?” Without waiting for Dick’s reply, she went on: “Now, try to look at this affair through our French eyes for a moment. I’m going to have those jewels — at least, I’m going to try. Who am I hurting? A German who robbed me of my father and mother! Would any Frenchman or Frenchwoman hesitate a moment? He is a thief and a murderer! Whom am I benefiting? Myself? Not for a moment; I wouldn’t touch a penny of the money. If I bring this off — and I think I shall — there will be at least a million francs to help on the restoration of the devastated regions of France. Now, Dick, you helped France once. Won’t you do it again? I must have some one I can trust, and I know no one but yourself. It will be great sport to beat the police of two countries,” she added with a laugh.
Dick’s imagination caught fire. It was impossible to resist Yvette’s appeal. He was more weary than he knew of his humdrum life in Norfolk, and here was an adventure after his own heart. His mind was swiftly made up.
“I’m on, Yvette!” he said shortly.
To his amazement, the girl burst into a sudden passion of tears.
“On? Dick — if you could only realise what it means to me!” she sobbed. “I have been all through the smashed-up parts of France — everything, even our churches, is smashed and broken and defiled. The poor people are working desperately to restore their old homes, and they only want help to be happy again. But France has no money, and Germany won’t pay — as every one foresaw except your British statesmen. Do you think I am likely to hesitate to rob a German thief when it means happiness for hundreds of French men and women and children?”
He tried clumsily to comfort her, and at length she grew more calm.
“There is no time to be lost,” she declared. “We must get over to Paris to-night. I have lately learnt to fly, and my aeroplane is hidden a few miles from Paris. The real problem is to get hold of the jewels and bring them safely out of the hotel. Then the aeroplane can start at once.”
“But what about Lympne?” Dick asked. “You know all aeroplanes entering England from the Continent must land at Lympne for identification and customs examination. And the jewels would certainly be found.”
“You must not land at Lympne,” Yvette declared positively. “You will have to get in unobserved and land somewhere away from any aerodrome. You can abandon the aeroplane; that won’t matter if you get through safely.”
“And leave it to be identified in a few hours’ time by the engine marks?” asked Dick. “No, Yvette, that won’t do. And besides,” he went on, “there wouldn’t be the slightest chance of getting through. The new wireless direction-finders would give me away long before I could even reach the coast, and the Air Police would do the rest. I should simply be shadowed till I landed — or even shot down if I refused to land! Four smuggling planes were picked up last week by the new wireless-detectors, and every one was captured.”
“Then I don’t know what I shall do,” Yvette replied blankly. “I thought you would surely be able to slip over at night.”
Then Dick, even against his better judgment, which warned him he was taking on a foolhardy enterprise, sprang his great surprise.
“Well,” he said, “perhaps I can help you, after all. You know, in Fenways I’m supposed to be only a motor-dealer. Really, I have been working for over two years quite secretly on a combination of aeroplane and motor-car, and now I think I have got it about perfect. You can change the motor-car to a little monoplane in less than half an hour. The wing struts telescope back into the body, so does the propeller-shaft, and the blades fold back along the shaft.”
“Have you really?” she gasped eagerly.
“Yes. Best of all, I’ve got an absolute silencer on the exhaust; I’ve run the engine at top speed on the ground and found I could not hear it a hundred yards away. So far I have only made one or two flights, but they were quite successful. It seats two in little cockpits placed one on each side of the centre line where the propeller shaft runs. Why shouldn’t we try to fly her over tonight? I feel pretty sure we could do it at ten thousand feet without the direction-finders knowing anything about us.”
“Excellent!” cried the girl.
“The great disadvantage is that I can’t get any speed to speak of on the ground. I have had to make everything very light, of course, and I fancy about twenty miles an hour, unless the roads were exceptionally good, would be our limit. We should have no chance of getting away if we were chased on the ground — or in the air, for that matter — if we were spotted. We might fly over to-night and chance getting caught. Of course, I have my pilot’s certificate, and if we were caught I could easily explain that I was making a night flight and my compass had gone wrong. It wouldn’t be a very serious matter the first time as, of course, we should have nothing contraband. If we got over safely we could take the chance of coming back loaded.”
Yvette had become suddenly radiant.
“Why, Dick!” she cried, “that’s the very thing. We simply can’t be caught. And when we land anywhere we can be ordinary motorists. It’s wonderful — wonderful!”
“Don’t be too sure,” replied Dick grimly. “The Air Police are pretty wide awake. However, it’s worth trying. Now, shall we go to-night? There’s a train from Liverpool Street at six-twenty. We shall get down to Fenways by nine. We shall have five miles to walk to the shed where I keep the machine — of course, we daren’t drive out — and we must manage to reach Paris about dawn. If we are too early I cannot land in the dark, and if we are late people will be about and we shall run the risk of being spotted.”
Yvette promptly produced a small but beautifully clear contour map.
“There’s your landing-place,” she said, pointing to a large clearing surrounded by thick woods. “It’s about fifteen miles from Paris, and my own aeroplane is pushed in under the edge of the trees. It is quite a lonely spot in the forest a little to the north of Triel. Of late years the forest has been very much neglected and very few people go there. An old farmer, who lives quite alone, grazes a few sheep in the clearing, and I have, of course, had to arrange with him about my machine. He thinks I am an amateur flyer, and I have told him I am making some secret experiments and paid him to keep quiet. I flew the machine there myself when I bought it from the François Frères, of Bordeaux. Of course, I had my papers all in order when I bought it.”
“All right; that will do well enough,” said Dick. “We will go over to-night. Jules can go by the boat train.”
A few hours later Dick and Yvette were standing in the shed beside the strange motor-car, Dick rapidly explaining the system of converting the machine into a monoplane.
“We must get off the ground as quickly as possible,” he said. “People go to bed early in these parts, but there is always a chance of some one being about, and I don’t want to be caught while we are making the change.”
At a suitable spot on the road, the change was made. It occupied Dick, with Yvette’s skilful help, just twenty minutes.
“We can do it in fifteen,” he declared, “when you are thoroughly accustomed to it.”
As a matter of fact they did it in less on one memorable occasion some weeks later when their pursuers were hot on their heels.
Soon they were speeding swiftly southwards. Dick had set the monoplane on a steep, upward slant, aiming to reach ten thousand feet before he drew abreast of London. Thanks to the clinging mist, they were soon utterly out of sight from below, and Dick had to steer by compass until they sighted thirty miles ahead, and slightly to their right, the great twin beams of light which marked the huge aerodrome at Croydon.
Then Dick veered to the south-east, flying straight for Lympne and the French coast. After all, he argued, the bold course was the best. No one would expect an aeroplane on an illicit errand to venture right above the head-quarters of the Air Police, and should any machine be about on lawful business the noise of their engines would prevent the detectors picking up the throbbing whirr of the propeller, which, of course, could not be absolutely silenced.
Fortune favoured them. As they drew nearer to Lympne, swinging in from the slightly easterly course he had set, Dick caught sight of the navigation lights of the big mail aeroplane heading from London to Paris. His own machine, bearing, of course, no lights, was far above the stranger, the thunder of whose big engines came clearly up to them. A couple of red flares from the big plane signalled her code to the aerodrome, the searchlight blinked an acknowledgment, and the mail plane tore swiftly onward. Dick could not match its hurtling speed, but he followed along its track, confident that he would now be undetected.
They swept silently above the brilliantly lighted aerodrome, then across the Channel, and just as dawn was breaking detected the Triel forest, and dropped lightly to earth almost alongside Yvette’s machine. By eight o’clock the machine, now a motor-car, was safely locked up in a disused stable in the Montmartre quarter of Paris, and Dick, Jules, and Yvette were soon in deep consultation.
That evening, just as dusk was falling, a half-drunken coachman sprawled lazily on a bench set against a wall in the deep courtyard of the “Baton d’Or,” a quiet hotel located in aback street in the market quarter of Paris. By his side was a bottle of vin blanc. Before him, harnessed to a dilapidated carriage, stood his horse, a dejected-looking animal enough.
Directly over his head, at a window of a room on the third floor, two men stood talking. One of them was Otto Kranzler.
Two rooms away, on the same floor, a curious little drama was being enacted.
Lounging on a sofa near the door was Dick Manton. Yvette, on a chair drawn near the window, faced him.
Yvette rang the bell, and the two were talking when a chambermaid appeared.
“Coffee and cognac for two,” Yvette ordered.
A few minutes later the girl reappeared. She crossed the room with a tray and set it on the table in front of Yvette.
As the maid turned Dick’s arm was slipped round her, and a chloroformed pad was pressed swiftly over her face. Taken utterly by surprise, the girl was too firmly held to do more than struggle convulsively, and in a few moments, as the drug took effect, she lay a limp heap in Dick’s arms.
Snatching from a valise a chambermaid’s costume and cap, Yvette swiftly transformed herself into a replica of the unconscious girl. Then picking up the tray and its contents she silently left the room, having poured a few drops of colourless liquid into each of the glasses of brandy.
Kranzler was evidently in a bad temper.
“I tell you,” he said to his companion, “there must be a way out. That infernal — ”
There was a knock at the door, and a chambermaid entered with coffee and liqueurs. It was Yvette!
“Would the messieurs require anything further?” she asked as she set down the tray.
“No, that’s all for to-night,” said Kranzler in a surly tone, as he picked up the brandy and drained it with obvious relish. His companion followed suit.
Dick was sitting beside the unconscious girl as Yvette re-entered the room.
“She’s quite all right,” he said, as he watched her narrowly for signs of returning consciousness, “but I must give her a little more just as we are leaving. How did you get on?”
“Splendidly,” said Yvette; “they noticed nothing, and I saw them both drink the brandy as I left the room.”
Ten minutes later Yvette re-entered Kranzler’s room. The two men had collapsed into chairs. Both were sleeping heavily.
Without losing a second Yvette tore open Kranzler’s waistcoat and passed her hand rapidly over his body. A moment later she had slit open the unconscious man’s shirt, and from a belt of webbing which ran round his shoulders cut away a flat leather pouch.
From her pocket she took a reel of strong black thread. To one end of this she fastened the pouch, and, crouching by the open window, pushed the pouch over the sill and swiftly lowered it into the darkness.
A moment later came a sort of tug at the line, the thread snapped, and Yvette let the end fall. Then, with a glance at her drugged victims, she snatched up the tray and returned with it to her own room.
Lying on the sofa, the chambermaid stirred uneasily. She was evidently recovering. While Yvette swiftly discarded her disguise Dick again pressed the chloroform to the girl’s face.
A few moments later “Mr and Mrs Wilson, of London,” were being escorted by the hotel porter to a waiting taxi-cab.
They never returned.
In the semi-darkness of the courtyard the drunken coachman had stiffened and leant back against the wall as a small, dark object lightly touched his shoulder. His arm, twisted behind him, felt for and found a slender thread. Held against the wall behind him was the flat leather pouch which Yvette had lowered. A moment later it was transferred to a capacious pocket, and the coachman, staggering uncertainly to his horse, mounted the carriage and drove noisily out of the yard. No one paid the slightest attention to him; no one realised that that uncouth exterior concealed the slim form of Jules Pasquet, his nerves quivering with excitement at the success of the Gay Triangle’s first daring coup.
An hour later the Paris police took charge of an old horse found aimlessly dragging an empty carriage along one of the boulevards. About the same time, from a forest clearing fifteen miles away from Paris, a tiny monoplane rose silently into the air and sped away in the direction of the French coast.
Kranzler left Paris the following day and returned to Germany. He was strictly searched at the frontier, of course without result, and the puzzled French police never solved the problem of how, as they thought, he had beaten them. He had not dared to complain. “Mr and Mrs Wilson” were never even suspected, for by a strange coincidence some articles of jewellery were stolen from another room that same night, and when the drugged chambermaid told her story it was assumed that the Wilsons were hotel thieves of the ordinary type.
A month later the Petit Parisien announced in black type with a flaring headline:
“An anonymous gift of one million francs has been received by the French Government, to be devoted to the relief of the devastated regions of France.”
