The Seven Sleepers

Francis Beeding

Description

This is a smashing good crime novel with a modern tone and a plot that only Hitchcock could have done justice to. Screenplays were written for it but somehow it was never brought to the sceen. It should have been made into a film. Involving The League of Nations and Geneva in the early '20s, secret societies, villains and heroes, even a hint of sex slavery, this fast-paced thriller will keep you turning the pages and rooting for the good guys.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Fiction
• Crime
• Thrillers

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 11 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774644553
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Seven Sleepers
by Francis Beeding

First published in 1925
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
The Seven Sleepers


by FRANCIS BEEDING

CHAPTER I I LOSE MY LUGGAGE
It all started with the loss of my luggage.
I was returning home to England from a trip to theTuscan towns by way of the Riviera, and I had registeredmy trunk to Genoa. On arriving at that city,however, I discovered, after much difficult enquiry,in the course of which I was assured that Italy, thanksto Signor Mussolini, was a great and glorious countrywhich would shortly be undisputed mistress of theMediterranean and the most efficient nation in Europe,that my effects had been despatched to Geneva. Itwas pointed out, for my consolation, that the differencebetween “Genova” and “Ginevra” was almostnegligible.
Fortunately I was in no great need of consolation.I was, in fact, delighted with the discovery of my loss.It was an omen. All roads, it seemed, were leading meto Beatrice.
Beatrice Harvel, whom I had met in London duringthe War, was now on the staff of the League of Nations.She had been for two years in Geneva and I had notseen her during all that time. I had parted with herin the conviction that a penniless officer newly demobilised,as I then was, not yet broken to the pathsof commerce, was in no position to lay his name andabsence of fortune at her feet. During the last fewdays, however, my position and prospects had changedremarkably for the better. My Uncle James, callingme into his office some three weeks previously, had announcedhis immediate intention of making me a partnerin his business, and had given me to understandthat I might regard myself as his heir.
On the strength of these gratifying assurances, Iwas taking a short holiday, and confirming myself inthe intention of going ultimately to Geneva in order todiscover how I stood with the girl who had neverceased to be in my thoughts since I had waved her anaffectedly cheerful farewell some two years ago at Victoria.It was stimulating to discover that my luggagehad anticipated me and was calling me forward to thefatal moment. I decided then and there to go after itimmediately, and within half an hour of this decisionI had taken the express for Lausanne and was rollingtowards the Swiss frontier.
But let there be no misunderstanding. The loss ofmy luggage was the pretext and not the cause of mysudden descent upon the city of Geneva. But forBeatrice, I might quite well have abandoned my trunkto whatever complicated doom was reserved for itunder the appropriate regulations. To this day, infact, I maintain that it was Beatrice who, in the lastanalysis, awoke the Seven Sleepers untimely. But Iam anticipating.
I shall have little leisure, once this story is underway, to tell you anything about myself, so I had bettertake this opportunity, while I am still a mere member ofthe travelling public, to explain at any rate who I am,and how I am customarily employed.
I was born in 1894 in the village of Steynhurst,Sussex (where my mother still resides), and christenedThomas, Thomas Henry Preston. I was educated atStowerbridge, where I took prizes for history, physicaljerks, and running. I was also in the Rugger Fifteenand captain of the school boxing team. I was destinedfor Oxford, but before going up my people sent me fortwo years to the University of Bonn, where I learnt tospeak German almost, if not quite, as well as a Germanhimself. I think I must have inherited a gift forlanguages from my mother, who talks six or seven. Iwas about to go to Oxford when the War broke out,which upset my plans, for I entered the army instead,serving right through in the Royal Field Artillery, andemerging in the end with two wounds, the MilitaryCross and a captaincy.
For my personal appearance, it is shortest to quotefrom my passport:

Height: 5 feet 11 inches.
Colour of eyes: blue.
Colour of hair: fair.
Special peculiarities: none.
I should add that unkind friends have accused meof a certain resemblance to the sons of the Fatherland,owing, I suppose, to my fair hair and the rather crudeblue of my eyes. I am apt, however, to become violentwhen this subject is mentioned, and it is not usuallypressed.
Most of the men of my family are more remarkablefor their physical prowess than for their business efficiency,and it was a lucky day for us all when myfather’s sister, Agatha Preston, married my UncleJames. Uncle James is widely known to commerce asJebbutt, of Jebbutt and Jebbutt, Hardware Manufacturers,Birmingham. I have spent the last two yearsin learning the business; and, if you are interested, Ican quote you a line in saucepans or sell you a thousandbedsteads without referring to the price list. Ifind it difficult to be enthusiastic in these activities, butat a time when the salt of the earth, who sacrificed fouryears of their youth to save the world, spends its abundantleisure for the most part in polishing the hardbenches of labour exchange waiting-rooms, I can onlythank the lucky stars that made me heir to a wholesaletinker.
I had caught my train at Genoa with only a minuteto spare, and I had had no time to buy anything toread. There was one other occupant of the carriage.He was a Swiss, and, for the moment, he was absorbedin the morning papers. I had not seen them yet andwondered why he was so closely intrigued. He was notexactly excited—his race is seldom excited—but heshowed a degree of mild interest in the foreign telegramswhich was almost unprecedented in my acquaintancewith his compatriots.
“ Vous permettez, Monsieur? ” I said, and I put myhand on the Journal de Paris .
He nodded and resumed his reading.
The news accorded well with my hopeful spirits, andthe exhilaration of the December sunlight. There was,it appeared, a reasonable prospect at last of a Europeansettlement. The long dispute between Franceand Germany seemed on the eve of conclusion. Germanyhad capitulated. She would pay any reparations thatmight be asked of her, down to the last farthing. Therewas to be some sort of inter-allied conference in Paris,and the German Government pledged itself in advanceto accept its ruling. As a proof of her good faith,Germany was prepared at once to apply for admissionto the League of Nations, to order an immediateresumption of work in the Ruhr, and to despatch toFrance large stocks of timber and coal that had beenaccumulated just outside the occupied territory.These announcements gave a finishing touch to themorning.
“Excellent news,” I remarked to my Swiss companion.
Rather to my surprise, I found him frankly incredulous.
“Germany,” he informed me, after some necessarypreliminaries, “is still the most important country inEurope. She will never be found kneeling at the feetof her late enemies. Germany is a great nation.”
I did not contradict him, and he proceeded to definehis conception of national greatness in a final andcomprehensive announcement.
“The German Government,” he said, “has justpurchased three hundred thousand aluminium saucepans.”
“Three hundred thousand saucepans!” I exclaimed.
“ Aluminium saucepans,” insisted my new acquaintance.“No government could possibly require threehundred thousand saucepans, but it is conceivable thatit might require large quantities of aluminium. It takesone back to the good old days.”
“The good old days?” I echoed, in the tone of onewho seeks an explanation.
“During the War,” he explained, “we sold thousandsof tons of aluminium to the German Government.I’m Albert Golay (Golay fils )”—he bowed to me ceremoniously—“ofUfholtz and Golay of Neuhausen.”
I knew the firm well by repute. Were they not myrivals in peace (now that I was a tinker) as they hadbeen my enemies in war (when I was a soldier)? Butfor Ufholtz and Golay there would have been preciouslittle aluminium for the friendly Zeppelins. I lookedwith interest at Golay fils . Here was the neutral traderincarnate. For him the War stood simply for the“good old days.” And apparently, so far as he wasconcerned, they were coming back again.
“Three hundred thousand saucepans,” I repeatedsoftly.
“It was just two months ago,” said Golay fils .“We are sending them via Basle to Hanover as fastas we can turn them out. Two thirds of the purchaseprice was paid in advance, and no haggling at thefigures.”
“And you suspect the German Government?”
“Private firms don’t do business on that scale orin that manner. It’s the government touch. Besides,I recognised the agent. He bought from us during theWar. Funny fellow, tall and thin, bald as an egg.Stutters terribly. We met in Basle, by arrangement,to negotiate the deal, and as soon as it was concludedhe slipped round right away to the bank and paid mein notes.”
“I should like to meet that man,” I said. “I’mby way of selling saucepans myself.”
“ Aluminium saucepans?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid I can’t tell the precise natureof the material. It’s a trade secret.”
At this point we were interrupted by an attendant,who came along the corridor announcing that the firstlunch was being served in the restaurant car.
We left our compartment and found that the restaurantwas only half full. My Swiss companion, aftera glance round the tables, saw someone he knew atthe far end, whom we joined, on receiving from him afriendly sign. I was introduced as a brother bagman,and was soon listening to an interminable discussion oftrade conditions in Europe.
Our new companion, it seemed, was a Swede, and thepair talked engagingly of supply and demand, of theexchange and of transport. Inevitably their conversationwent round to the “good old days,” more particularlyas t