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Alexander Wilson

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Wallace of the Secret Service
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 449

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

BOOK 4 in the Wallace of the Secret Service series Sir Leonard Wallace, the famous chief of the Secret Service, finds that the peace of Europe is threatened by a gang engaged in the theft and sale of national secrets. Wallace gets busy, and is assisted by the gang leader's own fear of him and his anxiety to get the Englishman into his power. Wallace's investigations, his startling discoveries and his escapes from death make this one of the most exciting books ever written by Alexander Wilson.

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ALEXANDER WILSON

CONTENTS

Title Page1. Cousins Goes Shopping2. How the Plans were Copied3. Adrian Saves His Father’s Life4. Sir Leonard Takes a Hand5. The Anxiety of Monsieur Damien6. Cousins is Trapped7. An Interview with the ‘Guv’nor’8. Through the Tempestuous Night9. Stanislaus Ictinos is Exultant10. Legitimate Burglary11. The Flight of Ictinos12. The Organisation is Reduced by Two13. Farrell is Offered a Chance14. Ictinos Meets Wallace Face-to-Face15. Major Brien is Promised an Outing16. Down the River17. Farrell Earns His Pardon18. The Elusive Greek19. Sir Peter Nikoleff Stays in Bed20. ‘The Affair is Finished’21. Yuletide PeaceAbout the AuthorBy Alexander WilsonCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Cousins Goes Shopping

The Christmas rush was at its height. An almost solid mass of humanity crowded both sides of Oxford Street; taxis, omnibuses, private cars, commercial vehicles panted their way forward by painfully slow degrees, every now and then coming to a protesting stop as the traffic signals barred their progress with scarlet warning. The shops were packed with jolly, clamouring people bent on purchasing gifts for friends and relations, all of them imbued with the spirit which only Yuletide can bring.

In one of the great stores, of which London has such a large number, a little man, slim, barely five feet in height, made his way from department to department with surprising ease. Unlike so many of the men and women round him, he showed no signs of confusion or agitation. Utterly unperturbed, he progressed by a series of rapid, eel-like wriggles, while others, pushing and jostling, almost remained at a despairing standstill. He managed also to get served without appreciable delay, one or other of the hardworked, but always courteous assistants seeming ready to place herself at his disposal when called upon. It may have been that they were attracted by his deep brown eyes, the brightness of which almost fascinated, or perhaps the mouth, full of humorous curves, proved irresistible. Altogether he was a remarkable individual, compelling attention wherever he went. His extraordinarily wrinkled face was utterly incongruous, when one noticed the slim, boyish figure neatly attired in a dark grey overcoat, grey suit, grey Stetson hat. Whenever he smiled, which he frequently did when conversing with the girls who served him, the wrinkles turned into a mass of little creases, each one of which appeared to be having a little joke on its own. He proved a rare tonic to quite a number of assistants who, previous to his advent, had felt as though they were about to collapse from sheer fatigue.

By the time he reached the wireless department, he was loaded with parcels. He spent some time inspecting valves and loud speakers; then turned his attention to the display of cabinets. Customers desirous of purchasing radio sets were being shown the latest models by polite young men; in various parts of the room were listening-in to scraps of the programmes broadcast from London Regional, National, Radio Normandie and other stations. Suddenly above the medley of music and song came the rapid, insistent tap of a Morse message. A young salesman standing close to the little man with the wrinkled face gave vent to an expression of annoyance.

‘That blessed row keeps butting in and spoiling our demonstrations,’ he remarked, as though looking for a sympathiser. ‘You’d hardly believe it, sir, but there are some people who know so little of wireless that they imagine the dot-dash-dot business to be caused by a flaw in the set.’

‘You surprise me,’ returned the little man. ‘I suppose it is actually a ship sending a message.’

‘I can’t make out what it is. To tell you the truth I feel rather puzzled about it. It is butting into all the stations, and is so loud and persistent—’

‘What you might describe as remorseless,’ murmured the other, his bright eyes twinkling mischievously.

The demonstrator eyed him more in sorrow than in anger; was about to turn away when, sharp above the strains of a melody played by a symphony orchestra, came the staccato note of the wireless message once more.

‘There it is again, blow it,’ grunted the salesman. ‘Odd that it should keep coming through like that, isn’t it?’

But the little man was not paying any attention to him. He was listening to the rapid series of dots and dashes coming over the air with such force. The first time he had heard the interruption he had been too much engaged to take any notice of it. Now he was spelling out the message to himself with surprising results.

X. S. B. Seven, it ran, wanted at Headquarters immediately. Most urgent.

As the sound of the last dot died away, leaving the music triumphant, the man with the wrinkled face turned to the demonstrator.

‘Where is the nearest telephone?’ he demanded.

On receipt of the information, he rapidly wriggled his way through the crowds to the telephone department. The number he murmured to the operator acted like a charm. Without the slightest delay she indicated a box, eyeing him with great curiosity as she did so. Carefully shutting the door behind him, he placed the receiver to his ear.

‘Cousins speaking, sir,’ was all he said.

‘Good,’ came a quiet voice from the other end of the wire. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last hour. Where are you and what are you doing?’

‘In Selfridges – shopping,’ replied Cousins.

A soft chuckle seemed to indicate that the other man was amused.

‘Sorry to interrupt your laudable endeavour to help trade, Cousins,’ he observed. ‘But I want you here – at once.’

‘Very well, sir. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

Having given instructions for his numerous parcels to be sent to his flat in Lancaster Gate, the little man, whose name was Cousins, and who was down as X. S. B. Seven in the records of a certain important government department, quickly went from the congestion and noise of Selfridges into the rattle, roar, and crush of Oxford Street. Hailing a taxicab he directed the driver to take him to Whitehall, giving explicit instructions about the route to be followed. Few people know London as Cousins does. He gave a lesson to the taxi driver that afternoon, concerning the way to get from Selfridges to Whitehall by the shortest and least congested route, that was an eye-opener to a man who had previously considered his knowledge of the metropolis unique.

Seven minutes after concluding his telephone conversation, Cousins alighted near the Foreign Office. Paying off the taxi he walked across to the building which is the headquarters of the British Intelligence Service. Less than two minutes later he entered the office of Major Brien, one-time officer of cavalry, now head of the office staff and second in command to Sir Leonard Wallace, Chief of Great Britain’s Secret Service. The tall, upright man, whose fair hair was rapidly thinning, and whose good-looking face was beginning to show signs of the strain of years in the most exacting profession in the world, greeted Cousins from behind a desk literally buried under a mass of documents of all shapes, colours, and sizes. His blue eyes twinkled merrily, as he surveyed the dapper little man, who ranked very high in the list of those devoting their lives to their country’s service, as members of that very silent but very efficient corps of patriots.

‘I’m beastly sorry to interrupt your Christmas shopping, Cousins,’ he observed, ‘and as our French friends would say, utterly desolated at calling you back in the midst of the first leave you’ve had for about three years. But que voulez-vous? It is the service calling. Take a pew, and help yourself to a cigarette, if you can find one.’

He pushed aside a heap of reports, uncovering a large silver cigarette box. Cousins, preferring his pipe, filled and lit it before sinking into a comfortable leather armchair close to the desk.

‘I hate leave,’ he pronounced with a smile; ‘always feel lost. To quote Ruskin—’

‘Don’t quote anybody,’ interrupted Brien hastily. He helped himself to a cigarette, lit it, and sent a spiral of grey-blue smoke rising towards the ceiling. ‘We telephoned to all sorts of places in an attempt to find you,’ he resumed presently, ‘before getting the Admiralty to send out a wireless message in the rather vain hope that you might pick it up somewhere. If the matter had not been extremely urgent I shouldn’t have bothered you. But I am very short-handed at the moment. Most of the experts are spread over Europe engaged on other jobs. Maddison is here, but he’s as puzzled as I am. There is nobody else I dare rely upon in an affair of such gravity as this. I shall be heartily glad when Sir Leonard gets back from the United States.’

‘What’s the trouble, sir?’ queried Cousins.

Major Brien sat reflectively stroking his small military moustache for a few seconds; then leant forward.

‘Two of our most cherished military secrets,’ he observed, ‘have, during the last few days, been offered for sale to the governments of France, Germany, and Russia. One consists of the plans of the Wentworth gun, the other the Masterson monoplane. I received information to the effect that negotiations had been opened in Moscow and Berlin, from Reval and Gottfried respectively, early this morning. This afternoon Lalére informed me from Paris that the Quai d’Orsay had been invited by some mysterious agency to make an offer for the plans.’

Cousins took his pipe from his mouth, and whistled.

‘This looks serious,’ he murmured. ‘Is there any clue to show how the leakage occurred?’

‘Not the slightest. Neither the War Office nor the Air Ministry have had any reason to suspect leakages. Both were astounded at my information. Lindsay, from the Special Branch, and Maddison have both been investigating without result. The only people who had access to the plans are beyond suspicion; nobody else could have touched them.’

‘Still somebody has,’ remarked Cousins, ‘unless—’

‘Unless what?’

‘The whole thing may be a hoax. Some enterprising crook may have hit upon a new idea for making money. The plans may be dummies.’

Major Brien shook his head.

‘Not a chance,’ he commented. ‘Governments don’t buy other nations’ secrets until they are pretty certain they are getting the pukka goods for their money. Which brings me to the second part of my yarn: the Foreign Office has received a cryptic sort of communication stating that the writer has full information regarding the secret plans of France for certain offensive and defensive alliances in the near future; he also states that he can sell intelligence regarding certain German secrets of the utmost importance. On the assumption that the FO is prepared to negotiate, a carefully worded announcement is asked for in the personal column of The Times stating as much, and assuring him of safe conduct and freedom from any sort of espionage.’

Again Cousins whistled.

‘Well, that beats the band,’ he declared. ‘It almost looks as though somebody has hit upon a new kind of profession. Making a corner in national secrets, and selling them to foreign powers should be a profitable kind of business, if it is genuine.’

‘I don’t see how such a thing can be possible,’ objected Brien. ‘Of course, we know that very carefully guarded information does leak out occasionally, but it would be impossible for any man or organisation to collect national secrets indiscriminately, and sell them to the highest bidder.’

‘It does seem a tall order,’ agreed Cousins; ‘still, one never knows. Unless the whole thing is a big bluff, however, it looks mighty serious. If the plans of the Wentworth gun and Masterson monoplane have, by some means, been copied, and are in the possession of unauthorised people, we’ve got to make an attempt to get them back before they are secrets no longer, or, as the lines in La Mascatte have it, “Entre nous, c’est qu’on appelle Le secret de polichinelle.”’

Brien grinned at this example of the little man’s passion for quotations, but immediately became grave again.

‘It’s all very well to say we must get the copies of the plans,’ he complained, ‘but how is it to be done? Instructions were immediately sent to Reval, Gottfried, and Lalére to leave no stone unturned to prevent their being sold, and you can bet they will do all that is humanly possible. The trouble is, however, that they have no clue to the identity of the organisation that is offering to sell the plans. Read these!’

He passed across a sheaf of papers to Cousins, who read what was written on them carefully, before handing them back.

‘H’m!’ he grunted. ‘They certainly don’t know much. Each has obtained his information from a private source in the foreign offices of the three countries. If only they had been able to find out from where the communication to each power had been dispatched, we’d have something to work on. I suppose there is nothing to help us in this way at all?’

‘Nothing. We have ascertained that, as you have seen.’ He tapped the bundle of papers lying before him. ‘There have been no other wires. It looks as though both the secrets of the monoplane and the gun will be fairly common property before we can do anything.’

‘There’s one hope,’ pointed out Cousins. ‘Paris, Berlin, and Moscow are places at considerable distances apart. Obviously the fellow who is bent on selling the plans cannot be in three spots at once, and, as he is offering them to three governments, the negotiations must take place by letter or wire. That means a certain amount of delay, which will be further increased by the haggling that will necessarily take place before he disposes of them to the highest bidder.’

‘Very comforting,’ murmured Brien, with a slight note of sarcasm in his voice, ‘but I can find numerous objections to all that. If it is an organisation, and not an individual, or even if it is an individual, behind it all, negotiations may be conducted by agents with full power to accept a certain figure. If that is the case the whole business could be concluded in a few hours.’

‘Then the plans would have to be taken or sent to whatever government paid the sum demanded.’

‘Why shouldn’t each agent have a copy? If one can be made, so can three.’

Cousins shook his head.

‘The fellow behind the deal would never risk entrusting such precious documents in the hands of others. Besides, he wouldn’t sell them to three nations at once.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’d lose their value. He could make more from one than three. Each would be told that they are on offer elsewhere, and invited to bid. The highest bidder will obtain the spoils, but naturally he would make a condition that they were not to be sold elsewhere as well.’

‘How would he know?’

The little man smiled.

‘Britain is not the only country with a secret service,’ he reminded the ex-cavalry man. ‘We know that the plans are being offered for sale in Moscow, Berlin, and Paris. You can be pretty sure that each of those capitals is aware that they are being offered elsewhere as well. No; our enterprising seller of secrets will act as auctioneer, and it will be some time before he decides that he has obtained a price worth accepting.’

Brien sat gently tapping the desk with his fingers for some moments.

‘You may be right,’ he remarked at length, ‘but that doesn’t bring us any nearer solving the riddle of the identity of the person or persons in whose possession are the copies of the plans.’

The little man with the wrinkled face sat very still for some time considering the position. Before he spoke again, a small, keen-eyed, grey-haired individual carrying a file entered the room.

‘You’re just the man we want, Maddison,’ commented Major Brien. ‘Is there anything you can tell Cousins about your visits to the War Office and Air Ministry which is likely to give any clue, no matter how insignificant it may be, regarding the manner in which the leakage of the plans occurred?’

The newcomer shook his head slowly.

‘Not a thing,’ he confessed. ‘Both sets of plans are locked up in burglar-proof safes to which only the Air-Marshal and Vice-Marshal have access in one case and General Warrington and the permanent Under-Secretary in the other. The plans themselves were quite intact, and showed no signs of having been tampered with. With the exception of the models no attempt has yet been made at construction, and the only people, apart from the inventors, who have so far seen the plans, are the two bodies of experts who tested and adjudicated.’

‘All of course beyond suspicion,’ put in Brien. ‘I was at both demonstrations, and can vouch that no unauthorised person was present.’

Cousins looked sharply at him.

‘How do you know that all were beyond suspicion?’ he demanded. ‘I grant you that it seems ridiculous to suspect men of their position and record, but somehow those plans have been copied, and, until we find out who did it, everybody concerned is under suspicion.’

‘Even the Air-Marshal and General Warrington?’ queried Brien with a twinkle in his eyes.

Cousins nodded.

‘I said everybody,’ he insisted.

‘You’re a suspicious beggar, Cousins,’ smiled Maddison.

‘Aren’t we all, in this service? If we’re not, we jolly well should be.’

‘Well,’ demanded the deputy-chief, ‘what do you suggest?’

‘I’m going round to the Air Ministry and War Office myself,’ was the reply. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll discover anything, as Maddison hasn’t, but there’s just a chance. After, all,’ he glanced slyly at the grey-haired man, his face creasing into one of his inimitable smiles, ‘he was once a policeman, and that’s bound to have cramped his style somewhat.’

‘I always thought you were a bit jealous of my Scotland Yard experience,’ retorted Maddison.

‘Nothing like that about me,’ Cousins assured him. ‘“O! beware, my lord, of jealousy!”’ he quoted. ‘“It is the green-eye’d monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on!” That’s Othello, in case you don’t know.’

‘For heaven’s sake don’t start him off, Maddison,’ pleaded Brien. ‘We’ll never get anywhere, if we allow him to break out with those infernal quotations of his.’

Cousins sighed deeply.

‘It’s appalling to reflect upon the lack of appreciation noticeable in my fellow men,’ he murmured. ‘As Bunyan has it—’

‘Let him keep it,’ interrupted Maddison, grinning broadly. He turned to Major Brien. ‘I came in to tell you, sir, that I have decoded two wires received a few minutes ago, one from Gottfried in Berlin, and the other from Reval in Moscow. Here they are.’

He opened his file, laying it on the desk before the deputy-chief. The latter read the messages eagerly; looked up at Cousins with shining eyes.

‘This certainly helps,’ he announced. ‘The offers received by Berlin and Moscow were both dispatched by registered post from Sheerness. Replies, indicating willingness or otherwise to negotiate, are to appear in the London Times.’

‘Ah!’ came Cousins’ soft exclamation. ‘How interested in The Times we shall be for the next few days! A nice little job for one of your promising young men, Maddison.’

‘I think I’ll undertake it myself,’ replied the grey-haired man.

‘It looks pretty evident that the same organisation that made the offers to Paris, Moscow, and Berlin is behind the communication to the Foreign Office, offering to sell those French and German secret plans. Will you ring through to the Foreign Office, sir,’ he asked, ‘and find out where the letter they received came from?’

Major Brien turned to one of the telephones on his desk, took up the receiver, and asked for the Under-Secretary of the Foreign Office. As that particular wire communicated direct with the department he required, there was no delay. Almost immediately he received the necessary information, and imparted it to his companions. The document in question had been sent by registered post from Sheerness.

‘That settles it,’ declared Cousins. ‘Somebody has obviously opened business as a dealer in national secrets, and his headquarters pro. tem. seems to be in Sheerness or its vicinity. The Isle of Sheppey is not at all a bad place in which to stage a conspiracy. I’ll go down, and have a look round after I’ve been to the War Office and the Air Ministry.’

‘How in the name of all that’s wonderful,’ ejaculated Brien, ‘can this fellow have come into possession of secrets affecting so many different nations? It’s astounding. If all this is genuine, he must be amazingly ingenious and resourceful.’

Maddison nodded.

‘There’s no doubt about that, sir,’ he agreed, ‘which makes me wonder why he has fallen into such a stupid blunder.’

‘What blunder?’

‘Why, to dispatch all his communications from the same place, and to request that replies from each country interested should appear in The Times.’

‘H’m! That certainly doesn’t seem very clever.’

‘There may be method in the seeming madness,’ put in Cousins. ‘At all events I’ll go down to Sheppey and have a look round.’

‘Would you like to take anybody with you?’ asked Brien.

‘No, thank you. One is less conspicuous than two, and it is quite likely that a watch is being kept.’

‘It is also quite likely,’ put in Maddison drily, ‘that you will be on a wild goose chase. I very much doubt whether the sender of these communications actually lives in or near Sheerness. They are probably only posted from there as a blind.’

‘Maybe,’ returned Cousins, ‘but wild goose chases or not, I’m going down. That is, of course,’ he added rather belatedly to Major Brien, ‘if you agree, sir.’

‘Oh, rather – of course,’ nodded the latter. ‘It is possible you may stumble on something. But be wary, and don’t run any unnecessary risks. There’s probably a great deal more behind this business than meets the eye.’

Cousins smiled.

‘Mens tuus ego,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll take the excellent advice of Haliburton: ‘“Mind your eye, and take care you don’t put your foot in it.”’

CHAPTER TWO

How the Plans were Copied

Cousins spent the rest of the afternoon, and a good deal of the evening, interviewing various officers, clerks, and commissionaires at the Air Ministry and War Office without result. He saw neither General Warrington nor the Air-Marshal, but that made no difference, as the permanent Under-Secretary of the War Office and the Vice-Marshal both accorded him interviews, did their utmost in fact to help him in every way they could. He even took a trip to a street in Pimlico, where he had a chat with the head night watchman of the War Office, who, like the others, was unable to supply him with any information that appeared of importance. It is true that the man informed him that General Warrington had rather surprisingly appeared at the War Office with a staff officer late at night about ten days previously, and had remained in his room for well over an hour. It was so unusual an event that it had caused a certain amount of comment among the members of the night staff, but Cousins decided it had little significance. It was absurd to suspect the Chief of Staff himself of having ulterior motives, the officer with him was quite well known, apart from which his honesty of purpose was proved by the fact that he had accompanied the General. ‘Still,’ reflected the little man, as he entered a taxi and told the driver to take him to Lancaster Gate, ‘I’d like to know why they spent over an hour in the War Office at that time of night. Not my business of course – couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the plans. If, by some abominable freak, the General is a wrong ’un, he could make copies of the things at practically any time of the day. There would be no need to go to his office at dead of night; neither would he take a staff officer with him. Don’t start getting imaginative in your old age, Jerry.’

But that astute mind of his, which, during his long service as a member of the Intelligence Department had become accustomed to weighing up, sifting, and examining every item of information that reached him in his work, continued to dwell on that belated visit of the Chief of Staff to the War Office at dead of night, when neither war, rumours of war, nor manoeuvres required his presence there. An idea suddenly occurred to him. He directed the taxi driver to take him to the Air Ministry where he knew he would find the night staff already on duty. He had had a conversation with the head watchman, who had rooms in the basement, during the afternoon, but he wished to ask a question which had not occurred to him before. He found the man after some difficulty.

‘How often does the Air-Marshal work in his room here at night?’ he demanded.

The watchman looked at him in surprise.

‘Never, sir,’ he returned; ‘leastways very rarely. In fact I don’t think I’ve known him come back o’ nights more than two or three times since he’s been Marshal. The one before him used to be a terror for night work.’

‘How long ago is it since he was last here at night? Now think carefully before you answer, as I am most anxious to know.’

The man was obviously intrigued by the questions, but made no comment. He had been instructed to give whatever information his interrogator might demand, and he did his best to oblige. For some time he stood thoughtfully scratching his chin.

‘It was a little over a week ago,’ he declared at length. ‘I remember quite plain, for I’d had kippers for supper, and they weren’t agreeing none too well – must have been a bit high.’

Cousins’ sharp eyes held his.

‘Why should you know it was just over a week ago because you had kippers for supper?’ he asked.

‘Well, you see, sir, the missus never gives me fish except on Friday. It wasn’t last Friday I know, so it must have been Friday week.’

‘Sure it was not longer back than that?’

‘Certain, sir.’

‘Today is Monday,’ mused Cousins, ‘that makes it ten days ago.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Was he alone?’

‘No, sir. He had one of his staff with him – a group-captain, who goes about with him a lot.’

‘What time did he arrive, and how long did he stop?’

‘It must have been after midnight, sir. He stopped until near two. I remember looking at my watch as he went.’

A very puzzled Cousins left the Air Ministry, and he re-entered his taxi.

‘It begins to look,’ he chuckled to himself, ‘as though the Air-Marshal and General Warrington are the villains of the piece. They must have gone to their offices on the same night or, at least, on adjacent nights. I’ll probably get rapped on the knuckles, but I’m going to find out why. Fortiter in re, suaviter in modo.’

He was driven to the General’s residence in Knightsbridge, and sent in his card, on which he had pencilled some figures and a letter of the alphabet. The General was dressing for dinner, but did not keep him waiting, ordering the butler to bring him to his dressing room. A valet, obviously an ex-soldier, who was brushing his master’s dinner jacket, was told to leave the room, and the two were alone. The General, tall, straight as a ramrod, with grizzled hair, and a moustache rather larger and bushier than is generally worn in Army circles nowadays, gazed curiously at his diminutive visitor.

‘You’re from Intelligence I take it,’ he observed. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Are we likely to be overheard?’ asked Cousins. On being assured that they were not, he went on: ‘I won’t take up much of your time, sir. I merely came to ask a question.’

‘Ask it!’ General Warrington was obviously a man of few words.

He put on the waistcoat which he had been holding in his hand, and began to button it, still eyeing Cousins intently.

‘I am making investigations concerning the offer of copies of the plans of the Wentworth gun to Russia, Germany, and France.’

‘I gathered that.’

‘About ten days ago I understand, sir, you and an officer of your staff spent over an hour late at night in your room at the War Office. May I ask if you were there on business concerning those plans?’

The General’s mouth opened wide in most unmilitary fashion. He stared at the wrinkled countenance of the man before him harder than ever.

‘What the devil are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘The latest I have been at the War Office for three or four months is seven in the evening. I was certainly not there late at night ten days ago.’

‘Ah!’ A little sigh escaped from Cousins. ‘You are quite certain of that?’

‘Of course I’m certain. Who told you I went there late at night ten days ago?’

‘The head watchman, sir.’

‘He’s a fool – must have been drunk.’

‘He seemed very certain. In fact he told me that your going there was such an unusual event that it caused a certain amount of comment.’

‘What is behind all this?’ The General frowned portentously. ‘The night staff must be mad, if they think they saw me there after seven. What time did this very – er – unusual event take place?’

Cousins smiled slightly at the sarcastic intonation.

‘As far as I could gather,’ he replied, ‘you were seen to arrive just after ten, and left about quarter past eleven. All that time you were shut up in your room with the officer who accompanied you.’

‘Rubbish!’ The Chief of Staff turned away, but almost immediately swung round to face Cousins again. ‘What is this leading up to?’ he snapped. ‘Am I to understand that I am suspected of copying and selling those plans?’

‘Hardly.’ This time the little Secret Service man smiled so broadly, and the wrinkles on his face became such a mass of cheery-looking creases, that in spite of his evident annoyance the General smiled also. ‘It would be almost a crime to suspect you of such an offence, sir.’

‘You’re wasting your time listening to such cock-and-bull stories. I—’

‘I don’t think I’ve wasted my time at all. In fact,’ went on the little man, ‘I believe I have discovered how the copies were obtained.’

‘How?’ he queried eagerly.

‘I’ll tell you when I have had a chat with the Air-Marshal,’ returned Cousins. ‘May I use your phone? It will save my going all the way to Teddington where he lives.’

‘You needn’t bother,’ was the reply. ‘He is due to dine here tonight. If you like to wait, you’ll be able to speak to him personally.’

‘That,’ declared Cousins, ‘is what I might describe as a bit of luck. As Virgil has it: “Audentes fortuna juvat.” I’ll wait.’

Attempts to draw him failed, rather to the General’s chagrin, He was presently conducted to the morning room, and supplied with refreshment, while his host completed his dressing. It was not very long before the Air-Marshal arrived. The General drew him apart from the other guests, and explained who was waiting to see him. Together they entered the morning room. The Air-Marshal, who, as a slim, alert flying wonder, had performed great deeds during the war, had grown, under the weight of authority, somewhat pompous and fussy, as well as stout. Cousins noted that he was about the same height as the General, though he appeared shorter, owing to a slight stoop.

‘I understand you want to see me,’ he observed, after introductions had been effected. ‘In connection with the alleged offer of copies of the plans of the Masterson monoplane to foreign countries, I presume?’

Cousins nodded.

‘That is so, sir,’ he responded. ‘May I ask, though, why you speak of the alleged offer? Don’t you think it is genuine?’

‘No; I don’t,’ returned the Air-Marshal bluntly. ‘The plans in question are in a particularly strong safe to which only the Air Vice-Marshal and myself have access. It is utterly impossible for anyone else to obtain them, and make copies of them, without our knowledge.’

‘About ten days ago,’ declared the little man quietly, ‘you and a group-captain of your staff arrived at the Air Ministry about midnight, and spent nearly two hours closeted in your room. Would you mind telling me why you were there?’

General Warrington appeared startled. He had been asked a similar sort of question, and it struck him as significant. He frowned in deep perplexity, as he glanced from the wrinkled face of the Secret Service agent to the astonished countenance of the Chief of the Royal Air Force.

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded the latter after a short pause. ‘I seldom go to the Ministry at night, and I most certainly did not spend two hours there ten nights ago.’

‘Yet the night watchman and certain members of his staff are convinced that they saw you; just as the night staff of the War Office are convinced that General Warrington spent some time in his room on the same night or a night contiguous.’

The Air-Marshal turned to the soldier.

‘What does it all mean, Warrington?’ he asked irritably. ‘Either this man is demented, or my night watchmen are. I have not been at the Air Ministry as late as that since my appointment.’

The General shrugged his shoulders in rather a helpless manner.

‘I also,’ he asserted, ‘have had no occasion to go to my office late at night for some considerable time; yet, according to Mr Cousins here, the night staff of the War Office definitely state that I was there on or about the same night as you are supposed to have gone to the Air Ministry. It is very puzzling.’

‘It is ridiculous,’ snapped the other. ‘What do you expect to discover by manufacturing cock-and-bull stories of this nature?’ he demanded, glowering at Cousins.

The latter was not discomposed by his manner. In fact he seemed to be quite amused.

‘“How now, thou core of envy! Thou crusty batch of nature,”’ he murmured softly.

‘What’s that? What’s that?’

‘Merely a quotation, sir. I assure you,’ he went on, ‘that I am not manufacturing cock-and-bull stories. I have merely repeated what I have been told, and I am convinced that neither the head watchman of the War Office, nor his contemporary of the Air Ministry were suffering from hallucinations on the night or nights in question.’

‘Are you giving me the lie, sir?’ stormed the Air-Marshal.

General Warrington drew himself up, frowning ominously.

‘I do not disbelieve either of you gentlemen,’ Cousins assured them.

‘But, damn it all, man,’ remonstrated the General sharply, ‘you have just said—’

‘Just a minute, sir,’ interrupted Cousins patiently, ‘I know what I have said, and I have no reason whatever for doubting the information given me, either by you or by the watchmen—’

‘But you can’t believe both sides of the story. They’re contradictory.’

‘Yet I do. You see, General, there is no doubt whatever in my mind now that, on the night or nights in question, you and the Air-Marshal were impersonated.’

‘What!’ cried the airman.

‘Good Gad!’ exclaimed the soldier.

‘That is how the copies of the plans were obtained. On each occasion the man who impersonated you both was accompanied by a fellow disguised as a staff officer. Naturally no suspicion was aroused, and the two quietly went to your rooms, removed the plans from your safes, and copied or photographed them.’

‘Rubbish, utter rubbish!’ sneered the Air-Marshal. ‘You have let your imagination run riot. I have all along contended that the offer of copies of the plans to foreign powers was a scare or a hoax, nothing more. Even if some enterprising criminal and a companion had made themselves up to resemble me and one of the members of my staff, they could not have taken the plans from the safe in which they are stored. The combination is altered frequently, and the safe is burglar-proof.’

Cousins’ smile suggested the tolerant indulgence of a grown-up person dealing with an argumentative child.

‘I have seen both your safe and the safe in General Warrington’s room at the War Office, sir, and I beg leave to differ from you. Neither of them are really burglar-proof. An expert would open them without a great deal of difficulty. The supposed staff officer in each case was, I am convinced, a cracksman thoroughly experienced in his job, and he opened the safes. Whoever the men are, they are undoubtedly past masters in the art of impersonation. It is going to be a difficult job to run them to earth, but we have what might turn out to be a clue to their whereabouts. Now that I have discovered that you two gentlemen were impersonated, and the manner in which the copies of the plans were made, I must beg you to excuse me.’

The Air-Marshal was still sceptical, but General Warrington was undoubtedly convinced. Both strove to detain Cousins, desiring to ask innumerable questions. However, firmly, but politely, he insisted on leaving; was driven to the Foreign Office, where he obtained permission to inspect the letter received from the mysterious individual who had offered to sell French and German secrets to Britain. He made a careful examination of the type-script, the texture of the paper, and the watermark. Eventually satisfied, he returned to his flat in Lancaster Gate.

He had a bath and a hasty meal, after which he spent some time ransacking a wardrobe, at length bringing to flight the uniform of a naval gunner. This he donned as though enjoying the experience. It was obviously not the first time he had worn the garb. Only after considering the matter deeply had he decided to adopt a disguise. People who had proved themselves so complete and clever in the impersonations of an air-marshal and a general were likely to be no mean opponents, and it behoved him to be careful. He wished to be as inconspicuous as possible, and nothing, in his opinion, would attract less attention in a naval port than a naval uniform.

His preparations completed, he took a taxi to Victoria, arriving there in time to catch a fast train to Sittingbourne, where he had to change for Sheerness. With several naval ratings he was crossing the platform towards the waiting local when his attention became riveted on a tall, broad-shouldered man standing under a lamp. Involuntarily he pulled up, whistling softly to himself. There was no mistaking the clear-cut features, determined chin, and powerful form of Captain Hugh Shannon, the strong man of the Secret Service. What surprised Cousins was to find him in Sittingbourne railway station when he was supposed to be in Italy. The little man wondered if by any chance he were on the same errand as himself. It was quite possible that Shannon had returned from Italy that afternoon, reported at headquarters, and been sent down to make independent investigations in the neighbourhood. On the other hand he may have been deputed on some totally different mission. In any case it was a moot point whether he desired to be recognised, though the very fact that he was on the platform at Sittingbourne suggested that he was waiting for someone, perhaps Cousins himself. The latter decided to walk by him once or twice, thus showing himself. If Shannon did not desire to be recognised, he would make no sign, and Cousins would go on to his destination without further delay.

Having come to this decision the little man sauntered along the platform, passing close to Shannon; stood for a moment looking up at a notice board so that the halo of light thrown from a lamp would illuminate his features; then walked back. This time, as he approached his colleague, he looked directly at him to find the other’s eyes fixed intently on him. He gave an almost imperceptible wink which was immediately answered. The broad-shouldered man stepped cautiously towards him, glanced up and down the platform, and bent down ostensibly to fasten a shoe lace.

‘What did Major Brien say?’ he asked softly.

Cousins felt a trifle puzzled.

‘About what?’ he murmured.

‘It’s obvious,’ returned the other, still engaged with his bootlace, ‘that you haven’t seen him since I returned from Italy. Well, listen! I’m down here on the same job as you, and I’ve a lot to tell you. We can’t speak here, and it isn’t wise to be seen together too much. I’ve a car outside the station. Give me a couple of minutes; then join me, and I’ll drive you to the spot you’re looking for.’

‘You seem to know a lot,’ muttered Cousins.

‘Quite a lot. I bet I’ll astonish you.’

Without another word he straightened himself; strode away towards the exit. Cousins watching him go, admired, as he had so often done before, the swing of those powerful athletic shoulders.

‘“’Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,”’ he quoted, ‘“And coming events cast their shadows before.”’

He waited for a few minutes; then handed over his ticket to the collector, and left the station. There were two or three cars standing outside and, in the gloom, it was difficult to see much, but presently he became aware of a dim form in the driving seat of one, and caught sight of a beckoning finger. He walked across the station yard.

‘That you, Hugh?’ he asked.

‘It is,’ came the well-known voice of Shannon. ‘Come and sit next to me, unless you prefer to ride in solitary state inside. It’ll be warmer there.’

‘I’ll sit by you.’

Cousins stepped into the car and took his place by Shannon’s side.

CHAPTER THREE

Adrian Saves His Father’s Life

The White Star liner Majestic was being slowly warped to her berth. Among the passengers on her decks, eagerly looking for friends awaiting their arrival, stood Sir Leonard Wallace with his beautiful wife. The years had dealt very lightly with Molly, for, though well on in the thirties, she hardly looked a day older than twenty-five. Her complexion was as flawless as it had ever been, her perfectly shaped lips as deliciously scarlet without any aid from a lipstick, her deep blue eyes as clear, her lovely chestnut hair as naturally wavy. She and Sir Leonard had, after many postponements, accepted the invitation of friends in the United States to visit them; had had a short, though gloriously happy holiday. It was a vacation that Molly would always treasure, for it was the first time she and her husband had had a real holiday together for years without the constant fear being present in her heart that he would be called away on one of those dangerous missions, which always caused her the most acute anxiety lest he should never return.

As head of the British Secret Service, Sir Leonard was, she knew, in almost constant peril. Often, she felt, he undertook enterprises which a man with less strength of character would have left to others, but she never made any attempt to dissuade him from them, never tried to keep him at home in the comparative security of his office. Like other women she had experienced the agony of suspense during the war years, but whereas they had reaped a reward of peaceful and contented happiness, and freedom from dread anticipation on the signing of the Armistice, she had perforce been compelled to suffer on, knowing that almost every moment he spent away from her, on ventures necessitated by plot and unrest, international intrigue and conspiracy, might be his last. In her way Molly had given herself to her country’s service with as much devotion, loyalty and courage as her husband. Hers was the agonising duty of patience, of waiting, of smiling, when her soul was sick with dread, of realisation without murmuring against it, that the man she adored was constantly carrying his life in his hands. Often when alone she visualised, despite frantic attempts to suppress her imaginings, the long, empty, ugly years of utter and desolate loneliness which would be hers if she lost him, but still she held high her head, smiling bravely, showing no sign of inward pain or trepidation, praying only in her heart for the day of his retirement to come with the blissful peace so ardently desired by her.

As she stood on the deck of the mighty Majestic, gazing down at the eager faces of the people waiting on the quay, she suddenly felt a great lump come into her throat, tears rose in her eyes. Instinctively she realised that her joyful little holiday was over. Despite the fact that she was warmly wrapped in furs, that the sun was making the December day almost balmy, she shivered. Her hand, resting on her husband’s arm, involuntarily tightened. Sir Leonard looked quickly at her; as quickly turned away. He knew what she was thinking, almost as though she had told him herself; the greatest grief of his life lay in the fact that he understood her sufferings without in any way being able to mitigate or lessen them. Their little son, Adrian, now a sturdy youngster of twelve, who had accompanied them to the States, came running up; clutched his mother’s arm.

‘I can see Auntie Phyllis,’ he announced, ‘and Uncle Bill is there, too, but I don’t think they’ve brought Peter or John or Vera or Joan with them.’

Sir Leonard laughed.

‘You don’t think that Uncle Bill can afford to take all the family with him wherever he goes, do you?’ he asked. ‘It would be like moving an army corps. You thank your lucky stars you’re the only child in this family, my lad. Think what you’d miss, if you had a lot of brothers and sisters, and had to stay at home.’

‘Oh, Daddy, you’ve lots of money,’ returned the little chap, ‘I know you have. And even if you didn’t have,’ he added rather wistfully, ‘I’d like to have a brother or sister, like other children.’

Sir Leonard pinched his ear.

‘Perhaps you will some day,’ he observed. ‘Who knows! Now run away and collect your goods and chattels. We’ll be landing presently.’

They watched with shining eyes as he wriggled his way through the crowd of passengers. Both were as devoted to the little fellow as they were to each other.

‘Bless him!’ murmured Molly. ‘What on earth would we do without him, Leonard?’

‘I’m hanged if I know. But we don’t have to do without him, so why imagine such a thing. By Jove! Bill looks doleful. I wonder what’s the matter with the fellow.’

‘He does look rather worried. I – I hope there is nothing wrong.’

Sir Leonard patted her hand.

‘Of course there’s nothing wrong,’ he assured her, though he was far from feeling sanguine himself. It was so unusual to see the cheery countenance of his great friend and chief assistant clouded by gloom. ‘He is probably trying to appear that he has been overworked during my absence.’

He filled and lit his pipe carefully but quickly. An observer realising that his left arm was artificial would have been astonished by the celerity of his movements. But only those who knew him, or sat with him at table, were aware of his handicap, the latter simply because of the glove he always wore. He had trained himself to use one hand where others would have to use two, and so natural were his movements that there never appeared anything odd about them. Occasionally the artificial hand was brought into action, but without ostentation. Even his intimates were apt to forget that Sir Leonard Wallace was a one-armed man until some amazing feat of strength reminded them. Although slightly built and of medium height, he is astonishingly muscular. His right arm is a great deal stronger than an average man’s two, a fact that has more than once disagreeably dawned on people who imagined that in him they had an easy victim. His general air of indolence, too, is calculated to deceive those who do not know him. Sir Leonard Wallace possesses an utterly calm and cool disposition which is reflected in his attractive good-humoured face, his almost lazy manner. But behind his unruffled exterior, his unexcitable temperament, is the brilliant brain which has carried him so often to success against the men that international conspiracy has caused to be pitted in opposition to him. It is only when able to look deep into those steel-grey eyes of his that one realises the dynamic force hidden somewhere within that frame of slim nonchalance.

Sir Leonard, his wife, and son were among the first to step ashore when the Majestic was tied up. At once they were greeted by Phyllis Brien and her husband, who had motored from London to meet them. Like Molly, Phyllis showed few signs of the ravages of time, even though she was the mother of four strapping children. Her sweet face and manner retained all the vivaciousness of the days when she had first met and fallen in love with Major – then Captain – Brien. Her fair hair had lost none of its gloss, her eyes none of their sparkle. The two beautiful women made a lovely picture as they stood greeting each other with all the deep affection of their long and intimate friendship. The meeting of Wallace and Brien was typical. Their hands shot out and gripped hard, a few desultory sentences fell from their lips while in the presence of their women-folk, not a word concerning their work. But how their wives understood them! With significant glances at each other they wandered away, taking Adrian with them, and leaving Sir Leonard’s manservant Batty to attend to the baggage. Wallace watched them go with a slight smile; then took Brien by the arm; drew him into a deserted corner of the customs’ shed.

‘Well, Bill,’ he demanded, ‘what’s the trouble?’

‘How do you know there’s any trouble?’ queried the other.

‘I saw it in your face long before the ship docked. Is it anything serious?’

‘There’s a hell of a mess,’ came bluntly and feelingly from the other. ‘If I hadn’t had your cable to say you were sailing by the Majestic, I should have begged you to come. I know my limitations, Leonard, none better. I bow to nobody where staff and routine work is concerned, but when it comes to matching my brains against the subtlety of—’

‘Never mind all that. Get on with the story.’

At once Brien plunged into an account of the offers made to Germany, Russia and France, the counter offer to Great Britain, and the discovery of the fact that all the communications had been dispatched from Sheerness.

‘I recalled Cousins from leave, because I was short-handed, on the day before you sailed from New York,’ he concluded. ‘He went down to Sheerness the same night. Since then there has not been a word from him. He has completely disappeared.’

‘Cousins disappeared!’ repeated Sir Leonard. ‘That sounds bad. Have you no idea where he is at all?’

‘Very little. Cartright and Hill have been making exhaustive enquiries for the last two days, and they have ascertained that a naval gunner descended from the 9.45 train at Sittingbourne, was about to cross to the local for Sheerness, but apparently changed his mind and, according to a ticket collector, left the station. Further information, elicited from an old taxi driver, who was waiting in the hope of picking up a fare at the time, makes it seem apparent that Cousins entered a Morris-Cowley car, and was driven away by a big, burly man. We have been unable to find out the number, but Hill was able to trace the car for some distance on the road to Sheerness, but from that point on all trace of it was lost. We succeeded in getting a repair gang at work on the bridge across to Sheppey in order that traffic would be delayed, and forced to crawl. Cartright is with the labourers working a “Go” and “Stop” sign, which enables him to scrutinise every car that passes, but so far without result.’

‘Good work,’ approved Wallace. ‘I’m afraid, though, that blocking up the road won’t help much. For one thing you have only a vague idea whom you are looking for. There are hundreds of big, burly men about, and it would be impossible to suspect everyone who motors across the bridge between Sheppey and the mainland in a Morris-Cowley car.’

‘Still, there is a chance. I was hoping that, if Cousins had been taken across to the island, his captors might presently remove him to some other place, in which case our men would spot him.’

Sir Leonard smiled.