Wallace at Bay E-Book

Alexander Wilson

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

Seitenzahl: 433

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Having received intelligence regarding a dangerous band of anarchists planning to assassinate King Peter of Yugoslavia on his royal visit to England, the British Secret Service are hot on the trail of one of the key suspects. At the centre of the investigation is Sir Leonard Wallace, the famous Chief of the Secret Service. His team soon discover that the group is a small part of a much larger conspiracy with international ambitions of exterminating all royalty. Can Sir Leonard and his courageous adherents disband the fanatics before their evil designs take hold?

Leseprobe

Wallace at Bay

ALEXANDER WILSON

CONTENTS

Title Page1. An Affair in the Strand2. Carter and a Bootblack3. A Board That Creaked4. The Raid in Shirland Road5. Major Brien Points the Way6. Introduces Ivan Modjeska7. The Mysterious Wilmer P. H. Hawthorne8. Carter and Hawthorne Surprise Each Other9. Carberry Takes a Hand10. Blackmail11. Death by Misadventure12. Carter Goes For a Walk13. In Vienna14. The Council of Ten15. Three in a Cellar16. ‘Wallace is Dead!’17. A Desperate Defence18. Tortured19. The Secret Chamber20. Wallace at Bay21. Cousins Does His JobAbout the AuthorBy Alexander WilsonCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

An Affair in the Strand

Gale Preston, the well-known film and stage actor, threw the manuscript upon a table close to where he was standing, and looked thoughtfully at his friend, the producer, who sprawled comfortably in an easy chair.

‘It’s a good show,’ he decided, ‘strong, clever, and with plenty of action. I am not altogether certain, though, that I fancy myself in the part of Stanley Ferrers.’

‘Why not?’ queried the other. ‘I think it is the best part you have had for years.’

‘Perhaps, but it is not in my line, is it? I have never played a temperamental, neurotic role either on the stage or in a film. I am not saying that the part itself is not good; I am simply doubting my ability to play it.’

‘Bosh!’ snorted the other. ‘You’d make a success of anything you played.’

Preston smiled.

‘Thanks for the few kind words, Tony,’ he returned. ‘Coming from a producer they are indeed a compliment.’

‘Look here,’ observed the man in the chair, stretching himself even more comfortably, though not so very elegantly, ‘you know I wouldn’t say anything I didn’t mean. I certainly would not suggest your playing a character for which I knew you were unsuited. I’m not an idiot, though perhaps some people think I am. What’s the snag?’

‘At the moment I can’t imagine how a fellow of the temperament of Ferrers would react to a charge of murder.’

‘Hasn’t the author shown you?’

‘Up to a point, yes. Ferrers is innocent, but he is also highly strung, and people of that type are difficult to gauge. He is portrayed as being so overcome by the shock that he becomes hysterical in his denunciations, making it appear that he is guilty, or, at least, knows a good deal more about the murder than he actually does. To my mind, his behaviour is exaggerated, and I hate exaggeration. What do you think?’

The producer reflected for a few moments.

‘The same thing occurred to me,’ he admitted at length, ‘and it was my intention to tone the hysteria down a good bit.’ Suddenly he sat bolt upright, and laughed softly. ‘I’ve an idea,’ he announced; ‘why not go out for a walk and study the men you meet? When you come across one who looks of a similar type to Stanley Ferrers, clap your hand on his shoulder, and tell him you arrest him for murder. Watch carefully how he behaves, what he says, and the expression that appears on his face. Afterwards you can apologise, take him in somewhere and give him a drink.’

Gale Preston laughed.

‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is certainly a notion. I’ll do it.’

Thus, by a casual, irresponsible decision, did an actor in search of inspiration upset the well-laid plans of the British Secret Service, and render trebly difficult a task that was already bristling with complications. By a chance in a million, he selected the one man who, at that time, was most seriously engaging the attention of the authorities; a man whom they had traced after endless disappointments and setbacks.

Eager to try the experiment suggested by his friend, Gale Preston started off, after lunching at Romano’s, in search of a man whose face and demeanour would suggest that he was similar in temperament to the character, Stanley Ferrers, in his new play. He walked the length of the Strand to Trafalgar Square; then slowly retraced his steps, keenly studying the countenances of men he met and passed. Several appeared likely subjects for his rather unpardonable experiment, but they were always with companions, or something else about them stayed him. At length he reached Waterloo Place, and was waiting for the traffic to pass to enable him to cross towards the Gaiety, when he caught sight of a man standing on the island in the middle of the road. He, also, was waiting for the long stream of vehicles to go by, and Preston had ample time to study him. He was about medium height, and thin almost to the point of emaciation. Clothed in a long coat of some dark material, a voluminous bow tie adorning his high collar, and a black felt hat drawn low over his forehead, there was a suggestion of the foreigner about him. It was his hands, however, that had first attracted Preston’s attention. Long and white, with fingers almost like talons, they were never still. His mouth was half open, and the underlip appeared to be trembling, though it was difficult to be certain of that, but it was his eyes that decided the actor. Despite the hat shading them, he observed how they constantly moved from side to side, as though their owner were in a high state of nerves, while they contained a burning intensity that, he decided, denoted a passionate, highly-strung disposition. Perhaps if he had been a better judge of human nature he would have hesitated. As it was, he became convinced that if he searched the whole of London he would not find a better subject.

The traffic subsided temporarily, the man crossed towards him. Preston allowed him to pass, and fell in behind him. He had no wish to try his experiment amidst a crowd of people. The results might be embarrassing. When opposite the Tivoli Theatre, however, he suddenly found himself comparatively alone with the man. There appeared no one else within yards. Acting promptly, he stepped forward; placed his hand firmly on the other’s shoulder.

‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ he began, ‘on the charge of—’

He got no further. Abruptly, and with extraordinary violence, he was flung across the pavement, only preventing himself from falling by a great effort. He had a vision of the dark-coated stranger darting swiftly into the road between the numerous vehicles passing by, heard shouts and the grinding of brakes. For a moment he felt dazed; then a hand gripped his arm. He was swung unceremoniously round to face a huge, broad-shouldered man with clean-shaven face, clear-cut features, determined chin, and keen grey eyes.

‘Having a little game?’ demanded the newcomer in an attractive voice that somehow suggested a great sense of humour.

‘Who are you, sir,’ asked Preston indignantly, ‘and why are you holding on to my arm?’

‘If you will play at being a spinning top in the Strand,’ came the sarcastic retort, ‘you surely can’t object to a little steadying influence.’

‘I – I was most grossly assaulted by a man who—’

‘Yes; we know all about that. But you interfered with him first, and I’m afraid you will have to do a little explaining. Seem to know your face,’ he added, frowning thoughtfully.

‘I am Gale Preston,’ replied the actor with dignity.

‘Gale Preston! Gale Preston!’ The big man rubbed his chin reflectively with his disengaged hand. ‘You appear to think I ought to know it. Sorry and all that, but—Oh, I get you. You’re the film Johnny, aren’t you?’

‘I am a well-known star,’ came the reply with more dignity than before.

‘You were almost a fallen star just now,’ commented the other.

‘May I ask you to be good enough to release my arm?’

‘Presently, sonny, presently. Don’t be in such a hurry. We’ll cross the road, if you will permit me to escort you.’

The actor protested vehemently, but he might as well have ordered the sun to cease shining. Willy-nilly he was led to the other side, his captor guiding him unerringly between the taxicabs, omnibuses and all the other motors passing in both directions in never-ending streams. They arrived opposite the Adelphi Arches.

‘He went down there,’ observed the big man, ‘and, thanks to you, has probably got clear away.’

‘Of whom are you speaking?’ asked the irate actor.

‘Of whom would I be speaking, but your boyfriend – the fellow you gripped on the shoulder with such bonhomie?’

‘He was no friend of mine. He was not even an acquaintance.’

His companion gazed down at him, a frank look of disbelief on his face.

‘Do you usually grip hold of perfect strangers with such brotherly cordiality?’ he asked.

‘I—’ Preston got no further. It occurred to him that his explanation would sound absolutely ridiculous. Who would believe it? But why should he have to give an explanation to anybody but the man he had chosen for his experiment? Indignation surged up within him with greater force than ever. ‘I don’t know who you are, sir, and I don’t care,’ he declared forcibly, ‘but I should like to know by what right you are detaining me in this unwarrantable manner, and why? If you do not release me at once I shall be forced to call a policeman.’

At that the other laughed outright.

‘Call away,’ he encouraged. ‘I’ve no wish to interfere with your amusements.’ He took out a gold cigarette case, which he opened and proffered to the actor. ‘Have one?’ he invited.

‘No,’ was the blunt reply.

‘You won’t? Well, I suppose you have no objection to my smoking? No luck?’ he called to a man who came hurrying up.

The newcomer, an individual slightly inclined to corpulence, fresh-faced, jolly-looking, shook his head. Apparently he found it warm, though it was early March and a keen wind was blowing, for he removed his soft hat, disclosing a mass of well-brushed, fair hair, and mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief.

‘Not a sign of him,’ he proclaimed. ‘He must know his way about these parts. Lawrence and Irving are still searching. He really did us in the traffic. How he got across without being knocked down beats me. This the interfering stranger?’ he asked, looking keenly at Preston.

‘He is,’ nodded the big man. ‘And now you’ve arrived, Hill, we’ll take him for a little walk. Come along!’ he added to the actor.

They ranged themselves on either side of him, and marched him along the Strand, across Trafalgar Square into Whitehall. Preston began to have visions of Scotland Yard, but they turned into a building almost opposite the Foreign Office. He was ushered into a lift, which took them up to the second storey. There Preston was left in a small, bare apartment, containing only a table and two or three chairs, with Hill to guard him while the big man went out. He was away a considerable time, but came back at last, and beckoned to Hill and the actor. They followed him along a corridor, passing several closed doors, until they came to one on which the leader knocked. A voice, that seemed far away, bade them enter. Preston had just time to observe that the door was of a remarkable thickness and padded on the inside as he was gently pushed into the room. The big man alone accompanied him.

By now the actor was becoming greatly interested. He knew he was in some government office, but the numerous men who seemed to be on watch in the corridors and at the entrance, the closed doors, the air of secrecy that prevailed, intrigued him vastly. He found himself in a large, lofty room, most of the walls of which were lined with bookshelves containing dry-looking volumes and paperbound documents. In one corner was a huge safe. The only wall not occupied by a bookcase was entirely covered by a huge map of Europe, while another of Asia hung over the fireplace. A large flat desk occupied the centre of the room. Behind it, his back to the two great windows, sat a fair-haired, good-looking man with blue eyes and a small, well-trimmed military moustache. He regarded the actor somewhat sternly.

‘You are Mr Gale Preston?’ he asked.

‘I am,’ replied the actor. Some of the self-confidence which formed a goodly proportion of his stock-in-trade began to evaporate. He felt that he had become mixed up in something he did not understand, and he disliked the feeling. He was so used to being regarded as a very important individual that the emotion, disagreeably like an attack of the inferiority complex, which came over him in the presence of the man at the desk and the big fellow standing by his side, was utterly distasteful. Nevertheless, it persisted. The blue eyes seemed cold, unrelenting, yet looked as though they could twinkle very attractively at times. Despite his unwonted sense of littleness, however, he endeavoured to assert himself. ‘I must protest at the gross impertinence of this man,’ he began, indicating his companion, ‘who—’

‘You can do that later on, if you wish,’ he was interrupted in courteous tones. ‘At present there are certain matters which you had better explain as much for our information as for your own peace of mind. I am Major Brien; this gentleman is Captain Shannon, and this building is the headquarters of the Intelligence Service. Need I say more?’

Enlightenment began to break on Preston, and his heart sank. He was quick-witted enough to realise that he had, innocently it is true, meddled with some Secret Service enterprise by accosting the man with the burning eyes and nervous manner. The last shreds of his self-assurance left him, his heart sank.

‘Have I – er – inadvertently committed a faux pas?’ he asked.

‘You have committed more than a faux pas,’ was the stern reply. ‘Whether it was inadvertent or not remains to be seen. Sit down, will you?’ He indicated a comfortable-looking leather armchair close to the desk. Preston sank into it. ‘Now will you tell me,’ went on Major Brien, ‘what you know of the man you accosted in the Strand?’

‘Nothing,’ replied the actor promptly. ‘I have never, to my knowledge, set eyes on him before.’

Sir Leonard Wallace’s friend and chief assistant looked at him searchingly. He certainly seemed to be telling the truth.

‘Then why,’ he asked, ‘did you put your hand on his shoulder and speak to him?’

Gale Preston told the story, describing the part of Stanley Ferrers in the play he had read, and his search for a man of similar temperament, in order that he could discover how he would react to a charge of murder.

‘To you, sir,’ he concluded earnestly, ‘such an explanation of my behaviour may sound fantastic, but I give you my word that it is the correct one.’

Major Brien leant back in his chair.

‘I see no reason to doubt you, Mr Preston,’ he replied. ‘I know how a keen actor likes to make a part he is playing seem convincing, and often studies a character from real life in order to obtain the correct atmosphere – I suppose that is the word, isn’t it? But to actually go up to a man, pretending you are a police officer, and tell him you have a warrant for his arrest was going beyond all reason. Captain Shannon’s statement that the fellow almost knocked you over and ran as soon as you touched and spoke to him bears out your story, otherwise I am afraid I should have been compelled to keep a watch on you. As far as we are concerned, you are at liberty to depart, and I hope you will take my advice – never attempt anything so foolish again. By all means study people, but refrain from pretending to be a member of the police force or, in fact, doing anything that may cause trouble to yourself or others. If the police cared to take the matter up, they could prosecute and cause you to suffer somewhat severe penalties. You may rest easy, however, we have no desire to make the affair public, and you will hear no more of it.’

Preston rose to his feet feeling exceedingly shamefaced and foolish.

‘May I know who the man is, and how I have transgressed?’ he asked diffidently.

Brien regarded him for a moment.

‘I’ll tell you this much,’ he returned presently. ‘He is a member of an exceedingly dangerous band of anarchists. We have been searching for him for weeks. Yesterday we at last found him, and have been trailing him ever since, in the hope that he would lead us to his companions. Your irresponsible action has caused him to take alarm – your very words, unfortunately enough, were calculated to give him warning that he was known and being trailed. He and his companions now, whether we find them or not, will no longer bask in the comfortable sense of security in which I have reason to believe they fondly imagined themselves. They will be very much on the alert, and our job will consequently be rendered a thousand times more difficult.’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ apologised Preston.

‘So am I,’ returned Major Brien, dryly.

‘It was a remarkable coincidence that I should choose that very man – the millionth chance in fact.’

‘If you were a member of this service,’ put in Captain Shannon, ‘you would quickly learn that there are no such odds as a million to one against anything, or a thousand to one, for that matter. I should be beastly trite, but perfectly truthful, if I added that it is the unexpected that generally turns up.’

‘That is true,’ nodded Brien; ‘to us nothing is unexpected. Perhaps it will help you in your future career, Mr Preston, if you remember that. Goodbye.’

Shannon escorted the actor to the lift. From there until he walked out of the front door he was passed on from one man to another, being hardly ever out of sight of at least two. He learnt more than one lesson that afternoon he never forgot. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why his acting improved so tremendously.

CHAPTER TWO

Carter and a Bootblack

Directly his visitor had departed Major Brien walked along the corridor to the room of Sir Leonard Wallace, and reported what had occurred. The Chief of the British Secret Service listened without interruption until the end. Except that he had frowned slightly at the information concerning the anarchist’s escape, he showed no emotion of any sort. In fact, he appeared absolutely unconcerned.

‘It is all very well to blame the actor,’ he observed, ‘but his action should not have been responsible for Pestalozzi’s escape. Since yesterday afternoon, when Carter found him in Soho, he has been continually followed by two, sometimes three, today four men. “He has visited three houses, four restaurants, at which he has stayed for varying periods,”’ he was quoting from a report on his desk, ‘“and slept the night in the Canute Hotel, in Waterloo Road.” That is correct, isn’t it?’ Brien nodded. ‘Well, in that time, the men who trailed him learnt that he was exceedingly jumpy, startled by the least happening out of the ordinary. He was, in short, on the qui vive and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. That being the case, why were they not more careful?’

Brien moodily took a cigarette from the box on the desk and lit it.

‘It is going to be a devil of a job to pick him up again,’ he remarked, ‘and the king is due next week.’

‘Not so difficult as it may appear, Bill.’ Brien caught the glint in his friend’s eyes, and all doubt or exasperation vanished at once. ‘Send Carter to me if he’s available, will you? If not Maddison will do.’

Warning had been sent to headquarters from the British agent in Vienna that a gang of international anarchists had grown very active in their meetings in that city of late. Certain information which had reached him suggested that they had determined to assassinate the king of a European country about to pay an official visit to Great Britain. Sir Leonard Wallace had hardly received the first report when a second arrived stating that three members of the band of anarchists had left for England – one of them, Pestalozzi, being known to have arrived already. How he had entered the country was a mystery, but there was no doubt of his being there.

Immediately an intensive search had commenced for him, while watch was kept on all ports and aerodromes for the other two. After nearly a month’s heartbreaking disappointment, with scarcely a clue to suggest Pestalozzi’s whereabouts, Carter, of the Secret Service, had traced him to a restaurant in Soho. From that moment he had been under almost constant surveillance until the unfortunate intervention by Gale Preston. Even when he had slept at the Canute Hotel, on the preceding night, a man had actually been in the lounge below, while another had watched the window from the street. It had been ascertained that he had not been staying at the Canute, having merely taken a bed for that night for some reason or other. Now he had been lost again, and the king was due to land in England within a few days. To make matters more serious, nothing had been learnt of the whereabouts of the other two anarchists. Beust, one of the most reliable men in the Secret Service, who had lived in Austria since he was a child, was certain they had left the country with the intention of reaching England. There was no information whatever regarding their movements after they had departed from Vienna. It was because of this that Pestalozzi had been so carefully shadowed. He had visited three dwelling houses in which were living compatriots of his, and taken meals in four different restaurants, as a result of which all the places, and the people who inhabited or frequented them, were now under surveillance.

It was certain that he must be lodged more or less permanently somewhere. He had taken no luggage with him to the Canute Hotel, and had paid in advance for bed and breakfast from a greasy pocketbook packed with banknotes. He was, therefore, not short of money. Sir Leonard Wallace felt certain in his own mind that he had found a retreat with people of his own breed living in a district devoted to foreigners, possibly Soho, and that the other two were with him. The difficulty of finding them was that the Secret Service possessed a description only of Pestalozzi. Beust had even managed, somehow, to obtain a snapshot of the man – it had been in Carter’s possession when he had found and recognised him. He knew nothing about the other two, however, except their names – one was Zanazaryk, a Czechoslovakian, the other, Haeckel, a German – he possessed neither photographs nor description of them, and names were very easily changed.

When Major Brien had left his room, Sir Leonard telephoned through to the Assistant Commissioner of the Special Branch at New Scotland Yard, and suggested simultaneous raids that night on the three dwelling-houses which Pestalozzi had been known to visit. Two were in Kennington, not far from the Oval, the other was close to Vauxhall Station. He did not expect that either the Italian or his companions would be in any, but there was just a possibility that they might, or perhaps information regarding their whereabouts could be discovered. The Assistant Commissioner thought the idea a good one, declared he would make arrangements at once, and submit his plans to Sir Leonard that evening. As Wallace turned from the telephone a knock came at the door. In reply to his invitation there entered a young man who looked every inch an athlete from the top of his dark brown hair to the soles of his feet. His merry, laughing eyes, and altogether good-humoured as well as good-looking face suggested a happy-go-lucky disposition. He was one of the most efficient and certainly one of the most daring members of Sir Leonard’s gallant band of assistants, although the youngest by two or three years. Wallace nodded to him.

‘They’ve lost him, Carter,’ he observed quietly.

‘I’ve just heard about it, sir,’ replied the young man. ‘Shannon, of course, is taking it as all in the day’s work, but I believe he is thoroughly fed up. He blames himself for not telling the SB men to keep parallel with Pestalozzi on the other side of the road.’

‘Of course that should have been done,’ commented Sir Leonard, ‘but it was not, and it is no use crying over spilt milk. It is essential that we get in touch with Pestalozzi again at the earliest possible moment,’ he observed. ‘King Peter arrives in this country next Wednesday. Today is Thursday. There is little over five days, therefore, in which to accomplish work that twenty-three have failed to bring to a successful issue. I am convinced that Zanazaryk and Haeckel are also in the country, and they, as well as Pestalozzi, must be in our hands or rendered impotent by next Tuesday. I am pinning my faith to one little incident connected with your finding of the Italian yesterday.’

‘What is that, sir?’ asked Carter quickly.

‘You reported that after leaving the restaurant at which he lunched he walked to Leicester Square, and there had his boots polished by a shoeblack. That is so, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You noticed, however, that his boots did not want cleaning, that they were, in fact, already very bright. Furthermore, he remained with the shoeblack longer than it would ordinarily take to clean a pair of dirty boots, and all the time they were engaged in conversation in low voices. In short, Carter, though you took little notice of it at the time, you believed that there was some connection between the two men.’

‘That is true, sir,’ nodded the young man.

‘Well, I believe our opportunity lies in that shoeblack. Go to Leicester Square and, if he is still there, watch him and follow him when he leaves his pitch. Find out as much about him as you can; then report to me. We may be wrong, perhaps my instinct is leading me astray this time, but there is just a chance that he may turn out to be the key to the situation. None of the places which Pestalozzi visited has supplied us with any useful information yet – they will be quietly raided tonight, but I am not anticipating any great result from that. If you find the bootblack hang on to him like grim death. Understand, Carter?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The young man took a taxi as far as the Alhambra. Then, mingling with the numerous pedestrians, he strolled along to Leicester Square. A little sigh, expressive of exultation, left his lips when he observed the man for whom he was searching at the same pitch engaged in cleaning a lady’s shoes. At first Carter felt a little troubled lest he should prove to be a different fellow, but on approaching closer his anxiety was allayed. He had taken particular notice of the bootblack on the preceding day, and it was undoubtedly he. The Secret Service man walked round the square, stepping into all the dust he could find, thereby causing his shoes to look badly in need of a polish. On returning to the bootblack he found that the lady had gone, leaving the man disengaged. He strolled slowly by as though he had not noticed him, reflecting that less suspicion would be caused if the man solicited his custom than if he went directly to him, and Carter wanted an opportunity to study him. As he had anticipated, so it happened.

‘Will I clean it the shoe, mister?’ asked a husky voice.

Carter glanced at the speaker, turned his gaze to his dusty shoes, and smiled.

‘They do look as though they could do with a polish,’ he admitted, and stepped up to the man, placing one of his feet on the little stand.

He felt a sense of disappointment. The bootblack’s accent was Italian, Pestalozzi was Italian. It was quite possible that the only sympathy between them was their nationality. Then he remembered the shiny boots that did not need polishing, the conversation carried on in low voices. As the bootblack assiduously cleaned his shoes, he studied him. He was clad in the regulation uniform, and obviously was a member of the bootblacks’ brigade. Carter took careful note of his number, storing it in his mind for further reference. Once or twice the man looked up, disclosing a lean, swarthy face, containing a pair of piercing, dark eyes, a somewhat broad nose and ugly mouth. He apparently possessed none of the sunny characteristics so typical of his countrymen; in fact, he appeared sullen and morose. Except for a casual remark about the weather, he made no attempt at conversation, and when Carter strove to get him to talk, either answered in monosyllables or did not reply at all.

When the shoes were cleaned, Carter tossed him a shilling and walked on to Jones’ Restaurant. He ascended to the first floor and, finding a table by a window, ordered tea. It had occurred to him that it would be difficult to find a more ideal position from which to keep watch. He was correct in his surmise. He was able to look down on the bootblack without the slightest risk of being observed himself. He dawdled over tea, his eyes seldom far from the Italian, but nothing of interest occurred. Occasionally a man or woman stopped to have their footgear cleaned, but none of them aroused anything but the utmost indifference in the man. He entered into conversation with none, accepted payment without much apparent gratitude, and took no further notice of them.

Six o’clock came and went, and Carter remained at his table. At last, it was close on the half hour, the bootblack packed up his gear and prepared to depart. Carter was surprised that he had stayed so long, for dusk had fallen, and he could have had little hope of obtaining a client for some time past. Had he been waiting for anybody? This idea was supported by the fact that when his belongings were neatly strapped up in their box he still loitered, glancing about him as though in expectation of the arrival of somebody. Presently, however, he slung the box on his back, and set off along Coventry Street in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.

If the waitress who had attended to Carter’s wants had wondered why he had tarried so long at the table by the window, she must have been vastly surprised when he suddenly started to his feet and darted out of the room. He was halfway down the stairs, when he remembered his bill, tore back, put half a crown into the girl’s hand, and asked her to pay it for him. Then he was gone again.

Carter was one of the most expert shadowers in the Secret Service, and he was quickly on the track of the Italian bootblack. The latter led him to the Circus, crossing to Swan and Edgar’s corner, where he stood waiting for a bus. Before long a number six arrived, and he boarded it, climbing to the upper deck. Carter went inside. Having no idea whither the man was bound, he took a twopenny ticket, and trusted to luck. He found he had to pay excess fare. The vehicle made its leisurely way along Regent Street, Oxford Street, passed Marble Arch, and turned up Edgware Road, and still the bootblack showed no signs of descending. At Warwick Avenue tube station, noting the conductor’s suspicious frown, Carter took another twopenny ticket. Almost directly afterwards, he surprised that worthy by deciding to get off. The Italian had descended at the corner of Shirland Road. Directly the bus started again, Carter rose from his seat and jumped off.

‘Why don’t you make up yer mind?’ came back to him in aggrieved tones from the puncher of tickets, as the vehicle disappeared into the darkness, which by then had fallen completely.

The young man chuckled to himself. He watched the bootblack cross the road and enter a dilapidated-looking house next to a school on the other side. He himself was quite hidden from view by a furniture van conveniently drawn up to the kerb. The bootblack unlocked the front door of the house, and entered. Obviously he lived there. Almost directly afterwards a light flared up in a room on the ground floor, and Carter had time to note the general disorder and tawdriness of the furniture before the man he had trailed crossed to the window and pulled down the blinds.

A little farther along, on the other side of the road, was a telephone kiosk. Carter waited ten minutes to make sure that his quarry had no intention of leaving the house, at least for the time being; then walked along to the box and rang up his headquarters. Sir Leonard Wallace was still in his office, and listened approvingly to his subordinate’s report.

‘I’ll send someone to keep watch while you make enquiries,’ he remarked, when he had heard all Carter had to tell him. ‘That house must be kept under observation. It presents a slender hope, it is true, but still there is a hope.’

Carter returned to his post and, for the next quarter of an hour, kept his eyes glued on the building from a well-sheltered point. A crowd of ill-dressed, noisy children played round a lamp post in his vicinity, some of the inhabitants of the neighbouring houses stood at their gates chatting, every few minutes buses stopped close by, those coming from the West End being packed with men and women released from work for the day. It was not exactly a quiet region. At last a saloon car glided round the corner from Sutherland Avenue, and stopped by a chapel. A man got out; walked casually along towards Carter, while the motor turned, and disappeared. The newcomer was tall and thin, and, as he passed under a lamp, the watcher recognised the seemingly lugubrious, long, narrow face of his colleague, Cartright. He stepped from his coign of vantage.

‘Hullo, Jimmy,’ he greeted him. ‘That’s the house over there – the first from the school. You get a good view of anyone leaving or entering it on account of that lamp outside the front door.’ He proceeded to give a careful description of the bootblack, and made certain that Cartright would know the man if he saw him. ‘Any orders from the chief?’ he asked.

‘Only the same as those I believe he has already given you,’ was the reply. ‘He wants you to find out everything possible about the fellow and the house he is in. Sir Leonard will be along this way about nine.’

‘Well, look here, I’ll make enquiries round this neighbourhood first; then I’ll rout out the secretary or manager or whatever he is of the Bootblacks’ Association.’

‘Right. The car is waiting in Sutherland Avenue, if you want it. I told West you probably would. You’d better have dinner before you return to relieve me.’

‘It all depends if there is time. Cheer ho!’

Carter first went into a public house a little way along the road and ordered himself a whisky and soda. He began to chat with a large and voluble lady behind the bar, and adroitly steered the conversation in the right direction. They had discussed the general decrepitude of houses in that part of Shirland Road and a good many of their inhabitants, before they came to the one that interested Carter. She gave him his lead by describing a building on the other side as a perfect disgrace.

‘It’s such a shame,’ she drawled, ‘and this used to be such a nice neighbourhood. The landlord oughter be ashamed of himself – that he ought. I call it an eyesore, though the rest aren’t much better.’

‘Of course I don’t know the district very well,’ Carter told her, ‘but it has struck me whenever I’ve been round this way, that the first house on this side – the one next door to the school – is about the most decayed of the lot. I suppose it is owned by the same landlord, isn’t it?’

‘Lord bless you, no! There’s umpteen landlords own these houses and, if you ask me, they’re all as bad as one another. Letting the places go to rack and ruin, that’s what they’re doing, but I don’t suppose they care as long as they get their rent.’

‘Still,’ persisted Carter, ‘tidy tenants can improve even dilapidated houses by growing flowers in the front, banging up clean curtains and that sort of thing. The people in the house of which I am speaking don’t seem to have any of what you might describe as home pride.’

‘Home pride!’ snorted the lady behind the bar. ‘I should think not indeed. Do you know who live in that house?’

He smiled.

‘No; I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Foreigners, all the blessed lot of them. And what can you expect from foreigners? An Eyetalian family used to rent the whole house, or most of it, and – it wasn’t so bad then, but their circumstances improved, and they moved. They kept it on, though, and let it out in flats. An ice cream man lives in the basement with his wife and half a dozen kids – where they put them all I don’t know. The ground floor is rented by a man who lives all by himself – he’s a bootblack I think. The top was empty for a long time, but lately it’s been taken by three brothers – nasty looking beggars all of them; they come in here sometimes and drink like fish. It’s good for the house, of course, but I’d as soon they kept away. Now, mister, how can you expect people of that sort to try to make a house look nice?’

‘No, I suppose they’re hardly the kind to bother.’ Carter answered somewhat absently, though he took care to hide the elation which had suddenly filled him.

It seemed to him that the unexpected had happened; that Sir Leonard Wallace’s extraordinary power of intuition had once again proved correct. When Carter had first mentioned the bootblack to the chief the latter had seemed greatly interested even then. Although there had been nothing much to go on, he had at once assumed that the man was in some way connected with the anarchists. It was he who, by searching enquiry, had guided Carter’s mind back to every detail of Pestalozzi’s apparel, had ascertained from him that the Italian’s boots had not needed cleaning, and had pointed out the importance of the fact. Now, having received instructions to follow the bootblack and learn everything he could about him, Carter had discovered the significant circumstance that the second floor of the house in which the man lived had lately been taken by three foreigners, who called themselves brothers. Were they brothers by blood or brothers by association? In short, were they the three anarchists for whom the men of the Secret Service and the Special Branch of Scotland Yard had been searching for so long?

Carter turned to the large lady behind the bar, hoping to get a description that would fit Pestalozzi, when the door of the saloon opened. Cartright entered; he was whistling a tune that Secret Service men often used to warn each other of their presence, and of the fact that they had news, or that there was danger about. At the same time Carter caught a glimpse of the bootblack in the public bar, and drew back for fear the man would recognise him. Next to the Italian was someone else, of whom he could only see an arm and shoulder. The landlady had a better view – she had half turned at the sound of the newcomers’ voices and leaning towards Carter she whispered:

‘Well I never! Talk of angels, they say, and you hear the flutter of their wings – not that these are angels by any means. It’s the folk I was telling you about!’

At that moment Carter saw the face of the man next to the bootblack, and recognised it – he was Pestalozzi.

CHAPTER THREE

A Board That Creaked

Neither Cartright nor Carter took the slightest notice of each other. The former had entered the saloon bar in order to warn his colleague. That having been accomplished, he hastily drank a whisky and soda and departed. A few minutes later Carter took leave of the lady who had been so informative, and went out. He joined Cartright in a dark patch of pavement between two lamps on the other side of the road.

‘Is any of them our man, do you think?’ asked the latter.

Carter caught him exultantly by the arm.

‘My boy,’ he murmured, ‘one is the bootblack and the other Pestalozzi himself.’

Cartright gave vent to a grunt which was intended to signify delight, but which might have meant almost anything. He was not demonstrative.

‘There were four of them altogether,’ he announced. ‘I wonder if the other two were Haeckel and Zanazaryk.’

‘I’d stake my life on it,’ returned the exuberant Carter.

He repeated the conversation he had had with the landlady in the public house.

‘I wouldn’t stake my life on it,’ observed his more cautious colleague, ‘but it’s a safe enough bet to plunk a couple of bob on.’

‘That settles it,’ decided Carter. ‘When you are willing to bet two whole shillings, twenty-four pence, forty-eight halfpence on anything it must be a cert. Look here, Jimmy, it doesn’t matter now whether I find out if the boot wallah is a pukka member of the association or brigade of bootblacks or not. He must be, anyway, or he wouldn’t dare take up a pitch and wear the uniform and a number in Leicester Square. I’m going into that house.’

‘It would be a good notion if one of us did,’ agreed Cartright. ‘Perhaps you’d better go. You’re a more expert burglar than I am. I’ll walk by and whistle the old tune, if they show signs of returning before you come back. I hope you get out in time.’

‘Whistle it loudly,’ enjoined the younger man. ‘It would be a pity if my promising career was cut short, because you didn’t whistle loudly enough.’

He crossed to the other side, and hurried along towards the house. It was an admirable night for his purpose. There was no moon, while a heavy cloudbank had blown up, and it had commenced to rain. The children had dispersed, and the chatterers had been driven in to their firesides. A bus came swinging round from Formosa Street, stopped to drop a single passenger, who went towards Bristol Gardens, and rattled on its way again. For the moment there was not a soul about. Carter slipped through the gate, up the steps to the front door. He did not worry about the lamp standard right outside the house. A bunch of skeleton keys which he carried about with him would provide the means of entrance. There would be no question of attempting to enter by a window, when he would be certain to draw attention to himself.

In a little over half a minute after trying a key in the lock, he was inside the house, the door closed behind him. He found himself in a dark, narrow hall, which contained an unpleasant odour of mustiness and decay. Making his way cautiously forward – he did not have a torch on him, and did not wish to risk switching on the light – he came to a staircase and, without making a sound, ascended. On the floor above was a passage narrower than the hall below. Two rooms opened into it, while there was a bathroom at the rear, down two steps. A door directly in front of him proved to belong to a cupboard, the staircase continuing upward to the left of it. He chose the back room in which to start his investigations as being the safer. His main object was to discover for certain, if possible, whether the two men with Pestalozzi and the bootblack were actually Haeckel and Zanazaryk. If he were able to ascertain that, there would be no reason for him to enter the front room at all. There was a great deal less risk in the back room, but would he hear Cartright whistle? A smile played round his lips at the recollection of his last remark to his colleague.

He pushed open the door quietly and entered. For a moment he stood listening; then feeling for the electric light switch, turned on the light. A quick glance round showed him a room in a state of awful untidiness. A double bedstead and a smaller one occupied most of the space, blankets, sheets and pillows being thrown on them in heaps. Shirts – dirty-looking objects – socks and collars covered the rickety dressing table and only chair, and overflowed on to the floor. A washstand in one corner of the room contained a cracked ewer and a basin full of black, soapy water. An expression of disgust crossed Carter’s face, but he had no time for fastidious repugnance. The blind was already drawn down before the solitary window, therefore he could not be seen from the houses at the back. His eyes searched for and found what was of importance to him – three suitcases of varying sizes, all old and very much worn, pushed under the large bed.

Quickly he dragged them out. They were not locked, and rapidly but expertly he searched them, taking care to replace everything exactly as he found it. He was extremely disappointed when he had finished. He had failed to find a single article of any interest to him. At least he had hoped to come across the men’s passports. Even if they were held under false names, as they were certain to be, he would have learnt something from them. He was particularly keen to know where they had been issued. Pushing the suitcases back under the bed, he set to work to search the rest of the room. The minutes passed quickly by, and still he failed to come across a single object that would have helped him to establish the identity of even one of the foreigners. The drawers of the dressing table contained nothing at all; none of the shirts or collars had a name on them. He was about to go into the front room when his eyes settled on a pair of high Russian boots thrown carelessly under the washstand. What innocent looking receptacles they would make, he thought, for anything the men wanted to hide that could not be carried about with them. Immediately he picked up one, finding it astonishingly heavy. Inserting his hand he found himself grasping a heavy automatic pistol. He drew it out and examined it. It had no name on it, but was of German make, a deadly-looking weapon, and was fully loaded. The other boot contained a similar pistol. At least he had found proof that the owner of the boots was not altogether a simple, guileless individual. Only a man who had sinister designs or was in fear of aggression would possess such weapons. Not expecting to discover to whom the boots belonged, Carter nevertheless turned back the tops and examined them. Then a low cry of exultation escaped from him. An attempt had been made to scratch out certain letters written on each. He carried them under the light and held them close to his eyes. The writing was practically obliterated. On one, only Y and K being visible, but on the other less success had attended the efforts of the owner. Carter was able to read Zan-za-yk – obviously Zanazaryk. He had established the fact that with Pestalozzi was, at least, one of his fellow anarchists.

He replaced the pistols in their unusual holsters, which he took care were put back under the washstand exactly as he had found them. That done, he switched off the light and left the bedroom; walked along the passage, and entered the apartment overlooking the street. The blinds were down, but, like those of the bedroom, were only flimsy things of linen, through which the light was bound to show. There were no thick curtains to draw across. However, Cartright was on watch. He would be bound to warn him of the approach of the men. Carter switched on the light, and glanced round the room which, though not in as disorderly a condition as the bedroom, was extremely untidy, as well as badly furnished. A large kitbag lying in a corner, under a rug which only partially hid it, immediately drew his eye. At once he was across the room and had removed the covering. A powerful-looking padlock secured the top of the bag, which on inspection, Carter decided would take some time to open – probably far longer than he could afford. He felt several hard substances, the shape of them suggesting, as far as he was able to tell, large revolvers or possibly Mauser automatic pistols.

‘They’re well armed,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I wish to goodness I had the time to open that thing and look inside.’

There was nothing on the kitbag to indicate the name of the owner. After turning it over, he laid it down again, and drew the rug back over it. He then turned his attention to the rest of the room. An overcoat which he seemed to recognise was thrown over the back of a chair. Picking it up and holding it at arms’ length, he decided that it was the one which Pestalozzi had been wearing when he had first come across the man. At first he thought there was nothing in any of the pockets, but on more careful investigation, he found a sticky lump in one. Taking it out he discovered, to his disgust, that it consisted of a half melted sweetmeat of some kind to which were adhering several torn scraps of paper. These he pulled away from the sweet one by one, placing them on the table. They were obviously all part of one small piece of paper, and he proceeded to put them together. It was an unpleasant job, as they were sticky and very dirty. However, he persevered. Presently he had succeeded in arranging the whole in one piece, and on it, to his delight, he found a message. It was written in German, and he quickly translated it to read:

Have brought instructions. Take room Canute Hotel, Waterloo Road, Wednesday night. Do not fail. Send S or H if you cannot come. Must return next day.

M

Carter gave vent to a grunt of satisfaction. The reason why Pestalozzi had taken a room in the Canute Hotel for one night was now explained. Somebody had met him there, and had given him certain instructions which, it was to be presumed, had been conveyed from the headquarters of the anarchists in Vienna. Who was ‘M’? However, the identity of the messenger did not matter very much, as he had probably already returned whence he came. Carter had evidence now that Haeckel as well as Zanazaryk was with Pestalozzi, for the letter ‘H’ in the note could hardly refer to anybody else.