Wallace at Bay

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.’