Wallace at Bay (11 page)

‘What have I done?’ he demanded in a resentful voice.

‘Could you not see? Could you not see?’

‘See what? What was there to see? You were asking Carberry where his precious document is. I’m hanged if I can understand why.’

‘You are a fool – a big fool.’ Modjeska replaced his pince-nez. ‘I do not think I have ever before know a fool so great.’

‘Oh, you haven’t have you!’ snapped Carter. ‘Then you can jolly well clear out of my room. Perhaps you will be able to find someone who is not a fool.’

Modjeska looked surprised, and a little concerned.

‘Vat is this you say?’ he demanded. ‘Are you now refuse to be vone of us?’

‘Do you think I’m going to allow you or anyone else to call me a fool?’ grunted Carter, all the sullenness and resentment back in his face. ‘You can take your plots back to your own country, with you. I don’t want to have anything more to do with them. A fool am I?’

The Pole studied him for a moment, then smiled.

‘It is a misunderstanding betveen you and me – yes? I vill explain; after you vill know vhy I call you a big fool. Now I see you are not the fool – it is that you do not understand. Ven you know you vill be mooch angry vith yourself.’

‘Well, explain then.’

‘In a leetle time.’ He turned to the still trembling Carberry. ‘I think you have win, my friend,’ he announced. ‘You have us in your power – I admit it. For your silence ve must pay. Vat is it you ask?’

Such a complete change in his attitude was, to say the least of it, a little surprising. Carberry looked up at him and, although still
pale and drawn, quickly now began to recover from his experience. The light of greed was in his eyes.

‘I – I knew you would see you were in my power before long,’ he muttered hoarsely.

Modjeska shrugged his shoulders.

‘Ah, yes,’ he confessed. ‘It vas evident, but I hoped that I could bluff you.’

‘It would take more than you to bluff me,’ boasted Julius.

‘Alas! I feel that you are right. Vell vat is the price vich you ask?’

Carter frowned thoughtfully. He knew very well that Modjeska had no intention of acceding to the blackmailer’s demands, but was unable to understand his object in thus appearing to surrender. There was devilry of some sort behind it without a doubt. Although he had interrupted Modjeska’s attempt at hypnotism, and for the time being had, he was quite certain, saved Carberry’s life, the Secret Service man was well aware of the deadly peril which was overhanging the commercial traveller. He feared that he would not always be in a position to save him. Carberry had now forgotten his terror in the sense of triumph that had come to him. It was obvious he was quite convinced that Modjeska now fully realised that he held the whip-hand, and had decided that all he could do was to treat with him. He sat as though considering the question asked for a minute or two, one hand placed in an affected manner on his hip. The fellow was quite unable to forbear from posing. Carter caught a whiff of some pungent scent as he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his lips. At length he gave Modjeska an arch look, his head on one side.

‘I suppose,’ he observed, ‘you will think I am a very greedy man, if I ask for ten thousand pounds?’

‘Very greedy, yes,’ nodded the Pole, ‘but man – never.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Vat I have say. No vone vould take you for a man.’

‘Oh, I say. What else could I be?’

‘Ve vill not disguss the science of eugenics – no. You say you vant ten tousand pounds for to be silent. It is too mooch, my friend.’

Carberry, who seemed to have regained all his confidence, tossed his head in the style of a schoolgirl.

‘I will not take a penny less,’ he declared.

Modjeska sat for a while stroking his chin. Gone was all suggestion of fierceness from his manner, his expression was almost mild.

‘Vere you tink ve get all that money?’ he asked.

‘You have a very big fund. You see, I know a great deal about your society.’

‘Yes; I can see that,’ admitted Modjeska. ‘If you are paid this money, how are ve to know you vill then keep silence?’

‘I will give you my word,’ returned Carberry with a grand air.

The Pole grunted, but made no other comment. He again sat thoughtful for some moments, then he sighed.

‘Tomorrow I vill give you my answer. You vill vait?’

Julius rose from his chair.

‘If you come to my room before breakfast,’ he agreed, ‘I will wait till then with pleasure.’

‘Ah! You do not give me too mooch time. Very vell. I vill come.’

The blackmailer sauntered round the bed to the door; withdrew the bolt. For a few seconds he stood elegantly poised, an object, to Carter, of profound contempt, though he felt a good deal of pity for the fellow. ‘Please remember,’ lisped Julius, ‘that it is useless
to try any tricks. It would be bad for you both if you forget that a friend of mine possesses a statement which, if published, would mean the end of the society you – er – adorn.’

‘What have I to do with it?’ growled Carter.

‘I have also mentioned you in my little report, Mr Carter. It contains, you see, a summary of the conversation in this room last night. You will probably be interested to know that I searched your room this evening.’

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Carter was greatly relieved now that the matter which had been troubling him was explained. ‘What did you expect to find here?’

‘Evidence against you,’ replied Carberry with a smirk.

‘You’re nothing but a common blackmailer and a thief,’ snarled the Secret Service man, ‘and if you think I’m afraid of you, you dirty sneak, you––’

‘Hush!’ interposed Modjeska, but his lips were twitching in a cruel smile which Julius could not see. ‘Remember, my friend, ve are in his power.’

‘I am glad you are remembering it, Ivan Modjeska,’ came from Carberry in approving tones. ‘You are a wise man. As for you,’ he looked again at Carter, ‘you will be well advised to follow Modjeska’s advice. I will take care that your excursion to that seditious meeting tonight is added to my statement – and at once. That in itself may not be criminal, but added to everything else it will tell against you.’

With that he went out, unbolting the door and closing it behind him, apparently quite unaware that he had made a fatal mistake. Carter had noticed it, and he quickly saw that Modjeska had also done so. The latter’s eyes were gleaming as the Secret Service man turned to look at him.

‘Ah! The so-wise Carberry,’ chuckled the Pole softly. ‘He has pretend the bluff. The so-precious document cannot be vith a friend, if he goes now to add vords to it.’

‘Perhaps he means he will write another document,’ hazarded Carter, his heart sinking as he realised the manner in which Carberry had so foolishly placed himself in Modjeska’s power by a thoughtless remark.

‘I do not tink that, my friend. Vere did you go tonight of vich he speak?’ Carter told him. ‘And the good Carberry follow you?’

‘I suppose so. At any rate he was there. We came back together. Now I want to know what you meant by calling me a fool, and saying I had spoilt everything.’

Modjeska explained to him at great length, and with many expressions of self-praise, the faculty he possessed of being able to hypnotise others.

‘I vas getting Carberry into my power,’ he concluded. ‘Soon he vould have told me vere that paper he had written vas, but you interrupt, I know because you did not understand vat I do, and it is all over – finished. The influence vas ruined.’

Carter stared at him like one amazed.

‘Can you really do that?’ he asked in a hushed voice. ‘You are not fooling?’

Modjeska sat up with an air of great pride.

‘There is no foolery. It is true. I, Ivan Modjeska, can mesmerise ven I vill. It is mooch useful gift.’

Carter took care that a look of great respect came into his face. The Pole noticed it, and was extremely gratified. For some moments he basked in the imagined adulation of his companion.

‘I’m sorry I butted in,’ apologised the Englishman humbly.

‘It is no matter – you did not know. Another time you vill understand, yes? I, therefore, forgive.’

Carter looked duly grateful for the other’s magnanimity.

‘It is decent of you,’ he murmured.

Modjeska leant forward; patted him on the arm.

‘The more I see you, my friend,’ he declared expansively, ‘so mooch the more I like you. Ivan Modjeska vill alvays be your friend. You have my vord. Your leetle mistake matters not. Ve know now Mr Carberry, that clever vone, has not the document given avay. It is vith him. Oh, the poor Carberry!’

He laughed, and the utter cold-bloodedness of the laugh sent a shiver through the Englishman. He showed no sign of his feelings however.

‘What do you intend to do?’ he asked casually.

Modjeska shrugged his shoulders.

‘Who knows vat may happen? In this vorld life is mooch uncertain. Vone day a man is in health so good, and the next day he is suddenly dead. It is sad, but ve cannot help it. The vorld goes on just the same.’

Carter did not press him to disclose his intentions for fear of raising suspicions in his mind, but he resolved to keep a watch on Carberry’s room for the rest of the night. The Pole took a thick wallet from his pocket. From it he extracted a transcontinental rail and boat ticket which he handed to Carter. The latter examined it, and saw that it was dated two days hence. The destination was Vienna.

‘On Sunday, my friend, you vill go to Vienna vith this. Ven you arrive I vill meet you at the station. Hermann Grote and I vill go tomorrow night by the boat train for Southampton. Ve have business in Havre, you see. Your train vill leave from Victoria at
nine of the clock in the morning, and you vill go by vay of Dover, Ostend and Brussels. It is understood?’

‘Perfectly.’

Modjeska gave him a roll of notes.

‘There you have tventy pounds vich ve vill call expenses. You cannot say Ivan Modjeska is not generous.’

‘I think you are very generous,’ returned Carter in exultant tones. ‘I haven’t had as much money as this for a long time.’

‘There is mooch more vere that come from. Ven you are of the society, you vill be mooch vell paid. Ve do not starve our comrades who serve the great cause. Now, my friend, I vill leave you. There vill be no more to be said until ve meet in Vienna.’

‘Are you going to consult Mr Grote about Carberry?’

‘I have not make up my mind. Perhaps. I vill tink vat is best to do. Goodnight.’

Carter waited some time after he had gone, to make sure that he was not still in the corridor. Then, after switching off the light, and slipping on his overcoat – he had no dressing gown with him – he quietly opened his door, placed a chair on the threshold and sat where he could see the door of Carberry’s room without being seen himself. He was determined that somehow or other, even if it meant bringing himself under suspicion, he would save the blackmailer’s life. If no attempt was made on him that night he would see that on the following day, at least until Modjeska and Grote had departed, he would be amply protected by the Secret Service. An hour, two hours went by, and Modjeska did not come back. Carter began to think that the Pole had no intention of doing anything that night. Perhaps, when he visited Carberry before breakfast, he would carry out the murderous designs he was undoubtedly nursing. It would be a very risky proceeding, and
foolish in the extreme, but there was no knowing what might be in the evil mind of Modjeska. Suddenly the Secret Service man sat bolt upright. The door of room number thirteen had opened. In the dim light cast by the solitary electric lamp that had been left burning in the corridor he saw a man appear, close the door quietly behind him and go quietly down the stairs. There was no mistaking the somewhat corpulent form of Ivan Modjeska.

Carter rose to his feet; stood for several moments looking down the passage, a prey to several conflicting emotions. The one that predominated was a feeling of anger with himself. It had not occurred to him that Modjeska would go straight to Carberry’s room after leaving him, as he must have done. He had been certain that the Pole would go to Grote, and tell the German-American what had happened. A dread that harm had already overtaken Carberry fought with the rather weak assurance that Modjeska would not dare to murder the blackmailer in the hotel. Carter tried to persuade himself that he would be certain to wait until an opportunity occurred for him to bring about Carberry’s death in some manner that would give it the appearance of an accident. But he remained unconvinced. Deep in his heart the Secret Service agent felt that the man who had made such a foolish attempt at blackmail was already dead. He was puzzled, however, to know
why Modjeska had spent over two hours in the other’s room. He decided to investigate.

Drawing his coat round him, for the night was very cold, he tiptoed along the corridor, gently turned the handle of the door of number thirteen, and entered. It struck him then what an utterly unwise man Julius Carberry was. To have entered his room, after the interview he had had with Modjeska, and to have left the door unlocked and unbolted, as he must have done, was the very extreme of madness. Carter could not see anything, as the light had not been left burning, but no sound of breathing reached his ears. He stood listening intently for over a minute; then closed the door, gently sliding the bolt into place. His fingers felt for and found the switch. At once the electricity flared into life, and his eyes immediately sought the recumbent form in the bed. There did not, at first sight, appear to be anything wrong. Carberry lay on his side, as though in a deep sleep, the bedclothes drawn up to his chin. The room was not in disorder, as though a search had been conducted in it or violence had taken place. Everything, in fact, seemed perfectly normal. Carter stepped quietly up to the bed; bent low over the figure lying there. Then he knew; knew without a shadow of doubt. Julius Carberry was indeed dead.

He appeared to have died in his sleep. There were no marks of any kind on him, as far as the Secret Service man could tell from a cursory examination. He had certainly not been stabbed, there was no sign of strangulation, and Carter became extremely puzzled. What had caused death? He stood for some time looking down at the body, his brows knit in perplexed thought, then his eyes wandered to the bedside table, became immediately fixed on a small phial standing there. It was uncorked, and contained a few small tablets. He picked it up. One glance at the label was quite
sufficient to tell him not only why Carberry had died, but how the crime had been accomplished. He was staring at the word Veronal. Almost as though he had been present, he visualised Modjeska hypnotising the unfortunate blackmailer; then, when the latter was entirely under his influence, forcing him to swallow, one by one, the deadly little lozenges, until he had taken more than enough to kill him. After that Modjeska had simply waited in the room until his victim had died. The body was still warm, and Carter calculated that death had occurred not more than half an hour before. At first he had thoughts of calling for assistance, sending for a doctor in the hope that a flicker of life might still remain, and Carberry be saved. But he knew too much about death; here, without the slightest doubt, lay one whom no power on earth could revive.

The utter fiendishness of the crime appalled him. It was terrible to reflect that any human being could have hypnotised a fellow creature into taking an overdose of an opiate; then remained waiting, waiting, waiting until death had claimed the victim of his diabolical villainy. And, to make the matter more dreadful, Carter would be compelled, at least for the time being, to stand aside, and allow the murderer to escape justice, even appear to countenance the crime. There could be no doubt that the inquest would result in a verdict of accidental death, perhaps suicide, though that was unlikely. No suspicion of foul play would be engendered in the minds of the authorities unless Carter spoke, and his lips were sealed. He stood there white with horror, with passionate loathing of the man who had done this vile thing. Mentally he vowed that he would not rest until Modjeska had in some way expiated his crime.

He wondered whether Carberry had been in the habit of taking veronal, or if Modjeska had had the small bottle of tablets in his
pocket. He could not have gone to his room to obtain it. Carter would have seen him enter number thirteen in that case. The first seemed by far the more feasible explanation. Carberry was the type one could imagine taking a drug, while Modjeska would have had no object in carrying a bottle of such tablets in his pocket. He could not have foreseen what was going to happen. There appeared little doubt that, on entering Carberry’s apartment with the idea of murdering him in some other way, the Pole had seen the veronal, and had conceived then and there the scheme by which he could remove the blackmailer without the slightest risk to himself.

Carter replaced the bottle on the table, first wiping it with his handkerchief to make certain there were no fingerprints on it. There was just a possibility that something might rouse the suspicions of the police. In that case it would be distinctly awkward if they examined the phial for impressions and afterwards discovered that his were on it. The thought gave rise to another reflection. What if they discovered the surprising fact that there were no fingerprints on it at all. That in itself would be a suspicious fact. Still holding his handkerchief in his right hand, Carter lifted up the little bottle by the neck; then, turning back the bedclothes, raised one of the dead man’s hands and pressed the thumb and forefinger against it. That done he put down the phial, and gently lifted the sheet and blankets back into position.

There was nothing to detain him in the room. He crossed to the door, therefore, switched the light off, and let himself out, first assuring himself that there was nobody about. Back in his own room, he closed and bolted the door, took off his overcoat, and got into bed. There he lay thinking of the crime that had been committed and the man whose satanic cunning had devised it. Sleep refused to come to him for a long time. In a way he felt
responsible for Carberry’s death. If he had only anticipated that Modjeska would go direct to number thirteen, he might have prevented the murder. But it was no use worrying about what might have been. Julius Carberry was dead. No amount of vain regrets would bring him to life again.

The pale light of dawn was showing through the flimsy linen blind when, at last, Carter fell asleep. Thereafter he slept soundly; did not awake until a continuous knocking on his door roused him.

‘Come in!’ he called sleepily.

‘’Ow can I come in,’ returned a muffled feminine voice, ‘when you’ve bolted the door?’ Carter remembered, sprang out of bed, unbolted it, and took his hot water and morning tea from the chambermaid standing outside. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked sourly; ‘’fraid of bein’ kidnapped or something? You ’aven’t bolted the door before.’

He did not reply, contented himself with frowning sullenly at her. His eyes were alert, however, to catch any sign of unwonted excitement in her face. There was nothing. Obviously she had not been to Carberry’s room, or, if she had, had noticed nothing amiss. Carter shaved and dressed quickly; was seated in the lounge some time before breakfast. While there he heard the sound of mysterious comings and goings, voices speaking in stage whispers. The death of Carberry had been discovered, he concluded, and the proprietor was endeavouring to hush it up. The death of a guest in a hotel is not exactly a welcome advertisement. Mr Fellowes, however, might have spared himself the trouble. It may be possible to keep private a death in a big hotel containing hundreds of guests, but in a little place where the ten or a dozen residing there are perfectly well known to each other, and the arrival of a stranger immediately
noted, it is out of the question. The coming of a police sergeant and a constable, followed a little later by an officer in plain clothes, whom Carter knew by sight, and a man carrying a bag, obviously a doctor, caused comment and a good deal of excitement among the people who had come down from their rooms. At breakfast the news was no longer secret. Everyone knew that Julius Carberry was dead.

The guests spoke in hushed, shocked voices, and, though nobody had had much to say to the dead man when he was alive, he suddenly became popular now that he had passed beyond the veil. Carter noticed, with a feeling of cynicism, how the people round him were applying to the late commercial traveller virtues which he certainly never had possessed, and of which, if he had, they would not have been aware. Grote and Modjeska entered the dining room looking placid and content with life. Watching them surreptitiously but intently, Carter saw no sign of disquiet either in their manner or expressions. Modjeska shot him a sharp, enquiring glance and, apparently satisfied, looked away. He and his companion bade a polite and cheerful good morning to the others.

‘Have you heard the news – the terrible, tragic news, Mr Modjeska?’ asked Miss Simpson, like all her kind anxious to be the first to impart it.

‘Vat news, madame?’ returned the Pole courteously. ‘Ve have not yet read the newspapers.’

‘It is not in the newspapers,’ she hastened to tell him, ‘but of course it will be. It has happened here – in this very hotel. It is so tragic.’ She applied a handkerchief to her eyes. ‘Poor, poor young man!’

‘But vat is it, madame?’ asked Modjeska, looking very much puzzled.

‘Young Carberry is dead,’ announced Curzon in a sepulchral voice; ‘died in his sleep.’

Miss Simpson favoured him with a glance of suppressed fury. She had been baulked of the opportunity, so dear to her maiden heart, of causing a sensation. Modjeska and Grote gave a very fine impersonation of two men thoroughly dumbfounded. They did it most convincingly. Nobody would have suspected them of knowing already or of being concerned in any way with the event.

‘But this is terrible!’ ejaculated Modjeska. ‘It is not possible.’

‘It is possible,’ put in Miss Simpson hurriedly, anxious to save to herself some, at least, of the triumph of announcement. ‘It has happened. We have not heard much yet, but it is thought that he died of an overdose of some drug he took to make him sleep.’

‘You astonish me,’ declared Grote. ‘I saw little of him, of course, but he struck me as a young man so full of health and virility. It is very sad.’

‘Very mooch sad,’ echoed Modjeska. ‘I like him vell and now he is dead, you say, gone – pouff! Like that. I feel I do not vant the breakfast.’

‘That’s how we all feel,’ agreed Mrs Curzon, a thin lady with a whining voice suitable to the occasion.

Carter noticed, however, that they all did ample justice to the viands placed before them. He was left severely alone. Even the death of Carberry and the consequent excitement did not incline anybody to speak to him. They talked among themselves, and their hypocritical sentiments sickened him. He was about to leave the dining room, when the detective entered.

‘I regret to say,’ he announced, ‘that one of the guests, Mr Julius Carberry by name, has died during the night of, it is believed, an overdose of veronal. Do any of you ladies or gentlemen know
anything about the dead man? There will be an inquest, of course, and any information you can supply will be needed.’

Nobody knew anything of use. The police officer looked from one to the other. He started slightly when he caught sight of Carter, but as he was standing with his back to the two foreigners at the time they noticed nothing. The Secret Service man’s left eyelid – it happened to be hidden from Modjeska and Grote – fluttered very slightly. An answering wink assured him that the detective knew he was not to be recognised.

‘Do you know anything likely to be of interest to the coroner, sir?’ asked the man.

‘Nothing whatever,’ replied Carter.

The officer turned away, and the young man caught the fleeting expressions of relief and approval on the faces of the two foreigners before they, once again, became appropriately solemn. Carter went into the lounge. The detective looked in and found him there.

‘Your presence here is in no way connected with Julius Carberry, sir, is it?’

‘No,’ returned Carter hastily; ‘and for goodness’ sake don’t be seen talking to me.’

The other took the hint, and departed. A few minutes later Modjeska entered the room. He made sure there was nobody else in close proximity.

‘This so-sudden death is useful,’ he whispered. ‘It saves us mooch trouble.’

‘How did he die?’ asked Carter eyeing him steadily.

‘How do I know except that it is said a dose over of a drug that makes sleep.’

Carter allowed a slight smile to show on his face.

‘You are a very clever man, Mr Modjeska,’ he pronounced, ‘but of course I have nothing to say. You got the document I hope?’

‘It is destroyed, my friend. There is nothing for vorry. Tanks to Mr Carberry’s so-great careless vith the drug, the society is safe. In Vienna ve meet – yes? Hush! Somevone comes.’

He took up a paper, and commenced to read. Carter lounged there in his usual moody manner for an hour; then strolled up the first flight of stairs. There was not a sign of a soul on the first corridor, though voices and footsteps could be heard above. He rapped softly on the door of number two. Almost immediately it opened.

‘Come right in!’ bade the voice of Oscar Miles. Carter entered, and the American closed and locked the door. ‘I kinder expected you to blow in about now,’ he stated. ‘Say, Tommy, I’ve sure got to hand it to you.’

‘That sounds complimentary,’ murmured Carter, as he threw himself into the armchair at a gesture from the other.

‘It’s meant to be. Jerry Cousins and Hugh Shannon have nothing on you when it comes to slick work. I guess I feel like raising my hat every time I think of the British Secret Service. I went right along to see Sir Leonard Wallace – he arranged matters pronto when he heard Oscar J’s well-known nightingale voice. Gee! The hearty welcome he gave me! It made me feel like a million dollars; then some. Well, I laid my cards plumb on the table, Tommy. He did ditto, and we got right together. He told me to tell you he was delighted with your work here.’