Wallace at Bay (19 page)

‘Get up and get out!’ he snarled. Helped by his comrades, the injured fellow rose to his feet, and staggered from the room. ‘Get out, all of you,’ barked Ulyanov. ‘You stay, Bresov.’ Quickly the room was clear of all except those who had been originally there. Sir Leonard lay now, his eyes closed hardly seeming to breathe. ‘Has he fainted?’ asked Ulyanov, eagerly.

At once the Englishman’s eyes opened.

‘No; I have not,’ he said, his voice just a trifle husky. ‘I would not give you even that satisfaction, Ulyanov.’

‘Damn you!’ screamed the dwarf. ‘Are you not human?’

He commenced kicking the prone man, but he had little strength in his legs, and did not cause him a great deal of pain. Probably he realised that himself, for he desisted and returned to his seat at the desk, where he sat for some time, his head between his hands, apparently in a fit of gloomy disappointment.

The intense pain he was suffering caused Sir Leonard to long to free his arms from the cord, if only to press the cool palm of the natural hand against the burns in an effort to soothe them. Nevertheless he made no movement. He preferred to endure his agony without attempting to ease or relieve it rather than that his captors should discover the secret he was nursing so carefully. Of them all only Grote displayed the least essence of feeling. He presently walked across to the Englishman and, bending down, arranged his torn clothing gently over the inflamed angry flesh.

‘For that,’ murmured Sir Leonard, ‘I will have mercy on you, Grote, when my turn comes.’

‘Don’t be a fool!’ snapped the other. ‘You know you are doomed, but I cannot see the point of making you suffer unduly.’

‘Thanks,’ came quietly from the other.

At full realisation of the uncomplaining and heroic fortitude of the Englishman the German experienced a great revulsion of feeling. A sense of deep shame surged through him.

‘Do you think you can stand?’ he asked.

Wallace nodded, and Grote promptly helped him to his feet.

‘What are you doing? Who told you to interfere?’ came in the staccato accents of Ulyanov.

‘Do you object to my assisting him to rise from the floor?’ demanded Grote, eyeing his leader somewhat defiantly.

‘I object to his being given any help at all. The more he suffers the greater will be my pleasure, and it should be yours also.’

‘Well, it is not. It is one thing to die because he is a menace to the society. It is entirely unnecessary that he should be tortured in addition. Your action, Comrade Ulyanov, has disgusted me.’

‘It seems that your veins contain water instead of blood, Hermann Grote,’ sneered Dimitrinhov.

‘Water!’ rasped Ulyanov. ‘Yes, water – dirty water – weak, sluggish, German water.’

‘Be careful, Ulyanov,’ cried Grote. ‘You have been allowed to rule this society with a high hand, but there are limits beyond which even you cannot go. I am and always have been as loyal as any member of the society, but I will not allow you to ride roughshod over me.’

Shouting maledictions, Ulyanov rose to his feet, at the same time snatching a revolver from Ilyich who stood close by. He raised it slowly until it was pointing straight at a spot between Grote’s eyes. The latter showed little perturbation.

‘You dare not do it,’ he declared deliberately. ‘You, Ilyich and Dimitrinhov there, are the only Russians on the Council. The
rest – Kharkov, Mossuth, Mikeroff, Papanasstou and Psarazelos already resent the manner in which the three of you force through measures without allowing them a proper say in decisions. Shoot me; then see what will happen. Put that revolver down, and do not be foolish, Comrade Ulyanov.’

Rather to Sir Leonard’s surprise, the Russian obeyed. It was interesting to find that the fiery, demented dwarf recognised the unwisdom of his action. Apparently there had been dissensions in the Council of Ten.

‘Take it,’ snarled Ulyanov, pushing the revolver towards Ilyich. ‘Comrade Grote and I will continue our little discussion at a more fitting time. You,’ he added looking directly at Wallace, or rather appearing to look directly at him, for it was difficult to tell, when the lids were raised so slightly from the eyes, ‘You perhaps think that the intervention of Herr Grote may save you further pain. But you are mistaken, Mr English Spy. I will make those obstinate lips of yours open yet. You can go!’ he shot at Bresov. ‘We will let him recover his strength before introducing him to Madame Knout. He shall have food and wine. See to it, Ilyich.’

The thin, saturnine Russian went out, reappearing some minutes later, followed by the wizened little man who had opened the door on Carter’s arrival. The doorkeeper was carrying a tray on which was food and a flask of wine. Wallace could not touch the food, would not have done so if he could. Hermann Grote persuaded him to drink a couple of glasses of wine; found an opportunity to whisper:

‘They shall not torture you, if I can prevent it. Perhaps later I may find means of helping you in other ways.’

What he exactly meant to convey by the latter remark Sir Leonard was unable to guess, but he bestowed on him a look
of gratitude. He decided that Hermann Grote was not all evil, as his companions appeared to be. If ever he escaped from his present desperate situation, he would not be too hard on him. If ever he escaped! A wry little smile flickered momentarily round the pain-contracted lips of Sir Leonard Wallace. The chances appeared to be very slender.

When the doorkeeper had been dismissed with his tray, Wallace was conducted from the room by Dimitrinhov, Grote, and Ilyich, Ulyanov remaining behind and flinging a last jeering remark at him as he went out. Ilyich led the way along the corridor while Grote and Dimitrinhov walked close to the prisoner on either side. Occasionally they were forced to aid him, for the ordeal he had undergone had greatly weakened him, but whereas the Russian gripped him roughly, the German was extremely gentle, another point being marked up in his favour in Sir Leonard’s mind. They reached a door at the extreme end of the corridor. Ilyich unlocked it and they entered, the door being closed again directly they were inside. Wallace thought he understood now why Bresov had been dismissed. It was evident, he reflected, that only members of the Council of Ten knew of the secret room, possibly only they were permitted to enter the wireless department.

Sir Leonard was surprised to find what a well-equipped apartment it was. It looked very much like the radio cabin on a large liner. Its circular conformation would have interested him if he had not been engaged in watching closely the movements of Ilyich. The Russian moved the small square of carpet to one side for no apparent reason that the Englishman could see. He then crawled under the table on which the wireless instruments rested. There came a sharp click, followed by a faint, buzzing sound, and before the interested eyes of Sir Leonard a slab about three feet square sank out of sight in the centre of the stone floor. He was pushed towards the hole and his feet guided to an iron ladder. Grote suggested freeing his arms, but Dimitrinhov and Ilyich dissented vehemently. It was awkward descending a perpendicular ladder without being able to use his arms, but the feat was accomplished, once again with the aid of Grote. Ilyich and Dimitrinhov would not have minded if he had fallen. At the bottom the German switched on a light – obviously an innovation installed since Ulyanov had occupied the house – and Wallace found himself in a square, box-like apartment of not more than six feet square. The walls were of plain brick, the floor of stone, unlike that above, unpolished. Documents, books, and large cash boxes were piled high at one side, there was nothing else in the room, if it could be called a room, at all.

‘What need was there to put on the light?’ Dimitrinhov called from above. ‘It seems to me, Herr Grote, that you are behaving in a strangely mysterious manner. If you do not wish to be left down there with the man for whom your chicken heart feels so great a sympathy, I suggest you ascend.’

‘I am sorry there is no room for you to lie down,’ Grote observed to Sir Leonard, ‘but, at least, it is possible for you to sit.’

He switched off the light, and ascended the ladder. A moment later came the dull, buzzing noise, sounding a trifle louder in the confined space. The square slab moved up into place, fitting perfectly. Sir Leonard felt as though he had been enclosed in a tomb. His first action, as soon as he was assured that his captors would not return, was to release his hands; his next to find the switch and put on the light. Then sitting down on a pile of books and papers, he drew aside the torn clothing covering his chest, and looked down at the terrible, inflamed burns disfiguring his skin. The pain was abominable, and he had no means of assuaging it. He sought comfort by dabbing the throbbing, fiery, blistered sores with the soft tatters of his undervest, afterwards lying back against the wall with his eyes closed in an attempt to regain the strength of which he had been robbed. At length the pain seemed to ease somewhat, or perhaps he had become more inured to it, and he felt better in himself. He stood up, and surveyed the collection of articles stored in that secret chamber. Here was work for him to do; there was no time to be wasted if he was to make himself thoroughly acquainted with the ramifications of the International Anarchist Society, and that was his intention.

Sir Leonard had not given up hope of escaping even then. Somehow he felt Miles and Carter would find him, unless luck was dead against them. Then there was Cousins – the great little man who would never give up searching for evidence and his chief while life remained to him. Unless he were captured, sooner or later he would find his way into the building, perhaps discover all the secrets it held. Even if Cousins failed, Beust possessed enough information to set him on the trail, though, not having been one of those to follow Carter, he would be faced with the difficult task of finding this headquarters of the anarchists. He had of necessity
to be kept more or less in the background owing to his apparently innocent post of manager in Vienna of
Lalére et Cie,
the great Parisian perfumers – a post which cloaked his activities as agent of the British Secret Service. It was Beust who had originally, through the underground channels familiar to him, discovered that there were anarchical activities in Vienna and a plot to assassinate King Peter in London. Through those channels he might still be able to discover the whereabouts of the headquarters of the International Anarchist Society. He smiled grimly, a trifle painfully. The day of his death seemed at that moment very close. If he were taken to Moscow, he knew that no power on earth could save him.

Ulyanov must be very sure of himself to put him down in this treasure chest of evidence. Of course he had not known that the cord apparently binding Sir Leonard’s wrists was loose. The Chief of the British Secret Service understood why Ilyich and Dimitrinhov had dissented with such vehemence when Grote had suggested freeing his hands. It would not be wise to allow even a man about to die to pry into the secrets of their terrible association, the object of which was to exterminate royalty completely and finally.

He commenced on his task, methodically exerting his great strength of will, and putting aside all pain and weakness as though they were non-existent. The position of each book, each document, was noted in order that it could be replaced exactly as he had found it. Time passed by, and he had become completely absorbed in his work, docketing in that wonderful mind of his facts that would cause the world to vibrate with horror and alarm. Everything he desired to know was revealed to him there. He found complete lists of agents and anarchists sworn to the service of the society and the destruction of royalty. There were no less than seventeen hundred names on the list from which assassins would be selected; ledgers
were kept showing the sums paid out to them, others displayed rent paid for branches where the anarchists could meet. There were restaurants in Berlin, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Vienna, Copenhagen, New York, Cairo, Tokyo and a score of other great cities under the thrall of the society. There were members of police forces, armies, navies, government departments pledged to the dreadful, abominable assassination of those whose only crime was that they had been born with royal blood in their veins. It was a terrible, an awful, revelation, an unveiling of a murderous conception that shocked Sir Leonard to the very core of his being. He read elaborate plans callously put forth in the method of military orders for the murder of a king and queen here, a prince and princess there, of the assassination in cold blood of young children and old men and women.

It was anarchy at its very lowest, deepest, fiendish worst. It was almost beyond credence, diabolical beyond expression, monstrous.

When at last he had been carefully through all the books and documents and had replaced them as he had found them, he felt physically and mentally ill. His face was drawn and haggard, not now from the ordeal of suffering to which he had been subjected, but from a far worse ordeal that had disclosed to his horrified mind evil unparalleled, wholesale. How could he expect mercy from a creature whose distorted abominable brain had conceived schemes so monstrous? He no longer wondered that he, who had threatened destruction to all Ulyanov’s cherished plans, was hated by the dwarf with such passionate virulence. He was unable to open the large cash boxes, as they were locked, and he had not with him that famous bunch of small steel instruments with which he was enabled to open even the most obstinate locks. It was as well, he reflected that he had left the bunch with Cousins. It would
only have been confiscated with the other articles, which had been taken from his pockets.

He had been aware for some time of a faint, confused sort of sound above his head and, while concluding his perusal of the documents, had remained within easy reach of the electric light switch, ready to turn it off, if the secret trapdoor opened. The cord which had bound his wrists was arranged close by in order that he could again slip his hands into it if necessary. Having placed all the books and papers in position he sat down and listened. Long periods of intense silence were broken from time to time by what sounded like voices talking a long way away. Sometimes he thought he could hear the tap of feet; he even fancied that there was shooting going on. Eventually he rose and, climbing the ladder, stood with his ear pressed to a part of the roof where he calculated the trapdoor fitted into place. So cleverly had it been constructed, however, that it was impossible to find out exactly where the join was. He tried pushing at it with his fingers, but it did not give in the slightest degree. It was distinctly aggravating, he thought, that he could not hear more clearly. The little room was practically soundproof; the slight, confused noise he did hear reached him down the ventilating shaft. He managed to stretch across, placing his ear as close to it as possible. For a time silence reigned; then, in quick succession, came the faint but distinct sound of two rifle shots.

Vastly intrigued, Sir Leonard remained in his uncomfortable position for a long while, until he was forced to the conclusion that a fight of some sort was undoubtedly going on. Could it be, he debated, that Cousins had already obtained all the information necessary to persuade the Austrian authorities to act, and that the building was now being attacked by them? That seemed unlikely.
The alternative was that Carter and Miles had somehow broken out of the cellar, had obtained arms, and were now defending themselves in the vicinity. He wondered if they were actually in the radio room, but doubted it, for the place was, he had noticed, kept locked. Still there was a possibility that someone had been in there with the door unfastened, and that they had taken possession of it. If only he could get to them! He climbed down the ladder and started to search for the lever or button or whatever it happened to be that opened the trapdoor. It was inconceivable that it could only open from the outside; there must be a means of opening it from within. Yet, search as he did with methodical care, he found nothing at all, and was eventually compelled to admit himself baffled. He sat on one of the iron steps and considered the position. His keen eyes, as he rested there, explored every inch of the wall except of course that hidden by the books, boxes, and papers which he had already examined. He had inspected any peculiarity or irregularity about the brickwork he had come across, but he thought that perhaps, despite his vigilance, he had missed something. But nothing out of the ordinary rewarded his survey.

‘It must be possible to manipulate that door from this side,’ he muttered, ‘but how is it done? I hate to be beaten by a little thing like that.’

Once again he went round the walls, climbed the ladder and examined the ceiling; still without result. He began to wonder whether he would be heard if he tried shouting up the ventilator shaft. It would not matter much if Carter and Miles were not in the wireless room; on the other hand, if by some chance they were, they might be able to discover how to open the trapdoor and let him out. He was about to stretch over towards the ventilator when a crashing sound reached his ears. It was much louder than all
other noises had been; seemed as though people with hammers or hatchets were engaged in attempting to break in something solid. At once the solution burst on his mind. Miles and Carter were in the room above and the anarchists were endeavouring to force open the door. No use trying to make himself heard while that din was going on. It was loud enough down there; it would be a hundred times louder above, and calculated to drown his voice completely. He descended the steps again, and stood listening. The row went on for some time; then suddenly ceased. He thought he heard voices again, and was about to make another attempt to shout up the shaft, when his eye caught the top rung of the ladder. It is necessary to explain that the iron ladder was a fixture; that is to say that it fitted into the floor and ceiling. It occurred to Sir Leonard that the top step was unnecessary. It was not more than three inches below the ceiling, while the next one could be reached comfortably by anyone stepping down from above. Was it possible that it was actually not a rung at all but the lever for which he had been searching? No sooner had the idea come to him than he was up the steps trying it. He attempted to force it upwards, then downwards, but without result. After that he tried pushing it away from him. At once he gave vent to a low cry of exultation. He could feel it beginning to move. A buzzing sound delighted his ears, and the trapdoor started to open. It was at that moment there came a terrific explosion. The concussion flung him violently to the floor, where he lay half stunned, wondering vaguely what had happened, why the place seemed to be rocking.

The fulmination was followed by a dead silence for a few minutes; then came the exultant cries of men in a mixture of languages, the tread of many feet. He could hear quite plainly now, due no doubt to the fact that the trapdoor was slightly
open. The jubilant shouts quickly changed to roars of rage and disappointment.

‘They must have gone on the roof before the bomb was thrown,’ Sir Leonard distinctly heard a voice cry in German. ‘You cannot get up there since the ladder is destroyed – go the other way!’

Followed another rush of feet; then silence again. The Englishman smiled to himself. It was not difficult to gather what had happened. Carter and Miles had been defending the wireless room, whereupon the anarchists, after spending a long time attempting to overcome them, had bombed their way in, only to find that the two had escaped on to the roof. Sir Leonard grew very anxious. Now that they had been driven out of their stronghold, their chances of saving their lives appeared very slender. On the roof they would probably be exposed to attack on several sides at once. It appeared, however, that his own opportunity had come. Inclination urged him to go to the assistance of his friends, not that he would be a great deal of use, since he was weaponless; in fact he might prove a burden to them. But duty decreed that he must get out of the house if possible, find Cousins, if the latter had not been captured, and send him, as fast as he could go, to the ambassador. He wondered, as he climbed the steps and commenced to manipulate the false rung, what the little Secret Service man had been doing; had he heard the sound of shots? He certainly must have heard the explosion. To Sir Leonard’s ears came again the sound of hurrying feet.