Wallace at Bay (5 page)

‘That was as good a shot as I have ever seen you make, Leonard,’ he remarked to his friend. ‘I guessed what you were
up to, you old humbug, but I don’t mind admitting I had the wind up.’

‘If you were as windy as I,’ retorted Sir Leonard, ‘I’m sorry for you. I was trying to get a correct aim at the beggar all the time I was talking, and it was a ticklish business, I assure you. If I had missed he would have killed Tommy, and I should have been to blame. I don’t think I have ever been more nervy in my life.’

‘Nervy! You?’ scoffed Brien. ‘Is that a joke or what? You never had nerves, you cold-blooded devil – I have yet to meet anyone to equal you.’

Wallace grinned cheerfully.

‘How little you know me.’ He eyed the pocket of his raincoat ruefully. ‘This is practically a new garment, and look at that hole. Ah, well! It was in a good cause. Now, Carter, what have you to tell us?’

The young Secret Service agent plunged into an account of the discoveries he had made. Wallace and Brien listened attentively; were particularly interested in the London Transport Company’s map with the red line traced on it and the large cross. The look which Sir Leonard shot at the anarchists when he realised the significance of the cross must have caused them to squirm inwardly. Pestalozzi, at least, showed his feelings in his face. He had been handcuffed to Zanazaryk, but, as Wallace’s eyes met his, he started back so violently that he caused his companion to cry out with pain. Of them all, Pestalozzi was the most craven, without a doubt. He was of peasant breed, obviously, and the manner in which his companion, Haeckel, had been baulked had apparently roused a suspicious dread of Sir Leonard Wallace in his heart. He even groaned once when the Englishman approached close to him. Wallace summed him
up as a man whom it would not be difficult to question. Once he was thoroughly scared he would be likely to betray even his own mother.

There reached the ears of the men within that room the sound of many voices raised excitedly. Brien went to the window, lifted the blind a little, and glanced out. The road was crowded with people all looking at the house, gesturing and chatting loudly. From the windows of the houses opposite also were other men, women and children leaning out in great excitement. He reported the fact to Sir Leonard.

‘Their interest has been aroused by the sound of the revolver shots,’ he commented, and, turning to the officer of the Special Branch, added, ‘Go down, find some police constables, explain the position, and get them to clear the road. When you’ve done that visit the basement, and interview the ice cream man who lives there. I don’t suppose he has anything to do with this business, but you will know how to make certain. If your suspicions are aroused in any way, arrest him, and bring him up here.’

The man saluted, and hurried away. Under the eye of Sir Leonard his assistants then commenced a search of the rooms on the ground floor and those occupied by Haeckel, Pestalozzi and Zanazaryk. Conducted as it was by men who were expert in such work nothing escaped notice. The furniture was moved and examined, even the carpets were lifted and the floorboards inspected almost inch by inch. The bedrooms were practically dismantled, the pillows and mattresses being opened out in several places. The rooms of the bootblack yielded nothing, except that he had become a naturalised Englishman and was a properly accredited member of the Bootblack Brigade. His name was Luigi Casaroli. The bedroom used by the three anarchists
was found to contain nothing more than Carter had already discovered. It was the locked kitbag and the men’s own pockets which produced the only items of note.

The kitbag, when opened, was found to contain quite an assortment of weapons. Three Mauser pistols – among the most deadly of weapons – four narrow-bladed, ugly knives with edges as keen as those of razor blades, half a dozen small bombs which could be timed to go off to a second were there. The latter were most carefully wrapped up, and Sir Leonard found it necessary to utter a warning, when he noticed Shannon handling one as though it were a cricket ball. There were other articles of even greater interest in the kitbag. One was a letter in German addressed to Haeckel, wishing him success in the first real blow to be struck against the so-called royal families of the world. On plain paper and signed by one Dimitrinhov, it caused Sir Leonard a great deal of thought. Was there, he wondered, a gigantic plot being hatched against all those unfortunate enough to have been born royal? Another article which interested him was a small notebook in which appeared a list of names and addresses of men living in various capitals of Europe. Among them he found the name of Luigi Casaroli, and concluded from that that the list was of those in union with or sympathetic to the anarchist organisation. For the first time he began to feel that he was dealing not with a remote plot to assassinate one king, but a gigantic scheme controlled by a powerful association.

A search of the pockets revealed the significant fact that each was supplied with a great deal of money, while hanging from their necks were small discs of silver on each of which was inscribed a number with the letters I. A. S. beneath. Zanazaryk’s inner coat
pocket yielded up a photograph of King Peter, while Haeckel’s contained one of members of the royal family.

While the search was continuing, the faces of the three scoundrels were pictures of varied emotion. Haeckel’s showed hatred pure and simple, Zanazaryk’s was more sullen, but in it was also a tinge of fear. With Pestalozzi the emotion was predominantly terror, with a touch of fanaticism, supplied by his burning eyes. Brien reflected that it would take little to turn the fellow into a maniac. They all refused to reply to any questions put to them, maintaining an obstinate silence. The only time Haeckel opened his mouth was when the letter addressed to him was found in the kitbag. Then he gave vent to a roar which can only be described as of baffled rage. It was easy to see that he had intended to destroy a document which could be, as it had indeed turned out, only a danger to him. Somehow it had been overlooked.

Their investigations concluded, the men of the Secret Service prepared to leave the building. Everything that was of interest or could be used in evidence was carefully packed in the kitbag. Sir Leonard intended taking it back to headquarters in his own car. The police had been communicated with, and a van was expected for the prisoners. The wounds of Haeckel and Zanazaryk had been dressed as well as was possible under the circumstances, but they would be properly attended to later on. Casaroli had been brought to the floor above from his flat, when the search began. He had promptly thrown himself on his knees before Sir Leonard, declaring his innocence, but such protestations were of no avail. He was manacled like the rest, and thereafter maintained a sullen silence, casting malevolent glares from time to time at his companions in misfortune. His
rooms had yielded nothing at all of an incriminating nature, while his pockets and his person proved equally innocent. It was when the policeman entered the room to announce that the tender was at the door, that his feelings got the better of him.

‘It is you I have to thank for this,’ he suddenly screamed at Haeckel in Italian. ‘You who forced me to join the association because of what I did in Berlin. I curse you. I came to England to escape from the clutches of the society of the—’

‘Be quiet, you fool!’ shouted Haeckel.

‘I will not be quiet,’ shrieked the excited man. Cartright took a step towards him as though to stop him, but Wallace waved him away. He was interested in what Casaroli had to say. ‘You followed me,’ went on the almost demented Italian. ‘I was happy. I had a good job. Now it is ruined. May God curse you and Dimitrinhov, and Modjeska, and all the rest of those fiends. May their secret hiding place in Constantinople be burnt down, with them in it. I will tell the police everything, do you hear, Haeckel, and you, Zanazaryk, and you, Pestalozzi? The cause will be ruined and—’

Afterwards Wallace blamed himself for what happened. His attention, like that of all his companions, was fixed on the shouting Casaroli. None of them noticed the sudden tenseness of Haeckel’s attitude. Abruptly, with incredible swiftness, the German lunged forward and, despite the fact that he was manacled, snatched up an automatic which someone had laid down on the table. Then, in quick succession, he fired at Casaroli, Pestalozzi and Zanazaryk, crying in a loud voice as he did so,

‘Let us all die; then none can speak. The cause is preserved. I—’

Two or three other revolvers barked viciously. He stood
swaying a moment on his feet, a curious, enigmatical smile on his distorted features, then he crashed to the floor, twitched a moment, and lay still. The acrid fumes of powder filled the air as Sir Leonard examined the three sagging bodies in their chairs. Casaroli and Pestalozzi were dead, Zanazaryk undoubtedly dying.

‘Fetch a doctor – quick!’ he shouted. Two men hastened from the room. Sir Leonard turned to Brien with a bitter smile. ‘I thought we had achieved a triumph,’ he murmured to his friend, ‘but I am afraid this is one of the biggest failures of my career.’

The happenings in the house on Shirland Road naturally caused a sensation in the country. The newspapers made a great deal of the story, though a good many facts were not permitted to leak out. For instance, though it was generally known that the men who had lost their lives were dangerous anarchists, the reason for their presence in England was kept a profound secret. Neither was any mention made of the discoveries of the agents of the Secret Service. In fact, that very silent organisation controlled by Sir Leonard Wallace did not appear in the matter at all. As ever, the work of the man upon whom Great Britain depends for its security, to an extent never realised by the public, was concealed from all but those in very high and administrative places.

Zanazaryk lingered in unconsciousness for two days but, despite all the best surgeons in London could do for him, died at the expiration of that time. Thus Sir Leonard’s
hopes of obtaining the information he desired so keenly were disappointed. Haeckel he knew would never have spoken, but Pestalozzi, Casaroli, and possibly Zanazaryk might have been persuaded to betray the organisation which he had reason to believe existed for the purpose of ridding the world of royalty. Now they were all dead, and he would be forced to rely upon the little knowledge he possessed to carry him farther on his investigations. The raids carried out on the houses Pestalozzi was known to have visited had proved, as Sir Leonard had expected, entirely abortive.

‘I am convinced,’ he told Brien, ‘that a great blow is being aimed at royalty throughout the world. We heard enough from the words spoken by Casaroli and from the letter to Haeckel, to gather that a society exists, with its headquarters apparently in Constantinople, which is pledged to the extermination of royal families. I am going to follow this through to the bitter end, Bill.’ His eyes glinted fiercely. ‘Do you realise that our own royal family is threatened? At the moment our knowledge is extremely vague, but think of it! God! The very thought is intolerable.’

Brien had seldom seen him so profoundly moved. Gone for the time being was the nonchalant-seeming, unruffled man; in his place a fiery, vehement individual who made no effort to cloak his feelings. The deputy chief nodded in full agreement.

‘It’s going to be as desperate a venture as you have ever undertaken,’ he murmured.

Wallace laughed, perhaps a trifle harshly.

‘What of it?’ he returned. ‘I’ll wipe out this association somehow. It will be a change from the usual kind of job.’

‘And even more dangerous, I’m afraid.’ Brien sighed. He was
thinking of Sir Leonard’s wife, the beautiful Molly Wallace, whose life was bound up with rare devotion in that of her husband to the exclusion of practically everything else. ‘Once this society knows you are on its track, you will be in hourly peril. Obviously its ramifications are pretty extensive, since it has agents in nearly every capital of Europe – I suppose there is no doubt that the names in the book we found are those of agents.’

‘The society will not know I am on its track, if I can help it. If it finds out, well, I’ll have to take my chance.’ He rose from his desk, and began to pace the room. ‘Do you realise that of all reigning families ours has always been the most secure and free from threats of assassination until now? To think that a band of miserable, fanatic devils hidden away in some hole in Europe, should dare to plot against them! Heavens! If Providence is kind, and I get in touch with the leaders, I’ll more than earn the title of ruthless which some people have bestowed on me.’

Brien watched him in silence for a few moments.

‘We don’t really know that there is a plot against our royalty,’ he observed presently.

‘Isn’t that letter enough to convince you? The man Dimitrinhov, whoever he may be, speaks of the first real blow to be struck against the royal families of the world. And even if Great Britain was not included in the scheme, are we to stand by while attempts are being made to exterminate royalty in other countries?’

‘How about passing on the information concerning the secret hiding place in Constantinople to the Turkish government and putting them in possession of the facts?’

Sir Leonard came to a halt and faced his friend.

‘Great Scott, man!’ he cried. ‘What facts have we that we can pass on? Do you think any government would act on the
meanderings of a terror-stricken man? And what else have we to offer? A book with a list of names and addresses in it that may mean anything; a letter written in German from one fanatic to another, which would probably be passed over with a polite shrug of the shoulders; two names, Modjeska and Dimitrinhov, of men, against whom we have not an item of proof, who might be in any part of Europe. Can’t you see the Turkish government administering a well-deserved snub? No, Bill, nothing can be done in the way you suggest. I am going to investigate this affair myself. When I have my proof, then I can demand action.’

‘How will you set about it?’

‘First I shall go to Vienna and find out all I can from Beust. The information concerning the attempt to be made on King Peter came from him, remember. It was in Vienna that the gang of international anarchists held the meetings which resulted in Pestalozzi, Zanazaryk and Haeckel coming to England. Although Constantinople may contain their hiding place, their headquarters may actually be in Vienna. However, whether I afterwards go on to Constantinople depends a lot upon what I learn from Beust.’

‘Do you intend to go alone?’

‘I haven’t made any plans yet. Probably not. I’m afraid it is going to be too big a job to tackle without an assistant handy.’

King Peter duly paid his visit to England. It passed off without an untoward incident of any kind. Although the royal visitor was quite unaware of the fact, extraordinary precautions were taken to safeguard his person. The three would-be assassins, who had travelled from Vienna for the purpose of murdering His Majesty, were dead, it is true, but their deaths had not
been kept secret – that had been an impossibility. There was a chance, therefore, that the organisation which had been behind them would despatch other men to accomplish the deed; not that such a contingency was very likely. Wallace thought there was hardly time for adequate preparations to be made. Still, he took no risks. Everywhere that King Peter went he was guarded with the greatest care, while numbers of men of the Secret Service and Special Branch, as well as plain-clothes officers of the CID, mingled with the crowds anywhere in the vicinity of the king, watching keenly for any sign that assassins were lurking in them.

It was after King Peter had departed for his own country that Sir Leonard made his preparations to commence the investigations that he hoped would end in the extermination of the anarchist organisation. He first had an interview with the foreign secretary, which left that statesman considerably shaken. Knowing the Chief of the Secret Service very well indeed, the cabinet minister wasted no time in expressing disbelief that a plot could exist, the aim of which was to assassinate members of the British royal family. He knew Sir Leonard was no alarmist, and that his insistence that the matter should be discussed by the cabinet in secret and steps taken to guard the royal family more adequately, was actuated by a very real sense that grave danger existed. Wallace gave him a copy of the list of names and addresses of men in the various capitals whom he believed to be spies or agents of the organisation; urged him to hint to the governments concerned that they were possibly members of an anarchic society, and should be watched. The foreign secretary received the information with encouraging gravity; promised to ask for a meeting of the cabinet at once.

On Sir Leonard’s return to his office after his interview with the statesman, he found Brien awaiting him with every appearance of impatience.

‘Hullo, Bill,’ he remarked, ‘you look agitated. What’s the trouble?’

‘I’m not agitated,’ was the reply, ‘but an idea has occurred to me. Has it struck you that the people who sent Haeckel and company to London will possibly be rather alarmed at the deaths of the whole bunch – including Casaroli?’

Sir Leonard removed his overcoat and hat, walked across to his chair, and sat down.

‘It has,’ he nodded. ‘What of it?’

Brien pushed some documents away, and planted himself on the edge of the great oak desk.

‘Isn’t it likely,’ he asked, ‘that they may be worried in case information concerning them will have fallen into the hands of the authorities?’ Wallace nodded again. ‘Well,’ went on Brien, ‘I am wondering if they have sent a representative over here in order to obtain information; that is, to try and find out what is known about them, and what we intend to do about it.’

Sir Leonard sat up, and eyed his friend with approval.

‘By Jove, Bill!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s a notion. It’s the very thing they would do. If they have, and we could find the fellow, he might be trailed when he returns, and lead me to their headquarters. The trouble will be to find him among seven and a half million people.’

Major Brien smiled triumphantly. It was not often that he was able to point the way to his chief.

‘I don’t think there will be much difficulty in it,’ he declared, ‘providing, of course, a man has come to London. The messenger
who conveyed instructions to Pestalozzi stayed at the Canute Hotel, in Waterloo Road. It is fairly safe to assume that another emissary would put up in the same place.’

‘Of course,’ murmured Sir Leonard, ‘of course. They would hardly be likely to know a great deal about London, and information obtained by one regarding hotel accommodation would be sure to be handed on to another. Bill, you’re a genius. We’ll act on the idea at once.’

He pressed one of the numerous buttons under the ledge of his desk. In a few moments there came a knock on the door and, in response to Sir Leonard’s invitation, a small, grey-haired man with piercing eyes entered the office.

‘I want a list of the people staying at the Canute Hotel in Waterloo Road, Maddison,’ Wallace told him. ‘No suspicion of any sort must be roused. The proprietor is an ex-service man and perfectly trustworthy, so you can take him into your confidence up to a point. Go yourself – he will probably let you have the visitors’ book,’ Maddison hurried from the room. ‘Is Cousins available?’ Sir Leonard asked Brien.

The latter shook his head.

‘Not at the moment,’ he replied. ‘He has been in Dublin for the last ten days, as you know.’

‘But he was due back this morning.’

‘I had a telegram from him after you had gone to lunch, saying that he would be delayed another couple of days.’

‘That sounds as though he is hot on the track of that gang of sedition-mongers. It will be a feather in his cap if he can run them to earth. Well, I’ll have Carter for this Canute Job.’

He pulled a large bowl of tobacco towards him, and proceeded to fill his pipe. Although Brien had watched the operation many
hundreds of times, it still fascinated him to observe the skill and celerity with which his friend performed it. The artificial hand was used in various little ways, it is true; was occasionally quite useful, but Sir Leonard could do most things with one hand. When he had lost his left arm he had immediately set to work to teach the remaining limb to do the work of both. His fingers had become so remarkably prehensile that their functions were almost akin to that of two or three ordinary fingers. In addition his upper arm and wrist were developed to the utmost. His arm was more powerful, in consequence, than the average man’s two, and he was able to perform athletic feats which were astonishing to those who knew of his disability but were not aware of how he had succeeded in overcoming it.

His pipe loaded to his satisfaction, he carefully lit the tobacco until it was glowing evenly, then sat back, and puffed away contentedly.

Brien remained chatting with Wallace until Maddison returned less than half an hour later. The latter placed a large book, the covers of which were somewhat the worse for wear, in front of Sir Leonard and opened it.

‘There are only eight guests staying in the hotel just now, sir,’ he stated. ‘As you know it is only a small, third-rate affair and when full, can only accommodate twenty-four or thereabouts.’ He proceeded to point out the names of the people then residing there. ‘I have been able to ascertain their occupations in all but two cases,’ he went on. ‘These – Mr and Mrs Curzon – are regular visitors. They come up from Devonshire half a dozen times a year. He is a farmer, and the proprietor assures me he looks like one.’

‘They can be washed out,’ murmured Brien, who was looking over Sir Leonard’s shoulder. The latter nodded.

‘Mr Spedding,’ went on Maddison pointing to the name, ‘has been there a month. He is a naval pensioner, and is undergoing some sort of treatment at St Thomas’s Hospital. Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne—’

‘My hat! What a name!’ ejaculated Brien.

‘Is an American gentleman over from the States on business connected with steel cables.’

‘Only an American would have a name like that,’ observed Wallace, ‘and he can also be removed from the list of suspects.’ He looked up at Brien with a smile. ‘No mid-European anarchist, even if he were using a false name, would have imagination enough to rise to Wilmer Peregrine Huckleberry Hawthorne.’

‘There are American anarchists,’ Brien reminded him.

‘I doubt it – there may be anarchists in America, but that is a different thing. Go on Maddison!’

‘This gentleman –’ Maddison coughed slightly as he pointed to the name, Julius Carberry ‘– is a traveller in ladies’ lingerie, and, if I may say so, sir, looks like it. He was pointed out to me.’

‘As bad as that, Maddison?’ queried Brien, his eyes twinkling humorously.

‘Quite, sir. He combed back his glossy locks while I was looking at him, and I’ll swear he uses lipstick. He’s the kind of unnatural creature who would stand with one hand on his hip and speak with a lisp.’

‘Oh, I say,’ murmured Brien in an affected voice, and his companions laughed.