Wallace of the Secret Service (22 page)

‘The secret has not gone to the grave with him,’ returned Wallace deliberately. ‘He wrote it down in a notebook which he hid away. That notebook has been stolen from the embassy.’

The Greek received the news with stark, unadulterated terror, and commenced to babble unintelligible things. Sir Leonard took no notice of his consternation.

‘It is quite likely,’ he went on, ‘that, after you had spoken to the Ambassador, you repented of doing so, and it was through you that the book was stolen. As far as I know, you may even have had a hand in his death. What is to prevent my handing you over to the authorities?’

Expecting that such a remark would complete the fellow’s discomfiture, Wallace was surprised to observe a look almost of relief come into his face.

‘I would at least be safe from vengeance then,’ he murmured.

There came a sudden tumult at the door, which was flung violently open. Batty staggered backwards into the room fighting desperately to keep out three masked men, who were forcing him before them. At once Wallace was on his feet staring into the muzzle of a revolver pointed at him by the tallest of the three. Batty’s efforts were brought to an end by the sight of another weapon held within an inch or so of his head by the second man to enter.

‘It is a pity there was so much noise,’ observed the tall man coolly, in perfect English, ‘but we had no desire to kill your servant.’

He signed to one of his companions, who closed and locked the door.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Wallace.

‘There would be no object in wearing masks,’ was the rejoinder, ‘if I were to tell you that. From our information we know that you are an official of the British Government who came out here at the request of the British Ambassador. He intended giving you certain information which he had received from that man there.’ He nodded towards Moropoulos, who was cowering in abject fear in his chair, his face the colour of chalk. ‘We have no quarrel with the British,’ went on the masked man; ‘nevertheless we are glad that Sir George Paterson died.’

‘You then were responsible for his death?’ accused Sir Leonard sternly.

‘By no means,’ was the reply. ‘It was, from our point of view, a lucky event which prevented vital information from being made public. He was watched, however, from the time he interviewed this man, Zeno Moropoulos, until he went to his deathbed. We thus assured ourselves that he had not passed on the intelligence. He was seen to make notes in a book, which he hid away in a secret drawer. We procured that book, but it has nothing in it of the least interest to us.’ He withdrew a small volume from a pocket, and threw it across the room to Wallace. ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to return it to the British Embassy,’ was his surprising request. ‘It may be of use there.’

Sir Leonard, his pulse throbbing a little quicker than usual, picked up the book, and put it in his pocket.

‘May I know,’ he asked sarcastically, ‘to what I owe the honour of this visit?’

The tall man nodded.

‘We have come for the traitor Moropoulos,’ he declared, and there was such a timbre of menace in his voice, that a shrill cry of terror broke from the bloodless lips of the Greek. ‘At first, sir,’ went on the masked stranger, taking no notice of the agitation of Moropoulos, ‘we felt that Sir George Paterson must have told you everything before his death, and you have been under surveillance. The fact that you traced Zeno Moropoulos to this café proved, however, that the British Ambassador died before he was able to pass on his knowledge. There again we were lucky. You have learnt nothing here, for we have been listening in the next room. There is little doubt that Moropoulos would eventually have succumbed to temptation. He claimed one hundred thousand pounds from your Ambassador, to be paid in a fortnight, and if—’

The Greek broke into terror-stricken and vehement protestations, which died away to a whimper as the speaker’s revolver was turned on him. A string of epithets in Greek was poured on his head, and he cowered in his chair more abjectly than before.

‘If you had nothing to do with Sir George Paterson’s death,’ interposed Sir Leonard; ‘then who is responsible for the dastardly crime?’

‘I cannot say,’ replied the man. ‘It is a mystery to me.’

He turned again to Moropoulos, and ordered him to stand up. Shakily the latter did so; then suddenly threw himself on his knees before Wallace.

‘Save me!’ he pleaded, ‘save me!’

At a word from the leader he was jerked to his feet by the third man, who had hitherto been regarding the proceedings with a kind of aloof interest.

‘What are you going to do with that man?’ demanded Sir Leonard.

There came another signal; then, before either of the Englishmen could make a movement or even cry out, so rapidly was it done, the third man had drawn a long knife, and stabbed Moropoulos between the shoulder blades. With a choking sob the Greek pitched headlong to the floor and lay still. Sir Leonard gave a cry of horror and, unmindful of the revolver which still threatened him, knelt down and turned the man over. He was quite dead and, stumbling to his feet, the Englishman gave vent to the shocked anger which filled him. Batty, his usually rubicund face white and drawn, was leaning against the wall staring down at the body of the man lying almost at his feet.

The leader of the masked men stood listening to Wallace’s denunciations with his lips curved in a smile.

‘You do not understand,’ he remarked when his accuser paused. ‘That carrion deserved death. He was worse than Judas, for he was betraying not one man but a whole people, and the result would have been unheard of misery, degradation and suffering for the country that gave him birth. Believe me, sir,’ he added earnestly, ‘we are not assassins. The deed we have committed was done for our country’s good, and Moropoulos has died in a manner far too merciful for him.’

‘Then you are Greeks?’ said Sir Leonard quietly.

‘Exactly,’ acknowledged the tall man. ‘Now that our work in Constantinople is finished, we return to our country at once. You will inform the Turkish police of this apparent crime, but
it will be a waste of time. Neither my companions nor I will ever be traced, and no inquiries in Greece will bring to light anything of interest regarding us. The secret which I have saved from falling into the hands of your government can never be made public now. You may think that in the book I have returned to you it may still be found – perhaps was written in invisible ink – but I assure you it is not so. Every page has been submitted to a most careful test. As I have said before, I have the greatest respect for your country, but the secret in the hands of Great Britain, no matter how good British intentions may have been, would have meant ruin, utter and complete, to Greece. We will now relieve you of our company. I am sorry that circumstances compel us to lock you and your servant in this room with that body, but we must safeguard ourselves. If I may presume to advise you, I would suggest that you leave the disposal of the body to Georgiadi. Such a course will save you from unpleasantness, and from becoming mixed up in an unsavoury inquiry that will lead nowhere.’

‘Then Georgiadi is an accessory?’ observed Wallace sharply.

The masked man shook his head.

‘By no means,’ he replied, ‘he is merely a Greek café proprietor who still retains enough love for country to know that his house has been the scene of an act of absolute justice. I bid you farewell, sir.’

The door was quietly opened and, one by one, the masked men slipped through, the leader going last, and keeping his revolver levelled at Sir Leonard until he was outside, when the door was slammed and locked. Batty gave a sigh of relief and looked at his employer.

‘Swab my decks!’ he exclaimed feelingly.

Instead of creating a din in order to bring someone to their rescue, Sir Leonard sat in a chair, and eyed the body of Moropoulos reflectively.

‘I think he is right,’ he murmured almost to himself. ‘No good can come of getting mixed up in an inquiry by the Turkish police. It might place us in a damnably awkward position.’

He lapsed into silence, and Batty stood for some moments watching him before venturing to speak. At last:

‘Shall I give an ’ail, sir?’ he asked.

‘No,’ decided Wallace. ‘I daresay we shall be released by the proprietor in a few minutes. It would be easy enough to smash open that door, if we wanted to start a hullaballoo, but we don’t. You and I are not going to talk about this murder, Batty.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ returned the ex-seaman. He did not understand, but what his master said was law to him.

Sir Leonard knelt down, and searched the dead man’s pockets. There was nothing of interest in them except a large roll of notes, and an official-looking letter written in Greek. He was thus engaged, when they heard the key turn in the lock and Georgiadi came slowly in. His face was ghastly, and he appeared to be in the grip of a bad attack of ague, for he was trembling violently. Wallace rose to his feet, and pointed to the corpse.

‘You knew?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sare,’ the Greek stuttered, ‘I – I know.’

‘Translate this for me.’ He held the letter in front of the other’s eyes.

Georgiadi read it almost eagerly; then:

‘It say,’ he explained, ‘that him Zeno Moropoulos is discharge from him duties by government wiz no pension because of him doing bad tings.’

‘What bad things?’

‘Money stealing and information of secret giving.’

‘As I thought,’ nodded Wallace putting the letter in his pocket. ‘Come on, Batty, we’ll go.’

The fat little Greek stared at him unbelievingly, and gradually a look of hope dawned in his eyes.

‘You not – you not p’leece telling?’ he stammered.

Wallace shook his head.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘You can hush the matter up if you like.’

‘Oh, sare,’ cried Georgiadi. ‘I tank you wiz my ’eart.’

‘How will you dispose of the body?’

‘Oh, zat very easy,’ declared the little man.

‘I suppose it is – in Constantinople,’ observed Sir Leonard drily. ‘Are you disposed to tell me who were the three masked men?’

The Greek shrugged his shoulders.

‘I not know,’ he stated. ‘Zey big mens my country, zat I know, for zey show me somet’ing I cannot – what is it you say?’

‘Disregard?’

‘Ah, yes, disregard. But who zey are I not know.’

Sir Leonard nodded and, with a sigh, passed out of the room with Batty. Georgiadi followed, carefully locking the door and putting the key in his pocket. He escorted the Englishmen down the stairs, through the restaurant, which was now nearly full of a heterogeneous collection of customers, and stood bowing low at the entrance until they drove away.

Back in the embassy Wallace went to his room, and, taking the notebook from his pocket, commenced to examine it with great care. It was half full of jottings on various matters relative to administration, with a few notes concerning certain affairs in which Sir George had taken a prominent part or
been interested. One of these was in regard to a split in the Turkish Nationalist party in which he had been of assistance to Mustapha Kemal Pasha, the other a plot by Osmanians to replace the Sultan on the throne. Owing to certain information which he had received, Sir George had apparently been instrumental in placing facts before the President which had led to a great number of arrests. But concerning the business which had brought Wallace to Constantinople, and a memorandum of which the Ambassador, on the point of death, had whispered was in the notebook, there was not a sign. Every page was subjected to a searching test, but it was obvious that nothing had been written in invisible ink. Wallace was not disappointed. He knew very well that the masked man would never have returned the book, if he had imagined there was the slightest possibility of the information, he and his companions considered so vital to Greece, being contained therein. Yet the dying Ambassador had definitely stated that the intelligence was written in the notebook. It was a great problem, and Sir Leonard in perplexity ran his fingers through his hair until it stood almost on end.

Suddenly he whistled, and bent once more to examine the little volume. Sir George had
not
said the information was
written
in the book. He had merely stated that it was in it. In his eagerness he fumbled owing to the fact that he had only one hand to use, but he removed all the contents, and laid them on the desk before him. Like all diaries of the same type the book had pockets at each end. In these were a few stamps and half a dozen banknotes of small denomination. Wallace carefully slit open the covers, but nothing came to light. Then he examined the banknotes, subjecting them to the tests for invisible ink. He
was rewarded almost at once, for a mass of tiny writing came to view. The Greek emissaries had, after all, blundered. Whoever had watched Sir George had not been near enough to see that he had been writing on the banknotes, and not in the book. In consequence they had not examined the former, and had come to the conclusion that whatever the Ambassador had written did not concern them.

Wallace locked all the doors of his apartments; then sitting again at the desk began to wade through the collection of miniature words on the notes. As he read a look of intense interest came into his face to be gradually replaced by a grim frown. When he had finished a long drawn whistle pursed his lips, and he sat gazing before him as though in his mind was the vision of terrible things. Once again he looked down and read the last few lines:

‘You are quite right, Paterson,’ murmured Sir Leonard, as he folded up the banknotes, and put them away in his own pocketbook, ‘nothing of this must be divulged. You are dead; Moropoulos is dead; I will never report it. But this isn’t the reason for your death – of that I’ll swear.’