The Mystery of Tunnel 51 (Wallace of the Secret Service Series)

by Alexander Wilson

  Muir shook hands with Williams.

  ‘You’ll keep that door locked,’ he said, ‘and not leave the vicinity till Sanders arrives? You may have to wait here, or in Simla, for some days. I’ll communicate officially with your Colonel about any extra leave it may be necessary for you to have.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Williams. ‘Goodbye and good luck!’

  Sir Henry followed the doctor out of the station, and they soon arrived at the latter’s house. The car was taken out of the garage without delay, and the tank filled with petrol. Then the doctor insisted on his taking a packet of sandwiches and a flask of brandy. At last all was in readiness for his departure, so shaking the worthy medico’s hand, and thanking him, Muir got into the car and started. Just outside Barog he stopped a moment, looked at his revolver to make sure that it was ready for action, felt to see that the case containing the plans was quite safe, and then, with his face grimly set, drove forward on his lonely two hundred mile journey to Delhi.

  CHAPTER SIX

  His Excellency the Viceroy

  Sir Henry Muir never remembered clearly, in after years, that frantic race of his to Delhi. Mile after mile flew by and he sat grimly, leaning a little forward, his lips set in a desperate line, his eyes glued to the stretch of road in front of him and his hands holding the steering wheel with a grip that betrayed his thoughts. He stopped for a few minutes at Kalka station to instruct his bearer, who had travelled down with his baggage during the afternoon, to go on to Delhi by the train. Then on again.

  The car seemed to respond to his mood and tore onwards, the engine purring rhythmically, beautifully; firing perfectly, as though in very exultation at its ability to eat up space.

  Muir expected every moment to be stopped; that death in some terrible form would overtake him; once he glanced over his shoulder apprehensively into the tonneau and the car swerved violently. But he never slackened pace. The events of the last few hours had affected his nerves to such an extent that he almost thought of the mysterious assassins with superstitious dread; nothing seemed beyond them; they appeared supernatural, uncanny, weird; a malignant force, cloaked in invisibility, with the power to do evil at will.

  It was a dark night, and the glare of the headlights threw the trees on either side into ghostly relief. Muir imagined the shadows to contain men waiting there with diabolical purpose; the wind had risen and seemed to contain the sound of fiendish, laughing voices, mocking at his puny attempts to escape them. He passed bullock carts wending their peaceful way on their lawful business, but the eyes of the bullocks approaching him, shining a brilliant green in the powerful lights of the car, looked like the eyes of devils glaring at him with hatred.

  He had several narrow escapes of collision. The Indian bullock cart wending its somnolent way never worries about other traffic on the road. The driver invariably sleeps while his bullocks wander on at their own sweet will, mostly in the centre of the highway, often on the wrong side. Sir Henry approaching one bullock cart in the way, sounded his Klaxon horn loudly, viciously. The driver woke up with a start and, with shouts, turned his animals aside, but just as Muir was about to pass the bullocks swerved back across his path. He was right on top of them, but with wonderful skill he swung his car aside just in time, trod hard on his accelerator and shot by, the yoke of the oxen scraping the paintwork and his off-wheels being half an inch over the edge of the road. The perspiration broke out on his forehead and trickled down his face; he almost thought that a collision had been contrived there by those enemies of whom he knew so little.

  He passed Umbala going at forty miles an hour, and the lights of the cantonments heartened him a little, braced him up. He had a great yearning to stop there, take his ease, and rest; for an utter weariness seemed to be numbing his senses and gradually overcoming him. But he stiffened himself, tore past into the darkness again, and fumbled with his left hand for the sandwiches and brandy. He took a bite at a sandwich, but it nauseated him, and unscrewing the top of the brandy-flask, he gulped down a generous peg, felt better for it, and set himself once more to his grim, stern, unrelenting race through the darkness.

  He was on the grand trunk road now and there was more traffic. Several times he was compelled to slow down and he chafed inwardly at the delay, but onward he went, ever onward, and gradually he was drawing nearer to Delhi. His spirits began to rise. When he left Barog he never expected to reach Umbala, but now that he had left that city behind, he felt more hopeful and with the assistance of the brandy grew more cheerful. He took another bite at a sandwich, and this time it did not sicken him, so he went on munching until he had eaten the lot, and felt infinitely better for it.

  At last, at a quarter past two in the morning, he entered the outskirts of Delhi, and turned the car in the direction of Viceregal Lodge. His whole body was numbed, and he was in agony with the cramp in his legs. For some time past he had been driving with the throttle lever, as he was quite unable to use his right foot. But he was filled with exultation, and his heart was beating rapidly with a great satisfaction at having accomplished his mission as he drove up to the gates of the Viceroy’s palatial dwelling. He was challenged by a sentry, and at once made known his name. The enormous gates immediately swung back, and a man walked quickly up to him and got into the car. It was one of the aides-de-camp.

  ‘His Excellency desired to be called as soon as you arrived, Sir Henry,’ he said. ‘He had a telephone message some hours ago, telling him you were on your way.’

  Muir nodded and drove on.

  ‘Things have been happening, haven’t they?’ asked the other curiously.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Secretary, shortly, ‘they have!’

  He pulled up outside one of the private entrances and turned to the aide-de-camp.

  ‘Will you see that this car is garaged?’ he said.

  ‘Right ho!’

  Muir had to be helped out of his seat and for some minutes he was unable to stand, but by dint of much rubbing and stamping the circulation was presently restored, and he proceeded to his own little study, and immediately sent a servant to inform the Viceroy of his arrival. Then he took off his coat, sank into an armchair and a great sigh escaped him. He was beginning to doze when the servant returned, and told him that His Excellency was awaiting him in his study, so pulling himself together, he went along the corridor and entered the room where the Viceroy in a dressing gown was pacing up and down, his hands behind his back.

  Lord Oundle was a tall, thin, scholarly-looking man, with a slight stoop. His hair was turning grey at the temples and his eyebrows were almost white. Beneath them a pair of deep-set eyes looked out on the world with the troubled gaze of a man of great responsibilities, who would fain put them aside and devote himself to books. He had a long thin nose and sensitive nostrils and a mouth which was almost effeminate in its beauty. The chin suggested that, in spite of the slight weakness depicted in the rest of the face, he was a man who had strong willpower, and did not hesitate to use it.

  The study was a large, lofty room with three long windows. The walls were almost covered by bookshelves in which works on India predominated. On the floor was a dark green dhurri, and various oriental rugs were dotted about. There were two or three comfortable-looking armchairs, a long cane chair, a Blackwood desk of Chinese workmanship crowded with books and papers, and an inlaid cabinet in a corner of the room containing various curios presented to the Viceroy on different occasions.

  As Muir entered the room, Lord Oundle turned sharply and held out his hand, which the former grasped.

  ‘Thank God, you have arrived safely,’ said His Excellency. ‘Did you have any trouble on the way?’

  ‘None at all, sir,’ replied Sir Henry, and smiled wanly as he added, ‘except those conjured up by my own fancies.’

  ‘You’ve come through remarkably quickly – who drove you?’

  ‘I drove myself. The doctor at Barog lent me his car … You have heard what happened to poor Elliott, sir?’

  ‘I kn
ow he was murdered, but I have no details. The Deputy Commissioner of Simla rang through, and has promised to do so again about nine.’

  He noticed how tired the Secretary was.

  ‘Sit down, Muir!’ he said. ‘You must be thoroughly worn out.’

  Muir gladly did as he was bidden, but the Viceroy continued to walk up and down. There was silence for a minute or two, then Lord Oundle stopped in front of Sir Henry.

  ‘How did it happen?’ he asked.

  Muir gave him an account of the whole affair from the time Elliott arrived at Simla till he was murdered. The Viceroy listened in silence until the end, then:

  ‘You had no idea whatever that anybody had boarded the rail car, of course?’ he said.

  ‘None. Whoever it was took advantage of the light going out to jump on, stab Elliott, and get off again.’

  ‘It almost looks as though the light was put out on purpose.’

  ‘That’s impossible, sir. It was undoubtedly a loose lamp which was shaken out of connection and jolted back again.’

  ‘Strange – very strange. You don’t suspect the driver of being a confederate?’

  ‘Not in the least, and besides he couldn’t possibly have caused the lamp to go out.’

  ‘No, that’s true. But it’s a most mysterious affair. You have the plans quite safe?’

  Muir took the case out of his pocket and handed it to the Viceroy. The latter held it in his hand and contemplated the seals.

  ‘And this cost a good man his life,’ he murmured.

  ‘Poor Elliott!’ said Sir Henry with an unwonted huskiness in his voice. ‘He was looking forward to handing that over, and hoped to get away to England on leave. He spoke with enthusiasm of hunting last night – Last night! Good Lord! It seems like weeks ago.’

  ‘It must do,’ said Lord Oundle sympathetically. ‘You had better get to bed, Muir, and have a rest. I’ll put this in the safe till tomorrow morning. The Commander-in-Chief is coming to see me at ten, and I won’t open the case till he is here.’

  He crossed to one of the bookcases and touched a hidden spring. The large case immediately swung outwards like a door, and showed a safe hidden behind it. This the Viceroy opened and, having deposited the precious case inside, shut the door and caused the bookcase to swing back into position again. Muir rose from his chair.

  ‘Have you had anything to eat tonight?’ asked Lord Oundle suddenly.

  ‘A few sandwiches, which the doctor pressed on me at Barog,’ replied Sir Henry. ‘But I don’t want to eat. I simply want to lie down and go to sleep.’

  ‘Well, go! I am deeply grateful to you for the good work you have done tonight, Muir.’

  The other smiled deprecatingly and, bidding the Viceroy ‘good night’, stepped out of the room, and went along to his own quarters.

  Lord Oundle continued to pace up and down his study for some time. His brow was wrinkled in thought and occasionally he clenched his hands. At last he switched out the lights and went back to his own bedroom.

  In spite of his fatigue Muir did not sleep readily. His mind was full of the events of the last few hours. Elliott’s murder cut him to the very depths of his being; he almost felt as though he were to blame. He remembered his repeated assertions that he would see the Major safely to Delhi, that he would watch over him like a guardian angel. He intended doing all he had promised, and yet he had failed, failed dismally. The plans had arrived safely it is true and in that particular he had succeeded, but Elliott’s life had been sacrificed wantonly, needlessly, or at least so it seemed to him. Why, he continually asked himself, was Elliott stabbed, when the assailant, or the man who employed him, must have known that it would have been impossible to rob the dead man of the plans. Then he wondered if there could be any other reason for the murder: had the Major drawn on himself the enmity of someone who, in consequence, desired his death? But he put that thought away; an ordinary murderer would not take the risks this one had. No, it must have been for the plans, and yet he had been allowed to get to Delhi without interruption, without any attempt being made to stop him, when the man, or party of men, who had the wit to conceive the assassination must have known that he, Muir, would carry on. It was inconceivable, fantastic! Try as he would he could find no solution, and at last, worn out in mind and body, he fell into a troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Surprising Discovery

  Lord Oundle was at work early the next morning, in spite of his night’s rest having been disturbed. Seen by daylight he looked older, more worn. There were many lines on his face, and he appeared to be a man who had suffered and whose sufferings had left an indelible mark. And he had suffered. His two sons, of whom he had been inordinately proud, had fallen in the War, and he had never recovered from the shock.

  He had filled several high positions of state, and had always done his duty meticulously, conscientiously, but he was a broken man. Now his private life was devoted to his wife and only daughter, a charming girl of twenty-three upon whom he lavished a great affection.

  There was a little pile of papers before him as he sat at his desk, and he read them through carefully before appending his signature, and occasionally added notes in that small, geometrically correct handwriting, which was so well known in official circles. At eight o’clock he breakfasted with his wife. Their daughter had been to a ball the previous night and had not put in an appearance and Sir Henry Muir, who, apart from being the Viceroy’s Secretary, was an old friend of the family, and usually took his meals with them, was still sleeping off the effects of his frantic drive from Barog.

  Lady Oundle was a stately woman, a few years her husband’s junior. The shock of the deaths of her two sons had turned her hair completely white, and she also, like the Viceroy, when her face was in repose wore a look of sorrow. She was still beautiful and was generally loved for her sweet womanliness, her kindness and the great charm of her manner.

  She had heard of Major Elliott’s tragic death and, though she had never met the sapper, she was full of enquiries and listened with great sympathy to her husband as he related to her all that had taken place.

  At a quarter to nine His Excellency returned to his study, and, lighting a cigar, sat back in his chair and waited for the promised telephone call from Colonel Sanders. Sir Henry presently came in. He was his usual well-dressed, alert self, but there were great rings under his eyes to show what he had been through.

  ‘And how are you this morning, Muir?’ enquired Lord Oundle.

  Sir Henry smiled.

  ‘I haven’t had much of a night,’ he replied, ‘but I feel just as fit as ever now.’

  ‘You have not had breakfast yet, have you?’

  ‘I’m ashamed to confess that I had it in bed!’

  ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that. I think you had better take things very easily today.’

  Sir Henry stiffened.

  ‘There will be no ease for me, Your Excellency,’ he said, ‘until Elliott’s murderer is discovered.’

  Lord Oundle nodded.

  ‘God grant that he will be found,’ he said. ‘I fear there is a lot behind this murder, Muir; probably a great deal more than we suspect.’

  ‘It is horrible, dastardly!’ said the Secretary. ‘It seems to me that the poor fellow was murdered out of pure spite! They were baulked in their efforts to steal the plans, but in sheer devilry they assassinated him.’

  ‘I wonder!’

  Muir looked at the Viceroy in surprise, and was about to ask him what he meant, when the telephone bell rang. His Excellency drew the instrument to him, and held the receiver to his ear.

  ‘The Deputy Commissioner of police, Simla, is asking to speak to Your Excellency,’ announced the exchange clerk.

  ‘Put him through!’ said the Viceroy sharply.

  A moment later he heard the tired voice of Colonel Sanders.

  ‘I am speaking from Barog, Your Excellency. I spent a considerable time examining the tunnel with Hartley – who was in th
e train with Major Elliott – and another man. We found not the slightest trace of the murderer. I am having the surrounding country searched and all strangers brought in, but I’m afraid there is little hope in that direction. There was nothing in the rail car to give us the slightest clue.’

  ‘Have you any suspicion that the driver was concerned in the affair?’ asked the Viceroy.

  ‘No, I think he is quite innocent. I have interrogated him about the failure of the light in the car, but he says that it can only have been due to a loose bulb. It occurred to me that he could have switched it off; the switch is placed in front of the driving-seat, but Captain Williams assures me that he couldn’t possibly have done that without his seeing it.’

  ‘H’m! If you could only find out what happened to the light you might—’

  ‘If I could find that out, Your Excellency, I should know more about the murder.’

  ‘You do not think the failure of the light was an accident then?’

  ‘No – I feel certain it was connected with the outrage. I don’t know how it was done, but I’ll find out!’

  ‘I wish you every success!’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Did Sir Henry arrive safely?’

  ‘Yes, and the plans are here.’

  The Colonel’s sigh of relief could be heard from the other end.

  ‘That’s good hearing,’ he said. ‘Sir Henry will be coming back to Barog for the inquest?’

  ‘Oh, yes. When will it take place?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, Your Excellency. There are several things I want to ask Sir Henry Muir, so I shall be glad if he can come back at once.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll speak to him. Have you any theories, Commissioner?’

  ‘None at all, sir. The whole thing is a mystery at present. I’ll let Your Excellency know if anything turns up.’

  ‘Please do! I wish you to keep in touch with me daily.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’