Wallace of the Secret Service (Wallace of the Secret Service Series)

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘I began to get a glimmering of how the murder and robbery had been accomplished, and hurried downstairs to put my theory into practice. As I looked again at the keys lying on the laboratory table, I wondered why they had been taken out of the doors. Obviously the professor must have taken them out when he first entered, rather a curious thing to do, considering that on previous occasions he had left them in the doors. Perhaps he suspected that an attempt had been made on them; he may even have heard you when you tried, for I presume that it was not last night but on some other occasion that you made the endeavour. Whatever the cause, you knew that they were taken out, and that helped you to evolve the plan which succeeded.

  ‘The sight of that large ventilator up there told me the use to which you had put the string and magnet. I found a ladder in an outhouse, the one you had used, for several rungs had smears of blood on them which you knew nothing about, as it was too dark for you to see that you were leaving such marks. I climbed the ladder; then found how you had damaged yourself. In opening the iron slats you had been a trifle careless, with the result that they had snapped back, jamming your hand. There was enough blood up there to give you away completely. In order to keep the slats apart, you stuck your fountain pen between them, and afterwards forgot about it. I have it here.’ He laid it on the table next to the other articles.

  Brookfield was ghastly now, beads of perspiration showed on his forehead, while his hands were trembling convulsively. The reconstruction of every step of his crime, and the cold, incisive manner in which Sir Leonard Wallace spoke, affected him even more than the knowledge that he had been unmasked had done.

  ‘You must have used that ventilator as an observation-post more than once,’ continued the Chief of the Intelligence Department, ‘and laid your infernal plans accordingly. Last night, or rather early this morning, when you climbed up the ladder, you found, to your satisfaction, that Professor Mason was lying on the floor drugged. The magnet was let down on the end of the string; you swung it to and fro until it was in juxtaposition with one of the keys which immediately adhered to it; then you drew it up, taking care that it was not jerked off by coming in contact with the wall. The same process was repeated with the other key. After that you had no difficulty in entering the laboratory. You opened the safe with the duplicate keys taken from the drawer in the professor’s bedroom, obtained the formula, and shot the poor old man dead as he lay there. Whether or not you committed the deed because he began to regain his senses makes no difference. It was as foul a crime as any I have ever heard of. I believe you did it wantonly – for, if you had succeeded in getting into the room on the occasion you had used the tweezers, I presume you would have shot the professor dead as soon as you were in. Brookfield, you must be a devil incarnate.’

  ‘How did he put the keys back in the room after locking the doors?’ asked Brien in a hushed voice.

  ‘By the simple process of letting them down on a loop of doubled string, swinging them backwards and forwards until they rested on the table; then letting go one end of the string and pulling it through the ring.’

  Brookfield had nothing to say for himself now. He stood and looked dumbly at the man who had found him out. His thoughts just then must have been terrible, for his soul had been unveiled in all its naked hideousness and, if he had not already done so, he must have realised himself for the thing he was.

  Wallace paced the laboratory, his chin sunk on his breast, for several minutes. Suddenly he stopped close to the man who had so dishonoured an honourable service. He spoke quietly.

  ‘I am going to do a thing, or rather countenance a thing, which under no other circumstances would I be a party to. Perhaps it is sentiment, but I am resolved to protect the honour of the department as far as it is possible. Understand, Brookfield, there is no desire on my part to make things easier for you. Thank God, you are not married. Major Brien and Mr Cousins will conduct you to headquarters. You will be handed this revolver,’ he picked it up from the table, and gave it to Cousins, ‘and will then enter a vacant room, and shut yourself in. Need I say more? The only alternative to that, as you well know, is a felon’s death on the scaffold. Do you accept?’

  For some seconds Brookfield was unable to speak, and stood clasping and unclasping his hands; then suddenly he found his voice.

  ‘Yes, damn you!’ he ground out. ‘I accept.’

  Wallace turned away.

  ‘See to things, Billy,’ he murmured to his friend. ‘Take his belongings up in the car with you.’

  Brien nodded. His face was white, but his lips were drawn tightly together in one grim, unrelenting line. Ten minutes later the car left for London, Brookfield sitting tightly wedged between Major Brien and Cousins. Wallace and Dr Hastings watched it out of sight then the former turned to the police surgeon.

  ‘I can rely on you, doctor?’ he queried.

  ‘Most certainly,’ was the reply. ‘It was the only way.’

  ‘I suppose you think I have let sentiment get the better of me?’

  ‘Not at all. A department like yours must be protected from any vestige of scandal. I suppose you will acquaint the Commissioner with the facts to enable him to hush up the murder.’

  Wallace nodded.

  ‘We’ll leave for Scotland Yard as soon as the professor’s brother arrives here and takes charge.’

  Mrs Holdsworth passed by at that moment, and he called her, taking the phial of laudanum from his pocket as she stopped and looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘Here is your little bottle, Mrs Holdsworth,’ he remarked. ‘Take it and keep it in a place of safety for the future. If I were you, I shouldn’t use such dangerous stuff.’

  It was late evening, when eventually Sir Leonard reached his office. Late as it was, however, he found Major Brien patiently awaiting his arrival. The latter’s face was pale and drawn. Wallace merely looked his inquiry, and the other nodded slowly.

  ‘His sister is coming tonight to take away the body for burial,’ he murmured. ‘It’s hell, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s worse than hell, Bill. Let us go home!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Russian Hospitality

  Most people have read in their newspapers of the attempts made by the Russian Soviet to undermine rule in Great Britain, and cause disaffection in the Army and Navy. Few, however, know of the extent of the efforts in that direction, the lengths to which the agents went, and the measures they adopted. Fewer still have any knowledge of the manner in which the British Secret Service, assisted by the Special Branch of New Scotland Yard, combated the insidious venture. It is my privilege now to make public for the first time how Sir Leonard Wallace checkmated the Soviet, and rendered innocuous the power which that communistic body was beginning to obtain in England.

  Ever since the War, agents of the Bolsheviki had done their utmost to persuade and encourage other countries to follow in the footsteps of the Soviet, throw aside their constitutions, and adopt the system of government prevailing in Russia. Great Britain was more a target for these endeavours than most nations, chiefly owing to the fact that it is an easy matter for aliens to enter the country, and also because British freedom of speech allows far more latitude than that of the majority of great powers. At first there was no great harm done, although a body of British communists began to make itself felt in the politics of the country; but when a Labour party, with distinct leanings towards friendship with Russia, was returned to power, matters looked serious. The Soviet took full advantage of this fortuitous circumstance, and deluged Great Britain with communistic propaganda. It became evident before very long that a big movement was on foot to cause dissatisfaction and perhaps revolution. Pamphlets, inspired by Russia, were mysteriously circulated among the troops at Aldershot, Shorncliffe, and other big military depots, and also among seamen of the Royal Navy and the Merchant Marine. In addition, miners and workers in all other branches of industry were ‘got at’ until an ominous situation arose. The level-headed members of the Government mad
e an effort to prevent matters coming to a head, but they were badly handicapped by the rabid Socialist backbenchers, who were Bolshevik in all but name. Luckily for the country, a proposal to advance a loan to Russia raised the opposition of the Conservatives and Liberals, with the result that the Government was defeated, and the Conservatives returned to power with an overwhelming majority.

  During the regime of the Socialists, Sir Leonard Wallace did his best, under difficult circumstances, to cope with the growing menace of Bolshevism, but on every side he met with obstacles, which made success impossible. Directly the new party came into power, however, he was given carte blanche, and immediately set to work to undo the mischief that had been done. Interviews with several ministers of State and the Chief of the War Office resulted in certain quiet-faced men taking up duties in various parts of the country as soldiers, railway-men, miners, dock workers and, in fact, in almost every class of labour at which the Soviet had aimed its shafts of unrest. Thereafter, reports reached Secret Service headquarters daily, but several weeks went by, and yet no information came to hand which would enable Sir Leonard to trace the Bolshevik activity to its source. Agents, who were distributing leaflets and pamphlets and delivering inflammatory speeches, were run to earth and arrested, but when questioned they either refused to speak or disclaimed all knowledge of the organisation under whose orders they were working. Despite the arrests, however, the propaganda still continued, and became more virulent than ever. A determined attempt was being made to corrupt the Army, with Aldershot as the centre of the undertaking.

  ‘We seem to be up against it,’ declared Sir Leonard one day to his friend, Major Brien. ‘Not one of the reports received so far is of any great assistance. Scotland Yard has gone through London with a fine comb, and not a blessed thing has come to light. Yet I wouldn’t mind betting that the organisation has its headquarters in this hub of the universe.’

  ‘Couldn’t the business be worked from somewhere on the Continent, or even direct from Leningrad?’ queried Brien.

  ‘It could, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t. Such an arrangement would mean continual telegraphing or a constant succession of couriers from Russia with orders. You know as well as I that every person entering England from the Continent is being subjected to rigid scrutiny and, as for telegraph and wireless communications, you are better informed of their contents than I. Has the decoding department examined one message that has not turned out to be entirely innocent?’

  Brien shook his head moodily.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ went on Wallace. ‘Whoever is at the back of this Russian menace is in England, with full power to act as circumstances dictate. I am convinced that he is hidden away somewhere in London, and that all the pamphlets circulated among the troops and sailors have been printed in this city.’

  ‘How about sending a man disguised as a Tommy to Aldershot,’ suggested Brien suddenly, ‘with instructions to appear influenced by the propaganda, and to talk Bolshy among the other troops? His supposed tendencies might reach the ears of the johnny behind the scenes, who would think he was a man likely to be valuable to the cause, and send for him.’

  ‘A bright idea, Billy,’ commented Sir Leonard, ‘but we’ve already tried it. Carter is in the Cambridge Hospital at Aldershot now on account of it.’

  ‘In hospital!’ exclaimed Brien. ‘What on earth is he doing there?’

  ‘Recovering from the rough treatment he received at the hands of the men to whom he preached revolution.’

  Billy stared at his chief for a moment; then collapsed into a chair and roared with laughter.

  ‘Good old Tommy Atkins!’ he chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit. I’m sorry for Carter, though.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he minds much,’ smiled Wallace, ‘except that all he has obtained from his efforts to attract the attention of the man we want so badly are a collection of bruises, a black eye, and a split lip. No attempt whatever has been made to get in touch with him, and I didn’t expect there would be. A man who can run this Bolshevik organisation as cleverly as our unknown adversary, is not going to take unnecessary risks. He probably suspects Carter.’

  ‘Perhaps he won’t,’ hazarded Brien, ‘now that poor old Carter has been so roughly handled.’

  ‘I don’t think that will make any difference. It was a forlorn hope anyhow. I don’t think many of the agents know the man with whom they are dealing.’

  ‘But there must be an intermediary.’

  ‘Exactly. He is the fellow we must find first and, as the present centre of operations appears to be Aldershot, I have placed two men of the Special Branch in the post office there, and want you to send down Hill, Cartright and Manning to take a hand. Let two of them go as commercial travellers, and the other as an artisan of some sort. Understand they must not arrive in Aldershot from London.’

  Billy nodded.

  ‘Do you want to see them before they go?’ he asked.

  ‘No; they know exactly what their job is. If they’ve any questions to ask, you can put them wise.’

  Left to himself, Sir Leonard sat at his desk, and spent an hour pondering over the problem which was causing him so much difficulty. As a result of his deliberations, he sent for Maddison. That smart, keen-eyed individual appeared at once, and was given certain instructions to which he listened carefully, afterwards hurrying from the room. Ten minutes later Wallace sauntered out of the building and, without looking either to the right or left, entered his car, which was drawn up to the kerb awaiting him.

  ‘Drive me to Aldershot!’ he instructed the chauffeur laconically, as though it were not lunch time and a trip to Aldershot was a daily occurrence.

  Without the flicker of an eyelid the man climbed into his seat, and a few seconds later the big car was threading its way through the traffic. Once away from the crowded streets of London, Sir Leonard pulled a mirror from one of the pockets in the tonneau, and held it before him in such a manner that he was able to see if he were being followed without turning his head and looking through the rear window. There were several cars close behind, however, and it would have been impossible to decide that any one of them was trailing his Vauxhall. He picked up the speaking-tube.

  ‘Make for Esher,’ he directed; ‘cut across country from there to Byfleet; then continue to Aldershot by way of Woking.’

  An almost imperceptible movement of the driver’s head showed that he understood, and Wallace leant back in his seat, a faint smile on his lips. He had chosen a peculiarly zig-zag route, but it had the great advantage that it meant traversing several unfrequented country roads with the consequent certainty of being able to discover whether or not he was being followed. Before the car reached Byfleet he was able to assure himself that such was the case. A cheeky-looking sports model of some foreign make, which he did not recognise, was hanging to his heels. Its low and narrow build suggested great speed, and Wallace knew his car could never have shaken it off, if that had been his intention. Two men sat in the front, both wearing large goggles and hats pulled well over their foreheads.

  ‘Now we’re beginning to get on,’ murmured Sir Leonard to himself in a tone of satisfaction.

  He put away the mirror, and took no further notice of the car behind. He knew very well that the trackers were being tracked by Maddison, and that wherever they went, from that time on, there would be someone from headquarters on their trail, until they had led Sir Leonard to the man he was so keen to find, or had proved their uselessness.

  As soon as Aldershot was reached, he spoke rapidly through the tube to the chauffeur; then instructed him to drive to the Cambridge Hospital. There he had an interview with Carter who, despite his bruises, was very cheerful. A muttered remark by Wallace, however, appeared to chase away all his light-heartedness, and he became morose and sullen. Treating his subordinate as though he were, in very truth, a military malcontent, Sir Leonard questioned him sharply, but elicited very little in reply apart from seditious utterances. The meeting was held in a small room
on the ground floor and, though the two men were alone, orderlies, nurses, and doctors were continually passing the half-open door. At last, with a shrug of his shoulders, Wallace rose from the chair in which he had been sitting, and strolled across to the door, which he closed. All the time he spoke in a rapid undertone to Carter, who listened without making the slightest sign that he heard. Then, almost like a sleight of hand trick, a revolver passed from Sir Leonard’s possession into a pocket of Carter’s tunic.

  A moment later the former rang a bell on the desk. His summons was answered immediately by an orderly.

  ‘Ask Colonel Grace if he will be good enough to come here,’ directed Wallace.

  Two or three minutes went by, and a short, grey-haired man in the uniform of a Royal Army Medical Corps Colonel entered the room. He looked questioningly at the angry features of the visitor, transferred his gaze to the sullen face of the supposed soldier; then glanced back again at the other.

  ‘Have you finished your inquiry, Sir Leonard?’ he asked.

  ‘I have,’ snapped Wallace, ‘and this man has appeared more obdurate than I expected. Is he fit enough to be discharged from hospital?’

  ‘Oh, yes; quite.’

  ‘Then the sooner he is under lock and key the better. Will you be good enough to see that he is returned to his unit under escort at once?’

  ‘Well, of course, I—’

  ‘I’ll take full responsibility. How many men are on duty watching him?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘They will be sufficient. I don’t suppose he’ll attempt to escape, especially after the rough handling he received the other day.’ He turned to the scowling Carter, whose black eye gave him quite a villainous aspect. ‘It means court martial and a long stretch for you, my lad,’ he added. ‘If you had only told me who are behind you, you would have got off lightly.’