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

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘That is the man you want, sir,’ he explained. ‘The other is number two, I believe.’

  Wallace surveyed them with a smile.

  ‘Our little plot seems to have worked quite well,’ he observed.

  Levinsky found his voice.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he snarled. ‘We saw through the trick you tried to play on us when that man Carter made himself conspicuous by talking sedition, afterwards pretending to murder you and escape. We also captured the other, whom you set to track our car, and—’

  ‘That’s exactly what we wanted you to do,’ interrupted Sir Leonard.

  ‘How? Was it not your object that the man Carter should work his way into our confidence, and thus discover our secrets? Also that the other man should track the car, and find out our headquarters?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Wallace, ‘but I anticipated that you would be too clever to be taken in. On the other hand the capture of these two gentlemen, and the belief that you had outwitted us, would lull you into a false sense of security, while I was making preparations to raid you.’

  Both Levinsky and Dorin swore horribly. Despite himself, however, the former’s curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘How could you have known where to come?’ he demanded.

  ‘For the simple reason that below the steering wheel of Mr Maddison’s car is a miniature wireless set, an aerial is concealed in the hood, which has double folds. All the time he was following you he was in touch with my headquarters. Thus he told us where Mr Carter had left my car, described your destination, even was able to send out the information that he was being surrounded and about to be captured.’

  The chagrin depicted on the Russians’ faces was almost comical. Levinsky turned on one of his subordinates with a cry of rage, and flung a rapid stream of Russian at him.

  ‘If you are asking him why he did not discover the wireless outfit,’ interposed Sir Leonard, ‘let me answer for him. It has a secret hiding place, and the mere pressure of a button causes it to slide into position flush with the instrument board. Unless you happen to know it is there, the chances are against your finding it. Well, your game is up. We have found the printing press in the basement, captured the printers and compositors, and searched the whole building. The documents that have fallen into our hands are almost priceless from our point of view, and will put an end, once and for all, to Russian Soviet influence in this country. There is only one thing that puzzles me. What was the idea of attempting to hypnotise Mr Carter? We watched the performance for some minutes, but you were all too engrossed to notice that we had opened the door.’

  Maddison recounted the diabolical scheme that had emanated from Levinsky’s brain, and the expression on Sir Leonard’s face, when he understood the significance of the scene he had witnessed, caused the Russians to shrink back in fear. For some moments his steel-grey eyes held theirs, and there was such a look of loathing in them that Dorin shivered convulsively.

  ‘So that’s the depth to which modern Russia has sunk, is it?’ he snapped. ‘You infernal brutes, you’re nothing but cowardly scum, unfit for anything but the utter contempt and abhorrence of decent nations. You’ll suffer a long term of imprisonment for this.’ He turned to Carter. ‘I am sorry I delayed our coming for so long,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ returned the young man cheerfully. ‘I did think something had come unstuck, though.’

  Sir Leonard directed his men to remove the Russians, and send for an ambulance to take away the body of the hypnotist. He had hardly finished speaking, when Dorin gave a cry and sagged to the floor, his hand on his heart. Two or three men went to his assistance. He was lifted up, and placed in a chair close to the desk, while Brien sprinkled water in his face.

  ‘Is he subject to that sort of thing?’ Wallace asked Levinsky suspiciously.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded the latter sullenly, ‘it’s his heart.’

  Suddenly there was a click and a grating sound, and the room was plunged in darkness. Wallace shouted for somebody to find the switch and, for some moments, there was the sound of scuffling and the deep breathing of men. Then came another sharp click, and the lights were on again. The Englishmen gazed round them in astonishment. The Russian subordinates were still present, but neither Levinsky nor Dorin were to be seen.

  ‘Some disappearing trick!’ murmured Carter.

  Wallace gave vent to a full-blooded exclamation. Dashing across to the place where Dorin had been sitting he gave the desk a push. Immediately it began to move, as though it were on a swivel, and the lights went out. Continuing to push, he put out his foot cautiously into space.

  ‘Strike a match, somebody,’ he cried.

  Several were lit, and the discovery made that underneath where the desk had been was an opening with steps leading down to the regions below.

  ‘Ingenious,’ he commented ruefully. ‘The movement of the desk put out the lights, the two Russians then pushed until they could creep through the hole, shot the desk back into place, and on went the lights again. They’re well away by now, but come on, Brien and Maddison, after them. The rest of you, guard the prisoners!’

  The steps at first went straight down then meandered to the right, after which they walked along a narrow passage with a door at the end. This was ajar. They pushed it wide open, clambered over a pile of disused petrol tins, and found themselves in a garage – empty!

  ‘Dash it!’ exclaimed Wallace. ‘As I thought, they’ve escaped.’

  The whole of London was combed during the following days, and every port watched for the escaped Russians, but no trace of them was found. But to quote Sir Leonard’s words:

  ‘It doesn’t matter much. We’ve smashed the Soviet plot against Britain once and for all. The information that has fallen into our hands is priceless, and will keep Russia toeing the line very carefully for the future, at least as far as this country is concerned. Still I’m damn sorry we can’t make those two blighters suffer for the hideous scheme they concocted against Maddison and Carter.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Soviet Dinner Party

  ‘I thought we had heard the last of the Russians for some little time to come, but this latest development will badly need looking into.’

  The speaker was Sir Leonard Wallace, and he was closeted with the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.

  ‘I suppose your agent is quite sure of his facts?’ queried the Cabinet Minister. ‘I mean to say, he couldn’t have been misinformed by any chance?’

  Sir Leonard eyed his vis-à-vis rather scornfully.

  ‘Every report that reaches my department,’ he observed quietly, ‘is authentic. If our agents were allowed to swamp us with rumours, it would mean chaos. Not a man or woman would dream of making a statement before he or she had verified it. After all that is what a secret service exists for, isn’t it?’

  The grey-haired Statesman smiled.

  ‘I suppose it was foolish of me to make such a remark,’ he said, ‘but why on earth should the Soviet invite delegates from the countries you have mentioned to a secret conference?’

  ‘That is what we must find out,’ was the reply. ‘I shall travel to Moscow myself and, if possible, attend the conference.’

  The Secretary of State stared at him, as though he had not heard aright.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘You don’t really mean that do you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My dear man, how can you possibly attend?’

  ‘I don’t know yet and, if I did, you could hardly expect me to give away my plans, even to you, could you?’

  ‘But think of the risk you will run in entering the country. You’ll never see England again, if you are discovered.’

  ‘No; perhaps not. I should certainly not be declared a first-class life by an insurance company. But I don’t see any reason why I should be detected.’

  The Minister frowned at him thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he declared. ‘After the way y
ou smashed the Russian plot in England a few weeks ago, I should imagine you are regarded, by the Soviet Government, as the most dangerous enemy Russia possesses. It is possible there is an official collection of photographs of you in Moscow.’

  ‘Quite likely I should think,’ agreed Wallace coolly.

  ‘Then what chance can you possibly have of successfully entering the country, let alone being present at this secret conclave?’

  ‘My greatest chance will lie in the fact that it will never occur to the Soviet that I will attempt to enter Russia.’

  ‘Couldn’t you send someone else?’

  ‘It has never been my practice to send a man where I would not go myself. In the present case I feel that it is very necessary that I should pay a personal visit to Moscow, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘What about Lady Wallace?’ queried the Statesman.

  ‘She will not know why I am going to Russia,’ replied Wallace, ‘and to quote an old proverb, “where innocence is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” I presume you will not be foolish enough to inform her of my real object.’

  ‘Certainly not. Surely you don’t—’

  ‘That applies also to your colleagues of the Cabinet,’ went on Sir Leonard. ‘Not a whisper of my intentions must leave this room, sir.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I have been foolish to confide in you.’

  The Minister looked sharply at him, and a frown of annoyance creased his brow, but he caught the smile on the other’s face, and allowed his indignation to fade.

  ‘It is very difficult sometimes,’ he complained, ‘to know whether you are pulling one’s leg or not. Well, since you are bent on entering this den of lions – I suppose I should say bears – I have no further comments to make. After all you’re the chief of your department, and I’ve no right to interfere with your plans and arrangements, I suppose.’

  ‘Has that only just occurred to you?’ asked Wallace ironically.

  This time the Foreign Secretary laughed.

  ‘Thanks, Wallace,’ he chuckled. ‘I suppose that is a polite way of saying it’s time I learnt to mind my own business.’

  ‘More or less,’ was the frank reply. He rose to his feet. ‘Is there anything else you want to say before I go?’

  ‘No; except to wish you luck. When is the conference to take place?’

  ‘On the twenty-fifth.’

  The Statesman looked at the calendar.

  ‘Three weeks from today,’ he commented. ‘And the nations invited to send delegates are Austria, Germany, Turkey, and China you say?’

  Wallace nodded.

  ‘It looks like a plot,’ remarked His Majesty’s Minister.

  ‘It is a plot,’ retorted the Chief of the Secret Service.

  ‘When will you leave?’

  Sir Leonard smiled broadly.

  ‘I shan’t even tell myself until the last minute,’ he said, ‘and I certainly shall not cross to the continent by any of the known routes. Brien will be left in charge of course and, if anything occurs while I am away, you have only to get in touch with him.’

  A little later, when walking up Whitehall, a grim look crossed his face.

  ‘I wonder where they dig up these cabinet ministers,’ he muttered. ‘He thinks it looks like a plot. My God! What vast intelligence.’

  The next day Wallace ran down to his estate in the New Forest where his wife and son were already established. He said very little to Lady Wallace about his proposed visit to Russia, and shut himself up in his study, where he did some very hard thinking. Early the following morning he was joined by Cousins, who spent a couple of hours playing golf with him, during which they acted as their own caddies, then returned to London.

  A week later a dapper little man descended from the rapide at Strasbourg, and was driven to the Hotel Lorraine. His carefully trimmed imperial, his garments, above all his mannerisms, proclaimed him the Parisian. His cards declared him to be Monsieur Anatole Lalére, and he was well known at Strasbourg, as it was his custom, two or three times a year, to meet his agents from Berlin, Vienna, Rome and various other big continental cities at the Hotel Lorraine, and discuss business matters with them. Who has not heard of the famous Lalére perfumes? Lalére et Cie is known throughout Europe, America, and in fact the whole civilised world. No wonder, therefore, that Monsieur Anatole Lalére’s coming to the Hotel Lorraine is always marked by a hearty and respectful welcome from the management. He is usually given the best suite of rooms, and his every wish gratified almost before it is expressed. Monsieur Lalére, it is well known, is a millionaire; in addition he is a charming gentleman, and distributes largesse with an unfailingly generous hand. His popularity, it will be seen, was a matter of the combination of the heart and the purse.

  On this particular occasion he had arranged to meet three agents; one from Vienna, where, despite the sad decline of Austria, women are still beautiful, and love the scents of Lalére; one from Berlin, where women are not so beautiful but love expensive perfumes nevertheless; and the other from London, which boasts of the most beautiful women in the world, women whose beauty is enhanced by the delicately scented powders and creams of Lalére et Cie. It was unusual for the London agent to travel to Strasbourg, but it had become necessary for him to meet his confrères from Berlin and Vienna.

  As was usual, the conference was inaugurated by a special luncheon at which the conversation, I am afraid, was almost entirely ‘shop’. It was natural, however, considering that the affairs of the company were in such a flourishing condition and, at that time, were evoking a good deal of enthusiasm from those lucky enough to be employed by the amiable Monsieur Lalére.

  A stranger glancing into the room, and taking stock of the four men, sitting round the convivial board, would have been struck by the manner in which each typified his nationality. Monsieur Lalére was so obviously French; big, burly Herr Gottfried, with his bullet head and fair hair, looked as though he might have been in the Prussian Guards; Herr Beust revived memories of those gallant and handsome young men who thronged Vienna before the Great War; and the fourth, tall, well-knit, with curly brown hair, fine features, and the bronzed complexion of the athlete, was as British as any man could well be. Yet, though Lalére had spent most of his life in France, Gottfried had been born and bred in Germany, Beust had lived in Austria since he was three years old, they were all as British in nationality as their companion, Tommy Carter, and all prominent members of the Secret Service directed by Sir Leonard Wallace.

  The firm of Lalére et Cie is no myth. Its actual name is slightly different it is true, but it is as existent and as prosperous as I have stated, and Lalére directs it from Paris; while Gottfried, Beust and Carter are its agents in their various capitals, have their offices, and draw their salaries. It was founded with money supplied by Sir Leonard Wallace, and the gentlemen and ladies, who represent it in the big capitals of the world, are members of the British Secret Service.

  As soon as luncheon was finished, the four men retired to Monsieur Lalére’s private sitting room. Facts and figures regarding business were scrutinised with meticulous care, and plans for the future drawn up. Then Carter rose from his chair, and walked through the suite to make sure there were no possible eavesdroppers about. The advantage of holding a meeting in the sitting room was obvious. On one side was an anteroom, on the other a bedroom; it was quite impossible, therefore, for the discussion to be heard in adjoining suites. The only danger was the corridor outside the sitting room, but Lalére’s manservant, also a member of the rank and file of the Secret Service, was posted on duty there. Carter locked all the doors, and returned to his companions.

  ‘What have been the results of your investigations?’ he asked looking from Gottfried to Beust.

  The former was the first to answer.

  ‘I had a great deal of difficulty in obtaining the necessary information,’ he confessed, ‘and even now I am not certain that what I have discovered has any connection with this Russian affair. But Paulus is leaving Berlin
for Moscow on the twenty-second. His mission is supposed to be in connection with the agricultural inquiry, but I think it is fairly obvious to us what his real intentions are.’

  ‘Paulus!’ commented Carter. ‘He won’t be any help. He’s a bullet-headed, beefy blighter like you, Gottfried, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded the other; ‘though the comparison might have been expressed in more polite terms.’

  Carter grinned cheerfully.

  ‘But what,’ inquired Lalére, ‘has his build to do with the matter?’

  ‘I’ll tell you presently,’ replied Carter. ‘What about you, Beust? Don’t say you haven’t succeeded in discovering anything at all.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ replied the good-looking pseudo Austrian, ‘I have actually seen the secret file relating to the conference in Moscow.’

  ‘That’s the stuff to give the troops,’ interjected Carter. ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘I heard that Otto Kahn had been delegated to attend the agricultural inquiry by the government, and put two and two together. It occurred to me that he would be the very man to be selected for a secret conference with Russia, so I did a little bit of house-breaking, and was lucky enough to find the file in his safe. I suppose he had taken it home to study it.’

  ‘What’s Otto Kahn like? Of course we’ve heard of him vaguely, but he’s such a new star in the political firmament that very little is known about him. Have you the photographs?’

  Beust nodded and, taking a pocket-case from the inside of his jacket, extracted three photographs, which he laid on the table in front of Carter. The latter examined them carefully, then whistled as though delighted.