‘Any news, sir?’ he asked.
‘Not a thing,’ was the reply. ‘In fact the mystery deepens. I know I’ve put you through it pretty badly with my questions, but I’ve one more to ask. During the last two or three weeks did Sir George receive any letters or messages, apart from his private correspondence, which caused him any excitement or concern, the contents of which he kept secret from you?’
‘Not that I know of,’ returned Winslow, ‘but of course, it would be difficult to say. Letters addressed to him personally were never handed to me or Wainwright unless they turned out to concern matters relating to the embassy.’
‘If a letter, such as I have in my mind, did arrive, I should imagine it would be merely addressed to the British Ambassador or Minister.’
‘In that case,’ declared Winslow, ‘Sir George would not have opened it – it would have been left to us.’
‘That’s natural of course,’ nodded Wallace. ‘Did he hold any private interviews during the period I have mentioned – I mean with people of whom you had no knowledge?’
The attaché thought deeply for several seconds; then:
‘I can remember two,’ he said. ‘One was with a woman dressed in black and heavily veiled; the other was with a rather greasy-looking Greek.’
‘How did they succeed in obtaining interviews?’
‘I don’t know. Wainwright and Gardener probably will.’ He rang a bell and a clerk promptly entered the room. ‘Ask Mr Wainwright to come into my office.’
A young man with the build of an athlete made his appearance.
‘Do you remember that veiled woman and the Greek who had interviews with the chief about ten days ago?’ asked Winslow.
‘Yes,’ returned Wainwright. ‘They came on the same day.’
‘Sir Leonard wants to know how they obtained interviews.’
‘The woman sent in a cryptic message to the effect that she desired to throw herself on Sir George’s mercy, because she understood all Englishmen were just and merciful. She would give no name, but Sir George was so interested that he saw her.’
‘What nationality was she?’ asked Wallace.
‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ returned the young man. ‘She spoke in French without any trace of accent, as far as I could judge, but she had such a thick veil over her face that it was impossible to see her features.’
‘Do you think she was young?’
‘Very, I should imagine.’
‘And the man?’
‘Oh, I can tell you more about him, sir. He was a Greek of the minor official class; tall, thin and oily. His name was Moropoulos, and he sent in a sealed letter to his Excellency, who saw him at once.’
‘Ah! That sounds interesting.’ He smiled at Winslow. ‘So there was a letter after all,’ he observed. ‘Sir George said nothing to either of you concerning these people? You have no idea who they were, or what their business was?’
‘None at all,’ replied both men.
‘Another cul-de-sac,’ groaned Wallace. ‘If we could only trace one or both, we might begin to obtain results. I wonder what became of that letter the Greek handed in? I’ve searched through all Sir George’s correspondence very carefully, but nothing of any interest whatever was found, certainly nothing signed by a man calling himself Moropoulos. By Jove!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘Can either of you tell me what kind of clothing Sir George was wearing on that day?’
They stared at him curiously; then consulted each other.
‘I believe he had on a brown suit,’ said Winslow, ‘but I couldn’t be sure.’
‘It wasn’t a light suit that might have gone to the laundry?’
‘No; it’s been too cold lately for that sort of thing.’
‘It was a brown suit,’ broke in Wainwright. ‘I remember now noticing that the Greek wore one of a similar shade.’
Sir Leonard left them, and ascended to the late Ambassador’s dressing room. The valet was busy there packing away clothing and other articles. He had been devoted to his late master, and there was suspicious moisture in his eyes as he carefully folded the garments. He greeted Wallace respectfully, but without much interest.
‘How many brown suits had Sir George?’ asked the latter.
‘Only one, sir,’ was the reply. ‘It was a colour Sir George didn’t care for much.’
‘May I see it?’
The valet went to a hanging-cupboard and, taking out the suit, placed it on the back of a chair. Sir Leonard picked up the jacket, and felt through the pockets.
‘I’m afraid you won’t find anything in the pockets, sir,’ observed the man. ‘It was my habit to remove everything when my master changed his clothing.’
‘What did you do with the things you found?’
‘Put them back, if I thought they were wanted, otherwise locked them up in that drawer over there. Sir George would look through it every now and then, and destroy any old letters or notes he didn’t want.’
The mention of letters interested Sir Leonard. He had assured himself that there was nothing in the pockets of the brown suit, and now walked across to the drawer indicated.
‘Is there anything in it?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir; I haven’t cleared it out yet.’
The valet unlocked it, and stood aside watching the Chief of the Secret Service as he searched through the conglomeration of articles within. There were several old letters, all of which he put on one side until he had finished examining the other things. Then he took them up one by one, and went through them. The first two were of no interest whatever, but the third drew from him a muttered exclamation of satisfaction. It was a note in French from a man signing himself Zeno Moropoulos, requesting an interview. The final paragraph caused Sir Leonard to emit a sigh of relief.
I have a most important communication to divulge to your Excellency. If you cannot see me now, will you let me know at what time I can call again. I am living temporarily at the Orient Hotel in the Grand Rue de Pera.
He put the note in his pocket and continued his inspection of the others, but none of them were of importance.
‘How is it these were not destroyed?’ he asked.
‘I put them there only a day or two before Sir George was taken ill, sir. Is there anything else you wish to see?’
‘No; I don’t think so; at least, not just now.’
He sent for one of the embassy cars, and was driven to the Orient Hotel. There a partial disappointment awaited him. Moropoulos had left, but, although he had given no address for letters to be forwarded, the clerk was able to inform Sir Leonard that the Greek had gone to live with a compatriot, who kept a café in Galata. Writing down the address, Wallace thanked the man, and returned to the embassy. It was beginning to get dark by that time and, as he had had a certain amount of experience of the side streets of Constantinople at night, he determined to take Batty with him to Georgiadi’s café. Two are a great deal safer than one. Most of the streets of Constantinople, with the exception of the Grand Rue de Pera, are very badly lighted and, after dark, are dangerous for wayfarers who look in any way affluent. Robbery, sometimes death, skulks in the shadows, and the watchmen with their long wooden staffs are often worse than useless. They are more picturesque than efficient. Under the wise and able guidance of Mustapha Kemal Pasha, conditions are daily improving, but it will be a long time before the inhabitants of the Sublime Porte are able to walk anywhere in the city without fear of molestation. Sir Leonard knew this and, though he had no fear of attack, saw no sense in taking needless risks.
Batty enjoyed the trip. He had never been to Constantinople before, though he had been close to it during the War, when he had been on the ill-fated Irresistible in the Dardanelles. Since his arrival in the Turkish city he had paid a visit to St Sophia, been rather awed by the magnificence of the distant views, but disgusted by the sordidness which disclosed itself on closer inspection.
They had no difficulty in finding Georgiadi’s café. It was in a street which seemed devoted to
cafés, pawnshops, and bars, where sailors of many nations congregated, and vendors of all kinds of wares crowded the sidewalks. The place itself possessed a kind of tawdry brilliance, and was redolent of cooking, garlic rising triumphant over the other odours. Sir Leonard sent for the proprietor, and a little fat man in a greasy travesty of full evening dress hurried up. His eyes glinted as they took in the spare, smartly-dressed figure. With a great effort he bowed almost double.
‘Good night, sare,’ he commenced in laboured English. ‘I come at your service.’
Sir Leonard smiled.
‘I wish to see Mr Moropoulos,’ he announced.
An expression very much like fear appeared on the fat man’s face, to be replaced, with an effort, by a forced look of surprise, which did not deceive Wallace.
‘Who is it zis Moropoulos?’ asked the Greek.
‘Mr Georgiadi,’ returned the Englishman in uncompromising tones, ‘I am a busy man, and certainly have no time to waste in mummery. I understand Moropoulos is here. I am from the British Embassy, and I wish to see him – at once if possible.’
A change came over the little man’s attitude. He looked round mysteriously.
‘I think a private room, yes?’ he inquired.
‘A private room by all means,’ responded Sir Leonard.
He and Batty were taken through the main restaurant, up a flight of stairs, and along a corridor which had numbered doors on either side. They were ushered into one of these, a small, barely furnished room, the chief articles it contained being a dining-table, a couple of cane chairs, and a couch. Batty looked at the couch and grinned.
‘I will Moropoulos send,’ announced the Greek.
He bowed again, went out, and closed the door behind him. Some minutes went by then a tall, thin man entered almost furtively. He stood looking at Sir Leonard, as though in a state of indecision, until beckoned forward and told to take a seat. He was an unpleasant-looking person with black shiny hair, small pig-like eyes, and several days’ growth of beard on his jowl.
‘Your name is Moropoulos?’ began the Englishman.
The Greek looked uneasily round, but did not answer until Wallace told Batty to stand outside the door to prevent the possibility of eavesdroppers; then he nodded his head.
‘I speak not the English well,’ he remarked.
‘We shall speak in French then,’ decided Sir Leonard in that language. ‘I have come from the British Embassy in order to find out what passed between you and Sir George Paterson. My name is Wallace, I am a high official of the English Foreign Office, and you can speak quite openly to me.’
A cunning gleam came into the fellow’s eyes.
‘How am I to know you are who you say you are?’ he asked.
‘If I were not,’ retorted Sir Leonard, ‘would I be here now? Sir George sent to England for me obviously to impart some very important information to me. I arrived to find him dying, and too late to receive that information. I am convinced that he was murdered to prevent him passing on a statement which you made to him privately.’
The Greek’s face went a sickly yellow.
‘No, no,’ he protested vehemently; ‘that cannot be. Nobody knew that – that I told the English Ambassador – what I told him. Nobody ever knew that I possessed the knowledge.’
‘What was it?’
There was a long pause, during which Moropoulos sat twisting and untwisting his hands, obviously prey to a mixture of fear and irresolution. At length he shook his head.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I cannot tell you – I dare not.’
‘Come, come,’ protested Wallace. ‘If you can tell Sir George, you can tell me.’
‘No,’ he shook his head, as though he had definitely made up his mind. ‘It is better that the secret should die with Sir George Paterson. I can tell you nothing.’
Sir Leonard regarded him thoughtfully.
‘I presume from that,’ he observed coldly, ‘that you were paid by Sir George for your information, and that you expect another payment from me before you will open your lips.’
The Greek protested, but an avaricious gleam came into his eyes, which the Englishman did not fail to notice.
‘How much?’ he demanded.
But Moropoulos continued to express his intention not to speak.
‘Look here,’ persisted Sir Leonard, ‘this attitude won’t do, my man. It is obvious you told Sir George Paterson something which he considered important enough to pass on to his government. Will you come to the embassy and tell me there? That will convince you that I have a right to know what it is.’
‘I do not doubt your right, Monsieur. But I made a mistake – I should not have told the Ambassador. It is well that the secret has gone to the grave with him.’
‘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.
Wallace of the Secret Service (Wallace of the Secret Service Series) Page 20
