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 h
e 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:
I have asked you to come out here specially in order that you and I can consider the whole thing together. What is wrong with me I don’t know, but I feel I am going to die, and this is the only way I can think of to safeguard this terrible news. You will do what you think best, Wallace, but I consider it is not a matter in which Great Britain should meddle. In my opinion nothing must ever be known. Greece will cease to exist, if the slightest inkling of this ever goes beyond your lips and mine. Moropoulos should be handed over to his country.
‘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.’
Wallace went to bed very thoughtfully that night.
He was up early the next morning, and spent an hour pacing the garden before breakfast. Directly after that meal he went to his rooms, and again examined the notebook, reading through carefully everything that had been jotted down by Sir George Paterson. The result of his scrutiny was that he ordered a car, and was driven to the residence of the President. He was with Mustapha Kemal Pasha for a long time, during which he learnt the names of all the leaders concerned in the recent attempt to bring back the Sultan to Turkey, and also those of their families, relatives and, in a good many cases, their friends. On his return to the embassy, he once again locked himself in his rooms, and studied the list of names and addresses he had brought with him. One by one he eliminated all but those of three men, who had been executed, and their connections. Very little was known about one, but the other two had been men of high repute and good family. Having classified the list, he sent for the Chief of Police and asked him to cause investigations to be made concerning the antecedents of the various people whose names he had written on a slip of paper.
‘I should like you, if you can,’ he added, ‘to trace their movements from the time their relatives were arrested.’
The dark-faced official glanced at him astutely, and nodded his head.
‘You think then,’ he observed, ‘that Sir George Paterson’s death was a matter of revenge.’
‘It may have been,’ admitted Wallace. ‘In any case it is an eventuality that cannot be overlooked. Have your investigations given you a clue of any kind?’
‘Not a thing,’ replied the Turk. ‘At first I thought that such a crime must have been committed by somebody living inside the house, but, despite a very rigid examination of everybody employed here, and a careful search of all the rooms, there was nothing to cause the vaguest suspicion of anyone. Sir George was very popular with all in this household, and nobody had any motive either of revenge or gain to murder him. There is one thing, however, and it is perhaps ridiculous, but I have neither questioned Lady Paterson nor searched her suite of rooms. Is it possible, do you think, Monsieur, that she can have been responsible for the death of her husband?’
‘Absurd,’ returned Sir Leonard at once. ‘Such a theory is out of the question altogether.’
‘I expected you to say that, but you must admit that it is not impossible, though it may be improbable. Wives have been known to kill their husbands before.’
‘In this case it is not only improbable but impossible as well,’ declared Wallace with decision. ‘I have known both Sir George and Lady Paterson for several years and, I can assure you, they were an extremely devoted couple.’
Hakim Pasha shrugged his shoulders, and rose to his feet.
‘I must thank you,’ he remarked, ‘for the suggestion of this new line of inquiry.’ He tapped the list of names he held in his hand. ‘It is very likely that from among these people will be found the murderer. I will let you know directly there is anything to report.’
When he had departed, Sir Leonard went down to Winslow’s office, and endeavoured to learn something more concerning the mysterious veiled lady, but nobody was able to give him any further information. Afterwards he sought an interview with Lady Paterson, and was relieved when told that she was well enough to see him. He found her lying on a couch in her beautiful boudoir overlooking the Bosphorus. She looked very frail and ill, but greeted him warmly. Her maid and the nurse were in attendance on her, but were dismissed as soon as Sir Leonard was announced. The latter was not in uniform and, on inquiry, Wallace learnt that she was leaving that day as the doctor had decided there was no longer any need for a nurse.
‘I don’t think he is very wise,’ opined Sir Leonard. ‘You look as though a nurse is necessary.’
She smiled wanly.
‘I have my maid,’ she reminded him, ‘and an English girl is on her way out with my sister to escort me home as soon as Dr Lansbury thinks I am fit enough to travel. Did you find George’s notebook?’
‘Yes,’ he told her, ‘but there was nothing written in it of any great importance.’ The prevarication was necessary he considered and, to prevent her asking further questions, he changed the subject. ‘Do you trust your Turkish maid?’ he demanded.
‘Of course, why?’
He told her what Dr Von Bernhardt had said, and questioned her closely concerning Hamid Bey. Lady Paterson was obviously interested in the disclosure, but refused to suspect the Turkish doctor or the maid.
‘I am convinced they had nothing to do with George’s death,’ she declared.
‘I am not so sure,’ returned Wallace seriously. ‘Your husband, I am inclined to believe, made some enemies when he passed on information to the Turkish Government concerning the royalist plot. It is quite likely that Hamid Bey was a member of the Osmanian party. At any rate I have caused investigations to be made concerning him.’
‘They will prove fruitless,’ she replied confidently. ‘Dr Hamid is a man of absolute honour and integrity, I am sure.’
He shrugged his shoulders, and let the matter drop.
‘Did Paterson tell you about the mysterious veiled lady who called to see him?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘she wanted him to intercede on behalf of her brother, who had been condemned to five years’ imprisonment for plotting against the government.’
‘Ah! This is interesting. Who was she?’
‘She had asked him not to divulge her name and, therefore, I did not press the matter.’
‘Did Sir George tell you anything else about her?’
‘No; except that he felt very sorry for her, and informed her that he could not interfere.’
‘You don’t know the brother’s name?’
She shook her head.
‘All I know,’ she informed him, ‘is that he was tried and sentenced to five years’ imprisonment.’
Sir Leonard rose to his feet.
‘It looks,’ he observed, ‘as though I shall have to reclassify my list. It should not be difficult to trace him and, once I know his name, I shall find the lady.’
‘Then you think she had something to do with my husband’s death?’ asked Lady Paterson.
‘It is quite likely,’ nodded Wallace, and left her.
He met the nurse on the stairs, and had a short conversation with her. She looked more beautiful than ever dressed, as she was, in a simple voile frock. Even a somewhat ugly necklace of amber beads failed to detract from her loveliness, and he regarded her with the approval of a fastidious male. The Turkish maid walked quietly by as they were chatting, and it seemed to Sir Leonard that she glanced at him rather furtively.
‘I do not like that girl,’ announced the nurse, when the maid was out of ear-shot. ‘I think she could tell quite a lot about the death of Sir George Paterson.’
Wallace nodded thoughtfully, and continued his descent of the stairs. In his sitting room he lit a pipe and, throwing himself into an armchair, gave himself up to thought. He remained as he was for
some time; then rose and perused, once again, his list of names. Apparently none of them interested him much, for he quickly put down the paper, and began to pace the room. Suddenly he seemed to reach a decision. Knocking out the ashes of his pipe, he placed it on a table, and leaving the room, made his way quietly up the stairs. He paused outside Lady Paterson’s apartments and, calculating where her bedroom was, walked to the door. He was about to bend down and look through the keyhole when he heard the sound of steps from within, and had only time to hide in a curtained alcove before the maid emerged from the room, and walked away along the corridor.
Directly she was out of sight he left his hiding place and, entering the bedroom, closed and locked the door behind him. There was another door communicating with the boudoir and, very quietly, he crept towards it and locked it without a sound. Then commenced a careful search. Having a pretty shrewd idea what it was he expected to find, Sir Leonard did not waste time in examining unlikely places. The result was that hardly ten minutes had passed before, climbing on a chair and exploring the top of a large hanging wardrobe; he found a small paper parcel. Lifting it down he opened it, drawing in his breath with a sharp hiss as his eyes took note of the contents. Rolling it up again, he pushed it under his jacket and, crossing to the boudoir door, silently unlocked it. A moment later he was gazing cautiously out into the corridor. There was nobody about, and he was able to return to his apartments without being seen. There he sat down to make a thorough examination of his find. A few minutes later he was talking on the telephone to the Chief of Police.
After tea Sir Leonard sat for a considerable time with Lady Paterson. She found his presence very comforting and, under the influence of his conversation, began to look much brighter. He was present at a pleasing little ceremony when she bade farewell to the nurse who had cared for her husband and herself so assiduously, and handed the girl a valuable present as a mark of her esteem. Sir Leonard opened the door of the boudoir for the beautiful Armenian to pass through, and she thanked him with a little smile. Then both of them received a surprise. Standing in the shadows of the corridor, and close to the door, was a tall, handsome Turk of early middle-age. He bowed to them.
Wallace of the Secret Service (Wallace of the Secret Service Series) Page 21
