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

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Oh!’ cried the girl. ‘It is Dr Hamid Bey.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I have come to pay my respects to Lady Paterson,’ he announced. ‘May I enter?’

  Wallace stood aside, and allowed him to pass.

  ‘I hope you succeed in finding the murderer, Monsieur,’ murmured the nurse.

  ‘I think I can safely say, Mademoiselle,’ Sir Leonard assured her, ‘that I am confident of doing so very shortly.’

  ‘I am so glad,’ she whispered. ‘It will be some satisfaction for m’lady that her husband has been avenged.’

  She nodded brightly and passed on. Wallace returned to Lady Paterson, who was engaged in quite animated conversation with Dr Hamid Bey. He was introduced to the Turk who, after a short while, took his leave. He had been gone about five minutes when there came the sound of a sudden commotion from the bedroom. At once Sir Leonard was on his feet.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed!’ he reassured Lady Paterson. ‘It is nothing.’

  Crossing the room quickly he passed into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. A dramatic sight met his eyes. The Chief of Police and two subordinates were dragging a struggling, white-faced woman from a chair, placed by the large wardrobe, on which she had been standing. It was the Armenian nurse.

  ‘I have kept my word you see, Mademoiselle,’ remarked Wallace quietly. ‘I have found the murderer. The parcel for which you were searching is below.’

  She suddenly became nerveless, and collapsed into her captors’ arms.

  ‘Take her down to my apartments,’ directed Sir Leonard.

  They half carried, half led her from the room. He rang the bell, and waited until the maid came in answer to his summons, when he told her to go to her mistress. Then he went below. The nurse, deathly pale, her eyes large with terror, was sitting in a chair, the policemen grouped round her. He walked up to her, and stood looking down at her for a few moments.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked at last.

  At first she found it difficult to speak, but presently the words came with a rush.

  ‘He was instrumental in causing the execution of my beloved Philon,’ she cried, ‘whose only crime was that he took a leading part in the intrigue to place the Sultan on the throne. I knew Lady Paterson was ill and, when Dr Hamid Bey sent to the hospital for a nurse, I succeeded in getting myself selected. It was easy then. Every morning it was the habit of Monsieur l’Ambassadeur to enter his study at eleven o’clock and partake of the stewed fruit placed there for him. One morning I crushed up some beads, and mixed them with the fruit. That is all.’

  She bowed her head, and for a few seconds there was silence; then Wallace looked at the Chief of Police.

  ‘This Philon,’ he observed, ‘was the third man to be executed, was he not?’

  The chief nodded.

  ‘Very little seems to have been known about him,’ went on the Englishman, ‘and although I included him in my classification, I had almost decided to rule him out as possessing no friend or friends who would desire to avenge him. Armenian, of course?’

  Again the policeman nodded. Suddenly the girl looked up, and her great eyes bored into those of Sir Leonard.

  ‘How did you know?’ she whispered.

  ‘Today, for the first time,’ he replied, ‘I saw you dressed in ordinary clothes, and you were wearing the necklace which you have on now.’ Instinctively she put her hand to her neck. ‘It was the first clue I have found in this case, Mademoiselle, and if you desired to save yourself from exposure, you made a great mistake in wearing it. I noticed that the beads were not real amber, but glass, and that the larger ones are unevenly matched, indicating that three or four were missing. From that slender clue, I worked on the supposition that you were the guilty person. I tried to put myself in your place, and imagine what you would have done. You knew that the whole house would be searched if the reason for Sir George’s illness was discovered, and that, if you endeavoured to get rid of the remains of the beads and the implement you used to crush them, they would very likely be discovered and traced to you. You, therefore, had to find a hiding place. At the time you were nursing Lady Paterson, and it occurred to you that no place could be safer than her bedroom, which it was most unlikely the police would search. As it happened, they did not, but I did an hour or so after noticing the beads round your neck today. On the top of the wardrobe was a parcel containing a small hammer, a little crushed glass, and half an imitation amber bead. There they are!’ He pointed to a side table a little behind her. She looked round and shuddered. ‘The rest is quickly told,’ he went on. ‘I knew you were leaving today, and it was fairly certain that you would take the parcel away with you. I telephoned to Hakim Pasha, and asked him to come and bring a couple of officers with him. I explained what I had discovered, and he and the two officers with him hid in Lady Paterson’s bedroom until you entered, and they caught you climbing on the chair to obtain the parcel.’

  ‘I do not care,’ she muttered, ‘I have avenged my Philon’s death. You can send me to him if you wish.’

  She took her handkerchief from a pocket of her neat coatee, and raised it to her face. But Sir Leonard’s quick eyes noticed something else and, though he clenched his hand and gritted his teeth, he made no effort to prevent her from swallowing the pellet she had inserted in her mouth. Better that way than the misery and degradation of a sordid trial, followed by a felon’s death. Suddenly she broke into hysterical laughter.

  ‘Yes I killed Monsieur l’Ambassadeur d’Angleterre,’ she cried, ‘and I am glad, do you hear me? Glad! But I have cheated you – I am going to Philon without your aid.’

  Her beautiful face became distorted with agony and with a groan she fell over sideways.

  A little later, when they had removed her body, Sir Leonard sank heavily into a chair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

  ‘What a hollow triumph!’ he muttered. ‘If only Paterson had not meddled in Turkish politics.’

  A very deep sigh broke from his lips.

  A few days later, when the new Ambassador had arrived, Wallace made his farewells to Lady Paterson, and left Constantinople. Once in the seclusion of his coupé, he drew forth his pocket-book and extracted the banknotes which contained so much information vital to Greece. He examined them with a quizzical smile on his face.

  ‘If I had taken you to Athens,’ he soliloquised, ‘I could have claimed a king’s ransom for you, been acclaimed a hero, the saviour of Greece – God knows what! On the other hand it might have been considered that I was too dangerous to live. The sooner I forget what is written here the better for Greece, in fact, the better for the world.’ He sighed. ‘One more secret to be relegated to the very depths of my mind.’ Batty entered the coupé and looked at him inquiringly. ‘Batty,’ he observed, ‘there’s one thing I’ve never been rich enough, or fool enough, to do in my life yet.’

  ‘Is that so, sir?’ returned the ex-sailor, wondering what on earth his master was talking about.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Fill me a pipe, and I’ll tell you.’

  Batty performed the office, and handed the well-seasoned briar to Sir Leonard, who twisted the banknotes together, and asked for a match. From the latter he lit his improvised spill.

  ‘I’ve heard of people lighting a pipe or cigarette with a banknote,’ remarked Sir Leonard, as he watched the flame grow larger, ‘but I’ve never done it myself until now, and I am using half a dozen at once. I may add that it is giving me more delight and satisfaction than I’ve felt for a very long time.’

  He lit his pipe carefully, and continued to hold the burning flimsies until he was in danger of burning his fingers. Batty watched fascinated, his eyes almost popping out of his head. As the charred remnants of what had once been good money burnt themselves out in an ash-tray, and were ground to dust by Sir Leonard, the mariner heaved a deep sigh.

  ‘Swab my decks!’ he exclaimed in a low voice, but with
intense feeling. ‘If that ain’t a sin, I don’t know wot is!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brien Averts a War

  The large touring car, grey with dust, tore through Ospedaletti and on along the sea-road towards Ventimiglia. It passed through the little straggling frontier town, up over the promontory, down the other side, and ascended the steep rocky road leading to the French Custom House. There it was detained for some time, while perfunctory search for contraband was made by the officials, and the passports of the two travellers examined. Then on again along the steep, winding, wind-swept road towards Mentone.

  ‘Well, we’re in France, thank the Lord,’ observed Major Brien, turning and regarding his companion, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ returned the other, whose carefully trimmed moustache and imperial gave him the appearance of a typical Frenchman. ‘We’re across the frontier. Now what?’

  ‘We’ll draw up and have a smoke, I think. I don’t seem to have had a pipe for hours.’

  He brought the car to a standstill by the side of the road, the two of them lit up.

  ‘It was a lucky thing you were at Genoa,’ commented Brien, ‘otherwise I don’t think I should have got out of Italy.’

  ‘What has actually happened?’

  ‘As you know I have been travelling round Europe for the last fortnight receiving reports, and generally tightening things up. I concluded my itinerary at Rome and was ending to wander home by way of the Riviera – in fact my wife is meeting me at Monte for a spot of sunshine – when I saw that fellow Gibaldi outside the Palazzo Venezia. The sight of him made me wonder. Sir Leonard told me he had been dismissed from the Italian Secret Service and, from information supplied by Gottfried, had succeeded in getting taken on by Berlin. Yet there he was as large as life in Rome, apparently without fear of arrest. I guessed at once that there must be some dirty work on foot, and followed him. He was met by one of the understrappers of the Foreign Office, which made the affair look more mysterious than ever. Obviously he was expected and, therefore, it seemed to me, must be in possession of something worthwhile to Italy.’

  He paused, and blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke, watching it curl away in wisps as the wind caught it.

  ‘They went into a café in the Piazza di Spagna and sat at a secluded table in a corner. I rang up Tempest, told him where I was, and asked him to join me. Luckily he was at the office, or things would have panned out altogether differently. Great gift that lip-reading game; I’ve often envied Maddison and Tempest. He arrived promptly, and together we sat where he had an uninterrupted view of their faces. By Jove! I was jolly glad I had followed Gibaldi. It turned out that he had obtained possession of certain documents from the Quai d’Orsay, and was bargaining with the Foreign Office official for their sale to Italy, one of the conditions being his reinstatement in the Secret Service. Of course it wasn’t our business, and we wouldn’t have interfered, only Tempest caught one phrase which made us sit up and start taking interest in right earnest. The under-secretary fellow said: “But, if what you say is true, it means war most certainly.” He arranged to take the Minister himself to meet Gibaldi that night in the spy’s hotel, a little place quite close to the Hôtel de Russie where I was staying. To cut a long story short, Tempest and I crept into the hotel unseen before the hour appointed, found our way to Gibaldi’s bedroom and, while I held him up, Tempest searched for and found the documents. Then we bound and gagged Gibaldi, and got away just as a closed car, which I presume contained the Minister and the under-secretary, drove up to the door of the hotel. Two hours later when I left Rome, the station was full of agents, no doubt looking for the men who had pinched the precious papers, and I caught a glimpse of Gibaldi. Thanks to the fact that I am not known, and look so innocent, nobody interfered with me; anyway I suppose they were searching for two men and Frenchmen at that.’

  ‘But isn’t it a wonder Gibaldi didn’t recognise you?’ asked the man with the imperial.

  ‘Why should he?’ returned Brien. ‘Tempest and I, in true melodramatic style, wore caps drawn down low over our eyes, and handkerchiefs tied round the lower parts of our faces which we only put on before entering the bedroom, and removed as soon as we were outside again. It was lucky for us that Gibaldi stayed in such a rotten little place. If he had chosen one of the big hotels it would have been a much more difficult job.’

  His companion laughed.

  ‘I had begun to fear,’ he remarked, ‘that Tempest’s usefulness as the Rome agent of Lalére et Cie had been badly impaired.’

  He laughed again, and Brien grunted indignantly.

  ‘What do you take us for, Lalére,’ he protested. ‘Do you think that either he or I would have been so dashed foolish as to meet Gibaldi face-to-face without a little bit of purdah. Fie on you!’

  ‘This is a new rôle for you, sir,’ chuckled Lalére.

  ‘You bet it is,’ returned Billy sucking at his pipe complacently, ‘and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Do you know, Gibaldi travelled up in the same train. I’m jolly glad I remembered you were in Genoa on that Marchesa affair. If I had remained in the train I shouldn’t have been able to cross the frontier without having to submit to an exhaustive search. There were two hawk-eyed johnnies scrutinising every person who descended from the train at Genoa. What would have happened at Ventimiglia, where Italian officials really get down to business and enjoy themselves, I shudder to think.’

  ‘Where are the documents?’

  Brien tapped his breast pocket.

  ‘The safest place I could imagine,’ he declared, ‘because it is so thoroughly obvious.’

  ‘Have you glanced at them yet, sir?’

  ‘No; except for the cursory glimpse Tempest and I took in Gibaldi’s bedroom to make sure we had the right ones. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a look at them now. We could hardly be in a safer spot.’

  He looked around him. Not a soul or a vehicle of any sort was in sight. In the distance could be seen Mentone; behind, the winding road that runs round the rugged coast towards the frontier; far below the deep blue of the Mediterranean sea washing the rocky shore. From his pocket he took a long, fat envelope, from which he extracted quite a dozen official-looking documents and, with his companion, perused them one by one. When the last had been returned to its cover, they turned and looked at each other, and a low whistle broke from Lalére’s lips.

  ‘I doubt if anything more compromising has ever been committed to paper in the world’s history than what is written here,’ he remarked. ‘To think that two French statesmen could pen such letters to each other is well-nigh inconceivable. I certainly wouldn’t have believed it possible, if I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes.’

  ‘They’re astounding,’ agreed Brien. ‘Of course neither of them is in the present government.’

  ‘It’s lucky for France they’re not,’ returned Lalére drily. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the responsibility rests on the shoulders of whatever government is in power, and all the diplomacy and tact in the world would fail to explain away letters like these. In the hands of Italy they would have been bound to have caused tremendous trouble. You certainly have averted a war, sir. What do you intend to do with the packet?’

  ‘Sir Leonard Wallace is in Monte, taking a short holiday with his wife. I’ll hand them to him, and let him decide.’ He knocked out the ashes in his pipe. ‘We’ll get on now, if you’re ready. By the way, will your man know what’s happened to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Lalére; ‘I left a note telling him to return to Paris at once. He’ll be awaiting me there.’

  ‘That means that when you drop me you’ll have to drive all the rest of the way yourself. I’m sorry we couldn’t wait until he returned, but—’

  ‘That’s all right, sir. I don’t mind driving; in fact I like it.’ And the clever agent of the British Secret Service, who cloaked his real profession behind his position as managing director of the great Parisian firm of Lalére et Cie, leant back
in his seat, and stretched himself comfortably as Major Brien let in the clutch, and drove onward towards Mentone.

  The sun was setting as the car ran into Monte Carlo to draw up at last before the Hermitage Hotel, where Brien knew his wife, Sir Leonard, and Lady Wallace would be staying. As soon as his companion’s baggage had been removed, Lalére shook hands, and drove on to the Gallia at Beausoleil, where friends of his had rooms.

  ‘I shall remain there until tomorrow morning,’ he remarked, ‘and, if I hear nothing from you by ten, will leave for Paris.’

  On inquiry Brien learnt that Sir Leonard Wallace, his wife, and Mrs Brien had gone to lunch with friends at the Reserve in Beaulieu, and had not yet returned. He, therefore, bathed and dressed leisurely in evening kit, afterwards sauntering to the wide terrace in front of the Casino where he sat down amid the palms, mimosa and geraniums and studied, with an interest he always felt in Monte, the cosmopolitan throng passing and repassing close by. He had hardly been there more than five minutes, when a medium-sized man with dark, saturnine face, a small black moustache, and little furtive eyes walked by in earnest conversation with two men not unlike himself. Brien sat up and stared, a soundless whistle pursing his lips. His eyes followed the three men until they were hidden from his view; then he rose to his feet staring thoughtfully down at the railway line below, the one blemish to what is probably the most picturesque scene in Europe. But he was not concerned with the picturesqueness of his surroundings just then. He was wondering why Gibaldi had left the train at Monte Carlo of all places.

  ‘It looks to me,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘as though something has come unstuck. I wonder if he suspects me, and walked by in order that his companions could have a good look at me. But then, how the devil could he possibly know I was coming to Monte Carlo when I left the train at Genoa?’