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

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Oh, ring off!’ cried the exasperated Commissioner.

  ‘Exactly what I am about to do.’ He replaced the receiver on its hook, smiling broadly as he did so. ‘The ammonia trick, indeed,’ he murmured. ‘He’s probably sorry he ever mentioned that now. And, if I’m not mistaken, there’ll be other sorry people at Scotland Yard very shortly.’

  He had still another telephone call to make, and that was to his own headquarters. He instructed Maddison to get a clear line through to Lalére et Cie in Paris, inform Lalére in code that Correa was crossing by air liner, and that he was to be met, but not interfered with, and followed wherever he went. In the event of his arrest by the police he was to be rescued, and under no consideration allowed to dispose of the plans. All communications were to be sent in code to Wallace in care of the agent in Madrid, who was to be informed that he would put up at the Palace Hotel there.

  Having made sure that his orders were understood, Wallace rang off, feeling easier in his mind than he had done since his interview with Inspector Lawrence in the morning. He knew now that, unless something extraordinary happened, Luis de Correa would be under the constant surveillance of Secret Service agents until he himself was able to get in touch with the man. The fact that the Spaniard’s suitcases were labelled for Madrid may have been a blind, but that did not matter very much. Whatever his ultimate destination was, he would not be lost sight of again. The most efficient service in the world was watching him.

  After writing a note to his wife, which he left in the butler’s care, Sir Leonard, his only luggage a small dress case, was driven to Stag Lane Aerodrome, arriving there shortly before four o’clock. Batty, his ex-sailor servant, who usually accompanied his master wherever he went, had been left behind, much to his disappointment, but there was only room for two in Wing Commander Kendal’s small aeroplane. The latter was awaiting his brother-in-law, his face lighting up when he saw him.

  ‘I began to think the trip was off,’ he remarked, as they shook hands. ‘I’ve been expecting a telephone call for ages.’

  ‘Why should I bother to telephone since I was coming?’ asked Wallace sapiently. ‘And between you and me, Cecil, I’m sick of telephones. There was no difficulty about the leave, I suppose?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! I took a fortnight.’

  ‘A fortnight? In Heaven’s name, why?’

  ‘Oh, I thought you might want the old bus a little longer than you stipulated. Are you ready?’

  ‘Quite,’ laughed Sir Leonard.

  Kendal led the way to the machine, Johnson following with his employer’s bag.

  ‘I say,’ suggested the airman. ‘How about staying in Paris tonight? We might have a look at the Folies, and do—’

  ‘This is not a pleasure trip, although we’ll tell the Spanish authorities that it is,’ interrupted Wallace firmly. ‘I want to reach Madrid as soon as possible. How far can you get tonight?’

  ‘I’ve worked the whole thing out, my lad,’ was the reply, ‘so don’t worry your head. We’ll have enough daylight to take us to Tours. Tomorrow, if we leave Tours at seven, we can be in Madrid in nice time for pre-lunch cocktails. How will that suit you?’

  ‘Admirably.’

  ‘Atta boy!’

  Kendal, who was still as irrepressible as he had been when he had won a reputation as one of Britain’s finest airmen during the War, handed a flying coat and goggles to his brother-in-law, adjusted his own, and climbed into the aeroplane which was the pride of his heart. The propeller whirled, and they were just about to take off when he turned to his companion and grinned boyishly.

  ‘Any pretty girls in Madrid?’ he shouted down the speaking tube.

  ‘Cecil,’ admonished Sir Leonard, ‘I’m ashamed of you. Think of Dolly!’

  ‘She’s OK, bless her,’ was the reply. ‘She always says she likes me to enjoy myself.’

  Experiencing perfect weather all the way, they arrived in Madrid earlier than anticipated and, leaving Kendal to answer inquiries respecting their trip, and make arrangements about housing the plane, Wallace was driven to the hotel in the Plaza de Canovas, where he booked rooms for himself and his brother-in-law. He found the British Secret Service agent awaiting him, and was handed half a dozen telegrams. These he carried to his room and decoded, after a short conversation with the man. One told him that de Correa had been met at Le Bourget aerodrome, where, muffled in an overcoat and leaning heavily on a stick, he managed to escape the attentions of the police. Satisfaction at this news was short-lived, however, for further revelations showed that the Spaniard had either changed his mind about travelling to Madrid, or had never intended to go there. He had driven to the Gare de Lyon, where he had booked through to Naples by way of the Riviera. Lalére himself, with an assistant, had taken tickets for the same destination, and had succeeded in obtaining a compartment in the same wagon-lit. The last telegram, despatched from Nice that morning, stated that de Correa had left the train there, and had met a friend living in a small hotel in the Boulevard Gambetta. Apparently the break in his journey had nothing to do with the disposal of the plans, for he had been carefully watched, and Lalére had ascertained that he intended continuing on his way to Naples that afternoon.

  Wallace decided that there was nothing for it but to wait, make certain that the Spaniard actually was en route for Naples, then fly to the Italian town. He was delighted now that Kendal had taken longer leave than had been suggested, and told that young man so when the latter arrived from the aerodrome, and unceremoniously entered the room, where Sir Leonard was dressing after a bath and shave.

  ‘I knew you’d want me,’ was the complacent reply. ‘How about those cocktails? Don’t let us have them here. Let us sally forth and find an American bar.’

  ‘How about a wash and brush-up first?’ retorted Sir Leonard.

  ‘M’m,’ nodded Kendal; ‘I could do with something of that sort. Be with you in a jiffy.’

  He emerged from his room ten minutes later looking fresh and cheery. At that moment he was remarkably like his sister, and Sir Leonard, who was very fond of him, declared that he had never noticed the resemblance quite so definitely before.

  They walked along the busy Carrera de San Jeronimo until they came to the Puerta del Sol, where, not far from the Ministerio de la Gobernación, Kendal declared they had found the ideal place. Considering he had never been to Madrid before, he showed remarkable instinct in ferreting out the type of saloon for which he was in search.

  Soon after four another telegram was brought to Wallace. It had been despatched from the station at Nice, and stated that de Correa was about to leave, that there was no doubt that it was his purpose to travel to Naples. Sir Leonard had a private conversation with his agent, instructed him to open all further telegrams, and wire any important news to the poste restante at Naples. He then informed Kendal of his intention to start at once for the Italian city, and they spent some time studying an up-to-date aviation map, which the airman had brought with him. That night they rested at Manresa in Catalonia, and left again at daybreak. Breakfasting at Marseilles, they flew along the Riviera, across the Gulf of Genoa to Leghorn, thence down the coast of Italy to Civitavecchia, where they descended for lunch. Naples was reached at three.

  There were two telegrams at the poste restante, but neither contained very important news, merely telling Wallace that information despatched from Pisa and Rome showed that de Correa had remained on the train. Sir Leonard had told his brother-in-law the story of Luis de Correa’s escape from England with the plans of the new naval gun in his possession, and the manner in which he was being trailed across Europe by the British Secret Service. As they emerged into the brilliant sunshine from the poste restante, the airman was looking puzzled.

  ‘You know the blighter is here now, I suppose,’ he remarked, ‘but how the devil are you going to find him? Naples is a pretty big place.’

  Wallace smiled.

  ‘We shan’t have to find him,’ he replied. ‘We’ll be taken to
him. One of the two men on his track will either be on the look-out for me here, or, if he’s gone on further, a message will be sent revealing his ultimate destination.’

  Almost before he had finished speaking, a dapper little man, looking every inch a Frenchman, from his laughing dark eyes and well-trimmed imperial, down to his shiny, pointed shoes, approached them quietly, and raised his hat with true Parisian politeness.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sir Leonard,’ he greeted the Chief of the Secret Service. ‘You have been wonderfully quick.’

  Wallace shook hands with him.

  ‘Yes; thanks to my brother-in-law here,’ he admitted. ‘You don’t know each other, do you?’

  Cecil Kendal was introduced to Anatole Lalére, one of Sir Leonard’s most famous agents, the man who so successfully ran the well-known firm of Lalére et Cie in Paris, and thus cloaked his other and more important profession. They walked on together.

  ‘Well, Lalére,’ observed Sir Leonard, ‘where is our friend Luis de Correa?’

  ‘In Capri,’ was the quiet answer.

  ‘In Capri!’ echoed the chief. ‘I wonder why he has gone there.’

  ‘It’s a very good place in which to hide, sir,’ remarked Lalére, ‘and I think that de Correa has come to the conclusion that it will be as well if he lies up for a bit. He had a very narrow escape at Le Bourget. I watched him alight from the air liner in a big coat the collar of which was turned well up, while his cap was pulled well down. He leant heavily on a stick like an invalid, but two gendarmes were closely scrutinising the passengers, and they stepped forward to examine his features, so I created a diversion and took their attention away.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Kendal, who had been listening with great interest.

  ‘I had taken a little dog with me,’ was the reply, ‘and, as soon as I saw that de Correa was likely to be found out, I let it loose, and sent the two gendarmes running after it. You see,’ he added with a smile, ‘I am rather well-known in Paris, and they were naturally anxious to be of use to me.’

  ‘Have you any idea why de Correa stopped temporarily at Nice?’ asked Wallace.

  ‘I rather think he and the man he met are some sort of partners,’ said Lalére, ‘and that he simply left the train to tell him that he was wanted by the police, and intended lying low. I engaged the room next to the one in which they met. There was a communicating door and, although we were unable to hear their conversation, Digby and I took turns at looking through the keyhole.’

  ‘You have Digby with you, have you?’ commented Sir Leonard. ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘One of the best,’ returned Lalére enthusiastically. ‘He’s gone across to Capri with de Correa. I had a wire from him an hour ago to say that the Spaniard was in the Villa Licata about half a mile above the town, and that he would await our arrival in an olive grove close by.’

  ‘Then all we have to do,’ smiled Wallace, ‘is to go across and interview Señor Luis.’

  ‘That’s all, sir.’

  Kendal was given the choice of accompanying them or awaiting their return in Naples, and decided to cross to Capri. It seemed to him there might be the chance of a little excitement on the island, and he had no intention of missing it, if he could help it. He was enchanted with the view as the little steamer crossed the famous bay. On the left towered the grey height of Vesuvius, its crater surmounted by a cloud rising above it like a plume. Ahead, seventeen miles away, could be seen the outline of the island for which they were bound. A short stop at beautiful Sorrento; then on again past Massa with its fascinating caverns and ancient watch-towers, across the channel separating Capri from the mainland, until they were under the lee of that island of enchantment.

  They were driven from the Grande Marina up to Capri’s picturesque Piazza in a carozze, thence, inquiring their way, they proceeded on foot between white-walled gardens, plantations of lemon trees, olive groves, and vineyards until they reached the Villa Licata. They found it a house charmingly situated amidst a number of tall cedars, surrounded by an exquisite garden, which was beautifully laid out with white pergolas and terraced walks, and commanding a wonderful view of the island and the Gulf of Salerno. A mass of red poppies and other spring blossoms caused the garden to be brilliant in rich colouring, and they stood fascinated for some moments, admiring the beauty of it all.

  ‘What a home!’ exclaimed Wallace. ‘But we haven’t come here on a sightseeing expedition. I wonder where Digby is?’

  Presently they caught sight of a man emerging from an olive grove close to the house. It was the Secret Service agent, a man who, in Paris, acted as foreign correspondent for the firm of Lalére et Cie. He greeted Sir Leonard respectfully, and lost no time in telling him that Luis de Correa was still in the Villa.

  ‘I have ascertained that it belongs to him, sir,’ he stated. ‘He lives here under his own name.’

  ‘Now we know why he came to Capri,’ commented Sir Leonard. ‘He must be a man of taste.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Kendal.

  ‘I shall walk up to the door like any ordinary visitor,’ replied Wallace, ‘and ask to see him. You three must guard the exits from the house and, if he attempts to get away, stop him. I don’t think he will somehow; he will probably consider his position fairly safe, and defy me. If I do not emerge at the end of half an hour, it will mean that I have been unable to persuade him to hand over the plans, and you must make your way into the house and help me to get them by force. Do you all possess revolvers?’

  ‘I don’t,’ replied Kendal, while the others nodded.

  ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter, Cecil. I don’t suppose they’ll be needed. If a rough and tumble of any sort occurs, you have a pretty useful pair of fists.’

  The airman grinned; then looked suddenly serious.

  ‘I say, you know,’ he observed, ‘be careful. Do you think it wise to go alone?’

  ‘I shall be all right,’ Wallace assured him. ‘Now spread out. I’ll give you a couple of minutes to post yourselves; then walk in. Digby has studied the lay of the land, and will know the best positions to take up.’

  The three consulted together, after which they moved away; Kendal and Lalére towards a lemon plantation, from which a view of the front of the house could be obtained; Digby to his previous station in the olive grove. Sir Leonard gave them ample time to get into place; then walked through the garden up to the front door. The melody of a waltz, played exquisitely on a piano, reached his ears, and he stood listening for a few seconds before pulling the old-fashioned bell rope. A dark-visaged servant came in answer to his ring.

  ‘I wish to see Signor de Correa,’ the Englishman told him in Italian.

  ‘What name shall I give, signor?’ asked the man, regarding him somewhat suspiciously.

  ‘He would not know my name. Merely inform him that a gentleman wishes to see him.’

  The fellow hesitated slightly; then, leaving the door open, went off on his errand. Wallace quietly followed, and entered a tastefully furnished salon behind him. A man was sitting at a grand piano and, at the sound of the servant’s voice, stopped playing and swung round. He immediately caught sight of his visitor, and stared at him in dumbfounded surprise. The servant turned and glared at Sir Leonard resentfully, as though he considered the latter had shown a great lack of politeness.

  ‘We meet once more, signor,’ greeted Wallace, bowing courteously, and still speaking in Italian. ‘Our last meeting, if you remember, was rather unfortunately interrupted.’

  Luis de Correa recovered from his astonishment with a great effort and, rising from the stool, carefully closed the top of the piano.

  ‘Am I to understand,’ he asked in English, ‘that you have come all the way from London to my little retreat here to – to continue the conversation you commenced in the Ritz Hotel?’

  ‘More or less,’ smiled Wallace, and looked significantly at the manservant, who still lingered.

  Luis de Correa took the hint.


  ‘Leave us, Guiseppe,’ he ordered. ‘Will you be seated, sir,’ he added politely, reverting to English.

  Sir Leonard accepted a chair, and the Spaniard sank into another.

  ‘This time,’ commenced the former briskly, ‘there will no beating about the bush. Señor de Correa, I have come for the plans, stolen from the British Admiralty, which you have in your possession. You have probably discovered already that a warrant is out for your arrest in England. It would be easy enough for me to give information to the authorities here, and cause you to be apprehended to await extradition. However, I have no intention of doing that, if you will return the documents to me.’

  The good-looking Spaniard smiled slightly. He had quite recovered from his surprise, and there was no trace of uneasiness noticeable in his face.

  ‘That is very good of you,’ he remarked, ‘but what if I do not admit that the plans, of which you speak, are in my possession?’

  ‘Such an attitude would be a useless waste of time,’ Wallace assured him. ‘I know you have them. They were handed to you by a man named Shaw in your room in the Metropole Hotel, London. You paid him a sum of money, and gave him a promissory note for £2,500, the balance of your agreement, to be paid on the twenty-fourth of May.’

  For a few moments de Correa sat quite still.

  ‘You seem to be well-informed,’ he murmured at last. ‘I will admit, therefore, that I had those plans. You cannot expect, though, that I still have them.’

  ‘I do,’ returned the other. ‘Since you descended from the air liner at Le Bourget you have been under constant surveillance, and it is known that you did not part with them.’

  ‘So. Now I understand how you discovered I was here. You are very clever, señor.’

  ‘It would have been perfectly easy to have taken the plans from you,’ went on Sir Leonard, ‘long before you arrived in Naples.’