Wallace Intervenes

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Quite correct, Mr Inspector or Superintendent, or whatever you are, but don’t you think we can dispense with all that formality? Everything possible must be known in Berlin about me by now. You have come for my statement, of course. Well, suppose you get out your notebook and pencil, and I’ll tell you all I know.’

  The three men looked significantly at each other. The leader cleared his throat importantly.

  ‘I see that it is necessary to introduce mineself and these gentlemen to you, Herr Foster. I am not superintendant or inspector, as your poor mind leads you to think. I Doctor Keller am; these gentlemen Doctor Hagenow and Doctor Spraght are.’

  Foster stared unbelievingly at them, then he sat back in his chair, and laughed heartily.

  ‘This is the first time,’ he chuckled, ‘that I have heard of doctors being sent to investigate a criminal case.’ Again came that significant look between the three men. Foster stopped laughing, and frowned. ‘Perhaps,’ he begged, ‘you will be good enough to tell me what it all means.’

  Dr Keller addressed his colleagues in English.

  ‘You note, mine friends,’ he remarked, ‘the moods how quickly they change. There is first impatience, afterwards laughter, that is not controlled mit itself; then comes again the change. He frowns; a question he asks mit abruptness.’

  Foster attempted to speak, but Dr Keller held up a pudgy hand.

  ‘One minute,’ he begged; ‘afterwards, all you wish you can talk. There have not to us yet been signs of violence,’ he resumed to the other two, ‘but the evidence that before us has been given by the porters and the guests and the man Schmidt himself cannot be ignored. The possibility of violence at any time must be considered – no doubt in him a tendency there must be. If agreed mit that we are, under restraint he must be put. Mine colleagues and I will to a home for mental rest send you. Every care and attention you will have, and perhaps someday quite well again you will be.’

  As full realisation of the vile plot being hatched against him dawned on Foster, he felt sick with horror. These men had come to certify him insane, and have him confined in a mental asylum, perhaps for ever. Of course, the Supreme Marshal was the instigator. Though proofs of Foster’s harmlessness must have been put before him, he still insisted on regarding him with suspicion. Probably information had reached him of the happenings of the night. The fact that Foster had been writing at such a late hour had appeared to him significant, and he had decided to make certain that neither the Englishman nor the letter he had written would ever leave the country to spread any secret information they might possess. The Secret Service man threw a glance at the writing table. The letter for his sister still lay there. She would never receive it now. Thank God, the other, the vital document, was safe! Had Sir Leonard Wallace anticipated something like this happening when he had asked for it? Remembrance of the chief sent a sudden wave of hope through him; then again his spirits fell. What could even Sir Leonard do to save him from the living death of a mental home? If he had been an ordinary traveller the British embassy could have been informed. English doctors to examine him could have been insisted upon, his removal to England demanded. But he was a member of the British Secret Service, for whom no steps could be taken when in difficulties on foreign soil.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Baroness Speaks Her Mind

  When the doctors had gone Foster sat in his chair for a long time, hardly moving, his mind working quickly, desperately. It was imperative that he must communicate somehow with one or other of his colleagues, but how? Once he was taken away, he would never have the chance, and the possibilities were all against their ever discovering where he had gone, or what had happened to him. His greatest anxiety was concerned with asking them to keep watch on Sophie. He had a horrible feeling that something unpleasant had happened, or was about to happen to her. A man who would not hesitate to have a foreigner certified insane, who to all intents and purposes was innocent of any word or act detrimental to the state, would certainly not scruple to safeguard himself by removing a woman who possessed his secrets, and was suspected of being in love with that foreigner. Once or twice he looked at the telephone, only to reflect that it was probably disconnected. At all events it was certain that any call he attempted to make would be ignored. Eventually he rose and, in order to test his supposition, took up the receiver. He had not been wrong; the line was blank. He then walked to the door, but the massive custodian barred his way, making it very evident that they had no intention of allowing him out. He argued with them vehemently. He would have obtained as much satisfaction in addressing the door or the wall. They merely regarded him with sheepish grins. Presently he wandered on to the balcony, and contemplated the garden below. It looked infinitely alluring; cool in shadow, bright in the brilliant sunshine. Some of the hotel guests sat there in the shade, lounging in long chairs with books or papers on their knees, or chatting idly to each other. Foster wondered what they would think or do, if they saw a man climbing to the ground from his room. Useless to try, of course. His guardians would tackle him before he could clamber over the balcony railing, besides – yes, there was a man on watch. He recognised Johann Schmidt with a grimace of disgust. Would he never see the last of the fellow! It was rather surprising that his services had not been dispensed with. His masters were of the kind that would not tolerate blunders. Schmidt had certainly blundered the previous night in allowing himself to be caught. Possibly he had been permitted to continue his duties in order that credence should be given to the tale that had been concocted. No doubt by that time the lie had been spread among the guests, at least among those who had heard the noise and had invaded Foster’s room, that there had been no attempted burglary, but that the Englishman was insane, and had attacked the poor innocent fellow who was looking after him! Foster wondered whether Sir Leonard had heard the story. If so, he would have immediately put two and two together and comprehended the whole plot. Hope rose again in the young man’s breast. He wished ardently that he could have given the signal that he was in difficulties. At least, he could have made certain then that Sir Leonard would investigate. Bernard’s custodians would naturally enough become suspicious if he tapped on the wall, apart from which the chances were that Sir Leonard would not be in his room. Almost as that thought struck him, he observed the very man he most wished to see sprawling comfortably on a chair on the next balcony, only a few yards from him. Sight of the chief did him good, while the encouraging smile he received – even though it could hardly be described as Sir Leonard’s own smile – raised his spirits immeasurably. He became aware that Wallace was tapping his pipe monotonously on the floor, and it was borne to his mind that his attention was being called in Morse. Quickly he ascertained that he was correct. He knocked his own pipe on the railing, denoting that he was listening, then rapidly the following message was rapped out to him:

  Know what has happened. Do not worry. Go wherever they take you without resistance. We will not be far away.

  Foster was naturally relieved, but his thoughts were still centred on Sophie. He signified that he understood, after which he conveyed to Sir Leonard his anxiety regarding the girl. Back came the reply:

  Cousins on the job. Has been watching at her house since early morning.

  That indeed was excellent news. A feeling of tremendous relief surged through the young Secret Service agent, as well as an immense sense of gratitude to Sir Leonard and Cousins. What a wonderful pair they were, he reflected. They were ubiquitous; always managed to be in the right place at the right moment.

  After lunch he returned to his seat on the balcony, carrying a book with him. He noticed that his custodians took turns in going off for a meal. They had apparently decided that they need expect no trouble from him, or had become convinced that one alone would be quite able to overcome him if he suddenly became obstreperous. A clock somewhere was just striking three, when he heard a commotion going on outside his room. He started to his feet as the door was flung open, the attendant th
en on duty making an attempt to clutch it, but failing. Foster gave vent to a great cry. Standing on the threshold, her little fists clenched, her eyes flashing angrily, was Sophie. Behind her were the manager, his assistant, and two or three other members of the hotel staff, all looking thoroughly startled and ill at ease. She glared at the man on guard.

  ‘Go out!’ she ordered. He began to protest. ‘Go out!’ she repeated, stamping her foot. ‘Stay outside, if you wish, but go out!’

  He went without another word, and she slammed the door after him. Immediately she turned to face Foster, and now all the anger was gone, her eyes had become definitely soft and gentle.

  ‘My Bernard,’ she cried, ‘what is this I hear? What are they trying to do to you?’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, dearest,’ he groaned, hurrying to her and taking her hands in his, ‘you should not have come. God knows what may happen to you, when it is known. Why did you come?’

  ‘Do you think I would allow them to do this terrible thing to my man without protest or expostulation?’ she demanded. ‘If you think that, you do not know me yet, Bernard.’

  ‘Am I really your man, Sophie?’ he asked very softly.

  She smiled gloriously; then all in a moment was in his arms, their lips meeting, for the first time, in a kiss that was delicious rapture to both. He held her closely, almost convulsively, to him as though he feared they would come and attempt to drag her away. For several minutes they remained thus, neither uttering a word, their hearts being too full for speech. He fondled her lovely, glossy hair, buried his face in it, his own soul concentrated on the joy of that moment. Whatever happened afterwards, nothing, nobody, they each felt, could ever rob them of an infinitely precious memory. At length she stirred in his embrace.

  ‘Oh, Bernard,’ she whispered. ‘I thought I was a woman so strong, who had dedicated herself to one object, and see what love has done to me! It has made me weak and a coward. I am so fearful for you; I am so frightened lest anything happen to me and I should thus be deprived of the happiness you have brought to me.’

  He placed her gently in a chair; sat down opposite and very close to her.

  ‘I am afraid that, by coming here,’ he remarked, his voice expressing the anxiety he felt, ‘you have placed yourself in a very dangerous position. How did you know about – about my predicament?’

  ‘The Marshal of State himself, told me,’ she replied. ‘He came to me gloating – oh! It was terrible – just as I had finished luncheon. “You will no longer be troubled by that foolish Englishman,” he said. “Last night he did something which made it necessary for doctors to examine him. Without doubt they were satisfied he is insane. He is to be moved to a private asylum, where great care will be taken of him.” Can you imagine how I felt, when he told me that, Bernard? I knew of course, that it was a wicked plot, and the thought came to me that perhaps you would think I had betrayed the confidence you had reposed in me.’

  ‘Good Lord, no! Such a thought never even occurred to me.’

  ‘I am glad. It was very much difficult for me to control myself – the shock to me was so great. I asked him what it was you did last night but he only laughed. He would not say. What was it, Bernard?’ He told her what had happened. ‘So! I see,’ she nodded. ‘In spite of everything, they still have suspicions. That letter alarmed them. That you should take the trouble to write at an hour so late has caused them much concern. What has happened to it? The letter I mean?’

  He nodded in the direction of the writing table.

  ‘A letter to my sister is still lying there,’ he observed. ‘It was there last night, and it still remains unposted, as you see. I asked one of the fellows guarding me to take it to the post, but he refused. Nobody shows any concern in it.’

  She smiled slightly.

  ‘It is quite innocent?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You may be quite sure that it will be examined. Everything you possess will be searched. It is inevitable.’

  He told her of his meeting with Schönewald and the two women, and of the clever cross-examination to which he had been subjected by Marlene Heckler.

  ‘An expert, that woman!’ he declared. ‘She made her questions sound so thoroughly innocent, yet setting traps for me. Luckily I was on my guard!’

  Sophie gasped.

  ‘Marlene Heckler is one of the cleverest members of the Espionage Service,’ she confided in a low voice. ‘One of her principal duties is to know members of the secret departments of other countries. How, she does it, I do not know, but somehow she becomes acquainted with them. I once visited her flat. In it there is an album full of photographs of men who do espionage work for their countries. Among them were portraits of Sir Leonard Wallace, Major Brien, and others of your famous Secret Service.’

  ‘Mine could hardly have been there,’ he whispered. ‘My connections have been kept very quiet always. I am quite convinced, from what I heard her say to Schönewald in German, that neither she nor he suspected me of being anything but a brainless fool with more money than sense.’

  ‘That may have been said for your benefit in case you did understand German. You cannot be sure what is in the brain of a woman like Marlene.’

  Foster looked a trifle uncomfortable.

  ‘You make her appear a very formidable person, Sophie,’ he grunted.

  ‘She is very much formidable.’

  ‘Does von Strom know you are here?’

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘If he does not, very soon he will. My house, I know, is full of spies. I came to you as soon as he had departed, and I did not make a secret of my intentions.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, Sophie!’ he gasped. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘I could not help it,’ she returned; ‘I had to. You mean so much to me, Bernard,’ she bent forward, and clasped his hands, ‘so very much. I cannot let them treat you in a manner so wicked, besides I had to make sure that you did not suspect me of betraying you.’

  ‘I would never have done that,’ he assured her earnestly.

  ‘From here,’ she went on, ‘I will go straight to the Marshal. I will tell him I have been to see you, and that it is absurd and wicked to say you are insane.’

  ‘Please, dear,’ he pleaded, ‘don’t do that. Keep out of this business, if you possibly can; though I fear that this visit will have very grave consequences. You need not fear me. They can shut me up in any asylum if they like, but, I assure you, it will not be for long.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she demanded. ‘Once you are there, they will never permit you to go free again.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I repeat, I shall not be there long. Von Strom and all his satellites will fail to retain me, once a certain individual decides it is time I was free.’

  ‘You seem very confident.’

  ‘I am. There is another thing, which it may relieve your mind to know, you are being watched for fear any steps of an inimical nature should be taken against you. Once anything of that kind happens or, is thought, is about to happen the British Secret Service will not rest until you are safe.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ she asked, her eyes shining.

  ‘Positive. Now go back to your home, Sophie, and do your best to remove the bad impression this visit will have created in the mind of von Strom. Tell him you have been to see me to assure yourself of my condition and, if you think it will help, agree that I certainly do not appear quite normal. Say anything to make him believe that any suspicion of you would be absurd. Please! I ask you to do this for your own sake. The thought of what that man might do, if he decides finally that you are dangerous to him, makes my blood feel like water.’

  ‘Why should I fear him now I know that the wonderful English Secret Service is watching over me.’

  ‘The Secret Service is not infallible, dear, and you must remember we are in Germany where the Supreme Marshal’s word is law. He does not need warrants to help him do things. You could be whisked away to a prison or fortress w
ithout the slightest warning. Even then it is possible your escape might be arranged, but supposing that you could not be traced. I beg of you, Sophie, do as I say. Don’t worry about me. I shall be perfectly all right.’

  ‘You are quite certain of that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Then my mind is greatly relieved, my Bernard.’ She rose. ‘I will go now and, if it will be of any comfort to you, then I will promise to do my best to allay any suspicions my visit to you has perhaps caused.’

  She held out her hands to him, and again he took her into his arms, kissing her hair, her eyes, lingering with a sense of wonderful ecstasy on the lips surrendered so frankly and eagerly to his. They were so entirely lost to thought of all but themselves and the rapture at that moment that they did not hear the door open. Von Strom himself, accompanied by the Minister of Propaganda and Colonel Schönewald stood on the threshold. At sight of the two wrapped in an embrace that was eloquent of their love, he frowned angrily, his teeth viciously biting his nether lip.

  ‘So!’ he snarled. ‘The Baroness von Reudath is so lost to all sense of decency and honour that she rushes to a man who is known to be insane, and shuts herself up in his bedroom with him.’

  Sophie and Bernard turned with startled faces to confront him, but she still clasped her lover’s arm. The hot blood flushed her countenance a deep crimson at his remark; her eyes flashed with angry indignation. Foster never quite knew how he refrained from giving himself away at that moment. A heated reply rushed to his lips to be stifled barely in time. He came very close just then to betraying his knowledge of German. However, he succeeded in looking merely embarrassed.

  ‘You lied to me,’ von Strom snapped at Sophie, his harsh voice sounding more unpleasant than usual. ‘You told me you did not love him; that he only amused you.’

  ‘I did not lie to you,’ she flashed back, her head raised defiantly. ‘I did not tell you I did not love him. It is true that I also did not say that I do, for why should I? I am the mistress of my own heart. What right have you to say whom I shall or shall not love? I have been a good friend to you, sir, but I have never given you the right to order my life for me. Since you have intruded in this unwarrantable manner, you may as well know the truth. I do love Herr Foster with all the power of love I have in me and I am going to marry him.’