‘They are exiles with a price on their heads,’ he declared, ‘and with no followers to speak of. Orders have been given to the troops that they are to be shot on sight, if they step on Greek soil.’ He admitted himself puzzled by the extraordinary reception they had been accorded by the people of Greek extraction in Nicosia, and the fact that they were accompanied by two such well-known and important Bulgarians as General Radoloff and Monsieur Doreff. ‘They must be mad if they contemplate causing trouble in Cyprus. What object could they possibly have in antagonising the British government? Personally, I feel certain that the welcome was merely an expression of sympathy for men who, after all, when in power, did do a certain amount of pretty good work for their country. They are not out for trouble, believe me. They probably wish for nothing more than to be allowed to live in peace.’
Wallace made no comment to this. He had different ideas, but he did not feel called upon to expound them.
CHAPTER FOUR
Painters’ Jackets
Major Brien and his assistants arrived at the beginning of Brook Street, Kennington, where they left the car in the charge of a police constable whom Foster found in the vicinity, and who, at sight of something shown to him by Maddison, became immediately very attentive and very much on the alert. Brien took a small attaché case from the Vauxhall, and walked along to Number Seventy-Two, the others following some yards behind. He rang the bell of the house, the door being opened to him by a dark-visaged youngster of about ten.
‘Is your father in?’ asked Brien.
‘No; he’s out,’ was the reply.
‘Then may I see Mrs Wright? She will do just as well.’ The boy turned away to call his mother, and the Deputy Chief of the Secret Service stepped into the little narrow hall. Almost at once Maddison and Foster entered after him; Willingdon remaining outside to keep watch. They had ascertained that there was no rear exit. A stout, dark woman with sallow skin and black piercing eyes emerged from the nether regions, and confronted them.
‘What is this?’ she demanded in a shrill voice. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am an official of the British government,’ Brien informed her. ‘I wish to interview two gentlemen who, I believe, are staying here. There is some question concerning their permits.’
She had clutched at the banisters of the narrow staircase as though for support; her face had gone pale. For a moment she was obviously very much disconcerted, but she recovered herself quickly.
‘Is it usual,’ she demanded loudly, ‘for officers of the British government to enter houses in a manner so impolite?’
‘I do not think we have been impolite, madam,’ returned Brien courteously. ‘Your small son opened the door, and we entered.’
‘My son should not have allowed you to come in. If it was not that he has been ill, he would have been at school with his brother and sister, and I would then have answered the bell. It would not have been so easy for men who may perhaps be thieves to enter. I would—’
‘We are not interested in what you would have done,’ interrupted Brien, who was becoming a trifle impatient. It seemed to him that she was striving to gain time, and perhaps, since she continued to speak in a loud voice, warn the men he was so anxious to meet. ‘You can look at our credentials, if you wish, and assure yourself that we are in fact officers of the government. But I am here to interview Messieurs Baltazzi and Padakis.’
Her manner changed abruptly.
‘I am sorry, but there must be a mistake,’ she told him. ‘There is no one of that name here. Only I and my children and my husband, who is out, live in this house.’ Brien signalled to Maddison, who promptly ran up the stairs followed closely by Foster. ‘What is this?’ she screamed. ‘Where are you going?’
‘They are going to search the house,’ she was informed. ‘We know Baltazzi and Padakis are here or, at least, are living here, and we mean to see them. I regret the necessity that forces us to take such a step, but you have compelled it by your attitude. No harm would have come to them or you, if you had behaved in a sensible manner.’
A stream of maledictions in the Greek language poured from her lips, and suddenly she threw herself on Brien, striking at him repeatedly with her clenched hands. He had much ado in avoiding her blows and, at length, loath as he was to grapple with a woman, he grasped her wrists, though that hardly rendered her impotent, for she kicked out at him, catching him painfully two or three times on the shins. To add to his troubles, the little boy, thinking his mother was being maltreated, went to her rescue, and added to the din with his high-pitched voice, while his small fists kept up a continual tattoo on Brien’s body. The latter grew tired of the business. He pushed the woman into a tiny little room, furnished most flamboyantly and probably known to the family as the parlour. There he forced her into a chair, whereupon she ceased screaming, and dissolved into tears. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead; an expression of embarrassment was on his face. The small boy continued bravely to fight on his mother’s behalf, but was presently lifted up, whereupon he kicked and struggled fiercely until he also was planted in a chair.
‘You leave my mummy alone,’ he cried. ‘She ain’t done nothing to you.’
‘I wouldn’t hurt your mummy for the world,’ Brien assured him solemnly.
‘What was you holding her for?’
‘I suppose through a natural objection to being buffeted about. She was a bit rough, you know.’
‘So was you; I saw you.’
‘That is a prevarication, my son.’
The eyes of the dark-skinned child opened wide.
‘What did you say?’ he asked in an awed voice.
‘Never mind.’
Brien turned his attention to Mrs Wright, who was sobbing and moaning in a lamentable fashion. A few seconds’ survey assured him that she was merely acting. There was no sign of tears, and once he caught her eyes glaring malevolently at him from between her fingers. She was simply trying to gain time, while her brain was probably busy thinking out a story to tell him. She obviously guessed that he and his companions were there on a more pressing and serious matter than a question concerning passports. A dangerous woman, he decided, and began to feel a little sorry for the man who had married her. A loud knocking could be heard going on upstairs. Brien concluded that Baltazzi and Padakis had locked themselves in, and were declining to open the door. An unwise proceeding on their part, for it proclaimed guilty consciences.
‘If you and those two men had only behaved with ordinary common sense,’ he observed to the moaning woman, ‘you would have found that everything would have been made easy for you. As it is, you are only heaping up trouble for yourselves.’
She suddenly removed her hands from her face; glared viciously at him.
‘Show me your warrant!’ she snapped.
He smiled.
‘I don’t need a warrant,’ he returned. ‘Whatever I or my men do is done on the responsibility of my department.’ He held a card in front of her. ‘Read it, and note the signature!’ he ordered.
She obeyed, and into her eyes dawned a look of great fear.
‘His Majesty’s Intelligence Department,’ she muttered. ‘That is the same as the British Secret Service, is it not? And he—’
‘You apparently have heard of the department and – of him,’ commented Brien drily. ‘Perhaps you will decide now that your attitude is absurd.’
Into the room hurried Foster.
‘Mr Maddison believes the two men are in a back room on the first floor, sir,’ he reported. ‘We heard the door lock as we went up the stairs, but they have not answered our demands to open. I have searched all the other rooms, sir, but they are empty.’
‘Give them a minute or so longer to decide,’ ordered Brien; ‘then break down the door. Wait a minute,’ he added, as the young man was about to leave the room again. ‘Go and bring Willingdon to me.’
‘What have we done,’ whispered the woman, ‘that you should come into our home like this?�
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‘You are making it appear as though you and the men upstairs have committed a very serious crime. I came here to ask certain questions. If you had behaved in a sensible manner, you would have answered them and not made all this fuss.’
‘I wish my husband was here,’ she snapped with a momentary return of her old spirit. ‘He would teach you to treat me in proper manner.’
‘I don’t think you can complain of my treatment of you,’ he retorted, ‘while on the other hand I might complain quite a lot of your behaviour. However, that doesn’t matter. Where is your husband?’
He thought he detected a look of relief on her face.
Apparently she began to feel that her fears that Wright had been discovered at his nefarious work were unfounded. ‘He is out,’ she replied.
‘That is obvious. Where is he?’
‘How should I know? He goes out every morning for a little time after his duty is over. He is night watchman at the Colonial Office. Perhaps you know that?’
‘Yes; I know that. Is he there now?’
She shot a look full of suspicion at him.
‘Why should he be there now?’ she snapped.
‘No reason at all, as he is a night watchman. I asked you if he is there now.’
‘No – that is, I do not suppose he is. There is nothing to take him there in the daytime.’
‘Not even a little microphone?’ he asked quietly.
A cry broke from her; her face turned almost ghastly white. She knew then that it would be useless to pretend innocence any longer. He knew beyond a shadow of doubt that she was involved in the affair as much as anyone. She was not merely a passive spectator; a woman with perhaps a natural desire to protect compatriots of hers from the consequences of acts which she vaguely knew were unlawful. She was in the game of espionage up to the hilt, and likely, he reflected, to be more defiant than any of the others. He judged her to be a woman utterly unscrupulous, greedy, acquisitive, and dangerous. He heard her teeth grinding together.
‘Then you know?’ she asked after some time.
‘Yes. Your husband was caught red-handed. I have come here to discover for what reason he was sent to listen to conversations taking place in the Secretary of State’s private room.’
She laughed harshly. The pallor had departed, leaving her expression challenging and hard.
‘You will be clever if you discover that,’ she declared. ‘My husband would have told you, if he had known, for he is a fool, and has no mind of his own, but no others will tell you. No,’ her voice rose to a shriek, ‘not if you threaten to kill us.’
Brien shrugged his shoulders. He turned to see Willingdon standing in the doorway.
‘Keep an eye on this woman while I go upstairs,’ he directed. ‘Watch her well. You’d better keep the little boy in here also for the present.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Willingdon stepped into the room, and planted himself in such a position that it would be impossible for either to make a sudden dash past him. Mrs Wright scowled at him. A glance at his stern young face assured her that he was not the kind of man with whom she could take liberties or from whom she could expect any consideration, if she tried any tricks. To Willingdon an order was an order; there were no elastic sides to it. He obeyed it as it stood.
Brien ran up the stairs, and joined Maddison and Foster outside the door of the back room. The former told him that he had warned the men inside that, if they did not unlock the door within three minutes, it would be broken open. He had received no reply; a minute had passed, and he had uttered another warning. Brien looked around him. There was not much room on that small landing in which to operate, but the door did not look a very strong affair. A few blows should break it in.
‘One minute remains,’ called out Maddison. ‘I will not speak again. You had better unlock the door to save yourselves and us trouble. It will go easier with you.’
There was again no reply. The seconds ticked away one by one as the small, grey-haired man conscientiously eyed his watch. Then, just as he was about to denote to Brien that the time was up, they heard a movement within.
‘The first man what break in,’ came in a threatening, foreign voice, ‘get himself shot. I am holding the gun ready.’
Brien whistled softly.
‘The fools!’ he muttered. ‘They seem jolly desperate. They’re asking for it, behaving in this stupid manner. You are very foolish,’ he added aloud. ‘If you come out quietly, no harm will come to you. You will be asked a few questions, and perhaps detained for a little while; that is all. If you use firearms, you will have to take the consequences, which will be very serious.’
A low laugh could be heard.
‘You will ask the questions, and keep us detain,’ growled the voice. ‘That is all, you say? We not beeg fools like you tink. We know we get shot, if we do come out ourselves. You tink we spies, and Engleesh shoot always men they tink spies.’
‘Rubbish!’ retorted Brien impatiently. ‘English people do not shoot spies, except sometimes when there is a war.’
Again his remarks were answered by a laugh.
‘You come and get us – if you can.’
‘They’ve asked for it,’ ground out the tall, fair-haired deputy chief. ‘Don’t kill them, if you can help it. As soon as the door is open,’ he added in a whisper, ‘drop to the floor behind me and shoot to disable them. Ready?’
Maddison and Foster nodded. In their hands they now held revolvers. Brien also had drawn his. Pushing the others back in order to give himself as much room as possible, he crashed the sole of his foot against the door close to the lock. The whole house resounded and seemed to shake. Again and again he repeated the performance until his leg became numb, but the door resisted the terrific impacts. It appeared to be a stouter affair than he had anticipated. Foster had a turn, but was also unsuccessful. Then he and Maddison tried together. At their third combined attempt, it gave way. They were thrown down by the force of their effort. Brien sprang over their prone bodies, and dived to his hands and knees expecting to hear the sharp crack of revolvers. There was not a sound; the room seemed to be empty. One glance at the bed drawn up to the wide open window, and a great cry of mortification escaped from him. At once he was on his feet; had darted across the room. A sheet, one end knotted to the bedrail, hung out of the window. Two men were clambering over a wall three or four gardens away. Several people were looking out of the back windows of houses opposite, watching their escape with great curiosity and interest.
‘Come on!’ roared Brien. ‘We’ll get them yet. You’re a hurdler, Foster; those walls will be for easy to you. Down the sheet and after them! You and I will go the other way, Maddison.’
He tore down the stairs followed by the older man. Foster went out of the window without bothering much about the sheet; landed in a heap on the ground below. At once he was up, and gracefully vaulted the wall separating the Wrights’ house from the next. Speeding across the narrow gardens, and continuing to vault the walls with ease, he rapidly gained on the fugitives. By that time quite a large number of people were watching the chase, and Foster could hear cries of excitement, but, as luck would have it, there was nobody in any of the gardens, who might have made an attempt to stop the escaping men. Foster had drawn quite close to them when they turned suddenly into a house. He sprang over the one remaining wall and, without hesitation, followed them through the doorway. The house was unoccupied and apparently in the process of redecoration. All the doors and windows on the ground floor were open, but there appeared to be no workmen about. Baltazzi and Padakis had seized a heaven-sent opportunity – it was the dinner hour. Foster hastened from one room to another, but failed to find trace of the fugitives. At last he reached the attic, approached it warily, his revolver ready for action. It was empty! Astonished, he turned, ran down the stairs, and darted out into Brook Street. Maddison and Brien were only a few yards away from him, but he saw no one resembling the two dagoes, as he had mentally dubbed
them. He ran and caught up his colleagues, gasping out a hasty explanation of what had happened.
‘Good God!’ ejaculated Brien. ‘Two men in painters’ white jackets came out of that house just before we passed – one was carrying a pot of paint too. Where did they go, Maddison? Did you notice?’
That keen-eyed individual shook his head rather dejectedly.
‘I was too busy looking for – Damn it!’ he exclaimed vehemently. ‘Fancy being done like that.’
‘It’s no use standing here,’ grunted Brien. ‘Let us look for them!’
It was hopeless, however, as from the start they knew it must be. They only had a vague idea of what the men were like, and it was certain they would quickly discard the white jackets and pot of paint they had so astutely purloined to help them in their escape. Brien, Maddison, and Foster each went in separate directions, but enquiries elicited no information, and eventually they were compelled to give up the search, and return to the house where Willingdon awaited them.
‘Lord!’ groaned Brien. ‘What mugs they have made us look!’
‘Damned clever to walk out under your noses like that, don’t you think, sir?’ asked the tactless Foster. ‘The joke was that neither you nor they knew what each other looked like.’
Microbes of Power (Wallace of the Secret Service Series) Page 5
