Microbes of Power (Wallace of the Secret Service Series)

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Your ideas and mine, Foster,’ returned Major Brien coldly, ‘do not coincide upon the point of what constitutes a joke.’ Foster looked suitably subdued. ‘I am going to return to headquarters, and tell Sir Leonard what has happened,’ went on the deputy to Maddison. ‘Take charge here until I return. You had better search the house and particularly the room from where those fellows escaped. They may have left something of interest behind them.’

  He quickly traversed the short distance to Whitehall, and went straight to Sir Leonard’s office. The latter gathered at once from his expression that all was not well.

  ‘Hullo, Bill!’ he exclaimed quietly. ‘Has something come unstuck?’

  ‘I should jolly well think it has,’ was the disgruntled reply. ‘I could kick myself.’

  He related the events that had taken place in Brook Street, culminating in the clever escape of Baltazzi and Padakis from the empty house.

  ‘Cute of them,’ was Sir Leonard’s comment at the conclusion of the recital. ‘It’s extraordinary,’ he went on, ‘how often the unexpected element looms up in our game, and spoils things. The presence of that empty house and the fact that it was being redecorated is one of those cursed chances that no one can anticipate. It was a marvellous bit of luck for Padakis and Baltazzi, but I admire their enterprise in grasping the opportunity.’

  ‘Well,’ grunted Brien, ‘aren’t you aching to kick me?’

  ‘Kick you? Good Lord, no! Why should I want to do that?’

  ‘Because I’ve made such a mess of the business.’

  ‘You haven’t made a mess of it. There’s no reason at all why you should blame yourself. If anybody is to blame, it is I.’

  ‘You!’ ejaculated Brien. ‘Why?’

  ‘I should have obtained a full description of Baltazzi and Padakis for you to work on. If you had had it, I don’t think you would have allowed them to walk away like that.’

  ‘I daresay we should, at least I should.’ Brien was not disposed to spare himself. ‘Those white jackets and the pot of paint did me completely. I don’t think I even glanced at the faces of the men wearing them.’

  ‘Oh, well, it can’t be helped. We’ll get a description and circulate it, but I doubt if we’ll get them. The pity of it is that they’ll warn Plasiras and Bikelas, and show that we are, after all, taking a very active interest in their affairs. I’ll come along with you, and have a chat with the lady.’

  They returned together to Brook Street in Brien’s Vauxhall. The average Londoner has an amazing flair for scenting out anything of a sensational nature. An apparently empty street will fill like magic, if an accident or a quarrel or some equally exciting event is staged in it. Brook Street had quickly discovered that something out of the ordinary was taking place in Number Seventy-Two. Of course, a good many people had viewed the exciting chase over the walls and through the back gardens. Others had not been deaf to the screams of Mrs Wright, which had been heard outside the house. A neighbour had expressed the opinion that nothing more dreadful could have been heard since the days ‘when they tortured people with racks and boots and things. ’Orrible days they must ’ave been. I know what pain boots and shoes can give. Only a little while ago my Emmy ’ad a pair of shoes a size too small, and the torture the poor lamb suffered afore I found out must ’ave been ’scruciating.’ At all events, Brook Street turned out en masse to ascertain, as the dwellers there put it, ‘wot was doin’ at Seventy-Two.’

  Sir Leonard and Brien arrived to find the road completely blocked. A succession of raucous blasts on the horn failed to clear the way through the solid mass of humanity, and they were compelled to leave the car where it was, and force their way through the throng. At first they met with resistance, indignant cries of ‘Who’re yew a shovin’ of?’ and, in some cases, a decided show of hostility. As soon, however, as it dawned on the people barring their way that they were connected in some manner with the events that had caused the crowd to collect, it was amazing how quickly and easily a passage was made for them. There were no policemen to be seen anywhere and, as soon as Sir Leonard entered the house, he sent Foster to find a couple in order to move on the assembled curiosity-mongers. He then entered the front room. Mrs Wright was still sitting where Brien had placed her, her vicious face full of sullen anger; the little boy looked extremely frightened, and was crouching in his chair as though terrified to move. Willingdon stood at the door, his good-looking, serious face utterly expressionless. Sir Leonard cast a quick glance round the room, his eyes lingering for a moment on the woman. In that short space of time he summed her up completely; knew that it would be impossible to extract information from her. He found the big, terrified eyes of the child fixed appealingly on him, and smiled reassuringly. That smile should certainly be recorded on the credit side of Sir Leonard’s account in the Judgment Book. The small boy, like most children of his age brought up in his surroundings, had read sensational yarns in the cheap magazines for boys of which there are so many; he had heard his mother and father discussing sordid crimes about which they had read in the papers. It was little wonder that the arrival of four strange men in the house, the noise upstairs, and his mother’s conduct had frightened him badly. Until the arrival of Sir Leonard he was convinced that the house was in the possession of bandits. The friendly, altogether attractive smile bestowed on him by the Chief of the Secret Service had gone a long way towards dispelling his terror. Instinctively he knew that here was one in supreme authority and one who would do him no harm. Thereafter his fear turned to curiosity, and he listened to every word, watched every movement with great attention, which as it turned out was perhaps fortunate for Sir Leonard.

  Maddison reported that he had discovered nothing in the house of very much interest. Baltazzi and Padakis had, of course, left their belongings behind, but they consisted of two suitcases containing clothing and little else. Wallace was told the story of the locked room again; asked various questions. At first he had been puzzled by the fact that the two men had not made their escape earlier; he had wondered why they had remained in the room after locking the door until Brien and his companions had commenced to batter in the obstruction. Maddison’s report that he had found nothing important supplied him with the reason for their delay. Obviously, he thought, the suitcases had contained something which they did not wish to fall into the hands of the authorities. They had been engaged in removing whatever it might have been and destroying it or pocketing it. He sent Brien to the Colonial Office to see Wright and obtain from him a description of the fugitives, afterwards to go to Scotland Yard and put the police on track. He knew very well that the woman would not supply him with an authentic sketch of Baltazzi and Padakis. As soon as his deputy had left the house, he ascended the stairs and himself inspected the room with the battered door. There was no sign of any burnt paper or any other indication that documents had been destroyed. He had not expected to find anything, for Maddison was the most expert searcher in the Secret Service. It was not likely that he would have overlooked anything. However, Sir Leonard was human enough to feel more satisfied when he had thus assured himself.

  He returned to the little sitting room, and turned his attention to the Greek woman. She regarded him with an intense, virulent gaze which rather amused him. At first she refused point-blank to speak to him at all, shaking her head obstinately to everything he said. Then suddenly she let forth a flood of invective which he strove to stop, if only for the sake of the child. It must be said to her credit that, when he reminded her of the presence of the little boy, she promptly ceased. Patiently, and with that firm, inexorable power of interrogation which seldom failed to bear satisfactory results, he questioned her, but she proved adamantine. She quailed certainly under the piercing, steely regard of his grey eyes, but resisted the inquisition in a manner that evoked a certain amount of admiration from Maddison, who had seen strong men wilt under a relentless cross-examination conducted by his chief. Occasionally she answered questions which appeared to have no particu
lar significance, the replies to which she felt could not endanger the people for whom she had been working; once he adroitly steered her into a verbal cul-de-sac, but she realised her danger just in time, thereafter maintaining a sullen, obstinate silence. At length he gave it up.

  ‘I will speak to you again,’ he warned her. ‘Perhaps in the meantime you will consider the position. It may pay you better to reflect that a lot of time and inconvenience to yourself will be saved, if you decide to answer.’

  At that moment Foster entered the room to announce that three boys and a girl, the other children of the house, had returned from school. Wallace walked out into the passage and, smiling cheerfully at the four frightened faces, bade the little ones – the eldest was not more than thirteen – go into the kitchen, assuring them that their mother would soon be with them. They went obediently, accompanied by Foster. Sir Leonard returned to the sitting room.

  ‘I will not detain you any longer,’ he remarked to Mrs Wright, ‘but I will return. In the meantime you may as well know that this house will be watched. I am warning you lest you think you can communicate with your friends and employers without the fact being known to us.’

  He turned away to speak to Maddison. It was then that the fury she had been endeavouring to suppress overcame her. On the table by her side lay a long, thin paper knife fashioned like a stiletto. Snatching it up, she sprang to her feet and threw herself forward with a cry, her intention being to plunge the keen blade into the unprotected back of the Englishman. Her little son, however, who had been watching everything so intently, acted with surprising promptitude.

  ‘Mummy!’ he screamed and, springing forward, caught her wrist.

  In a moment the woman, now violently hysterical, was disarmed, and thrust back into her chair. She gathered her small son into her arms, as though grateful to him for having prevented her from committing the crime she had contemplated. Sir Leonard stood watching them for a few moments.

  ‘Madam,’ he observed quietly, ‘I hope you will always be grateful to the little chap. He has saved you possibly from the gallows.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ she sobbed. ‘I – I went mad.’

  ‘I have nothing more to say except: treat this son of yours well – he deserves it.’

  He beckoned to his companions, and left the house, instructing Foster to keep watch on it until he was relieved by a man of the Special Branch. On the way back to headquarters he was very thoughtful. He did not think the woman would revenge herself on her son; she seemed genuinely grateful to him for his promptitude in preventing her from committing a mad act. Nevertheless, Sir Leonard resolved to keep an eye on the little boy. Little though the youngster realised it then, he had made a very warm and useful friend.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Agent Number Thirty-Three

  Captain Hugh Shannon had a very fine and speedy journey to Athens, but, after that, due to bad weather and other causes, he was delayed. The result was that he did not arrive in Famagusta until Friday morning, nearly four days after he had left London. It can be imagined that he was not in the best of moods when he arrived at the seaport. He certainly spent no time in gazing at the scenery, but took the first available train on the narrow gauge railway for Nicosia, the capital. There he booked a room, and deposited his bags, at the Palace Hotel, had a much-needed wash and brush-up, and went at once to call on the governor. Sir Gordon Stevenson received him in his private study, shook hands cordially, and invited him to be seated.

  ‘I am afraid, Captain Shannon,’ he announced at once, ‘that you have had your journey for nothing. I do not, of course, know exactly why you have come to Nicosia, though I have been given confidentially to understand that it was in connection with the visit to this island of Messieurs Plasiras and Bikelas. If it was your intention to interview those gentlemen, that is now out of the question. They departed rather suddenly on Wednesday morning.’

  ‘Departed!’ repeated Shannon in a dismayed tone. ‘Where have they gone, sir?’

  ‘I am unfortunately unable to tell you. As far as I know, they originally had no intention of leaving so soon. In fact, from enquiries I have made, I think their decision must have been taken almost on the spur of the moment. At all events, they embarked on the Messageries Maritimes steamer which called at Famagusta from Beirut on Wednesday. I reported the fact, of course, to London as I had been in communication with the Colonial Office concerning them. A cable arrived for you yesterday which possibly is consequent upon my report.’ He unlocked a drawer of his desk and, taking out a sealed envelope, handed it to his visitor. ‘That may tell you something,’ he remarked.

  Shannon opened it quickly, extracting the message within. It was in code, but a code he knew off by heart. ‘Excuse me a moment, sir,’ he begged.

  Sir Gordon nodded; sat watching while the young man rapidly scribbled a series of letters and figures under those written on the form. At length the Secret Service man had deciphered the communication.

  Spare no pains to trace them. If you require assistance, cable. Communicate immediately you have news.

  ‘This was obviously sent as a result of your information to the Colonial Office, sir,’ declared Shannon, ‘but they do not know the whereabouts of Plasiras and Bikelas. On the contrary, I am instructed by Sir Leonard Wallace to trace them.’ He read the decoded message aloud.

  ‘Why are your people so anxious to find them?’ queried the governor. ‘Now that they have departed from British soil, I should think interest in them would naturally cease, at least until they land on territory under the Union Jack again.’

  ‘Sir Leonard Wallace believes that a conspiracy is afoot. Until he finds out that it does not concern Great Britain or is non-existent, he will not lose interest in Plasiras and Bikelas.’

  ‘It seems to me that your task will prove to be rather difficult.’

  Shannon shook his head confidently.

  ‘You have supplied me with a vital item of information; that is, the fact that they departed from here on Wednesday morning by the Messageries Maritimes boat. Would you be good enough to tell me where that vessel goes from here?’

  ‘Constantinople, Naples, and Marseilles,’ was the prompt reply.

  ‘When is she due in Constantinople?’ asked Shannon quickly.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot say, but we will soon find out. I’ll ring up the shipping agents. Are there any other questions you wish me to ask them?’

  Shannon thought for a moment.

  ‘Only one, sir, but perhaps you can answer that. Where did Plasiras and Bikelas book to?’

  ‘Yes; I can tell you. They booked to Marseilles.’

  ‘Marseilles!’ Shannon rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘“Curiouser and curiouser” as Alice would say,’ he muttered to himself; and aloud: ‘Then the only question I want answered, sir, is the time of the boat’s arrival in Constantinople.’

  Stevenson nodded, and rang up the office of the steamship company’s agents. Shannon appreciated the act. Most high commissioners and governors with whom he had come into contact delegated every possible act to their secretaries. It was refreshing to find a man who was so keen and eager to help that he acted himself. The information supplied by the agents delighted the Secret Service man. It was to the effect that the Ile-de-France was due to arrive in Constantinople that evening about six o’clock.

  ‘Splendid!’ he cried. ‘I was afraid that she would have already reached there. May I have a pad of scribbling paper and a cable form, sir? Sorry to give you all this bother.’

  ‘It’s no bother, I assure you. I am only too delighted to be of assistance.’

  Shannon was supplied with the required articles, and for some time there was no sound in that cool, well-shaded room but the scratching of his pen. At length he looked up.

  ‘Can this cable be sent from here, sir,’ he asked, ‘and the cost debited to the Foreign Office?’

  ‘Of course.’ The governor rang a bell, and an orderly entered almost at once. He was handed the form,
and given his instructions. ‘Would it be asking too much if I enquired if that was for Sir Leonard Wallace?’

  Shannon smiled. He tore into minute pieces the sheet of paper on which he had written the message before committing it to the cable form. The communication from headquarters received the same treatment. He then lit a match and, placing the fragments on an ashtray, burnt them to ashes and crushed them to nothing.

  ‘That message,’ he explained, ‘was a complaint about the packing of a consignment of perfume, and was addressed to the agent of a well-known firm in Constantinople.’

  The governor stared at him.

  ‘Perfume!’ he exclaimed. ‘Constantinople!’

  Shannon laughed.

  ‘Actually,’ he told his puzzled host, ‘it has informed the agent of the Intelligence Department stationed in Constantinople that Plasiras and Bikelas are on the Ile-de-France due there this evening, and asked him to keep trace of them, if they land at that port, and inform me immediately.’

  ‘By Jove!’ murmured Sir Gordon Stevenson appreciatively. His eyes travelled from the ashtray, on which the dust of two secret messages lay, to the strong, clear-cut face of his guest. ‘That is what I call efficiency. I suppose you will repeat the same performance before the vessel arrives at Naples; that is, if Bikelas and Plasiras do not land at Constantinople?’

  Shannon shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he replied; ‘I shall be there to meet the boat.’

  Again the governor’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

  ‘But I don’t think you will be able to do it,’ he objected. ‘The Ile-de-France will be ahead of any boat you can catch.’

  ‘I shall cross to Beirut, sir,’ Shannon informed him. ‘There are boats daily, are there not?’ Stevenson nodded. ‘Then I shall go by train to Damascus where there is an RAF depot, and get a lift to Naples.’