Microbes of Power (Wallace of the Secret Service Series)

by Alexander Wilson

  Stepping inside, Wallace closed the door behind him without the suspicion of a sound. The case, with its scientifically constructed little steel tools, was put away in his pocket, his hand now grasping the torch. There was a deserted air about the flat, an impression that it did not contain human beings. Why he felt that exactly, Sir Leonard was unable to tell, but it was not very long before he had assured himself that such was indeed the case. As noiselessly as a shadow, he moved from place to place, opening doors with an almost uncanny knowledge of whether they were likely to squeak or not, and taking precautions accordingly. Madame Bikelas, her husband, and Thalia were absent – the secretary, of course, he remembered, lay dead upstairs – but there was ample evidence of a hasty flight.

  Unlike the flat inspected by Shannon, which the latter had described as being entirely cleared, this contained quite a conglomeration of useful and useless articles, suggesting that they had been left behind, because the boxes and bags had been too hastily packed to admit of their inclusion. There were shoes, stockings, socks, articles of underwear, toilet requisites, an overcoat, even a pair of trousers. In the room that Sir Leonard concluded must have been occupied by Thalia Ictinos, there was a wardrobe trunk containing some very beautiful and stylish dresses. She, in fact, seemed to have taken with her fewer articles than her companions. It must be admitted that Sir Leonard had entered her room with a certain amount of dread. He had felt that it was quite possible that, like the secretary above, she would be lying there dead. His relief on finding the room unoccupied was, therefore, very great. There was an elusive, altogether entrancing atmosphere about it which suggested her personality. A faint, attractive perfume scented the air; the flowers, artistically arranged in picturesque vases, the sheer daintiness of the apartment, spoke eloquently of Thalia. It seemed difficult to realise that she was not present. Wallace felt that here, if anywhere, he might pick up a clue which would lead him to the hiding place of the men he was so anxious to find.

  The window was wide open, a fact that struck him as peculiar. He crossed to it, and looked out. There was nothing to be seen, of course; it was far too dark. Yet why should it have been opened in that manner? If the top sash had been down a little way, or even if the bottom had been up a few inches, he would not have taken any notice, but the fact that it was open to its widest extent suggested that it had been used as a means of exit. Had Thalia been imprisoned in the room, and made her escape that way? It rather looked like it, though, in that case, she would have had to use a rope or knot the sheets together, unless someone outside had provided a ladder. As far as he knew, she did not possess any friends likely to assist her in an escape, except Shannon, Hill, or himself, and none of them had been concerned.

  He stood by the window, thoughtfully regarding the dim outline, for, after the first quick glance round, he had switched off his torch. Presently he came to the conclusion that Thalia had not been concerned in an escape by that means. In the first place, had she been made a captive, it was most unlikely that she would have been imprisoned in a room which contained a large window, not more than sixteen or eighteen feet from the ground. Secondly, there would almost certainly have been some indication that she had made her escape. The thought occurred to Wallace that possibly the articles of luggage, which the three had taken with them, had been lowered through the window, but, in that case, why had Thalia’s room been used? The two windows of the apartment, that had been used by Madame Bikelas and her husband, were fast closed. Surely, if baggage had been lowered from the flat, they would have been the means of exit, considering that the greater number of articles had obviously been taken away by the two Greeks!

  Wallace again looked out. Below him was a ledge on which he could faintly discern a row of flower pots. Presently, however, his keen eyes caught sight of something having the appearance of a folded piece of paper. At once he reached down; found that he could just grasp it. It had been wedged between the branches of a plant, apparently to prevent it from being blown away. It was an envelope doubled in two. He withdrew to the little passage outside the room, focused the light of his torch on it, and opened it out. A feeling of satisfaction pervaded his being. It was addressed to ‘Herr Kirche’ in neat though obviously hurried handwriting. Being unable for some reason to communicate with Hill direct, Thalia had written the note and, anticipating that either he or his companions would make a search when they found that everybody had disappeared, had conceived the idea of leaving the window wide open in order to attract their attention. It was quick-witted of her, decided Wallace with approval. He put the note in his pocket with the intention of handing it to Hill for perusal, as soon as he rejoined him and Shannon above. Before doing that, however, he decided to have a look at the suite of rooms belonging to Signor and Signora Bruno on the other side of the corridor. As they were Italians and permanent residents, he wondered if the ex-diplomat had decided to stay on, trusting to the fact that, unless his confederates were caught and gave him away, there could be little evidence that he was concerned in the plot. None of them could know that Shannon had overheard perhaps their most important conference. From their point of view, in fact, Wallace saw no reason why the Brunos should depart, unless, of course, they were terrified of the disease with which the secretary of Bikelas had been inoculated.

  He let himself out of the flat and, ascertaining that there was nobody about, walked quickly across to the suite of rooms opposite. The lock was quickly and silently turned, but the door would not move. It was bolted! The Brunos were in; at least, there was undoubtedly someone inside. Under the circumstances, Wallace wondered if it would be worthwhile to enter. He immediately decided that it would. Useful information was far more likely to be lying about in an occupied flat than in one from which the tenants had fled. There was not much to learn further about the conspiracy, as far as he was able to conjecture, but there was quite conceivably something, chief of which was the present whereabouts of the bottles containing the virus and incidentally the address to which all the other conspirators had fled. That, of course, might be in Thalia’s letter to Hill, but Sir Leonard did not think so. If he disturbed Signor and Signora Bruno, it would not matter a great deal. In that case, he promised himself a heart-to-heart talk with the Italian.

  He had noticed that the entrance door of the other flat contained a bolt at the top, another at the bottom. Presumably this would be fitted in the same way. From his case he removed two implements, one flat and curved, with a curious vice-like head, the other rounded and strong-looking. The former screwed into the latter, and it was noticeable that, according to the way it was turned, so the vice opened or closed. Wallace adjusted it to his satisfaction then worked it in between the edge of the door and the jamb. It went in easily enough. He moved it slowly up and down until his sensitive fingers told him he had reached the knob of the bolt. It was not long before he had ascertained which way it was turned. A few twists of the screw, and the tool had gripped. Less than a minute later the bolt, although stiff, had been withdrawn. The same process was repeated on the other. He had taken nearly ten minutes to accomplish the whole job, at which, owing to the fact that he merely had the use of a single hand, he was naturally not as expert as one or two of his agents, but it had been performed with scarcely a sound. All the time he had been working, he had been acutely sensible to a smell of burning, but could not make out from which direction it came. He wondered if the Brunos’ flat was on fire; smiled at the thought that it would be curious, if he had arrived in time to rescue them from the flames. The pungent odour of burning wood, though not very strong, reached his nostrils, as he stepped quietly inside. He felt uneasy; decided to cut his visit to the Brunos short, and investigate.

  Closing the door behind him, he sniffed, but there was no smell of burning here. Whatever it was must be in some other part of the building or, more likely, wafted in from outside through an open window. He became aware of the subdued murmur of voices and, it seemed to him, of a woman sobbing. At once he forgot the odour of
burning; concentrated his attention on the new interest. Bruno and his wife were awake. He crept up to the room from which the sound appeared to come; applied his ear to the keyhole, an action he disliked doing intensely. However, it was not the time for a finical regard for the tenets of good form. He found he could hear quite plainly, and settled himself to listen. A deep sob was the first sound that reached his ears.

  ‘I wish you would go to sleep, Maria,’ sighed an exasperated male voice in Italian, obviously that of Bruno. ‘I tell you there is no need for you to worry. You and I are quite safe from trouble. For three hours now have you wept and moaned, and yet I have explained over and over again that no trouble can come upon us.’

  ‘But it is terrible, terrible,’ moaned the woman. ‘I did not think that you – my husband, my Pietro – could have associated himself with a scheme so wicked. Mother of God! How can you ever expect a sin so heinous to be forgiven.’

  ‘It is over now,’ grunted Bruno. ‘I have finished – I have made up my mind tonight.’

  ‘And why?’ returned the signora with spirit. ‘Because this Kyprianos has gone nearly mad with the feeling of power that has come to him, and now dictates to you all. Have you not tonight told me yourself that that was the reason? It is not because your conscience has told you you were committing a terrible sin. It is because you are afraid of this man; because you know that his madness has put an end to your dreams of power. You to rule Italy – I to be the wife of a great dictator! Did you think, Pietro, that I would submit to holding a position by your side that had been obtained by means so horrible? You can lie there, regretting only that the devil Kyprianos has lost his head and rendered your position impossible. There are no regrets, no sorrow for that which you aimed to do. If you dared, you would possess yourself of those bottles of poison, but you are afraid of them, afraid of him. Yet you would not have hesitated to force your poor unfortunate country people to agree to your terms, by spreading among them a disease which could not be cured.’

  ‘Do go to sleep, Maria. I am weary.’

  ‘Go to sleep!’ she screeched. ‘How do you think I can go to sleep with a tale so wicked ringing in my ears? Do you think I have no feeling?’

  ‘If I had told you that all was well; that fame, and power, and honours were coming to me by means of the virus of Kyprianos, and that he was behaving in a sane, reasonable manner, you would not speak thus. You would have been delighted. It is only because I have told you of the scheme and its regrettable failure, which is now apparent, that you talk in this way.’

  ‘That is a lie,’ she cried vehemently, ‘an unholy, wicked lie. I would have nothing to do with anything of a nature so horrible.’

  ‘I wish I had not told you, but it was necessary to explain why we must depart from Italy tomorrow, and remain away until there is no danger. I have never known you behave in this manner.’

  ‘Ah! You thought I had no spirit; that I was your well-tamed wife. I have always before supported you in your ambitions; I have never said anything against them. But this is too much – Mother of God! It is too much. Where is this case with the bottles now?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ came from him suspiciously.

  ‘Because I want you to save the world from this fiend. I want you to blow it up, burn it – I do not mind what you do with it so long as it is destroyed. Is it still in this house?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied in sullen tones; ‘it is to be removed tomorrow.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that, Maria. It would be unwise—’

  The rest of the sentence was lost to Sir Leonard. A confused murmur of many voices raised, it seemed to him, in alarm reached his ears from the corridor outside. He turned from the bedroom and listened. At that moment came a terrific pounding on the entrance door of the flat, followed by perhaps the most startling and dreadful of all cries:

  ‘Fire! Fire!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  At the Mercy of a Fiend

  After Sir Leonard Wallace had left them, Shannon and Hill continued to discuss the last words of the dying secretary regarding Thalia Ictinos. It is certain that Hill’s sudden doubt of the loyalty of the girl he loved so intensely was caused by the peculiar complex, which seems somehow to come to all true lovers. Whether it is due to the fact that they place their inamorata upon high and insecure pedestals from which, being human, they are likely to topple at any moment, or is merely caused by the slightly unbalanced state into which love plunges them, is hard to decide. It is quite true, however, that lovers are more ready to believe reports to the discredit of their adored ones, than others, who are able to bring clear, reasonable, and balanced minds upon the subject. Not that real love will turn because it believes in that guilt. It grows stronger, if anything, possibly from a desire to help and protect. Shannon’s words quickly made Hill realise how unjust he must have appeared in his attitude. It is to his credit that once he had come to his senses, as he put it, he did not attempt to defend himself, though he might, with reason, have done so, especially with regard to the previous experience British Secret Service men had had of Thalia Ictinos. On the contrary, he became so thoroughly dejected and ashamed that his companion, in his hearty manner, set about cheering him up. Shannon succeeded to a certain extent. He failed, however, to chase from Hill’s mind the shadow of a fear, momentarily becoming more intensified, that harm had overtaken the girl.

  Although, in the garden, they had surprisingly had the protection of Sir Leonard Wallace, it was quite possible, thought Hill, that not only had Radoloff followed them there but one or more of the others as well. Recollection of the chief’s assurance, however, quickly expelled the idea from his mind. Sir Leonard seldom made mistakes, especially a mistake of that kind. The doctor’s reflections then veered quickly to his own blunders – his lapse into English; his utter forgetfulness that there might possibly be someone on their trail. Quite conceivably Sir Leonard might have been one of the conspirators. What then? The chief had heard everything that had passed; so also would anybody else who might have been there in his place. On the whole Hill felt that he had hardly covered himself with glory that night. He told Shannon of the affair in the garden, which up to then the latter had not fully understood. It was the first time he had heard that Hill had proposed and been accepted, and his congratulations were hearty and sincere. He looked grave, when told of the error Hill had committed, however, and grunted. The recital of Sir Leonard’s sudden appearance, though, caused him to laugh.

  ‘At least you needn’t worry about that,’ he commented. ‘I doubt if many people could move as silently as Sir Leonard. I’m jolly sure none of this jolly band of conspirators could.’

  ‘That doesn’t excuse my slackness,’ declared Hill.

  ‘No,’ returned the other bluntly; ‘but love is an exacting mistress, Tubby, old son. Perhaps you’ll return to normal as soon as you’re married. When this affair is done with, no doubt the chief will give you leave until after the honeymoon is over.’

  ‘For the Lord’s sake,’ grunted Hill, ‘don’t talk as though I’m to be shelved as a punishment for my sins.’

  Shannon’s great laugh boomed through the flat.

  ‘That’s the first time,’ he pronounced, ‘that I have heard a man describe his honeymoon as “being shelved”.’

  As time went on, and Sir Leonard did not return, both men became anxious. They were discussing the position, and had decided to go in search of him, when there came a rap at the hall door.

  ‘That’s he!’ cried Hill in great relief, and hurried out of the room.

  ‘Wait a jiffy!’ called Shannon after him. ‘We’d better make sure by—’

  Unfortunately Hill had already reached the door, and opened it, thus committing another mistake on that eventful night. Four men promptly crowded in, each of them holding an ugly-looking revolver. Shannon, who was standing at the door of the sitting room, quickly reached for his own weapon, but a sharp voice, speaking English, with a th
ick, unpleasant intonation, threatened to shoot. The muzzle of a revolver, pointed unwaveringly at a spot between one’s eyes from a distance of two or three yards, is an eloquent persuader. Hugh Shannon, being a wise young man, did not argue the point. One of the intruders closed the door, but did not fasten it, while the others drove Hill and Shannon before them into the room. The Englishmen were brought up by the great ornate mantelpiece; the others stood in a line just inside the door. Hugh contemplated them calmly. The short, fat man, with the flabby face, little eyes, and broad nose, was Paul Michalis; a tall, saturnine fellow with a pair of piercing eyes was Plasiras and, next to him, dapper, almost benevolent-looking, if one missed the cruel twist of his mouth, was Bikelas. The fourth was Padakis, and, from the manner in which he glared at Shannon, it could be seen that he would have liked to have ended the Englishman’s career at once, without parley.

  ‘So,’ remarked Bikelas in perfect English, regarding Hill with, it seemed, an air of reproach, ‘we were mistaken in you, Herr Kirche. An Austrian gentleman in Rome studying art! Dear, dear! To deceive us in such a manner. But I admit the part was well played – you look so typical of the young men of Vienna. Also a search of your belongings revealed only letters and documents in German, and a lot of evidence that you hailed from Vienna indeed. But what is to be thought of a man who crept into the heart of an unsuspecting girl, in order to learn the secrets of her trusting companions?’

  His flippant manner of addressing Hill apparently did not meet with the approval of his companions. Michalis and Padakis scowled impatiently at him. Hill’s innocent-seeming blue eyes never looked more guileless than at that moment. He had the appearance of a thoroughly astonished and indignant young man.