Get Wallace!

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Why?’ asked the Foreign Secretary.

  ‘Blackmail is now the trump card,’ replied the Frenchman quietly, but with grim deliberation. ‘Think of it, gentlemen; the blackmailing of a nation. Last night another letter was received at the Quai d’Orsay, posted this time in London. You, of course, have heard that the whole frontier of France has been strengthened until it is considered now to be almost impregnable? Well, the writer of the letter claims to have complete copies of maps and details, even to the smallest item, regarding the fortifications. These he promises will be handed over intact to France on payment of two hundred million francs. If that sum is not paid by January the fifteenth the plans will be sent to Germany.’ He paused, noting the effect of his pronouncement on his hearers. The Foreign Secretary looked decidedly startled; Sir Leonard Wallace appeared almost uninterested. ‘You see now,’ continued Damien, eyeing the latter with some disappointment, ‘that there is grave reason for my presence here today. It seems impossible that the plans of the fortifications can have been copied, they have been guarded with care of the greatest. Yet what sense could there be in making such a – what you would call – gigantic bluff?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s bluff,’ remarked Wallace. ‘In fact, knowing how copies of the plans of the British military secrets were obtained, I am convinced it is not.’

  ‘You will do your utmost to destroy the gang?’ asked the Frenchman earnestly.

  ‘You may rely on that, monsieur, and for more reasons than one. For our own sakes it is urgent that their activities must be ended once and for all. It is now evident also that the peace of Europe will be broken, if they are not suppressed very soon, which gives me more reason than ever for getting on their track at the earliest possible moment.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the Foreign Secretary. ‘Fancy daring to hold a revolver to the head of a whole nation in that barefaced manner. Who, in Heaven’s name, Wallace, can these people be? They must comprise a pretty powerful organisation, and be au fait with everything that goes on in government and diplomatic circles.’

  Sir Leonard Wallace nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘there is no doubt about it now. I think we will be startled to find who is behind it all, if we are fortunate enough to bring the gang to book.’

  ‘Why,’ queried the Frenchman, ‘are you so certain that everything is not bluff? You say you know how copies of the British military secrets were made. Would it be injudicious on my part to ask how it was done? You see, monsieur, the French plans may have been copied in the same way.’

  ‘Very likely they were; in fact it is pretty certain, I think. There is no reason why you should not know, Monsieur Damien. This organisation, of which we speak, appears to possess men who are past masters in the art of mimicry and make-up. The high officials in whose possession were the plans in question were impersonated, and so perfect was the impersonation that not the slightest suspicion was roused. Either on the same night or on adjacent nights these officials were apparently seen to arrive at the buildings in which the plans were secreted. They were in each case accompanied by a staff officer. Enquiry proved that in reality neither of the gentlemen has visited his office at night for some considerable time, thus it is obvious that men made up to represent them were seen, not they. Both officials are of similar height, and were probably impersonated by the same individual. It is also significant that the staff officers impersonated are of like build. It is my opinion that the man masquerading in each case as a staff officer was an expert safe-breaker. If that was done in London, it could equally well be done in Paris.’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ The startled look on Monsieur Damien’s face was almost ludicrous. ‘What effrontery! What impudence! No longer can I hope that the letters to my government were the work of a fraud or an imbecile. Messieurs, it is a very grave situation. Undoubtedly the villains are domiciled within the shores of England, therefore I am helpless to assist, but my wishes, and the wishes of all good Frenchmen, will be with you in your efforts to destroy the organisation. You have my word on behalf of the French Government,’ he added somewhat naively, ‘that the advances of these people will be treated with contempt. France will, under no circumstances, purchase the copies of the plans of the military secrets which have been stolen from Great Britain.’

  Sir Leonard smiled at the Foreign Secretary. Almost it seemed as though his left eyelid fluttered in a wink.

  ‘It is gratifying to be assured of that, monsieur,’ he observed drily. ‘In return, I am in a position to be able to inform you that His Majesty’s Government is not likely to bid for information concerning the secret treaties which were offered for sale. You asked me a little while ago why I smiled. I will tell you: all nations that have been approached by this organisation have been invited to insert a notice of their willingness to negotiate in the personal column of The Times, just as you were. It is good to know that France does not intend to make a bid. Unfortunately, however, that decision helps Great Britain very little. Germany and Russia were approached in the same manner, and both have inserted the required acceptances in The Times.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Damien. ‘I regret very much that the decision of my country is of so little help to Great Britain. It appears now that we are asking for much, but in return giving nothing. I am sorry.’

  ‘You forget, monsieur,’ returned Wallace, ‘that in endeavouring to save France from a great blow, we shall also be serving ourselves. It is necessary for us to obtain possession of the copies of the plans that have been stolen from us, and—’

  ‘Ah, yes, monsieur, that is true,’ interposed the Frenchman earnestly, ‘but what comparison can there be between certain secret details in the construction of a gun and an aeroplane being made public, and Germany being put in complete possession of all details concerning our frontier fortifications? The latter would probably mean tragedy and disaster for France, the former merely inconvenience to Britain. Even if France agrees to the demands of these blackmailers, and preserves her frontier secrets, she will be compelled to pay two hundred million francs. Think of it, gentlemen!’

  ‘In any case,’ observed the Foreign Secretary, ‘it is essential that this band should be broken up. With Europe in its present unsettled state, this general auctioning of national secrets must eventually mean serious trouble. It is bound to increase distrust and cause bitterness between the powers.’

  ‘Tell me, Monsieur Damien,’ solicited Wallace; ‘in what manner is your government expected to reply to this latest demand?’

  ‘If the money is not paid by January the fifteenth—’

  ‘Yes: I know that, but to whom is the reply to go? Another notification in The Times?’

  Monsieur Damien nodded slowly.

  ‘That is so,’ he affirmed. ‘It is to appear no later than the twelfth, and must be worded thus: “France desires to preserve the peace of Europe.” Instructions – that is the word used, mind you; the canaille! – instructions will then be sent regarding the time and place for the exchange to be made.’

  ‘January the twelfth,’ commented the Foreign Secretary. ‘We have twenty-one days then.’

  ‘Twenty-one days to save two hundred million francs for France,’ put in Wallace, ‘but nothing like that to prevent our own stolen secrets from being sold to Russia or Germany. Negotiations may even now be proceeding.’ He rose from his chair. ‘For our own sake and for yours, Monsieur Damien,’ he declared, ‘you may rest assured that every effort will be made to break up this organisation, and obtain possession of all copies of French and English plans now apparently held by it.’

  The Chief of the French Secret Service rose also, and bowed.

  ‘You will find France very grateful I assure you, monsieur,’ he proclaimed. For a moment he stood as though irresolute. ‘There is one thing more I have to beg of you,’ he added presently.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘In the event of your proving successful, and documents of secret and vital importance to France falling i
nto your hands, may I ask for your assurance that you will not divulge anything you read in them?’

  ‘I expected you to ask that,’ smiled Sir Leonard. ‘Will you, on your part, give me your word that there is nothing contained in them of a nature inimical or damaging to Great Britain, her dominions or colonies, or to any country or person receiving the protection of Great Britain?’

  ‘Most assuredly, monsieur,’ returned the Frenchman at once. ‘Of our frontier fortifications you will gather that the plans and details cannot contain anything inimical to your country or its dependencies. With regard to the plans for offensive and defensive alliances, there is nothing in them which Britain can object to. Their publication at this time would be of great inconvenience, that is all. It may be necessary for you or your assistants to look through the documents to ascertain that they are the correct ones – you will thus be able to see for yourself that they are in no way damaging to your country. You have my word of honour, monsieur.’

  ‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Wallace. ‘I can promise with a clear conscience, therefore, that nothing seen by me, or anybody representing me, in the documents belonging to France will ever be divulged.’

  He held out his hand which Monsieur Damien grasped warmly.

  ‘I go from here with joyful heart,’ he declared. ‘I feel already that France is saved.’

  ‘Don’t be too sanguine, monsieur,’ warned Sir Leonard. ‘I may fail.’

  Damien smiled.

  ‘It has been said, and with great envy, by colleagues in my department,’ he confided, ‘that Sir Leonard Wallace never fails. Whenever you are in France, or passing through, it is a matter of the greatest concern, and I may add the gravest concern. You see, monsieur, I continue to be frank with you?’

  ‘That is why I am invariably shadowed I presume,’ commented Sir Leonard drily.

  For a moment the Frenchman was nonplussed; then he smiled again.

  ‘Since you know, why should I deny it?’ he observed with a shrug of his shoulders; adding slyly: ‘In a way I suppose such vigilance is useless. If Sir Leonard Wallace did not want France to know he was on her shores, I am very much afraid France would not know.’

  Shortly afterwards he took his leave, after thanking the Foreign Secretary for his courtesy in receiving him, and reiterating his gratitude to Sir Leonard Wallace. Although he was not aware of it, Monsieur Damien was shadowed all the way to Paris, a surveillance that did not relax until he actually entered the office of the French Minister for Foreign Affairs to make his report. Wallace was taking no chances. Although he had met him before, and was fairly certain that Monsieur Damien was in truth the Monsieur Damien, he had already had sufficient proof of the ability of certain individuals to impersonate others to cause him to take every precaution against a repetition of that sort of thing. He could not see what object a man could have in masquerading as the head of the French Secret Service, and obtaining an interview with him and the Foreign Secretary still, as he put it to himself, one never knew.

  He remained for some time talking to the Foreign Secretary, during which the latter made a few well-meant but rather futile suggestions anent the manner in which it might be possible to checkmate the activities of the organisation that was playing ducks and drakes with the closely guarded secrets of France and Great Britain; not to mention Germany, and possibly other countries as well. The Foreign Secretary was too much of an aesthete and idealist to fit satisfactorily into his high office. He believed as much in the League of Nations as Charles I had believed in the divine right of kings, and spent a considerable amount of his time in Lausanne and various capitals of Europe in consultations with foreign statesmen, which never came to anything. He was utterly unable to deal with the kind of situation that had now arisen, and was perfectly honest in his oft-repeated statement that he was relieved and glad that Sir Leonard Wallace was back in harness.

  It was getting late when the latter left the Foreign Office, but he returned to his own department, where he shut himself up in his room, and remained for a considerable time in deep thought. He felt almost certain now that the organisation he was so anxious to destroy had its headquarters in reality in the neighbourhood of Sheerness. He had come to the conclusion that the posting of three of the letters from the naval port had been an oversight or a blunder. Of the two others, received by France, one had been dispatched from Southend, easily reached from the Isle of Sheppey by a boat – a fast motor launch for example – the other from London which was not a great distance away. At any rate it was at Sittingbourne, close to Sheerness, where Cousins had disappeared, and, whether there had been a mistake made in the posting of the letters or not, everything pointed to Sheppey as the spot where his investigations should commence. Having definitely made his plans, he sent for Maddison, and gave him certain explicit instructions. That keen-eyed individual listened attentively, made a few notes, and departed.

  Big Ben was striking seven as Wallace left his office to find his car – for which he had telephoned ten minutes previously – drawn up to the kerb. The chauffeur – an ex-corporal of his own regiment whom he had engaged soon after the War, and who had been in his employ ever since – saluted him respectfully.

  ‘Have you enough petrol for a journey to Sittingbourne, Johnson?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the man.

  ‘Drive me home; then fill up the tank. I shall want you to take me there after dinner. I’ll be ready about eight.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  While he dined, alone with his wife, Sir Leonard told her that he would probably be away for the greater part of the night. She paled a little, but made no comment. The sigh which rose to her lips was stifled before it found expression. Promptly at eight Wallace, wrapped in a warm overcoat, a muffler round his neck, a soft hat pulled well over his eyes, entered his car, which, as soon as he had given the driver instructions to stop a hundred yards or so from Sittingbourne station, started on its journey. He lay back in the well-upholstered seat, lit his pipe, and gave himself up to reflection. The latter did not last very long, however. For some minutes Sir Leonard’s eyes had been fixed, at first casually, afterwards alertly, on his chauffeur’s back. The well-tuned car was running smoothly through Herne Hill when he chuckled softly to himself.

  ‘Really,’ he murmured, ‘these people depend a lot upon impersonation. But I wonder what they have done with Johnson!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cousins is Trapped

  Cousins, sitting by the side of the man he had imagined to be Captain Hugh Shannon, had had no suspicion for some considerable time that he had fallen into a trap. The car was driven rapidly along the road leading to the bridge crossing over to the Isle of Sheppey, and the driver scarcely uttered a word. Cousins’ numerous questions either went unheeded or were replied to with grunts or in monosyllables. At length the little man had grown exasperated.

  ‘Look here, Hugh,’ he exclaimed, ‘this is ridiculous. We are alone in a car; there doesn’t appear to be a soul within miles of us; surely now is the time to spill the beans. Why all the mystery?’

  ‘You’ll know before long,’ grunted the other.

  Something in the tone of voice caused Cousins to start. With a gasp he quickly turned his eyes on his companion, striving to pierce the darkness, examine the other’s features. But all he could see was the dim outline of a face that certainly looked like that of Shannon. Yet he began to have doubts. The clever impersonation of the Air-Marshal and General Warrington recurred to his mind. Perhaps he had also been taken in. He had not had a perfect view of the man. Even when he had been standing under the lamp in the station, the latter’s face had been in shadow; nevertheless Cousins had seen it clearly enough not to be deceived; besides the figure, the voice, even the walk had been so typical, and he had known Shannon for years, had worked with him, been in daily, hourly contact with him. But the doubt persisted. He hardly knew what had caused it. And, like most doubts, it momentarily grew stronger.

  It cert
ainly was curious that Shannon should suddenly appear on the scene. Of course he may have been recalled, but, if so, surely Major Brien would have said something about it. Shannon may have returned of his own accord, bringing home information that could not be trusted to the usual channels, and incidentally have arrived in time to hear news which had reached Major Brien after Cousins had left him. News which it was important he, Cousins, should know. Shannon had been sent down by car to inform him; the man by his side had hinted as much. That seemed reasonable enough. Knowing that Cousins was not travelling down by train till late, but unaware of the actual time, the other had decided to meet the London trains. There another doubt assailed the little man. Surely, if this man was Shannon, he would have looked along the row of coaches, searching for his colleague, instead of standing aloof apparently taking no interest in the arrival of the train.

  It was at this point in his reflections that the Secret Service man became certain that he had been trapped, that the man by his side was an impostor. The other had hinted that it was unwise to be seen, yet had been standing under a lamp, showing himself off to anybody who cared to look in his direction. And the reason he had been standing in such an ostentatious position suddenly became obvious. Suspecting that a member of the Secret Service might appear in the neighbourhood to investigate, a man made-up like one of them – apparently the people he was in search of were well acquainted with certain of his companions – had been stationed on the platform of Sittingbourne station in the hope that the investigator would recognise him, thereby giving himself away. And Cousins had obliged.