Get Wallace!

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Yes, so near,’ smiled Cousins.

  Ictinos bit his lip, angry at his own carelessness.

  ‘I was going to ask you what made you go to Sittingbourne,’ he declared. ‘Tell me: there must have been something to make you decide to visit Sheerness – what was it?’

  ‘The simplest thing in the world,’ replied Cousins sarcastically, ‘the postmark on the envelopes containing communications sent to various governments. Your well-nigh perfect organisation slipped up badly on that point. Really, Ictinos, if you don’t want it to be known where you are, you shouldn’t have posted letters near your hiding place. That’s the most childish blunder I’ve ever heard of.’

  The gorilla-man was staring at him as though he had not heard aright. His hands were clasping and unclasping while over his face was gradually stealing a look such as Cousins never expected to see in a human countenance. It became distorted with terrible fury until every feature spoke of brutal savagery.

  ‘What is that you say?’ he hissed.

  For a moment Cousins hesitated. He wondered why the man was looking so fiendishly murderous.

  ‘Letters you sent to the British Foreign Office, to Moscow, and to Berlin,’ he repeated, ‘were postmarked Sheerness. There may have been others, but I—’

  Suddenly Ictinos was on his feet. He strode to the door, flung it open.

  ‘Danson, Farrell, Moropos, Ibsen,’ he shouted, ‘all of you, come here!’

  There was the sound of approaching feet, and he returned to his desk. Cousins, who had risen, stood partially in his way; was swept aside with one movement of the man’s great arm as though he were a piece of paper blown by the wind. He lost his balance, fell, but Ictinos took no further notice of him. Into the room crowded four men, all eyeing their chief with curiosity, which turned to consternation when they saw the expression on his face.

  He stood glowering at them for some seconds, his face still distorted with passion. Cousins rose to his feet; dusted his clothes carefully, though there was not likely to be any dirt on them from contact with the well-brushed carpet of that spotless room. Thereafter he stood looking from the ‘guv’nor’ to his men and back again, sensing the tension in the air, the dread on one side, the rage on the other. Suddenly Ictinos spoke, and the burning fury in his tones caused even the Secret Service man to stiffen apprehensively.

  ‘I have called you here,’ he roared, ‘so that you can all witness the punishment I measure out to those who do not obey my orders, or are careless and lazy.’ He shot out a finger in the direction of a stout, greasy-looking specimen of humanity, whose swarthy face, dark eyes, sleek, oily black hair proclaimed him as a son of one of the Balkan races.

  ‘You, Moropos,’ he thundered, ‘have been entrusted with the dispatch of certain letters of great importance. What did you do with them?’

  Moropos, whose face had gone a sickly yellow, cowered back against the wall.

  ‘I-I posted them,’ he stammered in a husky whisper.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In London – in Southend—’

  ‘You lie. I instructed you to post them in London or in Southend, but three, at least, were sent from Sheerness.’ The fellow made no answer to that, and Ictinos went on, this time in a smooth, silky voice which sounded even more menacing than his previous outbreak. ‘Answer me, my Moropos, it is so, is it not? You thought it was too far to go to London or Southend every time, but Sheerness it was only a little way – who would know, what difference would it make! And there would thus be much time for you to sit in a drinking house, and fill your belly with wine.’

  ‘I-I was ill at the time I put the letters in the box at-at Sheerness,’ gulped the man. ‘I-I thought it would not matter.’

  ‘So! In spite of my very particular orders, you did that!’ Suddenly his voice changed to a roar again. ‘You dolt, you imbecile, you fool! You have perhaps ruined all our plans, brought to naught schemes that would shake the world, make us all men rich beyond dreams. Look at him, you others; to you and to me, and to the one whose knowledge and brains are behind our work, he is a traitor, a cursed betrayer, for by his imprudence he has given a clue to our enemies of our whereabouts, possibly may bring disaster upon us. Look at him I say, and remember that it is not only your hope of obtaining much money that is threatened with disappointment by his carelessness, but your liberty and your lives as well. You know what will happen to you, if you fall into the hands of the police.’

  There was an ugly murmur from the three men standing with Moropos. Threatening eyes were turned on him, fists clenched. The wretched culprit threw himself on his knees, his hands raised in supplication.

  ‘Mercy, mercy!’ he whined. ‘I did not understand. I did not know. I will never offend again.’

  ‘No; you will never offend again,’ hissed Ictinos; ‘you will not have the chance.’

  Moropos seemed to know what penalty would be his, either from instinct or from previous knowledge of the methods of his leader. He was white to the lips; his terrified eyes stared unblinkingly at the other.

  ‘Spare me! Spare me!’ he croaked. ‘I will atone, master.’

  Ictinos watched him for some moments, his lips curled in a cynical smile. His attitude was that of a cat playing with a mouse, about to make the final spring.

  ‘And how will you atone, my Moropos?’ he purred. ‘How will you repair the damage you have already done?’ His manner changed again. ‘It is safest that you are obliterated,’ he snarled. ‘You can then do no further harm. There is no room for men who are careless or who make mistakes.’

  With lightning-like swiftness he picked up a long, thin-bladed knife from the desk and, almost in the same movement, sent it glittering across the room with unerring aim. Cousins made a desperate attempt to stay his hand, but his actions had been too rapid. A scream rose to the lips of the doomed man, was killed at birth as the weapon buried itself deep in his throat. With a horrible gurgle, Moropos toppled over on to his face, his body shuddered convulsively once or twice; then lay still. For some seconds there was not a sound in the room. Cousins stood gazing down at the dead man with horrified, pitying eyes; Ictinos gently rubbed his hands together, once or twice shrugged his shoulders; the other men remained where they were as though transfixed. Suddenly their leader’s heavy voice shattered the silence.

  ‘What are you standing there for?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Can’t you see his blood is soaking into my beautiful carpet? Remove him at once, and you, Farrell, bring something to mop it up.’

  Farrell, the man with the battered face, who had acted as Cousins’ jailer, left the room, the others lifted the still form of Moropos in their arms, and presently followed him.

  ‘That sort of thing is distasteful to me,’ observed the Greek, when he and his prisoner were again alone, ‘but you will realise that, at times, it is necessary in an organisation of this kind to preserve discipline.’

  ‘I realise nothing,’ returned Cousins through clenched teeth, ‘except that you are a foul and cold-blooded murderer.’

  ‘Those are hard words, my friend,’ remarked Ictinos softly. ‘I do not kill for the lust of killing. That man disobeyed my orders – he has paid the penalty. It is finished.’

  ‘It is not finished. It will be finished, when a noose is placed round your neck, a trap released, and a crowd of curious loungers reads on the notice board, outside one of His Majesty’s prisons, that the sentence of the law on Stanislaus Ictinos has been duly carried out.’

  The big man frowned, his face paled a little as Cousins spoke. He stared unseeingly at Farrell who had returned with a pail of water and a cloth, and was endeavouring to remove the blood from the carpet. Indubitably Ictinos was momentarily agitated, but he pulled himself together. He made a sound expressive of impatience.

  ‘Ah, bah!’ he snapped. ‘All you English are squeamish fools.’

  ‘It seems that my father has been losing his temper again,’ came in silvery tones from the doorway.

  Both men swung rou
nd in the direction from whence the voice came. Cousins blinked. Standing there, one hand holding a long cigarette tube to her lips, the other idly swinging the stiletto that had ended the life of Moropos, was a tall, slim girl of little more than twenty-one. Clad in a close-fitting gown that showed to perfection every curve of her sylph-like form, with a beauty that caused the little Secret Service man to gasp, she seemed utterly out of place in a room where murder had been so recently done.

  Her face, flawless in its texture as satin, was absolutely devoid of colour, made more noticeable by the deep scarlet of her perfectly shaped lips. Her nose was rather long, but finely moulded; her eyes, slate-blue in colour like those of the man she called father, were almost too large; long curling eyelashes with daintily pencilled eyebrows provided them with a setting which would have enraptured an artist. Her sleek black hair was drawn lightly back allowing the full depth of her forehead to be seen, exposing without stint the shell-like beauty of her little ears, from each of which hung a perfect pearl. Yet there was something about her that spoke of a lawless nature, of cruelty, of a lack of the finer susceptibilities of femininity. But she was glamorous, fascinating, magnetic.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Ictinos. ‘Did I not tell you that I did not wish to be disturbed?’

  She shrugged her shoulders; advanced into the room, every movement suggesting feline grace. Throwing the stiletto on to the desk, she sank into one of the armchairs, and turned her wonderful eyes on Cousins.

  ‘What a quaint little man!’ she remarked. ‘Are you forgetting your manners, Father? Please present him to me.’

  The Greek regarded her with a frown for a moment; then retired behind his desk, and sat down.

  ‘I wish to be alone, Thalia,’ he reminded her. ‘Please leave us.’

  ‘You have already been alone far too long it seems,’ she returned calmly. ‘If I had been with you when you became angry, poor Moropos would not now be dead. I would not have allowed you to kill him. What had he done?’

  ‘He posted some of the letters in Sheerness. It was unforgivable. This man is of the Secret Service – he came to investigate. He is in our power, but there will be others. Moropos perhaps has ruined our schemes – he deserved to die.’

  She nodded her head slowly.

  ‘So!’ she murmured. ‘I did not know. I agree with you that it might be very serious. Moropos was a fool.’

  ‘I think it will be necessary for us to change our headquarters.’

  ‘That will not be difficult.’

  ‘It will not be easy,’ he snapped. ‘It will mean a complete change of plans, and everything was working well. Damn Moropos!’

  Farrell finished his unpleasant work and retired. The girl removed the cigarette end from the holder, placed it in an ash tray; turned her eyes back to Cousins.

  ‘So you are an agent of the Secret Service,’ she observed. ‘I find that very interesting. As my father has not introduced us properly we must do the best we can. My name is Thalia Ictinos. May I know yours?’

  ‘Cousins,’ returned the little man, ‘Gerald Cousins. If I may say so, Miss Ictinos, I sympathise with you in the possession of such a father. I was a witness of the cold-blooded murder he recently committed, and he knows my opinion of him.’

  ‘He is not so bad. Of course he does kill people sometimes, but they generally deserve it, and he has such a bad temper, you know.’

  Cousins regarded her with amazement, wondering how such beauty could conceal a heart which was apparently as utterly callous as that of her father.

  ‘Enough of this,’ interposed Ictinos roughly. ‘Leave us, Thalia. I have some questions to ask this man before—’

  ‘Before he dies, I suppose,’ she interrupted. ‘Why not let him live – at least for a while? I like him – all those wrinkles on his face are unique; they amuse me.’

  ‘It is impossible – you know it is.’

  ‘But why? You have told me of his activities, and how he was captured. Well, now he is our prisoner, he is no longer dangerous.’

  ‘We have quite enough to do without looking after a captive; besides, think what would happen, if he escaped.’

  ‘He will not escape,’ she asserted confidently. ‘I will guarantee that. I will also take on the post of jailer. When I grow tired of him, you may kill him.’

  Cousins felt more amused than dismayed at the discussion, despite the fact that it was his life that hung upon the result. He found it singularly revolting, nevertheless, that a young girl like Thalia Ictinos should be so lost to all sense of humanity that she looked upon murder with such utter indifference. Human life appeared to mean no more to these two than the life of an insect. Ictinos, frowning deeply, rubbed his massive chin.

  ‘This is absurd,’ he protested. ‘How can you guarantee that he will not escape?’

  ‘Leave that to me, Father,’ she returned. Leaning forward, she added: ‘Did you not say that Sir Leonard Wallace might soon be searching for us?’ He nodded. ‘Well, don’t you think it would be as well if we kept Mr Cousins alive as a hostage in case—’

  Ictinos was impressed. He considered the suggestion.

  ‘There is perhaps something in what you say,’ he agreed. ‘Well, he shall live for the present, but you will be responsible for him.’ He turned to Cousins with a gesture as though conferring a great favour. ‘I present you with the gift of life for a few days longer. You may thank my daughter for it.’

  ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ murmured Cousins.

  ‘It is good to know you do fear the Greeks, little man,’ retorted Thalia; ‘it may help to prevent you from attempting anything rash. Come along! I have not had a pet since my dog died some time ago. Perhaps you will make a good substitute.’

  The indignity of being regarded as a possible substitute for a pet dog did not anger Cousins. He followed her obediently to the door.

  ‘You mustn’t forget the licence,’ he remarked.

  She threw him a glance over her shoulder.

  ‘We will dispense with that,’ she returned, ‘but perhaps it would be as well to buy a chain and a collar for you.’

  ‘Be careful, Thalia,’ called Ictinos after them. ‘You had better summon Farrell to help you with him in case he is foolish enough to attempt to escape.’

  She laughed scornfully.

  ‘He will be very sorry if he does,’ she declared.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Through the Tempestuous Night

  The car bearing Sir Leonard Wallace tore on through the bitter cold of a wild December night. After an extremely mild, sunny day, the weather had changed suddenly. A strong east wind was blowing, carrying with it the threat of snow. Inside the car Sir Leonard sat feeling warm enough, but hardly noticing the violence of the wind or the sleet which pattered against the windows. The discovery that in some way his chauffeur, Johnson, had been abducted, and his place taken by the man impersonating him at the wheel necessitated certain alterations in his plans. It was a little thing that had first aroused Sir Leonard’s suspicions that all was not as it should be: merely the fact that the driver was not sitting at the wheel in the manner to which Wallace had become accustomed. Johnson, perhaps because of his military training, always sat bolt upright; the man now driving was reclining in an indolent manner which would have roused the ex-soldier’s scorn. Once he had observed one thing, Sir Leonard noticed others. The wheel was being held differently, the gears were not changed with the same smooth precision. The impersonator of Johnson, although made-up very cleverly as the soldier–chauffeur, had overlooked the little details that count for so much in a scheme of that sort, especially when the man in the tonneau of the car possessed the well-trained and keen powers of observation for which Sir Leonard Wallace was noted.

  Although anxious concerning the fate that had overtaken his driver, Wallace was rather pleased than otherwise at the turn affairs had taken. He was debating within himself the best use he could make of the knowledge that the man driving him was obviousl
y a member of the organisation he was determined to break up, and that he was unaware that the deception had been detected. At length, his mind made up, Sir Leonard took up the speaking-tube.

  ‘Stop at the first decent-looking public house you come to, Johnson,’ he instructed. ‘A hot whisky will help to keep the cold out.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ came back the answer.

  Listening carefully, Wallace was able to detect the very slight difference between the real voice of Johnson and the imitation. The man was decidedly clever; might have made his fortune on the stage as a mimic. Sir Leonard was wondering if the impostor would obey orders, when the car drew up before an inn on the outskirts of Chatham. He descended into the road, told the chauffeur to go into the bar, and order whatever he required; then strolled into a cosy lounge where, sitting in a secluded nook close to a roaring fire, he dallied over his hot drink. He had not been there above three minutes when the door opened, and the keen eyes of Maddison glanced into the room. Wallace beckoned to him.

  ‘Whom have you brought with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Reynolds and Cunliffe, sir.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Outside in the car.’

  ‘Well, listen,’ Wallace spoke rapidly. ‘Johnson has been knocked on the head or doped, and his place taken by a man masquerading as him. I don’t know whether this fellow happens to know you and the others by sight, it’s very doubtful, but if they enter the bar they will in all likelihood think he is Johnson and speak to him. Go and warn them!’

  ‘I’ve told them to keep well out of sight, sir, and not to enter into conversation with anybody. When we reached this place, and I noticed your car standing outside, I concluded that you wanted to speak to me. I thought they had better stay where they are in case there was any risk.’

  ‘Good man. How long had you been waiting in Piccadilly before I left?’

  ‘About five minutes, sir.’

  ‘You noticed no suspicious movement near the car?’

  ‘No; it was standing outside your house with the man we took for Johnson at the wheel. Of course our view was obscured by the traffic on several occasions, for we were a good distance from it.’