Get Wallace!

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘Take charge of that,’ he directed. ‘Scotland Yard will find it very interesting. It is extraordinary how a warped sense of vanity will often cause criminals to write incriminating records of that nature, or keep papers or articles that, if found, can be used in evidence against them.’

  ‘Although he writes as though he gloried in the murder he committed,’ commented Cousins, ‘the ending rather suggests that his conscience has been pricking him. Look!’

  The others followed his pointing finger, and read: ‘“Which way I turn is hell, Myself am hell.”’

  ‘You would take particular notice of that,’ grinned Carter. ‘It’s a quotation, isn’t it, Jerry?’

  Cousins regarded him sorrowfully.

  ‘It is obvious,’ he observed, ‘that you do not know your Milton. It is interesting,’ he added reflectively, ‘how many of the old poets and dramatists liked to write about hell and Satan. ‘“Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self place; for where we are is hell, And where hell is there must we ever be.”’

  ‘That’s a beastly morbid idea anyhow,’ remarked Carter. ‘Is that some more of your friend Milton?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ snapped Cousins; ‘it’s Marlowe.’

  ‘Marlowe and Milton mean the same to me,’ grinned the other, adding in a burst of generosity: ‘They both wrote pretty good stuff.’

  ‘Ah, bah!’ growled Cousins irritably. ‘You’re the sort of ignoramus who thinks Milton is a disinfectant and Marlowe—’

  ‘A seaport in northern France,’ put in Cartright.

  Cousins subdued him with a look of deep contempt not unmixed with commiseration.

  From the cabins they went to the bridge. In the chartroom was found the log-book, which Sir Leonard studied carefully with the assistance of Cousins, making certain notes of entries that interested him. At length they descended to the engine room, where they found Shannon collecting his partially dry clothing. He showed no effects at all now of the terrific struggle he had had with Ictinos, and smiled cheerfully at the humorous comments of Carter and Cousins on the brevity of the dressing gown he was wearing. It certainly had never been intended for a man of his size. Suddenly realising that, now Shannon was with them, there was nobody on deck, Sir Leonard sent Cousins up to keep watch; then led his party through the small, compact engine room and stokehold. By this time he was convinced that the documents he was so anxious to procure were not on the yacht; that, in fact, they were those, which the old man, described by Farrell, had put away in his pocket, and taken ashore. But he had no intention of leaving any likely nook or cranny unexamined, the engine room of a boat containing many possible hiding places. The furnaces showed signs of having been attended to fairly recently, while there was a pressure of steam sufficiently high to enable the yacht to sail at a moment’s notice.

  ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you as curious,’ asked Brien, as they stood together in the stokehold, ‘that nowhere have we found any proof that Senostris is in partnership with Ictinos, except in the knowledge that he owns this boat, and also, of course, from what Farrell told us of the old man he met on board?’

  ‘You think that was Senostris then?’

  ‘Yes; don’t you? The description certainly seemed to fit the Greek as I remember him.’

  Sir Leonard smiled. He was about to reply, when Carter came running to him. The latter wore a look of deep perturbation.

  ‘Cousins heard the sound of shots coming from the direction of the saloon, sir,’ he reported, speaking in rapid tones. ‘He went to investigate, and found the door locked; then came and shouted down to us. Cartright and Shannon have gone up.’

  Without a word Sir Leonard made a dash for the ladder leading to the fiddley; clambered up, followed by the other two. A minute later they were on deck, had passed through the door at the top of the saloon companion-way, and were racing down the stairs. They reached the bottom just as Shannon, throwing himself like a battering-ram at the door for the third time, burst it in. He fell full length, but they jumped over him and entered, standing aghast at the scene that met their eyes. Lolling over the body of Farrell, that lay stretched out on a couch, was Hill, blood pouring copiously from a wound in his neck; sitting on the floor, his head resting against a table, was Seymour, shot through the chest. The captain of the yacht was half-sitting, half-reclining on a settee, in his eyes a look of horror. Of Ictinos there was no sign. After one comprehensive, horror-stricken glance, Wallace acted promptly.

  ‘Quick!’ he ordered, pointing to Hill: ‘Staunch the flow of blood, or he’ll bleed to death; then attend to Seymour.’ At once Cousins and Cartright were on their knees by the side of their colleague. ‘Where did he go?’ snapped Wallace, turning on the captain.

  The latter pointed to the door on the opposite side of the saloon. It was found to be locked and, in preference to waiting while it was being battered down, Sir Leonard led the way on deck followed by Brien, Shannon, and Carter. As they ran along in search of Ictinos they heard the rapid beat of a motor engine coming momentarily nearer.

  ‘The police boat,’ exclaimed Brien.

  He was wrong. It was the launch, belonging to the yacht, returning. The Greek, from a hiding place in the bows, either recognised it, or took a chance. He stood up, shouted something in a loud voice, which must have caused his fractured jaw intense pain, and plunged over the side. The men seeking for him amidships, heard the shout, saw him jump. Quick as lightning Wallace fired; then the four of them tore to the bows. They were just in time to see him being hauled aboard the launch, which turned, and rapidly made back the way it had come. The Englishmen fired, but the men on the motorboat lay sheltered from the bullets, even the steersman, crouching amidships, being protected by the little cabin behind him. Before long they were out of range.

  ‘By Jove!’ commented Brien, ‘that fellow is as slippery as four eels rolled into one. He must have had a nerve to jump overboard with his jaw and an arm broken.’

  ‘Nerve of that sort is easy to conjure up,’ observed Wallace grimly, ‘when the alternative is execution by hanging.’

  ‘Can’t think how it happened,’ put in Carter in puzzled tones. ‘He was searched when we brought him aboard, and everything taken from him. Where did he get the revolver?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ returned Sir Leonard. They walked back along the deck; descended to the saloon. ‘I’ll get him yet,’ he added vehemently, ‘and before many hours are past. Next time he won’t have a chance of getting away.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sir Peter Nikoleff Stays in Bed

  They entered the saloon to find that Cousins and Cartright had succeeded in stopping the flow of blood from Hill’s neck. He now lay on the floor, the wound tightly bandaged by hands skilled through experience in the grim school of necessity. Wallace and Brien knelt. down and examined Seymour. Their relief was great when they were able to satisfy themselves that, though nasty, his wound was not dangerous. Apparently the bullet had been deflected by a rib, and was now lodged below the right lung. The inspector opened his eyes as they were binding him with bandages taken from the yacht’s surgical stores. He smiled a little.

  ‘Did you get him, sir?’ he whispered to Wallace.

  The latter warned him not to speak and, leaving him in the hands of his companions, walked across to the captain.

  ‘Now,’ he addressed the bearded man sternly, ‘perhaps you will tell me what happened. How did Ictinos escape?’

  The Greek hesitated for a moment; then spoke sullenly.

  Sir Leonard could make little sense from the disconnected and badly phrased narrative of the other, and called Cousins to his assistance. The little man soon had the skipper talking volubly in his own language and, after putting a few questions to him, turned and translated for the benefit of his chief.

  ‘It appears, sir,’ he said, ‘that after Ictinos had been attended to, Hill went back to Farrell, leaving Seymour to keep an eye on the Greek. Occasionally the inspector’s attention was
taken away by Hill’s requirements and, when that happened, Ictinos opened his eyes and looked round, proving that he had already regained consciousness, although they did not know it. Eventually, when Seymour went to help Hill raise Farrell to a more comfortable position, and required the use of both hands, he laid his revolver on a table. Ictinos saw his opportunity, and took it. While their backs were turned, he slipped off the couch, grabbed the gun, and crept to the door. Before he got there, Seymour saw what had happened, and made a spring for him, but was stopped by the bullet in his chest. Then, as Hill was getting up to tackle him, he was shot also. The Greek quickly locked this door, went across the saloon and out the other, locking that.’

  ‘All through a little carelessness on Seymour’s part,’ commented Wallace. ‘It was criminally foolish to put down his revolver like that, even if he did think Ictinos was still unconscious. The other fellow wasn’t, anyway. Is there hope of Hill’s recovery?’

  ‘I think so, sir, if that bandage can be kept undisturbed until we get him to hospital. I’m rather afraid, though, that carrying him into the police boat, and then ashore at Tilbury, not to mention the vibration, when he’s on his way there, may prove fatal.’

  Wallace stood in deep thought. He looked worried; rather an unusual state for him to be in, but he was thinking of the two dangerously wounded men. To move them at all was a risk; to transfer them from the yacht to the police boat, allow them to undergo the jolting to they would certainly be subject on the launch, and carried ashore at Tilbury might easily, as Cousins remarked, prove fatal. Suddenly he made up his mind. He gave orders for the captain to be carried to the bridge – he was unable to walk on account of his shattered knee – and the assistant officer to be released under guard. That done, the engineer and the three men from the fo’c’sle were sent down into the engine room under the watchful eyes of Shannon and Carter, and ordered to stoke-up. Sir Leonard was about to send Cousins ashore with instructions to Willingdon and MacAlpine to bring the other prisoners aboard, when the police boat from Tilbury arrived.

  ‘You’ve taken a long time,’ commented Wallace to the inspector in charge.

  ‘We had some difficulty in finding this creek, sir,’ was the explanation. ‘There are about a dozen of these inlets within half a mile, and most of the entrances look alike.’

  Sir Leonard rapidly described the events of the past hour or so, and told him what he wanted done. The inspector had brought a dozen men with him. Half of them were immediately sent to collect the captives ashore, while the rest were distributed on the yacht, two replacing Brien and Cartright on the bridge, three relieving Shannon and Carter, while the other stood by within call. Twenty minutes later the three sailors with Danson, Hepburn, Villinoff, and Ibsen were aboard. The four criminals were handcuffed together in a circle, and locked in a small but strong baggage-room astern. Now in full possession of their senses, they were white-faced and terror-stricken. No doubt each was thinking of what the near future held in store for him. The three seamen were taken forward, and directed to haul up the anchor. MacAlpine and Willingdon were sent ashore with orders to drive their taxi back to London. Cousins and Cartright stayed aboard to look after the wounded men; to see that they were conveyed to hospital at the earliest possible moment; afterwards to return to headquarters with a report concerning their condition. Having assured himself that the inspector in charge fully understood his instructions, Wallace descended into the dinghy with Brien, Carter, and Shannon. They pushed off from the disguised yacht, as she began to glide from the anchorage which Ictinos had apparently considered safe from prying Secret Service eyes.

  Sir Leonard and his companions made their way back to Shifton with a great deal of difficulty. The moon had set and, although they now used electric torches, they found it laborious going. Every now and again they lost the path, where it had become obscured by the tangled undergrowth, and wandered aside, sinking into yielding, evil-smelling marshland, sometimes nearly up to their knees. It took even longer to return than it had to come, and they were heartily glad when, at last, they struck solid ground, and walked into the sleeping hamlet. Not a sound disturbed the stillness, even the dogs were asleep and, with not a glimmer of light showing from any direction, they felt almost as though they had entered a village deserted by all its inhabitants, whether human or animal.

  ‘Fancy living in a spot like this,’ commented Brien, as they strode through the place, their footsteps, on the frozen surface of the road, making enough sound, they felt, to disturb any sleepers. ‘Can’t think what dwellers hereabouts can possibly find to do.’

  ‘They’re mostly agricultural labourers, I suppose,’ observed Shannon. ‘Hardy toilers of the soil who rise at four and bed down at nine.’

  ‘That sounds almost poetical,’ laughed Carter. ‘It’s a lucky thing Cousins isn’t here or he’d be spouting something about “winding herds lowing slowly o’er the leas”.’

  ‘Aren’t you getting a bit mixed?’ queried Brien. ‘What are winding herds anyway?’

  ‘The municipal authorities of Folkestone,’ laughed Shannon, ‘would be a bit perturbed to see them lowing slowly o’er the leas.’

  Sir Leonard trudged on, taking no part in the light conversation of his companions. He seemed to be in deep, almost gloomy thought. They came to the cars; found Johnson very much on the alert.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a long and chilly wait,’ remarked Wallace, speaking for the first time since leaving the yacht.

  ‘I managed to keep fairly warm with the rugs inside, sir,’ replied the chauffeur.

  He held open the door for his employer, who stepped in; then turned, and smiled at Carter and Shannon.

  ‘You two had better go in Major Brien’s car,’ he suggested. ‘I’m going to think, and I’m afraid you would find me a very dull companion. Stop at the hospital in Tilbury on the way, Johnson,’ he added.

  ‘Am I to drive back to headquarters?’ asked Brien.

  ‘Yes; we’ll go there first.’

  ‘Then the night’s work is not yet done?’ returned the deputy chief lightly.

  ‘It certainly is not done,’ was the emphatic reply. ‘Before we can think of relaxing, we’re going to get those documents which France so badly needs and, with them, Ictinos and his partner. If we leave it till daylight we may be too late.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ten past two,’ he muttered. ‘We’ve very little time.’

  Brien walked to his car followed by Shannon and Carter. All three had caught something of Sir Leonard’s gravity now. No time was lost in returning to London, the pause at Tilbury being as brief as possible. Sir Leonard himself interviewed the house surgeon on duty at the hospital, explaining the condition in which the wounded men, particularly Farrell and Hill, were, and insisting that they were to receive the very best of attention, even if it meant calling in the finest surgeons in London. He was assured that everything possible would be done for them.

  If the truth were told, the young medical man was greatly impressed by the coming of such an important visitor. Sir Leonard’s card had been brought to him when he had been reclining at his case in the surgeons’ room, bemoaning the fact that there was not more work of an interesting nature, requiring a higher degree of skill than was usually the case in Tilbury hospital, for he was exceedingly keen on his profession. He had been notified by the police that a badly injured man would be brought in, but as no details had been given, had thought little of it, putting it down as an accident in the docks or perhaps a stabbing affray. The sight of Sir Leonard’s card caused him to open his eyes, not because he had ever heard of the Chief of the Secret Service, or that on the little piece of pasteboard was engraved the latter’s designation – which of course it was not – but because the words Sir Leonard Wallace, Foreign Office, London looked very intriguing in themselves. When he heard that he was to receive four wounded men, one of whom would be under police guard, and that the Foreign Office itself took all responsibility for them, he became very curious indeed, while all
his professional instincts were aroused at the thought that before him was the kind of specialist work he yearned for. Sir Leonard, watching him closely, was satisfied. He knew that the casualties would be in good hands.

  The two cars tore rapidly through the night, once Tilbury was left behind and, with little traffic to delay them, arrived in quick time in Whitehall. All the way Sir Leonard sat, his chin sunk on his breast, staring into vacancy. His were not particularly pleasant thoughts, for he realised that, by bringing to a successful termination the work he intended to accomplish before daylight, he would probably cause a great deal of suffering to many thousands of innocent human beings, perhaps bring more distress on a world already in the throes of trouble and tribulation. It was not the eventual capture of Ictinos, the final disrupture of his organisation, that was causing the two deep lines to appear between his eyes; it was not even the necessity of obtaining possession of the plans and details concerning the French frontier fortifications. There were greater issues even than that at stake, but no thought of shirking his duty, as he saw it, occurred to his mind. As always, he faced what was ahead, without endeavouring to find a means of side-tracking it, calmly, judicially, logically. His course lay clear before him – he would take it without hesitation. Nevertheless, he regretted the necessity that might cause a catastrophe.