Wallace himself entered into the spirit of the season thoroughly. Of the three men he was the most boisterous. Always planning games and expeditions for the children, he took part in them with thorough abandon, appearing to enjoy himself every bit as much as they, which probably he was. Christmas Day itself was an enormous success, and neither he, Brien, nor Kendal spared themselves in their efforts to make it noteworthy, a real red-letter day in the lives of their children and their wives. The pièce de resistance was an enormous Christmas tree at which three Santa Clauses appeared carrying sacks of presents, and staged a friendly dispute concerning their right to the title of Father Christmas. The fun waxed fast and furious, reaching a perfect climax, when they agreed that the old man of Yuletide was in reality triplets, and proceeded to distribute gifts to the ladies and the youngsters amidst screams of delight and uproarious merriment. The servants were not forgotten, and were included in the general merry-making round the Christmas tree, receiving their presents and joining in the hilarity with great good will. Altogether it was a memorable occasion.
The only serious note during the whole of that day was struck at the end of dinner, when the ladies had left their men to port and cigars, and betaken themselves to the cosy seats round the huge fire in the smaller of the two drawing rooms. Sir Leonard, feeling pleasantly tired after his exertions, allowed himself to relax, and sat, eyes half closed, listening to the conversation of his companions. Suddenly Kendal leant across the table, and addressed him.
‘Bad luck on old Nikoleff being struck down with double pneumonia, isn’t it?’ he observed. ‘They say there’s no hope of his recovery.’
‘He died this morning,’ returned Sir Leonard calmly.
Brien glanced at him sharply; Cecil Kendal whistled long and thoughtfully.
‘That will mean a pretty hectic upset, won’t it?’ he asked.
‘Not now. You see his death was more or less expected, and by this time everything has been adjusted in anticipation of it. Of course, countries for which he had floated huge loans will feel the draught a bit, but nothing to the extent they would have done if, for instance, he had died without warning.’
‘I see. I never could make head or tail of finance. It has me beaten every time. There was a bit of a crisis in financial circles on the day he was taken ill, wasn’t there?’
Sir Leonard nodded.
‘Yes; quite an exciting and anxious time, I believe, but things began to quieten down twenty-four hours afterwards, and yesterday they were almost normal. I take off my hat to Anstruther,’ he added, glancing at Brien, ‘he has engineered things admirably – proved himself a wizard in fact.’
His words carried a deeper meaning than Kendal suspected, but Brien understood, and the latter’s lips curved in a slight smile.
‘Who is Anstruther?’ asked Cecil.
‘Sir Peter’s chief secretary. The man behind the scenes, who has spent about twenty-five years in carrying out Nikoleff’s orders and studying his methods. A very fine fellow. He was deeply attached to Sir Peter, but even he wasn’t acquainted with all the financier’s undertakings.’
Kendal gazed at his brother-in-law with a new admiration in his eyes.
‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ he asked.
Wallace nodded his head solemnly.
‘So much,’ he stated, ‘that sometimes I am appalled at my ignorance.’
Kendal grinned; then became serious once more.
‘Poor Nikoleff,’ he murmured. ‘I knew him a bit – he seemed a decent old boy.’
‘He was,’ agreed Sir Leonard, ‘but, like a great many men of his extraordinary mental brilliance, he had a kink. Still he’s gone now, and the kink has gone with him.’ He raised his glass. ‘May he rest in peace,’ he added.
The others followed his example, and drained their glasses to the memory of the man who had been the greatest force in the world.
‘By the way, Leonard,’ pursued Cecil, putting down his glass as though its position on the table were a most important matter, ‘from hints, signs, and portents I rather suspect that you’ve had a pretty hectic time lately. What have you been up to?’
‘Cecil, your use of the word hectic is becoming monotonous,’ admonished his brother-in-law. ‘Try something else.’
‘Come on, out with it,’ persisted the other in persuasive tones, ‘or is it one of those frightful secrets you keep shut up in your reticent breast? I’m always keen on hearing about your adventures, you know; flatter myself that I have once or twice proved useful. Do you remember Luis de Correa?’
Wallace smiled reminiscently.
‘I do,’ he admitted. ‘A crook, but a sportsman. As I have not heard of his committing any transgressions lately, I am almost inclined to believe that he has decided to be honest.’
‘What about this yarn. Mustn’t I hear it?’
‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm, if you really want to know. Billy let me in for the business. He thought I’d enjoyed myself too much in the States, I suppose.’
Brien made a grimace. Sir Leonard then told his brother-in-law of his encounter with Stanislaus and Thalia Ictinos, leaving out all mention of Sir Peter Nikoleff’s connection with the conspiracy, and making it appear that he had found the documents, so important to France, when a boat called the Canopus, which Ictinos had hired, had been raided. Kendal listened entranced, not uttering a word until the narrative was concluded; then he gave vent to his feelings.
‘Great Scott!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a perfectly bloodthirsty brute that fellow Ictinos must be. Hanging’s too good for a fellow like that. How are the invalids?’
‘All out of danger, I’m thankful to say. It was touch and go with Hill and Farrell, but they’re progressing well now. Maddison, too, has had a streaky time, but he’s well on the road to recovery. Of course you knew it was young Cunliffe’s funeral Billy and I went up to attend yesterday.’
Cecil nodded.
‘You fellows do take risks,’ he murmured. ‘I almost wish I could get into the game.’
‘My dear Cecil,’ protested Wallace in mock alarm, ‘don’t talk like that. What on earth would the RAF do without you?’
Kendal grinned.
‘Lots,’ he returned nonchalantly. ‘Will Farrell receive the King’s pardon?’
‘It has already been arranged,’ put in Brien. ‘Furthermore Leonard is going to set him up in a little business.’
Cecil nodded understandingly.
‘You’ve a soft heart, brother-in-law,’ he declared, ‘even though you are a stern, grim ogre of a Secret Service man. Have you handed over those French plans to Monsieur what’s-his-name yet?’
Wallace and Brien laughed.
‘Handed them over!’ exclaimed the latter. ‘Why, as soon as Leonard got Damien on the phone, and told him he had them, the dear old chap jumped into an aeroplane and descended on us amidst a torrent of te deums and benedictions.’
‘He certainly was delighted,’ agreed Sir Leonard, ‘and I don’t mind admitting a peculiar pleasure in being of use to him. I like him, and I like France.’
‘Have you men deserted us entirely, and on Christmas night too?’ enquired the plaintive voice of Lady Molly from the doorway.
‘We haven’t moved, dear,’ protested her husband. ‘It was you who deserted us.’
‘When are you coming?’
‘At once!’ cried the three men together.
As they crossed the hall, Brien took Sir Leonard’s arm. Kendal was ahead of them.
‘Where was Senostris all the time?’ he asked.
‘In the south of France,’ was the reply. ‘When he returns to England, I’ll have to take him into my confidence to a certain extent before handing him back his yacht and its crew.’
‘Anstruther told me that Thalia Ictinos was nosing about Sir Peter’s rooms a lot before he turned her out of the house. I suppose she was after the French plans.’
‘Of course she was,’ nodded Sir Leonard, ‘and I daresay she is mig
hty puzzled to know what has become of them. She tried twice to get into the nursing home to see Nikoleff. Now she seems to have disappeared.’
‘I wonder if we’ll ever hear of her again!’
They did.
But that is another story.
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About the Author
ALEXANDER WILSON was a writer, spy and secret service officer. He served in the First World War before moving to India to teach as a Professor of English Literature and eventually became Principal of Islamia College at the University of Punjab in Lahore. He began writing spy novels whilst in India and he enjoyed great success in the 1930s with reviews in the Telegraph, Observer and the Times Literary Supplement amongst others. Wilson also worked as an intelligence agent and his characters are based on his own fascinating and largely unknown career in the Secret Intelligence Service. He passed away in 1963.
By Alexander Wilson
The Mystery of Tunnel 51
The Devil’s Cocktail
Wallace of the Secret Service
Get Wallace!
His Excellency, Governor Wallace
Microbes of Power
Wallace at Bay
Wallace Intervenes
Chronicles of the Secret Service
ALSO IN THE SERIES
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1T 6DW
allisonandbusby.com
First published in 1934.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2015.
Copyright © 1934 by THE ALEXANDER WILSON ESTATE
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1865–8
Get Wallace! Page 28
