Wallace had no intention of travelling up the Nile at all, but he was careful to give the appearance of complete innocence to his meeting with the Arab, knowing perfectly well that the main lounge of Shepheard’s was hardly the place, under any circumstances, in which to discuss confidential matters. Apart from that, Achmet on arrival had uttered a warning.
‘This place is full of spies,’ he had said, as he bowed low before the other. ‘Command me to engage a small dahabeeyah. Tomorrow we will go a few miles beyond Cairo for a little trip. It will be safer to speak then.’
Thus it was arranged, and Achmet departed. A little later Sir Leonard left the hotel for a stroll. It had been an intolerably hot day, but now, with the setting of the sun, a breeze had sprung up which materially cooled the atmosphere. He walked as far as the bridge, guarded so strikingly by the two bronze lions, and watched the heterogeneous crowd that was crossing over the Nile. Several years had passed since he had looked on that scene with its riot of gaudy colouring and its confused uproar, but nothing appeared to have altered. Motor cars, donkey carts, carriages, asses, and camels were mixed up in apparently hopeless disorder, but somehow managed to move and be content with the slowness of their pace. An ancient vehicle, drawn by a donkey almost as ancient, and containing two veiled women, did manage to cause a stoppage by becoming entangled with a stylish carriage. The driver of the latter belaboured the donkey boy unmercifully, while the women added their shrill voices to the general din, but a policeman succeeded in separating the two vehicles and, with a final hearty cuff to the old donkey, sent the creaking cart on its way.
Wallace had watched the scene with amusement, indeed had even added his efforts to the process of extrication. At first he thought the carriage empty, but as it moved by he caught a glimpse of a pair of dark eyes, flashing seductively under thick black eyelashes. The woman, whoever she was, wore the thinnest of yashmaks, and it seemed to Sir Leonard that he could faintly discern a mocking smile lurking at the corners of her lips as she glanced at him. He wondered idly who she was, as he walked slowly back to the hotel, but soon forgot her existence.
After dinner that night, a note was brought to him and, feeling perplexed and a trifle concerned, he took it from the tray which the soffraghi held towards him. His mystification was further increased as he caught the elusive scent of some perfume and, for a moment, he balanced the note in his hand frowning thoughtfully. The waiter remained standing by and, on being told to go, informed Sir Leonard that an answer was awaited.
The Englishman then tore the envelope open, and extracted the half sheet of dainty notepaper which it contained. His bewilderment, instead of being diminished by what he read, increased to a state of sheer astonishment. There were only two sentences, and neither superscription nor signature. The writing was obviously that of a female.
The lady in the carriage on the bridge would like to meet Mr Collins. If he follows the bearer of this note, he will learn something to his advantage.
For several moments Wallace sat staring at the paper in his hand, and he was doing the hardest thinking he had engaged in for some time. He was by no means a ladies’ man, his wife, Molly, being all in all to him, and not for one moment did he imagine that the dark-haired woman, of whom he had caught such a fleeting glance, had been attracted by him, and desired his acquaintance, merely for the sake of coquetry. There was something deeper underlying her motive in sending him such an extraordinary invitation. Of that he was assured. What could she have to tell him that would be to his advantage? And how did she know his spurious name? So many possibilities hinged on the note that a feeling of intense disquiet troubled him, and he came to the conclusion that speculation was useless.
‘Where is the messenger?’ he asked suddenly.
In the foyer, he was informed, and directed the waiter to lead him to the man. A gigantic Ethiopian stood stiffly at the entrance like a picturesque statue, but to all Sir Leonard’s questions he shook his head, either indicating that he could not answer them or did not understand. The situation was growing momentarily more perplexing, but, although anxious to solve the problem, he had no intention of accepting the invitation of the letter, and following the lady’s sable messenger. Bidding the soffraghi, who still remained in attendance, to tell the man to wait, he walked off to the writing room. Some instinct caused him to glance round after he had gone a few paces, and he saw the two in earnest conversation – much more earnest than Wallace’s instruction to the waiter would appear to warrant. It looked as though the latter was in collusion with the other or, at least, knew more about the affair than a disinterested member of the hotel staff should know.
Sir Leonard sat for some minutes at a writing-table idly tapping, with a pen, the notepaper he had drawn towards him. He remembered Achmet’s words: ‘This place is full of spies,’ and wondered if the soffraghi and the eunuch were connected with the people he had come to Cairo to unmask. If so, it would mean that he and his purpose were known, and that a plot was on foot to get him into their power. It seemed impossible that such could be the case, but nobody knew better than Wallace himself how often the seemingly impossible happened in life, especially in his profession. A smile curled his lips for an instant as he reflected on the nature of the attempt. It was crude and gave him a poor opinion of the craftiness of those in opposition to him. Did they actually expect him to go blindly into the zenana of a private house, there to be killed or captured, or found by a professedly scandalised husband, reported to the government and sent back to England in disgrace? To use a woman as a decoy in a country where women are segregated from men was, in his opinion, a clumsy sort of ruse. The very banality of it gave his thoughts pause. Surely if he were actually known, and a conspiracy in operation to seize his person, there were dozens of ways of accomplishing their designs without causing suspicion to their proposed victim by the very puerility of the venture. Perhaps, after all, the message was genuine, and the lady was actually in possession of information which would be of use to him. Then he remembered the mocking smile which he could have sworn he had perceived beneath the gossamer veil, when she had passed him on the bridge, and he slowly shook his head. But whichever way he contemplated the matter, it appeared evident that he was known to a certain party in Cairo, a contingency which caused him to look very grave. With a slight shrug of the shoulders he commenced to write.
Mr Collins is honoured by the invitation of the lady in the carriage. He feels, however, that a visit to her might be misconstrued, and regrets, therefore, his inability to accept. The information which the lady desires to impart may be sent by letter, but Mr Collins is certain that a mistake of some kind has been made.
Sir Leonard smiled grimly as he read over what he had written, then folding the paper he placed it in an envelope, which he sealed. He found the Ethiopian and soffraghi still together, but now they were apparently ignoring each other. He caught a fleeting expression of surprise on the latter’s face, which roused his suspicions more than ever. The man knew the contents of the letter, he surmised, and had expected him to be dressed to go out. Handing his note to the messenger, Wallace directed him to take it to the person who had sent him. At once the tall eunuch broke into a string of voluble Arabic, which the waiter translated to mean that the fellow had received instructions to take the English Lord with him.
‘Tell him that the letter explains,’ Wallace ordered curtly and, without further ado, turned and walked away.
He was tempted to question the soffraghi in an effort to learn how much the man knew, but decided that such an essay would be injudicious and certainly unsuccessful. He went to his room, locked himself in and, filling and lighting a pipe, threw himself into a cane chair and thought things over. But he failed to come to any definite conclusion, and eventually prepared himself for bed, reflecting that perhaps Achmet would be able to give him a clue on the morrow.
Selecting a novel from a pile on the table, he lay reading until close on midnight when, with a yawn, he put the book down and, s
witching off the light, composed himself for sleep. But, try as he would, he was unable to entice the requisite drowsiness, his mind persisting in dwelling upon the woman with the dark eyes and her extraordinary message to him. At last, with an impatient grunt, he reached out and turned on the light again, having decided to resume reading, when there came a gentle rap on the door. It was so soft that, at first, he thought he had imagined it, but a few seconds later it was repeated. Wondering who could want him at that time of night, Wallace slipped out of bed, and hastily donned a dressing-gown. He strode towards the door, but stopped half-way to return and rummage in a suitcase, from which he extracted a revolver. Smiling a trifle grimly to himself, he put it into his pocket. The knock came again and, a moment later, he unlocked the door to stand almost bereft of movement as his eyes took in the dim outlines of the person standing on the threshold. It was a woman.
With an effort he pulled himself together, and was about to ask her business, when she pushed him aside and quickly entered the room.
‘Shut the door, Monsieur,’ she commanded, speaking in French.
‘Pardon me,’ he retorted, also in that language, ‘but I think some sort of explanation is necessary before I—’
‘Please! Please!’ she interrupted urgently. ‘I will explain when you have done what I ask.’
He still hesitated and, with an exclamation that sounded very much like a cry of fear, she swept past him and closed the door herself. Then, returning to the centre of the apartment, she threw herself into a chair, and gave a sigh of relief. She was clothed in Egyptian dress, and a suspicion in Sir Leonard’s mind that she was the lady of the bridge was turned into fact, when she deftly removed the Spanish shawl, which had enveloped her head and shoulders, and turned her uncovered face to him. Its beauty almost caused him to gasp, but he restrained himself and looked at her as though unaware of the flawless complexion, the allure of those perfectly shaped scarlet lips and large, dark eyes surmounted by long black lashes and delicately pencilled brows. It seemed to him that her face was familiar, but he could not remember on what previous occasion he had seen it.
‘I am waiting, Madame,’ he reminded her, ‘for the explanation you promised me.’
She smiled, but the shadow of fear lurked in her wonderful eyes.
‘I have come to you,’ she told him, ‘because you would not come to me.’
‘But why? Do you realise that you have compromised yourself by forcing your way into this room?’
She nodded.
‘Of course I realise it,’ she returned in subdued tones. ‘Oh, why did you compel me to come here?’
‘I compel you!’ he exclaimed. ‘I did nothing of the sort.’
‘But you did, by declining my invitation. That made it necessary for me to come to you.’
‘I am afraid I don’t understand.’
‘It was to warn you that I took the risk of writing to you, and now of coming here.’
Sir Leonard frowned at her.
‘Warn me of what?’ he demanded.
‘You are known, and there is a plot to murder you.’
For a few seconds he stood gazing at her, then took a chair opposite hers and leant forward.
‘May I ask you to be more explicit?’ he requested quietly.
‘Listen then, Monsieur,’ she complied. ‘My husband is one of the leaders of the extreme Nationalist party, whose object is the entire freedom of Egypt, recognition of the Sudan as part of the Egyptian Kingdom, control of the Suez Canal, and other matters not so important. Perhaps you are already aware of that?’
Wallace nodded.
‘The party has spies everywhere,’ she went on, ‘and when you stepped ashore at Port Said it was known here almost at once. You have been watched ever since, and it has been decided to murder you as the safest means of preventing you from prying into the secrets of the extremists.’
‘But this is absurd,’ protested Sir Leonard. ‘Why should these people be interested in a retired officer spending a well-earned holiday in Egypt? And as for prying into their secrets, I—’
She interrupted him with a little exclamation of impatience.
‘Monsieur,’ she pleaded, ‘let us be frank with each other. I have come here at great danger to my reputation, perhaps my life, and there is no time to lose in this pretence. The extremists know you are not Monsieur Collins – they know your real name is Sir Leonard Wallace, and that you are the Chief of the British Intelligence Department; so do I!’
‘This is most interesting,’ commented Wallace. ‘And how do they know that?’
‘Yours is not the only secret service in the world, Monsieur Wallace,’ she retorted. ‘Apart from that, you are well known in London, are you not? Many Egyptians go to your country in the season and attend your functions. My husband and I go frequently, and both of us know you well by sight.’
Sir Leonard remembered then that it was in London where he had seen her before. She had been in European dress, of course, which explained why he had not readily recognised her. He decided that it was useless to continue to pose as Collins.
‘Since I am known so well, Madame,’ he observed regretfully, ‘I suppose I must admit my identity. I still don’t quite understand, however, why I should be watched and suspected of ulterior motives. My object in coming to Egypt may be quite innocent.’
She smiled mockingly.
‘Is it likely that Sir Leonard Wallace would leave his beautiful wife and come to Egypt for a holiday during the wrong season of the year? Nobody with sense would believe that, Monsieur. My husband’s party was expecting you to send out a man to investigate, and every Englishman landing in Alexandria, Port Said, and Suez has been subjected to the keenest scrutiny for a long time. The arrival of the great Sir Leonard himself made things for them so much the easier.’
Again came that mocking smile. Despite the fact that he was beginning to feel that she was really actuated by a desire to save him from her husband and his party, that smile prevented him from dismissing his suspicions altogether. He was about to ask her if she knew of Henderson’s fate, but instinct restrained him, instead:
‘How do you know all this, Madame,’ he asked; ‘and why are you telling me?’
‘Because I do not wish you to be murdered,’ she replied earnestly, answering his second question first. ‘Also I am not in sympathy with the extremists, although I am a Nationalist. As for my knowledge of these things, it is easily explained. My husband thinks my ideas are the same as his and, in consequence, he does not keep anything from me.’
‘You recognised me on the bridge today?’ he questioned.
‘Yes. It was then that I made up my mind to warn you.’
He rose and stood looking down at her.
‘It is extremely good of you, Madame. I appreciate the service you are doing me, and your risking so much to come here.’
‘And you will leave Egypt at once, will you not?’ she pleaded earnestly.
He smiled at her.
‘If I am here for the reason you suspect,’ he observed, ‘I can hardly let a little danger deter me from my purpose, can I?’
‘Oh, but, Monsieur, you must! You are in deadly peril.’
‘If I am, then that shows me very clearly that there must be something going on which requires my attention.’
He caught a gleam very much like antipathy in her eyes, but it was gone almost before it had come. It sufficed to put him immediately on his guard, however, and to cause his suspicions to return in force. He thanked her once again for her warning, and urged her to depart. At once she was on her feet entreating him to leave Cairo. She came so close to him that he felt her breath on his cheek, and drew back involuntarily. All the time his thoughts were busy, trying desperately to guess the real reason for her presence in his room, for he had suddenly become convinced that her motives were detrimental to him. Continuing her pleas, she persistently drew near him, while he as persistently stepped back. Then, turning from her, he walked towards the door.
> ‘I dare not let you stay longer, Madame,’ he observed. ‘The risk to you is too great.’
Before he quite realised what she was doing, she flung her arms round him, as though in a paroxysm of fear.
‘You must go! You must!’ she implored.
He was commencing gently to disengage her hands, when she cried out something in Turkish. Immediately the door opened, three men slid quickly into the room, and closed the door behind them. One, a dark, refined-looking fellow in evening dress, held a revolver in his hand; the others, low class Arabs, carried long, sharp knives. They advanced on Wallace, while the woman held him tightly, pressing convulsively on his arms, but with that steel-like strength of his, upon which she had not reckoned, he suddenly flung her aside and stepped quickly back, placing the bed between him and his would-be assailants. For a few moments they stood eyeing him malevolently, then he laughed quietly.
‘So, Madame,’ he remarked, bowing coolly to her, ‘your job was to get me to unlock the door, and lull me into a state of trusting innocence. You nearly succeeded, too.’
The woman, who had stumbled to her knees when flung aside, rose to her feet, in her eyes a look of undisguised hatred.
‘What are you hesitating for?’ she demanded harshly of the three newcomers, still speaking in French.
The man in evening dress lifted his left hand in peremptory command for her to be quiet. He smiled sardonically at Wallace.
‘There is little use your attempting to resist,’ he remarked in perfect English. ‘We have you in our power.’
Wallace of the Secret Service Page 2
